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...
Summary: You challenge Bucky to a game of pool with high stakes that'll guarantee his victory. 2.3k words Warnings: hotness level is over 9000, smut, tease, spanking but make it casual, r Ough, full on filth, possessive themes, mild language, 18+
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A deep inhale and a sleazy cough at the taste of a pack of Newports. It burns his lungs as he checks his phone for the tenth time, tongue flicking at his left snake bite, grey matter close to short-circuiting as he toys with the onyx metal. He was pretty sure you said eight-thirty, but really, how much can he trust SHIELD's technical analyst who doubles as the girl Bucky can't keep his eyes off of.
He wonders what made you pick a low lit bar pumping Ozzy and Metallica through speakers made pre y-two-k. With peanuts piled in cherry wood bowls, husks haphazardly flicked over a shoulder after a couple beers, he smiles and thinks he prefers it this way. Your way.
"Bucky Barnes," you call from behind him, getting the soldier to whip around in all his six-foot-something glory. And you get a good look at him. Smirk painted taut across his lips, the fangs of a wolf with its jaw dropped open inked up his neck. But you know it's the nose ring that keeps your air tight in your chest.
"There she is," he mumbles, flashing his canines and slinging an arm around your back, leather creaking as he leans down and taps his cheek with a thick, ring-clad forefinger. And you kiss the spot he's pointed to, leaving a faint imprint of your ruby lipstick once you pull away. "How's my best girl?"
"Overworked and underpaid. Up for a game?" You nod towards the pool table, something of a gasp bubbling at your lips when he grabs your hand and pulls you along, a devious grin and a low chuckle rolling off the tip of his tongue.
"I'll take that as a yes," you huff, catching the cue he tosses your way, chalking the tip and watching the curve of his ass in those Levi's when he bends over to rack up the balls into a triangle.
"Get a good look, doll?" You cheeky bastard. He stands, hiking up the back of his jeans by the loops, chains clinking together where they rest across his hip. "What're your stakes?"
"My stakes?"
"What's the game riding on? Want me to buy a round if you win?" And, oh, the possibilities are endless. The idea ricochets back and forth in your brain. Maybe secure yourself a second date or ensure the night will end in his bed.
