Mor (Bucky’s doll)

You’re halfway through your cup of coffee when you finally notice the decorations.

They’re subtle, but unmistakable: a banner of tiny red hearts strung between two overhead beams in the Tower lounge, a glittery centerpiece awkwardly jammed into the vase of always-dying flowers, and — most ridiculous of all — a massive glass bowl sitting on the counter, filled to the brim with pastel conversation hearts.

You cock your head, squinting at the crooked placement of a foam “Be Mine” sign stuck behind it.

“Bob,” you mutter, amused.

You drift closer, fingertips brushing the rim of the bowl. You can’t help it — you pluck a candy heart from the pile. It’s cracked down the middle, faded text barely readable: “TOO HOT”.

A quiet huff of laughter slips out. Figures.

You pop it in your mouth, immediately regretting it. Chalky, dry, artificial watermelon maybe?

“You’re gonna break a tooth on those,” comes a voice behind you.

You turn.

Bucky’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded, black T-shirt clinging to his chest, hair just barely tied back like he gave up halfway through doing it. He looks tired. Still gorgeous. And he’s watching you like he always does — like he’s taking inventory of every blink, every shift of your expression, every bite you take.

“Then I’ll sue Bob,” you grin, crunching the candy loudly between your teeth. “Emotional damages too.”

One of his eyebrows lifts. “I’ll back you up.”

He’s smiling faintly, but there’s something behind his eyes — something flickering and unsure.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The peace doesn’t last.

First it’s Ava, slinking into the lounge like she’s just here for coffee but can’t resist muttering, “Jesus Christ. Did Cupid vomit in here?”

Then John shows up, dead silent, just nodding once in acknowledgment before taking a chair and popping candy hearts one by one like they’re punishment. Yelena trails in behind him, eyeing the decorations like they’ve personally offended her, and yet somehow she finds the glitter cannon Bob left behind and fires it into the ceiling.

But it’s Alexei who truly sets things off.

He barrels into the lounge with his usual booming energy and zero sense of subtlety. His coat is already off, tossed haphazardly onto a random chair. There’s a platter of pink-frosted cookies in his hands — store-bought, slightly smushed — and a proud grin on his face like he’s just saved the day.

“We are having a party!” he declares.

Bucky, who’s still leaning by the door like he might bolt at any second, stiffens visibly.

“A what?” you ask, trying not to laugh.

“A Valentine’s Day party! For the team! Because we are all sad and emotionally repressed!” Alexei plants the cookie tray on the counter beside the candy hearts. “Except you two.” He waves vaguely in your direction, then turns to the rest. “But the rest of us—pathetic! Tonight, we drink. We dance. We suffer together.”

You bite back a smile, glancing at Bucky.

He looks...betrayed.

“We don’t have to do this, right?” he mutters under his breath, low enough that only you catch it.

“I dunno,” you whisper, nudging his arm. “You might have to suffer.”

His gaze drops to you. The corners of his mouth twitch. But there’s still that flicker of something in his expression — an edge of discomfort he’s trying to mask.

As Alexei launches into a loud, rambling breakdown of how the evening will go (“Drinks at 7. Karaoke at 8. Tearful confessions by 10. Maybe brawl by 11.”), Bucky leans closer to you.

“This is gonna be a disaster,” he mutters.

But he hasn’t moved. And he’s still standing close. Close enough that your shoulder brushes his.

And when you glance up at him, you could swear — just for a second — he looks like he’s trying not to smile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You’ve never seen this many shades of red in one room.

The Tower lounge has been fully transformed. Red string lights buzz weakly above, casting everything in a warm but suspicious glow. Yelena found yet another glitter cannon. Heart-shaped confetti is everywhere. No, really. Everywhere. You’ve found it on the couch, in your boots, in Bucky’s hair.

He still hasn’t forgiven you for laughing at that.

Bob’s responsible for the music. A full playlist blaring from a cheap Bluetooth speaker tucked behind a plant. So far, it’s been three power ballads, one 90s breakup anthem, and something that might’ve been a Skrillex remix of “My Heart Will Go On.”

John’s in the corner playing darts with candy hearts and looking vaguely like he wishes this were a mission. Yelena’s nursing a drink and watching everything with amused disapproval. Ava is somehow beating Alexei at drunken arm-wrestling, and he’s demanding a rematch.

“I was distracted by your devastatingly beautiful aura,” he cries. “Start over!”

You and Bucky are huddled near the snack table, caught somewhere between observer and participant. You can feel the tension in his body — like he’s waiting for something to explode. Possibly himself.

You nudge a glittery glass toward him. “Drink?”

“I’m not drinking anything that sparkles,” he mutters, eyeing the pink cocktail with deep suspicion.

You’re grinning. “You survived Hydra. You can survive Bob’s Cupid Cosmo.”

He looks down at you, faintly exasperated, faintly fond. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

Another song kicks in — something cheesy, something undeniably romantic — and suddenly Alexei’s yelling, “DANCE TIME!” while dragging Yelena toward the cleared space in the middle of the room that apparently now qualifies as a dance floor.

Bucky winces. “I vote we leave.”

You laugh, catching his wrist when he turns. “You sure you don’t wanna dance?”

He freezes at the touch. Looks at you.

You expect another dry, sarcastic reply. But instead — something flickers in his expression. His gaze softens. His jaw tics.

“I was actually gonna ask you that later,” he says quietly.

Your heart skips.

But then he clears his throat, looking away.

“Before all this,” he adds, vaguely gesturing toward Alexei, who is now trying to convince Bob to do a trust fall.

You smile slowly. “You still can, y’know.”

He meets your eyes again — and this time, he doesn’t look away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You catch the shift before you fully register it.

One second, Bucky’s at your side — stoic, twitchy, sipping a drink he still insists he doesn’t like. The next?

Gone.

No word. No sound. Just…missing.

You blink. Glance toward the door. He’s not there. You frown, scanning the room.

Where the hell did he go?

You’re just about to excuse yourself to find him when a very large arm hooks around your shoulders and hauls you backward into a chest that smells like cologne, cookies, and chaos.

“THERE YOU ARE!” Alexei bellows. “We need one more person or the game doesn’t work!”

You're pulled toward the couch, where Bob is giggling over a deck of novelty cards, Yelena is watching with narrowed eyes like she's calculating which limb to break first, and John Walker is already regretting every life decision that led him to this moment.

“What even is this?” you ask warily.

Bob beams. “It’s a team-building Valentine’s Day icebreaker! I got it at the pop-up in the street!”

Yelena snorts. “You mean the one with the discount lingerie display and the chocolate lube samples?”

Ava shrugs. “Love takes many forms.”

“I want a refund,” John mutters.

Alexei throws a fuzzy red heart pillow at him. “No refunds! Only romance! Now—circle up!”

You hesitate, casting one last look toward the hallway where Bucky vanished. But Alexei’s already dragging you down between Ava and Bob, and someone puts a pink boa around your neck for reasons unknown. Yelena is now holding a card that says, in aggressive glitter script: “TRUTH OR DARE, LOVEBIRDS.”

“Dare.” John sighs.

“I dare you,” Yelena declares, with far too much glee, “to eat a candy heart off Ava’s boot.”

Ava doesn’t even blink. She kicks her leg onto the coffee table and drops a green heart dead center. It says “LUV U.”

You nearly choke laughing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alexei is on the floor by now — possibly asleep, possibly preparing to recite Russian poetry to the couch cushions. Yelena has a crown of confetti on her head like she’s been anointed Queen of the Bullshit. Bob has started humming the Titanic theme in the background. No one knows why.

You feel it.

A shift in the air. A tug on your awareness.

You glance up.

Bucky’s back.

He’s hovering near the edge of the lounge — not in the doorway, but not quite inside either. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like he’s been thinking too hard about something. His hands are in his pockets. His jaw tight. But when his eyes meet yours, something softens.

You’re already half-rising when he makes his way to you. No one else seems to notice.

He leans in close, his voice barely above a murmur beneath the laughter and shouting.

“Hey. Can I—” He hesitates, gaze flicking to the group, then back to you. “Can I steal you?”

Your heart flips.

He looks nervous. And serious. Like this matters to him more than he wants to admit.

You nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

He steps back, just enough for you to rise, and you follow him out of the lounge — leaving behind the noise, the glitter, and Alexei’s loud snoring.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The moment the door to your quarters swings open, you know something’s different.

The lights are off, but it isn’t dark. Soft candlelight flickers from within, golden and warm, casting shadows across the walls and pooling on the floor like spilled honey.

Your breath catches as you spot them.

Rose petals.

A trail of them, scattered with delicate care from the entryway to the bedroom, and beyond. Reds and pinks and a few white ones too, like he couldn’t decide on a colour scheme and gave up halfway through.

You step forward slowly, heart rising into your throat. Bucky stays behind you — close enough to feel the weight of his presence, but not touching.

Like he’s letting you take it in first. Letting you decide.

You follow the petal path into the bedroom.

Oh.

It’s glowing.

More candles line the windowsill, the dresser, the nightstand. Their light dances on the walls, glimmering over the sheets, over the floor, until it leads to the bathroom.

Steam fogs the glass, the door cracked open just enough to spill the warm scent of vanilla and something deeper — woodsy, grounding. You ease it open with trembling fingers.

And there it is.

The tub is full, bubbling gently, lit from all sides by more candlelight. There are more rose petals floating on the surface. A bottle  and two glasses sit nearby. The air is warm, inviting, private. A little dreamy. A little unreal.

You turn slowly, and he’s right there.

Bucky’s jaw is tight, his arms loose at his sides like he’s ready to bolt if you don’t say something soon. He won’t meet your eyes — not yet. He looks like a soldier bracing for orders he knows he won’t like.

“I didn’t know how to do this,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t sure what would feel right. Or...too much. Or not enough. I just—” His voice breaks off. He shrugs. “I wanted to try.”

You just stare at him for a beat, chest tightening around your ribs.

“Oh, Bucky,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up.

You take a step closer. Then another. Until you’re close enough to reach out, press your palm flat to his chest, feel the heartbeat underneath.

“This is amazing.”

Finally he breathes. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

When his hand comes up to cradle your cheek, it’s warm — not just from the heat of the room, but from him. Rough fingertips brush along your jaw, thumb tracing just below your lip as if committing it to memory. Like he might forget what it feels like if he doesn’t touch it now.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

The kiss starts soft.

Not shy. Just...steady. Grounding. His lips against yours with purpose and patience, not claiming you like a man starving — but savouring you like he finally has time. Like this is the first Valentine’s he’s ever let himself have. Ever let himself want.

You lean into it. Let it stretch long and quiet. Let it deepen with the sound of his sigh against your mouth.

When you pull back, his forehead presses to yours.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he whispers.

His fingers slide over the hem of your shirt. He lifts it gently, eyes tracking every inch of skin revealed as though he’s unwrapping something rare.

You let him.

His hands don’t tremble — they linger. Over your hips. Along your ribs. He kneels briefly to help you out of your pants, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee on the way back up, like it’s instinct.

And then you do the same.

You slowly tug his shirt up and over his head. Feel his chest rise with each breath. Run your palms down the curve of his arms — his flesh one, his metal one — feeling him all the way down.

He watches you undress him like he can’t believe it’s real.

And then there you are. Both of you. Bare to the candlelight. To the steam rising from the bath.

To each other.

His voice is low when he speaks again, almost reverent. “You still sure?”

You nod, throat thick. “Always.”

He reaches for your hand.

“Then come in with me.”

The tub welcomes you with a sigh of steam, skin slipping into the heat as Bucky settles behind you, pulling you into the cradle of his thighs.

His arms find your waist. Your hips. You lean back against him, and for a moment, it’s quiet — just the sound of water shifting around your bodies, candlelight flickering along the tile, and the steady rhythm of his breath against your neck.

But his hands don’t stay still.

They wander.

Slowly. Reverently. One calloused palm slides up your stomach, under the surface, until he’s cupping you — thumb just grazing the underside of your breast, while his lips press to the place where your neck meets your shoulder.

You arch slightly, back pressing to his chest.

“This okay?” he murmurs, voice low and rough in your ear.

You nod, humming softly.

His vibranium hand slides down, curling around your thigh beneath the water. His thumb strokes gently along the inside — then firmer. Higher.

Your breath hitches.

“You feel that?” he whispers, mouth grazing your jaw now. “How warm you are for me?”

He shifts behind you, adjusting just enough to slide your legs open further between his — cradling you in his lap like something to be unraveled.

His fingers are a study in restraint.

They stroke gently at first, grazing between your thighs, dipping just enough to make you whimper — then retreating. Over and over. A tormenting rhythm beneath the water, made worse by the fact that you can’t see anything.

You can only feel him.

“You’re squirming,” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough, full of dark amusement. “You that needy for it already, doll?”

Your hips twitch in answer.

He presses a kiss just beneath your ear. “You gonna come like this? In the water? Just from my fingers?”

But you don’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, you shift.

You reach for the rim of the tub with one hand, the other bracing against his chest, and slowly — deliberately — you rise onto your knees, turning in the water until you’re facing him.

Until you’re straddling his lap, skin flushed from heat and arousal and the way his jaw goes slack when he realizes what you’re doing.

His hands catch your hips. Hard.

“You—”

“You’ve been teasing me,” you murmur, mouth ghosting over his. “I think it’s my turn.”

He swallows hard. “Fuck.”

You settle into his lap, slow and sure, grinding against the hard length of him under the water. The way he groans — low and guttural, like the sound’s been building in his chest all night — makes your toes curl.

Candlelight dances off his cheekbones. Steam curls in his hair. His eyes stay locked on yours like he’s trying to memorize every second.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

The water moves with you, rippling around your thighs as you roll your hips in his lap — teasing him, torturing him, making him feel just how ready you are.

His grip on your hips tightens.

“You keep doing that,” he growls, “and I’m not gonna last long enough to take my time.”

You lean in, lips brushing his as you whisper, “Then don’t.”

That’s all it takes.

One hand braces under your thigh while the other slips between you both — lining himself up, eyes locked on yours like a vow. And then he’s there. Pressing into you.

Slow. Thick. Deep.

You moan — more like a gasp, like your whole body stutters at the stretch of him. His head falls back, mouth parted, jaw clenched like he’s trying to hold on by a thread.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You feel…so fuckin’ good.”

You settle fully onto him, hips grinding down, water sloshing up the sides of the tub. Candlelight flickers wildly, casting your silhouettes in gold.

Then you start to move.

Your hands grip his shoulders. His slide down your back, your waist, everywhere. Every glide of your hips sends another groan from his throat, every clench around him earns you a muttered curse, a praise, a plea.

“Look at you,” he whispers, eyes glazed and reverent. “Look at you riding me like you own me.”

And you do.

Right now, in this bath, in this moment — he’s yours.

He meets your rhythm, rising to meet every thrust, every roll, fingers splayed across your back as he gasps against your mouth.

“Gonna come, baby. You’re gonna come for me first, yeah? Wanna feel you lose it around me—wanna feel how pretty you sound when you fall apart.”

And when your body gives in — heat flooding, pulse stuttering, thighs trembling around him — he holds you through it.

Then he follows.

With a broken sound and a kiss that says thank you.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He helps you out of the tub with slow, careful hands.

There’s no rush anymore. Just quiet. Steam still clinging to the air, your limbs loose with afterglow, your heart beating like it’s been kissed from the inside out.

He wraps you in a towel first — pressing it gently to your skin, drying you with reverent strokes. Then one for himself. Then he scoops you into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

No teasing. No smugness.

Just Bucky.

Soft-eyed, silent, carrying you down the petal trail he made himself.

The bed is already turned down. The sheets are warm from the room’s glow. He lays you there like you’re made of something fragile and priceless, then slips in beside you — pulling the blanket up, tucking you in, wrapping himself around you like a shield.

Your back pressed to his chest. His hand flat against your stomach. His nose tucked into the curve of your neck, still damp hair brushing your skin.

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then—

“I didn’t know if I could do it right,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Valentine’s. All of it. I didn’t even know if I should.”

You turn in his arms, facing him. Your hand rests against his chest, over the slow, steady thud of his heart.

“You did it right,” you whisper. “You do every day.”

His eyes shine in the candlelight.

He leans forward. Kisses your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your lips — slow and sure and sleepy.

And when he pulls back, he doesn’t let you go.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, breath warm against your skin.

“Happy first of many,” you whisper back. “I love you, Buck.”

The smell of coffee is what pulls you from the bedroom. That, and the faint sizzle of something on the stove. Your bare feet pad softly across the hardwood, sunlight slanting through the windows and catching on the hem of his shirt — his shirt — hanging loose and low on your body. The collar hangs wide, exposing your shoulder. No pants. Just warm skin and last night’s glow.

In the kitchen, Bucky’s already up. Shirtless. Hair a lazy mess, barely shoved back off his face. There’s music playing low from his phone on the counter — something bluesy and old-school. He’s focused, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other, sweatpants slung dangerously low. You could eat him for breakfast.

“Morning, baby,” he drawls, voice still rough from sleep. “Made your coffee just the way you like it.”

He nods at a steaming cup on the kitchen island. But instead, you move closer to him. Quiet. You step up behind him and slide your arms around his waist, press a soft kiss between his shoulder blades.

“Thanks, lover boy,” you murmur, lips brushing warm skin.

He stops. Completely.

You feel it instantly — the way his whole body goes still under your touch. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just…short-circuits. Like someone yanked the plug on him mid-motion.

“Bucky?” you mumble against his back, half-smiling, unaware of the bomb you just dropped.

He clears his throat. Tries to recover. “Yeah. Yep. Eggs are, uh…they’re almost done.”

You peek around him.

Sure enough, one hand’s still holding the spatula over the pan — though the eggs are now bordering on crispy. His jaw is tight. His eyes, when he finally cuts you a glance over his shoulder, are dark.

But he’s holding it together. Just barely.

“You okay?”

“Peachy.” He turns back to the stove with a tight smile. “Just…didn’t expect that.”

You tilt your head. “What, breakfast?”

He lets out a breathy laugh — more a groan if you’re honest. “No. That thing you called me.”

“What thing?” you say innocently, moving toward the kitchen island to slide onto the stool.

“You know what.”

You rest your chin on your hand. Bat your lashes.

“Lover boy?”

CRACK.

He drops the spatula. You bite back a laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, leaning down to retrieve it. His ears are red. His hands are gripping the counter like they owe him money.

You sip your coffee — made exactly the way you like it, just how he always does — and grin into the rim of the mug.

“You’re so easy to break in the mornings,” you say softly.

His eyes meet yours again — this time, slowly.

“Keep testing me, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Breakfast’s gonna be the second thing I devour.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You walk into the grocery store, hand nestled in the crook of his arm. He’s in full don’t-look-at-me mode — hoodie up, sunglasses on, jaw set like he’s ready to duck and bolt. He hates the risk of being recognized, especially when you’re with him. Protective to a fault. But you’d both agreed it’d be a quick run — milk, bread, a few snacks — nothing flashy.

He keeps close, always between you and anyone else in the aisle, scanning like a bodyguard and a boyfriend rolled into one.

You reach up on tiptoe to grab a box from the top shelf — and he takes it from you without a word. Tosses it in the basket. Keeps moving.

“Thanks, lover boy,” you murmur under your breath.

He stops dead.

One hand tightens on the basket handle. His head doesn’t turn — but you see the shift in his body, the way his jaw clenches, shoulders square. Like the word hit him in the spine.

You bite your lip, pretending to study a row of pasta.

“Did you just—” His voice is low, quiet, edged with disbelief.

“I said—” You turn with a sweet smile. "—thank you, lover boy.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Like he’s trying to blow out the fuse you just lit.

“You’re gonna make me lose my mind,” he mutters, following you down the aisle like a man headed for the gallows.

“You’re doing great,” you whisper, voice sugar-sweet as you glance back. “Very composed. Very famous-rockstar-trying-not-to-murder-his-girlfriend-in-a-grocery-store.”

“Keep talking like that,” he growls, “and you’re not making it to checkout. I’ll bend you over the trunk in the parking lot.”

You smirk. “Promises, promises.”

He groans. “You are insufferable.”

But you see it — feel it — the way his eyes darken, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s turned on. Wound tight. And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Not here. Not yet.

So you lean up and whisper, right against his ear, “Behave...”

And then you walk off toward the checkout like nothing happened. You don’t need to look back to know he’s following.

He unloads the basket with perfect control. Places the bread gently. Sets the eggs down like they’re precious. He’s fighting for his life with every item.

You lean against the checkout counter, one hip cocked, looking at gum flavors like it’s the most riveting part of your day. Every now and then, you hum a little tune. Innocent. Sweet. Deadly.

He knows what you're doing.

You wait until he’s sliding a frozen pizza onto the belt, and that’s when you do it.

“Need any help, lover boy?”

His shoulders visibly tense. The pizza slaps onto the belt.

“Stop it,” he mutters.

“Stop what?”

He glares at the gum. “You know what.”

You step a little closer, let your hand ghost along the hem of his hoodie.

“You’re being very grumpy. Need some help?”

“You wanna get fucked on the hood of the car in the parking lot?”

The words come out low. Dangerous. Barely audible. Like a threat wrapped in velvet.

Your eyes go wide.

Then the cashier calls out, “Next!” and you step forward like nothing happened.

Bucky follows, dead silent — like a man holding a bomb in his mouth.

You bag a few items. Smile sweetly at the teen behind the counter. Bucky taps his card, signs with the flair of a pissed-off rockstar.

You grab the last bag. “Thanks for the help, lover boy.”

He turns around so fast, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

“I swear to God—”

You cut him off with a look. Wide-eyed. Playful. Defiant. He groans so loud it echoes across the front of the store. Shoves his sunglasses back on.

“You are so dead when we get home.”

But his ears? Bright red.

You walk alongside him with a grin. “Can’t wait.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You’re putting away the last box of pasta when you feel it — the heat of his body right behind you. Not touching. Just hovering.

Like he’s waiting. Like he’s plotting.

You hum to yourself, trying to play it off.

“That wasn’t so bad,” you murmur, sliding the box into the cabinet. “Got most of what we needed.”

No response.

You shift to reach for the produce bag and—

A hand slams down on the counter beside you.

The sound makes you jump. He’s still behind you. Still not touching. But his voice is low.

“You think you’re funny, huh?”

You blink. “What?”

“‘Lover boy,’” he growls. “In public. Where I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

You swallow. Slowly turn. “You’re still mad about that?”

His mouth twitches — not a smile. A warning. Then he takes a single step closer.

You’re backed against the counter now, cornered between the fridge and the sink. Your breath catches.

“You know what I wanted to do to you?” he rasps. “Right there? On top of that checkout counter?”

“Let me guess—” you start.

“No.” His finger lifts. Presses to your lips. “No more talking.”

He leans in, breath hot against your cheek. His other hand snakes up your thigh, slow and possessive.

“Strip. Right here. Kitchen. Now.”

You blink.

“The groceries—”

He kisses your jaw. “They can wait.”

You hesitate for half a second — and he’s already pulling your shirt over your head.

Groceries forgotten. Fridge still open.

And Bucky?

It’s late in Professor Barnes’ office.

The overhead fluorescents are off — thank gods — and the only light comes from the heavy desk lamp, its amber glow casting long, liquid shadows across the room. The glass panes of the window behind him are pitch black now, reflecting the scene like a mirror: two mugs gone cold, a mess of essays and red pens, and the sharp edge of something unspoken pressing in on all sides.

His office smells like paper, worn leather, and the faint trace of his cologne — something woodsy and expensive that lingers in the fabric of the chair, in the air between you. You can hear the soft tick of his wristwatch when it’s quiet, the occasional groan of the building’s old heating system. It feels like you’re in a world outside time.

Your legs are curled up in the armchair across from him, one ankle bouncing lazily. Feigned disinterest. The stack of freshman essays in your lap is half-covered in clean red slashes and sarcastic margin notes. Your pen taps lightly against your lower lip as you read — then you pause, smirk curling.

“You know,” you murmur, not looking up, “your grading rubric is a mess.”

You hear the slow rustle of fabric before his voice. He shifts in the leather chair behind the desk — the one that makes him look far too comfortable in his power — and glances up, one brow raised.

He’s leaning back, legs spread like he owns the space. Top two buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Ink smudges near his knuckles. Hair mussed just enough to look like he’s run his fingers through it too many times tonight — or maybe like someone else did, once.

“Is that so?” he asks, voice rich and unimpressed.

You nod, still scribbling a quick margin note. Your tone is casual, but your mouth can’t hide the edge of your grin. “Completely outdated. You’re penalizing structure over argument strength, and half these citations are in MLA instead of APA. They’re freshmen. Ease up.”

There’s a pause. You glance up, just in time to see that slow, amused lift of his brow. A flicker of something darker in his gaze.

“Funny,” he says, voice low and smooth. “Didn’t realize I asked for commentary on my teaching.”

You smile — sweet and venomous. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

That earns it. A low chuckle, dark and throaty. You feel it like a ripple across your skin. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on you — too focused for this late at night. For a conversation about citations and freshmen who can’t format a paper to save their lives.

“You’ve been mouthing off all semester,” he says, voice pitched just a little lower.

It’s not accusatory. Not really. It’s observational. Quiet. Intent.

Like he’s been cataloguing it.

Your eyes flick up from the paper in your lap.

His gaze is pinned to you — not in that vague, detached way professors sometimes look at students while they talk, already half-thinking about their next meeting. No. This look is anchored. Focused. There’s a weight behind it that steals a fraction of your breath.

A pulse skips in your throat.

You don’t speak at first. You just study him, pen still against your lip, feigning thought.

He’s sitting forward now, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped like he’s in no rush. Like he’s letting the words sit there. Letting you sit in them.

It would be easier to roll your eyes. Or crack a joke.

But something in the way he’s watching you — steady, dark — makes your mouth go dry for half a second.

You blink. Recover. Let the grin return.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so easy to rile,” you say lightly, flicking your pen once before setting it against the margin of a half-assed freshman thesis.

There. Challenge issued. You hear it. So does he. 

His jaw shifts — subtle — and then he stands.

Not abruptly. Not with frustration. But slow, like he’s thought about this. Like this exact move has been building for weeks. The slow scrape of his chair against the floorboards might as well be thunder in your ears.

You don’t move. You watch.

He walks around the desk — measured, quiet — until he’s behind you. The warmth of him presses closer with every step, and your body goes still in the chair before you even register it.

Your fingers flex against the paper.

The chair creaks as he places one hand against the back of it — the other lifting, brushing your hair back from your shoulder with the backs of his fingers. Not overt. Not aggressive. Just enough contact to raise goosebumps beneath your blouse.

His knuckles graze bare skin. You inhale — not sharp, not shaky, but aware. Hyperaware.

You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat. You wonder if he likes that you went still.

His mouth is near your ear before you even realize how close he’s gotten.

And when he speaks?

It’s not just heat you feel.

It’s command.

“Careful,” he breathes. “Keep mouthing off…” His fingers trail down, curl around the arm of the chair. “…and I’ll bend you over this desk right now.”

You don’t speak.

Not with his mouth that close. Not with his voice still echoing in your skin.

You’re trying — gods, you’re trying — to stay still, stay smart, stay above it.

But the second his fingers had curled around the arm of your chair — slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world — you felt something shift inside you. Like gravity tilting. Like something important sliding just out of reach.

You don’t turn your head. Not yet. But your eyes flick toward the edge of your vision, where you can feel him behind you. Looming. Warm. Dangerous in a way no professor should ever be.

The silence stretches. Long. Weighted.

His fingertips begin to trail along the wood of the chair. Not quite touching you — but close enough that your nerve endings start misfiring anyway. You’re suddenly aware of every inch of skin beneath your blouse. The way your thighs are pressed together. The way your breath catches on the inhale and stutters just slightly on the release.

You hate that he probably heard it.

He hasn’t moved. Still close. Still waiting. Like he’s daring you to speak again.

To sass. To tease. To give him the excuse.

Your eyes close — just for a second. A beat. And then you turn your head.

Just slightly. Just enough for your cheek to almost brush his. Enough to catch the outline of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the barest hint of ink staining the knuckle near his thumb.

Your voice is soft this time. Not playful. Not mocking. But low. Provocative. Dangerous.

“Is that a threat, Professor?”

You feel him smile. Not a big one. Just the slow, amused curl of his lips near your temple.

“No,” he murmurs. “It’s a promise.”

And this time, he doesn’t pull back.

His other hand lifts, fingers brushing beneath your chin, tilting your face just slightly — not enough to kiss, not quite. Just enough to look at you.

To see the way your lashes flutter. To watch your breath catch again.

To show you he’s been waiting.

Waiting for this.

Your lips part — not from shock, not from fear — but from the thrill of it.

That promise. That hand on your chin. The way he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined how you’ll sound when you finally crack.

He’s so close now. You can feel the heat of him. The restraint. The tension thrumming through his body like a held breath.

You lean in just enough that your breath brushes his cheek.

“Well,” you murmur, voice like silk and static, “it’s a good thing you don’t scare me.”

Silence. Hot. Immediate. Sharp.

The words land like a slap wrapped in velvet.

You feel it in his body — the way his chest stills, the way the fingers at your chin tighten ever so slightly, how his jaw ticks once in response. Controlled. Barely. Like a man counting to ten with teeth clenched.

He laughs. Low. Dark. Quiet.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he breathes, almost to himself. “That’s your mistake.”

He hooks his fingers fully under your chin. Stronger now. More deliberate. He angles your face fully toward his, and this time there’s no tease in his eyes. No playful glint. Just intent.

“You should be scared,” he says softly.

His thumb brushes your bottom lip. Lingers there. Watches the way your breath hitches and your pupils dilate. Watches the way your mouth opens just enough — not to speak, but to dare.

“You’ve been testing me for weeks. Every class. Every office hour. Every smug little smirk…”

He leans in until your noses nearly brush. His breath is warm. Heavy.

“…and now you’re gonna find out what happens when I finally stop being nice.”

The hand on the chair slides down — slow and possessive — to your shoulder, then the curve of your neck, then your waist. He grips it, firm, and starts to pull you up, out of the chair, like it’s already decided.

Like he’s done waiting.

Your breath hitches as your lower lip tugs between your teeth.

His grip on your waist tightens — just enough to make you gasp, not out of fear but from the sheer command of it.

He pulls you to your feet like you weigh nothing. One fluid motion. One decisive act. The chair creaks in protest behind you as it’s abandoned, spinning gently as you’re drawn forward, off balance, right into his space.

Your thighs bump the edge of the desk — papers scattering, pens rolling — and he doesn’t stop moving.

“Up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough against your ear.

You don’t hesitate. Not anymore.

The desk is cool beneath your thighs as you slide up, perched just at the edge, legs instinctively parting as he steps between them. And gods — when he does? It’s like the heat of him slams into you full force. Your knees bracket his hips. His hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider. Palms dragging slowly over the fabric of your slacks, the curve of your knees, the inside of your thighs.

Exploring. Claiming.

Your breath catches as his mouth lowers — not to kiss — but to hover, barely grazing your throat. You feel his stubble, feel the warm puff of air as he exhales hard against your skin.

One hand slides under your blouse — warm fingers grazing up your ribcage, pushing fabric aside, seeking skin like he’s cataloging you now, memorizing the arch of your back, the way your breath skips again when his thumb brushes under the edge of your bra.

You don’t stop him. You can’t.

Your hands brace behind you on the desk, fingers curling against the wood, legs tightening slightly around him as he crowds in closer. His mouth finally touches your throat — really touches — and you feel his lips part, teeth grazing your pulse point.

He hums. Low. Dangerous.

“So fucking mouthy,” he mutters against your skin. “Always have to have the last word, don’t you?”

His hand slides higher. Cups your breast. Squeezes, just enough to make your hips jolt against him.

“You think this is a game?”

You open your mouth — but whatever retort you had dies instantly when he thumbs your nipple through the fabric, firm and sudden, and your head tips back with a soft, involuntary moan. He laughs against your neck.

His mouth begins to work at your throat — lips warm, breath ragged, every brush of stubble a taunt. He nips lightly at the base of your neck, and when you suck in a breath, his tongue soothes the mark like he meant to do it all along.

Then his fingers find the buttons of your blouse.

You feel the first one slip free — a soft click, a tug of fabric, his knuckles grazing the skin beneath.

You freeze. Not in fear, but because something about that first button gives it weight. Like it signals permission. Descent. No going back now.

His hand moves to the next. And the next. Each one slower than the last.

“Still not scared?” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous against your pulse.

You don’t answer.

Because your heart is pounding and your thighs are tightening around his hips and all you can think is more.

Your blouse parts under his touch, sliding off your shoulders like silk surrender. You feel cool air hit your skin — then his hand, warm and sure, slipping beneath the loosened fabric to trace the top of your bra.

And all the while, his mouth keeps working your throat — lips dragging, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make your breath catch.

His other hand — the one still braced on your waist — begins to move downward.

You barely realize he’s sliding it over your stomach until his palm is pressing flat against the waistband of your slacks. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. Just presses there, fingers grazing the edge.

Then, with devastating precision, he pops the button open.

The sound is sharp in the quiet. Echoing.

Your hips jolt forward — just slightly, just enough — and he grins against your neck.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and hungry. “That’s what I thought.”

His fingers slip beneath the fabric now, brushing your lower belly, fingertips dancing just above the lace of your underwear. Not quite touching where you need him.

He’s waiting. For a sound. A plea. Maybe even another smartass remark.

Because this is the moment you burn for him. And he knows it.

It’s quiet in the office — the only sounds are your breath, the soft rasp of fabric shifting, the tick of his watch, and the wild, fluttering beat of your own heart in your throat.

One hand cups your breast through your bra, thumb brushing over the peak in maddening, lazy circles.

The other? Still hovering just inside your waistband, knuckles grazing lace but not slipping lower. Not yet.

He’s holding you there — waiting.

Like he needs one last push before the dam breaks.

And you give it to him. A breath. A whisper. Soft, almost unintentional.

“Bucky…”

His name. Not Professor Barnes. Not sir.

Bucky. The man beneath the title. The one who’s wanted this just as badly.

Everything stops. His hand stills. His mouth goes still. For half a second, he’s completely frozen — and then he groans. Low. Deep. Torn from somewhere in his chest like it caught him off guard.

“Fuck.”

His mouth crashes into yours. It’s not slow. Not careful. It’s messy, urgent, filthy — a claim more than a kiss.

His lips devour yours, tongue sliding deep, one hand fisting in your open blouse, yanking you closer like he can’t bear another inch of space.

Your slacks unzip with a hiss — smooth, practiced — and his fingers slip beneath the waistband like they’ve been aching to all night.

They find slick heat. Confirmation.

You moan into his mouth, and he growls against your lips.

“So fucking wet already,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to mutter the words against your jaw, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “That for me? Or just because you like mouthing off so much?”

His fingers dip lower, teasing just over your panties now, pressing just enough to make you gasp.

“‘Cause I’ll take either,” he rasps. “I don’t care if you want me soft or furious. I’ll fuck the attitude out of you either way.”

His mouth returns to yours — all tongue and teeth — as he pushes your blouse fully off your arms, letting it drop behind you on the desk.

Then he palms your breast again, rougher now, lips moving hot and filthy down your throat.

His mouth never leaves your skin as it roams lower, slower, teasing the line of your bra with lips and teeth as his fingers slip past the lace.

And when they finally press between your folds?

You whimper. Quiet, involuntary. Immediate.

“There it is,” he mutters, lips still working along the edge of your bra. “That’s the voice I’ve been waiting for.”

His fingers slide through your slick slowly, deliberately. He doesn’t stroke. Doesn’t thrust.

He just explores.

One fingertip drags up, circling your clit without pressure. The pad of another presses lower, nudging against your entrance but never sinking in.

He’s testing you.

Your hips shift. Instinctively chasing friction.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, his other hand tightening around your hip to pin you in place. “Don’t start getting greedy now.”

You try to glare — or maybe to tease — but it dies in your throat when he finally dips a finger inside. Just the tip. Just enough to make you gasp. Then he pulls out. Teases again.

It’s infuriating. It’s perfect.

His voice stays low. Steady. Like he’s still in lecture mode — just…filthier.

“I told myself I’d take my time with you,” he says, brushing his nose along the edge of your jaw, tongue flicking the shell of your ear. “That I’d learn what makes you gasp, what makes you writhe…”

Another stroke. Another press. Still no rhythm. Still no relief.

“…and what makes you beg.”

He pinches your nipple through your bra and you cry out — a breathy, desperate noise you don’t even recognize. He groans.

“Fuck, that’s good.”

He slides two fingers in just an inch deeper, curling, seeking. But still no speed. No tempo. Just teasing. Controlled. Merciless.

You can feel your body clenching around nothing, your muscles tightening with every brush of his knuckles, every light pass of his thumb near, but not on, your clit.

“Please…” you whisper.

He freezes. Then pulls back — just slightly — enough to look at you, eyes dark and intense.

“Please what?” he asks.

Oh, he knows. But he wants to hear it. Wants to etch it into memory.

“Please let me—”

He cuts you off with a sharp, amused exhale. Shakes his head. Smiles like sin.

“Oh no, sweetheart.”

He leans in, tongue licking into your mouth like a promise he won’t keep.

“You’re not coming,” he whispers. “Not yet. Not until I say so.”

And with that, he strokes you once — deep and slow — just to feel you clench.

Then he pulls his hand away completely.

He doesn’t rush. Of course he doesn’t.

Professor James Barnes is nothing if not methodical.

Even when he’s got your blouse tossed on the desk, your bra askew, your slacks halfway undone and your legs parted for him.

He starts with your throat again. Mouth dragging over skin, lips warm and open, tongue flicking softly before his teeth graze. You arch against him without thinking — a reflex — and he chuckles.

“Already squirming,” he mutters, breath against your collarbone. “And I haven’t even started.”

His hand palms your breast again, thumbing over the nipple as his mouth trails lower.

Across your chest. Down the curve of your ribcage. Every inch kissed, tasted, claimed.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, eyes hazy as you watch him descend — shirt sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, hair slightly mussed. He looks like a man unraveling, but everything he does is precise.

Teasing. Calculated.

“I’ve imagined this, you know,” he murmurs against your stomach. “You on my desk. Spread out like this. Those smart little comments finally shut up. Just gasping. Just trembling. Just mine.”

He tongues just beneath your navel, and you whimper. It earns a growl.

“Yeah. Like that.”

His hands slide to your hips — firm, demanding — and he kisses them, one side then the other, before mouthing along the edge of your waistband.

He leans back. His eyes flick up to meet yours and fuck, he looks wrecked. Jaw clenched. Breathing heavy. Barely holding it together.

“Lift your hips,” he says, voice sharp with restraint.

You obey.

He slides your slacks down your thighs slow — achingly slow — like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s waited too long to touch. The fabric catches at your knees, your ankles, before he finally pulls them off completely and tosses them somewhere behind him.

You’re in nothing but your bra and panties now. Still mostly on the desk. Still spread wide for him.

And Bucky?

The second your slacks are gone, he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for hours.

Then drops to his knees.

His eyes flick over you — slowly, reverently — from the curve of your thighs to the slick already soaking into your panties. You feel bare, even with the lace still clinging to you.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, voice gone ragged. “Look at you.”

He palms your knees gently, then drags his hands down the insides of your thighs — thumbs pressing into soft skin, spreading you wider. Guiding your legs over his shoulders like it’s routine. Like this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

His mouth moves in. But not where you want it. Not yet.

Instead, he starts kissing along your inner thigh — slow, open-mouthed drags of tongue and heat that leave your skin damp and burning. His stubble scrapes just enough to make you twitch. He grins against your skin every time you do.

You gasp when his lips brush the edge of your panties. He lingers there, breathing in, letting his nose nudge the fabric.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice low and filthy. “You smell so fucking sweet. Like you’re begging for it.”

He presses his mouth against the soaked spot — still over your underwear — and moans. Not just to tease. To feel your reaction. The way your hips buck. The sound that escapes your throat.

You feel the wet drag of his tongue along the lace and it makes your spine arch.

But still, he doesn’t pull them down. Doesn’t move them aside.

His fingers grip your thighs tighter as his tongue circles through the fabric, dragging over your clit just enough to make you gasp then pulling back before it becomes too much.

“Ohh,” he laughs darkly, lips still brushing your heat. “You wanna come so bad, don’t you?”

You nod, helpless. Breathless.

His tongue flicks again, this time firmer — but still through the lace. A tease. A torment.

Then his teeth graze the edge of the fabric and he sucks one slow, damp kiss against your center through it and you swear you nearly cry.

“I’m gonna make you ruin these,” he whispers, nuzzling against the wet spot. “Gonna make ‘em stick to your cunt so good you’ll still feel me in the morning.”

He drags his tongue lower. Then higher. Never direct. Never enough. Just slow, hot pressure, licking you through the soaked lace like it’s foreplay, like it’s punishment.

And when you finally moan his name again — needy, raw — he hums.

You don’t know how long he stays there. Kneeling between your thighs like you’re sacred and sinful all at once, tongue lapping through the soaked lace of your panties — never removing them, just using them as one more layer of torment.

You’re panting now. Writhing.

Your hands are fisted in the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Your hips jerk with every pass of his mouth, every flick of his tongue — and still, it’s not enough.

You feel your body climbing. Tensing. Humming on the edge of something so sharp it hurts.

And he knows. Gods, he knows.

His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you in place as he keeps dragging his tongue over your clit in slow, deliberate circles — through the fabric, never direct, never fast.

The wet heat of his mouth. The press of his nose. The scrape of his stubble.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. You can’t breathe. Can’t think.

“Please,” you whimper, voice high and broken.

He doesn’t stop.

“What was that?” he murmurs, voice muffled against your soaked panties. “Didn’t quite hear you.”

You gasp. Try again.

“Bucky—please, I—I can’t—”

He grins.

“Good girl,” he says softly. “Finally asking nice.”

He licks a long, slow stripe from the bottom of your folds to the top, pressing the fabric in tighter — tongue firm, cruel — and your whole body jerks.

But just before you tip over the edge, he stops.

Your body screams. You sob his name — wrecked, desperate — and he laughs, quiet and dangerous.

“So goddamn needy for me,” he whispers, voice full of dark delight.

His thumbs hook into the sides of your panties. He tugs them slowly to the side — not off. Not even down. Just aside.

Exposing you. Letting the cool air kiss your soaked, trembling skin.

He stares.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at that.”

His thumb drags gently through your folds, and you gasp, thighs shaking.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs. “You want me to eat this pretty pussy now? Tongue deep, no more games?”

You nod frantically. “Yes. Please. Please.”

He leans in. Mouth open. Tongue just shy of touching. Breath hot against your bare center.

Your panties are still hooked to the side — soaked and forgotten. Your legs are over his shoulders, thighs shaking, hips twitching involuntarily. You’re open. Bare. Dripping.

And he’s still not giving you what you want.

His tongue drags slowly from your entrance to your clit, only skimming, just enough to make your hips buck and your breath hitch. Then he pulls back, wet lips curling into a smug, sinful smirk.

“God, you’re a fucking mess,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “This what happens when you talk back too much? All that attitude just melts off the second I’ve got your legs spread?”

You whimper — you can’t help it — and that just makes him groan.

“Oh, you like that,” he says, breath hot against your folds. “You like being teased. Like being denied.”

His tongue dips low again — this time barely pressing into your entrance — just enough to make your walls flutter around nothing.

“Fuck, you’re clenching already. Desperate little cunt’s trying to pull me in.”

His hands hold your thighs apart as he licks again — languid, torturous strokes, never firm, never consistent. Just enough to keep your body vibrating at the edge of something impossible.

“Bet you dream about this,” he mutters. “Me between your legs. Tongue deep in your pussy. Making you beg.”

You gasp his name again — broken, wrecked.

“Bucky—please, I need—please—”

His tongue flicks over your clit. Once. Then he blows softly across it and pulls back.

You sob.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes. “You haven’t even started begging yet.”

His mouth returns to your folds — open, filthy — and he presses a slow, wet kiss just above your clit.

Not on. Not yet.

“You’re gonna cry for it,” he says. “I want you so ruined you forget how to be a smartass. I want you babbling.”

Another soft lick — right beside where you need him.

“I want you begging like a good little mess while I decide if you deserve to come.”

His hands slide up your thighs, squeezing, thumbs brushing over the crease where your legs meet your hips.

His tongue presses deep. Right inside.

A slow, filthy stroke that has your head falling back and a broken “f-fuck—” spilling from your lips. He moans into you like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.

You barely register the groan that rumbles in his chest. You only feel it — vibrating against your thighs, deep and dangerous — as his tongue pushes inside you with purpose now.

No more teasing. No more featherlight licks.

He’s fucking you with his mouth.

Slow at first — deep, firm strokes of his tongue dragging along your walls, savouring the way you clench around him — and then quicker. Dirtier. Relentless.

Your hands scrabble behind you on the desk, searching for something to hold, anything to keep you grounded.

But there’s no escape. Not from the heat. Not from the sounds.

Not from the obscene wet noises echoing through the room as he works you open with his mouth — like you’re his favourite fucking meal.

He’s moaning into you now. Swearing between strokes. Like he can’t believe how good you taste.

“Fuck, baby…so sweet…this pussy was made for my mouth.”

Your thighs are shaking. Your hips keep bucking forward, trying to chase the rhythm he sets — and he lets you. He encourages it, hands gripping your ass now, pulling you closer, keeping your cunt tight to his mouth as he devours you.

Every time his tongue thrusts in, a new sound escapes you — soft, broken, wrecked.

“Bu—Bucky—oh—fuck!”

He pulls back just long enough to speak, lips shining with you, eyes wild.

“There she is,” he pants. “My cocky little assistant. Not so fucking smart now, huh?”

His mouth dives back in before you can answer. All you can do is moan — high and desperate — as he tongue-fucks you deeper.

One hand slides down to your thigh, gripping hard, as the other slips between you.

And finally — finally — he presses his thumb to your clit. Just one stroke.

You scream. Not loud. But raw. Wrecked. Pure instinct.

He groans like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard and circles his thumb again — slow, cruel, controlled — as his tongue keeps working you open.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs into your cunt, tongue still fucking you. “Babble for me. Want to hear you fall apart. Want to hear you lose that sharp little mouth.”

And you do. Words tumble from your lips — broken, incoherent, pleading.

“Please…f-fuck…need you…oh my god…I’m…please…”

You don’t even know what you’re asking for anymore. Release. More. Mercy.

You just need him. You need him everywhere. And he hasn’t even taken his cock out yet.

It hits you like a wave. No warning. No countdown.

Just the deep, slick drag of his tongue inside you, the devastating press of his thumb circling your clit in slow, brutal patterns — and then your whole body snaps.

Your back arches off the desk. Your legs shake. Your mouth falls open, and his name pours out like it’s the only thing you remember how to say.

“Bucky—Bucky—oh f-fuck—yes—”

He groans when he feels you come.

You clamp down on his tongue, your cunt pulsing around him, soaking his mouth — and he doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t ease up. If anything, he doubles down.

Tongue still fucking you, thumb still working your clit, driving you through it as your vision blurs and your hips jerk uncontrollably against his face.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, desperate and wild, trying to pull him back. But he just growls into your cunt.

You cry out again — high, wrecked — as he pins your hips and keeps going.

Every flick of his tongue. Every swirl of his thumb. It’s too much.

“B-Bucky—please—fuck—I can’t—” you gasp.

He lifts his mouth for a second, just enough to look up at you, face soaked, lips red, eyes dark.

“Yes you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna give me another.”

Then he dives back in. You scream. It’s muffled, buried in your arm, the sleeve of your ruined blouse — but real.

Your thighs tremble violently now, your whole body quaking as he devours you like he’s starving, tongue fucking deep, thumb stroking faster now.

“Too much…too much…please…”

But he doesn’t stop. He lets your fingers pull at his hair. Lets your hips writhe. Lets you beg. But he doesn’t give you mercy.

“Want you crying on my tongue,” he pants into your folds. “Want you ruined.”

And you are.

You’re shaking. Babbling. Fucked-out and fluttering around his tongue as the next orgasm builds behind the first, even stronger, even worse.

And when it crashes over you?

You go silent for a second. Eyes wide. Body seizing. Mouth open but no sound.

Then it slams through you and you sob his name — not once, not twice, but over and over, thighs clamped around his head like you don’t even care anymore.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. You’ve given him a taste. Now he wants to break you.

He growls into your cunt like he’s drinking you down. Like every gasp, every whimper, every flood of wetness is something he’s earned. Something he owns.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters against your folds, lips glossy, beard soaked. “You keep coming like this and I’m not gonna need dinner for a week.”

His tongue flicks over your clit — slow and sharp — and your whole body jerks again.

“Bucky…” you sob, voice cracking.

“I know, sweetheart,” he purrs. “I know it’s too much. But you’ve got more for me, don’t you?”

You try to shake your head. Try to beg. Try to say anything that might make him stop.

But then his tongue slides deep again — and his fingers return, spreading you, pressing in, stroking in rhythm while his mouth devours every slick pulse of your cunt like it’s his goddamn thesis.

The desk is shaking under you. Your legs are limp now — twitching with every flick of his tongue. You can’t stop making sounds. Tiny sobs. Breathless gasps. Mewls. Whimpers. His name.

And he’s eating it up.

“All that mouth,” he mutters, licking up everything you give him. “All semester long. Look at you now.”

He sucks your clit between his lips and you scream.

Third orgasm slams into you — violent, sudden, impossible. Your hips lift off the desk. Your hands tangle in his hair so tight you nearly yank — but he just growls and presses his face harder against you.

“Give it to me,” he pants. “Fucking drown me, baby.”

And you do.

You come undone like you never have — soaking his mouth, thighs trembling, whole body spasming as you sob his name like a prayer and a curse.

He doesn’t stop until he’s worked every last drop of your orgasm out of you. Only then does he finally lift his head. His mouth is shiny, stubble glistening, lips pink and swollen.

And the look in his eyes?

Feral.

“You’re fucking perfect like this,” he growls, rising slowly to his feet.

He towers over you now — chest heaving, bulge straining behind his slacks, watching your wrecked, ruined body twitch on his desk.

And he smirks.

“Now,” he murmurs, voice thick and low as he unbuckles his belt, “let’s see how many times you can scream for my cock.”

You barely register the sound of his belt unbuckling — only the soft clink, the low rustle of fabric — and then the sharp catch of your breath when he steps between your thighs again.

His hands are on you immediately.

One grabs your hip — still trembling — the other slides under your thigh, lifting you, dragging your body forward across the polished wood until your ass is right at the edge of the desk.

You moan from the friction. From the sheer helplessness of it.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and dark, eyes locked on your cunt. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

Because when he draws his cock out — thick, heavy, flushed dark at the tip — you can already feel your pussy clench with nothing inside you.

He grins.

“Oh, look at that,” he murmurs, guiding himself lower, cock in hand. “Still fluttering. You want more that bad, sweetheart?”

You whimper — twitch — hips rolling involuntarily toward him.

And that’s when he does it. He drags the head of his cock through your folds. Slowly.

He groans deep in his chest at the feeling — that filthy, wet glide of overstimulated slick against thick, velvety skin.

Your hips jolt.

“Fuck,” he grunts, dragging the tip again — from your soaked entrance all the way up to your clit — pressing just enough to make your whole body shudder.

You sob.

“Ohhh yeah,” he breathes. “You’re still sensitive, huh?”

He drags it again. Back down. Over your entrance. Across your clit. Your hips jump again and he laughs.

“That twitch,” he murmurs, voice soft but brutal. “Fucking perfect.”

His other hand grabs your thigh, spreads you wider.

And again — again — he drags the head of his cock over your folds, circling your entrance, teasing your clit, grinding just enough to make your thighs quake and another cry rip from your throat.

You try to close your legs. You can’t.

He’s holding you open, watching your body twitch and spasm every time he grinds that thick cockhead over your overstimulated center.

“You gonna cry already?” he taunts, voice thick with heat. “I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Then he lines up. Right at your entrance. Lets the head just push in — an inch. No more.

You whimper.

He leans over you, one hand bracing on the desk beside your head, the other gripping your hip.

“Ready?” he rasps. “Because once I start?”

His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and ragged.

“I’m not stopping until you scream.”

He holds you wide open — hips braced at the edge of his desk, thighs trembling in his grip — and then he pushes in.

Slow. Devastating. Unstoppable.

The thick head of his cock breaches your entrance, stretching you wide and deep, dragging against soaked, overstimulated walls that clamp around him like they never want to let go.

“Ohhh—fuck—” he groans, head tipping back, jaw tight. “You feel—fucking perfect—”

You whimper, high and breathless, because it’s too much.

Too thick, too deep, too hot.

But he keeps going. Inch by inch. Grinding in until your cunt swallows him whole.

And when he bottoms out?

You cry out. It’s not even a word — just a sound, pure and raw, spilling from your lips as your back arches, your chest lifts, your body shakes.

His hands are gripping your hips now, knuckles white, holding you down as your walls pulse around his cock like you’re already coming again.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut. “So tight—gripping me like a fucking vise—”

He leans over you, forehead pressed to yours, and you can feel every shudder in his body. Every twitch. Every tremble of restraint.

“God, I could live in this pussy,” he pants. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You’re still gasping, still trying to process the fullness, the stretch, the heat — when he pulls out.

Slow. Torturous. Almost all the way. And before you can beg, he snaps back in.

Hard. Deep. Perfect.

The sound is obscene — wet and brutal, skin slapping skin, your scream echoing through the office like a prayer no one was ever meant to hear.

Your spine bows. Your nails dig into his arms. Your cunt clenches so tight around him he grunts, teeth bared.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Fucking take it.”

He pulls out again. Drives back in harder.

You arch, sobbing his name.

Another thrust. Deeper. Rougher.

And now he’s thrusting, rhythm building, hips snapping into you as his hands slam your hips into the desk, your tits bouncing, your body completely at his mercy.

“No smartass comments, huh?” he snarls, pounding into you. “Where’s all that fucking attitude now?”

You can’t answer. You can only moan. Babble. Break.

And he’s loving it.

His grip shifts — one hand hooking behind your knee, the other gripping your waist like he owns it — and then he fucks into you.

Not slow. Not teasing. Not controlled anymore. Just raw, ragged, relentless.

His hips slam into yours, cock driving so deep you swear you feel it in your throat — and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you breathe.

The desk groans under the rhythm. Papers scatter to the floor. The lamp shudders with each thrust.

And you?

You’re screaming. Not words anymore. Just sound. Gasping. Wailing. Wrecked.

“Fuck, baby—fuck, listen to you,” he pants above you, sweat dripping from his temple as he watches your face twist in pleasure. “Can’t even form a sentence anymore, huh?”

You shake your head — useless, trembling, sobbing.

He grins.

“There’s my good little mess.”

He slams in harder. You spasm — legs twitching, spine arched, chest heaving.

“You gonna come again for me? Gonna come all over my cock like the filthy little smartass you are?”

You try to answer — can’t. Your mouth just opens on a broken sob as your body clenches around him.

“Ohhh, there you fucking go,” he groans. “Fucking come on it. Squeeze me, baby—fucking take it.”

And you shatter.

Orgasm ripping through you so violently your vision whites out. Your limbs shake. Your hands claw at his shirt, trying to anchor yourself — but he’s still fucking you through it.

“Don’t run,” he growls, voice animal. “Take it. You asked for this.”

He leans over you, fucking you deeper now, filth pouring from his mouth.

“Talked back to me all semester, now look at you. Can’t even remember your own name.”

Another thrust. And another.

“You want my cum, sweetheart?” he rasps. “Want me to fill you up? Mark you like my good little thing?”

You nod frantically — babbling, broken, yesyesyesplease.

“Then beg.”

And when you do — when you cry for it, legs wide, cunt pulsing — he groans, slams in deep one last time. And comes with a savage curse.

Hot. Endless. Pouring into you as his hips grind down, as he presses so deep inside it feels like you’ll never get him out.

He stays there. Shaking. Moaning. He looks down at you. Completely fucked out. Glowing with sweat. Still twitching.

And he smiles.

“Lesson learned, smart girl?”

The room is quiet now.

The only sounds are the ticking of his watch, the soft rasp of both your breaths, and the occasional flutter of a loose paper settling to the floor.

You’re still on the desk — limp, glowing, completely wrecked — and Bucky’s still inside you.

Softening. But not moving. Not yet.

He leans over you slowly, bracing himself on one forearm beside your head, the other hand stroking gently up your thigh — still trembling from the aftershocks.

He kisses your temple. Soft. Slow.

You shudder at the contact. Not from fear. But from safety.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice deep and warm, a little raspier now. “Took it so fucking well.”

Your eyes flutter closed. You hum — a tiny sound of comfort, contentment.

“Didn’t expect you to be such a perfect little mess,” he adds, nuzzling the shell of your ear. “Thought you’d stay all mouthy, all attitude.”

His hand drifts to your stomach — warm, grounding — then down, brushing tenderly over your mound, your thighs.

“But look at you now.”

He finally pulls out, slow and careful, and you whimper from the emptiness.

You feel his cum slip down your folds, hot and sticky. He watches it happen — groans softly.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he whispers. “Filled you so deep.”

You try to shift, try to sit up, but your muscles give a warning twitch and you collapse back with a soft laugh.

He chuckles, then reaches for the clean cloth he keeps in the bottom drawer of his desk — something usually reserved for coffee spills or pen explosions.

Tonight? It’s for you.

He wipes you down slowly. Gently. Kisses your knee, your hip, your thigh.

“You okay?” he murmurs, gaze flicking up to meet yours. “Too much?”

You shake your head, dazed but smiling. “Perfect.”

He smirks.

“Damn right it was.”

He finishes cleaning you, helps you sit up, and wraps you in his own button-down — the one that smells like cedar and heat and still carries the faint musk of sex.

Then he sits in the chair, pulls you into his lap like you weigh nothing, and just holds you. His fingers stroke along your spine. His lips brush your shoulder.

“You’re gonna feel me tomorrow,” he says quietly, smug but tender. “Every time you sit. Every time you shift in your seat.”

You groan. “Bucky—”

He grins.

“Nope. You earned that ache, smart girl. You begged for it.”

His hand slips between your thighs again — soft now, just a palm pressed to your warmth.

“Next time?” he murmurs. “Might take you over both the desk and the chair. Really make you regret correcting my rubric.”

You choke on a laugh, burying your face in his neck. And he just holds you closer.

Because yeah, he ruined you.

You step through the door and the room hushes — just a little. Not completely. The jazz band plays on, low and syrupy in the corners, and the laughter near the bar doesn’t falter. But something in the atmosphere shifts the moment you walk in.

Maybe it’s the colour of your dress — red as sin, red as temptation, red as everything a good girl isn’t supposed to be.

Or maybe it’s the way the lock around your neck catches the amber light when you tilt your head, lips painted to match the dress, hips swaying just enough to make the silk ripple like a secret.

You pause near the entrance, eyes scanning the haze of smoke and dim chandeliers. The speakeasy breathes around you — polished wood floors, velvet booths, men in suspenders and cufflinks, women draped in pearls and danger. Everyone’s got a drink. Everyone’s got a key or a lock. Everyone’s watching someone.

And then you see him.

He’s leaning against the bar like it owes him something, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms dusted with muscle and shadow, hair swept back in soft waves like he doesn’t even try. Like the world just made him handsome and let him get away with it.

His tie is loosened, but not sloppy. His collar open, but not careless. He’s all Brooklyn grit in a Manhattan suit — the kind of man who could ruin you with a smile and make you beg for more with a wink.

And he’s smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. Just the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth when your eyes meet his.

But he doesn’t move.

He stays where he is, that glass of something dark in his hand, elbow on the bar, eyes locked on you like he’s taking his time — drinking you in before making a decision. There’s a cockiness in the stillness, like he knows he doesn’t have to chase. Like he knows you’ll come to him.

And gods help you — you just might.

Because he’s not blinking. Not fidgeting. Not looking at anyone else. He’s just watching you.

Like a man who’s found the lock he wants to break. Like a man who’s wondering if the key in his pocket fits the one nestled just above your breasts.

And you?

You smile.

You let your fingers trail the chain at your collarbone, slow and teasing. You turn toward the bar — his side of the room — but you don’t walk yet. You give him a little show: the arch of your back, the tilt of your chin, the soft sway of hips as you make your way toward a booth instead. You’re not his. Not yet.

But close enough for him to keep watching. Close enough to taste the tension in the air.

Because now the game has started. And neither of you plans to lose.

You don’t look his way again.

Not at first.

You let your eyes wander — slow and deliberate — across the speakeasy’s golden hum. The clink of glass, the rise of smoky laughter, the way velvet skirts graze against pressed slacks as couples brush past. Everyone’s in on the game tonight. Everyone’s looking for the match to their metal.

You let your fingers drift to the lock at your collarbone again, idly turning it between red-tipped nails. You know he’s still watching.

You can feel it — the heat of his gaze like the weight of a hand pressed just below your waist.

But he doesn’t move. So you don’t either. Not toward him.

Instead, you rise from your booth, hips swaying in a rhythm only you seem to hear. You make your way to the bar, the hem of your dress catching at your thighs as you slide onto a stool, silk whispering secrets against your skin. The bartender nods at you and you murmur your order with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

He’s still at the far end. Still not moving. But you can still feel his eyes on you.

Your drink arrives — cool, crisp, in a glass that glows like garnet in the amber light. You wrap your fingers around the stem, raise it to your lips, and sip slow.

That’s when a new shadow leans in.

You sense him before you turn — polished voice, clean cologne, the glint of a gold key around his neck. He introduces himself. Says he couldn’t help but notice you. Asks if he might try his luck.

You smile politely. Let him reach for the lock.

Nothing. Not a match.

His smile dims just a little, but he doesn’t step back. Doesn’t take the hint. He tries another line. Something charming — or meant to be. His hand lingers a second too long on the bar beside you.

That’s when the air changes.

That’s when the other stranger — your stranger — moves.

You don’t even see him at first, just feel it, like a shift in the gravity of the room. A current, electric and purposeful, threading through the space between you.

The other man’s still talking, words dull and unimportant now, as your focus pulls toward the weight behind you. Slow steps. Heels against hardwood.

A voice. Low. Smooth. Brooklyn laced with bite.

“Think the lady’s not interested, pal.”

You turn your head. And there he is. Up close.

Finally.

Bright blue eyes flashing, pupils already blown in the dim light of the speakeasy. Jacket crisp. Tie loosened just enough to make you wonder what else he’d undo with those hands.

He doesn’t look at the other man again. He’s looking at you.

And for the first time tonight, your breath catches.

He doesn’t wait for permission. Just reaches.

Two fingers lift the chain where it rests against your collarbone, careful but confident, and you swear your skin burns under the touch — even though he doesn’t quite make contact. The lock dangles between you both now, swaying faintly with the motion of your breath. His other hand? Already in his pocket.

He pulls out the key with the kind of ease that tells you he knew. Knew from the second you walked through the door. Knew the moment his eyes found you in that red dress.

No hesitation.

Click.

Soft, smooth. The sound is barely audible over the jazz, but it echoes in your chest like the beat of a second heart.

His grin curves slow. Dangerous.

“Knew it,” he murmurs.

That voice. Rough velvet. Whiskey and Brooklyn and something deeper — something older, like the war left something feral just under his skin. You see it in his jaw, the way it ticks. In his eyes, which flick from the lock back to yours with a sudden, searing focus.

“I’m Bucky,” he adds, quiet, like the name’s just for you. “Bucky Barnes.”

He doesn’t let go of the chain. Doesn’t pull back.

You tell him your name. Soft. Maybe breathless. He nods once — slow, appreciative — but his eyes never leave yours.

“Pretty name,” he says absently, already brushing it aside.

Not out of rudeness. But because he’s already rewriting the rules.

And when his mouth tilts closer, blue eyes darker now, head angled just enough to make your pulse spike, he rasps, “C’mon, gorgeous. Let’s get outta this crowd.”

It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

He doesn’t take your hand.

No — Bucky Barnes is the kind of man who guides with a palm at the small of your back, just firm enough to tell you he knows where he’s leading you and that you’ll follow.

Because you will.

You’re already following the scent of his cologne — smoky and warm, like cedarwood and sin. The heat of him soaks into you with every step. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t weave through the crowd like a man trying to escape.

He’s prowling. And you are his chosen prey.

He finds a pocket of low light near the back — rich leather seating, a curtain half-drawn, a wall to lean against like it’s his kingdom. The noise of the speakeasy fades into velvet static behind you. He shifts in close, and just like that, the rest of the world disappears.

You feel it again — the not-quite-touch. The air between you heavy and thin at once.

Then he moves.

A hand at your waist. His thumb brushing slow along your side, just where the fabric of your dress pulls tight. Not obscene. Not yet. But known. Like he’s mapping you for later.

“You always dress like trouble, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice low and warm against your cheek.

You tilt your head just slightly.

“Only when I’m hoping to be chased.”

That grin — slow, sharp, boyish in a way that’s far more dangerous than sweet — spreads across his face like honey melting over sin.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers.

“Good thing I’ve been trained for pursuit.”

Your breath hitches. He hears it. Smirks.

Fingers drift — featherlight — to the chain at your throat. He toys with the now-unlocked charm like it belongs to him now. Because it does. Because you let him open it. Because you wanted him to.

“I was gonna wait,” he says, thumb stroking the curve of your hip, “but then that guy started talking like he had a chance. Had to step in. He would’ve kept talkin’ your ear off while I sat over there stewin’. And I don’t like to stew, gorgeous. I like to win.”

You press your back to the wall behind you. He follows. One hand flat beside your head. The other still teasing at your hip.

His mouth lowers. Just enough to ghost the corner of yours. Not kissing. Not quite.

“But now that I’ve got you alone,” he breathes, lips brushing the curve of your jaw, “I’m thinkin’ maybe I don’t wanna win just yet.”

Your lips part. He doesn’t kiss them. Just watches. That smirk returning. Lazy. Lethal.

“I think I wanna play a little first.”

His breath hits your ear before his lips do. A warm, barely-there whisper, and it still sends a shiver racing down your spine like a slow drip of champagne.

You don’t look at him. Can’t. Not when he’s this close — hand pressed flat to the wall beside your head, body just shy of contact, the only thing separating your chest from his being the flicker of his restraint.

But oh, he’s close.

And he’s dangerous like this — all slow confidence and molten steel, moving with the precision of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.

“I’ve been watchin’ you all night, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and wicked, mouth brushing just beneath your ear. “All those locks in the room, and I knew…” His hand at your waist tightens, just a little. “…I knew yours was meant for me.”

Then his lips find your skin. Not your mouth. Not yet.

They press to the hinge of your jaw — a kiss so slow, so deliberate, it makes your knees go soft. He feels it. Smirks against your skin. Nips lightly, sharp and sudden.

You gasp. And his tongue soothes the sting in the very next breath.

“Ohh, sweetheart,” he groans, right there in the crook of your neck, like he’s drunk on the taste of you. “You’re already shakin’. Haven’t even kissed you yet.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you — just enough for his fingers to lift from your hip and brush a strand of hair behind your ear, knuckles grazing your cheek.

And then?

More kisses. Lower this time.

His mouth trails down the line of your jaw, a path of slow nips and velvet lips. He presses a kiss beneath your ear, one to your pulse, then opens his mouth — hot and soft — and sucks gently at the curve of your neck.

Your breath stutters. He groans against you.

“Yeah,” he pants, lips moving as he speaks. “Right there. That’s the spot, ain’t it?”

Your hands clutch the front of his shirt, silk shifting under your fingertips. You try to say something — his name, maybe. Or a plea. But his mouth is already moving again, trailing back up to your ear, so you never get the words out.

“You gonna let me keep kissin’ you like this, gorgeous?” he rasps. “Or should I stop before I really forget where we are…” He nips your earlobe, slow and dirty. “…and remind you what happens when I get you alone.”

Your hand lifts instinctively — reaching for his shoulder, his jaw, something to anchor yourself to — but he catches it.

Not harsh. Not too tight. Just firm, as his fingers wrap around your wrist and press it gently to the wall beside your head.

You freeze. Melt. Whimper.

He groans low in response, head ducking again to trail another kiss along your throat — slower this time. More open-mouthed. More possessive.

“Stay just like that for me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every word. “God, you’re so fuckin’ soft.”

His other hand — once resting at your waist — slides lower. A quiet glide over your hip, down the curve of your ass, gripping it like he owns it. Like it’s just his now, because you let his key in and there’s no taking that moment back.

You press closer, instinctive, breath hitching when his mouth nips again at your neck — this time a little harder, like he’s testing your limits.

“Sweetheart,” he pants, voice strained, “I’ve got half a mind to leave this pretty skin marked up so every sorry bastard in this room knows you’re not walkin’ outta here unclaimed.”

Your lips part — but again, no words come. Just heat. Need. He feels it. Smirks against your pulse.

Then finally — finally — his mouth starts to drag back up.

A kiss at your collarbone. Another at your throat. One at the base of your jaw. Slower. Lingering.

And then he pulls back just an inch. Blue eyes blazing. Lips pink and slick. Chest rising fast beneath his shirt. He looks at you like he’s already ruined you.

And then, without warning, he kisses you.

Hard. Hot. Full.

It’s the kind of kiss that forgets time, forgets place. The kind that consumes. His hand tightens around your wrist against the wall, his other squeezing your hip as he pins you to the shadows.

You moan. He swallows it like it’s the answer he’s been waiting for.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth. “You taste even better than you look.”

He licks into you then — deep, claiming, like he needs more — pressing you back against the wall as his body crowds yours, keeping you close, caging you in.

You kiss him back like it’s the only thing you’ve ever been meant to do.

And when he finally breaks for air, lips still brushing yours, he smirks and murmurs, “That’s more like it, doll.”

He kisses you again. Deeper this time. Rougher.

Like that first one was just a warning — and this one’s the consequence.

You gasp softly into his mouth as his hand leaves your wrist, slides down your arm, and finds its way back to your waist. But he doesn’t stop there. That palm travels lower, curving around your hip again, down to cup the swell of your ass with a groan that vibrates through you.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips. “How do you feel so good?”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, gripping the fabric as your thighs threaten to give. But he’s already pressing you into the wall, holding you steady, mouth dragging down again to your neck — biting, kissing, murmuring between gasps of breath.

“You like this, huh?” he whispers. “Letting me touch you like this, all pressed up in the dark where no one can see…”

You nod. Barely. And that’s all he needs.

Because his hand drops again — slower this time — down your outer thigh, thumb dragging along bare skin just beneath your dress. Then he lifts. Guides your leg up, up, until your thigh hooks over his hip and he can press against you fully — chest to chest, heat to heat, lips to skin.

You whimper. And he groans again — rough and low, like it punches straight out of his lungs.

“Ohh, sweetheart…”

He thrusts his hips forward — just once, slow and heavy, letting you feel the outline of what’s waiting.

“You’re killin’ me,” he pants, mouth back at your ear, his breath hot as sin. “All soft and breathless in my hands like this—fuck.”

You can barely breathe. Barely think. Every stroke of his hand makes your body arch, every kiss he leaves on your jaw feels like a claim.

He kisses you again — hard. Desperate.

And when he finally pulls back, only just, eyes dark and voice full of filth and promise, he murmurs, “Let me take you to one of the private rooms, doll. Just you and me. No more games.”

His thumb strokes the heated skin of your thigh, possessive.

“You want that, gorgeous? Wanna be alone with me?”

You don’t even need to answer.

Your body already has.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The door clicks shut behind you.

Not loud. Just final.

The soft snick of the lock sliding into place might as well be thunder in your ears. Your breath catches. Bucky doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. The look in his eyes as he closes the distance says everything.

This room wasn’t made for polite conversation. It was made for this.

For dim lighting that warms your skin. For plush cushions that catch you as he backs you up — slow, deliberate steps — until your knees hit the edge of the velvet sofa and you fall into it with a soft gasp.

He stays standing. Looking down at you. You can’t move.

Not with the way he’s watching you — like a man about to get on his knees and still come out on top.

His hands go to his tie. Slow. Smooth.

He pulls it loose with practiced fingers, like this isn’t the first time he’s undressed in front of someone breathless, legs parted, body aching for him.

He slides the tie free and lets it dangle from one hand.

You swallow hard. He smirks. Then he drops to his knees.

Just like that.

Bucky Barnes — soldier, flirt, devil in a suit — kneeling in front of you like it’s his favourite place to be.

His hands slide up your legs, not rushed. Palms dragging over your calves, your thighs, his thumbs pressing gently into muscle like he’s memorizing how you feel.

You squirm. His grin widens.

“You looked so goddamn perfect out there,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to yours, voice like melted sin. “All done up in red, lips matchin’ that dress, sittin’ there like you were waiting for me.”

His hands find the hem of your dress. Hook under. Push slowly upward, inch by inch, exposing skin to the warm air and his even warmer gaze.

You can’t breathe. You don’t want to.

“You been wet this whole time, doll?” he whispers, voice dropping, gravel-rough now. “All those pretty little gasps and whimpers — got me thinkin’ you need my mouth, huh?”

You nod. He chuckles.

“Good.”

And then?

He kisses your inner thigh. Open-mouthed. Lingering.

His breath fans across your thigh, warm and steady, and you can feel the smirk he’s holding back.

You twitch. And that’s all the encouragement he needs.

But he doesn’t rush.

No, Bucky Barnes is a man who knows how to build tension. Who savours every second of this like he’s been waiting all night — maybe his whole damn life — to get his mouth between your legs.

And now that he’s there? He plans to take his sweet fucking time.

He kisses your thigh again. Lower this time. Then bites. A sharp little nip just above your knee.

You gasp.

He chuckles, tongue darting out to soothe the sting, lips dragging lazy and wet up the inside of your leg.

“That little sound you make when I do that?” he mutters, voice thick with arousal. “Might be my new favourite.”

You whimper again.

His mouth trails higher. Kiss. Nip. Lick. Each one slower than the last.

When he finally reaches the soft lace of your panties, he doesn’t pull them aside. Doesn’t tug. Doesn’t even touch them yet.

No — he just exhales.

Warm air, right against the damp heat where you need him most.

You jolt. He groans.

“Mmm…fuck, sweetheart.”

He leans in. And barely mouths at the lace — no tongue, no real pressure, just the soft press of lips moving against the fabric like he’s testing the shape of you through it.

You writhe. He moans.

“Been thinkin’ about this since the second I saw you,” he whispers, nose brushing the edge of your underwear, voice husky and reverent. “You in red. Sittin’ pretty. Drivin’ me insane.”

His fingers slide higher, thumbs stroking slow circles at the crease of your thighs, teasing so close it makes your hips buck.

And still?

Still he doesn’t pull the lace away. Instead, he kisses it. Soft. Lingering. Like it’s your mouth and not the soaked scrap of fabric between your legs.

And when he finally speaks again, it’s a breath — not a sentence.

“Please, doll…tell me you’ll let me taste you proper.”

You open your mouth to speak, to beg, but all that comes out is a whimper when he kisses your panties again — slow, deliberate.

One more press of his mouth, savouring the heat soaked through the lace, before he pulls back just enough to look at what he’s doing. Just enough for his eyes to meet yours.

And gods, that look.

Blue, blown wide and dark with hunger. But not frenzied. Focused. Sharp. Like he’s memorizing every twitch of your body under his hands — every breathless shake, every flutter of your thighs.

His fingers curl under the band of your panties. Not a harsh yank. No ripping. He treats them like something precious — because they touched you.

“I’ll keep these,” he mutters, dragging the lace down, knuckles grazing your thighs, voice low and filthy. “Gonna tuck ‘em in my pocket and think about how wet they were. Every goddamn day.”

You whimper.

His hands are so warm against your bare thighs now, spreading them wider with a soft groan as the lace slips off your ankles.

He just stares for a moment. Silent. Reverent.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, running a hand up your inner thigh, not touching you there yet — but close. “Sweetheart, you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

You’re trembling.

His hand settles on your hip again. His other brushes along your thigh, trailing toward where you’re aching for him. Then he speaks, so softly it almost breaks you.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispers, eyes fixed on your glistening heat. “I’m not gonna rush. Gonna make you fall apart slow. Gonna memorize the way you taste.”

He leans in and presses a single, featherlight kiss just above where you need him. So close, you swear you feel the heat of his mouth, but not quite the pressure.

He pulls back again, licking his lips. Grinning.

“Mm. One more second, doll. Let me savour this.”

And then his shoulders roll forward. His hands pull your thighs over his shoulders. And his mouth finally descends.

The first drag of his tongue is slow. Long. Hot. Up the full length of your folds — from dripping heat to the swollen peak aching for him.

And he moans. Low. Raw. Like he’s waited years to do this.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice muffled against you. “You taste like sin, sweetheart.”

He does it again. Licks deeper. Slower.

His lips wrap around your clit. Soft suction. Tongue flicking just so. One hand slides up to press flat against your stomach, holding you down, anchoring you while his mouth begins to work.

You arch. Whimper. Gasp his name.

He groans into you again, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“That’s it,” he pants, pulling back just enough to speak, lips glossy, chin damp. “Let me hear you, gorgeous. Don’t hold back on me now.”

Then he dives back in. More insistent. More needy.

His tongue slides between your folds, fucking into you slow and deep before trailing up to circle your clit again — drawing those sounds out of you, over and over.

You’re shaking. Hands in his hair. Head thrown back.

And he fucking loves it.

You feel his grip tighten on your thigh. His fingers dig into your skin like he’s claiming you from the inside out.

“Makin’ a mess on my face already,” he murmurs, licking slow and lazy just to tease. “Can’t believe you’ve been sittin’ out there all pretty and wet for me all night.”

Your moans turn into whimpers. High. Desperate.

He flattens his tongue and rolls it over your clit. Again. Again. Perfect pressure. Precision.

You scream — or try to. It comes out a choked cry, hips jerking.

He doesn’t stop. Not when you twitch. Not when your thighs clamp around his head.

Especially not then.

Because Bucky Barnes was built for this. Trained for control.

But now? Now he’s losing it. He grinds his hips against nothing like it’s hurting him not to be inside you.

“Gonna make you come on my tongue, doll. Not stoppin’ till you do. Not stoppin’ till you scream my fuckin’ name.”

You cry out when you feel it — that stretch.

Two thick fingers sliding inside you, slick with your arousal and his spit. He moves slow, dragging them along your walls like he’s searching for something.

And judging by the groan he lets out?

He finds it.

“Jesus Christ,” he growls, pulling back just enough to speak, lips brushing your thigh, breath hot against your folds. “You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, sweetheart.”

You whimper.

His tongue flicks up to your clit again — just once, soft and fast — then returns to slow, teasing circles as his fingers begin to move. In and out. Deep and deliberate. Curling just right with every thrust.

Your hips buck. He groans again. Louder.

“Goddamn, you’re clenching like you want me to lose control,” he pants, fingers fucking into you a little harder now, wrist flexing, mouth hot and messy at your core. “That it, doll? Want me to come in my fuckin’ pants just from tasting you?”

You cry out his name. Loud. Broken.

“Ohh, that’s it,” he hisses, fingers thrusting deeper, faster, tongue pressing harder, licking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. “Say it again. Say my name while I make this pretty pussy fucking sing for me.”

Your legs are shaking. Your thighs are clamped around his head.

And still — still — he doesn’t stop. His fingers curl again. Hit that spot. Your back arches as you keen.

“Feel that?” he pants. “Right there, huh? Right where you fall the fuck apart?”

He growls into you — hot, wet, desperate.

“I could make you come just like this,” he rasps, voice dark and full of promise. “Tongue on you, fingers deep inside, your back archin’ while you soak my fuckin’ hand. Could keep goin’ all night, doll. Could live right here between your legs.”

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out — just air, just a sob of pleasure as your body coils tight around the pressure building and building.

Then he sucks your clit. Hard. And whispers against your flesh.

“Come for me, gorgeous. Wanna feel you drown me.”

You can’t hold it.

The pressure in your core snaps — white-hot and all-consuming — and your entire body jerks with the force of it. Your back arches off the sofa again, fingers fisting his hair, thighs trembling around his head.

And Bucky?

Bucky fucking moans like he’s the one coming.

“Ohhh, that’s it, sweetheart,” he groans into you, voice vibrating against your clit. “That’s it. Fucking knew you’d fall apart for me.”

He doesn’t stop.

His fingers keep moving, slow but deep, fucking you through the pulsing waves as your orgasm crashes over you again and again. His mouth stays sealed to you, tongue working soft, coaxing circles like he’s savouring every drop, every twitch, every cry.

You sob. Shudder. Whimper his name.

And still he doesn’t stop.

“Mmm, makin’ such a mess on my fingers, doll,” he pants, lifting his head just enough to speak but not enough to stop dragging his tongue through your slick folds. “Bet I could make you come again. Right now. Just keep you here, spread open, cryin’ for me.”

You gasp — overwhelmed, dizzy, wrecked.

Your body trembles with aftershocks, and he slows, finally, pressing soft kisses to your inner thigh. One. Two. Three. Like a man worshiping at the altar he just destroyed.

And when he finally pulls his fingers from you — slick, glistening, slow — he looks up through those heavy lashes, eyes dark and starving.

Then?

He fucking licks his fingers clean. Sucks them into his mouth, slow and groaning.

“Tastes like heaven,” he murmurs, voice full of pure, filthy praise. “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had.”

He climbs up over you now, mouth ghosting your jaw, hips pressing close — hard length grinding against your soaked heat.

“Think you’ve got more in you for me, doll?”

He growls against your skin when he moves you — low, primal, a sound that vibrates through your ribs as he shifts you up and around, spinning you into his lap like it’s second nature.

Your thighs settle on either side of his hips. And he groans. Loud.

Hands gripping tight at your ass, your waist, pulling you close until your soaked heat is pressed right against the hard length straining behind his zipper.

“Fuck me,” he rasps, head tilting back just slightly so he can look up at you — flushed, wrecked, glowing. “You sittin’ on me like this? I’m never lettin’ you go.”

His mouth finds your throat again — messy, open kisses, tongue and teeth dragging over the bruised curve of your neck. His hand roams up your back, slow and greedy, until he finds it.

Your zipper. And for a moment, he just holds it. Lets the weight of the moment settle in the air between you. Then he speaks, voice low and dangerous.

“Let me see you, sweetheart.”

And he pulls.

Zzzzt.

The sound of your dress unzipping is almost too loud in the soft quiet of the private room — a slow peel, a tease, fabric parting under his touch like silk giving way to heat.

His hands follow the path his eyes trace — pulling the sleeves down your arms, exposing your bare shoulders to the air and his mouth.

He kisses each one. Lingers there. Then slides the fabric down further. Over your chest. Over your waist.

He groans again, like he wasn’t ready for how much skin there is to love. Like it’s hurting him not to dive in faster.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, palms dragging up your sides, thumbs brushing your breasts, fingers tightening just slightly as he watches your body arch for him. “Every fuckin’ inch of you…made for my hands.”

He presses his hips up into yours and you feel him — thick, hard, aching.

And when your bare chest presses against his shirt, when your breath stutters, when your fingers grip his shoulders, he exhales against your collarbone and growls.

“Gonna take my time with you, gorgeous. Make you come on my cock just like you did on my tongue.”

Your hips roll against him once — slow, delicious — and the groan that rips from his chest punches straight through you.

But you don’t kiss him. Not yet. Not when your hands have found his collar. Not when you can feel the heat beneath that shirt — the way the fabric clings to his chest, damp now from effort and want, the muscles tensing under your fingers as you lean back slightly to look at him.

His eyes darken even more, lashes low, lips parted in a dazed kind of awe.

“Gonna undress me, gorgeous?” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “Feelin’ bold now that I’ve had my tongue in you?”

You smirk. Then you start on the buttons. One. Two. Three. Each one slower than the last.

Your fingers are steady, but inside? You’re trembling. Because this man — all smirks and sharp edges, cocky lines and dangerous eyes — is letting you take your time. He’s watching you like you’re the only person in the world who’s ever dared to touch him this way.

And maybe you are.

You slide the fabric open, baring his chest inch by glorious inch. Sculpted muscle, broad shoulders, soft trail of hair leading downward where your hips are still pressing into him.

Your hands flatten against his chest. Warm. Solid. Real.

You rake your nails lightly down his torso and he shudders. Grips your hips a little tighter. Groans again — like your touch is the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Keep touchin’ me like that and I’m not gonna make it to the part where I fuck you slow.”

You lean in close, lips at his ear, whispering, “Maybe I don’t want you to go slow.”

His breath catches. Fingers flex on your thighs. His hips buck up — once — a warning.

“Ohhh, doll,” he growls, voice gravel and desire, “you sayin’ dangerous shit now.”

Then he rips his arms free of the sleeves, tossing his shirt to the side. And suddenly, your bare chest is pressed to his. Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat.

And the look he gives you? Ravenous.

He grabs your ass again and grinds you down on him, cock still trapped behind the zipper but pressing hot and heavy into you.

Then his mouth is at your neck again, panting, “You get me naked, sweetheart, you better be ready to scream my name.”

He shifts again — fast, smooth, deliberate — and suddenly you’re beneath him, your back sinking into the plush velvet cushions, his body covering yours like a shadow.

One hand cradles the back of your neck, the other pressing into the sofa beside your head as he grinds down once, slow and heavy, just enough for you to feel every throbbing inch still trapped behind his slacks.

“Fuck, you feel good under me,” he growls, nose brushing yours, lips just shy of contact. “Could lay here all night…just like this…”

But he won’t. Because he wants more. All of you.

His hand slides down your side — smooth and sure — until he reaches the fabric still bunched at your waist. And then he drags it down. Slowly. Reverently. Like he’s peeling away the final layer of patience between you.

The dress slides off your legs with a soft whisper. Hits the floor.

His eyes rake over you, slow and sinful, hands following every new inch of exposed skin. And when you arch up just slightly, needing him to do something, he chuckles, dark and low.

“Easy, doll,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against your sternum. “Still got a little more show left before the main event.”

His hands go to his belt. Unbuckles it with a click. Unzips his slacks. But he doesn’t rush. No, Bucky grinds down against you first, still fully clothed from the waist down, lips on your neck again.

“You feel that?” he pants, voice wrecked. “How hard you’ve got me? You did this, sweetheart.”

You moan, soft, desperate.

And finally, he stands up just enough to shove his slacks down. Slow. Letting you see it all. The thick line of him pressing against his boxers. The roll of his hips as he kicks his pants aside.

And then he leans over you again — nearly naked, hair falling in his eyes, cock straining behind one last layer. Mouth to your ear.

“I’ll take these off,” he whispers, “when you beg.”

Your hand moves before you even think — fingers sliding down his abs, reaching for the waistband of his last remaining layer, desperate to feel him.

But you don’t make it.

Snap.

His hand grabs your wrist — tight, fast, firm — and presses it back to the velvet cushion beside your head. Your breath stutters. His eyes go dark.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he murmurs, voice pure molten control. “What did I say, doll?”

Your lips part — somewhere between apology and challenge.

But he’s already leaning in. His body presses you down, hips grinding into yours as he murmurs against your cheek.

“I said I’d take these off when you begged.”

He tilts your chin with two fingers, holding your gaze as his thumb brushes your lower lip.

“And grabbing my cock without permission?” he whispers, tone low, dangerous, devastating. “Not exactly beggin’, sweetheart.”

He smirks — sharp, sinful, slow. Then he kisses you. Hard. Claiming. Tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owns it.

And while you’re gasping, melting, arching up into him, he tightens his grip on your wrist and presses his hips down again, just enough for you to feel how hard he still is, straining, twitching behind the thin barrier.

“You want this?” he pants, pulling back just enough to speak, forehead resting against yours.

You nod — frantic.

“Use your words, baby,” he rasps. “Tell me what you want.”

Your voice is a breath, a whimper, a plea.

“Please, Bucky…let me feel you.”

His eyes flutter shut. His jaw locks. And then — finally — he releases your wrist.

“Good girl.”

His fingers slide to the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down slow, dragging your gaze with them.

“Now you’re gonna lay there,” he growls, voice shaking with restraint, “and let me fuck you real slow. Let me make this last, doll.”

He settles between your thighs with a groan so deep it shakes the room.

His cock is in his hand now — thick, heavy, flushed dark at the tip — and your body aches as he strokes himself once, slow and slick, eyes locked on yours like a warning.

“Look at me,” he pants, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds. “I want your eyes when I push in. Wanna watch you fall apart.”

You can barely breathe. Your hips lift in desperate search for friction, but his hand finds your hip and pins you to the couch.

“Not yet, doll. I said slow.”

He nudges your entrance. You gasp. He groans.

“Jesus, you’re already so fuckin’ wet for me.”

And then, he starts to press in. Just the tip. Just enough to stretch you open and make you cry out. His jaw locks.

“Fffffuck…”

He holds still. Lets your body adjust. One hand cradles the back of your head. The other strokes slowly up your side, over your ribs, between your breasts — soothing, grounding, claiming.

“You okay?” he rasps, voice rough with restraint.

You nod. Whisper his name. That’s all he needs. He pushes deeper. Another inch. Then another. Slow. Careful. So goddamn deep.

You whimper — writhing, gripping his arms, thighs tightening around his hips.

His lips drop to your cheek, your jaw, your neck — leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses as he sinks in the rest of the way.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he groans, voice cracking, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re squeezin’ me like you were fuckin’ made for me.”

He bottoms out. You’re full. He’s shaking. Neither of you moves. Just breathing. Pressed together. One trembling inhale away from complete destruction.

And then, soft and reverent, he murmurs.

“Gonna fuck you so slow, baby… until you forget your own name and the only one you remember is mine.”

He starts to move. Not fast. Just a slow, grinding roll of his hips — enough to drag his cock along every soaked, swollen inch inside you.

You whimper — breath hitching, fingers clawing at his back. And he groans right into your neck.

“Fuck…just like that. Goddamn, baby.”

His hands are everywhere. One still cradling the back of your head, fingers buried in your hair. The other dragging down your ribs, your waist, your thigh — gripping it and pulling it higher along his thigh to sink in deeper.

“You feel that?” he rasps. “Feel how tight you’re squeezin’ me? How soaked you are for me?”

You gasp — legs trembling — clenching down instinctively around him.

And he loses it.

“Shit, sweetheart—again. Do that again.”

You do. And he growls, low and broken, rutting into you with another deep, perfect thrust that makes your whole body shake.

“Ohhh, that’s it. That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

His mouth is on your throat — kissing, sucking, biting soft marks into your skin like he’s branding you.

“You take me so good,” he breathes. “So fuckin’ tight, so warm—fuck. Could stay buried in you all fuckin’ night.”

You moan his name. Loud. Wrecked. His head snaps up. Eyes wild. Hair clinging to his forehead. Chest heaving.

“Say it again.”

You do.

“Again.”

It’s a whimper now. He thrusts deeper. Harder.

“Say my name while I fuck you, baby. I wanna hear how good I’m makin’ you feel.”

You choke on the words, but he feels the way you clench around him and groans like you’re tearing him in half.

“That’s it, doll,” he pants, mouth at your ear. “You were fuckin’ made for me.”

He shifts, grinding just right, catching your clit on every slow, deep stroke.

“You gonna come for me again?” he whispers. “All stretched out around my cock? So good, so perfect, so fuckin’ wet—”

You cry out. Legs locked tight around him. And he slams in once more — deep, slow, punishing.

“Say it, baby. Say my fuckin’ name while I make you come.”

He watches your face as he moves, every twitch of your lips, every flutter of your lashes. He’s learning you in real time. Reading the signs. Committing them to memory like scripture.

And when your breath hitches on a certain thrust? When your nails dig in just a little deeper?

He knows.

“Right there,” he pants, voice broken and full of heat. “That’s the spot, huh?”

You try to answer — nod, beg, something — but he’s already shifting. One hand drops to your thigh, fingers wrapping around the back of it, and he lifts. Higher. Wider. Until your leg is hooked around his waist and your hips tilt just enough for him to slam in deeper.

You scream. He groans. Loud. Filthy.

“There it is,” he growls, driving into you again. Slower now. Cruel. Precise. “Fuckin’ knew you’d milk my cock when I hit you just right.”

You clench around him so hard it nearly pulls a sob from his throat. His jaw locks. His hand tightens. Your other thigh quakes as he leans down, bracing a forearm beside your head, burying himself even deeper with the new angle.

And that’s when it happens.

Your nails rake down his back — instinctive, wild, desperate — dragging red lines down taut, sweat-slick muscle.

And he loses it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, hips stuttering for half a second before he slams back in again, eyes burning.

“You’re so good, baby,” he pants, mouth against your neck, breath hot and fast. “So fuckin’ good. Takin’ me so deep, scratchin’ me up—fuck, you feel like heaven.”

His cock drags against every sensitive nerve inside you, the thick head catching that perfect spot with each grind of his hips.

“You gonna come for me, doll?” he growls. “Gonna soak me while I’m buried deep in this sweet fuckin’ pussy?”

You moan. A nod. A sob. He lifts your thigh higher, grinding even deeper.

“Come for me, baby. Wanna feel you break.”

You break. It starts with a gasp — sharp and helpless — and then you’re gone.

Your back arches, thighs clamp tight around his waist, and your body locks up around his cock, pulsing in waves that have you crying out his name again and again.

“Thaaat’s it,” Bucky groans, grinding deep inside you, keeping his rhythm slow, gentle, ruthless in its control. “That’s my good fuckin’ girl.”

His hips rock forward again — just once, deep — and you whimper, overstimulated and still clenching around him like your body doesn’t want to let go.

And that’s when his hand slides down. Between your legs. Two fingers find your swollen, soaked clit, and he smiles when you shudder beneath him, helpless, trembling.

“Ohhh, baby,” he murmurs, voice ragged and so goddamn soft, “you thought I was done?”

You try to breathe. You can’t.

He circles your clit, so slow, just enough to send shockwaves through your already wrecked body.

“Mm. You’re still twitchin’. Look at that. You got more in you, don’t you?”

You sob his name again. He grunts, thrusting forward just slightly, burying himself in your still-quivering cunt.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight like this,” he pants, mouth dragging along your throat. “Still squeezin’ me, still so wet.”

Another circle. Another grind of his cock. Your nails dig in again.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice deep in your ear. “Don’t you fuckin’ stop. I want you to ride it out. Feel me in every nerve, every inch.”

You whimper. He kisses your temple — slow, adoring — while still wrecking you with his hand.

“Let me see it, gorgeous. Give me everything. Let me see how perfect you fall apart.”

You cry out again — shaking, twitching, soaked. And he groans like a man being dragged to hell with a hard-on.

“Fuck, I could die like this,” he pants. “Buried in heaven, makin’ you scream.”

He knows it’s coming. He feels it.

The way your walls clamp down again, tighter than before — desperate, twitching, pulsing like a heartbeat around him.

The way your back arches off the couch, your body going taut like a bowstring beneath him, mouth open, gasping his name like it’s the only word you remember.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it. Slow. So deep. Fingers still circling your clit in those perfect little patterns, still teasing your body into that shattering high. 

And then, you break. Again.

But this time?

You sob. You scream. And your body lets go. You soak him. Your cunt floods around his cock in a hot, wet gush that has him groaning so loud it echoes off the walls.

“Fuuuuck, sweetheart—yes,” he pants, slamming deep one more time just to feel the mess you’ve made around him. “That’s it. That’s it, baby—fuckin’ soak me. Let me feel that pretty pussy lose control.”

Your thighs shake. Your hips jerk. And still, he doesn’t stop. He holds you there, working you through the wave, murmuring filth and praise like prayer in your ear.

“Goddamn, look at you,” he growls, kissing the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, still buried deep inside you. “Comin’ so hard you’re drippin’ all over me.”

He thrusts again — slow, full, wet — and moans when your body trembles in his hands.

“You feel that?” he pants, rocking into you. “That’s how perfect you are. You ruined me, baby. So fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ good…”

And then he gasps — short, sharp.

“Ohhh, sweetheart…you keep clenchin’ me like that and I’m gonna—”

He’s groaning into your neck now — louder, rougher, shaking. Each thrust gets a little sloppier. A little needier.

Like he’s trying to stay in control, but you’ve wrecked him — your soaked pussy still fluttering around his cock, your body trembling under his, your sweet, broken sounds spilling from your lips like a melody he has to come to.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he pants, thrusting deep. “You’re—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so tight…”

You’re whimpering now. Moaning into his mouth. Nails raking down his back again. Legs wrapped around his waist, holding him there, keeping him deep where he belongs.

And that’s it. That’s what undoes him.

“Jesus Christ,” he growls — low, brutal, filthy. “So fucking good.”

He slams in one last time and comes with a choked, broken groan, burying his face in your neck as his cock twitches deep inside you, spilling heat and pleasure and pure fucking devotion into your shaking body.

“Fuuuck,” he growls again, grinding through it. “Fuck, baby…that’s it…take it…take all of it.”

You feel everything — every pulse, every twitch, every ragged breath he gasps against your skin as he rides it out inside you, hips still working slow and deep as he draws the high out for both of you.

Your name leaves his lips like a prayer. His hand cups the back of your neck as he kisses you — soft, breathless, trembling.

“Never…letting you outta my sight again,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You hear me, doll?”

You nod. Barely. He kisses your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your lips.

Your body won’t stop shaking. Not violently — just little tremors, soft and breathless, rolling through your limbs like waves still breaking on the shore after a storm.

You’re soaked. Slick with sweat. Your thighs trembling where they’re still wrapped around his hips.

And Bucky’s still inside you. His cock softening slowly but not fully, twitching in the heat of you. He stays buried — deep, close, his chest pressed to yours, his breath fanning over your cheek.

“Shhh,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “That’s it, doll. Just breathe. I got you.”

His hands are everywhere. One stroking up and down your side — soothing, grounding. The other resting at the back of your neck again, fingers sliding gently through your hair.

He presses kisses into your skin like penance. Your shoulder. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

“Did so good for me,” he murmurs, voice thick, reverent. “Took me so fuckin’ good. Let me ruin you. Let me have you.”

You make a soft, broken sound. He smiles against your cheek.

“Still twitchin’ around me, sweetheart,” he hums, grinding his hips forward just a little — enough to make you gasp, oversensitive and full. “Still so wet. So fuckin’ tight. You’re not lettin’ go either, huh?”

His hand slides lower — over your waist, down your hip, resting possessively on your thigh.

“I like you like this,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, breath hot in your ear. “All open and messy and full of me.”

You whimper and he groans — deep and warm.

“Mine now,” he whispers. “You hear me? You’re mine.”

You nod, barely able to speak. And he kisses you again. Long. Slow. Claiming.

Then he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye — hair a mess, pupils blown wide, jaw soft with something dangerously close to devotion.

Woah, look that me go. Posting chapter two on here as well. It's almost like I'm actually motivated to do stuff!! 🥳🎉

Will I post chapter 3 here too? Probably—eventually.. But it'll happen!

If you think I should post the rest of the Chapters here on Tumbler aswell, leave a comment or reblog. Also, if you want to be tagged tell me! 🫶

Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this. I've never actually written a Jasper (or anything Twilight for that matter) Fic before. Ive made a bunch of bots though so I've had to do a LOT of wili reading on character personalities.

But tonight, something inside you was unraveling. A knot in your stomach that wouldn’t untangle. Something thick and aching behind your ribs, desire, guilt, longing, all braided together until you couldn’t tell one from the other.

You didn’t know where else to go. So you came here.

Your footsteps echoed softly down the center aisle as you walked on quietly, head bowed, lips moving in silent, desperate prayers. Prayers that you hoped would cleanse you or save you. Make you feel whole again.

You didn’t see him at first.

But he always knew when you were near.

He was already waiting, just as he always did. Behind the screen in the confessional, cloaked in shadow, still and silent like a statue. Father James. His presence alone commanded the air, made the small space feel smaller, tighter. You could just make out the shape of him through the delicate lattice of the screen—the slope of his broad shoulders, the stillness of his hands, the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest.

His silhouette was half-swallowed by the darkness of the booth, the edge of his sharp jaw caught in the weak, flickering glow of the single lamp above him. You couldn’t see his eyes, not really. But you felt them. Felt the weight of them as they followed every one of your movements, slow and meticulous, as though memorising you.

His voice, when it came, was deep and deliberate, smooth as velvet, yet marked with something older, something unshakably steady. Each word rolled out with the patient rhythm of a grandfather clock, as if time itself bent to him. It was familiar, comforting and safe.

But beneath that calm, beneath the cadence you’d grown so used to, there was something else. A strain. A tension, carefully buried but not quite hidden. It curled around his words like smoke—something that made your breath catch in your throat, your skin prickle tight, your pulse flutter faster than it should

“Come in, little dove,” he murmured. His words curled around your spine, delicate and dark. “Let’s unburden your soul.”

Your heart beat faster.

You opened the small door and slipped into the booth. It shut behind you with a dull, weighty thunk, final and inescapable. The enclosed space smelled of incense and candle wax and something else. Something faint but unmistakably male, leather and spice, skin warmed by heat and hours of penance.

Something you’d come to associate only with him.

You sat stiffly, back straight, hands pressed into the soft, worn leather of your notebook as it trembled in your lap. You could hear your own heartbeat. Hear the rustle of his robe on the other side of the screen as he shifted slightly, quiet but present.

You swallowed. Your voice barely came out.

“Forgive me, Father,” you whispered, “for I have sinned.”

The words echoed back at you like a death knell, like a bell tolling over some part of you that would never be untouched again.

He didn’t respond at first. Just breathed slowly. Deeply. Waiting.

“Tell me,” he said finally, voice so soft it made your knees weak. “What’s weighing so heavily on your conscience?”

Your lips parted. But nothing came out. You were choking on it. On shame. On arousal, on the thick, guilty longing you hadn’t been able to exorcise from your body, no matter how hard you prayed. It clung to you like incense smoke, sweet, suffocating and impossible to wash clean. Every time you closed your eyes, it was him you saw.

“I… I’ve had thoughts,” you confessed, shame curling like smoke in your chest, thick and acrid. “Thoughts that aren’t pure. About someone I shouldn’t.” Your voice faltered on the last word, barely above a whisper—like speaking it aloud might damn you faster.

Your fingers clenched the hem of your skirt, knuckles white, as if you could hold yourself together just a moment longer.

A pause. The air thickened. The silence between you stretched until it felt unbearable.

Then a soft shift, the quiet, deliberate movement of cloth and weight. The sound of his hand brushing against the wooden divider.

“I see,” he said slowly, his voice dipping into something low and velvet-rich, like the hush of midnight against your skin. Each word was deliberate, drawn out with a kind of sinful patience that made your pulse stutter.

“And what kind of thoughts were these, little one?”

There was no judgment in his tone, only curiosity. Thick and warm, like honey sliding over something forbidden. The kind of voice meant to coax secrets from trembling lips. The kind that made you want to confess everything.

You hesitated. Your entire body was burning. It was one thing to think it. Another to say it. To let it hang in the air between you where it couldn’t be taken back.

“I… dreamt of being touched. Of being kissed. I think about him when I’m alone. In bed.” You were whispering now, voice barely audible.

He exhaled, slow and steady. Controlled.

“And in these moments…” His voice dropped lower, the edges roughening like gravel beneath silk. Darker. The confessional seemed to shrink around you, the shadows pulling tighter as if leaning in to listen. “Did you touch yourself?”

He said it like a prayer and a sin all at once—slow, deliberate, each syllable thick with something that twisted in your stomach.

Your breath caught in your throat. The shame was suffocating. But there was no point in lying. Not to him. Not here.

“Yes,” you breathed. “But I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course not,” he said, almost tenderly. “Sin creeps in when we’re weakest, when we’re vulnerable. You’re not alone in that.”

You looked up instinctively, eyes drawn to the divider. You couldn’t see him fully, just a vague outline, the suggestion of his shoulders, the faint tilt of his head — but it was enough.

More than enough.

The low glow from the booth's lamp cast shifting shadows across the lattice, dancing over the silhouette of his frame like temptation made visible. And still, you felt him. Felt the weight of his gaze through the screen, heavy and unwavering, like it could see straight through skin and bone to the little thoughts buried in your chest.

Something you couldn’t stop craving.

His voice came again, low and coaxing.

"Who is it you dream about, little lamb?"

Your heart stopped. You could barely hear anything over the rush of blood in your ears.

You knew — the second you said it — the words would change everything. That you couldn’t take them back. That the confessional would become something else entirely.

But it was too late to lie.

“You,” you whispered.

The silence that followed was absolute.

You could feel it — his stillness. The way the air shifted, went taut, like a bowstring pulled to its breaking point. Like every muscle in his body had locked tight, coiled with something restrained.

Father James didn’t move, didn't speak, and in that silence, thick and pulsing, your heartbeat thundered in your chest like a warning.

For a long moment, you thought maybe you’d gone too far. That this was it—the confession that broke whatever fragile thread had bound you in innocence. Maybe this was the final straw. The sin he couldn’t forgive. The one that would turn his voice cold, his presence distant, and left you alone in the dark with your shame.

But then—a sound. Barely audible.

A breath.

Not shocked. Not scandalised.

Hungry.

“I tried not to,” you whispered, needing to fill the silence, needing him to know it hadn’t been on purpose. “I swear. I prayed. I did everything. But I kept seeing your hands… your mouth… the way you say my name—"

He shifted again. The screen creaked faintly beneath his weight.

His voice, when it came, was different now. Rougher. Velvet torn to shreds.

“And what do I do to you in these dreams, sweetheart?” he asked, slow and deliberate.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

“Everything,” you admitted. “You… touch me. Kiss me. Take me. Like I belong to you.”

You heard it then — the soft sound of something snapping. Maybe a thread of restraint or perhaps the last shred of virtue between you. And just like that, the confessional stopped being a sanctuary and became a temptation neither of you could escape. The silence between you was alive — pulsing, throbbing, choking on unsaid things.

And then, he moved.

The creak of the confessional door startled you. It wasn’t yours — it was his. The soft sweep of his robe, the thud of heavy boots against the stone floor. Your breath caught when you felt him, felt him moving around the side. He wasn’t supposed to come into your side of the booth. He never did.

The door opened slowly, reverently, and then he was there—Father James. Or as he was always known, Bucky. Tall, imposing, the candlelight kissing the sharp lines of his face. His cassock hung heavy on his frame, the deep black clinging to the breadth of his chest, the curve of his arms.

His gloves were gone. And his eyes—those cerulean depths darkened now with something far more primal—raked over you like a judgment. Or maybe a prayer. They were heavy with hunger, burning with a quiet, restrained desperation that made your breath catch.

There was nothing soft in his gaze, nothing holy, just fire and possession. Like he was carving you into memory. Like he already knew every inch of your body and was daring you to deny it.

You scrambled to your feet, notebook clutched against your chest, but you didn’t run. You couldn’t. Not now. Not with the way he was looking at you—like you were the sin itself.

And he was the man sent to taste it.

“Put it down,” he said softly, nodding to the notebook.

Your fingers loosened instantly and it fell to the floor with a quiet thump.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. You were trapped. The two of you barely fit in the confessional together—your back brushing the wall, his broad chest towering in front of you. His voice, when it came, was low, measured and dangerous.

“Say it again.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

“What you said in there. About what I do to you in your dreams.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Heat burned across your cheeks. “I… I said you touch me.”

His gaze darkened. “Where?”

You whimpered. “My thighs. My breasts. My—”

“Your cunt?” he finished for you, voice a velvet sin. “Do I make you cum, little dove?”

You nodded.

“Do I use my fingers?” He leaned closer, breath hot. “My tongue? My cock?”

You inhaled sharply. The air was gone. “All of it,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked there. Like he was holding back a flood. He reached out slowly, deliberately, fingers brushing beneath your chin.

“And how do you ask for it?” he murmured. “In those filthy little dreams of yours. Do you beg me, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you whispered, trembling. “I beg.”

That was all it took.

He surged forward, hand gripping the back of your head as his mouth crashed to yours, not gentle or slow, but consuming. Father James kissed like a man starved. Like he’d waited years for this moment. And you let him.

You gave in like a sinner at the altar, clutching his cassock, mouth opening for him like it was meant to. He tasted like wine. Like ash. Like damnation.

When he pulled back, he was breathing hard. So were you. His thumb dragged across your lower lip, smearing spit and devotion together.

“On your knees,” he said quietly.

You blinked, heart thundering. “What?”

“You came here to confess, didn’t you?” His tone was calm. Too calm. “So confess properly. On your knees, little lamb.”

Your legs folded without thought. You sank to the floor between his boots, skirt pooling around your thighs. The wood was cold beneath your knees, but you didn’t care.

Not when his body towered above you, dark and powerful, his hands loosening the buttons of his cassock. Your breath caught as he parted the fabric, revealing dark trousers beneath, strained with the thick, visible press of his cock.

And god help you, you licked your lips.

“Look at you,” he said, voice husky now. “On your knees for your priest. What would they say, hmm? What would the parish think if they saw how desperate you are to suck sin straight from the source?”

Your cheeks burned. “I’d never— I mean, I didn’t know it would be like this, I—”

“Oh, you knew,” he growled, reaching down to fist your hair. “You came here with that sweet little skirt and trembling thighs, knowing I’d be the one to ruin you.”

You whined as he guided your mouth forward. You could smell him, warm skin, heady arousal, a musk that made your head spin.

“Open,” he ordered.

You obeyed.

His cock slid past your lips slowly, thick and heavy on your tongue. You moaned. He hissed. His hand tightened in your hair.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Fuck. That mouth…”

He was too big. You gagged slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Just held your head in place, thumb caressing your cheek as your lips stretched around him.

“You can take it,” he said darkly. “You want to take it. Don’t you, little lamb".

You nodded, eyes wide, watering.

He rocked his hips forward—shallow at first—then deeper. You gasped as he hit the back of your throat, but he only groaned in approval.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Confess with your mouth. Take it like a good girl.”

Tears spilled from your eyes as he began to fuck your throat. Slowly, cruelly. The sounds were obscene, wet, slick and gasping. Your nails dug into your thighs as your jaw stretched wide, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

“Is this what you prayed for?” he growled, fucking deeper. “To be on your knees with your priest’s cock down your throat?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. But he felt it—the whimper you gave when he said it.

And he laughed, dark and low. “Sick little lamb,” he murmured. “You came in here to be saved… and now look at you. Crying around my cock like it’s holy.”

You moaned, broken and eager. He was right. You wanted more.

When he finally pulled back, you gasped for air, coughing, tears streaking your cheeks. Spit glistened down your chin. But you looked up at him like he was god. Like he could take the ache away if he just let you worship long enough.

He stroked your hair gently. Then he cupped your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“You want more?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please—”

“Stand up.”

Your legs shook, but you rose.

He turned you gently, until your back hit the wooden wall of the booth. His hands swept down your body slowly, until they reached your thighs. He pushed your skirt up and groaned when he saw the wet spot on your panties.

“Fucking soaked,” he muttered. “Knew you’d be wet for me. Bet you’ve been leaking for days thinking about this.”

You whimpered as he dragged the fabric down, baring you completely.

Then he dropped to his knees.

“Bucky—” you gasped.

“Not Bucky,” he growled. “Father.”

You didn’t have time to answer — his mouth was on you, tongue plunging between your folds like he’d waited a lifetime to taste you. You cried out, hands gripping his hair. He groaned into your cunt like it was a sacred offering, tongue circling your clit before dipping lower, devouring you like a man possessed.

“F-Father—!”

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice muffled against your heat. “Cry for me. Cum for me. Cum on your priest’s mouth.”

You shattered, trembling, gasping, your cry cracking in the hush of the confessional like a confession too loud to swallow. Your body slumped against the wooden wall, spent and shaking, but he didn’t stop. He held you there, mouth still working you through it, tongue insatiable as he licked you clean, drinking every last drop like it was sacred.

When he stood again, his mouth was wet, jaw slick with your arousal.

He unzipped his trousers fully, pulling his cock out, hard, flushed, dripping.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

You did. Pressed your hands against the wall, skirt bunched around your waist, trembling.

He lined himself up and paused—just for a breath.

Then he thrust inside you.

You cry out, he was huge, stretching you wide, filling you to the hilt. His hand clamped over your mouth as he began to fuck you—slow at first, then harder, the confessional rocked with each thrust. Your cries were muffled as tears spilled down your cheeks.

“Taking me so well,” he growled, panting. “So tight. So perfect. Like you were made for me.”

You nodded desperately. The words filled you with shame and unbearable pleasure.

“You’ll never be clean again, little lamb,” he whispered, dragging his lips along your ear. “You’re mine now.”

You came again—body clenching, muscles seizing—and he felt it.

“Oh fuck, yes,” he groaned. “Cum for me. Cum on your priest’s cock.”

You sobbed against his hand, and he fucked you through it, relentless and possessive.

When he came, it was with a broken growl against your neck, hot seed spilling inside you as his hips stuttered. He held you there, pressed together, shaking from release.

The silence returned. But it was different now. It was charged and consecrated.

He pulled out slowly. Turned you to face him again. You were a mess flushed, teary and ruined. And still Father James looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing away a tear.

“You did so well,” he whispered.

Your breath trembled. “What now?” you asked softly.

His smile was slow, dangerous. The kind of smile that made promises in the dark.

“Now,” he murmured, tucking your hair behind your ear, “you come back tomorrow.”