#making this assignment harder for myself | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lolobeey · 16 days ago

Text

Unauthorized Response

Thought to myself: Oh, I'll just bang out a quick one-shot and try writing smut for the first time, and it somehow turned into this monstrosity (sorry for the word count)

Pairing: Avengers!Bucky x Scientist!Reader

Summary: The experimental neurobond was an accident. Getting stuck with Bucky Barnes was just your luck. Now you’re linked—body, mind, and something worse: sexual tension. You’ve got 72 hours to resist him. And every hour, it gets harder to remember why you should...

Warnings: 18+ (mdni!). Explicit Sexual Content. Enemies to Lovers. Forced Proximity. Accidental Neurobond. Shared Dreams. Shared Physical Sensations. Angst. Mutual Pining. Female Masturbation. Oral Sex (f receiving), Dirty Talk, Vaginal Sex. Praise Kink. Creampie. Multiple Orgasms. Post Thunderbolts Setting. Fluff.

Word Count: 16k

You’re three sips into your too-hot coffee when you see him.

He’s leaning against the wall outside Lab 4, all broad shoulders and brooding posture, like some kind of noir detective who wandered into a government facility and refused to leave. Tactical black from neck to boots. That infamous metal arm crossed over his chest like it has something to say and no one brave enough to contradict it.

Tall. Sharp. Sullen.

James Buchanan Barnes.

You stop mid-step. Your brain short-circuits just long enough for the lid of your coffee cup to betray you—a small dribble of liquid lava hits the edge of your hand.

“Shit,” you hiss, wiping it on your lab coat. Not the best look, but frankly, it’s not like he can judge. You have your flaws. He has a kill count.

Captain America’s ex-best friend. The Winter Soldier turned Avenger. The human embodiment of a sealed file. Exactly what your overclocked nervous system needs at seven in the damn morning.

You don’t hate him. That would require too much emotional investment. What you feel is more like… persistent irritation mixed with a healthy dose of distrust. He’s everything you resent about agents: cocky, haunted, prone to unpredictable violence, and somehow still glorified in every agency briefing and classified report.

But more than that—it’s the Budapest symposium.

Two months ago, you were presenting a closed-door session on the ethical implications of biometric surveillance overlays in the field. You’d made a case for data-limited neural interface protocols—no deep emotion-mapping without consent, no unconscious tracking. You had charts. Citations. A damn good argument.

And Bucky Barnes? He was in the back row, arms folded, face unreadable. Before the time even came for questions, he stood up and asked—in front of a dozen international regulators—

“Aren’t you just trying to build a better leash?”

The room had gone quiet. You’d gone cold. Because the worst part was—he hadn’t been wrong.

He walked out before you could answer, leaving you to field the fallout with a thin smile and a throat full of fury. You spent the next week drafting three different sarcastic emails you never sent.

So no, you’re not thrilled to see him outside your lab. Especially not looking like a government-issued mistake you’d almost make twice.

“You’re here,” you say once your voice decides to cooperate. You hold your coffee like a weapon—or a shield. “And scowling. Which I think breaks at least two of our site protocols.”

He turns his head slightly. Those icy blue eyes flick toward you, unreadable behind the scruff and the perpetual shadow of something heavier than war. You’ve read the file. But seeing him again in person is different. Less haunted soldier, more statue carved from tension.

“Security assignment,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough. “I’m with you today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Protocol says highest-risk assets get an escort during internal breach investigations.”

And by ‘protocol’, he means Val.

You stare at him. “I thought that meant someone like Ava. Or Lena. Not…” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “This whole glowering thing.”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, pushes the door open, and holds it for you with exaggerated politeness—like a gentleman or a prison warden. You’re not sure which is worse.

You walk past him muttering, “I’m not a high-risk asset. I’m a scientist who got stuck in the crossfire of a bureaucratic dick-measuring contest.”

He follows close behind, boots heavy on the linoleum. “You designed a compound that links neural responses across two brains. That’s high-risk by definition.”

You spin on your heel to face him. “It was theoretical. You know what theoretical means, right? No human trials. No deployment. No volunteers. The compound is locked down in cold storage with three redundant containment protocols.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You sound defensive,” he goads mildly.

Your jaw drops. “I sound correct.”

He raises one eyebrow, expression neutral—which somehow makes it worse. “You always this wound up?”

You glare. “Only when former assassins are breathing down my neck before breakfast.”

He gives the faintest shrug, like it’s not worth arguing. You turn away again, heels clicking faster now as you head for the secure wing, hoping you look more in control than you feel.

God, you haven’t even had time to check your email.

The corridor stretches long and bright and sterile, lined with reinforced doors and retina scanners, every square foot designed to scream classified. You reach the final keypad and punch in your code, a practiced sequence that usually calms you. But this morning it just makes your fingers itch.

The door slides open with a quiet beep—

And the air hits you like a punch to the face.

Your nostrils flare instinctively. Sharp. Acrid. A faint metallic tang riding the edge of the ventilation.

Chemical.

You freeze. One second. Two. Your brain connects the dots a hair too late.

Gas.

“No, no, no—”

You drop your coffee—cup and all—and sprint into the lab. Your eyes lock instantly on the containment cabinet against the far wall. The red emergency light above it pulses in warning, casting the walls in sickly, flickering hues.

The cabinet—where the prototype compound is stored under triple-sealed cryo-containment—is open. Not wide. Just… cracked. A whisper of vapor hisses from its seams like breath from a sleeping monster.

You spin toward the door. “Barnes, get the door sealed—”

But he’s already inside, scanning the room, eyes sharp and military-fast, and it’s too late anyway.

The soft whoomp of emergency ventilation kicks in, the system responding to your alert. You stagger as the remaining aerosolized compound bursts into the air in a rapid pressure release—microscopic particles blooming invisible around you like a deadly fog.

You cough. Once. Twice. The taste hits the back of your throat. And then you feel it.

Not panic. Not exactly. More like a tug just behind your ribs. A subtle wrongness threading through your consciousness like a splinter sliding in the grain.

Not pain. Not fear. Something else. Something other.

You turn—and Bucky Barnes is staring at you like you’ve both just heard the same gunshot.

His pupils are blown. His stance off-kilter. He looks—

Connected. Like he feels it too.

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

Because there’s only one thing in that cabinet capable of inducing a shared neuro-emotive feedback loop between two human brains.

And now it isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s happening.

To you. And him. Together.

—-

You’re ushered into quarantine within six minutes of exposure.

By minute seven, your blood pressure has been taken, your pupils checked, and your ego thoroughly trampled by a flurry of panicked lab techs—and one very smug containment officer who keeps muttering, “Told you this was going to happen,” like your entire life’s work exists solely to vindicate his mediocre career.

By minute ten, you’re sitting on the edge of a cot in Isolation Chamber A, glaring through the reinforced glass at James Buchanan Barnes in Chamber B like you can will his lungs to stop working out of sheer spite.

He, unfortunately, looks fine.

“You don’t look like you’re dying,” he says blandly.

You fold your arms. “Neither do you. Tragic oversight.”

He doesn’t smile. Of course not. He just leans back on his cot with that frustratingly composed, ex-assassin posture. Like stillness is a performance and he’s performing it at an Olympic level.

It makes your teeth itch.

“You feel anything?” he asks, casually. Too casually. As if he’s not currently entangled in a theoretical neural tether that was never supposed to reach human trials, much less him.

You hesitate. “Not really.”

Which isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the whole truth either.

Physically, you feel fine. No nausea. No tremors. No limbic misfires. But there’s something else. A buzz under your skin. Familiar, because you modeled it. Dismissible—until it isn’t.

A quiet frequency, just at the edge of perception. Like pressure. Or breath on the back of your neck.

Mental static. Not yours.

“I feel something,” Bucky says. He frowns—an actual expression—and taps his chest once, distracted. “Not pain. Just… something else.”

You arch a brow. “Let me guess. Low-level irritation and the overwhelming urge to be left alone?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Exactly.”

You scowl. “That’s me, genius.”

He blinks. Then frowns harder. “Shit.”

You groan. “Nope. This cannot be happening. Absolutely not. No thank you.”

You stand up abruptly and start pacing. The cot creaks behind you like it also hates this.

Because this is bad. Not theoretically bad. Functionally. You know what the compound is designed to do—and how unstable it gets at full potency. This isn’t an accident. It’s a worst-case scenario.

The door hisses open.

Dr. Yen, the Chief Medical Officer of your division steps in, tablet already lit, lips pressed thin. You’ve seen that look before. It means the results are in, and you’re not going to like them.

“Vitals are stable,” she says. “No visible cellular breakdown. But limbic scans are confirming cross-resonance.”

You close your eyes. “So it’s real.”

“It’s real,” she confirms. “You’re linked.”

Across the glass, Bucky sighs. “Linked how?”

Yen barely looks up. “Emotionally. Neurologically. The aerosolized bond agent was absorbed via mucosal membranes—eyes, nose, mouth. Maximum contact.”

“You’re saying we’re… what? Reading each other’s minds?”

“Not minds,” you say automatically. “Emotional states. Neural fluctuations. Maybe low-level somatic impulses.”

She nods. “Shared dreams are possible. Mirror physiology. Elevated empathy. Possibly even localized reflex responses.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “So if she stubs her toe, I feel it?”

“Not unless your motor cortex overcompensates. Which is unlikely. For now.”

You sit back down, hard. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Yen gives you a dry look. “No, but your name’s still at the top of the protocol. I believe the phrase you used in your original paper was ‘temporary adaptive tethering of live-state neural patterns via synthetic limbic resonance.’”

You mutter, “God, I hate myself.”

“You invented the scientific version of a psychic handcuff,” Bucky says.

You glare at him. “Trust me, if I could break it off and throw it in a volcano, I would.”

He leans back again, exasperated, like this is just another mission gone sideways. But you see it now—underneath the irritation. Not just annoyance.

Curiosity. Amusement. And something quieter that you can’t place yet.

Dr. Yen taps through her readings. “We’re transferring you to Observation Room One. Together.”

“What? Why?” you ask.

“Because separating you could intensify the neurological drift. The bond is responding to proximity—removing it might trigger feedback escalation.”

You blink. “Escalation?”

“Increased bleed. Emotional volatility. Uncontrolled synching. You remember, the time we tested on mice, one started trying to dig a tunnel with its face when the other was removed.”

You stare.

Bucky sighs. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Dr. Yen continues, already halfway out the door. “I’ll monitor for spike activity. Try not to kill each other.”

The door hisses shut behind her.

You look at Bucky. He looks at you. And just like that, the hum gets louder. Not in the room. In your chest. Like the tension between you has grown teeth.

“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter, grabbing your duffel.

He smirks. “I don’t have to. You’re already broadcasting loud and clear.”

“Then prepare to suffer.”

You follow the guards out of the chamber, still vibrating with dread, loathing, and a pressure you absolutely refuse to call attraction.

He falls in step beside you.

And just before the door closes behind you, you hear him mutter, “Could be worse.”

You don’t look at him.

He finishes anyway. “You could be stuck with Walker.”

—

The room isn’t big. Two cots. One bathroom. A table with bolted-down chairs. A surveillance camera blinking red in the corner like a passive-aggressive metronome. The air’s too cold, the lights too bright, and the fluorescent hum drills straight into the base of your skull.

Everything about the room says safe and neutral. Which really means sterile. A trap.

You sit across from Bucky at the table, arms folded tight across your chest, as if sheer compression might keep your thoughts from bleeding into the air between you.

It doesn’t work.

There’s that tug behind your ribs—low, persistent, off. Not pain. Not even discomfort, really. Just… dissonance. Like your body’s tuned to the wrong frequency and can’t stop resonating. Or, more accurately: someone else is doing the vibrating, and you’re just along for the ride.

Barnes stretches out in his chair like he’s got nowhere better to be, shuffling a deck of cards with infuriating calm. His hands move slow and steady. Like he’s done this before. Like it centers him.

You don’t want to know what he needs centering from.

The silence builds, heavy and electric. Until finally, you crack.

“So,” you say, deadpan. “This is awkward.”

He doesn’t look up. Just keeps shuffling. “You think?”

“You’re taking this very well for someone who just got mentally handcuffed to basically a complete stranger.”

His jaw flexes but he only shrugs. “Not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me.”

There’s no bravado in it. Just tired truth.

You sigh. “God. What a comforting standard.”

He cuts the deck with a flick of his wrist, then holds a card out toward you without even glancing up. You narrow your eyes. Then take it anyway.

Blackjack. Of course.

“Is this how you pass time in high-security quarantine?” you mutter. “Gambling with unwilling civilians?”

“You’re not unwilling,” he replies easily. “You’re just pissed it’s your own fault you’re stuck with me, Doc.”

You open your mouth—then close it again. Because the second he says it, you feel it: a jolt of annoyance. Not just yours. A flicker of his, folded inside something steadier. Something infuriatingly composed.

Your irritation rebounds like a ricochet—hits something calm. Anchored. And softens.

You feel it. His quiet, bone-deep stillness sliding under your skin like heat through a vent. Not comforting. Not invasive. Just there.

You stare at him, breath catching. Then drop the card on the table. “God. This is real.”

He finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

“It was just a theory. I never meant for it to get to this… But y’know, Val.”

He jerks out a nod. Your pulse kicks. “You can feel me.”

He nods once. “And you can feel me. Can’t you?”

You don’t answer right away.

Taking stock of what’s resonating through your body. A pressure you want to think is just the room, the strangeness of proximity, the humiliating weight of a containment protocol gone wrong.

But it’s not the room. It’s him.

You can feel his focus when he watches you—that heavy, unblinking heat of attention, like standing too close to a silent engine. You can feel his amusement when you snap at him, like your temper tickles something buried and patient beneath the surface. You can feel the effort it takes for him to stay back—to keep his emotional distance while you’re sitting three feet away. Like he’s building a wall in real time, plank by plank. You can feel him trying not to feel you.

Biting your lip, you take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your rapidly rising pulse. It’s intimate in the worst possible way. The kind that makes privacy a joke and pretending pointless.

Every flicker of discomfort. Of defensiveness. Of attraction—

Wait.

Your stomach flips. That wasn’t yours.

It comes in hot and sharp, a spike of want so visceral it knocks the breath out of you. Frustration tangled with something lower. Needier. You haven’t felt anything like that in months, maybe years.

For one stupid second, you want to crawl out of your skin. And then it’s gone. Or suppressed. Or masked. Or—

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is lower now. Cautious.

You nod too fast. “Fine.”

You can tell he doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t need to. He probably feels the spike in your chest, the flicker of your pulse when it jumps. You’ve lost your poker face. And not because of the cards. God, you are never going to survive this.

“So we're just stuck here?” you ask, trying to steady your voice. “We just sit here for three days and try not to think about anything incriminating?”

He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s not really how brains work. And just a gentle reminder—you’re the one who built this little science fair nightmare.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I am going to kill Dr. Yen.”

“She said it’s temporary.”

“She also said we might share dreams.”

Bucky makes a face. “Don’t dream much anymore.”

“Well, I do,” you mutter. “And I don’t need you wandering through my subconscious.”

A beat.

“You think I want you in mine?”

That shuts you up. Because no. You don’t think he wants anyone in there. Not even himself.

The silence settles again. But it’s not empty.

You can feel his discomfort now. Quiet and low-grade. But there. Wrapped around something denser. Guilt, maybe. Something that sticks. And underneath it—just barely—curiosity.

You sit back, exhaling. “We need ground rules.”

“Like what?”

“Like no thinking about sex. Or trauma. Or childhood pets.”

He snorts. “In that order?”

“Especially in that order.”

You catch the edge of a smile before he looks down again, resuming his slow, steady shuffle. The cards whisper against each other like they’re in on the joke.

You try not to notice how your chest feels a little less tight. How the noise in your head quiets when his focus drifts. How the hum beneath your skin feels less like static and more like something alive, because you’re feeling him. And—God help you—he’s feeling you.

—

The lights never fully shut off. They dim, sure, but the surveillance camera stays on, its little red eye blinking in the corner like it’s watching your soul unravel in real time. The overhead fluorescents are on a slow cycle, just soft enough to lull your brain into thinking it can rest—until the second you close your eyes and they flicker again.

You’re not sleeping. And judging by the restless way Bucky shifts on his cot every few minutes—blankets rustling, jaw grinding—he isn’t either.

The silence is loud. Not peaceful. Not companionable. Just dense. Like the air itself is waiting for one of you to say something that will tip the whole room over the edge.

You’ve tried reading. Tried meditating. Tried breathing exercises, even though you usually hate those with a passion reserved for line-cutters and PowerPoint animations.

None of it helps. Because whatever thin emotional boundary once existed between you and Bucky Barnes has long since dissolved.

His emotions creep into you like fog—quiet, heavy, invasive. You don’t get specifics, not clearly, but the mood is unmistakable. Guilt. Anger. A bone-deep ache compressed into something sharp and humming under the surface.

You feel it. And worse—you can tell he’s trying not to let you.

You roll over for the hundredth time, then give up. Sit up. Rub your hands over your face. The room feels like it’s shrinking. Or maybe it’s just the part of your brain still screaming about boundaries.

From across the room, his voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“You feel that too?”

It’s rough. Quiet. Worn raw from disuse.

You blink into the dim. “The… what? The vague, awful sense that I’m about to start crying for no reason?”

A beat.

“Yeah,” he says. “That.”

You press your fingertips to your temples. “God, is that you or me? I can’t even tell anymore.”

“Me,” he says immediately. “Sorry.”

You shake your head, rubbing your hands down your thighs. “Don’t be.”

And you mean it. Sort of.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, still not looking up. You’re not sure which one of you will flinch harder at the offer.

He’s quiet long enough that you figure it’s a no. A nerve hit. A wall closed.

Then, “No.”

You nod, the cot creaking beneath you. “Fair.”

A breath passes.

“But I might anyway,” he mutters, so low you almost miss it.

That makes you look. He’s sitting now, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might disappear if he looks hard enough. His vibranium fingers twitch—absent, reflexive.

“It’s like…” he starts, then stops. You wait. “When I was the Soldier, there were days I didn’t feel anything. Years, probably. Just… silence. Nothing in my head but orders.”

You stay still. Hold your breath.

“And then it all came back. All at once. Like my brain had been hoarding it in a box and someone finally kicked it open. And I couldn’t breathe under it.”

The weight of it lands between you like ash.

“And this?” He looks up at last. His face isn’t cold. It isn’t angry. It’s just tired. Raw.

“This feels like that. Too much. Too close. Like I can’t shut the door.”

Your throat tightens. Because you feel it too—his overwhelm, his fear of being seen, his instinct to slam every door before someone gets inside. It isn’t unfamiliar.

His jaw ticks. His eyes stay locked on yours. “And now you’re in my head."

“And now I’m in your head,” you echo.

There’s a beat before a low, dark laugh escapes him.

“Well. Fuck me.”

You smile—tiny, reflexive. “Tempting.”

His gaze sharpens at that. And instantly, you regret it—not because of the joke, but because of the response it pulls.

Want.

It hits like a shock to the chest. Sudden. Warm. Unmasked. Not lust. Not crude. Longing.

You flinch. Inhale sharply.

He looks away fast. “Shit. That wasn’t on purpose.”

You shoot to your feet, pulse kicking. “You’re not supposed to broadcast things like that.”

“I wasn’t!” His voice rises—gritty, strained. “I’ve been locking everything down since this started. But apparently your brain’s running on the emotional equivalent of a glass wall.”

You stare at him, heat rushing up your neck. “Jesus, Bucky.”

“You think I want you to know that I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard. Shakes his head like he’s trying to shove the feeling back down his throat.

You cross your arms tightly over your chest. “I don’t want to feel this.”

“Yeah, well, me neither.”

The silence snaps tight. You stand there, two hearts hammering in unison, locked in some terrible emotional feedback loop neither of you asked for. It doesn’t break. It pulses harder.

“I think I need a wall,” you mutter. “A mental one. Like an internal firewall.”

“I tried that already,” he says. “Didn’t hold.”

You look at him. He’s watching you again. Still. And it’s not anger on his face anymore. It’s grief.

“This is a violation of literally every HR protocol in existence,” you mumble, arms still crossed.

“Good thing I don’t work here.”

You snort. It escapes before you can stop it. And you feel it—that flicker of relief from him. Small. Fleeting. But real.

You sit down hard on the edge of your cot. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I.”

“I don’t want you to feel what I’m feeling.”

“I already do.”

You fall quiet. Because, for better or worse, you’re in this together now. You don’t know what’s scarier—that he can feel your loneliness. Or that you can feel his.

—

You’re dreaming.

You know it without knowing how. It’s the stillness that gives it away. Like the air is too weightless, the light too diffuse—nothing casting shadows, nothing fully real. The kind of hush that doesn’t exist in waking life.

You’re standing in a field you’ve never seen before. It’s not specific. Just green. A meadow with no wind, no scent, no sound. Every color softened at the edges like an unfinished rendering. It doesn’t feel like anything.

And that’s what tells you it’s yours. A liminal space. Peaceful. Barely conscious.

You close your eyes. And that’s when you feel it. A presence. A pulse.

Not in the dream—in you. Tapping against your thoughts like someone knocking softly on the inside of your skull.

Not words. Not movement. Just pressure. Steady. Coiled. Heavy with something unsaid.

Your eyes open. You turn in place, scanning the edges of the field, expecting—Nothing.

But the weight gets stronger. You feel it in your chest. Low. Familiar. Tense.

Bucky.

But you don’t see him. You just know he’s close. Or maybe not even close. Maybe just… bleeding in.

Your dream flickers.

A breeze picks up—impossible in a dream that’s never moved before. The grass ripples once, unnatural and out of sync, like the physics here are starting to break.

Your pulse stutters. And then—

It hits.

The air tears. The color drops. The field vanishes like someone cuts the feed.

And suddenly you’re underground.

A corridor. Narrow. Stained concrete walls. The ceiling is low, the light sharp blue and sterile. The air tastes like iron and rust. You stumble. Your knees scrape. You catch yourself on a wall that shouldn’t be cold, but is. It’s disorienting. Wrong. You know this isn’t your dream.

It’s his.

“Bucky?” you call out.

No answer. But the pressure behind your ribs spikes. You push forward anyway. Each step echoes. Your own, but also—his. Mismatched. Heavy. You turn a corner and see him.

He’s not looking at you. He’s walking in the opposite direction, body rigid, head bowed, like he’s being led. Or dragged.

He’s not dressed like the man you know. No tactical black. No soft tee and boots. Just bare arms and restraints. Fresh bruises. The remnants of blood not his own.

He’s not Bucky. Not here.

You try to speak but your voice fails. He turns the corner ahead. You follow.

The room you enter is stark. Cold. A chair in the center—stripped down and inhuman. Restraints hanging like dead vines. A spotlight fixed directly above it.

He’s standing beside it now, still not looking at you. The air is too still. Too thick. The bond hums so loudly you want to scream. And then he speaks.

“Don’t look.”

You freeze. His voice is quiet. Barely audible. But it’s him.

He still won’t face you.

“Bucky, this isn’t—”

“I said don’t look,” he says again. Sharper this time. A command—not to control you, but to protect himself. To hide. “You don’t want to see this.”

But it’s too late. The dream—his memory—wraps around you like wire. Sharp and invasive. You feel it like it’s your own. Not a picture. Not a scene. A flood.

Pain. Control. The snap of identity stripped away. Screams that echo without sound. The weight of command phrases burned into neural pathways like rot beneath the skin.

You stagger backward. But the bond holds. You feel it all. The moment he gave up trying to remember his name. The moment he forgot why it mattered.

“Please,” he says. He’s still facing away from you. Shoulders tense. Fists clenched.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears blurring the edges of the dream.

“This isn’t yours,” he grits out. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You take a step closer anyway. That makes him turn. Not all the way. Just enough for you to see it—his face. Younger. Blank. Terrified.

“I didn’t want you to see,” he gestures to himself. “This.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice shaking. “I fell asleep and… you pulled me in.”

He winces. Like that makes it worse.

“I tried not to,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”

You reach out, slowly, not to touch him—just to offer your hand. Because right now, you’re in this together. And the bond doesn’t care what either of you want.

His gaze flicks to it. Then to you. His jaw flexes. And he takes it.

The second your fingers touch, the dream shudders. The restraints flicker. The chair vanishes. The floor beneath you cracks—just hairline fractures, like the nightmare is losing hold.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“I know,” he says softly.

And then—

—

You jolt upright in your cot, heart hammering. Breath sharp. Palms sweaty.

Across the room, Bucky sits up just as fast—like something yanked him out of deep water. He’s already breathing hard, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched like it might hold something back if he just bites down hard enough.

You lock eyes. Neither of you speak. Not at first. The air is thick with something raw and invisible. Or the kind of silence that settles after a confession neither of you wanted to make.

He runs a hand over his face. “So. That happened.”

“Yeah,” you rasp.

You don’t say what that was. You don’t need to. You felt it. Lived it. Not as a witness. Not even as a passenger. As a part of him. And now you can’t un-feel it. Can’t shove it into a clean corner labeled ‘his problem’. It’s in you now. In your chest. Threaded through your ribs like something grafted there on instinct.

You shift slightly, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket, grounding yourself in anything that isn’t his memory. But it doesn’t help. The emotional weight is still there, even as the dream fades. A dull ache under your skin. The echo of metal restraints and too-bright lights.

He exhales, rough and low. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lie back slowly, eyes on the ceiling. Cold. Pockmarked. Real. And for the first time since this started, you stop trying to block him out. Because the truth is, you don’t want to. Even now, with the weight of what you saw still lodged somewhere between your lungs. You don’t want to pretend you didn’t see him.

“It’s not your fault,” you murmur. “That I saw it.”

“No. But it’s still mine.”

You turn your head. He’s staring at the floor now, hands braced on his knees, elbows sharp beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His metal fingers twitch slightly. Barely a motion, but it radiates with tension. You feel that, too. Of course you do.

“Do you think if we sleep again…” you start, then trail off.

He finishes it. “We’ll go back?”

You nod once.

He shrugs. “Don’t know. I’ve never had to share a nightmare before.”

You breathe in. Then out. Neither of you moves.

The hum of the overhead lights seems louder now. The surveillance camera ticks faintly in the corner. Somewhere, two hearts beat in rhythm without trying.

“I’m not tired,” you say.

He glances up at you. “Me neither.”

It’s a lie, on both ends. You can feel it in your body. The ache. The heaviness. The way your limbs sink just a little deeper into the mattress. But sleep isn’t safe now. Not when it might mean pulling each other into things neither of you are ready to carry, let alone share.

You sit up again. Curl your legs under you. Bucky shifts to do the same. It’s not planned. It just happens.

No one speaks for a while. And then—

“I’m sorry you had to,” he starts, so quietly it barely lands. “Feel that.”

The words linger, fragile but deliberate. They hang in the air like breath held too long.

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Not right away. His shoulders stay tight, his stare pinned to the floor like he’s trying to unsee what he knows you saw.

You study him. And something shifts in your chest. It’s not sympathy. Not even admiration. It’s deeper than that. Stranger. Something close to awe—and not the clean kind. The complicated kind. The kind that unsettles.

Because now you’ve seen him. Not the soldier. Not the sarcasm and shadow. The person. The fear. The memory. The grief.

And somehow, that makes him feel… real. Not more fragile. Not smaller. Just clearer. You’re seeing him now in a way you hadn’t before. And it’s doing something to you.

Is it the link?

You want to say yes. Want to blame the synaptic bleed, the proximity, the dream. Want to label it as data and side effects and bad timing. But deep down, you’re not sure. Not anymore.

You shift. Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.

“Do you have them a lot?”

He stills for a beat too long. Then he exhales, the sound low. “Used to. Nightly. For years.”

You nod, eyes tracing the seam of your blanket. “But not anymore?”

“Not like that,” he admits.

Something in your chest lifts, but only a little.

“So…” you hesitate, careful not to make it sound like anything more than what it is.

“Was it easier this time? With me there?”

This time, he looks up. Direct. Steady. No evasion. His voice is quiet. Almost reluctant. “Yeah.”

You blink. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t land the way it does. But it does. Because it means something. Or it might. Or maybe it only feels like it does because your brain is lit up on synthetic empathy and shared neural architecture. But still. It means something.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

You don’t say what’s spinning in your chest: I see you now. I don’t want to look away. I don’t know if that’s you or me or both.

You can feel that he doesn’t want to ask either. Not yet. So neither of you does.

You both just sit there, in the dimmed silence. The bond—a quiet, pulsing presence between your ribs. And this time, you don’t try to shut it out. You just let yourself feel it. Feel him.

—

You wake up suddenly—hot, restless, throat dry. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse a little too fast. Your legs tangled in the blanket like you were shifting more than sleeping. It takes you a second to orient. The cot. The hum of the lights. And the slow burn pulsing under your skin.

You press your palms to your eyes. Shit.

You’re not dreaming anymore, but your body hasn’t gotten the message. Everything feels hypersensitive. Like someone turned up the volume on every nerve ending and forgot to turn it back down.

You exhale. Try to steady your breathing. But then your gaze shifts—and you see him.

Bucky’s still sitting where he was when you drifted off. Back against the wall. He looks calm, but there’s a sharpness in the set of his jaw, a tension in his posture.

He never went to sleep. He’s watching you now. Quiet. Steady. Like he already knows what you’re feeling.

You shift upright on the cot, trying to tamp it down—the warmth low in your belly, the ache that has no business being this loud, this early, in a lab-grade holding cell with your unintentional telepathic security detail.

“Did I…” you start, voice scratchy, “did I fall asleep again?”

He nods, slow. “Around four. You didn’t mean to.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Did you…?”

“No. You didn’t dream loud enough this time.”

It’s a joke. You think.

But then he tilts his head a fraction, brows drawing slightly together. “You feel… okay?”

You hesitate. Because yes. You do feel okay. You feel too okay. Your heart is kicking a little faster than it should and you know without looking in a mirror that your pupils are probably dilated.

There’s no fear. No adrenaline. Just— Want. Need. Aching. And you’re not entirely sure where it’s coming from.

“I feel… weird,” you murmur.

He shifts a little. You feel the ripple before you see it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”

You glance at him again and your stomach flips. Because now that you’re paying attention, you can feel it. The thrum. The tension. That low, slow ache in your bloodstream that isn’t just yours anymore.

You clear your throat. “This doesn’t feel…emotional.”

“No,” he agrees. His voice is lower now. Rough. “It feels physical.”

Your breath catches. You both look away at the same time. The air thickens.

And then the door hisses open.

Dr. Yen steps in like a fire alarm, holding her tablet like a shield. “Morning,” she says briskly. “Vitals check.”

You sit still while she scans you. Bucky does too. Her eyes narrow slightly as she reads, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

Then she sighs. “Okay. So. Bit of a development.”

You wince, already bracing for whatever comes next.

“The bond’s progressing faster than expected. Your convergence scores are spiking well ahead of baseline. You’re already presenting signs of full-spectrum neural and somatic reciprocity.”

You blink. “Somatic?”

Yen nods. “Body-based responses. Sympathetic systems syncing. Neurochemical fluctuations. Endocrine bleed.”

You just stare.

Bucky crosses his arms. “Translation?”

“You’re not just feeling each other’s moods anymore,” Yen says. “You’re reacting to each other’s hormones.”

You freeze.

“So this…?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to your whole overheated, vibrating situation.

She nods. “Elevated oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin—both of you. You’re experiencing mutual physiological… arousal.”

You swear under your breath. Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp.

Yen scrolls. “This is accelerating. You may experience projection next. Sensory cross-talk. Physical feedback from imagined stimuli.”

You and Bucky don’t move.

“You mean—” you start.

“Yes,” she says. “If one of you starts thinking about something… the other might feel it.”

You shut your eyes. Hard. Bucky shifts.

Yen closes the tablet. “We’re working on a counter-agent. In the meantime—stay calm. Avoid escalation. Try not to, y’know, spiral.”

She gives you both a tight smile that’s not a smile and ducks out the door.

The moment it hisses shut, silence slams back into place. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. But you feel each other. Your blood still buzzes, warm and quick, like something is sparking just under the surface.

“I need a cold shower,” you mutter.

“If you’re feeling what I’m feeling,” he says, voice low and tight, “that’s not gonna help.”

Neither of you laughs. Because it’s not funny anymore.

You don’t move and neither does he. You stay on opposite cots, both too still, both too aware. You can feel the bond buzzing like a live wire behind your ribs—no longer subtle, no longer background noise.

Not just his mood. Not just tension or restraint. His thoughts. Vague, half-formed shapes brushing up against your mind like fogged glass. You don’t get detail, not really—but there’s pressure behind it. Focus. Heat.

You swallow. Hard.

He shifts again, one leg stretching out, and your eyes flick to the motion without meaning to. Just his hand. Just his thigh. Just some insane amount of muscle in a pair of extremely not regulation sweatpants. And that’s when it hits you. A spike of awareness.

Low. Sharp. Direct.

Not yours. Yours now, but not originally.

Your breath stutters. Because that wasn’t your thought. That was his. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help.

Now you can feel it more clearly: the way his thoughts catch on your bare legs, on your neck, on the way you just bit your bottom lip without realizing it.

The image forms before you can stop it. Your body reacting to his body. His gaze. His mind. A flash of heat coils low in your stomach. You shift suddenly. Sharp, fast, like that might reset something. It doesn’t.

He feels the shift in you. You know he does. You feel his whole body tense in response. The link thrums, nearly audible in your skull.

“Stop,” you whisper, breath catching.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice hoarse.

You press your palm to your sternum. It’s like trying to press out a heartbeat that isn’t even yours.

“I can feel it when you look at me like that,” you mutter.

“I’m trying not to,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well, try harder,” you snap—but it’s shaky, breathless.

Your thighs press together unconsciously. And that, he feels. He lets out a breath—low, ragged, like it hurts to hold it.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Don’t what?” you snap, voice high and tight.

“That. The thing with your legs.”

You go still. And the heat spikes. The thought now forming in your head is yours. It’s real. Immediate. Something to do with him between your knees, his hands on your hips, his mouth at your throat. The sound he’d make if you pulled his shirt off. The look in his eyes when—

He jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

You slap a hand over your own mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to think that.”

“I know,” he growls.

And still—your body pulses. That awful, exquisite feedback loop. Want ricocheting back and forth until you don’t know whose it was to begin with.

You drag your blanket up like its armor. “We can’t do this.”

“No,” he agrees immediately. “We can’t.”

You lock eyes. And don’t look away.

The silence that follows is different now. Charged. Taut. It’s not that the attraction is new. It’s that there’s nowhere left to hide it. No denial. No wall. Just each other. You lie back slowly, exhaling through your nose. Trying to calm your heart. Trying not to think of him. It doesn’t work.

Bucky’s breathing is heavier now. Not dramatic—but deeper. Controlled. You feel it against your own skin. You know—you know—he’s thinking about you too. But neither of you moves. Not yet.

Your heart won’t settle. It keeps pushing against your ribs like it wants to say something first. And then, before you can stop yourself:

“You drive me insane.” The words hang there. Blunt. True.

Bucky shifts slightly on his cot, but doesn’t speak.

“Not in the way you’re thinking, but okay—in that way too.” You pull the blanket tighter around you, trying to hold your voice steady. “You’re cold. Condescending. You don’t say anything unless it’s to poke a hole in something I’ve spent months building.”

His mouth twitches. “You’re a scientist who’s not used to people poking holes?”

“I’m not used to people doing it like you.” You glare at the ceiling. “You just—show up. And stare. And judge. And then disappear before I can even argue back.”

He exhales through his nose. “And you like arguing.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It feels like the point.”

You turn your head and look at him. “You didn’t even stay for the full hearing. Just blew it up and walked out.”

He meets your eyes. “Didn’t need to.”

Your chest tightens. “God. You’re impossible.”

There’s a long pause.

And then he says, quieter: “You were right, though. About the link. About what it could be.”

You blink.

“I didn’t go to that hearing to get in your way,” he says. “I went because what you said scared the hell out of me.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks.”

He shakes his head. “No. I mean—it was good. You were right. You had every angle covered. You didn’t flinch. And the more I thought about it afterward…”

His eyes lift to yours.

“About you.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So when Val mentioned they needed an internal breach detail at the site—”

“You asked for this assignment,” you state, stunned.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches again—but now it’s different. There’s heat in it. Yes. But also something else. Something real.

Your head falls to your hands in defeat. “I don’t want to like you.”

“Yeah. That’s not working out too well for me either,” Bucky mutters lowly.

You peek up at him through your fingers. “This is a disaster.”

His mouth twitches. “A highly classified, emotionally compromising disaster.”

You stare at him. And he stares right back. Something hums between you, low and molten. Not as sharp as before—but deeper now. Grounded in knowing. Seeing. Feeling. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to make it dangerous.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“Don’t what?”

“That.”

You blink, innocent. “Look at you?”

“Look at me like that.”

You tilt your head, heart pounding. “Like what?”

“Like you want to see what else I’m hiding under these very official sweatpants.”

You suck in a sharp breath. A flush climbs up your neck before you can stop it.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

“You’re broadcasting things,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “Loud.”

You shift on the cot and feel his breath hitch now.

It’s too much. Too close. And it’s not the bond anymore. Not entirely.

“You think about it too,” you say quietly.

He nods, once. “All the time now it seems.”

You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him—or let him press you back against the wall and do everything you’ve already imagined and more.

“So what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

He smiles—just barely. It’s crooked. Dangerous.

“Nothing reckless.”

You lift a brow. “You’re telling me not to be impulsive?”

“I’m telling you not to do anything you’ll regret.”

You lean forward, like you’re settling into something casual. But you know what you’re doing. You can’t help yourself. You know he can feel it—your heat, your hunger, your restraint wrapped in silk.

“Then maybe stop giving me reasons to want to,” you murmur, voice light. Teasing.

His jaw ticks. His eyes darken. The silence that follows is sharp. Not a pause. Not a delay. A held breath.

You smile, small and smug, and stand up slowly—too slowly.

“Anyway,” you say, heading toward the small attached bathroom, “I’m going to take a cold shower and try to remember I’m a professional with several advanced degrees.”

You stop in the doorway. Look back over your shoulder, just enough to make sure he’s still watching.

He is.

“Try not to think about me while I’m in there,” you add, voice all fake innocence. And then you shut the door behind you.

—-

The water is cold. Brutally so. You step into the spray like it’s punishment—hands braced against the tile, jaw locked, breath held.

Because you’re still trying to wrap your head around the words that just tumbled out of your mouth a minute ago and why the fuck you even said them. The heat in your body needs to burn off or be drowned, and freezing water feels like your last rational defense.

It doesn’t work.

You gasp as it hits your skin—tight, cutting, and sharp. Your nipples pebble instantly. Your muscles tighten. But the cold doesn’t pull you out of it. It sharpenes it.

Every drop feels like a shock, like a wire pulled taut under your skin. Your thighs clench. Your breath trembles. Because Bucky is still out there.

And you can still feel him. Not with your hands. Not with your eyes. But with your mind. Your body. The thread still connects you. Hot under the cold. Deep under the logic. It pulses low in your belly, electric and alive. Dragging your thoughts right back to him.

You try to redirect—try to count the tiles on the wall, name the amino acids in a protein chain, recite your grant proposal backwards.

But your body betrays you. Your hips rock, searching for friction that doesn’t exist. Your hand drags down your chest without permission, sliding over wet skin, slick nipples, the curve of your stomach.

And suddenly he’s there. Not really. Not consciously. But you feel him. Watching. Wanting.

And worse—you want him to.

You bite your lip, hard. Try to shut it down. But your hand keeps moving. Between your thighs now. Water trailing down your skin like a thousand fingertips. The ache blooming sharp and impossible. You press your palm to yourself, just for a moment. Just to quiet it.

But something flares like it’s hungry too.

Your legs almost buckle. Shit. Shit. He felt that. You pant against the tile, eyes squeezed shut.

You can feel his attention spike like a spotlight behind your eyes—his breath, his pulse, the jagged edge of his restraint grinding against yours. You try to pull back. You try. But now you’re imagining it.

The wall behind you pressing into your shoulder blades. His mouth dragging heat up your neck. One hand on your hip—no, both hands. One flesh, one metal, holding you still while he whispers how much he’s been thinking about this.

How he knew you were going to touch yourself in the shower. How he wanted to be the reason you couldn’t help it.

Your breath hitches. A whimper escapes you. Just a sound, high and desperate and real. A surge.

The sensation that hits you is dizzying—like your nerves are suddenly on fire, like your own want is being echoed back tenfold.

You slap the water off fast, heart hammering. Your skin prickles as the cold air licks over it. You lean your forehead against the tile, panting. You’re shaking. Not from the cold. Not from fear. From restraint. From everything you didn’t let yourself do. And everything you know he felt anyway.

You press your hands over your face.

“Fuck.”

You stay like that for a long moment. Trying to breathe. Trying to pull yourself back into your body. Into the present. But even now, with the water off and your hands gripping the edge of the sink, you can feel the bond pulsing low behind your navel like it’s waiting. Like he’s waiting. And worst of all— You’re thinking about opening the door.

You want to know if he’s sitting there as wrecked as you are.

But you don’t yet. You reach for the towel. Wipe your face. Pull it tight around your body like it might hold you together. And you promise yourself you’ll be calm when you step back out there.

You wait a full minute before stepping out of the bathroom. You make sure your skin is mostly dry, your breathing sort of steady, and your towel tightly secured like a barrier that might still mean something. You open the door like you’re composed. You’re not. But it doesn’t matter.

Because the second you step into the room, you know. Bucky’s posture is wrecked. No more monk-like stillness. No more composed soldier routine. He’s pacing. Shoulders tense. Shirt clinging to him in places like he’s been sweating. His jaw is tight. His hands—both of them—are curled into fists like he’s holding back from breaking something. Or doing something.

His head snaps up the second he sees you. And then—he stops moving altogether. Freezes.

You feel it before he says a word: the punch of arousal, the crash of restraint, the friction of denial and desire grinding together behind his ribs like a blade.

His eyes sweep over you. Just once. Slowly.

The towel. The water still glistening along your collarbone. The flush on your cheeks that has nothing to do with temperature.

You feel his restraint falter—just for a breath—and it slams into your chest like a jolt of electricity.

“You…” he says, then stops. Swallows. His voice is hoarse. “That wasn’t fair.”

You blink, playing innocent. “What wasn’t?”

He steps forward once. Not touching. Not even close. But the bond pulls at you like gravity.

“You know what,” he says, voice low. “You know exactly what.”

Your heart pounds.

“So you felt that,” you say lightly, trying not to lose your footing on the slick edge of this moment.

He lets out a sharp breath. “You think I somehow didn’t feel that?”

The tension crackles between you—raw and thick and already past the point of pretending.

“I tried to shut it down,” you murmur.

He laughs. Just once. Bitter and breathless. “Yeah, I could tell ya tried really hard, sweetheart.”

You grip the edge of the towel a little tighter. “So what, you just sat there and…?”

His gaze drops to your mouth. And stays there.

You feel the burn of it behind your knees, in the pit of your stomach, deep between your thighs where the ache hasn’t fully gone away.

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. “And?”

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. You feel him fighting it again—fighting you. But he doesn’t lie.

“I wanted to come in there.”

The breath leaves your lungs in a shudder.

“I wanted to touch you,” he says, stepping closer. His voice drops lower. “Everywhere you were touching yourself.”

You swallow hard.

“But I didn’t,” he adds roughly.

You look up at him. “Why?”

His eyes search yours. Not angry. Not even pleading. Just—holding back.

“Because if I had…” He exhales, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t have stopped.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. Your body hums. Your fingers dig into the towel like it’s the last shield between you and a decision you might not be ready to unmake. And all you can do is whisper:

“…Okay.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. But something shifts in his posture—like he’s caught between instinct and decision, body wired forward even as his mind throws up a stop sign.

You see it all happen. The way his eyes flick to your mouth. The way his breaths become deeper. The way every muscle in him says yes while the rest of him fights to say no.

And then, finally—he steps back. One short, sharp step. Like distance will save either of you.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “We can’t.”

Your heart punches your ribs. “Why not?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shakes his head, pacing once, hands flexing.

“You just came out of the shower like that, thinking what you were thinking, and I—” He stops. “I felt everything. You know that, right?” he repeats yet again.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know. And that’s the fucking problem.”

You blink. “So what, now you’re mad about it?”

“No,” he snaps. “I’m not mad. I’m trying not to lose my goddamn mind.”

You fold your arms over the towel. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think our minds are so fried that we can’t tell what’s ours and what’s this,” he bites, gesturing between you two. “And if I touch you right now, I don’t know whose choice I’m making. Yours, mine, or the damn compound’s.”

That stops you. Because he’s right. Because you don’t even know anymore.

His voice drops. Still rough. Still wrecked.

“I’m not gonna take advantage of something that’s most likely not real. Not with you.”

You shift your weight, heartbeat hammering. You want to argue. You want to push. But part of you respects the hell out of it. So you just nod once. Clipped.

“Fine.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like restraint in physical form.

“Fine.”

And that’s it. You don’t close the distance. You don’t say anything else. You just turn away, heart still racing, skin still hot, towel still clutched like armor, and try like hell to pretend your body isn’t already halfway to betraying you again.

—-

Just perfect. Now there’s only a few more hours of pretending you’re not fully horny for the government-assigned menace in the corner.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the cot, earbuds in, blasting white noise loud enough to drown out your own thoughts—and hopefully his. It doesn’t work.

You can still feel him pacing. The slow, deliberate kind, like he’s working something out of his system. Like he’s hunting a problem he can’t solve. You can feel the heat of his attention every time your shirt rides up when you stretch. Every time you shift just a little too far sideways and your thigh brushes bare against cool air.

Every time your breath catches and his does, too. You know what he’s thinking. Or trying not to think.

So you decide to mess with him.

You think louder—sweet and smug, like you’re painting it across the bond on purpose: That shirt looks really good on you, soldier.

He flinches. Physically. And then stops pacing.

You smirk, tug the hem of your shirt down with exaggerated innocence. Small victories.

But then he drops to the floor and starts doing pushups. Which is so not fair.

You glance over and immediately regret it. His shirt stretches across his back like it’s apologizing to no one. Sweat clings at the collar. His arms flex, contract, flex again—slow and steady. Every controlled breath pushes heat through the bond.

You are trying to read a report. You are actively attempting productivity. But it’s hard when every line blurs around the mental image of his hands braced on either side of your head. You close the file. Try again.

He switches to pull-ups on an overhead bar. You throw your tablet at the wall.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

He doesn’t stop. “Doing what?”

“Weaponizing your arms.”

His mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m just trying to stay in shape.”

You scowl. “This is psychological warfare.”

“You started it.”

You grab a pillow and launch it at his head. He dodges without breaking rhythm.

“Unbelievable.”

Later, you fall asleep. Not on purpose. Just long enough for your body to betray you. The dream is hot. Too hot. Lips at your throat, a mouth on your hipbone, hands everywhere you shouldn’t want them. You wake up gasping, sweat pooling at the base of your spine.

And he’s watching you. Sitting in the corner, arms folded, expression like stone. Except for his eyes. His eyes are a slow burn. He doesn’t say anything. But you feel it. The echo of your dream still pinging between you. Not graphic—just emotional residue. A leftover ache.

And maybe the worst part is: you feel his too.

The loneliness under it. The way he felt it right along with you. The part of him that wanted it to be real. To be his hands. His mouth. His weight on top of you instead of the memory of a shared hallucination. You shift on the cot, heart still pounding.

“Did you…?” you ask.

He doesn’t move. Just nods once. “Yeah.”

You pull your knees to your chest and try not to shake.

Five hours in, you almost lose it.

You’re pretending to read again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep your breathing steady. He’s sitting on the other cot now, towel around his neck, shirt wrung out and tossed somewhere in the corner like it wronged him personally. His skin is flushed. His forearms are braced on his knees. His head is tipped back slightly.

You can feel it through the bond—he’s trying not to think about how your skin looked glistening after the shower. Trying not to remember the sound you made. You try to be good. You really do. But then you snap.

“You have to stop thinking about my mouth.”

You don’t even look up. You don’t have to. There’s a long pause.

“I’m not,” he says.

You glance over. He’s biting his lip. You both groan.

He covers his face with one hand. “Okay, you have to stop doing the thing with your tongue.”

“What thing?”

He waves a hand vaguely. “That thing you do when you’re concentrating. You lick your bottom lip slowly like you’re trying to kill me.”

You throw a blanket at him. He catches it with a smug little grin, but you feel the way his chest tightens under it. The way he’s fighting not to lean into the tether—into the pull of you.

You flop onto your cot face-first. “This is the worst horny hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”

“Been in many?”

You scream a muffled “FUCK” into the mattress.

His chuckle is low. Rough. Warm.

It rolls down your spine like a confession you weren’t ready to hear. And when your hand slips between your thighs a minute later, just to relieve the pressure, just to breathe, you feel his breath hitch in your mind.

“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air, hoarse. Strained. Not angry—pleading.

You freeze. But don’t pull away.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

A pause. Heavy. Loaded.

“You can.”

You roll your head toward him, half-lidded, flushed, and exhale: “Then say it.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Tell me not to touch myself,” you say. “But say it like you mean it.”

You feel his restraint buckle. The desire choking the back of his throat. You move your hand again, slow, under the blanket. The wet slide of your fingers deliberate.

“You already know what I’m thinking,” he grits out.

“Say it anyway.”

He’s still across the room, sitting rigid on the cot, fists clenched on his knees like it’s the only way to stop himself from moving.

You close your eyes and moan—quiet, bitten-off. You can’t help it.

And that’s when it breaks him.

“God,” he growls. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“I have some idea,” you tease back and squeeze your eyes shut.

And in your mind, you can feel a switch flip in his.

There’s a sudden metallic crack—a sharp, violent sound that echoes off the walls. Your eyes fly open. The security camera in the corner is shattered—glass fractured, wires exposed, the red recording light extinguished. His chest is heaving, fists clenched like he didn’t even think before moving.

“I want to be over there,” he rushes out hoarsely. “I want to rip that sheet off and watch you fall apart for me.”

Your breath stops but he keeps going, like his tongue is unable to stop.

“I want your legs open. Want your fingers soaked because you were thinking about my mouth.”

He rises, takes one step forward, then stops himself—grabbing the edge of the table like it might anchor him. You whimper.

“I’d put my hand between your thighs,” he says, lower now. Rougher. “Press my fingers into you until you begged me to fuck you.”

Your mind hums, white hot. You feel it in your ribs, your spine, your throat.

“You’d take it, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs. “All of it. My fingers, my cock—”

You cry out softly, thighs twitching, chasing friction.

“I’d have your back arched and your hands in my hair and you wouldn’t even be able to say my name without sobbing.”

You grind down harder now, pulse pounding in your ears. You feel him feeling you—his hips twitching, cock hard and aching, brain flooded with everything you’re giving him.

“Touch your clit,” he commands.

You do. Gasping. The pleasure punches through your body like a current.

“Just like that,” he says, voice shaking. “Rub slow. You don’t need to come yet. I want to hear you say what you want.”

“You already know,” you choke out.

“Tell me, doll,” he says again, dark, wanting. “Tell me how wet you are.”

You almost sob. “So wet—Jesus—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he says. “Let me hear it. I want every filthy sound you’ve got.”

You move faster, breath catching, the heat coiling tight and hard and close.

“I’d eat you out so slowly you’d scream. Then fuck you with my fingers until you begged for more. You want that?”

“Yes.”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to come in you, fill you, make you feel it for hours?”

Your whole body locks—back arching, legs tightening—

And you shatter.

White-hot pleasure rips through you, shattering like glass behind your ribs—louder and deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. It’s not just the orgasm. It’s also his body responding to yours, his want echoing through every nerve ending like a second heartbeat.

You can feel what you’re doing to him. The hunger. The ache. The way his restraint unravels with every sound you make, every twitch of your fingers.

The bond lights up like an explosion—flooding both of you. There’s no separation. No inside or outside. Just youandhimyouandhimyouandhim in one long, gasping pulse of release.

His groan is feral. Raw. Wrecked. You’re still trembling when you open your eyes. And he’s right there.

Closer than he was. Right in front of you. Breathing hard, eyes dark, hands clenched like it took everything in him not to touch you. Not to throw himself into the wreckage and keep going.

He’s about to move. About to drop to his knees. About to make good on every filthy promise he just breathed into your bones—

Then a chime sounds at the door.

You both freeze. A beat. Then Dr. Yen’s voice comes crisply over the intercom.

“Just a heads up—I’ll be entering the room in ten seconds for dampener prep. Try to look less… elevated.”

You let out a strangled noise and yank the blanket over your face, legs still shaking.

The door hisses open. Light spills in. Footsteps. Dr. Yen walks in like she didn’t just catch you mid-meltdown.

“Good evening,” she says, clipboard in hand, eyes respectfully trained downward. “Time for neural dampener administration.”

Bucky turns away like he’s been gut-punched. You lie there in silence, half-covered, half-exposed, pulse still thundering.

Dr. Yen pauses. Looks up.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just watch both your biometric readings spike like you ran a marathon while getting tased.”

You groan louder.

She sighs. “I’ll return in ten minutes with the equipment. Maybe try some breathing exercises.”

She turns and walks out, boots clicking.

The door shuts, and the silence she leaves behind could crush a mountain. You’re both wrecked. Glowing. Silent. Not comfortable. Not even heavy. But pressurized. You shift on the cot. Pick at the edge of the blanket, like you’re unthreading a thought. You cough once. Clear your throat.

“So…” you say. Then instantly regret it.

Bucky doesn’t look up from where he’s now sitting, arms braced, jaw tight. His eyes are fixed on some invisible point across the room.

You try again, softer this time. “That was… intense.” Still nothing.

You roll your eyes at yourself. “God, sorry. That sounded like the end of a bad first date.”

Finally, his voice cuts through the silence. Low. Flat.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You blink. “What, the part where you told me everything you wanted to do to me while I was—?”

He exhales sharply. “Don’t.”

You pause. Watch him. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t fair,” he mutters. “I didn’t have to make it worse.”

“You didn’t make it worse.”

He glances at you. Briefly.

And you feel it—what he won’t say. The guilt. The self-loathing. The fear that he wanted it more than he should’ve, and the shame that he let himself say so.

You try to keep your voice light. “It hasn’t been all bad, you know. Feeling like this.”

Something flickers in him—shame, maybe. Sadness. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“It’s not real,” he says. “You know that.”

You shift again. “You think I can’t tell the difference?”

“I don’t know, Doc. But you should. You wrote the fucking book on it!” He’s not angry. Just tired.

“You’re reacting to a synthetic neurochemical tether.” He says it like he’s quoting a file. “It wires your empathy straight into mine and floods your body with cross-sensory feedback. Of course it feels like something.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It feels like you. Like… warm static. I didn’t think I’d get used to it, but I have.”

His jaw clenches.

Something bracing inside him tickles through your bones. Like he’s locking the door before you even finish knocking.

You hesitate, before adding, carefully, “Maybe that’s not so terrible.”

He turns toward you now, finally, and there’s something in his face—tired, closed off, already half gone.

“Look,” he sighs. “In a few hours, you’re going to feel normal again. This’ll wear off, we’ll detox. And you’ll go back to thinking I’m a prick.”

You stare at him. “Is that really what you think I’m going to walk away with?”

“It’s what I’ll walk away with,” he says.

How certain he is bounces back at you. The way he’s already convinced himself this was a mistake. Not just a misstep, but a flaw in his wiring. Something he’s trying to undo before it’s too late and your resolve starts to melt.

His voice softens, but not in a comforting way. In that quiet, beaten-down way that says he’s already written the ending and doesn’t want to hear another version.

“I crossed a line,” he says. “And you’re going to wake up tomorrow and wish I hadn’t.”

You feel it. In your ribs, your throat, your teeth. Not the tension from before—but a dull, hollow echo of finality. He believes this.

You don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say that won’t bounce off the wall he’s putting back up. You nod once. Slowly. Then lie back on the cot and turn your face to the wall. The link hums faintly behind your ribs—tender, uncertain. But you don’t follow it. You just let the silence settle between you again. Thicker than before. Colder. Final.

—

You’re sitting across from him when the door opens. Same cots. Same sterile walls. Same ten feet of silence between you. You haven’t looked at him but you still feel him linked. Quiet, almost gentle now. Like it knows it’s dying. A breath too deep. A flicker of guilt. A spike of regret. It doesn’t matter that he won’t meet your eyes.

Dr. Yen steps into the room with her tablet in one hand and a hard-sided case in the other. She’s in scrubs this time. Hair tied back. Movements clipped and practiced.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

The case opens with a soft click. Two injectors inside, small and sleek. She pulls one out and checks the dosage.

“Once administered, the dampener will suppress all synthetic limbic resonance. You’ll feel a shift within thirty seconds. Disassociation. Numbness. Maybe a little nausea.”

You exhale through your nose.

“And then?”

She meets your eyes. “Then the link breaks.”

You nod. She walks to you first.

“Roll up your sleeve,” she says gently.

You do. The motion feels surreal—like you’re watching yourself from somewhere outside your body. She presses the injector to the soft skin inside your elbow.

You take a breath, hold it. Click. A whisper of compressed air. Cold floods your arm instantly—icy, clinical, creeping up your bicep like frostbite. It spreads into your shoulder, your neck, your spine.

And then—

Something inside you flickers. The hum. The warmth. Him. It begins to fade. Not all at once. It drains. Like light slipping out of a room. Like someone slowly turning the volume knob on a song you didn’t know you’d memorized. You feel the difference before you can process it. Your thoughts stop echoing. Your heartbeat feels… alone.

Bucky says nothing when it’s his turn. He doesn’t ask what it’ll feel like. He doesn’t hesitate. Just rolls up his sleeve, still pitched forward. Dr. Yen administers his dose with quiet efficiency. Click. Hiss. And then it’s quiet again. Except it’s not the same.

Because now, the silence is dead. No hum. No pulse. No emotional feedback or flicker of awareness. No him. He’s still there, physically. Still sitting across from you. Still wearing the same black T-shirt, the same unreadable expression. But you can’t feel him anymore. And the absence hits harder than you expect.

Dr. Yen checks the readings on her tablet. Taps a few buttons. Then nods.

“That’s it,” she says. “Connection is terminated.”

You nod, slowly. There’s a ringing in your ears that wasn’t there before.

Yen doesn’t linger. She packs up and walks out without another word. The door hisses shut behind her. And that’s it. It’s over.

You look at him. He’s not looking at you. There’s no warmth where your chest used to light up every time he almost met your gaze. Now it’s just empty space. You wait. A beat. Two.

He finally stands. Moves like he’s stiff. Or maybe he’s just trying to control the way his body reacts now that you can’t feel it.

His eyes flick toward you, just once. And then away.

At the door, hand hovering near the panel, he pauses. Just long enough to let hope get in one last swing.

“You’ll feel like yourself again soon.”

You blink. Straighten slightly. But before you can respond, he’s already gone. The door shuts behind him. And this time, you feel nothing at all.

—

Two weeks later and you definitely don’t feel like yourself again. Everyone said you would. That the dampener would work, that your neural pathways would recalibrate, that within a few days you’d forget what it felt like to share your mind with someone else.

They were wrong. The silence is worse than the bond ever was.

It isn’t just quiet—it’s hollow. There are no phantom thoughts, no flickers of static behind your ribs. No heat curling in your stomach when someone else walks in the room. You’re not buzzing anymore. You’re just… still.

You’ve tried to distract yourself. Buried yourself in lab reports. Filed updates. Pretended the whole thing was a chemical anomaly that didn’t matter.

You haven’t heard from him. You haven’t reached out, either.

Mostly because you’re not sure what you’d say—and partly because the last time you saw him, he all but told you that everything you felt was fake. You were still deciding whether to be mad or hurt when Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s name lit up your encrypted line.

And now here you are. Walking into the new Avengers Tower for a mandatory debriefing.

You strut through the sleek white corridor with polished concrete floors, reinforced glass walls, surveillance cameras tucked into every corner. A place designed to look like freedom and security, while quietly reminding everyone who’s in charge. And Val’s definitely in charge.

You press your thumb to the biometric reader. The door clicks open. And then you’re in the room.

Seven chairs. One long table. Your team’s already there—Dr. Yen, Dr. Deenan, and Dr. Morales, seated stiffly with laptops open and half-expressed concern on their faces. You nod to them, then catch sight of the others.

The New Avengers. Ava’s leaning back with her boots up on the chair next to her, scanning her phone like she’d rather be anywhere else. Yelena twirls a pen in her fingers while whispering something to Bob, who stifles a laugh. Alexei ie eating something from a foil pouch. John Walker’s in full uniform, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting to be pissed off.

And at the head of the table—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She smiles when she sees you. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Doctor,” she purrs. “Right on time. We were just getting to the fun part.”

You arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize this was a party.”

Val gestures to the empty seat across from her. “Take a load off.”

You sit. The chair’s cold. So is the room.

She taps her tablet, and the wall monitor comes to life—schematics, biofeedback logs, simulated overlays of two bodies in sync.

Yours. And his. Your heart gives a tiny, involuntary jolt.

“We’ve reviewed your data,” Val says. “The bonding agent was more successful than projected. Real-time empathic mirroring. Linked adrenaline response. Even synchronized aggression modulation. Fascinating.”

You glance at your team. No one meets your eye.

“Fascinating doesn’t mean safe,” you say.

“No,” Val agrees, tapping to the next slide, “but it does mean viable.”

Your stomach drops.

She keeps going. “We’ve had early conversations with R&D. We think we can refine it. Pull the limbic entanglement into tighter constraints. Give our agents an edge in the field. Total tactical unity. Real-time mental synchronicity in squads of two to five. Imagine it.”

“I’d rather not,” you say flatly.

Val tilts her head. “That’s surprising. You invented it.”

You cross your arms. “I invented a theory. Not a weapon. That compound was never designed for field ops. It was meant to test artificial empathy synthesis in high-stress environments. I never signed off on deployment.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replies, sweet as poison. “You tested it. That’s what matters.”

Your jaw tightens. “What do you want from me?”

Val smiles.

“I want you to stabilize it.”

The room goes quiet.

You don’t answer.

Because your fingers have curled into fists under the table, and the muscle in your jaw is working too hard.

Val’s smile sharpens. “Don’t make that face. You’re not the first brilliant mind to regret what they’ve built. That’s why we’ve brought in oversight.”

You glance around the table, pulse ticking higher. “This is oversight?”

Val gestures lazily toward the door. “Speak of the devil.”

It opens. He walks in. Bucky.

Same stride. Same black tactical pants. Same expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else. But not quite the same. Tighter. Like something inside him is coiled and hasn’t uncoiled since the dampener. You sit straighter without meaning to. He doesn’t look at you. Just nods to the room like it’s a formality. Takes the seat across the table from you, beside Ava, who gives him a quick look. You can feel the space between you stretch like a fault line.

Val keeps going, too casual.

“As most of you know, Sergeant Barnes was one of the two bonded during the prototype incident.”

No one speaks. Ava tilts her head, intrigued. Alexei is still chewing. John looks like he’s waiting to laugh. Bob’s the only one scribbling anything down.

Val turns toward Bucky, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “You submitted a full statement. Care to summarize for the room?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“It’s not stable.”

“Define ‘not stable.’”

He looks directly at her now. “There’s no shut-off switch.”

Val smiles like she’s waiting for that. “The dampener worked.”

“Eventually.”

You feel a tug in your chest—but not from the bond. Just memory. Just him.

Val leans back. “Let’s talk about the psychological aftermath.”

You freeze. So does he.

“I read your report,” Val continues. “There were some… interesting observations. About your partner.”

You glance at him, breath catching. He doesn’t speak. Val does.

“‘Responsive. Precise. Too quick to hide discomfort behind sarcasm. Wants to be in control but softens under pressure. Harder to ignore than expected.’”

You stare at her. Then at him. He’s not meeting your eyes. His jaw is tight.

Val keeps reading, but her eyes are on you. “‘I think she felt it too. I think we both wanted it to stop, and neither of us wanted it to stop.’”

The room is silent. No one breathes.

She closes the file with a tap and smiles. “Romantic. Almost poetic.”

Bucky shifts in his chair. “That wasn’t meant for discussion.”

Val keeps going, tapping her tablet again. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes wasn’t the only one who filed a report.”

Your eyes narrow. She scrolls casually. “Let’s see here…”

Your team shifts awkwardly. Ava raises an brow. Walker leans back, already skeptical.

“Ah—found it,” Val says, lips twitching. “‘Post-dampener vitals returned to pre-bond baseline within 48 hours. No lingering physical effects. Subject reports successful cognitive decoupling.’” She glances at you. “Very clinical so far.”

You say nothing. Your throat is tight.

Val continues reading, voice just loud enough to carry. “‘Subject notes difficulty adjusting to emotional silence. Persistent phantom resonance. Reports occasional insomnia, sensory misfires, and…’” She slows. “‘…a recurring sense of loss with no identifiable origin.’”

You feel the breath leave your lungs.

Val looks up, smile gone. Her tone shifts—mocking, just slightly. “‘It’s strange. I should be relieved to have myself back. But some part of me feels like it’s still looking for him.’”

The silence in the room shifts. Heavy. Sharp. Bucky turns to look at you. Not subtly. Not just a glance. He looks at you like you’ve just said something dangerous. Like you’ve handed him a key he didn’t know he was allowed to touch.

You look back. And for the first time since the bond broke—you really see him seeing you.

But then his expression shutters. Clean. Cold. Gone. Like he’s pulled the wall back up in one brutal breath.

Val closes the file with a flick of her fingers.

“Well. This answers my question. If it worked that fast on two unsuspecting individuals—one emotionally distant, the other the one who wrote the damn rules about boundaries—what do we think it’ll do to a trained field team under fire?”

You exhale through your nose. “You’re not trying to refine it. You’re trying to weaponize it.”

Val shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Your pulse spikes. “You want to use forced bonding as a tactical tool. You want soldiers to feel each other die in real time, feel pain that isn’t theirs, emotions that aren’t theirs—”

“They’ll be trained.”

“They’ll be broken.”

Now the room shifts. Ava sits forward. Yelena’s brow lifts. Even Walker glances sideways at Val.

Val only smiles. “Everyone breaks differently, doctor. That’s the point.”

You can’t help it. You turn to Bucky. He’s looking down. Still silent. Still locked. But you know that posture. You’ve felt it. The way he retreats. The way he steels himself before walking away.

Val’s voice cuts back in. “Final reports are due in forty-eight hours. Including yours, Doctor. Whether you cooperate or not, this is moving forward.”

You don’t answer. She rises. The others begin to move.

But Bucky doesn’t. Not until the last chair scrapes back. Then he stands. And walks out without looking back. This time, you don’t hesitate.

You catch him in the hallway just outside the briefing room.

“Barnes.”

He keeps walking, boots steady on the polished floor like you’re not behind him, like he didn’t just bolt from a public dissection of your most private thoughts. You pick up the pace.

“I said—”

“Don’t,” he mutters without turning. “Not here.”

You follow anyway. Right past the security checkpoint. Into the common area of the residential wing.

Then you hear them. Voices behind you—low, not subtle. Bob. Alexei. You’d bet money Walker’s loitering just out of view, arms crossed and dying for gossip.

“Wow,” Yelena says from behind the coffee bar. “Very dramatic storm-off. Ten out of ten.”

Bucky still doesn’t stop. You catch up beside him, matching his pace. “You’re seriously going to act like none of that meant anything?”

“I’m not doing this in front of an audience,” he snaps, still not looking at you.

You ignore it. “What did you think was going to happen? You walk away and I just go back to being a line item in your report?”

He reaches the end of the hallway. Stops. Jaw locked. Hands at his sides.

“I’m not doing this,” he says again, quieter now. Less sharp. More tired.

You hesitate. And then you say it—just low enough for him to really hear it.

“Bucky, please.”

His head turns. Slow. Measured. Like he didn’t expect you to use his name. Like it broke through something.

You stare up at him. One beat. Two. And then he grabs your wrist—not rough, not rushed—and pulls you with him through the nearest door.

His quarters. The lock clicks behind you. He doesn’t let go. You’re both breathing too hard for how little either of you has moved. His fingers tighten around your wrist.

“I don’t need a debrief,” he says flatly. “Whatever Val’s hoping you’ll get out of this—”

“Don’t do that,” you say.

His shoulders go rigid. “Do what.”

“Shut me out.”

He finally turns. And the look on his face makes your heart falter.

He’s not angry. He’s gutted.

“I told you, once this wore off—”

“I didn’t say it because of the link,” you snap. “I said it because it’s true.”

He shakes his head. “You think it’s true. Because it’s recent. Because you’re still sorting it out.”

“No,” you say. “I said it because I miss you. Because I can’t sleep. Because the silence feels worse than the noise ever did.”

He goes quiet. You take a step closer.

“And don’t tell me it’s not real. Don’t tell me it’s just feedback. I’ve been through every model of post-synthetic resonance in the literature. This isn’t detox.”

Bucky stares at you like he wants to believe you. Like he’s aching to. But the wall is still up. Tighter than ever.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re going to walk out of here and get over it. And I’m going to remember everything I said. Everything I wanted. And wish I hadn’t said a goddamn word.”

That knocks the air out of you. You feel the urge to step back—but you don’t. You root yourself there.

“I’m not over it,” you say, quietly. “And I don’t want to be.”

He looks at you. Really looks. And something shifts in him. But he still doesn’t move. So you step closer. Not too close. Just enough to make it clear you’re not afraid of the space between you. Not anymore. You don’t touch him. Not yet.

“I’ve spent two weeks trying to shut you out of my head,” you murmur. “Pretending I didn’t miss you. That I wasn’t checking every hallway and every email, wondering if you’d say something.”

He exhales sharply through his nose and looks down.

“And when you didn’t,” you add, voice tighter now, “I told myself you were just being careful. That you were trying to do the right thing.”

A pause. Then, lower.

“But maybe it was just easier for you.”

That hits. You see it—right in his eyes. Still, he doesn’t speak. So you finish it.

“Either you felt what I felt or you didn’t,” you say, chin lifting. “But don’t stand there and act like it was just some side effect. Like all of it—everything between us—was just my body misfiring.”

You take a final step closer to him.

“I know who you are now—not just the version you show, not the file, not the soldier. You. I felt every part you tried to hide. And it only made me want you more. And if that was all fake, I don’t know what the hell is real anymore.”

That’s when he moves.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s like something inside him snaps, and before you can take another breath, his hands are in your hair, his mouth crashing against yours like he’s been holding back for years—not weeks.

You stumble into him with a gasp, grabbing the front of his shirt like you need it to stay standing. His kiss is rough, hungry, almost frantic—like he’s trying to erase the silence with his teeth.

He spins you, walks you backwards until your shoulders hit the door, and then he’s bracing one arm beside your head, the other sliding down to your hip like he needs to feel you, all of you, right now.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in. Anger. Frustration. Hunger. Something dangerously close to relief. He pulls back just long enough to look at you, lips swollen, breathing hard.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, hoarse.

“Yes,” you whisper, dragging your fingers down the line of his stomach. “I do.”

His mouth reclaims yours. This time, the kiss is slower. Hungrier. Less desperation, more purpose. His tongue traces the shape of your lips, parting them before diving in. His hands move, rough and reverent. Skimming your jaw, down your neck, across your chest. They slide beneath your shirt, palms splayed wide like he’s trying to cover all of you at once, like he can’t decide what to touch first. You feel the heat of him through every inch of fabric, and it lights you up from the inside.

He hesitates Just a little. Like it costs him something to stop. A breath caught in his throat. Fingers curling into fists where they’d just been on your ribs. Everything is vibrating with want. No bond. No compound tether. Just this. Just him. And he’s shaking. Not visibly. But you feel it in his breath. In the way his hands flex when they grip your hips. Like he’s holding back with every ounce of control he has left.

“You sure?” he rasps, low and wrecked.

You nod. He doesn’t move. So you press your mouth to his ear.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “I’ve been sure since I looked you in the eye and told you not to think about sex.”

He exhales, a bit shaky, but lifts you, guiding you backward toward the bed. Walking you slow and blind, like he’s memorized every inch of you and he’s finally getting to touch what he learned.

You hit the mattress. He’s on you a second later, crowding you down with the weight of his body, the strength of his stare.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your cheek. “I want to see you.”

Your heart stutters as he starts to undress you. Slow at first, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Fingers dragging over skin with intention. Mouth kissing every new inch he uncovers.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whimper, hands reaching, but he pins your wrists lightly to the bed.

“Let me,” he says. “You’ve had your hands on yourself enough, haven’t you?”

Your face burns but your thighs twitch. He clocks it.

“Oh, you liked that,” he murmurs, voice like velvet. “Liked making me feel it. Every fuckin’ second.”

“Bucky—”

“You wanna know what it did to me?” he asks, trailing his fingers down your stomach, your hip, your thigh. “The way you touched yourself? Knowing I couldn’t stop you. Couldn’t help you. Couldn’t taste you.”

Your breath hitches as his lips graze your inner thigh.

“I almost lost it, doll.”

He groans as he spreads you open, thumb teasing, mouth following. He’s slow at first. Too slow. Licking soft circles like he’s memorizing the shape of your pleasure.

And then he dives in.

Moans into you like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Holds your thighs apart, firm and unrelenting, while his tongue works in perfect rhythm. Watching you. Murmuring praise between licks and gasps. Your hips twitch, a whimper slipping through your clenched teeth.

“Already?” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “You that close, sweetheart?”

You try to answer, but it’s useless.

“God, look at you,” he groans. “So fucking wet.”

You arch up in response, gasping.

“Needy little thing,” he laughs, brushing his fingers through your folds. “Bet this is all you’ve been thinking about the past two weeks, huh?”

He plunges a finger inside of you and curls, as do your toes while you rasp out.

“Bucky, please!”

“You gonna fall apart for me, doll?” he murmurs against you, the words so filthy and tender they almost make you cry. “I want it. Want to feel you shake. Want to taste every bit of it.”

He flicks his tongue in tight circles, then flattens it low and slow. Adding another finger to your weeping core. Your hips start to shake, lifting off the bed. He feels it and grips you tighter.

“Don’t fight it,” he gasps into you. “Don’t you fucking dare. That’s mine.”

He sucks hard—just once—and your vision whites out. You try to warn him. A gasp, a stuttered breath, a twist of your hips. But it’s already too late. You come with a cry, fists clutching the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders, everything inside you unraveling at once.

It’s too much. Too sharp. Too good. And he groans into you like he’s the one coming. You’re limp, gasping, still shaking—and he’s still there, mouth wet, fingers brushing your hip.

“Shit,” you breathe. “That was…”

He kisses the inside of your thigh. Then again, a little higher.

“You’re not done yet,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “Not even close.”

He keeps going, softer now—just enough to draw the aftershocks out of you, murmuring things you can barely hear over your own heartbeat.

“So perfect. So fuckin’ sweet”

You blink through the stars behind your eyes, chest rising in fast, uneven bursts.

“Bucky—”

He finally comes up for air, his eyes are darker with something deeper than just heat as his gaze locks on yours. And for a second, neither of you moves.

You’re still panting, still wrecked from his mouth and fingers, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now. Like he’s trying to memorize you, even as his restraint starts to crack again.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

“Good,” he says, fingers sliding up your sides. “Because I’m not done learning how you fall apart.”

You whine when he pulls away. But when his own shirt comes off, followed by the rest, your breath stutters—because even now, with the link broken, you’re still wrecked by your need for him.

Not like before. Not a shared mind or emotion. But like muscle memory. Like your skin knows him now. His mouth tilts up—barely a smile, more like relief bleeding through restraint.

Then he climbs your body like he owns it, skin dragging over skin. Not rushing. Savoring. Like he’s been starving for you and doesn’t want to miss a single fucking bite. His chest brushes yours—bare, flushed—and you both exhale hard, the contact so electric it knocks the air from your lungs.

You reach for him, aching, but he catches your wrists—not to stop you. To feel you. To anchor himself. His thumbs press into your palms, grounding hard.

“You still want this?” he murmurs.

You nod. But that’s not enough. Not for either of you.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you.”

He kisses you like he means to brand it into you, deep and claiming. His whole body comes down over yours, pinning you into the mattress with his weight like he’s trying to fuck the memory of him into your bones.

His hand trails down your side, over your hip, gripping your thigh with purpose. Holding you there, keeping you open for him.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your jaw, slowly dragging his cock against your sensitive heat. “That’s real. Not chemicals. Not the compound.”

You nod again, blinking up at him.

“I felt you before, doll,” he murmurs, pressing the head against your entrance. “But now? Now I get to have you.”

Then he pushes in slowly. Inch by inch as it steals the air from your lungs, not realizing how you could ever feel this full. He’s everywhere. It’s not artificial. It’s just him. Just this. And it’s overwhelming in a completely different way.

“God, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he groans, as his hips finally meet yours. “Like you were made for me.”

He moves slow at first, watching your face, chasing every gasp, every arch of your body. Letting you relax into the stretch as he drags himself in and out of you. Your body answers him before your mouth can. Nails digging into his shoulder. The pressure already building, faster this time, hotter. And he feels it, responding with a low, rough growl in your ear.

“Got used to feeling everything,” he murmurs. “Now I’ve gotta earn it. Every sound. Every twitch of those perfect fuckin’ hips.”

You can’t even speak. You moan, hips tilting up, greedy for more.

“That’s right,” he breathes, rougher now. “Show me.”

He rocks into you again, harder this time. You gasp, cry out softly against his shoulder.

“Bucky—please—”

“You begging already?” he groans, continuing to pound you deeper into the mattress. “Thought I was just a side effect.”

“You weren’t.”

He freezes, just for a moment. Kisses you again, softer now, but more desperate.

“Say it again.” His forehead presses to yours.

You touch his face, thumb brushing the hard line of his jaw. “You weren’t.”

He exhales like it hurts.

“You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?”

You whimper, helpless as your walls begin to flutter around him.

“Yeah, you are,” he breathes. “I can feel it. So tight around me already.”

And the way he looks at you—wrecked and reverent and just this side of feral—makes your whole body stutter. You want it. Want to be ruined by him. Claimed by him.

You tighten around him again, and his hips snap harder. His hand slips between your bodies. Finds your clit. Zeroes in without mercy.

“Give it to me,” he whispers into your throat. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

It hits like a freight train—loud and messy and devastating. Your back arches, your breath catches, and you cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left.

He fucks you through it—long, dragging thrusts that keep you trembling. Your body’s oversensitive now, every nerve frayed, but he doesn’t stop. Keeps going, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Bucky,” you moan, hand in his hair, nails dragging over his scalp.

He breaths into your mouth—kissing you like he’s starving.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he pants. “You know that?”

You whimper, thighs shaking.

“I tried to keep it together,” he growls, voice ragged. “I tried—”

Every thrust is brutal now. Precise. Shattering.

“Fuck,” he breaths. “When you were—”

“Buck—”

He kisses you again, biting your lip. His hand moves between you again, thumb rubbing fast and perfect.

“God, baby—” His voice cracks. “You’re gonna make me fuckin’ lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you whisper. “I want you to.”

He growls your name, broken and wrecked, hips jerking once, twice—And you shatter. It slams through you—raw, loud, everything burning at the edges. Your body seizes, clenching around him, sobbing his name as you fall apart in his arms.

He buries himself inside you. You feel the heat. The flood. The way he tries to hold himself together and can’t. He’s trembling over you, muscles locked tight, jaw clenched as he pulses deep in you, riding it out with a low, wrecked moan.

You’re both gasping now. Shaking. Tangled up and clinging. And still—he doesn’t pull away. He stays. Forehead to yours, still buried deep, arms wrapped around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’ve never thought—” he starts, voice ragged. “That wasn’t just—”

You touch his face, soft now. “I know.”

Because you do. This wasn’t adrenaline. Wasn’t science. Wasn’t the bond. It was him. It was you. He lifts his head slowly. Looks at you like he’s still afraid to believe it. So you cup his face, kiss his temple, and whisper, “Don’t you dare vanish on me now.”

His throat works, jaw clenches. But he doesn’t run.

He stays right where he is. Wrapped around you.

��-

The room is warm. Quiet. You’re lying on your back, one leg tangled with his, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed. Bucky’s fingers skim slow circles over your hip, like he hasn’t figured out how to stop touching you yet. Or doesn’t want to. You stare at the ceiling.

“Tell me again how this wasn’t a terrible idea,” you murmur.

He huffs out a laugh. “It was a terrible idea.”

“Oh, good,” you say. “So we’re on the same page.”

He shifts, rolling just enough to look at you. His hair is a mess, his chest still rising a little fast, like he hasn’t fully come down. There’s a smudge of dried sweat at his temple and your teeth marks fading on his neck, and you have the completely inappropriate urge to kiss both.

“Can’t believe I got to sleep with the woman who called me a glorified blunt object,” he says dryly.

You smirk. “Wasn’t planning to sleep with the guy who implied my life’s work was an emotional leash.”

“Touché.”

You sigh. Close your eyes for a second. The weight of it all—what came before, what you just crossed into—settles somewhere behind your ribs. He’s still watching you when you open them again.

“I’ll deal with Val,” he says suddenly. “If she tries to pull anything with the compound, I’ll shut it down.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I usually am.”

You study him for a beat. “You don’t have to fight my battles, Barnes.”

“No,” he says. “But I want to.”

Something about the way he says it. Casual and quiet, like it isn’t a big deal, makes your stomach tighten. He’s not pushing. Not performing. He just means it. You shift closer, resting your chin on his chest. “You know, if you’d told me two weeks ago I’d end up in your bed—”

“You would’ve laughed in my face.”

“I did laugh in your face.”

“You told me I looked like a government-issued mistake.”

You snort. “Well. You kind of did.”

He smirks, fingers brushing a line along your spine. “Still think I’m a mistake?”

You glance up at him. He’s smiling, but it’s tentative. Like he’s not sure if you’ll dodge or hit back. So you lean up, kiss him—soft, but real. Honest.

“Maybe not a mistake,” you whisper against his mouth. “Maybe just… statistically improbable.”

He laughs against your lips. You both fall back into the pillows, tangled up and far too warm, but neither of you moves.

Eventually he murmurs, “This thing between us—whatever it is—it’s real now, right?”

You stretch a leg over his, sighing. “I mean, if it’s not, then I’m still having incredibly vivid sex dreams while awake.”

“That’s flattering.”

“That’s science.”

He kisses your forehead and mumbles, “Then let’s see what happens without science.”

You let that settle. No neurobond. No link. No forced proximity. Just choice. You curl in closer. And this time, when you breathe him in, you don’t feel afraid.

Just steady. Just… okay. You smile. And he feels it.

3K notes · View notes

nemesyaaa · 10 months ago

Text

a long way from the playground // rafe cameron x reader

summary ; when you met rafe on the playground of the school, he was such a crybaby but you were there for him as his most beloved (and unique) friend until that accident which happened in high school.

seven years after that argument, you met him again. and mostly, seven years after, the crybaby that you know became the big boy that everyone knows.

genre ; childhood bestfriends to strangers to lovers (literally my favorite trope of the world), slight of angst, fluff, and smut. he fell first (and alone at first lmfao...)but she fell harder trope. one-shot.

warnings ; argument, family issues, mentions of cheating, smut, miscommunication, mentions of anger issues, fear of abandonment/being alone, jealousy, first time/virginity, past/present, violence ?( reader slapping rafe), being pogue/kook is not a big deal, mentions of rafe's mother.

author's note : it's 4k. was inspired by eighteen by one direction and to build a home by the cinematic orchestra. trying myself on something soft and kinda angst (but more in a bittersweet way.)

rafe was not always being the big boy everyone knew. it had taken seven years between the two of you for him to become stronger and more mature. when you met him, he was a whiny little boy who loved to fight, but cried every time you treated his wounds. you always managed to make him smile when you placed a bandage on the bleeding bruise and promised him that if he calmed down, the injury would disappear.

you started being there for him from the moment you were just seven years old.you understood that rafe needed someone in his life, because no one was there for him. you never understood why, but people loved to say, even the teacher and his family that there was something weird about him.

you heard the others spreading rumors about it a couple times. it was so easy to criticize others rather than judge yourself. at that moment, rafe didn't scare anyone. it was not because he had the prestigious cameron name that it made his classmates fear him.

he was like everyone else, there was no kook or pogue. everyone was too young to be different, the prey could be anyone in the group, but the leader always remained the same.

the first time you and rafe cameron were really close was on mother's day. the whole class had been assigned to make a gift and in the most saddest way possible, everyone had a mother to give their present to. everyone except Rafe, but you didn't know about that before the accident.

having finished making your own gift, you surprised your friend from behind and he dropped his vase on the ground. you had never felt so sad in your entire life when you saw the broken glass on the floor. you could clearly feel your heart cracking in your ribcage, your veins freezing, and your breath dying in your throat, the hot rush of tears inside your eyes.

"rafe, i'm really sorry. I...really, I didn't mean to..."

“it’s okay, y/n. I didn’t have anyone to give it to anyway...”

his voice cracked slightly in his knotted throat as he managed to not show you how hurt he was. he was trying to be strong, and not a crybaby — that nickname that you given him every time. and his eyes had become so full and wet with tears, the blue ocean of his eyes drowning in the hot little boy whines.

rafe cameron was a broken child, not just since you broke his vase. no, always. since he no longer had his mother. and you realized it in such a cruel way that you wanted to disappear.

he had so many tears, and you felt like they could flow down his cheeks forever, that even an eternity wouldn't be enough to wipe them away. and even if you had been a siren, you would never have been able to swim in water as salty as his present sadness.

"my mother...left me..." he admitted softly between sniffles, his nose red and leaky.

you felt bad but you took him against you in a tender hug, and placed your hand on his back to start caressing him gently, until he was soothed. "but you have me. and i will not leave. you know rafe, when i love someone, it's serious. i sincerely would like to make sure that you never feel alone again."

you looked into his eyes. you couldn't be more sincere.

and maybe it was from that day that rafe cameron fell in love with you, and he had never felt so good because he never thought that love could be so heartwarming and kind.

if you thought he would be the type to hide his feelings, or run away from them, you were wrong. it was the first time he felt this comfort, this happiness and he needed to show it to you. even for his family he did not have such great affection.

he loved giving you gifts. he had seen and heard that the girls really liked those kind of things so every day since Mother's Day, you received flowers, boxes of chocolates, photos of yourself accompanied by notes, volumes of your favorite book saga, CD's of your favorite singers. rafe couldn't let go of you.

since you didn't love him back, he fed on the affection and attention you gave him.

rafe took everything you had to give him - a look, a smile, a kiss on the cheek, a hug, an earphone for the two of you to share, a day in your room watching movies, a ride on the bike of your big brother, an afternoon playing in the sea.

there was nothing strange about him, nothing like the rumors could say.

“rafe, you didn’t have to give me that.” you exclaimed when you saw a necklace with his initials.

“but I wanted to. Don’t you like it?”

"I love..."

Rafe would have loved to hear that you were talking about him saying those words but he was also so impatient. every boy his age had a girlfriend, and he wanted you to be his. he was not an exception to the eager youth.

what was the point of being rich, of being able to have everything if you weren't included among his treasures? he wanted you, his only friend and the only girl who mattered to him.

But also, he was lost because he was experiencing one-sided love, because above all, it hurt so much not to be loved in return, to be in love with someone to love them to a point where it mattered more than himself.

the first time you kissed rafe cameron on the lips was in high school. you were drunk, you hadn't done it on purpose.

you threw up right after, but he never blamed you. he knew it was the alcohol, not him. he even held your hair while you vomited everything into the bowl. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I..."

"I'm not mad. you're just drinking too much. I should have been more careful. you know i can't be angry with you."

yes, rafe had anger issues, serious problems managing his hard feelings. sometimes he even scared you. sometimes you even felt like he would be able to kill someone.

rafe’s hands could be deadly but whenever they were on you, pressed to your cheeks, against your hips, on your thighs, inside your hair, on your neck, they were always calm and gentle.

after that, you would never have guessed that the first time rafe cameron had touched himself, it was thinking about your lips on his mouth, something so small and pathetic but it was enough to make him so vulnerable and unable to think about anything else.

he imagined your pretty lips around his cock instead of his useless large hand, your wet open mouth pumping him as your tongue covered every inch of his growing girth. and he hated himself for having impure thoughts about you, because you looked like an angel. he had no desire to make you dirty but oh fuck — he had cum on his stomach, spurting the warm loads painting his flesh. and god he wished you were there to make him pure again.

after that, rafe had tried many times to get you out of his head. he thought of porn. but he imagined your body, your voice, your moans in place of all these actresses, and that was the only way he could come.

dating girls but it never worked. you were always the one he wanted out of all the ones that existed.

distance from you but he always came back, because without you it had always been like being in the dark. and how could he lives in darkness without the one who gave him light?

but above all, you were the one who understood him best, who always managed to soothe him, and above all who never judged him in his moments of weakness.

you were his home, where he took refuge when he had a problem with his father, when he could no longer stand Sarah's presence, when Rose was getting on his nerves, when Topper and Kelce were behaving like idiots. because you were the only person who couldn't make his existence even more shitty.

— now it's been over ten years since rafe cameron was in love with you, but only seven since you disappeared from his life.

you had another life now, a boyfriend who cheated on you and who was always angry with you, and pushing you under and under. you were stuck with the wrong guy.

you had always dreamed of being an artist, you had specialized in painting in college hoping to pursue your dream.

rafe had always accompanied you in that dream, volunteering as a model for all your portraits but you always ended up throwing all the drawings away because you were too perfectionist. for you, it was never good enough. but for your best friend, it was a masterpiece, the work of a true painter.

you drew in your spare time, but each time, you ended up drawing rafe's face. you had no idea why he was your only inspiration even though you had a boyfriend, why it was always him who motivated you to continue painting.

it was strange how rafe had made a huge impact in your life, the only boy you actually had.

— a year later, on a huge impulse, you offered your art to a museum that regularly held exhibitions. you had made arrangements with the director and tried to find rafe's contact two nights after.

you searched for his social media, last names in the directory, asked his friends but nothing had helped you. you had spent a week trying to find it but it felt like you had lost him forever, that it was like a flower that you should have cherished instead of letting it perish.

you had been a monster. you abandoned him...like his mother. like everyone else.

every time you thought about him, you always ended up crying. if it wasn't love because you were sure you didn't love him, why did it hurt so much? why did it kill you so much?

rafe had never been capable of hurting you, and yet you had stabbed him without even looking at him. you had let him give you his heart, and you had stepped on it. and maybe that was why he couldn't fall in love anymore because you had ruined all his chances of being with someone else.

rafe had confessed his feelings to you while you were in his room, talking about everything and nothing, the future and the past like children. he had grown up. he was no longer the little whiny child you had known but a big boy, the one who now had big arms to protect you, hands to dry your tears, body to warm you.

“i feel like you want to tell me something, big boy. so say it, don't make me wait or beg for it.” you teased him by stopping the movie you were watching under the blankets.

"If you weren't so blind and stupid, I wouldn't have to be so embarrassed. i really have to do all the work all the time. "

“Come on, confess it. Do you want me to close my eyes?”

“ close that eyes, and shut that mouth too. ” he nodded, and the minute you closed your eyes, his mouth found yours to kiss you.

“what does that mean?”

“are you being stupid on purpose?” he replied. "It wasn't a mistake for me in the club...I mean, I really liked it like now. Don't make me say it, y/n. "

you were embarrassed. you didn't like rafe. finally you loved him like a best friend. he had always been the friend you dreamed of, not the one you wanted to end up with.

In contrast, rafe always believed that a girl could never break his heart. but you had shown him today that he was wrong, because you had managed to hurt his feelings, to make them so depressing.

you had this control on him that he had exactly over everyone else.

"Am I still the crybaby I was to you? I've changed. "

"that has nothing to do with it. rafe, you can't love someone and think that they will love you back. love doesn't work like that, and sometimes it doesn't even work. "

“you love someone else, right?” his tone was now louder, becoming more aggressive.

"I...n-n..."

"you love someone? who is it? tell me who it is? or don't tell me, I'll find out eventually. do you think that guy deserves you more than me ? "

“rafe, you’re scaring me. don’t yell at me.”

"why? you have the right to reject me but I don't have the right to raise my voice with you... let me laugh...since you like joking with me now.” there was a sick smile on his face that you hated, and made you shake.

"Rafe, I'm not rejecting you..."

“oh, y/n, please don’t lie to me. you’ve never been a hypocrite, so don’t be one now. don't be mean sweetheart because i would die rather than hurting you. just admit that you have someone, that you like playing with my feelings. do you think you're superior to me ? well, don't forget that i'm the only guy that give you attention so you're not that special. i made you special.”

"you win, rafe cameron. congratulations. i'm leaving."

you stood up towards the door but he rushed toward you and blocked your way.

“rafe. move.”

"asking like that? oh no, sweetheart. I've seen you be nicer than that, so you're going to give me the pleasure of asking me with better words."

“don’t make me push you. ”

he laughed so hard that your ego had been hurt. "because you think i'm still the weak, whiny cameron from the past that you used to manipulate ? tskk tskk, wrong. it's over. i hold the power in the relationship now. "

“rafe, I don’t want us to argue.”

“ oh yea ? so why do you want to leave? give me just one good reason at least !”

“you have to let me go.”

"and if I refuse? ah yes, I forgot, my family probably loves you more than me so they will surely come and help you if you cry or scream. so, please, show me how much my family hates and doesn't care about me. ”

you felt the sadness in his voice despite the loud tone, and the condescension.

"you can't leave. what kind of girl are you? the kind who likes to break hearts?”

it was your turn to be mad at rafe so you slapped him. louder than you expected because his face had turned against the door, and a red bruise had marked his skin. you regretted your action but you didn't apologize. because rafe had to learn to respect you.

" excuse me ? I was always there for you, when you were in pain, when you were angry with the whole world, when your father was so cruel to you that I had nightmares because I was afraid that will be the reason i will lost you one day, when you were crying, when you were fighting, I was there when there was absolutely no one for you, I was there when you were the little boy that no one wanted. You have absolutely no right to blame me for anything and consider this slap at the end of my sentence because I will not apologize. I have always been nice to you. so don't make me regret this. so yes, well done rafe, you managed to ruin everything. I'm sorry that you are in love with me and unfortunately I don't have this feelings for you, but now you lost me, and all the chances you had for us to end up together so you can sequester me here if you want, but know that even if I stayed in this room until the end of my days, I would still have no feelings for you, not a fucking single one. “

he was angry, his nostrils were flaring, and his fists were clenched against his thighs. you only had to see the swelling of his veins around his temples and around his neck to feel that it was literally boiling inside his body.

"you haven't changed. you've just grown. you'll cry when my back is turned.”

— back in the present, you wore a pretty dress to your art exhibition. you chose "blue eyes" as a subject with multiple paintings representing Rafe's gaze in different expressions. you had even managed to capture his look when he was in love with you.

so, you hoped that this evening he would come, that he had accepted your invitation, that your letter had arrived safely at its destination. you had received so many compliments but none had made you happy, none had managed to really make you smile, even those from your boyfriend who you had found in the hallway kissing someone else.

you didn't even cry because you knew it. it was just more horrible to see him in real life because he looked so happy.

“get out of here.” you reacted without even shouting.

“baby wait, I can explain everything….”

"explain what to me? your explanations are stuffed in this girl's mouth right now."

"I'm not going to leave." he replied.

“ oh yes you will leave. and if I see a single tear on her face, surely not alive. but yea, dare you to stay.” a cold voice growled and warned behind your back that you recognized it by heart.

you turned to admire rafe who stood in front of you, still just as handsome, and above all taller. you wanted to be a pure and shed tears just to see your ex-boyfriend suffer but you were too busy rejoicing in rafe's presence.

“Who are you?” your ex-boyfriend replied.

"oh if I told you, I think it would break your heart but you don't seem to have one so I'll be honest. I'm definitely the only boy she likes. i'm sorry if she made you think that she has something for you. but believe me, will be nothing contrary to what i will do to you if your ass is still here in those free seconds i let you run.. "

“raf…”

he shushed you with his mouth. "You'll have your moment, but wait. this is a conversation for boys, and unless you're hiding a dick between your legs, you're not in."

you smiled at his stupidity. the two boys had gone out, and Rafe had returned a few minutes later.

“Oh my god, you didn’t cry,” you teased him gently about his whiny past, clapping your hands.

“Was I crying that much?”

“Like a baby.”

"but I have changed...and..."

you felt like the words were really struggling to come out. his voice was blocked and he didn't look you in the eye. he scratched the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. I was totally stupid."

“apology accepted.”

“does that mean I have the right to a kiss?”

When you were little, you always gave Rafe a kiss on the cheek when he apologized. the memory made you smile tenderly.

you stood on your tiptoes to reach his lips with your mouth, and he lifted you by your ass to help you.

“you were always mine, baby. even when you left, even when he was here.”

“ because it’s as much to love you as to hate you, rafe cameron.”

“Is that why you dedicated this entire exhibition to me? I’m flattered.”

“you didn’t leave my head even though you left my life.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you either. and I still think of you now. "

“ah yes? and what do your thoughts say about me?”

"that I finally have the girl I've always waited for. and that I still want her just as much."

"How about you show me how much...I mean...not with your lips, big boy. It's time to show me how much you've grown.”

you had gone to his hotel room after the party. he had accompanied you during the rest of the event, never taking his eyes off you as if he was afraid of losing you again. he even felt himself tighten his arm around your waist. he didn't keep his hands in his pocket, because you were there. and above all that you finally loved him.

it was beautiful. you had been the first person rafe cameron had loved, the first person he had broken his heart, and also, the first person who had loved him. you were destined to each others.

in his room, you were surprised to see how gentle he was with you, that he had softly placed your body on his sheets like a princess. he took off his t-shirt and you salivated just seeing his muscular chest, his arms turned into huge biceps, his flat stomach turned into voluminous abs with a magnificent v-line. “ It seems like you worked hard to please me. ”

“ oh babe, don't waste your drool on yourself when you can literally splash it on my dick. but maybe my girl wanted it dry”

“ you're really big now. ”

“ wait, something bigger is coming at you. ”

you were in love with the way your boy had become a man. you were proud of him, you undid his belt, and pulled him by the leather of the accessory before sliding it down and wrapping it around his neck to push him towards you and kiss him again. rafe was so desperate for you, he was hard in his pants to the point where it was painful, and even his tongue against yours was lost in a messy burst of both of you saliva.

he had spread your legs, and removed his pants, before pulling you against him by the thighs to bring you back against his hips.

“spit.” he held out his hand to let you spit on his palm and coated his hard cock with your drool, using your saliva as some kind of lube.

he started touching himself quickly, slowing up and down, a tight grip around his veiny and rocking length. you placed your fingers against his to accompany him in his movements, while devouring him with your eyes.

“fuck, you’re too good for me.”

“so make me as bad as you.” you responded by separating the two lips of your cunt with your fingers to show him the way. “fuck me. now.”

“did you have sex with him?”

“no…” you admitted shyly. “I’m still a virgin. Does that bother you?”

“I’ve already had sex, does that bother you?”

"no, because I'm sure you've never been able to cum without thinking about me. You're so obsessed with me.”

he pushed his leaking and wet tip against your soaked folds, rubbing himself lightly on them. “can I ?”

“oh rafe, it's only if you don’t do it that we’re going to have a problem.” you laughed gently.

and it didn't take more for him to split your pussy with his throbbing dick to startly making his way inside you. he had done it gently, partly because he didn't want to hurt you, but because you were incredibly tight. he held your hands, before placing his lips on yours, and driving you crazy with slow thrusts, his hips gently bucking against yours.

his cock stretched you softly, moving back and forth and sliding inside your canal that surrounded every inch of his dick. once he felt your body relax, he fasted up the pace, your moans automatically becoming louder. you had never been fucked until now, but you understood now, why people liked it.

rafe was completely buried in you from his tip, to the pelvis which was slamming against your thighs and the mattress. he couldn’t be more in love with you. you were perfect.

he loved hearing your screams from across the room, knowing that he was the only one to make you moans like that. you were completely wet, and your dripping pussy helped him pound you quicker, and especially harder. he couldn't get enough of your face completely ruined by tears and pleasure, but especially of your walls squishing him until he felt his own stomach twitching by your trembling body sticking to his, the way your part convulsing around him as the strokes went deeper and deeper.

the bottom lip of your mouth was covered in your own saliva, your back arched against the sheets, and your entire body stimulated, spasms covering it, and forcing you to squirm in every direction.

his blue eyes were lost in your gaze. you didn’t know how but he always managed to go further, hitting every sensitive gummy and soaked spot only to ram it again.

you let out a muffled and depraved sound when his cock slammed into your insides all the way to your stomach. you threw your head back, completely losing control.

“I'm never going to stop and you never going to leave if you keep giving me those eyes. don't feel dizzy now, it's just the beginning. ” he blurted out as he continued to pound you, making your pussy dripping even more all over him, leaving him no choice but to speed up his movements to avoid any waste of your fluids. “ i really want to fuck you all the night. don't make that face, you made me wait for more than fucking ten years, it's just now so fair. ”

you had already had an orgasm, but his energy had doubled. you didn't know what time you stopped, but when you woke up, you were completely exhausted like your body had been used all night.

you wondered how different your relationship was going to be now, and if rafe was going to take responsibility for everything he did last night. you had too many questions, and not enough answers. you took a shower while waiting for him to wake up.

when you finally had the chance to have the famous conversation, you asked him. “do you regret it?”

"that you didn't let me do this way before? yes. for doing it last night? no. another question, babe?"

"yes. well, it's not a question. I don't really know how long I've loved you. I mean, you know the day you fell in love with me. whereas I realized that when I didn't stop painting your face I thought it was your absence but it was stronger than that. when we were young, we were dumb and clumsy. but thank you to let me come back because we finally found the right moment."

“you know very well that you never had to ask for anything to get everything you want from me. all is yours. ”

— tysm for reading 🫶🏿‼️

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gothcsz · 4 months ago

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Hands To Myself | Javier Peña x Black Latina F!Reader | ~4k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: You get to know the handsome stranger sitting next to you on your overnight flight to Mexico.

Tags: smut, reader is ovulating, hand job, fingering, dirty talk, lust at first sight again, sexual acts in public (on a plane), let's just pretend this is realistic okay, pwp, blowjob to completion, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, no physical descriptions, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: this is all @probablyreadinsmut's fault tbh. coming into my inbox with horny thoughts, knowing i have to do something about it 😩 hehe i hope you guys like this, it's nothing special... i just need this man in any way i can get him! let me know what you thinkkkkkk🖤

You knew you were fucked the second you saw him at the gate. He isn’t just attractive—he’s ridiculously attractive. The kind of hot that only exists in movies or in passing, like some guy you make eye contact with and never see again. Except this time, he wasn’t just passing through. He was standing right there.

To make matters worse, your hormones are out of control. Peak ovulation. Just being around a man has your skin buzzing, like your body is betraying you on a biological level.

So yeah, you looked. How could you not? He’s tall, has broad shoulders, leaner than what you usually go for but still built in a way that makes your brain short-circuit.

Then the universe really had to mess with you—you are assigned the seat right next to him for the overnight flight.

Your stomach drops. Suddenly, your go-to comfy travel outfit, leggings and a cardigan, feels way too basic.

“I’m at the window seat,” you say, trying to sound normal.

He looks up, meeting your gaze, and smiles—actually smiles. His brown eyes are warm and a little intrigued as he gives you a once over.

“Okay.”

Just that one word and you are already overthinking. How good his voice would sound in your ear as he’s—

No, you won’t make things harder on yourself by having intrusive sexual thoughts about some stranger. No matter how good looking he is.

You shove your carry-on into the overhead bin and awkwardly step aside so he can stand and let you in. His body brushes against yours, and you get a whiff of his cologne, something woodsy, mixed with the unmistakable scent of whiskey from the airport bar.

Okay… so maybe you’d been watching him for longer than just at the gate. But who could blame you? The man is truly a sight to behold. It’s not like you were being a creep about it.

You mutter a soft “thanks” and sink into your seat, trying very hard to act normal while the flight attendants go through their safety spiel, though it’s hard to focus when you can feel his presence right next to you.

You need a distraction—fast. So, in a last-ditch effort to stop acting like a feral idiot, you pluck your book from your backpack and try to read.

It works, kind of. Not really.

“So, what’s waiting for you in Playa del Carmen?”

His voice, low and raspy, cuts through your attempt at reading—not that you’d absorbed a single word, still stuck on the same page since you opened it.

You glance over, and of course, he’s already looking at you. His leather jacket is gone, leaving him in a short sleeved button-down, a few undone buttons teasing the tanned skin of his neck, his thick biceps straining against the fabric.

You take too long to answer because he tilts his head slightly, lips twitching like he’s holding back a smirk. “Sorry—abrupt fuckin’ question.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” You stumble over your words, mentally cringing at yourself. His brows raise slightly, amused, and you don’t miss the way his mustache tics when he presses his lips together.

“A friend’s birthday trip. I got caught up at work, so I had to take a later flight at the last minute. What about you?”

He hums, the sound deep and thoughtful. “Work.” That’s all he offers. “Not as fun as what you’ll be getting up to, I’m sure.”

You bite your lip, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your book. “I’ve heard the beaches are beautiful. I’m excited to just lounge and take in the sun. It’s been so long since I’ve gone on a proper vacation.”

Your tongue is loose despite the way you’re vibrating under the weight of his attention.

“I know that feeling. Don’t even think my body knows what a vacation is…” He trails off, leaning back in his seat, thighs spreading in that way men do, which you usually find annoying but something about the way he does it has your pussy clenching, and you try no to let your eyes drop down to his crotch.

“How’s the book?”

You blink slowly, returning your attention to the paperback in your hand. “Got a slow start but so far it’s been alright.”

“I bet. You’ve been stuck on the same page since we took off. Must be the most riveting paragraph ever written.”

Heat creeps up your neck, and if it were anybody else, you’d be weirded out by their observation. Being hot does have its privileges. “Maybe I just like rereading. Really taking in the point the author is trying to make.”

“Uh-huh, right…” He chuckles softly and that sound triggers the desire that seeps into every pore of your skin.

The conversation continues flowing thereafter, which you definitely did not expect. His name is Javier, and he’s constantly traveling for work—though he’s vague on the details, and you’re not about to grill a stranger for his life story.

Instead, the topics meander, easy and flirtatious, both of you toeing the line between casual and something else.

You swear he’s flirting. He leans in slightly when you speak, holds your eyes captive just a beat too long, like he’s in no rush to look away.

You’re noticing everything the deeper you get into this… thing. The way lips form around each word, full and obnoxiously kissable. The way his brown eyes glint when he talks about things that should be trivial but feel interesting because he’s the one saying them. How the tendons in his forearms flex whenever he gestures, his fingers long and strong, the kind of hands that could make a woman very happy.

Your horny brain is spiraling.

“A mango marg is my go to. Preferably one of those ridiculously oversized ones with sugar on the rim.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You arch a brow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He scratches his jaw, flicking his tongue over his teeth. You admire how chiseled his jaw is. “Means you like to have fun. You probably get away with a lot.”

“And you think I get away with things?”

His eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second. “I think you could, if you wanted to.”

You cross your legs, shifting in your seat like that’s going to help anything. It just makes it worse. Focus. He’s just a hot stranger. A hot stranger that smells like whiskey and cedarwood and keeps throwing you these amused little glances like he knows what the fuck he’s doing to you.

You should probably end this before you embarrass yourself. But instead, you just keep talking, keep flirting, and keep waiting to see just how far this can go.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Javier’s voice snaps you back to reality, and you blink, heat settling on your cheeks as your brain scrambles to catch up.

“Sorry, what?”

His lips curve slightly like he’s fighting a grin, but his eyes give him away. “You keep staring at my mouth…” He trails off, but there’s something in the way he says it. As if he’s caught you red-handed and is enjoying watching you squirm.

Your stomach clenches. Your thighs press together on instinct.

Fuck.

Panic surges through you, and suddenly, the cabin feels way too small, the air too thick. “No, uh—there’s nothing there. I just… I zone out sometimes.” You clear your throat, fingers fumbling with your seatbelt. “Would you mind letting me get to the restroom?”

You sound as pathetic as you feel, but Javier doesn’t let up. His smirk stays put, eyes flicking over your face like he’s contemplating something.

Still, he nods. “Sure.”

He stands, stepping aside, and as you squeeze past him, his hand just barely grazes your lower back. Light enough to be innocent, intentional enough to send a full-body shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, pretending not to notice—pretending not to feel the slick heat between your legs pulse at the contact—and walk as casually as possible down the aisle.

The moment you lock the restroom door behind you, you press your palms against the tiny counter, breathing hard.

Your reflection stares back at you, pupils blown, lips parted like you just stumbled out of a damn makeout session.

You’re hot. Turned on from nothing but a little eye contact and some shameless flirting. And the worst part? It’s not going away anytime soon. Especially since you’re sitting so fucking close to him. Your body is wound tight, aching at the worst possible time.

Your panties are soaked, borderline ruined, pussy crying to get some relief, and you actually consider slipping a hand down there and rubbing one out. But you know yourself. Getting off with your fingers is a slow, frustrating process, and the last thing you need is to be locked in an airplane restroom, chasing an orgasm while Javier is sitting just outside, existing like that.

So you suck it up. Splash some cool water on your face. Take a deep breath. Get it together.

When you step back into the aisle, he’s already standing, leaning casually against the row of seats as if his demeanor and charm aren’t totally putting you under his spell. He looks even better now than he did before you left.

You give him a tight-lipped, awkward smile as you slide back into your seat. He follows, sinking into his own with a quiet grunt, the sound low and rough enough to send another spark of pleasure straight to your cunt.

“Everything good?” He asks smoothly, but there’s an undercurrent of playfulness to it, like he already knows the answer.

You force your legs to stay still, clenching your thighs subtly as you nod.

“Mhm.”

He hums. “You don’t have to lie, you know.”

Your eyes snap up to his, heartbeat hammering. “What?”

“I know when a woman’s turned on. And you haven’t exactly been subtle about it.”

Your stomach drops, your whole body flooding with embarrassment. “That’s ridiculous—”

“Nothin’ to be embarrassed about.” He shrugs. “Been thinkin’ about how good your ass looks in those leggings since I saw you back at the airport.”

Oh, you’re so fucked.

Your breath stutters, fingers gripping the armrest as if that’ll do anything to ground you. Maybe this is a dream, it has to be. No way he’s reciprocating the horny vibes you’ve been exuding because of your damn ovulation cycle.

“Javier…” His name falls from your lips, shaky, uncertain.

His expression doesn’t change—still cool, still lazy, but there’s a darkness to it now. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything…” His knuckles graze your thigh, featherlight, making you shiver before he pulls away. “But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I’m not attracted to you.”

You lick your lips, watching the way he follows the movement, how his hand balls into a fist against his leg. The cabin is dim now, most passengers lost in their own worlds or asleep, and the seats around you are conveniently unoccupied. The flight attendants have finished their last walkthrough, leaving you tucked away in a private little pocket of space.

Your pulse thrums, a decision forming in the haze of arousal clouding your mind. “What if…” You hesitate, but then let the thought take control, logic be damned. “What if I wanted to do something?”

Javier’s brows lift slightly, intrigue flashing across his face. The shift is instant—his relaxed posture stiffens, his jaw ticks, and his eyes dip just slightly as if assessing exactly how far you’re willing to go.

You’re barely breathing as he lifts the armrest between you, his body pressing in tight, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. You almost pass out.

“Yeah?” His voice is nothing but a whisper, matching the lust that’s thrumming in your veins. “Like what?”

The warmth of his breath has you letting out a soft, involuntary whimper.

“Anything,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, the need unbearable. “I just need you to touch me.”

Javi exhales a low, quiet laugh through his nose, and you can feel his smirk against your skin. His lips ghost along the side of your jaw, teasing, taunting.

“I can do that.” His fingers then trail up your thigh agonizingly slow, stopping just at the hem of your leggings. “Just need you to keep quiet.”

You nod weakly, head tipping back against the seat as his mouth finds your neck. He starts slow, pressing soft kisses along the sensitive skin before sucking lightly, dragging his teeth over your pulse. You resist the urge to squirm as his large palm moves up your body, fingertips teasing along the curve of your breast over your top.

Your nipples tighten instantly, and when he pinches one between his fingers, both of you let out a quiet groan.

“So sensitive. You need more?”

You bite your lip, nodding desperately again. “Yes.”

His hand slips beneath your shirt and finally—rough fingertips meet your bare skin. He palms your breast, kneading, tugging at your nipple, sending sharp little sparks of pleasure straight to your pussy.

You shift, desperately trying to find any friction. Your horniness is maddening and he knows it.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs against your jaw, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. “So worked up already. Bet you’re soaked.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and you whimper, hips rolling ever so slightly.

Javier groans at the movement, shifting even closer, his thigh pressing against yours as he works your tits over with a practiced hand.

His lips move up to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, eyes locking with his for a brief moment before you both give in—lips crashing together, mouths desperate and hungry.

He can kiss.

His tongue slides against yours, tasting and exploring. The fingers at your breast keep working, rolling your nipple between his fingers, twisting just enough to make you gasp against his lips.

“Javi…” His name is exhaled breathlessly. “More. Please.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Yeah?” Leaving your tits, he moves down between your legs and you spread your thighs, giving him enough room to begin rubbing you over your leggings.

You let out a sharp gasp, back arching slightly. The pressure has you melting, chasing the touch you so desperately need.

Javier watches you, drinking in the slight furrow of your brow, how your lips purse. “Goddamn.” He can’t help but nip at your lower lip, gripping your thigh with his other hand as he grinds a little harder against your pussy. “You soaked right through these.”

Your fingers dig into his forearm, the teasing unbearable.

“You’re so—” You shudder, exhaling shakily and he’s living for it. “You’re so fucking hot, I couldn’t help it.”

“I could probably make you come just like this, huh? Needy little thing needs her pussy played with so bad, she’s whoring herself out on a fuckin’ plane just to get an orgasm.”

Your jaw hangs open at his filthy words.

Javier is clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. His fingers keep moving, slow and firm, while your hand drifts down, pressing against the hardness straining beneath his jeans. Even through the thick denim, he’s big, and when you squeeze just slightly, his hips jerk into your palm.

He groans into the kiss you’re sharing, enjoying your touch. “This is risky, you sure?”

You nod, struggling to think through the fog of lust clouding your mind. “I don’t care.”

That’s all it takes.

He pulls back, just enough for both of you to move quickly. You shrug off your cardigan, tucking it beneath you before slipping your leggings and panties down to your mid thigh. You’re not about to put your bare ass on this plane seat.

He unbuckles his belt, freeing himself from his jeans, and holy shit.

Your mouth goes dry. He’s thick, a swollen, flushed cock with a prominent vein running down the side, curving just enough to make your walls flutter at the thought of him fucking your cunt.

Javi catches your lingering gaze and smirks. “You just gonna look, or—?”

You drag your tongue across your palm before wrapping it around his leaking cock, your touch making him shudder. Slowly, you stroke him, spreading the precum with your thumb, gliding it over the sensitive head before giving a firm squeeze, earning a growl from deep in his chest.

His fingers slip between your thighs, spreading your pussy lips open, and he wastes no time in teasing your sensitive labia, dragging his touch up and down attentively.

You moan quietly as to not get yourself caught. He groans at the feeling of you, slick and hot, his digits smearing your arousal all over your pretty pussy before pressing against your swollen clit.

“If we weren’t on this goddamn plane I’d fuck the shit out of you.”

You can’t hold back your soft whine, your head tilting back, wrist still moving, his own fingers working magic between your thighs.

“How? Please Javi tell me how you’d fuck me.”

He buries his head into your neck, licking, biting, sucking at your skin, his thick fingers now breaching the mouth of your cunt.

It’s pure bliss—the stretch so much deeper, fuller than your own fingers ever manage. His thick digits work you open, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you. The way he drags against your inner walls has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, but it’s the relentless pressure on your fleshy pearl that wrecks you, erasing every thought but him.

“I’d have you spread out, my head buried between your legs, fucking you with my tongue until you’re wet enough to take this big cock.” His hips grind into your jerking palm to emphasize his point.

You can only imagine how his wet tongue would feel up against your flesh, tasting every crevice, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you.

“Probably start over you, wanna see that pretty face while I slide inside this tight pussy baby, fuck,” he groans, fingers now knuckles deep inside your cunt and you moan, slipping into this fantasy with him, imagining how good it’d feel to have his dick stretching you out.

“Not really a missionary girl but I know you’d make me feel good, Javi.”

His thumb is slick with your sticky wetness, allowing him to swirl your clit around, massaging it and making your pussy drool even more. Your nipples are hardened and oversensitive, adding to the bliss when they brush against the fabric of your shirt with every deep inhale and exhale you take.

Javi’s fingers begin to thrust into you more earnestly, the soft squelch of your pussy getting finger fucked thankfully drowned out by the hum of the plane. “How would you want it then? Tell me how you’d take it.”

Another bead of precum dollops from his slit and your mouth waters, picking up the pace to match the stroking of his fingers inside you.

“On top. I’d bounce on your cock until you’re filling me up. Put my tits in your face, make you suck on them.”

A thin sheen of sweat clings to your temples, the heat of his kisses still lingering on your neck making your temperature spike like a fever you don’t want to break.

Javier gets desperate, leaning in to put his lips on yours, imagining the way your pussy would feel while you rode him. You clench around his fingers, your orgasm on the brink of making a mess all over his hand.

“You’d let me come inside you?” His voice is a husky murmur, almost taunting, laden with lust as he cups your jaw with his other hand before sliding lower, wrapping firmly around your throat. Not squeezing, just holding, keeping you in place as he curls his fingers, brazen eyes boring into yours.

Your breath stutters as ecstacy coils impossibly tight. “Mhm,” you nod weakly, tears welling in your eyes from how good it all feels.

A wicked smirk spreads across his lips, his grip keeping you steady as he drags you closer. “Naughty girl,” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ love that.”

His lips crash against yours again, swallowing your cries as his fingers work you harder, scissoring inside you, his fat thumb flicking your clit rapidly.

It sends you tumbling over the edge, your entire body clenches, muscles locking as waves of pleasure ripple through you, your release coating his fingers while you moan into his mouth, trying to keep quiet, trying not to let the whole damn plane know what he’s doing to you.

Your grip on his cock tightens but you lose your rhythm as he lets you ride out your orgasm, whispering praises against your lips, not seeming bothered by the lack of attention at his shaft.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you attempt to catch your breath, blinking away the stars clouding your vision while he pulls his fingers out, a sticky web following.

Javier lifts his fingers between you, still slick with your release, dark eyes flicking to yours as he takes in the scent of your pussy before he’s licking at them, using the hold he still has on your neck to bring you in so you’re both making out with his wet fingers between the two of you, your tongue moving sinfully, getting lost in the act.

You break away when his fingers are licked clean, attempting to catch your breath. After regaining some control, you continue to work his cock, urging him to slide into the unoccupied third seat by the aisle so you have room to take him in your mouth.

Javi blinks, caught off guard, dick twitching in your grasp as he registers what you’re suggesting.

“You sure?” His hands flex like he’s barely holding himself back.

“Yes. Don’t want to make a mess, right? Just make sure no one’s looking.” You purr, pulling your legging and underwear back up before shifting your body and bending over to lick at his tip, circling around his head before you’re taking as much as you can into your mouth.

The positioning is a little cramped and awkward, but you don’t care. He tastes so good, feels even better on your tongue. The blood is roaring in your ears, you can’t even hear any of the quieted noises you’re pulling from him but you do feel his hand landing on the back of your neck and he pushes you further down, forcing you to take almost the entirety of his cock down your throat.

You fondle his balls, sucking in your cheeks and bobbing up and down quickly. His stomach tightens and before you know it, ropes of warm and salty cum are filling your mouth, his fingers digging into your skin. You moan around him, slurping him up before pulling away with a soft pop, wiping at the corners of your mouth where the fluids had smeared.

He looks just as wrecked as you had when you came, his cheeks a little pink, eyes dilated, breathing heavily. He exhales a quiet, breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair before tucking himself back into his pants, watching you with something dangerously close to admiration.

You lean in, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his lips, returning the favor and letting him taste the last traces of himself.

“Where are you staying? This can’t be the last time I see you.”

You tell him the name of the resort, watching as that familiar cocky smirk creeps back onto his face.

“Okay,” he murmurs, mind already made up. “Can’t let you walk away after that. Pussy’s too good. Hope your friends don’t mind me stealing you for a night or two.”

He caresses your cheek and you melt into him, resting your chin on his shoulder, staring up at him with starry eyes. You already know you’re going to get the lecturing of your life once you disclose what just transpired to your homegirls.

“They will. Maybe I should extend my stay just a little longer…” Your fingers fidget with the buttons on his shirt.

“I’ll pay for it. Anything to see you again.”

Oh god, is this irresponsible of you? Probably. But you’re not thinking with your brain right now, no, you’re straight up thinking with your pussy.

“Deal.”

@almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories . @greenwitchfromthewoods . @maiamore . @pedrohoe04 . @natalieispunk . @thewisesalmon . @bitchesuntitled . @puddles221b . @swankyorange . @bbyanarchist . @thottiewinemom . @heyhihello-4771 . @persephone-girl . @danaehldy . @sunflowerfive . @libre-sol . @harriedandharassed . @untamedheart81 . @moel-jiller . @honeyedmiller . @alexxavicry . @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff . @almodovarispunk . @southernbe . @readingiskeepingmegoing . @pedrito-is-punk7. @mandaloriankait . @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 . @lover-of-books-and-tea . @mysterious-moonstruck-musings . @almostfoxglove . @thundermartini . @pigeonmama . @piercethevic03 . @marisemonteiroo . @picketniffler . @getitoutofmymindwrites . @clubsoft . @bunniboo0015 . @kirsteng42 . @ivuravix . @joelmillerisapunk . @theestorm . @pasc4lfuzz . @manuymesut . @biapascal . @angiewatson .

#javier peña smut #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña fanfic #javier peña fic #javier peña fanfiction #kat's writing.

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