bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀
I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it
The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes
pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader
word count | 6.3k words
summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.
what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.
tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.
a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this
taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ
divider by @cafekitsune
You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.
“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”
“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”
You snorted into your glass.
Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”
“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”
You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”
He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”
“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”
Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”
Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”
“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”
You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.
“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”
Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”
Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”
Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.
“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”
You choked.
Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”
“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”
“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”
“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”
Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”
“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”
You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”
Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”
Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”
Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”
“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.
He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”
Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.
He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.
Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.
He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.
It sat there on the table like a challenge.
He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.
“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”
He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Then he typed:
"What does CNC mean?"
Enter.
He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.
His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.
"...Consensual non-consent?"
He clicked the link. Read further.
He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.
“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”
Still, he didn’t close the tab.
He opened a new one instead.
"Edging meaning (not gardening)"
More links. More acronyms. More trauma.
His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.
His beer sat forgotten on the table.
Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.
Then he clicked another.
And another.
Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.
He stared at one.
A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.
Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”
He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.
The video loaded.
He sat still, very still, as it started playing.
And then...
“What the hell—” he whispered.
The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.
The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—
Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.
He stood. Paced.
‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’
He looked back at the screen.
Unpaused.
A few seconds passed.
He sat again.
Watched. Silent. Rigid.
His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.
Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.
Paused again.
His chest rose and fell.
“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”
Beat.
“And she’s loud.”
He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.
Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”
He reopened the search bar.
"How to talk dirty in bed"
The search results hit him like a grenade.
By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.
He clicked another video.
This one was slower. More intimate.
The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—
Bucky’s breath caught.
He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.
Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”
He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.
He swallowed hard.
“…I need another beer.”
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t stop watching.
Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.
The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.
Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.
Bucky swallowed hard.
He sat motionless for a full minute.
Then his hand drifted down.
Hesitant. Awkward.
He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.
The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.
And Bucky gave in.
His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.
“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”
Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.
He imagined saying those words.
And then—
He imagined you.
Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.
And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.
He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.
A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.
His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.
One more stroke—
And he came.
Hard.
He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—
Silence. Reality. Shame.
His breath was harsh in his ears.
The screen was still playing.
The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.
Bucky stared. Then looked down.
At himself. At the mess.
At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.
He let go like he’d been scalded.
The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.
Not from what he’d watched.
Not even from what he’d done.
But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.
You.
You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.
You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.
His stomach twisted.
He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”
You were his friend.
You were real.
And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.
His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
That hadn’t been just need.
That had been you.
And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.
A Few Weeks Later
There was a knock at the door.
Three knocks, then a pause.
Then two more.
“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”
Bucky hesitated.
He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.
But it was you.
He got up slowly and opened the door.
You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.
“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”
He stepped aside without a word.
You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.
“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”
Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.
“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.
“Not with that attitude.”
You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.
He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.
He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.
You just hadn’t said anything.
Until now.
You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”
He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.
You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.
Not yet.
Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”
And still—he didn’t say a word.
Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.
The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.
The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—
He swallowed thickly.
You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.
Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.
You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.
“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”
Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.
“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.
You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”
“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”
The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.
You froze.
So did he.
Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.
Bucky moved fast.
Too fast.
He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.
You dodged.
Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.
“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”
“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”
He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.
“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.
But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.
“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”
“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”
“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”
He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.
“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”
You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”
“Give. It. Back.”
“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”
He growled.
Actually growled.
And for half a second, it stopped being funny.
Because the way his eyes locked on you?
That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.
That was heat. Low. Dangerous.
You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.
“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”
He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.
You didn’t notice.
You were too busy poking the bear.
“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”
His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.
“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”
That did it. He moved.
Fast.
Faster than he should’ve.
One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.
His hand planted next to your head.
His voice low. Controlled.
“Enough.”
You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.
“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.
Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.
“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”
That teasing smile faltered—just a little.
“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”
You swallowed.
Hard.
“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”
Your breath caught.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
Then back up.
And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.
It was a promise.
“You want to see what I’m into?”
You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.
Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.
“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
His silence said everything.
You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.
You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.
“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”
He exhaled harshly through his nose.
You didn’t stop.
“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”
A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.
You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”
His hands twitched at his sides.
You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.
“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”
His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.
A beat passed.
Then another.
And then—
“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”
Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.
That was not the answer you expected first.
His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.
“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”
His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.
“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”
Your thighs clenched instinctively.
Your nails curled tighter into his chest.
And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:
“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”
Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.
One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.
You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.
“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.
Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.
You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.
Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—
The bed.
He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.
Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.
You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.
“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”
His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.
“I told you not to push,” he growled.
You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.
“And I told you I liked pushing.”
His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.
You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.
And still—you teased.
“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”
He looked up at you.
Eyes wild, hungry, dark.
And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.
“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.
“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.
And he did.
His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.
Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.
“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.
You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”
He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.
“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”
Your breath caught.
Dead serious.
You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.
Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.
“As you wish, Sergeant.”
That name hit him like a punch to the chest.
His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.
He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.
And then?
He pulled you down.
No hesitation.
Just mouth.
Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.
Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.
“Fuck—Bucky—”
He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.
You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:
“Mine.”
You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.
His eyes met yours.
Dark. Glazed. Possessed.
You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?
Right now he was just yours.
And you were his.
You couldn’t stop moving.
Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.
Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.
His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.
“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”
He didn’t.
If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.
He wanted this.
He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.
And you gave it to him.
Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.
The coil snapped.
Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.
“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.
He didn’t let go.
He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.
You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.
And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.
His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.
He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.
And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:
“You taste like heaven.”
You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.
“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.
You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.
“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”
That was all it took.
He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.
You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.
He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.
“This how you want it?”
You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”
He growled again—low, deep, possessive.
“Exactly how I want it.”
Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.
He didn’t push in yet.
Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.
You whimpered, tried to push back.
He gripped your hips tighter.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”
Then—he pushed in.
Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.
“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.
He held still once he was fully inside.
Like he was savoring it.
Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.
Then he moved.
Pulled out halfway.
And slammed back in.
You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.
His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.
His rhythm brutal, relentless.
He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.
You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.
“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”
You couldn’t speak.
Could barely breathe.
And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.
He didn’t let up.
Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.
He was so deep in you.
Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.
His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.
And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.
“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”
You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.
“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”
He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.
“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”
You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.
“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”
You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.
“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”
You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.
“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”
He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.
“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”
You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.
“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”
He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.
Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:
“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”
You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.
“Bucky—please—”
His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.
“Come for me.”
And you did.
Hard.
Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.
Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.
You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.
“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”
Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.
You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.
“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.
He was relentless.
Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.
“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”
You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.
“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”
“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”
He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.
“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”
One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.
You felt it.
Hot.
Thick.
Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.
And he didn’t let go.
Didn’t move.
Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,
“You’re mine.”
You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.
Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.
You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.
He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.
You could feel him watching.
You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”
He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”
You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”
He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.
His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.
Neither of you spoke for a minute.
Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.
Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”
You smiled, eyes drifting shut.
“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”
You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.
You grinned.
Couldn’t help it.
“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”
He froze.
You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.
“Don’t.”
Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”
He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”
He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.
You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.
“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”
His throat bobbed.
You waited.
“I dunno,” he mumbled.
“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”
He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”
“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”
He exhaled slowly, then muttered:
“...Sixty-nine.”
You grinned. “Classic. What else?”
He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”
Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”
“Shut up.”
“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”
He hesitated.
Longer this time.
Then—reluctantly, quietly:
“...Roleplay.”
You blinked.
Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”
“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”
You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”
His eyes snapped open.
And you knew.
You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”
“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”
“I’m begging.”
You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”
“I’m never telling you anything again.”
You leaned down, lips brushing his.
“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.
“Kill me now,” he muttered.
“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”
You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.
And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.
