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darsynia · 2 months

Text

Momentary (Bucky/f!Reader)

MCU MASTERLIST | BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST | lmk for tags!

Summary: Your paths cross, intertwine, and separate again

WC/Warnings: 1,400 | Explicit Sex

Written for Essie's 300 Follower 'Summer Lovin' Celebration! Thanks for hosting, @bigtreefest, dear, I hope you like it! Prompts used were overstimulation, a hotel, and public sex

Excerpt:

“Please,” you breathe. His actions have slowed, turning from tempestuous to tender, a honeyed slowness designed to prolong your agony. His low, sexy chuckle is a live wire connected directly to his electric fingers as they dip and swirl.

“I want to hear you, doll,” he rumbles, lips grazing your ear in purposeful provocation. “Louder than the sunset, for me.”

You’re both still clothed, but the arch of your back and cant of his hips make clear what’s happening, visible to anyone with the fortitude to look away from the sun-painted sky. It’s exhilarating.

MOMENTARY

Your panties are puddled at your feet, and your mind is equally liquid. With your head thrown back against the balcony wall, you can only see the sunset over the water through slitted eyes, but its beauty is rivaled by the pleasure melting through your body. Yesterday you didn’t even know this man existed, but now his clever hand is moving under your white silk dress doing things that threaten your current and future stability.

He thrusts two thick fingers inside you, his thumb dancing light touches on your clit. It’s the perfect representation of his odd duality. This secretive stranger is intimately touching you in a semi-public place. He claims to be a businessman, yet he prowls around a luxury hotel with ruthless malice, clearly stalking more elusive prey than you’ve proven to be. The filthy threat you’d overheard him make to another guest had been vicious and incisive.

He is the opposite of everything you left behind at home.

“I want to hear you, doll,” he rumbles, lips grazing your ear in purposeful provocation. “Louder than the sunset, for me.”

“Make me, then,” you say, drawing on adrenaline for confidence.

Your lover’s expression sharpens, eyes glittering with anticipation. He pushes off the wall with his free hand, expertly opening his belt and shoving his clothes aside, all while maintaining the delicate devastation of his fingertips. Suddenly he stops, and you clutch at the wall behind you to maintain your balance as you watch him pull out a condom and apply it, his full attention on his task. Then he fixes his gaze on you and you practically stop breathing, your entire being focused on the slow movement of his hand as he slides it from your knee along your thigh, inch by glorious inch.

The urge to moan, to plead is intense, but you valiantly hold back.

He seems pleased by this, which is almost as sexy as this deliberate dismantling of your dignity.

When he finally touches you again, it's brief, but enough to make you dizzy, a supernova of erotic culmination for the few seconds before he lifts you up and lances into you. The resolution to hold back is obliterated by the aching cry that tears through your throat. Any other time you’d have crammed a fist in your mouth, mortified by the very idea of making your happiness audible. With every sensuous movement this man has destroyed all of that, and you’re a willing wreck.

He’d told you to keep touching to the minimum, so you limit yourself to clinging to his open collar, barely able to think against the purity of this pleasure. Eyes tightly shut, you keen through each powerful, rocking glide. You’re so distracted by the sensory overload that you don’t notice he’s only holding you up with one arm until he caresses your sleeve down your shoulder and fixes a hot, sucking kiss on your skin.

The unexpected, personal contact sends you fluttering around him, and you feel rather than see the way he’s affected by that--his free hand slams against the wall as his hips stutter the two of you impossibly closer. It’s as if the whole wall is moving with his desperate cadence, as caught up as you are in the mind-numbing pleasure.

“Your name,” you suddenly beg, clawing for coherence under the onslaught of your pending climax. You open your eyes and bite your lip, wishing you’d asked for a kiss instead. Knowing his name is far too much to ask from a man like this.

Your lover lifts his head. His blue eyes are dilated with desire, sending a heat flush across your body that pools at the place the two of you are joined. He opens his mouth, and somehow you know he wants to lie, which feels like a sin in a moment like this.

If he can break the rules, then so can you.

Before you lose your nerve, you move to caress his cheek with one hand as you nuzzle your nose against his neck, grazing your lips across the sensitive skin of his earlobe in a conscious mirroring of his own earlier action. “Please?” you whisper. His hips still.

“Jam--” he starts, then grunts when your surprise causes you to tighten around him intimately. “Bucky,” he admits, and you repeat the name in stunned triumph, more a breathy prayer than anything else. It’s a turning point, a sentence enhancer, and the the two of you follow it with fierce, frantic fucking in search of absolution.

You can hear yourself moan-gasping as you both come, the exquisite high tumbling and rising until you’re left breathlessly repeating words of gratitude interspersed with his name, your throat raw. For some reason, this causes him to slow his final thrusts, as if reluctant for the moment to pass. It’s almost shatteringly erotic, and you wonder if it’s a glimpse of the true him, or a sign that he’s donning another disguise--the picture of a wealthy, considerate lover. Certainly his groan sounds just as joy-ravaged as you feel, by the time he slides you down onto your unsteady feet.

The possessive sting on your shoulder pulsates in opposition to your body’s resonance, and you have to focus all of your attention on staying upright. Taking a few long, careful breaths, you open your eyes to see that Bucky is already perfectly put back together, his skilled fingers refastening the wrist buttons of his dress shirt from where he’d rolled it back up to touch you.

Without speaking, he respectfully tips his head in your direction and walks inside, crossing the dimly-lit suite without pausing at the bathroom to wash his hands.

It’s the realization that he could just wordlessly leave after such a defining moment that has you finally collapsing into a chair.

It’s fully dark by the time you get up to go inside.

You’d fled halfway across the world to India with the fortune your ex had tried to wrest from you, finally giving yourself the honeymoon you’d always dreamed you’d share with him. It’s hard not to feel like you’ve just fulfilled one of his ugliest insults during that sudden breakup, but at least you hadn’t been in a relationship when you’d had sex with a stranger.

At least you won’t head to bed still sweet with the buzz of someone else’s nectar.

There’s something mournful about showering after such an experience, washing away the fleeting remnants of a connection never meant to last. You’re torn between a light touch of soap to skin and scrubbing until you’ve excised both ex and rebound, but settle on something in between. Neither will release with ease, you realize. How strange that you’ve heard both men speak in anger in the past month, but in that time only one, the wrong one, used an endearment towards you.

“Go to sleep,” you murmur to yourself. The sound is sultry thanks to all the noises you’d made. A mix of mortification and memories sends you scurrying to the softest sheets and most heavenly mattress you’ve ever slept on.

You dream of wandering the hotel, checking doors one by one and finding a different version of Bucky in each--dashing and debonair in a vintage military uniform, cocky and confident in a leather jacket, sleek and sophisticated in a bespoke suit. For some reason, you step back from that particular door despite its familiarity, and decide to try one more. The Bucky you find there is long-haired and wild, dressed for war, but not a war any government would recognize. His black tactical jacket is missing a sleeve, showing off the metal of a mechanical arm that stretches from shoulder to fingertip.

He turns his head and catches sight of you in the doorway, and that’s when your dream-self sees the mask covering his mouth and nose, the dark facepaint shadowing his eye sockets. This strange yet exciting version of Bucky strides toward you, metal hand reaching--

--and you wake up.

In my mind, I picture him with the used condom folded into a handkerchief in his pocket, but I could not elegantly place that in the story lol. Hotel in the pictures is the Leela Kovalam, a five star hotel in India (loook! it's soooooo pretty!!!)

#bucky barnes #Essie’s 300 follower special #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #the romance of a brief poetic connection #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky smut #mcu smut #marvel smut #summer lovin’ celebration #Essie’s summer lovin’ 300 follower celebration #public sex in lush surroundings

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