Situations with Bucky Barnes!
[ BUCKYBARNESXFEM!READER SMUT/FLUFF ]
* mild language and explicit depictions of sexuality (other trigger warnings stated at the beginning of the chapter). 18+ or else...
requests are [open but no guarantees]
started De...
A/N: bAsed on 505 by the fuckin monkeys bc it was a request. this man... is a fuckin MENACE a real bastard A+ roadster and by A+ i mean D- the only reason he's not got an F is cause he yields for lil old ladies crossing the street Summary: Your lover, breaking every road safety law (even the fine print), speeds home just to see you. 3.7k words Warnings: smut, spit kink, reckless driving, choking, mirror sex, humiliation, praise/degrading bc yet again i cant choose (shocker)
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Bucky's a speed demon at dusk. You coax it outta him like a slinky oil spill that flops to the floor and drips lust. The sun slumps lower and shares the sky with gently twinkling constellations as seconds tick by. If he's fast enough, he'll beat the fading light by a silver lining and get to sink his cock into you as peach and amber cascade over the tree-dappled hills outside your balcony.
He tugs the bill of his baseball cap down, snarling through a crooked grin that stretches to the left side of his face. Pushing triple digits, he'd lose a hubcap or two if it meant he'd get to you faster.
Thing is, he would be driving safely—as per your request—if you hadn't sent him that picture. One goddamn picture, but he was seriously considering proposing over text. Screw the little velvet box in his coat pocket, you look like a damn angel in white lace. It hugs you so nice and stretches so thin it covers just about nothing.
He wets his lips and taps the screen a few times, sharp features illuminated by white light and from this angle, he can make a mental checklist of every place he'd like to put his mouth, starting with right there, he thinks.
Blue and red blinks in the rear view mirror. "Shit," and he considers not pulling over. No, driving faster. He'd risk arrest for a taste of your skin. Easily. But because he's a chicken shit, law-abiding citizen, he veers right and skids to a stop in the empty lane.
His window clunks on its way down, and he rests his forearm along the sill, fishing for glovebox ID, but he knows he won't need it. He's been evading tickets since he learned how the gas pedal works.
"Any idea why I—holy fuck—"
"Evening, officer. How can I help you?" Bucky says, baring his face to the soft orange glow of the horizon. It flares in his eyes and makes his blood boil. He has better places to be. Like inside his pretty girl.
"Shit, I"—the kid's mid-twenties, probably put on DUI watch in lieu of the geriatrics back at the station—"I was gonna write you off with a warning—cause of the texting—but you're Sergeant Barnes, right? I mean, it's an honor—"
"Right," he grumbles, "yeah, okay, we good here? I gotta go make this woman my wife." Bucky holds up his phone, and the officer's eyes bulge out of his head, notepad tumbling to the ground.
"Lucky," he stutters under his breath, dark eyes flicking up to Bucky's, and the kid starts visibly sweating. "I mean, you're both... lucky, she's gorgeous—shit—you're also handsome, too, sir, I—"
