Summary: You are a fourth-year university student who has also survived four years in the service industry without fucking a line cook. An achievement. A trophy-worthy feat, especially in this industry. Unfortunately, the restaurant just hired Bucky Barnes. Unfortunately, he is hot, tattooed, exactly your type, and even worse... he knows it. (And he changes a beer-keg faster than anyone, iykyk)
W/C: 10.4k
Warnings: mature content, under 18 DNI, smut, size difference, flirting, sexual tension, banter, fingering, praising, semi-public sex, sex at work, begging, edging, swear words, unprotected p in v, oral m&f receiving, somnophilia, rough-sex, alcohol use, strong language.
A/N: Hi. This idea ambushed me during a recent Friday night rush while someone yelled at me about ranch dressing that "never got brought to the table" (It was literally on the table), and my last functioning neuron whispered, write about a line cook, you coward. So here we are.
Also, yes, I'm aware that hair nets are typically a requirement in restaurants, however we're going to pretend for the sake of avoiding the ick that in this AU hair doesn't fall off your head and there's no need for the hair nets, mmmkay pookie?
If you have ever worked in a restaurant, I hope this speaks to your soul on a spiritual level. If you haven’t, congratulations on your life choices you lucky sum'bitch.
Anyway, thank you for being patient while I sort my sanity out (never gonna happen I fear). Enjoy the chaos, the flirting, and the totally not crying in the walk-in energy. May your cutlery bins always be full, and may your section never consist of screaming kids and old people.
The restaurant is loud. Not the kind of loud that makes your ears ring, but the steady, layered noise of a Friday night rush. Fryers hiss as baskets drop into oil. The grill sends up smoke that curls under the vents. The passthrough window stays stacked with plates while the expo bell rings nonstop, the sound sharp enough to set teeth on edge if you let it.
The place is a classic sports bar. Neon beer signs. Hockey jerseys framed on the walls. Cheap wood tables that have seen too many elbows and spilled pints. Out back there is a smoke pit that always smells faintly of sweat and cigarettes, even in the dead of winter. The walk-in cooler is colder than it needs to be, the kind of cold that hits bone, and the staff room is barely more than four mismatched chairs and a table with chipped laminate. The manager’s office is basically a closet pretending to be important.
You know every inch of this place. Four years of university and four years of putting in shifts here to pay for it. At this point, you could run the floor in your sleep. You don't take breaks. You know how to spot the tables that will tip well. You know how to shut down a drunk idiot without causing a scene, or if a scene can't be avoided, you know how to win the argument. Most importantly, you know exactly how to smile in a way that says you are not the one to mess with.
Tonight is home opener night for the local hockey team, which also means the place is packed. Jerseys everywhere. Beer pitchers disappearing faster than they can be ran through dishpit. The line is swamped, the bar is drowning, chefs are yelling, and the servers are moving in a rhythm that is almost choreographed.
That's when the new guy shows up.
James "Bucky" Barnes. Line cook. The kitchen had been buzzing about him since the morning. Tattoos, biceps, and a little too handsome for back of house. No one knows where he worked before. No one cares as long as he can keep up.
He works the line like he has been here forever, shoulders moving beneath a black t-shirt stretched over muscle earned by something more than a gym membership. Hair slicked back, sleeves pushed past strong veiny forearms, a few streaks of flour and grease on his jaw that somehow make him look anything but messy.
He catches your eye the first time you lean into the passthrough window to grab a tray of wings. You are calling out table numbers to the expos, hand already reaching for more plates, arms full of hot dishes, mind moving faster than your mouth.
A new round of food is being shoved into the window, the order bell rings, "Order up, sweetheart."
The voice is new.
Deep. Smooth. Far too confident for someone on day one.
You pause just long enough to flick your eyes up and there he is. Stormy blue eyes, focused, clearly entertained by the way you are looking him over. The kitchen behind him goes quiet in a way that is not real silence, just a held breath. They all know you do not date cooks. You have been very clear about that.
You arch a brow. "That's what we're starting with? Sweetheart? You and that hairnet will have to do a lot better than that if you're trying to earn brownie points, buddy."
He does not look away. A slow smirk curves his mouth like he is testing something. Like he wants to see if you bite.
"You got a better suggestion then?"
Steam rises from the fryer. The expo bell rings again. Someone calls for a re-fire. The bar cheers at something happening on a TV you can't see. You are already back in motion, already moving like this dance is second nature, and you most definitely do not give him the satisfaction of reacting.
"I usually make people earn nicknames for me."
You walk away.
You hear him laugh behind you. Low. Pleased. Not discouraged in the slightest.
Someone from the kitchen mutters under their breath, just loud enough. "She doesn't go for back of house, Barnes. Save yourself the trouble, and for reference, we call her The Executioner back here."
Bucky’s voice is amused, steady, unbothered.
"We’ll see about that, she the closer tonight?" He says tossing another basket of fries down.
"Usually yeah" Bucky's line partner mutters, "Also the only one who ever gets us out of here on time too"
"Whos closing back here tonight?" Bucky questions, setting another round of wings into the window.
"That would be me, unfortunately." His partner says unamused.
"Well today's your lucky day my friend, I'll swap with you" and just like that, Bucky's earned the respect of the kitchen.
The night rolls on. The rush does not stop until an hour or so before close.
The neon signs buzz like they’re tired too. The TVs are still on, playing sports highlights, commentary low. The last few tables linger over their drinks. Chairs are half flipped on tables. The bar is wiping down taps. It’s the hour where everything smells like lemon sanitizer and burnt grease.
You’re leaning halfway through the passthrough window with a bar rag tucked in your pouch, sipping your shift drink, something strong, cold, and earned. Your shoulders finally drop for the first time in four hours.
Bucky catches you like that.
He’s leaning against the prep table on the other side, arm braced, a similar rag tossed over his shoulder, hair a little messier now that the rush has sweated out whatever product he started the shift with. The dishwasher is in the back, humming to his shitty music, spraying pans and rinsing the last of the cutlery.
Bucky’s eyes flick to your drink, then to your posture, then settle on your face.
“Well well,” he says, voice still that same low rumble, “I thought The Executioner didn’t take breaks.”
You sip again, slow, like you are demonstrating the art of not giving a shit.
“It’s not a break,” you say. “It’s strategic hydration. And don't call me that ridiculous name.”
His mouth pulls into that smirk that has no right being that confident this early in his employment.
“Uh-huh. Looks real strategic. Very tactical.” There's that stupid smirk you'd been thinking about all night. "And I didnt come up with it, that's what I was told to call ya." He shrugs.
You roll your eyes keep wiping the stainless surface in front of you.
“My therapist says I need to unwind after high stress situations, and this is my preferred coping mechanism”
He raises a brow. “This place counts as high stress? I thought you were running the show out there.”
You glance at him. That same look from earlier. The one that says: There are rules and you don’t know them yet, rookie.
“Yes, and that is exactly what makes it stressful.”
He laughs, soft and full-chested.
“Fair. So, how’d I do? First night.”
“You didn’t cry,” you say, deadpan.
“That already puts you above half the new hires.”
He rests his forearms on the counter, leaning closer, not crowding you through the window, just… present.
“You expected me to cry?”
“I expected you to quit,” you say. “Yet here you are, swapping for the closing shift.”
He nods once, like he’s accepting a challenge written in blood.
For a moment there’s just the dishwasher spraying, the buzz of lights, someone’s half-hearted laugh from the bar. You feel him watching you, but not like he's trying to win something. Like he’s taking stock. Noting details. Deciding what to do with them.
“So,” he says finally. “You gonna explain that nickname to me?”
You stop wiping.
You look him dead in the eye.
“It’s because I don't take any shit, I get the job done, I get us all out of here on time, and I make a host cry every once in awhile.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s it? I have to say I expected more.”
“I'll let you find out the rest yourself, just don't fuck up my food, don't call me any nicknames and we won't have any problems.”
You toss the rag into the sanitizer bucket. “No one escapes my closing duties''
“So if I screw up tonight and make us late getting out, you’ll… what, execute me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” you say, pushing off the window and heading toward the last section that needs bussing. “If you leave your station dirty I’ll put your head on a spike above the microwave.”
“Oh,” he says behind you, voice warm, amused. “So we’re doing medieval justice. Good to know.”
You call over your shoulder without looking:
“Don’t worry. I'll make it painful, you look like you'd enjoy that.”
You hear the fryer baskets clatter into the sink.
You hear his chuckle. Somehow even lower this time.
“Are you flirting with me now?” he says.
And when you turn to retaliate, he’s already heading towards the smoke pit.
You hit the switches one by one. Dining room goes dark. Bar lights dim. The neon sign flickers twice before going out.
Bucky is still wiping down his station like he has something to prove.
“You’re good,” you tell him, tossing your rag into the bin. “Go home, and maybe reflect on the life choices that brought you here.”
He looks up at you. Hair a little tousled now. Shirt clinging to sweat and heat from the grill.
“Nice pep talk,” he says. “But no.”
You blink. “No?”
“No. You’re about to go grab drinks with the rest of the crew.” He leans back on the counter like he has been here long enough to lean. “I have worked in restaurants longer than you think. I know the ritual.”
You cross your arms. “And what makes you think you’re invited, new guy?”
His smirk is slow, not cocky. Something more like patient confidence.
“You didn’t tell me I wasn’t.”
You hate that that is technically true.
You grab your bag from the staff room. Your coat. The keys. He is already waiting near the back door, hands in pockets, looking like trouble covered in a leather jacket.
“Fine,” you say, pushing past him into the cold night. “But you’re not allowed to talk. At all. No words. Minimum eye contact, and try not to breathe in my direction, kay?.”
He laughs under his breath and follows.
The bar is familiar and worn down, the unofficial after-shift refuge. Sticky tables, dim lighting, the faint smell of lime, spilled beer, and somebody’s cheap body spray. Your crew is already there. They cheer when you walk in, and they stop cheering when they see who is behind you.
You lift a hand before anyone can speak.
“Not a word.”
Natasha, your co-worker who has survived the industry long enough to achieve god-tier unbothered energy, hands you a drink the second you hit the table.
“Say less,” she says, clinking her glass to yours.
“Kitchen table is back there,” you tell him, pointing, not looking at him long enough to make it a moment.
The servers drag you into the booth. The kitchen staff holler for Bucky, waving him over like he is newly adopted.
He nods once, and heads over. Sam slaps his hand against Bucky’s shoulder like they have known each other ten years, not five hours.
You take your seat beside your girls. The conversation starts immediately.
“Okay,” Natasha says. “Explain the situation.”
“There is no situation,” you reply.
Yelena snorts into her drink. “He swapped to close with Sam. No one has ever willingly swapped to close with Sam. I need answers.”
“He called you sweetheart in the window,” Yelena says, looking very entertained. “On his first night. He has a death wish. Interesting.”
You take a sip. “He is a line cook. A statistically poor life decision. This is a one-time appearance. This is a meteor that will pass. And you guys know. I. Don't. Fuck. Line. Cooks.”
Natasha stares at you with her eyebrows raised. “He is hot. though”
“He is ridiculously hot, and my god the biceps” Yelena adds.
“He is unfairly hot,” Kate says. “He looks like he could bench-press the fryer.”
You press your fingers to your temple. “Yes. I am aware. I do have functioning eyes.”
Natasha leans in. “So you brought him to the bar.”
“I did not bring him,” you say. “He invited himself. I simply allowed gravity to occur.”
They all make the same slow, knowing noise that you deeply regret giving them permission to make.
You drain your drink in one go.
“Look,” you say. “This means nothing. He is kitchen staff. I do not do kitchen staff. I am simply being civil.”
Kate follows your line of sight across the bar. Bucky is leaning back in his seat, listening to Sam and Steve argue about hockey, but his eyes are on you.
Not subtle. Not apologizing for it.
Natasha grins into her glass. “Sure. That's definitely civil.”
You refuse to react. You refuse to let heat creep into your face. You refuse to look again.
The night rolls on. Drinks rotate. Someone tells a story about a customer crying over the wrong kind of ranch and how the right kind had just been 86'd. Laughter blooms. The stress unwinds.
And through it all, Bucky watches you in quiet intervals, not possessive, just present, like he is learning the shape of you from across the room.
You leave alone. As always. Coat on, keys in hand, pace steady.
Behind you, Bucky stands to leave as well, but Sam claps him on the shoulder.
“Come on, Barnes. I’ll give you a ride.”
Bucky glances once toward the door you went through. Just once.
Then he nods and follows.
No chase.
Not yet.
Plenty of shifts to win you over.
A month passes.
Enough shifts for Bucky Barnes to see you in every possible version of yourself.
He saw you on the slow nights, leaning against the bar while the TV played reruns of sports you didn’t care about, laughing with the bartenders about absolutely nothing important. He saw you on the steady shifts, all efficiency and charm. And he saw you on the chaotic nights. The ones where the POS crashed, ten tables walked in at once, the fryer overflowed, and a customer wanted to speak to the manager because their sandwich looked “too sandwich-y.”
You didn’t flinch. Not once.
He watched you take down the kitchen manager one night like you were in a courtroom drama, voice low, calm, razor sharp. Watched you tell your own front of house manager that his scheduling system was a joke. Watched you make a grown man apologize to a hostess for speaking to her like she was furniture.
And he watched you do it all without raising your voice.
You didn’t need volume. You had presence.
But he also saw the other side of you. The soft one.
The one that laughed easily. The one who hyped up the host staff before rush. The one who left notes for the dishwashers thanking them for keeping the place running. The one who bought an extra sandwich because the new busser forgot his lunch. The one who checked on the cooks when the grill guy went pale and dizzy halfway through the shift.
You were kind. Until you weren’t.
And that switch was something Bucky found deeply, stupidly fascinating, and it was definitely turning him on.
No wonder you were the supervisor.
The rumours spread, of course. They always do. Restaurants are a petri dish for gossip, flirting and emotional instability.
The back of house had bets on when you’d crack.
Front of house had theories about what he looked like without the apron.
The bartenders already had your hypothetical wedding color palette chosen.
You ignored every rumor. Every stare. Every whispered “do you think something is going on there?”
Bucky, however, did not ignore them.
He fed into them.
He leaned into the passthrough window just a little too close. He dragged out the word sweetheart with enough ease to make your teeth grit. He let his eyes linger. He let his smirk stay.
You would shoot back with something sharp. Something cutting. Something meant to bruise.
And he would just smile like you'd given him a gift.
He could tell when you were trying to hurt him. Trying to shut him down. Trying to make him back off so you didn’t have to admit what was happening.
He didn’t back off.
He stayed.
Because every time you tried to break him, your cheeks got a little pink. Your eyes lingered a little longer. Your voice dipped just slightly lower.
And he noticed.
You hated that he noticed.
Tonight isn’t busy. Isn’t slow either. One of those in-between shifts where the restaurant goes through waves. Where there’s time to think and you hate that there’s time to think.
You have been moving non-stop all night, not rushed, not frantic, just… sharp. Controlled. Knifelike.
Bucky has been watching you through the window when he thinks you aren’t looking.
You are always looking though, mostly at his biceps that are perfectly framed in the metal shelves of the window.
The shift winds down. The noise fades. Someone kills the speaker. The room settles into that late-night hum.
You slip out the back door toward the smoke pit. Your only break tonight. Your reset. Your 'don’t talk to me until I have stood outside and stared at the moon for at least thirty seconds' spot.
You take a breath.
Cold night air.
The smell of the food still clinging to your clothes.
The distant sound of traffic.
The door creaks behind you.
You don’t turn around.
You already know who it is.
Bucky steps into the night, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, gaze on you like he’s seen this exact moment coming for weeks.
“Bucky.” Your voice is flat and completely unaffected.
At least, that’s how it sounds.
Across from you, he leans against the brick wall of the smoke pit, one ankles crossed, arms loose. His hair is a little messy from the heat of the line, shirt still smelling like the grill and cigarette smoke.
“Darlin’,” he returns, like it’s second nature to him.
Your jaw tics and clenches. “Do not call me that.”
His smile is slow and deliberate. “Why not? I know somewhere in that dark little heart of yours you like it.”
The air shifts. Heavier, and hard to swallow.
He pushes off the wall and steps toward you. Confident. The kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly how someone will react before they do.
You stay rooted where you are.
He stops close. Close enough that you have to angle your chin upward to keep your eyes on his. Close enough that the heat of the kitchen still radiates off him. Close enough that you can smell the lingering smoke on his shirt.
“See,” he says quietly, “I’m right. You like the back-and-forth banter. You like when I look at you for too long.”
His hand lifts. Slow. His fingertips graze your cheekbone, trail along the line of your jaw, trace down the warm column of your throat.
“You just don’t want to admit it.”
That’s what snaps you out of it.
You grab his wrist and shove his hand back into his chest. Not weak. Not flustered. A control of your own.
“You think you’ve got me all figured out,” you spit. “You don’t. You’re just a line cook in the kitchen of a shitty sports bar in some useless university town.”
You move to step past him.
His fingers close around your wrist.
“Not so fast, princess.”
He pulls you back exactly where you were, but this time he doesn’t leave space.
Your back meets the wall. The cold brick presses through your shirt. His hand comes to your jaw, firm, thumb beneath your chin to tilt your head up.
“You run front of house like a battlefield general,” he murmurs. “I’ve seen you handle tables, servers, bartenders, managers. You chew people up and spit them out without even raising your voice.”
His thumb drags along your lower lip, pulling your mouth open just slightly.
“So don’t stand there and pretend you’re above any of this. We’re in the same building every night, breathing the same greasy air, surviving the same chaos.”
You jerk your head, trying to break his hold. He follows the motion, grip tightening, eyes gone a deeper blue than you’ve seen yet.
“That’s cute,” he says softly. “Try it again.”
His knee nudges forward. Just a shift of weight. Just enough pressure to part your stance enough so the denim of his jeans brushes the inside of your thigh, and up against your lower core.
Your breath catches, and the smallest whimper escapes your throat.
It is quiet. Barely a sound.
But he hears it.
He definitely hears it.
A slow, wicked grin curves his mouth.
“There she is.”
The grip on your jaw loosens, but he doesn’t step back.
Not yet.
His voice drops lower, rougher. “Good girl.”
Heat hits you like a punch to the gut. Unwelcome. Unavoidable.
Then he releases you entirely. Just lets go. No shove. No show.
But before he steps away, his palm lands with a sharp smack to your asscheek A quick, precise smack. Not playful. Possessive.
Confirming something you refuse to name, something that begins to heat in your lower gut, down into your panties.
You stay against the wall, breathing as if you haven’t breathed in minutes. Had it even been minutes? Longer? It felt like an eternity had passed.
When you go back inside, you don’t look at him. Not once. You don’t finish your side duties. You hand your close over to Natasha, telling her you're not feeling well, and walk out.
Coat. Keys. Back door.
The metal handle is cold under your fingers.
Behind you, over the hiss of the fryers and clatter of pans, his unmistakable voice follows:
“Have a good night, Doll.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of turning around.
You take next the week off.
Well, technically you “requested” the week off to study for finals, but everyone knows that means you’re locking yourself in your apartment with questionable sleep regimen and a gallon of iced coffee until your brain starts leaking out of your ears.
Textbooks are spread across your couch. Laptop open. Highlighters everywhere. You’ve read the same sentence four times to the point that it means absolutely nothing now. Your focus is shot to hell.
And the problem is unfortunately not finals.
Your phone lights up.
💜🕷️🤍The 'A' Team 🤍🕷️💜
Natasha🕷️:
You alive?
Yelena🤍:
Did you get abducted by the dishwashers?
Kate💜:
Or did you finally snap and bury a customer behind the dumpster. If so, I support you. I know a safehouse you can hole up in, big supply of mac n' cheese too.
You stare at the screen. You could ignore them. You should ignore them. But they know.
After a long minute, you type:
You🐍:
I'm fine
Natasha🕷️:
I call bullshit.
Kate💜:
That was so fast it's almost impressive.
Yelena🤍:
She left without finishing offs on her shift last night. Something most def happened.
You let the phone sit in your lap. Your pulse picks up at just the memory of what happened in the smoke pit.
You🐍:
Got my period. Needed to go home.
Delivered. Read. Silent.
Then a second chat pops up.
Natasha(private)
Natasha🕷️:
Babe, we are synced, and we bled last week. Truth. Now.
You close your eyes at your stupid mistake. Of course she'd notice.
You sit there for a full thirty seconds, debating whether to lie again, or ghost the world, or walk into the woods and never return.
Then you type.
You🐍:
I kissed someone.
You stare at the blinking cursor. No. Too simple. Too innocent. And also absolutely not what happened.
Backspace.
You🐍:
It was Bucky.
Natasha🕷️:
Oh
Natasha🕷️:
OH
Natasha🕷️:
Okay so when are you riding him, and when do I get to know how big it is.
You🐍:
Nat-.-
Natasha🕷️:
I’m just saying. The man has arms. It’s a crime not to climb them.
You🐍:
I don’t know what to do about it.
Natasha🕷️:
Do exactly what I know you want to do... which is him.
You groan and drop backward onto your couch.
That is when your phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number:
Hey, Princess.
Every piece of DNA in your body recognizes that text.
You stare at the message like it is both a trap and a gift wrapped in one little blue bubble.
You🐍:
How'd you get my number.
Bucky🦾:
One of your girls. Not saying which. I protect my sources.
You🐍:
I will strangle all of them then.
Bucky🦾:
I’d pay to see that.
You pinch the bridge of your nose so hard your vision goes static.
You🐍:
What do you want.
Bucky🦾:
Just checking in.
Bucky🦾:
You ran out real quick last night.
You🐍:
I had things to do.
Bucky🦾:
Was one of those things... yourself?
You🐍:
Don’t start with me right now.
Bucky🦾:
Why, you thinking about me?
Your breath stops.
You🐍:
Block in progress.
Bucky🦾:
Liar.
Your heart kicks so hard your ribs hurt.
You🐍:
What makes you so sure.
Bucky🦾:
Because if you were going to, you would have done it already.
Your jaw clenches.
This man. This arrogant, smirking, correct man.
You🐍:
Call me a name one more time and I’ll make you wish you'd never been born.
Bucky🦾:
Don't make me horny, baby.
Bucky🦾:
Still not gonna stop me though.
You🐍:
Try me.
Bucky🦾:
Oh I plan to. Night, Princess.
You stare at the screen.
Then throw your phone onto the other end of the couch. Rising to get more coffee from the kitchen, as if that's going to slow your heart rate.
The next week before your first shift back, your phone lights up again.
Bucky🦾:
Heard you’re back on schedule tonight.
Bucky🦾:
Kitchen’s been boring without you to tease.
You don't reply.
Not because you don’t have something to say.
But because everything you want to say feels too dangerous.
Instead you throw yourself into your shift.
And of course, because the universe hates you, it’s another home game hockey night, and slammed doesn’t begin to cover it.
Saturday night hockey crowd.
No tables flipping. No seats open.
Servers sprinting.
Bartenders drowning in Caesars and draft refills.
Tickets stacking on the rail.
You move like you always do when it gets bad: Smooth. Efficient. And a little bit dead in the eyes.
But your nerves are shot.
Because behind the passthrough window, Bucky is very much there.
Working sauté tonight.
Forearms flexing every time he tosses a pan.
Shirt clinging in all the right ways.
Neck glistening with heat.
He doesn’t say anything.
Not a hey. Not a sweetheart. Not a princess.
He just watches you.
And somehow that’s worse.
He’s patient. Always has been. He knows how to wait for his moment.
The rush finally drops off around ten. A few tables linger, but the panic is gone. You can finally breathe again.
You notice they’re getting low on sliced lemons for drinks and head for the walk-in.
The beer cooler hits like it always does. Bone-deep cold. Your breath misting in the air.
The faint scent of citrus, prep containers and stainless steel kegs hits you hard.
You crouch, grabbing a few lemons from the box on the bottom shelf. A chill rushes up your thighs and you shiver. Bad day to wear a skirt.
The door clicks behind you.
“Was wondering how long it’d take you to hide in here,” Bucky says, voice low, warm, and all too familiar.
You steel your face before you speak.
“I’m working, Bucky.”
He steps closer, boots quiet against the rubber mat.
“You haven’t texted me back.”
“That sentence implies I owe you a response.”
“No response is still a response, doll,” he says simply.
And that’s what makes you finally turn around. Leaving the lemons on the shelf, you rise to face him.
He’s still at the door, leaning against it like he owns the space. Like he owns the oxygen. Like he knows you feel every inch of tension thrumming between you.
“But,” he adds, “I liked the conversation. Thought you did too.”
You swallow. Once. Hard.
“I didn’t have time. I was studying.”
“Mhm.”
He tilts his head, like he can hear the lie in your voice.
“Is that the only reason?”
You don’t answer.
He pushes off the door and crosses the space toward you, slow and unhurried, like he’s giving you enough time to stop him.
You don’t.
He stops close, not touching, but close enough that the cold of the cooler stops registering, and your heart rate rises.
“You know,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth just once, “you can just say you missed me.”
Your laugh is sharp. A little breathless.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
His smile is small this time. Not cocky. Something deeper. Something worse.
“You sure?”
Your pulse jumps. He closes the gap between you, your back now pressed against the cold metal shelving, causing you to shy away from it and therefore closer into Bucky.
You hate that he can see it.
His hand splays across your lower back, his other hand finds its place around your jaw again.
“Cold?” he says quietly.
Your breathing stutters in a shiver.
You’re about to say something, maybe something cutting, maybe something honest- but his hand on your back slides lower, over your skirt, then to your bare thigh. He puts pressure there and begins to slide back up again, taking the skirt hem with it. His hand now firmly grabbing your asscheek.
“God, this skirt is sinful on you.”
“Bucky, knock it off.” You try not to show the surprise on your face when your hands press into his chest and you feel the insane amount of pectoral muscles. He doesn’t budge.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, leaning down into the crook of your neck, his heated breath creating an intoxicating juxtaposition against your cold skin.
You stay silent.
“S’what I thought, Princess.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
His teeth graze against the sensitive spot on your throat. He pauses, gauging your reaction. Goosebumps crawl over your shoulders. You feel his unmistakable grin against your skin. His lips make full contact now, wet and sloppy over your neck and across your jaw, while his other hand finds its way from your jaw to your other asscheek, gripping even harder than before.
He pulls his face back to look at you.
“Still want me to knock it off, sweetheart?”
“Stop calling me that,” you say through gritted teeth.
His pupils seem to dilate at your retaliation.
His eyes dart to your lips for a second, then back up to your eyes. He leans down, an inch from your lips now, and then pauses. You know he wants you to close the distance. He wants his point proven.
Fuck it.
Your hands move from his chest to the back of his neck, getting on your tiptoes. You break your four-year streak of not getting with the line cooks, no longer caring that you are officially part of the stereotype.
He does not hold back. His hands are desperate now that he’s got full permission. One raking up your back and into your hair, holding you in place against him, the other remaining on your ass in a possessive hold.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips. You take the opportunity to try and breathe, but he takes advantage of your lips parting, sliding his tongue in between them to explore your mouth.
“Jesus, I knew you’d taste fucking irresistible.”
The words somehow make your heart pound even harder.
A tiny moan escapes your lips when his grip on your hair tightens to pull your head back, exposing your neck for him, and the hand on your ass moves up to the hem of your little white lace panties.
He wastes no time hooking his pointer finger over the band, pulling around to the front and moving down to your clit, the straps of your underwear pulled taut against your hips.
Your whole body freezes at the motion.
“We shouldn’t- AH-” his finger presses down against the small bundle of nerves.
“C’mon, use your words, Princess. We shouldn’t what?” His two fingers move further down, poking at your entrance. Your hold on the back of his neck tightens for support.
“N-not here, Bucky.”
He does anything but listen, and he doesn’t even give you the grace of adjusting to one finger. Instead he pushes two knuckle-deep inside of you and curls them to hit that ever so important spot.
“Oh fuuuck, Bucky,” you try to muffle your moans against his shoulder, but he pulls you back by your hair again.
“You want out of this cooler? You’re gonna have to cum for me, sweetheart. And I know damn well you can, so fucking wet for me already and you haven’t even seen my cock yet.”
His words feel like silk against your ears.
He continues pumping into you. It takes less than a minute before you feel that familiar buildup of heat in your core. Your knees feel weak. His hand releases your hair and moves to your waist to support you as you cum all over his fingers.
“Fuck me, baby that's it. Such a good girl.”
He continues pumping, helping you ride out your orgasm until your head falls to rest against his chest, hands barely hanging over his huge shoulders.
When your breathing has slowed, he pulls his fingers out from your now-soaked panties and adjusts your skirt to fall back into place. What a gentleman.
Before he steps away, one hand finds your jaw and forces you to look at him as he takes the fingers that had been inside you to his own lips and sucks them completely clean. Your bottom lip quivers slightly at the sight and his thumb finds its way to rest gently atop it, settling the tremor.
“I didn’t think you could taste any better. Guess I was wrong.”
He breaks the contact and steps away from you toward the door.
“Oh, and angel? Don’t forget your lemons.” He gives you a devilish wink and pulls the door open, the veins in his arm popping as he does so.
When he’s gone, you slide down the metal shelving.
Who knew you could get so hot in a fucking beer cooler.
You hear Sam outside the door.
“Dude, where the hell have you been?!”
Bucky replies scarily fast, like he’s done it before:
“Sorry, man, the beer keg was a bitch to tap.”
Your head falls to rest on your knees for a moment before you take a deep breath and turn to continue grabbing the lemons.
Peeking out the door to ensure the coast is clear, you rush back to the server’s station with your cambro of lemons. Nat is waiting in the passthrough, arms folded. You’re thankful that the cooler minimized most of the red flush that would normally be streaked across your cheeks.
“I swear to God, you better tell me about why getting lemons took you ten goddamn minutes later, girl. I started table 51 for you.”
“Thanks,” you mumble, barely audible, and rush back out onto the floor to somehow continue your job.
What the fuck just happened.
Your phone buzzes far too early for a day after a closing shift.
💜🕷️🤍 The ‘A’ Team 🤍🕷️💜
Natasha🕷️:
Sooo... how were the lemons last night? 🍋
You blink at the screen, a half-asleep groan leaving your throat.
You🐍:
Fine. Cold. Thankfully not mouldy. You're so kind for asking-.-
Natasha🕷️:
Because Sam told Yelena he saw Bucky come out of the cooler two minutes before you did.
Yelena🤍:
Ten minutes. He said Bucky took ten minutes to change a keg. A'int. No. Way.
Kate💜:
Yeah even I can change a keg faster than that. 😏
You close your eyes. Long inhale. Longer exhale.
You🐍:
Everyone needs to stop talking to Sam.
Natasha🕷️:
So… how cold is a walk-in cooler, exactly? Asking for science.
You🐍:
Go to hell.
Natasha🕷️:
Already there, babe. I'll save you a seat, dirty dirty girl.
Later that night on shift there's another game. Another crowd. Another test of patience.
The place is chaos again, the kind that vibrates in your bones. Beer taps run nonstop, the ticket rail’s so full it’s bowing downwards, and you’re halfway convinced the music’s louder just to mock you.
Bucky’s on grill tonight. You can feel him back there even when you can’t see him.
The passthrough becomes a battlefield. You call orders; he fires them back. He doesn’t look at you for most of the night, but when he finally does, it’s through the steam and noise, that look that says 'I remember exactly how you sounded when you came apart on my fingers.'
Your stomach flips. You bury it under a fake smile and another table greet.
Hours crawl. Then, mercifully, the rush burns itself out. The noise dulls to a hum of dishwashers and bar chatter. You’re wiping a table when you feel it , that stare again.
You turn.
He’s in the window. One hand braced on the metal frame, forearm flexed, expression unreadable.
“Question,” he says, loud enough for just you to hear. “Yours or mine tonight? Gotta finish what we started, y'know.”
You freeze mid-wipe. The audacity. The nerve.
You force a calm smile. “Neither. I’m going to the bar with the girls.”
He tilts his head. “Guess I’ll see you there, then.”
You narrow your eyes. “No, you won’t.”
But he’s already smirking, turning back to the line, like you hadn’t just said anything at all.
The post-shift bar is packed, as always, low light, sticky floors, cheap drinks. Natasha’s already two in, Yelena’s arguing with the DJ, Kate’s halfway through a margarita the size of her head.
You’re relaxed for the first time all week, laughing, drink in hand… until the door opens and in walks trouble in a too tight black t-shirt and smug grin.
Bucky.
You feel his presence before you see him. He heads for the bar, not your table, orders a drink, and leans back against the counter like he owns the place.
His eyes find you instantly.
Challenge accepted, then.
You down the rest of your drink and head for the dance floor. The music’s fast, bass heavy, and you let it pull you in. Some guy, tall, broad, definitely not Bucky, catches your eye and steps in. You let him.
He spins you, hands respectful but close enough to make a point. You move with him easily, hips swaying, head tilting back with a laugh that’s half genuine, half deliberate performance.
Because you can feel Bucky watching.
You glance his way once, just once, and the look on his face almost undoes you. Intense. Unblinking. Drink forgotten in his hand, jaw tight enough to crack.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t interrupt. He just watches you like a man carving your silhouette into his memory, the kind of stare that feels like a promise and a warning all at once.
You smile at your dance partner, pretending you don’t feel that heat from across the room.
But you do. And so does he.
The song ends.
You peel yourself off the dance floor, still laughing at something the guy said, and glance toward the bar, right where you knew he’d be.
Bucky’s still there, drink in hand, that same unreadable expression carved into his face. It’s the kind of look that would make a lesser person crumble. You just raise your middle finger as you walk past, slow and deliberate.
His mouth curves, just barely. Infuriating.
You push through the crowd toward the bathroom, your pulse still running double-time. The mirror is a disaster, smudged eyeliner, flushed cheeks. You’re splashing cold water on your wrists when the stall door behind you creaks.
“Okay,” Natasha’s voice calls through the divider, “what was that on the dance floor?”
You groan. “Nothing.”
“You call that nothing? That was national geographic mating ritual level eye contact. He looked like he was about to drag you off by your hair.”
“Jesus, Nat.”
“I’m serious,” she says, flushing and stepping out of the stall, arms folded. “You two have been playing chicken since he started, and now you’re both seconds from crashing. Just… do it already before the sexual tension burns the whole restaurant down.”
You dry your hands slowly. “You sound like the devil on my shoulder.”
“Sweetheart,” she says, smirking into the mirror, “I am the devil on your shoulder.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling as you push out the bathroom door.
The air outside the bar is cool, crisp, a welcome reprieve from the sweat and sound inside. You walk toward the smoke pit behind the building, leaning against the brick wall just far enough away from the crowd. Your breath fogs in the night air.
The door swings open behind you. Heavy footsteps.
You don’t even turn. “If you’re here to lecture me, I’m not in the mood.”
No answer.
Just the sound of boots against gravel, and then suddenly,
your world tilts sideways, then upside down.
You yelp as Bucky tosses you effortlessly over his shoulder.
“Bucky! Put me down!” you hiss, hitting his back with the side of your fist.
“Not a chance, princess.”
He’s laughing, low, genuine, infuriatingly pleased with himself. You twist in his hold, more from pride than protest, but his arm is a steel band around the back of your legs, and he delivers a sharp palm to your ass.
“Ouch! This isn’t funny!”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, you can feel the rumble of the words against your chest.
He keeps walking, steady, unhurried. The scent of his cologne and smoke clings to you, dizzying in its closeness.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” you demand, though the words sound less angry and more breathless than you intend.
Bucky shifts you against his shoulder, his hand trailing up the back of your thigh with sinful ease. “Hotel up the block,” he says, casual, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Figured it’s time we finish what we started. And it looked like someone else would've taken you home if I didn't first, you'll regret the little stunt later by the way.”
Your heartbeat stumbles. “You, you got a hotel?”
“Call it optimism.” his hand is now tucked between your thighs, rough fingers rubbing against your most sensitive area through your jeans with every step, and it takes everything in you to hold back from attempting to jerk your hips to get more touch.
You roll your eyes, but your hands are still pressed to his lower back instead of trying to break free. “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” he admits. “But you keep showing up, so what’s that make you?”
He stops at the edge of the parking lot. The glow from the hotel sign washes over you both, soft, golden, too intimate.
“Last chance, doll,” he murmurs “I can walk you back to your friends right now. Or we can keep pretending we’re not gonna end up here eventually.”
You hate that he’s right. And you especially hate that you want him to be.
You stare up at him, heart hammering, breath fogging in the chill night air.
“Shut up, Barnes.”
He smirks. “Gonna have to try and make me Princess.”
He doesn't wait any longer before striding directly through the doors and up the stairs, no check-in necessary.
"Oh good lord how long have you had this booked"
"Got the key before I came to the bar, remember what I said? I was optimistic"
He has no issue opening the door with you still slung over his shoulder, and only once you're both inside does he set you down.
The sound of the door closing and locking behind you sends a shiver up your spine, you turn to face bucky without realizing how close to you he is, so you're eye to chest with him.
Your mouth opens to speak but as your lips part his hand finds your jaw and his thumb slips into your mouth stoping whatever you were about to say, you look up at him, brown knit together in frustrastion.
"Don't look at me like that, I know you like it." There's a cockiness in his voice that frustrates you further, but also makes you even wetter.
"In fact I think the only reason you're here is because you like it so much, the control I have over you, right?" He pushes down on your tongue and against your face making you step backwards, he follows until you're pressed between him and the wall.
"You're the boss everywhere else, you've got complete control of every other aspect of your life. But here? You just want me to take the reigns, finally have someone else making the decisions. Tell me I'm wrong and we end this now."
You keep a death glare on him, but you know he's right. You know the only thing you want is to listen to him, and to be told you're a good girl. The only response you give him is to wrap your lips tighter around his thumb and let your tongue suction to the pad of his digit.
"Exactly, good girl." There it is, you can stop the grin on your lips and he sees it before you can stop it. He pulls his thumb from your mouth and roughly swipes it across your mouth and down your chin, his other hand delivering a sharp smack to your ass causing you to stifle a small yelp that catches in your throat.
He steps back. "Knees."
Without question you drop down to the carpet.
He looks down at you, the faint, mocking light from the hotel window carving his features into something predatory and proud. The cheap carpet digs into your knees, but you don't move, don't shift your gaze from his. He’s enjoying this, the sight of you on the floor, waiting for his next command. It’s in the slight curve of his lips, in the dark, hungry look in his eyes.
He takes a step closer, the denim of his jeans brushing against your shoulder. “Now, since you were such a brat at the bar, dancing with someone else like you weren't already leaving with me, you’re gonna have to work for it. Show me how sorry you are.”
His hand moves to his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle loud in the quiet room. It’s a sound that makes your mouth go dry and your core clench with anticipation. He doesn’t rush, drawing it out, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly pulls the leather through the loops. He lets it drop to the floor with a soft thud.
“Go on,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “See what's yours.”
Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the button of his jeans. The brush of your knuckles against the hard bulge straining the denim makes him clench his jaw. You pop the button and slowly drag the zipper down, the sound of each tooth releasing feeling like a gunshot in the charged silence. You hook your fingers into his waistband, tugging his jeans and his boxer briefs down in one smooth motion.
His cock springs free, thick and heavy, already slick with precum at the tip. He’s beautiful, and the sight of him, hard and ready for you, makes a fresh wave of arousal soak your panties.
He threads his fingers through your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back just so. “Open up, for me Angel.”
You obey instantly, parting your lips and flattening your tongue. He guides himself forward, dragging the head of his cock across your bottom lip before slowly pushing into your mouth. The taste of him is salty and utterly intoxicating. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, your tongue swirling around the velvety head.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hips twitching. “Just like that. Look at me while you do it.”
You lift your eyes, meeting his dark gaze as you begin to move, taking him in deeper with each pass. His hand tightens in your hair, guiding your rhythm, setting a pace that’s both punishing and exhilarating. He uses your mouth, his thrusts growing deeper, more forceful, and you revel in it. The slight burn in your jaw, the way he fills your throat, the absolute control he exerts, it’s exactly what you’ve been craving.
“M'gonna make a mess of this pretty face,” he grunts, his breathing growing ragged. “Gonna mark you so everyone knows who you belong to.”
You moan around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. You can feel him getting closer, his movements losing their rhythm, becoming more erratic. He pulls back suddenly, leaving you gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the tip of his cock.
“Not yet,” he says, his voice rough. “I’m not coming down your throat. Not tonight.”
He hauls you to your feet, his hands gripping your arms as he spins you around and pushes you face-first against the wall. The cool plaster is a shock against your heated skin. He kicks your feet apart with his own, one of his hands sliding up your back to press you firmly against the wall while the other works on the button of your jeans.
“These have been driving me crazy all night,” he growls in your ear, yanking your jeans and panties down to your ankles in one rough motion. “Teasing me with this perfect little ass, surprised you didn"t wear a skirt again though, you know what that does to me.”
One of your feet steps out of the leg of your jeans and he kicks your feet wider, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. Then he’s behind you, the heat of his chest pressed against your back, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance.
“You wanted me to take the reins, princess?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Well you've got what you wanted, I’m taking them.”
He pushes into you in one slow, relentless thrust that steals the air from your lungs. He’s big, and the stretch is exquisite, a perfect, burning ache that has you arching back, silently begging for more. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck.
“You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s where you belong. Wrapped around my cock, taking everything I give you.”
Then he starts to move.
There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s hard and deep, a punishing rhythm that sends shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body. Each thrust drives you harder against the wall, the friction a delicious counterpoint to the brutal pace he’s setting. One of his hands snakes around your front, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles that have you seeing stars.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice a harsh pant in your ear. “I want to feel you come all over my cock. Now.”
The command is all it takes. The tension that’s been coiling in your belly for hours finally snaps, and you shatter. Your orgasm crashes over you in a blinding wave, your muscles clamping down around him as you cry out his name. "Bucky- Ah, fucking hell, that feels so good."
He follows you over the edge a moment later with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep inside you, his body shuddering against your back. You feel him spill into you, painting your inner walls, a claim of what's his.
You’re both breathing heavily, the only sound in the room the frantic beat of your own heart. He stays inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as you both come down from the high. Then he slowly pulls out, dripping out of you and down your thighs, turning you around to face him.
He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. The raw, dominant energy from moments ago has softened, replaced by something warmer, more possessive. He leans in and kisses you, a slow, deep, claiming kiss that tastes of sweat and satisfaction.
“Still think I’m insane?” he murmurs against your lips.
You manage a weak smile, your limbs feeling like jelly. “Completely,” you whisper. “But I think that makes me crazier for wanting you anyway, can't believe I let you break my streak.”
He grins, that infuriatingly cocky smirk you’ve come to both hate and adore. “Good,” he says, scooping you up into his arms. “Because I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long shot.” He carries you toward the bed, and you know, with a certainty that thrills you to your very core, that this night is far from over.
You don't remember falling asleep, only the bone-deep exhaustion that pulled you under after the second, then third round. The hotel sheets are a tangled mess around your legs, the air in the room thick with the scent of sex and sweat and his cologne. You’re dead to the world, lost in a dreamless, heavy sleep.
Something tickles your nose. Annoying. You swat at it, burrowing deeper into the pillow. It comes again, a light, teasing touch tracing the line of your jaw. You groan, trying to bat it away again, but this time your hand is caught in a firm, warm grasp.
Your eyes flutter open. The room is pitch black, save for the faint red glow of the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:17 AM.
Bucky’s silhouette looms over you, a dark shape against the darker room. You can feel the heat radiating from his bare skin, see the faint glint in his eyes as they adjust to the minimal light.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates right through your mattress and into your bones. “Go back to sleep if you want. Just stay still for me.”
Your sleep-fogged brain struggles to catch up. You can feel his weight shifting on the bed, the mattress dipping as he moves. He’s not asking. He’s telling.
His hand releases yours, and a moment later, the sheets are being peeled away from your body, leaving you completely exposed to the cool air and his hungry gaze. You’re on your back, face turned to the side, and you feel the bed dip again as he settles between your legs, his knees nudging yours apart.
“Been thinking about this,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “Lying here watching you sleep. All mine.” His hands are on your ass, kneading the flesh, spreading you open. “Couldn’t wait any longer.”
There’s no preamble, no warning. He notches the head of his cock at your entrance and pushes in, one long, slow, devastatingly deep stroke that makes you gasp, your body still tender and sensitive from hours before.
He fills you completely, and for just a moment, he stays there, buried deep, letting you feel every thick inch of him. You’re still half-asleep, your body pliant and receptive, the line between dream and reality blurring into a haze of pleasure.
“So tight for me,” he grunts, starting to move. His pace is slow at first, a deep, languid rocking that has your toes curling. It’s less frantic than before, more deliberate. He’s savoring this. Savoring you. “So wet, even in your sleep. You were waiting for me, weren’t you, princess?”
You can only manage a whimper in response, pushing your hips up to meet his thrusts, silently begging for more. He chuckles, a low, dark sound, and obliges, his rhythm picking up, becoming harder, deeper. The obscene slap of skin against skin fills the quiet room, the only sound besides your shared, ragged breaths.
One of his hands slides up your arched spine, and his fingers tangling in your hair at the nape of your neck. He gently tugs, lifting your head to turn it toward him. His mouth finds yours in the dark, a messy, possessive kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and raw need. It’s not neat, it’s not clean. It’s desperate and hungry and perfect.
“Fuck,” he growls against your lips, punctuating the word with a particularly sharp thrust that has you seeing stars behind your eyelids. He releases your hair, his hand snaking down your hip to find your clit. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t play. He rubs quick, calculated, circles, the pressure immediate and overwhelming.
The orgasm that builds in you is different. It’s not the sharp, explosive crash from before. It’s a slow, tidal wave of pleasure that crests and breaks, washing over you in a warm, all-consuming rush. You cry out into the pillow, your body trembling uncontrollably as you clench around him, wrapping your legs around his waist pulling him deeper.
“Fuck, yes,” he hisses, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release. He pounds into you, his grip on your hip tightening almost to the point of pain as he finds his end, his body shuddering as he spills into you again with a deep throaty groan.
He collapses on top of you, his full weight pinning you to the mattress, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, his breath hot and damp on your skin. For a long while, neither of you moves, just two bodies tangled together in the dark, breathing as one.
Eventually, he pushes himself up, his movements slow and lazy. He gently maneuvers you, turning you over and pulling you into his arms. He tugs the tangled sheets up over both of you, covering you in his warmth.
You’re completely wrecked, every muscle in your body feeling like jelly. You burrow into his chest, your head finding its place in the hollow of his shoulder, the steady thrum of his heartbeat a lullaby beneath your ear.
“Go back to sleep, doll,” he whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck. His voice is thick with satisfaction and a surprising tenderness. “I’ll wake you up again if I need you.”
And as you drift back into a heavy, sated sleep, you know with absolute certainty that he will, and that you will certainly be calling in tomorrow.
Dang y'all, I didn't expect this sucker to be so long but here we are. I hope this reaches at least one restaurant staff member that has also stared at the muscles of an untouchable line cook through the passthrough window for just a little too long. Stay screamin' in the walk-in pookies, and may your pouches be filled with phat ass tips.
snowghoul
vaporwave
origamiaround
kianamaiart
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