Peaches and Cream, Sweeter than Sweet @rumrummonkey - Tumblr Blog

little black dress 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!dom!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, rough sex creampie, possessive!bucky, bathroom sex

summary: you and bucky have always danced the line between desire and something more. but he never made his move, so you showed him exactly what it looked like when john does.

word count: 4.8k

author's note: hii my darlings! i had this fic in mind for a while now, and it took me a few days to finally get to writing it! and, honestly, john's growing on me 🥹 i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! thank you for your support <333 love ya guys and stay safe out there! 💖

The dress was barely a dress at all, if anything it was more suggestion than fabric, clinging to your body like a second skin.

Black silk, paper-thin, and cut like it was designed to destroy restraint. It slipped over your curves without resistance, the kind of fit that made strangers stare and men lose their footing.

The back plunged low, scandalously so—baring the line of your spine, the dip at the small of your back, the parts of you that longed to be touched. The hem itself was short enough to provoke imagination, short enough to turn heads.

You hadn’t even considered a bra, the silhouette just didn’t allow for one, but truthfully, that wasn’t the reason. The absence was part of the appeal, it made you feel unrestrained

The silk whispered across your thighs as you moved, every step practiced and purposeful, it caught the light in just the right places, teased your skin like a lover’s touch.

You could feel how the dress made you watchable, the kind of thing people noticed and couldn’t look away from. Every inch of exposed skin became a silent challenge and every shift of your hips, a calculated dare.

You stood at the mirror, sliding in one earring, then the other, your lips were slicked in a soft, gleaming gloss that caught the light every time your mouth curved.

Yelena’s voice carried through the doorway, amused. “Wow. You trying to kill Bucky?”

You didn’t flinch, just met her eyes in the mirror as she leaned lazily against the frame, one brow arched in mock accusation, a knowing smirk tugging at her mouth.

“Maybe,” you murmured.

“He doesn’t stand a chance.”

You turned slightly, letting the dress shift like a ripple down your thighs, your mouth curving into a knowing smirk. “He’s had chances,” you said, voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “He just never took them.”

Yelena’s grin widened. “Don’t let him off easy. The man’s been blue-balling himself for months.”

She disappeared down the hallway with a lazy wave, leaving only the soft sound of her boots against tile and the muted thrum of your own heartbeat.

The tension between you and Bucky had always lived in that thin space between too much and not enough. Flirting had blurred into something else long ago, something darker, slower, heavier.

It lived in the way his eyes tracked you across a room like you were a threat to him. In the way his touch lingered a second too long when he helped you up off the mats. In the way your breath caught every time he leaned close enough that you could practically feel his restraint.

It had become a game, a slow-burn stalemate of low voices, shared glances, and touches that hovered right at the edge of indecent. He’d press you down during training, thick thighs caging you in, vibranium fingers wrapped firm around your wrist, and the heat between you would spike.

He never moved. Never let himself fall.

And you were tired of pretending not to notice the way his hands tightened when you teased. The way his jaw clenched when your laugh came too close to someone else’s ear. The way he looked at you—like he wanted to devour you, and somehow hated himself for it.

Your heels clicked softly against the concrete as you stepped out of the compound’s elevator, each step deliberate.

Ava was already by the SUV, one hip cocked, gaze flickering between her phone screen and the cluster of the others around her. Bob nodded along absently to the pulse of whatever bass-heavy song Yelena had commandeered for the aux.

Alexei stood beside them, sipping something clear from a paper cup that definitely hadn’t been cleared by protocol, honestly, nothing he had been drinking since the team moved into the compound had been, not that you were complaining though.

But all of them stilled, for just a second, when you walked out into the warm, electric hum of the night.

John let out a low whistle, his gaze unfiltered and unhurried as it raked down the length of you. “If I knew you were wearing that,” he said, voice warm with amusement, “I’d have taken longer to get ready.”

You smiled, slow, confident, a little cruel, and breezed past him with a smirk that felt like the start of trouble. “Too late, Walker.”

As you passed, your fingers brushed Bucky’s. Barely. A whisper of contact, just enough to feel the static crackle between you. It could’ve been dismissed as accidental, if not for the way his fingers twitched, the almost-imperceptible flex, like he was fighting the urge to catch your hand and hold it there.

He was leaned against the SUV’s doorframe, arms folded across his chest. Stil, watchful. The tightly-leashed expression he wore wasn’t new, it was the same one he wore during missions, when the objective was in sight but the timing wasn’t right. Controlled tension, that coil of restraint wrapped tight beneath the surface.

His black tee stretched obscenely across his chest, the sleeves clinging to biceps that seemed to be sculpted from Adonis himself. His jeans were broken-in and low-slung, worn soft in all the right places, he looked lethal, almost unbothered. Except he wasn’t.

His gaze dropped—from your eyes to the slope of your bare back, pausing there before trailing lower. You caught the subtle shift in his jaw, the clench and release that gave him away.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

And you didn’t look back.

Inside the SUV, it was chaos, the kind that came with too many personalities jammed into one vehicle. Alexei and John were already halfway into an argument over the playlist. Both men reached for the center console like it was some kind of atomic bomb they were racing to defuse.

“I pick! You picked last time,” Alexei snapped, clearly offended.

“That was the gym,” John countered, cocky and unbothered. “This is clubbing. Different playlist.”

“It’s still music, идиот (idiot).”

Bob, ever the neutral third party, tried to mediate with a calm voice and a poor sense of timing. Yelena, predictably, told him to stop touching her mirror, and he did, again.

You climbed in last, taking the only seat left, right beside Bucky. It was tight, deliberately so. Your thigh pressed flush against his, the heat of his body seeping into yours through denim and skin, a slow, smoldering current that made your breath hitch.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t lean away. Didn’t lean in, either.

He sat like he’d been poured into the seat and frozen there, every muscle drawn tight beneath his skin, jaw ticking, eyes fixed on the window like it was the only thing keeping him together. His stillness wasn’t calm, it was restraint, sharp-edged and suffocating, the kind that only lasted until something snapped.

You could feel it in the air between you, thick and heavy. You knew that silence, knew what it meant when Bucky went quiet like that.

So you moved instead. Slow. Intentional.

You crossed your legs with a fluid, unhurried motion, letting the silk of your dress slip higher on your thighs. The fabric whispered against your skin, you knew what you looked like, knew how little the dress left to the imagination.

And you knew he was watching. Even if he wouldn’t look directly, you could feel the way his focus narrowed.

The effect was immediate, barely visible, but you saw it.

The twitch in his jaw. The subtle exhale through his nose. The slow, unmistakable flex of his gloved fingers against his thigh, the leather creaking ever so slightly as his knuckles tightened.

You turned your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral vision, your voice dipped low and syrup-sweet.

“Something wrong?”

He didn’t speak at first. Just blinked, once, as if clearing a fog, his throat worked around the words like they tasted dangerous.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said, low, hoarse, like it scraped its way out of him.

Your smile curled, wicked and slow. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep it from spreading too far, too fast, but you were glowing with it. Thriving in the weight of his unraveling.

That wasn’t denial. That was surrender, dressed in defiance.

And you hadn’t even touched him yet.

Tonight was going to be fun.

The bass hit first, low, pulsing and thick enough to feel in your chest. It vibrated up through the soles of your heels as lights strobed across the club in rhythmic flashes, bathing the dance floor in a kaleidoscope of heat and haze.

Everything smelled like sweat, smoke, and sex, bodies pressed too close, perfume clinging to skin, desire hanging thickly in the air.

The boys peeled off toward the back, claiming a booth near the edge of the floor wall, Bucky didn’t even look at you as he passed, didn’t acknowledge the dress, the skin, the sway of your hips. But you felt him clock every inch, felt his gaze dragging behind him like smoke.

Let him look.

You, Ava, and Yelena made a beeline for the bar, heels clicking against sticky tile, hips swaying in easy confidence. The kind of entrance that wasn’t loud, but undeniable. The three of you moved with practiced grace, synced like predators on the hunt.

Ava leaned her elbows on the counter, tipping her head just enough to catch your reflection in the mirrored back wall. Her mouth curved in a smirk, “So… what exactly do you have up your little sleeve tonight?”

You took your time answering, sipping your margarita first, your eyes went wide, mock-innocent, voice featherlight. “Nothing. Just drinks, dancing.”

Yelena snorted—elegant and completely unamused. “Right. And I only wear red lipstick when I’m feeling shy.” Her accent slipped ever so lightly as she raised a brow, tipping her glass at you. “Game on.”

You laughed into your cocktail, the rim cold against your mouth, the liquid burn sliding smooth down your throat. “Come on. I’m overworked and underfucked. Let a girl have her fun.”

Ava raised her glass in mock salute. “Here’s to that.”

Yelena clinked hers against both of yours and deadpanned, “To sins we don’t plan on confessing.”

You grinned behind your glass, letting the moment bloom in your chest, the ache, the buzz, the sharp sparkle of anticipation. The burn of your drink was satisfying, but it was nothing compared to the heat unfurling low in your belly, thick and steady, pulsing with every beat of the music.

This wasn’t about about playing coy or waiting for someone else, him to make the first move. It wasn’t about almosts, and it damn sure wasn’t about patience.

Yelena finished the last sip of her drink with a dramatic sigh, setting her glass down, “alright,” she said, turning toward the dance floor. “Lots of bad decisions on the floor tonight,” the blonde added, gesturing with a tilt of her chin to the sea of bodies moving, looking like they were chasing sin.

Ava grinned and looped her arm through hers. “Pick your poison.”

They disappeared into the crowd, a blur of glitter and limbs, swallowed up by pulsing lights and sweat-slick rhythm, leaving you at the bar with a half-full glass and the slow, deliberate thrum of possibility building beneath your skin. You didn’t follow.

Not yet.

Instead, you leaned against the counter with one elbow, the condensation of your drink trickling down your fingers. You drew slow, idle circles into the damp ring left behind, a flick of your nail here, a swirl there.

The music surged, thick and pulsing, you sipped slow, lips parting just enough to let the burn slide over your tongue.

John walked up beside you like a storm rolling in off the coast, easy grin, crooked charm and amused timing. He moved like he’d known you’d be here, like he was already in on the joke.

Two drinks in hand, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair a little too perfect not to be deliberate. He looked you up and down once—not subtle, not rushed.

“They abandon you already?” he asked, lifting a brow, offering the second drink with a tilt of his wrist.

You smiled, slow, sly, just the curve of your mouth like the lift of a weapon. “Strategically separated.”

He handed you the drink, and your fingers brushed his, just enough skin to spark. His gaze dropped, the way your dress hugged your hips, the bare line of your shoulder. He sure as hell wasn’t trying to hide it, and you didn’t ask him to.

“What’s the angle?”

You met his eyes, calm and unblinking, lashes dipped low. “Wanna help me with something?”

He huffed a soft laugh, low and almost fond. “You’re always up to something, aren’t you?”

You gave a little shrug, sipping slowly. “Mmhm.”

He leaned in a fraction, close enough that you could feel the heat of him—not touching, just there.

You tilted your head, eyes glittering, voice smooth. “I need a little distraction. Something that'll get under his skin.”

You didn’t say jealous, you didn’t need to. It was all over your posture, the way you lingered in the doorway between control and provocation. That got you a full pause. A low whistle through his teeth as he set his own glass down on the bar behind him.

His eyes narrowed. “You trying to get me killed?”

You smiled almost sweetly “Mmm. Maybe.”

John’s gaze dragged over you again, slower this time. Appraising. Heat in every pass. His tongue wet his bottom lip before he spoke again, voice dropping an octave. “You know,” he murmured, “with you looking like that, I don’t think it’ll take much.”

You said nothing. Just held his gaze, then—still watching him—reached down and slid your fingers through his. A small tug. No force.

An invitation.

And he followed, just like you knew he would. Because of course he did.

The bass swallowed you whole the moment your heels touched the floor.

It pulsed through the soles of your feet, climbed up your spine, sank low into your stomach—all rhythm and thudding pressure. Lights slashed through the darkness, catching glances of skin and sweat, painting the crowd in strobe-lit temptation.

The air was thick—muggy with lust and music, electric with the scent of alcohol, perfume, and too many people pressing too close. You could feel the pulse of it against your ribs, in the backs of your knees, deep between your legs. It was visceral, almost alive.

Bodies moved in waves, hands where they shouldn’t be..

You led John into the center of it, into the heat and chaos and everything you’d been simmering with all night. You didn’t ask, you didn’t wait. You turned, pressing your body flush to his, and started to move.

It wasn’t subtle and it wasn’t meant to be.

You rolled your hips into his slowly, deliberately, letting the music guide your rhythm—the kind of movement that left no room for interpretation.

John’s hands found your hips easily, like he’d been waiting for the cue, his fingers tight, almost possessive, but not quite. He moved with you, his body catching the pace of yours, letting the friction build, letting the fantasy settle into reality.

His touch dipped lower, tracing the shape of your waist, down the curve of your hips, then sliding further—over the swell of your ass, where he squeezed once, firm and unbothered.

You arched into him instinctively, feeling him hard against you, and felt the heat of his breath against your neck when he chuckled, voice thick with amusement and something darker.

“Shit,” he murmured near your ear, half-dazed. “You really want him to kill me, huh?”

You didn’t answer.

You just turned in his arms—slow, like silk unrolling, until your back was pressed against his chest. Your ass ground into his crotch with no shame, no pause, no hesitation. You wanted him to feel it. Wanted everyone watching to see it, to see you.

You moved with intent, liquid and hot, your body matching the beat in slow, deliberate waves. Letting the music pulse through your hips. Letting every roll say watch this. Watch her choose someone else.

His hand spread wide across your lower back, holding you there, fingertips pressing just hard enough to feel. The other settled on your waist, fingers splaying low beneath the hem of your dress, riding the curve of your body like he’d earned it.

Your hand slid behind you, fingers skating up the back of his neck, slipping into his hair, tugging him down until his mouth hovered just behind your ear.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Because across the dance floor — through the haze and the lights and the pounding bass — he was watching.

Bucky hadn’t moved.

He was still sitting in the booth, drink untouched, his shoulders stiff, coiled like wire. Elbows braced on his knees, hands loose but twitching, almost as if he was holding something back. Like if he gripped any tighter, the glass in his hand would break.

His jaw was locked, the muscles working hard beneath his skin.

But his eyes—those fucking eyes—they were locked on you.

Cerulean. Burning. Blown wide. He wasn’t blinking, hell he probably wasn’t breathing. He was consuming you with nothing but a stare, tracking every shift of your hips, every breath you took, every inch of your body pressed to someone else’s.

And when your eyes finally met his, it felt like something cracked open between you—a tether stretched so tight it sang with tension.

You smiled.

Coy. Dangerous. Just the corner of your mouth, like you weren’t thinking about him at all when every second of this performance was for him. Like he wasn’t the reason you wore the dress. The fuck-me heels.

Then you turned your head—slow, deliberate—just enough for Bucky to see your lips ghost against John’s cheek.

Your fingers slid from the back of the blonde’s neck to his jaw, tilting his face toward yours with a kind of practiced care.

And you kissed him.

Full, slow and intentional. Lips parted. Breath caught. Not rushed and definitely not for fun.

Not for John. Not even for you.

Just for the man across the club who hadn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you stepped onto the floor.

The man who hadn’t touched you.

You didn’t break the kiss right away.

You let it linger, just long enough for Bucky to watch your lips part against John’s, your fingers curled lightly in the fabric of his shirt. Just long enough for him to feel the choice in it.

The defiance. The line being drawn in real time.

You weren’t playing anymore. You were showing him what it looked like when you stopped waiting.

He was already watching, and he hadn’t looked away once.

And across the club, where the music drowned everything but the pulse in his jaw, Bucky sat like a man seconds from detonation.

Yelena leaned in, loud and unapologetic. “Your girl’s with Walker now, huh?” she said, nudging him with the sharp edge of her elbow, eyes tracking the slow, obscene way your bodies moved.

That did it.

The brunette stood, fast and sharp, like a wire finally snapping and shoved past Alexei without a word, shouldered Bob hard enough to make his drink spill.

And he came for you.

Bucky didn’t care. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t speak.

His boots pounded against the floor, direct, unrelenting, cutting a path through the crowd like he was built for one purpose only: you.

People moved before he touched them. Stepped aside like they could feel it coming off him—the possessive edge carved into every clenched muscle.

You didn’t see him until it was too late.

Until his hand wrapped around your wrist. His touch—firm, hot and unmistakable.

Your body jerked back instinctively, caught off guard by the sudden contact. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was tight. Claiming. As if letting go wasn’t even an option.

Your head snapped around, startled, mouth parted. “What the fuck are you—?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t look at John, didn’t acknowledge the beat still hammering around you.

He just dragged you.

One hard tug and you stumbled into him, your heel skidding against the floor, the front of your dress catching against his jeans for half a second before you found your footing again.

John called something behind you, your name, maybe, or just a startled, amused curse but it was swallowed by the music and the crowd.

Bucky didn’t stop. He pulled you through the writhing bodies like they weren’t there, cutting a clean line across the chaos. His grip on your wrist never loosened, not once and you didn’t resist.

Not really.

Not when your skin was flushed, your breath caught somewhere between panic and arousal, and your pulse was thrumming like a war drum in your throat.

He turned down a narrow hallway, cool and dim and lined with flickering wall sconces, and barely slowed before slamming his boot into a door. It flew open with a sharp, echoing crack, and then—

You were inside.

The door slammed shut behind you with a force that made the wall shudder, and then his hands were on you. Everywhere. Hard palms on your waist, his body pressing into yours, his mouth already devouring.

He pinned you against the door with the full weight of his body, all chest and heat and barely leashed violence. His mouth crashed into yours like a punishment, and it was filthy. Hot breath. Tongue. Teeth dragging across your bottom lip until you gasped. He kissed like he wanted to bruise, like he needed to stake a claim from the inside out.

One hand fisted into your hair and yanked your head back hard enough to make you moan; the other gripped your thigh, shoving it up around his waist as he ground his cock into you through his jeans—thick, hot, already hard.

“You think I didn’t see what you were doing?” he growled into your mouth, voice ragged and ruined. “Grinding on Walker like that? Kissing him like you wanted me to fucking lose it?”

You couldn’t answer, too breathless, too far gone, and maybe that was the point. He didn’t want words. He wanted surrender.

He spun you hard—chest to the door one second, then bent over the sink the next. The mirror caught your wide eyes, your flushed cheeks, your mouth already parted in anticipation as he shoved your hips forward and flattened his hand between your shoulder blades.

You barely had time to breathe.

His hand yanked your dress up in one swift, brutal motion, baring you to the air.

No panties.

Just slick, swollen heat between your thighs.

The gasp that tore from your mouth wasn’t just shock—it was want. Need. Desperation.

He froze for half a beat.

Then, “Fucking knew it.”

The sound of his voice—shredded, possessive, starving made you clench around nothing. Your knees almost buckled, but he caught you, of course he did. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other slid down, fingers slipping between your thighs without hesitation.

He groaned. Deep. Raw. “You’re soaking.”

He didn’t ease in, didn’t test the waters. He shoved two fingers inside you, knuckles deep, while his thumb circled your clit with tight, filthy pressure.

You jerked against the counter, legs straining, hips rocking helplessly into his hand.

“Filthy little tease,” he hissed against your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. “You walk around with this dripping cunt and expect me to stay quiet?”

You whimpered something—his name, or maybe please—but it didn’t matter. He was already undoing his belt with one hand, jeans shoved down just enough, cock springing free, heavy and thick and leaking. He lined up behind you, ran the tip through your folds, groaning when he felt how wet you were.

Then he slammed into you.

One brutal thrust, all the way to the hilt.

You cry out, not from pain, but from shock. From the stretch, from the sheer depth of him. He was thick, perfectly shaped to ruin you, and he didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled out halfway and slammed back in harder.

Again. And again. And again.

Your hands clawed at the counter, your thighs trembled. You were already splintering.

He fucked you like he didn’t care who heard. Flesh slapping against flesh, deep and punishing. He didn’t hold back. Didn’t slow down. He knew exactly what he was doing—grinding his hips into your ass, hitting the spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes with every stroke.

One hand fisted in your hair again, wrenching your head back so he could watch your expression in the mirror. The other found your clit and didn’t let up.

“Say it,” he panted, fucking you harder. “Say you’re mine.”

“Bucky—”

Another thrust. Vicious.

“Say it.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours,” you sobbed, eyes glassy.

“Damn right you are.”

Your orgasm hit like an explosion—a scream dragged from deep in your chest, your body locking up around him, pulsing, shaking. Your legs gave out and he held you up, fingers digging into your hips as he fucked you through it, chasing his own release.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow. Didn’t let you breathe.

“That’s it, princess,” he groaned. “Give me another one. Come on. You can take it.”

You were drenched. Shaking. Fucked-out and trembling. Your body tried to fight it, twitching and jolting with every thrust, but his hand on your clit kept moving—tight circles, never breaking rhythm.

You came again with a broken scream—your second orgasm ripping through you, thighs trembling violently as your body begged for mercy. Your cunt spasmed around his cock, pulsing so tight it dragged a strangled sound from his throat.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He slammed into you one last time, deep and final, his hips jerking hard against your ass as he came with a growl—a raw, filthy sound buried in the curve of your neck as he spilled inside you, thick and hot, his cock pulsing with every wave.

He didn’t move for a moment, just held you, breathing ragged, his hand still gripping your hip like he thought you might vanish.

Eventually, he pulled out—slow, careful, your body still fluttering from aftershocks, his cum slick and warm as it slid down your inner thighs. You swayed a little, overstimulated and trembling, and he caught you instantly.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel. His hands steadied your hips. “I’ve got you.”

You let him turn you gently toward him, your heart still galloping in your chest, legs jelly-soft. His fingers were shaking as they fixed your dress—tugging the fabric down over your hips, smoothing it over your thighs like it mattered now.

You looked up at him, lips kiss-bruised, eyes dazed, makeup smudged.

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. He didn’t speak for a moment—just stared at you, pupils still blown wide, jaw still tight, like he was trying to figure out how the hell he let it get that far.

“Tell me,” he rasped, “did it work?”

You blinked, throat still too dry to laugh properly. “You mean the jealousy plan?”

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “You trying to drive me fucking insane?”

You tilted your head, kissed his thumb. “Just needed a reaction.”

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours. “You want a reaction, princess” His voice dropped to something low and lethal. “Next time, you ask. I’ll give you everything.”

You swallowed, heat sparking in your belly again despite everything. “That a promise?”

He kissed you—softer this time. Still deep, claiming.

“Yeah,” he whispered against your lips. “You can bet on it”

Finally, you opened the bathroom door.

And stopped short.

A paper sign, written in black sharpie and taped crookedly across the door, flapped in the hallway breeze:

OUT OF ORDER — DO NOT ENTER

Laughter exploded a few feet away at the booth.

Yelena and Bob were doubled over, howling. Ava leaned against the wall like she’d been waiting. John stood smugly sipping his drink, clearly proud of himself. And Alexei, hands in his pockets, gave Bucky a once-over and shook his head with faux disappointment.

“Was it worth it, Barnes?!” Yelena hollered, absolutely delighted.

Alexei sighed. “I owe Walker twenty bucks. Told him he’d snap before midnight.”

You groaned, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder as he groaned under his breath.

“Oh my god.”

You laughed into his chest, muffled. “Told you I’d get your attention.”

He slid his arm around your waist again, pulling you in tight.

“You’ve got all of it now,” he muttered. “Hope you know what the fuck to do with it.”

And you did. You just grinned.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed this fic! if you did, please consider dropping a comment or even a reblog 💌 it keeps me motivated! thank you my loves