Only Ever You
A/N: these bitches take as much credit for this nightmare as I do. It’s 11k words of filth. Big shoutout to @loganficsonly for feeding me half of these dirty ass lines at work. @heldbybarnes @chateaubarnes @flockoff-featherface @iamthatonefangirl @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly also helped a ton. The Pentagoon was a mess so lmk if I forgot anyone!!!!!!!!
Pairing: BestFriendsDad!Bucky x Virgin!Reader (college aged)
Warnings: smut, p in v, fingering, oral (f receiving), loss of virginity, mentions of her crushing on him as a teen but he did not look at her in any sort of way prior to this. Blood? If you’re a minor please leave.
Summary: He’s always just been Mr. Barnes… except you’re totally lying.
The screen door creaks, grocery bags digging into Bucky’s hands as he shoulders inside. He drops them on the counter with a grunt, wiping sweat from his brow. The faint pulse of music drifts in from the backyard, followed by laughter—Winnie’s laugh, bright and familiar, mixed with a chorus of others.
He wanders to the glass doors. Just a glance.
There they are—his daughter and her friends, sprawled across loungers in bikinis, sunglasses glinting, drinks sweating on the deck.
But then his gaze snags on you.
You’re lying on your stomach, skin glowing in the sun, sunglasses slipping down your nose. And your bikini top… untied. The strings hang loose across your back, leaving the smooth line of your spine bare.
Bucky swallows hard. Jesus Christ.
He knows he should look away. Knows he shouldn’t notice the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, the way your hair tumbles across your shoulders. Knows he shouldn’t wonder what you’d do if he walked out there and tied that knot himself.
“Ladies,” he calls, forcing his voice steady, gruff. “Winnie, do you mind helping with the groceries?”
Groans. Complaints. Winnie waves him off without looking. “Five minutes, Dad!”
And then you reach back to retie the strings and push up onto your elbows. “I’ll come in,” you say, smiling faintly. “Can’t let the ice cream melt, Winnie.”
Bucky freezes. For a heartbeat too long, all he can think is: fuck. You grin like you don’t notice the way his jaw tightens, like you’re just being playful.
Christ almighty. He has to force his eyes up, has to focus on the sliding door instead of the way your legs carry you across the deck.
Inside, the cool air hits his skin as you pass by him. He catches the faint whiff of coconut sunscreen and sun-warmed skin, and it’s enough to make his stomach clench.
He doesn’t say a word. Can’t.
But as he lingers in the kitchen doorway, watching you bend to pick up one of the grocery bags, his mind is anything but quiet.
You bent to grab one of the grocery bags, catching sight of him leaning against the counter out of the corner of your eye. His arms were crossed now, biceps flexing under the fabric of his t-shirt, blue eyes tracking your every move like he was trying not to.
You swallowed, focusing on unpacking. Chips into the pantry. Milk into the fridge. Normal. Totally normal.
But your brain wouldn’t stop. What would his hands feel like on your waist? What would he do if you asked him to retie your bikini for you?
Behind you, Bucky’s thoughts weren’t any steadier. He told himself to look away, to focus on the receipt sticking out of the bag, but every time you stretched up on your toes to put something on a higher shelf, the hem of your bikini bottoms shifted and his pulse spiked.
She’s just a kid. Except she’s not. She’s 22. She’s 23 years younger than him. She’s basically a fetus. Winnie’s best friend. Don’t you dare—
The sound of your laugh snapped him out of it. You glanced over your shoulder, smiling easy. “You always buy this much cereal, or is this a special occasion?”
He grunted, forcing his voice casual. “You kids eat like wolves. Figure it’s safer to keep the place stocked.”
You nodded, turning back, but your lips tugged upward. He noticed you. He so noticed you.
The next couple of days went by without much commotion. Pool, TikTok, Instagram, drinks, food, pool, TikTok… you get the idea.
The hum of the refrigerator and the soft click of Winnie spreading peanut butter were the only sounds in the kitchen. You leaned against the counter, scrolling your phone, trying not to die of boredom while she made the world’s slowest sandwich.
The front door opened. Heavy footfalls. Then—Bucky.
He came in from his run, chest rising and falling, gray t-shirt plastered dark with sweat. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead, cheeks flushed from exertion. He didn’t look at you right away, heading straight to the fridge, yanking the door open and grabbing a cold bottle of water.
You felt him before you even looked up. That shift in the air when he walked into a room. Shoulders broad, shirt stretched across his back, muscles flexing as he twisted the cap.
Your eyes flicked up—and dragged down.
Oh my god. He’s literally a dilf. Stop. Focus. He’s your best friend’s dad. He’s—
The bottle tilted at his mouth, throat working as he drank. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.
Your thighs pressed together before you could stop yourself.
“Y’want one?” His voice cut through your thoughts, gravelly and low from the run. He reached back into the fridge and held out another bottle, eyes landing on yours.
It was just a second. A second too long.
“Thanks,” you said quickly, taking it. Your fingers brushed his, calloused and hot from the run. A spark shot through you, sharp enough to make your stomach flip.
He turned away, shutting the fridge a little too hard.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about how soft her hand felt. Don’t think about her eyes on you.
He grabbed a dish towel from the counter, swiping it over his forehead, willing his body to calm down. Winnie hummed to herself, still fussing with her sandwich, completely oblivious.
And you? You cracked the cap on your bottle, heart still thudding, forcing your eyes back to your phone like nothing happened.
But the taste of cold water didn’t chase away the heat rising in your chest, or the thought you couldn’t shake:
If his hand feels that good brushing mine, what would it feel like everywhere else?
The next few days, it gnaws at both of you. Like a cat scratching the door wanting to come in. Like water slowly but surely dripping onto a rock for millennia, taking way micro specks of mineral at a time, until the rock is gone.
It’s movie night. Winnie picked something stupid and funny, the kind of movie where no one really pays attention. You’re on the couch, legs curled under you, Winnie beside you.
Bucky passes through with a towel over his shoulder, fresh from the shower. He smells like soap and cedar, hair damp, sweatpants low on his hips, and a shirt that looked much to soft to not be scrunched up in your hands.
You glance up just as he runs the towel over his neck.
Oh, fuck me. No. Don’t think about that. Don’t picture him pinning you to this couch. Don’t—
And you don’t even know what the movie was about, really. It was so boring after Mr. Barnes decided to go up to his room and let Winnie and you and your friends have free reign of the house, that you fell asleep.
And, of course you did, because why would God not want to punish Bucky? Why would God not already know Bucky was fighting with temptation every time he decided to not ruin both of your lives and drag you to his room, and instead jerked off in the shower feeling like a dirty old man as soon as his post-nut clarity hit?
No, God had to make you fall asleep in just a sleep shirt, with a throw blanked barely over your legs, on his couch. His motherfucking leather couch. He came down to get water, as usual, and saw you. Pretty, innocent, untouched. And if you hask him that’s not even the worst part, no, the worst was that you were on your stomach and your shirt was riding too high and the covers too low. Your ass was perfectly clad in a pair of black laced G-string that he had no business knowing you owned.
She’s Winnie’s best friend, you pervert. She’s a kid. Well, definitely not a kid. She’s twenty-two. Still… off limits! Off limits! Off limits!
He never grabbed water so fast in his life.
–
The next night was even worse.
The air was thick with the sweetness of summer—grass, chlorine, sunscreen, faint smoke from someone grilling two houses over. It was late, the kind of late where the sky had faded into that deep, endless indigo, but not quite dark. The cicadas buzzed, the pool lights shimmered.
You and Winnie and the other girls were sprawled around the pool in a lazy circle, drinks in hand, cheeks warm with alcohol. Laughter bubbled up in uneven bursts, the kind that only came when you were tipsy and happy.
Above, Bucky had his window cracked open.
He sat back in bed, baseball game muted on the TV, a glass of bourbon balanced on the nightstand. The breeze drifted through, carrying with it your voices. He told himself not to listen. He really did. But the sound of your laugh floated up clear as a bell, and his chest went tight before he could stop it.
“…okay, but seriously,” one of the girls was saying, giggling. “What’s your type?”
More laughter. Then your voice. “Don’t make me answer that.”
“You have to,” Winnie insisted, her words a little slurred with wine. “C’mon. Spill. We all did ours!”
Bucky tipped his head back against the wall, exhaling through his nose. He should close the window. Shouldn’t sit here waiting to hear what kind of guys you liked. Shouldn’t care.
But he did.
You sighed dramatically. “Fine. My type?” A pause, then your voice softened, teasing. “Older. Like… a lot older. Broad shoulders. Tall enough to make me feel small, strong enough to make me feel…” You trailed off, then laughed again, embarrassed. “Ugh, you know.”
The girls shrieked with laughter. “You mean, like a DILF,” one of them cackled.
“Shut up!” you groaned, face hot as you buried it in your hands. “I didn’t say that!”
“You meant it,” Winnie sing-songed, swatting your arm.
Bucky sat frozen in bed, glass of bourbon untouched. His pulse thudded in his ears, hand tightening against his thigh.
Christ almighty. She’s drunk. It’s just girl talk. Doesn’t mean a damn thing.
But your voice carried up again, softer this time, almost thoughtful. “It’s just… guys our age are so…” You hesitated, then muttered, “Boys. I don’t want a boy. I want a man.”
The chorus of giggles rose again, echoing across the water.
Bucky dragged a hand down his face, shutting his eyes tight.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her saying that. Don’t picture her looking at you when she said it.
You got out of the pool, toweling off to go in and get a sweatshirt, the pool deck was warm beneath your legs, the glass in your hand sweating, the summer air buzzing with laughter and crickets. The wine had loosened everyone’s tongues, and the conversation had drifted from classes to hookups to types.
You’d already embarrassed yourself with the whole “older, manly, not boys” bit, and you were still recovering from the shrieking that followed when one of the girls piped up again.
“Oh my god, wait,” she said suddenly, eyes widening in mischief. “Do you guys remember—” She looked right at you. “—when you had that huge crush on Mr. Barnes?”
The world stopped.
Your face flamed hot. “Oh my god, stop!” You covered your face, nearly spilling your drink. “That was, like, forever ago!”
The girls erupted, laughing so loud it probably carried across the whole block.
“Forever ago my ass,” another teased. “You used to blush every time he said hi to you.”
“Shut up!” You covered your face with both hands, groaning into your palms. “That was so six years ago! Don’t bring it up! I was literally fifteen, I didn’t know what I was doing!”
“Ew, that’s my dad!” Winnie gasped, laughing so hard she almost choked on her drink. “Wait, that’s why you always volunteered to come over for dinner? You little creep!”
You buried your face deeper, but your voice was muffled and honest. “Okay, fine! Maybe I had a stupid little crush! But it’s not like I still…” You trailed off, heart stuttering, words catching in your throat.
The group howled with laughter, the teasing relentless, wine making everything funnier than it was.
But upstairs—
Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, bourbon glass forgotten in his hand, staring at the floor. He took a swing of his glass and set the bourbon aside, shoved the window closed harder than necessary, and leaned back against the headboard, jaw clenched.
Down by the pool, you were still laughing with the girls, but your chest was tight, your head spinning—not just from the wine, but from the truth in what you’d said.
God, get a grip, you scolded yourself. You’re literally crushing on your best friend’s dad.
The laughter still echoed behind you as you slipped inside, the screen door clapping shut. The cool air prickled your skin, still damp from the pool. You told yourself you were just going upstairs for a sweatshirt, maybe a charger, something.
But your head was fuzzy, cheeks warm, heart still pounding from the teasing.
God, a crush on Mr. Barnes. Six years ago. So embarrassing.
Your feet carried you up the stairs anyway, a little unsteady, the banister brushing your fingertips. You should’ve turned left, down the hall to the guest room.
But you didn’t.
When you stopped, blinking, you were staring at the half-open door at the end of the hall—light spilling from inside. His room. The TV murmured low, the glow flickering across the floorboards. And before you could think better of it, your drunk feet took you in.
Bucky sat propped against the headboard, hair pushed back, t-shirt stretched across his chest, game flickering muted on the TV. A glass of bourbon rested on the nightstand. His eyes flicked up the second you appeared.
“(Y/N)?” His brow furrowed. “What’re you doin’?”
Your mouth went dry. You scrambled for an excuse, any excuse, but all that came out was a soft, “I meant to go to my room.”
One of his brows arched. His jaw flexed. “This isn’t your room.”
“I know,” you whispered, leaning against the doorframe like your knees might give. You wanted to say you’d turn around, leave right now, but your lips didn’t move.
His gaze raked over you—hair damp, cheeks flushed from wine, pool cover-up sliding off one shoulder. He set the bourbon down slowly, deliberately, like he needed both hands free to keep himself in check.
“You’re drunk,” he said finally, voice low, even.
“Not that drunk,” you murmured. Your lips curved in a shaky smile. “Just… lost.” The silence stretched. The baseball game flickered, lights reflecting off the little salt and pepper on his beard. His chest rose and fell, heavy.
Bucky’s eyes snapped to yours the second you crossed his threshold. His jaw ticked, hands fisting against his thighs as if bracing himself.
“You okay?” His voice was low, gravelly, careful. “You shouldn’t be here, sweetheart.”
He exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face.
Christ. She’s twenty-two. Winnie’s best friend. A kid compared to you. You don’t do this. You don’t think about her that way.
But the truth was already in his head—ugly, hot, undeniable. You, on your knees. You, spread out on this bed, ass up, begging.
His thighs flexed with the thought. He hated himself for it. “Go to bed,” he muttered, trying to sound firm. “Wrong room.”
But you didn’t leave. You padded closer instead, bare legs catching the blue glow of the TV. Damp hair clung to your neck, chlorine and coconut sunscreen carried with you. “Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, soft and tipsy, like you were letting his name slip for the very first time. Something in his chest twisted.
No. No, don’t listen to that. Don’t let it do things to you.
“Sweetheart,” he tried again, sharper now. “You gotta stop. I’m forty-five. You’re twenty-two. You’re my daughter’s best friend. You hear me? Nothing about this is okay.”
But you were already at the edge of the bed, climbing onto the mattress before he could stop you. The comforter bunched beneath your knees as you crawled toward him, your bikini bottom still damp from the pool, pressing into his duvet.
He froze. His whole body locked up, eyes locked on the darker patches you were leaving on his sheets with every shift of your hips. His throat went dry. You settled back onto your haunches, straddling him, heat rolling off you in waves. His hands hovered, unsure whether to grab you or push you away.
You tilted your head, lips curving into a knowing smile. “If it’s so wrong, why aren’t you making me leave?”
Bucky clenched his fists in the comforter instead of your skin, knuckles white. His whole body trembled with restraint.
Don’t do it. Don’t. She’s your little girl’s best friend. She’s twenty-two, a damn fetus compared to you. But Jesus, she’s right here. Wet and wanting. Crawling into your bed.
His eyes squeezed shut, but it didn’t help—he could smell your sunscreen, your perfume, the faint chlorine, and beneath it all: you. And when your damp thighs shifted again, leaving another dark mark on his sheets, a ragged groan tore out of him before he could choke it back.
Your face was flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed from wine and the heat of the night. You leaned in, slow, until your breath ghosted over his mouth.
You don’t do this. You don’t ruin her life because you can’t keep it in your pants.
“Sweetheart,” he rasped, voice shredded. “You gotta stop.”
But you didn’t. You leaned closer, mouth brushing his, not quite a kiss, just torture. “Why?” you breathed. “I’m right here.”
His hands flexed on the blanket, aching to grab you, to pin you down and finally take what he’d been denying himself. His eyes cracked open, blue blazing and tortured, staring at you like you were damnation and salvation wrapped together.
“Christ,” he muttered, chest heaving. “You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”
Your smile was faint, dazed, wicked. “Two strings, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered, tugging lightly at the bow of your bikini top. “That’s all it takes. Just two strings, and I’m yours.”
His breath left him in a ragged groan, head tipping back against the wall like he was praying. He could feel your heat seeping through the comforter, knew his sheets would smell like you for days.
One tug. Two tugs. That’s all it would take. If he had a nickel for every time he said that.
His hand twitched, rising instinctively, hovering just shy of those strings like a man at the edge of a cliff. And it would be so easy. Flip you onto your back, strip you bare, finally bury himself inside you like he’s dreamed about.
So. Goddamn. Easy.
Bucky’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaving against yours as you leaned in, whispering right against his mouth. The faintest brush of your lips had his head spinning, his self-control fraying with every heartbeat.
“Sweetheart,” he begged, voice hoarse, “stop.”
But you only smiled—flushed, wine-warmed, reckless. “You want me to stop?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he groaned, though it came out strangled, like his body didn’t believe it.
So you tilted your head, lips grazing the corner of his mouth, and whispered the one thing you knew would break him.
“Do you wanna know what I think about,” you murmured, voice like silk, “when I can’t sleep?”
He froze.
“Please, don’t,” he rasped again, but his hands finally left the sheets, fists hovering dangerously close to your waist.
You pressed closer, bikini still damp, leaving another dark patch on his comforter. “I think about you,” you said, the confession tumbling out, drunkenly brave. “About you pinning me down with those big hands. About you fucking me into this mattress until I’m sore. About what you’d sound like—what you’d make me sound like.”
Bucky’s head dropped forward, forehead nearly knocking into yours, his groan low and guttural. His eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched tight, but his hips shifted involuntarily beneath you, betraying the way his cock strained against his sweats.
“You don’t mean that,” he growled, desperate. “You’re drunk, you don’t—”
“I mean it,” you cut him off, bold and trembling all at once. “I’ve thought about you for years, Mr. Barnes. What your hand would feel like around my throat. What you’d taste like on my tongue. What you’d look like watching me ride you.”
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, broken. “You’re gonna kill me.” His eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing blue, jaw clenched like he was in pain. And you—wine-dazed, reckless—you leaned in, lips brushing his, whispering filth he’d never survive.
“I’ve thought about it for so long,” you murmured, trembling but bold. “Being on my knees for you. Looking up at you with my mouth full—imagining how heavy you’d feel on my tongue. How you’d taste—”
“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, raw and guttural, hips jerking beneath you before he could stop himself. His restraint cracked. And then—
“(Y/N)? Where’d you go?” Winnie’s voice drifted up from the backyard, muffled but clear through the open window. Another friend chimed in, laughing, “She went inside for her sweatshirt like twenty minutes ago!”
You froze.
So did he.
The spell shattered, reality crashing back hard.
Bucky dragged in a ragged breath, yanking his hand from your neck like you’d burned him. “Go,” he hissed, voice sharp with panic. “Now. Before I do somethin’ I can’t take back.”
Your stomach twisted. Shame and want tangled into a dizzying knot. You scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over yourself as you backed toward the door.
At the threshold you hesitated, looking back at him—broad chest rising and falling, sweat dampening his shirt, fists clenched in the sheets where you’d left dark, damp marks from your bikini. His head tipped back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting a war inside himself.
You slipped out into the hall, breathless, your friends’ laughter echoing through the house.
–
Bucky was a ghost all morning. No breakfast chatter, no lingering around the kitchen like usual. Just the sound of his shoes creaking across the floorboards, the door shutting as he disappeared into the garage, or the faint murmur of ESPN from his office.
You noticed. Of course you noticed. He wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t so much as brush shoulders when you passed. It twisted in your gut, equal parts embarrassment and frustration.
By late afternoon, Winnie and the girls had decided on a last-minute trip to some day party at a bar downtown. They were already half-laughing, half-shrieking as they grabbed their bags and piled out the door.
“You coming?” Winnie asked, sunglasses perched on her head.
You shook your head quickly, feigning disinterest. “Nah, I’m beat. Gonna stay in, maybe nap.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t push, slamming the door behind her. The house fell quiet.
For a while, you sat at the kitchen island, sipping from a glass of water, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. The silence was heavy, but in a way, it gave you room to breathe. Upstairs, Bucky heard the door shut. Then the car peeling away. The laughter fading.
Finally.
Finally, he could stop avoiding his own damn house. He stripped down, tugged on his swim trunks, and headed out to the pool. The water was cool against his overheated skin, the sun dipping lower in the sky. For a few blissful hours, he let himself relax—swimming lazy laps, stretching out sore muscles, dunking his head under until the world muted.
When he finally climbed out, toweling off his hair, he felt lighter. Safer. Everyone was gone. He’d managed to keep his distance, and no one had to know how close he’d come to losing his mind last night.
He padded back into the kitchen, still damp, towel slung over his shoulder—
And stopped dead.
You were there.
Sitting at the island in a tank top and shorts, hair in a messy bun, glass of water in front of you. You glanced up at the sound of the sliding door, and your lips quirked like you’d caught him in something.
“Hey,” you said casually, like nothing had happened.
For a second, all he could do was stare—water dripping down his chest, towel useless in his fist. His heart kicked hard against his ribs, because he’d thought he was safe. He’d thought you were gone.
And now, it was just the two of you.
“Thought you went with the others,” he said finally, voice low, careful.
You shrugged, spinning the glass in your hand. “Didn’t feel like it.”
The air between you thickened, the silence charged. His throat worked as his gaze dragged over you, then away, like looking at you burned.
Get it together, Barnes, he scolded himself. She’s twenty-two. She’s your kid’s best friend. She’s the girl who whispered she wanted you on her knees last night—
“Hungry?” you asked suddenly, cutting through his thoughts. Your smile was small, teasing, but your eyes lingered on the water still dripping from his chest. “I could make something.”
He swallowed hard. “I’m fine.” But his voice was rough, and you both knew damn well he was anything but fine.
You set your glass down on the island a little too hard, nerves buzzing under your skin. He was still standing by the sliding door, towel slung over his shoulder, droplets of water sliding down his chest. You couldn’t look away—and that only made your cheeks hotter.
“Mr. Barnes,” you said quickly, before you lost your nerve. “I… I need to talk to you about last night.”
His shoulders stiffened instantly. He drew in a slow, heavy breath, blue eyes narrowing just slightly as he braced himself. You saw it in the way his jaw flexed, the way his grip tightened on the towel. He was ready to shut you down—You should go. You can’t be here.
But you rushed in, words tumbling over themselves.
“Just lemme say it, okay?” You waved your hands, flustered, tripping over the syllables. “I’m sorry. I—I read it all wrong, and fuck, that was so embarrassing. I was drunk, I didn’t mean—”
“Sweetheart—”
“No, really, I didn’t—”
“Honey—”
You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “Oh my god, I want to crawl into a hole. I didn’t mean it.”
Silence.
When you finally peeked through your fingers, he wasn’t smirking, wasn’t angry. He was watching you with something darker in his eyes, something that made your breath catch.
He stepped closer. Just one heavy step that ate the space between you.
“You didn’t mean it?” he asked, voice low, rough, curling around you like smoke.
You swallowed. “I didn’t—”
His gaze pinned you in place. “You didn’t mean to climb onto my bed in a wet bikini and tell me you wanted to be on your knees for me?”
The words slammed into you, straight from his mouth, your own words, dripping with sin as he repeated them. Your lips parted, air stuttering in your throat.
“Didn’t mean to whisper about wrapping that pretty mouth around me?” He took another step, towel sliding from his shoulder to the floor, forgotten. His voice dropped, gravel scraping low. “Didn’t mean to beg me to pull a couple strings and make you mine?”
Your stomach flipped, heat pooling low, thighs pressing together instinctively.
“Mr. Barnes…” your voice broke on his name, dazed and breathless.
He was right there now, close enough for the water dripping from his hair to dampen your skin, close enough that the counter pressed into your lower back as he boxed you in.
His hand braced on the island beside your hip, fingers flexing like he wanted to touch but was still holding back. His eyes, though? They were already devouring you.
“Tell me you didn’t mean it,” he said quietly, dangerously. “Look me in the eye and say it. And I’ll let you walk out of here.”
The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and your ragged breathing. Bucky had you pinned against the island, his damp chest brushing your tank top, water still dripping from his hair.
“Six years,” he drawled, low and amused, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Sweetheart, you gotta tell me all about that.”
You shook your head quickly, face burning. “Mr. Barnes, no—”
“Yes,” he murmured, kissing just beneath your ear, slow and deliberate. “I want to hear every dirty little thought you had about me.” His teeth grazed your skin, nipping lightly. “Bet you were cute as hell, all flushed and shy with that crush.”
Your hands gripped the counter hard, breath hitching as his mouth trailed lower, biting gently at your collarbone, then soothing the sting with his tongue.
“I was a kid,” you mumbled, trying to hide your face. “It was stupid.”
“Didn’t sound stupid last night.” His lips curved against your skin, biting again, harder this time. His voice dropped, rough with hunger. “Tell me.”
Your chest heaved. His hand, warm and broad, was already sliding down your ribs, brushing the curve of your waist, wandering lower until he toyed with the waistband of your sweat shorts.
You whimpered. “Bucky…”
He hummed against your neck, pushing his hand beneath the elastic, fingers teasing the line of your bikini bottoms. “That’s it. Say my name like that again.”
Your head tipped back, exposing more of your throat, your voice cracking as you admitted, “I thought about you every time I was here. Watching you mow the lawn, cook dinner, drive us around. I couldn’t stop staring.”
His teeth sank into the soft spot of your shoulder, making you gasp. His fingers slipped under the thin bikini fabric now, brushing hot and slow over your slick folds.
“Keep talkin’,” he growled against your skin, lips wet at your jaw. “Tell me how bad you wanted me.”
Your knees trembled, his arm holding you up against the counter as your body betrayed you. “I wanted you so bad. Every time you looked at me, every time you laughed, I wanted you. I used to go home and… and—”
“And touch yourself thinkin’ about me?” His fingers finally slid through your wetness, stroking you with lazy, teasing circles.
You gasped, nodding helplessly. “Yes.”
He groaned low against your throat, biting hard at your collarbone as his hand moved deeper into your shorts. You moaned softly, arching into his touch, loving every second of it.
And Bucky—smirking against your skin, kissing and biting your neck while his hand worked lower—was having the time of his life, drawing out every confession and soaking up your flustered little gasps like they were his new favorite drug.
His hand slid lower, under your shorts and beneath your bikini bottoms, rough fingers finding slick heat. You jolted, moaning before you could stop yourself.
He smirked against your collarbone. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You love it, don’t you?”
Two fingers pressed inside you without warning, filling you deep, stretching you. You cried out into your palm, nails digging into the counter. His thumb rubbed circles over your clit, steady and relentless.
You whimpered, hips rocking helplessly into his hand. “Bucky—”
“Tell me,” he demanded, thrusting his fingers deeper, curling them just right.
“I thought about—” Your voice broke into a whimper. “About sneaking into your room at night… about you pinning me down and taking me—god, Mr. Barnes—”
“That’s it,” he encouraged, biting down on the side of your neck, sucking a dark mark into your skin. “What else, sweetheart?”
“I thought about—” you gasped as his thumb pressed harder against your clit, “—about you bending me over the counter, about how big you’d be, about choking on you—”
“Fuck,” he hissed, his teeth dragging over your jaw, his fingers pumping faster inside you. “Say it again.”
“Choking on you,” you whined, breathless, “with your hand in my hair—watching you lose control—”
“Jesus Christ.” His forehead pressed to yours, eyes blazing, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. His tongue stole your moans, swallowing them like fuel as his fingers drove you higher.
You were trembling, clutching his shoulders, sweat beading at your temples.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he growled against your skin, thumb circling tighter, faster. “Gonna make you—” The sound of the front door slamming open shattered the air.
“Hellooo? We’re back!” Winnie’s voice rang out, muffled laughter spilling in with her friends’.
You froze. Your whole body jerked against him.
Bucky’s hand was still inside your shorts, his thumb pressed tight to your clit, your entire body trembling on the knife’s edge. His blue eyes snapped to yours—wide, feral, then immediately calculating.
He yanked his hand free, slick fingers glistening in the dim kitchen light. You nearly whimpered at the loss. In one smooth motion, he turned, grabbed the abandoned wine glass from the counter, and raised it casually as the girls’ voices grew closer.
You leaned against the island, still shaking, tugging your shorts back into place, praying your face wasn’t as red as it felt. The sliding door opened and Winnie sauntered in, sunglasses perched on her head. “Oh, hey, Dad. Thought you were out back.”
Bucky took a slow sip of water, smirk tugging at his lips. “Spilled some wine earlier,” he said easily, licking his fingers that were inside of you seconds ago before wiping it on the towel slung over his shoulder. “Was just cleanin’ it up.”
Your stomach flipped, heat flooding your chest.
Winnie wrinkled her nose. “Figures. You’re always nagging me about coasters.” She breezed past, her friends giggling behind her, completely oblivious. You sat frozen on the stool, clutching your glass like it might hide the way your chest still rose and fell too fast. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
And Bucky—Bucky caught your eye as he set the glass down, tongue darting to swipe the last taste from his thumb.
The rest of the evening passed like it always did: the girls raided the fridge, shrieking with laughter about something from the bar, and you perched at the island with your water glass, nodding along, pretending your thighs weren’t still slick and trembling.
Bucky vanished upstairs after muttering something about “needing a shower.” No one thought twice. But you did.
Bucky lay flat on his back, one arm slung over his forehead, the other thrown across the empty side of the bed. The TV flickered, muted, baseball game long over.
He hadn’t moved in an hour. He shifted, cock stiffening again just at the memory of your voice. She was right there. Panting, dripping, whisperin’ about choking on me like it was a prayer.
His hand clenched the sheet. If Winnie hadn’t walked in, I’d have had her on her back on the island, crying my name with her legs over my shoulders. Jesus.
He groaned into the dark, pressing the heel of his palm against his erection like it might make the ache go away. It didn’t.
He let out a rough laugh, shaking his head. Kid’s probably in her room right now, still flustered. Probably squeezin’ her thighs together, thinkin’ about my fingers. Hell, she’s probably makin’ a mess of herself with her own hand—
Bucky groaned again, rolling onto his side, dragging the pillow over his face. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered, voice muffled. “This is gonna kill me.”
The house was dead quiet, it was probably 2am, only the faint creak of pipes and the hum of the fridge. You padded barefoot into the kitchen, sleep shorts clinging to your damp skin, hair mussed from tossing in bed. You told yourself you just needed water. Just water.
But the second you leaned against the island with your glass, you felt it—the shift in the air.
Footsteps. Heavy. Slow.
And then Bucky was there, filling the doorway, still damp from his late shower, sweatpants slung low. His eyes caught yours in the dim light, dark and hungry, and your stomach dropped.
He smirked faintly, stepping closer. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
You swallowed hard. “Yeah. Just… water.” He came up behind you, body heat at your back, caging you against the island. His mouth brushed your ear, voice rough, broken from restraint.
“Couldn’t stop thinking about this sweet pussy, sweetheart.” Your knees buckled. The glass in your hand nearly slipped. His hand splayed wide over your lower back. His mouth trailed hot down your neck, teeth scraping as he dragged kisses lower, lower, along your spine.
“You ever done this before, baby?” he murmured, lips ghosting your skin. His other hand tugged at your shorts, pulling them slow over your hips. “Any of those college boys drool over you enough to bend you over a kitchen counter?”
You shook your head desperately, but it wasn’t enough. His teeth sank into the curve of your ass cheek, sharp enough to make you yelp, your voice muffled against your arm.
“Answer me,” he growled against your skin.
“N-no!” you gasped, body trembling. “Fuck—no, Mr. Barnes, just you—” Your words broke into a whimper as his tongue followed the bite, soothing the sting. “J-just you, oh my god…”
A low, dangerous groan rumbled from his chest as he shoved your shorts the rest of the way down, leaving them tangled at your knees. He dropped to his own, big hands spreading you open, mouth hot and hungry against the backs of your thighs, then higher.
“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing kisses up your inner thighs until your whole body shook. “Gonna show you what it feels like to get fucked by a real man.”
The first swipe of his tongue had your legs trembling, your nails clawing the countertop to keep from screaming.
You bit down on your wrist, whimpering, fighting to stay quiet. Upstairs, your friends were asleep—Winnie just a few doors down. The thought made your stomach twist, made the slick pooling between your thighs even hotter.
But Bucky only smirked against you, licking deeper, groaning at the taste. “That’s it, sweetheart. Keep those pretty sounds down. Don’t want anyone to know you best friend’s dad’s the one makin’ you cum like this.”
And with his mouth locked on you, teeth and tongue teasing, sucking, biting, you knew there was no way in hell you’d last long.
The cool marble of the island pressed into your stomach, your hands scrambling for purchase on the slick surface. Bucky’s big palms spread you open, his mouth buried between your thighs, tongue working you mercilessly. “fuck—” you whimpered into the crook of your arm, hips rocking helplessly against his face.
“That’s it, baby,” he groaned against your slick heat, tongue sliding deep before flicking your clit again. “Just me. You like that? You like me eatin’ this pretty pussy?”
“Yes,” you gasped, voice high and shaky, muffled by the skin of your forearm. His teeth scraped lightly, making your knees tremble, and then he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rough and commanding.
“You wanna cum?”
“Yes—god, yes, please—”
He smirked against your skin, fingers digging into your hips. “Then tell me who she belongs to.” Your body clenched around nothing, desperate, right on the edge. The words tumbled out of you in a frantic rush.
“Yours, Mr. Barnes, fuck fuck fuck—my pussy is yours, always been, oh my god—” A low, guttural growl vibrated against you, his tongue plunging back in, sucking, devouring you like he’d been starving for years.
And then—
Creaaaaak.
A floorboard upstairs. A muffled laugh. The shift of footsteps.
You froze. Heart in your throat, blood roaring in your ears.
“Bucky—stop—” you whisper-yelled, panicked, pushing weakly at his head. “They—they’re awake—”
But he only groaned, lips wrapping tighter around your clit, eyes flashing up at you with wicked amusement.
“Mmm,” he hummed against you, voice muffled, “then you should come quick, sweetheart. C’mon. Soak my fuckin’ face before anyone wanders down here.”
Your stomach dropped, panic and want twisting into something unbearable. You gasped, biting your fist, “oh my god—”
His mouth never let up. His tongue circled harder, sucking you mercilessly, his stubble scraping your inner thighs raw while his hands pinned your hips in place.
And all you could do was try to stay quiet, muffling your screams in your arm as the world tilted and your release barreled down on you—right there, bent over your best friend’s dad’s kitchen counter, while her and the other girls stirred upstairs.
You slumped forward against the island, cheek pressed to the cool marble, your whole body trembling as the last waves of your orgasm ebbed through you. Your thighs were shaky, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
Bucky’s big hands smoothed up your sides, gentler now, grounding you. He kissed the back of your shoulder, softer than the bites he’d left all over your skin.
“You okay, sweetheart?” His voice was low, gravelly, almost tender — like he hadn’t just devoured you on the kitchen counter while your best friend slept upstairs.
You managed a shaky nod. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay.”
He hummed, pressing another kiss just behind your ear. His hand rubbed slow circles over your hip, reassuring, careful. But you could feel it — the thick, hot press of him against your ass through his sweatpants, straining hard.
Your lips parted, a needy sound slipping out before you could swallow it down.
“Fuck,” Bucky muttered under his breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was trying to get a grip. “Sweetheart, don’t make that noise right now. I’m hangin’ on by a thread.”
But the solid weight of him pressed against you, thick and hot, made your stomach flip and your thighs clench all over again. You rocked back against him instinctively, just enough to feel him twitch.
“Goddamn it,” he groaned, hips jerking forward once like he couldn’t help himself. His hand grabbed your waist, steadying you. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”
You whimpered, tilting your hips again so you could feel the length of him, thick and solid against your bare ass.
He kissed the side of your neck, teeth catching your skin, and whispered ragged, “You’re gonna kill me. I should stop. I should walk you back upstairs, tuck you in bed like a good man would.”
But his cock pulsed against you, proof that “stop” wasn’t what he wanted at all.
Your voice was a whisper, desperate. “I don’t want you to stop.”
He groaned again, deep and broken, gripping your hips tighter as he pressed himself harder against you.
But he did. God, he should get an award for that. A Nobel Peace Prize.
–
The sun streamed bright through the kitchen windows, cutting across the counter where the girls were perched with their mugs of coffee and cereal bowls. Winnie was still half-asleep, scrolling on her phone, one of the others was loudly recapping something from the night before.
You sat at the island, stirring your spoon through your cereal, your body humming with awareness. The marble under your elbow felt too familiar. Too incriminating. You couldn’t stop glancing at it, couldn’t stop hearing the echo of Bucky’s voice in your head from a few hours ago.
Soak my fuckin’ face.
Your thighs pressed together under the counter. You prayed no one noticed the flush still on your cheeks. The sound of heavy footsteps made your stomach drop.
And then he walked in.
Bucky looked maddeningly casual — gray t-shirt, sweatpants, damp hair combed back like he’d just come from the shower. He gave a low grunt of greeting, moving toward the coffeemaker.
You froze.
He didn’t look at you. Not once. His focus stayed on the machine, the sugar, the spoon clinking against the mug. But the way his jaw flexed, the way his shoulders squared—he was aware of you. Hyper-aware.
And when he finally turned to lean against the counter, sipping his coffee, his eyes flicked to yours for half a second. Just a flicker. Quick, sharp, enough to make your pulse trip.
“Morning,” Winnie yawned, not even glancing up.
“Morning,” Bucky echoed, his voice rough, casual. But then, softer, just for you: “You sleep alright, sweetheart?”
He was too casual. Too slick and unbothered for a man who ate you from the back like you were his last meal on death row. Too chill for a man that gave you a trillion new wet dreams to think about with his every move.
–
The house was quiet. Too quiet. Winnie had gone off with her friends again, and you’d convinced yourself you were truly alone.
So you swam. Lap after lap, letting the cool water soothe the restless heat simmering under your skin since the night in the kitchen. By the time you climbed out, hair dripping down your back, you felt lighter, steadier.
But the steadiness didn’t last.
The shower was hot and quick, steam fogging the bathroom mirror as you scrubbed away chlorine and sweat. You wrapped yourself in a towel, tucking the edge tight against your chest, bare feet padding softly across the upstairs hall.
And then you saw it.
His door. Slightly open.
You slowed, pulse hitching. He wasn’t home, you told yourself. He’d said something about errands, maybe the gym. The house was silent. His car wasn’t outside.
Curiosity tugged harder than reason. Before you could stop yourself, you pushed the door open with your fingertips and slipped inside.
His room smelled like him. Soap, cedar, and something darker, heavier, that was just Bucky.
Your eyes drifted to the closet. The door was half-open, a line of shirts and jackets hanging neat inside. Drawn like a magnet, you stepped in, the carpet soft under your bare feet.
You pressed your face to the sleeve of a gray t-shirt, inhaling deep. It smelled like laundry soap and him — comforting and dizzying all at once. You closed your eyes, whispering to yourself, God, what is wrong with me?
“You tell me, sweetheart.”
Your eyes flew open.
Bucky was standing in the doorway of the closet, arms crossed over his broad chest, damp hair curling at the edges like he’d just showered, too. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen, burning as they raked over you — the towel, the bare legs, the guilty look on your face.
“Mr. Barnes—” you stammered, clutching the towel tighter around you.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, crowding the small space until your back hit the wall of hanging shirts. His scent surrounded you, stronger now, making your knees weak.
“You in my closet?” he asked softly, voice rough. Your lips parted, but no sound came.
He smirked faintly, leaning down until his mouth brushed your ear. “Didn’t get enough the other night, huh? Had to come in here and breathe me in?”
Your breath shuddered. “I… I thought you weren’t home.”
His chuckle was low, dangerous, vibrating against your skin. “Clearly.” His hand came up, tugging the towel just slightly at your chest, enough to make your pulse jump. “Now the question is… what am I gonna do with you, sweetheart?”
You pressed back against the closet wall, clutching the towel tight against your chest. Bucky was right there in front of you, close enough that you could see smell the cologne still fresh on his skin.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you, huh?” he murmured, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Sneakin’ into my room. Wrappin’ yourself in a towel and smellin’ my shirts like you’re hungry for me.”
Slow, deliberate, his mouth pressed to yours — not frantic this time, not messy like the kitchen. This was controlled, deep, a claiming. His tongue slid against yours, tasting, teasing, while one big hand cupped your jaw, holding you in place.
You melted instantly, knees weak, your fingers gripping his shoulders through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
“Mm,” he hummed against your lips, pulling back just enough to murmur. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? A kiss from your best friend’s dad? Been dreamin’ about this since you were a teenager, huh?”
You whimpered, the sound swallowed as he kissed you again, slow and filthy.
His other hand tugged at the edge of your towel, loosening it just slightly, enough to make the top slip lower across your chest. He smirked against your mouth, teeth catching your lower lip.
“You walked right into my room beggin’ for trouble,” he whispered. “Guess I’ll give it to you.”
With gentle but relentless pressure, he started walking you backward, his mouth never leaving yours. His hand cupped the back of your neck, guiding you, teasing you with little nips and filthy murmurs between kisses.
“Bet you thought about this in your little dorm room, didn’t you? Touchin’ yourself with your hand down your panties, thinkin’ about me layin’ you out right here.”
Your back bumped the dresser, then the wall, until finally the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed.
Bucky smiled into the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at you — your flushed cheeks, dazed eyes, the towel slipping lower, one strap of fabric all that kept it from falling completely.
He brushed his thumb over your lip, voice low and wicked. “Gonna let me take this towel off, sweetheart? Or you wanna keep pretendin’ you weren’t in here snoopin’ for me?”
The towel slipped loose the second his hands tugged it away, dropping soundlessly to the floor. You gasped, arms instinctively twitching to cover yourself, but Bucky caught your wrists gently and pinned them to your sides.
“Uh-uh,” he murmured, kissing you slow, deep, swallowing your panic. “Don’t hide from me. You’re beautiful. Mine.”
Your head spun, your body buzzing as he guided you back onto the mattress. The sheets smelled like him — soap, cedar, something darker — and it made you dizzy as he pressed you down, following you onto the bed.
He slotted his body over yours, his broad chest brushing your bare skin, and lowered his hips until the thick, hard line of him ground against your core. Even through his sweats, you could feel it — heavy, solid, relentless.
You moaned, arching into him, your legs parting instinctively to make room. “There she is,” he cooed, lips brushing your jaw as he rocked against you again. “So whiny already. So fuckin’ responsive to me.”
Your back arched, your nails biting into his shoulders, you panted, overwhelmed by the steady drag of his cock against your slick heat.
He nipped at your neck, grinding harder, slower, making you feel every inch of him. “Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough, filthy and tender all at once. “Gonna teach you how to take everything I give you.”
Your breath came in ragged little gasps, hips twitching helplessly beneath him. You were soaking through his sweats already, the friction almost too much and not nearly enough.
“Fuck, listen to you,” he groaned, rutting against you harder, his mouth brushing your ear. “Pantin’ like a good little thing, just from me grindin’ on you. Haven’t even given you my cock yet.”
You whimpered, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for more.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled, kissing down your throat, biting your collarbone before soothing it with his tongue. “Cling to me. Show me how bad you need it.”
Every slow drag of his hips against yours had you keening, your body betraying you with how quickly you tipped into frenzy under his weight, his words, his heat.
And Bucky — smirking against your skin, cooing low, whispering filth in your ear — was in no rush, savoring every whiny, needy sound you made as he ground you into the mattress like you already belonged to him.
Bucky kissed you until you were dizzy, slow and deep, even as his hips ground harder against you. You could feel how hard he was, thick and straining through the fabric, every drag against your swollen clit making your whole body twitch.
Then, with a low groan, he sat back just enough to shove his sweats down, baring himself. Your eyes went wide when he pressed back against you, cock heavy, thick and hot as it slid against your bare, soaked folds.
The first grind of him naked against you made you choke on a gasp, your back arching, slick already coating the length of him.
“Fuck,” he hissed, dragging himself along your pussy again, slow and deliberate, until the head caught on your clit. “You feel that, baby? That’s what’s about to fill you up.”
Your legs trembled around his waist, pulling him closer. “Bucky—please.”
He braced one hand beside your head, the other guiding himself down to your entrance. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your soaked hole, and you whined, hips jerking up, desperate.
He bent over you, kissing your temple, your cheek, your lips, whispering, “I know it’s big, sweetheart. But you’re doin’ so good—fuck—”
He pushed forward, slow but steady, sinking into you inch by thick inch. Your walls clamped down, stretching around him, the burn delicious and overwhelming.
“So tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours as he forced himself deeper. “Goddamn, you’re squeezin’ me like a vice—there it is…”
A broken cry left your throat, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Feel s’full, Bucky.”
His cock twitched inside you, the sound of his name on your lips almost undoing him right there.
“Mmmm,” he groaned low, biting at your jaw, “I know, baby. You’re suckin’ me in like you never wanna let me leave.”
Your thighs locked around him, trembling, body clinging to him as he bottomed out, filling you completely. He held still for a moment, chest heaving, letting you adjust, kissing your mouth soft and slow even while his cock throbbed inside you.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your lips, voice rough and reverent. “Takin’ me so well. My perfect girl. My sweet little pussy, made just for me.”
You whimpered into the kiss, dazed, overwhelmed, needy. And Bucky—cooing, praising, grinding just slightly to feel the way you squeezed him—looked like a man who never planned on letting you go.
He rocked forward another inch, your body stretching to fit him, and a ragged groan tore from his chest. His forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and uneven, but his eyes stayed locked on the way your lips parted, the way your nails bit into his skin.
“Jesus Christ,” he panted, jaw clenching as his hips pressed flush to yours. “Can’t believe you’re givin’ me this—fuck—this tight little thing all to myself.”
You whimpered, your legs wrapping around his waist like your body was answering for you. “Bucky…”
That broke him.
His hips pulled back just slightly before thrusting forward again, the thick drag of him making your eyes roll back into your skull. The noise that left your throat was half-whine, half-moan, and it went straight to his cock.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he growled, watching your face twist up, lips trembling, eyes fluttering shut. He smirked, feral and satisfied, and gave another sharp thrust, dragging a cry out of you.
“Yeah?” His voice was low and wicked, his smirk deepening as he looked down at you like he owned you. “You like my cock in you, sweetheart?”
You nodded desperately, words tangled in your throat, your hands scrabbling at his back for purchase. “Uh-uh.” His hand caught your chin, tilting your face up until your dazed eyes met his. “Say it.”
“I—” your voice broke as he rolled his hips deeper, hitting that spot that made your toes curl. “I like it, Bucky—fuck—I love it.”
His smirk curved sharp, his thumb brushing your lip while his hips started to move with a rhythm now, each thrust pushing a helpless whimper out of you.
“Good girl,” he rasped, kissing you hard, sloppy, his tongue swallowing your cries as his pace built. “Knew you would. This pretty little pussy was made for me.”
And the way your eyes rolled back, body trembling under his weight, only made him want to drive you further, drag every filthy sound out of you until you couldn’t say anything but his name.
Bucky’s thrusts started to find a rhythm, slow but deep, his cock dragging through you so thick and heavy it made your toes curl. He watched every twitch of your face, the way your eyes rolled back, the way your mouth fell open like you were already undone.
“Clutchin’ me so tight I can barely move. Anyone ever made you feel this good, baby?”
You gasped, head tipping back against the pillows, nails clawing at his shoulders. “N-no,” you panted, voice high and shaky. “No one ever even came close—”
His hips stuttered at that, his smirk flashing as he growled low in your ear, “Yeah? That right?”
Your legs locked tighter around his waist, dragging him deeper, your voice breaking as the words tumbled out: “Only ever wanted you—nghhh—always you, Bucky—”
He let out a guttural moan, his forehead dropping to yours, eyes wild as he looked down at you. His thrusts grew rougher, needier, like your confession flipped a switch he’d been holding back.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. “Sweetheart, you don’t know what that does to me. Say it again.”
“Only you,” you whimpered into his mouth, eyes squeezed shut as your body shook with every sharp thrust. “Only ever wanted you.”
His cock twitched inside you, the sound of it almost unraveling him right there. He bit down gently on your bottom lip, groaning, “Fuck, that’s it. My girl. My perfect girl.”
And with every desperate, whiny cry that left your lips, Bucky drove into you harder, determined to show you exactly what it meant to be his.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, nipping at your swollen lip before kissing it again. “You got me. Got me forever—fuck.”
He groaned deep in his chest as your walls fluttered around him, hugging him so tight he had to grit his teeth to keep control.
“Yeah,” he rasped, hips rolling deep, hitting that spot that made your back arch off the mattress. “Like that. Oh, fuck, like that.”
Then he slowed suddenly, dragging all the way out until only the thick head of him stretched your entrance, before pushing back in painfully slow.
The wet, obscene squelch echoed through the room, filling the silence between your gasps.
Bucky’s eyes flicked down, smirk curling his lips. “Hear that?” he growled, thrusting slow again, deliberate, making the slick sound ring out louder. “So fuckin’ wet for me.”
Your hands scrambled against his back, nails digging into muscle, your head tossing side to side. “Bucky, oh my god—”
“Mhm,” he cooed, kissing along your jaw, your cheek, before catching your mouth in another bruising kiss. “That’s all me, baby. Nothin’ but me makin’ this pussy sing.”
Another slow thrust, another filthy sound — so wet, so loud, you buried your face in his shoulder with a whimper.
But he wasn’t about to let you hide. His hand caught your jaw again, forcing your dazed eyes back to his, his smirk wicked.
“Don’t look away, sweetheart,” he muttered, hips snapping forward hard enough to make your breath catch. “Wanna see your face while I ruin you. Wanna hear every dirty sound your body makes for me.”
And then he drove into you again, this time harder, the noise louder, lewder, making your eyes roll back as you clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth.
You were unraveling, every thrust of him dragging ragged whimpers out of your throat, louder and louder as his cock split you open over and over again.
“Bucky—fuck—” you cried, clutching at his shoulders.
“Shhh,” he hissed, eyes flashing down at you, but his hips only slammed harder into yours. “You gotta be quiet, sweetheart—”
Your moans pitched higher anyway, desperate and broken.
With a growl, his hand clamped over your mouth, palm covering your cries as his thrusts rocked the bed beneath you. His forehead pressed to yours, voice low, ragged, urgent.
“We can’t let them know, okay?” he whispered against your lips, breath hot and filthy. “Not right now. Pussy feels too good, baby—fuck—too good.”
Your muffled whines vibrated against his palm, your eyes wide, wet, rolling back as he buried himself to the hilt again and again.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, smirking down at you even as sweat beaded at his temples. “Gotta keep it down, honey. If they come home and hear you screamin’ on my cock, I’ll never hear the fuckin’ end of it.”
His pace picked up, sharper, harder, the obscene wet slap of skin on skin filling the room where your voice couldn’t.
“Winnie would be so pissed at me,” he taunted, eyes blazing into yours, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth while his hand muffled your cries. “Her best friend spread out under me, takin’ me so fuckin’ well. But you don’t care, do you? You just want it.”
Your body convulsed around him, tears prickling the corners of your eyes, muffled pleas swallowed by his hand. His hand pressed firmer over your mouth, his thrusts rough and frantic now, every word a ragged growl against your ear.
And the wet, obscene sounds of him pounding into you made it impossible to hold back, your body already spiraling into release under his weight, his hand, his words.
Your whole body was shaking, every thrust driving you higher, wetter, tighter around him. His palm stayed firm over your mouth, muffling the desperate whimpers spilling out of you.
Your eyes squeezed shut, tears brimming, your cheeks burning hot. What the fuck is this? Why is this so fucking hot?
Bucky groaned low in your ear, rutting deep, his cock dragging against that spot that made your toes curl. “Look at you,” he rasped, watching your flushed face twist up, your muffled cries spilling against his hand. “You love this. Can’t stop whining, can you?”
You nodded frantically, moaning into his palm. Your hips jerked up, chasing every thrust, your body clinging to him like it didn’t care who heard, didn’t care who found out.
“Fuck,” he growled, eyes burning as he fucked into you harder. “You’re blushin’—you know how dirty this is, don’t you? Best friend’s dad, hand over your mouth so no one hears me poundin’ this sweet little pussy.”
Your muffled moan cracked into a sob. You nodded again, eyes wide, pleading.
“What’s that, baby?” he taunted, pressing tighter over your lips. “You beggin’ me through my hand? You that desperate?”
You hummed frantically, arching into him, your nails clawing at his shoulders.
His smirk curved sharp, dark, satisfied. “Goddamn. That’s cute, sweetheart. You’re so needy you’ll beg for me with your mouth covered.”
He thrust deeper, slower, grinding into you until your eyes rolled back. His forehead pressed to yours, his voice a rough whisper.
“Say it with your body, baby. Beg me to finish inside you. Beg me to make this pussy mine forever.”
You whined, shaking, nodding so hard tears slipped down your temples. You pushed your hips up against him, desperate, frantic, every muffled cry spilling into his hand like please, please, please.
“Fuck—” his voice broke, his hips faltering, cock twitching deep inside you. “That’s it, honey. Beg for it.”
You were spiraling, overwhelmed by the filth of it — Bucky noticed immediately.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, his voice a gravelly whisper. “What’s that, sweetheart? Too much? Too dirty? Embarrassed?”
You whimpered under his palm, face hot with shame and need.
He chuckled low, thrusting slow and deep until your body clenched hard around him. “No words, huh? ’s okay, baby.” His hand slid from your mouth to cradle your jaw, tilting your flushed face back up toward his. “Just keep your eyes on me. Wanna see your pretty face when you come.”
Your lids fluttered, trying to shut again, but his thumb brushed your cheek, coaxing you open. His hips snapped forward, burying himself deep, and your eyes flew wide with a muffled cry.
“Yeahhh,” he rasped, smirking down at you, sweat dripping from his temple. “That’s it. Let me see how good I make you feel.”
Your lips trembled, chest heaving, but you couldn’t look away. Not with his gaze burning into yours, not with his cock stretching you open so deep it felt like you’d never be the same.
He groaned, fucking into you harder, faster, his praise spilling ragged and filthy.
“Good girl,” he panted, his voice breaking as your walls fluttered around him. “Just like that. Eyes on me while I fuck you. Fu-uck—”
Your moans pitched higher, body twisting under his weight, embarrassment drowned by the way his words made your clit throb. Every praise was gasoline, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge.
And he didn’t stop, didn’t let you hide, just kept coaxing you, kissing the corner of your mouth between grunts.
“Pretty thing. My girl. Gonna cum for me, huh? Yeah, you are. Keep lookin’ at me, baby. Wanna watch you fall apart.”
Your eyes rolled, lips trembling, but his hand tightened on your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on him as you shattered.
“Fuck—fuck, that’s it, baby,” he panted, voice guttural. His thrusts grew rough, erratic, his cock twitching deep inside you. “I’m gonna cum—gonna cum inside this tight little pussy—”
Your walls spasmed around him, milking him, and the sight of your face falling apart under him ripped the last shred of control away.
“Fuck!” His groan was raw, breaking into a growl as he buried himself to the hilt. “Gonna cream all over you—oh, goddamn—”
His eyes never left yours as he spilled inside you, cock pulsing, hot ropes filling you deep. He gritted his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, every muscle in his body taut as he pumped every last drop into your still-clenching pussy.
When it was over, he stayed buried, panting against your lips, thumb stroking your cheek like he couldn’t stop touching you.
And you didn’t look away once.
Bucky was still buried inside you, chest pressed to yours, both of you gasping for air. His thumb stroked lazily over your cheek, his mouth brushing soft kisses along your temple, your jaw, the corner of your lips.
“Good girl,” he whispered, his voice low and wrecked. “Took me so good, sweetheart. You’re perfect. My perfect girl.”
You shivered, your legs still locked around his waist, every nerve buzzing. His praises made you melt, made your body flutter weakly around him even though you were already stuffed full of his cum.
“Sweetest thing I’ve ever had,” he murmured against your skin, kissing your flushed cheek. “So proud of you, baby. Gave me everything.”
You sighed, dazed and blissed out, your hands still fisted in his shirt. He pressed one last kiss to your forehead, whispering, “Mine. Always mine.” He looked down at where you were joined, taking in the sight of the ring of cum around the base of his cock, faint arrest of red there.
“Wait, were you-“
And then—
“Y/N!!!” Winnie’s voice screeched from downstairs, too loud, too close. “I’M HOMEEEEEE!”
Your entire body went rigid.
“Traffic was HORRIBLE but we got pizzaaa!” another voice sang. “And Margarita mix!”