I'm so full of love

He scoops you up by your thighs, squeezing your plush skin around his waist as he takes you to the bed. He drops you there, a peel of tipsy giggles spilling from your lips. Maybe you shouldn’t have had that third glass of wine, but hey, when in Rome!

You watch lazily, hands trailing up your torso to lightly graze your tits, eyes never leaving Steve as he yanks his shirt off, throwing it across the room.

He’s brought to his knees on the bed at the sight of you touching yourself, pinching and squeezing your nipples just to please him. He spreads your legs apart, pulling one of them taut around his waist at a strict 90° angle, exposing your most sensitive spot.

You moan at the vulnerability, linking your fingers around his neck and pulling him back to you, lips crashing and teeth clacking with passionate hunger.

You use your bent leg to flip him over so he’s resting against the pillows. Your knees find either side of his waist, and you plop down on his lap. A shiver unzips your spine as your clit makes contact with the zipper of his linen pants. You close your eyes at the sensation, a light moan escaping as Steve grips your ass and pulls you close.

You resume kissing, his tongue soft against your plump lips. You part them slightly and let your tongue taste his, a bolt of electricity zapping through you at his slow, languid tracings. Steve’s hands stay on the plush skin of your ass, your thighs, wandering up and down, squeezing, tugging, and pulling at the skin there.

His touch is flammable, heat alighting your skin in goosebumps. Your brows furrow at the sensation, your lips parting into a tantalizing ‘o’ shape as you let out a whiny moan. He smiles at you, placatingly as he shushes you.

“I know baby, I know. It’s already so good, hm?” He purrs.

Heat pools between your legs as you rock against him, his cock plumping up below you. It always finds the right spot, the layers of clothes between you be damned. His length hardens right in the seam of your pussy, the pressure pulsing through your underwear to your most sensitive spots.

You speed up your movements, rocking your hips against him and throwing your head back in desperation. He bites and licks at your neck, murmuring sweet nothings under his breath.

“Holy shit, that feels so good.”

“You’re an angel. Y’know that? Got a fucking angel grinding her pussy on me.”

“Such a perfect fucking girl for me. Perfect body, God I love you.”

His raspy affirmations are enough to having you thrashing on him, wailing and pressing your hands into his sturdy chest as the friction of his hardness rubs against your clit.

This is almost more tantalizing than actual sex, the fact that you’re so turned on you’re both on the edge just from moving your bodies together.

You fall onto him, your hands clutching at his biceps as he starts to rock into you on his own. You nuzzle your face into his neck as you mutter a weak little, “I love you too.”

You feel him smile against your temple as he continued to thrust up into you, a burning hot sensation bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

“Steve- I’m going-“ you moan, eyes glazing over from the intense pleasure. His hand grips the back of your head, threading his fingers through your hair as he guides you closer to bliss.

“I know, fuck, I know. Me too,” he grumbles against you. It’s taking everything in him just to speak.

Finally, an all consuming wave of pleasure washes over you, lighting up your insides as you shiver in Steve’s arms. You can’t help but let out a desperate moan at the feeling, his arms pawing at your chest adding to the intensity.

You feel him coming down, too, his own release painting the inside of his pants. He lets out his own mangled cries as he jerks his hips up and up, riding out the last waves of his orgasm.

You collapse into him, his big arms pulling you too him as you shiver and shake, your pussy pulsing with the aftershocks.

“Oh, Steve,” you murmur against his chest, eyes squeezed shut and thoroughly spent.

How did this beautiful woman end up swimming in the trash? Why is this child living in a shoe? Is the shoe massive, or is the child tiny? 

How did you end up fake dating Spencer Reid?

Of course, you could make a step by step presentation charting how you went from point A to point B. To any outsider, it would make sense. It’s simple cause and effect, consequences of a series of actions accumulating into one deal.

But still, it feels illogical. 

You aren’t the type of woman who gets involved in situations like this. You’d believed yourself above it—why would you ever make time for love and silly romance when there’s so much to do. Too busy with papers and research, too aloof and wary to let new people in, yet somehow. Somehow. 

Part of you wonders—worries, really—if Spencer Reid is some sort of anomaly. If, perhaps, his very existence threatens your perfectly maintained equilibrium, and he’s sent your way to derail your plans. But that opens up a whole other can of worms involving destiny and red string theories, most of which carry implications that you don’t wish to look into any further, lest the conclusion further complicate your feelings.  

Instead, you did what any sensible scholar would do. 

You’d taken to writing. Treat this whole thing like it’s nothing more than a research assignment, no matter how twisted or ridiculous. 

While the research for your field often involves abstract theories applied to obscure texts, and fake dating is so wildly out of your area of expertise, you’re still able to pare it down to the fundamentals. A thesis statement to defend, participants, and variables. It sounds awfully pedantic, but clinging to the basic principles of scientific inquiry lets you keep your head at a level, helps you process the grave you’ve dug for yourself.

It’s all written in your journal, the spare one you keep at home, containing the details of the arrangement broken down into digestible data. 

The thesis statement: Being a couple lets you have a date to your best friend’s wedding, and it will stop the rumors of his inappropriate relationships with his students, therefore it is a mutually beneficial deal.

The participants: You and Spencer Reid.

Extraneous variables: your colleagues, his students, your best friend, and every person you’ll have to fool with this arrangement. 

On another page, you’ve written down the rules—you both agreed it’s good to have a clear list of dos and don’ts. Keeps both of you safe and accountable. You keep the sole copy. Spencer insisted on only having a physical one, to eliminate any issues with hacking and cyber stalking that could potentially expose the secret. And since he could remember virtually everything you’ve discussed, you get to keep the incriminating list.

It’s fine. It keeps you grounded.

Not that anything dramatic has happened to warrant a sense of panic. No, it’s more because you haven’t dated anyone in so long that you’ve forgotten how to act in romantic situations. The list, with all the data organized, functions not just as a reminder of your boundaries but also as a sort of guideline for dating. 

Fake dating, you remind yourself. And Spencer has been so sweet about everything. Never pushing for more, never making excuses to touch you where he shouldn’t, never lingering when he does. Your public displays are strategic—huddling together in libraries, walking with his arm over your shoulder on your way out of campus, him changing his phone wallpaper to a picture of you that he took. Nothing that will raise eyebrows, but definitely suggests a thing.

Neither of you confirm anything. The actions speak for themselves. Your job is to keep up the appearances.

Out of everything, hand holding becomes the most frequent form. It’s such a simple action, your palm nestled in his perpetually cool ones, linking together in a way that society has deemed romantically unifying. All he needs is to reach over, no fuss or ceremony, just skin touching skin, and the whispers erupt like butterflies being cast into the air.

It’s easy. Low stakes. Even pleasant, if you’re being honest, because Spencer has a habit of soothing small patterns over the back of your hand. Sometimes, he’ll draw circles over your knuckles, from your pinky to your index, then looping back again, over and over until you’re convinced your skin knows each whorl of his thumbprint. 

You wonder if he does it on purpose.You’ve never really bothered to ask, despite your curiosity, as the impending answer makes your stomach twist nervously.

Sometimes, you’ll squeeze his fingers together absentmindedly, only realizing you’d done it when he squeezes back. Sometimes, you wish he wouldn’t let go. (strikethrough)

All of this to say: the plan is going well. Better than you thought. Which means you’re constantly on edge, waiting for the ball to drop.

Not that Spencer has done, or even said, anything to insinuate a hidden agenda—though, admittedly, you keep yourself alert, his words and actions replaying in your head, analyzed from this angle and that, reading into what he’s presenting. But, no. His disposition leans into an affability that would put a softer person at ease.

This anxiety comes from years of pattern recognition. Even putting your years of training and rigorous scholarship aside, it’s easy to see that narratives fall prone to repetition. In most cases, a general sense of contentment settles, takes root just enough to let you lower your defenses, before something terrible comes swinging. 

It’s taught from the most introductory of classes, reinforced by the stories being told in movies and books. And while life doesn’t always follow Freytag’s pyramid, it’s a common enough occurrence to merit its own expression: the calm before the storm, as they say. 

Well, you’re not about to be taken by surprise. You’ll make sure of that.

Your mistake is expecting this symbolic storm to be an external force. A colleague, perhaps, maybe even HR calling out both of you.

But all of this, of course, is in theory.

In reality, the slightest deviation from Spencer sends you reeling, no matter how prepared you thought you were.

You’re talking to him by the courtyard, leaning against the brick wall. The air is crisp, a coolness that you can tell is beginning to grow teeth. Spencer’s cheeks are pink because of it. The arrangement isn’t even on your mind. No, you’re too busy telling him about a new analysis on Pigafetta’s accounts, hands gesturing wildly while he nods along and listens.

You like that about him. In all your time together, he doesn’t feign his interest. When you, or anyone else, really, approach him with something to discuss, he’s willing to listen.Encouraging, instead of condescending. Usually, he’s read something tangential to the topic too, always so eager to contribute and talk, until your conversations spiral and bleed across disciplines. It seems like it’s another one of those conversations, standing casually outside the building, underneath a sky that’s ablaze with pinks and oranges. 

Maybe it’s from the wild gestures that accompany your words. Maybe your glasses are simply too heavy. Either way, gravity does its job, dragging your glasses down the slope of your nose little by little over the course of the conversation. With both hands too occupied, you’d scrunch your nose to nudge them back up. 

Unfortunately, there’s a point where the offensive frames have slid so far down your nose, past the point of saving. 

And Spencer seems to notice before you do.

His hand comes up, quick and sure, like it's instinctive, like he’s done this for you before. Carefully, his thumb and forefinger close around right along the hinges of your glasses, so as to avoid accidentally leaving his fingerprints on the lenses. In one absentminded motion, he pushes them higher up your nose. 

Your words falter to an embarrassing staccato. 

“Um, thanks.”

“You're welcome, darling.” 

You blink. 

His hand lingers in that space by your temple, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if he’s about to kiss you. A treacherous part of you wonders what that would feel like.

But—no. Absolutely not.

And Spencer doesn’t. You feel a shift, his hand moving further back, tangling into your hair as he tucks a wayward strand back. And then it angles down, knuckles grazing against your cheek, too slow to be anything but intentional. 

It burns.

No, that’s inaccurate. You burn, set aflame by the eyes boring holes into your back, cheeks warming at his proximity, his undivided attention. A breath slips in—a clumsy attempt at grounding yourself—but that’s a mistake too. Your lungs alight from his perfume—cedar and nutmeg, underscored by hints of coffee. All warm, wonderful things. 

You feel as though you could incinerate from the inside out.

His hand, as usual, feels cool to the touch.

For a moment, you wish he had kissed you. Bent down and bridged the space, got that over with. At least a kiss is somehow expected. You’d discussed the boundaries of kissing. You’re somewhat prepared for it. This is completely unfamiliar territory, his knuckles feeling more scandalous on your cheek than if he’d pressed his mouth upon yours.

“That’s not part of our rules.” you blurt out. Too loud. Your head jerks sideways to see if anyone caught what you’d said, but there’s no one within fifteen feet of you. Spencer’s hand loses contact as you do. 

You squash the part of you that immediately misses it, and amplify the sense of relief instead.

“Touching me there,” you scramble to explain, voice lowering, “That’s not part of our rules.”

“I believe we agreed not to touch private areas. As far as I’m aware, your face is the most public facing part of you.”

You feel more warmth rushing everywhere. Armpits sweating levels of panic that you try to hide with a carefree smile. 

“We—okay, sure. But we also didn’t agree to that other thing.” you hiss through a smile. “Pet names.”

“Oh.” Now he blinks, as if it never occurred to him that a single, two syllable word could send you into such a spiral. “I suppose we didn’t.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Air rushes out of your nose. He’s so quick to apologize, to bend to whatever need you have, even though this whole thing had been your idea.

“Don’t be, it’s fine. I’m fine, just taken by surprise.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. It’s, um—” Nice. Really sweet. Painful–-nobody’s ever called you darling with such tenderness before. “—really believable.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think we could add it to the—well, you know.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want.” you scoff, hands feeling useless now. They hang limply at your sides, fingertips itching. Why say that, you want to ask. Where did it come from? Did you mean it? “It’s believable. Couples give each other pet names, so it makes sense if we do it, too.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it?”

“Should there be more?”

You can’t tell if he’s being purposely obtuse. You can’t tell if there should be more to discuss. In less than three minutes, he’s unraveled your mind with a touch, and a simple word, rendered useless the very thing you considered a constant.

“I don’t know. It feels like there should be,” you pause, grappling for the words to articulate. The journal comes to mind. Yes. Research. This is research, existing between experimentation and methodologies, and slowly, the words formulate again. “We need parameters. You can’t call me that whenever you feel like it.”

Definitely not after he touched your face as if his fingers are looking for other parts of you to memorize. Like soothing over your knuckles isn't enough.

“Of course,” Spencer seems to read the distress in your face, because he takes a few steps back. A small one, but significant. Your breath rushes more freely, but part of you longs for his warmth.

He smiles, soft and reassuring. “I’ll only call you darling if there are people who can hear it, how about that?” he suggests. “Makes no sense being so intimate if it’s just the two of us.”

That’s a cruel paradox, isn’t it? You’re displaying this intimacy, performing it, when the very concept also refers to privacy. Something that should only be for two people—for couples. The very opposite of this farce you’ve gotten into.

But you’re here. And it’s been working, you shouldn’t complicate it by overthinking.

So you nod. Your glasses slip from the action, and you scrunch your nose to nudge it back up. “Okay. That sounds fair.”

“You’re more than welcome to give me one too,” his hand twitches by his sides, before he shoves it inside his coat pocket. “I mean, obviously, you don’t need to. But—yeah.”

“Yeah.” you echo, biting your lip. “I’ll think about it, and let you know. And I’ll add this new rule to the list.”

“Okay. Make sure you indicate the parameters and—”

“I know, doctor. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Oh?” he smiles, tilts his head just enough for his curls to turn russet, and finally everything feels normal again. “You’ve had to negotiate fake relationships before?” 

“Uh, yes. You’re actually my fourth.”

“And here I thought I was special.” he presses his fist to his chest playfully, leaning back as if the words struck him physically. “You wound me, darling.”

The second time around, your mind doesn’t betray you anymore. Doesn’t stutter or go blank, but something beneath your ribs feels achy, like a bruise about to heal. 

“You’re breaking the rule.”

Spencer grins. Smirks, really, dimples and perfect teeth and twinkling honey eyes. “It isn’t written in your journal yet, therefore I’m not bound to anything.”

You back away, expression twisting into annoyance, feigned and playful. “You’re insufferable.”

He laughs, watching as you walk away. And then calls out loud so you, and the students around the vicinity could hear, “I’ll see you tomorrow, darling!”

“hey,” he mumbles, fiddling with something in a paper bag as his sock clad feet pad their way into the living room. 

“hi.” your reply comes out muffled, lips pressed onto the arm you’ve thrown over your face. his response is immediate, moderately concerned. though he can never guess with you, he can tell something’s wrong.

“what's up?”

you very rarely find yourself wishing you lived alone. the prospect of a lesser rent and the absence of perpetual loneliness was why you seeked it out in the first place. sure, living with spencer was almost like you didn't have a roommate, him being away on cases left you on your own more often than not. but when he was here, his presence was more than welcome. you think you struck gold finding him and his lovely apartment. his company was something you don't know how you lived without for so long, needless to say he quickly became your favourite person. 

however, in moments like this, being roommates with a profiler is the worst.

you drag yourself up from your horizontal position, sitting up with your face buried in your hands. you make more disgruntled, annoyed noises behind your palms that bring an amused smile to spencer's lips. he sits beside you, couch cushions dipping by the weight. he doesn't know what's bothering you but he can't help the way his hand instinctively moves in soothing passes over your spine, the urge to comfort you comes as something natural.

he hums—questioning, patient.

“coffee shop boy asked me on a second date,” you groan dreadfully.

the coffee shop boy who scribbled down his number on a takeaway cup and took you to dinner and a movie last weekend. you'd come home light and airy, it had been a while since you’d been on a proper date that didn't leave you needing a shower at the end. 

“isn't that a good thing?”

you finally look at him, lips twisted that they resemble something of a pout. “yes,” you mutter.

spencer doesn't follow, how could he?

“then why the long face?” he asks, failing to mask a chuckle as you throw your arms up in exasperation.

“because!” you exclaim with no particular direction. then you spiral. “a second date means more. a second date means he liked me enough to want to see me again. a second date means there are expectations.”

his face pulls into what you can only describe as puzzled. “expectations?”

your exasperation shifts to him then. he feels like cowering under your laser sharp glare. 

“kissing…” you mumble, almost prudish.

oh.

you collapse sideways into the couch, letting that dreadful cushion stick to your skin again. spencer pulls your legs into his lap, letting you stretch out so your hips don't hurt later. he sighs decisively, “this clearly isn't going anywhere progressive, do you think you could talk me through it?”

you hate when he gets like this. caring. considerate. incredibly understanding. the tone he takes tends to make you want to cut a clean line down the middle of your chest and let everything spill out, figuratively and literally, you know that spencer will help you fix it, no matter what.

then why is it absolutely mortifying having to explain it?

he watches you turn onto your back, arms folded bracingly over your stomach. “i haven’t kissed anyone in a while.” you don't bother gracing him with a number but the way you stretch out the vowel makes it abundantly clear. he's kind enough to finish your sentence for you.

“you’re scared.”

“mhm.” you hum at the ceiling where your eyes have fixated on a wayward paint stroke. you like spencer's green walls so much, you wish they didn’t make your nervous throw up simmer at the back of your throat again. his hand below your knee soothes you for a moment, distracting in the way only his cold fingertips can.

“it's just, what if i kiss stupid? all this time and my awesome abilities have been rendered useless?”

his eyebrows perk up, so dramatically that you can see his face shift in your periphery. “awesome abilities?”

“i used to be a great kisser.” you’re so solemn with the delivery of your words that if spencer didn’t hear you he’d probably think you were talking about something serious. “what if it's been so long that when it happens,” you sit up now, “i just forget.”

“what if i'm too overeager and end up eating his top lip? oh god, what if i bite him?”

your face falls into your palms again. miserable. spencer has to fix this.

“hey, you’re overthinking this too much,” he's one to talk. “its supposed to be like riding a bike.”

“emphasis on supposed to be. i can still fall and scuff my knee,” you add, muffled and sardonic.

his fingers curl around your wrists, pulling them down and prompting you to look at him.

“you’re really worried about this?” he asks, gentle as ever.

your chin dips with a nod.

“will you let me help you?”

you don't think much when you repeat the action again. is he...?

“i need a yes, angel.” he says, firm and steady. you let it rub off on you a bit. 

“yeah,” you exhale quietly, quickly.

spencer nods, searching your face for any hesitation before nudging your legs off his lap and turning to face you properly. 

he starts in a way that makes your insides feel silly. one hand reaching up to move some hair out of your face and the other cupping the side of your neck. “you’re so tense.” his fingers press into the space behind your ear, effectively making all that tension disappear and getting you to lean into his hand. it's so soft.

what is happening?

“good. i'm going to kiss you now.”

your eyelids shut of their own volition, instinct kicking in before he even closes the space. the kiss doesn't land where you think it will–on the apple of your cheek.

spencer's laugh puffs against your face, “sorry.”

now, he kisses you. a soft, tentative press of his lips to yours. a quick peck really, recognition blooms, barely. he should do it again. he does.

except he tilts your head a little to the right this time, lingering on your lips for a few seconds longer. one. two. three. stupidly, you remember you’re meant to be kissing him back instead of just letting his nice, perfect lips touch yours in intervals. he laughs, pleased, muffled over your cupid's bow when he kisses you again and weirdly it does come back to you, just like riding a bike.

and you are so not falling and scuffing your knee when you part your lips under his. it comes easy, kissing him, like it's all you were ever meant to do. you fall into a steady rhythm and his tongue skims against yours–cautious and curious when you meet him in the middle. it makes heat bloom at the tips of your ears. 

“hah, okay,” spencer pulls away, breathless but not far. he keeps his forehead stuck to yours. “you okay?”

“mhm. spencer?” you croak, his name comes out high pitched and rushed, like you haven’t spoken in days. “can you keep kissing me? please?”

he doesn't miss a beat, tugging you closer with a hand at your waist. you think he wants you on his lap but the surprise squeak he lets out tells you otherwise. either way, you lean into it.

your hand slips into his hair, loose curls threading through your fingers, tilting his head back by the strands so you can kiss him better. he seems to really like this with the way he makes a lovely little noise. you’re determined to hear it again so you scratch at his scalp softly, pulling a quiet, tortured groan from his chest.

this and the press of your thighs over his, emboldens him. his teeth peek out from behind his lips and pinch the plush of your bottom one, tugging it lightly before letting it snap back into place. he soothes the ache with a swift swipe of his tongue before slotting his mouth over yours again. 

“biting isn’t discouraged,” he whispers, between pecks, wrapping his arm around your back. you hum something happy into his mouth. he echoes the noise with his own.

you don't know how long you spend kissing him, what was probably minutes felt like hours. you feel like you could get lost right here, on spencer's lap with his lips on yours. but you can't stay there forever, much to your disdain–or so says the lack of air in your lungs. you flatten your palms over the planes of his chest and gently push him back into the couch cushions.

spencer parts from you but not without chasing your lips a little, stealing one last kiss, then another. out of mind, his thumb rubs your hip bone, slow circles. he meets your eyes with a sheepish glint, brows pulled in uncertainty when you break it. your gaze is now plastered to your hands, still settled over spencer's shirt, gingerly scrunching the fabric between your fingers with your thumb flicking the button within reach.  

he waits for you to speak, unsure of what to say himself. he has nothing catalogued for this. kissing his roommate–his best friend, if he's being honest with himself–was never the plan. sure, he’d thought about it but he didn’t think you’d ever entertain the idea. but now?

you giggle, a breathy, dazed sound that brings his attention back to you. “where the fuck did you learn to kiss like that?”

before he can answer, your fingers slip over his mouth, in a half-hearted cover. “hmmm, i don't actually want to know that.” you look at him again and the smile in your eyes is undeniable, save for the way you gnaw at your bottom lip, it eases the little bit of worry that settled at the pit of his stomach.

he pulls your hand from his mouth and intertwines his fingers with yours, “so, that was okay?”

“yeah, more than.” he tries not to let it get to his head, but it does.

spencer's head drops once, a quick nod, hyper-focused on the way that you’ve taken his other hand too, holding them softly between your bodies. god, you’re still on his lap. he needs to regroup, remember why you’re here in the first place, "i really don't think you have anything to worry about.”

“worry about?” 

“your date,” he clarifies.

“oh, right.” you squeeze his hands. “i’m not going to that.”

spencer gets whiplash with how casual you are about it. were you not right next to him panicking about the very thing you’re apparently not going to do? he decides for his betterment not to question you about it.

“okay,” he falters. 

“yeah,” you sigh. it's not the end of the world. besides… “do you want pizza? i want pizza.”

he’s dumbstruck, “sure.”

“okay mr. monosyllable. i'm gonna go order some,” you chirp, standing up off his lap and letting go of his hands. he catches up before you can go too far, grabbing your pinky. 

“hey.”

you look at him long enough that your composed mask has slipped, leaving a giddy, shy smile in its wake. “we’ll talk, i promise. i just haven't eaten in hours on account of trying not to hurl and i’m really hungry.” 

a look of careful consideration skims your features before you bend down and kiss him at the corner of his mouth. spencer's breath stutters on the way in, blindly reaching next to him for the forgotten brown paper bag, “um, i got you a blueberry muffin.”

“aw. thanks, spence.” you can help but kiss him again over that same spot, bag crinkling in your hand as you take it from him. 

you’ll talk. it’s going to be fine.

El has passed out with her head in Robin’s lap, the older girl gently stroking El’s hair not unlike one might pet a cat while she’s engaged in some lively debate with Dustin about…well, Steve’s not entirely sure; he hasn’t been paying much attention. Lucas snuck off with Max a little while ago after receiving a very stern glare from Steve that promised pain if the shit-head didn’t keep everything above board, leaving Will and Mike to sit together with their heads bowed as they discuss their current campaign.

And then there’s you.

Steve spent most of the early evening keeping the strictest of eyes on you and Robin; he may not have protected his frontal lobe while it was developing, but he knows better than to leave the two of you unsupervised for an extended period of time, even more so when there’s alcohol involved. 

But as the night drags on, you’ve gone soft and pliant in your seat beside him, leaning heavily into his side as you play with his hand that you’ve trapped within your grip. You’re so still, so calm, that the only reason he knows you’re still awake is by the way your fingers trace the creases of his one hand while he nurses a warm, nearly flat beer with his other. 

He’s about to ask you how you’re feeling, if you need anything, if you’re almost ready to leave, when you – his sweet, lovely girlfriend – ask him a question. 

“Steve?”

Your head never strays from his shoulder, as though lifting your head is an impossible feat, to peek up at him through your lashes only to find him already looking down at you. 

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering if you’d please be my boyfriend,” you continue, very polite in your request. 

A funny smile takes over Steve’s face as he tries not to laugh at you lest the night devolve into wounded tears. He’s been your boyfriend for almost two years now.

“You’d like me to be your boyfriend?” He clarifies, earning him a hum of agreement from you. 

He squints and purses his lips, pretending to consider it. “Well, I don’t know…what would I get out of it?”

And, God love you, you actually take a minute to consider that. What could Steve Harrington possibly get out of being the sweetest, prettiest, funniest, loveliest girl’s boyfriend? 

Beats me, he thinks sarcastically, happier than he’s ever been with you hanging off his arm.

You’ve turned your attention back to his hand, manipulating his fingers and wrist this way and that way though your grip never grows mean. In fact, you’re impossibly gentle with him, so tender that he feels it like a solid weight in his chest. Whatever response you manage to come up with, you mutter it at his hand.

“Hm? What’s that?” Steve encourages, nudging you with his elbow which sees you craning your neck to lay your head back against the couch; he thinks it might almost be time to get you home to bed.

“I d’know what you’d get,” you admit with a sigh, blinks heavy as though your lashes hold a new weight. “Just thought it’d be nice to do this more.”

“Do what?” Steve asks, thoroughly delighted. “Do this?”

You hum in agreement when he squeezes your hand. “It’s nice to cuddle, isn’t it?”

“The nicest,” he agrees. “Do I not cuddle you enough, sweetheart? Is that what all this is about?” 

Your answering hum is noncommittal at best, wary at worst. Steve hates the thought that he’s somehow left you wanting, though he already fields insults from Robin who calls him a velcro-boyfriend. He’s not sure how much cuddlier he can get, but he can try. 

“S’just that I think you’d be a very good boyfriend.”

Well, isn’t that just the best compliment a boyfriend could get. “Yeah? Thank you, baby. I’d love to be your boyfriend.”

Your grin is a sticky, gooey thing; drawn out and intentional as you peek up at him again. Between the speed (or lack thereof) of your blinks and your smile, Steve isn’t expecting the surge of movement that finds you clumsily clamoring into his lap.

He quickly abandons his room-temp beer, freeing his hand to provide you the leverage needed to maneuver yourself while the other settles over his lap, protecting his crotch from any errant elbows or knees. 

“Jesus, easy, easy; watch the goods,” he hisses as you settle heavily on top of him, eliciting a breathless oof from the both of you. “Better?”

“Th’best,” you hum in appreciation, nuzzling your cheek into his shoulder and reclaiming the same hand of his you’d been fiddling with before, tracing the creases in his palm.

Steve grins, looking up to find Robin smirking at him from across the room with a knowing look on her face. 

He shrugs his shoulders and gestures towards you, making a face as though saying can you believe this girl? 

Robin mouths something that looks an awful lot like velcro. Steve flips her off with the hand behind your back; you remain none the wiser to anything that isn’t Steve’s love line. 

But one thing you absolutely don't love is when he gets quiet.

Steve is never quiet. He's always running a commentary of jokes, impressions, and dramatic sighs. Steve filling the silence is like an unalterable fact of the universe, as constant as gravity.

You tilt your head to look up at him, cheek rubbing against the soft cotton of his shirt. "Steve?"

He blinks, as if pulled from deep thought, meeting your gaze with soft eyes. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

"You're quiet."

He smiles, leaning his cheek against the top of your head. You feel the scratch of light stubble on your scalp. "I'm just thinking."

"That's dangerous," you deadpan, burrowing into his shirt.

Steve chuckles, burying his face in your hair. "Ha, ha. No, seriously. I have a question."

You pull back just enough to look at him, a flicker of nervous curiosity in your chest. "Okay. Shoot."

He hesitates. His gaze drops to your mouth, lingers there for a heartbeat, then lifts back to your eyes. His thumb drifts up to brush gently at your lower lip. The touch is gentle. You almost forget how to breathe with the way he's looking at you, like he's seeing something precious and entirely new.

"Has anyone ever kissed you before?"

You blink at him, wide-eyed, your lips parting on a soundless inhale. His thumb shifts, abandoning its post on your lip to brush soothingly at your cheekbone.

A knowing smile spreads across his face. It's not cocky, exactly. It lacks the sharp edge of his usual bravado. It's more... knowing. "That a no?"

You manage a tiny, frantic shake of your head.

"Yeah," he breathes. The word is full of a warm, reverent satisfaction. He doesn't sound surprised. "Didn't think so." The hand on your cheek shifts to cup your chin, tilting your head up to look at him with a tenderness that makes your throat ache. "That's 'cause you were waiting for the right person, right?" He murmurs. "You were saving it for someone who'd do it right. Who'd take their time. Make it good for you."

It's not a question, but you nod anyway.

Steve smiles, the smile he keeps reserved for you—soft at the edges, blindingly bright in the middle, crinkling in the corners of his eyes. "Can I be that someone, baby?"

Your breath catches. You can only manage another tiny, hopeful nod.

The sound he makes is soft—like he can't believe you'd actually agree to giving him something this vulnerable. A piece of yourself, a first. "Thank you," he whispers. "C'mere, angel."

He lets go of your chin, and for a dizzying second, you miss the contact. But then both of his big, warm hands slide to your waist. He hoists you up into his lap easily, your legs tucked against the cushions.

One of his arms curls around your lower back, holding you securely against him. The other hand comes up to cradle your jaw again, his thumb stroking your cheek.

"You're shaking," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing hum. His forehead rests against yours. "Don't be scared, baby. It's just me. Just us."

Steve's eyes are so close you can see every fleck of golden brown in the rich hazel. "Just follow me, alright? I'll go slow. Real slow." To demonstrate, he tilts his head a fraction and presses the softest, barely-there kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Like that, see?"

You let out a shaky breath you didn't know you were holding. He smiles against your skin.

"There you go," he whispers. He kisses the other corner. "Just getting you used to it."

Then he brushes his lips against the tip of your nose, making you let out a tiny, startled giggle. The sound seems to make his smile widen.

"Good girl," he murmurs approvingly, his voice thick with warmth. He pulls away just enough to meet your eyes again. "Now, close your eyes for a sec, baby."

You do, lashes fluttering shut. Your fingers tangle in the soft fabric of his sweater.

"Just feel it," he murmurs, right before his lips meet yours.

It's a proper kiss this time, but it's still Steve—which means it's soft. Tentative. Gentle.

His lips move over yours with a patient, coaxing pressure, and when you hesitantly kiss him back, he hums in approval. "Just like that," he breathes against your mouth before reclaiming it. "You're doin' so good, baby. Perfect."

One of his hands drifts up to slide in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you better. "That's it," he murmurs between kisses. "No rush, honey. We've got all night."

He tastes you slowly, thoroughly, with a reverence that makes your head spin. He explores the shape of your mouth with a lazy curiosity, his own lips curving into a smile against yours when you tentatively stroke your tongue against his.

You're not thinking anymore. You're just feeling. The softness of his sweater, the little humming sounds of pleasure he makes, the way he seems to breathe you in.

He kisses you until you're pliant and boneless against him, until the only points of existence are the places your bodies connect: his mouth on yours, his hand in your hair, his arm like an iron band around your waist, the heat of him seeping through your clothes.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark, soft, and shining with pure, unadulterated wonder. He doesn't go far. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed. His breathing is ragged, rough.

For a long moment, he just breathes with you, his thumbs stroking your cheek and your waist. Then, he peppers a dozen soft, fleeting kisses all over your face—on your eyelids, your cheeks, your temples, the shell of your ear, the corner of your smiling mouth.

"See?" He whispers, "told you I'd make it good for you."

He gathers you up in his lap, letting you hide your face in his neck while he rests his chin on the top of your head.

When did Christmas become the loneliest time of the year?

Though you may not be a scientist, you’ve been working on a theory.

Once upon a time, December was a month dedicated to love, in all shapes and forms. Christmas mornings were early to start, where a tinier version of you rose with the sun and shot down the hallway towards your parents’ bedroom, if only to force open their door and obnoxiously declare through missing teeth, “Santa Clause came!”

A rift split your family’s tradition with no warning. You had always been told your tenth year would be important, taking your age from single to double digits; but no one had told you it would also take your father. Silence stretched over the walls of your parents’ home like ivy, encasing all three of you within it. Hushed voices whispered of stages and terminal, never loud enough for you to fully grasp what they were saying. By the time you were old enough to understand, your father had already been living in the urn atop the mantelpiece for five Christmases, “There was nothing the doctors could do, he was half-way gone when they diagnosed it.”

The silence persisted until, one year, it stopped. Home for the holidays — your first time returning during your freshman year of college — you stepped foot into a wonderland of lights and noise, the smell of nutmeg dusting your nose with every inhale as you ventured into the once quiet home your Mother had made for herself, only to find her smile bright and her eyes brighter, while a stranger nervously wrung his hands by her side as she looked at you and announced, “This is James, my husband!”

While all the movies may push the narrative that step-parents are the spawn of Satan, you were quick to learn otherwise. The inclusion of James Barnes in your life may have been unexpected, yet the man had shown no qualms with making himself a comfortable, stable figure for you to lean on — one summer back at home was all it took for you to bond. And though there would never come a day where he filled the hollow shape your father’s passing had left in your heart, he carved out his own designated space, somewhere between friend and family. Suffice to say, no one had been as shocked as you when James — Bucky — informed you, “Your mother and I are getting divorced, kiddo.”

Now Bucky is running for congress and your mother is eat, pray, loving her way through life; and maybe that is the reason why you’re all alone, nursing a watered-down espresso martini and partaking in man’s oldest hobby: spilling your troubles onto an underpaid, uninterested bartender.

“- and he’s gonna leave me all alone? On Christmas!?” You almost choke on a hiccup, the outrage in your voice ringing off the walls of the empty bar. “What did I ever do to deserve all that? He can’t even apologise, because God forbid he admits to being wrong for once- ”

“Listen, it’s,” the bartender pauses mid-wipe of the dishtowel over a freshly steamed glass to check his watch, his patience lead to a drought in the wasteland of a December’s night shift. “Officially Christmas Eve. I’m exhausted, I have to be back here in less than eight hours to work the shift of Hell, and we’re forecast for snow. Why don’t you give me your boyfriend’s number and he can get you home, so you can sober up and talk this out?”

Your reply is barely intelligible, a slurry mess of numbers you recite off the top of your head — you’ve never been the best at remembering phone numbers, yet this one has a habit of flying out of you like it’s second nature. Fluent in drunken-speech, the man wastes no time punching the digits into his phone and pressing it to his ear.

As you trace your finger around the rim of your glass, you make out the faint gruff of a man’s voice ringing out of the speaker, “Hello?”

“Hey man, sorry ‘bout the late call,” he flicks his eyes over to you, heaving out a sigh while you fight off sleep with every heavy-eyed blink. “I’ve got your girl here and she’s drunk. Don’t know what kind of argument you guys had, but would you mind putting it on the back-burner for tonight and picking her up?”

Snow falls with patience, not a hint of hurry in the way it floats down to the ground, adding a new spec of white atop the road. It’s mother nature’s promise that, come morning, the entire city will sit beneath a blanket of glittering frost.

A sniffle pierces through the silent night as you press the cigarette butt to your lips again and pull in a breath, welcoming an inhale of cold nicotine. Frost nips at your nose, your cheeks, your eyelashes, threatening to freeze the tears dancing upon them before they even get the chance to spill down your face.

Inside the bar, the man continues to wipe down and clean up for the night, throwing cautious glances your way every so often. It had been a verbal struggle to convince him you would be safe outside, that you just needed to slip out for a breath of fresh air to sober yourself up. If he notices the sobs racking through your body and shaking your shoulders, he makes no attempt to interrupt nor comfort you, leaving you out in the cold to mull over your own emotional ailments.

Sudden and without warning, a vehicle pulls into the bar’s parking lot and a pair of headlights burn your retinas. Free hand reaching up to dampen the intensity of the brightness, a sense of familiarity washes over you with another gust of snow-filled wind.

The car is old. Much older than you are, as is the man stepping out of the driver’s side, his coat already half-way removed by the time he steps under the bar’s awning and brings his furrowed brows and worried mouth into view.

“Christ, kiddo, what are you doing out dressed like that in this weather?” Not once, in the five short years he was married to your mother, did you witness an ounce of anger upon Bucky Barnes’ visage. Standing before you now, draping the heavy weight of his coat over your shoulders and around your shivering bones, you swear you catch a hitch of something in his voice. Frustration. Irritation. Desperation? “Are you trying to give me a heart attack by catching frost bite? You’re old enough to know better than to do something so stup-”

“Why’re you here?” The interruption is harsher than you intend, and you witness how the words slap the older man across the face, forcing him back a step or two in shock.

“You called,” he states, frown returning full throttle as you take another drag of the cigarette, ash clinging to its tip and threatening to float down with the snow any second now.

“I did?”

Ice crunches beneath the red bottoms of his shoes as Bucky inches in a little closer, recuperating from the verbal shove you served him only moments ago. Something about his attire — a charcoal grey suit, wrinkled by a day of hard work yet stretched across the width of him like it’s tailor made and shaped to his body — feels out of place, distant, nothing like the version of him who spent years clinging on to tattered old pyjama pants because, “So what if they’re scruffy looking? They’re comfortable.”

But, then again, that’s all you two have now: distance.

No longer is he the man your mother called her own, nor the man who insisted on driving halfway across the country just to bring you home for the holidays, nor the man who became part of the furniture in your family home. This man is nothing but a would-be stranger, dressed to the nines and feeling ten million miles away, despite the hand reaching towards your mouth.

“We talked about this, kid,” he tuts, plucking the cigarette out from between your lips. “‘S no good for those little lungs of yours to be inhaling this shit.”

Then, with all the hypocrisy of a politician, he brings the nicotine stick up to his mouth and pulls in one sharp breath, before dropping it to the floor, crushing it beneath his heel and expelling a cloud of smoke in your face.

“Hey!” The whine in your voice is pathetic, half-arsed and fading into a hiccup as another sob tears through you. Reaching uselessly for the cigarette now one with the patch of snow on the pavement, your hand finds Bucky instead, who steadies it against his chest and condemns you with the knowledge of how warm his skin feels, even in sub-degree temperatures and through the fabric of a shirt. “That’s not fair! It’s okay when you smoke, but when I do, suddenly it’s a crime?”

“Life’s not fair,” perhaps the worst thing about all of this, in your alcohol-doused judgement, is the amusement Bucky finds in your pouting, the tiniest stretch of smugness turning up the corners of his lips. Unwillingly, it takes you back a few years to your mother’s kitchen. To a late night. To a bottle of wine. To no one but the two of you. To how your eyes kept drifting to his grape stained lips. “You have your whole life ahead of you. An old man like me though, ‘s no point worrying about my lungs.”

“But I do.” Maybe you imagine it, but you swear you feel his heartbeat falter beneath your hand; not for long, barely a beat, but enough for you to notice. “Worry about you.”

“Do you?” Bucky finally lets his mouth fully stretch into a smile, head tilting to the side while he takes to tugging the coat around you a little tighter, shielding you from the bite of the winter night. “‘Course you do. My girl’s still as sweet as she’s always been.”

The praise tugs at something inside you — primal, attached to a part of you no man his age, much less him of all people, should ever activate. Want, desire, an itch that needs scratching by hands other than your own. For the first time since you stepped outside, you’re thankful for the snowstorm, cooling the world around you enough to lend no power to the heat rushing over your cheeks.

Before you can dwell on it too long, the creak of a door interrupts you.

“Leave the girl alone,” there goes the bartender, stepping out into the snowy night with exhaustion on his face and a dishtowel over his shoulder, arms crossing over his chest in a way that’s obviously meant to emphasise his biceps. Nice, thick, firm; yet nowhere near to the muscle you know lies beneath Bucky’s sleeves. “Her boyfriend will be here to pick her up any moment now, so you’d best run along.”

There’s a chuckle from Bucky, tired enjoyment coming over his face as he snakes an arm around you and tugs you to his side, your shoulder pressing against his ribcage.

“Don’t worry, this one’s mine.” Mine. It reverberates in your mind, bouncing off the walls of your skull and echoing. Mine, mine, mine. Oh to be his anything. Did he call your mother that, mine, when he lay her atop their bedsheets? Would he call you that, if you let him lay you down too- “Thanks for calling, by the way. She can be a handful, but I’d never trust my girl going home with anyone else.”

My girl.

It warms you all the way over to his car — a vintage number, the vehicle he used to wax poetic about and polish every Sunday. For as little as you know or care about cars beyond their ability to drive, you miss witnessing his fits of passion dedicated to his precious Bentley.

A perfectly shined body, paired with twin headlamps and a vertical facelift along the bonnet; if you didn’t know any better, you would assume its engine runs on liquid gold instead of gas. You had asked him what model it was once, only to nod along like you understood when he listed off words like 1957 and Continental.

“Let’s get you warmed up, kid,” Bucky mutters more to himself than to you, keys turning at the engine and fingers flicking on the seat-heater, a modification he prided himself on having fitted with his own two hands. “D’you feel that? ‘S it nice?”

Empty-headed and speechless, your body has a mind of its own, thighs squeezing together and spreading a zing of pleasure through your lower abdomen, a new kind of warmth working in tandem with the heater beneath you, as your mind begins to wander off into a fantasy world where Bucky and you are exchanging body heat atop his passenger seat, hands ridding one another of the offensive barriers of clothing, his voice spilling into your ear in a mess of rasp and want, pleading you to tell him how he feels, how good he’s making you feel, how badly he’s wanted you all along-

“Hey, where’d you go?”

You snap back into reality, where his hands are no longer undressing you, cupping your cheek instead and forcing your focus onto his face.

“Huh?”

“Just now, you were drifting away from me, trapped in that pretty head of yours.” He’s gentle, yet everything about it hurts: his touch, his voice, the way his eyes scan over your features and sink deeper into a well of longing. “Thought you said you no longer needed me to come pick you up. What happened, hmm? Did you and Jonah get into another fight?”

“Joaquin,” you correct him softly, gaze daring to look at anything but him. Suddenly, you’ve never been more fascinated by an air freshener. “And no- Well, yes, but it’s not- We’re only- It’s not a big deal, I’m just over-reacting, as usual.”

“You’ve been crying,” a crease forms between his eyebrows, as Bucky slowly soothes the pad of his thumb over your cheek, smudging the tear tracks with his fingerprints. “I don’t know much about this Joaquin kid, but he shouldn’t be making you cry.”

“Bucky,” that name feels too intimate, coaxing a fresh wave of tears from your ducts and forcing you to grasp at straws for any kind of separation you can put between you and a man you once called family. “James, it’s not like that-”

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No! No. I just-” A sigh turns shaky as you feel your lower lip tremble, the constant back and forth motion of his thumb finally breaking the dam in your eyes, a fat tear spilling over your cheek. As though his hand is not cruel enough, he catches it with his lips, pressing gently to your cheek. “I don’t want to be alone… Not on Christmas. And I know Joaquin didn’t mean to but, he went home for the holidays and didn’t even think to ask if maybe I wanted to go too. He knows my mom is… Well, wherever the hell in the world she is right now, and that I don’t have anybody here, not really.”

Silence overwhelms the tight space of the car.

Outside, the wind howls and rattles at the windows, smearing the vehicle in tiny flecks of snow. The bar’s lights have gone out, the bartender at long last free to roam home and sleep what little he can afford to before returning to fulfil his opening shift.

Leather squeaks as Bucky shifts in his seat, inching a little closer, and that’s when you smell him. A tickle of lavender, followed by an earthy sweetness that melts into amber and masculinity; the scent of sophistication, of a gentleman.

How could you ever forget that scent? You gifted it to him, after all, the very same cologne your father used to swear by.

“That’s not true,” he finally replies, after what feels like an eternity. In reality, only a minute has ticked over on the car’s clock. “You have me. Do I not count as somebody?”

You expel a breath of laughter, disbelief marking your voice as you counter, “You know what I mean.”

“What, so, one measly little divorce, and suddenly I’m chopped liver?” That damned hand of his is still insistent on cradling your face, slipping down the length of it to grasp at your chin with its fingers while the thumb takes to stroking your jaw. “Cause it sure doesn’t seem that way, not when you keep calling me for a ride any time you catch a whiff of wine. I’m just sayin’, kiddo, I’m here, if you want me to be. You could spend the night, finally see my new place. Then we could head out in the morning, get ourselves whatever we need to cook up a Christmas dinner for two, and make the holidays a little less lonely for the both of us.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Who said anything about have? I want to.” Finite, full-stop, no room for you to bend the truth in his words and convince yourself of a fallacy where he merely feels pity. “C’mon, kiddo. I’ll even make those cookies you like, the ones with the marsh-”

“With the marshmallow in the middle,” excitement catches your tongue and runs off with it, forcing words out of your mouth before you can think better than to interrupt him.

“Exactly.”

Protesting is a fool’s game, and so you give in, let him reach over and buckle you in, before shifting the Bentley into gear and driving out into the night.

You do your best to relax, to let yourself sink into the comfort of the heated leather, and the softness of his coat, and the familiarity of his scent. Streetlights flicker by in a blurry haze of orange, spotlighting the snow as it continues to dance in the air, meeting the ground in its crescendo. When the radio begins to buffer, losing connection with the poor weather, Bucky whips out a cassette and slips it in to play.

Princess’ Playlist.

You’re almost beside yourself, rereading the fading marker along the tapes edge.

He kept it. Even after all of these months, where he likely thought he would never need to use it again — that playlist, the very same one he’d burned onto tape for you, a compilation of all your favourite songs, and all because he wanted to make the drive back from your college together a little more fun, a little more noisy, a little more full of him failing to hit the high notes in Hungry Eyes.

Just when you think you can find any semblance of normalcy, sitting next to your ex-stepfather and wrestling with the all too common taste of guilt at the back of your throat, he touches you.

More specifically, his hand meets your lower thigh.

Just above the knee, nothing scandalous about it, yet that doesn’t stop you from spiralling when he speaks, “Can’t believe you were out dressed like that, in December. You’ve been living in Washington a lot longer than me, and even I know you need more than a flimsy skirt to keep warm. It’s snowing, for god’s sake!”

“It wasn’t earlier,” you mumble, the embodiment of a petulant child as you cross your arms over your chest and pin your gaze out the window, away from those steel blue eyes. “When I went out.”

Fingers squeeze at skin, a reactionary thing; a piss-poor attempt from Bucky to quell that flame of irritation your defiant words spark up inside his chest. It only serves to make you more aware of him, and his hand, and the way it’s forced to inch further up your leg when he presses on the breaks, the car coming to a halt just in time for him to not run a red light.

You can already picture the scandal of it all, the endless headlines… Wannabe congressman runs through light! Worst of all — his passenger princess is his ex-stepdaughter! So really, even if it forces his touch to travel north, maybe it’s for the best that the next three traffic lights all turn up red.

Over the speakers, a wistful synth begins to play, the intro notes to a song you know all too well. While usually someone feels glee when they hear their favourite song, all you feel is the bitter chill of Bucky’s hand leaving your thigh and grasping at the volume dial. Sure, it only takes a moment or two for him turn the music up, and sure, his hand is back against your thigh before you can truly start to miss it, but it’s back at the bottom of your thigh, no longer skimming along the edge of your skirt.

The mixture of coffee and vodka swimming in your veins becomes your own aphrodisiac, poisoning your imagination with visions you promised yourself you would stop having.

Of Bucky, hand grasping your thigh and commanding you, voice slow and deep, to, “Spread your legs, sweetheart. Wanna see the mess I’ve made of you.”

Of that same hand dragging up the stretch of your skin, teasing the inside of your thigh, only for him to press two fingers against your clothed cunt and whisper, “Shit, she’s crying for me, isn’t she? Should have told me, princess, you know how I like to kiss your tears away.”

Of those two fingers taking their time with you, stroking you over your thong and daring to dip an inch or two into your pussy, as deep as the barrier of lace allows them to penetrate, all the while he’s taunting you for, “Just taking whatever you can get, aren’t you doll? Doesn’t matter if it’s that boy-toy of yours or your stepdad, that greedy hole just wants something to stuff it, huh? Well, go on. Ask nicely and maybe daddy’ll finally let you feel what all your mother’s fuss was about, why I had her screaming my name so loud you used to-”

“Merry Christmas!”

The sudden exclamation pulls you from your daydreams once more, Bucky’s hand now balled in a fist and at the level of your mouth, expectant eyes awaiting for you to sing the next line.

When all Bucky receives is silence, he brings his hand over to his own mouth and sings into the invisible microphone, “With a note saying ‘I love you’, I meant it.”

With the combined vocals of George Michael’s velvety voice and Bucky’s rasp filling the car, you pray to god it’s enough to cover the whimper that shakes out of you, sinking a little deeper into the passenger seat as you search for some relief for the burning between your thighs, shifting your hips until you feel the sweetness of pressure against your clit, the meat of your thigh kissing against your panties.

God, maybe Bucky is right.

Maybe you should have worn something warmer, covered up a little more.

At least if you were wearing jeans, you’d have something to rut against. Nothing too ideal, yet the stiff seam of them squeezing up against your aching, drooling pussy might have just been enough to quench whatever newly founded lust has taken hold of you.

“You okay, kiddo?” And, of course, Bucky just has to put his hand back on you, landing halfway up your thigh, all the while he shoots you a cautious smile. “You’re dancing all over the seat, my little squirmer. ‘S it getting too hot for you?”

Not hot enough, you think, and subtly roll your hips up to meet whatever pitiful friction you can gather from the damp lace, panties pulling tight around the puffy lips of your core.

Another readjustment, another shift of your hips, another goddamn red light, and you’re dancing on a tightrope, building yourself to a dull end, a climax serrated by the distance between his fingers and you.

Does Bucky know what you’re doing? Can he smell the tangy sweetness dripping out of you, threatening to leak down onto the leather and stain his seat with you forever? Is he aware of the slow movements, the subtle push and pull you make towards your own finish line, all the while he continues to hum along to whatever festive tune plays on the tape next, hand squeezing your thigh in time with the music?

It’s getting harder to fight the need swelling in your throat, a moan that’s clawing its way out of you. Before it can succeed, you sigh, head rolling to the side and finding the cold of the window, eyes forced shut when that first wave of ecstasy finally hits.

“You tired, princess?” Is the care in his voice fatherly? Or is it something deeper, something warmed not in his heart but in the fire of his loins?

Swallowing down another moan, cunt still grinding against your panties, you find the will within you to nod at his question.

He gifts you with a squeeze of his hand around your thigh, and now you wonder if he can feel the tremble in your muscles.

“That’s okay, you can sleep. I’ll wake you when we’re home, okay?”

For the first time in weeks, months, maybe even this whole year, things do feel okay.

Bucky is taking you home.

“Well, what do you think?”

Bucky calls to you, rustling around the kitchen and doing who-knows-what, one hand stirring a wooden spoon while the other scours through a drawer.

With his coat off your shoulders, his scent does not surround you — it drowns you instead, fermented into the walls of the townhouse. Sleek, modern, refined. The new home he’s made for himself in the city only adds to that distance life has placed between you; no longer does he store his favourite mug in your mother’s kitchen, or keep his record collection on display in her living room, or ease his precious Bentley into the garage.

Not a single trace of Bucky lives within your childhood home any longer, and the thought of it brings you both distress and comfort. Distress at the thought of change, comfort at the fact you won’t be there to confront it this holiday season.

Instead you’ll be here, tucked away in suburbia with the very person you thought you would be missing this Christmas.

Speaking of missing…

“I think,” you draw out the word, a twinge of humour lifting your spirits as you venture towards the kitchen and prop yourself against the marble counter. “That you don’t know how to decorate a Christmas tree.”

“Don’t be mean, kid,” there’s nothing funnier than watching a grown man try — and fail! — to whip you with a tea-towel, the cloth wrapping around his hand and claiming him as its hostage. “I put a lot of effort into that. Shed my blood, sweat and tears just to assemble the damn thing-”

“Uh-huh,” you can barely contain the fit of giggles taking over you, a dull ache forming in your cheeks from smiling so widely as he monologues about the trials and tribulations of decorating the heap of tinsel and baubels by the windowsill. “Is that why you forgot to put the star on?”

Stove off, spoon down, he tilts the contents of the pot into that mug — his favourite one — and slides it over towards you, tendrils of steam dancing upwards to flood you with the rich smell of hot cocoa.

“‘S not going to drink itself. Taste it,” Bucky commands, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the counter. The first sip has barely flooded your taste-buds with the syrupy sweet warmth of chocolate when he speaks again. “Tailored to perfection, isn’t it? Made just the way you like.” All you can do is nod over a second sip, cocoa pooling at the corner of your mouth. “I don’t forget things. Ever.”

You swear you can hear your heartbeat in your ear, and feel it in your throat, and taste it in your mouth; a constant beat that spells out his name in morse code. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky…

“Then why is there no star?” You no longer feel that giddy amusement, frozen in your spot with the nervous anticipation of a baby bird about to take its first flight — will you soar high into the sky, or will you plummet to the ground and snap your neck?

His hand meets your face — a habit he’s growing all too comfortable doing this evening, touching you with casualness, as though it doesn’t bring you casualty.

“Because,” he reaches a little closer, thumb swiping over the stain of chocolate at the side of your mouth. “The star was always your job.”

The words hit you like a sucker-punch, leaving you winded and bruised. Torrid winds drag you into a tornado of memories; a twister made up of Christmases past, in which your first night back home for the holidays passed with a cup of cocoa and the starring of the tree, it’s top sitting empty for weeks in anticipation of your return. Heartbeat moving faster, mind working slower, mouth hanging lower; the only semblance of a reply you can muster is, “Oh.”

There’s every chance he’s lying, creating a fallacy to cover up his own forgetfulness.

But you want to believe it, believe him.

So, when he offers “Why don’t I go grab the star so you can finish off the tree?”, how could you possibly refuse?

If you knew the answer, then perhaps you wouldn’t have ended up in your current predicament: stood on a dining chair, perched on the tips of your toes with an arm reaching up helplessly, and the itch of Bucky’s stare pinned against you, tempting you to glance back for the millionth time and take in the mouth-watering sight of him. Tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair a dishevelled display of stress; he looks like something out of those dirty novels, a stiff-lipped CEO ready to fall head over heels in lust with his ditsy new assistant.

He looks like the only gift you want this Christmas, all wrapped together by a disapproving scowl.

“Let me help-”

“No, I’ve got it-”

“Kiddo, you’re going to fall,” thick fingers wrap around your calf, a look of anger melting into one of concern as Bucky glances up at you.

Staring too long would be a sin. You pin your eyes up ahead and remind yourself of what you are trying to do, turn it into a mantra that both grounds and controls you.

Put up the star. Put up the star. Put up st- Oh.

When did his hand reach the back of your knee?

“I said I’ve g-” Before you get the chance to finish the sentence, gravity declares itself your enemy as you inch a little taller, moments away from forcing the golden ornament onto the tree’s top, and the chair wobbles.

You tilt to the right.

Bucky pulls you to the left.

With the blink of an eye, you’re crashing down against him, arms flying out to grapple for any semblance of stability and finding his neck. Bucky’s own arms travel from legs to waist, snaking around your middle and shouldering the weight of you, now looming over him.

Eyes meet and words falter, a curtain of tension closing in around you both. Inches sit between your faces, a distance you could so easily end by simply leaning down and bracing for the ultimate impact — your lips colliding against his.

You feel Bucky pull in a breath.

His scent surrounds you once more, tempting fate with its erotic energy, a battery ready to charge up your lust. You’re more conscious than ever of the mess that stains your panties, a wetness that only seems to grow the longer you feel his hands on you. Around your waist, gripping your hip, returning to your thigh.

You’ve never seen his mouth this up close, a set of rosebud lips that practically beg to be bruised with kisses and nips.

Bucky rarely kissed your mother. A chaste peck, saved for special occasions. Yet there was one time… You arrived home early as a surprise, only to unlock the front door to find him pinning your mother against the couch, rutting against her while he unravelled her with his mouth. A mess of tongue and teeth, pulling lullabies of pleasure from your typically reserved mother.

That night, staring up at the bedroom of your childhood home, was the first night you gave in to temptation and let your mind wander, your hand slip beneath your cotton shorts and your ears tune themselves to the low register of grunts coming from the bedroom next door.

No words exchanged, just a primal orchestra composed by Bucky.

A dirty sense of shame stopped you before you could really start, two fingers barely dipped inside the entrance to your gummy walls before you remembered who he was fucking in that moment, who’s marital bed he was defiling.

“You’re staring, princess,” Bucky makes no attempt to straighten you up. If anything, you’re pretty certain he just pulled you deeper into his supportive hold. “Get lost in that dirty little head again?”

A bucket of ice-cold embarrassment pours over you, drenching you into a state of sweaty palms and burning cheeks.

“What- What are you,” flustered does not even begin to cover it, his question fully rattles you — almost as much as the hand inching up your leg. “Talking about?”

“Really, this is the route you’re going to take?” God, why is his hand still moving? “You’re a big girl now. Graduated with honours, got yourself that fancy paying job, living full-time away from home. I think you’re old enough to be honest.”

“Bucky I really don’t-”

“So you’re telling me, when my hand reaches your underwear, I’m not gonna find you wet as a whore on duty?”

Your response takes a moment too long, frozen with shock at the sudden shift in his tone, the eyes of a would-be father figure shifting into that of a predating animal that’s at last locked in on it’s prey, “No!”

The world tilts back into place in tune with the way Bucky slowly perches you back up onto the chair, the fingers trailing up your thigh slowly grazing inwards as they slip beneath the surface of your skirt.

“D’you know why your mommy taught you not to lie?” He’s mocking you with a pout, head tilting to the side.“‘Cause you’re bad at it, baby. Pathetically so.”

Two fingers ghost over the front of your panties, barely a shadow of a touch yet enough to send a ripple through your composure, lips parting to pull in a breath.

It’s getting harder to stand, knees weakened as you witness one of your dirty fantasies manifesting before you and forcing you to question life as you know it — Bucky is not supposed to touch you like this, not really. His hands are only ever supposed to be a thought, a prayer, a longing for you to cradle close to your chest and never speak aloud.

How are you supposed to think straight when a set of fingers are hooking themselves beneath your panties and tugging them down your body?

“Last chance for a little honesty, kiddo,” he calls up to you, gaze pinned on your face above instead of the lace pooling around your ankles. Words fail you as Bucky quirks an eyebrow, awaiting whatever poorly-crafted excuse you have to offer, only for him to cut you off before you can really start, “You really think I don’t know what you were doing earlier, hmm? Sitting in my car, feigning innocence. Pretending my touch didn’t have you creaming in those pretty panties. Did it feel good, grinding like a slut in heat, fighting for whatever semblance of friction you could find? Should’ve just said somethin’, princess, or asked me to help.”

Help is the opposite of what Bucky’s doing, especially when he’s grabbing at your left ankle and lifting it, nice and slow, perching it upon his shoulder. All the while his eyes never stray from yours, never give in to the darker temptations that clearly are calling for him to check on the mess he’s made of you, the mess he let you sit there and think he was unaware of.

“She’s soaking under this skirt, isn’t she?” When you shake your head at his question, he punishes you with the bite of his nails, digging into the skin around your ankle; the first mark he’ll leave on your skin.

How many more marks will he gift you, before the night comes to an end?

“If you won’t tell me the truth,” still burning you with the heat of his attention, Bucky turns his face towards your leg and caresses his lips against it, a mockery of a kiss. “Maybe I’ll just have to check for myself.”

In what may go down as the most mortifying moment of your life, you witness as satisfaction takes claim of his features and an I told you so takes shape on his tongue when at last he lowers his gaze to where your underwear lies, a streak of sticky wetness staining dark lace and brandishing you guilty as charged.

But Bucky cannot just leave this matter well enough alone, no.

It’s not enough that he’s caught you wet-handed, still teetering on a dining chair with one foot tossed over his shoulder and a star clenched in your fist, dusting your skin with golden glitter. No, this man is an observer, a researcher, a sceptic; and therefore it should be no surprise when circumstantial evidence is not enough to satisfy his curiosity. He simply must experience it with his own two eyes and his wandering hand.

Hostage to his touch, he grapples for your ankle and drags it back over his shoulder, the bottom of your foot now pressing down against his trapezius. The stretch in your thigh has a sting to it, one that pinches at both ends of your muscle. If the circumstances were different, maybe you would complain. Unfortunately, you’re a bit too conscious of your bare cunt, now thrust into the spotlight, to really notice anything else.

“Well isn’t she just the cutest thing? All drooling and glistening,” he’s not touched you, not really. Somehow, that feels more sinful, because it leaves you space to still wonder, to still hope, to still agonise over all things right and wrong that you never could have imagined this man truly doing to you. “Crying for some attention, isn’t she? Begging for someone to give her the loving she deserves. Y’gonna let me give her it?”

Your answer is half gasp, half stutter, a broken concoction of noise in reaction to the first press of his fingertips against your lower lips. Eventually, you manage a sentence, “I have a boyfriend.”

“You do,” nonchalant and free of care, he indulges in the luxury of spreading you open, parting your folds to take a peak at what’s between the curtains.

Where he hums in satisfaction, you bite back a squeal.

“You are-” like he can tell where your sentence is heading, Bucky chooses the right time to cut you off with the dip of a finger into your honey pot, barely the tip of it swiping up your slit and landing a warning tap against your clit. You correct yourself. “You were my stepfather.”

“I was,” he replies with a casualness that does not match the way he’s assessing your body, inspecting the state of carnal need he’s placed you in. “But this is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

“James, n-no, I-”

“Shh,” he circles around your pearl, marvelling at the way your body reacts to him, subconsciously grinding against the rough pad of his finger. “You don’t have to lie, not to me. God knows I’ve wanted it too. That first summer you came back from college… Fuck, baby, you had me feeling like a dirty pervert. Strutting around the house in those see-through shorts, and laying out by the pool in the skimpiest bikinis; you were like every man’s dream and nightmare all wrapped in one.”

Just when you think you might explode or burn up in a cloud of dust and lust, Bucky eases a finger inside of you. Thicker than your own, the stretch is delicious, enough to have you throwing your head back and your eyes slipping shut.

In the heat of bliss, you forget where you are, who you are with, who you should be with. Joaquin becomes as distant of a thought as he is in presence, run away to his hometown with his precious duffel bag and his sorry excuse for an apology, and abandoning you to the capable hands of a man who picks up when you call, a few drinks too deep and searching for any excuse to see him — even if it lasts only the short drive back to your apartment, in which you once again feign that it won’t happen again.

How many nights have you forced him out of bed and behind the wheel? The tally is uncountable, at this point, lost in time throughout the near-year he’s been living in your city. And not once has he complained, or told you to stop calling…

Now, knuckle-deep inside of you, you’re starting to feel why he’s been so caring.

“Do you know how guilty I felt, getting hard over my pretty stepdaughter? I thought I was the biggest fucking cliche, seeing someone young… Something shiny and new… And wanting her all for myself,” despite the delicate delivery of his confession, there’s a certain kind of anger behind each word, brandishing you in his disappointment while his finger starts a slow rhythm, slipping out of you only for him to push back in. “So imagine my face when, after months of cold showers and trying not to picture you under me instead of my wife, I catch my precious princess burying her nose in my boxers and splitting herself open with a plastic cock.”

“Oh my god!” You’re not even sure if your exclaim is born from the shameful knowledge he just dealt you, the dirty deeds you’d long tried to keep to yourself, or the fact he’s slipping a second finger inside you, pointer meeting middle with a curl, fingertips pressing up against the spongy tissue.

“Turns out the real pervert was you. Wasn’t it?” He grants you no grace period, no moment to grow accustomed to the new stretch of your walls, and instead takes to working an ache into his wrist, fingers scissoring you open. Toes already curling, one spine-tingling thrust has you buckling into him, leg slipping back over his shoulder and your hand flying out to grasp his hair, stabilising yourself like he’d ever truly let you fall. With a sharp tug to his scalp, you witness him moan for the first time without the barrier of a bedroom wall. “I know all about how you used to listen to us, to me. Hey, hey, don’t look so shy, princess. It’s okay, d’you know why?”

Somehow, you muster the ability to reply — not verbally, but with a shake of your head.

Bucky shows no sense of urgency to finish his sentence, lazily fingering your cunt while he drags the length of his tongue over your inner thigh, teasing its way up to the crease where leg meets pelvis.

“‘Cause I was doin’ it for you. Wanted you to hear it all, wanted to be the reason you’d turn on that buzzing toy and get yourself off,” a third finger joins the fray and Bucky at last gives himself a taste of you, tongue brushing over the side of his fingers as he licks a stripe up your pussy. It’s unclear whose response is louder: your half-choked cry of his name or his animalistic groan. “God, sweetheart, she tastes so sweet. Like fucking ambrosia. Do I need to start calling you my little angel, hmm?”

Like any good drug, one hit of you is enough to have Bucky hooked.

In a matter of minutes, he goes from composed gentleman — still clad in a suit and tie, poking and prodding you in his living room like you’re nothing but a science experiment, the subject in a theory on wetness he’s trying to prove — to a debauched image of a man, knuckles bullying themselves against the dripping lips of your pussy each time he buries them deeper inside of you, while his tongue lavs over you with wanton abandon, hellbent on drinking you down and angling the right amount of pressure against your throbbing clit to have your leg clamping around his head and an orgasm ripping through you.

Gone is the star in your hand, slipped out of your grasp and now surrounded by a mess of gold dust on the floor. You’ve anchored yourself completely in his hair, your head thrown back while your hips buck against his face, guided by the firm grasp his spare hand has claimed one of your ass cheeks with, squeezing and playing with the swell of skin all the while he continues to worship up towards you with words of praise.

“Look so beautiful, you know that? So fucking pretty when you let me have my way with you.”

“Wanna taste ‘er all the time, angel. Can I do that, hmm? Can I make my sweet girl feel good everyday? I‘d treat you so good, princess.”

“Wake you up with my tongue in this tight pussy, and fuck her to sleep, send you off into your dreams with my cum stuffed nice and deep inside of you.”

“ You gonna cum? Yeah, you are. Can feel her squeezing me, gripping my fingers like a fuckin’ vice. Let go, let me see it, c’mon. Please, princess-”

“Daddy!”

Perhaps you spoke too soon earlier, believing that Bucky’s knowledge of your actions in the car was the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to you.

Perhaps, instead, the name you just cried out in a blinding pleasure is far more mortifying, enough to leave you wishing you would fall off this damn dining chair and smack your head off something sharp on the way down, leaving you dead on impact and unable to deal with the consequences of your own actions.

Locked and loaded with an apology, you poorly attempt to gather the fraying edges of your senses in hopes of stitching yourself back together and appearing as anything slightly more composed than someone still in the throes of pleasure, walls squeezing around his fingers and clit bumping against his nose, despite the fact Bucky has been frozen with no movement since that word tore through your mouth.

You keep waiting for it to happen: the rejection, the disgust, the polite send-off to be followed by him never picking up the phone again, never mind laying a single finger on nor in you.

Unlike you, it never comes.

“Come on, that’s it, put your foot down nice and careful,” it twists up your insides to hear him still speak to you so softly, like his fingers aren’t staining your skin in your own essence while they grasp your ankle and guide you back down onto the chair. “Let’s get you off of there, yeah?”

You already got me off, you bite back the urge to say.

Feet back on solid ground, you continue to feel the wobbling effect of an orgasm, legs shaky like a foal taking its first steps when Bucky’s hand flattens itself against your lower back and begins to lead you towards the grandiose windowsill.

Nearly reaching from floor to ceiling, the window sits divided by multiple wooden beams cutting through it and curtained on either side by a rich shade of crimson. Past the glass sits a neighbourhood stripped right out of a Christmas movie, with twinkling lights as far as the eye can see and the fluffiest looking snow settled upon rooftops. Fireplace blazing out into the living room and the stifling heat of Bucky’s presence at your back, the subtle chill radiating off the window is inviting, daring you to press your burning face against it.

“See all those houses, princess?” Just when you think you have your breathing under control, Bucky’s hands land upon your shoulders and send a shockwave through your system, stuttering over your next inhale. “All glittery and bright. Full of families excited to spend the holidays together, just like us.”

His hands are moving, curving down the stretch of your torso and settling momentarily on your hips. With a soft squeeze to them, his fingers slip beneath your sweater and begin to draw it upwards, trailing the cloud-soft cotton over your abdomen, your breasts, your sternum, eventually peeling it over your head and letting it drop somewhere in the room — it’s hard to focus or care when his hands dive immediately back into business, fiddling with the hooks of your bra.

“In fact, I bet there’s even someone else watching the snow fall right now,” slow, calculated, Bucky sets your breasts free from their confines only to wrap them up in his touch, palms curving around you to take them into his grasp. He tuts in disapproval, two fingers pinching at your right nipple, when you give in to the feeling and let your eyes slip briefly shut. They snap back open within an instant and faintly find his own glaring in the reflection of the glass. “What do you think, sweetheart? Think there’s another house in this street with a woman staring out into the night, about to be pressed up against the window and fucked by her daddy?”

Lost in the moment, still trying to process the way he sounds out that dirty word, you barely register the way he drags down the zipper of your skirt and leaves it to collapse to your feet, a pool of satin too delicate for the debauchery taking place between you both.

Condensation prickles your skin and raises your nipples as he forces your skin to kiss the glass, the weight of his solid figure pressing itself fully to your back. That’s when you feel him, for the first time.

Thick, heavy, trapped behind the confines of trousers; the shape of his cock pokes against your ass, enticing you with the answer to a question you would have never dared to ask aloud…

“Wait,” a little less secure than you would like to seem, you call out softly when you hear that unmistakable noise of metal unclasping, a belt unbuckling. “I want to- Let me do it, please.”

“How can I say no, when you ask so nicely?”

Turning to face him, you’re struck with the desire for something a little more intimate, a little too out of reach of what you’re comfortable asking for: a kiss.

So, instead, you take over where his hands once were and finish undoing his belt buckle, sliding the expensive leather out of the loop before letting it fall limp against his trousers. Next comes a button and a zipper, pried open by eager fingers that unwrap him like he’s the final present on Christmas day, the biggest and best that’s been saved for last.

“Careful, princess, you might break one of those pretty nails,” he says, teetering off into a chuckle when not even the prospect of ruining your manicure halts you, tugging at the navy blue band of his boxers and at last unveiling the part of him you’ve been most eager to see. “Shit! Aah- Gonna ruin me before we even start if you keep touchin’ him like that.”

His warning is half-hearted, void of sincerity, as you wrap your fingers around the width of him and slowly stroke, tip to base, imprinting the shape of his cock into your mind.

Longer than Joaquin, and thick enough to have you clenching around nothing, pussy twitching at the thought of how sweet the burn will be when he finally splits you open on it. A mushroomed tip, blushing pink and rhinestoned by a bead of pre-cum that dribbles down the underside of him and traces over the pretty blue of his vein.

He’s mouthwatering, so much so that you feel yourself swallow back a mouthful of stale saliva, your gaze fully glued to the way your hand works over his cock, somehow getting him even harder than he already is, the tip playing a game of peak-a-boo with your fingers each time they encase it.

“Does that feel nice, doll?” His own touch meets your face, thumb brushing an imaginary hair from your cheek before Bucky reaches up fully to grab a fistful of it, blunt fingernails scraping over your scalp. “Having a big, hard cock in your hand? Bet it feels like home to you, huh? Like the only thing you were put on this earth to do is to make me cum.”

“Yes,” you breathe out, without truly meaning to.

Bucky welcomes your confession with a glowing smile and a tightened fist, shifting pressure on your head and forcing you to follow the path he drags you down, mouth hovering over the heat of where his cock stands at attention against his abdomen.

“Then get him ready for you, princess,” Bucky coos, fingers massaging at your jaw as you slowly let it drop. “Show a little gratitude and give him a kiss.”

The heady scent of man floods your nose and the salty tang of cum streaks over your taste-buds as you lay a delicate kiss against his tip, gazing up at him from beneath your lashes and watching as the pink tip of his tongue — a shade you now know matches his cock — wets his lower lip.

Before you can taste much more of him, swallow him as deep-down as your throat and temperamental gag reflex will allow, Bucky is prying you off of him and turning you back around. Hands pin your own to the cold glass of the window, a silent threat commanding you to keep them there, then his touch slips elsewhere, tracing over the skin of your spine and settling at your waist.

His foot kicks at your own, nudging you to deepen the spread of your legs and make way for him. Moulding you into whatever shape he likes, tilting your hips back to an angle he deems satisfying enough — one that grants him the sight on your naked core, glistening like the lights decorating the tree, and winking at him as you clench around nothing, your body far too aware of how exposed it’s become.

“Think she can take it, angel?” Bucky’s mouth finds your neck, smattering it in a series of sloppy kisses. Between your thighs, his cock starts to edge back and forth, rutting over your folds and lathering himself in your liquid lust, head teasing your clit with a gentle nudge or two, enough to remind you of how good the friction can feel yet never enough for your moans to come to fruition, dying out in your mouth as he retreats. “Or am I going to break her? Hmm? Do I need to fuck her so loose, no man but me can ever fill her again? Go on, want you to ask for it. Beg for me, tell me how bad my baby’s cunt needs her daddy.”

Why does it feel like such an impossible task?

Each time your mouth parts, ready to shape thoughts into words, all you seem to give is whines and mewls.

Until you manage a simple, “Want it, daddy, please!”

“I know, baby,” the head of his dick presses against your entry, slipping into you with a slow roll of his hips. The action is not merciful, meant to spare you from the discomforting stretch of him splitting you open. No, it is purposeful, a way for him to make sure you feel every cunt-drooling inch of him as he sheaths himself to the hilt. “Daddy knows.”

You’ve always been a quick learner: quick to learn that your mother’s curling wand was not to be touched, quick to learn that boys often say one thing and mean another, quick to learn that secrets tend to travel places they shouldn’t once you speak them aloud.

And now you’re quick to learn that Bucky fucks with no inhibitions.

There is no learning curve, no push and pull where he tests the waters of what feels good for you, no gradual descent into a feral state where an exchange of words becomes a cacophony of grunts and groans. Where Joaquin treats you gently, takes his time to build up the heat, Bucky throws you into a immediate state of boiling, blood bubbling beneath your skin as he pounds into you.

Full does not begin to describe the feeling, the walls of your cunt gripping at his cock each time it reaches that eye-rolling spot inside of you. The sound is enough to fuel your shame, a wet shlick filling the living room with each thrust he gives, balls slapping against your pussy lips.

His hands paw at you. Deepen the arch in your spine, dig bruises into your hips, separate your cheeks just to watch the way your pussy swallows his length, in and out, coating him and yourself in your juices.

Your own hands are faltering, slipping from the glass podiums he perched them on and making their way down the length of the window. Fingerprints imbedded in condensation, you smear streaks where your hands have been, grip failing you. Bucky stops them in their tracks, the rhythm of his hips never even faltering while he grasps at your wrists and manoeuvres them behind your back, hands pinned against your tailbone.

In the reflection of the glass, you spot as he reaches for his throat.

Silk binds itself around your skin, the brown of his tie now encasing your wrists and affording him a makeshift rein, the perfect tool for Bucky to bend you to his will, fingers tugging at the fabric around your wrists and forcing your body to jolt back against him, ass smacking against his pelvis and grinding his cock that little bit deeper into you, tip teasing at what must be your cervix.

“Fuck- That’s it, princess, fuckin’ grind,” teeth clenched, he drags the word out and emphasizes it with his own hips, stilled to the hilt inside of you and sending you slumping forward, whining as your face meets the chilled glass. “Back against him, show daddy how much of a slut you are for this dick.”

“Such a slut- I’m- Oh god!”

“D’you even know how hard it used to be for me, baby? Fucking your mother, trying not to call out your name? Shit, think I actually did once, but she was too cockdrunk to notice.”

The rational side of you is begging for a little shame, for you to find repulsion in the way he’s speaking to you. But you’re too far gone, barely managing cohesive sentences while Bucky continues to fuck you against the window, imprinting more than just the shape of your hands against the cold glass.

“You had me thinking I was seeing visions, baby. Thinking I was imagining your eyes lingering over me- So tight, wanna- Ngh! Wanna fuck this pretty pussy forever. And then I caught you, saw how dirty my stepdaughter was behind close doors. All those tabs on your computer, all those girls begging for their stepdads. Knew then that I wasn’t imagining any of it.”

It’s electrifying, like walking a tight rope between ice and fire. The skin-prickling chill of the frost-bitten window against your form, pairing delectably with the thigh-shaking warmth of Bucky blanketing you from behind, mouthing at your neck, filling your cunt with cock and your ear with filth.

“Now look at my precious pervert, all fucked out for her daddy and still begging for more. Wasn’t bad enough for you that you made yourself cum in my car, with nothing but my hand against your thigh, then you had to lie to me and feign like you didn’t want it, want me. Shut you up real quick, didn’t I, once I got my fingers and my tongue on this cunt. Now you remember that you’re mine, don’t you? Remember how badly you used to dream about me having my way with you.”

It’s all becoming too much, too fast.

His thrusts. The contrast of temperatures. The sounds of his moans in your ear. The sight of your own breath stretching over the cold of the window.

You’re losing yourself, faster than you can find yourself.

“Bet you’d have even let me take you in my marital bed, right where your mother slept-”

“Stop!”

The moment that cry leaves your mouth, the world comes to a halt.

Bucky peels himself off of you like you’re on fire, tearing at the binding around your wrist only to grab at your waist and turn you to face him, stare full of care and worry as he assesses you.

You can already taste the next question he’s forming, before he even says it, and so you beat him to the chase.

“I’m okay! I just-”

In a reaction unbefitting of the man who was just fucking you six ways into Sunday, you watch his shoulders deflate and the stress exhale out of him with a single breath, the confirmation that he hadn’t inexplicably hurt you in anyway soothing an ailment inside of Bucky.

Like he can sense your hesitance, fingers pinch at your chin and steady your eyes on his, “Just what, kid?”

“I want to, you know,” you blink away a shy look, swallow back a lump in your throat. God, why does he still make you so nervous? “See you, when I- When you make me-”

“Cum around my cock?” A shit-eating smirk takes over him as you shamefully nod, hands grabbing at your face as he presses his forehead against yours. “Aren’t you just the cutest? One minute, you’re acting like a cockslut, calling me daddy and squeezing around me while I list off all your perverted actions. And then, the next minute, you can’t even tell me how you want me to make you cum.”

“Stop being mean-”

He cuts you off with a kiss, mouth melting against your own.

You feel as Bucky sighs, like he is relieved to finally grace you with the intimacy of a lover, tongue prodding at your lower lip before you open and let him in. He still tastes like you, like cum and cunt, heady and sweet as he explores the warmth of your mouth.

The buttons of his shirt fall open much slower than the one on his trousers had, the movement of your fingers slowed by his kiss. Sad to feel him stray, even if only for a moment to discard the white button-up, you pull him back into your kiss with renewed fervour.

Bucky takes the lead, guiding you away from the window and over to the wall, forcing your back against the expensive wallpaper a personal assistant or underpaid intern picked out for him, the kind of home decor a man who thinks purple socks pair well with textured green shorts would never think to use.

Next to go are his pants and boxers, shoved unceremoniously over the globe of his ass and kicked away from his feet in a joint effort from the both of you, mouths still exchanging spit.

He’s boxing you against the wall, cock pressed flush between your bodies and drooling over your torso, the faintest stain of sticky white liquid leaving his own custom art behind on your skin. Leg perching itself on his waist, Bucky takes the hint and with ease slides both hands down to the back of your thighs, scooping you up and helping you wrap yourself around him fully.

“This how you wanted me, sweetheart?” His hands rise to find your ass cheeks, squeezing them as he guides your pussy over his cock, sinking you down nice and slow. This time, he’s savouring it, watching with awe how your pelvises meet and the subtlest bulge that makes itself known beneath your skin, a visual display of how deep inside of you he is. “Face to face, watching how eager you are to swallow my dick, and how those pretty eyes stretch almost as wide as your cunt?”

“Yes, daddy,” empowered by the desire swallowing his irises in a pool of black, you find that words come a lot easier in this position. “Want you so bad.”

“God, think I need to record that, make it my goddamn ringtone so I know who’s calling every time my baby gets a little tipsy and needs her daddy to come rescue her.”

Nerves still on edge and body pushed to its limit, it doesn’t take long for Bucky to build you back up to the same electrifying state as before. Cock filling you over, and over, and over, sending your back further up the wall in tune with each thrust of his hips. With one hand gripping your waist and the other weaving itself between you both in search of your clit, something rough and steady for you to grind up against while he chases your high from inside, Bucky is rewriting the meaning of heaven, reworking the wires of your brain and showing you that this was all you’ve ever really needed, ever wanted.

Someone to pick up each time you call, and to kiss all your tears away, and to know you in a way not even you do.

“He doesn’t get me-” Cut off by your own whine, your teeth bite down on your lip as you take a peak at the fluid motions in which he slips in and out of you, a white ring forming around the base of his cock the longer he wears you both out. “Doesn’t know me like you do.”

“Who, angel?”

“Joaquin-” It feels illegal to even think of his name, never mind speak it, while tangled up with Bucky.

“‘Course he doesn’t, sweetheart.”

His pace is turning brutal again, as mouthwatering and back-arching as it was against the window.

Fingers flex in search of him, weaving themselves around his neck and up his head, tangling in his hair while Bucky smothers you in him, chest to chest. Kissing at your neck, mouthing at your ear, nipping at your collarbone. Every inch of you is connected to him, body and soul.

“He doesn’t know how desperate this cunt is,” he’s panting into your ear, the exertion he’s putting into fucking you clear in his voice. “I mean, look at how she’s behavin’ for me, baby. Crying all over daddy’s cock, screaming out for more, more, more. Have you ever told him how much of a slut you are? Ever let him see those perverted links you use to cum?

“No, I never- James! God. Please- So good.”

“Stepdad gives his stepdaughter a thorough spanking,” he lists the title off so casually, like this hasn’t plagued your guilty conscious each time you finish to it. “Stepdaughter swallows her new daddy deep. Stepdad licks his stepdaughter’s pussy. Did you always have such a depraved mind, or was it because of me?”

Gone is the shame, you find no point in even attempting to feign a different answer as you cry out, “It was you, daddy. Just wanted you.”

The longer it goes on, the further you feel yourself straying from sanity, mind lost in lust and pleasure, tightening like a coil inside of you.

“That’s right, it’s just daddy that you want,” he stills against you momentarily, hips beginning to falter like he too can’t keep going much longer, the ache in his balls growing deeper and begging for a release of pleasure. “Wanna know my favourite, the one I keet going back to?”

“Yes! God yes- Bucky- Keep going- I’m gonna-”

“Stepdad stuffs stepdaughter full of cum.”

You recognise the title better than the rest, a tab still open deep in your phone from the last time you made yourself cum to it. Now, knowing Bucky has watched the very same video, hand wrapped around his big, thick, desperate-to-cum cock…

You squeeze around him without really meaning to, sending him into a flow of curse words. Recuperating a tiny bit of restraint, he continues speaking.

“‘S that something you want, princess? Want me to paint your walls with my cum? Fuck- Cause I’ll have you feeling me for days, have it staining your little panties and letting the whole world smell it on you,” He’s so close to caving in, the end in sight for both of you, yet he still awaits that last bit of approval. One last chance to make you beg. “Shit, maybe it’ll stick. Oh, she squeezed me extra tight at that, I think she wants it, angel. Wants me to breed her real good, give you no choice but to tell your mother how you went and fucked her ex-husband, seduced him right out of her arms.”

It doesn’t matter that your mother asked for the divorce.

It doesn’t matter that it was a mutual agreement, where both parties agreed they never truly loved one another and now wanted different things.

Your mother wanted freedom, to find herself in ways she never had before.

And Bucky wanted… Well, you.

Why not give yourself entirely over to him? ‘Tis the season of giving, after all!

“Cum in me, Bucky! Please, wanna feel it- Want you to flood my pussy, to have it dripping out of me while you just keep fucking it deeper- Oh god. Yes, yes, yes!”

A blinding light overcomes your vision, turning everything hot white as your walls clamp around Bucky’s cock one last, definitive time.

One twitch of his tip and he’s spilling into you, ribbons of hot, sticky cum filling your cunt. He doesn’t relent, doesn’t still the movement of his hips. No, he keeps rolling into you slowly, whining and whimpering in your ear as he milks himself dry into your womb, a shiver shaking down his spine.

The two of you pull the other closer, as though there’s any space left to cross, hands reaching and grasping and searching for an anchor in the hectic haze of your climaxes. Just as you feel a tear of his cum roll down your thigh, the soft stab of his cock still pushing into you, something pulls you back into the living room: a meow.

There his cat sits, a ball of snow-white fur, pawing at the forgotten star on the floor.

“We still haven’t put up your star.”

Hearing his laugh warms your heart, just the same as it always has, despite the lewd position you’re in.

There’s the faintest brush of his mouth over your cheek, the same spot he’d kissed earlier in the car.

Except now the tears in your eyes are full of love and ecstasy, instead of pity and despair.

“Guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re here next year to remind me.”

No longer homesick, maybe Christmas won’t be so lonely after all.

+ extra hyde!

· raise of hands, who here is a freak? · don't forget to smash that reblog button, comment down below, and subscribe to houseofhyde for more of whatever-the-fuck-this-was <3 · pov: alpine watching these two freaks get it on: