asking your sweet boyfriend to be rough with you in bed for the first time
he’s so careful with you. always has been. always will be, probably. he cups your cheek when you kiss, laces your fingers together during sex like he needs the anchor. never gets too loud, never gets too greedy. and you love that about him, you do, but it’s been rattling in your brain for weeks now, something a little dirtier, something a little rougher. so you asked. quiet, a little embarrassed after a sleepy morning fuck when he’d held your thighs wide and buried his face between them like a man possessed. “can you… maybe be a little meaner next time?”
he’d pulled back instantly, eyes soft but curious. “meaner?” and you’d nodded, blinking up at him with warm cheeks and slick still running down the inside of your thighs. he didn’t laugh or tease you, just tucked the blanket back around you and said, “okay,” in that same low voice he uses when he tells you he loves you.
you didn’t think he’d actually do it. not like this. your face is pressed into the pillow, arms pinned under your chest, hips pulled back until you’re arching for him completely at his mercy. and the sound of him behind you, panting, groaning, mumbling little curses under his breath every time he fucks back in—it’s almost too much.
you’ve never felt him like this before. not this deep. not this rough or passionate. his hands are so tight on your hips you swear there’ll be bruises, but he hasn’t stopped checking in, not once. “you okay, baby?” he breathes into your spine, lips brushing between your shoulder blades. “tell me if it’s too much. you say stop, i stop.”
you just whimper. nod. grind your ass back against him because you don’t want him to stop. you want more. you want to be ruined by the boy who holds your umbrella in the rain and texts you to eat lunch and kisses your ankle just because it’s close.
he groans low, hand trailing down to press your lower back and keep you in place. “fuckin’ filthy,” he mutters, like he doesn’t believe this is happening. like he’s surprised by the way you keep clenching around him, sweet and tight, like your body was made to take everything he gives. “you like this? bein’ handled like this?”
you nod, face shoved against the sheets now, back arching for him again. your thighs tremble when he thrusts deep and doesn’t pull out, just grinds slow in that spot that makes your stomach flip. “oh my god—”
“yeah?” he pants, hands gripping the meat of your ass and spreading you open like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to see. “you’re takin’ me so well, baby. so perfect for me. look at this fuckin’ pussy—drippin’ all over me. shit.”
you reach back blindly, needing to touch something, anything, but he grabs your wrist and pins it to your lower back, groaning through his teeth like the contact made something snap. he’s fucking you rough now, real rough—each thrust punching little sounds out of your throat as your hips jolt forward, mouth open and drooling against the sheets.
“fuckin’ love you,” he growls suddenly, voice cracking, hips still slamming into you, “love you so much, baby—fuck—i’ll give you whatever you want.”
your orgasm catches you off guard. white hot and full-bodied, legs shaking, your voice cracking into a sob as your pussy clamps down around him, fluttering, slick, and wet. he chokes out a curse, pulls you tight against his chest, and fucks you through it—never once letting you fall.
and then his thrusts slow, stutter, stop. you feel him cum in deep, hands still cradling your hips like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. he’s breathless. sweaty. and he collapses with you still on your side, dragging you onto the pillows with him, your leg thrown over his hip, his arm pulling you in like you’ll float away otherwise.
your heartbeat’s in your ears. your body’s wrecked. your voice is barely a whisper. but he kisses your jaw and murmurs: “…you really wanted me to fuck you like that?”
you nod against his neck, your laugh hoarse and small, fingers curling weakly against his chest. he exhales hard and cups your jaw, thumb dragging gently along your cheekbone. “baby,” he says. “next time, you better tell me if you wanna ruin me too.”
Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected sex, dirty talk. A little angst.
Summary: Torn between his instinct to protect his family and his desire to be a part of their lives, Bucky tries to deal with the reality of his ex-wife going on a date while he stays home caring for their son.
Word Count: About 8.9k.
He was late. If Y/n didn’t know better, she’d think he was doing it on purpose. Bucky had agreed to watch their son tonight so she could go on a date, the third one since their divorce two years ago. The last couple of times, she’d managed to find a friend to babysit, but Saturday nights were always tough. So in the end, she had no choice but to come clean and ask Bucky.
She could still hear his voice from that awkward phone call, his tone edged with surprise when she’d told him she had plans.
“A date?” he repeated, the edge of disbelief was hard to miss.
"Yeah," she’d replied casually, but Bucky’s silence lingered longer than usual. He hated texting, so phone calls had become their norm, even for the smallest of things.
“With who?” His attempt to sound nonchalant fell flat, the tension was evident, threading through every word.
“Chris,” she said, keeping her tone light, “You know, the music teacher at the kindergarten where I work? Blonde, easy smile... we walked past him once when he was out with his dog, Dodger.”
Bucky scoffed, the bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “I knew it. I knew he had a thing for you.”
She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Oh, please.”
“Every time I’d drop by the kindergarten, he’d just… linger. His eyes followed you the whole time like he couldn’t look away. People don’t stare like that unless they’re thinking something. And the way he’d smile, all soft and attentive, he was trying too hard to be just a ‘friendly co-worker.” His voice had dropped a notch, as his irritation crept in.
“Are you serious?” she shot back, incredulous. But Bucky wasn’t done.
“How long’s this been going on?” The question came out more like an accusation.
“It’s our first date. You know I only recently started dating again,” she replied, her patience wearing thin.
He paused, clearly unsatisfied. “So what, he’s just been waiting for his chance, ready to pounce-”
“I’m going to stop you right there, James,” she interrupted firmly. “You’re not entitled to know anything about my love life the moment you decided you wanted the divorce.”
There was an uncomfortable silence on the line. She could hear him breathing, and the tension stretched between them, until finally, he sighed.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I’m sorry, that was out of line. I’ll take care of Benjamin on Saturday night.”
The recall of the conversation was interrupted by Ben, who wanted to show her what he did with his Legos.
Bucky had been sitting in front of the house for half an hour now. Sometimes, like tonight, he regretted what he’d done, but deep down, he knew it had been necessary. After the terrifying incident when Hydra agents attempted to kidnap their son, hoping to test if any of the serum’s powers had been passed down genetically, he realized that his past would eventually catch up with them. He had to make sure they were safe, even if it meant tearing apart everything they’d built.
He knew she wouldn’t understand if he told her the truth. If he had laid out his fears and his guilt and spiraled into a self-deprecating parade like he always did, she would have fought him and convinced him to stay. So he waited.
He knew the only way to make her believe it, was to weave in just enough truth to his argument, so, slowly he began pulling away, setting the stage for what would be his ultimate break. Late nights, distant conversations, an almost non-existent sexual life and missed moments with their son, all led to this. He needed her to see that the life they had wasn’t something he could carry anymore.
When the moment came, he didn’t hesitate. He told her he felt suffocated by their life together. That the roles of husband and father were more than he could bear after everything he had been through. She didn’t believe him at first, and he could see the determination in her eyes, the will to fight for what they had.
So, he played the card he knew would make her stop fighting him. He spoke of the years he’d spent as a puppet, how he had never truly known freedom, never had control over his life. He appreciated everything she had done for him, all the love and support she had given, but it wasn’t enough. He needed air, space to figure out who he was beyond the roles he had been forced into. He made it sound like staying with her, staying in the family they’d built, was just another form of captivity.
It crushed her. Bucky could see the moment her resistance faded. She believed him, not because she wanted to, but because he made it seem so real. So she stood there, heartbroken, but unable to argue against the logic he’d presented.
The first months after the divorce were hard on both parts. For her, that time was the hardest, filled with sleepless nights and the nagging feeling that Bucky had simply abandoned her, walked away from their life, their love, without a second thought. She wrestled with the confusion and the heartbreak, trying to piece together where things had gone wrong. For Bucky, it was a different kind of suffering. He bore the weight of his decision in silence, knowing he had walked away to protect them, but that didn’t ease the sting of loneliness or the guilt that clawed at him.
Their lives moved on separately. They saw each other only in passing, and even that was rare. Bucky would pick up Benjamin directly from daycare once a week, dropping him off the next morning before heading back to his life, careful to avoid lingering long enough for awkward conversations. Sometimes he didn’t make it at all, missing his time with his son when missions pulled him away. Immersing himself in his work was easier than facing what he had left behind, the family he still wanted but couldn’t allow himself to have. Meanwhile, she did her best to create some normalcy for Benjamin, even as the space Bucky left behind echoed through their small home.
Even though their lives had drifted apart, Bucky never truly let go. He kept his distance, but never far enough to lose sight of them. Unbeknownst to her, he knew everything that went on in the household, the daily rhythms of their life, the way she struggled and adapted to her new normal without him. From the shadows, Bucky lurked unnoticed in the neighborhood, always keeping an eye on them. She never noticed, never had a clue that even when he was away on missions, he somehow knew when Benjamin caught a cold or when she had a rough day at work.
It was a secret vigil that gave him a twisted sense of comfort, knowing they were safe even if they no longer shared the same home. He would catch fleeting glimpses of her tucking their son into bed or hear his faint laughter playing in the yard. It was enough to remind him of what he’d lost, but not enough to bring him back to the life he believed he couldn’t have.
That was why Bucky was caught off guard when she mentioned her date with that guy, the music teacher. He never saw that coming. He had always known the man had a soft spot for her, could see it in the way he acted whenever she was around, how he lingered a little longer during pick-ups at the kindergarten, helping to manage the children even if it wasn’t his job, always with an excuse to retain her and talk. His body language was an open book. But back then, Bucky had dismissed him as harmless, barely giving him a second thought. To him, Chris had always been like a friendly Labrador: approachable, with no bite. A non-threat.
But now, that harmless Labrador had grown fangs. The guy wasn’t just hanging around the edges anymore; he was stepping in, taking her to dinner, moving into a space Bucky had once occupied. And he had no choice but to suck it up and watch it happen, watch her walk out the door with him. He could handle the distance, the brief moments of tension when they had to interact, but this? The idea of Chris sitting across from her at a candlelit table, making her laugh, holding her gaze... it twisted his guts.
And God knows what else would happen after dinner. Would Chris try to kiss her goodnight? Would she let him? Or worse, would they end up back at his place? His mind ran wild with the possibility of them taking things further, crossing a line he never wanted to imagine. Would she let him touch her in ways Bucky used to, let him see sides of her only he had known? He knew he had no right to feel this way, but it didn’t stop the thoughts from torturing him.
Eventually, he glanced at the clock and sighed, raking a hand through his hair. There was no point in torturing himself any further, he couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer.
Reaching the front porch, Bucky hesitated for a moment. He straightened his posture adjusting his clothes, then knocked on the door. As he waited, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to shake off the tension.
When the door finally swung open, for a split second, neither of them spoke. Her eyes widened just a little, her lips parting as she took him in. It had been a long time since she’d seen him. His hair had grown back to shoulder length, a few strands falling loose across his forehead. A three-day stubble sharpened his jawline, in a way that made him look rugged and effortlessly handsome. And was he wearing that shirt? The red and black lumberjack one that used to drive her wild?
Bucky caught her reaction and hit him like a shot of adrenaline. When he exited the bathroom that night and picked what to wear, he told himself it was just practical, something comfortable to wear while watching and playing with Ben. The cologne? Just a habit. But deep down, a part of him knew the truth: he wanted her to notice, and that split-second when her eyes widened, scanning him from head to toe, told him everything. She noticed. She definitely noticed. And something about that felt like a victory, even though he wasn’t supposed to be playing that game anymore.
He stared at her longer than necessary, his blue gaze drifting over the black dress she wore. New, he realized. It hugged her body in all the right places, accentuating her curves in a way that was impossible to ignore. The hemline? Too short for his liking. He clenched his jaw slightly, knowing full well Chris would be thrilled to see her like this.
Forcing himself to snap out of it, Bucky cleared his throat and broke the silence. “Hey,” he said, low and calm, though the tension still simmered beneath the surface. “You look... good.” He meant it, but the words tasted bitter.
"Thanks," she said, politely but distant, deliberately choosing not to compliment him back. She lingered for a moment, then added, “You’re late.”
Bucky flinched inwardly at the remark, though he kept his expression neutral. "Traffic," he muttered, stepping inside as she moved aside to let him in. An awkward silence settled between them, the air thick with things left unsaid.
Her fingers toyed with the edge of her dress as she cleared her throat, trying to fill the silence. “Ben is in the bathroom,” she said, casually, but there was a tension beneath it. “You can wait for him in the living room.”
“Right,” Bucky replied, nodding stiffly. He walked past her and into the living room, the space feeling both familiar and foreign at the same time. He took a seat, trying to shake off the strange energy between them, but his mind kept wandering back to the fact that she was dressed for someone else.
A moment later, the doorbell rang, and she turned toward the sound, visibly relieved. She opened the door, and Bucky heard Chris’s voice, a cheerful greeting that she surely responded to with a soft, warm smile. Bucky didn’t need to see it, her tone was different with him, softer, more open.
“Hey,” Chris said with bright tone, though there was a subtle shift when he paused. There was a beat of silence before he added, “You look amazing.”
Bucky couldn’t help it. Something pulled him from the couch, and before he knew it, he was standing in the hall, watching the interaction from a few feet away. His eyes narrowed as he observed Chris, sizing him up instinctively. Chris was taller than he remembered, clean-cut in a casual but neat button-down shirt, his easy smile faltering just a fraction when his eyes darted past her, catching sight of Bucky standing there.
Chris’s brows furrowed, but he quickly masked his reaction, giving Bucky a curt nod. “Uh, hey,” he greeted awkwardly, glancing between them.
It was her turn to narrow her eyes. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw him. Bucky stood at the edge of the hallway, staring directly at Chris, his expression unreadable. His eyes locked onto the man without blinking. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t saying anything, just staring.
Inwardly, she rolled her eyes. Really? A display of male dominance, here and now? After everything he’d put her through, the mess he’d made of their lives, he suddenly decided he had the right to act territorial? What exactly did he think he was entitled to? The nerve of it sent a wave of irritation through her, tightening her grip on her coat.
But what frustrated her even more -what really troubled her- was that a part of her didn’t mind. Beneath her annoyance, something stirred, deep and undeniable, lurking just beneath the surface. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but his presence still had a hold on her. Maybe it didn’t bother her as much as she wanted to believe. Maybe, despite everything, there was still a part of her that reacted to him, to the way he watched her, the way he used to make her feel like the center of his world.
Before those feelings could rise any further, before she could let herself dwell on what they meant, she quickly turned back to Chris. She forced a bright smile, pushing away the conflicted thoughts swirling in her mind.
“We should get going,” she said, pretending not to notice the tension still hanging in the air. She stepped closer to Chris, signaling it was time to leave, hoping to put some distance between her and the weight of Bucky’s gaze.
As the door clicked shut behind them, Bucky stood frozen in place for a moment, the tension that had gripped him not easing, even with their absence. The quiet of the house felt heavier now, pressing down on him. His chest tightened as he stared at the closed door, half-expecting her to walk back in. Of course, she didn’t.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he replayed the scene in his head: her standing there, beautiful and confident, and Chris… that guy was so normal, so easygoing. Exactly what she deserved. Exactly what Bucky could never be. He raked a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling to the surface. What was he even doing? He had no right, he was the one who walked away. He was the one who made her believe she wasn’t enough to keep him, that he wanted out. And now, here he was, silently raging because she was moving on, exactly like he supposedly wanted.
Stupid. That was the only word he could come up with to describe how he felt. Stupid for showing up looking the way he did, stupid for thinking that maybe, just maybe, he could still affect her. But what for? His job was to protect her and their son from the shadows, not to stand in the doorway, playing the part of some jealous lover. But God, it hurt more than he expected.
He crossed the living room, his steps heavy against the floor, and slumped into the couch. The house was eerily quiet, save for the faint sound of the TV in the background. Ben was still in the bathroom, probably playing with the liquid soap and making a mess, unaware of the tangled web of emotions his father was caught in.
The hours slipped by, though Bucky barely noticed at first. Benjamin was beyond excited to have his dad all to himself for the evening. They played, joked, and built elaborate lego fortresses, the boy’s laughter filling the house with a warmth Bucky hadn’t realized he missed so much. For a little while, he was able to shove everything else to the back of his mind. Being a dad, just a dad, felt like a relief. But every now and then, his gaze would drift to the clock on the wall. He couldn’t help it. As much as he tried to stay in the moment with his son, there was a lingering pull, a constant, nagging thought of where she was.
After he’d put Ben to bed, Bucky’s mind wandered back to the date. The image of her in that black dress haunted him, the way Chris had looked at her, the possibility of what might have happened after dinner. His thoughts spiraled, even though he knew it was none of his business anymore. He poured himself a scotch, the amber liquid swirling in his glass as he tried -and failed- to push the thoughts aside.
Eventually, the sound of the front door opening cut through the quiet. The familiar click of her shoes against the entryway tile echoed through the house, sharp and distinct. She was home.
Bucky didn’t move. He stayed where he was, seated at the old teakwood table, nursing his scotch. The only light on in the house was the dim glow above the kitchen, so she’d find him.
The sound of her footsteps grew closer, and he listened intently, his heart beating just a little faster despite his best efforts to keep calm.
She entered the kitchen, her steps a little less steady than usual, mumbling a soft “Hi” as she made her way inside. Bucky glanced up, immediately sensing that she was a little tipsy. She didn’t meet his eyes, just plopped down in the chair next to him with a tired sigh. “God, my feet are killing me,” she muttered, kicking off her heels and wincing.
For a while, the silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of the fridge. She sighed absentmindedly, then reached for his glass of scotch, taking a sip without asking. He was taken aback by the casual intimacy of the gesture, but he said nothing, just watched her as she leaned back in her chair.
Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. “Want me to rub your feet?” He froze. He couldn’t believe he’d said it, half-expecting her to snap at him or give him one of her sharp retorts.
But instead, she surprised him. She looked over at him, her eyes tired but soft, and then shrugged. “Yeah...” she said, a little more relaxed than he expected.
Bucky blinked, caught off guard by her response. His heart thudded against his ribcage as he moved toward her, kneeling down in front of her chair. His fingers hovered hesitantly over her ankle before gently wrapping around it, lifting her foot onto his knee.
As he began to knead his thumbs into her sore muscles, the tension that had been brewing in him all night seemed to ease, just a little. Her head lolled back against the chair, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
He couldn’t believe he was doing this, touching her again in this way, after everything. He shouldn’t, but she didn’t seem to mind. If anything, she seemed to relax more as the seconds passed, letting her guard down in a way that felt dangerously familiar.
“So... how was the date?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost too casual as he broke the silence.
Her eyes fluttered open at the question, and for a moment, he thought she might brush him off or remind him that it wasn’t his business. But instead, she gave a small shrug, her tone indifferent. “It was fine.”
Bucky frowned slightly, pressing his thumbs a little harder into the arch of her foot. He wasn’t sure if it was frustration or something else pushing his hands. “Fine?” he echoed, trying to keep his voice even.
“Yeah,” she murmured, closing her eyes. Her voice was soft, almost distracted. “Just... fine.”
He wasn’t satisfied with that. He couldn’t help himself, he pressed, his tone still light but with a thread of tension beneath it. “Only... fine?”
She sighed, her eyes still closed as if trying to keep the conversation from getting deeper. “What do you want me to say, Bucky?” Her voice wasn’t sharp, but there was a subtle edge in her words. “That it was amazing? That he swept me off my feet? Some dirty little details?”
Bucky’s fingers stilled for a moment, resting against her foot as he met her gaze. He didn’t respond right away, unsure if he even wanted to hear the truth, whatever it might be. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice a little more vulnerable than he intended.
“It was just fine, nothing more, nothing less”
A silence settled between them, but he wasn’t ready to let it drop. “Are you going to see each other again outside work?” he ventured, his hands slowly moving up her shin, his touch hesitant but growing bolder. The fact that she didn’t push him away emboldened him further. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
Bucky’s hands continued their slow ascent, fingers brushing over her calf and then her knee, his touch firm but careful. When she didn’t pull away, he felt his pulse quicken. The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of things unsaid.
“In a way,” she finally answered, her voice elusive, a touch distant. She shifted slightly in her chair, subtly parting her thighs as his hands wandered higher. The movement was small, but enough for him to catch it. His breath hitched, and his gaze flicked down to her legs before rising back up to her face, darkening with lust.
"Care to... elaborate?" he pressed again, his voice lower now, rougher. His fingers slid up to her inner thigh, lingering there with a possessive grip as if testing her reaction. Her legs instinctively spread wider beneath his touch, and that simple motion sent a rush of heat through him.
She shifted slightly, as if searching for the right words. "He’s... nice," she finally said, a bit breathless under his touch. "He’s thoughtful, considerate, makes me laugh…” Her lips twitched in a small smile, but it quickly faded as she looked down at his hand resting on her thigh. “He’s... good.”
Bucky’s thumb paused, pressing a little harder, as he leaned in closer, his voice barely above a murmur. “…And?”
She sighed, her eyes opening again to meet his intense gaze. “And… he’s not you.”
His grip on her thigh tightened involuntarily, his breath catching in his throat. He’d pushed her away, done everything he could to sever the ties between them, convinced himself it was for her protection. But now, hearing her admit that, it sent his head spinning.
“He’s not you.”
The room seemed smaller, the air heavier, as the tension between them crackled like electricity. His hand inched higher, dangerously close to where he could feel the heat radiating off her body. Every instinct in him screamed to close the distance, to take what he wanted, to forget everything that had led them to this point. But he forced himself to stop, his gaze locking onto hers, searching her face for any sign that she would tell him to stop.
She didn’t. Instead, she held his gaze, her breathing shallow as if waiting to see what he would do next.
Bucky’s grip tightened again. Fuck it. He leaned forward, pressing his face against her other inner thigh, his stubble grazing her skin as he inhaled her scent deeply, a growl rumbling in his chest. She tensed, feeling him nip gently at her sensitive flesh, and then a slow, deliberate lick followed, sending a shiver through her.
"Did he behave, or..." he paused, his tongue teasing the same spot before he looked up at her, his lips brushing her thigh as he continued, "...things got handsy?"
A gasp escaped her when she felt his mouth so dangerously close to where she wanted it most. Her head tilted back just slightly, her body betraying her as desire pooled in her belly. His eyes flicked up, meeting hers, their blue depths darkened with lust, and something more. His lips remained pressed against her skin, refusing to budge until he had his answer.
"You let him touch you?" His voice was a husky whisper, laced with jealousy.
She exhaled slowly, her breath shaky as the memory flickered through her mind. "Yes," she admitted, her voice low, reluctant. "But just briefly, when we ki—"
Before she could finish, Bucky’s hand shifted, moving up to cup her mound, his fingers pressing firmly against the damp fabric of her underwear. Her words died in her throat, a sharp intake of breath replacing them as his touch ignited a fire that spread through her veins. His hand was deliberate, unapologetic in the way it claimed her, the heel of his palm pressing against her pussy as if he had every right to be there.
"And then?" His question hung in the air, but she couldn’t find the words immediately.
Her lips parted as she finally spoke, barely above a whisper. "I wanted to feel something... but I didn’t. I just didn’t."
Her confession landed between them like a spark to dry wood, setting the tension ablaze. Bucky’s hand remained where it was, but his thumb stroked over the wet fabric, teasing her, testing her resolve as his gaze bore into hers. She had said what he needed to hear, what he craved to know, and now, there was no turning back.
Bucky’s thumb slid the fabric of her underwear aside, his fingers unhesitating as they slipped between her folds, finding her slick with need. He brushed upward, just barely grazing her clit, watching with dark, heavy-lidded eyes as she gasped at the contact. Her body arched involuntarily, but he didn’t relent, keeping his movements slow and deliberate, teasing her just enough to drive her crazy but not enough to give her what she craved.
“And…” he murmured, rasping against the tension rising between them, “how long did it take you to realize you’d had enough? That it wasn’t going to work?”
His thumb circled lazily, making her hips shift forward, chasing the friction he barely offered. The question hung in the air, laced with his possessiveness, through every word. He didn’t wait for an answer, his fingers delving deeper inside her, coating themselves in her arousal before they moved back up, brushing over her clit again, this time with more pressure.
"One kiss?" His lips curled in a half-smirk as he watched her face contort with pleasure. He dipped his fingers inside her again, slow, dragging them out just as leisurely. "Two?"
She trembled, unable to form a coherent response, the sensation of his touch overwhelming her senses after so long. Her breath hitched as his fingers increased their pace, every stroke purposeful, designed to unravel her. Bucky leaned upward, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he murmured, “How long, doll?” The way he said it, like a dare, made her heart race even faster.
Her head fell back, her body betraying any attempt at control as she whispered breathlessly, “One…”
A satisfied growl rumbled from him, his fingers rewarding her honesty with a firmer stroke, sending her spiraling closer to the edge.
It wasn’t fair. He had cast her aside, almost without looking back, tearing her world apart with his cold departure. And now here she was, grinding her pussy against his fingers like some desperate, needy whore, begging for more. A part of her wanted to slap him, to shove him away and scream at him for every sleepless night she spent wondering why she wasn’t enough, why he had thrown their life away so easily. She wanted to tell him how much she hated him for walking out on them.
But then, there was that traitorous side of her. The part that had never stopped hoping. The part that had always waited, held out some foolish, silent hope that he’d come back. That she’d see that flicker of warmth in his eyes again, the one that told her she was his entire world. And it wasn’t just her heart that longed for him, her body had missed him, too. She hated herself for it. For still thinking about him late at night when she touched herself, fingers slipping between her thighs as his name slipped from her lips in the darkness.
And that same traitorous side of her had ruined her date with Chris. She’d tried to be present, to laugh, to be charmed by his warm smile and thoughtful gestures. But all night, all she could think about was Bucky.
The way he’d looked at him, cold and assessing, as if he didn’t belong there, his presence filling the hallway like he still had some claim to it, to her. What was he trying to prove, anyway? That he was still the man of the house?
She hated how, even while Chris was talking, her mind drifted back to the feeling of Bucky’s fingers tracing his stupid shirt, her memory filling in the rough, familiar feel of his hands on her skin. And she knew, even if she couldn’t admit it aloud, that some part of her had wanted him to see her dressed up, to feel in some small way the longing and ache she’d carried in his absence.
And maybe that’s why she’d felt nothing when Chris had leaned in for a kiss, why his gentle smile and soft touches had felt hollow. Even his laugh, light and kind, hadn’t stirred her because it wasn't Bucky’s rough, rumbling chuckle or his stupidly confident grin. Bucky, in all his infuriating ways, still occupied every corner of her mind.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly as his fingers worked her closer to the edge. She wanted to be angry, to let that rage consume her, but every time she opened her mouth to say something hurtful, to lash out at him, her body betrayed her. Every roll of her hips against his hand, every needy whimper that slipped from her throat, reminded her of just how much she had missed this.
It wasn’t fair. But she couldn’t stop.
With a light pinch on her swollen clit, the tension snapped, and she came hard on his fingers. Her mouth fell open, a moan escaping as her body convulsed, riding the wave of pleasure that coursed through her. The world blurred around her as her climax took over, her hips grinding against his hand, chasing every last second of the release.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, a mix of the overwhelming pleasure and the emotional storm swirling inside her. A few finally escaped, rolling silently down her cheeks, but before she could turn away, Bucky was there, his lips brushing them away with surprising tenderness. His breath ghosted over her skin as he whispered soft, comforting words she could barely make out, something about how beautiful she was, how good she had been for him, as if they hadn’t been tangled up in all this pain and heartache.
His touch was almost reverent as he slowly withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening from her release. Their gazes met, and he didn’t break eye contact as he brought those same fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with deliberate, agonizing slowness. He stood up in one fluid motion, effortlessly lifting her from the chair by the waist as if she weighed nothing, and in a swift, controlled movement, he placed her on top of the table, positioning himself between her legs.
Before she could even process it, his arms were around her, pulling her into a bear hug that was both tight and needy. His face buried itself in the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin as he inhaled deeply, taking her in.
He held her as if letting go was not an option, his grip firm yet strangely vulnerable. The way he clung to her felt like both a claim and an apology, urgent -almost broken- like he was holding onto her not just physically, but emotionally, too.
“Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll leave,” he murmured against her skin, his voice rough and low, against her neck. He didn’t dare look at her, not yet, because if he did, if he saw doubt or rejection in her eyes, it would break him.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Each second felt like an eternity. His breath was uneven, ragged, as he waited for her to say something, anything. Another moment passed, tension coiling tighter in his chest until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He lifted his head, his gaze searching hers, bracing himself for the worst. But instead of the words that would send him away, he saw her eyes flicker downward to his lips. It was brief, a split-second decision, but it was enough.
So he leaned in, cautiously at first, like he was testing the waters after years of distance. His lips brushed against hers softly, almost hesitant, as if afraid this fragile moment would break apart. But the second she responded, it was like a dam broke. His hands cradled her face, deepening the kiss with desperation. It was messy, all-consuming, there was no gentleness, no tenderness. This was not the careful, delicate dance of two people testing the waters. This was hunger, a ravenous need to reclaim what had been lost. His lips moved down to her jaw, her neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, and she moaned softly, her fingers tightening in his hair as he sucked on the sensitive skin below her ear.
His hands gripped her waist, strong and possessive, pulling her closer until her body was flush against his. The need to feel her, to claim her, was overwhelming. It was like two years of silence, longing, and frustration had ignited in an instant, everything that had been pushed down now surging forward, unstoppable.
“I’ll ask you again, babydoll. Are you sure you want this?” Bucky’s voice was thick with restraint, the tension in his muscles barely contained as he hovered over her, his breath hot against her neck. He was giving her one last chance to stop this, to pull away, even though every fiber of his being was screaming for her. But instead of words, her answer was a quiet, deliberate motion. Her hand slid between them, deftly unbuttoning his jeans, her fingers brushing against the outline of his erection.
A low growl escaped him, and his hand shot down to catch her wrist, halting her movements. His gaze met hers, dark and intense, his chest heaving with barely restrained desire. “I need you to say it,” he murmured, voice rough, on the edge of control.
“Yes,” she whispered.
That was all he needed.
Without hesitation, he pulled his shirt over his head in one swift motion, not bothering with the buttons, his muscles flexing as the fabric slid off. The moment his skin was free, he didn’t give himself time to think. His eyes locked on hers as he grabbed the neckline of her dress. With a sharp tug, the fabric tore easily under his grip, the sound of it ripping filling the air. The dress fell to her waist, exposing her bare breasts to his gaze.
“Hey! It was brand new, you know?” she protested.
“I noticed,” he replied, his fingers grazing the tattered edge of her dress. “But you didn’t buy it to wear it for me, did you?” His voice dropped, thick with jealousy as he alluded to her date with Chris. He dipped his head, his lips hovering just above her exposed skin, his breath warm against her chest. “I don’t want it on you”. He latched his lips onto her nipple, his tongue swirling with a hungry need, while his vibranium fingers pinched and teased her other breast. His breath was hot against her chest as he whispered between kisses, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this... missed you.” His words came out rough, full of longing that he couldn’t hold back any longer. “Every night... thinking about touching you again. Tasting you. Making you come over my cock.”
Her body responded, arching into him. She bit her lip, trying to stifle a moan, afraid that maybe Ben could hear her, but it slipped out anyway.
His hands moved to her thighs, gripping them firmly as he let out a low growl. “I thought about this, over and over... how you’d feel under me, how you’d sound when I made you scream my name again.” His voice was thick, hoarse, as he tugged at her dress, tearing the fabric completely until it was nothing but rags on the floor. He didn’t stop there, his thumbs slipping under the waistband of her flimsy panties. With a swift tug, the seams gave way, tearing effortlessly in his hands. He brought the soaked cloth to his nose, inhaling deeply, groaning as if the scent alone was enough to drive him insane. “God, I’ve missed this,” he muttered, his eyes never leaving hers. He flicked his tongue against the ruined cloth, savoring the taste with a low, hungry growl.
Without warning, he tossed the panties aside. His hands moved quickly, unbuttoning what remained of his jeans and kicking off his shoes before sliding the denim and underwear down in one fluid motion. They hit the floor with a soft thud as he stepped toward her. “Tell me how much you missed me,” he demanded softly.
She stared at him, drinking him in. He looked leaner, his body sculpted in sharp lines of muscle. He’d lost weight, surely by going mission after mission mixed with his poor eating habits. He was never good at taking care of himself. She almost missed the small paunch he used to have these last years, the one he hated, but she’d loved to bite. There was something comforting about that softness, but now he was the embodiment of raw strength.
Her gaze drifted lower, lingering on the sight of his cock, standing at full attention. She swallowed. Apparently, her memories failed to measure up to reality. He was big, sure, she’d always known that, but this big? Her core tightened with need, clenching in raw anticipation.
"I missed you,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper, laced with longing as her eyes lifted to meet his. “So much… you have no idea. God, you’ve ruined me.”
Her words shattered whatever restraint he had left. He’d imagined, countless times, that if this moment ever came, he’d take his time, savor her, and make it last. But now, faced with her beneath him, so close and so ready, patience was a luxury he no longer possessed.
Without a second thought, he gripped her thighs and spread her wide on the table, lining himself up as he dragged the head of his cock along her entrance, coating himself in her slick heat. In a swift, desperate thrust, he drove into her, hard and deep, filling her completely as a ragged groan escaped his lips.
She cried out, her body responding immediately, arching into him as he slammed into her again. His hands gripped her hips with bruising force, and his own moved in a relentless rhythm, every thrust driving him deeper. He couldn’t stop. Her moans spurred him on, her words circling in his head like a drug.
“Ruined you, huh?” His breath was ragged as he pulled almost all the way out, teasing her with the loss, before slamming back in. “Let me remind you how much.” With a raw hunger that had been bottled up far too long, Bucky's thrusts became brutal, each one driving her back along the table, her nails scraping against the wood as he took her over and over. The grip on her hips was iron-hard, pinning her down so she could do nothing but take everything he gave her. He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. “Think anyone else could ever do this?” he murmured, his voice dark and rough, each word punctuated by a powerful thrust. His lips ghosted along her jaw, and he pushed her to answer, knowing the effect he was having on her. “Tell me,” he demanded softly “Could anyone else make you feel like this?” He wanted her to say it, to make her admit that no one else would ever satisfy her the way he could.
She whimpered, clutching at his shoulders as he pounded into her, her nails digging into his skin as he pushed her higher and higher. “No… no one else.” Her words were broken, barely audible over her moans, but it was all he needed to hear.
“That’s right” he murmured against her lips, his voice low and rough, “No one else gets to touch you like this,” he breathed, each word laced with raw possession as he thrust deeper. “Only me,” he rasped. “Only I get to make you feel this way.”
He growled, one hand leaving her hip to slide between them, his fingers pressing down on her clit in quick, merciless circles. “This is mine,” he hissed, metal fingers working just enough to bring her close before pulling away, only to return just as she thought she couldn’t take any more.
She cried out, her body writhing beneath him as he drove her to the edge. His pace never faltered, his hips grinding against hers with a relentless rhythm, and his grip on her only tightened as she arched off the table, his name spilling from her lips like a prayer.
"Say it," he demanded, his voice thick with lust and something darker, something possessive. His hands slid down the back of her thighs, pushing her legs up against her torso as he plunged deeper, she could barely breathe every time he bottomed out. The way he hit her, the pressure at her cervix, sent shockwaves of pleasure-pain coursing through her, each one making her mewl helplessly. Her thighs shook against his chest, her hands desperately clutching at his forearms, fingers digging into his skin.
He leaned in closer again, his face inches from hers, his lips brushing her ears as he growled, “Tell me you’re mine.”
"I’m yours… fuck, Bucky!" she complied, her voice breaking between her panting breaths.
"Again," he ordered, his hips slamming into hers, the table creaking under the force of his movements. He could feel her walls clenching around him, so tight, so wet, he almost lost control then and there.
“I’m yours,” she whimpered again, her voice shaky, breathless.
“Chris will be so disappointed to hear that” he growled. “Let’s make sure you stay ruined, just in case.” He was relentless now, fucking her hard, deep, his body pressing hers further into the table as he pushed her thighs harder against her body giving him even better access, hitting that sensitive spot that left her gasping, his grip and the relentless pace leaving no room for anything but the sensation of him filling her completely, over and over.
She whimpered in response, too overwhelmed to speak, her entire body tensing as the pleasure became almost unbearable. His thumb moved between them again pressing against her clit, rubbing circles that sent sparks of heat shooting through her. She gasped, her eyes squeezing shut as her orgasm built rapidly, her body teetering on the edge.
“Milk my cock.” he ordered, his voice harsh, primal. His words pushed her over the edge and then she was gone, her body shivering violently as she clenched around him, her thighs tightening around him as her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer. The sound of his name fell from her lips, half-whisper, half-cry as the climax gripped her, intense and all-consuming, leaving her a trembling, breathless mess.
“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled through gritted teeth, his hips snapping into hers with bruising force. “And then some more,” he rasped, his voice thick with raw need. “You won’t even be able to keep it all in, babydoll.”
With a final thrust, Bucky’s head fell back, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he reached his climax. His body trembled, muscles tensing as he spilled himself inside her, a heated wave of release filling her completely. He held her there, his cock kept pulsing until his release overflowed, warm and thick, beginning to trickle down, pooling beneath them.
Still buried inside her, Bucky loosened his grip on her thighs, hands sliding down to cradle her waist as he leaned forward, his forehead resting gently against her shoulder. He nuzzled into the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent, grounding himself as the heat of their union slowly ebbed, replaced by a quiet intimacy that neither of them seemed prepared for.
After a moment, he gently eased himself away, untangling their bodies but letting his hands linger at her hips, as though afraid to lose the connection. He took a step back, his gaze dropping for a moment before lifting to meet hers, hoping she’d break the silence but she didn’t look at him, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
Bucky’s chest tightened, a familiar pang surfacing as he watched her withdraw inward, her mind elsewhere despite the intimacy they’d just shared. Finally, she spoke, her voice low, tentative. “So… what now, Bucky?”
He took a deep breath, searching for the right words. “I don’t… I didn’t plan for this to happen,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper as he forced himself to hold her gaze. “I know I shouldn’t have done this. Not after…” He hesitated, but the truth slipped out anyway. “Not after what I put you through.”
Her eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding her expression, old wounds resurfacing. “Then why did you put me through this, Bucky?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with pain. “You said you couldn’t do this. That you needed space, that we were holding you back.” Her words hung heavy in the air, each one a quiet accusation tinged with vulnerability. “And now, you’re here, acting like…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “…acting like you never left.”
He hesitated, knowing this was his chance to finally tell her the truth or let her keep believing the lie he’d used to protect them. He rubbed a hand over his face, then lowered it, meeting her gaze with raw honesty. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t want you,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “I left because I was afraid that my past... everything I tried to bury might come back to hurt you. Hurt him.” His voice softened. “I thought if you believed I didn’t want this life, it would keep you safe.”
He glanced down, his hand twitching at his side before he looked up again, his voice hushed but resolute. "But… I want to come back,” he admitted, the words raw, like they’d been buried deep for too long. “To the house. To you, and Benjamin.”
A chill lingered in the air, and she wrapped her arms around herself, gaze flicking over their scattered clothes still strewn across the kitchen floor. She looked away, her shoulders tense as she rubbed her temples. "So, what’s changed, Bucky? The risks are still there, the same threats, the same fears..."
Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver, his hand reaching out as though to touch her, but he stopped short, fingers brushing the edge of the table instead. "What’s different is me. I’ve had time to face what I couldn’t before. Stepping aside didn’t keep you safer; it just kept me away. I don’t want Ben growing up with a dad who keeps him and his mom at arm’s length. Almost a stranger.” His voice softened, the vulnerability seeping through. “Being apart from you doesn’t make things better. I miss you, doll. I miss us.”
“You can’t just leave and come back like nothing happened, Bucky.” Her voice was softer this time, almost breaking. “I wanted you here… every day, every night. Not just for me, but for Benjamin.” Her voice trembled with raw vulnerability.
He took a step closer, his hand hovering near hers, unsure if she’d pull away. “I know, and I hate that I ever thought leaving was the answer.” His tone was low, his gaze steady on her.
She looked down, her throat bobbing as she swallowed, emotions tightening her expression. “If you come back, I need to know you’re here to stay,” she whispered, the words more for herself than for him. “Because I don’t think I can go through this again… and I won’t let him either.” Her voice cracked on the last word, her hands gripping the table harder as if to keep herself grounded.
Her words shattered the last remnants of his restraint. Without another thought, Bucky dropped to his knees in front of her, the hard tile digging into him as he pressed his forehead against her thigh. She sucked in a breath, her hand instinctively moving to his hair, fingers trembling as they brushed against him. He could feel her hesitation, the walls she’d built so carefully to guard herself from the ache he’d left behind.
“Say yes,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with the vulnerability he could no longer hide. “Say yes, doll. I know I don’t deserve it.” His hands gripped her hips, anchoring him as if she were the only thing keeping him steady. “But I swear,” His voice cracked, raw and pleading. “I swear, I’ll never walk away again. Not from you, not from Benjamin.”
She looked down, a mix of shock and pain written on her face as she saw him there, broken, open, begging her for something she’d once offered so freely. Her hand gently settled on his cheek, and he leaned into the warmth of her touch, feeling the softness of her fingers against the rough stubble of his jaw. The ache in her eyes nearly undid him, but he stayed there, his forehead still pressed to her thigh, his breath heavy, waiting.
Her eyes searched his, and slowly, her resolve began to waver, the smallest flicker of trust finding its way back into her gaze. "Then prove it," she whispered, barely trusting herself as her hand lingered against his cheek, the warmth of her palm seeping into him. "Show me you’re here to stay."
After her words hung in the air, a fragile silence between them, Bucky’s gaze dropped. He swallowed, his hand reaching for something inside the scattered clothes on the floor.
From his back pocket, he drew out a small, well-worn leather charm, a little star-shaped pendant, its edges smoothened from years of handling. She recognized it immediately. It was something she’d passed on to him when he left for his first mission after they married, a symbol she hoped would keep him safe. She thought it had been lost long ago, like so many pieces of them.
He held it out to her, and the look on his face was raw, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen since the early days. “I never stopped carrying this,” he murmured, his voice rough and thick. “Even when I tried to convince myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. I couldn’t let go of you…of us. I kept it close, hoping… hoping someday I could come back and give it back to you. I know it doesn’t make up for the time I lost, but…” His voice faltered, the sincerity there unmistakable.
She stared at the pendant, her hand shaking slightly as she reached out, fingers grazing the familiar leather. All the memories it held, the late-night goodbyes, the whispered promises, the hope she’d once tied to it, all of it rushed back, filling the space between them.
She looked down at him, seeing in his eyes the weight of the years, the regrets, but also the glimmer of the man she’d fallen in love with.
Taking a shaky breath, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “This… this was supposed to keep you safe, Bucky. Keep us safe.”
“And it did,” he replied softly, his hand covering hers over the charm. “It kept you here.” He paused, his voice barely a murmur. “And maybe now… it can bring me back home.”
The last of her defenses wavered, and she felt herself letting go of the anger, the hurt, all the pieces that had kept them apart. “Maybe… maybe it was always meant to guide you back here,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his with a warmth he hadn’t seen in years. “So if you’re really here to stay… then welcome home, Bucky.”
He proved to be a warm light, drawing you in like the tiny moth to be burned by his flame. Yet, he never let you get burned by his fire, keeping your soft, velvety wings intact while showing you a new tantalizing dance with danger.
What an innocent little moth you were at first. So surprised, wrought with vapors at the sight of someone so much taller and older, with a personality and confidence that befitted a well-traveled and well-aged Man. He was no prince you had ever seen, a warrior that was cut and marred with aging scars along his skin. His eyes held no innocence while still gazing upon you with warmth and gentleness. You were so soft and plush compared with the deep callouses he carried both on his skin and in his weighted heart.
You shied away from him almost immediately. If your mother had accompanied you here, surely you would have been hiding behind her skirts.
You felt so terribly out of place at his side. So small, like a tawdry bauble. To be an opulent pearl, pinned to his collar with all the others. But, he never treated you as such, taking care to soothe your anxieties instead.
The many extra years he had over you was what made him so different. It was years of experience both in the political torment within his kingdom and the expansive world that sat far beyond its reaches.
But, he found it cute, endearing, soft, and especially delicate. He wanted to crack you, only a little, make you just the smallest amount sharp so as to be the edge that could cut him without losing your admirable shape.
He’d tend to your garden, watching with earnest as your flowers finally bloomed before him. Your beautiful hidden rose unfolding before his very eyes as you finally opened up to him. Slowly, but tantalizing without pushing your last boundary down just yet.
It would be his own fault, for it was he that made an awful monster out of you, coaxed it with his fingers and his tongue without having to break you open and ravage the rest of your innocence. He made you dirty, sullied by lust and yet still so pure.
You lifted the soft lace of your nightdress, pressing your knees and thighs apart and spreading yourself along the bed, nearly kneeling as you pulled the fabric up to show the soft skin of your legs to him in the dim candlelight. This is what you’ve been reduced to, tempting him, using your body as sweet succulent bait so as to seduce that feral side of your darling betrothed.
He stepped along the cold stone tile of your shared facilities, each large and hard muscle of his legs pinching with every slow stride, and you watched as the taut muscle of his buttock dimpled with a quick flex.
He was hard marble turned to flesh, a statuesque warrior brought to life before your young eyes.
Could he crack you with the simple twist of his wrist? Possibly. But, he’d never be so callous with you. He knew you to be delicate and pushed you only as far as you allowed so as to keep your clean porcelain from cracking. He knew his strength and knew even better how it was best controlled.
His skin was marred and scarred, years of pain littering a man you know to be so gentle and equally devilish.
He turned back through the open door to see you, baring more of his body to your hungry gaze. Soft but still long, growing as you engulfed his view.
“What are you doing, little one?” He asked as if he didn’t have a very good idea as to what you were playing at.
You pushed your round, soft, and still covered ass back and arched your spine, making your supple breasts more prominent through the nightdress. “Tempting you.”
“Tempting me?” He chuckled, a blissful smile pulling along his darkened pink lips shadowed by the stubble of his beard. “You needn’t do anything more than exist to be a temptation.”
“Is that so?” You giggled, letting the bottom of the lace gown fall back against the bed, blanketing your legs once more.
“You weren’t serving yourself like this to me when I was first inveigled by your charm. You had even tried to hide that beautiful skin from me our first night.”
“I still am, in most ways, quite tame. Aren’t I?” You spoke with the smile pull of a pout at your lips.
“You seek to be tame, and yet you tempt. What a curious creature you are.” He folded his previous sentiments, like a note creased and tucked away for a later rebuttal, choosing instead to counter with his previous musings. He already missed the sight of your bare thighs, smoothed by the drag of a pun ice stone over your now silky skin and doused with sweetly scented oils.
“Is this your way of begging?” He asked, smiling with something akin to both joy at your flowering devotion with the drip of thick honeyed desire at the mynx he’d made you to be.
“Pleading, more like.” You said back, lip wobbling with a needy lilt to your voice.
It sent small jolts of something hot, burning even, along the ridges of his back. It made his skin vibrate as it rushed with blood, filling and stiffening his already long member. It was like the buzzing feeling in the air after a crack of light preceded by the roar of booming thunder on a dry night. You made something tempered, like melting stone, glow within him more and more with each dalliance.
“And how is it that I deny your pleas?” His voice rumbled with a soft purr of any predatory animal.
“You must have far more self-control than I, my love.” Your voice was like the tired mewl of a spoiled cat, something soft and easily overindulged.
“I don’t agree.” He mused back, anchoring his knee to the top of the plush bedding before leaning in towards your wicked smile. He nipped up at your roseate lips, playfully prying them apart to wet his little bites with the tip of his warm tongue.
You giggled, turning your head only a fraction at the tickle of his pink muscle. He’d chase you back even at a fraction of an inch to devour your sweet cherubic laughter. You were such a sweet, innocent rabbit, not seductive but still incredibly desirable, and he wanted only to ravish all of it.
Once he can lock the two of you together, lips pressed tightly and tangled with the dip of his head, he steals from you a kiss, slow and delicious.
Like lapping up fine honey from your tongue, he tasted every inch of you that you’d lend to him.
He was intoxicating, stealing the very breath from your lungs to lighten your mind and making your sway and limpen to his hold, still keeping you aloft. Your nimble little fingers danced drunkenly along his neck, tangling upward into his thick dark hair until they were tied into very roots. As your pearly teeth clashed with his, the knocking crystal with the tapping of nerve endings, you curled your fingers against his scalp.
Your nails dug inwards, and he felt the small sting at the back of his head as the hair was pulled into your building fist.
He was only amused, wincing slightly as he continued to take your quivering tongue between his teeth to suckle at the pink muscle before lapping at it with his own.
You were heavy, hanging ivy in his arms, begging for light to peel your limp leaves. Begging for air before you could feel faint and fall from his fingers. He pulled his lips with a long drag, nearly pulling you back with him. Your hands fall from his thick locks to catch the crook of his elbows so as not to fall against the sides of your night dress.
“Bucky. Please.” The pet name rolled along your little tongue so sweetly, tipping back and falling into the soft bedding. He followed, blanketing your body with his, cradling you against the hard plains of his stomach as it pressed to your soft belly.
His large hands met the little bit of your leg that peeked from beneath your night clothes, dragging his fingers further along your skin and slipping underneath the fabric. The dress was bundled, balled into his fist
before being pulled upwards to slip away from your arms and past your head.
You laughed, both nervously and amused, as he brought out more of your bare body to lighten the room.
A little hook of his fingernail catching the seam along your small cotton undergarments. Your nimble digits caught his own to stop his insistent tug at the only barrier left to your chastity. He had coaxed them off of you before, stripping you bare so as to taste you. He can still remember the last time you allowed him to lap at you, lick up your sweet nectar, and even tease your entrance with the tip of his thick tongue.
He had lavished at your soft petals and even teased at your little hidden seed. Pearly, round, and sensitive when provoked into swelling just a small amount. True to his word, he never breached your supple opening, nearly dipping but never breaking through.
His previous kiss has left you lightheaded, but this was something sobering enough to brush his fingers away. “No, Bucky.”
It was your only request. No matter how far you let him wander, you’d always stop him short of taking you fully. You were still a good princess, and even though your betrothed would pull you closer and closer to the edge, you knew the final leap would have to wait until the night you are both finally wed. You strived to stay pure both for and against James.
Your hands had flown towards him in a frenzy and flutter of worried fingers, stopping him from tearing the cloth away while the throbbing pink tip of his member bobbed so close.
But, James was a man of his word. He respected your vow while bending its boundaries all the same.
“I won’t, darling. I promise.” He chuckled, always amused by your acts of modesty.
“What I have in mind will feel wonderful, my doll. Trust me.” His rosy lips bloomed with a gentle smile, not devilish intentions to push you any further than he knew you’d be willing to go in the end.
He will please you, leaving you damp and needy after meeting a shattering end. You lay back, skin flushed with warmth as you let him pull your dainty white undergarments away, sopping and soaked with the thick drip of slick that pooled from the opening of your succulent flower. This time he was determined to play too, pressing his bare member so that the tip rested on the wet channel, spreading the dew along your dampened petals.
“You promised,” you pleaded again, blubbering to not have your flower plucked just yet. It would be the last boundary you could keep after he tempted you into breaking all others.
Your whine was needy, deliciously pathetic, and he had to stifle his next bout of soft laughter. “And I intend to keep my promises. Patience, my love.”
No, this time he slid himself along your folds, bumping the head of his furious member against a small hidden node at the top of your folds.
That little bundle of nerves nestled above your cunt, semi-hooded and yet swollen with your pent-up desire. That would be his object of torture; he’d glided his cock over your dampened pool of a pussy, coating himself in slippery slick as the head of his longer member slid over that little pearl until you burst and bubbled with the sharp squeaks of pleasure.
You simply melted, your voice humming that beautiful tune as your legs began to tremble with each stroke of his cock over your tender pearl. To send a tickle of pleasure over your core and along your belly with each push through. It made your flower shiver at its center, being teased with something it had to be denied. It begged all the same, as it was only ghosted with the press of his member, only to slide further and knock your perked bud. Working your flower to slowly bloom along his shaft.
“You sound so sweet. For my ears only.” His voice rumbled with a low pur, arms tightening around your bending body as his hips continued to drag himself along your soft folds. It was a true homage to his self control to not break his vow when presented with something so soft and beautiful. Even as he pressed himself so closely, with the singing of praise by the crack of your weakened voice ringing through the air of his room, he did not break his vow.
It is a fight well fought to keep his own composure, but you are completely overtaken by his movements, already overwhelmed by being so close to breaking that barrier.
Quickly, you came undone, gushing sweet sticky sap all over his cock, dripping into the thatch of a thorny brush at the base of his twitching shaft.
He could laugh, finding pure joy at how little you could take before you were screaming to your sputtering end at his own hands.
He dribbled with his own nectar as he fought not to burst and pepper your soft tummy with a spattering of thick white seed. He would not lower himself to paint you with ropes of his warm semen like a common tavern whore meant to lick it up from your own skin as a cat would lap at spilled cream.
He loved you far too much to let you sink further into such depravity, so he let his moment to finish pass, watching you catch your breath instead.
He held the base of himself with a strong, tightly coiled fist to stop the blood from swelling and bursting. The better to will his own ending away so as not to scare you with an unnecessary mess. Only then did his heartbeat become steady, and he was able to breathe in relief before lying beside you.
Taking in the soft rise of your glistening, sweat-stained belly and the blissful pull of your sweet pink lips as they curled into a devious and yet tired smile.
‘What a wonderful wife you’ll make.’ It was a sentiment that would echo through his mind like a prayer each and every night he spent with you tangled in his arms.
Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.
You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.
Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)
Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x
--
Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.
Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.
And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.
The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.
Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.
You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.
Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.
And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.
You gritted your teeth.
“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”
Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.
Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”
Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”
Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.
Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”
Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”
You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”
Bucky smirked. “What?”
“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”
Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.
Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”
Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”
“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”
Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”
Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”
Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”
And that? That was the last straw.
Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”
Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”
“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”
His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”
And there it was. That goddamn nickname.
You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”
“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”
Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”
“Enhancing.”
“You mean ignoring it?”
He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.
God, this man was going to be the death of you.
You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”
He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”
You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”
Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”
Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”
Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”
Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”
His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”
You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—
No. Focus.
You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”
His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”
Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”
Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.
Oh. Oh, that son of a—
Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.
“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”
You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—
Nope. Not going there.
You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”
Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”
Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”
—
You didn’t like it.
Not one bit.
And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.
Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.
He knew before you did.
And that was the worst part.
You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.
It had terrified you.
So you fought.
You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.
And it infuriated you.
How dare he?
How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?
How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?
How. Dare. He.
The memory took over before you could stop it…
It had been a disaster from the start.
The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.
But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.
You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.
“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”
You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”
Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit.
Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”
“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.
Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”
“Still ruined.”
“You’re ruining it more.”
“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”
Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”
Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”
“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”
“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”
Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”
“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.
Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”
Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.
Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”
“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”
Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”
“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”
“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”
“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.
“No, I was waiting for backup.”
Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”
You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.
But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.
You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”
“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”
“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”
You stopped.
Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.
You weren’t just mad.
You were terrified.
Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.
“Doll—”
“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”
Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”
Something inside you snapped.
“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”
His eyebrows shot up at that.
“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”
Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.
“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”
Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.
But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.
“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”
Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.
You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.
You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.
You felt him watching you.
For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.
The weight of it pressed against your chest.
You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”
Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”
You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”
Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”
Your jaw tensed.
“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”
The smirk disappeared.
A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.
For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.
But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.
He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”
You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”
Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.
You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.
Because the truth was—
You weren’t sure what scared you more.
The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—
Or the fact that, one day, he might not.
–
You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.
No. Not thinking about that.
You couldn’t.
Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—
If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—
You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.
Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”
“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.
He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”
You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”
His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”
You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.
The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.
When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.
“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”
You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”
Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.
Your breath hitched.
He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.
“That it’s a good plan.”
Your pulse stuttered.
This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.
But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.
And that? That scared you more than anything.
“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”
The question hit like a sucker punch.
It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.
“I—” The words caught in your throat.
He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”
His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.
Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.
Completely, utterly furious at him.
And even more furious at yourself.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.
Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.
You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.
Why do you never take my side?
You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.
You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”
He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”
Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.
You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”
Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”
You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.
“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”
His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”
“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”
Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”
“I know you are,” you shot back.
He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”
You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.
There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.
You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.
“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”
The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.
Your breath caught. “That’s not—”
“Forget it.”
—
Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.
And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.
In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.
You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.
Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.
There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.
And you hated it.
You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.
Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.
Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.
And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.
But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.
No smirk. No I told you so.
Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.
By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.
The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.
But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.
It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.
Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.
“So are you.”
You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”
For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.
He noticed.
Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.
His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.
Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.
When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”
His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”
You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”
His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”
“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”
Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”
You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.
His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.
“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.
Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.
You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.
Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”
His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.
“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.
Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.
Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”
You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”
His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.
“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.
“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”
Bucky was still. Unreadable.
Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”
But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.
—
The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.
You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.
But you couldn’t.
Because Bucky was still watching you.
He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.
It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.
Something softer. Something heavier.
Something you weren’t ready for.
“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.
You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”
You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.
You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.
And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.
“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.
His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”
“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean?”
The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.
Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.
And God, you wanted to.
But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.
Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.
You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.
You were terrified.
Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.
This was Bucky.
And you couldn’t lose him.
So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.
You reached for him.
It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.
You just—needed to touch him.
Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.
Bucky stilled.
For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.
Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.
Your throat went tight.
Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”
You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.
Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.
You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.
Your eyes flickered around the cabin.
Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.
Something inside you snapped.
One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.
Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.
His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.
You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.
“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”
There was no bite to it. No real threat.
Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.
Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t shove you off like he should have.
Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.
Like he wanted to.
His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.
His touch burned.
His warmth was everywhere.
You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.
For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.
Bucky swallowed.
His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.
It was enough.
Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.
And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—
You kissed him.
It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.
Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.
Bucky froze.
Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.
Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.
Didn’t kiss you back.
The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.
He wasn’t—
Oh, God.
The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.
You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
Your voice broke.
Bucky was still silent.
And that was somehow worse.
It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.
You had kissed him.
You had kissed him and he hadn’t—
Your stomach plummeted.
“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”
You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—
But then—
God.
Then his hands tightened on your hips.
Hard.
Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.
Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.
His expression had changed.
The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.
In its place was something darker.
Something heated and unrelenting.
Something like want.
Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.
Then—
Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.
And then, finally, he spoke.
“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”
Your stomach flipped.
“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”
“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.
Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.
Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.
Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.
Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.
And kissed you.
You had been right.
Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.
He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.
You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.
You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.
A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.
Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.
You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.
Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.
“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.
The problem was—there wasn’t enough.
Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.
You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.
Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.
“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”
His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”
“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”
Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.
You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.
He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.
“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”
That did it.
Something snapped in him.
The hesitation vanished.
And then, suddenly, you were weightless.
Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.
Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.
You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.
His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.
“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”
You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.
There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.
But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.
The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.
“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.
Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.
You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.
“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.
His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.
“We have to be quick.”
You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.
“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.
Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”
Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”
A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.
“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”
His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.
“Bucky—”
“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.
“I do. I—”
The words faltered on your tongue.
Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.
This was everything.
You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”
His words were iron, unbreakable, true.
Something cracked inside you.
And then—there was no more hesitation.
His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.
“Jesus, doll—”
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t careful.
It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.
You felt full. Too full.
Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.
Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.
“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”
Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”
He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.
The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.
“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”
Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.
“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”
“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”
“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.
Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.
The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.
His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.
You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—
“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”
“No.”
It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.
His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.
“Baby.”
Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.
You froze.
Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.
But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?
Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.
And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.
You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.
“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”
His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—
“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.
Bucky froze.
The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.
His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.
You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.
“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.
“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.
“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.
“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”
“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.
“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”
His jaw clenched.
“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”
You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.
Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”
And then he moved.
His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.
“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”
You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.
“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.
Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”
Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.
“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.
Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.
“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”
And that—
That was what finally broke him.
Bucky snapped.
A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.
And you took it.
You craved it.
Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.
“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.
Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.
“Bucky—”
“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”
You did.
Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.
And that was it. That was everything.
Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.
His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.
For a moment, there was silence.
Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.
Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.
Neither of you spoke.
Neither of you moved.
You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.
You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.
You should let go.
You should move.
You should say something.
But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—
The words died on your lips.
Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.
Like you had just made him yours.
And you had.
Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.
His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.
It felt too big.
Too much.
But you couldn’t stop touching him.
Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.
A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.
When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.
“You meant it,” he murmured.
It wasn’t a question.
You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.
“Bucky—”
His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.
“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.
You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.
“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”
Your throat tightened.
You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.
His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.
“I’m not running,” you whispered.
He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.
it’s so fucked up when you see something you KNOW is a portal to somewhere but you can’t figure out how to activate it. this is the most frustrating feeling that plagues modern man.
femmepussy (cait) + butchcock (vi) = deflowering you
tw; sorority!caitlyn & fratbro!vi bc i succumbed to lust, virgin!reader, voyeurism, masturbation, pussyeating, pussyfucking, praise, mild agegap (senior!caitvi x freshman!reader). wc; 2.2k
they’re no strangers to bringing girls home. they’ve refined it to an art. or at least, caitlyn has. vi is still prone to flash a wink with a drink clasped in hand, and a sleazy (though it looks more sultry, on her), “my girlfriend and i saw you from across the bar, and..” when she’s feeling real lazy.
it still works, of course. of course it does. who wouldn’t want to get in-between the most legendary couple on campus? fraternity president and sorority president, all at once—college politics aside—it’s anybody’s wet dream.
tonight, it’s your turn. if the two pairs of hands wandering up your body downstairs, we’re anything to go by—and the matching smirks curving their lips as you were led gently away from the party and into one of the rooms above (door, plastered with a VI, to leave no room for argument. the frathouse always did throw the grandest ragers).
caitlyn leans against the doorway, tongue prodding the inside of her cheek as she eyes down the both of you, shamelessly. the room is plastered with posters you think your dad might've liked when he was sixteen, and countless football trophies and college memorabilia. not that analysing vi's room decor is exactly what's on your mind, right now—not when you're splayed back in the middle of a double-size bed, sheets crumpled under you, with aforementioned room owner sprawled in the space between your legs, her girlfriend steadily approaching, from the side.
"shit. you're just a lil' baby, huh?" vi's eyes are lidded as she plays with the hem of your shorts, pink hair all ruffled. her big hands swallow the span of your thighs, and she grins, lazy, at the sight.
"vi. don't be crass," caitlyn chastises, like her gaze isn't practically stripping you down with laser-focus. she honest to god licks her lips; because—who wouldn’t? pretty girl on a pretty girl, laid out like a pair of perfect presents, upon the bed. "you'll scare the poor girl."
"oh, c'mon, cait." vi grins, "i know the thought of defiling a freshie gets you wetter than a supersoaker."
this is all moving so fucking fast, you almost feel dizzy. can't breathe, because—well—holy fucking shit. as if your ramping discomfort is sensed, a calloused hand rests on your shoulder, and the tension melts away.
"you can't get better than us," vi soothes, in her smug, infinite wisdom. "just relax, sweetheart. we'll take good care of you." her hands are already snaking under, before a little tutting noise halts her movements. vi's head snaps up, like a puppy to a clicker, the beginnings of a despairing frown marring her pretty features. caitlyn’s smirk is gloating.
"take an off-side, darling. i found this one, first."
vi's jaw drops, shooting upwards in incredulity. "what? but—"
caitlyn shoots her girlfriend a sharp warning glare that sends a jolt of lighting straight to your cunt, and vi wilts like a curling petal, sulking all the way to the couch on the opposite-end to the bed. she collapses, legs swinging wide in the most egregiously delectable manspread of all time. the position shows off the most insane boner you've ever had the pleasure of seeing. the tent spears upwards like a fucking skyscraper, towering up at the crotch of vi's jeans as it's if attempting to burst free from its restraints.
then, vi's fly comes loose, and the veined girth of her cock slaps out in all its glory, bouncing against her toned abdomen and smearing a trail of slick behind. thick, hot-pink hairs crawl upwards from its base to just under her belly button. the aftermath of pre-cum glosses over locks, glistening under the dim lights.
oh, god. this is better than porn.
"see that? that's all for you." caitlyn purrs, and the red flushes to the tips of your ears, blood roaring. you don't even realise you've let out a whine, thighs shifting subconsciously, when vi grunts out a low, "fuck," and palms her dick.
caitlyn's tongue wraps around the swollen nub of your clit, and all of a sudden, you know exactly why people say caitlyn's tongue is like silver. she works, languidly, at first. heat licks up your thighs, and out of the blurry corners of your vision, you can see vi's hand wrap around her cock. caitlyn laves up the nooks and crannies of your folds in little flicks, gaze gossamer as the ferocity of her eyes pin you down.
plush lips barely graze your cunt, and humiliatingly, a garbled moan wrenches from your throat, body snapping taut with the force of an elastic band, caitlyn freezes, and you're made intimately aware of just how wet you are, and you've done nothing but squirm a little as they simply take their positions.
"don't be embarrassed, lovely," cailyn laughs, when your thighs quiver like they're about to squeeze shut—keeping you spread open, with the press of a palm, nails grazing up your abdomen. "it's flattering."
what caitlyn finds, in the first fifteen seconds of eating you out, is that you are extremely fucking sensitive. by the nth jerk of the knee, and those delicious, strangled whimpers that stream out of your pretty panting mouth; she has to ask.
"is this your first time?”
"why?" your hands are fisted into the sheets, knuckles bled white. "is it bad? am i bein’ bad?”
oh, caitlyn's always been a sucker for the whimpering type.
“no, darling,” she coos, nosing up the wet headiness of your pussy, pupils edging out the sharp, cerulean blue of her irises because, oh, she can’t let you realise just how wet you’ve just made her. a virgin. she can feel her already-damp panties, become renewed with a gush of slick as she slides her hands up your thighs, groin subtly grinding through her clothes and against the edge of the mattress because—fuck.
"fuck, i'm so hard," vi whines, a little desperate as she makes the widest puppy-eyes from the sofa, cock drooping in her hand as it pumps out an insane amount of pre like it's nobody's business. her knee has been jostling up and down like it's about to jackhammer a hole in the carpet. she's teetering on the precipice of simply exploding all over the two of you, eyes glazed over as her teeth grit in the effort to restrain herself. because if she cums; caitlyn won't let her fuck you, and call it the alcohol, her dick, or pure, dumb horniness; but there is literally nothing she wants more on this earth, right now—than to bury her cock inside of you and fuck you to oblivion.
caitlyn, however, is playing your pretty virgin pussy like a fiddle. you thrash, back, on the sheets, slew of broken moans torn from your lips. she’s drunk on lust. god, the way you tremble under her, bundle of nerves reacting to each and every one of her barest licks with the harshest gasps or clamp of your thighs. you’d have her wrapped in a headlock, by now, if it weren’t for the force in which she’s a splayed you open—right for vi’s prying eyes, as the older girl furiously fists her cock, frustration burning in her gut at being forced to only look, but barred to touch.
"cupcake," vi pleads, as both you and caitlyn's gazes turn on her. yours, baleful and uncomprehending, hips canting uselessly to chase after caitlyn's retreating mouth. she hushes your whimper (but coos all the same).
"i'm dyin', here," vi moans, and with the flushed tint of her cheeks and sweat glistening in the creased furrows of her brow; hand quivering around her dick—she almost looks like she is. caitlyn laughs, and your pussy throbs when hot breath gusts against your clit.
caitlyn sighs, exaggerated. the both of you can see the smug glint to her eyes, at the way she's worked both her babies, up. (and what a slip of the mind, that is? not an hour in the bedroom, and she's already calling you her baby. their baby.) she lifts up from between your legs, with one last kiss planted directly onto the deliciously glossy wetness of your swollen clit (yes, you shake), before coaxing vi forwards.
vi lunges forwards, like a starved lion thrown it's first scrap of meat, and suddenly the silken fingers dragging up your thighs and the soft lips kissing teasingly along your folds—is replaced by a desperate, fervid nuzzling and slobbering, as vi mouths desperately up your legs.
"i gotta—" she mumbles into your cunt, hands spreading you so wide they almost hurt. "i need—baby—please. i gotta be in you. i gotta— y'pussy smells so good. looks so pretty an' wet an'—" her growls are practically gibberish. caitlyn snorts. she, too, is partial to seeing vi a drooling mess.
you don't have much mental space, to do more than nod, heart thudding out of your chest. distantly, you hear a groaned "fuck, yes!" from underneath you, though any further processing that (surprisingly adorable) comment—is wrenched away by the vi is clambering on top to mount you, flat of her dick sliding along your folds. you both gasp, your chest lurching upwards—before caitlyn's manicured hand pushes you right back down.
"relax," she coos, as vi's weight sinks on top of your thighs, "it'll be easier, that way." vi is practically trembling in an attempt not to just ram herself into you. her head brushes against your core, and it feels like water. vi moans, almost buckling in anticipation. "can i please—"
you think maybe caitlyn nods her head, or gives some other indication of affirmation; because you can't see anything but spinning stars in your vision the second vi pushes, into you.
you're forced to turn your head, biting into the sheets to stifle what you're sure would be screams—until caitlyn gently takes your head, and shifts it to bury between her thighs. the heat from caitlyn’s core is distracting and tempting and has you drooling, though completely useless to do anything but pant and moan and mewl, helplessly into it, as vi‘s cock plows into you with a fullness you’ve never felt before.
“careful with her, baby.”
“i’m trying,” vi huffs through gritted teeth, her own eyes burning because her head is whirling with entirely unhelpful thoughts, like, holy shit, is she the first one to use your tight little hole like this? and oh, fuck, am i good? am i hurting her? this is her first time. shit. and then, just oh, fuck.
you unravel, midway around the girth of vi's cock. you spam, upwards, mangled croon resonating up and into caitlyn’s cunt, hips bucking up and unintentionally slamming vi hilt-deep, and like a seismic chain-reaction; both of them cry out at once. vi, at the sensation of being completely sucked into the tight, wonderful clench of your pussy, submerged completely in the all-encompassing heat as your orgasm shatters your body and mind into what feels like a million little peaces. caitlyn, can't not cum, with the taste of you still glazing her tongue and the way you cry out, into the sloppy slick of her folds and reverberating to her core. it's not just that, though. it's the way you babble, squirming uselessly as your eyes roll into your head and your lashes flutter like the prettiest thing, mouth lolling open around caitlyn's creaming cunt.
it takes, a moment, for the three of you to recover. vi is slumped into your chest, cock still twitching as her head kisses your burning insides. caitlyn's legs have fallen limp. it's only when they start to move, vi shakily, reluctantly, sliding out from your cunt—and caitlyn's thighs, loosening from your shoulders—that you protest.
"wait," you rasp, eyes all glossy as you peer up at them through teary lashes, and fuck, for a moment they think; jesus christ. you might just be the most precious thing in the world. "i— i wanna try." you declare, pushing up weakly on your elbows.
"you want to try?"
"wanna make you feel good," you slur, into her thighs, and unbidden, caitlyn feels a whole new gush of heat rush through and slick your pink-dusted cheeks in an entirely new type of sheen.
"..i always did like the ones with a little initiative."
and when you burrow yourself into caitlyn’s cunt, trying to mimic the motions she’d done before to get you feeling as if you were floating on cloud nine; her fingers card through your hair, and vi rocks her hips, still into you, catching her breath as she nuzzles into your collar.
“..feel so good, baby. doin’ so well.” she pants, thumb running up the curves of your body, eyes lifting to fix caitlyn with starry eyes and caitlyn can’t help but swallow, her fingers quivering as you swirl your tongue like a good little pupil and she arches her head back, satisfied “ah,” shuddering though her. and they realise, then, that they’re kind of fucking besotted.
“can we keep her?” vi murmurs, and you’re so deep in caitlyn’s pussy that you almost miss it. caitlyn’s lips curl upwards, head in a daze, as her grip tightens in your hair—loathe to let you go.
sadistic!jinx most definitely fucks you with her gun, cooing at every little gasp you let out when she pulls the trigger. little do you know, it’s empty.
“yeah, that feel good, doll? getting fucked with my gun?” she asks, her voice teasing and low. your response is nothing more than strings of whines and breathless moans, a jumbled mess of yesyesyes, oh fuck. the barrel stretches you completely, hurting in such a good way
she stares at you with lust-filled eyes, completely focused on the sight of your fucked-out state—eyes rolling back, lips parted, drool threatening to spill. she pumps the gun in and out of your dripping cunt, keeping a pace that’s just right—not too fast, not agonizingly slow. this is all for her pleasure, after all.
“h-hngg—it’s so deep! i-i can’t take it!” you cry, your back arching off the surface, every inch of your body pleading for more. she scoffs, her mocking grin widening. “oh, so now you can’t take it? but just a second ago, you were begging me to fuck you, weren’t you?” her tone is condescending, dripping with amusement.
she adjusts the angle, arching her gun so it slams perfectly against your g-spot while the edge grazes your clit with each thrust. the sensation is overwhelming, sending you spiraling toward your breaking point.
“baby, i’m gonna c-cum, oh go—” your words are suddenly cut off as the trigger clicks. your entire body freezes, every ounce of pleasure replaced by fear and confusion. are you dead? did she actually shoot you? does she hate you? a whirlwind of thoughts floods your mind, only to be shattered by her smug laugh.
“what’s wrong, baby? too scared to cum?” she taunts, and that’s when you realize the gun is still inside you, her movements resuming with unrelenting thrusts. your body relaxes, the fear dissolving as the familiar feeling of pleasure washes over you once more.
“i thought you—i thought you shot—” you stammer, trying to form a coherent sentence, but your moans betray you, drowning out your words. how pathetic.
leaning closer, her face inches from yours, she murmurs, “i would never hurt you, princess. remember that.” and just like that, she picks up her pace again, merciless and deliberate, pushing you further into bliss.
artist!ellie x fashion designer!reader
Summary: You attend an art exhibition where you unexpectedly lock eyes with your ex-girlfriend, Ellie Williams, whom you haven't seen in years.
a/n: omg?! not me becoming consistent?! heavily inspired by "no one noticed" by the marias!!
The gallery is a cathedral of silence, punctuated only by the soft clicking of heels against the polished hardwood floor and the low murmur of voices echoing from every corner. The walls are a crisp, sterile white, meant to let the art breathe. But tonight, they seem oppressive, closing in on you as the weight of old memories seep through the cracks of time. You’re standing in the midst of it all, surrounded by strangers who admire Ellie’s work like they’re deciphering some abstract language.
But to you, it’s not abstract. It’s painfully familiar.
Your eyes drift over the crowd, catching fragments of conversation—chatter about technique, boldness, meaning—but they wash over you like background noise. Your mind is elsewhere, pinned in the past.
College felt like a lifetime ago.
It was chaotic, with you balancing late nights in the sewing lab, surrounded by mannequins and fabric swatches, while Ellie lived in the art studio, her hands constantly covered in charcoal, paint, or ink. There had been nights when you’d find her sprawled on the floor, sketching out her wildest ideas with frenzied energy, and you’d sit beside her, watching her create worlds you could only dream of.
Back then, you both were consumed by your passions and each other. She’d stay up late to help you finish a garment, sewing alongside you even though she hated it, just so she could be near. And you? You’d sit in on her critiques, quietly fuming when anyone dared to criticize her work, even though she could take it, even though she loved the fight. The memory of her smirk when she’d dismantle an argument from one of her professors—god, it still lingers.
But the fire that had burned so bright between you had also scorched everything in its path.
You remember the late-night arguments, when both of you were too stubborn to apologize, too young to realize that passion wasn’t enough to hold everything together. The breakup wasn’t dramatic—no shouting, no tears. Just a slow unraveling, a quiet drifting apart until one day, it was done. She moved on. You moved on. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.
The years that followed had been a blur of fashion internships and city lights. You threw yourself into your work, traveling between studios, pouring every ounce of yourself into fabric, stitching your broken pieces into new designs. You hadn’t heard from her since. Not directly, anyway. You’d seen her name float around in the art world, her work gaining traction, and each time, you’d feel a pang of something you couldn’t quite name. Pride? Regret? A mixture of both.
And now, here you are, in her world once again.
Your gaze is drawn to the painting in front of you—a massive, turbulent landscape of violent brushstrokes and bold colors. The reds are fierce, like anger seething just beneath the surface, and the blues are deep, almost suffocating. It’s raw. Emotional. It feels like her. It feels like you. The two of you, tangled in something you couldn’t quite control. You step closer, your breath catching in your throat as you notice the delicate lines etched into the paint—small, subtle marks hidden beneath the chaos. You know those marks. She used to make them with the tip of her palette knife, carving out tiny details that most people wouldn’t notice unless they really looked.
You’re staring so intently at the painting that you almost miss the moment she walks into view.
Ellie.
The air shifts the second she enters your line of sight, like the whole room inhales in unison. Your heart stumbles over itself, beating out of rhythm, as if trying to catch up with the sudden rush of emotions flooding through you. You haven’t seen her in years, but it’s as though no time has passed at all.
She’s changed, but not in ways that feel unfamiliar. Her hair is still short, though it’s more trimed now, less uneven than you remember. She’s wearing that same damn brown jacket, the one she always wore like a second skin, only now it’s more worn, the creases deeper, the edges frayed. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, revealing the tattoo that winds around her forearm— you remember tracing with your fingers in quiet moments. There’s a confidence to her now, a steadiness that wasn’t there before, like she’s found some kind of peace, even if it’s only partial.
But then there’s her eyes. Still that piercing green, sharp enough to cut through glass, or in this case, through the crowd. You watch as she shifts her weight, one foot tapping lightly on the floor, her posture betraying a flicker of unease as she nods absentmindedly to whoever she’s speaking to. Her hands are deep in her pockets, her thumb worrying the edge of the denim, a sign that she’s restless. She used to do that when she didn’t want to be somewhere—when she was lost in thought, in another world entirely.
You know her. You know her so well that it aches.
And then, as if drawn by some invisible string, her gaze lifts, scans the room, and lands on you.
It’s electric. The second your eyes meet, it’s like the ground shifts beneath you. Time folds in on itself, collapsing the years between you into this one fragile moment. You can see the shock in her expression, the way her brows twitch upward, just barely, before her features settle into something more controlled. But there’s no hiding the way her shoulders stiffen, or the slight parting of her lips like she’s forgotten how to breathe for just a second.
You’re both standing still, two statues carved in the midst of a gallery filled with movement, but you may as well be the only people in the room. Her green eyes are locked on yours, and for a moment, you swear you see a flicker of something there—something that mirrors the knot of emotions tightening in your chest.
Recognition. Pain. Something unfinished.
You can feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in the way your fingers tremble as you drop your gaze for just a second. When you look back up, she’s still watching you, her expression unreadable, a mask of calm that you know too well. But underneath it—god, you know there’s so much more. Years of silence. Years of things unsaid.
She doesn't move. And neither do you.
You both just... stand there, holding onto the fragile tension between you like a thread waiting to snap. The air is heavy with what could be—what might’ve been—what still lingers between you like smoke from a fire that never quite burned out.
It’s your sophomore year, late spring. You remember because the air had that soft, electric warmth that made everything feel alive. You were both sitting on the edge of the campus fountain, surrounded by the sound of splashing water, the soft hum of people passing by, and the occasional flutter of birds overhead. Your fashion projects had been spread out between you—loose sketches and fabric samples fluttering in the light breeze—while Ellie’s hands were smeared with charcoal from a half-finished drawing she couldn’t quite get right.
“I don’t get how you do this,” she had muttered, frowning at one of your illustrations. She held it up to the light, squinting as if that would make the delicate lines make more sense. You had laughed, the sound coming out lighter than you’d intended, mostly because of how seriously she was studying your work. Like it was a puzzle she had to solve.
“It’s just fabric,” you’d teased, leaning closer to her to catch a glimpse of her concentrated expression. “You make art out of nothing but feelings—this should be easy for you.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t hide the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Art out of feelings, huh? That’s one way to put it.”
You watched her for a second longer, your gaze tracing the familiar curve of her jawline, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the way her hair stuck up no matter how much she tried to tame it. There was a smudge of charcoal on her nose that she hadn’t noticed yet. You found yourself leaning in, almost without thinking, using your thumb to wipe it away. The moment your skin touched hers, her body went still—like you’d pressed pause on her every movement.
Her green eyes flicked to yours, and for the first time since you’d met, there was a shift. Something unspoken passed between you, heavy and undeniable, hanging in the air between your breaths. You were close—closer than you usually were. And you could feel the heat radiating off her skin, mixing with the spring warmth, making the space around you feel almost too small.
Ellie cleared her throat, her gaze dropping to your hand still lingering on her face. “You, uh… you didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
The words came out before you could stop them. And then the silence stretched out, pulling taut as the world around you blurred and fell away. The distant laughter of students, the splashing water of the fountain—it all melted into the background until the only thing you could focus on was the way Ellie was looking at you.
It wasn’t a stare. It was deeper. Like she was seeing you for the first time, really seeing you.
You didn’t move. Neither of you did. Time slowed, and in that moment, every boundary you’d carefully drawn between friendship and something more started to dissolve. You could hear your heart beating in your ears, your chest tight with anticipation, with something you hadn’t let yourself name before now.
Ellie’s breath hitched, so soft you barely noticed. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” she murmured, her voice lower than usual.
“Why not?” Your voice trembled, betraying you.
Her eyes flicked back up to meet yours, and there it was—the thing you’d both been avoiding for months. The truth that had been simmering beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every late-night conversation when the rest of the world was asleep and it was just you and her, tangled up in each other’s lives without even realizing how deep it went.
“Because…” she hesitated, biting her lip as if searching for the right words. Her gaze softened, like she was caught in a struggle between fear and wanting. “Because I wouldn’t know how to stop.”
The air left your lungs in a rush, and before you could second-guess yourself, before the doubts and the what-ifs could pull you back, you leaned in.
The kiss was soft, tentative at first. Her lips brushed against yours, the faintest touch, as if she wasn’t sure you were real. But then—god—then she kissed you harder, her hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you in as though you were the answer to every question she hadn’t known how to ask. Her mouth tasted like spearmint gum and the faintest hint of cigarettes, warm and familiar. You melted into her, your hands gripping the edge of the fountain to keep yourself steady as everything around you spun.
In that kiss, there was no hesitation, no distance. Just the two of you, colliding in a moment that felt like it had been building for a lifetime. Her hands slid up your back, anchoring you to her, and you could feel the slight tremble in her fingers. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Because you were kissing Ellie, and the rest of the world could’ve disappeared, and you wouldn’t have cared.
When you finally pulled back, gasping for air, you kept your forehead pressed against hers. The world had snapped back into focus around you—the chatter of campus life, the rustle of the wind in the trees—but it felt distant, muted, like it wasn’t quite real. Not compared to this.
Ellie’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked at you like you were the only thing she could see. Her breath was still shaky, her lips swollen and flushed. She swallowed, hard, and whispered, “I… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t…”
But you silenced her with a gentle smile, brushing a thumb across her cheek.
“You don’t have to explain.”
Because you both knew what it meant. You both knew that nothing would be the same after this, and you were okay with it. Maybe you were scared. Maybe she was too. But in that moment, wrapped up in the heat of the afternoon sun and the lingering taste of her on your lips, none of that mattered.
All that mattered was her.
The sound of your name pulls you back to the present. It’s bright and full of life, cutting through the thick haze of tension like a ray of sunlight. You turn just in time to see Dina pushing her way through the crowd, a grin spreading across her face as she practically bounces in your direction.
She’s the same as ever—sharp, effortlessly cool, with a wild energy that always made you feel like you were part of something big just by being near her. Her dark hair, tied up in a messy bun, hasn’t changed a bit, though there’s a new edge to her style—bold patterns clashing in a way only she could pull off.
Before you can even get a word out, she’s enveloping you in a tight hug, squeezing you so hard that you let out a laugh, the tension in your chest easing a little. She smells like lavender and cedarwood, familiar and grounding, and for a brief moment, the knot of emotions tangled in your stomach loosens.
“Oh my god, it’s been forever!” Dina practically yells, pulling back just enough to look at you, her eyes sparkling with genuine excitement. “I didn’t even know you were coming tonight! How the hell are you? You look amazing!”
You’re caught off guard by her energy, her enthusiasm wrapping around you like a warm blanket. You smile, shaking your head as you try to gather your thoughts. “I—yeah, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I wasn’t sure I’d even make it, but, you know”
Dina snorts, rolling her eyes playfully. “Yeah, tell me about it. But seriously, I’m so glad you’re here! You—” she gestures at you with both hands, eyes wide as if she’s sizing you up, “—still killing it with the whole fashion thing, right? I saw your last collection! so damn chic! The textures, the layering—ugh, I wanted to steal every piece.”
You laugh, feeling a flush of pride at her words. “Thanks, Dina. I’m still trying to figure out what’s next, but I’m glad you liked it.”
“Liked it? Girl, I loved it.” Dina leans in closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I mean, between you and Ellie, the two of you were always the most talented people on campus. It’s wild seeing both of you making it big.”
The mention of Ellie’s name sends a ripple of tension down your spine, and suddenly, the room feels a little too warm again. You glance over Dina’s shoulder, and sure enough, Ellie is still standing there, watching the two of you.
Dina follows your gaze, and when she spots Ellie, her face lights up even more. “Oh, shit, you haven’t seen her yet, have you?” Dina’s voice drops to a mischievous whisper, her grin widening. “This is gonna be good.”
Before you can protest, before you can even think of what to say or how to brace yourself, Dina’s already calling out, “Ellie! Hey! Get over here!”
Your heart skips a beat, your pulse quickening as Ellie’s eyes flicker to Dina. For a second, she looks like she might hesitate, like the distance between the two of you is a bridge she’s not sure she wants to cross. But then, with a slow exhale, she starts moving, weaving through the crowd with that effortless stride of hers—confident, but never cocky.
And just like that, she’s standing in front of you.
Up close, the years between you seem even sharper. You can see the slight changes in her face— the way her lips quirk at one corner like she’s fighting a smile but doesn’t want to give in. Her green eyes, though, are as piercing as ever, and when they lock onto yours, you feel that same jolt of electricity you did back in college, the same spark that never really went out.
For a moment, no one says anything. The air is silent with unspoken words, with the history that hangs between you like a thread waiting to snap.
Ellie’s lips part, and she starts with something simple. “Hey.”
Dina, completely oblivious to the tension, claps her hands together with a grin. “Okay, this is weird for me. Two of my favorite people, standing here after all these years—this is like, full circle, right?”
You manage a small smile, though your throat feels tight. “Yeah. Full circle.”
Ellie shifts her weight, glancing at Dina with a wry smile before her gaze slides back to you. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” she says, her voice soft, like she’s trying to keep things light.
You shrug, trying to play it off. “Didn’t expect to be here either.”
But the words feel thin, hollow. Because standing this close to her, with the buzz of the gallery around you and the memories swirling like ghosts in the air, it’s impossible to ignore the truth.
This isn’t just a chance encounter. This is something you’ve both been avoiding for too long.
Dina shifts her weight, a perceptive glint in her eye as she surveys the two of you, the tension thick enough to slice through. She opens her mouth as if to say something—maybe to break the silence, to diffuse the moment—but then she pauses, that playful grin still dancing on her lips.
“Okay, you know what?” she says, clapping her hands together once more. “I just remembered I promised Jesse I’d check on him. He’s probably stuck at the snack table, drowning in mini quiches. So, I’ll be right back!”
Before you can even respond, she’s off, weaving through the crowd with that effortless grace of hers, leaving you and Ellie standing there, caught in a moment that feels suspended in time. The sounds of the gallery fade into the background—the murmur of conversations, the soft clinking of glasses—until it’s just the two of you.
The silence stretches.
Ellie shifts her weight again, her fingers fidgeting at her sides. You can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes, a whirlwind of emotions waiting to be unleashed, but the words seem to stick in her throat.
“So, how’s the show been for you?” you finally ask, trying to fill the space, to ease the tightness that’s creeping in. Your voice sounds a bit steadier than you feel.
Ellie’s gaze softens, and for a moment, the corners of her mouth twitch up into a small, genuine smile. “It’s… good. Better than I expected, honestly.” She glances around, taking in the vibrant colors of her artwork, the way the lights catch the brushstrokes, illuminating the stories behind each piece. “It’s kind of surreal to see it all up here.”
You nod, watching her as she talks. There’s a light in her eyes that flickers with passion.
“Your work is incredible, Ellie.”
She meets your gaze again, and there’s a flicker of something deeper in her expression—gratitude with a hint of vulnerability.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “I’ve been trying to push myself more lately.”
Your heart swells with her words, and the warmth of the moment wraps around you like a comforting embrace. But then, as if sensing the shift in the air, the gallery begins to swell with new energy. The crowd thickens, laughter and chatter rising, and the once-intimate space starts to feel almost claustrophobic.
Ellie’s expression changes slightly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. “I should probably go check in with some of the other guests,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Make sure everything’s okay.”
“Yeah, of course,” you reply, though a part of you aches at the thought of her leaving, of this moment slipping through your fingers like grains of sand.
But before you can say anything else, she steps back, creating a small distance between you. “It was really good to see you,” she says, the words almost swallowed by the hum of the gallery.
You nod, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. “You too, Ellie..”
It was winter. Cold, biting, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. You and Ellie were huddled in her tiny apartment just off campus, the one she’d insisted had “charm” but was really just a glorified box with bad heating. The windows fogged with condensation, and outside, snowflakes drifted lazily down onto the already blanketed streets. Inside, the space was warm and dim, lit by a single lamp in the corner and the flickering glow of a candle Ellie had lit for atmosphere.
But there was no warmth between you that night.
Ellie was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, her hands running through her hair, tugging at it the way she always did when she was frustrated, on the verge of losing control. Her movements were restless, sharp, filled with an energy that seemed like it would combust if she didn’t do something, say something. She wasn’t looking at you—she hadn’t been able to for the past hour. And you, sitting on the edge of her bed, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, could feel the distance between you growing with every step she took.
“I just… I don’t know how to do this anymore,” she muttered, almost to herself, her voice strained, barely holding together. She stopped pacing for a second, pressing her palms to her forehead, her elbows resting on the back of a chair. “I feel like I’m drowning. Every day, it’s like… like I’m waiting for something to go wrong, and I don’t even know what it is, but I can’t breathe.”
Her words hit you like cold water, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You’d been feeling it too, the unraveling, the way everything between you had started to fray at the edges. It wasn’t sudden. It had been slow, creeping in like a shadow you couldn’t outrun. Long nights turned into silent mornings. Conversations that used to be easy, light, now felt like stepping through a minefield. Every fight, every misunderstanding, left scars you hadn’t been able to heal.
But hearing her say it out loud… that made it real.
“Ellie…” Your voice was soft, almost a whisper, like you were afraid of shattering the fragile air between you. “We can fix this. We just need to talk. We always work through things, right?”
She shook her head, her back still turned to you. You could see her shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep breath, as if she was trying to hold it all together. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower, more broken. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve been working through things too much, you know? Like, we keep trying to fix it, but it’s not working.”
You felt your chest tighten, your pulse quickening. The coldness of the room started to creep in, the warmth from the candle and the blankets no longer enough to fight it off. You stood up slowly, your legs shaky, and took a tentative step toward her. “Ellie, please—”
She spun around, and the look in her eyes stopped you in your tracks. They were red, bloodshot, like she hadn’t slept in days. And there was something else there—something raw, something you hadn’t seen before. Desperation, maybe. Or fear.
“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” she said, her voice breaking on the last word. “But that’s all I’ve been doing, isn’t it? Every time we fight, every time I say the wrong thing or don’t say enough… it’s like I’m breaking you apart, piece by piece, and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand being the one who keeps doing this to you.”
Your throat tightened, your eyes stinging with the threat of tears. “You’re not—” you started, but she cut you off, shaking her head again.
“Yes, I am!” Her voice cracked, and suddenly, she wasn’t pacing anymore. She was standing still, facing you, her fists clenched at her sides like she was trying to hold herself together through sheer force of will. “You deserve better than this. Better than… than me.”
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and final. For a moment, the only sound was the soft hiss of the candle flickering in the corner, the distant rumble of a car passing by outside. You could feel the weight of what she was saying sinking into your skin, settling deep in your bones. She was pulling away, tearing out a piece of herself, a piece of you, and you didn’t know how to stop it.
“Don’t do this,” you whispered, stepping closer, your voice trembling. You reached for her hand, desperate to hold onto something, anything, but she flinched, stepping back just out of reach. “Please, Ellie. We can fix this. We can figure it out, we always do.”
But she was already shaking her head again, her eyes glistening with tears she refused to let fall. “No. I can’t… I can’t keep dragging you down with me. You deserve to be happy, and I don’t think I can give that to you anymore.”
Your heart broke then. It shattered, piece by piece, with every word she spoke. You wanted to scream, to tell her she was wrong, that you could make it work, that love was enough. But deep down, you knew. You’d both been unraveling for months, slipping through each other’s fingers like sand. And no matter how tightly you tried to hold on, it wasn’t enough.
Ellie took a shaky breath, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, barely audible. “I love you, but I don’t think I’m good for you anymore. And I can’t… I can’t keep pretending like I am.”
You stood there, frozen, as the words echoed in the small space between you. There was nothing left to say. Nothing that could change what was already happening. So, instead, you just nodded, your throat too tight to speak, your heart too heavy to protest.
She watched you for a moment longer, her eyes softening, filled with something that looked like regret, maybe even guilt. Then, without another word, she turned and walked toward the door, leaving you standing there, the candle flickering weakly in the corner.
The sound of the door closing behind her felt like the final nail in the coffin. The room was suddenly too quiet, too cold, too empty.
And you were alone.
The night air cools your skin, but the warmth of the gallery lingers, wrapping around you like a heavy cloak. You take a few steps down the street, trying to steady your breath, trying to shake off the flood of emotions Ellie’s presence stirred up. But as you reach the edge of the block, something pulls you back—an invisible tether, tightening around your heart. You stop, glancing back toward the gallery, the soft glow of the lights spilling out onto the sidewalk, the hum of conversations still echoing in the air.
You’re not ready to leave. Not yet.
With a deep breath, you turn and step back inside, the warmth of the space enveloping you once more. The crowd has shifted, people moving around the artwork like currents in a river, but you’re not drawn to any of them. Instead, you find yourself wandering, letting your feet carry you through the gallery without any clear direction.
The pieces on the walls are beautiful—Ellie’s unmistakable style shines through in every brushstroke, every burst of color. But there’s something else here, something you can’t quite put your finger on. You continue walking, the noise around you dulling to a low murmur as you lose yourself in the art.
And then, you see it.
Tucked away in a corner of the gallery, slightly off the main flow of the exhibition, is a painting that stops you in your tracks. Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, everything else falls away—the crowd, the noise, even the memory of Ellie standing just a few feet from you moments ago.
The painting is large, dominating the wall with its raw, unfiltered intimacy. The colors are rich, deep tones of reds and golds and shadows that dance across the canvas like firelight. And in the center, almost hidden in the interplay of light and dark, are two figures—tangled together, their bodies intertwined in a way that leaves no room for doubt. The lines are soft, delicate, but there’s a fierceness to the way the brushstrokes capture the curve of a back, the arch of a neck, the way two sets of hands grip each other as if holding on for dear life.
It’s you and Ellie.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you take a step closer, your pulse quickening with every detail that comes into focus. The figures are not exact replicas, not perfect portraits, but there’s no mistaking it—the shape of your body, the curve of Ellie’s form. The familiarity in the way your hands touch, the way your legs are tangled together, skin on skin, lost in the moment of sex.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks as the memories flood back. The night in question comes rushing to the surface—one of those endless nights in college, when the world outside had ceased to matter, and all that existed was the space between you and Ellie. The way her breath had felt against your skin, the soft murmur of her voice in your ear, the way she looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in a world of chaos.
It’s all there, captured in the brushstrokes. The vulnerability, the connection, the way you’d both been completely unguarded with each other in a way that had felt terrifying and exhilarating all at once. The memory is so visceral, it’s like being pulled back in time, your body remembering the touch of her hands, the feel of her lips against yours.
You stand there, rooted to the spot, your eyes tracing every detail of the painting. It’s beautiful, in a way that makes your chest ache, but it’s also unmistakably private. This moment was yours—yours and Ellie’s—and seeing it laid bare here, for everyone to see, feels almost too intimate, like a secret exposed.
Your breath hitches as your mind races. Did Ellie mean for this to be here? Was it a message? Or just a piece of her past she needed to exorcise, to let out into the world in the only way she knew how?
You take another step closer, your eyes fixated on the way the light plays off the figures—your figure—highlighting the delicate curve of your waist, the way Ellie’s arm wraps around you, pulling you closer. It’s so raw, so unapologetic, and the emotions it stirs up are almost too much to bear.
You stand there, your heart hammering in your chest, you hear the soft creak of footsteps behind you. You know, without turning around, who it is. Ellie’s presence fills the space before she even speaks, the air between you charged with an intensity that has been building all night.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel her eyes on the painting, then on you, her silence heavy with meaning. She’s watching your reaction, waiting—maybe even bracing—for what you’ll say, for how you’ll respond. You want to say something, anything, but the words seem lodged in your throat.
Finally, Ellie breaks the silence. Her voice is soft, almost hesitant, but there’s a vulnerability to it that makes your chest tighten. “It’s… from a long time ago,” she says, the words almost a whisper. “I didn’t think anyone would see it and know..”
You swallow hard, still unable to tear your eyes away from the painting. “It’s us,” you say, the words barely audible, but Ellie hears them. You can feel her nod behind you, even though she doesn’t say anything.
Another beat of silence stretches between you, the weight of the past pressing down on you both. And then Ellie speaks again, her voice lower now, more grounded. “I didn’t know how else to… capture it. It was the only way I could make sense of everything.”
You finally turn to look at her, and the sight of her standing there, just inches away, sends a fresh wave of emotions crashing over you. Her face is softer now, the hard edges you saw earlier had smoothed away. Just her, standing there, vulnerable and exposed in a way that mirrors the painting on the wall.
For the first time all night, the space between you feels real. Heavy with everything that’s gone unsaid for years.
You open your mouth to speak, but the words are still out of reach. Instead, all you can do is look at her, your chest tight with the weight of everything this painting has stirred up. There’s a part of you that wants to step closer, to reach out and touch her like you used to, to see if the connection that once burned so brightly between you still lingers in the spaces where your skin meets hers.
But for now, all you can do is stand there, your heart pounding in your chest, the memory of that night—of her —playing over and over in your mind like a song you thought you’d forgotten.
Somehow, you ended up here—Ellie’s apartment. You’re not sure how it happened. Maybe it was the tension in the gallery, the weight of the memories between you, or maybe it was Ellie’s quiet, almost tentative offer: “Do you want to come over for a bit?”
Now, the door closes softly behind you, and you find yourself standing in the small entryway of her apartment, the familiar scent of her space—wood, paint, and that faint earthy musk of hers—hitting you all at once. It’s like stepping back into a life you’d long since tried to leave behind, except everything feels slightly off now, like a song that’s being played just a little too slow.
The silence stretches between you, awkward and thick, as Ellie moves past you into the living room. Her apartment is small, but cozy. Messy in the way an artist’s space always is, with scattered paintbrushes, canvases propped up against the walls, and sketchbooks overflowing with half-finished ideas. It’s not much different from the space she had in college, except this time, the mess feels more intentional—like it’s been lived in, not just occupied.
You hover near the door, unsure of where to put your hands, unsure of where to put yourself. The air between you is charged, but not in the electric way it had been back in the gallery.
Ellie clears her throat, scratching the back of her neck as she moves around the space, avoiding your gaze.
“Uh, you can sit if you want,” she says, motioning vaguely toward the worn, comfortable-looking couch that’s pushed against the far wall. “I’ll grab some drinks.”
You nod, grateful for something to do, even if it’s just sitting down. The cushions sag beneath you, and you can’t help but remember the nights you’d spent like this before, curled up together on whatever hand-me-down couch she had at the time, talking for hours, or sometimes not talking at all. Just being.
But this isn’t like before.
Ellie disappears into the kitchen, and you take the opportunity to look around. There’s an easel in the corner with a half-finished painting—a cityscape this time, vibrant with color and movement. The table next to it is cluttered with tubes of paint, brushes, and crumpled pieces of paper with rough sketches. It’s Ellie’s world, laid out in front of you, and yet you feel like a stranger in it now.
The awkwardness creeps up your spine, settling in the pit of your stomach as you wait, the quiet stretching on and on. You can hear Ellie moving in the kitchen—bottles clinking, the soft sound of the fridge opening and closing. It should feel normal, familiar. But it doesn’t.
After what feels like too long, Ellie finally returns, two bottles of beer in hand. She hands you one without a word, her fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. The touch is electric, sending a jolt through you, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
Ellie sits on the opposite end of the couch, as far from you as the small space allows. She takes a swig of her beer, her gaze flicking to the window instead of meeting yours, her posture stiff and uncertain. You take a drink, too, trying to focus on the bitter taste of the beer instead of the way the room feels too small, too quiet.
The silence stretches again, awkward and heavy, like neither of you knows how to bridge the gap. The weight of the past hangs between you—unspoken, but impossible to ignore. You’re both dancing around it, unwilling to dive in, yet neither of you knows how to avoid it.
“How long have you been working on the pieces for the show?” you ask, desperate to fill the silence with something, anything.
Ellie shrugs, taking another sip of her beer. “A while. A couple of years, I guess.”
You nod, not really sure what to say.
You can feel her eyes on you—intense and heavy.
“I don’t think I ever forgot how it felt.” she blurts out, her voice low and husky.
You swallow hard, your pulse quickening as the weight of her words hits you. You know exactly what she means. The memory of her hands on your body, the heat of her breath against your skin—it all comes rushing back, sharper now, more immediate.
Ellie leans back against the couch, her legs spreading just slightly as she sets her beer down on the floor with a soft thunk. She’s still watching you, the unspoken desire hanging thick in the air between you. It’s a look you recognize all too well—a look that used to drive you wild, that used to make you ache for her touch in a way that felt almost unbearable.
And now, sitting here in her apartment, that same ache is starting to stir inside you again.
“I know it’s been a long time,” she murmurs, her voice soft, “But I’ve been thinking about you. About us. ”
Her words send a shiver down your spine, and you feel your body reacting, your skin prickling with heat as the space between you seems to shrink. You can see the way her chest rises and falls with each slow breath, the tension in her body barely restrained. It’s like she’s holding herself back—just barely—but there’s no mistaking the hunger in her eyes, the way her gaze keeps flicking to your lips, your body, like she’s already imagining what it would feel like to close the distance.
You know you should say something, should acknowledge the fire that’s rapidly spreading between you, but you can’t find the words. All you can do is watch as Ellie shifts closer, her movements slow, her eyes never leaving yours.
“I’m not gonna pretend like I don’t want you,” she says, her voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. There’s no hesitation anymore, no awkwardness, just pure, unfiltered desire. “Because I do. I always have.”
The confession hangs in the air, bold and dangerous, and it takes everything in you not to close the gap between you and her right then and there. Your body is already reacting, your pulse racing, your breath coming faster as the tension between you reaches a fever pitch.
Ellie leans in slightly, her face inches from yours, her lips so close you can feel the heat of her breath against your skin. Her hand moves to your thigh, the touch light but deliberate, her fingers pressing against you in a way that sends a jolt of heat straight through your core. It’s a touch that’s both familiar and new, reigniting the fire that had once burned so brightly between you.
“You remember how good it was, don’t you?” she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice sending shivers down your spine. “I can see it in your eyes.”
Your breath hitches, and you feel your body responding, your skin buzzing with the memory of her touch, the way she used to know exactly how to drive you wild. The pull between you is too strong now, the desire too overwhelming to ignore. You want her—desperately—and you can see the same hunger reflected in her eyes, the way her hand tightens slightly on your thigh, her grip firm.
“Ellie…” you breathe, your voice a whisper, but she hears it. She always hears you.
She moves even closer, her lips brushing against your neck now, the warmth of her breath sending a rush of heat through your body. “Tell me you want this,” she murmurs, her voice rough with desire. “Tell me you want me.”
Your mind is spinning, your heart racing as you feel the full weight of her body leaning into you, her hand sliding further up your thigh, her touch firm. You can barely think straight, the heat between you unbearable now, every nerve in your body on fire as she presses her lips against your neck, soft but insistent.
“I want you..” you whisper, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. And as soon as they leave your lips, Ellie’s restraint shatters.
In an instant, her lips are on yours, the kiss rough and desperate, all the tension and desire that’s been building between you exploding in a surge of heat. Her hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer as if she can’t get enough of you. The kiss is hungry, wild, like she’s been starving for you for years, and now that she has you again, she’s not going to let go.
Your body reacts instinctively, your hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer as you lose yourself. It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, the intensity of her touch, the way she knows exactly how to make you melt beneath her.
Ellie pulls you onto her lap, her hands gripping your hips, and you can feel the hardness of her body beneath you, the strength in her arms as she holds you close, her lips never leaving yours. It’s rough, raw, and so intensely familiar, like falling back into a rhythm you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.
Ellie pulls back just enough to catch her breath, her forehead resting against yours, her breathing ragged, her eyes dark and wild with need. “I need you,” she whimpers.
In a rush, your hands find the hem of ellie’s shirt, pulling it up and over her head. You toss it aside without a second thought, your eyes immediately drawn to her bare torso—her tattoo twisting along her arm, her skin flushed with heat. For a moment, you pause, breathless, as you take her in. She’s gorgeous. Strong and lean, every muscle under her skin defined, her freckles scattered across her chest like stars in the night.
Ellie’s breathing is ragged, her chest rising and falling heavily as she watches you, her lips slightly parted, her eyes burning with want. But she doesn’t say a word. Instead, her hands move to your shirt, tugging it up in one swift motion. You lift your arms, letting her pull it over your head before it, too, is discarded in the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
Her gaze drops immediately, her eyes sweeping over your body.
There’s something in the way she looks at you—something intense,that makes your skin burn under her. Ellie’s hands rest on your bare waist now, her fingers brushing over your skin as she takes you in.
“Ellie…” you breathe, the sound a mixture of a plea and a gasp, urging her to continue.
“Fuck…” she mutters, almost to herself as she leans back slightly to get a better view. Her hands slide up your sides, fingers trailing over the curve of your breasts, the sensation sending a shiver through your entire body. She looks at you like you’re something to be worshipped, her eyes dark with want, her touch slow, as if she’s savoring every second, every inch of you.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Ellie whispers, she’s taking her time now, her hands exploring every inch of your skin, her fingers brushing over your collarbone, tracing the line of your ribs, before they move back up, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasts the raw hunger in her eyes.
You reach for her, your hands roaming over her body, feeling the strength of her shoulders, the hard lines of muscle beneath her skin. Your hands move lower, exploring the soft dip of her waist, the way her body feels beneath your touch—strong, every muscle tensing under your fingers as you stroke her skin. You let your fingers trace the outline of her abs, feeling the way her body responds to your touch, the way her breath hitches every time your hands move lower.
Ellie's hands grip your hips with an sudden urgency, your slick catches against her cunt, the soft, wet friction sending pulses along your clit. You feel her body respond—every muscle tightening, every breath hitching in anticipation.
Ellie's hands grip your hips with an urgency, your slick catches against her cunt, the soft, wet friction making you pulsate. You can feel her body respond—every muscle tightening, every breath hitching in anticipation.
“n-need to feel you,” she gasps, her voice wavering on the edge of breaking, raw and desperate. The intensity in her eyes makes your heart race, an unquenchable thirst that mirrors your own.
You begin to grind against her, your slick meeting her puffy clit, the sensation making you gasp as the friction builds.
“Oh god, please..” you whimper, a moan escaping your lips.
It’s intoxicating, the way your bodies move together, the way every roll of your hips sends ripples of pleasure through both your pussies.
“Fuck,” ellie breathes, her voice low and filled with a mix of need and awe, her eyes locked onto yours as you move together, a slow, delicious rhythm that feels like it’s been waiting for this moment for years.
“Come here,” she begs, pulling you closer, her grip tightening as you continue to grind against her. The slick sound echos in the air, mingling with the soft moans that slip from your lips. Each sound you makes pulls ellie deeper, melody that makes her crave more.
Ellie shifts beneath you, her body arching in a way that allows you to scissor closer. You can see the way her chest rises and falls, each breath heavy. Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, lost in the sensations, and ellie takes the opportunity to lean down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, “You feel so fucking good, baby.”
The sound of her voice makes your pussy pulsate, your eyes snapping open as they lock onto hers. “d-don’t stop,” you breathe, your voice trembling with urgency. “I need m-more.”
“God, you’re s-so fucking good,” she whispers, her voice thick with desire, her gaze locked on yours, as if she’s trying to memorize every detail of this moment.
Ellie’s hands slide down your body, exploring every curve, every contour as she pulls you closer, her fingers digging into your skin, leaving marks that will linger long after this night.
“Ellie...” you breathe, the name falling from your mouth like a prayer. “Please, I need to feel you closer,” you whisper, voice all shaky.
Ellie gives in to the rhythm, moving faster, harder, each thrust sending shudders of pleasure racing through both of you. Your moans come out loud and whiny, mingling with Ellie’s desperate gasps.
“Fuck, yes!” You breathe, your body arching into hers, your hands gripping her arms as she pulls you closer. You can feel the tension building between you, the way your body responds together, every roll of your hips bringing you both closer to cumming.
“Don’t stop!” Ellie lets out a soft cry, her body tensing beneath you as the pleasure washes over her. You feel the way her body responds to yours, and it sends you tumbling over the edge, your own pleasure crashing down, pulling you both into ecstasy.
You collapse against her, breathless and trembling, the world around you fading away as you savor the warmth of her body against yours, the softness of her skin, and the way your bodies still pulse.
You turn your head slightly, your eyes catching a glimpse of the half-finished paintings scattered around her apartment, the abstract strokes, the splashes of color that seem almost chaotic, like her thoughts spilled out onto the canvas. You can’t help but wonder if you’ll be another one of those unfinished things—something she can’t quite complete, something left unresolved, a work in progress that she never intended to finish.
There’s a lump forming in your throat, but you push it down.
You won’t wake up to her. Not tomorrow, not ever. Ellie will go back to her life, and you’ll go back to yours, and this night will fade into the past, becoming another memory, another fragment of what you once had together.
With a quiet sigh, you press a gentle kiss to her shoulder.
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