I Meant To Finish And Post On Christmas But -_- - Tumblr Posts

“Is that right? You didn’t mean to watch me like a little pervert?” he speaks in faux apology, the façade eviscerated as his attention flickers to where your dress is ruffled and there’s a glistening trailing down your inner thighs. The man you known to be your best friend’s happy-go-lucky father has been unhinged into a beast of carnal hunger as a result of you. “Is that why you’re making a mess on my floor?” His jaw ticks. “No, you enjoyed it. You enjoyed watching me jack off, wondering if it’d be even half as good as being buried inside you—but we both know it isn’t.”

part one of two. in which you watch your best friend’s father masturbate, and he catches you. (includes best friend’s father!bucky x you, age gap mention, masturbation, voyeurism and exhibitionsm, dirty talk, blowjob—part two will include daddy kink by request of kat @angel-fire, reader receiving oral, size kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex.)

—

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay in tonight?” your best friend’s father, James call-me-Bucky Barnes, calls out when he hears the click of heels descending down the staircase, and silences the rumble of his mixer. “I mean, what sounds better, some stupid nightclub or my super awesome brownies?” 

“Some stupid night club,” his daughter answers immediately with a cheeky grin, sashaying ahead of you in a modest but flirty outfit to grab her clutch from the kitchen island. The last thing she needed to go out acquired, she glances at you for additional support in the evening plan. “Right?” 

Strolling behind her, you give an unsure hum. “I don’t know,” you say with an upturn at a corner of your lips. “Your daddy’s baking is pretty convincing.” 

Sinful in a stained apron and chocolate smeared on a high cheekbone, a likewise dripping whisk in one hand, he turns around to face you. His innately affable blue eyes are bright with flattery until landing on your scantily-clad form, then the initial shock darkens to something that lances satisfaction in your gut. 

But he hides fairly quickly, dissolving back into his easy going demeanor (you know, like he isn’t imaging that tiny dress in a puddle around your ankles). He clears his throat with a reinforced smile. “See! Thank you,” he addresses graciously before hastening to divert his gaze. “C’mere, and taste it, kid. Then tell me you’d rather go out.” 

The twenty-one-year-old chuckles at the lame attempt and shakes her head. “No, thanks, dad,” she speaks as she checks her things and ruffles through to ensure she’s got her phone charger, pepper spray and condoms. When it turns out she does, the bag clips close with a clink. “I’m sure you’ll have a great time by yourself,” she says absentmindedly before heading into the den for her car keys.

“Could I, Mr. Barnes?” you ask innocently with a step forward, blinking up at him. 

Seemingly no longer unaffected by the jut of your chest in a black halter top, he regards you warmly. “Of course!” He beckons you over and picks up a wooden spoon to dip into the concoction; in the process, he spills a drop on his opposing thumb, but he pays it no mind. A sample on the spoon, he offers it to you with a beam. “And, you don’t have to be so formal. Call me—”

Instead of taking the utensil, your hand curls around his and pulls down, cutting him off when your lips wrap around his thumb. Doe-eyes locked on his, you sink low to the webbing as your cheeks hollow. Rich sugar explodes on your tongue, invoking a soft moan that has his pupils dilating black. 

Oh, God, you think with a shiver down your spine. 

The look on his face is unlike what you’ve witnessed in the wholesome thirty-nine year old. It’s hungry and desire ridden like his next course of action is to hike up your dress and bend you over the counter; like he’s willing to risk it all to see if the treat between your legs is as sweet as his baking. 

You finally ease off him with a soft pop, lashes fluttering with a barely suppressed smile. “That is really good,” you murmur mischievously, and for added effect, you trail your finger down his chest, through two layers of cloth to feel the hard muscle beneath. “If it were up to me, I’d spend the night with you.” 

Before he can react, a call rips through your interaction: “Yo, let’s go!” his daughter sing songs from the foyer. “Time is wasting, and I would like to get on the dance floor while the night is still young, thank you very much!” 

Disappointment deflates your shoulders as you backpedal. “Have a good night, Mr. Barnes,” you intend to part with: you spin to follow out, but your wrist is caught, tugged firmly so you stumble into his strong embrace with a small squeak. “Mr. Barnes—!”

Two big hands steady you roughly, and he’s flushed you against him. Then he slides down your backside to knead your ass, pawing at you through the soft fabric. His fingers crudely squeeze your cheeks; his pads dig in low and spread, rasping over your puckered rosebud repetitively until he’s dwindled you into a gasping mess. “F - fuck,” he breathes in a borderline growl, jaw clenching as you shudder against him and the sensations deluging you. 

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