#bartender!bucky

"I still can't believe he said that to you."

The singular ice ball hits against the sides of your glass with each tilt of your wrist. You take a long drag of the dark liquor before laughing sardonically.

"It's been six months of him parading his dates around." Another sip, your work skirt digs into your thighs painfully. You distract yourself by reaching for a peanut from the nearly empty bowl. "And what's worse is that he still expects me to be the doting wife that he comes home to every night!"

The bartender refills your glass while you sneak another peanut. You card your fingers through your hair as you continue to rant. A dull throb radiates in between your brows so your eyes slide closed as you take deep breaths.

"Well, I can't imagine you're doing so bad yourself."

You hum questioningly at the man, focusing your gaze on the dark-haired bartender, his stubble dusting his sharp jaw as the muscles work beneath the skin. His eyes haven't left you since you sat down in front of him.

"I see you in here." You begin to pick at the skin around your nails and he nudges a bowl of peanuts in your direction. "Men come up to you all the time. You've been on dates too, right?"

You reach for a peanut and crack open the grainy shell, biting the inside of your cheek. Your bartender laughs incredulously and then presses his hands into his side of the counter to lean over toward you. The cloth he tosses over his shoulder must be damp because the fabric of his white button-up is darkened there.

"Focus on me, Peanut."

Your eyes snap to his, unable to keep the overflow of expression from brimming beneath the surface. Your heart cracks further as he visibly softens, crumpling against the counter to cover your hand with his. A tense silence stretches between the two of you, charging the air with unwelcome emotions.

Your bartender’s spare hand cups your jaw and swipes away the glistening tears fleeing down your cheeks. Sniffling loudly while straightening in your seat, you pull away from his touch—effectively stopping yourself from melting into him.

You’ve worked so hard to make this shitty dive bar your safe place, you’ll be damned if you ruin it with a fling.

“I don’t even know why I’m wasting tears on this whole thing.” You take three deep breaths—whiskey and apples invade your senses. The man in front of you tilts his head to the side while drying a few crystal glasses.

“You’re avoiding my question, Peanut.” He turns briefly and you try to figure a way out as the cups clink softly. “You have been dating too, right?”

Your teeth trap your bottom lip, peeling off the thin layers of skin. You purposely avoid his eyes, doing less than nothing to hide your answer.

“Jesus, Peanut. What’s stopping you?”

You huff, focusing your attention on the patrons around you. There’s noticeably less than there were when you first arrived. The bar guests go about their business, underlying emotions kept close to their chest and out of sight to everyone else. You wish you could be that way, instead of sewing your heart to your sleeve for anyone to rip pieces from.

“I--" You hesitate, twirling your glass, watching as the ice fights to keep up with the sudden movements you force on its surroundings.

"Some small part of me still loves him. No matter how much he hurts me with this whole open relationship bullshit. I'm still thinking that one day he'll wake up and remember that I've been his loving wife and partner for the past six years. This can't be my new reality. It just can't. He's meant to be my partner for life, not my partner who has really good friends. Not my partner with a girlfriend or some fuck buddy across town."

This is the can of worms that you'd hoped to keep locked away from the Commando's dive bar. What you've held close to your chest every night you slink past the blonde bouncer, Steve. The information you never let slip to the six-foot-five bartender with the metal arm. And now, you can't seem to stop the words from leaving your mouth.

"He's supposed to be my husband. Why isn't he my husband? Is it me? He said that we would talk about what the reason was, but I can't get him to sit down with me. I can't even get him to reply to a text, much less answer questions about our relationship."

You spit the last word before downing the rest of your drink in one go. Bucky stands patiently as you let loose every emotion that you've bottled up for the past six years. Further in the bar, someone shouts for the last call.

"Why don't I date? Because I love him. Because outside of him, I don't know who I am. I don't date because I've been with the same man for almost a decade and I wouldn't even know where to begin. I can't see past where I'm at right now. There is no future for me outside of the hell that I find myself in now. I can't date because I want to be there for when my husband remembers that I exist. I want to be there for him like he wasn't for me because I know the novelty of his flings will wear off soon enough. And maybe that makes me worse than him, but I don't know if I have the energy to care anymore."

There's now a heavy silence covering you and your whole body slumps because of it. Despite feeling the biggest breath of relief of getting those emotions out in the open, you now have to deal with what they mean. You were always taught that saying your emotions out loud would only lead to more issues, but here you fucking are. Sometimes these things are unavoidable.

"I call bullshit."

Your jaw drops as your bartender rocks away from the counter. You flounder as he starts performing closing duties. You stare at Bucky's back, slightly distracted by the muscles working underneath the tight material.

"Did you just bullshit my feelings?"

Bucky turns halfway, eyebrows raised, "Yep."

Your bartender plucks the glass in front of you and drops it in the sink on his way to the cash register. If you were in a whole state, you'd smack back with a witty comment, but you're tired.

"You can't bullshit my feelings."

He holds a stack of twenties in one hand and he pins you with the same expression as before.

"Uh, yeah I can."

He continues to count the register and tosses a goodbye to the other bartender. A long lull stretches between you. Now it's just the two of you in the bar, and that must have been what he was waiting on because it's only now that he really talks.

"Peanut, how long have you been coming here?"

You furrow your brow at the question, not sure where he's taking his line of questioning.

"I don't know, four months?"

“Four months, twenty days."

Bucky's retort is quick and final. A fact. Something he's committed to memory. You're taken aback by the heavy tone he layers between the syllables.

"And for those four months and twenty days, I've stood behind this counter and watched you wallow. I've watched you turn down proposition after proposition. I've had Steve throw out dozens of men for how they speak about you. I've sat back and tried to be the listening ear that you need because you're clearly going through a really difficult time. I've never been in the position that you're in and I'm not going to pretend that I understand the half of it."

He slams the drawer closed and rounds the countertop. His boots thud against the floor violently, stopping beside the barstool next to you. Your bartender leans down and swings your stool to face his before taking a seat.

"I've stood behind that bar and was able to listen to quite a bit. But what I can't have is you thinking that you're the issue."

His hand slips into yours, his thumb tracing the knuckles of your fingers. Tears begin to brim at your waterline again, but you refuse to let them fall.

"Peanut, you're the most loyal person I've met in recent years. You love fiercely and you hurt even harder. Hell, you've been with this guy for almost ten years and he's been fucking you over for the past six months and you're sitting in this bar defending him to a relative stranger!"

"But he--"

"Your husband took the decision away from you and then framed it in a way that made you out to be the bad guy. He put you in a nearly impossible situation because he knew you were too loyal to him to do anything about it."

"He didn--"

"Yes, he did."

Having it laid out like that by the one person you wanted to be kept away from all of it was eye-opening. Your shoulders crumple and a new wave of tears threatens to escape.

"Now, this isn't the best time, but I feel like in a situation like yours there's never going to be a 'right' time."

Bucky sits up straighter and sticks his metal hand out to you.

"Hi. I'm Bucky Barnes. I'm a retired Army Sergeant and I now work in the Howling Commandos bar. I've been your bartender for the past four months and twenty days. Over that time, I've grown to care for you, more than a bartender should. Because of that fact, I want to take you out on a date."

You suck in a breath sharply, immediately going to deny him, only for Bucky to cut you off.

"You don't have to give me an answer right now, Peanut. Just think about it and whenever you're ready, I hope I'm your first call."

You chew on the inside of your cheek, gnawing on the idea. You have grown fond of Bucky. He's become a sort of safety net for you these past few months. Going home has proven to be more and more of a chore so you spend hours on end in the Howling Commandos.

What if you and Bucky go on a date and you hate it? What if you date and you have a huge falling out? What if you--

"I can see the wheels turning, Peanut." He taps your temple with a cold metal finger. "What are you thinking?"

"What if we end up not working out?"

"What if we do?"

The question hangs. The implication is clear. You could spend hours going through the what-if scenarios, both positive and negative. You'll never truly know until you take a leap of faith.

"What would your boss think of you dating one of your new regulars though?"

You're grasping at straws, but you're really trying to convince yourself that taking that leap with Bucky would be the worst thing in the world.

"Peanut, I'll sell the damn bar before someone other than you tells me that I can't date you."

Your eyes meet his and all you can see is the adoration and sincerity in them. His thumb is still working over your knuckles, but it's also expanded to tracing aimless circles into the back of your hand. The cool metal is the only way you've grounded yourself to reality.

Bartender!Bucky whose set work schedule is Fri-Sun at one of the popular dive bars in the city

Bartender!Bucky who is constantly picking up shifts for all of his coworkers, especially during the week

Bartender!Bucky who is tasked with training new recruits. His patience, firm teaching style, and gentle voice making him the best candidate for the job

Bartender!Bucky who is always first to take on side-work tasks so his coworkers can indulge themselves in the “fun parts” of the job

Bartender!Bucky who cashes out big every weekend. I mean with a face like that and the skills to match who wouldn’t empty out their pockets for him

Bartender!Bucky who's beat up 2008 Chevy Equinox pulls into the desolate bar parking lot an hour before his shift. He sits in the car, blasting War Pigs by Black Sabbath off of a worn-out CD "Trying to get his head in the game," he tells Sam who resides next to him in the passenger seat

Bartender!Bucky whose favorite coworkers are Sam (his roommate), who brings him out of his shell and Natasha (Steve's girlfriend) who can eyeball a triple no problem.

Bartender!Bucky whose t-shirt fits him a little too well, almost outlining his dad's dog tags under the black cotton fabric

Bartender!Bucky whose hair is pulled back by a wire headband to keep his bangs out of his eyes. Steel Cuban link bracelet moving from wrist to forearm as he moves the shaker in his hands

Bartender Bucky who loves making mixed drinks. Makes a meannn Manhattan and Paloma

Bartender!Bucky who prefers a beer over liquor (a Guinness or Modelo if the place has fresh lime) He likes drinking his beer out of the bottle over glass, they feel too fancy for him.

Bartender!Bucky who isn't about theatrics but efficiency, having one of the fastest drink times on staff

Bartender!Bucky whose slightly gruff disposition serves as asshole repellent when he is on shift

You! who was dragged to this dingy dive bar by your lovely coworkers on a busy Friday night. Straight-leg jeans sitting low on your waist, your graphic tee hanging off of you just right. The goal is to grab a drink or two, blow off some steam and head home. The group of you maneuver through crowded bodies and finally make it to the bar's countertop. The beginning guitar chords of 'Blind by Korn' ring through the bar. Your head raises to meet the steely eyes of James B. Barnes. His thick forearms crossed over themselves as he leaned over the bar so you could hear him.

“Hiyah sweets, what can I get for you?"

You! who has taken the top position as Bucky's favorite regular

You! oh so patient, waiting for Bucky to finish up with other customers instead of having Maria or Same make your drink. when he asks why you always wait you reply

" I don't know your drinks always taste the best."

You! who calls him Jamie like a lifelong friend would

You! who shows up to the bar with a brown paper bag under your arm full of whatever goodies you decided to bake that week

Bartender!Bucky who texts you throughout the week, sending you cute photos of his cat Alpine and letting you rant about your work life

Bartender!Bucky who now greets you with a small smile every Saturday night, your signature drink prepared for you as soon as you walk through the heavy metal door

Bartender!Bucky who uses you as his guinea pig! having you try new liquors and drink recipes because "Sweets, you have the best palate of all of my regulars."

Bartender!Bucky who is extra excited to see you on slow nights during the week, listening to your stories of childhood best friends and whoever had made your shitlist that week

“Well," he mumbles ,cutting into the navel orange in front of him, "Next time call me, I'll take the day off and take care of them for you." he raises his eyebrows at you.

"Slow your roll Jamie, take me to dinner first!" you say with a little laugh, head resting on your hand as you watched him work.

"I'm free Sunday night. I could pick you up from your place, take you somewhere nice." He turned his head towards you, Orange rounds lay strewn across the small cutting board, now an afterthought.

"Are you actually asking me out or are you being a dickhead Jamie?"

"Now when have you known me to be a dickhead sweets?" Bucky tilts his head like a puppy, easy smile spreading across his face.

"Last week, when you picked a man up by his armpits like a baby and carried him out of the bar." You reply dryly

"Ok, to be fair," Bucky raises both of his hands in defense. "He was mouthing off to Nat about his beer having too much head. You know Nat, all of the glasses she pulls are borderline perfect. She tried to explain to him that the keg came to us with the pressure fucked up, but he decided that name-calling was the way to go," he finishes with a small shrug.

"You don't think the baby lift was a bit much?" You cross your arms over your chest smirking slightly.

"He gave Sharron and Maria shit the week before about ticket times. I gave him a second chance, he screwed up so he got the baby toss." He mimics your body language, crossing his arms across his chest.

"ok."

"Ok what sweets?" Bucky scrunches his brow slightly

"Pick me up Sunday night, I'll text you the address." You say, turning on your heels "And make it nice Jamie, I've eaten enough bar food in the last 4 months to last me a lifetime" you say sarcastically.

"Heard! Nice dress, good wine, banging food? Sounds like a plan sweetheart."

You turn to catch sight of him one more time before leaving the bar "Bye Jamie, see you Sunday."

"See you Sunday sweetness.” he calls back to you as you slip from his view.

It’s just another regular night for him, comforting you through yet another heartbreak. Luck never seems to be on your side when it comes to love.

You've been a fixture at Bucky’s bar since the doors opened—four years and counting. Over time, he’s lost track of the late nights the two of you spend upstairs after closing, trading stories over drinks, unraveling yet another failed romance. There are too many sob stories for him to remember now, though they’re all etched into you.

But somehow, despite his famously short patience for most people, Bucky always has endless tolerance for you. His advice rarely changes, take a break, give yourself some space, stop jumping headfirst into heartbreak. But maybe it’s the thrill of possibility, of connection, that keeps dragging you back into the city’s brutal dating pool.

Not that Bucky can judge. He’s not exactly lucky in love himself. not that he’s looking. Sure, plenty of customers try to flirt their way into a free drink or even his bed. But they never hold his attention. They’re all a little too polished, too eager.

They’re not you.

You mumble something into the bottom of your nearly finished drink, voice muffled. He rolls his eyes and grabs the shaker, already mixing your favorite cocktail. “You’re a sorry sight, sweetheart. Makes me almost ashamed to be your friend.”

The bar is unusually quiet tonight, a strange lull for a Friday. With the holidays creeping in, Bucky figures most people are choosing to stay home. Nothing like a season of cheer to make people feel even lonelier.

“Doll,” he drawls, tapping the counter until you look up at him with red-rimmed eyes. He has to fight the grin tugging at his mouth when he sees your face.

“Would you stop your whining if I took you out on a date? I’ll handle everything. Take you somewhere nice. You deserve it, I think. Especially if it gets you to stop crying.”

You scoff, lifting your glass and taking a sip. “You? Take me out? Right.” You try to keep your tone flat, unimpressed, but there’s a flicker of something in your chest. As much as you hate to admit it, the idea of him taking you out doesn’t sound completely ridiculous.

He smirks, clearly catching the shift in your expression. He knows he’s got you intrigued, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

“Don’t sound so skeptical. I bet I could show you a really good time.”

“A good time? From the man who notoriously doesn’t do anything except run his bar?”

He chuckles, leaning against the countertop with that familiar lazy confidence. “Who says I don’t do anything? Just because I’m not out there gallivanting and wooing people every weekend doesn’t mean I’m always stuck behind the bar…”

Then he leans in a little more, eyes locking on yours, teasing, but laced with something quieter underneath. Something warmer.

“Besides, is it so hard to believe that I’m capable of showing a pretty girl a good time?”

You raise a brow, incredulous, skepticism written all over your tear-streaked face. “The last time I convinced you to go out, you scowled the entire night and then punched a guy for grabbing my arm a little too hard.”

Bucky exhales, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as a flush creeps up under his stubble. “Alright, fair point. Maybe I’m a bit… overprotective.”

He shifts, leaning closer again, voice dropping just slightly.

“But in my defense, you can be a little too trusting.”

You roll your eyes, but his words settle somewhere deeper. Then his expression softens—just a crack in the sarcastic armor—and you catch the concern underneath.

“You’re like this… beacon of optimism and kindness, and people take advantage of that.”

Your heart squeezes at the tenderness in his voice.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt again,” he murmurs. “That’s all.”

You glance down, suddenly self-conscious, fidgeting with your empty glass. But your expression softens, touched in a way you don’t bother hiding.

Something shifts in his gaze then. Less teasing, more... grounded. He reaches out and gently lays his hand over yours, stopping your restless fingers. His touch is warm, sure, surprisingly gentle.

“I know, Bucky. I appreciate it, really.” You look up, meeting his eyes. “But I can’t just hide away and be afraid of getting hurt. I want to keep trying, you know?”

You tilt your head, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Anything.”

“I get it. I really do.” His thumb brushes across your knuckles, a small, steady motion that quiets something restless inside you. “But promise me one thing.”

You roll your eyes with a dramatic huff. “Fine,” you grumble.

He gives you a faint smile, something almost wistful in it. His thumb keeps tracing soft circles on your skin. “No more dating apps. For a while, at least.”

He eventually pulls his hand back, sliding you a fresh drink and crossing his arms over his chest as his tone slips easily back into something more teasing.

Bucky’s smile widens at your reluctant surrender, his thumb still lazily tracing soft circles over your knuckles. “That’s my girl.”

“I mean, seriously, doll. Those things are just swarming with creeps and weirdos. You’d have better luck digging up a halfway decent date in a trash can.”

You scoff at his exaggeration, though you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Wow, Bucky. With encouragement like that, it’s a miracle I’m still single.”

“So your solution is to take me on some kind of pity date? Show me what I’ve been missing?”

He chuckles, shaking his head like you’re the one being ridiculous. “Hey, I’m just saying, the bar for your dates is in hell.”

He shrugs, a playful smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth. “Call it what you want. I just think you deserve better than those losers you’ve been settling for.”

There’s a pause, his voice dipping lower. “And maybe I’m getting tired of watching you mope around, crying into your drinks every weekend.”

You roll your eyes again, but the warmth in your chest says otherwise. There’s a spark behind your teasing expression, one you’re not entirely trying to hide.

“Fine,” you sigh, setting your glass down with a clink. “If it’ll finally shut you up, I’ll let you take me out.”

Bucky’s smirk stretches into a full, bright grin, eyes dancing with mischief.

“Oh, princess. You won’t be able to shut me up after I show you what a real date looks like.”

You groan, already regretting your decision, if only a little. “Oh god. You’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”

He places a hand over his heart, gasping. “Me? Insufferable? I’m wounded. Show a little faith.”

Then he sighs—dramatic as ever—and leans his elbow against the counter. “But yes. I’m going to be unbearably insufferable. Just to spite you.”

You shake your head, amusement curling in your chest. “That’s what I figured,” you mutter under your breath.

He hears it anyway, and that only makes his smirk deepen. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be thanking me by the end of the night.”

You lift a brow, crossing your arms. “So when is this magical date happening, hmm?”

“How about next Friday? That gives you a whole week to mentally prepare for the best date of your life.”

His grin widens like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Patience, princess. Good things come to those who wait.” He drums his fingers along the counter for a moment, thinking.

You snort, unable to hold it back. “Seriously? You’re really gonna make me wait a week?”

Bucky shrugs, still basking in his smugness. “Hey, I never said it’d be an easy week.”

He leans in a little, his voice dropping just enough to send a flutter through your chest. “Besides, I kinda like the idea of you thinking about me all week.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes again. “Like I don’t already spend all my free time with you anyway.”

That earns a real laugh from him, deep and unguarded, his shoulders shaking with it. “Ah, touché.”

He props himself against the counter again, still grinning. “But this time, it’s different. This time you’ll be completely swept off your feet by my undeniable charm and devastating charisma.”

You scoff, but your smile is impossible to hide. “Bucky, you could charm the pants off a tree. I’m not sure how much more charmed I could get.”

He clutches his chest in mock offense, again. “Excuse you. I’ll have you know you haven’t even begun to fall for my charms.”

He leans in again, that flirtatious smile tugging at his lips like a secret he’s dying to share.

“But don’t worry—I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. By the end of that night, you’ll be begging me for more.”

You flush, duck your head as you take a long sip from your drink, too big to be casual.

Bucky notices instantly, and his smirk spreads with smug satisfaction. He leans in, his voice low and teasing.

“Oh, look at that. Is my princess getting a little flustered?”

Your heart skips, just once, your pulse quickening under the weight of his stare. He’s entirely too close. Entirely too aware of what he’s doing to you.

“Flustered? Please.” You lift your chin, trying to sound unimpressed. “You wish.”

But your voice is thinner than you’d like, and Bucky doesn’t let it slide. His smirk deepens, eyes never leaving your face.

“Oh, you can deny it all you want,” he murmurs. “But your cheeks are telling a different story.”

His hand lifts between you, fingers brushing against your cheek with a featherlight touch. Just his thumb, grazing softly over heated skin.

The contact sends a shiver racing down your spine, and for one shameful second, you almost lean into it. You barely manage to hold your ground.

“Bucky,” you mutter, exasperated and breathless all at once. “You’re impossible sometimes.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and his thumb lingers for a heartbeat longer before he draws back. He leans away from you, resting against the counter again with that same maddening, smug affection in his eyes.

Your face burns hotter. “Stop teasing me!”

“Impossible?” He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Nah. Just really good at getting under your skin.” Then, quieter, more amused than anything, “You really are adorable when you’re flustered.”

He just grins wider, utterly unrepentant. “You’re too fun to tease. Your reactions? Way too cute.”

And then he leans in again, just enough to make your breath catch. His voice is silk and challenge all at once.

“Seeing you all flustered and red? That’s becoming one of my favorite pastimes.”

You groan, letting your head drop to the bar with a dull thunk. “I hate you.”

Bucky laughs again, and it’s genuine and amused and far too fond.

He reaches out and ruffles your hair, like he can’t help himself. “Sure you do. But we both know you love my charming self.”

You swat his hand away, scowling as you try to fix the mess he’s made of your hair. “You are the worst. I’m going upstairs to eat all your food.”

His smirk returns immediately, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You act like I don’t expect you to raid my fridge every time you’re here.”

He watches as you huff dramatically and make your way toward the stairs that lead to his apartment above the bar.

“I just got more of those apples you like! Enjoy your stolen snacks!” he calls after you.

You don’t bother looking back. You just flip him off as you disappear through the door.

Behind you, Bucky’s laughter echoes, warm and bright. “Real mature, princess!”

There’s no bite to his voice, only fondness. He knows you’ll be back down after your snack break. You always are.

But even as the laughter fades, he’s still smiling to himself, his thoughts already drifting to that date you finally agree to.

One week later

It’s been a long, excruciating week of enduring Bucky’s relentless teasing. Every time you walk into the bar, he’s ready with a smug grin and some new variation of: “You ready for the greatest date of your life, doll?”

You roll your eyes, groan, threaten to cancel at least three times—but none of it stops the small, fluttery ache of anticipation that starts building in your chest. You’ll never admit it to him, of course. But you are… excited. Just a little.

Okay, maybe more than a little.

By the time the day arrives, your nerves are in full swing. You spend far longer than usual standing in front of your closet, changing outfits at least five times. You may or may not redo your hair. Twice.

But definitely not because you want to impress Bucky.

You stand in the middle of your bedroom, hands on your hips, surrounded by the wreckage of your failed outfit attempts. “What does cute but comfy even mean?” you mutter to yourself, glaring at the heap of discarded clothes.

You picture him in those dark jeans he always wears, probably paired with a Henley—his unofficial uniform. And it’s cold out, too.

With a sigh, you reach for your favorite pair of jeans and pull on a floral sweater—the one Bucky always compliments when you wear it.

As you smooth it down and catch your reflection in the mirror, you can almost hear his voice from the week before. Dress cute but comfy, princess.

Your fingers brush the hem of the sweater, and despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips. His eyes always linger when you wear this one.

Maybe tonight they’ll linger just a little longer.

With one last tug at the hem, you take a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves still fluttering wildly in your stomach. Your eyes flick to the clock on your nightstand—Bucky’s supposed to be here any minute.

Then a thought hits you. Is it too much to wear the sweater he likes? Is it obvious you chose it specifically hoping he’d notice? You chew your lip, suddenly second-guessing everything.

Too late now.

The buzzer downstairs crackles, and your heart skips a beat.

He’s here.

You rush to the mirror for one final glance, smoothing your hair, your sweater—anything to make the nerves settle. It’s just Bucky, you remind yourself. You’ve seen each other at your worst. This shouldn’t feel like such a big deal.

But somehow, it does.

Another deep breath. Then you’re heading down the stairs, trying not to let your anticipation show on your face.

When you open the door, there he is—leaning against the frame like he’s done a hundred times before. And, just like you predict, he’s wearing those dark jeans and a red Henley that fits a little too well, hugging the lines of his chest and arms. Your gaze lingers for half a second longer than it should before you snap yourself back to the moment.

“Hey, you,” you say, voice light.

His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, just for a second, and it sends a small jolt of satisfaction straight through you. He recovers quickly, of course—smirking like always.

“Hey yourself.”

His gaze drops, taking in your outfit, and when his eyes catch on the sweater, something shifts in his expression—softer, appreciative.

“You look—” he starts, then clears his throat when the words falter. “You look nice.”

You can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. The way his eyes linger tells you everything you need to know.

“You don’t look half bad yourself,” you reply, cheeks already starting to warm. “So… um, what’s the plan?”

His smirk grows, tugging wider at the corners of his mouth. “Straight to the point, huh?”

He pushes off the doorframe, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“I guess I could tell you… but first—” He takes a step toward you, his eyes glittering with something mischievous. “You’ve gotta close your eyes.”

Your brows lift, surprised. “Close my eyes? Why?”

There’s hesitation in your voice, but curiosity has already started to outweigh the nerves.

Bucky just chuckles, voice warm. “Trust me, doll.”

You eye him suspiciously for a beat, but eventually sigh in surrender. “Fine. But if this is some dumb trick…”

You close your eyes anyway, heart tapping a little faster against your ribs. There’s a beat of silence, then the soft sound of his footsteps as he steps even closer.

“Keep ’em closed,” he says, voice low and teasing.

You fidget slightly, the suspense ratcheting up by the second. You can hear him shifting, maybe reaching for something, but you can’t tell what’s happening—and it’s starting to make you squirm.

Finally, he speaks again. “Okay. You can open them now.”

You blink your eyes open, adjusting to the light—and freeze.

Bucky’s standing in front of you, holding out a small bouquet of flowers.

Your jaw drops. “Flowers?” you manage to squeak, utterly caught off guard.

He smiles—not the usual teasing smirk, but something gentler. Real.

“Yeah. Flowers.”

They’re nothing flashy. Just a handful of daisies and sunflowers, wrapped in plain brown paper. But your heart does something stupid in your chest anyway. It’s thoughtful. Sweet. Unexpected.

And coming from him?

It feels like something bigger than it looks.

He holds them out a little farther, his eyes never leaving your face. “For you.”

Your breath catches as you stare at the bouquet. Simple, sweet, a little messy—but the kind of messy that feels sincere.

“That’s…” you murmur, fingers brushing over the petals. “Nobody’s ever gotten me flowers before.”

The words leave you quieter than you expect, your throat tightening just slightly. You blink hard, trying to will away the sting building behind your eyes. “Let me—um, let me put these in some water.”

Bucky’s expression softens instantly, the teasing slipping away. He watches as you carefully take the bouquet from him, his gaze tracing the flicker of vulnerability on your face.

“Nobody?” he asks, voice lower now, touched with disbelief—and something darker. Like he’s trying to keep the edge of anger out of his tone.

You just nod and step back inside. 

“Go ahead,” he says gently. “I’ll wait right here.” 

You hurry into the kitchen, heart pounding in your chest, as if the flowers are some fragile secret you have to protect. You rummage through the cabinet for a vase, fill it, and arrange the bouquet gently inside. Daisies and sunflowers. Not fancy, but real.

“How did he know I love daisies?” you murmur to yourself.

Back at the door, Bucky waits, leaning casually in the frame like he’s got all the time in the world. But you can feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement like he’s trying to figure out what you’re thinking.

You finally reappear, cheeks still warm but your breathing steadier. The flowers sit proudly on the little table by the door, adding a soft pop of color to the space. A small spot of sunshine.

Bucky straightens the moment he sees you. “Feeling better?” he asks, that familiar teasing note creeping back into his voice.

You smile—small, but real—and gesture toward the flowers. “I’m great, thank you.” Then, quieter, a little breathless, “Shall we go?”

He smiles back, and there’s something oddly satisfied in the way his eyes flick toward the bouquet before settling on you again. Without a word, he holds out his arm—a gentleman’s gesture that feels surprisingly earnest coming from someone like him.

“After you.”

You slip your hand through the crook of his arm, fingers resting lightly against his bicep. His warmth bleeds through the fabric of his shirt, and the faint scent of his cologne drifts around you—something clean and masculine and entirely him.

As he leads you outside, the chill in the air brushes over your skin, but somehow, it doesn’t bother you. Not when you’re this close to Bucky.

He guides you to his old Jeep parked at the curb. With a slight flourish, he opens the passenger door for you. “Your chariot awaits.”

You laugh softly under your breath, sliding inside. The seat is cool beneath you as he shuts the door and circles around to the driver’s side.

Once he’s behind the wheel, he glances over. “Comfy?”

You nod, trying to ignore the butterflies dancing in your stomach. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He shifts the car into gear, and the two of you pull out onto the street. The city lights blur past the windows, and for a while, the silence between you stretches—quiet, but heavy.

You fidget with the hem of your sweater, nerves slowly rising again until they sit in your chest like a weight.

“Bucky?” you say, barely above a whisper.

He glances at you, then reaches over and wraps his hand gently around yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Yeah?”

You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to look at him. “Can I ask you something?”

His thumb begins to trace slow, calming circles over the back of your hand.

“Of course.”

You hesitate, then finally let the question fall from your lips.

“This date... it’s not like a date date, right? I mean... we’re still friends. Right?”

His eyes soften instantly. There’s no teasing in his expression now—only understanding. He gives your hand another soft squeeze.

“Don’t worry. We’re still friends. This doesn’t have to change anything.”

You let out a quiet breath, relief settling over you like a blanket. Your body relaxes into the seat a little more.

“Okay. Good.”

Bucky offers a gentle smile, loosening his grip just slightly—but not letting go.

“Can I ask you something now?”

You glance over, curious. “Sure.”

His eyes stay on the road, but you catch the side of his smile.

“Why the nerves?”

His voice is still gentle, but there’s a thread of genuine curiosity beneath it. Like he’s trying to understand you—really understand you.

“I—” Your breath hitches, nerves tightening your chest. “You’re my best friend. I just… I don’t want to lose that, y’know?”

Bucky’s expression softens even further, impossibly gentle. Something in your voice—raw and honest—cuts right through him. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, thumb still gently tracing your skin.

“Doll,” he murmurs, “you’re not gonna lose me. Not over a date.”

You flip your hand in his, just enough to squeeze it back. And when he lifts it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, your heart nearly stops.

He doesn’t overthink it—doesn’t pull away quickly, either. His lips linger there, warm and unhurried, like the moment belongs to neither of you and both of you all at once.

When he finally looks up, his gaze finds yours—and something about the way he looks at you makes it hard to breathe.

“See?” he says softly. “We’re all good.”

“All good,” you echo, barely above a whisper, eyes wide as your pulse thrums in your ears.

Bucky smirks, just a little. He sees the way you’re reacting, the flush on your cheeks, the way you’re suddenly so still. He likes it. You can tell.

He laces his fingers through yours and settles your hand in his lap, holding it there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Relax, princess.”

You try to. You really do. But the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours, the slow stroke of his thumb—it sends a flutter through your stomach that’s hard to ignore.

He’s being sweet. Uncharacteristically so. And it’s throwing you off balance.

You draw in a breath, slow and steady. “Easier said than done.”

He laughs softly, the sound warm and rumbling from his chest. You can feel it in the air between you.

“I know,” he says, giving your hand another light squeeze. “But you’re doing great.”

His glance shifts toward you again, and this time his eyes are softer—almost fond.

“Just relax and enjoy the ride, alright?”

You nod, letting yourself settle back against the seat. The city moves past the window in soft blurs of gold and blue, and you try to focus on the steady rhythm of his thumb tracing against your skin.

Your nerves haven’t vanished, but they’ve quieted a little. Enough for your curiosity to finally rise above the static in your chest.

“So... where are we going, anyway?” you ask.

That familiar smirk returns to Bucky’s face, a flicker of mischief lighting in his eyes.

“It’s a surprise.”

You narrow your eyes playfully, already knowing that tone. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Trust me. You’ll like it.”

You raise a brow, teasing. “You’re really gonna make me wait until we get there?”

He just smirks wider, not even pretending to hide how much he loves keeping you in suspense.

“Patience. Good things come to those who wait.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you glance over at him again. The sunset outside the window turns everything gold. It washes over his profile, softening the edges, lighting his face in warm amber. And God, he’s—

He’s really pretty.

You’re still staring when he glances sideways and catches you.

He raises an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye. “See something you like, princess?”

You roll your eyes, flustered. “You don’t usually let your hair get this long.”

His smirk softens into something closer to a smile as he runs a hand through it, the strands curling slightly at the ends, starting to brush his shoulders.

“Yeah, well… just haven’t had time to get it cut.”

Then he glances over again, more curious this time. “You like it long?”

You hum, thoughtful. “Yeah. It suits you. You get more curl.”

His smile grows at that, genuine and just a little bashful. He usually keeps it shorter—easier, quicker, less hassle. But knowing you like it this way? Suddenly he’s glad he never made that appointment.

“Good to know you approve.”

You scoff lightly. “Ah yes, because you definitely need my approval for your hair choices.”

Bucky lets out a warm laugh, half amusement, half mock offense, as he rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“Of course I don’t need your approval,” Bucky says, smirking as he casts you a sideways glance. “But it sure doesn’t hurt to get a compliment from a pretty girl.”

The mischief in his eyes practically sparkles—and this time, the blush hits you fast and hard.

“Stop that!” you blurt, turning your face toward the window to hide the flush creeping across your cheeks.

Bucky just grins wider, clearly pleased with himself. He wears that smug, teasing look like a second skin.

“Stop what, princess?” he asks, all faux innocence.

“You can’t just... say things like that!”

He lets out a laugh, low and rich, and it rumbles through the car like warm thunder. God, he loves seeing you like this—flustered and trying not to show it, all pink cheeks and narrowed eyes.

“Can’t say what?” he leans a little closer, voice dipping low. “That you’re pretty?”

You groan. “Exactly that!”

His grin softens, the teasing not entirely gone, but tempered now with something else—something that makes your stomach twist in a different way.

“But it’s true.”

Then, almost before you can react, his voice drops further—quieter, more serious.

“You’re gorgeous, princess.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “You can’t just say stuff like that when you don’t mean it,” you squeak out, the words spilling too fast, too defensive.

The smile on his face falters slightly. The laughter fading from his eyes. He straightens just a bit in his seat, hand tightening around yours.

“Who says I don’t mean it?”

You stare at him, speechless, heart thudding too loud in your ears. You try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a confused sputter as you gesture vaguely toward him—toward all of him.

You don’t even have the words for it. That broad chest, those strong hands, the way he looks at you like he sees you.

“You’re so…” You shake your head. “And I’m…”

Not, is what you don’t say aloud.

Bucky’s expression softens the moment he sees the shift in your eyes—recognizes the insecurity creeping in beneath your voice.

“Hey,” he says gently, reaching for your hand again. “Don’t.”

His fingers wrap around yours, warm and solid. His thumb begins tracing slow, careful circles across your knuckles again, grounding you.

“You’re beautiful.”

The sincerity in his voice leaves you momentarily stunned. He isn’t teasing now. He isn’t playing around. He’s looking right at you, and meaning every word.

You glance down at your joined hands, at how small yours looks in his, at the gentle rhythm of his thumb on your skin.

“Bucky…” you murmur, caught off guard by the intensity in his eyes.

His gaze doesn’t waver, his thumb never stills. His voice, when he speaks again, is soft. Barely more than a whisper.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your head snaps up, breath catching in your throat. “W-what?”

He hesitates, realizing the words have just slipped out—but he doesn’t take them back. Instead, he draws in a breath, his voice still quiet, but steadier now.

“I just…” He looks down at your joined hands, his brows drawing in slightly. “You drive me crazy.”

There’s no teasing left in his tone. Only truth.

“It’s like every time I’m around you, I lose a little more control. And every time you walk into the bar crying over someone else, it makes me want to—”

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening as his grip on your hand briefly tenses before he softens it again.

“—makes me want to gather you up in my arms and never let go.”

Your heart skips a beat, the sheer vulnerability in his words hitting you like a tidal wave. It’s rare—so rare—to see Bucky this exposed. This open. But he isn’t done yet.

You open your mouth to respond, but he gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Let me finish.”

You nod, barely trusting your voice.

He holds your gaze, steady and serious.

“You’ve gotten under my skin. More than anyone ever has. And seeing you heartbroken over and over—it kills me.”

He pauses, jaw working slightly, like the next words cost him something.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to protect you.”

The statement hangs heavy in the air between you, its weight pressing into your chest. This isn’t the Bucky you’re used to—the cocky, teasing bartender who deflects emotions with smirks and sarcasm. No, this is something else entirely. This is Bucky, raw and vulnerable, laying himself bare in a way that knocks the breath right out of you.

He clears his throat, the cracks in his armor already beginning to seal. You watch the mask slip back into place as he tries to brush it off with forced nonchalance.

“Anyway,” he mutters, his voice rough. “That’s enough of that. I’m getting soft in my old age.”

“You…” The question spills out before you can stop it. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

His expression shifts again, just slightly. A flicker of something behind his eyes—hesitation, fear, regret—before he straightens his shoulders.

“What was there to say?” he replies, and though his tone stays neutral, his grip on your hand says otherwise. “You’re my best friend. That’s more important to me than anything.”

But you can see it—the truth still flickering beneath the surface. Vulnerability lingers in the way his jaw clenches, in the twitch of his fingers against yours.

You bite your lip, debating whether to push. But your heart has already decided. You give his hand a squeeze, your eyes pleading.

“Bucky… please.”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. He can never resist you when you look at him like that. And you know it.

“Fine,” he mutters. His eyes meet yours, no longer guarded. “You want the truth?”

You nod, heart hammering.

His voice softens. Quieter now, like a secret meant only for you.

“You’re the most aggravatingly beautiful, compassionate, strong, stubborn, intelligent, and unbelievably infuriating person I’ve ever met.”

The words hit you square in the chest. Not a single trace of sarcasm. Just him. Honest and open in a way that makes your breath catch.

You can’t look away from him, heart thudding loud enough you’re sure he can hear it.

He keeps going, barely above a whisper now, the fading sunlight washing over his face as the car cruises through the streets.

“And every time you come in with a broken heart, it kills me.”

His fingers tighten around yours again, like his body can’t help reacting to the weight of what he’s saying.

“I want to be the one who makes you laugh,” he says. “The one who wipes away your tears—not causes them. But I can’t let myself ruin what we have.”

Your throat aches as you listen, every word unraveling some hidden thread inside you. You’ve known him so long, and still... you’ve never seen this side of him.

You give his hand another squeeze, the gesture quiet but full of meaning.

“Bucky… you could’ve told me.”

He gives a half-shrug, his eyes flicking to the road.

“And risk losing you?” His voice is tight. “I couldn’t.”

A beat passes. He hesitates, then adds, almost to himself, “Besides. What good would it have done anyway? You never looked at me that way.”

Your breath catches. “You don’t know that,” you murmur.

He lets out a short, bitter laugh, more like a scoff. Still facing forward, still braced for the worst.

“Come on, princess. Don’t lie just to make me feel better.”

There it is—his defenses, sharp and familiar. But this time, you push back.

“When have I ever lied to you?” Your voice trembles, but there’s steel beneath it. “Why do you think I’ve been throwing myself out there, huh? You think I like getting my heart broken every other month?”

That gets his attention. He turns to look at you, startled by the edge in your tone.

“Not a single one of them measures up to you,” you say, voice rough with emotion. “I practically live at your place on the weekends. Not because it’s convenient. Because I want to be with you.”

His mouth parts, but no words come. His eyes search your face, disoriented—like you’ve upended everything he thought he knew.

“Why… why didn’t you ever say anything?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

You huff out a breath, trying to collect the mess of nerves tangled in your chest.

“Because why would you ever be interested in me?” you reply, voice small. “I’m just the mousy little teacher who drinks too much wine and cries in your bar. And you? You’re built like a brick shithouse and have more charm in your pinky than I’ve got in my whole damn body. You could have anyone. So why would you ever even look at me that way?”

Bucky stares at you like you’ve just said something in a language he can’t understand. Slowly, painfully, his expression shifts—from shock, to disbelief, to something that looks a lot like heartbreak.

“You really think that’s how I see you?” he asks quietly. “As some ‘mousy little teacher’ who could never compare to me?”

His voice is tight—almost angry—but beneath it, you hear the raw ache. Like the thought alone wounds him.

His grip on your hand stays firm, knuckles white from the pressure, but you don’t pull away. Can’t.

“Why would you think so little of yourself?” he demands, voice low and breaking at the edges. “You’re smart, and sweet, and funny, and so damn beautiful... How could I not be interested?”

The words hit hard—so blunt, so true, so not what you’d ever let yourself imagine. You can’t speak, can’t even breathe for a moment. He looks at you like he’s trying to solve a riddle that has no answer, as if he can’t understand why you can’t see what he sees.

“Why would you ever think I’d want anyone else?” he asks again, his voice cracking.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, the honesty in his voice carving something open inside you. You drop your gaze, overwhelmed. His hand is still tight around yours, until he seems to realize, loosening his hold suddenly, a flicker of regret in his eyes.

He drags a hand through his hair and exhales hard. “Damnit.”

“This whole time...” The words slip out on a choked breath. “I could’ve been yours this whole time.”

His eyes soften instantly, the fire in them cooling into something gentler, something heartbreakingly tender. He reaches for you, hesitating only for a moment before brushing a tear from your cheek with the softest touch.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet—free of sarcasm, free of pretense.

“We’ve been a right pair of fools, haven’t we?”

Before you can answer, Bucky suddenly veers off the highway, pulling the car to the shoulder with a swift turn. Then, without a word, he reaches for you.

You let out a startled gasp as he tugs you into his lap in one smooth, sure motion. Your body curls against his chest like it’s always belonged there, one arm wrapping tight around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. His chin rests against your hair, and for a while, there’s nothing but the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek and the soft, steady sound of his breath.

The world falls away. You can feel the heat of him, the strength in his hold, the way his fingers tangle gently in your hair like he doesn’t want to let go.

Then, in a voice quieter than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “I’m so damn tired of just being your friend.”

Your breath catches. You tip your head back, heart thundering, and find him already watching you. The look in his eyes—longing, pain, something unspoken—makes your chest ache.

You reach up without thinking, cupping his cheek with your hand. “Then don’t be.”

Bucky closes his eyes and leans into your touch, his stubble brushing your palm. He brings his hand up to hold yours there, anchoring it to his face like he needs the connection.

“No more games,” he whispers.

The vulnerability in his voice steals the breath right out of your lungs. You nod, pulse pounding, words trembling in your throat.

“No more games,” you repeat softly, trying to will your voice steady.

His eyes search yours, like he needs to be absolutely sure you mean it. When all he sees is honesty, something in him seems to settle.

He reaches out, thumb brushing along your bottom lip, slow and reverent. It makes you shiver.

“Just us,” he murmurs.

Tears well again, but they come with laughter this time—light, breathless, incredulous laughter. You wipe your cheek with the back of your hand, laughing through the tears like someone who finally understands the joke.

“God, we’ve both been so stupid.”

A reluctant smile tugs at his lips as he looks at you, like he can’t believe any of this is real. His gaze softens, full of warmth and a quiet kind of affection that makes your stomach flutter.

“Yeah,” he sighs, resting his forehead against yours. “We have. But better late than never, right?”

You let out a shaky breath, voice hoarse. “We’ve done everything except say the damn words out loud.”

Bucky lets out a soft laugh, the sound sending a small thrill right through you. You’re so close—sitting in his lap, his hands holding yours like they never want to let go.

Then, slowly, he lifts your hand and gently cups your chin, forcing you to keep eye contact. Your heart thuds in your chest under that steady gaze.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod, too overwhelmed to speak. His eyes hold you captive, so intense you almost fear what he might say next.

Bucky draws a deep breath, as if bracing himself. That vulnerability is still there, hidden just beneath the surface of his usual confidence.

His fingers trace the line of your jaw softly as he speaks, voice low, deliberate. “Can I kiss you?”

The word slips out from you on a barely audible breath.

“Please.”

His eyes darken at your answer, as if that single word ignites something deep inside him.

He doesn’t hesitate. One hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your hip. Your knees bracket his thighs, the sudden closeness stealing your breath.

His eyes search yours, silently asking for consent one last time. You don’t answer—closing the gap between you.

His breath hitches the moment your lips brush his, his hold tightening just a fraction. The contact sparks a rush of electricity that sends goosebumps racing down your arms.

Bucky tilts your head gently, his lips parting to deepen the kiss—soft but insistent, savoring the taste of you like he’s waited an eternity.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you melt into him, fingers tangling in the thick strands of his hair. He responds instantly, free hand pulling you even closer, gripping your hip firmly.

His tongue traces your bottom lip, and you feel his restraint slipping away as he murmurs your name against your lips, breathless and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

The kiss grows hungry, desperate. You press closer, hands roaming over his broad shoulders and chest. Bucky matches your fervor, tightening his hold like he can’t get enough of you.

His tongue slips inside your mouth, and you gasp into the kiss, overwhelmed by the intensity of him.

He nips your bottom lip, fingers digging almost painfully into your hip.

You grind down against him, desperate for more, but suddenly he pulls away, chest heaving.

“No,” he murmurs. “Not like this. Not in the damn car.”

A small whimper escapes you as the loss of his lips leaves you cold. You look down at him, breathless and confused.

He takes a moment to steady his breathing, still holding your hip firmly. His eyes meet yours, the fire still there but shifting into something softer.

“Not in here,” he repeats, voice hoarse. “This isn’t how it’s going to happen.”

Impatience and frustration prickle through you. You’ve been so close—so ready to give in to everything you’ve been holding back—and now he’s stopping.

You open your mouth to protest, but Bucky’s fingers dig into your hip, silencing you.

“Doll,” he says pointedly. “Be good.”

The command sends a shiver down your spine, mingling with the ache of wanting him. You know he has his reasons for holding back, but you still want him fiercely.

You nod reluctantly, a small pout curling your lips. Bucky catches the expression and smirks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he groans.

You huff softly, trying to ignore how that smirk hits you like a jolt straight to your nerves.

“Like what?” you shoot back, the sulkiness clear in your voice.

His smirk deepens, clearly enjoying your little pout. He shifts you so you’re sitting on his thigh, your legs draped over one of his. The move presses you even closer, and the heat pooling in your belly only grows stronger.

He raises a hand, gently tilting your chin up. His thumb traces over your bottom lip, an almost affectionate gesture.

“Like that,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “Like you’re about to start pouting.”

Your breath hitches at the touch, heart picking up pace again. The sudden urge to lean forward and kiss him surges up, but you fight it—barely.

You try for a glare, but it doesn’t hold any real heat. “I am not pouting.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle, eyes roaming your flushed cheeks and parted lips. He leans closer, a teasing glint sparking in his gaze. His voice drops even lower, huskier, sending goosebumps down your arms.

“Now, you’re going to be a good little thing and let me drive.”

You open your mouth to fire back with something snarky, but before you can, his thumb slips between your lips.

“No arguing. I’m taking you home, and you’re going to put that pretty little pout away.”

Your protest dies on your tongue, caught by the gentle pressure of his thumb. Your mind blanks for a moment—Bucky being this gentle with you is disarming.

He smirks again, noticing your wide eyes, and speaks with mock seriousness, his thumb still resting lightly on your bottom lip.

“That means no pouting, princess.”

You almost whine when he pulls his hand away, shifting you back into the passenger seat.

“Buckle up, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You grumble under your breath but fasten your seatbelt reluctantly. His smirk doesn’t fade as he starts the engine.

The mood shifts again—from the dizzying intensity to something playful, teasing.

You shoot him a look, half annoyed, half flustered. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

He just chuckles, taking your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. A slow, mischievous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“What can I say? Teasing you is just too damn easy.”

His fingers trail over your palm, and the simple contact sends your heart fluttering. You fight the urge to roll your eyes, but the feel of his rough fingertips on your soft skin makes it hard to stay annoyed.

You keep your gaze on him as the streetlights flicker over his face.

A small sigh escapes you. “You’re insufferable.”

Bucky chuckles, the sound sending a familiar thrill through you. His eyes stay on the road, but his grip on your hand remains gentle.

“You love it,” he teases, his smirk growing.

You heave a dramatic sigh. “Yeah. I guess I do, jerk.”

He squeezes your hand, the gesture almost tender. “Did you just admit to liking me?”

“Oh my god, don’t you start!”

He glances your way with a wide smirk. “Oh, princess, the teasing potential here is too good to pass up.”

You groan, realizing exactly what you just signed up for. “I hate you,” you mumble, pouting.

His smirk deepens, clearly enjoying your reaction. He chuckles low, his grip tightening on your hand.

“No, you don’t,” he says, confidence threading his voice. “Because every time I...” He brushes another soft kiss over your knuckles, making your breath hitch, a wicked smirk curving his lips. “You stop breathing.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, your heart skipping a beat. He’s right. Every time he touches you like this, your brain shorts out.

You try to hold his gaze but can’t stop a small, breathy gasp. “Shut up.”

His smirk only grows wider, not even glancing at you as he takes two of your fingers into his mouth, tongue sliding over your skin.

Your mind scrambles to process the sensation—the simple, intimate gesture making your heart skip another beat.

You try to keep your voice steady, but a small whine slips out.

“You’re playing dirty.”

Bucky smirks at your reaction, the sound of your voice nearly making him lose focus on the road. He glances over at you, eyes darkening as he pulls away from your fingers.

His voice drops, huskier now, a hint of promise threading through it.

“Darling, you have no idea how dirty I can play.”

Your breath hitches, the thought of what else he could do with that mouth sending a jolt through you.

You swallow hard, voice barely a whisper. “You’re teasing me again.”

His eyes dance with mischief as he looks your way, clearly enjoying how easily he can rile you up.

He shrugs, a small, smug smirk playing on his lips. “I’m gonna keep teasing you as long as you’ll let me.”

You groan again, but it’s softer this time, the annoyance mixed with something like reluctant amusement. There’s something about his teasing you can’t quite hate, even if it drives you crazy.

You shoot him a mock glare that holds no real heat. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

Bucky chuckles at your comment, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise.

“You think I’m cute?” His smirk widens, sounding genuinely surprised—as if it’s never even occurred to him before.

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch upward. “Of course I think you’re cute, you big idiot.”

His smirk softens, replaced by a rare tenderness. “No one’s ever called me cute before.”

“…What?”

He looks away, eyes returning to the road, shoulders slumping slightly as the bravado fades from his face. His voice drops, vulnerability creeping back in.

“I’ve been called a lot of things… but cute ain’t one of them.”

The silence grows thick as he pulls the Jeep behind the bar and cuts the engine. It’s nearly deafening.

You tug on his hand, still intertwined with yours.

“Hey,” you say softly, “You’re a beautiful man. And I mean it.”

Bucky turns toward you, the vulnerability in his expression making your heart ache. He searches your face like he can’t quite believe you.

He studies you silently for a moment, his grip on your hand tightening just a little.

His voice is barely louder than a breath when he finally speaks.

“You… you really mean that?”

“I do.” Your smile is soft, sincere.

His expression melts even further, the weight of your words hanging between you. His gaze holds yours, vulnerability making him seem younger, more open than ever.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, as if trying to steady himself.

“God,” he murmurs. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.”

You smile, teasingly bold. “Are you going to show me or keep me waiting?”

His breath hitches, the tease in your voice sending a jolt through him. He looks at you, desire and uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

He swallows hard, the last of his restraint slipping away.

Before you can register, he’s out of the car, moving so fast he barely seems to think about it. He opens your door and offers his hand. You take it without hesitation and suddenly you’re pressed against the cold metal of the car.

“Can I kiss you?” he murmurs, face inches from yours.

“Yes.”

The word barely leaves your mouth before his lips crash down on yours, the intensity of the kiss stealing your breath. His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, holding your face as he practically devours your lips.

He kisses like a man possessed, desire snapping free in an explosion of need. He presses you against the car, body flush with yours.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss. His tongue brushes yours, the taste of him maddeningly sweet and addictive.

All restraint slips away. His other hand grips your hip tightly, pressing you harder against the car. The sound of your breath is loud in the quiet night.

Every touch, every movement sends your heart racing. You can feel how much he wants you—the intensity of his desire almost overwhelming.

He pulls back, panting, our breath fogging in the cold air.

“Upstairs?” you breathe.

Bucky nods, eyes wild with hunger. He leans his forehead against yours, breathing heavy.

“Yes,” he rasps. “Upstairs. Now.”

He practically drags you up the familiar staircase to his apartment above the bar. The moment the door shuts behind you, he’s pushing you against it, and you gasp as he lifts your legs to wrap around his waist.

He presses you tight against the door, eyes burning with intensity. His hands grip your thighs like he needs to anchor himself to you as your heart hammers.

His voice drops to a low rasp. “Are you sure? That you want this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

His breath stutters, the conviction in your voice sending a jolt through him as his grip tightens, anchoring himself even more.

His eyes search yours, making sure. The heat in his expression makes your pulse race faster.

“I want you tonight,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “All night.”

You nod frantically, pulling him back into a hungry kiss.

This time, he doesn’t hold back. The last of his restraint snaps as he kisses you with fierce need, hands roaming your body with desperate urgency.

His lips leave yours, trailing down your jaw, then your neck. He pauses at your pulse point, savoring your taste.

“So damn beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin.

He kisses and nips at the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving goosebumps in his wake. His hands move to the hem of your shirt, tugging impatiently.

“I need to feel you,” he mutters, voice rough with desire.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as you gasp, “Please,” rolling your hips closer, desperate for more.

He groans, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. The desperation in your voice drives him wild. He presses into you harder, eyes dark with hunger.

A low growl slips out—almost animalistic. “Beg for me.”

Your breath hitches at the command, equal parts demanding and vulnerable.

Fingers tightening in his hair, you hold his gaze. Your voice wavers.

“Please… Bucky.”

His breath catches at the sound of his name on your lips, the pleading in your eyes nearly too much. He groans low, hands tightening on your hips.

He searches your eyes, intensity overwhelming.

“Louder.”

Your heart skips. His voice sends a shiver down your spine. You pull him closer, holding his gaze.

Breath shaky, you repeat, louder this time:

“Please, Bucky.”

His eyes darken, the sound of your voice like a prayer, nearly unbearable. He presses into you, need radiating from him.

He kisses you again, fervent and wild. He devours your lips, hands exploring every inch he can reach.

When the kiss breaks, he pulls back just enough to look at you, voice a gravelly growl.

“Again.”

“Please! I need you!” you sob, body going haywire.

He doesn’t hesitate. With a growl, he pushes off the door, holding your thighs tight at his waist. You’re tossed onto his bed, chest heaving, sweater quickly tugged off and thrown aside.

His eyes rake over your body, taking in the sight of you sprawled out—chest heaving, lips swollen from his kisses. The hunger in his gaze is ravenous, insatiable.

His hands trail reverently over your exposed skin, tracing every curve and dip.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He climbs atop you, hands caging your head, pressing you into the mattress. The weight of him and the intensity in his gaze steals your breath.

Your hands reach up, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“Off,” you gasp.

A small smirk tugs at his lips, eyes darkening with desire. He slides back just enough to let you pull his shirt over his head, revealing toned muscles and old scars.

His skin burns beneath your fingers, heat radiating off him in waves that make your pulse thunder in your throat.

He lowers himself over you again, his body pressing flush against yours, all hard muscle and molten heat. His breath ghosts over your ear, his voice a dark rasp.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” you murmur, breathless. “I want whatever you’ll give me.”

Bucky’s breath catches. The quiet ache in your voice nearly undoes him. He looks down at you—eyes blown wide, dark and raw, like he’s just handed you everything he’s ever kept hidden.

He studies your face, searching, memorizing, committing the flushed look of you to memory. Then he leans in, brushing the softest kiss over your lips—reverent, trembling with meaning.

“You have all of me,” he breathes, voice rough with emotion.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, before trailing lower—pressing slow, lingering kisses down your neck, your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts.

He takes his time, learning you with his mouth, savoring every gasp, every breathless moan like it’s a prayer.

His hands trace the dip of your waist, fingers skimming the line of your ribs with aching tenderness, like he’s touching something sacred.

“You’re so goddamn perfect,” he murmurs hoarsely.

He pulls you to the edge of the bed, reverence in every movement as he eases your jeans down your legs. His mouth follows, lips and tongue dragging over every new inch of revealed skin—slow, unhurried, worshipful.

Hands glide up your thighs, large and rough, teasing at the sensitive skin just shy of where you need him most. The way he looks at you—starving, reverent, almost wrecked—makes your breath stutter.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, voice low, reverent. “So fucking perfect.”

He explores you like he’s starved for it—touching, kissing, tasting—each pass of his mouth leaving heat and longing behind.

When his hands reach your hips, he pauses. His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, then stop. He looks up at you, pupils blown wide, voice gravel-rough.

“Can I?”

You nod, breathless, but he only tilts his head, eyes locked to yours.

“I gotta hear you say it, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you whisper, breath shaky. “Please.”

That one word knocks the breath out of him. He groans, low and rough, dragging your underwear down your legs with shaking hands.

He stares—just for a moment—like he’s seeing heaven laid bare before him. You, flushed and trembling, legs open and waiting for him.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

He settles between your thighs, breath hot against your core. His palms slide slowly up your thighs, fingers pressing into the softness like he’s savoring every inch.

“I’m gonna take my time with you tonight, princess,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your inner thigh. “Gonna learn every inch of you like a favorite novel. Word by word.”

He starts at your ankle, lips dragging upward in slow, deliberate kisses. Every press of his mouth pulls a fresh tremor from your body, your hands curling in the sheets as he moves higher.

And when he reaches the sensitive skin high on your thigh, he lingers—his tongue flicking out to taste you, a soft, obscene moan slipping from his lips at the flavor.

He doesn’t rush. He savors. He worships. His mouth and hands make love to your body, kissing and nipping, dragging his tongue along your skin in maddening, measured strokes.

His voice is a husky promise, spoken against your skin. “M’gonna taste you, sweetheart.”

He moves higher, lips brushing the aching heat between your thighs. You jerk beneath him at the first warm breath against you, and he groans—deep and guttural.

“Gonna taste you until I know every inch. Until you’re dripping for me.”

Then his mouth is on you—hot and unrelenting. His tongue moves with practiced skill, slow circles and long, devastating strokes that make your hips buck and your lungs seize.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring yourself, tugging as your thighs tremble around his head. He moans into you, the vibration making you cry out.

His hands hold you open, firm and possessive. He devours you like a man lost in worship, every sound you make drawing a darker hunger from him.

When he looks up at you, his face is wrecked—eyes burning, lips slick with you, jaw tense with restraint.

“I knew you’d be sweet,” he murmurs, voice barely holding together. “And now I’ll never get enough.”

And then he loses himself.

His mouth moves with ruthless, filthy precision—tongue flicking, lips sealing tight as he sucks your clit like he owns it. Every slow stroke, every rough circle, every teasing flick pulls another sound from your throat. You’re writhing beneath him, gasping and shaking, body reduced to nothing but nerve endings and heat. Every moan spills out of you like a song only he knows the melody to—every verse written just for him.

“Gonna have you screaming my name,” he groans into your pussy, voice rough and wrecked.

And you do.

You chant it.

You beg.

He doesn’t mind your desperation. If anything, it fuels him. The way your hips twitch, the way your thighs tremble, the broken, needy sounds tearing from your throat—it all drives him harder. Everything he does leaves a mark, carved into your memory like devotion.

He looks up at you again, eyes burning with raw, hungry intensity. “You’re gonna be a good girl and come for me, right?”

The words hit you like lightning, a searing rush straight through your core. You tighten, your whole body straining toward release. That voice—commanding and coaxing all at once—wraps around your spine like silk and steel, and you can barely breathe.

You nod, frantic, your breath caught in your throat, unable to form a single word. But he sees it in your eyes. The wild desperation. The need. The edge.

His grip on your thighs tightens, firm and unrelenting, holding you wide open for him. “Yeah? You gonna be a good girl and make all those pretty little sounds for me?”

His mouth brushes your soaked heat.

“While I make this perfect little pussy come?”

Each word is a lash of pleasure—every syllable driving you closer. He punctuates them with deliberate strokes of his tongue, a teasing nip here, a firm flick there that makes you cry out. Sparks explode in your bloodstream.

He lifts his head just enough to growl, voice like honey and whiskey poured over gravel. “That’s what you want, sweetheart? Me taking care of you? Making you feel so damn good?”

You can’t speak. You can’t think. All you can do is let out a high, broken whimper of his name. You’re shaking, thighs trembling, vision blurry. You’re teetering on the edge, barely hanging on.

And he knows.

He doesn’t ease up. His tongue moves faster now, purposeful, relentless. He chases your orgasm like he needs it—like it’s the only thing that matters. His fingers dig in tighter, keeping you locked in place.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he growls against your cunt. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? You wanna be a good girl for me, princess?”

His voice drops even lower. “Gonna make you come all over my face.”

You shatter.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding on like you might fly apart completely. Your entire body arches off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you—white-hot and blinding.

The world disappears.

You come with his name on your lips and his mouth locked on your clit, his tongue still working you through it with single-minded determination. You ride the waves of pleasure, hips bucking, thighs shaking. He doesn’t stop.

If anything, he devours you harder.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, thick with pride, voice ragged against your oversensitive skin.

You feel the smirk before you see it—right before his teeth scrape gently along your thigh, making you jolt, overstimulated and gasping.

“You gotta give me another one, okay?” His voice is darker now, a promise wrapped in gravel. “Will you let me make you come again, baby?”

Your entire body trembles. You’re wrecked, undone—but the look in his eyes is too much to deny. That fire, that hunger, that need to make you come again. To own your pleasure.

You nod, breathless. “Please,” you whisper, voice broken.

Bucky groans, the sound vibrating through you as he licks another slow stripe up your slick folds. “That’s it, sweetheart. I knew you’d be good for me.”

Then his mouth is back on you, latching onto your clit with maddening precision as he eases a thick finger inside you.

You cry out—half pleasure, half stunned shock. He doesn’t wait. A second finger joins the first, the stretch burning in the most perfect, obscene way. You arch up with a gasp, your whole body reacting.

He kisses your thigh again, slow and reverent. “You’re so damn pretty like this.”

He glances up—just briefly—and his eyes are glassy with lust, jaw tense, lips slick. Then he’s back on you, fingers curling just right, mouth working in tandem with devastating skill.

“Can you come for me again, sweetheart?” he asks, voice frayed and low. “I wanna feel your sweet little cunt come on my fingers.”

You sob his name. A desperate, pleading cry that borders on worship.

And still, you’re climbing. Too fast. Too hard.

You’re about to break—again.

He doesn’t stop. Not his fingers. Not his tongue. His pace is relentless, methodical—like he knows exactly how to unmake you, like every flick of his tongue is a key turning deeper into your body, unlocking everything at once.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. You’re shaking, sweat-slicked and teetering—and then the edge crashes into you so fast it’s blinding. It rips through you like a goddamn storm.

You sob his name, body splintering apart as you come again, harder this time, the world going white around the edges. Your thighs clamp around his head, trembling, but he doesn't let go. Doesn’t ease up. He licks you through it, mouth still moving, tongue insistent, as though he’s drinking every drop of your pleasure like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

You swear you feel his moan against your clit as you convulse against his mouth.

He murmurs something low and filthy into your skin—words you can’t quite make out but feel in your spine. His fingers slow just enough not to overwhelm you, but he never stops. Not fully. Not until he’s sure you’ve given him everything.

When you finally collapse into the sheets, body limp and shaking, he eases his grip—but not before pressing one last kiss to the inside of your thigh, lips dragging against your slick skin like he can’t quite let go.

His hands trail up your legs slowly, reverently, fingertips skating over every inch like he’s memorizing you. You’re covered in goosebumps. Heat. Aftershock. Worship.

And then he climbs over you, body flush against yours, heavy and hot. Like he’s trying to shield you from everything but him. His weight is grounding. His presence is overwhelming in the most delicious way.

He cups your face in both hands, brushing his thumbs over your damp cheeks. The look in his eyes steals the breath right from your lungs—still burning, but softened now, wrecked with emotion.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice husky, lips inches from yours.

You turn your head and press a kiss into his palm, lips still trembling, chest still rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon.

“I’m so good, baby,” you whisper. “So good.”

His gaze softens instantly. The fire dims into something molten, something warmer, something worshipful. His thumb drags across your bottom lip again, slow and indulgent, like he’s cherishing the feel of your mouth.

“You look beautiful like this,” he says softly. “All flushed and breathless. So damn perfect.”

You catch his thumb gently between your teeth, give it the faintest nip before dragging your tongue across the spot you bit—playful, suggestive, dangerous.

“Is it my turn now?” you murmur, voice like smoke.

Bucky’s breath stutters. You see the moment your tongue hits him—the way his jaw tightens, the twitch in his thigh, the darkness that spills across his face like a storm.

“Is that so?” he asks, voice dropping to something low and sinful. “And what exactly do you have in mind, sweetheart?”

You reach for his hand, tugging gently. He doesn’t resist. When he stands, you shift with him, sliding down the sheets and sinking to your knees in front of him. Your hands come up to brace on his thick thighs, and when you look up at him, it’s with heat and devotion, eyes wide and filthy.

“Whatever you want.”

He stares down at you like you’ve just ruined him. His chest heaves, nostrils flaring, hand tightening at his side like he’s struggling to stay still.

The sight of you—bare, spent, and still eager on your knees—hits him like a punch. You see it in his eyes. In the way his cock strains against his jeans. In the way he sways forward, barely holding back.

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice ragged, like he’s clinging to the last thread of restraint.

You meet his gaze and nod, voice breathy with certainty. “Please.”

He groans low in his chest, threading his fingers through your hair, gripping with a firm, possessive heat that makes your scalp tingle.

“You look so damn good on your knees for me, sweetheart.”

He steps in closer, towering over you now, and tilts your chin up with a gentle pull of your hair. The dominance in his stance, the weight of his presence—it makes your whole body go pliant. Eager.

“You wanna be good for me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking around the edges. Barely more than air.

He groans again, deeper this time, and it vibrates straight through your core. “That’s my girl.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip, slow and deliberate. His voice dips, sweet and filthy. “You gonna open your mouth for me?”

You nod again, lips already parted, tongue resting against your lower lip, saliva beginning to pool in anticipation. Your chest rises with each shallow breath, and you don’t look away. You can’t.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, eyes fixed to your lips as his hand stays threaded through your hair. “Keep your eyes on me, princess.”

You do. Even when he starts working at his belt—fingers clumsy with urgency, breath shaky with need—you keep your gaze locked on his. When he pushes his pants down, freeing himself, your mouth waters at the sight of him. Thick, flushed, already dripping for you.

He steps closer until he’s all you can see, the heat of his body radiating over you like fire. “Just look at you,” he mutters, like he’s seeing something divine. “On your knees. Obedient. Eager.”

Both hands move to your hair now, holding you steady. One caresses your cheek, the other keeping you in place with that intoxicating possessiveness that makes your thighs clench.

“Open wider for me, sweetheart.”

You obey without hesitation, jaw stretching, tongue curling slightly outward in invitation. Humiliation and pride twist together in your belly—the stretch, the need, the submission. You’re soaked. Shaking. Heat creeps up your spine.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, the sound guttural.

He brings himself to your lips, the tip of his cock brushing your tongue—salty, warm, pulsing with need. He strokes it against your lips once, twice, smearing precum across them before pressing his thumb along your bottom lip again, sealing the moment like a brand.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he rasps. “I wanna see you take me.”

You don’t even blink as he pushes inside—slow, deliberate, the head of his cock spreading your lips. The stretch is intense, your jaw aching already, but the weight of him, the warmth of him—it’s everything.

His groan breaks in his chest. His grip in your hair tightens. “That’s it, princess.”

He feeds you more—just an inch, then another—pausing to let you adjust, even as his hips twitch with restraint. Your throat opens for him instinctively, the pressure sharp but welcome, wetness slicking your thighs from the sheer filth of it.

“You’re being so good for me,” he mutters, voice thick with reverence. “So fuckin’ beautiful with your mouth wrapped around my cock.”

He rocks his hips, slow and controlled, feeding you more with each thrust. You breathe through your nose, relaxing your jaw, blinking up at him with watery eyes, and it breaks him.

He watches you like you’re his whole fucking world—eyes wide, dark, jaw clenched tight. One hand grips your hair, the other strokes your cheek, thumb brushing against your jaw as he fucks your mouth with measured care.

“You feel so good, baby,” he pants. “So fuckin’ warm, fuckin’ wet.”

He doesn’t slam forward—he feeds it to you, inch by inch, until your lips are stretched wide and your throat tightens around him.

His breathing is ragged now. He mutters your name, half prayer, half growl. Praise and heat blend in his voice, falling from his lips in a reverent string of curses.

“God, you’re so perfect for this,” he groans. “Taking me so fuckin’ deep—look at you. Just look at you, sweetheart.”

You blink up at him, throat stretched around the thick weight of him, and he swears again. His hips stutter forward, nearly losing rhythm.

His voice drops to a growl. “You like this, don’t you? Like being on your knees for me? Letting me fuck that pretty mouth?”

You try to nod, but he’s too deep. Instead, you moan around him, and he shudders.

He pulls back slightly, watching the spit slicking your lips, the string that connects you to the flushed head of his cock. He strokes himself once, slow, lazy, right in front of your face.

“Open back up, baby,” he commands softly. “I’m not finished yet.”

And you do—greedy, aching, starving for it.

Your lips part again, willingly, your tongue lolling out to welcome him. Bucky groans low in his chest, a sound like gravel and silk, and cups your jaw in both hands.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Open wide. You’re gonna take all of me now.”

And this time, he doesn’t go slow.

He thrusts forward with purpose, guiding your mouth over the length of him, fucking into your throat in slow, controlled strokes. Your eyes water almost immediately, jaw straining, spit already beginning to drip from the corners of your mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he hisses, hips rolling forward again. “Look at this messy little mouth. So perfect. So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

He holds your head still, hands bracketing your face, and uses your mouth like he owns it. Each stroke is firmer than the last, the head of his cock dragging over your tongue, hitting the back of your throat. Your eyes flutter, but you don’t look away. You can’t.

His control is slipping—just a little. You can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his voice frays at the edges.

“Fuck, look at you,” he pants. “Drooling all over me. Goddamn. You like this, don’t you? Letting me fuck your throat? Taking it like a good little cockslut.”

You moan around him, spit bubbling at your lips, and that’s all it takes—he groans deep, shuddering, as his hips snap forward harder, faster. You choke once, and he pulls back just enough to let you catch your breath, fingers stroking your cheeks.

“You okay, baby?”

You nod, lips slick, eyes glossy, the corners of your mouth stretched into a messy little smile.

“Good girl,” he growls, voice thick with pride and need. “That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

Then he’s back in your mouth—deeper, rougher this time. Your throat stretches to take him, spit dripping down your chin, pooling at your chest as he fucks into your mouth with filthy purpose.

“Take it. Take it,” he groans, holding your head steady, his abs flexing with each thrust. “That’s it. Just like that.”

His cock moves faster now, throatfucking you with slow, hungry grinds. He doesn’t chase his release—he savors the moment. The sight of you on your knees, lips swollen and wet, throat bulging with every stroke. He’s worshipping the way you give yourself to him like this.

And then, suddenly, he pulls you off with a gasp. Your own breath stutters as he scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. He carries you to the bed with a careful kind of urgency, like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

The mattress dips beneath you as he lays you down gently, his eyes never leaving your face. His hands roam over you in reverent strokes—slow, mapping, possessive—like he’s engraving you into memory, like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Bucky, please,” you whine, reaching up, dragging him down to you with trembling fingers.

Your voice wrecks him.

He settles between your thighs with a guttural groan, the thick weight of him pressing you down, grounding you, his palms gripping your legs like he’s trying to anchor himself in your heat.

“God,” he breathes, lips brushing yours. “You sound so fuckin’ good when you beg for me.”

He’s so close now—close enough that his breath is hot on your lips, close enough for his cock to press against your soaked cunt, thick and heavy. His forehead rests against yours, and for a beat, the world holds still.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice a strained whisper.

“You. Just you,” you breathe. “All of you. Everything.”

His eyes darken instantly, pupils blown wide, hands tightening on your thighs like he’s seconds from losing control. There’s something raw in his face—need and reverence colliding until it almost looks like pain.

“You’ll have me,” he rasps. “All of me. Anything you want.”

He kisses you softly—once, then again—slow and reverent. Each press of his mouth feels like a vow, every exhale warming your skin.

And then his control unravels.

His hand dips down, fingers sliding between your thighs, and he groans at how wet you are for him. “Jesus, baby,” he mutters. “This pretty little cunt’s already dripping for me.”

He shifts, lining himself up with practiced ease, one hand steady on your hip, the other cradling your thigh. His cock nudges against your entrance, thick and hot and so much, and he groans raggedly as he pushes in—inch by slow inch—stretching you open.

“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “This fucking pussy was made for me.”

You choke out a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan, back arching as the stretch burns in the most delicious way. His jaw locks, muscles twitching with the effort it takes not to shove in all at once.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he growls, watching your body take him. He starts to move, slow and deep—driving into you with steady, deliberate strokes that make your whole body tremble.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “Feel me splitting you open? Filling this perfect little cunt like you need it?”

All you can do is nod, moan, cling to his shoulders as the pleasure builds with every grind of his hips. He hits deep—just right—dragging against the spot that makes you keen, makes your toes curl.

His eyes stay glued to your face. He watches every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every broken cry, like your reactions are the only thing keeping him sane.

“You’re so fuckin’ good like this,” he growls. “So wet… so fuckin’ tight. Can feel you trying to milk my cock already.”

You whimper at the filth falling from his mouth, at how wrecked and in control he sounds all at once. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, hard enough to bounce you on the mattress.

His rhythm grows faster, punishing, each thrust deeper than the last. The slap of skin fills the room, mingling with the headboard thudding the wall and the guttural sounds he pulls from you.

“Already so cockdrunk and I’ve barely started,” he snarls, hips snapping.

You cry out his name, mind unraveling as he pounds into you, relentless now. His hand wraps under your thigh, angling you deeper, your legs wrapped tight around his waist as he fucks into you like he’s claiming you.

“You gonna come on this cock, sweetheart?” he growls, thrusts hitting harder. “You gonna let me ruin you for anyone else?”

You’re too far gone to speak. Your mouth opens but no sound comes, only a wrecked gasp as your body clenches tight around him.

His hand slides down, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight little circles in time with his thrusts. “Come on, baby. Come on my cock. Let me feel you break for me.”

And you do.

Your whole body seizes, blinding heat crashing through you as your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train. You cry out his name, clenching around him hard, nails digging into his back.

He groans at the feeling—low and primal. “That’s it, baby. Fuck, that’s it. That’s my girl.”

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, every grind of his hips pushing you higher again, already building you toward another.

“You fuckin’ love it, don’t you?” he pants, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Being stretched out on my cock. Letting me ruin you.”

You nod—frantic, overwhelmed—and your mouth falls open in a moan when he reaches between your bodies, thumb pressing lightly against your clit again. The touch is maddening, perfectly precise, and it sparks through you like fire.

“Say it,” he growls, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath hot against your lips. “Say you love it.”

“I love it,” you gasp, body arching into his touch. “God, Bucky—I love it—love you.”

The second the words leave your lips, something in him snaps. His rhythm falters, then returns with feral intensity. His mouth crashes to yours, swallowing your confession like it’s oxygen, like it unravels him from the inside out.

His thrusts turn brutal—deep, rough, unrelenting. The drag of his cock inside you is deliciously punishing, hitting that perfect spot with every snap of his hips.

“I’m gonna fuck you dumb, sweetheart,” he snarls into your mouth. “Gonna fuck you so good you forget your name—only thing you’ll remember is mine.”

You’re already spiraling again. His voice, his words, his cock—everything’s too much. Too perfect. He feels it too—he feels it in the way your body tightens around him, in the broken moans that spill out of you uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he grits out, pounding into you harder. “Come for me again, baby. Let me feel this pretty fuckin’ cunt squeeze my cock.”

You shatter. Again.

Louder. Messier. Your entire body bows beneath him as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. You scream his name, every nerve in your body lighting up as he fucks you through it, his mouth covering yours, stealing your breath with a ragged growl.

But he doesn’t stop.

Even after you come undone, after your body trembles and your thighs twitch from the intensity—Bucky doesn’t let up. His hips grind into you with deliberate force, chasing every aftershock, pulling more pleasure from you until you're trembling on the edge of overstimulation.

“Too much?” he breathes into your skin—but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow. He’s smirking against your throat as he sinks his teeth into the delicate skin below your jaw, sucking until he leaves a dark, possessive bruise.

“No,” you whimper, voice wrecked. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

That breaks him.

He growls—a deep, animalistic sound—and pulls out just long enough to flip you onto your stomach, handling your body like you weigh nothing. You gasp, face pressed to the pillow, thighs still quaking as he grabs your hips, dragging you up and back until your ass is perfectly arched for him.

“Goddamn,” he hisses, staring down at the mess between your legs. “You’re fuckin’ soaked. Drippin’ down your thighs, sweetheart. Look at this fuckin’ pussy. Wrecked and still greedy.”

You whine, trying to push back, but he holds you just out of reach—his palm planted firmly between your shoulders.

“Look at you. Just ruined,” he murmurs, thumb dragging through your folds, spreading your slick. “This pussy’s already been fucked dumb… and she’s still beggin’ for more.”

“Bucky—” you choke out, hips shifting restlessly. “Please—need you. Need you inside me.”

“Oh, I know, baby.” His voice dips lower, like a threat wrapped in honey. “I’m gonna fuck you so deep, you’ll feel me in your throat.”

Then he slides back in—one long, brutal thrust that punches the breath out of your lungs.

You sob into the sheets, fingers clawing at the mattress as he bottoms out, hips flush to your ass. His cock drags against every hypersensitive nerve inside you, and you swear you see stars behind your eyelids.

He braces one hand on your lower back, the other tangled in your hair, holding you right there as he slams into you again—hard, rough, possessive.

The sound is obscene. Wet, rhythmic, relentless. Skin on skin. Ragged breaths. The creak of the bed. And his voice—filthy, dark, absolutely wrecked.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—you feel that?” he growls, snapping his hips. “Feel me splitting you open? Taking it so damn well—like this tight little cunt was made for my cock.”

You’re gone. Utterly gone.

Your nails rip into the sheets, jaw slack, a scream caught in your throat as he pounds you into the mattress. He’s everywhere—inside you, over you, owning you.

“Say it,” he snarls, yanking your head back by your hair until your lips are right at his ear. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you cry out, voice ragged and raw. “I’m yours, Bucky—only yours—fuck—”

He growls something unintelligible, pure filth, and his rhythm stutters. His grip tightens, bordering on bruising, his cock twitching inside you as he fucks you harder, faster, chasing his own edge like he’s going to fall apart with you.

He’s close. You can feel it in the way he trembles against you, in the way his rhythm starts to break—wild and desperate.

“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans. “Gonna stuff this tight little pussy full—mark you so deep you’ll feel it leakin’ out of you tomorrow.”

“You gonna come again for me, princess?” he pants, hips pounding into you with ruthless rhythm. “One more. Give me one more. Come all over this cock. So fuckin’ good for me—I know you can.”

You don’t even get a word out.

You come with a strangled cry, your body locking up around him, your cunt clenching hard as you pulse around his cock, soaking him in wave after wave of heat and slick. The pleasure rips through you—raw, mind-breaking, and impossibly deep. Your entire body shakes, legs twitching uncontrollably, vision going white at the edges.

Bucky curses through his teeth, biting down hard on your shoulder as he follows you over the edge with a ragged, guttural moan. You feel it—feel the hot flood of him spilling inside you, his cock twitching as he thrusts through his orgasm, hips stuttering against yours. It’s messy, overwhelming—his cum leaking out around his length as he grinds in deep with a groan, chasing every last drop.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Just the sound of your ragged breaths filling the room, the heat of your bodies pressed together, sweat-slick and trembling, your thighs still twitching beneath him.

Then his weight drops over you—careful, but heavy enough to pin you to the mattress. His lips graze your ear as he exhales, voice hoarse and wrecked.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he breathes, still panting. “Mine.”

You’re still trembling beneath him, the aftershocks crashing through your body, leaving you raw and hypersensitive. Every brush of his skin against yours makes you flinch—but it’s not pain. It’s too much want.

Bucky doesn’t move right away.

He stays there, draped over you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, his heart pounding against your back. One strong arm slides beneath your body, the other curling around your waist, his palm splayed possessively across your stomach. He holds you like you’re his anchor. Like if he lets go, the whole world might fall apart.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your ear, voice gentling now, rough edges softening. “Just breathe with me.”

You try. You do. It’s hard, but his voice helps. The steady press of his body, the warmth of his breath—he helps.

He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the crook of your neck. Then another. And another. Each one softer, more reverent, like he’s worshiping you with his mouth.

“You did so good for me,” he whispers, and it breaks something open in your chest—not with fire this time, but with pure tenderness.

He pulls out slowly, gently, his cock dragging from your soaked, used cunt, and you let out a soft, broken whimper at the loss. His hand soothes down your side immediately.

“Shhh, I got you,” he says, already shifting to gather you up, arms slipping beneath you as he lifts you like you weigh nothing.

You melt into him.

Let him carry you. Let him hold you.

He settles you back against the bed, propping you against the pillows, tugging the blanket up around your hips with one arm while keeping the other curled protectively around your back. You’re still floating—adrift—but his presence starts to pull you home.

His eyes are different now. No less intense, but softer somehow. Open.

“You okay?” he asks gently, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. His knuckles trail down your cheek in a lingering touch that sends shivers straight to your core. “Too much?”

You shake your head, blinking up at him, voice raw and thready. “No. You took such good care of me.”

Bucky exhales like he’s been holding that breath for hours. “God, princess… You don’t know what that means to me.”

You reach for him, fingertips grazing his chest, and he immediately leans into your touch. One of his hands wraps around yours, lifting it to his mouth to press a kiss to your knuckles, lips soft and slow.

“I mean it,” you whisper. “You were perfect.”

He lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, eyes shining. “You’re the one who’s perfect. Jesus.” His voice breaks a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as you falling apart for me like that.”

You flush, but you don’t look away. Not when he’s holding your gaze like you’re the center of his universe.

“I’ll get you some water,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “And a warm towel. Just stay right here, yeah?”

You nod, and he gives you a soft, almost boyish smile before slipping off the bed. He moves fast, like he can’t stand to be away from you for long.

When he returns, he kneels beside the mattress, cleaning you up with slow, reverent care. His touch is warm, gentle, his voice a constant hum of praise and sweetness as he whispers to you the whole time—how good you were, how proud he is, how beautiful you looked when you came for him.

When he finally joins you beneath the blankets again, he wraps you up in his arms, tucks your head beneath his chin like you belong there. His heartbeat thumps steadily beneath your ear, his fingers stroking lazy, soothing circles along your spine.

Double Blind by @wkemeup

Set up on what might be the worst blind date you’d ever been on, you find yourself captivated by the mysterious bartender instead.

the bar rules by @buckyhoney

pretty by @buckycuddlebuddy

“filthiest i’ve ever made,” he whispered, face very close to yours. “if you can handle it, i might take you up on that ‘convincing’ thing.”

Send Me An Angel by @navybrat817

Bucky thinks you're an angel.

Date With Ducky by @pepperonijem

"You started to water down my drink throughout the night and I drunkenly demand to know why.”

Two Years by @metalbuckaroo

Seeing you flirt with someone else, Bucky gets jealous and acts on something he’s been thinking of for two years.

Rum and Coke by @babyboibucky

You decide to pay your rival club a visit to see what the hype is all about.

Champagne Problems by @dollslayer

When your ex-boyfriend makes a surprise appearance at your sister's wedding you find help from an unexpected source.

side bar by @agentofkrypton

"I hate your voice, but god I love hearing you beg."

Don’t cross the bar by @bucky-at-bedtime

Bucky has one rule, until one day, someone forces him to change it.

Cheers! by @moonbeambucky

A charming bartender comes to your rescue after a night out leads to a broken heart.

It started when you were studying for finals. You were hunched over the coffee table, your legs folded up under you as you studied flash cards and gripped your head in frustration. The tea he'd made you sat to the side, untouched and cold, and he could see the angry tears starting to build along your lashes. 

He'd disappeared down the hall, drawn a bath, and came back to pull you from your studies. You didn't put up much of a fight, but you did argue that you didn't have enough time for his antics. He shushed you, pulling you into the small bathroom by the seam of your shirt. 

"Just give me ten minutes with you, sugar," he'd said, "then I'll leave ya alone." And how could you say no to him? So, you'd relented. 

You let him strip you down and help you into the bath before you tugged on his hand, asking him to join you. Bucky hadn't even planned on it, he was going to let you relax and bring you a new cup of tea and even wash your hair for you if you'd let him. But to join you - fuck.

He nodded, stripping himself down before sliding in behind you, holding you as you leaned against him and finally let your body relax after days of studying. 

You'd never let him keep you there too long, though he could always tell how you didn't want to return to your studies, but he wasn't going to be the one to hold you back from acing your finals. 

Now, as you laid with your back to his chest, you didn't have a deadline looming over you. There was no exam or final paper waiting for your attention as you let the warm water envelop you. You could stay here, wrapped up in his arms, as long as you liked. 

You'd convinced him some time ago to get some new bath salts, though it didn't take much convincing, and now the water smelled like lavender. But really, you had a different scent for each day of the week if you wished to use them as such.

The tub wasn't very large - apartment tubs never were, but Bucky didn't mind having you pressed against him like you were. His shoulders and his knees poked up above the water line, but as long as you were mostly submerged and warm, it didn't matter. He wasn't in here for him, he was here for you. To spend time with you, to help you relax, to feel you. 

Your head was resting back against his shoulder as his hands lazily roamed your skin under the water, feeling every dip and fold as they went. Your head turned and you pressed your face into his neck as you hummed and Bucky couldn't contain the smirk that grew on his lips. 

A light feeling filled his chest, making him feel giddy. 

He loved how you made him feel. He knew he wasn't necessarily old, but you made him feel young again - adventurous. You made him feel more like himself than he had in a long time. Like he was that twenty-something year old running around Brooklyn causing trouble and pulling his best friend out of back alley fights. Like he was still the 'ladies man.' Not like he was starting to sport grays in his hair. 

You'd actually told him you preferred the grays, saying it made him look sophisticated. He wanted to dye the offending hairs back to brunette, but he just couldn't after hearing you talk about them the way you did and seeing the way your gaze held such fondness and lust when you told him how you liked it. 

Your breath tickled against his neck as you sighed into his skin, melting into him as he got lost in the skin of your thighs. He didn't know how you kept your skin so soft all the time but it always beckoned him closer. He would always try to just make you feel good, massaging or tickling your skin to help you relax, but when your skin was as soft as yours, he couldn't help it if his hands wandered a little too much. 

The hitch in your breath as his fingers ghosted over your folds threw gas on the fire that had lit in his chest and tugged at the corners of his mouth. Your body always responded so well to his touch, your hips chasing his fingers as he teasingly pulled them away, dragging them up the inside of your thigh again. 

He loved that you let him do practically whatever he wanted to you. 

It took sometime to get to that point - he didn't want to scare you off by how much he'd become obsessed with you and your body and the noises he could pull from you, whether it be by his fingers, his cock, or his tongue. But once you finally got it through his thick skull that he didn't need to ask to touch you - god it was a game changer for him. With your patience and encouragement, he'd grown more confident in himself again. Confident in the way he enjoyed loving you. In the way he loved fucking you. 

While continuing to tease you by making another pass across your clit, his other hand came up to wrap around one of your breasts, grasping it and using it to pull you even closer into him. Your breath fanned across his neck, causing a wave of goosebumps to spread over his exposed shoulders as his fingers dragged down your thigh again, this time pushing through your folds to prod at your core. 

The moan that left your lips and buzzed against his neck was sinful as he circled his fingers, not quite giving you what you wanted while your hands gripped his legs. 

"You want this here?" He asked, pressing his lips into your temple as he brushed his thumb over your clit, "Or in bed?" 

He watched your eyes flutter open and the lust that darkened them was enough to have him swallowing around his suddenly dry throat. He could feel your heart thumping in your chest with his hand that now laid across your sternum and the blood that was rushing in his ears was almost deafening as he waited for your answer. 

Just because he was waiting for a verbal response though, doesn't mean he was going to stop. 

You opened your mouth to reply but nothing came out as he sunk two fingers in and he watched your eyes flutter, trying to stay open and on him. 

"C'mon, sugar," he smirked while slowly dragging his fingers across your walls and pressing the palm of his hand against your clit, earning another moan from you, "What's it gonna be?"

Your hand let go of his leg and moved up to grab his hand on your sternum, moving it to wrap around your throat as you looked up at him, and he suddenly knew one thing was very clear. 

Baths were very important to Bucky now.

As always, thank you for reading! Comments, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated <3

Bucky tried to keep his focus on making the drinks. Tearing his eyes away from the way your hand landed on the man’s chest as you laughed, his blood boiling the longer the clock took to hit closing time.

“Last call, about to be closin’ up.” He said loud enough over the music. The man furrowing his eyebrows and nodding.

You had noticed the way Bucky was suddenly more quiet once the stranger sat down next to you, barely muttering an entire sentence to you the entire shift but still keeping a smile on his face as he took orders.

Once it was only the two of you left in the small bar, you walked around the bar to where Bucky was silently drying glasses.

“What’s wrong, Buck?” You sighed, taking the glass and towel from his hands. “ ‘M fine.” He shrugged, eyebrows creasing together. “I can tell when something’s up. So, spill.” You poked a finger into his side and he relaxed his shoulders. “I just- I don’t know.”

You frowned at him, resting you hand on the cool metal of his left elbow. “You can tell me anything, Buck. You know that-”

Your words were cut short by Bucky’s lips. Cold and warm hands holding your cheeks as his lips covered yours in a slow kiss. Your hands reaching up to tangle in his silky hair and pull him closer as he gripped your waist, lifting you onto the countertop.

The realization smacked into him like a ton of bricks before he pulled away. 2 years of friendship down the drain from one slip up. “I overstepped, I’m sorry-” he apologized, going to back away before your fingers wrapped around his dog tags to tug him back in.

Your legs went around his narrow hips as his hands wandered down your waist, gripping and pulling at you in attempt to get impossibly closer as his tongue traced every bit it could reach. The same hunger being poured into the kiss from you as you tugged his plump bottom lip between your teeth.