Top Posts Tagged with #melkawrites

tease too

dbf!bucky x reader

summary: you accepted your dads best friend invitation to the weekend in the cabin, will guilt eat you alive or will you surrender to your need? wc: 7k (I got carried away)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, implied age gap- reader is in her mid 20s and bucky is in his 40s, uncle kink(he is not readers real uncle!), unprotected p in v, s/d dynamic, petnames, oral f!recieving, degradation, breeding kink, creampie, mention of pregnancy, dacryphilia, aftercare king bucky(yay!) a/n: pt.2 of "tease" but it can be read as a standalone

After days of replaying what happened at the bar, the memories clung to you like smoke you couldn’t air out. His voice—low, warm, knowing—followed you everywhere. You hated how easily your body remembered him. The way his attention felt heavier than his touch ever could.

It was wrong. You knew that. You were old enough to know better, and he was too old to be thinking about you like that. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But guilt didn’t stop your hands from shaking when you thought about his soft words, or the way he’d looked at you like he already knew what you wanted before you dared to admit it.

You were sprawled across your couch, phone in hand, opening and closing your chat with him like it might burn you if you stared too long. Need and guilt twisted together until your head throbbed, and for a brief, dramatic moment, you wished it would just split open so you wouldn’t have to deal with this.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

Eventually, you exhaled and typed the text—the one you knew he was waiting for.

Weekend away still on the table?

You tried to sound casual. Failing miserably. The second you hit send, you tossed your phone to the other end of the couch like it had betrayed you.

“What the fuck am I even doing,” you muttered, dragging your hands down your face.

You stayed frozen like that, elbows on your knees, face buried in your palms, breathing too fast. You told yourself you should block him. Delete the chat. Pretend none of this ever happened a few nights ago.

Then your phone chimed.

Your heart stalled—and then raced as you lunged for it.

Uncle Buck:Of course it is, sweetheart. Pick you up tomorrow at five?

You read it once. Twice. Five times.

His name on your screen made the guilt bloom sharp and hot in your chest. Uncle. God, it felt so wrong—so fucking wrong—that it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

And the worst part?

You didn’t say no.

At exactly five, you stepped out of your apartment building, a duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your fingers worried the hem of your shirt, tugging and twisting the fabric like it might steady you. It didn’t. Your heart was lodged somewhere in your throat as you waited.

Then his car pulled up and came to a smooth stop in front of you.

Bucky stepped out, tall and unhurried, like he knew you’d still be standing there no matter how long he took. His hair was slicked back, dark and neat, and the black shirt he wore clung to his broad frame like it had been tailored just to remind you of exactly what you were getting into.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice low as he closed the distance between you.

Before you could overthink it, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in firmly. The scent of him hit you all at once—cologne, cigarettes, and worn leather—something familiar and intoxicating that made your head spin just a little.

You smiled, small and shy, even as your pulse betrayed you.

“Ready?” he asked, lips tugging into a gentle smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You nodded.

He took your bag with ease, tossing it into the backseat before circling around and opening the passenger door for you. He paused there, one hand resting on the frame, eyes flicking over you in a way that felt anything but innocent.

“Hop in, baby,” he said softly. “We’ll be there in no time.”

And just like that, every doubt you’d rehearsed fell silent as you slid into the seat—because whatever this was, you were already too far in to pretend you didn’t want it.

The door shut with a solid click, sealing you inside the car with him. Leather creaked beneath you as you settled into the passenger seat, the smell of it mixing with him—familiar now, dangerous in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

Bucky slid in behind the wheel and started the engine, one hand resting casually at the top as he pulled away from the curb. The car eased into traffic, smooth and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be but here.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The radio hummed low in the background, some old song you half-recognized, but your attention kept drifting back to him. The way his jaw flexed when he checked the mirrors. The way his grip tightened just slightly on the wheel when the light turned yellow.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of how close he was. Too close. Not close enough.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a moment, glancing at you briefly before looking back at the road.

You shrugged, fingers lacing together in your lap. “Just… thinking.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Dangerous habit.”

Your breath hitched at that—not because of the words, but the tone. Like he knew exactly what kind of thoughts you were trying—and failing—to keep to yourself.

Another stretch of silence followed, heavier this time. His arm rested along the center console, relaxed, open. Close enough that if you moved even an inch, you’d brush against him. You didn’t. You told yourself you wouldn’t.

“Long week?” he asked, softer now.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “Feels like it never really ended.”

He hummed in agreement. “That’s why we’re getting away.” Then, after a pause, almost absently, “You deserve that.”

The words settled deep, warm and unsettling all at once.

At a red light, his eyes flicked to you again—longer this time. Intent. You felt seen in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Relax,” he murmured, turning back to the road as the light changed. “You’re safe with me.”

The road narrowed until it was barely more than a ribbon of gravel cutting through the trees. Pines towered on either side, dense and unmoving, their branches knitting together overhead like they were intent on swallowing the path whole. The air felt cooler here, heavier, carrying the sharp scent of earth and sap even through the closed windows.

Bucky slowed the car, tires crunching softly as a cabin came into view.

It sat tucked deep in the forest, deliberately hidden—dark wood and stone blending with the surroundings, like it had grown there rather than been built. The porch stretched wide across the front, supported by thick beams, a single warm light glowing beside the door.

He pulled into the small clearing and cut the engine.

The sudden quiet rang in your ears.

You stepped out of the car and took it in properly this time. The cabin was bigger up close, solid and steady, with tall windows that reflected the trees instead of revealing anything inside. Smoke curled faintly from a stone chimney, the scent of burning wood hanging in the air.

No neighbors. No cell signal. Nothing but forest in every direction.

Bucky grabbed your bag from the backseat and came to stand beside you, close enough that you felt his presence before you consciously registered it.

“Pretty quiet, huh?” he said, calm, almost amused.

You nodded, eyes still tracing the line of the roof, the porch, the dark windows. “It’s… secluded.”

“That was the idea.”

His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as he guided you toward the steps—light, casual, but unmistakably intentional. The porch creaked under your weight, the sound loud in the stillness, grounding you in the reality of where you were.

Just the two of you. Miles from anywhere else.

As he unlocked the door, you glanced once more at the trees hemming the cabin in on all sides, their shadows stretching long as the sun dipped lower.

Whatever rules you’d brought with you felt flimsy out here.

Inside, the cabin was warmer than you expected.

A fire was already crackling in the stone fireplace, casting slow-moving shadows across the wooden walls. Everything smelled like cedar and smoke, clean but lived-in. Thick blankets were folded neatly over the back of a wide couch, a worn rug stretched across the floor, and shelves lined with old books and mismatched mugs made the space feel intentionally personal—like someone spent real time here. Like he did.

Bucky dropped your bag near the stairs without comment and shrugged off his jacket, rolling his shoulders as if finally relaxing. He moved through the space with ease, familiar with every creak of the floorboards, every switch and drawer.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, already heading toward the small kitchen.

You hovered for a moment before sitting on the couch, fingers brushing over the fabric of a blanket. It was soft. Too soft. The fire popped quietly, the sound filling the silence without breaking it.

You sat there together, close but not touching, the firelight flickering between you. Outside, the forest pressed in, but in here everything felt… contained. Protected. Intimate in a way that made your thoughts slow down and wander.

“You’re wound tight,” he said, not unkindly but it wasn’t a question.

You looked up at him. “You don’t think this is… strange?”

He crossed the room and sat beside you—not too close, not far. Deliberate. Grounded. His presence immediately shifted the air, like the room had decided who it belonged to.

“No,” he said simply.

That answer caught you off guard. “You don’t?”

“No.” He leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the couch behind you, close enough to feel without touching. “You’re here because you wanted to be. I’m here because I asked you to come. That’s not complicated.”

“It feels complicated to me, because it is Buck” you admitted.

He turned his head then, eyes settling on you with quiet intensity. “That’s because you’re looking for reasons to make it wrong.”

You are looking for a reason to make it wrong– his words echoed in your head, because he was right. You were overthinking it, it was wrong– yes, but now you are here and you should actually enjoy it right?

You exhaled sharply, tension loosening from your shoulders as you nodded. “Yeah… you are—you are right,” you said quietly, the words feeling heavy but honest as they left your mouth.

Bucky watched you for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he reached for your hand.

His grip was warm and steady, fingers firm as he lifted it, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that felt deliberate—reassuring, not rushed. He pressed a slow kiss to the back of your hand, lips lingering just long enough to make your chest tighten.

“That’s my girl,” he said softly.

Your breath caught.

He looked up at you then, smiling—not sharp, not teasing. Warm. Certain. “Turn off that pretty little mind of yours and just relax, okay?”

There was no edge to it. No demand. Just quiet confidence, like he fully expected you to trust him—and knew you already did.

You nodded again, almost without thinking.

Satisfied, he let go of your hand and stood, rolling his shoulders like he’d made a decision. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

You followed him instantly. Bucky stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hands confident as he chopped vegetables with easy precision. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board was oddly soothing.

“Do you—” you started, then stopped yourself.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Do you want help?” you asked, voice soft, a little unsure. “I can do something. Chop… or stir. Anything.”

His mouth curved into a fond smile.

“C’mere,” he said gently, setting the knife down. He reached for a bottle on the counter and poured a glass of red wine, deep and rich. “Here. For you.”

He handed it to you, fingers brushing yours, and then—before you could protest—guided you by the waist just enough to lift you up onto the counter beside him. It was effortless, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Sit,” he said, calm and warm. “I’ve got this.”

You laughed quietly, a little embarrassed, but didn’t argue. “You’re very bossy in the kitchen.”

“Only when I know what I’m doing,” he replied, turning back to the stove.

You sipped the wine, watching him work. He moved with an easy focus—adding oil to the pan, letting it heat just right before tossing in garlic. The smell bloomed instantly, warm and inviting, filling the cabin. He stirred slowly, patient, like he wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere.

“You look good up there,” he said casually, not even looking at you.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks. “I’m literally just sitting.”

“Exactly,” he said, glancing at you now. “Relaxed. That suits you.”

You swung your legs slightly, toes brushing the cabinet below. “You cook like this often?”

He nodded. “When I’m here. Helps quiet things down.” He added vegetables to the pan, seasoning without measuring, trusting instinct. “You’re doing great, by the way.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you pointed out with an annoyed expression.

He smiled to himself. “You asked to help. That counts.”

The praise was simple, unforced—but it settled warmly in your chest. You watched the way his hands moved, steady and sure, the way he tasted the sauce and adjusted it just slightly before nodding in approval.

“See?” he said. “Perfect.”

You took another sip of wine, the fire crackling behind you, the forest silent outside. The moment felt small and domestic and safe—like something borrowed from a life you hadn’t known you wanted. The fire flickered behind you, casting golden light across the kitchen as Bucky stirred the sauce, humming quietly to himself. You perched on the counter, legs swinging slightly, the wine warming your chest and loosening the words you’d been holding in.

“Bucky…” you started softly, voice barely above a whisper. He glanced at you, one eyebrow raised, waiting. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. “Can… can you kiss me?”

The words left your mouth faster than you expected, but there was no taking them back.

He paused mid-stir, eyes locking onto yours. For a heartbeat, the room held its breath with you. Then, slowly, deliberately, he set the spoon down and stepped closer, his presence filling the space.

“You want me to?” he asked, voice low, steady, as if the idea had never been in question—but he liked hearing it from you anyway.

You nodded, heart hammering. “I… I do.”

A small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips. He leaned in, and when his hand brushed lightly against your waist to steady you, it wasn’t forceful—just grounding. His other hand lifted yours slightly, tilting it so your palm met his lips. He pressed a kiss there first, soft, slow, deliberate, lingering just long enough to make your knees go weak. Then, slowly, he closed the space between you, eyes never leaving yours, and pressed a kiss to your lips. Gentle, measured, but certain.

Pulling back slightly, he rested his forehead against yours, voice low and teasing. “See? That wasn’t so scary now, was it?”

You laughed softly, breathless, shaking your head. “No… not with you.”

You slid carefully off the counter, wine glass in hand, and followed Bucky to the small wooden table in the corner of the cabin. The firelight spilled over the space, making the room glow with warmth. Plates were already set, simple but inviting, and the scent of the meal he’d prepared filled the air—garlic, herbs, something hearty that made your stomach tighten in anticipation.

Bucky gestured for you to sit, then took his own seat across from you, a soft, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “Here,” he said, pushing your glass slightly closer to you. “Drink. You earned it.”

You giggled nervously, fingers curling around the stem. “I… barely did anything,” you admitted.

“That counts,” he said firmly, voice calm, steady, like he was stating a fact rather than arguing. “Asking to help. Sitting through my cooking, looking all pretty. That’s all earned.”

You flushed, sipping the wine. “You’re very… encouraging,” you said softly, unsure whether to feel flattered or embarrassed.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, eyes on you. “I’m honest. You’re doing great, and I want you to know it.”

Your heart thumped, and for a moment you forgot to drink. “I… don’t usually get compliments like that,” you admitted quietly, staring at the table. “Or… attention.”

Bucky’s smile softened. “Good,” he murmured. “Because you deserve it. You deserve someone who notices you.”

You swallowed, warmth spreading through your chest at the certainty in his voice. “Even… even if it’s… weird?” you asked, voice hesitant. “Because… us… here… it’s… a little strange, right?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I don’t care if it’s strange,” he said, firm. “I care that it’s real. That you’re here. That we’re here. Nothing else matters.”

The last bites of dinner were gone, plates cleared to the side, leaving only the warm glow of the fire and the faint scent of garlic and herbs in the cabin. You sank into the couch, wine glass in hand, the warmth from both the fire and the wine making your limbs feel loose, almost too relaxed.

Bucky followed, settling beside you with the easy confidence you’d come to expect. He draped one arm along the back of the couch behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him without even realizing it.

“Quiet after dinner suits you,” he said softly, voice low, casual, but with an undertone that made your pulse spike.

You laughed nervously, setting your glass down on the side table. “I’m… comfortable,” you admitted.

He shifted closer, letting his fingers brush lightly against your arm, soft, teasing. “I’ve noticed,” he murmured. His eyes flicked to yours briefly, then back to the fire, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shivered slightly at the touch, biting your lip. “You’re… being… dangerous,” you whispered.

“Dangerous?” He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, as if the word intrigued him more than it frightened him. “You think me sitting here, doing this… is dangerous?”

“Yes,” you admitted, voice quiet, trembling just a little. “Because now I… can’t stop thinking about… that night. At the bar.”

His hand moved deliberately, fingers tracing the back of yours now, brushing across your skin in the slowest, lightest caress. “Oh? That night?” His voice dropped lower, soft and teasing, like he was savoring the memory. “I remember it too. Every look. Every sweet little sound you made for me.”

Your cheeks flushed, heat pooling across your chest. “I… I shouldn’t have let you…”

“Shouldn’t have?” His hand paused, thumb brushing lightly against your wrist. “Sweetheart, you wanted it. You just didn’t say it out loud yet.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your chest. “It felt… intense. Too intense and wrong.”

He leaned slightly closer, so close that your shoulder brushed his. “Good,” he murmured, almost a purr. “Intensity’s meant to be felt. Not fought.”

His fingers traced slow, teasing patterns across the back of your hand and up your forearm, deliberate and confident, not leaving anything to doubt. Your chest tightened under the firelight, both from his touch and the words that made your mind spin.

“And you,” he said softly, voice steady but edged with that low tease that always made you melt, “you liked it. Don’t even pretend otherwise.”

You exhaled, a mix of laughter and disbelief escaping you. “I… maybe I did,” you whispered.

His smirk deepened. “Maybe?” He leaned back, thumb still brushing yours. “I’ll take ‘maybe’ for now. But I know the truth, sweetheart. You remember it too well. You’ve been thinking about it every second since.”

Before you could respond and deny it even just a bit, he pressed his lips to yours—slow, firm, and inescapable. It wasn’t gentle anymore. It was claiming, dominant, and teasing, daring you to pull away.

You froze for half a second… then melted against him. His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer without breaking the kiss. He let you catch your breath for just a moment, resting his forehead against yours, eyes smoldering with amusement and certainty.

“You like that,” he murmured, voice low, almost a growl. “You like me taking charge.”

You exhaled sharply, words barely forming. “I… I think I do.”

His smirk widened. “Think? That’s cute. Don’t think too hard, baby. Just feel— let uncle Bucky take care of you”

He kissed you again, slower this time, tracing the line of your lips with teasing pressure. One hand brushed your hair back from your face while the other rested firm and possessive at your hip, holding you in place as if you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to.

“Look at you,” he whispered against your lips, voice dripping with confidence. “So tense. So wound up. And yet… still letting me do this.”

You shivered under the heat of his gaze, the press of his body, the cocky certainty of him claiming this moment. “Bucky…” you breathed, voice shaky.

“Shhh,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Don’t talk. Just… let me.”

You were still catching your breath from the last kiss, heart pounding, when Bucky’s smirk deepened.

Before you could even react, his hands were at your waist, firm and unyielding, guiding you with a decisive strength. In one swift, smooth motion, he shifted you—your legs straddling his lap now, your chest just above his, your warmth pressing against him.

“See?” he murmured, voice low and teasing, hand resting at the small of your back to steady you. “I told you… I like being in control.”

You froze for a second, heat rushing through every nerve in your body. “B-Bucky…” Your voice was shaky, breath hitching, both nervous and excited at the same time.

He caught your gaze, smirk cocky, eyes dark and certain. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not right now. Not while I have you like this.”

Your fingers instinctively brushed against his chest, hesitant, almost testing, while his hands stayed firm, guiding your movement with deliberate ease. Every shift of your hips, every small sway, was under his control—yet somehow, it felt natural, even safe, in the middle of the tension.

“Just like that” he murmured against your temple, voice low, confident. “Make yourself feel good on me sweetie.”

His jeans brushed against you as he shifted slightly,making your clothed core brush against rough denim of his jeans, you bit your lip, a soft, startled whimper escaping you despite yourself. The sensation wasn’t anything you could name—but it was enough to make your knees go weak.

“Yes baby, feel how hard I am for you” he murmured, voice low and teasing, eyes dark as they held yours. “Relax. Just… feel this. Me. Right. Here.” he replied, bucking his hips.

Bucky’s voice dropped low into your ear, deep and rough, vibrating against your skin. “Tell me what you need from me. Go on… tell your favourite uncle what you need.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching, pulse hammering in your ears. Every nerve in your body hummed, alive and electric. You felt heat pooling in your stomach, your knees weak, your fingers fidgeting nervously. The sound of his voice, the tone of it—cocky, commanding, certain—made you feral in ways you hadn’t expected.

“You– I need you, Bucky please!” you whined helplessly, voice trembling. Your body pressed instinctively closer to his, reacting before your mind could catch up. The warmth of him, the steady dominance in his presence, made you feel exposed, vulnerable, and completely seen. You pressed against him, shivering, wanting more even as your mind shouted caution.

You let out a quiet, almost helpless whimper, the sound betraying how flustered you felt, how completely he’d unsettled you with a single glance, a single tone of voice.

“You are such a slut for me, huh?”

Heat rose to your cheeks, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Every word, every glance, every shift of his weight made you feel caught between embarrassment, desire, and the thrill of being under his control.

Then, in one swift, commanding movement, he ripped open your blouse, leaving your chest bare in front of him. Buttons flew across the room, and for a moment you were stunned, chest tight, breath shaky. The feral mix of awe, embarrassment, and helplessness made your heart hammer in your chest.

Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours, dark and smoldering, watching every reaction. His lips curved into a cocky, satisfied smirk, exuding dominance in a way that made you simultaneously nervous and thrilled.

“You can’t hide how much you like this,” he murmured, voice low, firm, and teasing all at once. “You can’t pretend you’re not mine in moments like this.” emphasizing his words with a sharp slap on your bare tits.

Your hands fluttered against his chest, almost desperate, almost trying to anchor yourself, but his presence was too overpowering, too controlled. Every second under his gaze made your stomach tighten, your skin tingle, and your mind spin with a dizzying mix of nervousness, excitement, and surrender.

His mouth eagerly latched onto your bare, hardened nipples, sucking and licking with a delicious intensity that left you gasping for breath. Each tantalizing tug sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, drawing soft, unfiltered moans from your chest. You felt vulnerable yet exhilarated, completely lost in the bliss of the moment.

Bucky shifted, lowering you easily onto the couch, his body looming over yours with a blend of protective strength and raw desire. As he pressed his warm lips against your bare chest, he traveled down with deliberate slowness, kissing a path down your stomach, anticipation coiled tightly within you, every kiss igniting a flicker of excitement through your body.

He lingered just above your waistband, a teasing smile playing on his lips as he commanded, “I need these off now.” His voice was low and authoritative, sending a shiver of need crawling up your spine. Bucky’s hands helped you shed your jeans and underwear, leaving you completely bare and exposed beneath him.

You could feel the rush of blood pounding in your ears, a mix of nerves and anticipation making your heart race. Bucky's mouth continued its tantalizing journey lower, trailing soft, fiery kisses along your thighs as he spread your legs. He paused, looking up at you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken, before licking a long, delicious stripe along your soaked slit.

Bucky’s gaze locked onto yours with a fiery intensity of his piercing blue eyes. As he settled between your spread legs, the anticipation thrummed in the air, igniting your skin with a delicious sense of vulnerability.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your cunt, his voice a deep, steady rumble that sent shivers down your spine. “So beautiful and ready for me.” The praise dripped from his lips, each word stirring something inside you.

With a teasing smile, he pressed soft kisses along your inner thighs, his breath warm and tantalizing against your sensitive skin. “You taste so good,” he breathed, the words wrapping around “I can’t get enough.” With that, his tongue flicked out, a bold, exploratory taste that sent shockwaves of pleasure through you.

He began to devour you, his mouth working with expert precision, he savored every bit of you. His tongue teased and swirled around your sensitive folds, urging soft moans from your lips. “That’s it, baby,” he encouraged, his voice thick with desire. “Just like that. Let me hear you.”

Each stroke of his tongue was laced with dominance—a reminder of his power over your pleasure. He reveled in your reactions, the way your body instinctively responded to him, arching and quivering under his ministrations. “You’re doing so well,” he praised, his eyes flickering up to meet yours. “Just for me. I love this.”

The intensity of his focus only heightened your pleasure, pushing you closer to the edge. Bucky’s mouth worked with relentless determination, his tongue plunging deeper as his nose softly bumped against your sensitive clit, pushing you closer to the edge. “That’s my good girl,” he whispered breathlessly, the praise sending jolts of electricity through you. “Just let go for me.”

You could feel your heart racing, your body tightening with every flick and lap of his tongue. The world around you faded, leaving only the intoxicating sensations of his lips, the heat of his body, and the delicious sound of your moans filling the air.

The air in the living room was thick, heavy with the scent of him and the salt of your own skin. You were slumped back against the cushions, limbs feeling like they were made of concrete, your heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Your breath was coming in shallow hitches, eyes fluttering shut as you tried to catch breath.

But Bucky wasn't letting you drift away– not now.

He crawled up the length of you, his heavy weight settling firmly between your thighs. He didn't move to close the distance for a kiss–- instead, he propped himself up on his forearms, looking down at you with a dark, unhinged sort of hunger. His hair was a mess, falling over his forehead clinging to his sweat covered skin, his eyes were blown out, focused entirely on your flushed face.

"Look at you," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel. He reached down, his metal fingers cold and unforgiving as they hooked under your chin, forcing you to look at him. "A total mess. Do you have any idea how pathetic you look right now?” You tried to turn your head, a soft whimper escaping you, but his grip tightened just enough to keep you still.

"Don't look away," he growled, a mean little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You wanted this. You’ve been begging for it with every shy little look you've given me today. And now that I’ve actually touched you, you can barely handle it. You’re so sensitive, aren't you? So easy to break."

He leaned down, his hot breath fanning over your ear, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. "You’re just a little bird, aren't you? My good, quiet girl."

The contrast of the praise against the bite in his tone made your stomach flip. You reached up, your fingers grasping at his shoulders, pulling him closer, but he resisted, holding himself just out of reach.

"You want me inside you?" he asked directly, his tone mocking. He nudged his knee firmly against your center, making you gasp. "Tell me. Use your words. Tell me how much you need me to ruin you after I just spent all that time making you feel so good."

"Bucky, please," you breathed, your voice small and desperate.

"Please what?" He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes tracking the way your chest heaved. "Say it. Tell me you want your uncle to take what he wants. Tell me you’re mine."

"I'm yours," you choked out, the shyness warring with the sheer need he was building in you. "Please... I'm all yours uncle Bucky. Just do it."

Bucky stayed hovered over you for a moment, enjoying the way you looked beneath him—cheeks flushed, chest heaving, and legs still trembling from what he’d just done with his tongue. He let out a dark, huffed breath of a laugh, his eyes scanning your disheveled state with a look that was more predator than protector.

Slowly, deliberately, he sat back on his heels, never breaking eye contact as he reached for the button of his tactical trousers.

The sound of the zipper cutting through the quiet room felt incredibly loud. You watched, your mouth going dry, as he pushed the heavy fabric down. When he freed himself, you couldn't help the way your eyes widened. He was thick, heavy, and already slick with anticipation—he looked intimidating.

"Close your mouth," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, though that mean little smirk stayed firmly in place. "You look like a fish gasping for air. Did you think I was done with you just because you had your little moment?"

He didn't wait for you to answer. He grabbed your ankles, dragging you down the cushions until your hips were right at the edge of the seat, dangling open and vulnerable. He stepped into the space between your knees, his large, scarred hands framing your thighs and squeezing hard enough that you knew there’d be faint thumbprints tomorrow.

"Look at this," he taunted, gesturing to the heavy length of him as he nudged it against your entrance. "You're so small. You really think you can take all of this? You think you’re big enough to take me?"

You let out a shaky breath, your hands reaching out to grab his waist, but he swatted them away.

"Hands down," he commanded. "I didn't tell you to touch me. You just stay there and take it."

Then, without a hint of hesitation, he tilted his hips and drove in.

The sheer size of him felt like he was splitting you apart, filling every empty inch of you until you felt like you might break. A sharp, shocked cry left your lips, your head hitting the back of the couch as your eyes rolled back.

"Look at me," he barked, and you scrambled to obey, blinking through the haze of tears and heat.

He started to move—long, punishing strokes that pulled almost all the way out before slamming back again. The sound was filthy: the wet, slapping rhythm of his skin hitting yours and the heavy creak of the couch under his weight.

"Yeah, that's it," he groaned, his expression turning truly unhinged as the friction started to get to him. He leaned down, his metal hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat. "You're so tight for me. It’s almost like you were made to be used like this. To be ruined by someone you’re supposed to respect."

He was hammering into you now, his pace becoming a brutal, relentless blur. Every time his hips connected with yours, a sob-like moan escaped you. You felt completely conquered, a submissive mess under the weight of his ego and his body. You were needy, whining for more even as he treated you like you were nothing more than a toy.

"You're a good little thing, aren't you?" he rasped, the praise sounding almost like an insult in his gravelly tone. "Taking it all. So quiet. So obedient. Does it make you feel like a little slut, having your dad's friend fuck the words right out of your mouth?"

He didn't give you time to answer, his mouth crashing down onto yours in a kiss that tasted like salt and desperation, his tongue demanding entry just as forcefully as the rest of him. You clutched at his forearms, your nails scratching against his skin, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being completely, utterly claimed.

Bucky’s pace didn't slow—if anything, he got meaner, his movements turning frantic and heavy as he felt you starting to unravel beneath him. He could hear the way your breath was hitching into broken, wet sobs, your face flushed a deep crimson as you looked up at him with those wide, ruined eyes.

"That's it, cry for me," he whispered, his voice dark and cruel as he leaned down, his sweat dripping onto your chest. He gripped both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them against the back of the couch so you were completely exposed, splayed out and helpless. "You look so pathetic like this. Just a sobbing, shaking mess because of what I'm doing to you."

He hiked your legs up higher over his shoulders, driving even deeper, hitting that spot that made your toes curl and a high, keening moan tear from your throat. He let out a low, rough chuckle that sent a shiver of pure terror and heat down your spine.

"You're taking it so well," he taunted, his hips slamming into yours with a wet, rhythmic thud. "What if I didn't pull out? What if I just left you full of me? Imagine that. Walking around the house, sitting at dinner with your dad, knowing you're carrying around exactly what I gave you on this couch."

The thought made your heart skip a beat, a mixture of shame and desperate want flooding your system. You shook your head, your hair flying wildly against the cushions. "Bucky... please..."

"Please what? Please do it?" He mocked, a truly unhinged glint in his eyes. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be marked by me. To have everyone know you belong me. You're such a needy little brat. You want me to knock you up just so you have an excuse to keep me coming back to you."

He was losing his grip on his own restraint now, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stood out like cords. The friction was becoming too much, the heat of your body squeezing him so tightly he couldn't think straight. He let go of your wrists, instead burying his metal hand deep into the cushions next to your head, the frame of the couch groaning under his strength.

"I’m going to ruin you," he growled, his voice breaking into a guttural snarl. "I’m going to fill you so full you won’t be able to walk straight for a week. You’re mine. You hear me? Just a shy little thing for me to break whenever I want."

You were bawling now, the pleasure so intense it felt like pain, your moans turning into wordless pleas as you felt your climax building. You arched your back, your heels digging into his back, begging for the end.

"Look at me!" he commanded, and you forced your eyes open, meeting his predatory stare.

He didn't pull away. He didn't even try to be careful. With one final, devastating thrust that felt like it reached your soul, he let out a choked, animalistic sound. He buried himself as deep as possible, his body locking up as he came, filling you with a heat that felt like a brand.

Bucky’s posture was still rigid, his large frame looming over you as he tried to navigate the shift in the room. He was hovering, his hands twitching like he wanted to touch you but wasn't sure if he was allowed to anymore. The mask of the anger had slipped, leaving behind a man who looked frustrated with himself, his brows furrowed in a dark, brooding line.

"I shouldn't have said that stuff," he muttered, his voice low and gritty, lacking the cruelty from before but still heavy with a dominating edge. "The 'toy' talk... it was out of line. I get a little unhinged when I’m in you, and I start pushing buttons I shouldn't touch. I’m a mess, doll. I don’t want you thinking—"

"Bucky," you interrupted, your voice small but steady.

He didn't stop, his words starting to tumble out faster, that pitiful, self-loathing streak of his starting to show. "I just don't want you to look at me and see some monster who enjoys hurting—"

"Bucky, stop," you said, reaching up and placing your hand over his mouth.

The physical contact silenced him instantly. He froze, his blue eyes wide and fixed on yours, looking like a stray dog waiting for a blow. You took a shaky breath, smoothing your palm over his scruffy jaw.

"I’m okay," you whispered, offering him a shy, genuine smile that reached your eyes. "Really. I liked it. All of it. The talk, the way you... I liked that you weren't gentle."

He blinked, the tension in his shoulders dropping just an inch. He searched your face for any sign of a lie, his hand coming up to cover yours, pressing your palm harder against his cheek.

"You liked it?" he repeated, his voice dropping back into that possessive, low register. The guilt was still there, but it was being overtaken by a dark sense of relief.

"I did," you confessed, your face heating up as your shyness returned. "I'm all yours, remember? You can't scare me away that easily."

A slow, much more grounded smirk pulled at his lips. It wasn't mean this time, but it was definitely still dominating. He leaned in, nipping at your earlobe before pulling you firmly against his chest, making sure you felt every inch of his solid weight.

"Good girl," he hummed, the vibration of his voice echoing in your chest. "Just making sure you know who's in charge, even when I'm being an idiot. Now, let’s get you cleaned up okay?”

Bucky stood up, his movements much slower and more careful now. He didn't say much as he reached down, his large hands hooking under your arms to hoist you up from the couch. Your legs felt like jelly, a soft sound of protest escaping you as your feet hit the floor, but he caught you easily, tucking you into his side.

He led you to the bathroom, the cool air of the hallway hitting your heated skin. He didn't make you do anything– instead, he sat you on the edge of the tub while he ran the water, testing the temperature with his flesh hand until it was just right. He found a soft washcloth, soaking it and wringing it out before kneeling between your knees.

The room was quiet, just the sound of the water dripping and the hum of the fan. Bucky was focused, his expression solemn as he gently wiped away the traces of the night from your body. His touch was incredibly light, a complete 180 from the way he had been gripping you minutes before. He didn't make any more jokes or mean comments; he just took care of you with a steady, grounding presence.

Once you were clean and wrapped in one of his oversized t-shirts that smelled like cedar and laundry soap, he led you back to the bedroom.

He climbed into the bed first, propping himself up against the headboard and opening his arm in a silent invitation. You crawled in beside him, collapsing against his chest with a tired sigh. The transition from the high intensity of the couch to the quiet safety of his arms made your eyes feel heavy almost instantly.

Bucky wrapped his metal arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side, while his other hand found its way into your hair, his fingers gently massaging your scalp.

"You're exhausted," he whispered, his chin resting on the top of your head.

"Mm," you hummed, your eyes already drifting shut. You felt completely safe, the lingering ache in your muscles a sweet reminder of how thoroughly he'd claimed you.

"I'm not going anywhere, doll," he promised. He pulled the duvet up over your shoulders, tucking it in tight. He stayed awake for a while, just watching the rhythm of your breathing even out. The "mean" version of him was tucked away for the night, replaced by the man who would do anything to keep you warm.

As you finally drifted off, the last thing you felt was the press of his lips against your temple and the steady, heavy beat of his heart under your ear.

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