he looks like he works with his hands and smells like marlboro reds (18+)
Mom’s Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x AFAB Reader
⋆˙⟡ In the smoke-scented dark of her mother's house, a quiet 21-year-old y/n finally snaps and lets her mom's rough-handed, twice-her-age boyfriend ruin her life
warnings: nsfw, smut (LITERALLY JUST PURE PORN), fingering, dom!bucky, vaginal sex, daddy kink, age gap (duhrr), stepdad(ish)!bucky, beefy!bucky
a/n: MINORS DNI !! HAPPY NEW YEAR!! im litch back here after a very LONG DAMN BREAK but UHHHH GUYS?? crazy ass trope ik but FAWK ME IM WET??? (ALSO IM SORRY IF THIS IS A TAD BIT UNORIGINAL… read a smut of this trope on wattpad YEAARS AGO SO!)
The summer dragged on like molasses in your mom's quiet suburban house. The kind of heat that made everything feel slower, stickier. Like time itself was resisting movement. You'd dragged yourself back home from college for the break, suitcase crammed with textbooks and half-formed dreams, but nothing could've prepared you for him. Bucky Barnes. Your mom's new boyfriend. He looked like he worked with his hands; rough, calloused palms from God knows what shadowy past he'd hinted at during dinner conversations. And he smelled like Marlboro Reds, that sharp, smoky tang clinging to his clothes like a bad habit he couldn't quit. Ex-military, she'd gushed one night, with a metal arm that whirred softly when he moved and eyes that held storms. He was in his 40s, easy, with those salt-and-pepper locks and a build that was sculpted straight by the Gods.
You hated him at first. Or at least, that's what you told yourself. He called you "kid" the day you arrived, leaning against the kitchen counter with a smirk that grated, like he knew something you didn't. "Your mom's told me all about you," he'd said, voice low and gravelly, sizing you up with those piercing blue eyes. You were 21, not a child, but the word stung, highlighting the chasm between you: the life he'd lived versus the one you'd barely started. You kept to yourself, through and through, content with your own company, your experiences limited to awkward dorm-room kisses that never went anywhere. Virginity wasn't a badge or a burden; it was just... you. Untouched, untested, and fine with staying that way.
The antagonism simmered from the start. He'd barge into your routines without apology, fixing the leaky faucet in the bathroom while you were trying to read in the adjacent room, his tools clanging like accusations. "You gonna just sit there, or hand me the wrench?" he'd grumble, not looking up, but you could feel his awareness of you, heavy in the air. You'd roll your eyes, tossing it over with more force than necessary. "Didn't realize you needed help from a 'kid,'" you'd snap back, retreating to your room before he could respond. But later, alone, you'd replay the moment: the flex of his shoulders under his shirt, the way his metal arm gleamed under the fluorescent light. And you hate how it stirred something unfamiliar in you.
Your mom worked erratic shifts, leaving the house a battlefield of unspoken friction. Mornings were the worst. You'd shuffle into the kitchen at dawn, seeking coffee and solitude, only to find him there, fresh from a smoke on the porch. His scent would hit you first, sharp and invasive. He'd pour his mug, standing closer than needed, his hip grazing yours in the cramped space.
"Mornin'," he'd mutter, voice rough from whatever kept him up at night.
You'd nod curtly, avoiding his gaze, focusing on the drip of the coffee maker. "Couldn't sleep again?"
"Old habits die hard." His eyes would skim you, subtle, but you'd catch it, the way they lingered on the hem of your sleep shorts, the bare skin of your thighs. It made your skin prickle, a mix of irritation and something hotter. "You avoiding me, or just everyone?"
The jab landed. You were avoiding him, yes. His presence disrupted your careful isolation. "Maybe I just don't like small talk," you'd retort, grabbing your mug and brushing past him, ignoring the spark from the contact.
He'd chuckle, low and mocking. "Fair enough. But careful with that attitude, doll. Might bite you back."
Doll. It started as a taunt, but it stuck, worming its way into your thoughts. You'd hear it echo when you caught glimpses of him in the garage, hunched over his Harley, grease-smeared hands working with precision. The smoke from his cigarette would curl upward, blending with the tang of motor oil. Once, you paused too long in the doorway, watching the muscles in his back shift. He glanced up, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. "See something you like, kid?"
You flushed, anger flaring. "Just wondering how long it'll take you to break that thing too." It was petty, uncalled for, but the way his eyes narrowed only fueled the fire.
The push-pull escalated over weeks, a slow unraveling of your defenses. He'd "help" with chores you didn't ask for, like carrying groceries in, his flesh hand brushing your waist as he set bags down. "Don't strain yourself," he'd say, smirk in place, knowing it irked you. You'd snatch them away. "I can handle it. Not everyone needs a hero complex."
But beneath the barbs, the tension thickened, electric and undeniable. Close calls piled up. One night, after your mom crashed early from exhaustion, you ventured to the back porch for air, only to find him there, cigarette glowing in the dark. The night was humid, stars muted by clouds.
"Escaping the house?" he asked, not turning, but you knew he sensed you.
"Something like that." You leaned on the railing, arms crossed defensively. His scent enveloped you. Smoke, sweat, that underlying musk that made your head spin despite yourself.
He offered the pack wordlessly. You shook your head. "Bad for you."
He exhaled a laugh, smoke billowing. "Lots of things are. Like standing out here in those pajamas, pretending you hate my guts."
Your heart stuttered. "I do hate you. You're... intrusive. Acting like you own the place."
He stubbed out the cigarette, stepping closer, his frame towering. "Is that it? Or is it that I see through you? The quiet girl who hides because she's scared of what she wants."
The words cut deep, exposing vulnerabilities you'd buried. You shoved at his chest, solid, unyielding. "You don't know shit about me."
His hand caught your wrist, not tight, but firm. The metal of his other arm whirred softly as he pulled you nearer. "Maybe not. But I know that look in your eyes. The one that says you're fighting this as hard as I am."
The air crackled. You yanked free, but didn't step back. "This? There's no 'this.' You're my mom's boyfriend. Old enough to—"
"To what? Know better?" His voice dropped, breath warm on your face. "Yeah. But here we are."
You fled inside, pulse thundering, body alight with a need you'd never felt so sharply. Sleep evaded you, your mind replaying his touch, his words, hating how they thrilled you.
The dam broke two weeks later, on a night your mom pulled a double, gone till dawn. The house thrummed with pent-up energy. You were curled on the couch, feigning interest in a book, when Bucky emerged from the garage. Shirtless, skin glistening with sweat, scars mapping his torso like battle lines. The Marlboro scent clung fresh; he'd been out there chain-smoking, you guessed, wrestling his own demons.
"She's not coming back tonight," he said, voice edged with something raw, eyes fixed on you like prey.
"I know." You set the book down, meeting his stare defiantly, though your voice wavered.
He dropped into the armchair, legs manspread, tension coiling in his frame. "You've been a pain in my ass since day one. Snapping, glaring, like I'm the enemy."
"You are," you shot back, standing, hands fisted. "Waltzing in here, disrupting everything. Acting like you belong."
He rose slowly, closing the distance, backing you against the wall. "And you? Hiding behind books and attitude, but I see you watching. Wanting. It pisses you off, doesn't it? That you want me anyway."
The truth burned. "Fuck you," you hissed, but it came out breathless.
His laugh was dark, hands caging you in. "That's the idea, doll." His mouth descended, the kiss brutal: teeth clashing, tongues battling, all the hate and heat pouring out. You shoved at him, then pulled him closer. It was messy, angry, perfect.
He chuckled, low and dark. "Can't help it. You're a fucking temptation. Young, innocent... bet you've got boys your age lining up, but here you are, about to fuck your mom's boyfriend."
The accusation stung, but it was true. You stood, anger and desire mixing. "And so what if I am?"
In a flash, he was up, crowding you against the wall. His body pinned yours, hard and unyielding. "Then we're both fucked." His mouth crashed down, kissing you rough, tongue invading like he'd been holding back for months. You moaned into it, hands roaming his chest, feeling the heat, the scars.
He broke away, breathing hard. "We shouldn't—"
"Don't stop," you begged, pulling him back.
Clothes shed in a frenzy. Your tank top yanked over your head, his jeans shoved down. He palmed your breasts, thumbs teasing nipples to peaks. "God, look at these. Perfect little tits. Been dreaming about sucking on 'em."
You arched, whimpering as his mouth latched on, hot and wet. His metal hand slid between your thighs, past your lacy panties, finding you soaked. "Fuck, doll. This pussy's drooling for me. How long you been wet like this?"
"Since the moment I saw you," you admitted, grinding against his fingers.
He groaned, slipping two inside, pumping slow. "Tight as hell. Bet no one's ever touched you here properly."
The truth bubbled up, hazy with lust. "No one... ever. I'm—I'm a virgin."
He froze, eyes widening. "What?"
You bit your lip, vulnerable. "Yeah. Never... gone all the way."
A dark smile curved his lips, hunger intensifying. "Holy shit. A virgin? And you're giving it to me?" He curled his fingers, hitting that spot, making you cry out. "That's so fucking naughty. Turns you on, doesn't it? Knowing I'm gonna be the first to wreck this innocent cunt."
He added a third finger, stretching you, thumb on your clit. "Gonna ruin you for those college pricks. They'll slide in and feel nothing—'cause I'll have stretched you out on my thick cock. Made you mine."
You sobbed with pleasure, clinging to him. "Please—need you inside—"
"Not yet. Gonna make you come first. Want this virgin pussy gushing before I claim it." He worked you harder, filthy words pouring out. "Imagine your mom finding out. Her sweet daughter, spreading her pussy open wide for my dick, begging like a slut. Bet she'd die of shock."
The taboo spiked your arousal. "Don't care—want you—"
"That's my girl." You shattered around his fingers, screaming silently into his shoulder.
He licked his fingers clean with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, eyes locked on yours the whole time, like he was savoring something forbidden. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Too fucking sweet, doll.”
He stepped back just enough to give you room, jerking his chin toward the couch. “Get on there. Spread your legs open. Show me.”
Your knees felt like jelly, but you moved anyway, sinking onto the cushions, thighs parting under the weight of his stare. The room felt too bright, too quiet except for the low rasp of his breathing and the faint metallic crackle of the condom wrapper.
He rolled it on with practiced ease, then fisted himself once, twice—slow, letting you see every thick inch, veins standing out against flushed skin. “Take a good look doll,” he said, voice rough, stepping between your thighs. "This is what an old bastard like me is gonna bury in that untouched pussy. Gonna stretch you till you can't forget it." He dragged the tip through your slick folds, teasing, coating himself. "You sure about this, doll? You can always tell me when to stop yeah?"
You nodded furiously, breath catching. But he wasn't moving yet, just circling your entrance, making you squirm. "Words. Beg for it. I wanna hear you beg for my cock inside your pussy."
Something in you snapped. "Please, Bucky—fuck me."
His eyes flashed, a growl ripping from his throat as he started pushing in—slow, deliberate, inch by inch. The pressure built, a sharp burn that blurred into fullness, your walls clenching around the invasion. "Fuck—so goddamn tight," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Like you're trying to strangle my cock. Breathe through it, yeah? Take every bit."
You dug your nails into his shoulders, gasping, the stretch overwhelming but addictive. He bottomed out with a final thrust, hips flush against yours, and paused, letting you adjust. His forehead pressed to yours for a second, breath hot and ragged. "Ya feel that? Your first cock, and it's from your mother’s boyfriend who reeks of cigarettes and knows how to fuck dirty."
"Feels... so full," you whispered, shifting experimentally, the motion sending sparks up your spine. "Move—please."
He started slow, pulling back almost all the way before sliding in again, building a rhythm that had you arching off the couch. "Atta girl. Taking my cock like you were made for it." His hands clamped on your hips, the cool bite of metal contrasting the heat of his skin, holding you steady as he picked up speed. The slap of bodies echoed in the quiet room, raw and unrelenting.
Sweat slicked between you, his pace turning harder, deeper, each thrust jolting you. "Fuck—you really into older men, huh?" he rasped, voice breaking on a groan as you clenched around him. "Mmh—I'm—fuck—I'm twice your age. Old enough to be your dad."
The words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, taboo and thrilling. "Oh—yeah, harder, Daddy."
He froze for a split second, eyes widening like you'd slapped him. Then something feral unleashed. A deep, animal rumble vibrated from his chest, and he slammed into you with renewed force, the couch creaking under the assault. "Say that again," he demanded, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive. "Call me Daddy while I fuck this sweet, tight little pussy."
"Daddy—harder, please," you moaned, legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Fuck yes," he snarled, pounding into you now, relentless, his metal arm whirring faintly with the effort. "Little slut, getting off on your mom's boyfriend splitting you open. Gonna make this pussy mine—ruin you for anyone your age. They'll fuck you and you'll feel nothing, 'cause nothing compares to this old cock wrecking you."
You cried out, the dirty edge to his words pushing you higher, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails. He groaned at the sting, thrusting erratically, hitting that spot inside you over and over. "That's it—scratch me up, mark me while I mark you inside. Gonna come? Do it—cream all over Daddy's dick, show me how bad you needed this."
The coil snapped, pleasure crashing through you in waves, your body convulsing around him, milking him tight. He followed right after, burying deep with a guttural curse, hips stuttering as he emptied into the condom.
He eased out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it into the trash with a flick of his wrist before dropping back onto the couch beside you. His chest rose and fell hard, skin still flushed, the metallic arm resting heavy across your waist like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of contact. For a long minute, neither of you spoke—just the sound of your breathing slowing, the distant hum of the fridge, the faint scent of Marlboros and sex hanging thick in the air.
You shifted, wincing a little at the new ache between your legs, and he noticed. His flesh hand slid up your thigh, thumb brushing the sensitive skin in a slow, absent circle—almost gentle, which felt more dangerous than anything else he’d done tonight.
“Still hate me?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges like he’d smoked another pack in the last ten minutes.
You turned your head, meeting those storm-gray eyes. “Ask me again in the morning.”
A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was something guarded there now, the feral edge dulled into something quieter, more complicated. He traced the line of your collarbone with one calloused finger, watching the path like he was memorizing it.
“This—” he started, then stopped, jaw working. “This was a bad fucking idea.”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “You’re the one who didn’t stop.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled through his nose, gaze dropping to where his hand still rested on your hip. “And you’re the one who called me Daddy while I was balls-deep inside you.”
Heat crawled back up your neck despite everything. You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t, really.
“Your mom’s shift ends at six,” he said quietly. “She’ll be home by seven, latest.”
The reminder landed like cold water. Reality, sharp and unwelcome.
You nodded once, throat tight. “I know.”
He didn’t move right away. Just watched you, thumb still stroking that same small circle on your skin. Then, finally, he stood, gathering his discarded jeans from the floor.
“Get some sleep, doll,” he muttered, pulling the denim up over his hips. “You’re gonna feel this tomorrow.”
You stayed where you were, legs still shaky, watching the muscles in his back shift as he walked toward the hallway. At the doorway he paused, one hand braced on the frame, not quite looking back.
“If I’m still here in the morning…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished, heavy with everything neither of you wanted to say out loud.
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