think about bucky who’s obsessed with the taste of reader’s lipgloss and drools everytime he watches her get ready or reapply during the day 😵💫
yes. absolutely. will be thinking about this for a while
--------
Bucky swears he’s not staring.
He swears he isn’t, because he’s a grown man, a super soldier, an Avenger with decades of discipline under his belt. He’s faced war and aliens and gods and things no human should ever have to look in the eye.
But none of that compares to the unhinged mind-erasing effect of watching you glide a tube of strawberry-shimmer lip gloss across your mouth.
You’re sitting on the edge of his couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling through your phone while you mindlessly reapply. You don’t even look at him. You don’t need to. Just the sight alone is enough to turn him into something dangerous and stupid.
Bucky’s jaw locks. His tongue presses to the inside of his teeth. He swallows, and it’s embarrassingly audible.
God, he can smell it from here.
That sweet, fruity, syrupy scent that makes his brain short-circuit and his hands go restless. The way it looks—glossy, wet, shining under the living room light—has him sitting forward, elbows on his knees, breathing heavier than he does after sparring.
You cap the tube without fanfare. Not even a second thought.
Bucky’s dying inside.
You catch it out of the corner of your eye—the way he’s locked onto your mouth like he wants to commit a felony—and you bite back a smile.
“You okay there, Buck?”
His eyes flick up like you just caught him doing something illegal. Which, honestly, you kind of did. “Yeah. Fine. Great. Totally normal.” He clears his throat. “Why?”
You slowly run your tongue along your bottom lip, smoothing the gloss.
He whimpers.
Actually whimpers.
You nearly drop your phone laughing. “Bucky—”
“I can’t help it!” he blurts, hands lifting uselessly before dropping again. “Doll, you know what that stuff does to me.”
“I like what it does to you,” you tease, leaning in just a little. “It’s cute.”
“Cute,” he repeats, affronted. “I’m not trying to be cute, I’m trying not to drool on myself like a damn Saint Bernard—”
You twist the tube open again.
He freezes.
“Don’t,” he warns, voice dropping an octave.
“Oh? Don’t… what?” you ask, already twisting the applicator between your fingers.
Bucky shifts in his seat like he’s about to combust. He drags his metal hand over his mouth, tilting his head back like he’s praying for strength. “Sweetheart. I’m serious.”
You swipe it on again, slow and exaggerated, never looking away from him.
He audibly exhales, a shaky, gut-deep sound that ends with his eyes darkening. His tongue slips out again, involuntary. He’s practically salivating.
“Bucky,” you laugh softly, “you’re drooling.”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand so fast he almost elbows himself. “No, I’m not.”
You hold up your phone screen as a mirror.
A tiny, shining line at the corner of his mouth.
He curses under his breath. “That’s not drool.”
“Oh? What is it then?”
“Combat sweat.”
“From what combat? Me putting on makeup?”
He opens his mouth—then closes it. His cheeks go the faintest shade of pink.
You lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs, letting him see exactly what he’s obsessing over. “Why don’t you just come here?”
He blinks. “What?”
“You want a taste. You always want a taste.”
He does. He wants to lick your lips clean, suck on the gloss until your mouth is raw and swollen and his. He wants to kiss you until the flavor is smeared across both your faces and he’s drunk on it, drunk on you.
But he plays innocent. “I don’t… want anything.”
You raise a brow.
He caves instantly. “Okay, I want everything,” he mutters, leaning in. “But you already knew that.”
You hum. “Come here then.”
He moves like he’s in a trance—slow, cautious, reverent. When he reaches you, his hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing sticky shine. His pupils blow wide, nearly swallowing the blue.
“It smells like candy,” he murmurs.
“You like candy,” you say.
“I love you. The gloss is just…” His voice dips, gravelly. “…a bonus.”
You smirk. “So kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
The kiss is obscene from the start—wet and desperate and greedy. Bucky groans into your mouth the second he tastes you, full-body shivering like something inside him finally snapped loose. His hand tightens at your jaw, tilting you exactly how he wants.
“God, sweetheart…” he pants against your lips before diving back in. “You taste so fucking good.”
You laugh into the kiss, knowing exactly what this does to him. “It’s just gloss, Buck.”
“No,” he growls softly, nipping at your bottom lip, tongue chasing the flavor. “It’s you. It’s always you.”
He kisses you again—slower this time, softer, savoring. When he pulls back, his lips are glossy, shimmering just like yours.
You grin. “You’re wearing it now.”
He licks his lips, eyes half-lidded. “Good. Now I get to taste you all day.”
You gently swipe your thumb across the corner of his mouth. “You missed a spot.”
He catches your wrist and kisses your thumb, sucking the leftover sweetness from it until your breath catches.
Then, with zero shame:
“Reapply it,” he says quietly, almost begging. “Please.”
You burst out laughing. “Bucky—”
“I like watching,” he admits, cheeks tinted but eyes hungry. “Makes me feel… I don’t know. Possessive. Crazy. Like I need to kiss you right after.”
“Then you only get it if you behave.”
He scoffs. “Doll, I’m on my knees if that’s what it takes.”
You raise the tube again, slow and taunting.
Bucky’s mouth falls open.
He actually drools a little.
And you know—without a doubt—that you’ve created a monster.
A lip-gloss-obsessed, strawberry-addicted, shamelessly feral super soldier who will never, ever let you apply it in peace again.
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: each number earns him one slow stroke; if he moans, you start over.
day 3 of no nut november - follow along to see if bucky lasts 😉
He’s already trembling before you even start.
Flat on his back, wrists bound to the headboard by your silk scarf, Bucky’s chest heaves—broad, shining with a light sheen of sweat. His cock twitches against your palm, flushed and leaking, and you haven’t even said a word yet.
“Count to ten,” you murmur. “Slowly. One stroke for every number. But if you make a sound…” You drag your thumb through the bead of pre-cum at the tip, watching his jaw clench. “We start over.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “You’re evil.”
“You’ve got no idea,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “Now start.”
He inhales sharply. “One.”
You move your hand—long, deliberate, from base to tip. His fingers curl tight in the scarf, the metal of his left wrist glinting in the dim light. He holds his breath. Good.
“Two.”
Another slow stroke, a little tighter this time. His hips twitch but he catches himself, knuckles white.
“Three.” His voice cracks on the exhale.
You pause, smiling. “Careful.”
He nods quickly, jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth to keep from groaning. You can almost hear the sound trapped in his throat.
“Four,” he manages. Barely a whisper.
You squeeze. Drag your hand down achingly slow. He chokes on air.
“Five—ah—”
You stop instantly, fingers slipping away. His head falls back on the pillow with a frustrated growl. “Fuck—”
“Tsk, tsk,” you hum, sitting back on your heels. “You were doing so well.” You trace a teasing line down his stomach, stopping just short of where he’s throbbing. “Start over.”
He glares up at you, breath coming in heavy bursts. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Then die quiet, Sergeant.”
His eyes darken at that. The next “one” comes out through gritted teeth, his whole body trembling with restraint. You reward him—one stroke, perfect and slow. Then another. Then another.
By “nine,” he’s shaking, muscles locked, veins standing out along his neck. The last number hangs in the air, his voice breaking on it like a plea.
“Ten.”
You stop. Let him hover there, undone and desperate, the sound he’s held in finally spilling as a guttural groan.
You kiss his cheek, soft. “And that’s why we start again.”
----
tags: @sassandscribbles @hiraethmae @wint3rbarnes @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @mapelsyrizzup @barnesgirlx @buckysslut @angryoilslick516 @emmathefanficgal @sapphire882 @lasereyebucky @slut-for-artists @mitskis-tall-child @floatingvalhallasea @kikismultifics @sebastians-love @calzone-d @outnells @jrinbb @slutdier @ozwriterchick @winterdecember18 @clarkbarnes @bb-laufeyson @tiredkiwi26 @morphoportis @buckysgirl27 @justalittle47 @sambuckystony @peanutbutt3rcup @vickynguyen09 @pinksplace @s-sh-ne @grumpysunnybarnes @swimmingnightcolor @heymydearheart @nevereclipse @cozyjess @toomuchtoprove
if you would like to be added/removed, please comment or message me!!
A/N: OMG last part???? I'll finally stop edging you <3
Pairing: Biology Professor!Bucky x Camgirl!Student!Reader
Warnings: SMUT!!!!! cam girl shit, reader is kind of liking making Bucky suffer. Bucky loves to suffer. Semi public sex.
Words: 4.7k
Summary: Professor Barnes is the absolute worst type of professor. He doesn’t know how to teach, he wants you to already know all the answers. And you… poor you, living for academic validation.
The clock on Bucky’s wall read 11:42 PM. His laptop pinged with the familiar alert, a little bubble popping up in the corner of his browser with your username and a green hue around your username.
Streaming now.
His heart rate increased, hand hovering over the trackpad.
He clicked the notification. Your profile filled the screen — the same pink glow, the cropped camera angle, the toys lined up neat. The live indicator pulsed bright red in the corner.
Bucky’s fist clenched. He didn’t log in. Not this time.
He just sat there, watching your thumbnail from the landing page, the little green bubble beside your username glowing — a beacon. Tempting him. Mocking him. His whole body ached with want, every nerve screaming at him to click.
But he didn’t.
He stared until the bubble finally flickered grey, the screen going dark. Only then did he shut his laptop, heart hammering.
On your side, the session ended with your usual little sign-off, tips scrolling in a chaotic blur. You leaned back, stretching, sweat still prickling at your neck.
Then your gaze flicked to the profile viewer panel.
There it was. That username. Brooklyn_1917. Logged in. Present. Green bubble glowing.
But not in your stream.
The ache settled low in your stomach. He’d been there, hovering. Watching the doorway but refusing to walk through. You shut the page with a shaky laugh, muttering to yourself, “Guess you didn’t miss me tonight.”
That happened a couple more times in the span of two weeks. You saw him online, he would read the stream caption on the thumbnail on your profile and not join. You'd end the stream frustrated and pouty. He'd go try to jerk off in the shower without your voice in his head and failed to cum if he succeeded in keeping the thoughts of you away.
Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, laptop on the nightstand, unopened. His hands were fisted in his sheets, jaw aching from how hard he clenched it.
He wasn’t going to do it. Not again.
He’d promised himself after that night at O’Malley’s, after he tried to transfer you from his lab and failed, that he’d stop. He was your professor. You were his best student. He had no right.
But then he thought about the way you’d looked up at him in the lab today, goggles perched crookedly on your head, asking for his input on your assay results with that eager little crease in your brow.
You’re still my favorite.
The words replayed like a heartbeat, steady, unstoppable.
You're mine too, sweetheart.
His resolve cracked.
With a low curse, he snapped the laptop open, fingers flying on autopilot. The site loaded instantly — your profile glowing like shiny artifact in Indiana Jones. Live.
And when your voice spilled through his headphones, sweet and low, his chest clenched so hard it hurt.
“Missed you, babies,” you whispered, breathy against the mic. “Think you can keep up with me tonight?”
On your screen, your viewer list updated.
Brooklyn_1917 has joined.
The moment it flashed on the viewer list, Bucky knew he was fucked. His hand was already shoving his sweats down, cock heavy and aching, precum wetting the tip.
And then you started talking.
“Mmm, look who finally showed up,” you purred, dragging your fingers down your stomach, nails scraping lightly as you spread your thighs for the camera. The lace between your legs was damp, clinging. “Had me thinking you didn’t want me anymore.”
The chat went wild, but Bucky’s eyes locked on you alone. His fist wrapped around himself, stroking slow, biting down a groan.
“Missed you so much,” you whispered, slipping the lace aside to reveal glistening folds. The toy buzzed to life in your other hand. “Been so fucking needy. Could’ve cried when you didn’t log in.”
Bucky’s head fell back, jaw tight. Christ. You were aiming it right at him. You knew. You knew.
Was it smart to do that? No. You told him you didn't mind, that you could stay in his lab and stay professional. Hell, you suggested that he just stop watching the streams, so why did it sting so hard when he actually stopped?
And why did it feel euphoric when he joined again? Three weeks until the end of the semester, and he couldn't wait 22 more days?
You sank the toy against your clit, moaning loud enough to make the chat explode. “Oh, fuck, I needed this. Needed you.” Your free hand tugged at your top, pulling it down until your breasts spilled free, nipples tight in the cool air.
“You like watching me play with myself, Brooklyn?” you teased, pinching one nipple until you hissed. “Bet you missed it. Bet you missed me whining your name while you stroked your cock.”
The comments scrolled fast:
SweetTooth92: “god she’s filthy tonight”
BlueScreen69 tipped $60: “show us how wet you are baby”
Brooklyn_1917 tipped $150. “I missed every bit of you.”
Your stomach flipped at the message. You whined louder, spreading yourself with two fingers so the toy could grind deeper, slick shining under the lights. “Then don’t leave me again,” you gasped. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Bucky’s strokes turned desperate, pre-come slicking his fist. Seeing you spread open, begging into the mic, voice trembling— it broke every scrap of restraint he had left.
You moaned, hips grinding hard against the buzzing toy. “Yes—yes, fuck, I’ll be good, Brooklyn, just—ahhh—” You gasped, voice pitching high, deliberately whining the way you knew drove him mad.
“Fuck, I’m so close,” you babbled, toy circling ruthless. “So close, please let me cum—please, I’ll be your good girl, I’ll do anything—” You were begging. For him. For Brooklyn.
His breath punched out of him in a low, guttural growl as his release tore through him, hot and violent, spilling across his stomach in messy streaks.
You whimpered his name as you shattered, body convulsing around the toy, slick dripping down your thighs. The orgasm hit hard, raw, spilling over into little sobs as your fingers shook.
The chat went berserk — endless tips, praise scrolling too fast to read. But you only cared about one viewer. Your eyes fluttered open, catching the glowing name in your list. Still green. Still there.
“Mmmm, good boy.” you whispered into the mic, shaky and soft, like a secret only for him.
The building was nearly empty. Halls echoing, lights dim, the hum of incubators the only sound. You’d promised yourself you’d leave three hours ago… but the assays weren’t quite done. And if you could just get one more run tonight, your data set would be complete.
AirPods in, music buzzing low, you were lost in the rhythm of pipetting and labeling. Lab coat snug, safety goggles pushed up into your hair, you barely noticed how late it had gotten until you finally packaged the fresh plates for incubation.
Reports stacked in your hands, you slipped them under your arm. Barnes always said he wanted updates dropped off promptly, and you were already heading past his office. Quick, easy. He’d never know how late you’d stayed.
Bucky sat slumped in his office chair, long after the faculty wing had emptied. He’d been grading until his eyes blurred, the silence pressing in heavy. A refill of coffee had gone wrong — the cup tipped, spilling hot liquid down his shirt and across his slacks.
“Fuck,” he hissed, pushing back from the desk.
Now he stood at the side table, blotting at his shirt with paper towels. Buttons undone, tie loose, belt unbuckled as he tried to mop the mess off his thighs. The scent of stale coffee clung sharp in the air.
He thought he was alone. Everyone was gone. No reason to think otherwise.
You breezed in, humming faintly with your AirPods still in, lab coat hanging open over your clothes, goggles perched crooked on your head. Reports stacked neatly in your hands, you crossed to his desk, set them down with practiced ease—
And froze.
He wasn’t at the desk.
He was across the room, shirt half-open, pants undone, hair loose around his face as he pressed a wad of napkins to his hip.
You blinked, pulled one AirPod free. “…Professor?”
Bucky’s head snapped up, chest heaving, jaw clenching. “Christ—Y/N.”
You stood there, wide-eyed, goggles still pushed into your hair, a little flushed from the lab’s heat. Absolutely, devastatingly adorable.
And he nearly groaned aloud.
The image was seared into him — you in that damn lab coat, cheeks pink, the faint smell of ethanol and agar still clinging to you. His perfect, brilliant student, standing in his office like you owned it, while he stood there half-undone.
He forced his voice steady. “You shouldn’t be here this late.”
You glanced at the reports, then back at him. “I just finished the extra assays. Wanted to drop these off.”
Extra assays. You’d been working yourself into the ground, chasing perfect data. He should’ve been proud, should’ve been lecturing you about overextending. But all he could think about was how your lab coat gaped open at the front, the curve of your sweater underneath, the faint perfume of ethanol and something sweet that was just… you.
Fuck, sweetheart, if you only knew what I want to do to you right now.
He saw it — a flash, a filthy daydream — you dropping the reports and climbing into his lap, that lab coat slipping from your shoulders as you straddled him. His hand fisting in your hair, tugging those goggles down around your throat while you rode his cock, moaning his name until your voice broke.
The fantasy hit him so hard he almost stepped toward you. Almost reached out, almost ruined everything.
You tilted your head, lips quirking faintly. “Spill something?”
I could clean it up with my mo-
He swallowed hard, his hand still gripping the napkins at his thigh. “…Coffee.”
For a long, unbearable second, the room was silent except for the hum of the overhead lights.
And all he could think was that if you took one step closer, he’d lose the last scrap of restraint holding him together.
You lingered just a second longer, gaze flicking from the undone buttons of his shirt to the napkins in his hand. Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, you gave him a little smile.
“Well… good thing it was coffee and not hydrochloric acid.”
Bucky’s jaw locked. His knuckles whitened around the wad of paper towels.
You slid your AirPod back in, tapping the reports on his desk as you turned toward the door. “Night, Professor. Thanks for letting me keep the incubators so late.”
And just like that — lab coat swishing, goggles still perched crooked in your hair — you were gone.
The door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the heavy silence.
Bucky slumped back against the table, breathing hard. His cock throbbed painfully against his undone waistband, every nerve in his body screaming with the memory of your flushed cheeks, the way you’d called him Professor so casually.
But the reports still sat neatly stacked on his desk, color-coded tabs poking out. Proof that while he was unraveling, you were thriving.
And he couldn’t decide if that made him want to laugh, groan, or break something.
Bucky sat at his desk, the glow of his laptop washing his face in cold blue. His cursor hovered in the search bar, chest tight, pulse loud in his ears.
One more time. Just one more.
He typed your username with practiced precision, fingers moving on autopilot. The keystrokes felt ritualistic by now, something sacred he could do blindfolded.
Enter.
Nothing.
Profile not found.
He froze. His breath caught, disbelief buzzing in his ears. He refreshed. Searched again. And again.
Nothing.
No pink glow. No list of scheduled streams. No voice spilling through his headphones with that breathy little laugh.
Gone.
Like you’d never existed there at all.
A pit opened deep in his gut. His secret ritual — the thing that had kept him breathing through endless nights, the thing that was half-guilt and half-salvation — ripped away in a single click.
No more late-night streams.
No more teasing lilt.
No more whines pitched high, begging please, Professor into the mic just for him.
It was over.
He slumped back in his chair, dragging both hands down his face, fingertips pressing into his eyes until colors sparked behind his lids.
Finals tomorrow. One last day. One last chance to see you sitting front row, notes neat, gaze steady, pretending like you weren’t the same girl who used to cry for him through tiny laptop speakers.
And then? You’d walk out of his classroom. Out of his life.
And he’d lose you — completely, utterly — before he ever really had you.
The exam hall was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the eardrums until even the scratch of pens sounded obscene. Students hunched over their desks, pale and twitchy, shoulders curved into question booklets like their lives depended on it.
Except you.
Front row, middle seat — exactly where you’d been all semester. Your posture was steady, legs crossed neatly under the desk, hair tucked behind your ear as you bent over the exam. Calm. Collected. Your pen moved in smooth, unbroken strokes. Every metabolic pathway diagram crisp, every essay answer structured like you’d been rehearsing them for weeks.
Bucky paced the rows, exam key heavy in his pocket, coffee bitter on his tongue. He told himself to focus on the room — to keep his eyes moving, to be the stern, intimidating professor everyone hated but respected.
But his gaze kept snagging on you.
On the little crease between your brows when you paused to reread a question.
On the way your fingers tapped your pen against your lip before you started writing again.
On the curve of your calves under the desk when you shifted your legs, your skirt sliding higher with the motion.
His chest grew tighter with every stolen glance.
For two hours, he fought a war inside his head.
One part of him was the professor, memorizing the clock, listening for the rustle of turned pages, watching for any sign of cheating. The other part — the darker, hungrier part — spun filthy little daydreams behind his eyes.
He saw you spread across his desk, exam papers scattered around you, his cock buried deep as you begged “Please, Bucky, I’ll be good, I’ll get an A, please let me cum—”
He saw himself bending over you from behind, your skirt bunched at your waist, your pen clattering to the floor while he fucked you through every answer you’d diagrammed so carefully.
He saw your neat handwriting trembling into messy scrawl as he whispered in your ear, “That’s right, sweetheart, write my name down as the right fucking answer.”
Every time your pen paused, he felt a rush of blood headed south of his belt. Every time you shifted in your seat, his palms itched to grip your hips and hold you down.
By the time the clock struck, he was wrecked.
“Time,” he called, voice hoarse.
The sound of papers rustling was deafening in the silence. Students shuffled forward, dropping their exams in messy stacks on the desk before rushing for the door like prisoners freed.
And then there was you.
The last to rise.
You walked slow, exam clutched neatly in your hand, your expression calm but faintly warm. Approaching his desk, you set the paper down, fingertips brushing the top page like you were smoothing it.
Your eyes flicked up. Just for a second.
Sheepish.
Shy.
The barest curve of a smile playing on your lips.
And then you turned, walking out without a word, the swing of your lab coat hem brushing against your calves.
Bucky’s throat was dry. His eyes dropped to your paper. At the very bottom corner of the last page, drawn in careful pen strokes, was a tiny heart.
So small he almost missed it. His breath caught. His chest constricted like a fist had closed around it. And then you were gone.
Gone from the room. Gone from his class. Gone from his reach. Leaving him alone at the desk, staring at the heart like it was both a confession and a farewell.
The halls were hollowed out, stripped of their usual chaos. No voices, no footsteps, just the hum of vents and the echo of Bucky’s shoes as he dragged himself down the corridor. His jacket hung loose in his hand, his whole body weighted with exhaustion.
All he wanted was to collapse into his chair, stare at the tiny heart you’d doodled at the bottom of your exam, and figure out how he was supposed to survive never having you again.
But when he pushed his office door open—
You were already there.
Sitting in his chair, knees tucked under you, claw clip in your hair, exam bluebooks stacked neatly in front of you.
You looked up with a grin that stole his breath. “Oh my god, I thought you’d never get here. I was dying waiting for you to grade those.
Bucky froze in the doorway, heart slamming against his ribs. “…What are you doing here?” He walked a couple more steps into his office and closed the door behind him.
You shrugged, spinning lazily in his chair. “I figured you’d come back. Thought I’d keep you company while you, y’know, put me out of my misery.” You gestured at the stack of exams. “Tell me if I aced it or not.”
His throat worked, finally. “Y/N…”
You tilted your head, eyes glinting. “I think I did pretty well, but.. You never know.”
The air thickened, heavy with everything unsaid — your heart on the page, his username burned into memory, a semester’s worth of restraint trembling on the edge, all of the nights both of you got off together separately.
And then you stood. Slow. Deliberate. Steps closing the distance between you until he could smell the sweetness of your perfume beneath your sweater.
“I’m not your student anymore,” you whispered. Your voice was low, heavy like a hungry jaguar circling its prey. “And my research? Already submitted.” You smiled faintly, wickedly. “Publishable, you said. So I don’t have to be in the lab under you anymore…”
Your hands pressed to his chest, firm enough to guide him back until the back of his knees hit the armchair. He dropped into it with a low grunt, too stunned to resist.
“…I can just be here.” You straddled him with a smooth swing of your leg, skirt flaring as you settled into his lap. Your voice dropped even more, sultry, familiar in a way that made him throb instantly. “…On top of you instead.”
His hands clamped hard to the armrests, knuckles white, every nerve in his body screaming. “Jesus Christ,” he rasped, eyes devouring you.
You giggled, lips grazing his jaw. “Relax. Not breaking the rules now.” You put his hands on your hips. "Y'can touch me."
That snapped him. His grip shifted, palms seizing on your hips, dragging you flush to the thick length straining against his slacks. You gasped, your fingers curling in his shirt, working on the buttons while he captures your lips in a kiss that answered your question from months ago, how good Brooklyn_1917 would be in bed.
His voice was wrecked, raw. “You have any idea what you’ve done to me all semester? Sitting there in my class, raising your hand, looking so damn perfect while I was trying not to think about how you sounded moaning my name?”
You whimpered, rolling your hips against him. “I thought about you too. Every time. Wanted you so bad.” More buttons undone and your nails scraped the skin on his chest.
He groaned, hand snapping up to grip your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Don’t answer. Just—fuck.” His mouth crashed against yours, hungry, weeks of restraint devoured in a single kiss.
Your moan vibrated against his tongue, your grind desperate against the hard line of his cock.
He tore his mouth away, panting. “Up. Take it off.” You lifted your arms and your sweater was tugged overhead. He helped, impatient, hands roaming every inch of bare skin he revealed.
“God, look at you,” he muttered, kissing down your throat, biting just enough to make you whine. “Smartest girl in the room. My perfect student. And now you’re mine.”
“Yours,” you gasped, grinding down.
His fingers slipped between your thighs, finding you slick. You cried out, clutching his shoulders as he teased your clit. “Already wet for me,” he groaned, sliding two fingers inside, curling them expertly. “Knew you would be. Always so eager to please, huh? Just like in class.” God, if only he could bottle up your breathless little gasps.
“Y-yes, Professor—”
He growled low in his chest, pumping harder. “Not your professor anymore. Say my name.”
“Bucky,” you moaned, back arching. “Bucky—please, more—”
“That’s it.” He kissed you hard again, filthy praise spilling between your mouths. “Good girl. That’s my girl.”
You clenched, trembling, chasing his hand while you undid his belt and fly—until he pulled away, pulling at his slacks with a curse. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, leaking at the tip.
Your eyes widened, pupils blown. “Please.”
He lined himself up, dragging the head through your slick before pulling you down slow. Both of you gasped as he filled you, the stretch perfect, obscene, and the sting of him would haunt the deepest parts of your brain forever.
“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel even better than I dreamed.”
You whimpered, rocking against him, nails raking his shoulders. “Can I move, please—need you—”
And then moved you on him, hands on your hip and thigh, controlling the way you rocked back and forth on his cock. Hard. Deep. Each thrust rattled the chair, your cries swallowed by his mouth as he fucked up into you like he’d been waiting for it forever.
“That’s it,” he panted, snapping his hips. “Take it. My good girl, taking me so well.”
“Bucky—oh my god—” It was a mixture of whine and moan, something quiet to not draw attention to his office but so loud in his head you might as well have been screaming for him.
“Say it.”
“I’m your good girl,” you gasped, clutching him tighter. “I’m your good girl—”
The chair groaned under the force of his thrusts, your body bouncing in his lap, the wet slap of skin filling the quiet of his office.
Bucky’s jaw was tight, sweat running down his temple. He’d spent months denying himself this, months tearing himself apart every time you walked into class, brilliant and untouchable. Now you were wrapped around his cock, and he was drowning in you.
“Fuck—” he growled, teeth grazing your throat. “I can’t—I need you somewhere else—”
Before you could ask, his hands locked under your thighs. With one guttural grunt, he stood, lifting you easily, still buried deep inside.
You gasped, arms flying around his neck, the sudden shift making your walls squeeze tight around him. “Oh—oh my god—”
“Hold on,” he rasped, stalking across the room.
The desk loomed — polished mahogany, neat stacks of papers shoved aside with one sweep of his forearm. He laid you out flat, never pulling out, the wood cool against your back as his body pressed you down.
Then he drew back and slammed home, cock splitting you open deeper than before. You cried out, legs flying up to hook around his waist.
“Bucky!”
“That’s it,” he grunted, pounding into you, desk creaking under the force. His hand braced against the edge, the other gripping your jaw so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him. “Look at me while I fuck you. You’re mine now. You hear me? Mine.”
“Yes—yours—” you sobbed, every thrust rattling through you.
He bent his head, sucking your nipple into his mouth, tugging it until you squealed, then soothing it with his tongue. “Taste so good,” he groaned against your skin. “Could spend all night worshipping you.”
He groaned, snapping harder, the rhythm brutal and perfect. “God, you feel so good. So fucking tight, spread out on my desk taking my cock like you were made for it.”
Your nails clawed the polished wood, your body arching as his thumb found your clit, ruthless and precise. “Please—I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he ordered, hips slamming into you. “Cum for me. Cum all over my desk.”
Your moan broke, body convulsing around him, pulsing and clenching so hard he saw stars. He drove into you harder, groaning against your throat, "Fuck- where do you-"
"Inside. Please, come inside of-" And before you could even finish your sentence he was spilling deep inside, grinding you down to take every drop.
The office filled with ragged breaths, your limp body draped against his desk, his cock still buried deep inside while he was over you. He kissed your temple, whispering hoarse and quietly. “Good girl. My perfect girl.”
You smiled, dazed, glowing. “Told you… I thrive on your praise.”
His laugh was hoarse, wrecked. He tugged you forward and fell back on his office chair, you sitting on his lap like a prized possession while he savored the weight of you, the ache in his muscles, the dizzying relief of finally touching you.
Neither of you moved.
You just looked at each other.
Your breath was uneven, lashes damp, lips kiss-swollen. But your eyes—soft, glassy, certain—never wavered from his.
Bucky’s hand trembled where it held your waist, thumb stroking without him realizing. He’d fucked you like a man starved, spilled inside you like he’d been waiting his whole damn life—but this part, this silence, was what finally undid him.
Because you weren’t just some fantasy behind a screen anymore. You weren’t just the brilliant girl in the front row. You were real, warm, in his lap, still clenching faintly around him.
And you wanted him. His chest ached with it.
“Y/N,” he rasped, voice hoarse, almost reverent. “Do you have any idea what this means?”
You tilted your head, a slow smile curving your lips. “That you’re mine now?”
His jaw flexed, a laugh catching in his throat. God, you were still teasing—still insatiable. But there was heat in your gaze, too. Something that matched the weight in his chest.
“I can’t… go back,” he admitted, voice low, raw. His forehead touched yours, his breath mingling with yours. “Not after this.”
Your fingers trailed up his chest, nails grazing lightly. “Good.” You kissed him soft, lingering, before whispering against his mouth. “Because I don’t want you to.”
The words sank in, heavy and final, and the reality of it hit him square in the chest. This wasn’t just some release after months of restraint. It was everything.
And even with your body still trembling against him, even with his cock still buried inside you, you shifted in his lap, rolling your hips with a needy little moan.
“Still hard,” you whispered, eyes glinting, wicked and sweet all at once. Bucky’s jaw dropped, his laugh breaking on a groan as you clenched around him again, on purpose this time.
And then — buzz. Your phone lit up on his desk, screen glowing.
You stretched an arm, still lazily perched on his cock, and grabbed it. Your eyes flicked down — and then your whole face lit up.
“Yay!” you chirped, bouncing happily in his lap.
Bucky groaned, head tipping back as the sudden movement clenched around him. “Sweetheart—”
“The registrar approved my enrollment!” you beamed, waving the phone like proof. “I got into your cancer biology class!”
He froze. Then tipped his head back with a guttural groan that was half-despair, half-disbelief. “Aw, c’mon.”
You giggled, kissing him quick, playful, your hips still shifting against him just to watch him squirm. “What? You said I’m your perfect girl. Guess you’re stuck with me another semester, Professor.”
He pinched your hip, narrowing his eyes even as the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch. “You’re trying to kill me.”
You nipped his jaw, grinning. “Mmm… more like keep you alive.”
The chair creaked beneath you, his cock still pulsing inside, your laughter bubbling into his chest.
And Bucky thought, not for the first time — you really might be the end of him.
You think after Steve handed the shield to Sam, Steve and Bucky sat for a while? Maybe they spoke, or maybe they just sat there in a nostalgic silence.
𝓣hinking about Bucky fucking you raw for the very first time
The room was humid with heat and sweat, the mattress creaking under your knees as Bucky pounded into you from behind. His vibranium arm pressed into the bed beside your head, his flesh hand locked on your hip, holding you steady while his cock drove in and out with steady, brutal rhythm.
You were dripping, clenching, moaning into the pillow, but it wasn’t enough.
The condom dulled him, dulled you. You wanted the heat of him, the stretch of him raw, every inch of him without the barrier.
“Fuck, baby,” Bucky groaned, leaning down to growl in your ear, “you’re squeezing me so goddamn tight.” His chest stuck to your back, breath ragged, hips smacking loud and wet against you. “You feel so good like this…”
But you needed more.
With shaky fingers, you reached back, brushing his cock where he split you open. He didn’t notice, too lost in his rhythm, his grunts filling the room. You tugged the base, rolled the condom down, and peeled it off in one messy pull.
The difference was instant.
Bucky froze mid-thrust, his cock twitching inside you. He groaned, a sound deep, broken, almost pained. “Doll… what the fuck…”
Then he shoved back into you, raw.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he gasped, forehead hitting your shoulder, “oh fuck- oh fuck...” He bottomed out, bare, hot, thick. His whole body shuddered. “You took it off?”
You moaned, arching back into him, walls fluttering around his cock. “I wanted you. All of you. Just you.”
That snapped him.
He dragged you upright, your back slamming against his chest, one hand in your hair, the other clamped around your throat as he started thrusting again, messy, wet, obscene. The sound of it was different now, slick, raw, filthy.
“Fuck me,” he snarled into your ear, rutting into you hard enough to rattle the headboard. “You feel.. fuck, you feel so different. Hot. Wet. Bare.” He groaned, hips stuttering, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “You’re mine, doll. You hear me? Mine.”
You could barely form words, choking on moans as he held you wide open, fucking you deeper than before. Every thrust had your body jolting, your thighs shaking.
He lost control completely, dragging you down onto the mattress again, hand pressing into the small of your back, pinning you flat while he fucked into you like a man possessed.
“Feel that?” he grunted, pounding you open. “That’s me...no rubber, no nothing, just my cock filling you raw. Goddamn it, you’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”
You whimpered, nails clawing at the sheets. “Yours! Yours, Bucky- fuck!”
He growled, hips snapping harder, faster, the bedframe slamming against the wall. “Say it again.”
“Yours!” you whimpered, tears blurring your vision, body clenching down on him. “I’m yours!”
The orgasm tore through you violently, your whole body shaking as you sobbed into the sheets. But Bucky didn’t slow.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me bare,” he groaned, his thrusts sloppy now, desperate, unrelenting. “You feel too good...fuck! I can’t stop-”
You cried out as he overstimulated you, your body already wrecked, legs trembling uncontrollably. “Bucky...too much-”
“Uh-uh,” he growled, pressing your face into the mattress, fucking into you harder, raw and relentless. “You did this. You took it off. You wanted me like this, now you take it.”
You moaned again, another orgasm ripping through you, your vision sparking white. He groaned loud, ragged, and with a brutal slam of his hips, he spilled inside you, hot and thick, grinding it deeper with each desperate thrust.
He collapsed over you, sweaty, panting, his cock still twitching inside your raw, messy heat. For long moments, he just stayed there, holding you down, his weight crushing you into the mattress.
Finally, he rolled you onto your side, still buried in you, dragging you against his chest. His lips brushed your temple, his voice hoarse. “You drive me insane,” he whispered, pressing messy kisses along your cheek. “Taking it off like that… you’re gonna fucking kill me, doll.”
You smirked weakly, still trembling, body wrecked. “Worth it.”
He groaned, hugging you tighter, his cock still hard inside you, already twitching for more. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice wrecked, “worth it. But you’re not sleeping yet.”
cw: smut (mdni, 18+), touch starved!bucky, needy/subby!bucky, begging, whimpering, pathetic man <3, handjob (m), orgasm denial(ish), overstimulation, p in v, creampie, hair pulling, drug usage (weed)
wc: 1.7k
a/n: i’m so in love with ethel’s new album, if anyone has listened to it, please talk to me about it!!!!
now playing: Dust Bowl – Ethel Cain
Red rimmed eyes, tent in his jeans and lips slightly parted, like words were already forming on his tongue – that’s how Bucky looked at you.
Your brain was buzzing with the aftereffects of the half-smoked joint, embers still glowing as it rested on one of your jewelry dishes. With fascination you watched as the smoke curled up into the air, like little claws reaching out to the sky.
Fabric rustled as Bucky shifted on your bed. His bleary eyes didn’t leave you as he adjusted, one hand twitching on his thigh, right next to his hard on.
Your limbs felt heavy as you turned to face him, a dozy smile on your lips.
“Hi,” you drawled, slowly easing off of your chair to walk to him.
His chest rose quicker, fingers itching to reach out.
“Hi,” he rasped, fiddling with the soft material of your comforter.
Your eyes dropped to the hard outline in his jeans and a small smirk grew on your face.
“You know, most guys’ libido goes down as they get high,” you teased softly, sitting down next to him on the bed.
Bucky groaned softly as your thigh brushed against his, the muscles twitching under his jeans.
“Not for me,” he murmured, gaze downcast.
“Want me to help you out?” You asked, two fingers travelling over the blanket, then stopped just shy of his leg.
He met your eyes and you saw his lower lip trembling.
“Please,” he breathed out.
“How about,” you began and played with the waistband of his jeans, “We take these off, hm?”
His hips jerked upwards, your palm flattening against his crotch and he whined softly.
“Sounds… sounds like a plan,” he muttered, fingers coming up to undo his zipper.
You tsked softly and swatted him away, then gently eased off his pants. He eagerly raised his hips to help you.
“You just lean back, and lemme take care of you, yeah?” You whispered, dropping his jeans to the floor.
The bulge was obscener when the only fabric covering him was his underwear. You slowly ran your hand over the cloth, feeling the heat simmer beneath it.
“Fuck, don’t…. don’t tease, please,” he murmured feverishly.
“’m not teasing,” you replied softly, letting your fingers dip into his boxers. His cock was hot and heavy as you wrapped your fingers around him, feeling every vein and the slight curve upwards.
Bucky’s head tipped back against your headboard, a quiet grumble bubbling from his chest.
“Shit, baby, don’t stop,” he whimpered, actually whimpered.
You felt his velvety skin, wet and hot with precum, and slowly stroked up and down. His breath hitched as he bucked his hips into your grip, eyes closed and lips slightly agape.
Warm spasms pulsed against your hand as you worked him, twisting your wrist a little whenever you reached his tip. He shuddered as you dragged the pad of your thumb over his slit, collecting his glistening drops.
“Doll,” he moaned, his own fingers twitching in the sheets, fisting the cloth like he needed to hold onto something.
“Please, I… I need to… I can’t…,” he rumbled, short gasps filling the gaps between his words.
“You’ll hold it, okay? Just a little.”
Your instruction was gentle but firm, just like your grip on him. His cock grew even harder if that was possible, pulsating with need as he focused on holding back his release.
“I… god, baby, I don’t know if… if I can… you feel so good,” he whimpered, cheeks flushing.
“You’re a big boy, Barnes,” you reminded him, “You can do it. Just hold it.”
Desperation swam in his eyes, genuine tears collecting on his waterline as he panted, pressing his back into the mattress like he was trying to escape you.
You continued to clench his cock, giving him teasing little squeezes, slowing down and speeding up, then stopping every few seconds. His breathing grew quicker and a tear escaped his eye, rolling down his cheek.
“Please,” he begged, “I can’t… it feels so good but it hurts… please… just lemme… just once.”
He pleaded so prettily, so full of anguish, that you gave him what he needed.
You picked up your pace, tightened your digits around him and moved your hand up and down his length faster.
“Alright, baby, there you go. Cum for me.”
Not a second later, Bucky busted. Hot ropes of cum spilled from his tip, leaking all over your fist and his abdomen, slickening his skin along with his sweat. A deep groan, throaty and wet, tumbled from his mouth as he twitched in your grip. His hand came up to your wrist, holding onto you as you continued to work him through his release.
He came for what felt like an eternity, shiny fluid coating his tummy and running in between the crevices of your hand – still you didn’t let up.
“Baby, stop,” he whined, “I can’t… please… oh fuck,” he whimpered.
“Thought you wanted this,” you mocked him, a small smile playing on your lips.
“All done,” he pleaded, “I can’t…”
His hand tightened on your wrist as he sobbed – a mix of pleasure and pain.
You slowed down, then let go and he could somewhat breathe again. His chest still rose and fell rapidly.
A few moments passed during which you allowed him to catch his breath before you started stripping off your own clothes.
For someone who had been so wrecked just seconds ago, he watched you eagerly, hungrily reaching out to let feel every inch of skin bared to him.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than you as he pulled you closer by your hips.
“’m not done with you yet,” you warned him and straddled his lap, your thighs bracketing his.
Bucky glanced up at you, his fingers settling on your waist and nodded.
“Good,” he replied in a raspy voice.
He was hard again, or maybe he had never softened in the first place, either way, you could feel his cock hot and waiting under you as you settled on top of him.
Gently, you placed your hands on his shoulders and caught his eyes.
Bucky tightened his grip on your sides like he was trying to crawl into your skin and blinked up at you. His pupils were dilated, blown with lust.
“Please,” he uttered, “Need to feel you, doll.”
The nod came easily to you, just as easy as it was to reach between you two and line him up with your weeping entrance.
You fought to keep your eyes on him as you slowly sank down, feeling your walls expand and adjust to every inch of him.
Bucky’s breath stuttered harder the further you enveloped him in your heat, knuckled turning white as he surely left marks on your hips.
“You feel like heaven,” he mumbled quietly, his hands sliding down to cup your ass.
His cock split you in two, hot and pulsing in you as you sat on his lap, filled to the brim with him.
The usually neatly trimmed hair at his base curled with moisture and stuck to your folds, dragging across the sensitive skin as you rolled your hips for the first time.
Both of you gasped, melting into each other.
Bucky found his strength while you felt more boneless than ever and he took over, helping you find a rhythm as he guided you up and down around him.
Stars exploded behind your eyes as he hit that one gummy spot in you, the one that was practically shaped in his memory. He angled his hips a little and tilted you to keep battering that area while you threaded your fingers through his hair.
You leaned in to kiss him, gasping into his mouth with every thrust, wet moans spilling from your throat as he suddenly started meeting your movements.
“Jesus, baby, you always make me feel so good,” he groaned huskily, “Fuck… like a damn dream.”
Your lips travelled over his face, from the corner of his mouth to the underside of his jaw, tongue and teeth dragging across the skin there, sucking and pinching uselessly. He would heal within less than five minutes but not only did you enjoy the sensation of it, you were also addicted to the taste of him. Salty like sea water but sweet at the same time.
He whined again and you realized that your hands were still in his hair, holding on tightly, occasionally tugging at the roots.
Just as you were about to apologize – as best as you could while his spongy tip met your cervix again and again – he huffed out a few words.
“Do that again, please.”
He moaned shamelessly as you tightened your grip on his hair, pulling it back so that more of his throat was exposed to your hungry mouth.
“Fuck, baby,” he cursed, “That feels so good. Don’t stop. Need to feel you everywhere.”
Bucky’s pelvis crashed into you, somehow advancing even further into your wetness and you swore you could feel him in your guts, rearranging your insides to his desires.
When his hand additionally found your clit, you cried out in pleasure, rutting against him desperately.
He messily circled the bundle of nerves, fingers slipping through your wetness as he fought to bring you closer to your high all while chasing his own.
Heat tingled in every inch of your body as he slammed into you, sliding in and out of you like it was the only thing he knew how to do.
“Need you to cum, baby,” he begged, “Need you to cum first.”
He applied more pressure to your button, your pants and cries muffled as you pressed your face into the crook of his neck.
“Please, baby.”
Your climax rocked through your body like lightning. Every inch of skin prickled as he continued to thrust into you, his fingers never stopping while he worked you through your high.
With a groan he then buried himself to the hilt in your cunt and spilled into you.
“Fuck…,” he hummed, aftershocks making both of you twitch, “I love you.”
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