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mandoalorian · 9 days ago

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lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson three: touching

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: lesson three is about touch—his, and yours. one problem: you’ve never wrapped your hand around a man before, let alone made him come. but your best friend is still willing to help. no strings, no feelings, just practice. except when his hands find your skin—and his mouth murmurs what he wants—it stops feeling like a lesson. and starts feeling like something you might never want to stop.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ handjob, ball play, fingering, cum eating, female masturbation, praise kink, you watch porn, unspoken feelings, pining, a smidge of angst, virgin!reader, experienced!bucky, reader drinks alcohol, mentions of politics, reader is dating a jerk starting to know it.

word count: 7.4k

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The city pulsed around you both as you slipped into the tiny table tucked into the corner of your favourite deli—your “usual” place, where the guy at the counter always remembered your name and Bucky’s sandwich order before he even said a word. He only ever came here with you.

You were already seated by the time he arrived, sipping iced tea and picking apart a napkin. You looked up and smiled when you saw him, and it hit Bucky in the gut just how pretty you looked—no makeup, hoodie pulled over your head, that shy, secret little grin you always saved for him. God, he was in so much trouble.

“You beat me,” he said as he slid into the booth across from you.

You gave a dramatic sigh. “Ten minutes late, Barnes. I could’ve wasted away.”

Bucky smirked and shrugged off his coat. “In my defence, Congress is chaos. And so is traffic. But mostly Congress.”

Your drink was already sweating on the table in front of you—and you watched the slice of lemon sink to the bottom of the glass. You took a sip, and then handed Bucky his sandwich before he could even ask. Bucky’s turkey on rye, no mustard, lots of pickles. You’d memorised it after the third time he forgot to specify.

“So?” you said, unwrapping your food. “How’s the revolution going?”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I swear, if I hear Valentina say the phrase ‘strategic optics’ one more time, I’m gonna jump out the window.”

“That bad?”

He took a bite before replying. “Worse. I’m trying to draft articles to get her impeached. Or at least suspended. She’s pushing for full security reform, trying to strip New York districts of their independent jurisdiction—wants to funnel everything through a new department she controls. It’s a power grab.”

You frowned. “Is anyone backing you?”

“Well, I have Captain America on my side. That’s a pretty big deal. As well as Congressman Gary, Davis, Brown, Carter, Elkins… But I lost Blake.”

You blinked. “Wait—Blake was on your side? And he’s not anymore?”

“I’m not sure he’s ever been on my side,” Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Today he made a statement siding with Valentina’s resolution. Said we ‘can’t afford rogue protocols in a world that’s still reeling from the Avengers.’”

“It’s pretty standard for Blake.” Bucky muttered before taking a bite of his sandwich.

You leaned in, brows pinched. “You think Valentina’s got something on him?”

“I think he’s an opportunist,” Bucky said, voice low. “He knows which ladder to climb.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the soft clatter of cutlery behind the counter. That reminded you of what Blake had told you on your first date. That he was only in politics for power and fortune. You sighed and leaned back.

“Honestly, sometimes, I don’t know what I see in him.”

That surprised him.

You caught his look and laughed. “Don’t act so smug.”

“I’m not smug,” he said, lips twitching. “Just… vindicated.”

You smiled at your iced tea, then rolled your eyes. “It’s just—he can be charming. In a cocky, ‘I’ve never been told no before’ kind of way.”

Bucky arched a brow. “And that’s your type now?”

You gave him a pointed look. “I guess so.”

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve better.”

You shrugged one shoulder, but didn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t know. I mean, it is nice, being seen. I’ve spent so long invisible. Blake actually makes me feel…” You searched for the word. “Wanted.”

That did something to Bucky’s chest. Something tight and protective and a little dangerous.

“You’re not invisible,” he said softly. “Not to me.”

You looked up, startled by the honesty in his voice. The air stretched between you—warm and quiet and heavy with the weight of things unsaid.

You broke the silence first, clearing your throat and glancing away. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about Lesson Three.”

The shift in topic hit Bucky like a cold plunge. He straightened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, playing with the condensation on your glass. “I think I want to learn how to… y’know… touch someone. A guy. Like, with my hands.”

Bucky blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“As opposed to your feet?” He asked eventually, deflecting from how your words made him feel. You wanted to touch him. No, you wanted to touch Blake. Bucky’s heart ached with bewilderment.

You smiled. “I hear some guys are into that,” you shrugged nonchalantly, taking a sip of your iced tea and feeling a warmth creep onto your cheeks.

“You know, I bet Blake is,” Bucky laughed, and you cringed.

“Unfortunately, you’re probably right,” You agreed, finishing your iced tea. “But, I mean, you know I’ve never done it before. Hell, I only had my first kiss days ago,” you rushed out. “And I feel like if I’m going to go back to Blake’s on Friday night… that means something, doesn’t it? I should know what I’m doing. Right?”

He swallowed. “You’re still talking about… hand stuff?”

You cringed and buried your face in your hands. “God, don’t say it like that.”

He laughed softly. “You said it first.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “I’m serious, Buck. I need to learn.”

He grew quiet. Then: “And you’re sure you want to learn with me?”

You nodded, slowly. “If that’s okay.”

“You’re really not making it easy for me to be noble here,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, doll. If you’re sure, I’ll help.”

Your eyes lit up. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.” Bucky agreed with finality.

“Should I bring wine?”

“You always do.”

“I think it makes this whole thing a little easier,” you admitted sheepishly.

He laughed again, and it made your heart squeeze. There was something so easy about this—about him. You felt more yourself with Bucky than anyone else. Even Blake.

Especially Blake.

As the two of you finished your sandwiches the nerves in your belly began to twist. Tonight wasn’t just a lesson.

Tonight was the night you crossed another line.

And God help you, you couldn’t wait.

The walk back to Bucky’s office was easy—sunlight bouncing off glass buildings, the buzz of traffic in the background, your laughter spilling between bites of the cookie you split. He was telling you about the old man who lived in 14a, who had once tried to arrest their mailman for “suspicious delivery activity.”

“I had to bribe him with prune juice just to get the package back,” Bucky said, shaking his head.

You giggled. “You attract chaos.”

“I attracted you, didn’t I?”

You gave him a playful shove, cheeks warm, and he caught your wrist for a second before letting go. You didn’t say anything about the way your heart jumped. You couldn’t.

As you approached the Capitol steps, Bucky swiped his keycard and held the glass door open for you. “You sure you wanna come in?”

“Just to say hi,” you said. “And maybe to use your air conditioning.”

He rolled his eyes but let you through, the two of you walking down the marble hallways that echoed with every step. You passed polished offices and name plaques, assistants tapping away at keyboards, the smell of fresh coffee lingering in the air.

“So,” Bucky said, glancing at you sideways. “Did your new neighbour’s boyfriend keep you up again?”

You groaned. “God, yes. You’d think he was auditioning for The Bachelor. All I heard was moaning and headboard banging for like—three hours straight.”

Bucky chuckled. “Maybe he’s just really enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic?” you blinked at him. “It sounded like she was being possessed.”

He snorted. “Demonic dick.”

You bumped shoulders with him, laughter still hanging in the air as you reached his office. He reached for his keycard again, but the door was already cracked open.

The moment you stepped inside, you saw him.

Blake.

Leaning casually against Bucky’s desk, crisp navy suit jacket open, white shirt rolled at the sleeves. He looked like he belonged on a billboard. Or in a campaign ad for America’s Most Eligible Douchebag.

His eyes lit up when he saw you.

“There’s my girl,” he beamed, crossing the room in a few long strides. He leaned in to kiss your cheek, but missed and hit the corner of your mouth. “Didn’t know you’d be visiting today.”

“I was just saying hi,” you said, voice soft, surprised by the greeting. “Bucky and I were getting lunch.”

Blake’s arm slipped around your waist like it belonged there. He pulled you into his side, holding you too tightly against him. “She’s been such a good influence on you, Barnes,” he said with a smile. “I like to think I’ve been rubbing off on her, too.”

Bucky’s face was unreadable.

Blake turned to the small group of aides loitering near the door. “Fellas, this is the girl I’ve been talking about,” he announced. “Isn’t she a smokeshow?”

Your stomach twisted. You laughed nervously, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Blake…”

“What?” he grinned. “Can’t I brag a little?”

Bucky was silent.

His hands were in his pockets, fists clenched so tightly the veins in his forearms stood out.

You looked up at Blake and tried to smile through the awkwardness, but then you felt his hand trail lower. His fingers skimmed down your back—then boldly squeezed your ass.

You jolted.

Before you could say a word, Bucky stepped in.

He got close—too close—and his voice dropped so low you barely heard it.

“If you touch her like that again,” Bucky said, his tone like a knife under velvet, “I’ll break your fingers. No headlines. No questions. Just bones.”

Blake blinked, the smile flickering just a little.

But then you turned, noticing the sudden tension. “Everything okay?”

Bucky straightened immediately. “All good,” he said with a tight smile. “Just chatting.”

Blake turned on the charm like a switch. “We were just talking about Friday, babe,” he said, looping an arm around your shoulders again. “Still good for dinner? My place after?”

You hesitated. “Yeah, sure.”

He leaned in and kissed your cheek again. “Can’t wait.”

You smiled back and pulled away gently. “Okay. I should let you get back to work.”

Blake gave your waist one last squeeze before letting go.

You turned to Bucky. He was still watching, jaw tense.

You hesitated—then opened your arms. “Hug?”

His shoulders relaxed just a little. “Always.”

His arms wrapped around you tightly for a second, grounding. Safe. He smelled like cedarwood and the city. And then it was over. You smiled between them, offered a final wave, and headed down the hall.

You didn’t notice the way Blake’s smug grin returned the second your back was turned.

You didn’t hear what he muttered to Bucky once you were out of earshot.

“Must kill you, huh?” Blake said, smirking. “Knowing I’ll be the first.”

Bucky didn’t rise to it. Not yet.

But the sound of his teeth grinding was enough to silence the room.

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The door slammed harder than it needed to when Bucky walked back into his office. He yanked off his jacket, threw it across the back of the chair, and sat down like the floor might give out under him.

His fingers hovered over his phone for a second before he finally tapped the screen and hit “Call.”

It rang twice.

“Please tell me this is a booty call,” Sam said by way of greeting. “I need something to make my Wednesday more interesting.”

“It’s not,” Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Then I’m hanging up.”

“Sam.”

A sigh. “Okay, okay. What happened now?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, jaw clenched. “Blake.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“I had lunch with her,” he said, rubbing a hand down his face. “Walked her back to my office. Blake was already there.”

Sam hummed. “Lemme guess—shirt unbuttoned, feet on your desk, probably sniffing your mug?”

“He put his hands on her.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Like… friendly hands?” Sam tried.

Bucky’s voice was tight. “He squeezed her, Sam. Like she was some kind of fucking trophy.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “Well. Did you kill him?”

“Almost.”

“You should’ve.”

“I told him if he did it again, I’d break his fingers.” He paused. “Whispered it. Real polite.”

Sam snorted. “So polite, you sounded like the Winter Soldier.”

“He said…” Bucky trailed off, staring blankly at the far wall. “He said, ‘Must kill you, huh? Knowing I’ll be the first.’”

A sharp exhale from Sam. “Jesus.”

“He thinks this is a game,” Bucky said quietly. “Like I’m in competition for her.”

Sam’s voice softened. “Aren’t you?”

Bucky blinked.

“I mean,” Sam continued, “you’re in love with the girl, Buck. And she’s… what, asking you to teach her how to kiss? How to dirty talk? What’s next? It doesn’t even matter. You’re standing three feet away while this sleazeball tries to mark his territory like a fucking dog.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

“Look,” Sam said gently, “I know you’re trying to play the long game. Respect her choices, protect the friendship. But how long are you gonna sit there, letting some blow-dried senator-in-training take what you want?”

“I can’t tell her,” Bucky said, voice hoarse. “Not now. Not when she trusts me to help her. I’m the one she runs to when she’s scared. When she wants to learn. I can’t ruin that just because I’m—” He cut himself off.

Sam finished it for him. “—jealous?”

Bucky sighed. “Falling.”

“Damn,” Sam muttered. “Well, that’s worse.”

They sat in silence for a beat.

Then Sam cleared his throat. “So what’s the next lesson?”

“Tonight,” Bucky said. “Touching. She wants to try hand stuff.”

Sam made a strangled sound. “What.”

“She was all serious about it. Said if it’s crossing a line, I can say no. Told me she trusts me.”

“Oh, she trusts you all right.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “I’m losing it, man.”

“Well,” Sam said dryly, “at least you’ll go down in history as the first man to ever white-knuckle his way through a handjob lesson.”

Bucky groaned. “Thanks for the support.”

“Anytime. Try not to fall in love with her tonight.”

“I think it might be too late for that.”

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You stared at the search bar like it had personally wronged you.

“How to give a good handjob.”

The words blinked back at you from your laptop screen like a threat. You took a sip of wine, already halfway through your first glass, and let out a groan so loud your upstairs neighbour probably paused his nightly moaning session for it.

“God,” you muttered. “This is mortifying.”

You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, hoodie on, makeup half-done, the flat iron still heating up in the corner. You’d pulled up Pornhub purely for research, but now that the thumbnails were playing silent clips of squelching sounds and over-exaggerated gasps, your bravery was rapidly draining.

You clicked on a random video. A woman was jerking a guy off like she was churning butter. Another video showed a girl with nails so long they looked like they could perforate an organ.

You winced. “Okay. Nope.”

Another sip of wine. A deep breath. You clicked on another one. This time, the guy was groaning out praise, telling her she was doing so good, and for a second, you tried to concentrate—really, you did.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky.

Not the porn guy. Not the faceless girls. Just Bucky.

His low, teasing voice. That little smile he gave you when you were flustered. The way his eyes darkened when you touched his thigh. The gentle way he said your name. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You shut your laptop with a groan.

This was so dumb. So deeply stupid. You’d known him your entire adult life. He bought you cold meds and fixed your broken cabinet and listened to your dramatic rants about Blake with the patience of a monk. And now… he was going to let you touch him.

And you were not going to embarrass yourself.

You set the laptop aside, heart pounding, and reached over to your bedside drawer. Pulled out your favorite vibrator and paused, staring down at it like it might judge you.

“You’re not him,” you whispered to it, solemnly.

And then, because the wine had made you a little bold and a lot desperate, you slid under the blankets and let your thoughts spiral—right to Bucky.

You imagined his voice in your ear, low and dark and wicked, telling you what to do.

You imagined the weight of him in your hand.

His soft little gasps, the tension in his thighs, the way he might groan your name when he came. The way his body might shudder from your touch.

You bit your lip and let the vibrator buzz to life. One hand gripping the sheets, the other slowly dipping beneath your panties.

It wasn’t long before you were breathless.

And all you could see—was him.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky opened the door already smiling—one of those easy, lazy smiles that made you want to do something foolish.

“Hey,” he greeted, stepping aside so you could enter. “You came prepared.”

You raised the two bottles in your hands like a trophy. “One for lesson three, and one for… moral support.”

“Gonna need both,” he muttered, gently taking them from you. His fingers brushed yours and your stomach fluttered, traitorous and stupid.

You kicked off your shoes as he disappeared into the kitchen, calling, “So how was work? Do I even wanna know?”

“Let’s see,” he called back. “I sat in four meetings about nothing. Got five more calls about Blake defending Valentina. And then I got home and I watched our new neighbour get screamed at by her boyfriend because he didn’t like her curtains.”

You padded toward the kitchen and leaned on the doorway, arms crossed. “Again? That guy has issues.”

“Oh, massive issues. And volume control problems. It’s like a Nicholas Sparks novel up there if everyone hated each other and screamed about takeout.”

You laughed, and it felt so normal, so you and him. Until it didn’t.

Until you remembered what tonight was.

Until you noticed the wine glasses clinking together in his hands, his big palms dwarfing the stems. Until he looked over his shoulder at you, and you saw the tension behind his grin.

You shifted your weight, suddenly sheepish. “Blake really defended Valentina?”

“Like a pro. He called her ‘brilliant and misunderstood.’ I called him a dumbass.”

Your eyes widened. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Bucky said, popping the cork with one smooth pull. “I’m over it, though. Totally zen now.”

You snorted. “That’s what zen looks like?”

“Nope.” He poured a generous glass for each of you, then handed you one. “This is.”

You raised your glass and clinked his gently. “To bad decisions.”

“To questionable friendship boundaries,” he countered, smiling into his sip.

You both sat on the couch, a little too close. The kind of too close that meant your knees brushed when you turned toward him, the kind that sent sparks dancing down your thighs even though neither of you said a word about it.

“I was nervous,” you confessed. “Still am.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because… this is a thing. We’re doing a thing. It’s not just talking anymore. It’s touching. I mean, actual—”

“Hand stuff,” Bucky deadpanned, nodding solemnly. “A sacred art.”

You let out a laugh, covering your face. “Oh my god.”

He reached over and gently tugged your hand away. “Hey, I’m teasing. But I get it. I’m nervous too.”

You looked up at him, surprised. “You are?”

“Of course,” he said, voice softer. “It’s you.”

Your heart did something traitorous in your chest.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he said, his hand still on yours. “You wanna stop, you stop. Say the word and I’ll drop it.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I trust you.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles once, then let go. He leaned back, sipping his wine, trying to look unaffected—but you saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his knee bounced.

You sipped yours, fingers fiddling with the stem. “So, uh… should we… start?”

Bucky raised a brow. “Lesson Three: Touching?”

You nodded.

He looked at your wine glass. “Finish that first.”

You downed the rest in one long gulp, cheeks flushed.

Bucky did the same.

Then he leaned forward, eyes impossibly gentle, impossibly warm.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let me show you how this works.”

You settled onto Bucky’s couch, the wine bottles pushed to the side as if you were preparing for a serious, focused mission — which, honestly, this kind of was. Your heart hammered like a drum, nerves buzzing under your skin, but there was something comforting about the way Bucky sat next to you, relaxed but alert, waiting.

“So,” he said, shifting a little so his arm rested along the back of the couch behind you. “Touching. Where do you wanna start?”

You bit your lip, eyes flicking over him, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “I guess... just… how do I even touch you? Like, what’s... good? What should I look for?”

Bucky smiled, that slow, soft smile that made your stomach flutter every time. “Good question. It’s different for everyone, but I’ll guide you. Just listen to what I say — and how I respond.”

You nodded, palms sweating a little as you reached out, your fingers hovering near his forearm.

“Start slow,” he said quietly. “Don’t rush. Feel the muscles under your fingers. See how they react.”

Your hand settled gently on his forearm, fingertips brushing the thick cord of muscle. His skin was warm, even through the thin fabric of his shirt. You traced small circles, feeling the subtle pulse beneath.

“Right there,” he encouraged. “Now, try pressing a little, like you’re trying to feel how hard or soft it is. Not too firm — don’t wanna hurt me.”

You adjusted your grip, pressing more confidently. He let out a low hum that sent a thrill down your spine.

“See? You’re a natural.”

You smiled, heart fluttering. “I’m glad you think so.”

His eyes caught yours, a flicker of something—pride? Desire?—and it made you dizzy.

“Next,” he said, shifting so you could reach his bicep. “That one’s more sensitive. Some guys like a squeeze, some don’t. For me? A firm, confident touch works.”

You cupped his bicep, feeling the muscle bunch and flex under your palm when he tensed slightly.

“Like this,” Bucky said, voice low.

You squeezed gently, then relaxed, watching his reactions closely.

“Perfect.”

Your confidence bloomed. You moved your hand down to his wrist, fingers wrapping lightly around the bone, marveling at how strong and steady his pulse was there.

“You’ve got steady hands,” he murmured. “Good.”

You laughed nervously. “Trying not to mess this up.”

“Can’t mess up when you’re this gentle,” he reassured, thumb brushing your wrist with a featherlight touch.

Heat blossomed in your chest, and your fingers inched higher, tracing the line of his collarbone, feeling the subtle tension in his neck muscles as he shifted closer.

His breath hitched just a little.

“Careful,” he warned softly. “That spot’s... sensitive.”

You stopped, biting your lip, then moved your hand to the other side, tracing the same path with more confidence.

“Better?”

Bucky nodded, eyes hooded. “Much.”

You swallowed hard, the air between you thickening with something you weren’t ready to name yet.

“Okay,” he said, voice rougher now, “when you’re ready... we can take it further.”

You swallowed again. “I’m ready.”

He reached over and took your hand in his, fingers entwining. “Good.”

And just like that, the lesson was no longer about technique. It was about trust. About something quietly electric humming between your skin and his.

There was a beat of silence. Heavy. Charged.

Your fingers were still curled gently around Bucky’s wrist from the last part of the lesson. He was warm everywhere—beneath your hand, along your arm, in the way he looked at you.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice rougher now, a touch deeper.

You nodded, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break out. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

His lips quirked. “You’re doing great. But you don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I want to.” You swallowed. “I want to learn.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. “Alright. Then let me show you.”

He leaned back slightly, undoing the button of his jeans with one smooth motion, and you tried not to visibly react at the sound of the zipper sliding down. He didn’t take them off, just pushed them low enough to make room, shifting slightly on the couch so his thighs spread wider, giving you space.

The outline of him under his boxers was already clear — thick, heavy, straining a little.

Oh, god.

You tried not to panic. Tried not to stare. But your voice still came out in a dry whisper. “You’re… um. Big.”

He laughed softly. Not in a mocking way, but warm, like the sound wrapped itself around you.

“Yeah,” he murmured, a little amused. “You gonna be okay with that?”

You blinked up at him. “I think so.”

“You can touch me over the boxers first,” he said, voice low and steady. “Get used to how I feel.”

With a breath, you reached out, palm resting lightly over him. He was hard—rock hard—and so hot, even through the fabric. He twitched slightly at the contact, a little hitch in his breath.

You glanced up. “Good?”

“Fuck,” he rasped. “Yeah, sweetheart. That’s real good.”

You pressed more firmly, starting a slow stroke through the fabric. He groaned quietly, hips shifting just a little.

“I like when you go slow,” he murmured. “Nice and steady. Just like that.”

Your confidence flickered to life. You slid your hand up and down, feeling him grow even harder beneath your touch. When your thumb brushed the head through the boxers, you felt the damp spot blooming beneath the cotton.

Bucky cursed under his breath. “You wanna try without these?”

You nodded, pulse skyrocketing.

He lifted his hips and pushed his boxers down just enough to free himself, and then—

Oh. Oh, god.

He was thick. Long. Veins along the shaft, flushed and leaking at the tip. Your mouth went dry.

“Don’t look so scared,” Bucky teased gently. “You’ve got this.”

You reached out again, curling your fingers around the base of him, slowly learning the curve—thick and flushed, heavy with need. He was so hot in your palm, pulsing against your skin like a live wire, leaking precum that slicked your hand.

“Start slow,” he murmured, voice breathy now. “Use your whole hand, just like that. Yeah, good girl…”

You swallowed a shaky breath and moved your hand, awkward at first, until he covered yours with his own, guiding you.

His cock was heavy in your hand, the thick weight of him settling warm against your skin. Bucky was fully hard now, the flushed head of him slick with precum that caught the light each time your hand moved. You watched, fascinated, as it gathered and dripped, a slow, glistening bead you instinctively swiped your thumb across—earning a strangled grunt from him.

“A little tighter,” he instructed softly. “Yeah—good. Now twist your wrist a little at the top. Slow, smooth. Let me feel it.”

You did as he said, thumb brushing over the head, smearing the bead of precum there. Each slow stroke dragged more precum from him, dribbling down his length, sticky and warm as it painted your fingers. Bucky groaned, hips twitching like he couldn’t help it.

“Jesus,” he hissed, head tipping back against the couch. His jaw flexed, tight with restraint. The muscles in his stomach clenched as you did it again, thumb teasing the ridge just below the head. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”

You flushed at the praise, tightening your grip as he taught you how to move your hand, how to stroke him just right. You watched the way his stomach flexed, the muscles twitching as you dragged your palm over the sensitive underside of his cock.

“Play with my balls a little,” he rasped, hips jerking. “Just a light touch, yeah. Don’t squeeze.”

You reached down carefully, cupping him gently, and his moan this time was loud, his hand flying out to brace against the couch.

They were tight, sensitive, and soft against your touch, and you found yourself utterly mesmerised by the textures, by the way Bucky’s breath hitched as you rolled them gently between your fingers.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You’re a fucking natural.”

He let out a low groan, deeper than before. His eyes fluttered open, half-lidded and hooded with lust, gaze fixed solely on you. “You’re doin’ so good,” he murmured, voice husky. “That grip’s perfect. Fuck.”

Your hand moved with more confidence now—pumping slow, deliberate strokes from base to tip. You liked feeling the slight curve in his cock, upward and to the left, thick and veiny and almost too big to wrap your hand fully around. Your wrist twisted on the upstroke like he’d shown you, and his whole body shuddered in response.

That’s when it hit you—this wasn’t just technical anymore. Your chest was heaving. Your thighs were pressed together. Your heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the lesson.

And before you could stop yourself, you whispered it:

“I really want to kiss you.”

The air changed. Bucky’s brows twitched up, like he hadn’t expected it—but he didn’t look surprised. No, he looked hungry.

He blinked slowly, his voice rough and soft all at once. “Yeah?” His fingers brushed your wrist, urging you to keep moving. “That’s normal. Happens when you’re this close to someone. When it feels this good.”

You bit your lip, stroking him again, deliberately slower this time. “I don’t think it’s just that.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “Then show me what you’ve learned.”

Your hand didn’t stop working his cock as you leaned in, pressing your lips to his with a quiet, desperate need. It was messy and slow and full of heat—his mouth opening for you immediately, tongue sliding against yours with a groan that vibrated through his chest.

You kissed him like you’d been dying to. Like you’d been holding your breath for this moment since the beginning.

And as you stroked him, your lips broke from his just long enough to whisper in his ear, “I’ve never wanted anything more than to make you feel good, Bucky.”

His cock twitched in your palm. His head fell back again with a low moan.

His face—God, his face. His brows pinched, mouth parted, lashes fluttering like he was fighting to stay grounded. And that moan? Wrecked. Low and ragged and ruined, drawn straight from the center of his chest. You could feel him starting to lose control, hips twitching up into your fist, thighs tensing beneath your knees.

And every part of him was yours to study, to learn, to worship.

Your strokes grew firmer, more fluid, guided by every gasp and grunt from Bucky’s mouth. He was losing composure fast, jaw clenched and chest heaving, the cords in his neck tightening as he fought the inevitable. You kissed him again, slow and dirty, dragging your teeth along his bottom lip before letting your mouth fall to his throat. He tasted like salt and skin, like heat and home.

“God, you feel so good,” you whispered against his jaw, lips brushing the scruff on his cheek. “I love how you sound. How hard you get for me.”

He groaned—low and dangerous—his metal hand digging into the couch cushion like he needed something to hold onto or he might fly apart.

“Say that again,” he rasped.

You kissed a line from his throat to his ear and murmured, “You’re so fucking hard for me, Bucky. So big in my hand. So close, aren’t you?”

His hips bucked helplessly, and you stroked him faster, tightening your grip just the way he liked. His breathing was ragged, chest stuttering with each rise and fall.

“I’m gonna—shit—doll, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” you breathed. “Come for me, Bucky. Come in my hand.”

With a strained growl, his whole body seized. You kept pumping him as the first hot stripe of cum painted up his stomach, followed by another—thicker, messier. It spilled over your knuckles, dripping warm and sticky down his length, catching on his abs and leaving your fingers slick.

His head fell back with a groan of surrender, eyes screwed shut as he rode it out, legs trembling under you. You stared at him, breathless, heart pounding in your ears.

You’d never seen anything so beautiful. Or so intimate.

Your hand slowed as he twitched under your touch, cum cooling across his skin and yours. You could feel it—warm, viscous, heavy—and for a moment, all you could do was stare. It was everywhere. On your palm, between your fingers, sliding down the veins of his cock and pooling where his stomach met his hips.

And then your eyes flicked to his face. He was watching you, dazed and flushed and wrecked, but still so utterly focused on you.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You looked at him, then back down at your hand. “Yeah…” Your voice was soft. Curious. Your mouth parted slightly.

He followed your gaze—to where his come glistened across your fingers—and something flickered behind his eyes.

“Doll…” he said, unsure. Not warning, not encouraging. Just… waiting.

You met his gaze again, and your lips curled into a soft, heavy-lidded smile. You brought your hand to your mouth and dragged your tongue along one finger—slowly, deliberately.

Bucky’s lips parted. “Jesus Christ.”

You sucked your fingers clean, one by one, tasting him for the first time. Salty. Warm. Intimate in a way nothing else had been yet. It was filthy, yes—but it was also a gift. A quiet offering. A choice.

And Bucky looked like you’d just undone him all over again.

“You taste good,” you said softly.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You laughed lightly, but your body still hummed, warm and shaky and close to trembling. You hadn’t even been touched and yet—your skin buzzed like you had.

Bucky’s thumb brushed your wrist gently, pulling your hand away from your lips.

“Lesson complete?” you asked softly.

Bucky looked at you like you were made of stars. “Sweetheart, you just graduated with honours.”

You laughed, the tension breaking in the best way. He leaned back, still catching his breath, but the softness was there again. That warm glow between you, pulsing like a secret.

You tucked your legs underneath yourself, heart still racing from what you’d just done. Bucky sat beside you, relaxed and warm, still catching his breath, a faint sheen on his chest where your hand had left its mark.

Then his gaze dropped to your thighs. His voice gentled, slowed.

“Can I return the favor?”

Your breath hitched. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

You blinked. “But this whole thing—it’s supposed to be for me. You’ve already done enough, Buck.”

He leaned in, brushing a knuckle under your chin so you’d look at him. “Exactly. This is still part of the lesson, isn’t it?” His eyes softened. “You should learn how it feels when someone touches you right. When someone gives a damn about your pleasure.”

The room went still.

And then, quietly, you nodded.

His smile was barely there—just the ghost of something reverent—as he leaned in and kissed your cheek.

“Lie back for me, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good.”

He eased you back against the couch, moving slowly, as though you might vanish if he rushed. His metal hand came to your shirt hem, and he waited for your nod before sliding it up, exposing inch by inch of your stomach. His flesh hand followed, fingertips trailing behind the fabric like a warm breeze.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your belly. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your breath hitched as he leaned over you, pulling your shirt higher, and then—when you lifted your arms—off entirely. He tossed it somewhere behind him but didn’t even glance. His attention was all on you.

His eyes darkened when they landed on your chest. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His hands found your breasts, gentle at first—like he was learning you. Mapping you. His thumbs brushed your nipples through the lace of your bra, watching the way your back arched, the way your breath stuttered.

He made a low sound in his throat and leaned down to press a kiss between them. Then one to the left. The right. His stubble scraped your skin and it made you ache.

“Can I take this off?” he asked, fingers finding your bra clasp.

You nodded again, already breathless. “Yes. Please.”

He removed it with deft hands, like he’d done it a thousand times before, but he didn’t act like it. No. Bucky looked like he was seeing a woman for the first time—you for the first time—and wanted to worship every inch.

He kissed down the valley of your breasts, then took one nipple into his mouth, sucking slowly while his thumb rolled the other. You whimpered, thighs rubbing together beneath him.

“God, Bucky…”

He groaned softly and looked up at you. “That feel good, sweetheart?”

You gave a desperate little nod, voice catching. “Yeah.”

He kissed down your ribs, your stomach, until he reached the waistband of your shorts. Your hips lifted when he tugged them down, your underwear going with them in one fluid motion.

He dropped to his knees between your legs and looked at you.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You’re already so wet.”

Your cheeks burned, but the way he said it—like it was the most divine thing he’d ever seen—made you melt all over again.

“Is that normal?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He smirked up at you. “If I’d been jerking me off like that, I’d be soaked too.”

You laughed breathlessly—and then gasped when his fingers brushed through your folds, slow and deliberate. Your hips jolted at the contact.

“Easy, baby,” he whispered. “I got you.”

His fingers worked with an unhurried rhythm, sliding through your slick, teasing you until your thighs trembled. He rubbed slow circles over your clit with the pad of his thumb, watching every reaction, every gasp, every flicker of your lashes.

Then—he eased one thick finger inside you.

You cried out softly, your walls fluttering around him. He shushed you gently, leaning in to kiss your inner thigh as he curled the digit just right.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice like silk. “Taking me so good, sweetheart.”

You moaned—moaned—and arched against the couch. “Bucky…”

He added a second finger and you nearly came apart. The stretch, the drag, the curl of his knuckles as he stroked your walls—it was too much and not enough. You felt unraveled. You felt alive.

Your hands flew to his hair, and he groaned again, the vibration sending a shock straight through your spine.

“I—I think I’m—”

“Let go,” he whispered, fingers working faster. “Come for me, baby.”

You shattered with a cry, your thighs clamping around his arm as you bucked against his hand. He didn’t stop—kept fingering you through it, drawing it out until you sagged against the cushions, completely undone.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were glazed, his fingers soaked.

You blinked down at him in disbelief, but Bucky simply smiled and laced his wet fingers with yours. God, that smile was something so rare, it felt like it belonged to you.

He was still looking at you like you were something sacred.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Bucky leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“That’s how it’s supposed to feel,” he whispered. “Always.”

──── ୨୧ ────

You stood in Bucky’s doorway for a long second, clutching your coat to your chest even though the evening air was warm and heavy.

Neither of you knew how to say goodbye.

Not after that.

You still felt his hands on you. The way he’d looked at you like you were something delicate. Like you mattered.

Your voice cracked the silence first. “Thank you. For tonight.”

His smile was soft and small. “That’s okay.”

You hesitated. “I… I think I learned a lot.”

“Hope so.” He chuckled quietly, eyes dancing despite the softness. “I’d hate to think you went through all that without getting a gold star.”

You smiled, stepping back toward the hallway. “Guess we’re both overachievers, huh?”

But neither of you laughed this time. Not really.

There was too much between you. Too many lines blurred. Too much heat still in your skin.

“I should go,” you whispered.

Bucky nodded once, jaw clenching like he was fighting the urge to say something. Or do something.

You turned—slowly—and began the walk across the hall. But, after just a few steps, you turned back.

“Hey, Buck?”

He looked up.

You smiled gently. “I liked your hands on me.”

His throat bobbed, and for a second, he looked like you’d just knocked the air out of him. But all he did was nod.

“I know, doll. I could tell.”

You left before you could say anything more.

──── ୨୧ ────

Back in your apartment, you shut the door with your back pressed to it, eyes wide, heart racing. The room was dark, and your skin still tingled everywhere he’d touched. Your body was humming—like it had learned something, opened a door it couldn’t close.

You changed into your comfiest pyjamas in a daze and climbed into bed, burying yourself in blankets.

You were supposed to feel… educated.

But all you felt was overwhelmed. And achy. And longing.

It hadn’t just been a lesson.

Not anymore.

You curled onto your side and stared at your phone. Your fingers hovered over Bucky’s name before finally sending a text.

you: thank you again. really.

You locked your phone and let it rest on your chest, squeezing your eyes shut.

And in the dark, your body still aching, you whispered to no one, “I think I’m falling for him.”

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky lay in his bed with one arm flung over his face.

Still shirtless. Still warm. Still hard again—because thinking about the way you moaned his name had replayed like a goddamn loop in his head since you walked out the door.

He groaned into the crook of his elbow. He was screwed. Absolutely, completely, utterly screwed. It wasn’t just physical. He knew that now. Maybe he’d always known.

He wanted you. Wanted to take you to dinner—not Blake. Wanted to hold your hand in public. Brush your hair behind your ear. Kiss you goodnight just because.

But all of that was off-limits. These were supposed to be lessons.

No strings. No feelings. No mess.

So why did it already feel like he was breaking every rule?

His phone buzzed and your name lit up the screen, and even from bed, he smiled.

bucky: Anytime, doll. bucky: Sweet dreams.

He stared at the message long after he sent it.

Then tossed the phone aside, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling like it held the answer to the only question that mattered.

How the hell was he going to get through Lesson Four?

──── ୨୧ ────

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