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thevillainswhore · 4 months ago

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Revenge Sweeter Than Honey

Pairing: College!Bucky Barnes x MILF!Reader

Word Count: 9.2k

Summary: When Bucky’s professor unfairly grades his college assignment, ruining his perfect GPA, he finds a way to get revenge — And doesn’t his sweet little wife look delicious?

Warnings: Bucky POV, revenge plot, age gap, older!reader, flirting, cheating, kissing, smut, mommy kink, nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), ass play, spanking, p in v sex, recording of sex, cum play.

Author’s Note: Unbeta’d. Dividers by @saradika. Hi, lovelies! It’s been a while 🤍 This is by far not my best work, but I started it at the beginning of the year and finally finished it and decided to let it go before I convince myself not to post it.

Also, I have little to no knowledge about the education system outside of the UK, since I’m British. So please excuse any facts I may have gotten wrong, this was purely for the smut 😅

The arms of the leather chair Bucky was sitting on creaked, straining under the tense grip of his fingers. Fury coursed through every muscle of his body, boiling his blood until he was sure steam was blowing out of his ears.

He had been sitting in his professor’s office for thirty whole minutes and not once had the man had the decency to look him in the eye and tell him a good enough reason for the C- marked on his most recent assignment. Thinking about it, he wasn’t even sure if his professor had ever made eye contact with him before; certain that he wouldn’t be able to recognise him if he ever looked at him.

Bucky was a straight A student, working towards the perfect GPA to graduate with full honors and claim the job of his dreams. And yet, the second since his professor had licked his finger and slapped the stack of papers — stained with a ring of coffee that wasn’t there when he handed it in — on Bucky’s desk, his whole world had been turned upside down.

He remembered his frenzy, the whirlwind of erratically flicking through each page and trying to find a single comment or suggestion that could help explain the low grade. But there was nothing. Only a forbidden red-inked C- that had taunted him ever since.

Immediately, Bucky had booked an office session, since his professor was strict on the rules of when and where to discuss anything other than current class material. There must have been a mistake he reasoned with himself in the beginning — maybe a mix up with another student or maybe his professor had missed a chunk of his work because surely that godforsaken C- wasn’t right.

However, Bucky soon came to realise in the thirty long minutes of his office session, that it wasn’t a mistake. In fact, it was the most generous grade received of the whole class.

“Sir.” He attempted once again to get through to his professor. “With all due respect, I worked extremely hard on his assignment. Every variable is valid, I ran through each test multiple times to gain an accurate representation. My method has been executed perfectly.” He swallowed the dryness in his throat. “I can’t understand why I’ve been graded so low.”

Dr Parker couldn’t have seemed less interested if he tried, the keys of his computer clicking away aimlessly as his brown eyes were glued to the screen. “For the last time, if you don’t understand what is wrong with your assignment, then I can’t help you.”

Bucky discreetly gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. The logic his professor spewed made absolutely no sense. He took a calming breath before he responded. “I’m not sure I can understand what exactly is wrong with my work if there’s no feedback to go off, Sir.”

Dr Parker sighed, seemingly fed up with the conversation. “It's not for me to serve you on a silver platter. If you want a mentor who gives you a free ride or has to hold your hand through a grade then it seems like college isn’t the place for you, James.”

The material of the chair almost ripped where Bucky’s nails began to furiously dig in. He never wanted a hand to hold or a free ride during his time in college; the bare minimum he expected was to at least have some kind of evaluation or support that offered more than a lousy grade that wasn’t fair.

Out of options, he desperately pleaded with his professor once again. “Sir, all I’m asking for is a reason for my grade being low. My GPA has been perfect all year and this assignment has made it take a huge hit. Please understand.”

Still, Dr Parker continued uselessly typing away without looking at him. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Mr Barnes.”

Bucky’s words came out jumbled as he jumped to offer an alternative. “What about— What if I did something for extra credit! You know? Just for— to boost my GPA back up?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Bucky was at the end of his tether and his throat began to tighten. “Please, Sir—I need—“

“What you need to do is move on from this assignment and work harder on the next one.” Dr Parker interrupted him coldly as he suddenly stood, packing his papers into his satchel. “My office hours are over and I have somewhere to be, so if you wouldn’t mind shutting the door behind you when you leave that would be great. Goodbye.” With that, his professor walked around the desk and out of the door without a second glance.

Tears sprung to Bucky’s eyes while he sat there, staring mindlessly at the now empty chair behind the desk in front of him. He forced the lump building in his chest down, never having felt so defeated in his life. Throughout his years of education, he had sacrificed, placed everything that wasn’t important on the back burner; holidays, parties, normal friendships, just to put his future career first and for what? For one complete asshole to decide he didn’t care enough about his job or students to fuck him over?

He shot out of his seat and paced over the carpeted floor. All of his dedication to his studies had been pointless — the thought burned through his mind and wounded him. All his life he had worked hard and this is how he had been repaid. The soles of his shoes thudded heavily until he came to a stop, running his hands down his face in despair.

When Bucky opened his eyes, he blinked until his blurred vision became clear, finding himself in front of the floor to ceiling bookcase that panned over the length of the full wall. Sighing at a complete loss on what to do, his eye flitted over the polished ornaments in front of him.

As he trailed over the neatly placed trophies and certificates, a scoff left his mouth — bitter and venomous. Every one of the awarded achievements built his resentment even more. The pretentiousness was aggravating.

He was about to walk away, go for a stroll with some fresh air to try and cool himself down and think properly. But just as he was going to leave, his eagle eye caught a small wooden picture frame shoved to the very back corner of the shelf, hardly noticeable with everything else taking front and center and ultimately hiding it.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, making sure his professor had really left before stepping forward. His nosiness had gotten the better of him and now his interest was peaked. Careful not to knock over any ornaments, he plucked out the frame and blew off the dust that had accumulated over the picture for god knows how long.

To his surprise, it was a photograph of Dr Parker, many years younger and dressed in a tuxedo. Next to him, a stunning woman with the biggest smile on her face, dressed in an ivory, white dress.

Bucky’s eyes flew wide open while his jaw unhinged in shock.

Dr Parker had a wife?

Now that he thought about it, his professor did wear a gold band around his finger; one that the sun caught during a lecture one time and blinded Bucky enough to choke while he was drinking his coffee.

Studying the photo some more, Bucky only focused on the woman, one with kind eyes, pretty lips and a body to kill for; silhouetted in a gown that complimented her figure amazingly. He was utterly blown away.

The picture was at least ten years old, he summarised. His professor looked way younger than he did now, with frown lines and dark circles underneath his eyes. But he couldn’t get over how beautiful his wife was and how the hell he had managed to snag her with his douchebag personality. His mind ran a million miles per hour.

For all Bucky knew, you could have been just like your husband; just as dull and just as unbearable. It was only rational, because no one in their right mind would willingly be with a man like that.

He stared at you through the glass and tilted his head in thought, until the cogs started to turn. What if? he asked himself. What if he got his comeuppance somehow?

As soon as the thought presented itself, he batted it away, shaking his head and placing the photo frame back in its place.

But as he stood the frame upon the shelf, his hand stayed with it, unable to let go of the nagging idea that had now taken root in his mind.

What if you were his perfect route for revenge?

Looking out towards the window of the office, the setting sun beamed in. Bucky followed the streams of light that shined through, one landing on another photograph, larger in size of a chocolate haired boy with bright eyes. While he resembled Dr Parker, the boy’s eyes were all yours, kind and filled with light. The kid looked around the same age as himself, in a lab coat that had the same emblem as Bucky’s college.

A plan began to quickly form in his mind, each piece and detail intricately connected together to create the most beautiful retribution. The biggest fuck you to his professor for screwing him over.

Bucky sheathed his hands into his front pockets, running his tongue over his teeth with the most evil grin on his face. Dr Parker was going to get what he rightfully deserved.

Vengeance.

Having met up after their last classes of the day, Bucky followed Peter into his home when he opened the door, the droolworthy aroma of a home cooked meal slinking into his senses and making his stomach grumble.

It was now routine for him to come round to the Parker residence every week on a Friday afternoon. Once you found out your son had a new friend at college, you had extended the invitation to Bucky as Peter had recited. And of course, it would be rude of him to refuse.

The execution of his plan had come together seamlessly, almost too perfectly. It was just his luck that a clumsy Peter Parker happened to bump into Bucky on campus in a rush to his next class, spilling his coffee onto the ground and offering to buy him a new one.

Since then, he had made it his mission to become closer to Peter and soon enough, it was the night of his first dinner with you.

Before that first meeting, he had drilled it into his head that his scheme of revenge was strictly business; to get in and out and call it a day. But that went down the drain when he rounded the corner to the kitchen to introduce himself and he choked on his words when you spun around on your heels.

Bucky still remembered that moment, the first time he laid eyes on you in the cutest sundress, decorated with daisies that hugged your waist sinfully. The way your tits practically spilled out the damn thing stuck with him too.

You were a vision, a sight for sore eyes — the photograph in his professor’s office did not do you justice even with ten years added on. Then, as soon as you bounced over to him and pulled him into a hug that made his dick hard, his initial intentions went out the window. He was a goner and he knew one time wouldn’t be enough of you.

However, when it came down to dinner, Bucky was admittedly nervous. It wasn’t only just meeting you in the flesh and having his expectations blown out of the water that threw him off balance, the inevitable of seeing his professor outside of college worried him. His plan for revenge could have fallen through as soon as he met him. They almost did. If that would have been the case, Bucky wasn’t sure what his next steps would be.

But when he sat down at the dining table, his professor had only just noticed another guest in his home. Bucky remembered the slight sweat of his palms, the dryness of his throat as your husband looked at him over his newspaper and cocked his head; a familiarity brewing between them. Those couple of seconds lasted longer than he cared for. Then, unexpectedly, Dr Parker brushed him off and went straight back to reading his paper — evidently deeming Bucky unrecognisable and only a new friend of his son’s.

That memory still offended him slightly. There wasn’t a hint of recognition, even though he had fucked Bucky’s chances of attaining his dream career.

Snapping out of his memory, Bucky quickly shook his jacket off, taking care to hang it neatly on the coat rack and made a beeline to the kitchen.

“Dude. I know you like my mom’s cooking but damn.” Peter shook his head with laughter but Bucky ignored him in favour of something of much higher importance.

Stepping into the kitchen, he immediately found you balancing on your tiptoes, trying to reach the spice rack on the highest shelf. The skirt of your dress inched up your thighs and he couldn’t help but stare unabashedly at a sneak peak of your white g-string.

Clearing his throat, Bucky held out his arms wide and acted casual with a wide smile. “Where’s my favourite girl?”

His heart jumped as you snapped your head around, grinning wide once you saw who it was. “Bucky!” you cheerfully sang. “Hi, sweetie. I’m so happy you made it.”

You have no idea how happy I am to see you too, he groaned internally. “What do you take me for? Like I would ever miss your cookin’, Mrs Parker,” he teased aloud.

Raising an eyebrow playfully, you cocked your hip and crossed your arms over each other. “What have I told you about that, hm? Call me Honey, sweetheart. All my friends do.”

Bucky held his arms up to placate you. “Forgive me. Your food is too damn good to pass up, Honey.”

You rolled your eyes lightheartedly and turned back around to try and pluck the thyme from the top shelf. “You and that charm, boy. You’re gonna be the death of some poor college girl one day.”

Noticing your struggle, Bucky took the opportunity to come up behind you and reach over your head. His lips perfectly aligned with your ear and so with a sly hand to your waist, he grabbed the jar of herbs and placed them onto the counter in front of you while he whispered, “What if I’m not into college girls?”

Bucky heard the sharp inhale you tried so hard to smother, but it was useless with the proximity between you. It was instinct to then squeeze your hip, listening for your sweet whimper he lived to be the cause of.

The moment lasted only a couple seconds longer until Peter called out for you from the hallway. “Hi, Mom. We’re home if you hadn’t already noticed.”

Breaking away from Bucky sharply, you held a shaky hand to your chest. “H-Hey P, how was your week?”

Small incidents as such repeated themselves every week. You and Bucky would find yourselves — or he would create them — in intimate, dangerous positions that wouldn’t be explainable to your son or your husband should they ever catch you.

Which only made the game all the more exciting for him.

“Mom,” Peter whined while he walked into the kitchen. “Can you please not call me that when I have friends around?”

Bucky held his laughter behind his hand when you passed your son by, pinching his cheek and putting on a baby voice. “Oh, but you’re just so cute!”

However, that smile was soon wiped away from his face when the front door opened, immediately slamming shut with a loud bang. “I’m home, Honey,” your husband yelled.

Your name on another man’s lips left a sour taste in Bucky’s mouth. He had come to learn that your nickname was born from your old college roommate who had affectionately bestowed it upon you after your love of baking dessert treats.

The story was adorable, one he had soaked in with all the details you offered him. But your husband and his boring, monotonous tone turned even the sweetest name into something unpleasant.

With his keen eye, Bucky had spotted the fake smile you plastered on your face to greet your husband, even when he walked straight past you without a hug or a kiss and into his usual chair at the dining table.

“Glad your home safe, love,” you quickly offered him a half assed hello and headed back towards the kitchen to grab the meat out of the oven.

“Hey.” Bucky shot forward before you could grab the handle and slid the oven mitts laying on the counter onto his hands. “I got this, don’t worry about it.”

You paused to look at him like he had grown another head. “Bucky, I've done this a million times. I’m perfectly capable.”

“I know you are, beautiful.” He didn’t miss the way your lips parted from his compliment, reserved for your moments alone. “Doesn’t mean you should have to. Lemme do it, please.”

It didn’t take much for you to relent, already flustered enough to give in to him. Stepping aside, you made room for Bucky to take the dish out of the oven and place it on the worktop.

“Smells fuckin’ delicious, Honey.” You gently swatted his arm for his colourful language, but he couldn’t help test the waters as he stared directly into your eyes. “Hopefully tastes as good as she looks.”

What he didn’t expect was for you to retort back with a quick wit. “Oh, don’t worry about that. She’s as juicy as they get.”

These interactions were just considered harmless flirting to you. Bucky knew you had no idea that he went home and fucked his fist, replaying these exact moments in his head. He licked his lips with a groan. “I bet she is.”

“Where the hell is this damn food, woman? I’m eating away here!” your husband barked from the dining table.

Bucky gritted his teeth while he watched you bow your head in embarrassment. “Just plating up now. It won’t be much longer, dear!”

Turning back to Bucky, you smiled apologetically. “Sorry about that, he gets a little grumpy when he’s hungry.”

He couldn’t believe you were apologising for that son of a bitch, though this was a regular occurrence by now; excusing your husband’s wrongdoings even if you were ashamed of it.

Placing his hand over yours, Bucky told you firmly, “Don’t think for one second that you have to apologise to me, Honey.” The next words he grumbled under his breath. “Especially never on behalf of that fucker.”

Your free hand smoothed over the skirt of your dress, a nervous habit of yours when you were upset.

Bucky recognised your unease and took initiative to derail the conversation. “What do you need me to take?” he asked while rolling the sleeves of his shirt up.

You looked at him then, quick to protest and shake your head. “No, sweetheart. You’ve done enough, honestly. Go sit down and—”

“Honey.” Bucky held your hand, rubbing his thumb over your skin. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll help you. I’m all yours.”

Sighing defeatedly, you nodded your head to the foil covered dishes on top of the counter. “The vegetables and mashed potatoes could do with taking to the table.”

Bucky grinned wide, all teeth and brought your hand up to place a kiss to the back of it. “Good girl.”

A shudder ran down your spine that he didn’t miss, the hitch of your breath that blew the front strands of his hair giving you away. With a wink, he backed away to grab the dishes, piling them in his arms, along with a couple extra to take to the dining table.

Soon enough, a full roast dinner was set out, steaming hot and ready to be eaten.

Peter was already sitting on the chair by his Dad’s side, speaking animatedly about his recent discoveries on his science assignment for class. You always sat opposite your husband, which meant the only free seat that Bucky could take was opposite Peter and next to you.

Not that he was complaining.

He steadily pulled the chair out and sat down. It wasn’t exactly a coincidence that he brushed against you, not when he shuffled his chair as close as possible to you without raising suspicion. “Everything looks incredible,” he whispered as he leaned into you.

The grip you had on your cutlery faltered. Bucky reveled in your bashfulness, always competing with himself to see how much he could make you squirm. So he smirked when you gulped, peeking at him from the corner of your eye. “T-Thank you, Bucky.”

Your son‘s voice brought you out of your flustered state “—So I was right, Dad! My results actually confirmed my hypothesis.”

You cleared your throat and chimed in cheerfully when your husband only answered with an uninterested hum. “That’s amazing news, P!” With a stern tone, you addressed your husband this time. “Aren’t you proud of him, love?”

But instead of congratulating him, your husband turned the page of his newspaper while shoveling food into his mouth. “Mhm. He did good, I guess.”

Luckily, Peter didn’t notice or bat an eye to his father. Bucky had witnessed over the few weeks he had been invited over for dinner that your son had enough support from you alone to keep his spirits uplifted.

You decided not to bite and move on with the conversation, mouth open about to speak when your husband suddenly laid his newspaper down and spoke over you. “You know, I’ve had the worst week at work.”

Frustrated, your fingers clenched tightly around your knife. “Oh yeah?”

Dr Parker blew out an irritating sigh. “The students this week—god—I had a flock of them at my door, complaining about their grades being too low.”

Bucky felt the blood in his veins begin to boil. Normally he would tune out the grating voice of your husband, but he couldn’t help but listen to something that directly involved him — unknowingly to his professor.

“I mean, I can’t help that their work isn’t up to par. What do they want me to do? Mollycoddle them?” he scoffed. “If they come crying to me for help all the time then they may as well cut their losses and drop out. They’re only wasting their own money.”

The loud clink of your cutlery dropping against the plate cut through the tense atmosphere. “Are you serious right now?”

“Dad,” Peter cringed, obviously uncomfortable. “You can’t say that.”

“I’m not saying anything that’s not true.” Dr Parker shrugged.

“It is your job to guide your students—who are paying thousands for their education by the way—and give them feedback to help them improve,” you shot back, heatedly.

Bucky’s chest puffed out in pride. Though he couldn’t outwardly say anything, he was proud of you for inadvertently defending him — even if you didn’t know it.

Your husband’s tone turned biting towards you, however. “I’m not their babysitter, Honey.”

But you stood your ground. “No you’re not. You’re their teacher and they look to you for guidance. It's the bare minimum your job requires.”

A weighted silence fell over the dinner table while you and your husband glared at each other until the chime of a text cut through the awkwardness.

Dr Parker retrieved his phone from his pocket and read his message. After a couple of seconds, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and threw it onto his plate. “I’ve got to go back into the office. Emergency.”

“What?” you asked in disbelief. “But you’ve only just come home.”

“Well, unlike some, I can’t just slack off at home all day.”

Bucky watched out of the corner of his eye as your mouth dropped open in shock at your husband’s barely hidden jab. Unrestrained anger filled his veins as he had to hold back. Though the urge to fly over the table at Dr Parker was hanging on by a thread.

Is this what life was like at home for you? A husband who so obviously didn’t care for you while you made his life as comfortable as possible. And Peter, a son who held his tongue while he stiffly carried on eating his dinner and not defending his own mother?

Bucky looked to you as you quickly regathered yourself, blinking away the tears building over your waterline and pretending like you weren’t hurt.

Your husband passed over his harmful statement as nonchalantly as he said it while lifting out of his seat. “Don’t wait up for me, I’ll be home late.”

And just as rudely as he came home, he walked out, the slam of the door reverberating through the house.

It wasn’t a minute after that when Peter also received a text. After reading the message, his eyes lit up with excitement. Bucky knew well enough what that face meant — Peter was getting lucky. “Hey mom, is it okay if I go out? Hang with my friends for the night?”

The dinner you laboured over had already gone out the window once your husband had ruined it. Of course it didn’t bother you as much that your son wanted to leave too. “Of course, sweetie.” You stood up and collected the half empty plates from the table robotically. “Just be careful and let me know when you’re there.”

With a dejected sigh that only Bucky noticed, you gathered the rest of the cutlery and took them to the kitchen, beginning to fill the sink to wash up.

Peter waited until you were out of ear shot to whisper, “Dude, MJ asked me to come round tonight. I think she finally wants it!” Bucky held back a cringe. “You think it’s cool if I shoot off? You can make your own way home, right?”

Bucky couldn’t have given a single fuck where Peter went or what he did right now. All he cared about, as he shot discreet glances of you in the kitchen washing the plates, was your wellbeing. “Sure, Parker. I can figure it out.”

“Awesome!” Peter laughed before whipping out of his seat and running towards the door. “Catch you Monday, pal!”

The house grew silent apart from the departing slam of the door, this time by your son. As soon as Peter was gone, Bucky instantly left his seat to join you.

He leaned his shoulder against the archway of the kitchen. “You okay, Honey?”

Looking towards him in surprise, your eyes held onto a last tendril of hope that someone hadn’t let you be alone. “Sweetheart, I thought you would have left with P.”

Bucky shook his head with a fond smile, the curls at the top of his head bouncing with the movement. “Of course not. I’ve got nothing better to do with my Friday night than spend time with a gorgeous woman.”

He caught the tightening of your lips, as though you were holding back your flustered smile. “Oh, stop that. You flatter me.”

“I can’t help it. You make a man go weak. What can I say?”

“Are you flirting with me?” you laughed incredulously.

“And what if I was?” Bucky noticed the way your eyes latched onto the sight of his shirt, tightening over his arms as he crossed them over each other. “Would you like it?”

Your eyes flicked up to his, holding his intense gaze for a few seconds before you huffed a breath and began cleaning the dishes again. “You’re cute, Bucky.”

Bucky licked his lips and ravaged your form silhouetted in your fitted dress. “Wouldn’t exactly be the word I would use, but I’ll take it from you.”

A rare giggle, only let out in his presence, escaped you. “Scram would you? You don’t want to be spending your Friday night with your friend’s mom, sweetie.”

Testing the waters, Bucky let slip exactly what was on his mind. “Actually, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Your hand stilled, chest rising and falling at a faster pace than before. “Oh, if only I was twenty years younger,” you chuckled quietly to yourself, not expecting for Bucky to overhear.

Jackpot, he smirked to himself.

Walking to the kitchen island, Bucky leaned his elbow on the counter beside you. “What would you do, Mrs Parker?”

You jumped with a yelp, visibly surprised to have received a response so close; eyes blown wide as they flitted over Bucky’s face in panic. “E-Excuse me?”

Bucky closed the distance between you even further. He leaned over the sink to turn the running water off. “I said,” he whispered huskily, keeping consistent eye contact with you. “What would you do if you were twenty years younger?”

“I—I um,” your breathing started to become heavy while Bucky stared shamelessly at you. “It’s just an expression, sweetie,” you laughed, shaking your head to try and brush the comment off. “I d-didn’t mean it like that—“

“No?” He watched carefully as your eyes darted around, trying so hard not to look at him. “How did you mean it then?”

The spotlight Bucky was intentionally putting on you made you falter, even more so when he tucked your hair behind your ear and let his hand linger over your collarbone.

“C’mon, tell me. I don’t bite.” A sadistic smirk adorned his face while you stared at his lips. “Unless you want me to, of course.”

“I s-swear, Bucky.” Your voice was breathless with the heat of his stare. “There was nothing behind it, I—”

“I don’t believe you.” Bucky backed you against the sink, trapping you with his arms on each side of your waist. “I think,” he rasped, teasingly trailing his fingers up the bare skin of your arms. “That you would let me bend you over this counter right here and fuck you senseless.”

The wind was audibly knocked from your lungs as you gasped. Words failed you, stuttering over yourself which was most amusing to Bucky.

Nonetheless, your eyes still followed him with a glaze, hooked onto every word that left his lips. “I think you’d let me take you from behind. Stuff your pretty pussy full with my fat cock.” He grabbed your hand and pressed it against the bulge in his trousers. “You feel that, huh? How good it would feel to take all a’me, pretty mama?”

Bucky watched as your eyes fluttered and you bit your lip — the last of your reserve hanging by a thread. One more deadly blow to your empty head and you would be putty in his hands.

Any remaining distance between you disappeared as he placed wet kisses from the pulse of your neck up to the corner of your mouth. “I think—” he whispered against your lips, his next words uttered in his most seductive voice. “I think you’d let me do it. Right. Fuckin’. Now.”

You placed your hands over the shirt on his chest to push him away; a mistake he imagined as you alternatively began bundling the material up with clenched fists. “Bucky—“ you painfully uttered with your eyes squeezed shut. You shook your head, as though that would help you. “This—this isn’t right. You’re my son’s friend and I n-need you to leave—“

“Look at me.” Bucky slid his hands over your neck, holding your jaw with his thumbs to tilt your head up. Slowly, your eyes squinted open and he saw the confliction clear as day in your glossy eyes, the battle you were facing in your mind. “You’re practically melting in my hands, Honey. You just gotta give in. We’ve been playin’ this game for far too long now, don’t you think?”

There was no escaping his blue eyes when you tried to look away once again and he firmly guided your gaze back to him. “None of that, now. Do as I say.”

Your expression was tortured — torn between right and wrong, pleasure and sin. Bucky knew you were good, a dutiful housewife and loyal to a fault to a man who didn’t deserve it.

Where had that gotten you? Whilst the revenge plan was hot on his mind — the very reason he had meticulously planned everything up to this exact moment — he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth that he was getting something extra out of this. You.

“We shouldn’t do this,” you pleaded painfully, still with a wild spark in your eye. “We can’t do this.”

“You know what I’m not hearing, Honey?” Bucky asked. “I’m not hearing that you don’t want to do it.”

You shook your head frantically with wide eyes until he tightened his grip on your cheeks. “I’m gonna give you one chance to answer me.” He squeezed your cheeks until your lips puckered. “You want me to fuck you, baby?”

Desire rolled through your eyes as your thighs clenched together. Though you still tried to deny your need for him. “Bucky—”

“Ah, ah. I want an answer.”

Bucky watched as your throat bobbed. Your nostrils flared with your harsh breaths and your breasts heaved up and down with exerted force. Seconds went by, the two of you staring at each other before you finally answered. “Yes.”

The two of you burst into the master bedroom — the one you shared with your husband, kissing erratically while your hands fumbled through Bucky’s hair.

He moaned deeply, pushing you against the wall, and turning feral over the feel of you as he kneaded your body. “You’re so fuckin’ hot,” he hummed against your lips.

Your head thumped back against the wall, chest heaving while you tried to catch your breath. All of Bucky’s attention was drawn to your chest. “Has anyone ever told you you’ve got the most perfect tits?”

Choking on your spit, you stumbled over your words, so adorably oblivious to your own attraction. “I—I didn’t realise—um, t—thank you—”

Bucky laughed, shaking his head before quickly ripping down your dress to your waist with force. Your upper body was bare, free for him to roam his rabid eyes over your naked tits.

“Bucky!” Your squeal of shock was followed by you hastily trying to cover your chest with your hands.

But a scowling Bucky immediately ripped them away; offended you would dare try to keep them from him. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ cover yourself up, Honey.”

He could tell it was intense for you, to be so thoroughly desired and the thought that you had never received this much attention before made him angry once again.

“It’s been a while,” you mumbled. The mousy confession only heightened Bucky’s fury towards your pathetic husband.

Delicately, he kissed you and began to trail his lips down the slope of your neck. “Ain’t gotta worry about that. I’ll take care of you.”

Slowly descending, Bucky laved his tongue over your peaked nipple, sucking it into his mouth and letting it go with a pop. Your breast bounced with the motion and he squeezed his dick over his trousers with a groan. “Look at you, Honey. You’re a fuckin’ goddess.”

Bucky’s tunnel vision made whatever you said next pointless. Grabbing your tits, he buried his head in between them, relishing in your softness. He peppered his kisses across to your other nipple and swirled his tongue around the peak.

Your legs crumbled, the sensation overwhelming for you. The thought that Bucky could get you off by just playing with your tits made his cock even harder. But he had so much more in store for you.

“Why don’t you take off your dress, baby?” he murmured into your skin. “Want you to kneel on the bed for me, alright?”

You nodded shakily. Bucky hovered over your breasts a couple of seconds more, savouring the feel of you before stepping backwards to give you space to move.

With a deep breath, you walked on unsteady legs towards your bed, letting your dress shimmy down your body on your way. Your back was turned to Bucky and he salaciously eyed your figure, each and every curve of your body. He internally created a map of your stretch marks and imperfections that only made him more crazed for you.

The mattress sank down while you knelt onto it carefully. Bucky watched the arch of your back intently, the flesh of your ass rounding out from your position.

Forget the damn reason he plotted this very moment, he was just excited to finally get a taste of you.

Your quiet murmur sounded over Bucky’s thoughts. “I’m ready.”

Biting his lip, he strolled forward until he came to a stop behind you. Still fully clothed, Bucky desperately singed the picture in front of him into his mind. He held so much power in that moment, and it felt like a dream that he had you bent over solely for him.

Bucky leaned over your form, beginning to place delicate kisses down your back. He basked in the goosebumps that arose on your skin. “How the fuck are you real?” he murmured to himself.

With a shaky sigh, you whispered, “I still don’t know about this.”

Chuckling, Bucky finally dropped down to his knees, ignoring your reluctance to eye the flimsy piece of material covering your pussy. Hooking a finger inside your underwear, he peeled it away and held it to the side. “Oh, fuck me.”

You squirmed in place as the cold air hit you in your most vulnerable state. Your raw scent clogged Bucky’s nose and his eyes rolled to the back of his head in bliss. “Can’t fuckin’ wait any longer, Honey. Gotta know how you taste.”

Surging forward, Bucky buried himself between your thighs. You screamed in retaliation to the feel of his tongue snaking its way through your folds and he was sure he hadn’t heard a better sound.

He explored every inch of your cunt, unwilling to leave the heaven you so graciously granted him. But it was the sensation of Bucky’s tongue beginning to ease its way inside your hole that made you vocal once again.

“My husband—“ you called out, obvious to Bucky that you were trying to clear your conscience of guilt. But he knew you couldn’t care less about him — you didn’t even mention the fucker once while you were too busy feeling sorry for your son in the kitchen and making silly excuses to not let him have his way with you.

Landing a harsh smack to the top of your thigh, Bucky savored your squeal of shock. “Don’t act like you give a fuck about him now, Honey. Who’s the one eating your pussy this good, hm?” He ran two fingers down the middle of your folds, biting his lip at the wetness coating them. When your only answer was a moan muffled by your pillow, he spanked you again in the same place with more force. “Answer me.”

“You, Bucky!” you instantly shouted out. “You’re the one eating my pussy so good!”

“There we go. That wasn’t so hard was it?” He eased over the marks beginning to bloom on your skin and smiled to himself. “Call me James, though. I like it better.”

Without letting you reply, Bucky dived back in, fucking your pussy with his tongue. You reached back to hold your asscheeks open with each hand, desperate to have him go deeper into your hole. The glint from the diamond of your wedding ring caught his attention and he smirked into your cunt; the reminder that you were married only fuelled his arousal even more.

“Fuck, baby,” he spoke into your cunt. “You really are sweet, ain’t ya? Taste fuckin’ incredible.”

The filthy sounds of slurps and moans filled the room. Bucky was a starved beast, held back and pushed to the edge for too long and every little bit of anger and resentment that had built in his body from your husband’s treatment was taken out on you.

It only boosted his ego when you grinded your cunt back against him too. His cock jumped with excitement with how fucking dirty you truly were. You had been locked up too, he remembered. Stuck holding back your true self for a shitty excuse of a man.

Bucky grunted deeply before licking a wide stripe from your clit, slowly running through your pussy lips and reaching higher towards the puckered hole that twitched with anticipation.

“Oh!” you exclaimed aloud in surprise. Bucky thought he may have gone too far, then. But once you relaxed and backed yourself into his tongue, he smiled wickedly.

“You like that, filthy girl?” he laughed, darkly. “Should’ve known you’d be a little freak.”

Bucky circled the tip of his tongue teasingly around your asshole, moaning at your eagerness when you tried to reach further back with your hands and drag him closer.

“Don’t tease,” you gasped, out of breath. “Please, I want more. Gimmie more.”

Almost immediately, Bucky complied, ripping your hands away with vigor to replace them with his. He spreaded your asscheeks wide and lapped at your tight hole.

“Fuck yes—oh my god, James—yes!”

The depravity was obscene and disgusting and Bucky absolutely loved it. Never had he been more turned on and he decided then and there that this wasn’t going to be a one and done deal. He wanted you to be his.

A string of saliva connected Bucky’s mouth to your ass as he reluctantly backed away. The slick that had poured out of you smothered his chin and cheeks and Bucky happily licked his lips with a groan. “Baby, as much as I wanna keep eating your ass, I need to feel your pretty little cunt wrapped around my cock.”

You whimpered while your pussy clenched with a need to be filled. Bucky watched your cute little hole flutter. “Put it in me,” you slurred. “Need your cock.”

He wasted no time unfastening his jeans to pull them down enough until his dick bobbed out of its confines. Bucky caught you peeking your head around, trying to catch a glimpse of his cock, but he spanked your ass and bit his lip with amusement at your scream. “Not yet, baby. You’ll get a chance to see it when I fuck your throat later.”

You squirmed impatiently, needy moans escaping you and Bucky couldn’t hold back any longer. Grabbing his cock, he began to push the fat head of his length inside you.

A loud gasp tore from your throat and your pussy instantly tried to suck him in deeper. Your walls, tight and warm, hugged his dick like a vice. “You’re—oh my fucking god—how are you so big?”

The smirk that donned Bucky’s face was lethal. He had you right where he wanted you. And yet his eye rolled back all the same, savouring the flutter of your tight hole around him.

“This is all for you, baby,” he breathily whispered, bullying his way deeper into your pussy. “Get me so fuckin’ hard everytime I see you. Cookin’ in them pretty little dresses. Just wanna lift your skirt up and fuck you wherever I want.”

Your moans both fell into sync as Bucky finally slid his cock all the way to the hilt. You couldn’t stop squirming and it drove him crazy.

“You need to move,” you begged in between pants. “Please, I can’t stay still.”

Bucky licked his teeth with desire blazing through him. “Since you asked so nicely, Honey.”

Without the decency to ease you into it, Bucky instantly set a brutal pace. He looked down, admiring the thick coating of your juices lathering his dick and he willed himself not to blow his load so fast. He tightly closed his eyes, adjusted his stance and began to fuck you.

You were quick to grab ahold of whatever you could, scrambling for purchase within the sheets, but you were useless to try to stop how your head buried into the bed. The force of Bucky’s thrusts were too violent and so you surrendered to what was inevitable, letting yourself drool over the cotton.

“Bu—CKY!” your cry of surprise when he lifted his foot onto the bed, allowing him a better angle to fuck you, was music to his ears.

“What’s’a matter, baby?” Bucky mocked. “Thought you were a big girl, huh? Can’t handle me?”

Your reply was instant. “I can! I can, I promise, I promise!”

“Then shut the fuck up and take it.”

Bucky didn’t know where to look, he was spoilt for choice. To watch your eyes roll back in ecstasy? To concentrate on the shlick shlick of your soaked cunt? Ultimately, his eyes were glued to the jiggle of your ass, his hands soon following as though he was hypnotised. How it so perfectly met his hips without a falt in rhythm.

“Fuck me—this ass is heaven, baby. You been hiding it from me all this time?”

There was no answer this time, at least not a coherent one. Bucky was instead graced with your constant squeaks and groans — a woman too invested in a physical gratification she had so sadly been starved of.

Bucky chuckled. “Ain’t gotta answer, Honey. The sounds comin’ outta that mouth are keeping my dick happy enough.”

He almost forgot the end goal of his proposition in the midst of the delectable feel of your cunt. With a sudden bolt of clarification as he felt a vibration against his leg, Bucky kept one hand on your hip while he reached for his phone in his pocket with the other. Keeping up the pace of his thrusts, you were clueless as he unlocked it and opened the camera app.

“Now, Honey, I want you to really scream my name, okay? Wanna hear how good I’m makin’ you feel. Can you do that for me?”

“Uh-huh.” You nodded, dumbly. “C-Can do that for you, James.”

He grinned wickedly and threw his head back. “Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.” Looking back down at you through the phone screen, he hovered his finger over the record button and brought his other hand down hard on your ass. “Go on then, baby. Put on a show for me.”

If Bucky thought you were a fucking treat before, his mind was blown once you began to take the reigns of your own pleasure. Bucky hardly had to move and you still plunged yourself onto his cock with an unmatched enthusiasm to anyone else he had fucked. He could hardly keep his hand that held the phone up from shaking. The combined sounds coming from the both of you were insane.

None of his wet dreams could compare to his reality. “You—shit—you’re killing me, Honey.”

You must not have heard him because you decided to torture him even more by arching your back just that little bit further.

Bucky thought he was a goner, soon to approach his end. But he couldn’t let that happen. He was far from done with you yet.

Propping one foot up onto the bed for better leverage, he gathered his restraint and began to drive forward once more. He felt high.

“That husband of yours ever fuck you like this, huh?” Bucky demanded. “Can he make you leak all over his dick like a fuckin’ slut?”

You violently shook your head from side to side, like the thought of your husband left a sour taste in your mouth you wanted to get rid of. “Nuh-uh,” you whimpered, popping your ass up even more to take as much as you could. “O-Only you.”

“Tell him, baby.” Bucky noticed too late that he had slipped up, too gone off the feel of your cunt wrapped snug around his dick. But you hadn’t seemed to realise his mistake either and the thought that you were too much of a wreck from his cock to comprehend who he was talking about made him even harder. “Let him know who’s balls deep in your tight, slutty pussy.”

“Oh, fuck—please, please—you, James, it’s you. Please, it’s you!”

“Atta girl,” he cooed, hoarsely. “Look at the fuckin’ mess you’re makin’ on me.”

Bucky reached down to where the two of you were connected with his free hand, sweeping the copious amount of your slick gathered in a ring around the bottom of his cock. “Here.” He leant forward, one palm up towards you with his phone still in his other hand out of your view. “Open your mouth, pretty mama.”

You slightly turned your head with your tongue sticking out wide and eagerly sucked the juices off his hand with a long moan.

Managing to get all of it on camera, Bucky watched as you licked between his fingers, not wasting a drop. “Holy fuck,” he grunted deeply. “You’ll really do anything I say, won’t you?”

You bobbed your head up and down, eventually letting his fingers go, clean as a whistle.

“What a fuckin’ filthy whore. You’re perfect for me.”

You backed yourself onto Bucky’s cock, meeting his thrusts perfectly while the meat of your ass clapped against his toned waist. “You’re a needy little thing, ain’t you baby?”

“Anythin’ you want,” you slurred. “Can be whatever you need.”

“Poor mommy hasn’t been treated this good in a long time I can tell.” Bucky gripped your ass harshly with his hand, jiggling the flesh for his own satisfaction. “Women like you, need putting in their place on a daily basis. Need a good fuckin’ to keep them happy.”

“Yes!” you agreed, firmly. “Mommy needs to be fucked like this all the time.”

Unbelievable. Bucky didn’t even have to try to add salt into the wound. He couldn’t help the continuous conspicuous messages that he could easily pass off to you. “This is what happens when you don’t take care of your wife.”

Harsh slaps echoed in your bedroom. The two of you could only share the raw sounds that left your mouths in your haze of the thrill as the string between you pulled tighter and tighter.

“I’m—so—close,” you murmured with all your depleted energy.

Bucky didn’t need the confirmation when he could feel the rapid pulses of your walls that squeezed him. He knew your orgasm was clutching at its straws and he was so close himself. The blood from his head had long since made its way to his dick and his composure was swiftly deflating.

“Want that cum,” he garbled as his mouth hung open. “I’ve been such a good boy, mommy. Give it to me, please.”

You whined loudly, like a dog in heat. But your voices became lost on each other. That didn’t stop Bucky from losing his inhibitions out loud.

Thrust. “I’ve been such,” thrust. “A good,” thrust. “Boy.”

The wound up ball of tension in your lower stomach exploded in a series of screams and violent shivering that overtook your whole nervous system and the very sensation brought Bucky to his defeat.

The muscles in his legs failed him as they turned to jelly. Bucky let out the sluttiest moan he’s ever experienced in his life and all but collapsed onto your sweat slicked body. He could feel his cock shooting a constant stream of cum into your cunt with seemingly no end in sight.

“Fuck,” he whimpered into your ear. Slowly, his conscience came back to life and the flow of his load finally came to a stop.

The two of you laid still, only the heavy panting serving to fill the silence. After a couple of minutes, Bucky kissed your shoulder blade, before lifting himself up. He gathered the strength to gently retrieve his length from your hole that still strangled him.

Bucky was reminded of the phone that was still recording in his hand and he quickly made sure to get the winning money shot of his load dripping out of your pulsing hole while he wholly detached himself from you.

He was only human to push his finger into your cunt, he thought, letting himself gather himself on his own fingers.

Flipping the camera around to himself, Bucky put his coated finger in his mouth, sucking your combined juices and humming and letting it go with a pop. He laughed, out of breath, his red cheeks and mussed hair only adding to the depravity of the video. “Y��know some people should really keep an eye on their wives. You never know what they’re up to in their spare time. Ain’t that right, Honey?”

Bucky knew you were out of it — he watched on while you buried your head in the sheets, rubbing your thighs together as aftershocks made your body twitch. Your needy, high pitched keens bounced off the walls. “Wan’ more of your cock, James—please—need you to fuck me again.”

He licked his lips in delight, the sight of your ass wiggling with his cum leaking out of you and your unprompted addition to the recording filling him with glee.

“Well,” he sighed, turning back to the camera and shrugging with no remorse. “You heard the wife. Duty calls.” With a cocky wink, he ended the recording with a final farewell. “See you in class, Professor.”

Bucky exited his camera app and quickly brought up his emails, scouring through to a saved draft and attaching the video link. After pressing send, he shut off his phone, making sure any future notifications would be silenced before throwing it to the ground with a careless thump.

“Baby,” you whimpered, looking behind you to search for him. “What are you doing? I said I wanna be fucked again.”

Undressing the rest of his clothes, Bucky stalked towards you, kneeling onto the bed and effortlessly flipping you over to kiss you deeply to share your combined tastes. “Don’t worry, mommy,” he breathed into your mouth. “I’ll take care of you now.”

Meanwhile at his college, a new email popped up on Dr Parker’s computer screen, shrouding the dark office with a white glow in the late night. With an exhausted huff, he looked up from grading papers — all of them marked with a C or lower — and squinted his eyes at the bright screen.

New Email from James Buchanan Barnes

He rolled his eyes with a sigh. The name was familiar as he thought back to the day the kid almost cried in his office, complaining about his poorly-graded assignment and his GPA; Dr Parker had gossiped with Professor Stark in his department on his dinner break, recounting the annoying way this particular student had whined like a baby. Though he couldn’t quite remember how James looked, unable to place him among the hundreds of pupils he taught.

Amused curiosity ran through him, wondering what his student had to moan about this time and so with a sadistic smirk, he clicked on the link, waiting until his message came up.

Though that smirk was quickly replaced with a frown when the email finally loaded with an attachment.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. But I like mine warm, tight and sweet.

Just like Honey.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fanfiction

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puckstories · 26 days ago

Text

Surrender | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Smut (p n v), spanking (once), cursing, use of the term 'good girl', situationship, slight angst, edited once.

Summary; A brutal loss to the Bruins leads to Quinn showing up at your apartment at one am, and subsequently changes everything. Title and fic is slightly inspired by the song Surrender by Kut Klose.

Word Count; 8.8k

Author’s note; This was my first time writing smut! But weirdly, I found it easier to write than fluff..? That being said, hopefully this isn't too bad, and any constructive criticism is appreciated. This morphed into something more complicated and detailed than I originally planned, but I like it nonetheless. Would love to hear any thoughts you have + reblogs are super appreciated. Feel free hit my inbox with anything (: -Honey.

You and Quinn had been casually seeing each other for the past couple of months. It hadn’t been planned, not really. You’d met him at a bar one night—a place with dim lighting and sticky floors, the air humming with laughter and bass-heavy music. One of those rare evenings when the stars seemed to align just right. He was sitting alone, nursing a drink, the brim of his black New York hat pulled low enough to make him look just anonymous enough to the crowd. He’d caught your eye almost immediately, and when his gaze found yours across the room, something about the way he smiled—confident but a little hesitant—had you walking over before you even realized it.

Things had taken off quickly after that. A few drinks. Easy conversation. A kiss outside the bar that turned into more. He was charming in a quiet, unassuming way, and that first night left you with a lingering curiosity about him. Who he was when the spotlight wasn’t on him. What made him laugh, what kept him awake at night. So you kept seeing him. Not all the time, not in any way that felt serious. Just enough to keep the connection alive.

The two of you hadn’t given it a label. You both avoided that conversation like it was a landmine. And maybe, in a way, it was. You weren’t sure if you wanted one. Quinn was busy—the kind of busy that came with being the Captain of the Vancouver Canucks. His schedule was a whirlwind of practices, games, and media appearances, leaving little room for anything beyond fleeting moments of downtime late at night. And you… well, you weren’t ready to completely settle down, not after the way your last relationship had crumbled in slow, messy pieces that you were still picking up. Casual worked. Casual was safe.

Most of the time, anyway.

But even as you told yourself that this thing with Quinn was simple—just hooking up, just having fun—you couldn’t help but notice the little cracks forming in your resolve. The way his laugh made something tighten in your chest. The way you’d catch yourself replaying the way his hand brushed yours in the middle of a crowded street or the soft, sleepy rasp of his voice when he called you late at night after a game. There was something disarming about him, something unshakable about the way he looked at you, like he saw more than you were willing to admit.

You weren’t sure if he felt it, too, or if it was just you overthinking things. After all, he’d never brought up the future, and you’d been careful not to either. That was the unspoken rule between you two: keep things light. But sometimes—when he was kissing you slow and deep, or when he let himself talk about the pressure of wearing the “C” on his chest, his voice quieter and more vulnerable than you’d ever expected—you wondered if casual was really all it was for him. Or for you.

The Canucks lost at home to the Bruins tonight, 5-1. You’d watched from your couch, wincing with every missed opportunity, every puck that found its way past the goalie. It wasn’t just the loss that stung—it was the way the team seemed to unravel by the second period. You’d seen Quinn’s frustration in the tight set of his jaw, the way he skated harder than anyone else on the ice, and the slump of his shoulders every time the Bruins scored. You hated watching him like that, knowing how much weight he carried—not just as a player, but as Captain.

When the final buzzer sounded, you’d grabbed your phone and sent him a quick text: Hey. You alright?

The message stayed unread for a while. And then, sometime after eleven, the little “seen” mark popped up. No reply, and in turn, you got the hint. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, and you respected that. Losses like this were hard on him, you'd found that out early on. Instead of pressing, you sighed, plugged your phone in, and climbed into bed, trying not to let the silence sting.

What you didn’t expect was the banging on your front door a little after one am.

The sound jolted you upright, your heart pounding for a moment. You threw on a hoodie over your nightgown and padded toward the door, trying to shake the grogginess from your head. The knocking came again, sharper this time. When you opened the door, you found Quinn standing there in the dim hallway light.

He was dressed in gray sweatpants and a hoodie, the strings pulled tight, but it did little to hide his messy hair and the lingering flush in his cheeks from the game. Your eyes immediately caught on his lip, the one that had been split a few games ago after a nasty high stick. The stitches still hadn’t fully healed, and the fresh redness around them drew your attention before you looked up into his face.

What struck you wasn’t the exhaustion that usually followed a loss. It was something heavier—a mixture of frustration, exasperation, and something else that made your breath hitch. His hazel eyes held a quiet intensity, a sharp edge of need that made your stomach flutter.

“Hey,” he rasped, his voice low and strained from the act of speaking to his teammates throughout the game.

You blinked, still processing the sight of him on your doorstep. “I texted you,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended, but the weight of his presence makes it hard to sound as firm as you want to. “You didn’t respond.”

For a moment, Quinn doesn’t answer, and his eyes meet yours briefly, before flicking away, as though searching for something in the shadows of your apartment. He doesn’t say a word, just steps forward, his broad frame brushing past you as he crosses the threshold into your space.

He lets the door click shut behind him, the sound heavy in the stillness of the room. Then, he turns, his eyes locking onto yours again with an intensity that sends your pulse racing. He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, his gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, as though he’s taking in every detail: the loose sweatshirt you’d thrown on over your nightgown, the way your hair is slightly messy, your bare feet against the cool floor. His jaw tightens, and something about the way he looks at you makes the air feel heavier, thicker.

“I’m aware,” he finally says, voice clipped, almost sharp, but there’s something under them—something softer, quieter, that you can’t quite name.

“By all means, come in,” you say, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you cross your arms.

He doesn’t bother with a reply. Instead, something in him snaps—an instinct he doesn’t even try to fight.

His hands move fast, gripping your hips with a firm possessiveness that makes your breath hitch. His fingers dig into you just enough to let you know he’s not asking for permission. Before you can get another word out, he steps forward, backing you up with purposeful, controlled force. The edge of the wall meets your back a second later, as he presses flush against you. There’s no space, no hesitation—just him, all hard muscle and raw need, caging you in.

He leans in close, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his breath warm and unsteady against your lips. You can feel the tension radiating off him, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. “Need you. Now,” he whispers, the words vibrating between the two of you. It’s not a question. It’s not even a request. It’s a demand.

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering in your ears as the heat of his body presses harder into yours. His hands slide up from your hips, one settling at the small of your back while the other moves higher, his thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your ribcage. His touch is both possessive and reverent, as though he’s caught between devouring you and savoring the moment.

“Been too busy for me lately,” you say with a shrug, the casualness of your tone masking the twinge of hurt that’s harder to ignore than you’d like.

Quinn’s grip on your hip tightens at your words, his fingers pressing firmly against your skin as though he’s holding on to more than just you—maybe his own guilt, maybe his frustration. His jaw tenses, but when his eyes meet yours, you see the softness creeping in around the edges. He wants to say something; you can see it written all over his face, but the words don’t come. Instead, his grip loosens slightly, his hand dropping lower, brushing along your thigh.

Without a word, he lifts your leg, gently hooking it around his his. The movement is slow but claculated, sending a jolt of heat through you as his body presses closer, the fabric of his sweatpants brushing against your bare skin. He shifts his weight, grinding up against you with enough intention to leave no doubt about what he’s feeling—or what he wants. His hand rests at the back of your thigh now, his thumb stroking your skin absently, but his eyes never leave yours.

“You know how it is,” he mutters finally, his voice low and rough, an excuse and a half-apology tangled into one. “The team. Home games. It’s been… a lot.”

You raise an eyebrow, but don't push. “Yeah, I know,” you reply, your voice calm but edged with something sharper. “You guys got whacked tonight.”

The words leave your lips before you can think better of it, and the second they do, you see the change in his expression. His eyes darken, the dejection that was there moments ago replaced by something sharper, something simmering just below the surface. His jaw tightens again, the muscle there ticking as he presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t need the reminder. He already knows.

“Don’t,” he mutters, his voice low and strained, but there’s an edge in it that sends a ripple of tension through the air. You open your mouth, maybe to push further, maybe to soften it with a tease, but you don’t get the chance. Before you can say another word, Quinn’s hands are suddenly moving up to your waist. He grabs you with a firm, almost desperate grip, and in one swift motion, he lifts you clean off the ground. A surprised gasp escapes your lips, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders as he pulls you tight against him. The hard plane of his chest presses flush against your body, and you can feel the tension radiating off him—the frustration, the lingering adrenaline from the game, the sharp need to shut everything else out.

“Quinn—” you start, but your voice wavers, the rest of the sentence dissolving when his eyes meet yours.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he hisses, his voice rough, laced with frustration and something more primal. His words are both an explanation and a command. He doesn’t want to think about the game, the loss, the disappointment—it’s written all over him. He needs a distraction, and right now, that’s you.

He doesn’t set you down. Instead, he starts walking, carrying you through the dimly lit hallway toward your bedroom. The way he moves is deliberate, controlled, but there’s an urgency in the way his grip tightens slightly on your waist, as though holding you this close is the only thing keeping him steady. Your legs wrap around him, and you hold onto him instinctively, your heart pounding harder with every step.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. Quinn leans down, lowering you onto the bed with ease. The mattress dips under your weight as he releases you, but his hands don’t leave your body. They slide to your hips, pinning you in place as he hovers over you, his broad frame blocking out everything else.

Quinn’s eyes trail over you, unhurried, drinking you in like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. His gaze burns as it moves from your eyes to your lips, and then down, raking over your body like a slow caress. The heat in his expression makes your skin prickle, anticipation coiling low in your stomach. His body hovers just inches above yours, close enough for you to feel his warmth but far enough that it makes you ache for the weight of him against you.

His hands move slowly, his fingers grazing your sides as they find the hem of your hoodie. He pauses for just a second, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as though silently asking for permission. When you give a small nod, barely noticeable but enough, he takes hold of the fabric and begins to pull it up, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he lifts it over your stomach, then your chest. His touch is light, but the way his eyes darken as he reveals more of you sends a shiver down your spine. “Too many clothes,” he mutters, the words are more for himself than for you.

The black satin nightgown clings to you, its thin straps sliding slightly off your shoulders. The soft fabric shimmers faintly in the dim light, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat tighten. His jaw clenches, his hands hovering for a moment as if he’s not sure where to touch first. His fingers finally settle at the strap on your shoulder, pushing it down slowly, deliberately, his thumb brushing against your skin. The contrast of the cool satin and the warmth of his hand sends a jolt through you. "Gorgeous." He murmurs.

Your breath catches at his words, but before you can respond, his lips find the exposed skin just above the neckline of your nightgown, his breath warm and ragged against you. He presses a slow, open mouthed kiss there, his hands sliding down to your waist as he pulls you closer, his body finally pressing against yours. His lips trail lower, brushing along your collarbone, as his hands slide back up, slipping under the hem of your nightgown now. His fingers splay out against your bare skin, calloused from years of hockey but impossibly gentle as they explore. He pulls back just enough to look at you again, his gaze searching yours, a silent question lingering in the air. His thumb strokes your hip in small, absent circles, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop—or to keep going.

“Quinn,” you murmur. Your hands come up to rest against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. His heart pounds beneath your palm, fast and unsteady, matching the erratic rhythm of your own. “Please.”

That’s all he needs. With a low groan, he dips his head, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s slow and consuming, like he’s savoring every second. His hands roam your body now with more certainty, the hesitation from earlier replaced with an unrelenting hunger. The feel of him, the weight of his touch, the heat of his breath—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

He pulls away with a low curse, his breath warm and unsteady as he tilts his head back slightly. A wince flickers across his face, his hand instinctively brushing over the stitches on his upper lip—the ones cutting across the soft curve of his cupid’s bow. The kiss has aggravated them, pulling at the tender, partially healed skin. His jaw clenches, the frustration obvious in the tight set of his features, but he doesn’t move away from you. If anything, he lingers, his body still hovering over yours, his eyes locking onto yours like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

"Careful." You warn, your fingers reaching up to lightly trace the scruff on his jaw.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice is rough, tinged with annoyance—not at you, but at the injury that’s getting in the way of what he wants.

Taking the opportunity, you tug gently at the hem of his hoodie, your hands curling into the soft fabric. He looks down, his eyes following the movement of your hands as you gesture, silently telling him you want it off. There’s no hesitation this time. He straightens slightly, pulling the hoodie over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric lifting to reveal the lean, pale skin of his torso. The garment lands somewhere on the floor, forgotten along with yours, as he leans back down, closer to you, his hands bracing themselves on either side of your head. “Better?” He murmurs.

Your hands drift to the waistband of his sweatpants, your fingertips brushing against the soft fabric. "Almost." Your eyes never leave his as you speak, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity that makes his breath hitch.

His lips curve into the faintest smirk, and without hesitation, he shifts, moving from hovering over you to falling back onto the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight as his hands go to his waistband, pushing the sweatpants down his hips with an easy, practiced motion. He kicks them off in one fluid movement, the boxers following close behind. The rustle of fabric hitting the floor is faint, but the sight of him—completely bare now—propped up on an elbow, looking at you, steals your attention entirely.

Leaning up to reach over, you place your hands on his shoulders, your palms firm as you give him a gentle shove. He lets out a soft grunt as his back hits the mattress fully, his lips twitching into a faint smile at the sudden assertiveness. You slip off your panties, before shifting your body, swinging your leg over him until you’re straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the mattress. His hands instinctively move to your waist, but you grab his wrists, pinning them lightly to the bed on either side of him. His eyebrows lift slightly, the hint of a challenge in his expression, but he doesn’t fight you. Instead, he lets you guide the moment, his muscles relaxing beneath your touch. The heat of his skin beneath you is intoxicating, and the way his body responds—his chest rising just a little faster, his hands twitching under your grip—sends a rush of confidence through you.

“Didn’t expect this,” he remarks, with a quirk of his brow. “Not that I’m complaining.”

You lean forward, your hands releasing his wrists as you plant them firmly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. “I figured you wouldn’t,” you reply, easygoing. Your lips hover just above his, close enough for him to feel your breath but not close enough to touch.

You pull back slightly, just enough to sit upright, your chest rising and falling as you catch your breath. Your hands move quickly to the hem of your nightgown, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. The soft fabric slides over your skin before landing somewhere on the floor. Left in nothing, you feel the heat of Quinn’s gaze immediately, his breath hitching audibly as he takes you in.

“God,” he mutters under his breath, almost immediately. His hands are on you in an instant, strong and certain as they find your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin.

You lean forward, your hands braced against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. His breath comes faster now, shallow and uneven, as you dip your head, your lips brushing along the sharp line of his jaw. You move slowly, deliberately, your kisses soft and wet, trailing from the edge of his jaw to the corner of his mouth, then lower.

Quinn lets out a low, quiet hum, his head tilting back slightly as you continue your path. You stop at his chin for a moment, pressing a kiss there, before shifting lower, your lips grazing the stubble along his neck. He smells faintly of clean soap and something deeper, distinctly him, and the warmth of his skin beneath your lips makes your stomach flutter. When your lips finally find the hollow of his throat, just above his Adam’s apple, you pause. You can feel the way he swallows hard, the slight movement under your mouth making the corner of your lips curve into a soft smile. You press a lingering kiss there, letting your breath fan over his skin as he exhales sharply.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice breaking slightly as one of his hands slides from your waist to the curve of your lower back, pulling you just a fraction closer. His other hand remains firm on your hip, his thumb brushing small, absentminded circles into your skin. The way his body responds to you—the tension in his muscles, the slight tremor in his hands—sends a rush of confidence through you. You pull back just enough to look at him, your lips still close enough that your breaths mingle. His eyes are half-lidded now, filled with an unspoken hunger that makes your pulse quicken.

"Condom." His voice is low, more of a murmur than a demand, lips brushing against your ear. You freeze for a moment, your breath catching. The haze of the moment dims slightly as you wrack your memory. Had you restocked since your last night with Quinn? The answer surfaces slowly, and you wince.

"I think... I’m out?" you admit, the words hanging awkwardly in the charged air.

He lets out a deep, frustrated groan, his head falling back against the pillow with a dull thud. For a second, you catch the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his features before he covers it with a hand over his face, exhaling sharply through his fingers. “Dresser, bottom drawer,” he grumbles, his voice thick with both need and annoyance, one hand waving vaguely toward your dresser. His eyes remain half-lidded, trying to be patient, though the tension in his shoulders tells you how much it costs him.

You shoot him a questioning look, eyebrows raised, silently asking, “How?” When did he ever put something there? You search your memory, replaying countless moments, but you can't remember ever seeing him even glance at your dresser, let alone touch it.

“Get a move on,” he mutters, the rough edge of his voice slipping into something of amusing. Before you can say anything, his hand meets the curve of your ass with a sharp slap. The sound cracks through the quiet room, startling in the stillness. It doesn't hurt—it’s more of a firm tap than anything—but the unexpectedness of it sends a jolt of electricity racing up your spine. A gasp escapes you, sharp and breathy, your body jerking slightly from the impact.

Heat rushes to your cheeks, both from the sting of his hand and the sudden pulse of excitement that follows. You hesitate for half a second, feeling the lingering tingle on your skin, before he speaks again. "Now."

You don't have to be told twice, and slip out of bed, feeling the cool floor beneath your bare feet as you make your way to the dresser. With a small exhale, you crouch down and pull open the bottom drawer. There they are—just as he said. A small pack of condoms, tucked neatly beside a few of Quinn’s clothes—shirts and boxers, soft and well-worn—mixed in with your own things. You pause for a second, staring down at the sight, the familiarity of his clothes blending into your space, like they’ve always been there, unnoticed. When had he made this little home in your drawer, this quiet claim on your space?

Your fingers graze over the edge of the condom box as you take it, your mind lingering on the thought. You tear open the packaging with a swift pull, the soft crackle of plastic breaking the silence, and pull out one of the foil-wrapped condoms. As you close the drawer, you find yourself glancing back at the pile of his clothes, some hidden piece of domesticity that tugs at something inside you. A small smile flickers at the corner of your lips, but you push the thought aside. This was supposed to be casual.

Standing up, you turn back to him, the foil packet cool against your palm. He’s watching you from the bed, propped up on his elbows, his gaze heavy-lidded but intent, like he’s sizing up your every movement, reading your thoughts before you can voice them. His expression is almost lazy, but you catch the sharp edge of amusement in his eyes, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

“When did you even do that?” you ask, your voice colored with curiosity, as you gesture slightly toward the drawer, toward his clothes.

“I’ve been leaving stuff here for weeks,” he adds, with a small shrug, as if it's no big deal. “Thought you might’ve noticed it by now.”

Your lips part slightly, caught off guard by how casual he is about it, and yet… there’s something warm beneath the surface of his words. Weeks? How had you not noticed before now? The thought stirs something in your chest—a mix of amusement, maybe a bit of something deeper—but you brush it off, again, focusing on the moment at hand. You could question him later. And you would.

You toss the condom onto the bed, watching it land beside him. “Well, I guess I was distracted,” you reply.

You walk back over to the bed, your steps relaxed, feeling the weight of his gaze on you the entire time. The air between you hums with tension, thick and electric. He reaches for the condom without breaking eye contact, tearing the foil with an effortless flick of his fingers. The soft sound of the wrapper splitting seems to echo in the stillness of the room. His gaze falls as he rolls the condom on, then it’s back on you, a heat in his gaze, the kind that feels like it's pulling you in, drawing you closer even before you move. His lips quirk into the faintest smirk, and he tilts his chin, nodding down toward his hardened length, silently requesting for you to come to him.

You swallow, feeling the thrum of anticipation in your chest, and climb onto the bed. As you move closer, he watches every shift of your body, the way your knees press into the sheets, the way your breath hitches as you settle over him. His hands find your waist, strong and sure, fingers digging into your skin with just enough pressure to ground you. The touch is possessive, and it sends a shiver racing down your spine.

With his guidance, you straddle him, your thighs bracketing his hips. The heat of his body presses into yours, and you can feel his cock, warm and firm, grazing the sensitive core of your heat as you position yourself over him. The sensation makes you gasp softly, your body reacting instantly to the contact. His grip tightens, steadying you, his fingers flexing slightly against your hips as he adjusts you over him, his control over the moment palpable.

You begin to move, your hips rolling in slow, teasing circles as you grind against him, both of you feeling the sweet torment of the moment. The friction is electric, his cock sliding against your slick heat, but you’re holding back just enough to keep him wanting more. A quiet moan escapes your lips, your body already responding to the tension coiling tighter between you. You see it in his eyes too—the need, the frustration that’s been simmering all day. You can feel the way his body tenses beneath yours, his jaw tightening as he fights for control. His hands on your hips grip harder, fingers digging into your skin, trying to take control, but you resist for just a little longer. His chest rises and falls sharply, and you can hear the slight edge of desperation in his breathing.

It’s driving him mad, the way you tease him like this—hovering so close, yet not quite giving him everything. The heat between you is thick and tangible, and you can feel the pulse of his need pressing insistently against you. Finally, you let your hand slide down between your bodies, wrapping around him with a firm, confident grip. His breath hitches at the contact, and you catch the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip, the last traces of his composure fraying at the edges.

With one fluid motion, you guide him to your entrance, the tip of him pressing against your wet heat. You pause for just a second, holding him there, and his eyes lock with yours, something raw flickering in his gaze—desire, hunger, but also something deeper, something that makes your breath catch.

Then, slowly, you start to lower yourself onto him, your body taking him in inch by inch. The sensation sends a wave of pleasure coursing through you, a slow burn that builds as you sink down, feeling him stretch and fill you. The low groan that rumbles from his chest is primal, guttural, like he’s been holding it in for far too long. The sound vibrates through the quiet room, echoing off the walls as his head falls back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he loses himself in the feeling.

“Fuck…” he breathes, the word almost a growl, his voice thick and rough with need. His fingers tighten even more on your hips, almost bruising now, like he’s trying to steady himself, to keep from letting go completely. You can feel the restraint in his grip, the way he’s barely holding back, his body trembling slightly beneath yours as he fights the urge to move, to drive himself deeper into you. The tension in him is almost unbearable, a raw ache that’s been building all day, and now that you’re finally here, finally giving him what he’s craved, it’s driving him to the edge.

You pause when you’ve taken him fully, letting your body adjust around him, feeling the heat and intensity of him buried deep inside you. His breath comes out in a harsh, ragged exhale, and you can see the effort it takes for him to keep still, his chest rising and falling heavily as he tries to relax. But you can feel it—how hard he’s holding on, the way his muscles tense under your touch, the way every fiber of him is straining for control.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost broken. His eyes open, locking onto yours again, and there’s a fire in them now, a silent plea for more, for everything.

You begin to move, slowly at first, your knees pressing into the mattress as you lift yourself up, then lower yourself down onto him again, savoring the delicious friction. Your hands splay across his chest, fingers digging slightly into his warm skin as you steady yourself, feeling the solid rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. His heartbeat is strong and quick, a rhythm that matches your own building pulse.

As you start to swirl your hips, a soft moan escapes you, the sound almost involuntary. The sensation of him filling you, stretching you in just the right way, sends a ripple of pleasure coursing through you. You let the feeling take over, guiding the way you move, each rise and fall of your body becoming more fluid, more certain. Slowly, you find your rhythm, building up a steady, intoxicating pace that makes the heat between you grow even more unbearable.

Your moans become a little louder, a little needier, the pleasure mounting with every roll of your hips. You can feel his body responding beneath you, the way his muscles tense and flex as he fights to maintain control. His hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your skin, but it’s his face that betrays him—the way his mouth falls open, lips parting as he lets out a low, breathless sound, his eyes locked onto you with a mixture of awe and lust. The moment your moans fill the space between you, something in him shifts.

He bucks his hips up into you, unable to stop himself, his need overriding his restraint. The sudden upward thrust of his hips sends a shock of pleasure through your body, making you gasp and falter for a second, your hands pressing harder into his chest as you steady yourself. His eyes cloud with hunger, and he lets out a sharp exhale.

“Good—mhm—good fucking girl,” he murmurs, his voice escaping as a strained groan, almost a growl. His hands slide up your sides, guiding your movements, urging you to go faster, to match the heat and intensity that’s starting to take over. His grip is firm but tender, the friction between your bodies building with each passing second.

You pick up the pace, letting your hips roll and bounce with more confidence now, losing yourself in the rhythm. The sensation of him deep inside you with every thrust is overwhelming, and your soft moans turn into breathy whimpers as the pleasure rises higher. His body moves beneath you, his hips bucking up into you more insistently now, matching your rhythm, sending waves of ecstasy rippling through your core.

Each time your body comes down to meet his, he fills you completely, hitting that perfect spot that makes your toes curl. The tension between you is almost unbearable now, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. You can feel his chest rising and falling faster under your hands, his breathing ragged as he stares up at you with a look that’s half-lost in pleasure, half in disbelief at how good it feels.

His name slips from your lips in a soft, breathless moan, and the sound seems to undo him even more. His fingers dig into your hips harder, his own breath escaping in harsh, uneven bursts as he bucks up into you with more force, more desperation. You feel the heat coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, the ache building with every movement, every touch.

"I'm... I'm close," you gasp breathlessly, your voice trembling with the intensity coursing through your body. Every movement, every sensation feels electric, pulling you closer to the edge.

Quinn’s eyes lock with yours, his own pleasure evident in the way his chest rises and falls unevenly. A low moan slips from his lips, almost as if in response to the desperation in your voice. He nods, his breath ragged, but before you can even process the shift, he’s already moving—gently, but decisively, sliding you off of him and onto the bed beside him. The sudden absence of his cock leaves you aching, but he doesn’t let the moment linger.

Without wasting a second, Quinn positions himself over you, his body hovering above yours. His eyes briefly flick over your face, as if to make sure you’re still with him, still as lost in this as he is. Then, with one smooth motion, he slides back inside you, filling you completely once more. The sensation of him re-entering your pulsing heat draws a sharp gasp from you, and your back arches instinctively off the bed, your body desperate to meet him.

His thrusts are deep, slow, and calculated, each one hitting the perfect spot inside you, drawing out soft whimpers that you can’t hold back. He leans forward, bracing his hands against the headboard behind you, giving himself more leverage to move freely. His body presses close, skin against skin, his muscles taut and trembling with restraint as he drives into you, deeper with every stroke. You can feel the headboard rocking slightly under the pressure of his movements, the soft creak of wood blending with the sound of your ragged breathing and the rhythmic slap of your bodies meeting.

His pace quickens, his thrusts growing more urgent, more purposeful, as he watches you, drinking in every moan, every gasp that spills from your lips. The heat between you is unbearable, a fire that threatens to consume you both. Every stroke sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, your body tightening and pulsing around him, the pressure building higher and higher until it feels like you’re about to shatter.

Quinn’s breath hitches, and his low groans grow deeper, almost vibrating through his chest as he thrusts harder, the strain in his arms evident as he fights to keep control. You can feel the intensity radiating off him, the way his body trembles with the effort to hold back, to keep you both on this edge for just a little longer.

Your fingers grip the sheets beneath you, twisting them in your hands as you feel yourself spiraling closer, the tension coiling tighter in your belly, threatening to snap at any second. His name escapes your lips in a breathless whisper, and the sound seems to push him even further. His movements grow rougher, more desperate, his hips slamming into yours in a steady rhythm that pushes you higher and higher.

“Cum for me,” he murmurs, his voice rough, barely holding together as he lowers his face closer to yours, his breath hot against your ear. His words are a command, but they’re also a plea, filled with the same urgency that’s overwhelming both of you.

And then it hits—you fall over the edge, your body tightening around him as waves of pleasure crash through you, your moans turning into cries as your climax surges, overwhelming and blinding. The world around you blurs as every nerve in your body lights up, the release so powerful it leaves you quivering beneath him.

Quinn groans deeply as he feels you come undone, your body clenching around him, and his rhythm falters for just a moment before he drives into you again, harder this time, chasing his own release. His hands grip the headboard tighter, his knuckles white as he thrusts a few more times, his breath coming out in harsh gasps.

Finally, with a guttural moan, he shudders above you, his body tensing as he reaches his peak. His hips still as he pulses inside you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he rides out the last waves of pleasure. For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of your labored breaths, your bodies still locked together, hearts racing in unison. Quinn stays there, hovering above you for a moment longer, his forehead resting against yours, the intensity of what just happened still lingering between you.

Then, with a soft exhale, he gently pulls out of you, collapsing beside you. He pulls you close, your bodies pressed together as you come down from the high.

The two of you lie there in the quiet, the aftershocks of pleasure slowly fading as your heartbeats begin to sync. The only sounds in the room are your breaths, gradually evening out, and the faint rustle of the sheets as you shift slightly beside him. Eventually, you break the quiet, your voice soft but still a little breathless. "I’m gonna go pee."

Quinn makes a small sound in acknowledgment, nodding lazily as his hand slides from your waist. With a slight groan, he reaches down to take off the condom, hissing softly from the loss of contact, as he pulls it away from his sensitive skin. He ties off the condom and hands it to you, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment. You take it from him, and rise from the bed.

You pad into the bathroom, the cool tile underfoot a welcome contrast to the warmth of the bedroom. After discarding the condom, you use the bathroom, then and glance at your reflection for a brief moment in the mirror while washing your hands—your skin flushed, your hair slightly tousled from the heat of the moment. Reaching for a washcloth, you wet it under the warm tap, wringing it out just enough before heading back into the bedroom. The light is still dim, casting a soft glow over the room, and you find Quinn exactly where you left him, lying on his back, his eyes closed now, his chest rising and falling steadily.

His eyes flutter open as he hears you approach, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. There’s no need for words in this moment—it’s a kind of quiet that feels easy, natural, like the two of you have slipped into a space where every gesture speaks for itself. With careful hands, you lower yourself beside him and gently take hold of his cock, wiping him clean with the warm, damp cloth. His body reacts instinctively to the contact, a slight twitch beneath your touch, but not from arousal this time—more of an involuntary response, a shiver at the sensitivity of his skin in the aftermath. His eyes close again, his breath steadying as you rid him of the residual stickiness.

When you’re finished, your fingers brush over his thigh one last time before you pull back, standing up from the bed. After throwing the cloth in the bathroom hamper, you're back beneath the sheets, your body naturally gravitating toward Quinn. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his fingers lightly tracing circles on your back. You snuggle into his chest, exhaling a sigh of content.

There’s a long, comfortable silence between you, the kind that makes the world feel small and intimate. And if it weren’t for the absence of soft snores, you might have thought Quinn had drifted off, his breathing slow and steady beside you. The warmth of his body is a comforting weight next to yours, and you let yourself relax into it, your fingers idly tracing the soft flesh of his stomach, enjoying the closeness.

"My parents are visiting." his voice breaks the stillness, just above a murmur.

His words hang in the air for a moment, unexpected, almost hesitant. You hum softly in response, not looking up, your fingers continuing their gentle path over his skin, rubbing slow, lazy circles. "Mhm."

Quinn lets out a quiet sigh, one that feels heavy, like there’s more he’s trying to say but can’t quite find the words for. He shifts slightly beside you, the mattress dipping under his movement. "That’s why I haven’t been… over much," he continues, his voice a bit tighter now, almost apologetic.

You pause, your hand resting against his stomach for a moment before resuming its soothing motions. "You don’t have to explain yourself," you reply softly, keeping your voice steady. It’s the truth—you’ve told yourself that from the beginning. The two of you weren’t dating, not officially, not in any way that came with expectations or obligations. It was a casual fling, a connection that didn’t require labels or promises. At least, that’s what you told yourself when this all started. No strings. No expectations.

And yet, despite those rules, there’s a quiet ache that twists in your chest when he offers excuses. He doesn’t owe you anything—you know that. He’s free to come and go as he pleases, to keep his distance when he needs to, to disappear for days if he wants. But the explanation, the half-apology, suggests he thinks he does owe you something, or at least that he feels guilty about being away, and that stirs something complicated inside you—something you’d rather not look too closely at.

You glance up at him through the dim light of the room. His face is partially in shadow, his expression hard to read, but there’s a tension in his features that wasn’t there before. His eyes are focused on the ceiling, distant, like he’s thinking too hard about something he doesn’t want to talk about. It makes your chest tighten slightly, an involuntary reaction that surprises you.

"You’re allowed to have a life outside of this," you add after a moment, trying to keep your tone casual, unaffected. "Outside of us. We're not dating." The word us feels strange in your mouth, and for a second, you almost regret saying it, like it carries more weight than it should.

Quinn’s eyes flick down to meet yours, and for a second, something shifts in his gaze—something softer, maybe even regretful. His lips press into a thin line before he speaks again. "I know." His voice is quiet, thoughtful, like he’s processing something he hasn’t quite figured out how to say yet. "But I didn’t want you to think I was… avoiding you." His hand moves then, sliding up to rest gently on your arm, his thumb brushing against your skin in a gesture so small and tender it feels almost out of place.

You swallow hard, your throat tightening at his words. "I wouldn’t have thought that," you say, though you’re not entirely sure it’s the truth. The uncertainty in his voice has unsettled something inside you, stirred up feelings you’ve worked hard to keep buried, feelings you shouldn’t have in a situation like this. You were supposed to be fine with the distance, with the lack of commitment. But now, lying here in the quiet darkness with him beside you, it doesn’t feel so simple.

Another silence stretches between you, this one heavier than before. You let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the thoughts swirling in your head.

"You don’t have to explain anything to me, Quinn," you repeat, trying to sound as steady as you can. "I know what this is." The words taste bitter on your tongue, and you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince—him or yourself.

But Quinn doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his hand moves again, this time reaching up to cup your chin, gently turning your face toward him so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His eyes search yours for a long moment, making your pulse quicken in a way you don’t expect. The intensity in his expression catches you off guard, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

"I’m not so sure I do," he finally says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You blink, unsure how to respond, unsure if you even want to. There’s a part of you that’s terrified of where this conversation might lead, of what it might mean if you dig too deep into the feelings you’ve both tried so hard to ignore. But another part of you—a part you’ve kept buried for too long—is desperate to know what he’s really thinking.

His gaze is locked on yours, unwavering, and you can see the conflict flickering behind his eyes—like he’s fighting with himself even as he speaks. It makes your heart race, the intensity of the moment, the weight of what he might say next.

“What are you saying?” You ask, your voice quieter than you meant it to be, edged with a hesitation you can’t quite shake.

Quinn exhales a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, and when he speaks, his voice is low, almost like he’s afraid of what he’s admitting. "I can’t stop thinking about you," he says, his words rushing out, unfiltered. "And I—I know we agreed to nothing serious, but I can’t help how I feel."

You nod, silently urging him to proceed. "I thought I was fine with no strings." he continues, his eyes flicking down for a moment, as if he’s afraid of what he might see in your reaction. "I really did. But… you’ve been on my mind. More than I want to admit. And every time I’m not here, I’m thinking about when I can be. Hell, I just played the worst game of the season, and all I could think about was coming over to see you."

You weren’t expecting this. You had convinced yourself that this was just a fling, a temporary thing that lived within the boundaries you’d both agreed upon. But now, here he is, confessing feelings that you’d told yourself neither of you were supposed to have, feelings you’ve been trying to bury since this started. Your heart thuds loudly in your chest as his words sink in. You don’t say anything for a moment, partly because you don’t know how to respond, and partly because a part of you had been waiting for this—for some sign that what you’ve been feeling wasn’t one-sided.

"Quinn…" you start, but his name comes out as more of a sigh than anything else. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours, waiting for your response, his vulnerability hanging between you like a thread pulled too tight.

He opens his mouth to speak again, his voice softer now, more tentative. "I’m not saying I want to change everything right this second," he murmurs, his eyes dropping down to the space between you, like he’s afraid to meet your gaze fully. "But I just—I had to tell you. I can’t pretend like it’s nothing anymore. Not when it feels like this." His words trail off, thick with emotion.

You can feel your heart pounding, a mix of relief, fear, and happiness swirling inside you. His confession is something you’ve thought about—something you’ve secretly wanted but never let yourself hope for. You know the risk of getting too close, of crossing that line, but the way he’s looking at you now, like he’s baring a piece of his soul, makes it impossible to ignore what’s been growing between you both.

Your fingers tighten on the sheet, your breath catching in your throat as you try to process everything he’s saying. You weren’t prepared for this moment, for the way your chest tightens at his words, for the way hope flickers inside you despite everything you’ve told yourself. Part of you wants to push it away, to keep things safe and uncomplicated, but the other part—the part that’s been secretly wanting more from him—can’t help but lean in.

"You weren’t supposed to feel this way," you say, your voice a little shaky, as if saying it out loud might make it easier to understand. "We weren’t supposed to let it get this far."

He nods, a half-smile tugging at his lips, but it’s filled with resignation, not humor. "I know," he admits softly, his gaze lifting to meet yours again, and for the first time, you can see just how much this is weighing on him. "But I did. And I don’t know what to do with it."

The honesty in his voice, the rawness of it, sends a wave of emotion through you that you weren’t expecting. You’ve both been dancing around this for so long, keeping things casual, keeping the walls up, but now it feels like those walls are crumbling, and you’re both standing there, vulnerable and unsure.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, the weight of everything unspoken hanging heavy in the space between you. You can see the nervousness in his eyes, the way his chest rises and falls unevenly as he waits for you to say something—anything—to break the tension. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, your mind racing. This was supposed to be simple, you remind yourself. No strings. No complications. But now, as you look at him—really look at him—you realize that it hasn’t been simple for a long time.

"I don’t know what to say," you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s the truth. You’ve been trying so hard to keep your own feelings in check, to convince yourself that this was just physical, but hearing him say what you’ve been afraid to even think makes everything feel so much more real. So much more dangerous.

"You don’t have to say anything right now," Quinn says softly, his voice gentle, almost like he’s giving you space to process. "I just… I needed you to know. I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t mean something to me."

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as you process his words. You’re not sure what happens next—what this means for both of you—but as you lie there, tangled in the sheets, the air between you thick with uncertainty and unspoken emotion, one thing becomes clear: this is no longer just casual. Not for him. And, if you’re being honest with yourself, not for you either.

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