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#plus sized ppl are hot as fuck on their own but in a cheerleading costume Jesus Christ Jesus CHRISTTTT
gagmebucky · 3 years
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He guwaffs, and it’s a rich, throaty sound that curls your toes. “Mad?” he repeats, a half-smile quirking up at one side. “Mad at what, the pretty little gift sent to me by God?” His eyebrow cocks, gesturing to the space above. That half-smile blooms into a full-on Cheshire grin. “And right at my time of need.”
inspired by that scene in “triple dog.”
in which your friends dare you to hide in resident bad boy bucky barnes’ closet. (includes bad boy!bucky x shy!reader, allusions to masturbation, dirty talk, praise kink, mild cheerleader kink, fingering.)
do not repost.
This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.
You’d defend yourself by pointing out it wasn’t necessarily your decision but a dare your friends sprung on you but it doesn’t change the fact you agreed to it (albeit with great protest) and are now in the following predicament.
“No—no, you are not picking ‘truth,’ Miss. I-Love-Staying-on-the-Safe-Side. You’re doing a dare, and that is to put on this little cheerleading costume and hide in Barnes’ closet for an hour.”
Peer pressure is a hell of a thing because once Natasha said that, then the rest of your friends were insisting you had to do it. It didn’t matter you’d be breaking and entering, that their place was—is—currently occupied, or that the outfit didn’t fit quite right (too short, too tight).
The least you can say about them is their distraction worked like a charm in getting you in. One of your friends knocked on his door and started a conversation about having a shitty landlord, eventually gravitating into the kitchen. A mutual friend provided directions to his bedroom, and you kept your bambi-like nerves together enough to stumble into a closed closet.
Before you slipped in, that mutual friend—Natasha—placated your nerves by assuring you that James would be chilling in his living room; that way, the probability of him realizing there’s an intruder in his bedroom closet is low.
Unfortunately, that turns out to be wrong because after your friend finishes with her tangent and the front door shuts behind her, he returns to the solitude of his bedroom. Which, although you only managed a glimpse on your meandering in, is a palace.
You can expect nothing less of James Barnes, always referred to as Bucky. While he’s your friend’s neighbor, he also attends your college. The campus is on the smaller side, and he’s a notable presence among the student body.
It’s not just that he’s a pretty face—chiseled features, sharp jawline and straight noses, burning bright blue eyes—but that he’s a lady’s man with a penchant for fights. There’s much gossip about his recklessness but the mere fact he often drives his motorcycle without a helmet is all you need to come to that conclusion.
Safe to say, he elicits a particular brand of anxiety; particular meaning it’s a degree deeper than your normal state of nervousness. Should you be discovered, your humiliation will be triple-fold, and that pesky paranoia insists it’s only inevitable.
Being in a person’s closet unbeknownst to them is bad, being scantily-clad in the process is worse, but the person being him? Oh, God—oh, God.
You wedge yourself deeper into the recess of his shallow wardrobe. The air is limited but faint with detergent, and it’s remarkably organized, minimalist in the amount of clothes on hangers. You never thought you’d want someone to live messily but you do now—in that case, your body would be shielded; in this case, you’re in plain view.
Outside of the bifold doors, his television mutes then his footsteps pace back and forth. You don’t think you made any noise but your heart races with the conviction he’s figured you out. The dresser next to the closet slides back, and it sounds like he’s rummaging through a drawer.
After a beat, there’s a vindicated “ah!” The drawer closes, and his footsteps retreat to the bed. The room’s silence and your hearing strained, the frame creaks with weight. A key presses, and you deduce that it’s his laptop. That would be perfectly fine except that it’s loud moaning blaring out of its speaker.
You have your phone: to keep track of the three hours—a twenty minute dent in the countdown—and to stave away boredom as well as withstand your friend’s group-chat teasing you via text message. All the humor is wiped off now, replaced with mortification.
This is bad. Very bad. God-fucking-damnit! Why in the hell did you agree to this? You are not going to hide in this man’s closet while he jacks off. Violating his privacy like that, feeling your own stab of arousal at his low groan, is something you refuse.
Your hands shake, thumbs violently tapping against your phone screen as fast as you can. They better get their fucking asses up here and get to distracting! There’s a plethora of typos and no explanation but the urgency is punctuated clearly. Your thumb hovers over the send button but there’s a sharp inhale and another husky groan, and your unmoral libido makes you fumble.
And there it goes. Your phone flips out of your hands and clatters against the ground; titanium on hardwood floors, it makes a distinctive—and loud—sound.
You wish it was one of those things where it’s only that loud to you, being so hyper aware of yourself and being so close, but the laptop slams shut. In a quick second, the bed shifts and the floors creak with a strong, “Uh. Hello?”
You don’t respond. Your eyes squeeze shut, and you hope he doesn’t investigate further. But like any sane person who hears a noise in their closet, he does. His strides are tentative, encroaching on the space with the utmost suspense.
The doors part, and you can feel the gust upon being opened so quickly but your eyes are still closed—because if you can’t see him, then he can’t see you. Right? Wrong. You know that, and your lashes reluctantly flutter up to the intense gaze bearing down on you.
His eyes are bright, a stark contrast to his dark hair and the post-shower dampened tips. His shirt is off with only a Star of David pendant dangling between his pecs; a well defined abdomen displayed, leading down to low riding jeans where the belt buckle is unfastened and the zipper is unzipped.
You swallow and try to ignore the bulge flushed against white briefs. “H - hi?” you say sheepishly. “This, uhm, is not what it looks like ‘cause there was a dare—but I picked ‘truth’ then she’s like ‘no! You’re gonna go into the closet!’” You’re speaking rapidly as you press forth on your feet, one hand against the wall to help your stability. “I don’t do this, and I am so - so sorry. If there’s anything… anything I - I can give do or give you or - or…—”
The words trail into a stuttered breath, blowing past your teeth when you see the look on his face. It’s utterly obscene. Sure, in this instance you seem the perverse one but the way he takes in the sight of you is something out of a porno.
His pupils dilates to obsidian, greedily running up the equally pornographic outfit you’re wearing. It’s a stereotypical ‘costume’ — an old version of your college’s cheerleading uniform that your friend kept. It’s a two-piece of gold and green, skimpy quality further accentuated by being a size too small.
The top is sleeveless with straps haltered around your neck, just barely making it over your tits with an elastic band secured around your ribs. Because it's so tight, you forewent your bra and your nipples pebble against the fabric. The bottoms take on the traditional pleated pattern, reaching to only the curve of your ass.
James’ tongue laves over his lower lip slowly, and if you aren’t mistaken, the bulge in his pants twitch. The wolffish hunger written across his face makes your thighs clench together. “Oh, man. Am I hallucinating, or has my wet dream finally come true?”
It’s not a reaction you were expecting but goodness does it spark hotly underneath your skin. He looks like he wants to eat you—lick, bite, if the swipe of his tongue and drag of his teeth are to specify. You aren’t one to speculate on someone’s feelings about you, especially not a roguish character like him but this is throwing you.
“Shouldn’t you—shouldn’t you be mad?” you point out, partly confused and partly grateful; his eyes sear into yours and your mind scribbles so you’re rambling on: “Because if I would you, I would be so I totally understand—”
He guwaffs, and it’s a rich, throaty sound that curls your toes. “Mad?” he repeats, a half-smile quirking up at one side. “Mad at what, the pretty little gift sent to me by God?” His eyebrow cocks, gesturing wordlessly to the space above. “And right at my time of need.”
One arm cords around your waist and swiftly reels you tightly into his flank. A soft umph escapes your chest at the abruptness, stammering a breath as your abdomen molds against ridges of muscles and smooth skin. He runs hot, and the imprint against your thigh is swelling firmer.
“Fucking look at ‘cha.” And he is, lips parted reminiscent of a panting dog but incisors gleaming like predator eyeing prey. “What person in their right mind could have a complaint?” His fingers wander over your cleavage to the curves of your belly. “Fuck me. Look at you. God, you’re cute.”
His reputation is on the wolfish side yet he’s curled around you like a cat, practically purring in content. In a similar manner, you’re usually shy but can’t bring yourself to be shielded from his ravenous eyes and covetous hands.
“T - thanks—oh - oh!” It’s a polite expression shifting into an airy exalt because a palm has smoothed up the back of your thighs, dexterous fingers curling into the sensitive inside only a breadth away from your panty-clad center.
His face has dipped down and nestled the crook of your neck. The tip of his nose follows the curve, lips brushing over the junction of your shoulder, inhaling and groaning all at the same time. “And you smell good. Sweet and soft like peaches. Are ‘ya gonna let me have a taste, pretty girl?”
Your knees nearly knock together, all sorts of flip flops and fluttering in your inner depths. Coherency is a ways away because your body is a spark of stimulation, overriding your brain when he’s on you like this. You’re academia and work-focused so matters of touch are sorely neglected but he’s got you on an overload.
“Fuck,” you gasp, involuntarily twitching in his embrace, and you’re glad he’s holding you otherwise you’d surely fall. “You - you’re—ah, friendlier than I imagined.” Friendly isn’t exactly how you’d describe his behavior but it’s applicable enough considering he’s the opposite of bothered by this whole situation.
He chuckles huskily, and he’s too close to not feel the shiver that racks your spine. “Only for you, honey,” he says—clarifies, drawing back to admire your figure: once more and its almost embarrassingly-snug fit. A groan rumbles through his chest. “Goddamn. When I asked Romanoff to introduce us, I didn’t think it’d be on a golden platter.”
That’s news to you. Surprising and bewildering because you wouldn’t think yourself to peak his interest; reserved, you don’t frequent the parties he’s rumored to be the life of, or hang in his social circles. That’s with Natasha being the exception because she’s both his neighbor and his friend but you never imagined catching his eye, muchless worth mentioning.
“D’you bring poms-poms too? Do a little thing for me?” he teases, and his hands slide down your back and grab fistfuls of your ass, kneading into both cheeks through the little skirt (and you are wearing panties—you’re not that indecent). “Gonna show me how you work this fine body of yours. . .”
You can’t help but squirm, stimulation igniting a fire too hot to resist, and by the firmed heat against your thigh, he’s enjoying it. “Shit, shit.” Your hands flatten against his chest, fingertips digging in lightly as you try to wrangle your reactions in.
“Or did you want me to go first? Give you a demo of what you’re working with?” A palm hooks underneath your knee and hikes it high over his hip so your center is flushed against his, scorching and undeniably big, a damp spot leaking through his boxers. “This time, you won’t have to watch me through the closet like a little pervert, albeit a cute lil’ one.”
Your face heats with embarrassment beneath the surge of visceral sensation. “I - I wasn’t—“ Your words are a stumble, half moaned though the earnestness is there. “—I swear I wouldn’t have—”
He makes that deep vibration of amusement. “I know,” he croons. “‘Cause you’re good for your own good but that doesn’t stop you from getting wet at the thought, now does it?”
You don’t consider lying, and it’s good because his hand slips between your bodies and confirms that fact for himself. Beneath the band of your skirt and panties, his fingers slide home and your hips buck eagerly into the touch.
“S - sorry?” you rasp but it isn’t very convincing because on the next breath, you moan, unable to resist twitching.
“Nothin’ to apologize for, baby.” He grins. “You are gonna be thankin’ me in a minute, though.”
His other arm has sunk behind your lower back and braced there while his rough fingertips swirl wide but direct, quick coarseness versus your sensitive bare flesh. An initial jolt to the system, the sensations warble into a resounding of heat, thrumming to an eloquent rhythm.
“Oh, you’re fucking soft.” He groans, nearly chokes on the revelation, words a whisper against your temple, and you careen further into him with a whine. “Soft and responsive, you’re more than begging to be touched. Have you been neglecting your poor pussy, baby?”
The accurate vulgarity is a ripple, and the bashfulness radiating hot in your face buries your nose into his chest; the divot of his sternum, his pendant is a faint outline against your forehead. His scent is all-man, punctuated with the aroma of soap, smooth—save for the defined ridges your nails are raking down.
“Please—please,” is all the coherency you can offer, a fan against his chest that he can both hear and feel.
If there’s ever been a moment to physically feel someone’s talent, then this is surely it. The wind of his fingers never breaks pace, doesn’t miss a beat as you jerk and writhe against the knot twisting so exquisitely tightening within you, ups the ante when you’ve coated him in slippery layers of lust.
Tracing down the split of you, his middle digit sinks past your folds and wedges into your inner depths. True to his earlier surmise, you cinch down and spasm around the intrusion. Your reaction crosses with his, your mewl mixed into the groan your sex has wrenched out of his throat.
“You’re driving me insane. Between those pretty sounds and the way you feel, I’m losing my mind.” The digit curls up, and you squeak, muscles twitching taut. “Fuck, you should've come to me sooner ‘cause I’ll take real good care of you.” His smile brands itself into the cut of your cheek. LWhen you’re this cute, it becomes a compulsion.”
The come hither motion nudges that perfect spot inside you, and he maintains that pressure there—ever rising the longer it stays—while his thumb pins down your clit. It’s that dual attack, rubbing your bundle of nerves and pressing insistently inside you, that has the fever dosing you full-bodied.
“I know you’ve got a thing for keeping your head down but I want you to look at me.” For a second, he pauses and that brief loss pulls your face back in a whimper-whine of plea. Carnal delight alights in dilated blue, and he nods with renewed vigor. “Yeah. Like that, eyes on me—eyes right on me, baby.”
Your innate shyness takes the backseat to the sensations consuming you; like a fire too powerful to be swayed by a pot of water, it sparks from the start of your toes and blazes to every nook and cranny of your body. Your eyes are open but fluttered to half-mast, making out his chiseled features eating up your every reaction.
The pressure boils and spills. You’re sure your nails are leaving angry red trails in your wake, crescent imprints hard enough to draw blood (though, you think he might like that spur of pain because he only moves further into you).
“O - oh, okay—I am—I’m gonna. . .” You’re stammering but you can barely hear it over the blood pounding between your ears and the wet squelch of his caress on you. “Fuck me. James, please!” The words are hoarse but nonetheless serious.
“Soon. Let me feel you first, when you’re all overwhelmed and gushing—”
And you give in.
It floods and quakes until you’re trembling. Your vision slides to the back of your head, throat barred and he immediately takes advantage by latching onto your pulse. The strength in your legs disappears for a moment but he’s hauling you secure against him.
“It’s alright. I got you,” he says as you grapple for his jeans. His arm hooks underneath your ass, and he’s leading you a few steps over so you can falter back onto his mattress. He guides you down, touch outlining the curves of you, hovering above with a knee between your legs. “That was so good—so good. Hottest thing I’ve ever fucking seen. Jesus Christ.”
Leaning in while your nerves fray wonderfully at the praise, he seals the distance. His lips on yours, your lips on his, there’s mint and desire on his tongue. It’s a taste you can easily get addicted to. The synchronicity is aided by the languorous way he licks into you, clearly tentative to your experience—or lack therefore of.
You have to take a breather, panting as he rests his forehead against yours. It doesn’t take long for you to recover, a hunger of your own surging through your veins.
Before you can initiate another kiss, your phone’s violent vibration and wild flashing (which you probably should’ve turned off) interrupts. Forgotten on the floor of his closet, it stops then promptly begins again. You aren’t sure whether it’s the alarm, or your friends calling but he’s getting up to check.
With a reluctant click of his tongue, he rises off you and takes a leisurely stroll over. It’s on its third ring when he picks it up. His thumb blindly slides across the screen as his gaze fixes on you, and he set it against his ear.
“Yeah,” he greets the person on the other end of the line, and if you couldn’t see the roguish smile on his face, you’d surely be able to hear it. “She did your little dare. Really, really well. So well in fact that she’s gonna spend the night with me. The morning, too, probably. I’m sure you’ll have fun without her, though not as much as I’ll have with her.”
“What?! You—”
“Thanks for calling! This is going on silent now but she’ll call you back—when she has the energy, that is.” He taps the screen again and shifts the setting to ‘do not disturb’ which you have no qualms about. With that out of the way, his attention returns to you, and he flashes a smile. “Now where were we?”
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