so i’ve been watching how to get away with murder… and i’ve been thinking about (obviously) making it steddie
older eddie being the fuckboy, sleazy and lowkey suspicious associate of the main boss (nancy), he does what he's told and is happy to get his hands dirty, and young, hopeful student steve who got into law to help people and starts to understand how corrupt everything is.
he gets bitchy and sassy and eddie only winds him up because at the end of the day, he's the actual associate and steve is learning the ropes.
until the tension gets unbearable and they can't stay away from each other. they stand for different things but there is no denying the electricity between them. it all comes to a head one night, both stressed and needing a break from the job and they see each other outside-
next thing they know steve is up against the fencing, eddies hands are gripping his face, winding in his hair, and he's doing something with his tongue that makes it feel like steve's conscious is leaking out of his ears.
they're consuming each other after weeks of waiting. tense looks and snippy comments.
they can't deny it's the one thing they've been waiting for, /wanting/ for weeks and been trying to ignore. they kiss like it's the last time they'll get the chance, both knowing that as much as they'll protest they'll have to come back to this.
come back to the way steve's hands feel yanking on eddie's tie, grappling with the buttons of his dress shirt. the sensation of eddie’s big hands tilting steve’s head gently as if his tongue and teeth aren’t doing downright nasty things to mouth and mind but yeah, they stand for different things. and they’ll remember that when they break apart, and they’ll try to ignore the spit still connecting their flushed lips and the way their heartbeats have synced because steve is still a “uptight, naive little law princess” and eddie will always be the “selfish, lying fuckboy, parading as a business man”.
shame they can’t look at each other without wanting the other naked. it’ll make working together … interesting, though.
abbot forgot the concept of personal space a long time ago.
it's not like he can remember a time when he's had any of his own. field hospitals aren't built for comfort or movability, they're built to save lives as quickly and efficiently as humanly possible. that meant compromising personal space for getting the job done and abbot made that trade willingly.
but you're a civilian, trained in wide open labs and spacious trauma rooms, so of course you're left speechless the first time you run a code with abbot, standing nose to nose at the side of a patient while he walks you through what is possibly the most intimate procedure you'll ever perform.
it's hard to think, let alone breathe with him standing so close, yet somehow you manage. but even when the procedure's done, he doesn't step back. no, he clings to that closeness while he tells you just how proud you should be for pulling that off.
you're lightheaded for the rest of your shift. drunk on the scent of cologne and antiseptic that is just so him.
it becomes the expectation. leaning shoulder to shoulder against the counter in central while there's a lull in patients. thighs pressed against each others while the two of you stand over a patient arguing over proper treatment with walsh and garcia. his chest almost pressed to your back while you're getting screamed at by a patients mother. he's not interfering because he knows you don't need his help. it's just a reminder. not only to you, but to the mother. he's got your back, but god help that woman if you decide you're tired of being the one to deal with her.
so when the entire pitt crew ends up in a bar down the street from the hospital after a particularly nasty car pile up that had required all hands on deck, you don't flinch when he takes the seat next to yours in the booth. or when presses himself closer to make more room. and especially not when his hand finds its way to your back, tracing along your spine while you lean across the table to talk to another resident as he chats about something nonsensical with robby.
you've both had a couple of drinks and abbot has little regard for personal space sober, so of course he'd be extra touchy under the influence of whiskey. but when his hand finds it way to the nape of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair, and you catch him smirk when the gesture makes you stutter around your words, you know this more than just the influence of booze. it's an overflow of tension. built up after weeks being so close you could practically crawl into each others skin.
when you go out for a smoke break despite the fact that you quit years ago, it's no surprise to either of you that he trail after you, palm burning through the skin of your shirt where it rests on your lower back.
he doesn't waste time once he has you outside. calloused palms cradling your hips with a reverence you've only dreamt of while he pushes your back up against the against the cold brick. you spend what feels like an eternity with your foreheads pressed together, lips ghosting over his while you silently debate who'll take the first move.
jack breaks first because he's always been the weaker of you two when it comes to this kind of thing.
in any other situation you would've been embarrassed by the sound that left your mouth when you tasted the whiskey he'd been sipping on his tongue, but not tonight, not when that sound makes him pull you closer, makes him tug on your hair in a way that has your knees weak,
he kisses like a man who's been deprived of human touch for centuries. as if you're the only person in the world who has finally seen him.
you get so lost in his touch you're not sure you'll ever find your way back. but jack guides you with a careful hands. leaves your lips to press a kiss to your cheek. the corner of your jaw. that sensitive spot just below your ear. the dip of your collarbone. and he stays there, breathing in your scent.
'want you to stay this close' he nips at your skin. 'need you to.'
methinks you should add jack to your list then write gun kink with him…
hi baby!! you’re back yay!! thank u for the ask!!
WHAT GUN KINK?? I’VE NEVER EXPLORED THIS BEFORE. SO FORGIVE ME.
warnings: gun kink, minor descriptions of sexual material.
one cool winter night you walk into the bedroom met with the sight of him wiping his gun down sitting on the edge of the bed leant over slightly, elbows resting on his knees. before you’re sitting next to him n just staring. glancing up at you letting out a low chuckle he asks “what’s got you so starry eyed doll?”
your eyes still fixated on his strong hands moving gently over the muzzle of the firearm. “just..y’know stuff.” you mumble with a shrug. he scoffs obviously not convinced sitting up and his eyes find yours. “tell me.” his intense stare makes you squirm fingers twisting your sweater up.
“you look..hot when you do that s’all” you mutter out. he blinks at you before a smirk is on his face
“you think so baby?” voice low and teasing n all you can do is nod almost ripping a hole through your sweater with how much you’re stretching it out. he hums and cocks his head signaling you to move closer and you do scooting across the blanket to him. where he then leans back one hand coming up to pat his thigh an expectant look on his face.
you climb into his lap both legs facing the right as your head is angled towards him eyes searching his unsure of what you’re even looking for. his left hand rests your hip and his right hand..
his right hand strokes the pistol up your thigh the cool metal making your shiver. “didn’t think you’d like something like this..” you can’t find words too shocked at the outcome, small almost indiscernible noises escape you at every stroke. his lips come to your ear kissing it softly, and you can feel his smile. “you into me or the piece in my hand?” you shudder.
“what if..” he trails off moving the gun up higher dragging it against your skin. nudging your thighs apart with it and pressing the muzzle softly to the front of your shorts. and your entire body reacts. twitching, chest swelling with a gasp. as your hands grab his wrist in shock. eyes slowly moving up to meet his. a look of pleased surprise on his face.
Um i have a request that can go either dr jack or dr robby, its up to you and the people🙌
Him figuring out you're pregnant before you even notice? Like he's so in tune with your body that when he's in you or when he feels you up he notices the subtlest change 👀 and when you wonder why your period is late its the final 1% for him 🤭 now he's 100% sure before you even suspect it
Absolutely, here’s the Jack Abbot version—grounded, intimate, and very Jack-coded.
LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3
content/warning : pregnancy symptoms, emotional overwhelm, soft marriage vibes, denial, reader in her "i’m fine" era, jack in his "no you're not" era, smut (married, emotionally grounded), pregnancy, food/scent aversion, mild mention of nausea
words : 3,144
You’ve been married to Jack Abbot for thirteen months and a week—but the two of you have been together for four years.
And somehow, you’re still learning him.
Still adjusting to the way he folds his t-shirts into perfect thirds. Still moving his boots away from the front door, even though he always leaves them there. Still catching the way he’ll wait until the lights are off, the blankets pulled up, and then remember one more thing he has to tell you.
You know his rhythms. His moods. The way he kisses you a little differently when he’s worried but won’t say it out loud.
What you sometimes forget is that Jack’s job never really ends—he never really clocks out.
He’s an ER doctor. Which means he’s always watching. Always reading. Always two steps ahead of a problem you haven’t realized is there.
MONDAY – The Morning Slips
The light’s already different when you open your eyes.
Softer. Higher.
You blink at the ceiling, then at the clock.
7:08.
Your breath catches. “Jack?”
You sit up in a rush—sweats and a worn old shirt clinging from sleep—and nearly trip getting out of bed. He’s not next to you. Your alarm isn’t ringing. Your phone is somehow still on Do Not Disturb.
“Jack?”
“Kitchen,” he calls back, voice calm.
You shuffle into the hallway, hair barely brushed, already calculating how fast you can get dressed and be out the door. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
Jack looks up from the coffee pot. He’s already dressed—scrubs on, ID clipped, stethoscope tucked in his jacket pocket.
“You didn’t even flinch when your alarm went off. I turned it off after the third round.”
You stare at him. “You let me oversleep?”
“You never sleep through your alarm,” he says, stepping toward you with a travel mug in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. “So I figured something was up.”
You groan. “I’ve got Q1 projections due today.”
“I emailed Rhonda. Told her you were running late.”
You blink. “You emailed my boss?”
“She sent back a thumbs up emoji.’”
Your laugh comes out surprised. “She would do that.”
“I made your coffee. It’s in the mug with the chip you like.” He hands it to you. “No cream. You’ve been skipping it lately.”
You frown. “Have I?”
Jack just nods. “You said it tasted too sweet last week.”
You take a sip. Still feels off—but you smile at him anyway.
“Thanks.”
He leans down and kisses your forehead. “Go shower. I laid out your dark gray sweater—the one you like for presentation days. Pants are on the chair.”
You freeze. “You picked out my clothes?”
“Only because I figured you’d be half-asleep and half-angry. I’m avoiding both.”
“You’re a menace,” you say, but it’s soft.
“You married me anyway.”
He brushes your hair back, fingers lingering a second too long at your temple.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Me? I’m great.”
“You’re looking at me weird.”
He shrugs. “I think I’m just impressed.”
“With what?”
“How well I know you.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re smug before 8 a.m.”
“I’ve earned it,” he says, nudging you toward the bedroom. “Go get ready. Your spreadsheet empire awaits.”
Thirty minutes later, as you’re rushing out the door with your laptop bag and still-wet hair, you find a granola bar tucked into your coat pocket.
The one you always forget you like until you’re starving at 10 a.m.
You don’t remember saying anything about needing one.
But Jack knows.
Of course he knows.
TUESDAY – Heels and Sore Feet
When you come through the door, Jack’s already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, dish towel slung over his shoulder like he’s been home a little while—but not long enough to fully settle.
You kick off your work shoes in the entryway, wincing slightly as you press your toes into the hardwood. “Remind me again why I thought real leather heels were a good investment.”
Jack leans back from the sink and tilts his head toward you. “Because they were on clearance and you were feeling powerful.”
“Right.” You flex your feet. “Power comes at a cost.”
“Come here.”
You shuffle toward him, dropping your tote bag by the counter. He doesn’t kiss you yet—just takes your hand and guides you to sit at one of the stools. Then he crouches, gently lifting your foot into his lap.
“Jack,” you laugh, “you do not need to—”
He starts massaging your arch with his thumb, firm and slow. “You’ve been on these all day. Let me.”
You lean back with a sigh. “This is how you trap me. You pretend to do the dishes, then you pamper me into silence.”
He smiles but doesn’t look up. “Worked yesterday.”
You wiggle your toes and close your eyes. “Feels so good it’s kind of criminal.”
“Good,” he murmurs.
He glances up just once—and clocks the light puffiness in your ankles.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just moves to your other foot.
After dinner—simple roasted veggies and couscous, eaten off the same two mismatched plates you’ve had since your first apartment—he walks behind you and wraps his arms around your waist while you’re rinsing your glass.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he says into your shoulder.
“Just thinking about that ridiculous Excel model I have to finish.”
He kisses your hair. “Take tomorrow slow if you can.”
You nod, but your hand rests gently over his where it sits across your middle.
You don’t notice it.
Jack does.
He says nothing.
WEDNESDAY – The Bloat Debate
You’re standing in front of the hallway mirror, poking at your stomach with the kind of exaggerated annoyance only someone married can safely get away with.
Jack walks by on his way to the bedroom, dressed down in sweatpants and a t-shirt, pausing when he sees your face in the reflection.
“You good?” he asks, leaning casually against the doorframe.
You sigh dramatically. “I look like I swallowed a beach ball.”
Jack walks up behind you, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “A small one, maybe. Like a decorative beach ball.”
You shoot him a sharp look. “Jack.”
He holds up both hands. “Hey. You brought it up.”
“I said I feel bloated. I didn’t ask for live commentary.”
He smiles and wraps his arms loosely around your waist, hands resting over the area you were just inspecting. “You’re the one poking yourself like a Pillsbury commercial.”
You snort. “I’m serious. None of my pants fit right this week. I sat down today and my waistband tried to fight me.”
“You’ve been eating the same stuff. Drinking water?”
“Barely. Work’s been insane.”
He kisses your temple. “Could be stress. Could be timing. Or maybe your body’s still sorting through Monday night’s gourmet masterpiece.”
You squint at him. “What masterpiece?”
“The one where you ate dill pickles, white cheddar popcorn, and two spoonfuls of peanut butter. In that order.”
You pause. “…It hit the spot.”
Jack grins. “Sure it did. My stomach was scared just watching.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
“I was afraid to interfere.”
You smirk. “You should be.”
He grins. “Noted.”
You shake your head, laughing, then rest your hands over his. “You sure it doesn’t look like anything?”
Jack doesn’t answer right away.
Because it does.
Not in a dramatic way. But he knows your shape. Your weight. The way your body settles against his at night. And lately, something’s… shifted.
Still, he kisses your shoulder and says simply, “You’re still the best thing I’ve ever looked at.”
You roll your eyes, leaning back into him. “Suck-up.”
He hugs you tighter. “Only for you.”
THURSDAY – The Blanket Negotiation
You’re on the couch by the time Jack gets home—already in pajamas, legs tucked under you, remote in hand, a bag of sour candy opened beside a half-finished cup of tea.
He walks in, shrugs out of his coat, and takes in the scene like a man walking into a painting he’s seen every day for four years and still isn’t over.
“You started without me,” he says.
“You’re twenty minutes late. Statute of limitations has passed.”
Jack walks over, leans down to kiss you, and pauses.
He looks at the bag of sour candy. Then the tea. Then back at you.
“That combo feels… bold.”
You shrug. “It’s balance. My body wanted chaos and comfort.”
He slides onto the couch beside you. “Didn’t you say your grilled cheese was ‘too much’ at lunch?
You sigh. “It was aggressive. The cheese had opinions.”
Jack laughs softly. “And now you're chasing it with citrus acid and sleepytime tea.”
You offer him a sour gummy. “Don’t question the system. Just participate.”
He takes one. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jack tries to nudge the blanket to him. You hold your edge tighter. “I got cold first.”
“I just walked in from outside.”
“You’ve got more body heat.”
He squints. “You’re hoarding it.”
“You’re late and you didn’t text. I get blanket privileges and first pick on snacks.”
He laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “I can’t argue with that logic.”
You smirk and finally shift, letting him under the blanket.
Once settled, he rests his hand on your leg—his thumb absently drawing circles near your knee while your attention returns to the screen.
You’re focused on the show.
Jack’s focused on you.
The blanket drapes across your midsection, and he notices the slight pressure you’ve been keeping there all week—how your hand keeps resting just under your ribs like your body’s trying to say something your brain hasn’t caught yet.
He doesn’t bring it up.
Instead, he leans a little closer.
“You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” you mumble. “Just tired. I’ve been tired all week.”
He nods. “You’ve been going hard.”
“I haven’t touched laundry all week. I’m down to mismatched socks and silent prayers.”
Jack smiles softly. “Want me to run a load?”
“You did the last one.”
“I’m on a streak.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “I married well.”
“You did.”
FRIDAY – The Way You Feel Tonight
It starts when you straddle his hips.
Jack’s back is against the headboard, pillows kicked aside, and you’re already skin-on-skin—his t-shirt discarded on the floor, yours halfway up your ribs. You’re in nothing but underwear, palms on his chest, nails dragging lightly across the sparse hair there.
He watches you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory.
“You sure you’re not too sore from the gym yesterday?” you tease, rolling your hips just enough to make his breath hitch.
“Positive,” he says. “Although if I die right now, I want it on record this was worth it.”
You grin. “Noted.”
His hands slide up your thighs slowly, thumbs pressing into the backs like he’s reading your muscles through the skin. Then his touch goes gentle. Palming. Bracing.
But when they move up to your waist, they stop.
His fingers settle across your lower belly, just under your navel. Familiar territory. But it doesn’t feel quite the same.
The curve is a little firmer. Rounder. Not bloated—different.
You keep moving over him, unaware. His eyes never leave your face.
“You okay?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow.
Jack refocuses. “Yeah. Just... distracted.”
“You can stare later,” you say, lifting your hips to tug your underwear down. “Hands now. Mouth soon.”
“God, I love you,” he mutters.
“Then prove it.”
He flips you onto your back, mouth already at your collarbone, breath warm, kisses slow. He trails one hand between your legs and groans when he finds you wet and ready, slicker than usual.
You pull him down with a hand behind his neck. “Come on.”
But he’s still slow.
Like he’s measuring.
Like he’s trying to feel every millimeter of you, confirm what he already suspects.
You’re tighter. Not tense. Just changed.
You gasp as he eases inside. “Jesus—”
It’s good. So good. His hips rock into you slow, steady, deep. One of your legs hooks over his back, heel pressed to his side, chasing friction.
Every time he hits just right, your hand fists in the sheets. Your moans are breathless, open-mouthed, involuntary.
Jack watches your face like it holds answers. His pace stays smooth, even as you start to beg.
“Jack,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “Harder.”
He gives you what you want. A little more pressure. A little less space between his body and yours.
You feel full. Stretched. But not uncomfortable.
You feel held.
And when you come—hard, back arching, fingers digging into his shoulder—he follows seconds after, groaning your name into your skin like he’s never said anything truer.
He brushes your hair back, fingertips trailing your temple.
“You’ve been looking at me weird all night,” you murmur.
Jack smiles. “No, I haven’t.”
You lift an eyebrow. “You were studying me.”
“I was watching you.”
“Same thing.”
He doesn’t respond.
He just presses his hand to your stomach again—light, thoughtful, like he’s grounding himself more than anything.
You roll your eyes playfully. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”
Jack just smiles.
“I’m already in deep,” he says quietly.
You kiss him once, quick. “Weirdo.”
SATURDAY – The Vendor You Walked Away From
It’s just after noon when you stop by the market. Something normal. Familiar. Something you and Jack do when there’s nowhere else you need to be.
You loop through the vendors casually, fingers brushing the edge of a produce crate, checking for ripeness. Jack keeps pace beside you, a canvas tote slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to. He’s just watching the way you move.
You’ve always been precise. Sharp, even in small motions.
But today, there’s hesitation.
You reach for a bunch of mint, fingers brushing the stems—then pause.
Jack notices before you say anything.
You pull your hand back, subtle, and move on to the next table without a word.
At the bakery stall, you order for both of you. Jack takes a bite of the rosemary bread. You don’t touch yours.
He watches you stare at it for a few seconds too long.
“I’ll eat it later,” you say finally, tucking the paper bag into the tote. “Not in the mood right now.”
He doesn’t press. Just nods, and walks with you.
Fifteen minutes later, you pass a vendor handing out samples of honey and cheese—something you’d normally stop for. Your eyes flick over the setup, then move away quickly. Not forced. But intentional.
You keep walking.
Jack stays silent until you’re halfway to the car.
“Did that smell bother you?”
You glance at him. “What?”
“The cheese. You looked at it like it turned your stomach.”
You shake your head. “No. I just didn’t want it.”
He nods once. Doesn’t push.
You unlock the car. He loads the bag in the backseat. You slide into the passenger side and adjust the seatbelt low.
He notices that too.
On the way home, the radio’s low. You’re watching traffic, thumb tapping absently against the console.
Jack glances at your profile once. Then again.
“You’ve been different this week,” he says.
You don’t look at him. “So have you.”
There’s no bite in it. Just quiet truth.
He exhales through his nose. “That’s fair.”
You turn your head finally. “Is there something you’re not saying?”
Jack watches the road. His hands stay steady on the wheel.
“No,” he says after a pause. “You’ll say it first.”
SUNDAY – Three Weeks Late
It’s just after 11. The laundry’s done. The dishwasher’s running. You’ve wiped down the counters twice.
You’re standing at the fridge, pinning up a receipt, when your eyes catch the calendar.
Your stomach dips.
You count the days with your finger—slowly, carefully, like you don’t quite trust yourself.
One. Two. Three—
Three weeks late.
Not five days. Not “I think I skipped one.” Three.
You turn your head toward the living room. Jack’s on the couch, half-sunken into the cushions, phone in hand, scrolling through the news without really reading it. His coffee sits untouched on the table. One leg stretched out, the other—his prosthetic—resting beside him like it always is when he’s home and grounded, the kind of settled comfort only the two of you know by feel.
You don’t mean to say it yet.
But it’s out before you can take it back.
“Jack?”
He looks up instantly. “Yeah?”
You stay by the fridge, fingertips grazing the door like it’s anchoring you.
“I’m... three weeks late.”
There’s a long pause.
Jack doesn’t move right away. Just watches you—quiet, focused, already reading every inch of your face.
Then, calmly, he leans forward.
His movements are familiar: practiced, unfussy. He shifts to the edge of the couch, pulls the prosthetic toward him, and straps it on like he’s done a thousand times—smooth, sure, muscle memory in every motion.
You don’t speak. Just watch him move through it with the same quiet purpose he’s carried through every hard season of your life together.
When he stands, it’s quiet—just the familiar click of the prosthetic locking in and the muted slide of his socked foot across the hardwood.
He crosses to you without hurry.
When he stops in front of you, his voice is low. Certain.
“Do you want to take a test?”
You nod.
“I don’t have one.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do.”
You blink.
“Top drawer,” he says simply. “I bought one Monday.”
You stare at him. “You—what?”
Jack shrugs. “I figured you’d see it when you were ready.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re not even a little surprised?”
He steps closer, voice low, steady. “You’ve been different. Not in a bad way—just… off your rhythm. You’ve been switching between hoodies in the middle of the day like none of them fit right. You keep standing at the fridge and forgetting what you opened it for. And your leftover curry—the one you swore was better the second day? You didn’t even take a bite.”
You stare at him. “You kept track of all of that?”
“I love you. I notice you.”
You go quiet.
Then reach for his hand.
“Come with me?”
“Of course.”
You sit on the bathroom counter while the test processes. Jack stands beside you, leaning against the sink. Neither of you talk. There’s nothing left to say.
You both look down at the result at the same time.
Positive.
You exhale like it’s the first full breath you’ve taken all week.
Jack rests his hand gently on the counter behind you—not pushing, just there.
Your voice breaks the silence.
“We’re really doing this.”
Jack nods. “We already are.”
You smile—small, but it stays.
And Jack leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.
Summary: Bucky finds your favorite smutty book. The kind where a man chases the woman he wants into the woods and takes her like she’s his prey. He reads it. Asks if that’s what you like. You admit it.
Now you're on your knees in the dirt, throat raw, wrists scraped from tree bark, and he’s not your soft, sweet Bucky anymore. Tonight, he’s the man from your book.
And you said yes.
TW: Dub-con elements (consensual non-consent / CNC roleplay), Rough sex, Choking/gagging (oral), Praise kink (lightly at the end)
MINORS : DNI 18+
You’re standing at the dresser, pulling a soft sleep shirt over your head when you hear it—the rustle of paper behind you, the slow, deliberate flip of a page.
You freeze.
Your book. You left it on the nightstand, open-faced and shamefully obvious, like you forgot who you lived with. Not just any man. Bucky Barnes. The same man who could crush a boulder with one hand and undo you with just a look.
“Didn’t know you liked this kind of thing,” he says, voice low, amused, but not mocking.
You turn around slowly.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, metal arm glinting in the lamplight, one brow arched as he stares down at the open book in his hands. His thumb brushes the dog-eared page like it offends him.
Your stomach drops.
“I—” you start, but your throat dries up. You tug your shirt lower even though it already covers you.
Bucky glances up. His expression unreadable, eyes dark, jaw tense.
“This scene,” he says, holding the book up. “Guy chases her into the woods. Finds her. Fucks her like an animal.” His voice drops on the last word.
You swallow. “It’s just a book.”
He hums, not buying it.
“You like that?” he asks, gaze locked on yours. “Being chased like that? Caught?”
Your skin prickles, heat flooding low in your belly.
“I don’t know,” you say, voice smaller than you mean it to be. “It’s stupid.”
Bucky stands, slow and smooth, setting the book on the nightstand. He walks toward you, eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s not stupid.”
You don’t move. Can’t.
When he’s in front of you, his hands go to your hips. He tugs you closer until your chest is against his, your breath catching at the warmth of his body. He bends to murmur in your ear:
“Tell me what you liked about it.”
You shake your head, mortified.
He doesn’t let up. “Was it the chase? The way he caught her? Or the way he made her beg?”
You let out a soft sound, involuntary, already too warm.
His fingers trail up under your shirt, find the waistband of your panties.
“Maybe it was this part,” he says, slipping his hand down. “The way she was already soaked before he touched her.”
You gasp when his fingers find you—slow, sure, dragging through you with aching precision.
“Bucky—”
He moves behind you in a single step, pulling you back into his chest, one arm tight around your waist, the other between your legs again. Your back arches against him, thighs parting automatically as he strokes you deeper.
You’re already grinding down on his hand, mouth parted, breath stuttering. His lips graze the shell of your ear.
“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers. “Tell me.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “I wanted you—”
“Not what I asked,” he growls, pressing the heel of his palm hard against your clit. Your hips jerk.
“Do you like it?” he asks again. “The chase. The danger. Being caught.”
You nod frantically. “Yes. I like it—I love it, please—”
And just like that, he pulls his hand away.
You let out a noise that’s half-whine, half-plea.
He turns you around. His eyes are darker now, almost black, chest rising and falling. He grabs your hand, firm.
“Come on.”
“What—”
But he’s already walking, dragging you through the bedroom, down the hall.
To the back door.
He opens it. The woods beyond are dark and quiet, shadows stretching between the trees. Your heart hammers.
He steps outside, barefoot, shirtless, wild.
Then he turns to you.
“Run.”
You blink.
“Bucky—what are you—?”
“I said run.” His voice is low. Threatening. Commanding. “You’ve got ten seconds, baby. That’s all I’m giving you.”
The screen door slams shut behind you as you bolt.
You sprint into the trees, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. The woods are cooler than the cabin, the air sharp with pine and soil and late-summer damp. The forest floor is soft beneath your bare feet, needles sticking to your soles as you push through underbrush, past the thick trunks you’ve seen a thousand times—but never like this.
You don’t know what part of you is running from him, and what part is running for him.
You hide behind an old cedar, the bark rough against your back, your chest rising and falling like you’ve already been caught. You bite your lip to stay quiet, hand pressed over your mouth.
You listen.
Nothing but the sound of your blood, your breath, the breeze in the branches overhead.
Then:
A step.
Heavy. Measured. Close.
You freeze.
Another. Closer.
A twig snaps somewhere behind you, and your body goes still, your pulse leaping into your throat.
“Where’d you go, baby?”
His voice is soft, teasing, almost sweet—like he’s not hunting you at all.
But you know that voice.
And then—you feel him.
Not see. Feel.
That energy. That hum at the base of your spine. That unmistakable Bucky-ness that wraps around you like a force field.
You try to shift to your left.
A metal hand slams into the tree beside your head.
You gasp.
“Thought I told you to run,” he murmurs behind you.
“I did,” you whisper, throat dry. “I—I ran.”
“You call that running?” His chest presses against your back now. “Didn’t even try.”
“I didn’t think you’d catch me that fast.”
“I wasn’t even trying.”
His other hand finds your hip, pulls you back into him—and he’s hard. Rock solid, straining through his sweats, grinding against your ass as he pushes you tighter against the tree.
“You want me to be the guy from that book?” he says, voice in your ear, hot and low. “Chase you down. Take you right here. Is that what you want?”
You can’t speak. You nod.
He grabs your jaw, turning your head just enough for your eyes to meet his.
“No,” he growls. “Say it.”
You gasp out the words. “Yes—I want it. I want you.”
His lips crash into yours. Messy. Starved. He kisses you like you’re something he owns—teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue sliding into your mouth like he’s already inside you.
Then he pulls back, breathing hard.
“You’re not getting away now.”
He spins you around, palms on the tree behind you, body pressed against yours, and his voice is molten.
“You wanna be my good girl?” he growls against your ear.
“Yes—yes, please—”
“Then you take everything I give you.”
His voice is a low growl against your ear—and then he shoves you.
You barely catch yourself as your hands slap against the rough bark of the tree. His metal hand is between your shoulder blades, holding you down. Not just firm—immovable. You’re caged in.
The air is thick and damp and smells like earth and pine and sweat. You can’t breathe.
"You were fuckin’ waiting for me to catch you, weren’t you?" he spits behind you. "All that squirming. All that little whimpering. Thought I’d just give it to you?"
His hand slides between your thighs again, fingers dragging through slick heat. You’re soaked. Absolutely ruined and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.
He chuckles—mean.
“You came out here like this? Pussy dripping? You wanted to be found.”
"Yes," you pant, cheek against the bark, your body already begging. "Yes, I—I wanted—"
"You wanted to be used," he cuts in. “Wanted to be taken by force, like your dirty little book.”
You nod frantically, but he just pulls away.
"Turn around."
You obey before you can even think. He grabs your jaw with one hand, the metal one, squeezing hard enough to make your lips part.
"Down."
You drop to your knees.
The pine needles bite into your skin, your thighs shaking as he steps closer, towering over you like he owns the entire fucking forest—and you’re just part of it.
"Look at me."
You look up.
His cock is already in his hand, hard and thick, tip flushed and leaking. He strokes himself slow, gaze locked on yours.
"Open that pretty mouth."
You do.
He slides in without warning.
Your lips stretch wide, eyes fluttering as he pushes deeper—past your tongue, past comfort. You gag, and he doesn't stop. His hand fists in your hair, pulling, holding you there.
“That’s it,” he grunts, hips starting to move, slow at first, then faster. “You like being hunted down and used like this? You like choking on the cock of the man who fucking owns you?”
Your nails dig into his thighs. Tears sting your eyes. Spit pools at the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin. He’s fucking your mouth like it’s not even yours—like it was always his.
"Fucking hell," he groans. "Look at you. Filthy little thing. Didn’t even make it two minutes in the woods before you were on your knees.”
You moan around him, choking again as he thrusts harder, deeper.
He pulls out suddenly.
You cough, spit dribbling from your chin, but he doesn’t let you catch your breath. He yanks you up by the hair and spins you back around, shoving you against the tree again.
You cry out, breathless.
“You think you’ve earned it yet?” he snarls in your ear. “Think sucking me off gets you my cock?”
"Please," you gasp. “Please—I'll do anything—”
He slides his cock between your thighs, rutting up against your slick heat, but not inside.
"You want it?" he hisses. "Then fucking say it."
You press your hips back against him, sobbing now, completely lost in it.
"I want it—I want you—please, please—"
"Say what you are."
You hesitate.
He grabs your throat—lightly, just enough to make you freeze.
"S-say what—"
"Say what you are," he snaps.
"I’m—" your voice breaks. "I’m yours. I’m your toy—your prey—your fuckin’ thing, just—"
He snarls like an animal.
“Good girl.”
That’s the last thing he says before he shoves you down.
Your hands catch on the forest floor—pine needles scraping your skin, dirt sticking to your knees. Then his palm is on your back again, pressing you down, arching you just where he wants. You feel the weight of him behind you, the heat of his body, his cock heavy against your ass as he grinds in slow, filthy circles.
"You ready for it now?" he mutters behind you, breath ragged. “You ready to be fucked like you begged for?”
"Yes," you whimper. "Please—I’m ready, I’m yours—take me—"
He slams into you.
You scream.
No warning. No easing in. He buries himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust, stretching you open, knocking the air from your lungs. The tree scrapes your cheek again as your fingers claw the ground, grasping at anything, but there’s only him.
His hands grip your hips—hard—and he starts to move.
Relentless. Brutal. Like he’s claiming you.
"You feel that?" he snarls, fucking into you like his life depends on it. “This is what you fucking wanted, isn’t it?”
"Yes—yes, oh my god—"
"That’s right. Wanted me to find you. Make you mine. Now you’re gonna take every fucking inch until you can't walk.”
You’re crying now, completely gone—moaning, choking. He reaches forward, grabs your hair and pulls, forcing your back into a deep arch. His cock drives even deeper, and you swear you black out for a second.
"Fuck, you take it so good," he groans. "Tight little pussy just sucking me in."
You babble something incoherent—just his name, maybe, or a string of yeses so desperate it’s not even words anymore. He shoves a hand between your legs again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing viciously.
"You gonna come on my cock?"
"Yes—yes, please—please—"
"Do it. Right now."
Your body detonates.
It hits like lightning—your vision goes white, your thighs clamp down, your entire body locking up as you come around him with a scream. He keeps fucking you through it, moaning now, wild and ragged.
"That's it. Fuck me, baby—fuck—"
His rhythm breaks. His grip tightens.
And then he’s coming.
Hot, deep, buried so far inside you it feels like you’ll never get him out. He growls through his teeth, body shaking as he holds you still, cock twitching inside you, filling you up just like he promised.
Neither of you speak. Just panting. Your cheek pressed to the dirt, body trembling, cunt still fluttering around him.
Then—his arms wrap around you.
One under your thighs. One behind your back. You barely register it before he lifts you, carries you, your legs limp, your head falling into the crook of his neck.
He presses a kiss to your temple.
He doesn’t speak as he lifts you.
Just holds you to him—strong arms banded around your thighs and back, your legs hanging weak around his waist. Your face nuzzles instinctively into the crook of his neck, skin flushed, damp, still catching your breath.
He carries you like you’re breakable now. Like you weren’t just bent over a tree five minutes ago with his cock buried so deep you forgot your name.
Your limbs ache. Your thighs twitch with aftershocks. His cum is leaking out of you, running warm down your legs.
And still—he’s carrying you like you’re everything.
Like you’re his whole goddamn world.
The cabin’s porch light glows ahead. A soft yellow blur through your bleary vision. You don’t remember how far you ran, or how fast he caught you. It all feels like a fever dream now. Your book come to life. Your fantasy made real.
He nudges the door open with his foot, carries you inside like a man possessed.
Straight to the bed.
He sets you down so gently it makes your throat tighten. You sink into the mattress, muscles too loose to hold yourself up, and watch as he kneels between your legs, his hands on your thighs.
Bucky looks up at you.
Not the man from the woods. Not the predator. Not the fantasy.
Just him.
His mouth is soft. Eyes darker than normal, but no longer hard. Just full.
“You okay?” he asks, voice raw, thumb stroking your knee. “Need anything?”
You nod. “You.”
He climbs up, body pressed to yours. The weight of him feels grounding. Right.
His hands settle on either side of your head, his nose brushing yours. He doesn’t kiss you yet. Just looks.
“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “You can tell me anything. You want something—I'll give it to you. Doesn’t matter how dark, how rough. You say it, it’s yours.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually…” You trail off, breath catching.
“You said yes,” he murmurs. “That’s all I needed.”
His lips find your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, slow, reverent.
“You still feel safe with me?”
You nod, breath trembling. “I’ve never felt safer.”
He lets out something close to a breathless laugh. His forehead presses to yours.
“I fucking love you,” he whispers. “God help me, I’d chase you to the ends of the earth.”
summary | bucky barnes, heir to the barnes empire, could have anything money could buy and yet, the only thing he’s ever truly wanted is the housemaid who ruined him before he was even a man
tags | (18+) MDNI, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, pervert!bucky, cocky rich boy x seductive maid, domme!reader, bratty sub!bucky, but also dom!bucky too, voyeurism vibes, masturbation (m), panty sniffing, bucky is down bad and he’s not hiding it, body worship, oral fixation, oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, groping, tits in his mouth like a pacifier, mirror kink, unprotected sex, possessive sex, marking / bruising / scratching, clothes ripping, rough & desperate fucking, filthy dialogue, creampie, overstimulation
a/n | this fic is brought to you by: ovulation, unresolved maid fantasies, and the belief that if i was hired at a mansion by rich people, i too could emotionally and sexually destroy their rich son.
bucky is a filthy little pervert and i can't seem to stop writing him that way 🥀 lowkey he's giving carter baizen
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @uzmacchiato
Bucky nodded when his mother said something about mergers.
Or was it marriages?
Honestly, it didn’t matter.
Whatever words were dripping out of Winifred Barnes’ diamond-laced mouth — they barely made it past his collar.
He sat at the long oak table like he had a thousand times before, suit pressed, knife gliding through a steak he couldn’t taste, pretending to listen while his mind tuned into something else entirely.
Someone else.
You.
You were at the far end of the room, back turned, wiping down the sideboard with slow, steady strokes that made his jaw twitch.
Still here. Still working. Still fucking flawless.
His eyes dragged over your silhouette — the familiar curve of your waist, the flash of your thigh when you shifted, that damned uniform that hadn’t changed in years. Tight black fabric, lace trim. Still fitted. Still teasing.
His fork hit his plate too loud.
He swallowed hard, jaw tight, and stabbed another bite of steak just to keep from letting out a sigh.
Jesus Christ.
It had been six years.
Six goddamn years of lectures and internships and painfully average girls who moaned too loud and came too fast.
Six years of keeping his hands busy when they weren’t writing papers — busy with his cock, fist tight, eyes closed, whispering your name into a dark dorm room pillow like a fucking pervert.
And now? You were right there.
Same smirk.
Same sway in your hips.
But god, you looked even better.
His father cleared his throat.
Older. Softer in the thighs. Sharper in the eyes.
Like someone who knew exactly what they did to boys like him.
“James, are you listening?”
He blinked.
“Sure.”
Winifred clicked her tongue. “Honestly, James. You could at least pretend to listen when your father and I are trying to talk about your future.”
He looked up, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Sorry. I was distracted.”
George folded his hands. “We were saying — we’ve arranged a dinner. This weekend. The Sinclairs are bringing Bonnie by.”
“Who?”
“Bonnie Sinclair,” his mother repeated, with the kind of smile she wore when she was proud of her own scheming. “You remember her — the family owns the vineyards out in Napa. Lovely girl.”
His brow furrowed. “No.”
“No, you don’t remember her?”
“No, I’m not going to dinner.”
His father sighed. “James—”
“What, you want to sell me off to the highest bidder now? Come on. It’s not the 1800s. Arranged marriages are dead, and so is your fantasy of me falling in love with some bottle blonde wearing pearls and a trust fund.”
“James—”
He dropped his knife a little harder than necessary. “Why don’t you try setting Becca up with some rich prick when she’s home next break? See how she likes it.”
Winifred’s smile slipped.
“This is different,” she snapped. “You’re the heir. You have responsibilities—”
“To what? To your image? Or your fucking legacy?” he muttered.
They kept talking. Rambling about dynasties and preserving the Barnes name and how beneficial the Sinclairs could be for future ventures, but Bucky had already tuned them out again.
His eyes flicked to the far corner of the room.
Empty.
You were gone.
He let out a quiet sigh, leaned back in his chair, head tilted toward the ceiling like it might save him from the pressure creeping up his spine.
Great. Fucking great.
First night back in this godforsaken mansion, and not only were they trying to auction him off like a prized racehorse, but now you’d moved on to some other wing of the house.
And the worst part?
He didn’t even get a proper look at your ass yet.
Later That Night
He waited until after dinner. Until his parents retired to their wing, until the halls were dim and quiet and full of shadows.
Then he wandered.
Not with purpose — no, that’d be pathetic. It was casual. A stroll. Just stretching his legs. Familiarizing himself with home again.
Except his legs kept stretching toward all the usual spots you used to be in.
The reading room. The conservatory. The hallway by the west guest suite with the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
Nothing.
Not even the click of your heels.
He passed the kitchen. Slowed. Even stepped in and leaned against the counter for a minute—under the pretense of grabbing water—But the space was empty. Not a single trace of you.
He scratched the back of his neck, lips twitching.
"Right. Because the woman he used to fuck during summer break is just gonna materialize out of nowhere now that I’ve got a degree and a new haircut."
Eventually he stopped at the foot of the servant stairwell. The one that led to the staff quarters.
He stared at it like it might open on its own.
No.
He wasn’t going to climb that staircase again.
Not after what happened the last time — back when he was eighteen and naive enough to think you’d want him to stay the night.
And you? Laughing into your pillow.
He could still remember the creak of the floorboard, the way he scrambled half-naked out the window when someone came down the hall.
Heart racing. Dick leaking. Your cum drying on his thighs.
Fuck no.
Not again.
He made it back to his bedroom around midnight. Jaw tight. Cock aching. Stripped his shirt off, threw it across the room. Sat on the edge of the bed like a fucking failure.
The worst part? He was hard. Like achingly hard.
The ache between his legs had turned into a full-throb punishment, buzzing just beneath his skin like static. He rubbed a hand over his face, then across his jaw, restless, annoyed, half-hating himself — until his eyes flicked to the armoire.
His old one. From before school.
The tall, cherrywood thing with the drawer he used to keep locked. With the key still hidden in the false-bottom of his cufflink box.
His pulse jumped. He sat up slowly, legs wide on the edge of the bed, and reached for the key.
The drawer slid open with a familiar click — and there it was.
The shrine.
Soft silk and lace folded neatly like it was holy. Panties. Bras. A few sheer thigh-highs. A wrinkled black ribbon he once slid from your hair while you weren’t looking. And beneath it all, tucked like a secret: a napkin with your lipstick stain from that time you took a sip of his champagne at his nineteenth birthday.
Fuck.
He swallowed, throat thick.
God, he used to be such a little fucking perv.
But he didn’t stop himself.
Didn’t hesitate.
And yeah.
His fingers reached out and traced the edge of a deep burgundy lace panty — the kind that cut high on your hips, left little to the imagination.
He brought it to his nose.
The scent was faint — barely there — but it was you. Soft. Clean. Sweet. Like something he should never have touched.
His eyes fluttered shut. His other hand slid towards the waistband of his boxers.
He hissed through his teeth as his cock sprang free — thick, flushed, already leaking like it had been waiting all fucking day for this.
His hand wrapped around it, tight, just the way he remembered you liked it. The lace pressed to his nose, breathing in the ghost of you. His hips lifted off the bed.
”Fuck, fuck—”
He could see it now.
It was late spring. House empty. You in that tight little skirt and red lipstick, whispering into his ear, “You’re hard again?”
He nodded, breathless, embarrassed.
“Poor baby.”
You pulled him behind the west wing stacks, shoved his back to the shelf. Sank to your knees, tugged his pants down like he was a fucking treat and sucked his dick like he owed you his life.
“You’re so loud, Jamie,” you’d teased. “You want someone to catch us?”
Except he kept whining. Kept moaning your name. Kept trying to say how good it felt, how much he missed your mouth.
So you snatched the panties off your own body — and balled them up tight.
“Open.”
And when he did, wide-eyed and obedient, you shoved them into his mouth, fingers pressing against his lips like a silencer.
“Bite down and be quiet, Jamie.”
He ended up cumming thirty seconds later.
Meanwhile Bucky’s back hit the headboard, abs flexing, muscles jerking. His hand pumped faster. His breath stuttered.
Your voice was in his head. Your tits in his face. Your fucking panties were in his hand and goddammit, he was so close—
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
He groaned low into the fabric, the lace catching his breath, your name tangled between his teeth as his hips jerked up into his fist.
And when he came? It was hot and thick and messy — all over his knuckles, spilling past his hand, some of it catching on the lace he still hadn't let go of.
His breathing was heavy as he stared at the ceiling. Then he let out a bitter, strangled laugh.
“Jesus Christ…”
No relief. No peace. Just sweat, regret, and the scent of you still burning his fucking lungs.
The sun was too bright. The air too crisp. And Bonnie Sinclair’s laugh grated on his last fucking nerve.
“Oh my god, is that a peacock? Do you have actual peacocks?”
Bucky didn’t even glance toward the bird strutting across the lawn. He kept walking — hands in his pockets, jaw tight, sunglasses shielding his dead, uninterested eyes.
“Yeah. They scream a lot. Make sure to watch your toes.”
She giggled. He didn’t.
His parents and hers were tucked away on the back veranda, sipping champagne and pretending this was 1890. Bonnie’s dad already talking about business mergers and dowries, probably. And Bonnie?
Bonnie was doing her best to make an impression.
She was pretty, sure. In the way white tablecloths are pretty. Elegant, polite, and utterly forgettable.
Her voice was all breathy vowels and praise for things she didn’t understand —
He smiled politely. “Everyone’s tall next to you.”
“Wow, the roses here are divine.”
“Is that real gold in the fountain?”
“You’re so tall, James.”
She kept trying to loop her arm through his. Kept brushing against him like it meant something.
And all the while, his brain wasn’t even in the conversation.
Bonnie turned to him suddenly. “So… do you have a girlfriend?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You know. A girlfriend. Or like — someone you’re seeing?”
He looked her up and down. The pearls. The flats. The nude lipstick. Then glanced past her, toward the open french doors of the estate. Hoping—praying—he’d catch even a glimpse of you.
“No,” he said finally, lips twitching. “Nothing serious.”
He told himself he’d try.
Be polite. Be gracious. Be the gentleman his mother raised him to be — or at least pretend to be, for the sake of appearances. This was part of the game, after all.
Bonnie was smiling up at him, eyes wide with polite curiosity, and he forced himself to meet her gaze — just for a moment.
“Those earrings,” he said, nodding toward the small gold hoops with tiny garnet drops nestled against her jawline. “Where’d you get them?”
She lit up like he’d handed her a fucking rose.
“Oh! These? I got them in Milan last summer — there’s this boutique, just off the Galleria. Tiny place, but everything’s handmade. Vintage inspired.”
He nodded slowly, processing. Not because he cared, but because maybe… just maybe… it was something you’d like. A little box from Italy. A pair of delicate gold hoops with a velvet ribbon. He could picture it now — you wearing them, hair up, throat bare, his mouth on your collarbone.
He’d have to find the place. Or have someone find it for him. Add it to the mental list. Right beneath that vintage perfume you used to wear and that lace garter you once claimed was “just for fun.”
“That’s nice,” he said absently, offering a faint smile. “They suit you.”
It was the best he could do.
Because everything about this felt wrong.
The way she walked beside him, too close. The way she kept trying to slip her hand into the crook of his arm, like this was a first date and not a fucking business meeting arranged by bored billionaires.
They turned the corner near the east garden. Hydrangeas blooming wild against the stone wall.
And just as Bonnie began to speak again—something about polo lessons—Bucky’s eyes drifted.
Toward the veranda. The doors were open. And there you were.
Just inside. Bent ever so slightly as you adjusted a vase on a side table.
Hair swept up. A few tendrils falling into your face. Black uniform hugging your hips like it was designed to torment him personally.
You didn’t look up. Didn’t glance his way. Just straightened, turned, and disappeared down the hall like you hadn’t just punched him in the balls with one fucking glance.
He stopped walking for a second. Bonnie didn’t notice — just kept talking.
“…and Daddy’s trying to get them to expand distribution but the French are always so stubborn about—”
His fingers twitched in his pocket. His jaw ticked.
There you were. In the same house. So close. So far.
And he was here.
By the time they were seated, Bucky was already regretting his entire bloodline.
Playing escort to a girl he couldn’t even remember the last name of without prompting.
The dining room was glowing with gold-trimmed candlelight, glasses clinking, servers moving with quiet grace, and that oppressive scent of roasted duck hanging heavy in the air. His parents were in their usual seats, perfectly postured, wearing the expressions of people who genuinely enjoyed this sort of thing—parading tradition like it was holy.
Bonnie sat beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something floral. Too sweet. Forgettable.
The Sinclairs were all smiles and white teeth, praising the wine, the estate, the family history carved into the walls. His father lapped it up, nodding, chuckling, dropping little hints about future partnerships, as if this dinner wasn’t just a formality but a deal waiting to be signed.
Bucky stabbed his fork into the duck breast. It bled red beneath the glaze, and he imagined dragging the tine through his own thigh just to get out of the conversation.
He wasn't listening—again. Not really. Just catching words here and there. Napa. Legacy. Matrimony. “Bonnie’s such a well-rounded young lady.”
Sure. Round. Like the sound his head would make if it hit the polished marble floor.
He sipped his wine and glanced across the table at Bonnie, who was smiling at his mother, playing her part like she’d memorized the script. Her hands were folded just right, posture perfect, voice low and sugary. It was like watching someone try to audition for a role they didn’t even want—but were born to play.
Bucky’s jaw flexed. He shifted in his seat.
I’d rather be kicked in the dick by a horse.
He made another pass at the duck, chewing like it might keep him sane. His foot tapped beneath the table, his spine buzzing with something feral.
And then it hit him.
You hadn’t shown up all day.
Not in the halls. Not during lunch. Not even in the shadows of the estate where he used to find you quietly arranging flowers, humming to yourself, pretending not to notice how hard he stared.
You were gone.
And now he was stuck in this fucking chair, nodding along while some vineyard heiress described her favorite breed of horse.
He swirled the wine in his glass with too much force, splashing a little over the rim. Winifred gave him a sharp look. He ignored it.
Maybe if I fake a seizure I can leave early.
Another laugh from Bonnie. Another smug glance from his father. Another fucking sip of a vintage red that didn’t even taste like anything.
He was miserable. Genuinely, exquisitely, violently miserable.
“James, darling,” Winifred cooed, dabbing at the corner of her lips with a linen napkin, “Bonnie was just telling us about her experience at the Sotheby’s summer program. Isn’t that fascinating?”
Bonnie smiled sweetly, clearly oblivious to the sarcasm. “It was such a whirlwind. Between the gallery showings and the auction previews, I barely had time to sleep. But it was worth it — I mean, who wouldn’t want to spend their summer surrounded by Picassos and vintage Cartier?”
He looked up from his plate, forcing a smile that didn’t even reach the bottom row of his teeth.
“Oh. Yeah. Super fascinating.”
I’d rather be surrounded by bees.
“That’s impressive,” he offered blandly, draining the rest of his wine in one go. “You sell any?”
She giggled. “God, no. I was just assisting. But I did get to try on a necklace that was once worn by Princess Grace. Isn’t that insane?”
His mother leaned in, breathless. “I’ve always said you had the neck for that kind of elegance.”
Jesus Christ, just say you want to be related already.
He set his glass down, motioned subtly for more wine. The server filled it like clockwork. He resisted the urge to ask for the bottle.
George chimed in, his voice booming with false enthusiasm. “We were just telling the Sinclairs that once you’re settled, maybe it’s time to start thinking about property. Your mother and I have been looking at the old Whitmore estate. Plenty of room, good bones. Perfect for a growing family.”
And a burial plot, if I snap and murder everyone at this table.
Bucky smiled, sharp and tight. “Already planning the wedding? Do I at least get to pick the tux color?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Winifred said with a wave of her hand. “We’re just discussing possibilities.”
Bonnie laughed again — high-pitched and unbothered. “Well, for the record, I think you’d look dashing in navy.”
His eyes flicked to her. Then back to his plate. Then, instinctively, across the room — to where you should be. Hovering near the wall. Pouring wine. Wiping down glassware with that soft, smug little smirk on your lips. But nothing.
Empty.
He clenched his jaw, fork pressing so hard into the duck he felt it slice through porcelain.
God, you’re missing all the fun.
“James,” his mother tried again, with the same desperate pleasantness she always used when things weren’t going her way. “Why don’t you tell Bonnie about your time at Columbia? You made such wonderful connections.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Yeah,” he said. “Great school. Lots of connections.”
Then he took another sip of wine, leaned back in his chair, and added, “Didn’t learn a damn thing that matters.”
The mansion was silent by nine.
The Sinclairs had retreated to the guest wing, his parents to their rooms, no doubt already tucked into their separate, sterile sheets, dreaming of mergers and grandchildren.
He rounded the corner into one of the eastern wings, the one with the tall windows and antique mirrors, and that’s when he saw you.
Bucky wandered the halls like a man possessed.
No real direction. No plan. Just the familiar weight of the house around him, the echo of his own footsteps over polished marble, and the burn of restless energy licking down his spine like he was still that horny teenager sneaking around past curfew.
You hadn’t noticed him. You were too busy — bent over the edge of the display cabinet beneath the mirror, polishing the surface with slow, methodical strokes.
And his mouth went dry.
Your skirt was higher than it should’ve been. Not obscene. Not intentional. But just high enough to reveal the cut of your ass, soft curves hugged tight by black lace and the smooth line of your garters strapped to your stockings.
His fingers twitched. His breath caught.
Every cell in his body locked onto you like a lion scenting fresh prey — hungry, low, and damn near feral.
The fabric of his slacks grew tight.
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
He moved without thinking. Quiet. Controlled. Every footstep calculated like it might crack the floor.
The shadows helped. So did the velvet hush of the hallway.
You just kept working. Oblivious. Bent. Soft. Beautiful. Like a goddamn offering.
His eyes dragged up the back of your thighs, to the hem of that cruel little skirt, the faint indent of your waist beneath the apron ties, the shape of your hips. His throat burned.
Another step. Closer.
He was behind you now. Not touching. Not breathing too loud. Just standing there. Watching. Letting the moment devour him whole.
It wasn’t even seductive. It was just you, working like you didn’t know he was right there, like your scent hadn’t been haunting him for six goddamn years.
His restraint snapped with the sound of your hum.
That soft, casual melody you used to hum back when you’d fuck him in between folding linens and straightening bookshelves.
He didn’t remember crossing the distance. One second he was standing in the dark like a stalker, the next he was pressed against you — flush, hips grinding into the curve of your ass, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding around your front, flat against your stomach, pulling you back into him.
Your gasp wasn’t surprised.
Just amused.
“Mr. Barnes,” you said sweetly, all innocent and breathy, like your ass wasn’t already rolling back into his hips. “How inappropriate.”
His nose dragged along your throat, lips brushing the space just beneath your ear as he breathed you in like a drug. Like it would settle the fire in his chest instead of pour gasoline on it.
“You smell the same,” he rasped, voice low and breathless against your skin. “Fuck. You smell even better.”
Your laugh was barely a breath. “Mr. Barnes. That’s hardly appropriate either.”
His hips ground against you. Once. Slow. Hard.
You felt it—thick, hot, straining against the front of his pants. And that’s when his mouth found your ear.
“I’ve missed you. You've been… hiding from me.”
You let out a soft sigh, your hand coming to rest gently over his on your stomach, not trying to push him away. Not even trying to move.
Just holding him there.
Playing with him.
“I was just working,” you said. “Nothing more.”
His hips snapped against yours. Hard.
Once. Twice. Not enough friction, not through the layers, but the pressure was dizzying. His cock was thick and stiff between you, already trapped tight against the zipper of his slacks, rutting into the dip of your ass like he’d fucking die if he didn’t get more.
“Bullshit.”
He nipped at your neck, jaw tense. “You knew I’d find you. You wanted this.”
You laughed, soft and quiet.
“You always were so easy to rile up, Mr. Barnes.”
He groaned — low, sharp — and thrust again, hands gripping you tighter, like he could shove himself into your skin if he just held you hard enough.
“I’m not a boy anymore.”
His hand slid up, cupping your breast through your uniform, fingers slow and possessive, like he’d earned the right. Like this body was already his.
“Tell me no,” he breathed, lips trailing lower, grazing your jaw. “Say stop, and I will. But if you don’t—”
His voice caught.
“If you don’t, I’m gonna fuck you right here. Against this mirror. With my parents down the hall.”
You could feel his cock pulsing through his pants.
Your breath hitched.
But your smile was sift. Delicate.
“Then I suppose you’d better make it quick.”
You didn’t even have time to blink.
The second those words left your mouth — that soft, dangerous permission — he was dropping to his knees behind you like it was instinct. Like his body knew its place, and it was there, right between your thighs, beneath your ass, forehead pressed to the skin he used to dream about.
You heard his breath first.
Hot. Shaky. Desperate.
Then his hands.
One on each thigh, palms sliding up, thumbs grazing the hem of your garters, fingertips digging in like he was trying to convince himself you were real. And when he reached the top of your stockings — right where lace met skin — he groaned.
Low and thick, from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I missed this. I missed you.”
He hooked his fingers under your panties — black, sheer, soaked through — and dragged them down.
Slow. Worshipful. Watching every inch of exposed skin like it was divine scripture.
You heard the fabric stretch, then fall. And then he flipped your skirt up. Fisted it in one hand to keep it out of the way as he stared.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered. “Look at this fucking ass.”
And then he was kissing it.
Not gently. Not sweetly. Mouth open, tongue hot, lips moving from one cheek to the other like he was tasting fruit from the garden of Eden.
He bit you. Hard. Right at the curve.
You gasped, hand flying to the edge of the cabinet for balance.
“Mr. Barnes—”
His groan vibrated against your skin. You felt his nose nudge between your cheeks, burrowing deep, inhaling like a man who’d spent years starved.
“Say it again,” he begged. “Say it while I eat your fucking pussy.”
You bit your lip.
But your smile was soft. Wicked. Satisfied. Triumphant.
He didn’t wait for a cue. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even ask.
The moment his nose brushed between your cheeks and caught the heady, slick scent of your pussy, something inside him just snapped.
His hands gripped your thighs, fingertips digging into the soft flesh as he buried his face between your legs.
Tongue first.
Hot. Wet. Greedy.
He licked up your slit — slow and shaking — from your dripping entrance to your clit, like he was trying to get his first taste all over again.
You whimpered, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, hips shifting forward as your body jolted at the contact.
And god, he moaned.
A deep, guttural sound, like your pussy had just punched the air out of his lungs.
“Fuck,” he whispered, nose nudging your clit, “you taste better than I remember…”
You smirked down at him, still bracing yourself on the cabinet.
“You haven't tasted me in years, James.”
He groaned. The name made his cock jump.
“Then I’m going to make up for lost time.”
And he did.
He groaned again, hips grinding into nothing, like he needed the friction just from the taste of you.
His mouth moved in slow, obscene circles.
His tongue flattened and dragged over your clit, then flicked at it, fast and precise like he’d studied how to ruin you. Like he wanted to undo you with his mouth alone.
“Fucking soaked,” he muttered between licks. “You’re fucking soaked for me.”
Your fingers reached back, fisting in his hair, nails grazing his scalp.
“Always for you, James,” you breathed, voice syrup-thick with pleasure. “Even when you were just a boy sneaking glances at me from the study.”
He whimpered.
Whimpered.
And started eating you harder.
Lips sealed around your clit now, tongue moving in tight, punishing motions. He was groaning into your pussy, hungry, sloppy, like he was trying to drown in it.
You rocked against his face, biting your lip so hard it nearly bled, eyes fluttering shut as his nose bumped just right—
“Fuck, James—”
He grunted. Pulled you closer. Pressed his face deeper between your thighs.
He didn’t slow down.
Didn’t hold back. Didn’t give a single fuck that he was on his knees, face buried in your pussy, drool dripping down his chin like a man who’d gone rabid.
His moans were getting louder.
Obscene.
Lips slick, nose pressed to your clit as he lapped at you with messy, wild strokes. No rhythm. No elegance. Just pure, desperate need.
You gasped as he buried his tongue inside you, sloppy and deep, curling it up like he was trying to fuck you with his mouth. His nose bumped your clit again and again, and your thighs twitched around his head as you tried to hold still.
But he wouldn’t let you.
His grip tightened on your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh like he needed bruises there to prove this happened. Like he wanted you to feel it tomorrow.
“You’re shaking,” he groaned, eyes fluttering open to look up at you. “You gonna cum on my face, sweetheart?”
You didn’t answer. So he gave your clit one long, deliberate suck. Your knees buckled.
And he grinned. “Yeah. You are.”
He doubled down.
Slurping. Flicking. Tongue dragging, nose bumping, hips fucking into the floor now as he tried to relieve the pressure in his own pants.
He was literally rubbing his cock against the goddamn wood, panting like an animal, soaked from your wetness and his own spit.
“Been dreaming of this,” he mumbled, mouth still full. “Fucking dreaming—every night—couldn’t touch anyone without thinking of this pussy—”
You moaned loud, fingers twisting in his hair.
He sucked harder, sloppier, the sounds now wet and filthy and shameless.
Slurp. Moan. Flick. Kiss. Gasp.
He didn’t care anymore.
“Cum for me,” he begged, eyes wide and shining, lips raw from use. “Please, baby—please, fuck, let me taste it—need it so bad.”
You felt it before you heard it. The shift in the air. The stillness.
And then—
A gasp.
Soft. Feminine. Shocked.
Bucky didn’t notice. He was still groaning into your pussy like he was possessed, tongue flicking furiously, nose pressed deep, muttering curses into your folds between slurps.
But your eyes flicked up.
The mirror in front of you told the whole story.
There she was.
Bonnie Sinclair.
Frozen in the doorway of the hallway, one hand still holding the edge of the gilded frame, lips parted in disbelief.
It must’ve been a hell of a sight.
The golden boy of the Barnes family — the man she was being courted to entertain — on his knees, half-dressed, face soaked in the maid’s cunt, hips grinding into the hardwood like a desperate animal.
Your hands were braced on the cabinet. Skirt flipped up. Thighs glistening.
Your eyes met hers in the mirror.
Her face twisted — horror, confusion, betrayal — and her gaze flicked down, like maybe, just maybe, she’d misunderstood.
But no.
There was no mistaking the wet, obscene sucking sounds filling the corridor. No mistaking the man moaning your name into your cunt like it was his last prayer.
And what did you do? You fucking smiled.
Not a polite one. Not a guilty one. No, this was something slow. Sinful. Salacious.
The kind of smile that said,
Her jaw clenched. Her hand flew to her mouth.
Yes, sweetheart. He’s mine.
You’ll never make him moan like this.
And he wouldn’t want you even if you tried.
But she didn’t scream. Didn’t call out. She just turned — face red, almost trembling — and walked away.
Fast. Almost stumbling.
You glanced behind, down at Bucky, still mindless between your thighs, sucking like a man starved, eyes shut tight, oblivious.
You bit your lip.
And grinned.
“Good boy, James,” you purred, hand in his hair. “You just made me so very proud.”
Your thighs were trembling now.
You’d kept yourself together—barely—when Bonnie stood frozen in that doorway, eyes wide, jaw slack, the betrayal and disbelief dripping off her like perfume.
And now you were losing it.
Because James—your James—was eating you out like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His face was slick, lips raw, tongue moving in tight, focused flicks over your clit like he knew your body better than you did.
And he still didn’t know.
Still hadn’t heard her.
Still hadn’t noticed that another woman had just witnessed him on all fours, worshipping you, grinding against the fucking floor while you held him by the hair and cooed praise into the air like he was your good little pet.
It made it hotter. Darker. More depraved.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, breath catching. “Don’t you fucking stop, James.”
He moaned in response—high-pitched, shameless—and pulled your thighs tighter around his face.
His tongue flattened, then circled, lips sucking at your clit until your knees buckled and your vision blurred at the edges.
You looked down.
Saw him panting into your cunt, nose buried, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet yours—and fuck, he looked wrecked. Like if you pulled away now, he’d chase you across the house on all fours until you let him finish the job.
Your hands gripped the cabinet tighter.
Your hips rolled against his mouth, rhythm messy, hungry, and he matched it, moaning louder, licking faster, tongue dragging up and down your slit with a messy, wet rhythm that made you shake.
The orgasm hit you like a fucking tidal wave.
It built slow—coiling tight in your gut—until it snapped, crashing over you with a force that made your mouth drop open in a silent cry before a moan tore from your throat so loud it echoed down the hall.
“Oh, fuck—James—yes—don’t stop—”
He didn’t.
He kept sucking, licking, groaning as you came on his tongue, legs trembling, pussy throbbing against his mouth while he drank it all in like nectar.
He moaned into you. Like he was the one cumming.
Your body was shaking. Your thighs clenched around his head. Your hands braced on the wood, knuckles white, as the aftershocks dragged out with every little flick of his tongue.
He was up before you even caught your breath.
You felt the shift in the air first—his mouth leaving your cunt with one last wet kiss, then the sudden heat of him rising, body crowding behind yours again.
Then—his hands.
Big, strong, trembling.
One came to your hip, yanking you backward like he was claiming his prize. The other? Flat on the small of your back, pushing you forward until your stomach met the edge of the cabinet.
You gasped, still dazed, and then—his mouth.
Wet. Open. Hungry.
He pressed it to the back of your neck, dragging sloppy kisses along your skin, leaving a trail of your slick and his spit across your throat.
“Couldn’t stop,” he groaned against your neck. “Couldn’t fucking stop—need you—need to fuck you—please—”
And then he started grinding.
Hard.
Hips snapping forward in frantic, filthy thrusts, cock still trapped in his pants, but pressed thick and throbbing against your ass through the fabric.
Rutting.
Like a dog in heat.
“Fuck—fuck, baby—I’ve been thinking about this for years—”
You felt the wet patch on his slacks where he’d been grinding the floor. Now he was grinding you just the same—harder, rougher, like the orgasm you gave him with your cunt on his mouth only made him worse.
His voice was broken, panting against your skin.
He pressed his face into your shoulder like he was ashamed of how badly he needed this—and did it anyway.
“You smell so good—feels so good—need to feel you around me—inside you—fuck, I’ll beg, please—”
Each thrust dragged a low, pitiful sound out of his throat, hips rutting faster, hands gripping your waist like he didn’t trust himself to stay upright.
Your breath hitched as you felt him reach down between you—quick, urgent hands yanking his waistband low enough for his cock to spring free.
You didn’t even look.
You felt it.
Hot. Heavy. Slapping against your ass as he adjusted his grip and angled himself lower.
No words. No hesitation.
And then—
He slammed into you.
One brutal, blinding thrust. Your body jolted forward with the force of it, chest slamming into the edge of the cabinet as your mouth fell open in a stunned gasp.
“Fuck—James—”
But he didn’t slow.
Didn’t say a word.
Just grabbed your hips tighter, pulled you back into him, and kept fucking.
Fast. Rough. Unforgiving.
He was everywhere—grunting behind you, cock pistoning inside you with a rhythm that was animalistic, primal, like he was trying to fuck the memory of every other man out of you.
“You think I came back the same?” he growled against your neck, voice sharp and ragged. “You think I’m still that dumb fucking kid? That little boy you teased and left aching?”
You cried out as he slammed into you again, cock dragging along your walls so deep it made your stomach twist.
“No,” he snarled. “Not anymore.”
His hand wrapped in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to meet your own reflection in the mirror as he kept pounding into you like a man unhinged.
“Look at you,” he hissed. “Bent over for me. Taking me. Letting me fuck you like this.”
He gave you a particularly rough thrust that made you choke on a moan.
“You’re mine. You hear me? Fucking mine.”
Your moans turned guttural, needy, echoing off the cabinet and glass. He was everywhere—his hands, his cock, his mouth, his heat—slamming into you like he was trying to brand his name on your spine.
The room was filled with the sound of it.
Skin on skin. Wet, filthy slaps. His breath in your ear. Your moans. Your pussy soaking him, clenching around him with every thrust, dragging him deeper, harder.
And Bucky was lost.
Fucking you like he’d never stop. Like this was what he was born to do. What he’d been made for.
You barely had time to moan before he pulled out—sudden, fast, leaving your cunt pulsing around the absence of him.
You gasped, still dizzy from the pounding, but he wasn’t done.
“Up,” he growled.
And in the next breath, he had you.
Flipped. Lifted.
Your back hit the polished cabinet top with a dull thud, legs spread, heels still dangling off your ankles as Bucky hoisted you up like you weighed nothing.
You opened your mouth to speak—
But he slammed back into you.
Deep. Hard. Unrelenting.
The breath was ripped from your lungs, your body arching as he planted both hands on the wood behind you and drove himself home.
Now you were face to face. Now you could see it—his eyes.
Dark. Dilated. Fucking unhinged.
Sweat clung to his jawline, his chest heaving, hair sticking to his forehead as he rammed into you like he couldn’t get deep enough.
“Mine,” he panted. “Say it.”
Your head tipped back, a moan clawing out of your throat.
“Fucking say it.”
You grabbed his face. Hard. Pulled him in and kissed him like you were trying to suck the soul out of him.
Tongue tangling, mouths open, teeth scraping—filthy, desperate, uncoordinated. You moaned into his mouth, and he groaned like it physically hurt him to feel you kiss him like that.
His hips didn’t stop. They kept pounding, slamming into you with enough force to rattle the cabinet beneath you.
You sucked on his tongue, hand gripping the back of his neck, legs wrapping around his waist like you were trying to trap him there.
“Yours,” you hissed against his mouth. “Yours, James.”
He whimpered.
You felt it—the stutter in his hips. The little break in his rhythm.
He was close.
“Again,” he begged, voice cracked.
“I’m yours,” you said again, slower, dirtier, nipping at his bottom lip. “You waited for me. Grew up for me. All this time, you’ve just wanted to fuck your maid—”
He snarled, slamming into you again so hard the cabinet creaked.
You bit his lip. He moaned into your mouth.
The kiss was so deep, so dirty, you felt like you were breathing through each other.
But then. He broke it.
Abrupt, messy, like he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Fuck—can’t—need to see you—now—”
And then… rip.
Your eyes widened as he grabbed the front of your uniform, fingers curling into the fabric, and yanked.
The sound of buttons flying off echoed down the empty hall, bouncing across the marble like little beads of surrender.
Your uniform fell open.
Exposed. Raw. Offered.
Your bra barely held you, straps sliding off your shoulders, lace thin and damp from sweat.
Bucky didn’t waste a second.
He shoved the cups down roughly, hands shaking as he dragged them under your tits, eyes locked like he was seeing them for the first time.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed.
And then—his mouth.
Hot and open, tongue dragging across your nipple before he sucked it in, lips sealing around it with a deep, desperate moan.
You arched into him, head falling back with a gasp.
“James—”
His other hand wasn’t idle—it came up to your other breast, fingers tweaking and rolling your nipple until you were squirming on the cabinet, cunt clenching around him with every wet, messy pull of his mouth.
He groaned into your skin, teeth grazing the sensitive bud before flicking it with his tongue, suckling, pulling it deeper like he was trying to drink from you.
“These tits,” he growled, mouth moving to the other one, tongue swirling. “These fucking tits—used to jerk off just thinking about them—”
You whimpered, thighs tightening around his waist.
He was still fucking into you, deep and slow now, like he wanted to feel everything. His cock dragged along your walls, thick and pulsing, as he suckled greedily at your breast, spit and sweat slicking your skin.
“So full for me,” he whispered, looking up through his lashes, eyes wild. “You ever let anyone else suck ’em like this?”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
Because he already knew.
He was still sucking on your tit when your nails raked down his covered back. You were so close it hurt.
Your pussy was a dripping mess around him, slick clinging to his cock with every brutal thrust. The cabinet rocked beneath you. The sound of your skin slapping together echoed down the marble hallway like something animalistic.
“James—fuck—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”
His mouth left your nipple with a lewd pop, breath hot and frantic as he looked at you. Eyes dark. Hair soaked. Jaw tight.
“Not gonna—fuck—not gonna stop—you feel too good—”
His hips snapped forward harder now, the slap of him against your thighs violent, punishing.
And then his hand found your throat.
Not choking. Just holding. Fingers pressing lightly against the sides, tilting your chin up to make you look at him.
“You’re gonna cum on my cock,” he panted, voice raw. “And then I’m gonna fill you up. You fucking hear me?”
You moaned, nails digging into his shoulders.
“You gonna take it like a good girl?” he growled. “Gonna let me fuck you full?”
That was it.
Your body went rigid— Toes curling. Eyes rolling back.
Your orgasm hit like a fucking explosion.
“James—oh fuck—I’m cumming—”
Your cunt clenched down on him so tight he almost collapsed.
“Shit—shit—fuck—” he choked, thrusts stuttering.
You didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. You wrapped your arms around his neck, held him tight, and rode it out as he fucked you through it.
And then—
He followed you.
With a snarl, his hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and you felt it—
Hot. Flooding.
Spurt after spurt of cum, thick and heavy, filling you so deep it was leaking out before he even pulled back.
“Fuck—baby—fuck—I’m cumming—”
His forehead pressed to yours, breath mixing, his body twitching through the aftershocks as he spilled every last drop inside you.
His breath was still ragged.
But his thrusts had slowed, reduced to slow, shallow rocks—almost like he didn’t want to leave you. Didn’t want that connection to break.
And then he nuzzled. Right into the crook of your neck. Like a cat. Like a boy.
“James,” you teased, your voice soft, breathless. “You gonna fall asleep in my cunt?”
He hummed, lips pressed to your throat.
“Wouldn’t be a bad way to fall asleep.”
You laughed, hand lazily stroking the back of his head as his mouth pressed sweet, worshipful kisses to your neck, then your collarbone, then the tops of your breasts—each one slower than the last.
Soft. Clingy. Desperate.
He sighed again, breath hot against your skin.
“Fuck… missed this,” he murmured. “Missed you. Missed this body. This mouth. This pussy—”
“Careful, James,” you said with a smirk, brushing hair from his sweaty forehead. “You sound in love.”
His head lifted. His lips, still wet, curled.
“Maybe I am.”
And then he dipped back down, tongue teasing over your nipple before placing a slow, warm kiss right between your breasts.
He sighed against your chest again, nose brushing the skin above your heart.
“Two fucking days,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and rough. “Been home for two days and you didn’t even look at me.”
His tone was too casual. Too careful.
“Why were you hiding from me?”
You turned your head—just slightly.
Just enough to avoid his kiss.
And your voice, when it came, was silken and sharp, laced with a bitterness you hadn’t bothered to hide.
“Didn’t want to interrupt,” you muttered. “You seemed busy… with Miss Sinclair.”
He stilled.
Just for a moment.
That petty venom sat heavy in the air. And you knew it would hit him.
It did.
He huffed—a soft, frustrated exhale against your chest—and his hands tightened on your waist as he shifted up, dragging his mouth over your skin like he could wipe the accusation away.
He kissed your breast again. Then your collarbone. Then the curve of your throat.
Your jaw. And finally—your mouth.
It was messy.
Open.
Tongue slow and insistent, tasting the remnants of your slick still on his lips, the warmth of your body still wrapped around him.
“Don’t,” he whispered into your mouth.
He kissed you again. “Don’t do that.”
His hands cupped your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks.
“You think a girl like her could take me from you?”
His voice was so sure.
So firm.
And when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searched yours like they needed to prove it.
He nudged his nose against yours.
A soft breath fell between you.
“There’s no one else. There’s never been anyone else.”
You let him kiss you.
Let him pour every ounce of devotion, desperation, and utter obsession into that slow, lingering press of his lips.
But when he pulled back — breathless, eyes glazed over, lips swollen — your smirk had already returned.
That slow, seductive little curve.
The one that made his heart race and his cock twitch, even now, when he was still buried inside you—thick and twitching, your bodies sticking together with sweat and cum.
You leaned up, fingers curling in the back of his hair again, and kissed him.
Not soft. Not sweet. Teasing.
You nipped his bottom lip just enough to make him groan, then pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes.
“Always so sentimental,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Still such a romantic underneath that rich boy act.”
He blinked, still breathless, dazed—like he didn’t know whether to be offended or turned on.
“You know I fucking hate when you do that,” he muttered, lips brushing yours.
“Do what?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Say the truth?”
You laughed softly, licking into another kiss — this one dirtier, wetter, your tongue teasing his, pulling him back in just long enough to leave him dizzy.
“You love it.”
He just looked at you—flushed, panting, completely ruined—and whispered, “You know I do.”
His hips twitched. Still buried in your cunt. Still pulsing.
And hardening again.
Headcanons 🖤🤍
— pre fic: he met you when he came home for summer break from boarding school. a nerdy loser at a rich private school. he was eighteen, you were twenty-two
— you were the first woman to ever make him ache. and every glance, every moan in the dark, every moment his cock twitched at the sound of your heels? it was just another thread tying him to you.
— when you took his virginity, he wasn't confident, he wasn't experienced. but he was completely yours.
— he was overwhelmed. whimpering. he came too fast, and looked devastated about it — until you cupped his jaw and reassured him
— post fic: you don’t trap him because you’re desperate. you trap him because you’re bored.
— you’ve had his money. his tongue. his obsession. now? you want his name, his babies, his entire goddamn future.
— and the wildest part? he wants it too. he thinks the idea of you carrying his child is sacred. Like he’s being chosen.
— he proposes with some ridiculous 5-carat heirloom ring from the family vault. then throws a tantrum when you call it “a bit much.”
— his parents stop fighting after the third grandchild.
— by the fifth, they just send you jewelry and call you “darling.”
Maid!reader inspired by my queen who deserved better: moira o’hara
I LOVE MANCHILD BUCKY SO MUCHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! can u pretty pretty please do something literally anything where he picks the reader up and he's so strong and whatnot 😛😛😛 love ya thankssssss ur the best
wine, dine, whine. a manchild drabble.
pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader.
synopsis. bucky's plans go to shit on the night of your birthday. yet, beneath city lights and raining skies, he learns how little you require to have a good time. it turns out, all you need is bucky's strong arms.
warnings. smut ( unprotected piv, strength kink, sex against a door, clothed sex, creampie bc i'm a whore with a very specific kink 🧍♂️, fingers are getting put in pussies and mouths!, the bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™ continues, lowkey sub!bucky ), protective!bucky aka guard dog!bucky, anger issues, banter, unlabelled relationship bc i like torturing these two losers, angst, fluff, the overall vibe when it comes to the narration of this is a little bit different to manchild due to this being told from bucky's pov but hopefully it's still enjoyable!
reader inclusivity. bucky is able to pick the reader up (which, duh, he's a super soldier, bestie <3) and one mention of his jacket being too big for her.
wordcount. 3.6k (we're playing fast and loose with the term 'drabble')
hyde's input. i've realised i have a strange obsession with having it rain a lot when it comes to these two ( as y'all will see in the next full-length fic i'm writing abt them ), but they just give me such rainy couple vibes, y'know? ( i sound stupid 🤠 ) i hope you enjoy, anon! thank you for requesting, you are the best <33
Fate is either a gigantic cunt, or she simply hates one James Buchanan Barnes.
Every little thing that should have gone right tonight has taken the left exit into wrong-ville. First, it was the missed reservation — Bucky tried to argue the ten minute delay was out of your control but the restaurant had already handed your table off to someone else. Before the soldier could choose between grovelling and threatening, your hand clasped onto his and you dragged him someplace else. Just when he settled into the perfect routine of sipping his wine and admiring the glow of you across a candle-lit table, your dinner arrived and, with it, more problems: the edge of your plate had been ‘decorated’ with crushed almonds. While he was red with anger, you were calmly apologising to the waiter for not having mentioned your allergy. In the end, you both ate the food off his plate.
Slipping off to the bathroom at one point , he’d been confronted with a crooked tie and the fact he’d put his cuff links on wrong — meanwhile, back at the table, you were the image of a goddess, elegant and effortless, wrapped in a pretty black dress and a pair of stilettos. Another disaster struck after dinner, back out on the streets, when a stranger shoulder-checked you and caused the ice cream you’d just bought to fly out your hand; while he wanted to grab the stranger by the scruff of the neck and force them to apologise, you busied yourself with stealing a bite from his cone.
Then came the rain. Unwarned, unreported. The sky simply gave a deep cry and the heavens opened up, dropping buckets worth of water down. Bucky hurried to cover you with his suit’s jacket and you used the downpour as an excuse to tuck yourself into his side, arms curling around his mid-riff and head finding rest against his shoulder.
Now here you both are walking the rainy streets of New York, clothes reduced to soaked rags that cling to each inch of skin, and Bucky’s wondering if this is all his fault.
When he’d first learned it was your birthday this morning, a confession that cut off any loose threads of sleep still clinging to him, you had been adamant that it wasn’t a big deal.
“Birthdays are like assholes, Barnes,” you swat at his butt with the tea-towel you’ve been using to dry the dishes — this is the routine as of late, he washes them and you dry them. “We all have one, doesn’t mean we need to go around announcing it.”
Looking back, he should have left it well-enough alone. But he hadn’t been able to ignore that something that wouldn’t sit right in his chest when you told him you had no intention to celebrate yourself. As far as Bucky is aware, your existence is a blessing, an admittedly irritating flickering light illuminating the tunnel of infinite dark he’s spent most of his life wandering through.
How could he possibly sit back and not let you shine?
“I spy my with my little eye,” your voice pulls him out the pit of guilt he’s digging for himself, drags him back up to street level where you’re soft and present at his side. An arm over your shoulder, he encourages you to burrow deeper against him. “Something beginning with… P!”
You must not be very good at this game, as the likely answer is glaring at him from across the street in red neon lights: Pizzeria.
“What are you, four?” Bucky’s rolling his eyes and fighting off the red of endearment rushing to his cheeks.
“Watch it, soldier,” one of your fingers pokes into his side. “You’re already towing the line of predatory with our age-gap.”
The rain is but a drizzle now, and Bucky despises the way it has you stepping out from his embrace, curious and excited to let feel the drops of water run down your face.
“You can’t say I’m not the strongest centenarian you know,” he states, without even knowing the reason why.
Perhaps a part of him craves to prove to you he’s a worthy choice, more than just a nighttime companion but someone you can let yourself rely on, rest against, plant new roots in your life with.
He’s been thinking about it lately, more often than a man of his nature would dare voice aloud, how much of your time he’s allowed to pollute, and how much of your heart he’s allowed to consume. For all his wondering, he can’t bring himself to ask, in fear of finding out the story of you two he’s been writing in his head ends sooner than he intends.
“You’re the only centenarian I know,” you’re ahead of him on the sidewalk now, walking backwards and turned towards him to see his reaction as you tease him. “Not even my grandparents, rest their souls, would be as old as you.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” he’s trying to reach for you, feigning annoyance as the excuse to pull you back against him, where he wants you to belong.
But you’re nimble, faster on your heels than he expects you to be, and he marvels at how easily you evade his hands, feet moving so easily they almost seem to dance along the ground.
“Don’t worry, give me the greenlight and I’ll happily call you great-granddaddy while you hit it from the back-”
Like a lion pounces on a gazelle, he dashes to close the distance between you and swoops you up into his arms.
“What have I told you about watching where you’re going?” It’s an empty chastise, one that not even he pays any mind to, not when he’s so enthralled with the weight of you clinging to his neck, a vibranium arm holding up your back while his flesh one is tucked beneath your bent knees.
Your eyes are watching him, a smile upon your face that tells him you have no intention of looking at the river of a puddle he’s just rescued you from stepping into, sacrificing the polished leather of his shoes and the hem of his trousers as he walks you both across it.
“It’s more fun when you do it for me,” you wink at him, and Bucky’s in pain.
He’s known war. He’s known torture. He’s known what it means to lose every thread of autonomy, becoming nothing but a vehicle through which to kill. Never has he known ache quite like the one you carve into his heart, with something as simple as a smile and as soft as a kiss.
Deflecting his own thoughts, he jolts you higher up into his hold, closer to his chest, and renews the grip his hands carry you with. No puddles lay ahead anymore, left behind for you to finally spot over his shoulder, yet the soldier shows no intention of putting you down.
“You just had to prove your point, huh? Strongest man I know.”
The breeze brushes the skirt of your dress a little too high for Bucky’s comfort, not when there’s a group of men spilling out from a bar across the street. He readjusts his right arm, making sure the fabric stays caught beneath his iron grip.
Maybe that’s why it takes him a moment to notice you’ve altered his earlier claim, taking his age right out of the discussion.
“I never said man-”
You gasp, Bucky freezes.
“Put me down,” a command he obeys with heartbreak yet no hesitation, returning you gently to the pavement and keeping a hold on you until he’s sure you’re steady on your feet. Before he can step back, you shake your head, “Come here.”
Like a puppet, he gives himself up to you. Lets you tug him closer by his tie. Watches you place his hands firmly around your waist. Relishes in the squeeze of your arms interlocking behind his head.
Standing right in front of him, Bucky feels like he’s seeing you properly for the first time tonight.
Rivulets of rain run rampant down your face, smudged mascara paints an image of modern art across your cheeks, your lipstick has faded away to reveal the real hue of the lips he’s forever longing to kiss, the pretty shape of your dress has melted into your figure and the sleeves of his jacket keep sliding down over your hands. For every sense of the word, you’re a mess. A completely and utterly different woman to the one he stepped out onto the streets with hours earlier, before everything had gone wrong. And you’ve never been more beautiful.
Or more demanding, “Ok, now spin me.”
“Spin you?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to spin you?” It’s not outrageous, he’d argue, to seek confirmation when faced with such a strange request.
“Am I speaking fucking latin? S, P, I, N me, Barnes!”
Let the record show that there’s not a single thing, no matter how confused or skeptical it may leave him, that Bucky wouldn’t do for you. So, of course he spins you.
Gripping on tight to your waist and straightening his back, he lets his feet shuffle around in a circle and watches how your own lift off the ground.
“Happy?” He asks, his own existence hinging on your answer, as he puts you back down.
“No,” you shake your head, lips splitting in an eye-twinkling smile. “Again!
He does it again, and again, and again. Until you’re a twirling, giggling, grinning mess surrounding him. Until he feels himself begin to struggle for balance. Until a group of strangers are holding up their phones and recording the private bubble you two are living in. And, for a moment, he can almost picture it.
The before, the normal. A 1940s kind of New York, stained in the smell of cigarettes and gunpowder, and playing main stage to a love story for the ages. He imagines all the ways he would have won over your family, all the old-fashioned traditions he’d play privy to just to earn your hand. His sister would have loved you, and not just because she’d always complained at being stuck with only a brother, but because you’d be as loud, and as outspoken, and as crass as she’d always believed women should be. The kind of life where he’d leave for war with a promise to return to you, and he’d make damn sure of keeping that promise, arriving back at shore to greet you with a kiss and a ring.
When the fog around his wishful eyes clears, he’s left with the blinding lights of modern New York and the smell of your perfume. There’s no bitter feeling, however, no hatred towards the life he finds himself in now, leagues and bounds away from what could have been. It’s not perfect but there’s you, and that seems about as close to it as Bucky can imagine.
“Oh no!” You exclaim, laying a hand across your forehead as you pretend to fall faint against him. “I’m just ever so dizzy, Mr Barnes, I think you’ll have to carry me home!”
“Do you think I’m some sort of walking cab?” Despite the annoyance put behind his question, he’s eagerly offering you his back to hop onto.
“No, no,” you’re swatting him around, pulling on his strings again to command him just how you want him. He willingly gives himself to you every time. “Do it the same as before.”
One arm at your back, the other at the back of your knees, he’s lifting you against him again. For a moment, the creative part of his brain, that had painted a picture of another decade, tempts him with the thought of how this is the very same way a man carries his bride. The thought of such devotion makes him sick with shame and anticipation.
“Everyday you sound more like a spoiled brat,” and he’s the one to blame, giving way to your every whim and plea.
Your response is physical, a hand grabbing onto either side of his jaw and giving his head a shake, “God forbid a girl wants to enjoy the view of this handsome face!”
Even though he tries to frown, he can’t help the way he turns to putty with your touch.
The rain comes to a complete stop and leaves behind a satisfying freshness in the air, one that smells like hope and tastes like possibility. Or maybe that’s just the effect of having you pressed up against him, not only seeking safety in his arms but finding rest, head atop the very point where metal welds into flesh.
Here he is, a creature more disjointed than anything Frankenstein could create, and wanted only ever for causing harm, providing respite to a soul he’s spent months trying to save from herself.
Perhaps fate doesn’t hate him so much.
“The answer was party-pooper,” you interrupt his dwelling, like you do best, and make quick to clarify for his questioning glance. “To my I-Spy prompt.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
Carrying you is child’s play, as easy as breathing to the super soldier. That doesn’t stop him from putting on a show of readjusting his grip, jolting you enough into the air to earn a huff out of you.
“I don’t know, you tell me,” a finger trails over his mouth, catching on his lower lip and giving it a gentle tap. “You’re the one that’s been sulking up a storm all night.”
“I wasn’t sulking-”
“You literally were pouting at me from across the table, James.”
“I just wanted you to have a good night.”
Do you notice blood staining the tips of his ears with a blush? And, if you do, would you believe him if he said it was from the bite of the wind?
“I am having a goodnight, how could I not?” As your arms secure themselves around his neck again, he feels the brush of your lips atop the collar of his shirt. If only your lipstick were still intact, he could wake up tomorrow to a visceral stain of your kiss on the fabric. “I’m wearing a pretty dress and being carried by a hunky man.”
“Sometimes I think you only want me for my biceps,” a sarcastic comment feels easier than letting himself sink into the knowledge that he’s made the cut in your requirements for a good time.
“Guilty as charged! I’m using you for this hot bod and fine piece of ass.”
Just when he’s thinking of kissing you, you beat him to it, pulling yourself up to press your lips against his.
It’s short, it’s sweet, and it’s chaste. The kind of kiss one could blink and completely miss, but Bucky savours every second of it. Even if it does cause him to stumble with his next step.
Drawing nearer to your apartment, he wonders if you notice the way his pace is slowing, the way his feet are beginning to drag, the way he’s stretching out each step for as long as he can.
When he grows tired of the sound of passing cars and the muffled music from bars, he seeks out your voice.
“Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Depends what you want to hear,” you’re back at his shoulder, eyes slipped closed as you enjoy the subtle sway of your dangling legs. “There’s two things I’m thinking about.”
“Two or a million things,” his own voice is falling into a whisper, something sacred he wants to save for your ears only. “I want to hear all of it.”
For a moment, there’s only the tread of his footfall, and the calm of your breathing, and the wind singing a solemn tune. Then you speak and drown him deeper in his melancholy.
“You don’t need to get angry for me,” a montage of deep breaths, flaring nostrils, clenching jaws, all from tonight and completely selfish, born out of an ire that you had met only with kind eyes and forgiving words. “I don’t want a weapon, I just want you. And if that anger is the real you, then I want it too, but not if you’re forcing yourself to get worked up because it's what you think I expect.”
“Anger kept me safe,” and, if it could do that for him, then surely it could keep you safe too. “I don’t know who I am without it.”
“Then we can find out together,” you say it so sincerely he wants nothing more than to make it a reality.
Not just the prospect of relearning himself, but the togetherness of it all. A unit, a pair, a couple. Not just a man and woman living under the same roof. Would you want the same, though? Or is the way he touches you just something you enjoy, no deeper feeling buried beneath layers of skin?
“Do you wanna know the second thing I’m thinking?” There you are again to pull the brakes on his train of thought.
He nods, too afraid of the tight feeling in his throat to speak. But you, his little spitfire, are afraid of nothing and lean up to shamelessly whisper into his ear.
“About how good you’re gonna fuck me when we get home.”
The two of you barely make it past the threshold of the door.
Despite the fact his hands are on you, you’re the one leading the charge, pulling him in by his tie to meet your welcoming tongue. There’s a noticeable thud as your back hits the door but your grip tightens him against you before he can worry.
“Want you to show me how strong these arms are, Buck,” you hiss against him, clutching onto the bicep of the arm that’s snuck itself beneath your dress and writhing as his fingers swipe over your soaked folds.
Sanity has long departed from him, abandoning him to the wreckage of you. He’s barely cognisant of his own undoing, losing himself in the way you react so perfectly to his fingers curling into your cunt. You don’t let him enjoy it for too long, barely a moan ripped out of you before you’re unbuckling his belt and setting his dick free from the confines of cotton.
Following your orders, his arms hike your legs up around his waist and settle your back a little higher up the door, forcing him to gaze up at you in worship. It’s a blessing, he concludes, to watch your mouth drop into an ‘o’ as he guides you down fully onto his cock.
There’s no time for teasing. Everything is desperate and reckless, teeth clashing against teeth, hands digging into hips, skin slapping against skin. The hinges of the door shake at your back, in perfect tune with each thrust of Bucky’s cock, and, when he catches your hand gripping onto the handle, he redirects it to his shoulder and relishes in the sting of your nails digging into his flesh.
“Please,” he’s not sure what he’s asking for, but his mind tells him to grovel, to plead, to pray. “Oh, please, fuck!”
“Yes James, that’s exactly what we’re doing,” you somehow find the time to giggle, and he swears he might just lose his mind when he feels your walls squeeze around him. “I didn’t think you’d have a senior moment so soon.”
You’re so irritating, and maddening, and endearing. Bucky’s all confused, mind oscillating between turning you around, pressing your face into the wood, and showing you just how ‘unsenior’ he is, or focusing on how ridiculously breathtaking you are to gaze up at.
If you’re a siren, then he’s a sailor who’s more willing than ever to drown in the waves with you and your melodic moans. Hungry eyes pull up the hem of your dress and seek out the sight of your pussy fucking itself down onto his cock. Lost in the sight of your bodies syncing together, he’s none the wiser to his open jaw until he tastes your fingers sink inside it.
“Look at you,” you coo, and he loves it, works harder and fucks deeper to hear more of it. “A big, bad soldier who’s whining for me.”
And he is. Pathetically, unabashedly, lips wrapped around the girth of your two fingers and letting you feel the vibrations of his pleasured whines.
Bucky is the first to crescendo, with a fractured whisper of your name followed by stuttering hips. His eyes roll back as your legs lock around him and force him to deliver, devote every last drop of himself inside of you. He comes through just in time to press his thumb to your clit and guide you off your own edge into paradise, squealing and cheering against the door before he swallows your sounds with his lips.
In the dark of the apartment, you two search for a single breath between you, lazy-boned against the door as hands simply trail over one another’s outline.
“So,” your hand in his hair, tugging lightly until his chin rests on your chest and his hazy eyes stare up at yours. “Was tonight our first date?”
“No,” he almost laughs at how quickly the smile falls off your face, but he’s too busy rushing to fight away the disappointment that seeks to replace it. “You won’t have to ask when it’s our first date, you’ll know.”
And there it is again, the smile he likes best.
“Aww, does that mean I’m not getting a goodnight’s kiss?”
This time he does laugh, slowly bringing your feet back onto the ground and bumping the tip of his nose against yours.
“What you’re getting is tied to the bed and ruined until you forget your own name.”
+ extra hyde
· reader really loves to walk bucky like a dog (as she should!)
· also its been a week since i posted manchild &, i don't mean to sound pathetic and emotional but i'm on my period so give me a break, i'm really happy that you all liked it enough to not only give me really kind feedback but to want more of them :( i love writing so much but i kind of hit a wall creatively about 8 months ago. i'm currently getting a degree and part of that degree requires me to not only write a lot but to write outside of my comfort zone (romance) and, despite achieving a first, it really just drained me and sucked the fun out of writing. so it's been really nice to feel myself slowly chip away at the writer's block & a big part of that has been thanks to every like, comment, reblog, and ask you guys have sent. thank you for making this loser (me) happy <3
Pairing: Trailer Park!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You're ready to start over, and your neighbor makes a lasting impression.
Word Count: Over 3.7k
Warnings: Flirting, swearing, dirty talk, tension, sexual chemistry, world building, asshole ex, Alpine appearance, Bucky Barnes (he's very forward and a warning, okay?)
A/N: Here we are! My trailer park!Bucky intro. We're calling this AU Diamond in the Rough. Thanks to the nonnies and everyone who has asked about him. He's here, @ellethespaceunicorn, @targaryenvampireslayer, @vunblr, @vesearlee, @startcarvingdarling, @thezombieprostitute, @buckybarnesfic (sorry to anyone I missed)!❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411 , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Your life went up in flames recently all thanks to the match you struck. If people asked your parents, your friends, your old boss, or your now ex-boyfriend, they’d likely say it was a mid-life crisis or form of rebellion to get some sort of attention. The truth was that the fuel had spread for years, daring you to light it all on fire, and you did when you finally had enough. You wouldn’t say the old you was dead and that you were reborn, but you weren’t who you were yesterday either.
This was the start of a different, and hopefully happier, version of you.
Staring at the worn down trailer in front of you, you hadn't made your way inside just yet. While your place with your ex had been large and open and new, this place had seen better days. It needed a fresh coat of paint to start, a new door and windows. It was sinking in that this was really going to be your new home, and it made you happy.
“I’ll bring you back to life,” you whispered, determined to give this place the TLC that it deserved. If you poured yourself into this, maybe it would fix something inside you, too. You certainly didn’t need your ex or anyone else to help.
You looked over at your car, your beautiful Mustang, which had everything you thought to pack. Your bed and other furniture wouldn't get delivered until later, but that was okay. It hurt to think so much of your life, what defined you, could be boiled down to material possessions, but weren't you fortunate since so many had much less? Maybe unpacking as much as you could today would occupy your time and thoughts.
Like finding a new job, something you truly wanted to do and not what was expected of you.
Your phone went off and you hesitated to look at the message, not sure who it would be from. It was funny how for years no one went out of their way to talk to you unless they needed something. Now that you were gone they suddenly cared? The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you didn’t want to examine today.
“I have a bet on how long it’ll take you to come crawling back to me. Can’t wait to see you on your knees with those pretty tears when you beg for forgiveness, Pumpkin. And let’s face it, on your knees is where you belong because you’re nothing without me.”
A surge of anger flooded your veins as you reread it. Even now he expected you’d come back with your tail between your legs where he could look down on you. He had another thing coming. “Trust fund prick,” you muttered, your finger hovering only for a moment before you blocked him. You should’ve done that the moment you dumped him, but doing it now in front of your new home, it felt more right.
Your eyes burned when you put your phone away and an empty feeling began to consume you. Why were you close to tears? Because of him? You knew from the beginning what kind of man he was and you lied to yourself to maintain the facade that everyone else wanted. You were tired of living for other people’s expectations. This was your life, you didn’t need a man, and-
“You lost?”
You turned at the sound of the deep voice just feet behind you, trembling ever so slightly when you saw the man that husky voice belonged to. The sight knocked the very breath from your lungs. You were used to being surrounded by guys who paraded themselves as men, but they were little boys playing dress up. But the man in front of you? He was all man.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
He stood tall and proud, but relaxed and at ease in his element. Blue eyes like an ocean, yet he was the calm of the storm. The short dark brown hair matched his thick goatee and you wished you could feel it against your skin so you knew if it was soft or scratchy. The white tank top showed off his muscles and tattoos and the chain around his neck dipped beneath the neckline. The low hanging jeans hid what you knew was an amazing package. He was something out of a wet dream, the kind of man who looked like trouble.
The kind of man you should stay away from, but wanted to chase after you.
He slowly licked his bottom lip before he asked, “Cat got your tongue, Sweet Cheeks?”
Your face felt like it would go up in flames. Being attracted to what you believed was a new neighbor wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. “No, and I’m not lost,” you replied, gesturing to what was now your home. “I live here now.”
You could see why he thought you were lost since it was obvious you weren’t from around there. When you looked for a new place, you purposely picked an area far from your old place. If you had stayed close, it wouldn’t have severed the ties enough. It would’ve made your leash longer and that wouldn’t do.
“Is that right?” He looked you over from head to toe and your mouth went dry when he smirked, the kind that likely disintegrated panties. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
The ruggedly handsome man held his hand out for you, and you only just realized he was wearing rings. What would it feel like if they dug into your skin? And, yes, you may have glanced at his left hand to see if he was wearing a wedding ring, which he wasn’t. “Thanks for the welcome,” you said, taking his hand.
Electricity crackled between you, feeling the crackle from head to toe. The intensity shook you to your core when he locked his eyes with yours and brought your hand to his lips and kissed it instead of shaking it. You let out a breath when his goatee tickled your skin, his eyes locked with yours. Well, that answered your question- both soft and scruffy, the kind that would leave a delicious burn between your thighs.
Jesus, you needed to keep your libido under control. You just got out of a relationship. Weren’t you just thinking moments ago how you didn’t need a man?
“I’m Bucky,” he said against your skin, reluctantly releasing your hand. “You wanna tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Sweet Cheeks’?”
You told him your name, the sound barely above a whisper. He hummed and repeated it. Never once did you think your name sounded sexy until he said it.
“Why are you calling me Sweet Cheeks?” you asked. Did he call every pretty woman that? Not that you were full of yourself and thought you were drop-dead gorgeous, but you had some confidence in your looks.
He chuckled, a throaty sound that made you want to hear it again. “Well, I hope you don't mind me being forward, but…” he began.
You tensed up a little and looked down at yourself. Was he going to make a comment that you didn't belong there? That you stood out like a sore thumb? You were dressed down, but still looked pristine as you always did, a habit instilled in you that you had to look put together no matter if you were crumbling inside. Appearance meant everything to your family, and you needed to let that expectation go.
“Your ass looks incredible in those jeans. Sweetest fucking cheeks I’ve ever seen and that’s with your pants on.” He licked his lips when his gaze drifted down your body. “I don’t think I’ve seen a better ass than yours.”
You blinked and looked behind you to get a look at yourself. “Excuse me?” you asked. Of all the things you thought he’d say, that wasn't one of them.
“I saw you from behind and stared for a good minute, thinking of all the things I wanted to do to you, before I walked over. You have the kind of ass that should be worshipped. Could make a grown man cry,” he said, your heart speeding up and your core throbbing. “And then you turn around with the face of a fucking angel and I swear my heart stopped,” he added, putting both hands on his chest for emphasis. “Givin’ me a heart attack over here.”
You almost laughed because he couldn’t be serious, but there was no humor in his eyes. In fact, he scanned your face like he was trying to memorize it. “That’s… no. My ass isn’t that great. Neither is my face,” you said. It wasn’t to fish for a compliment, as nice as it would've been, because while you had some confidence in yourself, you didn’t have that great of an ass.
But beauty was in the eye of the beholder, wasn’t it, and he looked like he was two seconds from dropping to his knees in the dirt to worship you like he claimed he wanted to.
“Tell that to my racing heart and my cock,” he said, your mouth parting when he pointed to his crotch. “But if you continue to disagree, I’m more than happy to show you how wrong you are.”
Your words were stuck in your throat, not used to being the center of someone’s attention that way. “I’m sorry, but we just met,” you said, unsure of how else to respond. He didn’t know you, apart from your name, and he was talking about worshipping your ass and looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole?
It was… kind of flattering. What would you have to be upset about? Weren’t you mentally telling your libido to calm down at the sight of him? You were attracted to him, he was just the one being brave enough to vocalize his attraction to you.
His gaze didn’t waver when he said, “Yeah, we just met, but I want you.”
Your mouth parted again. Well, he was certainly forward and that didn’t bother you. It was better than the fake people you surrounded yourself with before spouting pretty lies. “You want me? You don’t know me and I could be a taken woman,” you pointed out.
“I’ll get to know you if you let me. ‘Sides, it’s not like I see a ring or indentation on your finger, so I don’t think you’re married or engaged. And I sure as hell don’t see anyone here helping you with your stuff, so I’m guessing you’ve been single for a while or you recently got out of a relationship,” he said, taking a look around to make his point before he focused on you once again. You weren’t at all upset that he noticed your bare finger since you had looked at his, too. “You wanna be a taken woman?”
Was it that obvious that you were all alone? “So what if I did just get out of a relationship?” you asked. There was nothing wrong with getting out of something that wasn’t right.
He smiled, not pushing when you didn’t answer his question. “Then he’s a fucking idiot for letting you go. And what better way to get over someone than getting under another?”
“I dumped him,” you clarified, not knowing why you needed him to know that. Your ex was likely spewing to everyone that he dumped you to save face, but that’s not what happened. “And I’m already over him.”
You should’ve felt guilty for that, but he wasn’t your forever and you weren’t his. He was free to find someone who fit with him better than you ever did. You were free to find your own happiness.
“Good girl,” Bucky smirked, your legs pressing together. You had to get a grip. “And I wasn’t implying that he dumped you, only that he’s an idiot for letting you go and I’m happy to help you forget all about him.”
You finally let your laugh out and you swore you heard him groan. Did he like the sound of your laughter? “You really are forward, and I just said I don’t need to get over him.”
“I said I’d help you forget about him,” he said, taking a step forward and smiling when you didn’t step back. You weren’t some wilting flower he’d pluck from the soil. “Just let me fuck him from your memories and I swear you’ll thank me when I’m done.”
You frowned. Did he think you were an easy lay, or was he picking up on your attraction to him and running with it? “I haven’t even moved into my trailer yet, so maybe you should let me get settled before you continue to… I don’t know, harass me.”
His eyebrows shot up and the amusement died in his eyes. “Harass you? That’s not what I’m doing,” he swore, taking a step back to give you space. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you or came on too strong.”
The apology took you by surprise and slowly warmed you inside. Not many people ever apologized to you for anything. “No, I’m sorry. Harass wasn’t the right word,” you said. It was just flirting. Very… strong flirting. “But if that isn’t it, what are you doing?”
He smiled after a moment, that spark back in his eyes. “Just grabbing an opportunity when I see it. Life’s too short not to,” he said.
You respected that perspective. “Is that what I am? An opportunity?” you asked. Something to get out of his system?
“I think you’re a lot more than that and that you may be running from something,” he replied, tilting his head. “Are you running from something or someone?”
He asked like he genuinely cared and you didn’t know how to process that. “I wouldn’t say I’m running,” you said, though you were running in a way, running from the life you no longer wanted. “More like I finally closed a chapter.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know you and helping you write a new chapter.”
“You say that like it’s a sure thing,” you said.
When his eyes swept over you again, it didn’t look like he was checking you out. It was as if he was trying to figure you out. “‘Cause it is,” he said, glancing at your door before you could say anything to his cocky remark. “Can help you out with repairs if you’d like.”
“I might take you up on that,” you said since you didn’t really have a clue what you were doing when it came to the handyman type of stuff. You could pay him, too. “Don’t get too excited. I said ‘might’,” you teased when he smiled.
Something in your gut said that even if he wasn’t hitting on you that he would’ve offered to help. It was a feeling you had, just like he had a feeling about you. And sure, he looked like danger and sin and everything you should stay away from, but there was more to him than met the eye.
What was his story? Who was the man behind the swagger and tattoos and rough edges? Did he grow up here or did he make a choice like you?
“I run my own shop. I’m very good with my…” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Tools.”
You laughed again, louder than before, and his smile widened. “You really are something, Bucky,” he said.
“Love hearing you say my name,” he whispered, heat pooling in your gut before he pointed at your car with a whistle. “And she is a beauty. You ever need any help with her, you let me know.”
You agreed. She was a beauty. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll take me for a ride or something like that?”
“Oh, I'll give you a ride,” he said in a low voice. “As many as you want.”
You ignored the ache between your thighs. “Not today, Bucky. I need to unpack.”
“One sec, Sweet Cheeks.”
“...Is that seriously what you’re going to call me?” you asked as he rushed to his trailer. It was ridiculous, but you didn’t hate it. You sure as hell liked it better than Pumpkin.
“‘Til the day I die,” he called back, whistling when he opened the door. “C’mere, girl. I got someone I want you to meet.”
Your brows furrowed. Who was in there who would possibly want to meet you? Did he have a kid?
You weren’t prepared for a white ball of fur to curl up in Bucky’s waiting arms. “And who is this?” you asked when he strolled back over. The image of such a beautiful cat in his arms was one that would put a smile on your face for days to come.
“This is Alpine. Found her near my shop a while back, starving and shivering. Nursed her back to health and she’s been by my side ever since,” he said, affection written all over his face. There was no bragging in his tone and that made you appreciate his story more. “Al, meet our beautiful new neighbor.”
You weren’t about to preen since he called you beautiful. “Oh, my god,” you whispered, tentatively holding a hand out to her when she lifted her head and regarded you with bright eyes. “Hi there.”
Alpine stared for a few seconds before she sniffed your fingertips and rubbed her head against them, encouraging you to pet her. You felt Bucky’s penetrating stare when you gently stroked her fur. “She’s a great judge of character,” he said, swearing under his breath. “I’m such a dick.”
“What do you mean?” you asked. He was a very forward flirt, but you didn’t get the impression that he was a dick.
“I didn’t ask if you were allergic,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Fuck.”
Your heart turned over. No one you knew would’ve ever considered that. “I would’ve told you right away if I was allergic,” you assured him, smiling when Alpine purred. “I’m glad he was able to nurse you back to health. I’ll bet you watch over everyone around here, don't you?”
You could just imagine her being a little guardian and your heart twisted. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get a pet. Like your trailer, you could shower a pet with love, too.
Alpine surprised you when she moved forward and pressed her head to yours. “Fuck me,” Bucky whispered when she curled up again and closed her eyes. “She really fucking likes you.”
“Maybe she’s just being nice,” you said.
“Trust me, she wouldn’t do that unless she really liked you,” he said, leaning down slightly to kiss the top of Alpine's head. “Would you, Al?”
Your heart melted. It wasn't fair how sweet and sexy he looked holding an animal. The only thing missing was him in a leather jacket, which you had no doubt he owned. If you ever saw him in a leather jacket holding a cat, you’d probably combust.
“Like seeing me kiss a pussy?” he asked nonchalantly when he caught you staring.
“Oh, my god,” you giggled, not dignifying him with any other sort of response to his question. Because if you pictured him eating your pussy, your legs would start shaking and you were altready hot and bothered enough thanks to him. “I really should start bringing my stuff in,” you said. You really needed to look over your resume, too, and find a job sooner rather than later.
“Say bye, Al.” He lifted her paw to give you a wave as she meowed.
You smiled and gave her a wave, too. “Bye bye. Thank you for the warm welcome.” It was a smooth tactic bringing his cat out. You imagined she helped win a lot of people over if his charm didn't.
“Wait,” Bucky said when went to turn away. “You sure you don't need any help? I don't mind doing any heavy lifting.”
“I can manage,” you answered. You had to get used to doing things on your own now. “But I appreciate it.”
“If you change your mind-”
“I’ll let you know.”
He frowned, but nodded. “One more thing,” he said, nodding over to a clearing. “Potluck lunch two days from now. You should stop by. Give you a chance to meet everyone.”
“Really?” Your eyes lit up. “I can bake something,” you said. Something delicious that would leave a good impression on the neighbors.
He raised an eyebrow. “You bake?”
“Yeah, I like to bake. Cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, whatever I feel like.” You shrank in on yourself, waiting for the inevitable laughter or insult.
But it didn’t come.
Bucky merely stared when he ran his tongue over his lips. Did the man ever keep his tongue in his mouth? “Now, I think it’s only fair that I get to taste your sweet cheeks and I don’t know if I want to share.”
You shook your head. Surely you hadn’t heard him right. “...You mean my treats?” you asked.
“Cheeks, treats, all of it. Bet it’ll all melt on my tongue,” he replied with a wink and turned away, giving you the chance to check out his ass when he slowly walked away. He spoke about worshipping your ass, but you couldn’t take your eyes off his.
“You cocky son of a bitch,” you whispered with a smile. Of course you heard him right, and you bet he ate like a starved man. “Keep dreaming,” you called after him.
“Oh, I will, Sweet Cheeks. I will dream about you,” he promised over his shoulder before he looked back once more. “You might just be my future wife,” he declared and went inside with Alpine while his words hung in the air.
“Fuck me,” you breathed out, your shoulders shaking as you laughed because that just happened.
You didn’t know how the rest of the day would go, but you did know that your new home and neighbor were going to make for a very interesting and exciting chapter in your new life.
Okay, lovelies. What do we think? Talk to me. Let me know if you love him as much as I do. And let me know where you think this is going. 🥰 See what happens next with Good as New. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
synopsis: it was never supposed to go this far. these lessons were meant to teach you how to love someone else. but somewhere between soft touches and whispered praise, you started falling—for the only man who’s ever made you feel safe. lesson five is the final one, and it’s supposed to be everything: slow, intimate, full of trust. one bed, two best friends, and a night that changes everything. this time, you’re not sure either of you will be able to walk away.
rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ protected p in v, handjobs, f recieving oral, m recieving oral, praise kink, overstimulation, biting, pain during sex, feral!bucky needs a warning, trust me, bucky talks you through it, making out, cum eating, betrayal, miscommunication leads to angst, mentions of sexual harassment, implied sexual assault (nothing explicit), canon typical violence.
word count: 10.5k
ෆ series masterlist | previous part
Bucky woke slowly, not because of the sun filtering in through the window or the quiet hum of the refrigerator across the room, but because of the weight pressed against him — warm and soft, breathing slow and steady. Your leg was slung over his hip, your cheek resting on his chest, one arm tucked between your bodies like you were trying to anchor yourself there forever. His vibranium hand lay gently against your back, splayed protectively. Even asleep, he held you like something precious.
He hadn’t slept much, too aware of your warmth, of the way your fingers had curled into his skin like you didn’t want to let go. Too caught up in the memory of your mouth, your moans, the way you had looked up at him with wet lashes and swollen lips. He had memorised the moment you fell asleep in his arms, and still, it didn’t feel like enough.
The vibration of his phone on the coffee table startled him slightly. He shifted just enough to reach for it, careful not to wake you. You stirred anyway, humming softly in protest as his chest moved beneath you. The screen flashed: Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
Of course.
Bucky sighed quietly, answering in a low rasp. “Yeah?”
Valentina didn’t waste time. “You’re needed at the office by eleven.”
He blinked at the ceiling. “It’s Saturday.”
“It’s important. Serious business. Don’t be late.”
She hung up before he could reply.
You mumbled something against his chest, then slowly lifted your head. Your face was warm with sleep, your hair tousled, your lips parted as you tried to focus your eyes. You looked up at him like this was the most natural place in the world to wake up. Like he was home.
“Why’re you on the phone?” you asked, your voice thick and groggy.
Bucky brushed his thumb along your spine. “Valentina. Wants me at the office.”
You blinked. “Now?”
“In an hour.”
You groaned dramatically, burying your face back against him. “Tell her no. It’s Saturday.”
“I did. Didn’t work.”
You stayed curled against him for a moment longer before slowly sitting up, wincing at the stiffness in your limbs. You were still wearing his sweatshirt, something he’d tossed you in the middle of the night when you said you were cold, sleeves pushed up over your forearms, exposing the faint red marks he’d left on your skin the night before. He was already pulling over his shirt, rumpled and half-open, and his dark hair was a mess from the way you were carding your fingers through it the night before. Everything about this morning felt soft and sleepy and too delicate to break.
“Do you think it’s about Blake?” you asked, rubbing your eyes. It was an instinct more than anything else. Something in your gut had known he’d done something wrong.
“Could be,” Bucky said, not meeting your gaze. “But probably not. Just more politics.”
You didn’t press, but the anxiety lingered between you like a shadow. You’d felt Bucky retract, just like he’d been doing a lot lately, when you mentioned Blake.
Eventually, you both got up, pulling your clothes on from the crumpled pile on the floor. There was a reverence in the way Bucky helped you find your sock, in the way he tucked your hair behind your ear and smoothed the fabric of your shirt before stepping back. Like he didn’t want to stop touching you, but didn’t know if he still had the right.
Once you were dressed, you grabbed your phone and keys, glancing at him with a little smile. “You might be working, but we’re not skipping our Saturday morning tradition. Coffee and raspberry coconut loaf cake.”
His mouth tugged upward at one corner, the barest hint of a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
──── ୨୧ ────
The walk from the coffee shop to Capitol Hill was quieter than usual. The July morning was cooler than expected, a gentle breeze brushing against your skin and sending the scent of fresh grass into the air. You held your iced latte between your hands, letting the condensation chill your fingers. Bucky walked beside you with his flat white and a small brown paper bag containing the coconut and raspberry loaf you always split, albeit 90/10. You’d decided to take the coffee to go to ensure Bucky got to his office in time for Val’s deadline.
Usually, you’d be talking non-stop. You’d complain about the noisy new neighbours, or laugh about the man on the corner who always tried to pet dogs that clearly wanted to maul, or eat him. Bucky would tell you about his week, about Valentina’s latest dramatic outbursts or the new intern who kept calling him “Mr. Barnes.”
But this morning was different.
There was a quiet between you. Not cold or distant — just heavy. Like both of you were too full of words you didn’t know how to say.
You sipped your drink and glanced at him. His shoulders were tense, eyes distant. He looked like he hadn’t slept much.
You didn’t ask why. You already knew.
Last night had changed everything. Or maybe it hadn’t — maybe it had just revealed everything you’d been ignoring. You’d spent so long pretending the lessons were just about sex, but now... you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he touched you. The way he looked at you. How his voice got low when he called you “sweetheart.” How safe he made you feel.
And then there was Blake.
You thought about the night at his place. The way he ordered your food for you without asking. The way he had touched you like it was his right. How it had felt clinical, selfish, and over too quickly. How he hadn’t even noticed that you hadn’t finished. You thought about the shame, the emptiness. The ache that had followed you home.
You glanced at Bucky again. His jaw was clenched, fingers wrapped tight around his cup.
He was thinking, too. You could tell.
You didn’t know he was thinking about the sound you made when you moaned his name. The way you said please with tears in your eyes and silk on your tongue. He was thinking about how he’d give anything to be enough for you — not just for the lessons, but for real.
But neither of you said any of it.
You just walked, side by side, with sugar on your tongues and love buried under your skin, heading toward a day that would change everything.
──── ୨୧ ────
You didn’t expect it to be so loud.
The usual hush of the congressional offices on a weekend was replaced with the slam of a door, raised voices, and the heavy thud of footsteps down marble floors. You turned the corner behind Bucky, confused, heart climbing into your throat—then you saw it.
Blake.
Box in his arms. Jacket half on. Face red with fury and humiliation. Two security officers flanking him like bookends.
“What the hell?” you breathed, stopping in your tracks.
Bucky stopped too, shoulders tense beside you.
“Get your hands off me,” Blake barked, jerking away from one of the officers. “I can walk myself, thanks.”
He looked disheveled. Less polished than usual. His tie was gone, shirt wrinkled, hair out of place. A storm of papers teetered in the cardboard box he held like he’d thrown it all together in a blind rage.
You stepped forward. “Blake?”
His head snapped toward you—and whatever veneer he was wearing cracked right down the centre.
“Oh, great,” he sneered. “Perfect. You just had to be here to see this, huh?”
You blinked, stunned. “What’s going on?”
Bucky moved closer behind you, subtly shielding your side with his body, but you didn’t even register it.
“I got set up,” Blake hissed. “That’s what’s going on. One stupid little intern decides she’s uncomfortable and suddenly I’m a goddamn monster?”
Your stomach dropped.
“I didn’t even touch her,” he added quickly, like that made it okay. “I flirted, big deal. You think I’m the only one in that office who does it?”
Your heart sank in your chest.
“Blake—” you started, but your voice was barely a whisper.
“Oh, don’t act surprised,” he snapped. “What? You didn’t think I noticed the way people looked at you? Like they were wondering what I was doing with the virgin?” He laughed. Loud and cruel. “Guess they know now.”
It hit you like a slap. Your chest caved inward. Everyone in the hallway turned. You wanted to shrink, to disappear into the floor.
Bucky moved in a second.
“Watch your mouth,” he growled, stepping directly between you and Blake. “You say one more word, I dare you.”
Blake scoffed. “What are you gonna do, Barnes? Beat me into chivalry? Oh wait—that’s right. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? All the blood on your hands… Getting to play white knight for your sweet little neighbour across the hall.”
He leaned in, eyes wild. “You always wanted her, didn’t you? That why you kept your mouth shut while she came crawling to me?”
That was it.
Bucky’s fist connected with Blake’s face — a sickening crunch of cartilage and bone as the congressman’s head snapped to the side. Blood spattered against the stone wall. Blake slumped, dazed, but Bucky didn’t let go.
“You used her,” Bucky spat, voice darker now, unrecognisable even to himself. “You humiliated her. You knew what you were doing. And I fucking warned you.”
Another fist. Metal, this time. It didn’t hit — not fully — but Bucky’s vibranium arm pressed hard against Blake’s chest, pinning him like a rag doll, the threat of crushing force barely contained. Blake choked, panic setting into his bloodied face.
Security came charging in. It took two agents to pull Bucky back — one tugging his right arm, the other wedging between him and Blake. Bucky didn’t fight them, not really. He just stared at the man still slumped against the wall, eyes swollen and blood leaking from his split lip.
“You don’t deserve to say her name,” Bucky said again, quieter this time, breathless. “She’s ten times the person you’ll ever be.”
As they dragged him back a few steps, Valentina appeared at the end of the corridor, heels clicking, jaw set. But she didn’t interrupt. She just watched, silent and unreadable.
Blake groaned, clutching his nose. “Fucking psycho…”
Bucky didn’t even look back. He adjusted his tie, straightened his shoulders, and said calmly to security, “I’m done now.”
“Let’s go,” one of the officers muttered, tugging Blake’s elbow.
Blake weakly shoved him off and glared at you. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Letting your best friend pull the strings. Pretending like you’re pure when you’re just a goddamn tease.”
“Get him out of here!” Bucky snapped, and the officers didn’t hesitate this time.
They dragged Blake down the corridor, his voice echoing behind them until he was gone.
Gone.
You stood frozen, heart pounding in your ears, vision blurred with the sting of hot tears. People were still staring. Whispering. Your limbs felt heavy. Numb.
You turned to Bucky. “Did you know?”
He opened his mouth—but before he could speak, Valentina’s voice rang out sharply from the hallway:
“Barnes. My office. Now.”
He hesitated. Looked at you—guilt swimming behind his eyes—then turned and followed her without a word.
You were left standing in the hallway.
Alone.
Your hands were shaking.
You didn’t realise how tightly your hands had curled into fists until your nails bit into your palms.
The hallway had emptied in the chaos’s wake, only the distant echo of voices lingering behind Bucky’s retreat. The air felt too still now, like time was giving you a moment to absorb the blow—but you couldn’t. Not fully. Not when your head was spinning and your chest was burning and your vision swam.
Your stomach twisted. Blake humiliated you. In front of everyone. And worst of all, he knew.
He knew you were a virgin. That was private. That was something sacred you’d shared with Bucky—not Blake. Not the rest of the goddamn office. How did he know? Did you just make it that fucking obvious?
You were still standing there, blinking at the carpet, your thoughts snarling into knots, when someone cleared their throat gently behind you.
“Hey… are you okay?”
You turned, startled.
Marianne. You’d met her a few times when you’d come to office with Bucky, the new intern who worked at the reception. She looked different outside of her workwear—softer, gentler, like she’d exhaled. Her cardigan sleeves were pushed to her elbows, clipboard clutched in her arms like armour, but her voice was kind. No judgment, just quiet concern.
You tried to answer. Couldn’t.
Marianne took a cautious step closer. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
You swallowed thickly. “What happened?”
She hesitated. “Do you want to sit down?”
You didn’t. You couldn’t. If you sat down, you’d break open.
So you shook your head.
Marianne nodded slowly, glancing toward the office door where Bucky had disappeared minutes before. “We filed the formal report last night. I wasn’t the only one. Five other women came forward.” Her voice lowered. “The story was the same for all of us. Unwanted comments. Touching. Leering. Texts late at night.”
You blinked.
She continued. “We weren’t sure if anything would come of it… but then one of the newer interns said something happened at the holiday party. She didn’t feel safe being in the same room as him anymore. That was the tipping point.”
A cold wave rolled through your gut. “I didn’t know.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” Marianne said gently. “No one wanted to drag you into it. Especially not Bucky.”
Your chest tightened. “He knew?”
Marianne paused. “He didn’t just know.”
You looked up sharply, heart suddenly thudding.
“He stood up for us when no one else would,” she said. “He backed the report. Made sure the complaint reached Valentina directly. Went out of his way to make sure every woman who came forward felt heard.” Her voice softened. “He was the one who made this happen today.”
You felt the blood drain from your face.
“He said he couldn’t stand by and let Blake get away with it. That he didn’t care if it made things complicated between you two—he just wanted to protect us, and protect you too.”
Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.
Marianne stepped forward, lowering her clipboard. “I know it probably feels like a betrayal… finding out this way. But he never stopped looking out for you. Not for a second.”
You felt something sharp twist behind your ribs. You thought of the missed calls. The unread texts. The way Bucky kept trying to tell you something all week but held his tongue every time.
You thought of how he looked at you—really looked at you—and how you hadn’t understood it until now.
He’d been protecting you… from the truth. From this.
But it didn’t make it hurt any less.
You drew in a shaky breath, blinking fast. “I need to go.”
Marianne didn’t try to stop you. She just offered a soft, understanding smile. “He’s a good man,” she said gently. “Even when it’s hard to see it.”
You nodded once, stiffly, and turned on your heel.
The marble underfoot felt cold and too loud as you stormed down the hallway.
You didn’t look back.
──── ୨୧ ────
You’d never known silence could feel so loud.
The moment you stepped inside your apartment, it hit you like a punch to the chest—the hush of your home pressing in around you, wrapping around your shoulders like a too-tight, suffocating blanket. You shut the door behind you with shaking fingers, the quiet click of the latch sealing in the ache building behind your ribs. You leaned back against it, blinking hard, your breath shallow as the weight of it all sank in. Your stomach twisted. Your throat burned. And somewhere, far below all of that, was the unmistakable, rising pulse of rage.
Bucky knew. All this time—he knew what kind of man Blake was. He knew what people were whispering about him, the complaints, the reports, the warnings. And still, he stood there, beside you, week after week, watching you get dressed for dates, teasing you when Blake sent you messages, holding your hand while you gushed about how special he made you feel. He looked you in the eye, told you he had your back—and never once told you the truth.
The betrayal sat like a stone in your chest, heavy and hard-edged, cutting deeper the longer you stared at the messages he’d sent.
Missed call from Bucky.
Missed call.
bucky: Are you okay?
bucky: Can you call me?
Now he cared?
You didn’t even realise you were pacing until your bare feet started to sting from the hardwood. You’d circled your living room three, four, five times, fists clenched and breathing shallow, the afternoon sun slipping lower and lower through the windows. Your thoughts were a blur, looping through images of the office, Blake’s smug face twisting with cruel satisfaction, the way everyone had looked at you when he spat that word—virgin—like it was something to mock. Your skin crawled.
And beneath it all, every memory of Bucky rushed to the surface like a tide—his voice, his touch, the way he held you when you were cold, how gentle he was when you were nervous, the way he kissed your forehead when you couldn’t sleep. You let him in, completely, and trusted him with every part of yourself. And he didn’t even trust you with the truth.
The soft creak of the hallway floor outside your apartment jolted you from your spiral. You froze. A key turned in the lock across the hall. His door swung open.
Bucky was home.
You didn’t think. You just moved.
You stormed across the hallway barefoot, ignoring the thud of your heart, and knocked—hard—three times, sharp and fast like gunfire. Before you could even prepare yourself, the door opened, and there he was.
Hair tousled, jacket still on, his blue eyes widening when he saw you standing there. “Hey—”
You didn’t let him finish. You pushed past him, stepping into his apartment like it belonged to you, fury burning through you like wildfire.
“How long, Bucky?” The words came out tight and shaking.
He closed the door gently behind you, brows drawn. “What—?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” You spun to face him, voice cracking. “How long have you known what Blake was? What he did to those women? How long were you planning to let me date him while you stood there saying nothing?”
His expression shifted, mouth parting. “I wasn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me.” You stepped closer, voice rising. “Please, for once, don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not,” he said quietly. “Look, I knew he was a nepotist jackass from the day I first started in Congress. But Marianne and the other women… I only found out yesterday, I swear.”
Your lungs seized.
He swallowed. “He was off. I noticed right away. The way he talked, the way he looked at women in the office. At you. I started asking questions, and the answers were worse than I expected.”
You stared at him, the sting behind your eyes too sharp to fight. “And you just… let me fall for him?”
“I didn’t let you—I tried, okay?” Bucky’s voice cracked. “I tried to warn you without telling you everything, but every time I brought it up, the words tasted wrong on my lips and I thought I was just being overprotective or jealous or—”
“Because you were!” Your voice broke, shaking with heat. “But you never told me the truth, and now everyone knows that I’m—” Your throat closed. “He said it in front of everyone.”
“I didn’t want that to happen.” Bucky stepped forward, his voice raw. “I was going to tell you everything, but last night was a fluster. I swear. I thought if I just got him fired, it would be over and you wouldn’t have to—”
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you spat. “You don’t get to pick and choose which parts of the truth I get to know, Bucky. Not when I trusted you. Not when I—” You stopped short, breath catching painfully.
He looked at you like you’d just punched him.
“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“But you weren’t,” you said, quieter now, voice trembling. “You were protecting yourself. From what, Bucky? From the truth? From how I’d react? Or from the fact that you knew you were crossing a line the second you let me crawl into your apartment and teach me how to touch you?”
His face twisted. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” You exhaled, shaky and raw. “You were supposed to be the one person I could trust.”
“I am,” he said, stepping forward again. “I’ve always been that for you.”
You shook your head. “No. Not today.”
You turned, storming for the door, blood hot and fingers trembling—but before you could open it, his voice cut through the silence like a whip.
“Wait.”
You paused. Barely. Just for a second. But it was enough for your heart to split.
Your hand was still curled around the doorknob, heart pounding in your ears like a war drum. The weight of him behind you—his presence, his voice, his regret—hung heavy in the air. It would’ve been easier to keep walking. Slam the door behind you, bury your heartbreak under a blanket and forget he ever touched you. But the second he said that word, your resolve cracked.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Bucky said softly. “You have to believe that.”
You turned, slowly.
His blue eyes were raw, pleading. His whole face looked tired—no, devastated. Like he’d been holding his breath all day and finally exhaled only to realise it wasn’t enough.
“You did hurt me,” you said. “You watched me fall for someone who didn’t care about me. And you knew.”
“I know,” he said, nodding. “And I was wrong. I should’ve told you. But I didn’t want to come between you and something that made you happy. And at the very start, you seemed happy. So I stayed silent. Even if it killed me to watch it happen.”
Your breath hitched.
His words echoed — even if it killed me.
Bucky’s voice lowered, thick with emotion. “You think it was easy for me? Watching him touch you in the office? Show you off like you were his property? Knowing he didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you?”
You stared at him, chest rising and falling, the anger inside you beginning to twist into something hotter. Something heavier.
“You think it was easy for me,” he continued, “to keep my mouth shut when all I wanted to do was rip his fucking hands off every time he looked at you like you were something to own?”
Your fingers trembled.
“Bucky…”
“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he said, stepping closer. “But every time I looked at you, I wished it was me. Not him.”
You didn’t think. Couldn’t.
You reached for him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth.
Your hands tangled in the lapels of his jacket and you surged forward, slamming your mouth to his like it was the only thing that could make the pain stop. Bucky gasped, the shock of it jolting through him, but then he grabbed you—grabbed you—and pinned you to the nearest wall like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.
You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing into his shoulders, his hair, his neck. He kissed you like he was starved—like he’d been holding himself back for weeks, and now that the leash had snapped, he didn’t care who saw.
Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, and Bucky pressed into you, his hips slotting against yours, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other sliding down your side like he needed to touch every inch of you to believe you were real.
“I’ve wanted this,” he rasped against your lips, “so fucking bad.”
You whined, tilting your head back as his mouth dropped to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “Then take it,” you breathed.
He growled—growled—and kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier, tongue sliding against yours like he wanted to taste your every thought.
But it wasn’t just lust. Not even close.
There was too much in the way he held you, too much pain in the way his fingers trembled against your waist, too much feeling behind every kiss like he was trying to apologise, confess, and worship you all at once.
Your hands moved without thinking—down his chest, yanking his shirt loose from his waistband. He hissed when your fingers brushed bare skin, and you felt him hard against your thigh, unmistakable and urgent. It only made you kiss him harder.
But then—suddenly—he pulled away.
You blinked, breathless, lips kiss-swollen and dazed. “What—?”
Bucky’s chest was heaving, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched like he was trying to hold something back.
“You were going to leave,” he muttered.
Your breath caught in your throat. You’d never seen him like this before; his eyes practically black with lust, expression outright feral.
“You storm in here, screaming at me, prodding your finger into my chest and then walk out?” His voice dropped, gravelly rough. “Like this doesn’t mean something.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. “I wasn’t going to—”
“Where were you going?” he asked, stepping forward again, backing you against the wall. “To cry? To fall asleep still hurting, still confused, still wondering if I care about you?”
You swallowed hard.
He reached for your waist again, gentler now, grounding you. “You don’t get to leave until I remind you how someone should treat you.”
Your hands shook.
“Bucky…”
His mouth ghosted against yours. “We still have one more lesson, sweetheart.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
“No need for lessons anymore,” you whispered, but you were already pressing into him again, drunk on the heat of his body, the rasp of his voice, the look in his eyes that told you he meant it.
It was true, things were over with you and Blake now, so really, there was no need for the final lesson. But that didn’t mean you didn’t want it. And Bucky had been programmed to finish the job. You curled your fingers into the column of his neck, causing him to hiss as your nails bit into the skin there.
“But if we’re going to do this, tell me, Bucky,” you continued. “what is lesson five?”
His hands slid to your hips, voice low and sure.
“Lesson five?” Bucky chuckled darkly. It made you nervous. His teeth nibbled at your jaw and he ran his tongue along your skin before whispering, “I’m going to fuck you until you don’t even remember Blake’s name.”
Your gasp barely made it past your lips before Bucky crashed into you again, kissing you with a brutal kind of hunger — all teeth and tongue and desperate heat. There was nothing patient about him now. This wasn’t the gentle encouragement of previous lessons. This was something else entirely. Something territorial.
His hands gripped your hips so tight, you felt the press of his fingertips even through the fabric of your leggings. He spun you around, walking you backward until your spine met the wall. His vibranium arm slammed beside your head, making you jump — not from fear, but the shock of raw desire it sparked down your spine.
“I should’ve done this the night you came to me,” Bucky growled, voice a low rasp against your throat. “The second you said his name, I should’ve claimed you right there.”
Your stomach twisted, arousal blooming, breath caught in your chest. “Bucky…”
He kissed the underside of your jaw, then bit down — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you whimper, enough to mark. His flesh hand dragged down your body, possessive and rough, squeezing your ass, then sliding between your thighs like he owned you.
“You’ve been his in name only,” Bucky muttered darkly, fingers teasing the hem of your panties. “But every moan, every lesson… that was mine. You were mine the whole damn time.”
You whimpered when his fingers pressed against you through the thin lace, already soaked. His smirk was vicious. “Dripping for me, huh? Not for him. Never for him.”
“Bucky,” you gasped, hips rolling toward his hand. “Please.”
“Oh, now you beg?” he teased, kissing the corner of your mouth, dragging his lips across your cheek. “You don’t even know what begging is yet.”
With one quick motion, his vibranium hand gripped the back of your thigh and hoisted it up onto his hip, opening you up for him. You clung to his shoulders, thighs trembling. He ground against you — slow, hard, and deliberate — letting you feel the thick press of him through his slacks, letting you know exactly what you’d invited in.
“You’re mine tonight,” he murmured hotly, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You want lesson five? It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s me showing you how it feels to be ruined.”
His words punched the air from your lungs. Your body arched toward him, mind fogged with the sheer weight of him — his mouth, his voice, his presence. He wasn’t just touching you. He was devouring you. Worshipping and punishing you all at once for giving yourself to someone who never deserved it.
He kissed you again — harder, deeper, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth and tugging until you whimpered. His hand slipped under your panties, finally sliding against your slick folds, and he groaned deep in his throat.
“Fuck,” he whispered, like he was reverent, like he was angry at how good you felt. “So wet for me already. You were made for this.”
His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, brushing up again to circle your clit with slow, devastating precision. You jerked in his grip, crying out softly, but Bucky didn’t stop. He watched your face as he worked you, eyes blown wide with desire and something darker — something protective and furious and worshipful.
“I’m going to make you forget every time he touched you,” Bucky promised, breathless now. “I’m going to fuck you so good, I’ll ruin you for anyone else.”
“Was that your goal this entire time?” You retorted teasingly, but the words died on your tongue the second Bucky removed his fingers from your dripping core. A punishment for being snarky.
You should have known better.
“What do you think?” Bucky smiled, a wicked glint in his eye.
Bucky walked you back toward the bedroom, his hands everywhere—palming your waist, gripping your ass, tugging your shirt up over your head. You stripped him in return, your fingers trembling as you shoved his slacks down his hips. He stepped out of them without breaking the kiss, and you gasped into his mouth when his cock brushed your stomach—hot, thick, already leaking.
Your knees buckled.
You sank to the floor.
He let out a ragged breath above you, bracing himself on the wall, his hand tangled in your hair like he’d fall apart without the anchor.
You mouthed over his hip bone first, then down his thigh. His cock bobbed in the space between you, flushed red at the tip, already glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, licking your lips as his abs clenched.
“You’re fucking perfect,” you whispered.
“Shit—” he breathed. “Gonna make me come just looking at you.”
You smirked, then leaned in and licked a long, deliberate stripe from base to tip. His cock twitched in your hand. He cursed again—louder this time—his hips bucking forward.
Your lips wrapped around the head, tongue flicking beneath the ridge. He groaned, head falling back, mouth open and desperate.
“God, your fucking mouth—”
You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, your throat stretching, spit sliding messily down your chin. Your hand stroked the base as you bobbed your head, faster now, wetter. His thighs flexed beneath your palms, and you moaned around him—loudly—just to feel the way he twitched.
You pushed lower, pushing until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged and pulled back, then did it again. Determined. Tears burned the corners of your eyes but you didn’t care. Not when he sounded like that. Not when you could feel him unraveling with every stroke of your tongue.
You swallowed him down, again and again, your hand stroking in tandem, twisting at the head just how he liked it. He was panting now, bucking into your mouth, losing control.
“Shit—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”
You didn’t slow down. You wanted it—wanted to see him break.
And then he did.
With a choked cry and a full-body tremor, Bucky spilled into your mouth, thick and hot and endless. It painted your tongue, dripped from the corner of your lips onto your hand, and you sucked him through it until he was twitching.
When you pulled back, a string of spit and come connected your lips to the tip of his cock.
He looked down at you, dazed, chest heaving.
“You okay?” he rasped.
You didn’t answer. You just looked at the mess across your hand—his mess—and brought it to your mouth. You sucked his come off your fingers like it was something sweet, something sacred.
His jaw dropped.
“I—Jesus fucking Christ—”
You smiled, lips slick, then stood, dragging him down with you onto the bed. You pushed him back against the mattress, straddling his thigh, already yanking your underwear down your legs.
“You wanna taste me now?” you asked, breathless.
Bucky groaned like it hurt. “Get over here.”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
He flipped you easily, dragging you down the bed and settling between your legs, mouth already kissing your inner thigh. You were soaked, slick running down your folds, and when he dragged his tongue through it, his moan rumbled deep in his chest.
You gasped, grabbing the sheets, your hips arching up into his mouth.
He groaned against your clit, tongue flicking fast and wet. Obscene sounds echoed throughout the walls of his bedroom. His arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, locked in place. He sucked hard—just once—and you nearly came undone right there.
“Bucky—fuck, please—”
He gave you everything.
His mouth never left your clit, but his fingers slipped inside you—one, then two, pumping slow, curling just right. He knew your body now. He knew where to touch, how to make you fall apart.
“You taste like heaven,” he muttered against you. “Could live between your legs.”
You cried out, heels digging into the mattress. His fingers were relentless, working that sweet spot inside you, and your stomach was already tightening.
“C’mon,” he whispered, licking circles around your clit. “Come on, sweetheart. I want it. Let me feel you.”
You broke apart with a sob—your whole body shuddering, clenching around his fingers, your thighs squeezing his head. He didn’t stop until your cries turned to whimpers and your legs gave out.
He crawled up and kissed you hard, messy and hot and open-mouthed, and you moaned into it, tasting yourself on his tongue.
Bucky was trembling above you.
Not because he didn’t want this—God, no—but because it felt too much. Like the moment he let himself sink inside you, everything would change. He was on the edge of something he didn’t know how to return from.
And you? You looked wrecked in the most beautiful way. Kiss-swollen lips, hot cheeks, soft whimpers still falling from you. Your thighs were still trembling from the orgasm he’d coaxed from you moments ago, his fingers glistening with the proof of how badly you needed him.
His cock throbbed between your bodies—already hard again—resting against your belly, heavy and flushed and aching. His eyes fluttered shut when your fingers wrapped around it again, curious and reverent.
“I want to do it,” you whispered. “Can I…?”
He didn’t even need to ask what you meant. He just nodded, breath stuttering in his throat. “Yeah. Christ, yeah.”
He reached to the nightstand with a shaky hand, pulling open the drawer where he’d already stashed the condom he’d bought for this night, just in case—because some foolish, aching part of him had dared to hope. He ripped the packet open with his teeth, then handed it to you with trembling fingers.
You sat up a little, swallowing hard as you looked at him—naked and gorgeous in the low lamp light, chest dusted with hair, abs tight with restraint. He was solid under your hands, thighs flexed, arms braced beside your head. And his cock was massive. Thick and veiny and heavy in your palm, curved slightly upward, with a bead of precum already welling at the tip.
You looked up at him shyly, condom still in your hand. “How do I…”
“I’ll show you,” Bucky said, his voice raw with need. He leaned in, guiding your hand gently. “Hold it like this… yeah, perfect. Pinch the tip. Now roll it down slowly.”
You followed his instruction with delicate care, watching as the latex slid over his length—inch after inch until he was fully covered, twitching in your grip.
He let out a shuddering breath, eyes locked on your face like he was memorising you.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You blushed under his gaze, chest fluttering with nerves and warmth. “I just want to make it good.”
He pressed his forehead to yours again, exhaling slow. “It already is.”
He shifted, lining himself up with your entrance. The head of his cock slid through your soaked folds and you both gasped. It was hot, thick, and pulsing—and you could feel the stretch already, even before he’d entered you.
Bucky paused.
His eyes met yours, pupils blown wide, voice low and reverent.
“Are you ready for the final lesson?”
There was no hesitation. “Yes.”
He kissed you like a promise, and then he started to push inside.
The pressure was overwhelming. Even with all the careful prep, your body tensed around the intrusion, instinctive and tight. He was so big—your walls struggling to accommodate him, your nails digging into his biceps.
He stilled the moment he felt your breath hitch.
“You’re okay,” he murmured, kissing your cheek, your temple, the corner of your eye. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good for me.”
You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He didn’t move. Not yet. He held you, grounded you, let your body adjust.
The first few moments were sharp — a tight, unfamiliar stretch that made your breath hitch and your muscles instinctively clamp down. It wasn’t just physical; it was the weight of vulnerability, the fear of the unknown, the electric tremor of trusting him so completely.
Bucky stayed still, completely still, giving your body all the time it needed. His eyes locked on yours, full of nothing but unwavering support and gentle encouragement.
“You’re okay,” he murmured softly, his voice like a warm blanket wrapping around you. “I’m right here. You’re doing so fucking good.”
His hand slid from your hip to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn’t even realised had fallen. You wanted to pull away, embarrassed by the ache — but his touch grounded you, reminding you that this was safe, this was love, not pain.
Slowly, the sting began to dissolve, melting into something altogether different — a fierce, white-hot pleasure that bloomed and radiated through every fibre of your body. The tightness shifted into a delicious fullness, like the most perfect kind of ache.
Bucky’s fingers found your clit again, tracing slow, loving circles, coaxing waves of heat and light through you. Your walls fluttered around him, trembling, loosening just enough for him to sink a little deeper, inch by inch, each movement more natural than the last.
His breath hitched as he felt your body begin to open to him. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and need. “You’re so perfect like this.”
He kissed your jawline, down to your neck, nipping gently as if to say I’m yours, completely.
“You’re so strong,” he whispered against your skin, fingers never faltering in their tender rhythm. “You’ve got this.”
His words were like a lifeline, pulling you higher, giving you the courage to let go of the last bit of fear. Your muscles clenched again, this time not from pain but from the flood of pleasure rolling through you.
“Let it go,” he urged softly, voice low and coaxing. “I’m right here. You’re safe with me.”
Your breath hitched as the tension in your body shattered, replaced by a shattering, beautiful release that left you shaking in his arms. Your legs trembled as the wave crashed through you, your walls pulsing around him in response.
Bucky groaned deeply, his chest rising and falling fast, his own need flaring in tandem with yours. He shifted, sinking further inside you with reverence, as if trying to become one with every part of you.
“You’re incredible,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “So fucking incredible.”
His hands held you steady, his metal arm warm and sure around your waist. His lips brushed your temple. “I’ve never felt this before. With anyone.”
You clung to him, heart pounding wildly, overwhelmed by the raw intimacy, the blend of pleasure and love.
As the waves of your release slowly faded, Bucky’s hips pressed gently into yours, rocking slow and steady — careful, patient, filled with a reverence that made you feel like the most precious thing in the world.
“You’re perfect,” he repeated, voice soft but certain, “and I’m not going anywhere.”
You whimpered at the praise, arching up into him, helpless under the weight of his body and the feelings rising between you. This wasn’t just sex anymore. This was something that had always lived between you two, growing quietly in the dark.
And Bucky felt it too.
His rhythm faltered — just for a second — and he pulled back to look at you. His eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable, and for a moment, it was like the rest of the world fell away. His thrusts slowed as his expression shifted into something almost pained, like he’d been holding something back for too long.
“I love you,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Fuck—baby, I love you.”
It hit you like a bolt of lightning — the desperation in his voice, the way his forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like saying it hurt and healed him all at once. There was no hesitation, no fear—only a deep, aching need to finally say it aloud.
And then he came.
His hips stuttered and his breath broke as he spilled into the condom, his face contorting in a mix of bliss and emotion. His hands tightened on your waist, anchoring himself to you like he needed to feel every inch of you while he came apart.
He collapsed against you with a low, wrecked moan, panting hard into your shoulder, his body trembling faintly from the force of it. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just held him as his weight settled over you, your fingers stroking through the damp hair at the back of his neck, your heart beating too fast and too loud.
Bucky lifted his head slowly, still catching his breath, his cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.
Your body trembled beneath him, warm and open, every nerve ending humming with the newness of this—his presence, his touch, the way he filled you completely. The soft weight of his metal arm wrapped around your waist grounded you, a steady anchor amid the storm of sensation curling through your limbs.
For a long, perfect moment, you stayed locked together like that—two hearts beating in sync, two souls finally home.
You lay curled against Bucky, the heat of his body warm and steady beneath your cheek. The city noises outside faded into a distant hum, muffled by the thick curtains and the soft rhythm of your shared breathing.
Tears blurred your vision, but they weren’t just sadness — they were relief, love, and something fragile yet fierce blossoming in your chest. You reached up, fingers trembling slightly, and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm under your touch, and you could feel the gentle pulse of his heart just beneath the surface.
“I love you,” you whispered, voice barely louder than a breath. The words spilled free, raw and honest, carrying the weight of everything you’d held back.
For a moment, Bucky was still, his gaze locked on yours with something so deep and tender it made your heart skip. Then, slowly, he smiled — that rare, genuine smile that always melted you — and cupped your cheek in his large hand. His thumb stroked your skin softly, grounding you.
“You do?” He asked, and you nodded wordlessly, unable to hide the smile on your face.
“I love you too,” he said, voice husky with emotion. “God, I’ve loved you for so long. Every lesson, every moment we shared… it all led here.” He swallowed hard, vulnerability shining in his eyes. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”
You smiled even harder through your tears, feeling warmth bloom through your chest. You’d never imagined love could feel this safe, this real.
Bucky shifted gently so he could look at you better, the moonlight catching the scars on his skin and the steel of his arm — marks of his past, of battles fought, but to you, they were beautiful, a part of him you adored.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked quietly, nerves flickering beneath his calm exterior. “Not just my best friend, or the girl I teach lessons to… but really, truly mine?”
Your heart surged, pounding loud in your ears. You laughed softly, a sound full of joy and disbelief. “Yes,” you breathed, “I want that more than anything.”
His smile widened, and he closed the distance between your lips again — this kiss deeper, more sure, full of promises yet to be kept. Your hands found his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. He tasted like home, like safety, like everything you’d been searching for.
When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His voice was soft but certain. “We’ve waited long enough. From now on, it’s just us.”
You nodded, feeling a blissful certainty settle inside you. “Just us.”
Wrapped in each other’s arms, you let the world fall away. For the first time, you were exactly where you belonged.
──── ୨୧ ──── 3 months later...
Three months.
That’s how long it had been since everything changed.
Since late nights turned into mornings in his bed. Since soft touches no longer came with apologies. Since Bucky stopped pretending you were just friends and finally allowed himself to hold you the way he’d always dreamed.
Three months of secret smiles across meeting rooms. Of sneaking kisses in elevator corners. Of long nights curled up on his couch, learning each other’s bodies and boundaries. Of building something real.
And now… tonight was the first time you’d show up together—really together.
In public.
Hand in hand.
The inside of the SUV was quiet, save for the faint hum of the engine and the muted city noise outside the tinted windows. You sat side by side in the backseat, the air between you buzzing with restrained touches. Dressed in a silky black gown that hugged your curves and left just enough to the imagination, you were a vision—and Bucky looked the part of your counterpart, suited in sharp navy with a black shirt open just enough to show the glint of a dog tag he never took off.
He couldn’t stop staring at you.
You glanced at him from under your lashes, catching his gaze for what must’ve been the tenth time since pulling away from the curb. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it,” Bucky murmured, voice low and rough.
"You okay?" you asked softly, brushing your knee against his.
He blinked, like you pulled him out of his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
“You sure?” you pressed, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Because you’ve checked your tie three times and I think you just wiped your palms on your pants.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You know me too well.”
You leaned in slightly, your perfume drifting into his senses like a trap. “So what’s got you so tense? It’s just a party.”
“It’s not just a party,” he muttered. “It’s the first time they see us together. Publicly. Officially. The whole damn Capitol will be there.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What, you think they’re gonna boo when we walk in?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned to you, finally meeting your eyes. His fingers reached for yours, brushing your knuckles, then sliding in between them slowly. His palm was warm. His grip was tight.
“I just… I don’t want anyone talking shit about you.”
Your expression softened instantly. “Bucky.”
“I know how they are,” he said, eyes drifting back to the dark window. “Politics is a viper pit. Half those assholes would chew you up and spit you out if they thought it would hurt me. And if anyone starts saying you’re with me for the wrong reasons, or that I’m—”
“Hey,” you cut in gently, lifting his hand to your lips and kissing the scarred ridge across his knuckles. “Look at me.”
He did.
“I'm not scared of them,” you whispered. “And I don’t care what they say. We know the truth.”
Bucky stared at you like he was trying to memorise you. Like you were something he'd waited his whole life to have, and still couldn’t believe was real.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said finally, voice low.
You smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself, Barnes.”
His hand slipped from yours, fingers grazing your thigh instead, the slide of his metal knuckles teasing your slit-high dress. He didn’t go higher—just left it there. Possessive. Protective.
You shifted closer, unable to help yourself. “We’ve got ten more minutes in this car,” you murmured. “Want to make out like teenagers?”
That earned a laugh. “You trying to get us kicked out before we even arrive?”
You shrugged. “Could be worth it.”
Bucky’s smile softened, his eyes dipping to your lips like he was considering it.
And then the car slowed.
You both turned toward the window as the Capitol came into view, lights flashing, cameras already gathering outside the entrance.
Showtime.
Your pulse kicked up. Not from nerves, but because Bucky squeezed your thigh gently—just once—and leaned in to murmur something against your cheek:
“Whatever happens tonight… you’re mine.”
Your breath caught.
And you nodded. “I always was.”
The black car rolled to a stop outside the grand entrance of the event venue, its marble steps glowing under the soft gold of the Capitol’s evening lights. The flash of cameras was instant—blinding and relentless. You could hear the muffled shouts through the closed doors.
"Here we go," Bucky murmured, sitting upright. He ran his thumb once more over the back of your hand before letting go.
A beat passed.
Then he reached for the door handle, looked at you one last time, and said, “You sure you’re ready?”
You nodded, pulse fluttering. “Only if you are.”
He gave you that boyish, quiet smile—the one that said he wasn’t quite sure how the hell he got so lucky—and then he climbed out.
The moment he stepped into view, the crowd erupted.
Click. Flash. Click.
Dozens of photographers shouted his name, crowding the velvet rope. He ignored them all as he turned back to offer his hand to you.
You placed your fingers in his palm and stepped out, heels clicking on the pavement.
The crowd paused.
The flashbulbs came twice as fast.
There was a murmur—an audible shift in energy—as you came into full view beside him, your hand snug in the crook of his elbow.
Congressman James Buchanan Barnes was not alone.
You gave the cameras a small, polite smile.
Bucky didn’t.
He looked straight ahead, shielding you slightly with his body as the two of you ascended the steps. He didn’t let go of you—not even as one of the party coordinators approached to escort you in, stammering through a greeting as if unsure what to make of the scene.
The grand ballroom inside was filled with Washington’s most influential—politicians, donors, journalists, and aides. People who had seen Bucky a hundred times in tailored suits and tight-lipped photo ops. But not like this.
Not with you.
The whispers followed.
You held his arm tighter.
“Let ‘em talk,” Bucky muttered close to your ear.
The first friendly face you spotted was Marianne—wearing a glittering midnight-blue gown and smiling like she’d just seen two celebrities. She practically ran across the room in heels.
“Oh my god,” she squealed, hugging you. “You two are finally public?”
Your laugh was small, but genuine. “Is it that obvious?”
“Honey, he looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Bucky chuckled, and Marianne turned to him, giving him a firm hug too. “I mean it, Barnes. Proud of you. About everything.”
He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was holding back emotion. “Thanks, Marianne.”
Before she could say anything more, a familiar voice cut through the crowd behind you.
“Well, would you look at that?”
You turned to find Sam Wilson, all charm and sharp suit, grinning ear to ear. He gave you a wink before pulling Bucky into a one-armed hug.
“Took you long enough, Barnes.”
Bucky huffed. “Don’t start.”
“You’re lucky she didn’t fall for someone smarter,” Sam teased, then turned to you and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But seriously, if he ever messes this up, just say the word. I’ll set you up with someone from Wakanda. You deserve royalty.”
You laughed, and Bucky rolled his eyes. “Sam.”
Sam held up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m happy for you. Both of you. It’s good to see him happy. Took years off his face.”
You looked over at Bucky then—at the way the tightness around his eyes had softened, at how his hand kept drifting toward your waist like he needed to touch you just to believe this was real.
You knew exactly what Sam meant.
As the evening wore on, you mingled and danced and accepted congratulations from those who mattered. You smiled through the stares and questions. You held your own in conversation. And every time Bucky reached for you—your waist, your hand, the back of your chair—you leaned into his touch without hesitation.
It wasn’t just lessons anymore.
It was real.
──── ୨୧ ────
Bucky leaned against the ornate marble railing of the terrace, the night cool against his flushed skin. The party hummed behind him—music, champagne flutes clinking, polite laughter—but out here, it was quiet.
He needed the break.
Too much attention. Too many eyes. Too many people whispering about the woman on his arm like she hadn’t already owned his heart for years.
“She’s got you whipped, man.”
Bucky startled slightly and turned—Sam stood behind him, two glasses in hand. He offered one out with a smirk.
“Didn’t peg you for the kind of guy to sneak out during your own big debut.”
Bucky accepted the drink with a grumble. “I’m not hiding.”
“You’re hiding.”
He sighed and took a sip. “Maybe a little.”
Sam stepped up beside him, gazing out over the Capitol lawn. “You nervous?”
“I feel like everyone’s staring at her.”
“They are.”
Bucky scowled.
“Because she’s gorgeous. And because she’s with you,” Sam added, bumping his shoulder. “They’re just surprised it took this long.”
There was a pause.
Then Bucky muttered, “I still don’t know what she sees in me.”
“Oh god,” Sam groaned. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you’re serious, that’s why it’s annoying,” Sam said. “You’re not some lost cause, Buck. You’re a good man. A damn good one. She knows it. And everyone who matters knows it too.”
Bucky stared down into his glass, jaw tight.
Sam softened. “You think I’d let her get with you if I didn’t believe in you?”
That made Bucky laugh under his breath. “You’d stop her?”
“I’d try. I mean, she’s terrifying. But I’d give it a shot.”
A smile tugged at Bucky’s mouth.
They stood in silence for a while—just two men in suits under the stars, watching Washington buzz beneath them.
Then Sam snorted suddenly into his drink.
“What?”
“Just remembered—Blake got arrested yesterday.”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
“Tax evasion,” Sam said, smug. “Turns out Mr. ‘I’m Untouchable’ was touching a few too many offshore accounts. IRS caught wind, and he folded like a wet napkin.”
Bucky barked out a laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Dude tried to write off strip club visits as ‘client dinners.’ Can’t make this shit up.”
Bucky shook his head. “That guy…”
“Hey,” Sam said, nudging him. “You did good. Got her away from that asshole. She’s better off. And so are you.”
There was a beat.
Then Bucky murmured, “I love her, man.”
Sam didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease.
Just nodded. “I know.”
The door creaked open behind them, and Bucky turned instinctively—there you were, scanning the terrace until your eyes landed on him.
Sam followed his gaze and grinned. “Looks like you’re being summoned.”
Bucky hesitated for half a second—then set down his glass.
“You coming back in?” he asked.
“Nah,” Sam said. “I’ve seen enough PDA for one night.”
Bucky clapped him on the shoulder once, warm and grateful, before making his way across the terrace and straight into your orbit.
You looked up at him, glowing under the string lights. “There you are.”
He leaned in, voice low and full of promise.
“Come with me,” he said. “We’ve got one more thing to finish tonight.”
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You hadn’t meant to sneak away.
Not really.
But when Bucky brushed his fingers across the small of your back while you both stood politely nodding through yet another conversation about bipartisan infrastructure, you leaned in. Just a little. Just enough.
And he murmured against your ear, “Upstairs. Now.”
So you followed.
The White House guest wing was quiet, deserted, dimly lit. Ornate carpet, gilt-trimmed wallpaper, portraits that seemed to watch you pass—but you were barely aware of any of it. All you could hear was the pounding of your pulse. All you could feel was Bucky’s hand wrapped around yours, dragging you behind him like something stolen.
The second he found an empty room and shut the door, his hands were on you.
You crashed into each other in the dark, mouths meeting like magnets. His tie was already loosened, his jacket discarded on the floor. Your dress was hiked up, his hands greedy at your waist, lifting you effortlessly and placing you on the edge of an antique desk.
He stepped between your thighs, pulling your lower half flush against his. His lips found your neck, your jaw, the soft part behind your ear that made you shiver.
“You looked like a dream tonight,” he murmured, voice deep and rough. “All fucking mine.”
Your breath caught. “You’re being possessive.”
“You love it when I’m possessive.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Your fingers moved quickly, popping the buttons of his shirt open one by one, pushing it back to reveal his undershirt. Your palm pressed against his chest. His heart was hammering.
“I thought you hated these kinds of parties,” you whispered.
“I do,” he muttered, lifting your dress higher, exposing the tops of your thighs, his vibranium hand gripping your flesh with reverent urgency. “But I’ll go to every single one if it means I get to leave with you.”
You cupped his face, made him look at you. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dark and full of heat—but underneath it, that boyish vulnerability still lingered.
“You okay?” you whispered.
He nodded slowly, brushing his nose against yours. “Better than okay.”
You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it simmer—tongue sweeping his bottom lip, his hand curving around the back of your neck like he needed the anchor.
Then you broke apart, breathless. He stared at you, chest heaving. And then he smirked.
“What?” you asked.
He didn’t answer at first—just stepped back slightly, hands skimming over your thighs, thumbs pressing little circles just above your knees.
Then, in that low voice that never failed to wreck you, he said:
“So… ready for your final exam?”
Your mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” His hands slid higher. “I’ve taught you everything I know. Now I wanna see what you’ve learned.”
You huffed out a laugh, biting your bottom lip. “I don’t think we’re allowed to defile White House property.”
Bucky leaned in again, nipped at your jaw, and whispered, “Then you better be quiet.”
The tension snapped taut between you—sharp and electric, but layered with something deeper. He stared down at you like you were sacred. Like this meant everything. Like you were the reason he’d made it out the other side of all that pain.
You hooked your arms around his neck, your lips brushing his.
“Come on, Barnes,” you whispered. “I’m ready for anything.”
He lifted you off the desk in one swift motion, your legs wrapped around his waist, your giggle swallowed by another kiss. He made it to the couch at the far end of the room and laid you down gently, reverently, his body sliding over yours like he was built to fit there.
You touched every inch of him. He touched every part of you.
And then he made good on his promise.
You never did tell anyone the truth about the lessons. Because somewhere along the way, between shy kisses and whispered instructions, between laughter over cheap wine and gasps beneath soft sheets, it stopped being a curriculum and started becoming a love story. One written in stolen glances, accidental touches, and every time Bucky Barnes looked at you like you were his entire future. And maybe that was the final lesson after all—not how to kiss, or touch, or please—but how to fall in love with your best friend… and have him love you right back.
The End.
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author's note: if you read this far, to the very end of lessons in love, i just want to say thank you so much. thank you for being patient with me, and enabling me to write something i was so passionate about. my heart is full and i appreciate each and every one of you who reblogged, left a comment, sent me a message or showed their support in one way or another. certain elements of this story were challenging for me to write but it really was your support that helped me keep going. i love you lots and if you like my writing, please check out my masterlist in my pinned or feel free to submit a request :)
all my love,
rach
x
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Sebastian Stan taglist: in comments due to taglist limit
Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!):
a congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader mini-series.
synopsis: after thinking you've met the man of your dreams, you're ready to take things to the next level. one problem: you've never even kissed a guy before. so, you knock on your best friend's door with a proposition, and ask him to teach you everything there is to know about sex. no strings, no feelings, just lessons. but the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it's only practice.
warnings/rating: 18+ rated series, minors do not interact, explicit content ahead! ⚠️ p in v, m receiving oral, f receiving oral, fingering, handjobs, pining, dirty talk, masturbation, sexting, literally every dirty thing you can think of... it's probably going to be in this fic. chapter specific warnings will be at the start.
