La Babie

You were just roommates.

At least, that’s what Mattheo Riddle told everyone when the question came up, his voice low and lazy, like the words tasted boring on his tongue. But his mates weren’t stupid. They caught the way his dark eyes dragged down your body every time you walked into the kitchen, gaze lingering on the sway of your ass in those tight little shorts you wore around the flat. They noticed how his palm always found the small of your back when the group went out for drinks — possessive, warm, fingers pressing just hard enough through your shirt to make your skin tingle for hours afterward.

Just friends who happened to live together. That’s all.

Your cheeks burned pink every time your friends shot you those annoyed, knowing looks across the table. As if they didn’t see the way your jaw tightened and anger flared hot in your chest whenever some girl leaned too close to him at the bar, laughing too loud, touching his arm like she had any right. As if they didn’t notice how you stayed up late, stomach twisting with something that wasn’t quite hunger, waiting for the sound of his key in the lock so you could finally eat together — the two of you at the tiny kitchen table, shoulders brushing, the air thick with unspoken want.

Just friends…

…who fucked from time to time.

It was only natural, really. Being crammed into the same small flat, breathing the same air day after day. Coming home after a long, stressful shift, bodies buzzing with leftover adrenaline and frustration. The kind of tension that had to go somewhere.

Like right now, for example.

He’d had a brutal day — boss riding his ass, forced to stay late again until the fluorescent lights felt like they were burning holes behind his eyes. The second he shoved the front door open, the flat welcomed him with the rich, savory scent of the meal you’d cooked: garlic, herbs, and something warm and comforting that made his stomach growl. But the real hunger always hit when he saw you.

You looked fucking sinful in that tiny pajama set — soft fabric clinging to every curve, the hem riding high on your thighs, the thin straps slipping off one shoulder. Barefoot in the kitchen, humming softly as you plated his food, looking so damn domestic and delicious he felt his cock twitch instantly.

What else was he supposed to do?

Before you could even turn around fully, he was on you — strong hands gripping your waist, spinning you around and lifting you onto the cool kitchen counter in one smooth motion. The plates clattered behind you as he dropped to his knees right there on the tile, shoving your thighs apart with rough palms.

“Missed this pretty little pussy all day,” he growled against your inner thigh, voice rough from exhaustion and pure need. His hot breath ghosted over your already damp folds, making you shiver.

He didn’t bother with teasing tonight. Mattheo buried his face between your legs like a man starved, tongue dragging flat and slow over your swollen clit before flicking rapidly against the sensitive bundle of nerves. The wet sounds of his mouth working you filled the kitchen — slick, hungry slurps mixed with his low groans of satisfaction as he tasted you. Two long, thick fingers pushed inside your fluttering hole without warning, curling instantly to stroke that perfect spot that made your back arch and a broken moan tear from your throat.

Your hands flew to his messy black curls, tugging hard as your hips bucked against his face. The counter was cold against your ass, a sharp contrast to the scorching heat of his mouth and the relentless pump of his fingers, stretching and stroking you open. He sucked your puffy clit into his mouth, tongue swirling, while his fingers fucked you deeper, faster, the lewd squelch of your wetness echoing with every thrust.

“Fuck ngh— Matty—” you gasped, thighs trembling around his head.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny with your arousal, eyes dark and wicked. “Only fair, baby. You made me dinner…” His tongue flicked your clit again, making your whole body jolt. “…just gonna enjoy my dessert first.”

He dove back in, devouring you with renewed hunger — tongue relentless, fingers pumping harder, the pressure building fast and filthy until your legs shook and you came hard, crying out his name as your walls clenched around his fingers, soaking his chin and the counter beneath you.

Mattheo didn’t stop until you were whimpering and oversensitive, only then rising to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’d just finished the best meal of his life. His cock strained hard against his trousers as he leaned in, kissing you deep and dirty so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

“Best fucking part of my day,” he muttered against your lips, voice husky.

Then, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, he reached for the plate you’d made him.

“Just roommates,” he’d probably say later, cigarette between his lips while you were still catching your breath, legs still spread on the counter.

He was a constant, walking irritation. The crude, suggestive jokes he lobbed specifically to make your cheeks burn, the dark, rolling timbre of his laugh that reached you no matter how loud the room or how hard you tried to ignore it, and those damn storm-grey eyes that always , always, found you like they were hunting.

Tonight, though, he wasn’t just looking.

He was staring.

You’d pushed far beyond your usual boundaries for this last-minute Ravenclaw party. The black dress you’d chosen clung to every dangerous curve you normally kept hidden beneath tailored robes. Low-cut enough to feel sinful, short enough that every step reminded you how exposed you were. The firewhisky your dance partner kept tipping into your mouth had set your blood alight. Your skin tingling, cheeks flushed, the room pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

You didn’t even know his name properly. Jake? Jacob? Something forgettable. What you did notice was the clean, cedar-and-citrus scent of his cologne, the confident way his hands settled on your waist, the warm drag of his palms as they slid lower, guiding your hips to the heavy bass. For once you let yourself sink into it, let your body roll against his, let your fingers trail up the back of his neck. A small rebellion. A reminder that you didn’t need anyone’s permission to feel good.

But Theodore Nott's stupidly handsome face was ruining it.

He hadn’t moved from his spot against the far wall. His long legs crossed at the ankle, cigarette hanging loosely between two long fingers, smoke curling lazily upward. His eyes were locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach clench. The easy smirk he usually wore was gone. In its place was something darker. Jaw tight, pupils blown, a muscle ticking beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone.

You should have looked away.

Instead you arched your back a little more dramatically, pressed your ass back against your partner’s hips, let your head tip back onto his shoulder so your throat was bared. If Theo wanted to glare, let him choke on the sight.

Theo wished he was choking.

It would be a cleaner explanation for the vise tightening around his throat every time that Hufflepuff prick’s hands wandered a fraction too low, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of your hip like he had any claim to you. Choking would be easier than admitting to Enzo, to Blaise, to fucking anyone that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, of all people. The same sharp-tongued Slytherin who’d spent years trading venom with him like it was fucking foreplay.

He hated almost everything about you.

The way your smart-ass mouth could cut deeper than any hex, quick and precise, always aimed right at his ego. The infuriating kindness you showed everyone else. Your dumb soft smiles for first-years, easy laughs with the girls in the common room, even a patient ear for that whiny Ravenclaw prefect who wouldn’t shut up about N.E.W.T.s. Everyone but him. To Theo, you were ice and barbs, and he reveled in melting that frost just to watch you flush crimson and spit fire back.

He loved to fluster you. Loved the way your eyes would narrow, lips parting in outrage before you snarled something cutting. Loved pushing until your composure cracked and you shoved him against a wall or stormed off with that delicious sway in your hips.

What he did not love—what was currently carving a hole through his chest—was that fucking dress. Black fabric so tight it looked painted on, clinging to every dip and swell like it was daring him to peel it off. The neckline plunged low, silver snake pendant glinting between the soft swell of your breasts with every breath. The hem skimmed scandalously high, flashing perfect thigh with each sway to the music. Why did you even own something so offending? And that Hufflepuff nerd was treating your waist like his personal playground.

Theo’s cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers, ash crumbling to the floor as he watched the boy’s palm slide lower, cupping the underside of your ass for one brazen second. Your head tipped back on a laugh all light and tipsy and fucking irritating. Something in Theo’s gut twisted viciously at just the idea of you leaving with him.

Before the thought could even solidify fully in his mind and before he could talk himself out of it with another drag of smoke or a muttered curse. Theo crushed the cigarette under the heel of his boot, the ember hissing out against the sticky floor like a warning he ignored.

Ruining your little dance was better than letting you slip away into some dimly lit corridor with that spineless Hufflepuff, letting him fumble through disappointing, half-hearted sex that would leave you unsatisfied and scowling tomorrow. Really, if you thought about it, he was doing you a favor. Protecting you from mediocrity.

He cut through the crowd like a shadow given purpose, long strides eating distance until he was right behind your date. You didn’t startle when his presence registered—didn’t flinch at the sudden wall of heat and cedar-and-smoke cologne that enveloped you both. Your partner, though? He stiffened instantly, shoulders hunching as if he’d felt the blade before it even touched skin.

Theo’s eyes were cold steel, lips curved in that dark, amused tilt that promised violence wrapped in velvet. The Hufflepuff spun, took one look at the towering Slytherin looming over him with broad shoulders blocking the light, jaw clenched, grey eyes promising something psychotic. The color drained from his face before you even made eye contact.

“S-sorry, I—uh—getting a drink,” he stammered, tail tucked so fast it was almost comical. Then he was gone, melting into the throng like he’d never existed.

You feigned disappointment beautifully, eyes narrowing into slits as you turned to face the culprit. Chin high, lips pursed in that way that always made Theo want to bite them until they bled. “Do you need something, Nott? Think scaring my date off is going to finally get me to fuck you?”

Theo closed his eyes for one single, measured second, inhaling through his nose, forcing the red haze of rage and raw want back behind his teeth. He wanted to bend you over the nearest table right then, yank that sinful dress up around your waist, and spank your ass raw until it glowed crimson, until tears streaked your cheeks and you sobbed apologies between broken moans. The fantasy alone made his cock throb painfully against the confines of his trousers, thickening further at the memory of how you’d looked strutting past him earlier in this horrible dress.

He didn’t think twice.

One hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your waist and yanking you flush against him hard enough that your breasts crushed to his chest, hips slotting together with brutal precision. His erection dug shamelessly into your lower belly, thick and insistent through the fabric, letting you feel exactly what your little show had done to him.

His breath was hot against the shell of your ear, voice a low growl that vibrated straight down your spine. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

A shiver ripped through you traitorous and immediate. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, slick heat blooming between them at the dark promise in his tone. Your voice came out embarrassingly breathy, cheeks burning despite yourself. “Yeah? Or what?”

Theo’s free hand slid up, cupping the back of your neck, his thumb pressing just under your jaw, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to meet his molten gaze. His lips brushed the corner of your mouth, not quite a kiss, more a threat.

“Or I’ll fuck it,” he whispered, each word deliberate, filthy. “Right here. Shove you to your knees in front of every single person in this room, pull that smart mouth open, and stuff my cock down your throat until you’re choking on me. Until the only thing you can say is my name around my dick.”

Your breath hitched audibly, nipples hardening against the thin fabric of your dress, core clenching around nothing at the vivid image. You hated how wet the threat made you, hated how your body responded to his violence like it was praise.

Theo felt the subtle tremor in your frame, the way your hips shifted forward just enough to grind against the hard length pressing into you. His grip tightened, possessive, bruising.

“You think that little Hufflepuff could ever make you this worked up?” he murmured, lips grazing your pulse point, teeth scraping just enough to sting. “He’d fumble, come too fast, leave you aching and unsatisfied. Me? I’d ruin you. Split you open on my cock until you’re sobbing, begging, coming so hard you forget how to hate me.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, whether to shove him away or pull him closer, you aren't sure. “You’re delusional.”

“Liar.” His thigh wedged between yours without warning, pressing up against the damp heat soaking through your lace. The friction sent sparks shooting up your spine; a soft, involuntary whimper escaped before you could swallow it.

Theo’s eyes darkened to near-black. “Doesn't feel like I'm delusional sweetheart. Now tell me again how much you hate me while you’re dripping down my thigh.”

You opened your mouth but he swallowed any sound you could make with a bruising kiss. All teeth and fury and years of tension snapping like a curse finally cast. You bit back just as hard, nails raking down his back, tasting smoke and whisky and the sharp edge of everything you’d both pretended not to want.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing ragged, foreheads pressed together.

“Upstairs,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Now. Or I make good on that promise right here.”

You didn’t argue.

You let him haul you through the crowd with his hand possessive on the small of your back, erection still evident, pulse roaring between your legs, knowing the night was about to burn everything you’d built between you to ash.

The door clicked shut with a finality that echoed in the sudden quiet, the muffled bass from the party downstairs now just a distant throb, like a second heartbeat.

Theo didn’t give you time to breathe.

He spun you, shoved your back against the wood so hard the breath punched out of your lungs in a soft gasp. The impact rattled your spine, but the sting was nothing compared to the heat of him crowding in immediately after. His broad chest pinning you, hips grinding forward so you felt every thick, insistent inch of his cock straining against his trousers.

One large hand roamed greedily, shamelessly. Palm sliding up your dress to cup the heavy swell of your breast, thumb dragging rough circles over your nipple until it peaked hard beneath the thin fabric. The other hand yanked his shirt over his head in one impatient motion, muscles flexing and rippling under pale skin dusted with dark hair. He tossed the shirt somewhere behind him without looking, but your mouth runs dry at the sight.

Merlin, he was devastating.

Every line of him carved like he’d been sculpted to ruin you. Sharp collarbones, defined pecs that shifted with each ragged breath, the deep cut of his V disappearing into low-slung trousers, abs tightening as he pressed closer. A faint scar curved along his left ribcage as if proof he wasn’t just pretty but also dangerous made your core clench around nothing.

You hated how perfect he was. Hated how it made the ache between your thighs sharpen into something painful.

No time to dwell on your hatred. Theo’s fingers hook into the fragile lace of your soaked panties that cling obscenely to your folds and shoves them down your thighs in one brutal tug. The fabric caught briefly on the swell of your ass before sliding to pool at your ankles. He stepped back half a pace, just enough to rake his gaze over you like he was memorizing every filthy detail.

Your dress was rucked up around your hips, silk bunched and wrinkled. Thighs slick with your own arousal, glistening in the low lamplight filtering through the cracked window. Hair a wild tangle from his earlier grip, lips swollen and red from biting back moans, cheeks flushed a deep, guilty crimson. Eyes glassy, pupils blown wide with want and fury in equal measure.

He stared like you were art he’d waited years to defile.

A masterpiece, he thought. Every forbidden fantasy he’d buried under layers of spite and cigarettes finally breathing in front of him. Wet. Trembling. His to take.

You reached for the hem of your dress, fingers trembling as you started to drag it over your head, needing to feel skin on skin, needing more.

Theo’s hand snapped around your wrist like iron. Hard and unyielding. He pinned it above your head against the door, the wood cool against your knuckles.

“The dress stays on,” he rasped, voice wrecked, thick with Italian gravel and something darker. His thumb pressed into the racing pulse at your inner wrist, feeling it flutter like a trapped bird. “I’ve spent all night imagining bending you over in this fucking thing. Watching it ride up while I fuck you stupid. You don’t get to take it off until I’ve ruined it.”

Your breath hitched in half protest, half plea. The silk was already clinging damply to your skin where you’d leaked onto it, the fabric suddenly too tight and imposing.

Theo released your wrist only to slide both hands under the hem, palming your bare ass and lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, heels digging into the small of his back as he ground his clothed cock against your dripping center. The rough drag of his zipper and the hard heat beneath it made you whimper loud, broken, embarrassing.

“Feel that?” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you open that smart fucking mouth. Every time you glare at me like you want to hex me into next week.” He rocked forward again, deliberate, letting the ridge of him catch against your swollen clit. “And now you’re going to take every inch while this dress is still on you. So when you walk out of here later with your legs shaking and cunt still dripping. You'll feel me with every fucking step and remember exactly who ruined this sinful dress.”

You tried to snap something back, some cutting retort or some kind of denial, but it dissolved into a moan when his fingers found your entrance, two sliding in without preamble. Deep. Rough. Curling immediately against a deep spot that made your vision blur around the edges.

“Fuck—Theo-”

“There it is,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice low and filthy. Deep rooted satisfaction bloomed behind his chest, the nickname slipping out so easily when you've refused to use anything but his full name in years. “My name on that pretty mouth. Say it again while I stretch you open. Tell me how much you hate me while your pussy sucks my fingers like it’s starving.”

He pumped harder, scissoring, thumb finding your clit and rubbing merciless circles. Your hips bucked, chasing, thighs trembling around his waist. The door rattled hard with every thrust of his hand and even you, miss perfect, couldn't seem to care about the prospect of anyone hearing you.

“You’re going to come like this first,” he ordered, teeth sinking into the soft skin below your ear hard enough to mark. “Gonna soak my hand, then I’m flipping you around, bending you over and fucking you until you can’t remember why you ever hated me in the first place.”

Your nails scored down his bare back, leaving red trails he’d happily wear like badges tomorrow.

“Promise?” you gasped, pleasure taking over every rationale part of your brain.

Theo’s laugh was dark, dangerous “Trust me, sweetheart,” he breathed, curling his fingers harder, faster, “I promise.”

Your orgasm hit like an explosion. Shattering, violent, thighs locking around him as you pulsed and clenched, slick coating his wrist, dripping down to stain the silk bunched at your hips. You cried out his name unabashed and he swallowed the sound with a bruising kiss, drinking every tremor, every broken whimper.

The tremors still rippled through your thighs in aftershocks that made your knees threaten to buckle when Theo flipped you with brutal economy.

One hand fisted the silk bunched at your waist, the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, and he spun you so your front slammed back against the door. The wood was cool and unyielding against your overheated skin; your cheek pressed flat to it, breasts crushed to the panels, nipples scraping painfully sensitive through the thin fabric with every heaving breath. The latch rattled faintly from the force.

He wished, fiercely and uncharacteristically irrationally, that he’d dragged you all the way down twisting corridors to the Slytherin dungeons. To his own four-poster, heavy drapes drawn, sheets already carrying his scent. Somewhere he could chain this moment, repeat it until sunrise, mark you so thoroughly that even if this was the only night he ever got inside you, you’d wake up tomorrow feeling him in every bruised inch of your body. Just in case you never let him again.

But patience had died somewhere between the wall downstairs and the first landing. This anonymous room above Ravenclaw Tower with it's bare stone, single narrow window letting in pale moonlight and faint smell of dust and old books, would have to be enough. The door would have to be enough.

Your back arched immediately, involuntarily, spine curving like it had been trained to seek him out. Your cunt throbbed in vicious, oversensitive pulses, still swollen, still leaking from your release. Every tiny shift of your hips made the ruined silk drag across your folds, a cruel reminder of how thoroughly he’d already wrecked you.

Theo stepped in close. His bare chest pressed to your back, skin fever-hot, heart slamming against your shoulder blades. One long arm snaked around your front; calloused fingers wrapped around the slim column of your throat, not squeezing just yet. Possessive. Just like all the times he'd thought of this in his head, he almost moaned at just the idea he was choking slytherin's only good girl. His thumb stroked once along the frantic flutter of your pulse while his other hand shoved between your bodies, guiding himself.

He kicked his trousers and boxers aside in one impatient motion. The heavy length of him sprang free thick, flushed dark, veins standing out under pale skin, the blunt head already glistening with pre-cum. It slapped wetly against the curve of your ass before he angled it down.

No warning.

The fat head shoved against your soaked entrance, parting slick folds with inexorable pressure. Your whole body locked up. Muscles seizing, breath snagging sharp in your chest as the sheer size registered all over again. He was impossibly thick, stretching you open inch by burning inch even before he’d pushed inside properly. The stretch was obscene: a deep, aching burn that bordered on too much, the kind that made your eyes water and your thighs tremble harder.

There was no possible way you could take all of him.

No fucking way.

And there was absolutely zero chance in hell you’d ever admit it out loud.

Theo felt it instantly—the sudden, involuntary clench of your walls, the way your whole body locked up the second he tried to push an inch deeper.

He really should have known.

Some smug, rational corner of his mind had always known.

He was big. Thick. Unapologetically so. He’d never had to wonder whether a girl could take him; most of them either begged for it or tapped out early with wide eyes and shaky apologies. But you? Your perfect, dripping cunt had never been properly stretched, never been forced to make room for someone like him. Of course it hadn’t. Look at the boys you let touch you. Look at the soft-handed loser you danced with downstairs, the ones who probably came in their trousers before they even got your dress off. They’d never come close to filling you the way he was about to.

Your body knew it too, even if your mouth would never admit it.

The tension snapped through you like a taut wire, your spine stiffening against his chest, thighs quivering, breath catching in sharp, shallow hitches. Your walls fluttered wildly around the blunt head of him, clenching in reflexive panic, trying to push him out even as your traitorous body betrayed you in the most humiliating way possible. Another hot, slippery rush of slick coating his cock, dripping down the seam of your folds and onto the floorboards beneath you.

He could feel every pulse of resistance, every helpless spasm as your cunt fought to accommodate him.

And fuck if that didn’t make him harder.

Theo’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding for a second as he forced himself to hold still barely an inch deeper than before, letting you feel the impossible stretch, letting you feel exactly how much of him was still waiting. His hand on your throat flexed once, thumb stroking the frantic flutter of your pulse like he was soothing a wild animal.

His grip on your throat tightened just enough. Not cruel, but deliberate. Commanding. The pressure curled your spine further back against his chest, forcing your head to tip, neck arching in a long, vulnerable line so you had no choice but to look at him over your shoulder.

Storm-grey eyes met yours and held. Dark. Molten. Pupils blown so wide the silver was nothing but thin, razor-sharp rings around endless black. He looked wrecked already. Sweat beading at his temples, dark curls clinging damply to his forehead, lips parted on shallow, ragged breaths, and still somehow in complete control. Like he could unravel you with nothing more than that stare.

“Relax,” he rasped, voice pure gravel and smoke, fraying at the edges with the effort it took not to just snap his hips forward and bury himself to the hilt. His lips brushed the shell of your ear soft, almost tender, before his teeth grazed the sensitive skin there. A slow, deliberate scrape that sent fresh heat flooding between your thighs.

“Finally figured out how to get you to shut the fuck up.” The words were low, mocking, laced with dark satisfaction. He rocked forward another torturously shallow inch, barely anything, but enough to make your walls flutter and burn, enough to drag a choked whimper from your throat that you couldn’t swallow back.

“You took my fingers, baby,” he murmured, lips curving against your ear in something too feral to be called a smile. “Two of them. Deep. Stretching you open while you soaked my hand and begged with those pretty little gasps. You can take my cock.”

Another slow, relentless push. The thick ridge of him dragged against every swollen, oversensitive inch inside you. Your cunt spasmed, clenching hard in reflexive protest even as more slick leaked out around him, dripping obscenely down the seam of your folds, coating his balls, trickling warm and sticky onto the floorboards beneath you both.

Theo groaned low, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back where he pressed against you. His free hand slid down to grip your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice rough with something dangerously close to awe. “Trying so fucking hard to keep that smart mouth closed now. But your pussy’s telling the truth, isn’t it? Clenching around me like it’s scared I’ll pull out. Dripping like you’ve been waiting as long as I have for this.”

The stretch was vicious. A deep, searing burn that radiated outward from where he was splitting you open, every ridge and vein dragging against your swollen, oversensitive walls like he was carving his claim into you one brutal centimeter at a time. Tears pooled hot and immediate in the corners of your eyes, not from pain alone but from the overwhelming collision of too much and not enough. Your body screaming it couldn’t possibly take more while your cunt clenched greedily around him, betraying every hateful word you’d ever spat in his direction.

He still held your head angled back by the throat, fingers firm around your pulse, forcing you to keep looking at him over your shoulder. No escape. No hiding the way your lips trembled, the way your pupils were blown wide with a mix of fury and want, the way tears clung to your lashes before one finally slipped free and tracked down your cheek.

Your thighs shook violently, muscles quivering so hard they threatened to give out. Your nails scraped uselessly at the wood above your head, leaving faint, desperate gouges in the ancient oak as if you could claw your way out of this moment, out of him. A broken sound tore from your throat before you could clamp your teeth down on it. The satisfied look on his face was enough to piss you off.

“Fuck. You.”

The words came out wrecked, breathy, more plea than insult. Your voice cracked on the last syllable, raw from screaming his name earlier, from biting back every whimper he’d already dragged out of you tonight.

Theo’s thumb stroked once along the frantic hammer of your pulse, the barest whisper of tenderness in the middle of all this violence. His lips curved against the shell of your ear, dark and dangerous.

“Oh trust me,” he rasped, voice low and frayed, thick with the same barely-leashed rage that had simmered between you for years. “I plan to, all night long.”

He punctuated the words with another slow, punishing roll of his hips and burying that last thick inch until he was seated so deep you felt him in your fucking throat. The blunt head kissed your cervix with brutal precision; your whole body locked up in a full shudder, walls spasming wildly around the impossible girth of him. Slick gushed out around where you were joined. Hot, obscene, dripping steadily down your thighs, coating his balls, pooling on the floorboards beneath you both with soft, wet patters that echoed in the quiet room.

You hate him.

Hate how perfectly he fills you.

Hate how your body arches back into him like it had been waiting for this exact moment for years.

Hate the way fresh tears slip free even as your hips tilted higher, silently begging for more.

Theo felt every tremor, every flutter, every helpless clench. His free hand slid from your hip to palm the curve of your ass. Fingers digging in hard enough to leave crescent bruises before he cracked his palm down once, sharp and stinging. The slap rang out; your cunt clamped down so hard around him he groaned low in his throat, hips stuttering for the first time.

“Still hate me?” he growled, lips brushing the tear track on your cheek, tasting salt. “Still want to pretend this isn’t exactly what you’ve been dripping for every time you glared at me across the common room? Every time you shoved past me in the corridor and your breath hitched?”

Another thrust harder this time. The door rattled violently behind you. Your breasts dragged against the wood through the silk, nipples scraping painfully into sensitive peaks that sent sparks straight to your core.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice fraying into something darker, more desperate. “Tell me to fuck off while your pussy milks me like it’s terrified I’ll stop. Tell me you hate me while you’re crying on my cock.”

Every thrust he gave you made your stomach warm, low molten heat spreading outward like liquid fire, coiling tighter with each brutal snap of his hips. The door at your back rattled in time with the rhythm he set: deep, punishing, unhurried enough to make you feel every single inch dragging out before slamming back in. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him, still hypersensitive from the last orgasm he’d ripped out of you, every ridge and vein stroking places you didn’t even know could ache like this.

His hand on your throat flexed, squeezing just enough to make stars flicker at the edges of your vision while his other palm slid down to grip the front of your hip, holding you hard against him. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed obscenely in the small room, mingling with the slick sounds of your arousal coating him, dripping down your thighs in steady, shameful rivulets.

“You can spit venom at me tomorrow,” he continued, voice fraying at the edges with his own building need. “You can glare across the common room and pretend this never happened. But we both know the truth.”

He pulled back almost all the way leaving you empty, aching, walls fluttering around nothing, then slammed home again, burying himself so deep your toes curled against the floorboards.

“You’ll always want more after tonight.”

The words land like a hex so quiet, certain, devastating. Because he was right. You hated that he was right. Hated how your body arched back into him, hips tilting higher despite yourself, chasing the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness only he's ever given you. Hated how fresh tears slipped down your cheeks even as your cunt spasmed around him again, milking him like it never wanted to let him go.

Theo’s forehead dropped to the curve of your shoulder for a heartbeat, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“Fuck—Theo—”

“Look at me,” he growled, fingers flexing tighter around your throat enough pressure to make your head spin sweetly, enough to remind you who owned this moment. “Watch my face while I fill this greedy little cunt.”

You obeyed with glassy eyes, lips parted on shallow pants, staring back at him as he sank impossibly deeper.

“So fucking tight,” Theo growled against the shell of your ear, voice raw and frayed, each word punched out in time with the brutal snap of his hips. “You can hate me forever. But I’m the only one who gets to fuck this pussy.”

Your head was spinning with pleasure crashing into the sweet, dizzy pressure around your throat, blurring the line between oxygen deprivation and the white-hot ecstasy building low in your belly. His fingers flexed once, loosening just a fraction, just enough for you to drag in a ragged, desperate breath—before he slammed back into you, hard and deep, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls like a curse being cast over and over.

“Fucking say it,” he snarled, teeth sinking into the soft skin below your ear hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark. His hand on your throat tightened again, rhythmic, possessive, making stars burst behind your closed lids. “Say who this cunt belongs to now.”

Your voice came out wrecked, high and broken, trembling on the edge of another shattering orgasm.

“You, Theo, please.”

The words slipped out soft, broken, desperate and the second they hit the air, something in Theo snapped.

There was a time, not long ago, when he was certain hell would freeze over before you ever begged him for anything. Before you’d ever let that pretty mouth form his name like a plea instead of a curse. He’d spent years imagining it in the dark corners of his mind. Your voice cracking, your pride crumbling, you finally admitting what he already knew: that beneath all the venom and glares, you wanted him just as badly as he wanted to ruin you.

And now here you were.

Begging.

For him.

Gods, he had a sickening feeling he'd do whatever you asked if you just tacked the word please on the end.

His pace turned feral.

He slammed into you faster, each thrust a punishing claim that rattled the door on its hinges and knocked the breath from your lungs in sharp, staccato gasps. The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin filled the room, louder than the distant party thump, louder than your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. His cock drove deep, relentless, the thick head kissing your cervix with every brutal snap of his hips until stars burst behind your closed lids.

Your eyes rolled back, whites flashing, head thunking against the wood as pleasure overloaded every nerve. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but feel him: the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness that made your toes curl against the floorboards and your thighs quake uncontrollably.

“Again,” he growled, voice wrecked and commanding, lips pressed to the sweat-slick curve of your neck. His hand on your throat sliding up to fist your hair instead, yanking your head back so he could see your face. “Say it again. Beg me like you fucking mean it.”

“T-Theo—ah!—fuck—please!”

His name fell from your lips like a chant, broken and breathless, each syllable punched out by the next punishing thrust. Tears streamed freely now with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain, dripping down your cheeks to mix with the sweat and the faint smear of mascara.

“That’s it,” he rasped, teeth grazing your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to leave another blooming mark. “My name. Only my fucking name. No one else gets to hear you like this. No one else gets to feel this perfect little pussy.”

He angled his hips, shifting just enough, and the ridge of him dragged over a swollen, sensitive spot inside you with devastating accuracy. Once. Twice. Relentless.

“Come,” he ordered, voice fraying. “Come on my cock right here, milk me while you scream my name into this fucking door.”

Your whole body seized.

The orgasm built so fast it stole your breath, coiling vicious and tight before exploding outward in a blinding rush. You screamed his name raw, echoing, shattering off stone walls, cunt clamping down so hard around him his rhythm stuttered, hips slamming forward one last time as he groaned low and guttural against your ear.

"Theo- I can't take-"

“You can take it, baby,” he snarled against your neck, teeth sinking into the soft skin just below your ear. “Let the whole tower hear how good you cum when I fuck you stupid against a door. You'll take every fucking drop, gonna fill you up just to watch it drip down these pretty legs while you try to walk back like nothing happened.”

His orgasm stole his breath only seconds later. Hips slamming deep, burying himself to the root as he came with a broken groan. Hot, thick spurts flooded you, spilling out around his cock, dripping down your thighs to join the mess already on the floor.

Theo’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing the bite mark he’d left there, soft now, almost reverent.

“Say it one more time,” he murmured, voice hoarse, stripped raw. “Just once more.”

You swallowed, throat dry, voice wrecked, but the words came anyway, quiet and honest in the aftermath.

“Theo… please.”

His low, breathless laugh vibrated against your skin. “Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a slow kiss to the nape of your neck. “That’s my girl.”

He didn’t pull out yet.

He stayed buried deep. Still half-hard inside you, arms banding around your waist to keep you upright as your legs threatened to give out completely.

“We’re not leaving this room until I hear it a hundred more times,” he promised, lips curving against your ear. “And maybe not even then.”

The door stayed locked.

Your dress stayed on ruined, clinging, soaked.

You weren't sure what was going on behind, your face all smushed and comfortable by the satin. Absolutely nothing would've prepared you for what was coming.

He warns you before shifting, tugging your hip upward. The change in position surprised you. Being forced to relax and slacken entirely, lower half of your body to the bed. Clark holds your waist firm, not letting you feel an ounce of exertion.

You supposed it was worth it to overlook the embarrassment of having your ass up in the air. The bigger concern was him not having moved for a solid minute. Your cunt pulses at nothing in anticipation.

"Oh hell, Clark. What are you — hhrk!"

The feeling of wet, soft flesh wasn't something you anticipated. It wasn't like the consistency of lube, far cry from his fingers either — considering both of them rested on the globes of your ass.

You blink.

White hot flashes nearly blind you when Clark's entire mouth drags over your slick cunt, sluurping up your essence at one go.

There was no mistaking it now.

A torn whine leaves you, and he flattens his tongue against the puffy folds, continuing the greedy sucks that had you jerking your hips to his face.

You were horrified at the sudden, yet clit-pulsing foreign intrusion into your folds. But it turns to pleasure at the drop of the hat, the moment he probes into your velvety walls. Groaning low into your cunt, sending vibrations that damn near made you cum on his face right then.

"Oh — fuck! There. There. There."

Clark's smiling into your pussy, squeezing your cheeks apart to spread your heat, nudging his nose right where you kept trying to grind back into.

If he were able to talk, he would've surely praised you for telling him what you needed from him.

This was for Violet, you told yourself. Totally, completely, one hundred percent for Violet.

The same Violet who’d stood at the mailbox last week and announced to the entire street that “Daddy burns the bottoms of all the Christmas cookies. It’s tragic.”

You’d laughed, made some sympathetic noise, and then gone home and immediately pulled out flour and sugar like your life depended on it.

And okay, maybe you were also weak for the very large, very handsome man who’d moved in with her in September.

Bucky Barnes. Late thirties. Single dad. Wore flannels that strained over his chest and gray sweatpants that should count as a public menace. The HOA pretended to be concerned he’d put up “noncompliant” decorations; really, they just wanted excuses to loiter by his driveway when he carried heavy things.

You’d tried very hard not to stare when he’d hauled a Christmas tree off the roof of his truck like it weighed nothing, biceps flexing, cheeks pink from the cold.

You inhaled, balanced the cookie tin on one hip, and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

Bucky filled the doorway like he owned it—broad shoulders, scruffy jaw, hair pushed back with his fingers and already falling forward again. He was wearing a dark green henley and worn jeans, one socked foot and one bare, as if you’d interrupted him mid-puttering.

“Hey, neighbor.” His smile was slow and easy, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You out here spreading Christmas cheer?”

Your breath puffed white between you. “Something like that,” you said. “Violet mentioned your tragic cookie situation.”

He groaned. “Did she?”

You held up the tin. “I come bearing reinforcements.”

His face softened. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, stepping back and swinging the door wide. “But I am absolutely not turning down free cookies. C’mon in before you freeze.”

Warmth wrapped around you as soon as you stepped inside, the house smelling like pine and cinnamon and the faint spice of his cologne. The living room glowed with Christmas: too-big tree in the front window, multicolored lights, paper snowflakes under Scotch tape, a lopsided angel on top. Animated snowmen sang on the TV.

“COOKIE FAIRY?” Violet barreled in from the couch, socks sliding on the hardwood. She slammed into your middle, tiny arms wrapping around your waist. “You did it!”

“Hi, bug,” you laughed, juggling the tin to hug her one-armed. “I brought some. Think you can help me eat them?”

“Yes.” She grabbed the tin with both hands like it was a sacred relic. “Dad, look! They’re in a real tin and everything.”

“Nothing but the best for my favorite elf,” you said.

“I thought I was your favorite elf,” Bucky muttered.

Violet gave him a look. “You’re Santa. Obviously.”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “Upgraded. I’ll take it.”

He glanced back at you, eyes warm. “Kitchen?”

“Lead the way.” You bent down to pull off your boots.

He stepped behind you without thinking, one hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you around the edge of the rug. It was nothing, really. He touched you like that a lot—steadying you on icy sidewalks, nudging you through thresholds, fingers warm and broad and safe.

Your body, naturally, made a massive deal out of it.

You followed him toward the kitchen archway. Violet scampered ahead, already wrestling with the lid of the tin.

You were just lifting your foot to step through when she shrieked.

“WAIT!”

You froze. Bucky’s hand tightened slightly on your back. “Vi?”

“You can’t go under yet!” she yelped, scrambling off the step stool. She skidded across the floor to the pantry and dove into a pile of boxes and craft supplies. Glitter snowflakes. A garland that had lost half its fake berries. Plastic holly.

And a cluster of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon.

Oh.

She clutched it triumphantly. “Gotta put this up.” She ran back, standing on tiptoe in the middle of the doorway. She stretched. The nail above the frame was just out of reach.

Bucky sighed, but his mouth was tipped up at the corners. “C’mere, trouble.”

He scooped her up like she weighed nothing. She looped the mistletoe over the nail with grave concentration, tongue stuck out in focus, then patted it.

“Now you can’t go under without kissing,” she declared when he set her down. “It’s the rules.”

Heat shot straight to your face. You suddenly became incredibly aware of exactly where you were standing.

Right under it.

Bucky’s gaze went up to the mistletoe, then down to you, then away so fast you almost heard his vertebrae crack.

“Vi, we talked about weaponized mistletoe,” he said weakly. “You can’t just… ambush people.”

“It’s Christmas.” She shrugged, unbothered. “Anyway, you never kiss anyone, Daddy. It was getting bored.” She hugged the cookie tin and trotted into the kitchen, humming under her breath.

You wished you could join her in obliviousness instead of wanting the floorboards to open up beneath you.

Bucky rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pinker than the cold warranted. “Uh. Sorry. She’s been on a holiday rom-com binge.”

“It’s okay.” You forced a laugh, looking up at the plastic berries. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah, that’s what my blood pressure says.”

He stepped carefully through the doorway, avoiding brushing the mistletoe with his shoulder like it was booby-trapped. You followed—definitely not staring at how his shirt stretched across his back—ducking just slightly.

The kitchen was warm and bright, counter already scattered with Violet's craft debris. She’d opened the tin and arranged a dozen cookies on the Santa plate, humming to herself.

“Those snowmen have seen some things,” Bucky remarked, leaning against the counter.

“Don’t be mean, they’re sensitive,” you said. “Besides, you try piping frosting with cold fingers.”

“I never said I could do better.” He reached for one, broke it in half, steam curling from the center. “Oh, that’s…doll. You’re going to ruin store-bought for her.”

“Good,” Violet said through a mouthful. “They taste like sadness.”

You laughed, the tension easing. The next half hour blurred into something easy and golden—coffee brewing, cocoa for Violet, stories about disastrous childhood Christmases. Bucky talked with his hands, wrists rolling, veins shifting under skin every time he reached for the sugar. Violet tried—and failed—to get more sprinkles than cookie onto her reindeer brownie.

Eventually she yawned mid-ramble, blinking slow.

“There it is,” Bucky said softly. “The crash.”

“No,” she argued reflexively, rubbing at her eyes. “I wanna watch the Grinch.”

“You can watch the Grinch tomorrow. Right now, it’s bedtime for elves.” He wiped frosting off her chin with his thumb, kissed her forehead. “Go brush your teeth. I’ll be up in five.”

She slid off the chair, clutching another cookie. “Can I say goodnight to the cookie fairy first?”

“Of course,” you said, heart squeezing as she hugged you again. “Sleep well, kiddo.”

She shuffled off down the hall. Bucky watched her go, something soft and fierce all at once in his face.

He looked back at you, shoulders loosening. “I’m gonna go do battle with the bedtime routine,” he said. “If you wanna crash on the couch, I’ll walk you home when I’m done.”

“I can walk myself,” you said automatically, warmth flooding you anyway. “But I’ll stick around. You know. In case you need backup against the Grinch.”

He smirked. “Pretty sure you’re the reason she’s asking for a puppy and a pony now, but okay, you can be backup.”

He hesitated, then brushed his fingers over your elbow, just once. “Hey,” he added, voice quieter. “Thank you. For this. She’s gonna be talking about ‘cookie fairy night’ until June.”

Your chest ached. “You’re welcome.”

He went upstairs, his tread heavy and familiar. The house settled around you. Cartoon snowmen grinned silently from the TV in the next room.

You cleaned up without really thinking—stacked plates, ran water in the sink, wiped stray smears of frosting off the table. It all felt domestic in a way that made your heart ache. Easy. Natural. Like you’d always been here.

When you finished, you wandered back toward the living room, tying your hair up off your neck.

And paused under the arch.

The mistletoe dangled above, casting a small, smug shadow on the floor.

You tipped your head back, looking up at it. Stupid plastic thing. Stupid rom-com rules. Stupid way your body buzzed just thinking about Bucky’s mouth on you for more than the brief brush of his knuckles guiding you around furniture.

You were still glaring at it when the floor creaked behind you.

“Victory,” Bucky murmured. “The elf has fallen.”

You turned. He was at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, henley rumpled, hair even messier than before.

“How many stories?” you asked.

“Three. And a song. And a solemn vow to make gingerbread houses tomorrow that could withstand a hurricane.” He padded down the stairs, eyes on you. “You still—”

He stopped halfway through the sentence when he realized where you were standing.

His gaze flicked up. Caught on the mistletoe. Came back down to you.

You felt his whole body go tight.

“Look at that,” you said lightly, your heart hammering loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Ambushed again.”

He blew out a breath, something like a laugh, something like a curse. “Yeah. Seems to be a recurring theme tonight.”

He started to skirt wide, like he had before.

Recklessness surged up under your ribs.

“Aww,” you said, letting your mouth curl into a slow smile. “Is the big brave single dad scared of a little Christmas tradition?”

He stilled.

Slowly, very slowly, his head turned back toward you.

“Careful,” he said, voice deeper now, the word more warning than joke. He closed the distance in a handful of measured strides, stopping just inside the doorway, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “You keep tempting an old man like that…”

Your back bumped the opposite side of the frame as you instinctively leaned away and he followed, one large hand coming up to brace on the wood beside your head. He wasn’t blocking your path so much as caging you there, his chest nearly brushing yours, his scent all around you.

“…he’s gonna forget he’s supposed to be the responsible one,” he finished, eyes gone dark.

Your pulse fluttered against your throat. “Since when do old men look like you?” you managed.

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so strained. “You think I don’t notice you?” he asked, low. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at me? The way you always just happen to have leftovers, or spare coffee, or—” his mouth twitched “—emergency cookies?”

Heat crawled up your neck. “Maybe I’m just a nice neighbor.”

“You’re a lot of things,” he said. “Nice. Smart. Way too good to be stuck in my kitchen letting my kid con you into crafts. And you’re driving me insane.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky—”

“I’ve been trying real hard to leave this alone,” he went on, like a confession he couldn’t stop now. “You’re younger. You got your whole life ahead of you. You didn’t sign up for a package deal with a cranky old man and a seven-year-old who thinks glitter is a personality trait.”

“First of all,” you said, voice stronger than you felt, “you’re not old. You’re just…well-marinated.”

His brow shot up.

“Second,” you went on, heart pounding, “you and Violet are kind of my favorite people on this street. And I don’t bring homemade cookies to people I don’t want to impress, you know.”

There. Out in the air, trembling but solid.

Something helpless and hungry flashed across his face.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “You’re my favorite,” you whispered. “Both of you. I like being here. I like being with you.”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Then he was kissing you.

It wasn’t careful this time. It wasn’t tentative. It was months of glances and almost-touches and late-night fantasies crashing together. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and demanding, his other hand sliding to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

You made a surprised noise that melted into a needy one, your hands fisting in the front of his henley. He tasted like coffee and sugar and warmth. The slight scrape of his stubble against your skin grounded you even as your knees threatened to give out.

He pressed in, body pinning yours gently but firmly to the doorframe, thigh wedging between your legs like it had always belonged there.

“Bucky,” you gasped into his mouth when he finally broke for air.

“Been wanting to do that since you brought us that lasagna in October,” he said against your lips, words roughened. “You know that? Walked back into the kitchen, saw the note you left for Vi, and thought, ‘Well. I’m fucked.’”

You laughed, dazed. “It was just lasagna.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t see the handwriting.” He kissed you again, softer this time, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “If you want me to, you say it once and we forget this ever happened. I’ll go back to being your neighbor with the tragic cookies.”

You looked up at him, at the worry buried under the heat in his eyes, and any nerves you’d had burned away.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you said. “I want you.”

Everything in him seemed to exhale at once.

“Good,” he breathed. “That’s real good, doll.”

He kissed you again, then again, then along your jaw, down the column of your throat. His hand slid down your side, rough palm cupping your hip. You arched into him, a whimper slipping free when his thigh pressed higher between your legs.

“Look at you,” he murmured, mouth against your pulse. “Already rubbing all over me. So needy.”

“That’s your fault,” you shot back, breathless. “You and your stupid henley.”

He chuckled, teeth scraping lightly against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Stupid, huh?”

“Deeply offensive,” you confirmed, rolling your hips down against his thigh, chasing friction.

He groaned, low and rough, hand flexing on your hip. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna end up fucking you right here in the doorway like a teenager.”

Your brain shorted out on the word fucking.

“Wh-what if I want that?” you managed.

That pulled his head up, his eyes snapping to yours.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said, voice gone dangerous-soft.

“I really, really do,” you insisted, fingers curling in his shirt. “I’ve had…a lot of time to think about it.”

He swore under his breath in a language you didn’t know, something that sounded like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Kitchen,” he decided, like the word hurt. “First. If I take you against this frame I’m gonna put your head through the drywall, and then I’ll have to explain that to my landlord.”

You almost suggested the drywall might be worth it, but he was already guiding you backward with surprising gentleness, his mouth never straying far from yours. You stumbled into the kitchen, bumping the counter with your hip, the faint glow from the living room tree turning everything gold.

He lifted you onto the cool countertop like you weighed nothing, stepping between your knees, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

“Last chance to back out,” he said, searching your face.

You wrapped your legs around his hips and tugged him in. “You’re wasting valuable mistletoe time, Barnes.”

His answering grin was quick and wicked. “God, you’re gonna be trouble.”

His hands slid under the hem of your sweater, calloused fingers skimming your skin. Goosebumps rose in their wake. He pushed the fabric up, mouth following, teeth scraping lightly along your ribs, making you gasp.

“Too many clothes,” he muttered, already tugging at the waistband of your leggings.

You lifted your hips to help, letting him peel them down, your panties going with them. The cool air made you shiver; the heat of his gaze made you burn.

“Fuck,” he breathed, taking you in, pupils blown. “You’re so pretty.”

You shifted, suddenly self-conscious and aroused in equal measure, feeling the slick heat between your thighs.

“You gonna just stare at me?” you tried to tease, voice wobbling, “or—”

He gripped your hips and dragged you to the edge of the counter, dropping to his knees in front of you.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before his mouth was on you.

Your head thumped back against the cabinet with a dull thud. His tongue stroked through your folds like he’d been memorizing you in dreams, slow and deliberate. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, fingers flying to his hair. “Bucky—”

“Taste so good, doll,” he murmured between licks. “Been wondering…fuck…been wondering about this for months.”

Any coherent response dissolved into a strangled noise when he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked. His hands kept you open, thumbs pressing gently into the creases of your thighs, anchoring you there while he took his time.

He was unfairly good at this—unhurried, entirely focused, like the only thing on earth that mattered was the way you moved under his mouth. He listened, adjusting pressure and pace with every whimper, chasing every gasp like it was a star on some private map of yours.

“Please,” you whined, not sure what you were begging for. More. Less. Everything.

“I’ve got you,” he soothed, one hand sliding up to your stomach, keeping you pinned. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”

You did.

A white-hot wave crashed through you, your thighs snapping around his head, heels digging into his back. You bit down on your fist to keep from shouting, a high, broken sound still escaping your throat. He groaned into you, tongue and lips never letting up, riding you through the aftershocks until you were shaking.

When you finally slumped against the cabinet, boneless and breathless, he eased back, licking his lips like he was memorizing the taste.

“Good?” he asked, voice rough, a little smug.

You laughed weakly. “Kind of wanna start a religion.”

“Blasphemy,” he said, grinning as he rose. “We’re strictly a Christmas operation here.”

He kissed you, and you tasted yourself on his mouth, something heady and intimate in the slick slide of tongues. You felt him, hard and thick, pressing against your inner thigh through his jeans.

You reached between your bodies, fingers tracing the outline, and he groaned, hips rocking into your hand.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You fumbled with his belt, heart pounding. He helped, fingers surer than yours, buckling and unzipping in quick jerks. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, and your brain flatlined for a second.

“You’ve been walking around the neighborhood like that?” you blurted.

His mouth kicked up at one corner. “Had to keep up with the festive décor somehow.”

He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking once, slow. Even in his palm he looked big—thick and long, veins standing out along the shaft, the head already damp.

Your mouth watered.

“Jesus,” you whispered. “That’s…that’s not standard issue.”

He laughed, breathless. “I’ll put that on my next dating profile. ‘Not standard issue.’”

“You better not have a dating profile,” you muttered, fingers circling his wrist, urging him closer.

“You’re bossy when you’re turned on,” he noted, stepping back into the space between your thighs. “Gonna remember that.”

The head of his cock nudged your entrance and everything in you went tight.

“Wait,” you managed, one hand on his chest. “Condom—”

His eyes flicked to yours, serious cutting through the haze.

“I’m clean,” you said quickly. “I get tested regularly. And I’m on the pill. I just…you said…”

That you wanted to breed me. That you wanted to fill me and watch it take.

The words stuck in your throat, your face flaming.

Bucky swore softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “I meant it,” he said hoarsely. “But I’m not making that call for you. You sure, doll? You wanna feel me?”

You nodded, heart in your mouth. “I want all of you,” you whispered. “Inside.”

His jaw tightened, something like awe flickering across his face.

“Fuck.”

He adjusted his grip, the blunt head pressing more firmly. “Deep breath,” he murmured.

You sucked in air, fingers digging into his shoulders.

The first push burned.

Not in a bad way, just—stretching. Your body resisting and then yielding, the thick slide of him slow, deliberate. Your walls fluttered around him instinctively, trying to make room for the intrusion.

“Christ,” he gritted. “So tight. You feel that, sweetheart? Feel how good you’re gripping me?”

You whimpered, biting your lip. “You’re…you’re big.”

“We can stop,” he said immediately, every muscle taut with control. “Say the word, doll. I pull out, we go back to cookies and Christmas movies like this never—”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped, then winced when it came out too loud.

His eyes blazed.

“Thought so,” he said, voice dropping.

He kissed you as he pushed in further, swallowing your gasp. Inch by inch, he buried more of himself inside you until finally his hips met the curve of your ass, his pelvis flush against your thighs.

You felt impossibly full. Stretched. Stuffed.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “You’re…you’re in my lungs.”

“Not quite the anatomy lesson I’d give,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours as he fought for control, “but I appreciate the imagery.”

You flexed experimentally around him and he groaned, head dipping to your shoulder.

“Don’t do that,” he warned. “Or this is gonna be a very short show.”

You smiled, dizzy. “Kinda nice knowing I have that power.”

He lifted his head, eyes hot. “You have no idea how much power you’ve got over me, doll.”

He drew back an inch, then slid in again, testing.

The friction made you see stars.

He started slow, letting you adjust, each thrust shallow but sure, his hands gripping your hips firmly enough you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow. The counter creaked faintly under you.

“You okay?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“So good,” you managed. “You feel…huge.”

Pride flared bright in his eyes. “That right?” He shifted, angle changing, and suddenly he was hitting something inside you that made a strangled sound tear from your chest. “There it is.”

Every drag of his cock now rubbed against that spot, the sensation toe-curling, your whole body clenching around him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, watching your face. “Taking all of me. Such a good girl.”

Heat rolled through you at the words. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted that praise until he gave it to you.

“Like that, huh?” he said, reading you easily. “My good girl. Sitting on my cock in my kitchen like you were made for it.”

Your fingers curled tight in his shirt. “I—Bucky—”

He caught your mouth with his, swallowing whatever sound you made next. His thrusts picked up, faster now, deeper, the wet slide of him inside you obscene.

“You feel this?” he murmured against your lips, hips snapping. “Feel how deep I am? I’m right up against your cervix, sweetheart. Right where I need to be to fill you up.”

Your eyes rolled, the words slicing straight through what was left of your restraint. “Please,” you gasped. “Please, Buck—”

“Yeah?” His hand slid from your hip to your lower belly, pressing lightly. You could feel the drag of him from the outside, the firm bulge of his cock pounding into you. “You feel that, doll? That’s me, right here. Stuffing this tight little pussy full.”

It was filthy and insane and you loved every second.

“Gonna come inside you,” he gritted. “Gonna pump you full of me until it leaks out around my cock. You walk home tonight, your panties are gonna be soaked with my cum. You’re gonna lie in bed and feel me still there.”

You made a broken noise, orgasm barreling toward you.

He was relentless now, hips driving into you, the hand on your belly keeping you right where he wanted you while the other cupped the back of your neck, holding your gaze.

“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, voice harsh. “Say it, doll. Say you want me to breed this pretty little cunt.”

Shame and arousal and something like longing tangled deliciously in your chest.

“I want it,” you choked out. “I want you to…to breed me. Want you to fill me up. Please, Bucky.”

His entire body jolted like you’d shocked him.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

He dropped his hand back between your legs, thumb circling your clit in snug, ruthless circles. The extra stimulation sent you careening over the edge.

You shattered.

Pleasure ripped through you, your muscles clamping down around him, milking his cock. You bit his shoulder to muffle your cry, nails digging into his back, whole body shaking.

He cursed violently, thrusts going erratic.

“Jesus—shit—keep squeezing me like that, doll—”

He buried himself deep with a final, brutal snap of his hips, grinding against you as he spilled inside. You felt it—hot pulses of cum flooding you, filling you so full you swore you could feel each warm wave.

“Fuck,” he gasped into your neck, shuddering hard. “Oh, fuck.”

You clung to him, riding out the aftershocks together, the world narrowing to shared panting and the wild thud of your hearts.

He didn’t pull out right away, just stayed pressed to you, chest rising and falling, cock softening gradually inside you. The intimacy of it made your throat tight.

“Still okay?” he murmured after a minute, lips brushing your cheek.

You turned your head, catching his mouth in a soft, lazy kiss. “Yeah,” you breathed. “More than okay.”

He smiled into it.

When he finally eased back, slipping out of you, you made a small, involuntary sound at the loss. Warmth immediately seeped down, slick and obscene.

Bucky’s eyes dropped, watching his cum trickle out of you. His jaw flexed.

“That’s…” His throat worked. “That’s all mine.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “I mean, biologically…”

“Don’t ruin my moment,” he said weakly, still staring. His fingers brushed along your inner thigh, catching some of the mess, smearing it higher, back toward your entrance like he could push it back in. “Jesus.”

“You’re making it worse,” you pointed out shakily.

“That’s the idea,” he muttered, clearly not talking about your comfort.

Your pulse kicked when you saw the way he was looking at you—like he’d never seen anything hotter.

“You, uh…you have that look again,” you ventured.

He dragged his gaze up. “What look is that?”

“Like you wanna do something stupid.”

He huffed a laugh, stepping back so you could breathe. “I already did something stupid.”

“Pretty sure we both did something very smart,” you countered.

His mouth curved. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m gonna forget I’m supposed to let you walk home tonight.”

Your stomach flipped.

He grabbed a dish towel, dampened a corner with warm water, then stepped between your legs again, slower now. “Can I…?”

You nodded, suddenly shy.

He was gentle, cleaning you up with soft strokes, kissing your knee when you flinched at a residual jolt of oversensitivity. He helped you slide your panties and leggings back up, fingers lingering at your waist.

By the time you were more or less presentable, your legs were wobbly again—for entirely different reasons.

You slid off the counter, immediately sinking into his chest when your knees tried to buckle. He caught you, an arm around your waist.

“Easy,” he teased. “You sure you don’t want me to just carry you home? Less risk of you face-planting in the snow.”

“That’d be hard to explain to Mrs. Hargrove,” you said, words muffled in his shirt. “No, I’m fine. Just…gonna feel that tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said, entirely too satisfied.

You pulled back to sock him lightly in the chest. “You’re so smug.”

“Can you blame me?” His grin was crooked and boyish. “I just had the prettiest girl on the block come undone on my cock in my kitchen. Under mistletoe. I’m basically a Christmas legend now.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart did an embarrassing little swoop at “my.”

You were about to say something equally obnoxious when your gaze flicked past his shoulder.

You could see the living room doorway from here. The mistletoe still hung there, framed by the glow of the tree.

A wicked idea slid into your brain.

“You know,” you said, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt, “we technically only fulfilled half the mistletoe obligation.”

His brows pulled together. “Pretty sure we overshot the obligation, doll.”

“Mm-mm.” You shook your head, lips tipping up. “Everybody does the classic ‘kiss under the mistletoe.’ But I was thinking…”

You trailed off, deliberately letting your eyes drop to the obvious bulge reappearing in his jeans.

His breath hitched.

“There’s another way to…uh…honor the tradition,” you said sweetly.

His eyes darkened, the air between you thickening all over again. “You are going to be the end of me.”

“You already said that.” You slid your hand down his chest, fingers grazing lower, testing. He was getting hard again faster than you’d expected. That did wicked, thirsty things to you. “Consider this my Christmas contribution to the cause.”

He stared at you for a long second, something like worship and pure filth battling in his expression.

“Kitchen,” he rasped. “Door. Now.”

Your pulse spiked. “Yes, sir.”

His nostrils flared.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

He laced your fingers together and led you back toward the archway. The mistletoe swung gently above, almost innocent.

“On your knees,” he said quietly, stopping just under it, voice like velvet over gravel. “Right here.”

A thrill bolted through you. You sank down, the hardwood cool under your knees, the heel of his puppy socks just in your peripheral vision. This close, he seemed even bigger, his thighs thick, his torso a solid wall.

He cupped your chin, tilting your face up. “You good?” he asked, some of the gravel smoothing into concern. “We can stop. I don’t need—”

“I want to,” you said, cutting him off. “I want to taste you too.”

Something hot flared in his eyes.

“Open,” he ordered softly.

You parted your lips. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and pushed them down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, half-hard and already swelling.

Even after feeling him inside you, seeing him this close made your stomach drop and your mouth water.

He stroked himself slowly, lazily, watching your face. In a handful of pulls he was fully hard again, thick and heavy, the head flushed a deeper shade.

“Look at that,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Can’t even get through cleanup without wanting you again.”

“Not complaining,” you said, a little breathless.

He smiled, dark and fond. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart.”

He stepped closer, thighs bracketing your shoulders, until his cock hovered just a few inches from your mouth.

“Hands behind your back,” he said.

Heat punched through you. You laced your fingers together at the base of your spine, shoulders tightening with the position, chest pushing forward slightly.

“Pretty,” he murmured, thumb stroking your jaw. “You look so pretty like that. All submissive. All mine.”

He brought his cock closer, the head brushing your lips, smearing pre-cum. “Taste,” he said.

You darted your tongue out, licking a stripe along the underside. He hissed through his teeth, hand flying to your hair.

“Fuck.”

You took him into your mouth, as much as you could, jaw stretching. He was a lot—thick and heavy, crowding your tongue. You relaxed your throat, breathing through your nose, letting him slide deeper.

“Jesus,” he groaned, grip tightening in your hair. “That’s it. Take it, doll. Take it for me.”

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking, tongue swirling, experimenting, listening for every sound he made. You couldn’t get all of him inside, not even close, but the way his cock throbbed against your tongue told you he didn’t mind.

After a dozen strokes, he gently pulled back, easing himself from your mouth. You tried to chase him, but he held you back with a hand on your crown.

“Gotta pace myself,” he managed, breathing ragged. “Want to enjoy this.”

“You don’t have to be gentle,” you said when he let you breathe, voice rough.

His eyes flashed. “Careful, doll.”

He shifted his stance slightly, widening his feet for balance, then slid his cock along your face, smearing slick along your cheek, your lips. You sighed, eyes fluttering.

Then he took himself in hand and guided the heavy weight of his balls to your mouth.

“Tongue out,” he said softly. “Lemme rest you properly under this mistletoe.”

Heat rush-flooded you.

You stuck your tongue out, flattening it. He lowered himself, his balls settling warm and heavy on your tongue, the soft skin contrasting with the weight behind it. The intimacy of it made your head spin.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s it. Hold still.”

You did, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded as he rolled his hips just a little, letting the weight shift, his cock bumping your forehead. You flicked your tongue up, tracing the seam, tasting salt and skin and him.

A low, broken sound tore out of his chest. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You sucked gently, dragging one into your mouth, tongue swirling. He groaned, his thighs tensing beside your head, fingers flexing in your hair.

“You like that?” you asked when he let you breathe again, voice wrecked, eyes shining.

He stared down at you like he couldn’t quite comprehend you, like you’d just done some impossible magic trick.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, I like that.”

He nudged forward again and you took him, alternating between sucking his balls into your mouth and licking them, running your tongue along the tender skin, savoring every ragged noise you pulled from him. His cock bobbed against your cheek, leaving streaks of slick you could feel cooling on your skin.

He was talking again now, the words slurred by arousal. “Look at you. Kneeling under my doorway, under my mistletoe, with my balls on your tongue. My sweet little neighbor, such a good girl, letting me use her mouth like this.”

You moaned around him, the praise turning liquid in your veins.

“You’re driving me out of my fucking mind,” he rasped. “You know that? Gonna have to repaint this frame because every time I walk through it I’m gonna remember you right here on your knees, looking up at me.”

You glanced up through your lashes, cheeks flushed, drool starting to slick your chin. The way he looked down at you—wild, tender, possessive—made your stomach flip.

He let his balls rest against your tongue again, heavy and full. “Hold them for me,” he murmured. “Yeah, just like that.”

He slid forward, his cock pressing past your lips once more, filling your mouth. You relaxed, letting him guide the pace, the stretch of your jaw borderline overwhelming and exactly what you wanted. With his balls resting on your tongue and his cock sliding in and out, you felt completely used in the filthiest, most delicious way.

“Fuck, doll,” he groaned. “I could come just looking at you like this.”

Your hands twitched behind your back. You wanted to touch him, to trace every muscle, to feel the way he shook. But the restraint—knowing he had you like this, knowing you were letting him—made everything hum.

He pulled out again, letting his balls roll off your tongue. You sucked in air, drool shining on your lips.

“Hands,” he said abruptly. “Gimme one.”

You freed a hand from behind your back. He wrapped it around the base of his cock, his larger palm covering yours, guiding you in a slow stroke.

“Squeeze,” he instructed. You did. He hissed. “Good. Look at that. You’re a natural.”

You leaned in, tongue laving over his balls as your hand worked his shaft, the double stimulation making him curse.

“So fucking good to me,” he panted. “On your knees, under my roof, under my mistletoe, letting me put my cock and balls wherever I want. You know how dangerous that is, sweetheart? You’re never getting rid of me now.”

Good, you thought, dizzy and turned on beyond reason. That’s the point.

His breathing stuttered, hips twitching.

“Open,” he said suddenly, pulling your hand away. “Mouth wide.”

You obeyed automatically, lips parting, tongue out.

He cupped your head with both hands, cock aimed at your mouth, balls hanging heavy just above your chin.

“Such. A good. Girl,” he gritted, voice broken, as he slid back into your mouth.

He didn’t fuck your throat, not really—just shallow thrusts, the head bumping the back of your tongue, letting you control the depth. Your jaw ached, your eyes watered, and you never wanted it to end.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice wrecked. “Gonna come, doll. You gonna take it for me? You gonna swallow like a good girl?”

You hummed, the vibration making him curse.

He pulled out just enough that the head rested on your tongue, his balls once again dropping onto it, the weight and heat pressing down.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Say ‘ah’ for me.”

You did.

He came with a strangled sound, thick ropes of hot cum spilling onto your tongue, some splashing against your palate, some streaking your lips. You kept your tongue out, his balls still resting there, letting him paint your mouth exactly how he wanted.

He watched, chest heaving, as you closed your mouth and swallowed.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Do it again. Let me see your tongue.”

You opened, tilting your head back just a little. Your tongue was mostly clean, a few pearly streaks glistening that you chased with the tip.

His knees actually buckled.

“Fuck,” he said helplessly. “Marry me.”

You laughed, the sound ragged and delighted, then coughed when a bit of cum went down wrong. He hauled you gently to your feet, big hands steady, thumb swiping at the mess on your chin.

“Easy,” he soothed. “Jesus. C’mere.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, tasting himself on your tongue, groaning into your mouth like the whole thing was rewiring his brain.

When he finally pulled back, you were pressed against the wall, his hands on your hips, both of you panting.

“You okay?” he asked for what felt like the tenth time that night, eyes scanning your face.

You nodded, dazed and happy. “I’m—yeah. I’m really okay.”

He laughed softly, forehead dropping to yours. “Good. Because I’m gonna be thinking about that every time I walk under this doorway for the rest of my life.”

You glanced up at the mistletoe. “Guess Violet did us a favor.”

His expression shifted, some of the heat melting into fondness. “She’s never hearing about this particular tradition,” he said firmly.

“Absolutely not.” You snorted. “This is strictly adults-only mistletoe usage.”

He gave you one more lingering kiss, then smoothed your sweater where it had ridden up. “All right,” he sighed. “Before I do something even dumber, I should probably get you home.”

“Dumber than this?” you teased.

He flashed you that crooked grin. “You have no idea what’s on my list, doll.”

He made good on his earlier promise and walked you the thirty feet to your front door, his hand dwarfing yours, the snow squeaking faintly under your boots. The air was sharp and cold, your cheeks still hot from everything.

On your porch, he hesitated, thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

“Text me when you’re in bed,” he said. “So I know you didn’t slip and crack your head on the tub or something.”

“I’m very coordinated, thank you,” you lied. “But…yeah. I will.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering along your jaw. “You good? Really?”

You nodded, throat tight in the best way. “Really.”

He brushed his lips over yours, gentle and sweet and so at odds with the filthy things he’d just done to you that your heart squeezed.

“Goodnight, cookie fairy,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, Santa.”

You slipped inside, leaning back against the door as it shut, your pulse thudding in your ears. You could still feel everything—his weight on your tongue, his cum warm in your belly, the deep, ache-sweet fullness low in your body where he’d spilled inside you earlier.

You washed your face, changed into pajamas with slightly shaking hands, then slid under your covers, phone clutched in your palm.

It buzzed a minute later.

Bucky: elf’s out cold. house is quiet. i miss you already.

You bit your lip, typing back.

You: my knees might never recover from your hardwood floor. but it was worth it

There was a beat.

Bucky: the doorway AND the kitchen counter? i’m gonna have to avoid those at family gatherings now You: we can christen the rest of the house later, it’s fine.

Another pause, longer this time.

Bucky: i meant what i said earlier. pancakes tomorrow. and a date. like…on purpose, not just you rescuing my cooking.

Warmth flooded your chest.

You: i’ll bring syrup. and maybe more cookies. strictly for violet ofc. Bucky: careful, doll. you keep tempting an old man like that and you’re gonna end up with my last name.

Your breath caught.

You stared at the message, fingers hovering.

You: sounds like a pretty good christmas tradition to me.

Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and steady, wrapping the world in white.

Inside, you fell asleep with the phantom weight of him still between your thighs, the taste of him lingering on your tongue, and the image of mistletoe hanging over a kitchen doorway that felt more and more like home.