I think game designer Bucky and game tester Reader should not only test the games, but also the new gaming chair Bucky's got... 😏
Eva, my dear, you dropped this idea my way 13 months ago, and it took a while for my muse to finally figure out how to serve this up, but I'm finally here to deliver.
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Characters/Pairings: Game Designer!Bucky x Female!Reader Word Count: 2.4k Summary: Situationship. Yes. There was something happening between you and Bucky. His acquisition of a new gaming chair seemed like the perfect reason to invite you over to his place for the first time... PART OF A SERIES BUT THEORETICALLY COULD BE READ AS A STAND-ALONE
Content/Concept Warnings: gamer AU; explicit smut (vaginal fingering, oral - female receiving, a little biting, orgasm denial); beefy Bucky who is kinda cocky, kinda soft, but a definitely a menace
Notes: The WEEK TWO offering for @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer 2025! Serving up the "Did I give you permission?" dialogue prompt and orgasm denial.
previous part: Test Play | Series List
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You showed up to Bucky Barnes’ place for the very first time with a pack of energy drinks and a bag of sour gummy strawberries, both ridiculously nervous and yet somewhat calm. He opened the door in an impossibly tight t-shirt and sweats that are slung low on his hips. He stared at the gummies for a moment with a kind of offended reverence, then at you, and wordlessly stepped aside to let you in.
It was nearing the end of summer, but the inside of his apartment was cold enough to keep produce fresh. You wound your hoodie tighter around your waist, a reflexive urge to retain heat and maybe, if you were being honest, set up an opportunity for him to put his hands on you later.
“I got the chair set up in the living room,” Bucky said, gesturing vaguely, though his face radiated a kind of single-minded pride.
The new chair was the excuse to invite you over in this new thing developing between you two.
You looked around to see the gaming setup: two monitors, a stack of unopened peripherals, a rug with a hexagonal pattern that looks both overpriced and necessary, and the new chair glowering in the middle of it all. You whistle, low and sincere.
“Did you assemble it yourself?” you asked, dropping your bag by the arm of the couch.
Bucky nodded. “Instructions were ass. Had to use a torque wrench and also, for some reason, a knitting needle.”
“I can’t believe you ordered this,” you said, standing in the middle of his exceedingly tidy living room and gazing at the monstrous, throne-like rig now squatting in the corner by the window. “Isn’t this just for, like, competitive streamers?”
He shrugged, a little sheepish despite the way his arms bulged against the sleeves of his t-shirt. “I had a coupon code.”
You snorted. “A coupon code? I know how much these cost.”
He didn’t answer, only grinned.
You looked back at the chair. “Honestly, this is a throne, Barnes. Am I supposed to kneel, or do you want me to sit on your lap?”
He barked a laugh, but his face also flushed a bright red, which made you squirm and bight back a giggle. “Right to the quick and dirty with you then, huh?” he huffed.
You sidled up to the rig and ran a hand over the buttery armrest. "It's just… intimidating. A little intimidating, is all." But the look you gave him was anything but cowed: challenge, flirt, and a wink. “But you know I like a bit of that.”
He stepped closer, and you could feel the tension between you, coiled and humming. A summer ago you’d have fizzed and fizzled away, but he’d made it clear he was interested in you. With the new context, the heat between you was alive and kinetic. You turned the chair a quarter turn and dropped into it with a small bounce, swinging your legs up and crossing them, spinning slowly to face him as he prowled closer with your offerings.
He took an energy drink from the pack, cracked the tab, and took a slow, deliberate pull, eyes never leaving yours. When he handed it to you, his thumb lingered on your fingers a half-second longer than absolutely necessary, and you both noticed.
Heat. That, and the chill, was all you could feel—like your body was ice and your blood was infused with caffeine, and you weren’t sure you cared which sensation would win the day. You took the drink from him and matched his stare, then took a deep, throaty gulp, neat as a dare. He watched your throat bob, and you watched his eyes darken in the process.
"Want to do a test run?" he said, voice a little hoarse.
You gestured at the rig, then at your own dumb self. "Am I being beta tested or testing your set up?"
"You're the only one I want touching the hardware," he said. He moved behind the chair to tweak the lumbar support, and his hands bracketed you for a moment, near enough that you could smell the clean musk of his deodorant and something sharp, synthetic, like ozone. You tried not to shiver.
You hovered the mouse in digital menus for a while, glancing up at him as he fiddled with the monitor tilt to angle it to your height.
When his hand brushed your shoulder, you bit the inside of your cheek, stubborn about maintaining composure. He was so very close. It was almost cartoonish, how much he dwarfed the chair—how much space he seemed to take up, even as he hovered behind you.
You toggled the settings up and down, but your focus was split—one half on the clicks, the other half on the lazy, weighted way his fingers traced the edge of the desk before finally, gently, pressing a gummy into your palm. You snorted a laugh, accepted the offering, and chewed it slowly, the sour sugar kindling microexplosions on your tongue.
“You always this pushy?” you asked, through the bits of candy.
He spun the chair a half-turn, and you swung with it; suddenly you were between his knees, his hands still on the chair, knuckles whitening, body close enough you could see how uneven his breathing had gotten. He was on the edge of something, but you couldn’t tell if it was restraint or anticipation or just the general frazzle of having you here, in his space.
“I’m not pushy,” he said, voice dropping a register. “I just know what I want.”
“Which is?”
“You,” he said, and it landed, heavy and real, like a gauntlet thrown onto the desk.
You watched the line of his jaw, the quiver in his throat, the way his knee bounced faintly as he tried not to betray himself further. It was easy to be arch, easy to be glib, but this feeling—this weird, hovering intimacy—made you want to be honest, or at least a little less armored.
“I want you, too,” you said.
He exhaled. Some fractional tension left his body, but the rest of him stayed coiled, ready, a held breath of a man.
"Show me," you said, soft but certain, and Bucky moved like something in him had snapped. He dropped to his knees, the chair pinched between his spread thighs, and his big hands slid up your calves, thumbs pressing in circles through the fabric of your leggings. He looked at you with an intensity that bordered on worship and then he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your leggings and peeled them down to your ankles.
The chill of the apartment hit you, but then so did the searing heat of his breath through the cotton of your underwear, and then the wet, rough press of his tongue as he mouthed you over the thin fabric. You squirmed, powerless not to, as he mouthed you again, harder this time, and then with a quick, almost ruthless rip, he had your underwear balled in his fist and your cunt bare, already dripping for him. He groaned, low and husky, the vibration shivering through your pelvis as he licked a stripe from the base of you all the way up, then circled your clit with the flat of his tongue until you gasped.
You tipped your head back and let the ceiling blur in your vision, the whole apartment a fog around the too-real focus of his mouth on you. The chair creaked under your grip as he sucked your clit between his lips, slow and thorough, each movement measured to draw out as much sound from you as possible. He buried his face deeper, nosed along your folds, tongue fucking into you with a sweetness matched only by the wanton sloppiness of it—like eating you was an assignment, a pleasure, a calling.
"Bucky," you choked out, and your hands found his hair, the soft pull just making him moan. He tipped his face up, mouth gleaming, eyes black with want, and leaned in again, licking you open before plunging his tongue deep into you and groaning like a man starved. The vibrato of it dragged a startled yelp from your throat that dissolved into shivering laughter, pleasure ricocheting up and down your spine.
You bucked your hips against him, not out of strategy, but because something in you wanted him impossible-close. He was ready for it—one of his hands shifted up, palm flattening against your belly, holding you exactly where he wanted you. He licked you again, long and thorough, then flicked his tongue over your clit until your thighs shook and your eyes blurred.
You let out a noise you’ve never made, high and ragged, and you barely registered when he pressed two fingers inside. He curled them up, pressed them right against where you needed, and pumped in lazy, devastating rhythm and you thought you might actually come apart on this very expensive chair, melt into the synthetic mesh and memory foam and leave a mark that would never quite come out.
You tried to be mindful of the world beyond the two of you, but the rest of the apartment faded into static, overwritten by the wet drag of his tongue and the rhythmic pressure of his fingers as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.
"Fuck—Bucky, I'm—" you managed, andhe stopped. Abrupt, like a door slamming behind you in a dark hallway. He pulled back, hands braced on your knees, eyes hot and unsparing as he caught your wild, desperate stare. You were right there, flailing in the slipstream, and the sudden absence of him was so sharp, so mean, you made a wordless, strangled noise.
He licked his lips. “Did I give you permission?” he said, which was a new configuration of Bucky Barnes, and a terrifyingly effective one at that.
You panted, air thick in your throat, and managed a shaky, “That’s not fair.”
He smirked—wolfish and soft all at once. “Never said it would be.”
You gaped, mind sputtering, a strangled whine caught in your chest. He arched an eyebrow, his grip tightening just barely, just enough to be felt as a promise.
“I—” you started, but there was no good answer in you, not with the way he was still kneeling at your feet, thighs splayed, cock straining beneath the thin cotton of his sweats, tongue glistening with evidence of your complete undoing.
You gripped the arms of the throne, knuckles white and trembling, and glared at him. “You’re a goddamn bastard,” you managed, but it sounded more like a plea than an accusation, and he grinned as if you’d handed him the highest compliment.
“Say it again,” he murmured, rising just enough to flatten his palms against your thighs and push them wider, stretching you open under his gaze. “Say it like you mean it.”
“You. Are. A. Bastard.” The words came out in staccato, punctuated by the slow push of his fingers, finding your pulse point inside and curling up. You moaned, the sound guttural. He moved with impossible control, his face soft with worship even as his hands worked precision chaos between your legs, returning you to the edge and holding you there.
You flattened a palm to his scalp, not because you needed leverage but because you needed to anchor yourself, stake some symbolic claim on this moment so you didn’t simply burst into flames and cinders. The heat between your thighs was a different kind of fire, stoked with each lazy, wicked pass of his tongue, the way he sighed into you, the way he watched your every twitch and quiver like it all belonged to him.
You said it again, softer this time, nearly a gasp. “Bastard.”
He smiled against you, the curve of his mouth obscene and perfect, then he pressed inward and set a brutal, indulgent rhythm with his tongue and fingers both. He wanted you to break, and you wanted to let him. The chair rocked under you with your gathering tremors, and he pressed your hips down, not letting you back away from the rush of sensation. You whimpered, then pleaded, but Bucky kept you right there, eyes fixed on your face as you.
“Please.” You heard yourself say it. Nothing else. No elaboration, just the honest edges of the word.
Bucky slowed, then stopped, withdrawing his fingers with deliberate, excruciating slowness. The ache in your cunt was so intense it bordered on grief. You reached for him blindly, but he caught your wrist, holding it in the air between you, his thumb pressed just enough to be present at your pulse.
"You don't get to finish yet," he said, voice low and purposefully cruel. "You hate when a game is too easy. You’ve said so yourself."
Your breath stuttered, a high, keening sound escaping your chest. You blinked at him, not sure if you wanted to cry or hit him or both. “But… this isn’t a game though.”
“No,” he affirmed, his tone more serious, recognizing you checking in with him in the moment. “It’s absolutely not a game.”
Your heart warmed and relaxed, and you both smiled at each other.
But then a moment later Bucky was back in it. He rose up, looming over you with the intensity of a thunderhead, and a thrill ran through you. He hooked his thumb under your jaw, tilting your face up to his. “Open your mouth,” he said.
You did, breathless, trusting. He leaned in and pressed two gummy strawberries to your tongue, sour sugar dusting your lips, and then he followed with his own mouth, tongue licking up the flavor before it could dissolve. You tasted yourself, the candy, his breath—clean and a little wild. When he bit your lip, gentle but hungry, you made a noise you didn’t recognize as your own.
“Barnes,” you hissed, gummy half-melted and sticking to your cheek. “Are you trying to kill me?”
He drew back just enough to see your smile. “Not kill. Ruin. There’s a difference.”
catching up with these two again a week later: RACING
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