kittie.

You and Bucky are both sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, legs stretched out, barefoot, the kind of comfortable that comes from too many drinks and the closeness of siblings. Bucky is making himself comfortable again after he had just gotten up to show you the very much real pack of cigarettes in his backpack like evidence in a courtroom. You’re staring at him dumbfounded.

“You smoke. You.” You stared at the pack in his hand, then at his face, searching for the joke that had to be there. A discovery made after a “truth” question.

He just shrugs, that lazy half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yep. Since first year of college.”

Your jaw might as well have dropped. “That’s… okay, that’s crazy. And Mom and Dad have no idea? How have you been hiding this all this time?”

He laughs under his breath, reaching for his whiskey and taking a slow sip. “That’s more than one question, kid. My turn.” He grins wide before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Truth or dare, sis?”

You lean back against the armrest, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The margarita left your cheeks warm, your thoughts a little looser than usual. “Truth.”

Bucky’s grin turns a little darker.

“You’ve picked truth for the last two turns. Don’t be a pussy.”

You scoff, kicking lightly at his shin with your foot. “Then why even ask if you’re just gonna call me a pussy for not picking dare?”

“Because if you keep hiding behind truth, we’re basically playing twenty questions. Where’s the fun in that?”

A pause then, eyes narrowed at him trying to look annoyed, but the alcohol and the warmth of the fire and the look in his eyes are nothing but the loudest challenge in the room.

“Okay. Dare.”

Bucky shifts immediately, sitting up straighter in his seat. He looks up at you for maybe a full minute, assessing, maybe pretending to think of a dare. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Whatever he is about to say, you’re sure he’s had it ready since the moment he called you out for picking truth.

Silence. Bucky exhales.

“Remember the consequence if you don’t do the dare?”

You huff, trying to play it cool even as your heart starts beating faster. “Do the dishes for a month. Ugh, don’t be boring, Bucky. Just say what the dare is.”

“I dare you…” Another pause. He seems unfazed by whatever is on his mind. “to give my cock a kiss.”

You nearly choke on your saliva, heat flooding your face so fast it feels like the fire leaped straight into your veins. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again, but no sound comes out at first.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You finally blurt out, voice cracking halfway. “Buck, that’s disgusting. You’re my brother.”

He doesn’t even blink. Just leans back against the couch cushions, arms spreading along the backrest.

“Aww, sis,” he drawls, a little mocking. “didn’t know you were such a prude.”

That hits something in you. Like it’s an actual offense that he would say that. “A prude? You just asked me to kiss your dick! I’m not being a prude, I’m being a normal person.”

“Hey, you picked dare. I gave you one.” He tilts his head, studying you with lazy amusement. “You know, you can always back out.” A beat. “You know the consequence.”

Dishes for a month. The same stupid punishment you’ve enforced since you were fifteen. You hate doing dishes. You really hate doing dishes for a month.

Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your fingertips. The room feels ten degrees hotter. The alcohol swirls warm in your stomach, loosening your limbs, fuzzing the edges of everything. You’re definitely not drunk, but you’re loose enough that the outrage feels a little distant, almost as if the situation is happening to someone else.

Bucky’s watching you, expecting you to call him a pervert and run to your bedroom upstairs.

You don’t.

Instead, you push yourself up, bare feet hitting the rug. Bucky’s smirk falters, just a flicker, as you move toward him and drop to your knees in front of him, right between his spread legs, hands resting on the edge of the coffee table behind you for balance.

The cocky mask on his face slips fully for the first time tonight.

“Whoa. Wait, what are you—you’re not actually…?”

Your eyes meet his, cheeks burning, pulse racing. The alcohol hums in your veins, daring you forward. “You gave me a dare,” you say. “I’m not doing dishes for a month.”

Bucky’s breath catches sharply as you settle between his thighs, the rug soft under your knees. His hands hover uselessly in the air for a second, like he can’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

“You’re… you’re bluffing,” he says, but his voice has lost all its earlier swagger. “Come on, get up. This is—”

You don’t answer with words. Your fingers find the button of his jeans, pop it open with a soft click. The zipper comes down next. Bucky’s hips twitch, just barely, but you feel it.

He’s already hard.

The outline of him strains against the dark fabric of his boxer briefs, thick and obvious. You can see the shape of him clearly now, the way he’s swollen and heavy, and the realization sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“Jesus,” he mutters, head falling back against the couch for a second before he jerks it up again to stare at you. “There’s no way—”

You tug the waistband of his boxers down just enough to free him. He springs out, hot and hard against his stomach, the tip already slick. The sight steals whatever comeback he had left. His mouth opens, but all that comes out is a shaky exhale.

You lean in.

Your lips brush the head of his cock, soft, almost chaste at first, just a press of warmth. Bucky jolts like you’ve shocked him. You linger there for a second, feeling the velvet heat of him, the faint salt on your lips, the way his thighs tense under your palms.

Then you part your lips and take him in.

Not just a kiss anymore. You slide down slowly, tongue flat against the underside, until the head nudges the back of your throat. Bucky’s hand flies to your hair, not pushing, just gripping, fingers threading tight like he needs something to hold onto. A strangled groan tears out of him.

“Fuck, sis, what are you...?”

Words die on his tongue when you pull back almost all the way, lips sealed around him, then sink down again, deeper this time. The taste of him floods your mouth, salty and warm, and the alcohol in your blood makes everything feel slow and syrupy and inevitable. You set a rhythm. Up, down, swirl of tongue around the tip each time you rise; unhurried, like you’ve got all night.

Bucky’s head drops back again, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open on silent curses. His hips rock up once, instinctively, and you let him, taking him deeper until your nose brushes the coarse hair at his base. Another groan, louder this time.

“Shit…” The word comes out broken. “Fuck, your mouth feels so good.” His grip on your hair tightens, trembling now. He’s trying so hard not to thrust, trying to keep whatever shred of control he has left, but you can feel it slipping.

Bucky’s chest rises and falls in ragged bursts, the hand not tangled in your hair fumbling blindly along the couch cushion until his fingers close around the pack he’d tossed aside earlier. You hear the soft flick of his lighter, the quick scrape of metal on flint, and then the faint hiss as he draws the first drag.

The sharp, familiar scent of tobacco curls into the air, mixing with the woodsmoke from the fireplace and the heavier, muskier heat between you. You glance up through your lashes just as he exhales, a thin stream of smoke drifting toward the ceiling. The orange glow of the cigarette tip flares as he takes another pull, his eyes half-lidded, fixed on your lips stretched around him, on the way your cheeks hollow every time you pull back.

Something about it hits you like a spark straight to your core. Maybe it’s the casual arrogance of it. Lighting up while you’re on your knees for him, like this is just another lazy night on the couch. It should piss you off, but instead, it makes your panties so wet they might be ruined forever.

It’s hot. Unfairly hot.

You moan around him, the vibration humming straight through his cock. Bucky’s hips jerk involuntarily, a sharp curse slipping out as smoke spills from his parted lips.

“Fuck, you like that?”

You answer by taking him deeper, faster, cheeks hollowing harder. Your hands slide up his thighs, nails digging in just enough to feel him tense under your palms. The cigarette dangles from his fingers, forgotten for a second as his head tips back again, another slow exhale shuddering out of him.

He brings it to his lips once more, eyes locked on yours this time, holding your gaze while he inhales. When he pulls it away, he doesn’t exhale right away. Just lets the smoke sit in his lungs, chest expanding, before releasing it in a lazy ribbon that drifts down over you.

You suck him harder, sloppy now, saliva slicking your chin, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room. Every time he takes a drag, you match it, like you’re trying to suck the smoke straight out of him. Your jaw aches in the best way, thighs trembling from kneeling so long, but you don’t care.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, cigarette bobbing between his fingers as he speaks. “Sucking me off like that while I smoke… you’re fucking filthy, sis. My filthy slut.”

The words send a fresh rush of heat through you. You whimper around him, eyes watering, but you don’t slow down. If anything, you’re more desperate, chasing the way his thighs start to shake under your hands.

“Fuck… I’m close,” he rasps, voice shredded. Smoke leaks from the corner of his mouth as he speaks. “You’re gonna make me—”

You don’t let him finish. You take him all the way down, nose pressed to his skin, throat working around him. That’s all it takes.

He comes with a choked groan, hips bucking hard enough to lift off the couch. The first pulse hits the back of your tongue, hot and thick, and you swallow instinctively, again and again, milking every last drop as he spills down your throat. His whole body locks up, trembling, the hand in your hair gripping almost painfully tight while the other crushes what’s left of the cigarette into the whiskey glass with a faint hiss.

You keep him in your mouth until he’s spent, until the last shudder rolls through him and his grip loosens. Only then do you pull off slowly, lips dragging along his length, tongue catching the final bead at the tip. He’s sensitive now, breath stuttering when you give the head one last soft lick, cleaning him.

The room smells like sex and smoke and burned wood. Your knees ache against the rug, chin wet, lips swollen, but you feel strangely calm, like you just won something you didn’t know you were competing for.

He stubs the dead cigarette out properly, then reaches down, thumb brushing across your lower lip, smearing the mess there.

“Come here.”

You rise up on shaky legs, climbing into his lap without thinking. He cups the back of your neck and pulls you in. You think he’s going to kiss you, but he pauses, nose brushing yours.

“Want something?” he murmurs, reading the look on your face before you even say it.

You nod, barely a movement. “Exhale in my mouth.”

His eyes flare. He takes one last drag from a fresh cigarette he must have lit while you were catching your breath, holds it deep, then leans in.

His lips part against yours, and he breathes the smoke straight into you. You inhale it greedily, lungs filling with him, with the sharp bite of tobacco and the lingering taste of his release still coating your tongue. It’s dizzying.

Then he kisses you for real.

It’s messy and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours, sharing the smoke and the salt and everything else. You taste yourself on him somehow, or maybe it’s just him on you, but it doesn’t matter. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth like he’s already ready for more.

When you finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, he just smirks.

But the promise didn’t stop the dreams. Didn’t stop the way your skin remembered his mouth. Didn’t stop the ache that settled low in your stomach every time your phone buzzed and you hoped, stupidly, it was him.

You’ve kept your distance. Short texts, careful topics. He’s done the same. You tell yourself it’s working. You almost believe it.

Until today.

You’re standing in the darkened dome of the planetarium after hours, running one last test on the new constellation exhibit. The projector hums to life above you, and suddenly the ceiling is alive with stars; thousands of them.

This exhibit has been your obsession for months. You fought for every detail, the accurate positioning, the subtle animations. You did it for the visitors, sure. But mostly you did it for the kid version of Bucky who used to lie on the grass with you in summer, tracing shapes in the sky with his finger while you read aloud from dog-eared library books. You’ve always been the one who gave him the stars.

Now you’re standing under a perfect sky, and the only person you want to share it with is the one you’re not supposed to want at all.

That’s when your phone feels heavy in your pocket.

You pull it out before the rational part of your brain can talk you out of it. Thumbs hover over the screen for a long minute, heart thudding hard enough that you’re sure the empty room can hear it.

Finally, you type.

You: Hey space nerd You: Got a surprise for you You: New exhibit isn’t open to the public yet but I can get you in this afternoon, since we’re closed You: Meet me at the side entrance at 5?

You hit send and immediately regret the casual tone, like this is just a fun sibling hangout and not you actively inviting the source of your sleepless nights into a private room with a ceiling full of stars.

Your phone vibrates almost instantly.

Bucky: you had me at space nerd Bucky: i’ll be there Bucky: thanks sis ❤️

That little heart emoji punches the air out of your lungs. He’s been using with you for years, but now it feels different. Loaded.

You spend the rest of the day distracted, running through lighting sequences and constellation overlays, but really you’re thinking about how he’ll look when the stars come on. How close he’ll stand to you. Whether he’ll mention Christmas. Whether you want him to.

By 4:45 you’re waiting at the staff entrance, bundled in your coat, breath fogging in the cold. Your keys jangle in your hand as you pace.

Headlights sweep across the snow, and his truck pulls up to the curb. He climbs out, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, that familiar grin already in place when he spots you.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft like he’s afraid of breaking the quiet. Snowflakes catch in his dark hair as he walks up. “This better be good. I turned down Steve’s invitation to get pizza before the football game for this mysterious secret field trip.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Trust me, you’ll like it more than pizza.”

He falls into step beside you as you unlock the side door and lead him inside. The hallway is dim, emergency lights casting long shadows. His shoulder brushes yours more than once, and neither of you moves away.

“So,” he says, glancing around the empty corridors, “you’ve been working on something big, huh? You’ve been kinda cagey about it.”

“It’s a new immersive show,” you answer, keeping your voice light. “Opens to the public next month, but…” You glance at him sideways. “I wanted you to see it first.”

He stops walking for a second, surprised. “Really?”

You shrug, suddenly shy. “If anyone deserves an exclusive preview, it’s you.”

He looks away first, clearing his throat. “Lead the way, tour guide.”

You smile to cover the sudden tightness in your chest and keep walking, leading him deeper into the building, past closed galleries and silent halls. You stop at a corner before pushing open a heavy black door.

When the two of you walk in, the room is pitch dark, chairs spread across the room and stairs in the middle, guarded by safety rails. The walls are bare, the ceiling barren, all stark white under the faint emergency glow; the real magic is behind a projector that is turned off for the time being. It’s incredibly… lackluster. Walls that rather feel like an abandoned classroom where a lecturer will bore to death a group of students for two hours straight. Bucky looks around the room, maybe looking for something special to catch his eye or for you to reveal the surprise.

"...Okay. I mean, sis, you know going anywhere with you is fine, but—" His lips curl into the crooked smile you know all too well, the one that says he's about to tease the hell out of you.

"Don't be a smartass," you answer, swatting his shoulder playfully as you brush past him to stand in the center of the room. You stand near a cushioned chaise, set apart from the regular chairs. A place clearly meant for someone to lie down and look at the ceiling above them. “We’re standing in the middle of the stars right now.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms over his chest before looking up, staring at the ceiling like he’s fully expecting it to open wide in the meantime and reveal the universe. “… Did you hit your head?”

"Oh my God, shut up," you groan, heat rushing to your cheeks even in the dark. "I wanted to do a pretty speech. About how sometimes you can't see the stars because it's too bright out, or the sky's all cloudy and messed up. But they're always there anyway." A pause. Bucky doesn’t interrupt this time, his head just tilts back down as he looks at you, his attention back on your voice as if you’re saying the most important thing he’s ever heard. Undivided. “Hm. Well, anyway… I thought you’d like this.”

You trail off, digging into your pocket for the small remote you've been hiding since he arrived. It's sleek, with just a few buttons, nothing flashy. Bucky squints at it, trying to figure out your game, but he doesn't have to wait long.

You raise your hand, aim the remote at an innocuous dot on the ceiling, and press a button.

The room transforms.

A thousand shades of blue wash over the ceiling first, spreading like ink in water. Then come the stars, thousands of them, pinpricks of light blooming across the expanse in perfect clarity. Some twinkle faintly, others burn steady and bright. Slowly, constellations emerge as delicate lines connect the dots and letters form words in elegant script across the walls.

Right above you, the constellations Perseus and Andromeda stare straight at you as if they are witnessing the birth of something new. A stolen piece of the cosmos tucked into this little room. And with you holding the remote, Bucky just a few feet away from you, it really feels like you’ve stolen it just for him.

Bucky’s breath catches, his head tilted back again, eyes wide as he takes in the sight surrounding him. The blue light reflects in his gaze, ocean blue eyes even bluer now. You’re reminded of the way he looked so soft under his bedroom lights, similar shades covering this room now. Bucky’s the one staring at the ceiling, but you’re the one wonderstruck.

“Holy shit, that’s so cool,” he murmurs, genuine awe seeping from his voice. “That’s Cassiopeia. And that’s Andromeda and Perseus. You know the story, right?”

You do. You’ve read it about a hundred times in your old astronomy books, the same ones you shared with Bucky once he started having the same passion for the stars. You’ve read the text they’ve written for the visitors of this exhibition even if it hasn’t been made public yet. But here, in this moment, staring at Bucky as he stares at a man-made sky in the white ceiling, you want him to talk you through it. Before you think better of it, your body moves on instinct. You close the small distance between you, sliding your arm through his and curling it tight around his bicep. You lean your head against his shoulder, tilting your face upward to follow his gaze.

“Tell me, Buck.”

He glances down at you for a second, the corner of his mouth lifting in a private little smile, like he knows exactly what you’re doing and loves you for it. Then his eyes drift back to the ceiling.

“Princess Andromeda was said to be more beautiful than the sea nymphs. Her mother Cassiopeia bragged about it one too many times, and that pissed off Poseidon. So he sent this massive sea monster, Cetus, to tear apart their kingdom.”

His free hand lifts, tracing the faint outline of the constellation with one finger. You watch the motion more than the stars.

“Perseus was flying home after chopping off Medusa’s head, still carrying it in a bag, by the way, which is really dope. He sees Andromeda chained to a rock as an offering to the monster. Doesn’t even hesitate. Swoops in, pulls out the head, turns the beast to stone.”

You feel his arm flex slightly under your grip, like he’s living the fight in his head. You almost let out a chuckle. Your nerd.

“They fell in love right there on the shore, covered in sea spray and monster guts. Got married, had a bunch of kids, lived a long life.” He pauses, voice softening further. “And when they died, the gods didn’t split them up. They put them in the sky together. Close enough to touch, forever.”

The last word lingers between you, quiet and heavy.

Bucky lowers his hand slowly, letting it settle over yours where it rests on his arm. His thumb brushes over the soft skin of your knuckles, an absent motion that means too much.

“Think they’d give us a constellation someday?” he asks after a moment of silence, almost joking.

“More like they’ll name a new circle of Hell after us,” you say, self-deprecating. Bucky scoffs. He doesn’t appreciate the humor this time. You can feel the shift before you hear him, how his muscles tense just a fraction.

“Don’t do that,” Bucky says, his voice stern.

You shrug it off, eyes fixed on the glowing outline of Andromeda above you because it’s easier than looking anywhere else. “Just a joke, Buck.”

“It’s not funny.” He shifts, turning his body toward you fully now, one hand coming up to grip your chin and tip your face until you have no choice but to face him properly and meet his eyes. “You say sometimes we can’t see the stars but they’re always there anyway.”

He leans in closer, forehead touching yours. “But I don’t need the stars with me. Just my moon.”

Your breath hitches. Your eyes meet his in the lights of the room, different shades complimenting his complexion and awakening something deep in your gut. Bucky is your brother. Blood of your blood, family. And you’ve always loved him, the way a sibling loves another… but something else simmers now. The beginning of a heartbreak you can’t possibly begin to imagine. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s too big for this small room to contain.

“Bucky…”

You and he messed things up during Christmas. One time. You’d promised yourself it wouldn’t happen again. You’d buried it deep, pretended it was a dream, a mistake born of weakness.

Yet here it is, rising like a tide you can’t hold back.

“I mean it.” His hand slides from your chin to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of it. “Stars are pretty. But the moon pulls the tides. Lights up the dark when everything else is gone.” He leans forward until his lips move against yours, not kissing, just touching. “I hate how often you’re not around now. You used to light up my darkness.”

Bucky presses his lips to yours then, one hand reaching behind your head and holding you to him before he moves you to the chaise seat. One leg wrapped around his waist, fingers carded into his hair, and you pull him closer, body shifting, preparing to move your bodies and take over—but Bucky presses forward, forces your back to lean towards the cushion, his body caging yours.

“I wanna show you I can make you feel good, too,” he whispers against your lips, his breath hot and mingling with yours. One knee slides forward, nudging your thighs apart with insistent pressure until they part for him, and his thigh settles against your warm core. Your eyes meet his briefly, breath ragged.

“That’s—you just did the knee thing,” you barely manage. “How do you even know the knee thing?”

His cheeks flush a pretty shade of red, the color creeping up to the tips of his ears. He ducks his head shyly, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, lips soft and trembling slightly against your skin.

“I might’ve looked some stuff up,” he mumbles, the words barely audible. “After last time. Wanted to… get better.”

The admission slams into you like a wave. Even through the haze of want, swimming through the idea of Bucky researching how to make you feel good which undoubtedly is enough to leave a wet patch in your underwear, you soften. The image of Bucky, your sweet little brother, hunched over his laptop in the dead of night, researching ways to pleasure you, finding tips and tricks to make you moan. You picture him blushing even then, hand perhaps wandering as he read, imagining you instead.

Your heart aches in a complicated way even as molten heat floods every inch of you.

“You didn’t have to,” you whisper, fingers tightening in his hair.

“I know we only… once,” he says quickly, words tumbling out in a rush like he’s terrified you’ll stop him. “And I know we said never again. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. How you sounded. How you felt.” His thigh shifts again, slow and deliberate, dragging the firm muscle upward in a teasing grind that makes your hips roll up to meet him. “I just… I wanna do it right this time. Make you feel as good as you made me feel.”

You said never again.

Swore it, pinky-promised in the hazy afterglow of Christmas night, both of you tangled in sheets and guilt.

But now Bucky’s on top of you, his thigh pressed between your legs, dragging the muscle against your core, soft blue eyes chasing a reaction on your face. Pleasure. There’s a terrifying realization that if you give in now, if you break the fragile vow of never again, then it will irrevocably happen again. Today, under the fake stars in the ceiling; next week, in the quiet darkness of his bed; a month from now, sprawled across yours. Until both of you have completely expunged the line that two beings who shared the same wound should never even dare to cross, let alone erase it.

The moment your lips part so you can answer with a protest, or maybe surrender, Bucky swallows your words by kissing you again. The hand cradling the back of your head slides down slowly, palm open and spread over your chest, dragging lower until it rests over the hem of your shirt. Soft fingers dip under it, crawling up your ribs and leaving goosebumps in their wake, feeling the warm skin before cupping your breast through the lace of your bra. He lets out a gasp, long and stretched out, lips parted as he stares down at you in awe. Almost as if it’s the first time all over again.

“Are you into dirty talking?” He asks, the question quick and blurted out. It catches you off guard, but you just smile at him.

“Do you want to talk dirty?” You counter gently.

The truth? Anything he does right now, every clumsy touch, every eager word, will leave you on the edge. You’re already soaked, pulsing against his thigh. So you’d rather let him learn what he likes, explore his pleasure hand-in-hand with you. You’ll be his safe place for all of it.

“I… well,” he chuckles almost to himself, shaking his head a little embarrassed. Under your shirt, his hand kneads your breast with growing excitement, thumb brushing experimentally over your hardening nipple through the lace, but still a little hesitant, unpracticed. “I wanted to say something.”

You nod eagerly, arching subtly into his palm. “Say it.”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, watches his hand move around your breast through the fabric of your shirt. “Every night since Christmas night… I’ve jerked off thinking about you.” The words hang in the air between you, but you stay silent, giving him space to continue. “Couldn’t stop thinking about these tits. About how pretty they looked bouncing up and down when you were riding me.”

The words ignite a fire in your stomach so intense it spreads like wildfire through your veins, making your throat tighten and your breath catch.

“You’re good at the dirty talking,” you praise with a smirk, body burning up under his touch. “Still a little sweet. But extremely hot.”

“Do you like it dirtier?” He asks, a hint of teasing tainting the undertone, though the question is unmistakably genuine. He’s testing boundaries, eager to learn exactly how far he should push you.

“I’m fucking my younger brother. How dirty do you think I like it?”

“Don’t call it that,” he says with a flinch. “You did it last time, too, call it fucking. Call it anything else.”

Behind his words, you see the ugly truth of this. The weight of years and shared childhood bedrooms that twisted into something that burns. And the burn is why you’re here. Why your hips are still rocking helplessly against the hard line of his thigh, chasing friction even as guilt claws at the back of your throat.

“Okay. I won’t say it. Not like that.”

Relief flickers in his eyes for a second before he leans down to kiss you again, slower this time. His tongue slides against yours, filthy, hand still working against your breasts under your shirt until both your nipples stiffen into tight peaks under the lace bra. He swallows every sound you make greedily, feeding off of them, and when he pulls back his eyes are almost black with want.

“I practiced saying stuff. In the mirror. Sounds stupid now,” he admits, cheeks still flush.

“I’m sure it’s not stupid,” you encourage, arching into his touch. “Tell me what you practiced.”

Bucky hesitates, then lets out a shaky breath. “Wanted to tell you…” His hand moves from under your shirt, sliding down your stomach, fingers hooking under the waistband of your jeans but not dipping lower yet. “Wanted to tell you how many times I came thinking about your pussy. How I’d lick my own hand after, pretending it was you.”

Your breath catches hard, a sharp inhale that makes your chest rise against him. The innocence in his face paired with the crude honesty of his words sends a fresh rush of wetness between your legs.

“Jesus, Bucky…”

“Too much?” He asks quickly, worry creeping back in.

You shake your head, grabbing his wrist and guiding his hand lower, pressing his palm against the damp fabric between your thighs. “Nowhere near too much.”

He groans at the feeling of you soaking through your jeans, and his hips jerk forward, grinding his hardness against your hip. You feel how achingly stiff he is, trapped in his jeans, and your clit throbs against your underwear at the knowledge that he’s this desperate just from touching you.

“Tell me more while you touch me.”

His fingers move experimentally, rubbing circles over your clothed slit, eyes locked on your face. “I thought about… about how tight you were around me. How you squeezed me when you came.” His voice drops an octave as if he’s about to share an even filthier secret. “Thought about bending you over the kitchen counter when Mom and Dad are gone. Pulling your panties down just enough to slide in from behind. Fucking you quiet so the neighbors don’t hear.”

Your hips buck into his hand. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, leaning down to mouth at your neck, teeth grazing the skin. “Imagined coming inside you with no condom. Watching it drip out after.”

The words hit like a spark to gasoline. You moan louder than you mean to, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Bucky—”

Your sounds only spur him on, and his hand moves with urgent precision to the button and zipper of your pants, popping them open with a swift tug. He peels the fabric down your hips, exposing the soft curve of your thighs, leaving you in nothing but your pretty pink underwear, delicate lace so sheer it's almost translucent, clinging to your skin from the damp heat building between your legs.

His fingers trace slowly over the soaked fabric, teasing the edges with feather-light touches that make your hips twitch involuntarily. Then he pushes the material to the side, not bothering to pull them off, just enough to bare you completely. Cool air kisses your exposed, glistening core, and you feel the slickness coating your folds, shimmering faintly in the low light. Bucky licks his lips, his tongue dragging across the full lower one like a man starved, finally faced with his favorite meal after days of deprivation. His gaze drops there, dark and intense, pupils blown wide with desire.

One thick finger gathers your slickness first, circling your entrance with agonizing slowness, coating himself in your arousal until his fingers are glistening too. He watches your face the entire time, blue eyes locked on yours, searching for every flicker of reaction as he finally dips one finger inside you. Your eyes flutter, struggling to stay open at the feeling, and you gasp softly.

“Bucky, fuck…”

“Wanna make you cum,” he murmurs, finger working slowly in and out of you now, dragging out every sensation, the pad of it curling upward with each deep thrust to stroke that sensitive spot inside you that sends sparks racing up your spine. “Please, I wanna make you cum again.”

Your heart stutters. Sweet, eager boy, still trying to earn an A+ in pleasing you even when he’s already got you halfway gone. You shift your hips under his, just an inch, grinding subtly against his hand, and it's all the encouragement he needs. He slides a second finger inside you without hesitation, the added girth stretching you open further, a delicious burn that has you clenching around him immediately. A low whimper escapes you as he scissors them gently, opening you up, his palm pressing firmly against your clit with every motion.

Even though you know he's not experienced—not like this, not with anyone else—you can feel the innate talent in every movement: a touch of raw instinct guiding him, a certain growing confidence that blooms with every gasp you give him. It builds the wetter you get, your arousal coating his fingers, dripping down to his knuckles as he pumps faster, the obscene slick sounds filling the air between you. Your moans are his roadmap; your breathless cries of his name that spill unrestrained tell him when to go faster, when to go deeper. He’s a quick learner, adapting instantly every time your cunt squeezes him greedily, thrusting deeper when your thighs tremble.

Your breath comes in shallow pants, the coil in your belly tightening with every thrust of his fingers. And though he curls them just right, touching the perfect spot deep inside, you need that sharp edge of pleasure to push you over. Just a little more.

“Bucky,” you call, barely a whisper. “touch my clit. Please.”

He stills for a heartbeat, fingers buried deep, his brow furrowing in an adorable mix of concentration and uncertainty. “Your clit?” The word comes out hesitant, like he’s tasted it before in fantasy but never dared say it out loud. His eyes dart to where his hand disappears between your thighs. “Tell me how. I wanna do it right.”

Jesus Christ, he’s more invested in making you feel good than any experienced guy you’ve ever been with.

You reach down, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist, guiding his slick thumb upward between your folds until it brushes the swollen bundle of nerves at the top. The contact makes you jolt, a soft cry slipping out.

“There,” you breathe, pressing his thumb more firmly against your clit. “It’s all these sensitive nerves bundled together. Feels incredible when you touch it right.” You move his thumb to circle slowly, showing him the rhythm. Small, steady circles at first, then a gentle up-and-down flick. “Like this. Firm but careful. Just play with it while you keep moving your fingers.”

His eyes are wide, utterly focused, drinking in your every reaction as he mimics the motion. The pad of his thumb presses down, tentative at first, then firmer when you moan. He flicks upward, learning how to get the pressure just right and sending sparks of pleasure across your skin.

“Like that?” He asks, almost awed.

“Exactly like that,” you gasp, hips rolling to chase both sensations: his fingers pumping deep inside you, thumb flicking your clit with growing confidence. “God, don’t stop. Faster on my clit—fuck, yeah, like that.”

Bucky’s breath hitches at your broken praise, and it works as the only encouragement he needs. The awe in his eyes sharpens into something hungrier, and his thumb settles into the rhythm you taught him. Quick, firm flicks upward, then tight little circles, over and over, relentless now that he knows exactly what it does to you.

At the same time, his fingers start moving faster inside of you, plunging deeper. The wet drag of them gets louder, your arousal making every thrust smoother, sliding right in like coming home. Fresh heat rushes out to coat his hand, soaking the inside of your thighs. Your body is greedy for him, and your legs close around him, pulling him in and choking his hand between your thighs. You moan again, loud, a little unashamed.

“God, listen to you,” he whispers, voice rough with disbelief. He shifts his hand just slightly, angling his fingers so the heel of his palm grinds against your entrance with every thrust while his thumb keeps tormenting your clit. “She keeps getting wetter… feels so good around my fingers.”

You can’t answer with words anymore, even though you desperately want to tell him how hot it is that he’s referring to your cunt like its own entity. Instead, you let out breathy moans that keep rising in pitch, thighs trembling on either side of his arm. Your muscles tense as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter, building right to the edge where everything feels sharp.

Bucky notices. Of course he does, when he’s watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters in the world. His free hand rests beside your head, holding himself up above you.

“You’re squeezing me so tight. You’re close, aren’t you? My moon.” He murmurs against your ear, lips grazing the shell. He’s tempted to speed up, go faster, harder, but when he senses you right on the edge, he keeps just the pace that brought you here. “Please, let me have it. Cum on my fingers.”

“Bucky, oh god, I’m—” The words fracture into a broken moan as he curls his fingers just right, thumb flicking firmly again. Your back bows off the surface beneath you, nails raking down his shoulders as the orgasm hits you like a sudden storm, fierce and all-consuming, ripping the air from your lungs in a silent gasp before a long, broken cry tears free. Your entire body seizes, back arching high off the surface as every muscle locks tight, thighs clamping hard around Bucky’s wrist like you never want him to leave.

You clench around him in greedy spasms, walls fluttering and squeezing in time with your racing heartbeat, pulling him deeper even as your body shakes uncontrollably. Fresh slickness rushes out of you, soaking his fingers. Your clit throbs under the steady pressure of his thumb, swollen and hypersensitive, each lingering flick sending sharp aftershocks that make you twitch and whimper long after the peak.

It rolls through you in ripples, softer but no less intense, until you’re left boneless and gasping, tiny shudders still running through your limbs every time he shifts his fingers even slightly.

Bucky watches it all with reverent eyes, lips parted, like he’s witnessing something sacred. When the last tremor fades and you finally go limp beneath him, he carefully eases his fingers out, the slow drag making you whine softly at the loss.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You’re so beautiful when you cum. I don’t ever wanna forget how that feels.”

Your body still hums with the aftershocks, skin flushed and sensitive, as you push gently at Bucky’s chest. He yields immediately, letting you guide him until he’s the one stretched out on the cushioned chaise beneath the domed ceiling. The projected stars continue swirling slowly overhead, casting soft light across his face.

You swing a leg over him, settling astride his hips, knees sinking into the plush surface on either side of him. The shift makes him groan, hands automatically coming to grip your thighs.

“Oh, come on,” he says, voice tinged with a shy awkwardness that always surfaces. “You’re… on top again.” He huffs a breath, fingers flexing against the skin. “I like it. I really like it. But I wanna… y’know. Learn. Be on top of you sometime. Properly.”

You lean down, brushing your lips over his in a slow kiss that makes him chase your mouth when you pull back just enough to smile.

“As your big sister,” you murmur, fingers already working at the button of his pants. The zipper rasps in the quiet room, “my job is to take care of you.”

His breath stutters, and his hips buck up as you tug his pants and boxers down just far enough to free him. His cock is hard and flushed, tip red and slick with precum.

You reach blindly for the foil packet you’d saved in your back pocket; prepared, responsible, even when everything else about this feels reckless. Bucky’s eyes flick to your hands, wide and dark, watching as you tear it open with your teeth and roll the condom down over him with steady fingers. He groans low in his throat at the touch, hips twitching, but stays still, letting you handle it.

You shimmy your own pants and underwear down, kicking them aside somewhere on the floor. Then you settle back over him, bare skin on bare skin, guiding the head of his cock through your folds, still soaked and sensitive, coating him in the mess he made of you.

You sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch until he’s feeling every fluttering aftershock still rippling through you. His mouth opens on a broken sound, almost a whine, that he bites back quickly.

“You—Jesus,” he gasps, and his fingers dig hard into your hips. He tilts his head up, eyes focusing somewhere on the ceiling and the stars above. “Hm. That’s… hng, that’s Algol. Algol.”

You bottom out with a soft sigh then, seated fully on him, before you realize he’s mumbling whatever words just came out of his mouth. You raise an eyebrow at him, hands braced on his chest over his shirt. “… what?”

“That’s Algol. Beta Persei. Also called Demon Star,” he rambles on, every word ending on a choked syllable.

You pause, hips stilling with him buried deep inside you, the sudden shift from pleasure-drunk haze to bewildered amusement making you blink down at him.

“Demon Star?” You repeat, voice soft but laced with confusion, a small laugh bubbling up despite the way your body clenches involuntarily around him at the sound of his strained voice. “Bucky, what are you talking about?”

He swallows hard, throat working, one hand leaving your hip to gesture vaguely upward without looking at you. “The—the bright one, blinking red every couple days. Variable star. Demon Star ’cause it… it winks. Like it’s evil.” His words come out clipped, hips twitching minutely beneath you like he’s fighting every instinct not to thrust up. “Then… then Rho Persei. Gorgonea Tertia, in… fuck… reference to the Gorgons, from the Perseus story.”

Another choked sound escapes him when you shift just slightly, settling more firmly in his lap. You realize it then, watching the way his eyes stay glued to the ceiling, the way his chest rises and falls too fast. He’s trying to distract himself.

An affectionate smile curves your lips as you lean forward, feeling his heart hammer beneath your palms, your hair falling into a curtain around his face.

“Look at me,” you ask, sounding too soft for it to be a demand, and you brush your nose against his. “Is my little brother trying not to come too fast?”

His eyes snap to yours at that, mortified, cheeks burning dark under the starlight. “I… shut up,” he mutters, embarrassed. “You feel too good. I’m trying… to keep my head somewhere else. I don’t wanna embarrass myself.”

You hum in indulgence, and start a slow roll of your hips, just enough to make him groan, head thrown back against the cushion again.

“Keep going,” you tell him, leaning down to kiss along his jaw, nipping gently at the stubble there. “Tell me about the stars, Bucky.”

He exhales shakily, hands moving from your thighs and sliding up your back.

“There’s… there, in the middle, Alpha Persei. It’s—” You purposefully tease him with another grind, circling your hips until he’s panting openly, words fractured. “I—it’s the brightest star in the Perseus constellation.”

“Hmm. Good boy,” you praise softly, sitting up straighter so you can watch his face: eyes squinting, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, completely at your mercy under the endless sky of projected stars. And Bucky revels in the praise, lets out a little whine before his hands fall to your ass, trying to grind you down harder onto him.

“You’re not helping,” he pants, and his hips rise a few times to meet yours, thrusting up deep into you before coming back down. “You, talking like that, I can’t—”

“Bucky,” you hush his name into the room, fingers coming to the hem of his shirt and slipping underneath to feel the hard muscles underneath. “Better tell me the names of all those stars before you cum inside me.”

Bucky’s breath stutters out of him in a ragged rush, your words landing like sparks on dry kindling. His hand flexes against the curve of your ass, fingers digging in as though he could hold the pleasure at bay by sheer force.

“I—okay,” he rasps, eyes darting back up to the dome, searching frantically for something to latch onto. “That one—in the Cassiopeia oh constellation… it’s Alpha Cassiopeiae. Also called Schedar. It… it comes from Arabic, it means breast…”

You can’t help the fond chuckle that spills from your lips at the way he stumbles over “breast,” his voice cracking on the word like a teenager. It’s so perfectly him, reciting Arabic etymology and stars while buried inside you because it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

It’s unbearably hot.

His effort is rewarded with another slow lift of your hips, rising until only the tip of his cock remains inside of you before sinking back down in one smooth glide. You circle your hips lazily, grinding down so your clit drags against him until his moan sounds more like a sob. “Please, don’t tease me…” He gasps, but you only smile, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest again.

“Promise I’m not.” Your velvet-soft voice sounds in the room, eyes fixed on his face. God, he really is beautiful like this, under the different lights in the room, brows furrowed, lips red and wet, about to come undone under you.

Something fierce coils tight in your chest, then lower, spreading outward in a rush of heat. You sit up straighter, hands sliding from his chest to brace on his thighs behind you, changing the angle just enough that the next roll of your hips drags the length of him right across that spot inside you.

Bucky’s eyes go wide, a strangled “fuck” slipping out before he bites it back.

You start moving faster, properly riding him now, lifting and dropping in a building rhythm. The chaise creaks softly beneath you both, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting growing louder in the hushed planetarium. Every downward stroke grinds your clit against him, sparks shooting up your spine.

“Keep talking,” you breathe, voice trembling now too. “Tell me more, baby brother. I love it.”

He tries. God, he really tries. His gaze flicks desperately across the dome again.

“Caph—Beta Cassiopeiae,” he manages, the words punched out of him on every upthrust of your hips. “Means… palm of the hand—oh—”

You slam down harder, chasing the pleasure that’s suddenly roaring toward you faster than you expected. The sight of him like this, still trying to be your good little astronomy nerd while you fuck him senseless, is unraveling you quicker than you planned. Or rather, you hadn’t planned it at all. To be so turned on by the image of him naming stars just to keep himself from cumming too soon.

“Gamma Cassiopeiae,” he gasps, fingers digging crescents into your hip, hand clutching your ass like a lifeline. “Variable star—erratic—spins so fast it’s throwing off a disk—oh my God—”

His voice breaks completely when you start circling on every downstroke, grinding deep, thighs trembling. Your own breath is coming in short pants now, heat coiling tighter and tighter low in your belly.

“Bucky,” you moan, head tipping back, hair spilling down your spine as you ride him faster, harder. The stars overhead blur into streaks of silver and blue. “You’re so fucking cute when you do this, keep going—”

He whimpers and tries one last time.

“Ruchbah—Delta—means knee—and Segin—Epsilon—at the bottom—”

Oh, that’s it. Him fighting so hard to stay coherent, naming stars like a prayer while you ride him, tips you over the edge.

You come with a sharp cry, back arching, thighs clamping tight around his hips as your walls flutter and clench around him in greedy pulses. Pleasure crashes through you in bright, blinding waves, clit throbbing against him, slick heat rushing out to soak where you’re joined.

Under you, Bucky’s hips jerk up helplessly, a raw sound tearing from his throat as your orgasm drags him right to the brink.

“Please, sis, let me—”

You’re still trembling through the aftershocks, but you lean forward, bracing shaking hands on his chest, and nod frantically.

“Cum for me,” you whisper, voice raw.

Bucky’s hips snap up one last time as he spills deep into the condom with a shattered groan that echoes in the room. You feel every hot pulse, the way he throbs and jerks through it, hands clutching you like he’ll never let go.

“You did so well,” you whisper against the skin of his neck, smiling as his arms come up to wrap around you, pulling you down until you’re draped over his chest.

He huffs a weak, breathless laugh, fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. “Think I saw real stars for a second there,” he mumbles. “Behind my eyelids.”

The stars have slowed to a gentle drift overhead, the planetarium’s show looping back to the beginning. You’re both dressed now, clothes pulled on in quiet movements, the rustle of fabric louder than it should be in the hush. Your shirt smells faintly of his cologne now, his hair is mussed in that way only your fingers can manage. And neither of you has quite met the other’s eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.

Bucky stands near the chaise, closing the zipper and button of his pants. You’re leaning against the railing that separates the chairs from the stairs, arms crossed loosely.

“I should head out,” he says first, almost apologetic. “Promised Steve we’d watch the game even if I didn’t go for pizza.”

You nod, throat awfully tight. “Yeah. Of course.”

He steps closer, and his hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. So tender it makes your heart ache.

There’s a heartbeat of wonder. A moment where you think if he might push and say the thing that’s been sitting heavy between you since Christmas. A fraction of a second where you consider that maybe you will be the one cracking it open, reaching for the words that turned the two of you into whatever this is now. Hands and mouths and something neither of you can take back.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

That means that neither of you make empty promises again. Neither of you repeat the “this won’t ever happen again.”

Bucky leans in first, presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, the kind that feels like it belongs in a whole different place.

“Text me when you get home safe,” he murmurs against yout skin, before pulling you into a tight hug.

“I will,” you answer. “Text me when you get to Steve’s.”

He steps back. You let him.

Bucky pauses at the door, hand on the frame, looking back at you framed against the soft glow of the projected stars. For a second his expression cracks, allowing something that looks a lot like longing, and love he’s not allowed to name, to come forward.

Then he gives you that small, crooked smile he saves only for you.

“Night, sis.”

You manage a smile in return, even though it feels fragile. “Night, Bucky.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

You stand there alone in the empty planetarium, arms wrapped around yourself, staring up at the endless sky. You don’t know how many more times you can do this. Chase each other under false pretenses, pretend the line between sibling and lover hasn’t already been crossed twice. You don’t know how long you can keep pretending it’s just physical, just a secret you can lock away.

But for now, you turn off the projector.

Your dad is quick to rid himself of his clothes right there in the living room, too eager to move the two of you to the bedroom. His shirt comes first, tossed aside to pool on the floor, soon joined by his pants and his boxers. He’s half hard already, has been since he pulled into the driveway, his cock hanging heavy as he steps in front of you.

Bucky guides your shirt up and over your head, discarding it by the rest of his clothes. You hook a finger under your panties, moving to shimmy them down but Bucky stops you. He likes seeing them soaked knowing that he’s the reason, whether it’s with your arousal or something else.

Hands on your hips he backs you both up towards the couch. Bucky sits, pulling you to straddle him, your hands braced on his shoulders. As he maneuvers you, your bladder jostles. Before you can stop it you leak, a wet spot spreading in your panties before you get it under control.

Bucky pouts. “Poor thing. You gotta go so bad, don’t you sweetheart?”

You whimper and nod. He runs his thumb over the wet spot, traveling upwards to rub against your clit. When he takes his thumb away you start to complain, until you see him suck his thumb into his mouth. He hums, eyes closing momentarily at the taste.

“You always taste so good, baby girl. Tell daddy how bad you have to go.”

“It hurts, daddy,” you whine. “I can’t hold it anymore!”

His cock jerks and he grips the base of it with a stuttering breath. “Okay. Okay. Let go just a little bit baby. Theeere you go, good girl. Fuck."

You let go for only a few seconds, pee hissing out in a desperate rush. It pools in your panties, seeping through to Bucky’s waiting cock. Your bladder cramps once you cut off your stream but the pain is worth it when you hear your dad’s breathy groan, see the way his hand fists his cock, using your pee as lube.

The sight beneath you has your cunt pulsing, clenching around nothing. The slick, wet sound of it is obscene, the sheen of wetness on his skin intoxicating.

Bucky stills his hand and directs you closer. He pulls your panties to the side this time, moving his cock just under you, the tip prodding at your wet folds. “Go again, just a little bit. Good girl, that’s enough. Stop, baby.”

This time when he says stop you stop you cry out. The pain is worse when you stop this time, your bladder screaming at being denied release yet again. You whimper, bouncing lightly on your knees. You can feel it pressing against your hole, an incessant burn that

You look down at Bucky, your breath catching at the debauched sight. His skin is wet with your pee, his cock hard, red and angry in his hand. It’s almost like he’s the one holding, with how heavy he’s breathing. The slow stroke of his hand, pupils blown wide and dark, it’s easy to imagine a different scenario. One where he’s as desperate as you, touching himself to keep from leaking. The thought overtakes you for a moment, your mind going hazy at the thought of holding with him, of letting go together.

You lose yourself in the fantasy so completely that you leak again, a dribble running down the inside of your thigh. You gasp, hand flying to press between your legs. Your dad tuts and grabs your wrist, moving your hand back to his shoulder.

“Please! Please, I gotta go so bad!” If you weren’t straddling him your legs would be pressed together. Anything to help you hold, to keep from disappointing him.

“Please who?”

“Daddy! Please! Ahhh, I can’t hold it!

“Go ahead baby, piss all over your daddy,” he says, fisting his cock, eyes trained right between your legs.

With a heavy sigh you let go, the rush of relief nearly orgasmic as your overfull bladder finally empties. Your moan is pornographic, the molten pleasure only heightened when your dad moves his free hand to rub over your folds as you release. Hot urine soaks Bucky’s cock, splashes up to his chest as he strokes your clit with his free hand. It pools underneath him, his balls sitting in the puddle, splashing with every upward thrust of his hips into his fist.

“Such a good girl for me, shit, you really had to go, didn’t you? Love watching you let go like this. Oh fuck, I’m—“ Bucky comes with a strangled moan, thick ropes of cum shooting straight onto your cunt and into your stream, washing back down over his hand, his cock, pooling in the mess around his balls.

The moment your stream ends Bucky has two fingers buried in your cunt, the sound of your arousal and pee squelching as he drives them in and out.

“You hear that? So fuckin’ wet for me. My dirty little girl likes pissing all over her daddy, doesn’t she?” Bucky hisses. His thumb rolls over your clit, fingers bullying against your sweet spot. When you don’t answer he moves his hand from your clit to smack your thigh. “Say it!”

“Fuck! Love pissing all over you daddy. Ohh I’m gonna come, please let me come, daddy please!”

Bucky curses low. He goes back to rubbing your clit with a new determination behind his movements. “Go on baby. Come for me.”

You come with a strangled groan, legs shaking as you collapse against him. You keep shaking even as the aftershocks fade, and when Bucky shifts you back to capture your lips in a sweet kiss you melt further into him.