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gagmebucky · 2 years

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you know the drill.. unedited and all that

“Oh, you look like an angel but you aren’t acting like one,” he says with a laugh and a growl. “You left me on my birthday to lock yourself in my bathroom and fuck your fingers so I don’t want to hear anything except those sexy moans and your wet cunt doing just that. You get me?”

in which your best friend walks in on you masturbating and decides to lend a hand. (includes best friends to lovers, dirty talk, masturbation, voyeurism and exhibitionism, reader receiving oral, mild overstimulation.)

—

Sometimes it just gets to be too much.

The purr of your name, his filthy drawl of each letter—his big hands casually squeezing your hips, pulling you to and fro—when he presses into your back and coils around you like a lion laying claim—dark blue depths always pinning your visage in perverse approval—sinful lips twisting on the cue of his silver tongue, at the expense of your poor libido, on the intention of terrorizing your sensitivity.

That man, your best fucking friend, is the devil behind thick dark waves of hair, a sharp jawline and broad physique; facial features a masculine cut like a juxtaposed angel. He’s always in your ear, whispering something caustic and obscene; shrugging it off like innocence with a pretty smile. But you feel it, spiking your temperature degree by degree.

Today being his birthday, you’d think—you did think—he’d be caught up in the celebration. His apartment is a lavish slosh of liquor and music, friends and tag-alongs snagging his attention left and right. You expected as much, braced yourself to remain in the background.

Which is difficult already, because you’re, well, a glutton and developed this voracious need to soak up all of his attention. And you’re reining that in, but he’s intent on driving you insane.

Every time you’re on the cusp of cooling down from his previous encounter, he’s popping up to further ruin your panties and leave you aching in his wake. It’s impressive, really: his timing and effectiveness, the way it’s almost effortless.

The worst part about it? You like it.

The lovesick, masochistic side of you thrives on the sticky cling of your gusset, and the need that thrums between your legs. But you haven’t masturbated recently, and this attack (as it can only be categorized as such) on your overly responsive sex drive is really getting to you.

You can’t stop squirming, subtly rubbing your thighs together like it’ll help, but it’s only making it worse. The ache just thrums and thrums, and no matter how many times you berate yourself, it won’t bat down. You feel like a teenager unable to control their hormones.

It’s going to become unbearable. That’s a guarantee where he’s concerned. You’re slowly succumbing to the fate that if you don’t receive some sort of relief, you’ll have a full-on meltdown. Dramatic, yes, but God, you need an orgasm.

It wouldn’t take long, either. No one would notice, you bet, if you slipped out. Your sensitivity has reached a hair-trigger, and given a minute or so alone, the blaze of your inner heath would be quelled.

Taking a sly survey of your surroundings, all of your friends and others are preoccupied. You managed to slip out of a conversation on an excuse to get a drink. Your hand is enclosed around a beer bottle, but the cold condensation does not help with your fever like you hoped.

You don’t bother drinking and set it down, knowing alcohol will worsen your problem, loosen your inhibitions and take you to a whole other wanton level. Fine! You’ve gotta do this. After a committed gander, you whirl around and march toward the privacy of the bathroom.

Or you intend to since your body immediately collides with a wall instead. And, by wall, you mean the hard panels of your best friend’s chest, warmth radiating through a black t-shirt, spring fresh soap and his cologne swarming your senses. Contact alone sends a jolt through your nerves.

You instinctively jerk, and his arms snaking around your waist yank you right back. A breath catches in your throat as your front molds to his, and he swiftly swings you into an one-eighty. Your hands splay against his pectorals, and you blink up at him, unnecessarily winded and unfocused, trying your earnest not to writhe into his embrace.

“Now where do you think you’re goin’?” He cocks a brow. “You disappeared and have been over here by your lonesome, lookin’ all suspicious. Cute as always, but suspicious.” His head tilts and runs his gaze over you carefully. “What are you up to, gorgeous, and why haven’t you included me?”

His sensory awareness is inhuman. It’s unfair, and you want to gawk at the uncanniness but you should be used to it by now.

“I—uhm…” You can’t exactly tell him you’re sneaking off to masturbate, and you wrack your brain for an alternative explanation. “I’m just gonna… gonna check on my makeup! It’s been awhile since my last touch up, so I figure it’s about time. I know I look like a mess right now.”

He laughs. “Oh, let me save you the trip. You’re still lookin’ every bit of a sexy angel. No touch up necessary.” His hands slide down and squeeze your ass with one, and slaps it with the other, making you yelp and him grin. “Got the ass of one, too.”

“Ow!” You have an excuse to extract yourself from his embrace, and thank God because the sting goes straight to your clit. You shoot him a glare and rub the offended area, ignoring an urge to ask him to do it again, bastardizing the knowledge that he would be more than happy to. “That hurt!”

He rolls his eyes. “It did not, you crybaby.” One arm loops around your waist, scooping you flush once again, and he’s edging toward your behind. “You better get used to it. I still have a lotta birthday licks left.”

Your jaw drops. “It’s your birthday! You’re the one who’s supposed to get birthday licks.”

“So you wanna lick me?” His sly smile does flip flops in your belly. He drops his head, and his voice is a purr in your ear: “What a coincidence. I wanna lick you, too.”

You shiver, teeth puncturing your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The metallic taste of crimson is worth preventing a moan from spilling out. Okay, this is fucking torture. You subconsciously lean into him before snapping back to reality and just about jump out of your skin.

“A - and wash my hands!” you hastily add onto your earlier answer. “I - I was gonna touch up my makeup and wash my hands.”

The suddenness surprises him. His baby blues blink at you, then there goes that inquisitive furrow of his brow. “Didn’t you already?”

Yes, you did. In fact, the scented lotion you used afterwards is still fresh on your skin.

“Um, yeah. But they’re bringing your cake out soon,” you say, slowly circling around inch-by-inch and backpedaling away, trying to look as relaxed as you don’t feel. “And thought I might as well before they do.”

“Huh.” He looks like he has to consider your words but can’t find anything odd. It makes sense, even in your awkward delivery, and maybe you can relax. “But you do know the kitchen’s back there.” He nods the entryway you passed.

“Oh, right,” you say quite intelligently, following his line of sight. “Well, they’re preparing the cake, and I - I didn't want to get in the way.” It rolls off your tongue casually—believably. “So I figured I’d just use the sink in the bathroom.”

“Oh, okay.” The answer satisfies his third-degree, and you suppress a sigh of relief. “Why don’t you use the one in my bedroom? I think someone’s in the one in the other.”

“Perfect! Thanks.” You flash a smile, and he seems to let you escape. Then the faintest glint of suspicion suddenly flits across his face as he observes your winded breaths and the way you stumble off. Best not to give him another chance to interrogate you further. “I’ll be right back!”

Then you turn, righting your movements in the process, and head for the hallway. It’s a straight shot past the guest bathroom and a turn of a corner to his bedroom. Luckily, in the packed space of his spacious apartment, that area is sectioned off.

With excuse me’s and halfhearted hey’s, you wade through the herd and cross wood floors with quickened strides. You nearly trip on your heels, four-inch high mimic of gladiator sandals, laced up your calves, but you think you play it off well. Okay, probably not, but you make it out of sight seeming normal enough.

His bedroom is substantially quieter and cooler. That breeze does help with your heated skin, but the environment is inherently him so it cancels each other out. Closing that door, you’re already unzipping the cinch of your skirt and clamoring to the luxurious partition of his bathroom.

It’s gorgeous inside. You’ve told him that a million times, and you’ve been here a million times but seriously—a wide granite countertop and waterfall faucet, walk-in shower and claw foot tub, you can’t get over it. He keeps it immaculate so you have no issue with letting your skirt halo to the gleaming tile ground.

Unsurprisingly, your panties are ruined. The material clings like a second skin, sodden through and smeared on your inner thighs. It’s obscene, and you’d demand he pay for your dry cleaning, if he wasn’t already doing the majority of your laundry.

You waste no time wriggling them down your hips, looping around the bend of your knees as you hop onto the counter and spread your legs. There’s an audible moan when your hand delves between your center, slick coating your fingers soft. A full bodied shudder slips down your spine, and your head falls back, jostling the mirror in the process.

Oh, this is fucking good.

You find the angle and seize it in slippery circles. Even with your sloppy movements, everything falls aligned, and you’re seeing stars; not yet imploding but well on its way. The build-up on your own is never this quick. You wish you could experience it under ideal circumstances, draw it out, but a part of you thinks that’s what makes it so good.

You know you shouldn’t be masturbating in your best friend’s bathroom, that it’s wrong, and you can get caught at any minute, but it’s those very illicit factors that run your libido wild, unearthing moans you mean to suppress.

You compensate by shoving your shirt above your tits and biting down on the hemline. It’s one of those bustier camisoles so you didn’t bother with a bra. The air invokes a shiver, and you shiver again when your palm caresses a tit and rolls a hard peak between your fingers.

The orgasm approaches like a roar, knocking in rapid succession, louder and louder than the last. It’s a hum, a vibration inside your head, reaching your ears all husky-like. Being in his bathroom, the lingering scent of his aftershave, and his interactions invoking your overall state, you swear you hear his voice.

“O - oh.” Your moan is a whisper, falling above the wet squelch of your fingers by a decibel, and your toes curl on the precipice of hot-blooded relief. “Fuck, yes—”

Before the train plunges off the track into bliss, you realize that the knocking is not metaphorical and his voice isn’t simply an echo inside your head; but rather knuckles on the door and him repeatedly asking if you were okay on the other side.

“Okay, I’m coming in,” your best friend is saying before you fully process the past minute, aside from what was going to be a mindblowing orgasm. The knob twists (since, you know, you were too busy with your sex to lock it). “You got me worried, and I couldn’t hear what you were…”

The door opens fully, and his eyes widen as your compromised state centers to view. Your brain short circuits at the shock rippling underneath your skin, freezing you in place as if doused in ice water and undercutting the instinct to shutter, which unintentionally awards him a nice eyeful.

You, perched on his sink counter, debauched and exposed, face sheened lightly in doe-eyed desperation. The hem of your white camisole ruffles above your braless tits, palming one of the hardened peaks. Your other hand is wedged between your spread thighs, pressing into your center with your underwear bunched below your knees.

It’s a long moment, it feels like with his gaze running over every detail, before the shock snaps into mortification, and sense kicks in.

The shirt drops from your teeth, and your legs clamp around your wrist in a poor effort to cover yourself. All the blood drains from your face as you try to think of some excuse, some recourse, or anything to make this be anything other than it is.

“I - I can explain—” you start shakily, but the expression on his face shuts you up.

His jaw clenches, and those friendly moonstone orbs narrow into dark slits, looking more severe than you’ve ever seen. He steps in and shuts the door behind him. Unlike you, he makes sure to latch the lock before stalking forward, and like a skittish cat, you watch his every move.

He comes to a still in front of you. His hands grab each thigh and pries them open, to your gasp of surprise. “Keep going.” It’s an order, but he doesn’t give you a moment to obey, or even a second to recover from the shock, before dropping to his knees and pulling yours wider.

Your hands fly to either side of the counter to stabilize yourself, unintentionally but consequently revealing your most intimate part to his equally prying eyes. Naturally, you try to shut your legs, but his hands have wrapped around your calves. The only way to compensate is to shove a shielding palm between your thighs, a hitched sound expelling through your teeth, literally sensitive to the touch.

He shoots you a look but allows the action. His interest falls to your underwear still strained around your knees, and he tugs them down your legs. Your embarrassment burns hot in your cheeks as he examines the wetness heavying the fabric; his thumb drags across the gusset, your essence coating him in an obscene trail of stickiness.

There’s a slick pop, and you whimper when he sucks it clean of your taste. His eyes snap up at the sound, and he makes a dastardly show of doing it again. To further fuck with you, he takes it a step further and licks a slow, broad stripe through the center, a groan rumbling through his chest and lids fluttering shut as if savoring it.

Your muscles twitch with a tremor, teeth clamping down on your bottom lip to retrain another whine; but it doesn’t matter because those dilated pupils pin on you like a glare. “Keep going,” he repeats, gritting it out like he shouldn’t have to, or, like he’s barely keeping himself from doing it himself.

The adrenaline pumping through your veins has you woozy, heart thundering, and though he’s said it twice, you don’t think you heard him correctly. “B - but—”

That gets through your head like a shot of the best liquor you’ve ever tasted. Maybe you should recoil in shock; at the very least, question this shift in your relationship boundaries, but you don’t. All this mania whirling inside you because of him, for him, it doesn’t even occur to you.

Incisors fixing into your bottom lip, you nod, albeit shyly. “Y - yeah,” you breathe, adjusting your weight as best as you can without exciting your libido just yet. “I got you.”

So, with his eyes on you like a hawk, your tentative fingers find your clit. Your heavy lids fall onto him watching you, transfixed by the microexpressions filtering across his face. You wonder if this’ll affect him in a similar way he affected you; God, you hope so.

The first touch is a spark to a flame, a simmering speed kickstarted into high gear. The seamless way you fall into rhythm, jittery as you are, flurry of emotion and sensation, is shameless. You promised yourself a reckoning, and your body is primed for it.

A palm grasps the edge of the counter while you swirl something wild on your slick bundle of nerves. There’s a slight tremor in your arm muscles; call it a symptom of performance anxiety because he’s utterly captivated. You work harder, picking up the pace as you shudder out moans.

His blessing, your need to obey, the sounds bounce free in the echo of his bathroom. Initially low and breathy, bashful to be heard, you’re crescendoing into full, wanton moans now, and he loves it, spurring you on more.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he whispers, pupils blown wide, dark and dangerous, obsession ping-ponging between your hand and your face. “Look at you. Pretty baby, I knew your pussy would be just as pretty. All fucking soaked, wet to your fucking knees. Keep moving your fingers like that. Does it feel good?”

Your head bobbles, lashes fluttering heavy. “It - it does,” you say with an impending climax on the tips of your fervid fingers, voice an airy quiver with the addendum: “It feels really, really good.”

The grip on your calves tighten, then slide up to your knees. His thumbs stroke circles on the sensitive skin on the inside, mimicking your own movements and somehow falling in sync, becoming increasingly sloppy and frantic.

“Yeah, you’re good at this. You do this a lot, don’t you, angel?” There’s a flushed sheen on his cheeks and knowingness in his blue pools, further confirmed by your hitched breath. “Y’gonna cum then?” he asks, though the answer is clear. “Think you’ve been good enough to?”

The threat of another denial makes you groan, weaning into a whimper. “I need to.”

“Oh, angel, I can tell,” he says with a click of sympathy, mimicking your pout. “But you look so cute when you’re desperate, and you know I love it when you beg. Go on, and give me a little first. Show me how good of a girl you are.”

“P - please,” you moan immediately, “please, James.”

“Fuck, you know I’ll give you anything.” He pushes to his feet as his hand shoots out and covers yours, guiding you fast-paced into the throes of an orgasm. “I’ll give you everything. Now show me how pretty you are when you cum.”

That's all you need. With a sharp moan of his name, the dam breaks, and it feels like you’re floating. Hot-blooded relief ripples through your system and has you quaking. Wave after wave works through you, and every second is well worth the wait.

Your muscles are straining, and you’re panting by the time it subsides. All the while, he’s locked onto you, eating it up, crooning encouragement and praises; ravenous eyes and husky voice, it’s almost enough to set you off a second time.

His other hand catches you by the jaw, a pinched grip keeps your face angled on him while his strokes slow. “Oh, you’re fucking gorgeous. Always have been, always will, but when you’re coming and moaning my name…” he says with a groan, “you’re a real life fucking dream.”

He sucks your arousal off his fingers, and you moan at the sight. It takes a moment to overcome your panting, only able to manage a, “That felt s - so good.” That was your best orgasm to date, and it was his hand in this situation that caused that outcome.

“Just what you needed.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, dark eyes enthralled by your unruly come down, laying in wait. “You satisfied, angel?” he says, a rhetorical fluctuation that fans over your sensitive skin. “Lying to me, leaving—”

“It’s not my fault!” you blurt out before he can finish listing your sins, making him cock an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have—I would’ve waited—I wanted to wait, but you - you kept saying things and touching me, and… and… I just couldn’t help it. I’m sorry!”

He looks astounded, at a loss for words momentarily. “So you’re blaming me?” is the implication you’re giving, and he’s getting. “I talked to you and barely touched you, but that got you so worked up that you had to lock yourself in my bathroom and masturbate—in the middle of my birthday party?”

That sounds maybe not the best way to put it, but it's also entirely accurate. “Well, um…” You can’t think of a nicer, less accusatory manner of phrasing. “Y - yes?”

There’s a second of silence before both of his hands grasp your face with a groan of, “That’s so fucking cute.”

Then he’s reeling you into a heady kiss. Tongue deep but slow, and you melt into him like butter on a skillet. It’s better than you imagined—and, boy, you have imagined it; like him, controlled but not overbearing, gentle with a pulsing, singing heat.

Parting is reluctant, and he nuzzles his lips over yours before starting a trail down your neck. His hands fall to your thighs when you tilt your head to the side for easier access, sliding upward with his thumbs kneading circles into your muscles.

You gasp, then moan at the influx of stimulation, not a direct barrage on your center but resonates there, anyway. Your knees instinctively lock around his waist as he finds his way to your chest, dipping below the ruffle of your shirt and taking a hard peek into his mouth.

“F - fuck.” You shudder against him, into him, the current of electricity sparking in your bones, burying your hands in his hair.

“My sexy little angel and her needy cunt,” he purrs and gives you a peck before dropping to his knees again, eyes hungry as he pulls you to the counter edge, legs spread. “I’ll make it all better.”

Even with the lull, with your libido, tormented something grand, the aftershocks still tremor within your muscles. A drop of pain with every shot of pleasure; the former spikes sky-high as his mouth melds to the bare sensitivity of your sex.

A sharp sound escapes you, jolting entirely against a barrage of smarting sensations. Your legs end up over his shoulders, heels grazing the flex of his shoulder blades as another tremor lulls through your body.

“I - I think I’m too sensitive—“

“No, no,” he says, insistent, pulling away for only a second, “it’s okay. I got you. You just enjoy the ride ‘cause I know I am.”

Then he hunkers down and delves in like a starved man getting his fill. His strong arms encircle your thighs, bulging muscles and veins as he keeps you spread and vulnerable, laid out with your legs propped over his shoulders.

The wet warmth of his mouth forms a seal around you, tongue flattening against your clit and cheeks hollowing with suction. A squeal escapes your throat as your nerves fray, and your body jerks, but it doesn’t do much against his ironclad grip.

You feel him grin, his dilated pupils a gleam of mischief; so you retaliate by burying your hands in his hair and yanking at the roots, hard. A groan rumbles through his throat, and his eyes roll back, shutting, then reopening with a distinctly primal intensity reflecting up at you.

With a growl, he does it, again, swathing the sensitive bud in raw sensation until you’re grappling his thick locks; which only makes him groan in delight and nuzzle his face deeper. He spreads your outer lips with his thumb and forefinger while he laps at your center like a bear would to honey.

“O - oh, God—fuck!” you gasp and moan. “You’re so good at this—h - how are you so good at this?”

His other hand slides underneath and finds your entrance. His middle finger pushes through your folds knuckle-deep, and your silk walls contract around the sudden intrusion. The rough pad crooks into your sweet spot and drags over it as he sets a determined pace.

It’s a practiced attack with his tongue coddling your bundle of nerves, and his dexterity stroking you into oblivion. You think you’re going to lose your mind (if you haven’t already). The intensity makes you woozy, a James-induced high, and the only thing your vision can focus on is him.

The room is a hybrid of your desperate moans and his hungry groans; the messy smack of his mouth on you, your sex squelching around his long, thick digit. It’s pornographic and so fucking hot, the perfect soundtrack for another orgasm to roll in—

And two loud knocks bang against the door and startle you both.

“B, will you come on?!” his sister’s voice shouts through the door—thankfully, no tonal hints being privy to what was happening inside—and you hear her impatient foot tapping on the other side. “We’re ready to cut the cake!”

James’ eyes cloud with agitation, a growl in his throat as he has to detach himself from you and bites out, “Then cut it!”

She huffs. “It’s your birthday! I told you, we can’t cut it without you.”

“Fine!” he snaps. “I'll be there in five minutes.”

“You had five minutes ten minutes ago. You have two.” Her footsteps start to fade, then stop as she adds, “And I don’t know where your best friend is but she better come in the next two minutes, or we’re cutting the cake without her!” There’s a door slam, confirming her egress from his bedroom.

“Oh, she’ll come in the next two minutes,” he murmurs, a devilish smile glittering up at you. “You’re gonna come real hard.”

And you do.

His middle finger thrusts inside you and curls into your g-spot, using the very tip to repeatedly rasp pressure over it. In tandem, his mouth once more claims your molten core for his own and his taste buds bully your clit. It has you pulling his hair, and when he makes that feral growl, baby blues alight, you don’t really have any other choice than to crumble.

You come with a cry. His name a curse and blessing—James—on your lips as your muscles cramp up, and your inner muscles clamp down. Everything shakes, rattled to the very core, your leg trembling over his shoulders and unintentionally digging your heels into his back.

Your bones liquefy. The rush of euphoria breaks you apart in the most exquisite way possible and turns you into mush. The grip on his hair loosens as the arch in your spine relaxes, but your hips continue to writhe as his tongue tracks your plummet.

“B - Bucky,” you whimper pitiful, smarting shocks chopping at your overworked nerves. “T - too much.”

He hums, and you whimper again, which convinces him— despite his reluctance—to ease his onslaught. “Alright, if you insist,” he says and licks his lips glossy with your essence. “But I told you I’d get my birthday licks, and I’ve only gotten started.”

He stands up and grabs your skirt off the ground. His shoulders square as he slips the waistband around your ankles, and you take the hint to slide off the counter so he can hoist it around your hips. Your legs are jelly, but you stay upright all the same, flattening your clutches into his shirt.

“So, when this party ends, I’m going to taste you for hours,” he tells you and unfurls your top to its rightful place over your tits and stomach, smoothing out the additional ruffles. “My tongue is gonna fuck you right here…” His hand sinks under your open zipper and pets your bare sex, index finger tracing your slit. ”…until you’ve cum so many times you go numb from it all.”

He places a chaste kiss on your temple when you whine, dropping his lips to your ear. “Then I’m gonna keep going ‘cause you taste too fucking good to stop.”

#my writing #bucky x reader #bucky x you smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagines #marvel imagines #NO ONE REMINDED ME IT WAS FRIDAY I ALMOST DID NOT POST #unedited i wrote and simply did not read

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