Summary: There has been a significant decline in your performance at work after a recent relationship breakdown. This has been scaled up to higher management and Wanda Maximoff, CEO of the company, decides if you deserve punishment.
Word Count: 3.4k
Warnings: 18+ only! smut with storyline, shortest mention of a break up, cussing, teasing, cunnilingus, slight restraints, switch!wanda, switch!reader, fingering, finger sucking, thigh riding. If I’ve missed anything, don’t hesitate to reach out.
A/N: Welcome to my first ever fic. I’m still getting used to this so thank you for your patience. I’m a sucker for part two!
Part One | Part Two
Series Masterlist
Do not copy, translate or publish my work as your own.
𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁
The past few weeks haven’t been your favourite, to say the least. You are dealing with a recent break up and your mind has been anywhere but work.
There has been a decline in your performance and it hasn’t gone unnoticed; your output of work was sloppy, your overall care lacking and you were just trying to get through the day, every day. Your direct manager had an informal chat with you to check in but also made it known that things needed to start changing.
After another week passes by with constant, stupid mistakes and not paying enough attention to all the tasks required of you; your performance issues had been scaled up to higher management.
To Wanda Maximoff.
CEO of the company.
Fuck.
Your heart is beating out of your chest. You feel hot with nausea brewing in your stomach and your colleagues are trying to offer you their best support. “You’re great at your job, Y/N. We all mess up from time to time,” Natasha speaks up, trying to sound reassuring but doesn’t hold back her teasing nature, “just don’t get eaten alive.” She laughs as you groan and kick her chair away from you.
Why the CEO though.
Surely your performance was not THAT bad. How could it have scaled up management so quickly. You sink your face into your hands, elbows resting on your desk, wishing you could dissolve yourself into oblivion.
“Y/N!” You hear your manager's voice shock you out of your glooming state and you raise your head towards her, “Wanda would like to speak with you now.”
You stand from your desk, earning sympathetic looks from the redhead and move your feet one in front of the other. All you hear is the pounding of your heart in your head and the feeling of the butterflies in your stomach twisting in on themselves. However, you do question if your reaction is not solely about the impromptu meeting regarding your shortcomings at work.
Wanda Maximoff is the CEO. She is firm but calm. Bossy but kind. Intimidating yet soft, and she will put you in your place if deemed necessary. Wanda Maximoff is the CEO– and she is the most beautiful woman you have ever laid eyes on.
Your manager knocks on the door of Wanda’s office and you scold yourself for being so distracted in your thoughts that you didn’t realise you had arrived at her door. Wanda says thank you and dismisses her, closing the floor to ceiling wooden door as she leaves.
Wanda is sitting behind her desk, a view of the sunlit skyline as a backdrop illuminating her features. She is wearing a white button up blouse and a fitted black skirt hugging her figure with a slit in the side trailing up her thigh. You swallow dryly at the sight.
You’ve met Wanda before, of course, but it was only ever a polite greeting or small talk one time in the short elevator ride to your floor; and it’s not without stealing short glances at the breathtaking brunette.
“Good morning Y/N, take a seat.” Wanda speaks up from behind the screen and gestures for you to take the chair in front of her desk, her eyes focusing back on the work in front of her.
You take a deep breath and a slow exhale–careful not to draw attention– as you cross the space to the black fabric chair facing Wanda, her desk separating the two of you.
Wanda has a relatively large office, separated from the rest of the building behind closed doors. In addition to her desk and chairs, the space includes a corner lounge tucked beside the window and a separate meeting room furnished with a table and chairs.
Settling in your seat, you can’t help but watch Wanda as she finishes up another work-related matter. Her quiet intensity, the way her lips twitch, her sharp jawline trailing down into—
“So,” Wanda startles you from your thoughts, leaning back in her chair as she takes you in with quiet curiosity, her blouse slipping to expose the elegant line of her collarbone. You shake your head, trying to refocus. “Y/N, I have heard a lot about you over the years.”
Shit. You start to panic before she continues. “Lots of good things,” Wanda rises from her chair, fingers gliding along the desk as she rounds it, settling herself between you and its edge.
You’re close. You’re too close. Your heart is racing again at her proximity. You scold yourself for not being professional right now.
“You’ve been quite an asset to this company.” You glance up, only to meet her eyes – already fixed on yours, unwavering. She pauses for a moment, then leans in, lowering her voice. “Until now.”
You swallow hard, your throat is dry– nervous about what this means for your position and what direction this is heading in. You need this job, it’s the only thing keeping you sane.
“Y/N, do you think you deserve punishment?” Wanda begins to question, her tone slipping into something more intimate, “or do you think you can make up for it?”
The tension held in the small space between you has you gasping for air. Her perfume takes over your senses, soft and consuming, rendering you unable for a moment to register the shock of her question. This is your boss, you remind yourself. You’re about to get fired – you need to fix this.
Wanda sits herself on top of her desk in front of you, crossing her legs awaiting your response. You muster up the confidence, making an effort to conceal any nerves visible. You cannot show any weakness in your voice right now. “I’ll accept whatever is coming my way, where there may be repercussions, or to make up for the decline in my performance.”
She hums in satisfaction at your answer. Her head tilting as she watches you. Thoughtful. Taking in the way your body reacts to her.
Wanda uncrosses her legs and speaks with a tone so low and so dangerous that it sends a shiver through your entire body, “I think you can make up for it.” Wanda then slowly parts her legs to reveal her black lace panties that are already soaked.
You choke.
She lets out a low chuckle, not giving away that she has previously read your mind– knowing this is exactly where you want to be.
Her legs are open on full display for you as Wanda pushes her panties to the side and starts fucking herself. Two fingers deep. Repeating the motion back and forth causing your need to suck in a sharp breath as her face contorts into pleasure.
You’re in shock and in awe of the visual in front of you. You’ve never seen anyone look that good. Wanda is firm and dominant, watching you watch her.
Oh. She is teasing you. With a smirk she throws her head back, letting perfect little sounds escape her mouth mixed with the sounds of her wet pussy getting pumped by her own fingers. She is driving you insane and you feel your own pool of heat between your thighs becoming harder to ignore as a result of Wanda spread out in front of you.
Her chest is rising and falling with quickened breaths, her head cocked back– exposing the skin of her neck you wish you could have your mouth on– while she touches herself intimately inches from you.
You can’t take it anymore.
You shift in your seat but Wanda has already anticipated your actions, swiftly placing her stiletto heel on the chair between your legs before you are able to move a muscle. “Tsk,” she warns, accompanied by a deep crimson force holding you in place.
All employees of the company knew of Wanda’s abilities, but you had never seen it in action. There is something about the quiet control in her power that made her even more irresistible.
Wanda continues to fuck herself and you find yourself groaning– locked in place with no way to move, only able to watch. Is this your punishment? You’re feeling so hot and heavy. Your thoughts spiralling loudly of the things you would do. You need her.
She takes pity on you then, almost as if she could hear the desperation in your thoughts. Your mind is too scattered to question that maybe she could hear them. Wanda removes her fingers from her soaking wet core and you are able to see every movement up close. Your breath hitches with her next move.
“Open that pretty little mouth of yours.”
You obey without a second thought and her slick coated fingers enter your mouth earning a moan from you, her delicious taste taking over your senses. After a few moments, you look up at her with a sinister gaze and a mischievous grin that creates a hot feeling inside Wanda, catching her off guard.
She releases her fingers from your mouth and hovers over you, gaining back her control. Her lips ghost your jaw as she trails upward to whisper in your ear, “Good girl.” A shiver runs up your spine and straight to your core.
Wanda then returns to her side of the desk, regaining her composure, “you may leave, I’ll set up a meeting for your performance review.”
With a polite nod and a smile tugging at the side of your lips, you exit Wanda’s office, closing the door behind you. You catch your breath and head straight for the restroom.
────
Water splashes your face as you try to calm down, forcing your breathing to slow so you can pull it together and get yourself back to work – but all you are able to think about is Wanda. Unknowingly, you lick your lips at the thought of her and hum in satisfaction when you can still taste her. Leaning against the bathroom sink you let out a small laugh of disbelief before heading back to your desk where you know your colleagues are going to have questions.
When you arrive back, Natasha and Bucky give you questioning looks to see if you’re okay. “I’m fine,” you quickly tell them, slumping back in your chair. Natasha arches her eyebrow at you before you continue, “she wants to set up a performance review meeting to… to discuss how to progress,” you hesitated in your answer– which was accepted by the two of them, giving you the relief you needed from having to go into any further details.
And sure enough, when you logged into your computer, there it was:
Meeting Invitation:
Performance Review
4.45pm
You purse your lips together to hide the smile you can feel fighting to break free. Your chest is thudding in anticipation. Only a few more hours.
────
You arrive at Wanda’s office door right on time to find it already open, hesitating for a moment before giving the brown wood a light knock. “Come in, Y/N,” the way she says your name weakens you at the knees. Grabbing onto the door handle, you bite your lip– boldly deciding to close the door for your privacy, then turning on your heel to walk over to the chair you sat in earlier.
Both of you sit in quiet silence for a moment, allowing you the time to observe Wanda while she finishes up her latest task. Eyes flickering as she reads, mouth pursed and brows furrowed in concentration– you notice she looks a little stressed, tired even.
“Big day?” you start. Wanda lets out an exasperated huff and looks up at you, “I’m dealing with morons,” a small laugh escaping her lips, though quickly turning serious again. “Men who think they can overpower any decision my female team-leads make. Employees that are stuck in their old ways, and clients who do not trust the process of what we develop for them,” Wanda sighs, looking up at the ceiling. You give her a moment, then offer a sympathetic smile when she looks back to you.
“And you..?” she questions, “are you feeling any more focused on your work?”
Focused?
After this morning, she thinks you can be more focused?
So you lie– with a smirk forming at the corner of your mouth, “I think I have found some motivation, yes.”
“Mmhm, good.”
Wanda walks her way around to you the same way she did this morning, forcing the beat in your chest to rapidly increase.
“You need more motivation and I’ve had a very stressful day,” Wanda leans over you as she parts your legs, then lowers herself onto your right thigh, “I say we can help each other out.” The air is knocked out of your lungs when you realise the lace panties from earlier were nowhere to be seen as you feel her warmth and already wet centre making contact with your skin.
Wanda chuckles in your ear, knowing exactly what this would be doing to you. You instinctively put your hands around her waist as she starts a slow grind on your thigh. She allows it. But only for a moment, because you get greedy– moving your hand to trace her upper thigh with your fingertips, slowly trailing higher up her leg where Wanda’s skirt has been hitched up.
You push even further to snake around her ass–
“Ah–” a sharp and strong force suddenly tears your hands away from Wanda. You look down and groan, noticing the red wisps encircling your wrists binding you to the chair. She doesn’t scold you this time, only continues to grind herself on your leg.
Wanda starts to whimper out sweet, addicting sounds, making the pool in your centre much, much worse. You pull on the restraints she has you held captive in and you beg– to touch her, to feel her.
“W-Wanda please, fuck.” Wanda quickly covers your mouth with the palm of her hand, snapping a warning look at you. Her eyes are glazed with desire as she rides you, and you just know you are going to do exactly what is asked of you.
Your muffled moans vibrate through Wanda’s hand before she removes it to use your shoulder to balance herself. Her pace becomes more erratic, her breathing quickens and you feel her reaching her high when she squeezes her legs around you– riding out her orgasm with a scream she tries to muffle into the crook of your neck when she doubles over from the intensity of her climax.
You’re throwing your head back in awe, moaning at how she’s using you and the feel of her body on yours as she trembles from the aftershocks. You dare to lift your thigh, granting a shocked gasp from the woman on top of you before she quickly moves to her feet.
Shit. Did I cross a line?
You’re kicking yourself when Wanda sits herself back on her desk– leading you to believe this was the end of your meeting. You wonder if she would be so cruel to leave you in such a messy and needy state.
The room falls silent with only the sound of your shared, ragged breathing filling the space between you. She’s playing with you, working you up and enjoying every minute of it.
Wanda takes a sip from the glass of water sitting next to her and waits a few moments before tilting her head back to lock eyes with you, still bound to your new favourite chair. She’s contemplative.
After a beat, she surprises you with determination and hunger written all over her face. She sits back in your lap, wrapping her legs around you and grabs both sides of your face, pulling you into a searing kiss.
You return her intensity with equal urgency, her lips soft and addicting. Wanda moans into the kiss, eliciting a gasp from you, granting her access to slide her tongue past your lips. Her tongue dances with your own, the way it moves with yours is unmatched– you don’t stop, you can’t.
Wanda slides her fingers beneath your panties and through your folds to feel you sopping wet– you jolt under her touch from how sensitive you have become. Wanda moans when she feels you, a chuckle escaping her, “all this for me?”
“You’ve been teasing me for hours,” you shoot back, breathless. Wanda bites her lip then and gathers your slick on her fingers, inserting them into her mouth with a moan of pleasure.
Her lips find yours again and you part them eagerly for Wanda’s tongue to entwine with yours, her hands now tangled in the back of your hair. You can’t take this anymore. It’s almost painful at how much you need her. How much you want to please her by your own touch.
Wanda parts her lips from yours, pulling your head back ever so slightly by the fingers still threaded in your hair.
“Oh Y/N, did you forget? This is a performance review. Now perform.” The last two words are said firmly and with finality causing a shudder to rip through your body. You have been so caught up in Wanda’s lips and her breath on yours, that you hadn’t noticed she released you from your restraints.
“Fuck,” you let out, and in a split second you’re standing with Wanda’s legs still wrapped around you and the two of you crash against her desk. Your lips stay locked together, sharing mutual desperation. You make quick work to undo her blouse exposing her breasts and a sigh of satisfaction escapes you at the sight.
Creating some distance between you, you take her in; her hazel-green eyes search yours with aching anticipation, you scan over the curve of her waist, the delicate lines defining her body, being this close to her is dangerously intoxicating– but you do not want to test her patience.
Your lips collide with Wanda’s again, then drift along her jaw, as you press hungry kisses to her neck, leaving a trail down to her collarbone– keeping her body flushed against yours with your hands firm at her waist. You explore her chest, swirling your tongue around her right nub and nipping at the sensitive area, which is rewarded with a moan– a sound you don’t think you could ever get tired of hearing driving you more frantic.
You slide two fingers through her sopping wet folds, gathering her slick and moving your fingers in circular motions, rubbing her clit. Wanda is a whimpering mess when you pump two fingers inside her and your eyes lock as she bucks her hips against you. You add a third, earning a cry from the woman below you, feeling full from the slight stretch.
Wanda reaches for the hand you have buried inside her and pushes you impossibly deeper causing a throaty growl to escape you. Snaking your free hand around her lower back for grip, you pick up your pace, curling your fingers and Wanda begins to claw at the skin on your back as she starts to clench around you.
She lifts her gaze to you then with dark, hooded eyes as the tension coils deep within her core. Pleasure courses through her in steady waves– her brows pinch together, lips parting while her stare remains deliberate and commanding.
“God, you look pretty like this,” your thumb dances over her clit, applying a little pressure– which is enough for her to completely come undone, screaming your name before sinking her teeth into the curve of your neck to bite back the noises spilling from her lips.
You give Wanda a few moments to recover before she changes her demeanor, her accent coming through with an authoritative and dangerous tone. “Clean up the mess you made,” she demands, pushing your head down her body.
The heat in her words spreads through you, your cheeks betraying you with a flush– you do as you’re told and lick a stripe up her folds. Using your tongue, you slide into her entrance, lapping up the remnants of her orgasm.
Wanda’s hands are threaded through your hair as you continue to thrust your tongue inside her, then tightening her grip as you capture her clit in your mouth, making out with the sensitive area before settling into a steady, fast rhythm, flicking your tongue up and down.
You pull back momentarily, earning a soft whimper from Wanda, your senses blissfully overwhelmed in its own type of high. Offering her a daring smirk, you tease, “Oh, don’t worry, Maximoff. I am far from done with you.” Your mouth is back on her again, rolling her into her third orgasm of your meeting.
𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁
Series Masterlist
Part Two
A/N x 2: as this is my first fic, if you do see any major issues, do let me know! Thanks for reading. I’m excited for you to read part two.
synopsis: after thinking you've met the man of your dreams, you're ready to take things to the next level. one problem: you've never even kissed a guy before. so, you knock on your best friend's door with a proposition, and ask him to teach you everything there is to know about sex. no strings, no feelings, just lessons. but the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it's only practice.
rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ male masturbation, making out, unspoken feelings, pining, a smidge of angst, bucky has a fear of rejection/not being good enough, virgin!reader, experienced!bucky, reader drinks alcohol, mentions of politics, reader is dating a jerk and doesn't know it.
word count: 8.0k
ෆ series masterlist | next part
You stepped out of your apartment at the exact moment Bucky Barnes unlocked his own across the hall.
It wasn’t the first time your mornings had lined up like this. He knew it wasn’t coincidence, not really. He’d long since memorised the sounds you made while getting ready—the soft shuffle of your feet, the hum of a hairdryer, the clink of a mug meeting the counter. Some mornings, he stood by his door with his hand on the knob, pretending to fumble with keys just to run into you like this.
And there you were. Hoodie three sizes too big, hair still damp, yawning into your sleeve. His favourite version of you.
“Morning, doll,” he said casually, holding up your mail like a prize. “The latest threat to your bank account has arrived.”
You blinked, slow and groggy, then narrowed your eyes when you saw the Bloomingdale’s logo on the catalogue. “Bucky, did you read my mail again?”
He gasped, hand to his chest. “I would never.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was protecting your financial well-being,” he insisted, voice going mock-serious. “You nearly cried over that suede coat last month. I’m acting in your best interest.”
“You’re acting like a nosy neighbour, again,” you muttered, taking the mail from his hand.
He let you, though he didn’t quite let go right away.
And you didn’t notice. Or maybe you just didn’t think twice about it.
You never did.
He watched you leaf through the envelope lazily, eyes soft with sleep and trust. The kind of trust he still didn’t think he deserved. But you gave it to him anyway—effortlessly. Like handing him your heartbeat.
“Come on,” you said, already walking toward the stairs. “Coffee?”
“Obviously,” he replied, falling into step beside you.
He didn’t have to ask where you were going. He never did. You always went to the same quaint little café on Saturday mornings, always shared the same slice of raspberry coconut loaf, always sat at the table by the window with the wobbly leg. And Bucky loved a routine, even if he never said it out loud.
Especially one that involved you.
The building creaked softly as you descended together, your steps a little too light, his a little too heavy. When the sun touched your skin through the glass entryway, you tilted your face toward it and smiled.
That smile—God, that smile.
You didn’t know what it did to him. How it made something ancient and restless inside him go perfectly still.
You pushed through the front door and into the street, the early morning light gold and sleepy. A dog barked somewhere. A bike rolled past. You reached for his arm without warning, slipping your hand into the crook of his metal elbow like it belonged there.
Like you belonged there.
He swore his breath caught for a second.
It was always like that. You touched him so freely—so fearlessly. You held his metal hand when you were tipsy, tugged on the plates when you needed his attention, rested your cheek against the cool surface like it was nothing. Like the arm hadn’t killed people. Like it hadn’t nearly killed him.
And every time, it undid him a little more.
“God, I’m starving,” you groaned, leaning into him. “Do you think they still have that raspberry loaf?”
“I think you single-handedly keep them in business with how often you order that thing.”
“It’s so good, Buck. You can’t deny it.”
“I wouldn’t know, every time I order a slice to try, you end up stealing it from my plate.” Bucky smirked.
You gasped, scandalised. “I share with you.”
“You leave me crumbs. Literal crumbs.”
You bumped your hip into his as you walked. “I’m just a girl. I need sugar.”
You’re sweet enough already, he wanted to say. But instead, he didn’t answer. Just smiled, the tight kind, the kind he had to control.
You didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on you—on the light catching in your eyes, on the way your hoodie slipped off one shoulder, revealing just enough skin to make Bucky’s heart yearn. You didn’t see the quiet hunger behind his eyes, the ache that lived just under the surface.
He wanted to memorise everything. The sound of your laugh, the curve of your knuckles, the way you pointed your toe out when you walked. Every piece of you. Etched into memory.
But you were his friend. Just his friend.
And he could live with that.
Because if friendship was the only way he got to keep you close, he’d take it. Even if it hollowed him out a little more every time you smiled at him like he was just Bucky Barnes, your neighbour. Your best friend.
Not the man who watched you like you hung galaxies from your fingertips.
Not the man who would burn the world down just to keep you safe.
You tightened your hold on his arm as you turned the corner. “You’re paying, by the way.”
“Wasn’t aware I wasn’t paying.”
“You’re my favourite sugar daddy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
You grinned up at him, mischief in your eyes. “You love it.”
Bucky couldn’t resist the smile tugging at his lips.
The two of you walked slowly, like you had nowhere to be — and you didn’t, not really. That was the beauty of Saturday mornings. No Congress meetings. No global threats. Just coffee, a shared slice of cake, and the one person on Earth who made him forget what the rest of his life had looked like before this.
You tilted your head toward the nearest tree, watching sunlight filter through its leaves, and Bucky watched you instead.
“This neighbourhood’s changing,” you murmured, pointing across the street. “That used to be a laundromat, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. You used to drop your delicates there and then come over to my place to complain about how everything smelled like lavender.”
You laughed. “I still hate lavender.”
He smiled softly. “I know.”
You looked up at him at that. Something flickered in your expression, brief but curious, like you hadn’t expected him to remember something so small.
But he remembered everything.
Like the way you always brought a spare hair tie but never used it. The way you couldn’t walk past a bookstore without wandering in. The way your lips pressed together when you were trying not to say something too honest.
You kicked a little rock on the sidewalk and it skipped ahead of you.
He filed that away too. He always did. Like collecting evidence of the person he couldn’t have but would’ve worshipped if you’d only let him.
You stopped at the corner where the café sat, all old bricks and chipped blue paint and hand-drawn chalkboard menus. He reached for the door and held it open without thinking. You paused just before walking in, brushing your hand against his stomach briefly—just a friendly touch, just something easy and natural—but it burned like a brand.
Inside, the place smelled like roasted espresso beans and sugar. The usual barista waved at you both.
You smiled at her and then up at him. “Iced latte. Two shots. Oat milk. No syrup.”
“You think I don’t know your order by now?”
“I like to keep you on your toes.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. Just warmth. Just a quiet affection he’d never let himself name.
You drifted toward the back table—the one with the wobbly leg—and pulled out your favourite chair, the one with the chipped white paint and the tiny carved heart in the corner that you'd pretended to hate but never actually swapped out.
He stepped up to the counter and ordered your drinks, adding the raspberry and coconut loaf without hesitation. They gave him the biggest slice because they knew it was for you.
By the time he joined you at the table, you’d already folded your arms on the tabletop and rested your chin on them like a kid, watching him with lazy amusement.
“You know,” you said, “if I were a stranger, I’d assume we were dating.”
His chest tightened. But he managed a smirk.
“If we were dating, you’d let me eat more than a third of the cake.”
“If we were dating, we'd live together, and you wouldn’t keep stealing my mail,” you fired back.
“You love it when I steal your mail.”
You grinned.
God, he wanted to reach across the table and tuck that loose strand of hair behind your ear. Not because it was in the way—just because he could.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he pushed the raspberry loaf toward you and watched you light up like you’d been handed a gift.
You broke off a corner and handed it to him without thinking. He took it with a faint smile, letting your fingertips brush.
He wondered—again—if you noticed how often you touched him. If you knew how he soaked up every second of it like a starving man.
You sipped your coffee and hummed in satisfaction. “They made it strong today.”
“Good. You get bitchy when you’re tired.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And you get soft when you’re around me.”
He looked at you. Really looked. And for one terrifying moment, he wanted to say something real.
I do. I get soft. I get stupid. I’d say yes to anything you asked me, even if it tore me up inside.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair and said, “That’s your influence. You’re corrupting me.”
You didn’t deny it.
You just smiled, eyes bright with affection, and reached for another piece of cake.
And Bucky Barnes, hardened soldier, century-old weapon, killer turned Congressman turned best friend—sat there, letting you have the bigger half, just like always.
The coffee shop hummed with weekend ease — low music from the speakers, baristas laughing behind the counter, the soft hiss of steamed milk. Your fork tapped against the plate as you divided the final bite of raspberry loaf without asking, pushing the smaller piece toward him.
He gave you a look.
“Don’t fight it,” you said lightly. “You’ve had enough.”
“I paid for it,” he muttered, but still took the bite.
You laughed, sipping your drink. Your lips were pink from the berry glaze, and you wore that tired little smile — the one you always had when you’d slept like shit but tried to hide it. He noticed it all. Of course he did.
Your phone buzzed on the table beside your latte. You glanced down and grinned.
That grin made his stomach turn, but he didn’t know why yet.
“Who’s that?” he asked, casually enough.
“Oh.” You picked up the phone and typed quickly, still smiling. “Congressman Blake.”
His chest tightened before his brain even caught up. “The one from judiciary?”
“Mhm.” You looked up, eyes still sparkling. “He’s taking me to dinner tonight.”
It hit him like a punch.
You. Dressed up for someone else. Smiling like that for someone else. Letting someone else close enough to ruin you.
His jaw locked before he could stop it. “Blake’s—”
“Don’t.” You cut him off before he even said it, tone playful but warning. “Don’t do the overprotective big brother thing.”
He tried to keep his voice even. Tried not to let anything show. “I’m not. Just… Blake? Really?”
“What’s wrong with Blake?”
He’s a sleaze. He cheats. He brags about interns behind closed doors. He’s not safe.
But he couldn’t say any of that. Not without sounding like a jealous asshole.
“Nothing,” he said flatly. “Just didn’t realise he was your type.”
You tilted your head. “And what’s my type, Barnes?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when every version of your type in his mind looked a hell of a lot like him.
You sipped your drink again and shrugged, clearly brushing it off. “He’s nice. He’s… ambitious. Confident. And he actually asked.”
That part stung. You’d never said it before, but it was true. Bucky had never asked. He hovered. Protected. Lingered too long when you hugged him, always brushed his thumb along your lower back when he walked you home. But he never crossed the line.
You leaned back in your chair, looking suddenly shy. “Anyway. I think it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
You looked down at your hands, fiddling with your straw wrapper. “To… take that step. You know.”
He went still. “What step?”
You hesitated, then looked him dead in the eye. “I want to have sex with him, Buck.”
He froze.
There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, and for a second, the café blurred at the edges.
You kept talking, like you hadn’t just detonated a nuclear bomb on his morning.
“I know it’s stupid. I know I should’ve done it sooner or—whatever. I mean, we’ve been seeing each other for a week and a half, and I’m not used to this sort of thing. To be honest, I wonder if it's a little fast. But Blake keeps making moves, and I think tonight will maybe be the night? I mean, he’s hot, and he wants to, and I want to, I guess.”
Bucky blinked. “You want to have sex with Congressman Blake?”
You flushed instantly, but nodded. “Well, yeah. Bucky, were you just listening to a word I said?”
He sat back, stunned. You. Sweet. Soft. Letting someone like Blake touch you?
The metal fingers on his left hand flexed beneath the table.
You rushed to fill the silence. “I just think… I don’t want to mess it up. And he’s… I don’t know, experienced. I want to be good. I want to be enough.”
That last part did something awful to him.
“Don’t say that,” he said sharply.
You blinked. “Say what?”
“That you’re not enough. That you need to impress him.”
You gave him a look, somewhere between touched and confused. “Buck…”
But he couldn’t let it go. Not now.
“You don’t need to prove anything to him,” he muttered, jaw tight. “He should be lucky you’re even giving him the time of day.”
You went quiet. The warmth from earlier cooled around you.
“You sound mad,” you said softly.
He looked at you then — really looked. You, sitting across from him with your heart cracked wide open, trusting him with this truth. And all he could feel was helpless. Furious and heartbroken and helpless.
“I’m not mad,” he said, quieter now. “Just… surprised.”
You tried to smile. “You thought I’d die alone?”
“No,” he said instantly. Then softer: “I just didn’t think he deserved you.”
Your smile faltered.
For a second, you just stared at him, eyes wide and unreadable. But then your phone buzzed again, and the moment passed. You reached for it like nothing had happened.
“Anyway,” you said lightly, “I’ve gotta go and do some errands. He’s picking me up at eight. Think I’ll wear that little pink dress. You know the one I wore for my cousin’s wedding?”
Bucky nodded numbly.
He was your date to your cousin’s wedding last year, after you’d begged and pleaded with him. You told him you only wanted him there so your family would stop asking inappropriate questions about your love life. And wow, you played the part of girlfriend so well. That was the night when he’d nearly told you the truth.
You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and leaned down to kiss his cheek.
“Thanks for the coffee,” you whispered. “You’re my favourite.”
Then you walked out, leaving him alone at the table, heart sinking to the floor, and an empty plate with few coconut flakes and a smear of raspberry frosting.
──── ୨୧ ────
Bucky stared at the ceiling.
Then he stared at the floor.
Then he paced to the window, looked out at your door across the hallway, and paced back again.
And again.
And again.
His hands were in fists. Then on his hips. Then raking through his hair.
He couldn’t sit still.
You’d smiled when you said it. You’d meant it. It wasn’t some joke, some hypothetical. You really wanted to have sex with that asshole.
Fuck.
He muttered it under his breath and stopped in front of the counter, where he’d pulled up a dozen tabs on his phone for raspberry loaf recipes and hadn’t committed to any of them.
“This is stupid,” he mumbled to no one.
But still, he preheated the oven.
It wasn’t even about the cake. It was just—something. A thing to do with his hands that didn’t involve punching walls or texting you thirty times with half-written apologies and I didn’t mean to sound like a jealous jackass, I just—
He scrolled through the ingredients list again and set out what he had. Flour. Eggs. Sugar. Raspberries. Coconut milk — because you didn’t like regular milk, said it made your stomach feel weird. He always remembered the little things.
His thumb hesitated over the coconut flakes. Too much? No. He added them. You liked the texture.
He cracked eggs too hard. Spilled flour on the counter. Burned his finger on the pan and didn’t even flinch. All he could think about was you.
Your smile. Your laugh. The way you’d touched his arm at the café and leaned against him like you weren’t afraid of him at all. The way you kissed his cheek and told him he was your favourite right before walking out the door to go on a date with Blake.
He growled under his breath, rubbing flour into his temples.
The phone on his kitchen island lit up.
He stared at it for a long time, then tapped Sam’s contact. One ring. Two.
Sam picked up, slightly out of breath. “Bucky Barnes, to what do I owe the pleasure? This phone call isn’t therapist mandated, is it?”
“No. I stopped seeing Dr Raynor,” Bucky replied, eyeing up the mess in his kitchen and grabbing a towel with his empty hand.
“And so now you’re calling me because… you miss me?” Bucky could practically hear Sam’s smirk on the other end of the line.
Bucky sat heavily on the barstool, elbows on the counter. “Sam I need help. It’s Y/N. She’s going on a date tonight.”
“Okay… and?” Sam deadpanned.
“She wants to have sex with Congressman Blake.”
There was a beat of silence. “Damn, is that politician who voted against women’s reproductive rights? Or was it the one who got those sustainability protestors arrested at Capitol Hill? Wait— is this the guy you pushed into the vending machine that one time?”
Bucky leaned back, eyes closed. “All the same guy.”
“Fucking super villain,” Sam muttered. “She needs to stay clear from him.”
“She kept calling him hot and— and I just sat there like a fucking statue while she told me she was giving herself to that slimeball.”
“You know you’re allowed to tell her how you feel, right?”
“No,” he said immediately. “I’m not.”
“Buck—”
“She’s my best friend.”
“She’s not a child.”
“She trusts me. I’m not gonna break that.”
Sam sighed. “Then why are you pacing?”
Bucky stopped in his footsteps, cheeks burning. “I’m not.”
“You’re lying again.”
There was a long pause.
“I’m baking.”
“You’re baking,” Sam repeated, a little dumbfounded by the confession.
“She loves raspberry coconut loaf,” Bucky muttered finally. “Figured I’d… I don’t know. Drop one off.”
Sam made a sound between a laugh and a groan. “You’re hopeless.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“Do you want her to be with that guy?” Sam asked quietly.
Bucky’s chest caved in. “No.”
“Then say something.”
“Sam, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she deserves soft,” he whispered. “She deserves first kisses and safe hands. Not a guy with a kill count.”
“And Congressman Blake is the guy who has that? I don’t think so Buck,” Sam replied. “She knows you and she knows your past. She’s not afraid of you, and she certainly wouldn’t want you to dote on her like this. Now, go finish up this cake and if you can’t tell her how you feel, at least wish her luck on her date. God knows she’ll need it.”
The oven beeped. The cake was done. And the conversation ended not long after that.
“Thank you Sam,” Bucky said, reaching for the oven handle.
“Love you, buddy,” Sam replied before ending the call.
He took the cake out with trembling hands, set it on the cooling rack, and stared at it like it might offer answers. It looked a little crooked. One corner had cracked.
Didn’t matter.
He was still going to knock on your door in twenty minutes, warm cake in hand, and apologise for everything — even if he couldn’t say the one thing he really wanted to.
When Bucky finally managed the confidence, you opened the door in a rush of perfume and warmth, barefoot but otherwise fully dressed. Too dressed. Dressed like sin in a silk wrap dress the colour of blush wine. Your eyes were lined, lashes fluttering, cheeks glowing. And Bucky?
He forgot how to breathe.
“Hey,” you said brightly, clutching a delicate little purse in one hand. “Oh my god, is that—?”
He held out the loaf cake like an apology wrapped in parchment paper.
Your whole face lit up.
“You baked for me?” You took it from him with both hands, like it was something precious. “Bucky, this is—thank you! You didn’t have to. I’m really sorry about earlier, by the way. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“It’s okay,” he muttered, eyes darting anywhere but your cleavage. “I was kind of an ass.”
“No, you were just being protective. You always are.” You gave him that soft smile that always disarmed him. That made him feel seen. “I’m just… I really like Blake, you know?”
His jaw clenched. He stepped into your apartment when you gestured for him to follow.
“I’m happy for you.” A bare face lie; but he knew he wanted to at least get to a place where he could be happy for you, his best friend. He hated the way he seethed with jealousy.
You twirled around once and held your hair up. “Can you zip me up?”
He blinked. “What?”
“The back.” You turned around and revealed the bare expanse of your back, smooth and soft, the dress gaping where the zipper ended halfway. “I couldn’t get it myself.”
His fingers shook. He hoped you didn’t notice.
The zipper whispered upward slowly, every inch of skin sealed off like a secret he wasn’t meant to know. You smelled like lavender and coconut, something sweet and warm and home. You looked over your shoulder and smiled at him.
“Thanks, Buck.”
He cleared his throat. “You look… nice.”
Nice. That’s what he landed on. Not breathtaking. Not beautiful. Not like my heart was carved out and put in a dress just to mock me. Just nice.
You beamed like you hadn’t noticed his agony at all.
“I really want this to go well,” you said, turning toward your mirror to fix your lip gloss. “He’s not perfect, I know, but he’s charming. And hot. And I don’t know, there’s just something exciting about him. Like he knows what he’s doing.”
Bucky’s stomach turned.
“And I want to be good for him,” you went on, dabbing something shimmery onto your cheekbones. “Like… I want to know what I’m doing. I’m tired of being the clueless one. All my friends lost their virginity ages ago, and here I am, still fumbling in the dark.”
You turned to him then, a half-laugh on your lips, like you expected him to laugh too.
But he didn’t.
Your smile faltered. “What?”
“You’re a virgin?” he asked before he could stop himself. His voice came out lower than he meant, rougher.
You blinked. “Uh… yeah.”
He stared at you. Of course you were. Of course you waited. Of course you were soft and good and didn’t give yourself away to someone who didn’t deserve it—
“I mean, it's not typically something I announce at parties. I just…” you shifted, suddenly shy, “I want to be ready. For him. I want it to be good, you know? But I don’t want to go in completely blind.”
He didn’t speak.
You bit your lip. Then looked up at him with a spark of something hopeful. Something dangerous.
“That’s actually kind of why I was hoping you’d come by. I was thinking about what you said, about not trusting Blake, and I get it. He’s a little unconventional. But you’ve always looked out for me. Always been honest. And I trust you more than anyone.”
He stepped back, wary of the way your voice softened.
“So…” you stepped closer, eyes wide, tone casual but far too sincere. “I was wondering… if maybe you’d help me.”
His brow furrowed. “Help?”
“With learning,” you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Like… teach me.”
The words landed like a thunderbolt.
You laughed nervously when he didn’t respond right away. “Not everything at once, obviously. Just the basics. Kissing. Touching. Whatever you think I should know. I mean, who better to learn from than someone I already trust, right?”
Bucky was silent.
Then: “You want me to teach you how to—”
“—how to have sex, yeah.” You said it quickly, breathless. “But like… in stages. Slow. You don’t have to if you think it’s weird, I just—I really want my first time to be good, and I figured if I have to learn, I’d rather it be with someone who makes me feel safe.”
Someone who makes me feel safe.
Not loved. Not wanted. Not the man you’ve been quietly obsessed with for years who would rip the world in half to protect you.
Just safe.
“Bucky?” you said softly, your voice a little nervous now. “You don’t have to say yes. I just thought—”
“I’ll do it.”
You blinked.
He said it again, quieter this time. “I’ll help you.”
Relief bloomed in your expression. You surged forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, hugging him like you always did — like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t make his heart splinter.
“Thank you,” you murmured into his chest. “You’re the best, Buck. Really.”
He held you gently. Let himself have the moment.
One more second. One more breath of your perfume. One more illusion of something he could never really have.
“Tomorrow night?” you asked brightly, pulling away. “We can start simple. Just kissing.”
He nodded, throat dry.
“Great! I’ll bring wine.” You smiled again, radiant and entirely unaware of the devastation you’d just left in your wake. “Wish me luck with Blake?”
He forced a smirk. “Break a leg.”
Then you were gone — slipping into your heels, grabbing your purse, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and floating out the door like a dream wrapped in silk and naiveté.
Bucky was left stood in your living room, alone, with a sinking heart and raspberry cake crumbs on his shirt.
──── ୨୧ ────
The restaurant was dimly lit and swanky, tucked into the corner of a cobblestone street in SoHo. You were seated at a private table beside the window, candlelight flickering between you and Blake.
He looked good. Too good. Slicked-back hair, watch glinting under his cuff, shirt crisp and expensive. He grinned like a man who had never been told no, and flirted like it was second nature.
"You clean up well," he said, eyes raking over your body with a smirk. "Though I gotta admit, you looked pretty damn good when I saw you on Thursday. That little T-shirt situation you had going on in the hallway? Dangerous."
You flushed, laughing a little despite yourself. "Yeah, sorry about that. It was laundry day and I didn’t expect company."
"I didn’t mind." He winked, then flagged down the waitress with a pointed glance and a once-over that lingered just a second too long.
You watched him, brows lifting subtly.
She walked away after taking your drink order — a sweet rosé for you, bourbon neat for him — and Blake leaned in with that megawatt smile.
"So," you said, twirling your straw, "do you know my neighbour? Bucky Barnes?"
His smile faltered.
"Yeah," he said after a beat. "Guy’s… around."
You blinked. "You’ve worked with him?"
“Sure. He’s kind of a dinosaur, honestly.” Blake shrugged, reaching for the breadbasket. “Weird loner type. Barely speaks in meetings. Creeps people out, to be honest. All that staring and brooding. Makes everything heavier than it needs to be.”
Your jaw tightened.
“He’s a good man,” you said quietly, the edge in your voice unmistakable. “Sometimes, I can’t believe he even chose a career in politics but he really wants to help people. He fights for change.”
Blake chuckled, caught off guard. “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers, sweetheart. You’re right. He’s… loyal. I’ll give him that. But Congressman Barnes and I don’t align on the same things.”
You weren’t sure what he meant by that, and didn’t dare ask. “How come you’re in politics?”
“Fortune, I guess. Power. The ability to get anything I want with a snap of a finger. My dad was a Senator so I’m following in his footsteps.”
You nodded, feigning an attempt to understand, but the glow you’d come in with dimmed a little.
Still, Blake recovered fast. He leaned forward and complimented your eyes, your dress, your laugh — all with a polish that should’ve made you melt. And it almost did. His voice was smooth, his words practiced but alluring, and when he touched your hand across the table, you felt your pulse stutter.
“You know,” he said softly, tracing a lazy circle against your wrist with his thumb, “You are so stunning up close.” His eyes dropped to your mouth. “This is unfair.”
You smiled bashfully, biting your lip.
Dinner arrived — steak for him, something creamy and pasta-based for you — and conversation flowed. Kind of. He liked to talk about himself, but you didn’t mind much. It made you feel like you were in the presence of someone powerful. Someone who wanted you.
At one point, his hand landed on your leg under the table. Light at first. Harmless. But then it inched higher. And higher.
You jumped slightly, thighs tensing under his touch.
Blake raised his eyebrows, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Too fast?”
You nodded, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t be sorry,” he cut in quickly, drawing his hand back. “You’re worth the wait.”
You stared at him, breath caught in your throat.
“I mean that,” he added, his tone softening. “Look at you. Smart, funny, beautiful. Not like the usual girls I take out. You’ve got something extra.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
When dessert was offered, he waved it off and paid in full, leaving a cash tip with a wink at the waitress (which you pretended not to notice). Then he walked you out, hand brushing your back possessively.
“Tomorrow night?” he asked, opening the car door for you.
You blinked. “You want to go out again tomorrow?” You remembered your plans with Bucky, and wondered if you could fit in another date around them.
“Of course I do.” He smiled, leaning closer. “Assuming you don’t have plans with your broody neighbour.”
You forced a laugh. “He’s not broody.”
“Mhm. I’ll text you, darling, and we can arrange plans.”
He kissed your cheek — too close to your mouth — and you slipped into the backseat with a flurry of nerves and butterflies.
As the car pulled away, you clutched your purse in your lap and thought about his hand on your leg. How it had made your stomach flip. How you hadn’t known what to do with yourself.
And tomorrow, he’d want more. Probably much more.
You weren’t ready. But you wanted to be.
──── ୨୧ ────
The silence in the apartment building was deafening.
You’d gone hours ago. Dressed in that slinky blush dress, eyes sparkling like precious gems, perfume sweet like vanilla clinging to the hallway even after you left. And Bucky hadn’t been able to sit still since.
He’d paced from the kitchen to the living room, rearranged the throw pillows twice, turned the oven on and off. Every creak of the floorboards made him glance at the door, hoping—praying—you’d forgotten something and come back.
You didn’t.
Instead, he’d stared at his phone like a man possessed, checking the time, the weather, the news. Anything. Everything.
Just not you.
He should’ve turned the TV on. Maybe put on a record. But all he could do was think—think about the way Blake might have looked at you. Might have touched you. His stomach churned at the thought. Instead he tried fixating on you. The way your lips parted when you laughed. The way you’d asked him to tie the back of your dress, turning around so trustingly while he tried not to breathe too hard behind you.
God, he was a fucking mess.
You were out with a man who didn’t deserve you, and Bucky had stood there in your apartment holding a damn loaf cake like a second-place ribbon. All he could do now was imagine that guy’s hand on your leg, his mouth on your skin, and he had to get up again. Pacing. Rubbing at his face.
He didn’t want to know what was happening. But God, did it kill him not to.
So when your name lit up his phone at 11:32 PM, he nearly dropped it fumbling to unlock the screen.
you: home now 🥱
you: date was okay. he talks a lot
His stomach unclenched slightly.
You were home. You were texting him. You weren’t in Blake’s bed. You weren’t sending that same message to someone else.
bucky: Glad you’re back safe.
bucky: He say anything weird?
He watched the typing bubble bounce.
you: just weird little comments. like he’s used to people hanging on his every word
you: but he said I’m worth the wait 💀
you: so I guess I’m irresistible
Bucky let out a breath through his nose. A crooked smile threatened the corner of his mouth, even as he shook his head.
bucky: Obviously.
bucky: Glad he didn’t try anything.
You replied a beat later.
you: he tried. I just… wasn’t ready.
His heart twisted. Part relief, part ache.
bucky: Good.
bucky: I mean not good that you weren’t ready.
bucky: 😆
bucky: Sorry I didn’t mean to press that.
bucky: Slippy fingers.
bucky: You don’t have to rush anything for some guy who can’t even respect your space.
There was a pause.
you: I know
you: that’s why I’m asking you for help
His mouth went dry. He stared at the screen like it might combust in his hand.
you: tomorrow night okay?
you: wine + lesson 1?
you: blake’s taking me out again around 8, so maybe like… 6?
Bucky had never typed faster.
bucky: My place at 6.
Another pause.
you: you’re the best buck
His chest constricted.
bucky: Not even close, doll
bucky: But I’ll try to be.
──── ୨୧ ────
Bucky had cleaned the apartment twice.
He didn’t mean to. He’d done the usual once-over in the morning, vacuumed, wiped the counters. But by 3pm he was scrubbing the inside of the microwave, reorganising the bookshelf, folding and refolding the blanket on the couch like the way it sat would change the course of fate.
You were coming over. For… lessons. Intimacy lessons. A phrase that had been echoing in his brain on loop since your texts last night. He’d barely slept, barely thought about anything else.
You trusted him with this. You chose him.
He stood in front of the mirror at 5:53pm, staring himself down. Fresh grey T-shirt. Jeans that fit just a little too well. Hair tied back into a man bun because it just wasn’t sitting right. A faint dab of cologne he hadn’t touched in years. Nothing too heavy. Just enough to make your heart skip if you leaned in close.
He looked like he wasn’t trying too hard.
He looked like a liar.
At exactly 6:00pm, you knocked on the door.
Bucky practically tripped over his own feet getting there. He paused, steadied himself, then opened it.
And nearly forgot how to breathe.
You stood there in comfy joggers and a slouchy cardigan, wine bottle tucked under your arm, your hair tied up loosely like you hadn’t overthought it at all. You looked beautiful. Effortless. Like home.
“Hi,” you smiled, stepping in past him like you’d done a hundred times before. “You clean for me, Barnes?”
He rolled his eyes, shutting the door behind you. “You wish.”
You grinned, walking into the kitchen. “Liar. It smells like pine cleaner in here.”
He smiled despite himself, watching you drop your bag on the counter like you lived here. The sight made his chest ache. He wondered if you could hear how hard his heart was beating.
“You want me to pour this?” you asked, holding up the wine bottle. “Or are we going in dry?”
He choked. “Jesus, doll.”
You just laughed. “Sorry. I’m nervous.”
He joined you at the counter and took the bottle from your hands. “You’re nervous?”
“I’ve never done this before, remember?” you teased. “I nearly kissed a guy in ninth grade, but uh, that’s it.”
“What happened?” Bucky asked, popping open the bottle of wine.
“I ran away,” you replied bashfully and something in Bucky softened. “I have been doing research, though. Watching movies. Notting Hill. Pretty Woman. And I noticed, when the characters kiss, they always do something with their hands. And I’ve never even considered that before. Made me realise there’s a lot more to kissing than just, lips.”
Bucky tried not to picture where he wanted your hands. He tried really, really hard. “I guess.”
He poured two glasses, handed you one, and tapped the rim of his to yours.
“To lesson one,” you said.
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s the title?”
You grinned. “Making Out. Advanced level. With tongue.”
He nearly dropped the glass.
You walked over to the couch and plopped down with a cozy sigh, folding your legs beneath you. “You coming?”
Bucky followed, sitting beside you with a casual ease that was anything but. You turned to face him, sipping your wine once more before setting it aside.
“So… how do we start?”
He swallowed hard. “Well. Usually people don’t talk about it this much.”
“I like to be prepared,” you said sweetly, shuffling closer. “C’mon. It’s me. We’ve done worse together.”
Not like this, Bucky thought.
But he nodded. Let himself lean in.
You tilted your head up to meet him.
The first kiss was soft. Simple. Barely there. A graze of your lips against his, similar to the innocent brush of hands you’d share when you slipped past him, or the quick hugs you’d greet him with.
You pulled back a fraction, eyebrows lifting. “That was it?”
Bucky scoffed a laugh. “It’s not a race, doll.”
You grinned. “Okay, okay. Again?”
He nodded once.
You kissed him this time — a little longer, lips pressing to his with more certainty. Your hand landed gently on his thigh and he almost forgot to breathe. He kissed you back, slowly, savouring it, like his entire world was ending and he was memorising the taste of the last good thing.
Your lips parted.
Tongue brushed.
You both gasped.
You pulled away with wide eyes. “That felt… weird.”
He blinked. “Bad weird?”
“No,” you whispered. “Good weird.”
And then you kissed him again.
This time, Bucky cupped your cheek — warm hand tilting your face up, cold metal fingers brushing against your jaw. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pause. You just melted.
Your hand slid up his chest. You moaned — soft and surprised — into his mouth, and he made a noise so low it shocked even him.
You pulled back, breathless.
“Was that okay?” you asked.
Bucky’s pupils were blown wide. “Yeah. That was—yeah.”
You shifted closer, nearly straddling his thigh. “I feel like I could kiss you for hours.”
God, don’t say things like that, he thought.
But all he said was, “I’m not stopping you.”
You kissed again. Again. Deeper this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that curled your toes and made your brain go static. Bucky let you tug his shirt lightly, your fingers curling in the fabric as your body moved closer. You were pressing into him, soft chest brushing against his, and his whole body was buzzing.
Then you pulled back, blinking up at him, lips red and swollen.
“I feel kinda drunk,” you whispered.
He smirked. “You only had half a glass.”
You looked at his mouth again. “No, like… from that.”
And Bucky, with all the restraint he had left, cleared his throat and nodded. “That’s… that’s normal.”
Your mind was a haze and God, you loved the feeling. You kissed him again, and again, relishing the way his short beard grazed over your skin and how soft his lips felt.
There was no hesitation anymore — not on your part, anyway. Your lips moved over his with practiced ease, like kissing Bucky was something you'd always known how to do. It wasn’t rushed, or awkward. You just melted into him like you belonged there.
But your hands… your hands weren’t quite sure where to go.
First, you cupped his face. Gentle, sweet. Your fingers brushed his stubbled jaw, thumb tracing the edge of his cheekbone. He could hardly breathe.
But then, uncertain, your hands moved — dragging down to his broad shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. You squeezed, a soft appreciative sound leaving your throat, and Bucky nearly groaned.
“You okay?” you mumbled against his mouth.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “You?”
You nodded against him. “Just… don’t know where to put my hands.”
He laughed under his breath, breath hitching as your hands began to roam again — this time down the curve of his chest. His heart stuttered.
“Here’s good,” he murmured, voice low as his hand found yours, pressing it gently over his sternum. “So’s here…” He guided you to rest your palm against his stomach, where his muscles jumped beneath your touch.
You slid your hand down further on your own.
Down his abdomen. Over his waistband.
Then down, across his thigh.
He tensed under your touch. The muscle in his jaw ticked. You didn’t notice — or maybe you did, and just thought he was nervous like you. But your hand stayed there, warm and soft, fingers lightly brushing over denim.
Dangerously close to where he was already hard. Achingly hard.
Bucky’s stomach tightened. His breath hitched against your lips.
You pulled back, blinking up at him innocently. “Is this okay?”
His voice cracked. “Yeah—yeah, it’s fine, sweetheart, just—”
But then your thumb brushed just a little too close. And he flinched. Subtle. Barely a shift. But you felt it.
Your brows furrowed, concerned. “Bucky?”
Shit.
He pulled back a little, drawing in a shaky breath. His hand moved from your waist to gently cup your cheek again — thumb brushing along your jaw to soothe you, even though he was the one falling apart.
“You’re doin’ perfect,” he murmured. “Just—let’s slow down for tonight, okay?”
You blinked, flustered. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. No, not at all.” He smiled — soft, tender, reassuring. “You’re just… really good at this.”
You smiled at that, a little dazed. “You think?”
“I know,” he said, and the way he said it made your whole chest flutter. “If this was your first lesson, I’m kinda scared of what you’ll do to me by lesson five.”
You grinned, cheeks flushed. “Five whole lessons, huh? You planning on surviving that long?”
He snorted. “Not sure.”
You looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him. And he wondered if you could see it. The hunger he was trying to hide. The ache in his chest. The ache somewhere lower.
But you just leaned in, pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek, and whispered, “Thanks, Buck. I feel a lot better now. I should probably head back to my place, Blake is picking me up soon and I still gotta get ready.”
“Anytime, doll,” he said quietly.
You stood, stretching your arms above your head, and Bucky tried not to stare at the sliver of skin that peeked out beneath your hoodie. He watched you walk to the door, watched you turn back for one last smile before slipping out into the hall.
And then he sat there on the couch, alone in the dim light, still tasting you on his lips and aching in his jeans.
──── ୨୧ ────
Bucky hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.
The apartment was dark now — just the dim lamp in the corner casting long golden shadows over his living room. Your lip balm still lingered faintly on his mouth, vanilla-sweet and haunting. His hoodie still smelled like you. The blanket you’d been curled under was bunched on the couch, warm where you’d left it.
And he was still sitting there.
Hard as a fucking rock.
He leaned back against the cushion, ran a hand over his face, then down through his hair. He exhaled shakily. Tried to think about anything else.
Didn’t work.
Because it wasn’t just the kiss. Not really. It was the sound of your breath hitching when he touched your waist. It was your tiny moan when his tongue slid over yours. It was your hand—fuck, your hand—dragging down his chest, his stomach, to his thigh. So damn close to where he was straining in his jeans he thought he might’ve blacked out for a second.
You didn’t even notice what you were doing to him.
Or maybe you did.
And maybe that made it worse.
He stood, finally, and walked slowly to the bathroom — like his body weighed double. He flicked on the light. Avoided his reflection. His jaw was tense. Lips kiss-bitten and swollen. His jeans still painfully tight.
He let out a breath, then unzipped them. Freed himself with a hiss.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, bracing one hand on the cold sink as the other wrapped around his cock. Already leaking. Already aching.
He tried not to think about you.
But your voice was there, soft and breathy in his ears. “You think I’m good at this?”
Your fingers ghosting over his thigh. Your body curled into his on the couch.
Your mouth, warm and open against his.
“Jesus,” he groaned, jaw clenched, head falling back.
He started slow, fist pumping with deliberate pressure, teasing himself the way he imagined you might. He imagined your hand instead of his. The curious way you'd look at him while learning. The way you’d giggle softly when he moaned. How wide your eyes would go when you saw him like this for the first time.
“Yeah,” he muttered to no one, breath hitching. “Just like that, doll…”
He jerked harder now, breaths coming quick, thighs flexing, hips twitching. His back hit the cold wall behind him and he let it happen, let his legs shake as he chased the thought of you — you with your pretty lips and shy smile and warm eyes, the way you’d whispered “thanks, Buck,” like you had no fucking clue what you were doing to him.
You were so sweet. So good.
Too good for him.
But God, he wanted you anyway.
He came with a low, desperate groan, biting down on a whimper as heat spilled over his knuckles. His metal hand smacked against the tile wall. Breath ragged. Heart racing. His name on your lips still echoing in his ears — imagined, but real enough to ruin him.
Bucky leaned his head against the wall, eyes fluttering closed.
Lesson one was over.
And Bucky Barnes was absolutely, completely fucked.
──── ୨୧ ────
Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan @allhailbuckybarnes
Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!) @sebastians-love @sweetserendipity65 @sangsterizada @mrsalexstan @alpinescoowner @buckyslqve @morganfullaaa
summary: a one night stand with a very humble reporter turns into way more than something the both of you never expected.
tags: sfw , mentions of pregnancy / hooking up
a/n: im so hyped to start this series ya'll don't even knowwwww
this was formally inspired by @llillacwine and their series!
theme: lovergirl
You blankly stared at the blue screen on your computer. The frowny face taunted you while you anxiously eyed the 26% complete.
You groaned, leaning back into your office chair, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes.
Great. Just great.
Your desk fan started to slowly turn towards you, blowing your file papers nearly off your desk. Metropolis in late summer was brutal. Humid enough to make your skin feel like it was wearing someone else's.
To make matters worse, the Daily Planet's air conditioning stopped working earlier this week. Which meant the building was a living furnace of overcrowded coworkers.
You opted to stare outside the window of your office. Being head of the photography department had its perks. You got a perfect view of the city from where you sat.
Metropolis sprawled out below like a living postcard. Gleaming skyscrapers catching the brutal afternoon sun, the distant shimmer of the river.
And just a few blocks down from the Daily Planet, your favourite bar. A bar you're far too familiar with.
The bar, The Lantern, had been your escape hatch for years. Dim lights, worn leather booths, the low hum of conversation that drowned out the city's constant roar. It was the place you'd gone after the kind of days that made you question why anyone chose journalism in the first place.
It was also the place where, six months and change ago, you'd met him.
Clark Kent had wandered in looking like he'd been dragged through a tornado. Glasses fogged from the sudden shift from air-conditioned newsroom to humid night, tie askew, hair mussed in that boyish way that made him look younger than he probably was. He'd ordered a beer he barely touched, sat at the far end of the bar, and somehow ended up next to you when the only open stool was the one you'd saved with your camera bag.
It was no surprise you knew who he was. Clark Kent. Master of getting interviews with Superman when no one else could. So how could anyone blame you if you wanted to suck up to him a little just to maybe get a non-blurry photo of Superman?
Conversation started easy. Complaints about the heat, eye-rolls at Perry's latest tirade, the way the city never slept and neither did either of you.
Then it got quieter. Closer. His laugh was soft, surprised, like he wasn't used to letting it out.
By closing time, the bar had emptied out except for the two of you and the bartender who pretended not to notice. Clark walked you home because "Metropolis at night isn't always kind," and when you invited him up "just for coffee," the coffee never got made.
It was one night. One perfect, reckless, thrilling night. He was gentle in a way that felt almost reverent, whispering your name against your skin like it was something he wanted to remember forever. You fell asleep tangled in sheets that smelled like him, clean cotton and something darker like cologne.
When you woke up, the bed was empty. He was gone. Probably out scouting for the next headline.
He left a note saying he'd be back later, and wished to take things a step further.
But you left before he did. After you realized how unprofessional this all turned out to be.
Because you were head of photography. He was the golden-boy reporter who somehow always got the Superman exclusive. Mixing those worlds felt like career suicide wrapped in bad decisions. So you'd slipped out, told yourself it was self-preservation, told yourself he'd probably wake up relieved you hadn't stayed to make things awkward.
Weeks later the two pink lines appeared. You sat on the edge of your bathtub for almost an hour, staring at them until the edges blurred.
You told yourself you'd figure out how, or if, to tell him later. Much later. After the baby arrived, maybe. Or never. Clark Kent had enough on his plate without a surprise co-parent situation from a one-night mistake.
Now the hoodie you wore today felt like a cage. Suffocating you without even being tight fitting. Sweat gathered under your breasts, along the crease where your belly met your ribs. Twenty-eight weeks today.
You inhaled, and jumped out of your seat with such intensity it sent your chair rolling backwards into the windows behind you.
"Screw this." You muttered only to yourself, jamming your finger on the now elevator button you were standing in front of. You were so gonna chew Perry out for not getting those maintenance guys on the air conditioner.
The ride down felt eternal. When the doors finally parted, the lobby was a chaotic mix of reporters fanning themselves with folded newspapers, interns hauling ice buckets from the vending machines, and the security guard looking like he was one complaint away from quitting.
Your heels clicked with each step you took across the marble floor, diligently dodging each reporting darting back and forth. Sure, maybe you looked like a slob waist above, but that didn't mean your bottom half had to look the same upstairs.
You found Perry looking a little too jolly by some of the female interns, laughing a little too loud at his own joke probably.
You stomped up to him, letting the laughter die down before you started. "Perry. What the heck's going on with the air conditioning?" You groaned, tugging at the collar of your hoodie.
He adjusted his comically large cigar, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-something years under the fluorescent lights. "Boss got a call in to maintenance. Third time this week. They keep promising 'tomorrow.'"
"Tomorrow's not cutting it," you snapped. "It's a hundred degrees in here, Perry. People are melting. The equipment's sweating more than the staff. If we lose another hard drive to this sauna, you're explaining it to the board. Not me."
He raised both hands in surrender, though the twinkle in his eye said he was amused by your fire. "I hear you, kid. But if it's so hot in here, why don't you start by taking off that huge blanket?"
You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing else could come out. You just exhaled deeply through your nose, staring Perry dead in his face like he insulted your family bloodline.
Jimmy popped out from his cubicle, smug as ever, "Yeah he's right, it wouldn't hurt to show some skin."
You just glared back at Jimmy, too pissed off to enjoy his antics.
Lois then appeared from behind both you and Perry, a pile of copies in her hand. "Jimmy, don't be a creep." She set the stack of copies down on a nearby desk with a thud and crossed her arms.
Lois’s expression softened into something quieter. "You okay?" she asked, voice dropping. "You look like you're about to spontaneously combust."
You let out a scoff. "That's one way to put it."
Perry cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in relighting his unlit cigar. "Right. Well. I've got… calls to make. Maintenance. Again." He pointed vaguely toward the elevators. "And Olsen, go develop something useful before I assign you to the pet-show circuit."
Jimmy opened his mouth, caught the look on Lois's face, and wisely closed it. He slunk back toward his cubicle with a muttered, "Geez, tough crowd."
Just then the golden man himself stepped through those revolving doors, late as always.
Clark Kent looked like he’d been running. Tie half-undone, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, hair more disheveled than usual. His glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose, and there was a faint flush high on his cheekbones that had nothing to do with the heat outside.
He quickly sauntered over to where you, Jimmy, and Lois stood.
"Hey," he said, mainly to everyone but he was still looking at you. His gaze flicked over your face first, then dropped to the way you were still tugging uselessly at the collar of the hoodie, the way you were helplessly fanning yourself with your hand.
He set his jacket and the messenger bag he'd been carrying down on the nearest desk without looking away from you. "You don't look good."
You tried for a laugh. It came out thin and breathless. "Flattering, Kent. Really."
He didn't smile back. Instead he reached out pressed the backs of his fingers to your forehead, then your cheek. The touch was cool against your overheated skin.
"You're way too warm," he said quietly. "And you're shaking. When did you last drink water?"
"I-" Your tongue felt thick, clumsy. "I had some… earlier. I think." You said, pulling back from his touch though something in you wanted to lean into it. "Whatever it's fine. I'm fine, it's just hot as hell in here."
Lois exchanged a glance with Clark, who seemed to mouth, do something.
Clark tried to reach forward again, "Here, maybe if you take off."
"No!" You said, loud enough Jimmy peeked his head out of his cubicle again. "I mean- No, I'm fine."
Clark froze mid-reach. His hand hovered for a second, open, then slowly dropped back to his side. But his eyes never left yours. "Okay," he said softly. No push. No demand.
Your eyes refused contact with anyone's, so you turned around completely. "I'm going back to my office. There's too much shit to do." You said, pinching the bridge of your nose. "And you three-" You said, turning back to face the jolly trio, "Get started on those projects. I emailed you all some leads. Please try to come up with a draft by tonight."
You turned on your heel, the motion too sharp for how unsteady you felt. The lobby spun for a second, but you forced your legs to move. One step. Two. The click of your heels sounded too loud in your own ears, like they belonged to someone else.
Behind you, Clark's voice cut through the low hum of the room, quiet but firm. You were too in over your own head to make out what he said.
So you kept on walking, more like staggering, towards the elevator. You tripped once, catching yourself on the wall of a cubicle, breathing out short shallow breaths.
The world narrowed to the glowing elevator call button twenty feet ahead. Your only goal, your only thought. Just get upstairs. Just get away. Just breathe.
By now, some people had stopped to watch you, but of course, none stopped to offer their help. Typical Metropolis.
Your heel caught on nothing. Nothing at all, and your ankle rolled. The marble rushed up. You braced for impact. Hands catching the cold floor, knees following shortly after. You were barely able to hold yourself up.
Clark and Lois immediately rushed up, Clark the first one to kneel by your side, obviously.
Lois gasped suddenly, holding her hands out above you. "Seriously, are you-"
"I'm fine-" You rasped, holding a palm out, refusing help. "Just need to-"
The sentence didn't make it out of your mouth before your vision tunneled, closing until all what was left was pitch black. And before you knew it, you were passed out cold on the floor of the Daily Planet.
marvel masterlist
18+ content, mdni .ᐟ mostly bucky x reader or the occasional stucky x reader. works have triggering themes or include smut, please proceed with caution. full warning lists on each fic. i don't have a taglist, if you want to be notified when i post updates to series or upload new one-shots please follow @artficlly-archive and turn on post notifications. ** means fic includes smut.
𓇢𓆸 ― SERIES
smog & spirits - fantasy 1920s gang au ** [9/11 chapters - 50k words]
mob!bucky x witch!reader
bucky barnes, the leader of sootstone's smog boys, needs a favour. a nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.
lessons in lovemaking ** [6/7 chapters - 60k words]
bucky x blackwidow!reader
you and bucky barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.
𓇢𓆸 ― MINI-SERIES
a dish served cold - western au [7/7 chapters complete - 30k words]
outlaw!bucky x reader
after the murder of your pa, you go on a journey to find justice. fate brings you to crimson junction for a reason, and that reason is bucky barnes.
the price of passage - sci-fi au ** [3/8 chapters - 12k words]
bountyhunter!bucky x healer!reader
a deadly off-planet plague forces you into an uneasy alliance with the infamous bounty hunter bucky barnes. you need his ship, he wants something in return. and in the galaxy, nothing comes without strings attached.
𓇢𓆸 ― ONE-SHOTS
me & the devil - western au [11k words]
outlaw!bucky x saloon girl!reader
the diamondback saloon and hotel has always attracted bad men, and bucky barnes happens to be one of them.
king of pentacles - western au ** [6k words]
outlaw!bucky x fortune teller!reader
when your travelling circus rolls into town, you are warned that bucky barnes is the outlaw who rules these lands. you plan to keep your distance, but he and his men can not resist a little entertainment.
sweetpea - post-apocalyptic au ** [9k words]
retired!hero!bucky x fem!reader
after the riftborn war, bucky barnes seeks to retire from his past as a hero and settle down, you might just be the peace he’s been looking for all along.
read between the lines - college au [2k words]
frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader
tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.
his girls [2k words]
bucky x fem!reader
alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.
close quarters - fantasy au [9k words]
bucky x fem!reader
when you're assigned a brooding escort for your journey north, the last thing you expect is to be sharing a cramped sleeper car with him.
the art of pretending [12k words] **
bucky x agent!reader
being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely
this is (not) okay [9k words] **
bucky x personal assistant!reader
personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower delivery and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.
show me again [17k words] **
bucky x mutant!reader
you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand.
letters of devotion - band au [6.4k words] **
drummer!bucky x waitress!reader
you sent filthy, anonymous letters and nudes to the drummer of your favourite band, never expecting he’d read them. never expecting he’d keep them. never expecting he’d show up at your diner one night, more than eager to fulfil your fantasies.
Emperor Geta x Fem Concubine!Reader (+ Emperor Caracalla and Marcus Acacius)
➽ Masterlist | Part I | Part II
Summary: During one of the gladiator games, you are presented as a gift to Emperor Geta. His court, including his brother Caracalla and General Marcus Acacius, are captivated by your divine beauty. While Geta claims you as his own, Caracalla demands to share—and Acacius falls silently in love.
Word Count: 3.1k words
Tags/Warnings: SMUT! 18+ MDNI, DDDE, sexual content, adult language, virgin!reader, dubcon undertones, f!ngering, unprotected p in v, oral (m receiving), mentions of blood and violence, possession, voyeurism, power imbalance, corruption kink, obsession, emperor/concubine dynamics, historical inaccuracies.
A/N: Starting strong with pure filth! Let me know what you guys think and if you are keen to see how the story progresses. Please comment down if you want to be added to the taglist! <3
The Colosseum roared with thunderous cheers. Sand churned under the bloodied bodies of gladiators, yet on this day, Rome’s greatest spectacle was not the clash of steel.
When a wealthy trader of foreign treasures, approached the imperial dais, even the crowd fell into a strange hush. The man bowed deeply before the emperor and gestured to the veiled figure at his side.
“My lord Geta,” His voice carried, smooth as honeyed wine, “I have traveled seas and deserts, and yet never have I found a jewel as rare as this. Today, I present to you a gift no empire could purchase—a maiden of such beauty that even the gods would envy your possession.”
A murmur swept the nobles. Caracalla leaned forward on his throne, his lips curling with amusement. Geta, seated beside him, raised a brow in cool command.
“Unveil her,” he ordered.
The fabric slipped away, and gasps rose from every direction. Even the praetorians, sworn to stoicism, faltered as they stared.
You stood there, timid and trembling—yet still graceful, wrapped in pale silks that clung to your form. Your eyes lowered, lashes brushing your cheeks, yet even in your shyness, there was an ethereal glow about you. Beauty sculpted, not born—so divine it seemed blasphemous.
At Geta’s side, the praetorians stiffened, their disciplined gazes betraying awe. Courtiers leaned forward in disbelief.
Even Caracalla, lounging with casual arrogance, straightened with a sharp grin.
“By the gods..." He muttered. "Brother, she is wasted on one man alone. Surely Rome can spare such a marvel for us both?”
The suggestion sparked laughter among the nobles, but Geta did not smile. His lips curved instead into something sharper, darker. His gaze raked over you, heavy and unyielding, as though peeling away every fragile layer of innocence you clung to.
At the edge of the dais, General Marcus Acacius said nothing. Yet when his eyes met yours, something struck deep inside him—a thunderous ache he had never felt, not even in the chaos of battle. He should have looked away. He could not.
“How many have bed her?” Geta asked coldly, eyes never leaving you.
The trader chuckled. “None, Your Grace. She is as pure as morning snow. She speaks four tongues, plays the lyre, and her wit is as fine as her beauty. Untouched. Perfect.”
Geta’s eyes gleamed at that, cruel satisfaction flickering in their depths. “Untouched?"
His smile curving cruelly. “Then she shall be mine to corrupt. Mine to remake.”
Caracalla’s grin soured with frustration. He leaned close to his brother, muttering, “You would keep her all to yourself? Even between emperors, such beauty should not be hoarded.”
But Geta only leaned back in his throne, gaze still burning into you. “Some treasures,” he replied, “are not meant to be shared.”
Acacius’s jaw clenched. He had faced warlords and beasts, but never had he wished to steal something from an emperor. Until now.
And in the middle of it all, you stood trembling—yet ensnared in the cruel game of gods and men who would stop at nothing to make you theirs.
----------------------------------
The cheers of the crowd still thundered in your ears as the procession led you from the Colosseum to the imperial palace. Torches flickered against marble walls, throwing shadows that seemed to whisper of gods and monsters alike. You kept your eyes lowered, heart pounding, every step pulling you deeper into a fate you could not escape.
Behind you, the emperors walked together. Geta’s silence was heavy, brooding, and dangerous; Caracalla’s voice, by contrast, spilled with amusement and taunting charm.
“Brother, do not look so grim,” Caracalla teased, his eyes sliding over you with a hunger that made your skin prickle. “You have won a gift that Rome itself envies. But surely…” He leaned closer to Geta, though his words carried, “surely such perfection can warm two thrones, not just one?”
Geta’s jaw tightened. His hand lifted in a sharp gesture, silencing his brother without words. His eyes burned into you instead—dark, possessive, promising corruption that made your breath tremble in your throat.
General Acacius followed a step behind them. He should not have looked at you again. But he did. He saw the way your small hands trembled in the folds of your silk. He saw the way your lips parted, as though you longed to speak but dared not. And in that moment, his heart betrayed him.
----------------------------------
When you reached the emperor’s private chambers, the praetorians bowed and withdrew, leaving you alone with the twin rulers of Rome and the general who lingered in the shadows.
Incense burned thick in the air, masking the copper scent of the arena still clinging to them. The flicker of oil lamps painted their faces in molten gold and shadow.
Geta approached first, each step deliberate, his gaze never straying from you. He touched your chin with a single finger, tilting your face up to meet his.
“Timid little dove,” he murmured, cruel satisfaction dripping in every syllable. “Do you know what it means to belong to an emperor?”
Your lips parted, but no sound came. He smiled—sharp, predatory.
Geta had not moved his hand from your chin. His thumb brushed the softness of your lower lip, his gaze devouring, dark, and unrelenting.
“Such innocence,” he murmured, voice low and cruel. “Rome may feast on blood and iron, but I will feast on you.”
Caracalla leaned against a pillar, his grin sharp with mischief. He had not stopped watching you since the veil had fallen away in the Colosseum. Now his voice carried, dripping with amusement and lust.
“Brother,” he drawled, “if you mean to break her, do not keep me from the spectacle. The first time is always the sweetest, and I would see the dove’s wings clipped with my own eyes.”
Geta’s jaw tightened. His fingers dug harder into your chin until you whimpered, the small sound making him smile with cruel delight. He turned, glaring at Caracalla.
“She is mine,” Geta snapped. “Not yours. Not ours. Mine.”
Caracalla’s smirk did not falter. “Then allow me to witness. Nothing more. Let me see Rome’s most beautiful treasure fall under your hand. You take pride in all you conquer, do you not? Let me share in your victory.”
A dangerous silence settled between the brothers, heavy as storm clouds.
From the shadows near the door, Acacius stood frozen. His heart thundered in his chest, every instinct screaming to tear you from their grasp. He had faced death on countless fields, but never had he felt so powerless—watching, knowing what was about to unfold.
Geta turned back to you, eyes narrowing, his hand sliding down the delicate line of your throat to rest over your racing pulse. The cruel smile returned.
“So shy… so pure…” His voice lowered, a whisper meant only for you, though Caracalla strained to catch every word. “Yes. Let him watch. Let all of Rome know—you are mine.”
Caracalla chuckled darkly, settling himself on a nearby chair as though preparing for a show. “At last, a performance more enticing than the games.”
You stood trembling, silks clinging to your skin, your gaze fixed on the marble floor. The silence was broken only by the low sound of Geta’s breath as he circled you like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
“Look at her, brother,” Caracalla drawled, voice dripping with amusement as he reclined lazily. “A lamb led to slaughter. How divine.”
Geta stopped before you, his hand reaching out, fingers sliding beneath your chin to tilt your face upward. His dark eyes bored into yours. “You belong to me now,” he murmured. “No god, no prayer, no man will save you from what I make you.”
He smiled, cruel and victorious, then pressed his mouth against yours—hard, claiming, without tenderness. When you gasped in shock, he deepened the kiss, his tongue invading, stealing, corrupting the innocence your old master had promised.
Caracalla laughed low, his voice thick with hunger. “Ah, so shy… she doesn’t even know how to yield. Break her slowly, brother. I want to see her learn.”
Geta’s hands roamed, tugging at the silks until they slipped from your shoulders, baring skin to the lamplight. The cool air met you with a shiver, but the emperor’s touch burned hotter. He drank in every flinch, every quiver, with greedy satisfaction.
“Beautiful,” he whispered darkly against your ear. “So unspoiled. I will ruin you until you beg me never to stop.”
Your body trembled as his hands explored with cruel patience, each caress more deliberate than the last, until his mouth followed—claiming your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your chest. His teeth grazed sensitive flesh, and your soft cry echoed in the chamber.
Caracalla’s eyes gleamed as he shifted forward, watching intently. “Listen to her, Geta. The dove already sings. Let her break apart in your hands.”
Geta pulled back for a moment, gripping your jaw, forcing your tear-filled eyes to meet his. “Remember this night, little dove. It is the last time you will ever be untouched.”
Geta's hands moved to your back, slowly untying the silk cords that held your dress together. The fabric slid off your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your undergarments. His eyes roved over your body, his gaze hot and hungry.
You felt exposed, your body shivering under the weight of their gazes. Acacius's eyes were fixed on you, a silent promise of protection etched in their depths, while Caracalla's gaze was hungry, a predator ready to pounce. You were terrified, your heart pounding in your chest like a trapped bird. You knew the consequences of disobedience, the price of defiance.
You let him defile you, your body tensing as his hands moved to your undergarments. He pulled them down, exposing your breasts to the cool air and the hot gaze of the men watching.
Geta's eyes darkened as he took in your naked form, his hands reaching out to cup your breasts. He leaned in, his lips finding your nipple, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. You gasped, your body arching into his touch. He suckled, his mouth hot and wet, his teeth grazing gently against your flesh.
You closed your eyes, surrendering to his touch, to his will. You could feel his hands moving over your body, his mouth hot and wet against your skin.
Geta's grip tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. He pushed you against the wall, his body pressing against yours. You could feel the cool stone against your back, the heat of his body against your front.
His mouth found yours, his kiss rough, demanding. His tongue pushed past your lips, exploring your mouth with a ferocity that matched the hunger in his eyes.
His hands moved to your breasts, squeezing them roughly. You gasped, your body arching into his touch. He pinched your nipples, rolling them between his fingers, sending jolts of pain and pleasure through your body.
You moaned, your head falling back against the wall. He took advantage of your exposed neck, his lips and teeth leaving a trail of marks on your skin.
You could feel his erection pressing against your stomach, hard and insistent. He pushed you down, his hands on your hips, guiding you to your knees. You looked up at him, your eyes wide with fear and anticipation.
He smiled cruelly, his eyes gleaming with a dark pleasure. "Open your mouth," he commanded. You hesitated for a moment, but the look in his eyes was enough to make you comply.
You opened your mouth, your tongue tentatively touching his shaft. He groaned, his hips jerking forward. You took him in, your mouth filling with the taste of him.
He was salty, musky, and you could feel the heat of his desire.
He thrust into your mouth, his hands gripping your hair, guiding your head. You gagged, your body tensing as he pushed deeper. He didn't care, didn't stop. He used your mouth, his body, for his pleasure. You could feel the tears stinging your eyes, the saliva dripping down your chin.
You could feel him getting closer, his grip on your hair tightening. He groaned, his body shuddering as he came, his hot cum spilling into your mouth. You swallowed, your body shaking with effort. He pulled out, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.
Caracalla watched, his eyes gleaming with a wicked curiosity. He leaned back in his chair, his body relaxed, his gaze never leaving your form.
"She is exquisite, Geta," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "And you are a master of your craft."
Geta looked up, his eyes meeting his twin's. "Do not jest me," he growled, his voice low and menacing.
Caracalla chuckled darkly, his eyes never leaving your body. "I know, brother. I am merely admiring the view. Allow me to enjoy the show."
Geta then pulled you up to your feet and held a firm grip on your jaw as he forced you to look up at him. His eyes, sharp and dark, burned into yours as if he was peeling you open from the inside. He dragged his thumb slowly across your lower lip, smearing the spit he’d coaxed there earlier.
“Pathetic,” he muttered, voice low and cutting. “And yet so beautiful when you tremble.”
Caracalla shifted in his chair nearby, the sound of it creaking as he leaned forward to watch. His lips quirked into something between amusement and hunger, though his hands remained idly clasped on his knees.
Geta pushed you down onto the bed, climbing over you with the slow certainty of a man who knew he had you utterly caged. His mouth claimed yours in a bruising kiss, and when he pulled back, he dragged his lips down your throat, biting hard enough to leave a mark. “I want you undone,” he growled against your skin. “I want to hear you break.”
His hands roamed, impatient, the cool air against your heated skin only made you shiver harder, thighs clenching until he pried them apart with ease. His fingers slid between your folds, stroking deliberately slow, gathering your wetness before pressing against your clit. The shock of pleasure made you jolt, and he smirked. “So responsive. You can’t even hide it.”
He circled your clit with a cruel, lazy rhythm until your hips bucked, then pushed two fingers inside you, filling you without warning. The stretch made your back arch, a gasp torn from your lips. Geta’s eyes flicked up, watching every twitch of your expression.
“Yes,” he rasped, curling his fingers inside you, “that’s it. Show me how badly you need me.”
Caracalla let out a quiet hum of approval, his gaze fixed on where Geta’s hand disappeared between your legs. “She’s dripping,” he observed, tone laced with wicked satisfaction. “Brother, you’ll ruin her like this.”
Geta chuckled darkly, pumping his fingers faster until the wet, obscene sounds filled the room. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You hear him? Even he can see how much you want me.”
When he finally withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening, he didn’t give you time to catch your breath. He lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. The first push made you whimper, the stretch dizzying as he sank in inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.
“Fuck,” Geta groaned, his head dropping against your shoulder. “So tight. So perfect. Made for me.” He drew back slowly, savoring the drag, then slammed back in hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. “Say it,” he demanded, fucking you with ruthless, steady thrusts. “Say who you belong to.”
Your nails raked down his back, your voice breaking on his name. “Geta—”
“That’s right,” he snarled, pounding into you faster, sweat dripping from his temple. His cock drove deep with every thrust, filling you to the edge of breaking. “Mine. Every part of you. Mine to fuck, mine to ruin.”
Caracalla shifted again, his breathing uneven now, though his eyes never left the sight of his brother using you so thoroughly. “She’ll fall apart soon,” he muttered, half to himself, half in admiration. “She looks so beautiful like this.”
Geta angled his hips just right, slamming into that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes, making you cry out. “Don’t look at him,” he snapped, grabbing your face and forcing your gaze back to his. “Eyes on me. Only me.”
The orgasm tore through you violently, your cry as your body convulsed around him. He growled at the way you clenched down, driving into you harder as he chased his own release. With a final, shuddering thrust, he spilled inside you, holding you tight as if he’d never let you go.
When he pulled back slightly, his lips brushed your ear again, gentler this time. “Remember this,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Even with him watching—especially with him watching—you’re mine.”
Acacius’s heart pounded so violently he thought it would tear from his chest. His breath caught with every cry, every whimper that left your lips. He wanted to storm forward, to draw his blade, to strike down even an emperor if it meant saving you.
“You will not think of gods or freedom again,” he then whispered harshly. “Only of me. Of this. Of the way I break you until you beg for my corruption.”
The emperor leaned back, satisfaction etched across his face. His chest heaved with slow, controlled breaths, his eyes never leaving you as though drinking in the sight of what he had destroyed.
He finally rose, dressing with calm precision. Caracalla lingered a moment longer, his gaze crawling over you, before he too turned away with a mocking laugh.
And just like that, you were left trembling in silence.
----------------------------------
From the shadows, Acacius finally moved. His steps were soft, hesitant, but his heart thundered with rage and sorrow. He knelt at your side, his scarred hands trembling as they hovered just above your skin, afraid to touch, afraid to harm.
“My lady…” his voice broke, rough and low, meant only for you. “Forgive me. Forgive me for standing still while he—” He choked on the words. “If I could defy him, I would carve your chains away with my own blade.”
You turned your head weakly, your tear-stained eyes finding his. In that gaze, he swore something deeper than any oath to Rome.
If I must betray my emperor, my empire, even my life… I will find a way to save you.
imagining how they’d spend a getaway when their beloved (YN) invites them to relax and spend time together. Each one is separate and stays true to their personality and dynamic with you:
🕯️ William James Moriarty — “A Holiday of Stillness ”
WILLIAM JAMES MORIARTY
🌹 William James Moriarty
Destination: A quiet countryside estate in the Cotswolds
William rarely takes a break unless you insist — but when he finally agrees, he meticulously plans the route and lodging, ensuring everything suits your comfort.
He loves the serenity of rolling hills, classical gardens, and the faint sound of violin music in the air.
He’ll bring books, chess, and fine wine, but what he really wants is to see you barefoot in the grass, smiling without a care.
He’ll say, “It’s strange, how peace only feels complete when you’re near.”
At night, you sit by candlelight while he reads aloud from his favorite novels, his voice low and steady, his gaze flicking up just to see you blush.
Maybe Liam He will play you a piano rendition of “Love Story” by the fire. The notes are soft, as if thanking the world for finally finding peace - and you.
"If peace had a sound... it would be your laughter."
Sometimes he would lie in your arms, his eyes half-closed, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair, as if he had forgotten that the world could be so beautiful without blood and drawings.— linen blanket, strawberries, champagne—and a gentle kiss beneath the stars.
_ _ _ _ _ _
🔎 Sherlock Holmes
Destination: A lively seaside town in Brighton or Dover
He pretends he’s uninterested in vacations (“Sentimentality, sweetheart… a distraction”), but you catch him packing early.
The salty air energizes him; he takes your hand and leads you along the cliffs, talking about the patterns in the waves as if they’re a code only he can decipher.
He’ll challenge you to small games — who spots the most seagulls, who can guess where a passerby is from.
Late at night, you share fish and chips while he plays the violin for you under a lamppost, the melody dancing with the sea breeze. A name title ‘Rachmaninoff: romance for violin a minor’
“You do realize,” he murmurs with a smirk, “that I’m entirely addicted to these moments with you?”
After that, he would lay his head on your lap, hiding his tired eyes, letting silence become the language between you.
"You're the only mystery I don't want to solve," he said, as if admitting something he didn't even want to believe.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
🌙 Louis James Moriarty
Destination: A lakeside cabin in Switzerland or the Lake District
Louis chooses somewhere peaceful, surrounded by water and pine trees — his dream is to finally breathe away from the city’s weight.
He spends mornings cooking breakfast for you, his hair messy, sleeves rolled up.
You find him staring at the lake often, lost in thought, until he turns, softly smiling, and says, “It’s beautiful… but not as much as you.”
He insists you rest and let him take care of everything. When you protest, he kisses your forehead to hush you.
At night, he lights a small fire, wraps you in a blanket, and lets you fall asleep against his shoulder, whispering promises you almost don’t hear.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
🥂 Albert James Moriarty
Destination: A luxury villa on the French Riviera
Albert adores elegance — he’ll book a private villa overlooking the sea, with sun-drenched terraces and champagne breakfasts.
He enjoys slow mornings: sunlight on your skin, a silk robe slipping off your shoulder, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair as he murmurs, “You make every place feel like home.”
He’ll take you sailing, teaching you how to steer while the wind tousles your hair — a rare, unguarded laugh escaping him when you splash water on him.
Evenings are pure romance: candlelit dinners, gentle dancing, and soft jazz a name song “True love” echoing through the villa.
He’s the type to toast to your happiness and mean it with his entire soul.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
🔥 Sebastian Moran
Destination: A rugged mountain lodge or a desert adventure in Morocco
Sebastian loves action and freedom — the farther from civilization, the better.
When you invite him, his grin says it all: “Finally, an excuse to get you alone.”
He teaches you how to shoot, fish, or ride a horse, but he’s endlessly patient when you fumble — always teasing, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
Nights are warm and wild: campfire stories, whiskey, and stargazing with you tucked against his chest.
He’s protective to the core, making sure no danger touches you.
“Next time,” he murmurs against your ear, “we’ll go somewhere even wilder. Just you and me, love.”
