LXXXVII. Emris

The second his name leaves my mouth, something inside me cracks open.

It feels like bleeding and healing all at once. Like jumping off a ledge with no promise of landing. Like finally letting myself feel—not because I'm weak, but because I survived long enough to choose it.

To choose him.

To choose this.

The silence that follows is sacred.

I don't pull back right away.

I stay there, pressed into him, eyes closed, breath shaky. My fingers curl against the nape of his neck, and I feel the way he exhales against my shoulder—slow, stunned, like I've just rewritten the air in the room.

And maybe I have.

His name still hangs in the air, trembling between us like a held breath.

He's silent.

But not frozen.

His arms tighten ever so slightly around me, like he's absorbing the words into his skin—like he doesn't need to say them back, not because he doesn't feel them, but because he does. Because he's felt them for longer than I've let myself even hope.

His hand slides up my back slowly, warm and sure, fingers curling into the nape of my neck as he exhales against my jaw.

I tilt my face toward his, just barely.

And he kisses me.

It's not rushed, not frantic—not the kind of kiss that tries to devour, but the kind that knows it could if it wanted to. The kind that aches. His lips brush mine like he's tasting something sacred, like the moment could shatter if he breathes too hard.

But I kiss him back.

Like I mean it.

Like I need to.

Because I do.

My hands find his shoulders, his skin hot under my palms, and I slide them slowly around his neck, pulling him down to me, deepening the kiss. His mouth opens under mine, inviting, deliberate, and I fall into the rhythm of him—steady, careful, controlled... but barely.

Because beneath that restraint, there's heat. I can feel it in the way his hands move, in the way he touches me like every part of me matters, like I'm more than the blood on my skin and the memories in my head.

He kisses me like I'm worth something.

He pulls back for a breath—forehead pressed to mine—and for a second, neither of us moves.

His voice is low, hoarse, right against my lips. "I love you."

His hands slide down to my waist—one gentle over the gauze, the other firm—and he starts guiding me backward, step by step. His eyes don't leave mine. Not once. And I realize he's not just leading me to his bed.

He's leading me out of everything I've ever known.

I follow.

The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and he eases me down with the same care he used to peel the suit off me. I sit first, legs still curled beneath me, and he kneels again, like before—but this time his hands rest on my thighs, thumbs brushing along my skin with slow reverence.

It makes me shiver.

He leans in, pressing his lips just below my navel, over the edge of the gauze, and it feels like a vow. His hand comes up to cradle my jaw as he rises again, and I meet him halfway, my mouth finding his again, deeper now—warmer, more sure.

My fingers trace the lines of his chest. Scar tissue. Muscle. That steady heartbeat beneath skin I've bled beside. Killed beside. Felt beside.

And somehow, this feels more dangerous than any of that.

Because it's real.

His lips trail along my jaw, down to my neck, slow and heated, and my breath catches as he kisses over my pulse like he's memorizing it. My body reacts before I do—arching toward him, aching for more—but he doesn't rush.

He holds me like he knows I've never done this without some kind of armor on. Not physical—emotional. Mental. Tactical.

But tonight, I'm bare.

And for once, I don't feel like I'm about to break.

I feel like I might survive this, too.

He whispers my name like it's something holy.

"Emris..."

I look up at him, chest tight, vision swimming slightly—not from pain this time, but from how full I feel. Full of him. Full of this. Full of something I never thought I could have without losing control.

My voice comes soft. "I'm here."

His hand tangles gently in my hair, guiding my mouth back to his, and when he kisses me this time, it's different. It's everything. Deep and slow and unguarded. I kiss him back like I finally understand what this is—what he is.

Safe.

Mine.

And when his hands trail lower, when he leans me back against the pillows with a featherlight touch, I let him.

Not because I'm weak.

But because I trust him.

And in my world, that's the bravest thing I've ever done.

His name's still on my tongue when I feel him smile softly against my neck.

"I love you," I say again, quieter this time—closer to breath than speech.

And he melts into it. Into me.

He kisses me like that confession cracked him open, like every barrier between us just snapped. I can feel how much he needs me—in the way his mouth moves, in the way his hands hold me like I'm the most fragile thing he's ever touched and the most vital thing he'll ever lose.

His cock is hard against my thigh, barely restrained by his boxers. I shift, slow and deliberate, grinding into him as my fingers slip into his hair.

He groans, low and broken. "Em..."

I kiss down his throat, down his chest, tasting the salt of his skin. Then he dips his head and wraps his mouth around my nipple, sucking hard while he palms the other, and the sound that leaves my throat isn't human. My spine arches, my legs tighten around his hips, and the friction sends sparks up my nerves.

His voice rumbles against my chest. "You're so fucking perfect."

"Touch me," I whisper, breath hitching.

"Already am," he murmurs with a smirk, licking over my nipple before giving it another soft suck. "But you want more, huh?"

"Bucky," I whimper—needy, raw.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes molten with something dangerous and tender all at once. "You're gonna be the death of me."

I grin, lips parted, flushed and aching for him. "Then die with me."

That's all it takes.

He flips us before I can blink—his strength effortless. I let out a breathless laugh as my back hits the mattress, and he laughs too, low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest.

"You're trouble," he says.

"I'm yours."

That makes him pause, just for a beat.

And then he's sliding his boxers down, cock springing free, thick and flushed and so ready. He strokes himself slowly, the head glistening, and I can't stop staring.

His voice drops as he looks down at me. "You always look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something you want to keep."

"You are."

He groans again, deep in his throat, and reaches for me—pulling my legs apart with a reverence that makes my chest ache.

He drags his tip through my folds, coating himself in my slick, and my hips jerk at the contact. I bite my lip, eyes fluttering shut.

"I need you," I whisper.

"I know, baby," he breathes, one hand squeezing my thigh, the other guiding himself to my entrance. "I've got you."

He pushes in slow—inch by inch—and I swear I feel every nerve ending in my body catch fire. My fingers tangle in the sheets. My mouth falls open.

"Fuck, Emris—" he groans, head dropping forward. "You feel like heaven."

He bottoms out, hips flush against mine, and we just breathe. The stretch is deep but perfect, like he was made to fit inside me. His thumb strokes my hip as he leans down and kisses me—slow, deep, worshipping.

I pull him closer, lips brushing his ear. "I want all of you. Don't hold back."

He pulls his hips back, then thrusts again—deeper this time, and a sound tears from my throat.

"That's it," he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. "You take me so well."

He sets a rhythm—steady and intense. The air between us is thick with heat and skin and want. His hands never stop moving—one on my thigh, one cupping my jaw, brushing hair from my face like he needs to see every part of me unraveling under him.

"You're mine," he says roughly, lips brushing mine with every thrust.

"Say it again," I breathe.

"You're mine, Emris. Mine."

I moan, clinging to him. "And you're mine."

He grabs both thighs and lifts them, spreading me wider, lifting my hips with him. The angle changes and he hits something deep inside me that makes me cry out.

"That's it," he groans. "Right there?"

I nod, gasping. "Right there, Bucky—please, don't stop—"

His thrusts speed up, not brutal but intense, like he's desperate to mark every part of me from the inside out. I feel it building again—that heat, that pressure, coiling low and sharp.

"I'm gonna—" I gasp.

"Come for me, baby. Let me feel you."

My whole body locks up and then shatters, pleasure ripping through me like wildfire. I cry out his name, shaking beneath him as he drives into me once, twice, then spills with a groan so deep it echoes in my chest.

And then... silence.

Only breathing.

His forehead drops to mine again. His arms wrap around me. His body doesn't leave mine.

And his voice, soft and ruined against my mouth:

"You ruin me, Emris."

I smile against his lips.

"Good."

I can barely breathe.

But Bucky is never satisfied with me coming just once.

His mouth moves slowly down my body, reverent, like he's rememorizing every inch of skin with lips and tongue and heat. When his tongue swirls around my nipple and then he suckles, soft at first and then firmer—my back arches helplessly off the mattress.

"Fuck, Bucky—" I gasp, fingers curling in his hair. I thread them through the strands at his nape, tugging when he groans around me.

"You like that, baby?" he murmurs against my breast, and the sound of his voice, that rough gravel laced with tenderness, sends another wave of heat crashing through me.

"Mhm," I breathe, dizzy with the feeling. "Don't stop."

His lips wrap around my other nipple, and he sucks harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly until I whimper. He releases it with a wet pop just to mouth it again, slower, deeper.

"You're so responsive," he says softly. "So damn sweet for me."

I can only hum in response, too lost in the fire building in my veins.

He keeps going, trailing kisses lower—across my ribs, down the slope of my stomach, his stubble grazing hypersensitive skin. Each kiss is slower than the last, open-mouthed and warm. He murmurs things between them—half-formed praises, little nothings like "so beautiful," and "mine."

He reaches my thighs, "Open up for me," he says quietly, but firmly. "Let me see you."

I obey without hesitation.

I don't think I've ever done that for anyone before, other than Bucky.

Not like this.

Not with this much trust.

My legs fall open, and his breath catches like I've knocked the wind out of him.

"Christ, Emris," he whispers, licking his bottom lip as his eyes settle on me. "You're dripping."

He leans in, nose brushing the inside of my thigh as he presses a kiss there—then another, and another—until I'm trembling and clutching the sheets.

"You smell like sin and honey," he groans.

Then he dives in.

There's no hesitation, no teasing. His tongue licks one firm stripe up my center and I choke on a moan, hips bucking up toward his mouth. His hands press down on my thighs, keeping me still, keeping me open, and then he devours me.

"F-fuck, Bucky—" I cry out, a broken sound as his tongue flicks over my clit, slow and deliberate, before he sucks it into his mouth.

My hands find his hair again and I grip tight, eyes squeezing shut as I lose myself in sensation. His tongue slides into me and then pulls back to lap at my folds, switching between licking and sucking until my legs are shaking and my heart's threatening to break through my ribs.

He hums against me, low and satisfied.

"You taste so fucking good," he growls against my core. "Could spend all night right here."

He starts to move faster, lips wrapping around my clit and sucking harder. I arch off the bed, crying out again. The wet sounds of him eating me out echo through the room, shameless and filthy and so good.

I can't think. I can't breathe. I can't even pretend to hold back.

"James—I'm close, I'm—"

"Come for me," he growls, gripping my hips tight. "I want it. Want to feel you fall apart for me."

His mouth closes around my clit again, and he sucks—hard and relentless.

That's it.

I fall.

My climax rips through me, fast and sharp, and I scream his name as the pleasure tears through every nerve ending. My thighs clamp around his head, back arching as I ride it out, shaking and gasping and ruined.

He doesn't stop.

Not until I'm whimpering and trembling, too sensitive to take more.

Only then does he lift his head, lips wet with me, eyes burning.

He kisses the inside of my thigh gently, reverently, and murmurs, "You're fucking perfect."

I'm breathless, dazed, still reeling—but when he crawls back up my body and kisses me, I taste myself on his lips, and I don't even care.

"I'll take care of you," he whispers against my mouth. "Always."

I believe him.

God help me—I believe him.

His words still echo against my lips—"I'll take care of you."

And maybe it's because no one's ever said that and meant it. Maybe it's the way he said it. Or maybe it's because my heart is still pounding from the aftershocks of everything he just gave me.

But I want to give it back.

I want to show him the way he just showed me—what it feels like to be seen, touched like a promise, wanted without fear.

"I know you will," I whisper, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. "But let me take care of you now."

His eyes flicker, hunger and awe tangled together. "Em, baby—"

I kiss him before he can finish, slow and deep, pushing him back into the mattress.

He doesn't resist.

I straddle his hips, sliding my hands down his chest, feeling his muscles shift and tighten beneath me. He's hard again, twitching against my thigh, and when I grind down—just enough—he groans like he's about to lose it.

"Fuck," he breathes, hands gripping my thighs. "You're gonna kill me."

I smirk, bending down to murmur at his ear, "I love you."

His breath hitches. His grip tightens.

I kiss down his throat, his collarbone, the dip of his chest. He's so warm beneath my tongue, his skin tasting like salt and need. I press my body to his, skin to skin, soaking in the way he shudders under me.

"You're so beautiful," I say softly, fingers ghosting down his stomach. "You know that, right?"

"No one's ever called me that before," he says, a little stunned, voice rough.

"Then they were blind."

I lift myself just enough to reach between us, wrapping my hand around his length. He's hot and heavy in my grip, and his head falls back against the pillow with a hiss of breath.

"Emris," he warns, barely holding on.

"Shhh," I murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Just let me."

I guide him to my entrance, and the moment his tip presses against me, both of us moan—low and in sync, like our bodies have been waiting for this.

I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch, my nails digging into his chest as I stretch around him.

"Jesus," he gasps, eyes fluttering shut. "You feel... God, you feel so fucking good."

"So do you," I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.

It's overwhelming—how full I feel, how intimate this is, how his hands find my hips and hold me like he's terrified I'll disappear.

But I don't.

I stay.

I start to move.

Rocking my hips in slow circles, I find a rhythm that has him swearing under his breath, biting his knuckles to keep quiet. His eyes open, locking with mine, and the look on his face nearly undoes me all over again.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "On top of me like this. Mine."

"All yours," I whisper, leaning down to kiss him. "Always."

He meets me halfway, kissing me fiercely, one hand sliding up my spine to cradle the back of my neck.

Our bodies move together—steady, deep, every roll of my hips making him gasp, every shift of his hips pulling a moan from me.

His hands roam everywhere—my waist, my breasts, my face—like he's trying to memorize every part of me.

And I let him.

Because I'm doing the same.

The world shrinks down to nothing but the heat radiating between us.

My skin gleams slick with sweat, my breath shallow and sharp as I move against him. I can feel every inch of Bucky—how perfectly he fills me, how my body instinctively knows the rhythm, chasing that edge just beyond reach.

His eyes—those stormy blue eyes—are fixed on me, and I swear, I can feel the hunger burning in them like wildfire.

Without thinking, my fingers curl around his biceps, tracing slow, lazy circles against the sensitive skin at the junction between pleasure and pain. I can tell from the sharp catch in his breath that it's driving him wild.

"Bucky..." My voice is barely more than a breath, trembling. I'm so close, and I can feel him too—tense, clenched beneath me, like he's holding back a storm.

My nails dig into the muscles of his thigh as I ride him harder, reckless now, desperate to find release. He hisses—a low, guttural sound—and suddenly his hand is at my throat, fingers wrapping just enough to steal my breath but not enough to hurt. The sharp pressure sends a rush through me, electric and raw.

"Easy, princess," he murmurs, voice thick with something between control and need.

I slow, trying to catch my breath, circling my hips as the tension coils tighter and tighter inside me.

Then it breaks.

Like a wave crashing, my orgasm crashes through me—hot, fierce, overwhelming. My muscles clamp around him without thinking, and his body shudders beneath me, the deep rumble of his own release vibrating through me.

He tightens his grip briefly on my throat, then releases me, pulling me flush against his chest as his breath becomes hard and ragged. I rest my cheek against his damp skin, heart pounding in a frantic rhythm that's all our own.

The pressure builds again—slow and sweet—and when I clench around him, he groans and thrusts up into me harder.

"Fuck—baby—gonna come," he pants.

"Me too," I whisper against his mouth. "Let go with me."

A few more thrusts and it crashes down on both of us—his name breaking from my lips as I fall apart, his release pulsing inside me as he holds me tight, arms wrapped around my waist, forehead pressed to mine.

We ride it out together—bodies trembling, breaths ragged.

Then silence.

Soft. Safe.

He cradles me against his chest, still inside me, our bodies tangled, hearts pounding like war drums in unison.

I close my eyes and breathe him in.

And for the first time in forever... I don't feel alone.

His heartbeat is the first thing I notice.

Loud against my ear, steady beneath my cheek, like a war drum that finally stopped beating for battle—and is just beating for me.

We haven't moved.

Not really.

I'm still on top of him, limbs heavy, breath slow. His arms are around me like steel cables—strong, secure, like if he loosens them I'll disappear.

I don't want him to loosen them.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

His lips brush the top of my head. "You okay?"

I nod against his chest. "Yeah. Just... trying to stay here. In this."

"I've got you," he murmurs. "You don't have to do it alone."

And God, I believe him.

I shift a little, just enough to rest more fully against him, and he runs one hand up and down my back in slow, lazy lines, the other brushing knuckles gently along the curve of my arm.

"You're warm," I whisper.

His laugh is low, soft. "So are you."

I don't know how long we lay there like that, tangled together under the faint hum of the heating vent, our bodies cooling but our skin still flushed.

He breaks the silence with something so quiet, I almost miss it.

"You didn't have to say it back," he says. "But I'm really fucking glad you did."

I lift my head to look at him, hair falling into my eyes. "I meant it."

His hand reaches up to tuck a strand behind my ear. "I know you did."

"I was scared."

"I know that too."

He pulls me closer, until our foreheads touch, and I can feel his breath fan against my lips.

"I'll never use it against you," he murmurs. "Your love. Your trust. I'll protect it with everything I've got."

That breaks something in me, quiet and aching.

"You're not like them," I whisper. "You never were."

"No," he says, voice a little hoarse. "And you're not what they made you believe you were either."

My throat tightens. I press my face into his neck, breathing him in—sweat and skin and safety.

"I don't know what this is," I admit, voice barely audible. "But I don't want it to stop."

"It won't." He kisses the side of my head. "I'm yours, Em. You got me."

I smile, small and secret against his skin. "You've always had me."

We stay like that for a long time—just breathing each other in, exchanging soft kisses and softer words. He traces lazy circles on my thigh. I curl my fingers against the side of his jaw. Every now and then, one of us whispers something small:

"Still here?"

"Still here."

"You smell good."

"You taste better."

That earns him a quiet laugh and a half-hearted swat to his shoulder.

Eventually, he rolls us gently to the side, pulling a blanket over us from the foot of the bed. He doesn't let me go. Not even a little.

And for once... I don't fight it.

For once, I let myself be held.

No armor. No walls. Just me. Just him.

Us.