ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthis blog contains dark themes: !! VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED !!
. . . i do not condone any of these stories, nor do i actually enjoy these irl. these works are PURELY FICTION, for the purpose the love of writing and creating art
a/n: sorry for the long silence :') a lot came up irl, and i also just wanted to work on soe things outside of this account !! also apologies that this isn't the best lol its 3am and my fingers started tapping on the keys </3 sorry its not really good, this gif just got me horny :p
the room tipped on it’s axis, over and over again, like a falling picture frame stuck in a time loop. your eyes droop, hazy and satiated from the booze that roared through your veins and lingered on your tongue.
“bucky!” you call out towards a figure. leaning against a wall, all bulky muscle with a stetson, it's so easy to pick him apart from a crowd, his hat being his most prized possession. your voice is louder than you anticipated, but caring felt worthless when your head was spinning, from alcohol, as well as the image before you.
bucky had decided to take you out.
a bar around town where hardwood floors creaked, the bouncer seemed to know everyones name — friendliness, or for larger tips, you could barely tell now. close enough to the bustling streets to be crowded and loud, yet just secluded enough for it to stay intimate.
after a hard days work of repairs and hulking heavy cargo to and from his truck; bags of feed, bundles of firewood, he’ll sometimes he chops it himself. If you’re lucky, your neighbour and his boss right now, mrs.white, invites you over, cup of fresh lemonade sweating in your palm, exactly like how your brother drips in the hot summer weather. flannel discarded in his truck, and you get a front row of abs and pecks on show, he groans a lot more when you’re around.
looking up, he paused his conversation with someone… blurry.
your head tilted in confusion, brows pulled together and eyes squinting as you willed yourself to see clearer. you’ve never been good at hiding expressions, even worse when inebriated.
you make out his hand holding upright to excuse himself, and he makes his way. flannel buttoned up, except for the top three where sweat drips down, you follow without a hint of embarrassment, mouth watering with the desire to follow it. his jeans hug his thighs so good, barely hiding what he’s got underneath. if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was half hard… wait —
“what’s the matter—?”
“who was that?” your tone comes off far more defensive and wearisome than intended, you flinch back a little at your whining, sounding almost like a jealous girlfriend.
bucky huffs something short of a laugh. veiny hand coming to rub his cheek, grin snaking onto his features. he shakes his head, glances back at the person.
"why're you asking?"
you feel petulant. eyes slightly sullen at your brothers newfound plaything for the night, his attention fully on them instead of you. your mouth opens, only to close again.
you mumble under your breath, “wha… whats so funny?” fists balled by your sides, forefingers rubbing against your thumb to soothe.
but he doesn't change. he laughs harder, like you told him some long kept inside joke, the kind of laugh that tightened the chest and had you doubling down, hands on your knees.
in a sober world, you'd most likely laugh too — sober you wouldn't have even gotten herself into this mess in the first place — but drunk you is her opposite. childish, giddy... a brat is what bucky would label you as.
so bratty is what you take. he bends down slightly, eyes shut from laughing way too hard at something you deem too important to be amusing. your hands move first, then your legs, then your brain.
and suddenly you're outside, leaning against a brick wall of a secluded alleyway. rain has just started to spittle down, the soft shower mixing with the cold air feels like a wonder against your warm skin... and atop your head was your brothers hat.
oh, shit.
your mind was too heavy, your brain fueled on liquid courage, and you curse yourself as it all starts to seep heavy into your bones.
it's almost like a stop motion animation. bucky's palms gripped shoulders, too hot. moving to hold your wrist and drag you back to the car. you retaliated, and thats when it happened.
hands moved where hands shouldn't go. mouths touched, and tongues explored forbidden territory.
"been wantin' this," he mumbles. it vibrates against your lips and makes you giggle. "know you've been too... watchin' me work, thinking you were all sly?"
his eyes are so pretty. his face softens a fracture, and he cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek against your soft peach fuzz. it all feels too fast, yet too slow at the same time. and your thighs ache like no other.
"just a dumb little thing, ain't you?" you nod. "yeah? well, rules are rules... my dumb little sister's gonna ride this cowboy like she's been aching to do, ain't that right, baby."
the car was a mess of bodies, too worked up to strip properly; jeans slid down to mid thigh, your skirt bunched, while your shirts rucked up for hands to grope and knead. wet slaps, whines, grunts and moans sound through the seats. the windows of bucky's truck coated with condensation, just from how hard you both worked against each other, and his hat laid carelessly on the floor beside his boot, lost in the haze of wandering hands and frenzied jerks.
tension fading then rising with every grind you gave against his thighs, and every thrust he bucked up inside of your wet heat, heavy balls pulling up as you squeeze around his cock.
“y’wanna know who that was, baby?” he asks, breathing heavily down your neck.
you nod. a gentle, barely there ‘yeah’ caresses the roof of your mouth as it hangs open in ecstasy, eyes glazed over as you trace the hairs that stick to his damp forehead.
“nat… she — oh, holy shit… was gonna take her out here,” he huffs again, smile plastered on his lips again before pressing a bundle of kisses against the side of your neck. “wanted to fuck her good… shit — was gonna fuck her right here, whisper to her, right in her ear… tell her how good she feels, god... how pretty she sounds, how goddamn wired up she got me just from how tight her pussy’s grippin’ me…”
you clench around him quick. a short, nimble pinch around his cock, making his hips falter. he'll tuck that little reaction in his pocket for next time.
he takes a moment, his warm palm cradles the scruff of your neck before pulling you back, just enough to catch your wandering eyes — fucked out, drained, drunk on one too many vodka cokes and his thick cock pressing into you so good you could hardly remember where you were, or what he was talking about.
a quick succession of gentle slaps against your cheek wake you. he holds your face, squished between four fingers and his thumb, and puckers your lips as he sucks his teeth, glancing between your eyes and mouth with a hungry glint.
“jus’ swallowing me up like the fucked up mess she is, huh?” he grunts, thrusts pushing up harder, faster. and then, easing you back on his shoulder, cradling you into his neck with swipes of his thumb, his lips lick the shell of your ear, and he adds, whispering.
“taking her brothers cock so fuckin’ well… was wearin’ my hat so pretty…” the fuzz below his navel tickles, seizing your belly tight. “just couldn’t help myself, baby. had to take whats mine, y’know... what would mama and pop think.”
his dick spears into you, kissing your cervix again and again, just so needy to be in it's proximity, and he stretches you out, aching your walls with a delicious burn you've never felt before.
the wrongness felt too right. the mere thought of getting caught, the only covering you had was the misty windows, had you strangling his leaking sex - face warping in pleasure with each thrust, each blunt stab he gives to you as you lie on his collar, boneless, whiny and so, so close.
"fuckin' brat... taking off with my hat, askin' who i was talking to..." bucky groans at a particularly harsh charge of his hips, balls smacking against your skin. "tight thing... oh you wanted this bad, didn't you. wanted to milk my cock dry, keep it all for yourself, huh? s'that was that was?"
one thing bucky was right about was how dumb you were gonna get on his ridiculously pretty cock. your orgasm snaps out of you with a gasp, rippling your body with shakes and rhythmic pulses, and each snap of your brothers dick was just dragging the agonising bliss out longer. and the words he breathed into your hear ebbed in and out of your hazy conscience.
'tight thing'
'milk my cock'
'keep it'
it broke you out of your daze.
"wanna keep it," you whispered, "keep it... i wanna. please."
"atta girl..." he grunts, hips driving faster and faster, hands white-knuckling your ass cheeks, pushing you down, onto his thighs, each push brings a clap that resonates through the air.
"cum in me. keep it."
"fuckin' christ-" his fingers dig into your flesh as ropes of cum flood your walls. holding you down onto his lap, keeping you plugged, making sure his tip smothers your cervix, making sure you hold, keep.
minutes go by, panting breaths retreat, and his cock slowly slumps out of you with a sloppy sound, making you huff out your nose and hips twitch.
"y'know, you look sexy all drunk and jealous," he smiles, dazed, eyelids half lidded. "if you remember this in the mornin', come over to mrs. white's when you feel better. she's got a barn way out in her field. lemme fuck you nice, yeah?"
"... hm."
he laughs, softer than in the bar, but it has such a similar cadence. "i'll get you dressed. take you home and get some sleep. i'll see you at mrs. white's."
Prompt: During a game of Truth or Dare, your brother Bucky suggests something very filthy. And you accept it.
Pairing: Brother!Bucky Barnes x Sister!Reader
Word count: 2.2k
Warnings: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); siblingcest; brother/sister; oral sex (male receiving); shotgunning (brief); no use of Y/N; both Bucky & reader are 18+
Notes: this came to me in another fit of delusion, as I think all my writing does at this point. please remember to not interact with content you're not comfortable with !!
Two whiskeys and a homemade margarita were all it took for you to accept your brother’s challenge for a few rounds of Truth or Dare. A game you played ever since you were teens and you found the meaning of consequences.
The fire crackles softly in your fireplace, casting golden light across the living room, and empty glasses sit on the coffee table beside a bowl of chips and a couple of candy wrappers. The house is quiet except for the occasional pop from the logs. Your parents won’t be back until Sunday night, and the freedom of that fact hangs perfectly in the air.
You and Bucky are both sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, legs stretched out, barefoot, the kind of comfortable that comes from too many drinks and the closeness of siblings. Bucky is making himself comfortable again after he had just gotten up to show you the very much real pack of cigarettes in his backpack like evidence in a courtroom. You’re staring at him dumbfounded.
“You smoke. You.” You stared at the pack in his hand, then at his face, searching for the joke that had to be there. A discovery made after a “truth” question.
He just shrugs, that lazy half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yep. Since first year of college.”
Your jaw might as well have dropped. “That’s… okay, that’s crazy. And Mom and Dad have no idea? How have you been hiding this all this time?”
He laughs under his breath, reaching for his whiskey and taking a slow sip. “That’s more than one question, kid. My turn.” He grins wide before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Truth or dare, sis?”
You lean back against the armrest, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The margarita left your cheeks warm, your thoughts a little looser than usual. “Truth.”
Bucky’s grin turns a little darker.
“You’ve picked truth for the last two turns. Don’t be a pussy.”
You scoff, kicking lightly at his shin with your foot. “Then why even ask if you’re just gonna call me a pussy for not picking dare?”
“Because if you keep hiding behind truth, we’re basically playing twenty questions. Where’s the fun in that?”
A pause then, eyes narrowed at him trying to look annoyed, but the alcohol and the warmth of the fire and the look in his eyes are nothing but the loudest challenge in the room.
“Okay. Dare.”
Bucky shifts immediately, sitting up straighter in his seat. He looks up at you for maybe a full minute, assessing, maybe pretending to think of a dare. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Whatever he is about to say, you’re sure he’s had it ready since the moment he called you out for picking truth.
Silence. Bucky exhales.
“Remember the consequence if you don’t do the dare?”
You huff, trying to play it cool even as your heart starts beating faster. “Do the dishes for a month. Ugh, don’t be boring, Bucky. Just say what the dare is.”
“I dare you…” Another pause. He seems unfazed by whatever is on his mind. “to give my cock a kiss.”
You nearly choke on your saliva, heat flooding your face so fast it feels like the fire leaped straight into your veins. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again, but no sound comes out at first.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” You finally blurt out, voice cracking halfway. “Buck, that’s disgusting. You’re my brother.”
He doesn’t even blink. Just leans back against the couch cushions, arms spreading along the backrest.
“Aww, sis,” he drawls, a little mocking. “didn’t know you were such a prude.”
That hits something in you. Like it’s an actual offense that he would say that. “A prude? You just asked me to kiss your dick! I’m not being a prude, I’m being a normal person.”
“Hey, you picked dare. I gave you one.” He tilts his head, studying you with lazy amusement. “You know, you can always back out.” A beat. “You know the consequence.”
Dishes for a month. The same stupid punishment you’ve enforced since you were fifteen. You hate doing dishes. You really hate doing dishes for a month.
Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your fingertips. The room feels ten degrees hotter. The alcohol swirls warm in your stomach, loosening your limbs, fuzzing the edges of everything. You’re definitely not drunk, but you’re loose enough that the outrage feels a little distant, almost as if the situation is happening to someone else.
Bucky’s watching you, expecting you to call him a pervert and run to your bedroom upstairs.
You don’t.
Instead, you push yourself up, bare feet hitting the rug. Bucky’s smirk falters, just a flicker, as you move toward him and drop to your knees in front of him, right between his spread legs, hands resting on the edge of the coffee table behind you for balance.
The cocky mask on his face slips fully for the first time tonight.
“Whoa. Wait, what are you—you’re not actually…?”
Your eyes meet his, cheeks burning, pulse racing. The alcohol hums in your veins, daring you forward. “You gave me a dare,” you say. “I’m not doing dishes for a month.”
Bucky’s breath catches sharply as you settle between his thighs, the rug soft under your knees. His hands hover uselessly in the air for a second, like he can’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.
“You’re… you’re bluffing,” he says, but his voice has lost all its earlier swagger. “Come on, get up. This is—”
You don’t answer with words. Your fingers find the button of his jeans, pop it open with a soft click. The zipper comes down next. Bucky’s hips twitch, just barely, but you feel it.
He’s already hard.
The outline of him strains against the dark fabric of his boxer briefs, thick and obvious. You can see the shape of him clearly now, the way he’s swollen and heavy, and the realization sends a fresh wave of heat through you.
“Jesus,” he mutters, head falling back against the couch for a second before he jerks it up again to stare at you. “There’s no way—”
You tug the waistband of his boxers down just enough to free him. He springs out, hot and hard against his stomach, the tip already slick. The sight steals whatever comeback he had left. His mouth opens, but all that comes out is a shaky exhale.
You lean in.
Your lips brush the head of his cock, soft, almost chaste at first, just a press of warmth. Bucky jolts like you’ve shocked him. You linger there for a second, feeling the velvet heat of him, the faint salt on your lips, the way his thighs tense under your palms.
Then you part your lips and take him in.
Not just a kiss anymore. You slide down slowly, tongue flat against the underside, until the head nudges the back of your throat. Bucky’s hand flies to your hair, not pushing, just gripping, fingers threading tight like he needs something to hold onto. A strangled groan tears out of him.
“Fuck, sis, what are you...?”
Words die on his tongue when you pull back almost all the way, lips sealed around him, then sink down again, deeper this time. The taste of him floods your mouth, salty and warm, and the alcohol in your blood makes everything feel slow and syrupy and inevitable. You set a rhythm. Up, down, swirl of tongue around the tip each time you rise; unhurried, like you’ve got all night.
Bucky’s head drops back again, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open on silent curses. His hips rock up once, instinctively, and you let him, taking him deeper until your nose brushes the coarse hair at his base. Another groan, louder this time.
“Shit…” The word comes out broken. “Fuck, your mouth feels so good.” His grip on your hair tightens, trembling now. He’s trying so hard not to thrust, trying to keep whatever shred of control he has left, but you can feel it slipping.
Bucky’s chest rises and falls in ragged bursts, the hand not tangled in your hair fumbling blindly along the couch cushion until his fingers close around the pack he’d tossed aside earlier. You hear the soft flick of his lighter, the quick scrape of metal on flint, and then the faint hiss as he draws the first drag.
The sharp, familiar scent of tobacco curls into the air, mixing with the woodsmoke from the fireplace and the heavier, muskier heat between you. You glance up through your lashes just as he exhales, a thin stream of smoke drifting toward the ceiling. The orange glow of the cigarette tip flares as he takes another pull, his eyes half-lidded, fixed on your lips stretched around him, on the way your cheeks hollow every time you pull back.
Something about it hits you like a spark straight to your core. Maybe it’s the casual arrogance of it. Lighting up while you’re on your knees for him, like this is just another lazy night on the couch. It should piss you off, but instead, it makes your panties so wet they might be ruined forever.
It’s hot. Unfairly hot.
You moan around him, the vibration humming straight through his cock. Bucky’s hips jerk involuntarily, a sharp curse slipping out as smoke spills from his parted lips.
“Fuck, you like that?”
You answer by taking him deeper, faster, cheeks hollowing harder. Your hands slide up his thighs, nails digging in just enough to feel him tense under your palms. The cigarette dangles from his fingers, forgotten for a second as his head tips back again, another slow exhale shuddering out of him.
He brings it to his lips once more, eyes locked on yours this time, holding your gaze while he inhales. When he pulls it away, he doesn’t exhale right away. Just lets the smoke sit in his lungs, chest expanding, before releasing it in a lazy ribbon that drifts down over you.
You suck him harder, sloppy now, saliva slicking your chin, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room. Every time he takes a drag, you match it, like you’re trying to suck the smoke straight out of him. Your jaw aches in the best way, thighs trembling from kneeling so long, but you don’t care.
“God, look at you,” he mutters, cigarette bobbing between his fingers as he speaks. “Sucking me off like that while I smoke… you’re fucking filthy, sis. My filthy slut.”
The words send a fresh rush of heat through you. You whimper around him, eyes watering, but you don’t slow down. If anything, you’re more desperate, chasing the way his thighs start to shake under your hands.
“Fuck… I’m close,” he rasps, voice shredded. Smoke leaks from the corner of his mouth as he speaks. “You’re gonna make me—”
You don’t let him finish. You take him all the way down, nose pressed to his skin, throat working around him. That’s all it takes.
He comes with a choked groan, hips bucking hard enough to lift off the couch. The first pulse hits the back of your tongue, hot and thick, and you swallow instinctively, again and again, milking every last drop as he spills down your throat. His whole body locks up, trembling, the hand in your hair gripping almost painfully tight while the other crushes what’s left of the cigarette into the whiskey glass with a faint hiss.
You keep him in your mouth until he’s spent, until the last shudder rolls through him and his grip loosens. Only then do you pull off slowly, lips dragging along his length, tongue catching the final bead at the tip. He’s sensitive now, breath stuttering when you give the head one last soft lick, cleaning him.
The room smells like sex and smoke and burned wood. Your knees ache against the rug, chin wet, lips swollen, but you feel strangely calm, like you just won something you didn’t know you were competing for.
He stubs the dead cigarette out properly, then reaches down, thumb brushing across your lower lip, smearing the mess there.
“Come here.”
You rise up on shaky legs, climbing into his lap without thinking. He cups the back of your neck and pulls you in. You think he’s going to kiss you, but he pauses, nose brushing yours.
“Want something?” he murmurs, reading the look on your face before you even say it.
You nod, barely a movement. “Exhale in my mouth.”
His eyes flare. He takes one last drag from a fresh cigarette he must have lit while you were catching your breath, holds it deep, then leans in.
His lips part against yours, and he breathes the smoke straight into you. You inhale it greedily, lungs filling with him, with the sharp bite of tobacco and the lingering taste of his release still coating your tongue. It’s dizzying.
Then he kisses you for real.
It’s messy and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours, sharing the smoke and the salt and everything else. You taste yourself on him somehow, or maybe it’s just him on you, but it doesn’t matter. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth like he’s already ready for more.
When you finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, he just smirks.
“Your turn, sis,” he whispers against your lips. “And I’m picking dare.”
read part 1 here
Prompt: After what happened on Christmas Eve, you and Bucky try to ignore the elephant in the room. But it's not easy when you're both all alone under the stars of a new planetarium exhibition.
Pairing: Brother!Bucky Barnes x Older Sister!Reader
Word count: 7.3k
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; use of pet name (my moon); dirty talk (Bucky trying it out for the first time); mention of creampie (not depicted); mention of jerking off (not depicted); fingering; pussy pronouns (just once); p in v; protected sex; yearning !!; Space Cuties! Bucky is a space nerd, reader is also a space nerd; no use of Y/N; not beta'd
Notes: gosh, the overwhelming love for the first part of this fic has truly made my heart ache in the best possible way. thank you for being a part of the space cuties journey with me. 💕
as always dividers by me. reminder to not read unless you are comfortable with the tagged themes !!
It’s been two weeks since Christmas Eve, and you still haven’t figured out how to be normal around Bucky.
The memory lives in your body more than your mind, lingering like a bruise you keep pressing on. Too tender, impossible to ignore. The way his hands shook when they touched you. The way he whispered your name like it was sacred and sinful at the same time. The way you both swore, pinkies linked in the dark, that it would never happen again.
You swore it was a mistake. One time. Never again.
But the promise didn’t stop the dreams. Didn’t stop the way your skin remembered his mouth. Didn’t stop the ache that settled low in your stomach every time your phone buzzed and you hoped, stupidly, it was him.
You’ve kept your distance. Short texts, careful topics. He’s done the same. You tell yourself it’s working. You almost believe it.
Until today.
You’re standing in the darkened dome of the planetarium after hours, running one last test on the new constellation exhibit. The projector hums to life above you, and suddenly the ceiling is alive with stars; thousands of them.
This exhibit has been your obsession for months. You fought for every detail, the accurate positioning, the subtle animations. You did it for the visitors, sure. But mostly you did it for the kid version of Bucky who used to lie on the grass with you in summer, tracing shapes in the sky with his finger while you read aloud from dog-eared library books. You’ve always been the one who gave him the stars.
Now you’re standing under a perfect sky, and the only person you want to share it with is the one you’re not supposed to want at all.
That’s when your phone feels heavy in your pocket.
You pull it out before the rational part of your brain can talk you out of it. Thumbs hover over the screen for a long minute, heart thudding hard enough that you’re sure the empty room can hear it.
Finally, you type.
You: Hey space nerd
You: Got a surprise for you
You: New exhibit isn’t open to the public yet but I can get you in this afternoon, since we’re closed
You: Meet me at the side entrance at 5?
You hit send and immediately regret the casual tone, like this is just a fun sibling hangout and not you actively inviting the source of your sleepless nights into a private room with a ceiling full of stars.
Your phone vibrates almost instantly.
Bucky: you had me at space nerd
Bucky: i’ll be there
Bucky: thanks sis ❤️
That little heart emoji punches the air out of your lungs. He’s been using with you for years, but now it feels different. Loaded.
You spend the rest of the day distracted, running through lighting sequences and constellation overlays, but really you’re thinking about how he’ll look when the stars come on. How close he’ll stand to you. Whether he’ll mention Christmas. Whether you want him to.
By 4:45 you’re waiting at the staff entrance, bundled in your coat, breath fogging in the cold. Your keys jangle in your hand as you pace.
Headlights sweep across the snow, and his truck pulls up to the curb. He climbs out, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, that familiar grin already in place when he spots you.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft like he’s afraid of breaking the quiet. Snowflakes catch in his dark hair as he walks up. “This better be good. I turned down Steve’s invitation to get pizza before the football game for this mysterious secret field trip.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Trust me, you’ll like it more than pizza.”
He falls into step beside you as you unlock the side door and lead him inside. The hallway is dim, emergency lights casting long shadows. His shoulder brushes yours more than once, and neither of you moves away.
“So,” he says, glancing around the empty corridors, “you’ve been working on something big, huh? You’ve been kinda cagey about it.”
“It’s a new immersive show,” you answer, keeping your voice light. “Opens to the public next month, but…” You glance at him sideways. “I wanted you to see it first.”
He stops walking for a second, surprised. “Really?”
You shrug, suddenly shy. “If anyone deserves an exclusive preview, it’s you.”
He looks away first, clearing his throat. “Lead the way, tour guide.”
You smile to cover the sudden tightness in your chest and keep walking, leading him deeper into the building, past closed galleries and silent halls. You stop at a corner before pushing open a heavy black door.
When the two of you walk in, the room is pitch dark, chairs spread across the room and stairs in the middle, guarded by safety rails. The walls are bare, the ceiling barren, all stark white under the faint emergency glow; the real magic is behind a projector that is turned off for the time being. It’s incredibly… lackluster. Walls that rather feel like an abandoned classroom where a lecturer will bore to death a group of students for two hours straight. Bucky looks around the room, maybe looking for something special to catch his eye or for you to reveal the surprise.
"...Okay. I mean, sis, you know going anywhere with you is fine, but—" His lips curl into the crooked smile you know all too well, the one that says he's about to tease the hell out of you.
"Don't be a smartass," you answer, swatting his shoulder playfully as you brush past him to stand in the center of the room. You stand near a cushioned chaise, set apart from the regular chairs. A place clearly meant for someone to lie down and look at the ceiling above them. “We’re standing in the middle of the stars right now.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms over his chest before looking up, staring at the ceiling like he’s fully expecting it to open wide in the meantime and reveal the universe. “… Did you hit your head?”
"Oh my God, shut up," you groan, heat rushing to your cheeks even in the dark. "I wanted to do a pretty speech. About how sometimes you can't see the stars because it's too bright out, or the sky's all cloudy and messed up. But they're always there anyway." A pause. Bucky doesn’t interrupt this time, his head just tilts back down as he looks at you, his attention back on your voice as if you’re saying the most important thing he’s ever heard. Undivided. “Hm. Well, anyway… I thought you’d like this.”
You trail off, digging into your pocket for the small remote you've been hiding since he arrived. It's sleek, with just a few buttons, nothing flashy. Bucky squints at it, trying to figure out your game, but he doesn't have to wait long.
You raise your hand, aim the remote at an innocuous dot on the ceiling, and press a button.
The room transforms.
A thousand shades of blue wash over the ceiling first, spreading like ink in water. Then come the stars, thousands of them, pinpricks of light blooming across the expanse in perfect clarity. Some twinkle faintly, others burn steady and bright. Slowly, constellations emerge as delicate lines connect the dots and letters form words in elegant script across the walls.
Right above you, the constellations Perseus and Andromeda stare straight at you as if they are witnessing the birth of something new. A stolen piece of the cosmos tucked into this little room. And with you holding the remote, Bucky just a few feet away from you, it really feels like you’ve stolen it just for him.
Bucky’s breath catches, his head tilted back again, eyes wide as he takes in the sight surrounding him. The blue light reflects in his gaze, ocean blue eyes even bluer now. You’re reminded of the way he looked so soft under his bedroom lights, similar shades covering this room now. Bucky’s the one staring at the ceiling, but you’re the one wonderstruck.
“Holy shit, that’s so cool,” he murmurs, genuine awe seeping from his voice. “That’s Cassiopeia. And that’s Andromeda and Perseus. You know the story, right?”
You do. You’ve read it about a hundred times in your old astronomy books, the same ones you shared with Bucky once he started having the same passion for the stars. You’ve read the text they’ve written for the visitors of this exhibition even if it hasn’t been made public yet. But here, in this moment, staring at Bucky as he stares at a man-made sky in the white ceiling, you want him to talk you through it. Before you think better of it, your body moves on instinct. You close the small distance between you, sliding your arm through his and curling it tight around his bicep. You lean your head against his shoulder, tilting your face upward to follow his gaze.
“Tell me, Buck.”
He glances down at you for a second, the corner of his mouth lifting in a private little smile, like he knows exactly what you’re doing and loves you for it. Then his eyes drift back to the ceiling.
“Princess Andromeda was said to be more beautiful than the sea nymphs. Her mother Cassiopeia bragged about it one too many times, and that pissed off Poseidon. So he sent this massive sea monster, Cetus, to tear apart their kingdom.”
His free hand lifts, tracing the faint outline of the constellation with one finger. You watch the motion more than the stars.
“Perseus was flying home after chopping off Medusa’s head, still carrying it in a bag, by the way, which is really dope. He sees Andromeda chained to a rock as an offering to the monster. Doesn’t even hesitate. Swoops in, pulls out the head, turns the beast to stone.”
You feel his arm flex slightly under your grip, like he’s living the fight in his head. You almost let out a chuckle. Your nerd.
“They fell in love right there on the shore, covered in sea spray and monster guts. Got married, had a bunch of kids, lived a long life.” He pauses, voice softening further. “And when they died, the gods didn’t split them up. They put them in the sky together. Close enough to touch, forever.”
The last word lingers between you, quiet and heavy.
Bucky lowers his hand slowly, letting it settle over yours where it rests on his arm. His thumb brushes over the soft skin of your knuckles, an absent motion that means too much.
“Think they’d give us a constellation someday?” he asks after a moment of silence, almost joking.
“More like they’ll name a new circle of Hell after us,” you say, self-deprecating. Bucky scoffs. He doesn’t appreciate the humor this time. You can feel the shift before you hear him, how his muscles tense just a fraction.
“Don’t do that,” Bucky says, his voice stern.
You shrug it off, eyes fixed on the glowing outline of Andromeda above you because it’s easier than looking anywhere else. “Just a joke, Buck.”
“It’s not funny.” He shifts, turning his body toward you fully now, one hand coming up to grip your chin and tip your face until you have no choice but to face him properly and meet his eyes. “You say sometimes we can’t see the stars but they’re always there anyway.”
He leans in closer, forehead touching yours. “But I don’t need the stars with me. Just my moon.”
Your breath hitches. Your eyes meet his in the lights of the room, different shades complimenting his complexion and awakening something deep in your gut. Bucky is your brother. Blood of your blood, family. And you’ve always loved him, the way a sibling loves another… but something else simmers now. The beginning of a heartbreak you can’t possibly begin to imagine. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s too big for this small room to contain.
“Bucky…”
You and he messed things up during Christmas. One time. You’d promised yourself it wouldn’t happen again. You’d buried it deep, pretended it was a dream, a mistake born of weakness.
Yet here it is, rising like a tide you can’t hold back.
“I mean it.” His hand slides from your chin to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of it. “Stars are pretty. But the moon pulls the tides. Lights up the dark when everything else is gone.” He leans forward until his lips move against yours, not kissing, just touching. “I hate how often you’re not around now. You used to light up my darkness.”
Bucky presses his lips to yours then, one hand reaching behind your head and holding you to him before he moves you to the chaise seat. One leg wrapped around his waist, fingers carded into his hair, and you pull him closer, body shifting, preparing to move your bodies and take over—but Bucky presses forward, forces your back to lean towards the cushion, his body caging yours.
“I wanna show you I can make you feel good, too,” he whispers against your lips, his breath hot and mingling with yours. One knee slides forward, nudging your thighs apart with insistent pressure until they part for him, and his thigh settles against your warm core. Your eyes meet his briefly, breath ragged.
“That’s—you just did the knee thing,” you barely manage. “How do you even know the knee thing?”
His cheeks flush a pretty shade of red, the color creeping up to the tips of his ears. He ducks his head shyly, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, lips soft and trembling slightly against your skin.
“I might’ve looked some stuff up,” he mumbles, the words barely audible. “After last time. Wanted to… get better.”
The admission slams into you like a wave. Even through the haze of want, swimming through the idea of Bucky researching how to make you feel good which undoubtedly is enough to leave a wet patch in your underwear, you soften. The image of Bucky, your sweet little brother, hunched over his laptop in the dead of night, researching ways to pleasure you, finding tips and tricks to make you moan. You picture him blushing even then, hand perhaps wandering as he read, imagining you instead.
Your heart aches in a complicated way even as molten heat floods every inch of you.
“You didn’t have to,” you whisper, fingers tightening in his hair.
“I know we only… once,” he says quickly, words tumbling out in a rush like he’s terrified you’ll stop him. “And I know we said never again. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. How you sounded. How you felt.” His thigh shifts again, slow and deliberate, dragging the firm muscle upward in a teasing grind that makes your hips roll up to meet him. “I just… I wanna do it right this time. Make you feel as good as you made me feel.”
You said never again.
Swore it, pinky-promised in the hazy afterglow of Christmas night, both of you tangled in sheets and guilt.
But now Bucky’s on top of you, his thigh pressed between your legs, dragging the muscle against your core, soft blue eyes chasing a reaction on your face. Pleasure. There’s a terrifying realization that if you give in now, if you break the fragile vow of never again, then it will irrevocably happen again. Today, under the fake stars in the ceiling; next week, in the quiet darkness of his bed; a month from now, sprawled across yours. Until both of you have completely expunged the line that two beings who shared the same wound should never even dare to cross, let alone erase it.
The moment your lips part so you can answer with a protest, or maybe surrender, Bucky swallows your words by kissing you again. The hand cradling the back of your head slides down slowly, palm open and spread over your chest, dragging lower until it rests over the hem of your shirt. Soft fingers dip under it, crawling up your ribs and leaving goosebumps in their wake, feeling the warm skin before cupping your breast through the lace of your bra. He lets out a gasp, long and stretched out, lips parted as he stares down at you in awe. Almost as if it’s the first time all over again.
“Are you into dirty talking?” He asks, the question quick and blurted out. It catches you off guard, but you just smile at him.
“Do you want to talk dirty?” You counter gently.
The truth? Anything he does right now, every clumsy touch, every eager word, will leave you on the edge. You’re already soaked, pulsing against his thigh. So you’d rather let him learn what he likes, explore his pleasure hand-in-hand with you. You’ll be his safe place for all of it.
“I… well,” he chuckles almost to himself, shaking his head a little embarrassed. Under your shirt, his hand kneads your breast with growing excitement, thumb brushing experimentally over your hardening nipple through the lace, but still a little hesitant, unpracticed. “I wanted to say something.”
You nod eagerly, arching subtly into his palm. “Say it.”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, watches his hand move around your breast through the fabric of your shirt. “Every night since Christmas night… I’ve jerked off thinking about you.” The words hang in the air between you, but you stay silent, giving him space to continue. “Couldn’t stop thinking about these tits. About how pretty they looked bouncing up and down when you were riding me.”
The words ignite a fire in your stomach so intense it spreads like wildfire through your veins, making your throat tighten and your breath catch.
“You’re good at the dirty talking,” you praise with a smirk, body burning up under his touch. “Still a little sweet. But extremely hot.”
“Do you like it dirtier?” He asks, a hint of teasing tainting the undertone, though the question is unmistakably genuine. He’s testing boundaries, eager to learn exactly how far he should push you.
“I’m fucking my younger brother. How dirty do you think I like it?”
“Don’t call it that,” he says with a flinch. “You did it last time, too, call it fucking. Call it anything else.”
Behind his words, you see the ugly truth of this. The weight of years and shared childhood bedrooms that twisted into something that burns. And the burn is why you’re here. Why your hips are still rocking helplessly against the hard line of his thigh, chasing friction even as guilt claws at the back of your throat.
“Okay. I won’t say it. Not like that.”
Relief flickers in his eyes for a second before he leans down to kiss you again, slower this time. His tongue slides against yours, filthy, hand still working against your breasts under your shirt until both your nipples stiffen into tight peaks under the lace bra. He swallows every sound you make greedily, feeding off of them, and when he pulls back his eyes are almost black with want.
“I practiced saying stuff. In the mirror. Sounds stupid now,” he admits, cheeks still flush.
“I’m sure it’s not stupid,” you encourage, arching into his touch. “Tell me what you practiced.”
Bucky hesitates, then lets out a shaky breath. “Wanted to tell you…” His hand moves from under your shirt, sliding down your stomach, fingers hooking under the waistband of your jeans but not dipping lower yet. “Wanted to tell you how many times I came thinking about your pussy. How I’d lick my own hand after, pretending it was you.”
Your breath catches hard, a sharp inhale that makes your chest rise against him. The innocence in his face paired with the crude honesty of his words sends a fresh rush of wetness between your legs.
“Jesus, Bucky…”
“Too much?” He asks quickly, worry creeping back in.
You shake your head, grabbing his wrist and guiding his hand lower, pressing his palm against the damp fabric between your thighs. “Nowhere near too much.”
He groans at the feeling of you soaking through your jeans, and his hips jerk forward, grinding his hardness against your hip. You feel how achingly stiff he is, trapped in his jeans, and your clit throbs against your underwear at the knowledge that he’s this desperate just from touching you.
“Tell me more while you touch me.”
His fingers move experimentally, rubbing circles over your clothed slit, eyes locked on your face. “I thought about… about how tight you were around me. How you squeezed me when you came.” His voice drops an octave as if he’s about to share an even filthier secret. “Thought about bending you over the kitchen counter when Mom and Dad are gone. Pulling your panties down just enough to slide in from behind. Fucking you quiet so the neighbors don’t hear.”
Your hips buck into his hand. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he repeats, leaning down to mouth at your neck, teeth grazing the skin. “Imagined coming inside you with no condom. Watching it drip out after.”
The words hit like a spark to gasoline. You moan louder than you mean to, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Bucky—”
Your sounds only spur him on, and his hand moves with urgent precision to the button and zipper of your pants, popping them open with a swift tug. He peels the fabric down your hips, exposing the soft curve of your thighs, leaving you in nothing but your pretty pink underwear, delicate lace so sheer it's almost translucent, clinging to your skin from the damp heat building between your legs.
His fingers trace slowly over the soaked fabric, teasing the edges with feather-light touches that make your hips twitch involuntarily. Then he pushes the material to the side, not bothering to pull them off, just enough to bare you completely. Cool air kisses your exposed, glistening core, and you feel the slickness coating your folds, shimmering faintly in the low light. Bucky licks his lips, his tongue dragging across the full lower one like a man starved, finally faced with his favorite meal after days of deprivation. His gaze drops there, dark and intense, pupils blown wide with desire.
One thick finger gathers your slickness first, circling your entrance with agonizing slowness, coating himself in your arousal until his fingers are glistening too. He watches your face the entire time, blue eyes locked on yours, searching for every flicker of reaction as he finally dips one finger inside you. Your eyes flutter, struggling to stay open at the feeling, and you gasp softly.
“Bucky, fuck…”
“Wanna make you cum,” he murmurs, finger working slowly in and out of you now, dragging out every sensation, the pad of it curling upward with each deep thrust to stroke that sensitive spot inside you that sends sparks racing up your spine. “Please, I wanna make you cum again.”
Your heart stutters. Sweet, eager boy, still trying to earn an A+ in pleasing you even when he’s already got you halfway gone. You shift your hips under his, just an inch, grinding subtly against his hand, and it's all the encouragement he needs. He slides a second finger inside you without hesitation, the added girth stretching you open further, a delicious burn that has you clenching around him immediately. A low whimper escapes you as he scissors them gently, opening you up, his palm pressing firmly against your clit with every motion.
Even though you know he's not experienced—not like this, not with anyone else—you can feel the innate talent in every movement: a touch of raw instinct guiding him, a certain growing confidence that blooms with every gasp you give him. It builds the wetter you get, your arousal coating his fingers, dripping down to his knuckles as he pumps faster, the obscene slick sounds filling the air between you. Your moans are his roadmap; your breathless cries of his name that spill unrestrained tell him when to go faster, when to go deeper. He’s a quick learner, adapting instantly every time your cunt squeezes him greedily, thrusting deeper when your thighs tremble.
Your breath comes in shallow pants, the coil in your belly tightening with every thrust of his fingers. And though he curls them just right, touching the perfect spot deep inside, you need that sharp edge of pleasure to push you over. Just a little more.
“Bucky,” you call, barely a whisper. “touch my clit. Please.”
He stills for a heartbeat, fingers buried deep, his brow furrowing in an adorable mix of concentration and uncertainty. “Your clit?” The word comes out hesitant, like he’s tasted it before in fantasy but never dared say it out loud. His eyes dart to where his hand disappears between your thighs. “Tell me how. I wanna do it right.”
Jesus Christ, he’s more invested in making you feel good than any experienced guy you’ve ever been with.
You reach down, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist, guiding his slick thumb upward between your folds until it brushes the swollen bundle of nerves at the top. The contact makes you jolt, a soft cry slipping out.
“There,” you breathe, pressing his thumb more firmly against your clit. “It’s all these sensitive nerves bundled together. Feels incredible when you touch it right.” You move his thumb to circle slowly, showing him the rhythm. Small, steady circles at first, then a gentle up-and-down flick. “Like this. Firm but careful. Just play with it while you keep moving your fingers.”
His eyes are wide, utterly focused, drinking in your every reaction as he mimics the motion. The pad of his thumb presses down, tentative at first, then firmer when you moan. He flicks upward, learning how to get the pressure just right and sending sparks of pleasure across your skin.
“Like that?” He asks, almost awed.
“Exactly like that,” you gasp, hips rolling to chase both sensations: his fingers pumping deep inside you, thumb flicking your clit with growing confidence. “God, don’t stop. Faster on my clit—fuck, yeah, like that.”
Bucky’s breath hitches at your broken praise, and it works as the only encouragement he needs. The awe in his eyes sharpens into something hungrier, and his thumb settles into the rhythm you taught him. Quick, firm flicks upward, then tight little circles, over and over, relentless now that he knows exactly what it does to you.
At the same time, his fingers start moving faster inside of you, plunging deeper. The wet drag of them gets louder, your arousal making every thrust smoother, sliding right in like coming home. Fresh heat rushes out to coat his hand, soaking the inside of your thighs. Your body is greedy for him, and your legs close around him, pulling him in and choking his hand between your thighs. You moan again, loud, a little unashamed.
“God, listen to you,” he whispers, voice rough with disbelief. He shifts his hand just slightly, angling his fingers so the heel of his palm grinds against your entrance with every thrust while his thumb keeps tormenting your clit. “She keeps getting wetter… feels so good around my fingers.”
You can’t answer with words anymore, even though you desperately want to tell him how hot it is that he’s referring to your cunt like its own entity. Instead, you let out breathy moans that keep rising in pitch, thighs trembling on either side of his arm. Your muscles tense as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter, building right to the edge where everything feels sharp.
Bucky notices. Of course he does, when he’s watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters in the world. His free hand rests beside your head, holding himself up above you.
“You’re squeezing me so tight. You’re close, aren’t you? My moon.” He murmurs against your ear, lips grazing the shell. He’s tempted to speed up, go faster, harder, but when he senses you right on the edge, he keeps just the pace that brought you here. “Please, let me have it. Cum on my fingers.”
“Bucky, oh god, I’m—” The words fracture into a broken moan as he curls his fingers just right, thumb flicking firmly again. Your back bows off the surface beneath you, nails raking down his shoulders as the orgasm hits you like a sudden storm, fierce and all-consuming, ripping the air from your lungs in a silent gasp before a long, broken cry tears free. Your entire body seizes, back arching high off the surface as every muscle locks tight, thighs clamping hard around Bucky’s wrist like you never want him to leave.
You clench around him in greedy spasms, walls fluttering and squeezing in time with your racing heartbeat, pulling him deeper even as your body shakes uncontrollably. Fresh slickness rushes out of you, soaking his fingers. Your clit throbs under the steady pressure of his thumb, swollen and hypersensitive, each lingering flick sending sharp aftershocks that make you twitch and whimper long after the peak.
It rolls through you in ripples, softer but no less intense, until you’re left boneless and gasping, tiny shudders still running through your limbs every time he shifts his fingers even slightly.
Bucky watches it all with reverent eyes, lips parted, like he’s witnessing something sacred. When the last tremor fades and you finally go limp beneath him, he carefully eases his fingers out, the slow drag making you whine softly at the loss.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You’re so beautiful when you cum. I don’t ever wanna forget how that feels.”
Your body still hums with the aftershocks, skin flushed and sensitive, as you push gently at Bucky’s chest. He yields immediately, letting you guide him until he’s the one stretched out on the cushioned chaise beneath the domed ceiling. The projected stars continue swirling slowly overhead, casting soft light across his face.
You swing a leg over him, settling astride his hips, knees sinking into the plush surface on either side of him. The shift makes him groan, hands automatically coming to grip your thighs.
“Oh, come on,” he says, voice tinged with a shy awkwardness that always surfaces. “You’re… on top again.” He huffs a breath, fingers flexing against the skin. “I like it. I really like it. But I wanna… y’know. Learn. Be on top of you sometime. Properly.”
You lean down, brushing your lips over his in a slow kiss that makes him chase your mouth when you pull back just enough to smile.
“As your big sister,” you murmur, fingers already working at the button of his pants. The zipper rasps in the quiet room, “my job is to take care of you.”
His breath stutters, and his hips buck up as you tug his pants and boxers down just far enough to free him. His cock is hard and flushed, tip red and slick with precum.
You reach blindly for the foil packet you’d saved in your back pocket; prepared, responsible, even when everything else about this feels reckless. Bucky’s eyes flick to your hands, wide and dark, watching as you tear it open with your teeth and roll the condom down over him with steady fingers. He groans low in his throat at the touch, hips twitching, but stays still, letting you handle it.
You shimmy your own pants and underwear down, kicking them aside somewhere on the floor. Then you settle back over him, bare skin on bare skin, guiding the head of his cock through your folds, still soaked and sensitive, coating him in the mess he made of you.
You sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch until he’s feeling every fluttering aftershock still rippling through you. His mouth opens on a broken sound, almost a whine, that he bites back quickly.
“You—Jesus,” he gasps, and his fingers dig hard into your hips. He tilts his head up, eyes focusing somewhere on the ceiling and the stars above. “Hm. That’s… hng, that’s Algol. Algol.”
You bottom out with a soft sigh then, seated fully on him, before you realize he’s mumbling whatever words just came out of his mouth. You raise an eyebrow at him, hands braced on his chest over his shirt. “… what?”
“That’s Algol. Beta Persei. Also called Demon Star,” he rambles on, every word ending on a choked syllable.
You pause, hips stilling with him buried deep inside you, the sudden shift from pleasure-drunk haze to bewildered amusement making you blink down at him.
“Demon Star?” You repeat, voice soft but laced with confusion, a small laugh bubbling up despite the way your body clenches involuntarily around him at the sound of his strained voice. “Bucky, what are you talking about?”
He swallows hard, throat working, one hand leaving your hip to gesture vaguely upward without looking at you. “The—the bright one, blinking red every couple days. Variable star. Demon Star ’cause it… it winks. Like it’s evil.” His words come out clipped, hips twitching minutely beneath you like he’s fighting every instinct not to thrust up. “Then… then Rho Persei. Gorgonea Tertia, in… fuck… reference to the Gorgons, from the Perseus story.”
Another choked sound escapes him when you shift just slightly, settling more firmly in his lap. You realize it then, watching the way his eyes stay glued to the ceiling, the way his chest rises and falls too fast. He’s trying to distract himself.
An affectionate smile curves your lips as you lean forward, feeling his heart hammer beneath your palms, your hair falling into a curtain around his face.
“Look at me,” you ask, sounding too soft for it to be a demand, and you brush your nose against his. “Is my little brother trying not to come too fast?”
His eyes snap to yours at that, mortified, cheeks burning dark under the starlight. “I… shut up,” he mutters, embarrassed. “You feel too good. I’m trying… to keep my head somewhere else. I don’t wanna embarrass myself.”
You hum in indulgence, and start a slow roll of your hips, just enough to make him groan, head thrown back against the cushion again.
“Keep going,” you tell him, leaning down to kiss along his jaw, nipping gently at the stubble there. “Tell me about the stars, Bucky.”
He exhales shakily, hands moving from your thighs and sliding up your back.
“There’s… there, in the middle, Alpha Persei. It’s—” You purposefully tease him with another grind, circling your hips until he’s panting openly, words fractured. “I—it’s the brightest star in the Perseus constellation.”
“Hmm. Good boy,” you praise softly, sitting up straighter so you can watch his face: eyes squinting, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, completely at your mercy under the endless sky of projected stars. And Bucky revels in the praise, lets out a little whine before his hands fall to your ass, trying to grind you down harder onto him.
“You’re not helping,” he pants, and his hips rise a few times to meet yours, thrusting up deep into you before coming back down. “You, talking like that, I can’t—”
“Bucky,” you hush his name into the room, fingers coming to the hem of his shirt and slipping underneath to feel the hard muscles underneath. “Better tell me the names of all those stars before you cum inside me.”
Bucky’s breath stutters out of him in a ragged rush, your words landing like sparks on dry kindling. His hand flexes against the curve of your ass, fingers digging in as though he could hold the pleasure at bay by sheer force.
“I—okay,” he rasps, eyes darting back up to the dome, searching frantically for something to latch onto. “That one—in the Cassiopeia oh constellation… it’s Alpha Cassiopeiae. Also called Schedar. It… it comes from Arabic, it means breast…”
You can’t help the fond chuckle that spills from your lips at the way he stumbles over “breast,” his voice cracking on the word like a teenager. It’s so perfectly him, reciting Arabic etymology and stars while buried inside you because it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
It’s unbearably hot.
His effort is rewarded with another slow lift of your hips, rising until only the tip of his cock remains inside of you before sinking back down in one smooth glide. You circle your hips lazily, grinding down so your clit drags against him until his moan sounds more like a sob. “Please, don’t tease me…” He gasps, but you only smile, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest again.
“Promise I’m not.” Your velvet-soft voice sounds in the room, eyes fixed on his face. God, he really is beautiful like this, under the different lights in the room, brows furrowed, lips red and wet, about to come undone under you.
Something fierce coils tight in your chest, then lower, spreading outward in a rush of heat. You sit up straighter, hands sliding from his chest to brace on his thighs behind you, changing the angle just enough that the next roll of your hips drags the length of him right across that spot inside you.
Bucky’s eyes go wide, a strangled “fuck” slipping out before he bites it back.
You start moving faster, properly riding him now, lifting and dropping in a building rhythm. The chaise creaks softly beneath you both, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting growing louder in the hushed planetarium. Every downward stroke grinds your clit against him, sparks shooting up your spine.
“Keep talking,” you breathe, voice trembling now too. “Tell me more, baby brother. I love it.”
He tries. God, he really tries. His gaze flicks desperately across the dome again.
“Caph—Beta Cassiopeiae,” he manages, the words punched out of him on every upthrust of your hips. “Means… palm of the hand—oh—”
You slam down harder, chasing the pleasure that’s suddenly roaring toward you faster than you expected. The sight of him like this, still trying to be your good little astronomy nerd while you fuck him senseless, is unraveling you quicker than you planned. Or rather, you hadn’t planned it at all. To be so turned on by the image of him naming stars just to keep himself from cumming too soon.
“Gamma Cassiopeiae,” he gasps, fingers digging crescents into your hip, hand clutching your ass like a lifeline. “Variable star—erratic—spins so fast it’s throwing off a disk—oh my God—”
His voice breaks completely when you start circling on every downstroke, grinding deep, thighs trembling. Your own breath is coming in short pants now, heat coiling tighter and tighter low in your belly.
“Bucky,” you moan, head tipping back, hair spilling down your spine as you ride him faster, harder. The stars overhead blur into streaks of silver and blue. “You’re so fucking cute when you do this, keep going—”
He whimpers and tries one last time.
“Ruchbah—Delta—means knee—and Segin—Epsilon—at the bottom—”
Oh, that’s it. Him fighting so hard to stay coherent, naming stars like a prayer while you ride him, tips you over the edge.
You come with a sharp cry, back arching, thighs clamping tight around his hips as your walls flutter and clench around him in greedy pulses. Pleasure crashes through you in bright, blinding waves, clit throbbing against him, slick heat rushing out to soak where you’re joined.
Under you, Bucky’s hips jerk up helplessly, a raw sound tearing from his throat as your orgasm drags him right to the brink.
“Please, sis, let me—”
You’re still trembling through the aftershocks, but you lean forward, bracing shaking hands on his chest, and nod frantically.
“Cum for me,” you whisper, voice raw.
Bucky’s hips snap up one last time as he spills deep into the condom with a shattered groan that echoes in the room. You feel every hot pulse, the way he throbs and jerks through it, hands clutching you like he’ll never let go.
“You did so well,” you whisper against the skin of his neck, smiling as his arms come up to wrap around you, pulling you down until you’re draped over his chest.
He huffs a weak, breathless laugh, fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. “Think I saw real stars for a second there,” he mumbles. “Behind my eyelids.”
The stars have slowed to a gentle drift overhead, the planetarium’s show looping back to the beginning. You’re both dressed now, clothes pulled on in quiet movements, the rustle of fabric louder than it should be in the hush. Your shirt smells faintly of his cologne now, his hair is mussed in that way only your fingers can manage. And neither of you has quite met the other’s eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.
Bucky stands near the chaise, closing the zipper and button of his pants. You’re leaning against the railing that separates the chairs from the stairs, arms crossed loosely.
“I should head out,” he says first, almost apologetic. “Promised Steve we’d watch the game even if I didn’t go for pizza.”
You nod, throat awfully tight. “Yeah. Of course.”
He steps closer, and his hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. So tender it makes your heart ache.
There’s a heartbeat of wonder. A moment where you think if he might push and say the thing that’s been sitting heavy between you since Christmas. A fraction of a second where you consider that maybe you will be the one cracking it open, reaching for the words that turned the two of you into whatever this is now. Hands and mouths and something neither of you can take back.
But he doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
That means that neither of you make empty promises again. Neither of you repeat the “this won’t ever happen again.”
Bucky leans in first, presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, the kind that feels like it belongs in a whole different place.
“Text me when you get home safe,” he murmurs against yout skin, before pulling you into a tight hug.
“I will,” you answer. “Text me when you get to Steve’s.”
He steps back. You let him.
Bucky pauses at the door, hand on the frame, looking back at you framed against the soft glow of the projected stars. For a second his expression cracks, allowing something that looks a lot like longing, and love he’s not allowed to name, to come forward.
Then he gives you that small, crooked smile he saves only for you.
“Night, sis.”
You manage a smile in return, even though it feels fragile. “Night, Bucky.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
You stand there alone in the empty planetarium, arms wrapped around yourself, staring up at the endless sky. You don’t know how many more times you can do this. Chase each other under false pretenses, pretend the line between sibling and lover hasn’t already been crossed twice. You don’t know how long you can keep pretending it’s just physical, just a secret you can lock away.
anyway. i’m being completely serious when i say that so many of you should be writing and publishing your own stories. if two mediocre white men can write a half assed story and get critical acclaim, just imagine what you can do
pairing: dad!bucky x reader
warnings: MDNI. incest. watersports. fingering. m!masturbation dddne! the dove is so dead. it's cold. cannot be revived.
word count: 1.1k
By the time Bucky gets home, you're so full it's painful. You’re practically squirming where you stand, shifting your weight from one foot to another. The slam of his car door sends a jolt of excitement through you, your heart rate increasing as the front door opens.
The moment he’s inside your dad kicks off his shoes and drops his bag, beelining to where you wait in the living room, clad only in an old shirt of his and your underwear.
Gently, Bucky lifts up your shirt and lays a soft hand on your swollen bladder. "Did you do what I told you to, baby?"
You nod, biting your lip. You’d followed his instructions to the letter, drinking water whenever he texted you, avoided the bathroom no matter how bad you had to go. Which had left you aching and desperate, so full you think you might burst.
“Shit. You’re so good for me, you know that?” Bucky says, loosening his tie.
Your dad is quick to rid himself of his clothes right there in the living room, too eager to move the two of you to the bedroom. His shirt comes first, tossed aside to pool on the floor, soon joined by his pants and his boxers. He’s half hard already, has been since he pulled into the driveway, his cock hanging heavy as he steps in front of you.
Bucky guides your shirt up and over your head, discarding it by the rest of his clothes. You hook a finger under your panties, moving to shimmy them down but Bucky stops you. He likes seeing them soaked knowing that he’s the reason, whether it’s with your arousal or something else.
Hands on your hips he backs you both up towards the couch. Bucky sits, pulling you to straddle him, your hands braced on his shoulders. As he maneuvers you, your bladder jostles. Before you can stop it you leak, a wet spot spreading in your panties before you get it under control.
Bucky pouts. “Poor thing. You gotta go so bad, don’t you sweetheart?”
You whimper and nod. He runs his thumb over the wet spot, traveling upwards to rub against your clit. When he takes his thumb away you start to complain, until you see him suck his thumb into his mouth. He hums, eyes closing momentarily at the taste.
“You always taste so good, baby girl. Tell daddy how bad you have to go.”
“It hurts, daddy,” you whine. “I can’t hold it anymore!”
His cock jerks and he grips the base of it with a stuttering breath. “Okay. Okay. Let go just a little bit baby. Theeere you go, good girl. Fuck."
You let go for only a few seconds, pee hissing out in a desperate rush. It pools in your panties, seeping through to Bucky’s waiting cock. Your bladder cramps once you cut off your stream but the pain is worth it when you hear your dad’s breathy groan, see the way his hand fists his cock, using your pee as lube.
The sight beneath you has your cunt pulsing, clenching around nothing. The slick, wet sound of it is obscene, the sheen of wetness on his skin intoxicating.
Bucky stills his hand and directs you closer. He pulls your panties to the side this time, moving his cock just under you, the tip prodding at your wet folds. “Go again, just a little bit. Good girl, that’s enough. Stop, baby.”
This time when he says stop you stop you cry out. The pain is worse when you stop this time, your bladder screaming at being denied release yet again. You whimper, bouncing lightly on your knees. You can feel it pressing against your hole, an incessant burn that
You look down at Bucky, your breath catching at the debauched sight. His skin is wet with your pee, his cock hard, red and angry in his hand. It’s almost like he’s the one holding, with how heavy he’s breathing. The slow stroke of his hand, pupils blown wide and dark, it’s easy to imagine a different scenario. One where he’s as desperate as you, touching himself to keep from leaking. The thought overtakes you for a moment, your mind going hazy at the thought of holding with him, of letting go together.
You lose yourself in the fantasy so completely that you leak again, a dribble running down the inside of your thigh. You gasp, hand flying to press between your legs. Your dad tuts and grabs your wrist, moving your hand back to his shoulder.
“Please! Please, I gotta go so bad!” If you weren’t straddling him your legs would be pressed together. Anything to help you hold, to keep from disappointing him.
“Please who?”
“Daddy! Please! Ahhh, I can’t hold it!
“Go ahead baby, piss all over your daddy,” he says, fisting his cock, eyes trained right between your legs.
With a heavy sigh you let go, the rush of relief nearly orgasmic as your overfull bladder finally empties. Your moan is pornographic, the molten pleasure only heightened when your dad moves his free hand to rub over your folds as you release. Hot urine soaks Bucky’s cock, splashes up to his chest as he strokes your clit with his free hand. It pools underneath him, his balls sitting in the puddle, splashing with every upward thrust of his hips into his fist.
“Such a good girl for me, shit, you really had to go, didn’t you? Love watching you let go like this. Oh fuck, I’m—“ Bucky comes with a strangled moan, thick ropes of cum shooting straight onto your cunt and into your stream, washing back down over his hand, his cock, pooling in the mess around his balls.
The moment your stream ends Bucky has two fingers buried in your cunt, the sound of your arousal and pee squelching as he drives them in and out.
“You hear that? So fuckin’ wet for me. My dirty little girl likes pissing all over her daddy, doesn’t she?” Bucky hisses. His thumb rolls over your clit, fingers bullying against your sweet spot. When you don’t answer he moves his hand from your clit to smack your thigh. “Say it!”
“Fuck! Love pissing all over you daddy. Ohh I’m gonna come, please let me come, daddy please!”
Bucky curses low. He goes back to rubbing your clit with a new determination behind his movements. “Go on baby. Come for me.”
You come with a strangled groan, legs shaking as you collapse against him. You keep shaking even as the aftershocks fade, and when Bucky shifts you back to capture your lips in a sweet kiss you melt further into him.
everybody know’s that i’m a good girl, officer ~ j.h
tags: MDNI, SMUT, pervy jim age gap (20s/40s), unprofessionalism, back seat sex, cop car sex, rough oral sex, dirty talk, kinda humiliation kink, degradation kink, mean!jim, set in the 80s, sheriff jim, strangers fucking, reader gets pulled over for speeding, throat fucking, cum eating and reader doesn’t orgasm.
summary: sheriff hopper pulls you over for speeding but he is prepared to let it slide if you do something for him in return.
The first thing you notice when your eyes drift open is how bright the light feels when only a sliver of it was seeping through your blinds.
The second was the pounding behind your eyes courtesy of last nights drinks when you thought you had a day off tomorrow.
And the third? The third hit you like a goddamn Mack truck when your tired eyes shift to the clock on your nightstand.
7:32 am.
“Oh — fuck!” You bolt upright in the bed, your head spinning and a nauseous feeling washing over you as you do so. Everything comes rushing back to you now. The phone call, Tammy’s voice — all apologetic and fake as fuck as she told you she had a “family emergency” and couldn’t make it to work for her seven to three shift tomorrow and if you could please do it for her.
You’d said yes without even thinking about it. Because you were drunk, because you were too nice, because you were a fucking idiot.
You were supposed to be opening too.
By the time you practically fell into yesterday’s jeans and shoved your feet into your sneakers, your heart was already slamming against your ribs rapidly. Donald — your boss — was going to kill you. You didn’t bother brushing your hair, just a quick tug into place, didn’t bother doing any makeup or brushing your teeth either, just splashed some cold water on and scrambled down the stairs and out the door with your car keys and a prayer.
The engine roars to life as you pull out of the driveway and onto the road, your eyes flicking between the road and the time on the dashboard like it might magically change and you wouldn’t be thirty minutes late anymore.
And maybe you were pressing down a little too hard on the gas considering how late you were. That was, of course, until the sheriff car behind you came into view, the siren on top of the vehicle flashing rapidly.
Your heart just about drops to your ass.
“No.. no, no, no,” you mumble frantically to yourself slamming your fist down onto the wheel. Of all mornings, of course this had to be the one where you get pulled over. You continue to drive, slowing down a little as if that would make the cop suddenly realise you meant no harm and leave you alone.
But obviously that didn’t work.
“Fuck.” You grit, switching your indicator on and pulling onto the side of the road. You lean across and grab your licence from your handbag, setting it onto your lap and killing the engine.
The sheriffs car pulls in behind you and you watch from the rear-view mirror as a man steps out. You pray that it’s just some younger guy who you’ll be able to flirt away from giving you ticket.
The broad man slams the drivers door shut and saunters over toward you, each step succeeding in intimidating you enough to make your hands shake.
But then he stops at your door and crouches down enough for you to be able to identify his face. Jim Hopper. The chief of Hawkins police station.
Fucking great.
You knew him — everybody did. He was heavily involved in that Byers’ kid’s disappearance two years ago. A local hero — some would say. You remember being in highschool and having him come in and give talks about staying away from drugs and drinking responsibly and he always had this confident sort swagger in the way he presented himself. He came across as entitled and sarcastic and it was incredibly obnoxious yet attractive at the same time.
And now he was at your fucking window.
He knocks on the glass, signalling for you to roll it down. You’re quick to do so, smiling tightly and awkwardly as you do. You’re not going to be able to charm yourself out of this one — or so you thought.
He wears a pair of shaded glasses and he removes them as you pull the window down fully. You clear your throat nervously, taking a deep breath before speaking. “Good morning, sir.”
He doesn’t please you with a greeting, just grunts in response. He sets one hand on his hip, straightening up off of his hunkers. “You any idea of how fast you were goin’ back there, miss?” He drawls, his voice lazy and uninterested.
Your hands fidget with the license in your lap. “Yeah.. sorry about that I just.. I slept it out and I’m really late for work so, I just — I understand theres no excuse for it.”
He hums, licking his lower lip and looking you up and down. And there was just something about the look in his eyes. It was a little predatory — unprofessional for certain. Was he checking you out, or something? You’re suddenly aware of the button you forgot to do on your blouse while scrambling into your clothes this morning and it sends a flush of hot heat to your cheeks.
“Can you produce your license for me?” He asks, sticking two of his fingers out for you to slip the card in between. He takes it from you and takes a quick, bored glance at it, mumbling something to himself.
You swallow and avert your eyes from him, looking down at your feet in shame. But there was something else building in your gut — some sort of knot that you couldn’t understand what was from. Was it nervousness or something else? You think the latter.
He hands the licence back to you, clearing his throat impatiently when you don’t notice he’s finished with it right away. You jump a little at the sound and quickly turn and take it off him, uttering a frazzled sorry as you put it back in your handbag.
There’s a beat of silence for a second. He just looks at you. And it feels like he’s doing it for so long until he finally speaks up. “Do you have any alcohol in your system? You drink last night or this morning?”
Panic washes over you. Fuck. You still had alcohol in your system. You finished your last drink at about two am last night, meaning you shouldn’t be driving until nine am at the earliest.
“I uh..” you stutter, your palms feeling sweaty. “I drank last night so — yes, there is. But I — I just, I really had to get to work and it was.. was just the only thing on my mind.”
Jim nods, his expression staying neutral. “Right, well this is what we’re gonna do. You’re over the speed limit and technically still drunk so I’m gonna have to write you a ticket which will result with a fine. If you aren’t — ”
“Please — please, don’t do that — sir,” You cut him off, not even caring about how fucking desperate your tone sounded or if you were overstepping your place. You turn fully in your seat, making direct eye contact with the man. “I really can’t afford that.” You plead.
He tsks, tilting his head patronisingly. “Well, maybe ya shoulda’ thought about that before you stepped on the gas so damn hard there, sweetie.” And he’s enjoying this, isn’t he? Watching you get so worked up. He looks entertained, that twitch in the corner of his mouth told you so.
“I know, just — please! I’ll do anything, I just can’t afford to pay a fine right now I mean — I work in melvald’s, they aren’t exactly handing out wads of cash.”
Then you see something switch behind his eyes — like your lashing out and begging awakened something within him and you could now practically hear his brain ticking away with ideas. His jaw ticks and he reaches down to the door handle and pulls it open, reaching down to grab you by the bicep to tug you out of the vehicle.
You stumble a little as Hopper pulls you to your feet, and you reach out to stabilise yourself with a hand on his chest. He shoves your car door shut and begins to march you over to the sheriff car, his expression blank but determined.
You stumble along beside him, looking around frantically. “What are you — doing?!” You ask loudly, not quite shouting but with enough strength in your voice to hold your ground.
He stops in front of the back door of the car, taking his hand from your arm and opening the door. He puts his hand on the small of your back, gently guiding you inside of the car until you’re situated on the seat.
You look up at him with wide eyes. “This is bullshit, you don’t have the grounds to arrest me! I haven’t even —“ Jim cuts you off by slamming the door yet talks loud enough for you to hear. “I’m not arresting you.” He replies calmly, rounding the car and opening the other side of the back seat door.
“Just taking you up on your offer.” He explains way too casually, climbing into the seat, rocking the car a little in the process with his weight. He groans as he spreads his legs obnoxiously wide, his eyes turning to you expectantly.
You open your mouth but no words come to you. You don’t understand. He doesn’t want you to… I mean, he couldn’t, right? “I don’t..” you start dumbly, your throat suddenly feeling dry when your eyes drop down to his lap. “I don’t understand what you mean, sheriff.”
He scoffs, looking away from you like it was obvious what he was asking of you. It was condescending and made you feel so goddamn stupid. “You said you’d do anything, right? Well then c’mon, show me what you’ll do to get out of that speedin’ ticket of yours, kid.” He says, reaching down and palming himself through his khaki, uniformed pants. “Oh and — drop the ‘sheriff’ thing and just call me Jim, would ya? I know you know who I am.”
So that was how you ended up between the thighs of chief of Hawkins police — Jim Hopper. You looked up at him nervously, eyes wide as he unbuttoned his pants and manoeuvred his cock and balls from the confines of them — resting his heavy, messily trimmed sack on his waistband.
The sight of him caught you off guard for a second. He was.. thick. Like way thicker than you’d ever seen or dealt with before from a man and it sent a rush of adrenaline through your veins. Knowing that you would have to work hard and grow accustomed to the feeling of your lips stretched wide around his dripping tip made your core tingle and your stomach clench with a mix of nervousness and excitement.
He wasn’t even particularly long — not like the kind of cock you’d read about in erotic novels or see in a Playgirl magazine. He was just girthy and fat — fat enough that the thought of fucking yourself on it made you feel dizzy.
Jim holds his base in front of your face, watching you intently as he smears the beads of pre-jack into your dry lips. “Best put the work in, kiddo. Your little performance is gonna determine whether ya get outta that ticket or not,” He taunts, his other hand reaching down to cup your jaw. He tilts his head to the side, grunting when your tongue slips out to lap at the salty residue. “You always this easy, sugar? Just droppin’ to your knees whenever you need to get outta a tough situation?”
You feels his taunting burn into the pit in your stomach, something about the way he was being so dehumanising towards you made you want to punch him and please him at the same time. You choose the latter and shake your head no. “No, just you,” you say breathily, your lips enveloping his tip, your tongue swirling around those throbbing glands.
He moans under his breath, dropping the back of his head against the headrest. He removes his hand that was resting on your jaw up toward your head, tangling his fingers in the strands near your scalp. He pulls you down onto his cock a little forcefully. Your mouth has no choice other than to part wider, your jaw aching already at the uncomfortable position.
“Fuck, there you go,” Jim praises, using the hand that was in your hair to bob your head up and down, your tongue darting out to glide over his shaft with every intake of his length. You breath in harshly through your nose, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth and threatening to spill. You sputter violently when he guides your mouth down further until his tip is brushing the fleshy bit of tissue in the back of your throat.
Your throat makes a gurgling sound but hopper doesn’t budge. He keeps pushing you down until your nose is pushed against the coarse hair at his root, your nostrils inhaling the sweaty, beefy smell of him. And for a second, you think you might throw up — what with how fucking wide he’s stretching your throat. But with some miracle, your stomach settles and the feeling of him choking you — of his cock prodding that sensitive gag reflex of yours so roughly sends a wave of relaxation toward you.
Maybe it’s because it’s pacifying, or maybe you have somewhat of an oral fixation. But you think you may just really like being used like this. Having your throat fucked as if you mean nothing to him — which, you didn’t really if you think about it. You’re just a desperate, young woman who needed to get out of a sticky situation.
You moan pathetically around him, the vibrations sending shockwaves up to the tip of his cock. And you just now that you notice the way he’s looking at you. Your eyes dart up to his, glossy and willing and he stares back at you with something that could only be described as awe.
It’s like he was testing how far you’d go for him but he didn’t really think you would actually comply to this extent. His hand releases from your hair, allowing you to drag your lips back up his length until you can release his tip with a pop.
He takes your chin between his thumb and pointer, forcing your face to be looking in his direction. His tone drops low — filthy, perverted almost. “Bet those panties are fuckin’ wet, huh? Look like your enjoyin’ yourself, sweetheart. Like you actually like doin’ this for me,” he shakes his head, tutting. “Bet your momma wouldn’t like that. Imagine your parents finding out about their daughter getting her face fucked by the chief of police, hm? What would they think?”
Your heart sinks a little at his degradation but yet your clit still doesn’t fail to pulse beneath its hood. It’s like a weird, slightly controversial kink is being awakened in you. You always prided yourself as someone who would never take any shit from a man, always the politically educated feminist at the Christmas Day dinner defending herself from her narrow minded family members, but there was just something about the way Jim was doing it that was just so captivating.
Like he knew just how to push your buttons without even knowing you. He knew exactly how far to go and when enough was enough and it sort of hypnotised you in a way. “They’d be…” you start, fumbling for the right word, your face feeling hot and sweaty. You felt like a child being chastised by their parent, an answer being demanded from you. “Disgusted. Probably a little ashamed.” You answered honestly, your eyes mimicking ones of a doe looking for validation.
“Mm,” he nods, his thumb swiping over your chin. “But I think you’re gonna do it anyway, am I right? I think you’re gonna be a good girl and suck my cock until I need to cum, huh?” He says mockingly, his thumb prodding at your lips until you opened for him. When you did, he slipped his digit inside, resting it on your sloppy tongue and stroking the muscle up and down. Your eyes roll back at the tickling sensation but your pleasure is quickly taken from you when Jim brings his cock back towards your mouth, tapping his tip onto your lips.
“Yes, sir,” you reply to his previous question, your tongue darting out to kitten lick his mushroomy head while your left hand wrapped around the base to stroke. You twist your hand everytime it gets close to the tip, eliciting a deep, rumbling moan from Hopper. He likes that, you think to yourself.
“Open up — none of that teasing. Where’s that dirty girl who was getting her face fucked just minutes ago? Suck my cock like you mean it, kid.” He orders gruffly, his tone leaving no room for argument. And as you do as he says in taking him back into your mouth, you wonder if you are the only one he’s done this with. Is he really just a bent cop who regularly persuades women to sleep with him, or was there just something special about you?
He reaches out and braces one hand on the front seat behind your body, grasping the head rest tightly when he feels his balls start to grow tight and uncomfortable. Jim’s eyes close momentarily but you keep yours eyes up on his regardless, especially as you take him deeper down your throat until your breathing heavily through your nose that’s brushing his pubic hair once again.
“C’mon, there you go,” Jim mutters under his breath, encouraging you with a tug on your hair with his other hand to start moving up and down. Once you do and he’s satisfied, he leans back fully, allowing himself to melt into the seat behind him. You could feel that he was near his peak — what with the way his hips thrusted up a little to meet the bobs of your head and how his tip started to throb in your mouth. Your hand still moved on his base, jerking him off the best you could with how slippery his dick had become with your saliva.
“Just a dirty fuckin’ girl. Bet you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Getting all slutty for me to get out of that ticket o’yours.” He degrades, his voice turning a little wobbly with each word passing his lips. Spit dribbles down your chin and onto your chest, ruining the blouse you were supposed to be wearing to work.
You start to rut your hips down and with the way your legs were folded beneath you, it was creating the perfect friction for your pussy against your foot. And with your grinds and the way hopper lifted his hips up and down to match your mouth, the car was rocking rather suspiciously. Suspicious enough that if anyone were to drive by and notice, they would definitely know what was going on inside.
“There you go, grind on yourself for me while i make a mess in that mouth.” Hopper says finally, a hand reaching up to run through his brown, slightly-greying hair as he bites down on his upper lip, trying to contain the sounds fighting to come from his throat. Jim feels the pressure continue to build, almost like he’s at a point of no return, as dramatic as it sounds.
And the combination of your mouth, hand and pretty eyes staring up at him, he can’t hold himself back any longer. His muscles start to spasm, his hips jerking on their own as hot, white cum spills from his tip into your mouth. You pull back until only his head is in your mouth and for a second, the saltiness of his spend makes you gag, but when Jim looks down at you from the noise, his eyes alert and warning despite being an absolute wreck, you pull yourself together. “All of it.” He orders, referring to swallowing every last drop.
You garble something untranslatable and hesitantly open your throat to swallow the stringy substance.
After Jim tells you it’s okay to get up, you both just sit there, either side of each other in the back of the car, silence hanging heavy and awkward in the air. You turn to Hopper nervously, looking at him for a second before opening your mouth to talk. “Uh.. by the way, my name is — ”
“I know what your name is,” hopper cuts in abruptly, sniffing harshly and leaning over to open your door. “Saw it on your license.”
“Maybe next time don’t go so fast on your way to work,” he suggests, nodding his head toward the open door, silently telling you to leave. “Or do..” he adds quietly. “I’m on traffic the rest of the week.”
