૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

Charles’s foot slid up your calf under the table, pressing firmly between your knees. “You look especially ravishing tonight, cousin,” he drawled, gaze locked on the deep cut of your dress and the generous swell of your breasts. “You should be careful; you could cause a man forget his manners.”

Constance’s hand stilled mid-pour. “Charles, really,” she said softly, cheeks pink, but her voice wavered with discomfort. Merricat leaned forward, her face sullen and wary. “He’s been staring at her like that all week. Like she’s dessert.”

You squirmed, heat flooding your face, but Charles only chuckled darkly and reached across to pass the wine. His fingers deliberately brushed the side of your breast, lingering with a teasing squeeze. “Can you blame me? She’s always been my favorite.” His eyes flicked pointedly toward Constance, then back to you with raw hunger. “Some things are simply… worth obsessing over.”

“The Amanita phalloides... holds three different poisons. There is amanitin, which works slowly and is most potent. There is phalloidin, which acts at once, and there is phallin, which dissolves red corpuscles, although it is the least potent. The first symptoms do not appear until seven to twelve hours after eating, in some cases not before twenty-four or even forty hours. The symptoms begin with violent stomach pains, cold sweat, vomiting-,” Merricat spoke to no one in particular.

Constance fussed with her napkin, murmuring, “This isn’t proper dinner talk. Please, let’s just eat,” but her worried glances kept bouncing back to you and Charles.

“I wish Charles would just put food on the fork and put it in his mouth and strangle himself,” Merricat continued.

Charles narrowed his eyes at Merricat. “Is that how one is to speak to family? Constance, Connie, darling, please send Merricat to her room. She is excused.”

“Charles, please, Merricat doesn’t mean that at all,” Constance defended.

Charles swallowed the remainder of wine in his goblet in one gulp. He grabbed a cloth napkin and wiped his mouth before pushing away from the table and standing up. The movement caused the chair to scrape against the floor, making Constance flinch.

Charles called your name, and jutted his head towards the doorway.

“Excuse me,” you murmured.

Charles gripped your elbow and steered you toward the library with a low, “Now.” Heart hammering, you barely had time to breathe before the heavy door clicked shut behind you.

He pinned you against the shelves instantly, breath hot on your neck. “You should be grateful I chose you,” he growled, voice thick with possession. “No one else is worthy of my touch. Not Constance. Not anyone. Only you, my perfect cousin.”

“Charles, they saw— this is wrong,” you protested weakly, but his hands were already everywhere—palming your heavy breasts, pinching your nipples until they ached.

“There'll never be anyone like me. Who's gonna love you? Nobody. Nobody's gonna love you. Is that what you want?”

He shoved your skirt up, fingers plunging deep into your soaked pussy, fucking you with relentless strokes while his thumb circled your clit.

“So fucking wet already,” he taunted, curling just right to make your hips jerk. Merricat’s words and Constance’s nervous glances still burned in your mind as he dropped to his knees, throwing your thigh over his shoulder. His tongue devoured you, lapping greedily, sucking hard on your swollen clit until your legs shook and you were right on the edge.

He rose suddenly, freeing his thick cock. The blunt head nudged insistently against your dripping entrance, hips poised to thrust deep inside.

You closed your eyes.

You’re not just another groupie, you’re his daugher. And the world would be sickened if they knew, you know there is no label appropriate for what you two have. He would never admit it to his bandmates, you would never admit it to your friends, but still his eyes always find yours from the stage, locking in on you in the front row like you are the only one there. Blood calls to blood.

You tell yourself you shouldn’t be here, because you’re sane enough to know how fucked up this is. But when you ask him to eat you out and he grins an arrogant smile before sinking down like it was his idea all along, it feels all the right again.

Now he’s right there, between your spread thighs, mouth hot and relentless. One hand digs into the back of your knee, holding you open while his other hand braces against your hip. He works you with the same focus he brings to every concert, a perfect rhythm, tongue flat and broad one moment, teasing and pointed the next, sucking on your clit until your fingers twist in his sweaty hair and your head falls back against the mirror.

Shame burns in your chest, thick and poisonous, but something darker twists with it. Pride. You did this, you pulled your father off the stage and made the god kneel between your legs, mouth soaked with the taste of the girl he raised. But even on his knees, he overpowers you. Even with his face buried in your pussy, chin glistening with your slick, he radiates that untouchable aura. He’s always owned you.

He pulls back for a breath, ocean-blue eyes looking up at you with filthy satisfaction.

“You taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” he rasps, but you’re already guiding him back before the guilt can swallow you whole, and he goes willingly, humming against your cunt and pulling a broken moan from your throat. His tongue curls just right, two fingers slide deep inside of you and the only thing that matters is the way he worships and dominates all at once. You come with the word ‘dad’ shattered on your lips, thighs trembling around his head and hips jerking against his face while he holds you through it.

When the aftershocks fade, he rises slowly, towering over you.

You scream. The sound echoes off the walls, your throat raw, but you don’t stop until you begin to hear steady footsteps outside the door that is keeping you locked in. A moment later, that door is opening and Steve Kemp steps into view in his blue turtleneck, a familiar charming smile curving his lips. Tears burn hot paths down your cheeks and broken pleas spill from your lips. Please, let me go. Please, I won’t tell anyone. Please, please, please, begging for answers, for release, for a scrap of mercy you aren’t sure he will offer.

“Shh, darling, calm down,” he murmurs, already crouching to your level to meet eye to eye. Gentle fingers tilt your chin upward, and his gaze carries a feeling of warmth that is too dangerous to be in contact with. You need to hate him, to claw the desire out of your chest and burn it to ash; instead, longing slams into your ribs, as the man whose laughter had once made evenings feel electric is now exposing himself as the monster who abducted you.

Even while truth lingers in the air between you, a treacherous softness blooms in your chest when his careful touch presses to your skin. As if he could sense the mix of emotions bubbling inside of you, Steve speaks.

“You should be grateful I chose you. No one else is worthy of my touch,” he says, voice smooth as velvet.

Steve leans closer, presses a kiss to your tear-streaked cheek and his breath warms you as he inhales deeply, savoring the mingled scent of your sweat and fading perfume. A string of kisses follow after, trailed along your jaw, before settling on the sensitive curve of your neck, tongue darting out to trace the salty skin and feel the frantic beat of your pulse.

“This is wrong. I know what you did to me, what you…” you whisper shakily, even as you tilt your head unconsciously to give him more access. Steve smiles against your skin, and don’t you don’t see it, not from this angle anyway, but there is pride in his eyes.

“And yet you don’t want me to stop. You’re special, aren’t you?”

Fresh tears slip free, but you lean further into his touch, an insidious pull you can’t find the strength to fight.

“Don’t stop. Please… tell me I’m special again,” you breathe, hating the needy edge in your voice and craving the comfort all the same.

I. Pride (1st to the 5th)

The Oracle decrees: On the first day, you shall build a monument to your own reflection, forgetting that the summer lightning strikes the highest tower first.

“You should be grateful I chose you. No one else is worthy of my touch.”

"Even on my knees, I am still looking down at you."

"Begging doesn't suit me."

II. Envy (6th to the 10th)

The Oracle decrees: On the sixth day, you shall covet the breath in another's lungs until your own chest burns with starvation, watching their happiness from the shadows.

“Why does he/she get your smile when I’m the one who deserves it more?”

“Must be nice to never have to beg for a single scrap of affection.”

“I would burn down this entire world just to feel, for a single second, what it’s like to be preferred.”

III. Wrath (11th to the 15th)

The Oracle decrees: On the eleventh day, you shall strike a match in the heat of the midnight hour, only to realize too late that you are standing in the ruins of what you destroyed.

“You wanted a monster, so stop screaming now that I finally became one.”

“Look around you! Is this what you wanted? Because there's nothing left to save!”

“Hit me again. I’m just waiting for an excuse.”

IV. Sloth (16th to the 19th)

The Oracle decrees: On the sixteenth day, the sweltering heat shall paralyze your limbs, and you will watch the tragedy unfold before you without ever making a sound to help.

“Why bother? Everything turns to dust eventually anyway.”

“It’s too late to fix it now, so why don't you just lie down here in the dark with me?”

“It was so easy to just close my eyes and pretend you were never there.”

V. Greed (20th to the 23th)

The Oracle decrees: On the twentieth day, you shall find that which is not yours, and you shall bury it deep in the earth where it will rot alongside your soul.

“I want every inch of you, every secret, until there's nothing left for anyone else.”

“There is no such thing as 'enough' when it comes to what I want.”

“I don’t care who it belonged to first, it’s mine now.”

VI. Gluttony (24th to the 27th)

The Oracle decrees: On the twenty-fourth day, a feast of ash awaits the tongue that speaks only of its own endless hunger, consuming until there is nothing left to bleed.

“Even if it ruins me, I just want to taste you one more time.”

“There is a void inside me that nothing in this world can ever fill, except maybe you.”

“You call it an addiction, but I call it the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

VII. Lust (28th to the 31st)

The Oracle decrees: On the twenty-eighth day, you shall carve a name into your skin under a stifling summer sun, a monument to an obsession that was never meant to survive.

“You’re my greatest sin, so I’m going to keep fucking you since I’m already damned.”

"This might burns us alive but don't you dare let go of me."

There’s a real chance that his heart stops beating for a full five seconds before it goes back to beating, albeit completely out of sync. His fingers are quick to slide across the keyboard, open the email and just as quickly he’s reading the first paragraph.

Accepted to the NASA Pathways Engineering internship. June through August. Houston. Housing provided. Fully funded. Chance to shadow the Orion program.

His dream, described right there in a long email with details he can’t read when the words begin to blur. The one you planted in him when he was six and you were ten, lying on a blanket in the backyard with that cheap telescope between you. One he’s chased through every late night study session, every rocket model launch in the driveway of your parents home, every school essay that mentioned “the big sister who showed me the stars”.

Bucky should be ecstatic. Maybe yelling, calling Mom and Dad, texting Steve, maybe doing one of those stupid victory dances he used to do when he finally solved a physics problem you’d been helping him with when he was younger.

Instead he just sits there, staring at the screen until words stop making sense, because all he can think about is the fact that Houston is thousands of miles away, and you won’t be there.

Since the planetarium, the two of you have been closer than ever, in a way that feels all too vulnerable but nonetheless unavoidable.

Late night texts started again, him sending a blurry photo of the moon from his bedroom at 2.a.m., captioned “made me think of you”, and you replying with a voice note whispering about the history of some craters’ names. Every time the messages stretched longer, silences between them shorter. You’d catch yourself smiling at your phone in the dark, heart thudding when his typing bubble appeared, knowing he was lying in this starry bedroom thinking about you the way you were thinking about him. Not in a friendly, sibling way; rather, in the way you think about your first school crush, about your first love that is engraved into your bones and that you remember until your deathbed.

Sometimes you’d go for walks after work, bundled up against the February cold, boots crunching over salted sidewalks while he told you about his latest orbital mechanics problem. Other times you’d have lunch together, whenever you had a break long enough to leave the city and visit him for some quick sandwiches at the local café. There were knees brushing under the tiny table, both of you pretending not to notice the way the contact always lingered a second too long.

What you haven’t done since the planetarium is share a bed. Not once, not even for a quick afternoon nap. Neither of you tried anything, neither of you promised to stop, either, but the memory lived in your blood, and his, like oxygen now. You feel it every time you hug him goodbye, his arms wrapping around you a fraction tighter than they should, chin resting on your head just long enough for you to feel his heartbeat through his shirt. At your parents’ house, you catch him staring every dinner across the table, blue eyes a little too dark before he blinks and looks away once he realizes he’s been caught. All the thoughts of his thigh pressed between yours, the way he whispered “my moon” against your mouth like a prayer and a confession all at once.

Once more, you are both trying to keep a wall up, even if you don’t verbalize it. Try to keep conversations safe, you laugh at his dumb jokes and ruffle his hair like the big sister you’re supposed to be. He calls you ‘sis’ in front of your parents, and keeps his hands in his pockets when you walk side by side. But every second more you spend together, the harder it is to ignore the obvious. That afternoon at the planetarium didn’t help fix anything; it just made the ache deeper and impossible to outrun.

Now you catch yourself wondering what it would feel like to kiss him in the middle of a crowded sidewalk just to see if the world would actually end. And he catches himself reaching for your hand before remembering he’s not allowed to.

The Friday afternoon after he’s received the news, Bucky’s standing in your doorway with the printed NASA email burning a hole in his pocket. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, or maybe from nerves, but either way, when you open the door, he looks at you with those same wide blue eyes that used to stare up at you in wonder when you pointed out constellations.

“Hey, can I come in for a second?”

You step aside to let him into your apartment, and the moment the door clicks shut, he doesn’t sit down. Instead he stands there in the middle of your living room, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

“I have a surprise,” he starts. “but you can’t ask any questions about it. Yet, anyway.”

You raise an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest. “That’s kind of a weird way to start a conversation, Buck.”

A nervous smile tugs at his lips. “So, I asked Mom and Dad if I could have their cabin for this weekend. They said yes. I’d like us to go there together, just the two of us. We can leave right now, I have the car outside, and I can wait while you pack.”

The words make you stand there, staring at him, while you process the information. The cabin in the woods.

It’s the same old family cabin your parents have had since you were little, a small, cedar-shingled place tucked deep among the pines, with a big stone fireplace and a wide loft bedroom that overlooks the nearby lake. Every summer and many winter weekends when you were kids, the four of you would pile into the car with snacks and board games and drive up there for a few days. You and Bucky used to race each other down the narrow path to the dock, build snow forts in the backyard, and roast marshmallows until your fingers were sticky.

But what you both used to love most were the nights. There was almost no light pollution that far from the city and the sky would open up like someone had spilled diamonds across black velvet. You’d drag Bucky outside after dark, wrapped in blankets and wearing oversized coats, and lie on the old wooden deck, holding your tiny hands, staring up at the sky.

Now Bucky wants to take you back there, just the two of you, for an entire weekend. Memories flash in your mind even without you wanting them too: his hands on your waist under the Christmas tree, the way he trembled beneath you and the sounds he made when he came while still trying to name stars.

“Bucky…” Your voice comes out quieter than you want. “I don’t think spending a whole weekend alone at the cabin is a good idea. We’ve… been trying. You know that.”

“I know we’ve been trying. We don’t have to ruin that, I just… this is important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

You hesitate, biting the inside of your cheek. The responsible part of your brain is screaming that this is dangerous. Two days in a secluded cabin with no parents and no easy escape, just the cold, and the fireplace, and every forbidden feeling you’ve been trying to bury.

“Bucky, I really think we should think about this…”

“Please.” His voice cracks on the word, in a way that makes your chest ache. “Please, sis. This means a lot to me.”

You can see how much this matters to him, even if you don’t know why yet. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, as he waits for your response. You simply let out a long breath. The love you’ve always felt for him, the safe sibling kind, twists painfully with something you’re terrified to name.

Finally, “Fine,” you say, words coming out softer than you intended, as if showing him that your ‘no’ was never going to hold up anyway. “I’ll go, but only if I drive.”

Bucky blinks, surprise flickering across his features before a little relieved laugh escapes him.

“You don’t trust me on long drives?” he asks, familiar teasing tone creeping back in even though his eyes are still shiny with emotion.

“I’ve seen how you drive when you’re excited about something. Last time you almost hit a mailbox because you were telling me about some new exoplanet discovery. I’m not risking my life just because my little brother gets starry-eyed behind the wheel.

He huffs a laugh, tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. “Fair. You can drive, and I’ll even let you pick the music.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already turning toward your bedroom to start packing. As you throw clothes and toiletries into a bag, your hands shake slightly. You tell yourself it’s just the cold clinging to the apartment, but deep down, you know the truth: you’re not sure how many more times you can be alone with Bucky before things break apart for good.

The drive up to the cabin is a few hours of careful conversation, how your new exhibit is getting good reviews, his midterm grades, Mom’s last attempt at knitting him a scarf that ended up being way too short. You keep the topics safe, the kind of things siblings are supposed to talk about, while songs play on the radio, ones you both know. Bucky laughs in the right moments, but his fingers keep tapping restlessly against his thigh, and every so often you catch him glancing at you a little too long when he thinks you’re focused on the road.

The farther you drive, the more the trees grow thick, road narrower, until familiar landmarks begin appearing. The old wooden bridge over the creek, the rusted mailbox at the turnoff, the final winding dirt path that leads to the cabin.

When the truck finally crunches to a stop in front of the small cedar-shingled building, it looks pretty much the same as it always has. The late afternoon light filters through the tall pines, casting long shadows across the clearing. Air is cold and crisp, sharp enough to bite at your cheeks the moment you open the door, but there’s no fresh snow on the ground today, just a thin layer of frost clinging to the grass and the edges of the wooden porch. The lake behind the cabin is dark and still under the gray sky, thin mist hovering above the water and making the whole place feel secluded, like the rest of the world is very far away.

A few dried leaves skitter across the porch as you step out, and the familiar scent of pine and damp earth fills the air. Your parents must have come up a few days ago to turn on the heat and stock the fridge, because warm golden light already glows from the windows.

Bucky is already grabbing his and your bags from the back of the truck and heading toward the cabin, and you follow him up the creaky steps, finding the old brass key under a nearby pot, in the same place it always was. When you unlock the door, it swings open and you step inside, only to be wrapped by the warmth of the living room like a blanket. The place is exactly as you remember it: big stone fireplace with some wood ready to be lit, worn plaid couch facing the wide windows that look over the forest.

With a thud, Bucky sets the bags down near the couch and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little unsure in the quiet space.

“Still feels the same, doesn’t it?” he says softly.

You nod, shrugging off your coat and hanging it on the familiar hook by the door. Your fingers linger on the wood for a second, but you don’t say anything.

The kitchen is stocked with the usual supplies, like canned goods, some fresh vegetables (whoever stocked the wood surely brought that too), hot chocolate packets, the old red kettle ready to be put on the stove. Same old kitchen supplies, plates, cups. Everything unchanged, frozen in time, the way only childhood places can be.

But you and Bucky aren’t kids anymore. That realization settles heavy in your chest, and you stand there in the living room, cold air still clinging to your clothes even in the warmer inside of the cabin. This place holds too many innocent memories, and now the walls feel dangerously intimate, the quiet feeling too loud.

Bucky crosses the room to the stone fireplace and crouches down in front of the hearth. The wood is stacked and ready, so he simply strikes a match, small flame flaring bright for a second before he touches it to the kindling. It catches quickly, orange light flickering across his face as the fire begins to grow, crackling softly and filling the room with the comforting scent of burning wood. He stays crouched there for a moment, watching the flames take hold, shoulders still a little tense, before he glances back at you over his shoulder.

“I can make us some hot chocolate,” he offers quietly, voice gentle how you’ve always been used to.

Then he stands, brushes his hands on his jeans and heads toward the kitchen. You hear the familiar clink of the old kettle being filled at the sink, the click of the stove turning on. While the water heats, he pulls two mismatched mugs from the cupboard. In the living room, the fire grows stronger and the warmth slowly spreading chases away the last of the outdoor chill. You sink down onto the edge of the worn plaid couch, watching Bucky move around the kitchen with his usual slightly nervous energy.

A few minutes later he returns, carrying both mugs with an almost shy smile that sets your heart aflutter.

“Here,” he says, handing you the one mug with a chipping rocket pattern. “I managed to find some marshmallows, too.”

Gentle fingers brush his as you take the mug from him, and he sits down on the other end of the couch, not too close, but not as far as he probably should. Firelight dances across his face, highlighting the faint flush lingering on his cheeks.

“I missed this place,” he admits. “Being here with you. It’s been a while since we’ve been up here, with college and your work and everything.”

You take a slow sip of the hot chocolate, sweetness spreading across your tongue but doing nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.

“So… do you wanna tell me now why we came all the way up here?” You start, unsure whether he’s ready to finally talk about it. But he is. He sets his mug down on the coffee table, elbows restng on his knees as he leans forward slightly. Then he reaches for his pocket, grabs the piece of paper before sliding it to you, his expression a mix of excitement and fear.

“I got the internship,” he says, almost whispering it. “At the NASA Space Center in Houston. Three months this summer, and it might turn into something permanent after graduation.”

Pride blooms in your chest, overwhelming, thinking about the little boy who used to fall asleep to your stories about Apollo missions, all grown up now, telling you about how he’s taking his first step toward his life’s dream.

“Houston,” you repeat, his same excitement now mirrored in your voice. “Bucky, that’s… that’s everything you’ve always wanted. I’m so happy for you.”

He nods, but his smile is small and a little pained. “Yeah, it is. But it’s also seventeen hundred miles away from you.”

The fire continues to crackle, Bucky’s eyes stay locked on yours.

“That’s why I wanted us to come up here. Just needed this weekend with you before things change.”

You don’t know what to say. So instead, you reach out, your hand finding his on the couch between you and lace your fingers together without thinking, touch both familiar and dangerous. And as you sit there with your fingers intertwined, the truth settles over you like a second layer of skin.

Things had changed forever on Christmas Eve.

That night, when the mistletoe hung above your heads and Bucky’s lips had brushed the corner of your mouth, something inside both of you had cracked open with no magical glue to put it back together in sight. And later, in his starry bedroom, you had slept together, taken your little brother inside you, felt him tremble and whine and fall apart beneath you, and in doing so you had shattered every family boundary that was ever meant to exist. Blood, trust, innocence, all of it fractured in one stolen night. Whatever fire you lit that night had grown into something living and hungry, something you both tried to ignore but couldn’t extinguish.

Maybe the distance will be good, you think.

Houston is seventeen hundred miles away. Thousands of miles of highways and state lines and empty sky between you. Maybe that’s exactly what you both needed, space to breathe and remember how to be just siblings again, to let this forbidden fire cool and fade into something manageable. Three months apart could maybe be enough to soothe the ache, quiet the phantom feeling of his body against yours, let the guilt transform into something quieter than this constant, throbbing need.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Even as the thought forms, it feels like a lie.

Because sitting here with his hand in yours, firelight painting his face in soft gold, you can already feel the pull tightening instead of loosening. How are you supposed to welcome the distance when the thought of him seventeen hundred miles away makes your chest feel hollow?

You don’t ask Bucky, or yourself, those questions for the rest of the evening. It passes in gentle quiet, both of you managing to behave stupidly well for two siblings who have messed everything up twice already, in the most unexpected of settings. After finishing the hot chocolate, Bucky suggests making dinner together, and you agree, both of you moving around the small kitchen like you’ve done a hundred times before in your parents' home. You chop vegetables for soup, Bucky heats up some canned chili and toasts thick slices of bread. Conversation while you work stays safe, focused on more details about the internship, projects he might work on, and you listen with genuine pride blooming in your chest.

After dinner, you settle on the couch again, shoulders brushing as you watch the flames of the fireplace dance. Bucky’s hand finds yours once more, fingers lacing together without either of you commenting on it, because the touch remains innocent, just hands, just occasional glances that linger for a second too long but have no continuation beside that. Everything is nice, is soft. You feel like a kid again, just with a bigger heart now and a mind that won’t rest.

Until it’s time to go to bed.

The loft bedroom is the only real sleeping space; the one with the big quilt-covered bed and the wide window overlooking the lake. Neither of you suggests taking the couch, because at this point, it’d be a nonsensical inconvenience. It’s unspoken, but mutual: you’ll share the bed. Just like when you were kids and thunderstorms scared him.

You change into pajamas separately, you first in the small bathroom and then Bucky while you make your way to the bedroom, in your sleeping shorts and an oversized shirt, already setting up the pillows and setting some clothes from your bag in a nearby armchair. When he comes back, he’s wearing gray sweatpants and old NASA t-shirt that’s a little too tight across his shoulders now, because he’s starting to grow it out. Pretending you don’t notice the outline of his groin through his sleeping bottoms takes quite some effort; pretending you see it but it doesn’t make you want to drop to your knees is just a herculean task.

The bedroom is quiet, lit only by a small lamp on the nightstand and the faint silver glow of the moonlight reflecting off the lake through the window. You both slide under the heavy quilt of the very inviting bed, that feels just as warm as it looked from the outside. For a few minutes you’re quiet, the only sound being the distant hoot of an owl outside and the soft creak of the old wooden frame as you both settle. Then Bucky shifts again, inches a little closer to you, and his voice sounds hesitant in the dark.

“… Can I cuddle you?” he asks quietly. “Like we used to.”

Your heart stutters, but you try to not make anything of it. Just some cuddling under the covers, nothing else. You’re still siblings, you still care for each other.

“Yeah. Come here.”

He moves closer immediately, and you lay on your side as he slides one arm under your pillow and wraps the other around your waist from behind, pulling you gently back against his chest. It’s strange to you how clearly you can feel it, the way his chest is broader and firmer against your back, how his arm drapes heavily over your waist, how his legs are longer as they tuck behind yours. Back on Christmas Eve you had already noticed he’d filled out from college, but lying here like this, tucked securely inside the cage of his body, the change feels even more pronounced. For the first time, you feel smaller than him, even though you’re the older sibling.

It feels sweet and innocent for long enough. Like maybe you could fall asleep like this with no other thoughts propagating through the air of this bedroom.

That is, until you feel it.

Unmistakable, pressed against the curve of your ass through the fabric of his sweatpants, and already half-hard. Your muscles tense and Bucky freezes the second he realizes it’s because you can feel him, his breath catching sharply in his throat.

“Shit,” he whispers, genuinely mortified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I’m really not trying anything, I swear, I just can’t fucking help it.” He starts to pull away from you, embarrassed and awkward, the shy version of him you’ve always known front and center again. His arm loosens around your waist like he’s ready to scramble back to his side of the bed and apologize profusely for the rest of the night.

“Wait… Bucky,” you whisper, already reaching back to catch his wrist before he manages to retreat completely. “It’s okay, just… don’t pull back from me.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, just stays in the same place for a moment, breathing uneven. Even with him quiet, you can practically feel the war raging inside him; shame, desire, the desperate need to be close clashing violently with everything that is wrong about what you’ve done together.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, words coming out in a trembling tone. “Even when I try. I promise I keep trying, but I… being here, in this bed, it’s making it worse. I—” His words cut off midway, like he knows he’s about to say something he can’t take back and is not willing to let it settle into the spine of tonight just yet.

But after another long pause, your back still pressed to his chest, Bucky’s hesitant voice comes again.

“… Do you think we can do something? Not sex. I know we shouldn’t do that again. But…” he whispers. “… maybe we could just touch ourselves while we watch each other? That’s not as bad, right?”

The suggestion hangs in the dark between you, shocking in its vulnerability. His arm tightens slightly around your waist again, maybe like he’s afraid you’ll pull away in disgust, and his forehead drops against the back of your shoulder, hiding his face even though you can’t see it anyway.

“I just need some relief,” he continues. “Being this close to you is driving me crazy. And I don’t wanna ruin the weekend by pushing for more, I know we can’t, I know we shouldn’t, and… and you can say no, it’s fine, I can just go to the bathroom for a bit or something, maybe a cold shower can help…”

“Bucky.” Saying his name like an interruption whenever he begins rambling has become a habit. You don’t hate it that it has become that. He follows through with a self-deprecating little laugh.

You swallow hard, heart hammering against your ribs. Logically, you know this is a terrible idea. There’s little difference between having him inside of you or masturbating while watching each other, at least as far as family boundaries go. You shouldn’t do either. But some part of you (apparently, the part that’s winning over your brain every time you’re near Bucky these days) has been aching for weeks and still remembers exactly how he sounded when he was inside you. And that part wants more.

“… Okay. We can do that.”

Bucky lets out a stunned exhale, obviously not expecting you to agree to this.

“Really? You’re sure?”

His arm loosens around your waist just enough that you can turn to face him. The moonlight coming through the window paints his face in soft hues, and you know there’s just enough light for you to see each other’s faces and the slight flush of his cheeks.

Both your hands reach for the quilt and slowly push it down to your waists. Bucky hesitates for a long moment, so do you, but he’s the first to move, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushing them down just enough to free himself. His cock springs free, already full hard and flushed red at the tip, leaking heavily over his slit. One shaky hand wraps around the base, gripping himself tightly like he’s trying to keep some semblance of control even when he’s desperately spiraling in front of you.

You follow his lead with a shudder, sliding your sleeping shorts and panties down your thighs and kicking them off under the covers. Cool air kisses your heated skin as you spread your legs, and you bend one knee and fold it outward, opening yourself up completely to his gaze. The position exposes your cunt obscenely, showing how slick has already gathered heavily between your folds, making them glisten softly.

That whole imagery hits Bucky like a shot straight to his dick. He lets out a choked whimper.

“Oh my god… I wish you could see yourself,” he whispers, and you swear you almost see his cock twitch in his hand. “So wet. She’s so pretty like that.”

His hand starts moving slowly, long strokes from the soft hair at the base to the tip, thumb swiping over the leaking head on every upward pass. His gaze is locked between your legs, completely transfixed by the sight of your spread pussy calling to him.

“You’re dripping,” he breathes, hips twitching involuntarily into his fist. “Is that… is that all because of me?”

You just nod, shaky breath as your fingers slide through your slick folds, circling your swollen clit slowly at first, then with more pressure, just at the right angle to let him see everything. Bucky’s strokes grow a little faster.

“Fuck, I keep imagining how warm and tight she’d feel around me right now,” he whines, closing his eyes for half a second before opening them again, unable to stop looking at you, your face, the way your fingers are moving. And just as he lays there, in front of you, panting through his arousal, his words register slowly in your mind. How he keeps calling your pussy her, giving her life in a way you hadn’t thought of before.

 “Why…” you ask, voice shaky with arousal and amusement, “why do you keep saying ‘she’ like it’s its own entity?”

Bucky’s hand falters for half a second, a fresh wave of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. But he doesn’t stop stroking himself. If anything, his grip tightens as another bead of precum rolls down over his knuckles.

“Because… I think she might be,” he admits. “She’s got me bewitched. I’m a guy of science but the second I think about her, I’m gone. It’s like she has her own gravity, pulls me in. Makes me stupid.” His strokes grow a little faster, eyes still glued to the way your fingers move over your clit. And you thrive off that attention, too, of having his blue eyes glued to your body like you’ve put a spell on him. So you decide to give him more.

Keeping your knee folded outward, you slide two fingers down through your folds and slowly push them inside yourself. The wet sound feels loud in the quiet room, and Bucky’s breath hitches immediately.

“Fuck, that’s… you’re evil,” he almost laughs, hand stuttering on his cock for a moment before speeding up again. “She’s so greedy, look how she’s sucking those fingers in.”

You let out a soft moan as you curl your fingers, stroking that sensitive spot inside while your thumb continues circling your clit. The position keeps you completely open for him, letting him see every slow thrust of your fingers disappearing into your glistening cunt. And he does see. Watches with his breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, hand twisting at the head of his shaft on every upstroke. His strokes have grown messy and desperate, but he’s still holding something back, although not for long.

“I don’t wanna push it,” he whispers, voice strained. “but let me kiss you. Please? While we do this.”

You would have let him slide in raw inside of you right now if he asked you. So without hesitation you scoot closer and press your lips to his, tentative at first, before it quickly deepens as the pleasure builds between you. His mouth is warm and hungry, tongue sliding against yours with a quiet desperation that makes your fingers move faster inside yourself.

Bucky moans into the kiss, the sound vibrating against your lips, his hand pumping his cock in urgent strokes. He pulls back just enough to speak against your mouth, every word almost swallowed by your lips.

“You taste so good,” he whimpers between kisses. “'I’m gonnna… fuck, I’m gonna cum…”

His free hand comes up to cup the side of your face, holding you to him while his hips start rocking into his fist to chase the feeling. And just like that, while his mouth finds yours and kisses you hard again, his body tenses suddenly. A broken moan spills into your mouth as his orgasm hits him, cock pulsing in his hand as thick ropes of cum shoot across his stomach and onto yours, sticky where your bodies are pressed together. He kisses you all through it, whimpering softly with every spurt, hips jerking unevenly as he rides out the pleasure.

Even after he finishes, he doesn’t pull away. He keeps his lips against yours, breathing hard, forehead resting gently against your own as the last tremors run through him. “I’m sorry… I made a mess,” he murmurs, aware of the sticky mess in both of your stomachs.

You don’t care. You kiss him again, fingers still buried inside yourself, moving faster now that you’ve felt him fall apart against you. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, pressure building faster than before, pushing you oh-so close to the edge.

“Come on, moon, let me see you cum,” he says against your lips, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “Good girl, just like that.”

Your orgasm crashes over you suddenly, all too overwhelming. Your back arches off the bed as your walls clamp down hard around your fingers, a broken moan tearing from your throat, muffled against Bucky’s mouth. He doesn’t kiss you through it because he’s instead chasing your sounds, the whines leaving you desperately as you ride your own high.

Pleasure floods your body in hot waves. Thighs trembling, cunt fluttering and gushing around your fingers as you finger yourself through the peak. You ride the waves until they slowly start to fade, leaving you boneless and panting against Bucky, and finally your fingers slow to a stop, slick coating your hand and dripping down, making everything wetter and messier.

Bucky stays close, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he gently reaches for some tissues on the nightstand and in complete silence he cleans you first, reverent touches wiping away the sticky evidence of his release from your stomach and the slick between your legs. You do the same for him after, fingers slow and tender as you wipe the streaks of cum from his skin. When you’re both as clean as you’re going to get without a shower Bucky pulls the heavy quilt back up over your bodies and without a word opens his arms. You slide into them instantly, letting him wrap himself around you completely.

Your legs tangle together naturally. One of yours slips between his, the other drapes over his hip, pulling him flush against you. His arms wind around your back, strong and secure, while yours slide around his waist, fingers splaying across the warm skin of his lower back. Your chests press together, hearts beating against one another, faces so close that your noses brush.

Bucky leans in first. His lips find yours in the dark, a slow kiss, lazy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need to lead anywhere else. Just soft presses of lips, gentle brushes of tongue, little sighs shared between you when you part for air before colliding again.

Your bodies shift in unison, pressing closer, hips settling against each other, legs tightening their hold. Every small movement feels synchronized, a gentle rock, a whisper of a word neither really try to figure out, slow glide of skin on skin under the quilt. His hand slides up your back, cradles the nape of your neck as he kisses you deeper. You answer by threading your fingers through his hair, holding him to you.

There are no words. Nothing you could say could quite make sense of this moment, anyway. The kisses grow slower, heavier, blurring into something almost dreamlike. Too emotionally raw, not quite what you’d see on a movie screen, but sensual nonetheless.

Eventually, exhaustion and warmth win. Bucky’s hold on you never loosens, but he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, presses one last soft kiss there before his breathing starts to even out. You, on the other hand, stay awake a little longer, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, and simply pretending.

Pretending that Houston isn’t waiting for him, that he isn’t your little brother. That the two of you are just a normal couple who met in an ordinary way, fell in love in an ordinary way, who are allowed to fall asleep tangled in each other like this without feeling guilt creeping up through every crevice of your body.

With that aching fantasy wrapped around your heart, you finally let your eyes close.

Pale winter light filters through the wide window overlooking the lake. You wake up first, still tangled with Bucky, his arm heavy around your waist, one leg slotted between yours, face still buried in the crook of your neck as if neither of you moved an inch throughout the night, or if you did, you were pulled back into your original orbit.

For a moment you just lie there, listening to the distant call of birds outside. Then you lean in, press a kiss to his cheek, and he stirs awake, humming sleepily as he tightens his hold on you. When his eyes open properly to find yours, he only whispers a quiet ‘morning’ before catching your lips in a lingering kiss like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then a few more lazy kisses, then a kiss to your cheek, another to your forehead, to the tip of your nose. You feel him a little bolder than usual, maybe emboldened by the way last night ended.

“Wanna shower?” he asks. “I think there’s only enough hot water for one proper shower. We should share. …Y’know, to save water and all.”

A paper-thin excuse, one you see right through, but you nod yes anyway.

You head to the small connected bathroom together, naked but making no attempt to hide yourself. Bucky turns on the shower, lets the water heat up while you grab clean towels from the nearby cabinet. When the steam starts to fill the room, he takes your hand and guides you under the spray first.

Warm water cascades over your bodies, and for a while you simply stand there, letting it wash away the remnants of last night. Until Bucky steps closer, his front pressing flush against your back. His hands settle on your hips, gentle, thumbs rubbing gentle circles against your skin. You feel him lean in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as the water runs down both of you. He doesn’t immediately do anything else, maybe instead waiting for your reaction, whether you’re still willing to let him push further this morning.

Your silent permission comes in the form of your body going pliant against his, leaning back against him and that encourages him to grow bolder.

One arm slides fully around your waist, pulling you tighter against him while his other hand trails down your stomach. His fingers glide through the water running over your skin until they reach between your legs, settling but not yet moving.

“Bucky, what are you doing?” Your voice barely comes out, breath already caught in your throat. Despite your question, you know perfectly well what he’s doing; what’s surprising you is his sudden confidence, the way he’s taking without stuttering through it, without letting his inexperience become a hinderance.

“Making you feel good, moon,” he whispers, two thick fingers sliding finally through your folds and pushing inside you in one confident motion.

You gasp, forehead lolling forward against the cool tile wall, as the immediate stretch burns through you, feeling perfect despite any conflicting feelings that remain just barely under the surface. His fingers curl slowly to stroke the sensitive spot inside you, head falling to your shoulder. Open mouth presses wet kisses to the skin, mixing with the warm water dripping from above you, quiet hums whispered against the muscle.

Curling on every inward stroke, his fingers thrust deeply but slowly, keeping a rhythm that makes your knees weak. Still, his arm is banded around your waist and keeping you from breaking apart, holding you upright as your legs begin to tremble. Behind you, and through the haze of your own pleasure, you still manage to feel Bucky’s cock fully hard, pressing thick and heavy against the curve of your ass. It throbs every time your walls clench around his fingers, and he grinds forward slowly, not exactly chasing release, but just rubbing himself against you in time with the rhythm of his hand, just enough movement to provide some relief.

His fingers never slow down, never falter, thrusting inside of you until you’re falling apart, until your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, pleasure exploding behind your eyelids and thighs trembling uncontrollably. Slick coats his hand and drips down your thighs, washed away instantly by the hot water, and his hand only stops when your body starts to slump, soothing thrusts through your aftershocks until it halts completely.

And then, with his usual gentleness, he slowly withdraws his fingers and brings them to rest on your stomach, holding you close as the water continues to rain down over both of you.

After the shower, both of you dress in comfortable layers; thick sweaters, jeans, wool socks, and take over the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Bucky cracks a few eggs into an old cast-iron skillet, you handle coffee, and by the time you’re both sitting by the small wooden table by the window, the conversation is nothing heavier than how the lake looks different every season and whether Mom’s knitting phase, which started in this very cabin, will ever produce anything truly wearable.

When breakfast is cleared, you step outside into the crisp Saturday air. The sky has cleared to a pale blue, sunlight slanting through the pines and turning the frost on the grass into tiny diamonds.

“Should check the woodpile,” Bucky says, already pulling on his jacket. “Fire’s gonna need feeding if we want to keep it cozy inside.”

No fighting that. You fall into step beside him, walking the path to the shed that is the same narrow dirt trail you used to race down as kids. Now you walk side by side at an easy pace, boots crunching over fallen needles and the occasional patch of frozen ground. Bucky points out a squirrel darting up a trunk with impressive speed, and you tease him about the time he tried to rescue a baby bird only to get dive-bombed by its mother. He laughs, cheeks pink from the cold, and you hold his wrist in your hand, make him stop in his tracks and almost kiss him right there, somehow wishing to make that flush darker. You end up deflecting, telling him he had a leaf in his hair before you continue down the path.

Both of you take turns loading up the old wheelbarrow with split logs, but Bucky insists on doing most of the heavy lifting, his breath coming out as a fog in the crisp air as he stacks the wood. You tease him about showing off, and he shoots you a lopsided grin over his shoulder, which combined with his flushed cheeks makes your belly twist a weird way.

“Gotta make sure my moon doesn’t strain anything,” he jokes, standing too close when it’s your turn and his hand brushing the small of your back as you bend to grab another log. The wheelbarrow fills quickly, and the two of you push it together back toward the cabin, shoulders sometimes bumping with your steps along the uneven path.

The rest of the morning slips into lazy domesticity, you making more coffee and Bucky digging through the old cabinet of board games tucked under the cabin stairs only to emerge victoriously holding a Monopoly box worn at the edges from years of family weekends. “Think you can handle getting crushed?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows as he sets it up on the coffee table in front of the fire.

You snort. “Bold words from someone who still owes me imaginary money from the last time we played this like, six years ago, Buck.”

The game starts innocently enough, you building up properties steadily while Bucky’s luck is comically bad. Keeps landing on your hotels over and over, groaning dramatically each time as stacks of colorful paper money leave his side of the board. By the time you’re deep into the afternoon, the fire crackling steadily beside you, Bucky is ridiculously broke. Most of his properties are mortgaged, and his little silver car is currently sitting in jail.

“This game is rigged,” he mutters, staring at his pitiful collection of singles.

You laugh, legs tucked under you on the couch for added warmth. The living room feels good enough with the heat from the fire, but you’ve had to interrupt the game of Monopoly midway through to put on some hilarious pink fuzzy socks because your feet always seem to be running ten degrees below your normal body temperature.

“Have you considered that maybe you just suck at this game?”

He glances at you, blue eyes narrowing in that mischievous way that always used to spell trouble when you were kids. Then, while you’re counting a massive pile of cash and he thinks you’re not paying enough attention to anything else, he leans forward, quick as a fox, and snatches a few $500 bills from the bank.

“Bucky!” You lunge for his hand, but he’s already laughing, shoving the stolen money under his thigh.

“What? Everyone knows banks are corrupt anyway, I’m just redistributing wealth.”

The game dissolves after that, you playfully wrestling him for the stolen money until he manages to overpower you simply by wrapping one hand around your waist and pulling you to him before pressing a kiss to your cheek that sends your emotional system into overdrive. Monopoly lays forgotten on the coffee table as the both of you eventually go back to the kitchen to prepare the world’s most complex dinner: a couple of cheese and ham sandwiches which you assemble messily before carrying them back to the couch.

“Look at us. Responsible adults, driving all the way up here, chopping wood, eating sandwiches for dinner. Mom and Dad would be so proud.”

Bucky chuckles around a bite of his sandwhich. “We’re like the most responsible people I have ever met.”

Time slows, dissipates, does something else entirely and by the time it’s completely dark out, both of you are stretched out on the wide plaid couch under a thick wool blanket, remnants of your earlier session of board games and sandwiches pushed aside on the coffee table. The soothing sounds of the crackling fire in front of you fade easily into the room, and Bucky’s arm draped around you, with his hand tracing idle circles on your skin, makes you feel as much as home as if you were back in your apartment.

Actually, maybe he feels more like home.

Conversation melted into warm silence a while back, and now you’re simply two people with tangled legs and hearts hoping neither of you is foolish enough to continue what you’ve tried to stop time and time again.

Coming to this cabin alone had been a mistake, Bucky knew it, you knew it, yet you did it anyway. So you shifting in his lap slightly just to make yourself more comfortable, him leaning his head down until your noses are brushing and you turning your head just enough that your lips find his once again, isn’t a surprise, it’s just inevitability.

Lips mold carefully, a natural tilt of heads, lips moving in perfect synchrony while your hands curl into the soft fabric of his sweater and his find your cheek, cradle the back of your neck. The blanket stays over you both, trapping shared heat and, if you’re lucky, trapping whatever feelings are bubbling under the surface and keeping them caged just between your bodies and this old couch. Another kiss, and he bites down on your bottom lip, pulling on it until you moan and only then does he release it with a grin; another kiss, and he ends it by brushing both his lips against your upper one, chasing it before pulling back slowly to look down at you.

One of his hands slips beneath the hem of your sweater, palm warm against the skin of your stomach, stroking upward until his thumb grazes the underside of your breast and makes you arch into the touch with the softest sigh. His eyes watch you closely as you move, and he leans down a fraction.

“Hi,” he whispers, and you can’t help the tiny smile on your lips.

“Hi,” you whisper back. An exchange so ridiculously sweet that both of you let out a soft breath of laughter into each other’s mouths before kissing again. His hand continues its journey under your clothes, finally cupping your breast fully and thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbles under his touch. Your body presses closer, one leg sliding higher and over his hip, which drags a whine out of him.

Bucky sits up just enough to help you pull your sweater up and over your head, the motion ruffling your hair just slightly; not a second after he’s on you, fingers reaching forward and smoothing out your hair, pushing a few strands behind your ears. “Always so beautiful, my moon,” he says, before reaching down and peppering soft kisses across the skin, lips traveling over your clavicles, then down the valley between your breasts, teeth every so softly grazing the skin, teasing but never going through with any touch that could be a little rougher. Eager, but not quite impatient, your hands reach for him next as he ducks down your body, bunching his sweater in your fists and dragging it off of him when he moves his head cooperatively. The motion exposes the hard planes of his chest, faint definition of muscle that he earned during college. When the sweater is off, he crawls up your body again and presses his bare torso flush against yours, skin on skin, heartbeats thudding together in a room too small for the size of what you’re sharing together.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants and panties then, and you lift your hips so he can work the fabric down your thighs, past your knees and off your ankles. Once they’re gone, his hands glide back up your legs, spreading them gently so he can settle fully between your thighs. You return the favor, sliding your palms down his stomach until you reach his pants. Bucky moves his hips, lets you push the fabric out of the way, down, until his cock is freed, already hard and flushed, leaking at the tip and brushing against your inner thigh as he kicks the pants the rest of the way off. Firelight paints the curve of his shoulders and one side of his face in gold, and you admire the sight while your naked bodies seal together under the blanket, all of you pressed to all of him, so close that you can even feel the short, coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your skin.

Another shift under his body, and this time, it’s to try to roll him over so you can climb on top. To your surprise, Bucky catches your waist with both hands and pins you back down into the couch cushions.

“Not tonight.” His voice is surprisingly steady when he says it, as if he’s been practicing how to be like this, for you. “I wanna make you feel good. This time just… lay there and do what you always do best. Just look pretty for me.”

You open your mouth to protest, the usual excuse of you being more experienced, the older sister, that you should be the one taking care of him, already on your tongue, but Bucky kisses you quiet before you can get any words out. You already knew Bucky made up for his lack of experience with his enthusiasm; it had been exactly like that the last two times you had been together. And this time it’s no different. His mouth kisses down your neck, sucks gently at the swell of your breast until you’re squirming beneath him, and one of his hands slips between your legs, fingers gliding through your folds to find you already wet and wanting. A thumb circles your clit with soft pressure and then two fingers push slowly inside you until you’re moaning his name and your back is arching off the couch in pleasure.

Only when you’re trembling and soaking his hand, when he feels maybe his fingers are no longer enough to stoke the fire inside you, does he pull back, his heavy cock nestling now between your bodies as he looks down between the two of you.

“I… I didn’t bring any condoms,” he begins to stammer, brows furrowed in concentration, as if thinking too hard about it will make a box of Magnums suddenly materialize next to you. “I wasn’t expecting… well, I mean, I was hoping… no, not hoping, not like that, but you know… I just, I wanted it, but I didn’t think we would actually do this again. So I didn’t bring any.”

You cup his flushed face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as you pull him down until your foreheads rest together.

“It’s okay. Do you think… do you think you can pull out? Before you finish?”

His expression shifts almost instantly, relief instead flickering through his face. He nods quickly, familiar awkward earnestness shining through.

“Fuck, yeah, yes…” he breathes, voice a little shaky. “I promise I’ll pull out. I’ve got you, moon.”

The hand that had still been resting between your bodies guides the blunt head of his cock to nudge against your entrance, and you feel him teasing, a few times, rubbing the tip slowly over your folds without pushing in. Your eyes meet his, eyes furrowed in a ‘really?’ look before he sheepishly grins, and finally begins pushing in, bare, until he sinks the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in your warmth.

Bucky drops his head to your neck, hips rolling slowly as he starts to move.

“You’re so warm,” he rasps. “Fuck, I didn’t… I imagined having you like this, without a condom, but I didn’t imagine it would feel this good.” 

Rolling thrusts rock you gently into the couch cushions, the blanket that had been covering you previously beginning to slip down his waist. The first few movements are a little awkward, a bit unsure, as if he’s searching and trying to find his own rhythm. He finds it, you think, when he angles his hips in a certain way that makes his cock hit a spot inside you that makes you moan louder, while his pelvis grinds against your clit.

Then he holds it right there. Hands keeping you close, one braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to keep you spread open for him. All you can do is cling to his back and moan his name while he worships you under the golden light.

After a few strokes, Bucky sits up slightly, hooks his hands behind your knees and lifts your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders. It catches you off guard, so much you almost want to tease him for it, or praise him for it, but either option is lost because the new angle makes him sink deeper and instead what comes out is a sharp gasp at the intense pleasure, your hands flying to grip his arms.

“Bucky, oh my god…” Moans, gasps, words that sound more like whines, your eyes closing the same time Bucky brings a thumb to your bottom lip and pries it away from the confines of your lips. And in that moment, his gaze drifts to the side and catches sight of your feet still covered in the fuzzy pink socks you’d put on earlier. The soft pink looks almost ridiculous against his bare shoulders and the very adult way your bodies are joined. A soft chuckle rumbles out of his chest, cutting sweetly through your and his heavy breathing.

“You’re so cute,” he murmurs, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the side of your ankle, right above the fuzzy pink cuff. Lips trail slowly up your calf, too soft and sweet even as his hips keep rolling steadily into you. “Keeping the socks on. Hope your pretty little toes are warm in there.”

You are vaguely aware of him teasing you, but the gentle kisses and the grinding thrusts are making your head spin, so your fingers dig into his biceps as pleasure coils tighter inside you. It doesn’t help that every few seconds he’s whispering something about you ‘looking so good like this’, praising the way you’re taking him so well. The new angle is devastating, every deep stroke pushing you closer to the edge. Feet covered in pink fuzzy socks bouncing slightly on his shoulders with every thrust is an absurdly sweet detail that somehow makes this feel more intimate, the same feeling you’d had the night before when you were in bed together. Like this could be a regular night in a normal couple’s life.

“Bucky, I’m so close,” you say, and you are, thighs trembling against his chest, his breathing ragged when he leans down and folds you further to press a messy kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” he gasps against your mouth, words tumbling out in the heat of the moment. “God, I love you… I’m so in love with you.”

There is a language cinema speaks when fate arrives at the door. Time thickens like honey. The frame pulls close, hungry for detail: a hand mid-reach, a mouth half-open, the exact moment understanding crosses a face.

Someone who holds their breath until it’s over, another one who can’t look away even when their fingers are coming to cover their eyes. Music swells, filling every corner, and then it’s gone. Silence drops like a held breath finally released because some moments are too large for sound.

And so all of it stretches, right here. World narrowing to a single point, the heat of. him moving inside of you as those words spill from like a star collapsing.

Your body reacts before you do, walls clenching around his cock in an involuntary response, because the last thing you should be praising is those words coming from his mouth. But your body likes them. Straight in your gut, fueling the fire in the pit of your stomach, you feel it: please, Bucky, say it again.

Still, panic floods your chest like ice water.

“Stop,” you choke out, voice breaking. “Bucky, get off me.”

He freezes instantly, buried deep inside you, his eyes widening in shock.

“What—”

“Get off,” you repeat, sharper this time, pushing at his chest as your heart hammers. “Please, Bucky, get off me.”

Bucky scrambles to move. but he pulls out immediately, moving back to kneel between your legs with a devastated look on his face. His cock is still hard and glistening with your arousal, and his chest is heaving.

“Shit, I’m so sorry—I wasn’t thinking, it just came out, I didn’t mean to… I mean, I did mean it, but I didn’t want to make you—”

“Please stop talking,” you whisper, sitting up quickly and pulling the blanket over your naked body like a shield, as if suddenly the thought of him seeing you naked is too much, too inappropriate. Bucky, as if understanding that distance you put on immediately, quickly grabs his boxers and puts them on before getting off the couch and pacing the small space next to you.

I’m so in love with you.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. “You can’t say that. You can’t… you can’t say that and say that you mean it.”

He’s absolutely wrecked, cheeks flushed, hair messy, eyes shiny with embarrassment and the remnants of his arousal. “But I mean it. I’m sorry, I just do. I love you. I can’t not say it.”

Bucky stands there in the firelight, wearing nothing but his boxers hastily pulled on, and it would be a little distracting if you weren’t focused on trying to keep your heart from jumping out of your chest. “I’m so in love with you,” he repeats, quieter but no less certain.

You clutch the blanket tighter around your body, failing miserably at keeping your heart steady, so much you think it’ll bruise your ribs from how fast it’s beating.

“Bucky, stop. We can’t—”

“Why? Why can’t I say it? Because it’s true, I love you. You’re the only person who’s ever made the stars make sense. And I’d give up Houston tomorrow if you asked me to, if you told me to stay here with you. So don’t ask me not to say it.”

You swipe at your cheeks angrily, trying to brush away the stubborn tears that insist on falling. “That’s why you can’t say it, we can’t… we keep saying we’re trying but we’re not. Every time we’re together, alone, we make it worse. This whole weekend, we’re making it worse.” You wrap both arms around your knees and pull them up to your chest under the blanket. “We should stop. For good.”

Bucky swallows hard, frustratedly running a hand through his hair while his shoulders remain tense.

“I can take the couch tonight. You should sleep in the bed.” The offer is gentle, despite everything, but it’s also a quiet message: this conversation is over for now.

Part of you wants the distance, while another part hates the idea of him sleeping alone on this old couch after everything that just happened. You just look at him, not answering yet, just watching him; him, James, your Bucky, your bestfriend, your brother, who used to be a boy that chased the stars you pointed out to him, now here with his heart bleeding openly. As if realizing that you want to say something, that you want to give him an answer that can’t quite leave your lips yet, he gives you a sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I didn’t wanna ruin the weekend. Just wanted one more good memory with you before I left for Houston.”

Night was long and restless.

As Bucky had offered, he took the couch downstairs while you ended up on the bed upstairs alone. Even though you had wanted to call him back upstairs, the words never made it past the lump in your throat. Sleep came in fragments, haunted by the echo of his confession. You’re still distraught; of course you are. The words I’m so in love with you keep replaying in your head, impossible to silence.

You realize, possibly too late, that you won’t know how to look at him anymore without feeling like the ground is shifting beneath your feet. That it is Sunday morning, and you have to pack to leave for the city, and that both of you have an hours-long journey ahead of you, alone in a car. By the time you get dressed and get downstairs, Bucky is already awake too, folding the blanket you both had been using the night before, which he had slept wrapped in. He glances up, nods as a greeting.

Then neither of you speaks.

Both you and Bucky move around the cabin like ghosts of yourselves, gathering clothes, folding blankets, packing the toiletries you’d brought for the weekend. Sounds are amplified in silence, the zipper of your bag suddenly too loud, a creak on the wooden floorboard you hadn’t noticed until now. A few times, you catch him looking at you, but he looks away quickly when your eyes meet.

Bucky finishes packing the last of the groceries your parents had left and carries both your bags to the door, then stands by the window for a moment, looking out at the forest surrounding you.

“I need some fresh air before we head back,” he says quietly, which you interpret as him letting you know that he needs some time alone before an hours-long drive with you by his side the entire time. “I’ll go for a short walk, won’t be long.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something more, but thinks better of it. Pulls on his jacket, slips his boots on and steps outside, closing the door behind him a little too harshly for his usual behavior.

While he’s gone, you finish tidying the last few things, wiping down the kitchen counters and making sure the fireplace is completely out, always moving mechanically and trying not to think too much about anything. And you manage, mostly, until Bucky comes back twenty minutes later, cheeks and nose flushed pink from the walk, hair slightly tousled and a small bundle in his arms that stops you mid-motion as you wipe down the counter.

A tiny, white as snow kitten, clearly a few months old by the look of it, nestled against his chest, peeking out from the folds of his jacket with curious blue eyes. Its fur is fluffy, a little messy in the way kittens always have their fur a little messy, a little pink nose and one tiny paw batting lazily at the zipper pull.

“Found him… her… I dunno. Hm, in the woods,” he says, voice a bit rough from the cold. “Huddled under some brush near the trail, shivering, no mom or siblings in sight. I couldn’t just leave it there.”

The kitten lets out a tiny, squeaky meow, as if backing up his story, and rubs its face against Bucky’s jacket. Something in your chest cracks open, which might be the exhaustion of the sleepless night setting in, or maybe the unbearable tenderness of seeing your little brother cradling something so small and fragile.

You set the cloth down slowly. “Bucky…”

“It’s supposed to get colder tonight. This baby won’t survive out here alone.” He steps closer, and for the first time since yesterday’s argument, you are looking into each other's eyes without finding another point in the cabin to look at. “We should take it back with us, I can keep it at the house until we figure something out. I’m sure Mom and Dad won’t mind.”

Until we figure something out. We, like it’s your shared problem now. Drawn by the kitten’s soft purring, you cross the room and reach out, one finger gently scratching under its chin. The kitten moves its head, tries to sniff your finger and then bumps its head against it demandingly.

“It likes you,” Bucky murmurs, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “Figures.”

For a moment, the tension eases, and you feel like just two siblings who found a lost cat in the woods by your parents’ cabin. Nothing else is complicated.

So you do the only rational thing: you agree with him. Grab an old blanket that you had already put away and use it to wrap the poor kitten in it while Bucky loads the truck with the last bags. When everything is ready, including a makeshift nest for the cat on the center console, you get on the driver’s side while Bucky finishes closing up the cabin.

One he’s chased through every late night study session, every rocket model launch in the driveway of your parents home, every school essay that mentioned “the big sister who showed me the stars”.

i'm??? okay, it's fine. i'm not in full yearning mode or anything.

Not in a friendly, sibling way; rather, in the way you think about your first school crush, about your first love that is engraved into your bones and that you remember until your deathbed.

alright be cool. everything's cool.

All the thoughts of his thigh pressed between yours, the way he whispered “my moon” against your mouth like a prayer and a confession all at once.

sweet jesus???

“Please.” His voice cracks on the word, in a way that makes your chest ache. “Please, sis. This means a lot to me.”

i have an image so vividly in my head. i know you know what it is

“… Do you think we can do something? Not sex. I know we shouldn’t do that again. But…” he whispers. “… maybe we could just touch ourselves while we watch each other? That’s not as bad, right?”

no no...not bad at all...what's the worst that could happen??

You would have let him slide in raw inside of you right now if he asked you.

as raw as cookie dough i'm afraid

His lips find yours in the dark, a slow kiss, lazy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need to lead anywhere else.

i got another image in mind, i'm sure you also know which one 😩

After a few strokes, Bucky sits up slightly, hooks his hands behind your knees and lifts your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders.

baby boy has learned some mooooveeses whoghowiwho

“Why? Why can’t I say it? Because it’s true, I love you. You’re the only person who’s ever made the stars make sense. And I’d give up Houston tomorrow if you asked me to, if you told me to stay here with you. So don’t ask me not to say it.”

don't mind me

“I didn’t wanna ruin the weekend. Just wanted one more good memory with you before I left for Houston.”

oh, what's that? there's a hole in my chest 😭😭😭😭

A tiny, white as snow kitten, clearly a few months old by the look of it, nestled against his chest, peeking out from the folds of his jacket with curious blue eyes.

ALPINE MY BABYYYYY

sheesh what a ride 😭 writing so good it makes me forget the dove is dead until the angst hits me in the mouth.

Rather, everything is the same except for one detail: tonight you’re braced on the edge of the farmhouse table (same one that has been here since before you were born), elbows locked, dress shoved up around your waist, panties still hooked around one ankle like they got kicked off in a hurry and never made it to the floor.

Behind you, your uncle Bucky has his jeans open but not down, just shifted enough for him to free his cock and fist himself, and drag the head through your slick to let you feel him. He hasn’t said anything yet. Just came into the kitchen when you were halfway through preparing some cake batter, watched you for a few minutes with his arms crossed over his chest before he made his way over to you and kissed you stupid.

Between that and being face down on the kitchen table, it was a heartbeat.

The overhead light buzzes and throws long shadows across the scarred wood, across faint stretch marks on your hips. You’d gained them when you lost weight, and now they remind you of the same ones you used to see on your mother’s body when she reached for the top shelf in her sleep shirt.

Uncle Bucky notices them, too, his fingers tracing the faint marks on your legs.

“You look just like your mom did when she was younger,” he says, leaning down to kiss along your shoulder. “and that’s why I can’t stop myself from bendin’ you over the same kitchen table.”

The words feel like a slap. Too dirty, too honest, wrong in just the right way to make your cunt clench around nothing. Glancing back over your shoulder, you find his eyes dark, staring at the place where your bodies are almost connected like it’s holy ground he’s about to desecrate.

“That’s so fucked, Bucky,” you whimper, but whatever else you need to say dies on your tongue when he notches himself at your entrance and holds there. Perfect pressure with no relief.

“I know. Been fucked up since I was twenty-four and she laughed at one of my dumb jokes while kneadin’ dough right here.”

Metal fingers trail down your spine, settling at the small of your back and pressing just enough to make you arch deeper.

“She’d stand exactly like this sometimes,” he murmurs. “Leanin’ forward, forearms on the table, pretendin’ to read a recipe while she waited for the oven timer. Skirt hiked just enough I could see the backs of her thighs. I never touched her, not once. But fuck, I wanted to.”

Your breath hitches. Shame and heat twist together until you can’t tell which is overriding your system. Fingers curled against the wood, the same one with small tiny burn marks from when you were six and tried to help make cookies, you consider telling him to stop. That this is wrong.

You don’t say stop.

Instead, you push back, just a fraction, so the tip slips inside, barely breaching.

Bucky hisses through his teeth.

“That’s it,” he breathes before feeding you the rest of his cock in one long slide that makes your eyes roll back. “Look at that, princess, takin’ it like your mommy never got the chance to.”

He bottoms out and stays. Lets you feel every inch, every throb, the way he’s already leaking inside you from nothing but memory.

When he finally starts moving, deep, measured strokes, the table legs creak against the linoelum. Every thrust forward rocks the salt shaker an inch closer to the edge until it tips and spills.

His flesh arm slides around your stomach, pulls you back harder onto him, while his metal fingers find your clit and begin circling slowly. Your body jerks, you cry out, and he holds you tighter.

“She used to hum when she baked,” he says, almost comically conversational even as he continues fucking you harder. “A little off-key. I’d sit at the counter readin’ the newspaper and watchin’ her hips sway. Wanted to drop to my knees behind her and bury my face between my legs ‘til she forgot her name.”

A sharp thrust forward and you think you are able to see stars.

“But I was always too chickenshit” he growls. “Always makin’ excuses. First we were kids, then we were family, then she was married. Too many lines we couldn’t cross.” Another punishing thrust, “But you… you’re letting me cross every single one, aren’t you? With your cunt dripping for me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

“Uncle Bucky, please—”

Bucky just keeps driving into you, murmuring filthy half-confessions about how he used to love the way she looked and how, somehow, you look so much better. Exactly like her, but prettier, messier. His metal fingers circle your clit harder, a little faster, his hips following suit as you moan for him.

Please, please, please. Begging, whimpering, eyes rolling into the back of your head with every hit of his cock to the soft, spongy spot inside of you.

And the moment he feels you begin to clench around him, so close to release, he yanks your head back by the hair so he can see your face when you come. It happens suddenly, your nails scraping the wood and back bowing as a sob rips out of you.

Bucky follows right after, growling your name like a wounded animal, spilling deep inside you like he’s trying to mark something that always belonged to him. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything, neither do you, and all you feel is his ragged breathing and the excess of him slowly leaking out around his softening cock. With a grunt, he thrusts inside of you once, twice, fucking his release back into you.

Softly, he presses a kiss to the top of your head, then to your shoulder.

“Needa’ refinish this table,” he mutters against your skin.

That drags a full belly laugh out of you.

“Come over tomorrow. I’ll help you out.”

Today, he’d started repainting on a whim, or maybe nostalgia. The walls had faded over time, but Bucky had wanted it perfect again. Nothing but always perfect for you. He sets the brush down on the drop cloth, the scent of fresh paint lingering in the air. The furniture is pushed to the center, covered in plastic, and the window lets in the late afternoon soon.

The door opens, and he hears the sound of your light footsteps on the hardwood floor. “Dad? I know you said to stay out of the bedroom today, but—” Your voice goes quiet as your eyes widen and you take in the transformation. The room looks brand new, like stepping into a cherished memory from your childhood. Bucky watches you admire his handywork, blue eyes lingering on the oversized sweater swallowing your frame.

For months now, you two had blurred your relationship. Father, lover, all the same. No one knew. No one had to.

“Surprise,” he says with a smirk tugging at his lips. He wipes his hands on a nearby rag, but you can still see a speck of pink pain on his cheek. “Thought it was time to freshen it up. Same color as always.”

You step closer, arms wrapped around your upper body like you’re hugging yourself. “I like this color. Think I always will. Maybe because you chose it for me.”

The words aren’t meant with any weight, but they feel heavy nonetheless. Bucky approaches you, his expression softening, before he stops behind you and wraps his vibranium arm around your shoulders, pulling you to him. His lips press a chaste kiss to the top of your head. “Always knew this color would be perfect for you. My little girl. And now, look at you. All grown up.”

Half a beat later, your breath is hitching as his human hand slides to your waist. Not demanding, just resting there. "I’m still your little girl,” you tell him, quietly, staring up at the pink walls.

Bucky leans in, and this time he presses a kiss to the spot behind your ear. “Not really. But that’s okay. I love the grown up version of you even more.” Warm fingers dig into your hip, and he almost absentmindedly rolls his hips into yours once. “But I miss seeing this room with a baby. Makes me think… maybe we could work on that.”

Heat pools in your core, body responding instinctively to him. When did your relationship with your dad become this fucked up? Months ago, when you’d returned from college, life in the city too hard for you to keep up with by yourself. He’d offered you back your childhood bedroom, of course, it had always been yours; what you hadn’t expected was to find so much more than your dad behind the figure of Bucky Barnes. Since you’d come back, you had erased family rules one too many times. In the kitchen, in the backyard, in his bed. Never really here, in your pink sanctuary.

“What do you mean?” You ask, though you already know the answer.

Bucky turns you on his hold, his eyes locked onto yours. “I’ll breed you in the nursery I painted for you.” Paint flecks still dust his forearms, that one paint streak across his cheekbone. His hand reaches out, slowly, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you let me. If you want me to.”

You only nod before he crashes his mouth against yours, hungry and demanding. You melt into him, hands fisting his white tank top as he backs you toward the bed. The plastic crinkles and complains loudly under your as he lowers you onto the mattress, but you’re thankful to have at least something separating the sin happening between the two of you from the ever holy childhood plushies under you.

His hands roam, stripping away your sweater, your bra, exposing your skin to the cool air. “Always the most beautiful girl,” he murmurs, lips trailing down your neck. Your back arches off the bed and into him, fingers tangling in his hair as he peels off your pants, leaving you bare beneath him. Then his jeans hit the floor, followed by his boxers. He’s hard, flushed dark at the tip, already glistening with a bead of precome. With no preamble, he crawls over you, caging you with his arms, and kisses you again, warm tongue prodding into your mouth while he rubs himself against your core. You push your own panties down and not a second later Bucky is pushing his hard length against you, ready to slide home.

“Tell me you want it,” he whispers into your lips as he teases your entrance. “Fuck, baby girl, tell me you want me to—”

“Yes,” you interrupt him, spreading your legs wider for him. “Yes, Dad, I want it.”

With a deep groan, he thrusts into you and filling you completely. Every time, the sensation was overwhelming. Your walls always clenched hard around him, your pussy warm and velvety and always so wet for him. The bed creaks softly as he begins fucking into you slowly but hard, hips snapping into yours and balls slapping against your ass. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer with each stroke. “My pretty girl,” he says between the sound of skin slapping against skin. “Daddy loves you so much. Daddy’s gonna love you even more when you’re round and swollen with our baby.”

You moan, nails digging into his back, the coil in your belly tightening. Bucky knows exactly every inch of you, every spot that makes you shatter, but this newfound desire, his words burning into you like a brand, make the moment so much hotter than before. You realize, while he’s driving himself inside of you a bit faster, whispering your name between breaths, that the idea of him breeding you means more than anything else has ever meant to you.

You gasp as he thrusts particularly hard, the base of him pressing right against your clit. “Please, Dad… I want it. I want your baby.”

His rhythm falters for a second, hips punching forward. “Yeah. That’s right.” Another thrust, sharper. “Been dreaming about this. About putting my baby in my baby.” The words are too filthy, too impossible, and they lit you up from the inside. “Gonna come so deep you’ll be dripping for days.”

You moan, loud enough that it echoes off the fresh walls. His hand slid down, fingers finding your clit, sending sparks right hrough your veins like lightning.

“Come on my cock first,” he orders, never mean but always firm. “Let me feel it. Let me feel my girl come while I breed her.”

The world narrows to him; the scent of sex and sweat, the pink walls blurring as your vision goes white. Pleasure crashes over you like a wave, body trembling as you cry out into the crook of his neck as your whole body seizes around him. Bucky follows moments later, burying himself deep and filling you up until you feel the excess slip out around his cock, warm against your skin.

For a while, he stays pressed against you, his body a comforting weight. When he finally eases out, he rolls to his side and tugs you against his chest, one heavy arm draped over your waist, palm flat over your lower belly like he can already feel something taking root.

the room tipped on it’s axis, over and over again, like a falling picture frame stuck in a time loop. your eyes droop, hazy and satiated from the booze that roared through your veins and lingered on your tongue.

“bucky!” you call out towards a figure. leaning against a wall, all bulky muscle with a stetson, it's so easy to pick him apart from a crowd, his hat being his most prized possession. your voice is louder than you anticipated, but caring felt worthless when your head was spinning, from alcohol, as well as the image before you.

bucky had decided to take you out.

a bar around town where hardwood floors creaked, the bouncer seemed to know everyones name — friendliness, or for larger tips, you could barely tell now. close enough to the bustling streets to be crowded and loud, yet just secluded enough for it to stay intimate.

after a hard days work of repairs and hulking heavy cargo to and from his truck; bags of feed, bundles of firewood, he’ll sometimes he chops it himself. If you’re lucky, your neighbour and his boss right now, mrs.white, invites you over, cup of fresh lemonade sweating in your palm, exactly like how your brother drips in the hot summer weather. flannel discarded in his truck, and you get a front row of abs and pecks on show, he groans a lot more when you’re around.

looking up, he paused his conversation with someone… blurry.

your head tilted in confusion, brows pulled together and eyes squinting as you willed yourself to see clearer. you’ve never been good at hiding expressions, even worse when inebriated.

you make out his hand holding upright to excuse himself, and he makes his way. flannel buttoned up, except for the top three where sweat drips down, you follow without a hint of embarrassment, mouth watering with the desire to follow it. his jeans hug his thighs so good, barely hiding what he’s got underneath. if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was half hard… wait —

“what’s the matter—?”

“who was that?” your tone comes off far more defensive and wearisome than intended, you flinch back a little at your whining, sounding almost like a jealous girlfriend.

bucky huffs something short of a laugh. veiny hand coming to rub his cheek, grin snaking onto his features. he shakes his head, glances back at the person.

"why're you asking?"

you feel petulant. eyes slightly sullen at your brothers newfound plaything for the night, his attention fully on them instead of you. your mouth opens, only to close again.

you mumble under your breath, “wha… whats so funny?” fists balled by your sides, forefingers rubbing against your thumb to soothe.

but he doesn't change. he laughs harder, like you told him some long kept inside joke, the kind of laugh that tightened the chest and had you doubling down, hands on your knees.

in a sober world, you'd most likely laugh too — sober you wouldn't have even gotten herself into this mess in the first place — but drunk you is her opposite. childish, giddy... a brat is what bucky would label you as.

so bratty is what you take. he bends down slightly, eyes shut from laughing way too hard at something you deem too important to be amusing. your hands move first, then your legs, then your brain.

and suddenly you're outside, leaning against a brick wall of a secluded alleyway. rain has just started to spittle down, the soft shower mixing with the cold air feels like a wonder against your warm skin... and atop your head was your brothers hat.

oh, shit.

your mind was too heavy, your brain fueled on liquid courage, and you curse yourself as it all starts to seep heavy into your bones.

it's almost like a stop motion animation. bucky's palms gripped shoulders, too hot. moving to hold your wrist and drag you back to the car. you retaliated, and thats when it happened.

hands moved where hands shouldn't go. mouths touched, and tongues explored forbidden territory.

"been wantin' this," he mumbles. it vibrates against your lips and makes you giggle. "know you've been too... watchin' me work, thinking you were all sly?"

his eyes are so pretty. his face softens a fracture, and he cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek against your soft peach fuzz. it all feels too fast, yet too slow at the same time. and your thighs ache like no other.

"just a dumb little thing, ain't you?" you nod. "yeah? well, rules are rules... my dumb little sister's gonna ride this cowboy like she's been aching to do, ain't that right, baby."

the car was a mess of bodies, too worked up to strip properly; jeans slid down to mid thigh, your skirt bunched, while your shirts rucked up for hands to grope and knead. wet slaps, whines, grunts and moans sound through the seats. the windows of bucky's truck coated with condensation, just from how hard you both worked against each other, and his hat laid carelessly on the floor beside his boot, lost in the haze of wandering hands and frenzied jerks.

tension fading then rising with every grind you gave against his thighs, and every thrust he bucked up inside of your wet heat, heavy balls pulling up as you squeeze around his cock.

“y’wanna know who that was, baby?” he asks, breathing heavily down your neck.

you nod. a gentle, barely there ‘yeah’ caresses the roof of your mouth as it hangs open in ecstasy, eyes glazed over as you trace the hairs that stick to his damp forehead.

“nat… she — oh, holy shit… was gonna take her out here,” he huffs again, smile plastered on his lips again before pressing a bundle of kisses against the side of your neck. “wanted to fuck her good… shit — was gonna fuck her right here, whisper to her, right in her ear… tell her how good she feels, god... how pretty she sounds, how goddamn wired up she got me just from how tight her pussy’s grippin’ me…”

you clench around him quick. a short, nimble pinch around his cock, making his hips falter. he'll tuck that little reaction in his pocket for next time.

he takes a moment, his warm palm cradles the scruff of your neck before pulling you back, just enough to catch your wandering eyes — fucked out, drained, drunk on one too many vodka cokes and his thick cock pressing into you so good you could hardly remember where you were, or what he was talking about.

a quick succession of gentle slaps against your cheek wake you. he holds your face, squished between four fingers and his thumb, and puckers your lips as he sucks his teeth, glancing between your eyes and mouth with a hungry glint.

“jus’ swallowing me up like the fucked up mess she is, huh?” he grunts, thrusts pushing up harder, faster. and then, easing you back on his shoulder, cradling you into his neck with swipes of his thumb, his lips lick the shell of your ear, and he adds, whispering.

“taking her brothers cock so fuckin’ well… was wearin’ my hat so pretty…” the fuzz below his navel tickles, seizing your belly tight. “just couldn’t help myself, baby. had to take whats mine, y’know... what would mama and pop think.”

his dick spears into you, kissing your cervix again and again, just so needy to be in it's proximity, and he stretches you out, aching your walls with a delicious burn you've never felt before.

the wrongness felt too right. the mere thought of getting caught, the only covering you had was the misty windows, had you strangling his leaking sex - face warping in pleasure with each thrust, each blunt stab he gives to you as you lie on his collar, boneless, whiny and so, so close.

"fuckin' brat... taking off with my hat, askin' who i was talking to..." bucky groans at a particularly harsh charge of his hips, balls smacking against your skin. "tight thing... oh you wanted this bad, didn't you. wanted to milk my cock dry, keep it all for yourself, huh? s'that was that was?"

one thing bucky was right about was how dumb you were gonna get on his ridiculously pretty cock. your orgasm snaps out of you with a gasp, rippling your body with shakes and rhythmic pulses, and each snap of your brothers dick was just dragging the agonising bliss out longer. and the words he breathed into your hear ebbed in and out of your hazy conscience.

'tight thing'

'milk my cock'

'keep it'

it broke you out of your daze.

"wanna keep it," you whispered, "keep it... i wanna. please."

"atta girl..." he grunts, hips driving faster and faster, hands white-knuckling your ass cheeks, pushing you down, onto his thighs, each push brings a clap that resonates through the air.

"cum in me. keep it."

"fuckin' christ-" his fingers dig into your flesh as ropes of cum flood your walls. holding you down onto his lap, keeping you plugged, making sure his tip smothers your cervix, making sure you hold, keep.

minutes go by, panting breaths retreat, and his cock slowly slumps out of you with a sloppy sound, making you huff out your nose and hips twitch.

"y'know, you look sexy all drunk and jealous," he smiles, dazed, eyelids half lidded. "if you remember this in the mornin', come over to mrs. white's when you feel better. she's got a barn way out in her field. lemme fuck you nice, yeah?"

"... hm."

he laughs, softer than in the bar, but it has such a similar cadence. "i'll get you dressed. take you home and get some sleep. i'll see you at mrs. white's."