drabbles

Hot breath smooths over the back of your neck, leaving goose-bumped flesh in its wake. 

James ‘Bucky’ Buchanan Barnes has you bent over the outdoor balcony of the fancy venue — you stopped caring approximately 10 minutes ago, when he first jammed his hands into your underwear and grasped your jaw. The balcony, thankfully, is positioned around the side of the venue, so no-one would even notice the fact that you’re close to cumming all over the fingers of a fucking biker in public at your father’s re-election campaign. 

(This is a good time to reiterate that you are maybe the country’s number one spokeswoman on making bad choices.)

“Don’t you like this better?” And God, he’s so fucking cocky, he always is, chest plastered to your back, hunched over your form like he’s trying to mold himself onto you. You can’t see his face, of course, both from the position you’re standing in and the fact that your vision went blurry about 10 minutes ago too, coincidentally — but you know he’s smirking the way he does, overconfident and rude because you specifically told him that you weren’t gonna end up in this situation and— “Look down at ‘em, pretty girl. Don’t you like it better up here?”

His grip on your jaw tightens — his fingers on your clit speed up, pressing tighter against the sticky, slick flesh — and he wastes no time in yanking your head to the right. “Hey.” A light slap to your face that has your eyes focusing on the festivities. “I want you to look at ‘em when you cum. You know, when you get back down there, you’re gonna have to look them in the eyes, sweet thing,  knowing that you just had Bucky Barnes’s fingers playing in your pretty pussy—”

“You — bastard — fucking — bitch—!” It’s the only thing you can get out. Fucking curses between gasps and shudders, hardly intelligible, eyes watering because fuck — someone really could catch you like this, some stuffy-nosed politician or some belittling trophy wife that would clutch her pearls and point. That turns you on more than you’d like to admit.

Because you’re _____; resident good girl in the eyes of the public, daughter of an important senator. You’ve begun attending Harvard a year early and go to charity balls and fundraise for orphanages and at night you go to the nearest club and get shitfaced (shitfaced on expensive tequila, of course. No cheap shit) and fuck the closest warm body. Except for the past few months it hasn’t been the closest warm body, has it? It’s been Bucky. James. Whatever you want to call him.

President of his chapter, all 6-foot something of corded muscles and crude tattoos and cigarette smoke. Long hair that he pulls into a haphazard man bun at the nape of his neck, and you’d make fun of him for it except he really actually pulls it off. Fuck. He’s been a thorn in your side since you met him, watching you dance with your fourth shot of the night in your hands. 

What’s the city’s favourite daddy’s girl doin’ dancin’ like that? was the first thing he said to you. If you’re being honest with yourself, you kinda knew you were going to sleep with him the second you laid eyes on him. He was everything your parents hated and you had a habit of doing everything in your power to piss them off. So you did — hot and sweaty and sloppy in the disgusting bathroom. You couldn’t walk straight for two days, and your throat was bruised for longer.

(I’m not a daddy’s girl was what you’d replied — and oh, he taught you different.)

“You’re gonna cum, ain’t ya?” The thick arm wound under your breasts squeezes closer, forcing you upwards. “See, I can tell. You always get so mean when you’re gonna cum. Hurts my feelings, baby.”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Weren’t telling me to shut my mouth that time in your fancy car,” he hisses hotly, angry, “Begging me to tell you to cum because you can’t without daddy’s permission, ain’t that right?”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, you did, darlin’.” He chuckles, then, dark and mocking in that way that only makes your knees weak. God, you really do have daddy issues, don’t you? “Again, and again, and again. And you will again, because you can’t fucking resist me.”

You feel your walls flutter with the first waves of your orgasm — it’s a word-loser, you can tell. You won’t be able to string together a coherent sentence for a minute afterwards. “You’re a — a cocky sonuvabitch, Barnes.”

He hums, kissing the skin behind your ear so gently that you jolt — taken aback by the shift in dynamic and the contrast between his frantic rubbing and his tight grip. “And you love me, don’t ya?”

And fuck—

That does it for you. 

Mark you down as an emotional bitch because yes, that made you cum. James Barnes knows how to play you like a fucking fiddle and he knows that you know, because he’s sniggering like a little kid behind you, helping you ride out your orgasm with a few choice phrases that almost make you turn around and jump his bones:

“There you go, sweet girl. So pretty when you cum, you know. Wetting up daddy’s fingers real good.”

“…Goddammit, Barnes.”

You thank every God that’s ever existed that you’ve brought your makeup bag because you’re sure that your cheeks are streamed with mascara and your lipstick is smeared to your chin — your knees knock together in your heels as you bend forward and rest your forehead on your folded forearms.

“Might wanna clean yourself up, sweetheart,” Bucky comments, tapping your ass as he passes. You hear the tell-tale thwick of his lighter starting up. “Don’t want your daddy seein’ you all fucked out, eh?”

“Don’t start acting all high and mighty now, Buck,” you say, finally lifting your head and peering at him over your shoulder. “What was it you said two days ago? You know, when I was on my knees with your cock halfway down my throat?”

The biker narrows his eyes, because he remembers and he hates that he remembers, because, well:

You were supposed to be a quick fuck. A middle finger to your father who was on the police’s ass about having his chapter monitored closer, a wish that made it hard for Bucky to carry on his business as usual. But now he was kinda looking forward to your meetings and wondering what you were doing during the day and really hoping that he gets to stay and cuddle you at least once. (Of course, that would insinuate that you have sex in a bedroom. Which you haven’t. There’s been backseats and alleyways and dingy bathrooms and there was that time on his motorcycle…) 

And he let that slip when you were on your knees. What can he say? You give good head.

(“Fuck. Fuck, I love you, sweet thing. C’mon, take it deeper, princess, I know you can—”)

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Just narrows his eyes even further and takes a drag of his cigarette, and you smile victoriously.

“Yeah,” you say, straightening up. “That’s what I thought. I’m gonna get cleaned up, okay? Wait here.”

(He’s not even supposed to be within a billion feet of this stupid fucking campaign, never mind making you cum in plain sight. But for some reason, he stays put.)