mandoalorian

[mandoalorian]

daddy’s girl

pairing: congressman bucky barnes x female!reader

synopsis: bucky has been too caught up in work to pay you any attention. tonight, you break his rules. and you take his punishment.

word count: 3.0k

warnings: 18+ explicit content, smut ahead, minors do not interact, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), fingering, m receiving oral, handjob, thigh riding, begging, marathon sex, degradation, overstimulation, heavy daddy kink, spanking, dom!bucky, sub!reader, brat!reader, bucky is relentless, but he does talk you through it, plenty of dirty talk, rough sex, no aftercare, voyeurism to some extent, a little angst at the start but you’ll only see it if you squint.

this is for my girls who simply just want to be *used* by congressman barnes. i see you. <3

bucky barnes masterlist

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes was a man of control. Measured words, spotless suits, tension coiled beneath every calculated move — he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make idle threats. He didn’t need to. He ruled with silence and expectation, and you had learned exactly how to behave under his watch. His perfect little thing — polished, obedient, draped over his arm at galas and tucked sweetly into bed before midnight. But lately, you’d been starving.

Bucky had been buried in politics — endless late nights, closed-door meetings, and calls that bleed into the early hours. You barely saw him anymore, except for the ghost of his cologne on the bedsheets or the occasional gruff kiss on your temple before he slips back into his suit and out the door. It had been days since he touched you properly. Weeks since he really looked at you. And tonight? Tonight, you were done playing patient.

You checked the time and sighed. 

10:42pm.

Your bare feet padded across the hardwood floor of the penthouse apartment—quiet, but not quite silent enough to be unnoticed. The soft click of the bedroom door echoed faintly as you slipped inside, cold air brushing goosebumps across your skin. Bucky still hadn’t come to bed.

He hadn’t even eaten the dinner you’d made hours ago.

You pulled the robe tighter around your body, the sheer lilac lace of the babydoll underneath clinging to your skin like a second thought. It was his favourite. The one that made him miss his next three meetings the first time he saw you in it. The one he always fucked you slow in, whispering, “Look at my good girl… all pretty just for me.”

Lately, though, there hadn’t been time for anything soft.

Bucky had been drowning in political chaos for weeks—between the growing case to impeach Valentina and the non-stop media frenzy surrounding it, he was barely sleeping, barely speaking. You understood. You did, really. But understanding didn’t keep the ache between your thighs from getting worse with every night he ignored you.

And tonight, you were done waiting.

You heard his voice as you walked down the hallway.

It spilled from his office in low, firm tones, muffled only slightly by the cracked door. His tie was probably loosened. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. That perpetual furrow in his brow deepened as he paced in front of his desk. That’s how he always looked when he was trying to fix the world—and forgetting yours in the process.

Your fingers grazed the doorknob. The second you heard the words “Congressman Gary,” your lip curled.

You eased the door open and stepped inside. Bucky’s head turned sharply, jaw tightening, eyes scanning you once, from the silk-clad curve of your thighs to the ribbon bow between your breasts.

His gaze snapped back to the desk. He didn’t speak to you.

“Yeah, Gary,” he said, voice gruff. “If we can secure two more on Appropriations, we can force the vote. No, I said force. We’re done playing nice.”

You walked slowly to his desk. Purposeful. Measured. Not saying a word.

He sat behind it, one hand clenched around his phone, the other scrubbing across the stubble on his jaw. His shirt was open at the collar. Vest still buttoned. Stress hung off his shoulders like a weighted chain.

You climbed onto his lap, and Bucky’s jaw flexed.

“I’m not joking,” he said into the phone. “She’s laundering donor funds and setting foreign policy from her kitchen island, Gary. It’s a fucking clown show. We have the dossier to—”

Your hips sank down onto his thigh, and he froze.

One heartbeat. Two.

Then his voice kicked back in, just a little more strained.

“—to prove it. Page thirty-two has the offshore routing numbers. Use that if you want to scare Beattie into voting with us.”

Your fingers trailed lightly along his chest, teasing the open edge of his vest. Your lips brushed his ear.

“Missed you, daddy.”

His hand shot out and gripped your thigh, hard enough to make you shiver. He didn’t look at you.

“You need to leave,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, too low for the phone. “Now.”

You ignored him, shifting in his lap until you could roll your hips just right, rubbing your heat against the muscle of his thigh.

Bucky let out a low, barely audible exhale.

“…what? No, Gary, I’m still here,” he said quickly. “Send the files to my encrypted line. I’ll review them tonight.”

You smiled, nosing under his jaw, pressing soft kisses along the stubble you knew drove him crazy. His grip on your thigh tightened again, bruising. A silent warning. You grinded harder.

“Please, daddy,” you whispered, lips just brushing his pulse. “Need you.”

He didn’t respond. Not with words. But his knee bounced slightly under you.

Oh, you thought, he’s already hard.

And he was trying so hard not to let it show.

Your fingers traced the edge of his vest. Slipped lower. Palmed over the growing hardness beneath his slacks.

“Need you to take care of me,” you whispered, sweet and sultry. “You’ve been so busy. You forgot I’m your job too.”

He let out a low breath. Not quite a groan. Not quite a growl.

Gary’s voice droned on.

“You want us to run that on Friday? I can get a call with Beattie tomorrow, but only if we’ve got the proof.”

Your hand rubbed slow circles over Bucky’s cock, watching his jaw clench tighter with every stroke. He still didn’t stop the call.

So you got off his lap and you sank to your knees.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to you—briefly. Hungrily. Then back to the desk. Back to the call.

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained now. “I’ve got the paperwork. Page thirty-two. Offshore account numbers tied to Zurich. That should be enough to rattle her.”

Your hands worked open his belt.

“You sure you’re alright over there?” Gary asked suddenly, tone skeptical.

A pause.

Bucky swallowed hard. His hand clenched into a fist on the desk.

“Fine,” he said shortly. “Just… long night.”

You smiled.

Because it was about to get a whole lot longer.

Not because you wanted to be gentle. But because you wanted to drag it out. Make him squirm. Make him slip up in front of Gary.

Bucky didn’t look at you now. Couldn’t.

He sat rigid in his chair, knuckles white around his phone, jaw set so tight you thought it might crack. His eyes locked on the desk, voice strained.

“Yeah. Yeah, I have the full memo,” he said, swallowing hard. “My chief of staff is—uh—running it through legal now.”

You pulled down his zipper.

His cock was already hard. Thick and flushed, heavy against the dark slacks you freed him from. You watched his stomach twitch when your fingers grazed him, slow and teasing, just the lightest drag of nails.

Gary kept talking.

Bucky didn’t.

“You sure you’re good, Barnes?” Gary asked, amused now. “You sound… distracted.”

You met Bucky’s eyes. Smirked.

Then you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock and sank down.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered—so soft, barely a breath. His free hand slammed down on the desk, fingertips digging into the polished wood like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You bobbed your head slow at first, just the tip, tongue swirling, teasing. You knew how to take him. You knew what made him lose that composure he held so tightly everywhere else in life.

But now?

Now you wanted to break him.

“I’m—” Bucky cleared his throat, eyes fluttering. “Gary, I’m gonna—need to call you back in ten. Something… urgent just came up.”

You hollowed your cheeks and moaned around him, dragging your mouth down to the base.

Gary laughed on the other end.

“Oh, is that right?” he said, smug. “Tell whoever’s under your desk to go easy on you. I still need that memo.”

Bucky’s hand shot out. Grabbed the phone.

“I’ll call you back.” he said flatly.

And he ended the call.

The phone hit the floor a second later, bounced once before sliding under the desk. Bucky didn’t give a fuck. His chair scraped back hard as he grabbed you by the hair and yanked you off his cock, eyes blazing.

“You fucking brat,” he growled, standing up and hauling you to your feet in one fluid, furious motion. “You think you can pull that shit while I’m on a federal call?”

Your lips were wet. Eyes wide. You gave a soft little whimper—half innocent, half daring.

“I just wanted daddy’s attention…”

He pushed you back hard against the desk, the edge biting into your spine.

“You want attention?” he snarled, dragging your babydoll up over your hips. “You’re gonna get it. Face down. Now.”

You turned, bending over the desk without hesitation, heart thudding wild in your chest. Heat pooled between your legs. Your cunt was dripping.

He shoved your panties aside and sank two fingers into you roughly.

“Fucking soaked,” he hissed, pumping them in deep, thumb circling your clit with zero mercy. “You got yourself all worked up playing your little games, huh?”

You gasped, hips twitching.

“Yes, daddy—ahh, please—”

His hand cracked down on your ass, sharp and hot. You cried out, fingers gripping the edge of the desk.

“Don’t fucking move.”

He pulled his fingers out and spat down on your pussy, rubbing it in with his palm. Then he lined up behind you, thick tip pressing into your entrance.

You squirmed. “Daddy, wait—”

He slammed into you with one brutal thrust.

You choked on a cry, the desk shuddering beneath you.

“No waiting now, baby,” he growled against your ear, his chest pressing into your back. “You wanted me? Here I am.”

His hips snapped forward, fucking you hard and fast, no buildup, no teasing. The sound of skin slapping echoed in the room. His grip bruised your hips as he pounded into you, low filthy growls spilling from his throat.

“Taking daddy’s cock so good for a little whore who doesn’t know how to behave,” he rasped. “Look at you. Bent over my desk like a needy fucking toy.”

You moaned—high and wrecked, legs trembling.

“Yours, daddy,” you sobbed. “Just wanted to feel you—please, don’t stop—”

He reached around and rubbed your clit with brutal pressure, the way he knew made you scream.

“You come for me like this,” he ordered. “Right here. Legs shaking, mouth drooling, stuffed full like a bad girl being punished.”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—sharp and overwhelming. You cried out, trembling beneath him, pussy pulsing around his cock.

Bucky didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, chasing his own high now, his rhythm turning erratic.

“Such a fucking brat,” he grunted, teeth at your neck. “I should leave you here like this. Ruined. Crying. Let Gary know exactly what you were doing.”

You whined, too wrecked to form words.

His thrusts got rougher. Deeper.

“You gonna be good for daddy now?” he growled. “Or do I need to make you come again?”

You sobbed something that sounded like please, and that’s all it took.

Bucky groaned, slammed into you once more, and came deep inside you—hot, thick, and endless. His grip stayed locked on your hips as he collapsed forward slightly, breath ragged against your neck.

You were both shaking. But you barely had time to breathe.

Bucky pulled out only to flip you over like a ragdoll, one strong hand curling around your waist, the other dragging your lace babydoll up over your tits. You gasped, dazed, body twitching, still fluttering from the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“D-daddy-“ your voice was hoarse, teary.

He shoved you flat on your back across the desk, spreading your legs wide with no gentleness at all.

“You wanted my attention?” he growled, cock already hardening again as it slapped heavy against your slick, ruined folds. "Now you're gonna take every fucking drop of it.”

He didn't wait.

He drove back into you with a brutal thrust, and you cried out-high, wrecked, overstimulated. The angle was deeper this time, more intense, his chest pressed flush to yours as he buried himself to the hilt.

You whimpered. Legs kicked.

“Too much, too much-“

“No, baby,” he rasped against your ear, grinding in deeper.

"Not even close.”

He set a punishing rhythm-slamming into you over and over, each stroke dragging a sob from your throat. Your pussy was already sore, slick with slick and cum, and he was using it like it belonged to him. Like he owned it.

Owned you.

You couldn't breathe.

Couldn't think.

Just Bucky's voice in your ear, low and ragged, talking you through it while his cock bruised your insides.

"This what you needed?" he hissed. "To be fucked stupid while I'm trying to save the goddamn country?”

You couldn't answer.

You were crying now, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, mouth falling open as your body went limp, shaking beneath him. But he knew. He loved this. Loved how ruined you got when he didn't stop.

“You’ll come again,” he said, hand reaching between you to rub your clit. "I don't care if you're crying. Daddy's not done.”

“Please,” you sobbed. “I- I can’t-"

"Yes, you can," he growled. "You're my good girl. You take it when I give it to you.”

His fingers worked you ruthlessly, wet sounds obscene, your pussy clenched tight around his cock with every snap of his hips.

Your legs were shaking.

Your nails dug into his shoulders.

And then you broke.

You came again, this time with a scream, your back arching off the desk, mouth slack, tears streaming freely as your body convulsed. You clenched around him so hard he nearly came again right then, breath stuttering as he cursed and held your shaking body down.

But he didn't stop.

He slowed for a moment-just enough to slide out and flip you again. Your cheek pressed against the cool desk, babydoll bunched around your waist, cum leaking down your thighs. You were limp. Panting.

And then-

You felt him sink back into you from behind.

You sobbed.

"No, no-I can't-"

"You will," he growled. "One more. Just one more, baby. Give it to daddy.”

He dragged his cock out slowly, watching you twitch. Your whole body was trembling now-fucked out, overstimulated, tears dripping onto the desk.

"Look at you," he whispered, reverent. "So pretty when you cry.”

He fucked you slower this time, deep, relentless thrusts that filled you, forced you to feel every inch. The kind of rhythm that made you ache. That kept you on the edge of pain and pleasure until your mind snapped.

You sobbed into your arm. Overwhelmed. But your pussy was clenching again.

He leaned over you, one hand threading through your hair, the other snaking under your belly to rub your clit again.

"Daddy-daddy, I can't, I can’t—!"

"You can," he said firmly, mouth at your ear. "Be a good girl. Come for me one more time.”

Your body obeyed before your brain could catch up. The orgasm slammed through you like lightning-sharp and messy, making your vision blur, your thighs tremble, your voice break on his name.

He fucked you through it, groaning, desperate, and finally spilled inside you again, the second release just as thick and possessive as the first, hips pressed hard against your ass.

You were sobbing by the time he came again.

A high, cracked sound punched from your lungs as your body seized — thighs shaking violently, arms limp, cheeks slick with tears and drool as your third orgasm tore through you and dragged a second one from him right behind it.

Bucky cursed, loud and broken, as his hips snapped forward one last time. His cock pulsed deep inside your fluttering cunt, thick ropes of cum spilling into you.

And then… stillness.

Your body twitched under him, face pressed into the desk, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth. You couldn’t lift your head. You couldn’t lift anything. You were ruined — split open and spent, his cum dripping from your swollen, overstimulated pussy, your mascara running, and your babydoll bunched uselessly around your ribs.

Bucky just stood there.

Panting.

Watching.

“Fuck.” His voice was hoarse, raw. “Look at you.”

But you couldn’t. You could barely blink.

He dragged his cock out of you slowly — and the sound it made was obscene, slick and wet and loud in the room.

You whimpered, twitching, as his seed leaked out in thick streams and slid down your thighs, pooling beneath you. The air was cold on your skin, and the desk sticky with sweat. Your pussy clenched around nothing, sore and fluttering.

“Brat,” he muttered, running a hand down your spine. Not gently. Just enough to see your body flinch again. “Bet you’re proud of yourself.”

You whimpered something — you weren’t even sure what. Maybe a sob. Maybe a broken laugh.

“Fucking dripping,” Bucky muttered behind you, still hard in his fist. “Got you stuffed full and it’s still not enough.”

He smacked your ass again — a lazy, open-palmed slap that made your legs buckle under you.

You collapsed forward, body trembling. Nothing left. Just come and tears and heat and ache.

“Stay right there,” he said darkly. “Keep your little cunt open. I want it leaking on the desk when I come back.”

You moaned — helpless, filthy, ruined. Your thighs were shaking, your mouth was slack, and you couldn’t even form words anymore. Just drool and tears and the aching, raw throb between your legs.

He didn’t hold you.

Didn’t soothe you.

Didn’t even clean you up.

He just stood behind you, watching his mess drip out of you and onto the desk, cock twitching again, jaw clenched.

His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper.

“Next time you want daddy’s attention, you ask.”

Then he left you there, spent and ruined, pussy leaking, babydoll wrinkled, your body still twitching from the aftershocks of everything he’d just taken.

And he had taken.

Every bit of you.

──── 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 @torntaltos

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[mandoalorian]

daddy’s girl

pairing: congressman bucky barnes x female!reader

synopsis: bucky has been too caught up in work to pay you any attention. tonight, you break his rules. and you take his punishment.

word count: 3.0k

warnings: 18+ explicit content, smut ahead, minors do not interact, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), fingering, m receiving oral, handjob, thigh riding, begging, marathon sex, degradation, overstimulation, heavy daddy kink, spanking, dom!bucky, sub!reader, brat!reader, bucky is relentless, but he does talk you through it, plenty of dirty talk, rough sex, no aftercare, voyeurism to some extent, a little angst at the start but you’ll only see it if you squint.

this is for my girls who simply just want to be *used* by congressman barnes. i see you. <3

bucky barnes masterlist

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes was a man of control. Measured words, spotless suits, tension coiled beneath every calculated move — he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make idle threats. He didn’t need to. He ruled with silence and expectation, and you had learned exactly how to behave under his watch. His perfect little thing — polished, obedient, draped over his arm at galas and tucked sweetly into bed before midnight. But lately, you’d been starving.

Bucky had been buried in politics — endless late nights, closed-door meetings, and calls that bleed into the early hours. You barely saw him anymore, except for the ghost of his cologne on the bedsheets or the occasional gruff kiss on your temple before he slips back into his suit and out the door. It had been days since he touched you properly. Weeks since he really looked at you. And tonight? Tonight, you were done playing patient.

You checked the time and sighed. 

10:42pm.

Your bare feet padded across the hardwood floor of the penthouse apartment—quiet, but not quite silent enough to be unnoticed. The soft click of the bedroom door echoed faintly as you slipped inside, cold air brushing goosebumps across your skin. Bucky still hadn’t come to bed.

He hadn’t even eaten the dinner you’d made hours ago.

You pulled the robe tighter around your body, the sheer lilac lace of the babydoll underneath clinging to your skin like a second thought. It was his favourite. The one that made him miss his next three meetings the first time he saw you in it. The one he always fucked you slow in, whispering, “Look at my good girl… all pretty just for me.”

Lately, though, there hadn’t been time for anything soft.

Bucky had been drowning in political chaos for weeks—between the growing case to impeach Valentina and the non-stop media frenzy surrounding it, he was barely sleeping, barely speaking. You understood. You did, really. But understanding didn’t keep the ache between your thighs from getting worse with every night he ignored you.

And tonight, you were done waiting.

You heard his voice as you walked down the hallway.

It spilled from his office in low, firm tones, muffled only slightly by the cracked door. His tie was probably loosened. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. That perpetual furrow in his brow deepened as he paced in front of his desk. That’s how he always looked when he was trying to fix the world—and forgetting yours in the process.

Your fingers grazed the doorknob. The second you heard the words “Congressman Gary,” your lip curled.

You eased the door open and stepped inside. Bucky’s head turned sharply, jaw tightening, eyes scanning you once, from the silk-clad curve of your thighs to the ribbon bow between your breasts.

His gaze snapped back to the desk. He didn’t speak to you.

“Yeah, Gary,” he said, voice gruff. “If we can secure two more on Appropriations, we can force the vote. No, I said force. We’re done playing nice.”

You walked slowly to his desk. Purposeful. Measured. Not saying a word.

He sat behind it, one hand clenched around his phone, the other scrubbing across the stubble on his jaw. His shirt was open at the collar. Vest still buttoned. Stress hung off his shoulders like a weighted chain.

You climbed onto his lap, and Bucky’s jaw flexed.

“I’m not joking,” he said into the phone. “She’s laundering donor funds and setting foreign policy from her kitchen island, Gary. It’s a fucking clown show. We have the dossier to—”

Your hips sank down onto his thigh, and he froze.

One heartbeat. Two.

Then his voice kicked back in, just a little more strained.

“—to prove it. Page thirty-two has the offshore routing numbers. Use that if you want to scare Beattie into voting with us.”

Your fingers trailed lightly along his chest, teasing the open edge of his vest. Your lips brushed his ear.

“Missed you, daddy.”

His hand shot out and gripped your thigh, hard enough to make you shiver. He didn’t look at you.

“You need to leave,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, too low for the phone. “Now.”

You ignored him, shifting in his lap until you could roll your hips just right, rubbing your heat against the muscle of his thigh.

Bucky let out a low, barely audible exhale.

“…what? No, Gary, I’m still here,” he said quickly. “Send the files to my encrypted line. I’ll review them tonight.”

You smiled, nosing under his jaw, pressing soft kisses along the stubble you knew drove him crazy. His grip on your thigh tightened again, bruising. A silent warning. You grinded harder.

“Please, daddy,” you whispered, lips just brushing his pulse. “Need you.”

He didn’t respond. Not with words. But his knee bounced slightly under you.

Oh, you thought, he’s already hard.

And he was trying so hard not to let it show.

Your fingers traced the edge of his vest. Slipped lower. Palmed over the growing hardness beneath his slacks.

“Need you to take care of me,” you whispered, sweet and sultry. “You’ve been so busy. You forgot I’m your job too.”

He let out a low breath. Not quite a groan. Not quite a growl.

Gary’s voice droned on.

“You want us to run that on Friday? I can get a call with Beattie tomorrow, but only if we’ve got the proof.”

Your hand rubbed slow circles over Bucky’s cock, watching his jaw clench tighter with every stroke. He still didn’t stop the call.

So you got off his lap and you sank to your knees.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to you—briefly. Hungrily. Then back to the desk. Back to the call.

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained now. “I’ve got the paperwork. Page thirty-two. Offshore account numbers tied to Zurich. That should be enough to rattle her.”

Your hands worked open his belt.

“You sure you’re alright over there?” Gary asked suddenly, tone skeptical.

A pause.

Bucky swallowed hard. His hand clenched into a fist on the desk.

“Fine,” he said shortly. “Just… long night.”

You smiled.

Because it was about to get a whole lot longer.

Not because you wanted to be gentle. But because you wanted to drag it out. Make him squirm. Make him slip up in front of Gary.

Bucky didn’t look at you now. Couldn’t.

He sat rigid in his chair, knuckles white around his phone, jaw set so tight you thought it might crack. His eyes locked on the desk, voice strained.

“Yeah. Yeah, I have the full memo,” he said, swallowing hard. “My chief of staff is—uh—running it through legal now.”

You pulled down his zipper.

His cock was already hard. Thick and flushed, heavy against the dark slacks you freed him from. You watched his stomach twitch when your fingers grazed him, slow and teasing, just the lightest drag of nails.

Gary kept talking.

Bucky didn’t.

“You sure you’re good, Barnes?” Gary asked, amused now. “You sound… distracted.”

You met Bucky’s eyes. Smirked.

Then you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock and sank down.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered—so soft, barely a breath. His free hand slammed down on the desk, fingertips digging into the polished wood like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You bobbed your head slow at first, just the tip, tongue swirling, teasing. You knew how to take him. You knew what made him lose that composure he held so tightly everywhere else in life.

But now?

Now you wanted to break him.

“I’m—” Bucky cleared his throat, eyes fluttering. “Gary, I’m gonna—need to call you back in ten. Something… urgent just came up.”

You hollowed your cheeks and moaned around him, dragging your mouth down to the base.

Gary laughed on the other end.

“Oh, is that right?” he said, smug. “Tell whoever’s under your desk to go easy on you. I still need that memo.”

Bucky’s hand shot out. Grabbed the phone.

“I’ll call you back.” he said flatly.

And he ended the call.

The phone hit the floor a second later, bounced once before sliding under the desk. Bucky didn’t give a fuck. His chair scraped back hard as he grabbed you by the hair and yanked you off his cock, eyes blazing.

“You fucking brat,” he growled, standing up and hauling you to your feet in one fluid, furious motion. “You think you can pull that shit while I’m on a federal call?”

Your lips were wet. Eyes wide. You gave a soft little whimper—half innocent, half daring.

“I just wanted daddy’s attention…”

He pushed you back hard against the desk, the edge biting into your spine.

“You want attention?” he snarled, dragging your babydoll up over your hips. “You’re gonna get it. Face down. Now.”

You turned, bending over the desk without hesitation, heart thudding wild in your chest. Heat pooled between your legs. Your cunt was dripping.

He shoved your panties aside and sank two fingers into you roughly.

“Fucking soaked,” he hissed, pumping them in deep, thumb circling your clit with zero mercy. “You got yourself all worked up playing your little games, huh?”

You gasped, hips twitching.

“Yes, daddy—ahh, please—”

His hand cracked down on your ass, sharp and hot. You cried out, fingers gripping the edge of the desk.

“Don’t fucking move.”

He pulled his fingers out and spat down on your pussy, rubbing it in with his palm. Then he lined up behind you, thick tip pressing into your entrance.

You squirmed. “Daddy, wait—”

He slammed into you with one brutal thrust.

You choked on a cry, the desk shuddering beneath you.

“No waiting now, baby,” he growled against your ear, his chest pressing into your back. “You wanted me? Here I am.”

His hips snapped forward, fucking you hard and fast, no buildup, no teasing. The sound of skin slapping echoed in the room. His grip bruised your hips as he pounded into you, low filthy growls spilling from his throat.

“Taking daddy’s cock so good for a little whore who doesn’t know how to behave,” he rasped. “Look at you. Bent over my desk like a needy fucking toy.”

You moaned—high and wrecked, legs trembling.

“Yours, daddy,” you sobbed. “Just wanted to feel you—please, don’t stop—”

He reached around and rubbed your clit with brutal pressure, the way he knew made you scream.

“You come for me like this,” he ordered. “Right here. Legs shaking, mouth drooling, stuffed full like a bad girl being punished.”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—sharp and overwhelming. You cried out, trembling beneath him, pussy pulsing around his cock.

Bucky didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, chasing his own high now, his rhythm turning erratic.

“Such a fucking brat,” he grunted, teeth at your neck. “I should leave you here like this. Ruined. Crying. Let Gary know exactly what you were doing.”

You whined, too wrecked to form words.

His thrusts got rougher. Deeper.

“You gonna be good for daddy now?” he growled. “Or do I need to make you come again?”

You sobbed something that sounded like please, and that’s all it took.

Bucky groaned, slammed into you once more, and came deep inside you—hot, thick, and endless. His grip stayed locked on your hips as he collapsed forward slightly, breath ragged against your neck.

You were both shaking. But you barely had time to breathe.

Bucky pulled out only to flip you over like a ragdoll, one strong hand curling around your waist, the other dragging your lace babydoll up over your tits. You gasped, dazed, body twitching, still fluttering from the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“D-daddy-“ your voice was hoarse, teary.

He shoved you flat on your back across the desk, spreading your legs wide with no gentleness at all.

“You wanted my attention?” he growled, cock already hardening again as it slapped heavy against your slick, ruined folds. "Now you're gonna take every fucking drop of it.”

He didn't wait.

He drove back into you with a brutal thrust, and you cried out-high, wrecked, overstimulated. The angle was deeper this time, more intense, his chest pressed flush to yours as he buried himself to the hilt.

You whimpered. Legs kicked.

“Too much, too much-“

“No, baby,” he rasped against your ear, grinding in deeper.

"Not even close.”

He set a punishing rhythm-slamming into you over and over, each stroke dragging a sob from your throat. Your pussy was already sore, slick with slick and cum, and he was using it like it belonged to him. Like he owned it.

Owned you.

You couldn't breathe.

Couldn't think.

Just Bucky's voice in your ear, low and ragged, talking you through it while his cock bruised your insides.

"This what you needed?" he hissed. "To be fucked stupid while I'm trying to save the goddamn country?”

You couldn't answer.

You were crying now, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, mouth falling open as your body went limp, shaking beneath him. But he knew. He loved this. Loved how ruined you got when he didn't stop.

“You’ll come again,” he said, hand reaching between you to rub your clit. "I don't care if you're crying. Daddy's not done.”

“Please,” you sobbed. “I- I can’t-"

"Yes, you can," he growled. "You're my good girl. You take it when I give it to you.”

His fingers worked you ruthlessly, wet sounds obscene, your pussy clenched tight around his cock with every snap of his hips.

Your legs were shaking.

Your nails dug into his shoulders.

And then you broke.

You came again, this time with a scream, your back arching off the desk, mouth slack, tears streaming freely as your body convulsed. You clenched around him so hard he nearly came again right then, breath stuttering as he cursed and held your shaking body down.

But he didn't stop.

He slowed for a moment-just enough to slide out and flip you again. Your cheek pressed against the cool desk, babydoll bunched around your waist, cum leaking down your thighs. You were limp. Panting.

And then-

You felt him sink back into you from behind.

You sobbed.

"No, no-I can't-"

"You will," he growled. "One more. Just one more, baby. Give it to daddy.”

He dragged his cock out slowly, watching you twitch. Your whole body was trembling now-fucked out, overstimulated, tears dripping onto the desk.

"Look at you," he whispered, reverent. "So pretty when you cry.”

He fucked you slower this time, deep, relentless thrusts that filled you, forced you to feel every inch. The kind of rhythm that made you ache. That kept you on the edge of pain and pleasure until your mind snapped.

You sobbed into your arm. Overwhelmed. But your pussy was clenching again.

He leaned over you, one hand threading through your hair, the other snaking under your belly to rub your clit again.

"Daddy-daddy, I can't, I can’t—!"

"You can," he said firmly, mouth at your ear. "Be a good girl. Come for me one more time.”

Your body obeyed before your brain could catch up. The orgasm slammed through you like lightning-sharp and messy, making your vision blur, your thighs tremble, your voice break on his name.

He fucked you through it, groaning, desperate, and finally spilled inside you again, the second release just as thick and possessive as the first, hips pressed hard against your ass.

You were sobbing by the time he came again.

A high, cracked sound punched from your lungs as your body seized — thighs shaking violently, arms limp, cheeks slick with tears and drool as your third orgasm tore through you and dragged a second one from him right behind it.

Bucky cursed, loud and broken, as his hips snapped forward one last time. His cock pulsed deep inside your fluttering cunt, thick ropes of cum spilling into you.

And then… stillness.

Your body twitched under him, face pressed into the desk, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth. You couldn’t lift your head. You couldn’t lift anything. You were ruined — split open and spent, his cum dripping from your swollen, overstimulated pussy, your mascara running, and your babydoll bunched uselessly around your ribs.

Bucky just stood there.

Panting.

Watching.

“Fuck.” His voice was hoarse, raw. “Look at you.”

But you couldn’t. You could barely blink.

He dragged his cock out of you slowly — and the sound it made was obscene, slick and wet and loud in the room.

You whimpered, twitching, as his seed leaked out in thick streams and slid down your thighs, pooling beneath you. The air was cold on your skin, and the desk sticky with sweat. Your pussy clenched around nothing, sore and fluttering.

“Brat,” he muttered, running a hand down your spine. Not gently. Just enough to see your body flinch again. “Bet you’re proud of yourself.”

You whimpered something — you weren’t even sure what. Maybe a sob. Maybe a broken laugh.

“Fucking dripping,” Bucky muttered behind you, still hard in his fist. “Got you stuffed full and it’s still not enough.”

He smacked your ass again — a lazy, open-palmed slap that made your legs buckle under you.

You collapsed forward, body trembling. Nothing left. Just come and tears and heat and ache.

“Stay right there,” he said darkly. “Keep your little cunt open. I want it leaking on the desk when I come back.”

You moaned — helpless, filthy, ruined. Your thighs were shaking, your mouth was slack, and you couldn’t even form words anymore. Just drool and tears and the aching, raw throb between your legs.

He didn’t hold you.

Didn’t soothe you.

Didn’t even clean you up.

He just stood behind you, watching his mess drip out of you and onto the desk, cock twitching again, jaw clenched.

His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper.

“Next time you want daddy’s attention, you ask.”

Then he left you there, spent and ruined, pussy leaking, babydoll wrinkled, your body still twitching from the aftershocks of everything he’d just taken.

And he had taken.

Every bit of you.

──── 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 @torntaltos

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

[mandoalorian]

i am obsessed with your lessons in love series!! i know it’s just a miniseries, but do you think you would ever consider writing more for it?? i love that bucky so much and it was just a perfect series

yes! a few people have requested that i write a few one shots for bucky and reader, and i’m not opposed to doing that if i feel inspired enough! i have considered going back and writing a prologue for the series // or maybe coming up with some more lessons they could learn? is there anything reader could teach bucky? i sorta envision her eager to try anything; especially now that they’re in a committed relationship.

i’m totally up to listening to any ideas anyone might have! <3

thank you so much i really appreciate your words. you’re very very kind 💌

[mandoalorian]

i’m addicted to ur lessons in love mini series, genuinely one of the best things i’ve ever read

do you hear that noise??? that’s the sound of me crying from your sweet words 💌💌💌

thank you doll 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

[mandoalorian]

Your writing is just -

Everything is so damn good.

thank you!!!!!<3

you got me smiling like

[mandoalorian]

thank you so much for this! i’m glad you enjoyed the story (+ the smut too, hehe) 🫶🏻🫶🏻

lessons in love

a congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader mini-series.

synopsis: after thinking you've met the man of your dreams, you're ready to take things to the next level. one problem: you've never even kissed a guy before. so, you knock on your best friend's door with a proposition, and ask him to teach you everything there is to know about sex. no strings, no feelings, just lessons. but the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it's only practice.

warnings/rating: 18+ rated series, minors do not interact, explicit content ahead! ⚠️ p in v, m receiving oral, f receiving oral, fingering, handjobs, pining, dirty talk, masturbation, sexting, literally every dirty thing you can think of... it's probably going to be in this fic. chapter specific warnings will be at the start.

chapter list:

lesson one — kissing

lesson two — talking

lesson three — touching

lesson four — tasting

lesson five — loving

series completed. <3

[mandoalorian]

and if i am undone, let it be by you [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: with bob still missing and doom's arrival drawing near, the new avengers begin to fracture under the weight of uncertainty. as the team struggles to hold together, you delve deeper into the secrets of the multiverse… and sam calls in a favour from an old ally.

word count: 8000

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mdni, unprotected p in v, fingering, intimate moment in the bath 🛁, bucky uses the shower head on you, biting, praise kink, lots of filth and dirty talk, yours and bucky’s first time (finally!), bucky shows a little insecurity, nightmares, more steve angst, canon typical action & jargon re the multiverse, cursing, avengers tower fic, the new avengers are breaking.

masterlist

previous part | current | next part [coming soon!]

The doors hissed open, and John Walker stepped in like a storm in boots. “Please tell me someone’s got eyes on Bob.”

Silence.

Yelena didn’t even look up from the holomap. “If someone did, you’d have heard it already.”

“I’ve been out there for six hours,” John growled, tossing his taco shaped shield onto the table with a clang. “And I’ve seen nothing. Where the hell could he have gone?”

“I told you already,” Ava snapped, arms folded. “He’s not gone. He slipped into the void again. Or it slipped into him. Same difference.”

Alexei let out a low growl from across the room. “You speak of him like he is some… dark entity. He is a boy. A scared one.”

“He’s a threat!” Ava fired back, stepping toward him. “You didn’t see his eyes in that last fight. Something inside him is changing. He said so himself.”

“Something inside all of us is changing!” Alexei roared. “We went from fighting people, to fighting gods and monsters! You think we walk out the same as we walked in?”

“Hey, hey—” John stepped between them. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Yelena snorted. “Oh please, don’t act like you’re the stable one here. I’ve watched you throw chairs for less.”

“I am stable,” John said, jabbing a finger at her. “I’m just tired of chasing ghosts while our strongest asset is out there, probably going nuclear.”

“Asset?” Yelena scoffed. “You call Bob an asset, like he’s some military experiment? No wonder you can’t connect with anyone.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you’re the queen of emotional stability now,” John snapped. “Wasn’t it you who shoved a blade through a drone last week just because it beeped at you?”

“It startled me!” Yelena shouted.

“It was an espresso machine.” Ava sighed quietly,

“Enough!” Alexei bellowed, slamming his fists down on the edge of the table. The entire platform rattled. “We are wasting time. My son is out there!”

The room fell silent.

Even Ava flinched. “You think of him like he’s yours?”

Alexei turned, voice suddenly quiet and broken. “He looks at me like I’m his father. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t earn it. But I feel it. Every time he calls me by my name. Not ‘Red Guardian’, but Alexei. Every time he asks me if I’m proud of him.”

Yelena’s mouth tightened.

Ava said nothing.

John looked away.

And then, Ava phased—literally. Her molecules flickered, and she sank into the floor, escaping before emotion could expose her.

The silence was loud now, hanging heavy in the air.

And then Bucky finally spoke. He’d been leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, watching them all unravel. “Ava, get back here. Now.”

The dark haired girl immediately reappeared, guilt and shame etched on her face. 

His voice cut like a wire snapping. “This is exactly what Doom wants.”

Eyes turned.

“You think he’s coming for Bob?” Bucky asked. “For Reed? For revenge? No. He’s coming because we’re fractured. Because he knows if he pushes hard enough, this team breaks.”

He stood tall now, stepping into the centre of the room. “We’ve all lost people. We’ve all watched universes end. The Blip. The Void. But that kid—Bob? He believed in us. Every single one of us. He saw something good here.”

He looked at John. “You saved his life. Remember that.”

Then at Ava. “You protected him like a sister, even when you pretended not to care.”

He met Yelena’s eyes. “You were the first to train him when he got here.”

And finally Alexei. “And you… you gave him something none of us could. A family.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “We don’t give up on our family.”

There was a long pause.

“…So what do we do?” Yelena asked quietly.

“We plan,” Bucky said. “We get smart. We go back to his last steps, track every anomaly, every void echo. Ava’s gonna help me pull system scans. John, I want you on street patrol. Check every safehouse, every contact. Yelena—dig up anything Reed might’ve missed. Alexei, take the sublevels and tunnels.”

He took one final glance around the room.

“We’ve got three cycles before Doom shows up. We find Bob before then. No excuses. No egos. Just the mission.”

John stepped forward and grabbed his shield.

“…Yeah,” he said. “Alright.”

Yelena nodded, brushing a hand under her eyes.

Alexei cracked his knuckles. “Let’s bring him home.”

────✪────

The elevator ride to the sublevels was silent, save for the low drone of machinery humming beneath your feet. Down here, time felt warped—like every second stretched a little longer, wore a little heavier. It was colder, too. The kind of sterile cold that seeped into your bones and reminded you that this was the edge of something unnatural.

The whir of fluorescent lights overhead barely masked the buzz in your head as you stepped back into the lab.

Reed Richards stood alone in front of a levitating schematic, the blue light washing over his gaunt features. He didn’t even glance up when you stepped inside.

“Tell me you’ve got something,” you said.

He blinked slowly. “Define ‘something.’”

You walked closer, peering over the layers of holographic data. “Doom’s location?”

“Gone.”

Your pulse skipped. “What do you mean gone? Gone like our Johnny is gone?” Your patience was wearing thin. 

“I had a trace,” he said, voice clipped. “Three cycles out, stable and predictable. But sometime around 7pm, the energy signature dissipated. Phased out of spectrum or slipped through something I can’t yet detect. The signature we were monitoring—it blinked out. Cloaked. Or maybe moved dimensions. Or he’s… I don’t know. I’ve rerun every model. He’s vanished.”

You frowned. “So he’s still coming… we just don’t know how or where.”

“Correct. Best estimate still remains: three cycles. But I feel like I’m navigating the end of the world with a paper map and a flashlight.”

You let that hang in the air. The number tasted sour in your mouth. “We… really appreciate your help. Is there anything I can do for you? Maybe you need a break.”

“Doom is coming, I can’t make time for a break,” Reed scoffed, like your suggestion was crazy. 

“But I think that maybe—“ you started but Reed cut you off.

“I’m fine.” Reed finally looked at you, a flash of annoyance on his face. “Why are you here?”

You nodded. “Thought I should check in.”

“With Johnny?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “How’s he doing?”

He rubbed the back of his neck—nervously, which was rare for him. “Worse today. He doesn’t like confinement. Keeps igniting himself just to set off the sensors. I’m worried he’s going to fry the shielding.”

“Fuck,” you squeezed your eyes shut, wishing away all of this. What you’d give for things to go back to normal…

But then, you’d never have met Bucky.

Reed moved aside, allowing you to access the containment room console. “He’s starting to feel like a caged animal. I won’t be able to hold him here forever.”

You didn’t answer. Just keyed in the security code.

The door hissed open.

Johnny Storm sat cross-legged on the metal cot inside, tossing a ball of fire from palm to palm. He didn’t look at you when you entered.

“Ah, the babysitter returns! You should start charging me rent,” he muttered.

“You’ve been here less than 24 hours,” you sighed at his dramatics before approaching cautiously. “Wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

“Oh, I tried leaving,” he said, still not looking. “Some pretty aggressive energy shielding kept me from burning through the wall. Not bad for a toaster scientist.”

You fought a smile. “Reed’s doing his best.”

“That makes one of us,” he snapped.

Silence hung between you.

Then he glanced up, expression unreadable. “So. You gonna tell me what’s really going on?”

You sat on the edge of the metal bench opposite him. “That depends. You ready to cooperate?”

“I’m not the one holding you in a room.”

You took a breath. “Fine. Doom’s arrival is accelerating. Reed says three cycles left. Maybe less.”

Johnny’s expression changed. “Doom? He’s back?”

“Back? He was never here in the first place,” you narrowed your eyes. 

“No but…” Johnny froze up.

“Wait, Johnny, do you know him?”

He laughed—a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Know him? I’ve fought him. Victor Von Doom—industrialist-turned-magic-wielding-megalomaniac? Yeah. We go way back.”

You stepped closer. “Then tell me everything.”

Johnny paused, watching you.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. The Doom in your universe—did he ever talk about crossing dimensions?”

“He talked about dominating them. Said this world was soft. Idealistic. He always wanted to burn it down and start over.” He frowned. “Wait… you think it’s my Doom?”

“We don’t know. But this variant has Tony Stark’s face, and he’s already leveling cities off-world. We need any edge we can get.”

Johnny blinked. “Who the hell is Tony Stark?”

You stared.

“Wait—Iron Man? Genius, billionaire—?”

“Never heard of him,” Johnny said, brow furrowed. “That a comic book character?”

Your skin prickled and you figured you’d try your luck. “Okay. What about Captain America?”

Johnny shook his head. “Is that, like, a propaganda mascot?”

You inhaled sharply.

He noticed your expression shift. “Hey, what?”

“It’s nothing. Just… we’ve been assuming some shared universal constants. Clearly, that was naive. Do you have the Avengers?”

“I’m not even going to even ask what the Avengers is,” he said, “my universe has four overworked, underpaid cosmic disaster magnets trying to keep Doom from melting entire cities.”

“And you… you were one of them.”

“Yes!The Human Torch. Maybe you’ve heard of me?” He gave a cocky little smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You gave him a look. “You’re aware you’re currently stuck in a universe that thinks you’re a ghost.”

“Yeah, and apparently I look like your dead best friend or whatever?”

“He wasn’t mine,” you said quietly. “I didn’t know him. My brother idolised him when we were kids, but… I only ever saw him on a screen or in magazines or action figures.”

Johnny’s demeanour shifted.

“Still. That’s gotta be weird. Seeing me.”

“It’s… disorienting,” you admitted. “It’s like staring at a memory I never actually lived.”

He nodded slowly. “Well, for what it’s worth… I’m not him.”

“I know,” you said. “It’s everyone else I’m worried about.”

He tilted his head. “You mean Barnes… I overheard your conversation with Richards.”

You tensed. “You don’t need to say his name.”

“But that’s the real problem, isn’t it?” Johnny leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re scared he’ll see me and unravel.”

“He’s been through enough.”

“So have I.”

That made you pause.

You studied him—closely, quietly. There was still heat radiating off him, but not like before. This was grief, frustration, confusion. The raw edges of someone pulled from his world and dropped into a foreign body. His aura.

“Do you miss your world?” you asked.

“Every minute,” he said. “But I miss my sister more.”

You blinked. “You have a sister?”

“Yeah. Sue. And Reed, Ben—my team.” He glanced at the door. “Even Doom, in some twisted way. At least he made sense.”

You swallowed. “We’ll get you home.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You promise?”

You tried to smile. “I’ll do my best.”

He stood then, walking toward you slowly. Not threatening—just steady.

“I’m sorry I lashed out before,” he said. “It’s been a mindfuck.”

“I get it.”

He stopped just inches away.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. Or remind you of someone you lost.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s not your fault.”

Something in the air between you went still. He smelled faintly like ozone, like charged air after a storm.

“Three cycles,” you said. “That’s what we’ve got before Doom makes landfall. And Reed can’t track him anymore.”

Johnny let that sink in. “So we fight. Together.”

You nodded. “But for now… you stay here.”

He sighed, resigned but not bitter. “Fine. But someone better bring me food that doesn’t taste like chalk.”

You smirked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As the door sealed behind you, your heart pounded.

Steve Rogers was long gone.

But his face was standing in a room behind you, glowing with cosmic fire.

────✪────

The rooftop was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic below and the rhythmic pulse of helicopter blades somewhere far off. The wind tugged gently at your clothes, lifting your hair as you stepped out onto the open concrete. You found Sam sitting on the edge of the helipad, legs dangling over the side like he didn’t have a care in the world, though you knew better.

You walked over and sat beside him without saying a word. For a while, neither of you did.

The city stretched out endlessly below, lit like it was trying to mimic the stars above. It smelled faintly of ozone and jet fuel, familiar and oddly comforting.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” you said softly.

Sam didn’t look at you at first. He just sipped from the cup in his hands—probably black coffee, lukewarm by now—and tilted his head toward the skyline. “It’s the only place I can breathe lately.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”

You sat in silence for a moment longer. Then he turned to you, studying you like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough.

“You look like hell.”

You laughed—quiet, tired. “Thanks.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

You shrugged. “There’s too much to say. Not enough time.”

Sam leaned back on his hands, the movement casual, but his voice was anything but. “You know you don’t have to carry all this alone, right? You got people.”

“I know,” you said. “It’s just hard to know what parts I can share.”

He gave you a side-eye. “Try me.”

You smiled softly. “Let’s just say… I’m learning there are more versions of this world than I ever imagined. And some of them? They bleed through. Even when you’re not ready.”

Sam was quiet a moment. “Multiverse.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. God. It would be so nice if there were someone who… specialised in that kind of thing. You know, someone who didn’t blink when the fabric of reality tore open in front of him.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “I might know a guy.”

You blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “Nope. He’s eccentric. Kinda dramatic. Has a goatee that makes him look like he just stepped out of a Victorian funeral home.”

You laughed. “What does he do?”

“Magic,” Sam said simply. “Or… something that looks like it.”

You turned to face him. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

You blinked. “Wait. You’re telling me you know a wizard?”

Sam grinned. “Yeah. A real one. Flies without wings. Opens portals with his hands. He lives in this big haunted-looking place in Greenwich Village.”

You squinted. “You’re not messing with me?”

“Not even a little.” Sam shifted his weight and nudged your shoulder gently. “He helped us during the Infinity mess. And again with��� everything after. He doesn’t always pick up his magic phone, but when he does, he tends to solve problems the rest of us can’t even pronounce.”

You exhaled slowly. “Sounds like exactly who we need.”

Sam nodded. “I’ll reach out. Might take a little time, but I’ll do what I can.”

You turned your head toward him, touched. “Sam…”

He gave you a look—soft, protective. “You didn’t ask. I’m offering. Whatever this is? You’re not in it alone.”

You smiled, swallowing past the knot in your throat. “Thank you.”

The two of you sat there a little longer, letting the silence stretch again, not awkward this time but full of something warm and unspoken. The city below, the sky above, and a million unknowns in between.

Finally, just as he stood to leave, you asked, “What’s his name?”

Sam paused, looked back over his shoulder with a small smirk, and said—

“Stephen Strange.”

Then he was gone, leaving the night colder but your hope a little warmer.

────✪────

You closed the door to your bedroom behind you with a soft click, leaning your forehead against it for a second longer than necessary. The conversation with Sam replayed in your head—his promise, his quiet strength, the name Stephen Strange echoing through your thoughts like a bell rung too close to your ears. Your body was buzzing with exhaustion and tension all at once. The kind of pressure that lived in your chest and shoulders and wouldn’t let go.

You didn’t even notice Bucky at first.

He was sitting on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, head turned toward the window where the city lights poured in like liquid gold. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, dog tags glinting in the glow.

His eyes met yours the moment you moved. He read you instantly—because of course he did.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, standing. “What happened?”

You forced a small smile, voice hoarse. “Just… was out on the rooftop. It was cold.” It was only a half-lie.

He crossed the room in three strides and was in front of you, his hands cupping your face before you could think. The way he looked at you—searching, tender, that quiet kind of worry he wore like armour—you nearly crumbled.

“You’re stressed,” he said, low and steady. He saw straight through you. “Let me take care of you tonight. Please.”

You blinked up at him. “Bucky, I don’t need—”

“I’m not talking about fixing the world,” he cut in gently. “I just want to help you breathe again.”

You swallowed hard.

“Come with me,” he said.

He took your hand and led you into the bathroom. You hadn’t even noticed him running the water, but the tub was nearly full, steam curling into the air like a warm fog. Candles flickered from the sink and windowsill. The scent of eucalyptus filled the room—soothing, clean.

“I figured…” he began, then paused. “You take care of everyone else. Let me do this for you.”

You stared at the water, at the candlelight reflecting off his eyes, and suddenly, something inside you cracked open.

You nodded.

“I’ll wait outside if you want privacy,” he offered.

But your fingers were already slipping into the hem of your shirt. “Stay.”

His throat bobbed. “Yeah?”

You met his gaze. “Join me.”

The water lapped softly against the porcelain as you leaned back, steam curling around your shoulders, calming the tension in your chest.

But when you looked up and saw him watching you from the doorway — jaw set, eyes unreadable — something inside you twisted tight with nervous anticipation.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and almost hoarse. “You want me in there with you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He didn’t move right away. Just let his gaze linger on you for a second longer, as if committing the sight of you in the bath to memory. Then he reached for the hem of his shirt.

You tried not to stare. You really tried.

But when the fabric lifted and his chest came into view — all lean muscle, old scars, and the quiet strength of a man who’d survived more than anyone should — your breath hitched in your throat.

He stripped slowly, deliberately, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to rush. As if he were giving you a chance to look away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His metal arm glinted faintly in the soft, golden light, catching on the rivulets of steam that curled through the room. You followed the line of his torso with your eyes, past the faint trail of hair down his stomach to the waistband of his boxers.

Bucky paused when he caught your stare.

“I’m not exactly… a pretty sight,” he muttered, eyes dipping to the water like he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze.

“Bucky,” you said softly, and he looked at you again — wary, like he was bracing for something that never came. “You’re beautiful.”

The words spilled out before you could second-guess them. And once they were out, you didn’t want to take them back.

He huffed a breath, something between a laugh and a scoff, and finally stepped out of the last layer between him and you. You caught the faint tremble in his hands as he did, the unspoken weight of vulnerability in every movement.

And then he was climbing in beside you, the water shifting and rising with his presence.

You made room for him, settling against the opposite side of the tub. Your knees brushed under the surface.

It was quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, but thick with something unspoken. Reverent. He didn’t look at you right away. Just leaned back and exhaled, the heat loosening the muscles in his shoulders, in his jaw. Like it was the first time in days — maybe years — he’d let himself relax.

And then his eyes found yours again, dark and unsure.

Then you reached for him — gently, slowly — and he came without hesitation, shifting so you could rest your back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle beneath the water. His lips brushed your temple.

You leaned back into his chest, your head resting beneath his chin, the heat from the water soaking into your bones — but it was him that made you feel warm. His presence, his arms around your waist, his breathing slowly falling in sync with yours.

Then, without a word, Bucky reached for the bath oil on the rim. Unscrewed the lid, poured a small pool into his hand. The floral scent mixed with steam, soft and soothing.

He brought his palms to your shoulders, slow and steady, and began to knead.

A sigh slipped out of you before you could catch it.

“Yeah?” he murmured near your ear, voice low and fond.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His thumbs worked into the tension at the base of your neck, careful and steady, tracing the edges of your shoulder blades and easing the tightness you didn’t realise you’d been carrying. His metal hand stayed at your side, warm from the water, anchoring you there — holding you like you were something precious.

You melted under his touch, sinking further into him, into the way he treated your body like it deserved to be cherished.

“You’ve been holding the world on your back,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your damp shoulder. “Let me carry it for a while.”

You didn’t say anything. Just turned your face into his neck and let yourself breathe.

His fingers drifted upward, threading gently through your hair.

“You mind?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Please.”

He reached for the shampoo with one hand while the other gently gathered your hair behind you. He was so careful — so tender — massaging your scalp in slow, circular motions, working the lather through each strand as if this moment were the only one that mattered. He cradled your head like it was the most natural thing in the world, rinsing the suds away with soft strokes and whispered reassurances.

“Feels nice,” you murmured.

His voice came next to your ear, low and warm. “Good. You deserve nice.”

You turned in his arms just enough to see his face — calm, almost bashful — and gently reached for the bottle yourself.

“My turn,” you said with a small smile.

He raised a brow. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Sit back.”

And to your quiet amazement, he did — just like that. Trusting you with something so small, but so vulnerable.

You poured the shampoo into your hand and moved in close, brushing your fingers through his dark, damp hair. His eyes fluttered shut as your nails scratched lightly against his scalp, his head tipping back slightly into your touch.

It struck you, then — how often did he get to be taken care of? To let his guard down?

You weren’t sure. But you were damn sure going to make this count.

“Feels good,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Good. You deserve nice too, y’know.”

He opened one eye at that, and the look he gave you — equal parts grateful, adoring, and stunned — made your chest ache.

The bathwater shifted gently between you as you rinsed the soap from his hair, your hands lingering at the nape of his neck. Your noses brushed. His breath hitched.

And for one suspended moment, it felt like the world outside the bathroom simply... stopped.

The bathwater sloshed gently around you both, warmed by the glow of candlelight and the low hum of Bucky’s breathing behind you. His strong thighs bracketed yours, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist as you leaned back against his chest. It was quiet—soothing. His fingers trailed idle patterns on your stomach, up along your ribs, barely ghosting the underswell of your breasts.

“I could stay like this forever,” he murmured, voice thick with warmth and something else—something heavier, molten.

You turned your head slightly, catching the corner of his mouth with yours. He kissed you slow, tender. Lips parting like it was the first time all over again. When you gasped softly into his mouth, his hand drifted lower. Curious. Careful. He cupped your heat beneath the water, the gesture instinctual but full of restraint.

“Can I…?” he asked against your lips, his voice low, rough, reverent.

Your breath caught. You nodded. “Please.”

He kissed your neck as his fingers slipped between your thighs, parting you gently beneath the water. His other arm tightened around you, grounding you as he slowly slid one finger inside you. You gasped, your body tensing from the sudden stretch and the feel of him—so intimate, so close.

“Shh… you’re okay, sweetheart,” he whispered, lips brushing behind your ear. “Let me make you feel good.”

And he did.

Every movement was patient, controlled, worshipful. He curled his finger inside you just right, watching your face tilt up toward the ceiling, your mouth falling open in a soft moan. The bathwater rippled with each slow thrust of his hand, the tension building, his palm pressing against your clit in smooth, gentle circles that made your thighs twitch.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your hips rocking involuntarily, pushing back against him, chasing the edge.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered. “So goddamn perfect.”

A second finger slid inside and your breath hitched. His metal hand cradled your hip as you writhed against him, water sloshing softly with each shift. He kissed the side of your throat, your shoulder, murmuring low praise into your skin.

“I’ve got you,” he promised. “You don’t have to do anything. Just feel.”

And you did. You fell apart in his arms with your hand clenched in his hair and your mouth on his shoulder, moaning his name like it meant salvation. He held you through it, rocked you through every tremble.

And even as the waves of pleasure faded, he didn’t let go.

He just whispered, “That’s my girl.”

You were still trembling in his arms when you felt the soft brush of his lips on your shoulder, lingering like a promise. Bucky cradled you tighter, one hand gently splayed across your stomach, his other still between your thighs, not moving—just resting there, keeping you open and warm in the aftermath.

"Still with me?" he murmured against your ear.

You nodded, eyes fluttering open. “Barely.”

He chuckled low, kissed your cheek. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how good this can feel.”

You blinked at him, heart skipping.

He shifted behind you, the water sloshing softly as he reached for the detachable shower head hooked to the wall. You looked at him, wide-eyed.

“Trust me?” he asked, voice quiet but full of that same molten heat he always kept hidden behind a steel jaw.

You nodded again. “Always.”

He smiled—a soft, dark smile—and turned the dial. The shower head vibrated gently to life, the narrow stream of water hissing softly as he adjusted the setting. A low, teasing spray pulsed in rhythmic beats from the nozzle, and Bucky tested it against his palm before bringing it down between your thighs.

Your breath caught—your entire body going taut.

“Relax,” he whispered, letting your head rest against his shoulder again. “I’ve got you, doll.”

The first pass of the water was a gentle caress—just enough to make you gasp, your thighs instinctively pressing together. But Bucky’s hand was there again, metal and sure, keeping you open.

The second pass made you moan.

You felt your hips twitch forward, a low whimper falling from your lips as the spray focused directly on your clit. The pulsing rhythm from the nozzle hit your nerve endings like lightning. Bucky’s mouth was at your neck again, teeth grazing your skin, one hand stroking your stomach as the other expertly guided the water over your most sensitive spot.

"That's it," he murmured. "Look at you… fuck, you’re perfect like this.”

You whimpered his name and felt his arm tighten around your waist.

“Please,” you whispered, breathless.

“I know, baby. I know.”

You relaxed into him as the stream found your clit, and a soft moan spilled from your lips—unexpected, delicious, embarrassingly needy. He angled the water again and fuck, your hips jolted forward.

“That’s it,” he growled, his lips grazing your ear. “Feels good, doesn’t it? You like when I do that to you?”

You whimpered in response, legs trembling in the water.

“You ever touch yourself like this?” he asked, voice a little darker now—deeper. “In the bath? In the shower?”

Your lips parted, heart pounding. “…Back at the safe house,” you admitted softly. “That night we had to share the bed… I couldn’t stop thinking about you, in the other room, undressing. Had to pretend like— like I didn’t want you right there and then.”

Bucky groaned in your ear, the sound low and guttural. The water pulsed against you again, and he held you tighter, guiding your hips just slightly to ride the rhythm.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped. “If I had known that… things would have went a lot differently.”

You let out a shaky moan at his implication, your head falling back onto his shoulder.

“You wanna know what I did?” he whispered, mouth brushing your temple. “Every time I was alone in the shower… hand wrapped around my cock, water beating down on me… I was thinking about you. Your mouth. Your thighs. Your pretty little noises. Even when you hated me, I wanted you.”

You whimpered helplessly, pressing back against him.

“I’d picture you dripping for me,” he murmured. “Begging for me. Just like this.”

The confession was too much. Too vivid. Too filthy.

Your thighs tightened, a cry stuck in your throat.

“You gonna come for me again, baby?” he whispered, rotating the angle of the spray just right. “Come knowing I used to fuck my fist just thinking about making you fall apart?”

Your mouth dropped open in a breathless gasp as your entire body went taut, every nerve ending alight. The pleasure hit hard, slamming into you like a wave—your muscles tensing, water splashing over the edge of the tub as you cried out, hips grinding helplessly into the rhythm of the spray.

Bucky held you through it, his hand firm across your stomach, mouth on your shoulder.

“Good girl,” he breathed against your skin. “That’s it, baby. That’s it.”

You collapsed back into his chest, boneless and dazed, barely able to catch your breath. He pressed kisses along your shoulder, your jaw, your temple, grounding you through the aftershocks.

You let out a shaky laugh, your voice hoarse. “Jesus, Bucky…”

He chuckled, kissing your cheek again. “You’re somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

Your heart still thundered as he turned off the water and cradled you against him, both of you wrapped in warmth and silence for a long moment.

Your limbs felt boneless, melted from the pleasure still echoing through you like waves lapping the shore. The soft slosh of the bathwater was the only sound, save for your shallow breaths. You blinked slowly, dazed and spent, leaning into Bucky’s chest as the warm water began to cool.

“Hey,” he murmured against your temple, brushing your damp hair back. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s get you dried off now.”

His voice was so gentle, reverent. You barely managed a nod.

With slow, practiced strength, Bucky slipped his arms under your legs and back. You squeaked softly as he lifted you, and he chuckled—low, fond. Water dripped down your bodies, your skin slipping against his chest, your pulse skipping as you felt his heartbeat against your shoulder.

“Still with me?” he whispered, grinning as he held you tighter.

“Barely,” you murmured. “But I like it here.”

“Me too,” he said, and then he kissed your forehead.

He carried you effortlessly from the bathroom, cradling you like you were something precious, something breakable. The cool air kissed your wet skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Bucky noticed instantly.

“Hold on,” he said, setting you down gently at the edge of the bed. He grabbed one of the thick towels hanging near the bathroom and wrapped it around your frame with the utmost care, tucking the corners around your body like you were a gift he never thought he’d get to unwrap.

“You’re trembling,” he said, crouching before you. “Was it too much?”

You smiled softly, eyes glazed. “No. It was perfect. I just… I can’t believe you did that.”

His gaze flicked down briefly, watching the water drip from your collarbone down into the towel. His jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

You reached for him.

“Your turn,” you whispered.

Bucky rose slowly, water still glistening on his skin, and let the towel slip from your shoulders so he could wrap a new one around his own waist. As he stood, you caught sight of the unmistakable ridge straining against the terrycloth—hard and thick, barely contained.

Your breath hitched.

He followed your eyes and gave a lopsided, bashful smile. “Yeah,” he rasped. “That’s what happens when I watch you come like that.”

You stared. “You’re—”

“Hard as hell,” he finished for you, stepping close between your knees. “For you. Always for you.”

You reached up with both hands, dragging your fingers slowly down the plane of his abdomen, over the curve of his hips, the towel damp and warm beneath your touch. You looked up at him, wide-eyed and awestruck.

“I want you,” you whispered.

Bucky swallowed hard, chest rising.

“Then you have me,” he said, and bent down to scoop you up once more.

This time, he didn’t bother asking permission—he laid you down across the bed with something close to reverence, kissing your bare shoulder as he adjusted the towel around you again.

His hands roamed your body like he was learning scripture—slow, reverent, almost trembling with how much he needed to memorise the way your skin felt under his palms. He wasn’t just touching you; he was worshipping you. Like you were holy. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Bucky murmured as his lips trailed down your neck, voice hoarse with wonder. “Every inch of you… you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

You gasped when his hand slid between your thighs, his eyes drinking in your reaction like it was his only salvation. Your back arched instinctively, your body begging for more.

“I want you to feel good,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the curve of your breast, then another just below your ribs. “Wanna take my time. Wanna taste you everywhere. Let me?”

“Please,” you breathed, and he smiled like a man ruined.

He kissed down your stomach with reverence, pulling your towel off your body slowly, like he was unwrapping the last good thing in his life. When he spread your legs and settled between them, the heat of his breath made you shudder.

But when he looked up at you, eyes dark and blown wide with hunger, he froze.

“You sure?” he asked, voice breaking just a little.

“I want you, Bucky. I want all of you,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “I always have.”

He groaned like the words hurt—like they healed something too.

When he finally pushed inside you, thick and aching and perfect, you bit down on his shoulder—just hard enough to make him hiss, just enough to leave your mark. His body jolted at the sting, a deep growl ripping from his throat, and he held you tighter.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “You’re so tight. So warm. I can feel you everywhere, baby. You feel like heaven.”

You barely had time to respond—your mind was already gone, lost in the way he filled you so perfectly, in how he whispered your name like it was a sacred thing. His metal hand held your hip like he was grounding himself, but the other caressed your face, thumbing over your cheek like you were fragile, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

“Gonna take care of you,” he promised between kisses. “Gonna fuck you slow so you feel it for days. Gonna make sure you know what you mean to me.”

You whimpered something unintelligible, overwhelmed with sensation and the way he made you feel so seen, so wanted. Your nails scratched down his back. Your teeth found his neck again.

“Mine,” you whispered against his skin.

That sent him over the edge—his rhythm faltered, his breath catching as he groaned your name again and again, buried so deep inside you it felt like the world disappeared around you.

And still he moved.

Slow, sweet thrusts. Words of worship between panting breaths. He kissed your temple. He kissed the corner of your mouth. He kissed you like you were the last good thing in the world.

“Oh my God, Bucky…”

“Shh… I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

His movements were deep, and steady thrusts that made you feel every part of him. His pace built gradually, like he was savouring every second, watching your face twist in pleasure, whispering how beautiful you looked, how good you felt, how long he’d waited for this.

Then it turned feral.

His hand locked under your knee, hitching your leg higher. His hips slammed into yours, faster now, rougher, but still full of so much feeling. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes never leaving you, every breath a moan.

“You’re mine,” he groaned. “Mine. You feel that?”

“Yes—Bucky—I—fuck, I feel you—”

“Come for me again, baby. I wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.”

His words undid you. You shattered again, legs quaking, crying out his name as he fucked you through it—his own release close behind, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you with a deep, broken growl.

He collapsed over you, panting, trembling, pressing kisses along your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone.

You held each other in silence, sweat cooling, hearts slowing, the smell of candle wax and sex thick in the air.

He looked at you like you were the stars.

Outside, the city buzzed with life.

But in here, wrapped in Bucky’s arms, with his warmth still inside you—you finally felt safe.

Your legs were still tangled with his when the silence settled. A soft, reverent kind of silence. Not the awkward kind that follows something rushed or uncertain — this was the kind that came after something real.

Your body was still buzzing from the aftershocks, but your heart… your heart felt raw and full all at once.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his hand drawing slow, grounding circles over your back. You felt his lips brush the crown of your head like a vow. Like he didn’t quite know how to say what he was feeling yet — only that it mattered. That you mattered.

“You okay?” he murmured against your hair.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Are you?”

His arm tightened around you. “Yeah. Just… overwhelmed.”

You lifted your head to look at him. “In a bad way?”

“No.” His eyes were so soft, so open, so bare. “In the best way.”

You smiled. Sleepy. Full of warmth. But you still noticed the faint furrow between his brows.

“Buck?” you asked gently, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “What is it?”

He exhaled through his nose, like he’d been holding something in. “Just didn’t expect that to feel like… that.”

You leaned forward and kissed his jaw. “Me neither.”

He sat up a little, just enough to shift beside you on the bed, pulling the sheets up to cover your body. He took his time — tucking them around you, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before he stood.

“Don’t go far,” you mumbled.

His chuckle was soft. “Just grabbing a clean towel, sweetheart.”

When he came back, he knelt beside the bed and gently started wiping between your legs — slow, careful, with more tenderness than you ever expected from a man with hands like his. You winced slightly, and he immediately stilled.

“Too much?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No. Just a little sore.”

His jaw flexed. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, Bucky.” You reached down, touching his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours. “You were perfect.”

He nodded once, like he didn’t quite believe you — but he wanted to. Then he cleaned himself off, tossed the towel in the hamper, and crawled back into bed beside you. Not just beside you — into you. Curled around your back like he was built for it.

You felt his hand slide under the blanket, finding yours beneath the pillow, threading your fingers together.

“Don’t wanna let go of you,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to.”

The room was dark, but not cold. The covers were heavy but comforting. The sheets still smelled like him. Like you. Like this.

“Are you okay?” you asked after a minute.

He hummed. “I keep thinkin’ about how you looked. When I was inside you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you twisted just enough to glance at him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice was barely a whisper. “You looked like… mine.”

A pause stretched between you.

“Do you want me to be?” you asked softly.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

You swallowed thickly and turned to face him fully, pressing your forehead against his. Your legs tangled again. Your hand found his chest.

“Then I’m yours.”

You felt him smile — and you knew, in that moment, that for all the chaos waiting beyond these walls, you had built something real here. Something that wouldn’t break.

Not easily.

Not ever.

────✪────

The room was still. Just the quiet hum of the city outside, the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

You lay curled in the sheets, your breathing slow and even against Bucky’s chest, your hand tangled with his beneath the blanket.

But Bucky was elsewhere.

His mind had drifted, tugged down by exhaustion and emotion, and when his eyes closed, the world around him changed.

The bed was gone. The warmth. The flickering candlelight.

Now it was dusk, and the Brooklyn pier stretched out before him—old wood creaking underfoot, the water lapping gently against rusted metal pylons.

He heard footsteps.

Turned.

And there he was.

Steve Rogers. Cap tilted back, blond hair catching the dying sunlight. He looked just like Bucky remembered him before the war: young, alive, untouched by the centuries of loss that followed.

Except his eyes weren’t soft.

They were steady. Knowing. Sad.

“You’re late,” Steve said, hands in his pockets.

Bucky froze. “Steve.”

“You haven’t talked to me in a while.”

“Maybe i’ve moved on,” Bucky said, a little sharper than he meant it.

Steve didn’t flinch. “And yet you’ve been burying yourself in guilt for it.”

Bucky exhaled shakily and looked away, out at the water. “I didn’t mean to dream about you.”

“You always do,” Steve said quietly. “Usually when something’s eating at you.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed. “You left.”

“I had to.”

“You didn’t have to,” Bucky snapped, rounding on him. “You chose to. You handed off the shield, said goodbye like it was nothing, and you left me to clean it all up. Again.”

Steve took it. He didn’t argue. Just looked at Bucky with the weight of someone who had known him longer than anyone ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said nothing at all.

“I didn’t know what to do without you,” Bucky whispered. “I still don’t.”

Steve stepped closer. “Then why are you trying so hard to pretend like you’re fine?”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m not pretending. I’m just… trying to get over it.”

“With her?”

That stopped him.

Steve’s gaze softened. “You love her.”

Bucky’s throat worked around the words. “I… I don’t know.”

“Buck,” Steve said gently, “when you love someone, you should tell them. Because sometimes the chance doesn’t come again.”

“I’m scared,” Bucky admitted. “What if she wakes up one day and sees me for what I really am? Not just the parts I try to show her, but the broken stuff. The old war dog with blood on his hands. What then?”

Steve stepped up until they were face to face. His voice was low.

“She already sees you, Buck. And she’s still there.”

Bucky looked down, breathing hard. “I don’t know if I deserve her.”

“You’ve always deserved to be loved.”

Steve reached up, placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I’m proud of you.”

The pier began to dissolve, light washing it all away in a slow blur.

“Don’t waste it,” Steve said, his voice distant now. “Let yourself be happy.”

Bucky gasped awake, chest rising fast, eyes wet.

The room was warm. Quiet. You were asleep against him, peaceful and soft, your cheek resting on his arm.

He looked down at you like you were the answer to a question he didn’t know how to ask.

She already sees you. And she’s still there.

He gently brushed your hair back and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I think I love you,” he whispered, barely audible.

And you didn’t stir—but somehow, a tiny smile curled on your lips.

────✪────

It started with a faint vibration.

Subtle, at first—like the kind you’d feel when the subway rumbled deep beneath Manhattan, gentle and distant enough to be ignored.

But it didn’t stop.

Somewhere deep in Avengers Tower, a low hum began to build—power surging through reinforced circuits, cascading red alerts lighting up control panels, one by one.

Reed Richards was already awake when the tremors began. He hadn’t slept in days.

He stood over his lab’s main console, eyes glued to a flickering monitor, its screen flooded with lines of alien code, dimensional pulse readings, and quantum flux trails.

Then a single alert cut through all of it:

MULTIVERSAL SIGNATURE DETECTED DOOM // EARTH-9211 // COORDINATES LOCKED STATUS: BREACHED ATMOSPHERE

ESTIMATED IMPACT: INCOMING.

Reed's breath caught in his throat.

"No. No, no, no, no—he was three cycles out, he was—"

He spun around, fingers flying over the keyboard, scanning the waveforms, matching the signature.

But it wasn’t on the outer rim of the multiverse anymore.

It was here. Earth. Now.

The data didn't lie.

Victor Von Doom had just broken through the upper atmosphere.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan

Fic taglist: @ruexj283 @avengemepercy @espressovz @sebastians-love @cherryandsugar @torntaltos @ficr3ccs @sexyvixen7 @starstruckfirecat @mikaylacriiistina @imaginecrushes @1000shipsnh @bcksgirl @bitterspoons @cinammonstixes @k8andthemagneticzeros @cherriesnmango @ropickle @mash-em-up @pinkcoquettebow @niceforcum @amanda-says @flowerluvr @nowayhomeboo @honeygirl724 @theoraekenslover @anotherrickinthewall @emminomm @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @parkerslivia @maribirdsteele @loyaltyistoxic

Want to be added to a taglist? Let me know which one!

[mandoalorian]

OH WOW 🥺🥺🥺 thank you so much! it makes my heart so happy to know how much you enjoyed the story 🫶🏻 thank you for the high praise. 💞

lessons in love

a congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader mini-series.

synopsis: after thinking you've met the man of your dreams, you're ready to take things to the next level. one problem: you've never even kissed a guy before. so, you knock on your best friend's door with a proposition, and ask him to teach you everything there is to know about sex. no strings, no feelings, just lessons. but the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it's only practice.

warnings/rating: 18+ rated series, minors do not interact, explicit content ahead! ⚠️ p in v, m receiving oral, f receiving oral, fingering, handjobs, pining, dirty talk, masturbation, sexting, literally every dirty thing you can think of... it's probably going to be in this fic. chapter specific warnings will be at the start.

chapter list:

lesson one — kissing

lesson two — talking

lesson three — touching

lesson four — tasting

lesson five — loving

series completed. <3

[mandoalorian]

How I feel about your fics

THIS IS SO SWEET 🥺😭😭😭

[mandoalorian]

obsessed with every bucky series you ever write

look forward to whatever you do next 🥹

[mandoalorian]

gonna spend some time answering any asks / requests today, as well as replying to comments! might even work on some drabbles so if anyone has any requests feel free to shoot my way 🫶🏻

[mandoalorian]

this is so kind 😭 thank you so so so much, i’m so thrilled you enjoyed the story. 💌

lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson five: loving

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: it was never supposed to go this far. these lessons were meant to teach you how to love someone else. but somewhere between soft touches and whispered praise, you started falling—for the only man who’s ever made you feel safe. lesson five is the final one, and it’s supposed to be everything: slow, intimate, full of trust. one bed, two best friends, and a night that changes everything. this time, you’re not sure either of you will be able to walk away.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ protected p in v, handjobs, f recieving oral, m recieving oral, praise kink, overstimulation, biting, pain during sex, feral!bucky needs a warning, trust me, bucky talks you through it, making out, cum eating, betrayal, miscommunication leads to angst, mentions of sexual harassment, implied sexual assault (nothing explicit), canon typical violence.

word count: 10.5k

ෆ series masterlist | previous part

Bucky woke slowly, not because of the sun filtering in through the window or the quiet hum of the refrigerator across the room, but because of the weight pressed against him — warm and soft, breathing slow and steady. Your leg was slung over his hip, your cheek resting on his chest, one arm tucked between your bodies like you were trying to anchor yourself there forever. His vibranium hand lay gently against your back, splayed protectively. Even asleep, he held you like something precious.

He hadn’t slept much, too aware of your warmth, of the way your fingers had curled into his skin like you didn’t want to let go. Too caught up in the memory of your mouth, your moans, the way you had looked up at him with wet lashes and swollen lips. He had memorised the moment you fell asleep in his arms, and still, it didn’t feel like enough.

The vibration of his phone on the coffee table startled him slightly. He shifted just enough to reach for it, careful not to wake you. You stirred anyway, humming softly in protest as his chest moved beneath you. The screen flashed: Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Of course.

Bucky sighed quietly, answering in a low rasp. “Yeah?”

Valentina didn’t waste time. “You’re needed at the office by eleven.”

He blinked at the ceiling. “It’s Saturday.”

“It’s important. Serious business. Don’t be late.”

She hung up before he could reply.

You mumbled something against his chest, then slowly lifted your head. Your face was warm with sleep, your hair tousled, your lips parted as you tried to focus your eyes. You looked up at him like this was the most natural place in the world to wake up. Like he was home.

“Why’re you on the phone?” you asked, your voice thick and groggy.

Bucky brushed his thumb along your spine. “Valentina. Wants me at the office.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“In an hour.”

You groaned dramatically, burying your face back against him. “Tell her no. It’s Saturday.”

“I did. Didn’t work.”

You stayed curled against him for a moment longer before slowly sitting up, wincing at the stiffness in your limbs. You were still wearing his sweatshirt, something he’d tossed you in the middle of the night when you said you were cold, sleeves pushed up over your forearms, exposing the faint red marks he’d left on your skin the night before. He was already pulling over his shirt, rumpled and half-open, and his dark hair was a mess from the way you were carding your fingers through it the night before. Everything about this morning felt soft and sleepy and too delicate to break.

“Do you think it’s about Blake?” you asked, rubbing your eyes. It was an instinct more than anything else. Something in your gut had known he’d done something wrong. 

“Could be,” Bucky said, not meeting your gaze. “But probably not. Just more politics.”

You didn’t press, but the anxiety lingered between you like a shadow. You’d felt Bucky retract, just like he’d been doing a lot lately, when you mentioned Blake. 

Eventually, you both got up, pulling your clothes on from the crumpled pile on the floor. There was a reverence in the way Bucky helped you find your sock, in the way he tucked your hair behind your ear and smoothed the fabric of your shirt before stepping back. Like he didn’t want to stop touching you, but didn’t know if he still had the right.

Once you were dressed, you grabbed your phone and keys, glancing at him with a little smile. “You might be working, but we’re not skipping our Saturday morning tradition. Coffee and raspberry coconut loaf cake.”

His mouth tugged upward at one corner, the barest hint of a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

──── ୨୧ ────

The walk from the coffee shop to Capitol Hill was quieter than usual. The July morning was cooler than expected, a gentle breeze brushing against your skin and sending the scent of fresh grass into the air. You held your iced latte between your hands, letting the condensation chill your fingers. Bucky walked beside you with his flat white and a small brown paper bag containing the coconut and raspberry loaf you always split, albeit 90/10. You’d decided to take the coffee to go to ensure Bucky got to his office in time for Val’s deadline.

Usually, you’d be talking non-stop. You’d complain about the noisy new neighbours, or laugh about the man on the corner who always tried to pet dogs that clearly wanted to maul, or eat him. Bucky would tell you about his week, about Valentina’s latest dramatic outbursts or the new intern who kept calling him “Mr. Barnes.”

But this morning was different.

There was a quiet between you. Not cold or distant — just heavy. Like both of you were too full of words you didn’t know how to say.

You sipped your drink and glanced at him. His shoulders were tense, eyes distant. He looked like he hadn’t slept much.

You didn’t ask why. You already knew.

Last night had changed everything. Or maybe it hadn’t — maybe it had just revealed everything you’d been ignoring. You’d spent so long pretending the lessons were just about sex, but now... you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he touched you. The way he looked at you. How his voice got low when he called you “sweetheart.” How safe he made you feel.

And then there was Blake.

You thought about the night at his place. The way he ordered your food for you without asking. The way he had touched you like it was his right. How it had felt clinical, selfish, and over too quickly. How he hadn’t even noticed that you hadn’t finished. You thought about the shame, the emptiness. The ache that had followed you home.

You glanced at Bucky again. His jaw was clenched, fingers wrapped tight around his cup.

He was thinking, too. You could tell.

You didn’t know he was thinking about the sound you made when you moaned his name. The way you said please with tears in your eyes and silk on your tongue. He was thinking about how he’d give anything to be enough for you — not just for the lessons, but for real.

But neither of you said any of it.

You just walked, side by side, with sugar on your tongues and love buried under your skin, heading toward a day that would change everything.

──── ୨୧ ────

You didn’t expect it to be so loud.

The usual hush of the congressional offices on a weekend was replaced with the slam of a door, raised voices, and the heavy thud of footsteps down marble floors. You turned the corner behind Bucky, confused, heart climbing into your throat—then you saw it.

Blake.

Box in his arms. Jacket half on. Face red with fury and humiliation. Two security officers flanking him like bookends.

“What the hell?” you breathed, stopping in your tracks.

Bucky stopped too, shoulders tense beside you.

“Get your hands off me,” Blake barked, jerking away from one of the officers. “I can walk myself, thanks.”

He looked disheveled. Less polished than usual. His tie was gone, shirt wrinkled, hair out of place. A storm of papers teetered in the cardboard box he held like he’d thrown it all together in a blind rage.

You stepped forward. “Blake?”

His head snapped toward you—and whatever veneer he was wearing cracked right down the centre.

“Oh, great,” he sneered. “Perfect. You just had to be here to see this, huh?”

You blinked, stunned. “What’s going on?”

Bucky moved closer behind you, subtly shielding your side with his body, but you didn’t even register it.

“I got set up,” Blake hissed. “That’s what’s going on. One stupid little intern decides she’s uncomfortable and suddenly I’m a goddamn monster?”

Your stomach dropped.

“I didn’t even touch her,” he added quickly, like that made it okay. “I flirted, big deal. You think I’m the only one in that office who does it?”

Your heart sank in your chest. 

“Blake—” you started, but your voice was barely a whisper.

“Oh, don’t act surprised,” he snapped. “What? You didn’t think I noticed the way people looked at you? Like they were wondering what I was doing with the virgin?” He laughed. Loud and cruel. “Guess they know now.”

It hit you like a slap. Your chest caved inward. Everyone in the hallway turned. You wanted to shrink, to disappear into the floor.

Bucky moved in a second.

“Watch your mouth,” he growled, stepping directly between you and Blake. “You say one more word, I dare you.”

Blake scoffed. “What are you gonna do, Barnes? Beat me into chivalry? Oh wait—that’s right. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? All the blood on your hands… Getting to play white knight for your sweet little neighbour across the hall.”

He leaned in, eyes wild. “You always wanted her, didn’t you? That why you kept your mouth shut while she came crawling to me?”

That was it.

Bucky’s fist connected with Blake’s face — a sickening crunch of cartilage and bone as the congressman’s head snapped to the side. Blood spattered against the stone wall. Blake slumped, dazed, but Bucky didn’t let go.

“You used her,” Bucky spat, voice darker now, unrecognisable even to himself. “You humiliated her. You knew what you were doing. And I fucking warned you.”

Another fist. Metal, this time. It didn’t hit — not fully — but Bucky’s vibranium arm pressed hard against Blake’s chest, pinning him like a rag doll, the threat of crushing force barely contained. Blake choked, panic setting into his bloodied face.

Security came charging in. It took two agents to pull Bucky back — one tugging his right arm, the other wedging between him and Blake. Bucky didn’t fight them, not really. He just stared at the man still slumped against the wall, eyes swollen and blood leaking from his split lip.

“You don’t deserve to say her name,” Bucky said again, quieter this time, breathless. “She’s ten times the person you’ll ever be.”

As they dragged him back a few steps, Valentina appeared at the end of the corridor, heels clicking, jaw set. But she didn’t interrupt. She just watched, silent and unreadable.

Blake groaned, clutching his nose. “Fucking psycho…”

Bucky didn’t even look back. He adjusted his tie, straightened his shoulders, and said calmly to security, “I’m done now.”

“Let’s go,” one of the officers muttered, tugging Blake’s elbow.

Blake weakly shoved him off and glared at you. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Letting your best friend pull the strings. Pretending like you’re pure when you’re just a goddamn tease.”

“Get him out of here!” Bucky snapped, and the officers didn’t hesitate this time.

They dragged Blake down the corridor, his voice echoing behind them until he was gone.

Gone.

You stood frozen, heart pounding in your ears, vision blurred with the sting of hot tears. People were still staring. Whispering. Your limbs felt heavy. Numb.

You turned to Bucky. “Did you know?”

He opened his mouth—but before he could speak, Valentina’s voice rang out sharply from the hallway:

“Barnes. My office. Now.”

He hesitated. Looked at you—guilt swimming behind his eyes—then turned and followed her without a word.

You were left standing in the hallway.

Alone.

Your hands were shaking.

You didn’t realise how tightly your hands had curled into fists until your nails bit into your palms.

The hallway had emptied in the chaos’s wake, only the distant echo of voices lingering behind Bucky’s retreat. The air felt too still now, like time was giving you a moment to absorb the blow—but you couldn’t. Not fully. Not when your head was spinning and your chest was burning and your vision swam.

Your stomach twisted. Blake humiliated you. In front of everyone. And worst of all, he knew.

He knew you were a virgin. That was private. That was something sacred you’d shared with Bucky—not Blake. Not the rest of the goddamn office. How did he know? Did you just make it that fucking obvious?

You were still standing there, blinking at the carpet, your thoughts snarling into knots, when someone cleared their throat gently behind you.

“Hey… are you okay?”

You turned, startled.

Marianne. You’d met her a few times when you’d come to office with Bucky, the new intern who worked at the reception. She looked different outside of her workwear—softer, gentler, like she’d exhaled. Her cardigan sleeves were pushed to her elbows, clipboard clutched in her arms like armour, but her voice was kind. No judgment, just quiet concern.

You tried to answer. Couldn’t.

Marianne took a cautious step closer. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You swallowed thickly. “What happened?”

She hesitated. “Do you want to sit down?”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. If you sat down, you’d break open.

So you shook your head.

Marianne nodded slowly, glancing toward the office door where Bucky had disappeared minutes before. “We filed the formal report last night. I wasn’t the only one. Five other women came forward.” Her voice lowered. “The story was the same for all of us. Unwanted comments. Touching. Leering. Texts late at night.”

You blinked.

She continued. “We weren’t sure if anything would come of it… but then one of the newer interns said something happened at the holiday party. She didn’t feel safe being in the same room as him anymore. That was the tipping point.”

A cold wave rolled through your gut. “I didn’t know.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Marianne said gently. “No one wanted to drag you into it. Especially not Bucky.”

Your chest tightened. “He knew?”

Marianne paused. “He didn’t just know.”

You looked up sharply, heart suddenly thudding.

“He stood up for us when no one else would,” she said. “He backed the report. Made sure the complaint reached Valentina directly. Went out of his way to make sure every woman who came forward felt heard.” Her voice softened. “He was the one who made this happen today.”

You felt the blood drain from your face.

“He said he couldn’t stand by and let Blake get away with it. That he didn’t care if it made things complicated between you two—he just wanted to protect us, and protect you too.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.

Marianne stepped forward, lowering her clipboard. “I know it probably feels like a betrayal… finding out this way. But he never stopped looking out for you. Not for a second.”

You felt something sharp twist behind your ribs. You thought of the missed calls. The unread texts. The way Bucky kept trying to tell you something all week but held his tongue every time.

You thought of how he looked at you—really looked at you—and how you hadn’t understood it until now.

He’d been protecting you… from the truth. From this.

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

You drew in a shaky breath, blinking fast. “I need to go.”

Marianne didn’t try to stop you. She just offered a soft, understanding smile. “He’s a good man,” she said gently. “Even when it’s hard to see it.”

You nodded once, stiffly, and turned on your heel.

The marble underfoot felt cold and too loud as you stormed down the hallway.

You didn’t look back.

──── ୨୧ ────

You’d never known silence could feel so loud.

The moment you stepped inside your apartment, it hit you like a punch to the chest—the hush of your home pressing in around you, wrapping around your shoulders like a too-tight, suffocating blanket. You shut the door behind you with shaking fingers, the quiet click of the latch sealing in the ache building behind your ribs. You leaned back against it, blinking hard, your breath shallow as the weight of it all sank in. Your stomach twisted. Your throat burned. And somewhere, far below all of that, was the unmistakable, rising pulse of rage.

Bucky knew. All this time—he knew what kind of man Blake was. He knew what people were whispering about him, the complaints, the reports, the warnings. And still, he stood there, beside you, week after week, watching you get dressed for dates, teasing you when Blake sent you messages, holding your hand while you gushed about how special he made you feel. He looked you in the eye, told you he had your back—and never once told you the truth.

The betrayal sat like a stone in your chest, heavy and hard-edged, cutting deeper the longer you stared at the messages he’d sent.

Missed call from Bucky.

Missed call.

bucky: Are you okay? bucky: Can you call me?

Now he cared?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until your bare feet started to sting from the hardwood. You’d circled your living room three, four, five times, fists clenched and breathing shallow, the afternoon sun slipping lower and lower through the windows. Your thoughts were a blur, looping through images of the office, Blake’s smug face twisting with cruel satisfaction, the way everyone had looked at you when he spat that word—virgin—like it was something to mock. Your skin crawled.

And beneath it all, every memory of Bucky rushed to the surface like a tide—his voice, his touch, the way he held you when you were cold, how gentle he was when you were nervous, the way he kissed your forehead when you couldn’t sleep. You let him in, completely, and trusted him with every part of yourself. And he didn’t even trust you with the truth.

The soft creak of the hallway floor outside your apartment jolted you from your spiral. You froze. A key turned in the lock across the hall. His door swung open.

Bucky was home.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You stormed across the hallway barefoot, ignoring the thud of your heart, and knocked—hard—three times, sharp and fast like gunfire. Before you could even prepare yourself, the door opened, and there he was.

Hair tousled, jacket still on, his blue eyes widening when he saw you standing there. “Hey—”

You didn’t let him finish. You pushed past him, stepping into his apartment like it belonged to you, fury burning through you like wildfire.

“How long, Bucky?” The words came out tight and shaking.

He closed the door gently behind you, brows drawn. “What—?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” You spun to face him, voice cracking. “How long have you known what Blake was? What he did to those women? How long were you planning to let me date him while you stood there saying nothing?”

His expression shifted, mouth parting. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.” You stepped closer, voice rising. “Please, for once, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he said quietly. “Look, I knew he was a nepotist jackass from the day I first started in Congress. But Marianne and the other women… I only found out yesterday, I swear.”

Your lungs seized.

He swallowed. “He was off. I noticed right away. The way he talked, the way he looked at women in the office. At you. I started asking questions, and the answers were worse than I expected.”

You stared at him, the sting behind your eyes too sharp to fight. “And you just… let me fall for him?”

“I didn’t let you—I tried, okay?��� Bucky’s voice cracked. “I tried to warn you without telling you everything, but every time I brought it up, the words tasted wrong on my lips and I thought I was just being overprotective or jealous or—”

“Because you were!” Your voice broke, shaking with heat. “But you never told me the truth, and now everyone knows that I’m—” Your throat closed. “He said it in front of everyone.”

“I didn’t want that to happen.” Bucky stepped forward, his voice raw. “I was going to tell you everything, but last night was a fluster. I swear. I thought if I just got him fired, it would be over and you wouldn’t have to—”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you spat. “You don’t get to pick and choose which parts of the truth I get to know, Bucky. Not when I trusted you. Not when I—” You stopped short, breath catching painfully.

He looked at you like you’d just punched him.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“But you weren’t,” you said, quieter now, voice trembling. “You were protecting yourself. From what, Bucky? From the truth? From how I’d react? Or from the fact that you knew you were crossing a line the second you let me crawl into your apartment and teach me how to touch you?”

His face twisted. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You exhaled, shaky and raw. “You were supposed to be the one person I could trust.”

“I am,” he said, stepping forward again. “I’ve always been that for you.”

You shook your head. “No. Not today.”

You turned, storming for the door, blood hot and fingers trembling—but before you could open it, his voice cut through the silence like a whip.

“Wait.”

You paused. Barely. Just for a second. But it was enough for your heart to split.

Your hand was still curled around the doorknob, heart pounding in your ears like a war drum. The weight of him behind you—his presence, his voice, his regret—hung heavy in the air. It would’ve been easier to keep walking. Slam the door behind you, bury your heartbreak under a blanket and forget he ever touched you. But the second he said that word, your resolve cracked.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Bucky said softly. “You have to believe that.”

You turned, slowly.

His blue eyes were raw, pleading. His whole face looked tired—no, devastated. Like he’d been holding his breath all day and finally exhaled only to realise it wasn’t enough.

“You did hurt me,” you said. “You watched me fall for someone who didn’t care about me. And you knew.”

“I know,” he said, nodding. “And I was wrong. I should’ve told you. But I didn’t want to come between you and something that made you happy. And at the very start, you seemed happy. So I stayed silent. Even if it killed me to watch it happen.”

Your breath hitched.

His words echoed — even if it killed me.

Bucky’s voice lowered, thick with emotion. “You think it was easy for me? Watching him touch you in the office? Show you off like you were his property? Knowing he didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you?”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling, the anger inside you beginning to twist into something hotter. Something heavier.

“You think it was easy for me,” he continued, “to keep my mouth shut when all I wanted to do was rip his fucking hands off every time he looked at you like you were something to own?”

Your fingers trembled.

“Bucky…”

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he said, stepping closer. “But every time I looked at you, I wished it was me. Not him.”

You didn’t think. Couldn’t.

You reached for him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

Your hands tangled in the lapels of his jacket and you surged forward, slamming your mouth to his like it was the only thing that could make the pain stop. Bucky gasped, the shock of it jolting through him, but then he grabbed you—grabbed you—and pinned you to the nearest wall like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing into his shoulders, his hair, his neck. He kissed you like he was starved—like he’d been holding himself back for weeks, and now that the leash had snapped, he didn’t care who saw.

Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, and Bucky pressed into you, his hips slotting against yours, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other sliding down your side like he needed to touch every inch of you to believe you were real.

“I’ve wanted this,” he rasped against your lips, “so fucking bad.”

You whined, tilting your head back as his mouth dropped to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “Then take it,” you breathed.

He growled—growled—and kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier, tongue sliding against yours like he wanted to taste your every thought.

But it wasn’t just lust. Not even close.

There was too much in the way he held you, too much pain in the way his fingers trembled against your waist, too much feeling behind every kiss like he was trying to apologise, confess, and worship you all at once.

Your hands moved without thinking—down his chest, yanking his shirt loose from his waistband. He hissed when your fingers brushed bare skin, and you felt him hard against your thigh, unmistakable and urgent. It only made you kiss him harder.

But then—suddenly—he pulled away.

You blinked, breathless, lips kiss-swollen and dazed. “What—?”

Bucky’s chest was heaving, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched like he was trying to hold something back.

“You were going to leave,” he muttered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You’d never seen him like this before; his eyes practically black with lust, expression outright feral. 

“You storm in here, screaming at me, prodding your finger into my chest and then walk out?” His voice dropped, gravelly rough. “Like this doesn’t mean something.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Where were you going?” he asked, stepping forward again, backing you against the wall. “To cry? To fall asleep still hurting, still confused, still wondering if I care about you?”

You swallowed hard.

He reached for your waist again, gentler now, grounding you. “You don’t get to leave until I remind you how someone should treat you.”

Your hands shook.

“Bucky…”

His mouth ghosted against yours. “We still have one more lesson, sweetheart.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“No need for lessons anymore,” you whispered, but you were already pressing into him again, drunk on the heat of his body, the rasp of his voice, the look in his eyes that told you he meant it.

It was true, things were over with you and Blake now, so really, there was no need for the final lesson. But that didn’t mean you didn’t want it. And Bucky had been programmed to finish the job. You curled your fingers into the column of his neck, causing him to hiss as your nails bit into the skin there. 

“But if we’re going to do this, tell me, Bucky,” you continued. “what is lesson five?”

His hands slid to your hips, voice low and sure.

“Lesson five?” Bucky chuckled darkly. It made you nervous. His teeth nibbled at your jaw and he ran his tongue along your skin before whispering, “I’m going to fuck you until you don’t even remember Blake’s name.”

Your gasp barely made it past your lips before Bucky crashed into you again, kissing you with a brutal kind of hunger — all teeth and tongue and desperate heat. There was nothing patient about him now. This wasn’t the gentle encouragement of previous lessons. This was something else entirely. Something territorial.

His hands gripped your hips so tight, you felt the press of his fingertips even through the fabric of your leggings. He spun you around, walking you backward until your spine met the wall. His vibranium arm slammed beside your head, making you jump — not from fear, but the shock of raw desire it sparked down your spine.

“I should’ve done this the night you came to me,” Bucky growled, voice a low rasp against your throat. “The second you said his name, I should’ve claimed you right there.”

Your stomach twisted, arousal blooming, breath caught in your chest. “Bucky…”

He kissed the underside of your jaw, then bit down — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you whimper, enough to mark. His flesh hand dragged down your body, possessive and rough, squeezing your ass, then sliding between your thighs like he owned you.

“You’ve been his in name only,” Bucky muttered darkly, fingers teasing the hem of your panties. “But every moan, every lesson… that was mine. You were mine the whole damn time.”

You whimpered when his fingers pressed against you through the thin lace, already soaked. His smirk was vicious. “Dripping for me, huh? Not for him. Never for him.”

“Bucky,” you gasped, hips rolling toward his hand. “Please.”

“Oh, now you beg?” he teased, kissing the corner of your mouth, dragging his lips across your cheek. “You don’t even know what begging is yet.”

With one quick motion, his vibranium hand gripped the back of your thigh and hoisted it up onto his hip, opening you up for him. You clung to his shoulders, thighs trembling. He ground against you — slow, hard, and deliberate — letting you feel the thick press of him through his slacks, letting you know exactly what you’d invited in.

“You’re mine tonight,” he murmured hotly, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You want lesson five? It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s me showing you how it feels to be ruined.”

His words punched the air from your lungs. Your body arched toward him, mind fogged with the sheer weight of him — his mouth, his voice, his presence. He wasn’t just touching you. He was devouring you. Worshipping and punishing you all at once for giving yourself to someone who never deserved it.

He kissed you again — harder, deeper, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth and tugging until you whimpered. His hand slipped under your panties, finally sliding against your slick folds, and he groaned deep in his throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he was reverent, like he was angry at how good you felt. “So wet for me already. You were made for this.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, brushing up again to circle your clit with slow, devastating precision. You jerked in his grip, crying out softly, but Bucky didn’t stop. He watched your face as he worked you, eyes blown wide with desire and something darker — something protective and furious and worshipful.

“I’m going to make you forget every time he touched you,” Bucky promised, breathless now. “I’m going to fuck you so good, I’ll ruin you for anyone else.”

“Was that your goal this entire time?” You retorted teasingly, but the words died on your tongue the second Bucky removed his fingers from your dripping core. A punishment for being snarky.

You should have known better.

“What do you think?” Bucky smiled, a wicked glint in his eye.

Bucky walked you back toward the bedroom, his hands everywhere—palming your waist, gripping your ass, tugging your shirt up over your head. You stripped him in return, your fingers trembling as you shoved his slacks down his hips. He stepped out of them without breaking the kiss, and you gasped into his mouth when his cock brushed your stomach—hot, thick, already leaking.

Your knees buckled.

You sank to the floor.

He let out a ragged breath above you, bracing himself on the wall, his hand tangled in your hair like he’d fall apart without the anchor.

You mouthed over his hip bone first, then down his thigh. His cock bobbed in the space between you, flushed red at the tip, already glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, licking your lips as his abs clenched.

“You’re fucking perfect,” you whispered.

“Shit—” he breathed. “Gonna make me come just looking at you.”

You smirked, then leaned in and licked a long, deliberate stripe from base to tip. His cock twitched in your hand. He cursed again—louder this time—his hips bucking forward.

Your lips wrapped around the head, tongue flicking beneath the ridge. He groaned, head falling back, mouth open and desperate.

“God, your fucking mouth—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, your throat stretching, spit sliding messily down your chin. Your hand stroked the base as you bobbed your head, faster now, wetter. His thighs flexed beneath your palms, and you moaned around him—loudly—just to feel the way he twitched.

“Fucking hell, baby—don't stop—don't fucking stop—”

You pushed lower, pushing until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged and pulled back, then did it again. Determined. Tears burned the corners of your eyes but you didn’t care. Not when he sounded like that. Not when you could feel him unraveling with every stroke of your tongue.

You swallowed him down, again and again, your hand stroking in tandem, twisting at the head just how he liked it. He was panting now, bucking into your mouth, losing control.

“Shit—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

You didn’t slow down. You wanted it—wanted to see him break.

And then he did.

With a choked cry and a full-body tremor, Bucky spilled into your mouth, thick and hot and endless. It painted your tongue, dripped from the corner of your lips onto your hand, and you sucked him through it until he was twitching.

When you pulled back, a string of spit and come connected your lips to the tip of his cock.

He looked down at you, dazed, chest heaving.

“You okay?” he rasped.

You didn’t answer. You just looked at the mess across your hand—his mess—and brought it to your mouth. You sucked his come off your fingers like it was something sweet, something sacred.

His jaw dropped.

“I—Jesus fucking Christ—”

You smiled, lips slick, then stood, dragging him down with you onto the bed. You pushed him back against the mattress, straddling his thigh, already yanking your underwear down your legs.

“You wanna taste me now?” you asked, breathless.

Bucky groaned like it hurt. “Get over here.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

He flipped you easily, dragging you down the bed and settling between your legs, mouth already kissing your inner thigh. You were soaked, slick running down your folds, and when he dragged his tongue through it, his moan rumbled deep in his chest.

You gasped, grabbing the sheets, your hips arching up into his mouth.

He groaned against your clit, tongue flicking fast and wet. Obscene sounds echoed throughout the walls of his bedroom. His arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, locked in place. He sucked hard—just once—and you nearly came undone right there.

“Bucky—fuck, please—”

He gave you everything.

His mouth never left your clit, but his fingers slipped inside you—one, then two, pumping slow, curling just right. He knew your body now. He knew where to touch, how to make you fall apart.

“You taste like heaven,” he muttered against you. “Could live between your legs.”

You cried out, heels digging into the mattress. His fingers were relentless, working that sweet spot inside you, and your stomach was already tightening.

“C’mon,” he whispered, licking circles around your clit. “Come on, sweetheart. I want it. Let me feel you.”

You broke apart with a sob—your whole body shuddering, clenching around his fingers, your thighs squeezing his head. He didn’t stop until your cries turned to whimpers and your legs gave out.

He crawled up and kissed you hard, messy and hot and open-mouthed, and you moaned into it, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

Bucky was trembling above you.

Not because he didn’t want this—God, no—but because it felt too much. Like the moment he let himself sink inside you, everything would change. He was on the edge of something he didn’t know how to return from.

And you? You looked wrecked in the most beautiful way. Kiss-swollen lips, hot cheeks, soft whimpers still falling from you. Your thighs were still trembling from the orgasm he’d coaxed from you moments ago, his fingers glistening with the proof of how badly you needed him.

His cock throbbed between your bodies—already hard again—resting against your belly, heavy and flushed and aching. His eyes fluttered shut when your fingers wrapped around it again, curious and reverent.

“I want to do it,” you whispered. “Can I…?”

He didn’t even need to ask what you meant. He just nodded, breath stuttering in his throat. “Yeah. Christ, yeah.”

He reached to the nightstand with a shaky hand, pulling open the drawer where he’d already stashed the condom he’d bought for this night, just in case—because some foolish, aching part of him had dared to hope. He ripped the packet open with his teeth, then handed it to you with trembling fingers.

You sat up a little, swallowing hard as you looked at him—naked and gorgeous in the low lamp light, chest dusted with hair, abs tight with restraint. He was solid under your hands, thighs flexed, arms braced beside your head. And his cock was massive. Thick and veiny and heavy in your palm, curved slightly upward, with a bead of precum already welling at the tip.

You looked up at him shyly, condom still in your hand. “How do I…”

“I’ll show you,” Bucky said, his voice raw with need. He leaned in, guiding your hand gently. “Hold it like this… yeah, perfect. Pinch the tip. Now roll it down slowly.”

You followed his instruction with delicate care, watching as the latex slid over his length—inch after inch until he was fully covered, twitching in your grip.

He let out a shuddering breath, eyes locked on your face like he was memorising you.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You blushed under his gaze, chest fluttering with nerves and warmth. “I just want to make it good.”

He pressed his forehead to yours again, exhaling slow. “It already is.”

He shifted, lining himself up with your entrance. The head of his cock slid through your soaked folds and you both gasped. It was hot, thick, and pulsing—and you could feel the stretch already, even before he’d entered you.

Bucky paused.

His eyes met yours, pupils blown wide, voice low and reverent.

“Are you ready for the final lesson?”

There was no hesitation. “Yes.”

He kissed you like a promise, and then he started to push inside.

The pressure was overwhelming. Even with all the careful prep, your body tensed around the intrusion, instinctive and tight. He was so big—your walls struggling to accommodate him, your nails digging into his biceps.

He stilled the moment he felt your breath hitch.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, kissing your cheek, your temple, the corner of your eye. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good for me.”

You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He didn’t move. Not yet. He held you, grounded you, let your body adjust.

The first few moments were sharp — a tight, unfamiliar stretch that made your breath hitch and your muscles instinctively clamp down. It wasn’t just physical; it was the weight of vulnerability, the fear of the unknown, the electric tremor of trusting him so completely.

Bucky stayed still, completely still, giving your body all the time it needed. His eyes locked on yours, full of nothing but unwavering support and gentle encouragement.

“You’re okay,” he murmured softly, his voice like a warm blanket wrapping around you. “I’m right here. You’re doing so fucking good.”

His hand slid from your hip to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn’t even realised had fallen. You wanted to pull away, embarrassed by the ache — but his touch grounded you, reminding you that this was safe, this was love, not pain.

Slowly, the sting began to dissolve, melting into something altogether different — a fierce, white-hot pleasure that bloomed and radiated through every fibre of your body. The tightness shifted into a delicious fullness, like the most perfect kind of ache.

Bucky’s fingers found your clit again, tracing slow, loving circles, coaxing waves of heat and light through you. Your walls fluttered around him, trembling, loosening just enough for him to sink a little deeper, inch by inch, each movement more natural than the last.

His breath hitched as he felt your body begin to open to him. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and need. “You’re so perfect like this.”

He kissed your jawline, down to your neck, nipping gently as if to say I’m yours, completely.

“You’re so strong,” he whispered against your skin, fingers never faltering in their tender rhythm. “You’ve got this.”

His words were like a lifeline, pulling you higher, giving you the courage to let go of the last bit of fear. Your muscles clenched again, this time not from pain but from the flood of pleasure rolling through you.

“Let it go,” he urged softly, voice low and coaxing. “I’m right here. You’re safe with me.”

Your breath hitched as the tension in your body shattered, replaced by a shattering, beautiful release that left you shaking in his arms. Your legs trembled as the wave crashed through you, your walls pulsing around him in response.

Bucky groaned deeply, his chest rising and falling fast, his own need flaring in tandem with yours. He shifted, sinking further inside you with reverence, as if trying to become one with every part of you.

“You’re incredible,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “So fucking incredible.”

His hands held you steady, his metal arm warm and sure around your waist. His lips brushed your temple. “I’ve never felt this before. With anyone.”

You clung to him, heart pounding wildly, overwhelmed by the raw intimacy, the blend of pleasure and love.

As the waves of your release slowly faded, Bucky’s hips pressed gently into yours, rocking slow and steady — careful, patient, filled with a reverence that made you feel like the most precious thing in the world.

“You’re perfect,” he repeated, voice soft but certain, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

You whimpered at the praise, arching up into him, helpless under the weight of his body and the feelings rising between you. This wasn’t just sex anymore. This was something that had always lived between you two, growing quietly in the dark.

And Bucky felt it too.

His rhythm faltered — just for a second — and he pulled back to look at you. His eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable, and for a moment, it was like the rest of the world fell away. His thrusts slowed as his expression shifted into something almost pained, like he’d been holding something back for too long.

“I love you,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Fuck—baby, I love you.”

It hit you like a bolt of lightning — the desperation in his voice, the way his forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like saying it hurt and healed him all at once. There was no hesitation, no fear—only a deep, aching need to finally say it aloud.

And then he came.

His hips stuttered and his breath broke as he spilled into the condom, his face contorting in a mix of bliss and emotion. His hands tightened on your waist, anchoring himself to you like he needed to feel every inch of you while he came apart.

He collapsed against you with a low, wrecked moan, panting hard into your shoulder, his body trembling faintly from the force of it. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just held him as his weight settled over you, your fingers stroking through the damp hair at the back of his neck, your heart beating too fast and too loud.

Bucky lifted his head slowly, still catching his breath, his cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.

Your body trembled beneath him, warm and open, every nerve ending humming with the newness of this—his presence, his touch, the way he filled you completely. The soft weight of his metal arm wrapped around your waist grounded you, a steady anchor amid the storm of sensation curling through your limbs.

For a long, perfect moment, you stayed locked together like that—two hearts beating in sync, two souls finally home.

You lay curled against Bucky, the heat of his body warm and steady beneath your cheek. The city noises outside faded into a distant hum, muffled by the thick curtains and the soft rhythm of your shared breathing.

Tears blurred your vision, but they weren’t just sadness — they were relief, love, and something fragile yet fierce blossoming in your chest. You reached up, fingers trembling slightly, and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm under your touch, and you could feel the gentle pulse of his heart just beneath the surface.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice barely louder than a breath. The words spilled free, raw and honest, carrying the weight of everything you’d held back.

For a moment, Bucky was still, his gaze locked on yours with something so deep and tender it made your heart skip. Then, slowly, he smiled — that rare, genuine smile that always melted you — and cupped your cheek in his large hand. His thumb stroked your skin softly, grounding you.

“You do?” He asked, and you nodded wordlessly, unable to hide the smile on your face.

“I love you too,” he said, voice husky with emotion. “God, I’ve loved you for so long. Every lesson, every moment we shared… it all led here.” He swallowed hard, vulnerability shining in his eyes. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You smiled even harder through your tears, feeling warmth bloom through your chest. You’d never imagined love could feel this safe, this real.

Bucky shifted gently so he could look at you better, the moonlight catching the scars on his skin and the steel of his arm — marks of his past, of battles fought, but to you, they were beautiful, a part of him you adored.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked quietly, nerves flickering beneath his calm exterior. “Not just my best friend, or the girl I teach lessons to… but really, truly mine?”

Your heart surged, pounding loud in your ears. You laughed softly, a sound full of joy and disbelief. “Yes,” you breathed, “I want that more than anything.”

His smile widened, and he closed the distance between your lips again — this kiss deeper, more sure, full of promises yet to be kept. Your hands found his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. He tasted like home, like safety, like everything you’d been searching for.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His voice was soft but certain. “We’ve waited long enough. From now on, it’s just us.”

You nodded, feeling a blissful certainty settle inside you. “Just us.”

Wrapped in each other’s arms, you let the world fall away. For the first time, you were exactly where you belonged.

──── ୨୧ ──── 3 months later...

Three months.

That’s how long it had been since everything changed.

Since late nights turned into mornings in his bed. Since soft touches no longer came with apologies. Since Bucky stopped pretending you were just friends and finally allowed himself to hold you the way he’d always dreamed.

Three months of secret smiles across meeting rooms. Of sneaking kisses in elevator corners. Of long nights curled up on his couch, learning each other’s bodies and boundaries. Of building something real.

And now… tonight was the first time you’d show up together—really together.

In public.

Hand in hand.

The inside of the SUV was quiet, save for the faint hum of the engine and the muted city noise outside the tinted windows. You sat side by side in the backseat, the air between you buzzing with restrained touches. Dressed in a silky black gown that hugged your curves and left just enough to the imagination, you were a vision—and Bucky looked the part of your counterpart, suited in sharp navy with a black shirt open just enough to show the glint of a dog tag he never took off.

He couldn’t stop staring at you.

You glanced at him from under your lashes, catching his gaze for what must’ve been the tenth time since pulling away from the curb. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” Bucky murmured, voice low and rough. 

"You okay?" you asked softly, brushing your knee against his.

He blinked, like you pulled him out of his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?” you pressed, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Because you’ve checked your tie three times and I think you just wiped your palms on your pants.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You know me too well.”

You leaned in slightly, your perfume drifting into his senses like a trap. “So what’s got you so tense? It’s just a party.”

“It’s not just a party,” he muttered. “It’s the first time they see us together. Publicly. Officially. The whole damn Capitol will be there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, you think they’re gonna boo when we walk in?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned to you, finally meeting your eyes. His fingers reached for yours, brushing your knuckles, then sliding in between them slowly. His palm was warm. His grip was tight.

“I just… I don’t want anyone talking shit about you.”

Your expression softened instantly. “Bucky.”

“I know how they are,” he said, eyes drifting back to the dark window. “Politics is a viper pit. Half those assholes would chew you up and spit you out if they thought it would hurt me. And if anyone starts saying you’re with me for the wrong reasons, or that I’m—”

“Hey,” you cut in gently, lifting his hand to your lips and kissing the scarred ridge across his knuckles. “Look at me.”

He did.

“I'm not scared of them,” you whispered. “And I don’t care what they say. We know the truth.”

Bucky stared at you like he was trying to memorise you. Like you were something he'd waited his whole life to have, and still couldn’t believe was real.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said finally, voice low.

You smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself, Barnes.”

His hand slipped from yours, fingers grazing your thigh instead, the slide of his metal knuckles teasing your slit-high dress. He didn’t go higher—just left it there. Possessive. Protective.

You shifted closer, unable to help yourself. “We’ve got ten more minutes in this car,” you murmured. “Want to make out like teenagers?”

That earned a laugh. “You trying to get us kicked out before we even arrive?”

You shrugged. “Could be worth it.”

Bucky’s smile softened, his eyes dipping to your lips like he was considering it.

And then the car slowed.

You both turned toward the window as the Capitol came into view, lights flashing, cameras already gathering outside the entrance.

Showtime.

Your pulse kicked up. Not from nerves, but because Bucky squeezed your thigh gently—just once—and leaned in to murmur something against your cheek:

“Whatever happens tonight… you’re mine.”

Your breath caught.

And you nodded. “I always was.”

The black car rolled to a stop outside the grand entrance of the event venue, its marble steps glowing under the soft gold of the Capitol’s evening lights. The flash of cameras was instant—blinding and relentless. You could hear the muffled shouts through the closed doors.

"Here we go," Bucky murmured, sitting upright. He ran his thumb once more over the back of your hand before letting go.

A beat passed.

Then he reached for the door handle, looked at you one last time, and said, “You sure you’re ready?”

You nodded, pulse fluttering. “Only if you are.”

He gave you that boyish, quiet smile—the one that said he wasn’t quite sure how the hell he got so lucky—and then he climbed out.

The moment he stepped into view, the crowd erupted.

Click. Flash. Click.

Dozens of photographers shouted his name, crowding the velvet rope. He ignored them all as he turned back to offer his hand to you.

You placed your fingers in his palm and stepped out, heels clicking on the pavement.

The crowd paused.

The flashbulbs came twice as fast.

There was a murmur—an audible shift in energy—as you came into full view beside him, your hand snug in the crook of his elbow.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes was not alone.

You gave the cameras a small, polite smile.

Bucky didn’t.

He looked straight ahead, shielding you slightly with his body as the two of you ascended the steps. He didn’t let go of you—not even as one of the party coordinators approached to escort you in, stammering through a greeting as if unsure what to make of the scene.

The grand ballroom inside was filled with Washington’s most influential—politicians, donors, journalists, and aides. People who had seen Bucky a hundred times in tailored suits and tight-lipped photo ops. But not like this.

Not with you.

The whispers followed.

You held his arm tighter.

“Let ‘em talk,” Bucky muttered close to your ear.

The first friendly face you spotted was Marianne—wearing a glittering midnight-blue gown and smiling like she’d just seen two celebrities. She practically ran across the room in heels.

“Oh my god,” she squealed, hugging you. “You two are finally public?”

Your laugh was small, but genuine. “Is it that obvious?”

“Honey, he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Bucky chuckled, and Marianne turned to him, giving him a firm hug too. “I mean it, Barnes. Proud of you. About everything.”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was holding back emotion. “Thanks, Marianne.”

Before she could say anything more, a familiar voice cut through the crowd behind you.

“Well, would you look at that?”

You turned to find Sam Wilson, all charm and sharp suit, grinning ear to ear. He gave you a wink before pulling Bucky into a one-armed hug.

“Took you long enough, Barnes.”

Bucky huffed. “Don’t start.”

“You’re lucky she didn’t fall for someone smarter,” Sam teased, then turned to you and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But seriously, if he ever messes this up, just say the word. I’ll set you up with someone from Wakanda. You deserve royalty.”

You laughed, and Bucky rolled his eyes. “Sam.”

Sam held up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m happy for you. Both of you. It’s good to see him happy. Took years off his face.”

You looked over at Bucky then—at the way the tightness around his eyes had softened, at how his hand kept drifting toward your waist like he needed to touch you just to believe this was real.

You knew exactly what Sam meant.

As the evening wore on, you mingled and danced and accepted congratulations from those who mattered. You smiled through the stares and questions. You held your own in conversation. And every time Bucky reached for you—your waist, your hand, the back of your chair—you leaned into his touch without hesitation.

It wasn’t just lessons anymore.

It was real.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky leaned against the ornate marble railing of the terrace, the night cool against his flushed skin. The party hummed behind him—music, champagne flutes clinking, polite laughter—but out here, it was quiet.

He needed the break.

Too much attention. Too many eyes. Too many people whispering about the woman on his arm like she hadn’t already owned his heart for years.

“She’s got you whipped, man.”

Bucky startled slightly and turned—Sam stood behind him, two glasses in hand. He offered one out with a smirk.

“Didn’t peg you for the kind of guy to sneak out during your own big debut.”

Bucky accepted the drink with a grumble. “I’m not hiding.”

“You’re hiding.”

He sighed and took a sip. “Maybe a little.”

Sam stepped up beside him, gazing out over the Capitol lawn. “You nervous?”

“I feel like everyone’s staring at her.”

“They are.”

Bucky scowled.

“Because she’s gorgeous. And because she’s with you,” Sam added, bumping his shoulder. “They’re just surprised it took this long.”

There was a pause.

Then Bucky muttered, “I still don’t know what she sees in me.”

“Oh god,” Sam groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you’re serious, that’s why it’s annoying,” Sam said. “You’re not some lost cause, Buck. You’re a good man. A damn good one. She knows it. And everyone who matters knows it too.”

Bucky stared down into his glass, jaw tight.

Sam softened. “You think I’d let her get with you if I didn’t believe in you?”

That made Bucky laugh under his breath. “You’d stop her?”

“I’d try. I mean, she’s terrifying. But I’d give it a shot.”

A smile tugged at Bucky’s mouth.

They stood in silence for a while—just two men in suits under the stars, watching Washington buzz beneath them.

Then Sam snorted suddenly into his drink.

“What?”

“Just remembered—Blake got arrested yesterday.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“Tax evasion,” Sam said, smug. “Turns out Mr. ‘I’m Untouchable’ was touching a few too many offshore accounts. IRS caught wind, and he folded like a wet napkin.”

Bucky barked out a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Dude tried to write off strip club visits as ‘client dinners.’ Can’t make this shit up.”

Bucky shook his head. “That guy…”

“Hey,” Sam said, nudging him. “You did good. Got her away from that asshole. She’s better off. And so are you.”

There was a beat.

Then Bucky murmured, “I love her, man.”

Sam didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease.

Just nodded. “I know.”

The door creaked open behind them, and Bucky turned instinctively—there you were, scanning the terrace until your eyes landed on him.

Sam followed his gaze and grinned. “Looks like you’re being summoned.”

Bucky hesitated for half a second—then set down his glass.

“You coming back in?” he asked.

“Nah,” Sam said. “I’ve seen enough PDA for one night.”

Bucky clapped him on the shoulder once, warm and grateful, before making his way across the terrace and straight into your orbit.

You looked up at him, glowing under the string lights. “There you are.”

He leaned in, voice low and full of promise.

“Come with me,” he said. “We’ve got one more thing to finish tonight.”

──── ୨୧ ────

You hadn’t meant to sneak away.

Not really.

But when Bucky brushed his fingers across the small of your back while you both stood politely nodding through yet another conversation about bipartisan infrastructure, you leaned in. Just a little. Just enough.

And he murmured against your ear, “Upstairs. Now.”

So you followed.

The White House guest wing was quiet, deserted, dimly lit. Ornate carpet, gilt-trimmed wallpaper, portraits that seemed to watch you pass—but you were barely aware of any of it. All you could hear was the pounding of your pulse. All you could feel was Bucky’s hand wrapped around yours, dragging you behind him like something stolen.

The second he found an empty room and shut the door, his hands were on you.

You crashed into each other in the dark, mouths meeting like magnets. His tie was already loosened, his jacket discarded on the floor. Your dress was hiked up, his hands greedy at your waist, lifting you effortlessly and placing you on the edge of an antique desk.

He stepped between your thighs, pulling your lower half flush against his. His lips found your neck, your jaw, the soft part behind your ear that made you shiver.

“You looked like a dream tonight,” he murmured, voice deep and rough. “All fucking mine.”

Your breath caught. “You’re being possessive.”

“You love it when I’m possessive.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Your fingers moved quickly, popping the buttons of his shirt open one by one, pushing it back to reveal his undershirt. Your palm pressed against his chest. His heart was hammering.

“I thought you hated these kinds of parties,” you whispered.

“I do,” he muttered, lifting your dress higher, exposing the tops of your thighs, his vibranium hand gripping your flesh with reverent urgency. “But I’ll go to every single one if it means I get to leave with you.”

You cupped his face, made him look at you. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dark and full of heat—but underneath it, that boyish vulnerability still lingered.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He nodded slowly, brushing his nose against yours. “Better than okay.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it simmer—tongue sweeping his bottom lip, his hand curving around the back of your neck like he needed the anchor.

Then you broke apart, breathless. He stared at you, chest heaving. And then he smirked.

“What?” you asked.

He didn’t answer at first—just stepped back slightly, hands skimming over your thighs, thumbs pressing little circles just above your knees.

Then, in that low voice that never failed to wreck you, he said:

“So… ready for your final exam?”

Your mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” His hands slid higher. “I’ve taught you everything I know. Now I wanna see what you’ve learned.”

You huffed out a laugh, biting your bottom lip. “I don’t think we’re allowed to defile White House property.”

Bucky leaned in again, nipped at your jaw, and whispered, “Then you better be quiet.”

The tension snapped taut between you—sharp and electric, but layered with something deeper. He stared down at you like you were sacred. Like this meant everything. Like you were the reason he’d made it out the other side of all that pain.

You hooked your arms around his neck, your lips brushing his.

“Come on, Barnes,” you whispered. “I’m ready for anything.”

He lifted you off the desk in one swift motion, your legs wrapped around his waist, your giggle swallowed by another kiss. He made it to the couch at the far end of the room and laid you down gently, reverently, his body sliding over yours like he was built to fit there.

You touched every inch of him. He touched every part of you.

And then he made good on his promise.

You never did tell anyone the truth about the lessons. Because somewhere along the way, between shy kisses and whispered instructions, between laughter over cheap wine and gasps beneath soft sheets, it stopped being a curriculum and started becoming a love story. One written in stolen glances, accidental touches, and every time Bucky Barnes looked at you like you were his entire future. And maybe that was the final lesson after all—not how to kiss, or touch, or please—but how to fall in love with your best friend… and have him love you right back.

The End.

──── ୨୧ ────

author's note: if you read this far, to the very end of lessons in love, i just want to say thank you so much. thank you for being patient with me, and enabling me to write something i was so passionate about. my heart is full and i appreciate each and every one of you who reblogged, left a comment, sent me a message or showed their support in one way or another. certain elements of this story were challenging for me to write but it really was your support that helped me keep going. i love you lots and if you like my writing, please check out my masterlist in my pinned or feel free to submit a request :)

all my love,

rach

x

──── ୨୧ ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: in comments due to taglist limit

Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!):

@sebastians-love @sweetserendipity65 @sangsterizada @mrsalexstan @alpinescoowner @buckyslqve @morganfullaaa @moonlight-sonata99 @sflame15-blog @rapturousfrog @parkerslivia @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @wickedfun9 @daisynotquake @arosewithpower @buckysgirl27 @loki-licious-945ad @dearluuna @riot-sounds @ang0320 @solarperpetua @julesandgems @yes-ilovetowrite @redh00dsbf @alicetesser @loyaltyistoxic @sailorsenshiuranep @yessebastianstanus @poshpinklace @joaquinsgirl @thornsofvelvet @miss-chuchu @xamapolax @avivarougestan @justalittle47 @nutella-hitler @ifilwtmfc @loverofdrewstarkey @cxiiv0 @pivictorious @gummy-dummy @avatarobsessedgirly @buckybarneswife125 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @jadevoir @thisismy-usernamee @loganficsonly @justalittle47 @xamapolax @vroomvroommbtch @peanutbutt3rcup — taglist continued in comments due to limit reach<3

[mandoalorian]

lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson five: loving

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: it was never supposed to go this far. these lessons were meant to teach you how to love someone else. but somewhere between soft touches and whispered praise, you started falling—for the only man who’s ever made you feel safe. lesson five is the final one, and it’s supposed to be everything: slow, intimate, full of trust. one bed, two best friends, and a night that changes everything. this time, you’re not sure either of you will be able to walk away.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ protected p in v, handjobs, f recieving oral, m recieving oral, praise kink, overstimulation, biting, pain during sex, feral!bucky needs a warning, trust me, bucky talks you through it, making out, cum eating, betrayal, miscommunication leads to angst, mentions of sexual harassment, implied sexual assault (nothing explicit), canon typical violence.

word count: 10.5k

ෆ series masterlist | previous part

Bucky woke slowly, not because of the sun filtering in through the window or the quiet hum of the refrigerator across the room, but because of the weight pressed against him — warm and soft, breathing slow and steady. Your leg was slung over his hip, your cheek resting on his chest, one arm tucked between your bodies like you were trying to anchor yourself there forever. His vibranium hand lay gently against your back, splayed protectively. Even asleep, he held you like something precious.

He hadn’t slept much, too aware of your warmth, of the way your fingers had curled into his skin like you didn’t want to let go. Too caught up in the memory of your mouth, your moans, the way you had looked up at him with wet lashes and swollen lips. He had memorised the moment you fell asleep in his arms, and still, it didn’t feel like enough.

The vibration of his phone on the coffee table startled him slightly. He shifted just enough to reach for it, careful not to wake you. You stirred anyway, humming softly in protest as his chest moved beneath you. The screen flashed: Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Of course.

Bucky sighed quietly, answering in a low rasp. “Yeah?”

Valentina didn’t waste time. “You’re needed at the office by eleven.”

He blinked at the ceiling. “It’s Saturday.”

“It’s important. Serious business. Don’t be late.”

She hung up before he could reply.

You mumbled something against his chest, then slowly lifted your head. Your face was warm with sleep, your hair tousled, your lips parted as you tried to focus your eyes. You looked up at him like this was the most natural place in the world to wake up. Like he was home.

“Why’re you on the phone?” you asked, your voice thick and groggy.

Bucky brushed his thumb along your spine. “Valentina. Wants me at the office.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“In an hour.”

You groaned dramatically, burying your face back against him. “Tell her no. It’s Saturday.”

“I did. Didn’t work.”

You stayed curled against him for a moment longer before slowly sitting up, wincing at the stiffness in your limbs. You were still wearing his sweatshirt, something he’d tossed you in the middle of the night when you said you were cold, sleeves pushed up over your forearms, exposing the faint red marks he’d left on your skin the night before. He was already pulling over his shirt, rumpled and half-open, and his dark hair was a mess from the way you were carding your fingers through it the night before. Everything about this morning felt soft and sleepy and too delicate to break.

“Do you think it’s about Blake?” you asked, rubbing your eyes. It was an instinct more than anything else. Something in your gut had known he’d done something wrong. 

“Could be,” Bucky said, not meeting your gaze. “But probably not. Just more politics.”

You didn’t press, but the anxiety lingered between you like a shadow. You’d felt Bucky retract, just like he’d been doing a lot lately, when you mentioned Blake. 

Eventually, you both got up, pulling your clothes on from the crumpled pile on the floor. There was a reverence in the way Bucky helped you find your sock, in the way he tucked your hair behind your ear and smoothed the fabric of your shirt before stepping back. Like he didn’t want to stop touching you, but didn’t know if he still had the right.

Once you were dressed, you grabbed your phone and keys, glancing at him with a little smile. “You might be working, but we’re not skipping our Saturday morning tradition. Coffee and raspberry coconut loaf cake.”

His mouth tugged upward at one corner, the barest hint of a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

──── ୨୧ ────

The walk from the coffee shop to Capitol Hill was quieter than usual. The July morning was cooler than expected, a gentle breeze brushing against your skin and sending the scent of fresh grass into the air. You held your iced latte between your hands, letting the condensation chill your fingers. Bucky walked beside you with his flat white and a small brown paper bag containing the coconut and raspberry loaf you always split, albeit 90/10. You’d decided to take the coffee to go to ensure Bucky got to his office in time for Val’s deadline.

Usually, you’d be talking non-stop. You’d complain about the noisy new neighbours, or laugh about the man on the corner who always tried to pet dogs that clearly wanted to maul, or eat him. Bucky would tell you about his week, about Valentina’s latest dramatic outbursts or the new intern who kept calling him “Mr. Barnes.”

But this morning was different.

There was a quiet between you. Not cold or distant — just heavy. Like both of you were too full of words you didn’t know how to say.

You sipped your drink and glanced at him. His shoulders were tense, eyes distant. He looked like he hadn’t slept much.

You didn’t ask why. You already knew.

Last night had changed everything. Or maybe it hadn’t — maybe it had just revealed everything you’d been ignoring. You’d spent so long pretending the lessons were just about sex, but now... you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he touched you. The way he looked at you. How his voice got low when he called you “sweetheart.” How safe he made you feel.

And then there was Blake.

You thought about the night at his place. The way he ordered your food for you without asking. The way he had touched you like it was his right. How it had felt clinical, selfish, and over too quickly. How he hadn’t even noticed that you hadn’t finished. You thought about the shame, the emptiness. The ache that had followed you home.

You glanced at Bucky again. His jaw was clenched, fingers wrapped tight around his cup.

He was thinking, too. You could tell.

You didn’t know he was thinking about the sound you made when you moaned his name. The way you said please with tears in your eyes and silk on your tongue. He was thinking about how he’d give anything to be enough for you — not just for the lessons, but for real.

But neither of you said any of it.

You just walked, side by side, with sugar on your tongues and love buried under your skin, heading toward a day that would change everything.

──── ୨୧ ────

You didn’t expect it to be so loud.

The usual hush of the congressional offices on a weekend was replaced with the slam of a door, raised voices, and the heavy thud of footsteps down marble floors. You turned the corner behind Bucky, confused, heart climbing into your throat—then you saw it.

Blake.

Box in his arms. Jacket half on. Face red with fury and humiliation. Two security officers flanking him like bookends.

“What the hell?” you breathed, stopping in your tracks.

Bucky stopped too, shoulders tense beside you.

“Get your hands off me,” Blake barked, jerking away from one of the officers. “I can walk myself, thanks.”

He looked disheveled. Less polished than usual. His tie was gone, shirt wrinkled, hair out of place. A storm of papers teetered in the cardboard box he held like he’d thrown it all together in a blind rage.

You stepped forward. “Blake?”

His head snapped toward you—and whatever veneer he was wearing cracked right down the centre.

“Oh, great,” he sneered. “Perfect. You just had to be here to see this, huh?”

You blinked, stunned. “What’s going on?”

Bucky moved closer behind you, subtly shielding your side with his body, but you didn’t even register it.

“I got set up,” Blake hissed. “That’s what’s going on. One stupid little intern decides she’s uncomfortable and suddenly I’m a goddamn monster?”

Your stomach dropped.

“I didn’t even touch her,” he added quickly, like that made it okay. “I flirted, big deal. You think I’m the only one in that office who does it?”

Your heart sank in your chest. 

“Blake—” you started, but your voice was barely a whisper.

“Oh, don’t act surprised,” he snapped. “What? You didn’t think I noticed the way people looked at you? Like they were wondering what I was doing with the virgin?” He laughed. Loud and cruel. “Guess they know now.”

It hit you like a slap. Your chest caved inward. Everyone in the hallway turned. You wanted to shrink, to disappear into the floor.

Bucky moved in a second.

“Watch your mouth,” he growled, stepping directly between you and Blake. “You say one more word, I dare you.”

Blake scoffed. “What are you gonna do, Barnes? Beat me into chivalry? Oh wait—that’s right. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? All the blood on your hands… Getting to play white knight for your sweet little neighbour across the hall.”

He leaned in, eyes wild. “You always wanted her, didn’t you? That why you kept your mouth shut while she came crawling to me?”

That was it.

Bucky’s fist connected with Blake’s face — a sickening crunch of cartilage and bone as the congressman’s head snapped to the side. Blood spattered against the stone wall. Blake slumped, dazed, but Bucky didn’t let go.

“You used her,” Bucky spat, voice darker now, unrecognisable even to himself. “You humiliated her. You knew what you were doing. And I fucking warned you.”

Another fist. Metal, this time. It didn’t hit — not fully — but Bucky’s vibranium arm pressed hard against Blake’s chest, pinning him like a rag doll, the threat of crushing force barely contained. Blake choked, panic setting into his bloodied face.

Security came charging in. It took two agents to pull Bucky back — one tugging his right arm, the other wedging between him and Blake. Bucky didn’t fight them, not really. He just stared at the man still slumped against the wall, eyes swollen and blood leaking from his split lip.

“You don’t deserve to say her name,” Bucky said again, quieter this time, breathless. “She’s ten times the person you’ll ever be.”

As they dragged him back a few steps, Valentina appeared at the end of the corridor, heels clicking, jaw set. But she didn’t interrupt. She just watched, silent and unreadable.

Blake groaned, clutching his nose. “Fucking psycho…”

Bucky didn’t even look back. He adjusted his tie, straightened his shoulders, and said calmly to security, “I’m done now.”

“Let’s go,” one of the officers muttered, tugging Blake’s elbow.

Blake weakly shoved him off and glared at you. “You’re pathetic, you know that? Letting your best friend pull the strings. Pretending like you’re pure when you’re just a goddamn tease.”

“Get him out of here!” Bucky snapped, and the officers didn’t hesitate this time.

They dragged Blake down the corridor, his voice echoing behind them until he was gone.

Gone.

You stood frozen, heart pounding in your ears, vision blurred with the sting of hot tears. People were still staring. Whispering. Your limbs felt heavy. Numb.

You turned to Bucky. “Did you know?”

He opened his mouth—but before he could speak, Valentina’s voice rang out sharply from the hallway:

“Barnes. My office. Now.”

He hesitated. Looked at you—guilt swimming behind his eyes—then turned and followed her without a word.

You were left standing in the hallway.

Alone.

Your hands were shaking.

You didn’t realise how tightly your hands had curled into fists until your nails bit into your palms.

The hallway had emptied in the chaos’s wake, only the distant echo of voices lingering behind Bucky’s retreat. The air felt too still now, like time was giving you a moment to absorb the blow—but you couldn’t. Not fully. Not when your head was spinning and your chest was burning and your vision swam.

Your stomach twisted. Blake humiliated you. In front of everyone. And worst of all, he knew.

He knew you were a virgin. That was private. That was something sacred you’d shared with Bucky—not Blake. Not the rest of the goddamn office. How did he know? Did you just make it that fucking obvious?

You were still standing there, blinking at the carpet, your thoughts snarling into knots, when someone cleared their throat gently behind you.

“Hey… are you okay?”

You turned, startled.

Marianne. You’d met her a few times when you’d come to office with Bucky, the new intern who worked at the reception. She looked different outside of her workwear—softer, gentler, like she’d exhaled. Her cardigan sleeves were pushed to her elbows, clipboard clutched in her arms like armour, but her voice was kind. No judgment, just quiet concern.

You tried to answer. Couldn’t.

Marianne took a cautious step closer. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You swallowed thickly. “What happened?”

She hesitated. “Do you want to sit down?”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. If you sat down, you’d break open.

So you shook your head.

Marianne nodded slowly, glancing toward the office door where Bucky had disappeared minutes before. “We filed the formal report last night. I wasn’t the only one. Five other women came forward.” Her voice lowered. “The story was the same for all of us. Unwanted comments. Touching. Leering. Texts late at night.”

You blinked.

She continued. “We weren’t sure if anything would come of it… but then one of the newer interns said something happened at the holiday party. She didn’t feel safe being in the same room as him anymore. That was the tipping point.”

A cold wave rolled through your gut. “I didn’t know.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Marianne said gently. “No one wanted to drag you into it. Especially not Bucky.”

Your chest tightened. “He knew?”

Marianne paused. “He didn’t just know.”

You looked up sharply, heart suddenly thudding.

“He stood up for us when no one else would,” she said. “He backed the report. Made sure the complaint reached Valentina directly. Went out of his way to make sure every woman who came forward felt heard.” Her voice softened. “He was the one who made this happen today.”

You felt the blood drain from your face.

“He said he couldn’t stand by and let Blake get away with it. That he didn’t care if it made things complicated between you two—he just wanted to protect us, and protect you too.”

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.

Marianne stepped forward, lowering her clipboard. “I know it probably feels like a betrayal… finding out this way. But he never stopped looking out for you. Not for a second.”

You felt something sharp twist behind your ribs. You thought of the missed calls. The unread texts. The way Bucky kept trying to tell you something all week but held his tongue every time.

You thought of how he looked at you—really looked at you—and how you hadn’t understood it until now.

He’d been protecting you… from the truth. From this.

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

You drew in a shaky breath, blinking fast. “I need to go.”

Marianne didn’t try to stop you. She just offered a soft, understanding smile. “He’s a good man,” she said gently. “Even when it’s hard to see it.”

You nodded once, stiffly, and turned on your heel.

The marble underfoot felt cold and too loud as you stormed down the hallway.

You didn’t look back.

──── ୨୧ ────

You’d never known silence could feel so loud.

The moment you stepped inside your apartment, it hit you like a punch to the chest—the hush of your home pressing in around you, wrapping around your shoulders like a too-tight, suffocating blanket. You shut the door behind you with shaking fingers, the quiet click of the latch sealing in the ache building behind your ribs. You leaned back against it, blinking hard, your breath shallow as the weight of it all sank in. Your stomach twisted. Your throat burned. And somewhere, far below all of that, was the unmistakable, rising pulse of rage.

Bucky knew. All this time—he knew what kind of man Blake was. He knew what people were whispering about him, the complaints, the reports, the warnings. And still, he stood there, beside you, week after week, watching you get dressed for dates, teasing you when Blake sent you messages, holding your hand while you gushed about how special he made you feel. He looked you in the eye, told you he had your back—and never once told you the truth.

The betrayal sat like a stone in your chest, heavy and hard-edged, cutting deeper the longer you stared at the messages he’d sent.

Missed call from Bucky.

Missed call.

bucky: Are you okay? bucky: Can you call me?

Now he cared?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until your bare feet started to sting from the hardwood. You’d circled your living room three, four, five times, fists clenched and breathing shallow, the afternoon sun slipping lower and lower through the windows. Your thoughts were a blur, looping through images of the office, Blake’s smug face twisting with cruel satisfaction, the way everyone had looked at you when he spat that word—virgin—like it was something to mock. Your skin crawled.

And beneath it all, every memory of Bucky rushed to the surface like a tide—his voice, his touch, the way he held you when you were cold, how gentle he was when you were nervous, the way he kissed your forehead when you couldn’t sleep. You let him in, completely, and trusted him with every part of yourself. And he didn’t even trust you with the truth.

The soft creak of the hallway floor outside your apartment jolted you from your spiral. You froze. A key turned in the lock across the hall. His door swung open.

Bucky was home.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You stormed across the hallway barefoot, ignoring the thud of your heart, and knocked—hard—three times, sharp and fast like gunfire. Before you could even prepare yourself, the door opened, and there he was.

Hair tousled, jacket still on, his blue eyes widening when he saw you standing there. “Hey—”

You didn’t let him finish. You pushed past him, stepping into his apartment like it belonged to you, fury burning through you like wildfire.

“How long, Bucky?” The words came out tight and shaking.

He closed the door gently behind you, brows drawn. “What—?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” You spun to face him, voice cracking. “How long have you known what Blake was? What he did to those women? How long were you planning to let me date him while you stood there saying nothing?”

His expression shifted, mouth parting. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.” You stepped closer, voice rising. “Please, for once, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he said quietly. “Look, I knew he was a nepotist jackass from the day I first started in Congress. But Marianne and the other women… I only found out yesterday, I swear.”

Your lungs seized.

He swallowed. “He was off. I noticed right away. The way he talked, the way he looked at women in the office. At you. I started asking questions, and the answers were worse than I expected.”

You stared at him, the sting behind your eyes too sharp to fight. “And you just… let me fall for him?”

“I didn’t let you—I tried, okay?” Bucky’s voice cracked. “I tried to warn you without telling you everything, but every time I brought it up, the words tasted wrong on my lips and I thought I was just being overprotective or jealous or—”

“Because you were!” Your voice broke, shaking with heat. “But you never told me the truth, and now everyone knows that I’m—” Your throat closed. “He said it in front of everyone.”

“I didn’t want that to happen.” Bucky stepped forward, his voice raw. “I was going to tell you everything, but last night was a fluster. I swear. I thought if I just got him fired, it would be over and you wouldn’t have to—”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you spat. “You don’t get to pick and choose which parts of the truth I get to know, Bucky. Not when I trusted you. Not when I—” You stopped short, breath catching painfully.

He looked at you like you’d just punched him.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“But you weren’t,” you said, quieter now, voice trembling. “You were protecting yourself. From what, Bucky? From the truth? From how I’d react? Or from the fact that you knew you were crossing a line the second you let me crawl into your apartment and teach me how to touch you?”

His face twisted. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You exhaled, shaky and raw. “You were supposed to be the one person I could trust.”

“I am,” he said, stepping forward again. “I’ve always been that for you.”

You shook your head. “No. Not today.”

You turned, storming for the door, blood hot and fingers trembling—but before you could open it, his voice cut through the silence like a whip.

“Wait.”

You paused. Barely. Just for a second. But it was enough for your heart to split.

Your hand was still curled around the doorknob, heart pounding in your ears like a war drum. The weight of him behind you—his presence, his voice, his regret—hung heavy in the air. It would’ve been easier to keep walking. Slam the door behind you, bury your heartbreak under a blanket and forget he ever touched you. But the second he said that word, your resolve cracked.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Bucky said softly. “You have to believe that.”

You turned, slowly.

His blue eyes were raw, pleading. His whole face looked tired—no, devastated. Like he’d been holding his breath all day and finally exhaled only to realise it wasn’t enough.

“You did hurt me,” you said. “You watched me fall for someone who didn’t care about me. And you knew.”

“I know,” he said, nodding. “And I was wrong. I should’ve told you. But I didn’t want to come between you and something that made you happy. And at the very start, you seemed happy. So I stayed silent. Even if it killed me to watch it happen.”

Your breath hitched.

His words echoed — even if it killed me.

Bucky’s voice lowered, thick with emotion. “You think it was easy for me? Watching him touch you in the office? Show you off like you were his property? Knowing he didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you?”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling, the anger inside you beginning to twist into something hotter. Something heavier.

“You think it was easy for me,” he continued, “to keep my mouth shut when all I wanted to do was rip his fucking hands off every time he looked at you like you were something to own?”

Your fingers trembled.

“Bucky…”

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he said, stepping closer. “But every time I looked at you, I wished it was me. Not him.”

You didn’t think. Couldn’t.

You reached for him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

Your hands tangled in the lapels of his jacket and you surged forward, slamming your mouth to his like it was the only thing that could make the pain stop. Bucky gasped, the shock of it jolting through him, but then he grabbed you—grabbed you—and pinned you to the nearest wall like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing into his shoulders, his hair, his neck. He kissed you like he was starved—like he’d been holding himself back for weeks, and now that the leash had snapped, he didn’t care who saw.

Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, and Bucky pressed into you, his hips slotting against yours, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other sliding down your side like he needed to touch every inch of you to believe you were real.

“I’ve wanted this,” he rasped against your lips, “so fucking bad.”

You whined, tilting your head back as his mouth dropped to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “Then take it,” you breathed.

He growled—growled—and kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier, tongue sliding against yours like he wanted to taste your every thought.

But it wasn’t just lust. Not even close.

There was too much in the way he held you, too much pain in the way his fingers trembled against your waist, too much feeling behind every kiss like he was trying to apologise, confess, and worship you all at once.

Your hands moved without thinking—down his chest, yanking his shirt loose from his waistband. He hissed when your fingers brushed bare skin, and you felt him hard against your thigh, unmistakable and urgent. It only made you kiss him harder.

But then—suddenly—he pulled away.

You blinked, breathless, lips kiss-swollen and dazed. “What—?”

Bucky’s chest was heaving, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched like he was trying to hold something back.

“You were going to leave,” he muttered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You’d never seen him like this before; his eyes practically black with lust, expression outright feral. 

“You storm in here, screaming at me, prodding your finger into my chest and then walk out?” His voice dropped, gravelly rough. “Like this doesn’t mean something.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Where were you going?” he asked, stepping forward again, backing you against the wall. “To cry? To fall asleep still hurting, still confused, still wondering if I care about you?”

You swallowed hard.

He reached for your waist again, gentler now, grounding you. “You don’t get to leave until I remind you how someone should treat you.”

Your hands shook.

“Bucky…”

His mouth ghosted against yours. “We still have one more lesson, sweetheart.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“No need for lessons anymore,” you whispered, but you were already pressing into him again, drunk on the heat of his body, the rasp of his voice, the look in his eyes that told you he meant it.

It was true, things were over with you and Blake now, so really, there was no need for the final lesson. But that didn’t mean you didn’t want it. And Bucky had been programmed to finish the job. You curled your fingers into the column of his neck, causing him to hiss as your nails bit into the skin there. 

“But if we’re going to do this, tell me, Bucky,” you continued. “what is lesson five?”

His hands slid to your hips, voice low and sure.

“Lesson five?” Bucky chuckled darkly. It made you nervous. His teeth nibbled at your jaw and he ran his tongue along your skin before whispering, “I’m going to fuck you until you don’t even remember Blake’s name.”

Your gasp barely made it past your lips before Bucky crashed into you again, kissing you with a brutal kind of hunger — all teeth and tongue and desperate heat. There was nothing patient about him now. This wasn’t the gentle encouragement of previous lessons. This was something else entirely. Something territorial.

His hands gripped your hips so tight, you felt the press of his fingertips even through the fabric of your leggings. He spun you around, walking you backward until your spine met the wall. His vibranium arm slammed beside your head, making you jump — not from fear, but the shock of raw desire it sparked down your spine.

“I should’ve done this the night you came to me,” Bucky growled, voice a low rasp against your throat. “The second you said his name, I should’ve claimed you right there.”

Your stomach twisted, arousal blooming, breath caught in your chest. “Bucky…”

He kissed the underside of your jaw, then bit down — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you whimper, enough to mark. His flesh hand dragged down your body, possessive and rough, squeezing your ass, then sliding between your thighs like he owned you.

“You’ve been his in name only,” Bucky muttered darkly, fingers teasing the hem of your panties. “But every moan, every lesson… that was mine. You were mine the whole damn time.”

You whimpered when his fingers pressed against you through the thin lace, already soaked. His smirk was vicious. “Dripping for me, huh? Not for him. Never for him.”

“Bucky,” you gasped, hips rolling toward his hand. “Please.”

“Oh, now you beg?” he teased, kissing the corner of your mouth, dragging his lips across your cheek. “You don’t even know what begging is yet.”

With one quick motion, his vibranium hand gripped the back of your thigh and hoisted it up onto his hip, opening you up for him. You clung to his shoulders, thighs trembling. He ground against you — slow, hard, and deliberate — letting you feel the thick press of him through his slacks, letting you know exactly what you’d invited in.

“You’re mine tonight,” he murmured hotly, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You want lesson five? It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s me showing you how it feels to be ruined.”

His words punched the air from your lungs. Your body arched toward him, mind fogged with the sheer weight of him — his mouth, his voice, his presence. He wasn’t just touching you. He was devouring you. Worshipping and punishing you all at once for giving yourself to someone who never deserved it.

He kissed you again — harder, deeper, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth and tugging until you whimpered. His hand slipped under your panties, finally sliding against your slick folds, and he groaned deep in his throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like he was reverent, like he was angry at how good you felt. “So wet for me already. You were made for this.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, brushing up again to circle your clit with slow, devastating precision. You jerked in his grip, crying out softly, but Bucky didn’t stop. He watched your face as he worked you, eyes blown wide with desire and something darker — something protective and furious and worshipful.

“I’m going to make you forget every time he touched you,” Bucky promised, breathless now. “I’m going to fuck you so good, I’ll ruin you for anyone else.”

“Was that your goal this entire time?” You retorted teasingly, but the words died on your tongue the second Bucky removed his fingers from your dripping core. A punishment for being snarky.

You should have known better.

“What do you think?” Bucky smiled, a wicked glint in his eye.

Bucky walked you back toward the bedroom, his hands everywhere—palming your waist, gripping your ass, tugging your shirt up over your head. You stripped him in return, your fingers trembling as you shoved his slacks down his hips. He stepped out of them without breaking the kiss, and you gasped into his mouth when his cock brushed your stomach—hot, thick, already leaking.

Your knees buckled.

You sank to the floor.

He let out a ragged breath above you, bracing himself on the wall, his hand tangled in your hair like he’d fall apart without the anchor.

You mouthed over his hip bone first, then down his thigh. His cock bobbed in the space between you, flushed red at the tip, already glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, licking your lips as his abs clenched.

“You’re fucking perfect,” you whispered.

“Shit—” he breathed. “Gonna make me come just looking at you.”

You smirked, then leaned in and licked a long, deliberate stripe from base to tip. His cock twitched in your hand. He cursed again—louder this time—his hips bucking forward.

Your lips wrapped around the head, tongue flicking beneath the ridge. He groaned, head falling back, mouth open and desperate.

“God, your fucking mouth—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, your throat stretching, spit sliding messily down your chin. Your hand stroked the base as you bobbed your head, faster now, wetter. His thighs flexed beneath your palms, and you moaned around him—loudly—just to feel the way he twitched.

“Fucking hell, baby—don't stop—don't fucking stop—”

You pushed lower, pushing until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged and pulled back, then did it again. Determined. Tears burned the corners of your eyes but you didn’t care. Not when he sounded like that. Not when you could feel him unraveling with every stroke of your tongue.

You swallowed him down, again and again, your hand stroking in tandem, twisting at the head just how he liked it. He was panting now, bucking into your mouth, losing control.

“Shit—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

You didn’t slow down. You wanted it—wanted to see him break.

And then he did.

With a choked cry and a full-body tremor, Bucky spilled into your mouth, thick and hot and endless. It painted your tongue, dripped from the corner of your lips onto your hand, and you sucked him through it until he was twitching.

When you pulled back, a string of spit and come connected your lips to the tip of his cock.

He looked down at you, dazed, chest heaving.

“You okay?” he rasped.

You didn’t answer. You just looked at the mess across your hand—his mess—and brought it to your mouth. You sucked his come off your fingers like it was something sweet, something sacred.

His jaw dropped.

“I—Jesus fucking Christ—”

You smiled, lips slick, then stood, dragging him down with you onto the bed. You pushed him back against the mattress, straddling his thigh, already yanking your underwear down your legs.

“You wanna taste me now?” you asked, breathless.

Bucky groaned like it hurt. “Get over here.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

He flipped you easily, dragging you down the bed and settling between your legs, mouth already kissing your inner thigh. You were soaked, slick running down your folds, and when he dragged his tongue through it, his moan rumbled deep in his chest.

You gasped, grabbing the sheets, your hips arching up into his mouth.

He groaned against your clit, tongue flicking fast and wet. Obscene sounds echoed throughout the walls of his bedroom. His arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, locked in place. He sucked hard—just once—and you nearly came undone right there.

“Bucky—fuck, please—”

He gave you everything.

His mouth never left your clit, but his fingers slipped inside you—one, then two, pumping slow, curling just right. He knew your body now. He knew where to touch, how to make you fall apart.

“You taste like heaven,” he muttered against you. “Could live between your legs.”

You cried out, heels digging into the mattress. His fingers were relentless, working that sweet spot inside you, and your stomach was already tightening.

“C’mon,” he whispered, licking circles around your clit. “Come on, sweetheart. I want it. Let me feel you.”

You broke apart with a sob—your whole body shuddering, clenching around his fingers, your thighs squeezing his head. He didn’t stop until your cries turned to whimpers and your legs gave out.

He crawled up and kissed you hard, messy and hot and open-mouthed, and you moaned into it, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

Bucky was trembling above you.

Not because he didn’t want this—God, no—but because it felt too much. Like the moment he let himself sink inside you, everything would change. He was on the edge of something he didn’t know how to return from.

And you? You looked wrecked in the most beautiful way. Kiss-swollen lips, hot cheeks, soft whimpers still falling from you. Your thighs were still trembling from the orgasm he’d coaxed from you moments ago, his fingers glistening with the proof of how badly you needed him.

His cock throbbed between your bodies—already hard again—resting against your belly, heavy and flushed and aching. His eyes fluttered shut when your fingers wrapped around it again, curious and reverent.

“I want to do it,” you whispered. “Can I…?”

He didn’t even need to ask what you meant. He just nodded, breath stuttering in his throat. “Yeah. Christ, yeah.”

He reached to the nightstand with a shaky hand, pulling open the drawer where he’d already stashed the condom he’d bought for this night, just in case—because some foolish, aching part of him had dared to hope. He ripped the packet open with his teeth, then handed it to you with trembling fingers.

You sat up a little, swallowing hard as you looked at him—naked and gorgeous in the low lamp light, chest dusted with hair, abs tight with restraint. He was solid under your hands, thighs flexed, arms braced beside your head. And his cock was massive. Thick and veiny and heavy in your palm, curved slightly upward, with a bead of precum already welling at the tip.

You looked up at him shyly, condom still in your hand. “How do I…”

“I’ll show you,” Bucky said, his voice raw with need. He leaned in, guiding your hand gently. “Hold it like this… yeah, perfect. Pinch the tip. Now roll it down slowly.”

You followed his instruction with delicate care, watching as the latex slid over his length—inch after inch until he was fully covered, twitching in your grip.

He let out a shuddering breath, eyes locked on your face like he was memorising you.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You blushed under his gaze, chest fluttering with nerves and warmth. “I just want to make it good.”

He pressed his forehead to yours again, exhaling slow. “It already is.”

He shifted, lining himself up with your entrance. The head of his cock slid through your soaked folds and you both gasped. It was hot, thick, and pulsing—and you could feel the stretch already, even before he’d entered you.

Bucky paused.

His eyes met yours, pupils blown wide, voice low and reverent.

“Are you ready for the final lesson?”

There was no hesitation. “Yes.”

He kissed you like a promise, and then he started to push inside.

The pressure was overwhelming. Even with all the careful prep, your body tensed around the intrusion, instinctive and tight. He was so big—your walls struggling to accommodate him, your nails digging into his biceps.

He stilled the moment he felt your breath hitch.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, kissing your cheek, your temple, the corner of your eye. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good for me.”

You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He didn’t move. Not yet. He held you, grounded you, let your body adjust.

The first few moments were sharp — a tight, unfamiliar stretch that made your breath hitch and your muscles instinctively clamp down. It wasn’t just physical; it was the weight of vulnerability, the fear of the unknown, the electric tremor of trusting him so completely.

Bucky stayed still, completely still, giving your body all the time it needed. His eyes locked on yours, full of nothing but unwavering support and gentle encouragement.

“You’re okay,” he murmured softly, his voice like a warm blanket wrapping around you. “I’m right here. You’re doing so fucking good.”

His hand slid from your hip to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn’t even realised had fallen. You wanted to pull away, embarrassed by the ache — but his touch grounded you, reminding you that this was safe, this was love, not pain.

Slowly, the sting began to dissolve, melting into something altogether different — a fierce, white-hot pleasure that bloomed and radiated through every fibre of your body. The tightness shifted into a delicious fullness, like the most perfect kind of ache.

Bucky’s fingers found your clit again, tracing slow, loving circles, coaxing waves of heat and light through you. Your walls fluttered around him, trembling, loosening just enough for him to sink a little deeper, inch by inch, each movement more natural than the last.

His breath hitched as he felt your body begin to open to him. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice thick with awe and need. “You’re so perfect like this.”

He kissed your jawline, down to your neck, nipping gently as if to say I’m yours, completely.

“You’re so strong,” he whispered against your skin, fingers never faltering in their tender rhythm. “You’ve got this.”

His words were like a lifeline, pulling you higher, giving you the courage to let go of the last bit of fear. Your muscles clenched again, this time not from pain but from the flood of pleasure rolling through you.

“Let it go,” he urged softly, voice low and coaxing. “I’m right here. You’re safe with me.”

Your breath hitched as the tension in your body shattered, replaced by a shattering, beautiful release that left you shaking in his arms. Your legs trembled as the wave crashed through you, your walls pulsing around him in response.

Bucky groaned deeply, his chest rising and falling fast, his own need flaring in tandem with yours. He shifted, sinking further inside you with reverence, as if trying to become one with every part of you.

“You’re incredible,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “So fucking incredible.”

His hands held you steady, his metal arm warm and sure around your waist. His lips brushed your temple. “I’ve never felt this before. With anyone.”

You clung to him, heart pounding wildly, overwhelmed by the raw intimacy, the blend of pleasure and love.

As the waves of your release slowly faded, Bucky’s hips pressed gently into yours, rocking slow and steady — careful, patient, filled with a reverence that made you feel like the most precious thing in the world.

“You’re perfect,” he repeated, voice soft but certain, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

You whimpered at the praise, arching up into him, helpless under the weight of his body and the feelings rising between you. This wasn’t just sex anymore. This was something that had always lived between you two, growing quietly in the dark.

And Bucky felt it too.

His rhythm faltered — just for a second — and he pulled back to look at you. His eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable, and for a moment, it was like the rest of the world fell away. His thrusts slowed as his expression shifted into something almost pained, like he’d been holding something back for too long.

“I love you,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Fuck—baby, I love you.”

It hit you like a bolt of lightning — the desperation in his voice, the way his forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like saying it hurt and healed him all at once. There was no hesitation, no fear—only a deep, aching need to finally say it aloud.

And then he came.

His hips stuttered and his breath broke as he spilled into the condom, his face contorting in a mix of bliss and emotion. His hands tightened on your waist, anchoring himself to you like he needed to feel every inch of you while he came apart.

He collapsed against you with a low, wrecked moan, panting hard into your shoulder, his body trembling faintly from the force of it. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just held him as his weight settled over you, your fingers stroking through the damp hair at the back of his neck, your heart beating too fast and too loud.

Bucky lifted his head slowly, still catching his breath, his cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.

Your body trembled beneath him, warm and open, every nerve ending humming with the newness of this—his presence, his touch, the way he filled you completely. The soft weight of his metal arm wrapped around your waist grounded you, a steady anchor amid the storm of sensation curling through your limbs.

For a long, perfect moment, you stayed locked together like that—two hearts beating in sync, two souls finally home.

You lay curled against Bucky, the heat of his body warm and steady beneath your cheek. The city noises outside faded into a distant hum, muffled by the thick curtains and the soft rhythm of your shared breathing.

Tears blurred your vision, but they weren’t just sadness — they were relief, love, and something fragile yet fierce blossoming in your chest. You reached up, fingers trembling slightly, and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm under your touch, and you could feel the gentle pulse of his heart just beneath the surface.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice barely louder than a breath. The words spilled free, raw and honest, carrying the weight of everything you’d held back.

For a moment, Bucky was still, his gaze locked on yours with something so deep and tender it made your heart skip. Then, slowly, he smiled — that rare, genuine smile that always melted you — and cupped your cheek in his large hand. His thumb stroked your skin softly, grounding you.

“You do?” He asked, and you nodded wordlessly, unable to hide the smile on your face.

“I love you too,” he said, voice husky with emotion. “God, I’ve loved you for so long. Every lesson, every moment we shared… it all led here.” He swallowed hard, vulnerability shining in his eyes. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You smiled even harder through your tears, feeling warmth bloom through your chest. You’d never imagined love could feel this safe, this real.

Bucky shifted gently so he could look at you better, the moonlight catching the scars on his skin and the steel of his arm — marks of his past, of battles fought, but to you, they were beautiful, a part of him you adored.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked quietly, nerves flickering beneath his calm exterior. “Not just my best friend, or the girl I teach lessons to… but really, truly mine?”

Your heart surged, pounding loud in your ears. You laughed softly, a sound full of joy and disbelief. “Yes,” you breathed, “I want that more than anything.”

His smile widened, and he closed the distance between your lips again — this kiss deeper, more sure, full of promises yet to be kept. Your hands found his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. He tasted like home, like safety, like everything you’d been searching for.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His voice was soft but certain. “We’ve waited long enough. From now on, it’s just us.”

You nodded, feeling a blissful certainty settle inside you. “Just us.”

Wrapped in each other’s arms, you let the world fall away. For the first time, you were exactly where you belonged.

──── ୨୧ ──── 3 months later...

Three months.

That’s how long it had been since everything changed.

Since late nights turned into mornings in his bed. Since soft touches no longer came with apologies. Since Bucky stopped pretending you were just friends and finally allowed himself to hold you the way he’d always dreamed.

Three months of secret smiles across meeting rooms. Of sneaking kisses in elevator corners. Of long nights curled up on his couch, learning each other’s bodies and boundaries. Of building something real.

And now… tonight was the first time you’d show up together—really together.

In public.

Hand in hand.

The inside of the SUV was quiet, save for the faint hum of the engine and the muted city noise outside the tinted windows. You sat side by side in the backseat, the air between you buzzing with restrained touches. Dressed in a silky black gown that hugged your curves and left just enough to the imagination, you were a vision—and Bucky looked the part of your counterpart, suited in sharp navy with a black shirt open just enough to show the glint of a dog tag he never took off.

He couldn’t stop staring at you.

You glanced at him from under your lashes, catching his gaze for what must’ve been the tenth time since pulling away from the curb. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” Bucky murmured, voice low and rough. 

"You okay?" you asked softly, brushing your knee against his.

He blinked, like you pulled him out of his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?” you pressed, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Because you’ve checked your tie three times and I think you just wiped your palms on your pants.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You know me too well.”

You leaned in slightly, your perfume drifting into his senses like a trap. “So what’s got you so tense? It’s just a party.”

“It’s not just a party,” he muttered. “It’s the first time they see us together. Publicly. Officially. The whole damn Capitol will be there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, you think they’re gonna boo when we walk in?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned to you, finally meeting your eyes. His fingers reached for yours, brushing your knuckles, then sliding in between them slowly. His palm was warm. His grip was tight.

“I just… I don’t want anyone talking shit about you.”

Your expression softened instantly. “Bucky.”

“I know how they are,” he said, eyes drifting back to the dark window. “Politics is a viper pit. Half those assholes would chew you up and spit you out if they thought it would hurt me. And if anyone starts saying you’re with me for the wrong reasons, or that I’m—”

“Hey,” you cut in gently, lifting his hand to your lips and kissing the scarred ridge across his knuckles. “Look at me.”

He did.

“I'm not scared of them,” you whispered. “And I don’t care what they say. We know the truth.”

Bucky stared at you like he was trying to memorise you. Like you were something he'd waited his whole life to have, and still couldn’t believe was real.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said finally, voice low.

You smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself, Barnes.”

His hand slipped from yours, fingers grazing your thigh instead, the slide of his metal knuckles teasing your slit-high dress. He didn’t go higher—just left it there. Possessive. Protective.

You shifted closer, unable to help yourself. “We’ve got ten more minutes in this car,” you murmured. “Want to make out like teenagers?”

That earned a laugh. “You trying to get us kicked out before we even arrive?”

You shrugged. “Could be worth it.”

Bucky’s smile softened, his eyes dipping to your lips like he was considering it.

And then the car slowed.

You both turned toward the window as the Capitol came into view, lights flashing, cameras already gathering outside the entrance.

Showtime.

Your pulse kicked up. Not from nerves, but because Bucky squeezed your thigh gently—just once—and leaned in to murmur something against your cheek:

“Whatever happens tonight… you’re mine.”

Your breath caught.

And you nodded. “I always was.”

The black car rolled to a stop outside the grand entrance of the event venue, its marble steps glowing under the soft gold of the Capitol’s evening lights. The flash of cameras was instant—blinding and relentless. You could hear the muffled shouts through the closed doors.

"Here we go," Bucky murmured, sitting upright. He ran his thumb once more over the back of your hand before letting go.

A beat passed.

Then he reached for the door handle, looked at you one last time, and said, “You sure you’re ready?”

You nodded, pulse fluttering. “Only if you are.”

He gave you that boyish, quiet smile—the one that said he wasn’t quite sure how the hell he got so lucky—and then he climbed out.

The moment he stepped into view, the crowd erupted.

Click. Flash. Click.

Dozens of photographers shouted his name, crowding the velvet rope. He ignored them all as he turned back to offer his hand to you.

You placed your fingers in his palm and stepped out, heels clicking on the pavement.

The crowd paused.

The flashbulbs came twice as fast.

There was a murmur—an audible shift in energy—as you came into full view beside him, your hand snug in the crook of his elbow.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes was not alone.

You gave the cameras a small, polite smile.

Bucky didn’t.

He looked straight ahead, shielding you slightly with his body as the two of you ascended the steps. He didn’t let go of you—not even as one of the party coordinators approached to escort you in, stammering through a greeting as if unsure what to make of the scene.

The grand ballroom inside was filled with Washington’s most influential—politicians, donors, journalists, and aides. People who had seen Bucky a hundred times in tailored suits and tight-lipped photo ops. But not like this.

Not with you.

The whispers followed.

You held his arm tighter.

“Let ‘em talk,” Bucky muttered close to your ear.

The first friendly face you spotted was Marianne—wearing a glittering midnight-blue gown and smiling like she’d just seen two celebrities. She practically ran across the room in heels.

“Oh my god,” she squealed, hugging you. “You two are finally public?”

Your laugh was small, but genuine. “Is it that obvious?”

“Honey, he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Bucky chuckled, and Marianne turned to him, giving him a firm hug too. “I mean it, Barnes. Proud of you. About everything.”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was holding back emotion. “Thanks, Marianne.”

Before she could say anything more, a familiar voice cut through the crowd behind you.

“Well, would you look at that?”

You turned to find Sam Wilson, all charm and sharp suit, grinning ear to ear. He gave you a wink before pulling Bucky into a one-armed hug.

“Took you long enough, Barnes.”

Bucky huffed. “Don’t start.”

“You’re lucky she didn’t fall for someone smarter,” Sam teased, then turned to you and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But seriously, if he ever messes this up, just say the word. I’ll set you up with someone from Wakanda. You deserve royalty.”

You laughed, and Bucky rolled his eyes. “Sam.”

Sam held up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m happy for you. Both of you. It’s good to see him happy. Took years off his face.”

You looked over at Bucky then—at the way the tightness around his eyes had softened, at how his hand kept drifting toward your waist like he needed to touch you just to believe this was real.

You knew exactly what Sam meant.

As the evening wore on, you mingled and danced and accepted congratulations from those who mattered. You smiled through the stares and questions. You held your own in conversation. And every time Bucky reached for you—your waist, your hand, the back of your chair—you leaned into his touch without hesitation.

It wasn’t just lessons anymore.

It was real.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky leaned against the ornate marble railing of the terrace, the night cool against his flushed skin. The party hummed behind him—music, champagne flutes clinking, polite laughter—but out here, it was quiet.

He needed the break.

Too much attention. Too many eyes. Too many people whispering about the woman on his arm like she hadn’t already owned his heart for years.

“She’s got you whipped, man.”

Bucky startled slightly and turned—Sam stood behind him, two glasses in hand. He offered one out with a smirk.

“Didn’t peg you for the kind of guy to sneak out during your own big debut.”

Bucky accepted the drink with a grumble. “I’m not hiding.”

“You’re hiding.”

He sighed and took a sip. “Maybe a little.”

Sam stepped up beside him, gazing out over the Capitol lawn. “You nervous?”

“I feel like everyone’s staring at her.”

“They are.”

Bucky scowled.

“Because she’s gorgeous. And because she’s with you,” Sam added, bumping his shoulder. “They’re just surprised it took this long.”

There was a pause.

Then Bucky muttered, “I still don’t know what she sees in me.”

“Oh god,” Sam groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you’re serious, that’s why it’s annoying,” Sam said. “You’re not some lost cause, Buck. You’re a good man. A damn good one. She knows it. And everyone who matters knows it too.”

Bucky stared down into his glass, jaw tight.

Sam softened. “You think I’d let her get with you if I didn’t believe in you?”

That made Bucky laugh under his breath. “You’d stop her?”

“I’d try. I mean, she’s terrifying. But I’d give it a shot.”

A smile tugged at Bucky’s mouth.

They stood in silence for a while—just two men in suits under the stars, watching Washington buzz beneath them.

Then Sam snorted suddenly into his drink.

“What?”

“Just remembered—Blake got arrested yesterday.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“Tax evasion,” Sam said, smug. “Turns out Mr. ‘I’m Untouchable’ was touching a few too many offshore accounts. IRS caught wind, and he folded like a wet napkin.”

Bucky barked out a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Dude tried to write off strip club visits as ‘client dinners.’ Can’t make this shit up.”

Bucky shook his head. “That guy…”

“Hey,” Sam said, nudging him. “You did good. Got her away from that asshole. She’s better off. And so are you.”

There was a beat.

Then Bucky murmured, “I love her, man.”

Sam didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease.

Just nodded. “I know.”

The door creaked open behind them, and Bucky turned instinctively—there you were, scanning the terrace until your eyes landed on him.

Sam followed his gaze and grinned. “Looks like you’re being summoned.”

Bucky hesitated for half a second—then set down his glass.

“You coming back in?” he asked.

“Nah,” Sam said. “I’ve seen enough PDA for one night.”

Bucky clapped him on the shoulder once, warm and grateful, before making his way across the terrace and straight into your orbit.

You looked up at him, glowing under the string lights. “There you are.”

He leaned in, voice low and full of promise.

“Come with me,” he said. “We’ve got one more thing to finish tonight.”

──── ୨୧ ────

You hadn’t meant to sneak away.

Not really.

But when Bucky brushed his fingers across the small of your back while you both stood politely nodding through yet another conversation about bipartisan infrastructure, you leaned in. Just a little. Just enough.

And he murmured against your ear, “Upstairs. Now.”

So you followed.

The White House guest wing was quiet, deserted, dimly lit. Ornate carpet, gilt-trimmed wallpaper, portraits that seemed to watch you pass—but you were barely aware of any of it. All you could hear was the pounding of your pulse. All you could feel was Bucky’s hand wrapped around yours, dragging you behind him like something stolen.

The second he found an empty room and shut the door, his hands were on you.

You crashed into each other in the dark, mouths meeting like magnets. His tie was already loosened, his jacket discarded on the floor. Your dress was hiked up, his hands greedy at your waist, lifting you effortlessly and placing you on the edge of an antique desk.

He stepped between your thighs, pulling your lower half flush against his. His lips found your neck, your jaw, the soft part behind your ear that made you shiver.

“You looked like a dream tonight,” he murmured, voice deep and rough. “All fucking mine.”

Your breath caught. “You’re being possessive.”

“You love it when I’m possessive.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Your fingers moved quickly, popping the buttons of his shirt open one by one, pushing it back to reveal his undershirt. Your palm pressed against his chest. His heart was hammering.

“I thought you hated these kinds of parties,” you whispered.

“I do,” he muttered, lifting your dress higher, exposing the tops of your thighs, his vibranium hand gripping your flesh with reverent urgency. “But I’ll go to every single one if it means I get to leave with you.”

You cupped his face, made him look at you. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dark and full of heat—but underneath it, that boyish vulnerability still lingered.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He nodded slowly, brushing his nose against yours. “Better than okay.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it simmer—tongue sweeping his bottom lip, his hand curving around the back of your neck like he needed the anchor.

Then you broke apart, breathless. He stared at you, chest heaving. And then he smirked.

“What?” you asked.

He didn’t answer at first—just stepped back slightly, hands skimming over your thighs, thumbs pressing little circles just above your knees.

Then, in that low voice that never failed to wreck you, he said:

“So… ready for your final exam?”

Your mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” His hands slid higher. “I’ve taught you everything I know. Now I wanna see what you’ve learned.”

You huffed out a laugh, biting your bottom lip. “I don’t think we’re allowed to defile White House property.”

Bucky leaned in again, nipped at your jaw, and whispered, “Then you better be quiet.”

The tension snapped taut between you—sharp and electric, but layered with something deeper. He stared down at you like you were sacred. Like this meant everything. Like you were the reason he’d made it out the other side of all that pain.

You hooked your arms around his neck, your lips brushing his.

“Come on, Barnes,” you whispered. “I’m ready for anything.”

He lifted you off the desk in one swift motion, your legs wrapped around his waist, your giggle swallowed by another kiss. He made it to the couch at the far end of the room and laid you down gently, reverently, his body sliding over yours like he was built to fit there.

You touched every inch of him. He touched every part of you.

And then he made good on his promise.

You never did tell anyone the truth about the lessons. Because somewhere along the way, between shy kisses and whispered instructions, between laughter over cheap wine and gasps beneath soft sheets, it stopped being a curriculum and started becoming a love story. One written in stolen glances, accidental touches, and every time Bucky Barnes looked at you like you were his entire future. And maybe that was the final lesson after all—not how to kiss, or touch, or please—but how to fall in love with your best friend… and have him love you right back.

The End.

──── ୨୧ ────

author's note: if you read this far, to the very end of lessons in love, i just want to say thank you so much. thank you for being patient with me, and enabling me to write something i was so passionate about. my heart is full and i appreciate each and every one of you who reblogged, left a comment, sent me a message or showed their support in one way or another. certain elements of this story were challenging for me to write but it really was your support that helped me keep going. i love you lots and if you like my writing, please check out my masterlist in my pinned or feel free to submit a request :)

all my love,

rach

x

──── ୨୧ ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: in comments due to taglist limit

Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!):

@sebastians-love @sweetserendipity65 @sangsterizada @mrsalexstan @alpinescoowner @buckyslqve @morganfullaaa @moonlight-sonata99 @sflame15-blog @rapturousfrog @parkerslivia @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @wickedfun9 @daisynotquake @arosewithpower @buckysgirl27 @loki-licious-945ad @dearluuna @riot-sounds @ang0320 @solarperpetua @julesandgems @yes-ilovetowrite @redh00dsbf @alicetesser @loyaltyistoxic @sailorsenshiuranep @yessebastianstanus @poshpinklace @joaquinsgirl @thornsofvelvet @miss-chuchu @xamapolax @avivarougestan @justalittle47 @nutella-hitler @ifilwtmfc @loverofdrewstarkey @cxiiv0 @pivictorious @gummy-dummy @avatarobsessedgirly @buckybarneswife125 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @jadevoir @thisismy-usernamee @loganficsonly @justalittle47 @xamapolax @vroomvroommbtch @peanutbutt3rcup — taglist continued in comments due to limit reach<3

[mandoalorian]

ahhhh i don’t want lessons in love to end

honestly me neither 🥲🥲🥲

but maybe the characters will come back in the occasional one-shot or side story if that’s what people want. i’m sure reader could still do with learning a few more things from bucky🫶🏻

[mandoalorian]

hi!!!! sorry, sad little american here, when you say 8bst, do you mean a.m or p.m? also, your writing is so incredible and id love to be included in the tag list for lessons in love please! ive been looking forward to your writing, and i enjoy it so much!! <33

thank you my sweet 💌

8PM BST is british summer time 🫶🏻

last night i had the final chapter scheduled for post but after going through some final edits, i just didn’t like how it ended (the pressure of ending a series is huge🥲), so i made a few changes and the final chapter will come out tonight at 8PM BST. sorry if there’s been any confusion in that regard.

i’ll add you to the taglist of course, thank you again. i’m so glad you enjoy my writing and i hope you have a fantastic day☀️

[mandoalorian]

lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson four: tasting

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: finally, you're ready to learn the next lesson. this time, it's about your mouth—how to use it, what it means to give, and what it feels like when someone actually cares about what you need. but every flick of your tongue and every soft moan makes it harder to pretend it’s only practice.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ f recieving oral, m recieving oral, fingering, handjob, cum eating, praise kink, dirty talk, bucky talks you through it, body worship, sexual harrassment in the workplace (bucky to the rescue), blake is slimy as per usual, reader feels used, bucky not feeling good enough, unspoken feelings, high tensions for the penultimate chapter.

word count: 8.3k

ෆ series masterlist | previous part | next part (coming soon)

It had been a day and a half since you’d touched him. Since you’d touched each other.

And still—no text.

You checked your phone again, for the tenth time that hour. Nothing. You typed out three different versions of a message to Bucky, all of which you promptly deleted. One was casual: 

you: had fun the other night 

Another more honest: 

you: i can’t stop thinking about you

The last one was raw: 

you: i don’t want to do this with blake anymore. i want you.

But none of them made it past the blinking cursor. Your thumbs hovered, then dropped. You dropped the phone with them.

The apartment was too quiet. Even your annoying upstairs neighbours were unusually silent today—though the absence of their nightly headboard banging gave you space to think. Unfortunately.

Every time you closed your eyes, you remembered the way Bucky had looked at you. The weight of his gaze. The press of his palm. The way his lips had parted when you wrapped your hand around him, how he’d spilled across your fingers and moaned your name like it meant something.

And maybe that was the part you couldn’t figure out—did it mean something?

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes and exhaled hard.

Down the block, at Capitol Hill, Bucky was having a similar crisis.

He was sitting in his office, head in his hands, ignoring two hours of emails and three missed calls from Valentina. His phone sat silent beside him, your name at the top of his pinned messages thread. Still no reply to his text from last night. Still no response to his call earlier in the day. He’d wanted to catch up with you for lunch, but he had no such luck when he called. So instead, he ate alone, some microwavable ramen that tasted like curried cardboard. 

He wanted to give you space. He knew you needed space. But God, he missed you. Not just the way you touched him, though that was seared into his skin—but the way you looked at him. Like he mattered. Like he was more than just some washed-up weapon trying to be useful again. Like he was more than just his past, or some Congressman trying to make amends.

He thought about the way your hands had trembled when you first touched him. About how soft your lips had looked when you whispered that you wanted to kiss him. And now he couldn’t stop remembering the sound of your voice when you came. He’d replayed it in his mind like a prayer.

He shifted in his chair and tried to focus on the report in front of him, but the words blurred. All he saw was you.

Meanwhile, you sat in your kitchen, a half-eaten piece of toast growing stale beside your elbow. You knew you should be getting ready. Blake was picking you up in a few hours. Dinner reservations. What happens on third dates was something you’d heard about in the movies, and you were well aware of the assumption. It was the kind of date you’d once been desperate for.

But now, you couldn’t even bring yourself to try on outfits.

Because the only person you wanted to look pretty for was avoiding you just as hard as you were avoiding him.

You wondered what would happen if you kissed Bucky again. If you asked him for more.

You wondered if he’d say yes.

You hoped he would.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky hadn’t meant to see it.

He was only down on the 12th floor because Valentina had requested a report from Legal, and since her assistant was nowhere to be found, the errand had fallen to him. He’d been grumbling the whole way—until he saw him.

Blake.

Leaning over a receptionist’s desk, grinning too wide.

Bucky paused in the hallway.

The man’s hand was on the desk, fingers curled possessively close to the young woman’s wrist. She laughed nervously, pulling her hand back toward her lap. Her posture tightened. She swiveled away slightly in her chair, but Blake leaned in closer.

“You know I could get you transferred upstairs if you wanted,” Blake said, low, slick. “Better office. Better view. Maybe I’d even give you my seat.” He patted at his thigh and Bucky felt himself recoil as he watched from a far.

The woman’s lips curled in a polite smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s not necessary, sir.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be shy now. I’ve seen you looking.”

“I haven’t been—”

Before she could finish, Bucky stepped forward in one big stride, voice like steel.

“Problem here?”

Both their heads snapped toward him. Blake’s mouth froze in a smug, half-open smile. The woman—Marianne, Bucky remembered—immediately sat straighter in her chair. Her relief was palpable.

Blake straightened like nothing was wrong, and brushed his suit down. “No problem at all. Just offering some professional advice, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Marianne gave a tight, uncomfortable smile.

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Why don’t you go take your lunch, Marianne?”

She hesitated, glancing between the two men. “But I—”

“I’ll let HR know you’re stepping out. Take your time.”

Marianne stood, gave Bucky a grateful look, and slipped out down the hall without saying another word.

Blake’s smile faltered. “Barnes. Something I can help you with?”

“You bothering her?” Bucky asked, calm and quiet.

Blake blinked. “Excuse me?”

He nodded toward Marianne’s retreating figure. “The intern. You bothering her?”

Blake let out a laugh, like it was all a joke. “She’s fine, man. Just a little friendly banter.”

“She didn’t look fine.”

Blake’s posture stiffened. “You’re taking this way too seriously.”

“No,” Bucky said, stepping in closer. “You’re not taking it seriously enough.”

For a moment, the office hallway fell silent. Phones rang behind closed doors. Footsteps passed. But here, in this space, the temperature dropped.

“You think that kind of behaviour flies just because you’re wearing a suit and a smile?” Bucky continued, his tone still calm, still measured. “You think she’s lucky to have your hands on her?”

“Alright, ease up,” Blake said, putting up both palms. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You were trying to touch her,” Bucky said, unmoved. “I saw it.”

Blake laughed, but it was more uncomfortable now. “You really gonna get all righteous on me, soldier?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh come on,” Blake scoffed. “Is this about her?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Blake smirked. “Thought so. You’re protective, I’ll give you that. But let’s be honest—she’s with me. Not you. You’re just the backup plan she keeps around for emotional support.”

Bucky took one step closer. No threats. No dramatics. Just that look. The one he used to wear before snapping a man’s wrist clean through.

“She ever tells me she wants to be with you?” he said, voice quiet and graveled. “Then fine. That’s her choice. But if I see you lay a hand on another woman like that again, I won’t be as nice.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed. “You threatening me?”

Bucky smiled—but it wasn’t kind.

“No. If I were threatening you, you wouldn’t still be standing.”

A pause.

Blake shifted in place, the false bravado starting to fray. “Jesus. At the end of the day, Bucky, you’re just another terrorist who got let off. You should be rotting in prison for the things you did. Hell, if it were up to me, you’d already be six feet under. You only got off because you were Captain America’s boyfriend. He was your leverage.”

That made Bucky laugh—sharp, humourless.

“You want to talk about leverage?” Bucky scoffed incredulously, metal fingers curling into a fist. “Yeah. Maybe I got off lucky, but at least I’m working on myself. I’ve paid my dues, trust me. But don’t act like your record is clean, too, Blake. Tax evasion, money laundering, sexual harassment, you’re a fucking villain and everyone here in Congress knows it. You just aren’t used to people standing up to you, but I promise, Blake, I am not afraid of men like you.”

Blake’s mouth snapped shut.

“I’m not the Winter Soldier anymore,” Bucky added. “But if you think I’m scared of someone who hides behind veneer smiles and weak handshakes, you’re even dumber than I thought.”

He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because the thing is, Blake, she’s not yours. She never was. And when she figures out what kind of man you really are?” A beat. “She won’t look back.”

Then Bucky turned on his heel and walked away, fists clenched, chest burning, your name like a war drum in his head.

The fury still simmered in his chest as Bucky stepped out of the elevator and into the building’s courtyard. The city buzzed beyond the iron gates, but in here, it was all manicured hedges and grey stone benches—polished, pristine, and sterile. He spotted Marianne sitting alone near the fountain, lunch tray untouched on her lap, fingers picking absently at the edge of her sandwich.

She looked up when he approached. Her shoulders tensed for a beat, then softened.

“Hey,” she said, voice small but steady.

Bucky offered a quiet nod, then sat down beside her—not close enough to crowd, but close enough to be there.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Marianne hesitated. “Yeah. I mean… I will be.”

He didn’t speak. Just gave her space.

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” she added. “He’s just… persistent. And I didn’t want to be that intern, you know?”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You’re not that intern. You’re a person. And you get to feel safe at work.”

She glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“I saw what he did,” Bucky continued. “That wasn’t friendly. That wasn’t harmless.”

Her eyes dropped to her tray. “It’s not the first time. I just thought I was imagining it before.”

“You weren’t.”

A long pause stretched between them. Bucky let it sit.

“If you want to report it,” he said eventually, “I’ll back you up. Whatever you need. Witness statement, going to HR with you. All of it.”

She blinked. “You’d really do that?”

“Of course,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “No one should have to deal with that alone.”

Marianne smiled, soft and tentative. “Thanks, Congressman Barnes.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Bucky’s fine.”

Her smile widened slightly. “Thanks, Bucky.”

He stood after a moment, brushing off his hands.

“I meant what I said,” he told her. “If he does anything else—if you ever feel uncomfortable—you come find me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Marianne nodded, gratitude written across her face.

As Bucky walked back toward the building, he didn’t feel any better. The ache was still there, tight and low in his gut. Because all he could think about was you—laughing at Blake’s jokes, smiling politely while he ordered for you, unaware of the kind of man he really was.

And the worst part? Bucky wasn’t sure how to tell you.

But he had to.

Before you got hurt.

──── ୨୧ ────

Your bedroom was a mess.

Shoes scattered across the floor, dresses laid out like corpses across your bed. You stood in the center of the chaos, towel wrapped around your body, hair still damp and clinging to your shoulders. The steam from your shower still lingered in the air, curling around the perfume bottles and half-drunk glass of wine on your nightstand.

You’d tried on three different dresses already. Too bold. Too plain. Too tight. Nothing felt right.

And maybe that was because your mind wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

You reached for a fourth option—the little black slip dress you’d worn to Bucky’s birthday a few months ago. It was sleek, silky, and fell over your body like a whisper. You hadn’t thought much of it then, until you caught Bucky looking at you like you’d invented gravity.

He didn’t say anything that night. Just looked. But you remembered the way his throat bobbed when he saw you, how he reached for his glass just a little too fast, how he held the door open like he was afraid to touch you.

And now, somehow, this was the dress you pulled off the hanger.

You slipped it over your head, the fabric cool against your skin. Smoothed it over your hips, adjusted the neckline. Stared at your reflection.

God, what were you doing?

This was a date with Blake. You were supposed to be thinking about Blake.

But your thoughts kept drifting—back to Bucky’s hands on your waist, his breath hot against your ear, the sound of his voice when he told you how perfect you were doing.

Your eyes flicked toward your phone, half-buried beneath a pile of laundry.

4 missed calls. 2 new messages. bucky: Hey, can we talk? bucky: It’s important.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

Then you turned it over, face-down.

Not now.

The knock at the door came exactly on time.

Blake stood in the hallway, pressed white shirt and slacks crisp, cologne strong enough to reach you before he did. His smile was all charm, all polish.

“Wow,” he said, eyeing you from head to toe. “You really went all out for me tonight, huh?”

You offered a polite smile, stepping outside and locking the door behind you. His hand found the small of your back, then slid lower, fingers brushing a little too close to places he hadn’t earned access to.

You didn’t say anything. You just told yourself it was fine. It was normal. It was what people did on third dates.

So why, as you walked toward the elevator, did you feel like you’d just made a mistake?

Why did the back of your neck still burn with the memory of Bucky’s lips against your skin?

And why did the dress suddenly feel heavier, like it was stitched with guilt?

──── ୨୧ ────

The restaurant should’ve been romantic.

Soft candlelight danced across the cream coloured tablecloths. Jazz murmured from unseen speakers. The gentle clink of cutlery and hushed laughter filled the space, like it was curated for connection. It should’ve been perfect. But all you could think about was how wrong it felt to be here with him.

Blake sat across from you, wearing his most charming smile—the one he used at press events and campaign fundraisers. The one that seemed polished from too much use. He leaned back in the booth like he owned it, scrolling through something on his phone while you looked over the menu. You were starving. But when you said so, he didn’t look up.

“I’ll order for us,” he said, dismissive and distracted.

You blinked, lowering your menu. “Okay… but I am really hungry. So maybe the pasta—?”

“Mm,” he hummed noncommittally. “Salad will be lighter. And sexier,” he added with a wink that felt more performative than playful. “You don’t want to be full for what I have planned later.”

You swallowed down a grimace and managed a polite smile, one you’d perfected over the course of your time together. “Right. Sexy salad. Got it.”

He looked up at the waiter and gestured casually. “We’ll start with a bottle of that merlot. She’ll have the house salad, and I’ll take the steak, medium rare.”

You stared at him. He didn’t look back.

The waiter hesitated, glancing at you to confirm. You gave a small nod, biting the inside of your cheek. It wasn’t worth the scene. You were tired. You were already losing interest in pretending.

Blake finally set his phone aside and leaned in with his elbows on the table, hands clasped like he was about to give a press statement.

“So,” you started gently, “how was your day?”

He groaned dramatically, tossing his head back like the question physically pained him. “Fucking nightmare, honestly. Barnes is still being a goddamn nuisance.”

Your stomach tightened at the sound of Bucky’s name.

You blinked. “What happened?”

Blake waved a hand. “Nothing. He’s just—y’know, Bucky. Always acting like he’s some kind of superhero. Thinks he can question me. Challenge me. He doesn’t get how politics works.”

You blinked again, a little slower this time.

“Right,” you said quietly. “Sounds rough.”

“Exactly,” he nodded, totally missing your flat tone. “I’ve got enough to deal with without Barnes trying to play vigilante in the middle of a congressional office.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched the way he smirked when he talked about Bucky. Like he was proud of whatever had happened. Like he thought he’d won.

The wine came. You drank your first glass too quickly.

“God,” Blake sighed, sitting back and letting his fingers trail along the stem of his glass. “I don’t know what it is lately, but it’s like women are crawling out of the woodwork to flirt with me. At the gym, at the office, even the damn dry cleaner.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He chuckled, pleased with himself. “What can I say? It’s the suit. Drives ‘em wild.”

“But you have me,” you said softly, though you already felt yourself detaching.

He reached across the table, took your hand in his. His thumb brushed your knuckles without looking at them. “Exactly. And you’re the one I’m taking home tonight.”

Your stomach turned.

You pulled your hand back gently to take another sip of wine. He didn’t notice.

The salad arrived. It was small. A few greens, some shavings of parmesan, a faint drizzle of vinaigrette. The scent of his steak made your stomach growl, but you said nothing. You just stared at the sad excuse for a meal and tried to swallow your hunger.

The conversation was one-sided—him talking about campaign numbers and networking events and how the press was spinning stories about him. You nodded and smiled when appropriate, but your thoughts drifted more and more with each minute.

You thought about Bucky’s apartment. About how he always asked you what you wanted. How he never presumed to know better. How he listened—not just with his ears, but with his whole damn body. And how, when you touched him, he looked like he was feeling you, not just using you.

Here, with Blake, you felt like wallpaper. Like something nice to have on display.

“I’ve got a speech next week,” Blake said through a bite of steak. “Maybe you can help me go over it. You’ve got a nice voice. Be good practice.”

You blinked again. He still hadn’t asked how your day was. Or noticed that you were barely eating. Or that you kept glancing at your phone every time it lit up.

He didn’t know you hadn’t stopped thinking about Bucky since Wednesday night.

He didn’t see the way you checked your lipstick in the car mirror earlier, not for Blake—but because it was Bucky’s favourite shade.

And as you sat there, your heart heavy with the ache of pretending, you realised something:

This wasn’t a date.

It was a performance. One you weren’t sure you could keep up much longer.

──── ୨୧ ────

Blake's apartment was clean, sterile, and cold—like a showroom. Like no one really lived here.

No photos. No mess. No warmth.

You walked in ahead of him, your heels clicking against the polished floors, and tried to shake the unease from your shoulders. You could still taste the salad on your tongue. Your stomach was half-empty, your head spinning—not from wine, but from the heavy silence between your thoughts.

Blake shut the door behind you and stepped in close. Too close.

His hands found your hips like he had a right to them. Like you were already his.

“You look so fucking good in this dress,” he murmured against your ear, letting his mouth drag along your neck. “Bet you wore it just for me.”

You didn’t answer. You just smiled and let him lead you toward the couch, trying to summon the enthusiasm you’d been so sure of earlier.

He kissed you, just as sloppy as before. His lips moved too fast, like he was skipping steps, teeth clashing into yours. He didn’t cradle your face. Didn’t pause to check your pace. His tongue was already pushing past your lips.

You blinked, heart stuttering. But you let him.

This is fine, you told yourself. Just get through it. Put what Bucky taught you into practice. This is what you wanted, right?

Blake pulled you down onto the couch, already tugging at your dress. “Want this off,” he mumbled against your collarbone, one hand groping at your breast like it was a prop. “Been thinking about you all damn week.”

Your mouth felt dry. You let him undress you. You let your fingers go to his belt, undoing it with practiced movements—Bucky’s movements.

Blake watched, smug and self-satisfied, as you tugged him out of his pants. His cock was already hard, but something about it felt… clinical. He wasn’t trembling under your touch. His breath didn’t catch. He didn’t look like he was about to come undone just from the sight of you.

He leaned back with his arms behind his head. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he grinned. “Go ahead, baby. Show me what you got.”

You froze.

Something in you tensed. The nickname. The detachment. The assumption.

But you wrapped your hand around him anyway. You stroked him, slow at first, then faster. He grunted. Not the soft, desperate groans Bucky made—but flat, self-satisfied sounds. Like he was listening to himself.

He came before you could even think of trying more—quick and messy, all over his stomach and your hand. He groaned again, lazily.

“Goddamn. Knew you’d be good,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded.

You stared down at him. At the mess. At your hand. At how unspecial it all felt.

No build-up. No connection. No heat.

You waited—waited for him to reach for you. To ask if you were okay. If you wanted more.

Instead, he zipped himself up and stretched. “Shit. That hit the spot.”

You blinked. “I—” Your voice caught. “Can I use your bathroom?”

He nodded absently, already reaching for his phone. “Sure. Don’t be long. I’m ready for round two soon.”

Round two. As if you’d been satisfied. As if this had meant something.

You went into the bathroom and locked the door.

You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Your lipstick was smeared. Your eyes looked glassy. The mark on your collarbone was starting to purple. But the worst part? You didn’t feel touched. You felt used. Like a body someone passed through on the way to their next high.

It wasn’t even the bad sex. It was the loneliness of it.

The loneliness of not being seen.

You wiped your hand, washed your face, and left without a word.

──── ୨୧ ────

You didn’t cry on the walk home.

You didn’t cry while you showered, scrubbing his touch off your skin like it was something you could erase.

But when you sat down on your bed in your oversized T-shirt—Bucky’s old one, the grey one with the faded Brooklyn print—you finally let yourself feel it.

The emptiness. The confusion. The ache of disappointment. The sharp, hollow realization that you’d done everything right, and still ended up feeling wrong.

You scrolled through your texts, thumb hovering over his name.

Five missed calls. Two messages.

bucky: Everything okay? I miss you. bucky: Just call me when you get this, alright?

You typed, then backspaced. Then typed again.

And then:

you: can i come over?

His reply came instantly.

bucky: Door’s open.

You didn’t knock.

You let yourself in and stepped into the apartment that always smelled like cedarwood and lemon and something warm.

Bucky looked up from the couch the moment he heard the door close.

His hair was damp from a shower, tied back in a loose knot. He was in a hoodie and sweatpants, barefoot, a blanket draped over his legs and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn in his lap. His expression softened the moment he saw your face.

“Oh,” he said, voice low. “Doll.”

You dropped your bag and crossed the room without a word. He moved the bowl just in time for you to collapse into his chest, curling your arms around his middle like he was home. Like you needed to hold on to something real.

His arms wrapped around you instantly. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… there.

He held you like he meant it.

You buried your face in his hoodie and breathed him in.

“Bad night?” he murmured, his metal hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulders.

You nodded against his chest. “It was awful.”

He let you sit with it. With him. No pressure. No pushing.

Only when your breathing had evened out did he lean back to look at you.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You hesitated. Then nodded again.

You told him everything—quietly, like you were still trying to make sense of it. The rushed kisses. The way Blake touched you like a prize he’d already won. How fast it ended. How dirty it left you feeling.

You didn’t even mean to tell him so much. But the words tumbled out like you’d been holding them in all night.

“I thought it would feel good,” you whispered, cheeks hot. “I thought… all the things you taught me would make it better. But it was nothing like—”

You stopped yourself.

Bucky didn’t push. He didn’t ask what you were about to say.

Instead, he brushed your hair back from your face with the gentlest touch.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said softly. “You were generous with someone who didn’t deserve it. That’s not on you.”

You blinked fast. “I felt… like a prop.”

His eyes darkened. “I hate that he made you feel that way.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I just didn’t know where else to go. I just needed to be with my best friend.”

At that, his gaze softened again. “You’re always safe here.”

He nudged the popcorn back onto your lap. “C’mon. Pick something to watch. You’re not leaving here upset. We’re gonna fix that.”

You sniffled, managing a tiny laugh. “You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

“I try.”

You curled up beside him under the blanket, knees tucked to your chest, your body slowly relaxing into the cushions. You scrolled through Netflix together, debating over action movies, thrillers, even rom-coms—until you landed on something unexpected.

A dark, artsy erotic drama neither of you had heard of before.

You hesitated. Bucky glanced over at you with a tiny smirk.

“Curious?” he teased.

You shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

The opening credits rolled. The room dimmed.

You didn’t notice when your legs ended up in his lap. Or when his arm slid around your shoulders again. Or how the tension in your chest started to melt—just from being here. Just from him.

About thirty minutes in, during a particularly intense scene on screen, Bucky’s voice broke the quiet.

“…you been thinking about lesson four?”

You turned to look at him. His gaze was steady. Warm. Not teasing.

You bit your lip. “A little.”

He nodded slowly, brushing his thumb along the outside of your knee. “Only if you’re ready. Only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long beat.

At his face—how calm it always made you feel. At his hand on your leg. At the tension in his jaw every time the man on screen did something rougher than Bucky ever would.

And then you whispered: “Will you show me how to taste you?”

He leaned in, his lips brushing your temple, voice low and reverent.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

The room was quiet except for your breathing—yours and Bucky’s, both a little fast, a little shallow.  You’d started with kissing again, and his lips were beginning to feel like home. You were obsessed with the way his fingers traced little circles in your skin or how his tongue swiped across your lower lip, asking for entry, rather than forcing it the way Blake did. It was the little things that made you feel safe. That made you feel loved. 

Eventually, you pulled away, breathless, and sank down to your knees, shuffling between his legs. Bucky handed you a cushion from the sofa to kneel on, always thinking about your comfort first. He sat on the edge of the couch in those soft, gray sweatpants, legs spread, looking up at you like you held his fate in your hands. Your hands slid over his thighs first—solid and warm beneath the fabric. Then you reached up, took hold of the hoodie’s hem, and looked into his eyes.

He let you pull it off slowly, raising his arms without a word. But the moment he was bare, his jaw clenched and his eyes darted away.

Your breath caught.

You hadn’t seen him like this before. Not like this. He was all sculpted muscle, wide shoulders tapering to a trim waist, skin kissed in soft golden tones. But there were scars across his chest and ribs, puckered lines and deeper ridges of old wounds. The place where metal met flesh on his left side—just below the shoulder joint—was angry and red, imperfectly healed. He didn’t try to hide it, but he didn’t flaunt it either.

He sat still, jaw tight, like he was waiting for you to flinch.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you reached out, cupped his jaw in your hand, and leaned in.

“I’ve never wanted to touch anyone like this before,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re beautiful, Bucky.”

His eyes snapped back to yours—surprised, a little wrecked.

“I mean it,” you said, kissing along his jaw, down his neck. You licked the spot beneath his ear and felt him shudder.

“I know you see those scars,” he murmured.

“I do.” You kissed a long, thin line that curved beneath his collarbone. “And I love every one of them.”

His breath caught.

You took your time.

You licked slowly across his pecs, tasting the salt of his skin, the warmth of him. Your lips found his nipple, and you sucked gently, teeth grazing the nub, and Bucky’s head dropped back with a groan.

“Oh, fuck…”

You kept going. You lavished attention across his chest, peppering it with soft kisses and warm licks, savouring him. He gave no instruction and just let you do whatever felt right, because to Bucky, all of this was perfect. No notes, no changes. Your hands ran over his stomach, fingers exploring every defined muscle, following the sculpted lines down, down…

You kissed his ribs.

You licked across his abs.

You dipped your tongue into the dip of his navel.

By the time you reached his V-line, Bucky was panting.

“You’re not wearing anything under these, are you?” you asked, voice husky, fingers brushing his waistband.

“No,” he rasped, watching you from under heavy lashes. “Didn’t expect company.”

Your gaze dropped to the thick shape straining beneath his sweatpants. The fabric clung to him, outlining everything—long and heavy, head already wet and darkening the cotton. He twitched beneath your stare.

You pressed your mouth to the waistband and kissed him through the fabric.

His whole body jolted.

“Shit—”

Your hands gripped his thighs again, just above the knees, grounding yourself as your mouth moved—slow, hungry kisses up and down the shape of him. You pressed your tongue against the wet spot and lapped at it through the fabric. His cock throbbed in response.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he hissed, jaw clenched, hand gripping the back of your neck.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips curling in a soft smile. “You taste good through your pants. What do you think I’ll do when I really get to taste you?”

His eyes fluttered shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You dragged your nails lightly up his thighs, feeling him shudder beneath you.

“Can I take these off?” you asked, voice low and reverent.

He met your eyes. “Only if you’re ready.”

“I’ve been ready since the moment I saw you tonight.”

He let out a shaking breath, wondering how much of this was the truth, and how much of it was the dirty talk you’d learned in lesson two. He didn’t think too long. Bucky lifted his hips slightly. You slipped your fingers into the waistband and dragged the sweatpants down slow—inch by inch.

And there he was.

Hard and flushed, his cock lay against his stomach—thick, curved slightly upward, precum glistening at the head. His balls were full and heavy, skin pulled taut. 

Of course, he looked the same as he did on Wednesday night, but tonight was different. Tonight, you wanted to devour him.

He watched you, chest rising and falling, long brown hair falling in his blue eyes. His metal fingers flexed at his side like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You leaned forward again, kissing his hipbone. Then lower.

Then… even lower.

You licked up the inside of his thigh, tongue dragging along the sensitive skin there. He hissed through his teeth and his cock twitched against his stomach.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered, eyes drinking him in. “Every part of you.”

Your mouth hovered just above the base of his cock, breath ghosting warm across his skin. You felt him twitch, heard the way his breath caught in his throat. He was watching you—always watching you—and something about the way his gaze dragged over your face made your chest tighten.

"You don't have to," he said quietly, voice thick. "You’ve already—"

"I want to." You looked up at him through your lashes, hands curling around his thighs again. “I want to learn everything.”

His jaw clenched. “Jesus…”

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the base of his cock—right where it met his body. His head tipped back with a groan.

"Okay," he breathed. "Go slow. Just… feel me."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You dragged your tongue up the length of him, tasting salt and skin, precum and heat. He was hot, flushed dark at the head, the vein running up the underside throbbing under your mouth.

Bucky choked on a moan. His flesh hand gripped the couch cushion, white-knuckled. “Fuck, sweetheart…”

You pulled back slightly, lips glistening. “Tell me what to do.”

He looked wrecked. Sweaty. Desperate.

"Use your hand," he rasped, voice low and raw. "Start there. Just—yeah. Like that."

You wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm you remembered from lesson three. His cock throbbed in your grip.

"Now your mouth," he said, eyes fixed on you. “Just the head. Let me feel that tongue.”

You obeyed—parting your lips and wrapping them around the crown of him. He groaned deep, the sound ripped from somewhere in his chest.

“Fuck, yes. Just like that—keep your lips soft. Yeah, baby, that’s it…”

You bobbed slowly, taking him a little deeper, then easing back. Your hand followed where your mouth couldn’t reach, twisting at the base with wet, practiced strokes. You could feel the way his thighs tensed under your touch, how his hips barely resisted the urge to move.

“God, your mouth,” he grunted, watching you like you were something unreal. “Feels so fuckin’ good. You’re doing perfect, angel. You like this?”

You moaned around him and he hissed at the vibration.

You loved the taste of him—loved the way his hips shifted, the way his chest heaved, the way he couldn’t look away. You loved the stutter in his breathing when you took him a little deeper. How his hand—metal now—came to rest gently at the back of your head, guiding but not pushing.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that,” he groaned.

You pulled off with a pop, hand still working him in slow, slick pumps.

You wanted to take more.

You pulled off just long enough to whisper, “Can I go deeper?”

His brows drew together, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—but then pride. Something primal and tender all at once.

“You sure?”

You nodded, cheeks already warm, lips slick and swollen.

His voice dropped a note lower. “Alright. Let me help you. Just breathe for me, okay?”

You nodded again, obedient, and his metal hand came to rest at the back of your head. His touch was light at first—more of a guide than anything else—as you took him in again. Inch by inch, you let him in deeper, pushing past the stretch, the pressure.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmured, his voice a grounding tether. “Relax your throat, yeah, just like that—fuck.”

Your throat fluttered around him and he groaned deep, his hips jerking forward just slightly.

You choked.

Your eyes welled up immediately, tears burning as you pulled back with a gasp, coughing around the spit that coated your chin. But your hand never stopped moving, and you were already leaning in again before he could speak.

“Hey—wait,” Bucky said, voice tight, his hand catching your jaw. His eyes scanned your face. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes bright, lips parted. “I want to try again.”

He exhaled slowly, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You don’t have to prove anything, doll.”

“I want to. Please.”

His jaw flexed. And then, softly, he said, “Alright. I’ll take care of you.”

He guided you back to his cock—slow, steady. This time, his grip was firmer, anchoring you as you opened wide and let him slide in deep. The head of him brushed the back of your throat, and you fought the reflex to pull away, blinking past the tears that filled your eyes.

You felt his hand stroke your hair, gentle, grounding. “That’s it… such a good girl. Taking me so fucking deep.”

You moaned around him, and he nearly buckled.

The deeper you went, the more he trembled. His thighs shook. His free hand dug into the couch, metal fingers twitching where they rested against your skull.

“Just a little more, yeah?” he panted. “You can do it. You’re doing so fucking good.”

You pushed until your nose was pressed to the soft skin of his pelvis. You could smell him—salt, skin, sweat—and you swore you’d never forget the way he sounded when you swallowed around him.

You didn’t slow. Didn’t flinch. You kept stroking and sucking, your hand gliding tight and slick around the base of him while your mouth hollowed over the head, tongue dragging firmly across the most sensitive part.

His hips jerked—once, twice—and you felt it, the sudden tension coiling deep inside his body.

“Shit—baby, I—fuck, I’m coming—”

The words punched out of him as his cock twitched on your tongue, thick and hard and pulsing.

And then he spilled into your mouth.

Hot, salty ropes of cum flooded your throat, and you moaned softly at the weight of it. He came hard—deep, fast spurts—and your hands gripped tighter at his thighs as your cheeks hollowed to take every drop. He was panting, his chest heaving, abs contracting with every wave.

You could feel his entire body trembling. His metal fingers gripped your scalp—not too tight, but firm enough to ground himself as he fell apart in your mouth.

“Fuckfuckfuck— oh, God,” he groaned, the sound guttural and strained, almost pained with how good it felt.

He kept twitching, like he couldn’t stop. You eased off just a little, letting him slip past your lips with a wet pop, and took the last of it in your hand—watching, mesmerised, as a final lazy spurt coated your fingers. His cock throbbed, angry and flushed, as a pearlescent line dribbled from the tip to his stomach, catching on the hair trailing down his abdomen.

Your breath was heavy, lips slick and glistening, saliva and cum painting your chin. You blinked up at him, dazed and hot and hungry.

Bucky looked wrecked.

His head was tipped back, jaw tight, chest flushed. A fine sheen of sweat clung to his skin, highlighting the scars that scattered across his abdomen. His stomach rose and fell in sharp gasps, and his eyes fluttered open just in time to catch you staring.

At the mess. At the way it clung to your hand, sticky and warm and still dripping.

You licked your lips unconsciously.

He swallowed hard. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, eyes low and heavy, lashes clumped with tears. And then you smiled.

Wordless.

And brought your fingers to your mouth.

Bucky’s eyes widened as you licked the slick from your skin—slowly, deliberately—letting the taste settle on your tongue. God, you were addicted to him. He tasted like salt and skin and heat, and the low growl that rumbled from his chest nearly made you moan all over again.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your smile widened around your fingers as you sucked the last of it clean, letting your eyes lock with his the entire time.

“You’re my favourite taste.” you whispered.

He reached for you with both hands, flesh and metal, and pulled you straight into his lap—burying his face in your neck, his cock twitching against your thigh even as it softened. “You’re driving me insane, sweetheart.”

You giggled breathlessly, and his hands roamed your back, grounding himself in the curve of your body.

The moment he’d caught his breath—barely—Bucky cradled your jaw in his warm hand, drawing you forward into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. He tasted himself on your tongue and groaned into it, like he wanted to drown in the way you tasted now. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you close until your thighs were straddling his, your soaked panties brushing against his bare skin.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered against your lips. “But you did. You took it so well. Fuck, sweetheart…”

Your breath hitched.

“I wanted to,” you whispered.

His eyes searched yours, something reverent in the way he held you like you were made of glass. “Now I want to do something for you.”

“Bucky…”

“Let me,” he said, more insistently this time. “Lie back for me. I wanna taste you. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

You blinked at him. Your stomach fluttered so hard it almost hurt.

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, before guiding you gently down onto the couch. His hands followed—soft on your ribs, your hips, the curve of your waist—and then he knelt between your thighs like it was instinct. Like it was the only place he wanted to be.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and looked up at you one last time. “Okay?”

You nodded, already breathless.

The underwear came off slowly, and Bucky didn’t take his eyes off you once. He dropped them to the floor without ceremony, then bent low to press his mouth to the inside of your thigh.

“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, voice low and dark. “That all for me?”

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

He kissed higher—your thigh, then your hipbone, then the mound above your core. Feather-light, maddening kisses. You arched into him, desperate.

And then his tongue licked one long, slow stripe through your folds.

Your body jumped.

You gasped his name, your hips rising instinctively, and Bucky groaned like he hadn’t tasted anything that good in years. His hands pressed your thighs open wider, thumbs digging into your skin just enough to anchor you down.

“Fuck,” he hissed, licking again. “You taste so good. Sweet and messy. Like you need this.”

You could only moan in response.

He licked you again, deeper now—his tongue flattening against your clit, then circling it, slow and deliberate, like he was memorising the shape of your pleasure.

“You’ve been so patient,” he murmured, voice muffled by your skin. “So good for me. Gonna make you come with my mouth, baby. Gonna show you what it feels like to be taken care of.”

You whimpered, grabbing at the couch cushions behind you. His tongue dragged through your folds again, and then he sucked your clit gently between his lips. You cried out, the sound shameful and wet and desperate, and Bucky didn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

He moaned against your pussy like he was drunk on you. Like the taste of you was better than any high he’d ever known.

And then his fingers joined the party.

He slipped one inside you, then two, curling them up slowly until he found that devastating spot that made your back arch and your breath shatter.

“Right there,” he said softly, lips still brushing your clit. “That’s the one, isn’t it?”

You sobbed his name again, your thighs clamping around his head, and he loved it—loved the way you clung to him, trembled under his mouth.

His metal hand stroked along your belly, pressing gently to hold you down, while his flesh hand fucked into you perfectly, curling and thrusting in slow, rhythmic pulses. His tongue circled your clit faster, teasing and stroking in time with his fingers.

You were shaking. So close.

And he knew it.

“I want you to come in my mouth,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want to feel it. Want you to fall apart for me, baby. You deserve it. Let go.”

Your body locked up, a sob catching in your throat—and then the wave hit.

You came hard, gushing around his fingers, hips rolling helplessly as Bucky moaned into your pussy and kept licking you through it. You gripped his hair, gasping his name over and over, your vision swimming as your orgasm ripped through you.

He didn’t stop until you begged him to.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were glistening, chin slick with you, and he looked—wrecked. Like he’d loved every second.

He kissed your thigh again. Then your belly. Then made his way slowly, reverently, up your body until he hovered over you on the couch, brushing your hair out of your face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and hoarse.

You nodded, utterly wrecked, and whispered, “That was… insane.”

He smiled softly. “Good.”

You blinked up at him. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

He smirked, lowering himself beside you, pulling you into his chest. “Guess I’ve had a little practice.”

You laughed, breathless, and curled into him as his arm wrapped around you.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

You didn’t need to.

Bucky didn’t let go of you.

Even after your breathing slowed and the tremors in your thighs faded to a gentle hum, his arm remained snug around your waist, metal hand curled protectively over your ribs. He kissed the top of your head like it was instinct, like your body belonged nestled into the cradle of his chest.

You didn’t speak.

Neither of you needed to.

The soft flicker of the Netflix menu glowed faintly in the dim apartment light, casting shadows across his face—the sharp cut of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest, still bare. You traced the faint lines of his scars with your eyes, the soft pink trail over his pec, the metal glint of his shoulder. He caught you looking, but didn’t flinch this time.

“I meant it,” you said softly, fingers brushing over the curve of his collarbone. “You’re beautiful.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking to yours. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

His jaw flexed. “Because I don’t deserve—” He stopped and closed his eyes.

You watched the hesitation flicker across his face—the way vulnerability settled into the crease between his brows. He looked younger like this. Softer. Sadder.

You touched his cheek gently. “Maybe, for once, you deserve something that feels good.”

He closed his eyes like he didn’t know how to accept it. But he didn’t pull away either. He leaned into your palm, lashes brushing your wrist.

“Stay,” he said suddenly, so low it almost didn’t reach your ears. “Just for a little while. You don’t have to talk. Just… stay.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

He exhaled softly, the sound brushing against your temple. His fingers traced up and down your arm in slow, soothing lines, and you let yourself melt into the warmth of his body—the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the safe, heavy weight of his arm around you.

The buzz of the city beyond the windows faded. The silence between you felt full instead of empty. A pause, not a distance.

Your eyes drifted shut before you could stop them.

And then there you were—your legs tangled over his, your cheek pressed to his chest, and Bucky holding you like he didn’t ever want to let you go.

He watched you for a long time.

Watched the little tremble in your lashes as you fell asleep, the faint parting of your lips, the way your hand stayed pressed flat against his skin like you needed the contact to stay grounded.

He didn’t sleep at first. He just lay there, heart thudding painfully slow, wondering how the hell he was going to survive the next lesson. The last one. The one that might break him.

Because pretending it didn’t mean anything?

That it was just practice?

Was starting to feel like the biggest lie either of you had ever told.

──── ୨୧ ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: in comments due to taglist limit

Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!):

@sebastians-love @sweetserendipity65 @sangsterizada @mrsalexstan @alpinescoowner @buckyslqve @morganfullaaa @moonlight-sonata99 @sflame15-blog @rapturousfrog @parkerslivia @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @wickedfun9 @daisynotquake @arosewithpower @buckysgirl27 @loki-licious-945ad @dearluuna @riot-sounds @ang0320 @solarperpetua @julesandgems @yes-ilovetowrite @redh00dsbf @alicetesser @loyaltyistoxic @sailorsenshiuranep @yessebastianstanus @poshpinklace @joaquinsgirl @thornsofvelvet @miss-chuchu @xamapolax @avivarougestan @justalittle47 @nutella-hitler @ifilwtmfc @loverofdrewstarkey @cxiiv0 @pivictorious @gummy-dummy @avatarobsessedgirly @buckybarneswife125 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @jadevoir @thisismy-usernamee @loganficsonly @justalittle47 @xamapolax @vroomvroommbtch @peanutbutt3rcup — taglist continued in comments due to limit reach<3

[mandoalorian]

Lessons in love… wow what can I say? let’s just say I am awe-struck with how talented you are