[forbidden-sin]

as you can see, these sins are indeed forbidden, with the dove being dead and all!

that means this blog will contain dark and taboo themes such as dub-con, non-con, fauxcest and incest. it doesn’t mean i condone any of it.

minors, please do not interact. if any of these topics make you uncomfortable, do not interact.

your media consumption is not my responsibility. happy reading!

requests are OPEN

⤷ masterlist (coming soon)

[raincasualties]

Find the difference. You can’t. He has the eyes of a neglected puppy

[klrsrf]

[pastafossa]

Different takes are fine but I'm seeing so much "WHY WON'T MATT MURDOCK KILL BAD GUYS IF THEY'RE REALLY BAD" and like, babes that's the show, that's the entire show in both the OG DD show and the new one. This is his whole thing. We have been over this repeatedly.

[theoracleofsin]

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).

[forbidden-sin]

Can you write brother Bucky gets caught fucking reader by steve and he threatens to show a video of it to everyone unless he can join? 💕💕💕🙂

I started writing this and took too many side quests. Will return to this now!

[forbidden-sin]

i hope you’ve been well, we miss you lots :( take care of yourself!!

Hey, main account sucked me in for a while. I’m back though!

[forbidden-sin]

IS THIS OKAY?

warnings: incest, dddne, dad-daughter, fingering, 18+, mdni. heed the warnings. word count: 630 words

it’s been hours since there’s been a sound in your home. your dad is probably out, which makes it the perfect time to take out your frustrations.

he’s probably out running errands, you remember him telling you last night.

the vibrator was this cheap thing you'd ordered online a few weeks back, hidden in your drawer and it buzzed against you in a way that was almost too much at first.

your mind keeps wandering to stupid stuff, like how the sheets were bunching up under your hips or how your breathing sounded too loud in the empty room.

pressing it harder you shift again, wondering if you were even doing it right, if maybe you were broken or something because it just built and built but never quite tipped over.

that's when the door swings open wider, and there’s your dad with that look on his face, like he'd forgotten something and came back for it, but now he’s frozen, eyes dropping to where your hand was, the toy still humming faintly against your thigh because you'd yanked it away too fast.

he shuts the door behind him, which is what you dontt expect.

the soft click echoes in your head, and you scramble to pull the blanket over yourself, because shit, this is your dad.

maybe today is the day all those sneaky glances and little touches finally turn into something more.

"hey, kiddo—wait, shit, I didn't... I thought you were out," he mutters, but he doesn’t turn away. if anything, he moves closer to the bed, as he reaches out, to pluck the vibrator from your fingers before you could hide it properly.

god, it’s still slick with your juices, and you see the way his jaw tightens, eyes darkening as he switches it off and set it on the nightstand with a thud that makes you jump.

embarrassment floods you, but underneath it is a twisted relief because maybe he could fix it, maybe he knew something you didn't, and the way hes looking at you now only reiterates that he might know.

"sweetheart, you don't need that thing," he sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and his hand brushes your knee through the blanket, sending a spark straight up your cunt that made you clench involuntarily.

his touch feels better than any toy ever could, you cannot deny that, so you don’t pull away. he tugs the blanket down slowly, exposing your legs, your hips, and you let him, your body betraying you with how it arches just a little toward him. "lemme show you how it's ‘sposed to feel, ‘kay? none of that mechanical crap. ya need real touch, baby." his voice is soft, framed in a way that’s a bit hesitant at the end, like he’s testing the waters, and you nod without thinking, breath catching as his fingers trail up your inner thigh, light at first, then pressing in, parting your legs wider.

"ya ever gotten there before? like, really let go?" he asks.

you shake your head, "no, daddy,” the little nickname slips in without any premise, “i … i try, but it never works. feels like I'm chasing something that isn't there."

his fingers inch higher, brushing against where you’re already wet, making you gasp

"alright, we'll take it slow, yeah?" he pauses, thumb circling just outside, teasing without diving in, and you could see the conflict on his face, the way his breathing had picked up. "is this okay, babygirl?" the words come out gruff, almost like he’s afraid you'd say no, but you don’t. you grab his wrist, holding it there, because this was already more intense than anything alone. "uh-huh, it's... it's okay, daddy just keep going, please."

[kittiescraft]

more dad bucky p links??🥺

dad!bucky p!links

✠ part two

cw: mdni, dddne, incest rp, p!links - twitter

daddy just couldnt keep his hands to himself while he drives you back home

(car sex, fingering)

bucky just got a little impatient while you were riding him

(unprotected pinv, riding, creampie)

working you open with his fingers first

(fingering, mutual masturbation, eye contact)

you just wanted something to do during a movie night

(blowjob, oral fixation)

you both cant get enough of the sound of his balls slapping against your ass

(unprotected pinv, clit stim, pull out)

he’s been working way too late, you should probably send him a video of how worked up you are

(pillow humping, mirror sex/masturbation)

showing him all you’ve learnt about sucking cock

(blowjobs)

he loves when you tease him after a long day of work

(riding, pussyjob, unprotected sex)

he loves playing with his food

(fingering, clit stim)

making sure your first time is with someone who you trust, and who loves you deeply

(missionary, unprotected pinv)

[virtuousthievery]

who: captor!steve kemp x female reader

what: when you refuse dinner & try to escape, you face steve’s punishment.

warnings: noncon. fingering. broken bones. painful anal. creampie. slight breeding kink. dddne. the dove is dead and buried. this is a work of fiction. i do not condone or participate in the activities written below. minors get lost & read with caution.

the door clicks open and your body tenses.

“had a real tough surgery case today,” he mutters as he shuts the door behind him. “this woman’s tits just wouldn’t sit right after the implants were in. stubborn little things. not like yours—but you were born perfect, weren’t ya?”

you don’t say anything, just eye the tray of food he’s brought for you.

“hungry?” he asks, setting the tray down on the carpeted floor in front of you.

you shake your head, continuing your hunger strike. you aren’t going to fatten yourself up for slaughter. not for him.

he tsks, irritated. “fine. let’s try something else. stand up, little lamb.”

you wince at the nickname, but rise, not wanting to face his wrath. he grabs your cuffed hands and unhooks you from the chain attached to the floor and holds you by an elbow, leading you out of your plush prison cell.

you open your mouth to speak for the first time in days, but your mouth is dry. steve notices and grimaces as you walk up the cold stone steps. “let’s get you some water.”

you nod and follow him into his massive kitchen. “don’t you dare move,” he says as he leaves you by the island and walks to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. you assess the room and locate the front door, remembering the night he brought you here. “do you want some fruit?” when he looks around the side of the refrigerator door, you’re gone—bolting across the kitchen to the living room.

“you little bitch,” he groans, running after you. you look back and hear a gut-wrenching crack as your ankle twists under your weight. you land with a hard thud on shag carpet. steve puts his foot on your head and presses it into the rug. “i told you not to move, little lamb. now look what you’ve done,” he hisses, eyeing your ankle twisted at a grotesque angle. “you forgot about the conversation pit and broke your ankle trying to run. you’re not going anywhere.”

you wail and scream as he pushes the heel of his shoe into your cheek. “please please please,” you beg. “let me go.”

he laughs darkly and kicks at your ankle, sending a sharp jolt of pain up your leg. you scream and clutch at your ankle. “i said you’re not going anywhere. and don’t count on a cast for that fuck-up. i thought i was done with my surgery cases for the day, but i guess not.” he glances over your leg and licks his lips. “i’m thinking right here,” he says, crouching down and tracing a line right above your knee. “you wouldn’t believe the creative things people do with patellas.”

“let me go!” you scream, throat rubbed raw from a lack of water. his hand claps down over your mouth.

“shut your fucking mouth, little lamb,” he whispers angrily into your ear. you try to bite one of his fingers and he scoffs, slapping your face. “fine, if you want to play rough…”

he yanks your shorts & underwear down in one swift motion before pulling his half-hard dick out of his scrubs. “you better bite your fucking tongue,” he rasps, spanking your ass and spreading your cheeks as he roughly presses two fingers into your cunt.

“ahhhh!” you cry out, not prepared for the intrusion. your ankle is radiating pain up your leg, and now your core is aching.

“you fucking slut…” he rasps, scissoring his fingers into you. “pussy s’wet for me. you’re so fucked up.”

you whine as your body betrays you, giving steve every indication that his advances are more than welcome. he spits into you and your body clenches as he pushes his dick into your ass with zero prep. any pain that was in your ankle is now searing into your center as he presses in balls deep with a whimpering grunt. you squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself to be anywhere else as he pulls out and pushes back in roughly to the hilt. “this is what little runaway sluts get,” he groans. “gonna fuck you and fill you up so you’re reminded of where you fucking belong. you won’t be able to walk tomorrow anyway.”

he keeps at it as his fingers work in your pussy. “don’t pretend you don’t love it. i can feel her pulsing on my fingers.”

you give up the fight and relax your body, letting him use you like a fuck doll. drool spills out of your mouth and pools onto the rug under you and you close your eyes. the large room echoes with the sound of steve’s balls hitting your ass with each painful thrust. “mmm, can feel her opening up for me, little lamb. good. fucking. girl.”

you tremble at his praise, coming on his fingers with a broken cry. “there we go. accept your fate, baby.”

a few stunted pumps of his hips later until he pulls out and invades your cunt, cumming deep into you with a soft whine. “take it all. gonna make more of my perfect girl, aren’t i?”

you start wailing at the prospect of carrying his child—because wouldn’t that be a sign of love and hope in this fucked up hell on earth? you lie on the floor as he pulls out and pray to a god you don’t believe in that it takes.

[forbidden-sin]

sabine holy hell im not okay

[theoracleofsin]

we are not alone in the universe

part 1

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.

[forbidden-sin]

ruby ruby ruby you cannot break my heart with an incest fic cmon now

im obsessed with these space cuties 😭🫶🏻

[kittiescraft]

bunny boy

pairing: bunny!bucky x puppy!reader

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.

[forbidden-sin]

holy fucking shit this was absolutely delicious

i need more of this messy bunny please and thanks

[kittiescraft]

brother!bucky p!links

✠ part one

cw: mdni, dddne, incest rp, p!links - twitter

you and bucky finally get the beach house to yourselves

(missionary, pearl necklace, ball licking)

over the clothes doesn’t count!

(riding, dry humping, cumming in underwear)

‘just the tip’ leads to fucking it back in

(just the tip, backshots, creampie)

just helping each other out

(spooning, mutual masturbation, sub!bucky)

you’re being too loud! it just feels too much

(missionary, hand over mouth, overstim)

anal doesn’t really count, right?

(anal, f!masturbation, (slight)spanking)

getting his thigh wet while he’s trying to work

(thigh riding, kissing, soft!bucky)

alone time in the shower, no big deal :)

(handjobs, ass play, sub!bucky)

too sleepy to move, bucky’s fine with doing all the work

(backshots, creampie, (slight)spanking)

using his pocket pussy cus he cant have the real thing

(handjobs, titty sucking, sub!bucky)

[kittiescraft]

dad!bucky p!links

✠ part one

cw: mdni, dddne, incest rp, p!links - twitter

bathtime with daddy is always comforting :)

(bath sex, fingering, nipple play)

its’s okay, baby, we dont have to go that far

(pussy/thigh job, spooning)

just making sure you memorise his scent before you go out

(teabagging, face sitting, ball licking)

dont worry, babydoll, just go back to sleep <3

(spooning sex, (slight)somnophilia)

teasing him during an important work dinner always ends so well!!

(semi-public sex, hair pulling, mirror sex)

getting that tight little hole ready for his huge cock

(face sitting, cunnilingus, anal fingering)

cmon sweetheart, show me what you do when you think about me

(fingering, f!masturbation)

just a little support while you take him so good

(doggy, hair pulling, hand holding)

you always calm down so quickly around your daddy

(blowjobs, cockwarming, somnophilia)

such a tight fit, but you’re doing such a good job, baby <3

(spooning sex, unprotected pinv, pussyjob)

[theoracleofsin]

ruby can we get titty sucking with daddy Bucky, please?

hello, lovely 💕

thank you for sending in this request. I hope you enjoy it! 🫦

sweet dreams are made of this

Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Daughter!Reader Word count: 2.7k Warnings: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); incest; father/daughter; non-con (use of sleeping pill on reader); somnophilia; grooming; tit sucking/breast kink; grinding/frottage; external ejaculation; obsessive/possessive behavior; dark!Bucky Barnes; no use of Y/N; reader is 18+ Notes: dividers by me. reminder to not read unless you are comfortable with the tagged themes !!

Bucky has always been an intense father—overprotective, hovering, unable to keep his eyes off you since you turned eighteen, like he’s suddenly aware that you’re a woman and he needs to keep you shielded from whatever the world has prepared for you. He loves you more than he loves anyone else in the world (surely more than he loves himself), and he’d sooner lose his life to protect you than ever let you walk into harm’s way.

You know this. It’s always a struggle to ask him to go out with friends, even when you’re an adult. There’s always rules. Be home before ten. No alcohol. Definitely no boys. It always stings a little because you feel like he doesn’t trust you, never quite understanding it’s the others he doesn’t trust.

What you don’t know is that a feeling of guilt curled with hunger started to boil in your dad’s stomach the moment he started seeing your body filled out. Especially your breasts. Full, soft, always bouncing a little when you walk around the house in those thin tank tops because “it’s hot, Dad.”

Bucky hates himself for it. He would cut those feelings right out of his stomach if he could. But the hate makes the want sharper, somehow.

It starts small, almost innocent in its insidiousness.

The first time he really notices is the summer you turn nineteen. You’re home from college for summer break, padding around the brownstone in bare feet and one of his old Army shirts that you stole from the laundry years ago. It’s worn soft, threadbare in places, and it hangs off one shoulder when you reach for a glass in the top cabinet. The motion lifts the hem just enough for him to see the curve where your waist flares into your hips, but it’s the way the fabric clings to your chest that stops him cold in the doorway.

You don’t really notice him standing there, coffee mug frozen halfway to his mouth. You’re humming something under your breath, stretching higher, and the shirt pulls tight across your breasts, revealing you’re bare under the shirt—because it’s just home, just Dad. No need for a bra. The outline of your nipples is faint but still particularly obvious, and Bucky feels something wicked twist low in his gut.

Bucky turns away too fast, coffee sloshing over the rim and burning into his flesh hand. He doesn’t even feel it.

After that incident, it’s like his body was rewired to track you.

He starts noticing every single detail.

How your breasts shift under your sleep shirt when you lean over the couch to grab the remote during movie nights. How they press against the kitchen counter when you’re making breakfast, the soft weight of them resting on your folded arms. How they bounce, just slightly, when you come down the stairs too fast in the morning, calling out that you’re late for work.

Every one of those moments is followed immediately by an intense wave of self-loathing that makes his teeth ache. Bucky spends longer in the shower, punishing himself under scalding water, jerking off with his forehead pressed to the tile and your name in a silent gasp behind his clenched teeth. Metal fingers dig so hard into the wall they leave a small dent. He keeps telling himself it’s just biology. Just a sick glitch, because he’s been alone too long. A single father. He’s damaged, it’ll pass.

It doesn’t pass.

It gets worse.

You hug him every morning before work and every night before bed—always have. It used to be his favorite part of the day, the way you fit against him, small and warm, trusting, your head tucking perfectly under his chin. Now every embrace is torture. The moment your chest presses against his, he has to lock every muscle to keep from pulling you closer. Counts to five, forces a smile, lets you go before you can feel his body betraying him.

You, of course, have no idea.

To you, he’s just Dad—gruff and overbearing, stupidly protective. You roll your eyes when he insists on driving you to your friend’s place even though you’re past twenty now. You complain to your friends that he still treats you like you’re sixteen.

You don’t know that every time you say “I love you, Dad” before bed, he has to turn away quickly so you won’t see what those words do to him. Because he does love you. More than anything. Apparently, more than his own sanity.

The love and the hunger are braided together so tightly for him that Bucky can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins. Protecting you and wanting you feel like the same impulse now. Keeping you safe, keeping you his.

He told himself he’d never act on it. Never. You didn’t deserve to be dragged into his own fucked-up world. Not you, soft, perfect you. But his restraint begins to fray bit by bit. And one night, after you come home from work wearing a low-cut sweater that shows the swell of your tits, Bucky decides he can’t hold back anymore.

Dinner is quiet. You’re chatting about your coworkers, something about a rude customer at the bookstore, and how your manager finally stood up for you. Your voice is light, animated, and Bucky nods in all the right places, murmurs “that’s good” and “sounds like an asshole” so you won’t notice the way most of his attention is fixed on the way your sweater dips when you lean forward.

Sometimes, the wide neckline will begin slipping off one shoulder, and he gets a glimpse of the smooth curve of your breast, the edge of a black lace bra he hasn’t seen in the laundry before. You bought it recently, apparently. Did you mean to show it off for someone else? The thought makes his fork pause halfway to his mouth.

He made lasagna tonight, your favorite since you were little. You eat two helpings, teasing him about how he always makes too much. Bucky watches your mouth as you talk, watches the way you lick a bit of sauce from your thumb without thinking. The motion is innocent, it shouldn’t do anything to him.

It does.

When you reach for your lemonade glass, he watches your throat move as you swallow, the small white pill he’d bought earlier already dissolved and tasteless. Bucky hates himself for thinking about this. Hates himself more for doing it.

You drink half the glass without pause.

Conversation keeps drifting between plans for Christmas, whether you want to put the tree up tomorrow. You yawn halfway through a sentence, eyes suddenly heavy.

“God, I’m sorry,” you laugh, covering your mouth. “I don’t know why I’m so tired tonight.”

“Long week,” Bucky says, his voice gentle. “You’ve been working a lot. Why don’t you head up early? I’ll clean up.”

You hesitate, because you always help with dishes, but another yawn hits and you give in.

“Okay, yeah. Thanks, Dad.” You stand, stretch, and then you’re crossing the kitchen to hug him goodnight.

He stands too, automatic. Your body fits against his like it always has, but tonight the contact burns. His arms come around you carefully, metal hand at the small of your back, flesh hand resting between your shoulder blades. He holds for the usual three seconds, then four, five.

You pull back first, smiling sleepily. “Love you.”

“Love you too, kid,” he says, and it sounds normal. Fatherly. Because you don’t hear the crack underneath.

Bucky listens to your footsteps as you shuffle upstairs, the creak of the third stair, the soft thump of your bedroom door closing. He cleans the kitchen slowly, wiping counters that are already clean, loading the dishwasher twice. Waits forty-five minutes, then an hour. Then another twenty minutes, just to be sure.

When he finally climbs the stairs, the house is silent except for the low hum of the heater. Your door is ajar the way you always leave it, old habit from when you were little and afraid of the dark. Bucky pushes it open soundlessly.

You’re on your back, one arm flung above your head, the other curled against your stomach. The sweater is gone, folded on your chair, and you’re in just the black lace bra and soft cotton shorts. The blankets are kicked halfway down the bed because you always run hot when you sleep. Your chest rises and falls slow and deep, drugged sleep pulling you under hard.

Bucky stands at the foot of the bed for a long moment, breathing through his mouth like a man drowning.

Then he moves.

He kneels on the mattress carefully, the frame creaking under his weight. You don’t stir. Bucky reaches out with his flesh hand first, trembling, and brushes a strand of hair away from your face. You sigh in your sleep, and your lips part.

His gaze drops to your chest.

The lace bra is delicate, almost sheer in places. He can see the darker shadow of your areolas through it, the soft peak of each nipple, and his mouth goes dry. He’s imagined this (God knows he’s imagined this), but the reality is worse. Better. Incredibly overwhelming.

Reverently, he traces one fingertip along the upper edge of the lace, just above the swell of your breast. You shift slightly, a small sound in your throat, but don’t wake. Encouraged, Bucky cups one breast fully, testing the weight, the way it fills his palm perfectly. His thumb brushes over your nipple through the fabric, and it tightens instantly.

When he leans down, the first press of his mouth is soft, lips closed, as if he’s just breathing you in. Then his lips part, tongue sliding over lace-covered nipple, wetting the fabric until it clings transparent. You make another small sound in your sleep, hips shifting restlessly. Bucky switches to the other breast, sucking slow, teeth grazing just enough to feel you respond.

His cock is aching, straining against his jeans. He adjusts himself with his metal hand, careful not to touch you with the cold vibranium yet. Not yet.

Bucky loses track of time with his face buried between your tits. He’s through, alternating sides, kneading with his flesh hand, and leaving wet marks on the lace. Your nipples are swollen now, visibly hard even through the soaked fabric. He pulls back just long enough to admire them like he’s proud of his work, chest heaving.

That’s when you stir more noticeably.

A confused whimper. Furrowed brows. Eyelids flutter but don’t open fully. Your body arches instinctively toward his mouth, seeking more even as your mind struggles through the fog.

“Dad…?” You mumble, voice thick with sleep. “Dream… weird dream…”

He exhales slowly before lowering his mouth to your ear, voice a soothing rumble, the same he used when you had nightmares as a child.

“Shh, princess. It’s okay. Just a dream. A good dream. Go back to sleep, Daddy’s got you.”

You relax almost immediately, the familiar voice and words pulling you under again. A small, sleepy smile curves your lips, breathing evens out.

Bucky waits another minute before returning to your breasts with renewed hunger, knowing now you won’t fully wake. Not tonight.

The lace is ruined now, clinging damp against your tits, but it’s still in the way. His flesh hand shakes as he hooks a finger under one strap, sliding it down your shoulder carefully. The cup peels away with it, exposing your bare breast to the cool air of the room. Your nipple, already peaked and sensitive from his earlier attention, tightens further. He keeps going until the bra is bunched uselessly around your ribs, your breasts fully bared to him, looking perfect as they heave slightly with each breath.

A wounded sound escapes him, something that sounds halfway between a growl and a prayer. He dives back in without the barrier, mouth laving your nipple with his tongue. No more teasing; his mouth latches with desperate fervor, sucking hard, teeth nipping just enough to draw a faint whimper from you. He kneads the other breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger, pinching slightly to feel it twitch under his touch. You’re so responsive, even like this, body arching minutely, a flush creeping up your chest.

The ache in his cock grows unbearable the more he sucks on your tits, throbbing against the confines of his jeans, and he decides not to ignore it anymore. With his mouth still working on your breast, he fumbles one-handed with his belt, the zipper, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself. He’s rock-hard, pre-cum beading at the tip, veins standing out stark against his flushed skin. The metal arm braces beside your hip for balance as he shifts his weight, positioning himself between your legs without disturbing you.

Your shorts are next. The soft cotton is easy to maneuver, and he tugs them down inch by inch with his flesh hand until they’re bunched at your thighs. No panties underneath; the sight of you exposed like that, bare and vulnerable, nearly undoes Bucky right there. Your pussy is soft, folds glistening slightly, maybe from whatever you think you’re dreaming about, or just the way your body is reacting to his touch.

He lowers himself carefully, aligning his cock against your slit without slipping inside, just resting the length of it there, hot and heavy. Your warmth seeps into him, slicking his shaft as he rocks his hips once experimentally. He stops, takes a deep breath; the contact is electric, and he almost cums right there just from that. When he starts again, he moves slow, grinding against you in shallow thrusts, the head of his cock nudging your clit with each pass. Your body responds instinctively, hips twitching, a soft gasp spilling from your lips, but you stay under, lost in the haze.

Bucky picks up the pace, mouth never leaving your breasts. He switches sides again, sucking greedily while his cock slides back and forth over your pussy, coating himself in your growing arousal. The friction is perfect—wet and warm, with the distinct taste of wrong that makes everything feel more intense. His metal hand grips the sheets to keep from grabbing you too hard. Sweat beads on his forehead drip onto your skin as he ruts faster, chasing the edge.

He’s messy with his mouth on your tits, saliva shining on your skin, little whimpers escaping him as he grinds harder. In his head, he imagines you waking up and using that sweet voice you always use when trying to get him to agree to something to say something filthy like “need your cock inside me, Daddy, please…”

But you don’t. You’re still asleep, under the effect of the pill he slipped into your lemonade, the only sounds the small whimpers you let out unconsciously. Doesn’t mean he’s not imagining it. Daddy, please. Faster, Daddy, I wanna cum.

It’s over too soon. The buildup from months of denial crashes through him like a wave. Bucky buries his face between your breasts to muffle his groan, hips stuttering as he comes—hot spurts painting your stomach, your mound, dripping down over your folds. He keeps grinding through it, milking every last drop, marking you in the only way he can without crossing that final line.

(Not yet, anyway.)

He takes a moment to admire the sight of your breasts, red and slick from his mouth, your lower half sticky with his release before cleaning you up as best as he can with tissues from your nightstand. Gentle wipes, careful, too careful, if one considers the depravity of what he’s just done. He tugs your shorts back up, fixes your bra, pulls the blanket over you.

One last kiss to your forehead, lingering too long, like the devoted father you believe him to be.

Finally, he slips out of your bedroom, leaving the door just slightly open, exactly as he had found it.

When he goes back to his bedroom, the guilt hits like a freight train. But underneath it, sharper than ever, is the hunger. Sated for now.

But already plotting the next time.

[forbidden-sin]

im a somno whore and this was chef’s kiss 👅

[dear-dark-angel]

a wicked game to play ⌖☆.˚

pairing | gamer!brother!bucky x sister!reader summary | you—your older brother's good luck charm—always come knocking at his door when your cravings haven't been met. however, you do hate competing for his attention over a silly video game. warnings/tags | dddne, mdni (18+), incest, nsfw, mocking, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, bratty behavior, use of brat (not derogatory), fluff, soft!bucky, cock warming, p in v, unprotected sex, possessive behavior, pussy pronouns, pet names (clover, my lil clover, sweet sister), no use of y/n word count | 2.9k angelic whispers | hey angel!! this is my first attempt at writing a very taboo theme. i say this affectionately, but if this does not sound like your cup of tea, just go ahead and scroll away. i love you regardless of our differences in the content we consume:) anyway, i originally made brother!bucky pretty mean, but decided to scrap it with a little help from @cottontail-confessionals. i really appreciate your help, bunny!! so now, this has a really sweet ending, and i hope you like it as much as i do! well, happy gooning!

head clouding over with lust, steady palms firmly planted on parted thighs, and your eyes locked on azure blues one. the sounds the pair of you were making were almost as unholy as the act, but you couldn't find it in your heart enough to care. not when bucky was looking down at you like you were gifting him the entire world with just a few dips of your head.

you found yourself in this position plenty of times—on your knees with your brother's heavy cock down your throat. your knees were almost permanently indented by the carpet below you from how often you snuck into his room. batting those pretty lashes up at him from your spot on the floor, he had no choice but to give in to you.

the silly game he was busy playing ended up being long forgotten after your lip protruded out—all pouty and shining with strawberry gloss. he'd been reluctant at first, eyes glued to his monitor and thumbs jabbing the small buttons on his controller.

you had to stay quiet—a disciplined little sister. scolded one too many times, you were well-versed in the etiquette of being silent while his friends were on the other end of his headset. no one knew about your dirty little secret, and you were content to keep it that way.

bucky's brow was furrowed, razor-sharp focus given to the crosshair on his screen. one instruction after the other was muttered to his teammates in terms you didn't understand. you didn't need to comprehend his words because your prime target was hidden beneath his shorts.

tilting your head and arching your back in a way that made your tits sit just perfect, you tried to make yourself more appealing, so he would pay attention to you instead. you even settled for tugging down your tank top, so the swell of your breasts, along with the edge of your lace bra, would show. still, he ignored you.

scooting closer, you lightly ran your fingernails up his calf and over his knee until they grazed the hem of his shorts. he shivered at the contact, his knee jerking as his gaze finally met yours. reaching up, he muted his mic to speak to you.

"what're you buggin' me for?" he asked, shaking his head. "'m kinda in the middle of somethin'."

that was your opening. fluttering your lashes while you pouted, your hands moved higher up his pants to toy with the band of them. "please," you begged, drawing out each syllable on your plump lips.

"oh, my lil cock slut sister didn't get her fill today? been neglectin' you, huh?" he mocked, eyes flicking between you and the game.

nodding, you agreed with him, a sweet grin spreading across your lips. you leisurely pulled at the drawstrings to loosen his pants, persuading him to give you what you were craving. "miss you," you whined.

while you untied his shorts, your other hand ghosted over the bulge in his pants. you cupped him, stroking him over the material. his thighs immediately twitched while his grip tightened on his controller.

"fine, take your fill," your brother sighed, rolling his eyes, but you noted the hint of desire simmering in his gaze.

eager fingers jerked down his shorts, fishing out his growing erection from the confines of his boxers. when you withdrew him, your fingers were wrapped steadily around him.

"woah, slow down. take your time. 'm not goin' nowhere, clover," he promised, adding on his nickname for you. he claimed you were his good luck charm whenever you were nearby. every game after was stamped with gold lettering that read 'victory', hence your nickname and the reason he was letting you bother him.

it was difficult to obey your older brother when you were impatient to feel every solid inch of him against your tongue. but you started slow, even if everything in your body told you to reduce him to a shuddering mess in his seat. it only happened a handful of times, as he was unwilling to give up control. however, the glimpses you got of him relinquishing his authority to you gave you an indescribable high.

following your command, your dainty blue-tipped fingernails surrounded his girth as you unhurriedly pumped him. his dick grew in your palm with just a few downward strokes. you watched, mesmerized by the simplicity of what you could do to his cock—his sister making him hard. that act alone was fucked up, but that only made it all the more arousing.

lowering his microphone back to his mouth, he returned his concentration to his video game. you hated that part; you wanted all your brother's attention. a surge of jealousy rose up your spine, resting on the nape of your neck with a heavy presence.

even so, you stiffly flicked your wrist, due to a lack of leverage. leaning forward, you pursed your lips, a trail of saliva leaving the slight opening, and dripped straight onto his tip. your gaze flitted up, briefly catching the way he was staring intently at the spit joining your lips to his cock, but his eyes shot right back to the screen.

smearing your spit on his skin with your thumb, you coated the head in a thin layer of it. you pumped the length of him, honing in on his subtle expression changes. no matter how hard he tried to mask them, you saw right through the tough exterior; he was already unraveling right in the palm of your hand.

in your mind, the little movements he made weren't enough for you. you wanted more. you wanted to hear him murmuring your name in that rough rasp he does when you're pleasing him just the way he likes.

so, you did the only reasonable thing: you quickened your pace in an attempt to elicit those delicious noises you found yourself daydreaming about. his hips jerked off his chair, rolling back slightly from the tempo change. stiffling a moan, he shot you a sidelong glance. you were the picture of innocence, offering him a shy smile while you flattened your cheek against his thigh, lying on him as your hand worked.

his eyelids shut momentarily, giving in to the sensations. a cheeky grin lifted the corners of your mouth as you observed him, trying his best not to be swallowed by the smoke of your temptations.

since you got away with it the first time, you tried your luck once more. raising your head, your mouth closed the distance with his tip. you exhaled, fanning a huff of warm breath across him. a shudder rolled through him, and his jaw ticked on instinct, but not from anger, from the force behind holding back.

looking up through your eyelashes with pleading eyes, you silently begged for more. your tongue darted out, granting him one flick of it over the slit of his dick.

bucky's tongue poked against the inside of his cheek in irritation, but he released a shaky breath, giving himself away. The controller hit the desk with a soft thud, his mic being adjusted in quick succession.

he grabbed your jaw in an unwavering grip, tilting you to face him head-on. "you gonna be good? if i let you suck my cock, are you gonna be nice 'n quiet f'me?" depite the firmness of his tone, a longing swam around in the pools of his irises.

you nodded rapidly, ever the antsy little sister. a deep rumble erupted from his chest, and his thumb drifted up to your mouth, tracing the curve of your bottom lip. he pushed past your lips, squeezing his way into the warmth of your mouth.

"nuh-uh," he tutted. "'m gonna need some words, sweet sister."

"i'll be good, i promise," you assured in a muddled voice as you spoke around his thumb that compressed your tongue.

humming, he cupped the back of your head to draw you down to his tip. "well, go on, clover," he coaxed. "gimme a lil show. make it real hard f'me to keep my eyes on my screen, yeah?"

your mouth instantly enveloped him, sighing as your tongue touched his flesh, your craving finally being met. gingerly taking a fistful of your hair, he drove you lower. he slid between your lips, nudging the back of your throat even though he wasn't even halfway into your mouth.

your brother bucked his hips up, causing your gasp to tumble into a choked cough as his cock filled your throat. the sound that was torn from him sent a new wave of desire crashing into the wall of your stomach. when he gently yanked you off by your hair, globs of saliva ran from your lips down to his base in streams.

"just like that—fuck—love when you make it all messy," he groaned.

releasing you from his grasp, he turned, leaving you to work your magic. you began bobbing your head with practiced ease from the many times you'd helped your brother out in this exact position. his controller was back in his hand, but he wasn't making a move to unmute himself.

your titillating mouth was already distracting him in the best way possible. every descent onto his dick earned you another gag. your tongue insisted on teasing the underside of his cock. withdrawing to the tip, you swirled your tongue in measured circles around his tip. bucky's muscles twitched as your throat constricted, swallowing the length of him.

this is what you itched for: the weight in your mouth, his strained sounds of pleasure, and his face contorting with something blissful. it strangely calmed you to forget about reality for a moment and focus on your big brother's satisfaction.

he was mesmerizing like this; it made your own arousal burn blazing hot in your gut, and made your body tingle with your own want. your legs shifted, squeezing your thighs together, trying to find the right angle to rub your aching clit on the taut seam of your panties.

a soft moan escaped you, eyes rolling as you hit the perfect spot to dull the throb between your legs. Though his eyes were fixed ahead, he noticed because, of course, he did.

"no," he grumbled, finding a way to wedge his foot between your knees and pry them apart. "keep 'em open. want that pussy all drippin' 'n needy f'me."

you whimpered, the sound creating vibrations that reached the tips of his fingers. "you heard me. no whinin'," he snapped. you nearly pulled off to plead your case, but he flicked his mic back on, mumbling a half-assed apology to his teammates.

regardless of your swelling annoyance, you kept your composure. but now, you were right back to competing for his attention. even as your tongue made another wrap around his tip, he ignored you altogether, muttering barely coherent orders about enemy whereabouts. so, if he wanted a show, a show was what he would get.

as soon as you knew he was in the heat of battle—with the way his eyes darted around the screen and his finger flew across buttons—you picked up speed. he lurched forward with a low grunt, but even that didn't rip his gaze away. so, you changed tactics, gripping him at the base and stroking him in time with your mouth.

a strained, airy noise escaped him, and he finally glanced down at you, his mic being moved once more. "clover," he warned in that gravelly voice that was only reserved for you. "you tryin' to make your big brother lose?"

just as he did to you, you disregarded the caution in his tone. hallowing out your cheeks, you swiftly choked down his entire cock until the tip of your nose was flush against his tufts of pubic hair, trailing up to his belly button.

that elicited the best moan from him, his stomach muscles tense as you nearly took him to the brink of ecstasy with that simple action. his head hit the back of his gaming chair, legs spasming until you released him with a soft pop.

your chin was coated with saliva, eyes wild as you gazed up at him. head lulling to the side, he eventually locked eyes with you, though they seemed distant with lust. "you brat," he said, but there was no malice behind his words. instead, he looked down at you in disbelief, or maybe contemplation, as if he was still deciding what to do with you.

"this what you wanted? all my attention? well, now you have it," he growled.

"get up 'ere," he commanded, crooking a finger. you rose from your knelt position as he set down his controller. hauling you in by your waist, he hooked his thumbs into your booty shorts. he slipped them down your plush thighs until they were pooling around your ankles. admiring you with hooded eyes, he massaged your thighs with gentle care.

his palms settled back onto your hips, guiding you down over his thighs. "fuck, my sister is so beautiful. how on earth could i ever ignore my lil clover?" bucky murmured, mostly to himself. clutching a handful of your ass, he shifted you to where your knees pressed against the back of the chair.

calloused fingers traced your bare skin in worship, as if he were memorizing every dip and curve. they got more adventurous, mapping out the lace edge of your panties. he moved them to the side, grazing your clit in the process.

"how 'bout you keep me warm while i play one more game? and if you're good…" he trailed off, dipping a pair of his fingers through your slick folds. "i'll be real nice to her…because that's my good luck charm, ain't that right?"

a breathy moan escaped you as his tantalizing fingers rubbed sensual circles into your aching clit. you nodded since words were becoming too challenging to form. with all the waiting he made you do while your pussy throbbed without relief, the way he caressed your clit instantly caused a wave of pleasure to course through your veins like electricity.

"that's my sweet sister. now, gimme some of that luck, so i can take care of her sooner," he mumbled, cupping the back of your head, coaxing it to rest on his shoulder as your arms embraced him. he lined himself up, holding your ass as the head of his cock pushed against your tight hole.

a shared groan echoed off the walls of his bedroom while he lazily drove you lower onto him. that stretch was something you never got used to, yet you always seemed to make room for him. bucky's hand reached up, playing with your hair in soothing motions. "you feel that, how well you take me? your big brother's cock was made f' this sweet cunt, huh?" he whispered, mouth hovering over your ear.

relaxing into him, the tension was swiftly eased from your form, as if this is what your body yearned for. he drew meaningless patterns into your back, relishing in the feeling of you flush against him. "shh, i gotcha. your big brother's always 'ere to take care of ya," he cooed.

so, you nuzzled into his shoulder, scanning his side profile as he returned to playing his game. occasionally, he'd dip his head, planting lingering kisses on your arm up to your shoulder. the sweet action made you stifle a giggle; you liked seeing this side of him. it was the side that drew you to him initially.

somewhere in your fucked up mind, you knew no one would compare to this man—your brother, who was never supposed to be yours. but that didn't matter to you because you were going to treasure this for as long as you could, or as long as you were allowed.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

rough gliding against silk skin, cotton sheets tangled up in limbs, and the wicked symphony of your sins on display. you didn't know where he started, and you ended. you found comfort in that notion—the melding of two bodies forbidden to be together.

bucky's thrusts were languid and steady, like every grind into you was a stroke of his gratitude. "i keep tellin' ya, clover, you're my good luck charm," he rasped, his lips brushing your heated cheek. "and 'm not lettin' ya outta my sight. won't be givin' anyone luck, but your older brother, right?"

you shuddered at the thought, not because you hated the idea of him being possessive over you, but rather it felt like everything was clicking into place. you were right where you needed to be.

you crooned, back bowing when he found your sweet spot. leaning back, he gazed into your eyes with something much more profound than one should have for their sibling. in the early days of this dirty secret, you wanted to carve that feeling out of your chest, leave yourself hollow if that was what it took. you hated yourself for the emotions he created within you. but now, you wanted to lean into those sensations, offer them a chance to thrive, instead of snuffing them out.

"give yourself to me, sweet sister. wanna feel you let go. c'mon, cum on my cock," he urged, sweeping the sweat-slicked hairs from your face.

as your long-awaited orgasm wracked through your quivering figure, cunt clamping down around his cock, you swore you felt your mind shift. it was no longer, 'this is wrong', but instead, 'this is what experiencing sublimity feels like'. and you weren't going to run from that anymore.

[forbidden-sin]

“take your fill”

your honour shes pulsing

the way he nudged her open with his legs 😩😩😩🫦

clover for good luck? you tryna kill me ivy?

this is what experiencing sublimity feels like — me while reading this fic 😌

[corruptededen]

dad!bucky x daughter!reader.

ddne. mdni. warnings: incest. breeding kink. p in v.

don’t like, don’t read. it’s fiction.

a sharp slap filled the room. purple and pink flushed your plump ass cheek, a hand print embedded in your skin. this was exactly where you wanted to be. drool trailing from your parted lips, eyes rolled back into your pretty, thoughtless head.

every thrust dragged a little whimper from your throat. a raw, delicious sound to his ears.

“you feel so good, angel,” Bucky rasped into your ear, his thumb tracing under your chin, tipping your head back into his shoulder. Hot breath fanned your skin, teeth scraping the delicate curve of your neck.

his other hand snaked around, palming your breast, twisting and tugging the nipple. he grinned against your skin at the heavenly sound of your high-pitched whine, your silken walls fluttering around his throbbing cock.

there was nothing heavenly about Bucky fucking his daughter. what was a man supposed to do when she blossomed into such a beautiful flower begging to be desecrated. her hallowed walls begging to be corrupted.

“you want daddy to come inside you?” he grunted into your ear, circling your clit in time with his deep, deliberate thrusts.

you nodded frantically, all thoughts out of reach. replaced by the overwhelming pleasure ecstasy pulsing through your veins like liquid metal. your hands grasped his forearm like a lifeline keeping you from drowning in ecstasy.

on a ragged sob, tear-filled eyes squeezed shut, your orgasm struck like a bolt of lightning. you spilled forth over his cock, between your legs, and onto the sheet.

he followed a moment later, hips stuttering, breaths uneven as he poured into you, rope after rope of his seed painting your pulsing walls.

he collapsed onto you, chest pressed to your back, holding you tight, rolling his hips lazily, pushing his release deeper into your tight channel.

he pressed a soft kiss to your temple, a low hum rumbling in his chest. “get some rest, angel. because i plan on fucking you again until this pretty little body is bred.”

[forbidden-sin]

the last line fuck fuck fuckkk

im also a sucker for twisting and tugging the nipple ugh