bucky drabble inspired by this gif. sexual content below the cut (includes enemies to lovers if you squint, dirty talk, unprotected sex, overstimulation.)
“Admit it,” he says above you, a slight smile grazing the crown of your head with every steady thrust, a note of breathlessness compared to your full-on panting.
You don’t know how he expects you to answer when your face is buried in the pillows. It’s not like you’ve been particularly coherent in the past, what, hour? Time is lost on you. There’s only him: hammering away at your insides, engraving the outline of his cock into your center.
Every time you think he’s finished wringing orgasms out of you and plugging you full of him, he simply flips you into a new position and starts over. The amount of orgasms you’ve had is cloudy, six at the least, enough that your muscles are limp, and your thoughts are mush.
He’s like a machine—practiced, unrelenting, metaphorically well-oiled with the mess of you inside and spilling out. A mix of sweat and cum, there’s a lewd sound accompanying the slap of your bodies. The only thing louder is your mindless groans and gasps.
This is not how you imagined this would go.
One of his hands slides over your nape and into your hair, threading his fingers through the tresses to rear your head back. “Admit it,” he repeats next to your ear, and you can see his smile in your peripheral vision. “Admit you were wrong, and I’ll show you mercy.”
It’s a good deal. Unfortunately, even being fucked stupid, your pride—somehow—is still entact. “It was a j - joke!” you gasp, then groan because he grinds into the hilt and your clit rubs against the pillow stuffed under your hips.
He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Don’t be a sore loser.”
The bed creaks with the force he uses, and your headboard knocks against the wall. It’s probably dented at this point. You’d fuss about it if he wasn’t fucking you so hard; all you can do is lay there and take it—sprawled on your stomach and pinned beneath his weight.
You claw at the sheets, clenching them white-knuckled, but his hips surge forward, and your grip slips. He’s bouncing you between the bed and his dick, shallow thrusts that keep him as deep as possible and your clit rolling friction into the wet spot pooling below you. A sticky slick won’t stop dribbling out of your swollen channel, a glistening ring undoubtedly encircling him at the base.
That dastard competition between pleasure and pain swells to the surface. It needles across your skin and burns inside your veins. These growing ripples of stimulation skewing your sensibilities, fixating on every burrow of his cock and the consequential back-and-forth drag of your abused bundle of nerves.
It hurts, but feels so fucking good. Your eyes flutter shut as he bears a smidge of his weight so more pressure ruts against your clit, and a long moan ebbs from your throat. You don’t know how he manages to do it every time—work you in a way that has pain locking with pleasure, rousing an intoxicating desperation inside you.
His chuckle is knowing. “Oh, there she goes.” He loosens his grip on your hair until your cheek is pressed to the pillow, and he roughly runs his hand through the messy stands. His face drops to nose at the perimeter of yours, tracing along when he asks, “You gonna act right now, or what?”
He’s speared through your pride like his cock does through your pulsing channel. You grasp at the sheets only to have them knocked out of your hands again, and you groan. The pillowcase chafes your cheek as you nod, managing to flutter your eyes open but only half-mast.
“Good. Now prove it.”
Your teeth rake over your lower lip, but the words tumble free, anyway: “I - I was wr—wrong!”
It was some stupid comment about him being a three-second man, an added implication he wouldn’t be a satisfying lover. You didn’t even know he heard you until he asked if you wanted to put your money where your mouth is; come to find out, he’s got a really talented mouth, a massive dick, and stamina that defies logic.
He hums thoughtfully, then clicks his tongue. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, honey,” he tsks, and you whine, which makes him laugh and deliver a scolding smack to your ass. “C’mon, then. Convince me if you wanna cum so bad.”
It’s going to hurt. Fuck, it’s going to run you ragged and strike you like lightning, coil around your senses and shatter whatever coherence you’ve might’ve recouped. It’s divine, drowning in sensation like that, the addictive euphoria that fits in like a puzzle.
“I’m sorry!” you gasp, hooking your elbows around his arms braced on both sides of you, sinking your nails into his forearms. “I was wrong. So fucking wrong. A - and I won’t—I won’t ever say it again! Never ever. Would you just… please!”
“Atta girl!” he approves. “Now why don't you keep begging while I make your pretty pussy squeeze around my cock. Again… and again if you’re good enough.”
“Oh, you look like an angel but you aren’t acting like one,” he says with a laugh and a growl. “You left me on my birthday to lock yourself in my bathroom and fuck your fingers so I don’t want to hear anything except those sexy moans and your wet cunt doing just that. You get me?”
in which your best friend walks in on you masturbating and decides to lend a hand. (includes best friends to lovers, dirty talk, masturbation, voyeurism and exhibitionism, reader receiving oral, mild overstimulation.)
—
Sometimes it just gets to be too much.
The purr of your name, his filthy drawl of each letter—his big hands casually squeezing your hips, pulling you to and fro—when he presses into your back and coils around you like a lion laying claim—dark blue depths always pinning your visage in perverse approval—sinful lips twisting on the cue of his silver tongue, at the expense of your poor libido, on the intention of terrorizing your sensitivity.
That man, your best fucking friend, is the devil behind thick dark waves of hair, a sharp jawline and broad physique; facial features a masculine cut like a juxtaposed angel. He’s always in your ear, whispering something caustic and obscene; shrugging it off like innocence with a pretty smile. But you feel it, spiking your temperature degree by degree.
Today being his birthday, you’d think—you did think—he’d be caught up in the celebration. His apartment is a lavish slosh of liquor and music, friends and tag-alongs snagging his attention left and right. You expected as much, braced yourself to remain in the background.
Which is difficult already, because you’re, well, a glutton and developed this voracious need to soak up all of his attention. And you’re reining that in, but he’s intent on driving you insane.
Every time you’re on the cusp of cooling down from his previous encounter, he’s popping up to further ruin your panties and leave you aching in his wake. It’s impressive, really: his timing and effectiveness, the way it’s almost effortless.
The worst part about it? You like it.
The lovesick, masochistic side of you thrives on the sticky cling of your gusset, and the need that thrums between your legs. But you haven’t masturbated recently, and this attack (as it can only be categorized as such) on your overly responsive sex drive is really getting to you.
You can’t stop squirming, subtly rubbing your thighs together like it’ll help, but it’s only making it worse. The ache just thrums and thrums, and no matter how many times you berate yourself, it won’t bat down. You feel like a teenager unable to control their hormones.
It’s going to become unbearable. That’s a guarantee where he’s concerned. You’re slowly succumbing to the fate that if you don’t receive some sort of relief, you’ll have a full-on meltdown. Dramatic, yes, but God, you need an orgasm.
It wouldn’t take long, either. No one would notice, you bet, if you slipped out. Your sensitivity has reached a hair-trigger, and given a minute or so alone, the blaze of your inner heath would be quelled.
Taking a sly survey of your surroundings, all of your friends and others are preoccupied. You managed to slip out of a conversation on an excuse to get a drink. Your hand is enclosed around a beer bottle, but the cold condensation does not help with your fever like you hoped.
You don’t bother drinking and set it down, knowing alcohol will worsen your problem, loosen your inhibitions and take you to a whole other wanton level. Fine! You’ve gotta do this. After a committed gander, you whirl around and march toward the privacy of the bathroom.
Or you intend to since your body immediately collides with a wall instead. And, by wall, you mean the hard panels of your best friend’s chest, warmth radiating through a black t-shirt, spring fresh soap and his cologne swarming your senses. Contact alone sends a jolt through your nerves.
You instinctively jerk, and his arms snaking around your waist yank you right back. A breath catches in your throat as your front molds to his, and he swiftly swings you into an one-eighty. Your hands splay against his pectorals, and you blink up at him, unnecessarily winded and unfocused, trying your earnest not to writhe into his embrace.
“Now where do you think you’re goin’?” He cocks a brow. “You disappeared and have been over here by your lonesome, lookin’ all suspicious. Cute as always, but suspicious.” His head tilts and runs his gaze over you carefully. “What are you up to, gorgeous, and why haven’t you included me?”
His sensory awareness is inhuman. It’s unfair, and you want to gawk at the uncanniness but you should be used to it by now.
“I—uhm…” You can’t exactly tell him you’re sneaking off to masturbate, and you wrack your brain for an alternative explanation. “I’m just gonna… gonna check on my makeup! It’s been awhile since my last touch up, so I figure it’s about time. I know I look like a mess right now.”
He laughs. “Oh, let me save you the trip. You’re still lookin’ every bit of a sexy angel. No touch up necessary.” His hands slide down and squeeze your ass with one, and slaps it with the other, making you yelp and him grin. “Got the ass of one, too.”
“Ow!” You have an excuse to extract yourself from his embrace, and thank God because the sting goes straight to your clit. You shoot him a glare and rub the offended area, ignoring an urge to ask him to do it again, bastardizing the knowledge that he would be more than happy to. “That hurt!”
He rolls his eyes. “It did not, you crybaby.” One arm loops around your waist, scooping you flush once again, and he’s edging toward your behind. “You better get used to it. I still have a lotta birthday licks left.”
Your jaw drops. “It’s your birthday! You’re the one who’s supposed to get birthday licks.”
“So you wanna lick me?” His sly smile does flip flops in your belly. He drops his head, and his voice is a purr in your ear: “What a coincidence. I wanna lick you, too.”
You shiver, teeth puncturing your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The metallic taste of crimson is worth preventing a moan from spilling out. Okay, this is fucking torture. You subconsciously lean into him before snapping back to reality and just about jump out of your skin.
“A - and wash my hands!” you hastily add onto your earlier answer. “I - I was gonna touch up my makeup and wash my hands.”
The suddenness surprises him. His baby blues blink at you, then there goes that inquisitive furrow of his brow. “Didn’t you already?”
Yes, you did. In fact, the scented lotion you used afterwards is still fresh on your skin.
“Um, yeah. But they’re bringing your cake out soon,” you say, slowly circling around inch-by-inch and backpedaling away, trying to look as relaxed as you don’t feel. “And thought I might as well before they do.”
“Huh.” He looks like he has to consider your words but can’t find anything odd. It makes sense, even in your awkward delivery, and maybe you can relax. “But you do know the kitchen’s back there.” He nods the entryway you passed.
“Oh, right,” you say quite intelligently, following his line of sight. “Well, they’re preparing the cake, and I - I didn't want to get in the way.” It rolls off your tongue casually—believably. “So I figured I’d just use the sink in the bathroom.”
“Oh, okay.” The answer satisfies his third-degree, and you suppress a sigh of relief. “Why don’t you use the one in my bedroom? I think someone’s in the one in the other.”
“Perfect! Thanks.” You flash a smile, and he seems to let you escape. Then the faintest glint of suspicion suddenly flits across his face as he observes your winded breaths and the way you stumble off. Best not to give him another chance to interrogate you further. “I’ll be right back!”
Then you turn, righting your movements in the process, and head for the hallway. It’s a straight shot past the guest bathroom and a turn of a corner to his bedroom. Luckily, in the packed space of his spacious apartment, that area is sectioned off.
With excuse me’s and halfhearted hey’s, you wade through the herd and cross wood floors with quickened strides. You nearly trip on your heels, four-inch high mimic of gladiator sandals, laced up your calves, but you think you play it off well. Okay, probably not, but you make it out of sight seeming normal enough.
His bedroom is substantially quieter and cooler. That breeze does help with your heated skin, but the environment is inherently him so it cancels each other out. Closing that door, you’re already unzipping the cinch of your skirt and clamoring to the luxurious partition of his bathroom.
It’s gorgeous inside. You’ve told him that a million times, and you’ve been here a million times but seriously—a wide granite countertop and waterfall faucet, walk-in shower and claw foot tub, you can’t get over it. He keeps it immaculate so you have no issue with letting your skirt halo to the gleaming tile ground.
Unsurprisingly, your panties are ruined. The material clings like a second skin, sodden through and smeared on your inner thighs. It’s obscene, and you’d demand he pay for your dry cleaning, if he wasn’t already doing the majority of your laundry.
You waste no time wriggling them down your hips, looping around the bend of your knees as you hop onto the counter and spread your legs. There’s an audible moan when your hand delves between your center, slick coating your fingers soft. A full bodied shudder slips down your spine, and your head falls back, jostling the mirror in the process.
Oh, this is fucking good.
You find the angle and seize it in slippery circles. Even with your sloppy movements, everything falls aligned, and you’re seeing stars; not yet imploding but well on its way. The build-up on your own is never this quick. You wish you could experience it under ideal circumstances, draw it out, but a part of you thinks that’s what makes it so good.
You know you shouldn’t be masturbating in your best friend’s bathroom, that it’s wrong, and you can get caught at any minute, but it’s those very illicit factors that run your libido wild, unearthing moans you mean to suppress.
You compensate by shoving your shirt above your tits and biting down on the hemline. It’s one of those bustier camisoles so you didn’t bother with a bra. The air invokes a shiver, and you shiver again when your palm caresses a tit and rolls a hard peak between your fingers.
The orgasm approaches like a roar, knocking in rapid succession, louder and louder than the last. It’s a hum, a vibration inside your head, reaching your ears all husky-like. Being in his bathroom, the lingering scent of his aftershave, and his interactions invoking your overall state, you swear you hear his voice.
“O - oh.” Your moan is a whisper, falling above the wet squelch of your fingers by a decibel, and your toes curl on the precipice of hot-blooded relief. “Fuck, yes—”
Before the train plunges off the track into bliss, you realize that the knocking is not metaphorical and his voice isn’t simply an echo inside your head; but rather knuckles on the door and him repeatedly asking if you were okay on the other side.
“Okay, I’m coming in,” your best friend is saying before you fully process the past minute, aside from what was going to be a mindblowing orgasm. The knob twists (since, you know, you were too busy with your sex to lock it). “You got me worried, and I couldn’t hear what you were…”
The door opens fully, and his eyes widen as your compromised state centers to view. Your brain short circuits at the shock rippling underneath your skin, freezing you in place as if doused in ice water and undercutting the instinct to shutter, which unintentionally awards him a nice eyeful.
You, perched on his sink counter, debauched and exposed, face sheened lightly in doe-eyed desperation. The hem of your white camisole ruffles above your braless tits, palming one of the hardened peaks. Your other hand is wedged between your spread thighs, pressing into your center with your underwear bunched below your knees.
It’s a long moment, it feels like with his gaze running over every detail, before the shock snaps into mortification, and sense kicks in.
The shirt drops from your teeth, and your legs clamp around your wrist in a poor effort to cover yourself. All the blood drains from your face as you try to think of some excuse, some recourse, or anything to make this be anything other than it is.
“I - I can explain—” you start shakily, but the expression on his face shuts you up.
His jaw clenches, and those friendly moonstone orbs narrow into dark slits, looking more severe than you’ve ever seen. He steps in and shuts the door behind him. Unlike you, he makes sure to latch the lock before stalking forward, and like a skittish cat, you watch his every move.
He comes to a still in front of you. His hands grab each thigh and pries them open, to your gasp of surprise. “Keep going.” It’s an order, but he doesn’t give you a moment to obey, or even a second to recover from the shock, before dropping to his knees and pulling yours wider.
Your hands fly to either side of the counter to stabilize yourself, unintentionally but consequently revealing your most intimate part to his equally prying eyes. Naturally, you try to shut your legs, but his hands have wrapped around your calves. The only way to compensate is to shove a shielding palm between your thighs, a hitched sound expelling through your teeth, literally sensitive to the touch.
He shoots you a look but allows the action. His interest falls to your underwear still strained around your knees, and he tugs them down your legs. Your embarrassment burns hot in your cheeks as he examines the wetness heavying the fabric; his thumb drags across the gusset, your essence coating him in an obscene trail of stickiness.
There’s a slick pop, and you whimper when he sucks it clean of your taste. His eyes snap up at the sound, and he makes a dastardly show of doing it again. To further fuck with you, he takes it a step further and licks a slow, broad stripe through the center, a groan rumbling through his chest and lids fluttering shut as if savoring it.
Your muscles twitch with a tremor, teeth clamping down on your bottom lip to retrain another whine; but it doesn’t matter because those dilated pupils pin on you like a glare. “Keep going,” he repeats, gritting it out like he shouldn’t have to, or, like he’s barely keeping himself from doing it himself.
The adrenaline pumping through your veins has you woozy, heart thundering, and though he’s said it twice, you don’t think you heard him correctly. “B - but—”
“Oh, you look like an angel but you aren’t acting like one,” he says with a laugh and a growl. “You left me on my birthday to lock yourself in my bathroom and fuck your fingers so I don’t want to hear anything except those sexy moans and your wet cunt doing just that. You get me?”
That gets through your head like a shot of the best liquor you’ve ever tasted. Maybe you should recoil in shock; at the very least, question this shift in your relationship boundaries, but you don’t. All this mania whirling inside you because of him, for him, it doesn’t even occur to you.
Incisors fixing into your bottom lip, you nod, albeit shyly. “Y - yeah,” you breathe, adjusting your weight as best as you can without exciting your libido just yet. “I got you.”
So, with his eyes on you like a hawk, your tentative fingers find your clit. Your heavy lids fall onto him watching you, transfixed by the microexpressions filtering across his face. You wonder if this’ll affect him in a similar way he affected you; God, you hope so.
The first touch is a spark to a flame, a simmering speed kickstarted into high gear. The seamless way you fall into rhythm, jittery as you are, flurry of emotion and sensation, is shameless. You promised yourself a reckoning, and your body is primed for it.
A palm grasps the edge of the counter while you swirl something wild on your slick bundle of nerves. There’s a slight tremor in your arm muscles; call it a symptom of performance anxiety because he’s utterly captivated. You work harder, picking up the pace as you shudder out moans.
His blessing, your need to obey, the sounds bounce free in the echo of his bathroom. Initially low and breathy, bashful to be heard, you’re crescendoing into full, wanton moans now, and he loves it, spurring you on more.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he whispers, pupils blown wide, dark and dangerous, obsession ping-ponging between your hand and your face. “Look at you. Pretty baby, I knew your pussy would be just as pretty. All fucking soaked, wet to your fucking knees. Keep moving your fingers like that. Does it feel good?”
Your head bobbles, lashes fluttering heavy. “It - it does,” you say with an impending climax on the tips of your fervid fingers, voice an airy quiver with the addendum: “It feels really, really good.”
The grip on your calves tighten, then slide up to your knees. His thumbs stroke circles on the sensitive skin on the inside, mimicking your own movements and somehow falling in sync, becoming increasingly sloppy and frantic.
“Yeah, you’re good at this. You do this a lot, don’t you, angel?” There’s a flushed sheen on his cheeks and knowingness in his blue pools, further confirmed by your hitched breath. “Y’gonna cum then?” he asks, though the answer is clear. “Think you’ve been good enough to?”
The threat of another denial makes you groan, weaning into a whimper. “I need to.”
“Oh, angel, I can tell,” he says with a click of sympathy, mimicking your pout. “But you look so cute when you’re desperate, and you know I love it when you beg. Go on, and give me a little first. Show me how good of a girl you are.”
“P - please,” you moan immediately, “please, James.”
“Fuck, you know I’ll give you anything.” He pushes to his feet as his hand shoots out and covers yours, guiding you fast-paced into the throes of an orgasm. “I’ll give you everything. Now show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
That's all you need. With a sharp moan of his name, the dam breaks, and it feels like you’re floating. Hot-blooded relief ripples through your system and has you quaking. Wave after wave works through you, and every second is well worth the wait.
Your muscles are straining, and you’re panting by the time it subsides. All the while, he’s locked onto you, eating it up, crooning encouragement and praises; ravenous eyes and husky voice, it’s almost enough to set you off a second time.
His other hand catches you by the jaw, a pinched grip keeps your face angled on him while his strokes slow. “Oh, you’re fucking gorgeous. Always have been, always will, but when you’re coming and moaning my name…” he says with a groan, “you’re a real life fucking dream.”
He sucks your arousal off his fingers, and you moan at the sight. It takes a moment to overcome your panting, only able to manage a, “That felt s - so good.” That was your best orgasm to date, and it was his hand in this situation that caused that outcome.
“Just what you needed.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, dark eyes enthralled by your unruly come down, laying in wait. “You satisfied, angel?” he says, a rhetorical fluctuation that fans over your sensitive skin. “Lying to me, leaving—”
“It’s not my fault!” you blurt out before he can finish listing your sins, making him cock an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have—I would’ve waited—I wanted to wait, but you - you kept saying things and touching me, and… and… I just couldn’t help it. I’m sorry!”
He looks astounded, at a loss for words momentarily. “So you’re blaming me?” is the implication you’re giving, and he’s getting. “I talked to you and barely touched you, but that got you so worked up that you had to lock yourself in my bathroom and masturbate—in the middle of my birthday party?”
That sounds maybe not the best way to put it, but it's also entirely accurate. “Well, um…” You can’t think of a nicer, less accusatory manner of phrasing. “Y - yes?”
There’s a second of silence before both of his hands grasp your face with a groan of, “That’s so fucking cute.”
Then he’s reeling you into a heady kiss. Tongue deep but slow, and you melt into him like butter on a skillet. It’s better than you imagined—and, boy, you have imagined it; like him, controlled but not overbearing, gentle with a pulsing, singing heat.
Parting is reluctant, and he nuzzles his lips over yours before starting a trail down your neck. His hands fall to your thighs when you tilt your head to the side for easier access, sliding upward with his thumbs kneading circles into your muscles.
You gasp, then moan at the influx of stimulation, not a direct barrage on your center but resonates there, anyway. Your knees instinctively lock around his waist as he finds his way to your chest, dipping below the ruffle of your shirt and taking a hard peek into his mouth.
“F - fuck.” You shudder against him, into him, the current of electricity sparking in your bones, burying your hands in his hair.
“My sexy little angel and her needy cunt,” he purrs and gives you a peck before dropping to his knees again, eyes hungry as he pulls you to the counter edge, legs spread. “I’ll make it all better.”
Even with the lull, with your libido, tormented something grand, the aftershocks still tremor within your muscles. A drop of pain with every shot of pleasure; the former spikes sky-high as his mouth melds to the bare sensitivity of your sex.
A sharp sound escapes you, jolting entirely against a barrage of smarting sensations. Your legs end up over his shoulders, heels grazing the flex of his shoulder blades as another tremor lulls through your body.
“I - I think I’m too sensitive—“
“No, no,” he says, insistent, pulling away for only a second, “it’s okay. I got you. You just enjoy the ride ‘cause I know I am.”
Then he hunkers down and delves in like a starved man getting his fill. His strong arms encircle your thighs, bulging muscles and veins as he keeps you spread and vulnerable, laid out with your legs propped over his shoulders.
The wet warmth of his mouth forms a seal around you, tongue flattening against your clit and cheeks hollowing with suction. A squeal escapes your throat as your nerves fray, and your body jerks, but it doesn’t do much against his ironclad grip.
You feel him grin, his dilated pupils a gleam of mischief; so you retaliate by burying your hands in his hair and yanking at the roots, hard. A groan rumbles through his throat, and his eyes roll back, shutting, then reopening with a distinctly primal intensity reflecting up at you.
With a growl, he does it, again, swathing the sensitive bud in raw sensation until you’re grappling his thick locks; which only makes him groan in delight and nuzzle his face deeper. He spreads your outer lips with his thumb and forefinger while he laps at your center like a bear would to honey.
“O - oh, God—fuck!” you gasp and moan. “You’re so good at this—h - how are you so good at this?”
His other hand slides underneath and finds your entrance. His middle finger pushes through your folds knuckle-deep, and your silk walls contract around the sudden intrusion. The rough pad crooks into your sweet spot and drags over it as he sets a determined pace.
It’s a practiced attack with his tongue coddling your bundle of nerves, and his dexterity stroking you into oblivion. You think you’re going to lose your mind (if you haven’t already). The intensity makes you woozy, a James-induced high, and the only thing your vision can focus on is him.
The room is a hybrid of your desperate moans and his hungry groans; the messy smack of his mouth on you, your sex squelching around his long, thick digit. It’s pornographic and so fucking hot, the perfect soundtrack for another orgasm to roll in—
And two loud knocks bang against the door and startle you both.
“B, will you come on?!” his sister’s voice shouts through the door—thankfully, no tonal hints being privy to what was happening inside—and you hear her impatient foot tapping on the other side. “We’re ready to cut the cake!”
James’ eyes cloud with agitation, a growl in his throat as he has to detach himself from you and bites out, “Then cut it!”
She huffs. “It’s your birthday! I told you, we can’t cut it without you.”
“Fine!” he snaps. “I'll be there in five minutes.”
“You had five minutes ten minutes ago. You have two.” Her footsteps start to fade, then stop as she adds, “And I don’t know where your best friend is but she better come in the next two minutes, or we’re cutting the cake without her!” There’s a door slam, confirming her egress from his bedroom.
“Oh, she’ll come in the next two minutes,” he murmurs, a devilish smile glittering up at you. “You’re gonna come real hard.”
And you do.
His middle finger thrusts inside you and curls into your g-spot, using the very tip to repeatedly rasp pressure over it. In tandem, his mouth once more claims your molten core for his own and his taste buds bully your clit. It has you pulling his hair, and when he makes that feral growl, baby blues alight, you don’t really have any other choice than to crumble.
You come with a cry. His name a curse and blessing—James—on your lips as your muscles cramp up, and your inner muscles clamp down. Everything shakes, rattled to the very core, your leg trembling over his shoulders and unintentionally digging your heels into his back.
Your bones liquefy. The rush of euphoria breaks you apart in the most exquisite way possible and turns you into mush. The grip on his hair loosens as the arch in your spine relaxes, but your hips continue to writhe as his tongue tracks your plummet.
“B - Bucky,” you whimper pitiful, smarting shocks chopping at your overworked nerves. “T - too much.”
He hums, and you whimper again, which convinces him— despite his reluctance—to ease his onslaught. “Alright, if you insist,” he says and licks his lips glossy with your essence. “But I told you I’d get my birthday licks, and I’ve only gotten started.”
He stands up and grabs your skirt off the ground. His shoulders square as he slips the waistband around your ankles, and you take the hint to slide off the counter so he can hoist it around your hips. Your legs are jelly, but you stay upright all the same, flattening your clutches into his shirt.
“So, when this party ends, I’m going to taste you for hours,” he tells you and unfurls your top to its rightful place over your tits and stomach, smoothing out the additional ruffles. “My tongue is gonna fuck you right here…” His hand sinks under your open zipper and pets your bare sex, index finger tracing your slit. ”…until you’ve cum so many times you go numb from it all.”
He places a chaste kiss on your temple when you whine, dropping his lips to your ear. “Then I’m gonna keep going ‘cause you taste too fucking good to stop.”
SO this is a part two to this fic and i was not going to do a part two (i simply am not good at them) BUT i got randomly got this inspo for it sooooo here we goooo
disclaimer: do NOT have sex without a condom with a stranger but this is fictional and i love creampies <33 also not edited
(read part one)
“Oh, you liked that,” he breathes, wrapping his free arm around you and holding you still—thank God because lord knows you don’t have any control. “When I talk all dirty to you. Don’t try to deny it, kitten. I felt you, squeezing ‘round me like you wanna milk the come out of my dick.” His face dips into your shoulder and sinks his teeth in so hard it makes you jerk and whine. “Doin’ that, I’m gonna have to bend you over and pound your pussy until you can’t think about anything other than me.”
part two of two. in which bucky sees how many times he can make you come around his dick. (includes bad boy!bucky x shy!reader, college au, dirty talk, exhibitionism and voyeurism, cockwarming, unprotected sex, overstimulation, creampie kink.)
—
This isn’t what you do (wasn’t what you do?).
You don’t fall into someone’s lap and immediately sit on their cock, in public no less, and during one of your classes. You haven’t even slept with someone in years! Even then, it was nowhere near this obscene, but also, nowhere near this good.
And you never imagined it’d be with him—that you’d gain his favor and be successfully seduced by his wicked ways: a popular presence across campus for his charming, alluring disposition.
He’s talented; God, he’s talented. It’s like he innately knows how to drive you mad, vindicating these erogenous points you weren’t aware you had, bypassing your chaste sensibilities and rendering you into a wanton mess.
You can’t stop trembling, and you sure as hell can’t focus. How can you? How can you pay attention to some documentary when he’s plundered through your neglected center and rubbing your throbbing bundle of nerves? How can you think of anything other than a promising orgasm on track to absolutely ruin you?
The joints of his fingers press against you and whirl your slickness in intensive, fast-paced but steady circles. Pressure builds in your stomach, heat climbing up your legs and spreading through every nook and cranny in your body, while your legs shake.
Your hands cover your mouth as the moans rise in your throat. You feel his smile curl into the slope of your neck, his mouth carving the imprint of his teeth. The sting dashes down your spine and pangs between your thighs. You can only slump into him, defined muscle against your shoulder blades and warmth radiating through his shirt.
His other hand finds the hem of your shirt and slides upward and ducks beneath your bra where he palms one of your tits. He rolls a pebbled peak between his fingers, rough and tight. A soft moan breaks past your lips, and he grins, his face nuzzled into your neck and shoulder.
Your head tips backward onto his shoulder with your lashes fluttering shut. Euphoria rakes over your nerves, consuming your muscles limp and your breath panting. It’s intoxicating, a woozy spell that leaves you careless. Even with the dimmed lights, if someone looked over, they’d see you all debauched over him.
He grasps your jaw and turns your face to take your lips on his own. Your mouth drops open and immediately accepts his tongue gliding over yours. Somewhere in your mind, you can’t believe you’re french kissing a man you just became acquainted with, classmates surrounding you be damned.
“Oh, I shouldn’t be doing this,” you moan as if it’ll snap you out of it, heavy-lidded as your eyes connect with his own.
He nips at your bottom lip. “But you are, and you’re doing so well,” he cooes so sweetly that butterflies flutter inside your stomach. “My obedient lil’ kitty letting me do whatever I want ‘cause you know I’ll give you everything you need. Isn’t that right?”
A shudder wracks your body, and with the last ounce of resistance, you whimper a stubborn, “N - no.”
Which only provokes him into upping his game. His legs hook around your ankles, spreading them wide so your aching center provides him better access. You didn’t think it was possible, but his thick length burrows deeper inside you, nudging a raw patch within your tightening depths that slaps your hands over your mouth again, wanting to cry out so bad.
He chuckles as he watches the desperation possess your features. “You gotta be more convincing than that,” he teases, placing a peck on your hammering pulse before running his lips over your ear. “If that was true, your pretty pussy wouldn’t be creaming around my big cock.”
And like that, you seize up. The vulgarity clenches your inner muscles while ecstasy swallows you whole and sends you writhing with the intensity. He groans low in your ear, his hips bucking up into you, encircling caress never stopping, slowing ever-so-slightly.
“Oh, you liked that,” he breathes, wrapping his free arm around you and holding you still—thank God because the Lord knows you don’t have any control. “When I talk all dirty to you. Don’t try to deny it, kitten. I felt you, squeezing ‘round me like you wanna milk the come out of my dick.” His face dips into your shoulder and sinks his teeth in so hard it makes you jerk and whine. “Doin’ that, I’m gonna have to bend you over and pound your pussy until you can’t think about anything other than me.”
Another whimper escapes you, and your sensitivity revolts against his continued touch and his words. “B - Bucky,” you whine, dropping your muffle, while his hold cinches further. “Please.”
He tries to pull a sympathetic expression, but a grin twitches on his lips, thrilled he can elicit such a reaction out of you. “Aw, is someone sensitive?”
You clutch his wrists, feeling his knuckles flexing as he moves. The pitiful look on your face convinces him to slow to a stop, but his fingers remain pressurized on your clit. “You’re bad,” you say as you take in his dilated pupils and the ravenous gleam in his darkened eyes.
“And you’re good. See how perfectly that works out?” he cooes and kisses your cheek. “You gonna be good for me, hm? Give me what I want because you like this. You want me to keep going. It’s okay, perverse little thing, I’ll treat you real nice.”
His fingertips begin moving again but in wide, lazy swirls; tentative to your tenderness, though smarting shocks needle under your skin. But you like it, you realize, the underlay of pain mixed with pleasure. Still, you reach for his hand on your thigh, and he interlaces your fingers with his.
“See?” he says, “it feels good, doesn’t it?”
It does. You’re slowly but surely recovering from your previous orgasm and his rhythm works you to the beat you need. You didn’t realize how touch-starved you were, melting like an ice cream in the sun, dissolving into a mess of warm wetness.
Desire coils around you, across your skin, and sinks into your very being. It shrouds your senses so exquisitely that you barely register the fact you’re rocking into him. “Y - yes.” Your brain is overcome by your libido, and you can’t focus enough to even try to lie. Do you even want to lie? You don’t know. All you know is: “God, it feels good.”
He chuckles again, a low and husky sound. “I know, and I’m gonna give you a reward for telling the truth, kitty.”
His hand releases yours and snakes under your shirt, palming your breast and rolling your nipple between his fingers while he strums your swollen button. The motion of your hips falls in sync with his, tunneling in at an angle that has stars exploding in front of your eyes.
It’s a triple attack, catching you at every turn. There’s a few eyes shooting your way, but you can’t help yourself: breathless, biting down on your lower lip to suppress the wanton sounds bubbling up inside you, being fondled up in the back of the classroom like a honey teenager, shadowed by a broad deviant of a man.
The only thing you can think of is burying your face into your arms on the table. Your skin is scorching, blood rushing to your cheeks flustered, a weld of arousal pumping through your veins. There it goes again—that pressure restricting in the pit of your stomach, well on your way to another orgasm.
“Cute lil’ thing, all soft and warm,” he croons in between a trail of kisses up your nape. “Kitty, you feel like heaven. So sweet. Never met a girl like you. All shy and innocent, but you barely hesitated to let my dick inside you.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. That’s the truth of the matter, and embarrassment twinges with the delicious ebb of his cock. You’ve never encountered someone who could be so depraved yet collected, tormenting your neglected and overly responsive sex.
The hand kneading your breast, having switched to its twin, drops to his forearm braced against your ribcage and hauls you flush against his chest. His gaze glints with satisfaction, roaming over your disheveled appearance, speeding up his ministrations out of pure delight.
This time, it overwhelms you before you realize it’s happening. He hisses in your ear as you spasm around his girth, throbbing hot, carving himself inside you in a manner you know you’ll feel from memory alone. It surges through you hard enough that it makes you lightheaded.
“F—f—fuck!” you accidentally cry out, but your voice is hoarse and doesn’t echo far. You slap a palm over your mouth, heart thundering with interest drawing in your direction, trying to seem as normal as possible, but with your face flaming, you doubt it’s believable.
“Careful, kitten. You’re gonna get us caught,” he warns with a tut, but immediately cracks a grin thereafter. “I’m kidding. I love those pretty moans, your innocent whimpers, practically begging me to give everyone something to talk about.”
As he speaks, his friend from before, the one who saved his seat glances over, then double takes, eyes widening; his cheeks darken a shade red and he hurries to look away,—thankfully. You can only imagine what he’s thinking: if he knows you’re pantyless with the undergarment stuffed in Bucky’s pocket, that an electrifying reckoning pulls you under, and you’re drowning in the sensation of his quick fingers and pulsing cock.
You don’t understand the thrill that lurches through you. Being taken like this, raw and trembling, relentless and tantric, it’s foreign but so good you think you could get addicted to it—to him.
You shake your head. “I - I don’t do this,” you whisper, mostly to yourself, attempting to return to rationality instead of the sinful bliss you’re seated in. “I haven’t—I’ve never…” You haven’t had so much as a one-night stand, but you’re collapsing into his chest because your muscles feel like you’ve been fucked limp. (Now that you think about it, maybe you have.)
“Oh, I know,” he assures you with a cute quirk on his lips. “Seen you around campus by yourself, knowing guys wanna get between your thighs, but never letting them.”
“Like Steve over there.” He nods toward a spot across the room with a pleased grin. “You know he knows, right? C’mon. Look at his face.” His fingers span your jaw, and he gently turns your head to see the blond whose jaw is clenched and face pink in the cheeks, eyes periodically cutting to you. “He can’t stand it. You guys have been friends for a long time, haven’t you?”
The blood in your face heats up, momentarily a deer caught in the headlights before the embarrassment quickly averts your gaze elsewhere. Almost innately, it lands on him, chin tucked into your shoulder and lashes blinking up at him.
The rhythm in your chest has tripled, racing with a strange feeling of… satisfaction? The perversity wound up inside you preens: openly taken by a blackguard such as Bucky, a smug and lewd statement that you know will get your romantic—and sexual—disinterest in the blond.
To his answer, you nod smally. One of the first friends you made, actually, and that probably makes it worse.
“And yet, you gave into me. Not him, not anyone else, but me. Your body knows where it belongs—sitting on my fucking dick.” There’s a growled edge to the claim, deep and inarguable, and you feel his gaze take down your expression. “Lookin’ so pretty, too. Wanna see?”
You don’t know what he means until he picks his phone off the desk, slides it to his front camera, and the frame filters through the dimness and centers on both of you. Your eyes widen, not because of shock, or your typical aversion to vanity, rather because you look so provocative, debauched, and utterly undone in a way that—you’re stunned to realize—you like.
And he looks so pretty, coiled around you like he’s supposed to be there, eyes simultaneously alight and dark, face beside yours but not quite level with his height. You like that, too; a broad man, biceps flexing as he sets his phone against a thick textbook and finds your abused clit for a third time.
The expression on your face makes him laugh, all gleaming white teeth, incisors looking mighty sharp. “Yeah, you’re fucking gorgeous,” he continues, breathy and heavy-lidded but nonetheless acute, “wanna watch yourself orgasm?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before striking in light and quick circles, your frankly obscene wetness enabling him. Taking pity—for the first time—on you, his hand clamps over your mouth and smothers the cry that tries to rip through your throat.
Your eyes want to roll to the back of your head, but you can now see his physical reactions, and you’re transfixed. That sharp jawline tightens, and his teeth practically grit, breathing going ragged—he tries to regain control of himself, to no avail.
Adding the camera is a double-edged sword, intensifying everything. It’s not just those skilled motions and stuffed folds that hurtle you toward a near painful euphoria, but watching how affected he is; the control breaking down like being able to witness your pleasure is a weakness.
That shoots to your brain like a bullet and zips between your legs, further making you into a gooey mess. If your muscles could, they’d strain that, but your narrow channel usurps your strength and squeezes tight like you’re trying to trap him inside you.
“You little fucking…” he swears up a storm to you, to himself. You feel his thighs start to tremble, but he shakes his head instead. “N - not yet—not yet. You hear me?” His eyes pin yours in the screen’s reflection, and you don’t process the determination there until he presses into you harder and keeps going.
He’s going to fuck you through your third episode into your fourth. Everything is already buzzing, wires crossed and frayed being struck with another round of electricity, zapping your nerves with each pass of his fingers.
Your body jolts accordingly, but he keeps you grounded. You let out a squeal, but it’s nothing more than a vibration sounding something like, “Mmfhm!” Which translates to, I can’t come again!
His lips brush over your neck, placing the softest kiss on skin he’s already sucked and bit tender. “But you feel so good,” he cooes, understanding you completely, flashing you these eyes that melt you into putty, “it’s like your pussy is giving me a massage. I know you can handle it. You need it. You like it when it hurts. And there you go, still pulsing around my dick like you can’t get enough.”
The hand covering your mouth loosens in time to hear your whimper, following your lips as it tumbles out. Oh, he’s a demon. There’s no possible way he can say things like that, finding weaknesses you didn’t even know you existed.
You’re spasming like crazy, and you’re extremely thankful that the documentary is playing so loud because you—him, too—can hear the conjoint of your bodies. On top of the menacing sensations, embarrassment flushes you hotter, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Your gaze opens and meets his own in wonderment. “What are you doing to me?”.
He blinks before a soft smile stretches across his lips, and he nuzzles the side of your face. “Fucking you like you deserve,” he says like it’s simple. “Making you come ‘cause you’re such a good girl. You gonna give me another one, kitten? ‘Cause I really fucking need it.”
Need, need, need, it rattles in your skull. You aren’t just getting fucked—you are fucked. You gnaw on your lip as if contemplating, but you aren’t; you’re trying to make sure you won’t squeal, cry out, or shriek your pathetically submissive, “Y - yes.”
“Say it,” he prompts, never wavering from your face, blown-out pupils like a shark encircling blood in the water. “Say, ‘I’m gonna come around your dick until you’re blowing your load deep in my sweet pussy.’”
An absolutely deplorable request, and you would never, but the pain is wriggling itself into your grace. Every cell in your body burns, boiling until the sentence bubbles to the service; albeit a trembling, bashful whisper. “I - I’m gonna come around your d - dick until you’re blowing your load deep in my sweet p - pussy.”
You see and feel him shudder, and his teeth nip at your pulse, tongue flattening there to feel the rush beating against your skin. “Atta girl,” he says, approval grating through the syllables. Right after, another shudder rolls beneath you, and you watch his lids struggle to stay open.
As wrecked as you are, terrorized by biting pleasure, you experimentally rock your hips, little movements back and forth over his dick. The groan he makes is totally, unbelievably worth it, and a thrill pushes you to keep going and impressively discreetly ride the thick of him.
“God, you fit so fucking perfect,” he says with a low groan strangled at the back of his throat. It’s almost slurred as if drunk, and he looks the part. Cheeks twinged a sheen of rose, mouth parted and nose buried in your hair, unable to focus his vision. “How are you even real?”
This started with a seat—a seat. All because you missed your alarm after pulling an all-nighter, and now you’re wrapped up and around Bucky Barnes. Skin to skin, in public, in class where your attention should be on the assignment.
It’s reckless, and he’s dangerous.
You fall apart all the same. Metaphorically, of course, because in reality, your slick walls constrict around his thick stretch, endless length and downright demand what’s been pulsating at his base since you sat down.
His eyes widen, and he makes this splutter of your name as he immediately gives in. He moans in your ear and thrusts up so deeply you gasp. You cover your mouth while his arms cord around your middle and squeeze your body against his.
He grounds himself with you now and ensures that he stays snug inside your conquered depths, exploding and branding you full of his thick heat; and holy fuck does he fill you.
You should’ve expected it, given you’ve been edging him this whole time, but Christ, it’s like he can’t stop. It’s load after load splattering every centimeter of your insides, and his grip is like vise, plugging that previous hollow spot inside you with so much you don’t think you could ever get him out.
You slump forward into your arms, riding out the aftershocks with your teeth puncturing your bottom lip. There’s a cry in your throat you won’t let out. When he relaxes, he curves his front to your back and breathes in at your nape. It’s pure biology that you shiver and unintentionally flutter.
He groans against your skin. “You’re heaven, kitten,” he murmurs after a sigh, a lazy curve of his lips pressing a kiss into your skin. “I think I’m gonna stake a claim on your pussy. Mhm, ‘kay?”
“I - I think you’re the devil,” you finally croak once you stop panting, but you don’t object.
You feel him grin. “Maybe,” he says, “but you’re gonna be my sweet little angel.”
billy russo drabble inspired by this gif. (includes dirty talk, establish relationship, fingering, mild exhibitionism and voyeurism.)
“C’mon. How’d you think I’d react to this?” Billy’s voice is a breathy smile in your ear the second they’re out of the room, a calm contrast to the unrelenting rasp of his fingers. “This short dress, barely covering your ass. Shameless, really, and at your parents’ house, no less.”
You’re grappling his forearm like it’ll slow him down but he’s wedged between your thighs, skilled and keen underneath polka-dotted linen. Never minding your sharp gasps and wriggling hips, his strong hand is stubborn, undulating roughly through admittedly skimpy panties.
“B - Billy,” you’re doing your best to be quiet, choking on your boyfriend’s name. Your heartbeat thunders, aware of your parents’ temporary egress but helpless to the sensations bieging you. They’ll—they’ll come back—oh, f - fuck.” The curse is a whisper because his rubbing deepens against your slickness and wreaks heavenly havoc on your system.
“Then, I guess, you better hurry up, baby,” he whispers right back, forehead to forehead, no heed the potential of them returning to seeing this—your dress flipped up while your boyfriend works your sex mercilessly in the middle of their living room. “Unless you want your dad to see you’ve got a new daddy.”
You swallow a groan but a trace escapes in the form of a moan. Your legs are wobbling, and if he wasn’t so fixated between them, you’d surely collapse. “Billy,” your chaste is a whine, fisting his shirt in your other hand, tipping your head back so your eyes pierce his blackened gaze. “If they see—they’ll see—see—”
“Me takin’ care of my girl and her needy lil’ pussy,” he finishes for you, “‘cause the feel of you… you are definitely in need.” He chuckles, not a falter in those blunt swirls against your cotton-clad clit, worsening those tremors wracking your muscles. “Isn’t that what they want for their little girl? Just doin’ my job, baby.”
Out of the partners you’ve introduced to them, Billy Russo is the only one they’ve approved of. Their impossible standards for you and your ideal beau, have been met. Handsome, intelligent, wealthy, and he’s charming as all hell, firm handshake and a glittering white smile.
Oh, and he played into their antiquated thinking, plays and is playing them into thinking he’s an honest gentleman. The kind of gentleman who doesn’t believe in sex before marriage, that doesn’t bend you over his desk every chance he gets, whispers absolute filth into your ear in any setting—who wouldn’t finger you while they’re in the other room.
But the orgasm is building inside you, coiling in your gut, and in a moment, it’s going to spring free. The dishes are clanging in the kitchen, a call from your parents that dinner is almost done, and you barely hear it over the fiery surge upending your system. The panic is a confusing mesh between the fear of being seen in such a state and the thrill of the possibility of getting caught.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Billy cooes, marking a kiss on your cheek. “I’ll let them think you’re an innocent little lamb and I’m your dutiful protector. I won’t let them know you’re a needy little thing who thinks about getting fucked all the time. Who begs and sobs until my cock is buried inside you.”
You press your face into his chest, and no matter how much you writhe and squirm against—into—his harsh caress, his ministrations follow you the whole way. He never breaks stride, even as your parents announce their impending arrival, not until you bite down on his clavicle to muffle a cry and shudder against his chest.
By the time they walk it, dinner’s ready!, he’s hugging you like a loving boyfriend consoling his girlfriend. Unlike usual, his hands don’t slide down to knead into your ass, and rather than grip your jaw for a wet kiss, he pecks your forehead before greeting your parents with a bright smile.
“Everything smells great, I was telling your wonderful daughter here,” he’s saying, his arm slipping around your waist, unbeknownst to them, helping you stay upright. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
You manage the composure to face them, forcing a smile like your arousal hasn't drenched your underwear and isn’t trailing down your thigh. “Yeah. I told him, he’d love your cooking, has been excited ever since,” you agree to his lie.
Your mother beams. “Then, come on! I have everything set up!” She beckons you both and heads toward the dining room table.
Before you can, Billy catches your waist, and his lips graze your ear. “Take your panties off. Let’s have some real fun.”
“And by really nice, I mean, you’re one second away from getting fucked stupid,” he purrs in your ear, a faux-innocent smile auditory in his voice, nipping at your lobe. “A real pounding, panties to the side, and your pussy so filled with cock you can’t manage a single thought.”
anonymous said: casual dominance w best friend/roomate bucky?
part one. in which you and bucky are best friends, and you have an interesting dynamic. (includes best friend!bucky x shy!reader, possessiveness, praise kink, dirty talk, exhibitionism and voyeurism, d/s dynamics, mild voyeur!steve, spit kink.)
do not repost.
—
His cologne is what you identify first, a distinct strand of cool and whisky. Underneath the smell of sweat and liquor, your olfactory senses hum with praise and recognition as he hauls you against his chest. Two strong arms encircle your waist and reel your weight backward so you’ve got to lean into him. That familiar baritone is a purr in your ear of, “Hi, roomie.”
The drink you were pouring is long abandoned, clinking against the table when you set it down. In tandem, you laugh and tip your head into his shoulder, looking up at him from an upward-side angle. “I thought you couldn’t come!” you exclaim over thumping music.
He drops his head into the crook of your neck, a soft inhale that tingles against your sensitive skin. You withhold a reaction, save for your lashes fluttering. “I got out of it for my favorite girl, of course,” he says. “But how come you didn’t mention Rogers would be here?”
Across the way, Steve Rogers is here for a birthday celebration. It’s timed with your girlfriends’ night out, the same club and everything. The standing private table you got has been cleared out in favor of hanging out with that mutual group of friends. While you were on the dance floor, you wondered where they went but there they are.
Still in his arms, you turn around and peer up at him. “Oh! I didn’t think it matt—”
One hand settles underneath your chin, thumb pinning your bottom lip. “Ah, no,” he sees through your flippant answer, tsking at the gall of you. “You know I like keeping up with you. Especially when it concerns guys who think they have a chance with you.”
Which is true. You did know beforehand that he’d be here. It’s one of the reasons you asked him to accompany you but he already had a thing, extremely apologetic over it as well, and mentioning that you got an invite from Steve would force him to come by way of overprotectiveness, a dash of possessiveness and his dislike of him.
Your best friend-slash-roommate does not like him. Apparently, he’s one of those guys who insist they’re nice but it’s an act to get in a woman’s pants. You don’t have an opinion but you do get an odd vibe from him, and he’s typically right. His recent interest in you isn’t going to bode well.
Your lower lip sticks out further, an apologetic pout in junction with a wordless wide-eyed stare.
That softens his disapproval, and he chuckles. “You look nice,” he tells you, running his gaze over you now. “Let me see. Spin around for me.” He lifts one of your hands high, intertwined loosely for you to do as he said; a slow circle of your hips so the full effect is given but at the one-eighty, he reels you back into his embrace. “Oh, you look really nice.”
Pls I’m being edged by the roommate!bucky drabbles, they’re so good and I need more 🥺
not explicitly roommate!bucky but same essence and tbh i had no idea how this wanna gonna go but here it is,
—
“Well, I’m not going if she isn’t there.”
“Bucky, are you serious? She’s just coming in a different car!”
“I don’t care. She’s my best friend, and she’s the only one who makes me laugh so figure it out!”
He’s determined. His arms are crossed, and his shoulders are squared. A charming and irritating quality, at times likened to an ox, he insists on his way; not with arrogance but with confidence of capability. There is no moving him, really, simply a matter of acquaintance or begrudging submission.
Your friend’s meticulously planned road trip has one fatal flaw, and that’s putting you two in different vehicles; an all-day drive without you next to him is a mistake he won’t accept. Her seating arrangement placed the couples together, and the safest drivers in front, which left you separated. The relationship is purely platonic so she must’ve thought it not a big deal but alas.
You bite your smile as she sighs exasperatedly, a signature sound for anyone facing him as a roadblock. She’s got her own brand of stubbornness, not yet yielding to what will ultimately be the endgame. In truth, you feel a little bad. The formation could’ve been edited earlier had you mentioned the preference but at this point, shouldn’t it be automatic by now?
She sucks her teeth and huffs. “No one can be moved around! What do you expect me to do? It'll only be a few hours, anyway!” she tries because—objectively—it’s not serious enough to make a stand on. Her eyes narrow with challenge, almost mocking in the following remark, “You can’t be that clingy, Barnes.”
He snorts, a single brow cocked, standing firm in his request. “Well, I am.” And there’s no shame in it. “She’ll sit on my lap,” he offers the solution seamlessly, and it glints with satisfaction in his baby blues. “There, see? Fixed. Not so hard. Get it right next time.”
You open your mouth for an apology on his behalf, you don’t have a complaint but you do know he can be blunt; you’re similar to aloe vera after a burn, him being quite the fire. Before you can, he’s hauled you against his side, arm a cinch around your waist.
A little oomph escapes your chest, and he’s grinning boyishly when you look up. “C’mon. This is gonna be fun.”
All you can do is throw her an apologetic look because he’s tugging you along. You, of course, follow without complaint, laughter bubbling in your throat at his insistence. His fingers are intertwined with yours, not releasing until you arrive at Steve’s car and he pulls the door open.
A tight fit, no doubt. His broad stature was meant to spread the backseat alone, and maybe there’s just enough room for you beside him. You might consider mentioning that but he seems too keen on having you on his lap.
He slips in first, stretching to his full stature, thighs and legs long. He really is an intimidating man but he’s smiling up at you and a hand out for you to take. You duck down, gauging better the spacing; you really don’t wanna hurt him in trying to squeeze himself and yourself in.
“Are you sure—oh—!”
Your doubtful words sharpened to a gasp because his arms cord around you and reel you in, sending you into a tumble. There’s no time to process, much less recover, before he’s manhandling you into place. His hands line your hips up with the split of his thighs, and somehow your legs are outside of his, then he braces your weight against him.
The roughness stuns you. Little squeaks abandon the base of your throat, and it doesn’t cross your mind to object, subconsciously allowing him to do whatever he wants. As low as the sounds are, you know he hears you but he doesn’t slow or lessen; no, he’s gotta get you in the right position.
His forearm hooks across your belly and sinks strength against there. A grip like that, you won’t be going anywhere. His abdomen is flushed against your back, a subtle arch because he straps you in so tightly. It has the not-too-subtly your ass nestle his crotch, and because your knees dangle outside of his, you’re wide open.
Warmth blooms through your body, embarrassment in your face, something slicking low. When you absentmindedly try to shift, his arm fortifies you like this, and he’s murmuring, “Hey, what’re you doin’?” His nose follows the curvature of your face, words minty against your ear.
You’re dazed, blinking like you’re confused, too. What are you doing? you think before you vaguely recognize what you were prompted to do—the wanton of your position. For some reason, you don’t think to change it anymore; instead, you relax against him. You figure he moved you in such a way that was comfortable.
“Nothing,” you breathe, your arms dropping in front of you which happens to be on his thighs. “Nothing. ‘M fine.”
You feel him smile. “Good. I like having you right here.”
The thing about road trips are the roads. It’s rife with bumps, holes and jolts. You never realized how uneven asphalt is but you’re hyper aware of it. It’s constant vibrations thrumming your system and periodical jumps against your nether regions. He doesn’t budge behind you, an anchor that only untenses for openings to your ass bucking back against him.
Sometimes, a sound or sounds will escape you and he chuckles every time; he does it also when your hands flail for purchase on his thighs. You want to say something, you usually do, but you’re breathless to the surge of heat bouncing between you.
And you aren’t the only one affected. Not a chance, a pressure built and built under you. You play it like you don’t notice it until you have to. Your mind is a taunt, a resounding aghast of, he’s getting bigger? Consequently, the answer is an echo of, he is!
“Sorry,” he says, and you hear the honesty in his voice, but he doesn’t try shifting you away; you’re feeling it all in a thin cover-up and through his swimming trunks. “Can’t help it.”
“It’s okay,” you says because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you acknowledge something that’s supposed to be embarrassing. “I - I understand.”
He chuckles; this time, it’s a dark rumble. “Oh,” is his response, an air of mockery there, and he readjusts you but somehow it’s even more direct. “You understand it’s my cock pressing against the split of your ass?”
Such vulgarity and coming from him to you, your breath hitches, and sensation is rippling through your nerves. The sudden switch triggers something weak (submissive?) inside you. All you manage is a, “Buck. . .” Still shy, your face tucks down.
One of his hands grabs your jaw, and his fingers force you to look at him, a three-fourth’s angle. “I asked a question,” he says, more of an authoritative growl, jerking you against him. “You understand that you’re practically grinding your ass against my dick?”
Your eyes widen. “I am not—I’m not—” you’re stammering your innocence, but his eyes narrow. You feel like puddy against him, and instead, you’re whimpering, “Yes—yes, I understand.”
Like that, he releases your face but his nose nuzzles the side of your cheek. “Okay, good,” he whispers in your ear, then skimming down the crook of your neck sweetly. “I just like making sure you’re well informed. You’re already so smart.”
You respond in his favor, craning your neck as he inhales you. “T - thanks.” You whine because he’s outright grinding against you. His hands splay on your hips, dig in, and work back and forth. You’re half-turning like it’ll slow him down, like it’ll make it less obvious.
He nips at your ear. “Y’know, this can’t possibly be a comfortable position for you.” There he goes with a roll of hips, and you whimper again.“How ‘bout this, I bury myself in your tight little cunt for the ride? I know you’d like it. My big, thick cock stretch in’ you out.”
You visibly tremble beneath him, carnal and obscene, arousal floods you like a toxin. “Why are you—why are you saying these things to me?” Because he’s so cheeky and sweet to you, a proper gentleman, and he’s treating you like this.
He chortles. “Because you’re wet, honey.” One hand slides up your thigh, and his fingers brush against your folds; sure enough, you’ve drenched through your bottoms. You hadn’t noticed it, you were too focused on him doing what he pleased. “You’re a perverse little thing. Look at ‘cha, squirming for it. You tryin’ to make Steve look back here? Seriously?”
That’s not what I—your brains want you to say but his fingers suddenly push in, and you choke on a moan. You shake your head but he’s tsking because now convinced of it.
“Y’know I’m the better friend, right? I mean, look at how I’m takin’ care of you,” he speaks matter of factly, a tad disappointed you’re trying to catch the attention of his other best friend. “I’m the one that’s otcha all aching and brainless.” His fingertips are heavy into you, whirling crude circles against your clit now.
You’re gripping his wrist, and your body openly spasms. “James. You’re, you—” His hands to your hips, rutting into you with a force you can’t resist. Lightning zaps underneath your skin and condemns you to shakes and shudders.
“Uh-huh,” he gloats next to you. “It’s me getting you off. You’re a perverse little thing like I said.” Your sensitivity flares on every stroke, and you whimper-whine, but he keeps at it. Pleasure and pain intertwined, and you’re on the point of writhing, unintentionally ruining the harsh rhythm he’s created. “No, c’mon. You can take it, can’t you?”
You can. It’s that earnest and encouraging cadence that corrupts you completely, so lighthearted against lewd reality. Your lashes fluffer, knowing that this is too blatant to not notice, but careen favorably back anyway. It’s showing, not telling, right? You do both.
“Yeah,” you breathe back, betting you could draw the shape of him just from these thrusts. You don’t know how he doesn’t waver but his cock slips perfectly between your labias. Your thighs are still twitching, and that’s okay because he’s helping those insubordinate muscles stay open.
“You’re so sweet,” he cooes, nose to nose, forehead to forehead. “Rocking’ against me like this. I know what ‘cha want, honey. Go on and tell me.”
Your eyes are still squeezed shut so, you do. “Bucky, would you—would c - cum in—”
His hand clamps across your mouth, and he latches onto your neck. One last shove and thumb hooking the swim bottoms to the side, he sheathes in the depths of you. Thousands of sensations surge inside you, unpreparation a likable pain, and thick spurts of translucent wet swells inside you.
His teeth sink into your skin, branding sharp grunts as an imprint. It takes a number of strength to be stuffed like that, and it takes a number of strength to remain still in between fluttering tightness. And both of you will it, faltering with only a few spasming muscles.
You sagg against him, all but collapsing against his chest. “Good girl,” he breathes, filling you to the brim with no plans of sliding out, thankfully. “You’ll just stay like that, just like this, ‘til you get another craving and then—“ He kisses your cheek. “—then we’ll go again and again and again—”
The chores are split up weekly. You and your roommate alternate between cleaning and cooking; it’s a perfect arrangement. Neither of you are the messy type, and you have similar taste palates, plus you enjoy each other’s company.
You’ve had a number of roommates, and he easily blows them out of the water. Hands down the perfect living companion, your living preferences are the same and synchronized immediately after you moved in. Rather than just being two people who room together, you’ve become good friends.
So you don't mind either chore. In fact, there’s a sense of pride in it. At six o’clock in the evening, you’ve swept, dusted and washed everywhere. It’s not a hard job, and you’re finished quickly. But not quite, not quite, because you like going the extra mile when it comes to the kitchen.
The dishes are done and dried, groceries stowed away in the fridge and cupboards, and counters wiped down. The checkered floors are what you’re working on, once again not expected but you’re thorough and there’s reminiscents of your last cooking endeavor which ended with food flying everywhere.
On all fours, your hair is collected low down your back while your knees dig into cushioned microfiber towels and you scrub the tiles bright white and opaque black. You’ve cleared row after row, and you’re hoping to be finished before he arrives.
But the front door opens, and you hear his combat boot-clad footsteps pad in behind you. Bucky doesn’t walk all the way in, and you don’t need to look back to know he’s leaning against the archway, head tilted while he watches you work, unusually silent but characterically observant of you.
For some reason, you’re flustered. Although you’ve been in revealing clothing before, worse than this, you get a little flustered. The oversized tee does little to hide your ass or your workout shorts, a black pair that hovers at the crease of your cheeks.
Then you remind yourself who it is, your roommate-slash-best friend, a wholesome man who opens doors for you, never forgetting please and thank you. That relaxes you; although he’s a man, certainly not one affected by your swaying hips on every circular swipe.
“Hey,” you speak first, a little breathless, not bothering to look up at him. “I’ll be finished in a sec, if you wanted to w. . .”
Your words trail off when his shadow casts over you—you didn’t even hear him approach—and he’s a breadth away. You don’t have time to look up before his hand twists in your hair, tightens and roughly wrenches your head back. A sharp pain in your neck and a delicious sting in your scalp as your roommate forces you to look at him and only him.
Cerulean blue sparkles with your gasp, blatantly hungry gaze running down your bared throat and cleavage in a loose tee. His mouth quirks to one side, pink tongue swiping over his lower lip, expression otherwise mild mannered like this is casual.
Hair pulled, your body has the instinctive reaction to submit, wide-eyed and at the mercy of the person above you. The shock still seizes you but it’s in the backseat while heat pulses in your center. You’re half-kneeling, careening backward into his unspoken will.
He cranes down, all handsome and wicked a few centimeters away. “You know,” he says like a realization, letting the mint-toned words fan over your lips, “this the perfect position for you to suck my cock. I mean, I could just unbutton my jeans…” His other hand is underneath your chin, thumb gently prying your lips open and rubbing over your tongue. “…and slide right over your soft lil’ tongue ‘til it's my cum you’re cleaning up. That’d be fun, wouldn’t it?”
Your heart drums a beat to disbelief and arousal. How are you supposed to react to that? There’s the appropriate response to jerk away, and there’s the bodily reaction where
Your heart hammers, and you don’t realize you’re holding in a breath. What are you supposed to say—how do you react to that? You don’t know but disbelief at his gall and arousal at his actions wrap around you hotly. All you can do is stare up at him like a deer in headlights, his tangled fingers easing your face closer so his lips can kiss the button of your nose.
Then he lets go.
With a soft chuckle, he releases you and turns toward the refrigerator like nothing happened. “So, I’m thinking orange chicken,” he suggests, glancing over the contents of frozen foods, cool as a cucumber while you’re caught between admonishing him for such a display and begging him to soothe the ache pulsing in your center. “I wanted to make your favorite.”
Did he just—yes, he did—what are you gonna d—I don’t know, your thoughts are running ragged, it turned you on—shut up!—but—
You shake off your thoughts and try to consider the question. “Um…” you say dumbly. It’s such a mundane question. If it wasn’t for the slickness gathered in your center and your desperately clenched thighs, you might think the whole thing was imagined.
“Thanks for cleaning, by the way,” he adds with a boyish beam. “I know we’re supposed to, or whatever, but I still appreciate it. You really make the place feel like a home rather than just somewhere you live. So thank you.”
There’s no mistaking the honesty in his words, and it’s such a juxtaposition to what just happened that you decide that it’s a one time thing, firmly—weakly. Or maybe it was a fevered daydream, something built up when bunking with someone so attractive physically and mentally. Surely, he wasn’t hinting at facefucking you in the middle of the kitchen and cumming down your throat so much it dribbles out of your mouth.
You swallow and clear your throat, nodding but it’s a little frantic. Now, he’s looked back, lifting a brow like he doesn’t know why you’re flustered. There’s a twinkle, though, amused and maybe a little satisfied. He’s still awaiting your response and rather than raise any objections, you answer, “Y - yeah. That sounds good.”
When it comes to you, Bucky is very considerate. You’ll offhandedly mention needing something—or simply wanting something, and he’ll get it for you. There’s no expectation for you to thank him, or return the favor (you do both faithfully); he just likes doing it.
This time, it’s a yoga mat. The local apartment cat, Apline, a gorgeous white tabby with a preference for your fire escape, had clawed the soft fabric to her delight. You weren’t upset about it but you always meant to buy a new one. You never got around to it, and in truth, you missed your morning sunrises.
Somehow, he’s attuned to that because there’s a black mat rolled out, and the living room furniture has been adjusted to make room. He’s already out so you smile softly to yourself and set a mental reminder to express your gratitude.
In the meantime, you’ve gotta switch into appropriate clothes and stretch the rust out of your muscles. Your muscle memory is impeccable, it turns out, because you twist and whine into familiar forms with relative ease. Sure, you wobble a little but the fabric beneath you is so soft yet sturdy you don’t mind if you do fall.
You begin with the basics and work your way through different forms: a lunge here, a garland pose there, and of course, downward dog. That’s the position you’re in when your front door opens, and keys clatter against the counter.
“Hey,” he calls out, padding further in where you’re in the process of shifting poses, slowly because you like that pinch of pain over straining your muscles. “You got it!” You hear the smile in his voice, flatteringly thrilled at your enjoyment. “I was worried it was the wrong type, or color, or—”
“It’s amazing. You are so sweet,” you cut him off, a soft grin on your lips, barely withholding a laugh at the faint rosy color warming his cheeks. “Seriously, thank you. It is perfect, Just let me know if you wanna use the living room T.V.—”
“No. This is all you,” he interrupts this time, firmly. “I know you liked doing yoga, and it sucked you couldn’t. You tell me if I’m ever in here, and you wanna do your stretches, okay? Besides, I like watching you.”
Adoration is a swell inside your chest. Winnifred Barnes raised a kind-hearted, respectful man; attractive as hell and with manners, he’s got it all. It’s one of the reasons you feel so free to be open, an example being your attire of a sports bra that fits a little too tight, pushing up your chest, and skin-tight chiffon leggings.
“You really are the best roommate and friend to have. Do you know that?”
He chuckles. “I’m only returning the favor.” He steps in further, gaze giving you a once-over, and something flickers there you don’t quite catch. He smiles, a pretty show of white and curve of plump pink. “You wanna go to lunch later—on me?“
“Yes but it’s on me,” you clarify, turning your head in a half-moon, one hand splayed beneath you and one leg stretched long a little off from being completely straight. “You’ve already got me a gift. Let me do something for you.”
He shakes his head, insistent. “You already do things for me.” He shuffles and takes a rest on the couch arm, planting himself there and emphasizing his earlier claim—he likes watching you. “And you know I like spending money on you.”
The half-moon leans into a standing split, a hand flat on the floor drags backward until both grip your ankle and your leg lifts high in straight, pointed toe angle. You breathe slowly, tensing your form before allowing the strained muscles to relax. It might be a trick of your hearing but you could swear there’s a sharp intake of air to your right, a soft groan beneath it.
“You are really flexible,” he murmurs and kicks off the couch, ebbing close to observe your movements. “The things I could do to you… the positions I’d get you in… Bet I could manhandle you in whatever way I want…”
bucky drabble inspired by this gif. sexual content below the cut (includes dirty talk, bondage, praise kink and unprotected sex.)
The nylon rope wraps around you in a cross-chest tie, across your collarbone and loops around your ribs to immobilize your arms behind your back. An impressive presentation and effectively knotted, you’re bound on your knees and bent over—naked and there for the taking.
Bucky’s hand tangles into your hair and reels you back, pronouncing the arch in your back. “You’re so pretty like this,” he breathes in your ear, ragged and adoring, brushing his lips against your cheek. “Tied up and wanting, I ought to keep you like this all the time. Hm? Be my personal lil’ plaything, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The moan that escapes your throat is loud and pathetic which he laughs at. Your stomach clenches and so does your pulsing channel, cutting his amusement off with a groan because he’s prised in and stretched you to the fullest. You can’t think about anything else; coherence isn’t your forte right now but you manage an eager nod.
His other palm cracks down on your ass, and the sharp sting elicits another wanton sound and a tightening around him. “C’mon, bunny. Go on and tell me. Say, ‘yes, I wanna be your personal plaything,’” he croons, now grabbing the thick twine to pull your slickness back and forth over him in slow strokes. “Tell me how I own your pretty little pussy, and I get to do whatever I want with it.”
You whimper-whine-moan. “Yes,” you repeat, wiggling your ass back in an effort to provoke him. “I wanna be your personal plaything, and you own my p - pretty little pussy, and you get to do whatever you want with it.”
“Damn right,” he gloats before sliding back, then slamming in so hard your face buries into the couch. “My desperate little baby who only knows how to take my cock, and you do it so well. Always so wet and ready, I bet it’s the only thing you think about.”
His hand is still in your hair, the other grips the knot, binding your arms and uses it to fuck you back on him. The forced arch in your back ebbs him deeper and deeper on every leveraged thrust, working up to a merciless pace. All you can do is moan and take it.
“There you go,” he praises huskily in between nonsensical gasps of his name, your heat fluttering wildly around him. “Go on and turn that brain off. No need to think about anything except bouncing this ass against me. Not when you’re this good at it, and you are so good at it, bunny.”
Electricity ripples across your skin, lashing up your center with consuming flames. The pace has built, and he won’t let up (not that you want him to), pummeling your insides like he’s engraving his name. Every collusion nudges a sensitive spot, over and over again until you’re trembling, whining and begging.
He laughs breathily. “Oh, how I fucking love that sound.” One hand reaches under and finds your clit, rubbing the nubbin ruthlessly after hours of edging, and your whole body lurches, eyes blowing wide at the sudden onslaught of stimulation. “Aw, you like that, huh? ‘Cause I feel it, squeezing me so fucking tight, your pussy is begging for it. Y’gonna milk the cum right outta my cock, aren’t you?”
It’s a good thing you’re on the couch with his additional support because your legs would be shaking otherwise. Sensation licks like fire at your nerves, engulfing them completely as his fingers swirl and he dominates your insides. You can only nod on another whimper of his name, “Buck—Buck—”
“Yeah, you are.” You don’t need to see him to know he’s grinning, bright blue eyes sparkling and rosy plump lips. “Alright, then. Give it to me,” he says and sheathes into the hilt, digits winding uniform circles. You moan, and your walls spasm sporadically at the overload but he demands more than that—your complete ruin. “I said, give it to me, bunny.”
Another slap to your ass, and it’s done for. The fever takes over, and you clamp down like a vice. Your muscles release like a bow string while your sex pulses and demands to be filled; a demand met, though underestimated because your sensitivity has reached its peak.
“That’s a - that's a good little bunny,” he groans, almost slurred, hips stuttering against the cinch of your depths, throbbing and practically wringing the pleasure out of him. “Tight, wet little thing, made to be fucked raw and stuffed full of my cum—and you’re gonna get it—oh, you’re gonna f - fucking—”
Fire erupts inside you, thick and sticky blasting you full of him. A deep guttural moan of your name, he sheathes into the very hilt, ensuring every part of you is coated. His thighs clench up as his cock twitches and drips with the remnants of his seed.
“Bucky…” you gasp, your ass wiggling against him in an effort to lessen your sensitivity but he’s still wedged in, grinding against you as if it’s possible to burrow in anymore. You’re swollen hot, and your nerves are frayed by pleasure, blurring the line to electrifying pain.
“Yeah?” he answers breathlessly behind you, one finger trailing down your spine, eliciting a shiver.
He’s at a pause now, and you take the green light to ease forward, release some of the pressure from your poor pussy and recuperate for another round. For a moment, you think he’s thinking the same thing because he’s watching you without complaint.
Inch-by-inch, his thick length slips out of your throbbing heat, coated in a translucent slick of his and your arousal, and more dribbles down your thighs. You hear him groan at the sight, seeing his messy, primal handiwork. As you continue, the tip is about to be freed and—
His fingers curl around the knot holding your arms and yanks you back. There’s an audible slush as his dick slides right back home, and you squeal at the intrusion, instinctively squirming but he keeps you there easily.
“Where’re ya goin’, bunny?” he purrs and twists his fingers into your hair. Your back curves and his lips mouth at your cheek, words teasing but no less serious, “We’re not done. I know what your pussy needs, and I’m gonna give it to you.”
“You’re a demon, you know that?” he breathes raggedly. “Acting like you’re so innocent when really you just wanted to provoke me into fucking you in front of all our friends. In the plain of day, fuck you full of me until it’s dripping down your thighs.”
in which bucky rails you in your sundress. (includes established relationship, dirty talk, mild creampie kink, unprotected sex.)
do not repost.
—
Your boyfriend is staring.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary. His gaze always ends up on you, a soft smile and adoration filled at the mere sight of you. But this time it’s different, dark and openly obscene in the way he watches you, fixated on your every movement.
All day, his gaze is burning hot. On an outing with your mutual friends, as you bounce and laugh in the mall, his eyes never divert from you. As you bounce and laugh with your group in the mall, he’s eyeing you like a hunter would its prey. When he’s staring at you like that, when he’s looking that good, it’s impossible to miss.
You can’t pretend not to know why. You picked this outfit for that very reason. There’s a thrill in being a tease, feigning innocence in such salacious attire, waiting until that moment he realizes and can’t take it anymore. Because you’re definitely doing this on purpose; why else would you wear something like this?
The sundress fits you perfectly, a floral design that only reaches mid-thigh, thin fabric that strains against your nipples and ass, so flowy that you’d flash a stranger if you twirled a little too much because of course, you aren’t risking panty-lines.
It’s the epitome of easy access—all he has to do is shove the dress up and slide inside. At any given moment, he can: take you, fuck into you to his heart’s desire (which aligns with yours), in front of everyone if he so pleases. You wonder when he’ll realize that; it’s only a matter of time, you know.
He guwaffs, and it’s a rich, throaty sound that curls your toes. “Mad?” he repeats, a half-smile quirking up at one side. “Mad at what, the pretty little gift sent to me by God?” His eyebrow cocks, gesturing to the space above. That half-smile blooms into a full-on Cheshire grin. “And right at my time of need.”
inspired by that scene in “triple dog.”
in which your friends dare you to hide in resident bad boy bucky barnes’ closet. (includes bad boy!bucky x shy!reader, allusions to masturbation, dirty talk, praise kink, mild cheerleader kink, fingering.)
do not repost.
—
This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.
You’d defend yourself by pointing out it wasn’t necessarily your decision but a dare your friends sprung on you but it doesn’t change the fact you agreed to it (albeit with great protest) and are now in the following predicament.
“No—no, you are not picking ‘truth,’ Miss. I-Love-Staying-on-the-Safe-Side. You’re doing a dare, and that is to put on this little cheerleading costume and hide in Barnes’ closet for an hour.”
Peer pressure is a hell of a thing because once Natasha said that, then the rest of your friends were insisting you had to do it. It didn’t matter you’d be breaking and entering, that their place was—is—currently occupied, or that the outfit didn’t fit quite right (too short, too tight).
The least you can say about them is their distraction worked like a charm in getting you in. One of your friends knocked on his door and started a conversation about having a shitty landlord, eventually gravitating into the kitchen. A mutual friend provided directions to his bedroom, and you kept your bambi-like nerves together enough to stumble into a closed closet.
Before you slipped in, that mutual friend—Natasha—placated your nerves by assuring you that James would be chilling in his living room; that way, the probability of him realizing there’s an intruder in his bedroom closet is low.
Unfortunately, that turns out to be wrong because after your friend finishes with her tangent and the front door shuts behind her, he returns to the solitude of his bedroom. Which, although you only managed a glimpse on your meandering in, is a palace.
You can expect nothing less of James Barnes, always referred to as Bucky. While he’s your friend’s neighbor, he also attends your college. The campus is on the smaller side, and he’s a notable presence among the student body.
hi!! Can you do a Billy Russo drabble with gif 1 or 4 please? ♥️
billy russo drabble inspired by this gif. sexual content below the cut (includes enemies to lovers, mild thigh riding, mild choking, dirty talk.)
“Sorry. It’ll take about twenty minutes.” The voice over intercom, head of their computer network installation and maintenance department, sounds sincere in her apology, even embarrassed she can’t sort it out sooner. Apparently, their new update caused an unforeseeable glitch in this elevator. “Until then, you’re stuck there.”
The back of your head knocks softly against steel. “And it could not be with a better guy,” you mutter with a sarcastic stretch of your lips, eyes flickering upward because the mere sight of him grates beneath your nerves. “Him, of all people. . .”
Although the scorn barely reaches a decibel, it's basically a tin four-by-four, the music has been cut, and he’s the only other person there. “Thanks, Richards. I know you’ll get it done,” Billy Russo says kindly before releasing the speaker button and whirling around. “I’m sorry. What exactly have I done to offend you?”
Unfortunately, his inherent grandiose—his height a major element in that, being something over six foot—pulls your attention onto him. The founder and CEO of Anvil, easily one of the best private security firms in the business, is a dashing figure across from you.
Always the businessman in an expensive black suit, though the remnants of Brooklyn leak into his accent, he’s both confused and curious but there’s this arrogance in his pinched brows and quirked pink lips as he assesses you.
It’s been over a month since your job placed you with him yet the agitation never fails to beat wildly in your chest. You offer a smile, borderline wry and blatantly fake. “Mr. Russo,” you start in your faux-polite intone. “My company is pleased to be working with you, and they’re extremely impressed with the headway we’ve been making.”
He laughs. For anyone else, it’d be a pleasant rumble, waning when his tongue runs over his white teeth—you hadn’t noticed before, you prefer not to be so close to him, but his incisors gleam rather sharply. His weight shifts, broad shoulders relaxing somewhat as he takes his hands out of his pocket.
He clicks his tongue, gesticulating with his index finger. “That is not what I asked,” he points out and tilts his head, dragging unfathomably black eyes down your body, seemingly to read the language but something else is there. “But you know that. So your issue must be personal then.”
You blink slowly, unimpressed, and glance elsewhere. Technically, the day is over, and you’re off the clock. You were on your way out when he caught the same elevator before the ‘close door’ button could work (another glitch in the system, obviously, because you hit it a hundred times the second you saw him coming).
Luck doesn’t bless you because he doesn’t take the hint you aren’t in the mood to maintain your manners. “I don’t get it,” he continues, “I’m a good guy, and I’ve treated you pretty well for someone with such a bad attitude.”
Bad attitude? You have to bite down on your tongue. You inhale deeply and present another perfectly fake show of teeth. “We are professionals, Mr. Russo. I don’t have to like you to work with you.” There is some satisfaction in verbally admitting it, seeing the frustrated air expel out of his nose at the confirmation.
“I told you to call me Billy,” he requests for the second time in the day. “And, professionally—” The word is drawled mockingly, a smidge of charm sparkling like stars in the night sky. “—I prefer to work in a positive environment. You make that difficult. I want to solve it. So spit it out. What are you afraid of?”
“Fine,” you grit out because he’s right in implying you aren’t afraid. You nudge off the wall and straighten, dropping all pretenses now. “I think you’re a pretty boy who’s all bark and no bite. Your security company is top of the line but you don’t fit. I can drop you in a second. Ruin that pristine suit.” All emotion has left his expression but a cloud is forming. You sum up quite bluntly: “It’s hard to wrap my head around a guy like you being capable of creating such a formidable company.”
That’s all it is, really. You simply don’t see it, and you’ve been observing him for weeks. He’s all charm, half-smile and wink; sure, he has created and is the reason why his defense firm is so lethal but where’s the grit in him, personally?
The slicked back dark hair, no doubt with a hundred-dollar gel, kempt beard to highlight a knife for a jawline and clothes that cost a fortune, it’s hard to imagine him in the line of fire he prepares for and protects others from.
After a moment, his long lashes flutter; for a second, a split-second, you see it. Then a smile blooms across his face, and he nods. “Oh,” he says. “I get it now.”
“About time,” you retort with your inflection of arrogance, but a sudden fleet of butterflies erupt in your stomach. You catch a breath and mentally shake them off. “It’s been obvious. Maybe all those chemicals in your hair gel have sunk in your brain and slowed you down.”
He chuckles, and it’s a dark, rakish sound. His head turns and lifts, nods to a camera in the corner. Like a viper—with a quickness you didn’t think he possessed—he surges forward. One big hand cinches around your throat at the same time his body pins you against the wall.
“If you wanna fuck me,” he enunciates the latter with purpose, baritone timbre somehow deeper, “just say it.” His thumb is a textured pad against your pulse, feeling how it rockets beneath him. “The staring, that filthy fucking mouth, your fixation on me, you’re embarrassing yourself pretending like you’re sizing me up.”
The ambush, he consumes all your senses. That specific scent of cologne, distinct but not overwhelming, woodsy yet clean, almost smoky in the way it floods your olfactory system. Fuck, he smells really good, near dizzying in the way it tantalizes you.
You picked a dress today so your skin is exposed to the softness of his attire, unsurprising, but it provides a contrast against the roughness of his hands—the capability that must come with calluses like his branding your neck. Your mind instantly flashes to how it’d feel against the vulnerable flesh valleying your hips.
How close he is to you, craned down so every word is a fan against your lips, you can practically taste that specific brand of gum he’s usually chewing. Peppermint, spat out some time ago but it lingers like a cooling agent.
Fucking hell, he’s scrambling your brain. His eyes are black holes, depthless as they reel you in and freeze you in place. A deer caught in the headlights, a bunny corner by a wolf. You might’ve been wrong before, and he might be right. Your ego, though, she’s stubborn.
Your mouth opens and shuts; you almost stutter—fucking hell, you almost stutter. It takes a moment to compose yourself, as much as you can. “Never,” you manage to lie, but he can feel your pulse spike, and you do stutter with, “not - not in your dreams.”
“No, in this elevator, right now.” His knee pries between your thighs and braces tightly against your sex, wringing a gasped moan you’ll claim is just a gasp. “You’re pretending again, honey. But you are ruining my pristine suit.” The tip of his nose teases yours as your essence stains his black slacks. “Can’t you ‘drop’ me? In a second, you said. Been acting like you want to, anyway. This is the perfect excuse.”
Billy fucking Russo is right. You can. Didn’t you want to? Shouldn't you want to? The bastard has his right hand curled around your throat, fingers long and dexterous, cool metal rung around his middle, squeezing every now and then so you don’t forget (as if you could), but it only adds to the ache pulsating in your center; being somewhat quelled by his knee nestling forward.
“I—I -”
“You could but you aren’t. No, because what you really want is for me to press harder, right?” Without waiting for a response, he does just that, pressure rubbing against your panty-clad clit, and your hips writhe into him. This time, your moan is unmistakable, and he smiles condescendingly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
In any other scenario, you’d wipe that arrogance right off his face and boast about it. But you’re essentially riding his thigh, unable to resist the reckoning coiling in your belly, and the unrelenting pressure he keeps there encourages it.
“You’re a bastard,” is all you manage to croak in between pathetic whimpers and moans that refuse to be muffled.
His head tips to one side, then the other like he’s considering the accusation; he nods. “Yeah. Maybe.” His face comes in close, lips only an angle away from yours. “But you like it—“ There’s a raspy quality, uttered carefully as his gaze flickers down. “—soaking through my pants ‘cause of it. . .”
Your breathing mingles, and you think, fuck it. That when you close the breadth, taste the peppermint and sin once and for all. He quite literally growls and kisses you back with a fervor that challenges the supposed hatred you harbored for him.
It’s open-mouthed. No teasing or beckoning in, just him taking you for everything you have. It’s almost sloppy, the deft slick of his tongue claiming your mouth as his, but Billy Russo is never sloppy.
Though the deep groan at the base of his throat tells you he’s just barely keeping himself reigned in, an instinctive tightening around your throat before his fingers are spanning your jawline. He keeps control that way, prints angling your cheeks upward as he delves deeper.
In the throes of passion, he slams you harder against the wall. Your hips jolt and twist, rutting into the strength pushing against your aching button. “Fuck—Billy,” you part to moan, and it’s the first time you’ve used his name.
He allows only centimeters between you, chest heaving wildly, eyes brighter than you would’ve thought possible. The hand gripping your jaw relinquishes, drops below to follow the outline of your body until it hooks under your knee and yanks wide.
You squeak at being bared openly so quickly and harshly but that doesn’t give him pause in wrenching your thigh over his hip. There, you can feel him big and persisting, nudging through his pants, through your underwear.
“All that glaring at me during meetings, were you really just thinking about getting bounced on my lap? Slide into you right then and there, fuck the attitude outta ya,” he borderline growls, wolffish in the manner he runs his gaze over you. “You shoulda told me. The way you look, baby, I wouldn’t have wasted a second.”
“Mr. Russo?” The same voice speaks from before, unsure before continuing through the intercom. “The—er, glitch has been fixed. The elevator can resume its course?”
“Thanks, Richards, but leave it stopped.” His eyes never leave you, not even when your dress ruffles high and the holstered knife on your thigh shines beneath the light. “There’s some business I need to attend to. Turns out, this is the perfect setting.”
Experienced fingers easily undo the strap blindly and handle the silver like a pro. “A knife? A woman after my own heart,” he says, grinning like the devil. There’s a sharp sound as he slices the blade through one side of your panties, and anticipation is an excited rhythm inside your chest. “Me and you, we’re gonna have a lot of fun together.”
bucky drabble inspired by this gif. sexual content below the cut (includes neighbhor au, oral sex, reader receiving.)
“Bad day?” the velvety deep voice of your neighbor had spoken behind you, having strolled in and unlocked his own place in a matter of a minute whereas you still struggled with the simple task.
Your keys had slipped through your fingers and clamored to the floor for the umpteenth time. You exhaled raggedly, barely containing your own frustration but for the sake of facing the ridiculously attractive man across from you, you reeled it in.
“Awful,” you had replied upon facing him, although it didn’t need to be said, your appearance was enough: a few flyaways with your normally kempt hair, and the stress from your latest shift weighing on your shoulders.
The epitome of tall, dark and handsome, James had ran his baby blues over you; a darkening of those maldivian reflects that made your heartbeat thump a little faster. “Okay.” His own key was in his hand, the door partially open then fully with a nudge of his foot. “Wanna sit on my face and tell me about it?” He gestured to the welcoming space, a soft smile contrasting against his salacious words. “I’d offer you another chair but I can guarantee this is the best you in the house.”
Your mouth opened but a response was dry on your tongue, wetness gathering in a much lower place. What a fucking offer, you had thought with wide eyes blinking back at him, considering he might be joking.
He smiled, all teeth and, by most means, friendly. “Sorry,” he had said before he leaned over, plucked your keys off the ground, and handed them to you. “I’m not good with the cat and mouse thing. I just thought it’d be the... neighborly thing to do. So if you want, you can take your panties off, and I can. . . lick away all the worries goin’ on in that pretty head of yours.”
Which brings you here.
Your panties are somewhere on his floor—long gone, shimmed down your hips the second you passed his apartment threshold—leaving you bare as your thighs cradle either side of his head, knees nestled against soft plush pillows. The button-up and skirt you wore are off, too, allowing your neighbor to explore more than your aching center.
Oh, and he’s an adventurer. The diligent kind, covers all his bases with an unquenchable curiosity, delves deeper and deeper with an earnest skill until he’s vindicating spots on and in you, and you’re feeling sensations incomparable to that of your vibrator.
His lips are rose petals nestling your sex, brushing across your clit before wrapping around and sucking. You’re a lollipop, and he loves the taste, a moaned compliment of, “Sweetest fuckin’ thing.” The wide rasp of his tongue flattens then licks, licks and licks.
What overcomes you is so violent, you have to grapple for his headboard; a shudder down your spine that grinds you against his face. But that only elicits another primal sound of content, a praise of sort gliding his hands over your hips and ribs so he can palm your breasts and pinch hard peaks between his rough fingers.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your hips instinctively writhing forth. The enclosing pressure in your lower stomach simultaneously webs throughout your system, electrifying nerves with an intensity that’s going to make you explode. “James—James, I’m gonna cum.”
To your body’s delight, he groans thickly, tongue swiping between your folds, and drawls as much of your essence into his mouth like a god would ambrosia in a bejeweled chalice. The warm, wet suction and your rocking hips, one of your hands tangled in his hair and clenches in preparation for your muscles to do the same.
The tendons in your calf stretch, toes curling, and a sheen of heat floods your face which drops and your eyes meet much darker ones. The soft, charming cerulean blue has deepened with ravenousness, a reflection of self-satisfaction when he catches the pleasure splashed across your expression.
You think if he wasn’t so busy wringing the orgasm out of you, he’d flash those pearly whites in a Cheshire grin.
But he is, with his own genuine sense of pleasure as he laps up everything you have to offer, absolutely decimating whatever thoughts you had previously just like he said he could.
Your fingers yank on thick locks at the scalp while your thighs shake. The one hand steadied on his headboard carves nail imprints before you’re gasping and the knot in your gut snaps. Somewhere in your haze of sensations, you recall his insistence that friends call him — “Bucky — !”
anonymous asked: #10 or #5 for bucky please!!! i adore u and ur writing
anonymous asked: hiii luv for the drabble can you do gif #5 with bucky
bucky drabble inspired by this gif. sexual content below the cut (includes dirty talk, praise kink and unprotected sex.)
“Fuck, that’s it,” your family’s worse business rival breathes in your ear, a ragged purr that vibrates through his chest and by extension, your naked back where it slithers down your spine and contracts you around him. “I can feel everything. All those ‘lil twitches and spasms. Oh, you’re fucking squeezing—you gonna come, baby?”
A heat-flushed, sweat-gleaming expression he’s watching the profile of, coherency is a pathetic moan in your throat. Just the same, your walls echo that sentiment around his cock, pulsating inside you in measured and purposeful strokes which wring another rough sound out of him.
His nose is trailing down your temple and your cheekbone, a soft kiss peppered there. “Come on, pretty girl,” he cooes as his hips buck into you at the fullest depth possible, almost bouncing your ass against him in the process. “Don’t hold out on me. Y’know you can’t when I’m in this deep.”
He’s right. You’re splayed out on his lap, sideways nearly with one knee bent outside of his, and your other leg intertwined with his ankle in the opposite direction. That leaves him burrowed in, every snap forward has his bulbous head rasping over that distinct spot previously hidden inside you; that same spot he carved out and vindicated some months ago (and continues to).
The muscles in your thighs are beginning to shake, and the tremors are becoming more erratic. “James—fuck,” you whine, tipping your head back against his shoulder because you can feel the control relinquishing out of you.
“That’s what I’m doing, baby.” He laughs softly as he glides back-and-forth, back-and-forth so exquisitely. He’s a wall of body heat and cotton, too preoccupied with barraging into your hotel room to do away with his suit, expensive Armani caressing your bare skin. “Fucking you. ‘Cause you’re so sweet and deserve to have your pussy filled.”
“They’re going to be pissed,” you whine-warn-whimper when your barely steady foot on the floor wobbles, and the temperature suddenly spikes.
“I know. I don’t care,” he tells you with faint amusement, general disregard for your family’s time and money to fly out here to consider a begrudging collaboration. “I just care about you. If I have to call a fake meeting to get you out here, then damn well I’m gonna miss it to see you—get into you, feel you shake and cry until—”
His name is a cry on your lips while the rest of you crumbles in an upheaval of warm bliss. His arms catch you tight, curls underneath your knee that keeps you level and opens you up wider; cups your cheek and turns your face to his, his moan vibrating into you as he spills inside you.
“Then - then you had to let me feel this—“ His grip on your hips glides your bareness across slick, hot flesh, and you gasp-moan-whimper at the feeling. “—and how can I resist you now? How am I supposed to be the perfect gentleman when you’re so soft, and your pretty little pussy is all dripping and hot for the taking?”
in which you allow bucky to feel the aftermath of your brazilian wax. (includes dirty talk, praise kink, grinding, voyeurism and exhibitionism, mild cockwarming, mild voyeur!steve.)
do not repost.
—
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
To your pleasant surprise, James Barnes finds you through a sea of music and dancing bodies. His stature stands strong in front of your booth, situated in the back so you can enjoy the mixes playing from the speakers and halfheartedly nurse a drink, but his chiseled features are pulled in concern.
One foot shifts his weight awkwardly while he scratches the back of his neck. Even in the dim lighting of a Friday night party, the depth of his blue eyes are unmistakable. “I mean, you’ve been distant lately. You’ve been skipping training, and I don’t know why. Did I do something—”
Your creased brows at the implication of an issue lift in realization. “Bucky, no,” you immediately dispel, shaking your head at the notion he could ever upset you. “You didn’t do anything. I - I got a lil’ something done, nothing serious—cosmetic, and there’s a recovery period, so to speak. I meant to tell you.”
You aren’t the cryptic type; you are of the oversharing variety. In this case, however, you’re reluctant to be so explicit. The two of you are close friends, borderline best if you’re honest, and he’s a proper gentleman so it’s not that you can’t tell him—it’s more like he’s a sweetheart, a little shy being old school and all that, and you don’t want to offset him.
Regardless of your attempt to preserve his innocence, he frowns and his brows pinch in an effort to discern what cosmetic might be referring to. Confusion and intrigue tilts his head, forming a subconscious pout that convinces you there’s no harm in elaborating.
Resisting a full-blown smile at such a cute expression, you reach for his wrist and scoot over in a silent direction to sit next to you. “A wax,” you tell him when he does, brushing your shoulder against his. The mention has a bodily effect, emphasizing the sensitivity below, and your hips draw backward to spread your thighs for better comfort on the leather cushion. “It was a Brazilian, and it’s still tender.”
Given he’s a hundred years old but not present for most of it, and the technique wasn’t invented until the late eighties, you still assume he’s caught up enough on pop culture to understand the reference.
“Brazilian,” he mouths, repeating in a louder voice, “A Brazilian—oh, oh!” You can see the gears turning and can’t withhold a giggle as he fully realizes, “That’s… that’s when everything is hairless, right?”
When they say everything, they mean everything; not your first experience but it has been awhile. A thorough waxer and a twenty-five minute appointment later, your lower region has been stripped of hair. While leaving freakishly smooth skin, it also leaves a numblike sensation and mercurial tenderness.
“Yes. I used to get them done when I was a lifeguard some time ago but I stopped,” you explain breezily, “so my recovery time is longer than usual which is, give or take, a few days. Once the soreness completely dissipates, I will be back in training and kicking your ass.”
He laughs a little but it fades into an uncharacteristic quietness. A far away look peaks your curiosity but before you need to ask, he’s suddenly leaning in. After a furtive glance around the other laughing and drinking off-duty agents confirming their attention elsewhere, he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip and asks shyly, “Could I… could I see?”
Your jaw just about drops. “You—what?”
What a sight it is to see a deadly assassin—albeit formerly and not at all willingly—blush. His high cheekbones twinge with red. “It’s just, you know, the women in my time, they were all natural—which was, and is, totally fine,” he rambles. “I don’t have a preference either way but I’ve never encountered a—er, uh—”
“Yes. Of course,” you put him out of his misery, an amused smile playing on your lips, which has him sighing in relief. There’s no explanation, reasoning or justification necessary, though you found the display adorable. Your eyes dart around the room as an idea strikes you. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll let you feel it, Sergeant Barnes.”
His eyes widen in shock but darken with excitement. “Are you…?” He nods his head subtly in a gesture between joking and serious.
Rather than respond verbally, you grab his hand and link your fingers outside of his. Your gaze remains on him, peripheral acute on others’ potential wandering eyes. With that mild regard to your surroundings, you guide him underneath the table and your dress; right between your thighs where you’ve forgone panties.
Like that, his rough pads are skating across freshly exfoliated and moisturized skin, soft and vulnerable to the touch. The second contact is made, you watch color reach his hairline; his lips parts, lashes blinking to the fullest extent. “O - oh,” he whispers, tentativeness solidifying into full-blown fascination as his hand moves of his own accord, a single palm cupping the entirety of your mound. “Oh, my God?”
“Right?” you say in the exhale after a laugh, expecting him to relinquish once his curiosity is sated—but he doesn’t.
Right after that—that correct acknowledgment that he has these bursts of unhinged emotion—the line transmits the slick, squelching, choking sounds of you getting your throat fucked. Steve can practically see in his mind’s eye, Bucky relentlessly shoving his cock down your throat, your eyes glossy and eager, taking every single thrust, letting him use your mouth like his personal fuckdoll; both of you clueless to the fact he can hear it all.
in which you and your boyfriend are running back-up for steve and unintentionally leave the comms on during a particularly stimulating break. (includes bucky x reader, established relationship, reader’s pov and steve’s pov, dirty talk, voyeur!steve, praise kink, blowjob/facefucking, masturbation.)
—
“Oh, my God,” you whisper to yourself, a decibel above inaudible, near muffled by your arm against your cheek. “This is so fucking… ugh. Sitting, watching, sitting—watching. You sit and then you watch. Fucking hell. Why didn’t anyone tell me this was so—”
“Your comm is still on, beloved,” your boyfriend interrupts, reminding you of the advanced piece of technology wedged in your (and his and his best friend’s) ear; a speaker and listening device in one. “And you were warned. Multiple times at that.”
Which is true. Your impatience and inability to concentrate is well known, infamous in the sense you’re requested for direct action and aggressive-aggressive operations. When you volunteered for backup duty, several people—including those involved—advised you against it, being patience and concentration is required.
In your defense, how were you going to resist being on a team with your boyfriend and his best friend?
Though, you have to admit that your tunnel vision got the better of you. If you read the fine print, you’d have the foresight that it isn’t the pornographic setup you were imagining. Reality reveals the simplicity of the job, featuring you and James in a surveillance van, keeping an eye on Steve who’s doing an undercover deal with fuckwhoknows.
The objective, per the briefing profile you skimmed, is to watch him and surrounding areas on big monitors and note anything suspicious, intervene if absolutely necessary.
“I told you, you’re gonna get antsy and annoying,” James continues, and his chair creaks as he sits forward and braces straighter on his forearms. “And look at ‘cha.” He nods to your bouncing knees and vaguely formed scowl. “Ansty and annoying. Personally, I think it’s sexy but I don’t think Steve wants to hear it.”
Elsewhere, in a lavish hotel room, the man referenced chuckles. Steve’s blue eyes shift up into one of the cameras positioned discreetly as a fire alarm. “No worries. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more interesting.” Per usual, he’s lighthearted and well-meaning; you can’t choke back a pathetic sound. “It’s fine. You guys can go. It’s too late for something to happen, and I can handle myself, anyway.”
James opens his mouth but pauses, and his eyes narrow on your doe-eyed expression staring up at a monitor. “Thanks,” he finally says. “We’ll just be a minute.”
On that cue, he picks the ear piece out, and you follow suit. It’s amazing how small complex technology has gotten. While it resembles your run-of-the-mill wireless earbud, it’s a nifty little gadget tapped into a private line, continuously transmitting crystal clear to and from. It’s wired not to turn off until coming into contact with a ten-second fingerprint.
That feature is lost on you, him, too, when the buds roll haphazardly across the desk surface. Had either of you kept them in, you would’ve heard the dull thud dispatch across the line. Or if you glanced at the monitor before turning it off, you’d see the third party pointing at his own earbud in gesture.
“You know, we’re supposed to be his backup.” James is disapproving across from you, his swivel chair facing you now, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes you don’t miss.
“We both know he is too strong to actually need backup. His arms—well, him, in general is fucking huge. A man like that is very much capable of handling himself,” you tell him very matter-of-factly but your voice takes a breathier tenor when you add, “Though, I do wonder what it’d be like to handle him.”
Your boyfriend’s chuckle is low and knowing, sending a shiver slithering down your spine. “You’re not bored, are you, bunny?” His baby blues flicker over your sitting form, particularly on your crossed legs, and a sly smile creeps across his lips. “But you are definitely in need of some more stimulation.”
Your jaw drops, and you uncross your legs but end up pressing them together anyway. “I am not that obvious.”
He clicks his tongue in disagreement. “On the contrary, you are the only thing I can smell, and you have been since you started watching the screen,” he points out, lifting an eyebrow with an inquisitive, “Should I be worried my girl gets all hot over my best friend?”
hi it’s been awhiiiiiile since i was able to write and this is unedited 😓 dont be too harsh 😅
anonymous said: I just read “am i right where you want me?” And it was wonderful, I can’t describe the emotions I felt. I was wondering if it is in your plans to do a second part? And if not, can I leave you little questions like WHAT IF one day y/n brings a boy to a party in Bucky’s house?
He cranes his neck down, and his mouth grazes the shell of your ear. “What was that comparison between me and that overgrown fratboy again?” he goads while your hips roll up and down across his thigh, a damp trail in your wake. “‘Cause I’m barely touching you, and you can’t manage a coherent sentence.” He chuckles lightly. “Makin’ a mess all over my jeans.”
in which you bring a boy to a party, and your best friend’s father definitely doesn’t care—except that he does. (includes bucky’s pov, enemies to lovers thinly veiled jealousy, dirty talk, mild choking, mild exhibitionism and voyeurism, thigh riding.)
—
He’s an idiot. On-brand for what one would expect your type to be.
A stereotypical meathead with arms bigger than what is undoubtedly a pea-sized brain. Dirty blond and blue-eyed, center of the room as he brags about his ability to chug! chug! chug!; does he have to be such a clichè?
This isn’t the first time you’ve invited other people around. Girls, guys, identities as both and neither, apparently, you’re quite charming. As far as his daughter goes, she enjoys the company you reel in and bodes well for the parties she likes to host. These initially small gatherings progress into a full blown festival as a result.
The difference, opposed to the previous times, is how close you’ve been with him all night. The other invitees eventually parted from you—or vice versa—getting into the music, games and drinking atmosphere. But for some reason, he’s buzzing around you like a fly, and rather than swat him away, it looks like you’re truly enjoying his company. Or maybe it’s you that’s orbiting around him.
James should get it but there’s a part of him, way in the recesses of his mind, that just fucking doesn’t. He stands by the fact that you’re obnoxious—sometimes subtly, sometimes loudly—so it should make sense you’re attracted to someone who’s also obnoxious.
He doesn’t care. Not really. Sure, his eyes have been on you this whole time and he’s wracking his brain to figure out what rapport you two can possibly have that’s up to par for a mouthy little thing like you. But it’s for that irritant at the base of his skull that needs to understand it. That’s all. No deeper feelings involved.
