After the line
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: In their 10th and final session, it becomes unavoidable. What has lived in the space between them—unspoken, redirected, carefully contained—begins to take shape. Slowly. Deliberately. Until the distance they’ve relied on no longer feels as fixed as it once did. The structure of the room remains the same, at least on the surface. But something beneath it has shifted, and neither of them moves to correct it.
Rating: 18+
Warnings: sexual tension, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, therapist/patient dynamic, blurred professional boundaries, emotional manipulation undertones, mutual loss of control, dominance and submission dynamics, rough sex, choking/breath play elements, hair pulling, physical restraint, impact play (slapping), degradation/praise kink language, use of “Daddy” dynamic, intense physical intimacy, graphic descriptions, vulnerability during intimacy, shifting power dynamics, psychological tension, consent framed within imbalance
Word Count: 2.9k
a/n: this is the 10th and final chapter of my "Glass Between Us" series, this was so much fun y'all first REAL series and more to come next series is about a certain cowboy ;D
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
· · ─ · previous · ─ · ·
He pulls back.
But not far.
Not enough to undo it.
Not enough to make it feel like distance again.
Your back is still against the wall.
His hand still braced beside your head.
Your grip is still caught in his shirt.
The atmosphere between you is thin.
Uneven.
You feel it in your chest—in the way your breath doesn’t settle, in the way his doesn’t either.
For a second—
Neither of you moves.
Not because you don’t know what just happened.
Because you do.
Too clearly.
His gaze stays on yours.
Not searching.
Not questioning.
Holding.
Like he’s waiting—
for you to say something.
To fix it.
To stop it.
You don’t.
Your hand is still in his shirt.
You feel the fabric under your fingers—warm now, slightly wrinkled where you’ve held it too tight.
You should let go.
You don’t.
His jaw tightens.
You see it.
The shift back toward control.
Toward distance.
“We shouldn’t—” he utters
Your right hand slides into Bucky’s hair at the base of his neck, fingers clenching tight, tugging just enough to make him growl—a low, feral sound that vibrates against your skin. You’re testing him, pushing, and you can feel his firmness splintering under your touch.
You use your grip to drag him closer, not enough to claim his mouth, but enough to feel his breath ghost over your lips—close enough to taste the tension.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His breath catches—just enough to break rhythm.
“Don’t—” he starts.
But the word lands on deaf ears.
Because you move.
Not fast.
Not like before.
Slower.
Deliberate.
You press both palms flat against his chest, feeling the heat and the wild vibration of his heart underneath your hands.
Tension coils under your touch, his muscles tight, barely restrained.
The restraint.
You watch him as you do it.
Not hiding it.
Not pretending.
And that’s what changes it.
Because now—
This isn’t a reaction.
This is a choice.
His gaze drops briefly.
Your mouth.
Then back up.
His jaw tightens again.
Harder.
Like he’s trying to hold the line—
And you can feel it slipping.
“We need to stop,” he says.
Quieter now.
Less certain.
You don’t answer.
You don’t step away.
Then, curl your hand slightly back inside the fabric.
Your breath is uneven.
You don’t fix it.
You let him hear it.
You let yourself hear his.
The space between you is gone again.
Not forced.
Not taken.
Chosen.
“You’re not moving,” you murmur against his lips. He can feel your breath fan across his lips.
The words come out low.
Not sharp.
Not defensive.
Observational.
His eyes flicker.
Just for a second.
“That doesn’t—” he utters
“You don’t get to start this and walk away,” he says.
You tilt your head slightly.
Still close.
Too close.
“I know,” you say.
You don’t step back.
You don’t give him room to.
And that—
That’s the challenge.
That’s the line.
The one you’re not pretending isn’t there anymore.
His breath shifts again.
Deeper than that time.
You feel it.
Between you.
In the way his chest moves under your hand.
In the way, his control is still there—
but thinner.
Tighter.
You don’t give him time to rebuild it.
Your hand tightens in his shirt again—
pulling him the smallest amount closer—
and this time when you move—
It’s not hesitation.
It’s a decision.
And the second it lands—
Everything shifts.
Your hand in his hair tightens.
Not tentative.
Not testing.
Firm.
You use it.
Tilting his head just enough—
Your lips touch, but nothing more. Bucky clings to whatever shred of resolve he still has.
“We—” he starts, and grips your waist tightly.
controlling the space between you—
He’s waiting— for you to say something.
To fix it. To pull it back into something he can control.
Something shifts in him— not sudden. Not clean.
And then—
His mouth is on yours.
No hesitation.
No pause.
The kiss isn’t sharp this time—
It’s deliberate.
Driven, hungry.
You feel the difference immediately.
So does he.
For half a second—
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t take control.
Doesn’t stop you.
Just breath—caught, uneven—as your grip holds him there. And then—
He exhales.
Low.
Rough, against your mouth
Like something in him gives way all over again.
His hand slides from the wall— finding your waist, he pulls you flush against his body.
The shift is immediate.
The restraint that was barely holding—
It isn’t holding the same way anymore.
Your grip tightens in his hair, keeping him close, not letting him pull back even if he wanted to, and he doesn’t want to
The kiss turns ravenous, Bucky’s hands roaming everywhere—gripping, kneading, desperate to touch every inch of you.
Less measured.
There’s no space left.
Not between your bodies.
Not between your breaths.
Not between the choices you’re both making now.
No hesitation left in it.
And you feel it—
in the way his breathing breaks rhythm again
In the way, he doesn’t try to slow it down.
doesn’t try to stop you
doesn’t try to stop himself
Your hand in his hair keeps him exactly where you want him—
close
grounded
unable to put distance back between you
Because now it’s not just happening.
Now it’s happening because neither of you is willing to stop it.
The awareness is still there.
Sharp.
Loud.
Unavoidable.
And completely ignored.
With a gentle growl, he lifts you—no hesitation—your legs holding him as he moves you away from the wall. The desk catches behind you, everything else pushed aside without care.
He’s already pressed against you—heat, pressure, impossible to ignore. You pull him closer, forcing the contact, and the sound he makes is rough, unsteady, like it catches somewhere in his chest.
“Please, Buck,” you whimper, lifting his shirt over his head, separating only to remove pieces of clothing until you’re both just in your underwear.
You yank Bucky closer, hands slipping under his waistband, encircling his cock—thick, hot, already slick at the tip. Your touch lingers—deliberate, knowing exactly what it does to him.
Bucky’s eyes are glued to you, mouth slack, breath uneven as you stroke him—his cock quivering in your grip, every sound you pull from him unfiltered—no control left in it.
Your free hand fists in his hair, yanking him down as he ruts desperately into your fist. You bury your face in his neck, licking, biting, sucking marks into his skin—claiming him, tasting the salt and heat.
Buck hisses, letting you use him, underwear bunched at his ankles, every nerve ending lit up as you take and take and take.
“Oh fuck” he whimpers between broken breaths, “I-I-”
“Yes, baby?” you coo softly while pumping his cock faster.
“Fuck!” he snarls, tearing your hand away. You meet his gaze, wicked, and drag your tongue slowly over your palm, tasting him, moaning—shameless and hungry.
Bucky growls, harshly gripping your jaw and pulling you into a rough open-mouthed kiss, tasting his own pre cum off your tongue.
He breaks the kiss only to bite down on your neck, sucking hard, breathing you in. You reach for his cock, greedy, but he smacks your hand away—claiming control.
“Your turn, sweetheart,” he whispers into your ear, causing a shiver up your spine.
Buck’s mouth blazes a path from your neck to your breasts, sucking hard on your nipples until you arch for him. He pushes you flat, eyes focused on yours as he kisses and licks his way down, teeth catching your waistband, dragging your underwear off with a growl.
He trails slow, wet kisses up your thighs, delighting in every inch of your skin.
He drops to his knees in front of you and gently guides your feet so they are propped on the desk, leaving you on full display.
Buck looks at you like he’s starving, mouth hovering, teasing kisses everywhere but where you ache for him most.
“Please, Buck,” you whimper softly, threading your hands into his hair, directing him where you need him most.
“Easy, doll,” he murmurs, tongue flattening for one long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. You shove his face closer, desperate, and he lets you—devoted to your pleasure.
His mouth latches onto your clit, licking and sucking until your back bows off the desk. One hand kneads your tits, the other teasing at your entrance, fingers slick and insistent.
“Mmh, yes,” you moan, slipping out loud, and grind your hips into Bucky’s mouth, chasing that high.
He pushes a thick finger inside you, and you clench around him, shuddering. His groan vibrates against your skin, sending quivers through your whole body.
“All mine,” he growls, sliding in a second finger, curling until he finds that spot that makes you see stars—like he knows exactly where to press, what to take, what to undo.
“Oh fuck I-I’m so-” you whimper pathetically, greedily bucking your hips in tandem with his fingers.
“I got you,” he breathes, sucking your clit hard. Your mouth drops open in a mute scream as your orgasm crashes over you, legs shaking around his head, reduced to a quivering, whimpering mess under his mouth.
He slides a third finger in, stretching you wide, and you gasp—loud, desperate. The sound of it is unavoidable—wet, close, too loud within the quiet room.
“Buck, wait—I think—” you babble, voice breaking as the coil inside you snaps. You come undone, shaking, whimpering, lost in the pleasure he wrings out of you.
Bucky slowly slides his fingers out and stands up, grabbing you by the hair roughly and pulling your face up to his.
“Open,” he commands, and you obey instantly. He slides his fingers into your mouth, and you moan, eyes wavering shut as you taste yourself, sucking and bobbing on his fingers, shameless and hungry for more.
“Jesus, you’re fucking filthy,” he says through gritted teeth as you pull his fingers out with a satisfying pop.
“All for me, huh?” he said with a scowl.
He smacks your cheek, and you moan—filthy, needy. You try to slide off the desk, desperate to touch him, but Bucky’s grip on your waist is iron, pinning you down. You look up, dazed and wanting.
“I- let me-” you mewl softly, pulling Bucky closer. He sucks his teeth and says.
“Later, baby. I need to feel you now.” He lines himself up and pushes in slowly, groaning deep and rough, like he can’t believe how good you feel enfolded around him.
“Ah, fuck,” he growls, digits pressing into your waist as he drags you onto his cock, slow and deep. Your mouth falls open, breath coming fast and ragged.
Bucky is still inside of you, letting you adjust, even with how rough he’s been up until now; your comfort is at the forefront.
“Let me know if it’s too much, okay?” he says through gritted teeth.
Eyes gazing at your face for any discomfort, looking for permission to move.
You nod lightly, gripping his thick arms.
He runs his hands from your waist to your legs, propping both your legs over his shoulders.
He drives into you, burying himself to the hilt, fucking you mercilessly—every thrust rough, relentless.
“Look at me,” he bellows, gripping your small throat with a tight metal fist, “I’m right here.”
His hand tightens around your throat as he fucks you harder, the room resounding with the wet smack of skin and your strangled, desperate sounds.
“Yes, Daddy,” you whine out before thinking.
You feel it immediately before you even see it; everything in him stills.
His hand tightens.
Not enough to hurt—but enough that you feel it.
Immediate. Instinctive.
Like it wasn’t a choice.
His head dips—just slightly. Breath catching somewhere deeper this time.
Not surprise.
Something else.
Something that lands heavier than it should.
“Say it again,” he says
It comes out low.
Warning.
Not to stop.
But like he’s trying to keep hold of something that’s already slipping.
His grip shifts—not harsher, but more deliberate.
His jaw tightens.
You see it.
That internal line he keeps trying to maintain—
bends.
Then—
without another word—
He leans in closer.
Not speaking again.
Not repeating it.
But the way he moves after that—
more certain
less restrained
completely aware of you
—tells you exactly how it hit him. You whimper, helpless, as he fucks you like he’s trying to brand you, one hand tight on your throat, the other finding your clit and rubbing hard, making you gasp and writhe beneath him.
You’re seeing stars
Legs quivering, you let out through short breaths.
“Please, Daddy,” you plead as loud as your compressed airway lets you.
A sharp exhale leaves him, almost a growl this time, and his restraint shifts—not gone, but rearranged. Focused entirely on you.
Your eyes close for a half second before Bucky firmly smacks your cheek.
“Don’t look away,” he says lowly, punctuating each word with a harsh thrust.
“You started this,” he growls, his grasp squeezing around your feeble throat.
It’s clear that whatever control he had, he’s choosing not to use it.
Your fingers wrap around his wrist—not to push him away.
Just to hold on.
To feel it.
The tension in him.
The way it’s changed.
Your breath comes shallow, uneven, every inhale catching where his hand keeps you right on the edge of it—never fully cutting you off, never letting you forget he’s there.
Present.
Controlling it.
Controlling you.
Your eyes struggle to stay open, but you force them—because he told you to.
Because you want to see it.
The difference.
And it’s there.
Clear now.
Whatever line he was holding onto before—
It’s gone.
Not recklessly.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough that you feel it in every thrust—he’s using you, focused, intent, the rest of the world melting until it’s just you and him and the heat between you.
Like nothing else exists outside of this moment
Your grip shifts slightly against his wrist, not loosening, not resisting—just there, centering yourself in him as your thoughts start to blur at the edges.
The realization lands further this time.
Not fleeting.
Not uncertain.
You feel it in the way his breath hits your skin—heavier now.
In the way his movements lose that final trace of hesitation.
In the way, he doesn’t pull back.
Doesn’t correct it.
Doesn’t stop.
Your pulse stutters.
Not fear.
Something keener.
Something that makes your chest contract in a different way.
You should say something.
You should stop this.
You don’t.
Your fingers curl tighter around his wrist instead, anchoring yourself to him as your gaze locks back onto his—steady, even as everything else feels like it’s slipping.
And for the first time—
You don’t try to take control of the moment.
You let him have it.
Let him take it.
Let him see exactly what he does to you when he looks at you like that.
Your voice comes quieter this time.
“Buck, I’m-” you squeak out, nails digging into his wrist, but it just eggs him on.
Low grunts in tandem with his thrusts
“Fuck—” he growls, thrust becoming sloppy.
“You’re okay...I’ve got you,” his free hand rubbing rapid circles into your clit
“Oh fuck—” you blurt out, whimpers and whine getting louder and louder.
It hits you all at once: your vision goes white, and your ears ring loudly.
Your hearing returns first, your ears filling with Bucky’s groans and grunts.
When your vision clears, you see Bucky—sweaty, flushed, fucking himself through his orgasm. He groans loudly, burying his face in your neck, grinding into you, greedy for every last wave of pleasure.
He collapses against you—closer than he should be.
His weight is over you.
You don’t know what part of it you’re trying to hold onto— him, or the moment that just changed everything.
Breathing uneven.
The room is quiet, too quiet.
Only the sound of it:
your breathing, his—heavy, tangled, the slight swish of bodies as everything settles, sensation prickling back to the surface
His forehead dips briefly against your shoulder—
not quite resting
not quite pulling away
just there
like he hasn’t decided what to do next.
Like neither of you has.
The air remains different now.
Heavier.
Not charged in the same way—
but not calm either.
Something else.
Something that lingers
Something that doesn’t fit back into what this room is supposed to be.
Your fingers move slightly.
Still holding him.
Still not letting go.
And he doesn’t move away.
He doesn’t try to fix it.
Doesn’t say anything.
For a second—
It almost feels like the world has narrowed to just this.
This space.
This moment.
This—
choice.
And then—
two sharp taps.
The sound cuts through the room.
Immediate.
Unmistakable.
The matching rhythm.
The same knock.
Everything stops.
Not gradually.
Not slowly.
Instantly.
His head lifts.
Your hand stills.
The lull which follows is different now—
not heavy
not intimate
but exposed.
Real.
The door handle shifts slightly.
A voice from the other side—
muffled, casual, unaware.
“Hey—? You still in there?”
Neither of you moves.
Not right away.
Not enough.
Just enough to feel it.
Everything.
What just happened? Where are you?
What this is.
His hand drops from where it was—
not abruptly
But like he suddenly remembers it’s there. Like he suddenly remembers everything.
His gaze meets yours.
And this time—
There’s no pretending. No distance.
No structure to fall back into.
Simply awareness.
Sharp.
Clear.
Unavoidable.
And impossible to take back.
