Through the Rabbit Hole

Yet, here you were, carrying a secret that felt increasingly ridiculous in a world that moved so fast.

You were still a virgin.

It wasn't something sacred to you. You weren't wearing a white dress or saving yourself for marriage with a white picket fence. You just... never found the right hands to give it to. There had been boys, of course. Boys with leather jackets who smelled like cheap cologne, boys who tried to press you against the backseats of their beat-up Chevys. The opportunities were there. But every single time a hand slid up your thigh or a mouth pressed too hard against yours, apathy would wash over you. You would gently push them away, fix your lipstick in the rearview mirror, and walk home alone under the streetlights, completely detached. You didn't want a boy. You didn't want a clumsy moment in the dark.

You wanted more. Something that would ruin you just a little bit. You were tired of the mundane, cookie-cutter expectations everyone else your age seemed so eager to swallow whole. Your friends were busy getting engaged to nice boys from the neighborhood.

But there was another reason why you've never gotten laid that had nothing to do with your moody disposition.

Your father.

He was a man whose influence stretched through the state, a figure of authority, and absolute dominance. People didn't just respect him; they feared him.

Most people in the city wouldn't even dare to look him directly in the eye, let alone breathe too loud in his presence. So the thought of some local boy trying to approach you? To ask you out on a clumsy date, or try to slide a hand around your waist in the back row of a movie theater? It was social suicide. It was a death wish. The boys from the neighborhood would see you walking down the street, your hair blowing in the wind, and they would look away.

But the funny thing was, you never thought that he was intimidating. To you he was just Dad.

There was nothing terrifying about him when he was sitting at the kitchen table in his undershirt, reading the morning paper and complaining about the cold coffee. He didn't look daunting when he was clumsily trying to fix a leaky faucet, swearing under his breath with grease on his forehead. You always leaned toward his own modest philosophy, the phrase he’d lazily drop whenever someone tried to stroke his ego: he was simply a guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time.

To you, he was just the father who made sure your car always had a full tank of gas and that you never left the house without a jacket.

There was one other person besides you who knew how to get through him.

His best friend, James Buchanan Barnes.

He had those piercing blue eyes that looked right through you. He had a jawline that could cut glass, usually shadowed by a rough stubble, and dark hair that he never bothered to style properly, letting it fall into his face. He smelled of old Brooklyn—leather, tobacco, and the bitter tang of gun oil.

Then, of course, there was his left arm. A terrifying piece of vibranium. It was a constant reminder of the weapon he used to be, a contrast to the way he moved his flesh hand when he rolled a cigarette or poured a glass of whiskey.

He was completely and utterly off-limits. He was your father's brother in everything but blood. He had watched you grow up from a wide-eyed kid into the woman you were today—a woman who now wore dark red lipstick and looked at him with an understanding that made his jaw tighten every single time.

He possessed that rare kind of gravity where he didn't need to say a single word to completely alter the atmosphere. He would just stand in a doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. There was something dangerous about him. He had this magnetic aura about him.

The dynamic between the two of you was something else. Because he was your father’s best friend, he felt an almost territorial sense of protection over you. He had spent years playing the role of the reliable figure, the one who would pick you up when your car broke down or quietly slide a twenty-dollar bill into your palm when your father was being too strict. But lately, that protective instinct had morphed into something that neither of you knew how to name.

Bucky treated you with an old-school chivalry that felt incredibly intimate. He would hold the door for you, his chest brushing against your shoulder just a second too long. He would guide you through a crowded room with his flesh hand pressed against the small of your back, his touch claiming you in front of everyone without uttering a single syllable.

He was always watching you. If you wore a dress that cut a little too low or lipstick that was a little too bright, his jaw would tighten, and he would look away, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists.

He knew it was wrong. He knew you were the one line he could never cross, the one piece of fruit he wasn't allowed to taste. Your father’s trust was sacred to him, and breaking it would ruin everything.

Yet, the way he looked at you when your father wasn't in the room told a completely different story. It was the look of a starving man staring at a feast. You caught him tracing the line of your collarbone with his gaze, or staring at your lips while you talked, his breathing getting just a little bit heavier. You were his sweet girl, his forbidden temptation.

There's this memory... that still lingers in his mind.

You had come home bursting through the front door, the April rain completely forgotten, your face glowing with happiness that he hadn’t seen on you in months. You had just received the final grades from your toughest university exam. It was the one you had stayed up until dawn studying for, crying tears of pure frustration over cold coffee while the rest of the city slept.

The night before the test, when you were ready to tear up your papers and throw it all away, Bucky had been there. He hadn’t given you a grand speech. He had simply sat across from you at the kitchen table, his large flesh hand covering yours.

“You're smarter than this whole city, kid. You're gonna walk in there and take what's yours. Trust me.”

And he had been right. You passed with flying colors. In your burst of pure joy, you didn't think about the rules. You didn't think about the boundaries. You just saw Bucky standing by the window, a cigarette unlit between his fingers, and you threw your arms around his neck.

Bucky remembers that exact second as the moment something inside his chest cracked wide open.

The sudden rush of you colliding against his chest completely caught him off guard. Your body was warm, and pressed tightly against his chest. His senses were instantly overwhelmed by your scent—a sweet mix of rain, vanilla perfume, and the faint trace of cherry lip gloss.

His muscular arms had instinctively wound around your waist, his left metal arm holding you with a gentle grip, while his flesh hand buried itself into the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. For a second, Bucky forgot how to breathe. You tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes sparkling with victory light, too close to his face.

He looked down at your mouth, and a sudden urge took hold of him. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to lean down, capture those cherry-sweet lips, and taste the victory right out of your mouth. He wanted to have his way with you right there in the middle of your father’s living room, consequences be damned. He was milliseconds away from breaking his ultimate vow.

But then, you began to pull away.The moment your fingertips slid down his leather jacket and left his body, the cold reality slammed back into him. His jaw tightened so hard his teeth ached. He forced his hands back into his pockets, clearing his throat, terrified of how close he had just come to destroying everything.

But he never forgot the smell of your hair, or how perfectly your waist fit into the palm of his hand.

The memory of that hug followed him into the night.

When Bucky finally stepped out of your house that evening, the cold April rain hitting his face did absolutely nothing to cool the fever burning under his skin. He climbed into his car, the engine groaning with a miserable rumble that matched the storm in his chest. As he drove down the slick avenues of Brooklyn, his hands gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. The radio was playing some jazz station.

He could still smell you. That sweet scent of vanilla and cherry lip gloss was clinging to his jacket, trapped in the fabric of his shirt. It was everywhere.

Every time Bucky shifted gears, he could feel a warmth pooling deep down in his lower stomach—a desperate, aching heat he hadn't felt in decades. His mind kept violently flashing back to the sensation of your soft body pressed flush against him. He could still feel the exact curve of your waist under his palms, the way your breath had hitched when he pulled you just a fraction of a second too close. He was a man trained to survive the worst tortures imaginable, but the memory of your mouth just inches from his was breaking him completely.

By the time he unlocked the door to his apartment, the restraint he had maintained all evening was completely frayed.

The apartment smelled of stale tobacco. Bucky didn't even bother turning on the lights. He kicked the door shut, tossed his jacket onto a chair, and walked straight into his bedroom.

He lay back against the pillows of his bed, closing his eyes, but there was no escaping you.The moment his eyelids closed, you were there.

His flesh hand hovered over the zipper of his jeans, trembling slightly. A sudden wave of self-loathing washed over him, stopping him dead in his tracks. What the hell are you doing, Barnes? he thought, his jaw tightening so hard it ached. Images of your father flashed through his mind.

He was a grown man, a soldier who had lived through a century of war, and here he was, losing his mind over a girl who still had college textbooks on her desk. He knew he should get up. He knew he should smoke a cigarette, take a freezing shower, and force your scent out of his lungs. He was supposed to protect you from the monsters of the world, not become the very predator his best friend feared. It was wrong.

Bucky let out a low groan into the empty room, his flesh hand moving automatically, guided by a desperate need he could no longer suppress. He stopped fighting it. In his mind, away from your father, he let himself have you.

He let out a shaky breath, his hand closing around himself in a grip that was too tight. He didn't want to be this way. He hated that he was craving you with a hunger that felt terrible. But as he began to stroke himself, the images in his head shifted from a friendly hug to something more.

He fantasized about what would have happened if he hadn't let you pull away. He imagined pinning your wrists above your head, trapping you against the mattress while his mouth finally destroyed that teasing pout of your lips. He imagined the taste of your cherry gloss, the breathless sounds you would make into his neck, and the way your fingers would tangle in his hair as he showed you exactly what it meant to be ruined by a man like him.

“Fuck,” he rasped.

His pace quickened, his movements becoming frantic. His hips began to arch off the bed, his muscles tensing, his breath coming in jagged hitches.

Every slide of his hand was a betrayal of the man he was supposed to be. He felt like a traitor to his best friend. But as he pictured your face—flushed, breathless, calling his name in a needy way—the guilt became a secondary thrill. He loved how wrong it felt.

He began to moan, a sound that filled the quiet room. He was close, so close that his entire body began to tremble. He imagined you were there, your small hands guiding his, your voice encouraging him to let go.

“Doll... please...” he whimpered, the word slipping out of him shamelessly.

The climax hit him, left him gasping. He bucked hard against the mattress, as he spilled across his stomach and thighs, a strangled cry escaping his throat.

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of his hammering heart. He lay there in the silence, the afterglow quickly fading into a sense of shame.

He stared back up at the ceiling, his hand still resting limp against his thigh. He knew he would wake up tomorrow and smile at your father.

...

After that fateful April night, it never happened again.

Bucky kept an invisible wall between you, deploying every ounce of military discipline he possessed to keep himself from slipping over the edge a second time. He became an expert in the art of controlled proximity. He knew how dangerous it would be to suddenly pull away completely; you would notice. He didn’t want to hurt you. He didn’t want you to think you had done something wrong, or that he suddenly found your presence disposable. So, he stayed. He still showed up at the house, he still sat at the kitchen table, and he still kept his watchful, protective eyes on you.

Yet, the shift was there, and you were entirely too sharp to miss it.

You began to notice the micro-adjustments he made whenever you got too close. If you walked past him in the narrow hallway, Bucky would instantly flatten his shoulders against the wall, pressing himself back just to ensure your clothes wouldn't brush against his. If you handed him a cup of coffee or a tool in the garage, his fingers would deliberately angle away. The moment a conversation felt too intimate, or the moment your laughter lasted a second too long, he would abruptly clear his throat, check his watch, or find an excuse to step outside for a smoke.

It didn't feel like cruelty. He wasn't being mean, and he never made you feel small. It was just... confusing.

You would catch him staring at you when he thought you weren't looking. But the second you caught his gaze, he would look away, his jaw tightening into a hard line. You couldn't wrap your mind around it. Why did the man who used to pull you into comfortable hugs now treat you like you were made of radioactive glass? Why did it feel like he was constantly holding his breath whenever you entered the room? You didn't know that your simple existence was stretching his morality to its absolute breaking point.

But what Bucky didn't know—what he couldn't possibly guess as he lay awake in his own apartment starving for you—was that you were starving too. You couldn't get enough of him.

The confusion he left you with during the day didn't fade when the sun went down. Instead, it followed you into your bedroom.

When the house finally went quiet and your father was asleep down the hall, you would slip into your softest silk nightgown and lock your door. You would turn off the main lights, letting only the golden streetlamps bleed through your sheer curtains. You would lie back against your pillows.

Every single touch Bucky had denied you during the day, you gave to yourself at night.

You would close your eyes and replay those brief near-misses. You imagined what it would feel like if his fingers didn't flinch away when you handed him his coffee. You imagined those large hands—both the warm flesh one and the freezing metal one—sliding slowly up your thighs, gripping your hips. Your own hands would trace the lines of your collarbone, sliding down your skin, pretending they belonged to a man far older than you.

You would whine his name, a sinful little secret, imagining his rough stubble scratching against your jawline, his voice groaning into your ear.

By the time you were left breathless and tangled in your damp sheets, you would stare up at the ceiling with your heart hammering against your ribs. You were your father's untouchable daughter by day, but in the dead of night, you were moaning the name of his very best friend—James Buchanan Barnes. You were completely hooked on a man who was terrified to touch you.

And so, this tortuous game continued, until one suffocating afternoon in the end of July.

You were sitting on a stained velvet sofa in the back of the garage, the faint crackle of your record player doing absolutely nothing to soothe the restless fire burning under your skin. You stared down at your hands, then up at th wooden workbench where Bucky usually stood, and something inside you just snapped.

You were done. You were absolutely, completely done with the invisible walls, the flinching hands, and the polite distance.

You were tired of being treated like a fragile doll by a man who looked at you like he wanted to tear you apart. You knew whose daughter you were, and you knew Bucky’s loyalty to your father was supposed to be an unbreakable. But as you watched the dust motes dance lazily, you made a decision: today was the day you were going to break him. You were going to shock him out of his military restraint.

The only problem was, you didn't know how.

How do you unarm a soldier who has survived a century of war and brainwashing? How do you push a man who has mastered the art of hiding his emotions? You needed something subtle but effective. Your mind raced through the possibilities—a comment, a touch, a trap...

You sat there for what felt like hours, staring at the grease-stained concrete floor, your chin resting in your palms. The record player had clicked off long ago, leaving the garage in silence. You paced the length of the workbench, tracing your fingers over the metal tools Bucky always handled, trying to engineer the perfect strategy.

How can you outsmart him? You couldn't just throw yourself at him. It had to be a carefully laid out.

Frustrated by your own lack of answers, you finally gave up for the afternoon. You pushed open the door leading from the garage into the main house, stepping into the air-conditioned kitchen.

As you walked in, you found your father sitting at the table, a glass of whiskey in his hand and a stack of folders spread out before him. He looked up, his eyes instantly softening into a expression.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, taking a slow sip. “You've been hiding out in that garage all day. It’s a furnace out there.”

“Just thinking,” you replied smoothly, trying to sound completely casual. “Did you find the parts you were looking for?”

“Yeah, got everything we need,” your father muttered, tapping his pen against the table. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, by the way, Bucky’s coming over later. And he’s staying for the weekend.”

Your heart did a violent flip in your chest, but you forced your face to remain unbothered. “The whole weekend?” you asked. “Like... sleeping here?”

“Yeah. He's crashing in the guest room upstairs,” your father said, already looking back down at his paperwork. “I managed to convince him. Lord knows it took some doing.”

You stood there, completely stunned. Bucky Barnes was a lone wolf who valued his isolation above everything else. He was the type of man who never overstayed his welcome; he would drop off parts, have a single drink with your father, and slip away into the night before anyone could ask him to stay for dinner. He had never slept over.

And yet, he had agreed. A thrilling anticipation rushed through your veins. A few hours was one thing, but a whole weekend? Sharing breakfast in the morning light, crossing paths in the dim hallways at midnight, hearing the floorboards creak outside your bedroom door.

And today was Friday. The weekend was starting right now.

...

The next few hours passed in a blur. You stayed up in your bedroom, listening to the muffled sounds of your father moving around downstairs, your mind spinning a thousand different scenarios.

Around eight o'clock, the silence of the neighborhood was disturbed by that familiar, low-frequency rumble.

Bucky’s vintage car rolled up the driveway, the dark matte paint gleaming under the streetlamps. He killed the heavy engine. He swung the low car door open, stepping out onto the gravel while hoisting a battered canvas duffel bag over his right shoulder. He looked incredibly tense. He ran a hand through his damp, wind-blown hair, adjusting the collar of his leather jacket, taking a deep breath of the humid air before walking up to the front door.

When he stepped inside, the house was quiet.

Your father greeted him down in the hallway. Bucky’s eyes immediately did a quick sweep of the entryway, the living room, and the kitchen.He didn't see you anywhere.

A visible wave of relief washed over his shoulders, his rigid posture loosening just a fraction. He actually smiled a little as he set his duffel bag down by the stairs.

It was a Friday night, after all. A girl your age, with your looks, should have been out on the town. He secretly hoped that you were spending the weekend sleeping over at a girlfriend’s apartment, or out at some diner in Manhattan, far away from him. He thought the universe had granted him a safe pass, a weekend where he could just drink whiskey with his best friend without having to fight his own desires.

But as he took a step toward the front porch, the faint chug-chug-chug of the backyard sprinklers caught his attention. Along with it came a soft melody from a small portable radio somewhere in the grass.

Bucky paused. His grip tightened on the strap of his duffel bag. His boots veered off the gravel path, guiding him around the side of the house toward the backyard.

And then, his heart stopped dead in his chest.You weren't gone. You were right there, sunbathing in the middle of the lush green lawn.

You were lying flat on your stomach on a striped towel, your chin propped in your hands as you flipped the page of a book. You were wearing a tiny, loose summer sundress—something white and thin. But the real problem was the sprinkler. It was spinning in a circle, and every few seconds, a freezing mist of water would rain straight down over your back and shoulders.

You were already completely drenched. The thin fabric of the white dress was soaked through. As you shifted slightly to turn another page, Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. The wet material offered absolutely no protection; it was molded so perfectly to your chest that the dark shape of your nipples showed right through the fabric, hardened from the water.

Water droplets glistened on your bare shoulders and slid down your back. You looked incredibly beautiful and completely exposed.

Bucky stood frozen at the edge of the lawn, completely paralyzed by the sight. His blue eyes darkened instantly, heat pooling in his lower stomach. He knew he should turn around. He knew he should look away, run into the house, and pretend he never saw a single thing. But his legs wouldn't move. He was completely trapped, staring at the wet fabric clinging to your curves, his jaw clenching so hard it ached.

Suddenly, you felt someone watching you. You tilted your head up, and your eyes locked right onto his.

“Hi, Bucky,” you greet him softly.

“Hey, kid,” he replies. He doesn't move an inch from the edge of the grass, standing there like a statue.

Kid? Oh, you were going to murder this man.

“I thought you were out for the weekend,” he adds, trying to find his footing.

“And miss your big sleepover?” You tilt your head. “Dad told me you're staying until Monday morning. I was surprised. You usually run out of here like the house is on fire.”

Bucky clears his throat. He looks away for a second, scanning the back porch as if praying your father will walk out and save him from this torture. But the yard is empty.

Bucky: 0

You: 1

“Your old man needed some help with the garage inventory,” Bucky mutters. “And the plumbing in my building is shot. It's just a favor.”

“Mm, a favor,” you repeat, turning a page of your book without actually reading a single word. “Well, the guest room has great AC. You won't have to sweat. Unlike right now. Aren't you hot in that jacket, James?”

Hearing his real name slip from your lips makes his chest heave. He takes a slow breath, his eyes dropping back down to your wet collarbone before he can stop himself.

“I'm fine,” he snaps quietly. “You should get out of the sun. You're gonna burn.”

“Don't worry, Bucky,” your voice dropping an octave as you hold his gaze. “I'm soaking wet.”

His entire body goes completely rigid. If he was tense before, he is a statue now. The double meaning hits him hard, sending a jolt of heat straight down to his lower stomach. His jaw tightens so hard that a tiny muscle pulses wildly under the rough stubble of his cheek. His eyes completely lose their restraint. They darken, dropping down to trace the wet fabric of your dress that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, before snapping back up to your face.

“That's exactly the problem, kid,” Bucky groans. “You’re ruining your clothes. And that book is going to be completely trashed if you keep letting the water hit it like that.”

He sighs, running a hand over his face in pure exhaustion. “Your dad is gonna think I’m not looking after you if you catch a cold in the middle of July. Get up before you turn into a sponge.”

You watch his shoulders retreat as he turns on his heel, his leather jacket disappearing around the corner of the house without another word. The screen door lets out a lazy slam, leaving you completely alone.

You let out a frustrated sigh, dropping your chin back onto your wet arms. Disappointment washes over you. You really thought you had him this time.

It turns out your perfect score was completely wrong.

You: 0

Bucky: 1

But as you trace a finger along the edge of your book, a smile starts to creep back onto your face. The weekend is long. It’s only Friday afternoon, and he is sleeping under your roof for the next three days. He might have won the first round, but the game is far from over.

...

Saturday morning arrives with a blinding sun that turns the entire city into an icecream.

The three of you are sitting around the oak dining table, the kitchen smelling of freshly brewed black coffee, fried bacon, and sweet maple syrup. Your father is sitting at the head of the table, typing away on his phone. You sit across from Bucky, slowly stirring sugar into your coffee. Bucky looks like he barely slept a wink. He is wearing a fresh charcoal t-shirt that tightly hugs his broad chest, his hair still damp from the shower, completely avoiding your eyes.

Your dad looks up from his phone. “Barnes, you still need to finish that inventory check down in the garage later today, right?”

Bucky takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Yeah. But I’m missing a specific set of heavy-duty wrench metrics. Left them back at my apartment. I need to take the car and drive over there to grab them before I can start.”

Before he can even finish his sentence, you set your coffee cup down. You lean back, tilting your chin up.“Perfect,” you say smoothly. “I’m coming with you.”

Bucky’s hand instantly freezes mid-air, his coffee cup hovering just inches from his lips. A sudden flash of pure panic crossing his eyes.

This man might have lived through the war, Hydra and blood,but he has never been at a war with a young-adult woman trying to get in his pants.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky mutters quickly. “It’s a quick run. I’m just hitting the apartment and coming straight back. You stay here.”

“Oh, come on, Bucky, don’t be a bore,” you tease softly. “It’s beautiful outside and I need to get out of the house. Right, Dad?”

Your father doesn't even lift his eyes. He just waves a dismissive hand. “Let her go, Buck. She’s been cooped up all week, and you can keep an eye on her while I finish this conference call.”

Bucky takes a ragged breath through his nose. He looks at your father, then slowly turns his head to lock his eyes onto yours. He knows he’s just been completely cornered. He knows that being trapped in a car with you is a death sentence for his restraint, but he has absolutely no excuse left to refuse.

“Fine,” Bucky growls quietly, grabbing the brass car keys off the marble counter. He stands up. “Get your purse, kid. We’re leaving.”

You slide out of your chair with a victorious smirk. Before heading to the front door, you skip up to your room for a quick second to grab your essentials. You snatch your lip gloss, your small shoulder bag, and a specific accessory you’ve been dying to wear—a pair of cherry-red, heart-shaped sunglasses.

When you walk back downstairs and step out onto the scorching gravel driveway, Bucky is already waiting by the car.

You slide into the passenger seat, immediately slipping the heart-shaped glasses onto the bridge of your nose.

The drive to his apartment isn't long—only about a half-hour ride—but with the humidity, thirty minutes is going to feel like an absolute eternity.

You lean back against the worn-out leather of the passenger seat, stretching your legs out comfortably as Bucky turns the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life with a deep growl.

Bucky drives with hyper-focused intensity. He looks too rugged—his dark hair whipping in the wind, his jaw set in stone.

For the first ten minutes, the only sound is the deep hum of the engine. You look over at him lazily, propping your elbow on the car door and resting your chin in your palm.

Suddenly, Bucky glances over at you at a red light. His eyes sweep over your face, lingering on the cherry-red frames resting on your nose. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“What’s with the glasses, doll?” Bucky asks, shifting gears as the light turns green. “You look like you stepped straight out of an old Hollywood movie reel. Or a comic book.”

You tilt your head, a knowing smile spreading across your lips. “You don't like them, James?” you tease softly, sliding them just a fraction down the bridge of your nose to look at him over the top of the frames.

His jaw tightens slightly at the sound of his real name, his eyes flashing back to the road. “I didn't say that. Just didn't know I was chauffeuring a movie star today.”

You chuckle, pushing the heart-shaped glasses back into place. You reach out, your fingertips hovering just an inch over the polished dashboard. “Well, every movie star needs a soundtrack. Mind if I turn on the radio?”

“Go ahead,” he grunts quietly. “Just don't play anything that's gonna make me want to drive this car into a brick wall.”

You reach out and twist the metal knob of the radio, clicking it into life. A bit of static cuts through the roaring air before a slow station comes into focus. It’s a low-tempo melody—something with a heavy bassline and a slow saxophone.

You lean back, tapping your fingers gently against your denim shorts, watching the brick buildings blur past through your lenses.

“So,” you start casually. “Since you’re staying the whole weekend, I guess you’re giving Dad a break from his usual lectures about my life.”

Bucky cuts a sharp glance over to you. “Your old man just worries about you, doll. Especially when it comes to the crowd you hang out with.”

“Oh, you mean the guys?” You let out a soft sigh, rolling your eyes. “Please. There is literally nothing to worry about. If anything, you should pity me.”

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together. He shifts gears with his flesh hand, his knuckles missing your bare shin by mere centimeters. “Pity you? Why’s that?”

“Because the selection in this city is tragic,” you groan playfully. “They wear the same clothes, they talk about the same boring things, and they have the absolute emotional maturity of a goldfish. I went on a date last week with a guy from campus, and he spent forty-five minutes just talking about himself before asking if we could split the bill for a slice of pizza.”

The amusement on his face abruptly vanishes.The image of some college boy taking you out, ignoring you for forty-five minutes, and then treating you like an afterthought seems to strike a chord inside his chest. Bucky is a man built on chivalry.

“He let you split the bill for a slice of pizza?” Bucky mutters. It’s not a question; it’s a low growl of pure disgust.

He shifts gears with his flesh hand, his arm brushing so close to your bare knee that you can feel the heat of his skin.

“Sounds like a kid who needs his head knocked loose,” he grunts. “Your dad would have a stroke if he knew you were letting boys treat you like that. You’re worth a hell of a lot more than half a pizza, doll.”

“Well, like I said, Bucky,” you purr softly. “They’re all just boys. Clumsy, loud, and entirely too selfish. There’s no mystery anymore.”

Bucky huffs a breath through his nose. “They’re young, doll. They don't know any better. You’ll find someone who actually treats you right eventually.”

“I doubt it,” you say quietly. “Honestly... I haven’t even found anyone I’d actually want to sleep with.”

“What?” Bucky chokes out, his voice dropping into a rough whisper that is barely audible over the roaring engine.

“You heard me,” you say softly. “It’s not a vow or anything. I just... never found the right hands to give it to. Every time a boy tries, I just feel nothing. So I push them away.”

Inside his head, a bomb just went off.

A virgin. The word repeats in his mind, and a wave of self-loathing and guilt washes over him. He mentally beats himself into the dirt. He thinks about Friday night. He thinks about lying in the guestroom, so fucking close to touching himself. He had thought about taking you—and all this time, you were completely untouched. You were the innocent daughter of his best friend, and he was lusting after a girl who didn't even know what a man's touch felt like.

He feels sick to his stomach, yet at the same exact time, a dark heat flares up deep in his belly. The thought that no other man has ever touched you, that no clumsy college boy has ever seen you like that... it drives him insane.

“Well,” Bucky clears his throat. “That’s... actually a good thing, sweetheart. It means you’ve got high standards, and you're not wasting your time on kids who don't appreciate you. Your dad would be glad to hear you're being smart about it. Just keep holding out for the right guy.”

Bucky swings the wheel to the right, pulling the car up against the curb directly in front of his apartment. The tires crunch over the stray gravel, and he kills the ignition.

“Alright,” he mutters. He doesn't look at you as he slides out of the leather seat. “Let's make this quick.”

...

By the time Sunday evening rolls around, the tension in the house has thickened to a point where it feels almost suffocating.

For the past two days, Bucky had managed to hide behind your father's presence. He had buried himself in garage inventory, spoke only when spoken to, and treated you with formal politeness that was driving you absolutely insane.

But tonight, his safety net is completely gone. Your father had to pull an emergency overnight trip down to DC for business, leaving Bucky to watch the house—and to watch you—until he returns late Monday morning.

It is ten o'clock at night.

You are standing by the vintage stove, casually humming a slow melody under your breath while you cook a late-night meal for him. You are completely unbothered, moving gracefully in your midnight-black silk slip dress as the scent of garlic and butter fills the air.

Bucky is sitting at the marble island just a few feet away, watching you from behind. He hasn't touched his whiskey glass in ten minutes. His eyes are completely locked onto your back, tracking the sway of your hips beneath the thin silk every time you stir the pan.

The amber light of the kitchen catches the tense lines of his shoulders beneath his white undershirt. He looks like a man completely paralyzed by the domestic sight of you taking care of him.

You plate the food with a soft smile, completely aware of his gaze burning a hole straight through your dress.

Slowly, you turn around, holding the warm plate in one hand while using your other to grab a fork from the counter. You walk over to the island, your bare feet making no sound, and gently slide the meal right in front of him.

“You’ve been staring at my back for twenty minutes, Buck,” you purr softly. “Are you actually hungry, or are you just trying to memorize the pattern of the silk?”

“I'm just watching out for you, doll,” Bucky whispers. He reaches out with his flesh hand, his knuckles lightly brushing against the cool marble just an inch away from your bare thigh. “Making sure you don't burn yourself.”

You slide onto the leather stool right next to him. As you settle in, you intentionally let your bare thigh glide right against his denim-clad leg. You feel him instantly freeze under the thin fabric of his undershirt, his muscles turning to absolute stone beneath your skin.

“You always take such good care of me, Jamie,” you murmur softly. “You always have.”

Hearing that name—Jamie—slip from your lips with such intimacy while your bare leg is pressed flush against his completely shatters his restraint.

Slowly, he sets his whiskey glass down with a click. He reaches out with his large hand, his fingers trembling as they hover over your bare knee. He pauses for a single second, giving you one last chance to run, before he firmly presses his palm against your skin. His touch is hot, gripping your thigh with a possessive authority that makes a violent shiver run straight up your spine.

“Don't call me that, doll,” Bucky whispers, his hand grips your thigh tighter, anchoring you to him. He leans in closer, his stubble nearly brushing your jawline. “God knows I’m trying to be the good guy here. But you’re making it real hard for me.”

A sudden ring of the telephone on the kitchen wall slices through the room.

God, the universe is a cock-block.

He pulls his hand back as if your skin had suddenly turned to fire, jamming it deep into his pocket as he steps off the stool.

You let out a shaky, frustrated breath, the adrenaline turning cold in your veins. You slide off your stool and walk over to the flashing wall unit, picking up the receiver with a trembling hand.

You let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline turning cold in your veins. You slide off your stool and walk over to the flashing wall unit, picking up the receiver with a trembling hand.

“Hello?” you say, trying desperately to keep your voice smooth.

“Hey, sweetie,” your father’s voice echoes through the line. Bucky is standing by the sink now. “Listen, that meeting wrapped up hours ahead of schedule. The storm is brewing, so I caught an earlier flight out. I’m in the back of a cab right now—I should be home within the hour.”

Your heart drops. Your eyes snap over to Bucky, whose shoulders seem to tense up even further under his white shirt.

“Oh,” you breathe out. “That’s great, Dad. Safe travels. We’ll... see you soon.”

“Alright, kiddo. See you in a bit. Tell Barnes to keep an eye out.”

The line dies.

And so do you.

You slowly lower the receiver back onto the hook. The hour-long countdown has officially started. Your father is on his way back, completely oblivious to the fact that his best friend’s hands were just all over his daughter's bare skin.

“You see?” Bucky whispers. He runs a flesh hand through his hair. “That’s what I’m talking about. We need to stop this. Go upstairs and change your dress, kid. Before he walks through that door.”

Where does this leave you at?

You: 0

Bucky: ?

You just nod. You don't say a word, refusing to let him see the bitter disappointment stinging.

You turn on your heel, leaving him standing alone with his half-empty whiskey glass and his crushing guilt.

When you reach your bedroom, you pull the door shut, the soft click of the latch sounding too loud in the quiet house. You walk over to your mirror, staring at your reflection in the dim light.

Instead of reaching for the zipper, you keep the black silk dress on. You let it cling to your skin, a reminder of the fire you just started downstairs. You sit down on the edge of your bed, your knees pulled up to your chest, staring out the window.

...

A half-hour bleeds away before the wood of the front door finally groans open downstairs. You hear your father’s voice instantly.

You stand up from the edge of the bed, smoothing down the front of the silk dress. You don't hide. You walk out of your room and glide down the stairs.

When you step into the living room, your father is shedding his wet trench coat, handing it off to his friend. Bucky is standing completely rigid, but the second your bare feet hit the floorboards, his snap straight to you.

“Hey, sweetheart,” your father smiles warmly, stepping over to wrap you in a brief hug. He pulls back, his sharp eyes taking you in, a proud grin on his face. “Look at you. Going somewhere tonight? You look beautiful.”

“Just staying in, Dad,” you say smoothly. “Bucky and I were just waiting up for you. Glad you made it back before the roads flooded.”

“Yeah, I don't think I ever saw this much rain in Manhattan,” your father mutters, turning back toward the kitchen to pour himself a drink.

Over your father’s shoulder, your eyes lock directly onto Bucky.

He is staring at you with a terrifying intensity. He looks at your mouth, then drops his gaze down to the dress—the exact same dress he told you to change out of thirty minutes ago. You completely defied him.

“Dad, Bucky made sure that I didn't burn myself in the kitchen before you called,” you say smoothly. “He really looks out for me when you’re not around. He’s so attentive.”

Your father chuckles softly from the kitchen counter, clinking his glass of whiskey. “Good man, Buck. I knew I could count on you to keep an eye on her.”

Bucky’s entire body turns to absolute stone. He doesn't say a single word, but his eyes darken.

“Well, what's the score, Barnes? Let's check out the game,” your father mutters, walking into the living room with his drink and flicking on the television.

The next half-hour blurs into a surreal, high-stakes daydream. The three of you sit in the living room; your father is relaxing in the armchair, while you and Bucky take opposite ends of the large leather sofa. The muffled voices of the sports commentators fill the space.

Bucky sits there like a ticking time bomb. He stares rigidly at the glowing screen, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. But he isn't watching the game. Every single time you shift your weight on the leather cushions, you see a hard muscle pulse under his stubble. While your father is casually talking about his favorite players, he is still feeling the phantom warmth of your bare thigh right against his palm.

“I'm heading up to bed,” you purr softly. “It’s been a really long day. Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight, princess,” your father waves dismissively toward the screen.

Slowly, you turn your gaze completely onto Bucky. “Goodnight, Jamie.”

Without waiting for him to break his silence, you turn on your heel and let the dress sway against your thighs as you leave the room. You don't look back, but you hear the sudden groan of the leather sofa as Bucky’s metal hand grips the armrest too tightly.

Upstairs in your bedroom, you pull the door shut, but you keep the dress on. Downstairs, the game plays on.

In the living room, the suffocating air finally becomes too much for Bucky to swallow. Only a few minutes after you walk upstairs, he stands up from the sofa, cutting your father off mid-sentence.

“I gotta head out,” Bucky mutters.

Your father blinks, looking up from the television in surprise. “Now? Buck, it’s pouring buckets out there. Just stay the night in the guest room like we planned.”

“No, I... I’ve been here too long already,” Bucky forces out as he hoists his canvas duffel bag onto his shoulder. He can’t stay under this roof for another minute without losing his mind. He needs the freezing rain to wash the scent of your vanilla perfume out of his lungs. “Tell the kid goodnight for me. I’ll see you at the garage next week.”

Your father sighs, shaking his head at his friend's stubbornness. “Alright, Barnes. If you insist. Drive safe.”

You stand by your bedroom window, watching through the rain-slicked glass as the headlights of his car cut through the night. The engine roars to life, leaving you alone.

Disappointment washes over you, stinging the back of your throat. Your lips press into a thin line as you turn away from the window. He ran away from you. He chose his guilt, his loyalty to your father, and his own fear over you.

Feeling entirely too restless to sleep, you walk over to the bedroom door to go down to the kitchen for a glass of water, your feet dragging against the floor.

But as you step off the bottom step and glance into the entryway, your breath hitches in your throat. Hanging over the back of the wooden chair by the front door is his leather jacket. He was in such a desperate rush to escape you, that he completely forgot it.

You walk over slowly, and reach out to touch the worn material. It smells completely of him—smoky tobacco, rain and oil.

In that split second, something shifts inside your brain. You are so violently, desperately in love with this man that the logic holding your world together simply snaps. You don't care about your father in the next room, you don't care about the rules, and you don't care about the consequences anymore. You just need him.

Without a single thought, you shove your arms through the sleeves. It swallows you completely.

Before your brain can even voice a warning, you throw open the front door and sprint straight out into the violent storm, the straps of your light summer sandals clicking against the porch steps.

Yes, you grabbed some sandals. What? Did you just think you were going to run barefeet?

The freezing rain hits you, instantly soaking your hair and plastering the thin silk dress to your skin beneath his jacket. You hit the asphalt of the empty avenue, screaming his name into the roaring wind, your chest heaving with a desperate adrenaline.

Do you have any realistic chance of catching up to a car on foot in the middle of a torrential downpour? Absolutely not.

But you keep running anyway. You run until your lungs burn like wildfire, tears mixing with the storm water on your cheeks. You look completely crazy—an unhinged girl in a wet silk slip and a giant man’s leather jacket. You are completely ruined, completely reckless, and so deeply in love with James Buchanan Barnes that you would willingly chase him straight into hell just to feel his hand on your skin again.

But as you round the very next corner, your heart leaps violently in your chest. He didn't escape. He didn't make it to the highway.

Suddenly, Bucky cuts his eyes to the side mirror to check his blind spot before a turn.

And he spots something. It’s a girl. A girl that looks very much like you. “No...” Bucky breathes out.

He slams his foot on the brake pedal. The car comes to a sudden, hard halt against the curb of the sidewalk. Through his rearview mirror, he watches you close the remaining distance, your sandals slapping frantically against the concrete as you run straight toward his stopped driver's side door.

“Bucky!” you scream over the roar of the thunder.

He stays seated, but he throws the low car door wide open, his eyes completely blown wide with a shock so intense it strips away every single bit of his soldier defense. He stares up at you through the pouring rain, taking in your soaked hair, and the giant leather jacket wrapped tightly around you.

“Are you insane?!” he chokes out, his voice cracking as his flesh hand shoots out to grip your wrist. “What are you doing out here?”

“You forgot it!” you sob out, your voice trembling from the cold. You clutch the lapels of his jacket closer to your chest, leaning over the car door to look down into his eyes. “You forgot your jacket, Jamie. You left it.”

Hearing that name—Jamie—delivered by a girl who just chased his moving car through a torrential downpour completely decimates the last remaining boundary in his soul.

He lets out a low groan. He stops fighting the universe. He stops fighting his vows. His grip on your wrist tightens, and before you can even blink, he uses his massive strength to yank you straight over the low car door and down into his lap.

The collision is violent and breath-catching. You land straddling his thighs, your dress gathering around your hips as you are pressed completely flush against his broad chest. His hand buries itself deep into the wet tangle of your hair, tilting your head back, while his metal arm locks around your waist like a vice.

With a swift kick of his boot, Bucky slams the car door shut. The roar of the storm is suddenly,l replaced by the deep rhythm of his breathing.

“God help me,” he growls against your skin, and then his mouth drops down to capture yours. He destroys that perfect pout in a bruising first kiss that tastes entirely of rain, cherry gloss, and a century of longing.

You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him back with a matching madness, completely losing yourself in the heat of his mouth.

But after a few breathless seconds, he abruptly pulls his lips away with a gasp. His chest is heaving heavily against yours, his eyes blown wide as he looks at you.

“Get in the back,” Bucky commands.

You blink at him through your wet eyelashes, confused by the sudden interruption. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, and your lips are tingly and swollen. “What? James, why—?”

“Just move, doll. Go to the backseat,” he interrupts huskily, guiding you over the console toward the rear of the car.

You scramble over the leather seats, totally bewildered, your wet silk dress tangling around your knees as you slide into the spacious back row. You turn around, expecting him to put the car in gear and drive away in a panic.

Instead, Bucky kills the headlights. Then, he effortlessly climbs over the front seats, and slides into the back right next to you.

It turns out the rugged soldier just wanted more space. Bucky reaches out and yanks you right back into his chest, his large hands anchoring you to his lap.

“You shouldn't be here,” he rasped. “You should be home. You should be far away from me.”

“I don't want to be away from you,” you whispered, leaning down until your lips were an inch from his.

“I've spent three days trying not to devour you,” Bucky groaned, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you flush against him. “Do you have any idea what you've done to me? The way you look at me... it's driving me fucking insane.”

You let out a small breath, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Then stop trying to fight it, baby.”

That was the breaking point. He kissed you again.

You whimpered into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. You had never been touched like this—never felt this kind of overwhelming need.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing jagged. “You're sure?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Doll, once we do this... there's no going back.”

“I don't want you to stop,” you breathed.

He didn't need to hear anything else. His hands moved with a sudden urgency, sliding under the hem of your wet dress. His palms were warm, creating a searing contrast against your chilled skin. He slid them up your thighs, until he reached the edge of your underwear.

When his fingers brushed against your center, you gasped, arching your back. You were already soaking. Bucky let out a guttural moan at the feel of you, his forehead resting against yours.

“God, you're so wet for me,” he rasped. “My sweet, beautiful girl.”

You shivered, a tremble racking your body, reminding you both that your dress was still soaked to the bone from the storm. Bucky noticed instantly.

“You're freezing, angel,” he murmured, his voice softening into a rumbling caress.

He slipped his hands underneath the leather, shielding your skin from the chilly air of the car as his fingers found the straps of your dress.

His vibranium fingers were masterfully gentle, taking extra care as he peeled the wet straps down your arms. You had to lean forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck—as his human hand slid down your spine to guide the damp material over your hips.

“Lift up for me, sweetheart,” he breathed, his hot breath brushing your collarbone.

You shifted your weight, bracing your hands on his shoulders beneath the coat. With a smooth movement, he bunched the wet dress down your thighs and pulled it completely out from under you. He tossed the soaked bundle onto the front seat without looking, a dark chuckle rumbling deep in his chest as he heard it hit the floorboards.

“God, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” Bucky murmured. His human hand lingered on the curve of your hip, his thumb stroking your skin. “Cooking me dinner in that damn dress...”

Underneath his coat, you were completely naked now, save for that thin, translucent layer of lace underwear.

“Better?” he whispered, his eyes dropping to your mouth. His right hand slid right back under the jacket, his rough palm cupping the bare skin of your thigh. “Warm enough for me now, doll?”

You nodded against his neck, a breathless sound escaping your lips as his large palm began to move.

His fingers drifted lower, sliding effortlessly along the line of your thigh until his knuckles brushed against the thin waistband of your lace underwear. He paused there, his eyes locking onto yours in the foggy light of the backseat.

Bucky felt the beat of your pulse. Slowly, his human hand migrated from your thigh up to your cheek. He nudged your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice softening into a low rumble. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You met his eyes. The wild hunger was still there, but it was entirely checked by a profound devotion. He was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire world.

“I know this is your first time,” hr whispered, his thumb gently wiping away a stray raindrop from your cheek. “And I need you to know that I am going to be so careful with you. I’m not gonna rush. I’m not gonna be rough. If anything hurts, or if you want me to stop for even a second, you just tell me, alright? You’re in complete control here.”

You shifted on his lap, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Your arms slid all the way around him, pulling your body as flush against his chest as the cramped backseat allowed. You hugged him tightly, squeezing him as if he might disappear if you let go.

“Hey,” Bucky whispered, his human hand wrapping around your back to hold you close, while his metal arm securely locked around your waist. “What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours, doll?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I just... I need to know this isn't a mistake for you,” you breathed against his skin. “I need the reassurance that this isn't just a one-time thing. I don’t want you to regret me tomorrow.”

His grip on you tightened, pulling you so close you could feel every beat of his heart. He buried his face in your hair, kissing the side of your head with a desperate reverence.

“Look at me,” he pleaded softly, his voice thick with an emotion you hadn’t heard from him all weekend.

“I could never regret you,” he whispered, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with infinite tenderness. “You think I ran away because I didn't want you? Doll, I ran because I wanted you too much. I’ve been fighting this for months. Every single day.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot on your lips.

“But I’m done running,” he whispered. “I could never regret you. Tomorrow, next week, next year... I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me now, okay? You completely ruined my self-control all weekend, and now you have me. Completely.”

Hearing him say that—knowing he was entirely yours and that he wasn't going to pull away out of guilt tomorrow—felt like a weight lifting off your chest.

Bucky chuckled softly at the way your body finally relaxed against his, your hands tightening around his shoulders. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the tip of your nose, then to your forehead, before his lips brushed yours in a sweet promise.

his knuckles found your lace panties again. “Lift your hips just a little bit for me, doll,” he murmured.

You lifted your weight by just a few inches, holding onto him for balance as the car's low ceiling forced you to stay pressed close to his chest.

With a slow movement, Bucky’s warm hand guided the lace down your hips, sliding the fabric smoothly over the burning skin of your thighs. His vibranium fingers came in to help, masterfully gentle as he hooked the underwear over your knees and down your calves, completely freeing you from the last barrier. (Since you didn't have a bra under that dress,you whore)

He discarded them onto the floorboards. You were entirely naked now, sitting directly on his lap, with nothing separating your bare skin from the bulge in his jeans.

His human hand traveled right back up your inner thigh, his rough palm sliding along your sensitive skin until his thumb brushed against the very center of your heat. You gasped, your fingers digging deep into the fabric of his shirt as you felt just how incredibly ready you were for him.

“God, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his eyes widening slightly as he felt the slick moisture coating his fingers. “You're so soft. And so incredibly wet for me.”

Bucky noticed the cramped space. He didn't want you to be uncomfortable, and he needed to see your face properly for what was coming next.

“Hold on, doll,” he murmured, his voice a low, heavy rumble.

He carefully guided your body sideways, shifting you until your back and shoulders were resting comfortably against the cushioned frame of the car door and the foggy window. He helped you pull your knees up toward your chest, adjusting his frame so he was sitting directly between your thighs on the edge of the seat.

This position gave him the perfect angle. He leaned forward, bracing his metal hand on the seat next to your hip to stabilize himself, while his human face hovered just inches from yours.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you shiver. “I’m gonna use my fingers now, alright? Just to get you ready for me. Tell me if it's too much.”

“Okay, Bucky,” you breathed. You leaned your head back against the foggy glass of the window, looking straight into his eyes. “Please... I want this. I trust you.”

He nodded softly. His fingers moved between your parted thighs, but the moment his palm pressed against your slick center, his hand froze. His finger lightly traced your opening, noting how incredibly receptive and naturally yielding your body felt under his touch.

His blue eyes suddenly darkened, a sudden tension tightening his jawline. He looked up from your lap, his gaze locking onto your eyes that made your breath hitch.

“Doll,” he murmured. “You’ve... you’ve done this before, haven't you? You touched yourself.”

You bit your lip, a sudden flush climbing up your neck as you nodded. “Yes.”

An unreadable emotion flickered across his face. Jealousy washed over his features. The thought of you alone in your bedroom, exploring your own body hit him—because his mind immediately went to the worst possible place. He thought of the boys your age at school. He thought of you imagining someone else.

“Who were you thinking about?” Bucky rasped, his grip on your thigh tightening just enough to pin you in place. “Some kid from your class? Some guy your own age?”

“No!” you cut him off quickly. “No, Bucky, never. There’s never been anyone else.”

You leaned your head forward, your forehead resting against his. “It was always you,” you confessed. “Every single time I thought about what this would feel like... it was only ever you. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Bucky went completely still. His jaw was slack, his chest heaving under his thin shirt. The sheer weight of your confession—the realization that you had been preparing yourself for him, and only him, this entire time—hit his system like a shot of pure adrenaline.

But he was staring at you for just a second too long, his brain trying to process how incredibly hot that was, and you were completely done with all the talking.

You let out an impatient huff. Bracing your hands on his shoulders, you shifted your weight and rocked your hips forward, rubbing your aching pussy right against his long human finger that was still just resting against your opening.

The sudden friction took him completely by surprise. Bucky let out a choked gasp, a rumbling laugh vibrating right out of his chest as a smirk broke across his face.

“So you’ve been touching yourself to the thought of me, huh?” Bucky rasped. He nudged your knees a little wider apart, his thumb circling that sensitive part. “Let’s see how well you learned to take me.”

Without another word, he slowly pushed his first finger straight inside you.

You let out a high-pitched gasp against his neck, your fingers clawing into the cotton of his shirt as your muscles instinctively clenched tightly around him. He was thick, even just with a finger, and the sudden fullness made your hips twitch.

He kept his finger perfectly still for a moment, letting you stretch around him, an arrogant smile tugging at his lips as he felt how incredibly wet and tight you were.

“God, you’re so perfect,” he murmured as his finger made its first stroke inside you. “Look at how beautifully you take my finger, sweetheart. You’re practically begging for the rest of me, aren't you?”

You let out a broken whine, your fingers desperately gripping his shoulders as he began to slide his finger in and out. The fogged-up windows completely hiding the two of you from the rainy world outside.

He curled his finger slightly, hitting that perfect, sensitive spot again and again until you were completely breathless, your hips arching off the seat instinctively to meet his hand.

“You like that, doll?” Bucky rasped. “Look at you. So wet, so tight. Shaking for me already.”

You needed to push him just as hard as he was pushing you. You wanted to see that control of his completely shatter.

As his finger pushed deep inside you once more, you opened your eyes, looking straight into his dark pupils. A smirk pulling at your lips despite the whimpers escaping your throat.

“Don’t stop...” you panted. “...keep going, Uncle Buck.”

He froze instantly. But his finger stayed perfectly still inside you, his whole body going completely rigid over yours. His jaw clenched so hard the bone looked like it would snap.

A growl rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating right against your skin.

“What did you just call me?” he growled. His grip on your thigh tightened significantly. “Say that again, doll. Say it while you’re stretched around my finger in the back of my car. Let me hear what a good slut you've been for your old man.”

A shiver ran down your spine at his words, your core clenching tightly around his finger at his dirty talk.

You let out a broken whimper, your head dropping back against the glass as your hips instinctively twitched against his hand.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Whimper for me. Let me feel how much you want it.”

Before he could drive you completely over the edge, Bucky suddenly stopped. He slipped his slick finger out of your pussy, making you let out a disappointed whine.

He shifted his weight, as his human hand slid down between your bodies, traveling to the stiff denim of his own jeans. The space in the backseat was incredibly tight, making it clumsy for him to handle his belt.

“Help me out, doll,” his voice dropping into a rough whisper that made your skin tingle. “Reach down there and unbuckle your uncle’s pants for him.”

A flush rushed to your cheeks, panic mixing with your intense arousal. Hearing him say it so casually made it feel entirely too real.

“Stop,” you breathed, your hands instantly reaching down to find his metal belt buckle. Your fingers were trembling as you quickly worked the leather strap, eager to get him out of his clothes. “Don’t use that title anymore, Bucky. Seriously, don’t.”

Your fingers shook as you managed to undo his belt buckle, the metal clinking softly in the car. Next, you popped the top button of his jeans and tugged the zipper down.

The moment his thick length was completely freed and pressing directly against your bare inner thigh, heat shot straight to your core.

Bucky let out a rough exhale, his gaze never leaving yours as he settled back down between your legs.

“Hey,” he murmured, his metal hand moving gently to tilt your face upward, catching your gaze. His smirk widened as he leaned in closer. “You started it, sweetheart.”

You didn’t have the breath to counter his teasing. The reality of him pressing against your bare inner thigh made your heart completely hijack your chest. Every instinct in your body was screaming with anticipation.

He noticed the sudden shift in your breathing. The playful smirk vanished from his face, replaced instantly by a look of devotion. He knew exactly what this moment meant. He knew he was about to take something precious, and he wanted to be as worthy of your trust as he could possibly be.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me, doll. Just look at me.”

You opened your eyes, your hands squeezing his shoulders. With agonizing slowness, Bucky shifted his hips, guiding the hot tip of his length to your opening.

He didn’t push inside yet. His metal hand came up to wrap around the back of your neck, his thumb gently stroking your jawline to keep you grounded, while his human hand cupped your hip, holding you steady.

“Breathe for me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Wrap your legs around my waist. Just like that.”

You hooked your thighs tighter around his hips, tilting your pelvis up to meet him.Taking a deep, breath, he slowly began to push forward.

A wave of fullness and intense pressure hit you, making you let out a muffled gasp. Your eyes instinctively squeezed shut and your fingers clawed deep into his shirt as your muscles tightened, fighting the initial stretch.

He kept himself perfectly still, his chest heaving against yours as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent, giving you all the time you needed.

“I’ve got you. Shh, I’ve got you, doll,” he cooed. He pressed a row of soft kisses along your burning collarbone. “Relax for me, beautiful. Just take a deep breath. Let it out. I’m right here.”

You slowly let out your breath, forcing your tensed muscles to give in to the stretch of him. Bucky didn't move an inch until he felt your shoulders finally drop and your fingers loosen their grip on his shirt. He let out a long breath of his own, his forehead resting against yours.

Slowly, Bucky pulled back just a few inches before pushing deep inside you again.

A breathless gasp tore from your throat, your head bumping gently against the foggy window behind you. The sensation of him moving inside was staggeringly intense.

He caught your gasp with his lips, stealing the sound in a deep kiss as he began a slow rhythm. He kept his movements slow, pacing himself to ensure he didn't overwhelm you.

“God, sweetheart,” he moaned, his breathing becoming jagged and wild as he picked up the speed. He pulled back enough to look down at your face. “Look at you. You’re taking all of me so beautifully.”

But as the pleasure began to blur your thoughts, the cotton of his undershirt between your palms felt like an unnecessary barrier. Driven by a desperate need to feel his bare skin against yours, you hooked your fingers under the hem of his undershirt.

“Take it off,” you panted against his lips, tugging at the fabric. “Bucky, please... I want to feel you.”

His breath hitched, a wicked, proud smile broke across his face. He loved how eager you were for him. Without breaking the rhythm of his hips inside you, he braced his metal hand against the low ceiling of the car for stability and lifted his arms, helping you guide the tight shirt up and over his head.You pulled it off together, throwing the scrap of cotton blindly into the front seat.

The moment the undershirt was cast aside, you didn’t waste a single second. Your hands slid down from his shoulders to his chest before sliding down to trace the defined ridges of his abs.

His entire body flexed hard under your touch. A deep growl tore from his throat. Your touch was the absolute point of no return.

“fuck, doll,” his breathing turning completely feral. “You're driving me crazy here.”

He couldn't keep that slow pace anymore. Completely turned on out of his mind by the feeling of your small hands against his bare skin, Bucky slammed his hips forward, picking up his speed.

He caught your cries with his lips, his kisses turning sloppy as he drove you straight toward the edge. He pulled back just enough to look down at your flushed face, an arrogant smirk tugging at his lips when he felt how tightly you were gripping him.

“You like how I feel inside you, don’t you, sweetheart?” Bucky growled. He thrust deep, bottoming out against your walls. “So eager... so ready for me. Is this what you wanted for years, doll? Wanted to be taken by an old man like me instead of those boys your own age?”

“Yes,” you breathed out as you pressed your head even harder against the fogged-up window. Your fingers dug deep into the muscles of his back. “Only you, Buck...”

His breath hitched completely in that instant. Those words mixed with those hands on his bare skin, ignited a primal explosion within him. “You little tease,” he growled.

With one hand, he grabbed your hip, digging his fingers deep into your skin, and began taking you with hard intensity. Every deep thrust pinned you against the door, while his thumb teased your center.

All of his previous hesitation evaporated. The raw intensity was too much to bear. The pleasure built to a sudden peak, and a loud, uncontrollable cry tore from your throat. Bucky caught the sound instantly, crashing his mouth onto yours in a deep kiss as the waves of your first climax crashed over you.

Your release immediately pushed him straight over the edge. A groan tore from his chest, as he delivered one final thrust, spending himself completely inside you while his metal arm kept you held securely against his heart.

Bucky remained collapsed against you for a long moment, his chest heaving against yours, his face buried deep in the crook of your neck. He was completely spent. Slowly, he shifted, slipping out of you and making you let out a tiny whimper at the sudden loss of warmth.

“You okay, doll?” he whispered, as he reached up with his thumb to gently wipe away a stray tear from your cheek. “I didn't hurt you?”

You shook your head softly, your hands still resting on his shoulders. You looked into those deep blue eyes. You couldn't keep it inside anymore.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.

He went completely still. His thumb froze against your cheek, his breath catching in his throat. For a terrifying second, his jaw clenched, and you wondered if his guilt was going to ruin the moment.

But then he leaned down, burying his face in your hair, pressing a desperate kiss to the side of your head. “I love you too, sweetheart. So much. I’m not going anywhere, okay? We’re going to figure this out. Together.”

...

The storm outside had completely blown over by the time you reached the back door of your house. The summer night air was fresh, but you weren't cold at all; you were swamped in one of Bucky’s oversized, soft gray shirts that fell halfway down your thighs, paired with his sweatpants that you had to tie incredibly tight around your hips so they wouldn't slide off. You could still smell the distinct scent of his clean body wash on your skin, a reminder of the shower you had taken at his apartment right after the backseat of his car.

Holding your breath, you turned the key in the lock, millimeter by millimeter. You prayed the old floorboards wouldn't creak as the back door clicked open, allowing you to slip quietly into the dark kitchen.

Your relief lasted for exactly one second. Standing right by the counter, illuminated only by the dim, pale light of the open refrigerator, was your dad. He wasn't asleep. He was leaning against the counter in a pair of lounge pants, holding a mug of steaming hot cocoa in his hands. As you stepped inside, he slowly closed the fridge door and turned his head to look at you.

You froze on the spot. Your heart hijacked your throat, and your skin suddenly felt like it was on fire beneath Bucky’s shirt. It was obvious whose clothes you were wearing.

Your dad took a slow sip of his cocoa, his mind-reading gaze sweeping over the oversized shirt, the bunched-up sweatpants, and finally resting on your flushed face. He didn't look angry. In fact, his expression was entirely calm. He lowered his mug, set it quietly on the counter, and gave you a small smirk.

“Good to see Bucky finally cleaned out the backseat of his car,” he murmured.

Your throat went entirely dry. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but your brain completely short-circuited. No words came out.

He didn't wait for a desperate explanation. He turned away from the counter and took a couple of steps toward the hallway. Right before he vanished around the corner, he glanced back over his shoulder with a chuckle.

“The washing machine is empty if you need to clean that black silk dress, kiddo. Goodnight.”

The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall. You were left standing entirely alone in the middle of the kitchen, your mouth hanging open in absolute shock as the reality of what just happened settled in.

You lift your head at the drawling voice, turning just enough to spot Crosshair standing just inside the door. You wonder how long he’s been there, not having heard the door open at any point in the last hour. 

“Asshole.” You roll your eyes as Wrecker strokes his cock back to hardness, flipping your skirt back up to reveal your ass. “Either shut up or join us.” 

Crosshair steps down the stairs, slowly and dramatically as he starts undoing his armor. “Don’t mind if I do.” 

Wrecker smirks, thick fingers dragging through your damp folds. You grind against his hand, still soaked and wet after your last orgasm. Hands tug your skirt up higher, before sliding over the curve of your ass. You press your hips back into Crosshair’s hands as he looms behind you, taking you in. 

“Are you gonna stand there, or are you going to fuck my ass?” You say, looking over your shoulder at him. 

His eyes narrow as they snap to your face. “Mouthy little thing, aren’t you?” 

You smirk. “Only to those that deserve it.” 

You yelp as Crosshair’s hand smacks against your ass sharply, the sound of his skin meeting yours loud in the room. A satisfied smirk lifts his own lips, his hand massaging the stinging skin. 

“At least I know how to shut you up.” He says, his fingers sliding down between your legs.

He drags his fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness on them. You grip Wrecker’s shoulders as Crosshair’s fingers prod your asshole, pressing against the tight ring of muscle. You try and relax as his finger pushes into you, your body trying to fight the sudden intrusion. 

Wrecker’s hands drag up and down your thighs as Crosshair works his fingers into you, spreading you open so you can take his cock. “That’s it, mesh’la.” He says, soothing you, his lips brushing your forehead as you cling to his broad shoulders. 

Wrecker’s fingers prod at your pussy, two thick digits pressing into you to keep you spread open for his cock. You clamp down around both of them, making them groan. You rock slightly against Wrecker’s hand, working Crosshair’s fingers in and out of your ass. Your eyes roll back at the feeling of being filled from both sides, and you don’t even have their cocks inside you yet. 

“Kriff,” You breathe, pressing yourself closer to Wrecker’s body. 

“Put your cock in her, Wrecker.” Crosshair hisses. 

Wrecker smirks, slipping his fingers from your pussy and wrapping them around his thick cock. 

He drags the head through your folds before pressing it against your opening. You shudder, fighting the urge to clamp around him as he presses into you, stretching you still despite the fact he had just been inside you. Your legs shake as you sink yourself down onto him, Crosshair’s hand moving to hold your shoulder as he can most likely feel Wrecker’s cock spreading you open. 

You find yourself suddenly shoved against Wrecker’s chest, Crosshair’s hand on the back of your neck. Your ass is forced outward from this position, your body gaping open around Wrecker’s cock as Crosshair withdraws his fingers. You hear him spit moments before his cock is prodding your tight ass, the head pushing against your tight ring of muscle. 

You sink your teeth into Wrecker’s shoulder as Crosshair pushes into you, the stretch intense despite his preparation. It’s not unlike how it feels when you first take Wrecker, the painful burning stretch as your body fights to adjust. You whimper as he presses further into you, making you feel even fuller as he joins Wrecker inside you. 

Crosshair lets out a quiet breath as he pushes against Wrecker inside you, his fingers tightening around the back of your neck. “Tight little thing.” He grunts, rocking his hips so he sinks deeper and deeper into you. 

Your legs are shaking by the time they’re both seated inside you, your body stretched open and full around both of them. It’s unlike anything you’ve felt before, your hands clinging to Wrecker’s blacks. His front is still damp from your explosive release, and you don’t doubt he’s going to be absolutely soaked by the time you’re done. 

Wrecker’s hands grip your thighs as Crosshair begins thrusting harder into you, the force of his thrusts bouncing you on Wrecker’s cock. Wrecker guides your movements, pushing you down to meet Crosshair’s movements and drawing you back up. You let yourself go, letting them manipulate and use your body as they fuck you, Wrecker moaning deeply in your ear.

You squeeze around them, earning a groan from both of them as you grip them tightly. You’re trembling, the pleasure almost overwhelming as they continue to fuck you, Crosshair’s thrusts almost brutal as he chases his high. He pulls your body back, changing the angle of their cocks inside you. You nearly scream, both of them reaching parts of you, you didn’t think were possible. 

You’re cumming again, soaking Wrecker and clamping down almost painfully on them both. Crosshair lets out a deep growl as his hips jerk, slamming against your ass as he cums inside you. Your whole body is shaking, the only thing keeping you upright is their hold on you. You’re making unintelligible noises, stars dancing behind your eyes as Crosshair lets your body go, slipping his cock from your ass. 

Wrecker pulls you against his chest, his cock still hard inside you. He smooths his hands over your back, letting you come down from your high again. You can feel Crosshair’s cum leaking out of your ass, the feeling downright filthy as you sit on Wrecker’s cock. 

You whimper against Wrecker’s shoulder, rocking your hips with uneven jerks. His hands enclose your waist, guiding your small movements. He kisses the side of your head, trailing gentle kisses across your face and neck. You hear the door to the ‘fresher slide closed, Crosshair leaving you both. He got what he came for, what you offered. 

Wrecker continues to guide your movements, deep, breathy groans leaving his lips. You want him to cum, even as your body quickly numbs with overstimulation. You’re so desperate for him to cum, for him to fill you too. 

He cums with a groan, twitching inside you as he fills you with his cum. He groans deeply, burying his face in his neck, his breaths puffing against your sweaty skin. He pulls you off his cock as soon as he’s done, settling you more comfortably in his lap. 

“Good job.” He praises you, kissing your face softly. “Good girl.” 

A smile tugs at your lips as you rest your head on his shoulder, letting him ease you down from your intense orgasms. “Thank you, Wrecker.”  He lets out a quiet chuckle. “No, thank you, mesh’la.”

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You’re writhing under him, spread out on his bunk like some sort of meal. You’re so small compared to him, so delicate, so breakable. You always tell him he’s too big. He thinks you’re the perfect size. 

His mouth swallows your moans, tongue tasting like the candy you liked to sneak into the barracks. He’s got two fingers stuffed inside your pussy, your dress hiked up around your waist. You like to wear the dress on leave, a nice change from your tactical gear. The top is pulled down, exposing your breasts, nipples pebbled from the cold air in the barracks. 

He groans as you flutter around his fingers, a third pressing at your entrance. You have to take three if you want to take him. He won’t fit unless you’re properly prepped, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt you. 

“Wrecker!” You whine as that third finger works its way in, pulling away from his lips as you breathe through the sensation. 

You reach down, flattening his hand against your mount so you can grind your clit against his palm. He watches, eyes fixated on where his fingers are inside you as you move your hips, fucking yourself on his fingers. Your head drops back, lips parted as you moan. You’re so close, your walls clenching around him so tightly he couldn’t pull them from you without hurting you. 

He lets you work yourself up to your orgasm, your legs shaking and hips jerking as you cum around his fingers. He groans, the bulge under his blacks seeming to grow as he watches you. 

He pulls his fingers from inside you as you relax, lifting them to his mouth. Your eyes are lidded as you watch him, tongue darting out to lick your lips. He sucks his fingers clean before he leans back down, capturing your lips with his. You can taste yourself on his tongue. You let out a quiet moan, slick thighs rubbing together as you shift your position. 

Wrecker wraps an arm around you, lifting you easily as he stands. He moves to the couch, sinking down to sit on the thin cushion. He barely fit in his bunk alone, and you had quickly learned fucking in it was not possible unless you wanted a few injuries. Trying to explain to the medics on Kamino how you got those injuries was not something you wanted to do. 

You sit in his lap, legs stretched wide across his thick thighs. You grind yourself against the bulge in his blacks, staring up into those dark eyes as you work yourself up against him once again. He has yet to touch himself, to relieve himself. He’s been so focused on getting you ready, you feel bad that he’s been neglecting himself. 

You open his blacks, slipping a hand into wrap around his cock. He’s so big, a quiet curse leaving your lips as you take his hot length into your hand. He’s leaking already, and you wonder if he’s going to last just getting inside you. You flip the skirt of your dress up as you drag his head through your folds a few times. 

He groans, hands cupping your ass as you line him up, easing his head inside you. You gasp at the stretch, your free hand gripping his shoulder. He supports your weight as you ease yourself down his length, taking him inch by inch. He’s already a moaning mess, leaking inside you as you squeeze around him. 

Wrecker stiffens as you settle against him, his thick length stuffed as far inside you as you can manage. You grip his shoulders, hanging on for dear life as you adjust around him. 

“So big.” You pant, legs shaking from the effort of holding yourself up above him. “Fill me so good.” 

“Good girl.” He grunts, hands closing around your hips to support you. “Take me so good.” 

You whine, hips jerking a bit at his words. You gasp as he moves inside you, the sensation almost too much. You move again, the stretch burning a bit but you’ve learned to love the sensation. 

You’re being loud as you fuck yourself on his cock, anyone who walked by wouldn’t have to hear much to know what was going on. You don’t care, though. Repercussions be damned, you’re too far gone to care. 

You throw your head back as you bounce on him, his cock pushing against that spot inside you with every movement. You’re not going to last long, not for the first orgasm. You’re already so close, the heat coiling in your stomach as you fuck yourself on his big cock. 

“Gonna cum.” You moan, hands dropping to grip his forearms as he holds your waist. “Kriff, Wrecker!” 

You shake in his arms, his length falling out of you with a pop as you squirt across his chest and stomach. Your whole body spasms in the aftershocks of the intense orgasm as he holds you against his soaked blacks. You drop your head to his shoulder, taking a moment to breathe. 

“My, wasn’t that a show.” 

You lift your head at the drawling voice, turning just enough to spot Crosshair standing just inside the door. You wonder how long he’s been there, not having heard the door open at any point in the last hour. 

“Asshole.” You roll your eyes as Wrecker strokes his cock back to hardness, flipping your skirt back up to reveal your ass. “Either shut up or join us.” 

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