40s. She/Her FAN Blog. 18+ Blog. NSFW stuff. LGBTQ+. Actors. Actresses. WWE Wrestlers. Fan Fiction Stories. Marvel. Stucky. Swanqueen. And so much more. Side Blog: Original Writing Blog: my-writing-nook-2023 Side Blog: krissylovesspring
"So," Jen started as she sat down across from all three of you, "how'd you guys meet, then?"
Curtis, your strong, stoic one, surprises you by being the first to answer. "We all met at a mutual friend's birthday party. Just got into a conversation between the three of us and," he shrugs, "clicked. It seemed pretty simple, to be honest."
You grinned. "Yeah, felt like the three of us just all slotted into place. All at once."
"Well," Ari jumped in on your other side, his arm stretched across the top of the couch so that he touched you both, "technically I saw her first."
Your mouth dropped open in shock as you turned from one of your boyfriends to the other to find the biggest, most shit-eating grin on Ari's face.
Curtis leaned in over you, and even though you couldn't see his eye roll, you could feel it. "Fuck off," he muttered, with equal parts affection and exasperation.
Ari shrugged, his expression not changing. "I'm just saying. If we're talking about who was into who first, it was me. I saw her first."
"God, Ari," you laughed, just as Curtis reached across you to pull Ari toward him with his hand on the back of Ari's neck.
"Yeah? Well, maybe I saw you first, huh?" And then he pulled Ari into one of the filthiest kisses you'd ever witnessed between them. But never one to leave anyone out, his other hand slipped between your thighs. Not indecent, not exactly. But if this continued any further, the three of you would need to get home. Now.
You heard Jen awkwardly clear her throat on the other couch as Curtis thumb on your leg started to brush back and forth. Yeah, it was definitely time to go.
just because you don’t look like somebody who you think is attractive doesn’t mean you aren’t attractive. flowers are pretty but so are christmas lights and they look nothing alike
D A D D Y ' S B E S T F R I E N D
[Bucky Barnes × F!Reader | Daddy’s Best Friend AU | Part 1/3]
❇ Official Pairing: Bucky Barnes × F!Reader
❇ Synopsis: Your dad must never find out that his best friend can’t take his eyes off you every time he walks by. Bucky Barnes still calls you “kid,” even though you’re twenty-five. But that night, the word won’t come out of his mouth. He looks at you as if he wants to tear you apart and put you back together, and you’re not sure you want him to stop anymore.
❇ Main Tropes: Daddy’s best friend · Huge age gap · “kid” (irony) · First time / loss of virginity · Breeding kink · Belly obsession · Sperm play · Possessive language · Guilt · Mutual desire · Gentle aftercare following intense sex · Forbidden relationship · Secret
⚠ This story contains highly explicit mature content (age gap, father’s best friend, MDNI, explicit scenes, forbidden relationship, guilt, first time, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, belly obsession, gentle aftercare, plot-driven erotica) intended strictly for an adult audience (18+ / MDNI). Reader discretion is heavily advised.
I'm still posting my one-shots and you've got to see how I made Steve so dumb that he's going to drive you all crazy.
❇ Warnings & Tags: Bucky calls the reader “kid” (even though she's 25) · Gentle but naughty Bucky · Slightly spoiled Reader · Use of nicknames
✧ Bucky's masterlist
Next Part: Part 2 →
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send an ask to be added to my oneshots | series | all writing
❇❇❇
You’ve been waiting for him since this morning.
Your dad dropped the news at breakfast, between sips of black coffee: “Bucky’s spending the weekend here. ” That was it. And you spent the next four hours changing clothes like a maniac, switching between jeans that were too conservative and a dress that was too obvious, before settling on a white tank top so thin you can see your nipples poking through, and shorts. No bra. Just a lace thong that cuts into your cleavage. You know exactly what you’re doing. You also know it’s stupid, that it’s dangerous, that he’s your dad’s best friend, and that he’s called you “kid” your whole life. But damn it, you’ve been thinking about him for a year. It’s been a year since you’ve been touching yourself while imagining his hands. So stupid or not, you’re owning it.
The car pulls into the driveway at 3:37 p.m. The engine roars—a deep V8 that makes the living room windows rattle and your stomach churn at the same time. Your dad jumps up like a kid on Christmas morning, throws the door wide open, and the harsh July sunlight floods into the living room.
“Damn, Buck! It took you forever!” ”
“There was an accident on I-95.” Bucky’s voice hits you right in the chest. Deep, hoarse, a little tired. “It took me two hours to drive eighty kilometers. I almost killed someone.”
“You’re here, that’s all that matters. Come on in, put your bag down.”
He steps into the light. A black gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps as if the fabric had given up all hope of staying loose, dark jeans. Brown hair tied back in a loose bun, strands stuck to his temples from the sweat of the road. He has dark circles under his gray-blue eyes, a small, fresh cut on his chin. He’s tired, unshaven, and damn, he’s handsome.
Then he sees you.
His eyes drift toward the couch. They settle on you. And everything freezes. He stands rooted in the doorway, the sun at his back, his massive silhouette silhouetted against the light, staring at you as if he’d just been headbutted right in the face.
“Shit. ”
The word slips out on its own. A barely audible whisper. But you hear it. And your stomach clenches.
“What?” your father says. “You look weird, Buck.”
“The road. I’m thirsty.”
But his eyes haven’t moved a millimeter. They slowly trace down your face, glide over your neck, linger on your bare shoulders, then plunge toward your breasts. There, they stop. For a long time. The white cotton hides nothing,the curve of your breasts, everything is visible. Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly that you can see the muscle twitch beneath his beard.
Then his eyes continue their descent. Your bare stomach. The curve of your hips. Your thighs, long and tanned, bare almost all the way down.
“Kid.”
The word slips out mechanically, like a reflex honed over twenty years. Except this time, it’s not a nickname. It’s a growl. A warning. A veiled admission.
“James,” you reply.
Just his first name. But the tone you use, the way you look him in the eyes as you say it… it’s anything but innocent.
Your dad, that blind bastard, is already rummaging through the fridge in the kitchen.
“I’m bringing back some beers! Buck, have you eaten yet or not? ”
“No,” Bucky replies without taking his eyes off you. “But I’m hungry.”
And he’s clearly not talking about food.
“Spill it,” your father says, setting the beers on the table. “How’s it been going all this time? Still single?”
Bucky grabs a bottle, pops the cap off with a sharp twist, and takes a long swig. A drop runs down his beard, sliding over his Adam’s apple.
“Yeah. Always.”
“How come?”
He looks at you as he answers.
“I’m picky. ”
The silence that follows weighs three metric tons. Your father nods as if he’s just heard some profound wisdom, then turns back to the TV. You get up from the couch, pretending to look for chips, and as you walk past Bucky, your arm brushes against his. His skin is burning hot. His fingers tighten around the bottle.
“You’ve changed,” he blurts out suddenly.
You stop.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve changed. A lot.”
He looks you over from head to toe, without any restraint. His eyes linger on your breasts, then drift down between your thighs before moving back up to your face.
“She’s grown up, Buck,” your father says absentmindedly, already glued to the game. “Twenty-five now. ”
“Twenty-five,” Bucky repeats.
He savors the number, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of whiskey.
“So it’s official, then. You’re not a kid anymore.”
“Exactly.” You lock eyes with him. “I’m not a kid anymore, James.”
Your dad gets up to take a piss. The bathroom door slams at the end of the hallway. You’re alone. Bucky sets down his beer, takes two steps toward you, and stops twenty centimeters away. He’s so tall that your nose barely reaches his chin. His scent washes over you,soap, clean sweat, something woody and dark.
“Did you put that on for me?” His voice has dropped a notch.
“What?”
“Stop it.” He lowers his voice even further, to a hoarse whisper. “That tank top that shows everything. Those shorts that don’t even cover your ass. You put that on for me. Say it.”
“So what if I did?”
“Then say it. ”
“Yeah.” You hold his gaze without flinching. “I put this on for you.”
Bucky closes his eyes for a second, exhales slowly. When he opens them again, his pupils are so dilated that the gray has almost disappeared.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, kid.”
“Explain it to me. ”
“Your father’s like a brother to me. I saw you being born, for fuck’s sake. I carried you on my shoulders when you were four. And now, I can’t take my eyes off your breasts.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Ever since I walked in, I’ve been hard as a rock. It hurts.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me that you’re hard.”
He stares at you as if you’d just asked him to kill someone. Then, slowly, he grabs your right hand and presses it against his crotch. Under the denim, his cock is hard as marble, enormous, burning hot. It throbs against your palm.
“There you go, kid,” he growls. “That’s what you’ve been doing to me for the past hour. Are you happy now?”
“Yes.”
He pulls your hand away but keeps it trapped in his.
“I’m not allowed to do anything.”
“I know.”
“If I touch you, I’ll lose Steve.”
“My dad doesn’t need to know.”
Silence falls. The TV blares in the living room; the toilet flushes at the end of the hallway. Bucky lets go of your hand just before your dad reappears.
“Well,” your dad says as he sits back down, “are we having dinner tonight or what?”
Bucky answers without taking his eyes off you.
“Yeah. I’m starving.”
And he smiles. A little smirk that promises absolutely nothing good.You sit back down on the couch. Your thighs stick together, soaked. This night isn't going to be anything like a quiet one. And Bucky just confirmed that without saying another word.
The pizzas arrived at 7:30 p.m., delivered by a sixteen-year-old kid sweating in his red polo shirt. Your dad brought out three plates, three beers, and seated everyone around the living room table, as if to say,
“We’re going to have a nice, quiet evening.”
Except nothing is quiet. Not at all. The air is thick with tension, heavy like before a storm, and every time you shift in your chair, you feel Bucky’s gaze sliding over you.
He’s sitting across from you. Right across from you. The table is maybe one meter twenty wide,which is practically nothing. You can see every detail of his face,the pale scar near his lower lip, the salt and pepper starting to show in his beard, the way his pupils dilate every time your eyes meet his. He’s still wearing the same gray T-shirt, but he’s let his hair down. It falls in dark waves around his shoulders, and damn, it makes him look even more dangerous.
“So Buck, tell me about your job,” your dad says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. “Still in security?”
“Yeah.” Bucky takes a bite of his pizza without taking his eyes off you. “I had an assignment last week. Close protection. An actress.”
“Damn, really? Which one? ”
“I can’t say. Non-disclosure agreement.”
He wipes a streak of tomato sauce off his lip with his thumb, and your eyes follow the movement like an idiot.
“Let’s just say she was a pain in the ass.”
You break your slice in half to eat it more easily, and as you lean forward, your tank top gapes open a little. Just a little. Enough for Bucky to see the tops of your breasts. Enough for him to set his slice down on the table and clench his jaw.
“What about you, kid?” His voice is a notch lower. Slower. “Still at your graphic design school?”
“I’m not in school anymore. I finished last year.”
“Oh yeah? So where are you working now?”
“I’m freelancing. I work from home.”
You pick up an olive between your fingers, bring it to your mouth, suck on it a little before biting into it. An innocent gesture,except it’s not; you know exactly what you’re doing.
“I make a good living.”
Bucky watches you suck on that olive as if he wanted to be in your place.
“You sure look like it, yeah.”
“What do you mean, ‘you look like it’?”
“You look like a woman who makes a good living.” His eyes drift down to your lips. “You look like a woman who gets what she wants. ”
“Maybe I do.”
Your father wipes his mouth and burps discreetly.
“She’s talented, you know. She redesigned the whole company website for me. For free, no less.”
“For free,” Bucky repeats. “You’re a nice kid. ”
“I’m nice to the people I love.”
Silence. A fucking three-second silence where the word “love” hangs over the table like a vague threat. Bucky puts down his fork.
“What about the people you don’t love?” he asks softly.
“I’m not a nice person. ”
“I figured as much.”
You lean forward to grab the bottle of Tabasco. Your tank top gapes open again; the entire curve of your left breast is almost visible, your nipple brushing against the edge of the fabric. You sit back up slowly, very slowly, and meet Bucky’s gaze. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said a word. But his plate has been untouched for five minutes, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against the table.
“Are you hot, Buck?” your father asks without looking up from his pizza.
“A little, yeah.”
“No surprise, it’s thirty out there. Drink your beer.”
Bucky obeys mechanically, takes a sip, and sets the bottle down too hard. The noise makes your father jump.
“Hey, easy on the table. ”
“Sorry.”
It’s not the table that’s the problem. It’s you. It’s your lips around that damn olive. It’s your neck, exposed every time you toss your hair back. It’s that little vein pulsing beneath your jaw that he stares at as if he wants to bite it.
“Can I have another piece?” You reach for the box.
“Here.”
Bucky pushes the box toward you. Your fingers brush against each other. Just for a second. But a spark shoots through you, electric, all the way down to your groin.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, kid.”
That word burns you now. Before, it was cute. Before, it was affectionate. Now, every time he says it, you hear something else. You hear,
“I call you ‘kid’ to remind myself I shouldn’t, but it’s the only thing keeping me from ripping those shorts off you right here on this table.”
“Do you remember that time we went camping?” your father suddenly asks. “Buck, you had to carry the little one on your shoulders for three kilometers because she’d twisted her ankle.”
“I remember,” says Bucky without taking his eyes off your neck. “She weighed nothing. She clung to my hair like reins.”
“I was twelve,” you protest.
“You were light.” He takes a sip of beer. “Now…”
“Now what?”
“Now I’m not sure I could carry you for that long. ”
“Because I’ve gained weight?”
“Because I don’t have the same stamina anymore.” He smiles—a small, wry smile. “And because carrying you now would be… different.”
Your father bursts out laughing.
“Yeah, no kidding. She’s heavier than she was when she was twelve. ”
Bucky isn’t talking about weight. You know that. So does he. And he confirms it by letting his gaze drift over your mouth, then down your neck, then along the line of your collarbones.
“Do you not wear necklaces anymore?” he asks suddenly.
“Excuse me? ”
“You used to always wear a little silver necklace. With a moon pendant.”
You absentmindedly touch your bare neck.
“I… you remember that?”
“I remember everything, kid.”
Silence falls again, even heavier than before. Your father chews quietly, now glued to his phone, checking the scores. He has no idea what’s going on just one meter twenty away from him.
“I can’t wear it anymore,” you say softly. “The clasp broke. ”
“Too bad. It looked good on you.”
“I can fix it.”
“You should.”
His eyes drift up to your neck. He stares at that exact spot, just below your jawline, where the skin is thin and tender, where your pulse beats against your carotid artery. You know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about pressing his lips there. To suck on your skin until it leaves a purple mark. To hold you by the hair while he bites your neck, and to hear the little sound you’d make.
“You’ve got a sauce stain,” he says suddenly.
“Where?”
“There.” He touches the corner of his own lips with his thumb. “On your mouth.”
You reach for your napkin, but he raises his hand.
“Leave it. I’ll do it. ”
He leans over the table. It’s an absurd, dangerous, completely inappropriate gesture. But your father isn’t looking, and Bucky reaches out, places his thumb on the corner of your lower lip, and wipes away the smudge of tomato sauce with a slow motion.
“There. ”
His thumb lingers. One more second. Two seconds. You feel the texture of his calloused skin against your lip, the warmth of his finger, the immense possibility of what might happen if you opened your mouth right now.
“Thanks,” you whisper against his thumb.
“You’re welcome, kid.”
He sits back down. His knuckles are white as he grips his beer bottle. The bulge in his jeans is pressing so hard against his fly that the metal must be digging into his skin.
“Well,” says your father, putting down his phone. “I’m going to get another beer. Do you guys want one? ”
“No,” Bucky replies a little too quickly. “I mean, yes. Yes.”
“You have some nerve.”
Your father stands up and disappears into the kitchen, whistling.Bucky immediately leans forward, both elbows on the table, his voice reduced to a whisper.
“Stop it. ”
“Stop what?”
“Stop sucking on olives like that.”
“I’m eating normally.”
“You eat like a slut, yeah.”
The word hits between you like a slap.
“Don’t say that,” you say, but your voice trembles.
“Why? It’s the truth.” He holds your gaze without flinching. “You spent the whole dinner torturing me, kid. Every time you open your mouth to speak, I look at your lips. Every time you lean over, I look at your neck. Every time you shift in your chair, I wonder if you’re already wet.”
“I am,” you let slip.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second. He takes a long breath. When he opens them again, they’re almost black.He sits up straight just as your dad comes back with three more beers.
“So, what were you two talking about?” your dad asks cheerfully.
“Nothing,” Bucky replies, his eyes still locked on yours. “The kid was telling me about his plans.”
“Oh yeah? Tell us, sweetie.”
You look at Bucky.
“It’s a surprise. You’ll find out later.”
“Okay, okay,” your father grumbles. “Secrets, I suppose.”
“Exactly,” says Bucky, handing you a cold beer. “secrets.”
His fingers brush against yours one last time. And he smiles. That same slow, dangerous, crooked smile that promises the night is going to be very, very long.
***
Dinner drags on for another hour. An hour of stolen glances over empty bottles, of fingers brushing as you pass the plates, of heavy silences that your father fills with work stories that interest no one. Bucky responds in monosyllables. “Yeah.” “Seriously.” “Crazy. ” But his eyes never leave your face, your mouth, your neck. Every time you laugh at one of your father’s jokes, he clenches his jaw. Every time you run your tongue over your lips to wipe away a crumb, he swallows. Every time you bend over to pick up your napkin that fell on the floor, he watches your tank top gape open and forgets to breathe.
At 10:30 p.m., your father yawns. A huge yawn that almost dislocates his jaw.
“Well, I’m going to bed.” He gets up from the couch, stretching, his T-shirt riding up over his potbelly. “Bucky, you know your room. Same as always.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you, sweetie…” Your father absentmindedly kisses your forehead. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I promise.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughs to himself, already on the stairs.
The sound of his footsteps fades away. A door opens upstairs, then closes. Silence falls over the living room like a lid.
Bucky doesn’t move. He’s sitting in the armchair, legs spread apart, his empty beer bottle in his hand. He’s looking at you. You’re standing near the couch, your arms crossed under your breasts,a gesture that lifts them and makes them spill out a little more from your tank top. You’re doing it on purpose, of course. You’ve been doing everything on purpose since this morning.
“I’m going to clean up the kitchen,” you say in a neutral voice.
“I’m here to help you.”
“No need. ”
“I insist.”
You turn on your heel without waiting for his reply. The kitchen is ten steps from the living room—a small, square room with a central island and light-wood cabinets. You set the dirty plates in the sink, turn on the faucet, and let the hot water run. Steam fogs up the window above the sink.
And then you hear him.
The sound of his boots on the tile floor. Slow. Steady. The kitchen door closing behind him with a soft metallic click. You don’t turn around. You keep rinsing the plates, your heart pounding like a damn jackhammer in your chest.
“Kid.”
His voice is right behind you. Thirty centimeters away. You feel his heat on your back, that intense, animalistic heat radiating from him like a furnace.
“Bucky.”
“Turn around.”
You turn off the water. You wipe your hands on your shorts,a pointless gesture, since the fabric is already soaked, but it buys you three seconds. Then you turn around.
He’s there. Right in front of you. His gray-blue eyes have turned almost black, his pupils so dilated they swallow up his irises. His beard looks darker in the dim light of the kitchen; his hair falls in waves around his shoulders. He must have taken off his boots somewhere between the living room and here. He’s barefoot. And damn, even his feet are beautiful.
“You’ve been doing this on purpose all dinner,” he says softly. Not a question. A statement.
“What exactly?”
“Leaning over so I could see your breasts. Sucking your fingers after every slice of pizza. Running your tongue over your lips while I was talking to you.” He takes a step forward. “You tortured me for two hours, kid.”
“I didn’t do anything special. ”
“Stop it.” His voice cracks like a whip. “Stop playing with me.”
Another step. You instinctively step back, and your back hits the edge of the counter. The kitchen island is behind you, cold against your shoulder blades. Bucky stops ten centimeters away, his two hands resting on the counter on either side of your hips, and he pins you there, trapped between the marble and his massive body.
“Do you know what you’re doing to your old uncle, kid?”
The word “uncle” stings. He’s not your uncle. He never has been. But he uses that word to remind himself that this is forbidden, that it’s dangerous, that your father is upstairs, and that what he’s about to do could destroy thirty years of friendship.
“You’re not my uncle,” you whisper.
“No.” He lowers his head, his forehead almost touching yours. “I’m worse than that. I’m the guy who watched you grow up and who hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you since you walked through the door this morning.”
“James…”
“Shut up.” His fingers clench the marble. “Let me talk. Otherwise I’m going to do something we’ll both regret.”
You fall silent. Your breath is short, your pussy is soaking wet, your nipples are pressing so hard against your tank top that they almost hurt.
“Ever since I got here,” he begins, his voice hoarse and low, “I’ve been thinking about one thing. Just one.”
“What is it?”
“To take you.” He looks you straight in the eyes as he says this. “To bend you over that counter. To rip off those slutty little shorts. To spread your thighs and eat your pussy until you beg me to stop.”
You let out a little sound. A barely stifled moan.
“That turns you on, doesn’t it?” He tilts his head. “Knowing I’ve had a hard-on for you for the past six hours. That I had to hold myself back from touching you in front of your dad. That I almost lost it when you sucked on that damn olive.”
“You saw that. ”
“I saw everything.” His right hand leaves the counter, moves slowly upward, stopping a centimeter from your breast. “I saw your nipples harden when I watched you. I saw your thighs clamp together under the table. I saw the way you bit your lip every time I said ‘kid.’”
His hand moves forward. His fingers brush against your nipple through the cotton. Just a light touch. Just enough to make you moan.
“James, my father…”
“Your father’s asleep.” His hand is now pressed fully against your breast, his warm palm against its soft curve. “And you’re going to be quiet. You’d better be. ”
He gently kneads your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple in small circles. Your head falls back, the nape of your neck hitting the edge of the closet, but you don’t care.
“Look at me,” he orders.
You open your eyes again. His face is five centimeters from yours. His beard, his slightly parted lips, his almost black eyes. He’s gorgeous and terrifying.
“Tell me to stop.”
You don’t answer.
“Say it, kid. Say ‘James, stop,’ and I’ll go back up to my room and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”
The silence drags on. You could say it. You should say it. That’s what reason demands, what morality commands, what thirty years of friendship between him and your father call for.
“Say it,” he repeats, almost pleading now. “Please. Say it.”
“No.”
The word falls like a guillotine.
Bucky closes his eyes. A long shiver runs through his body, from his shoulders down to his thighs. When he opens them again, there’s no restraint left in his gaze. No more struggle. No more morality.
“You’re going to regret this,” he whispers.
“I know.”
His other hand leaves the counter. It grabs the back of your neck, his fingers getting lost in your hair, holding your head back. His mouth descends on your neck without warning. Not a gentle kiss—a bite. His teeth catch the tender skin just below your jaw, his tongue runs over it, and he sucks hard and long.
“Shit,” you moan, grabbing his T-shirt with both hands.
“Shh.” His mouth moves up toward your ear. “You’d better be quiet. I told you so. ”
His hand lets go of your hair, slides down your back, and moves down to your buttocks. He grabs your right buttock with his whole hand, kneads the flesh, his fingers digging into the muscle.
“Those little shorts,” he growls against your ear. “Ever since this morning, I’ve been dreaming of taking them off. ”
“Take it off.”
He pulls his head back, looks at you. His eyes are blazing.
“Not tonight.”
“What?”
“Not tonight.”
His hand leaves your butt, moves back up, and rests on your cheek. A gesture that’s almost tender now.
“Tonight, I just want to… taste you.”
“James…”
“I want to know what you taste like.” His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing gently. “I want you to come on my tongue. Once. Just once. And then you’ll go back up to your room and sleep. ”
“What about you?”
“I’ll jerk off in my room, thinking about you.”
He smiles. That same dangerous smile.
“And tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast with your dad like nothing ever happened.”
Your breathing is ragged.
“What if I want more? ”
“We’ll see tomorrow.”
His hand slowly slides down your stomach, his fingers stopping at the waistband of your shorts.
“But right now, you’re going to spread your legs and let me do it.”
His thumb slides under your jeans, finds the lace of your thong, and presses just above your clitoris.
“You’re soaking wet,” he observes.
“For you. ”
“I know.” He presses harder, his thumb slowly circling the damp fabric. “You’ve been soaking wet for me since this morning. Ever since I walked into this living room, your little pussy has been dripping for your old uncle.”
“Stop saying ‘uncle.’ ”
“Why? It turns you on.”
He increases the pressure of his thumb, finds your clit through the lace, and rolls it.
“Your dad calls me his brother, and you’re getting wet in my hand.”
“James, please…”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me.”
He pulls his hand away abruptly. Takes a step back. His chest heaves rapidly; his breathing is as ragged as yours.
“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice choked. “I told you. Tonight, you come on my tongue, and that’s it. ”
“Why?”
“Because.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Because if I fuck you now, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll take you right here on this counter, then on the couch, then in your bed, and your dad will wake up and find us, and I’ll lose everything. ”
Silence falls. You understand. He’s still struggling. He’s trying to maintain a shred of control, a final line he won’t cross.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Tomorrow. ”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. His eyes drift down one last time over your body, over your breasts, over your clenched thighs. “Go to bed, kid.”
“Are you really going… to your room…?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna jerk off thinking about your little wet pussy.” He grabs the doorknob. “Good night, kid. ”
He walks out. The door closes behind him. You remain leaning against the counter, your legs feeling like jelly, your panties soaked, your nipple still sensitive where he touched you.
first you gotta do the build up and then the actual fucking and the fucking is pretty easy but you never know how long the fucking should last, and eventually you're like "okay I'm tired of this" so the characters cum, but you're not done yet because you can't just end it at "he fucking nutted everywhere" you gotta keep going, and the characters have to chat a little or cry or think about how horrible they are or something and then you kinda don't know when to end that either so now you're 2k words in and you might have put too much self hatred and not enough sucking dick. so you wrap it up, and think well it's done now.
or sometimes you have it all perfect in your mind and you knock the whole thing out in 2 to 3 hours.
You shifted subtly under the sheets, tugging the duvet higher over your shoulders. It wasn’t because you were cold. Nope, that wasn’t it at all. Bucky was propped up beside you, on his vibranium elbow, watching you with his usual quiet intensity. It was like he saw something you didn’t.
There was a dim glow from your bedside lamp, having turned it down to its lowest setting. But for some reason you couldn’t stop the thoughts swirling in your brain. The way your stomach dipped out when you lay on your side. The curvaceous shape of your thighs. The red stretch marks which traced along your hips. The faded whispers of past versions of your body, muttering in your mind.
His gaze made you feel exposed. Ashamed. It didn’t matter that he had seen you like this a hundred times over. Your hand tightened against the sheets, shifting away ever so slightly. Had he noticed? But of course. And he wasn’t about to let things slide. His voice soft, gentle and low.
“Doll? What’s goin’ on in that pretty little head of yours?”
You shook your head, forcing a smile onto your face.
“S’nothing, Buck.”
Bucky hummed, but you could tell from the tone he was unconvinced. He reached out. The tips of his vibranium fingers felt cool as they skimmed across your arm, trailing down to your wrist. He wrapped his fingers around it and with a gentle firmness, he pried your fingers off the material of the duvet cover. He knew exactly how to unravel you and your secrets as he murmured in your ear
“C’mon, don’t do that. Don’t hide from me, doll.”
You hesitated. Admitting what happened only made it more real. But you knew Bucky. He didn’t let things go. Not when he knew something was off. You released the breath you were holding, shaky and unsteady.
“I just… I guess I don’t feel great about myself right now.”
Bucky's eyebrows looked like they were knitted together as he frowned. A pained flicker in his eyes.
“What?”
You shrugged, avoiding his gaze.
“I just… I don’t look like—”
You stopped yourself before the words left your mouth. Before you could compare yourself to someone else, someone slimmer, or smoother, or whatever version of ‘better’ your mind decided you should be. You heard the soft exhale from Bucky’s nose, just before you felt him move.
One moment he was lying beside you. The next he was hovering over you, pressing you into the mattress with the entirely of his weight. His warm hand cupped your jaw, his thumb slowly tracing over the curve of your cheek. His vibranium fingers slid onto your hip, curling around your soft flesh.
“You listen to me. There is nothing— absolutely nothing— I’d change about you.”
Your throat tightened. You didn’t want to cry, but the way he looked at you made it impossible not to.
“Buck—”
But he cut you off gently, dipping his head so his lips ghosted over yours.
“No, I mean it.”
His lips found your neck, pressing slow, warm reverent kisses along your skin. He followed the curve of your shoulder, down along the gentle swell of your breast, glancing up at you as he paused just above your heart.
“You know how many times this heart kept you goin’? Kept me goin’? How strong you are?”
You bit your lip and whimpered, but Bucky was already moving lower. His hands skated down your sides, ignoring the way your body tensed as they grazed over the soft flesh around your waist. He kissed the bump of your stomach, his stubble scratching delightfully over your skin.
“And this? You think I don’t love every part of you? Every mark, every inch?”
You whimpered as his lips ghosted over your stretch marks, his tongue flicking against the softest parts of you. His hands held you firmly as you started to squirm.
“Bucky—”
He hummed over the sound of your protests, dragging his lips along the inner part of your thigh. His hands firm, and grounding.
“I want you to feel it. Not just hear it. Feel how much I want you. How fuckin’ perfect you are to me.”
Suddenly his mouth was between your legs. The way his tongue flicked, teases, tasted you. Fuck— it made you forget how to breathe. Instinctively, your fingers carded through his hair, back arching as he worked on opening you up. Movements slow and deliberate, he groaned, lapping at your folds like a man starved.
“You’re so goddamn sweet. Gonna stay here all night.”
You whimpered, thighs trembling. But Bucky just chuckled, licking a stripe up your core before sucking gently at your clit. You cried out.
“Feel good, sweetheart?”
“Y-yeah. Feels— fuck, Bucky—”
His grip on your hips tightened, keeping you steady as he pushed you closer to the edge with his mouth, his hands, his fucking devotion. That’s when you feel. Fell hard. Your body tensing, then shuddering as pleasure crashes over you in waves. Bucky groaned, drinking it in, drinking you in. And he didn’t stop there. Not until you were panting, whining, begging for him to come up and kiss you.
He didn’t make you wait. His lips pressed against yours as he pressed into you. His cock stretched you open in a way that felt like home. He gripped your thigh, hiking it up around his waist to let him sink deeper, forehead pressed against yours.
“Goddamn. You feel so good, doll.”
You moaned. Hips rolled up to meet his thrusts as he started to move. He filled you like no one ever had. He was made for you. And it made your breath stutter. His fingers laced through yours, pinning them against the mattress above your head. And just like that you were already on the edge again.
“You’re beautiful. So fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart.”
You shook your head, but Bucky growled, snapping his hips just enough to make your eyes roll back.
“You are. And I’m gonna make you feel it.”
And he did. His movements were purposeful. Hitting deep. Dragging you through another peak. Then another. Higher. Never letting you go. Never letting you doubt. Not for a single second. Proving how much he wanted you. How much he loved you.
By the time you both come undone, breathless and tangled together, he’s still whispering against your skin, pressing soft kisses wherever he can reach.
“Mine. Every inch of you.”
You were too spent to argue. Too wrecked to do anything but believe him. And God, if it didn’t feel good to believe him.
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