⸝⸝ SUMMARY — ❝ he only texts after midnight. you know it's toxic, and promise yourself this time you'll end it. but somewhere between his baby blues and the sick satisfaction of knowing you're the one he keeps coming back to, you end up crying in his lap. good thing ari thinks you're prettiest when those tears are for him. ❞ ⧽ 7.4k
！ SMUT, p in v, creampie, dacryphilia, light dubcon, dry humping, face squishing, pwp, praise kink, faux sympathy/soft mean!ari, finger sucking, size kink, toxic situationship, pet names (baby, babygirl, crybaby), 18+ MDNI » based on this request » MASTERLIST ⟡˙⋆
You up? | 2:47 AM
The notification lights up your ceiling. You know who it is before you even read the contact name. You tell yourself it’s because no-one else texts at this hour. In reality, the more embarrassing truth is that knowing and hoping have started to feel like the same thing.
You should reply not for you. Let him sit with that rejection the way you've sat with two weeks of silence.
Better yet, you shouldn't reply at all. You should leave him on read, let that little notification sit there unacknowledged while he spirals for once, wondering if you've finally moved on.
Best option - the one that would require something adjacent to self-respect - you should block his number. Should have done it weeks ago, when you'd seen him out with another girl and your friends had spent the entire cab ride home telling you what you already knew. He's never going to commit. He's never going to change. Block his number.
You'd promised you would.
You hadn't, obviously. Instead, you’ve had Ari Levinson saved as “DO NOT ANSWER” for the past four weeks. Like seeing those words flash across your screen would be enough to override six months of muscle memory and bad decisions.
But it hasn’t helped even once. And it doesn’t help now, at 2:47 in the morning, when your phone buzzes again because your hand moves before your brain can interfere.
I know you're awake | 2:49 AM
Arrogant bastard. He doesn't know anything. Except he does, doesn't he? Knows you like he's mapped you from the inside out. Knows the glow of your screen is already bleeding blue light across your rumpled sheets. Knows you're staring at his text with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing it does whenever he reminds you that he's out there, somewhere in the city, thinking about you.
yes. | 2:52 AM
Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again. He's typing, deleting, retyping. The hesitation should comfort you - evidence that maybe he's nervous too, that maybe this costs him something. But you know Ari well enough to recognize the tactic. He's drawing it out. Making you wait. Building the tension because he knows exactly what those little dots do to your pulse.
Your heart hammers against your ribs and you hate him for it. Hate that your body is already ahead of you, already warm and restless, muscle memory doing the work your dignity should be doing. But six months of Ari has ruined you for anything or anyone else.
Ruined you for anything that isn't his big hands on your hips holding you exactly where he wants you, his thick cock filling you up so perfectly your eyes roll back, his voice low in your ear talking you through it until you're shaking. Ari Levinson is a lot of bad things. But between your thighs he is devastatingly, infuriatingly good.
Good | 2:53 AM
Been thinking about you. | 2:53 AM
The ease of it makes you want to scream. Been thinking about you. As if that explains the two weeks of silence. As if that justifies showing up in your notifications like he still has the right.
You should ask where he's been. Who he's been with. If she knows he's texting you at three in the fucking morning.
But your thighs clench anyway, because your body doesn't care about your pride. Your body remembers what been thinking about you means in Ari's vocabulary. Remembers the last time he'd said it, three weeks ago when he'd shown up at your apartment after midnight. You'd barely gotten the door open before his mouth was on yours, walking you backward into your apartment with his hands already sliding under your shirt.
“Been thinking about you all fucking day,” he'd growled against your throat, and you'd melted like you always do, let him peel you out of your clothes and fuck you against the kitchen counter.
You'd had bruises on your hips for a week after. Had pressed your fingers into them whenever you needed to remember that you were real to him, that you weren't just imagining the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
yeah? | 2:55 AM
what about? | 2:55 AM
There's a pause. Longer this time. You can picture him so clearly it hurts. Sprawled in his bed, chest bare, all that dark hair dusting across muscle and tapering down his stomach in a trail your tongue knows by memory. The broad sprawl of his shoulders. The thick arms. The heavy muscle of his thighs. The kind of body that makes you feel small in ways you've stopped pretending you don't love.
And already half-hard just from the anticipation of watching you slowly give in via text message.
You know what about | 3:00 AM
You do know. God help you, you know exactly what he's thinking about and your body has already started making decisions without consulting you.
that's not an answer | 3:00 AM
ari | 3:00 AM
You add his name in a second text, and you realise you’re already chasing. That’s what he does. He texts you first, casts the line, and then sits back and watches you swim toward him every time.
I'm thinking about the way your thighs shake when you're trying not to cum before I say you can | 3:01 AM
Heat floods through you, pooling low in your belly and spreading outward until your skin feels too hot. Your free hand slides under your waistband without a second thought, fingers slipping through how wet you are and your hips tilt up into your own touch. But all you can think about is how much better he feels.
you're an asshole | 3:02 AM
I know | 3:03 AM
Let me come over anyway | 3:03 AM
And there it is. The ask that isn't really an ask because you both know how this ends. The presumption that should offend you but doesn't because he's earned it, hasn't he? Six months of this dance, of you saying no and meaning yes, of drawing boundaries and then opening the door anyway when he shows up with that look in his eyes.
You stare at the message until the words start to blur. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly.
This is the moment. The fork in the road where you prove to yourself, to your friends, to your therapist, to everyone who's watched you self-destruct over Ari fucking Levinson that you're capable of choosing yourself. That you're more than the girl who waits for 3 AM texts. That you deserve someone who doesn't make you feel like a toy he keeps on the shelf until he wants something warm to sink into.
i'm not the one you should be texting at 3am | 3:05 AM
There. Boundaries. Self-respect. All the things you're supposed to have.
Probably not | 3:06 AM
But you're the one I want | 3:06 AM
Four words and you feel them everywhere. The lie tastes bitter even secondhand, transmitted through pixels and cellular data. The one I want. Not the only one - you're not quite delusional enough to believe that. But the one he wants right now.
Presumably she's asleep, blissfully unaware that her—what? Boyfriend? Situationship? Whatever Ari is to her—is currently sexting his other whatever-the-fuck-you-are. Maybe she's in the bathroom. Maybe she's asleep next to him and he's doing this anyway, getting off on the proximity of the secret. The thought makes you nauseous and aroused in equal measure.
You should say to fuck off. Should tell him to lose your number, block him for real this time, delete the photos from your phone and burn the clothes he's left in your closet. Should pull your hand out from under your waistband and go to sleep. Should feel literally anything other than the dark, sick satisfaction currently unfurling in your chest at the thought of him choosing your bed over hers.
fine | 3:09 AM
You send it before you can talk yourself out of it. Then you drop your phone face down on the mattress like you can't stand to look at what you've just done. Three seconds later you pick it back up.
One word. All that internal warfare and it comes down to four letters and no punctuation, casual as anything, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribs. Like your fingers aren’t still moving absently between your thighs because your body made the decision before you even sent that text.
20 minutes | 3:10 AM
Be ready for me | 3:11 AM
The command in those last four words makes your stomach flip. You drop your phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, your heart still racing, your body already preparing itself.
Twenty minutes to shower, to shave, to make yourself into the version of yourself that he wants. Twenty minutes to pretend you haven't been wanting this every single night for two weeks. Twenty minutes to become the girl who's winning, even though you both know she's losing.
Your phone buzzes twice more, and you grab it so fast you nearly drop it.
Wear that black set | 3:13 AM
You know the one | 3:13 AM
You do know. Of course you know. The lace set he'd bought you a month ago, presented in expensive tissue paper after he'd cancelled dinner plans for the third time. “Let me make it up to you,” he'd murmured, watching you unwrap it with heat in his eyes.
You'd worn it for him that same night. Had modelled the set while Ari sat on the edge of your bed watching you with dark eyes and that infuriating half smile, turning you with one finger like you were something he'd commissioned. Had ended up on your back with the lace pushed aside and his mouth on your throat while he fucked you slow enough to make you beg for it.
The sick satisfaction blooms darker, spreading wider through your chest like poison ivy.
── ⟢ ₊ 🌙 ˚・🥀 ⊹
The knock comes at exactly 3:32 AM. Three sharp raps, confident and unapologetic. The knock of someone who has never once considered that he might not be welcome.
You've been perched awkwardly on the arm of your couch for the last three minutes, fingers worrying the tie of your robe into knots. The black lace sits against your skin like a reminder of every bad decision that's led to this moment, delicate and expensive and utterly wasted on what's about to happen. The set and the silk robe thrown over it feels like costuming, like you’re playing the part of someone in control.
You're not in control. You haven't been since the first time Ari Levinson looked at you like you were something worth ruining himself for.
Padding over to the door, silk robe whispering against your thighs, you take one steadying breath before you open it. And there he is.
He's devastating. That's the only word for it. Big in a way that makes your apartment feel like a dollhouse. Shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light, and tall enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
The t-shirt stretched across his chest leaves nothing to the imagination, which is almost funny because your imagination doesn't need the help anymore. You know that body. Know it embarrassingly well. Know exactly how it feels to be underneath it - small, delicate and so deliciously overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Your thighs press together involuntarily at the thought.
His hair is slightly mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look softer than he is. And the beard - god the beard - is fuller than the last time you saw him, framing a mouth that knows exactly how to destroy you.
But it's his eyes that do the real damage. Blue enough to drown in, they rake over you with a possessive appreciation that’s entirely unapologetic.
“Look at you,” Ari rumbles, voice already rough, deeper than usual. His eyes linger where your robe has fallen open just enough to reveal the black lace underneath, tongue flicking out to brush his bottom lip. “You trying to kill me?”
“You told me to wear it.” You lean against the doorframe, trying for casual, but your pulse is hammering visibly in your throat and you know he can see it.
“I did.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and the smile that crosses his face is slow and pleased and entirely too satisfied with itself. His eyes sweep over you once again, like he's taking inventory of something that belongs to him. “And you listened, you’re always such a good girl for me.”
His praise unfurls something warm and pathetic in your chest. You hate how much you want to be his good girl, how desperately you crave the affection he'll give you.
The door clicks shut behind him and suddenly your apartment feels too small, the air too thick. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it somewhere without looking. Underneath, the sleeves of his t-shirt are pushed to his elbows, revealing his thick forearms, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. And attached to those big hands that know exactly how to take you apart.
You make yourself look back up at his face. It doesn't help. His eyes are already on you, full of heat and already dark.
“Hi,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant.
“Hi, baby.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His palm spans from your chin to your ear, and you feel small in a way that makes your stomach flip. He could break you so easily. In some ways, he already has. “Missed you.”
The words land like a gut punch. “And whose fault is that?”
“I know.” His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. “I'm sorry.”
He's not, though. You both know he's not. Sorry would mean changing, would mean choosing you in daylight instead of just in the dark. But then his hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back further, and his mouth hovers just above yours. Waiting. The bastard is waiting for you to close the distance, chase it, prove how much you want him.
“You're an asshole,” you whisper against his lips.
“You said that already.” His breath mingles with yours. “Say it again. I like when you're mean to me.”
You should. Should call him every name you've been saving up for two weeks. Should ask him where he's been, who he's been with, if she knows he's here. Should demand answers or respect or literally anything other than this.
Instead you kiss him.
His hand tightens in your hair the second your lips touch his, taking over immediately, changing the angle to deepen it on his terms. Your mouth opens instinctively when his tongue presses against your bottom lip, and he licks into you like he owns it. You whimper into it and he swallows the sound whole, pulls back just enough to drag his teeth across your bottom lip before coming back deeper. Tasting you. Taking his time. His other hand grips your jaw, holding you steady, and the message is clear - you're not going anywhere, and you both know it.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he groans, punctuating it with another kiss. “Missed those pretty noises you make for me.”
Pulling back just enough to breathe, eyes dark, he swipes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip, dragging it down. Without thinking, your tongue dips out and chases his thumb. He notices. Of course he notices, the corner of his mouth curving as he steps back and drops onto your couch. One arm stretches along the back it, the other rests on his thigh, and his legs spread wide in an easy sprawl.
“Come here, baby.”
He tilts his head at the space between his knees, one finger curling in a single lazy beckon, and your feet are moving before your brain has any say in the matter.
You stop between his thighs and his hands find your hips immediately. Big, warm, and immediately possessive, settling on your hips with a certainty that makes your breath catch. You make the mistake of looking down at him and catching those deadly blue eyes looking back up at you through thick lashes, and your stomach drops straight through the floor. Standing between his spread thighs you feel it acutely, how much larger he is. How solid. His hands nearly span your entire waist and something about that, about being held so easily, makes heat pool low and insistent.
His fingers find the tie of your robe and toy with it, unhurried, knuckles grazing your stomach through the silk.
“This is pretty,” he murmurs, tugging one end of the belt slowly until the bow dissolves. Your robe falls open and his eyes drop, taking in the full view of black lace underneath. “But I like what's underneath better.”
The silk whispers off your shoulders and pools at your feet, leaving you in nothing but scraps of lace while he remains completely, infuriatingly dressed. And that thought alone - the disparity of it - sends heat rushing straight between your thighs. His eyes devour you slowly, like you're something he's very pleased with himself for having.
The thick bulge straining against his jeans suggests he's more than just pleased.
A sharp inhale escapes you when his hand palms your ass, tugging you closer between his spread thighs until his mouth finds your midriff. Warm lips press against your skin in lazy kisses as your hands slide into his hair. His hands smooth up the backs of your thighs to grip your hips, anchoring you in place, and his mouth moves across your skin slow enough to make you dizzy.
“Do me a favour, babygirl,” he rumbles against you, thumb tracing the lace at your hip, light enough to make you shiver. “Give me a little spin, yeah?” The timbre of his voice has dropped somewhere sinful. “Want to see all of you.”
Your face flushes but you obey, turning in the circle of his thighs while his hand guides you. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on the curve of your ass where the lace cuts high, on the line of your spine, on the backs of your thighs.
“God, I missed this view,” he groans. “Come back here.”
When you complete the turn, both his hands reach for you, gripping your hips and pulling you forward into his lap in one smooth motion that steals your breath. You end up straddling him, thighs spread wide over his, the rough denim of his jeans against your bare skin. His mouth finds yours immediately, greedier this time, more demanding, tongue sliding against yours while his hands roam. Your waist, your back, your ass, mapping you like he's reminding himself of everything he's been missing.
One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple through the lace until it peaks, and then he pinches lightly. You gasp into his mouth, hips grinding forward instinctively.
“That's it,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ love the sounds you make. Love feeling you respond to me.”
His hips roll up slightly and the pressure against your clit makes your head fall back. He takes advantage immediately, mouth moving to your throat, beard scraping sensitive skin as he kisses and bites his way down to your collarbone.
“Ari—” Your hands fist in his hair, needing something to hold onto.
“I've got you baby.” His hands slide to your hips, guiding you into a rhythm, encouraging you to grind against him. “That's my girl, take what you need. Use me.”
So you do. Hips rolling, chasing the friction, grinding down against the thick ridge of him while his mouth stays greedy on your throat. His hands guide you, encourage you, grip harder when you hit the right angle. The lace between your thighs is soaked through, dragging against denim with every roll of your hips.
“Soaking these pretty panties,” he rasps against your collarbone, like he can feel exactly how wet you are through his jeans. “Love having you like this. Love watching you fall apart. All for me.”
The praise washes over you, warm and devastating. He's always been good at this - making you feel seen, special, like you're the only person in the world who matters. It's intoxicating and dangerous and you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in him.
Your hips are moving faster now, chasing more friction, and he matches your rhythm with slow, controlled rolls of his hips that drag against your clit through your panties and make your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part around a needy little sound you have absolutely no control over, hips stuttering forward greedily as your head tips back.
“Fuck, look at you. So beautiful when you're desperate for it.” His hand slides up to cup your face, thumb pressing against your parted lips and tilting your chin back down until you meet his eyes. They're dark, pupils blown wide, and the heat in them makes your breath stutter. “You have any idea what you do to me babygirl? How fucking crazy you make me?”
You want to believe him. Want to believe that this means something, that you're not just convenient and willing at 3 AM. But the wanting is what breaks you. His hips roll up and pleasure spikes through you sharp. You're so turned on it aches, so close to the edge already, and underneath all of it is the creeping, horrible feeling of wanting this to mean what it doesn't mean.
“My girl.” His mouth brushes yours as he says it, barely a kiss. The hand on your cheek slides into your hair as his hips keep moving. You can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this, wants you, and for a moment it's so easy to believe that wanting and choosing are the same thing.
“You'll always be my girl, won't you? You know that.”
The thing is, you do know. That's the problem. You know it in the way his name in your phone makes your stomach drop. In the way you put on the black lace without hesitating. In the way your body has been his since the first time he touched you and has never quite figured out how to belong to itself again. You know it in your bones.
But knowing you're his and knowing he's yours are two very different things. And only one of them is true.
The first tear slips free before you can stop it and you instinctively try to hide your face in his neck. Seeking his warmth, his scent and the solid size of him, because he has ruined you so thoroughly that even now, even like this, he’s what your body reaches for. He’s the reason you’re crying and he’s who you want to cry into and that’s the most pathetic part of it.
But his hand catches your face before you can, palm curving around your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks. Your lips pucker involuntarily into a helpless little pout, fresh tears spilling over his fingers as he forces you to look directly at him.
“Oh baby,” he coos, soft and devastating and not entirely kind. His hips roll up and you whimper through the pout he’s forcing on your lips, grinding you against his erection in a rhythm that makes your body sing even as your heart splinters “What’s this? What’s going on in that pretty head?”
His thumb swipes at your tears almost lazily, eyes tracking each one with a toxic mix of heat and hunger and satisfaction barely concealed beneath concern. The humiliation and the pleasure coil into something indistinguishable from each other, and the need between your thighs deepens with every tear he collects.
“I cant do this anymore,” you manage, small and pathetic and entirely unconvincing.
More tears follow, hot and wet against your cheeks. Beneath you he's harder than before, thick and obvious through his jeans, his free hand pressing your hips down into a rhythm you're helpless to resist. The friction drags a moan out of you that breaks halfway into a sob, messy and humiliating, and you're still pouty-lipped and crying in his palm. He watches it happen with those dark, greedy eyes before schooling his expression back into something that looks like concern.
He tilts his head, blue eyes wide and earnest, and you feel insane. Like you've invented the problem out of thin air. “Where’s this coming from?”
The gentleness of his tone is pure performance. Like he has no idea why you'd be falling apart in his lap. Like he isn’t the architect of every wound he’s now pretending to care about. Like your tears aren’t exactly what he came here for.
“You know where.” You try to pull away but his hand tightens on your cheeks, keeping you seated firmly in his lap, keeping the thick ridge of his cock pressed right against your clit through the soaked lace.
“I really don't, baby.” His thumb swipes another tear, slow and unhurried, and his hips roll up just enough to make your breath catch mid-sob. “Talk to me. Let it all out.”
But you can't. Can't articulate the war happening inside you. The way your body is screaming yes while your heart is screaming no. Can't explain that you're furious and desperate and so far gone for him that the anger only makes you want him more.
More tears spill over and you watch his pupils dilate, watch his breath catch.
“We're done,” you finally say, the words muffled and graceless against the pout his fingers are still forcing on your lips. “I mean it this time.”
For a second he just stares at you, and then his expression shifts into something that makes your stomach drop. Not surprised - of course not - just entirely indulgent like you're a child throwing a tantrum.
“Aww, baby.” His voice goes soft, syrupy, as though he's talking you down from something small and silly. “Hey, hey. It's okay, good girl. Let it all out.”
“I'm serious—”
“Shh, I know. I know you are.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, wet and trembling, and his tongue drags slowly across his own like he's already thinking about tasting your tears. “You're upset. You've got all these big feelings and nowhere to put them, yeah? Go on baby, show me how much you're feeling right now, cry because it’s over.”
The patronizing tone makes you cry harder, which seems to be exactly what he wants. His eyes track each tear with rapt attention, that small smile playing at his mouth. Your face is still caught in his grip, bottom lip still protruding in that humiliating little pout, wobbling with each wet sob
He uses that grip on your face to pull you forward into his mouth before you can reply. The kiss is messy and wet and salty with your tears, his tongue licking into you like he's tasting the evidence of everything you feel for him, everything you just tried to end. You moan into it despite yourself and he swallows that too, hips rolling up beneath you slow and deliberate, keeping the rhythm, reminding your body what it wants even as your heart tries to want something else.
He pulls back only to drag his mouth across your cheek, your jaw, following the wet trails your tears have left behind. His tongue collects them one by one and the groan that rumbles out of him against your skin makes your thighs clench around his, as he keeps you pressed against the hard length of him that proves he's not taking any of this seriously.
“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth moving to find more, greedy. “My pretty little crybaby.”
Once satiated with your tears, his hand finally releases your cheeks and you collapse forward immediately, face buried in the crook of his neck where you wanted to be ten minutes ago. Your arms loop weakly around his broad shoulders, breath ragged and wet, nose pressed into his skin. You're still crying - soft, hiccuping sobs you can't quite get a handle on - yet your hips continue to grind desperately against him because your body has clearly given up on listening to your better judgment.
His other hand slides down between your bodies, palm grazing your stomach, the lace at your hip, and then the soaked fabric between your thighs. The first brush of his fingers against the soaked lace makes you moan into his throat before you can stop yourself, hips bucking helplessly into the contact.
“Ari, I said—I ended it—” But your protest is weak and entirely unconvincing because the rest dissolves into a moan that you muffle desperately against his neck.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You're drenched.”
His fingers trace the wet fabric, and another wet moan escapes you as he presses against your clit. “See? Your body knows what it wants even if you're confused up here.” His thumb taps gently at your temple, patronising and tender all at once.
Pushing the lace aside, the first stroke of his thick fingers through your wetness makes you moan into his neck. He hums his approval into your hair before sinking two fingers into you in one slow stroke, and your whole body shudders.
“Ari, you're not listening,” you manage between ragged breaths, hips grinding down onto his hand despite every word coming out of your mouth. “I ended it. I told you I—” Another moan chokes off the sentence as he curls his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.
“I am listening, babygirl. I hear you,” he soothes, infuriatingly gentle. “You're very upset. Very hurt. And you're handling it by making a big declaration at four in the morning while you're sitting in my lap in that lace I bought you.” He keeps pumping his fingers into you as he talks, and your whole body jolts, hips grinding down into him. “While you're soaking my fingers and grinding on my cock.”
He works you slowly, deliberately, fingers curling with the kind of patience that feels like torture. Your protests dissolve into something more honest - desperate little whines against his neck, mewled into his neck because that's the only place you can hide. Your tears keep falling even as your hips chase his hand, even as your fingers claw at his shoulders, even as every coherent thought you had about ending this burns away to nothing.
“Please, please, please—”
You’re so close, desperately close, trembling on the edge of it when he pulls his fingers free. The sound you make is pathetic and defeated, and goes wilfully ignored.
Ari brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that vibrates through his chest.
“Fuck, don't know what's sweeter, baby.” His eyes track between his fingers and your wet cheeks, dark and considering. “You or those pretty tears.”
He sucks them clean one more time like he can't help himself, then reaches down.
The zip of his jeans is the loudest sound in the room. He frees himself and an eager moan actually escapes you because god, his cock is so pretty. Thick and hard and flushed dark, the swollen head already glistening, a drop of precum sliding down to streak against your inner thigh.
The kind of cock that's ruined your standards permanently.
Those big hands close around your hips with that ease that always makes you feel like a doll he's positioning. And he uses every inch of those broad shoulders and corded forearms to drag your soaked pussy along the length of him without pushing in. Just sliding you over him, painting himself in your wet heat while the lace stays bunched to the side and you make needy little sounds against his throat.
The fat head of his cock catches your clit and you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Ari,” you whine, a desperate little plea. “Please.”
“Please what, babygirl?” His voice is pure honey, dark and indulgent. “Tell me what you need.”
“Need you to—” Another gasp as he catches your clit again.
“Use your words, c’mon, know you can do it.” He guides your hips forward again, achingly slow, the thick head of him nudging against your entrance before he pulls you back. Not pushing in, just making sure you know exactly what you're begging for.
“Inside,” you sob against his neck. “Please, I need your cock Ari.”
“Hmm,” he teases, almost thoughtful as he tilts his head. His hands still on your hips, holding you hovering right there, right on the edge of it. “I would, baby. You know I would.” He pauses, and you feel your heart drop into your stomach. His thumb strokes your hip in possessive circles. “But I thought you ended it. Thought you meant it this time.”
Your face snaps up to his, panic and need crashing into each other behind your eyes.
“Ari, please, no—I need you, I need—”
“Aww.” His voice softens, faux-tender, that infuriating little crease appearing between his brows. “Baby, no, I'm just doing what you asked me to do. It’s over, right? We’re done. That's what you said.” He drags you slowly over him again and the head of his cock catches your clit and you sob, fresh tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “Wouldn't want to take advantage.”
“I didn't mean it.” The words tumble out of you in a desperate rush, choked and wet and humiliating. “Ari I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, please, please I'm sorry—” You kiss him before he can answer, messy and needy, lips chasing his, hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close. “Please, I need you, I need it, please don't stop—”
You feel his cock twitch against your folds. Hot and obvious. A pulse of want he can't hide. He hums against your mouth, low and pleased, and you can feel him smiling.
“Shhh,” he breathes against your lips between kisses, voice dropping to something dark and pleased. “Look at you. Crying and begging and apologising. So fucking pretty when you're like this. Gone all dumb for my cock, haven't you?”
He drags you over him again, slow and torturous, the slick head of him catching your clit and making you whine.
“Yes,” The word falls out of you broken and grateful. “Yes, please, Ari—”
“Yeah?” His mouth moves against yours, almost amused. “You want me to take care of you? Even after you tried to end it?” Another devastating drag. “Even after you broke my heart?”
“Please, I'm yours, please—” Your hips are still chasing him, still desperate, every word collapsing into the next.
“Okay, baby. Okay.” His tone is generous now. Magnanimous, like he's bestowing something. “I'll give it to you because that's what I do, isn't it? I take care of my girl.” His hand slides to grip the base of his cock, the other tightening on your hip. “This is why you're mine, crying so pretty for my cock.”
He lines the thick, swollen head of his cock up at your entrance, and guides you down with his hand on your hip. The first inch of him has your eyes rolling back already, stretching you open with that familiar fullness that your body has been craving for two weeks.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, head tipping back briefly. “Tightest little cunt I've ever felt. Made for me, isn't it?”
You try to chase his mouth, desperate to keep kissing him, but your jaw won't cooperate. Instead, it keeps falling slack with every inch you take, lips parting uselessly around the moans pouring out of you. By the time you're fully seated your forehead is resting against his, your mouth hanging open against his lips.
“Dumb already,” he rumbles, watching your face with dark amusement, watching your wet, glassy eyes blink slowly back at him. “What am I going to do with you, baby?” His thumb finds your bottom lip, slipping into your open mouth and pressing down on your tongue. “Suck. Good girl. Keep that mouth occupied.”
You close your lips around his thumb obediently, sucking, eyes fluttering shut around the dual fullness of him in your mouth and inside you. His hips give a small, lazy roll beneath you and you whimper around his fingers.
“Go on, show me how much my little crybaby needed this.”
You find your rhythm slowly, hips rolling, chasing the friction, thighs burning with the effort of it. Ari watches you from beneath heavy lids, enjoying every second of making you work for it - not helping, not even a little. Just watching you ride him like you’re entertainment, thumb still pressed to your tongue, free hand coming up to pop the clasp of your bra like he has all the time in the world.
It falls away and his hand cups your breast immediately, squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple before pinching it sharply. You whimper around his thumb, drool clinging to his knuckle, trailing down your chin in thin little strings.
He pinches harder and you clench around him hard enough to make him hiss, so he does it again just to feel you grip him. You're close. So desperately close you can feel it shimmering just out of reach, coiling tight in your belly with every roll of your hips. Soft whining sounds escape around his thumb with every breath.
“You getting close, baby? Want to cum?”
You nod frantically, eyes wet and pleading, drool slipping down his hand. A thin string of it pulls from your lips as you try to form the word yes.
“Then beg for it,” he purrs, lazy and mean. “You want it so bad? Let's hear it.”
You try. You really try - tongue working uselessly around his thumb, shaping syllables as best you can. What escapes is something that vaguely resembles please, mangled by saliva and his cruel pressure on your tongue, deliberately obstructing the attempt.
His grin is slow and wolfish. “That supposed to be begging?”
A desperate whine vibrates against his thumb. He presses it deeper in response, just to feel you gag, just to watch your lips stretch wider around him, and your eyes well with fresh tears.
“Nah.” His mouth drags to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Not good enough, babygirl. All I hear is spit and nonsense.” His free hand drops between your bodies, fingers brushing your clit - just a mean, fleeting touch - and you sob desperately. “Drooling all over my fingers like a needy little thing. Can't even beg right - guess you don't want it that bad, huh?”
A pathetic cry claws its way out of you, half-strangled by the thumb still in your mouth. You shake your head wildly, eyes glassy and wide. So you try harder. Put everything you have left into it, hips still rolling desperately, thighs shaking.
“P-plea'—Ari—please—wan'—wan'—cum—”
Slurred, barely English, mangled around his thumb. But desperate. Unmistakably desperate.
He groans - deep, hungry and satisfied - hips finally snapping up to meet yours. He drags his thumb from your mouth just long enough to hear the broken sob of relief that breaks loose from your lips before his mouth crashes against yours.
“Good girl,” he breathes against your tongue. “Fucking good girl.”
He fucks up into you hard, one big hand gripping the curve of your ass to slam you down to meet every thrust. The other stays between you to circle you clit with perfect pressure. Every snap of his hips hits you so deep you can feel it in your teeth. The sound of it is filthy, slick and wet and rhythmic, your apartment filled with the obscene slap of skin and your broken, mindless cries.
“Fuckin' look at you,” he growls against your jaw. “That’s my fucking girl, riding my cock so pretty.”
You can't answer. Can barely hold yourself upright. His name is the only word left in your mouth—Ari Ari Ari Ari—a desperate, broken loop as he drives into you.
“That's right.” His thumb works your clit faster, mouth dragging across your jaw. “Say it. Whose are you? Whose pussy is this?”
“Ari—” you moan. “Ari, Ari, Ari—”
“Yeah, that's right. Mine, so let me feel my pussy soak my cock.”
You break apart. Your whole body convulses, walls clamping down around him so hard he hisses, the orgasm tearing through you in wave after wave while his hips never stop, never slow. His name is still falling helplessly out of your mouth in a broken chant as he fucks you through it, hips snapping up into you while you sob and shake and clench around him.
“Fuck—fuck, baby, just like that—strangling my cock.”
His rhythm goes sloppier. Hungrier. His hand leaves your clit and his arm wraps around your waist instead, holding you against him, pinning you in place so he can fuck up into you with everything he has left.
“Gonna fill you up, baby. Fill this perfect pussy with my cum.”
You nod helplessly, squeezing around him and he loses it. His hips drive up one last time, burying himself deep, and groans against your skin as he spills inside you. You feel every pulse of it. Every hot, possessive flood while you tremble in his lap, his cock still twitching, his hand still gripping your ass like he can't quite let go.
You come down slowly, in pieces, his arms still locked around you and his cock still buried deep. His mouth moves over your throat, your jaw, your tear-tracked cheeks. Soft, sweet kisses that are a complete contrast to what he just did to you.
“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, voice gentle and warm. “Always so good for me. Always so fucking perfect.”
You can't even respond. Just whimper against his shoulder while his hand strokes up and down your spine, gentling you, his other hand cradling the back of your head. You're floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss, and he holds you through all of it, patient and warm and impossibly tender.
Praise pours out of him in a low, constant stream, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself believe in it, just for a minute.
When he finally pulls out you feel his cum start to slip out of you immediately. Hot and slick, sliding down between your thighs onto the warm wet head of him still pressed against you. He glances down and tuts, both amused and disapproving.
“Mm. Look at the mess you're making, baby.” His thumb catches some of it where it's beading on his cock and brings it back up to your bottom lip, smearing it there, watching your face. Your tongue darts out before you've made any conscious decision about it. He hums, deeply pleased. “You made the mess, reckon you ought to help clean it up.”
He guides you off his lap slowly, careful with you, until your knees meet the floor between his spread thighs. You look up at him from there - face wet, lips parted, cum running down the insides of your thighs onto your apartment floor - and the expression on his face stops your breath in your chest.
That undone, almost tender expression he never wears anywhere but here. Only ever when he thinks you can't tell, when his guard has slipped, when you've fucked him past the point where he can keep the walls up.
It's the drug. It's always been the drug. It's why you didn't block his number when you said you would. Why you opened the door at 3:32 AM. Why you let him talk you out of ending it without ever actually arguing. Why you'll do the same thing the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Because no one else has ever looked at you the way Ari Levinson looks at you right now.
His thumb traces your bottom lip, possessive yet tender. “Open up, babygirl.”
more mads: honestly, i'm not entirely sure that's what the request meant, but i started listening to "don't smile" to get inspo for the fic and my mind immediately went to dacryphilia and that was it really, so um, sorry if this isn't what you meant anon, but i hope you, and anyone else who read this enjoyed anyway!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 <33
i fell asleep reading this. woke up n immediately read it properly.
ALL I HAVE TO SAY IS I NEED A MEAN MAN IN MY LIFE.!!!!! [SPECIFICALLY ARI] UNFORTUNATELY I WOULD STILL crawl back to him just like reader because i am a loser.! him being patronizing and having faux sympathy would fix me i’m sorry to admit that . PLEASE I NEED THAT LIKE RIGHT NOW.
and maddie: i will give you my house, cats and everything because you write so beautifully like this isn’t a smut this is literally a masterpiece?? hello?? i’ll give you a kiss……. knowing me i will probably come back in two days to read it again… meow
AHHHHH mox this reblog gave me lifeeee thank youuu 😭😭
i fear this ari absolutely would nawt fix you but instead make you so much worse pookie but that’s okay bc ME TOO 😌😌😌 he’s just so sexy and yummy and urgghhhh. i’d let him do anything to me i’m not even ashamed to admit it
AHHHHH YOURE TOO KIND I LOVE YOU!!! yes c’mere let’s kiss MWAH MWAHHHH
summary: when your already bad date takes a turn for the worse, the head chef of the restaurant comes to see what he can do to help. when he offers to give you a tour of the kitchen, you jump at the chance to escape, and your bad night turns into something else entirely.
warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), some verbal and physical abuse against reader during her date, reader sustains a minor injury (bruised wrist), some hurt/comfort, unspecified age gap, porn with feelings, kinda instalove, eventual smut, dry humping, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, big cock, cock warming, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, come eating, marking/hickeys, sorta scent kink, dirty talk, chef kink, praise kink, pet names (sweetheart, angel, baby), aftercare, happy ending
word count: 26.0k
a/n: it's finally hereeeee!!! i've been working on nothing else but this fic for the last month and it's finally done 😮💨😭 it was inspired by Shawn Hatosy's Quinn audio (although i haven't actually listened to it yet). i just had to write something for chef!Jack Abbot, and i'm really happy with how this turned out! it feels almost like a smutty little romance novella, which i think is cool. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!!
if you'd rather read the fic broken down into chapters, check it out on AO3
“Hey, chef.”
With just those two words, Jack Abbot knew his night was about to take a turn for the worse. Nothing good could come from the underlying urgency and overt hesitance in the voice of one of his servers, Nazely Toomarian.
But Jack also knew, from his years as head chef and owner of one of Pittsburgh’s most popular fine dining restaurants, Night Shift, that it wasn’t Nazely’s fault. No, it was very likely to be one of the insufferable guests who frequented his restaurant who ruined his night.
So Jack swallowed his sigh, kept stirring the sauce of that night’s special, and glanced at his server, giving her a nod to go on.
“We’ve got a situation in the dining room.”
Of course they did.
Jack finally let loose the sigh that had been building between his ribs, wondering distractedly if the situation was some jagoff businessman’s card declining, an impossible-to-please socialite sending every bite of her food back, or if another influencer was insisting on getting their meal comped in exchange for free publicity on their Instagram or TikTok or whatever.
Jack knew he was old and out of touch—that was why he’d hired one of the daytime servers, Victoria Javadi, to run the restaurant’s social media—but he also knew a scam when he saw it. Someone who genuinely wanted to work with him asked about partnership deals before eating an entire meal they expected to be free.
Grumbling about influencers under his breath, Jack gave the sauce on the stove one last stir, adding a little more salt, then handed the wooden spoon off to his sous chef, John Shen. Quickly, but methodically, Jack took off his gloves, turned to Nazely, and tucked his arms behind his back—a remnant from his days in the army.
“What kind of a situation?” Jack asked, his voice calm and measured even as he was already preparing himself for the worst.
The chef listened attentively as his server explained what had brought her back into the kitchen with that concerned look in her eyes. The frown on Jack’s face deepened the more he heard about the date going decidedly bad in his dining room.
Finally, Nazely finished up her story with a breathless, “Do you want me to have security handle it?”
Jack knew it was the easiest solution, to call security and have them escort the man creating the situation out of the restaurant. But it would cause a scene, and everyone else in the packed restaurant would be talking more about what had happened than his food.
It would be better for Night Shift’s business if Jack could remedy the situation himself, as quietly as possible.
Instead of answering his server’s question, Jack walked to the double swinging doors that led out to the dining room. He peered through the window, feeling a bit like a king overlooking his kingdom, and he had a sudden, fierce impulse to protect it.
“Which table was it?” Jack asked, glancing back at Nazely, who’d followed him to the doors.
“Table 12,” she answered quickly.
Jack looked out across the sea of glamorous guests dining in his restaurant, a swell of pride in his heart when he saw beyond the expensive clothes and glitzy jewelry to the smiles and laughter of people enjoying his food. In his heart of hearts, Jack just wanted to make food people liked eating, and it never failed to overwhelm him when he got a chance to see the delight he brought to complete strangers who’d entrusted their time and money to him.
Pushing those thoughts and feelings aside for the moment, Jack focused back on the room, his eyes tracking along the tables until he found the one Nazely had indicated. For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot’s heart skipped a beat and he froze at the sight in front of him.
The first thing about you that rendered Jack speechless was your mouth, the curve of your lips, the tension around the edges as you hid a frown behind a sip of wine. Jack knew, instinctively, that your lips would look gorgeous when you smiled, that your mouth would look exquisite while eating his food—and he knew, too, that he’d do anything to make you smile, to feed you, to take care of you.
Jack shook his head at those thoughts, forcing himself to focus on the situation Nazely had told him about, the date going irreparably sideways.
Still, the chef couldn’t help but rake his eyes over you, telling himself he was simply assessing how much distress you were in. Jack noted the stiffness in your shoulders, how you were curling in on yourself slightly, like your body was trying to protect itself. He also noticed the pretty color of your eyes, the curve of your cheekbones, the sweep of your dress at it fell across your thighs.
You were beautiful, enchanting in a way Jack hadn’t experienced in a long, long time—and you were miserable. That much was clear from your body language and the way you regarded your date with no small amount of disgust and fear deep in your pretty eyes.
Finally, the chef dragged his gaze across your table to your date.
Immediately, Jack didn’t like the arrogant slant of the man’s shoulders, the imperious tilt of his chin, or the pompous way he held his glass as he spoke and drank. Even the way the man took a sip of wine, smacking his lips before resuming his tirade where he’d left off, made anger coil like a poised predator in Jack’s gut.
Something shifted in the man, and Jack looked back at you, seeing indignant rage boiling beneath the surface of your expression. Jack watched you say something through bared teeth, hissing at your date like you were trying not to make a scene.
Your hands were braced against the edge of the table, and you pushed to stand—but then your date moved to stop you, grabbing your wrist, and something in Jack snapped.
Later, he’d tell himself he would’ve had the same reaction if any man had put his hands on a woman in his restaurant. But in that moment, he was driven almost entirely by the edge of something else threaded through the fury in his chest—something greedy and selfish that you, and only you, had inspired in him.
“I’ll handle this myself,” Jack growled, tossing the words over his shoulder at Nazely without taking his eyes off where your date’s hand was still wrapped around your wrist, holding you chained to the table like a misbehaving pet.
All Jack could think, as he strode across the dining room, his chest churning with wrath and violence, was that it was a good thing he didn’t have a knife in his hand.
You were on the date from hell.
And the worst part? You weren’t even sure when everything had gone wrong.
Was it when you’d let your coworker set you up with her boyfriend’s best friend, a man named Curtis Larsen?
Was it when you’d gotten your hopes up and donned your favorite dress—the black fabric clinging to your curves in all the right places and showing off your legs—only for Curtis not to say a word when he picked you up from your office building in downtown Pittsburgh?
Was it when you decided you could put up with his pretentious posturing about his job and his golf game to enjoy one night at Night Shift, the restaurant you’d always wanted to try but could never afford?
Hiding a sigh by taking a sip of your wine—a bitter red you’d never have ordered for yourself—you decided that was probably when things had gone wrong.
From the moment you’d gotten into Curtis’s car, he’d been nothing but insufferable. You should’ve left before walking into the restaurant, but you’d heard such good things about Night Shift, and its head chef Jack Abbot, that you’d ignored your instincts and soldiered on.
You were rewarded for your selfishness by watching Curtis talk down to everyone he came across—the hostess, who sat you in the middle of the dining room only for Curtis to complain you weren’t in one of the booths; the server, who tried to recite the night’s specials only to be interrupted by Curtis asking about a specific dish; the sommelier, who had to put up with Curtis acting like he knew more about wine than the man whose job it was.
It was all you could do to offer the restaurant workers apologetic smiles and slip them some money from your own purse when Curtis wasn’t looking. You tried to grin and bear it, to soak up the ambience of the restaurant despite the black hole of unearned smugness sitting across from you.
Truthfully, Night Shift was spectacular enough to almost distract you from your horrible date and everything that was wrong with him.
The space was decorated in rich, emerald greens and dark, roughhewn wood, with real, lustrous plants and other greenery breaking up the dining room to give each table a pretense of privacy. Warm candles and low lighting gave the restaurant an intimate atmosphere, even while it was packed full.
All told, Night Shift was the perfect place for a date. It was too bad you were there with a man who might’ve been worse than the devil.
You were hiding another frown behind a sip of your disgusting wine when Curtis launched into a tirade about how the woman he’d marry should have a respectable job and make a good salary—and she’d also be responsible for keeping his house clean and taking care of his kids.
It took all of your self-control to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him. You weren’t exactly surprised—you’d been set up with enough financial analysts like Curtis to know a lot of them were useless assholes who wanted a mommy more than a wife. But you could feel your desire to put up with the date for the sake of trying Night Shift’s food slipping away, and you hadn’t even ordered your appetizers yet.
Resolving to treat yourself to a dinner at Night Shift for your next birthday, you interrupted Curtis’s egotistical diatribe about modern women and tried to politely excuse yourself. You were kinder than you thought he deserved when you told him you didn’t think the two of you were a good fit and it would save you both some time to cut the date short.
But Curtis’s eyes flashed in a way that had fear suddenly bursting in your gut, and his expression turned mean as he leaned forward across the small table, invading your space.
“The date isn’t over until I say it’s over,” Curtis said, his voice so cold, you froze in your seat. “You’re not going anywhere.”
For a moment, you sat in your seat in surprise. You’d been on some bad dates, and while some of the men had reacted badly when you’d left early, none of them had scared you the way Curtis was. There was something so aggressive about the way he spoke, and it was then that you noticed a strange haze in his eyes.
Was he… high?
Thankfully, a sever must’ve caught Curtis’s words, or his tone of voice, because she came over to check on you. Her brown eyes were sharp, but kind as they stayed fixed on you, asking if everything was okay.
“We’re fine,” you told her weakly, giving her the most reassuring smile you could offer while silently begging her to help you somehow. You didn’t want to make a scene, and you were sure the restaurant didn’t want that either, but you would if you needed to.
That’s what you hoped to convey, and you thought the server might’ve understood because she gave a firm nod and headed off with a determined spring in her step. You saw her walk quickly toward the kitchen before your attention was diverted by Curtis.
“You better not embarrass me in front of the staff,” Curtis was saying, clutching his wine glass a little too tight and swirling the liquid enough that you worried he’d spill some on the expensive decor. “I bring a lot of high-profile clients here, I can’t have you leaving early—you know how people like them talk.”
The fear you’d felt melted away in the face of indignant anger on behalf of the restaurant staff—who Curtis had treated like garbage since he’d walked in. It was a miracle he was even allowed in the doors after what you’d seen that evening.
“What kind of people is that exactly?” you asked, quiet fury lacing your voice. You could put up with the indignity of being ordered around by your date, but you wouldn’t sit by and listen to him disparage the people who’d only tried to help the two of you that evening.
Curtis clearly didn’t hear the warning in your tone, because he gave a careless shrug of his shoulders, gesturing thoughtlessly with his hand holding his wine. Some sloshed over the edge, spilling on the floor.
“You know, low-class people.”
There was so much casual disdain dripping from his voice, you had to wonder, if Curtis was such a regular at Night Shift, why hadn’t the sommelier poisoned him already—it’s not like the world wouldn’t be better off without your date, who was somehow still talking.
“The type of people too poor to get a real job—like us,” Curtis said, fixing you with what he clearly thought was a winning smile. It did not make him look like a winner.
At the implication that you were anything like Curtis, your stomach roiled unpleasantly, and you were suddenly afraid that what little wine you’d drank was about to come back up.
That was it, you’d officially reached the end of your patience. You didn’t care if it caused a scene, you couldn’t spend another moment in this man’s presence without vomiting.
“You’re a small-dicked, pathetic excuse for a man, Curtis Larsen,” you hissed at him, trying to keep your fury in check as you braced your hands against the edge of the table and moved to stand. “And I would fuck every one of the people who worked here before I let you anywhere near me —”
As you pushed yourself up from the table, Curtis reached for you quicker than you would’ve expected, snatching your wrist in his big, meaty hand. He yanked on your arm hard enough that you sat back down, biting back a cry as a jolt of pain shot through your shoulder.
“Don’t you dare fucking try to leave,” Curtis snarled, his face contorted into an ugly mask of rage. It was clearer, in that moment, that he was high. It was making him more aggressive, so even when you tried to pull free of his grasp, he held on tighter, hurting you even more.
Just then, movement over Curtis’s shoulder caught your attention and your gaze snagged on a man pushing through the door to the kitchen, an air of violence and vengeance about him that made your heart leap in hope. He carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence weak-willed men like Curtis could only dream of, and he was heading straight for your table.
In the brief time it took the man to make his way through the dining room, you took stock of his appearance. The first thing you noticed was how handsome he was. Silvery, steel gray curls were swept back from his face, giving you a clear view of his sharp, hazel eyes, straight nose and a soft mouth bracketed by short stubble.
The man was clearly older than you, in his 50s, but he looked competent and put together in a way that had your belly swooping as your eyes raked down his body. A plain white t-shirt stretched around his bulging biceps, freckles dusted down his tanned, weathered arms. His broad shoulders and narrow waist were accentuated by the brown apron hanging from his neck.
Something about the man looked familiar, like you’d seen him somewhere before, but between the pain in your wrist, the fear inspired by Curtis’s aggressive change in mood, and the sudden attraction you felt toward the handsome chef, you couldn’t place him.
At least, not until you looked back at his face and saw the intent determination in his expression. It was the same exceedingly hot look he’d been wearing in the photos you’d seen—the ones in the article about Night Shift and its chef-slash-owner.
You realized, with sudden clarity, two very important things: The man approaching your table was the restaurant’s owner and world-renowned head chef, Jack Abbot. And he looked furious enough about the way Curtis was still holding on to you that he was liable to murder your date.
Jack Abbot could not kill a restaurant guest.
He could not. No matter how much that guest might deserve it for putting his filthy fucking hands on a woman in his restaurant. No matter how much Jack wanted to rip this guy’s head off for daring to touch someone as sweet-looking as you.
He could not kill a guest. He could not kill a guest.
Those words were a refrain playing in his head as he made his way to your table, the one with the situation Nazely had told him about—a situation that had clearly escalated to physical. Because your date had put his hand on you and all Jack could think about was murder.
He hated the way this pompous asshole was holding your wrist tight enough that it looked painful, though your face was a stony mask like you refused to give the guy the satisfaction of showing him he’d hurt you. And Jack especially hated the fact that he’d stupidly left his knife in the kitchen, so he couldn’t cut off the guest’s hand for the crime of touching you with so much violence.
Jack was nearly at the table when he heard your date talking, and he immediately recognized the smarmy voice of Night Shift’s #1 worst regular: Curtis Larsen.
In that moment, Jack knew he should’ve banned the guy after the last time he came in, when he’d terrorized the staff and tipped basically nothing for their efforts. Well, that was a mistake Jack was going to rectify immediately, once he got you away from the shithead.
So focused on his thoughts, and trying to quell his inclination toward murder, Jack didn’t fully register what Curtis was saying until he was right next to the table.
“—Didn’t take you for such a cheap whore—”
Any possibility of Jack politely interrupting Curtis went out the window when he heard those words. What came out of him instead was: “Sir, you need to shut your fucking mouth.”
Jack was louder than he’d meant to be, making you gasp softly. His gaze found you, wanting to make sure he hadn’t scared you, and he ended up getting lost in your eyes. They were bright and smart, and watching him with such a keen interest, it made Jack feel 20 years younger.
It was then that Jack really looked at you, and he realized just how young you were. Not young enough to make him feel like a complete creep, but… young enough to make him feel at least a little bit like a creep.
Especially when he raked his eyes down your body—telling himself he was just checking to make sure you were okay—and he couldn’t help but notice the way your dress clung to your curves, taunting him with how high the hem rode up your thigh. Your bare legs were a tease beneath the tablecloth, and Jack wondered if your skin felt as soft as it looked…
Reminding himself that you needed help, not to be ogled by a creepy older man, Jack shook himself free of the spell you’d cast on him with your wide, trusting eyes and your pretty, tempting curves. He turned to Curtis, giving the man his most fearsome glower, the one that kept the most unruly of restaurant guests in line.
“And keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Jack growled, making a point of looking down at where Curtis’s hand was still holding your wrist before returning his gaze to the man’s face. “Or do I need to teach you a lesson about putting your hands on woman without her consent?”
Jack knew he sounded dangerous—unhinged, probably—but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when his thinly veiled threat did the trick and Curtis let go of you like he was dropping a hot pan.
Something settled in Jack’s chest, and he felt soothed knowing he hadn’t even needed to resort to violence to save you from Curtis. But that feeling quickly shriveled as Jack watched you bring your hand to our chest and cradle your wrist.
He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to wrap you up in his arms and tell you no one would ever hurt you again. Not on his watch. But somehow, Jack managed to keep his hands tucked behind his back, even as the tips of his fingers prickled with the desire to touch you, to soothe you.
Those thoughts and urges were troubling enough, but then you lifted your eyes and gave Curtis a withering look that had the other man cowering almost as much as he had under Jack’s glare. The chef felt a threat of pride weave through his heart.
Jack could see your strength, your resilience, and he knew in that moment that you could take care of yourself. You could’ve freed yourself from Curtis’s hold, you hadn’t needed saving, but that only made Jack want to whisk you away all the more. He wanted to take care of you in a way he’d never felt before.
Biting back a sigh at himself, Jack realized one very important thing: He was a goner for you. Already. Even though he didn’t even know your name.
Unable and unwilling to stop himself from acting selfishly, Jack held a hand out to you, giving you a soft, encouraging smile and nodding toward your hurt wrist.
“My name’s Jack, I own this restaurant. Can I take a look, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it, a low, raspy rumble that he hoped felt like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “I used to be a medic in the army.”
It made Jack’s heart soar when you looked at him for a moment, like you were taking his measure, and decided you could trust him. Your fingers were soft and a little cold as they slipped into Jack’s plam, his own hand closing reflexively around them to warm you up.
Carefully, Jack turned your wrist one way, then the other, bending low over your hand to examine whether it was injured. All the while, he kept an eye on your face, watching for any wince or twinge in your expression to indicate he was hurting you.
Thankfully—for you, for Jack, and most especially for your date—it didn’t look like Curtis had done any real damage.
“No sprain, just some bruising,” Jack said, giving your fingers a soft, reassuring squeeze and lifting his gaze to yours. He nearly lost himself in the admiration and gratefulness in your eyes, but managed to continue. “I have some ibuprofen in my office.”
Your eyes widened a little in surprise, and Jack was forced to endure the torment of watching you nibble on your lower lip while uncertainty filled your expression. He understood your reticence to trust a man so soon after another had hurt you, so Jack tried to put you at ease.
“Whaddya say, sweetheart, do you want the kitchen tour?”
Jack shot you a cheesy, hopefully charming wink, and when you let out a soft giggle, shaking your head at him like you couldn’t believe how corny he was, he felt like he was flying. He felt like he could soar above all of Pittsburgh with only the confidence he earned from making you laugh.
“That would be nice,” you said, looking up at him from under your lashes. Jack was immediately entranced by your voice, by the way your lips moved as you spoke. “Thank you, chef.”
It did absurdly wild things to Jack’s heart, which was already beating a fast, staccato rhythm in his chest, to hear you call him ‘chef’. It shouldn’t have affected him so much, it was a title he heard about a hundred times a night from dozens of other people.
But hearing it from your pretty mouth made Jack feel like it was a badge of honor, and he was glad to have earned it.
Distracted by thinking of ways to get you to call him ‘chef’ some more, it wasn’t until you clutched his fingers more tightly that he remembered he’d intended to get you away from Curtis as quickly as possible. Using it as an excuse to keep holding your hand, Jack helped you to stand up.
When he was sure you were steady on your feet, after wobbling for a moment in your heels, Jack nodded to your chair and said, “Grab your things, angel. You won’t be coming back.”
Even though Jack was leaning into you when he said it, Curtis must’ve caught the words because his expression turned from icy resignation to red-hot fury as he pushed himself to stand. But Jack was quicker, putting himself between you and your former date, growling at the younger man before he could fully stand up.
“Sit down, sir.”
A stunned Curtis plopped back into his chair. Jack raised his chin, staring down his nose at the other man while he tucked his hands behind his back, standing guard between you and your former date. Images of knives began dancing in Jack’s head, and he let it fuel the anger in his expression to keep Curtis in check.
Jack could sense you moving around behind him. You’d dropped his hand when you’d turned to grab your jacket and purse, but you must’ve been done because you slipped your fingers back into his palm.
You grasped his hand tentatively, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, his heart soaring in his chest even as he continued glaring at the man at the table, who looked riotous at the thought of Jack stealing you away.
“You can’t do this,” Curtis snarled, trying to puff up his chest and make himself look big, even as he remained sitting in his seat, too much a coward to actually challenge Jack’s authority.
The chef responded to the other man’s posturing by looming over him, an unkind smile on his face. Jack was more than a little satisfied by the way Curtis cowered, just a little, in his seat.
“This is my fucking restaurant,” Jack said, his voice even but ruthless. “So let me tell you how this is going to go.” Jack kept your hand tucked in his, holding you behind him while he dealt with your ex-date. “You’re going to pay your bill, leave your server a generous tip, and then you’re never going to step foot in here again. Do you get me?”
Jack watched emotions flit across the younger man’s face—surprise, frustration, indignation, fury—and he could practically feel the temper tantrum brewing, like a storm rolling in. But he could also smell the booze on him and, if Jack wasn’t mistaken, he could see the telltale signs Curtis had been indulging in more than wine.
Night Shift really didn’t need the scene or the paperwork that would come along with the temper tantrum, which would inevitably lead to someone calling the cops. So Jack went in for the metaphorical kill.
“If I ever see your face in here again,” Jack said, lowering his voice even more so only you and Curtis could hear him. “You’re going to pay for putting your hands on a woman in my restaurant—and I’ll take that payment with my knife.”
Jack watched as Curtis blanched, his tanned skin going ghostly pale as all the fight drained out of him at the threat of actual violence. The younger man’s gaze finally fell to the table, and Jack knew he wasn’t going to challenge him again.
It was completely unhinged to threaten Curtis like that, he knew that, but all Jack worried about was that he’d scared you. When he turned to check on you, though, he found you staring at him with so much admiration, Jack wanted to puff up his own chest and take on every asshole who’d ever wronged you.
You took a careful step closer to Jack, looking at him with those wide eyes, a smirk flirting around the edges of your pretty mouth, and wrapped your other hand around his bicep. “Thank you,” you murmured for only him to hear, and Jack offered you an answering smile.
“Ready to go, sweetheart?” he asked charmingly, squeezing your hand gently.
Your smirk bloomed into a full-blown grin, and he caught the edge of excitement in your expression, making Jack’s heart thump harder in his chest. He could hardly believe someone as young and beautiful and strong as you wanted to go anywhere with him. Not only did you look like you wanted it, you looked eager for it.
“Yes, please, chef,” you purred, the sound of your voice calling him ‘chef’ again going straight to his dick.
Oh yeah, Jack was definitely a goner for you.
You could hardly believe how drastically the course of your night had changed in just a few minutes.
You’d gone from being on the absolute worst date of your life, trying to figure out how you were going to get away from the man who’d accosted you, to being on the arm of one of the most talented—and handsome—head chefs in all of Pittsburgh.
Jack Abbot’s hand was warm and strong in yours, his stride steady and determined as he led you through the dining room toward the kitchen. His presence at your side helped to settle the wobbliness you felt in the wake of the fear and adrenaline that had rushed through you when Curtis had grabbed you.
Leaning further into Jack’s side, you got a hint of his scent—fresh laundry something earthy, like sage or rosemary—and you let it stoke the little ember of interest that burned deep your core, the one that had flared to life when you watched the chef put your date in his place.
What did it say about you that you thought it was inexplicably hot the way Jack had threatened Curtis with his knife? What did it say about you that you felt safer with Jack than you had with any man you’d ever gone out with?
With those questions rattling around in your head, you were glad that Jack didn’t try to make conversation beyond asking for your name as he guided you to the kitchen. He seemed to understand you needed a moment to process everything that’d happened, and he remained quiet as the two of you walked together through the crowded dining room, the soft chatter of the other diners filling the silence so it wasn’t awkward.
When Jack pushed through the double swinging doors to the kitchen, the gentle murmur of the restaurant’s dining room gave away to the chaos of the kitchen. Immediately, you felt the buzzy, almost electric energy, of the staff, and you took your first full breath since you’d walked into Night Shift, something about the kitchen making you feel like you were coming home.
Your eyes were opened wide as you looked around because there was so much to take in—a whole army of chefs and cooks moved around the silver metal tables and big, gas range stoves, grabbing things out of fridges, chopping vegetables and searing meat. It was like a masterfully choreographed dance, the way everyone moved around each other.
And it smelled divine. Herbs and spices and so many other scents filled your nose, making your mouth water and your stomach grumble, though there was no way anyone could hear it over the noise—the clatter of knives and pans, the people calling out orders, the slamming of fridge doors.
Everything seemed to revolve around on particular chef, an Asian man spooning some sauce onto a plate and conferring with a Black woman. He was the calm in the center of the storm, obviously running things while Jack had been dealing with your date.
The head chef himself tugged you to the side of the room, pulling you out of the way of the steady stream of servers coming in and out of the double doors, carrying big trays filled with all kinds of dishes—salads and seafood, pasta and chicken. All of it smelled amazing, looked amazing, and it was all you could do to stare around the kitchen with awe no doubt written plainly on your face.
Gradually, you became aware of Jack’s gaze on your face, and when you looked at the chef, you found him watching you closely, so much intensity in his hazel eyes, it made you feel a little shy. Here was this older, accomplished chef, and he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in his entire kitchen—his entire restaurant.
You offered him a tentative smile, your heart skipping a beat when he towed you just a little closer by your still clasped hands.
“What do you think, sweetheart?” Jack asked, and you could tell by the tenor of his voice that he actually cared about your answer. He sounded worried, hopeful, and so achingly interested that it made you unsteady on your feet.
“I think it’s amazing,” you answered honestly, your voice more than a little breathless with wonder. You leaned further into his side, staring into his eyes and getting a little lost in them. “Everything looks and smells delicious, chef.”
A small, pleased smile curved Jack’s mouth, even as his eyes darkened at what you’d called him. It stole the breath from your lungs, the knowledge that you could affect him so clearly just by calling him ‘chef’. It made you want to say it more, to say it while his mouth was on your body, just to see if you could drive him wild…
Tension crackled between the two of you, sharp and electric, sucking all the oxygen out of the room so it became a little hard to breathe normally. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and your legs trembled, and still, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from Jack, your gaze drifting down to his mouth and the silvery stubble that surrounded it.
“Jack?” you murmured his name softly, a question in the single syllable, as you raised your eyes back to his. There was an answer in his gaze, in the way his own eyes dropped to your lips and back up, like he was fighting the same urge as you.
“Everything good, chef?”
You and Jack jumped apart, your hands disentangling as you put a respectable amount of space between your bodies. You watched Jack straighten, his expression shifting into something much more professional, much more appropriate for his workplace, as he turned to the room.
“Gimme a few more minutes, chef,” Jack called back to the Asian man who’d addressed him. You got the sense that the man was amused by the two of you, even though his face remained unreadable. “I’ll be back to dig you out of the hole of the dinner rush.”
The man who must’ve been Jack’s sous chef huffed a laugh and, without looking up from the dish he was plating, said, “Don’t worry about us, old man. We’ve got this.”
“Who’s he calling old?” Jack muttered under his breath, making a laugh burst from your lips at how disgruntled he sounded. A smirk flickered at the edge of Jack’s mouth, like he couldn’t help himself, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement, and he leaned closer to you. “Do you think I’m old, angel?”
Jack’s voice was little more than a rasp, and you swore that you could feel it skim down your spine and settle deep in your core, where heat was blooming hotter. All you could do was stare at Jack, at the weathered lines of his freckled face, and the silver curls that you wanted to run your fingers through, as you tried to think of something to say.
A little lop-sided smile tilted Jack’s mouth, like he could somehow see the odd mixture of awe and lust swirling in your body, in your brain, making you tongue-tied—and he didn’t hold it against you. “Don’t answer that,” he grumbled good-naturedly, his eyes still fixed on your face.
The two of you hung suspended in that moment for longer than was strictly necessary, the hustle and bustle of the kitchen fading away, until you finally remembered how to speak. Though once the words came out of your mouth, you wished you’d stayed silent.
“I don’t think you’re too old.”
That statement got Jack’s attention in a way you hadn’t experienced in all the short time you’d been in his presence. His eyes darkened, dropping to your lips once again before dragging their way back to meet your gaze. A charming grin made his mouth look far too tempting.
“Too old for what, angel?” Jack asked innocently, a hint of playful teasing in his tone that had your body burning hotter. His dark hazel eyes were knowing—like he knew what you really meant to say, that you didn’t think he was too old for you.
But you couldn’t say that, couldn’t answer him. You already felt like you’d said too much, and there were too many emotions still swirling around in your chest, in your belly, between your thighs, to make sense of any of them.
Thankfully, Jack seemed to understand you were overwhelmed and he didn’t push it. Instead, he pressed a hand to your lower back, the heat of his palm scorching through the thin fabric of your dress, even in the warmth of the kitchen. He guided you gently to a narrow doorway tucked into the corner of the kitchen you hadn’t noticed before.
Jack led you into a small office that you knew immediately was his. The space was nice and neat, just like his kitchen, with homey touches that reflected the dining room of his restaurant with emerald green walls and a dark wooden desk, which held a few framed photos and other keepsakes alongside his paperwork and computer.
Also, it smelled like him—fresh and clean, with just a hint of garlic and sage.
The room was small, barely big enough for a desk, chair and a couple of filing cabinets, but it was cozy, and you felt just as safe in Jack’s office as you did in his presence. Being away from the loud clamor of the kitchen also helped to settle your nerves and, without being invited to, you sank into the chair, leaving Jack to lean against the edge of his desk.
“How’re you holding up, sweetheart?” Jack asked gently, crossing his arms over his chest and ducking down to catch your eye. You gave him a weary smile.
“I’m ok,” you said, then paused to take stock of yourself to see if that was really true. “A little shaken, a lot hungry,” your smile tured rueful. “I was really looking forward to trying your food,” you told him, dropping your gaze to where your hands were twisted together in your lap. “But we didn’t even make it to the appetizers.”
Jack shifted closer to you, his knee nudging lightly against yours, and you felt a little zing of happiness at even that small touch. You almost huffed a laugh at yourself for the silly crush you were developing on the hot, older chef, but managed to bite it back and looked up at the man who’d so gently gotten your attention.
“If you want to go home, I can have security escort you out back,” Jack started, his mouth twisting into the vague impression of a frown, like he didn’t particularly like that idea. “Or, if you want, you can hang out in here, I can make you something to eat, and then later, I can give you that kitchen tour.”
He shot you another one of those exaggerated winks and you couldn’t help but giggle softly. Jack was charming and he knew it, and if you weren’t careful, you were definitely going to develop a big ol’ crush on the man. He made it too easy to feel comfortable around him.
“It’s your choice, sweetheart,” Jack said, pausing for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should go on, but then he did. “I do hope you’ll let me cook for you, though.” He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against the edge of your jaw, his touch so light you could barely feel it. “I don’t like the idea of sending you home hungry.”
Before you could lean into Jack’s hand, he snatched it back, like he was worried he’d crossed a line. He crossed his arms more tightly across his chest, his hands tucked away as if he was worried they couldn’t be trusted not to touch you again, and you had to smile.
Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to develop a crush on the hot, older chef who’d saved you from the worst date of your life—especially since it seemed like the hot, older chef was having trouble keeping his gentle hands off you.
“I’d like to stay,” you murmured, looking up at Jack from under your lashes.
Almost against your will, your body swayed closer to the charming chef, your hand reaching out to wrap around his forearm. The light dusting of Jack’s hair tickled your fingers, and you couldn’t help but notice how strong and firm his arm was beneath your palm.
Your lips quirked into a small smile, putting a little flirty edge on your words as you said, “If you don’t mind, chef.”
Jack’s eyes were dark, liquid heat as he stared at you for a long moment, and you wondered wildly if he might kiss you. The thought had excitement fluttering to life in your belly, but before you could get your hopes up too high, Jack swallowed and looked away. It was only then that you noticed the faint flush pinkening his cheeks.
“Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart,” Jack said, pushing away from the desk and stepping toward the door. “Ibuprofen’s in the top drawer.”
The movement had your hand dropping from his arm and you immediately missed the warmth of his skin. When he looked back at you, he must’ve caught something on your face, something that had him cracking a small smile.
“I’ll be back soon, alright?” His voice was a little rough, teasing your body with its low tenor, but you managed a smile and a nod.
“I’ll be here,” you said, as brightly as you could. “Thank you, Jack.”
Jack looked at you another moment, his eyes going a little soft, before he ducked through the office door. He pulled it most of the way closed behind him, leaving it open just a crack, somehow knowing you wanted some peace, but not to be cut off from the kitchen—from him—entirely.
Left alone to your own devices, you only had your own thoughts as company. You knew your brain wanted to spiral about your date—Why hadn’t you seen the red flags from Curtis earlier? Why hadn’t you cut the date short sooner?—but instead you focused on what was in front of you.
Tossing your purse and jacket onto the desk, you got comfortable in Jack’s chair, leaning back and noticing a leather jacket thrown over the back. Shooting a quick glance at the door to make sure no one could see in, you tucked your face into the collar and breathed in, a smile curving your lips as you inhaled Jack’s clean, earthy scent.
Once you’d had your fill—or, rather, once your shame caught up with you and you forced yourself to stop sniffing the hot, older chef’s jacket like a mindless hussy—you let your eyes roam around the room, taking in the almost military precision of the organization in the office.
The desk was mostly clear, save for the keyboard attached to his computer monitor, and a stack of order forms for things for the restaurant. There were also the photos and keepsakes. You picked them up one by one, looking closely at the people and things Jack cared about, not bothering to feel bad about your nosiness.
The first photo was of Jack and his whole kitchen crew at the opening of Night Shift, looking worn out but exultant in their success. Another photo depicted Jack with a man about his age, tall with brown hair and a salt and pepper beard, standing next to a motorcycle. They had their arms slung around each other like they were old friends.
Next, your fingers trailed over a medal of honor that was tucked into a corner of the desk. It was purple and gold, in the shape of a heart with a man’s side profile in the center. You remembered Jack’s comment about being in the army and wondered what had earned him the medal.
Feeling like you’d possibly overstepped, you set the medal back in its place on Jack’s desk and focused on finding the ibuprofen. After taking the pills with the glass of water he’d grabbed for you from the kitchen, you snuggled deeper into his chair, your head falling back against the collar of the chef’s leather jacket.
It occurred to you suddenly that you really liked Jack Abbot. You hadn’t known him for long, and you didn’t know all that much about him, but you wanted to.
You wanted to know why he’d named his restaurant Night Shift, and why he’d become a chef after being a medic in the army. You wanted to know what his favorite thing to cook was, and whether he needed readers to read texts on his phone.
You wanted to know if he was going to ask you for your number.
That thought made you stop and smile as you considered what you’d do if Jack asked for you number and actually used it. Your fingers played idly with the soft, supple leather of his jacket, letting the sounds of the kitchen lull you into deeper comfort as you imagined what it would be like to date world-renowned chef Jack Abbot.
You suspected it would be a helluva lot better than going on a date with Curtis Larsen, that was for sure.
Jack Abbot could not be interested in the young, pretty restaurant guest he’d saved from a bad date.
He paused just outside the door to his office, trying to get his head on straight, but all he could think about was the way you’d looked at him, like you were attracted to him, like you trusted him to take care of you. His fingers flexed at his side, and he could still feel the softness of your skin beneath his grazing touch—so pretty, so tempting.
His mind was consumed with the sweetness of your scent filling his office, invading his private space, and how much that pleased him. Jack already knew that scent would haunt him for the rest of the evening, that he’d fall asleep just to dream of you.
Wiping a hand down his face, Jack felt like a creep for even thinking about how you smelled, how your hand felt like a perfect fit in his own, how he wanted you to look at him with nothing but lust in your eyes. He was supposed to be helping you, taking care of you, making sure you got home safe, not thinking about what it’d feel like to put his hands on your body and pull you close…
With a hard shake of his head, Jack refocused on the task at hand—making you something to eat—and strode back into the kitchen. He walked up to stand beside his sous chef, who was busy plating a whole tray of that night’s special. John didn’t even look up as Jack approached.
“How are things looking?” Jack asked, busying his hands by retying the strings of his apron while he took a look at the line of orders still needing to be made. It was a busy Friday night at Night Shift, but his sous chef was keeping on top of things.
“Don’t worry about us, chef, we got this,” John said, before raising his voice and calling out to the rest of the kitchen staff. “Don’t we, nightcrawlers?”
“Hoo-rah!” came the answering reply and Jack had to twist his lips to the side to hide the proud smile that wanted to break through. Annoyingly, John noticed.
“Seriously,” John said, straightening up and setting the last of the plates onto a tray for a server to take them out into the dining room. He turned to Jack. “I’ve got this under control, if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.”
John’s eyes drifted over Jack’s shoulder in the direction of the office before returning his gaze to the head chef and waggling his brows a little.
“I won’t take it personally if there’s someone else you’d rather be with than me,” the sous chef quipped, grabbing his Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee from the shelf over the worktable and taking an obnoxiously loud sip.
“It’s not like that,” Jack grumbled, hoping to nip that thread of conversation in the bud before it began. The last thing he needed was for his business with you to get around the kitchen. Everyone who worked at Night Shift were talented, good people, but they gossiped more than little old ladies.
Jack tugged on some black nitrile gloves and grabbed a knife and cutting board. But when he returned to his station with the ingredients he’d need for what he planned to cook you for dinner, John was giving him a skeptical look.
“Right,” John said, not dropping the subject, no matter that Jack was no longer looking at him and was instead focused entirely on chopping up some rosemary and garlic. “That’s why you stepped in and took care of her date instead of letting security handle it.”
John’s tone was dry enough to give the Sahara a run for its money, but Jack refused to rise to the bait. Huffing an exaggeratedly beleaguered sigh, John cut to the chase. “Do you know her or something?”
“No,” Jack said quickly—too quickly, he knew. He could feel John’s indefatigable gaze drilling into the side of his head while he worked. He knew John wouldn’t give up the interrogation until he got something so Jack finally admitted, “But… maybe I want to get to know her.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a wide grin spread across his sous chef’s face a moment before John clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s great, chef,” he said, but he must’ve noticed Jack wasn’t grinning along with him because he asked, “It is great, isn’t it? I mean, it’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”
“She’s too young for me, man,” Jack said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. He paused, swallowing, then grabbed a pan and some chicken cutlets, getting to work breading and seasoning them. “Besides, she’s had a rough night—that jackass grabbed her.” Jack had to stop again and take a breath to contain his anger before he went on. “She doesn’t need some old man creeping on her, too.”
“Dude,” John started, before getting distracted by plating up a new round of orders. It took him a moment to get back to the conversation. “You’re not that old,” he said, shooting Jack a look like the head chef should know all his ‘old man’ comments were in good fun. “And if you think she’s not interested, you didn’t see the way she was looking at you.”
At John’s comment, Jack fumbled the pan he was cooking in, nearly spilling oil and chicken into the fire of the stove. He glanced at John, back to what he was doing, then to his sous chef again, who was watching him with a not-so-small smirk on his face.
“H-how was she looking at me?” Jack finally asked, unable to stop himself, not even daring to hope John wasn’t somehow fucking with him.
Sure, Jack knew you’d wrapped yourself around his arm while he’d walked you back to the kitchen, and he couldn’t get the memory of the way you’d touched his arm out of your head. But that wasn’t flirting… was it? And certainly there wasn’t anything particularly interested in the way you’d looked at him. Right?
John’s incredulous look told him otherwise. “Jack, the girl practically had hearts in her eyes when she looked at you,” he said, and when Jack opened his mouth to protest, he cut him off. “She’s into you, dude.”
“What, no—no, no, she’s just…” Jack couldn’t believe how idiotic he sounded, fumbling around his own kitchen while John tried to tell him you were interested. It was like he was a young, inexperienced teenager all over again with his first crush, disbelieving she could ever like him back.
“Ellis, back me up,” John was saying, calling over one of Night Shift’s senior chefs while he set a new round of plated meals onto a tray for a server. “The girl Jack brought back here had heart eyes for our head chef, didn’t she?”
It was only his decades of experience that allowed Jack to continue cooking—boiling water and adding pasta, mixing milk and cheese in with the chicken to create a creamy sauce—while he waited with bated breath for Parker Ellis’s response. Jack trusted the senior chef not to bullshit him or fuck with him the way John sometimes did.
“Oh yeah, full-on heart eyes,” Parker announced, stopping beside John for a moment to drop off some more plates in need of their finishing touches. She glanced at Jack, who was still trying to process her pronouncement. “You gonna do something about it, chef?”
Was Jack going to do something about it? Everything in him ached to do something—to touch you, to kiss you, or, at the very least, ask for your number and take you out for a real meal sometime. He wanted to get to know you, he wanted to impress you with the most romantic of dates, and then he wanted to take you home and take care of you in every way he knew how.
It had been a long time since Jack had wanted any of those things with anyone, and it was a shock to his system to feel them for someone so soon after meeting them. But Jack could tell you were special. There was a spark between the two of you that he knew he’d be a fool to ignore.
However, he was still wary about scaring you off or creeping you out. But maybe he wouldn’t if Jack could take things slow. He could feed you, make sure you were comfortable in his office, and then later, he’d give you a tour of his kitchen and see how things went from there. If you seemed into it, he could ask for your number and take you out on a real date.
Happy with his plan, Jack finally looked up from where he was finishing the meal he’d made for you. He found both John and Parker looking at him expectantly—and a little impatiently. He twisted his mouth to the side to bite back a smirk.
“Don’t you two have something better to do than discuss my love life?” he grumbled good-naturedly, knowing neither of them would take him too seriously.
True to form, Parker snickered and gave Jack a mock salute. “Happy for you, chef,” she said before heading back into the crowded kitchen.
Meanwhile, John was grinning to himself. “Get your girl, old man,” he quipped, giving Jack a sly look out of the corner of his eye.
Jack made a show of grumbling about his impertinent staff while he plated up the dish he’d made for you—chicken and pasta with a creamy, cheesy sauce flavored with plenty of rosemary and other herbs. Then, it was time to bring it to you, and even Jack was a little surprised by how eager he was to get back to you, striding across the kitchen as quick as he could.
Knocking lightly before pushing inside his office, Jack found you curled up in his desk chair, your legs tucked underneath you, an e-reader in your hands. For a moment, Jack was struck by the easy domesticity of the scene—him bringing you dinner while you looked sexy and cozy in his office.
It would be all too easy for Jack to get used to this, having you visit him at his restaurant and waiting in his office for him to finish up for the night so he could take you out for a late-night drink, or some ice cream. And then, he’d take you home and get you underneath him so he could have a late-night snack of his own…
“Oh hi, is that for me?”
Your question dragged Jack from his reverie, and he couldn’t help but smile when he saw your wide eyes looking up at him. He stepped forward to set down the dish and silverware he’d brought on the desk in front of you, your sweet scent tickling his nose before he stood back to give you some room—and so that he could watch your reaction.
You tucked your e-reader back into your purse, and Jack knew the exact moment you smelled the food in front of you because you went still and your eyes slid closed. You took a deep breath in through your nose, and when you exhaled, it was with a low, throaty moan that went straight to Jack’s dick.
For the first time since he’d hit middle age, Jack was actually glad he wasn’t as quick to harden as when he was younger. Still, he had to curl his hands into fists at his sides and tamp down on the instinct to adjust his cock, which was twitching to life, not wanting to bring any attention to how your innocent reaction was affecting him.
Instead, he focused all his willpower on keeping himself from getting harder, which became more difficult when you blinked your eyes open, looking almost dazed with hunger and pleasure. It was all Jack could do to hold himself back from touching you, from tracing the shape of your mouth with his fingers, from kissing you so that the desire in your eyes was all for him and not his food.
“It smells delicious, chef,” you purred, your voice low and husky in a way that Jack could tell wasn’t intentional, which made it affect him all the more.
“Give it a try, sweetheart,” Jack said, unable to keep the gravel out of his voice. He crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop himself from reaching for you. He wanted to grab you by your hips, put you in his lap, and feed you. But he reminded himself he was taking things slow, so he leaned against the desk and watched you intently. “I want to know if you like it.”
Bobbing your head in a nod, you grabbed your fork, scooped up some of the pasta and speared a piece of chicken, popping the whole bite into your mouth. Some cream sauce lingered in the corners of your lips, and Jack had to clench his fists to stop from swiping it away with his thumb. He was nearly undone, biting back a groan, when your tongue peaked out and licked it up with a garbled moan.
“Oh my god, that’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you proclaimed. The pleasure in your voice made Jack harder, but he focused instead on the pride blooming, warm and sweet, in his chest.
Still, he couldn’t completely ignore his cock twitching to life in his jeans. For once, he was grateful for the apron covering his front, helping to shield the bulge growing between his thighs. God, he felt like a fucking teenager.
“Ah, th-thanks,” he said, stumbling over his words, flustered by just how much you visibly—and verbally—enjoyed his food. “It’s a personal recipe, not on the menu.” He shot you a wink, hoping desperately that it came across as charming, and not unbearably cheesy. “I figured you could use some comfort food.”
The somber note in Jack’s voice seemed to strike you right in the heart, and you blinked, your eyes dropping from his for a moment. Jack wondered if he’d made a mistake by referencing your bad date, but then your hand darted out, playing idly with the edge of his apron just below where his arms were crossed.
“I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of that situation, Jack,” you said softly, and the chef was so distracted by the sound of his name on your tongue that he almost missed what you were saying. But then you looked up and your gaze was arresting. “I thought I could handle it—could handle him—but I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there…”
Jack hated how small you sounded, how unsure of yourself.
Before he knew what he was doing, Jack was sweeping down onto one knee, barely biting back a wince when his prosthetic protested, and settling his hands gently on the outside of your thighs. He tried to ignore the heat of your bare skin against his palms, forcing himself to focus on you and making sure you saw yourself the way he saw you.
“You would’ve been fine, sweetheart,” Jack said in his firmest tone, even as he made sure to keep his voice gentle. He could tell from the uncertainty in your eyes that you were hanging on his every word, and he felt compelled to go on. “You can take care of yourself, and if you’d needed to, you would’ve handled that asshole.”
Something like pride and confidence swirled in your eyes, and Jack let his mouth twist to the side in a smile. It made him feel good to know he could put that look in your eye, and he felt his chest puffing up a little bit before he got control of himself and gave your thighs a reassuring squeeze before continuing.
“I am glad I could help, though,” Jack said, his voice rougher than it had any right to be. But he was kneeling so close to you that he breathed in your sweet scent with every inhale, and it was going straight to his head. “Thank you for letting me feed you—thank you for letting me take care of you.”
Your eyes were wide and bright and fixed so intensely on Jack’s that he barely felt it when your hands settled gently on his shoulders, holding on to him like he was the one steady thing you could count on. His grip on your thighs tightened, drawing you closer until your knees collided with his chest.
“Anytime, chef,” you murmured, your lips parted and glistening and looking so fucking tempting.
A little growl rumbled in Jack’s chest and he watched your eyes flare with interest, before settling back into a heavy-lidded stare. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, curling into the cotton of his white t-shirt, and he could feel you lightly tugging on him, trying to bring him closer.
Fuck, Jack wasn’t just interested in you, he craved you. It didn’t matter that he’d known you for such a short time, he wanted to devour you. He wanted to take you into his arms and kiss the breath from your lungs, make you come apart and then hold you tight until you put each other together again.
He wanted to go back to work knowing you were safe and sound in his office, eating the food he’d cooked for you, then give you a tour of the kitchen later. When that was done, he wanted to drive you home, make sure you got in safe, and make plans to see you again. He wanted to take up as much space in your head as you were taking up in his.
Jack wanted to kiss you. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, you looked like you wanted him to kiss you, too.
A great crashing sound came from the kitchen, shattering the perfect moment, and Jack’s stomach sank when you flinched. You tried to hide your reaction, staring at him innocently like you hadn’t recoiled at the loud sound, but he was reminded that he should be taking things slowly, carefully, making sure you weren’t overwhelmed by all that had happened throughout the night.
“Eat up, angel,” he rumbled, giving your thighs one last squeeze before moving to stand, pushing himself up with one hand on his desk. He gritted his teeth through the pain in his limb as he settled back onto his prosthetic, and gave you another of his hopefully charming winks. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll make you some dessert to go with your kitchen tour.”
At that comment, you sucked in a sharp breath, a sultry smile spreading slowly across your face. When you looked up at Jack, your eyes were a little hazy, and your body swayed closer to him, almost like you couldn’t help yourself.
“Oh, I’ll be good,” you murmured, looking more sexy than you had any right to curled up in Jack’s desk chair. “I promise, chef.”
There it was again, that title rolling off your tongue and licking straight down Jack’s spine. He had half a mind to gather you up in his arms and kiss you until you were murmuring that word into his mouth, his neck, into the center of his chest while he pressed between your thighs and slid inside you…
“I’ll be back when it slows down,” Jack promised, wrenching himself away from his fantasy and backing toward the door of the office. If he didn’t know better, he thought you might’ve been smirking as you hummed your acknowledgement. “Enjoy your dinner, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, chef,” you chirped sweetly, turning back to your meal—though not before catching Jack’s eye over your shoulder, a flirty spark in your gaze.
A goofy grin spread across Jack’s face, and for a moment, he let himself watch you as you pulled out your e-reader and began to read while you ate the meal he’d prepared. His chest filled with warm sunlight while something in his gut settled. It felt right to have you here in Jack’s office, in his space, looking safe and comfortable and content.
Holding that sense of rightness close to his heart, Jack ducked back into the kitchen, taking a moment to retie his apron before jumping into the fray. He felt steadier than he had before he’d brought you some dinner, and while Jack knew part of that was because he knew you were fed, it was also because he’d accepted it—he was interested in you and he was going to pursue you.
Jack was done feeling guilty or creepy for wanting to spend time with you, even if you were one of his restaurant guests that he’d had to save from an atrociously bad date. Jack believed what he’d told you, that you could take care of yourself, and if you wanted to spend time with him, too, then Jack wasn’t going to feel bad about it.
So he took his place beside his sous chef and got to work on the endless stream of orders coming into Night Shift’s kitchen. He let himself fall into the rhythm of the work, plating up and putting the finishing touches on all kinds of dishes before they were whisked away into the dining room. He worked with a methodical determination, knowing that the sooner he cleared out all the orders, the sooner he could check back in on you.
When things finally slowed down, Jack heaved a sigh of relief. It was a strange feeling, knowing he had someone in his office that he eagerly wanted to get back to, and it wasn’t until he caught John giving him an annoying looked that he realized he was smiling.
Jack tugged off his black nitrile gloves, tossed them in the trash, and flipped off John while he made his way back to his office. Jack’s heart squeezed at the sight that greeted him.
He found you snuggled up in his chair, his leather jacket tucked around you like a blanket, your head lolled to the side as you slept soundly. Jack marveled at the beauty of your face—the soft slope of your nose, the pretty curve of your mouth, the delicate fan of your lashes against your cheeks.
Somewhere deep in his chest, Jack’s heart knocked against his ribs like it was trying to get his attention, and he knew exactly what it wanted to say—you could be his. If you let him, and if you wanted him, too, Jack could fall for you. That night could be the start of something new, something spectacular.
Thinking about how he could very much get used to seeing you in his chair, in his office, Jack tucked his leather jacket a little tighter around your shoulders, holding his breath when your cheek nuzzled against the back of his hand. His heart thumped happily when you smiled softly in your sleep and it took every bit of his strength to pull away.
As quietly as he could, Jack cleared the empty plate and silverware from his desk, taking care not to disturb you. He carried it to the door, where he paused to look at you again, watching you sleep for just a moment longer.
It struck Jack then, like a lightning bolt, that he wasn’t just interested in you or attracted to you. He was completely gone for you. He was yours, and he could only hope that you’d want to be his.
Even before you were fully awake, you knew you were safe.
Warmth, and the scent of leather and herbs, surrounded you, easing you back into reality from dreams about a hot, silver-haired chef and big, capable hands on your body. Desire curled lazily, low in your belly, and you snuggled deeper into the leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders, wishing for more time of with your dream chef.
But before you could slip back into sleep, it struck you suddenly how quiet it was in your little cocoon. You’d fallen asleep to the chaos and clatter of the kitchen at Night Shift, but the noise had dwindled down to a dull murmur. It hit you that you must’ve slept longer than you’d intended.
You’d only meant to close your eyes for a few minutes. You’d been so full from eating the comfort meal Jack Abbot had cooked for you, and you’d felt so warm and cozy once you’d tugged his jacket off the back of the chair and wrapped it around yourself. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from letting your eyes close and falling asleep.
Reaching out from beneath the jacket, you checked the time on your phone and confirmed you’d not only slept through the rest of the dinner rush, but through Night Shift’s closing time. Slowly, you began to uncurl yourself from your position in Jack’s chair, stretching and looking toward the door of his office, wondering why he hadn’t woken you up sooner.
Had he forgotten about you?
It was a little dizzying, the sheer amount of disappointment that swept through you at that thought, and it took you a moment to wade through the emotions to get back to rational thought. Jack had been so kind and attentive since he’d rescued you from your bad date, it didn’t sit right to think he might’ve forgotten about you.
It also just didn’t make sense based on the way he’d looked at you before he’d left you alone to eat. He’d stared at you so intently with those dark hazel eyes of his, you’d felt like he wanted to consume you. Even just the memory of his stare was enough to warm you from the inside out, heat swirling through your belly before settling between your thighs.
Intending to get to the bottom of why Jack had let you sleep in his office for so long, you did a quick check of your makeup in your phone’s camera and set your feet on the floor. You were just rising to stand when Night Shift’s head chef stuck his head in through the open door.
“You’re up,” he said, his sharp eyes taking in the way you wobbled on your heels, wincing at the pain of wearing them for so long. He came into the room and took your hand, setting a steadying palm on your hip while his fingers twined with yours. “How are you feeling?”
His attentive question sent more warmth spiralling through your chest, and you smiled softly at the chef, leaning into his warmth. He was still wearing the thin white t-shirt that pulled obscenely across his shoulders and highlighted his bulging biceps, but the brown apron he’d had on earlier was gone, leaving him in just a simple pair of dark jeans and black shoes.
Meanwhile, you were still in the little black dress and heels you’d donned for your date, but somehow you didn’t feel overdressed around Jack. You enjoyed the way his eyes raked down your body, appreciating the way your dress clung to your curves—hugging your hips and cupping your tits. It made you crave the chef’s touch everywhere he looked.
“I feel good, chef,” you murmured huskily, your lips quirking into a little smirk when heat flared in Jack’s eyes. “I needed a little rest, but now I’ve got a second wind.”
“Still want that kitchen tour, sweetheart?” Jack rumbled, his hand on your hip pulling you closer, until you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the warmth of it teasing every inch of your bare skin. “You were such a good girl during the dinner rush, I’ve got that dessert I promised you.”
Something deep inside you clenched tight at the way Jack’s voice rumbled over the words ‘good girl’, his praise going straight to the place between your legs that was beginning to throb the longer his hand remained on your hip. To steady yourself, you lifted your hands to Jack’s biceps, feeling his muscles flex beneath your fingers as you looked at the chef from under your lashes.
“Really?” you asked, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of your voice, out of your smile.
Jack’s mouth pulled to the side in a slow, wicked grin, his eyes sparkling with humor and something that looked a lot like hunger. “How do you feel about coffee and chocolate?”
Excitement bubbled up your throat, and you bounced a little on the balls of your feet as you confirmed your undying love for coffee and chocolate. With another grin that had your core clenching, Jack guided you back into the kitchen, his big hand firm against your lower back.
Most of the kitchen staff had cleared out, leaving the space spotless and easier to navigate as Jack walked you through. He showed you each of the stations, and introduced you to the few remaining kitchen staff—including his sous chef John Shen and senior chef Parker Ellis.
Jack left you chatting with John and Parker while he rustled around in a fridge, pulling out some containers and setting up a work station on one of the long, silver tables in the center of the room. Once he was done, the other chefs each gave Jack a handshake and half-hug before bidding you a goodnight.
As they left, John exchanged a loaded look with Jack that had the head chef’s face twisting into an exasperatedly stern expression, and you had to bite back a smile. It was clear Jack’s staff loved him, respected him—and teased him every chance they got.
It made you feel warm and fuzzy inside, to know that you weren’t the only one who felt safe with Jack. He was a good boss, a good man, to everyone in his life. He was the exact opposite of the man you’d gone on a date with and needed to be rescued from.
Jack Abbot was the kind of man you could be alone with in a deserted kitchen and feel only excitement, only the thrumming awareness that something might happen between you two. You turned to him, your gazes meeting, and for a brief moment, the two of you just stared at each other, silently acknowledging the sparks igniting in space between your bodies.
“Hop up,” Jack said, his voice as rough as a knife on metal. With one hand, he patted the counter beside the cutting board he’d set up, his dark eyes watching you intently.
Your gaze snagged on that hand, on the thickness of his fingers and the smattering of freckles along the back. You remembered how that hand had felt on your hip, on your thigh, and you nearly whimpered with the need to feel his palm on you again, but you managed to bite it back.
Instead, you did as the chef said. You pressed back against the counter, planting your hands on the edge and arching your spine just a little more than necessary to stick out your tits. You were rewarded with Jack’s gaze dropping quickly to your chest before he dragged his eyes back up to your face. With a smirk, you jumped onto the counter, careful not to put too much weight on the wrist your date had grabbed.
The cold metal of the worktable was a stark contrast to the warmth of your bare thighs, and you hissed softly, your shoulders trembling as a shiver snaked down your spine. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around your body and wished you hadn’t left your jacket in Jack’s office.
But then Jack’s hand was on your knee and he was giving you a concerned look, his silver brows lowered over his hazel eyes. “Cold, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” you answered sheepishly, giving a light shrug and trying to shake off the chill. You leaned into Jack, your body seeking his warmth. “The kitchen gets cold without all the ovens and stoves on, huh?” you asked wryly, trying to get a reaction from the chef, and soften the worried lines of his face.
Jack huffed a laugh, shooting you an amused smirk even as he squeezed your knee in chastisement. The weight of his palm, the soft press of his fingers, had tendrils of heat licking down your spine and settling between your thighs. It took a great deal of effort not to shiver and grab hold of Jack to pull him closer.
“Stay here,” he rumbled, pulling away and striding toward his office. You nearly whined at the loss of his body heat, but you perked up quickly when he returned with his leather jacket.
The chef stepped close enough to your legs that your knees brushed his thighs, and your gaze snagged on his. He was so close, you could see the lines in his weathered face, the silver stubble along his jaw, and the light freckles dusted across his cheeks.
Tension crackled as he wrapped the jacket around your shoulders, his fingers brushing gently against your bare skin, and you leaned closer, until you could feel his unsteady breaths on your lips. Jack went still, his eyes searching yours and you tried your best to tell him without words how much you wanted him to kiss you.
But either Jack didn’t get the message or he chickened out, because he swallowed hard and tucked the lapels of the leather jacket around your shoulders, making sure you were ensconced in its warmth before he moved back to his workstation. It seemed to take him a moment to gather himself before he spoke.
“Better?” he asked, his voice raw with a hunger that made you squeeze your thighs together against a pulsing ache.
“Yeah, better,” you answered, your voice faint, trying and failing to shake off the unslaked desire burning through your body. You didn’t know if Jack was purposefully ignoring all the signals you were giving him, or if he was truly unaware, but you didn’t know how much longer you could last before you simply grabbed the chef and kissed him yourself.
Despite the almost-kiss, you and Jack fell into an easy quiet, him pulling out some dark chocolate and beginning to chop it up into tiny shards while you watched him work.
The muscles in his arms moved mesmerizingly as he worked his knife against the cutting board, his freckled forearms flexing deliciously, his biceps straining the hem of his white t-shirt. You had to wrap your fingers around the edges of Jack’s leather jacket and bury your nose in the collar, breathing in his herby, masculine scent, to keep from reaching out to touch him.
Whatever expression was on your face made Jack smirk when he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. After that, you could’ve sworn he started flexing his arms on purpose, getting fancy with his knife work, like he was trying to impress you.
From anyone else, that might’ve made you roll your eyes, or turned you off entirely, but Jack was so skilled, so charming, and just so downright hot, that it worked for him. His confidence came from his competence, and it was so attractive, it made you squirm where you sat on the counter beside him, the warmth blooming between your thighs becoming nearly impossible to ignore.
“What’re you making?” you asked in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from watching the muscles of Jack’s shoulders shift beneath the obscenely thin fabric of his white t-shirt. That t-shirt looked well-loved, and you had a sneaking suspicion it would feel really good to wear—while staying the night in Jack’s bed…
“We’ve got some leftover coffee mousse from tonight’s dessert special,” Jack answered, seemingly unaware of how you were ogling him as he continued to chop the dark chocolate into little pieces.
His hands were so deft and skilfull, his fingers so thick and sure, you couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like for Jack to touch you. You imagined him putting his hands on your body, groping your soft curves, slipping his fingers between your thighs to press against your damp panties…
“I’m just adding some chocolate to elevate it a little,” Jack glanced at you, and you knew your filthy thoughts were written all over your face by the way his eyes heated when they raked over your face. “Chocolate makes everything better, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”
Jack’s voice had lowered, sending delightful little tendrils of lust licking down your spine. Even if you’d wanted to, you couldn’t have looked away from Jack’s dark gaze, the steady thwack of the knife against his cutting board matching the rhythm of the pulse between your thighs.
Slowly, you nodded your head. “Yes, chef,” you murmured, your voice raspier than you’d expected, matching Jack’s lower tenor. Your heart was beating so fast in your chest, you thought you might be able to hear it in the quiet kitchen, but it was only your soft, panting breaths.
The measured sounds of Jack’s knife ceased, his eyes dropping to your mouth, watching you breathe for one long moment, and then another, before dragging his gaze back to yours. Tension crackled electrically between your bodies, and it wasn’t until your wrist gave a twinge of pain that you realized your hands were braced on the edge of the counter and you were leaning closer to Jack.
He seemed to notice the position of your body at the same time you did, his eyes darting down to where your tits were bouncing softly with your sharp breaths before looking up, a light pink blush appearing beneath his freckles. His gaze collided with yours, and you could feel the older man holding himself back, keeping himself in check.
But that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted…him. Badly.
“Jack.” His name was a desperate whimper, barely louder than your breathing, tumbling from your lips. Something in him seemed to break at the sound of his name from your lips, and you thought he might kiss you.
Instead, he surprised you by grabbing a piece of chocolate from his cutting board and lifting it to your lips. He met your stare with his own heated eyes, looking like melted chocolate mixed with caramel.
“Here, sweetheart, have a taste.”
Jack’s words were a low, delectable rumble from deep in his chest, and you couldn’t hold back the shiver that raced down your spine, making your shoulders tremble with excitement under the onslaught of his voice and his closeness. You could smell his earthy, masculine scent, and you wanted more.
The tips of Jack’s bare fingers pressed to your lower lip and, instinctively, you parted for him, allowing the older man to feed you the chocolate. The rich, decadent taste burst in your mouth, and your tongue darted out, licking the pads of Jack’s fingers, making his eyes darken even further as he watched your lips close around the bite of chocolate.
You let the confection melt in your mouth, your eyes sliding closed of their own accord as you savored the delicious dark chocolate. You might’ve felt like you were in your own little world, but Jack’s hand fell to your thigh, his fingers teasing the hem of your dress where it rode high on your leg. You had to stifle another shiver as you hummed in delight, catching the rumble of a muffled groan coming from the chef.
When you opened your eyes again, it was to find Jack’s intense hazel eyes searing into yours, his gaze so blisteringly hot, you felt your core clench in anticipation. And since you knew you weren’t alone in your attraction and lust, you licked your lips, watching Jack track the movement with his gaze.
“Yum,” you whispered, your fingers trailing lightly through the hair on Jack’s arm, nails raking subtly against his warm, freckled skin. You were prepared for him to pull away again, but he didn’t, and you let a small smile curve your mouth. “Do you have anything else for me to taste, chef?”
Although your question was, on its surface, innocent, you imbued your words with enough innuendo for your real meaning to get through to him. You knew that it had when the corner of Jack’s lips quirked into a smile, but instead of leaning forward and giving you what you wanted—his mouth—he pulled away and turned to something at his station.
The chef popped open one of the storage containers he’d taken out of the fridge and swiped his finger through the mousse inside. You almost squirmed in excitement as he held his hand in front of your mouth, offering you the sweet treat.
Wrapping your hands around his wrist, you held Jack’s scorching gaze as you brought his finger to your lips. You licked teasingly at the mousse, making sure not to touch Jack’s skin with your tongue, and had to fight a smirk when he let out a barely suppressed groan.
Putting both of you out of your misery, you closed your lips around Jack’s thick finger and licked the mousse off of him. The bittersweet taste of the coffee mousse exploded in your mouth, with just a hint of salt from Jack’s skin, and it had you moaning around Jack’s finger. His whole body jerked at the sound and the vibrations.
“Christ, sweetheart,” he groaned softly, his other hand grabbing your thigh, gripping you tightly as he nudged your knees open so he could step between your parted legs. “You make the prettiest sounds when you’re eating my food—I just wanna taste…”
Jack’s finger, still sticky with sugar, slid from your mouth and his hand cupped your cheek, tipping your face toward his. For a moment, he lingered with his lips just barely brushing yours, close enough that you were certain he could taste the coffee and chocolate on your breath.
It felt like he was memorizing the moment, savoring the tension that crackled between your bodies, the way your breath hitched with him so close. Your knees squeezed his sides, your fingers dancing up his ribs, and a soft, breathy whined sounded in your throat as you tried to pull him closer.
“Is this alright, sweetheart?” Jack asked, his thumb stroking your cheek, swiping over the corner of your mouth.
The genuine care in his deep, raspy voice was nearly your undoing. This man had done nothing but take care of you since he’d come striding out of the kitchen to save you from your bad date, but you were tired of him treating you with kid gloves. You wanted him so fucking bad.
Fingers curling in the sides of his t-shirt, you tugged Jack closer, sliding your body to the edge of the counter at the same time, uncaring about how high your dress was riding up your thighs. You parted your lips, tilting your head into the handsome chef’s hand as you pressed your soft body against his hard one.
“Yes, Jack,” you whimpered, unable to stand the crackling tension any longer, even as you wanted to bask in it for the rest of your life. “Kiss me. Please, chef.”
Jack didn’t need to be asked twice. He closed the distance between his mouth and yours, capturing your lips in a slow, decadent kiss that had your heart soaring. His lips were soft, but firm, as they moved against yours, taking immediate control while you were left to gasp and whimper into his mouth.
It was everything you’d hoped it would be—the older man kissing you sweetly at first, before pressing his thumb to your chin and tilting your head back so he could sweep his tongue into your mouth. The hot slide of him was determined and possessive and so fucking hot, you moaned against his lips, trembling as you met the fervor of his kiss with your own heady lust.
Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you wrapped your arms around Jack’s shoulders, your fingers sinking into the soft, steel gray curls at the back of his head. Your fingers tangled in the strands, tugging lightly on his hiar as your nails raked lightly against his skin, earning you a desperate groan. Jack deepened the kiss again until you couldn’t do anything else but breathe him in.
The chef’s hands skimmed down your sides beneath the edges of his leather jacket where it was still balanced precariously on your shoulders. His palms were warm as his thick fingers wrapped around your ribs, pulling you even more flush against his chest, your legs splaying wide to make room for his broad body.
His thick, half-hard cock pressed against your soft inner thigh, and you shifted until he was nestled against your warm center. You rocked your hips, grinding against his bulge, dragging a desperate groan out of the older man.
“Fuck, angel, you taste like heaven,” Jack rasped, pressing kisses along your jaw, tickling you with the silver scruff on his cheeks. When he suckled on a spot beneath your ear, you moaned and writhed in his arms, pressing your aching pussy against his hardening cock. “Feel like it, too.”
“God, you feel so good, Jack,” you babbled breathlessly, rubbing against his body like a cat in heat. You hiked your thighs higher around his waist, using the leverage to hump against his thick cock through your clothes. “I want you. Please, chef,” you begged against Jack’s ear, nipping at the lobe and smiling wildly when he shuddered in your arms, his hips grinding his cock harder against your soft core.
“I thought you were going to be a good girl for me, sweetheart,” Jack growled, his voice softly recriminating as he grabbed your hips hard, his fingers digging roughly into your soft flesh.
But instead of dragging you closer and giving you what you wanted, he pushed you back. Lifting his head from your neck, he gave you a stern look, softened by the affectionate twist of his mouth and the spark of desire in his eyes, sending a zing of lust straight to your dripping slit.
“Don’t you wanna be good for me, angel,” he rumbled, his voice deliciously raspy, “and let me feed you some dessert before you start begging me to fuck you?”
Your jaw dropped and you sucked in a sharp breath at Jack’s filthy words, heat suffusing your body so fully, you couldn’t find a single word in your entire head to respond. You could only stare at the older man, your thighs squeezing his hips and wordlessly begging him to put your body out of its misery, but Jack simply chuckled at your reaction.
He stole a kiss from your parted lips before gently extricating himself from your clinging body, shushing you softly when you whined at the loss of him. Giving your hips one last rough squeeze, he stepped out from between your legs and adjusted his thick cock in his jeans as he moved back to his workstation.
It was absurd how cold you felt without him, and you pulled Jack’s leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, pouting at the chef. He pretended to ignore you, scooping up chocolate shards and dumping them into a bowl along with some mousse while you kicked your feet petulantly and whined, “Jaaack.”
That got you an amused smirk. “Just a few bites,” he urged, picking up the bowl and beginning to whisk the chocolate into the mouse, melting it into the dessert. “I promise it’ll be worth it,” Jack said, giving you another of his charming winks.
It had its intended effect, and you softened, endeavoring to wait patiently, though you still made a show of grumbling your discontent even as you got distracted by watching him work. Jack’s arms flexed deliciously while he whisked the chocolate into the mousse, his biceps straining the sleeves of his t-shirt so enticingly, you wanted to bite them, then lick every freckle, then bite him again.
Jack’s low chuckle let you know he’d caught your hungry look, and heat flooded your cheeks, but you didn’t get a chance to stammer out an apology or an explanation before he was setting the bowl down and grabbing a spoon. Scooping up some of the mousse mixture, he lifted it to your lips.
You opened eagerly, already knowing whatever Jack made would be delicious, and let him pop the bite into your mouth. Jack watched you closely as he pulled the spoon out, giving you a moment to taste what he’d given you.
The delectable flavors of rich coffee and velvety chocolate melted on your tongue, and your eyes slid closed as you savored the sweetness, a low moan slipping from your lips at how good the dessert tasted.
“Jesus, Jack, that’s the best thing I think I’ve ever had in my mouth,” you groaned, opening your eyes. You found Jack staring at you, a wild look in his eyes, and so much hunger in their depths, it stole the breath from your lungs. He was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.
You half expected the chef to pounce on you, to kiss the remnants of the dessert from your lips and show you what other things he could stuff in your mouth, but you should’ve known better. Jack didn’t take the bait of your comment as he kept a white-knuckle grip on himself, holding back even as more tension than ever snapped and crackled between the two of you.
“Want some more, sweetheart?” he rasped, holding your gaze.
Your head was bobbing an eager nod before he’d even finished the question, and he lifted another spoonful of mousse to your lips, watching as you ate it happily, humming in delight. When Jack fed himself some of the sweet concoction, you could only watch with rapt attention as it disappeared inside his mouth, his tongue flicking out to catch some left at the corner of his lips.
The need in your body had pulled you taut as a bowstring, your skin practically vibrating with desire by the time you’d finished enough of the dessert for Jack to hopefully be satisfied. It was a testament to his culinary skills that you were still able to taste the chocolatey coffee confection with how much lust was swirling through your body, simmering low in your belly.
You squirmed where you sat, the metal beneath your thighs warm from your skin, and felt how wet you were, your panties nearly soaked with your desire. You were hot enough that you pushed the jacket from your shoulders, and looked directly at Jack, pouting at the chef once more.
“Jack, please,” you whined, your fingers curling around the edges of his t-shirt, knuckles brushing his ribs. You felt him suck in a breath as he let you tug him back between your legs, your body trembling with excitement and need. “I’ve had enough dessert, I need something else…”
The older man didn’t respond immediately, his head ducked, watching as his palms skimmed up the outside of your bare thighs, like he could barely believe you were letting him touch you. Your fingers trailed up his arms, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails raking lightly against his skin. You watched him close his eyes at the sensation, knowing he enjoyed it.
“I’ve been a good girl, haven’t I?” you murmured in Jack’s ear, feeling the tension in his shoulders as they bunched beneath your arms. He let out a slow breath, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. “I’ve been so good, and I want you so bad, Jack. Touch me—please, chef.”
The last thread of Jack’s control snapped at your comment—you felt it in the way his muscles moved, poised on the edge of giving in before he finally let his desire loose after your begging plea. His hands grabbed you roughly, fingers digging into your bare ass beneath the hem of your dress as he yanked you closer.
His mouth descended on yours, capturing your lips in a blisteringly hot, devouring kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. He wrapped you up in his arms, crushing you to his chest as he kissed you, gorging himself on your mouth, his hands groping greedily at your body while you clung to him.
It was everything you’d wanted from the chef, and the corners of your lips curved in an attempt at smile, but then Jack was kissing you harder, overwhelming you until you were moaning mindlessly into his mouth. You’d never felt more desired than you did when Jack kissed you, and you’d never felt more in danger of letting yourself fall for someone.
You were mostly lost to your lust, your nipples puckered and needy where they were pressed against the chef’s chest and your pussy aching to be filled, but it occurred to you that Jack was different from all the other men you’d dated. He was kind and gentle and steady, and he kissed you so good your head spun.
It struck you suddenly that while you knew you were safe with Jack, you were in danger of losing your heart to him. But that was the kind of danger you wanted to be in—especially since you knew that if you fell for him, Jack would catch you.
So you kissed the chef right back, pouring your desire for him into the slide of your mouth against his, holding him close as you flung yourself off the edge, letting emotions swirl and swell in your chest, confident that he’d carry your heart in his hands and protect it with his life.
You’d never been safer in your entire life than you were in Jack Abbot’s arms.
Jack Abbot was in heaven.
In all his years of cooking, of being a chef, he’d never tasted anything as divine as you.
He could gorge himself on you and still never get enough—not of the way your mouth moved against his, your lips soft and tongue eager as it twined with his. He couldn’t get enough of the feel of your body beneath his hands, so sweet and supple and responsive.
Every press of his fingertips into your spine had you arching into him, breathy, little whines slipping from your lips for him to devour. He could taste the coffee and chocolate on your tongue, and he sucked on your plump lower lip, groaning as he savored the combination of the dessert he’d fed you with the natural flavor that was all your own.
Kissing you was making him unbelievably hard—harder than he’d been in a long time—his cock heavy and weeping in his jeans. The only thing that saved him from embarrassment was how enthusiastically you were grinding against his bulge, the dampness of your panties leaving a wet spot where his cock was straining against the dark denim.
Jack dragged his hands up your sides, wrapping his fingers around your ribs, his thumbs brushing against the underside of your tits, teasing you both with the barest of touches. You let out a soft, keening sound against his mouth, making him smirk before he pressed kisses along your jaw and down the smooth column of your neck.
“More, Jack, please,” you begged, your hands fisted in his shirt and tugging on him restlessly. The desperation in your voice, the way you begged for him, it made his cock twitch for you.
He shifted his hands higher, groping your tits through your dress and dragging a filthy moan from your pretty lips. The pads of his thumbs teased your hardened nipples, and he reveled in the way your body shuddered in his arms. Your spine arched, pressing your tits into his hands and he rewarded you by rubbing your nipples more with his thumbs.
“Ya like this, sweetheart?” Jack rasped against your neck, raising his head enough to nip at your ear. “Like letting an old chef feel up your pretty tits?”
“Old, hot chef,” you shot back, correcting him in a deliciously breathless voice.
Jack’s cock twitched at the compliment, and he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have found you—someone so beautiful and full of life. Someone so into him.
He pressed his smile into the spot beneath your ear, kissing and licking your skin until you were moaning softly.
“And yes, chef, I love it. Touch me more, touch me harder—please,” you begged, squirming where you sat on the metal counter in his kitchen.
What was Jack supposed to do? Deny you?
He couldn’t even fathom the idea of not giving you what you asked for, even if he knew that he was letting things get a little out of control. The two of you were still at Night Shift, and though the staff had left for the night, it wasn’t the best idea to have sex in his kitchen.
But Jack couldn’t seem to stop himself, not when you were making such pretty noises while he sucked a hickey into your neck and teased your nipples with the lightest of pinches. His mouth trailed up your throat before capturing your lips in another kiss, swallowing your sounds of pleasure while he played with your tits.
It had been so long since Jack had lost himself in anyone—there hadn’t been anyone who’d awoken that desire in him the way you did. Not since his wife passed. You were a siren calling him to the danger of your body, to the promise of losing his heart to you, and Jack knew he could drown in you if you let him. He hoped to god you let him.
For long, endless minutes, Jack kissed you and groped your tits, playing with your nipples and seeing how many different noises he could pull from your lips. And for a while, you let him, the sounds of your pleasure growing more high-pitched, your hips working more desperately to hump against his cock.
Eventually, your need must’ve grown too great, your frustration too acute, because you grabbed one of Jack’s wrists and shoved his hand down between your bodies, until his fingers brushed your soaked panties.
“Touch me here, Jack, please—I need it,” you whimpered in his ear, and it was nearly his undoing.
It was his turn to gasp and groan, the tips of his fingers stroking against the sodden fabric as he used every ounce of the self-control he’d learned in the army not to spill himself in his jeans right then. You were so warm and soft, and so fucking wet.
Jack teased his fingers along the seam of your slit through your panties, hoping you couldn’t tell how much his hand was shaking. You felt so perfect, it was overwhelming. He’d stopped kissing you, your mouths close as you breathed each other’s air, panting your excitement together while he pressed into your cunt through your slick panties.
“Like this, sweetheart?” he rumbled, the edge of his mouth pulling up in a smirk when you let out a desperate little mewl. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly while you rocked your hips onto his hand.
“Jaaack,” you sobbed, and he’d never heard anything as sweet as the sound of his name falling from your kiss-bitten lips, pleasure soaked into your voice.
You pulled harder on his hair, and the jolt of pain went straight to his dick, which leaked even more precum into his jeans. Jack responded by pushing his fingers deeper between the lips of your pussy, his progress restricted by your panties, which prevented him from burying his fingers in your hole.
A violent shiver wracked your body, and Jack wrapped his other arm more tightly around your lower back, holding you close while he fucked you shallowly with his fingers. His thumb teased your clit with a featherlight touch, drawing a feral sound from your perfect mouth.
“Please, oh god, please, chef, touch me—fuck me with your fingers, please, please, please,” you babbled, yanking on his hair to draw him closer. But instead, Jack took the opportunity to lean back and take a look at you—and what a sight you were.
Your head was thrown back, your expression openly desperate with lust. Your gorgeous eyes were dazed with desire, your plump, perfect lips parted and panting for air. Your chest was heaving with heavy breaths, enough that your tits threatened to spill out of your mussed dress, which was hiked up high, Jack’s big hand pressed between your soft thighs.
You looked debauched. You looked so beautiful, Jack’s heart clenched in his chest and he couldn’t stop himself from imagining you looking like this in a million different ways—on the desk in his office, in the backseat of his car, on his couch at home, in his bed.
In that moment, Jack wanted nothing more than to have you in all those ways. He wanted to move you into his place and put a ring on your finger—he wanted to make you his and keep you forever. He was stunned by how much he wanted you.
“Jaaack,” you whined, your sweet voice bringing him back to the moment. Your eyes were wide and pleading as you looked at him. “I was a good girl, wasn’t I?” you asked so pitifully, Jack’s heart ached.
A single tear slipped down your cheek and he cupped your face, panic stealing into his gut and making his stomach drop. He wiped your tears away, already knowing he was going to give you whatever you wanted. If you’d asked him to lay down and die for you, he would’ve done it without a second thought.
“You’re being so mean, chef, when I was so good for you,” you whimpered, your hips worked against his hand. The movement reminded Jack of how he’d been teasing you with his fingers, dragging you to the edge of desperation when all you wanted was to be full of him.
“Oh, baby, baby, baby,” Jack groaned, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.
He held your face in one hand as he kissed you, tasting the salt of your tears on your lips, while the other tugged your panties to the side. He pushed one of his thick fingers into your tight, dripping hole, swallowing your moan like it was the most exquisite decadence he’d ever tasted.
“I’m sorry, angel, you’re right,” he rumbled against your mouth, pumping his finger steadily into your pussy, feeling your gummy walls gripping him tight. “You were such a good girl for me—so good that ‘m gonna make you come on my fingers, alright?”
“Promise?” you asked, pouting up at him from under your lashes, and Jack knew he was in trouble, because that look on your face could get him to do anything you asked.
The corner of your mouth twitched, like you were holding back a grin, and Jack’s heart thumped in his chest because you knew the effect you had on him. He liked that a little too much. He liked that you weren’t afraid of torturing him a little bit after he’d teased you a little too much. It felt intimate, like you were building something real together, something that would certainly last past the night.
“I promise, angel,” he cooed, stroking his finger deeper before adding a second one, watching the way your breath caught on a gasp, biting back a self-satisfied smirk. “There’s a rule in my kitchen, y’know,” he went on, talking out of his ass to keep your attention on him even as he finger-fucked your pussy. “Good girls always get to come on the chef’s fingers—and you’ve been such a good girl for me, baby.”
You let out a soft, breathy giggle at that, just like Jack had hoped, and he pumped his fingers harder into your wet, gripping cunt, making your laugh devolve into a dirty moan. Your body went loose and languid in his arms, and he rewarded you by pressing his thumb against your clit. He rubbed the little bundle of nerves, watching how you reacted until he found exactly what you liked most.
“Think you can take another, sweetheart?” Jack asked, pressing kisses to your heated cheeks and cleaning away the remnants of your tears with his lips. He trailed his mouth down to your neck, enjoying the way you shivered when his stubble rasped against your sensitive skin. “Can you take one more finger in this sweet cunt, baby?”
“Yes, please, chef,” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through his thin t-shirt.
Every pinprick became throbbing pleasure as it zinged down to his cock. He hadn’t been so close to coming in his pants since he was a teenager, but he fought off his own desire and focused on you. You and your pleasure were what mattered to him, not his dick.
“Good girl,” Jack purred, grinning into your neck when your pussy pulsed at the praise. He eased a third finger into your slick hole, biting back a groan when your tight warmth enveloped him. He pressed his cock against your soft thigh, looking down and watching your pussy take his thick fingers. “Fuck, angel, look at you—taking me so well.”
You leaned back, looking down your body, and Jack knew the moment you saw his fingers disappearing inside your cunt because you clamped down hard around him, like your body was trying to suck him deeper. He stifled another helpless groan, pumping into you, pressing against a spot that had you shivering and moaning wantonly.
You fell back further, planting your hands on the counter to hold yourself up, trying to use your leverage to bear down further on his fingers. But you’d barely rocked your hips in a slow roll when you let out a cry—the tenor making the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stand up—as your arms gave out and you fell backward.
Quick as he could, Jack slid his free arm up your back, pressing his palm between your shoulder blades to catch you before your head could hit the shelves above the counter. He pulled his hand from between your legs, holding onto your bare thigh with his sticky fingers as he ducked his head to meet your eyes.
“What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” he asked, his gaze searching your face, which was twisted like you were trying to hide your pain. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the thought.
You shook your head, rejecting the idea, which calmed Jack for a moment. Until you spoke.
“My wrist,” you whimpered. “Hurts.”
It took all of a second for Jack to understand what had happened. You’d put too much pressure on the wrist that your worthless excuse of a date had grabbed, had hurt, and it had given out. Rage flooded through Jack’s body, his blood pumping hot with the desire to track down Curtis Larsen and beat him to a bloody pulp.
But Jack knew that wouldn’t help anyone, least of all you, so he worked to rein in his anger. He focused on you, making sure you could sit up on your own before taking the hand of your injured wrist in his.
When he held it up to the bright lights in the kitchen, he could see bruises had formed where Curtis had grabbed you. Before he could stop it, a choked off growl rumbled beneath his sternum, the animalistic sound only ceasing when you stroked your palm down his chest, soothing him.
It took Jack another moment to collect himself, to gather his anger and put it in a box to deal with later. Gently, he lifted your hurt wrist to his mouth and brushed the sweetest, softest butterfly kisses over the bruises mottling your skin.
“I’d kill him if I thought I could get away with it,” Jack confessed, hoping to make you giggle again, his eyes lifting to your face to watch your reaction.
Although you didn’t laugh, his words did the trick of bringing the spark back into your eye. A shy smile curved the corners of your pretty mouth, and you lifted your other hand to cup Jack’s jaw, your thumb teasing over the stubble on his cheek.
“He’s not worth the effort,” you said, and though Jack agreed with you, he didn’t like the idea of letting Curtis Larsen get away with hurting you.
“Hmm,” Jack hummed noncommittally, wondering if he could call the police tomorrow and report the man for assault since it’d happened in his restaurant.
He liked that idea.
He liked the idea of locking up Curtis Larsen and throwing away the key even more. But you were his priority, not that jackass that had been your date, so he focused back on you.
Jack squeezed your thigh, his thumb teasing close to the edge of your panties. “Do you want to keep going, sweetheart?” he asked, his gaze watching you carefully. “I can take you home if you’d prefer.”
The change in your expression was immediate, your lower lip pushing out in a pout, your eyes widening and looking at Jack from under your lashes.
“I want to keep going,” you murmured, almost shyly, meeting Jack’s gaze before it dropped to his mouth. Your free hand fell to his arm, moving his hand from your thigh back between your legs then looking up at him. “I don’t want my shitty date to ruin our night—and you promised me I’d get to come on your fingers.”
A small smile curved Jack’s mouth and he ducked forward, stealing a quick kiss from your pouting lips before he pulled away. His grin was cocky as he pushed your panties to the side and teased your tight hole with the tips of his fingers.
“You’re right—and I always keep my promises, baby,” he assured you, pressing his fingers into your pussy while he watched you closely, making sure he didn’t hurt you.
Once they were buried inside you, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your injured wrist, then brought your hand to his shoulder. He gave you a pleased smile when you lifted your other arm to circle loosely around the back of his neck, your fingers playing with the curls at the nape.
“Hold on to me, angel,” Jack urged, easing his fingers out, then back inside your pussy, feeling your slick, tight cunt stretch around him. He watched your eyes go hazy with lust, your mouth falling open as you panted through your pleasure. “I’ll make you feel good—make you forget everything that happened tonight before I came to your table.”
With a soft, sweet sigh, you draped your arms over Jack’s shoulders, taking all the weight off your wrists, and leaned forward to nuzzle into the side of his neck. Warmth suffused his body, his cock twitching in his jeans when he felt you press a kiss to the underside of his scruffy jaw.
“Thank you, Jack,” you murmured, your voice almost low enough to be drowned out by the quiet whir of machinery in the kitchen. Your warm breath brushed against Jack’s throat and he had to suppress a shiver, focusing on your words. “You’re all I want to remember about tonight.”
Jack’s arm tightened around your lower back, instinctively pulling you closer as his heart gave a heavy thump in his chest. Your sweet words called to something deep in his soul, something that hadn’t been fed in too long for him to be normal about it.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell you he wanted to spend every night with you, that he wanted you in his bed when he woke up in the morning and to come home to you in his kitchen. He wanted to cook for you and take you out and move you in with him…
But Jack knew it was way too soon to be having those thoughts, let alone say them out loud, so he put on the charm, hoping you couldn’t tell where his mind had wandered.
“And the food, right?” he asked, his tone teasing and light as he fucked you with his fingers again, his thrusts building you back up to where you’d been. He could feel the way your body trembled in his arms, and he held you tighter so he could feel the pleasure work through you. “You want to remember the food, right, sweetheart?”
You huffed a laugh against Jack’s neck, your tongue darting out and swiping up the side of his throat, making him groan helplessly at the obscene feeling of you licking him. His hips bucked forward of their own volition, his cock grinding against your soft inner thigh.
“Oh yes, chef,” you purred in his ear, your voice shaky and breathless and so, so sweet as he pumped his fingers into you harder, his thumb rubbing your clit. “I want to remember everything I got to taste tonight.”
Your words conjured images of your pert mouth on Jack’s cock, your teasing tongue swirling around the tip, licking up his precum before sucking him deep between your soft lips. It was such a hot image, Jack had to duck his head and muffle his tortured groan into your shoulder.
It took him a full minute to get himself together, your giggles echoing softly in the empty kitchen while your nails raked through his silver curls. Once he was able to focus again on the present, Jack pressed his mouth to your collarbone, licking and sucking your skin down to your tits, pushing the top of your dress down so he could take your nipple into his mouth.
The older man was rewarded with a sharp cry from your lips, your spine arching and pressing your tits further into his mouth. Jack grinned into your soft flesh and began to lavish them with his attention, his fingers still working in and out of your pussy while his thumb rubbed your clit in teasing, maddening circles.
It occurred to Jack that he could stay right where he was for a long, long time and be happy to keep sucking on your tits, learning what made you squirm and moan, all while he fucked your cunt with his fingers. But all too soon, you were hovering on the edge of your release, your pussy fluttering around Jack’s fingers, your cries turning high-pitched and desperate while your body worked to find your pleasure.
Your fingers were threaded in his hair, clutching his head tight to your chest as you moaned and rocked your hips harder on his fingers. Mindless pleas were falling from your kiss-swollen lips, frantic appeals for ‘more’ and ‘harder’, begging him to give you the release you needed.
Jack was torn between drawing out the moment, making it last forever, and giving you what you wanted. Eventually, his need to take care of you won out, and he pushed his fingers deep into your cunt, his thumb mercilessly rubbing your clit while he lifted his head from your chest.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” he growled in your ear. “Show me what a good girl you are and come all over chef’s fingers—let go, let me see you come for me.” He pressed his fingers against that spot deep inside your body and stroked your clit, feeling you tighten around him.
Pulling back enough to see your face, Jack watched you succumb to pleasure, your release taking hold of your body and making you throw your head back, a desperate, breathy cry bursting from your mouth. Your fingers tightened in hair, and your pussy clamped down on his fingers, making him work to keep fucking you through the waves of pleasure surging through your body, which trembled in his arms.
“Good girl,” Jack rumbled, his fingers slowly sliding in and out of your pulsing channel, wringing every ounce of bliss from your body. “Sweet girl, perfect girl.”
You curled forward and sobbed your pleasure into Jack’s neck, and when you shuddered at the overstimulation of his fingers, he gently eased you down from your peak. Once your release had ebbed, he slipped his fingers out of your body, and helped you to sit up.
“You gonna keep being a good girl and clean me up, baby?” he asked, touching his wet, dripping fingers to your plump lower lip. Jack didn’t know what had come over him, but the desire to see you taste yourself was too great to ignore, and he hoped he wasn’t making you uncomfortable.
He was pleased when your already unfocused eyes went even more hazy, your head nodding and a smile curling the edges of your mouth before you parted your lips and let Jack slip his fingers inside. You hummed a happy sound that went straight to Jack’s dick then got to work cleaning your own release from his skin.
It was such an erotic sight that Jack thought he could watch you suck on his fingers for the rest of the night, but then he realized he’d given away the opportunity to taste you himself and he got ridiculously jealous. You weren’t done cleaning him up, but he pulled his fingers from between your lips and shoved them into his own mouth.
Jack groaned at your taste, savoring the musky flavor of your pleasure while he held your gaze, letting you watch him lick his fingers clean. Your eyes were hooded and full of renewed lust, your lips swollen and parted as you panted for him.
He couldn’t stop himself. Between one breath and the next, his mouth was crushing against yours in a mindless, feral kiss. He could taste your pussy on your tongue when his delved into your mouth and it drove him wild. His arms wrapped around your body, crushing you to his chest while he kissed you harder, groaning when your fingers pressed into his spine and clung to him just as tightly.
“Jack, I want more,” you cried when your lips wrenched free from his, your fingers trailing around his ribs and down over his stomach until you could cup his thick erection through his jeans. “I need you inside me—need you filling me until I’m so full of your cock, it’s all I can think about.”
“Fuck, angel, you beg so pretty, how can I say no?” Jack teased, his voice only a little unsteady. He tried to pull away, but couldn’t bring himself to when you were stroking his cock through his pants, wringing desperate whimpers from him that would’ve embarrassed him if you weren’t smiling like the cat that got the cream. “C’mere, baby, let me fill up that greedy pussy of yours.”
But when Jack grabbed your ass and pulled you close to he could thrust into your pussy through your clothes, he felt a twinge of pain in his leg where it rubbed uncomfortably against his prosthetic. The pain shot straight up his spine, making his mind go completely blank for a moment, his breath catching in his lungs.
During work, Jack could typically grit his teeth and bear the pain when it hit, but he’d been on his feet for too long. He’d pushed himself beyond his own limits and his body was reminding him that he wasn’t the young, spry man he’d once been.
“Jack?” you asked, your voice thick with concern.
The older man took stock of himself, and realized he’d half collapsed against you, his head on your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh pants as he breathed through the pain. He’d shifted his weight to his one good foot, leaving him a little off-balance and using you to steady himself.
“Are you okay?” you asked softly, stroking your fingers comfortingly through his hair and across his shoulders. When he relaxed into your touch, you held him tighter, not seeming to mind that he was putting some of his weight on you.
“My prosthetic,” he grumbled, not entirely happy that this was how he was telling you, but not shying away from the truth either. “Hurts.”
“Your prosthetic?” you asked after a moment, and Jack paid close attention to the tone of your voice. You sounded confused, maybe a little curious, but Jack was relieved that there wasn’t revulsion or, worse, pity in your tone.
“Lost my leg while I was in the army,” he explained, taking a deep breath as he began to recover his strength. The pain had subsided, leaving him a little shaky and off-balance, but fine.
“Oh, okay,” you said, nothing but acceptance in your tone.
Your fingers were still idly playing with Jack’s hair and that, more than anything else, helped him feel better—though he knew he’d have to get off his feet soon. He was trying to work out how to tell you he couldn’t fuck you on the counter in this position when you took him by surprise with another question.
“Is that how you got the medal?’
Jack paused. Of all the questions you could’ve asked—and he’d heard most, if not all of them—that wasn’t one he’d anticipated. Most folks didn’t know about the medal, and it took him a moment to remember that he kept it on his desk in his office, where you’d spent most of the evening.
The realization that you’d been curious enough about him to look through his desk made his heart soar, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. For some reason, it didn’t bother him, you going through his things. It felt right, the idea of you being comfortable in his space.
“Were you snooping through my stuff, sweetheart?” Jack asked teasingly, finally lifting his head to meet your gaze, curious about how you’d react to the question.
He watched your eyes widen slightly, your gaze darting away before returning to his with a sheepish look on your face. “It was on top of your desk,” you mumbled, shrugging, then wincing at how blithe you sounded. “I didn’t go through any drawers or anything, I swear.”
Jack couldn’t help but chuckle at how guilty you looked, and he smoothed a hand down your spine in a reassuring gesture. “You’re adorable,” he murmured, capturing your lips in a kiss to let you know you were forgiven. “And yes, it’s how I got the medal. I’ve made peace with it, but sometimes, it makes things…tricky.”
You nodded somberly as you absorbed that information, your eyes dropping down to where Jack was still half-leaning against you. The chef could practically see the gears turning in your head as you thought, but he was still taken by surprise when you lifted your gaze back to his and asked, “Would it help if I was on top?”
Your question made Jack pause again. He’d been with his wife already when he’d lost his leg, and she’d helped him figure out what worked afterward. It had given him the confidence he’d needed to eventually move on after she’d passed on. But the few flings he’d had since weren’t as easily accepting as you, and none of them had been as considerate.
It made Jack’s heart clench in his chest as he realized all over again how glad he was to have found you. Although he wished the circumstances of your meeting were different—he wished you’d never been hurt by your date—he was grateful that the universe had brought you together.
“Yeah, actually, it would,” Jack said, matching your serious tone with his honesty.
It was another moment where the weight of his feelings for you took him by surprise, especially after knowing you for such a short time. In an effort not to scare you away by revealing how he felt, he used his charm to lighten the mood. Ducking his head, he caught your eye and let a smirk play on his lips.
“Do you wanna ride me, baby?” he asked, his tone teasing, his smirk spreading into a full-blown confident grin when lust bloomed in your eyes, none of it tainted by pity or fear or disgust. It made his cock throb for you. “Wanna ride chef’s cock and make us both feel good?”
“Yes, please, chef. I’d love to ride you,” you purred, pushing him gently back to give you room to move.
You held his gaze as you reached beneath the hem of your dress and wiggled until you’d yanked your panties off, looking at him expectantly. Jack unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, shoving his jeans and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free.
He watched your eyes dart down, then widen when you took in the size of his thick cock. His dick wasn’t the longest, but it was fat enough that his three fingers stretching your pussy would feel small in comparison. Suddenly, he hoped you weren’t afraid.
It was on the tip of his tongue to reassure you, to tell you that you could stop this at any time and the two of you could go slow if that was what you needed. But before he could get the words out, your eyes lifted to his and he saw the spark of eager excitement in their depths, in the curve of your grin.
You looked like a sultry creature feral with lust, your pretty, kiss-bitten lips pulled into a sensuous smile as you hopped off the counter and prowled closer to him, only wobbling a little in your heels. Jack reached for you at the same moment you spun him around and shoved him onto the counter so you could climb on top of him.
“I’m gonna make us feel sooo good, chef,” you promised, settling your knees on either side of Jack’s hips and rising up, wrapping your fingers around his thick cock. Jack’s hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up so he could see your bare pussy where you rubbed the tip of his dick through your slick folds. “Gonna ride your cock until you’re coming hard in my cunt. Tell me you want it, too—please, chef.”
For a moment, all words fled Jack’s mind. All he could do was feel the teasing warmth of your pussy kissing the tip of his cock, hear the soft wet sounds of your desire, smell the scent of your arousal. All he could see was you, looking like a goddess above him, promising him pleasure.
Fuck, Jack Abbot really was in heaven, and he hoped he never had to leave.
You were right where you were meant to be.
You couldn’t explain what had come over you—whether it was simply the lust you’d felt at the sight of the older man’s thick cock or if it was everything about the chef—but you had the sense that everything you’d been through that night was worth it because you’d met Jack Abbot.
He was everything you’d been looking for in a partner—kind and capable, charming and funny—and plenty that you hadn’t known you’d wanted, like the way he could talk just as dirty as you, and cook way better than you ever could. He’d been gentle when he’d kissed your injured wrist, but hadn’t held back when he’d fucked you with his fingers, giving it to you as rough as you needed to get off.
Jack had made you feel safe and desired. He’d taken care of you in every way you’d needed throughout the night, and you were in serious danger of falling for him. If you hadn’t already. It might’ve been a little crazy, but you might’ve fallen for him already.
The weight of your feelings were too heavy to tell the chef just yet, so you focused instead on the moment, on the feeling of Jack’s broad tip teasing between the lips of your pussy, of the firm grip of his hands on your hips, and the heat of his eyes as he watched you tease his cock.
It was intoxicating, seeing the unrestrained lust in Jack’s face, darkening his hazel eyes and twisting his mouth into something feral and hungry. The thought crossed your mind that you could try to tease him until he snapped, the last remnants of his patience falling away as he yanked you down on his cock. But just the fantasy had you pulsing with need.
You needed Jack’s cock inside you. Immediately.
But before you could start to lower yourself down on Jack’s bare length, you remembered yourself. You paused, hovering above his thick, throbbing cock, and took a breath to steady yourself. Still, your voice was a little shaky as you spoke.
“I’m on birth control; I’ve been tested, and it was clear,” you rushed to say, hoping Jack could understand your words even as they tripped over each other to fall off your tongue. You braced one hand on his shoulder and looked dead in the older man’s eyes. “I want you bare, Jack, please.”
“Jesus,” he cursed, letting his head fall against your chest. His shoulders were trembling slightly, and it took a moment for the man to get himself together to look at you. You wanted him without a condom too badly to rush him. “I’m all clear, too, angel,” he rasped, staring into your eyes. “It would be the honor of my life to fuck you raw, baby.”
Your heart soared, battering against your ribs like a caged bird wanting to take flight. You were so overcome by emotion, by your desire for this man, that you couldn’t think of doing anything else but kiss him. Jack cupped your face while your fingers sank into his steel gray curls, both of you holding each other tight as you kissed, hard and deep, with all the wild, unfettered emotion you felt.
Before the kiss even ended, you were already pressing down on his cock, only pulling away from Jack’s mouth when the tip pushed inside your body, the stretch making you gasp. He was wider than anything you’d taken before, and it sent a filthy shiver sliding down your spine as you felt your body straining to take him.
“God, Jack, you’re so—fuck, you’re so fucking big,” you whimpered, your eyes crossing a little as you lowered yourself another inch, grateful that he’d already finger-fucked you to orgasm once, since it made the slide slightly easier. You shuddered with the effort not to impale yourself all at once, knowing it would be a mistake if you didn’t go slow.
“Careful, sweetheart, don’t hurt yourself,” Jack warned, but there was a hint of a teasing chuckle in his tone that drove you wild, your pussy clenching around and suckling on the tip of his cock. His words devolved into a pleasured groan that trickled down your spine like warm honey. “Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me already—you’re so tight and warm and wet. Jesus.”
“Uh huh, uh huh, so wet for you,” you babbled, bouncing a little on Jack’s cock to take him deeper. Your pussy stretched to accomodate him and the feeling of fullness stole the breath from your lungs. “You’re splitting me open so good, Jack, fuck—fuck, chef.”
“Mm,” Jack hummed, his hands kneading your ass and sliding up your spine beneath your dress, pulling you flush against his chest. His mouth found your neck, pressing kisses to your skin that had you shivering in his arms. “You’re gonna take it all, aren’t ya, baby,” he rumbled into the hollow of your throat, “because you’re such a good girl for me, huh?”
You couldn’t explain it, but Jack’s words had a ridiculous effect on you, making your pussy gush even more while your heart soared. Your hips rolled, pressing down determinedly and taking his cock nearly to the root, the stretch dragging a gasp from your lips while you clutched the older man close, reveling in the feel of his mouth on your neck.
“Yuh huh, your good girl,” you moaned, feeling Jack’s cock deep in your body. It filled you up so good, stretching you nearly to your limit, but you’d gone slow enough that it didn’t hurt—just made you impatient to have all of him.
You squirmed in his lap, lifting up and pressing back down, taking more and more of him with every downward thrust. Jack chuckled darkly as his hands hand returned to your hips, groping you with those thick, skillful fingers of his while he helped you bounce on his cock.
“That’s right, my good girl,” Jack rumbled, the possessiveness in his voice making your whole body clench, wringing a desperate groan from his mouth. He pulled you closer at the same moment when you spread your knees wide, and the result was your body being finally fully impaled on his cock.
The sudden, complete fullness was a delicious shock to your system and you wrapped yourself tightly around Jack, your arms circling his shoulders while you trembled and adjusted to the size of his fat cock buried in your cunt. It took you a breath to return to the moment, feeling Jack’s hands smoothing over your bare thighs in soothing gestures.
“Atta girl,” Jack praised, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. “You’re taking me so well, sweetheart. Feels like you were made for me—made to take my cock.”
A soft, breathy laugh burst from your lips, because those words were exactly what you wanted to hear, and it surprised you to hear them from Jack’s mouth. It made you feel like you weren’t alone in the big, overwhelming feelings you were having too soon for the chef, and you pressed your face into his shoulder to silence yourself before you said something too soon.
Instead, you focused on the feel of Jack. Every little movement of your body had his cock shifting inside your tight channel, his heavy length dragging against your sensitive inner walls, making your surprised laughter turn into a helpless moan.
“You feel sooo good,” you murmured, rocking your hips and getting lost in sensation. With your head fuzzy and full of pleasure, you sat up enough to look into Jack’s face, staring deep into his eyes. “If I was made to take anyone’s cock, Jack, I’d want it to be yours,” you said, not realizing until the words were out of your mouth just how revealing they were.
But instead of the depth of your desire scaring the chef, his gaze turned more intense, and a flicker of a smile played around the corner of his mouth. He drew you closer, until your lips were a mere hairsbreadth away from his. His eyes were hot and dark as they stared deep into your soul.
“I’m so glad you came into my restaurant tonight, angel,” Jack rasped, so much genuine affection in his tone, it made you melt further into him, your knees squeezing his hips while you clung to his shoulders. “Meeting you has made this the best night of my life—I hope you’ll let me see you again.”
“Oh, Jack,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes, not from sadness but a boundless happiness. You tried to blink them away, embarrassed to be crying while Jack’s cock was still buried in your body, but the older man didn’t seem to mind, his thumbs stroking your cheeks and brushing away the few tears that fell. “I’d really like to see you again, too.”
“Good,” he said, his voice so decisive that you knew it was settled. Your heart soared in your chest, and a smile broke across your face. You couldn’t have said which of you leaned forward first, closing the distance so your mouths came together in a kiss, a promise.
The kiss was slow and sensual, one of Jack’s hands cupping the back of your head while you explored each other. It was a delicious kiss, made all the more exquisite when Jack’s tongue licked into your mouth, drawing needy sounds from your lips as he kissed you deeper, like he wanted to remind you that he was buried in more than one of your holes.
You barely noticed when your hips began to rock, fucking yourself on Jack’s big cock. But when his hands dropped to your hips, urging you on, you had to pull away from his mouth with a gasp.
Tossing your head back, you focused on riding your chef, lifting up onto your knees and slamming back down on his hard, thick length. It was dizzyingly glorious, the heat and hardness of him filling your tight hole, punching the air from your lungs until you could do nothing but let out mindless sounds of pleasure.
“That’s my girl, fuck yourself on my cock,” Jack murmured encouragingly, his hands on your ass helping you lift yourself up and slide back down his stiff shaft. He groaned, loud enough to drown out the wet sounds of your pussy and the soft clap of your ass hitting his thighs. “Fuck, angel, you feel so good—such a good girl, riding chef’s cock like a fucking champ.”
A shiver raced down your spine at his praise and your fingers tangled in Jack’s hair, bracing yourself so you could bounce harder on his cock. Every thrust of his dick deep into your cunt was driving your pleasure higher, until your head was filled with clouds and your body was tingling, balancing on the precipice of your release.
“Yes, yes, yes, your girl, your good girl,” you panted, your eyes heavy-lidded but still open as you watched Jack’s face, his skin flushed red, making his freckles stand out in stark relief. “Please, chef, I’m so close—please, I need…”
Your words devolved into a moan as Jack took control of your body, changing the angle of your hips so your clit was grinding against the base of his cock. All you could do was gasp and whimper and whine and try to hold on to him while he helped you ride him.
“My sweet girl, my perfect girl, my gorgeous girl,” Jack cooed, punctuating his words by pulling you down on his cock over and over and over again, making sure your clit rubbed against him with each thrust. “I know what my girl needs—come for me, pretty girl. Wanna see you let go, wanna feel you come on my cock, baby, please.”
Jack’s words and the way he guided your body, helping you find your pleasure, were your undoing. Tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core until it suddenly snapped. You were sent tumbling over the edge of your release, every muscle in your body pulling taut before you exploded with a wailing cry, pleasure crashing through you in violent, euphoric waves.
A groan tore from Jack’s mouth and his arms tightened around your body. He held you crushed against his chest, moaning his own pleasure into your neck while his hips jerked between your thighs, fucking you through both your releases.
You clung on to him, your body writhing on top of his as you eked out every bit of bliss from each other, until the waves of your release began to recede. With a sated sigh, you collapsed against the older man’s shoulder, fingers raking idly through his hair while his hands stroked everywhere on your body he could reach—your hips, your thighs, even down your calves and up your spine beneath your dress.
Between your thighs, you could feel his hot release beginning to leak from your hole, and you squirmed a little at the strange feeling of loss that settled in your gut. Jack pressed one of his palms to your lower back, urging you to settle on his lap, and you let yourself relax, reveling in the feeling of his softening cock still filling your pussy.
After giving you a few moments to recover, Jack’s fingers trailed down the side of your face where your head was laying on his shoulder. He curled a finger around your chin and tilted your head up enough so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips.
“Alright, angel girl?” he asked softly, his voice so low and raspy, it sent little tingles dancing down your spine. You smiled against his mouth.
“Sooo good,” you answered, your mouth quirking into a smirk as you continued. “Or should I say, ‘Thank you, chef, that really hit the spot’?”
Jack huffed a surprised laugh, squeezing you tight in his arms as he shook his head. “What am I gonna do with you, baby girl?”
It was on the tip of your tongue to tell Jack that what he should do was take you back to his place and keep you forever. That thought was so surprising—you’d only known him for one night!—and felt so right, that instead of answering, you kissed him.
You could feel the smile on his lips before he kissed you back, and that little expression had you realizing just how fond you’d grown of the chef in such a short time. It was so astonishingly easy to picture yourself going home with Jack, sleeping in his bed, cuddled up in his arms, then having breakfast together in the morning.
The night had started with you not expecting much from your date. You thought maybe you’d hit it off and see him again, but you hadn’t dared to have much hope.
And now, the night was ending with you kissing a different man, one you’d only just met, and wanting so much more with him. You wanted to get to know Jack Abbot and see if your initial compatibility and attraction could lead to something more.
For the first time in a long time, you had hope. It felt like everything that had happened earlier in the evening was fate conspiring to bring you and Jack together—and you were all too excited to see where things would go.
The best part, you realized, as Jack kissed you back, his mouth moving sensuously against yours, was that he seemed just as excited to get to know you, too. He’d shown you nothing but green flags all night, and had even already asked to see you again. It felt like something close to magic to know that the man you liked, liked you back.
A smile fluttered at the corner of your mouth as you let yourself focus on kissing Jack, knowing there’d be time to overthink everything later. For the time being, you wanted to enjoy the rest of the night with your chef, because you were certain it was the beginning of something beautiful.
For a long while, the two of you were making out just for the fun of it, for the enjoyment of being with each other, until Jack’s soft cock slipped from your body and made you shiver. He grabbed his leather jacket from where you’d tossed it on the counter and wrapped it around your shoulders, giving you one last kiss before he began to ease you off his lap.
“I’ve got to clean up here,” he said, tucking his cock away and zipping up his jeans before he helped you straighten your dress, his eyes wandering shamelessly over your body, like he hadn’t yet had his fill of worshipping you. “Once I’m done, I can take you home. Sound good, sweetheart?”
“That depends,” you said, your fingers snagging in the hem of Jack’s white t-shirt, preventing him from moving too far away. You weren’t usually the clingy type, but you couldn’t bear to be away from him just yet. “Are you gonna take me back to my place, or yours?”
The older man’s gaze darkened and his hands settled on your hips, pulling you close again. Your arms wound instinctively around his shoulders, fingers playing with his hair in a way that already felt so comfortable and familiar.
“I was planning to take you to your home,” Jack began, a smirk curling his mouth when you pouted up at him from under your lashes. “But if you’d like, I can take you back to mine.” His eyes softened as he looked at you, his smirk melting into a smile. “I’d love to cook you breakfast, sweetheart.”
The depth of the affection in Jack’s gaze and his words made you feel suddenly shy, and you ducked your head a little. “I’d like that,” you murmured, sneaking a peek at him and finding the chef grinning like he’d just won the lottery. It gave you the confidence to lift your head and give him a confident smirk. “Be careful, though, if you keep making me such delicious food, you’ll never get rid of me.”
Something devilish flickered across Jack’s face and his smirk was all smug confidence as he swooped in and stole a kiss from your lips, leaving you breathless when he pulled away a moment later. “That’s the plan, angel girl—I’m gonna keep you around any way I can until you get sick of me.”
You were already shaking your head before he’d even finished talking, your fingers tugging lightly, admonishingly, on his hair. “That’ll never happen,” you said, your tone more serious than you’d intended. But your honesty was rewarded with Jack’s mouth twisting into a smile and him kissing you again.
It was such a privilege, you realized, to be with someone who wanted you just as badly as you wanted them—who liked you just as much as you liked them. From the moment you’d met him, Jack had made you feel safe, had taken care of you, had shown you that you were special simply for being you. And you hoped you’d done the same for him.
When Jack finally pulled away from the kiss, you whined a little, making him chuckle. “C’mon, baby girl, let’s clean up and go home,” he rumbled, kissing each of your cheeks, then your nose, before giving you one last kiss on your mouth.
His words and his sweet kisses had you smiling and giggling, and you nodded, your heart warm and light as you let Jack move away to begin cleaning up his workstation. As he did, you fetched your things from his office, turning off the light and closing the door.
By the time you’d returned, Jack was done, and he held his hand out for you to take. You did so happily, handing off your jacket and purse for him to carry when he offered.
Stepping out into the brisk, spring evening, a breeze sweeping through Pittsburgh and making you glad to have Jack’s jacket around your shoulders, you felt like you were leaving the little bubble you and the chef had created. But as you watched him lock up the back door of Night Shift, using only one hand so he could keep holding yours, you knew you didn’t need that bubble.
You may have had to endure the date from hell to meet Jack Abbot, but it felt like fate had designed the night so that you ended up right where you were meant to be—with the hot, older chef who looked at you with so much awe and affection, it made your heart pitter-patter in your chest.
Jack walked you to his car, pushing you gently against the passenger door to kiss you some more before he helped you into the seat. He held your hand as he drove you back to his place, kissing your knuckles every few minutes, then leaning across the center console to kiss your mouth after he’d parked in front of his house.
The two of you didn’t talk much as you got ready for bed, but you didn’t need to. A comfortable silence had fallen over you and Jack, and you didn’t feel the need to fill it, especially with how tired you were. You changed into one of his t-shirts, brushed your teeth with the extra toothbrush he had on hand and cleaned your makeup off your face.
When you slipped into bed beside Jack, he was still massaging his leg, easing the pain he’d felt from wearing his prosthetic all night. You hoped he’d one day let you do that for him—help him to relieve the ache of the day’s grind from his leg, his shoulders, and anywhere else that might pain him.
Before you could gather the courage to offer, though, Jack turned and slid under the sheets beside you. He wrapped you up in his arms, and both of you let out little sighs of contentment. You didn’t know what exactly Jack was thinking, but you suspected it felt just as right to him as it did to you to be in his bed and in his arms.
You fell asleep knowing in your heart that you were right where you were meant to be—with Jack Abbot.
thank you for reading!! reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡♡♡
I have been dying to hear more about a dragon breeding farm, where the farm hands chain up their praised dragon stag and run him through different breeders, all who have paid good money to get their girls stuffed by the legendary beast. The handlers keep him clean and tidy, and love to tease him while he's locked up in chains~
A/N: I don't know if this is what you wanted, but I think it ended up pretty good. Hope you like it! <3
The most prized possession
Dragon x gn!reader || bondage, (very light) body worship, size difference, breeding, (mentioned) cum inflation || tw: implied non-con (not with reader)
Imagine having a lovely dragon. He’s just perfect, perfect to caress, perfect to stare, but above all, perfect to breed.
That’s what your father had, the most precious specimen, tied in the farm, sold for seed every chance he could… But nobody knew the truth, nobody knew that you were the one burning is inner fire, the only one who could be breed with him.
They tried and tired, and sometimes he didn’t even get hard, he just looked nonchalant as they tried, and failed, to get him aroused enough to breed one of the ladies who paid good money to fuck a dragon. You had to go away not to laugh at their attempts, knowing full well he wouldn’t do something he wouldn’t want to.
And when the night fell… then he was all yours. Your father thought you were just a doting child, cleaning and helping take care of his most precious possession, and well… you were taking care of him, just not the way your father expected.
Because when night came, you walked down the path to his chambers, where he was tied down and restrained in case he decided he wanted to leave. What they didn’t know is that he could break free any moment he wanted to, but why would he? You were there. His human, his mate, his little breeder.
You walked up to his already smirking self, his dick hard between his scaled thighs and his whole body vibrating. He didn’t breed anyone today, he refused much to your father’s demise. But to you? To you it was a gift. It meant you got all of him today, he would fill you until you were overflowing and your lower abdomen was a bit distended. He would fill you until he had no doubt you were his. And good goddess if you didn’t love that.
He growled when you let your robe fall around you, still too far away from him to touch. You made it a show for him, taking your time, teasing your most sensitive places as he watched, erupted by your movements. By the time you approached, his dick was leaking profusely and his fangs were bared, his eyes blown wide as he reached for your body and pressed you together.
You giggled as he probed your entrance, the tip of his fingers already bigger than any man you’d ever seen. He wouldn’t talk, he didn’t need to. He finger fucked you until you were pliant and drenched, and then he would push his huge dick inside your welcoming heat, his hands around your middle, bouncing you up and down.
You were nothing but a human fleshlight to him, a toy for him to use until his balls were empty and you were a mess. And you couldn’t enjoy it enough, you couldn’t praise and groan enough… He ripped the orgasms out of you, wave after wave of pleasure as you melted between his hands and he filled you to the point of overwhelming ecstasy. And only then, when you were nothing but a mindless toy, he would fill you up to the brim, sending you into another orgasm.
The dragon could be your father’s most precious possession… but you were his.
the difference between the winter soldier and all the other soldiers. they were all dressed in the same plain black, they actually had some semblance of self-expression seen in their hair and makeup, not at all like the winter soldier. he was all dressed up with that long hair, their favourite toy, their prized possession
they have a bit of horror in their eyes but he just looks dead to the world.
he doesn't even care when his hair is in his eyes, which happens constantly in the winter soldier and civil war, because he's not even human anymore. the hair represents how they've burned away any remaining memory of james buchanan barnes and stuffed something else, something dead and rotting inside
Reader playfully smacking Bucky’s ass anytime she sees him and he tells her to keep her hands to herself and she taunts him by saying “What if I don’t?” which ends up with her over his lap and getting spanked which she ends up loving and Bucky’s like “Oh, you like that, huh?”🤭
Bucky is not impressed and knows better than to react.
You’re in the kitchen making coffee while he stands at the counter in gray sweats and a tight black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders in a way that should honestly be illegal. He reaches into the cabinet for a mug and you pass behind him, palm landing against one very firm cheek with a satisfying smack.
Bucky pauses mid-reach.
Slowly, he glances over his shoulder at you.
You just smile sweetly into your coffee. “Morning, handsome.”
His eyes narrow with poorly hidden amusement. “You got a problem keepin’ your hands to yourself?”
“Nope.”
“Hm.”
That should’ve been your warning.
Instead, it becomes your favorite game.
By noon, you’ve smacked his ass four more times.
Once while he’s digging through the fridge. Once while he’s tying his boots. Once in the elevator at the compound when Steve walks in directly afterward and immediately senses something deeply unserious happening between the two of you.
And once while Bucky’s bent over the couch looking for the remote.
That one earns you a sharp look.
“Doll,” he warns.
“What?” you ask innocently.
“You keep doin’ that.”
You grin. “And?”
“And one of these days, I’m gonna do somethin’ about it.”
The challenge lights up your entire body.
“Oh yeah?” you tease, stepping closer. “What if I don’t stop?”
Bucky stares at you for a long second.
The kind of stare that makes heat crawl up your spine.
Then he goes back to looking for the remote.
Coward, you think smugly.
Huge mistake.
Because later that night, you forget that James Barnes is a patient man.
The two of you are getting ready for bed, soft music drifting through the apartment while Bucky folds laundry at the foot of the bed. You’re perched against the headboard scrolling on your phone, mostly watching him because honestly? Domestic Bucky is unfairly attractive.
His henley is rolled up to his elbows. His hair is messy from his shower. And those gray sweatpants are hanging low enough on his hips to make you reckless.
Again.
You slide off the bed and wander over casually, pretending to inspect the folded shirts.
Then—
Smack.
A sharp hit against his ass.
Bucky freezes.
You bite your lip, already smiling.
“Baby,” you say softly, “I physically couldn’t help myself.”
He exhales slowly through his nose.
“That right?”
“Mhm.”
His head tilts slightly. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your hands to yourself?”
You shrug, entirely unrepentant. “What if I don’t?”
The room goes quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
Then Bucky sets the shirt down with terrifying calm.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “c’mere.”
Your stomach flips.
You should run.
You absolutely should run.
Instead, you laugh and try to back away, but Bucky catches you around the waist before you make it two steps. A startled squeal leaves you as he hauls you against his chest effortlessly.
“Bucky!”
“You’ve been askin’ for it all day.”
“I have not!”
His eyebrow lifts. “You sure about that?”
You’re still giggling when he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you over his lap in one smooth motion.
The second you realize he’s serious, your breath catches.
“Oh my god,” you laugh breathlessly. “You are not actually gonna spank me.”
“Think I won’t?”
You twist to look at him upside down. “You’re bluffing.”
His metal hand settles warm and heavy against your lower back.
Then smack.
Your breath jumps.
Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to sting through your sleep shorts and send shock straight through your body.
“Oh,” you blurt.
Bucky stills.
Slowly, very slowly, a grin spreads across his face.
“Oh, you like that, huh?”
Heat floods your cheeks instantly. “No.”
Another smack.
You gasp harder this time, fingers curling against his thigh.
Bucky’s laugh is low and rough above you. “Honey.”
“Shut up.”
“Thought you were bein’ a brat.”
“I am being a brat.”
“Mhm.” Another sharp smack lands. “And now you’re squirming.”
Because you are.
Embarrassingly so.
The warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the actual spanking and everything to do with Bucky manhandling you so easily. The steady weight of his hand. The amusement in his voice. The fact that he’s clearly enjoying finally getting payback.
“You gonna keep smackin’ my ass every time I walk by?” he asks.
You hesitate dramatically. “...Maybe.”
Smack.
“Bucky!”
“What? Asked you a question.”
You bury your burning face against the blankets while he chuckles above you.
“This whole time,” he muses, rubbing his palm soothingly over the sting he left behind, “you were tryin’ to get caught.”
“I was not.”
“You sure?”
His hand lands again, gentler this time, and the humiliating little sound that escapes you gives everything away.
Bucky goes completely still.
Then he mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
You can practically hear the realization hit him.
“Oh, you definitely like this.”
Your entire body burns with embarrassment as he laughs softly behind you, one hand gripping your hip while the other smooths over your skin.
“You’re trouble,” he says affectionately.
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
You twist enough to glare at him. “Rude.”
Bucky just smiles—that devastating, smug smile that makes your knees weak—and helps you sit upright across his lap.
His fingers brush your hair back from your face gently, completely opposite from the teasing firmness from moments ago.
“Still gonna keep smackin’ my ass?” he asks.
You pretend to think about it.
Then you lean forward and whisper sweetly into his ear, “Absolutely.”
Bucky groans immediately.
“Oh, you are askin’ for another round, sweetheart.”
pairing. Bucky x camgirl!reader
word count. 24K (more than half of it is just dialogue, dw!)
summary. you swore you could keep your two lives separate: medical intern by the day, faceless fantasy online by night. But then Bucky Barnes walks in for a check-up… and later logs in to watch you strip. He knows. You don’t. And the deeper he falls, the harder it is to keep both worlds from colliding.
warnings. age gap (reader is an intern), switching povs, MDNI, angst, hurt/comfort, bucky is a certified stalker both online and offline, tries his best at groveling, tries to win over reader by acting as her chauffeur (little shit), insecure reader, lowkey self deprecating reader, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, cum eating, tit play — bucky is obsessed with her tits, pussy slapping, pussy inspection, pussy pronouns, one dick pronoun lol, lowk dom bucky, bucky deflects by using his fingers and mouth, but is a good boy at the end, pure filth at the very last. no use of y/n.
notes. sorry for the two month wait bc what was that? 😭 i think i’m way better at writing smut than at writing angst, so if angst sucked here, you know why. i rewrote this so many times, parts of it written and rewritten at different occasions, different mindsets, some even copy pasted from random rewrites (i was not at all organised with this part, it was a pain in the ass) 😭 holy fuck, this was the hardest thing i’ve ever written. also the longest, good god! had to use shift+enter to bypass block limit, so if you see any space discrepancies, you don’t. the weird spacing is making me lose my fucking mind 😭
series masterlist || prev part
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Bucky hadn’t slept. The apartment looked exactly the same as it had hours ago, and the morning light did nothing to ease the headache brewing behind his eyes. The couch was still pushed too far back. The laptop still sat on the coffee table. Like the room had frozen on purpose just to piss him off.
He paced back and forth across the living room, metal fingers flexing and unflexing like they had nowhere to go. He’d started pacing sometime around dawn and apparently his body had decided that was the only motion it was capable of now.
He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stand still. Felt like if he stopped moving, he’d have to actually think.
Every time he stopped moving, he could hear your voice from last night.
Please, James. Please.
“Get a grip, Barnes,” he muttered under his breath, though the empty room just swallowed the words, leaving them hanging weak and useless like everything else he'd said and did lately.
The phone was still on the table. He hadn’t touched it since the block went through. Hadn’t had the guts to flip it over and look at the blank space again.
He’d stared at the ceiling for hours instead, replaying everything until it turned into one long loop he couldn’t escape.
You were gone. And you had every right to be.
That didn’t stop the panic clawing up his throat.
By five in the morning he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to see something, anything, that proved you still existed outside of the mess he’d made. Needed to know you hadn’t vanished off the planet the second you vanished from him.
So he did the stupid thing. He made a new account.
New email. New username. Even new password, for God knows why. He wouldn’t remember it in an hour anyway. Saved it to apple passwords.
As the confirmation page loaded, this made him a very pathetic stalker, the kind of guy who deserved to be laughed at, and he still clicked subscribe anyway.
He subscribed again before he could talk himself out of it, the familiar profile picture popping up like a punch to the chest. Just the same teasing little glimpse of skin and shadow that had wrecked him from the beginning.
His eyes went straight to the activity log.
Last seen: 9:14 p.m.
Hours ago. Before everything.
Nothing. No new posts. No stories. No updates. Not even a note. There was nothing to show you’d even touched the account since the call ended.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered to it, like you could somehow hear him through the website. “Just… be okay. Please be okay.”
He refreshed the page. Then again. Then a third time like that would magically change the answer.
But it was still nothing.
A fucked up feeling settled in his stomach. He closed the laptop harder than he meant to.
There was one place he knew you had to be. One place he could actually see you with his own eyes instead of hunting ghosts on a screen.
The hospital.
Internship shifts didn’t pause for heartbreak. They didn’t care if you’d slept or cried or sworn off men forever. You’d be there because you were responsible and you took your job too seriously to call in sick over a broken heart.
He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and was out the door in under five minutes.
The bike ride across the city barely registered. Just traffic lights and potholes and the cold needling into his cheeks while his brain ran in circles. He rode like he was chasing something he might never catch again,
By the time the hospital came into view, his heart was pounding for an entirely different reason.
Please be there. Please don’t hate me.
Killing the engine, hejust sat for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control.
Everything felt the exact same as it did a month ago. Everything except the fact that you were hurting this time, the reason being him.
Bucky scanned the room the second he walked in. He didn’t have to look long.
You were at the nurses’ station. The sight of you hit him so hard he had to stop moving.
You looked… exhausted.
This wasn’t your usual kind of tiredness. The one with with messy hair and a lazy smile after a long shift. This was different. Your shoulders were slumped. The usual brightness in your face was muted, like someone had turned the volume down on you overnight.
He hated that he knew the difference. Hated that he’d memorized your tired smiles and now he was looking at the version that had nothing left behind it.
You looked like you hadn’t slept at all.
Guilt punched him square in the chest. That was his fault. Every last bit of it.
For a second he thought about turning around and leaving. About walking right back out the doors and sparing you the shock of seeing him. But he just wouldn’t be a coward anymore.
Forcing his feet to move, he took steps in your direction.
You didn’t notice him at first. You were flipping through a chart, biting the inside of your cheek in that familiar little way you did when you were concentrating. He remembered thinking it was cute the first time he saw it. He remembered a lot of things now that made his stomach twist.
He was halfway across the lobby when you finally glanced up. Your eyes landed on him. And you smiled.
The same polite, easy smile you’d given him the very first day. The kind of smile you gave patients because that was your job, because you were good at it.
It felt like a knife between his ribs. That smile wasn’t for him anymore. For Bucky-the-patient, sure, but not for the Bucky-or-James who'd lied his way into this mess.
“Bucky,” you waved him over like he was just another familiar face in your day.
His heart did something painful.
You didn’t know.
Of course you didn’t know.
He walked up to the counter on legs that felt way too heavy for his body. Up close he could see the details he’d missed from a distance — the faint redness of your conjunctiva, the way you kept blinking like they were dry, the way your fingers trembled just a little when you set the chart down.
“Hey— didn’t expect to see you. You okay?”
Your voice sounded normal. Friendly. Tired, but normal.
The words stuck a bit, because how do you say you're here to beg forgiveness in a lobby? It nearly killed him.
Already slipping into that automatic caretaker mode he’d watched you use a dozen times, you asked, “need to see the doctor?” Same gentle voice. The one he’d gotten way too attached to. Attached like a fool, now it just underscored how much he'd ruined.
He shook his head, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look standing there. You didn’t seem to mind though. Or if you did, you hid it well, professional as always.
“No… I’m not here for that.”
You tilted your head, confused but still smiling. “Oh. Paperwork or something? Follow-up appointment?”
“I’m here to see you.”
Jesus Christ, that sounded so fucking stupid out loud he wanted to punch himself in the throat just to keep him from speaking.
Your brows knit together in confusion. “Me?”
“Yeah,” his voice had fallen down a few octaves. “You.”
There was a beat where you just looked at him, clearly trying to figure out what he meant. He could practically see the thoughts lining up behind your eyes — confusion, curiosity, the professional part of you searching for a reason that made sense.
He took a breath he didn’t feel ready for. He didn’t plan to say it. Didn’t even think it. The word just slipped out like muscle memory. “Sweetheart—”
The second the word left his mouth, everything changed. He saw it happen in real time.
Your smile faltered. Just a tiny crack at first, like a hairline fracture. Your eyes focused on him in a way they never had before.
Recognition crept in slowly, horribly slowly. Slow enough to torture him as it dawned. He watched the moment the pieces clicked together. The voice. The nickname. The way he said it.
Your face went blank.
“Wait. No— no, that’s not—”
He reached for you on instinct, hands hovering uselessly in the space between your bodies.
“Baby—”
“James?” your voice trembled on the single word.
“Yeah, babydoll. It’s me. James. Bucky.” Words tumbling out, hoping they'd bridge the gap but knowing they wouldn't. What else was there, really? Nothing that fixed this.
All the air seemed to disappear out of the room.
You stared at him like you were trying to wake up from a bad dream and he refused to fade.
Emotion crossed your face in waves. Waves he wished he could stop, but he'd started them.
Disbelief hitting youfirst, like surely this was a joke; then understanding sinking in, and finally betrayal washing over.
Your eyes filled with tears so fast it stole the breath out of his lungs.
Panic surged inside him, “hey, baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please… can we talk? Just let me explain—”
He reached out and gently gripped your arms before he could stop himself, desperate to keep you from slipping away.
You flinched like his touch burned. “Don’t… Just don’t.”
“Please, sweetheart—”
“Don’t… call me that.” The words were soft, but they hit harder than anything else.
People were starting to look now. A few curious glances from nurses and visitors who didn’t understand the storm brewing in front of them.
You didn’t seem to notice. Tears spilled over, tracking silently down your cheeks, and you didn’t even try to wipe them away.
“All this time,” you breathed, more to yourself than to him. “All this time it was you.”
“Yeah, and I know how bad that sounds. I know. But I can explain everything, I swear—”
“You lied to me.” Your voice wobbled on the last word like it didn’t want to come out.
Four simple words. They were a slap to his face.
Bucky’s hands dropped from your arms. “I know. And I hate myself for it. I never meant for it to go this far. I never meant to hurt you.”
Your laugh was small and broken. “Well, congratulations. You did.”
Every ounce of exhaustion you’d been carrying seemed to rise to the surface at once. Your shoulders shook, whether from anger or hurt he couldn’t tell.
“I trusted you… I told you things I’ve never told anyone. I let you see me. I begged you to see you. And you just— you were standing right in front of me the whole time.”
The memory of that plea flashed behind his eyes and he felt sick all over again.
“I wanted to tell you. I did. I swear I did. I just— I didn’t know how to start.”
“So you thought hiding was better?” you shot back, finally finding your anger. “You thought letting me feel stupid and used was better?”
“No… God, no.”
You wiped at your cheeks with the back of your hand, furious at the tears that wouldn’t stop coming.
“I feel like an idiot,” you admitted in a low voice. “Like a— like a complete, pathetic idiot.”
“Don’t— don’t say that. None of this is on you.”
“Isn’t it?” you asked, looking at him like you didn’t recognize him at all. “Because it feels pretty on me right now.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out that didn’t sound weak and useless.
The world refused to pause for either of you. A phone rang somewhere. Someone laughed down the hall. Your whole world had narrowed to the man in front of you.
“I need you to let me explain,” he tried again, softer this time. “Please. Just give me five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
For a split second he thought you might actually consider it. Then your expression hardened. “No.” The word was firm this time, stronger than the first.
“No,” you repeated, taking a shaky step back from him. “I… just don’t want to hear it.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Stop calling me that,” you snapped. First time he’d seen you do this, and he’s the reason.
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
You stared at him for a long moment, like you were memorizing a stranger who used to feel safe.
“I have to get back to work,” you said finally, the professional mask sliding back into place with visible effort.
“Please don’t walk away,” he begged before he could stop himself.
He knew you’d walk away. Didn’t matter. He was still going to follow you. Had to. Explaining was the only plan he had, and it wasn’t even a good one.
There was never a version of this morning where he would have just stood there and let you disappear down the hallway like a stranger. His feet moved before his brain had fully caught up.
You walked fast. Faster than he’d ever seen you walk before. Like you were late for something important instead of just trying to outrun him.
You didn’t look back once. Not even a glance over your shoulder to see if he was still there.
But he was.
He stayed a few steps behind at first, close enough to keep you in sight but not close enough to touch. He didn’t trust himself to touch you again. Not after the way you’d flinched like his hands had burned. That kept replaying worse than anything else. Worse than the yelling he’d expected. Worse than silence.
The hallway opened up into another nurses’ station, busier than the first one. You slipped behind the counter like it was a shield and he hovered awkwardly on the other side, suddenly aware of how out of place he must look.
Big guy in a leather jacket, looming where he didn’t belong, eyes glued to an intern who clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
Great. Fantastic. Perfect.
He watched you pick up a chart with hands that still weren’t quite steady. Watched you focus very hard on anything that wasn’t him. Watched the way your jaw tightened when you realized he wasn’t leaving.
He felt about like he was sixteen years old and hopeless. “I just— I just need a minute. Please.”.
You pretended to read something on the paper in front of you, but he could tell you weren’t really seeing it. Your eyes kept skimming the same line over and over again.
“I’m not trying to make a scene.” He kept his voice low on purpose. “I swear I’m not. I just… I need to talk to you. Just for a minute.”
You inhaled slowly through your nose like you were counting to ten.
“Bucky… James— whoever you are,” you spoke without looking at him, voice tight and professional in a way that hurt more than yelling would have. “I’m at work.”
“I know.”
“I have patients. Shit… you know what? Even if I didn’t, I don’t wanna talk now.”
“I—”
“Surely you must understand why this isn’t the time?”
He opened his mouth to argue and then closed it again because, yeah, he did understand. He understood too well. You were trying to hold yourself together in a place where falling apart wasn’t allowed.
Still, he couldn’t make himself back off.
A nurse at the station glanced between the two of you, picking up on the tension. She had probably seen a hundred versions of this exact situation. Concern flickered across her expression as she leaned a little closer to you.
“Hey, hon, you okay over here?”
You finally looked up then, and Bucky hated the way you forced a small smile onto your face.
“I’m fine, Dana, it’s just… a misunderstanding.”
Dana didn’t look convinced at all. Her gaze flicked to Bucky, taking him in with that assessing, protective nurse stare.
“Need me to call security?” she asked you quietly, like he wasn’t standing right there.
That was what he was to you now. Not James. Not the guy you’d poured your heart out to at three in the morning. Just some man making you uncomfortable at work.
For a split second he thought you might say yes. He even braced himself for it.
But you shook your head. “No,” came your voice softly. “It’s okay.”
Hope flared in his chest so fast it almost hurt. You didn’t want security. You didn’t want him dragged away. That had to mean something. It had to mean you didn’t completely hate him. Maybe you still cared enough to—
“He’ll go away on his own,” you added, still not looking at him.
The hope died just as quickly as it had bloomed.
“Alright,” Dana squeezed your arm briefly. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”
Bucky swallowed around the lump in his throat as she walked a few steps away, leaving the two of you alone again in the middle of a room that suddenly felt way too small.
He’ll go away on his own. You’d said it like a fact. Like he was a problem you were waiting out. Like he was already fading from your life and you just needed a little patience until it was official.
He hated how much that hurt.
“I’m not going away.” He heard how stubborn it sounded and didn’t care.
You let out a humorless breath. “Of course you’re not.”
“I mean it.”
“Good for you.”
The sarcasm in your voice was so unfamiliar it almost made him flinch. You’d never talked to him like that before. Not as Bucky. Not as James. You’d always been soft with him, even when you were teasing.
This version of you felt like a stranger. A stranger he helped create.
He stepped a little closer to the counter, lowering his voice so only you could hear him.
“Please— just one minute. Outside, or — or an empty room, hell, a fuckin’ supply closet, I don’t care. I just need one minute.”
You finally looked at him. Your eyes were still red-rimmed and so full of hurt that he had to fight the urge to reach across the counter and pull you into his arms right there in front of God and everyone.
For a heartbeat he thought you might soften. Thought you might give in.
“No,” your voice was firmerthis time. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
He nodded slowly, like he was trying to absorb a language he didn’t speak.
“Okay,” he said, even though it very much was not okay. “I get that you’re mad. You have every right to be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” you replied, turning your attention back to the chart in front of you.
The lie was obvious.
“You’re kinda trembling,” he pointed out before he could stop himself.
“That happens when people don’t sleep.”
The words slipped out sharper than you probably meant them to, and he latched onto them immediately.
“Have you eaten anything since last night? Or— I don’t know— coffee, water, something?” The question came out softer than everything else he’d said, genuine worry breaking through the panic.
You let out a disbelieving little laugh. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is my business if you’re running around this place on an empty stomach and no sleep because of me.”
“Since when do you get to care about that?” you shot back.
The sting of it made him wince. “Since always… I just can’t stop caring about you, even if you don’t want me to.”
You pressed your lips together, clearly fighting back another wave of emotion. “I don’t need you to take care of me.” Your voice did that shaky thing you were pretending it wasn’t doing.
He could see the conflict on your face, the way part of you wanted to fold and the other part wanted to keep your armor on as tight as possible. You’d always worn your heart right out in the open with him.
Now he was the reason you were trying to hide it.
“I’m working,” you said after a beat. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Then let me at least do something useful,” he was grasping at anything that would keep you from slipping completely out of reach. “Let me get you something to eat.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“You look like you’re about two seconds away from passing out.”
Your glare would have been impressive if your eyes weren’t so glassy. “I am perfectly capable of getting my own food.”
He hesitated, searching your face for any crack, any tiny opening he could fit himself into. There wasn’t one. Still, he wasn’t ready to give up.
“Just let me do this. I just… don’t want you to keel over in the middle of a shift.”
You stared at him for a long moment, clearly torn between telling him to go to hell and bursting into tears.
He hated that he’d put you in that position. “Five minutes. I’ll grab something from the cafeteria and bring it back. You don’t even have to talk to me.”
“I don’t want you buying me things.”
“I’m not buying you things. I’m buying you breakfast. There’s a difference.” It was fucking stupid, but it was worth a try.
Your mouth twitched despite yourself. That twitch, like you were fighting a smile despite the mess, gave him a spark of hope that flickered weak.
For a second he caught a glimpse of the you he knew, buried under all the hurt he’d caused. It only made the guilt worse.
You looked down at your hands, then away from him, then back again like you couldn’t quite decide where to put your eyes.
“I don’t need you hovering,” you said finally.
“I won’t hover,” he promised. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Details.”
Another almost-smile that you fought hard to suppress.
God, he missed you and the smile he’d imagined a thousand times.
“Fine,” you muttered. “Do whatever you want.”
“Okay,” he was quick to say, like you might change your mind if he gave you too much time to think about it. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
You didn’t dignify that with an answer.
He took a step away, then hesitated, looking at you again. “You don’t have any allergies, right?”
You let out a tired breath. “No.”
“Anything you hate or don’t want to eat right now?” Yeah, he was absolutely being a pain in the ass.
“I’m so not doing this with you.”
“Right— right. I’ll figure it out.”
Bucky stood in the middle of the cafeteria, staring at a glass case full of pastries, feeling stupidly and embarrassingly out of his depth. The kind of out-of-depth that made him question every choice leading up to this, wondering if a simple bag of food could really patch over the disaster he'd created.
He hadn’t been inside a hospital cafeteria in years, and he’d definitely never been inside one with a mission this specific.
Get her food. Something she’ll actually eat. Something she won’t throw back in your face.
Scanning the options once more, he racked his brain for every tiny detail you'd dropped casually, those offhand comments now feeling like lifelines he should've held tighter.
You drank too much coffee and not enough water. You skipped meals when you were stressed even though you pretended you didn’t, and he'd teased you about it before, never realizing how those habits might stem from nights like last one, the kind he'd caused.
“Can I help you, sir?” The interruption jolted him, pulling him from the mental list he'd been building.
The woman behind the counter was looking at him with polite impatience, probably wondering why a grown man was glaring at a muffin.
“Uh, yeah. I need… breakfast. To go.”
She raised an eyebrow like she was saying ‘pardon me?’ “Most people do at this hour.”
Right. Real smooth.
He forced himself to focus. “Something easy. Light, I guess. But also filling. And not— not too greasy.”
The woman gave him a look like she’d been awake since 4 a.m. and didn’t have patience for men who couldn’t make decisions.. “So basically everything and nothing.”
He ended up grabbing more than he probably needed. A bottle of juice. A yogurt with fruit on the bottom because he remembered you saying once that plain yogurt tasted like sadness. A small sandwich in case you wanted something more substantial. And a stupid little chocolate croissant that felt like a peace offering he wasn’t sure you’d accept.
Definitely overcompensating.
The croissant especially, recalling how you'd mentioned craving sweets during tough shifts, but now it seemed pathetic against the hurt
His hands hovered over the coffee station before he decided against it. You’d had enough caffeine. What you needed was actual fuel.
What you needed was sleep. And probably a world where he didn’t exist in it. At least without his lies complicating everything, leaving you to heal on your own terms.
He paid, shoved everything into a paper bag, and then just… stood there.
Going back to you scared the hell out of him.
This was ridiculous.
He’d fought wars, survived things most people couldn’t even imagine, and here he was terrified of handing a woman a sandwich.
But it wasn’t just any woman, was it?
It was you.
The walk back through the hospital felt longer than it should have. Every step gave him too much time to think. Too much time to replay your face from earlier. The way your voice had trembled when you’d said his name. The way you’d looked at him like he’d taken something from you that you could never get back.
All because he hadn’t told the truth soon enough.
He stopped a passing nurse, asked where you might be, and got pointed toward the on-call rooms down a quieter hallway.
He saw you sitting on one of the couches just inside the room, head flopped back against the wall, eyes closed like you were trying to steal five minutes of peace in a place that never gave any.
You looked exhausted, wrung out, like someone had reached inside you and twisted. And it gutted him, knowing your exhaustion ran deeper today because of his mess.
He knocked lightly on the doorframe. Didn’t want to scare you on top of everything else.
Your eyes opened immediately. The second you saw him, every bit of softness drained away.
He deserved that.
“I brought food.” He held up the bag like it might count for something.
“I told you I didn’t want anything.”
“Yeah. I didn’t listen. You still gotta eat.”
You let out a tired breath, like you were already sick of him all over again and looked away, staring at the opposite wall like it was suddenly fascinating.
He stepped inside carefully, like you were a skittish animal he didn’t want to scare. He set the bag on the little table in front of you and started pulling things out one by one.
“Orange juice, yogurt with the fruit you like. A sandwich if you’re hungrier than you think. And… a croissant.”
You stared at the small spread like it might be a trap.
“I didn’t ask for any of this. Why are you even doing it?”
Because I screwed this up and I don’t know how to unscrew it. “Because you need to eat.”
“I don’t need you deciding what I need, okay?” You looked like a kid sitting there with your arms crossed, and eyes fixed on the floor.
He didn’t answer you, everything that might come out of him would only anger you more.
“Thank you. You can go now.” Your voice was formal, as though you were dismissing him.
“Please… just give me five minutes.”
You laughed, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “Five minutes for what? So you can feel better about yourself?”
“No… to explain.”
“You already explained enough.”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t explain anything that mattered.”
You finally looked up at him again, and the raw hurt on your face almost knocked the air out of his lungs.
“I still have six hours left in my shift… six hours of pretending I’m fine and doing my job and not falling apart. I don’t have the energy to do this with you right now.”
“I know… I know it’s a bad time.”
“It’s not just a bad time, James. It’s a long time.”
He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean even if I wanted to talk to you, which I don’t actually, I can’t just disappear for half an hour. I have responsibilities… patients. Real things that matter.”
The way you said real things that matter felt deliberate. Like you were reminding him he wasn’t one of them.
“I’ll wait.”
“You what?”
“I’ll wait,” he repeated. “Until your shift’s over.”
“Do you have any idea how long six hours is?”
He almost smiled despite everything. “Six hours isn’t gonna kill me.”
“No. I’m not asking you to wait around all day like some lost puppy.”
“I’m not a puppy.”
“You know what I mean.”
He did. He just didn’t care.
“I need to talk to you,” he repeated, softer this time. “I need you to hear me out. And if waiting is what it takes, then I’ll wait.”
Your expression wavered for a split second. Just a crack in the mask. Just enough to let a little emotion slip through.
“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.
Because I love you.
The answer came uninvited, stupid dangerous and far too big to say out loud right now.
“Because you matter to me,” he said instead. That’s safer.
You looked away quickly, like you couldn’t fathom hearing those words.
“Please stop saying things like that.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. You just don’t want to.”
He had no argument for that.
“Whatever… do what you want I guess.”
Relief and dread bloomed together in his chest.
“So… I can wait?”
“I’m not giving you permission. I’m just too tired to fight with you about it.” You gestured toward the door. “Now please leave. I need to breathe without you standing in front of me.”
The honesty of that hurt, but he respected it.
“Okay, I’ll be… outside.”
“Don’t hover near the station.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t talk to my coworkers.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t expect anything from me when this shift is over.”
That one hurt the most even though he deserved every bit of it.
“I won’t,” he said anyway.
You picked up the yogurt finally, peeling the lid back without looking at him.
He lingered for a second longer, wanting to say a dozen different things and knowing none of them would help.
“I’m glad you’re eating.” Lame excuse in trying to talk to you.
“Goodbye, James.”
Message received.
He backed out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him, leaning against the wall for a long breath.
Six hours. Six hours of sitting with his own thoughts. Six hours of wondering if you’d walk out at the end of it and tell him to go to hell anyway.
He made his way out of the hospital in a kind of daze, the automatic doors whooshing open to let him back into the bright, noisy world he suddenly didn’t care about at all.
His bike waited in the parking lot where he’d left it. He sat on the curb beside it instead, and started the long business of waiting. The curb was cold under him, but it felt like the only penance he could offer for now.
Everytime the automatic doors slid open, his heart would jump. But all of them would be false alarms.
Everytime it was the wrong person. Until it wasn’t.
You stepped out just after dusk, with your coat wrapped tight around you. You had your bag slung across your chest and a look on your face that was pure exhaustion.
For a second you just stood there at the top of the steps, closing your eyes and breathing in the freezing air, trying to remember how to be a person again.
When you opened them, your eyes landed straight on him.
Something crossed your face so fast he almost missed it. Surprise first. Then disbelief. Then, slowly, something softer he was too afraid to name. A kind of calmness.
He straightened immediately, hands falling to his sides, trying not to look like he’d been sitting there all day thinking about nothing but you.
You walked down the steps toward him, boots crunching over the thin layer of fresh snow that had started to stick to the pavement.
“Hey,” he greeted you quietly when you got close.
“Hey.”
Up close you looked even more tired than you had earlier. Your eyes were heavy, your mouth set in a small unhappy line.
But you were here.
You hadn’t slipped out a side exit. You hadn’t pretended you didn’t see him. You hadn’t called security and had him dragged off like he half expected.
That had to count for something, right?
“You waited.”
“I told you I would.”
“I didn’t think you meant it.”
“I try not to say things I don’t mean.” Fuck, he really shouldn’t go act all noble now. Thankfully, you didn't call him out on it.
You let out a slow breath that fogged the air between you. “Okay… talk.”
Just two words that carried way too much weight.
He opened his mouth. Absolutely nothing of value showed up. That was when he realized he didn’t know where to start. All the things he’d rehearsed in his head for six hours suddenly sounded stupid and thin and nowhere near enough.
“I don’t really have anything better than I’m sorry.”
Your expression didn’t waver. “You already said that. It didn’t fix anything.”
Snowflakes drifted down lazily around the two of you, catching in your hair and on the shoulders of your coat. He watched one land on your eyelash and melt.
"I've got a lot I should say. I know I do. But you look dead on your feet and I don't—I don't wanna dump all of it on you in a parking lot.”
Something in your face softened just a fraction at that. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Yeah, I do.”
You didn’t argue this time.
As the wind picked up, you shivered before you could hide it. He stepped a little closer, putting himself between you and the wind without meaning to. “Let me get you a cab, it’s freezing out here.”
“It’s close… I can walk.”
“But… it’s snowing.”
“I walk every day.”
“Not when you’ve been on your feet for twelve hours and haven’t slept.”
Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look… fine.”
“That’s not your problem anymore.”
There was the reminder again, that he doesn’t have any right to be here. “I could take you home,” he tried again.
You glanced at his motorcycle and let out a small, tired laugh that surprised him with how normal it sounded.
“You’re on a bike. It doesn’t exactly come with snow coverage.”
God, he’d missed that laugh so much. It was such a tiny thing, barely even amused, but it felt like someone had cracked open a window in a room that had been sealed shut all day.
He found himself smiling before he could stop it. “I’ve ridden in worse.”
“I’m sure you have, but that doesn’t mean I want to freeze to death on the back of it.”
“I’ve got an extra helmet.”
“Helmets don’t have heaters.”
“They do kinda protect you from snow if you think about it.”
You looked at him for a long moment, weighing something he couldn’t see.
“I don’t know, James… It’s really not that far.”
“Then it’ll be quick. You — you won’t even have to touch me if you don’t want to. I’ll go slow… very slow.”
He could see the conflict in your face. The part of you that was still angry. The part of you that was exhausted and just wanted to be home.
“Fine… but only because my feet feel like they’re about to fall off.”
He reached for the spare helmet strapped to the back of the bike and held it out to you. You took it without meeting his eyes, turning it over in your hands like you’d never worn one before.
“I — uhm— need directions. You’ll have to tell me where to go.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoed, a little smile tugging at his mouth.
You rattled off the address. He memorised it like it matterd. He’d probably remember it for the rest of his life after today.
As the bike rumbled to life beneath him, he waited for you to to adjust the helmet and climb on behind him. He kept his posture careful, made sure you had room.
Even then, he felt you hesitate for a second. Then your hand came up and rested lightly on his shoulder. Just enough for balance. Just enough to keep yourself steady.
It wasn’t even close. The weight of your fingers on his shoulder did stupid things to his brain.
He knew he didn't deserve that touch.
He drove exactly like he promised he would. Taking turns easy, making sure the ride was smooth enough that you didn’t have to hold on tighter than you chose to.
Every now and then he felt your grip shift, the smallest squeeze when the road got uneven, and each time it sent a quiet jolt through him.
You trusted him just enough to get you home. For now, that had to be enough. He tried not to think too hard about how right it felt to have you there. Tried not to let his mind wander to all the other rides he’d imagined with you before everything went to hell.
“Turn left up here,” you called over the engine. “Next right.”
Your apartment building came into view sooner than he wanted it to.
Too soon. Way too soon.
He slowed to a stop at the curb, cutting the engine so the sudden quiet felt loud.
He felt your hand leave his shoulder. He missed it already.
“This is me.” You climbed off carefully, handing the helmet back to him without quite looking at his face. “Thanks.”
Suddenly he was aware that he was running out of reasons to stay near you.
This is it. The clean ending. You go inside, he drives away, and the two of you figure out the rest of this mess some other day. Or never.
Except he didn’t want it to end like that.
He fumbled with the strap of his own helmet, pretending to be busy with something that didn’t actually need doing. Adjusted the mirror. Wiped imaginary snow off the handlebars. Anything to buy a few more seconds.
Just a little longer.
You must have noticed because, “are you stalling?”
“No,” he spoke too soon, then decided lying about this is definitely not the way to go about it, “maybe. A little.”
Your mouth twitched like you were trying not to smile. “I’m literally standing in front of my building, James.”
“I know.”
“So… what are we doing here?”
“I don’t know. I just— I didn’t want you to walk in without saying goodnight properly.”
You studied him for a second, and he had the uncomfortable feeling you could see every nervous thought bouncing around in his head. “Well,” you said finally, steppinga little bit towards the door. “Goodnight.”
That’s it. This is it. You’re going inside, he will probably never see you again.
“Yeah… goodnight.” He forced himself to answer, the words tasted heavier in his mouth.
Your boots made their way to the entrance. He told himself to put the helmet back on, start the bike, and leave before he made things worse.
Instead he just sat there and watched you go. Because apparently he was incapable of doing anything the easy way when it came to you. Because this might be the last time he ever sees you.
On reaching the door, you paused. For a second he thought you’d forgotten something. Then you turned back, toward him. “James.”
You called him. You’ve called him. Are you going to ask him inside? His head snapped up immediately. “Yeah?”
You hesitated, like you weren’t sure you believed the words you were about to say. “Do you— I don't know. Do you wanna come inside?"
There’s nothing that could describe what happened to Bucky. His brain short-circuited.
Inside meant your space. Your couch. Your kitchen. Fuck, your bedroom. It meant walls and the two of you without the hospital or the parking lot or the weight of strangers walking by.
It also meant he could screw things up even more.
“I—uh,” apparently he’d forgotten how to speak. “You — you don’t have to invite me. I mean, if you’re just … you know… being polite, you really don’t—”
“Wouldn't ask if I didn't mean it,” you interrupted his train of half
formed thoughts.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Yep. Okay.” He winced at himself, at his cartoonish response.
You were watching him fumble with a small, tired smile on your face, and he could see the tension in your shoulders ease just a little.
Seeing him nervous probably helped. He didn’t know how or why, but he was sure it did.
“Wow. You’re actually flustered.”
“A little.”
“That’s new.”
“That’s…. that’s not new. You always have that effect on me.” The honesty slipped out before he could stop it, and for a moment he thought if you’re going to take back your invitation, let him out into the night.
But to his surprise, you pushed the door open wider. “C’mon. Before we both freeze out here.”
He killed the engine and followed you inside. The warmth of the building hit him all at once, making his cheeks sting. He stomped snow off his boots and trailed behind you up the stairs, trying not to think too hard about the fact he was about to see the rest of your life for the first time.
He’d seen your bedroom before. On a screen. In stolen pieces.
But this was different. This was real.
Your apartment smelled like you. That was the only way he knew how to put it. The living room was small but comfortable, a couch with too many pillows, a coffee table stacked with medical journals and random pens, a plant in the corner that looked like it was barely hanging on.
It felt like you.
“Sorry it’s a mess.” You flicked on a lamp, the light illuminated enough for him to see you differently. Soft.
“It’s not.” It really wasn’t. It was lived in. Couch cushions not perfectly straight. A mug on the table. A blanket that looked like it got used instead of arranged.
He found himself glancing down the hallway without meaning to, knowing your bedroom was back there somewhere.
Don't be a creep. She let you in. Don't make it weird. Don't fucking make it worse.
“Want something to drink?” You were already heading toward the kitchen.
"No — I mean, you should change or shower or… something. Get comfortable. You've had a long day."
You paused and gave him a look. “Are you telling me I look gross?”
Surely he didn’t mean that. “"What? No. Jesus. I just meant — comfortable. Like... change clothes, relax, sit down, not look at me." Not look at me because it’s fucking terrifying, he kept that last piece to himself.
You rolled your eyes a little but there was no real heat in it. “Right. Make yourself at home, I guess.” You disappeared down the hallway.
The second you were out of sight, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Okay. Okay, you’re inside. Don’t fucking screw this up.
He wandered into the kitchen because standing in the middle of your living room like a statue felt wrong. He found the fridge mostly empty in the way of someone who worked too much and forgot to grocery shop.
Eggs. Bread. Two takeout boxes he didn't want to inspect too closely. Some veggies that had definitely seen better day.
He hesitated at first, listening for the sound of the shower or a sink running, then made a decision before he could talk himself out of it.
You had needed food earlier. You probably still did.
So he did the only thing he could think to do. He cooked. An apology without words.
It was nothing fancy. Just scrambled eggs and toast, something simple and easy to eat. Even though he’s never been in your kitchen before, he’d heard you here a hundred times before.
It felt strangely domestic. Almost like the kind of normal he’d stopped believing he’d ever get.
Soldier instincts say he should know by default when someone walks in. But Bucky didn’t hear you until you spoke, you were stopped on the doorway. “Did you… cook?”
He had never been this self-conscious. “Yeah. I hope that’s okay. You just … didn’t eat much at the hospital.”
You just stared at the plate he’d set out for you on the counter, so much he thought he should bolt. But then you smiled. A real smile that reached your eyes.
“That’s really nice.” The same quiet voice you used on late night calls.
He could feel relief flooding him. “It’s not much.”
“It’s perfect.”
Sliding onto one of the stools, you pulled the plate closer, and he just watched the way your shoulders dropped, and the soft smile still lingering on your face.
“Sit. You cooked. You have to eat too.” It wasn’t quite a statement as much as it was a command.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yes you are.” You pushed a second plate toward him. “Don’t argue with me.”
He didn’t.
You ate in comfortable silence, that felt almost normal if he ignored everything that had brought you here..
“So.” You poked at your eggs, moving them around on your plate. “You wanted to talk.”
This deserved his full attention. He set his fork down. “Yeah.”
Like you were bracing for impact, you folded your hands in front of you.
“Okay. Talk.”
Taking a long breath, “I’m sorry. And I know you don't wanna hear it again. But I need to say it anyway. I lied to you. I dragged it out. I should've told you the second I figured it out."
Your eyes dropped to the table. “You made me feel stupid,” you said softly.
The words hit him harder than anything else had all day.
“I didn’t mean to. Swear I didnt.”
“But you did. I— I told you things. Real things. And the whole time you knew exactly who I was and I didn’t have a fucking clue.”
“I wanted to tell you… every time I saw you I wanted to. I just— I didn’t know how.”
“That’s not a good enough reason.” Your hands started to shake. “I trusted you,” your voice wavered, he could hear the tears creeping in now. “I trusted James. I trusted Bucky. And they were the same person and neither one of them bothered to be honest with me.”
What would he even say to that? “I screwed this up.”
“Yeah… you really did.” A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, and he felt his own eyes sting in response.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said quietly.
“But you did anyway. I don’t even know why I’m crying. I’m so… tired of crying.” You wiped at your face angrily. “
He reached for you without thinking, then stopped himself halfway, hands hovering uselessly in the air.
“I’m so sorry.”
You looked at him then, he could see how close you were to falling apart. No, you were already falling apart.
“I don’t know what to do with you. I hate that I missed you.” Small, broken voice.
The confession undid him. He broke you.
“I missed you too.” He hated how useless and stupid that sounded.
He stared at the plate in front of him a little too hard, like the eggs were suddenly the most complicated thing in the world.
You went still, not even picking at your food.
He knew he couldn’t keep circling around it. “I need to tell you something.”
You didn’t answer him, fair. He didn’t expect you to.
“I’m gonna be completely straight with you… about everything. No more half truths.”
You watched him carefully, like you were trying to decide what to do with it.
"The day I came into the hospital — that same day, I found your page. Total accident. I swear I wasn't looking for you. I didn't even know it was you."
“Babydoll,” he clarified softly.
Not that it needs clarification, but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened at the name.
“I didn't know it was you. Not at first. There was no way to know. You didn't show your face. Something about you was familiar, but it was just a feeling. And then the next day, I saw that bandage on your finger, and the same thing on your hand that night. Same finger. Same day. And it just… clicked.”
“So you figured it out.”
“Yeah.”
“And you kept watching.”
There was no other truth. “Yeah… I wanted to tell you though… even if not right away. I did. But I didn’t know how to say it without sounding like some creep who tracked you down.”
A small laugh that was not at all amusing escaped you. “You are a creep.”
“I am.” That was the truth.
“I hate you.”
The three words hurt him more than everything, but this was what he deserved. He deserved to be hated. By you.
“I know,” it was an admission of defeat.
He swallowed and forced himself to keep going, because stopping now would be worse. “At first I told myself I wasn’t gonna talk to you. I thought I’d just… leave it alone. Keep it separate… you know. Hospital you, online you, two very different worlds.”
You gave him a look that said that was the dumbest thing you’d ever heard.
“But then your stream cut off that night. Right in the middle of everything. And you didn’t come back on. So I freaked out.”
Your face softened just a fraction, despite yourself. Something about this man freaking out because your wifi went off, seemed to falter something in your resolve.
“I didn’t know if something had happened to you, I kept checking and refreshing. I texted you because I was genuinely scared… worried if something had happened to you. That’s all true. Then it felt like—” He stopped, searching for the right words.
“Like what?” you asked.
“Like a dream… like some ridiculous, impossible dream. You were right there. You were real, and funny, and — and kind. And you actually wanted to talk to me.”
Your eyes dropped to the table again like looking at him was hard.
“So I couldn’t stay away. Even though I knew I should have told you.”
“You could’ve.”
“I know.”
“You really really could’ve, James.”
The way you said his name this time made his chest ache. It reminded him of last night when you basically pleaded with him.
“You could’ve pulled me aside at any point and just said it… instead you let me go on and on like an idiot.”
“I was scared.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“It’s not… it’s just the truth.”
You were quiet for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip. “If you’d told me, I wouldn’t have… I wouldn’t have reacted the way I did last night.”
“Yes you would have,” he said before he could stop himself.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Yeah. You would have.” The gentleness of his voice surprised even him.
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. “Okay… yeah probably.” A tiny laugh escaped you.
“I really wanted to show myself last night. Turn on the switch and everything’s out in the open and I could be down with it.”
“Coward.” You pushed your plate away, appetite apparently gone now. “So what now?” you asked. “You’ve apologized. You’ve explained. You’ve admitted you’re a certified creep. What’s the plan, James?”
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I’m here to make things right.”
Your eyebrows lifted, in surprise or challenge, he couldn’t yet figure out. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”
“However you want me to.” The sincerity in his voice surprised even him. “I’m serious… whatever you need. Space, time, yelling at me, never seeing me again, I’ll do it.”
Maybe the never seeing him again part was a bit much. What if you actually choose that?
“And if I tell you to disappear?”
Fuck.
“Then I disappear.” The thought made him feel sick to his stomach, but he meant it.
You studied him for a long time. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not. But you matter more than my comfort. I’m the same guy… I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but I am. Everything we talked about, everything we laughed about, that was me. All of it.”
You still looked unconvinced. “Except the part where you were lying.”
“Yeah… except that part.”
You rubbed at your eyes, the tiredness creeping back in. “I don’t even know what to believe… one minute you were this sweet patient who made dumb jokes, and the next minute you were—”
“Some asshole on the internet pretending to be someone else,” he finished for you.
“I was gonna say mysterious internet guy, but sure, we can go with asshole.”
Despite everything, a small smile tugged at his mouth. “I missed this… you.”
“Don’t… get sentimental on me.”
“‘m sorry.”
Then came silence, both of you not wanting to fill it with anything.
“You really hurt me,” you spoke after a while.
He knew you wouldn’t just open your arms and let him in, but it hurt him more hearing you say that. The simplicity of the statement hit harder than any yelling could have.
“And I don’t forgive you yet.”
“I’m not asking you to.” He really really wasn’t. But he definitely hoped for it.
“I don’t even know if I can.”
Ouch.
“That’s fair.”
You stared at him like you were trying to peel him apart and see what was real underneath.
“Why did you keep talking to me?After you knew. Why not just… back off?”
He thought about lying. About making it sound noble. But you deserved better than that.
“Because I liked you. Way too much to stay away.”
“That doesn’t make it okay. You should’ve been stronger than that.”
“I should have…. but I wasn’t.”
He watched the way you twisted your fingers together on the table, nervous habit he’d noticed about you. The way your shoulders slumped now that the adrenaline was fading.
“You look dead on your feet.”
“Thanks.”
He hesitated, then spoke again. “Do you… want me to go?” The question felt dangerous. Because if you say yes, he will never have another reason, another opportunity.
You seemed to consider it. “No, not yet at least.”
Relief washed through him so strongly he almost felt like he was going to fall.
“But I might change my mind in five minutes. And I kinda want to hit you with something.”
“I’d deserve it… you totally should hit me, you know.”
A ghost of a smile bloomed on your lips. “You really don’t make this easy to stay mad at you.”
“I’m just trying real hard to not make it worse.”
“You’re doing an okay job.”
He took that as a small victory.
You carried the plates to the sink. He dried them.
Somehow you both ended up in the living room after that.
Choosing one corner, you left him no other choice but to choose the other.
“Can I ask you something?”
He nodded immediately. “Anything.”
You leaned your head back against the cushions, eyes on the ceiling.
“Was any of it real?” The question was quiet. It wasn’t even angry, no, it was just tired, like somehow you’d decided that it wasn’t.
He saw how small you seemed curled up there. It broke him how he’s made you doubt everything. “Of course it was real.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
You let out a slow breath.
“Because it was real for me… I know we never showed faces, and I know it was stupid internet stuff, but I actually… opened up to you. I talked to you about things I don’t talk about. I told you things I haven’t even told my friends. And I liked you,” you admitted, like the confession hurt coming out. “I really liked you. Not just the flirting and… the other stuff. I liked talking to you. I looked forward to it.”
He closed his eyes for a second. If he thought whatever you said before hurt the most, he was wrong. This is it.
“And now I don’t know if that makes me an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“Feels like it.”
He shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t rewrite it like that. What we had, what we talked about, it was real for me too.”
You turned your head to look at him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
There it was again. The question he kept tripping over. No matter how he’d explain, he’d always fall short. Because he was just s plain coward.
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of you hating me.”
A bitter and humorless laugh leaves you. “Worked out great.” You pulled your knees up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around them. “I kept replaying everything, every conversation, every joke. Every time I thought you were just being sweet. And now I don’t know which parts were genuine and which parts were you just… playing along.”
He felt that like a punch. “I wasn’t playing. Not once… It was real to me too, sweetheart.” The word slipped out, but you didn’t seem to mind, or you didn’t seem to mind enough to correct him.
Your eyes searched his face like you were trying to dig for proof.
“I was so worried about screwing this up. From the second I realized who you were. I kept thinking, don’t mess this up, don’t mess this up.” He let out a small, helpless laugh. “And then I messed it up worse than I could’ve imagined.”
“At least you’re self-aware,” you muttered.
He loved that there were still real pieces of you that came out, making him believe he could still somehow reach that part of you.
You shifted on the couch, exhaustion written all over you now. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the way your body seemed heavy with it. After a minute you spoke without looking at him. “Why are you sitting all the way over there, not even looking at me?”
Surely he must be hallucinating, “what?”
“You’re practically on the other side of the couch, like I’m contagious or something. Just because I work at the hospital doesn’t mean I’m contagious at all times you know. Also nothing spreads through eye contact. I mean, sure, there’s eye-to-hand-to-eye contact, but there’s no such thing as eye-to-eye contact.”
That brought a real smile out of him, reminding him once again of the true you, “I just didn’t want to… uhm… crowd you.”
“Or are you not looking at me because if you do you’ll get horny?” The words were blunt. Crude. Thrown out like a small grenade.
What the fuck?
Caught completely off guard, he managed to get one little word out. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He felt heat crawl up his neck. “That’s not— I’m not—”
“Because that’s what this was, right?” your voice became suddenly sharper. “Just some convenient fantasy. Doctor by day, porn girl by night. Best of both worlds.”
“Hey… that’s— that’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. It isn’t.” Firmer now.
You looked away. “I don’t even know why I said that,” you murmured after a second.
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re hurting, and you don’t know what to do with it.” He shifted a little closer without really thinking about it, careful not to touch you still, just not so far away anymore. “I’m not avoiding looking at you for that… I’m avoiding looking at you because you look exhausted and sad and I know I’m the reason, and it makes me feel sick…. And I don’t want you to think I’m here for the wrong reasons, because I’m not.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Everything feels like the wrong reason right now.” You rubbed at your face with both hands. “I feel stupid.”
“Stop… saying that… please.”
“I do,” you insisted. “Because I handed pieces of myself to someone who didn’t even exist.”
“I existed… I just didn’t exist the way you thought… because I was a fucking coward.”
“Did you… did you ever laugh at me?” The question was so small it nearly broke him.
“No. Never. How could I?”
“Not even once?”
“Not even once.”
“Did you ever show anyone, share that it was me?”
“No.”
“Did you save anything?”
He shook his head. “No screenshots. No recordings. Nothing.”
You studied his face like you were trying to decide whether to believe him. “I need you to be honest with me, James.”
“I am.”
“Even if it makes you look bad.”
“I swear, I am not lying now. I will never lie to you again.”
“I don’t know what to do with all of this.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
“But I feel like I should.”
“You don’t,” he repeated. “You’ve had a horrible day. You’re exhausted. You don’t owe me clarity right now.”
“That’s annoyingly mature of you.” You laughed softly.
“I have my moments.”
Before long, another small silence settled in. You turned your head to look at him again. “I wish I could hate you properly. Would make things… easier.”
What could he even say to that? He nodded, accepting whatever you said, and what you are about to say .
“But I don’t,” you finished quietly.
Is this a relief? Or is this a punishment? He didn’t know. “I don’t deserve that.”
“Yeah… probably not.” Your agreement was casual but laced with that unresolved ache.
The honesty of it made him smile sadly. He hated that he was the reason you were like this.
Shifting, you pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over yourself. “I’m so tired.”
“I can go,” he offered immediately. That was the least he could do.
“No. Stay.” He knew he didn’t deserve to stay in your place, stay with you. But if this was what you wanted, he’d stay.
After what felt like seconds, he could see that you drifted off without meaning to.
One minute you were sitting there wrapped in that blanket, with heavy eyes, trying to listen to him talk, and the next your breathing went soft, uneven and your head tipped just slightly to the side.
He noticed the exact moment it happened. Your face relaxed in a way it hadn’t all night, the tension smoothing out like someone had finally turned the volume down inside you. And it made something in his chest ache, seeing how worn out you really were.
He stayed still for a few minutes, hardly breathing, like any small movement might break the fragile peace you’d fallen into. But the couch wasn’t meant for sleeping, and the blanket barely covered you, and he knew you’d wake up sore and miserable if he just left you there. He couldn’t do that to you.
He got up quietly to make your bed. Maybe he could wake you up, let you sleep there. Honestly, there was no thought process behind it, only that the couch seemed uncomfortable and you deserved to sleep in your bed at the end of this brutal day.
He moved carefully through your apartment, taking in the small details he hadn’t really had the chance to see before. The little stack of mail on the counter. A crooked photo frame on the wall. A mug left beside the sink with some faded cartoon on it.
Ordinary things. Real things. Your things.
He stepped into your bedroom with a strange, cautious feeling in his stomach, like he was crossing some invisible line even though you were the one who had allowed him here.
Your bed was exactly what he expected because he’s seen this a million times before, but this time it lacked any performance. Simple sheets, a soft comforter, a couple of mismatched pillows that looked like they’d been loved for years. The ones you use for comfort, not for show.
He started straightening the covers, smoothing them out with more care than the task really required. That was when he heard your footsteps behind him.
“What are you— Are you snooping?” Your voice was rough with sleep and suspicion.
He turned around to see you standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed at him like he’d been caught doing something terrible.
“No, Jesus, of course not. I was just—”
“Going through my stuff?” you cut in, like you were hell bent on saying something, pinning something.
“No, I was just making your bed,” his voice had gone softer.
You crossed your arms like you were protecting yourself. “Right.”
The look on your face hurt more than he wanted to admit. You knew it wasn’t true. He could see that you knew. But you said it anyway. Like you wanted to push him. Like you needed him to feel bad.
“You think I’m that much of a creep?”
“I don’t know what to think about you anymore.” He could hear the pain in your voice. It was very obvious you weren’t trying to blame him, only following your emotions. You stood there staring at him for a long moment, chest rising and falling a little too fast.
“I’ll leave. I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than he expected.
“Don’t what?” His legs were frozen in place.
“Don’t leave,” you turned away, suddenly not looking at him.
He searched your face, trying to understand the shift. “You just accused me of snooping. And… now you don’t want me to go?”
“I’m allowed to be conflicted,” you shot back.
Of course you are. You’re just human.
“I’m not snooping,” he sighed. “I just… didn’t want you to sleep on the couch, wanted to make your bed so you could sleep properly.”
You glanced past him at the neatly straightened sheets. “Oh.” Your shoulders sagged a little, finally understanding the whole situation. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
“No, it’s not. I’m being awful… and you were just trying to help.”
“You’re just hurt,” he corrected.
You didn’t argue with that or you didn’t have any energy left. He finished smoothing the comforter, folding the edge down the way he’d seen people do in movies, trying to make it look inviting instead of just functional.
When he turned back, you were still there, closer now. Too close if he was being honest.
He could see the tired redness in your eyes, the way your bottom lip was caught between your teeth. “Bed’s ready.”
“Thank you.”
“You should get some rest.”
But neither of you bothered to move. The space between you grew smaller by the second, like a single breath could tear it. You stepped forward, just to close the last bit of distance.
Before he could even process it, your arms slipped around his middle and you hugged him. It was tired, desperate and a little bit broken.
His body stilled in surprise, hands hovering awkwardly at first, not sure if he was allowed to touch you back.
Your face pressed into his chest. Before he could think better of it, you tilted your head up. He realized what you were about to do a second too late.
Your lips brushed his. It was barely a kiss. More like the idea of one.
Bucky pulled back immediately like he was shot. “Baby,” the word was barely a whisper, only that much he could manage. “Hey, no.”
Confusion painted your face as you blinked up at him, probably a little stung too. “Why not?”
He set his hands gently on your shoulders, keeping a small but firm distance. “Because this isn’t right.”
Your brows pulled further together. “Least you could do is entertain me,” you tried for a joke that didn’t quite land.
“I want to kiss you. Believe me, I do.” Getting those words out while being in such close proximity was a pain.
“Then do it.”
He shook his head. “You’re angry, and sad, and… exhausted.” He listed things that had nothing and everything to do with this.
“So?”
“So this is not how I want our first kiss to be.”
Your breath stopped, then became faster. “What does it matter?” It doesn’t mean anything anyway.” There was a tremble in your voice, he would’ve missed it if he was far.
Without thinking, he reached out, his hand landing gently on your waist. “It means everything to me. And I’m not gonna fuck this up.”
Bucky saw the anger giving away to pure, raw hurt. He saw it happen in real time, your eyes welling with tears.
“Stop saying these things… the right things.”
“I’m not trying to—”
"Yes you are. You're doing that thing. That calm voice. The one that makes me feel like I'm overreacting even when I'm not."
He realized his thumb had moved on its own and had no idea when it started. “It’s not a thing. It's just… me.”
An ugly sound left your mouth as your face crumpled. And then you did something that nearly broke him, you hit his chest. It was just a small, frustrated little fist against his shirt. But it was enough to break his heart. “I hate you.” Another weak thump. “I hate you for making me miss you.”
He made no efforts to stop you. He just stood there and took it. The least he could do.
Your hands curled into the fabric of his shirt and you hit him again, softer this time, more like you were running out of steam. “I was fine before you,” "I had a routine. I had my stupid little routine and my stupid little life and it was fine. I was fine… then you showed up and… and messed everything up.” Your shoulders shook, the fight draining out of you completely. “You ruined it, James.”
Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in.
This time you didn’t resist. You folded against him like you’d been waiting to. Your face pressed into his chest again, and he could feel the damp warmth of your tears through his shirt. “I’m so tired. I don’t wanna be sad anymore.”
His own eyes burned, chest aching in a way he didn’t have a name for. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so damn sorry.”
Your fingers gripped him tight, not wanting to let go. And he didn’t.
He didn’t let go of you for a long time. Not until your breathing evened out a little and the trembling in your shoulders settled.
Eventually you pulled away first. Just enough to look up at him with tired eyes.
“I should leave,” he spoke softly, not to spook you, because it felt like the responsible thing to offer, even though every part of him hated the idea.
“No.” Your answer came too fast.
He tried again. “I… I can take the couch. You know, give you some space.”
“No.”
“Alright,” he said after a second. “I’ll take that chair over there.” He pointed at the chair by the window.
“No.”
A small helpless laugh escaped him. “Okay, then I’ll just stand here all night.”
“No.” You looked at him like the suggestion itself offended you.
He rubbed a hand over his face, unsure about what you actually wanted. “Sweetheart, you gotta help me out here.”
Instead of answering, you reached for his hand and tugged. “Bed.”
His brain went blank. Surely you didn’t mean that?
“Just… lie down with me… please.”
He’d imagined this moment a hundred times, a thousand times even, but none of them were under these circumstances.
The both of you lay there stiff as hell first, like teenagers who didn’t quite know what to do with their limbs. You were on your side facing the window, and he was on his back beside you, staring up at the ceiling and trying to remember how to breathe normally.
The room was dark, warm and filled with the soft sounds of the night. Everything that brings one to sleep.
It should have felt peaceful. It was anything but.
He decided against tossing and turning, he didn’t want to disturb you. Laying still like a statue near you, until your voice interrupted his thoughts. “Are you sleeping?”
“No.”
A couple minutes went by and he figured you'd fallen asleep again.
Then the mattress shifted.
Before he could ask anything, you moved. Suddenly you were over him, knees bracketing his hips like you'd decided something without telling him.
No. No. Absolutely not.
His whole body went rigid with surprise. Apparently it didn’t get the memo about the situation, and it did exactly what a guy’s body would do, if the girl he loved straddled his crotch.
Shit.
“What— ah— what are you doing?”
There was hesitation in your eyes, but there was something else too. Something restless and raw.
You leaned down like you were about to kiss him.
Instinct took over before he could second guess it. His hands found your hips to steady you, to keep things from tipping over into something neither of you was ready for.
Gently, he rolled you off him and switched positions so he was the one hovering above you instead.
“What are you doing?” he asked again, a little more serious this time.
Your eyes searched his face. “I — I don’t know.”
“Are you checking… testing me? To see if I’m just here to get you into bed?”
Your mouth pressed into a thin line. “Maybe.”
The word stung more than he expected.
“If that’s what you think,” he tried to keep his voice steady, failing nonetheless, “then you’re wrong.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.” You turned your head away.
He climbed off you slowly, careful not to make you feel cornered, and settled beside you instead, lying on his side so you were face to face.
The distance between you felt less dangerous like this. Safer even.
“I know you’re hurting,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “And I know I’m the reason. But I’m not here for sex.”
You let out a humorless little sound. “That’s not what it looked like five minutes ago.”
He didn’t mean to get hard. It just happened. “I’m a guy with a pulse. You climb on top of me in the middle of the night… I’m not made of stone, though I wish I was. But that doesn’t change why I’m here.”
Expecting a response, he looked at you. But you stayed quiet, your gaze focused on the ceiling.
“So listen to me… and please believe me when I say this.”
Your eyes flicked back to his.
“Look- yeah. I liked your stream. I'm not gonna pretend I didn't. I'm not that noble. I loved watching you, loved seeing you confident and in control, loved that version of you. But that’s not why I stuck around.”
He took a breath before continuing. “I stayed because I loved talking to you.” The words came out simple and honest.
“I loved hearing about your day and your dumb vending machine coffee and the way you laugh at your own jokes before you even finish telling them. I loved the sound of your voice when you were half asleep. I loved that you called me out when I tried to dodge questions. That’s what mattered to me. That’s what matters to me.”
Your eyes were fixed on him, searching for any cracks.
“If it was just about seeing you on a screen, I could’ve done that with another account. I coudve stayed anonymous and kept my distance and none of this would have fuckin’ happened. But I didn’t want that. I wanted you.” The last part came out softer.
Sure, he’s just poured his heart out, amending all his mistakes, it’s normal to expect a reply. But you didn’t give him one. As time went on, he watched you blink slowly, the day finally catching up to you again.
But then you shifted closer on the pillow, studying his face in the dim light. “Are you gonna disappear if I fall asleep?”
Whatever he had expected you to say, it wasn’t this. “No. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He reached out carefully and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, giving you plenty of time to pull back if you wanted to.
You didn’t.
He stayed exactly where he said he would, listening to your breathing slow down, hoping with everything he had that this fragile little truce was the beginning of something he hadn’t completely ruined.
Morning light crept in through the window and woke you up whether you wanted it to or not. For a few seconds you didn’t remember where you were, or why the bed felt different, or why the room smelled faintly like him instead of just you.
The weight beside you registered then, pulling your focus to the man who'd turned your world upside down yet somehow made the bed feel less empty. Everything from the night before drifted back in slow pieces, unwelcome.
He was still asleep. Curled toward you, one arm resting loosely across your waist, his shoulder angled in a way that almost looked protective. Like his body had decided sometime in the middle of the night that this was where it was supposed to be.
The first thing you noticed was that he was warm. The second was how safe you felt without meaning to.
It caught you off guard completely.
You lay very still for a moment, watching him breathe. Up close like this he looked younger and softer. There were faint lines around his eyes and a tiredness to his face that hadn’t been as obvious yesterday. Dark circles, the kind that came from nights that weren’t really nights at all.
He hadn’t slept much either.
Your eyes traced over him slowly, taking him in without the panic and anger that had colored everything before. The slope of his nose. The stubble along his jaw that had grown in just enough to be noticeable. The way his lashes rested against his cheeks.
He looked peaceful.
And for the first time since all of this exploded, you let yourself think something gentle about him.
He didn’t mean to lie.
The thought arrived quietly, without excuses attached to it. He didn’t wake up one day and decide to trick you. He worried too much about doing the wrong thing and ended up doing it anyway. He got scared. He hesitated. He made a mess.
Your hand moved before you really planned it. Slowly, you lifted your palm and let it hover near his face, giving yourself a chance to change your mind. When you didn’t, you rested it against his cheek, fingers just barely brushing his jaw.
His skin was warm under your touch. He made a small sound in his throat. That sound birthed an intense need right under your ribs.
You wanted to kiss him. The thought surprised you.
You’ve felt this before with him, before all the hurt and drama, before he took your heart to pieces.
But now you want to again. The realisation scared you a little.
Your thumb brushed along his cheekbone almost absentmindedly, and he shifted closer without waking, like his body recognised you even in sleep.
You didn't give yourself time to overthink it, you’ll probably chicken out if you did. Leaning forward, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
It was small. Almost shy.
You pulled back and watched him, expecting him to wake right away, to jump, to pull back like he had been doing all night. But he stayed where he was, breathing still even.
A few seconds passed. Then his eyes fluttered open.
At first he just blinked at you, unfocused and sleepy, like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was still dreaming. You saw the exact moment he realized where he was and who he was with.
The moment everything came rushing back.
“Oh.” His voice was laced with sleep.
His gaze dropped to the way he was wrapped around you and he immediately tried to move away, pushing himself back on instinct.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
You didn’t let him finish.
Your hand caught the front of his shirt before he could get far. “Don’t.”
James froze, you could see the panic already start to build behind his eyes. To ease him, you added, “I’m not mad.”
Still, he hesitated, unsure of what to do. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He looked like he didn’t quite believe you, but he stopped trying to put distance between you.
The space felt too big anyway.
You tugged him closer again, just enough so he understood you meant it.
He watched you carefully, probably waiting for some kind of catch.
Truth is, there wasn’t one.
This time you kissed his cheek. You could feel him going very still.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Good morning to you too.”
You kissed his forehead next. Then his jaw. Each one was gentle, unhurried, like you were trying to tell him something without actually finding the words.
His face went warm under your lips.
“You’re… uh,” he started, then stopped. “You’re being very nice for someone who wanted to throw me out last night.”
A tiny laugh escaped you. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m trying not to.” He sounded flustered in a way you only heard on calls.
He looked different like this. Sleepy and confused and a little overwhelmed. Not the confident steady version you were used to. More like a boy who didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.
And he really didn’t. They hovered awkwardly between you for a second before settling carefully at your waist, like he was afraid to touch too much.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not planning to stab me, right?”
“Not today.”
“Well… that’s comforting.”
A smile broke before you could stop yourself.
You studied him for a moment, still close enough to feel his breath on your face
It felt like the both of you were trying to figure out the rules of a brand new game you’d never played before.
Clearing his throat, “just so you know, I wasn’t trying to… you know… crowd you. I move around when I sleep. I didn’t want you to wake up and think I was being weird.”
Immediately, you shook your head, “I didn’t think that.”
He watched you closely, like he was trying to figure you out maybe. “How are you feeling?”
The question was simple, but it carried a lot. That he cared, that he was not just in it for the fun.
“Better than yesterday.”
Relief flickered across his face before he could hide it, bringing a sort of warmth to you.
You let your fingers trail lightly along the collar of his shirt, just something to do with your hands, because staying still brought new thoughts into your head, ones you’d rather not have now.
“I meant what I said… about not going anywhere.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I think so.”
He exhaled slowly, like that meant more to him than he wanted to admit. “This is just… not how I pictured any of this going.”
“You pictured waking up in my bed differently?” You raised an eyebrow.
“I — I didn’t picture waking up in your bed at all… not like this. I mean. You know what I mean.”
You did, but watching him stumble over his words was strangely comforting. “You’re blushing.”
“’m not.”
“You absolutely are… it’s kinda cute.” You laughed again, and the sound felt easier this time, less forced, reminded you of times when you used to laugh together.
His eyes fixated on you, while he let out a soft sigh. “You… confuse me.”
“How?”
“Last night you wanted to murder me. This morning you’re… kissing my face like I rescued a puppy.”
“That’s a weird comparison.”
“You get my point.”
“I’m allowed to feel more than one thing at once… and I’m still mad at you… but I’m not mad right this second.”
He nodded slowly, accepting that. You stayed close to him for a while longer, neither of you really knowing what to do with the quiet comfort that had settled between you.
Eventually you shifted a little, inching closer until your face was against his shoulder.
He hugged you back, but it was a bit awkward. A little hesitant, like he was trying to remember what he was allowed to do now and what he wasn’t. His hand rested between your shoulder blades, you could feel how cautious he was being.
It almost made you laugh.
Almost.
You could hear his breathing change, slower now, calmer, and it occurred to you that this was the first time since that night you didn’t feel like your chest was being squeezed from the inside.
“I have to get ready for my shift,” you broke the silence, even though you really didn’t want to. The words felt heavy leaving your mouth.
Nodding immediately, his hand started to release you from its touch, “okay. You go take a shower. I’ll make something to eat and then I’ll drop you.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Didn’t know I signed up for a maid.”
A small crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Baby, come on.”
Narrowing your eyes at him in mock offense, “did I tell you that you can call me baby?”
James looked at you like he’d given up, like he was sure this is it, he’s fucked up again.
“I don’t remember giving you permission.”
His face shifted from worried to confused to amused in about two seconds. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”
“…no.”
He reached over without thinking and tickled your side, just once. You yelped and laughed before you could stop yourself, instinctively curling into him to make him stop.
“That’s cheating,” you complained, still half laughing.
“I didn’t sign anything that said no tickling.”
To stop him from trying again, you wrapped your arms tighter around him and pressed your face against his chest. He went still, clearly not expecting that reaction, though after that, his arms settled around you properly.
Ending up nose to nose, you were close enough that you could see the little flecks of color in his eyes.
He held your gaze for a second too long and then suddenly looked away, staring somewhere over your shoulder instead.
“Are you scared of doing something to me?” The question slipped out before you had time to soften it.
“Yeah.”
“Because… you think you’ll lose control?”
He shook his head slowly, like you were ridiculous for asking him that. “No. Not that.”
“Then what?”
You could tell he’s hesitant, choosing his words carefully. “I’m terrified because this feels really good. Laying here next to you. Talking to you without everything being a mess for five minutes. And I don’t want this to turn into something I only get to remember later.”
Whatever you’d expected, this wasn’t that. This moment felt delicate, like it needed to be handled gently. But you’re really not ready for that conversation yet.
Reluctantly, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. “I really do have to get ready.”
“Yeah… adult responsibilities and all that.”
Getting out of bed felt harder than it should have. He stood up with you, stretching a little, suddenly looking big and out of place in your small bedroom.
“I’ll be quick.”
“Take your time. I’ll figure out something edible in your kitchen.”
You grabbed your things and headed toward the bathroom, glancing back once to see him already moving toward the kitchen.
The shower helped clear the rest of the sleep from your head. Hot water, familiar routine, the simple comfort of something normal. You let yourself stand under the spray longer, replaying the morning in small pieces.
It was strange how different everything felt in daylight.
By the time you finished and wrapped yourself in a towel, the apartment smelled like coffee and something cooking.
That alone made you pause.
When you walked out, he was standing at the stove looking far too serious about scrambled eggs.
“You didn’t have a lot to work with,” he called out without turning around, “so don’t expect a five star breakfast.”
“I’m impressed you found anything at all.”
“You underestimate my survival skills.”
You leaned against the counter and watched him move around your kitchen. There was something almost domestic about it, something that tugged at you in a quiet, unexpected way.
He set a plate in front of you a few minutes later. “Eat. Doctor’s orders.”
“I’m the doctor.”
“Then consider it patient’s orders.”
A loud laugh escaped you because of its ridiculousness. You sat down to do as you were told.
The food was simple, but warm and made by someone who clearly wanted to take care of you. That mattered more than anything.
Halfway through the plate you glanced up at him.
“I liked it.”
Glancing at your plate, “the eggs?”
“No. Well, yes, that too. But not just that.” You poked at your food, suddenly feeling shy for no good reason. “I liked when you made me eat. When you… you know… took care of me.” The words sounded small coming out of you.
“Can I be honest?” he asked, but didn’t wait for your response. “That’s my favorite part too.”
“Not my stripping?” You raised an eyebrow, because that surprised you.
A slow grin spread across his face. “You do a terrific job, don’t get me wrong.”
“But?”
“But no.”
“Not even when I jerked off for you?”
His cheeks went pink in an instant. “No,” he admitted anyway.
You laughed at the reaction. “Wow. That’s a hit to the ego.”
“It shouldn’t be.” He leaned back in his chair, searching for the right way to say it. “I liked all of that. Obviously. But the part I looked forward to the most was after. When you’d ask me to talk about my day, and I’d ramble on about stupid stuff, and you’d fall asleep while I was still talking.”
You stopped chewing for a second. “That… that’s your favorite part?”
“Yeah. It is.”
“Not exactly sexy.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t have to be.”
Something warm and uncomfortable and hopeful settled inside you all at once.
The two of you finished breakfast slowly, filling the space with small, ordinary conversation. Work schedules, bad hospital coffee, how little sleep either of you had gotten. Nothing earth shattering, but it felt important anyway.
When you finally stood up to get dressed, he cleared the plates without being asked.
“Ready whenever you are,” he called out.
You got changed, grabbed your bag, and met him by the door.
He held your coat out for you without thinking, and you slipped into it with a small smile. This felt natural, like it was meant to be.
“You really are leaning into this whole caretaker role,” you teased.
“Figured I’d start building up some good karma.”
The ride to the hospital was quiet. Not the tense silence from before, just two tired people sharing space. He drove carefully, like he was more aware of you than the road half the time.
When he pulled up in front of the building, he turned toward you.
“You sure you’re okay going in today?”
“I don’t really have a choice.”
“Text me if it gets rough.”
He looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.
“Thank you… for everything this morning.”
“Anytime.”
You reached for the door handle, then paused.
“You’re still gonna be around later, right?” Your voice was shakier than you meant it to.
You scanned his eyes for any emotion, anything, mainly hesitation, but you didn’t find it. “Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay.”
The rest of your shift dragged in that slow, heavy way work only drags when you are waiting for something.
Everytime the automatic doors slid open you glanced up without meaning to, expecting to see him leaning against the wall with that nervous, hopeful look on his face.
He’d said he’d wait, not come barge inside the hospital. But that didn’t stop you from hoping and disappointing yourself.
By noon you had convinced yourself you were being ridiculous. By three you had convinced yourself you were being delusional.
By the time your shift finally ended and you walked out into the cold evening air, you had convinced yourself of something worse.
He wasn’t there.
You just stood on the steps outside the hospital, letting the doors hiss shut behind you, feeling a small foolish knot form in your stomach.
Of course he wouldn’t be there. He had his own life, probably realized babysitting you wasn't as fun as it seemed at the moment.
Besides, he’d already done enough. He had driven you in, made you breakfast, stayed all morning. You hadn’t actually asked him to wait.
See you around later don’t really mean that he’d be waiting by the door.
Expecting it now felt childish, like believing in promises that were never really spoken.
Still, you looked anyway.
Your eyes scanned the sidewalk. But nothing. No tall familiar shape. No leather jacket. No slightly anxious smile.
You told yourself not to care. You didn’t listen. Listening would mean admitting how much you'd let him in already, how the absence gnawed like hunger.
That’s when you saw the bike.
Parked exactly where he had left it that morning.
Your chest did a strange confused flip. Relief and irritation mixed together. He was here, but he wasn’t here?
A tiny stubborn voice in your head whispered that maybe he had gotten tired of waiting after all. Maybe he had changed his mind. Maybe all the careful gentleness of the morning had worn off in the daylight. But who would leave their motorcycle behind?
You stood there for another minute, pretending to check your phone while the thoughts went in unhelpful circles.
Finally you sighed and did something you hadn’t planned on doing. You unblocked him.
Feeling a little pathetic, your thumb hovered for a moment, but you called him anyway.
“Hi.”
“Hey,” you tried to sound casual, not at all suspicious, not at all missing him. “Where are you?”
There was a pause and a little rustling. “Turn around.”
Across the street, stepping out of the small café on the corner, he appeared holding a paper bag in one hand and two cups in the other. He lifted the phone slightly in a small wave.
“I’m right here,” he said into the line. “Sorry. It got a little cold out there.”
Deciding to walk toward him, “Were you just here all day?” you asked once you were close enough.
“Not all day. I went back home for a bit, showered, changed clothes, and then I came back with lunch.”
Lunch? For you? The idea bloomed within a moment, because no one's ever thought that far ahead for your sake.
“But when I got here you were already eating in the cafeteria with some other interns. You looked kinda busy… so I didn’t want to interrupt,” he smiled sheepishly, like he was the one that did something untoward.
“So you just… stayed?”
“Yeah.” Like it’s the most obvious thing.
“James.”
He gave you another sheepish smile. “I didn’t really have anywhere better to be.”
A strange warm ache spread through your chest. “So you waited outside the hospital for hours?”
“Not exactly,” he suddenly looked a little embarrassed. “I ate the lunch I brought for you, then I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I sort of just… hung around. And then it got cold, like I said, so I went in there for coffee.”
He held out one of the cups toward you. “Got you something too.”
The expression on his face was almost painfully hopeful.
“Oh, James,” you said before you could stop yourself.
He shrugged again, clearly unsure how to react. “It’s just coffee and a scone. Nothing dramatic.”
Nobody has ever done something like this for you before, the realization hit you harder than you expected.
Without thinking much about it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.
He went still for half a second, surprised at your sudden affection, then relaxed into the hug like he had been waiting for permission all day.
“You didn’t have to stay,” you murmured against him.
“I — I wanted to.”
The simplicity of that answer made tears well up. You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Can we go home?”
You could see relief on his face. “Yeah. Absolutely.”
The ride back today felt different from the one yesterday. You held onto him a little more easily, not worrying so much about where your hands were supposed to go. He drove slower than necessary, like he was stretching the minutes on purpose.
By the time you reached your apartment you felt tired in a good way, the kind of tired that came after a long honest day instead of the exhausting kind that came from crying.
Dropping your bag by the door, you kicked off your shoes. “I have a show tonight,” you casually told him, shrugging out of your coat. “If you want, you can watch from here.” The words felt bold the second they left your mouth.
He froze halfway through setting the coffee on the counter. Just by staring at his face, you couldn’t decipher his thoughts.
“No. I’ll leave.”
But this, you hadn’t expected at all.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think you’ll be comfortable doing that with me sitting in the other room.”
You studied his face, trying to figure out if he was being noble or just scared.
“Who said you’d be in the other room?”
If eyes could spontaneously fall out of orbits, you’d think James’ would’ve done that this second. “What— I mean — what do you — uhm — mean? By … uh… that?”
Do all grown men get this flustered? You didn’t hide the smile on your face. “That you’d be in the same room?”
You don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t this. He stood there like a frozen statue, mouth half open in a small ‘o’, and it didn’t look like he was going to speak any soon, “okay,” you said after a moment. “Then I’ll cancel the stream. We can do something together instead.”
Finally, he seemed to gain back his composure, he shook his head. “No, you don’t have to change your plans for me. I’m already bothering you enough. You go on with your night and I’ll come by tomorrow.”
The idea of him walking out the door right now made your stomach twist.
“Oh, you’re cumming tonight,” you said before thinking it through.
His eyes widened and a deep blush crept up his neck. “Baby, please,” he muttered, a soft laugh slipping through.
You couldn’t help smiling at the reaction. Teasing him felt easier than admitting what you actually wanted to say.
Then you took a breath and said it anyway. “I like you, James. Or Bucky. Or whoever you are when you’re not confusing the hell out of me.”
He went quiet, really quiet, like he was trying to make sure he heard you correctly. “I don’t care if I’m James or Bucky. I’m just… yours. If you want me.”
The room felt suddenly much smaller.
Looking at him, you saw tired eyes and nervous hands twisting together, you realized something very simple and very frightening.
You did want him.
You wanted the complicated, slightly awkward man standing in your kitchen who had waited a whole afternoon, just to see you walk out of a shift.
“I want you to stay.”
He didn’t do anything except nod.
“So,” you lifted the coffee he had brought you, “what exactly did you get me?”
“Vanilla latte. Extra hot. And a scone that the lady at the counter swore would change your life.”
“High expectations for baked goods.”
“I believe in small miracles.”
He leaned against the counter while you took a sip, watching you carefully like your opinion on the coffee was somehow very important.
“It’s good.”
His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
The two of you settled, talking about nothing in particular for a while. Work stories. Bad patients. The ridiculous price of hospital parking. Ordinary things that filled up space in a gentle, easy way.
At some point he rolled up his sleeves to help you put away a few dishes you had left in the sink. You protested out of habit and he ignored you out of stubbornness. The domestic normalcy of it all made you feel oddly shy.
“So what do you actually want to do tonight?” he asked after a bit.
“I don’t know. I didn’t really plan past surviving the day. We could just… exist.”
He smiled at that. “Existing together sounds nice.”
You sat on the couch and he sat beside you, not too close but close enough. The television stayed off. The room stayed quiet. It felt like learning each other in small manageable pieces.
After a while he glanced at you.
“Are you really okay cancelling the stream?”
“Yeah. I don’t feel like pretending tonight.”
“That’s fair.”
You turned toward him a little more. “And I don’t feel like hiding you.”
Because finally, it felt like maybe the two of you were finally standing on the same side of the mess instead of opposite ends.
He was nervous again, you could tell. The careful kind of nervous, where he was afraid to say the wrong thing and tip the balance.
The two of you had spent so much time talking about the big heavy stuff that now the small things felt strangely intimate.
You watched him. He looked tired again, but he looked real.
Not like the confident voice you had imagined through a screen. Not like the stranger from the hospital hallway. Just a man sitting on your couch, holding a cup of coffee, hoping he hadn’t messed things up beyond repair.
“Thank you for staying.”
His face softened. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I do… nobody really… does that for me.”
He shifted closer without thinking about it, the space between you shrinking little by little in that natural, unspoken way.
“I want to be the person who does.”
You looked down at your hands, suddenly unsure where to put them, what to do with all the feelings that had been building for days.
“James?”
“Yeah?”
“Are we okay?” You don’t know why you asked him that, especially because you were the one who should be making the decision.
He didn’t answer right away. He reached over instead, carefully taking the cup from your hands and setting it on the table beside his.
Then he turned back to you.
“We’ll get there… if you want us to.”
“I do.”
That was the moment something shifted. Just a quiet turning point, like two people finally stepping onto the same page at the same time.
He brushed a strand of hair away from your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache.
You leaned into him without hesitation, fitting yourself against his side, your head resting on his shoulder. His arm came around you easily, like it belonged there.
He called you by your name for the first time ever, as he turned to properly look at you, “I’m scared of this, of whatever this is… I don’t want to ruin this again… not hurt you even by accident.”
“You won’t.” You surprised yourself with how sure you sounded.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re trying.”
He went quiet at that. He searched your face for a long moment, making sure you meant it. You did.
Reaching up, you touched his cheek, the same way you had that morning when he was half asleep. This time his eyes were open, watching you, waiting.
“I’m not angry anymore.” He could feel your words more than he could hear them.
“I know.”
“And I’m not doing this to test you.”
“Do… what?”
Your thumb brushed along his jaw and he closed his eyes, leaning into your touch.
“This.” You leaned forward to meet his lips with yours, initiating the thing you’d long wanted.
When he kissed you back, it was slow and full of everything the two of you had been trying to say all day. An apology and a promise wrapped up in one simple act.
You kissed him back without holding anything in reserve.
His lips moved against yours like he'd been holding back a storm, and now that the dam had cracked, there was no containing it.
The kiss had started soft, almost careful, his mouth still tentative as if he were testing, afraid one wrong step might send everything crumbling again. But you pressed closer, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt at his chest, that seemed to unravel him just a little.
You could feel the shift in him, the way his hand at your waist tightened just fractionally, fingers splaying wide like he needed to remind himself you were real and here and not mad at him.
His other hand came up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw in a stroke that was so gentle, contrasting the growing hunger in how his lips parted yours.
God, this was him. Your James. The one you’d longed to see. Not the voice through a phone or the shadow across a screen, but flesh and breath against you.
The realization chased away the last lingering chill of yesterday's anger, leaving only this raw, aching want that had been simmering under everything else.
You wanted to drown in it, in him.
He broke the kiss first, but only barely, his forehead resting against yours as he dragged in a breath that fanned warm across your mouth.
Dark eyes met yours, when he pulled back just enough to look at you, a flush creeping up to his cheek.
"What?" Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt, not quite ready to let go, because if you did, maybe this fragile thing between you would slip away again.
Part of you still waited for the catch, the moment he'd pull back and remind you both of the mess, but he didn't. Instead, he just looked at you, like he was memorizing the way your mouth looked swollen from his, the way your breath came a little faster now.
"You're — Jesus, you're … perfect." Another low groan escaped him as you shifted closer, your thigh brushing his, feeling the hard line of him pressing insistently against the fabric of his jeans, unmistakable where it nudged your hip.
It sent a fresh wave of heat curling through you, making your core clench with a need that surprised you with how immediate it was, how it basically drowned out everything else.
He noticed you noticing, his body going tense under your hand like he'd been caught, a deeper flush staining his cheeks. "Sorry, I— shit, I didn't mean to—"
You cut him off with a small laugh that bubbled up unbidden, teasing despite the way your pulse raced. "Don't apologize for that." Your fingers loosened in his shirt just enough to trail down, brushing the edge of his belt buckle in a graze that made his breath hitch audibly.
He was so responsive like this, all that careful restraint from earlier cracking under the simplest touch, it chased away the last shadows of doubt.
You'd spent so long feeling exposed, vulnerable in ways that left you raw, but right now, with him flushing under your fingertips, it felt like power, like you could take back a piece of what he'd accidentally stolen.
His hand caught yours gently, holding it there, thumb tracing circles over your knuckles as he let out a shaky exhale. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, lingering there, and you could see the war in him.
The want was clear as day in the way his hips shifted almost imperceptibly toward you, but the hesitation still clung to him, like he was afraid one wrong move would shatter this.
Leaning in, you nipped lightly at his lower lip before soothing it with a slow drag of your tongue. Your free hand found its way to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the short hairs there, tugging just enough to tilt his head back to expose the line of his throat.
Pressing your lips there, you tasted the salt of his skin, feeling the way his Adam's apple bobbed under your mouth as he swallowed hard, another proof that this affects him much like it affects you.
"God, baby." The nickname slipped out, his hand sliding from your wrist to your hip, gripping just tight enough to bunch the fabric of your shirt.
You could feel the heat of him through your clothes, the way his body tensed and released in waves, like he was fighting not to pull you flush against him.
It made your thighs press together, the ache building sharper now, a steady throb that had you rocking forward without thinking, grinding lightly against the hard length of him.
Hissing through hiss teeth, his head fell back against the couch cushions, eyes squeezing shut for a beat. "If you keep — keep doing that, I'm not gonna be able to think straight, or last much longer, fuck —"
"Who said it was a problem?" The words came out bolder than you felt, laced with that teasing lilt you'd used on streams a lifetime ago, but this was different, it was real. Because it was just for him.
He turned his head, capturing your mouth again in a kiss that was less gentle this time, more insistent, his tongue sweeping in deep, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.
Matching him, you let your teeth graze his lip, drawing another of those low, guttural sounds that made you clench tighter, gathering slick between your thighs.
His hand slid up your side under your shirt, palm against the bare skin of your ribs, stopping just short of your breast like he was waiting for permission. It made you want to push him further, to see how far that restraint would hold before it snapped.
"James... can we go to the bed?"
You felt him go still beneath you, his hand pausing its slow circles on your hip. He shifted you effortlessly in his arms, one arm banding secure around your waist as he stood, lifting you with him in a fluid motion that had your legs wrapping around his hips.
A surprised laugh escaped you as he carried you toward the bedroom, his steps steady despite the way his breath came ragged against your neck.
"Careful.” There was a smile in his voice as he nudged the door open with his shoulder. "You're gonna make me drop you if you keep laughing like that."
His free hand braced against the doorframe for a second, steadying you both. You could feel the tremor in his arms, the effort it took to hold back, to not just press you against the wall and take what he'd been denying himself all night. Take you.
"You won't." You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, lips brushing the carotid. "You're too strong for that." The words were teasing, but there was truth in them too, a quiet awe at the way he held you, careful and sure.
He lowered you onto the bed like you were glass, following you down without breaking contact, his body settling over yours in a way that pinned you gently, thighs bracketing yours, forearms braced on either side of your head.
The mattress dipped under his weight, and you arched up, chasing the friction that sent sparks skittering through your veins.
He didn't grind down like you expected. Instead, he hovered there. "God, look at you," he breathed, his hand coming up to trace the line of your collarbone with his thumb.
His touch was feather light, exploratory, like he was relearning every inch of you now that he could see it all, touch it all without the barrier of a screen.
"James..." It came out as a whine, needy and and his eyes flicked up to meet yours, darkening further at the sound.
He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, trailing down the column of your throat, lips parting to let his tongue flick out against your pulse there.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against your skin, the words vibrating through you as he nipped at the hollow of your throat, then lower, shoving your shirt up with one hand to expose the soft plane of your stomach.
His lips followed, open-mouthed kisses scattered across your ribs, tongue dipping into your navel in a way that pulled a startled laugh from you, quickly dissolving into a moan as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants and tugged them down inch by inch.
The cool air hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the warmth of his breath ghosting over your hipbone, his teeth scraping lightly there.
Every touch felt like worship, like he was mapping you out with his mouth, committing to memory the way your body responded.
He was everywhere all at once, hands sliding up your sides to push your shirt higher, exposing your breasts to the air, thumbs brushing the undersides in slow circles that had your nipples peaking tight and aching.
"Fuck," he groaned, voice muffled as he ducked his head to take one into his mouth, tongue swirling around the peak while his hand cupped the other, rolling it gently between his fingers until you were panting, hips canting up toward nothing.
The sounds you made mingled with his low hums of approval, the wet slide of his mouth as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, sucking until you were sure he'd leave bruises blooming under your skin, marks that would remind you of this tomorrow, of him.
Your hands found his hair, tugging at the strands, and he groaned against you, making you slicker, needier, the empty ache inside you throbbing with every flick of his tongue. "Please, James" you whispered, not even sure what you were begging for, just knowing you needed more, needed him to fill the space he'd hollowed out in you with all those careful, devastating touches.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips shiny and swollen, eyes nearly black with want as he took in the sight of you. Your shirt was rucked up to your neck, pants tangled around your ankles, skin marked from his mouth.
"Tell me what you need.” One of his hand slid down to hook into your panties, tugging them aside to let his fingers brush through the wetness there.
You keened at the contact, hips bucking up, and he pressed a kiss to your sternum, then lower, trailing down your stomach as he worked the fabric down your legs. "Tell me, baby. I'll give you anything."
"You," you managed, the word a moan as he settled between your thighs, shoulders nudging them wider, his breath hot against your core. "Your mouth... please, James."
It felt vulnerable saying it like that, exposed in a way that went beyond the physical, but the way his eyes softened even as they darkened made it worth it, made you feel seen in the best possible way.
He didn't make you wait. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then higher, lips brushing the edge of your folds before his tongue flicked out, licking a fat stripe up your center, a choked cry spilling from your lips.
"Oh god," you gasped, fingers flying back to his hair, holding him there as he groaned into you, the sound muffled and desperate.
He was starving for it, you could tell in the way he devoured you, tongue delving deep to taste you fully, lapping at your entrance before circling your clit with precise, devastating strokes that had your legs trembling around his head.
Every flick, every suck sent sparks, building that coil tighter and tighter until you were rocking against his mouth, chasing the pressure, the heat.
His nose nudged your clit as he thrust his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in shallow, greedy strokes that had you babbling nonsense, pleas and his name entwined together on your tongue.
"James— fuck, right there, don't stop—" One hand left your thigh to slide up, two fingers pressing in alongside his tongue, curling just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids, and you shattered.
The orgasm ripped through you like a wave, your walls clenching around his fingers as you cried out.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, your whole body shaking as he worked you through it, not stopping until you were gasping at the oversensitivity.
He pulled back slowly, lips glistening with you, eyes locked on yours as he licked his fingers clean with a groan that bordered on paine. "Taste so fucking good." He pressed a kiss to your hip that had you twitching.
His mouth trailed back up, worshipping every inch he'd just ravaged. Kisses were scattered across your stomach, nipping at the underside of your breast, sucking gently at your nipple until you whimpered, still too sensitive.
He murmured praises against your skin, words half lost in the haze of your afterglow. By the time his lips found yours again, you were arching into him, hands roaming under his shirt to feel the hard planes of his back.
When you kissed him, you taste yourself on his tongue, the tang of it filthy and intimate, making you clench around nothing.
"Your turn," you whispered against his mouth, pushing at his shoulders until he let you roll him onto his back, straddling his hips in one fluid motion.
He went willingly, hands settling at your waist, but his face was a deep, burning red, spreading from his cheeks down his neck, eyes wide and dark as you rocked against the hard ridge of him straining against his jeans.
"Look at you." You leaned down to nip at his earlobe. "All flushed and pretty. Bet you'd cum in your pants if I kept going like this."
A strangled laugh escaped him, his hands flexing on your hips like he wasn't sure if he wanted to pull you closer or hold you still. "Don't— fuck, don't say that."
Once again there was no real protest in it, just raw want, his hips jerking up once before he caught himself, breath coming in short pants.
You could feel how wet you still were, slicking his jeans as you ground down, the friction pulling a moan from you that had his eyes rolling back for a second, grip tightening enough to bruise in the best way.
Your hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head in a slow reveal that let you take in the broad expanse of his chest, the faint scars scattered like stories you wanted to learn, the way his muscles shifted under your palms as you traced them.
He helped you, as he tossed it aside, and then you were working at his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet room, your fingers brushing the hot skin of his abdomen.
"Lift." He obeyed, hips coming up so you could shove them down, boxers following, until his cock sprang free. Thick and flushed a deep, angry red, the head glistened with precum that beaded at the tip and dripped down the shaft.
"Fuck." You wrapped your hand around him loosely, feeling the velvet heat of him twitch in your grip, a bead of precum slicking your palm as you stroked once.
He bucked into it, a choked groan tearing from his throat, head falling back against the pillows with his eyes squeezed shut. You could feel the tension coiling in him, the way he was holding back by a thread, and it thrilled you, that power, the knowledge that you could unravel him just like he'd done to you minutes ago.
"So pretty," you pressed a soft kiss to the tip, tongue flicking out to lap at the salt of him, drawing another ragged sound from deep in his chest.
“The photos never did him justice, James.” You placed another wet kiss to the underside, the veins ridging your tongue. He groaned beneath you, probably from you referring to his cock as ‘him’, probably from you calling him pretty. Definitely.
His hand found your hair, tangling gently, like he needed the connection as much as the sensation.
"Baby— please," he rasped, voice breaking on the word, hips stuttering up toward your mouth. "Gotta be inside you. Can't— fuck, need to feel you."
He flipped you in a blur of motion, suddenly above you.
Settling between your legs, his cock nudged against your inner thigh as he braced himself over you, forearms caging you in without trapping.
"James—" It came out a moan as you hooked a leg around his hip, pulling him closer, feeling the broad head of him slide through your folds, slicking himself in your wetness with a drag that had you both shuddering.
He did it again, just rubbing up and down, the thick length of him catching on your clit with every pass until you were whining into his mouth, hips canting up to chase the friction.
With a low growl, he tapped the head right against that bundle of nerves, the wet smack of it obscene and filthy, sending jolts of pleasure sharp enough to make your toes curl.
"Fuck.” Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving half-moon marks that he'd probably find later, and trace with a quiet sort of pride.
He looked wrecked above you, hair falling into his eyes, lips parted on ragged breaths, that flush still burning across his skin like he was running a fever just from touching you.
But then his expression shifted, something like realization cutting through the haze, and he stilled, cock still pressed hot against your clit, hips grinding shallow little circles that kept the pressure there but didn't give you what you both wanted.
"Shit… don't have a fuckin’ condom." The curse was a groan as he dropped his forehead to yours, breath coming in short, frustrated bursts.
He didn't pull away though, couldn't seem to, his hips keeping up that lazy humping rhythm, sliding through your folds in slick, teasing drags that had you biting your lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out.
The head caught your entrance on one pass, nudging just inside before slipping free again, and you both moaned at the almost-there of it, his grip on your hip tightening like he was using every ounce of willpower not to thrust home.
"I'm clean." The words tumbled out before you could second guess them, your hand sliding down to wrap around him, guiding him back to your entrance with a slow stroke that made him tremble above you. "On the pill too... it's okay."
He lifted his head, eyes searching yours in the dim light, that careful, hesitant part of him flaring up even now, like he needed to be sure, needed to know you meant it. "Baby, I— haven't had sex in... decades. Like, actual decades. Hydra perks. Get tested anyway, I’m clean too, but... you sure? Don't wanna—"
A laugh bubbled up from you, cutting through the tension, because of course he'd say something like that, turn a moment this charged into something so achingly him. He’d be worried and sweet even when his cock was leaking against your folds.
It eased the last knot in your chest, made everything feel lighter, realer, and you pulled him down by the back of his neck, sealing your mouth over his in a kiss that was all reassurance, all yes, tongue sweeping in to tangle with his, swallowing the little relieved noise he made.
He kissed you back like he was drowning in it, one hand cradling the side of your face while the other guided himself lower, rubbing the broad head through your folds again, coating himself in you until you were both slick.
His thumb found your clit on the next pass, circling, the pressure building that coil again, had you breaking the kiss to gasp against his lips. "James— please, now—"
With a final, teasing rub that had you keening, he notched himself at your entrance and pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open inch by thick inch until you felt impossibly full, the burn of it perfect and overwhelming, your walls fluttering around him like they were made for this, for him.
"So — fuck, so tight," his voice was muffled against your shoulder as he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, holding there for a beat while you both adjusted, breaths mingling in short, shared pants.
You could feel every twitch of him inside you, the way he throbbed, filling you in a way that pressed against every sensitive spot.
"Move," you whispered, nails scraping down his back in encouragement, and he obeyed, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in, the drag of him pulling a moan from you that he caught with his mouth, kissing you through it like he needed to taste every sound.
The rhythm built gradually, his hips rolling in steady, unhurried snaps that hit just right, grinding against your clit with every forward motion, your legs tightening around his waist to pull him impossibly closer.
You kissed him messy, tongues sliding together in time with his thrusts, breaking only for air, for half formed words— "Harder," and he obliged, pace quickening just enough to make the headboard tap faintly against the wall, the wet slide of him in and out filling the room with that intimate rhythm.
He was so big, stretching you to the point of ache and bliss in equal measure, every vein and ridge dragging against your walls in a way that had you clenching around him.
God he felt perfect like this, solid, warm and yours, the way his body moved over you, like he was controlled but fraying, sweat beading at his temples, dripping down to mingle with yours.
Everywhere, you felt him, the press of his chest against your breasts, the flex of his ass under your heels where you'd hooked your ankles, the way he whispered your name between kisses, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your mouth again and again. And again.
The coil wound tighter with every thrust, every grind, until you were right there, teetering on that edge, his hand slipping between you to circle your clit in quick, desperate strokes. "Cum for me," he rasped, hips snapping harder now, as your walls started to flutter around him. "Wanna feel you— fuck, baby, cum on my cock."
It tipped you over, pleasure exploding, ripping a cry from your throat as you clenched down hard, milking him through it, your whole body seizing in waves that left you shaking, tears slipping down your temples.
He followed right after, burying himself deep with a guttural moan that muffled against your neck, spilling inside you, pulse after pulse that you could feel flooding you full.
His rhythm stuttered, hips grinding erratic as he rode it out, breath uneven against your skin, until he finally stilled, collapsing half onto you, close enough that you could feel every ragged inhale, the damp press of his forehead to your shoulder.
You could feel the warmth of him leaking out of you, sticky where it trickled down your thigh, and without thinking, your hand drifted lower, fingers dipping into the mess, coming away glistening with the mix of your release.
He lifted his head just enough to watch, eyes going hooded again as you brought them to your mouth, tongue darting out to taste the salt and tang of him mingled with your own sweetness, a soft, satisfied hum escaping as you licked them clean.
A curse slipped from him as he dropped his forehead back to your shoulder, body shuddering once like the aftershock of it hit him all over again.
His weight settled heavier against, like he needed the press of your body to steady him, his cock twitching inside where he was buried deep.
You could feel every bit of it. The slick fullness of him that stretched you still, the way your walls fluttered lazily around him, holding him close like your body wasn't quite ready to let go.
It was intimate in a way that went beyond the rawness of what you'd just done, this quiet aftermath where breaths mingled and skin stuck damp to skin, and part of you marveled at how right it felt, how his presence filled not just the space between your thighs but something hollower in your chest that had been aching since the moment everything shattered.
One of his hands drifted up from your hip, fingers tracing the curve of your side before finding the soft swell of your breast, cupping it gently at first, thumb brushing over your nipple in a lazy circle that made you hum, oversensitive but craving more all the same.
He pinched light enough to tease but firm enough to pull a gasp from you, rolling the peak between his fingers before releasing it, watching the way it pebbled tighter under his touch, begging for attention.
"These," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the valley between them, his breath warm against the damp skin there. "God, in real life... they're even better. So soft, so perfect. Streams never showed 'em like this — couldn't capture how they feel under my hands."
The words washed over you, warmth spreading to your neck that had nothing to do with the heat still simmering low in your belly.
You turned your head slightly, catching his gaze where he hovered above you, that post-orgasm haze making him look almost vulnerable.
It stirred something in you, a flicker of that old doubt creeping back in despite the way your body still sang from him, the way he'd just poured himself into you like it was the only place he wanted to be.
What if this was it, the peak, the moment he got what he'd been chasing through all those late-night calls and stolen glances? What if now that the fantasy had flesh and sex, he'd pull away, leaving you to wake up tomorrow with nothing but the ache of remembering?
"James." You lifted your hand to to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the faint prickle of stubble under your fingertips. "Now that you've... got a taste, you gonna just... go? Disappear again, now that it's real?"
He stilled above you, fingers pausing their lazy play at your breast, thumb hovering just over your nipple like he'd been caught mid-thought.
His expression shifted, something raw flickered behind his eyes, gone so quick you might've imagined it if not for the way his grip tightened fractionally on your hip.
Instead of words, though, he ducked his head, lips finding the curve of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses there that started soft, almost apologetic, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin.
You felt the scrape of his teeth next, sucking in a slow pull that had your breath catching, a quiet moan slipping free.
"James," you tried again, half laughing through the whine building in your throat, your fingers threading into his hair to tug lightly, to remind him you were waiting, needing the answer more than the distraction. "Answer me... please. Don't just... hide like that."
His mouth paused, hovering warm against the fresh mark he'd left, the skin there tingling where his breath ghosted over it, already darkening under the faint throb of blood rushing to the surface.
Lifting his head slowly, his eyes met yours with that steady intensity, like he was seeing straight through to the scared little knot you'd tried to bury under the teasing.
Then his hand moved again, fingers returning to your breast, pinching your nipple a touch harder this time, rolling it with a twist that pulled a sharper gasp from you, sparks shot straight down to where he was still nestled deep inside, softening.
"I'm right here, talking about how goddamn beautiful you look right now.” His thumb soothed the sting with soft circles even as his eyes traced the way your breasts rose and fell with each quick breath.
"All marked and wrecked from me, and you're asking if one taste is enough? Like I'd walk away after this?" The pinch came again, harder now, drawing another whine from you, your hips shifting restlessly under him, feeling the slick mess of him leaking out where you were joined.
He knew exactly how to play you like this, turning your doubt into something molten and distracting, but the ache in your chest wouldn't quite let go, that nagging whisper wondering if he'd still be here come morning, if the tenderness in his touch was as real as it felt or just the afterglow talking.
You rocked up against him once, feeling him twitch inside you, still half hard and sensitive. The way his breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut for a beat, made you bold enough to push. "Feels like you're avoiding the question," your voice was breathy but laced with that teasing edge you'd always fallen back on when things got too heavy.
Sliding his hand between your legs, his palm came down on your clit again and again in quick, greedy bursts, the sharp little shocks making your thighs tremble while he kept you pinned on his cock.
"If I could stay buried inside you all day— fuck, I would. Wouldn't move an inch, just... feel you like this, warm , fuckin’ tight and mine." You could see the way his throat worked, like he was handing you a piece of himself he wasn't sure you'd keep, but it was harder to focus on his words when he’d just smacked the most intimate part of you, making you want to climb the crest once again.
As the heat of it pooled low again, the part of you that hates feeling adrift, that needs the solid ground of answers to keep from spiraling, surfaced yet again, impulsive and final.
You twisted your hips suddenly, pulling off him with a wet slide that left you both gasping, the sudden emptiness making you whine as his cum oozed out, trickling down your folds to pool sticky against your ass.
"Okay, now that you're not buried inside me, tell me. For real this time. You gonna stick around, or was this... enough?" You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching the way his eyes followed the mess, darkening with something hungry and conflicted.
He just stared at you for a beat, cock lying heavy and spent against his thigh, still glistening with you both. Then, with a grown, he shifted forward, hands finding your breasts again, thumbs circling your nipples in slow drags that had you arching despite yourself, a moan catching in your throat before you could bite it back.
"Enough?" he echoed, leaning down to kiss the swell of one breast, lips parting to let his tongue flick over the peak, sucking gently until you were trembling, hips lifting off the bed like your body had a mind of its own. "Baby, look at you — swollen, marked and so fucking responsive. How could this ever be enough?"
You tried to hold onto the need for clarity, but it frayed under his mouth, the way he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, teeth grazing just enough to sting before soothing with wet, open-mouthed kisses that trailed lower, across the soft give of your stomach, nipping at the faint curve of your hip.
Moans spilled from you unbidden, your hands fisting in the sheets as heat built, chasing away your question.
"James— stop, I— answer me," you managed, voice wavering as his lips brushed the crease of your thigh, breath hot against the slick mess he'd left behind.
But he didn't stop, he couldn't seem to. His hands slid down to hook under your knees, spreading you wider with a gentleness that belied the hunger in his eyes as he settled lower, face level with your core.
The position left you exposed, vulnerable in a way that had your thighs tensing, trying to close against the sudden rush of self-consciousness.
His cum still leaked from you, mixing with your own arousal to glisten in the low light, folds puffy and flushed from everything you'd done.
You shifted, legs pressing together, a flush burning hot across your chest because, what if he saw it all now and regretted it, the reality not matching whatever perfect picture he'd built in his head from streams and fantasies?
His hand landed firmly on the inside of your thigh, palm warm and steady as he smacked, the pressure enough to still you, to remind you he wasn't going anywhere.
"Hey," he coaxed you, eyes met yours with that patient intensity that made your defenses waver. "Look at her— look how pretty she is."
You realised he was not talking about you, but your pussy, intimate and filthy all at once.
It pulled a shaky breath from you, heat flooding your face even as your legs parted under his touch, opening for him because how could you not, when he looked at you like that?
He reached up to cup the back of your neck with a tenderness that contrasted the rawness of everything else, guiding your head down gently so you could see for yourself.
The way your pussy looked, swollen and slick, his release still seeping out in lazy rivulets that caught the light, making everything gleam wet and inviting.
"See?" he whispered, thumb stroking the nape of your neck in slow circles, his other hand tracing feather light strokes along your inner thigh, like he wanted you to take in the sight, to own it with him. "So beautiful, all messy from me... fuck, she's perfect."
He spoke about your pussy like it was a privilege, fingers parting your folds gently, spreading you open to let the cool air kiss the sensitive skin there, dipping just the tip of one inside to swirl through the cum leaking from you.
A whine escaped your throat that turned into a full, broken moan when he slapped your pussy once, the sting blooming hot, making your hips buck up off the bed.
"James—" It came out wrecked, your hand flying to his wrist, needing the anchor as fresh arousal slicked your thighs.
He watched you with that dark, intent gaze, bringing his coated fingers to your mouth, pressing them past your lips as you sucked without being told to.
The flavor pulled another soft sound from you, he thrust his fingers shallow, mimicking what he'd done with his cock earlier.
"That's it…. taste us... fuck, you look so good like this, babydoll."
You hollowed your cheeks around him, sucking harder, eyes locked on his as heat built fresh between your legs, the slap still tingling where he'd struck.
Withdrawing his fingers slowly, trailing saliva and slick down your chin before he leaned in to kiss your pussy once, lips sealing around your clit for a beat before his tongue flicked out, lapping through the mess.
"Streams never got this right," he murmured against you, your hips lifting toward his mouth without meaning to. "Couldn't show how she flushes like this, all slick and swollen, leaking for me... god, she's gorgeous."
His fingers came back, one sliding in easy alongside the wetness he'd left, curling just right to hook against that spot inside that made your vision blur, thumb circling your clit in tandem with his mouth sucking gently at your folds, opening you wider with his free hand to taste deeper, to explore every crease and dip like he was committing it to memory.
The pressure built fast, overwhelming after everything else, your thighs trembling around his shoulders as you chased it, moans spilling free and unfiltered, "James, oh god— don't stop, please—“ until it crested, crashing through you in waves that left you crying out, walls clenchingg around his finger as you came again, harder this time, tears slipping hot down your temples, body shaking like you'd been wrung out.
He worked you through, mouth never leaving you until you were gasping, finally pulling back with a final, soft kiss to your thigh, eyes lifting to meet yours, dark but tender too.
"I can never be away from her again," he whispered, crawling back up your body to capture your mouth in a kiss that tasted of you both, tongue sweeping in to share the flavor as his hand cupped your face, thumb brushing away one of those stray tears with a gentleness that made your chest ache.
You kissed him back, pouring everything into it, the gratitude, the lingering want, the quiet certainty that this was real, messy and imperfect but yours.
When he finally broke it, he gathered you close until your face was against the warm plane of his chest, his heart beating steady under your cheek.
"Baby," his voice carried a weight, like he'd been turning the words over in his head while you caught your breath, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine, dipping low to rest at the curve of your lower back.
"It's not just sex for me… I've fallen in love with you. Been falling, probably since that first stupid hospital visit when you smiled at me. It's been... god, decades since I felt anything close to this, and I want to be yours, all in, if you'll have me. So no, I'm not going anywhere now that I've got a taste— I only want more. And I need you all for myself, if that's okay... if you want that too."
The confession was soft but heavy, pulling a quiet hitch into your breath because you'd felt it building too, that pull toward him that went beyond late-night whispers and online undressing, but hearing it out loud made it real.
You eyes met his, seeing the raw hope there, the faint lines of worry etching his forehead, easing something in you, made the world feel steady for the first time in days.
"Yeah," you whispered back, your hand lifting to cup his cheek, thumb tracing the edge of his stubble in a mirror of how he'd touched you earlier. "I want that... all of it. I want you, James."
His relief was immediate, a soft exhale that fanned warm across your forehead as he pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple that lingered, like he was sealing it, making it promise.
His heartbeat lulled you toward sleep as his fingers resumed their lazy path along your back.
series masterlist || main masterlist
extras. i am so relieved no matter how this actually turned out, bc this is the first time ever i’ve completed smth, let alone a series. as someone who never ever finishes anything, this is totally a huge deal. it was really a great experience writing and sharing this, made my heart burst with all the support, truly, that kept me going. thank you for all of that. i am in love with these two idiots, so if you want drabbles, or just to talk about them, my asks and dms are always open. even if my requests are closed, i’m always open to taking requests for these two! GOOD NIGHT WORLD.
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!
Your dirty talk is exquisite i neeeed to read daddy steve talking bucky through an orgasm… i know you’ve most def written it before but unf im greedy
Ugh, my favorite yes of course.
“There it is— that’s what I want.”
Bucky barely realizes the stirrings in his own body, but Steve recognizes it.
Daddy always knows when Bucky is going to come.
He’s sure there isn’t a telltale sign that gives away his climax, but instead he’s more certain it’s how well Steve knows his body. Years of learning it, of arguably spending more time inside of it compared to outside of it, have led to this blissful spot of Steve knowing him better than he knows himself.
Either way, Bucky always feels somewhat timid by how well Steve uses and works and demands pleasure from his body, even if does make his eyes roll back into his skull.
“Daddy…” he whines, a drawn-out and pitiful noise from where he lay beneath Steve with his cheek smashed into the mattress. The arch of his back is deep, impressive even, and being face down with his hole on display always makes him come faster.
He feels like a bit of a slut when he takes Daddy’s cock from behind.
The smack on his ass, the tight squeeze of Steve’s handful, makes his whine turn nasally.
“You always hand it over easy when I bend you over and give it to you deep,” Steve tells him, voice gruff and low as he fucks into Bucky at a steady pace. “Always let Daddy have it faster when you’re feeling slutty.”
Damn him, how is he also inside of Bucky's head?
Bucky’s tummy swims then, swirls and swoops alongside his core and his balls, and he gives in to the desire to squeeze his hole tight around Daddy’s girth, to be greedy with it. He almost shivers it feels so good, in and out and in and out, instead choosing to bring his fingers closest to his face up to his mouth to suck on.
When Steve spits out a curse and then groans, when he presses in tight and digs his grip into the arch of Bucky’s back for better leverage, Bucky mewls around his fingers.
He’s can’t stop his eyes from crossing.
God, but he is going to come.
“A perfect fuckin’ baby, my God— look at you. Pussy hungry, mouth hungry. Gotta stuff all’a your holes, don’t we, Buck? Gotta keep ‘em all full right, sugar?”
He nods his head stupidly, whines and whimpers and sucks.
“Full,” he cries messily around his fingers. “Keep me full, Daddy!”
"That right. Pussy’s meant to stay full. Pussy’s made for big Daddy loads, isn’t it?”
Bucky’s moan is guttural this time, rakes against the front of his throat as his body’s relentlessly knocked around and fucked into the mattress. God, he loves Daddy’s big loads, loves being used to receive them in every which way.
He tells Steve just that.
All Bucky can slur out around his digits is, “Love Daddy’s big loads. Make me come on it, Daddy…”, and all Daddy can respond with is a low, “Jesus fuckin' Christ…”.
Bucky’s dick throbs in delicious shame. He sucks around his fingers and moans, his hole milks at Daddy’s cock hungrily. Daddy’s heavy balls begin to smack lewdly against his taint and that’s—
Fuck, but that’s good.
Daddy’s big balls are full of all the hot cum he gets once he’s a good boy and comes for Daddy.
Bucky’s breath hitches, stutters.
“Uh-huh, that’s right. Follow through— gimme what I want, what I’ve worked so hard for. Go on and bust for Daddy, honey. Lemme watch you come from just havin’ your little hole stuffed full. Your pretty…hungry little pussy that stretches out just enough for Daddy to fit inside. Your tiny—“
Bucky announces his climax in a garbled wail around a mouthful of his own fingers. And when Steve’s big hand lands on his nape to hold him down, to hold him in place while Daddy roughly uses his hole, he all but screams.
His balls pull in tight, his dick just reaches a painful point of hardness, and then it’s damn near violently shooting cum into the sheets beneath him.
There are times Daddy fucks him through his orgasms, while other times he stuffs him full of cock and holds him there while he shakes around it, like he does tonight.
He holds Bucky in place while his body fights to thrash, while he shakes and sputters and whines while full to the brim with Daddy's big cock, his own dick continuing to twitch between his legs.
"Come on, Buck— show me how hungry that pussy is. Milk it outta me. Fuckin’ milk it outta your Daddy."
Bucky may think he doesn’t have a climax sign, a dead giveaway that he’s about to come, but he knows Steve’s— his erratic breathing and his desperate Daddy voice. And hearing that pair not only prolongs his orgasm, but forces him to think of the only thing that matters anymore—
Make Daddy come.
Sticky in the sheets, brain buzzing, mouth slick from his own spit, and hole still pulsing, even he himself is surprised when he starts to fuck up and back onto Daddy’s cock. It doesn’t matter if shoving himself back into Steve’s grip makes his skin ache, doesn’t matter if he’s still riding his orgasm.
He’s going to make that big cock bust.
“Want it deep,” he slurs, a messy smile pulling at the corners of his lips when Steve groans out his name. “Give it to me deep if you’re gonna make me work for it, Daddy.”
“Fuck, holy shit, Buck. I’m—“
“Mine.”
“I’m…take it then, take it— take Daddy’s load.”
Bucky squeals loudly when Steve shoves in deep with a roar and tests the limits of his body, rim stretched and aching as Daddy rides his orgasm out loudly. Bucky swears he feels his own dick spit out a few dribbles of cum at the feel of it, of Steve’s much larger body rutting into him, his body finding a specific kind of satisfaction in being used for Daddy’s cum.
Bucky closes his eyes with a sigh and squeezes his pussy all around Daddy’s cock, listening like a good boy and milking it for everything it’s worth.
The hand on his nape goes tight again.
“Atta boy— More. Squeeze me more.”
Bucky moans and listens like a good boy.
He loves being a good boy.
“Fuck, I love you bein’ a good boy too, sugar.”
Oh. Had he said that out loud?
“You wanna keep bein’ Daddy’s good boy while he goes another round? Huh? Just can’t seem to get soft tonight.”
Truth serum but make it orgasmic. Telling the truth feels like you’re getting the best sex of your life and lying basically edges you. Maybe Bucky is helping you test it.
You didn’t expect the serum to feel like this.
The needle slides out of your arm with a soft pop, and Bucky Barnes steps back, gloved fingers flexing once before he peels the leather off. His metal hand catches the overhead light of the safehouse med room—cool, clinical—but the look in his eyes is anything but. Storm-gray, focused, a little too hungry.
He’s the only one you trusted to run the test. No cameras. No backup. Just the two of you and the small vial of glowing violet liquid that SHIELD swears is only a truth serum.
Except it isn’t. Not anymore.
Heat blooms low in your belly almost instantly—slow and syrupy, like the first lazy roll of a tongue between your legs. You shift on the metal chair, cuffs loose around your wrists because Bucky said you could walk away anytime.
You won’t. You want this.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low—Brooklyn rough, whiskey-warm. “Give it thirty seconds. Tell me what you feel.”
You open your mouth to say something safe—warm—but the truth claws up first, unstoppable.
“It feels like you already have your mouth on me,” you gasp.
The orgasm hits without warning. No build-up. No teasing climb. Just sudden, blinding pleasure—slick and deep, pulsing between your thighs like Bucky’s tongue is really there, thick and relentless.
Your back arches off the chair. A broken moan tears out of you. You come hard, shaking, and Bucky’s eyes darken as he watches every tremor.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
When the high ebbs, you’re panting—thighs pressed together, already soaked enough to feel it through your panties. The serum hums under your skin, waiting.
Bucky drags a stool closer, metal legs scraping concrete. He sits, knees spread, elbows braced on his thighs, close enough that you can smell gun oil and wintergreen.
“Rule one,” he says quietly. “You lie, it edges you. No release.” His gaze flicks between your thighs and your face. “You tell the truth… you get what you just got. Or better.”
Your pulse hammers. You nod.
He starts easy.
“What’s your name?”
You answer. The pleasure rolls through you again—softer this time, like a slow grind against your clit. A warm wave that leaves you gasping his name instead.
The question lands like a spark on gasoline. You try—god, you try—to say something vague, something safe. The lie doesn’t even make it past your tongue. The serum tears it away.
“Since the night you pinned me to the mat in the training room,” you blurt, breath hitching. “When I felt how hard you were against my ass—every day since—every night—I touch myself thinking about your metal hand around my throat and your cock—”
The orgasm detonates.
Harder than the first.
You cry out, hips jerking, body chasing friction that isn’t there. Your walls clench on emptiness while wave after wave of filthy, perfect pleasure rips through you. It feels like he’s inside you—deep, relentless, hitting that spot that makes your vision go white.
You soak your panties completely. Your voice cracks on his name.
When you slump forward, cuffs rattling softly, Bucky’s breathing isn’t steady anymore. His pupils are blown wide. A flush rides high on his cheekbones.
“Fuck,” he mutters, reverent. “Look at you. Already dripping for me and I haven’t even touched you.”
You whimper. The serum pulses—greedy.
Bucky reaches out, slow enough for you to pull away.
You don’t.
His fingers brush your knee, then slide up your thigh, stopping just shy of where you need him most.
“Tell me what you want right now,” he says. “Honest.”
“I want your fingers inside me while you ask me every filthy question you’ve ever thought about me,” you choke out.
The reward is immediate.
Two thick fingers push under the waistband of your sweats, sliding through your slick folds and sinking deep in one smooth stroke.
You scream.
The orgasm crashes over you as his thumb circles your clit—steady, deliberate—and the truth keeps spilling out.
“I dream about you holding me down—making me take every inch until I can’t walk—”
He curls his fingers. You come again, gushing around him, thighs shaking.
“I want your metal hand on my clit while you fuck my throat—”
Another orgasm—sharp, almost too much. Your vision tunnels. Tears slip down your cheeks from the sheer intensity.
Bucky’s voice is wrecked. “Keep going, baby. Don’t stop.”
You don’t. You can’t.
Every confession drags another climax out of you.
You tell him everything—about the shower, about the Quinjet, about wanting to feel him fill you up and stay there. Each truth earns you another shattering release. Your body becomes a live wire—sweat-slick, shaking, overstimulated and still begging for more.
And Bucky—Bucky watches like he’s starving.
He fucks you slow and deep with his fingers while his metal hand finally comes up, pinching and rolling your nipple exactly the way you just admitted you like best.
You’re teetering on the edge of something massive when he leans in, lips brushing your ear.
“Last question,” he growls. “Do you want me to stop testing the serum… and just fuck you stupid right now?”
You don’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
The orgasm that rips through you is nuclear.
You scream his name so loud it echoes off the walls. Your whole body locks up—pulsing, shaking, gushing—every nerve lit with white-hot pleasure. Bucky works you through it, murmuring praise against your throat, fingers never stopping until you’re limp, sobbing, still coming in aftershocks.
When it finally fades, he pulls his hand free—glistening—and brings his fingers to his mouth.
His eyes never leave yours as he licks them clean.
“Serum works,” he says, voice rough. “But we’re nowhere near done testing limits tonight.”
He reaches for the cuffs, unlocking them with a soft click, then lifts you like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically—he’s rock-hard against you.
“Bedroom,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You’re gonna tell me every dirty little fantasy you’ve ever had about me.”
His grin is wicked.
“And I’m gonna make every single one come true.”
You kiss him—taste yourself on his tongue—and smile.
“Promise?” you whisper.
The serum purrs inside you, warm and satisfied and already hungry for more.
Bucky huffs a low laugh, carrying you down the hall.
BUT i can’t stop thinking about domestic dominant Bucky. Like imagine you’re just not listening (i mean being a total BRAT) and he’s giving you warnings until he just can’t take it anymore. I don’t know how he punishes us…but i know he doesn’t go easy 😛
(i don’t want him to)
patience.
It isn’t loud. It isn’t explosive. It’s quiet—dangerously so.
And you, apparently, have decided to test exactly how far that patience stretches.
“You’re not listening,” he says from the doorway, voice low, even, controlled.
You don’t even turn around.
You’re at the kitchen counter, stealing bites of something you definitely weren’t supposed to touch yet—something he told you to leave alone because dinner wasn’t ready. You hum like you didn’t hear him, licking something sweet off your thumb, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug.
“I heard you,” you reply, airy. Dismissive.
That’s strike one.
Behind you, there’s the soft sound of his boots crossing the floor. Slow. Measured. He doesn’t rush you. He never does. That’s part of what makes it worse—he gives you every opportunity to fix it before he steps in.
“Then you’re choosing not to listen,” he says, stopping just behind you.
You can feel him there—heat at your back, solid and steady and entirely too close—but you still don’t turn around.
“I said I’d stop,” you say, popping another bite into your mouth anyway. “Eventually.”
Strike two.
There’s a pause.
A longer one this time.
And then, quieter—almost thoughtful, like he’s giving you one last chance—“Don’t push it.”
That should be your cue.
It is your cue.
But something in you—something bratty and restless and a little too curious for your own good—decides to push anyway.
You glance at him over your shoulder, all innocent eyes and a teasing little smile. “Or what?”
Strike three.
The shift is instant.
Not loud. Not sharp. Just… final.
His hand comes down on the counter beside you, metal fingers curling against the surface, boxing you in before you can step away. The other settles at your hip—firm, unyielding—and suddenly you’re not in control of the space anymore.
“You really wanna find out?” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, rougher around the edges now.
Your pulse jumps.
Because this—this right here—is the line.
And you crossed it.
You don’t answer. Not with words.
But the way you tilt your chin, the way you don’t look away—that’s enough.
Bucky exhales through his nose, something almost like a humorless huff leaving him. “Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”
The next moment, you’re turned around.
Not harsh. Not rough. But decisive.
His grip is steady as he guides you back against the counter, caging you in fully now, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle that makes it impossible to ignore him any longer. His eyes search your face, sharp and intent, like he’s making sure you’re still playing—still choosing this.
“Gonna start listening now,” he says, thumb hooking under your chin, tilting your face up, “or do I have to make you?”
There’s no real threat in it.
Not the kind that means harm.
But there’s weight. Expectation. That quiet, controlled authority that makes your stomach flip.
You swallow.
Still stubborn. Still pushing—just a little.
“Maybe I need convincing.”
His jaw ticks.
And for a second, you think you might’ve pushed too far.
But then—
“Alright,” he says softly.
Too softly.
His hand slips from your chin to your wrist, guiding—not yanking, not forcing—just guiding you away from the counter. You stumble a step, surprised more than anything, and suddenly you’re being walked backwards toward the couch.
You could pull away.
You know you could.
But you don’t.
Because you want this.
Because you always want this.
“Sit,” he tells you.
You hesitate.
Just a heartbeat.
Just enough to make it clear you’re still testing him.
Bucky’s brows lift, just slightly. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
There it is again—that line.
And this time, you listen.
You sit.
He doesn’t touch you right away. Just stands there, arms crossed, watching you like he’s assessing the damage, deciding what to do with you now that you’ve made such a mess of following simple instructions.
“You think it’s funny,” he says after a moment.
You shrug, softer this time. “A little.”
“Yeah,” he huffs. “I noticed.”
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s right in front of you again. His hands come to rest on your thighs—not rough, not gentle either. Just there. Grounding.
“Here’s the thing,” he says, leaning down just enough that his voice drops into that low, intimate space that makes your breath hitch. “I don’t mind you being a brat.”
Your heart skips.
“But,” he continues, fingers tightening slightly, “you don’t get to ignore me and then act surprised when I do something about it.”
Your lips part, but no words come out.
Because now you’re not teasing.
Now you’re waiting.
His thumb brushes along your knee, slow, thoughtful. “So we’re gonna fix that,” he says. “Yeah?”
You nod.
Finally.
And something in his expression softens—just a fraction. Enough to show you that you did the right thing.
“Good,” he murmurs.
The tension shifts after that.
He doesn’t need to push harder. Doesn’t need to raise his voice or manhandle you into submission. The control is already there, settled into the space between you, built on trust and the quiet understanding that he’ll take care of you—even when you’re being difficult.
Especially then.
His hand slides up your arm, slower now, grounding instead of restraining. “Next time I tell you something,” he says, softer, “you listen the first time. Save us both the trouble.”
There’s a hint of amusement creeping back in now, just under the surface.
You lean into him without thinking, your earlier defiance melting into something warmer, softer.
“Yes, sir,” you murmur.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as his forehead bumps gently against yours. “You’re trouble,” he mutters.
But his hands are gentle now.
Steady.
Protective.
And you can tell that even when he doesn’t go easy on you…
Can we get thunderbolts!reader who is like super quiet, like we all know Buckys quiet but she’s literally silent. Not in a solemn, sad way, but in a “speak when spoken too because I can” way. She just prefers it because it helps her listen and gather information faster. I imagine her as more of an intel type of gal that doesn’t do missions and stuff she just helps from the tower. Anyways, she thinks everyone is on a mission so she’s in the shower and she only sings when everyone is gone because it’s something she saves for herself, but she’s singing and Bucky is still there (for whatever reason you can come up with) and hears her and when she comes out wrapped in a towel buckys just standing in her bedroom doorway like “omg babe why didn’t you tell me about this” and she’s absolutely humiliated begging him not to tell a soul.
I just thought this would be cute!!
The Tower is never truly quiet.
There’s always something—boots in the hall, the low hum of servers, Alexie arguing with someone over comms, Yelena laughing too loudly at something she definitely shouldn’t. Even Bucky, for all his quiet, fills space. He moves like a shadow but he exists in a way that makes the air shift around him.
You don’t.
Not really.
You’ve perfected the art of slipping through rooms without being noticed, of answering only when necessary, of observing everything and offering nothing unless it matters. It isn’t loneliness. It isn’t sadness. It’s choice. Silence lets you hear things other people miss—the hesitation in someone’s voice, the lie wrapped in a joke, the patterns buried in data no one else has patience for.
It’s why they keep you in the Tower.
Intel. Patterns. Eyes where others have none.
And it’s why no one—not even Bucky—has ever heard you sing.
---
You wait until the quinjet is long gone.
You’d watched it take off from the window in the operations room, arms folded, expression neutral as always while the rest of the team filed out with their usual chaos. John tossed you a two-finger salute. Yelena told you not to miss her too much. Bucky lingered a second longer than the others, like he always does, like he’s about to say something—
He never does.
Just a nod. A quiet understanding.
Then he’s gone too.
Or so you think.
---
The water is hot, almost too hot, steam curling thick against the glass and fogging the mirror until the world disappears into something softer. Quieter.
Yours.
You rest your forehead against the tile for a second, letting the tension drain out of your shoulders. This is your other kind of silence—the one you keep just for yourself.
And then, slowly, it breaks.
It starts under your breath. Barely there. A hum, soft and careful like you’re testing whether it’s safe.
It always is.
Your voice isn’t something anyone expects from you. It isn’t sharp or clipped or efficient like the few words you offer during briefings. It’s warm. Full. It moves. It fills the space in a way your presence never does outside these walls.
You close your eyes and let it build.
The song spills out of you, something old and soft, something you don’t even remember learning. It echoes gently off the tile, wraps around you with the steam, turns the bathroom into something private and fragile and entirely yours.
You don’t hold back.
Not here.
Not when you’re alone.
---
Bucky wasn’t supposed to be there.
He’d doubled back—forgotten gear, or maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was that quiet pull he doesn’t quite understand yet. The jet hadn’t taken off by the time he realized, and John had rolled his eyes and told him to be quick.
So he’d come back.
Expecting silence.
Expecting you.
He always expects you.
Just…not like this.
He hears it before he even reaches your door.
At first, he thinks it’s music playing somewhere down the hall. Soft. Faint. Pretty enough to make him slow his steps without realizing.
Then it hits him.
It’s not a speaker.
It’s you.
He stops dead outside your room, hand hovering midair like he forgot what he was doing entirely. The door is slightly ajar, and the sound—your voice—spills through the gap, unguarded and impossibly you in a way he’s never seen.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
Just listens.
Because he’s heard you talk—short answers, quiet observations, the occasional dry comment that catches him off guard—but this? This is something else entirely. Something softer. Something that makes his chest feel too tight.
You sound…free.
And he realizes, with a jolt, that no one else has ever heard this.
That this is yours.
And he’s standing here, stealing it.
He should leave.
He doesn’t.
---
You don’t hear the door.
You don’t hear anything but the song, the water, your own voice filling up the space you’ve carved out just for yourself.
By the time you step out, wrapping a towel tight around your body, your hair dripping down your shoulders, you’re still humming the last note under your breath.
You push the bathroom door open and freeze.
Bucky is standing in your bedroom doorway.
Just…standing there.
Looking at you like the world tilted.
For a second, neither of you move.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Your brain catches up all at once, horror flooding your chest so fast it almost knocks the air out of you.
“Oh my god—”
You clamp your mouth shut immediately, like you can shove the moment back in.
Too late.
Bucky blinks, like he’s snapping out of something. His mouth opens, closes, and then—
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Your stomach drops.
You grip the towel tighter. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”
“I know,” he says quickly, hands lifting like he’s surrendering. “I—I came back for something. I didn’t know you were—” He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. Toward everything.
Your face burns.
“I wasn’t—” you start, and then stop because there’s no version of that sentence that doesn’t make this worse.
He takes a step forward, cautious, like you might bolt. “You sing.”
You look like you want the ground to swallow you whole.
“No, I don’t.”
“You do,” he says, softer now. Not teasing. Not pushing. Just…certain. “And you’re—” He huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head like he doesn’t have the words. “You’re really good.”
You close your eyes.
“Please don’t tell anyone.”
It comes out quieter than anything you’ve ever said to him.
That gets him.
Really gets him.
Because you don’t ask for things.
Ever.
He softens instantly, something warm settling into his expression. “Hey. Hey, I wouldn’t do that.”
You open your eyes just enough to look at him, searching for any hint of a joke.
There isn’t one.
“I mean it,” you insist, stepping forward now despite yourself. “If Walker finds out, he’ll—”
“He won’t,” Bucky cuts in gently. “No one will. It’s not… it’s not mine to tell.”
You exhale, shoulders dropping just a fraction.
“Okay.”
A beat passes.
He doesn’t leave.
You don’t move.
And then, quieter—almost like he’s asking permission—he says, “Can I hear you again sometime?”
Your eyes widen.
“No.”
He huffs a soft laugh, the sound low and fond. “Worth a shot.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. Just embarrassment, still lingering, still warm under your skin.
He shifts back toward the door, like he’s finally remembering why he shouldn’t be here. “I’ll, uh… go. Let you—” another vague gesture, less awkward this time. “Do your thing.”
You nod, grateful and mortified all at once.
He pauses in the doorway.
Glances back.
And then, softer than you’ve ever heard him—
“Hey… it was really beautiful.”
The door clicks shut behind him before you can respond.
You stand there for a long moment, heart still racing, the silence settling back into place around you.
It feels different now.
Not broken.
Just…shared.
And somewhere down the hall, Bucky leans against the wall, dragging a hand over his face with a quiet, disbelieving smile—
like he just discovered something he’s never going to forget.
omg I love your writing so much and I was just re reading the fic where reader wants buckys attention so he uses a fuck machine and I was just imagining if bucky had to much work or something and wasn't paying much attention to her that she just starts playing with herself or something to try and make him snap (and he does)
The soft glow of the desk lamp stretches long shadows across the living room, catching on the sharp lines of Bucky’s shoulders as he hunches over his laptop. Metal fingers tap steadily against the keys, methodical, unrelenting—report after report, mission log after mission log.
It’s been days like this.
Too many days.
You sit curled on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, wearing nothing but one of his oversized henleys. The fabric smells like him—clean soap, gun oil, something darker underneath—and it clings to your skin in a way that’s both comforting and maddening.
He promised you tonight.
A quiet evening. Just the two of you.
Instead, the blue light of the screen paints his face in something distant, jaw set, eyes focused anywhere but on you. Minutes bleed into an hour. The silence stretches.
Your stomach tightens.
You shift, heat pooling low, frustration mixing with something softer, needier. Bucky is yours—your soldier, your love—but right now he’s lost in duty, and you ache to be seen.
So you make a decision.
A quiet huff leaves your lips as your hand drifts down indulgently. Fingers trace lazy circles along your inner thigh, higher, higher—until they brush bare skin. You’re already slick, your body betraying how easily he still gets to you, even like this.
A soft sigh slips free.
Your middle finger glides through your folds, circling your clit in slow, teasing motions. You watch him.
He doesn’t look up.
The typing continues.
Fine.
You don’t stop.
You press a finger inside yourself, then another, the faint, wet sound barely audible—but not silent. Your breath hitches, back arching slightly as your thumb finds your clit again, working it in tight, steady circles.
“Mmm…”
The sound escapes before you can stop it.
Bucky’s shoulders tense.
The typing falters—just for a second.
That’s all the encouragement you need.
You spread your legs wider, the hem of his shirt riding up, exposing everything. Your free hand drifts up, tugging at your nipple through the fabric, pinching just enough to make your toes curl.
Another moan—louder this time.
Your fingers move faster, slick and rhythmic, and you imagine it’s him instead—metal and flesh, rough hands, heavy weight.
“Bucky…” you whisper.
Not quite begging.
But close.
The couch creaks beneath you as you add a third finger, stretching, chasing that building pressure. Your hips roll into your hand, needy, impatient.
The typing stops.
Completely.
You glance over, eyes hazy, and catch the shift instantly—his posture, his grip tightening on the desk, vibranium creaking faintly under the pressure of his hand.
And then—
Those stormy blue eyes lift.
Lock onto you.
The air snaps.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, doll?”
His voice is low, rough, thick with something dark and hungry. He pushes the laptop aside like it never mattered, chair scraping as he stands—slow, all of him unfolding like a threat.
You don’t stop.
If anything, you move more deliberately, letting him see everything—the way your fingers slide, the way your body responds.
“You weren’t paying attention,” you breathe, lips parting. “Thought I’d… give you a show.”
His jaw clenches.
Three strides—that’s all it takes for him to cross the room.
His hand catches your wrist, yanking your fingers away with a wet sound that makes you whimper. Before you can react, he brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that sends heat straight through your core.
“Greedy little thing,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Couldn’t wait five more minutes?”
“Been waiting hours,” you shoot back softly, reaching for him, tugging at his belt.
He lets you.
For a second.
Then the soldier takes over.
He hauls you up like you weigh nothing, spinning you so your back hits his chest. His metal arm wraps around your waist, cool and unyielding, while his other hand yanks the henley up and over your head, tossing it aside.
You shiver, suddenly bare.
His palm slides down your body, rough and familiar, cupping your breast, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers.
“Wanted my attention?” he growls against your ear. “You’ve got it now. All of it.”
He walks you forward until the back of the couch presses against your hips, bending you over it with firm pressure. Your body responds instantly—arching, opening for him.
Bucky drops to his knees.
The first swipe of his tongue has you crying out.
Hot. Slow. Devouring.
He licks from your clit down to your entrance, then back up again, mouth sealing around you like he’s starving. His tongue works with practiced precision, his metal hand gripping your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you.
“Bucky—fuck—”
He hums against you, vibrations shooting straight through your spine.
His fingers slide in next—two, thick, curling just right—and stars burst behind your eyes.
“Say my name,” he mutters, voice rough. “Let me hear you.”
You do.
Over and over.
Your body tightens, trembles, breaks—pleasure crashing through you in waves that leave you shaking, gasping. He doesn’t stop, not immediately, working you through it until your legs threaten to give out.
Only then does he rise.
You hear the rustle of fabric, the shift of his weight—and then he’s behind you again, solid, overwhelming.
He presses against you, thick and insistent, and you gasp at the contact alone.
“Still need more?” he murmurs, breath hot against your skin.
“Yes.”
Always yes.
He pushes in slow, inch by inch, the stretch burning in the best way. Your head drops forward, a broken sound escaping your throat as he fills you completely.
“Fuck, doll… always so perfect for me.”
For a moment, he stays still—just breathing with you, grounding you.
Then he moves.
Hard.
Deep.
Relentless.
The couch shifts under the force of it, the room filling with the sharp rhythm of skin on skin, your voice, his. One hand tangles in your hair, pulling you back just enough, the other sliding between your legs again, finding your clit with unerring precision.
“Mine,” he snarls. “You hear me? You don’t touch yourself like that when I’m right here.”
You can barely nod.
Another orgasm builds fast, overwhelming, your body tightening around him as he drives into you, over and over, hitting exactly where you need him.
“Come on,” he urges, voice dropping softer, coaxing. “Give me another.”
You do.
It hits like a wave, crashing through you, dragging him under with it. His rhythm stutters, breaks, and then he’s spilling into you with a groan that sounds almost wrecked.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
Then his arms wrap around you, pulling you upright, holding you close, still buried deep. His lips find your neck, your jaw, your mouth—kisses softer now, slower, grounding.
“Love you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Even when I’m an idiot buried in work.”
You smile, breath still uneven, fingers threading into his hair.
“Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not above doing it again.”
A low chuckle rumbles through his chest.
“Next time,” he says, nipping your ear, “just climb into my lap.”
A pause.
“Or don’t. I like when you make me snap.”
He carries you to the bedroom after that, the laptop forgotten entirely—left behind with the reports and the responsibilities.
yay requests are back (imma spam u now starting with...)
Steve and bucky absolutely destroying us and passing us around like a ragdoll
The apartment door barely clicked shut before Steve had you pinned against it, one massive hand clamped over your mouth while the other yanked your jeans down in a single brutal tug.
Bucky’s low chuckle rumbled from behind him, dark and hungry.
“Easy, punk,” he drawled, stepping in close enough that you felt the heat of both their bodies trapping you. “Don’t break our toy before we even get started.”
Steve’s blue eyes burned into yours, pupils blown wide. “She can take it.” His voice was gravel-rough, the Captain America politeness long gone. “Can’t you, baby?”
You nodded frantically, already soaked. They’d been teasing you all night—Steve’s hand sliding up your thigh under the table at dinner, Bucky’s metal fingers tracing circles on your knee, both of them promising with filthy whispers what they’d do when they got you home. Now the promise was real.
Steve didn’t wait for more permission.
He spun you around, shoved your chest against the door, and kicked your legs apart. The sound of his belt coming undone made your stomach flip.
Then he was pushing in—thick, relentless, no warmup beyond the slick mess you’d already made of yourself. You cried out, the stretch burning so good it made your vision white out at the edges.
“Fuck,” Steve growled, bottoming out with one snap of his hips. “So goddamn tight. Bucky, feel this.”
Bucky’s hand slid between your bodies, two metal fingers pressing against your clit while Steve started moving—deep, punishing strokes that slammed you into the door with every thrust. The contrast of warm flesh and cold steel had you shaking in seconds.
“Greedy little thing,” Bucky murmured against your ear, biting down on the lobe hard enough to bruise. “Already clenching like you’re gonna come on his cock before I even get a turn.”
You did.
The orgasm hit like a freight train, legs buckling, but Steve just wrapped an arm around your waist and kept fucking you through it, hips snapping faster, using you like you weighed nothing.
When your knees gave out completely, he didn’t even slow down.
He lifted you clean off the floor, still buried inside you, and carried you to the bedroom like a ragdoll.
Bucky followed, shedding clothes as he went, cock already hard and leaking.
They tossed you onto the bed face-down. Steve climbed up behind you, gripped your hips, and slammed back in with a groan. Bucky knelt at the head of the bed, fisting his cock, and tapped it against your lips.
“Open,” he ordered.
When you opened your mouth, he pushed in slow at first, letting you adjust to the girth, then started fucking your throat in perfect rhythm with Steve’s brutal thrusts from behind.
They used you like that for long minutes—Steve destroying your pussy, Bucky ruining your mouth—until you were a drooling, trembling mess between them.
Steve pulled out suddenly, flipped you onto your back, and dragged you to the edge of the mattress. Bucky took his place between your legs without missing a beat, metal arm pinning your thigh open while he sank in to the hilt. The angle was deeper, meaner. You screamed around Steve’s cock now filling your mouth.
“Look at her,” Steve panted, threading his fingers through your hair and fucking your face harder. “Taking both of us like she was made for it. Our perfect little fucktoy.”
Bucky’s hips snapped forward, the slap of skin on skin obscene. “Gonna fill this cunt up, doll. Then Steve’s gonna take it right after. You’re gonna feel us leaking out of you for days.”
They passed you back and forth like that for what felt like hours.
Bucky would fuck you senseless until your eyes rolled back, then Steve would flip you over and take his turn, sometimes both of them holding you up between them—Steve in your pussy, Bucky in your ass, stuffing you until you sobbed with overstimulation.
At one point they had you on your knees between them on the floor. Steve fucked your throat while Bucky railed you from behind, both of them growling filthy praise and degradation in equal measure.
“Such a good girl,” Steve murmured, thumb stroking your cheek even as he forced his cock deeper.
“Such a sloppy little whore,” Bucky countered, spanking your ass hard enough to leave red handprints.
By the time they finally slowed, you were boneless.
Steve gathered you up against his chest, pressing soft kisses to your sweaty temple now that the feral edge had dulled. Bucky crawled in behind you, metal arm cool against your overheated skin, lips brushing the back of your neck.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Steve asked, voice gentle again.
You managed a shaky nod, smiling like an idiot. “More than okay.”
Bucky chuckled, nipping your shoulder. “Good. Because we’re not done. Gonna let you rest for ten minutes, then we’re starting round two. This time we’re tying you to the headboard so you can’t wiggle away when it gets too much.”
Steve’s hand stroked down your spine possessively. “And we’re gonna keep passing you back and forth until you can’t remember your own name. Sound good?”
You shivered, already aching for it. “Yes, Captain. Yes, Sergeant.”
They both grinned—predatory, proud, and completely in love.
we all know that super soldiers have wild stamina, right? so, can i offer stucky x super soldier reader and it’s just the three of them fucking each other all night and seeing which one of the taps out first? (bonus points if it’s bucky and both steve and reader tease him about the fact he’s technically older than both of them?)
The safehouse was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below and the ragged sound of three people breathing hard in the dark.
You were sprawled across the wide bed on your back, thighs still trembling from the last round, when Steve leaned over you with that bright, wicked grin he only ever wore when he was winning.
“Still with us, Buck?” he asked, voice rough as gravel.
Bucky—flushed, chest heaving, metal arm braced beside your head—let out a breathless laugh that sounded more like a growl. “Fuck you, Rogers.”
You grinned up at him, sliding your fingers through the damp strands of his hair. “Language, Sergeant. You’re supposed to be the old man here. Show some endurance.”
His eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m not the one who just came so hard I forgot my own name, doll.”
Steve chuckled, low and warm, and pressed a kiss to the bite mark he’d left on Bucky’s shoulder earlier. “Technically he’s got ninety-nine years on both of us, sweetheart. Maybe we should go easy on him.”
“Like hell,” you shot back, hooking a leg around Bucky’s hip and pulling him down so his cock—still hard, still leaking—slid against your slick folds. “He’s the one who bragged he could outlast both of us. Time to collect on that.”
Bucky’s breath hitched as you rocked up against him, coating him in your combined release. Steve’s hand slid down Bucky’s spine, possessive and steady, and he murmured against his ear, “You tapped out last round, baby. Two to one. Don’t make us make it three.”
The challenge lit something feral in Bucky’s eyes. He surged forward, catching your mouth in a bruising kiss while Steve reached between you to guide him back inside your waiting heat. You moaned into Bucky’s mouth as he filled you again—slow this time, deliberate, every thick inch dragging against oversensitive walls.
“Fuck—still so tight,” Bucky groaned, hips stuttering once before he found his rhythm.
Steve didn’t let him have control for long. He moved behind Bucky, broad hands spreading him open, and you felt the exact moment Steve pushed back in—Bucky’s whole body jerked, a broken sound tearing from his throat as he was caught between you.
“Easy, old man,” Steve teased, voice velvet and steel. “We’ve got all night.”
You clenched around Bucky on purpose, watching his lashes flutter. “Yeah, grandpa. Pace yourself.”
He snarled something wordless and started moving—fucking into you while Steve fucked into him, the three of you locked in a slow, filthy grind that made the bed creak. Sweat slicked every slide of skin. The room smelled like sex and gun oil and the faint metallic tang of Bucky’s arm when he gripped the headboard hard enough to dent it.
Hours blurred.
You rode Steve while Bucky knelt behind you, thick fingers working you open even as Steve thrust up deep. Then Bucky had you bent over the edge of the bed, Steve’s cock down your throat while Bucky took you from behind with punishing snaps of his hips. Then Steve had Bucky on his back, legs over his shoulders, while you sat on Bucky’s face and let him tongue you through another shattering orgasm.
Every time one of you got close, the others slowed down—just enough to drag it out, to make the pleasure crest and recede like a tide that never quite let you crash.
Bucky was the first to start flagging.
Not that he’d ever admit it.
His thrusts had lost some of their brutal precision. His breaths came shorter, sharper. The metal fingers on your hip trembled just slightly.
You caught Steve’s eye over Bucky’s shoulder and smirked.
“Look at him,” you cooed, voice sweet as sugar while you clenched deliberately around Bucky’s cock. “Our big, bad super soldier’s getting tired.”
Steve laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the back of Bucky’s neck. “Ninety-nine years catching up to you, Buck?”
“Shut—ah, fuck—shut up,” Bucky gasped, but his hips stuttered hard when Steve reached around to stroke him in time with their thrusts.
You cupped Bucky’s face, thumbs brushing the stubble on his cheeks. “It’s okay, baby. You can tap out. We won’t tell anyone the old man couldn’t keep up with the kids.”
Bucky’s eyes flashed—half glare, half desperation—and he drove into you with renewed force, chasing the spark you’d deliberately stoked. Steve matched him thrust for thrust, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room.
But you could feel it. The way Bucky’s rhythm faltered again after only a few minutes. The way his gorgeous face twisted with overwhelmed pleasure every time Steve hit that spot inside him.
You leaned in and bit his lower lip gently. “Come on, Sergeant Barnes. Tap out. Let us take care of you.”
Steve’s voice dropped to that commanding Captain tone that always made both of you weak. “Let go, Buck. We’ve got you.”
Bucky lasted another ten minutes—stubborn, beautiful, impossible man—before his whole body seized.
He came with a wrecked shout, hips jerking erratically as he spilled deep inside you, cock pulsing again and again. The feeling of him losing control tipped you over right after him; you clenched down hard, riding out your own orgasm while Steve fucked Bucky through his, drawing it out until Bucky was shaking, oversensitive, gasping pleas that didn’t quite form words.
Steve followed last, burying himself to the hilt with a low, satisfied groan, hips grinding slow as he filled Bucky.
For a long moment the only sound was three sets of lungs fighting for air.
Bucky collapsed half on top of you, face pressed to your neck, Steve draped over his back like a living blanket. The serum kept all of you from truly tapping out, but Bucky’s body had clearly hit its limit first—limbs heavy, breaths still ragged, a fine tremor running through the muscle of his back.
You carded gentle fingers through his hair, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Told you.”
“Shut up,” he mumbled against your skin, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion and something warm and sated.
Steve chuckled, shifting just enough to ease out of Bucky with a wet sound that made all three of you shiver. “Ninety-nine years, huh? Maybe we should start calling you grandpa in bed.”
Bucky lifted his head just enough to glare at both of you, but his eyes were soft, lips kiss-swollen and curved in a reluctant smile. “You two are menaces.”
You grinned, looping an arm around his neck to pull him down for a lazy kiss. “Yeah, but you love it.”
Steve leaned in from the other side, kissing the corner of Bucky’s mouth, then yours. “Plenty of night left. Think you can go another round, old man?”
Bucky groaned, but his hand was already sliding down your side, possessive and ready. “Give me five minutes. Then I’m making both of you tap out.”
You and Steve exchanged amused glances over his head.
“Sure, grandpa,” you said sweetly. “We’ll believe it when we see it.”
Bucky’s answering laugh was tired, fond, and already planning revenge.
Hi Kennedy, Can I request for a fic like this tiktok
https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSuJ5kftv/
You and Bucky have a toddler girl [ who looks so beautiful ] and just do his reaction like the one on the video. Thank you and I love all your fics.
Bucky knows something is wrong the second his daughter comes home quieter than usual.
Not sad—no, she’s practically glowing—but there’s this strange, secretive little smile tucked into the corner of her mouth as she kicks off her sneakers and drops her backpack by the door like she’s carrying something much heavier than crayons and snack wrappers.
He narrows his eyes.
“What happened at school today, doll?”
She freezes.
Actually freezes.
You, standing behind him in the kitchen, have to bite down on your lip to keep from laughing because she looks guilty. Completely, utterly guilty—like she just got back from committing tax fraud instead of finger painting.
“Nothing,” she says quickly.
Too quickly.
Bucky straightens from where he’s leaning against the counter, already suspicious. “Nothing,” he repeats slowly. “You sure about that?”
She nods. “Mhm.”
“Because,” he continues, crossing his arms, “you look like you’re hiding something.”
Her eyes flick to you.
Traitor.
You press your lips together, shoulders shaking, and pretend to be very interested in slicing strawberries.
“Mommy?” she tries.
“Oh no,” Bucky cuts in immediately, stepping between the two of you like he’s intercepting classified information. “Don’t go trying to get backup. You tell me.”
She huffs. “It’s not bad.”
That’s worse.
That is so much worse.
Bucky crouches down in front of her, hands on his knees, voice softening just a little. “Okay,” he says carefully. “Then tell me.”
There’s a long pause.
A deep breath.
And then—
“Evan said he’s gonna marry me.”
Silence.
Absolute, deafening silence.
Behind Bucky, you choke.
Actually choke.
Because the look on his face—oh, it’s priceless. His entire soul just left his body. You can see it. The way his brows lift, the way his mouth parts, the way his eyes go wide like someone just told him the sun’s been replaced with a different one.
“…what?” he says faintly.
She shrugs like this is the most normal thing in the world. “At recess. He said I’m his girlfriend.”
You lose it.
Fully.
You have to turn away, gripping the counter, because if you look at Bucky right now you’re going to cackle, and you’re trying—trying—to be supportive.
He, meanwhile, is spiraling.
“Girlfriend?” he echoes, voice rising. “You’re in kindergarten.”
“I know,” she says patiently.
“And—and he just said that?” Bucky demands. “Like that? No discussion? No—no meeting with me? No approval process?”
You snort.
“Bucky—”
“No, no,” he waves you off, still staring at your daughter like she’s just informed him of a hostile takeover. “This is serious.”
She blinks at him. “It is?”
“Yes,” he insists. “Very serious. This—this Evan—”
“Evan has a dinosaur lunchbox,” she offers helpfully.
“That’s not the point,” Bucky mutters. “He can’t just—he can’t just go around proposing things like that.”
“He didn’t have a ring,” she says, frowning slightly. “He just said it.”
“Exactly!” Bucky points at her, like she’s just proven his case. “No ring. No plan. No respect.”
You laugh outright now, turning back around, wiping your eyes. “Oh my god.”
He looks at you like you’ve betrayed him.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because,” you manage between breaths, “she’s five, Buck.”
“And?” he shoots back. “That doesn’t mean—this is still—there are boundaries.”
Your daughter is watching the two of you like a tennis match.
“Can I still have a snack?” she asks.
Bucky whips back to her immediately. “Yes, of course you can have a snack, that’s not—this is unrelated—go, wash your hands first.”
She scampers off toward the bathroom, completely unbothered.
The second she’s out of earshot, Bucky turns back to you, horrified. “Did you hear that?”
“I did,” you grin.
“He said he’s gonna marry her.”
“I know.”
“At recess.”
You lean against the counter, still smiling. “That’s usually where these negotiations happen, yeah.”
“This isn’t funny,” he says, though there’s a faint, helpless edge creeping into his voice. “They’re—there are boys—already—”
“Bucky.”
“She’s five.”
“Bucky.”
“They’re going behind my back,” he continues, pacing now. “I didn’t even know this kid existed. Who is Evan? What are his qualifications?”
You laugh again. “His qualifications?”
“Yes,” he says firmly. “Background. Intentions. Snack preferences. I need to know what kind of operation I’m dealing with here.”
You push off the counter and walk over to him, catching his wrist to stop his pacing. “You’re insane.”
“I’m right.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you correct, squeezing his hand. “This is a kindergarten crush. They’ll be ‘married’ until next Tuesday when someone else shares their crayons.”
He hesitates.
You can see the war happening behind his eyes—the logical part of him fighting against the very real, very dramatic dad instincts.
“…still,” he mutters.
You grin. “Still?”
“I don’t like it,” he admits.
That softens you a little.
Because beneath all the dramatics, all the offense and mock interrogation tactics, there it is—plain and simple.
He’s not ready.
Not ready for the idea that one day, she won’t come home talking about playground proposals and dinosaur lunchboxes.
Not ready for the idea that one day, it won’t be harmless.
You step closer, sliding your arms around his waist. “Hey,” you say gently. “She’s still your little girl.”
His hands settle on your hips automatically, grounding.
“I know,” he sighs. “I just… didn’t think it would start this early.”
You smile up at him. “Welcome to parenthood.”
From down the hall, your daughter’s voice calls out, “Mommy! Can I have the pink cup?”
“Yes, baby!” you call back.
Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Pink cup,” he murmurs. “And she’s got a fiancé.”
You grin. “Better start planning the wedding.”
He glares at you.
“You’re not funny.”
“You love me.”
He exhales, pulling you closer, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Yeah,” he admits. “Unfortunately.”
You laugh into his chest.
And a second later, he adds, quieter—
“I’m still meeting this kid.”
“Of course you are,” you say, already laughing again.
