#dbf!bucky

Kid, so he could look away.

Kid, so you'd stay safe.

You've been watching him for six years now. Learning the way he takes his coffee, the tells when he's had a bad night, how he'll rub at his left shoulder where metal meets flesh, like the junction still aches. You've seen all of it, studied all of it.  Sometimes you think about making a list, just to prove to yourself how pathetic you've become. Line item number one: he takes his coffee black but adds sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Line item number seventy-three: the nightmares are worse in winter. You could write a dissertation on Bucky Barnes and never run out of material.

You've watched him go from your dad's traumatized war buddy to something resembling human again. Watched him learn to laugh at your dad's shitty jokes and argue about sports teams and pretend the nightmares didn't still wake him up sometimes.

Watched him, lately, watch you back.

It's different the way he watches you. You don't think there's a name for it, or if there is, it is too scandalous to say out loud. His gaze will catch on your mouth when you're talking, or track the movement of your hands, or linger on the strip of skin between your shirt and jeans when you reach for something on a high shelf. Then he'll look away fast enough to give himself whiplash, and call you kid again like the word's a shield against whatever he's been thinking. It's one of those 'say it enough times, you'll start believing it' situation.

The first time you caught him staring at your mouth, you'd forgotten what you were saying mid-sentence. Just stood there like an idiot while he blinked and looked away. Your dad asked if you were feeling okay. You weren't. You haven't been okay since you were nineteen and saw him for the first time.

What's killing you now is that you don't know what happens next. You've played out a dozen scenarios in your head — him kissing you against the kitchen counter, you finally calling him on his bullshit, the world ending before either of you has to acknowledge this thing happening between you two. But you can't predict Bucky Barnes. He's controlled but also has triggers you don't know from stories he won't tell, and trying to guess his next move is like trying to catch smoke.

When you let yourself into your apartment on a Tuesday and hear him at your sink, you're not even surprised anymore. This has become routine. Your dad forgets his stuff more often than not, Bucky shows up to collect them, the excuse wearing thin each passing day. Both of you pretending this is normal.

"Kitchen," he calls before you've closed the door.

You don't question why he's here before you're even here. To be honest, it makes you happy, to see someone else — no, to see him. The henley he's wearing enhances his biceps, you almost want to chew through it. You've seen him in this shirt before. You know you have. But every time feels like the first time, like your brain can't quite process the reality of him. There's grease smudged on his jaw that he's completely missed while washing, all you want to do is let your fingers touch him under the guise of removing it. His hair's getting long, and you have approximately thirty seconds before you do something stupid like offer to trim it for him.

"Where's dad?"

Bucky glances at you, a fractional hesitation before he shuts off the water. "Got held up at work." He reaches for the dish towel — the one you've told him a hundred times not to use for his greasy hands — and starts drying off. "Said he'll grab the bike next week."

"Right. Next week." You drop your bag on the counter, not surprised once again. Your dad's been saying next week for three weeks now. At this point, the bike is practically furniture. Why does he leave his things over here if he never cares enough to get them back himself? 

"Well, he's busy." 

"So, he sent you?"

"He didn't send me, I offered," he says. The way he's looking at you now makes your aware of your heartbeat, the steady thunk it used to be is now replaced by this erratic energy that has nowhere else to go.

The kitchen suddenly feels too warm. Or maybe you're too warm. Maybe you've been too warm since the moment you walked in and saw him standing at your sink. You shrug out of your jacket, feel Bucky's eyes track the movement, watching the fabric slide down your arms, every inch of your skin waking up under his gaze. When you look back at him though, his eyes are fixed on the ragged towel at his hand, like they weren't on your skin this whole time. 

The grease on his face is starting to bother you. Though, bother would be a big word. You just want to rub it off. Why? You don't know. Maybe to get your hands on him. "You've got something on your face," you tell him.

His hand rises automatically, searching for the stain in the wrong place. "Where?"

"Other side. No — here, just —" You step closer, and immediately realise this is a mistake. You know it's a mistake even as you're doing it, but your hand's already there, thumb swiping at the smudge on his jaw.

Bucky goes still, that's the only way to put it. A whole-body freeze, every muscle locked down. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you absolutely do not want to. That's what you keep telling yourself. Liar, something in you whispers. You've wanted to count them since forever. You've wanted to note every detail of him and keep them somewhere safe.

There's a faint knowing of the world running in the background, but nothing else seems to matter when he's still not moving. And neither are you. "Got it," you say, but you don't step back.

"Thanks." 

Your thumb's still on his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin. You can feel the texture of it, slightly coarse. Suddenly, you're struck by the intimacy of knowing how his face feels under your hand. This is the kind of knowledge that belongs to girlfriends and wives, not to the daughter of his best friend who's been harbouring increasingly inappropriate thoughts for years. You can feel his pulse jumping in his throat, like he's been running. Neither of you is moving. Neither of you is even breathing if you're entirely honest. There's a slow dance of his eyes, from your own to your mouth, then back to your own. Yours do the same, mirroring him in the most minute way possible. There's about three inches of space between your mouth and his.

"This is a terrible idea," Bucky says as he leans in, which in turn makes you lean in. The distance closes in itself by excruciating degrees. 

"The worst." The two words from your mouth are swallowed by his own, the space between you both narrowed to a negative as his lips touch yours. The first graze of it is gentle, testing. Like he's afraid you'll shatter or bolt or realize what a stupid thing this is. But you've been waiting for this. There's months — no, years — of watching, wanting and pretending you weren't doing either, years of lying to yourself that you could be satisfied with just existing in his orbit, and gentle just isn't going to cut it. You fist your hand in his shirt and pull him closer, breaking whatever thread of control he's been clinging to.

Bucky makes a low sound in his throat and kisses you harder, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, metal arm sliding around your waist. The metal is cool even through your shirt, a shock of temperature that makes you gasp into his mouth. He tastes like coffee and mint gum, the taste so unique because it's him. When his tongue sweeps into your mouth, you forget how to think in complete sentences. Language becomes optional, unnecessary. Who needs words when you have this, have him finally, finally touching you the way you've dreamed about. Your free hand finds his shoulder, gripping hard enough to feel the shift of muscle under skin, as he backs you up until your hips hit the counter.

The kiss turns messier and desperate. His beard scrapes your chin, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling small sounds from you. You'd be totally embarrassed if you had any capacity to think. But, you're drowning in it, in him, in six years of wanting finally combusting into this.

The limbo of the kiss, the existence narrowed down to the dance of your lips is mercilessly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.

Bucky tears his mouth away from yours with a curse that would make your father blush, his forehead finding residence at your temple, both of you panting. You can feel his breath on your skin, uneven, matching your own. His hand shakes slightly as he fumbles for his phone.

"It's your dad."

The words are a bucket of ice water, waking up fear and shame, squashing any leftover desire. Guilt crashes over you in waves. This is your dad's best friend. Your dad's traumatized war buddy who he trusts completely, who he invited into his life, into your life. And here you are with swollen lips and shaking hands, having just had his tongue in your mouth. 

Bucky steps back, puts physical distance between you before he answers the phone. The loss of his warmth feels physical, like something's been ripped away. "Yeah?" His eyes are still on you, pupils still blown, gaze oscillating between your parted lips and your pleading eyes. "No, just wrapped up. Heading out now." A pause where he could take a deep breath, but doesn't. "Yeah, she's good. I'll tell her."

When he hangs up, the silence that follows is excruciating.

Expectant eyes search his face, his mouth, guilt threading through your own features as you take in his. Whatever you'd expected him to say, it wasn't this, "I should go," Bucky says

"That's it?" The words tear through you, frustrated and angered by his choice, his decision. "That's all you're gonna say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Maybe any sentence that doesn't make me feel like I imagined the last five minutes."

His jaw clenches and unclenches. You can see him thinking, the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing what he should say versus what he wants to say. He looks like he's choosing his next sentence carefully. But when it does come out, it doesn't seem all that careful. "You didn't imagine it."

"No? Great. Very comforting." You cross your arms, looking like the very kid he claims that you are. "So what, you kiss me like that and then just leave?"

Bucky doesn't quite meet your gaze as he grabs his jacket and starts his way away from you, stillnot looking at you. 

"Why?" You prod. 

"You know why." Finally, he looks at you, whatever you see on his face makes you want to hit him or kiss him again. Pain, maybe. Regret. Want that he's trying desperately to bury and failing. Not trusting your body to keep its distance, you put some between you, stepping back. Bucky sighs, and runs his metal fingers through his hair. "Your dad's my best friend. I'm too old for you. This is — we can't —"

"I'm twenty-five, Bucky."

"I know how old you are. You think I don't know exactly how old you are? You think I — Fuck!" The frustration in his voice borders on anguish, like the knowing is what's killing him.

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that your dad would kill me. The problem is that I've got no business touching you. The problem is that I can't —" He runs his hand through his hair again, and you think he might pull it off if he's not careful. "I need to go."

Bucky walks out, leaving you standing in your kitchen with kiss-swollen lips, racing heart, and anger. You're furious. At him for kissing you and leaving. At your dad for existing. At the whole goddamn universe for making this so complicated. At yourself most of all, for still wanting him even as he walks away.

A week. Seven days of you jumping every time someone knocks on your door, checking your phone obsessively like he's going to text you, half-expecting Bucky to show up with another tissue-thin excuse about tools or motorcycles or whatever.

He doesn't.

Day two, you convinced yourself you hallucinated the whole thing. Day three, you stared at your kitchen counter trying to remember the exact spot where he'd backed you up against it, like if you stand there long enough you'll be able to conjure the feeling of his hands on your waist.

Your dad picks up the bike himself. Mentions Bucky's been busy with some job for Sam, says it casually, disinterested. That means he has no idea anything's changed. You smile, nod and try not to think about the way Bucky's mouth felt on yours.

It doesn't work.

You replay the kiss in your mind so many times it starts to feel like fiction. But, you can still feel the ghost of his metal arm around your waist, still taste coffee and mint when you close your eyes.

On day seven, you've nearly convinced yourself to show up at his apartment and demand answers.

But he shows up at yours.

It's Tuesday night, exactly one week later. You're in old sweats and a tank top, halfway through a pint of ice cream you're eating straight from the container. 

The knock is an inconvenience at this time, perfectly ruining your plans of rewatching Brooklyn 99, turn your mind off and eat the damn ice cream. You almost don't open, 9 PM is hardly any time for visitors, hoping that person takes the hint and fucks off.

The second knock comes up more insistent, a hurry in the air, forcing you to pad towards the door, ice cream in hand. 

And there's Bucky. 

Bucky, who looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, wearing an expression like he hasn't slept in days. He looks how you feel, which is both gratifying and heartbreaking. His hair is damp. It takes you a moment to understand it's drizzling. Drizzle would be a stretch, for the raindrops are the size of a pomegranate pearl, dropping down with vigour. 

"Hey," he says.

"No." You start to close the door, even though all you want to do is haul him inside, towel off his hair, dry those strands that are matted together. 

His boot hits the doorframe, an obstacle in your plans, a test on your self-preservation. "Wait —"

"I don't want to hear it, Bucky. I really don't." You try to push the door close anyway, mustering up the courage. But he's stronger than you physically, stronger than your thinning anger, which is dissipating by the second. "Move your foot," you try somehow. 

"Not until you let me talk."

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're a nicer person than I deserve."

A smile starts to break into your features, but you quickly tone it down. He's not playing fair, showing up here looking lost and using that voice. "Flattery's not gonna work."

"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to apologize."

You stop pushing on the door, the bare minimum you could do without showing all your cards. "Then apologize."

"Can I come in?"

Now, that would be a tremendously bad idea. If he comes in, you're not sure where else he'll be coming in. 

"You can apologize from right there." 

Bucky's quiet for a moment, studying your face. You try not to show your true feelings,keep your expression neutral, unaffected, like your heart isn't actively trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I'm sorry. For leaving like that. For not calling. For —" He looks like he's frustrated with himself, abruptly stopping the sentence. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "for all of it."

"Okay." You still don't open the door wider. "Apology received. Have a good night."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Shut me out. I know I fucked up, but —" He runs his hand through his hair, the water droplets cascading down his skin. You hate that you find it endearing, that even now, even angry and hurt, you're memorising the way the water runs down his temple, the exact shade of misery in his eyes. "Can we talk? Please?"

The 'please' is what does you in. You've never heard Bucky Barnes say please about anything, the sheer novelty of it makes you hesitate just long enough for him to see the weakness in your armor. "Five minutes," you tell him, stepping back.

You close the door behind him as he enters. When you turn around, he's closer than you expected, your back hitting the door with the need to put distance between you both. "You said you wanted to talk," you remind him, voice breathier than you'd like.

"I can't stop thinking about it." His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips. "About kissing you. About how you tasted. About the sound you made when —"

Feigning indifference seems like the only way out of this. "Okay." You try to sound unaffected, like your pulse isn't racing, like you haven't been thinking about it too. Obsessively, unhealthily, to the point where you can't focus on anything else. "So you've been thinking about it."

"That's not okay."

"No?" You raise an eyebrow, daring him. "Sounds like a you problem."

Bucky takes a step closer, trapping you between him and the door, the distance feeling anything but threatening, not having felt this alive in seven days. "I've been trying to do the right thing. I know that sounds like garbage from where you're standing."

"It does have that smell."

His lips curve into a smile. You wish you were immune to that, to his smile, to him. His hand comes up, hovering near your waist but not quite touching. "Your dad trusts me. He's trusted me for years. And here I am, showing up at his daughter's apartment, thinking things I've got no business thinking."

"What kind of things?" 

"Don't ask me that."

"Why not?" You're goading him, and you both know it. "Afraid you'll tell me the truth?"

His hand finally makes contact, just a light touch on your hip, just over the fabric of your top. "I've thought about you in every room of this apartment. I've thought about you when I shouldn't, in ways I definitely shouldn't. I've tried to stop, and I can't, and it's driving me out of my mind."

"You should suffer a little. You left me standing in my kitchen like what happened meant nothing."

"It meant everything." His other hand finds your waist, both of them spanning your hips, and you wish you weren't wearing anything, just so you could feel his hands on your skin. "That's the problem. If it meant nothing, I could've walked away and stayed away. But it meant everything. I still tried to stay away — tried to do the right thing, but here I am."

His breath comes out hard, he's so close you can clearly see the flecks of gray in his blue iries, which are turning black by the moment. You can smell the rain on him, soaked strands falling in front of his face, begging to be brushed away from his eyes.

"Stop calling me kid," you tell him.

Bucky's hands tighten on your hips. "I didn't call you that tonight."

"Not tonight. In general."

Bucky doesn't respond, but his hands move a fraction, the metal in his arm grazing your skin, cool even through your thin tank top.

"Say my name."

He hesitates like the word might burn him. You watch him struggle with it, something like pain or hurt flickering across his face before he utters, "sweetheart."

"That's not my name."

"Please." His voice is rough, pleading. 

"Say it, Bucky."

"Please don't make me."

The vulnerability in it catches you off-guard. "Why not?"

"Once I say it, that's it. I can't take it back. Can't pretend this is something I can walk away from."

"So you do want to walk away still?"

So soft, so fragile, your name leaves his mouth. It sounds different in his voice, shaped by his accent, rough with want. You've heard your name a thousand times but never like this.

"Was that so hard?" Your own voice is softer now, your hands somehow having found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

"Yes." All that want he's been trying to bury, is written across his face in sharp relief. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide, grip on your hips tight enough to bruise. "You have no idea how hard it is."

"Saying my name is hard?"

"Saying your name while I've been watching you, wanting you, knowing I shouldn't touch you. That's hard."

"You want me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

"Don't ask me that." It sounds like it's being dragged out of him. "Please."

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't."

Bucky makes a sound that just might be the frustration in him seeping through, but his eyes are full of want. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I want you. I want you so much it feels like it's killing me. Happy now?"

"Not yet," you tell him befote smashing your lips into his. Anything but gentle, absolutely no testing the waters thing he did the first time. This is want distilled into action, six years of waiting and pretending all combusting at once, every fantasy you've ever had, every late-night thought you've tried to suppress, finally made real. Your hands fist in his damp hair, tightening his grip on your hips, bruising. When you bite his lower lip, he groans into your mouth like you've wounded him.

"We shouldn't," he speaks against your lips, but he's doesn't pull away, not even close. "Your dad —"

"Is not here." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Do you want to stop?"

Bucky looks at you like you're asking him to cut off his other arm. "No."

"Then stop talking about my dad while you're kissing me."

That startles a brief laugh out of him. Without wasting another second, he's kissing you again, walking you backward through your apartment. You're vaguely aware of furniture and doorways, of his jacket hitting the floor somewhere, of your ice cream forgotten on the counter. None of it matters as much as the slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of him, the way his hands are mapping your waist like he's memorizing you.

When the backs of your knees hit the couch, you try to pull him down with you, but Bucky resists. His hands find your hips, steering you around until you're standing and he's sitting, thighs spread wide to make room for you between them. The position puts you above him, taller for once. On his face, theres a crack in the armor where you can see straight through to the want underneath.

He looks up at you, and you've never seen him like this. Vulnerable doesn't seem like the right word for Bucky Barnes, but it's close. It's in the way his hands rest on your hips, loose enough that you could step away if you wanted. In the tilt of his head, exposing his throat, how he's letting you see him want you without the usual defenses. It makes you feel invincible and terrified both.

"Still time," he says.

"For what?"

"For you to tell me to leave."

You reach down, fingers sliding into his hair. The strands are cool and wet against your palm. When you drag your nails lightly against his scalp, his eyes flutter close. "I don't want you to leave."

Bucky leans forward, resting his forehead against your stomach. The intimacy of it steals whatever breath you have left. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs stroking small circles through your tank top, the warmth of his breath you can feel through the thin fabric.

"Should've done this right," he mutters into your stomach. "Should've taken you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Not just shown up at your door like some —" he stops, breathing into you, the warm breath wet against your skin even through the flimsy cloth. 

"Like some what?" You prod. 

"I don't know. Obsessed asshole with no self-control."

That makes you laugh, earning a smile from him that you feel against your stomach. "I don't want dinner," you say. 

"You should want dinner. You should want the whole thing — flowers, romance, somebody who isn't —" He sighs, not able to finish what he was going to say. If he says it, it will be real. 

"Who isn't what?"

"Too old for you. Too —"

"Bucky." You tug his hair until he looks up at you, mouth parted, so gorgeous. "I don't care about any of that."

"You should."

His hair is soft under your touch, your fingers playing with them as you speak. "Well, I don't. And for the record, I hate fancy restaurants. They never give you enough food, and everyone whispers."

His mouth quirks into the fondest of smiles. "That's your objection? Portion sizes and volume?"

"I'm serious. I went to this place once where they served a single scallop on a plate the size of my head. One scallop. I'm supposed to eat one scallop and pretend I'm satisfied?"

"Sounds terrible."

"It was. I stopped at McDonald's on the way home." It had been a date, actually. Some guy from your office who'd taken you where the menu didn't have prices and the portions were insulting. You'd been hungry, bored and wishing the entire time that you were with Bucky instead.

Bucky's hands slide under the hem of your tank top, fingers finding bare skin. "No famcy restaurants where they serve a single scallop. Noted."

His touch almost derails your thoughts, you have to work to keep your voice steady. The rough calluses on his fingers drag against your skin, leaving trails of fire. "Anyway, you're here now. That's worth more than some overpriced shit."

"Is it?" There's doubt clouding his eyes, you can see clearly. 

"Yeah. It is." You just hope he understands how much you mean this. 

His hands move higher, taking your shirt with them, bunching the fabric above your waist. The metal hand is cool against your overheated skin, cold enough to make you gasp. Bucky stops his touch on its tracks. "Is it cold?"

"A little."

He starts to pull back, his touch leaving you becoming a physical thing you feel the loss of. Catching his wrist, you hold the metal hand flat against your stomach. "Don't."

"You sure?"

"I like it." The contrast, the warm flesh on one side, cool metal on the other, makes your skin feel alive. You've thought about his arm before, late at night when you shouldn't. Wondered what the metal would feel like against your skin, wondered if he'd let you touch it, trace the plates. "Feels good."

His grip tightens, both hands spanning your waist now, the slight tremor in his fingers you feel more and more each passing second. Like he's overwhelmed by being allowed to touch you like this. Like he can't quite believe you're real. The next thing you know, Bucky is leaning in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.

The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes your knees weak, almost wobbling. He does it again, lower this time, tongue tracing a path across your stomach that has you gripping his shoulders for balance. His stubble scrapes your skin, adding another layer of sensation you've never felt. When he bites down gently on your hipbone, a soft gasp leaves you, like there's not enough oxygen in this room for the both of you, especially not with the way he's pressing these kisses. 

The silence while he's kissing your stomach is too much. You need to fill it with something before you combust entirely. "Been thinking about this?" Your voice comes out breathy.

"Yes." Bucky doesn't even attempt to lift his head, continuing his way across your stomach, hands holding you steady.

"How long?"

Bucky's mouth stills against your skin. For a second you think maybe he won't answer, maybe he'll pull back, and this is it. But almost soft as a whisper, his words come. "Long enough to feel ashamed about it."

"How long is that?"

"Remember that barbecue last summer?" His lips brush your navel as he talks. "You were wearing that black top, and you bent over to grab a beer from the cooler? Yeah, I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to stare at your ass."

"That was July."

"I know when it was." His hands slide higher, taking your shirt with them. He pushes the fabric up and over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your bra from the waist up. The air feels cold against your exposed skin, but Bucky's gaze is hot enough to burn. "Been drivin' me crazy for months."

You remember that day. Remember catching him staring and thinking you'd imagined it. Apparently, you hadn't. Bucky looks at your bra, but decides against it, pushing it up too, just shoving it out of the way, pulling you down into his lap. The position puts you straddling his thigh, friction of his jeans against your sweats making you acutely aware of how wet you already are. Embarrassingly wet. He's barely touched you and you're already soaked through, probably leaving a damp spot on his jeans. 

Bucky's mouth finds your breast, and whatever coherent thought you had left scatters like startled birds. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tongue working the sensitive peak. Your hips roll forward involuntarily, the pressure against your clit perfect but not nearly enough, chasing more friction, grinding down on his thigh.

"That's it," he murmurs against your breast, switching to the other side. "Take what you need."

His metal hand cups your neglected breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, the cool touch making you gasp. He seems to like that reaction, doing it again with more pressure. Having him like this, puts all your fantasies to shame, your fingers threading through his hair to hold him close.

You didn't know it could feel like this. This consuming. Every nerve ending in your body is focused on the wet heat of his mouth, the cool press of metal, the friction building between your legs. You're making these small desperate sounds you can't control, hips moving faster now. Bucky groans against your breast like watching you get off on his thigh is the best thing he's ever seen.

"Bucky —" You're close already, wound too tight, and it's almost embarrassing how fast he's gotten you here.

"I know." He bites down gently on your nipple, soothing it with his tongue. "Can feel how wet you are through your sweats. Gonna cum just from this, aren't you?"

The words almost send you over, but before you can, he lifts you off his lap, laying you down on the couch. You barely have time to process the change before he's hooking his fingers into your waistband, dragging both your sweats and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your bra which was previously pushed atop your breasts, is discarded too, and you're naked. Completely naked while he's still fully dressed, and somehow that makes this hotter. There's this moment where neither of you moves, stuck in a limbo, where he just looks at you, sprawled across your couch. You watch him take in every inch of exposed skin. You watch him watch you. 

"Jesus," he breathes.

"Are you just gonna stare, or —"

Bucky kisses you, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark you were about to make, mouth insistent, tongue tasting yours. When he pulls back, you try to follow, chasing him, but he's moving down your body.

He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse is racing. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, if he knows what he does to you. He takes his time with your breasts again, like he can't quite believe he gets to touch them. His mouth blazes a trail down your sternum, mapping the soft plane of your stomach with lips, teeth and tongue.

When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips inside, circling, your back bows of the couch in response. "Bucky, please —"

"Patience. Wanna look at you first." His hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. The first brush of cool air against your wet core makes you shudder. You should be self-conscious about this, spread open for him, the position in itself making you vulnerable, but the way he's looking at you makes you feel like a goddamn masterpiece, killing any embarrassment before it takes root. 

His finger traces your slit, so light it's almost not there, and you try to cant your hips up for more pressure. Bucky's metal hand presses down on your lower stomach, holding you still.

"Stay," he says, like you're a misbehaving dog and not someone who's writhing for breath beneath him. It's not quite a command but close enough to make you clench around nothing. 

Bucky explores you with devastating thoroughness, tracing the shape of you with one finger, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you whimper. He spreads you open with two fingers, just looking. "She's so pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So fucking pretty."

He leans down to lick a stripe up your center, tongue flat and broad, and you forget how to breathe. Even the first touch of his mouth is too much, when you're already so worked up, so close from grinding on his thigh. The wet heat of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, not even embarrassed about how loud you are. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building know. He seems encouraged by the sound, doing it again with more pressure. He eats you out like it's the only thing he wants to be doing. Like he could spend hours between your legs and die happy. His tongue works your clit in slow circles, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has you squirming. When he closes his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, you nearly come off the couch entirely. "Oh god — Bucky —"

He slides one finger inside you while his mouth stays focused on your clit. Your fingers on his hair tug them harder with each pass of his tongue, almost scaring you with how tight you're pulling and whether you're hurting him. You might actually rip his hair out, but you can't bring yourself to care because it feels too good. None of that even seems to cross his mind as his finger curls, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. He works it mercilessly while his tongue keeps that same steady rhythm.

You're pretty sure you're babbling now, saying his name and god and please in an endless stream, nails of your one hand — the one not currently buried in his hair — grasping his flesh shoulder, hard enough that it has to hurt. Again, Bucky doesn't seem to care. If anything, he doubles down, adding a second finger and increasing the pressure of his tongue. He's going to ruin you for anyone else. Not that there's ever been anyone else to compare with, but after this, you're done for.

You can feel the release gathering in the clench of your thighs, in the way every muscle in your body goes tight. Bucky seems to sense how close you are, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as he keeps that relentless pace. "C'mon," he says against your clit, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through you. "Let me taste it."

The orgasm crashes over you, your whole body seizing as pleasure tears through you. With your hands, it's never been like this. Never this intense, never this all-consuming. This feels like you're coming apart and Bucky's the only thing holding you together. You're dimly aware of crying out his name, your thighs trying to close around his head, the way your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers. Bucky works you through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're pushing at his head from oversensitivity.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He looks obscene, debauched, like something out of your dirtiest fantasy. The satisfied look on his face would be smug on anyone else. On him it's just honest satisfaction, like getting you off was the highlight of his month. "You good?" His voice is rough.

Words seem far away right now, you can barely remember your own name. You just nod, boneless, wondering if it's possible to die from pleasure.

Bucky crawls up your body, settling his weight on top of you carefully. Even wrecked with want, he's careful not to crush you. When he kisses you slowly, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It feels filthy and intimate at the same time, sending a fresh wave of arousal through you despite having just come. "That was —" You still can't form complete sentences. "You're really good at that."

He grins against your mouth. "Yeah?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." Bucky is smiling, you realize this might be the most relaxed you've ever seen him. Happy. He looks happy. When was the last time you saw him look happy? "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

"Since July, apparently."

His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing spit. "July's when I stopped being able to pretend."

"What changed?"

"You looked at me." He says it simply, like it explains everything. "Just me. After that, I couldn't pretend anymore that I didn't want you looking at me like that all the time."

You've been looking at him since the day you knew him. You don't tell him that, those demons can stay where they lay. You pull him down into another kiss, slower this time, trading breath and heat. When you finally break apart, you can feel how hard he is against your hip, still fully clothed and probably painfully uncomfortable.

"Your turn," you tell him, reaching for his belt. Bucky catches your wrist, slowing you down, thumb stroking across your radial pulse, eyes pleading, saying everything his mouth can't. The gentle touch is at odds with the hunger in his gaze. You feel your pulse jumping under his fingers, giving away how badly you want this.

"I want to," your voice is barely a whisper. You need him to know, to understand that this isn't one-sided, that you've been wanting this just as long. That seems to be all the permission he needs. He releases your wrist and lets you work his belt open, the metal buckle clinking as you pull it free. Your fingers are shaking slightly, adrenaline and want making them clumsy. His jeans follow, while he watches with those hooded eyes, like this is some kind of religious experience.

When you get his shirt off, you take a moment to just look. God, he's a masterpiece. You've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never laid out for you, never yours to touch. There are scars you knew about, the ones you've seen at pool parties and barbecues, the ones your dad mentioned in passing when he thought you weren't listening. But there are others you didn't know, smaller ones scattered across his ribs and chest, a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone. Each one tells a story he's never shared, pain he's survived, and you want to learn every single one. The place where metal meets flesh is a work of terrible artistry, plates and skin fused in ways that probably hurt more than he'll ever admit.

You lean in and press your lips to his shoulder, right where metal becomes man. Bucky goes very still. Like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to recoil, to change your mind. "You don't have to do that."

You don't respond him with words, just another kiss to the seam, the metal cool under your lips, then lower, across his chest, the skin warm, the contrast intoxicating.You work your way down his body, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his boxers, wanting to map every inch of him with your mouth, memorize the way he tastes. Bucky's hand leaps to tangle in your hair, gentle but insistent nonetheless, pulling you back up. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. But if you put your mouth on me right now, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he answers. The admission goes to your heart and cunt at the same time, the idea that you affect him that much doing things to you. 

That makes you pause, a laugh threatening to bubble out of you, but you keep it contained. "How fast we talking?"

"Thirty seconds, maybe." He doesn't look embarrassed about the admission, though there's a slight red tinge to the tip of his ears. That blush, that tiny hint of vulnerability, makes you want him even more. "I've been half-hard since I kissed you in the doorway, and I've been thinking about this for months. So unless you want me coming down your throat before we even get to the good part, you're gonna have to wait."

The bluntness of it sends heat racing through you, right between your legs, warmth spreading over the apples of your cheeks. Glancing down to not meet his eyes, you're met with the unevenness of this situation, suddenly very aware that you're naked while he's still got his boxer briefs on. "That's not fair."

Bucky manoeuvres you, hands on your hips, guiding you back down to the couch with a gentleness that contradicts his size. "Life ain't fair, sweetheart." 

Bucky's body looms above you as he settles between your thighs. The breadth of his shoulders blocks out the light from the lamp, casting shadows across his face that make him look almost dangerous, but he's soft to you. You watch him shove his boxers down, cock springing free, curved slightly towards his stomach, thick and flushed, bead of precum spilling over the tip. It's bigger than you expected, thicker, and for a moment anxiety spikes through your arousal. His flesh hand wraps around himself, working his cock, while the metal one is braced against the couch, framing your head. And you realise this is quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever seen.

"Like what you see?" You'd assume it was asked out of cockiness if you didn't know him better. You know him better, and there's genuine curiosity in his question, mixed with almost boyish shyness. 

"You already know the answer to that."

"Maybe I wanna hear you say it."

"You're fishing for compliments now?"

"Is it working?"

"Yes," you admit, earning a bright eyed and genuine smile from him,transforming his whole face, making him look younger, happier, and you want to be the reason he smiles like that forever. "You're gorgeous, okay? You're so hot it's actually annoying."

"Annoying?"

"Yeah. You walk around being all broody and hot, and I'm supposed to just — what? Pretend I don't notice?"

"You can notice me all you want, sweet girl."

Sweet girl. You like the sound of it, somehow much more intimate that anything he's ever called you. It's not really an accomplishment because all he's called you before is 'kid'. 

Bucky laughs, a sound you want to bottle up and listen when your days get dark. His fingers are between your legs again, two of them sliding inside easily, thanks to your orgasm from earlier, still wet, still open. But the stretch makes you gasp anyway, an open-mouthed silent cry, that he swallows for himself with a kiss. He works them slowly, watching your face, conflict playing across his features. Want versus restraint. Need versus caution.

"You're so tight," he mutters, almost to himself, fingers pumping in and out. Each slick sound makes your face burn, embarrassingly loud evidence of how much you want this. "Gonna have to take my time with you."

"I can take it," you tell him, voice fracturing with need, the ache to be filled by him. His cock stands proud against his abdomen, jerking with every motion of his fingers, taunting you. You want to feel the weight of him inside you, splitting you open, claiming you completely.

"I know you can." He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your back arch, and does it again just to watch you squirm. "But I'm not gonna hurt you. Not if I can help it."

He leans down to kiss you, slower this time, thorough, his tongue plunging into your mouth, remnants of your own juices lingering, while his fingers keep that steady rhythm. You're climbing toward another orgasm already, your body wound tight and responsive. Bucky breaks the kiss, only to pepper a few more on your jaw, the corner of your mouth, breath coming in hot. 

"Have you taken cock before?"

The question catches you off-guard, the blatant crudeness of it. Stilling beneath him, you will your breath to come, his fingers slowing on your cunt not being of much help. 

"Baby." His free hand comes up to cup your face. The tenderness in the gesture makes your eyes sting. "I need to know. Need to know how careful I gotta be."

The truth sits in your throat, heavy as a stone. You could lie, tell him you've done this a dozen times, that you're experienced and worldly and this is no big deal. But lying to Bucky feels wrong, feels like starting this thing between you on a foundation of sand.The way he's looking at you, open and honest, worry lines framing his face, also makes it impossible. "No," you finally whisper.

His fingers stop moving, just frozen inside you while he stares at you with an expression you can't quite read. Shock. Concern. Fear? "What?"

"No. I haven't."

Bucky starts to pull his fingers out, a pained expression on his face, like the knowledge of it physically hurts him. "Jesus Christ. You should've — I wouldn't have—"

No, no. He can't do that. You catch his wrist, holding his hand in place. "Don't."

"We can't —"

"Yes, we can." You roll your hips, taking his fingers deeper, and watch his eyes go dark, control slipping. "I want this. I want you."

"Your first time shouldn't be — It should be special. Someone who —"

"Someone who what? Takes me to a fancy restaurant and serves me one scallop?" You're babbling now, words tumbling out, desperate to keep him in. "I don't want that. I want you. This is special."

"I'm too old for you. Too fucked up. Your dad's gonna —"

"I don't care about my dad right now." You tighten your grip on his wrist, needing him to see that this isn't some impulsive decision. "I care about you. And I'm not some delicate flower you're gonna break. I can take you."

Bucky looks at you like you've wounded him, like the trust you're placing in him is almost too much to bear. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, and you hope he loses, you hope the walls he'd erected within the past twenty seconds crumble and he comes back to you. "You're all I want, Buck," you press. 

A long sigh leaves him, but finally he says, "you tell me if it's too much." The words sound torn from him, reluctant but resolute. "The second it's too much, you tell me and we stop. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"If it's too much, I'll tell you." You pull him down into a kiss, teeth claiming his lips. You bite down, tasting copper, needing him to feel something, anything. "Now stop treating me like I'm made of glass and fuck me already."

That startles a laugh out of him. You wrap your fingers around his length, almost pulling him by his dick, he doesn't seem to care though. The skin is hot and silky under your palm, cock twitching in your grip, precum leaking from the tip. Bucky pulls his fingers free, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses against you, even that initial pressure making you tense. "Breathe," he instructs. "Just breathe for me, sweetheart."

You force your muscles to relax, and he pushes in. Just the tip at first, just enough to make you gasp at the stretch of it. It's immediately more than his fingers, wider and so overwhelming you forget how to think in complete sentences.

Bucky freezes, his hard length stuffing you halfway. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just — a lot."

"I know, sweet girl." His metal hand comes up to cup your face with a gentleness, it in itself bringing you to tears, cool metal against your overheated cheek grounding, keeping you anchored. "We go slow. As slow as you need."

He works himself in gradually, stopping every time you tense, giving you time to ease yourself. It's torturous, this slow invasion, your body struggling to accommodate his size. But his words keep you company, praise, reassurance, sometimes filthy little things he'd want to do once you get used to this. Things about how he'll fuck you in every room of this apartment, how he'll bend you over the kitchen counter, how he'll wake you up with his cock inside you. About how good you're doing, how tight you are, how perfect you feel. When he's about halfway in, tears fully start leaking from the corners of your eyes. You don't think it's from the pain, just from the overwhelming fullness of it, the sensation of being split open, claimed and filled so completely there's no room for anything else. 

Bucky immediately senses the tears and stops, jaw clenching with the restraint of holding himself still above you, trembling with the effort of not moving. "Too much?"

"No." Back of your hand rushes to wipe your eyes impatiently, frustrated that your body's betraying you like this, showing weakness when you want to be strong for him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

"You're crying."

"I know I'm crying. It doesn't mean —" You roll your hips, to show him that you can take him deeper, that these are good tears, from pleasure alone and nothing else. At another roll of your hips, Bucky groans. "See? I can take it."

Bucky stays still, his hand finding your lower stomach, pressing down gently. The added pressure makes everything more intense, even fuller. "Can feel myself inside you," he mutters, almost wonderstruck. "Right here. Can you feel it?"

"What?" You're barely coherent, too overwhelmed to process what he's saying. You think he's trying to distract you, the palm on your abdomen pulls you enough from whatever discomfort you might feel from your first time. You welcome it. 

Bucky takes your hand and presses it against your lower stomach, right where his hand was. You can feel it, feel the solid presence of him inside you, the way your body's stretched around him. "Oh my god." The realization is visceral and overwhelming. "That's — you're —"

"Yeah. That's me, fillin' you up, sweetheart." Sounding wrecked, Bucky pushes the rest of the way in. The slide of it, the final inch that seats him fully inside you, makes you both freeze. You just lie there connected, trying to adjust to the reality of this. Through hooded eyes, you look at him. He's focused, jaw tightening as his gaze is fixed on the way your cunt swallows him whole. 

"You okay?" His eyes tear from your place of union reluctantly to look into yours. 

"Ask me that one more time and I'm gonna hit you."

That makes him laugh, the movement jostling where you're joined, making you clench around him involuntarily.

"Can you —" You shift your hips experimentally. "Can you move? Please?"

"Yeah." He pulls out slowly, so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein, before he pushes back in just as carefully. The slide is easier now, your body adjusting, learning to take him. "This okay?"

"More." You're chasing the friction, hips canting up to meet him. "I need more."

Bucky is so careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But when you urge him on with hands, hips and broken pleas, his control starts to slip gradually. The thrusts get deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, until you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.

It's never this good when you're alone. Bucky seems to have woken up your body from a slumber you didn't know it was in. Every sensation is not only new but also heightened. 

"So fucking tight," he groans, his hand pressed to your belly again. "Can feel my cock moving inside you. You're takin' me so well, sweetheart. Look at you."

You can't look at anything except him, his jaw is clenched with effort, pupils blown so wide there's no blue remaining, just black, the flush spreading across his chest. The still slightly damp hair falling in front of his face, but he makes no effort in moving it off, the salt and pepper stubble that scratches your cheek everytime he pushes forward, everytime his pelvis meets yours. He's gorgeous like this, desperate and wanting. 

"Bucky —" You're climbing again already, wound too tight to last much longer. "I'm gonna —"

"I know, baby." His thumb finds your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Can feel you getting tighter. Squeezin' me — fuck —"

The added stimulation is almost too much. You're right on the edge, balanced on that knife-point between pleasure and too much. Already at the verge of losing, made worse by Bucky leaning down to suck a mark into your neck while his hips keep that relentless rhythm. "Wanna fill you up," he mutters against your throat. "Wanna fuck you full of my cum. Wanna fuck a baby into you."

"Yes — Please —" You are completely disconnected from your mouth, it being a separate thing only remembering words that are his name, yes and please. 

"Gonna make sure it takes." His thrusts get erratic, control fraying. "Gonna keep you full of me until your belly swells. Until everyone can see what we've been doing."

The image he's painting is filthy and visceral. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, verge of telling him yes to everything when he keeps going. This is not just distraction anymore, the farthest part of your brain whispers.

"Think about it," he groans, hand spanning your stomach again. "You round and full with my kid. These perfect tits getting bigger." His thumb presses harder on your clit, while he bends to take one nipple into his lips, neck straining. "So full of milk you'd need me to help you, need my mouth on you. They'd be so heavy, baby."

That's what sends you over. The orgasm tears through you, whole body seizing as pleasure obliterates thought, ears ringing, not even hearing the way you scream his name. Your inner walls clamp down on him so hard, he curses, loses his rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

Bucky fucks you through it, chasing his own release. "That's it. Milk my cock. Show me how much you want it. Want me to breed you properly —"

He comes with your name on his lips, hips grinding against yours as he spills inside you. The warmth of it, the sheer volume is startling, pulling soft noises from your wrung out body. You can feel it coating your walls, filling you up exactly like he promised, marking you from the inside out. 

Boneless like you, Bucky balances himself on top of you, forearms braced against the couch, not pulling out. You feel his cock twitching inside you, spurting the remnants of his release, and feel the wet slide of cum down your inner thighs. Through the haze of your orgasm, something clicks into place. The way he'd been fixated on your stomach from the beginning, how his hands always found their way there, pressing, holding and claiming. The breeding talk that seemed to come so naturally to him. He'd been obsessed with it, with your stomach, with the idea of filling you up, you'd just been too overwhelmed to notice.

"You're obsessed with my stomach," you say, still trying to catch your breath.

Bucky lifts his head to look at you, and there's no embarrassment in his expression. If anything, there's pride there, satisfaction. "Yeah. Have been since you wore crop tops all summer."

"All summer?"

"I'm not proud of it." But he's smiling slightly, thumb stroking across your stomach where he's softening inside you. "Couldn't stop thinking about marking you here. Putting my hands on you. Making you mine in every way that matters."

The possessiveness in his tone, the raw need, stirs something primal in you, that wants to be his. The fact that this is your first time ever doesn't concern you, just makes you feel wanted and claimed in the best possible way.

He finally pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. The slide of him leaving you feels like a loss, an ache of emptiness. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you. Those worry lines are back, you want to smooth them away. "That was perfect. You were perfect." You kiss him softly. "I'm fine. Better than fine."

He still looks unconvinced, but before he can spiral into guilt, you pull him down on top of you. His weight is comforting rather than crushing, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. His arms band around you, face buried in your neck. 

For a while, he stays where you put him, his body heavy over yours, warm and shaking in small, leftover ways he would probably deny if you mentioned them. His face remains tucked in your neck like he can hide there from every terrible, responsible thought trying to crawl back into his head. You can feel the guilt gathering anyway. It keeps making itself known in the careful way he holds his weight off you, the tiny pauses before his mouth touches your skin, the way his arms tighten whenever you shift. The guilt doesn't get to settle in though, because you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, pulling him back to look at you. "Stop thinking so loud."

"I'm not —"

"You are." Your thumb traces the crease between his brows. "I can hear it from here."

Bucky huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before starting a slow path downward. His lips drag across your sternum, then lower, mapping ribs and soft flesh. Each kiss is soft and slow, like he's got all the time in the world to learn what makes you sigh. When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips in the same way it did earlier, circling, and your hips twitch involuntarily.

"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin, quiet want in his tone. His mouth continues lower, across the plane of your stomach, and this is where he lingers. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to skin that's still flushed and overheated, his stubble scraping in ways that make you squirm. Both hands splay across your belly, spanning the width of it, metal and flesh holding you like something precious. He's almost worshipful about it, pressing his lips just below your navel and staying there, breathing you in.

"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out soft.

"Thinkin' about how good you'd look." His thumb strokes back and forth across your stomach. "Round and full. Wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."

Bucky's orgasm doesn't seem slow him down, he's only edging you towards the start of another one, the words sending signals straight to your core. "You already can't keep your hands off me."

Bucky laughs as he presses another kiss lower, then another, working his way down until he's kneeling between your spread thighs. 

You're about to pull him up, tell him you're still not recovered, but Bucky's not looking at your face anymore. His gaze is fixed between your legs, watching as his cum starts to leak out of you, painting your inner thighs white. "Fuck," he breathes, his fingers gathering the mess and pushing it back inside you. "Can't waste it," he mutters, almost to himself, two fingers pressing deep, pushing his release back where it belongs. "Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta keep you full."

You're boneless, can't do anything but lie there and let him have this strange, filthy little ritual, watching through dazed eyes. The room smells like rain and sex. Your couch is absolutely never recovering, and maybe neither are you. He keeps his fingers inside you with that focused, almost frightening devotion, pushing the mess back where he thinks it belongs, one open-mouthed kiss landing on your lower stomach as he does it.

You reach down and catch his wrist, stilling his hand. "Bucky. I'm not going anywhere. It's not going to leak out in the next five seconds."

He looks up at you, a bashfulness in his face you've never seen on him before, caught doing exactly what he wants with zero shame left to hide behind. "I know. I just —" He trails off, fingers still buried inside you.

"You just what?"

"Like seeing it," he admits. "Like knowing I put it there."

The honesty of it makes you want the next round desperately, and before that thought could take root, you tug on his wrist, pulling him towards you. He withdraws his fingers reluctantly, wiping them on his discarded shirt before crawling up your body. When he settles next to you on the couch, you turn into him, tucking yourself against his chest. His arm comes around you, metal hand cool against your overheated skin.

"So that happened."

"Yeah. That happened." His lips and hands keep mapping your body in small increments, like he's making up for lost time, like he doesn't want to let you go. 

The silence stretches. You count his heartbeats — twelve, fifteen, twenty — before he eventually says, "your dad's gonna kill me."

"Probably." You trace patterns on his chest with one finger, following old scars, the raised tissue telling stories he won't. "But at least you'll die happy."

"Small comfort."

"I could tell him it was my idea," you supply. 

"That'll make it worse. Then he'll kill me for not having more self-control." He catches your hand, stilling your wandering fingers mid-trace. "He trusts me. Trusted me with you. And I just —"

"Fell in love with me?"

The words shatter between you. You've never said them out loud before, never put a name to this thing that's been building since you were nineteen. Bucky goes very still at that, body stopping everything, even breathing. "What?"

"That's what this is, right?" You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Because if this is just some — I don't know, some itch you needed to scratch, you should probably tell me now before I —"

"It's not." He cuts you off urgently. "It's not that. It's —" The struggle plays out on his face, words getting stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.

"It's what?"

"It's me being stupid in love with you for the past six months and trying real hard not to be," he finally says. The confession comes out rough, like it's been dragged from deep inside him. "It's me seeing you and forgetting how to be a person. It's me lying awake at 3 AM thinking about your laugh. It's — fuck, I don't know. I'm not good at this."

"Doin' fine so far," you tell him softly.

"I'm old. You just graduated college a few years ago. Your dad's my best friend. I got no business —"

"Bucky." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, meet your eyes, the intensity in them hopefully squashing any lingering doubts. His eyes do that thing where they won't hold yours for more than two seconds, darting away like he's afraid of what you'll see if he stays. "I'm twenty five. I have a job, an apartment, a 401k that I don't understand but I have one. I'm not some kid you're taking advantage of."

"I know that. I do. But —"

"But what?"

"But I've been to war. I've killed people. I got nightmares that wake me up screaming and a metal arm because I got fucked up and — You should want someone normal. Someone who doesn't have to check the exits in every room and who doesn't flinch at loud noises."

You think about all the times you've watched him scan a room, cataloging threats that aren't there. How he never sits with his back to a door. How he jumped that time your neighbor dropped a toolbox in the hallway. "Should I? Is that what I should want?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't." You lean in and kiss him before he can argue, or state reasons why this shouldn't happen. You continueto speak against his mouth, "I want you. Nightmares, metal arm, all of it. I want you at 3 AM when you can't sleep. I want you checking exits. I want all the parts you think are too broken to love."

A frustrated sound leaves him, sounds like a laugh but could easily be anything else. "You're gonna regret this."

"Let me worry about that."

"When your dad finds out —"

"When my dad finds out, we'll deal with it. Together." You settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its jumping out of his ribs. "Besides, he likes you better than me anyway. I'm pretty sure if it came down to it, he'd keep you and disown me."

That actually makes him laugh. "That's not true."

"It absolutely is. You fixed his transmission. I can't even check my own oil."

"I'll teach you."

"See? This is why he likes you better." You press a kiss to his sternum. "Useful."

"That's me. Useful." You can hear the smile in his voice now, the tension finally bleeding out of him.

"Among other things." Your hand drifts lower, fingers trailing down his stomach.

He catches your wrist, halting its path. "Again? Already?"

"What? You get to be obsessed with my stomach but I can't appreciate yours?"

"I don't —" He stops when you look up at him. Your expression must give away exactly what you're thinking, Bucky's jaw tightens, Adam's apple bobbing on a hard swallow. "Okay, yeah. I'm obsessed with your stomach. Happy?"

"Very." You kiss his jaw. It's hard to keep your hands to yourself when he's laid out beside you like a Greek statue taunting you. "For the record, I'm obsessed with your arms. Both of them. And your shoulders. And this thing you do where you bite your lip when you're concentrating."

"I don't do that."

"You absolutely do. You did it like three times while you were trying to get my bra off."

"I was nervous," he admits. There's a pink tinge creeping up his neck, faint but visible. "Kept thinking you'd realize this was a mistake and change your mind."

"Not a mistake." You tilt your head up to look at him properly. "Best decision I ever made, actually. Well, second best. First best was wearing that black crop top to the barbecue."

He groans. "Don't remind me. I had to hide in the garage for twenty minutes."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" He shifts, and you feel the evidence of why pressing against your hip. "You bent over to grab a beer and I thought I was gonna die right there."

"Poor baby. Must've been so hard for you." You're not even a little bit sorry. 

"Not funny."

"It's hilarious." You kiss him again, deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours lazily, like you have all the time in the world. When you pull back, his eyes are dark again. "Also, we should probably move to the bedroom. This couch isn't big enough for both of us."

"Can you walk?"

Good question. Your legs feel like overcooked pasta, your body wrung out and remade into someone new. "I — Maybe?"

Bucky sits up, taking you with him, and before you can protest he's scooping you up. "I got you."

"I can walk," you insist, even as you're wrapping your arms around his neck. The automatic way your body curls into him feels like muscle memory you haven't earned yet.

"Sure you can." He's heading down the hallway. "But let me do this."

"Such a hardship, carrying me around naked."

"The worst." He's grinning, and when he lays you down on your bed, carefully, like you're precious cargo. He stands there for a second, just looking at you sprawled across your sheets. You should feel exposed — you are exposed, completely bare under his gaze — but the way he's looking at you kills the urge to cover up.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing. Just —" He shakes his head. "Can't believe this is real."

"Want me to pinch you?"

"Smart ass." He crawls onto the bed, settling beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. You curl into him automatically, throwing one leg over his hip, and he makes this satisfied sound in his throat. Out of content, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell the difference.

"Gonna stay?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

"Yeah." His arm tightens around you. "If that's okay."

"More than okay." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like yours. "Bucky?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you too. Just so you know."

For three full seconds, he doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe if you're being honest, his ribs don't move. You're about to take it back, pretend you were joking, anything to break the awful stillness — "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Have for a while now. Since before the barbecue, even. Maybe since I was nineteen and saw you sitting at my dad's table looking all broody and tragic."

"I wasn't broody."

"You were absolutely broody. You still are. It's annoyingly attractive."

He huffs a laugh against your hair, the warmth spreading to your neck, raising goosebumps. "Attractive, huh?"

You bite his shoulder lightly, teeth scraping enough skin to make him hiss slightly. "Everything about you is attractive."

"Everything else like what?"

"You don't cut your hair unless it bothers you, until it falls over your face and blocks your vision, like now. You like it when I ask you things, when I need help… I think it makes you feel wanted, you don't know that I always want you." Your mind goes to your windowsill. "You always fill the bird feeder, even if I forget." 

"You noticed all that?"

"I've been studying you for six years, Barnes. I could talk about you in my sleep."

"That's — That's a little creepy, actually."

"Says the man who just spent ten minutes trying to plug me up with his cum."

A soft laugh vibrates from him as his fingers trace idle patterns on your hip. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

There are a hundred things you could say. Practical things about what happens now, how this changes everything, whether he'll still come over for coffee on Saturday mornings with your dad or if this makes it weird. But your eyes are heavy, body sated and wrung out, not enough energy to keep the conversation going, even if you so badly want to.

"Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't leave before I wake up."

"Not going anywhere. Not anymore, sweet girl." A soft lingering kiss to your forehead is all you remember, the ghost of its touch following you to dreamland. 

MY MASTERLIST!

You hear him before you see him: the soft thud of sneakers on gravel, the low exhale of someone who’s been running hard. Bucky Barnes, late as always, strolling up the driveway like he owns summer itself.

Gray joggers soaked dark at the thighs, white tank plastered to his chest, metal arm catching sunlight like liquid sin. He nods at your parents, cracks open a beer with his teeth, who even does that? and you duck behind the fence before those blue eyes can find you.

Stupid heart, racing like you’re fifteen again.

Then he disappears around the corner, heading for the old jungle gym nobody’s touched in years. You follow like a moth, quiet, barefoot on the hot grass, until you’re crouched behind the wooden slats, peeking through a knothole like a perv.

And holy fuck.

He’s peeled the tank off and hooked it over the swing chain. Bare torso gleaming, dog tags swinging between his pecs, he grips the bar with both hands and starts pulling himself up. Slow. Dirty-slow. Every rep is a flex, a ripple, a quiet grunt that slides straight between your legs and parks there.

Up. Veins popping.

Down. Abs clenching.

Up again. Sweat rolling down the center of his chest, tracing the line that disappears beneath the waistband riding way too low.

You’re wet. You are actually, shamefully wet in your brand-new red bikini bottoms just from watching your dad’s best friend do pull-ups like porn was invented for him.

You shift, thighs pressing together, and the wood creaks.

He freezes mid-air, chin over the bar, muscles locked. Turns his head just enough to catch your reflection in the shed window. Busted.

For three whole heartbeats he just hangs there, staring at you staring at him, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his jaw. Then he drops, silent, lethal, lands in a crouch, and straightens up like a predator who just scented prey.

He doesn’t grab the shirt. He walks straight to the fence, slow, shirtless, dog tags clinking, until he’s right on the other side of the slats. Close enough you can smell heat and salt and whatever cologne he wore before the pull ups turned it filthy.

“Enjoyin’ the show, birthday girl?” Voice low, rough, amused. Brooklyn dragged over gravel and sex.

Your mouth is sand. “Just… checking you’re not breaking my old swing set, Uncle Buck.”

The nickname comes out shaky, half tease, half plea. His eyes darken, pupils blowing wide.

He braces his forearms on the top of the fence, leaning in until you can see the bead of sweat sliding down his temple. “That ‘uncle’ shit ain’t gonna work much longer, sweetheart.”

His gaze drags down, slow, deliberate, over your flushed face, the swell of your chest under the thin red triangles, the way you’re squeezing your thighs together like that’ll hide what he’s doing to you. “You’re eighteen now. All grown.” The last two words come out almost pained.

Your breath hitches. Audible. Embarrassing.

He smirks, soft and dangerous. “Better get back to your party before I do somethin’ your daddy’ll shoot me for.”

He pushes off the fence, grabs his tank, and slings it over one shoulder without putting it on. Walks away like he didn’t just leave you wrecked and dripping behind a childhood jungle gym.

You stay there a second longer, hand pressed between your legs just to stop the ache, cheeks on fire, pulse hammering in every filthy place.

It’s nothing, you lie to yourself as you finally stumble back to the pool. Just a stupid, fleeting spark.

If only I’d known how deep that pull went, you think now, years later, the memory still taunting you like his smirk in the sun.

The old house smells exactly the same: lemon polish, Dad’s aftershave, and the faint ghost of cinnamon from Mom’s candles. The hallway light flickers once when you drag your duffel over the threshold, wallpaper curling like it’s trying to whisper every filthy thing this place has seen.

Early winter. A few weeks before the blizzard that will finally rip the hinges off everything.

You’re twenty-two and your body is a live wire: hips fuller, thighs thick from squats that leave you trembling, embarrassingly wet in the gym mirror; tits high and heavy under the thinnest cropped hoodie you own, nipples already peaked because you knew he was coming.

Your hair is damp from the cold, loose waves brushing the bare strip of skin above your waistband every time you move. You smell like vanilla and the faint bite of your own arousal riding under it, because you’ve been thinking about this all damn day.

The doorbell is a gunshot.

You open it and Bucky is violence in a leather jacket. Snowflakes melt in his dark hair, stubble glittering with them like crushed diamonds. His jacket is unzipped just enough for you to see the black thermal clinging to his chest, damp at the collar from the wind. Cold air rolls off him, but his body heat slams into you anyway, gun oil, pine, sweat, something darker that makes your mouth water.

He looks at your dad first, polite, but his eyes snap to you like magnets. “Hey, kid.”

The hug is illegal.

Metal arm low on your spine, flesh hand sliding under the hem of your hoodie, palm flat against naked skin, thumb stroking once, slow, deliberate, right above the waistband of your leggings. You feel the calluses, the heat, the microscopic ridges dragging across your flesh. Your nipples tighten so hard it hurts. You press closer on instinct, tits crushed to his chest, inhaling him until your lungs burn. Your hips rock forward a fraction and you feel him: thick, half-hard already, trapped against your stomach. His fingers flex, digging in for one greedy second before he remembers where he is and lets go.

Dad claps him on the shoulder. The spell fractures, but the ache stays.

Dinner is foreplay disguised as spaghetti.

You sit across from him and the table is too small. Your knee finds the rough denim of his thigh instantly. You leave it there. He lets you. When you slide your foot up his calf, slow, teasing the seam of his jeans, his fork stops moving. You watch his throat work, watch the muscle in his jaw jump. He retaliates by spreading his legs wider, trapping your ankle between both of his, pressing the hard line of his shin against your inner thigh until the pressure kisses your clit through thin fabric. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from moaning into your pasta.

Every time he lifts his beer, the cords in his forearm flex. You imagine licking the sweat from the hollow of his throat. You imagine his stubble scraping the inside of your thigh. You imagine his metal fingers spreading you open.

You’re soaked. Actually soaked. You can feel it when you shift, slick coating the gusset of your panties, thighs sliding together under the table like a secret.

Dad starts snoring on the couch before the credits roll on his fishing show.

The living room shrinks to the two of you and the low crackle of the fireplace. You pull out the photo album like a loaded gun. Flip to the diaper picture and watch a soft smile creep across his face

“Handful even then,” he mutters, voice gravel scraped raw.

You move closer until your thigh burns against his, skin on skin where your leggings rode up. The heat rolling off him is obscene. You can smell yourself on the air now, sweet, sharp, desperate, and you wonder if he can too.

His vibranium hand rests on the cushion between you, close enough that the faint hum vibrates up your leg. You drag one finger across the back of his metal hand, just a whisper, and the plates shift under your touch like a shiver. His breath stutters.

“Gets lonely out there,” you say, barely above a whisper. “No one waiting when you come home bloody.”

His eyes flick to yours, haunted, hungry. “Gets real quiet.”

You lean in until your lips almost brush his ear. “College boys talk big, Buck. But they’ve never made me wet just sitting across a dinner table.”

The growl that rumbles out of him is animal. His flesh hand lifts, slow enough to stop, but you don’t move. Knuckles graze your forearm, trace the inside of your elbow, thumb stroking the thin skin there like he’s memorizing the pulse hammering under it. Goosebumps explode down your arms. Your nipples are so hard they ache against the hoodie, and you know he can see them. You want him to see them.

You tilt your face up. One inch. Half an inch. Your bottom lip brushes the stubble along his jaw and you feel the shudder all the way to your cunt.

“We can’t,” he rasps against your mouth, but his hand slides to the nape of your neck, thumb pressing just under your hairline, metal fingers curling around your thigh now, cold, perfect, possessive.

Dad snorts in his sleep like a fucking air-raid siren.

Bucky jerks back, chair legs screeching. He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, chest heaving, eyes black with want and fury at himself.

“I gotta go.”

You walk him to the door on legs that don’t feel like yours. At the threshold you can’t resist. “Night, Uncle Buck.”

He turns, crowds you against the doorframe without touching, leather creaking, voice so low it scrapes your bones.

“Drop the uncle, sweetheart. Doesn’t fit anymore. And you fuckin’ know it.”

Then he’s gone, cold air flooding in, snowflakes melting on the floor where his boots stood.

You lock the door, lean back against it, and drag in a breath that still tastes like him.

Upstairs you don’t bother with the light. Hoodie hits the floor, leggings shoved down, panties soaked through and clinging. You fall back on the bed and spread your thighs wide, two fingers sliding through the mess he made of you without even trying. You’re swollen, dripping, clit throbbing so hard it hurts. You fuck yourself slow at first, then frantic, imagining him.

You come so hard your back arches off the mattress, his name a broken sob against your pillow, thighs shaking, slick coating your fingers and running down to the sheets.

Downstairs, the house creaks like it’s holding its breath.

The cracks are spider-webbing.

And you both know exactly how loud it’s going to be when the whole thing finally shatters.

The snow doesn’t fall. It attacks.

It slams sideways against the windshield in wet, heavy sheets, each flake the size of a quarter, exploding against the glass like tiny fists. The wipers groan, fighting, losing.

Bucky’s world narrows to the faint red glow of his taillights reflecting back at him and the low growl of the engine. Cold seeps through the door seals, sneaks under his collar, but it does nothing to cool the heat already crawling under his skin. His truck rattled along the salted pavement, wipers beating a steady rhythm as he called your dad on speaker.

“Hey, man. How about one last beer before these roads turn to shit? Storm's moving in quick.”

Your dad's voice crackled through, warm but edged with that parental worry he never shook. “Yeah, come on by. But if it gets bad, pull in the driveway. No heroics tonight, Barnes. You're not invincible.”

Bucky snorted, glancing at the darkening sky. “Speak for yourself. Be there in ten.”

He shouldn’t be driving toward you. He knows it. But the words slip out of his mouth before his brain catches up.

The porch light is a blurred gold halo when he finally skids into the driveway. He kills the engine and sits there a second, breath fogging, watching snow pile on the hood like the storm’s trying to bury him alive for what he’s about to walk into.

He knocks hard. Metal knuckles on wood. Once. Twice.

You open the door and the heat rolls out like a living thing: woodsmoke, cinnamon, your skin.

You’re barefoot, legs bare, wearing the tiniest black sleep shorts he’s ever seen, cotton so worn it’s almost see-through, riding high enough that the lower curve of your ass peeks out every time you shift your weight.

The oversized tee is his old Army one, the hem brushing mid-thigh, neck stretched so it slips off one shoulder and shows the delicate line of your collarbone. No bra. Your nipples are tight, dark shadows under thin gray fabric, and the cold blast that follows him in makes them pull even tighter. You smell like warm vanilla, dryer sheets, and the faint, unmistakable musk of a woman who’s already aching.

He steps inside and the door shuts out the howl. Snow melts off his jacket in fat drops, hitting the mat with soft plops. His boots are soaked; water squelches between his toes. You toss him a towel and he catches it against his chest, the terry cloth rough against his chilled skin. He drags it over his face, through his hair, and water streams down his neck, under the collar of the henley that’s glued to every ridge of muscle like it was painted on.

Your dad saves him for exactly forty-seven minutes.

You watch him sway a little as he pushes up from the armchair, the empty glass still dangling from his fingers. The fire crackles low behind him, painting long shadows across the worn rug.

“Alright… I’m done,” he mutters, voice thick with whiskey and exhaustion. He sets the glass on the mantel with a soft clink, rubs a rough hand over his face, and turns toward the stairs.

Each step is heavier than the last. The old wood groans under his feet as he climbs, slow and deliberate, shoulders sagging like the long week is finally winning. You hear the hallway floorboards creak once… twice… then the bedroom door clicks shut.

Silence settles, thick and golden in the firelight.

You count to ten.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Nothing. No footsteps. No grumbling. Just the soft pop of burning pine and the low tick of the clock above the mantel.

He’s out cold upstairs, sprawled across the bed still in his flannel and jeans, mouth open, snoring before his head even hits the pillow.

The TV spits red warnings: BLIZZARD WARNING. 30-40 INCHES. WIDESPREAD POWER OUTAGES.

The room shrinks until it’s just firelight licking over your skin, the crackle of logs, the wind screaming like it wants in to watch.

You pull the blanket over both of you and it’s a lie you both pretend to believe. Your bare thigh slides against the wet denim of his jeans, skin on cold fabric, then skin on skin when he shifts and the denim rides higher. His body heat is insane: radiating through the henley, through the blanket, into your bones. You can feel the thump of his pulse in his thigh where it presses against yours.

He stretches his flesh arm along the back of the couch. His fingertips brush the slope of your bare shoulder, just a graze, but the tiny hairs on your neck stand up like they’ve been electrocuted. His metal hand rests on his own thigh, plates shifting with a faint, hungry whir every time you breathe.

“Stuck with me ’til morning,” he says, voice scraped raw, whiskey and snow and restraint. “Hope that ain’t a problem, kid.”

Your answer is barely air. “Only if you snore louder than Dad.”

But your nipples are diamonds against his old shirt and your thighs are pressed so tight together he can probably smell how wet you are.

You stand and the blanket falls away like a confession. The shorts ride higher when you walk; he gets a heartbeat-long flash of the soft crease where thigh meets ass before you disappear into the kitchen. He follows because his body is no longer taking orders from his brain.

The fridge light paints you gold and obscene. You bend for a beer and the fabric pulls tight, seam disappearing between your cheeks, cotton going dark where you’ve soaked through. He’s behind you before he can stop himself, metal arm caging left, flesh right, chest to your back. The henley is cold and wet against your bare shoulders; his belt buckle bites into the small of your back.

He doesn’t mean to grind forward. His hips do it anyway.

You feel him instantly: thick, brutally hard, trapped behind soaked denim, pressing right into the cleft of your ass like he’s already imagining splitting you open. A shudder rolls through him so violent the plates in his metal arm click. His breath is scalding against your ear, stubble scraping the shell.

“Grew up nice, didn’t ya?” The words tear out of him, wrecked. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, look at you.”

You push back, slow, filthy roll of your hips, dragging a broken sound from his throat that he swallows too late. The ridge of his cock slides between your cheeks through two pathetic layers of fabric and you both feel how soaked you are, cotton clinging, slick coating the inside of your thighs.

His flesh hand hovers over your hip, trembling. Metal fingers curl against the counter so hard the granite creaks. He can smell you, sweet, sharp, flooding his lungs like oxygen he doesn’t deserve.

You turn in the trap of his arms and it’s worse.

Your tits brush his chest, nipples dragging across wet fabric, and the friction makes you gasp, soft, open, right against his mouth. Your lips are swollen from biting them all night. Your eyes are black with want.

He cups your jaw with his flesh hand, thumb dragging over your bottom lip, spreading it, pressing just inside so he feels your tongue flick hot and wet against the pad of his thumb and his cock jerks so hard his vision tunnels.

He groans, low, animal, forehead dropping to yours. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You arch into him instead, tits crushing against his chest, hips rolling so the seam of your shorts rides your clit and you whimper, tiny, desperate sound that spears straight through him.

The guilt hits like a bullet between the eyes.

He jerks back, hands up, palms open like he’s surrendering to a firing squad. Chest heaving, lips wet from almost kissing you, eyes feral.

“No. Fuck. No.” His voice cracks clean in half. “He’s upstairs asleep. I was at your kindergarten graduation. I taught you how to ride a bike. I can’t-”

The words taste like rust and ash, but he forces them out anyway, backing up until his spine slams into the opposite counter, metal fingers digging into his back like punishment.

You’re trembling, thighs clenched, lips parted and glistening, the air thick with the scent of your arousal and the snow melting off his skin.

“Go to bed,” he says, voice shredded. “Please, baby. Before I do something I’ll never forgive myself for.”

You stand there a second longer, chest rising and falling, looking like every sin he’s never let himself have.

Then you nod once, grab a water instead of the beer, and walk away, hips swaying like a threat, bare feet silent on the cold tile.

He stays in the dark kitchen long after your door clicks shut upstairs, forehead pressed to the freezer door, breath fogging the stainless steel, cock throbbing so hard it hurts to breathe.

Outside, the storm screams like it knows exactly what almost happened.

Inside, he’s louder.

And the guilt is a living thing clawing at his ribs, but underneath it, hotter, hungrier, is the truth:

He’s not sure he’s strong enough to stop it next time.

The storm was a monster, wind howling like it wanted to tear the house apart, snow piling against the windows in thick, unforgiving drifts. Midnight had come and gone, the power flickering once or twice but holding steady, for now.

Downstairs, the fire had died to embers, and your dad was dead to the world, snoring upstairs through the chaos. You couldn't sleep, though. Not after that kitchen standoff, Bucky's body pinning you against the counter, his breath hot on your neck, guilt and want warring in his eyes. The pull was too strong, raw and insistent, like the storm itself had trapped more than just the roads.

You slip into the bathroom because your body is on fire and the only thing that might put it out is scalding water. You leave the door unlocked because you’re a liar who’s praying.

The shower is already a furnace when you step in. Steam billows, thick and white, swallowing the mirror, turning the air into soup. You strip bare and let the water hit like punishment, needle-hot, pounding your shoulders, your breasts, running in burning rivers down your stomach. It does nothing for the ache between your legs. If anything, it makes it worse.

You brace one hand on the tile, head falling forward, and let the other slide down your body. You trace the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the soft place low on your belly that still remembers the press of his belt buckle.

Your fingers dip lower, parting slick folds, and you bite your lip to keep quiet when you find yourself drenched, swollen, pulsing. You circle your clit once, twice, thighs trembling, and the image behind your eyes is always him: the way his jaw clenched in the kitchen, the tremor in his metal fingers when they hovered an inch from your skin, the raw guilt in his voice when he said we can’t.

You’re so lost in it you don’t hear the soft creak of the door.

Bucky steps in and the world tilts.

He thought the room was empty. He freezes with one hand still on the knob, steam curling around him like cigarette smoke. His eyes go wide, then black, pupils swallowing every trace of blue.

You, naked, water cascading over every inch of you, skin flushed pink from heat, nipples tight and beaded, one hand braced on the wall, the other buried between your thighs.

Guilt slams into him so hard his knees almost buckle.

He sees two versions of you at once: the chubby-legged toddler he used to bounce on his knee while your dad laughed about diaper explosions, and the woman in front of him now, grown, soft and strong and dripping and looking at him like she’s starving.

His cock jerks hard against his sweatpants, a wet spot spreading instantly. He should back out. He should apologise, slam the door, go sleep in the fucking snow.

Instead he whispers, voice gravel and ruin, “Door wasn’t locked, sweetheart.”

You spin, heart exploding, hands flying up to cover yourself, but too late. You see the obscene tent in his sweats, the way his breath catches, the way his metal hand curls into a fist like he’s trying to crush the want.

“Buck, shit, get out-”

He doesn’t move. His throat works. “I thought… you were upstairs.”

But his eyes betray him. They drag down your body, slow, helpless, drinking in water-slick skin, the curve of your waist, the tremble in your thighs. The diaper memory hits him like a bullet, tiny you giggling while he wiped ice-cream off your chin, and the shame is acid in his throat.

You see it. You see all of it.

And instead of screaming, you let your arms fall.

You let him look.

A reckless, wicked smirk curves your mouth. “Save water, old man?” you murmur, voice trembling with nerves and power. “Shower with a friend?”

The growl that tears out of him is broken.

He steps in, shuts the door, and the lock clicks like a starting gun.

“Old man, huh?” His voice cracks on the last word. “Keep pushin’, baby. See what happens.”

He peels his shirt off in one violent motion, muscles rippling under steam and old scars. Sweatpants follow, kicked aside, and he’s bare, thick, flushed, veins standing out like the ones you’ve dreamt about for years. The head of his cock is slick with precome, bobbing heavy between you.

He steps under the spray and the water turns his hair black, sends rivers down his chest, over the dog tags that clink softly. He stops an inch away, hands hovering, flesh and metal trembling.

“Fuck…” he breathes, the word tearing out like a confession, eyes locked on yours, stormy, shattered, raw with a torment that claws at his throat.

“You’ve… you’ve grown up, doll. You’re a woman now. Christ, not that little kid anymore, not my best friend’s baby girl. How the hell am I supposed to fight this when you look at me like that?”

The confession sounds like it’s being ripped out of his chest.

His hands finally land on your hips, reverent, shaking, thumbs tracing the dip of your waist like he’s reading braille. Metal fingers press cool against the small of your back and you arch into the contrast, gasping.

He pulls you flush against him.

His cock brands your belly, hot, velvet-hard, pulsing. You feel his heart hammering against your breasts.

“Then treat me like one,” you whisper, voice cracking with the weight of it.

He makes a wounded sound and drops his forehead to yours.

“Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he rasps, voice cracking like glass under pressure, his forehead pressed to yours as if the weight of it might crush him.

“Your dad’s right upstairs, trustin’ me to look out for you like always. He’d fuckin’ kill me for this, for touchin’ you, for wantin’ you like I do. And God help me baby, I’d let him. I’d go down swingin’ if it meant one more minute gettin’ to see you like this.”

But his hips roll forward anyway, seeking friction, sliding his length along your stomach. You wrap your fingers around him, slow, firm, and he jerks in your grip, a broken groan vibrating against your lips.

“Christ, the way you touch me…” His voice splinters. “Like you know exactly what you do to me.”

You stroke him root to tip, twisting gently at the head, watching his face contort with pleasure and agony.

“Your dad’s gonna bury me for this,” he chokes out, but he’s thrusting into your fist now, metal arm tightening around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

You pull his mouth to yours.

The kiss is messy, starving, years of almost collapsing into teeth and tongue and shared breath. His flesh hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, not quite claiming, just worshipping the fact that he’s allowed to touch.

You pump him faster, slick with water and precome, and he breaks the kiss to bury his face in your neck, biting down gently, muffling the sounds he can’t hold back.

“Fuck… gonna make me lose it-”

He spins you gently this time, back to his chest, metal arm banding under your breasts, holding you like something precious. His other hand slips between your thighs, fingers finding you soaked, circling your clit with devastating precision.

You moan, head falling back against his shoulder, hips rocking shamelessly into his touch.

“That’s it,” he whispers, voice cracking with awe and guilt and love. “Take what you need, baby. I’ve got you.”

The intimacy of it, his voice, the way he’s shaking with restraint and devotion, undoes you.

You come with a muffled cry against his neck, thighs clenching around his hand, waves crashing so strong your vision sparks white. He follows seconds later, groaning your name like it hurts, spilling hot over your lower back, hips jerking helplessly as the water washes it away.

You sag together, panting, water cooling around you.

He turns off the faucet with a trembling hand. Steam lingers like a confession.

He wraps you in a towel, hands gentle now, reverent, drying your shoulders, your arms, your breasts, like he’s terrified he’ll break you, like he can’t believe he gets to touch you at all.

You lean into him, towel loose around your hips, and whisper, soft, taunting, loving:

“Admit it. You’ve thought about this since the pull-ups. That day behind the fence.”

He stills, towel knotted at his waist, water dripping from his lashes. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, eyes dark with truth and shame and something that won’t quit.

“Every damn mission,” he whispers, voice raw. “Every night I couldn’t sleep. Thought about you grown, thought about you wantin’ me back. Kept me sane.”

He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking. “This… this is better than any fantasy. And it’s gonna destroy me. But fuck if I care right now.”

You kiss him, slow, soft, tasting the guilt he’s drowning in and the love he can’t hide.

“Take me to bed,” you breathe against his mouth.“Please, Bucky, we’re not done. I need you inside me, need you to wreck me until I can’t think straight.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, arms shaking not from effort but from the weight of what he’s just done, and carries you out of the steam like a man walking straight into the fire he’s always known was waiting.

He carries you naked down the dark hallway, water still dripping from his hair, from your skin, leaving cold little trails on the hardwood that make you shiver against his chest. His metal arm is locked under your thighs, vibranium plates humming faintly against the backs of your knees; his flesh hand cradles your spine like you’re spun glass. Every footstep is deliberate, trying not to let the floorboards scream and wake the house.

The guest-room door shuts with the softest click. He turns the lock so slowly the mechanism barely breathes.

Moonlight through frost-laced windows turns the whole room blue-white. Snow-light. It catches on the sweat still clinging to his collarbones, on the dog tags resting between his pecs, on the wet ends of his hair.

He lowers you to the bed like he’s laying down something sacred. The comforter is cool against your overheated back; the sheets smell like cedar and the faint gun-oil that always clings to him. You sink into it and he just stares, chest heaving, lips parted, eyes glassy with something between worship and terror.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, doll…” His voice is shredded velvet. “Look at you. Spread out on my bed like every filthy dream I never let myself finish.”

You try for a bratty little smirk, want to tease him about finally growing a pair, but the words die when he drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress and spreads your thighs with his shoulders.

The first touch of his mouth is soft, almost chaste, just his lips brushing the crease where thigh meets hip, stubble scraping tender skin, breath scalding. You feel it everywhere.

“You okay, baby?” he murmurs, looking up the length of your body, blue eyes dark and worried even while his cock jerks against the sheets. “Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me anything. Always.”

You nod, throat too tight for words, and he rewards you by dragging his tongue up your center in one slow, filthy stripe that ends with the flat of it pressed hard against your clit.

Your back bows off the bed.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls low against your slick heat, the rumble of his voice making your thighs tremble. “Spread those gorgeous legs wider for me, sweetheart… don’t get shy on me now.”

His tongue drags slow and deliberate up your center again, just to watch you jerk, then he pulls back barely an inch, hot breath ghosting over you as he smirks.

“Uh-uh. Wider. Show me how desperate my pretty little thing is to have her pussy devoured. Go on… beg me with those thighs, baby. Let me see just how soaked you are for my mouth.”

He eats you like it’s the only thing he was ever put on earth to do. Slow, thorough, obscene. Long licks, soft sucks, the gentle scrape of teeth. His tongue fucks deep inside you, curling, retreating, curling again, while his nose grinds your clit in perfect, maddening circles. Metal fingers slide in beside his tongue, two thick vibranium digits curling up to stroke that spot that makes your vision spark white.

He feels you tighten, hears that broken little gasp that means you’re right there, and he stops. Just lifts his mouth an inch, lets the cool air hit your dripping cunt while you whine and try to chase him.

“Mmm-no, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing the sensitive crease where thigh meets pussy, voice velvet-rough. “Not yet. I’m nowhere near done playing.”

He drags his tongue in one slow, lazy stripe that deliberately misses your clit, then chuckles when your hips buck in frustration.

“Aw, listen to that needy sound. You’re fucking soaked, aren’t you? Dripping down my chin and still begging for more.” He nips the soft skin of your inner thigh, soothing it with a kiss. “Greedy girl. I could live between these legs for days… lick you open nice and slow until you’re crying for mercy.”

Another feather-light flick, gone before you can grind against it.

“Hours, sweetheart,” he promises, voice dark and filthy as he spreads you wider with his thumbs, blowing a cool breath over your throbbing clit just to watch you shudder. “I’m gonna keep you shaking on the edge ‘til you forget your own name. Only thing you’ll remember is how to beg me to let you come.”

When you finally come it’s with his name torn out of your throat and muffled against the pillow, thighs clamped so tight around his head you’re scared you’ll hurt him. He just moans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, licking you through it until you’re sobbing from overstimulation.

He crawls up your body, kissing every inch, murmuring praise like a litany.

“Good girl. So fuckin’ good for me. Taste yourself on my tongue, baby, go on.”

He kisses you deep, filthy, letting you lick into his mouth and taste how wet you made him.

Then he sinks into you from behind in one long, slow glide that punches the air from your lungs. You feel every inch, every thick vein, every throb, the flared head dragging along your walls until he bottoms out and you both groan like dying men, raw and desperate.

He stills, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed hot and sweaty between your shoulder blades, metal hand sliding under you to lace tight with yours on the mattress, vibranium cool against your fingers.

“Fuck… baby,” he rasps, voice cracked wide open, forehead pressed to yours while his breath stutters against your lips. “You good? Please… tell me you’re good.”

His hands are shaking, thumbs stroking gentle little circles like he’s trying to soothe both of you. He pulls back just enough to search your eyes, wide and glassy with something that looks a lot like fear.

“I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice trembling harder than his body. “Just… breathe with me, sweetheart. Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop, I swear I’ll stop, I just-”

He cuts himself off with a shaky exhale when you clench around him involuntarily, a broken groan ripping out of his chest. His eyes squeeze shut for a second like he’s in pain.

“God, you feel so fucking perfect I’m scared I’m gonna lose it,” he confesses, raw and quiet, pressing his face into your neck. “Need to hear you say it, baby. Need to know you’re with me… that you can take me. Please.”

You shove your hips back hard, slamming yourself onto him with a filthy, wet sound that makes his breath hitch.

“Please,” you sob, voice shredded, forehead pressed to the sheets as you fuck yourself on his cock in frantic little jerks. “Please, bucky, I need it so bad-”

Every desperate push back forces him deeper, your ass slapping against his hips, greedy and shameless. You can’t stop; you’re shaking, dripping, clenching around him like you’re trying to pull him in and never let go.

“Fuck, fuck, I can take it,” you cry out, reaching one hand back to claw at his thigh, dragging him closer. “I’m so full and it’s still not enough, please move, please ruin me, I’m begging you-”

Your whole body jolts with every backward thrust you give yourself, thighs trembling, back arched so deep it hurts, tears soaking the pillow as you choke on another broken moan.

“I’m so close already,” you confess in a rush, voice cracking open. “I’m right there and you’re not even moving, I’ll die if you don’t move, please, I’ll be so good for you, I swear, just, fuck, please-”

He does.

Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first, dragging out until just the tip kisses your entrance, then slamming back in until his hips meet your ass with a wet, filthy slap that echoes in the quiet room. Every thrust nudges your clit against his heavy balls, the pressure perfect, relentless, building that burn low in your belly until you’re trembling.

His mouth never leaves your skin, lips and teeth and tongue worshiping every inch he can reach.

“Listen to you,” he growls against your spine, teeth grazing the sensitive spot between your shoulder blades. “Hear how fuckin’ wet you are for me? That’s all you, baby. All for me. My perfect girl takin’ every inch like you were born for it, like this pussy was made to be wrapped around my cock.”

You whimper, fingers squeezing his metal ones hard enough that the plates whir faintly.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice rough with awe and hunger. “Squeeze me just like that. Fuck, you’re so tight, so hot- gonna ruin me, baby. You’re ruinin’ me, and I’d let you do it every goddamn day.”

He flips you suddenly, needing your face, needing to see you take him. Missionary now, your legs thrown over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, cock hitting so deep you feel him in your throat with every brutal thrust, the angle making you sob.

“Look at me,” he pants, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing in the universe, like he’s memorizing every flicker across your face. “Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come around my cock again. Wanna watch my girl fall apart on me. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this, baby- so gorgeous takin’ me deep.”

“Bucky-” you sob, nails digging into his back, leaving red trails down scarred skin.

“Yeah, say my name,” he groans, hips snapping harder, faster, the headboard starting to thump against the wall. “Love hearin’ my name in that sweet voice while I’m buried inside you. You’re takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ good. Never felt anything like this pussy- never gonna want anything else. You’re it for me, baby. You’re everything.”

Against the wall next, your back scraping painted drywall, his metal arm hooked under your ass, holding all your weight like it’s nothing while his flesh hand braces beside your head. He thrusts up into you slow and filthy, grinding on every stroke, the head of his cock dragging over that spot that makes you see stars, makes your toes curl.

“Legs okay, baby?” he whispers, voice ragged and trembling with restraint, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me if they’re shaking too hard… I’ve got you, I’ll hold you up, always.”

You whimper, nodding frantically, and he groans at the way you clench around him in response.

“That’s it… fuck, just like that,” he praises, low and reverent, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder blade. “Wrap those pretty thighs tighter around me, yeah, perfect. God, look at you, taking me so fucking deep, so greedy and gorgeous.”

His hand slips down to lace with yours, squeezing gently as he rolls his hips in that slow, grinding rhythm that makes you sob.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice cracking with awe. “So perfect for me. My beautiful girl, glowing, trembling, letting me all the way in like you were made for this, made for me. I’ve never felt anything as safe as I do right now, buried inside you. You’re everything, baby. Every fucking thing.”

You barely manage to get the words out between broken gasps, voice shaky and wrecked as you push against him just to feel him throb inside you.

“Thought… thought you were gonna wreck me, old man-” you rasp, trying for bratty, but it comes out breathless, trembling, more plea than taunt.

He freezes for half a heartbeat, buried to the hilt, then lets out the lowest, darkest chuckle you’ve ever heard. It vibrates straight through your spine.

“Callin’ me old man again, huh?” he murmurs, voice velvet and dangerous, one hand sliding up your sweat-slick back to fist gently in your hair. He tugs your head back just enough for you to feel it, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Careful what you ask for, baby.”

Then he pulls out slow, agonizingly slow, until you’re empty and whining, and slams back in with one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“That wrecking enough for you, princess?” he growls, setting a punishing rhythm, hips snapping hard enough to jolt your whole body up the bed. “Or should this old man really ruin that pretty little pussy till you can’t walk tomorrow?”

Another deep, filthy stroke, grinding against that spot that makes you see stars.

“Go ahead,” he taunts, breathless but merciless, “keep talking shit. I’ve got all night to teach you manners, sweetheart.”

On the floor because the bed is too far and he can’t wait another second, him flat on his back, you’re straddling his face, knees burning against the hardwood, thighs trembling so hard they’re practically vibrating around his ears. His big hands are locked on your ass, fingers digging in possessively, spreading you open and dragging you down until his mouth seals over your cunt like he’s starving.

“Use me, sweetheart,” he groans into you, voice muffled, wrecked, tongue fucking deep and greedy. “Please, fuck my face. I need your taste in my throat for days.”

His nose grinds against your clit with every roll of your hips, perfect, relentless pressure, while his metal fingers slip lower, cool and slick, gathering the mess dripping out of you and teasing your empty, fluttering hole like he’s thinking about sliding them in later.

You hesitate, thighs shaking harder, a little scared of how fast it’s building, how loud you already are, and he feels it instantly. His grip softens, thumbs stroking soothing circles over the dimples of your ass.

“Hey, hey, baby, look at me,” he rasps, pulling back just enough that his breath fans hot over your swollen clit. His eyes are blown black, glassy with want and something achingly tender. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Nothing bad’s gonna happen, I swear.”

He presses the softest kiss to your clit, then another, coaxing.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Drippin’ all over my face, shaking for me… my perfect girl. Could stay right here forever.”

His hands slide up to guide your hips again, gentle but insistent, rocking you down onto his waiting tongue.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he begs, raw and desperate. “Ride me. Grind that pretty pussy on my mouth, use me however you need. I want it. Want you to fall apart and soak me. Please, baby… let me have it. I’m dying for it.”

Bent over the dresser, mirror fogged from your breath, his chest plastered to your back, eyes locked in the reflection, sweat-slick skin sliding together.

“Look how gorgeous you are takin’ me,” he rasps, voice hoarse from hours of praise, hips snapping hard and fast now, animal, relentless, the dresser rattling with every thrust. “Look at you. My girl. Mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you sob, nails scrabbling for purchase on the wood, tears pricking your eyes from how good it hurts, how deep he is.

“That’s right,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to wrap gently around your throat, thumb stroking your pulse like he’s counting your heartbeats. “All mine. Takin’ my cock like a fuckin’ dream. Never gonna get enough of you, doll. Never. You’re perfect, so fuckin’ perfect, squeezin’ me, cryin’ for me, lettin’ me ruin you. My beautiful girl.”

He finishes inside you the first time with your name broken on his lips, hips stuttering, metal fingers laced so tight with yours the plates leave faint crescents in your skin. He stays buried, forehead against your spine, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you,” like the words are being ripped out of his soul, voice shaking with the weight of it.

The second time is slow, face-to-face, moonlight painting silver stripes across your bodies. He’s crying a little, you realize, tears mixing with sweat when he kisses you, thrusts deep and deliberate, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re everything,” he chokes on every thrust, voice raw and reverent. “Everything I never thought I’d get to have. My perfect, beautiful girl. Love how you feel around me, love how you look at me, love every fuckin’ sound you make. You’re ruin’ me, baby, and I’d let you do it a thousand times. You’re mine, my heart, my girl, my everything.”

When he comes again he buries his face in your neck, whole body shaking, spilling deep with a sound like it hurts how good it feels, whispering your name over and over like a prayer.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes against your skin, voice raw, holding you close like he’ll never let go. “So fuckin’ perfect I don’t deserve you. But I’m keepin’ you anyway.”

Finally, 4:07 am, he collapses beside you, metal arm draped cool across your stomach, flesh hand tangled in your hair, both of you slick with sweat and each other.

“Tomorrow he’s gonna kill me,” he whispers, voice raw, wrecked, happy. A pause. “Worth it.”

You smile into his chest, fingers tracing the raised skin of an old scar, voice soft and sleepy and absolutely certain:

“Then make it worth it again before sunrise.”

He exhales like a man who’s been holding his breath for decades, pulls you tighter, and starts all over again.

He rearranges you like you’re made of silk and sin.

Big, careful hands slide under your thighs, lifting your top leg higher, draping it back over his hip so you’re completely open to him. He’s still buried deep, thick, half-hard, and slick with both of you, but now he can spoon you flush against his chest, metal arm curled under your neck and breasts like a cradle, flesh arm wrapped low across your hips, fingers splayed wide over the soft swell of your lower belly so he can feel himself inside you every time he breathes.

“Stay right here, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice cracked open with exhaustion and wonder. “Gonna keep my cock nice and warm inside this perfect little pussy while you fall asleep, yeah? Gonna keep you full of me all night.”

He rocks, slow, syrupy, barely a thrust, more like a heartbeat. Just enough to remind your body he’s there, stretching you, owning you, loving you.

You make a sleepy, needy sound and push back against him, trying to get closer even though there’s no space left. He groans, low and wrecked, hips stuttering for a second before he forces himself still.

“Shhh, shh, I’ve got you,” he soothes, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, your neck, the spot behind your ear that makes you melt. “Greedy girl. Already took three loads outta me tonight and you still want more, huh?”

His metal hand slides up, cupping your breast, thumb rolling your nipple slow and gentle, like he’s petting you to sleep. Flesh hand slips lower, two fingers spreading your folds so he can feel where he’s splitting you open, feel the slick mess leaking out around his cock every time he gives that tiny, sleepy thrust.

“Fuck, listen to that,” he breathes, voice filthy and adoring. “Hear how wet my baby is? That’s me inside you. That’s us. Never gonna pull out, sweetheart. Gonna stay right here, keep you plugged and dripping and mine.”

You whimper, half-asleep, hips rolling back on instinct, chasing the gentle pressure. He hushes you closer, metal arm tightening just enough that the cool plates press deliciously against your nipples.

“Easy, pretty girl,” he croons, lips against your pulse. “Let me take care of you. Let me love on this sweet pussy till you pass out on my cock. You’ve been so good for me, taken everything I gave you, still clenchin’ around me like you can’t get enough.”

Another slow, lazy glide in and out, just an inch, just enough to make you sigh and flutter around him. He moans softly, like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s perfect. Just like that. Fall asleep on me, baby. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you full. Dream about me stretchin’ you open, yeah?”

Your body goes liquid, melting back into him, head lolling against his metal bicep. The last thing you feel is his mouth pressing soft, endless kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your hair, and the gentle, steady throb of him inside you, like a second heartbeat.

“Aww, listen to you,” he whispers, voice thick with sleepy, possessive love when your breathing finally evens out. “My sweet girl, falling asleep with my cock buried to the hilt. Never lettin’ you go. Never.”

His own eyes flutter shut, arms locking tighter, metal fingers laced with yours over your belly, keeping you pinned exactly where he wants you.

Outside, the storm screams itself hoarse. Inside, the only sound is the soft, wet pulse of two bodies refusing to separate, and the quiet, reverent whisper he breathes into your hair just before he drifts off.

“Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts, baby. Sleep tight. I’ve got you.”

And you both slip under, still joined, still dripping, wrapped in steel and skin and the kind of filthy, desperate tenderness that only comes after everything has already burned down.

The kitchen smells like bacon, burnt coffee, and the kind of tension that could power a small city.

Dad’s at the stove, spatula in hand, humming “Fortunate Son” like he’s in a different decade entirely. You’re perched on a stool in Bucky’s stolen shirt, legs swinging, trying to look like a normal daughter who definitely did not spend the night tangled up with her dad’s best friend.

Bucky is shirtless, because of course, leaning against the counter with his “World’s Okayest Sergeant” mug, pretending to read the cereal box while his eyes keep darting to you like he’s checking you’re still real.

Dad flips a strip of bacon with flair. “So, Buck. That guest bed treat you alright? I peeked in around six to see if the power had come back on. You were dead to the world, man. Didn’t even twitch.”

You and Bucky both freeze solid.

Your coffee mug stops halfway to your mouth. Bucky’s metal hand tightens on his mug so hard you hear the ceramic creak.

Because at six am, you were definitely in that guest bed. Wrapped around Bucky like a koala, one of his thighs between yours, his metal arm locked around your waist, your face buried in his neck, both of you dead asleep and very, very naked under the tangled sheets.

You thank every god you don’t believe in that Dad only saw Bucky’s side of the bed. That the blanket was pulled high enough. That you were on the inside, hidden against the wall. That Bucky sleeps like a damn statue when he finally crashes.

Bucky recovers first, voice suspiciously calm. “Yeah… uh, slept like a rock. Deep. Real deep.”

You nearly choke on air. “Yeah, Dad. He was out cold. Didn’t move an inch all night.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow at you over the rim of his mug. “Funny. I seem to remember someone doing a whole lot of moving.”

Dad turns, eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

Bucky shrugs, smooth as gravel. “Nothin’. Just said the bed was surprisingly comfortable.”

You hide your grin behind your mug. Bucky’s foot finds your ankle under the counter and gives it a light kick. You kick back, harder. He pinches your calf with his toes. Game on.

Dad sets down plates with a clatter. “You two are weirdly chipper for people who almost turned into popsicles.”

You and Bucky answer at the exact same time. “Adrenaline.” “Good cardio.”

Dead silence.

Dad blinks slowly, like he’s buffering. You both sip coffee like it’s the last drink on death row.

Dad finally shrugs and sits. “Whatever. Eat before it gets cold.”

Bucky slides into the seat next to you, thigh pressing yours like it’s an accident. It’s not. You “accidentally” elbow him reaching for the salt. He steals two pieces of your bacon. You flick a tiny piece of eggshell onto his plate.

Bucky mutters under his breath, “Real mature, trouble.”

You whisper back, “Says the guy who begged ‘please, doll, don’t stop’ at three in the morning.”

He inhales bacon wrong and starts coughing. Dad reaches over and thumps his back. “Easy there, pal. Chew.”

You pat Bucky’s back with way too much enthusiasm. “There ya go, old man. Small bites.”

Bucky glares through watering eyes, mouth twitching like he’s two seconds from laughing or strangling you. “Keep it up. See what happens when your dad leaves for five seconds.”

You grin. “Promises, promises.”

Dad, chewing thoughtfully, waves his fork in a circle. “You know, you two are actin’ weird. Like… weird-weird. Like you’re speakin’ in code or somethin’. And Buck, where the hell is your shirt?”

Bucky freezes mid-chew. You freeze mid-sip. You both glance at your chest at the same time.

You recover first, sweet as pie. “Laundry mix-up?”

Bucky nods way too fast. “Yeah. Mine shrank. She borrowed it. Charity.”

Dad squints harder. “It’s three sizes too big on her.”

You chime in, “Fashion, Dad. Oversized is in.”

Bucky adds, “Very trendy.”

Dad stares for a long beat, then shrugs. “Kids these days. And old men pretending to be kids.”

Under the table, Bucky’s foot slides up your calf again, slow and deliberate. You retaliate by pressing your bare foot right against the inside of his thigh, inching dangerously close to territory that would get you both grounded for life.

His hand clamps down on your ankle like a vice. He mouths, “Behave.”

You mouth back, “Make me.”

Dad looks up. “You two are awfully quiet again. Everything okay?”

You and Bucky answer in perfect unison, “Yep!”

Dad eyes you both like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing, then shrugs and goes back to his eggs.

Bucky leans in, voice barely a breath. “You’re lucky your dad’s here, or I’d have you bent over this counter before the bacon grease cooled.”

You grin, all teeth. “Big talk for a guy who begged so pretty last night.”

His metal fingers tighten on your ankle, just enough pressure to promise payback. You wiggle your toes against his inner thigh in victory.

Dad stands up, plate in hand. “Alright, I’m gonna go fight the driveway before the next wave hits. You two want anything from the garage?”

You answer quickly, “We’re good!”

Bucky echoes, “Real good.”

Dad pauses at the door, gives you one last suspicious look. “You sure? You’re both actin’ like you drank Red Bull instead of coffee.”

Bucky shrugs. “Just the bacon high.”

Dad mutters something about “weirdos” and heads out.

The second the back door shuts, Bucky’s on his feet, crowding you against the counter, hands braced on either side of your hips.

“You,” he growls, nose brushing yours, “are a goddamn menace.”

You tilt your chin, smirking. “And you’re a terrible liar. ‘Best sleep in years’? Please.”

He huffs a laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Fine. Worst sleep of my life. Couldn’t stop thinking about how you sound when-”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “Dad’s literally thirty feet away!”

He licks your palm. You yank it back with a squeak.

“Animal,” you hiss.

He grins, all teeth. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

You shove his chest. He doesn’t budge. “Go put a shirt on before Dad thinks we’re running a nudist colony.”

He leans in, voice low and rough. “I’d put a shirt on, but someone’s wearing my favorite one. And looks way better in it than I ever did.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are on fire. “Flattery won’t save you when Dad notices the hickey on my-”

He kisses you quick and dirty to shut you up, then pulls back just as fast.

“Gotta go before I do something stupid,” he mutters, adjusting himself with zero subtlety. “Like bend you over this counter and give your old man a heart attack.”

You pat his cheek. “Poor baby. Blue balls again?”

He groans, backing toward the door. “You’re evil.”

“Text me when you get home safe, Grandpa.”

He points a metal finger at you. “Keep that shirt. And lock your window next time there’s a storm. I’m not asking twice.”

You grin, sweet as poison. “Who says there’ll be a next time?”

He pauses at the door, eyes dark. “Keep telling yourself that, trouble.”

Then he’s gone, boots crunching through snow.

Dad yells from the driveway, “Buck! You forgot your damn shirt again!”

You look down at the stolen tee, hug it to yourself, and yell back, “Finders keepers, dad!”

Dad’s muffled grumble floats in: “You kids are so weird…”

You sip your coffee, grinning like an idiot, already counting down to the next blizzard.

Because yeah. There’s definitely gonna be a next time.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

Bucky's alone in his department, laptop open on the bed, his door locked even though no one's coming over. It's become a routine—every few nights, sometimes more, he finds himself here… waiting.

The notification pops up: StarryKitten is live.

He clicks immediately.

The stream loads, and there she is. No face, she never shows her face—just that perfect body in black lace, the camera angled to show everything from her neck down. She's on her knees on the bed, and even through the screen he can see how her skin would feel under his hands.

"Hi everyone," she says, and her voice—fuck, her voice is what hooked him in the first place. Soft and breathy and just a little teasing. "Missed me?"

The chat explodes. He watches the usernames scroll by, all desperate and pathetic, and then he types his own message.

oldsoul17: Always.

She laughs, and he swears, he can hear the smile in it. "Well, aren't you sweet."

He's been watching for months now. He found her by accident—late night, couldn't sleep, scrolling through sites he probably shouldn't be on. And then there she was. Something about her pulled him in and wouldn't let go. The way she moved, the sounds she made, the little freckle on her left hip that the camera caught sometimes when she shifted positions.

He's spent more money than he cares to admit. Tips, private requests, custom videos. He's become one of her regulars, and she knows it—she calls him out by the username he uses, thanks him specifically.

"I see you there, old soul," she says now, shifting onto her back. "That mean it's going to be a good night."

His hand is already on his belt.

She touches herself slowly, teasingly, and he follows every movement. He's memorized her body at this point—the curve of her waist, the way her hips roll, the little sounds she makes when she's getting close. He knows what she likes, what makes her gasp.

When she comes, he's right there with her, and afterward he sits there in the dark, heart pounding, feeling like a fucking creep.

He doesn't know who she is. Doesn't know her real name, her face, anything beyond what she shows on camera.

It's safer that way.

The July heat is brutal, but your dad's summer house has a pool, and you're taking full advantage. You're stretched out on a lounger in your new bikini—white, high-cut, the kind that shows off your legs and draws the eye.

Bucky's here this weekend. Your dad invited him up, something about work and fishing. You've known him for years—he's been your dad's friend and business associate since you were sixteen—but lately, something's shifted.

The way he looks at you has changed.

You've noticed it over the past few months. The lingering glances, the way his eyes track you when you walk into a room. The way he stands just a little too close, lets his hand rest on your lower back a second too long when he passes behind you.

You've started testing it, wearing shorter dresses, leaning over in front of him to grab something, brushing against him in hallways… just to see.

He always reacts. A sharp inhale, a tightening of his jaw; but he never acts on it.

You're starting to wonder what it would take.

"You want something to drink?" your friend calls from the pool.

"I'm good!" you call back, adjusting your position on the longer. You tug at the waistband of your bikini bottoms, pulling them a little higher, and that's when you feel it.

Someone's staring.

You glance toward the patio, Bucky's standing there, frozen, beer in hand. But he's not looking at your face, his eyes are locked on your hip, on the small exposed stretch of skin where your freckle is visible. His face goes completely still. You watch his throat works as he swallows, his knuckles white around the bottle. His eyes are dark, intense, and when they finally drag up to meet yours, there's something in them that makes your stomach flip.

He looks almost… stricken.

Then he turns abruptly and walks back inside.

You sit there with your pulse racing, wondering what the hell just happened.

The afternoon drags on. Your friends eventually leave, pilling into cars with promises to meet up next week. Your parents head out for their dinner reservation, and Bucky claims he's not feeling well, that he'll just stay back and relax.

"Make yourself at home"your dad says, clapping him on the shoulder.

The door closes. The house goes quiet.

You're in the kitchen, still in your bikini with denim shorts pulled over it, bare feet on the cool tile. You're pouring yourself water when you sense him behind you.

You turn, leaning back against the counter. "Hey. Feeling better?"

Bucky's standing in the doorway, and the way he's looking at you it's different from before.

"Yeah," he says, but his voice sounds restrained.

You take a sip of water, watching him over the rim of the glass. "You sure? You left pretty quick earlier."

"Just needed to cool off."

"It is hot," you agree, setting the glass down. You stretch, arching your back slightly, and you don't miss the way his eyes track the movement. "I might go for another swim later."

"You should put more clothes on."

The words come out harder than he probably meant. You tilt your head, playing innocent. "Why?"

"Because—" He stops. "Because your parents will be back soon."

"Not for hours." You push off the counter, taking a few steps toward him. "It's just us."

You watch him fight it. Watch the tension coil in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to hear his breathing change.

"You should go upstairs," he says quietly.

"What if I don't want to?"

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then you do something reckless—you reach up and adjust your bikini top, fingers grazing the tie at your neck, and his eyes follow the movement like he's starving.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath, turning away. "I—I'll be right back."

He disappears down the hall, and you hear a door close. The bathroom.

You bite your lip, because you know exactly what he's doing in there.

Bucky braces his hands on the sink, his head bowed, trying to breathe.

This was insane.

He knows that freckle. He's seen it dozens of times, hundreds, in videos and live streams and photos. Right there, just under the waistband of your left hip.

StarryKitten. You're the girl he's been watching for months, the one he's jerked off to more times than he can count, the one he's tipped thousands of dollars… you've been right here the whole time.

And you had no fucking idea he knows.

He's watched you parade around in those little outfits, leaning over in front of him, brushing up against him. You think you're just teasing your dad's friend. You don't know he's seen everything.

His cock is painfully hard against his jeans. He palms himself through the denim, groaning quietly. He shouldn't. He should get the fuck out of this house, drive back to the city, block your account and never think about this again.

But then he remembers the way you looked at him just now. The way you've stretched, arched your back, adjusted your bikini.

You want him.

Maybe not the way he wants you—you don't know about the months of watching, the obsession, the desperate need—but you want him.

He unbuckles his belt with shaking hands,.

Just once, just to take the edge off. Then he'll get his shit together.

He wraps his hand around himself and the relief is immediate. He braces against the sink with his other hand, eyes closed, and all he can see is you. In that white bikini, in those videos on your knees, on your back, touching yourself while saying his username.

"Fuck," he breathes.

It doesn't take long. He comes hard, biting back a groan, and in the aftermath he just stands there, forehead against the mirror, trying to catch his breath.

This can't happen.

But he knows deep down it's going to.

When Bucky comes back, his hair is damp like he splashed water on his face, and his eyes are darker than before.

"Better?" you ask innocently.

"No."

The honesty in his voice makes you shiver. You're standing in the living room now, the evening light slanting through the windows. The house feels huge and empty, but also full of possibilities.

"Your parents will be back soon," he says again, but it sounds less convincing this time.

"Two hours at least," you take a step closer. "Maybe three."

"You should—" He stops, exhaling roughly. "You don't know what you're doing."

"Don't I?"

You close the distance between you, and you can see him fighting not to back up, not to run. You're close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him, to see the muscle jumping in his jaw.

"I see the way you look at me," you say softly. "I've seen it for months now."

His hands curl into fists. "You're my best friend's daughter."

"I'm also an adult."

"You have a boyfriend."

"Do you care?"

The question hangs between you. His eyes are locked on yours, and you can see the war happening behind them.

"I should," he says finally. "But no, I don't."

Your heart is pounding. "Then why are you holding back?"

"Because I'm trying to be the responsible one between us."

You reach up and untie your bikini top. It falls away, and his eyes drop immediately, his breathing going ragged.

"There's no need to be responsible here," you whisper.

And that's all it takes. His hands are on you in a second, pulling you against him, and his mouth crashes down on yours. It's not gentle—it's months of build up tension breaking all at once, desperate and overwhelming. You kiss him back just as frantically, fingers tangling in his hair.

"We should go upstairs," you murmur against his lips.

He takes you to your room, and the second the door closes,he's on you again. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your ribcage to cup your breasts. You're pulling at his shirt, desperate, and when it finally comes off you run your hands over his chest, his shoulders.

"I've wanted this for so long," he mutters, backing you toward the bed. "You have no fucking idea."

"Tell me," you breathe.

"Every time you walk into a room, every time you lean over in those little dresses, every time you brush against me—" He groans, his hand sliding into your hair. "I've thought about bending you over and making you mine."

"Do it."

He pushes you back onto the bed, and you land with a gasp. He's over you in a second, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his mouth on your neck.

"Do you know how perfect you are?" He murmurs against your skin. "How fucking gorgeous?"

His hands slide down to your shorts, and he makes quick work of the button and zipper. You lift your hips and he drags them off along with your bikini bottoms, and then you're completely bare beneath him.

"Christ," he breathes, his eyes raking over you. His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers finally touch you, he groans. "You're soaked."

"For you."

"Yeah?" He pushes one finger inside, and you arch into the touch. "All for me? Not for that little boyfriend of yours, huh?"

"Yes—fuck—Bucky—"

"That's it baby, say my name." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and you're already trembling. "Does that little punk makes you feel this good?"

You just can shake your head while he works you with his fingers, his thumb finding your clit, and you're already gasping and writhing beneath him. But before you can get too close, he pulls away.

"Not yet," he says, and there's something wicked in his smile. "I want to taste you first."

He moves down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip—right over that freckle that started all of this. Then he's settling between your thighs and the first touch of his tongue makes you cry out.

He eats you out like a man starving, his hands grip your hips, holding you in place as his tongue works over you, and the sounds he's making—low groans of appreciation, like you're the best thing he's ever tasted—are almost as overwhelming as the sensation itself.

"Bucky—oh my god—"

"That's it," he murmurs against you. "Let me hear you, gorgeous. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

You're already so close, the tension coiling tight in your belly, but then he pulls back. Before you can protest, he's moving up the bed, lying on his back.

"Come here," he says. "I want you to ride my face."

"But I can suffocate you!"

"Get up here, sweetheart, it wasn't a question."

The command in his voice makes you move without thinking. You straddle his chest, thighs shaking, and he grips your hips and pulls you forward until you're positioned right over his mouth.

"Perfect," he breathes, and then he's pulling you down.

The sensation is overwhelming. His tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking and fucking into you, and his hands on your hips are guiding you to grind against him. You're gasping, one hand braced on the headboard, and the other tangled in his hair.

"Fuck—Bucky—that's so good."

He groans against you, the vibration making you jolt, and his grip tightens. He's relentless, working you higher and higher until you're shaking, until you can't hold back anymore.

"I'm gonna—oh god—I'm—"

"Come for me," he growls against you. "Come all over my face, kitten."

The nickname hits you like a shock. Your eyes fly open, but before you can process it, your orgasm crashes over you. You come with a cry, hips rolling against his mouth as he works you through it, licking up everything you give him.

When you finally slump forward, trembling, he eases you off and you collapse next to him on the bed, your chest heaving.

"What—" you start, but your voice won't work. "Did you just—did you call me—"

He sits up, and when you see his face—lips swollen, chin wet—your stomach flips. "StarryKitten," he says, and his voice is pure gravel. "That's you, isn't it?"

Your heart stops. "How did you—"

"This freckle." He reaches out, thumb brushing over the spot on your hip. "I've seen it before, dozens of times, in your videos."

Oh god. "You're oldsoul17," you whisper.

"Yeah," he moves over you again. "I've been watching you for months, baby, touching myself to your videos. Tipping you, messaging you… and the whole time, it was you."

You should be embarrassed. Mortified even, but instead heat floods through you. "Bucky—"

"I've wanted you for so long," he mutters, his fingers rolling your nipple, making you arch into his touch. "Both versions of you. The girl who walks around here in those little dresses, teasing me. And the girl on my screen who makes the sweetest sounds when she comes."

His other hand finds your other breast, and he's playing with both now, watching your face as you writhe beneath him.

"I've watched you touch these," he says. "Watched you pinch and tease yourself. But I've always wanted to be the one doing it."

"Then do it," you breathe.

He leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and you cry out. His hand continues working the other, pinching and rolling, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. He switches sides, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, and you're already getting wet again. But you need to touch him too.

You push at his shoulders, and he pulls back, confused. "What—"

"My turn," you say, and push him onto his back.

"Baby—"

"You've watched me," you say, moving down his body. "Now let me show you what I can do in person."

You settle between his thighs, and up close, he's even more impressive. Hard and thick, already leaking. You wrap your hand around him, and the groan he lets out makes you clench.

"You don't have to do this—" he grits out, but his his jerk against your touch.

"I want to," you stroke him slowly, base to tip, and lean down to press a kiss to the head. "I want to taste you."

You take him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue, and his hand immediately tangles in your hair.

"That's it," he mutters. "Just like that."

You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and the sounds he's making are even better than you imagined. Low groans and muttered curses and your name over and over. You work him with your mouth and hand together, finding a rhythm, paying attention to what makes him grip your hair tighter, what makes his thighs tense. You pull off to lick along the underside, tracing the vein, and he nearly comes off the bed.

You take him deeper again, and his control starts to slip. His hips rock up slightly, and you relax your throat, letting him.

"Look at you," he groans, propping himself up on his elbows to watch. "So fucking perfect with your lips wrapped around me. I've imagined this, but nothing compares to the real thing."

You moan around him, and the vibration makes him curse. You can feel him getting close, his cock pulsing against your tongue, and you double your efforts.

"I'm close, you don't have to—"

But you want to. You want to taste him, feel him come apart because of you. You take him as deep as you can and swallow, and that's all it takes.

He comes with a shout, hips jerking, and you take everything he gives you. When you finally pull off, you look up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face is of someone absolutely wrecked.

"Come here," he growls.

You crawl up his body, and he pulls you into a filthy kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands are on your breasts again immediately, kneading and teasing, and you're so turned on you're trembling.

"I need you inside me," you whisper against his mouth. "Please, Bucky—"

"Greedy girl," he mutters, but he's already hardening again. "Want more already?"

"Always."

He flips you onto your back, settling between your thighs. His mouth finds your breast again, sucking and biting while his hand works the other. You're writhing beneath him, desperate for more.

"Bucky— fuck—I need—"

"I know, I know sweet girl."

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly and the stretch is perfect and overwhelming. You grip his shoulders, nails digging in, and he groans against your neck.

"You feel incredible," he grits out. "So tight and wet."

He starts to move, slow and deep, and every thrust makes your toes curl. His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep and filthy while he fucks you into the mattress. One hand is braced by your head, but the other finds your breast again, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

"You're so perfect," he mutters against your lips. "My good girl, taking me so well."

"Faster, please—"

He shifts the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You're gasping and moaning and he's talking you through it.

"That's it, baby. Let me hear you. Let me hear those sounds you make. I've heard them through my speakers for months, but this—" He thrusts harder, deeper. "This is so much better."

"Oh god— please—"

"You're close, aren't you? I can feel you getting tighter." He pinches your nipple again, and you cry out. "You gonna come for me, kitten? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl?"

"Yes—yes—Bucky"

"Come on, let me feel this perfect pussy squeeze me."

Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. You cry out, back arching, and he fucks you through it, his rhythm getting rougher, more desperate. The hand on your breast slides down to grip your hip, fingers pressing into that freckle that gave you away.

"You're so fucking perfect when you come." He mutters before burying himself deep and groaning your name as he comes, and the feeling of him spilling inside you sends another wave of pleasure through you.

After, you're tangled together in the sheets, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back. Your breasts are pressed against his chest, still sensitive from all the attention, and every time you shift you feel the pleasant ache.

"Your parents," he says eventually. "They'll be back soon."

"I know."

"This is insane."

"I know."

He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. "I'm not done with you yet."

Your stomach flips. "Good."

"This isn't a one-time thing," he says, and there's something fierce in his voice. "Now that I have you, I'm not letting you go."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're mine now." His hands slides from your breast down to your hip, over your freckle. "Secret. No one else gets to know. Not your boyfriend, not your parents…"

You should feel guilty. Your boyfriend, your parents, the risk. But all you feel is a thrill running through you.

"Okay," you whisper.

He kisses you again, slower this time. You can feel him hardening against your thigh again.

"Again?"

"I've waited months for this," he says before rolling you onto your back. "I'm not wasting a single second."

And he doesn't.

By the time you hear your parents' car I the driveway two hours later, you've come three more times, and you can barely walk straight. But you both know this is just the beginning.

Bucky had been gone for three days.

Three days of back-to-back meetings overseas, constant phone calls, time zone differences, and barely a moment to breathe, let alone talk to you.

You weren't supposed to miss him this much. He was your dad's best friend. His business partner. His co-CEO. The man you were never supposed to be involved with. But that hadn't stopped you from falling into bed with—let alone falling for entirely.

But you had. A long time ago.

Monday — 8:47 PM

The office building was dark and quiet after hours. You slipped inside Bucky's office like you had done so many times before, only this time, he wasn't there waiting like he usually would.

The scent of his cologne lingered in the room—musky, expensive, familiar, and so delicious, making the ache between your thighs worse.

You flicked on the desk lamp, bathing your scene, the mahogany surface, in a soft glow. With trembling fingers, you propped your phone, framing the shot—making sure it caught the desk and you. The phone caught your reflection: hair done, lips glossed, tight black skirt hugging your curves, and heels on.

You looked like temptation, and it would drive Bucky insane.

Your heart thudded against your chest as you reached into your purse and pulled out the small metal toy he had left you, the weight cool and heavy in your palm.

You swallowed the nervous flutter in your chest and hit the call button. The phone barely rang once before his voice came through.

"Miss me already, doll?"

You bit your bottom lip, cheeks warming at the sound of him, knees nearly giving out.

"More than I should," you murmured, already breathless.

"You in my office?" he hummed, the smirk evident in his tone. He already knew the answer. He had cameras in the building and in the room. Of course he knew.

"Just me, your desk," you purred, slow and sultry, "and the butt plug you gave me."

A harsh, guttural groan tore through the line, making your knees buckle again. "Fuck. Turn the camera on. Now."

Not a request. A demand.

You turned it on, making sure it captured the desk, and then slowly you stepped into view, hips swaying, your ass tight in the skirt he loved.

"You gonna be good for me tonight?" he murmured, voice thick and possessive. "Or are you gonna be my filthy girl?"

You glanced over your shoulder at the camera, lips curled into a smirk.

"Why can't I be both?"

That earned you a low, dark, and dangerous laugh. "Show me."

You kicked off your heels and slowly peeled off the skirt with teasing slowness, giving him a show, revealing a lace thong that barely covered anything, earning a deep growl on the other end.

"Look at you, baby," he rasped. "Fuck, look at that ass."

You gave it a little shake, earning another growl, before sliding your panties down and crawling onto the desk on all fours. Your elbows rested on the cool surface. Back arched, ass high.

You spread your legs a little wider, letting the glow from the lamp catch the glistening between your thighs, both your holes on display for Bucky. Your body ripe and aching for his touch. You could feel your heartbeat pulsing between your legs, pounding against your chest.

You reached down and teased your clit in slow, tight circles, making Bucky's breath catch.

"That's my girl," he rasped, hot and ragged. "Just look at that fucking view. Your sweet little pussy dripping for me, and that tight ass... fuck, baby. All for me. All mine."

Your fingers reached for the plug, slicking it through your folds, coating it in your arousal, before guiding it to your tight rim. You gasped at the cold kiss of metal, breath shaking as you slowly pushed it in until the plug stretched you open and filled you completely.

Bucky witnessed it all—the tremble of your hips, thighs quivering, the glistening pooling where you needed him the most.

You imagined him on the other end—eyes dark with need, jaw clenched, palming himself over his trousers as he watched you give yourself over to the pleasure on his desk. And the worst part? He wasn't here. He couldn't touch you.

"I feel so full, Bucky," you whispered, rolling your hips in slow, needy circles while teasing your clit.

"Yeah?" His voice was wrecked. "Fuck, baby. I know you're making that fucked-out expression I love. You always do when I've got you stuffed like that. Ass full with my cock as I tease your clit."

You whimpered, rolling your hips more firmly to feel the plug press deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, your orgasm threatening at the edges.

"I wish you were here, Bucky," you panted. "I wish you were here to fuck me through it."

"Trust me, princess," he said, voice tight, "when I get back, I'm wrecking that pussy, and ass. You won't be able to sit properly for days when I'm done with you."

"I'll let you ruin me on your desk," you whispered, playing with your clit, fingers teasing your entrance. "Bend me over and use me."

His growl was pure sin. "Oh, I will." He promised. "I'm gonna fuck both your holes until you forget your name."

You moaned, pussy clenched around nothing, yearning for his dick inside you, filling you, completing you.

"Tell me what you want, doll," he demanded. "Talk to me while you fuck yourself on my desk."

You plunged two fingers deep in your pussy, curving them like Bucky would. Your vision blurred with heat and need as you moaned at the fullness.

"Fuck," you whimpered. "I-I want your mouth all over me... I want your fingers inside me, your tongue on my clit... I w-want you to choke me while you fuck me deep and hard... Bucky, please."

"You're such a filthy girl for me," he rasped into the phone, groaning. "Jesus fuck."

You glanced over your shoulder at the camera, eyes hooded, fingers deep in your pussy, butt-plug stretching your ass. "Only for you, Bucky."

You pulled out, rubbing slow, teasing circles on your clit as your hips rocked back and forth, the plug hitting the perfect spot inside you.

"F-fuck," you gasped, plunging your fingers deep again and curling them. "I-I'm gonna come..." Your voice was almost a sob now.

"Don't you dare," he cut in, rough and commanding. "Not until I say so."

You whimpered, the need for release clawing at your insides, making your back arch. "Please, Bucky. I need it, I need you..."

"Tell me what you'll do when I get home," he demanded, voice firm. "Tell me how you'll make it up to me for being such a bad girl and teasing me like this. Then, I'll let you come."

"I'll let you bend me over and fuck me raw, stretch me open, make me come until I can't speak... then I'll get on my knees and suck your cock until you're shaking..."

His breath hitched. "You're gonna be the fucking death of me. Jesus fuck," he groaned.

Your fingers moved faster, desperate, pressure building fast. "Please... let me... please, let me come, Bucky. Please..." you whimpered, clenching around your fingers.

A beat of silence, making you teeter on the edge of bliss. Then:

"Come for me, doll. Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart."

And you did. Hard.

You cried in bliss. Your body shook as the orgasm ripped through you—back arched, thighs trembling, pussy clenching around your fingers while the plug held firm and deep. Your mouth dropped open, the moan long and broken in the empty office, hips bucking against the pressure.

"Fuck," Bucky groaned heavily. "You're so fucking perfect, baby."

You collapsed onto the desk, cheek pressed against the cool surface, heart racing, breath ragged.

"You better hurry home soon, Bucky."

"You better be waiting for me like that," he uttered." Legs spread, plug in, pussy wet and ready for my cock."

You smiled to yourself, slow and wicked. "I'll be here..."

Thursday — 8:07 AM

Your heels clicked sharply against the marble floor, nerves buzzing beneath your skin as you crossed the familiar lobby of your father's company. Polished tile, towering glass. All the same as yesterday.

But today it felt different.

Off.

You hadn't slept.

Not really.

Not after last night. Not after what you did in Bucky's office, bent over his desk, ass in the air, moaning his name into the silence while he watched from thousands of miles away.

You could still feel the weight of the plug inside you. The ache between your legs. The rasp of his voice through the phone as you came for him.

He wasn't supposed to be back yet.

Two more nights. Two more days of pretending your skin didn't burn when your dad said his name. Two more days of pretending you weren't so far gone for the man you were never supposed to touch.

But when the elevator doors opened, your body froze.

There he was.

Bucky Barnes.

In the flesh.

Standing beside your father, calm and composed in a tailored suit that hugged his broad chest, perfectly pressed as though he hadn't just spent hours on a plane.

His expression was unreadable, smooth and professional, but his eyes?

His eyes were on you.

Your pulse skipped, and you almost choked on your breath. He wasn't supposed to be back yet. And he sure as hell wasn't supposed to be looking at you like that. Like he was already imagining what he's going to do to you once he gets you all alone.

You forced your legs to move, stepping into the elevator between them, trying to keep it casual, but your heart was racing.

"Morning, sweetheart," your dad said, barely glancing from his phone, distracted. "Bucky surprised us. Landed early and came straight here."

Your gaze flicked to him.

Bucky met your eyes, calm and cool, but behind that exterior was fire. Possession. Hunger. Amusement.

His jaw ticked as his gaze dropped to your lips, then lower, to the fitted skirt you wore.

"Couldn't stay away," he said, voice smooth and rich. "Business here needed my attention."

Bullshit.

You knew exactly why he came back.

And judging by the heat in his eyes, you were the reason.

5:26 PM

You had barely made it halfway across the quiet office floor after hours when a firm grip wrapped around your wrist—Bucky. He didn't say a thing as he walked to his office, pushing you inside.

"Bucky—" you started, but your breath was stolen when he pressed your back against his office door, one hand gripping your jaw while the other slid around your waist, pulling you flush to him.

He kissed you hard, all tongue and heat. It was messy, desperate, teeth grazing lips, tongue sliding into your mouth like he couldn't get enough. Everything about it—the pressure, the scent of his cologne, the scrape of stubble against your skin—made you head spin and knees go weak.

"You think I was gonna sit through another fucking night without touching you after your little show for me?" he growled against your mouth. "That tight little skirt. That fucking temptress body of yours. Bent over my desk. Playing with that plug. Touching yourself in my office. Calling my name like that..."

You whimpered, clutching his suit jacket as he lifted your thigh up against his hip.

"I wanted you to see," you whispered, voice shaky. "Needed you to know how much I missed you. How much I needed you."

His mouth found your neck, licking and biting the same spot he always claimed when he needed to remind you who exactly you belonged to.

"You think I didn't watch that shit on repeat the second you hung up. You think I didn't jerk off in the hotel bathroom like a fucking animal because I couldn't wait to get back to you?"

You moaned at his words. "Please," you gasped, "need you, Bucky."

"Fuck, need you naked," he muttered, tugging at your blouse buttons, undoing them with impatient fingers until the fabric slipped from your shoulders.

You let it fall.

His eyes dragged down your body, devouring every inch like he hadn't already seen it a thousand times.

"So fucking gorgeous," he growled under his breath as his hands slid around your back, undoing your bra with ease before tossing it aside.

His mouth was on your chest before you could speak, kissing, sucking, biting your breasts like he was trying to mark every inch of you.

You gasped as he licked across your nipple and tugged it between his teeth, while his hands worked on pulling your skirt down your hips.

You stepped out of it with trembling legs, now standing almost naked in his office, back pressed against his door.

"Been thinking about this body for three fucking days," he muttered, eyes drinking you in. "Thought about your little hole stretching around my cock. Thought about you dripping down your thighs just like you were last night on the phone."

He pushed your panties aside and slipped two fingers inside without warning. You clenched around him, body already close from the teasing tension built all day.

"So tight, baby doll," he groaned. "You wet like this all day thinking about me?"

You nodded, barely able to breathe.

He withdrew his fingers and shoved them into your mouth. "Taste yourself. Taste how ready you are for me."

You sucked on them greedily, eyes wide, throat bobbing.

"Lock the door and then get on my desk," he ordered as he started to undress and walk backwards.

You did as told, heart racing, hands trembling. As soon as the lock clicked, you scrambled to him, and he was on you again: jacket off, shirt half-open, belt unbuckled.

His mouth found yours with an urgency that made your whole body ache. He lifted you effortlessly onto the edge of his desk. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging him closer, and he stepped between your legs like he never left—like he hadn't been halfway across the world just this morning. You moaned softly as his hands slid up your thighs.

"Missed this," he whispered, kissing along your collarbone. "Missed you."

Your eyes fluttered closed when his lips brushed over your nipple. But just as he was about to claim your body—

His phone rang.

He groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder with a sound that was nearly a growl. "Fucking hell."

You giggled, breathlessly. "Ignore it."

"I can't." His voice was thick with annoyance as he fished it out of his pocket and checked the screen.

Your dad.

Bucky pressed the answer button and lifted the phone to his ear, but he didn't move away from you. If anything, he slid his hand higher on your thigh, fingers brushing where you needed him the most. He was playing a dangerous game.

"Hey," he said, voice impressively calm.

You couldn't help yourself in playing a dangerous game as well. You leaned forward, brushing your lips along his neck, your teeth nipping gently at his jaw.

His hand squeezed your thigh in warning.

"No, I'm still at the office," he said casually, clearing his throat. "Yeah, figured I'd knock out a few things before heading home."

You ran your fingers down his chest, slow and light, until you reached the bulge in his pants.

He didn't flinch, but the muscles in his jaw ticked as you palmed him through it.

"Uh-huh... no, I've got that handled. I'll send it over tonight." His voice stayed smooth, but his free hand was gripping your thigh so tightly now, you were sure it would leave marks.

You mouthed you're so good at lying, then bit your lip.

He shook his head slightly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Thanks. Yeah, I'll catch you in the morning."

He hung up. The second the call ended, he tossed the phone to the side.

He grabbed your chin and kissed you again, slower, deeper. All tongue and heat.

"You fucking tease. So desperate for me even when I'm on the phone with your father. You have no idea what I'm about to do to you."

"Show me."

He dropped you to the floor and then turned you around. Bending you over his desk and spreading your legs, discarding your panties with urgency.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he dropped to his knees behind you. You gasped and arms buckled slightly against the desk when you felt the hot drag of his tongue along your folds—one slow, deliberate lick from your clit to your entrance.

"So sweet, baby," he murmured, breath brushing over your wetness. "Been thinking about this pussy ever since you hung up last night."

"Bucky—" you moaned, words dying on your tongue as his mouth returned to you, hungrier now, relentless.

His tongue flattened and licked you open, tasting every drop like it was the last thing he would ever eat, savouring you.

His groan vibrated against your clit, making your thighs tremble. He gripped your hips harder, pulling you back onto his face, burying himself deeper.

"God, baby," he growled into your pussy, "you're soaking for me. You taste so fucking good. I missed this pussy. Mine. All fucking mine."

You whimpered, nodding, forehead pressed against the cool surface of the desk. "Yours, Bucky. All yours."

He hummed in satisfaction and zeroed in on your clit, tongue flicking fast, purposeful strokes before switching to slow, lazy circles that had you gasping. He sucked your clit between his lips, drawing tight, wet pulls that made your eyes roll back into your skull.

"F-fuck," you cried, voice cracking, pushing your hips back against his face. "Bucky, please. Please don't stop."

He didn't. He latched on tighter and fucked you with his mouth like he was trying to pull the orgasm straight from your soul. Every lick, every suck sent sparks down your spine, and it was hitting you fast.

"You gonna come on my tongue, doll?" he rasped, voice low and filthy as he thrust his tongue into your dripping entrance, fucking you shallowly before sucking your clit again. "Come on. Let me taste it."

"Oh my God! Bucky—"

Your whole body tightened as the heat coiled up, higher and higher until it finally snapped. You came with a cry, thighs shaking, your fingers clawing at the edge of the desk as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

"That's it," he growled against your pussy, licking you through it, mouth wet and messy as he devoured your orgasm like he had been starving for it. "That's my good fucking girl."

You were panting hard, your wetness dripping down your thighs as he pulled back with one last soft lick.

When he stood, his chin was glistening, lips swollen, eyes dark and wild.

"Good girl," he rasped, running his palm over your ass before giving it a sharp slap. You yelped—the sting delicious.

He undid his pants and lined up behind you, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, teasing your entrance, making your thighs tremble at the sensitivity.

"You ready for me, baby?" he asked, low and rough.

"Yes, sir," you moaned, the title falling off your tongue without a second thought.

He groaned and slammed into you in one deep thrust, your back arching as your mouth fell open in a wordless scream.

Full. Finally full. His cock stretching you to the brink.

Bucky fucked you like he meant it. No teasing. No holding back. Just brutal, perfect strokes that made the table creak and your voice break.

"Mine," he grunted, fingers digging into your hips. "This pussy. This body. All fucking mine."

His hips snapped forward again, burying himself to the hilt as your nails clawed at the slick surface of the desk for something to hold onto. His cock dragged along your walls, thick and perfect, hitting that spot that made you see stars every time.

"Fuck, Bucky," you gasped, voice cracking as you pushed back to meet his punishing thrusts, desperate for more. "You feel so good... I needed this," you cried.

"I know you did," he growled behind you, one hand sliding up your spine before fisting in your hair and yanking your head back just enough to make your breath catch. "You wanted to tease me? Rile me up? Play with that plug and tight little pussy? Make me watch?"

You whimpered. Part guilty, and part turned the fuck on.

His free hand landed a sharp smack to your ass. "Answer me."

"Yes! Yes, sir," you gasped.

"Goddamn right you did. I fucking knew what you were doing. Bent over my desk like a perfect little slut, showing me both of your tight holes. You wanted me to wreck you when I came back, didn't you?"

"Yes. Yes, Bucky. I wanted to drive you crazy."

"You did, princess."

He pulled out almost all the way before slamming back in again. The slap of skin on skin was loud and filthy in his quiet office. Your body jolted with every thrust, tits bouncing with each powerful roll of his hips.

You were a mess, drooling, moaning, back arched so deep your spine ached. But Bucky didn't slow down. If anything, he went harder. Rough, claiming strokes that sent shockwaves of pleasure up your spine.

"Tell me whose pussy this is," he snarled, fucking you deep, his grip bruising on your hips.

"Yours," you sobbed. "It's yours, Bucky. Always yours."

"Say it again," he growled, smacking your ass.

"Yours! All yours, Bucky. Fuck!"

"Good fucking girl."

He bent down, chest to your back, his mouth hot and dangerous against your ear. "You're gonna be leaking me all night and day, baby. Every time you sit down tomorrow at a meeting, you'll feel me dripping out of you. Just like I fucking want."

A helpless moan fell from your lips, your body trembling under him, every word sinking deep and making your pussy clench around his cock like it never wanted to let go.

Your whole body was shaking now, legs starting to give out as the pleasure built hard and fast in your core.

"B-Bucky," your voice was weak, wrecked. "I-I'm gonna—"

He didn't let up for a second, hips thrusting into you, each stroke deeper than the last. His hand slid around your waist, pressing flat against your belly to anchor you in place, to feel how deep he was inside you.

"Yeah?" he panted, teeth gritted. "You gonna come for me, babydoll?"

You nodded frantically, tears stinging at your lashes. "I can't... fuck! I can't hold it!"

"Yes, you can," he growled, voice pure sin against your ear. "You're my good girl. You take this cock so fucking well."

His hand dropped lower, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing rough, messy circles while he kept slamming into you from behind. The overwhelming sensation shattered through you like lightning.

"Come for me, doll. Come on this cock. Let go. I need to feel it."

And that was all it took.

Your scream cracked in your throat as the orgasm ripped through you—legs shaking, eyes rolling back, mouth dropped open in a silent cry of bliss. You came around him hard, clenching down so tight on him that Bucky let out a strangled fuck as he chased his own release.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck!"

You were shaking, twitching, wrecked, and still, he didn't stop. His hips pushed into you with punishing force, dragging your sensitive pussy into overstimulation.

"Fuuuuck," he dragged out. "Shit, baby," he grit through clenched teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. "You're gonna make me come."

You whimpered something under your breath, body spent beneath him, helpless to do anything but take it.

"Keep squeezing me like that. Fuck, good girl," he snarled, his voice breaking on a groan. "You want my cum, don't you? Want me to fill up this pretty pussy?"

"Yes," you sobbed. "Please, please, Bucky. I want it, want all of it—"

With a loud, guttural moan, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, cock pulsing deep inside you. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you still as thick, hot ropes of his release filled you up and dripped down your thighs. The heat of it made you shiver.

"Fucking hell," he rasped, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, completely wrecked. "You're perfect, baby. You're fucking perfect."

His breath stuttered against your back. Neither of you moved, both too ruined to do anything but pant in silence.

He slowly softened inside you but stayed buried deep, like he couldn't bear to pull away. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine, feel the way his hands softened where they gripped your waist.

And then he kissed your shoulder softly. Like an apology for how hard he had just ruined you.

You both stayed like that for a moment, tangled in sweat and panting breaths. His heartbeat thudded heavy against your back as his cock twitched inside you, still buried deep, still claiming you.

But you weren't done.

With a wicked little smirk tugging at your lips, you shifted beneath him, and Bucky groaned as he slipped out of you. You turned, ass resting on the edge of the desk, your fingers stroking down his abs, feeling the way his muscles jumped under your touch.

"You came so hard," you whispered, licking your lips as your hand wrapped around his softening cock. "Bet I can make you do it again."

"Fuck, doll," he muttered, voice gravelled and thick, "you're gonna kill me."

You smiled sweetly and then dropped to your knees.

He sat back in his chair, muscles tense, arms hanging heavy over the armrests as you crawled between his spread legs. You kissed along his inner thigh, slow and teasing, making him groan, before wrapping your lips around the head of his cock. He was still slick from fucking you, salty and warm, and you moaned at the taste of both of you together.

"Jesus fuck," he hissed through clenched teeth, head tipping back.

You took him into your mouth slowly, wet and warm, letting your spit drip down his shaft as your tongue swirled around his tip. He was already hardening under your touch.

You sucked him deeper, letting your throat relax as you took more and more, until your nose was brushing the trimmed hair at his base. You gagged softly around him, tears prickling the corners of your eyes, and he growled low in his chest.

"God, look at you," he groaned, fisting your hair. Not pulling, just holding. "Taking my cock like a good fucking girl."

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, watery and blown wide with lust. His cock throbbed on your tongue as you bobbed your head, the room echoing with lewd, wet sounds—messy, filthy, and perfect. Your spit coated his shaft, dribbling down your chin, strings of it connecting your lips to his cock every time you pulled back and dove back in. His thighs trembled under your palms as you gripped them for balance.

"Shit, doll... just like that... fuck, baby..."

You sucked harder, letting your tongue drag up the underside of his cock with each stroke, tracing his thick vein. One of your hands moved to cup his balls, rolling them gently as he bucked his hips up, chasing the wet heat of your mouth.

"Gonna come," he warned, voice tight and strained. "Wanna come down that tight, pretty throat."

You moaned around him in approval, humming low and greedy against his cock, and that was all it took.

"Fuck, baby! Shit. Take it. Take it like a good fucking girl."

Hot salty ropes of his release spilled into your mouth, and you swallowed every drop, eyes fluttering shut as he groaned your name—loud, rough, ruined.

He twitched as you kept sucking, coaxing every last bit of his cum from him. Only when he hissed from the oversensitivity did you finally pull off, licking your lips, spit and slick glistening on your chin.

You wiped it away with the back of your hand, looking up at him with that soft, fucked-out smile he adored. You barely had time to catch your breath before Bucky was on you again, devouring you with his eyes.

Still panting, still wrecked. He was not done with you yet.

He reached down and grabbed your arm, pulling you gently but firmly to your feet. You barely had a moment to react before he lifted you with ease and placed you back onto the desk, right where he'd had you earlier. Only this time he didn't turn you around.

"You think I'm gonna let this pretty pussy go without one more taste?" he rasped, voice low, dark, and absolutely feral.

Your breath caught in your throat as he spread your legs wide, fingers digging into your thighs, pushing them up and back until your knees were nearly against your chest. You gasped as the angle bared you completely to him. He looked down at your tight rim and glistening pussy—still, swollen, still dripping, still twitching from everything he had done to you.

"Look at this fucking view," he groaned, tongue swiping over his bottom lip as he spread your pussy with his thumbs. "You're a mess, doll. My mess. That's what fucking heaven looks like," he muttered, and dropped to his knees.

The second his tongue touched you, you moaned—loud and helpless. Your body jolted at the sensation, still so sensitive but craving more. You always craved more with Bucky.

His mouth was slow at first, lapping gently at the slick and mess between your folds, tongue parting you and dipping into your entrance before dragging up to your clit, sucking just enough to make your hips jerk.

"So good, baby," he murmured against you, eyes flicking up to watch the way your head fell back. "My gorgeous girl. Mine."

You reached for the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white as he buried his face in you. He sucked your clit, hard, tongue flattening and circling, his groan vibrating through your core. The wet, obscene sound of his mouth on you echoed in the office, and it was fucking perfect.

"Bucky! Oh my God..."

You gasped as he lifted your legs just a little higher, spreading you wider. His fingers gripped your thighs hard, and you felt his tongue drift lower, licking through your arousal, tracing wet circles and open-mouthed kisses further down until he hovered just over your other hole.

Your breath caught.

"Bucky—"

"Shh, baby," he murmured, spreading your cheeks a little wider. "I just wanna taste all of you," he growled, voice thick and ruined.

You whimpered as his tongue dragged between your cheeks, slow and dirty, licking your tight little hole with just enough pressure to make your head spin.

"Fuck! Fuck, Bucky!"

He moaned against you like he was starved for your ass, like this was his reward for every second he had been away. Wet, greedy circles around your rim, teasing and filthy, while one hand moved back up between your thighs to rub your clit in slow, lazy circles.

"Such a perfect fucking ass. Next time I'm fucking it hard," he muttered, biting the soft curve before diving his tongue back in between your cheeks.

You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe as he alternated between your pussy and ass, licking and sucking, tasting everything. Your body trembled under the attention, toes curling, thighs quivering as he moved back to your clit, lips wrapping around, needing you to fall apart on his tongue.

"B-Bucky—fuck! I-I'm gonna—"

"Yeah? You gonna come? You gonna give me one more, baby?" he asked, voice wrecked and full of hunger. "Wanna feel you come all over my face, doll. Just one more."

"Yes!" you cried, arching into him. "Please, don't stop! Don't stop—"

He didn't.

His tongue moved fast, relentless, and when he slipped two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you were overwhelmed by sensation. You tried to close your legs, but he growled and slapped them open. "Take it, baby," he said roughly. "Give it to me. Right now on my fucking tongue."

And you did.

You shattered, again. Your back bowed, mouth open in a silent cry as your orgasm ripped through you. Your thighs shook around his head, and still, he didn't stop, making you sob.

He licked you through it like a man possessed, tongue, finger,s and lips dragging out your release until you were gasping and trembling, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

When he finally pulled back, his chin was slick with your release, his lips swollen from his actions, and his eyes feral with satisfaction.

He pressed one soft kiss to your trembling thigh before he stood and leaned over you, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach... then your breasts... then your mouth.

You tasted yourself on his tongue, and it made you moan into the kiss.

"You okay, doll?" he murmured, brushing hair from your face, his voice a little smug, but also soft and tender.

You nodded, breathless, eyes heavy-lidded. "Better than okay," you breathed out. "That was... fuck... amazing."

He chuckled softly, pressing one last soft kiss to your lips before he helped you down, tugging you into his lap as he dropped into his chair. His arms wrapped around you, your cheek pressed against his chest, his heart beating hard beneath your ear.

6:24 PM

You were curled up on Bucky's lap in the leather chair behind his desk, your body completely spent. His dress shirt hung over your shoulders like a makeshift blanket. It smelled like him—delicious and expensive—and it made you feel safe.

He had one arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you snug against his chest, and the other hand gently stroked your hair.

His lips pressed to your temple in a kiss so soft it made your breath catch.

"Next time," he murmured against your skin, voice dark and warm, dangerous in the way that made your toes curl, "you film yourself in my office, I expect to be in it."

You giggled softly and tilted your face up to look at him. "Yes, sir."

He smirked, eyes dark, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. "Not just watching. In it. Balls deep. Hands around your throat. You moaning my name like it's the only word you know."

Heat fluttered between your legs again, even though your body had already been pushed past its limit.

"You're insatiable," you whispered with a grin.

"And you're mine," he simply replied. "So yeah, I get greedy."

You leaned into his chest again, cheek against his skin, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. His hand slipped under the hem of the shirt, rubbing gentle circles into your bare thigh. Not with lust this time, but with something softer—protective and grounding.

"I missed you," you said quietly, almost to yourself. "I feel empty without you by my side."

Bucky's hand stilled for a second, then curled tighter around your leg.

"I missed you too, doll." He kissed the crown of your head. "And now that I'm home... I'm not letting you out of my sight."

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. Whatever happened tomorrow—in the office, with your dad, with the secrets you still had to keep—none of it mattered right now. Not here. Not with Bucky holding you like this.

Because for tonight, you were exactly where you belonged.

Thank you for reading 🖤 Feedback through a comment is highly appreciated! Or let me know through an anonymous ask if that feels more comfortable. As well as a reblog to share my work with other people! I would really appreciate it 🖤

Frowning, he flicked on the light.

Empty. You weren’t home.

He paused, glancing around the room. You hadn’t even told him you were leaving? He’d wanted to ask what you wanted for dinner.

“Hm,” he hummed. “Guess she can starve.”

With a sigh, he reached for the switch again, then stopped.

A thought crossed his mind. A bad one.

No. Creepy. Weird. He absolutely shouldn’t.

...But it was tempting.

Bucky had always enjoyed snooping around. Ever since he was younger, there’d been something thrilling about poking through things that weren’t his. The secrecy of it. The rush.

Quietly, he began looking around.

His sharp eyes drifted over everything—from the worn leather diary sitting on your desk to the pile of clothes tossed lazily into your laundry basket. Your room smelled faintly like strawberry perfume, sweet and familiar.

Then he opened one of your drawers, qnd froze. A slow grin spread across his face.

“Well, damn, girlie.”

A rough laugh slipped from his throat as he picked up the small pink object hidden beneath a shirt.

A vibrator.

He turned it over in his hand, thumb brushing over the button before pressing it. The toy buzzed softly to life, making Bucky raise an eyebrow.

“Well, ain’t that interesting.” Chuckling under his breath, he switched it off and slipped it into his pocket.

Oh, he was absolutely going to tease you about this.

Two hours later, you got home. Fucking finally. The microwave clock glowed 9:34 PM.

You’d been over at your friend Kesha’s house all evening, and exhaustion clouded your mind as you shrugged off your jacket by the door. You kicked off your shoes, dusting them absentmindedly before heading into the kitchen for something to drink. You didn’t notice Bucky standing there in the dark until you turned around.

“Oh my god—!”

You jumped so hard you nearly slammed into the counter.

“Jesus Christ, James!” you hissed, pressing a hand to your chest. “I didn’t know you were still up.”

He only grinned, the bastard.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” His voice came low and lazy as he stepped closer, resting his hands on the counter on either side of your hips, trapping you between his arms. You rolled your eyes immediately.

“Move.”

“Where’ve you been so long, hm?” His gaze dragged over your face as he wet his lips slowly.

And annoyingly enough, his eyes looked unfairly pretty tonight. that sharp blue somehow softer in the dark kitchen light.

“Be glad I didn’t tell your daddy.”

“Okay, first of all, I have a life, and second of all, it’s none of your busi—”

“Don’t sass me.”

The words came out rough. Your breath caught slightly as he leaned in closer, his face only inches from yours now. Heat curled in your stomach despite yourself. You instinctively leaned back against the counter.

“Should I call your daddy and tell him you’re being a bad girl?” You stared at him in disbelief.

“Have you actually lost your mind?”

“Maybe.”

Before you could respond, his fingers suddenly pinched your cheeks together, forcing your lips into a mean pout.

“Are you always this bratty?” You glared at him.

The kitchen fell quiet after that. Thick, tense silence stretching between you both.

“Leave me alone,” you muttered, but he didn’t move.

“...Are you?” he asked softly, stepping even closer. Your stomach twisted. With an annoyed huff, you shoved a hand against his chest and pushed him back just enough to slip away.

“You are such a perv, James.” You stormed off toward your room.

Behind you, Bucky only smirked.

You feel like crying. Seriously—this man can go fuck himself.

The dull rhythm of the headboard slamming against the wall bleeds through the entire house, each thud sinking straight into your skull from the guest room beside yours. Tonight was supposed to be quiet. Cozy. Tea warm between your hands, a blanket over your legs, maybe a book you’d end up rereading for the fifth time.

Instead, you’re listening to a audio book.

Because apparently Bucky couldn’t take her back to his own damn place. Oh Right! Its fucking infested.

You don’t even know if it’s the same girl from last week. Judging by the sounds slipping through the wall, probably not. This one’s softer. Needier.

A miserable groan leaves you as you mash two pillows over your ears, squeezing your eyes shut. It barely helps.

God. Seriously?

Then his voice cuts through the noise. Low. Rough. Warm.

Praise. Your eyes snap open.

Huh.

You definitely didn’t take him for the praising type.

Heat creeps up your neck before you can stop it. Mortified by your own curiosity, you slowly loosen your grip on the pillows, listening harder. The words are still too muffled to make out properly.

You swallow.

Then, against every better judgment you possess, you slide out of bed and creep toward the door.

The floor feels cold beneath your feet. The hallway is darker than it should be, lit only by the faint strip of yellow beneath his door. Another breath catches in your throat when you press your ear carefully against the wood.

The sounds on the other side make your lower lip slip between your teeth. A shaky exhale leaves you before you can stop it.

"c'mon, baby- touch yourself f'me....thaaats a good girl-"

Jesus Christ.

He’s filthy.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been standing there listening until the noises suddenly stop.

Silence. Your eyes widen.

“Oh no. No, no, no—”

Panic floods through you as footsteps approach the door. You practically sprint back to your room, heart hammering against your ribs just as his bedroom door creaks open. You peek your head out from behind the doorway in time to see him wandering toward the kitchen.

And-

God.

He looks unfairly good. Shirtless, flushed, sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. A faint trail of hair disappears beneath the waistband, stretching up his chest. You almost short-circuit at the sight alone.

He never wears sweatpants. Usually it’s those stupid jeans he refuses to part with. His cheeks are still red, hair messy and damp like someone had spent the last hour tugging at it. The image alone makes your stomach twist in ways you absolutely refuse to think about too hard. You can’t help imagining what happened in that room to leave him looking like that.

Heat rushes to your face immediately after.

Idiot.

Quietly, you tiptoe after him, watching from the hallway as he opens the fridge and leans down to look inside. You’re usually a very good stalker. Unfortunately, fate seems personally offended by you tonight. Your foot catches on a loose cable. And suddenly-

You’re falling.

Hard.

You hit the wooden floor face-first with a painful thud directly beside him. Shame instantly burns through your entire body.

Oh my God. Omg. Omg. Omg.

“Could I be any more embarrassing?”

The thought loops in your head as you swallow hard and slowly lift your gaze. He’s standing there, leaning casually against the fridge like he owns the place, eyes dropping to you with a raised brow. Then-of course-that infuriating grin spreads across his face.

“Don’t laugh, idiot! I tripped!” you blurt, pushing yourself up with a wince. Your knee flares in protest the second you straighten, but you force it down, biting back the pain.

His smirk only deepens. “Are you spying on me?”

You huff, crossing your arms even though your face is still burning. “No. I just— I came to complain about the noise. I’d like to sleep sometime tonight.”

“Tch.” He leans back against the counter, amused. “You’re just jealous you’re not the one making that noise.”

“Yeah. Of course,” you scoff immediately. “That’s exactly it.” Sarcasm drips off the words as you turn to leave. “Just… keep it down, idiot.” You barely take a step before his hand catches your shirt.

Inn one smooth motion, he pulls you back—pressing you against the counter.Your breath stumbles.

He’s right behind you now. Too close. Warm. Unmoving And you feel it more than you see it. His voice drops, quieter now.

“...Are you jealous?”

A shiver runs through you before you can stop it.

You swallow, forcing your hand to brace against the counter as if that alone can steady you

“...Tch. No,” you manage, though your voice wavers anyway. He doesn’t move away. Instead, he steps closer. Too close.

His presence presses in behind you, warm and overwhelming, and your breath catches before you can stop it. A beat of silence stretches between you—heavy, charged, impossible to ignore.

“Bucky…” you warn softly, though it lacks any real strength. That only makes his smirk sharper. He leans in just enough that you feel his breath near your skin, close enough to make your thoughts scatter. Then he pauses-like he’s deciding something-before easing back again, leaving the space between you suddenly cold.

You turn on him immediately, frustration flaring to cover whatever just happened.

“I hate you,” you mutter, glaring up at him. But your face betrays you completely. He notices. Of course he does.

That pleased expression settles on his face, like he’s already won something you didn’t agree to lose.

“I’d keep going,” he says lightly, like it’s nothing at all, “but I’ve got somewhere else to be.”

A beat.

Then that mocking little shrug.

And just like that, he steps away-leaving you there in the kitchen, heart loud in your ears, anger and something worse tangled together in your chest.

This is stupid. His best friends daughter? Seriously? Yeah, he tries to remind himself that this is wrong, disgusting, but he cant seem to care when he sees your cute ass peeking out of your shorts. He also doesent seem to care when hes jerking himself off to the smell of your panties as soon as you leave the house, shooting his load into them and imagining hes creaming all over your little pussy.

You'd think its disgusting.

Actually,

Maybe you wouldnt.

Maybe you do the same..

The thought gets him going. He puts your cum filled panties back into your drawer, just to hear you squeal when you pull them on.

Two days pass.

You need a break.

Your dad’s been on your back nonstop, suffocating you with questions about your future like you’re supposed to have it all figured out already. Every conversation feels like pressure building higher and Higher.

So you run.

Now you’re sitting in some sketchy downtown bar, the kind with sticky floors and neon lights that buzz like they’re barely holding on. Your friends bailed hours ago, one by one disappearing onto dance floors or into the arms of strangers they didn’t even bother introducing you to.

You don’t really react when someone slides into the stool beside you. But your grip tightens around your glass anyway.

When you finally glance over, your stomach drops so fast it almost hurts.

Bucky.

Of course it’s Bucky.

You swallow hard as he orders a whiskey, neat, on the rocks like he owns the place.

“Hey, cowboy,”

you murmur, lips curling slightly as you study him. “What’re you doing here?”

You’ve been nursing the same drink for an hour, but it’s starting to blur the edges of everything.

He leans back, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth. “Could ask you the same thing, darlin.”

His eyes flick to you.

“Daddy let you sneak out?”

Oh. Shit.

"Buck—don’t tell him, please.” Your words sound a little slurred, softened by alcohol. “He’s already on my ass enough as it is.”

He just nods slowly.

“Do I get somethin’ in return?” he asks, grin widening.

You lift a brow. “Nope.” That earns you a quiet laugh.

“You drunk?”

“...no.”

“Mhm.”

Somehow, the night keeps going. And worse, it’s easy. Too easy. You talk. You laugh. You pretend you’re not hyper-aware of him the entire time, not quietly spiraling into thoughts you definitely shouldn’t be having.

By the time the bar starts thinning out, you’re both well past tipsy. You’ve called your friends twice-no answer. They’re probably already gone with someone else.

“Not answerin'?”

Bucky slurs, watching your phone screen go dark.

“No,” you sigh. “They’re pissing me off.”

He chuckles under his breath. “C’mon. Let me take you home, girlie.” You hesitate.

Take you home. I mean- yeah. What should happen, Right?You exhale, shaking your head slightly.

“Yeah, no offense, James… but your car reeks of sweat. At least it did the last time you drove me anywhere.”

He almost laughs.

Almost.

Instead, in one smooth motion, he stands, hooks a hand under your thighs, and hauls you over his shoulder.

You yelp, fists immediately flying against his back-more instinct than intent.

"what the- fuck!"

But through the haze of alcohol and surprise, one thought cuts through everything else. He’s strong. Super strong. Beefy arms carrying you with ease. And just thinking about it makes you squirm, because you can feel the wetness gathering between your thighs.

"Ah- Bucky! Let me go!- ugh! What the fuck!"

He sighs, trying to keep his patience. "quit being a brat." He hisses.

"quit being an idiot, then!" With a grunt, he unlocks his car door and throws you into the backseat.

"im fuckin' done with you, y/n. the only thing you do is tease me all day long, you're going to pay for it."

Wow. teasing him? thats just not true. .....okay, maybe a little. Maybe you searched for your skimpiest, prettiest shorts everytime he came over, so what? You're also just a woman. a woman whos annoyingly horny. so?

You bite your lip in anticipation, watching him stand tall over you. his hands go to run down your thighs, and before you know it, hes on top of you, car door locked behind him.

What now? youre trapped. His trapped little bunny with no escape, but god, if that doesnt turn you on. having him do whatever he wants with you? Sounds hotter than it should.

his mouth goes to your throat, licking a stripe up until hes at your jaw. you feel his stubble scrape against your chin.

Lips basically connected, he looks into your eyes, blue orbs staring right into your soul, atleast it feels like that. God, hes so ridicously good-looking. its actually unfair.

his rough hands go to tug on your skirt, pulling it off smoothly- something you can never manage.

"fuck, baby. youre killing me. you'll kill me......" He mumbles shakily.

"bucky.." you breathe out shakily. "touch me-.."

"No."

What?

"....what?"

Hes about to get punched. how dare he refuse to touch you, when your all hot n' bothered?

"you gonna have a vibrator, you're gonna show me how you use it." He hums, pulling out the pink vibe he stole from your nightstand earlier out of his bag.

Oh.

Oh.

that asshole.

"How. do you have that." You stare at him, utterly shocked.

"who do you think of when you get off with this limp thing? hm?"

He murmurs, wetting his lips. he hands it to you. You cant believe it. Did he go through your stuff?

"not you, jerk."

a lie.

"Mhm."

"im not going to get off infront of you, James." You huff.

"Okay, then im not going to touch you."

You laugh,

but soon realize hes serious. Swallowing the nervous lump in your throat, you take the vibrator, turn it on, and hesitantely press it against your sensitive clit.

At the intense sensation your eyes fall closed almost immediatly. Even through your thin cotton panties, the buzzing is still insane. He lets you do your thing freely.

After about a minute, your eyes fall back open, and you shiver. Bucky's watching you, and its almost creepy. Hes studying you. Studying the way your legs squirm closed, studying the way your face contorts in pleasure.

Everything.

You whine in desperation. Fuck, you need it.

"....James- please.... Touch me-....im gonna be good...i swear-....'m gonna be so good..."

He grins evily. Exactly where he wanted you. Begging and pleading like a good little bunny.

"aww, 're you gonna be a good slut for daddy?.....maybe ill let you suck me off."

You feel like you could cry. With a small nod of his head, you'r fingers move to fumble with his belt immediatly. After a few seconds you manage to open it, and finally tug his dark jeans down, the sight makes you exhale nervously.

His bulge is basically staring at you.

You wet your lips and pull his white boxers down too. His cock slaps against his stomach with a wet noise.

Oh.

Wow.

Hes....you could say hes massive. Guess the super serum didnt only make his chest so broad.

His cock isnt insanely long, but its thick.

You feel your pussy clenching around air and you're already terrified of the stretch, to be honest. It just seems Impossible! Just as your about to taste him, his calloused hand tangles in your hair,

not tugging,

but slightly tilting your head up.

He simply admires your pretty face, already imagining how pretty its gonna look all covered in his hot cum.

While looking up at him, you lick a strip up his cock, tongue following a vein.

"......ffuck-, yeah...suck it like that- be a good girl...."

You take it into your mouth, sucking at the tip and then trying to take him deeper, although its that easy if you havent done it lots of times before. Your gag reflex tingles slightly and you cough faintly.

"shh...-, baby, you're doing great...." He grunts. You whine around his cock at the praise. Before you can try doing more, he pulls you up by the hair, making you gasp.

It Hurt. But it hurt nicely.

"Gotta save all my cum up for your pretty pussy, baby,.."

He slams you against him and kisses you deeply, messily, with spit running down both your chins. He presses you down against the backseat, hands tugging at your panties, making you shiver. His movement is fueled by pure lust, and you can see it in his eyes.

"Spit."

You do as he says and spit into his palm. He grunts and strokes his cock a few times.

"...you're a big girl, right?-....mm-..can take my cock without any prepping."

You nod eagerly.

Youre a big girl.

His big girl.

His cute little bunny.

His slut.

He grins, leaning down to press his lips against your jaw, peppering kisses all over it. He slowly, slowly slides inside your tight hole, but it soon welcomes his cock. With every little bit he pushes inside you deeper, a quiet grunt escapes him, and a small gasp leaves you.

But once he bottoms out with one smooth thrust?

You want to scream. You bury your face in his shoulder, moaning shakily, And dig your nails into his back, leaving marks.

"shhh,-,.....i know.....so deep inside you, hm?"

"ss-so...nngh- ssoo- deep-...." You whine.

"gonna take this big cock like a good girl..."

He thrusts deeper, cock slipping in and out- No, not even out, Just grinding against that spongey part inside ur dripping hole. He groans into the curve of your throat, rough hands going to grab ur hips and slamming his hips against yours faster. You can hear the sound of his balls slapping against your ass echo through the car.

"hhhaaah- Shit!- jaaames...."

And it doesent take long for you to reach that high you've been craving. Your eyes almost roll back. He holds you through your orgasm, and then he shoots his thick load as deep as he can into your pretty pussy. He lets it fade for a moment, before pulling out and exhaling roughly at the sight of his cum running out of you.

"look at that, Baby,....."

He grins, leaning down to suck on your clit and slurping up both of your juices. You whine in overstimulation, squirming and slightly pushing him away with your feet.

".....what would your daddy think, Baby....making such a mess of my cock."

He’s been avoiding your gaze all evening.

Until now.

You feel it when he looks at you. Like heat, sudden and suffocating. That stare — hot, possessive, slow, crawling up your bare legs like smoke, drinking in every inch of exposed skin in your tiny denim shorts. 

Your tank top clings in all the right places, sweat beading at the nape of your neck. But it’s nothing compared to the way his eyes drag over your body, deliberate, slow, like he’s undressing you right there in front of everyone.

And maybe he is.

You raise your drink to your lips, taking a long sip just to distract from the flush creeping up your throat. But your eyes stay locked on his. You don’t look away. Not when he tilts his head the slightest bit, raises a brow like he’s already imagining how you’ll sound when you’re whining his name again.

You glance to your dad—still deep in conversation, laughing too loud with someone from work. Good. Distracted.

You’ve played this game with Bucky before. The stolen glances. The tension thick enough to choke on. The brushing past each other in hallways. The pretending that night never happened.

But tonight—it’s different.

There’s something heavier in the way he looks at you. 

Hungrier. Like he’s tired of pretending.

You remember every time he’s had his way with you.

It had started last summer. Another barbecue. Another night where the beer had flowed too easy and your shorts were just a little too short. You’d been buzzed, warm and lazy in the heat. 

He was drunk. Looser than usual, mouthier, staring too long. The house was quiet by the end of it, most of the guests long gone, your dad passed out upstairs, the stereo still murmuring something low and slow through the speakers.

You’d been licking the last of a popsicle from your fingers in the kitchen, half on purpose, half because it felt good against the heat, and you could feel him watching.

“Jesus,” he groaned from the doorway, his voice thick, wrecked. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You turned, slow and coy, leaning back on the counter. Let your tank top slide just a little lower.

“Just cooling off,” you said, like it meant nothing.

But his eyes were dark, hungry, jaw clenched tight as he stepped into the room.

One hand landed beside your hip, warm and calloused against the counter. The other slid up your thigh, rough and daring, knuckles brushing the edge of your shorts.

You didn’t stop him.

“You don’t wanna play with fire, dollface,” he murmured.

You met his gaze, steady. “Maybe I do.”

And that was it.

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. Mouth hot, insistent, devouring. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, pulling you close until there was nothing between you but heat.

You clawed at his belt, the clatter of the buckle loud in the stillness, and then he was lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

“I shouldn’t,” he rasped against your neck, even as he pushed your shorts down your thighs, his fingers dragging along bare skin.

“Fuck, your dad—”

“Is upstairs,” you whispered, breath hitching as your legs wrapped around him. “Asleep.”

His eyes were wild. Torn.

But he didn’t stop.

He thrust into you in one deep, brutal motion that made you choke on a gasp, your back arching, fingers gripping the edge of the counter like it could keep you grounded.

“Oh my god—”

“That what you want, baby?” he snarled, dragging out just to slam back in. “Want daddy’s best friend to fuck you stupid?”

Your head tipped back, mouth open in a moan you barely bit back, legs locked around his hips.

It was filthy. It was wrong.

It was perfect.

You remembered how he’d gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him while he fucked you through it, rough and relentless, the sound of your bodies slapping together echoing off the tile. 

You remembered the way you bit into his shoulder when you came, muffling your scream in his flesh, and the way he groaned your name like it broke him.

You remembered the way he looked afterward, too.

Hair a mess, sweat gleaming at his temple, lips kiss-bruised and red. Wrecked. Guilty. Starving for more.

And it didn’t stop there.

It never did.

That night had turned into a secret you wore like a second skin. One that burned beneath your clothes. One that only he could touch.

The weeks that followed blurred into a string of reckless, filthy nights. He’d show up with a six-pack, laughing with your dad like nothing had changed, and then, by midnight, he’d be in your bed, hand clamped over your mouth, his body pressed flush against yours as he fucked you slow and deep, every inch of him buried inside you.

“You gotta keep quiet, princess,” he’d murmur into your ear, tongue flicking the shell of it. “Don’t wanna wake daddy, do you?”

You’d shake your head, teary-eyed from how good it felt. From how bad it was. From how much hotter that made it.

One night, he took you in the garage.

Bent you over the hood of your dad’s car, rough fingers in your hair, panties shoved to the side. The metal was cold under your skin, but his body was fire behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other curved over your mouth as he pounded into you, teeth bared in a snarl every time you moaned his name.

“Such a fuckin’ tease,” he gritted out, voice dark and filthy. “Always walking around in those little shorts like you don’t know what it does to me.”

Another time, it was the guest bathroom.

Your hands braced on the mirror, fogging the glass with your breath as he fucked you from behind. 

His fingers had played between your thighs, teasing, relentless, until you were shaking, gasping his name against the wall while he whispered how pretty you sounded when you came. Then he was inside you again, rough and hungry, growling against your shoulder as you clenched around him.

“Can’t get enough of this pussy,” he’d mutter, slamming into you harder. “So fuckin’ tight for me. Always so ready.”

It was always fast. Always desperate.

But nothing compared to the morning you woke up sore and aching, your thighs trembling with leftover pleasure—and saw the faintest bite mark blooming on your skin.

High on your inner thigh. Just where only he would ever see.

You wore it all day like a secret brand.

Pulling your shorts down just enough to hide it whenever you moved, even though a sick little part of you wanted someone to notice.

And the next time he saw it, saw you tugging your waistband down to hide it?

He smirked.

That same wicked smirk he wore now—leaning against the railing, watching you like he already knows he’s going to ruin you again tonight.

Like he’s already planning how.

Now, in the present, you’re staring at him again from across the patio, thighs clenching at the memory.

You shouldn’t be thinking about it. 

Not here. Not in broad daylight. 

Not when your dad is just a few feet away, laughing with a beer in hand, completely unaware of the filthy things his best friend’s done to you, who had always painted innocent in his eyes. Completely oblivious to the way your body is already reacting, slick and aching—just from a look.

You shift your weight, subtly. The rough seam of your shorts drags across your bare heat, and it’s almost too much. You bite your lip. Your nails dig into your plastic cup.

Bucky pushes off the rail, lazy and slow, that same beer bottle dangling from his fingers. His walk is confident—a little too confident—the kind of swagger that says he isn’t asking for anything.

He’s taking it.

You hold your ground, letting your gaze slide over him shamelessly as he approaches. The way his broad chest stretches the thin cotton of his shirt. The way his jeans cling to his thighs. That familiar twitch in his jaw when he sees the way your legs are crossed—shorts riding just high enough to give him a glimpse of what he already knows is there.

“Those shorts should be illegal,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, meant for you and you alone. His tone is thick with heat, amusement, and want.

You blink up at him, slow and innocent. “I wore them because it’s hot.”

“Mmm.” His gaze dips again, lingering on the curve of your thighs. “You have no idea.”

You smirk, lifting your drink to your lips. “You keep staring like that, someone might notice.”

He grins, wicked and unrepentant. “Let them. You’ve been eye-fucking me all damn day.”

Your heart skips. Your stomach tightens.

Because he’s right—and because now, you don’t want to wait another second.

“You want to keep pretending,” he says softly, leaning in just enough for your skin to prickle, “or do you want to finish what we started?”

You meet his gaze, steady, unflinching. “You’re the one dragging it out. You wanna fuck me or not?”

He breathes out a laugh, low, dark, full of promise. “Oh, I’m gonna fuck you, princess. I’m just deciding how many ways I wanna fuck you.”

Your knees nearly buckle.

Then his hand wraps around your wrist.

Casual. Calm, like he’s not about to desecrate the laundry room of your childhood home. Like he hasn’t already played this game a hundred times.

He leads you inside, moving fast but not rushed. The hallway is quiet—the music outside muffled through the thick patio doors. 

The air’s cooler here, darker. 

And the moment the laundry room door clicks shut behind you, it’s like something snaps.

Bucky grabs you by the waist and slams you back against it, his mouth crashing into yours. It’s desperate—hungry—months of restraint breaking all at once.

His hands are on your thighs, your hips, dragging you closer as his tongue pushes past your lips. You moan into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, dragging your nails across his scalp until he growls.

“I’ve thought about this every night since that first time,” he snarls, kissing down your throat, biting at your skin. “You. Spread open. Moaning my name.”

You let your head fall back, gasping as he sucks a bruise into the soft skin below your jaw. His hands slip beneath the hem of your shorts—and he drops to his knees.

Rough palms press your thighs apart, pushing until you’re forced to widen your stance. He huffs a laugh.

“No panties?” His eyes flick up, gleaming with something dark. “Knew you were a fucking tease.”

“I figured you’d want easy access,” you whisper, breathless already.

He groans. Low and filthy. “Brat.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot, wet and devouring.

His tongue drags through your folds like he’s starved for it, lips sealing over your clit, sucking hard. You cry out, your hands shooting to the doorframe behind you for balance as your legs tremble.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

He pulls back just far enough to smirk against your thigh. “That’s it, baby. Say my name like that again.”

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

Two fingers slide into you, thick and rough, curling as his tongue returns to your clit. He moves in sync—tongue swirling, fingers pumping—merciless and skilled. You grind against his face, unable to help yourself, chasing that heat curling tighter and tighter in your belly.

“Such a greedy little thing,” he mutters, voice muffled against you. “Look at you, soaking my hand already.”

You come hard. Your whole body seizes, your thighs clenching around his head, a moan ripping from your throat that you barely manage to swallow down.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps working you through it, licking every drop, drinking down your release like it’s the only thing he needs. When he finally stands, he licks his fingers clean slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Still think you can handle more?” he murmurs.

You nod, dazed and breathless.

He kisses you again—hot and filthy—and then he’s turning you around with a rough grip on your waist, shoving your shorts down past your knees. Your bare ass hits the edge of the washing machine. The cool metal sends a shiver through your spine.

“Spread your legs,” he orders. “Wider.”

You obey. Of course you do.

The sound of his zipper opening is loud in the small room. Then he’s pressed up behind you, the thick head of his cock teasing through your slick folds. You whimper, grinding back against him, needy beyond words.

“So impatient,” he tuts, fisting a hand in your hair. “Beg for it.”

“Please,” you gasp. “I need you to fuck me. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks—”

“Yeah?” he growls, lining himself up. “Thinking about me bending you over in your daddy’s house like a filthy little slut?”

You moan, loud, eyes fluttering.

Then he thrusts in—hard.

Your cry is guttural, punched out of your lungs as he fills you in one brutal stroke. Your hands scramble for purchase on the washing machine, your body jolting with every deep thrust.

“God, you’re tight,” he groans. “Like you were made for me.”

“Harder,” you manage, already shaking.

He gives it to you. Hard, fast and relentless.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you back to meet every thrust, and your legs threaten to give out with each one. He’s panting now, right against your ear, his voice rough and wrecked.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growls, yanking your head back by your hair. “Bent over like a little cockdrunk toy while your dad’s twenty feet away?”

You nod helplessly, mouth open, eyes rolling.

“I should pull out and make you taste yourself off my cock,” he grits out. “Make you clean up your own mess.”

“Do it,” you whimper. “Use me however you want.”

He curses. Loud. Slams into you even harder.

“Jesus” he groans. “You’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

Your second orgasm builds fast, your body too sensitive, too strung out. And when it hits, it rips through you—a blinding wave of heat that has you sobbing his name, your nails raking across the metal as you convulse around him.

He feels it. Hears it.

And with one final thrust, he presses you down hard against the machine and groans your name as he comes inside you, thick and deep, holding you in place while he pulses through it.

You stay like that for a beat.

Breathless, boneless and wrecked.

His chest against your back, his breath warm on your neck.

Then he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Next time, you’re on your knees.”

You laugh, hoarse and wicked. “Next time, I’m riding you in your truck.”

He chuckles, pulling back to zip himself up, swatting your ass with a little too much fondness. “Fucking brat.”

You fix your shorts with shaking hands, tugging them up over your still-aching thighs. He’s already peeking out the door, checking for an escape route.

All clear.

He slips out first, walking like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just fuck you senseless in the laundry room.

You follow a minute later, legs trembling, mouth still tasting him.

No one notices. No one ever does.

And Bucky?

He’s already back on the patio. Leaning against the rail like the sin he is.

But when your eyes meet his across the yard, that heat in his stare.

You know he’s not done with you yet.

Not even close.

a/n: if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my loves 💕