would you like to venture down the rabbit hole with me? well, there are rules before your sins can be forgiven...
be advised that this curious place will explore all manners of taboo subjects and dark themes. these may include incest, stepcest, noncon, suicidal ideation, gun play, knife play, etc. the dove is very dead, and yet we still eat anyway
if none of those sound enthralling, not to fear, you can hop right along with no remorse.
due to the sensitive nature of this blog, minors, ageless, and blank blogs will be blocked with zero exception.
Ი⑅𐑼
my works ᝰ.ᐟ
⤹⊱ ۫ just the tip ׅ ✧
⤹⊱ ۫ just like honey... ׅ ✧
⤹⊱ ۫ click.buzz.sigh ׅ ✧
my inbox is open to requests or if you just want to chat ᝰ.ᐟ
...why, there's hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person
read part 2 here
Prompt: After receiving very exciting news about his summer internship, Bucky convinces you to spend one weekend with him at the family cabin, where a fragile attempt at normalcy crumbles into a mess of tangled hearts.
Pairing: Brother!Bucky Barnes x Older Sister!Reader
Word count: 11.4k
Warnings: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); incest; siblingcest (brother/sister); age gap (reader is 4 years older than Bucky, both are over 18+); inexperienced Bucky Barnes; pining; unresolved emotional tension; smut; mutual masturbation; dirty talk; pussy pronouns; heavy kissing/making out; aftercare; shower sex; fingering; p in v; unprotected sex (reader & bucky talk about it); praise kink (brief); sex is interrupted by feelings; hurt with not a lot of comfort (for the ending of the chapter only); Space CutieS! Bucky is a space nerd, reader is also a space nerd; no use of Y/N; not beta'd
Notes: well, where do i even start?? it has been a while since i posted a chapter for space cuties! real life was kicking my ass for quite a while, and i also made this chapter about twice the size of my previous chapters, which made me take much longer to get it finished. i feel like i might have rushed the ending a little bit, but overall, i am very proud of how this one turned out. i have so many ideas still blooming for these two and i cannot wait for you to see what's in store for bucky & his sis 💕💕
as always dividers by me. reminder to not read unless you are comfortable with the tagged themes !!
A random Thursday afternoon while Bucky is supposed to be studying for his astrophysics midterm is the moment the universe chooses to turn his world upside down. Sprawled across his bed under the glowing galaxy ceiling, laptop balanced on his stomach, he’s half mindedly scrolling through notes about epicycles and galaxy relaxation when the notification for a new email shows up on the corner of the screen.
Johnson Space Center.
Subject: NASA Pathways Internship Offer - Summer 2026
There’s a real chance that his heart stops beating for a full five seconds before it goes back to beating, albeit completely out of sync. His fingers are quick to slide across the keyboard, open the email and just as quickly he’s reading the first paragraph.
Accepted to the NASA Pathways Engineering internship. June through August. Houston. Housing provided. Fully funded. Chance to shadow the Orion program.
His dream, described right there in a long email with details he can’t read when the words begin to blur. The one you planted in him when he was six and you were ten, lying on a blanket in the backyard with that cheap telescope between you. One he’s chased through every late night study session, every rocket model launch in the driveway of your parents home, every school essay that mentioned “the big sister who showed me the stars”.
Bucky should be ecstatic. Maybe yelling, calling Mom and Dad, texting Steve, maybe doing one of those stupid victory dances he used to do when he finally solved a physics problem you’d been helping him with when he was younger.
Instead he just sits there, staring at the screen until words stop making sense, because all he can think about is the fact that Houston is thousands of miles away, and you won’t be there.
Since the planetarium, the two of you have been closer than ever, in a way that feels all too vulnerable but nonetheless unavoidable.
Late night texts started again, him sending a blurry photo of the moon from his bedroom at 2.a.m., captioned “made me think of you”, and you replying with a voice note whispering about the history of some craters’ names. Every time the messages stretched longer, silences between them shorter. You’d catch yourself smiling at your phone in the dark, heart thudding when his typing bubble appeared, knowing he was lying in this starry bedroom thinking about you the way you were thinking about him. Not in a friendly, sibling way; rather, in the way you think about your first school crush, about your first love that is engraved into your bones and that you remember until your deathbed.
Sometimes you’d go for walks after work, bundled up against the February cold, boots crunching over salted sidewalks while he told you about his latest orbital mechanics problem. Other times you’d have lunch together, whenever you had a break long enough to leave the city and visit him for some quick sandwiches at the local café. There were knees brushing under the tiny table, both of you pretending not to notice the way the contact always lingered a second too long.
What you haven’t done since the planetarium is share a bed. Not once, not even for a quick afternoon nap. Neither of you tried anything, neither of you promised to stop, either, but the memory lived in your blood, and his, like oxygen now. You feel it every time you hug him goodbye, his arms wrapping around you a fraction tighter than they should, chin resting on your head just long enough for you to feel his heartbeat through his shirt. At your parents’ house, you catch him staring every dinner across the table, blue eyes a little too dark before he blinks and looks away once he realizes he’s been caught. All the thoughts of his thigh pressed between yours, the way he whispered “my moon” against your mouth like a prayer and a confession all at once.
Once more, you are both trying to keep a wall up, even if you don’t verbalize it. Try to keep conversations safe, you laugh at his dumb jokes and ruffle his hair like the big sister you’re supposed to be. He calls you ‘sis’ in front of your parents, and keeps his hands in his pockets when you walk side by side. But every second more you spend together, the harder it is to ignore the obvious. That afternoon at the planetarium didn’t help fix anything; it just made the ache deeper and impossible to outrun.
Now you catch yourself wondering what it would feel like to kiss him in the middle of a crowded sidewalk just to see if the world would actually end. And he catches himself reaching for your hand before remembering he’s not allowed to.
The Friday afternoon after he’s received the news, Bucky’s standing in your doorway with the printed NASA email burning a hole in his pocket. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, or maybe from nerves, but either way, when you open the door, he looks at you with those same wide blue eyes that used to stare up at you in wonder when you pointed out constellations.
“Hey, can I come in for a second?”
You step aside to let him into your apartment, and the moment the door clicks shut, he doesn’t sit down. Instead he stands there in the middle of your living room, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.
“I have a surprise,” he starts. “but you can’t ask any questions about it. Yet, anyway.”
You raise an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest. “That’s kind of a weird way to start a conversation, Buck.”
A nervous smile tugs at his lips. “So, I asked Mom and Dad if I could have their cabin for this weekend. They said yes. I’d like us to go there together, just the two of us. We can leave right now, I have the car outside, and I can wait while you pack.”
The words make you stand there, staring at him, while you process the information. The cabin in the woods.
It’s the same old family cabin your parents have had since you were little, a small, cedar-shingled place tucked deep among the pines, with a big stone fireplace and a wide loft bedroom that overlooks the nearby lake. Every summer and many winter weekends when you were kids, the four of you would pile into the car with snacks and board games and drive up there for a few days. You and Bucky used to race each other down the narrow path to the dock, build snow forts in the backyard, and roast marshmallows until your fingers were sticky.
But what you both used to love most were the nights. There was almost no light pollution that far from the city and the sky would open up like someone had spilled diamonds across black velvet. You’d drag Bucky outside after dark, wrapped in blankets and wearing oversized coats, and lie on the old wooden deck, holding your tiny hands, staring up at the sky.
Now Bucky wants to take you back there, just the two of you, for an entire weekend. Memories flash in your mind even without you wanting them too: his hands on your waist under the Christmas tree, the way he trembled beneath you and the sounds he made when he came while still trying to name stars.
“Bucky…” Your voice comes out quieter than you want. “I don’t think spending a whole weekend alone at the cabin is a good idea. We’ve… been trying. You know that.”
“I know we’ve been trying. We don’t have to ruin that, I just… this is important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”
You hesitate, biting the inside of your cheek. The responsible part of your brain is screaming that this is dangerous. Two days in a secluded cabin with no parents and no easy escape, just the cold, and the fireplace, and every forbidden feeling you’ve been trying to bury.
“Bucky, I really think we should think about this…”
“Please.” His voice cracks on the word, in a way that makes your chest ache. “Please, sis. This means a lot to me.”
You can see how much this matters to him, even if you don’t know why yet. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, as he waits for your response. You simply let out a long breath. The love you’ve always felt for him, the safe sibling kind, twists painfully with something you’re terrified to name.
Finally, “Fine,” you say, words coming out softer than you intended, as if showing him that your ‘no’ was never going to hold up anyway. “I’ll go, but only if I drive.”
Bucky blinks, surprise flickering across his features before a little relieved laugh escapes him.
“You don’t trust me on long drives?” he asks, familiar teasing tone creeping back in even though his eyes are still shiny with emotion.
“I’ve seen how you drive when you’re excited about something. Last time you almost hit a mailbox because you were telling me about some new exoplanet discovery. I’m not risking my life just because my little brother gets starry-eyed behind the wheel.
He huffs a laugh, tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. “Fair. You can drive, and I’ll even let you pick the music.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re already turning toward your bedroom to start packing. As you throw clothes and toiletries into a bag, your hands shake slightly. You tell yourself it’s just the cold clinging to the apartment, but deep down, you know the truth: you’re not sure how many more times you can be alone with Bucky before things break apart for good.
The drive up to the cabin is a few hours of careful conversation, how your new exhibit is getting good reviews, his midterm grades, Mom’s last attempt at knitting him a scarf that ended up being way too short. You keep the topics safe, the kind of things siblings are supposed to talk about, while songs play on the radio, ones you both know. Bucky laughs in the right moments, but his fingers keep tapping restlessly against his thigh, and every so often you catch him glancing at you a little too long when he thinks you’re focused on the road.
The farther you drive, the more the trees grow thick, road narrower, until familiar landmarks begin appearing. The old wooden bridge over the creek, the rusted mailbox at the turnoff, the final winding dirt path that leads to the cabin.
When the truck finally crunches to a stop in front of the small cedar-shingled building, it looks pretty much the same as it always has. The late afternoon light filters through the tall pines, casting long shadows across the clearing. Air is cold and crisp, sharp enough to bite at your cheeks the moment you open the door, but there’s no fresh snow on the ground today, just a thin layer of frost clinging to the grass and the edges of the wooden porch. The lake behind the cabin is dark and still under the gray sky, thin mist hovering above the water and making the whole place feel secluded, like the rest of the world is very far away.
A few dried leaves skitter across the porch as you step out, and the familiar scent of pine and damp earth fills the air. Your parents must have come up a few days ago to turn on the heat and stock the fridge, because warm golden light already glows from the windows.
Bucky is already grabbing his and your bags from the back of the truck and heading toward the cabin, and you follow him up the creaky steps, finding the old brass key under a nearby pot, in the same place it always was. When you unlock the door, it swings open and you step inside, only to be wrapped by the warmth of the living room like a blanket. The place is exactly as you remember it: big stone fireplace with some wood ready to be lit, worn plaid couch facing the wide windows that look over the forest.
With a thud, Bucky sets the bags down near the couch and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little unsure in the quiet space.
“Still feels the same, doesn’t it?” he says softly.
You nod, shrugging off your coat and hanging it on the familiar hook by the door. Your fingers linger on the wood for a second, but you don’t say anything.
The kitchen is stocked with the usual supplies, like canned goods, some fresh vegetables (whoever stocked the wood surely brought that too), hot chocolate packets, the old red kettle ready to be put on the stove. Same old kitchen supplies, plates, cups. Everything unchanged, frozen in time, the way only childhood places can be.
But you and Bucky aren’t kids anymore. That realization settles heavy in your chest, and you stand there in the living room, cold air still clinging to your clothes even in the warmer inside of the cabin. This place holds too many innocent memories, and now the walls feel dangerously intimate, the quiet feeling too loud.
Bucky crosses the room to the stone fireplace and crouches down in front of the hearth. The wood is stacked and ready, so he simply strikes a match, small flame flaring bright for a second before he touches it to the kindling. It catches quickly, orange light flickering across his face as the fire begins to grow, crackling softly and filling the room with the comforting scent of burning wood. He stays crouched there for a moment, watching the flames take hold, shoulders still a little tense, before he glances back at you over his shoulder.
“I can make us some hot chocolate,” he offers quietly, voice gentle how you’ve always been used to.
Then he stands, brushes his hands on his jeans and heads toward the kitchen. You hear the familiar clink of the old kettle being filled at the sink, the click of the stove turning on. While the water heats, he pulls two mismatched mugs from the cupboard. In the living room, the fire grows stronger and the warmth slowly spreading chases away the last of the outdoor chill. You sink down onto the edge of the worn plaid couch, watching Bucky move around the kitchen with his usual slightly nervous energy.
A few minutes later he returns, carrying both mugs with an almost shy smile that sets your heart aflutter.
“Here,” he says, handing you the one mug with a chipping rocket pattern. “I managed to find some marshmallows, too.”
Gentle fingers brush his as you take the mug from him, and he sits down on the other end of the couch, not too close, but not as far as he probably should. Firelight dances across his face, highlighting the faint flush lingering on his cheeks.
“I missed this place,” he admits. “Being here with you. It’s been a while since we’ve been up here, with college and your work and everything.”
You take a slow sip of the hot chocolate, sweetness spreading across your tongue but doing nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.
“So… do you wanna tell me now why we came all the way up here?” You start, unsure whether he’s ready to finally talk about it. But he is. He sets his mug down on the coffee table, elbows restng on his knees as he leans forward slightly. Then he reaches for his pocket, grabs the piece of paper before sliding it to you, his expression a mix of excitement and fear.
“I got the internship,” he says, almost whispering it. “At the NASA Space Center in Houston. Three months this summer, and it might turn into something permanent after graduation.”
Pride blooms in your chest, overwhelming, thinking about the little boy who used to fall asleep to your stories about Apollo missions, all grown up now, telling you about how he’s taking his first step toward his life’s dream.
“Houston,” you repeat, his same excitement now mirrored in your voice. “Bucky, that’s… that’s everything you’ve always wanted. I’m so happy for you.”
He nods, but his smile is small and a little pained. “Yeah, it is. But it’s also seventeen hundred miles away from you.”
The fire continues to crackle, Bucky’s eyes stay locked on yours.
“That’s why I wanted us to come up here. Just needed this weekend with you before things change.”
You don’t know what to say. So instead, you reach out, your hand finding his on the couch between you and lace your fingers together without thinking, touch both familiar and dangerous. And as you sit there with your fingers intertwined, the truth settles over you like a second layer of skin.
Things had changed forever on Christmas Eve.
That night, when the mistletoe hung above your heads and Bucky’s lips had brushed the corner of your mouth, something inside both of you had cracked open with no magical glue to put it back together in sight. And later, in his starry bedroom, you had slept together, taken your little brother inside you, felt him tremble and whine and fall apart beneath you, and in doing so you had shattered every family boundary that was ever meant to exist. Blood, trust, innocence, all of it fractured in one stolen night. Whatever fire you lit that night had grown into something living and hungry, something you both tried to ignore but couldn’t extinguish.
Maybe the distance will be good, you think.
Houston is seventeen hundred miles away. Thousands of miles of highways and state lines and empty sky between you. Maybe that’s exactly what you both needed, space to breathe and remember how to be just siblings again, to let this forbidden fire cool and fade into something manageable. Three months apart could maybe be enough to soothe the ache, quiet the phantom feeling of his body against yours, let the guilt transform into something quieter than this constant, throbbing need.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Even as the thought forms, it feels like a lie.
Because sitting here with his hand in yours, firelight painting his face in soft gold, you can already feel the pull tightening instead of loosening. How are you supposed to welcome the distance when the thought of him seventeen hundred miles away makes your chest feel hollow?
You don’t ask Bucky, or yourself, those questions for the rest of the evening. It passes in gentle quiet, both of you managing to behave stupidly well for two siblings who have messed everything up twice already, in the most unexpected of settings. After finishing the hot chocolate, Bucky suggests making dinner together, and you agree, both of you moving around the small kitchen like you’ve done a hundred times before in your parents' home. You chop vegetables for soup, Bucky heats up some canned chili and toasts thick slices of bread. Conversation while you work stays safe, focused on more details about the internship, projects he might work on, and you listen with genuine pride blooming in your chest.
After dinner, you settle on the couch again, shoulders brushing as you watch the flames of the fireplace dance. Bucky’s hand finds yours once more, fingers lacing together without either of you commenting on it, because the touch remains innocent, just hands, just occasional glances that linger for a second too long but have no continuation beside that. Everything is nice, is soft. You feel like a kid again, just with a bigger heart now and a mind that won’t rest.
Until it’s time to go to bed.
The loft bedroom is the only real sleeping space; the one with the big quilt-covered bed and the wide window overlooking the lake. Neither of you suggests taking the couch, because at this point, it’d be a nonsensical inconvenience. It’s unspoken, but mutual: you’ll share the bed. Just like when you were kids and thunderstorms scared him.
You change into pajamas separately, you first in the small bathroom and then Bucky while you make your way to the bedroom, in your sleeping shorts and an oversized shirt, already setting up the pillows and setting some clothes from your bag in a nearby armchair. When he comes back, he’s wearing gray sweatpants and old NASA t-shirt that’s a little too tight across his shoulders now, because he’s starting to grow it out. Pretending you don’t notice the outline of his groin through his sleeping bottoms takes quite some effort; pretending you see it but it doesn’t make you want to drop to your knees is just a herculean task.
The bedroom is quiet, lit only by a small lamp on the nightstand and the faint silver glow of the moonlight reflecting off the lake through the window. You both slide under the heavy quilt of the very inviting bed, that feels just as warm as it looked from the outside. For a few minutes you’re quiet, the only sound being the distant hoot of an owl outside and the soft creak of the old wooden frame as you both settle. Then Bucky shifts again, inches a little closer to you, and his voice sounds hesitant in the dark.
“… Can I cuddle you?” he asks quietly. “Like we used to.”
Your heart stutters, but you try to not make anything of it. Just some cuddling under the covers, nothing else. You’re still siblings, you still care for each other.
“Yeah. Come here.”
He moves closer immediately, and you lay on your side as he slides one arm under your pillow and wraps the other around your waist from behind, pulling you gently back against his chest. It’s strange to you how clearly you can feel it, the way his chest is broader and firmer against your back, how his arm drapes heavily over your waist, how his legs are longer as they tuck behind yours. Back on Christmas Eve you had already noticed he’d filled out from college, but lying here like this, tucked securely inside the cage of his body, the change feels even more pronounced. For the first time, you feel smaller than him, even though you’re the older sibling.
It feels sweet and innocent for long enough. Like maybe you could fall asleep like this with no other thoughts propagating through the air of this bedroom.
That is, until you feel it.
Unmistakable, pressed against the curve of your ass through the fabric of his sweatpants, and already half-hard. Your muscles tense and Bucky freezes the second he realizes it’s because you can feel him, his breath catching sharply in his throat.
“Shit,” he whispers, genuinely mortified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I’m really not trying anything, I swear, I just can’t fucking help it.” He starts to pull away from you, embarrassed and awkward, the shy version of him you’ve always known front and center again. His arm loosens around your waist like he’s ready to scramble back to his side of the bed and apologize profusely for the rest of the night.
“Wait… Bucky,” you whisper, already reaching back to catch his wrist before he manages to retreat completely. “It’s okay, just… don’t pull back from me.”
Bucky doesn’t reply, just stays in the same place for a moment, breathing uneven. Even with him quiet, you can practically feel the war raging inside him; shame, desire, the desperate need to be close clashing violently with everything that is wrong about what you’ve done together.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, words coming out in a trembling tone. “Even when I try. I promise I keep trying, but I… being here, in this bed, it’s making it worse. I—” His words cut off midway, like he knows he’s about to say something he can’t take back and is not willing to let it settle into the spine of tonight just yet.
But after another long pause, your back still pressed to his chest, Bucky’s hesitant voice comes again.
“… Do you think we can do something? Not sex. I know we shouldn’t do that again. But…” he whispers. “… maybe we could just touch ourselves while we watch each other? That’s not as bad, right?”
The suggestion hangs in the dark between you, shocking in its vulnerability. His arm tightens slightly around your waist again, maybe like he’s afraid you’ll pull away in disgust, and his forehead drops against the back of your shoulder, hiding his face even though you can’t see it anyway.
“I just need some relief,” he continues. “Being this close to you is driving me crazy. And I don’t wanna ruin the weekend by pushing for more, I know we can’t, I know we shouldn’t, and… and you can say no, it’s fine, I can just go to the bathroom for a bit or something, maybe a cold shower can help…”
“Bucky.” Saying his name like an interruption whenever he begins rambling has become a habit. You don’t hate it that it has become that. He follows through with a self-deprecating little laugh.
You swallow hard, heart hammering against your ribs. Logically, you know this is a terrible idea. There’s little difference between having him inside of you or masturbating while watching each other, at least as far as family boundaries go. You shouldn’t do either. But some part of you (apparently, the part that’s winning over your brain every time you’re near Bucky these days) has been aching for weeks and still remembers exactly how he sounded when he was inside you. And that part wants more.
“… Okay. We can do that.”
Bucky lets out a stunned exhale, obviously not expecting you to agree to this.
“Really? You’re sure?”
His arm loosens around your waist just enough that you can turn to face him. The moonlight coming through the window paints his face in soft hues, and you know there’s just enough light for you to see each other’s faces and the slight flush of his cheeks.
Both your hands reach for the quilt and slowly push it down to your waists. Bucky hesitates for a long moment, so do you, but he’s the first to move, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushing them down just enough to free himself. His cock springs free, already full hard and flushed red at the tip, leaking heavily over his slit. One shaky hand wraps around the base, gripping himself tightly like he’s trying to keep some semblance of control even when he’s desperately spiraling in front of you.
You follow his lead with a shudder, sliding your sleeping shorts and panties down your thighs and kicking them off under the covers. Cool air kisses your heated skin as you spread your legs, and you bend one knee and fold it outward, opening yourself up completely to his gaze. The position exposes your cunt obscenely, showing how slick has already gathered heavily between your folds, making them glisten softly.
That whole imagery hits Bucky like a shot straight to his dick. He lets out a choked whimper.
“Oh my god… I wish you could see yourself,” he whispers, and you swear you almost see his cock twitch in his hand. “So wet. She’s so pretty like that.”
His hand starts moving slowly, long strokes from the soft hair at the base to the tip, thumb swiping over the leaking head on every upward pass. His gaze is locked between your legs, completely transfixed by the sight of your spread pussy calling to him.
“You’re dripping,” he breathes, hips twitching involuntarily into his fist. “Is that… is that all because of me?”
You just nod, shaky breath as your fingers slide through your slick folds, circling your swollen clit slowly at first, then with more pressure, just at the right angle to let him see everything. Bucky’s strokes grow a little faster.
“Fuck, I keep imagining how warm and tight she’d feel around me right now,” he whines, closing his eyes for half a second before opening them again, unable to stop looking at you, your face, the way your fingers are moving. And just as he lays there, in front of you, panting through his arousal, his words register slowly in your mind. How he keeps calling your pussy her, giving her life in a way you hadn’t thought of before.
“Why…” you ask, voice shaky with arousal and amusement, “why do you keep saying ‘she’ like it’s its own entity?”
Bucky’s hand falters for half a second, a fresh wave of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. But he doesn’t stop stroking himself. If anything, his grip tightens as another bead of precum rolls down over his knuckles.
“Because… I think she might be,” he admits. “She’s got me bewitched. I’m a guy of science but the second I think about her, I’m gone. It’s like she has her own gravity, pulls me in. Makes me stupid.” His strokes grow a little faster, eyes still glued to the way your fingers move over your clit. And you thrive off that attention, too, of having his blue eyes glued to your body like you’ve put a spell on him. So you decide to give him more.
Keeping your knee folded outward, you slide two fingers down through your folds and slowly push them inside yourself. The wet sound feels loud in the quiet room, and Bucky’s breath hitches immediately.
“Fuck, that’s… you’re evil,” he almost laughs, hand stuttering on his cock for a moment before speeding up again. “She’s so greedy, look how she’s sucking those fingers in.”
You let out a soft moan as you curl your fingers, stroking that sensitive spot inside while your thumb continues circling your clit. The position keeps you completely open for him, letting him see every slow thrust of your fingers disappearing into your glistening cunt. And he does see. Watches with his breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, hand twisting at the head of his shaft on every upstroke. His strokes have grown messy and desperate, but he’s still holding something back, although not for long.
“I don’t wanna push it,” he whispers, voice strained. “but let me kiss you. Please? While we do this.”
You would have let him slide in raw inside of you right now if he asked you. So without hesitation you scoot closer and press your lips to his, tentative at first, before it quickly deepens as the pleasure builds between you. His mouth is warm and hungry, tongue sliding against yours with a quiet desperation that makes your fingers move faster inside yourself.
Bucky moans into the kiss, the sound vibrating against your lips, his hand pumping his cock in urgent strokes. He pulls back just enough to speak against your mouth, every word almost swallowed by your lips.
“You taste so good,” he whimpers between kisses. “'I’m gonnna… fuck, I’m gonna cum…”
His free hand comes up to cup the side of your face, holding you to him while his hips start rocking into his fist to chase the feeling. And just like that, while his mouth finds yours and kisses you hard again, his body tenses suddenly. A broken moan spills into your mouth as his orgasm hits him, cock pulsing in his hand as thick ropes of cum shoot across his stomach and onto yours, sticky where your bodies are pressed together. He kisses you all through it, whimpering softly with every spurt, hips jerking unevenly as he rides out the pleasure.
Even after he finishes, he doesn’t pull away. He keeps his lips against yours, breathing hard, forehead resting gently against your own as the last tremors run through him. “I’m sorry… I made a mess,” he murmurs, aware of the sticky mess in both of your stomachs.
You don’t care. You kiss him again, fingers still buried inside yourself, moving faster now that you’ve felt him fall apart against you. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, pressure building faster than before, pushing you oh-so close to the edge.
“Come on, moon, let me see you cum,” he says against your lips, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “Good girl, just like that.”
Your orgasm crashes over you suddenly, all too overwhelming. Your back arches off the bed as your walls clamp down hard around your fingers, a broken moan tearing from your throat, muffled against Bucky’s mouth. He doesn’t kiss you through it because he’s instead chasing your sounds, the whines leaving you desperately as you ride your own high.
Pleasure floods your body in hot waves. Thighs trembling, cunt fluttering and gushing around your fingers as you finger yourself through the peak. You ride the waves until they slowly start to fade, leaving you boneless and panting against Bucky, and finally your fingers slow to a stop, slick coating your hand and dripping down, making everything wetter and messier.
Bucky stays close, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he gently reaches for some tissues on the nightstand and in complete silence he cleans you first, reverent touches wiping away the sticky evidence of his release from your stomach and the slick between your legs. You do the same for him after, fingers slow and tender as you wipe the streaks of cum from his skin. When you’re both as clean as you’re going to get without a shower Bucky pulls the heavy quilt back up over your bodies and without a word opens his arms. You slide into them instantly, letting him wrap himself around you completely.
Your legs tangle together naturally. One of yours slips between his, the other drapes over his hip, pulling him flush against you. His arms wind around your back, strong and secure, while yours slide around his waist, fingers splaying across the warm skin of his lower back. Your chests press together, hearts beating against one another, faces so close that your noses brush.
Bucky leans in first. His lips find yours in the dark, a slow kiss, lazy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need to lead anywhere else. Just soft presses of lips, gentle brushes of tongue, little sighs shared between you when you part for air before colliding again.
Your bodies shift in unison, pressing closer, hips settling against each other, legs tightening their hold. Every small movement feels synchronized, a gentle rock, a whisper of a word neither really try to figure out, slow glide of skin on skin under the quilt. His hand slides up your back, cradles the nape of your neck as he kisses you deeper. You answer by threading your fingers through his hair, holding him to you.
There are no words. Nothing you could say could quite make sense of this moment, anyway. The kisses grow slower, heavier, blurring into something almost dreamlike. Too emotionally raw, not quite what you’d see on a movie screen, but sensual nonetheless.
Eventually, exhaustion and warmth win. Bucky’s hold on you never loosens, but he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, presses one last soft kiss there before his breathing starts to even out. You, on the other hand, stay awake a little longer, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, and simply pretending.
Pretending that Houston isn’t waiting for him, that he isn’t your little brother. That the two of you are just a normal couple who met in an ordinary way, fell in love in an ordinary way, who are allowed to fall asleep tangled in each other like this without feeling guilt creeping up through every crevice of your body.
With that aching fantasy wrapped around your heart, you finally let your eyes close.
Pale winter light filters through the wide window overlooking the lake. You wake up first, still tangled with Bucky, his arm heavy around your waist, one leg slotted between yours, face still buried in the crook of your neck as if neither of you moved an inch throughout the night, or if you did, you were pulled back into your original orbit.
For a moment you just lie there, listening to the distant call of birds outside. Then you lean in, press a kiss to his cheek, and he stirs awake, humming sleepily as he tightens his hold on you. When his eyes open properly to find yours, he only whispers a quiet ‘morning’ before catching your lips in a lingering kiss like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then a few more lazy kisses, then a kiss to your cheek, another to your forehead, to the tip of your nose. You feel him a little bolder than usual, maybe emboldened by the way last night ended.
“Wanna shower?” he asks. “I think there’s only enough hot water for one proper shower. We should share. …Y’know, to save water and all.”
A paper-thin excuse, one you see right through, but you nod yes anyway.
You head to the small connected bathroom together, naked but making no attempt to hide yourself. Bucky turns on the shower, lets the water heat up while you grab clean towels from the nearby cabinet. When the steam starts to fill the room, he takes your hand and guides you under the spray first.
Warm water cascades over your bodies, and for a while you simply stand there, letting it wash away the remnants of last night. Until Bucky steps closer, his front pressing flush against your back. His hands settle on your hips, gentle, thumbs rubbing gentle circles against your skin. You feel him lean in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as the water runs down both of you. He doesn’t immediately do anything else, maybe instead waiting for your reaction, whether you’re still willing to let him push further this morning.
Your silent permission comes in the form of your body going pliant against his, leaning back against him and that encourages him to grow bolder.
One arm slides fully around your waist, pulling you tighter against him while his other hand trails down your stomach. His fingers glide through the water running over your skin until they reach between your legs, settling but not yet moving.
“Bucky, what are you doing?” Your voice barely comes out, breath already caught in your throat. Despite your question, you know perfectly well what he’s doing; what’s surprising you is his sudden confidence, the way he’s taking without stuttering through it, without letting his inexperience become a hinderance.
“Making you feel good, moon,” he whispers, two thick fingers sliding finally through your folds and pushing inside you in one confident motion.
You gasp, forehead lolling forward against the cool tile wall, as the immediate stretch burns through you, feeling perfect despite any conflicting feelings that remain just barely under the surface. His fingers curl slowly to stroke the sensitive spot inside you, head falling to your shoulder. Open mouth presses wet kisses to the skin, mixing with the warm water dripping from above you, quiet hums whispered against the muscle.
Curling on every inward stroke, his fingers thrust deeply but slowly, keeping a rhythm that makes your knees weak. Still, his arm is banded around your waist and keeping you from breaking apart, holding you upright as your legs begin to tremble. Behind you, and through the haze of your own pleasure, you still manage to feel Bucky’s cock fully hard, pressing thick and heavy against the curve of your ass. It throbs every time your walls clench around his fingers, and he grinds forward slowly, not exactly chasing release, but just rubbing himself against you in time with the rhythm of his hand, just enough movement to provide some relief.
His fingers never slow down, never falter, thrusting inside of you until you’re falling apart, until your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, pleasure exploding behind your eyelids and thighs trembling uncontrollably. Slick coats his hand and drips down your thighs, washed away instantly by the hot water, and his hand only stops when your body starts to slump, soothing thrusts through your aftershocks until it halts completely.
And then, with his usual gentleness, he slowly withdraws his fingers and brings them to rest on your stomach, holding you close as the water continues to rain down over both of you.
After the shower, both of you dress in comfortable layers; thick sweaters, jeans, wool socks, and take over the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Bucky cracks a few eggs into an old cast-iron skillet, you handle coffee, and by the time you’re both sitting by the small wooden table by the window, the conversation is nothing heavier than how the lake looks different every season and whether Mom’s knitting phase, which started in this very cabin, will ever produce anything truly wearable.
When breakfast is cleared, you step outside into the crisp Saturday air. The sky has cleared to a pale blue, sunlight slanting through the pines and turning the frost on the grass into tiny diamonds.
“Should check the woodpile,” Bucky says, already pulling on his jacket. “Fire’s gonna need feeding if we want to keep it cozy inside.”
No fighting that. You fall into step beside him, walking the path to the shed that is the same narrow dirt trail you used to race down as kids. Now you walk side by side at an easy pace, boots crunching over fallen needles and the occasional patch of frozen ground. Bucky points out a squirrel darting up a trunk with impressive speed, and you tease him about the time he tried to rescue a baby bird only to get dive-bombed by its mother. He laughs, cheeks pink from the cold, and you hold his wrist in your hand, make him stop in his tracks and almost kiss him right there, somehow wishing to make that flush darker. You end up deflecting, telling him he had a leaf in his hair before you continue down the path.
Both of you take turns loading up the old wheelbarrow with split logs, but Bucky insists on doing most of the heavy lifting, his breath coming out as a fog in the crisp air as he stacks the wood. You tease him about showing off, and he shoots you a lopsided grin over his shoulder, which combined with his flushed cheeks makes your belly twist a weird way.
“Gotta make sure my moon doesn’t strain anything,” he jokes, standing too close when it’s your turn and his hand brushing the small of your back as you bend to grab another log. The wheelbarrow fills quickly, and the two of you push it together back toward the cabin, shoulders sometimes bumping with your steps along the uneven path.
The rest of the morning slips into lazy domesticity, you making more coffee and Bucky digging through the old cabinet of board games tucked under the cabin stairs only to emerge victoriously holding a Monopoly box worn at the edges from years of family weekends. “Think you can handle getting crushed?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows as he sets it up on the coffee table in front of the fire.
You snort. “Bold words from someone who still owes me imaginary money from the last time we played this like, six years ago, Buck.”
The game starts innocently enough, you building up properties steadily while Bucky’s luck is comically bad. Keeps landing on your hotels over and over, groaning dramatically each time as stacks of colorful paper money leave his side of the board. By the time you’re deep into the afternoon, the fire crackling steadily beside you, Bucky is ridiculously broke. Most of his properties are mortgaged, and his little silver car is currently sitting in jail.
“This game is rigged,” he mutters, staring at his pitiful collection of singles.
You laugh, legs tucked under you on the couch for added warmth. The living room feels good enough with the heat from the fire, but you’ve had to interrupt the game of Monopoly midway through to put on some hilarious pink fuzzy socks because your feet always seem to be running ten degrees below your normal body temperature.
“Have you considered that maybe you just suck at this game?”
He glances at you, blue eyes narrowing in that mischievous way that always used to spell trouble when you were kids. Then, while you’re counting a massive pile of cash and he thinks you’re not paying enough attention to anything else, he leans forward, quick as a fox, and snatches a few $500 bills from the bank.
“Bucky!” You lunge for his hand, but he’s already laughing, shoving the stolen money under his thigh.
“What? Everyone knows banks are corrupt anyway, I’m just redistributing wealth.”
The game dissolves after that, you playfully wrestling him for the stolen money until he manages to overpower you simply by wrapping one hand around your waist and pulling you to him before pressing a kiss to your cheek that sends your emotional system into overdrive. Monopoly lays forgotten on the coffee table as the both of you eventually go back to the kitchen to prepare the world’s most complex dinner: a couple of cheese and ham sandwiches which you assemble messily before carrying them back to the couch.
“Look at us. Responsible adults, driving all the way up here, chopping wood, eating sandwiches for dinner. Mom and Dad would be so proud.”
Bucky chuckles around a bite of his sandwhich. “We’re like the most responsible people I have ever met.”
Time slows, dissipates, does something else entirely and by the time it’s completely dark out, both of you are stretched out on the wide plaid couch under a thick wool blanket, remnants of your earlier session of board games and sandwiches pushed aside on the coffee table. The soothing sounds of the crackling fire in front of you fade easily into the room, and Bucky’s arm draped around you, with his hand tracing idle circles on your skin, makes you feel as much as home as if you were back in your apartment.
Actually, maybe he feels more like home.
Conversation melted into warm silence a while back, and now you’re simply two people with tangled legs and hearts hoping neither of you is foolish enough to continue what you’ve tried to stop time and time again.
Coming to this cabin alone had been a mistake, Bucky knew it, you knew it, yet you did it anyway. So you shifting in his lap slightly just to make yourself more comfortable, him leaning his head down until your noses are brushing and you turning your head just enough that your lips find his once again, isn’t a surprise, it’s just inevitability.
Lips mold carefully, a natural tilt of heads, lips moving in perfect synchrony while your hands curl into the soft fabric of his sweater and his find your cheek, cradle the back of your neck. The blanket stays over you both, trapping shared heat and, if you’re lucky, trapping whatever feelings are bubbling under the surface and keeping them caged just between your bodies and this old couch. Another kiss, and he bites down on your bottom lip, pulling on it until you moan and only then does he release it with a grin; another kiss, and he ends it by brushing both his lips against your upper one, chasing it before pulling back slowly to look down at you.
One of his hands slips beneath the hem of your sweater, palm warm against the skin of your stomach, stroking upward until his thumb grazes the underside of your breast and makes you arch into the touch with the softest sigh. His eyes watch you closely as you move, and he leans down a fraction.
“Hi,” he whispers, and you can’t help the tiny smile on your lips.
“Hi,” you whisper back. An exchange so ridiculously sweet that both of you let out a soft breath of laughter into each other’s mouths before kissing again. His hand continues its journey under your clothes, finally cupping your breast fully and thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbles under his touch. Your body presses closer, one leg sliding higher and over his hip, which drags a whine out of him.
Bucky sits up just enough to help you pull your sweater up and over your head, the motion ruffling your hair just slightly; not a second after he’s on you, fingers reaching forward and smoothing out your hair, pushing a few strands behind your ears. “Always so beautiful, my moon,” he says, before reaching down and peppering soft kisses across the skin, lips traveling over your clavicles, then down the valley between your breasts, teeth every so softly grazing the skin, teasing but never going through with any touch that could be a little rougher. Eager, but not quite impatient, your hands reach for him next as he ducks down your body, bunching his sweater in your fists and dragging it off of him when he moves his head cooperatively. The motion exposes the hard planes of his chest, faint definition of muscle that he earned during college. When the sweater is off, he crawls up your body again and presses his bare torso flush against yours, skin on skin, heartbeats thudding together in a room too small for the size of what you’re sharing together.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants and panties then, and you lift your hips so he can work the fabric down your thighs, past your knees and off your ankles. Once they’re gone, his hands glide back up your legs, spreading them gently so he can settle fully between your thighs. You return the favor, sliding your palms down his stomach until you reach his pants. Bucky moves his hips, lets you push the fabric out of the way, down, until his cock is freed, already hard and flushed, leaking at the tip and brushing against your inner thigh as he kicks the pants the rest of the way off. Firelight paints the curve of his shoulders and one side of his face in gold, and you admire the sight while your naked bodies seal together under the blanket, all of you pressed to all of him, so close that you can even feel the short, coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your skin.
Another shift under his body, and this time, it’s to try to roll him over so you can climb on top. To your surprise, Bucky catches your waist with both hands and pins you back down into the couch cushions.
“Not tonight.” His voice is surprisingly steady when he says it, as if he’s been practicing how to be like this, for you. “I wanna make you feel good. This time just… lay there and do what you always do best. Just look pretty for me.”
You open your mouth to protest, the usual excuse of you being more experienced, the older sister, that you should be the one taking care of him, already on your tongue, but Bucky kisses you quiet before you can get any words out. You already knew Bucky made up for his lack of experience with his enthusiasm; it had been exactly like that the last two times you had been together. And this time it’s no different. His mouth kisses down your neck, sucks gently at the swell of your breast until you’re squirming beneath him, and one of his hands slips between your legs, fingers gliding through your folds to find you already wet and wanting. A thumb circles your clit with soft pressure and then two fingers push slowly inside you until you’re moaning his name and your back is arching off the couch in pleasure.
Only when you’re trembling and soaking his hand, when he feels maybe his fingers are no longer enough to stoke the fire inside you, does he pull back, his heavy cock nestling now between your bodies as he looks down between the two of you.
“I… I didn’t bring any condoms,” he begins to stammer, brows furrowed in concentration, as if thinking too hard about it will make a box of Magnums suddenly materialize next to you. “I wasn’t expecting… well, I mean, I was hoping… no, not hoping, not like that, but you know… I just, I wanted it, but I didn’t think we would actually do this again. So I didn’t bring any.”
You cup his flushed face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks as you pull him down until your foreheads rest together.
“It’s okay. Do you think… do you think you can pull out? Before you finish?”
His expression shifts almost instantly, relief instead flickering through his face. He nods quickly, familiar awkward earnestness shining through.
“Fuck, yeah, yes…” he breathes, voice a little shaky. “I promise I’ll pull out. I’ve got you, moon.”
The hand that had still been resting between your bodies guides the blunt head of his cock to nudge against your entrance, and you feel him teasing, a few times, rubbing the tip slowly over your folds without pushing in. Your eyes meet his, eyes furrowed in a ‘really?’ look before he sheepishly grins, and finally begins pushing in, bare, until he sinks the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in your warmth.
Bucky drops his head to your neck, hips rolling slowly as he starts to move.
“You’re so warm,” he rasps. “Fuck, I didn’t… I imagined having you like this, without a condom, but I didn’t imagine it would feel this good.”
Rolling thrusts rock you gently into the couch cushions, the blanket that had been covering you previously beginning to slip down his waist. The first few movements are a little awkward, a bit unsure, as if he’s searching and trying to find his own rhythm. He finds it, you think, when he angles his hips in a certain way that makes his cock hit a spot inside you that makes you moan louder, while his pelvis grinds against your clit.
Then he holds it right there. Hands keeping you close, one braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to keep you spread open for him. All you can do is cling to his back and moan his name while he worships you under the golden light.
After a few strokes, Bucky sits up slightly, hooks his hands behind your knees and lifts your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders. It catches you off guard, so much you almost want to tease him for it, or praise him for it, but either option is lost because the new angle makes him sink deeper and instead what comes out is a sharp gasp at the intense pleasure, your hands flying to grip his arms.
“Bucky, oh my god…” Moans, gasps, words that sound more like whines, your eyes closing the same time Bucky brings a thumb to your bottom lip and pries it away from the confines of your lips. And in that moment, his gaze drifts to the side and catches sight of your feet still covered in the fuzzy pink socks you’d put on earlier. The soft pink looks almost ridiculous against his bare shoulders and the very adult way your bodies are joined. A soft chuckle rumbles out of his chest, cutting sweetly through your and his heavy breathing.
“You’re so cute,” he murmurs, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the side of your ankle, right above the fuzzy pink cuff. Lips trail slowly up your calf, too soft and sweet even as his hips keep rolling steadily into you. “Keeping the socks on. Hope your pretty little toes are warm in there.”
You are vaguely aware of him teasing you, but the gentle kisses and the grinding thrusts are making your head spin, so your fingers dig into his biceps as pleasure coils tighter inside you. It doesn’t help that every few seconds he’s whispering something about you ‘looking so good like this’, praising the way you’re taking him so well. The new angle is devastating, every deep stroke pushing you closer to the edge. Feet covered in pink fuzzy socks bouncing slightly on his shoulders with every thrust is an absurdly sweet detail that somehow makes this feel more intimate, the same feeling you’d had the night before when you were in bed together. Like this could be a regular night in a normal couple’s life.
“Bucky, I’m so close,” you say, and you are, thighs trembling against his chest, his breathing ragged when he leans down and folds you further to press a messy kiss to your lips.
“I love you,” he gasps against your mouth, words tumbling out in the heat of the moment. “God, I love you… I’m so in love with you.”
There is a language cinema speaks when fate arrives at the door. Time thickens like honey. The frame pulls close, hungry for detail: a hand mid-reach, a mouth half-open, the exact moment understanding crosses a face.
Someone who holds their breath until it’s over, another one who can’t look away even when their fingers are coming to cover their eyes. Music swells, filling every corner, and then it’s gone. Silence drops like a held breath finally released because some moments are too large for sound.
And so all of it stretches, right here. World narrowing to a single point, the heat of. him moving inside of you as those words spill from like a star collapsing.
Your body reacts before you do, walls clenching around his cock in an involuntary response, because the last thing you should be praising is those words coming from his mouth. But your body likes them. Straight in your gut, fueling the fire in the pit of your stomach, you feel it: please, Bucky, say it again.
Still, panic floods your chest like ice water.
“Stop,” you choke out, voice breaking. “Bucky, get off me.”
He freezes instantly, buried deep inside you, his eyes widening in shock.
“What—”
“Get off,” you repeat, sharper this time, pushing at his chest as your heart hammers. “Please, Bucky, get off me.”
Bucky scrambles to move. but he pulls out immediately, moving back to kneel between your legs with a devastated look on his face. His cock is still hard and glistening with your arousal, and his chest is heaving.
“Shit, I’m so sorry—I wasn’t thinking, it just came out, I didn’t mean to… I mean, I did mean it, but I didn’t want to make you—”
“Please stop talking,” you whisper, sitting up quickly and pulling the blanket over your naked body like a shield, as if suddenly the thought of him seeing you naked is too much, too inappropriate. Bucky, as if understanding that distance you put on immediately, quickly grabs his boxers and puts them on before getting off the couch and pacing the small space next to you.
I’m so in love with you.
Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. “You can’t say that. You can’t… you can’t say that and say that you mean it.”
He’s absolutely wrecked, cheeks flushed, hair messy, eyes shiny with embarrassment and the remnants of his arousal. “But I mean it. I’m sorry, I just do. I love you. I can’t not say it.”
Bucky stands there in the firelight, wearing nothing but his boxers hastily pulled on, and it would be a little distracting if you weren’t focused on trying to keep your heart from jumping out of your chest. “I’m so in love with you,” he repeats, quieter but no less certain.
You clutch the blanket tighter around your body, failing miserably at keeping your heart steady, so much you think it’ll bruise your ribs from how fast it’s beating.
“Bucky, stop. We can’t—”
“Why? Why can’t I say it? Because it’s true, I love you. You’re the only person who’s ever made the stars make sense. And I’d give up Houston tomorrow if you asked me to, if you told me to stay here with you. So don’t ask me not to say it.”
You swipe at your cheeks angrily, trying to brush away the stubborn tears that insist on falling. “That’s why you can’t say it, we can’t… we keep saying we’re trying but we’re not. Every time we’re together, alone, we make it worse. This whole weekend, we’re making it worse.” You wrap both arms around your knees and pull them up to your chest under the blanket. “We should stop. For good.”
Bucky swallows hard, frustratedly running a hand through his hair while his shoulders remain tense.
“I can take the couch tonight. You should sleep in the bed.” The offer is gentle, despite everything, but it’s also a quiet message: this conversation is over for now.
Part of you wants the distance, while another part hates the idea of him sleeping alone on this old couch after everything that just happened. You just look at him, not answering yet, just watching him; him, James, your Bucky, your bestfriend, your brother, who used to be a boy that chased the stars you pointed out to him, now here with his heart bleeding openly. As if realizing that you want to say something, that you want to give him an answer that can’t quite leave your lips yet, he gives you a sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I didn’t wanna ruin the weekend. Just wanted one more good memory with you before I left for Houston.”
Night was long and restless.
As Bucky had offered, he took the couch downstairs while you ended up on the bed upstairs alone. Even though you had wanted to call him back upstairs, the words never made it past the lump in your throat. Sleep came in fragments, haunted by the echo of his confession. You’re still distraught; of course you are. The words I’m so in love with you keep replaying in your head, impossible to silence.
You realize, possibly too late, that you won’t know how to look at him anymore without feeling like the ground is shifting beneath your feet. That it is Sunday morning, and you have to pack to leave for the city, and that both of you have an hours-long journey ahead of you, alone in a car. By the time you get dressed and get downstairs, Bucky is already awake too, folding the blanket you both had been using the night before, which he had slept wrapped in. He glances up, nods as a greeting.
Then neither of you speaks.
Both you and Bucky move around the cabin like ghosts of yourselves, gathering clothes, folding blankets, packing the toiletries you’d brought for the weekend. Sounds are amplified in silence, the zipper of your bag suddenly too loud, a creak on the wooden floorboard you hadn’t noticed until now. A few times, you catch him looking at you, but he looks away quickly when your eyes meet.
Bucky finishes packing the last of the groceries your parents had left and carries both your bags to the door, then stands by the window for a moment, looking out at the forest surrounding you.
“I need some fresh air before we head back,” he says quietly, which you interpret as him letting you know that he needs some time alone before an hours-long drive with you by his side the entire time. “I’ll go for a short walk, won’t be long.”
He hesitates like he wants to say something more, but thinks better of it. Pulls on his jacket, slips his boots on and steps outside, closing the door behind him a little too harshly for his usual behavior.
While he’s gone, you finish tidying the last few things, wiping down the kitchen counters and making sure the fireplace is completely out, always moving mechanically and trying not to think too much about anything. And you manage, mostly, until Bucky comes back twenty minutes later, cheeks and nose flushed pink from the walk, hair slightly tousled and a small bundle in his arms that stops you mid-motion as you wipe down the counter.
A tiny, white as snow kitten, clearly a few months old by the look of it, nestled against his chest, peeking out from the folds of his jacket with curious blue eyes. Its fur is fluffy, a little messy in the way kittens always have their fur a little messy, a little pink nose and one tiny paw batting lazily at the zipper pull.
“Found him… her… I dunno. Hm, in the woods,” he says, voice a bit rough from the cold. “Huddled under some brush near the trail, shivering, no mom or siblings in sight. I couldn’t just leave it there.”
The kitten lets out a tiny, squeaky meow, as if backing up his story, and rubs its face against Bucky’s jacket. Something in your chest cracks open, which might be the exhaustion of the sleepless night setting in, or maybe the unbearable tenderness of seeing your little brother cradling something so small and fragile.
You set the cloth down slowly. “Bucky…”
“It’s supposed to get colder tonight. This baby won’t survive out here alone.” He steps closer, and for the first time since yesterday’s argument, you are looking into each other's eyes without finding another point in the cabin to look at. “We should take it back with us, I can keep it at the house until we figure something out. I’m sure Mom and Dad won’t mind.”
Until we figure something out. We, like it’s your shared problem now. Drawn by the kitten’s soft purring, you cross the room and reach out, one finger gently scratching under its chin. The kitten moves its head, tries to sniff your finger and then bumps its head against it demandingly.
“It likes you,” Bucky murmurs, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “Figures.”
For a moment, the tension eases, and you feel like just two siblings who found a lost cat in the woods by your parents’ cabin. Nothing else is complicated.
So you do the only rational thing: you agree with him. Grab an old blanket that you had already put away and use it to wrap the poor kitten in it while Bucky loads the truck with the last bags. When everything is ready, including a makeshift nest for the cat on the center console, you get on the driver’s side while Bucky finishes closing up the cabin.
By the time you both drive back to the city, truck rumbling down the winding dirt road away from the cabin, the kitten purring like a tiny engine, silence has settled again between the two of you. No other words are spoken on the way back home, except for the time you stop to get some food and a temporary litter box. His trip to Houston in the summer looms on the horizon, as does his confession that you can’t shake off your bones; but for now, you focus only on the ride home, and the tiny life that the universe handed to the two of you.
tears both from my eyes and betwixt my thighs, my goodness
One he’s chased through every late night study session, every rocket model launch in the driveway of your parents home, every school essay that mentioned “the big sister who showed me the stars”.
i'm??? okay, it's fine. i'm not in full yearning mode or anything.
Not in a friendly, sibling way; rather, in the way you think about your first school crush, about your first love that is engraved into your bones and that you remember until your deathbed.
alright be cool. everything's cool.
All the thoughts of his thigh pressed between yours, the way he whispered “my moon” against your mouth like a prayer and a confession all at once.
sweet jesus???
“Please.” His voice cracks on the word, in a way that makes your chest ache. “Please, sis. This means a lot to me.”
i have an image so vividly in my head. i know you know what it is
“… Do you think we can do something? Not sex. I know we shouldn’t do that again. But…” he whispers. “… maybe we could just touch ourselves while we watch each other? That’s not as bad, right?”
no no...not bad at all...what's the worst that could happen??
You would have let him slide in raw inside of you right now if he asked you.
as raw as cookie dough i'm afraid
His lips find yours in the dark, a slow kiss, lazy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need to lead anywhere else.
i got another image in mind, i'm sure you also know which one 😩
After a few strokes, Bucky sits up slightly, hooks his hands behind your knees and lifts your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders.
baby boy has learned some mooooveeses whoghowiwho
“Why? Why can’t I say it? Because it’s true, I love you. You’re the only person who’s ever made the stars make sense. And I’d give up Houston tomorrow if you asked me to, if you told me to stay here with you. So don’t ask me not to say it.”
don't mind me
“I didn’t wanna ruin the weekend. Just wanted one more good memory with you before I left for Houston.”
oh, what's that? there's a hole in my chest 😭😭😭😭
A tiny, white as snow kitten, clearly a few months old by the look of it, nestled against his chest, peeking out from the folds of his jacket with curious blue eyes.
ALPINE MY BABYYYYY
sheesh what a ride 😭 writing so good it makes me forget the dove is dead until the angst hits me in the mouth.
i cannot wait to see what other crazy shenanigans these two get intoooo 💗
regarding the conversation being held everywhere about dddne content, more specifically incest & noncon cenarios:
as a person who runs a blog focused solely on dddne content, let me tell you some funny lore.
the people you see reblogging those "incest in fiction is disgusting, who would write that?" are frequently on my notes, liking my posts (but not openly reblogging them) or in my DMs telling me they like my fics, again, without publicly endorsing it. reading in private because no one can know they read that filth.
your favorite fic writers? many of them have separate accounts dedicated to dddne while preaching puritanism on their main accounts, in order to appease the masses and not get hate for it.
the people who consistently say they block tags, who block people they deem as "pedos" even though no one here is writing fiction with minors? none of them have ever blocked me, or other accounts that i interact with. we all see them constantly in the tags we use, then complaining that things are not tagged even though they chase it constantly. tumblr does not have an algorithm. you find what you choose to look for.
i hope you all have fun continuously praying for censorship of media and fictional content, that truly is the downfall of society (i don't know what to tell you if you can't understand this is sarcasm).
in the stormy sea of tumblr dot com with the rising tsunami of puritan culture, you can always count on ruby to read you all to filth.
leave us alone if you don’t like it, but continuing to say you get amusement out of trying to ‘take down the dddne blogs’ is a little sad. may i interest you in an actual hobby? like why don’t those who are so upset by what we write, write their own stories instead of giving us attention? be the change you want to see in the world.
♡⸝⸝ pairing | daddy!bucky barnes x daughter!reader
♡⸝⸝ summary | daddy can hear you through the wall. but...it's fine. as long as he doesn't act on it.
♡⸝⸝ warnings | DDDNE MDNI 18+ ONLY | incest | voyeurism | pervy bucky | m!masturbation | pillow humping | daddy talks dirty + does a little whimpering + cums untouched | f!masturbation with vibrator | no use of y/n | EVERYONE IS OF AGE. JUST LIKE YOU SHOULD BE IF YOU KEEP READING
♡⸝⸝ word count | 1.7k
♡⸝⸝ bunny purrs | dt to @hail-marys + @dear-dark-angel + @theoracleofsin for putting this idea into my little head. couldn't stop thinking about it and next thing i knew these words just flew outta my paws and onto the screen.
please note that just because i write about it doesn't mean i condone it. you are responsible for your own media consumption and i've stated the warnings. turn around now if anything here makes you uncomfortable. this is a work of fiction and should be treated as such. hate comments will be met with sarcasm + wit + a strong hammer ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
it wasn't his fault.
at least, that's what bucky would insist if ever questioned.
you had moved back in with him, framing it as wanting to get away from city life and easing back into the suburbs before you started your masters program. when in truth bucky knew you were worried about him, after your mother had up and left without so much of a glance back.
but if you were so worried about him…why were you so insistent on fucking yourself with a vibrator night after night?
maybe you forgot he had super soldier hearing, despite your attempts to stay quiet.
maybe you lost yourself in pleasure and couldn't quite help but let a noise slip out every now and then.
or maybe…you just wanted him to hear.
at any rate, bucky could now tell by the way you slipped off to the safety of your bedroom if he was in for a peaceful night's rest or one where he would spend half the night hard as rock, shame being drowned out by the incessant throbbing of his dick.
it always began the same. the click of a button, followed by a quiet buzzing, and then the soft sigh that spilled from your mouth like you just couldn't help yourself.
he shouldn't. bucky knew how wrong it was to let his mind wander. especially when it involved his daughter.
but the blood rushing to his cock had different plans entirely.
and truly…
what was he supposed to do? the sounds coming from your room were sweeter than sin and better than any porn he had ever watched.
it started innocently enough, he supposed. he would pretend not to listen. turned the volume up on the tv in his room to try to drown you out. tried noise cancelling headphones paired with calming music to meditate.
but it was like whatever frequency your muffled moans and sighs carried were sent straight to his eardrums and he was powerless to stop his body from reacting.
then it morphed into that as long as he didn't touch himself…there was no harm in it. he could imagine you, legs parted, back arched as you used the toy to make yourself come.
how the same eyes that would roll at him when he said one too many dad jokes were now rolling back in pleasure.
it was fine. his imagination could wander when he didn't act on it. everyone had urges…right?
but those lewd fantasies only served to add fuel to the fire.
like a pavlovian response, the second bucky heard the click buzz his cock sprung to attention. likely due to the fact it had been too damn long since he'd had any sort of relief, either by his own hand or someone else's after your mother had left. he had neither the time, nor really the provocation to do so. until you.
and while you groaned behind your shared wall, able to get yourself off because you couldn't possibly be thinking the same thoughts he was, he strained against his boxers, begging for stimulation. something. anything.
it turned him restless, causing him to stay awake long after you had satisfied yourself and drifted off to sleep.
night after night…
click buzz sigh
the tightening in his chest didn't lessen in the slightest. he could feel himself leaking, twitching at every sound. to the point it ached. from tip to base, even low in his stomach, every part of his cock hurt in yearning.
eventually, he began clinging to a pillow. something for his hands to grip so he didn't go back on a rule he had set. resigned to bucking his hips into the air so the slight friction from his boxers would provide some relief, with his ear pressed to the wall just to hear the sounds you were making.
"just like that…" you gasped, followed by a whine that sounded like you were biting down on your fist.
bucky, let out his own whimper, his arms banding along the now nearly flattened pillow. he could imagine you oh so clearly, once he got you underneath him. how sweet you would sound if he got his head between your legs instead of that toy.
the tension built low in his stomach with every breath, every gasp, every shaky exhale you tried to contain all sent phantom sensations to his sensitive cock. feelings that morphed to bucky imagining your fingers in its place. blatantly stroking slowly and giggling while he had to hold himself back from begging for more.
he groaned into the pillow, at the sound of your breathing increasing.
"you're about to cum aren't you?" he whimpered, muffled by biting on the fabric. the knot twisted in his stomach further, until he felt his release shoot free, coating the black material of his boxers and seeping through. but the ache didn't subside, even if his dick softened.
it was so wrong, so dishonourable that he was so affected as he was.
and it was only made worse when he watched you leave to go out with your friends one night. in a skirt that barely covered anything and a top that left little to the imagination.
it took all of the willpower he had to not demand you stay home. after all, you were an adult. and he had no reason he could admit out loud as to why he didn't want you to leave.
instead, he snooped. knowing he really shouldn't. but the magnetic pull of wanting a visual was entirely too strong. and if he were to really face it, snooping was the least immoral thing he could be doing at the moment.
your room was tastefully decorated. you had gotten rid of most things from your formative years, swapping it instead for knickknacks that indicated a woman now resided in this space. he pulled open your bedside drawer, and there it lay shamelessly.
a deep plum coloured vibrator, the source of all of your pleasure and his torment. it was cute, bucky thought to himself. average size, with a small attachment that would sit right on your clit. "lucky bastard," bucky grumbled, running a finger along the soft silicone.
slowly closing the drawer, his eyes were drawn to the bed. made with military precision just like he had taught you. but behind the mountain of pillows you likely used every day, was a larger satin pillow. something that was decorative, but still smelled like you. something that you wouldn't miss if he were to take it. and even if you did, why would you suspect him in the first place?
and so the arbitrary rules morphed again as he waited for you to return. which began with a bit more of a ruckus than normal. the stumbling and stuttered footsteps meant that he knew you had gone out drinking. so there was a chance you would be louder than normal, and that thought excited him more than he cared to admit.
it would be so easy to just go out and help you to bed. you were inebriated after all, and bucky just wanted the best for his daughter. but even he knew he wouldn't be able to hold himself back in your pliant state. one glassy eyed look, a bat of your eyelashes…he'd be gone.
so he stayed in his bed, naked and propped against the headboard with the door locked waiting for you to get into bed. head turned so his ear was against the wall to hear you better. his legs stretched long in front of him, cock already rising to attention. flushed with need, slowly dripping onto his belly at the thought of you, a little tipsy and messy, kissing along the sensitive head while your tongue darted out to give him a taste.
would you gag if he hit the back of your throat? or had you been blessed with no reflex just as your mother had been?
click buzz sigh
the three sounds pulled him free of his thoughts.
with his heart beating wildly in his chest, he slid his throbbing cock into the crease of the pillow just as another small sigh left your lips.
the nefarious part of him that knew he shouldn't be doing this halted, providing a new fantasy of what it would be like to sink himself into your tight heat and hearing that sigh up close.
he wasn't touching himself…really. the pillow folded in half was just to keep himself from barging into your room and proving that he could fuck you better than that toy could. and the satin pillowcase added just the right amount of soft friction, the picture of him pumping in and out out of you became clearer and clearer.
he timed his thrusts to what he could hear through the wall. speeding up as you did, pulling back when he heard you draw out a particularly soft fuck. at this point, he had heard enough that he was absolutely certain he knew just how you would like to be taken care of.
but he would have to save that imagery for the pillow. anything more would be entirely too shameful.
your high pitched whine cut through the rustling of his sheets and his own imagination. his cock now spilling profusely into the folds of the pillow, providing enough lubrication to slid
"that's it babygirl," bucky mumbled, unable to help himself. "i know you're gonna cum, give it to me."
his hands moved before his brain could catch up. one hand wrapped around his throbbing cock, pumping furiously as his other brought your pillow to his face. the faint aroma of your perfume and musk surrounded him in a heady combination. he couldn't help it, no matter how wrong it was.
rule broken and entirely forgotten about, he listened for your climax that wasn't far off based on how your breath was coming out in tiny gasps. hips bucking into his hand like he couldn't get enough, pillow cradled like a lover against his chest while he inhaled your sweet scent.
his own grunts couldn't be stopped now if he tried. the image of you bare, bouncing up and down on his cock while he met your thrusts was all he could see, the flutter of your cunt was all he imagined feeling.
and then…something new left your lips that he'd never heard during any of your sessions.
just as what bucky could only assume was your climax washed over you - loud enough that it couldn't have been an accident, clear as day…
Prompt: anon requested uncle!Bucky with “You look just like your mom did when she was younger, and that’s why I can’t stop myself from bending you over the same kitchen table.” for my Valentine's Dead Dove event !
Pairing: Uncle!Bucky Barnes x Niece!Reader
Word count: 1k
Tags: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); incest (uncle Bucky/mentions of Bucky being aroused by his own sister); kitchen sex; dirty talk; possessive Bucky Barnes; age gap (reader in her 20s; Bucky in his 40s); corruption kink; some hair pulling; unprotected sex; creampie; no use of Y/N
The kitchen smells like cinnamon and old coffee grounds, the light overhead a little too yellow; everything looks and feels the same exact way you remember from when you were younger and your mom was baking late at night to keep her hands and mind busy.
Rather, everything is the same except for one detail: tonight you’re braced on the edge of the farmhouse table (same one that has been here since before you were born), elbows locked, dress shoved up around your waist, panties still hooked around one ankle like they got kicked off in a hurry and never made it to the floor.
Behind you, your uncle Bucky has his jeans open but not down, just shifted enough for him to free his cock and fist himself, and drag the head through your slick to let you feel him. He hasn’t said anything yet. Just came into the kitchen when you were halfway through preparing some cake batter, watched you for a few minutes with his arms crossed over his chest before he made his way over to you and kissed you stupid.
Between that and being face down on the kitchen table, it was a heartbeat.
The overhead light buzzes and throws long shadows across the scarred wood, across faint stretch marks on your hips. You’d gained them when you lost weight, and now they remind you of the same ones you used to see on your mother’s body when she reached for the top shelf in her sleep shirt.
Uncle Bucky notices them, too, his fingers tracing the faint marks on your legs.
“You look just like your mom did when she was younger,” he says, leaning down to kiss along your shoulder. “and that’s why I can’t stop myself from bendin’ you over the same kitchen table.”
The words feel like a slap. Too dirty, too honest, wrong in just the right way to make your cunt clench around nothing. Glancing back over your shoulder, you find his eyes dark, staring at the place where your bodies are almost connected like it’s holy ground he’s about to desecrate.
“That’s so fucked, Bucky,” you whimper, but whatever else you need to say dies on your tongue when he notches himself at your entrance and holds there. Perfect pressure with no relief.
“I know. Been fucked up since I was twenty-four and she laughed at one of my dumb jokes while kneadin’ dough right here.”
Metal fingers trail down your spine, settling at the small of your back and pressing just enough to make you arch deeper.
“She’d stand exactly like this sometimes,” he murmurs. “Leanin’ forward, forearms on the table, pretendin’ to read a recipe while she waited for the oven timer. Skirt hiked just enough I could see the backs of her thighs. I never touched her, not once. But fuck, I wanted to.”
Your breath hitches. Shame and heat twist together until you can’t tell which is overriding your system. Fingers curled against the wood, the same one with small tiny burn marks from when you were six and tried to help make cookies, you consider telling him to stop. That this is wrong.
You don’t say stop.
Instead, you push back, just a fraction, so the tip slips inside, barely breaching.
Bucky hisses through his teeth.
“That’s it,” he breathes before feeding you the rest of his cock in one long slide that makes your eyes roll back. “Look at that, princess, takin’ it like your mommy never got the chance to.”
He bottoms out and stays. Lets you feel every inch, every throb, the way he’s already leaking inside you from nothing but memory.
When he finally starts moving, deep, measured strokes, the table legs creak against the linoelum. Every thrust forward rocks the salt shaker an inch closer to the edge until it tips and spills.
His flesh arm slides around your stomach, pulls you back harder onto him, while his metal fingers find your clit and begin circling slowly. Your body jerks, you cry out, and he holds you tighter.
“She used to hum when she baked,” he says, almost comically conversational even as he continues fucking you harder. “A little off-key. I’d sit at the counter readin’ the newspaper and watchin’ her hips sway. Wanted to drop to my knees behind her and bury my face between my legs ‘til she forgot her name.”
A sharp thrust forward and you think you are able to see stars.
“But I was always too chickenshit” he growls. “Always makin’ excuses. First we were kids, then we were family, then she was married. Too many lines we couldn’t cross.” Another punishing thrust, “But you… you’re letting me cross every single one, aren’t you? With your cunt dripping for me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
“Uncle Bucky, please—”
Bucky just keeps driving into you, murmuring filthy half-confessions about how he used to love the way she looked and how, somehow, you look so much better. Exactly like her, but prettier, messier. His metal fingers circle your clit harder, a little faster, his hips following suit as you moan for him.
Please, please, please. Begging, whimpering, eyes rolling into the back of your head with every hit of his cock to the soft, spongy spot inside of you.
And the moment he feels you begin to clench around him, so close to release, he yanks your head back by the hair so he can see your face when you come. It happens suddenly, your nails scraping the wood and back bowing as a sob rips out of you.
Bucky follows right after, growling your name like a wounded animal, spilling deep inside you like he’s trying to mark something that always belonged to him. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything, neither do you, and all you feel is his ragged breathing and the excess of him slowly leaking out around his softening cock. With a grunt, he thrusts inside of you once, twice, fucking his release back into you.
Softly, he presses a kiss to the top of your head, then to your shoulder.
“Needa’ refinish this table,” he mutters against your skin.
That drags a full belly laugh out of you.
“Come over tomorrow. I’ll help you out.”
He huffs, kisses your neck again. Doesn’t pull out.
Prompt: anon requested dad!bucky with “I’ll breed you in the nursery I painted for you.” for my Valentine's Dead Dove event !
Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Daughter!Reader
Word Count: 1,4k
Tags: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); incest; father/daughter; porn without plot; daddy kink (barely there); breeding kink (heavy!!! obviously if you read the prompt); praise kink (kinda); childhood bedroom sex; p in v; unprotected sex; creampie; use of pet names (little girl, baby girl); Bucky is sweet and soft; age gap but reader is of age!! (mentioned to be twenty five)
The soft bristles of the paintbrush glide over the wall, leaving behind a fresh coat of pale pink, the same color Bucky had chosen all those years ago, before you were even born. He takes a step back, wiping a smear of paint from his vibranium arm, survying the room with quiet satisfaction. The nursery-turned-bedroom has seen you through every stage: the crib where he rocked you to sleep, the toddler bed where you threw tantrums, the full-sized one where you’d spent nights studying for college admission.
Now, at twenty five, you are a woman, but this room still holds the echoes of his little girl.
Today, he’d started repainting on a whim, or maybe nostalgia. The walls had faded over time, but Bucky had wanted it perfect again. Nothing but always perfect for you. He sets the brush down on the drop cloth, the scent of fresh paint lingering in the air. The furniture is pushed to the center, covered in plastic, and the window lets in the late afternoon soon.
The door opens, and he hears the sound of your light footsteps on the hardwood floor. “Dad? I know you said to stay out of the bedroom today, but—” Your voice goes quiet as your eyes widen and you take in the transformation. The room looks brand new, like stepping into a cherished memory from your childhood. Bucky watches you admire his handywork, blue eyes lingering on the oversized sweater swallowing your frame.
For months now, you two had blurred your relationship. Father, lover, all the same. No one knew. No one had to.
“Surprise,” he says with a smirk tugging at his lips. He wipes his hands on a nearby rag, but you can still see a speck of pink pain on his cheek. “Thought it was time to freshen it up. Same color as always.”
You step closer, arms wrapped around your upper body like you’re hugging yourself. “I like this color. Think I always will. Maybe because you chose it for me.”
The words aren’t meant with any weight, but they feel heavy nonetheless. Bucky approaches you, his expression softening, before he stops behind you and wraps his vibranium arm around your shoulders, pulling you to him. His lips press a chaste kiss to the top of your head. “Always knew this color would be perfect for you. My little girl. And now, look at you. All grown up.”
Half a beat later, your breath is hitching as his human hand slides to your waist. Not demanding, just resting there. "I’m still your little girl,” you tell him, quietly, staring up at the pink walls.
Bucky leans in, and this time he presses a kiss to the spot behind your ear. “Not really. But that’s okay. I love the grown up version of you even more.” Warm fingers dig into your hip, and he almost absentmindedly rolls his hips into yours once. “But I miss seeing this room with a baby. Makes me think… maybe we could work on that.”
Heat pools in your core, body responding instinctively to him. When did your relationship with your dad become this fucked up? Months ago, when you’d returned from college, life in the city too hard for you to keep up with by yourself. He’d offered you back your childhood bedroom, of course, it had always been yours; what you hadn’t expected was to find so much more than your dad behind the figure of Bucky Barnes. Since you’d come back, you had erased family rules one too many times. In the kitchen, in the backyard, in his bed. Never really here, in your pink sanctuary.
“What do you mean?” You ask, though you already know the answer.
Bucky turns you on his hold, his eyes locked onto yours. “I’ll breed you in the nursery I painted for you.” Paint flecks still dust his forearms, that one paint streak across his cheekbone. His hand reaches out, slowly, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you let me. If you want me to.”
You only nod before he crashes his mouth against yours, hungry and demanding. You melt into him, hands fisting his white tank top as he backs you toward the bed. The plastic crinkles and complains loudly under your as he lowers you onto the mattress, but you’re thankful to have at least something separating the sin happening between the two of you from the ever holy childhood plushies under you.
His hands roam, stripping away your sweater, your bra, exposing your skin to the cool air. “Always the most beautiful girl,” he murmurs, lips trailing down your neck. Your back arches off the bed and into him, fingers tangling in his hair as he peels off your pants, leaving you bare beneath him. Then his jeans hit the floor, followed by his boxers. He’s hard, flushed dark at the tip, already glistening with a bead of precome. With no preamble, he crawls over you, caging you with his arms, and kisses you again, warm tongue prodding into your mouth while he rubs himself against your core. You push your own panties down and not a second later Bucky is pushing his hard length against you, ready to slide home.
“Tell me you want it,” he whispers into your lips as he teases your entrance. “Fuck, baby girl, tell me you want me to—”
“Yes,” you interrupt him, spreading your legs wider for him. “Yes, Dad, I want it.”
With a deep groan, he thrusts into you and filling you completely. Every time, the sensation was overwhelming. Your walls always clenched hard around him, your pussy warm and velvety and always so wet for him. The bed creaks softly as he begins fucking into you slowly but hard, hips snapping into yours and balls slapping against your ass. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer with each stroke. “My pretty girl,” he says between the sound of skin slapping against skin. “Daddy loves you so much. Daddy’s gonna love you even more when you’re round and swollen with our baby.”
You moan, nails digging into his back, the coil in your belly tightening. Bucky knows exactly every inch of you, every spot that makes you shatter, but this newfound desire, his words burning into you like a brand, make the moment so much hotter than before. You realize, while he’s driving himself inside of you a bit faster, whispering your name between breaths, that the idea of him breeding you means more than anything else has ever meant to you.
You gasp as he thrusts particularly hard, the base of him pressing right against your clit. “Please, Dad… I want it. I want your baby.”
His rhythm falters for a second, hips punching forward. “Yeah. That’s right.” Another thrust, sharper. “Been dreaming about this. About putting my baby in my baby.” The words are too filthy, too impossible, and they lit you up from the inside. “Gonna come so deep you’ll be dripping for days.”
You moan, loud enough that it echoes off the fresh walls. His hand slid down, fingers finding your clit, sending sparks right hrough your veins like lightning.
“Come on my cock first,” he orders, never mean but always firm. “Let me feel it. Let me feel my girl come while I breed her.”
The world narrows to him; the scent of sex and sweat, the pink walls blurring as your vision goes white. Pleasure crashes over you like a wave, body trembling as you cry out into the crook of his neck as your whole body seizes around him. Bucky follows moments later, burying himself deep and filling you up until you feel the excess slip out around his cock, warm against your skin.
For a while, he stays pressed against you, his body a comforting weight. When he finally eases out, he rolls to his side and tugs you against his chest, one heavy arm draped over your waist, palm flat over your lower belly like he can already feel something taking root.
"Take a nap" he whispers, kissing your forehead. “I’ll wake you up in a few hours and do it again. Gotta make sure it takes.”
i don't even want kids, but if daddy bucky asked so nicely...i may just have to reconsider. perhaps next time the plushies may not be so lucky to have a barrier 🤭
a/n: sorry for the long silence :') a lot came up irl, and i also just wanted to work on soe things outside of this account !! also apologies that this isn't the best lol its 3am and my fingers started tapping on the keys </3 sorry its not really good, this gif just got me horny :p
the room tipped on it’s axis, over and over again, like a falling picture frame stuck in a time loop. your eyes droop, hazy and satiated from the booze that roared through your veins and lingered on your tongue.
“bucky!” you call out towards a figure. leaning against a wall, all bulky muscle with a stetson, it's so easy to pick him apart from a crowd, his hat being his most prized possession. your voice is louder than you anticipated, but caring felt worthless when your head was spinning, from alcohol, as well as the image before you.
bucky had decided to take you out.
a bar around town where hardwood floors creaked, the bouncer seemed to know everyones name — friendliness, or for larger tips, you could barely tell now. close enough to the bustling streets to be crowded and loud, yet just secluded enough for it to stay intimate.
after a hard days work of repairs and hulking heavy cargo to and from his truck; bags of feed, bundles of firewood, he’ll sometimes he chops it himself. If you’re lucky, your neighbour and his boss right now, mrs.white, invites you over, cup of fresh lemonade sweating in your palm, exactly like how your brother drips in the hot summer weather. flannel discarded in his truck, and you get a front row of abs and pecks on show, he groans a lot more when you’re around.
looking up, he paused his conversation with someone… blurry.
your head tilted in confusion, brows pulled together and eyes squinting as you willed yourself to see clearer. you’ve never been good at hiding expressions, even worse when inebriated.
you make out his hand holding upright to excuse himself, and he makes his way. flannel buttoned up, except for the top three where sweat drips down, you follow without a hint of embarrassment, mouth watering with the desire to follow it. his jeans hug his thighs so good, barely hiding what he’s got underneath. if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was half hard… wait —
“what’s the matter—?”
“who was that?” your tone comes off far more defensive and wearisome than intended, you flinch back a little at your whining, sounding almost like a jealous girlfriend.
bucky huffs something short of a laugh. veiny hand coming to rub his cheek, grin snaking onto his features. he shakes his head, glances back at the person.
"why're you asking?"
you feel petulant. eyes slightly sullen at your brothers newfound plaything for the night, his attention fully on them instead of you. your mouth opens, only to close again.
you mumble under your breath, “wha… whats so funny?” fists balled by your sides, forefingers rubbing against your thumb to soothe.
but he doesn't change. he laughs harder, like you told him some long kept inside joke, the kind of laugh that tightened the chest and had you doubling down, hands on your knees.
in a sober world, you'd most likely laugh too — sober you wouldn't have even gotten herself into this mess in the first place — but drunk you is her opposite. childish, giddy... a brat is what bucky would label you as.
so bratty is what you take. he bends down slightly, eyes shut from laughing way too hard at something you deem too important to be amusing. your hands move first, then your legs, then your brain.
and suddenly you're outside, leaning against a brick wall of a secluded alleyway. rain has just started to spittle down, the soft shower mixing with the cold air feels like a wonder against your warm skin... and atop your head was your brothers hat.
oh, shit.
your mind was too heavy, your brain fueled on liquid courage, and you curse yourself as it all starts to seep heavy into your bones.
it's almost like a stop motion animation. bucky's palms gripped shoulders, too hot. moving to hold your wrist and drag you back to the car. you retaliated, and thats when it happened.
hands moved where hands shouldn't go. mouths touched, and tongues explored forbidden territory.
"been wantin' this," he mumbles. it vibrates against your lips and makes you giggle. "know you've been too... watchin' me work, thinking you were all sly?"
his eyes are so pretty. his face softens a fracture, and he cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek against your soft peach fuzz. it all feels too fast, yet too slow at the same time. and your thighs ache like no other.
"just a dumb little thing, ain't you?" you nod. "yeah? well, rules are rules... my dumb little sister's gonna ride this cowboy like she's been aching to do, ain't that right, baby."
the car was a mess of bodies, too worked up to strip properly; jeans slid down to mid thigh, your skirt bunched, while your shirts rucked up for hands to grope and knead. wet slaps, whines, grunts and moans sound through the seats. the windows of bucky's truck coated with condensation, just from how hard you both worked against each other, and his hat laid carelessly on the floor beside his boot, lost in the haze of wandering hands and frenzied jerks.
tension fading then rising with every grind you gave against his thighs, and every thrust he bucked up inside of your wet heat, heavy balls pulling up as you squeeze around his cock.
“y’wanna know who that was, baby?” he asks, breathing heavily down your neck.
you nod. a gentle, barely there ‘yeah’ caresses the roof of your mouth as it hangs open in ecstasy, eyes glazed over as you trace the hairs that stick to his damp forehead.
“nat… she — oh, holy shit… was gonna take her out here,” he huffs again, smile plastered on his lips again before pressing a bundle of kisses against the side of your neck. “wanted to fuck her good… shit — was gonna fuck her right here, whisper to her, right in her ear… tell her how good she feels, god... how pretty she sounds, how goddamn wired up she got me just from how tight her pussy’s grippin’ me…”
you clench around him quick. a short, nimble pinch around his cock, making his hips falter. he'll tuck that little reaction in his pocket for next time.
he takes a moment, his warm palm cradles the scruff of your neck before pulling you back, just enough to catch your wandering eyes — fucked out, drained, drunk on one too many vodka cokes and his thick cock pressing into you so good you could hardly remember where you were, or what he was talking about.
a quick succession of gentle slaps against your cheek wake you. he holds your face, squished between four fingers and his thumb, and puckers your lips as he sucks his teeth, glancing between your eyes and mouth with a hungry glint.
“jus’ swallowing me up like the fucked up mess she is, huh?” he grunts, thrusts pushing up harder, faster. and then, easing you back on his shoulder, cradling you into his neck with swipes of his thumb, his lips lick the shell of your ear, and he adds, whispering.
“taking her brothers cock so fuckin’ well… was wearin’ my hat so pretty…” the fuzz below his navel tickles, seizing your belly tight. “just couldn’t help myself, baby. had to take whats mine, y’know... what would mama and pop think.”
his dick spears into you, kissing your cervix again and again, just so needy to be in it's proximity, and he stretches you out, aching your walls with a delicious burn you've never felt before.
the wrongness felt too right. the mere thought of getting caught, the only covering you had was the misty windows, had you strangling his leaking sex - face warping in pleasure with each thrust, each blunt stab he gives to you as you lie on his collar, boneless, whiny and so, so close.
"fuckin' brat... taking off with my hat, askin' who i was talking to..." bucky groans at a particularly harsh charge of his hips, balls smacking against your skin. "tight thing... oh you wanted this bad, didn't you. wanted to milk my cock dry, keep it all for yourself, huh? s'that was that was?"
one thing bucky was right about was how dumb you were gonna get on his ridiculously pretty cock. your orgasm snaps out of you with a gasp, rippling your body with shakes and rhythmic pulses, and each snap of your brothers dick was just dragging the agonising bliss out longer. and the words he breathed into your hear ebbed in and out of your hazy conscience.
'tight thing'
'milk my cock'
'keep it'
it broke you out of your daze.
"wanna keep it," you whispered, "keep it... i wanna. please."
"atta girl..." he grunts, hips driving faster and faster, hands white-knuckling your ass cheeks, pushing you down, onto his thighs, each push brings a clap that resonates through the air.
"cum in me. keep it."
"fuckin' christ-" his fingers dig into your flesh as ropes of cum flood your walls. holding you down onto his lap, keeping you plugged, making sure his tip smothers your cervix, making sure you hold, keep.
minutes go by, panting breaths retreat, and his cock slowly slumps out of you with a sloppy sound, making you huff out your nose and hips twitch.
"y'know, you look sexy all drunk and jealous," he smiles, dazed, eyelids half lidded. "if you remember this in the mornin', come over to mrs. white's when you feel better. she's got a barn way out in her field. lemme fuck you nice, yeah?"
"... hm."
he laughs, softer than in the bar, but it has such a similar cadence. "i'll get you dressed. take you home and get some sleep. i'll see you at mrs. white's."
oh my, this was so hot...i love bratty reader so much
"just a dumb little thing, ain't you?" you nod. "yeah? well, rules are rules... my dumb little sister's gonna ride this cowboy like she's been aching to do, ain't that right, baby."
well, i mean rules are rules after all...? and i'm nothing if not a rule follower...
he'll tuck that little reaction in his pocket for next time.
NEXT TIME? my ears instantly perked up. i'll be at mrs. white's barn before the sun is up.
♡⸝⸝ pairing | brother bucky barnes x sister reader
♡⸝⸝ summary | home from college and staying in your childhood room, you find solace from the sounds of your parents' bedroom by knocking on your brother's door. or do you have an ulterior motive for doing so?
♡⸝⸝ warnings | DDDNE MDNI 18+ ONLY | incest | oral f!receiving | unprotected p in v (please be safe out there) | slight voyeurism | a little bit of coercion, but it is consensual | a couple of ass smacks | little bit of ass play, but blink and you'll miss it
♡⸝⸝ word count | 2.3k
♡⸝⸝ bunny purrs | this was created for the lovely @theoracleofsin's Valentine's event! please go show ruby some love, she's been working her tail off on those requests she's been getting. the prompt that spurred this deliciously fucked up musing was “Little sister keeps crawling into my bed at night, whispering that she wants to taste what Mommy and Daddy do to each other." probably not my best, but hopefully you still enjoy ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
please note that just because i write about it doesn't mean i condone it. you are responsible for your own media consumption and i've stated the warnings. turn around now if anything here makes you uncomfortable.
the rhythmic tapping of a headboard against drywall had kept you up every night since you had been back in your childhood bedroom. your parents evidently kept forgetting that they had house guests, and how thin the walls were.
shoving a pillow over your ears did nothing. still you felt the rattling, still you heard the grunts and groans that they barely tried to muffle. fed up, you draped a blanket over your shoulders and made your way to your brother's room.
bucky opened the door after the second knock, hair sticking out at random angles with sweatpants hung low on his hips. he hadn't bothered to put a shirt on showing off every muscle he worked hard for during his ours at the gym. it continued to catch you off guard that your once annoying older brother had morphed into a man while he had been away at college. wordlessly, he ushered you in, eyes momentarily raking over your form.
"couldn't sleep?" he asked watching you flop onto his bed, the blanket you had smuggled draping around you like a cape.
"fuck, they're loud in here too," you groaned upon still hearing your parents going at it. either that or they could tell you vacated your bedroom and decided they could be noisier.
bucky laid next to you, hands tucked behind his head, completely unbothered. "relax, sis, they'll finish it up soon."
grumbling, you turned onto your stomach, pulling a pillow over your head. "doesn't mean we should be subjected to hearing it. don't they know we're in the house?"
the pillow was removed from your head just as a particularly loud moan sounded from somewhere down the hall. "what's wrong? make you uncomfortable?"
uncomfortable really wasn't the word you would use. the compartment of your brain that told you it was sick to get aroused by your parents of all people was silenced by a hidden voyeuristic kink you didn't even know you had.
bucky continued to look down at you, scrutinizing the way you had come into his bed in what he assumed was nothing but an oversized shirt that was riding high up on your hip, giving the briefest of glimpses at your panties.
"or did little sister just come in here for some relief?" he asked quietly, the backs of his fingers trailing along your spine, pausing before they moved over the swell of your ass.
your breath stuttered, trying to appear unaffected even as a shiver wracked through your muscles. "not sure what you're implying," you lamely attempted at brushing him off.
"no?" bucky mused, mattress dipping more as he shifted next to you, his arm draped across your back. "seems like you just want a taste of what mommy and daddy do to each other."
you tried not to let the warmth of his body get to you with the low pitched sounds of pleasure down the hall. but it felt useless. you were already worked up, nerves dialled to 11, and his hand was massaging the top of your spine like he already knew where to touch you to release any tension you were holding.
an almost involuntary moan exhaled through your parted lips. and bucky took that as an opening; swinging his leg over your lower back. his hands moved up and down the curve of your spine, pushing up the shirt you wore.
"c'mon, sis, lemme show you…aren't you curious how he gets her to moan like that?" he whispered as he leaned down, breath tickling your ear.
"and just how do you know what he does?" you couldn't believe you may actually entertain this idea of his. but the longer his hands roamed your skin, your shirt now bunched up to your shoulders the more speculative you became.
bucky let out a disgruntled noise. "what, you don't think your big brother knows how to make a woman scream in bed?"
his fingers gently hooked into the waistband of your panties, tugging briefly like he was going to push them down. your curiosity was getting the better of you with more featherlight touches and kneading of your muscles.
"never thought about it," you lied, arching slightly under his touch.
you had, you just never wanted to admit it to yourself. you watched your older brother take out woman after woman when he began college. sometimes seeing him with two different women per day. you thought the envy you felt was just that men in your college classes weren't paying you any attention.
now…maybe you were just jealous you weren't the one he was showering with affection.
"i've thought about you," he hummed, hands planting on either side of your head. like he needed to prove his point, his hips rolled against the curve of your ass so you could feel how hard he already was under his sweatpants.
"that's…b, that's not…" you stammered, the singular letter nickname you'd used since you were kids falling from your lips easily. "you shouldn't think about me like that."
"bet you taste so sweet…" he continued, body slowly sliding down until his hands were on your hips again. "can i find out?"
you shivered again under the careful kneading of his strong hands. resolve breaking, both wanting to call his bluff while also wanting to stay at the forefront of his attention.
"sure," you whispered, peaking over your shoulder to see the triumphant grin pull at the corners of his lips.
bucky's knees hit the plush carpet at the foot of his bed, pulling you closer to him. "up on your knees for me, so i can see what i'm working with."
you obeyed without really thinking, curling your legs under your body until you were on all fours.
"always were so good to me weren't you, little sis?" he gives an appreciative pat to your ass, tugging the waistband of your panties down your thighs.
just as you lifted your legs enough for him to continue sliding your panties completely off, you heard a muffled gasp down the hall. the rhythmic thumping ceased and it was quiet save for the frantic beat of your heart and you and bucky's heavy breathing.
"see? told you they'd finish up. and here we are just getting started."
the mattress creaked with movement, and large gentle hands pushed your thighs further apart.
"so fuckin' pretty…" he murmured, thumbs tracing the outer lines of your pussy, spreading you open wider for him. "dripping just for me."
you felt your cheeks heat, shoving your face into the pillow that smelled like the cologne you bought for him for christmas. his dirty talk, the way he had rutted against your ass had sent inappropriate thrill after thrill down your spine.
"got nothin' to say up there?" his thumbs kept up the maddeningly slow swipes, occasionally slipping just past the threshold; brushing your clit like it was an accident and he didn't just do it to watch your weeping hole clench around nothing.
very few words came to your mind at this point. your muscles were trembling and it was taking considerable effort just to keep in the position you were.
"fuck me, your arch is wild. look at you presenting so nicely." his palm gave a light, appreciative tap against your flesh. "mind if i give you a taste?"
"please." you whimpered quietly, wound too tight to care how wrong this was.
he tentatively placed his tongue on your clit, drawing a long line through your folds, dipping so briefly into your entrance you thought you imagined it.
all of your muscles tensed, stars bursting behind your eyelids already. your jaw unhinged on a silent moan as bucky's mouth moves back on you.
breaths come in pants as you whimper into his pillow. his tongue works into your cunt in slow, teasing strokes. he groans, low and deep, before giving a kitten lick to your centre; the vibrations cause a jolt down your spine.
"my assumption was correct," he whispered, continuing the tiny grazes that had your hips jerking to chase for more pressure. "taste as sweet as goddamn honey."
you feel him spread you apart wider, tongue flattening while his nose bumped your cunt with each involuntary twitch of your hips. burying your face into the pillow to muffle your own sounds now, you moaned, breath punching out of you as he moved faster.
your legs shook as he indulged, spurned on by your muted sounds of pleasure.
"b-buck, fuck i'm —"
"atta girl, go on," he coaxed, lips sealing around your clit, sucking like he couldn't get enough. his finger pushed into your already fluttering cunt just as your orgasm broke through your body. spine bowing, fingers clutched to the pillow you were worried you might tear it.
his tongue slowed, lapping lazily at your slick like he didn't want to waste a single drop. you whined in an attempt to get away from the pleasure that bordered on too much. he pulled away after placing a gentle kiss on the bundle of nerves that was still throbbing.
you heard him stand up, followed by fabric rustling as you assumed he shed the rest of his clothes.
shifting from his position, bucky laid down onto his back, grabbing your hips and easily moving you how he wanted in your post orgasm haze. your thighs fell on either side of his while you braced your hands on his knees.
your body was still buzzing from his tongue ruining you while he shifted his cock between your legs until the tip bumped against your clit. your body jolted, still sensitive, still being nagged that this was so incredibly wrong.
"b, we really…we…we shouldn't," you tried to reason, but bucky's hands were kneading the flesh of your ass again, tilting your hips rhythmically just enough to keep teasing your kiss swollen pussy.
"yeah, you wanna stop?" he asked, releasing his grip. and you could almost see the smirk on his face as your hips kept circling forward. your gaze mesmerized by his cock moving through your folds. twitching and leaking as it got coated with your slick.
you shook your head once, shifting again so the head of his cock nearly disappeared into your cunt before you moved and withdrew it again. heart beating rapidly, your nails dug into the flesh of his leg to anchor yourself to the moment.
"that's what i thought." his hands were on you again, this time lifting your hips up with a gentle force, holding you to hover over his length. he thrust up, barely pushing into your entrance as you stretched to welcome him in.
his muscles tensed beneath you, a slight groan sounding behind you.
thighs burning, you dropped your hips fully, gasping at the first full stretch of your brother's cock. "jesus fuck sis…" bucky gritted, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, like he had planned to draw out the first plunge. "warn a guy next time."
"sorry, b."
you weren't all that sorry though, considering how full you felt, how deep he reached, brushing the spongy spot that had fireworks bursting behind your eyelids with every small thrust.
"yeah, yeah."
he groaned loud again when you leaned forward, your cunt tightening around him greedily. your ass dropping in short rhythmic bursts as you chased the friction of his balls against your clit.
your jaw slackened when you felt him thrust up to match your movements, desperate gasps fell from your lips as the sound of slick skin on skin filled the room.
"remember when you said you didn't wanna do this?" bucky goaded, using his thumbs to arch your spine, the tip of his cock now reaching impossibly deeper.
you could only provide a high pitched whine in response, falling to your elbows as your arms and legs began to tire. hips barely able to keep up with his more desperate thrusts.
"god, you're fuckin' perfect," he whispered behind you, not the least bit deterred by you slumping forward as the muscles that weren't keeping him deeply seated in your cunt began to give out.
his hands moved from your waist to your ass, spreading you open to watch your insatiable pussy grip him with every movement of your hips. "knew my little sister would know how to squeeze me just right."
his palm lightly swatted your ass causing you to cry out and jolt forward; more from the shock than any pain.
"c'mon babygirl, i feel her pulsing around me," bucky mumbled, sliding his thumb between your cheeks and gently massaging around your hole. "go on and come all over your big brother's cock."
a single stronger thrust had an unabashed moan leaving your throat. hitting the deepest, most intimate part of you. your hips worked faster, trying to drop in time to the circles of his thumb.
your second orgasm arrived in a rush, sparks flew up your spine, shoulders curving inwards as you fucked back to chase the addictive feeling of him twitching with his own release.
you felt the surge of heat, mind too fuzzy to think of the consequences past tonight.
falling face down on the mattress, bucky's softening cock slipped free, leaving you empty with cum dripping freely onto the bedspread.
"you think mom and dad heard us?" you asked tiredly, stretching your legs behind you so the tops of your feet landed on his hips.
bucky, still focusing on the mix of you and him falling from your cunt gave a halfhearted whisper of 'yeah, probably'.
you hummed in content, tucking your arms under your head. "good, gave them a taste of their own medicine."
Prompt: You and your brother Bucky have always shared a deep love for space. On Christmas Eve, you return home to find that maybe you share something more other than blood and a fascination for the stars.
Pairing: Brother!Bucky Barnes x Older Sister!Reader
Word count: 6.4k
Warnings: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); incest; siblingcest (brother/sister); age gap (reader is 4 years older than Bucky, both are over 18+); inexperienced Bucky Barnes; heavy making out; dry humping; p in v; protected sex; kinda slow burn? not too much; Space CutieS! Bucky is a space nerd, reader is also a space nerd; no use of Y/N; not beta'd
Notes: the idea for this fic came from a lovely anon who request this week "inexperienced! little brother!bucky with soft older sister!reader". I ran with it a little too much and had so many ideas that I decided I will definitely make this a several parts series 🥰 I hope you enjoy it! 💕
as always dividers by me. reminder to not read unless you are comfortable with the tagged themes !!
The snow starts falling as your car crunches up the familiar gravel driveway, fat flakes swirling under the porch light like tiny stars caught in a storm. Christmas Eve, and the old Barnes family home looks exactly as you left it three years ago, warm lights glowing from every window, wreaths on the door, the faint scent of pine drifting even before you stepped out.
You kill the engine, heart thudding a little harder than it should. It has been too long. Work in the city has swallowed your time, turning visits into quick weekends and video calls. But this year, you promised yourself a full holiday. Time with Mom, Dad… and your brother Bucky.
The front door bursts open before you can grab your bag from the trunk.
“Sweetheart!” Your mom’s voice carries over the wind, arms already outstretched as she hurries down the steps in her slippers, not caring about the snow. Your dad follows close behind, grinning wide, pulling you into a bear hug that feels exactly like home.
“We thought the roads might keep you away,” he says, ruffling your hair like you are still sixteen.
“Never, Dad,” you laugh, hugging them back fiercely. But your eyes are already scanning past them, into the warm glow of the doorway.
And there he is.
Bucky leans against the frame, hands shoved in his pockets, the familiar half-smile on his face. But God, he isn’t the lanky kid you’d FaceTime on occasion. College has filled him out, broader shoulders under a soft gray sweater, dark hair a little messier. He looks older. Beautiful in a way that hits you like a punch to the chest.
He pushes off the door and comes down the steps slowly, snowflakes catching in his locks. “Hey, sis.”
The hug is meant to be quick, sibling-casual. But his arms wrap around you fully, pulling you in close, chin resting on your head for a beat too long. The warmth of him seeps through your coat, the steady thump of his heart pressed right against yours. When he pulls back, his hands linger on your arms, blue eyes searching your face as if he’s attempting to recognize if something changed about you. All you notice is the way his cheeks and nose turn a little red under the cold weather.
“Missed you,” he says quietly, voice rough.
You swallow. “Missed you too, Buck.”
You were ten years old when you first dragged him outside in the middle of the night, a ratty old telescope from a garage sale clutched under your arm.
“Come on, Jamie! The Perseids are tonight!” You had whispered urgently, tugging on his pajama sleeve.
Bucky was six, all wide blue eyes and messy hair, idolizing you like you hung the moon yourself. You’d spread a blanket in the backyard, pointing out constellations you’d memorized from library books. “That’s Orion’s belt,” you’d say, tracing the stars with your small fingers. “And one day, people will walk on Mars. Maybe even us.”
He’d stare up in awe, small hand in yours. “You gonna be an astronaut, big sis?”
“Only if you come with me. Space is no fun if you’re alone.”
From then on, it was your thing. NASA documentaries on the old TV, books piled up on his bed, you reading aloud about Apollo missions until he fell asleep. He soaked it up like a sponge, that vast magic becoming his own escape. You never imagined it would stick so deep.
Now, as the four of you shuffle inside, stamping snow off boots, the house envelopes you in pine and gingerbread scents. The tree stands tall in the living room, half-decorated, strings of lights twinkling, ornaments waiting.
You dive into the boxes, pulling out the familiar decorations that have been a part of your family history for years now: the wonky clay star you made in kindergarten (your parents still keep this?), the shiny rocket ship Bucky was obsessed with one year to the point he stole it from the tree to hang on the side of his bed. Your parents take the lower branches, leaving the higher ones for the “grown-up kids.”
“Here,” Bucky says, appearing at your side with a delicate glass icicle in his palm. “This one’s always been yours.”
You smile, reaching up on tiptoes for a bare spot near the top. The branch is just out of reach, and you wobble slightly, but a pair of strong hands settle on your waist immediately, steadying you. When did he get so strong? You can swear he was still just a scrawny kid last summer—
“Easy there,” he murmurs next to your ear. “I’ve got you.”
Your breath catches. His grip is firm but gentle, thumbs brushing so slowly over the curve of your hips you think you’re imagining it as he lifts you just enough to make it easy. You hang the ornament, but neither of you moves right away. His chest is close to your back, the heat of him cutting through the holiday chill that still clings to your skin.
“Remember when we tried to put the star on top and you fell off the stool?” you whisper, turning your head slightly. Your cheek almost brushes his.
Bucky chuckles softly, his breath warm and a soft blush resting on his face. “Yeah. I was twelve. And you caught me before I face-planted into the tree.”
His hands linger as you lower back down, sliding slowly away only when your feet are steady again, even though he doesn’t fully step back. Instead, he reaches for another ornament, a little silver spaceship, and hands it to you.
“Found this one at a campus flea market,” he says quietly while your parents chat on the other side of the room, now busy putting up candles on the tables. “Reminded me of those nights you’d tell me about the moon. How Armstrong flubbed his line.”
His eyes soften. For a second you swear you feel something else crackling underneath, something that goes beyond sibling love or the holiday cheer. Something that runs deeper, warmer. “You made it all real for me. The stars weren’t just lights. They were places I visited with you in our parents’ backyard.” His voice drops a little lower then. “I wouldn’t be chasing this dream without you.”
The confession hangs between you, heavier than the tree you’re both adorning. “I’m proud of you, Buck. I really am.”
For a moment, the room narrows to just the two of you, twinkling lights reflecting in his eyes, the faint scent of his cologne filling your nostrils.
Your mom calls from the doorway, interrupting the heavy silence without quite realizing it. “Mistletoe check! We hung it in the archway again.”
You and Bucky both turn, realizing you’ve drifted right beneath it while decorating the nearby branches. The little bunch of green and white berries dangles innocently above your heads.
Bucky freezes. You freeze.
It’s tradition. A peck on the cheek for family, right? Then why does it feel like neither of you can move?
Bucky looks down at you, those blue eyes searching yours. His hand lifts slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. You tilt your chin up without thinking, drawn by something magnetic.
His lips part, leaning in, just inches away, and you feel the warmth of his breath, the way his gaze drops to your mouth.
Wait.
What?
Your heart stutters.
At the last second, you turn your head slightly, and Bucky just barely grazes the corner of your mouth, soft and fleeting, sending a jolt straight through you. He pulls back immediately, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, a slightly panicked look in his eyes.
“Sorry,” he whispers, stepping back like touching you burned him.
You blink once, twice. “It’s… it’s okay.”
Half an hour later, dinner is served in the dining room: Mom’s honey-glazed ham, roasted potatoes, green beans with almonds, cranberry sauce. The table is dressed in red and green plaid, candles flickering, Christmas music playing softly from the kitchen speaker.
You sit in your usual spot, across from Bucky, parents at either end of the table. The conversation starts easy enough. Dad asks about your job in the city, Mom wants every detail about your new apartment, and you answer on autopilot, laughing in all the right places. But every time, your mind is somewhere else. Whenever you glance up, Bucky is watching you.
Not obviously. Never long enough for your parents to notice, to tap into any awkward tension that appears to simmer between the two of you today. But it’s the kind of quiet longing that feels a bit too intense to be just casual, that flickers behind his blue eyes whenever he passes the rolls, when you reach for the salt at the same time and your fingers brush. Each brush of hands feels like touching a live wire.
Bucky is quieter than usual. When Mom asks about school, he gives short answers.
“Classes are good. Got an A in orbital mechanics.”
“Internship applications are in for Johnson Space Center next summer.”
His voice is steady, but you notice quickly how his jaw tightens when your mom beams and says, “Our little astronaut! Your sister started all this, you know, she had you staring at the stars from such a young age.”
Bucky’s eyes flick to you then, something raw flashing across his face. “Yeah,” he says softly. “She did.”
Heat crawls up your neck, and you busy yourself cutting your ham into tiny pieces.
Under the table, his knee bumps yours. It feels like an accident, a shift in his position—until he doesn’t move away. The pressure is light, barely there, but there’s definitely intent in the way it remains placed there against your knee. Your breath catches, and you shift slightly in your seat, unsure if you’re pulling away or leaning into it.
The tension coils tighter with every minute. The conversation at the table continues with chatter about the neighbor’s ridiculous inflatable Santa, plans for Christmas morning cinnamon rolls; your parents laugh and sing along to the songs on the speaker while completely unaware of the silent storm brewing across the table from them.
The food on your plate seems to be the most interesting thing tonight as you try hard to focus solely on it, but you’re hyper-aware of everything: the way Bucky’s sweater stretches across his shoulders when he reaches for more potatoes, his leg still barely touching yours.
Halfway through dessert, Mom’s famous pecan pie, Bucky suddenly pushes his chair back. The scrape of wood on the floor makes everyone look up.
“You okay, honey?” Mom asks, concerned.
“Yeah, just…” He stands too quickly, nearly knocking over his water glass. His face is flushed, eyes a little too bright. “Remembered I have a lab thing I forgot to prep for. Gonna head upstairs and take care of it.”
Dad frowns. “On Christmas Eve?”
“Uh, deadlines don’t care about holidays.” Bucky forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He glances at you for half a second before looking away. “I’ll come down later when it’s done.”
And just like that, he’s gone up the stairs before anyone can protest, his footsteps quick and fading rapidly.
Your mom sighs. “That boy works too hard. Always has his head in the stars, literally.”
You linger in the kitchen for a few minutes longer than necessary after dinner, drying already dry dishes while your parents migrate to the living room with their coffee and the glow of the television. The abrupt way Bucky fled the table keeps replaying in your mind: his flushed cheeks, the clearly bullshit excuse. How he didn’t quite look at you properly.
Finally, you set the towel down. “I’m going to go see if Bucky needs help with the lab thing,” you announce casually. “Make sure he doesn’t spend all of Christmas Eve stressing.”
Your mom smiles over the rim of her mug. “Good idea, sweetheart. Drag him back down for a Christmas movie if you can.”
You nod, heart already racing as you head up the stairs. The hallway is quiet except for the faint murmur of the TV below. Bucky’s door is closed, but a soft glow seeps from under it.
You knock twice. “Buck? It’s me.”
There’s a shuffle inside, then a quiet. “Yeah. Come in.”
You push the door open and step into a room that feels like stepping straight into the night sky.
The entire ceiling is a glowing galaxy, thousands of tiny fiber-optic stars embedded in dark paint, swirling into a vivid nebula that shifts subtly in shades of deep blue and violet. LED strips hidden behind the crown molding cast a soft cosmic light over everything. On one wall, string lights form the outline of a constellation (you recognize Scorpius immediately). A sleek black telescope stands on a tripod by the window, pointed out at the falling snow. Posters of Saturn’s rings, the Hubble Deep Field, and a vintage Apollo 11 mission patch cover the walls. His bed is made neatly with a navy NASA duvet, the classic meatball logo emblazoned across it, and a few plush planets are lined up on the shelf above his desk like silent companions.
It’s overwhelmingly Bucky; nerdy, earnest, a little awkward in how perfectly curated it all is. Like he has never quite grown out of the wonder you instilled in him all those years ago.
Bucky himself is pacing a tight line between the bed and the telescope, hair a bit messier than when he was downstairs, sleeves pushed up.
“You didn’t have to come up,” he says quickly, stopping in front of his desk as he rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I’m fine. Just… working on some data stuff.”
You close the door softly behind you and lean against it. “You’ve been acting strange all evening, Buck. Quiet at dinner, then bolting up here like you were running from the Devil.” You keep your voice gentle but direct. “What’s going on?”
He exhales sharply, eyes darting to the glowing ceiling like it might offer an escape route. When he looks back at you, his cheeks are flushed red again. You just raise an eyebrow, waiting.
Bucky’s gaze darts away again, to the telescope, to the plush Jupiter on his shelf, anywhere but you. He shoves his hands into his pockets, then pulls them out like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His shoulders bunch slightly.
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. “Just stressed. School stuff. You know how it is.”
You don’t move from the door. Your eyebrow remains raised. “Bucky.”
He winces at the way you say his name, soft but firm nonetheless, the exact tone that shows you don’t believe his excuses. He starts pacing again, two steps toward the bed, two steps back, careful to not get closer to you. The nebula on the ceiling casts shifting blue light over his face.
“I’m fine,” he insists a little too quickly to be truly believable. “You should go back downstairs. I know Mom always likes to watch The Polar Express every Christmas. I’ll… I’ll be down in a bit.”
Despite his insistence, his voice cracks on the last word. You notice the way he shifts his weight, the subtle tension in his stance as he turns his back and pretends to adjust something on his desk. The starry blue glow in the room feels more intimate now instead of comforting.
“You’re not fine,” you say quietly. “You’ve been weird since the mistletoe thing. Talk to me.”
He lets out a shaky breath, fingers gripping the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles go white. “I can’t.”
“Why not? I’m your sister. You can talk to me about anything.”
“It’s because you’re my sister that I can’t—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s messed up. I’m messed up. I hate that I even—fuck. Look, just… go, okay?”
Bucky never swears. Not really, not like this. The word is so rare from him it hangs in the air like a gunshot.
Something cold slides down your spine. The awareness, the realization as pieces click together too fast: the lingering touches, the flushed face at dinner. How he’d stared at you under the mistletoe before dinner.
You take one careful step closer to him, attempting to close the distance enough that your voice doesn’t have to carry.
“Bucky,” you call softly. “Under the mistletoe… did you want to kiss me?”
His whole body goes still. The silence is so thick you manage to hear the muffled laugh track from the TV downstairs.
“I did kiss you.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
“I mean…” You swallow, the words feeling dangerous on your tongue. “On the lips.”
He turns then, slowly, like he’s afraid any sudden movement will shatter the moment. His face is scarlet under the blue light, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted like he’s forgotten how to breathe properly.
“… Yeah,” he whispers. The confession seems to cost him everything. “I wanted to kiss you on the lips. And I hated myself for it the second I thought it. And then you turned your head, and I still—” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes for a second, voice muffled. “At dinner it got worse, and I couldn’t—I had to get out before—”
He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.
“Do you still want to?”
Bucky’s hands drop from his face. He stares at you like he’s not sure he’s heard you right, like he’s waiting for the moment you freak out and start yelling or running away. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.
“Don’t ask me that,” he says, a little broken, terrified.
You take another slow step forward, close enough now that the soft blue light bathes both of you in the same glow. Your voice remains gentle, the same tone you used when he was little and scared of thunderstorms.
“I meant what I said, Bucky. I’m your sister. You can tell me anything. No judgment.”
His eyes search yours, pleading, like he’s looking for the trap he’s sure must be hiding somewhere there. When he doesn’t find it, his shoulders tense further.
“I still want to,” he whispers, the words shaky with shame. “I still want to kiss you so bad it hurts. But it’s wrong. It’s so wrong, you’re my sister, this isn’t supposed to happen—” His voice breaks midway, and he turns away again, shoulders curling in like he wants to disappear into the stars painted on the ceiling above.
You feel your own heart pounding, but you don’t let it stop you. You close the last bit of distance, reaching out to gently touch his arm. He flinches at first, then stills under your fingers.
“Hey,” you say softly. “Look at me.”
It takes a moment, but he does, slowly turning back, eyes glassy.
“It’s okay,” you tell him. “You can trust me. I’m right here.”
The words seem to undo him. His shoulders drop, the fight draining out of him all at once.
You rise up on your toes, just like when you reached for the high branches of the Christmas tree, and press your lips to his.
It’s soft at first, tentative. A question more than anything.
Bucky freezes, a sharp inhale against your mouth. For one terrifying second, you think he’s going to pull away. But then his hands come up, careful, afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. One cups your cheek, the other settles lightly at your waist. And he kisses you back.
Really kisses you.
You’ve kissed your fair share of boys before, some younger, some older, but none ever quite kissed you like Bucky does. His mouth is warm and careful against yours, years of closeness and distance and something neither of you dared name until now pouring into it and setting it ablaze. His lips are softer than you expected, trembling just slightly against yours. You feel the moment he lets himself lean in fully, the shuddering exhale he releases like relief, and you push him further, tongue slipping past his lips and tasting the sin in his mouth.
Bucky whines into your heat, fingers digging into your waist so hard it feels like you’re causing him some sort of pain.
The kiss deepens for what feels like forever, slow and impossible to stop, until your lungs burn and the need for air finally forces you apart.
You pull back first, just an inch, lips still brushing his as you both breathe hard. Bucky’s eyes are wide, pupils blown in the dim light, his chest rising and falling fast against yours. The hand on your cheek trembles.
“We…” His voice cracks. “We shouldn’t have done that. Oh my god, what did we just—”
“Hey.” You cup his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. “Bucky. Breathe. It’s okay.”
He shakes his head, frantic. “It’s not okay! You’re my sister, if Mom or Dad ever—”
“They won’t,” you cut in gently, thumb stroking along his jaw. “This is just us. It can stay our secret. No one needs to know.”
His eyes search yours again, desperate for reassurance. Agonizingly slowly, the panic ebbs just a little. He nods, a shaky movement.
You take his hand, lacing your fingers with his, and tug him gently toward the bed. Bucky follows, but he’s so distracted he catches the edge of his own rug with his foot and stumbles, arms windmilling for balance before he catches himself on the bedpost.
You can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes. “Bucky, you okay?”
He lets out an embarrassed huff, cheeks burning darker as he sits heavily on the edge of the mattress. “Yeah. Just… graceful as ever.”
You sit beside him, close enough that your thighs touch. The NASA duvet is soft under your hands. You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, a casual sisterly touch if it wasn’t for the charged moment.
“Hey. No pressure,” you say quietly. “If you’re not sure, if it’s too much, whatever—we stop. No questions.”
Bucky stares down at his lap, fingers twisting together. For a long moment he’s silent, then he gives a small chuckle.
“I don’t want to stop,” he admits. “It’s just… I’m not—I mean, I’m not a virgin, okay? There was a girl freshman year, and… a couple times since. But it wasn’t… a lot. And it definitely wasn’t ever like this.” Bucky gestures vaguely between you, flustered. “So I’m kind of… I don’t know what I’m doing here. With you. And it’s all… a lot.”
The vulnerability in his voice makes something warm bloom in your chest. You reach over, covering his fidgeting hands with one of yours.
“It’s okay,” you tell him softly. “We’ll go slow. We’ll figure it out together.” You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Just like when we were kids and you were scared to look through the telescope alone because you thought you were gonna see aliens.”
A shaky smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah. Except this is… way different.”
“Way different,” you agree, smiling back. “But it’s still just the two of us.”
You shift closer, sliding one leg over his so you’re half in his lap, and kiss him again, slower this time, letting him feel that there’s no rush. His hands find your waist again, hesitant at first, then surer, pulling you gently until you’re fully straddling him. Under the quiet glow of a thousand painted stars in his ceiling, the two of you start learning a whole new constellation.
Your knees sink into the NASA duvet on either side of his hips, and Bucky’s hands settle on your waist like he’s afraid to hold too tight, fingers flexing nervously against the fabric of your sweater. You kiss him again, deeper this time, no hesitation, and he melts into it with a helpless sound that vibrates against your lips.
His mouth is eager but unsure, following your lead as you tilt your head and slide your tongue along his. When you nip gently at his bottom lip, Bucky gasps, a startled little whine that he immediately tries to swallow. You hadn’t expected the sound, but you smile into the kiss, fingers tugging gently on his hair as you pull back just enough to murmur, “It’s okay. They’re downstairs with the TV on. Relax.”
Bucky nods quickly, his cheeks flushed dark, eyes glassy. “Trying,” he breathes, voice shaky. “It’s just… you feel…” He cuts himself off with another soft whine when you roll your hips experimentally on top of him, settling your weight more firmly in his lap.
Just like clockwork, his reaction is immediate, expected: a growing hardness presses up against you through his jeans. His breath hitches, hips jerking involuntarily before he forces them still, hands gripping your sides like he’s anchoring himself.
“Sorry,” he whispers, mortified. “I didn’t mean—”
“Bucky, I said relax.” You kiss him again, slower, deeper, rocking your hips in a gentle grind. The friction draws a muffled groan from his throat, and he retaliates by biting down on your bottom lip, soft pain shooting through you. You pull back just an inch, lips pursing into a wicked grin.
“Is my little brother getting greedy now?” Bucky whines silently as if the nickname wounded him.
“Don’t call me that now.” He says with a grunt. You just chuckle and lean down again, teeth pulling on his bottom lip until his eyes are closing.
“You’re cute like this, Buck,” you say teasingly, releasing his lip before licking over it. “I like it.”
You take control because you can feel how overwhelmed he is: the way his hands hover uncertainly, the tremor in his thighs beneath you. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly to angle his head back, and trail open-mouthed kisses down his jaw to the sensitive spot just below his ear. He shudders, hips bucking up again, harder this time.
“Easy. There’s no rush,” you murmur against his skin, the words attempting to soothe his nerves. You roll your hips in a slow circle, pressing down just right, and he whimpers, desperate, burying his face in his neck in a futile attempt to muffle the sound.
“I can’t help it,” he breathes into the skin. “You’re—fuck—you’re right here and you’re so pretty and it feels—” Another roll of your hips cuts him off with a choked whine, fingers digging into your waist and urging you closer even as he battles to remain still.
You keep the rhythm steady, grinding down slowly, feeling him throb beneath you with every movement. His breathing is ragged against your collarbone, little whines escaping despite his best efforts; and maybe you’re older, more experienced, but those needy sounds make heat pool quick in your gut in a way nothing has ever quite managed before.
“Feels good?” You whisper, nipping at his earlobe.
He nods frantically. “So good,” he manages. “Too good—gonna—” The sentence dissolves into another muffled whine as you grind down harder, but you don’t need him to finish the sentence to know exactly what he means. Despite how good it feels, how good he feels, you slow down, not wanting this to be over like this.
Your little brother deserves better than cumming in his pants.
“Bucky,” you whisper, lips pressed to his cheek. “Do you wanna go further?”
He freezes beneath you, breath sharp. His eyes are open fully, wide and dark, searching your face like he’s waiting for the catch.
“Further…?” he echoes, voice hoarse.
You rock once, letting him feel exactly what you mean. “Inside me,” you clarify with the usual softness. “All the way."
The sound he makes is half-whimper, half-groan, fingers flexing hard against your hips. For a second he looks completely overwhelmed, like the idea alone might undo him. You’re his sister, his older sister who has never been anything other than the kindest soul to him. How could he ever hope to deprave you in such a way?
And yet, he nods, small at first and then a little surer.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Fuck, yes, please.”
His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer. You smile, brushing a soft kiss to his mouth, feeling the way he melts into it—relieved, eager, still a little terrified, but undoubtedly yours.
Your hands move to the hem of his sweater, a silent request, and he obeys without hesitation, lifting his arms so you can pull the soft grey fabric over his head. It messes his hair further, strands falling across his forehead. Underneath the sweater he’s lean but strong. College added definition to his chest and arms that wasn’t there the last time you saw him shirtless years ago. You trace your fingers lightly over his skin, feeling him shiver.
Bucky tugs at your sweater next, nervous fingers fumbling until you help him lift it off. The cool air of the room raises goosebumps on your skin, but his palms are warm when they settle on your bare waist, pulling you close again.
“Are you cold?” He asks with a gentleness that doesn’t belong in the bed where two siblings are about to break family boundaries. You bite down on your lip, reaching behind yourself to unhook your bra, letting it fall away. Bucky’s breath catches sharply as he looks at you, wide-eyed, like he can’t believe you’re real.
“Not when I’ve got my little brother to keep me warm.” You guide his hands to your breasts, showing him it’s okay to touch you. And he does—hesitant at first, thumbs brushing over your nipples with a feather-light touch that makes you arch into him. Your soft moans spur him on, and his confidence grows; he cups you fully, learning the weight and feel of you with worshipful strokes.
“You’ve got the prettiest tits,” he says, almost out of it, as if it’s a thought that somehow made its way past his lips. You look down at him, grinning, and his cheeks flush darker as he realizes he’s said it out loud like an idiot. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
One thumb presses against his lips, your sign to shut him up. “You’re not gonna apologize for complimenting me while we’re doing this. Keep going.”
Bucky swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing under your gaze. His eyes are locked on your breasts, hands cupping them reverently, and thumbs circling your nipples with a tentative pressure that sends sparks dancing down your spine. “They’re perfect,” he murmurs, like he’s confessing a secret he’s held onto for too long. “You’re perfect. I always thought you were beautiful.” He leans forward in a sudden fit of courage, and he kisses your collarbone, licks a stripe down to your nipple. “And today you walked in with snow in your hair, and that smile, and you looked—you look—like a Christmas miracle showed up on our porch.”
Heat blooms in your chest at his words, and you arch into his touch, encouraging him. His confidence builds with every soft gasp you let escape, his palms kneading gently, exploring the soft curves. You lean down to capture his lips again, the kiss turning needier, tongues tangling in a rhythm that’s equal parts familiar and forbidden.
Clothes come off in quiet urgency after that; your pants peeled down, his jeans and boxers pushed off with a little awkward laughter when they get caught on his ankle. You both pause for a moment, bare under the glowing stars, taking each other in. Bucky’s flushed from chest to ears, hard and aching between his legs. Long and thick, curved slightly, the tip flushed and glistening with need. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly from base to tip, and Bucky's hips buck into your grip with a strangled whine, his head falling back against the headboard.
"Shh," you soothe, thumb circling the sensitive head, spreading the bead of precome that gathers there. He nods frantically, but his body betrays him, a needy sound rumbling from his chest as you pump him slowly, feeling him throb in your palm.
“Condom?” you ask softly, practical even through the haze.
He nods quickly, reaching for the nightstand drawer with a shaking hand. You help him roll it on with slow, deliberate strokes that make him whine again. When he’s ready, you guide him to you, rising up on your knees as you position him at your entrance.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” you whisper.
The first press is slow, the stretch burning in the best way as you sink down, inch by inch. Bucky's mouth falls open in a silent gasp, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks. "Oh god," he breathes when you're halfway, voice cracking. "You're so… tight—"
You pause to let yourself adjust, breathing through the fullness, then lower further until he's buried completely inside you. The sensation is overwhelming: him filling you so perfectly, the heat of him pulsing within your walls. For a moment, neither of you moves, just savoring the impossible closeness, your foreheads pressed together, your hands braced on his chest, feeling his heart thunder under your palms.
Then you start to move.
A slow roll of your hips at first, testing the angle, and Bucky’s eyes flutter shut. “That feels so good,” he whispers, hands sliding down to grip your thighs to help guide you (and because he has no idea what else to do with them right now). You rise and fall gently, building a rhythm that has him trembling beneath you. Every downward slide draws a gasp from him, his hips starting to meet yours in tentative thrusts that grow bolder with each pass.
You lean forward just a little, and your face hovers just above his. You see him open his eyes then, blue hues meeting yours in search for something he’s not sure he can ever find anywhere else.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, even though it seems like it’s hard for him to even manage to get the words out. “You’re so fucking beautiful, I—” But he can’t finish; you sink down harder, and his words dissolve into a broken moan he barely muffles against your shoulder.
His eyes are glassy, lips parted, and brows drawn together in overwhelmed pleasure. You watch him with reverence, lips curled into a sweet smile even as you gasp for him. Every time you clench around him, his hips buck up involuntarily, driving him deeper and pulling another desperate sound from his throat.
Bucky’s hands roam, up your back, down to grip your ass, urging you faster without quite taking over.
"Faster?" you ask, voice breathy, giving voice to his request, and he nods desperately.
"Please—yeah—"
You oblige, speeding up gradually until the soft slap of skin on skin fills the quiet room, mingling with his increasingly frantic whines. He's trying to stay quiet, biting his lip, turning his face into the pillow, but the whines slip out anyway. One of your hands reaches for his face, thumb trying to release his lip from the confines of his teeth.
“Let me hear you,” you murmur, moving your hand to lace your fingers with his against the mattress. “I wanna hear how good it feels.”
He nods shakily, and when you grind down again, the sound he makes is raw—half-sob, half-moan—muffled only slightly by the pillow he turns his face into. His free hand cups one of your breasts, thumb flicking over your nipple in time with your movements, and the added sensation sends jolts straight to your core, making you grind down harder.
You gasp his name softly under your breath, a moment of unraveling even while you try to stay in control, and that only seems to undo Bucky. His hips start moving in earnest now, meeting every downward stroke with an upward thrust, driving deeper, harder. His whines turn continuous, breathy and desperate, eyes locked on yours like he’s afraid to look away.
You kiss him messily as you both near the edge, teeth and tongue and shared breath. The rhythm falters, turns frantic, while Bucky’s whole body is trembling, thighs shaking under yours.
“Close—” he gasps against your mouth. “I’m—please, fuck, cum with me—”
And God knows he doesn’t need to ask twice in that pleading voice.
When it hits, it's like a supernova: pleasure exploding through you in waves, your walls fluttering around him as you come undone. Bucky follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a choked cry. His back arches off the bed as he pulses inside you, spilling into the condom, and his hips jerk in uneven rhythm. For half a second, stars burst behind your eyelids; not the bright blue LED ones on the ceiling above, but the kind that makes you float away.
You collapse against him, both of you panting, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and each other. In your haze, you feel his arms wrapping tightly around your body, holding you against him, and his lips press the softest kisses to your hair, to your temple.
Bucky is the first to break the walls of silence. “Merry Christmas.”
You lift your head to look at him, hair messy, lips swollen, and just smile. “Seriously?”
He gives you a crooked smile, cheeks a little flushed. “What? Can’t I wish my sister a Merry Christmas?”
You giggle at him, pressing a kiss to his collarbone that makes him shiver. “We just fucked. You’re being a nerd.”
Bucky’s chest rumbles with a shy chuckle beneath you, his arms tightening just a fraction, like he’s still afraid this moment might slip away if he lets go.
“Yeah,” he admits, voice fond. “Guess I am a nerd. Always have been.” His fingers trace lazy circles on your back, careful. “But you’re here. With me. So… best Christmas ever.”
You lift your head fully now, resting your chin on his chest so you can look at him properly. You reach up, brushing some messy hair from his face. “Best Christmas ever,” you agree quietly.
Prompt: When your father Bucky sees you wearing his old dog tags, family lines get blurred.
Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Daughter!Reader
Warnings: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); incest; father/daughter; penetrative sex; creampie; unprotected sex; no use of Y/N; petnames (little girl, babydoll); reader is 18+
Notes: dividers by me. reminder to not read unless you are comfortable with the tagged themes
It all started the day you found your dad’s old dog tags in the midst of a box of things in the attic. Forgotten, buried between books and old photographs of your mother and him, like they had never mattered. Your heart ached at the sight. Feeble fingers wrapped around the silver chain, and you slowly slid it around your neck, tucking the dog tags carefully under your shirt as if you were keeping them safe.
Your dad noticed. Immediately.
Bucky is a soldier. Was a soldier. Doesn’t matter. His eyes are trained, noticing the chain around your neck, dipping between your breasts—and he knows it immediately, like a feeling in your gut you can’t quite shake. His dog tags. Resting perfectly against your chest, sipping in your warmth.
That night, at the dinner table, he doesn’t say anything.
Just stares.
The chain shifts every time you breathe, a tiny glint of silver peeking above the neckline of your shirt when you reach for the water pitcher. His gaze tracks it like a sniper scope. You pretend not to notice, of course, but your skin burns under the weight of it. Something’s different. Something’s off.
Later, when the house is dark and the floorboards creak under his bare feet, your bedroom door opens without a knock.
The dog tags are resting against your sternum; you fell asleep with them on, the metal now warmed from hours pressed to your skin. Bucky stands at the foot of your bed, chest rising slow and heavy, eyes fixed on that little flash of silver.
“Babydoll,” he says, voice rough like gravel. It’s the name he used to call your mother. You’ve heard it in old home videos, crackling through the speakers when he thought no one was listening. He hasn’t said it in years. Definitely not to you.
Not until tonight.
You sit up, clutching the blanket to your chest. “… Dad? What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer. Just moves closer, deliberate. The mattress dips under his weight when he kneels on it, metal hand settling beside your hip, flesh one sliding up your thigh like he has every right to. Your heart stutters in your chest, breathing growing heavy. You should stop him. You don’t.
“Been thinkin’ about those tags all day,” he admits. His thumb brushes the chain where it disappears under the cotton of your night shirt. “Used to hang right here—” he taps the hollow between your collarbones, then lower, dragging the shirt down until the tags slip free and rest on top of the fabric. “—while I had my mouth on her. Your ma. She’d keep them on while I licked her open. Said she liked seein’ my name bouncin’ between her tits.”
His voice cracks on the last word, something feral building behind the blue in his eyes. You might as well have stopped breathing. Your dad has never spoken to you like this, let alone touched you the way he is now. Frozen to your own mattress, you barely gather the courage to say anything back.
“… I’m sorry. I didn’t know, you can have them back—”
“I don’t want them back.” He leans in, nose brushing your temple, inhaling like he’s trying to carry your scent into his bloodstream. “But they are mine. And right now they’re on my little girl’s pretty chest, keepin’ her warm the way they used to keep your mother warm when I fucked her slow when I came back home from missions. Same chain. Same name branded in the metal.”
His metal hand curls around the back of your neck, thumb stroking the chain. “You feel that?” A gentle tug; the chain tightens, tags pressing into your skin. “That’s me. Ownin’ you the way I owned her.”
You’re trembling now. You can’t tell if it’s from fear or something far more dangerous.
“Daddy—” Bucky doesn’t let you finish. He pushes you back against the pillows, mouth finding yours like he’s starving. Teeth and tongue and years of something dark that had been kept buried crack open all at once. You taste blood where he bites your lip, hear the soft clink of the tags when he yanks your shirt up and over your head, followed by his, and they dangle between your bare breasts.
“Look at you,” he breathes, reverent. “My babydoll wearin’ Daddy’s name while I—”
No other word follows. He just spreads your thighs with one metal hand, pushes your panties to the side, and sinks into you in a single hard thrust, groaning like a dying man finally finding absolution. The tags bounce between your tits when he begins to move, every snap of his hips dragging you across the mattress.
“That’s it,” he rasps against your throat, mouthing at the skin while his pace quickens. “Take it. God, babydoll, I know you can take it so well for Daddy.”
And you take it. Legs spread open, his arms hooked around your knees, keeping you close as he fucks into you deep, so deep you feel it everywhere, impaling you on his thick cock with every sharp thrust. When did his little girl become a woman like this?
It doesn’t matter. Never mattered.
You come with his name burning against your chest, and he follows right after, unable to process the sight of you whimpering for him without coming undone, spilling deep with a broken sound that’s closer to a sob.
After, he doesn’t pull out. Just stays buried inside you, face pressed to your neck, fingers tracing along the chain around your neck.
“Tonight, you’re not my daughter. You’re hers,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “And now you’re my babydoll.”
The dog tags rest heavy between you both, silver catching the moonlight coming through the window.
And you know he’s right.
The line’s gone. Burned away the second he saw his past swinging between your tits and decided he wanted it back, no matter what he had to lose to get it.
Daughter! Reader milking chubby daddy! Bucky's big Blue balls, murmuring filthy things in his ear, like:
"Poor daddy, mommy doesn't help you to empy these?" While she massages his sack
hello, dear anon! the chat went feral when i shared this with them. so please keep your requests coming! we love it.
CW dead dove do not eat, incest (dad!bucky x daughter!reader), MDNI, handjob, cum play?, tit play. reader is of age. WC 1800 words SINNER TALKS don’t like? don’t read. your media consumption is not my responsibility. if you’re uncomfortable with any of the content warnings, do not read.
you walk into the living room after hearing the front door click shut.
your dad bucky slumps down onto the couch with that heavy sigh he always lets out when he's had a rough day.
he's still in his suit from whatever meeting dragged on too long. he's got his tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, showing those thick arms that make your stomach twist in that wrong way it shouldn't.
he's chubby around the middle now, not like the old pictures, but it suits him. it makes him look solid and more real, like you could grab onto him and not let go.
his face is tired, but when he sees you standing there in your little shorts and tank top, something shifts in his expression.
theres a flicker of guilt mixed with want that he tries to hide by rubbing his hand over his beard.
you know that look. you've seen it building for months, ever since things started getting weird between you two.
those accidental touches turning into lingering ones, the way he'd stare a bit too long when you bent over or hugged him goodnight.
it's wrong, you both know it. he's your dad, married to your mom who's off doing whatever tonight, probably out with friends, leaving him here pent up and frustrated.
but you can't help it, the pull is too strong, and right now he looks like he needs taking care of now more than ever.
you pad over to where he is, feeling that familiar heat starting between your legs just from being close, and drop down onto the couch next to him. it's close enough that your thigh presses against his.
"rough day, daddy?" your voice is soft but already edging into that teasing tone you know gets him riled up.
he grunts, then nods once, and leans his head back against the cushion. "yeah, kiddo, these meetings drag on forever. your mom's not home yet?" he asks like it's casual. but there's clearly that undertone, maybe like he's checking if you're alone.
"nope, just us," you murmur, and slide your hand onto his thigh. when you further go high up, you can feel the muscle tensing under your touch.
he doesn't push you away, but just turns a little toward you, and you can see that conflict flashing across his face again.
"we shouldn't," he mutters, but his hand comes up to rest on your knee anyway.
you ignore the words, because that's the kind of game you both play.
leaning in closer, your chest brushes his arm, and you whisper right there by his ear, "but you need it, don't you daddy? look at you, all wound up."
he shifts in his place, like he's trying to adjust himself without making it obvious, but you notice the bulge growing in his pants, straining so hard against the fabric.
it's always like this, the forbidden part making it hotter, knowing he's your dad and he's letting you do this.
you slide your hand higher, cupping him through the pants, feeling how full he is, those big balls he's got. it's probably achin from neglecting himself.
mommy doesn't take care of him like she should, and that jealousy spurs you on.
you unzip him slowly, watching his face as you pull him out. his cock is thick and hard already, veins standing out, the head flushed dark.
but it's his balls that draw you in. they're hanging low and they look swollen. the sack is covered in soft hair, looking like they haven't been emptied in days.
you wrap one hand around them gently at first, and massage them slowly. rolling them in your palm, you feel the weight and the heat radiating off his skin.
a smile forms on your face when he groans, hips bucking a little. and his hands come up to your tits right away, groping them through the thin tank.
his big palms squeeze them, thumbs rubbing over your nipples till they are poking hard against the fabric.
"fuck, baby," he mutters.
you lean in closer, and your lips brush his ear, "poor daddy, these feel so full. mommy doesn't help you empty them anymore, does she?"
your fingers knead his sack firmer now, tugging lightly, separating the balls to massage each one and you feel them shift under your touch.
he's breathing heavier now, as he yanks your tank down and exposes your tits. skin on skin, his calloused hands are rough but needy, groping them bare shamelessly.
you feel yourself getting wetter, and that ache build deep inside. your pussy throbs as you work him, slick starting to soak into your panties, making them stick to you.
every squeeze you give his balls sends a jolt straight to your clit, like you're connected, his pleasure feeding yours simultaneously somehow.
you shift on the couch, thighs pressing together to ease it a bit, but it only makes you hornier, imagining him inside you later maybe.
but right now it's about him, taking care of your daddy like only you can.
mouth latching onto one tit suddenly, he sucks hard, tongue swirling around the nipple, making you gasp and arch into him.
"yeah, suck on them, daddy," you whisper, filthy encouragement spilling out naturally, "bite a little if you want."
like he was waiting for those words to leave your mouth, he does. his teeth grazes your sensitive skin, hard enough to leave a sting.
his free hand gropes the other tit, pinching and pulling, like he just can't get enough.
your hand on his balls keeps massaging them steadily, pressing up behind them where you know it feels intense, feeling them draw up tighter the more you work them.
your other hand wraps around his cock finally and a soft hiss leaves his clenched teeth.
stroking slowly from base to tip, your thumb smears the pre-cum that's already leaking out, making it slick.
he's thick in your grip, and you jerk him off lazily at first, matching the rhythm of your massage on his sack, up and down, twisting a bit at the head.
"look at all this pre, daddy," you murmur into his ear, "you're leaking for your little girl already."
he growls around your nipple, and sucks harder, popping off to switch to the other one, leaving the first wet and shiny from his mouth.
you're soaked now, pussy clenching on nothing, wetness dripping down your thighs a little as you grind subtly against the couch cushion for friction.
it turns you on so much, feeling him throb in your hands, knowing you're the one making him lose it. not mom, not anyone else. you.
his balls feel even heavier as you roll them, skin soft and loose at first but tightening as he gets closer, that fullness making your mouth water.
more pre-cum spills out, a thick bead forming at the slit, and you can't resist. you lean down to flick your tongue against him. the taste is salty and bitter, pure him.
you lap it up slowly, swirling around the head, sucking just the tip for a second while your hands keep working. one is jerking the shaft firmer now, faster, the other is squeezing his sack rhythmicly, urging him on.
"tastes so good, daddy," you mumble against his cock, lips brushing the sensitive skin, "all this for me?"
he bucks up into your mouth a bit, hand tangling in your hair. "shit, yeah, baby, don't stop."
you pull back up, not wanting him to finish too soon here, and go back to stroking hard, hand still slick with his pre-cum.
pumping him while you massage his balls deeper, your fingers feel every ridge and every pulse.
he's groping your tits rougher now, mauling them almost, sucking back and forth between them.
he's leaving marks probably, but you're both too far down the road to even care about it.
wet trails from his beard scratches your skin. and you love it, the messiness, the greediness of it, the way he's letting go of that tiredness, that guilt fading into pure need.
your pussy's dripping badly now, panties already ruined. you want to reach down to relieve yourself d but both hands are on him. frankly, you can't stop, but the ache is intense. your clit will probably be swollen, begging for touch, but you ignore it, and pull your whole focus on him.
"these big balls of yours," you whisper again, "so full for your daughter. gonna empty them all for me, daddy? shoot all that cum i've been milking out?"
your hand on his cock twists faster, jerking him off properly now, because you can feel that he's close. while the hand other cradles his sack, tugging down to delay a bit then squeezing up, feeling them churn.
pre-cum keeps flowing, coating your fingers, making everything sloppy. and you lean down again to lick another drop straight from the source.
he curses, and his hips jerk up on its own. sucking hard on your tit till it hurts so good, your dad's other hand pinches the other nipple.
you're humping the air now almost. it's so wet it's embarrassing, arousal slicking your inner thighs, with your pussy lips puffy and sensitive.
every stroke you give him makes not only him, but also you to throb harder.
"feel how wet i am for you, daddy?" you ask, even though he can't touch yet, "milking you like this gets me soaked."
he pops off your tit, "show me later, baby, fuck," and dives back in, groping both tits together, pushing them up to bury his face between.
because right now it's about his pressure and his relief. not yours.
your hands speed up, jerking him faster now. slick sounds fill the room, massaging his balls constantly, rolling, squeezing, feeling them pull up tight against his body, ready to blow.
"come on, daddy, give it to me," you urge him, "let your little girl milk all that cum out of these heavy balls."
he's close now, you can tell. his cock is swelling thicker in your grip.
you lean down one last time as the first spurt hits, thick ropes shooting out across your hand, his soft stomach, some hitting your arm even.
you lick it off quickly wherever you can reach, tongue lapping the cum from his tip as it pulses, swallowing what lands in your mouth.
then you clean his shaft slowly, tasting every bit while he shakes and groans through it.
you don't stop licking him till he's fully spent, gathering every drop, smearing it on your lips, savoring the mess he made just for you.
he's panting, hands still on your tits loosly now, just holding them, stroking them.
that tired look comes back but it is satisfied now.
his eyes are on you like he can't believe this happened, but doesn't regret it either.
cw: hybrids, sub!bucky, desperate!reader, humping, thigh/ass humping, (accidental) mattress humping, coming untouched, messy sex, cum in pants and mattress, scent gland licking, no beta — (1.7k)
a/n: aaa im so sorry this is kinda wack, i got tired at the end bc i have so many requests to get done and dusted and im so so sleepy as of late :(( apologies for any and all mistakes <3
“C’mon, Buck! Just a little, please!”
your begs are futile. whines and cries aching your throat as you climb atop your roomie.
‘weekly study date’, Bucky liked to call them. a nice night within each other presence just getting on with work, talking, asking questions, helping each other out — in more ways than one, kind of like now.
Bucky lays on his stomach, overheating laptop propped up on one of his pillows, the fan whirring on like white noise. you situate yourself on the backs of his thighs with a huff, his soft coco powder cottontail poking out the seam of his jeans, wiggling with frustration and anxiety.
the deadline was edging closer and closer, the tick of the timer, an unwavering hassle, ran through his mind with each passing minute, a taunt to his poor conscious. he hates how warm you feel on his thighs, your whines make his lungs tight and ribs ache with want. he’s never been so happy that he’s sitting on his tummy, strained chub hidden, sandwiched between him and the mattress like a dirty little secret. what he thought was an easy fix by trapping the problem against his waistband, only came back to bite (or, in this case, hump) him in the ass.
bucky’s face flushes red, a soft strain leaking darker and darker the more you wiggle into his ass. he can feel the pink seeping through his skin like spilled ink, cramping his muscles, flowing to the tips of his floppy little ears, down his neck, and to his chest, where it finally takes home.
a want — a need — so desperate, so mutually assured, he can barely hold onto himself.
he knows how worked up you can get, especially during stressful situations. your body seems to be pavlov’d, clit aching and sore, all the tension building from work sneaking deeper and deeper into your core until it manifests into heat. a natural stress relief, they say. masturbation, sex even, was perfect for that.
“awh, c’mon pup, I gotta get this done in like,” his eyes flash to the clock in the corner of his screen, teeth blanching the soft skin of his bottom lip. He lets out a whispered curse, whiny and skittish — the perfect pitch to send your urges tumbling to a full landslide. his poor heart beat firm in his chest, its a wonder you don’t even feel it, and if you do you’re too worked up in your own little boisterous bubble to notice. “Two hours! Two hours, and then it’s done, i swear! J-Jus’ lemme, ohh—“
what bucky never takes in mind at these times is two hours in your little head is a lifetime. two hours of weekdays spent sitting around, head tilted, sitting patiently at the door waiting for your roomie to come back. two hours of whining and yapping until your bunny boy finally gives in and lets you use him however you like.
“thats too looong!” you exclaimed, shuffling yourself against his legs again. too consumed by your own worries to realise you’re carelessly bucking his hips into the mattress below, his poor aching cock rutting into the belt of his jeans, sensitive as ever.
bucky curses himself for trying to fix it earlier, he can feel himself leaking, sticky and warm all over his happytrail. the bunny knows he can easily turn over and give you exactly what you crave — quickly rutting into you with all his might, all gasping breaths and sticky air — but theres something about the need. the way you’re touching him without any knowledge, the way his pre soaks the duvet and his shirt with a hunger so sharp, it knots his stomach over and over again.
“pup, can’t you just… ohh fu-uck” the devil on his shoulder was overriding the angel, temptation growing with every carnal push you give. paws poking at his little tail, making it wag with impatience (and pent up horniness).
your ears perk up at his murmurs and whines, head tilted softly with his sounds. the coil, the desire, knots inside of you.
the insides of your thighs tingle, chest burning as your nipples perk behind your bra. you cant help but feel powerful in your position — atop your bunny, groin to his ass, already rocking back and forth — you take advantage of it.
you lean down into him, front to his back, his breath stutters with your motion, a startled squeak from his mouth. you hold him tightly in your paws, digging beneath his tummy to get better leverage — Bucky’s never been so glad you cant feel his sticky tip, just mere inches away, peeking out his jeans.
digging your face into his back, smushing your cheek against his shirt trying to capture his scent, swallow it whole, keep him all to yourself. his eyes shut tight with your hot breath searing through the fabric.
soft tufts of fluff on his spine dampening with each pant you give. “hngh— can… can i, Buck?” you don’t even wait for a confirmation, your hips move without hesitation. humping into his ass in steady motions, an easy tempo, grounding into him — jeans on jeans — the sound so blasphemously devastating.
“Jus—just keep on wi—huuh… with your work,” your breath stuck to his back like honey, warm and tacky, like nothing he’d ever felt before.
and your words, so naive and stupidly sweet. ‘keep on with your work’, as if you werent pushing his chub harder and harder into the mattress beneath you both. Bucky wills himself to keep quiet, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip to keep gentle pants and groans within himself. but dogs can sniff out almost anything.
“can… can hear you, Buck… you’re so cute, little noises—fuck!”
your voice, so breathy, so warm, buring on your tongue. the way your hips ground into his ass, fabric on fabric, harder and harder, faster and faster as you gripped onto his middle so tight Bucky prayed your hold left marks later -- a claim on yours, as if your scents werent already exchanged.
your words, your touch, you, spurred him on. rolling his hips in time with yours, keeping up with your pace. his scut wagged with his arousal, with each pump your hips gave, pushing his own down. the soft fluff of his tail skimmed your tummy, shirt riding up top of his back. the feeling hit your pelvis, his silkiness ticking your belly so good, your brain blanked — drunk on his tenderness, how lax he was in your arms.
you leaned your head up, face nuzzled next to his, your panting breaths warm against his blushing cheek. nosing against his velvety ears, you couldnt stop the whine from your vocal cords at the touch, "so, so soft, Bucky... can feel you in my tummy — so good like this..."
his body flexed beneath you, new spurts of pre coating his fluffy abdomen and sheets with a pitched groan, the kind that hit you both where you really needed, the kind that got your clit pulsing against the fabric, and his cock twitching. your hips kept moving, a desperate rut into his flesh like you're trying to fuck him, and he doesn't mind that one bit.
his mind blanked, stayed blank. the only thing passing his poor dribbling lips were feeble gasps and exhales, continuing to make a mess of his poor little mouth, so full of spit, he couldn't help but make a mess of himself as you used him up. until finally his throat and tongue caught up with his senses, working overtime to express, to show. "feels so good—!" a clipped whisper, a click of drool and hunger, but it made you so happy. hips working and working into him, thighs straining with an ache so painful it bordered on agonising bliss.
he smelled so sweet, scent extracting out his glands, the smell almost choked you. ripe plums, brown sugar, and a gentle earthy saccharinity of carrots. your body moves for you, burying your face into his neck, the warmth so comforting, his scent glands ooze with your presence, the perfume of him so hypnotising, your tongue lapped like it was elixir, some potion created only for you. so fucking sweet.
your core blossomed with his flavour, pulsing around nothing, aching to be full. the heady mix of your smells permeating the room. potent, bodies on bodies, salty sweat, sex and sugar. his taste seeping into your tongue like an injection, drunk on his aroma.
your hips began to stutter, digging into his own with such strength it started to overstimulate the poor bunny. wet and syrupy strings of prejack glazed the fur lining just below his navel. the muscles in his abdomen tightened, moans and grunted whines clipping with each buck you push into him.
“oh… oh fuck,” poor Bucky was drunk on the feeling, cock teased and humped into the springs below, ass thrusted into so impatiently. “P-Pup, m’fuck—!” the syrupy sweetness of his scent coated your tongue with a gush, almost a mirrored reaction to his poor chub below, painting the white sheets in a sticky mess, drowning his poor skin.
your own climax washed over you in a heated film, panting into his neck in harsh breaths. fucking into his behind, trying to elongate the pleasure as best as possible, rutting your clit against the soaked fabric of your panties, as if you can get any closer to the wrung out bun.
as you slowly came to, the haze of your orgasm easing your desires to a full stop, you slowed your motions as you noticed his nose scrunch up and legs wobble beneath you.
“oh—my god! Bucky, shit, im so sorry!” your voice high with empathy, real apologies on your tongue — the tongue that could still taste the perfume of him like you were still lapping. you quickly move off your roomie, exerting a deep groan from his chest. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you did I?”
all the bunny could do was smile, tiredly and so amazingly dazed. he hides his face in the crook of his elbow, sweat slicked forehead to his forearm.
you watched his back twitch. laughing.
there was no way he could roll over now and reveal the mess. show you how you weren’t the only desperate one in the pair. no, this was something between him and the mattress. the perverse little rabbit was going to lay in his own cum.
How about some jealous brother Bucky? Jealous when another guy shows interest in his sister.
jealous brother bucky you say? i hope you enjoy 💕
brother!bucky x sister!reader
dddne. mdni. warnings: incest. p in v. a touch of dubcon if you squint. aftercare. possessive bucky. pictures do not portray reader, imagine them however you'd like. thank you to @sensitiveswan for proofreading 💋
don't like, don't read. it's fiction.
bucky never meant for it to go this far. how was he supposed to reasonably handle another man flirting with his sister? you were his. and his only.
he wasn’t sure when it started. maybe it was that one time you came home from college wearing those tank tops that stretched over your chest just right. or those shorts that showed the curve of your ass. maybe it was the way you started calling him “jamie” just to tease him. he loved every second of it. every second of your undivided attention.
it was wrong. he knew it. nowhere near as wrong as another man believing they could ever love you like he does.
this was the only way.
so, here you were. ropes rubbing your wrists raw, chest pressed to a concrete column. your parents never used the basement anyway. so it was the perfect place to hide you from the world.
it was the only way. at least, that’s what he reminded himself with every thrust, every slam of his hips to yours, balls slapping your reddened ass. his hand came down with another harsh slap. your whimpers muffled by the glove shoved into your mouth, saliva coating the flaking leather.
“i just love you so much, baby,” he mumbled through a grunt, palms burning against your waist, fingers digging into your skin. not to hurt. to ground himself. to remind himself you were real.
tears streaked your cheeks, puddling on the gritty floor.
it was wrong. you knew it was. but every time he muttered, “mine. all mine, baby. please be mine” in your ear, heat coiled in your belly. your back arching. hips meeting his every thrust, begging for more.
maybe you had done it on purpose. entertaining another man’s attention because you knew it would set bucky off.
pleasure skittered across your spine. you shattered with a muffled sob, face tight, brows knit as you coated his throbbing cock. squeezing him so tight he whined, spilling into you a moment later, rocking his hips slowly, coaxing you through the aftershocks.
panting unevenly, brow beaded with sweat, you both groaned as he slowly pulled out. your combined releases sliding down your thighs.
lost in the haze, you barely registered his whispered words of praise.
you did so good, baby.
love you so much.
your wrists were unbound, the glove pulled from your mouth. your legs trembled, knees giving way. he was there to catch you. gathering you into his arms and carrying you to the cot in the back corner. the frame creaked as he carefully laid you both down, tucking you under his chin.
“i’m so sorry.” his voice broke, tears stinging his eyes. “did i hurt you? please tell me i didn’t hurt you.”
curled against his chest, his heart thrumming in your ear, you hummed contentedly. “you never hurt me, jamie.”
a breath of relief left his chest, his large hand spanning your back, the other carding your hair as he pressed gentle kisses to your temple, the red marks on your wrists, feeling your pulse flutter against his lips. “i don’t know what comes over me. i just can’t…i can’t imagine you being with someone else.”
you tilted your head back on the pillow, eyes meeting his, thumb tracing his stubbled jaw. “i’m yours forever, jamie.”
he nudged your nose with his. “i’m yours forever too, babydoll.”
