Hiiiiii, I write mostly unholy stuff about my beautiful, sweet and perfect man Bucky <3 wish he existed honestly but I could never pull him so I’ll just stay delulu 🤟🏻
.*•~ About me
⠀➼ Eli, (she/her)
⠀➼ 20, blog for 18+ only!
⠀➼ smut, fluff, angst (I try)
⠀➼ requests are open!
.*•~ Masterlist
⠀➼ Fanfics
⠀➼ Drabbles
⠀➼ Reqs <3
.*•~ Character AI
⠀➼ Account
⠀➼ Bucky bots
Just want to add that I am not comfortable in writing extreme themes involving violence during sexual acts, incest, selfcest and so on.. I’m sorry but I just can’t write that kind of stuff. I hope you all understand.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, public sex (alleyway), blowjobs, hand jobs, bucky is whining, brooklyn accent, praising, dirty talk, pet names: "doll" "darling" "sweetheart"
word count: 3.1k
masterlist
a/n: broke brooklyn boy 🚬 be kind to him world. @blowingbarnes for the inspo ily. based on this song. also a lot of you guys actually saved my 40s playlist from my last 40s bucky drabble. so if you're new here, you should have a listen hehe (yes, it's true. i collect spotify playlist saves like they're tumblr notes.)
synopsis:
what happens when a hopelessly devoted, broke brooklyn boy spends his last few cents on a lollipop just for you? well, you lick it up, he gets hard watching you, and then you come up with a much sweeter way to pay him back.
the bell above the door jingles as bucky pushes it open with his shoulder. the warm, sugary scent hit you first—caramel, chocolate, and old-fashioned penny candy stacked behind glass jars.
bucky shoves his hands into the pockets of his worn pants, giving you that cocky, boyish grin he always does when he’s trying to play it cool.
“don’t look at me like that, doll,” he teases. “guy’s allowed to treat his best girl to somethin’ sweet once in a while.”
you frown. “bucky, you’ve got two nickels to your name.”
“yeah, and i’m spendin’ one on you,” he interrupts. he nods toward the counters—each one decorated with jars of colorful candy. “go on, darling. pick somethin’ out.”
you hesitate—not because you don’t want the candy, but because the thought of bucky spending his last few cents on you makes your chest ache. and he spots it, of course. he notices every little thing about you.
“hey,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer. “don’t make that face. a fella can’t go broke if he’s spendin’ on the right dame.”
you roll your eyes, trying to hide the way your chest warms. “you’re a sap, barnes.”
“yeah?” bucky lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head. “i don’t mind gettin’ called a sap if it’s comin’ from you.”
he falls into step behind you as you wander down the narrow aisle. the old wooden floorboards creak beneath your shoes, and the warm light from the shop’s overhead bulbs turns everything soft and golden. your fingers trail along the glass jars, pausing on the swirled peppermints and sugar sticks.
and bucky watches you like he’s got nowhere better to be than right here.
you glance at the candy, but he’s got his eyes locked on you. he watches the way you tilt your head, the way the lamplight hits your cheek, and the sheepish smile you try to hide. he shifts his weight and leans back against the counter, slouching.
“y’know, you look like a little kid,” he teases, grin widening, “the way you’re lookin’ at the candy like that.”
you snort, glancing at him over your shoulder. “you’re the one that brought me here.”
he huffs out a laugh and parts his mouth to speak, but before he can, a gruff voice cuts through.
“watch yourself, boy,” the man behind the counter warns. “you’re gonna knock over the candy, the way you’re slouchin’ like that.”
bucky straightens up quick, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he flashes the man a grin that’s pure trouble.
“sorry, sir,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “just gettin’ a little distracted.”
“unless you folks are here to buy somethin’, i don’t want you kids causin’ trouble in my shop.”
the shopkeeper mutters something under his breath, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. bucky looks at you with a smile, leaning close as soon as the man turns away.
“heard that, doll?” he mutters against your ear, his warm breath making you shiver. “gotta pick somethin’ quick before we get kicked out.”
you lift your hand to cover your mouth, letting out a gentle chuckle. “fine.”
you hum softly as your eyes skim over the jars, the soft colors blurring together like spun sugar. finally, you point at a red and white lollipop swirled like a little galaxy.
“that one,” you point out.
bucky’s smile soften around the edges. he steps up beside you, shoulders brushing against yours and taps the glass with his knuckle. “classy choice, sweetheart.”
the shopkeeper sighs but pulls the lollipop from the jar anyway, wrapping it in crisp paper before handing it over. bucky reaches into his pocket and fishes out a single coin, pressing the nickel into the man’s palm as if it wasn’t his last one.
bucky unwraps the candy slowly and holds it out to you between two fingers with a proud little smile on his face.
“here you go, sweetheart,” he says, eyes gleaming. “the last of my riches. don’t say i never gave you nothin’.”
with a warm, full heart, you take the lollipop from his hand and offer him a soft smile. “thank you, bucky. you really didn’t have to do that for me.”
he steps closer, his eyes softening as one hand comes up to gently brush your cheek, as if you’re the most fragile thing in the world.
“you know i’d do anything for you—”
the shopkeeper clears his throat loudly, breaking the moment. bucky lets out a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth curling up into an impish grin.
“let’s go, baby,” he murmurs, giving your hand a little tug as he leads you toward the door.
outside, the late afternoon air is warm against your skin. the sounds of the city purrs softly around you—streetcars rattling in the distance, a kid yelling for his ma, the faint whistle of some guy on the corner. bucky leans against a lamppost, shoulders loose, the collar of his shirt messily unbuttoned just enough to make him look effortlessly cool—though you know it took him all the effort.
you stand in front of him, the lollipop stick held between your fingers.
“why didn’t you get anything for yourself?” you ask, tilting your head.
bucky shrugs. “means i got extra coin in case you’re not satisfied with that one.”
you roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile at his generosity. you bring the lollipop to your lips, the sugar catching the light of the sun, and start licking slowly—small, absentminded movements.
bucky’s gaze trails after every motion. his hands slip into his pant pockets, but his shoulders tense just slightly, like he’s trying real hard to play it cool.
“what?” you ask with a quiet laugh, catching the way he’s looking at you.
he shakes his head, a little huff of breath leaving him, but that grin doesn’t budge. “nothin’, doll,” he says, voice low and easy. “just… looks good on ya, that’s all.”
you take another slow lick of the lollipop, the sweet stickiness blooming over your taste buds. your lashes flutter at the sweetness without meaning to, and the soft sigh that slips past your lips is enough to make bucky swallow hard.
his gaze sweeps down the street, then back at you, like he’s making sure no one else is hearing what he’s seeing.
“baby…” he started quietly.
you tilt your head, a teasing little smile on your lips at the sound of the nickname. “yes?”
bucky clears his throat, trying—and failing—to mask the way he’s flustered, but the faint pink at the tips of his ears gives him away. “it’s just…” he mutters, eyes anywhere but your mouth. “just… uh, you’re really enjoyin’ that lollipop, aren’t you?”
you blink at him, then break into a slow and bright smile—completely oblivious to the way he’s coming apart a little.
“well, yeah,” you twirl the stick between your fingers. “i’m makin’ your money’s worth, buck. gotta savor every last lick.”
his breath catches in his throat, and he has to glance away again. his jaw clenches, like it’s taking everything in him to stay composed.
“yeah,” he rasps, clearing his throat once more. “sure. savor it.”
you raise a brow, suddenly amused by the way his voice dropped lower in pitch. he shifts his stance, as if his pants were suddenly too tight.
“you’re actin’ weird,” you taunt, stepping closer. “you okay, my love?”
he lets out a laugh—short and breathy. “i’m fine, doll,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “… just enjoy your candy, alright?”
you take another small step towards him, the heels of your shoes scuffing against the pavement. bucky doesn’t move as his eyes drop back down on you. you tilt your head, all innocent doe eyes and easy smiles, and lift the lollipop back to your mouth. your tongue drags slowly over the candy, sweet and slow, letting your lashes flutter hypnotically.
bucky lets out a shaky breath. “sweet, is it?”
“very.”
he watches your tongue move over the lollipop, his eyes glued to the slow, sensual movement. his cock throbs in his pants at the sight, his length pressing against the fabric. letting out another uneven sigh, he shifts his stance, discreetly adjusting himself—but it’s no use.
“i’m trying to be a good man, you know? but when you look at me like that, with those big, innocent eyes and that sweet little mouth…”
“what are you talking about?” you tilt your head naively. “i’m just licking my lollipop.”
“no you’re not,” he grits through clenched teeth. “you know exactly what you’re doin’.”
“i’m not doin' anything,” you protest, voice pitching higher as you try and play innocent. then you flick your tongue out, letting it smooth over the sweet confection, eyes never leaving his.
bucky’s teeth strum over his bottom lip. he pushes himself off the lamppost and takes a step closer to you. his large frame overshadows yours as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers linger, tracing the shell of your ear and making you shiver.
“don’t play coy with me, babydoll,” he breaths. “when you look at me with those eyes and lick that lollipop like it’s my cock, it makes it fuckin’ impossible to think straight.”
a soft chuckle slips from your lips as you look up at him, slipping the red lollipop back into your mouth. your cheeks hollow around the candy, lashes fluttering as you watch his reaction. with a wet pop, you pull it free again, the gloss of sugar glistening as your tongue brushes over the top curve.
a low sound rumbled from bucky’s chest—half moan and half groan. “baby…” he rasps, his hands coming down to his straining bulge, giving it a quick palm before he adjusted himself.
“what’s wrong, buck? do you need help with your… ” you tease, eyes drifting down to his pants, “… little problem?” with the lollipop still dangling from your lips, your eyes flicker briefly to a discrete alleyway beside the shop.
bucky knows everything. and he especially knows what that look means, even without your words.
“little?” he scoffs, though that grin never leaves his lips. “what’re you lookin’ over there for, darling?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
you let out a low, sultry laugh, slipping your hand into his and tugging him towards the alleyway. he nearly stumbles after you despite his big and broad size.
“baby, what are you—”
you glance back at him over your shoulder, a bright smile playing on your lips, the lollipop still dangling between your teeth. the sound of your soft chuckle blends with the sounds of the city around you.
“i’m going to pay you back, of course.”
bucky’s heart was racing as you pull him in closer, his eyes darting nervously around to make sure no one is watching. it’s hardly the romantic setting he would have chosen, but the way you’re looking at him—with that sultry smile and the lollipop hanging from your lips—only makes his cock pulse harder.
“we can’t do this here,” he whisper yells. “anyone could see us.”
but despite his words, he doesn’t resist when you push him up against the wall and fall to your knees in front of him. he doesn’t resist as your hands palm against his throbbing erection. and he especially doesn’t resist when your greedy little hands start working on the buckle of his belt.
“shit, sweetheart…” he grunts, his hips bucking involuntarily into your palm.
you know it’s too risky and too public, but the way you have this man panting and pulsing above you over the faintest touch makes it impossible for you to resist. his head falls back against the wall, his eyes fluttering closed. his hands come down to tangle in your hair, fingers threading through it as he guides you forward.
“are you okay, my dear?” you taunt, your lips curling to a grin around the candy.
bucky felt his patience snapping as he feels your hand stroke his throbbing cock, teasing him mercilessly. the feel of your delicate fingers wrapped around his thick shaft, pumping him excruciatingly slow, made him hiss in frustration.
but the sight of you with that fucking lollipop still dangling from your lips, your tongue swirling around the sticky sweetness as you jerk him off, proves to be his undoing.
with a frustrated groan, bucky reaches down and yanks the lollipop from your mouth, the candy making an obscene pop as it’s torn from your lips. he tosses it carelessly to the side, not even caring where it lands.
“enough teasing, baby,” he growls, “i need your mouth on my cock. now.”
his grip on your hair tightens just slightly as he pulls your face closer to his throbbing erection. the musky, masculine scent of him fills your nostrils and makes your head spin. his other hand comes down to grip the base of his cock, angling it towards your parted lips—not even caring about public decency anymore.
“open wide, sweetheart,” he commands, rubbing his leaking head at your lower lip. “c’mon, baby—don’t you wanna pay me back? right here? where anyone could see?”
you stuck your tongue out, giving his sensitive tip a small and shy lick that makes bucky’s breath hitch. he grips your hair tighter as it takes everything in him not fuck your face right here in the alleyway.
“promise me you won’t be too loud?” you asked, batting your eyeslashes at him.
bucky swallows hard as he considers your request. he turns his head to the side, and suddenly the city feels busier than it did before you dragged him here. the idea of getting caught—of someone hearing the obscene sounds of you sucking him off—sends a mix of both excitement and fear straight to his cock.
“i’ll try my best, doll—”
his admission dies in his throat as your mouth circles around his pulsing length, sending a jolt of pleasure through his body. he watches, enamored, as your cheeks hollow out and your tongue swirls around his leaking tip, licking up the pre-cum that forms at the slit.
“oh, fuck, darling!” he gasps, trying to stop himself from being too loud. his eyes immediately dart around, making sure no one was close enough to hear. “shit, baby, wait… fuck—”
“what’s wrong, baby?” you pull him out of your mouth with a wet pop. you wrap a gentle hand around his throbbing and wet cock, giving him slow and teasing pumps. “i thought you told me to ‘open wide’?”
“i know, doll. i know what i said, i just… didn’t expect you to do it so fast—oh!” he lets out a whine as you take him in your mouth again. his cock was hot and heavy on your tongue as you slowly started to bob your head, eyes fluttering shut.
“s-shit baby! you’re gonna get us caught… someone’s goin’ to see us…!”
bucky’s other hand comes up to cover his mouth, muffling his groans and grunts as you continue to suck him off. he squeezes his eyes shut as he feels the vibrations of your amused humming resonate around his sensitive cock.
“fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pants behind his mouth. “babydoll, please… please—!”
encouraged by his moans and whimpers, you take him deeper into your mouth. he was big, too big, and despite you gagging softly around his cock, you can’t bring yourself to stop.
all you want is to please him—to give him everything he deserves.
bucky throws his head back with a groan, his hips rocking subtly into the hot, wet suction of your mouth.
“you’re going to get us caught, baby… fuck,” he warns, even as he holds your head steady and fucks into your mouth with shallow thrusts. you dragged your tongue, and it made his cock twitch. “oh—jesus, baby! i’m gonna cum soon…”
his grip on your hair tightens as he felt himself coming undone. the wet sounds of your sucking fill the alleyway, mixing with his groans and grunts. his cock jerks, the thick shaft twitching with each drag of your eager tongue along his sensitive, warm flesh.
“fuck…. i’m gonna cum, babydoll,” he whips his head around once more, eyes scanning the alleyway for any signs of onlookers.
but for some reason, the risk of getting caught, of someone seeing you on your knees with his cock buried in your mouth was enough to send him over the edge.
he squeezes his eyes shut, jaw going slack as he let out a moan. “oh, fuck, baby… take it all, doll. swallow it all, darling… shit—”
bucky’s body jerks and spasms above you, his cock twitches as he pumps his cum down your eager throat. you choke around his dick, eyes shining with tears, but you refuse to let up. instead, you look up at him through your lashes and swallow it all down, giving him exactly what he wants.
as he slowly comes down from his high, you feel his grip on your hair relax slightly. you take one last long, deep pull, making sure to milk every last drop before slowly pulling away.
you sit back on your heels, looking up at him through your lashes as you run your tongue along your lips, licking them clean of any stray drops.
a satisfied smile plays at the corners of your mouth as you met his gaze. “told you i’d pay you back, sweetheart.”
bucky stands over you, his chest rising and falling as his neck glistens with a sheen of sweat. “damn, baby… that was good. really good.”
a slow, lazy grin spreads across his face at the sight of you—lips plump and swollen, your chin damp with saliva and some of his seed.
he reaches down, running his thumb along your lower lip. “you got it all in your mouth like a good girl?”
he gathers the stray drop with his finger, then brings it to your lips, pressing lightly until you part them.
your mouth closes around him without hesitation, your tongue warm as it traces against his skin.
"mhm."
“what a pretty, messy little thing you are,” he coos, still catching his breath.
his eyes flick to the lollipop he’d snatched from your mouth, the candy now scattered in pieces across the floor. then he looks back at you, his smile widening.
“sorry about your lollipop, darling. i’ve still got one more nickel on me. let’s go back in and get you another one, alright?”
A/N: OMG last part???? I'll finally stop edging you <3
Pairing: Biology Professor!Bucky x Camgirl!Student!Reader
Warnings: SMUT!!!!! cam girl shit, reader is kind of liking making Bucky suffer. Bucky loves to suffer. Semi public sex.
Words: 4.7k
Summary: Professor Barnes is the absolute worst type of professor. He doesn’t know how to teach, he wants you to already know all the answers. And you… poor you, living for academic validation.
The clock on Bucky’s wall read 11:42 PM. His laptop pinged with the familiar alert, a little bubble popping up in the corner of his browser with your username and a green hue around your username.
Streaming now.
His heart rate increased, hand hovering over the trackpad.
He clicked the notification. Your profile filled the screen — the same pink glow, the cropped camera angle, the toys lined up neat. The live indicator pulsed bright red in the corner.
Bucky’s fist clenched. He didn’t log in. Not this time.
He just sat there, watching your thumbnail from the landing page, the little green bubble beside your username glowing — a beacon. Tempting him. Mocking him. His whole body ached with want, every nerve screaming at him to click.
But he didn’t.
He stared until the bubble finally flickered grey, the screen going dark. Only then did he shut his laptop, heart hammering.
On your side, the session ended with your usual little sign-off, tips scrolling in a chaotic blur. You leaned back, stretching, sweat still prickling at your neck.
Then your gaze flicked to the profile viewer panel.
There it was. That username. Brooklyn_1917. Logged in. Present. Green bubble glowing.
But not in your stream.
The ache settled low in your stomach. He’d been there, hovering. Watching the doorway but refusing to walk through. You shut the page with a shaky laugh, muttering to yourself, “Guess you didn’t miss me tonight.”
That happened a couple more times in the span of two weeks. You saw him online, he would read the stream caption on the thumbnail on your profile and not join. You'd end the stream frustrated and pouty. He'd go try to jerk off in the shower without your voice in his head and failed to cum if he succeeded in keeping the thoughts of you away.
Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, laptop on the nightstand, unopened. His hands were fisted in his sheets, jaw aching from how hard he clenched it.
He wasn’t going to do it. Not again.
He’d promised himself after that night at O’Malley’s, after he tried to transfer you from his lab and failed, that he’d stop. He was your professor. You were his best student. He had no right.
But then he thought about the way you’d looked up at him in the lab today, goggles perched crookedly on your head, asking for his input on your assay results with that eager little crease in your brow.
You’re still my favorite.
The words replayed like a heartbeat, steady, unstoppable.
You're mine too, sweetheart.
His resolve cracked.
With a low curse, he snapped the laptop open, fingers flying on autopilot. The site loaded instantly — your profile glowing like shiny artifact in Indiana Jones. Live.
And when your voice spilled through his headphones, sweet and low, his chest clenched so hard it hurt.
“Missed you, babies,” you whispered, breathy against the mic. “Think you can keep up with me tonight?”
On your screen, your viewer list updated.
Brooklyn_1917 has joined.
The moment it flashed on the viewer list, Bucky knew he was fucked. His hand was already shoving his sweats down, cock heavy and aching, precum wetting the tip.
And then you started talking.
“Mmm, look who finally showed up,” you purred, dragging your fingers down your stomach, nails scraping lightly as you spread your thighs for the camera. The lace between your legs was damp, clinging. “Had me thinking you didn’t want me anymore.”
The chat went wild, but Bucky’s eyes locked on you alone. His fist wrapped around himself, stroking slow, biting down a groan.
“Missed you so much,” you whispered, slipping the lace aside to reveal glistening folds. The toy buzzed to life in your other hand. “Been so fucking needy. Could’ve cried when you didn’t log in.”
Bucky’s head fell back, jaw tight. Christ. You were aiming it right at him. You knew. You knew.
Was it smart to do that? No. You told him you didn't mind, that you could stay in his lab and stay professional. Hell, you suggested that he just stop watching the streams, so why did it sting so hard when he actually stopped?
And why did it feel euphoric when he joined again? Three weeks until the end of the semester, and he couldn't wait 22 more days?
You sank the toy against your clit, moaning loud enough to make the chat explode. “Oh, fuck, I needed this. Needed you.” Your free hand tugged at your top, pulling it down until your breasts spilled free, nipples tight in the cool air.
“You like watching me play with myself, Brooklyn?” you teased, pinching one nipple until you hissed. “Bet you missed it. Bet you missed me whining your name while you stroked your cock.”
The comments scrolled fast:
SweetTooth92: “god she’s filthy tonight”
BlueScreen69 tipped $60: “show us how wet you are baby”
Brooklyn_1917 tipped $150. “I missed every bit of you.”
Your stomach flipped at the message. You whined louder, spreading yourself with two fingers so the toy could grind deeper, slick shining under the lights. “Then don’t leave me again,” you gasped. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Bucky’s strokes turned desperate, pre-come slicking his fist. Seeing you spread open, begging into the mic, voice trembling— it broke every scrap of restraint he had left.
You moaned, hips grinding hard against the buzzing toy. “Yes—yes, fuck, I’ll be good, Brooklyn, just—ahhh—” You gasped, voice pitching high, deliberately whining the way you knew drove him mad.
“Fuck, I’m so close,” you babbled, toy circling ruthless. “So close, please let me cum—please, I’ll be your good girl, I’ll do anything—” You were begging. For him. For Brooklyn.
His breath punched out of him in a low, guttural growl as his release tore through him, hot and violent, spilling across his stomach in messy streaks.
You whimpered his name as you shattered, body convulsing around the toy, slick dripping down your thighs. The orgasm hit hard, raw, spilling over into little sobs as your fingers shook.
The chat went berserk — endless tips, praise scrolling too fast to read. But you only cared about one viewer. Your eyes fluttered open, catching the glowing name in your list. Still green. Still there.
“Mmmm, good boy.” you whispered into the mic, shaky and soft, like a secret only for him.
The building was nearly empty. Halls echoing, lights dim, the hum of incubators the only sound. You’d promised yourself you’d leave three hours ago… but the assays weren’t quite done. And if you could just get one more run tonight, your data set would be complete.
AirPods in, music buzzing low, you were lost in the rhythm of pipetting and labeling. Lab coat snug, safety goggles pushed up into your hair, you barely noticed how late it had gotten until you finally packaged the fresh plates for incubation.
Reports stacked in your hands, you slipped them under your arm. Barnes always said he wanted updates dropped off promptly, and you were already heading past his office. Quick, easy. He’d never know how late you’d stayed.
Bucky sat slumped in his office chair, long after the faculty wing had emptied. He’d been grading until his eyes blurred, the silence pressing in heavy. A refill of coffee had gone wrong — the cup tipped, spilling hot liquid down his shirt and across his slacks.
“Fuck,” he hissed, pushing back from the desk.
Now he stood at the side table, blotting at his shirt with paper towels. Buttons undone, tie loose, belt unbuckled as he tried to mop the mess off his thighs. The scent of stale coffee clung sharp in the air.
He thought he was alone. Everyone was gone. No reason to think otherwise.
You breezed in, humming faintly with your AirPods still in, lab coat hanging open over your clothes, goggles perched crooked on your head. Reports stacked neatly in your hands, you crossed to his desk, set them down with practiced ease—
And froze.
He wasn’t at the desk.
He was across the room, shirt half-open, pants undone, hair loose around his face as he pressed a wad of napkins to his hip.
You blinked, pulled one AirPod free. “…Professor?”
Bucky’s head snapped up, chest heaving, jaw clenching. “Christ—Y/N.”
You stood there, wide-eyed, goggles still pushed into your hair, a little flushed from the lab’s heat. Absolutely, devastatingly adorable.
And he nearly groaned aloud.
The image was seared into him — you in that damn lab coat, cheeks pink, the faint smell of ethanol and agar still clinging to you. His perfect, brilliant student, standing in his office like you owned it, while he stood there half-undone.
He forced his voice steady. “You shouldn’t be here this late.”
You glanced at the reports, then back at him. “I just finished the extra assays. Wanted to drop these off.”
Extra assays. You’d been working yourself into the ground, chasing perfect data. He should’ve been proud, should’ve been lecturing you about overextending. But all he could think about was how your lab coat gaped open at the front, the curve of your sweater underneath, the faint perfume of ethanol and something sweet that was just… you.
Fuck, sweetheart, if you only knew what I want to do to you right now.
He saw it — a flash, a filthy daydream — you dropping the reports and climbing into his lap, that lab coat slipping from your shoulders as you straddled him. His hand fisting in your hair, tugging those goggles down around your throat while you rode his cock, moaning his name until your voice broke.
The fantasy hit him so hard he almost stepped toward you. Almost reached out, almost ruined everything.
You tilted your head, lips quirking faintly. “Spill something?”
I could clean it up with my mo-
He swallowed hard, his hand still gripping the napkins at his thigh. “…Coffee.”
For a long, unbearable second, the room was silent except for the hum of the overhead lights.
And all he could think was that if you took one step closer, he’d lose the last scrap of restraint holding him together.
You lingered just a second longer, gaze flicking from the undone buttons of his shirt to the napkins in his hand. Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, you gave him a little smile.
“Well… good thing it was coffee and not hydrochloric acid.”
Bucky’s jaw locked. His knuckles whitened around the wad of paper towels.
You slid your AirPod back in, tapping the reports on his desk as you turned toward the door. “Night, Professor. Thanks for letting me keep the incubators so late.”
And just like that — lab coat swishing, goggles still perched crooked in your hair — you were gone.
The door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the heavy silence.
Bucky slumped back against the table, breathing hard. His cock throbbed painfully against his undone waistband, every nerve in his body screaming with the memory of your flushed cheeks, the way you’d called him Professor so casually.
But the reports still sat neatly stacked on his desk, color-coded tabs poking out. Proof that while he was unraveling, you were thriving.
And he couldn’t decide if that made him want to laugh, groan, or break something.
Bucky sat at his desk, the glow of his laptop washing his face in cold blue. His cursor hovered in the search bar, chest tight, pulse loud in his ears.
One more time. Just one more.
He typed your username with practiced precision, fingers moving on autopilot. The keystrokes felt ritualistic by now, something sacred he could do blindfolded.
Enter.
Nothing.
Profile not found.
He froze. His breath caught, disbelief buzzing in his ears. He refreshed. Searched again. And again.
Nothing.
No pink glow. No list of scheduled streams. No voice spilling through his headphones with that breathy little laugh.
Gone.
Like you’d never existed there at all.
A pit opened deep in his gut. His secret ritual — the thing that had kept him breathing through endless nights, the thing that was half-guilt and half-salvation — ripped away in a single click.
No more late-night streams.
No more teasing lilt.
No more whines pitched high, begging please, Professor into the mic just for him.
It was over.
He slumped back in his chair, dragging both hands down his face, fingertips pressing into his eyes until colors sparked behind his lids.
Finals tomorrow. One last day. One last chance to see you sitting front row, notes neat, gaze steady, pretending like you weren’t the same girl who used to cry for him through tiny laptop speakers.
And then? You’d walk out of his classroom. Out of his life.
And he’d lose you — completely, utterly — before he ever really had you.
The exam hall was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the eardrums until even the scratch of pens sounded obscene. Students hunched over their desks, pale and twitchy, shoulders curved into question booklets like their lives depended on it.
Except you.
Front row, middle seat — exactly where you’d been all semester. Your posture was steady, legs crossed neatly under the desk, hair tucked behind your ear as you bent over the exam. Calm. Collected. Your pen moved in smooth, unbroken strokes. Every metabolic pathway diagram crisp, every essay answer structured like you’d been rehearsing them for weeks.
Bucky paced the rows, exam key heavy in his pocket, coffee bitter on his tongue. He told himself to focus on the room — to keep his eyes moving, to be the stern, intimidating professor everyone hated but respected.
But his gaze kept snagging on you.
On the little crease between your brows when you paused to reread a question.
On the way your fingers tapped your pen against your lip before you started writing again.
On the curve of your calves under the desk when you shifted your legs, your skirt sliding higher with the motion.
His chest grew tighter with every stolen glance.
For two hours, he fought a war inside his head.
One part of him was the professor, memorizing the clock, listening for the rustle of turned pages, watching for any sign of cheating. The other part — the darker, hungrier part — spun filthy little daydreams behind his eyes.
He saw you spread across his desk, exam papers scattered around you, his cock buried deep as you begged “Please, Bucky, I’ll be good, I’ll get an A, please let me cum—”
He saw himself bending over you from behind, your skirt bunched at your waist, your pen clattering to the floor while he fucked you through every answer you’d diagrammed so carefully.
He saw your neat handwriting trembling into messy scrawl as he whispered in your ear, “That’s right, sweetheart, write my name down as the right fucking answer.”
Every time your pen paused, he felt a rush of blood headed south of his belt. Every time you shifted in your seat, his palms itched to grip your hips and hold you down.
By the time the clock struck, he was wrecked.
“Time,” he called, voice hoarse.
The sound of papers rustling was deafening in the silence. Students shuffled forward, dropping their exams in messy stacks on the desk before rushing for the door like prisoners freed.
And then there was you.
The last to rise.
You walked slow, exam clutched neatly in your hand, your expression calm but faintly warm. Approaching his desk, you set the paper down, fingertips brushing the top page like you were smoothing it.
Your eyes flicked up. Just for a second.
Sheepish.
Shy.
The barest curve of a smile playing on your lips.
And then you turned, walking out without a word, the swing of your lab coat hem brushing against your calves.
Bucky’s throat was dry. His eyes dropped to your paper. At the very bottom corner of the last page, drawn in careful pen strokes, was a tiny heart.
So small he almost missed it. His breath caught. His chest constricted like a fist had closed around it. And then you were gone.
Gone from the room. Gone from his class. Gone from his reach. Leaving him alone at the desk, staring at the heart like it was both a confession and a farewell.
The halls were hollowed out, stripped of their usual chaos. No voices, no footsteps, just the hum of vents and the echo of Bucky’s shoes as he dragged himself down the corridor. His jacket hung loose in his hand, his whole body weighted with exhaustion.
All he wanted was to collapse into his chair, stare at the tiny heart you’d doodled at the bottom of your exam, and figure out how he was supposed to survive never having you again.
But when he pushed his office door open—
You were already there.
Sitting in his chair, knees tucked under you, claw clip in your hair, exam bluebooks stacked neatly in front of you.
You looked up with a grin that stole his breath. “Oh my god, I thought you’d never get here. I was dying waiting for you to grade those.
Bucky froze in the doorway, heart slamming against his ribs. “…What are you doing here?” He walked a couple more steps into his office and closed the door behind him.
You shrugged, spinning lazily in his chair. “I figured you’d come back. Thought I’d keep you company while you, y’know, put me out of my misery.” You gestured at the stack of exams. “Tell me if I aced it or not.”
His throat worked, finally. “Y/N…”
You tilted your head, eyes glinting. “I think I did pretty well, but.. You never know.”
The air thickened, heavy with everything unsaid — your heart on the page, his username burned into memory, a semester’s worth of restraint trembling on the edge, all of the nights both of you got off together separately.
And then you stood. Slow. Deliberate. Steps closing the distance between you until he could smell the sweetness of your perfume beneath your sweater.
“I’m not your student anymore,” you whispered. Your voice was low, heavy like a hungry jaguar circling its prey. “And my research? Already submitted.” You smiled faintly, wickedly. “Publishable, you said. So I don’t have to be in the lab under you anymore…”
Your hands pressed to his chest, firm enough to guide him back until the back of his knees hit the armchair. He dropped into it with a low grunt, too stunned to resist.
“…I can just be here.” You straddled him with a smooth swing of your leg, skirt flaring as you settled into his lap. Your voice dropped even more, sultry, familiar in a way that made him throb instantly. “…On top of you instead.”
His hands clamped hard to the armrests, knuckles white, every nerve in his body screaming. “Jesus Christ,” he rasped, eyes devouring you.
You giggled, lips grazing his jaw. “Relax. Not breaking the rules now.” You put his hands on your hips. "Y'can touch me."
That snapped him. His grip shifted, palms seizing on your hips, dragging you flush to the thick length straining against his slacks. You gasped, your fingers curling in his shirt, working on the buttons while he captures your lips in a kiss that answered your question from months ago, how good Brooklyn_1917 would be in bed.
His voice was wrecked, raw. “You have any idea what you’ve done to me all semester? Sitting there in my class, raising your hand, looking so damn perfect while I was trying not to think about how you sounded moaning my name?”
You whimpered, rolling your hips against him. “I thought about you too. Every time. Wanted you so bad.” More buttons undone and your nails scraped the skin on his chest.
He groaned, hand snapping up to grip your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Don’t answer. Just—fuck.” His mouth crashed against yours, hungry, weeks of restraint devoured in a single kiss.
Your moan vibrated against his tongue, your grind desperate against the hard line of his cock.
He tore his mouth away, panting. “Up. Take it off.” You lifted your arms and your sweater was tugged overhead. He helped, impatient, hands roaming every inch of bare skin he revealed.
“God, look at you,” he muttered, kissing down your throat, biting just enough to make you whine. “Smartest girl in the room. My perfect student. And now you’re mine.”
“Yours,” you gasped, grinding down.
His fingers slipped between your thighs, finding you slick. You cried out, clutching his shoulders as he teased your clit. “Already wet for me,” he groaned, sliding two fingers inside, curling them expertly. “Knew you would be. Always so eager to please, huh? Just like in class.” God, if only he could bottle up your breathless little gasps.
“Y-yes, Professor—”
He growled low in his chest, pumping harder. “Not your professor anymore. Say my name.”
“Bucky,” you moaned, back arching. “Bucky—please, more—”
“That’s it.” He kissed you hard again, filthy praise spilling between your mouths. “Good girl. That’s my girl.”
You clenched, trembling, chasing his hand while you undid his belt and fly—until he pulled away, pulling at his slacks with a curse. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, leaking at the tip.
Your eyes widened, pupils blown. “Please.”
He lined himself up, dragging the head through your slick before pulling you down slow. Both of you gasped as he filled you, the stretch perfect, obscene, and the sting of him would haunt the deepest parts of your brain forever.
“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel even better than I dreamed.”
You whimpered, rocking against him, nails raking his shoulders. “Can I move, please—need you—”
And then moved you on him, hands on your hip and thigh, controlling the way you rocked back and forth on his cock. Hard. Deep. Each thrust rattled the chair, your cries swallowed by his mouth as he fucked up into you like he’d been waiting for it forever.
“That’s it,” he panted, snapping his hips. “Take it. My good girl, taking me so well.”
“Bucky—oh my god—” It was a mixture of whine and moan, something quiet to not draw attention to his office but so loud in his head you might as well have been screaming for him.
“Say it.”
“I’m your good girl,” you gasped, clutching him tighter. “I’m your good girl—”
The chair groaned under the force of his thrusts, your body bouncing in his lap, the wet slap of skin filling the quiet of his office.
Bucky’s jaw was tight, sweat running down his temple. He’d spent months denying himself this, months tearing himself apart every time you walked into class, brilliant and untouchable. Now you were wrapped around his cock, and he was drowning in you.
“Fuck—” he growled, teeth grazing your throat. “I can’t—I need you somewhere else—”
Before you could ask, his hands locked under your thighs. With one guttural grunt, he stood, lifting you easily, still buried deep inside.
You gasped, arms flying around his neck, the sudden shift making your walls squeeze tight around him. “Oh—oh my god—”
“Hold on,” he rasped, stalking across the room.
The desk loomed — polished mahogany, neat stacks of papers shoved aside with one sweep of his forearm. He laid you out flat, never pulling out, the wood cool against your back as his body pressed you down.
Then he drew back and slammed home, cock splitting you open deeper than before. You cried out, legs flying up to hook around his waist.
“Bucky!”
“That’s it,” he grunted, pounding into you, desk creaking under the force. His hand braced against the edge, the other gripping your jaw so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him. “Look at me while I fuck you. You’re mine now. You hear me? Mine.”
“Yes—yours—” you sobbed, every thrust rattling through you.
He bent his head, sucking your nipple into his mouth, tugging it until you squealed, then soothing it with his tongue. “Taste so good,” he groaned against your skin. “Could spend all night worshipping you.”
He groaned, snapping harder, the rhythm brutal and perfect. “God, you feel so good. So fucking tight, spread out on my desk taking my cock like you were made for it.”
Your nails clawed the polished wood, your body arching as his thumb found your clit, ruthless and precise. “Please—I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he ordered, hips slamming into you. “Cum for me. Cum all over my desk.”
Your moan broke, body convulsing around him, pulsing and clenching so hard he saw stars. He drove into you harder, groaning against your throat, "Fuck- where do you-"
"Inside. Please, come inside of-" And before you could even finish your sentence he was spilling deep inside, grinding you down to take every drop.
The office filled with ragged breaths, your limp body draped against his desk, his cock still buried deep inside while he was over you. He kissed your temple, whispering hoarse and quietly. “Good girl. My perfect girl.”
You smiled, dazed, glowing. “Told you… I thrive on your praise.”
His laugh was hoarse, wrecked. He tugged you forward and fell back on his office chair, you sitting on his lap like a prized possession while he savored the weight of you, the ache in his muscles, the dizzying relief of finally touching you.
Neither of you moved.
You just looked at each other.
Your breath was uneven, lashes damp, lips kiss-swollen. But your eyes—soft, glassy, certain—never wavered from his.
Bucky’s hand trembled where it held your waist, thumb stroking without him realizing. He’d fucked you like a man starved, spilled inside you like he’d been waiting his whole damn life—but this part, this silence, was what finally undid him.
Because you weren’t just some fantasy behind a screen anymore. You weren’t just the brilliant girl in the front row. You were real, warm, in his lap, still clenching faintly around him.
And you wanted him. His chest ached with it.
“Y/N,” he rasped, voice hoarse, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea what this means?”
You tilted your head, a slow smile curving your lips. “That you’re mine now?”
His jaw flexed, a laugh catching in his throat. God, you were still teasing—still insatiable. But there was heat in your gaze, too. Something that matched the weight in his chest.
“I can’t… go back,” he admitted, voice low, raw. His forehead touched yours, his breath mingling with yours. “Not after this.”
Your fingers trailed up his chest, nails grazing lightly. “Good.” You kissed him soft, lingering, before whispering against his mouth. “Because I don’t want you to.”
The words sank in, heavy and final, and the reality of it hit him square in the chest. This wasn’t just some release after months of restraint. It was everything.
And even with your body still trembling against him, even with his cock still buried inside you, you shifted in his lap, rolling your hips with a needy little moan.
“Still hard,” you whispered, eyes glinting, wicked and sweet all at once. Bucky’s jaw dropped, his laugh breaking on a groan as you clenched around him again, on purpose this time.
And then — buzz. Your phone lit up on his desk, screen glowing.
You stretched an arm, still lazily perched on his cock, and grabbed it. Your eyes flicked down — and then your whole face lit up.
“Yay!” you chirped, bouncing happily in his lap.
Bucky groaned, head tipping back as the sudden movement clenched around him. “Sweetheart—”
“The registrar approved my enrollment!” you beamed, waving the phone like proof. “I got into your cancer biology class!”
He froze. Then tipped his head back with a guttural groan that was half-despair, half-disbelief. “Aw, c’mon.”
You giggled, kissing him quick, playful, your hips still shifting against him just to watch him squirm. “What? You said I’m your perfect girl. Guess you’re stuck with me another semester, Professor.”
He pinched your hip, narrowing his eyes even as the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch. “You’re trying to kill me.”
You nipped his jaw, grinning. “Mmm… more like keep you alive.”
The chair creaked beneath you, his cock still pulsing inside, your laughter bubbling into his chest.
And Bucky thought, not for the first time — you really might be the end of him.
imagine how bucky would feel when the grey hairs on his temples and jaw became more visible with the age becoming a higher number.
he’d be insecure about them, trying to hide them with his outgrowing hair on purpose, afraid of what you would think about them.
but you didn’t get it, the first time that you noticed them, in the dim light in your shared kitchen, your mind spiralled and forgot how to work for a beat.
it made your knees weak, the white spots in his beard and hair driving you crazy when he trimmed the bristles on his chin, the salt and pepper hairs being exposed to the world.
you’ve tried convincing him that it made his appearance ten times more appealing, but he never listened—his stubborn head proving him otherwise.
so that’s how you ended up on his lap, so slow that it almost hurt, teasingly moving up and down with his thick, veiny cock buried deep inside you.
“stop sayin’ you’re old,” you whispered, looking down at him, so ruined yet so obedient under your gaze, “and unattractive.”
that was the game you were playing, determined to make him see himself the way you saw him, hot and unresistable.
he lowly whined, utterly and completely humiliated but also desperate for a release that you weren’t giving him.
grinding on him, his cock pulsing inside you, “buck.. c’mon, say it,” you praised as you leaned down, catching his lips in a messy kiss, tangling your slick tongue with his.
his hips twitched, drawing up into you—but you weren’t having any of that, pushing his hips down, still keeping him inside, you stilled.
“please… c—can’t anymore.” his voice was small, vulnerable as he begged for you, for your touch, for your pussy to let him bury his cum into.
“then be a good boy and lemme hear what i want,” giving him an ultimatum, your cunt clenched around his hard length, the slight threat in your tone evident.
his brows furrowed, another moan slipping from his mouth, “t—the grey hairs are pretty, and suit me,” he mumbled, back arching just right, “can’t take it anymore—please, i’m gonna, shit,”
smiling, “such a good boy, f’me.” you resumed your pace, sloppy skin slapping filling the room, inventing a symphony with his loud groans and whimpers.
Bucky w curvy/chubby reader has been HEAVYYY on my mind lately…well it always is but js lock in for a minute for me pookie
Bc I know this man would be so obsessed with everything you wear that shows your body off, and would always get you things that make your curves and plushness standout (with your acceptance ofc). And if you’re ever having your insecure days? Oh you’re in for it. He’ll show and tell you just how gorgeous you are with every touch, kiss, and breath that leaves him. pushing into you slow and deep, lewd squelches filling the room with every praise that he whispers in your ear with that melodic voice of his
“love how you look underneath me, doll. Love the way this gorgeous body responds to me”
“fuck, babydoll, so pretty y’don’t even know what you do t’me..”
“don’t wanna hear you say that ever, again, you hear me? all this? mine to hold, to love, to adore, to see. got it?” oh n did i mention how he’d stay holding and squeezing onto your stomach, hips, and thighs as if he’s an addicted to the way they feel?(he is)
“lemme hear you say it, babydoll. Tell me who’s pretty girl you are.” btw…don’t even think about not looking at him while he’s like this, eye contact means alot to him but especially in this type of situation. He needs you to know he means every. single. word.
“Ah,ah, look at yourself, sweet girl. Look at how this pretty body shakes for me. So much more beautiful when you’re a mess for me.” mirror sex? oh u alr KNOWWWW
holy yap…hope this helps u out tho😉 n good luck on your exams baby!!!
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Chubby!GN reader
Warnings: none really, made this a fluffy one because I didn’t feel like writing smut honestly 😭 hope y’all like it anyway
It was one of those days, when you looked at yourself in the mirror and just one single thing popped up in your mind. “Maybe I’m too big” you thought, looking down at yourself, turning to look at your profile. Sure, you weren’t as skinny as those girls in commercials but you weren’t as big as those people from “My 600-lb life” either.
Still there were some days when you didn’t feel.. good, with yourself. And Bucky noticed, every single time. He was in fact standing in the doorway, leaning against the wood of it with his arms crossed, a soft look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” He asked as he walked up to you, moving behind you to rest his hands on your hips, giving them a gentle squeeze, hoping to make you feel better. It didn’t help though. The squeezing- it just made you fell worse, bigger.
You moved his hands away from yourself, looking down and away from the mirror: “Don’t..” you sighed, stepping away from him to sit on the bed. He looked at you, his smile turning into a small frown: “Baby..” he murmured, walking up to you once again: “You’re beautiful, you know that-“ he started saying but you interrupted him: “Well, I don’t feel beautiful!”
You hadn’t meant to snap at him. You were just so frustrated with yourself, with the way you looked and felt- it was overwhelming. Tears welled up in your eyes, a soft sob leaving you as you laid down on the bed on your side and curled up on yourself.
The sight of you, sad and crying made Bucky want to just be able to show you how beautiful he saw you. He walked over to the bed and laid down behind you. He carefully rested his metal hand on your side, gently caressing you, tracing his fingers up and down.
He didn’t say anything for a few moments, just let you know that he was there for you. He’d always be there for you on your bad days. Soft sobs left you, making your figure shake, and he pressed himself closer to you, his chest against your back.
“‘M sorry” you managed to let out between sobs after a bit: “I-I didn’t mean to snap at you, I just-“ another sob and he shushed you, pressing a kiss against your nape: “‘s ok..” he reassured you: “I know it’s bad.. not liking the way you look..” he murmured.
He knew, he very much did. All the scars he had- especially those where his metal arm attached to his body. He hated those- but you made him feel pretty anyway. And he was going to do the same for you.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met..” he said, voice soft as a whisper: “You don’t need to be like those girls on TV- you’re still gorgeous” he added with a soft kiss to the back of your neck again. Then he slid his hand to your tummy, gently, carefully to see your reaction. When you didn’t flinch or told him to move away, he left it there.
“..and this is more for me to touch..” he said with a grin on his lips: “..more to hold and love..” that did make you smile. You turned back to look at him with a soft, tiny smile, eyes still red and puffy from crying.
“Yeah?” You asked, voice soft: “You think that?” He had told you a thousand times over but you still needed that reassurance, you needed to know that he was being sincere, even if deep down you already knew that.
“Yeah baby, I love you, all of you” he said, giving your lips a quick peck: “And you look hot as fuck too” that made you giggle and you pressed your lips to his again: “I love you too”
summary: Your first days as Congressman James Barnes’ assistant are supposed to be all work, schedules, and meetings—but nothing prepares you for the tension simmering beneath his professional exterior.
WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. miscommunication, curse words, smut mixed with a bit of angst, lowkey a slow burn, shy reader, praise kink, fingering, virginity loss, mutual desperation, bucky's quite a freak, PiV, unprotected sex, breeding.
A/N: very inspired by the inbox message I got from bri @iamthatonefangirl, although the prompt she gave me didn't even happen in this fic so... part two maybe...? Thanks to the lovely @blowingbarnes and @flockoff-featherface for beta-reading 🤍
You sat at the edge of the leather chair, hands folded too tightly in your lap. The silence of the office was suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant shuffle of footsteps in the hallway. It smelled faintly of polished wood and coffee–expensive coffee, the kind you weren’t used to drinking.
Your gaze flickered to the clock on the wall, then down to your phone, then back to the door you had been staring at for what felt like hours. He wasn’t late–you had been early. Too early, probably. You had been ushered inside by his secretary, told that “Mr. Barnes will be with you shortly,” and left to drown in your own thoughts.
Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. Even just thinking his full name made your stomach flip. You had read it on campaign posters, heard it on the news, rehearsed it in your head when you applied for the position last week.
But you hadn’t actually met him–not in person. Not until today.
And that was what made your palms sweat against the fabric of your skirt, what made your chest feel too tight as you sat there waiting. This wasn’t just another job. This was his office. His world.
You smoothed your skirt again, fingers brushing over the crease you’d already ironed three times that morning. Your thoughts kept circling back to the same place: last week’s interview, the moment you had stepped into this very building for the first time, clutching your resume like it was a lifeline.
You had expected to be laid straight into his office, to see him face-to-face, but instead the secretary had smiled tightly and gestured you down the hall.
“Mr. Barnes is busy, so unfortunately you won’t meet him today,’ she had said, her heels clicking against the floor as she guided you into a smaller office, tucked beside his.
It wasn’t disappointment that had bloomed in your chest then—it was relief, tangled with something sharper. Meeting him outright would have been too much, too soon. Instead, you sat across from the secretary’s desk, trying to keep your posture professional, as she skimmed over your application.
She glanced up at you, expression unreadable. “The position is demanding,” she explained matter-of-factly. ‘Late nights, long hours, travel when necessary. Congressman Barnes expects his assistant to be reliable, discreet, and quick on her feet.”
You nodded and slid your resume across the desk with fingers that didn’t feel steady. She picked it up, scanning over the neat lines of text you had agonized over for days.
“Looks good,” she said at last, setting it back down. No smile, no inflection. Just those two clipped words that somehow made your chest ache with both pride and dread. “Someone will call you,” she continued simply, as though the matter had already been decided.
You blinked at her, your mouth opening slightly before you caught yourself.
That’s it? No questions? No chance to prove I’m more than just words on paper?
But her gaze was already dropping back to the files on her desk, her posture making it clear the conversation was over. You rose carefully, thanked her for her time, and left with your stomach knotted tighter than when you had walked in.
You hadn’t actually expected a call. Considering how quick the conversation had been, how impersonal, you were sure you just weren’t the right person for the job.
But a few days later your phone rang.
And here you were.
You had spent the entire weekend hunched over the files the secretary had handed you after the second meeting—another one before you actually started working here. A neat stack of papers meant to be a “walk-through,” something to prepare you for the position… but it had felt more like a test.
You studied every page until the words blurred together: his schedules, his upcoming meetings, his committee notes, his speeches. And him. You had researched him more than you probably should have, reading between the lines of the public record, watching clips of his interviews late into the night.
This job wasn’t just a paycheck. You needed it. So of course you tried to do your best, to make sure when you finally walked into this office, you weren’t walking in blind.
And yet, sitting here now, waiting to actually meet him, all that preparation didn’t feel like nearly enough.
Your eyes drifted to the mug of coffee waiting on his desk. You’d made it the way the secretary told you he preferred—black, two teaspoons of brown sugar, nothing more.
The steam had already thinned, curling lazily, into the air, and you wondered if he’d even notice. If he’d take a sip and know instantly that you hadn’t stirred it enough, or that the ratio was off.
It was such a small thing, a cup of coffee, but the secretary’s words echoed in your head: He likes things a certain way.
So you sat there, staring at it like it held the verdict of your entire future, your pulse jumping every time you thought you heard footsteps outside the door.
The handle turned and the sound made you jolt in your seat. The door opened, and he walked in.
Congressman James Barnes.
You scrambled to your feet so quickly the chair scraped faintly against the floor. Your folder was pressed tight to your chest like a shield, and you hoped he couldn’t see the way your fingers trembled against the cardboard edge.
His presence filled the room easily, more commanding than any headline or photograph could’ve prepared you for. Broad shoulders under a perfectly tailored suit, tie loosened just slightly at the collar, hair brushed back but not stiff. He looked tired in the way powerful men always did–yet alert, eyes sharp as they landed on you.
“You must be…” His voice was lower than you expected, a rough timbre that made your stomach flip.
You managed to get your name out, though it felt like it caught in your throat on the way up.
“Right.” His mouth curved, not into the politician’s smile you’d seen in interviews, but something softer, quieter. A flicker of warmth as his gaze swept over you, taking in the nerves written all over your face and posture.
He set a folder on the edge of his desk and nodded toward the chair you’d just abandoned. ‘Don’t look so nervous,” he said lightly. “You’re not on trial.”
He moved past you, unhurried and slipped out of his jacket before draping it neatly over the back of his chair.
You sat quickly, spine too straight, fingers tight around your own folder.
As he reached for his chair, his eyes flicked briefly to the mug of coffee waiting at the corner of the desk. The glance was quick, unreadable… And he said nothing. He only picked it up, took a sip, and set it down again as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then he flipped open his folder, voice setting into something clipped and focused. “All right. Let’s get started.” His eyes scanned the first page before he leaned back in his chair.
“As my assistant, you’ll handle scheduling, correspondence, and research. That means keeping my calendar clean, making sure I’m where I need to be and filtering what reaches me.” His gaze lifted to meet yours, steady and sharp. “People will try to pull you in a dozen directions at once. Don’t let them. If you’re unsure, you bring it to me.”
You nodded quickly, clutching your folder impossibly tighter.
“I need you to be organized. Efficient. And discreet.” The last word lingered in the air a fraction longer but his expression was steady. Then he tapped the folder with his knuckle, brisk again.”You’ll travel with me when necessary and late nights are inevitable. If that’s a problem, this won’t work.”
Your mouth felt dry, but you managed words out, “I know. It’s not a problem.”
He gave a short nod, satisfied, his eyes flicking over you once more. “Good. Then let’s go over next week.”
Mr. Barnes flipped another page in the folder, glancing down at the schedule. “Next week, there’s a budget meeting Monday morning. I’ll need all the preliminary reports on my desk by Friday afternoon. Tuesday, I have a series of briefings with the committee–nothing too complicated, just background notes and talking points.”
You scribbled furiously in your notebook, trying to capture every detail, your handwriting messier and faster than usual. “Got it,” you murmured, glancing up only occasionally to make sure you weren’t missing anything.
“Wednesday’s mostly open, but there’s a fundraiser Thursday evening. You’ll coordinate the guests and make sure everything runs smoothly. And Friday, I have a town hall in the morning. Prep materials for that as well.”
You nodded, writing each point down, your brain spinning with all the information he was giving you.
Then, just as you paused to take a breath, he stopped mid-sentence and lifted his gaze from the folder. His eyes met yours, and a small smile tugged at his lips.
“Relax,” he said softly, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “You look like you’re about to explode.”
Heat flooded to your cheeks. You bit your lip and stammered, “I–I’m sorry, Congressman… I just… I want to get everything right.”
He chuckled, a low easy sound that made your stomach twist and your hands tighten around your pen. “I know. Just… breathe. You’ll be fine.”
You took a shaky breath, forcing yourself to calm down, letting your shoulders loosen fractionally.
He noticed immediately, his eyes softened again. “I can see you’re trying. Don’t worry. We’ll start with something simple, okay? I have a list of calls to make. Appointments and–”
“I’ve already done it.” Your voice cut in, a little shy, your fingers brushing over the edge of your folder as you reached for it.
He froze, blinking at you. “What…?”
“Your secretary handed me the list last time I was here… I… already took care of it.”
You held out the folder, letting the neatly organized papers fall just so. The list of appointments, calls, and scheduled meetings was all there.
He leaned forward slowly, eyes scanning the pages and you noticed the slight pause in his movements, like he wasn’t quite believing what he was seeing. His fingers reached for the papers, brushing against yours in the process. The contact was fleeting, accidental but enough to make your heart skip a beat.
Finally, he lifted his gaze from the folder, eyes meeting yours with something caught between surprise and approval. “Impressive,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
“Well… Guess I underestimated you.” He continued, voice a touch lighter, the faintest smile forming at his lips. “Let's take care of next week then. You just proved you know what to do, so it shouldn’t be a problem for you."
You nodded, raising from your chair and grabbing your folder as he handed it back to you, leaving himself only the papers meant for him. Your chest felt tight. Your pulse thundered in your ears, hot and insistent, and for a moment you were hyper-aware of every detail in the room–the polished desk, the faint scent of his cologne, the subtle hum of the air conditioning.
“Come back to me when you’re done with it, okay?” he added, and you nodded again, swallowing hard.
You turned toward the door, trying to steady your breath. Again. But then his voice stopped you.
“Loosen up,” he said, much softer this time, almost a murmur. “You did well.”
Your cheeks flamed. The heat spread across your neck and chest, and you could feel your hands trembling ever so slightly as you clutched your folder. You forced a tiny, awkward smile and whispered, “Thank you.”
———
You closed the door to your office behind you and leaned against it for a second, letting out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. The office was quiet with the faint scent of paper and pens around you.
You sank into your chair, still gripping your own folder and trying to straighten your breathing, trying to make sense of how flustered you felt over someone who hadn’t even spoken to you more than necessary.
You began sorting through the papers, double-checking the appointments and calls. Everything was in order, nothing out of place. You scribbled a few notes, rearranged a couple of things, and tried not to think too much about the brief interaction–the folder you handed him or the slight smile he’d given you.
It’s fine. You did what you were supposed to. Keep it moving.
The quiet of the office pressed around you as you settled into the work. Typing, jotting, and making sure everything was ready for the next week.
That was all that mattered.
———
The next day, the summary plan for the week was finished. Every appointment and call laid out in neat lines, double-checked until you were sure there was nothing left to adjust. You slipped the pages into a folder and carried it down the hall, rehearsing in your head how you’d present it.
His office door was open and Mr. Barnes was on the phone, voice low and even as it carried across the space. You hesitated on the threshold, second-guessing yourself. Maybe you should come back later. Maybe you should wait until he wasn’t busy. You shifted the folder in your hands and started to turn away—
“Stay.” His voice cut through the air, not loud, not sharp, but enough to stop you in place. He didn’t look up from the papers spread across his desk. He lifted a hand, gesturing for you to wait.
You nodded, the sound caught in your throat, and you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the noise of the hallway.
The chair opposite his desk sat waiting, and you lowered yourself onto it, careful not to make a sound. The folder was pressed into your lap, palms flat against the cardboard, holding it steady like it might betray your nerves if you didn’t.
He spoke in an even tone, attention fixed on the conversation. The words were measured, his voice carrying an edge of authority that filled the room.
You sat still, but your eyes wandered. His hair wasn’t as neat as it had been yesterday. A strand had fallen loose over his forehead, and when he pushed it back, it settled in a softer wave. His sleeves were rolled up, fabric straining against the breadth of his arms. The light hit the polished metal of his left one, catching the edges and gleaming surfaces, impossible to ignore.
You forced your gaze down to the folder.
The call ended with a hum of agreement and a clipped goodbye. He set the receiver down, leaned back in his chair, and for a moment rubbed his temple with two fingers. The tension in his shoulders eased as he exhaled. The corners of his eyes softened as his gaze lifted to you.
“You’ve got the schedule I asked for?” His voice was both low and steady, carrying across the desk without effort.
“Yes,” you said, pushing up from the chair before the word had fully left your mouth. The folder felt heavier in your hands as you crossed the space and set it on his desk.
“Thank you,” he said, glancing up at you as he pulled it closer. A smile flickered across his mouth, softer than you expected. “Settling in alright? Or have we scared you off already?”
The question caught you off guard. You shook your head, probably a little too fast. “No, not at all. It’s been… good.”
“Good,” he echoed, as though filing the answer away. His eyes dipped back to the folder, his fingers unfolding the cover with care. The smile lingered a moment longer before his expression sharpened into focus.
You sat back down as he began to read, fidgeting with your fingers in your lap while silence filled the room again. The only sounds were the faint rustle of paper and the steady tick of the clock.
His eyes skimmed another page, then another, and then his brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly. The corner of his mouth twitched. “What’s that?”
He flipped the sheet around and slid it toward you with a single finger. A yellow sticky note clung to the margin. Your own small doodle–just a quick sketch, a little symbol, you’d used to mark an important point–stared back at you.
Heat rushed to your face. “Oh. That–um. It’s a… just… something I do sometimes. I read that it helps with memorization, so I thought–”
He chuckled, low and sudden, leaning back in his chair “You think I’m in fifth grade?”
Your eyes widened. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I just–God. I wasn’t–”
“I’m just playing with you,” he cut in, still smiling. The sound of it softened the words, took the sting out of your panic. He let the page fall back into place and tapped it once before closing the folder.
“It’s okay,” he said, quieter this time. “It’s…cute.”
“Oh…” The sound slipped out before you could stop it. Small, awkward, nothing close to a real response.
His eyes caught the faint flush rising across your cheeks and his smile deepened lazily. “You’re cute too when you’re flustered.”
Your breath snagged. You could feel your face burning hotter, and your hands knotted together in your lap.
What the fuck?
Was he flirting with you–? No. No, he couldn’t be. That had to be another joke, the same way he teased you about the sticky note. Just a throwaway comment. Nothing more.
He straightened in his chair, the shift almost seamless, like he’d flicked a switch. His metal hand rested on the closed folder as his expression settled back into focus. “Now,” he said, tone even again. “about the fundraiser next Thursday.”
You blinked, scrambling to catch up. "Right. The dinner at the Grand Hotel."
He nodded. "It's going to be crowded. Press, donors, half the state's board members. I'll need talking points prepped, but nothing too stiff. They'll want me approachable."
You grabbed your notepad, grateful for the distraction and the familiarity of pen against paper. "Casual but polished," you murmured, jotting the words down.
"Exactly." His gaze lingered on you as he spoke, though it was impossible to tell if he was watching your notes or your face. "And make sure I've got five minutes with Gary before the main speech. He's… sensitive. Needs the right attention or he'll sulk for weeks."
"Got it." You wrote quickly, nodding along.
The conversation carried on for another ten minutes. All logistics and fine-tuning. You asked questions, he answered with the same deliberate quality. His words were careful but never cold.
"Press will want a soundbite at the end," you said, scanning notes. "Do you want me to draft something in advance or—"
"Draft it," he cut in gently, "but keep it flexible. I like to read the room first."
You scribbled the line down, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your focus. And Mr. Barnes continued watching you as you did so.
Finally, the last point was covered, the last detail tucked neatly into your notes. You closed your folder and looked up, waiting for the dismissal.
But he didn't speak right away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, studying you across the desk in a silence that stretched just long enough to feel intentional. His expression was neutral, professional of course, but his eyes tracked your face like he was reading something written there.
You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of the way your hands clasped in your lap. "Is there… anything else?"
His mouth twitched again, almost the start of a smile, but it never quite broke through. "No," he said after a beat, voice low. "That's all. You've done well."
Your breath caught, ridiculous in its reaction to such a simple phrase.
He reached for the phone on his desk, already moving on. "You can go."
You rose quickly, your folder—as always— hugged to your chest. And at the door, you glanced back without meaning to. Your eyes caught on him again. The way the light fell across his broad shoulders, the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the way he…
God, why was he making you feel like this? It wasn't supposed to be like that. He was your boss, and this? This was work.
But he didn't even look at you. His attention was already fixed on the receiver in his hand, his expression already sharpened into something businesslike, distant. The fleeting softness you thought you'd seen earlier might as well have been imagined.
You swallowed, heat prickling at the back of your neck. You slipped out of the room before you could think yourself into another spiral. The door clicked quietly behind you, sealing him back in his world and you in yours.
The hallway stretched ahead, silent except for the echo of your own footsteps. You clutched your folder tighter, willing yourself to focus on the work, on the schedule, on anything but the echo of his voice.
———
Mr. Barnes' office was quiet on the Monday afternoon, and suddenly the ticking clock on the wall sounded louder than it should. You sat on the leather couch, notebook balanced on your knee, pen moving idly across the page. Little lines, loops, nothing important. Just doodles to keep your hands busy while you waited.
Congressman Barnes was still in his budget meeting, the one everyone in the building had been talking about since morning. You were supposed to go over final details for the Thursday's fundraiser once he got back, and until then, all you could do was wait.
You kept telling yourself not to think too much. Not about him, not about the way the last few days had felt. He'd been all professionalism since then.Composed and careful with every word. Yet underneath that, there had been moments, too fleeting to name, that made something in your stomach flutter.
A smile that lasted too long. The warmth in his tone when he praised you. Little things that shouldn't mean anything but somehow did.
You pressed the tip of the pen harder to the paper, shading in the corner of a doodle until the page threatened to tear.
Focus.
Thursday was all that mattered. The seating arrangements, the order of speeches, the press briefings. You had to stay ahead of it all, not just sit here and thinking about his voice like it meant more than it did. You leaned back into the couch, notebook slipping down into your lap.
The door clicked open, breaking the stillness.
"Good morning," Mr. Barnes' voice carried easily into the room, unhurried, as if the budget meeting hadn't drained the life out of him.
You straightened on the couch, notebook in your lap again like you hadn't been doodling your nerves away. "Good morning," you echoed, too quickly.
He shut the door behind him with one hand, the other already tugging at his jacket. The navy wool slid from his shoulders in one practiced motion. He draped it over the back of his chair, then reached for his tie, loosening the knot with a short tug. His fingers worked the silk down, leaving the top button of his shirt undone.
You looked away or… tried to. Your eyes betrayed you, dragging back over the sharp line of his shoulders, the slow shift of muscle under crisp white cotton, the gleam of metal at his wrist as he rolled his sleeve once. You caught yourself staring and dropped your gaze to the mess of pen marks in your notebook, cheeks warming already.
He didn't move straight to his desk. Instead, he crossed the room toward you with unreadable expression. For a second you thought he'd ask you to join him there, where the work always happened. But then he lowered himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping under his weight.
He leaned back, one arm draped casually over the backrest. The position was effortless, commanding space without even trying. From this close you could see what the distance of his office desk usually hid—how faint shadows lingered beneath his eyes, the lines of strain carved faintly into his brow. He looked… tired.
You turned your notebook closed in your lap, glancing at him before you could think better of it. "How did the meeting go?" The question sounded softer than you intended, almost careful.
His mouth tugged at one corner, not quite a smile. "Long," he said, voice edged with a dryness that wasn't unkind. He shifted, letting his head fall back briefly against the couch. A quiet exhale escaped his mouth before he angled toward you again.
"Long," he repeated then let out a short laugh under his breath. 'You'd think with half the staff in there, we'd get through a budget in under three hours. But no. Half of them argue for the sake of hearing themselves talk."
You turned toward him. He didn't sound angry, just… worn out.
"They tore into transportation first," he went on with a faint shake of his head. "Then healthcare, then someone thought it'd be a great idea to tack on a discussion about education reform. None of it on the agenda. Just… derailed everything." His hand lifted, metal fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. "Sometimes I wonder if they want progress at all, or if they're just addicted to the sound of their own voices."
You listened, not just nodding along—no. You really listened. Your eyes followed him as he spoke, taking in the way his shoulders shifted when his frustration rose, the way his jaw worked before he forced himself calmer. Every word he let out, you held onto like it mattered.
Because to him, it did.
And he mattered to you.
He finished with a low exhale, eyes dropping to the space between you. For a moment he stayed quiet, as if weighing whether to say more. Then he swallowed hard and glanced back up.
The weariness softened in his face, replaced by something quieter and… gentler. He studied you for a beat too long before the corner of his mouth lifted into a tiny smile.
Heat rose to your cheeks and you blushed before you could stop it. The weight of his smile sat heavy in your chest, making your breath stumble. You shifted in your seat, eyes darting down to your notebook, anywhere but at him.
He noticed. Of course he did. His head tilted slightly, as though he was trying to solve a puzzle he found amusing. Then, mercifully, he let the moment slip away.
"The fundraiser," he said and his voice slipped back into the steady cadence of work. "Did you manage to correct the draft of my speech?"
"Yes… Of course." The words came out quick, your relief bleeding through. You reached for the folder at your side, flipping it open with fingers that trembled just enough to annoy you. The papers were crisp, neatly marked. You handed them to him.
His hand met yours in the exchange, fingers brushing over yours for a second too long. Warm against your skin, steady and grounding. You hated how it made your stomach twist. You pulled back carefully, hoping he hadn't felt how your pulse jumped at the contact.
He scanned the pages, eyes moving quickly, his lips pressing together in thought. Then, with a faint sound in his throat, he read one of the lines out loud.
"…a promise not just for today, but for every tomorrow we want to build together." His brow arched slightly as he glanced sideways at you. "You think that's convincing?"
Your hands twisted in your lap before you found your voice. "I think you are convincing, Mr. Barnes…"
The silence that followed was heavy, charged. He didn't immediately answer, just let the words hang there. His gaze dropped back to the paper in his hand, but instead of continuing, he set it down slowly on the glass table in front of you.
His tongue swept once across his bottom lip. Then his eyes lifted to yours. "You think?" he asked, quieter now, almost testing and a thread of curiosity wound tight through it.
Your breath caught. His eyes didn't leave yours, almost like he was waiting to see what you'd do with the space between you. He leaned in just slightly, his arm still draped along the backrest, closing the distance without fully crossing it.
The air shifted. Somehow it felt heavier, warmer. Your pulse thudded against your throat and you swore he could hear it. The faintest trace of smile tugged at his mouth, not the polite one he wore in front of cameras, but something different.
Something meant for you.
It was only an inch closer, maybe less. Just enough to make your body tense with awareness, to make you wonder if you were imagining it, if you were reading into something that wasn't there.
But his gaze stayed on you, unblinking, patient… Testing.
His head tilted and there was the faintest spark of amusement in his eyes. "Do I still make you nervous?"
Your throat went dry. You shook your head, quickly though the heat raising in your face betrayed you. "No…no, Mr Barnes. I just—"
"Just what?" The words cut in smooth, playful, his voice dipped low like he already knew the effect he was having on you.
Your chest tightened, the weight of his attention pressing down until you could hardly sit still.
He was enjoying this—you could see it in the twitch of his mouth, in the quiet patience with which he waited for your answer. Enjoying how flustered you were, how you stumbled under his calm.
You opened your mouth, trying to form words that made sense, but they tangled. "I—just…" Your voice faltered.
He didn't rush you. Instead, one hand moved deliberately, setting lightly on your thigh. Just enough to press and enough to anchor your pulse in a way that stole your breath.
"Is that better?" He whispered, his gaze still on you.
Your own eyes shot down to his hand. Then up. Then back. You froze. Heart hammering, throat tight, every rational thought abandoned. The world had narrowed to the weight of his palm, the heat of his presence, the soft teasing in his tone—and you.
His hand didn't stay still. It shifted slightly, brushing along the curve of your thigh, firm but gentle. The contact sent the heat crawling through you.
"I've been thinking about you, you know?" His voice was a whisper that felt way too intimate.
Your breath hitched and your body locked up, every muscle tense. Your mind screamed at you to move, to pull away—but something in the warmth of his touch and the softness beneath all the playfulness of his words rooted you to the spot. You blinked at him, unable to speak, unable to believe this was real.
His thumb stroked once across your leg, lazily. "You sit here all flustered, trying so hard to keep it together. You know how hard that is to ignore?"
He leaned in closer, the couch shrank beneath the weight of him. His arm behind you brushed your shoulder, caging you in, pulling you into his gravity. The scent of him filled your lungs—cologne and faint coffee.
"Use you words, sweetheart," he murmured, lips curving like he knew the chaos inside your head, "Tell me—" his hand slid higher, fingers grazing just under the hem of your skirt "—does this make you nervous?"
Your thighs tensed and you felt the heat pooling low and insistent. Your lips parted, some broken excuse catching at the back of your throat "I—"
But his hand kept moving. Up your thigh. Slow strokes, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin inside, inch by inch. The fabric of your skirt bunched under his palm, every touch making your breath stutter.
Your gaze was fixed there—on his hand. On the way his fingers teased and lingered. You couldn't tear your eyes away.
His metal hand lifted, smooth and unyielding. Cool fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your face toward him. Firm, but gentle. A command disguised as a caress.
"Eyes on me," he murmured as his gaze burned into yours. "Not my hand. Me."
Your chest rose sharply, caught in a breath you couldn't release. The warmth of his palm on your thigh contrasted with the cool steel on your skin, both grounding and undoing you.
"You hear me?" he asked, thumb grazing your cheek as his other hand pushed your skirt higher, leaving the edge of your panties just in reach.
You nodded. Still dazed with whatever the fuck was happening.
His finger toyed lazily with the thin lace, brushing the hem of your panties like he had all the time in the world. Just enough contact to make your pulse thunder but not enough to satisfy.
"Do you want this, baby?" he asked softly, eyes never leaving your face. His thumb stroked the fabric once, twice, right where your body burned for more.
Your throat worked as you tried to swallow, the answer trapped somewhere between your chest and your tongue. Instead, you just nodded.
Fuck. Of course you wanted this. You wanted it so badly your skin was buzzing. Your blood was hot and frantic in your veins. But you hated yourself how cowardly you must've looked, wide-eyed and trembling under his touch. Pathetic.
Still, how could you not be scared? No one ever touched you like this before. Not there. Not like this. Every brush of his fingers over the lace felt like fire, like was unraveling you stich by stich, peeling back something you weren't sure you knew how to give.
You squeezed your thighs together on instinct, as if you could stop the ache building there. Your eyes flicked up to him, just for a second and it was enough to ruin you.
Because, fuck— He was so close. So handsome it was unfair. Unfair that he got to look at you like that— eyes heavy, lips curled like he already knew the answer you couldn't say out loud. It didn't even feel real. It felt like a scene out of a movie, the kind you'd never admit you fantasized about. The powerful man, the forbidden touch, the way your breathing was uneven just because he chose you.
And you wanted him. You wanted to give in, to sink into the couch and let him do whatever the fuck he wanted with you, because wasn't that what you'd been dreaming of every single night since the moment you met him?
But then the panic twisted in your chest, mixed up with the need. Because it wasn't just anyone—it was him. Your boss. The man who was supposed to sign your paychecks, the man whose name sat on the plaques in the hallway… The man who trusted you to sit in his office like you belonged here.
And you didn't belong here. Not really. Not with him looking at you like this.
Is this what you are? Some fucking sex toy for him to use as he wants?
The thoughts piled faster, crashing over each other. You were a virgin. You'd never even been on a real date, never let anyone close enough to see you bare, to touch you like this. And now—now it was him. The man you weren't supposed to want. The one you couldn't stop wanting.
You wanted to surrender. You wanted to stop thinking and just feel. But fear rose in your stomach, pulling you back just as your body screamed to go forward.
He was still there, still waiting. His metal thumb was stroking lazily at your jaw, other hand resting at the hem of your panties like it was nothing. Like he wasn't your boss. Like you weren't his assistant.
It was almost like he noticed the thoughts fighting in your mind. His touch on your face softened, thumb now brushing along your cheekbone like he could soothe the storm inside you.
"Hey," his voice dropped low, coaxing and steady. "It's okay… I won't do anything If—"
The words should have calmed you. They should have untangled the knot in your chest, because maybe you weren’t in this position just because he wanted to fuck you. Maybe he did care about you. But the words started to blur, as if your mind shut down and instead, your throat closed around a sob you didn't mean to let out. A hot tear slid down your cheek, slipping beneath his thumb.
His brows drew together instantly. "Hey…Hey, sweetheart—"
You couldn't bear it. You shot up from the couch so fast the folder nearly slid down from the couch but you caught it, clutching it to your chest like a shield.
"I'm sorry," the worlds tumbled out from your lips, broken and frantic. "I'm so fucking sorry—"
You could hardly breathe as you backed toward the door, every nerve on fire with shame and want and fear all at once. His hand lifted, reaching for you, like he could stop this from unraveling.
"Wait—"
But you were already pulling the handle, already fleeing. The heavy door thudded shut behind you before he could rise from the couch.
———
You didn't even remember the way back.
The city blurred past you, streets folding into one another, your legs carrying you without thought. All you knew was that you had to get out. Away.
By the time you stumbled through your front door, your hands were shaking so badly you nearly dropped the keys. The folder slipped from your arm and landed on the floor with a dull slap, papers spilling across the tile. You picked them up quickly and got into your apartment.
Your phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Over and over and the name "Mr. Barnes" lit the screen. You couldn't even look at it anymore. You held down the power button with trembling fingers. The silence that followed was almost worse than the sound.
Fuck.
You sank onto the edge of your bed, pressing your palms into your eyes until stars bloomed behind them.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You ruined everything, hadn't you?
The perfect job—gone. You couldn't possibly show your face there again, not after bolting like that. Not after leaving him sitting there, hand half-reached toward you and eyes soft in a way you'd never seen.
You had him, God. You had the man you wanted in front of you, wanting you back and you'd thrown it away.
What the fuck?
What the fuck were you even doing?
Your chest felt too tight, air caught in your throat as you doubled over, elbows on your knees, fingers tangling in your hair. You wanted to disappear. To rewind. To fix it somehow. You dragged in a shaky breath, lifting your head but it didn't make anything clearer.
What the hell were you supposed to do now?
Call in sick? Pretend the whole thing hadn't happened, like you'd just been feeling under the weather and ran for the door?
Call him back? You looked at your phone, black screen reflecting your blotchy face and the thought of hearing his voice right now made you want to throw up. What would you even say? Sorry I ran out like a lunatic while you had your hand on my thigh? Sorry I cried because I don't know how to let myself have something I want?
Show up tomorrow like nothing happened? Walk into his office, hand him the fundraiser notes and pretend your heart and brain were cooperating again?
Every option sounded impossible.
You pressed your fists into the mattress with stuttering breath, trying not to cry again. Why were you like this? Why did you have to be such a coward?
Why couldn't you just open to him?
———
By afternoon, you'd managed to drag a blanket off your bed and onto the couch. Cocooning yourself like that could keep the world out. The TV flickered across the room, some sitcom rerun with canned laughter echoed far too loud in the quiet of your apartment. You weren't watching. Not really. Just letting it fill the silence so you didn't have to sit alone with your thoughts.
Your phone was still off. You hadn't dared turn it back on. The idea of seeing his name on the screen—whether the missed calls or unread messages—made your chest feel like it was caving in.
You pulled the blanket tighter. God, you were so fucking afraid. It wasn't supposed to go like this.
You wanted him—wanted him in ways you hadn't let yourself admit until his hand was on your thigh and his voice was in your ear—but not like this. Not with your panic rising and with tears spilling before you even understood why.
It was new. Too new. And you'd been scared. Scared of him seeing how little experience you had. Scared of what it meant if you gave in. Scared of what happened after.
Now everything was a mess.
The sitcom laughed again, high-pitched and cruel. You pressed your palms hard against your eyes until the static behind your lids drowned it all out.
You snapped back to reality the moment you heard someone knocking on the door. You jolted so hard the blanket slid off your body. For a second, you thought you'd imagined it. That it was your nerves playing tricks on you. But then it came again. Firmer.
Your heart pounded as you dragged yourself off the couch, each step to the door was slow and hesitant. You didn't know what you expected when you opened it. But definitely not him.
Mr. Barnes stood in the dim light of your hallway, hair slightly disheveled, suit wrinkled in a way you'd never seen before. He looked… upset. Tired. Worn… And worried—so worried it was like the air around him pulsed with it.
For a split second you wondered if all of it was because of you. Because you'd run. Because you hadn't answered and left him there alone.
Before you could get a word out, his voice broke the silence, low and ragged. "I'm so sorry. I know I shouldn't come here, but you weren't picking up the phone and— fuck. I'll go. I just had to make sure you're okay. I'm… I'm so fucking sorry."
He turned already, shoulders tight as if the weight of his mistake was dragging him away from you.
"Wait…" The word left your lips before you could stop it. barely more than a whisper, but it stopped him cold.
He froze. Then slowly, he turned back toward you. His eyes searched yours, disbelief flickering there like he hadn't heard right. His gaze softened and his brows furrowed as though bracing himself.
"I…” His voice cracked once, then steadied. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, I thought you wanted this… I must've read the signs wrong. I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot."
The way his voice broke on the word idiot made your chest tighten. Your throat felt tight, words caught somewhere between fear and relief. All that finally tumbled out was, "How did you even find me?"
He let out a weak chuckle, though there wasn't much humor in it. His hand raked through his hair, tugging at the strands like he hated himself for the answer. "I… I found it in your insurance papers in our system." His voice was rough and tired. "I'm sorry. I just… I was worried."
Something in your chest cracked.
You should've been angry. He had no right to look up your address. No right to show up at your door uninvited. Especially after what happened. But the way his shoulders hunched forward, the exhaustion written into the lines of his face, the quiet sincerity in his voice… it didn't feel invasive. It felt desperate.
And fuck, he did care.
Your lips trembled as you bit down on them, nerves making your stomach chum. For a long second, you stood in the doorway. The air was thick between you. Then, slowly, you stepped back, opening the door wider.
"Come inside."
His eyes flicked to yours, searching, almost hesitant before he finally nodded. He stepped past you, careful and quiet, as if he was afraid even the sound of his shoes on your floor might push you away.
The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly the silence of your apartment felt deafening. You hovered by the arm of the couch, twisting your fingers together until your knuckles ached.
"I…" Your voice was small. „You didn't read the signs wrong. It was just… me"
His head lifted, eyes locked on yours, waiting.
You swallowed hard, forcing the words out before you could choke them back down. "I was scared. Because… Well, first of all, you're my boss. And I don't even know where this is supposed to lead.. And, god, I didn't want you to just… fuck me and pretend it was nothing. Especially since I—"
"I like you."
The words cut clean through your ramble. They were firm and steady with no hesitation. His voice was soft like he knew the weight they carried.
"Really like you," he added, and there was the faintest curve of a smile on his mouth, even though it didn't reach his eyes. A sad smile. One that said he was just as vulnerable standing there in front of you as you were admitting the truth.
Your gaze softened and your chest ached with something that felt like guilt. Because you managed to think less of him, and yet… here he was. Saying what no one had ever said to you before.
No one had ever thought of you that way. No one had ever told you they liked you. And hearing it now—hearing him say it—made your chest feel like it might shatter.
Your feet moved before you had time to think. One step. Then another. Until the distance between you was gone and you had to tilt your chin up just to keep your eyes on him.
For a heartbeat, he just looked at you like he couldn't quite believe you were standing so close. Then his hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing along your jaw. His palm cupped your cheek and his thumb traced a feather-light stroke over your skin.
"I'm sorry…" The words spilled out from your mouth. Small and cracked.
"Hey," his voice was gentle and the sound vibrated through your chest as mush as your ears. He shook his head slightly, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Don't… Don't apologize."
His eyes became tender and for a moment, it felt like the whole world narrowed to just the two of you in that tiny space.
"I…I was just so scared and—"
"I know," he broke in quickly, his voice tight with his own guilt. His thumb still traced your cheek, but his gaze faltered, dropping as if he couldn't quite stand to meet your eyes. "I know, I shouldn't… I shouldn't have done that. I pushed too far. I'm so sorry—"
"No, James…" The sound of his name on your lips cut through like a blade. He stilled instantly, eyes flicking up to yours again, something raw flashing there. You could see it hit him like the sound alone was enough to knock the air out of him.
You shook your head, forcing the words out even as they felt stuck in your throat. "I just… I've never…"
The rest disintegrated. You couldn't say it. Couldn't bring yourself to saying the truth out loud.
The realization spread across his features slowly, piece by piece. His brow drew together first. Then his mouth parted, but no sound came. His hand stilled against your face, thumb hovering frozen near your skin as if he'd touched fire.
And then his eyes widened—not with shock, not even pity but with something heavier. Some kind of ache that appeared on his face before he managed to hide it.
You were a virgin.
The silence stretched, thick and fragile. You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, feel your lungs straining for air as if the admission had left you bare in a way you'd never been before.
His jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, throat working. His touch softened and his fingers curved more carefully along your jaw as though you were glass he hadn't realized he'd been holding this whole time.
"Sweetheart, I—" The word was rough, torn from somewhere deep, almost reverent. His gaze searched your like he was looking for confirmation, for any sign he'd misunderstood. But he hadn't. He knew.
His mouth parted but it took him a moment to find his voice. "Fuck, I'm… I really am an idiot."
The words were so raw, so self-condemning that for the first time all day, a laugh escaped you. Small and nervous but real. You shook your head, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes even as your lips curved faintly.
"You're not," you whispered. "I wanted it. I swear, I did… just… not like this. Not when I was panicking. Not when I couldn't even breathe. And I should've told you instead of running away like that."
He exhaled, long and shaky. His shoulders loosened as if your words had cut through some invisible cord holding him too tight. His mouth twitched. His thumb brushed over your cheek again, catching the edge of a tear before it could fall.
You leaned into his touch without thinking and his gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked back to your eyes.
"Can I…?" he whispered, his breath warm against your face.
You didn't answer with words. You didn't need to. The tiny tilt of your chin with a nod and the way your lips parted just slightly was enough.
He leaned in, slow and cautious, as if every second gave you a chance to pull away. And when his mouth finally brushed against yours, it was feather-light, almost trembling.
But the moment you felt him, something in you snapped. The fear, the shame, the aching want—all of it collided. You kissed him back, harder, surer, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt as if you were terrified he might disappear.
His sharp inhale, stuttered into the kiss, surprise melting into something deeper. He pressed closer, still gentle but no longer tentative. His lips moved with yours like he'd been waiting for this as long as you had.
Your fingers curled tighter into his shirt, tugging until the kiss broke just long enough for a shaky breath to leave you. His eyes were glassy, pupils wide, his lips swollen from your mouth.
"Please…" you whispered, your voice barely holding together. Desperate and fragile all at once.
He swallowed hard, steadying himself but the moment your hands slid lower—gripping at the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer—he let you guide him. Each step backward you took, he followed. His lips caught yours again and again, more frantic and more consuming.
By the time you entered your bedroom and your legs hit the edge of the bed, his breathing was ragged. His chest was rising and falling as if he'd run miles. You sat down, tugging him with you, your hands roaming over the the solid muscle of his chest, down to his waist. You were greedy and scared this was just another dream you'd wake up from.
"Sweetheart…" he rasped, kneeling between your thighs, hands braced on either side of you. "I… I don't wanna rush you, fuck—" he breathed. "I don't wanna hurt you again."
You grabbed his wrist and guided his hand to the hem of your panties right under your skirt. His touch lingered there. Your pulse trashed so hard you thought it might kill you. But you needed this. There was no way you'd run away again.
"I want this," you said and even though your voice trembled it was certain. "I want you."
His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as he searched your face, looking for ever the slightest hesitation. But he found none. You held his gaze, unblinking and that was all he needed.
He bent forward, capturing your mouth in another kiss. This one was much hungrier, claiming. His hand slipped beneath the thin fabric at your hips, fingers tracing along the heat of you, teasing and coaxing, while his other hand cradled your face.
Your back arched and a gasp of yours broke the kiss. James groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin.
"God, you're perfect," he muttered, lips trailing hot down your jaw, your throat, marking you in ways words never could. "I wanna make you feel good, baby."
His hand shifted then. pressing firmer against your clothed core. You jolted, a strangled sound tore from your lips.
"Fuck… you're soaked," he breathed. The curse nearly swallowed by the reverence in his voice.
Your body burned and heat pooled between your thighs. And when his fingers curled around the edge of your panties, tugging them aside, you couldn't stop the moan that broke free. Cool air hit your slick folds for a moment before his touch followed. Two fingers sliding down, gently parting you.
You whimpered, helpless and trembling. The sound was so raw it made him shudder against you. His metal hand cupped your jaw, steadying you and tilting your face toward his so he could watch every flicker of your expression.
"Shh, sweetheart," he whispered, tracing slow circles over your clit. "I've got you, baby… Let me take care of you."
Your thighs quivered, clenching around his arm as the pleasure rolled through you—foreign, overwhelming but so fucking good. You tried to form words. Something… anything, but all you managed was another whimper that had his jaw clenching tight.
"No one ever touched you like this before, huh?" he rasped, his eyes flicked up to meet yours.
"No—No…" you answered through your moans.
His fingers slid lower, stroking your entrance, collecting the wetness there before circling back up. Every movement was patient and delicate. His lips brushed over your temple as his fingers slid just a bit lower. "Just relax for me, baby. Gonna make you feel so fucking good."
James pressed the tip of his finger against your entrance. Your breath hitched and your entire body tightened instinctively.
"It's okay…" he soothed, his metal hand tilting your jaw so you couldn't look away, couldn't hide. "Just look at me, baby. It's just me." He rested his hand on your hip then, keeping you in place—just where he wanted you.
You nodded, and with that he eased one finger inside. The stretch burned and a cry slipped from your lips.
He cursed under his breath as his forehead pressed to yours. "Fuck… so tight. It's okay baby. It's okay." He repeated. His finger stilled inside you, giving you time to adjust. "You're doing so good for me."
Your nails dug into his shoulders, grounding yourself in both warmth and safety of him. Slowly—achingly slow—his hand began to move.
A moan ripped out of you, much louder than you meant.
"That's it," he groaned, pumping his finger a little deeper. "There you go. Taking me so fucking well." He kissed your cheek. 'Gotta stretch you for me, sweetie. Wanna feel you ready before I'm inside you."
Your hips twitched, rocking forward without your permission, chasing the friction. It just felt too fucking good. "James—"
"Hmm?… You want more, don't you?" he chuckled darkly. His breath ghosted over the skin of your neck.
„Y—Yes, please…”
„Fuck, baby," he murmured. The thumb of his metal hand stroked softly over your hip while his fingers kept working you open. "So perfect for me. So. Fucking. Perfect." His forehead pressed to yours again. "I'm gonna give you another, okay?"
"Yes, Yes—Please, James—" you pleaded, desperately.
He kissed your lips gently, swallowing your shaky yes before sliding his second finger in beside the first.
"Just like that…" he whispered, lips brushing over your jaw. "Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe for me. You're doing so good… fuck— So, so good."
His fingers stretched you. It felt almost uncomfortable but your body craved it. And his touch? Fuck, it was so grounding. Like he was never letting you go. His metal hand cradled your cheek again. Thumb now sweeping away a tear that slipped free.
"Hey, baby," he tucked a strand of hair away from your face. "You're beautiful like this. You don't even know, do you? How perfect you are. How much I want you."
The words had you melting. Your body adjusted slowly into a fullness that had you moaning against his mouth.
"Oh yeah," he breathed, finally moving his fingers with careful thrusts. "God, baby… That's my girl. Taking my fingers so well. Letting me make you feel good."
Your hips shifted again, chasing the rhythm. James' lips curved into a cocky smile against your temple. "You're so fucking sweet like this. So tight, so wet for me. You're everything I ever wanted, pretty girl."
He curled his fingers then just so. Dragging against a spot inside you that had your back arching off the mattress with a strangled moan.
"Mhm," he groaned, watching your face twist with shock and pleasure. "Right there, huh?"
He pressed into it again. Each curl of his fingers pulled another broken sound from your throat. Then another. And another. Your legs trembled as heat coiled tight in your belly. Tighter than it ever had before.
"James— fuck!" you gasped, voice breaking but he shushed you with a kiss to your lips. His pace never faltering.
"I know, baby. I know, you're close, aren't you? Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me." he cooed and pressed a kiss to your temple. "Fuck— I can't wait to feel you squeeze my cock like that… Let go for me. I've got you."
It hit so fast you could hardly breathe. The pressure snapped. Your walls fluttered desperately around his fingers as you cried out, clinging to him like you'd fall apart if you let go.
He groaned against your neck, still moving inside you and coaxing every wave from you. "Yes, fuck— Yes, baby. Look at you…. You're so perfect, so beautiful when you come."
Your whole body shook. Your legs twitched as aftershocks rolled through you. His metal hand stroked gently over your ribs, grounding you while his other hand stayed buried inside, easing you down slow.
"So proud of you, baby," he whispered, kissing the damp corner of your mouth. "There you go… Shhh… I've got you."
He pulled his fingers out of you, glistening with your release. For a second, he just stared, chest rising and falling. Then with a low growl, he brought his hand to his mouth.
His eyes stayed locked on yours as his tongue slid over his fingers tasting you. A shudder went through his broad frame and he let out the filthiest sound you'd ever heard—half groan, half sigh.
"Sweetest thing I've ever fucking tasted," he rasped, his tongue chasing the last of you from the seam of his knuckles. "Gonna get addicted to this. To you."
You blushed. Your thighs clenched and your core ached for more.
He lowered, kissing you rough, desperate. His weight pressed you deeper into the mattress as he shifted between your legs. The clink of his belt buckle filled the room, followed by the zip of his pants. He shoved them down. Boxers with them and your breath caught in your throat when his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, the head already dripping with precum.
"Fuck," you whispered before you could stop yourself. He smirked faintly at the sound, but there was nothing cocky in his eyes now—only heat and hunger.
He dragged his length through your slick folds slowly, groaning as his tip caught against your clit, making you flinch.
"You feel that?" he murmured, voice low and ragged. His forehead rested against yours. "That's what you do to me, baby. Been hard for you since the second I saw you in my office."
He didn't push in. Not yet. Instead, he slid his cock along your soaked cunt. The movement was slow, torturous. He repeated it a few times. The thick head dragged against your clit before dipping lower, gliding through your slick.
Your breath hitched every time he pressed against your entrance. Your body twitched with hope that he'd finally sink into you—only for him to pull back again.
"James— Please…" Your voice cracked, high and needy.
He moaned at the way you said his name, cock twitching against your cunt, but still he didn't give in. He moved again, dragging himself up through your pussy, coating himself in your wetness and smearing it along his thick shaft.
"God, you're drenched for me," he muttered, almost to himself. His metal hand gripped your thigh firmly, keeping you spread open for him. "Look at you, baby. I could slide in so easy, but fuck— listen to you. Already whining, begging with those pretty little sounds.”
You clenched around nothing, your nails digging into the sheets. "Please," you breathed, desperation bleeding through. "Please!"
"Please what, sweetheart?" He smirked and leaned down, his thick cock still dragging against you, grinding against your swollen clit until you whimpered. "Tell me what you want. Tell me exactly."
Your cheeks burned. Embarrassment and need colliding, but the feeling of him pressed right where you needed it the most, pulled the words out of you like a confession.
"Please… Fuck me, James. Please—"
"Good girl," he whispered and his tip pressed against your entrance. Firmer this time, no teasing. You breath shuttered and your chest rose fast as you felt him finally push forward.
The stretch was intense, but fuck—your body welcomed him. Inch by inch. He sank into you slowly. You could see how his brows furrowed with focus or… control. As if he was holding himself back from slamming in all at once.
"Jesus Christ," he hissed through his teeth. "You're so tight, baby. I knew you would be but fuck— Baby, you're squeezing me so good."
Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, then at his back. Your thighs were trembling… and so was your entire body. "James— Fuck!"
"Just a little bit more, okay?" He soothed, his voice breaking on a groan as he pushed deeper. "You're doing so well for me, sweetheart."
Every word, every praised wrapped around you, grounding you as he filled you. He stretched you open in ways you'd never felt before. Your eyes fluttered shut, a whimper spilled from your lips when he bottomed out. His hips were finally flush against yours.
He stayed there, buried deep, chest pressed against you as he kissed the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your temple, your cheek.
"Fuck…" He pulled back just enough to look at you. His gaze softened for a moment. "Look at me, baby."
Your lashes lifted and your gaze locked with his. The heat in his stare made you clench around him, making him let out a quiet whimper.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, voice hoarse.
You shook your head quickly and your lips parted in a shaky moan. "No… just—full. It feels… full."
He kissed you again, slower this time. His hips shifted, testing a shallow thrust and your body arched in response.
"Good girl," he rasped, brushing his thumb along your cheek. "You take me so good."
James moved slowly at first, almost painfully so. His hips rolled forward in a steady rhythm. He dragged his cock out just enough to make you feel the stretch again before sinking back into the heat of you.
Each thrust stole your breath. Your body trembled as he filled you to the hilt every time. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing tender circles against your cheek as if to ground you through the intensity of it.
"God… You feel unreal, baby. So fucking perfect around me," he whispered right into your mouth before pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
Your nails raked gently down his back, clinging to him as the slow, deep strokes built a pressure inside you you'd never known. Your lips parted on a moan, every sound breaking free without you intending to.
He continued kissing you, swallowing the noises. His tongue slid against your in sync with the languid drag of his cock. It wasn't rushed or frantic. Just deep, steady and consuming.
"I— God, it feels so good, James—" you gasped against his mouth.
He pulled back a little to look at you, his hips still working. "I'm here," he murmured. His eyes were focused on your face. "I'm right here. You're mine. Just mine."
The words made your walls clench tight around him, making him groan. The sound was guttural and broken. His metal hand gripped your hip more firmly as he began to thrust deeper, hitting that sweet spot of yours.
"You like that, baby?" he whispered, testing the angle.
You couldn't even answer. Just a sharp cry left your throat as your body arched into him. He smiled softly, kissing you again and again as he gave you exactly what you needed.
Your breaths quickly turned into ragged, short gasps, breaking into moans and your nails dug into his skin like you were holding on for dear life. "Yes! James, I— fuck, please! Don't stop!"
His hand slid down and his thumb found your clit. He began rubbing soft, steady circles in time with his thrusts. "I can feel you—fuck—you're so close."
Your vision blurred. Tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as the pleasure built too fast, too much. And just a few seconds later you came.
Your pussy clenched around him and your back arched off the bed as your orgasm ripped through you. A sob left your throat, your entire body trembled under the feeling.
James moaned as he felt you spasm around him. His thrust slowed even more, rocking into you and fucking you through the waves. His thumb didn't stop either, coaxing every last pulse from you until you were left gasping and limp beneath him.
After a moment his thrust grew rougher, deeper. The control he’d held onto finally slipped away. Each snap of his hips drove his cock harder into you, filling you to the edge of pain but keeping you rooted in the bliss of it.
"Oh my god," you gasped. Every nerve felt raw and oversensitive and you grabbed the sheets impossibly tight, trying to anchor yourself.
"Just a little longer, baby," he cooed and pressed his forehead to yours, sweat dampening his hairline. His hands gripped you tight—flesh digging into your hip, metal spreading across your thigh—anchoring himself as mush as you. "I'm so close, just—fuck—"
The words broke out with a desperation of a man at his breaking point. His thrusts stuttered, pace faltering as he buried himself as deep as your body would take him.
And then the shattered.
A moan tore from his chest as he came, hips pressed flush to yours, cock twitching deep inside you. Hot, thick pulses spilled into you, filling you until you swore you could feel it spill over, marking you from the inside out.
His breath came ragged against your lips. You felt the weight of him pressing you into the mattress as he groaned through every last pulse, refusing to pull away.
"Fuck," he panted, voice trembling with the aftershocks. His hand cupped your face again as his body finally stilled inside you.
You lay there. Chest rising and falling, hair sticking to your forehead as your body tingled with the intensity of it all. Your eyes met his, dazed and small. An exhausted smile tugged at your lips.
He chuckled softly. His thumb caressed over your flushed cheeks.
"I fucking love you," he murmured, amusement softening the roughness in his voice. Then he leaned down to press a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.
Your hands found his shoulders, clutching lightly and you melted into the warmth of him.The world outside—his office, your nerves, everything—felt impossibly far away. There was only this. Only him and the quiet, sweet aftermath of having everything you wanted pressed into a single, stolen moment.
summary | bucky agrees to let you show him exactly why pegging isn’t so scary, only to end up wrecked, ruined, and reluctantly enjoying every filthy second.
tags | (18+) MDNI, Explicit Sexual Content, pegging, sub!bucky barnes, anal fingering, anal sex, oral sex (m!receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, bratty!reader, aftercare, slight humiliation kink, bucky barnes is whipped, “good boy” kink, smut with feelings
a/n | never in my life did I imagine writing something like this. enjoy you freaks
you do NOT need to read the previous parts to read this one
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs ᴘᴀʀᴛ - ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ
divider by @cafekitsune
Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor like it had personally offended him. His jaw was tight, shoulders stiff, the picture of a man seriously reevaluating his life choices.
You stood in front of him, bare feet planted on the rug, wearing a slinky little nightdress that skimmed your thighs—soft satin, a dangerous contrast to the very unsoft gleam in your eyes.
“You sure about this?” you asked, tilting your head, the question light but loaded.
“Yeah,” he said quickly—too quickly.
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t look sure.”
“I’m sure,” he insisted, sitting up straighter.
You crossed your arms, smirking. “You look like a guy about to be drafted...again.”
He shot you a dry glare. “You’re making this sound way scarier than it is.”
“Oh, I haven’t even started yet, Sergeant,” you teased, stepping closer. “But, you know, if you’re gonna back out, now’s the time. Door’s right there.”
He glanced at it. Just for a second. Then back at you. “…No. I’m not backing out.”
You leaned down, bracing your hands on his knees, lowering your voice. “Good boy.”
He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, eyes darting down to your nightdress like it might save him. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely,” you said without hesitation. “It’s not every day you get to ruin a hundred-year-old supersoldier.”
“That’s… not helping,” he muttered.
“Oh, I’m not here to help,” you smiled, straightening up. “I’m here to fuck you.”
His ears went red.
You let the tension stretch for a moment longer—just enough to make him squirm—before you stepped in closer, your knees brushing his.
“Alright,” you murmured, tone softer now, “let’s relax you first.”
Bucky’s brows pulled together like he wanted to ask what you meant, but you were already moving, sliding down onto your knees between his spread legs.
And, predictably, he didn’t complain.
Not one bit.
His big hands rested tentatively on his thighs, eyes locked on you like he wasn’t sure if he should be bracing himself or leaning in.
You smiled up at him, resting your palms on his knees. “Breathe, Sarge. I’ve got you.”
He exhaled slowly, jaw loosening, and you took the opportunity to reach up, fingers finding the ties of his sweats.
“You’re very overdressed for what’s about to happen,” you teased, glancing up at him from under your lashes.
He huffed out something that was almost a laugh, his voice low and rough. “You’re just stalling.”
“Maybe,” you admitted, your fingers brushing over the waistband, “or maybe I just like taking my time unwrapping my toys.”
His breath hitched, and you felt the twitch of arousal under your touch.
“See?” you murmured, tugging the fabric down just enough. “Already relaxing.”
You eased his sweats down just far enough to free him, and he was already half-hard—thick and heavy in your hand, the heat of him radiating into your palm.
Bucky’s breath caught as you wrapped your fingers loosely around the base, stroking once, twice—just enough to watch his shoulders drop an inch.
“Better,” you murmured.
He smirked faintly, but it faltered the second your tongue darted out to tease along the underside of his cock.
A slow, deliberate stroke, from the base all the way up, pausing just shy of the head.
Bucky’s hands flexed on his thighs.
You glanced up at him. “Still sure?”
His voice was tight. “Don’t stop.”
That was all the permission you needed.
You leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to the flushed tip, lingering there, lips parting just enough to taste the faint salt of him.
Bucky exhaled sharply, his gaze locked on you like you were doing something far more dangerous than you actually were.
You smiled against him and followed it with a series of delicate kitten licks—light flicks of your tongue over the sensitive ridge, circling lazily around the crown, never giving him enough to push him over the edge.
“Tease,” he muttered, voice dropping lower.
“Guilty,” you said with a grin, then flattened your tongue against him for one long, slow stroke, your free hand cupping the weight of him as you worked him with a pace designed to drive him mad.
Every time his hips twitched forward, you pulled back just slightly, forcing him to stay where you wanted him—under your control, under your tongue, waiting.
You kept him there on the edge for a few more strokes of your tongue—just enough to feel his thighs tense under your palms—before finally giving him what he clearly wanted.
Your lips parted and you took him into your mouth, slow at first, letting your tongue glide along the underside as you sank lower. His breath hitched sharply, his hand curling into the bedding behind him instead of grabbing you, like he knew better than to break your rhythm.
“Mhm…” you hummed low around him, feeling the way it made him twitch.
You set a steady pace, bobbing your head, swirling your tongue at the crown on every pull back before sinking down again. The little sounds he made—quiet groans, stifled breaths—only pushed you to go further.
When you finally let him slide to the back of your throat, swallowing around him, his hips jolted and his head dropped back with a low, guttural, “Fuuuck.”
You stayed there for a moment, breathing through your nose, letting him feel the tight clutch of your throat before pulling back slowly, your lips dragging along every inch.
He looked down at you, flushed and glassy-eyed, chest rising and falling faster now.
“Holy shit,” he rasped, like he hadn’t expected you to actually do it.
You hummed around him before sinking down again—this time taking him all the way until your nose brushed his lower stomach. You swallowed once, hard, and his whole body shuddered under you.
“Gonna—” he started, voice breaking—
But you pulled back just before he could finish that sentence, your hand replacing your mouth in slow, teasing strokes.
“Not yet, Sarge,” you murmured, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and grinning up at him. “We’ve got work to do.”
You rose smoothly to your feet, wiping your palms against the silk of your nightdress before planting your hands on your hips.
“Alright, soldier,” you said, voice warm but edged with command, “get naked for me.”
Bucky gave you a long, suffering sigh—equal parts dramatic and reluctant—but he stood. His sweats slid down his hips and pooled at his feet, leaving him completely bare under the dim bedroom light.
You took your time looking.
Really looking.
Your gaze swept over the broad lines of his shoulders, the scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ripple of muscle down his stomach.
And then lower.
At the hard, flushed length standing stiff against him—clear evidence that your little warm-up had done its job.
Your smile curled, slow and wicked. “God, you’re pretty when you’re all worked up like this.”
He rolled his eyes immediately, muttering something under his breath, but the telltale red creeping up his neck gave him away.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Barnes,” you teased, stepping close enough to run a single finger from his collarbone down to the trail of hair leading to his cock. “It’s a compliment. You should take it.”
He exhaled through his nose, trying not to react—but his cock twitched anyway, bobbing slightly between you.
Your grin deepened. “See? He likes the attention even if you pretend you don’t.”
“Can we just… get on with it?” he muttered, avoiding your eyes.
“Oh, we will,” you promised, already turning toward the drawer where you kept your toys. “But you’re gonna regret rushing me.”
You sauntered over to your dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer with deliberate slowness—letting him stew while you rummaged.
When you turned back, the smooth curve of black silicone hanging casually from your fingers, Bucky’s brows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline.
“That’s…” he started, blinking at it like it might come alive, “…kind of big, don’t ya think?”
You bit back a smirk. “Compared to your size? Not really.”
His eyes narrowed, but there was a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
“Take it however makes you feel better, baby,” you teased, setting the toy on the bed between you like it was nothing more than a pair of socks. “Trust me, this is the warm-up version.”
His gaze flicked between you and the strap, then back to you. “…There’s a bigger one?”
You just grinned. “You’ll find out if you’re good.”
Bucky groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Mmhm,” you hummed, leaning in close enough that your voice dropped to a purr. “Now… we’ve gotta prep you first.”
He blinked at you. “…Prep?”
You tilted your head. “You know. Like how you prep me—just… with your ass.”
His whole face went red. “Do you have to be so vulgar about it?”
“Would you prefer I say ‘delicate backdoor flower’ instead?” you shot back with a grin.
He groaned again. “Please don’t.”
“Fine,” you said with exaggerated patience, patting the bed. “Get on your knees, soldier. Let’s make sure you’re nice and ready before I fuck you stupid.”
Bucky moved like a man heading to his own execution—slow, wary, and muttering under his breath. Still, he obeyed when you told him to turn over, settling on his knees in the middle of the bed, broad shoulders tense, head ducked slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or defensive.
“Never in my life,” he grumbled, “did I think I’d end up in this position.”
You grinned from behind him, absolutely savoring the sight of the great James Buchanan Barnes—supersoldier, assassin, war hero—on his hands and knees for you.
“Life’s full of surprises, sweetheart,” you said sweetly, giving his ass a little appreciative glance before leaning forward and patting his hip. “Some of them are even good ones.”
He huffed a laugh, low and short, like he wasn’t ready to admit you were right. “We’ll see about that.”
“Oh, we will,” you promised, reaching over to the nightstand for the bottle of lube you’d left there. The slick sound of it opening made him glance over his shoulder, brows drawing together in suspicion.
You caught his eye deliberately, squeezing a generous amount into your palm and letting it glisten in the low light. “Gonna make sure you’re ready for me. You trust me, right?”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded once. “…Yeah.”
“Good.” You shifted closer, resting a steadying hand on his hip before sliding the other between his thighs, your slicked fingers brushing over the tight ring of muscle there. He sucked in a sharp breath, muscles tensing.
“Relax,” you murmured, rubbing small, slow circles just outside. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, his shoulders loosening fractionally as you pressed the pad of your finger in—not far, just enough for him to feel it.
“Feels… weird,” he admitted, his voice low and a little tight.
You smiled, working in slow, shallow movements. “Weird good, or weird bad?”
“Too soon to tell,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away.
“That’s fine,” you said easily. “We’ve got time.” You eased the first finger deeper, careful and patient, letting him get used to the stretch before curling slightly and pulling back. Over and over, you worked him open, adding more lube as you went, until you felt him start to push back ever so slightly.
“Atta boy,” you murmured, letting a little praise drip into your tone. “You’re taking me so well already.”
Bucky’s ears went red, and he grumbled something incoherent—but his thighs stayed exactly where you wanted them.
Your hand stayed steady on his hip as you slicked your fingers again, not giving him much warning before pressing back in with the first one. His body welcomed you more easily now—still tight, still hot around you, but not fighting it like before.
“That’s it,” you murmured, voice dripping with praise. “Already opening up for me.”
Bucky gave a short, shaky laugh that broke halfway through. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Mmhm,” you hummed. “And you’re gonna enjoy it too. Ready for more?”
He hesitated for a beat, then grunted, “Yeah.”
You didn’t waste the chance. The first finger slid in again, and then you pressed the second right alongside it, slow but relentless. He hissed sharply, his thighs tensing, hips twitching forward like he didn’t know whether to get away from the intrusion or grind into it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice dropping an octave.
“Too much?” you asked, even though you could already feel the way his body was trying to accommodate you.
“…No,” he admitted, shaky. “Just—different.”
“Different’s good,” you murmured, curling your fingers just slightly, pressing into that spot that made his whole back arch. “You’ll get used to it.”
His knuckles went white where they gripped the sheets. “Holy shit,” he gasped, head dropping forward.
You grinned, working him in slow, deliberate thrusts, scissoring your fingers wider before sliding back in. Every time you pushed deeper, you angled to drag over that same spot, watching the way it made his hips jerk, the way his breath caught like he couldn’t stop it.
“Feel that?” you said, your voice low and smug. “That’s your prostate, honey. Your sweet spot. The place that’s gonna make you come so hard you’ll forget your own name.”
He groaned, the sound rough and needy, hips rocking back just enough to take you deeper.
“That’s it,” you coaxed, pace quickening just slightly, enough to keep him panting. “Push back on me. Fuck yourself on my fingers.”
His breath was ragged now, his whole body tight but moving with you, chasing the sensation even as he tried to hold on.
“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, voice almost a whimper.
“That’s the point,” you shot back, twisting your wrist just enough to grind against that spot again. “Gonna open you up nice and wide so I can fuck you with my cock next.”
The groan he let out then was deep, almost guttural—like the words alone had gone straight to his dick.
You finally pulled your fingers free, slow and deliberate, watching the way his rim clenched after the stretch. His thighs trembled faintly, and when you smoothed a hand over the small of his back, his breath was still uneven—his body already warm and pliant from the prep.
“Think you’re ready for me now, soldier,” you murmured, reaching for the harness waiting at the edge of the bed.
Bucky’s head lifted just enough to glance over his shoulder, brows knitting as he caught sight of the strap. You stepped into it one leg at a time, pulling the leather snug over your hips. The weight of the silicone cock bobbed forward, already slicked with lube from your earlier prep.
His gaze dropped to it instantly.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, eyes widening a fraction. “That’s… fuck, that’s really—”
“Big?” you offered, smirking as you adjusted the straps. “We’ve covered this. Not that big compared to what you’re packing.”
His gaze flicked from the toy to your face, something hot and uncertain in his eyes. “Yeah, but it’s you wearing it.”
You grinned, stepping up to the edge of the bed so the tip brushed the curve of his ass. “Exactly.”
He swallowed hard, his hands tightening on the sheets.
“Still sure?” you asked, running your palm slowly up his spine.
He hesitated for a beat before nodding once. “…Yeah.”
“Good boy,” you purred, giving the head of the cock a slow, teasing glide down the crease of his ass, letting the lube smear over him.
Bucky groaned low in his chest, head dropping forward again.
“You feel stretched for me?” you asked, lining yourself up. “Open?”
“Yeah,” he said, almost a whisper. “Just… fuck, just take it slow.”
You smirked, pressing the tip against his rim and pushing forward just enough to make him gasp.
“Breathe,” you reminded him, your free hand splayed over his lower back. You eased in another inch, the tight heat of him gripping around the toy making you groan this time.
“Shit—” he hissed, hips twitching.
“That’s it,” you murmured, rocking your hips to let him feel the weight and stretch without forcing too much at once. “Let me in, baby. Let me fuck you like you deserve.”
His groan was long, shuddering, and his ass pushed back almost imperceptibly—an invitation you were more than ready to take.
You kept the pressure steady, feeding him inch after inch, feeling every tight pull of muscle give way around the toy. Bucky’s knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets, shoulders rising and falling with each breath he forced out.
“That’s it,” you coaxed, voice low and syrupy. “Taking me so fucking well. Didn’t think you’d be this good for me, Sarge.”
“Fuck…” he groaned, voice breaking halfway through the word. His hips twitched again, not enough to push back, but enough to tell you he wanted more.
“Almost there,” you promised, pressing your palm to the small of his back to steady him as you pushed the last inch inside. The silicone was seated flush against you now, the leather straps biting pleasantly into your hips. “There. All the way in.”
Bucky let out a low, guttural sound that was somewhere between a groan and a moan, his head dropping forward until his forehead touched the mattress.
“Feel full?” you asked, rolling your hips just enough to make him gasp.
He made a helpless noise in the back of his throat. “…Yeah.”
You grinned, dragging out slowly until just the tip was left inside him, then pushing back in with a slow, deliberate thrust. His ass clenched around you, the resistance making you bite back your own groan.
“God, you’re tight,” you murmured, picking up a steady rhythm—long, smooth strokes that let him feel every bit of the stretch. “I can feel you squeezing me already.”
Bucky’s breathing was uneven now, every exhale punctuated by the faintest sound when you bottomed out.
“Fuck, that’s… that’s so much,” he managed, his voice low and wrecked.
“Bad too much?” you asked, even though you could see the way his thighs shifted, like he was fighting the urge to push back into you harder.
He shook his head quickly. “…No. Feels… good.”
“Good,” you echoed, your pace picking up—each thrust hitting that spot inside him that made his breath stutter. “Gonna fuck you until you’re dripping down your thighs, Sarge. Make you remember this every time you sit down.”
The groan he gave you then was downright obscene, and this time he did push back, his ass meeting your hips in a clumsy, desperate rhythm.
“That’s it,” you praised, gripping his hips to keep him steady as you drove into him harder now. “Ride it. Take it. Be my good boy.”
And from the way he was already shaking under you, you knew he was hanging on by a thread.
You tightened your grip on his hips, nails digging into the firm muscle there, and started driving into him harder—your slow, measured strokes giving way to sharp, deliberate thrusts that made the mattress creak under both of you.
Bucky’s moans got louder, rawer, like he couldn’t hold them back anymore. Each time you slammed into him, his body jolted forward, only to push right back into you, his ass meeting your hips with a wet, obscene sound.
“Fuck—fuck—” he panted, voice breaking. “You’re… you’re really—”
“Fucking you?” you supplied, smiling even as you picked up the pace. “Yeah, I am. And you’re taking it like you were made for it.”
He groaned, the sound guttural, and dropped his head between his arms, his shoulders flexing as he tried to steady himself against the force of your thrusts.
You kept hammering into him, each movement sharp and deep, the toy sliding over that sweet spot inside him again and again until his thighs started to tremble. The slick heat of him clenching around you only made you go harder, chasing the broken little noises spilling from his mouth.
“Fuck, you’re gripping me so tight,” you growled, leaning forward just enough to murmur in his ear. “Gonna make you come just from my cock pounding your ass, sweetheart. Bet no one’s ever done that to you before.”
Bucky shook his head, unable to speak through the wrecked sounds he was making. His knuckles were white on the sheets, sweat starting to bead along his spine, his breathing ragged as you pistoned into him without mercy.
“That’s it,” you praised, your own hips snapping faster now, relentless. “Take it. Take every inch of me.”
His thighs were trembling outright now, his whole body quivering under you. Every thrust had him gasping, his cock bobbing between his legs, already leaking against the sheets.
“Oh, fuck—” he choked out, voice cracking. “Don’t stop—please—”
You grinned wickedly, tightening your hold on his hips and pounding into him so hard the bedframe groaned in protest. The rhythm was ruthless now, deep and fast, the toy slamming against his prostate over and over until his moans dissolved into broken, wordless cries.
You kept him there—right on that razor edge—driving into him with a brutal, steady rhythm, your hips snapping forward to bury yourself to the hilt every single time. The wet slap of skin-on-skin was drowned out by the desperate, breathless sounds tearing from his throat.
Bucky was gone.
His head hung low, sweat dripping from his hairline, every muscle in his back standing out in tight, trembling relief. You could feel him clenching around you, frantic and uneven, like his body couldn’t decide whether to resist the overwhelming sensation or give into it completely.
“Right there,” you murmured darkly, adjusting your angle until the tip of your cock dragged over his prostate with every thrust. “Yeah, I’ve got it now. You feel that, Sarge?”
His answer was a wrecked moan, his fingers digging so hard into the sheets you swore you heard fabric tear.
“That’s your sweet spot,” you continued, pounding into him harder, faster, each stroke perfectly brutal. “I can feel you fucking losing it already. You gonna come for me without me even touching your cock?”
His breath hitched like you’d just stripped him bare. “I—fuck—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” you cut him off, voice sharp but coaxing, your hand sliding from his hip to grip the back of his neck, holding him steady as you worked him over. “You’re gonna do it for me. Gonna soak the sheets like my good soldier boy.”
The sound he made in response was almost feral—half a groan, half a whimper—his thighs shaking violently as you pounded into him without pause.
And then it happened.
His whole body seized, his breath catching in his chest before breaking into a raw, shuddering moan. His cock jerked between his legs, untouched, spurting hot against the sheets as his walls clamped down around the toy like a vice.
You didn’t stop. Not when his voice cracked on your name, not when he gasped through the aftershocks. You kept thrusting, slower now but still deep, milking every drop out of him until his arms finally gave out and he collapsed forward onto the bed, panting into the mattress.
“Fuck…” he groaned, voice wrecked. “What the hell did you just do to me?”
You smiled, dragging the toy from his spent body with a filthy wet sound. “Exactly what I said I would, honey—ruined you.”
You eased back, letting him breathe, your hands smoothing down his sides as his body slowly stopped trembling. He was sprawled on the bed, cheek pressed to the sheets, hair a sweaty mess across his forehead.
“Hey,” you murmured, running your fingers through his hair. “You with me?”
Bucky groaned low, nodding into the mattress. “Barely.”
You smiled, leaning down to press a kiss between his shoulder blades before slipping away to grab a warm cloth and remove the strap. When you returned, he’d rolled onto his side, eyes half-lidded and lazy. You cleaned him gently, wiping away the mess on his stomach and thighs, before tossing the cloth aside and climbing into bed beside him.
He immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you in until your legs tangled. His head dropped to your chest, and for a moment, all you could hear was his breathing.
“So…” you said, voice dripping with smug amusement, “do you still think pegging’s scary?”
He tilted his head just enough to glare up at you, though the effect was ruined by the faint flush still clinging to his cheeks. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”
“Not a chance, Sarge,” you teased, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “Especially now that I know you can come so hard you see god without me even touching your cock.”
Bucky groaned again, hiding his face against you. “Stop talking.”
You grinned, kissing the top of his head. “Can’t. It’s part of my aftercare.”
“Your aftercare’s mean,” he muttered, though his arm tightened around you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
Bucky now lay half on top of you, heavy and warm, his breathing slow but uneven—like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t still floating. His hair was damp against your collarbone, his arm draped across your waist in a loose, possessive hold.
“You’re quiet,” you murmured, your nails lazily tracing down his back.
“Just… thinking,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.
You smirked. “About how you’re my good boy?”
He stiffened slightly, tilting his head just enough to glare up at you. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” you said with a grin, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Good boys get praised, baby. You took me so well. Let me fuck you open until you were shaking and begging. That’s textbook good boy behavior.”
Bucky groaned, dropping his head back down onto your chest like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re wrecked,” you shot back, pressing a smug kiss to the top of his head. “Can’t even lift your head without looking like you’ve run a marathon.”
That got you a faint snort, followed by a lazy mumble, “Careful, sweetheart… keep talking like that and I’ll flip you over and fuck you so hard you won’t walk tomorrow.”
The delivery was weak—slurred and slow—and it only made you grin wider. “That supposed to be a threat? ‘Cause right now you sound like you’re about two minutes from passing out.”
He let out a low laugh, though it was more air than sound. “Maybe I’ll just dream about it.”
“Uh-huh,” you teased, pulling the blanket up over both of you. “Dream all you want, Sarge. Just remember who’s in charge when you wake up.”
His response was a muffled grumble, but the arm around your waist tightened—and you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
listen listen listen pegging bucky and you think he’s going to be nervous and shy but he’s an absolute whore for it. not shy he’s begging for more
someone call the fire department
----------
You’d been so sure he would hesitate.
The first time you teased the idea—half-joking, half-testing the waters—you expected him to blush, to shut it down, to give you one of those long stares that meant you’d gone too far. But instead, Bucky had tilted his head, a slow curl at the corner of his mouth, and asked in that dark velvet voice of his, “You’d fuck me?”
You thought he was joking. He wasn’t.
Which is how you find yourself now, strapping the harness tight against your hips while he’s sprawled out on the bed, broad shoulders sinking into the mattress, thighs spread wide like he’s presenting himself. His cock is already leaking against his stomach, flushed and needy, untouched. His eyes are on you—hungry, desperate, not an ounce of shame in them.
“Jesus, Buck,” you murmur, adjusting the strap, trying to keep your cool even as your pulse hammers in your throat. “You look wrecked already.”
“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he admits without hesitation, voice rough, fingers curling in the sheets. “About you pushin’ me open, fillin’ me up. You’re takin’ too fuckin’ long, doll.”
You blink, thrown by the lack of nerves, the sheer filthy eagerness dripping from him. He’s begging already, and you haven’t even touched him.
“You’re not nervous?” you tease, sliding onto the bed, letting your hand trail down his chest, over the ridges of muscle and scars.
He huffs a laugh, hips twitching up toward you. “Why the hell would I be nervous? You see me, don’t you? Big bad Winter Soldier—don’t mean shit when it comes to wantin’ you to fuck me. I’ve been dying for it.” His vibranium hand grips your wrist, pulling it lower, guiding you. “Quit teasin’. Please.”
The “please” undoes you.
You slick your fingers with lube, working them between his thighs, and the way he moans when you press against him makes your head spin. You circle slow, easing one finger in, and his whole body arches off the bed. His cock jerks, a bead of precum smearing across his abs.
“More,” he grits, grinding down, taking you deeper. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t make me beg too much.”
“You’re already begging,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss him, swallowing his groan when you add a second finger. He’s so hot and tight around you, clenching greedily.
“Fuck—yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he pants, shamelessly rocking against your hand. “God, I love it. Love when you—ahh, fuck—stretch me out. Need it, doll. Need your cock in me now.”
Your cock. The way he says it, like it belongs to you and him at the same time, makes your stomach flip. You pull your fingers free, and he actually whines, hips chasing after the loss.
“Bucky Barnes, whining?” you mock, reaching for the strap.
His eyes flash. “Don’t stop there. You wanna see me beg? I’ll beg. Get inside me and I’ll show you just how much of a whore I am for you.”
Your breath stutters. “Christ, Buck.”
You guide the tip to his entrance, slick and ready, and he spreads himself wider, heels digging into the mattress. No hesitation. No nerves. Just raw, desperate need.
“Do it,” he growls. “Fuck me.”
You press forward slowly, but he shoves his hips up, taking you in fast, gasping through clenched teeth as the strap slides deep. His head tips back, throat bared, a broken moan spilling out of him.
“Holy—fuck, yes,” he groans, hands flying to your waist, dragging you closer. “Deeper. Harder. Don’t hold back, doll, I can take it.”
The sight of him—huge and strong and begging to be fucked—nearly makes you lose your mind. You bottom out, and he squeezes tight around you, trembling, his cock slapping wet against his stomach with every shift.
“Good boy,” you murmur, testing a thrust, shallow and slow.
He lets out a strangled noise. “Don’t—don’t go easy on me. I don’t need gentle. Need you to ruin me.”
“Ruin you?”
“Yes.” His voice cracks, his eyes wild. “Been thinkin’ about it, doll. How good it’d feel, gettin’ pounded by you, takin’ it like I was made for it. Please. Show me. Show me I’m yours.”
Your control snaps.
You grip his hips and slam into him, hard, and the sound he makes—half-shout, half-sob—goes straight to your core. He’s loud, unashamed, moaning every time you drive in, muttering curses and praises that tumble together.
“God, yes—harder—don’t stop, don’t stop—fuck, sweetheart, you’re so good—so deep—ahh—”
His thighs shake, his abs flex with every thrust, his cock leaking mess onto his skin. You glance down and groan—it’s bouncing helplessly, untouched, already dripping like he could come from this alone.
“You’re fucking loving this,” you pant, pounding into him, the harness slapping with every move.
“Yes! Love it, love it so much—fuck me harder, doll, I can take it, I swear.” His voice breaks on a moan. “Make me your whore, please—fuck—I’m yours, only yours.”
You slam into him faster, relentless, and his hands claw at you, leaving bruises, desperate to keep you there. His face is flushed, lips swollen from biting them, hair damp with sweat. He looks wrecked, beautiful, undone.
And he still begs for more.
“Deeper, please—harder—oh god, right there—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”
You angle your hips and hit the spot that makes him cry out, his whole body arching, his cock spurting precum across his stomach.
“There?” you taunt, fucking him mercilessly.
“There, there, there!” he shouts, voice cracking, eyes rolling back. “Don’t stop—fuck—gonna come, doll, I’m so close—please let me come, please—”
You grip his chin, forcing him to look at you. “You wanna come from me fucking you? From my cock in your ass?”
“Yes—yes, please—god, let me, let me—”
You slam into him, faster, rougher, until he’s babbling nonsense, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes from the sheer intensity. And then he breaks—his cock jerks untouched, spilling hot across his stomach as he screams your name, clenching around you so hard you nearly lose rhythm.
He shakes, trembles, moans through it, riding the waves of his orgasm while you keep pounding him, dragging it out until he’s sobbing with overstimulation, begging you to slow down.
“Please—ahh, fuck, too much—doll, please—”
You ease up finally, leaning down to kiss him, swallowing his broken little whimpers.
“See?” you murmur against his lips. “Not shy at all. You’re a whore for it.”
He laughs breathlessly, still trembling. “Only for you, sweetheart. Always for you.”
And the way he looks at you then—wrecked, blissed out, still begging for more even through the exhaustion—you know he means it.
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
Can i request for a bucky x reader where they both have a breeding kink and there’s this one time that they’re doing it and it turned really sloppy, creampie, and messy to the point that his cock has a ring at the end due to the mess they created. I can’t stop thinking about it😭😩
This is so hot omfg
18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Pairing: Bucky x female reader
Warnings: Bucky yo, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, sex, p in v sex, creampie, cum stuffing??? Is that a thing?
This might have fueled my own breeding kink… not proofread <3
You didn’t know what time it was, you just knew the sun had long set and the city lights had turned on outside of your flat’s window.
The window was slightly opened, just to let the air change a little- because the smell of sex filled the room. You and Bucky and been going at it for what felt like hours- and it was definitely hours.
You couldn’t feel your legs anymore- they were trembling as Bucky held them around his waist, his hands gripping at your flesh like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Such a good girl..” he growled in your ear, slowly thrusting his hips into yours, the wet sounds skin slapping against skin accentuated by the mess that was between your legs.
A soft moan escaped him when he felt you clench around him, his flesh hand sneaking up to palm at your breast: “You got one more for me, don’t you?” He panted against your skin, his own hips stuttering as he grew closer to his climax- probably the third or fourth one.
“‘M gonna fill you up.. gonna keep you filled up with me-“ a groan left him when he leaned back to look at the mess between your legs, his cum leaking out of you and staining the sheets beneath you: “Gonna make you a mama..” he moaned yet again and you let out a small mewl in response, your arms looping around his neck with the little strength you had after hours of sexual intercourse.
“You want that? You want to be a mama?” He asked, the rhythm of his hips growing sloppy, his cock twitching almost rhythmically inside of you: “Fuck baby- ‘m gonna come-“ he whined, burying his face against your shoulder, his hands moving to grasp at the sheets beside your head.
You moaned in response to him, the sound weak yet desperate. Your hands buried in his hair, your legs locking around his wait to keep him from pulling out- he wouldn’t do that anyway.
And then he was coming yet again, a soft moan of his name leaving his lips as his hips stilled inside of you. You followed behind him soon after, the feeling of him twitching inside of you enough to send you over the edge once again.
You were exhausted- a panting and shaking mess beneath him. He lifted himself off of him, leaning back on his knees- and the sight between your legs almost made him come again yet again.
It was so messy- it had never been like that. A white ring of both your highs at the base of his dick, the rest of it leaking out of you. But that wouldn’t do- no.
He gently pulled himself out of you, biting his lip at the sight of more of his seed leaking out. Then he stuffed it back inside you with his fingers.
“Gotta keep it inside baby” he whispered to you, tone soothing as his fingers stuffed you full of him: “I love you..” he murmured then and pressed a kiss to your cheek.
CivilWar!Beefy!Bucky and his girlfriend taking things reaaaaal slow when they finally get together (the entire team was just waiting for it to happen at some point). They’ve been together for a couple months now and all they’ve done is kiss-even if it does get heated sometimes, Bucky always pulls away and she doesn’t know why. One night maybe they’re kissing and it starts to get heavy and he pulls away like he usually does but she’s just like, “Hey, I just want to kiss you, is that okay?” and they keep kissing but he cums in his pants…sorry for the filth but just a thought I had!
18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Pairing: CivilWar!Beefy!Bucky x female reader
Warnings: Bucky is a warning himself, making out, lots of kissing, somewhat dry humping?, Bucky is sensitive, he cums in his pants whoops
Author’s note: omfg I love this it turned out spicy as hell I’m sorry 😭 btw this is not proof read
The only thing lighting up the living room was the TV, a movie you and Bucky had chosen together still playing but long forgotten.
You were straddling his lap, arms looped around his neck and hands buried in his hair. You had been kissing for god knew how long, your lips were almost numb from it- but it felt too good to stop, too good to stop touching him and kissing him.
His hands cradled your cheeks, soft sighs and moans escaping both his and your lips. It felt so good kissing you, he never thought he would ever be able to feel this good after what he went through.
But the moment he felt your hands sliding down his chest, down his stomach and to the waistband of his pants- he froze and pulled back, panting.
The first time you two made out, he tensed just the same way- and you had a talk about boundaries and stuff. After having been brainwashed and tortured by HYDRA, Bucky wasn’t the same as he was in the forties. He wasn’t a ladies man anymore- he didn’t even know if he wanted to be seen sexually by anyone anymore. But after you talked it out and you reassured him that you’d take things real slow, he felt.. content. And calmer than he felt before.
It had been a while since the talk- a couple months at least. So you decided to try and initiate something a little more.. heated. But the moment you felt him freeze beneath you, you pulled your hands away from his waistband and slid them back up his chest to cup his face.
“I-I don’t..” he stuttered out as he looked at you with slightly sad eyes: “It’s ok” you reassured him, your thumbs rubbing his cheeks gently: “I should have asked first, sorry” you apologized then, pecking his lips softly.
His hands slid down to rest on your hips, holding you close: “Are you.. getting tired?” He asked, voice shaky: “Of waiting for me?” The way his eyes got so sad and his hands held onto you like he was scared you’d disappear made you want to cry.
“No! No- I would never” you reassured him once more: “I’ll wait until you’re ready to do more, ok?” You smiled softly at him, running your fingers through his hair: “If you never want to have sex, then we won’t, we’ll just make out like two horny teens-“ you added with a chuckle and he chuckled as well, the sound gruff.
“No, I definitely want to.. take things further” he murmured, his hands sliding underneath the hem of your shirt. He gulped thickly before looking back up at you, eyes half lidded and cheeks flushed from all your kissing.
You simply nodded and smiled at him, kissing his forehead “Ok” you said, voice soft: “I just wanna kiss you, so… should we get back to what we were doing?” You asked with a grin. His own lips curved into a grin: “Yeah, we should.”
A couple weeks after that night, Bucky found himself thinking about what you had told him. That you’d wait for him, that if he never wanted to have sex, then you wouldn’t want that either. And he realized just how lucky he was to be with you, with someone so patient and.. good.
That same night, you two went at it again. You didn’t even remember how it happened really- the book you were reading got really boring and Bucky looked so handsome sitting beside you in bed, hair messy and with his back propped against the headboard.. then you found yourself in his lap.
Since that night, you decided you’d wait for him to initiate anything, so you kept your hands on his shoulders, then slid them up in his hair as you two kissed.
But you felt a shift in him, he was more.. confident, in a way. His hands were roaming freely under your shirt, grazing your feverish skin, his metal arm cool making you shiver. And then he was moving your hands to his chest, gently gripping your wrists and pressed them against his pecs without stopping kissing you.
You were more than happy to give in to his desires. Your hands slowly slid down to the hem of his shirt, slowly pulling it up a little to reveal his abs. His skin was just as warm as yours and the moment your fingertips grazed his skin directly, his breathing got heavier.
Because fuck it felt good to be touched like that- to be touched by you. He could feel himself getting harder beneath you, his cock straining against the fabric of his pants.
He was panting against his lips, brows furrowed. When you slid your hands further up his chest to give his pecs a teasing squeeze, he had to pull back for a moment from the kiss, a soft, pleasured sound leaving his lips.
And that’s when you realized that your touch was enough to undo him. The next thing you did was give his bicep a squeeze and he almost purred, head thumping back against the headboard.
He looked at you with half lidded eyes and flushed cheeks, hair even messier than before from you threading your fingers through it.
“More” he panted, voice breathy: “Touch me more” he pleaded, hands gripping your wrists once again to trace them down his chest, his breath hitching when they reached his stomach, hips flexing up against you with a desperate sound coming from his lips.
You noticed just how hard he was, the way he twitched and throbbed beneath the fabric of his pants.
Still you kept your hands above his waistband, his abs flexing when your hands brushed over them as you kissed him once more.
Bucky moaned into your mouth, his kisses turning sloppy, like he was having trouble kissing you back because of how good everything felt. He gripped your hips tightly, holding onto you for dear life.
But then you shifted on his lap, moving your hips a little further up just to kiss him- and the pressure of you right over his straining bulge sent him tumbling over the edge, hands clenching into the fabric of your pants as a desperate moan left his lips.
He pulled back from the kiss, hiding his face against your shoulder, his hips flexing up against you as his eyes rolled back from the pleasure, moans and grunts leaving his lips with each movement.
He eventually started coming down from his high- but fuck was he embarrassed. He couldn’t look at you. But your soft words in his ear, reassuring him that everything was ok made him lean back and look at you with flushed cheeks.
“You’re ok” you murmured, pecking his nose: “Was it good?” You asked with a small chuckle, cradling his cheeks: “Yeah..” he murmured: “Very good..”
“I didn’t mean-“ he stuttered out but you shushed him with a kiss before he could finish his sentence: “I know” you said “But it was good, and that’s all that matters” you added with a smile.
"I get wet at the thought of you, being a responsible guy." - S.C.
synopsis: when bucky moves into the new avengers tower with nothing but a mattress and a few boxes, you help him build a home—and somewhere between ikea trips, thunderbolts chaos, and a creaky new bed, years of longing finally boil over.
warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors do not interact, unprotected p in v, bucky is a giver, female receiving oral, fingering, dry humping, clothed sex, multiple orgasms, competency kink, praise kink, aftercare, friends to lovers, slow burn-esqe, mutual pining, bucky does diy, avenger tower tropes that we all know and love (yes, ava is in the vents), domestic bucky, found family trope.
word count: 10.3k
authors note: in celebration of thunderbolts* getting released on digital + the release of sabrina carpenters new album, here is a bucky fic i spent most of my friday and sunday writing. it’s inspired by the song tears which you can listen to here. if you enjoy, please rb and let me know! lots of love. ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
bucky barnes masterlist ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
You’d always thought Avengers Tower looked a little like a clean blade cutting the sky—sleek, self-assured, a blue mirror planted in Manhattan. Today, with summer air clinging to your neck and the afternoon sun turning the glass honey-warm, it felt less like a monument and more like a promise. You popped the car trunk and watched Bucky Barnes do what he always did: make the impossible look like a series of gentle decisions.
“I’ve got the heavy ones,” he said simply, like gravity reported to him. A box the size of a small refrigerator came up against his shoulder, metal arm gleaming once, a quick flash of light before he turned so you wouldn’t have to carry anything that would pull at your wrists. He nudged the trunk lid with his hip so it wouldn’t slam. He moved the stray strap of your bag off the ground with the toe of his boot so you wouldn’t trip when you pivoted. He did it all without commentary, like kindness was breath.
“I can carry more than a lamp,” you protested, plucking the lamp from its nest of bubble wrap anyway.
His mouth tipped at one corner. “Yeah? Remember when you insisted on carrying Sam’s party supplies back to the apartment and dropped them everywhere?”
“That was one time,” you said, then, softer: “And the bag split.”
“Still,” he said, like the admission needed soft landing. “Don’t worry. I got it.”
The elevator doors yawned open at street level, that clever hydraulic hush swallowing the city noise. He stepped in first, pivoted, and held his forearm against the doors so they couldn’t close on you. It was such a small thing—anyone could have done it, you had done it for strangers—but it was Bucky, and he had the sort of steady attention that turned small things into spells. The edge of the box braced against his shoulder. His flesh hand came out, palm up, waiting for you to hand him your keycard instead of letting you contort around your own parcels.
“Card,” he prompted, voice low enough to be private.
You passed it over, and the pads of his fingers brushed yours, warm and careful, like you might bruise if he hurried. Your stomach did the traitorous little drop it had been practising for months. The elevator blinked to life and climbed with that clean, expensive glide, numbers ticking up and up until you reached the residential floors.
“Still time to back out,” you said, because teasing was your life raft when the world tilted toward earnest. “You could come back to the apartment. You don’t have to be a… New Avenger, is it?” The name tasted slightly bitter on your tongue, and judging from Bucky’s wince, you figured it probably made him uncomfortable, too.
He glanced sideways. “It’s okay. I’ve got to do this. It’s… the right thing to do.”
You smiled at the elevator doors. “I’m proud of you, Bucky.”
The doors opened to an echo of hallway and new paint smell. Somewhere deeper in the tower, you could hear the skeleton noise of HVAC and Ava’s footsteps-that-weren’t-footsteps when she phased through a wall and startled the building into humming differently for a second. You nudged the apartment door open with your shoulder, half-expecting the worst, which made the room itself almost funny.
It wasn’t empty because emptiness implied intention. It was an almost-room, a blueprint, a place that would eventually learn his shape. The window spilled city into it. The bed was a mattress on the floor, neatly made—of course it was neatly made—with a plain grey duvet. A single chair, borrowed from a conference room, sat obediently in a corner. Two mugs on the counter. A box labeled BOOKS in tidy block letters sat next to a box labeled KITCHEN, same handwriting, same small patience.
“You weren’t kidding,” you said, setting the lamp gently onto the empty nightstand that wasn’t there. You settled for the floor. “Barnes, you moved into a concept.”
He set the box down with soundless control, then straightened. He always moved like the room might break if he didn’t respect it. “I figured I’d start simple. See what I actually use.”
“And what if what you actually use is a couch?” you asked. “What if your destiny is a rug?”
He made a show of considering. “I could be a rug guy.”
“Stop. That’s too much change at once.”
You peeled tape from the BOOKS box and found a few history texts, the kind with footnotes that knew their own weight, and a battered copy of something Russian you’d seen him read when the night got bad. You lifted it free and slid it onto the windowsill because there were no shelves yet, no furniture that could take on the solid trust of keeping someone’s words safe.
Bucky took the smaller boxes like a gentleman and the larger ones like a foregone conclusion, lining them up in thoughtful rows along the wall. He didn’t comment when you rearranged the lines so the labels faced outward, and he didn’t let the door swing closed behind you even once. He left it propped with his boot, a quiet little statement about how the next hour would be easy.
“Barnes!” The voice arrived before the person did. Yelena breezed into the doorway with a tiny potted plant as if she’d materialised out of thin air. She wore sunglasses inside and a grin that promised violence on your behalf if anyone made you carry something heavy. “We bring gift. A living thing. For the concept of your room.”
“It’s a pothos,” you said, delighted despite yourself. “It’s basically unkillable.”
“Like him.” She passed it to you. “He needs colour. And a rug.”
“I am right here,” Bucky said, which only made Yelena aim her smile at him like a laser measuring tool.
“You are very here,” she conceded. “But your room is not. We fix it.”
Behind her, Alexei stumbled in with the fragile care of a bull in a porcelain store, arms full of something that clinked. “I brought plates,” he announced proudly. “All the plates.”
“They’re bowls,” Yelena said, leaning sideways to see around him.
“They are plate-bowls,” he insisted. “For stew. A man needs stew.”
“Thank you,” Bucky said, perfectly sincere. “I like stew.”
Alexei preened. “He likes stew,” he stage-whispered to you, as if you’d been skeptical about the concept.
John Walker arrived next, because of course he did, because the universe loved a comedic beat. He shouldered in with three boxes stacked to his chin like a cartoon mailman, strides wide, expression set to This Is Nothing, I Am A Mountain. “Where do you want—” he began, and then his foot clipped the doorstop and the top box slipped, and the bottom box tried to emulate the top, and the middle one decided to become confetti, which is how John ended up with a lapful of Bucky’s socks.
Silence. Then Yelena’s laugh, bright and merciless. “Very graceful, Johnny. Like ballerina cow.”
“I meant to do that,” John said, which only made it better.
“Leave the heavy lifting to the professional,” Ava murmured, her voice arriving from above before her face did. You tipped your head back and found her peering down from an open vent, chin on forearms like a cat poking through a stair railing. “Hi.”
You pressed a hand to your chest, pretending your pulse wasn’t a drumline. “Have you been in the ventilation system this whole time?”
“Not the whole time,” she said, unapologetic. “I get bored.”
“She gets bored,” Yelena echoed. “Come down, ghost. Help with plate-bowls.”
Ava eased herself out of the vent like gravity was a rumour and landed lightly. She took in the mattress, the chair, the tidy rows of boxes, and then flicked her gaze to Bucky, the tiny quirk of a smile you only got if you knew to look. “Minimalist chic. I approve.”
“Please stop enabling him,” you said, hugging the pothos to your chest. It looked very small and determined. “We’re going to IKEA.”
Bucky made a noise that was almost a groan and almost a laugh. “We could start with shelves.”
“We will,” you promised, and it felt strangely like promising something larger, like promising that the next hour would be easy, and the next day would be kinder, and that you would be there for both. “And a couch. And a rug. And forks that match.”
“I have forks,” he protested.
“Four,” you said. “And two are technically camping utensils.”
“They fold,” he defended, which made Alexei look personally offended on behalf of stew.
“We go to IKEA,” Alexei declared. “We test sofas. We eat meatballs.”
“Please don’t make the meatballs a test,” John muttered, gathering socks with as much dignity as a man knee-deep in a stranger’s laundry could manage.
You moved through the next hour like you’d rehearsed it: you opened boxes, Bucky opened space, Yelena narrated, Alexei attempted to hang a clock without a clock to hang, and Ava vanished and reappeared with stray screws she found in the hallway as if the building shed hardware like hair. Whenever something needed a knife, Bucky handed you one handle-first. When you lifted anything heavier than your lamp, he simply appeared at your elbow, asking nothing, offering everything, and what were you meant to do with a man like that except fall in love exactly as slowly as you had been, one immaculate courtesy at a time.
At some point, you stood at the window with the pothos, trying to decide how close to put it so it could taste the light without burning. Bucky’s presence found the space behind you the way water found the low places—inevitable, quiet. He didn’t crowd. He set a box down and, without comment, reached past you to right a crooked outlet cover with his fingers, the softest pressure, the metal of his left hand catching sun and throwing it across the floor in a bright coin.
“You good?” he asked, that soft preternatural awareness he carried for other people’s thresholds. It was half question, half calibration.
You nodded. “Just figuring out where he’ll be happiest.” You stroked a leaf. “He looks like a Stanley.”
Bucky leaned in, considering the plant with the same seriousness he’d given a mission brief last week. “Stanley the pothos,” he said. “Sounds like a union man.”
“Solidarity,” you intoned, then laughed at yourself.
Bucky’s mouth softened again, that almost-smile. He reached up—slowly enough you could stop him—and brushed a thumb along your cheekbone, catching a pale stripe of dust you hadn’t noticed you’d collected from the BOOKS box. The pad of his thumb dragged gently over skin, and the world went brisk and high-definition, the way it did when you were about to tell the truth or run from it. He didn’t push; he let his touch be a question.
“You had a… streak,” he said, as if the words were shy and needed coaxing.
“Occupational hazard.” Your voice came out lightly enough to pass for fine. Inside, your heartbeat went to your mouth and back again.
He swept the dust off his thumb on his jeans and took a polite half step back, that little movement he did that said I’m here and I’m listening and I won’t take more than you offer. You wished, briefly, fiercely, that he would be careless just once. That he would misjudge a distance and bump your shoulder with his own and then forget to move away. That he would let himself want openly. But he was Bucky—he wanted cleanly, and privately, and with reverence, and you loved him for it and it made you feral.
“Thank you,” he said, as if you’d done something other than exist next to his window and name his plant.
“For what?”
“For this.” He tipped his chin at the boxes, the dust, the sunlight warming the metal plates along his forearm. “For making the first hour easy.”
The thing behind your ribs unfolded like a careful animal. “Anytime,” you said, and meant it too much.
Yelena called your names from the kitchen—“Come, come, I have arranged the plate-bowls in order of usefulness: very useful, less useful, and John”—and you laughed. You watched Bucky watch you for one heartbeat longer than usual. Then he asked, like a man asking if you wanted to step outside to breathe: “IKEA?”
You pretended to weigh it like the fate of nations. “I suppose. If we must.”
He picked up his wallet and the keycard he’d had the sense to put on a lanyard (of course he had), then offered the lanyard to you without looking like he was offering anything at all. “You drive,” he said. “You know the shortcuts.”
“You just don’t want to parallel park.”
“I don’t,” he agreed, unashamed. “Also, I like when you tell me where to go.”
Your pulse rang once, bright and foolish. “Careful,” you said lightly. “That sounded like a line.”
“If it was,” he said, meeting your eyes with something steady enough to be courage, “it would be a true one.”
Ava had already disappeared back into the vents by the time you made it to the door, because of course she had. Yelena pressed you into a hug that felt like she was checking your bones for integrity and then smacked Bucky on the bicep like she was seasoning him for good luck. Alexei insisted on giving you a twenty for meatballs. John, still scooping socks back into a box, said, “Get a couch you can actually nap on, Barnes,” in the tone of a man conceding defeat to both gravity and your competence.
“I have it handled,” Bucky said, which, coming from him, was a peace treaty and a promise.
In the hallway again, the elevator dinged open and you stepped in first this time. You put your forearm against the doors exactly the way he had and held them while he maneuvered the last of the emptiness out of the way for your life to fit. He looked at your arm and then at your face, something like warmth throwing a reflection across his features. He didn’t say thank you again, because he didn’t have to. The elevator closed, and the city spilled its music at your feet, and the afternoon bent forward into the kind of errand that would look ordinary from the outside and feel like a hinge from the inside.
You checked your pockets for lip balm, for your phone, for the crumpled list you’d made at three a.m. when he texted you I’m moving in, finally and you’d answered, without thinking, I’ll be there. He beat you to the lobby door, palmed it open, and stood there, waiting, until you passed under his arm and into the heat that tasted like a beginning.
He didn’t touch your lower back when you stepped into the sun. He didn’t need to. You felt it anyway: the ghost of his palm, the way he made space feel safer by standing in it with you. The street flavoured the air with car exhaust and the corner bodega’s fresh cilantro. Your car blinked at you like it had missed your chaos. You got behind the wheel and he buckled up without being asked, settled his hands in that ten-and-two that made your chest ache with the memory of him, wild and cornered and unseatbelted in a past that didn’t have room for breath.
“Ready?” you asked.
He looked out at the city he was trying on again, the reflection of summer and possibility on the windshield, then back to you. “Yeah,” he said, quiet and certain. “Take me where I should be.”
You did. And if your fingers trembled just a little on the gearshift when his knee brushed yours as you pulled into traffic, well—no one had to know except the sun, and the pothos named Stanley, and the man who had remembered his seatbelt without prompting.
The ride over felt like the kind of ordinary you wanted to bottle. The city hummed outside your windows, the radio played something low and wordless, and Bucky’s elbow rested against the frame like it belonged there. He didn’t fidget, didn’t fill the silence with needless words. He just let you drive, gave the occasional glance at the map on your phone, and hummed once when you turned down a street he didn’t know but trusted you to.
When the bright blue-and-yellow IKEA sign came into view, you felt a grin slip onto your face before you could stop it. “Prepare yourself, Barnes. This is no ordinary store. This is a labyrinth.”
“Pretty sure I’ve been through worse,” he said, though the way his brow furrowed as he eyed the massive parking lot full of families and shopping carts suggested otherwise.
You grabbed a cart at the entrance and shoved it toward him. “Your noble steed.”
He caught it without looking, metal hand curling effortlessly around the bar, and began to push like it was the most natural thing in the world. For you, though? Your stomach did a ridiculous little flip at the sight. Something about him—this man who could dismantle a room full of armed enemies without breaking a sweat—calmly steering a squeaky-wheeled cart through a store that smelled faintly of cinnamon buns? It was…devastating.
The first section was living rooms, endless staged apartments that made you both pause at the thresholds. You flopped dramatically onto the first couch you saw.
“This one,” you announced, sprawling across the cushions. “Perfect. We’re done.”
Bucky arched a brow, cart parked neatly to the side. “That’s the first one.”
“First one’s always the best.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It’s how I work.” You stretched like a cat, trying not to watch how his eyes flickered—just for a moment—over the shape of you against the cushions.
He shook his head, but you caught the ghost of a smile as he offered you a hand up. His palm was warm, calloused, the pressure precise as he pulled you back to your feet.
The aisles went on forever. You stopped to poke at throw pillows you knew he’d never buy, admired lamps shaped like abstract sculptures, and tested every chair that looked remotely comfortable. He humored you through all of it. Every time you looked up, he was already watching—not impatient, not exasperated. Just there.
When it came time for the heavier lifting, Bucky didn’t even blink. Flatpack after flatpack stacked onto the cart, and he pushed it like it weighed nothing. Other shoppers strained under a single box while he maneuvered three at once, metal arm steady, flesh hand steadying the top. You caught yourself staring and had to cough into your sleeve just to break the spell.
“You okay?” he asked, glancing at you with those steady blue eyes.
“Fine,” you said quickly. “Just…thinking about meatballs.”
“Right,” he said, lips twitching, but he let you have your deflection.
The cafeteria was crowded, a blur of families and couples and kids with ice cream cones melting down their wrists. You snagged two cones after your tray of meatballs and lingonberry jam, sliding one across the table to him.
“You’re gonna love this,” you promised.
He eyed it like it was a mission brief, then took a bite that left a perfect crescent missing from the top. His brows lifted, almost boyish. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” you gasped, hand over your chest. “That’s high praise from you, Barnes.”
He smirked into his cone, quiet and devastating.
You were halfway through yours when disaster struck—one drip of soft serve melting down the side, quick and traitorous. You swiped at it with your tongue, missed, and felt the cold smear at the corner of your mouth.
Bucky leaned forward without hesitation, thumb brushing gently against your lips. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as he wiped the streak away. For a heartbeat too long, he didn’t move, his thumb lingering at the edge of your mouth. Your breath caught, your pulse thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it.
“There,” he said finally, withdrawing his hand, wiping it clean against a napkin like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just set your entire body on fire.
You blinked at him, words gone. So you laughed instead, awkward and breathless, and shoved the rest of your cone into your mouth before you could humiliate yourself further.
Bucky just watched you, expression unreadable except for the faintest, softest curve at the corner of his lips.
When you left the cafeteria, the weight of the moment hung between you like the faint smell of cinnamon rolls that lingered in the air. He didn’t comment, didn’t make it strange. He just held the cart steady while you loaded the last box, brushed his knuckles against your shoulder to guide you around a crowd, and walked beside you like he always had.
You thought, not for the first time, that you’d drown yourself in ordinary errands for the rest of your life if it meant he’d keep doing things like that.
By the time you both returned, your arms aching from carrying bags of throw pillows you swore were necessary and Bucky insisting on stacking three flatpacks across his shoulders, Avengers Tower was already buzzing.
Not the kind of buzz you got from civilians or official meetings—it was Thunderbolts buzz. The low-grade chaos of people who had no business living together yet somehow did.
Yelena was the first to notice the haul, popping her head out of the kitchen with a spoon hanging from her mouth. “Finally! I thought maybe Barnes got lost in big-box store and needed rescue mission.”
“Didn’t get lost,” Bucky said, deadpan, maneuvering through the door with all three boxes balanced like they weighed nothing. “Didn’t need rescue.”
“Mm,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “We take poll later.”
Alexei trundled in behind her, eyes widening at the sight of the furniture. “Is this…bed?” He pointed to one of the boxes.
“Bedframe,” you corrected. “We’re upgrading him from mattress-on-the-floor chic.”
Alexei clapped Bucky on the back so hard you winced in sympathy. “Very proud. A man deserves bed with legs! Mattress only for prison or camping.”
From the corner, Bob perked up from where he was inexplicably sprawled on the couch with a game controller in his hand. “Or a futon,” he offered.
“No futons,” you said immediately.
Bucky glanced at you, lips twitching. “No futons,” he echoed solemnly.
John appeared then, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting all along. He crossed his arms, posture all cocky bravado. “So, Barnes finally getting civilized? I’ll admit, didn’t think you had it in you.”
“You don’t have it in you to carry three boxes at once without tripping,” Yelena shot back before Bucky could open his mouth.
John’s jaw tightened, but he covered it with a smirk. “I was…pacing myself.”
“Sure,” you said, unable to help yourself. “Very strategic.”
Bucky didn’t add to the pile-on. He just set his boxes down neatly against the wall, then straightened to his full height, calm as still water. His lack of effort was louder than any insult. John went quiet after that.
A soft whoosh above your head made you startle, and then—of course—Ava phased straight through the ceiling vent, dropping lightly onto the arm of the couch. “You’re back,” she said casually, as though she hadn’t just startled years off your life.
“Do you—” you gestured upward, exasperated, “—live in the ventilation system?”
“Sometimes,” she replied, smirking. “Better view.”
“She’s rat,” Yelena said affectionately. “A little phantom rat.”
“I prefer ghost,” Ava said, rolling her eyes, but you caught the small smile.
Meanwhile, Alexei had already started unpacking one of the boxes without asking permission. He squinted at the instruction sheet, turning it upside down, then sideways. “It says here we need…allen key?”
“Yeah,” you said, trying not to laugh. “Don’t worry, IKEA provides.”
“Good,” Alexei declared. “Allen will help.”
Yelena groaned.
Bucky didn’t even blink, just crouched to tear open another box with practiced efficiency. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, veins standing out against the strong curve of his forearm as he sorted screws into neat little piles. You watched him work, struck silent for a moment by the sheer calm competence of it—by how he didn’t rush, didn’t sigh, didn’t make it harder than it needed to be.
Beside you, John muttered something under his breath. Louder, he said, “Bet he needs someone to hold the manual for him.”
Bucky didn’t look up. “Don’t need it.”
And he didn’t. In minutes, he had the frame parts aligned on the floor, bolts organized, the whole thing ready to be assembled like he’d done it a hundred times before.
You crouched to help, more for your own sanity than his. “At least let me do something.”
His gaze flickered to you, softer than you were ready for. “Keep me company,” he said simply.
Which you did. Sitting cross-legged across from him, passing screws when he reached for them, pretending not to notice when his knee brushed yours more than once. The others provided background noise—Alexei arguing with Bob about the strength of futons, Yelena threatening to strangle John with a tape measure, Ava disappearing halfway into the floor just to make you yelp—but for you, it was only Bucky.
Every careful movement of his hands. Every time he shifted the instructions just slightly closer to you like he wanted you included. Every small thing.
And you thought: God help you, you were going to fall apart before this bed was even built.
The apartment floor became a landscape of wooden slats, metal brackets, and little plastic bags of screws that looked identical until you were squinting at them in frustration. Alexei had already wandered off muttering about stew, Yelena had confiscated the instruction manual to doodle moustaches on the stick-figure diagrams, and Ava had vanished into the vents again. John was pretending to supervise from the couch while Bob scrolled idly on his phone.
Which left you and Bucky in the middle of it all—cross-legged on the floor, pieces of a bedframe laid out between you.
“Alright,” you said, picking up one of the planks. “This one goes…here? Or maybe there.”
“Here.” His voice was steady, certain. He reached across and slid the piece into position, aligning it perfectly with another. His flesh hand brushed against your wrist as he steadied it. “Like that.”
You swallowed, hard. “Right. Like that.”
The air between you seemed to thicken, full of things unsaid. His focus was absolute—on the task, on the alignment, on making sure the structure was sound. But every time your fingers grazed, every time your knee bumped against his, it felt deliberate, electric.
You tried to follow the instructions, really, you did—but the stick figure with a wrench might as well have been written in code. Bucky didn’t even glance at the manual. He lined up the planks with measured precision, screws sorted into neat little piles at his side. Each twist of his wrist was efficient, exact, the muscles in his forearm tightening just slightly with the motion.
It was ridiculous, how hot that was.
You passed him a screw. He took it with a murmur of thanks, the words warm enough to lodge under your skin. Watching him work was unfair. The way he braced the pieces together with one hand, then drove the screw in with the other, movements precise and unhurried. He wasn’t just building furniture—he was anchoring something. Rooting himself.
And you couldn’t stop staring.
Bucky’s voice broke your cover. “What?” he asked, faint amusement curling the word. He didn’t look up, just slid the next piece into place like he could do it blind.
“Nothing,” you said too quickly.
He smirked, tightening another bolt. “You like watching me work?”
Your face went hot. “You’re insufferable.”
“Maybe,” he murmured, lips twitching as he drove the screw in with one last, perfect twist. “But I get the job done.”
Your breath caught. He’d said it so casually, like it was nothing, but it set your whole chest buzzing.
You ducked your head and reached for another bolt, trying to disguise the way your hands trembled. “Here,” you said, handing it over.
“Thanks.” His fingers brushed yours again, deliberate this time. You felt the callus at the pad of his thumb, the faint scrape of skin against skin. He didn’t move away immediately. Neither did you.
For a heartbeat, it was just the two of you on the floor, surrounded by half-built furniture, staring at each other like the world might split open if either of you looked away first.
Then John cleared his throat obnoxiously from the couch. “You two gonna build the bed, or just eye-fuck over the screws?”
Your face went nuclear. You snapped your head toward him. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Not really,” John said, smug.
Bucky didn’t rise to it. He just gave John one of those flat looks that carried the weight of entire wars, and John promptly shut up.
But the moment had shifted. You leaned back on your heels, trying to steady your breathing while Bucky drove in the last screw on that side of the frame. He was unbothered, composed—at least on the outside. But you noticed the way his jaw ticked, the way his shoulders had tensed ever so slightly.
He felt it too.
You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back a smile.
The bedframe came together faster than you expected. In under an hour, the skeleton of it stood solid, sturdy, waiting for the mattress. You brushed your hands against your thighs, dusting off the phantom sawdust. “Well. You did it. You’re a real boy now.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, standing and offering you his hand. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
You took it, let him pull you to your feet. His grip lingered a second too long, warm and steady, before he released you.
Yelena reappeared just then, balancing the plant she’d gifted him earlier on her hip like a baby. “Good! Now his room looks less like prison, more like sad bachelor. Progress.”
“Thanks, Yelena,” you said, unable to help your grin.
Bucky just shook his head, muttering something in Russian under his breath. But when he caught your eye again, that faint, private smile was back. The one that made your heart ache with the possibility of more.
The mattress settled into the new frame with a muffled thunk, the springs groaning once before quieting. Bucky smoothed his hand over the blanket, neat as ever, like he was cataloguing its shape.
“There,” he said, voice low, certain. “Bed.”
“Wow. Really outdone yourself this time,” you teased, flopping down across the middle with deliberate drama. The frame gave a little bounce, solid enough to hold you. You spread your arms wide. “Congratulations, Barnes. It’s officially sleep-worthy.”
He gave you one of his looks—half exasperation, half indulgence—and sat carefully at the edge, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. “You’re supposed to test it by lying down, not—”
But then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he stretched out beside you. Boots still planted on the floor, head tipped back against the headboard, arms loose at his sides. His eyes closed, lashes brushing his cheek, like he was letting himself breathe for the first time all day.
Your chest squeezed.
You rolled onto your side, watching him. He looked…younger like this. Softer. The sharp lines in his shoulders seemed to ease. A strand of hair had fallen over his temple, and before you thought better of it, your hand rose to brush it back.
He caught your wrist gently, fingers circling like a band of warmth. His eyes flicked open, startlingly blue this close. His thumb traced your skin, absentminded, like he didn’t know he was doing it.
The silence was heavy with all the things you’d never said.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmured, voice unsteady in a way you rarely heard.
“Like what?” your whisper came out shaky, your breath catching in the tiny space between you.
His lips curved faintly, sad and sweet. “Like I’m something good.”
Your throat tightened. “Maybe you are.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up. His forehead tilted closer, almost brushing yours. His nose nudged against yours—barely, just enough to make you tremble. You inhaled sharply, and he matched it, shaky breath mingling with yours. The tiniest shift and you could’ve kissed him, could’ve drowned in him.
But then you moved at the same time, too fast, and suddenly the mattress betrayed you both. He leaned one way, you leaned the other, and with a startled laugh you ended up rolling—half on top of him, palms braced against his chest.
For a second, you just froze. His heartbeat thudded under your hands. Your knees bracketed his thighs. His flesh hand gripped your waist instinctively, firm but careful, like he was afraid you might slip right through him.
And then you both laughed—helpless, breathless, ridiculous. You dropped your forehead against his shoulder, giggling until it shook through you, and he chuckled low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your palms.
“Graceful,” he teased, voice roughened by amusement.
“Shut up,” you muttered, still laughing.
When you lifted your head again, your laughter died in your throat. Because you were close—so close—your faces inches apart, your breaths mingling. His hand was still on your waist, steady and grounding, and you felt impossibly small beneath the weight of his grip. His gaze dropped again to your mouth, lingered, and this time…he didn’t pull away.
Slowly, carefully, he leaned up to close the last sliver of distance. His nose brushed yours again, your breath stuttered out, and when his lips finally pressed to yours—soft, tentative—it felt like falling into something you’d been reaching for forever.
Your hands fisted in his shirt. His grip on your waist tightened just enough to hold you there. And for a moment, the laughter, the chaos, the world itself—all of it disappeared, leaving only him.
The first kiss was barely there, a brush, a tremor—like he was testing the air between you. You chased it instinctively, your lips catching his again, and this time he didn’t hold back. The second kiss carried weight. Years of careful friendship pressed into the heat of his mouth, the sharp inhale you made against him, the groan he swallowed before it could escape.
His hand slid from your waist up your ribcage, fingertips skimming your side through your shirt, steady and grounding even as everything else in you reeled. You felt small under the span of him, anchored by the weight of his touch.
The mattress creaked when you shifted, pressing closer. His metal arm braced beside your head, cold and immovable, caging you in without crushing you. You tilted up into him, lips parting, and his tongue brushed against yours with such careful hesitation you nearly sobbed from the gentleness of it.
The kiss deepened, grew hungrier, and then he broke away—abruptly, like he’d scared himself. Both of you were panting, noses brushing, foreheads pressed together.
His voice was ragged. “We…we can’t…” He trailed off, thumb stroking your jaw even as his words tried to pull away.
Your chest heaved. “Can’t what?”
“This,” he said, the word hoarse. “Friends don’t do this.”
The ache in your chest sharpened. You searched his face, eyes wide, heart hammering like it wanted to tear out of you. “And what if I don’t want to be just your friend anymore?”
For a moment, silence hung heavy, his thumb frozen against your cheek. His jaw worked, eyes flickering between yours like he was trying to find the trap.
“You don’t mean that,” he murmured finally, so quiet it nearly wasn’t there.
“I do,” you said, fierce despite the tremor in your voice. You were trembling all over, but you held his gaze. “God, Bucky, I’ve wanted this for so long. I thought you…didn’t.”
His breath shuddered out of him. His grip on your waist tightened, like he needed the anchor as badly as you did.
“You think I don’t?” His laugh came out cracked, disbelieving. He nudged his nose against yours again, shaky and tender. “I’ve been trying not to want this. Not to ruin us. Not to ruin you.”
The confession stole your air.
“You couldn’t ruin me,” you whispered.
That undid him. His mouth crashed back to yours, deeper, rougher, teeth catching on your lower lip before his tongue slid past. The kiss was messy now, frantic, both of you chasing the inevitability of it, trying to make up for every moment you’d held back.
You whimpered into him, hands fisting in his shirt, tugging until he groaned against your mouth. His body shifted, rolling you with him, and suddenly you were on your back, his weight braced above you. The bed dipped under him, solid, steady, a frame you’d built together holding both of you now.
He kissed you until you were dizzy, until your lips were swollen and your breaths came out in desperate little gasps. When he finally broke for air again, he stayed close, forehead against yours, voice wrecked.
“Tell me this isn’t just a moment,” he said. “Tell me you’ll still want me tomorrow.”
Your heart cracked wide open. “I’ll want you every day after this,” you said, no hesitation, because it was the easiest truth you’d ever spoken.
Something desperate flickered across his face—relief, hunger, longing all tangled together. And then he kissed you again, like he believed you.
The kiss had tipped from hesitant to desperate so fast your head spun. One moment you were still laughing into his mouth, foreheads bumping clumsily as you tried to steady yourselves, and the next you were clutching at his shirt like a lifeline, kissing him harder, deeper.
Bucky made a sound—low in his chest, almost a growl—and shifted his weight over you. The bed dipped under his knees, his body caging yours. His flesh hand cupped the side of your face, thumb stroking once against your cheekbone before sliding into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you deeper. His metal arm braced steady on the mattress, cold and immovable beside your ribs.
You arched into him, hips brushing, and he froze for half a second. The accidental friction pulled a ragged groan out of him.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth.
Your pulse leapt. You did it again—on purpose this time, tilting your hips to grind up against the hard line you could already feel straining against his jeans. The sound that tore from his throat was guttural, broken.
“Sweetheart—” he warned, though it came out more like a plea than a boundary.
You couldn’t stop, not now. Not after years of pretending you didn’t want this, not after nights lying awake imagining what his weight would feel like pressing you down. “Please,” you whispered, your breath shaky against his lips. “Bucky, please.”
His control snapped.
He surged down to kiss you again, hungrier this time, all teeth and tongue, his breath harsh through his nose as his hips rolled into yours. The denim of his jeans ground against the thin barrier of your leggings, the friction sweet and maddening. You gasped into his mouth, clinging to him as your body sparked under every press of him.
His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him. You felt the breadth of his palm spanning your side, anchoring you, holding you still as he rutted into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. Each grind sent a jolt of heat shooting through you, your head falling back against the pillow with a broken moan.
Bucky’s lips trailed down your jaw, hot and desperate. “Christ,” he muttered, voice rough, “you’re shaking.”
“I can’t—” you gasped, arching into him again, your thighs falling open to give him more space. “Bucky…”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild. His lips were swollen from kissing, his breath ragged. His gaze dragged down your body, then back up to your face, lingering on your mouth like he couldn’t decide which part of you to worship first.
“You’re soaked,” he said hoarsely, the words half wonder, half tease. His hips pressed harder, grinding right against your clit through the fabric, and you cried out. His mouth curled in the faintest, filthiest smirk. “All this…just from me kissing you?”
Your cheeks burned, embarrassment and arousal crashing together, but you couldn’t deny it—not when your body was betraying you with every roll of his hips. “Yes,” you whispered, breath breaking. “God, yes.”
His jaw flexed, like he was trying to hold himself back and failing. He kissed you again, rougher this time, swallowing your moans as he rocked against you. His weight bore down on you, solid and overwhelming, and you felt so small under him—helpless in the best way, pinned between his body and the mattress you’d built together.
Every drag of his cock against your cunt had you gasping, clutching at his shoulders, your hips canting up to meet his rhythm. The friction was relentless, sharp and sweet. Your thighs trembled around him, thighs opening wider with each thrust, and his hand slid down to grip your hip, guiding you against him.
“Look at you,” he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. His nose brushed yours, breath shaky. “So fucking desperate for me.”
You whined, the sound catching in your throat as you ground up into him harder. His hips stuttered once, like he hadn’t expected it, and a string of curses spilled from his lips.
Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer, until his chest was pressed to yours, his heartbeat slamming through his ribs. He kissed you like a man starving, breaking only to breathe raggedly against your lips. His hips kept moving, unrelenting, grinding you closer and closer to the edge.
“Bucky,” you gasped, nails scraping lightly against his back through his shirt. “I’m gonna—”
“Yeah?” he rasped, rocking harder, his voice wrecked. “You gonna come for me like this? Just from me fucking grinding against you?”
You moaned helplessly, head tipping back. “Yes—yes, Bucky, please—”
He groaned low, hips snapping into you once, hard enough to make you cry out. His grip on your hip tightened, holding you to him as he ground down again, perfectly against that spot that had you trembling.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” he urged, voice low and commanding, but laced with awe. “Wanna feel you soak right through these jeans.”
The filthy words tipped you over. Heat crashed through you, your body locking up before shuddering apart. You clung to him, gasping his name against his mouth as your orgasm tore through you, the friction still sparking against your clit until you were shaking all over.
Bucky groaned at the feeling of you thrashing under him, his hips rolling slow and deliberate to draw it out, like he wanted to wring every last tremor from you. He kissed you through it, swallowing your cries, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your waist even as he kept you pinned.
When you finally collapsed back against the mattress, trembling, his lips brushed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. His voice was soft, ragged, reverent.
“God, you’re perfect.”
Your body was still trembling when the aftershocks ebbed, breath catching on each exhale. You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, before Bucky’s face filled your vision again. He was braced above you, flushed and breathing hard, eyes dark but soft as they searched your face.
“Never seen anything like that,” he murmured, brushing your damp hair from your temple with careful fingers. His voice was husky, awed. “Didn’t even touch you under your clothes and you…”
Heat burned through your cheeks. “Bucky—”
“Shh.” He kissed you quick, reassuring, before shifting his weight back. “I wanna take care of you.”
The way he said it made your chest ache—like he wasn’t just talking about tonight, like he meant every part of your life.
Before you could respond, he was tugging at the hem of your shirt. “Can I?”
You nodded, wordless, and raised your arms. He peeled the fabric over your head, slow and careful, like he was unwrapping something precious. His gaze swept over you reverently as he tossed the shirt aside, calloused fingers tracing along your sides before he leaned down to press open-mouthed kisses across your collarbone.
“Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin.
You shivered, already squirming as he trailed lower, kissing the curve of your breast over your bra, down your stomach, across your hip. When his fingers hooked into your leggings, he paused, glancing up.
“You sure?” His eyes searched yours, raw and earnest. “I don’t need more than what we just did. I’d be happy to stop here.”
Your heart clenched. God, he meant it. Even with his own arousal straining visibly against his jeans, he’d stop if you asked. He’d tuck you under the blanket, let you sleep, and never mention it again.
“I want this,” you whispered fiercely, reaching down to thread your fingers through his hair. “I want you.”
Something flickered in his expression—relief, hunger, tenderness tangled together. He kissed the inside of your thigh once, sealing your words like a vow, before tugging your leggings and underwear down in one smooth motion.
Cool air hit you, making you gasp. His eyes dropped between your thighs, and his breath caught audibly.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself, half in wonder. “You’re soaked.” He glanced up, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Still can’t believe I did that to you just from grinding.”
You buried your face in your hands with a groan. “Don’t—”
He chuckled low, prying your hands away gently. “Don’t hide from me. You have no idea how fucking gorgeous you are like this.”
And then his mouth was on you.
The first stroke of his tongue over your clit made you arch clean off the bed. He held your hips steady with his broad hands, anchoring you as he licked slowly, deliberately, savoring. His stubble scratched faintly against the tender inside of your thighs, the contrast only making you whimper louder.
“Fuck, Bucky—”
He hummed, the vibration buzzing against your clit, before sucking gently, teasingly. Your back bowed, a sharp cry ripping from your throat. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “That’s it. Let me hear you.” Then he dove back in, tongue circling, flicking, stroking until your thighs were trembling around his head.
Your hands fisted in his hair, tugging helplessly. He groaned into you, the sound raw, like your desperation only spurred him on. He mouthed at your folds, tongue dipping lower to taste everything, then sliding back up to focus on your clit with maddening precision.
“Sweetheart,” he rasped, pausing only to kiss the inside of your thigh before pressing his mouth to you again. “You taste—fuck, I could stay here all night.”
You were incoherent, babbling his name, gasps breaking between moans. The coil in your stomach wound tighter with every flick of his tongue, every gentle suck. His hands never left you—one holding your thigh open, the other stroking soothing circles against your hip like he was reminding you he had you, he’d never let you go.
“Bucky, I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he murmured against your clit, his voice wrecked. “Come for me, doll. Wanna feel you shake for me again.”
It was too much. Your thighs clamped around his head as the orgasm hit, white-hot, tearing through you. You cried out, back arching, nails digging into his scalp. He groaned, devouring you greedily, tongue working you through it until you were thrashing, begging for mercy.
Finally, he pulled back, lips slick, face flushed. He kissed your trembling thigh tenderly, then your hip, then worked his way back up your body. By the time he kissed you again, you were still panting, dazed, and the taste of yourself on his tongue made your head spin.
“See?” he whispered against your mouth, pressing his forehead to yours. “Told you I’d take care of you.”
You could only nod weakly, fingers clutching his shoulders, your whole body humming with the aftershocks. He kissed you again, slow and deep, as though he had all the time in the world.
You were still reeling, body humming and limp against the mattress, when Bucky kissed you again. His mouth was slow now, reverent, like he was savoring every second. You clutched at him anyway, greedy, pulling him closer.
He broke the kiss with a ragged groan, forehead pressed to yours, his breath harsh against your lips. “If I don’t stop now…” His voice cracked. “I won’t stop.”
“Then don’t,” you whispered, without a shred of hesitation. Your nails dug lightly into his shoulders. “Don’t stop, Bucky. Please.”
His jaw clenched, torn between restraint and need. His hand stroked along your cheek, then down your side, trembling just slightly. “You know what you’re asking?”
“Yes,” you said fiercely. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”
That undid him. His mouth crushed to yours, desperate and messy, while his hands moved to your hips, tugging your leggings the rest of the way off. His jeans followed—clumsy, hurried, shoved down just far enough. The weight of him pressed against your thigh, heavy and hot, his cock dragging against your skin.
You gasped at the size of him, at the sheer heat. He cursed softly, head dropping to your shoulder as he ground against you once, helpless. “Christ—you’re so warm. I don’t even…” He cut himself off with a shudder.
You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, guiding him. His hips bucked at the contact, a guttural sound torn from his chest.
“Wait,” he rasped suddenly, pulling back enough to search your face. His thumb stroked your jaw again, frantic tenderness pouring out of him. “I don’t have—anything. No condom.”
Your heart slammed. You knew this mattered, knew it was reckless, but every nerve in your body screamed for him. “It’s okay,” you whispered, steady even through your shaking. “I’m clean. I’m on the pill. Just—please, Bucky. I need you.”
He groaned like he was breaking, like the last thread of restraint had snapped. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath shaky. “I’ll pull out,” he promised, voice rough. “I won’t risk you.”
You nodded, clutching at him. “I trust you.”
That was it. That was all he needed.
He kissed you once more, slow and deep, then angled his hips. His tip slid through your folds, catching at your entrance. You gasped at the stretch already, at the anticipation.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice wrecked but soothing. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing along your lip. “I’ve got you.”
And then he pushed in.
The stretch stole your breath, made your nails dig into his back. He groaned low, burying his face against your neck, body trembling as he eased deeper, inch by inch.
“Fuck,” he hissed, kissing the line of your jaw, his voice almost reverent. “So tight. So warm. You feel…you feel like you were made for me.”
You whimpered, overwhelmed, but clung tighter. “Don’t stop,” you begged, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”
He stilled when he was fully inside, chest heaving against yours. His lips pressed to your temple, your cheek, anywhere he could reach, murmuring softly. “I’ll give you a minute. Breathe. Just breathe for me.”
The gentleness almost undid you more than the stretch. You nodded shakily, letting your body adjust, letting the sharp ache melt into fullness. Into him.
“Okay,” you whispered finally. “I’m okay.”
His mouth hovered over yours, his hips rolling slow. The drag of him inside you pulled a moan straight from your throat. His face crumpled, like the sound broke him open.
“Sweetheart…” His thrusts were deep, unhurried, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you. His metal arm held him steady above you, his flesh hand cradled your face like you were fragile glass. “You’re so perfect like this. So wet for me.”
Your body clenched around him at his words, and he groaned, hips stuttering. “Fuck—you hear that? Hear how wet you are? Can’t believe this is real.”
You whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “It’s real. It’s always been you.”
He kissed you like that shattered him, thrusts growing rougher, needier. Each roll of his hips pressed deeper, harder, until you were gasping into his mouth, your nails raking down his back. The sound of your slick filled the room, obscene and beautiful.
“God, I could lose myself in you,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so fucking good. Don’t ever let me go.”
You were close again—could feel it building, hot and sharp in your stomach. You moaned into his mouth, clinging tighter. “Bucky—I’m gonna—”
“Yeah,” he groaned, his thrusts snapping harder now, ragged. “Come for me, doll. Wanna feel you squeeze me.”
His words tipped you over. Pleasure ripped through you, white-hot, your body clenching hard around him. You cried out his name, back arching, thighs trembling around his waist.
He cursed, head thrown back, hips stuttering as he pulled out just in time. Hot release spilled across your stomach as he groaned, broken, bracing himself above you with a shaking arm.
The room was filled with nothing but your panting, your pounding hearts, the faint creak of the bedframe.
Bucky’s hand trembled as he stroked your hair back, pressing his forehead to yours. His voice was raw, almost a whisper. “I can’t believe you want me.”
Tears pricked your eyes, soft and aching. “I always have.”
He kissed you once more, slow and lingering, before collapsing beside you, tugging you into his chest. His arm wrapped around you, holding you tight, as if he’d never let you slip away again.
And for the first time, lying tangled together on the bed you’d built, it felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
The room was still thick with the smell of sex, the hum of your breathing uneven as you collapsed into the dip of the mattress. Sweat cooled on your skin, and your limbs felt like they belonged to someone else.
But Bucky didn’t let you move.
You’d started to shift, murmuring something about getting cleaned up, but he stilled you instantly with a hand against your hip. “Stay,” he said softly, already leaning over the edge of the bed to grab the towel he’d left nearby. “I’ve got it.”
You blinked up at him, dazed. His hair was mussed, damp strands falling into his face, and his cheeks were flushed a deep, gorgeous pink. The sight alone should’ve undone you all over again.
“I can—”
“Shh.” He cut you off gently, lips brushing your temple. “Let me take care of you.”
It was such a simple line, but the weight in his voice made your chest tighten. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t saying it to be smooth. He meant it.
And then he was easing you onto your back, careful and unhurried. The towel was warm from his hands as he wiped you down, movements reverent. He cleaned the mess between your thighs with slow strokes, murmuring soft apologies when you flinched at the sensitivity. His flesh hand cupped your knee, steady and grounding.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your thigh after each swipe. “Almost done.”
The towel was warm against your oversensitive skin, but it wasn’t the touch that made your breath catch—it was the way he handled it. Unhurried, precise, careful in a way that made your chest ache. He didn’t rush, didn’t miss a spot, didn’t falter even when you squirmed at the sensitivity.
It was intimate in a way that almost overwhelmed you more than the sex had. He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t embarrassed. He just…took his time, every gesture threaded with care.
It hit you suddenly, almost embarrassingly: it wasn’t just the sex. It was this. The competence of him. The quiet way he knew what to do, how to make you comfortable, how to make you feel cared for.
Your voice slipped out before you could stop it. “You’re…really good at this.”
Bucky froze for a second, then huffed a quiet laugh, brushing a kiss against your thigh. “In the 108 years I’ve been alive… guess I’ve picked up a thing or two.”
When he was satisfied, he tossed the towel aside and tugged the blanket up, wrapping it snug around your body. Then he slid in beside you, pulling you into his chest with an arm around your waist.
You melted instantly. His body was warm and solid, his heart thudding against your cheek. He smelled faintly of sweat, clean cotton, and the lingering spice of his soap. You burrowed closer, sighing as your body finally loosened.
“You good?” he asked after a moment, his lips brushing the crown of your head.
“Better than good,” you mumbled, your voice muffled against his chest.
He let out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you. His metal arm shifted under the blanket, cold plates carefully avoiding your skin, while his flesh hand stroked your back in slow, absentminded circles.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured after a while, his thumb brushing along your spine.
“Comedown,” you admitted, yawning. “Not bad. Just…a lot.”
His arm tightened around you. “I’ve got you.”
You believed him.
Silence stretched, heavy but comfortable. The only sound was your uneven breathing slowly syncing to his. The adrenaline ebbed, replaced by the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that felt safe, earned.
Your eyelids drooped, the rhythm of his touch lulling you under.
“Don’t let go,” you whispered, already drifting.
“Never,” he promised, voice steady and certain, even as his own breathing slowed.
Sleep claimed you like that—tucked in his arms, warm and content, with the steady weight of him wrapped protectively around you.
The kitchen was already alive when you and Bucky slipped in the next morning. Yelena was perched on the counter with a mug of coffee, Alexei hovered over the stove with a pot in one hand, and Bob was upside-down on the couch for reasons you didn’t want to know. John sat at the table scrolling his phone, muttering into his mug. Ava phased half-in and half-out of the wall like it was the most normal thing in the world.
It was chaos, and you almost turned around to go back upstairs.
Alexei was the first to notice. “You!” he barked, brandishing the ladle like a weapon. “You missed dinner! Hours I spent making stew, and you vanish like ghosts.”
You winced, sheepish, holding up your mug as a shield. “Sorry, Alexei. We were…busy.”
Yelena’s head swiveled toward you like a hawk. “Busy with what?” Then her eyes narrowed, darting between you and Bucky—his damp hair, the faint blush creeping up his neck, the way he was very deliberately not looking at anyone. A slow smirk tugged at her lips. “Oh. Busy with bed.”
You choked on your coffee.
Bucky’s ears went pink, his jaw tightening as he busied himself with the toaster like it required tactical focus. “Don’t,” he muttered.
Yelena grinned wickedly. “So. How was it?”
“Yelena!” you squeaked, covering your face with your mug.
John perked up instantly, smirk already forming. “What’d I miss?”
“Barnes christened the bed,” Yelena said cheerfully.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered, slamming toast onto a plate like it had offended him.
Bob groaned dramatically from the couch. “Ugh. Do not tell me I have to live with the sound effects.”
“Noise-proof walls,” Ava said blandly, phasing her head fully through the wall to smirk at you. “Mostly.”
Your cheeks burned hotter. You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out, half mortified, half giddy.
Bucky shot you a look, torn between exasperation and fondness, but the blush spreading down his throat gave him away.
Alexei set down the ladle with a huff. “I make stew, no one comes. But everyone comes for bed. This is disrespect.”
That broke you. You dissolved into laughter, hiding your face in your hands, while Bucky groaned beside you like he regretted every decision leading to this moment.
Breakfast carried on with relentless teasing—Yelena raising her brows at every creak of the chair when Bucky shifted, John muttering about “young love,” Bob pretending to gag into his cereal. Through it all, Bucky stayed at your side, shoulders squared like he could shield you from it, though his ears stayed red the whole time.
When you finally escaped back upstairs, both of you clutching your coffee like lifelines, you collapsed onto his still-new bed in a fit of laughter.
“They’re never going to let us live this down,” you gasped, wiping tears from your eyes.
Bucky sank down beside you with a sigh, shaking his head. “Nope.”
You propped yourself up on your elbow, grin spreading. “So…we could test the shower?”
His head snapped toward you, eyes wide, before a slow, boyish smirk tugged at his mouth. He leaned closer, voice low. “Think the couch might need testing too.”
You laughed, pushing at his chest, but he only caught your wrist, tugging you into his lap. His kiss was softer this time, but the heat was still there, banked under the surface, waiting.
And if the rest of the Tower heard the creak of the shower pipes later that morning—well, that was nobody’s business but yours.
Pairings: PornStar!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
Themes: Game of Cat and Mouse. Bucky just being a fucking DREAM MAN. SWOONworthy?
Summary: A simple dance was all he asked for. Admitting you wanted his kiss was another story.
A/N: I have had 3 versions of part 4 that I wasn't satisfied with and FINALLY, I went in this direction. This is not proof read so if there are inconsistencies or minor mistakes, it's because. . . it's not proof read lmao. I am sorry about the ending lol. We're getting there I promise.
You were mid-sip of your iced coffee (a crime in itself because it was almost ten o’clock at night) when your phone buzzed with a message from Bucky Barnes, Professional Fluster Inducer and Questionably Too Hot for Your Emotional Stability.
Bucky: Do you have anything formal? Like an evening gown? For a company party?
Bucky: I know I said just you and me but. . .I want to bring you as my date.
You blinked.
Sat up straighter. Nearly choked.
Formal?
Evening gown?
Was he asking you to prom? Did you accidentally sign up for a Bridgerton spin-off and not know it? You stared at your closet from your spot on the bed, as though the dusty IKEA doors would magically part like the Red Sea and reveal some kind of elegant, floor-length miracle.
Spoiler: they did not.
You climbed off the bed with your phone in one hand and flung your closet open with the kind of optimism usually reserved for people who say things like "it'll be a quick trip to IKEA." The result? A tragic, horrifying display of jersey knits, three identical black dresses you kept for funerals or "slightly fancy dinner" situations, and one dress that still had a dry-cleaning tag from your cousin’s wedding in 2018. The most glamorous thing in there had sequins, but they were falling off like your will to live during tax season.
You texted back.
You: uhhh i think so?
There was a pause. You waited. And then:
Bucky: You think so? That doesn’t sound reassuring.
You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in your skull.
Bucky: Should I get someone to help you?
You made a choking noise, then typed furiously:
You:What??? NO. Do you think I’m incapable of styling myself?!
Bucky: 😬… I’m not going to answer that.
You: WTH? JAMES.
Bucky: I’m just saying... if you need help... let me know.
You threw your phone onto the bed like it had personally insulted your family name.
The audacity. The sheer, unfiltered audacity of this man.
Never mind that the last time you did your full makeup for a wedding, your eyeliner rebelled halfway through and you ended up looking like an extra in a Tim Burton movie. Or that you once tried to curl your hair and somehow managed to temporarily weld two strands together.
It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.
Except Bucky Barnes, Ford engineer slash secret adult film star, had just asked you to be his date to a formal company party. To meet his actual colleagues. To see his real job. The one where he kept his clothes on.
And all you could think about was how your last "fancy event" outfit involved a panic-buy from H&M and shoes that made you cry by the second hour.
You stared down at your phone.
You: Are you being serious about the dress code? Like, serious serious?
Bucky: It’s at a golf resort. With valet parking.
You: So... not jeans.
Bucky: Not unless they’re made of your dreams and cost $3,000.
You sighed and sank back into your bed.
This was a test. Not of your style. Not of your ability to blend in among women who probably knew the difference between contour and bronzer.
No.
This was a test of your willpower not to fall harder for the man who remembered to text you about a dress code because he wanted you there.
Even if he did think you needed backup.
You stared at the blinking cursor, pride and panic battling it out like two raccoons fighting over the same slice of pizza. Then you typed with the confidence of a woman who absolutely did not have her life together:
You: I’ll sort something out.
Translation: I will absolutely not sort something out. But I know people.
Specifically, Amy and Trish—two women whose closets could double as costume departments and whose eyeliner wings could cut glass.
You didn’t waste time. You called Amy.
She answered on the first ring, like she'd been waiting her entire life for this very moment.
"Hey," you began without preamble. "This guy I’m seeing asked me to be his date to a work party. I need help. Can I borrow a dress?"
There was a brief pause before Amy gasped dramatically. "Oh my GOD, girl, yes! When is it?"
You paused. "Hang on, let me ask."
You quickly texted Bucky:
You: When is the party exactly?
He replied like he had all the time in the world.
Bucky: tomorrow night.
You blinked. Then blinked again. Because clearly this man was operating on a different calendar. A lawless one.
“…Tomorrow night,” you said flatly into the phone.
Amy, bless her chaotic soul, didn’t miss a beat. “Oh shit. Then we need to sort you out ASAP. I’m calling Trish for a second opinion. You think you can come by my house in thirty?”
You looked down at your current outfit—oversized lemon-print t-shirt, bike shorts, and a single fuzzy sock that may or may not have given up on life.
“…Yeah. Thirty works.”
Thirty-five minutes later (you got stuck behind a garbage truck), you stood in front of Amy’s front door, mentally preparing yourself for what could only be described as the Fashion Emergency Summit of 2025.
You knocked. The door practically swung open before your knuckles touched it.
“There she is!” Amy squealed, grabbing your wrist and yanking you inside like you were the last contestant on America’s Next Top Model: Desperate Edition.
Trish was in the living room, surrounded by garment bags and aggressively sipping wine like it was go-go juice. She looked up, immediately shook her head, and stood like you’d just triggered a makeover bat signal.
“Okay. Work party. Man you're seeing. Formal. Urgent. Got it. First things first—take your pants off.”
You blinked. “Hello to you too.”
“Sorry, did you want to impress him or nah?” she replied, already unzipping a dress bag like she was opening a sacred scroll.
Amy appeared at your side. “We’re skipping the niceties. You’re in crisis and we are the fairy godmothers your mom warned you about.”
You tried to keep up as they steamrolled around you—pulling out dresses, shoes, necklaces, even a clutch shaped like a seashell (for some reason).
“Wait,” you said, hands up. “I just asked to borrow a dress. I didn’t realize I was auditioning for princess diaries.”
“Sweetheart,” Amy said, gently tossing your limp ponytail over your shoulder, “have you seen your closet? This is not a dress loan. This is a full-blown humanitarian mission.”
“So,” Trish said, one perfectly arched brow lifting as she gave you the slow, evaluative once-over, wine glass in hand like she was about to perform a sacred ceremony. “This mysterious man. Is he hot? Rich? Emotionally unavailable? Give me something to work with.”
You dropped your bag with a dramatic thunk near the doorway, already regretting every life decision that had led you to this moment. “He’s… complicated.”
Two synchronized groans echoed through the room.
“Oh God,” Amy muttered, flopping dramatically onto the velvet chaise like this was all too much for her emotionally. “She’s in deep.”
“Complicated is girl-code for ‘his abs should be illegal,’” Trish said, sipping her cabernet like the all-knowing oracle she believed herself to be. “Am I wrong?”
You tried not to look too smug. Shrugged, oh-so-casual. “They should probably be regulated. Yes.”
Amy clapped once. “Then let’s begin,” she said, in the same voice you imagined Caesar used before unleashing gladiators. She looked too smug for your comfort. Like she’d been preparing for this since the day you met.
First came the dresses. A waterfall of fabrics in every imaginable shade. Trish, who had appointed herself Commander of Evening Wear, flung dresses at you like she was battling inner demons through couture. “This,” she said, holding up a gold sequin bodycon dress that screamed Vegas, baby.
Amy barely looked up. “She’s not about to elope with Elvis.”
Midnight blue slip? Too clingy. Velvet green number? Too ‘winter gala at the Met.’ Champagne satin gown? Way too bridal. You looked like someone about to accept an award for Best Performance in a Rom-Com That Ends in Tragedy.
Then came the black satin dress. You stepped out of the bathroom and turned toward them—and everything stilled.
“No one speak,” Amy whispered, eyes wide. “We found it.”
Trish made the sign of the cross.
Then came hair.
Trish unzipped her emergency beauty toolkit with the reverence of a trauma surgeon. Curling irons, dry shampoo, hairspray, texturizing powder—you weren’t even sure some of these things were legal.
She got to work, curling and teasing and muttering “trust the process” like a woman on the brink. She moved with the intensity of someone who’d seen too many TikTok tutorials and wasn’t afraid to experiment. Bobby pins dangled from her lips like tiny swords.
“Turn your head,” she ordered. “Not that way. The other way. We’re building volume, not a crime scene.”
While she worked, Amy began on your face, swiping and sculpting and muttering spells under her breath like she was summoning Aphrodite.
“We contour where we want the light to hit. We bake where we hold grudges. We highlight where we seduce.”
Highlighter shimmered across your cheekbones. Eyeshadow turned your lids into smoky, mysterious omens of danger. Your lashes were now capable of generating electricity and fanning away weak men. Your lips? Berry-stained, sultry, slightly dangerous. Like you bit hearts for breakfast.
Amy stepped back and tilted your chin up with her fingers. “I love us.”
Then came accessories.
Trish handed you gold hoops—small, elegant, powerful. Amy slid a chunky cocktail ring onto your finger like she was knighting you. “You’re welcome, America.”
Shoes. Strappy, black, gorgeous. The kind of heels that whispered I am expensive and will step on you if necessary.
Then perfume. A single spritz.
And finally—quiet.
Amy took a dramatic breath, wiped imaginary sweat from her brow, and in the worst Italian accent you had ever heard, she began:
“Your Majesty… Paolo is exhausted. Because your Majesty—” she pointed at the lemon-print shirt you had worn over here, crumpled on the chair like a sad lemony corpse. “Only Paolo can take this—”
She then gestured to the tragic hairbrush still sitting on the dresser. “And this—”
And with a dramatic flair worthy of an Oscar for Best Supporting Friend, she stepped aside and swept her hand toward the mirror.
“And give youuuu… THIS.”
And actually gasped.
You looked—expensive. Like you belonged in the corner booth of a dimly lit rooftop bar, sipping something with one perfect ice cube. Like the kind of woman who didn’t return texts because she was too busy living.
You stared at yourself. Equal parts shocked and delighted. Maybe even a little terrified. Because this girl in the mirror?
She looked like the kind of woman who would ruin a man in the best possible way.
“…So what now?” you asked, voice just slightly shaky.
Amy raised a brow and smirked. “Now? Now you go knock his emotionally unavailable, hot-ass socks off tomorrow.”
× × × ×
You were already sweating.
Which wasn’t ideal, considering you hadn’t even made it to the event yet. Or gotten into the dress. Or zipped the stupid clutch. Or—most importantly—figured out how to re-create the smoky eye Amy had lovingly summoned onto your face the night before like she was Michelangelo and your eyelids were the Sistine Chapel.
Currently, you were sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, surrounded by brushes, palettes, half a makeup wipe, and your own crippling sense of inadequacy.
Your phone was propped up on a candle jar. Amy’s face appeared on the screen, slightly angled and very judgmental.
“Okay,” she said, squinting at you like you were a math problem. “Back away from the mirror. You’re too close. I can’t help you if I’m staring up your nostrils.”
You scooted back on your fuzzy rug and sighed dramatically. “I already forgot everything you taught me. This brush is the same size as the last one. Why are there fifty of them? Why do they all look like they could paint miniature horses?”
Amy ignored your spiral. “Show me what you’ve done so far.”
You held up the brush. Then the palette. Then your own barely-attempted eyelid, which currently looked like it had survived a light dust storm.
Amy winced. “Okay. First of all—that’s a blending brush, not a shovel. Stop packing on the pigment like you’re laying asphalt.”
You dropped the brush. “I’m panicking. I forgot the order of everything. Is it brown first? Then black? Where’s the ‘seductress but approachable’ shade?”
Amy flipped a page in a literal notebook and started going down a checklist like she was prepping you for a space launch. You could see the title written in all caps: OPERATION SMOKEY HOT BITCH.
“Okay. You have the dress?”
“Hanging on the door.”
“Earrings?”
“In a dish. Next to my sanity.”
“Perfume?”
“Already spritzed. I smell like danger and debt.”
“Backup heels in your bag in case you die in the stilettos?”
You blinked. “Wait, you packed me backup heels?”
“I’m not an amateur,” she replied, flipping another page. “Okay. Hair—you curled it this morning, right?”
“Yes. But it’s slowly turning into a soft wave of disappointment.”
“We’ll refresh with spray in a minute. Focus. Now—eyeshadow. Grab the warm brown shade we used yesterday. Light hand. Light. You’re not smearing Nutella on toast.”
You followed her instructions, holding your breath like you were disarming a bomb.
“There,” she said finally, nodding. “Now darken the outer corners. Just a smidge. And blend like your life depends on it. If I see one hard edge, I’m revoking your mascara privileges.”
You swirled and blended, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. “How do you make this look so easy?”
“Because I’ve done this a hundred times. Also because I have no kids and a supportive husband and an emotional support Starbucks within walking distance. You? You’re in the trenches.”
You laughed, then paused to look at yourself.
It was… not bad. Honestly? It was almost the same as last night. Maybe a little less “editorial photoshoot,” a little more “sexy villainess who gets a redemption arc,” but still.
Amy was nodding. “Good. Add eyeliner. Lashes. But no crying, or I swear to God I will teleport to your house and reapply it myself.”
You applied the mascara with surgical precision. “Are we good?”
She squinted again. “Hold up the clutch.”
You held it.
“Okay. Lipstick?”
“Same berry one. It’s already in my bag.”
“Do not put it on until after you drink water. Hydration is important, but blotting is key.”
You saluted her with your water bottle. “Thank you, General Beauty.”
Amy softened then. Smiled at you through the screen like a proud stage mom. “You’re going to kill him, you know.”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Mmmhmm,” she said, turning the page again. “Final checklist item: emotional damage immunity.”
“…What?”
“In case he says something like ‘you look… different’ or—worse—‘cool dress.’ We are not accepting bare minimum male commentary tonight.”
You snorted. “You really made a whole checklist?”
“I printed copies,” she said proudly. “Trish laminated hers.”
You couldn’t stop smiling. “Thank you, I love you. You know that, right?”
“I do. And you look like a goddess. Now go prove it.”
You nodded, nerves dancing in your stomach, adrenaline humming beneath your skin.
× × × ×
You opened the door and promptly forgot how to breathe.
Not because of your own nerves. Not because you were internally cataloging whether your lipstick would survive a full meal. Not even because you were wearing heels that felt like baby deer training stilts.
No, you forgot how to breathe because Bucky Barnes was standing at your door.
Back turned, suit tailored within an inch of its life, head ducked as he spoke low into his phone. The kind of low that made your stomach swoop like a rollercoaster. His hand was in his pocket, jaw tight in concentration, voice steady—but there was the hint of a smile. Like whoever was on the other end had said something funny and he was too cool to admit it.
You were not okay.
He hadn’t even seen you yet, and you already felt like a defibrillator had been applied directly to your entire central nervous system.
You cleared your throat. “Bucky.”
And then—
He turned.
Slowly.
Like it happened in cinematic time.
Like God itself hit the slow-mo button just for you.
And his reaction?
Immediate.
His brows twitched. The phone slipped just slightly from his ear.
You watched the way his gaze swept over you—once, twice, like he couldn’t believe you were real. And then, as if his brain could no longer support basic functions, he hung up on whoever he’d been talking to. No goodbye. No explanation. Just thumb to screen and click.
And then—nothing.
He just stared.
Which was both flattering and also a little awkward, because now you were just standing there on your welcome mat, heart jackhammering in your chest, hoping your deodorant had done its job.
“I—uh.” He cleared his throat. “Hi.”
Hi?
He said hi?
You blinked. “Hey.”
He ran a hand down the back of his neck, clearly scrambling for something better. “Sorry. You just—you look…”
And then he trailed off. Like the word he wanted didn’t exist yet. Like Webster’s Dictionary needed to invent something new, something stronger than stunning or breathtaking or every thought I’ve ever had since puberty is now obsolete because you just broke my brain.
You could see it all written across his face.
Like he had genuinely believed he was prepared.
But now that he was seeing you in that black satin dress—with your hair curled and makeup done and your lips in that warm berry shade—he looked completely, utterly unprepared.
And weirdly? A little helpless about it.
“You look…” he tried again, but gave up and shook his head, smiling like someone who just lost a bet with God. “I didn’t know you could look more beautiful. I already thought…”
He stopped, eyes dipping briefly—neckline, waistline, back to your eyes.
“I’ve never seen you in a dress,” he said, quieter this time. “You’re usually in flats and office attire.”
You arched a brow. “So you do notice what I wear.”
He gave a short, breathless laugh and shook his head. “I notice everything about you.”
That?
Should not have hit as hard as it did.
You suddenly had to remember how legs worked, because standing under Bucky Barnes’ open, reverent gaze was starting to feel like being dipped in molten chocolate and rolled in praise kink.
“Well,” you managed, smoothing your hands over your dress like it was no big deal. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
And he did. He really, really did.
The dark suit hugged him in all the right places—broad shoulders, tapered waist, sleeves that hinted at forearms with enough power to bend physics. His hair was slicked back but still soft-looking, and the shadow of stubble on his jaw gave him just enough menace to make your knees whisper threatening things to your dignity.
He stepped closer, eyes still on yours. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you said, locking the door behind you with fingers that maybe, possibly trembled just a little.
And when he held out his arm for you to take—
Like a freaking gentleman—
You slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, his warmth seeping through the fabric like a secret, and thought:
Oh my gosh I wanna squeeze his biceps.
× × × ×
You stood just outside the entrance.
A velvet rope. Soft lighting. Gentle orchestral music drifting from inside like the event was scored by a live soundtrack.
Your heart? Doing its own version of a drumline.
Bucky’s suit caught the ambient glow of the chandelier light above, and for a brief second, he looked like he belonged in a perfume ad. Or maybe a political thriller. Or maybe the private collection of a very specific Pinterest board you definitely didn’t have bookmarked under “Hot Men in Suits Being Inexplicably Affectionate.”
You fiddled with the tiny clasp on your clutch, not because it needed adjusting but because you needed something to do with your hands.
“Do you have any gum?” you asked.
Bucky’s gaze slid to yours, half-lidded and very not helpful to your nervous system. “No. Why? Did you need fresh breath for something?”
And then—that smile.
The one that curled into a wolvish one. The one that said, I know things about you, even if you don’t want to admit them out loud.
God, he was going to be the death of your ovaries.
“I chew it when I’m nervous. Or to help me concentrate,” you said, voice slightly tight as you looked away and pretended the potted plant beside the doorway was suddenly the most interesting thing on Earth. “Some of my best work has been done while chewing gum.”
“Sorry,” he murmured. “No gum tonight.”
He glanced toward the entrance.
Then back at you.
“Shall we?”
You inhaled slowly. “Okay.”
You nodded, your hand starting to reach for your clutch again—except he moved first.
Without hesitation, Bucky reached down and slid his fingers into yours.
You reacted like you’d just grabbed a live wire—jerking your hand back so fast you smacked yourself right in the mouth.
“OW.”
His eyes widened. “Did you just…?”
You covered your mouth with both hands, your lip already throbbing. “That really just happened.”
He exhaled sharply, somewhere between disbelief and long-suffering patience. “Are you going to keep jumping every time I touch you? It’s just me.”
That’s exactly the problem, it’s you.
“No—I know,” you mumbled behind your hand.
“And now you’re injuring yourself.”
“I know.”
His expression softened a fraction. Just enough to make your lungs consider quitting. “You okay?”
You dropped your hands and nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said, shaking his head. “I just—” he hesitated, searching your face. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to hold your hand.”
You looked at him.
And in that second, the noise in your brain—every insecurity, every mental spiral—just quieted.
“I’ll give you a warning next time,” he said with a small smile.
You let out a shaky laugh. “That would be great, thanks.”
And then he held out his hand again—deliberate, open, offering.
You hesitated for half a breath.
And then took it.
His fingers laced with yours like he’d done it a hundred times. Like he’d been waiting to. And then he gave your hand the tiniest squeeze.
The kind that said: I’ve got you.
You walked through the entrance like that. Side by side. Hand in hand.
A few people noticed you. Just a glance here, a flick of the eyes there. Some curious. Some surprised. A woman in emerald whispered something behind her flute of champagne. A man near the bar paused his conversation mid-sentence. It was more subtle—just that ripple of intrigue you get when someone walks in with the kind of quiet confidence that makes people wonder what the story is.
And more specifically—they noticed you with him.
And Bucky? He didn’t shrink from it.
If anything, he straightened a little more. His shoulders pulled back, posture tall, presence grounded. He wanted to be seen with you.
There was no awkward fidgeting. No looking around like he didn’t belong. No quick hand drops like some guys did when they got nervous about what others might think.
Bucky Barnes was standing beside you like he’d just won something. Like he’d earned something.
And then he looked at you.
That look.
You’d seen that look before. It was the same look you’d seen on men watching their teams win the Super Bowl. That deeply satisfied, slightly stunned pride. Like he couldn’t believe he got to be the one standing beside you.
Except it wasn’t about a game.
It was about you.
He looked at you like he couldn’t believe he got to bring you here. Like someone had handed him the crown jewel and said go ahead, show her off. Like every other man in the room was going to have to deal with the fact that he was the one with you on his arm.
You caught a few stares.
You leaned in and whispered, “Do I have something on my face?”
“No,” Bucky said, eyes still on you. “You just look so damn good.”
Your cheeks flushed, and you had to look away before you did something idiotic like giggle.
“Shut up,” you muttered, nudging him with your elbow.
He only smiled wider, not even pretending to hide how smug he was. And you got the distinct impression he wasn’t going to shut up at all. Probably ever.
Then his gaze flicked over your shoulder—scanning, focused—and you could see the shift in his expression as soon as he spotted someone.
“There he is,” Bucky said under his breath. “C’mon. I want you to meet my friends.”
You blinked, a little caught off guard. “You do?”
He gave your hand another squeeze. “Yeah. I really do.”
You let him lead you across the room, weaving through soft pockets of conversation and the scent of champagne and expensive cologne. Up ahead was a group of people clustered around a tall, broad-shouldered man with a full beard and an even fuller laugh. The man—who you’d later learn was Alexei—was in the middle of some wild story, hands gesturing, accent thick and unapologetic.
Steve stood nearby, glass in hand, grinning at whatever Alexei was saying.
But then he looked up.
Saw Bucky.
And then—he saw you.
That was when his grin turned knowing.
“There he is,” Steve called out over the noise, lifting his glass a little. “And I see you brought someone special?”
The entire group turned their attention.
More like… interest. Like they’d all been waiting for this moment without even realizing it.
Your hand was still in Bucky’s, but suddenly you were very aware of the warmth of it. Of the fact that this wasn’t just a night out anymore.
When you and Bucky reached the group, Steve stepped forward without hesitation and offered you a firm handshake.
“Steve,” he said, still smiling. “So you’re the girl who had this guy calling me in the middle of the night.”
Your eyebrows lifted as you looked up at Bucky. “You did what?”
Bucky groaned. “Steve—man—”
Too late.
Steve just chuckled. “Yeah, like a week or two ago. Something about ‘I need an opinion, but if you laugh I’ll block your number forever.’”
You blinked. “What was the opinion?”
Bucky had already released your hand and was mock-wrestling Steve by the lapels, swatting him on the shoulder as if that would undo the betrayal.
Steve didn’t even flinch. “He made me rate your smile from a photo.”
“Oh my God,” you said, laughing and burying your face in your free hand. “What did you give me?”
Steve winked. “Twelve out of ten.”
“I hate both of you,” Bucky grumbled.
“And yet here you are,” Steve said, clapping him on the back.
Then Bucky straightened and gestured toward the rest of the group. “Alright, alright. Before Steve says anything else that makes me die inside—let me introduce everyone.”
He turned to you, still grinning like an idiot, then pointed as he went around the group.
“This is Sam,” he said, nodding toward a sharply dressed man with a killer smile and an energy that said I could charm your entire family without trying.
Sam gave you a small salute and said, “Respect for pulling him out of the house. We thought he was going feral.”
“Natasha,” Bucky continued. She wore red, carried a glass of white wine, and raised one brow like she could read your soul in five seconds flat.
“Yelena,” Bucky added, motioning to the blonde beside her, whose smirk was almost identical but with an extra dose of mischief.
“Hi,” she said, her voice dry. “He never brings anyone.”
“That’s Alexei,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the large man still chuckling into his drink. “He thinks he’s funny.”
“I am funny,” Alexei replied with a dramatic bow in your direction. “You just don’t have taste.”
Bucky ignored that. “This is Bob,” he said, pointing at the tall, quiet guy beside Alexei, who raised a hand in greeting and gave a polite smile.
“John,” Bucky added next—square-jawed, clearly trying to play it cool—and then, “Ava,” who stood between John and Yelena, wearing a silky green dress and eyes that tracked everything.
You gave each of them a polite smile, trying to lock in names and faces like you weren’t internally panicking about your heel strap digging into your foot.
"So, pretty girl," he said, voice booming with a thick Russian accent. “What you do? Hm? How you meet… uh…” he motioned vaguely at Bucky, “…Barnes?”
How do you explain that you first saw Bucky naked?
Like hello, SergeantBarnes on Pornhub, traumatized your search history forever naked.
You swallowed thickly, scrambling for a plausible answer that didn’t involve the words “stepbrother stuck under the sink.”
“Oh, uh… we live on the same floor,” you said quickly, voice pitching two octaves higher than usual. “Same apartment building.”
There was a beat.
And then—
“Aha,” Alexei grinned. “So he seduce you in hallway, yes?”
You let out a sheepish chuckle. “Uh… not exactly.”
“Oh, this is rich,” Sam laughed, clapping his hands together once. “You mean to tell me Barnes actually spoke to a woman in an elevator? I thought he only made eye contact with the floor.”
“I’m not anti-social,” Bucky scoffed, affronted.
“I bet he offered to help carry her groceries,” Yelena added with a sly grin.
You whipped your head toward him. “That was not my grocery bag.”
“Aww,” Ava cooed, all faux sweetness. “He’s such a gentleman.”
Bucky rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking between everyone, clearly trying to stay calm while mentally organizing their names in alphabetical order for future murder plans.
“Also,” Natasha said, her smile all teeth and glass-cutting precision, “you didn’t tell us she was this gorgeous. You undersold it.”
“Oh, he definitely did,” Yelena smirked. “He made her sound cute. This? This is not cute. This is problematic.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Bucky muttered—but the red dusting his ears betrayed him.
“Okay,” Bucky said dryly, crossing his arms, “let’s just go around the circle and list how many of you are single. Then we can revisit my ‘flirting problem.’”
“Oooh,” Sam said, clutching his chest. “He brought stats. I’m hurt.”
“I’m not single,” John offered, clearly lying.
“Bob’s a poet who refuses to ask for anyone’s number,” Bucky added helpfully.
Bob blinked slowly. “I don’t believe in digital intimacy.”
“There it is,” Bucky muttered under his breath.
Alexei shook his head and lifted his glass. “Still. Barnes not usually this… how you say… social.”
“That’s because none of you know how to shut up long enough to let me talk,” Bucky deadpanned.
Steve finally stepped in, grinning. “Hey—I’m just glad you finally took my advice and brought her flowers at work.”
You looked at Steve, then at Bucky. “Wait—him showing up with flowers every day for a week? That was your idea?”
“Yeah. . . But—” Steve blinked. “He came every day for a week?”
“What?” Your brows knit together. You looked back at Bucky.
Bucky stayed very quiet.
Sam lost it. “Ohhh. So that’s where you were all week. I thought you were secretly working a second job.”
Yelena looked absolutely delighted. “You took a sabbatical for love. I’m gonna cry.”
“I didn’t take a sabbatical,” Bucky muttered.
“You did,” Ava said.
“Barnes,” the guy said butting in, clearly someone important based on the tone alone. “Got a minute?”
Bucky straightened subtly, the shift in his body language almost imperceptible unless you were watching—which, of course, you were. He looked at you first.
His thumb rubbed against the side of your hand. “I’ll be right back,” he said quietly. “You gonna be okay?”
Your mouth opened to say yes, automatically. But something about the way his eyes searched your face made you pause.
Were you okay?
You didn’t really want to be left alone with seven people you just met. Not when every single one of them had seen through you in five seconds flat and teased Bucky with the skill of professional roasters. Not to mention your feet already hurt, you were positive you’d sweated off your setting spray, and the last thing you wanted was to stand here trying to remember whether Bob was the one who didn’t believe in digital intimacy or if that was John.
Still, you nodded.
Because he had to go. And because you weren’t about to be that clingy girl at a formal event.
“I’ll be fine,” you said, managing a small smile. “Go. I’ll be okay.”
Ava chimed in before he could say anything else. “Don’t worry, lover boy,” she said with a teasing grin, “we’ll keep an eye on her.”
She winked at you, slow and dramatic.
You blinked, equal parts entertained and terrified.
Bucky gave her a long, warning look.
Then glanced at you one last time—longer this time. Like he wasn’t quite ready to go. Like if the executive hadn’t called, he might’ve just stayed glued to your side the entire night. His thumb gave one last affectionate brush against yours before he let go and stepped away.
You watched him cross the room, shoulders squared, confidence back in full force as he approached the man in the suit. Just like that, he shifted into someone important. Someone focused. Professional.
And then it was just you.
And seven pairs of eyes staring at you like you were the opening act of a stand-up show they weren’t sure how to categorize yet.
You turned back toward them slowly, giving your best polite smile.
Steve cleared his throat and offered a charming, if not slightly mischievous, smile. “So… are you two official?”
You blinked. “Oh. No. I’m just his date tonight.”
Natasha narrowed her eyes slightly, the corner of her lip curling up. “Why? He looks like he’s into you. Like, genuinely into you. He hasn’t asked yet?”
You let out a small, sheepish laugh, suddenly hyperaware of how all their faces were now angled toward you with laser-focused interest. “It’s… complicated.”
“Ah,” John said, swirling his drink. “That usually means she wants us not to interrogate her about Bucky.”
“Oh, I’m still going to,” Natasha said breezily. “I just wanted to gauge her starting defenses first.”
Ava leaned in slightly. “Define ‘complicated.’ Like ex drama? Secret long-distance boyfriend? Weird emotional standoff?”
“Or,” Sam cut in, grinning, “maybe she’s just trying to protect herself. Barnes can be… intense.”
You opened your mouth to respond, then immediately closed it, because how were you supposed to explain that your first impression of him came with 4K resolution, suspicious camera angles, and way too much eye contact for a man who wasn’t looking at you in person?
“It’s just a little new,” you said carefully. “And unexpected.”
Steve nodded, expression gentler now. “Unexpected, sure. But he’s been different lately. Softer.”
“Obnoxiously softer,” Yelena added. “He helped an old woman cross the street last week and didn’t even glare after. I thought he was sick.”
“He made lasagna for Bob,” Natasha pointed out.
“And I didn’t ask him to, I just complimented his lunch. . . Once,” Bob added, deadpan.
“Yep,” Ava said, sipping her drink. “Lover boy mode: activated.”
“I swear he used to hiss when people mentioned feelings,” Sam added, eyes crinkling.
“He once threatened to fire me for putting a heart emoji in our group chat,” Yelena said.
You laughed, cheeks warm. “He didn’t actually—”
“Oh, he did,” John confirmed. “But then he panicked and re-added her twenty minutes later. Classic Barnes move. Grumpy, then guilty.”
There was a pause.
Then Steve smiled at you again, gentler this time. “It’s nice to see him like this. Happy.”
The conversation shifted easily once the spotlight moved off you. The group began trading stories about their workplace shenanigans—inside jokes, chaotic meetings, and a surprisingly heated debate about who had really broken the espresso machine in the break room last year.
You laughed when Alexei mimed the sound it made before sputtering its last breath, and Sam insisted it wasn’t him (“I don’t even drink office kitchen coffee, I’m bougie”), while Yelena swore she saw him pressing every single button like he was trying to hack into NASA.
The teasing, the banter—it was a rhythm they all clearly knew, one you didn’t quite belong to, but were being carefully folded into. Bit by bit, your shoulders loosened. You even caught yourself smiling at Natasha’s dry, one-liner comebacks.
It wasn't hard to like them. They were smart, quick, loyal in the way people only were when they'd seen each other at their worst and still decided to stick around. They bickered like siblings, interrupted each other constantly, and somehow finished each other's stories even when they contradicted the facts.
Still... every few minutes, your eyes drifted toward the crowd.
Scanning.
Searching.
Looking for him.
You hadn't meant to. You hadn't even realized you were doing it at first. But Bucky had been gone for a while now, and the part of you that had hesitated when he let go of your hand was starting to stir again.
You weren't uncomfortable.
Not exactly.
But the truth was-you just felt better when he was around.
Steve must have noticed, because his voice cut through the din—low, kind, threading through the laughter and clinking glasses like a safety line.
“Hey,” he murmured, leaning in just slightly, his breath brushing against your ear, “You okay?”
His hand hovered near the small of your back—not touching, but close enough that you felt the warmth of it there, like an unspoken offer of comfort.
You blinked, caught off guard by his quiet presence.
Then smiled. Just a little. “Yeah. Just… wondering where Bucky wandered off to.”
Steve’s mouth quirked, the corners of his lips tilting up in amusement. “Probably still stuck talking about something boring.”
He paused. “You want me to go check?”
You shook your head, brushing a hand down your dress like it was no big deal. “No—it’s fine. I’m good.”
You were still smiling faintly when Steve leaned back again, his hand dropping away as subtly as it had hovered. He didn’t push, didn’t press—just gave you space to exhale.
“You let me know if you change your mind,” he said, then tipped his head toward the group with a grin. “I’m pretty good at rescue missions.”
You laughed softly, the sound surprising even yourself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You found yourself scanning the room again, heart skipping every time you thought you caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders through the crowd.
And then—there he was.
Coming back toward you through the sea of sequined dresses and sharp suits. Jacket unbuttoned now, hand tucked casually in his pocket. He looked lighter, freer, but focused—all business until his eyes landed on you.
And just like that—his whole expression shifted.
Because you were already looking for him.
Your gaze lifted across the crowd, found his, and stayed there.
You couldn’t help it—you smiled.
And Bucky? He froze for half a second, like the air had been knocked out of him, before his own mouth curved. Not the cocky grin you’d seen him use when he wanted to win an argument. Not the smirk he used when he was trying to charm his way past your defenses.
No—this smile was different. Softer. The kind of smile a man wore when he’d just spotted his favorite person in the room.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t barrel through. But his eyes never left yours—not once—as he crossed the space back to you.
And when he finally reached the group, he slid back into his place beside you so naturally it was as if he’d never left. His arm brushed yours, deliberately, and the corner of his mouth tipped even higher like he was relieved.
“Hey,” you said softly, a little breathless. “You were gone for a while.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes lingering on your face. “But I’m here now.”
“Shall I make it up to you?” he asked, his voice a low hum, lips curving like he already had the plan.
Your brow arched. “Make what up to me?”
“For leaving you here with this circus.” His eyes flicked once toward the group, then back to you, all warmth. “How about a dance?”
Your stomach flipped. A dance. With him.
You shook your head quickly, heat rising in your cheeks. “Oh, no. I’d love to, but I don’t dance.”
Bucky tilted his head, studying you like he could see past the excuse.
“I mean it,” you rushed on, lowering your voice. “I’ve got two left feet. It’d be a crime against rhythm. You’d regret it.”
The corner of his mouth tugged higher, slow and knowing, like he didn’t buy a single word.
“Doll,” he murmured, leaning just slightly closer, “something tells me you’d be worth tripping over.”
You laughed softly, caught between shyness and the sudden, terrifying desire to say yes.
And still, he watched you with that look—that soft, patient certainty—that maybe, eventually, you would.
And then, right there, he held out his hand.
Finally, you were the girl being asked to dance—the thing that had lived in your daydreams while you hummed along to radio ballads in your kitchen. And it did funny things to your stomach.
Against your better judgment, you took his hand.
Bucky’s smile deepened, and he led you onto the dance floor. The opening chords of Perfect by Ed Sheeran began to play, and the timing was so disgustingly cinematic you almost rolled your eyes.
He pulled you gently into his embrace, his right hand finding your waist, steady and warm. You looped your arms around his still-unfairly-sexy neck, trying not to hyperventilate at the closeness. Then he tugged your right hand down, twined his fingers through yours, and guided them to rest low between you. His left hand wrapped firmly around yours, and your breath caught.
“I know the last time you danced was probably at school,” he teased, leaning close enough that his breath tickled your ear, “but you’re not in seventh grade.”
You scoffed, cheeks burning. “What makes you think I even went? I told you—I don’t dance.”
A pause. Then a quiet sigh of surrender. “Okay, fine.”
There was no point in arguing—not when his grip on you made resistance impossible. Still, you clung to a shred of stubbornness. Because despite the way he’d assured you that you were safe in his arms, you felt too exposed. Too vulnerable.
But then he was swaying you to the music, slowly, gently, and it did feel a little like a seventh-grade dance. Only this was the adult version—with a very hot man who had his hand on your waist and his eyes never leaving your face, even though there were plenty of beautiful women he could have been staring at instead.
You willed your hands not to sweat. It wasn’t going well. His heat seeped through your dress, tingling through your body until it felt like even your cells were leaning toward him.
You needed a distraction. “Did you get in trouble with your boss?”
He chuckled low. “No. It’s about a promotion.”
Your brows lifted. “Oh really? Wow. Does that mean you’ll focus on this job more?”
It felt oddly surreal to be having that conversation in the middle of such closeness.
His fingers flexed against your waist. The smallest gesture, but it sent a burning ripple outward, every nerve on alert. He smiled down at you, almost like he wanted to say something—then didn’t.
“By your silence, I guess not.”
He laughed, hand tightening around yours, grounding you.
“What’s so funny?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “I told you—I can’t quit that easily.”
You squinted at him. “You’re not love-bombing me so I’ll agree to do a film with you, are you?”
Instead of answering, he spun you into a turn. You misjudged the distance and stumbled straight into his chest.
Firm, solid, warm.
For a beat, you didn’t move. Engulfed in electric flames, pressed against him, your entire body humming at the contact. His voice dropped low. “Of course not. I told you—I won’t force you to do anything.”
That only made things worse, your lungs refusing to remember how to work. You pulled back a step, discreetly sucking in air, but Bucky guided you right back into position, his hand steady as ever at your waist.
“You’re very suspicious, you—”
“Hang on.” His gaze flicked to your cheek. “You’ve got an eyelash.”
You held your breath as his fingers lifted, brushing your skin so lightly it felt like a spark had detonated under your skin. He plucked the eyelash, then held it up in front of your lips.
“Make a wish,” he said softly.
You were afraid to. Afraid because you knew what you wanted to wish for—and it had nothing to do with promotions or jobs. It was him.
Still, you closed your eyes, blew gently, resisting the wild, reckless urge to kiss the tip of his finger while it hovered so close to your mouth.
“So,” he murmured as he tucked the eyelash away, hand finding your waist again, “seems like we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
But his voice sounded a little off. Strained.
And then he stopped moving.
The world narrowed to the circle of his arms holding you in place. One hand resting at your waist, the other lifting to tuck your hair carefully behind your ear. His fingers lingered, brushing lightly over the outer shell before drifting down the slope of your neck, across your shoulder, trailing fire down your arm until both hands settled at your waist again.
Everywhere he touched burned.
And then, his voice quiet, husky, he asked, “What’d you wish for?”
You swallowed hard, already a pile of putty in his arms, the fire from his hands lingering on your skin like they’d branded you.
“If I tell you,” you whispered, breath shaky, “it won’t come true.”
“Of course,” he murmured, voice low and mesmerizing, rough and exciting all at once. “How could I forget?”
And while he spoke, he was pulling you closer. Closer until you were pressed fully against him, your body aligning with his in a way that made coherent thought impossible.
Then—God help you—he leaned his head down, lips grazing just shy of your ear, and in that gravel-and-silk voice, he quietly sang along with the song filling the room:
When I saw you in that dress, lookin’ so beautiful, I don’t deserve this… darling, you look perfect tonight.
The words tickled your ear, and you shivered, your entire body lighting up like struck matches.
You knew you should still have your defenses up. You knew you’d sworn to yourself that you were immune to him. But apparently your immune system had the strength of wet tissue paper, because you were ready to drag him to his bedroom like a woman possessed.
And worse? It wasn’t just the heat of his body or the magnetism of his touch that had you undone. It was that part of you—stupid, fragile, hopeful—that wanted this to be real. Wanted the man who introduced you to his friends tonight, who smiled at you like you were the only person in the room, to be genuine about all of it.
Your chest rose and fell too fast, every breath uneven. Everything was too tight—your throat, your lungs, your very skin—but at the same time, it all felt like it was about to burst. You caught it then: the faint hitch in his chest, the way he was breathing harder, too.
Would you call this a typical first date? Absolutely not. But then again, nothing about him was typical.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked suddenly, pressing his fingers into your back. Not harsh—just firm, grounding. Enough to send another wave of shivers racing down your spine.
And the real problem?
You were dangerously close to telling him the truth.
You looked at him.
And then looked away—because saying out loud what you were really thinking about? That was way too dangerous.
“I have a theory,” he said, voice low and deep, each word sliding across your skin like a shiver.
More than anything, you wanted to hear it.
“Uh-huh,” you managed.
His mouth curved in that way that spelled trouble. “…I think you want to be kissed.”
Another slam to your nervous system.
“Say I’m right,” he added boldly.
You scoffed, half a laugh and half a gasp. “Then… what do we do about it?”
Your head told you to stop. But your ovaries? They were making a very convincing counterargument.
“We should test my theory, don’t you think?”
“Here?”
“Not here.” His voice dropped, impossibly lower. And really—why, when the universe was handing out brains, charm, and abs, did it also decide Bucky deserved the world’s sexiest voice?
This was your chance. To tell him no. That you couldn’t do this. That it would be a mistake because you were scared.
Scared because some part of you knew that if Bucky Barnes broke your heart… it might never heal right.
“Where?” you whispered, breathless.
His eyes lit up. “Follow me.”
He took your hand and led you off the dance floor, threading through the ballroom and into a quieter hallway. He tugged on a couple of doors until one opened. A darkened conference room, long tables and empty office chairs.
He closed the door softly behind you.
And stood too close.
Not technically too close—if you were about to kiss, this was exactly the right distance. But for your peace of mind? Way, way too close.
This had to be meaningless. He couldn’t possibly know how badly you wanted him to kiss you. How many times you’d daydreamed about it.
You tried—pathetically—to push the thought away.
But he was right there.
Not touching. Just radiating that masculine warmth, making your skin ache with the phantom feel of him. He reached down, took your hand, and pressed a soft, hot kiss against your knuckles.
You had to press your other hand against his chest just to stay vertical, leaning into his strength while your brain threatened to shut off entirely.
“Y/n,” he murmured, his lips brushing over your skin, “the only reason we should be kissing is because you want to.”
“I do.” The words flew out before you could stop them, honest and raw. Your whole body ached with the weight of it. “For science,” you added quickly, because you refused to sound completely pathetic.
“For science,” he repeated, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Then he let go of your hand and cupped your face with both of his instead.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Some tiny part of your brain whispered again to run, to not let this happen. But the rest of you—the entire rest of you—was begging for it.
When your blood finally went back to its rightful places, you would regret this. Probably. But right now?
Right now the only thing you cared about was his mouth on yours.
“So many things to research…” he mused, his voice a sinful murmur as he dipped his head closer. “For science, of course.”
Your breath caught. If he didn’t kiss you soon, you were going to pass out.
“What does it taste like?” His lips hovered over yours, brushing but not pressing. “Strawberry? Cherry?” He shifted his head slightly, teasing. “Will it end up all over my lips?”
The suspense was torture. Sweet, thrilling, maddening torture. You looped your arms around his neck, clasping your hands behind him like you could hold him there forever.
He was teasing you—drawing it out.
And you couldn’t take it anymore.
Every nerve in your body vibrated, the air between you charged like lightning about to strike.
Holy shit dude…never stop writing! I had an idea for a little blurb if you’re interested🫶🏼 Bucky dating reader who can sing and it’s just all soft and cute because he just loves her so much and her voice does something to him🤓 Could also be smutty if you wanted! Much love:D
Hiiii omg thank you so much 😭 it’s my first time ever writing smut and stuff 😭😭
Bucky fell in love with you the moment he saw you that night on stage singing. He fell in love with your voice first- then with you. All of you.
Sam had asked him if he wanted to go out with him and a couple of other friends to a small festival just outside of the city and he decided he could go. Just because that night he didn’t feel like being alone.
They were all sat at a table, sipping beers and chit chatting when a guy introduced the band that would play that night. He didn’t think much of it until he heard your voice.
His head snapped towards the stage and he saw you: glowing, smiling and singing, making it seem so effortless it was beautiful.
He asked for your number the moment you walked off the stage- then you started going on dates.
Being with you helped him being a little more outgoing than he usually was with Sam’s help- he didn’t like going to crowded spaces like the karaoke but he would go with you just to listen to you sing.
Damn, he could listen to you sing for hours and never get tired. He could listen to you talk for hours and never get tired. Your voice just.. soothed him, in a way.
He found it relaxing and soothing and he loved it. That’s why he may have asked you to talk to him until he fell asleep.. or maybe sing him a soft lullaby. Which could have been seen as weird- but really, for you it was adorable.
Your voice did have another effect on him.. when you two were intimate. Hearing your breathless pleads and needy tone turned him on a bit too much at times.
Or when you’d whisper to him what you wanted him to do to you.. Bucky was gone. He was a goner and he knew it. And if you talked to him with that lascivious tone you’d make to make him melt- because you knew he would melt- it wouldn’t take much time before he picked you up and brought you to the bedroom- or pinned you against any surface against which he could have you.
