Pancakes For dinner.
Pairing: TFATWSbuckybarnesxfem!reader.
Summary: After spending years alone, and uncertain, you long for both direction and freedom. You crave and anchor to help keep you afloat; Someone who can embrace your spontaneity, someone who makes ordinary moments feel extraordinary. More than a perfect romance, you want something raw, and consuming, and completely your own.
Warnings/tags: Strangers to lovers, angst, fluff alertttttttttt, smut, porn with a great plot tbh, praise, squirting, overstimulation, fingering, (Metal arm ofc bc what kind of Bucky fic would this be if not obscene?!) Yearning, age gap, riding, humping, just..... MDNI!
A/N: Second fanfic on hereeee EEEEKK!!!! I had soooo much fun writing my last one I js had to come back for more lol. Feel free to request stories/ give me ideas in the comments I LOVEEE to hear feed back from ya'll! Also, yes, the title is inspired by 'Lizzy Mcalpine's' Pancakes For Dinner.
You wanted someone to tell you what to eat, what to wear, how to think—hell, you wanted someone to tell you everything about yourself, down to the smallest, most insignificant detail. You wanted someone to take all the uncertainty swirling around in your head and neatly arrange it into something you could understand, something you could follow without question. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? To let someone else define you when you had spent so long feeling like you didn’t know who you are at all? You didn’t even want a date night every week or a man who remembered your favorite flowers by heart. You wanted something far less ordinary than that—Something consuming, something that seeped into every corner of your life until you could no longer remember what it felt like to be untouched by it. That was all you ever prayed for, all you had ever asked the universe to give you. You wanted cold pizza for breakfast without a single look of judgment, pancakes for dinner because you simply could, and spontaneous weekends that ended with laughter spilling into the early hours of the morning. You wanted someone who would dance with you in the kitchen, drive nowhere with the windows down, and carry you home when your feet were too tired to take another step. You wanted to dress up for no reason at all, just to feel beautiful—just for it to be ripped off. You wanted to spend the rest of the night curled up beside someone who made the whole world feel quieter. You didn’t want perfect—it was the last thing you wanted. You wanted some real messy, ridiculous even. Exhilarating and entirely yours.
Dr. Raynor's voice sounded different when she finally lifted her head from the page, her eyes moving slowly over you as though she were still trying to process everything you’d written.
“You know, when I said to write about what you wanted in life, I didn’t exactly expect an entire essay.”
You huffed, sinking a little father into the couch.
“You said, write as much as you want.”
You rolled your eyes, absentmindedly picking at the handnail beside your thumb, worrying at the tiny piece of skin you couldn’t quite get a firm grip on.
A small smile tugged at her mouth. “I’m just impressed.”
You glanced at her, skeptical.
“Sounds like a nice way of saying you think I’m crazy.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t say that.”
You sighed. Dr. Raynor laughed softly, lowering her eyes back to the paper.
“I was thinking you have a lot to say.”
You shrugged, suddenly finding the floor much more interesting than her face.
“Maybe?” She questioned, head tilting to the side.
“Maybe I usually don’t get asked.”
A small beep sounded from her watch. Thank god.
“Well, that's our time for today.” Dr. Raynor closed her journal and set it neatly on her lap. “One word of advice though—start journaling.”
You bit your lip, tugging your cold hands farther into the sleeves of your sweater.
“It might help. You have a lot of thoughts, and sometimes it’s easier to get them out when you don’t have someone sitting across from you waiting for an answer.”
You glanced down at your hands, rubbing your thumb over your knuckles.
“I wouldn’t even know what to write.”
You looked up at her. “What?”
“Write down what you don’t know what to write.” She shrugged. “There’s no right way to do it. It’s just a place for you to be honest.”
you stood exhaling sharply as you pushed yourself off of the sofa, your lungs suddenly seeming too tight for the air you needed. Dr. Raynor nodded in satisfaction.
You offered her a small smile before reaching for the handle. Just as you pulled the door open, she turned toward the hallway.
You paused for half a second, glancing back. Dr. Raynor was already looking past you, her attention fixed on someone waiting outside.
“Come on in.” You stepped aside, and that was when you saw him for the first time.
The leather of his jacket brushed against your sweater as he slipped past you, the brief contact sending a strange little awareness through you before you could make sense of it. He towered over your frame, broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway as he tucked his head to slightly pass.
The words escaped you before you could stop it, barely more than a whisper. It Sounded smaller than you’d intended, almost swallowing the quiet hum of the hallway. James glanced back at you. For the briefest moment, your eyes met.Then he stepped into Dr. Raynor's office, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Your weekly walk to Dr.Raynor's office was one you always looked forward to. Especially this time of year. There was something about autumn that made the familiar walk feel almost magical. The trees, once dressed in quiet shades of green, transformed almost overnight, their leaves turning warm oranges, golden yellows, and deep, fiery reds before drifting lazily to the ground. You had always wanted to bury yourself in the piles of them, to fall backward into the crisp heaps gathered along the sidewalks by people who swept them aside simply because they were in the way. You loved the sound they made beneath your shoes—the satisfying, papery crunch that never seemed to get old. You would deliberately search for the perfect one, carefully stepping on leaves of different shapes and sizes scattered across the pavement and street, hopping from one to the next with the quiet concentration of a child playing hopscotch during recess. It was simple, but it was enough. Your latte was perfect, too. Not too hot, not too cold. Just right. The warmth of the cup seeped pleasantly into your palms as you walked, steam curling lazily toward your face whenever you lifted it for a sip. The sweetness lingered on your tongue, mingling with the crisp autumn air, and for once, you didn’t feel particularly hurried to arrive. You simply enjoyed the walk. The cold against your cheeks. The rustles of leaves beneath your shoes. The faint hum of traffic in the distance. For a little while, everything felt wonderfully, uncomplicatedly right. The waiting room was warm enough that the shiver traveling from the top of your head to the tips of your toes slowly dissipated the moment you stepped inside. The familiar warmth wrapped around you, chasing away the lingering chill of the autumn air and leaving your fingers pleasantly numb as you tucked them deeper into the sleeves of your sweater. The waiting room door swung open, and there he was again—the familiar, towering figure you had seen only in passing for the past two months.
You offered him a small, tentative smile as your finger instinctively found the end of your braid, winding the strand around your finger as though the simple motion might give your hands something to do. His eyes flickered toward you for a fleeting second. Blue. Not the icy kind, no. The kind you would drown in, and die happily. The kind you’d bathe in. He walked farther into the room and settled into the chair two seats away, stretching his legs out in front of him before letting his head rest against the wall behind him. His eyes drifted shut, his expression unreadable, as though he had already retreated somewhere far beyond the little waiting room. You tried not to stare. You really did. But somehow your attention kept wandering back to him.
You cleared your throat softly.
His head lifted from the wall, and his eyes found yours.
They were so, so, so blue.
His voice was low, rough around the edges with exhaustion, as though he hadn’t quite managed to shake the sleep from it.
You reached into your purse and pulled out the small pack of chocolate, holding it out toward him.
He glanced down at the candy in your hand, then back at you, his brows pulling together slightly.
“You're offering me chocolate?”
A faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why?”
You shrugged, suddenly feeling a little self conscious beneath his attention. “
You looked like you needed it.”
For a moment, he simply stared at you. Then he reached out and took the chocolate from your hand.
You smiled, twisting the end of your braid around your finger again. “You’re welcome.”
He unwrapped the small piece of candy and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. Almost immediately some of the tension seemed to leave his face. The hard lines of exhaustion softening as he sank a little deeper into the chair.
The name came easily, almost casually, as though he had suddenly realized you had been sitting there without properly introducing himself. He extended a hand toward you, palm open, waiting. You glanced down at it for a moment before placing your hand in his. His hand felt exactly as you had imagined it would—rough and calloused, the skin hardened in places, yet surprisingly gentle around your fingers. There was something almost contradictory about it, a softness beneath all that wear.
“I thought it was James?” you asked. “Dr Raynor called you that.”
His thumb shifted slightly against your hand before he let go, and you tried not to acknowledge how small your hand looked when it was in his.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, suddenly aware of how warm your face felt.
A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
You gave him your name, and the moment it left your lips, something inside you shifted, as though you had just signed your name at the bottom of some long-foretold manuscript in red ink. It was irrational, almost absurd, how significant those few syllables suddenly felt. He repeated your name back to you, quietly, as though he were testing the shape of it on his tongue, committing each sound to memory. And somehow, hearing it from him made it feel different. The sound of your name leaving his lips settled somewhere deep inside you, etching itself into your mind with a permanence you knew you would remember long after you walked out of that waiting room. And you did. You fell asleep that night with his name lingering on your tongue like the aftertaste of dark chocolate—rich, bitter, and strangely difficult to forget. Even when you drank water, trying to wash the lingering flavor away, some trace of it remained. And when you awoke from your usual nightmare, heart pounding as you fought your way back into the present, you found yourself remembering the warmth of his hand around yours. The memory came unbidden, a small, steady point of comfort amid remnants of sleep. You shook your head at yourself. Pathetic. You barely knew him. He was a stranger, really. Yet somehow, his face had already found its way into your mind. Becoming something you could cling to when everything else felt uncertain. The thought alone made you bury your face deep into your pillow. The next morning, you rode the subway to work, alone, of course, with only your music for company. The familiar rattle of the train beneath you filled the silence between songs, while the city blurred past in streaks of grey and gold. And despite your best efforts, you still found yourself thinking about him.
The bookshop was quiet that morning, and you didn’t complain. You had always preferred it this way—the soft hush of turning pages, the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor, and the faint music playing somewhere overhead. It made the shop feel almost secluded from the rest of the city. Your morning passed pleasantly. You wouldn’t call it perfect by any means, but it was peaceful, and lately, you had learned to appreciate peaceful. Your customers were usually a mixture of elderly regulars and college students who occupied the little desks toward the back, their textbooks spread open beneath them as they studied for hours at a time. Usually. Somehow, you felt presence before he even walked through the door. When the bell chimed just fifteen minutes before closing, you looked up—and there he was. Bucky. His eyes were tired, shadows lingering beneath them, but they were still that same deep impossible blue you had replayed in your mind far more often than you cared to admit. The moment his gaze found yours, warmth bloomed in your chest, followed by a nervous flutter that made you straighten behind the counter. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. You silently prayed he couldn't see the flush spreading across your cheeks.
His voice was exactly as you remembered it—rough around the edges, worn with exhaustion, yet somehow gentle underneath it all. You instinctively folded your arms across your stomach, an anxious little gesture you hadn’t even realized you were making until you caught yourself.
Your voice came out smaller than you’d intended, and you could feel the warmth in your cheeks spreading rapidly toward your ears. You cleared your throat, hoping the sudden nervousness wasn’t nearly as obvious as it felt.
“Anything you're looking for in particular?”
He slipped his hands into his pockets, one of them covered by a black glove. His gaze wandered briefly across the shelves before returning to you, as though he had come in with an answer but had somehow forgotten it the moment he saw you.
“Not really,” he admitted.
You tilted your head. “So, you just came in to stare at books?”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped him.
“Maybe.” You smiled despite yourself.
“That's an interesting hobby…”
He chuckled, and somehow, the tiredness in his face seemed to ease, his eyes brightening as he looked at you.
“Actually, I just thought I’d take a look around before getting some lunch.”
You nodded, pretending to busy yourself with a stack of books beside the register.
He was quiet for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.
Your fingers stilled against the edge of the book. You looked up at him, ignoring how much you had to crane your neck to do so, and suddenly very aware of the warmth creeping back into your cheeks.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I was thinking maybe I could buy you lunch.”
For a second, you could only stare at him.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
“Yeah,” you said, trying—and failing— to sound casual. “I’d like that.”
“Great.” A hint of excitement slipped into his voice, subtle but unmistakable, as though he hadn’t quite managed to hide it.
“It’s not far from here, actually. Just three blocks away.”
You smiled, unable to stop yourself from noticing the way his expression had brightened.
“Three blocks?”you asked.
“Just give me five minutes to close up?”
He nodded. In truth, you had already started closing before he’d even walked through the door. With the shop so quiet and no customers lingering around, you usually took the opportunity to head home a little early. Still, you slipped into the back room, hastily pulling on your coat and wrapping your scarf around your neck. You paused for a moment, staring at your reflection in the small mirror by the door. You needed to pull yourself together. It was just lunch. With a man whose eyes you had spent the entire night thinking about. You exhaled, shook your head, and hurried back toward the front before you could overthink it any further.
“Wait, how old are you?” The walk from the bookshop to the sushi restaurant had been short, just as he’d promised, and the two of you had spent most of it making easy small talk. By the time you sat down for lunch, you felt considerably less nervous than you had when you first stepped out of the shop. Bucky hesitated at your question.
You laughed—louder than you meant to, the sound escaping before you could stop it. But his expression didn't change. The smile slipped slowly from your face. You stared at him, confused.
You blinked. “You're joking.”
“I’m not.” Your brows pulled together as you studied him, waiting for the punchline that never came. “Bucky…” Your voice shook a little.
The realization struck you hard and fast, but strangely, it wasn’t frightening. If anything, it felt like the final piece of a puzzle sliding neatly into place. Your mind raced backward, searching through old memories until something finally surfaced. You had seen his face before. Newspapers. Television screens. The aftermath of the bombing at the United Nations. His face had been everywhere, repeated across every channel and plastered across every headline until the name had become nearly impossible to forget.
Your gaze dropped slowly to his gloved hand.
“Oh…” It was the only word you could manage. His eyes fell toward the table, his expression changing almost imperceptibly. Disappointment, perhaps. Or resignation.
“You're afraid of me.” Wrong.
That was the part that frightened you most. Because you weren’t. Not even a little. If anything, your curiosity only sharpened. You looked back at him.
“No,” you said quietly. “I’m not.”
He sat quietly, almost as though he were ashamed of the truth sitting between you.
“Tell me anything,” you said softly. “Or, nothing, or everything.”
You gave a small shrug. “I’ll listen.”
And he did. Slowly at first, as though each word had to be coaxed from somewhere deep inside him, but with a strange lack of hesitation once he began. He told you why he wore the glove, why he was attending court-mandated therapy, and why he now spent most of his days alone, returning to the same restaurant for lunch simply because there was comfort in knowing what to expect. You listened without interrupting. With every piece of his story, your heart seemed to sink a little lower. There was something profoundly sad about the way he spoke about his life—not asking for sympathy, not trying to excuse anything, simply laying the truth between you as though he had grown accustomed to carrying it alone. So you let him speak. You didn’t try to comfort him. You didn’t tell him everything would be okay. You simply listened. You didn't say anything when he finished. For a moment, you simply sat there, letting the silence settle between you two. Then, slowly, you reached your hand across the table, and placed your hand over his gloved one. He looked down at your hand.
“You—” he stopped, searching for the right words. “You’re not afraid of me?”
You shook your head. His hand pulled away, the movement sharper than you’d expected.
“You know what I’ve done.” his jaw tightened. “You know who I am.”
His eyes dropped to the table, his blue eyes somehow turning sadder. “You shouldn’t…” he paused, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t want to touch me.”
Your expression softened. “Why?”
His fingers curled against his palm. “Because these hands have hurt people.”
You glanced down at the glove, then back at him. “I know.”
He looked at you, almost waiting for you to change your mind.
“But I'm not afraid of you, Bucky.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just stared at you, as though he couldn’t quite understand why you were still sitting there.
“You should go.” The words came out quieter than his earlier frustration, almost like he was trying to convince himself more than you.
You shook your head. “No.”
He blinked, genuinely confused. “No?” He questioned.
“No.” You repeated. His brows drew together as he looked at you. “Why?”
You shrugged, hand wrestling loosely on the table between you. “Because I don’t want to.”
he stared at you for a simple moment, as if he couldn't quite understand how the answer could be that simple. “
You smiled. “I know who you are.”
The distinction seemed to catch him off guard. He looked away, jaw tightening again. But this time he didn’t tell you to leave.
You sighed softly, looking down at your hands for a moment.
“Maybe I don’t.” His eyes flickered back to yours.
He scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “And what is that?” You hesitated, studying him for a moment before answering.
“Someone who looks like he’s spent a long time convincing himself he’s worse than he is.”
His expression shifted, just slightly.
You shrugged. “I could be wrong.”
He looked away. “Maybe.” He muttered.
“But I don’t think I am.”
And that was when you saw it—a faint glimmer of something behind his eyes. Hope, perhaps. Or maybe it was simply the smallest crack in the walls he had spent so long building around himself. Whatever it was, it was there, fleeting and fragile, and somehow enough to make your heart ache with a warmth you couldn't quite explain.
He walked you to the subway station that evening, insisting on it despite your protests. You walked side by side beneath the fading afternoon light, your shoulders barely reaching his, and his stride slowing every now and then to match yours.
“You didn't have to walk me back, you know?”
You glanced up at him. “Then why did you?”
He shrugged, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “Wanted to.”
The simplicity of his answer caught you off guard. You looked ahead again, trying to hide the smile pulling at your lips.
You laughed softly, and for a while, neither of you said anything. You simply walked together, the comfortable silence between you feeling strangely natural for two people who had only known each other for such a short time. You stood together on the platform, waiting for the train that still hadn’t arrived. The station had begun to thin out around you, the occasional commuter passing by as the distant rumble of another train echoed through the tunnel.
“You can go now, Bucky.” You laughed softly. “I do this every day, I’ll be fine.”
He glanced down the tracks before looking back at you.
“I have no way of making sure you make it home.”
You sighed, though the small smile tugging at your mouth betrayed you. “You’re ridiculous.”
You hesitated for a beat before holding out your hand. “Gimme your phone.”
"Your phone,” you wiggled your fingers impatiently. “Just hand it over.”
He stared at your outstretched hand, clearly confused.
You groaned. “Just trust me.”
After a moment, he reached into his pocket and handed it to you. You quickly typed your number into his phone before handing it back.
“There.” You smiled. “Now you can text me whenever.”
The faint rumble of the train approaching began to echo through the station, growing louder with every passing second.
He looked down at his phone, then back at you, as though he still couldn’t quite believe you had given him your number so easily. A smile formed on his mouth, and it was a glorious sight.
The train rounded the bend, its headlights spilling across the platform. You stepped closer to the edge, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder when the train abruptly stopped, doors sliding open.
“I’ll see you around, Bucky.”
“Yeah.” His eyes stayed fixed on yours. “You will.”
You stepped onto the train, trying to carry yourself with a confidence you didn’t entirely feel. You caught the pole as the car jolted beneath your feet, then turned back toward the platform. Bucky was still standing there. He hadn't moved. For a second, neither of you did anything. You simply looked at each other through the open doors, the noise of the station fading into the background. You smiled. Then, almost shyly, you mouthed bye. He smiled back. You lifted your hand in a small wave just as the doors began to slide shut, leaving him on the other side of the glass. Even as the train pulled away, you caught one last glimpse of him standing exactly where you'd left him, his eyes following the train until the platform disappeared from view. You turned toward the window, smiling to yourself. Maybe you’d see him again tomorrow. You found yourself hoping you would.
You did. You saw him every week. Sometimes it was in the quiet waiting room outside Dr. Raynor’s office, where the two of you would sit a few chairs apart, pretending not to look at each other until one of you finally gave in. Sometimes it was at the bookshop, where he began appearing often enough that you stopped pretending his visits were accidental. And every weekend, without fail, there was lunch. It became a rhythm before you even realized it had become one. Two months came and went almost imperceptibly, each week slipping into the next until the days seemed to blur together. Somewhere along the way, Bucky became woven into the ordinary parts of your life—the person you looked for when the waiting room door opened, the familiar face you expected to see among the shelves, the name that appeared on your phone often enough to make you smile before you even opened the message. And when he wasn't in front of you, he was somewhere in the corners of your mind. You thought about him on the subway to work. You wondered what he was doing when the bookshop grew quiet in the afternoons. Sometimes you caught yourself smiling at something he'd said hours earlier, only to realize you were alone. It was strange how quickly a person could become familiar. Stranger still how easily you could begin to miss them. By the time December 23 had arrived, the city had transformed. Christmas lights appeared in windows and wound around lampposts, glowing against the early darkness. Shopfronts were dressed in garlands and red ribbons, and every corner seemed to carry some reminder that the holidays were meant to be shared. You watched couples walk beneath the twinkling lights with their hands intertwined. You passed beneath doorways decorated with mistletoe and instinctively looked away, knowing you had no one waiting beneath it for you. And despite everything—the warmth of the season, the lights, the music drifting from shops and cafés—your heart still ached with loneliness. Because having Bucky in your life had made you realize just how much you wanted someone to share it with. And somehow, that made being alone feel lonelier than it ever had before. You sat curled into the corner of your couch, your apartment lazily decorated for the holiday season. A few strands of twinkling lights were draped across the windowsill, and a small, slightly crooked wreath hung on the wall, but that was about as far as your festive spirit had managed to carry you. Bucky sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed whenever one of you shifted. You hadn’t felt like cooking, so you’d ordered a pizza for the two of you to share. It sat untouched on the coffee table, the cardboard box still warm, the scent of melted cheese filling the room. Normally, you would have been reaching for a slice by now. Tonight, though, you couldn’t bring yourself to eat. You stared down at your hands, picking absently at the edge of your sleeve. Bucky noticed. Of course he did.
You glanced over at him, offering a small shake of your head. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, unconvinced. “You’ve been staring at the same slice of pizza for ten minutes.”
You looked toward the box. “Guess I’m not hungry.”
He went quiet for a moment, studying your face before leaning back against the couch.
He cleared his throat, glancing down at his hands.
“I forgot to mention something.”
You looked over at him. “What?”
“I can’t do lunch tomorrow.”
You straightened almost immediately.
The question came out louder than you intended, and you immediately softened your voice.
“Sam…he has this friend.”
He paused, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his metal hand. “
"He wants me to go on a date with her and…” He trailed off.
You stared at him for a moment. “You said yes.”
It wasn’t really a question. He gave a small nod.
You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself, turning your attention toward the television even though you weren’t watching it. Something hot and irrational had begun to coil in your chest, and you hated yourself for it almost as quickly as you felt it. It wasn’t your place to be angry. Bucky wasn’t yours. You had never asked him to be, and he had never promised that he would be. You were friends. That was all. Whatever had quietly grown between you over the past two months was something neither of you had ever bothered to name. Still, knowing he was going on a date with someone else made something inside you ache, as though someone had reached into your chest and stolen something you hadn’t realized you’d already started to consider yours. You swallowed it down.
You pushed it down, and you prayed.
“Have fun, then.” The words came out bitter. Harsher than you intended.
Bucky’s head turned toward you.
“Okay.” His brows drew together. “Whats going on with you?”
“Say nothing where there’s obviously something wrong.”
You looked away, picking at a loose thread on your sweater.
He was quiet for a moment.
You scoffed. “You can’t tell me how I feel.”
Bucky shook his head, his expression softening.
“I’m just saying I know you well enough to tell when something's bothering you.”
You looked away again, folding your arms across your chest.
The words came out sharper than you meant them to.
He went quiet, and you got mean. Something in your twisted at the silence, because you knew you were being unfair. You knew it, and still you couldn’t seem to stop yourself. You felt like a dog—not violent in nature—you didn’t know why you bit.
Bucky’s expression changed, just slightly. You swallowed, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at him.
“I wouldn’t want you staying out late, sleepin' in and keep your date waiting.”
The bitterness in your voice was unmistakable now. He stared at you for a long moment.
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Because the truth was painfully simple. No. You wanted him to stay. You wanted him to forget the date, forget tomorrow, forget the entire world outside your apartment and remain exactly where he was. You wanted to be selfish enough to ask him not to go, selfish enough to admit that the thought of him sitting across another woman made your skin crawl. But you couldn't say any of that. So instead, you shrugged.
“Yeah.” The lie tasted rotten in your mouth.
Bucky looked at you as though he knew it was one.
“Okay.” He stood. The sounds of the couch shifting beneath his weight seemed unbearably loud in the quiet apartment. You kept your eyes fixed on your hands, refusing to watch him put his coat on, refusing to give yourself the chance to change your mind.
“Goodnight,” he said quietly.
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
The door closed behind him. And the moment you heard the lock click into place, your composure finally cracked. You stared at the untouched pizza across the table, the Christmas light reflected faintly in the dark window, and suddenly the apartment felt like hell.
You had told him to leave.
You had wanted him to stay.
I shouldn’t have left her.The thought had followed Bucky all the way to the restaurant, settling somewhere in the back of his mind and refusing to let go. Even now, sitting across from the woman Sam had set him up with, he could still hear your voice. You should go. I wouldn’t want you to fall asleep late and keep your date waiting. He replayed the words over and over, picking apart the bitterness beneath them, the way you had refused to look at him when you said them. Kaylie. Or… Kayla? He couldn't remember. She was talking—a lot, actually. Not that he minded. He nodded when he was supposed to, occasionally offering a quiet response when the conversation seemed to call for one, but his attention kept drifting. She was telling him something about her work when his mind wandered back to you. The way you'd curled into the corner of your couch. The untouched pizza between you. The slight crease between your brows when you'd insisted nothing was wrong. He barely noticed when his date stopped talking.
“Bucky?” His eyes lifted. “Sorry?”
She smiled uncertainly. “I asked if you were listening.”
He wasn't. Not really. Because no matter how hard he tried to focus on the woman sitting across from him, his thoughts kept circling back to the same question. Why did she want me to leave? He had wondered if it was jealousy. But it couldn't be. Could it? His gaze drifted toward the untouched drink in front of him, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the glass. No, he was reading too much into it. You were his friend. That was all. Still, the thought lingered. How could someone like her ever fall for someone like him? Someone who had spent years trying to separate himself from the things he’d done. Someone who still woke with memories he couldn't outrun, who wore a glove over one hand because sometimes looking at it was enough to remind him of everything he wished he could forget. And you? You were warmth and easy laughter and soft sweaters, the kind of person who offered someone chocolate simply because they looked like they needed it. You had looked at him knowing exactly who he was. And you hadn’t pulled away. He replayed the moment in his mind—their first evening together at the restaurant.
The words had come quietly, almost as though he were trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince her. She had shaken her head.
He had blinked, genuinely confused.
Her answer had been simple. Certain. He remembered the way his brows had drawn together as he looked at her.
“Why?” She had shrugged, hand resting loosely on the table between them.
“Because, I don't want to.”
And then, his mind dragged him back to the night before. To her apartment. To the pizza growing cold on the coffee table and the Christmas lights glowing softly against the walls. His expression had changed. She had swallowed, refusing to meet his eyes.
“I wouldn’t want you staying out late, sleepin' in and keep your date waiting.”
The bitterness in her voice. The way she had looked anywhere but his eyes.
And now, sitting across from another woman, the realization hit him all at once. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t something he could explain away. She had practically yelled at him to stay, and he didn’t hear it. Then she told him to leave, and he did. Guilt washed over him, heavy and immediate. He had spent so long believing that people would always leave him eventually that, when some one had finally chosen to stay, he hadn’t known what to do with it. He’d convinced himself that he was doing the right thing by keeping his distance, by never asking for more than she was willing to give. But last night, she had wanted him to stay. And he had walked out.
Bucky pushed his chair back. His date looked up at him, confusion immediately crossing her face.
he said, already reaching for his coat.
“I’m sorry. Merry Christmas.”
But he was already standing. He didn’t know what he was going to say when he saw you. He only knew he needed to, or his chest might explode.
You were still wrapped in your towel, your cheeks warm and flushed from the steam from your shower, when three firm knocks echoed through your apartment. Then came your name. You froze. For a moment, you simply stood there, staring toward the door as though you could somehow see through it. Another knock. You tightened your grip on the towel and crossed the apartment, pulling the door open with a flat, thoroughly unimpressed expression.
There he stood, slightly out of breath, his hair wind–tousled and his coat still hanging crookedly from his shoulders. His eyes widened at the sight of you in your towel.
“Yeah,” you said dryly. “Oh.”
his face remained wide eyed and completely still as he answered.
“She wasn’t the one,” he admitted.
You scoffed. “I’m shocked.”
Your tone was completely deadpan as you began pushing the door closed, only for Bucky’s hand to intercept it. You paused. Then slowly you cleared your throat, narrowing your eyes at him.
he shook his head, cheeks still flushed.
A short laugh escaped you, though it quickly faded when he pushed the door open and stepped inside, his eyes fixed steadily on yours.
You stared at him, unable to believe his audacity. A small grin appeared on his face.
He moved closer. You instinctively stepped backward, keeping your eyes on his as the distance between you disappeared inch by inch.
His hand came up, gently catching your jaw and turning your face toward his, making it impossible for you to look anywhere but his eyes.
“Because I don’t want to.”
You gave a dry little laugh, trying to ignore the sudden nervousness settling somewhere beneath your ribs, and the heat growing between your thighs.
“Was she not what you expected?”
He shook his head. Then, he lowered his face slightly, his voice quiet when he answered.
He pressed your lips to his before he could continue. And in that moment, it was like you finally found the missing piece of the puzzle you had been trying to solve for far too long. His lips were slightly chapped, with small hints of whiskey lingering with each taste of him. You kissed him almost violently, as though you were utterly depleted of him, as though he were oxygen and you had been holding your breath for far too long. His hands found your waist almost instinctively, lifting you with ease into his arms. A small, startled sound escaped you, your breath catching at the sheer strength with which he held you. You didn't exactly realize where he took you until you hear the door slam shut behind him, and him dropping you, like a rag doll on the bed. Your hair splayed across the mattress in lazy patterns. He pushed himself off of you for a moment, the sudden absence of lips burning more than you anticipated, leaving you strangely breathless. His gaze lingered on your face, taking you in with an expression you could only describe as…need.
“God.” He swallowed, undoing the buckle on his belt, his eyes never once leaving yours.
“Look at you, baby.” He groaned, freeing himself from the tight confines of his jeans.
Your breath hitched at the sight of him, the erection in his boxers almost painful looking.
“Bucky.” You gasp, hands unwrapping yourself from the towel.
“Please.” You didn't' know exactly what you were begging for. Just...him.
He laughed, palming his bulge.
“You know what you're asking for, doll?” He rasped. “Cause I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to,”
“I do, please…” You whine, squirming restlessly under him.
With a grin, he pulled his shirt off, the sight of him stole your breath with an almost cruel tenderness, leaving you suspended for a moment in the space between one heartbeat and the next. He lowered his face toward yours, his fingers gently threading through the lengths of your hair. For a moment, he said nothing, simply looking at you with an expression so open it made your chest ache.
The words were quiet, almost tentative, murmured with a simplicity that somehow made them feel heavier. Your heart seemed to stop. “What?”
He let out a soft breath, his eyes dropping for a moment.
“Shouldve said it sooner,” he admitted, lowering his lips to your collarbone, placing gentle kisses from there, down to your breasts. Your breath catches in your throat when he takes your hardened nipple into his mouth.
His tongue is relentlessly lapping at your sensitive bud, moving in tortuous circles. Your hands fist the sheets, bunching them between your fingers tightly. He makes his way down your abdomen, to your pulsing cunt, eyes meeting yours as he places a gentle—earth shattering kiss to your clit.
“You loved that, didn’t you, baby.” He mutters, eliciting a whimper from your throat.
“No, I need your words, doll.”
Your head spun, trying to conjure up words to form a coherent sentence.
“Yes, I did—I need more, please.” Your clit throbbed harder.
He stops your words abruptly, the tip of his tongue lapping at the slick folds of your cunt.
Your fingers slipped gently through his hair, combing through the tousled strands as he sucked your clit with intense fervor. Faint sounds of your slick combined with the spit of his tongue sounded throughout the room alongside your heavy exhales and moans. Sounds that meant to be his name expelled from your mouth, like a prayer. His mouth left your heat suddenly, eyes meeting yours.
The sight of his face. God.
The smile he bore proudly, and the slick covering the entirety of his jaw was something you’d shamelessly fuck yourself on your fingers too. He clicked his tongue.
“You need my cock, baby, don’t you?” He’s teasing, but it only makes the warmth in your chest grow.
You whimper at his words.
“Yes, Bucky please, I’ll be good, I swear—”
He rises up suddenly, and you don’t get a chance to complain before he’s freeing himself out of his boxers, and—great heavens—He’s not gonna fucking fit.
“Bucky," You exclaim. "Holy shit.”
You gasp, the tip of his cock throbbing red, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip, as it slaps the skin well past his belly button.
“Second thoughts?” His expression faltered, the sudden uncertainty evident in his eyes as they searched your face for some kind of indication of what you were thinking.
“No!” you protested quickly, almost too quickly.
“Just…a bit…jarring, is all.”
He smiles, cupping your jaw with sincerity. “You can take it.”
He spreads your thighs apart gently, and you almost yell when he begins to coat his fingers with your juices.
“That good, angel?” He rasped.
“Mhm…” You writhe under his touch. His fingers slide effortlessly inside you, and you're embarrassingly already close to the edge by the time he reaches the soft spot inside your pussy. He starts slowly, pumping gently and teasing your clit with small circles with his thumb. Your eyes flutter shut, the sensation quickly becoming euphoric. It stops suddenly when he takes his fingers from your pussy, and presses them into his mouth.
He licks and sucks like its candy, without a second thought.
“Taste so fuckin good, my love.”
The absence of his touch became agonizing, you whine incoherently at it, but somehow, he understands you need it completely.
“I’ll fuck you, doll, don’t worry.”
He begins to slowly stroke the length of his cock.
“Just wanna take my time with you.”
The sudden slap of his tip on your clit jolted you upward, back arching off of the mattress.
He let out a wrecked chuckle.
He moans, leaning down for a sloppy, wet kiss before wrapping his large arms around the entirety of your torso, cradling you to his chest as though you were his lifeline. You gathered up the strength to roll you both over, leaving you on top, still keeping you pinned to his chest like a koala.
he mutters against your lips. You laugh softly.
“You have me, Buck. Always have.”
You flip your long length of hair to the side, and begin to grind up and down his v-line.
His back arches under you. You smile widely.
“You were always mine, Bucky.” You snap your hips, eyes fixed on his, moving in slow circles above him.
His chest heaves with the friction of your bare pussy grinding against his lower abdomen.
“Yours…fuck—” he groans, breathless. “My girl…”
His girl. Your putty in his hands, and a whiny satisfied sigh leaves you when he tightens the grip on your hips, lifting you effortlessly as he nudges the head of his cock into the entrance of your pussy.
He slowly pulls you down, and you can't think of anything but mine. All fucking mine.
The sting of his width leaves quickly, replaced by a dull throb you ignore.
“Oh!” you scream as you reach the base of his cock.
His stern voice pulls you from your own mind, eyes fluttering open—you don’t even remember shutting them. He’s watching you with awe, the grip on your hips tight enough to leave a mark, and you can’t stop yourself from clenching down on him.
“God!—angel, you need to relax—”
“Sorry…” you whisper, bashfully. He chuckles.
His thumb begins to rub absent circles over your hips.
“Just want this to last and if you—mhm!”
He pushed you down on him, slightly further, the tip of his cock bumping against your cervix. Your breath hitched.
“Whoa…” Your head lolled backward, your eyes rolling dramatically with it as you let out a quiet, exasperated sigh. You roll your hips above him, the sensation causing you to double over in pleasure.
Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his chest.
“God, that feels so fucking good.”
Your words are breathy, and all Bucky can seem to do is stare at you, completely entranced.
You nod, rolling your hips once more.
Bucky slams upward, holding your hips steady, and your a fucking mess. Eyes watering and mouth hanging agape at the sheer size of him. Your a mess above him, scratching roughly at his chest as he fucks up into you, the length of him slamming in and out of you with violent intensity. His eyes rake down your figure with intense heat, admiring the bounce of your tits as he fucks you relentlessly. Skin meeting skin is all you can hear suddenly, and he pushes you closer to his chest, making your clit drag against his abs. Your pussy clenches and flutters around him, drool almost slipping from your open mouth as he groans. You wipe away the sweat soaked hair sticking to your face, eyes now permanently fixed on Bucky under you. Chest heaving, and completely wrecked—as you are. His groans progressively get louder and louder with each slap of skin, mouth agape as he drags you up and down the length of his cock. He starts slurring words of praise you can barely comprehend.
Your mind revisits the thought, and the thought makes you pulse around him—and he feels it—you can tell in the speed of his pace, and the twitching of his cock inside of you. You begin to fall, the sudden coolness of his metal fingers rubbing soft circles on your clit send you soaring over the edge. And suddenly, all you could see were stars and slivers of moonlight, suspended against the velvety darkness behind your closed eyes, as though the entire night sky had unfurled itself within you. You yell, each thrust he drove upward driving you mad, then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped loudly from your lips.
Your voice was steady, firm with a conviction that left no room for uncertainty.
He laughed, breathlessly. “Never.”
His pace doesn’t stop, only quickening as he snakes a possessive hand to your neck, hips snapping upward into you with such brutality, it’s almost obscene. His metal hand fists in your hair, pulling your face to meet his.
“Yours—ngh…shit!” he huffed, crashing his lips against yours desperately.
“only yours, baby.” He murmured against your mouth, pistoning his hips, expelling sounds from your throat you never knew you could make—raw. There's a heat forming in your core, and it’s about to pop. Bucky slams himself home with a wrecked cry of your name, cum spilling out of you in white spurts.
It began to trickle down your thighs and onto the sheets as he fucks you through your orgasm. You clench down suddenly, squeezing your eyes shut as you gush onto his abdomen, head falling back, supported by Bucky’s firm metal fist.
Then, everything stops. His pace falters, and your head falls back into place, till, suddenly all you can hear is the heavy breathing shared between the two of you. Your legs tremble, quivering with each inhale of breath. He looks at you. Really, looks at you. His gaze on you was something you knew you would never forget. He looked at you as though he were seeing you for the first time and, somehow, all over again at once, his eyes lingering over every detail of your face with a quiet, almost reverent intensity. There was something utterly entranced in the way he watched you, as though the rest of the world had gradually faded into insignificance and you were the only thing left within his line of sight. His expression softened, the usual guardedness in his features giving way to something far more vulnerable, something he didn’t seem to know how to conceal. For a moment, he simply stared, as though committing you to memory—afraid that if he looked away, even for a second, you might disappear.
“You okay, Buck?” you ask, lowering yourself onto him, wrapping your arms around him with certainty, you held him close, as though there were no hesitation left in you, no lingering doubt that could pry you apart. He huffed a breathless laugh, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder.
“Just…”he laughed softly, shaking his head as though he couldn't comprehend something.
“Can’t believe you’re real, baby.”
His arms found their way around you, pulling you closer with a tenderness that belied the strength in them, holding you as though he had spent far too long without you and had no intention of letting the moment slip away.
You chuckled softly against his shoulder. “I’m right here, Bucky.” He hummed, weaving his fingers through your hair as you completely melted into his embrace.
Then, suddenly, one quickly became two. There he stood in the warm glow of the kitchen, a dish towel slung casually over his bare shoulder—you dressed in only his red henley—and sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He moved about the kitchen with unexpected ease, flipping each pancake with deliberate concentration, his attention fixed on the pan as though the simple task demanded his complete unwavering focus.
You swung your legs idly from the countertop, watching him work.
“What did the pancake say to the waffle?”
Bucky glanced over his shoulder, spatula still in hand. “I don’t know. What’d he say, doll?”
You grinned mischievously. “You’re a waffle lot of trouble!” there was a beat of silence. Bucky stared at you. You stared back, smile wide, waiting.
You doubled over in laughter. “It’s funny!”
He sighed, grin pulling at his lips. “It really isn’t.” You scoffed.
“You’re just jealous because I thought of it first.”
He shook his head, turning toward the stove. “I’m embarrassed for you.”
You gasped dramatically. “You’re supposed to laugh.”
“I did!” he defended. “No,”you pointed. “You didn’t”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re an awful liar.” A quiet chuckle finally escaped him as he flipped the pancake. “There. Happy.”
“Very.” You nodded. He flipped another pancake, a small smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. “Got another one?”
Your eyes lit up immediately. “Actually, I do.” He sighed dramatically. “I knew I shouldn't have asked.”
He turned from the stove, a smile slowly warming across his face as he looked at you.
You laughed, glancing toward the window where the morning light had only just begun to spill across the kitchen.
“It’s not Christmas yet, Bucky.”
He shrugged, completely unbothered, and turned back toward the pancakes. “Couldn’t wait.”
You smiled, your legs swinging gently from the countertop. “It’s still Christmas Eve.”
He glanced over his shoulder at you, that same quiet smile lingering on his face. “Sure it does.”
You shook your head, laughing under your breath. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he said, flipping another pancake. “But you like me.”
You tried to hide your smile.
Thanks for reading my bullshit again yallllll <3 request some freak shit for me to write in the commentssss
