Thinking about being pressed up against Pope Cody and he’s so hard and warm and huge and ughhhh
He’s got you prone bone, hard tummy and pecs pressed flat against your back, a layer of slick sweat between your bodies. His forearms are locked on the mattress, caging your head between them. All you have to do is tilt your face slightly to suck on the hot, sticky sweet skin of his freckled arm.
His lips ghost the shell of your ear, letting out needy, breathy moans. His tongue darts out to tease your earlobe before he nibbles on it, continuing to pound his cock into you.
“Oh fuck, Pope. I need more, I need—” you let out a strangled moan, struggling to vocalize what your body wants from his.
“Words, baby. You gotta tell me,” he growls, thrusts never faltering.
“Closer, I need you closer,” you cry.
“I’m right here, I’m right on you baby,” he coos, trying to push his weight further into your backside.
“I need more,” you moan, bringing your hands up to grip onto his arms, desperate.
“Shit, okay. Lift your head up.”
You comply, pushing yourself up off the mattress just enough for Pope to snake his arm around your neck, holding your head up with his bicep. He flexes his muscles, causing your vision to blur slightly from the pressure at your throat.
The sensation of him choking you with his arm combined with the weight of him flush against your back as he ruts himself in and out of you has your walls clenching around his thick cock, pleasure flooding between your legs.
Pope’s orgasm follows close behind yours, warm ropes of cum filling you up as you’re still coming down from your high.
He sucks hot, wet kisses against the back of your neck, his breath fanning across the sensitive skin there.
You relish in the feeling of his body weight still pressed into you as he releases his hold around your neck. All fucked out, he’s practically crushing you with his muscular frame, your own makeshift weighed blanket … <3
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, two people being dumbasses
word count: 9.8k
a/n: surprise—you get it one day earlier!! thank you all for still keeping up with this series and interacting!! your comments are the best part of my day <33 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow the diagnosis: married? masterlist and turn on notifications instead <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
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It takes a good half hour before you're able to catch your breath enough to speak. By the time you finally reach for your phone, your lungs are aching from sobbing, your eyes are swollen, and your whole face feels hot and tight. The t-shirt you had under your scrubs is drenched from the number of times you've lifted it to dry your eyes.
Your hands shake so badly that it takes two attempts to tap Olivia's name. As the phone rings, your fingers twist into the duvet, trying to steady yourself.
"Hey, what's up?" Olivia answers, her voice warm but laced with concern. It's not like you to call without warning, and especially not at this hour. "What's wrong?"
You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, a shaky breath escapes you, followed by another. Olivia waits patiently through the silence.
"What happened?" she asks gently after a moment.
You press your lips together, trying to compose yourself, but your voice still cracks when you finally speak. "I'm so stupid."
"What?" she says immediately. "No, you’re not."
A sharp laugh escapes you. You wipe roughly at your face, trying to force the tears in again. "You don’t even know what I’m talking about."
"I don't need to," Olivia insists. "You're not stupid."
"I'm not too sure about that." You shake your head even though she can't see it, then stare blankly at the wall. "I was wrong. He doesn't—he doesn't love me, Liv."
The words tumble out, broken and raw, now that you've begun.
"He doesn't even want me. He was just—" Your voice catches. "He was just being nice, and I turned into something more. Something it wasn't."
"Okay, hold on. Why do you think that?"
"Because I saw it."
"Saw what?"
"The way he looks at her," you shrug. "The way he talks to her. He’s so gentle with her, Liv." Your breath shudders as you remember how Jack looked at Lily. The fear in his eyes. The anger when it had been directed at you. "And here I was, thinking he looked at me like that when he doesn't. Hasn't ever." You rub your eyes harshly. "God, I'm such a fool."
Olivia is quiet for a second, trying to keep up. "Okay, who are we talking about?"
You let out a bitter laugh. "Lily—she's one of the nurses."
"So... You think Jack is in love with Lily?" Olivia doesn't have to speak her disbelief aloud; it saturates her every word. But she hasn't seen what you have.
"I know it."
"You do not know that," she counters firmly.
"Yes, I do!" you snap, sitting up as if anger might help hold you together. "I saw how he was with her."
"What did you actually see?" she presses.
"Why? So you can explain why I’m overreacting? I'm not overreacting!"
Olivia sighs softly on the other end. "I'm trying to understand what happened," she says gently.
"Lily got hurt, and he looked terrified. He was just—he was so careful with her. And so angry with me because he thought I made it worse."
"And that means he’s in love with her?"
"Yes!" The word bursts out too quickly, too loudly. You pull your knees to your chest, trying to hold yourself together.
"Okay," she says. "But people look scared when someone gets hurt. That doesn’t mean they’re in love."
You let out a hollow laugh that breaks into a half-sob. "You don’t understand. It's not just that."
"Then help me understand," she says. "Because the last time I saw him, he was completely smitten with you."
"Well, you were wrong about that. Because it was never me." Your voice breaks on the last word. "I thought all those little moments meant something, but they really didn’t. I thought..." you swallow. "Never mind what I thought. He asks about her. He laughs with her. He likes her. "
You can hear Olivia shift her position, thinking her words through before she speaks again. "Did Jack ever tell you he has feelings for her?"
"...No."
"Did he tell you he doesn’t want you?"
"...No."
"Then why are you acting like this is a fact?"
"Because she’s everything I’m not," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "She’s calm, and kind, and easy to be around. She isn’t trouble, she isn’t messy—she doesn’t complicate everything."
"Honey—"
"And I do," you continue, your voice cracking more with each word. "I make everything harder."
"No, you don't—"
"God, I’m so embarrassed." Your breathing comes out in uneven bursts. "I was crawling into his bed every night, Liv. Every night. And he never even asked me to. I thought he wanted me there, but he was probably just too nice to tell me to stop."
"That is not what this sounds like," Olivia says.
Your voice sharpens. "Then what does it sound like?"
She sighs. "It sounds like you’re hurt and jumping to conclusions. People don't share that kind of space with someone they don't want."
You let out a scoff. "Of course you’d say that."
"Because I know you," Olivia says gently. "And because nothing you’re telling me proves that he doesn’t care about you."
Your eyes fill with tears again, your anger deflating. "He doesn’t care the way I care."
"You don't know that."
"Yes," you reply. "I do."
"Hey, listen to me," Olivia says, her voice growing firmer. "You’re scared, so you’re turning your worst fear into the truth."
Deep down, you know she might be right. But the other part—the louder part—keeps replaying Jack’s face and the panic in his eyes and the tenderness in his hands as he cradled Lily's face.
"I can’t do this," you whisper. "I can’t stay there and pretend I’m okay while he falls in love with someone else."
"Honey—"
Your lips quiver. "And the worst part is, I still want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me. I just don't know if I'm strong enough to pretend that I don't care."
Olivia shifts on the other end, but you continue before she can speak.
"Robby asked me to move to the day shift temporarily, but maybe I'll see if I can stay there permanently."
"He did what?" Olivia's voice sharpens instantly. "Are you serious?" She lets out an irritated breath. "Never mind. Let's hold off on any big decisions right now. You need some sleep, and then we can revisit this tomorrow, okay?"
You bit the inside of your cheek instead of answering. "I wish you were here," you whisper.
"Me too," Olivia replies. "But I’m just a phone call away. Everything will be alright, and I need you to promise me you won’t make any decisions today."
You let out a shaky breath. "I’m not sure."
"Promise me."
You squeeze your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. "…Okay."
"Good," she says softly. "I promise it’ll be fine," she adds. "And I never break my promises. You know that. I still can’t look at pictures from my first year in college—pink hair really didn’t suit me."
You laugh, even though it’s a shaky sound. But it’s a laugh, nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you soon." You sniffle, wiping your eyes. "Love you."
"Love you more," she says.
The call ends, and the room feels unbearably quiet. You curl tighter around yourself beneath the blankets, staring into the dark. No matter what Olivia says, you know what you saw. You know what it meant.
You're still not asleep when footsteps sound outside the door, but you don't rise from the bed. You won't disturb him anymore because Jack doesn't belong to you any more now than he did when this all started.
Jack walks through the front door nearly three hours later than he was supposed to. Day shift had been short a resident, and when the replacement called to say they were running late, Jack stayed behind to help. A thing he never should have said yes to, because half an hour in, they were slammed with multiple traumas.
And as he moved through them, fully present as he answered questions and guided residents, in the breaks in between, his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Home. With you.
Because the whole shift, one recurring thought had weighed heavily on his chest, a weight that made it harder to breathe: he had hurt you.
You'd assured him it was fine. Had looked him in the eye and said it was over, that it had just been the heat of the moment. But Jack knew better. He knew the difference between your real smile and the thin, careful one you’d given him outside the ambulance bay. He hated that he was the reason for it.
He'd replayed that scene over and over again; you throwing yourself at danger without any fear, how that patient had lunged at you, the violent rush of panic that shot through him when he realised just how close that first had come to your face, and the subsequent relief when you were okay.
A relief so sharp it had made him feel sick. Because the ugly truth was that for that split second, all he could think was: thank god it wasn’t you in that headlock. Lily had been hurt—she had bruises forming around her throat, was coughing and shaken, and needed care—and all Jack could feel was sheer, overwhelming relief that it wasn’t you.
The guilt of that still sat bitter in his stomach.
Then that fear—that sick, helpless fear—had spiralled into anger before he could rein it in. Anger was easier. Easier than admitting his hands had been trembling. Easier than saying: I thought I was about to watch you get hurt, and it would have shattered me.
So instead of telling you how proud he was—how fearless you had been, how quickly you had moved, how you had stepped in without hesitation to protect someone—he snapped at you. Scolded you in front of everyone. He had made you feel reckless. He had made you feel small. And worst of all, he had called you trouble.
The word still echoes in his mind as he drives home, hands tight on the wheel. He'd usually say it in a soft tone to tease you, but it was always fond, never cruel. But tonight, he had thrown it at you like an accusation.
And he hates that. Because you are trouble. But never in the way he’d made it sound. You were trouble because you had somehow made his world rearrange itself around you. Because his pulse spiked when you were close. Because his whole body knew the difference between you and everyone else. Because the idea of losing you hollowed him out.
That was what he’d meant. Not that you were a burden or difficult to deal with. Not that you were something to endure. But the moment the word left his mouth, all that tenderness had turned into something sharp enough to wound you.
Now all he could think about was getting home to you and making things right. He would apologise again. Hell, he’d even beg if that’s what it took. He’d sit on the edge of his bed and tell you exactly what he should’ve expressed in the hallway—that he’d been terrified, that none of it was your fault, that seeing you throw yourself into danger scared him to his core.
He’d tell you he was so sorry. He’d tell you he never intended to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.
But by the time he gets home, the house is dark and quiet. He glances automatically down the hallway. Your door is shut, not cracked open the way it usually is. Jack pauses for half a second, staring at it. Then he tells himself not to read into it. You could still be waiting for him like usual.
He makes a point of stepping down as he walks past your room, letting his feet hit the floor harder than necessary. He waits a second, ears straining, but he hears nothing. Not yet. So he heads to the shower, washing the hospital smell off as fast as he can. Afterwards, he climbs into bed and leaves the bedside lamp on. And then he waits.
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Jack glances at the clock. Still nothing. He tells himself you're probably coming soon. Twenty minutes slip by. He reaches for his phone, checks it, then sets it back down. Thirty minutes pass. For one reckless second, he thinks about going to your door—knocking softly, apologising half asleep if he has to. But the thought of waking you, of asking for comfort after being the one who hurt you, keeps him rooted where he is.
He stares at the doorway, the bedside lamp still casting warm light across the empty room, but the sheets beside him stay untouched. There's no soft knock at the door, no sleepy smile, no weight dipping the mattress beside him. Slowly, the awful reality settles over him. You’re not coming tonight.
He sits there for another few minutes anyway, staring at the doorway like he can will you to appear. Maybe you’re asleep already. Maybe you were too tired after the shift to wait for him.
No matter how much he tries to explain it, he just can't shake that awful feeling. And for the first time in weeks, Jack falls asleep alone. Or he tries to.
Jack wakes with an ache in his limbs that he hasn't felt in a long time. But he doesn't have to wonder why, not when he's spent most of the day thinking rather than sleeping. The few hours of broken sleep that he had got weren't enough to dull the pain.
He stares at the ceiling for another minute and then pushes himself upright. He can still fix this. So he dresses and slips out of the house quietly.
The flowers are impulsive. He sees them outside the grocery store—soft pink and white tulips wrapped in brown paper—and buys them without thinking about it too long. Because they feel like something, something that says I'm sorry better than words might.
He's never been good at words.
Then he grabs breakfast. Coffee for both of you. Pancakes and eggs—the kind of breakfast you love on lazy mornings.
He balances everything awkwardly as he lets himself back into the house, feeling insanely nervous. He tells himself not to be. It was just an argument. People have arguments all the time. He’s just apologising. And yet his pulse picks up when he walks down the hallway toward your room.
He knocks softly, waiting for you to answer before he pushes the door open with his shoulder. You're sitting up in bed, wrapped in the blankets, the room dim except for the afternoon light leaking through the slightly opened curtains.
You turn your head to look at him, and for a moment, relief eases the tightness in his chest—until he sees your face and how puffy your eyes look. A rush of guilt overtakes it so fast it almost hurts and makes the knot even tighter than it was before.
"Hey," he says quietly, watching you carefully.
You glance at the flowers, then at the food, and a small smile graces your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "Wow," you say. "What’s all this?"
Jack steps inside, carefully setting everything on the bedside table. "Peace offering," he tries to smile at you, but it falls flat.
"You didn’t have to do that," you say.
He shrugs, holding out the flowers to you instead of answering.
You take them after a brief hesitation. "They’re beautiful."
Jack lingers at the edge of your bed for a second before sitting down cautiously. "I’m really sorry about last night."
You shake your head immediately. "It’s okay."
The words hit him wrong immediately—too quick, too flat, like you're trying to smooth over something that still hurts.
"No," he says firmly. "It’s not. I was out of line."
You look down at the flowers in your lap. "Jack—"
"I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."
You nod once, still avoiding his gaze. "Okay."
The word makes something twist painfully in his chest because that’s not like you. Usually, you’d argue with him. Tell him he was being a dick or tease him for spiralling. But now you’re just... accepting it.
For one brief second, he wonders if this is about more than last night—if something else is wrong—but guilt crushes the thought almost as soon as it appears. Of course, this is because of him. He did this.
He leans forward slightly, desperate for you to know, to see just how sorry he is. "I was scared," he admits.
That finally gets you to look up, but your expression remains unreadable. "I know."
"No, I mean it." His hands instinctively clasp together as he searches for the right words. He wants to hold yours instead, but he isn't sure you'd let him. "When that guy swung at you, I thought—" He exhales shakily. "I just lost it. That doesn’t excuse what I said, but I need you to know where it came from. Still, I’m really sorry."
You nod again. "I understand." Your voice is calm, and there's no anger or hurt on your face.
Jack studies you more intently now. "Did I make you cry?" he asks quietly. He already knows the answer to that. Can see it in your face. In how tears seem to bead at your waterline again. His hand twitches at his side, the urge to reach for you almost unbearable, but he stops himself.
Your shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. "No."
"Sweetheart—"
Before he can say more, you reach for the book on the bedside table, settling back against the pillows. "It’s fine, Jack," you say with your eyes fixed on the book rather than on him. "Really." You lift the book slightly. "I need to study."
The sound of paper rustling fills the silence between you.
Jack sits there for a moment, staring at the side of your face. He swallows. "I don’t want this to sit between us."
You shrug slightly, still not looking at him. "It’s not."
But it is. He can feel it—how your body is angled away from him, how you avoid his gaze, how the food sits untouched beside you. He wants to keep pushing—to ask what’s wrong, to make you talk to him, to somehow force the warmth back into the room—but the tension in your shoulders tells him that pressing further would only make things worse.
So instead, he nods once. "Okay."
You don’t answer.
He stands slowly. "Eat before it gets cold."
"I will."
You still don't look up at him. Jack hesitates by the door. Waiting, maybe, for you to call him back. For you to soften. For something. But your gaze stays fixed on the book.
So he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. It's only once he’s in the hallway that he lets out the breath he’s been holding. This feels worse than if you’d yelled at him, because at least anger would mean you were still letting him in.
But this carefulness, this distance—it’s unbearable, and he doesn't know how to fix it.
Later that evening, there's a warm and rich smell of garlic and spices drifting out from the kitchen, filling the house in a way that makes everything feel normal again.
Jack sits on the couch, watching you move around in the kitchen, the TV on low in the background. He'd offered his help, but you'd refused, pointing him towards the couch, telling him to relax before work. You'd pointed out that he was the one in scrubs and not you before he had a chance to argue otherwise. Even though you had rejected him, it had been said lightly with a shake of your head and a gentle 'I've got it', and it hadn't felt like you didn't want him there. The soft pat on his bicep had been the selling point that things might not be as bad as he thought earlier. Maybe you'd just needed a few hours alone for things to be good again.
He sinks deeper into the cushions, breathing out slowly as he listens to the familiar sounds of you in the kitchen—cabinets opening, a pan clinking against the stove, the low hum he doesn't think you even notice you make. It feels so normal that it almost makes him forget how tense everything had felt earlier.
You were okay now. You had to be. You’d even laughed at him. It was just a small thing he said—something he can’t even remember the exact words of now—but you'd laughed. That had to be good.
When you finally step back into the living room, it’s with two bowls in your hands. "Here," you say lightly, placing them on the coffee table.
Jack smiles. "Thank you."
You give him a quick, easy glance, and that simplicity settles him even more. It’s nothing like this morning—the book, the silence, the way you avoided meeting his eyes. This is good. This is you.
You disappear back into the kitchen before he can say anything else, and he watches you go for a moment longer than he means to.
You place a container on the kitchen island. "For later," you call out to him. "You’ll forget to eat otherwise."
"I don’t always forget," he retorts with a smirk.
"You do," you reply immediately, a slight smile tugging at your lips.
Jack grins more genuinely this time. "Okay, fair enough."
Leaning against the counter, arms loosely folded, you watch him now. There’s still something subtly different about you if he looks too closely—the way your smile fades the second he looks away, the way your arms stay folded like you’re holding something in. A softness that feels… a bit guarded. But it isn’t sharp. It isn’t pulling away. So he doesn’t question it, afraid to ruin it. Instead, he just nods toward the food. "You didn’t have to do all this."
"I know," you shrug, sliding onto the couch next to him. Your leg nearly brushes his. "Did you talk to Robby yesterday?"
"I did," he says, shovelling a bite into his mouth. "This is good," he points down at his bowl.
You don't answer that but shift in your seat instead, fixing him with a scrutinising gaze. "And?"
"And—nothing?"
"Nothing?"
"Yeah. Things were okay when I left," he says.
"Oh. Okay. Well... That's—that's good."
Your face falls slightly, but he isn't sure why. Maybe you were just reminded of yesterday again.
He hesitates, thumb tracing the edge of the bowl before he finally says, "Hey… about earlier—"
You cut in before he can finish. "It’s fine, Jack. Honestly." You're not dismissive, but you say it with a tone final enough to stop him from pushing.
You look at him, your voice softens, "You don’t need to keep apologising."
He studies your face longer than he should. You still look tired, a little too composed, but there’s no distance, nothing to suggest he should be concerned. So he nods. "Okay," he says quietly. "If you’re sure."
"I’m sure."
And when you smile at him after that—small but normal again—he lets himself believe it. Perhaps he had blown it out of proportion in his mind.
By the time he heads out the door, he lets himself believe the worst of it is over. That whatever had shifted this morning was already settling back into place.
"Hey brother," Robby claps his shoulder as he steps beside Jack at the hub as morning slowly seeps into the Pitt. "I’ve been meaning to catch you."
Jack glances up from the tablet in his hand. "That doesn’t sound promising."
Robby lets out a short breath, but there's clear tension behind it. "I wanted to tell you yesterday, but, you know—" His head tilts as he shrugs. "Yesterday kind of got away from us."
Jack nods as he sets the tablet down, giving him his full attention.
"Just hear me out before you—" Robby starts, hands lifted in the air.
But Jack’s attention catches on movement to his left—you in scrubs.
His entire body goes rigid. You were not supposed to be here until tonight. This ruins his plans to treat you to another breakfast—preferably eaten together this time.
Jack straightens slowly, his eyes fixed on you as he speaks to Robby. "Who called out?"
Robby follows his gaze and mutters, "Shit."
Jack turns back to him, his voice already edged. "Why is she here?"
Robby rubs the back of his neck. "Heather wanted to switch to nights."
Jack stares at him for one long second. "So you traded her."
"It’s temporary—"
"You switched her to days?" Jack cuts in, louder now. He feels like he's been dropped into an ice bath.
Robby glances around at the nurses and residents nearby who are pretending not to listen. "Keep your voice down."
Jack huffs, arms crossing tightly. "No, I don’t think I will. You moved her without even talking to me?"
"It was the easiest fix—"
"The easiest fix?" Jack steps closer, his voice dropping into something sharper. "Out of everyone on this floor, that was your solution?"
Robby lifts a hand. "Jack—"
"No." Jack’s jaw clenches. "Absolutely not. Put someone else on days."
Robby’s expression tightens. "I needed coverage."
"So take Ellis."
Robby shakes his head. "Ellis can't."
"Then Crus."
"Jack—"
"I said no." The words crack out of him hard enough that Dana's eyes flit over, eyebrows raising in shock. She's seen Jack angry before, but never like this.
Robby lowers his voice, trying to contain the situation. "I’m not doing this to piss you off."
"Then what the hell are you doing?" Jack snaps. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you decided to screw with the one thing in my life I didn’t ask you to touch."
Robby exhales slowly. "Heather needed nights. I needed someone for days. She made the most sense."
Jack’s laugh is bitter now. "She made sense?" He shakes his head. "You had half the damn residency list to choose from, and you picked her."
"Because she agreed," Robby lets slip, his own irritation flaring.
The words hit like a punch. Jack goes dead still. For a second, the anger leaves his face entirely, replaced by something else—something wounded. "...What?"
Robby hesitates, like he knows too late he’s said the wrong thing. "...She already said yes."
Jack stares at him. The rage comes back all at once, but now it’s different—less explosive, more uneven. "She agreed?" His voice drops low. "You asked her before you told me?"
Robby’s silence says enough.
Jack huffs again, a low and furious sound. "Unbelievable."
"Jack, listen—"
"No, you listen." Jack points at him. "You knew exactly what this would do, and you did it anyway."
"I didn’t think—"
"That’s the problem, Robby, isn’t it?" Jack bites out. "You didn’t think."
Jack can’t stop the thoughts slamming into him. You agreed. You said yes. Without telling him. Without warning him. Without even giving him the chance to ask why.
"I'm sorry, man. But it's only a couple of weeks."
Jack’s mouth twists. "A couple of weeks?" he repeats. "You think that makes this better?"
Jack looks away, dragging a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to get control of himself. Because suddenly all he can think is that maybe this was your way out. Maybe you were tired of the arrangement. Maybe you’d realised what this had started to mean to him and decided distance was easier than saying it.
"She’ll still be here," Robby says.
"That’s not the point." Because this means no more quiet drives home. No more slipping into bed beside you in the dark and pretending none of this was temporary. Just hallway conversations. Passing glances. And the worst part—the part clawing at him—is knowing you chose it.
Well, Robby had offered it, but you hadn't said no. His chest burns, each breath scorching on its way out.
"I thought you talked things out yesterday?" Robby asks carefully.
Jack looks back at him. "We did." That's what he thought, but maybe the argument had been the tipping point for you.
Robby studies him for a second too long, then sighs. "Then maybe this isn't what you think it is. Maybe she's just being nice."
Jack isn't sure. Would you really switch to days without telling him if it didn't mean what he thought it did?
"Take someone else," he tries again.
Robby’s expression softens, but he doesn’t budge. "I can't. She's already been scheduled on days."
He breathes out harshly. "Fine," he says flatly. But there is nothing fine about the way his hands are shaking. Nothing fine about the rage burning behind his ribs. Nothing fine about the fact that beneath all of it—all the anger, all the fury—what he really feels is hurt.
He turns and heads for the lockers before Robby can say another word.
You're purposefully slowing down your movements as you place your jacket and bag in your locker, hoping to delay your entry enough that Jack might have already left.
You're a good actress, have been for years, ever since your parents showed their first signs of disappointment in you. You'd learned how to smile through it, pretend it didn't hurt you while the ache worsened inside. It's a skill that proved incredibly useful in navigating interactions with Jack yesterday, trying to convince him that nothing was wrong.
He wasn't supposed to see your puffy face or be able to discern that you were hit harder by seeing him with Lily than you were supposed to—so you mustered all your strength in pretending to be fine. You cooked him dinner. You laughed with him.
But when he told you he was okay with you switching to days, that pretence had faltered for the briefest second. Because you thought or at least hoped that he might have put up a little bit of a fight, tried to convince you not to go, but instead, he had just accepted it.
It only served as reinforcement of your conclusion from yesterday. And during your next phone call with Olivia, she couldn't convince you of anything else.
Jack liked Lily. That was it.
You're not lucky enough to avoid him, though. You hear him before you see him, his familiar stride, quick and purposeful, sounding heavier before he stops in front of you. His eyebrows are drawn together, lips pressed into a tight line.
"When exactly were you planning to tell me?" he asks.
You pause mid-motion, your locker half-open, and turn to face him. "Tell you what?"
"That you switched shifts." The words come clipped, like he’s forcing them out evenly.
You stare at him, brows furrowing. "What?"
Jack's arms cross. "Did you not think I would find out? Or were you just waiting for me to figure it out on my own when I saw you walking in?"
"I don't understand what's going on," you say, watching him with narrowed eyes.
"No?" His jaw tightens. "Let me spell it out for you then. You agreed to switch your entire schedule, and somehow that wasn’t worth mentioning?"
Irritation spikes through you. "You told me yesterday you talked to Robby," you say sharply. "You said it was all good."
"What?"
"You said you talked. That everything was fine," you snap. "How was I supposed to know you meant everything except this?"
Realisation flashes on his face, but your anger is already mounting.
"Jesus, Jack, if you didn’t know, this makes us look suspicious as hell."
His brows knit together. "What are you talking about?"
"You know what I mean." Your voice drops but sharpens in edge. "If I’m switching shifts and my husband doesn’t know about it, what does that look like to others?"
Jack stares at you for a moment, then his voice lowers as well. "That’s what you think this is about?"
You cross your arms and give him a one-armed shrug. "Then what’s it really about?"
His voice rises before he can rein it in. "It’s about you making a decision that impacts both of us without even telling me."
The force of his words takes you by surprise. You expected relief, not this intensity.
"It’s just a temporary shift change."
"That’s not the point."
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Then what is the point?"
Jack steps closer, frustration spilling over despite his attempts at control. "The point is that you agreed to this without talking it over with me."
"I didn’t realise I needed your permission. Is this my attending talking to me right now?" Like it had been yesterday when he'd yelled at you about protocol.
He rubs his face with a rough hand and mutters, "I knew things weren't fine between us."
"They are, but you're being a dick again."
He places his hands on his hips, exhaling hard through his nose. "I don't understand why this isn't a big deal to you?"
It is. But it shouldn't be to him.
Because if he wanted Lily, then this should make things easier for him. Because you’re trying to give him room to have what he actually wants. But you can’t say any of that. You don't even understand why he feels this heated over it. He's probably just annoyed he didn't know. That this means that how he conducts the night will change.
You're interrupted as a nurse slips into the hallway, glancing furtively at the two of you. You step aside as she hurries to her locker, pushing her bag in and leaving just as fast. The interruption drains the heat from the moment, leaving only the things neither of you can say with someone else in earshot.
Your anger starts to fade into something quieter as you wait for the door to close again.
"It’s only for a few weeks," you murmur. "Night shift will survive."
Jack shakes his head immediately. "No, we won’t."
You give him a tired look. "You managed before I switched to nights."
"No," he insists, more firmly this time. Almost like he's trying to goad you back into arguing with him.
But your frustration has evaporated, and you just feel drained. "It’s temporary," you repeat, your voice calmer. "Heather wanted nights. I know day shift. It makes sense."
Jack stares at you as if your explanation only makes things worse. "Why wouldn’t you tell me?"
You shrug, trying to sound neutral. "I thought you knew." You hesitate for a second. "And... I didn’t think it mattered that much."
His expression shifts, as if your response hit him harder than you intended. You realise you’ve given him the wrong answer, but you have no idea what he wanted to hear.
"It’s only for a couple of weeks," you repeat, moving to step around him.
As you near the door, his voice halts you. "It matters to me."
Your chest tightens. For half a second, you almost turn back. For half a second, hope surges so suddenly it makes your chest ache. Maybe he doesn't want the distance. Maybe he meant—
No.
You shut the thought down before it can fully form. You can’t let yourself hear more—not when you know none of this means what you wish it did. Because this only matters in terms of the schedule and what he needs to do as your attending. Not because he's hurt that you're switching. Not because it means more like it does for you.
So, you keep your back turned to him. "You’ll be fine. Robby already sorted out the schedule. You don’t need to do anything."
He doesn't follow you when you step out.
Day shift welcomes you back like you'd never left. You fall back into the pace easily, picking up charts, checking orders, moving room to room without having to think too hard about where you need to be next. Still, there's a nagging pit in your stomach that won't fade.
Because every time there's a slight lull, a moment where your mind can wander, it circles back to Jack standing in front of your locker this morning. With a clenched jaw, eyes sharp, demanding to know why you hadn't told him.
Demanding like it mattered. Demanding like the decision hurt him.
You hadn't expected it. Not when he, the previous night, had seemed indifferent. That look on his face when you told him it didn't matter lingered in your mind, and if you dwell on it too long, it makes you second-guess everything.
So you don’t.
You focus on your tablet. On your patients. On the familiar pace of day shift. You do not think about Jack.
"So..." Princess appears beside you so suddenly that you nearly jump.
You glance up from the tablet in your hands. "So?"
She leans one hip against the counter, grinning in that way that means she’s about to pry into something that is absolutely none of her business. "Heard you and Abbot got into a fight yesterday."
Your stomach drops. Of course, she heard. Nothing happens quietly in the Pitt, and yesterday had been many things, but subtle was not one of them. Jack had snapped at you in front of half the department, and you’d snapped right back. It had been brief, but the tension afterwards had been impossible to miss. And given your relationship, people were more than curious to know what was going on. Even if they had seen you being 'fine' at the end of shift.
You force your face into a neutral expression and look back at your tablet. "It was nothing."
Princess makes a sceptical noise. "That's not what I heard. Also, you're here."
You tap through a chart, pretending to read. "We disagreed about protocol. Then we moved on."
"Really?" she asks, drawing the word out. "Because from what I've heard, it looked a lot less like 'professional disagreement' and a lot more like 'married couple about to throw hands.'"
You let out a dry breath through your nose. "Princess."
"What?" she says innocently. "People noticed."
You finally look at her. "There is nothing to notice. And I'm here because Heather wanted to switch to nights. It's only temporary."
She studies you for a second, clearly deciding whether to dig deeper. You know that look. Princess thrives on details, a thing you normally don't mind; you just don't like it when it's directed at you.
She leans in a little closer. "So you’re saying you and Abbot are fine?"
"Yes."
She sighs dramatically. "Wow. You are no fun."
"Sorry to disappoint," you murmur.
She tilts her head, still watching you carefully. "You sure you're okay?"
The question is lighter than the last few, but the impact is greater. Because the honest answer would be not really. The honest answer would be that your chest still feels tight from the look on Jack’s face this morning. The honest answer would be that you don’t know whether he was angry because you apparently blindsided him, or because putting distance between you hurt him.
And that second possibility is a treacherous path to wander down.
So you give her the easiest answer. "I’m fine."
Princess squints at you like she doesn’t believe it for a second. With visible reluctance, she decides to let it go. "If you say so."
She glances around before leaning in again, brightening instantly. "Oh! Did you hear about Smith?"
"What about Smith?"
Princess grins, leaning in to murmur. "Robby put her on probation."
Your eyebrows lift. "For what?"
"Apparently, she tried to kiss him in the supply closet."
You stare at her. "What?"
Princess nods, delighted by your reaction. "That’s what I heard."
You let out a startled laugh. "No way."
"I swear."
"Smith tried to kiss Robby?"
Princess shrugs. "Guess she has terrible judgment."
You shake your head, still half laughing in disbelief. "That cannot be true."
"I mean, I didn’t see it happen," Princess says, "but the rumour is she cornered him, and he reported her."
"That's insane."
Princess laughs. "I know."
"Ladies." Robby steps up to the hub, stethoscope in his hands, sliding in beside you like he hasn’t just walked into the middle of a gossip session. "Working hard or hardly working?"
Robby raises an eyebrow, but doesn't chastise you. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely," she replies before backing away.
Robby shakes his head, pulling up the nearest computer to log in. For a second, neither of you says anything. You focus on your tablet. He pretends to focus on the screen. Then—
"So..."
You don’t look up. "No."
Robby glances over. "I haven’t even asked anything yet."
"You’re going to."
He huffs a laugh under his breath. "Probably."
You tap through another chart. "Then no."
He still shifts slightly in his chair, giving you his full attention anyway. "Did something happen between you two?"
You keep your eyes glued to the screen. "Me and Princess?" you reply lightly. "No, we're all good."
Robby gives you a look. "You know that’s not what I mean."
You shrug one shoulder. "Then I don’t have anything to tell you."
He studies you for a moment, then lets out a quiet sigh. "I know you two fought yesterday."
You let out a short breath. "We disagreed."
He rubs his beard, looking apologetic. "I didn't know when I asked you."
You shrug again. "Doesn't matter. I would have said yes, anyway."
Robby’s gaze stays on you; he hums unconvinced. "Mm."
You look back down at the tablet.
Robby is quiet for a second, then says in a gentler tone, "Whatever’s going on, it’s getting to him."
The words make your throat tighten. Because that isn't what you need to hear. Because it makes it harder to believe letting go is the right thing. But Robby doesn't know what you know.
You keep your expression blank. "It's just temporary."
Robby’s voice softens further. "Is it?"
That question almost cracks something open. For one dangerous second, you feel the sting behind your eyes. But before you can answer, Victoria appears at the counter, a tablet in her hand and an eager smile on her face. "Hey, can I present my case to one of you?"
You look up, grateful for the interruption. "Sure," you say, already stepping away.
Robby watches you go, and you can feel it. But you don’t turn around. If you do, he might offer some words of kindness, and right now, that would sting worse than judgment.
You know where you stand. You don’t need to hear it from Robby, too.
You follow Victoria toward the room, forcing your mind back to medicine, to facts, to anything that makes sense, away from Jack. You make it through the presentation on autopilot, nodding in the right places, asking the right questions, checking Victoria's conclusions.
The second it's over, you slip into the nearest supply closet. Try to breathe normally and fail. Your hands shake. You press them against the shelves. Try to still them like you do in a trauma.
It doesn't work.
Your breath catches hard enough to hurt, one hand flying to your mouth to smother the sound when the first sob breaks free. You allow it for a second, and then you wipe your face fast. Brushing away the tears and fixing yourself. Then you re-enter the E.D.
"Hey, you good?" Perlah asks as she passes you, concern glinting in her eyes.
"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Just tired."
It's true, so you're not exactly lying to her.
Perlah hesitates like she might say more, but then she nods and keeps walking. You exhale slowly, forcing your hands to stay uncurled at your sides and straighten your shoulders again. Tucking the hurt somewhere deep enough to ignore as you grab a tablet, heading for your next patient.
It's a quarter to nine when Parker walks over to the hub after getting caught in back-to-back examinations. "Where's Trouble?" she asks, scanning the space with a frown. She hasn't seen you since you tossed her a protein bar after rounds. "Is she in triage?"
Lena looks up, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "Didn't you hear?"
Parker pauses, squinting at her. "Hear what?"
"She switched to days."
Parker blinks in disbelief. "What? She wouldn't do that."
Lena shrugs, then her gaze finds Collins in the middle of a trauma. She nods in her direction, "Collins wanted nights before she leaves."
Parker stares blankly at Lena, connecting the dots, then her gaze snaps towards Abbot. Suddenly, his pissed-off expression makes sense. She’d thought his mood was fallout from yesterday—from the argument, from Lily getting hurt on his watch—but this was worse. She still remembers how he acted when you were sick—this could only be worse. "Oh shit."
"Abbot?" Shen strolls over, coffee in hand, following her line of sight and grimace.
She nods resignedly.
"Ah, yeah," Shen sighs, taking another sip. "It's gonna be a rough couple of weeks."
"Weeks?" Parker shakes her head. "We're doomed."
The three of them watch Abbot for a second—the clenched jaw, the ramrod posture, the way he taps relentlessly at the tablet like it offended him.
"Yeah," Shen comments dryly, "looks like the honeymoon phase is over."
Parker groans, resting her forehead on her arms. "Great."
"If by great, you mean excruciating," Lena chimes in, then ducks her head down as the man in question walks over.
"If you’re done chit-chatting, there are patients waiting. Or have we forgotten why we’re here?" Abbot asks, voice flat.
"No," Parker murmurs.
"Then what are you waiting for?" He doesn't even stop to see if she moves, just walks away, tablet clutched tightly in his hands.
Parker closes her eyes for a brief moment. "Jesus."
Shen raises his brows. "We might not make it through this."
"Whoever gets Trouble back gets out of the next ortho consult with the shark," Parker proposes, looking over at Shen.
"You're on."
Parker doesn't care who wins as the shift drags on—she just hopes one of them is able to succeed because this is hell. Every interaction with Abbot is terse, every question he asks tinged with annoyance. He catches mistakes before they occur and looks furious for having to correct them. He moves through the Pitt like a tempest—cold, sharp and impossible to ignore.
And the worst part of it is that he's exceptionally good. Hyper-focused to the point that he misses nothing. Charts get corrected, incomplete labs still ordered on time, and the resident who hesitated for a second too long gets reprimanded for endangering a patient. Everything gets caught, and each correction comes with that same biting edge.
By eleven o’clock, the tension in the night team is palpable. Parker watches Abbot from the corner of her eye as she charts. She only turns her head enough to murmur to Lena, careful not to catch his attention again. "Is he really this upset just because she switched shifts?"
Lena glances up briefly, weighing whether to share what she heard from Dana. "No."
Parker frowns. "Then what is it?"
Lena sighs. "He’s upset because she didn’t tell him."
Parker winces. "Oh."
Across the room, Abbot mutters under his breath as he yanks off a pair of gloves with excessive force. Parker studies him for a moment longer, then quietly mutters, "Why in the world did she agree to switch?"
Lena shrugs.
Whatever happened between the two of you is written all over Abbot—in the clipped orders, the rigid posture, the way every word cuts.
Whatever it is, it’s bleeding into everything, and Parker doesn't think she can survive weeks of it.
Robby catches Jack on the rooftop after a trauma-heavy night. He leans on the railing, watching Jack's back, who hasn't looked back even though he'd clearly heard him enter. He tries humour first, "Rumour has it you've been terrorising the night shift."
Jack doesn't answer.
Robby continues when that doesn't work, "I know this is about her switching shifts." He breathes out slowly. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know it would hit this hard."
Jack huffs under his breath, sharp and bitter. He still doesn't answer him
Robby softens slightly. "Talk to me. Yell at me. Whatever might make this better."
"There’s nothing to say," Jack finally says.
"Bullshit."
Jack lets out a long breath. Robby waits.
Finally, Jack says, "She’s pulling away. She figured it out."
Robby frowns. "Figured what out?"
Jack laughs, a hollow sound. "That I’m in love with her."
The words sit there between them longer than either of them moves. It's the first time he's heard Jack say it aloud. State it plainly. Robby blinks, then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
And because the situation is awful (partly his doing, or so he's been told multiple times by Olivia) and because Jack looks like hell and because Robby genuinely cannot believe what he’s hearing, he says, "You think that’s what this is?"
Jack turns to him sharply. "What else would it be?"
Robby stares at him for a second. Because from where he’s standing, Jack has somehow taken a bad week and built an entire tragedy in his head. "She switched shifts after a fight," Robby says carefully.
Jack shakes his head immediately. "No."
Robby raises an eyebrow. "No?"
Jack laughs bitterly. "She was fine after the fight."
Robby doesn’t buy that, but he lets it go. Bites back a comment and watches as Jack drags a hand through his hair.
"She started pulling away after that. She barely talks to me. She won’t look at me. She changed shifts." His voice roughens. "She knows."
Robby folds his arms. "And your evidence is... what?"
Jack stares at him like the answer is obvious. "All of it."
Robby lets out a breath through his nose. "Jesus Christ."
Jack’s jaw tightens. "Robby." He says it like a warning.
"No, I’m serious." Robby shakes his head. "You think she found out you have feelings for her and decided to rearrange her life to avoid you?"
Jack looks away again. "Yes."
Robby stares at him, huffing a disbelieving laugh. "You are unbelievable."
Jack laughs once, a humourless sound. "Glad you find this entertaining."
"I don’t," Robby says sharply. "I find it insane. I see a sleep-deprived idiot making assumptions instead of having one honest conversation."
Jack doesn't answer him, just crosses his arms.
Robby rubs a hand over his mouth, clearly seeing that Jack isn't hearing what he's saying. "Okay," he says carefully. "Let’s say you’re right. Then ask her."
Jack’s answer is immediate. "No."
Robby blinks. "No?"
Jack shakes his head once. "No."
Robby stares. "If you think that’s what’s happening, why the hell would you not ask her?"
Jack’s voice drops quieter. "Because if I’m right, saying it out loud makes it real."
Robby studies him for a second. "And if you’re wrong?"
Jack laughs bitterly. "I’m not."
Robby tilts his head. "You don’t know that." He leans against the railing when Jack doesn't answer. "For what it’s worth, I think you’re dead wrong."
Jack gives a tired shake of his head. "You don’t know that."
"No," Robby says. "But I know what she looks like when she sees you."
Jack glances over.
Robby shrugs. "And I know what you look like right now."
Jack looks away again.
Robby presses on. "If you won’t talk to her because you’re afraid she’ll confirm this," he gestures between them, "then this spiral is on you."
Jack's shoulders tense. "...I can’t."
Robby exhales. "Then at least stop punishing everyone else." Robby claps a hand on his shoulder. "You don’t have to confess. But for the love of God, just talk to her."
Jack stares out at the city again. "Maybe."
Robby heads for the stairwell after a moment, then glances back once. Jack hasn’t moved. Still staring into the city like the answer might be written there—and refusing to look anywhere else.
Jack knows he's spiralling, but he can't understand how one argument has created this much distance between you. Every thought feeds the next one. Every unanswered question breeds ten worse possibilities. He tells himself he’s being irrational, that there’s an explanation, that if he could just hold on for another day, everything would make sense again—but the hours keep passing, and nothing makes sense.
He thought you were fine. That you just needed a little bit of space—he didn't realise you needed so much that you would switch to day shift. And it's not like he can even ask you because he only sees you at shift change. Only gets a brief moment of respite during his day, where he gets to spend time with you. But it's never alone.
You don't linger at the lockers. You don't have time for a quick break with him, always stating that patients are waiting. So all he has are the few moments, where he gets to feel your arms around his midriff when you greet him, and the few minutes he's breathing the same air as you as you do rounds.
And then he's alone again. He drives home alone. He eats alone. He sleeps alone.
Well, he tries to. The nightmares have come roaring back—violent and vivid and relentless. Every time he closes his eyes, something drags him under. He wakes sweating, heart pounding, gasping into the dark, reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed only to find cold sheets. He’s lucky if he gets three hours. Most days it’s less.
And with the sleep deprivation comes the rest of it—the buzzing under his skin, the restlessness, the inability to sit still. The police scanner seems to be calling his name louder and louder with each passing day. Like it’s reminding him that there are easier things to deal with than this. Gunshots. Car wrecks. Overdoses. Those things make sense. Those things are simple: someone is hurt, and he knows what to do.
Because this creeping, gnawing fear that he is losing you and doesn’t know why—he has no idea what to do with that.
So his mind fills in the blanks. At first, it’s small. Maybe you’d just been kind when you agreed. Maybe you'd just been tired every time he'd caught your eye, and your smile didn't seem genuine. Maybe you just needed a little more space before things go back to normal. Maybe he's just overreacting, and you're fine.
But then the thoughts get darker. Maybe you’d realised he was too much. Maybe you’d seen how badly he’d fallen, and it scared you. Maybe all this distance was your way of telling him to let go.
Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe all of this distance—all the clipped words, the changed shifts, the careful professionalism—is because you finally realised what he’s been trying so desperately to hide. What he'd only just recently stopped doing because he thought you might like him back.
Because he does like you. God, he likes you so much it makes him feel sick. He likes the way you nudge his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. He likes the way you steal fries off his plate. He likes the way your voice softens when you’re tired. He likes the way your face lights up when you laugh. He likes the way you know how to steady him when the world gets too loud. He likes the way being near you makes the noise in his head quiet down.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe you saw it in the way he watches you. Maybe you felt it in the way he holds onto hugs half a second too long. Maybe you noticed the way he finds excuses to be near you.
And maybe you didn’t like it.
Maybe you’ve been pulling away because the truth makes you uncomfortable. Because whatever arrangement the two of you created, it wasn’t supposed to become this. It wasn’t supposed to become feelings. And maybe now that you know, you’re trying to put the walls back up. Easing him out of your life without having to actually say it.
And the thought destroys him. Because if that’s true, then every day that passes is another day you’re proving to yourself that you don’t need him. Another day of learning how easy it is to breathe without him there.
A whole week passes in a blur, and that almost makes it worse—how fast time moves when he wants it to stop. Every shift ends before he can gather the nerve to ask what’s wrong. Every night comes before he’s slept enough to think clearly.
And all the while the clock is ticking. He can't help but be scared, even if he knows you're coming back to the night shift soon. But he also knows that means you'll be an attending, and with that, the arrangement you'd created also soon comes to an end. The strange little life the two of you built—the blurred lines, the late-night conversations, the stolen moments, the comfort of pretending this was more than it was—ends.
You becoming an attending means he'll stop being your husband and go back to just being a coworker. He stops being whatever he has been to you. Stops being the person you come home to. Stops being the one you curl up beside after a brutal shift. Stops being the person who hands you coffee when your eyes are half-closed after waking. Stops being the one who feels you tuck cold feet against his legs in bed.
You becoming an attending means you'll move out again.
Maybe the move to day shift wasn’t just about work. Maybe it was the beginning of goodbye.
Still, he dissects every word, every glance, every pause. Trying to find proof. Trying to find hope. He keeps smiling when he sees you. Keeps pretending he’s fine. Keeps taking those few scraps of closeness like they’re enough. Because if he asks and the answer is yes—if you tell him outright that you’ve been distancing yourself because of his feelings—then the fragile hope keeping him upright shatters.
As long as no one says it aloud, he can pretend. Pretend the shift change is temporary. Pretend the distance isn’t deliberate. Pretend you aren’t already halfway gone.
I hate doing this. Last time I needed to raise money, I received the most hateful messages. I’m gonna turn off my anon asks for the time being because I have enough on my plate. Please don’t hesitate to message me with any questions, though. Just please be gentle.
I will add that I do work a few hours (all my doctor allows) but it is absolutely nowhere near enough to remain afloat.
If you can’t donate (as I know everyone is struggling right now), please take a moment to share. I love and appreciate all of you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
A/N: I'm exposing myself with this one if you're seeing this no you didn't
The air feels like static, like a storms about to hit. The low hum of the engine, the wheels on the road, the small tapping of Dean's thumb against the steering wheel- the only sounds you've heard for miles. The car smells like gasoline, your clothes smell like smoke- the body you just burned.
Dean's nose has only just stopped bleeding, the tissue is still wedged in his nostril to soak up the last of the blood. He swears it's not broken. It looks broken.
You're not fairing much better, the cut on your shoulder still sticky with blood despite the bandages. The bruises on your rib will be a reminder of this hunt long after the night has passed.
A bad hunt. A hunt you only just made it out of. You can thank Dean for still being alive, or maybe he can thank you, both of you only just keeping your heads long enough to make it through. You've always been that for each other, a pillar, an escape, a lifeline.
Dean stops tapping his thumb, you can't tell if he's contemplating talking or just too exhausted to carry on.
"I don't think I can keep doing this-" you sigh, the words barely leaving your throat before you regret saying them, regret opening this conversation.
Deans forehead creases, he knows exactly what he you're trying to say, but he's trying to stave it off as long as possible, "What's that supposed to mean?"
You sigh, looking over at him, "You know what it's supposed to mean."
His jaw tightens, "You're a good hunter."
"I know."
"We can't loose another good hunter."
"Don't you ever think there's more than this? More than this- this death and this fear and this-"
"You're not scared. You're never scared."
"I'm scared shitless, Dean- goddamn I'm scared every fuckin' time. Don't you see that?"
"You don't get scared. I've seen you out-hunt a hundred men-"
"Doesn't mean I don't get scared." You sigh, you knew this would be pointless. You and Dean, hunters who only ever talk about hunting. Trying to have an actual conversation was a long shot, you're at your best when you're strategizing and killing. Not talking. "Sometimes I think it'd be easier to stop."
He tries to laugh, "C'mon sweetheart, you're just beat up- you'll feel better tomorrow."
"I'll feel like shit tomorrow and you know it." You give him a second, then laugh with him. A pointless conversation.
The car drones on, Dean starts tapping again. It's less regular now, more fidgety.
It takes him a few minutes, then he speaks again, repeating himself, "You're a good hunter."
You give the same answer, "I know-" You swallow hard, wrapping your feet up on the vinyl bench. You haven't seen Dean in two months, you're not used to sticking around long enough for conversations after a hunt. But you're both too bruised to do anything but head back to the motel right now, let sleep take you and break apart again tomorrow. "-But this whole barely making it out alive thing- it makes you think."
"We made it out though, yeah?"
"Just."
He glances at you, then back at the road, "I'd be dead if you weren't here."
"This isn't personal-"
"I'd be dead ten times over, and you just wanna quit?"
You sigh, "I don't wanna quit- I'm just- I'm thinking alright? I'm thinking about what options I've got."
"And what options have you got? You're a trained killer- that's not exactly a transferable skill-"
"I'm just exhausted with it, Dean- all of it. Of waking up every day not knowing what's next, of having to limp out of every situation like I'm lucky to be alive."
"It's been near death since we were teenagers, what's so different now?"
"You wanna know the god honest truth?"
You can tell he's agitated now, "Yes! Of course I do!"
"I'm sick of it, Dean- I'm sick of the decisions and the choices and having to be in control all the time. I'm sick of having to think every second of every goddamn day. I just- I want to stop it- want someone else to tell me what to do every now and then!"
There's a pause. He glances at you, you can tell he's trying not to laugh, "No- no you don't."
"Jesus Dean I knew you wouldn't get it- you're so fucking concerned with constantly controlling every situation-"
"Hey, hey- this is getting personal, sweetheart." He chuckles, eyes back on the road, "You wanna work in an office? Have some boss tell you when you can leave, when you can take lunch, when you can piss?"
You roll your eyes, "I knew you wouldn't understand."
"Then explain it to me. Goddamn darlin' I'm not a mind reader."
"I'm mean it, Dean- you're obsessed with being in control. I can see it- every hunt you just wanna take charge-"
"You do too-"
"But only when I'm hunting. That's the difference between you and me, when I'm hunting, sure- but right now- jesus I just want someone to think for me- just wanna turn off my brain and let someone else make the decisions for a bit."
"So- what- if I told you what to do right now you'd actually thank me for it? Because I know you- I know you hate it when I give you orders."
"I don't know, Dean- it's complicated, alright? Sometimes I think I need an out, need some release from all this."
The car hums on. Static, gasoline, smoke. Bloody noses, bruised ribs.
He pulls into the parking lot, the neon signs flickering down on you both. He glances across at you, barely visible, then steps out. You don't talk as you cross the lot, both of you keeping your heads down. It takes until you get to the door for him to glance at you again.
"You need to change that dressing on your shoulder."
"It's fine- it'll last til-"
"You need it changing." He pushes the key into the lock, shoving the solid door open.
You swallow hard, he's probably right, but he doesn't look at you long enough to see that. You follow him into the room as he grabs his duffle, hiking it up onto the small wooden table.
"Sit. I'll do it now."
"Seriously, don't worry I'll-"
"Just sit- let me take care of it." It'd be sweet if his tone wasn't so firm.
There's no room for questions, you sink down at the end of the too-soft bed. You watch him carefully as he riffles through his bag, pulling out the few medical supplies he hasn't used up yet. He sets them down on the bed next to you, a bottle of iodine, some more bandages.
"Take your top off."
Your jaw tightens as you look up at him with a small smile, "Buy me a drink first."
He just rolls his eyes, waiting expectantly for you to do as he says. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about it- Dean. You've caught glimpses of him, parts of his body making up a puzzle until you figured out what he looks like under all those flannels and dirty jeans. But you'd pushed those thoughts away as quickly as they arrived. You and Dean. Hunters who only ever talk about hunting.
You tug your top off your body, wincing slightly as you hook it over your shoulder. It's stained with blood, there's no use being precious about it- you throw it across the room, letting it land in a crumple in the corner.
His eyes drop down to your bra, fast enough you barely see it happen, before he's back on your face. Eyes darker, his tongue darts out to wet his lip. He nods slowly, thinking, before he walks off into the bathroom. You hear the tap running, just for a moment, and then he's back, a wet rag in his hand. He's got rid of his own make-shift gauze, the tissue he'd stuck in his nose. He still has a ring of dried blood around his nostrils, red remnants hanging onto the slight stubble on his top lip.
He grins as he finally sinks in front of you, squatting down onto his toes to pull himself eye level with you. He rests one hand on the bed next to you, looking at you like he's considering speaking.
"Breathe." He smiles warmer, eyes locking onto yours.
You realize you've been holding your breath. You let it go, slowly through your nose. You don't smile back.
He finally brings the rag up to your shoulder, you flinch at the feeling, the wound still too exposed to let it comfort you. He moves his free hand to your waist, holding it tight to keep you still.
"Calm down, it's just a little water."
"I'm calm- I just- I'm calm."
He smiles again, the rag pulls away red. You glance down, it's just the dried blood- caked around the cut. He grabs the bottle of iodine, clicks it open. The smell fills the small space immediately, chemicals and chlorine, dizzying.
He pours some out onto the damp towel, presses it against your wound. Orange liquid soaks into you in an instant. You suck in a sharp breath, reach out to grab his forearm as the sharp sting shocks through you. Your nails dig into his skin without even meaning to, swallowing hard to try to keep yourself together.
"Calm down, sweetheart- I'm not gonna hurt you."
You glare at him, "Hurts pretty bad right now."
"Doesn't hurt- come on it's a tickle."
His thumb rubs against your waist, soft like he doesn't realize he's doing it, as he presses the towel further into you cut. You shut your eyes, grind your teeth together, trying not to make a sound.
Finally he pulls it away again, replaces his movements with the bandages, wraps them around your shoulder, the top of your bicep. You slowly open your eyes again, his face only inches from yours. You can see the stubble across his jaw, the sign of a long day. You've never see him this close- maybe once- when you were both thrown in the trunk of a car- but even then it was his knee in your face, not his watchful eyes.
"Do I need to keep telling you to breathe?" He steps away, heads back towards the bathroom. The tap runs again as he washes his hands, clears off the chemicals. You pull at your bandages, flattening them out as he walks back in, takes a seat in the old chair opposite you.
He spreads his legs wide, sinking down as he rubs his thumb over his bottom lip, deep in thought.
You go to stand.
"Sit."
You collapse back against the bed, raising an eyebrow.
He leans forward, pulling his hands together between his knees as he looks over at you, amused, "You listened."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You never listen to me."
"I listen-"
"You never listen to me." He swallows, pulls his jaw tight, then smiles again, a glint in his eye, "Take your pants off."
"Excuse me?"
"You want orders?" He leans back again, relaxed, "Take 'em off."
You roll your eyes, "This is stupid." You stay sat, watching him carefully.
"One time offer- you said you want a release. You can have it. But you gotta listen to me."
You think for a second, then nod- small, imperceptible. He sees it all the same.
"Take. Them. Off."
You stand up slowly, keeping your eyes on him. You wet your lips, trying not to overthink, trying not to think at all. You know the second you do you'll realize how senseless this is.
You reach towards the fly of your pants, tug it down. Then you reach towards your waistband, shuffling it down your legs, past your thighs, your knees, your calves, until your pants crumple in a pile by your feet. You kick them off, finally looking back up at Dean.
He leans forward, "Interesting."
You practically laugh, "Interesting?"
He nods slowly, "Hot- don't get me wrong, fuckin' hot- but yeah. Interesting." His eyes flick over your body, down your chest, your stomach, your legs. Then back to your underwear, the way you shift under his gaze, "You really gonna do whatever I tell you to?"
You swallow, "Depends what you say."
"Kneel."
He's right. You need this. Need what you were practically begging for in the car- someone else to tell you what to do. What to think.
You sink down quickly, let your legs fall until your knees smack against the worn carpet. You blink up at him, trying to make sense of the look smeared across his face, like he's fascinated by what's happening in front of him- analytical and starving.
He curls his finger in front of him, wordlessly beckoning you towards him.
You move slowly, every part of your brain telling you to stop, every part of your body pushing you forward, until you're kneeling in front of him, between his legs.
He hooks his finger under your chin, tilting your face up to look at him as he runs his thumb over your bottom lip. His eyes are locked on you, you can see a million thoughts flashing through them as he stares down at you. His jaw sets tight as he slowly moves his thumb, pushing it between your lips. They part around him as you feel the print rest on your tongue, his mouth curling into a surprised smile.
"Suck."
You do as he says, your eyes wide, staring up at him as he keeps his smile. You let your tongue circle his thumb, trying not to make a sound despite your need to moan at just his fingers.
"Fuck-" he mutters, tongue darting out to wet his lips, "-you're good at being obedient, ain't ya?"
You blink up at him without replying.
He grins, pulling his thumb away again, smearing your saliva across your bottom lip, "Where's this girl when we're hunting, huh?"
You tilt your head to one side. You want to protest, but the way he says it sends a jolt through you, a warmth between your legs at his amused but firm tone.
"Always calling the shots- always in charge- turns out you just want someone telling you what to do." He chuckles, leans back, spreading his legs wider as he gestures down to the bulge forming in his pants, "Well go on. You know exactly what to do."
You lean forward, you'd fingers reaching out towards his belt before you even think to stop them. You unbuckle it slowly, trying not to glance up at his face- you can tell he's still grinning down at you. You pull on the worn leather, it slides out of the buckle easily, and then reach towards the fly of his pants. His bulge is already significant, growing bigger the longer you take, swelling below your steadily moving fingers.
You pull the zip down, finally looking back up at him. He smiles at you, a giddy look spreading across his face despite his clear control. You pull at his pants slowly, followed by the waistband of his boxers- half teasing yourself and half staving off the stupid act about to take place.
You finally go for it, tugging hard enough that his cock can spring free. You suck in a sharp breath at the sight- absolutely gorgeous, the tip already wet with precum, the veins along the shaft bulging with arousal.
He chuckles lightly, grabbing your wrist with a loose hold and dragging it towards him. He pushes your hand against his cock, tangling his own fingers into yours until it's wrapped around his length. It barely fits despite your efforts, already slowly starting to stroke him as he keeps your movements slow.
He laughs again, "Bigger than you imagined, huh?"
You only just manage to roll your eyes, "I didn't imagine anything."
He smiles, runs the knuckles of his free hand over your cheekbone. It's a light touch, one filled with a million implications, "It's cute you still think you get to talk back."
He doesn't let you reply, just tangles his fingers into your hair and pulls your head forward. You open your mouth instinctually, let him push your face down until your lips are wrapping around the head. He groans loudly as you take him into your mouth, let him fill you, the taste of him already on your tongue.
"Jesus-" he lets the words spill out as he pushes you lower, until the tip is pressing against the back of your throat. You move your arms away, push them behind your back in a way you know will make him stare. It works, eyes fixed on you as he moves his hands, keeps one tangled in your hair, the other on the side of your head, keeping you wrapped around him.
Your eyes go wide as your breathing gets harder, trying to keep it steady as you take in a slow breath through your nose. He finally lets you break, and you pull your head back, sucking in a sharp breath.
He nods slowly, considering the image below him, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Then he pulls you forwards again, back to where he clearly wants you. You open your mouth wider, tongue running along the shaft as he pushes himself into you.
"Good girl, that's it-" He starts to grind slowly, pushing in further on every thrust. You lower your head slowly, his hands keeping you steady as you take more of him, his cock filling your mouth "- taking me so good."
You finally moan, breaking around him as you sink lower. He loosens his grasp, letting you set the pace as he relaxes into the chair, "Wanna make me proud, yeah? Keep going."
You move faster, letting him fill your mouth on every slow thrust. He hits the back of your throat, your whole body moving to keep you from choking as he blocks your airway. You blink up at him, his eyes locked on the sight, a small smile poking at the corner of his mouth.
You lift your head slightly as your tongue runs down the shaft. He lets out a quiet groan, hand back on your head to push you lower, "There you go, doing so good f' me-"
You nod without meaning to, his praise soaking through you. You swallow around him as he speeds up, looking up at him, your eyes starting to well with tears. He brushes his free hand over your cheek, a gentle touch to keep you calm, a reminder to breathe despite his harsh movements. His face is soft, eyes wide and smile growing as he watches you- a picture of disbelief and control rolled into one.
He thrusts harder, fingers tightening in your hair. You gag, tears spilling over as you try to sort your breathing. He smiles, keeping your head down, "Shh- shh- that's a good girl, just a bit more."
He fills your throat, your eyes stinging with the need to take a breath. He keeps you there, watching carefully as you swallow him down, still trying to please him. You mind starts to go, the image of him taking over as only thing filling it, the feeling of him down your throat. For a moment you think he won't break, and for a moment you don't care- then he finally releases his grasp on you, lightly tugging you to pull you back up.
"That's it- atta girl- did so good-" he runs his fingers down over your cheek, brushing away the tears as you choke desperately on air, "-so good, just breathe, sweetheart."
He keeps his eyes on you as your breathing finally starts to even out, sucking in a shaky breath, blinking hard to hide away any more tears starting to form. He keeps his hand on your cheek for a moment, just watching, and then pulls back slightly, taking in your body.
"Stand up." Clearly the time for comfort is over. He pushes his cock back into his boxers.
You look back at him, the situation falling back on you, your mind starting to spin, "Dean- I-"
He can clearly tell, "Don't worry, darling, gonna stop you thinking- you just gotta let me."
You keep your eyes on him, not wanting to reply- you want this. You need this. You know it's stupid, of course it is. One conversation and suddenly you and Dean are doing something neither of you would have expected. What's weirder is it feels so normal, like you should have done this years ago, like he's the only one who can give you this.
He smiles down at you, "Yeah? You gonna be smart and let me?"
You swallow hard and nod.
His cheeks round, "Fuck you're desperate- go on, stand up."
You do as he says, your legs weak as you pull yourself up, knees stained with carpet burn without you realizing, the low sting starting to form. You move to standing, keeping your jaw tight, eyes locked on his.
He moves his hands to your waist, pulls you forward slightly until you're between his legs, you can feel his thighs on either side of you, the heat from his body burning into you through his jeans. His thumbs rub against your hips as he gorges on the sight of you, eyes falling down across your chest and down your body.
He finally leans forward, planting a light kiss on the bruises by your ribs, then looks up at you, lips still set against your skin, "Your body is everything." He murmurs against you.
You swallow hard, a small chuckle, "You're not bad yourself."
His face turns serious, "I mean it- you're fucking stunning- all this time and you've been walking around looking like this? Holding back on me on every hunt, huh?"
You bite down hard on your lip, not knowing what to say, every retort lost.
His grip tightens, "I asked you a question."
"I- I don't know- I-"
"Ohh that's a good girl, already learning how to stop thinking." He smiles like your reply is exactly what he expected. He leans forward again, kissing lightly across your ribs, your stomach, back up towards your chest. It's almost hesitant, but he keeps his eyes on you the whole time, carefully watching your expression.
He stands, pulling his top off over his body. He gives you a second, letting you take him in as your eyes rake his body- the shallow muscles bathed in yellow motel light, the v lines leading towards the bulge he's hidden away beneath his boxers. He leans in again, his hands cupping your cheeks as he pulls you in to a kiss.
Your eyes shut as he takes you, lips colliding, it's harsh and soft all at once. You relax into it, the warmth of his body burning into you, your own hands reaching out to feel his abdomen without even thinking about it. He moves his hand away, you hear the clinking of his belt, the sound of his pants dropping to the ground as he kicks them off.
His hand moves to your throat, lightly holding it as he starts to gently push you backwards. He squeezes slightly, your lips part in a small gasp- he takes the opportunity to push his tongue into your mouth, claiming and desperate.
The back of your legs hit the bed, for a moment he keeps you there, tongue exploring your mouth, fingers feeling the pulse in your neck- then he pushes, only slightly, and you both collapse onto the mattress. He lands on top of you, keeping his weight off of you as he holds himself above you, body only just pressed against your own. You arch into him, pulling him closer, tongues tangles, legs entwined.
His lips find your jaw, your neck, working his way down as you keep your hands on him, feeling the way he moves above you. His fingers work over the clasp of your bra, undoing it in one move and pulling it off of your arms.
His mouth moves to your collarbone as he sneaks a glance lower, jaw tightening as he stops himself, "Jesus- your tits- you really have been holding out on me-"
He glances up at you, a grin across his face, a spark in his eyes. You can tell how bad he wants you- you don't know how long he's been thinking about this but it clearly started before tonight.
He moves towards your chest, tongue dragged along your skin. He wraps his lips around your nipple, teeth grazing it as you arch further into him. You feel his hand on your thigh, gripping it tight, his tongue circling your nipple, body pressed against you.
His hand moves higher, you feel his fingertips against your skin as he skims over you, your legs parting without thinking. He reaches your underwear, lightly pressing against you through the fabric, his fingertip running along your cunt. He feels you, dragging his finger up to your clit, circling it gently as you let out a quiet gasp.
He sucks a dark mark into your tit, mouth on you, hand still moving delicately. He hooks his finger around the side of your underwear, dipping his fingertip into your soaked pussy as he lets out a soft groan against you
"You're so wet for me." He murmurs, tongue dancing over you.
You gasp again as he pushes a finger into you, stretching you out. You legs spread wider, your head falls back as you push against the pillow, his quiet sounds of pleasure washing over you.
He pushes another finger into you and you reach out, grabbing his shoulder tight, nails digging into the skin. You can't help but the small whimper that escapes your lips as he chuckles lightly, "That's just two fingers baby, how many can you take?"
He starts to thrust into you, your whole body moving in time with him, grinding against him, your hand still wrapped around his shoulder. You squeeze your eyes shut, pleasure sitting in your gut.
He smiles as he pushes in harder, "Fuck you're tight- gonna need to stretch you out if you wanna take my cock."
He adds another finger, you dig your nails into him sharper as your eyes roll back, your body on fire with the feeling. He keeps the rhythm as you grind against him, the feeling rising inside you. You feel his mouth back against your neck, sucking another mark into your skin- somewhere it can be seen.
His tongue dances over you as his hand speeds up. You let out a quiet moan, so close to the release you need, the feeling you've been chasing all night. You grind against him, needy, the room filled with desperation.
He pulls out. You let out a sharp gasp, still rutting against nothing, your body contorting as your gasp turns into a whine. You breathe hard as you collapse back against the mattress, thighs twitching.
He laughs, amused at the sight of you below him, "You adorable little slut."
He moves lower, kissing your still shaking body as he works over you, down your tits, your stomach. He hooks his fingers around the side of your underwear, dragging it down your legs. He kisses back up, finding your inner thigh and sinking his teeth into your skin.
It shocks you back into the moment, immediately reaching down to grab at his hair. He smiles as he pulls away, planting another soft kiss against the sensitive flesh. "Only I get to decide when you cum, you hear me?"
You nod frantically.
"Say it."
"Only you get to decide."
"Decide what?"
"When- when I cum."
He grins, "Fuck- you're so easy."
He finally leans down, keeping his eyes fixed on your face as his tongue reaches out to your clit. You gasp, keeping your hand in his hair as you sink against the mattress again. He circles it slowly, lazy, before dipping lower, lapping at your arousal.
His fingers wrap around your thighs, digging into you as he buries his face into your pussy, tongue darting over you, pushed inside with desperation, working over your clit. He forces himself to slow down, drags a long stripe up your slit, spreading your arousal over yourself.
You lift your hips off the mattress, grinding into him, a needy whimper escaping your lips. You feel him chuckle against you, the vibrations sending shaky pleasure through you as he tightens his grip on your thighs. He moves back to your clit, sucking on it lightly. You gasp, tugging at his hair.
He breaks away, looking up at you, "Jesus sweetheart- you're so sensitive." You can see your wetness glistening on his chin, mixed into his stubble like the blood from his nose.
He leans back down slowly, kissing your clit, his tongue darting out just to hear you whine. He drags your thighs closer to him, pulling them up until they're wrapped around his head, his mouth pressed back over you. He speeds up, pushing his tongue through you, wrapping it around your clit, your need rising quickly.
Your mind starts to blur as you feel him moving, too fast to keep track of what he's doing, too frantic to build up a rhythm, just his tongue and his mouth and his spit combined as your head rolls back again, your body beginning to burn.
He focuses on your clit, rapid movements, darting, sucking, circling. You grip his hair tighter, his own fingers digging tight into your thighs. You rut into him on every movement, desperate for release. You let out a desperate moan, half choked and begging.
He pulls away again, smile curled across his face as he loosens his grasp on you. You try to twist your body away, your breath punched from your lungs as you loose all stimulation, desperately trying to find something. He keeps you steady, hands still on you, face close enough that he can lazily kiss your thigh.
"What's the rule?"
You can't reply, your mind still spinning, your body still seeking release.
He smiles, kissing you again, "Good girl. Stop thinking, that's it- let me decide for you-"
He leans in again, sparkling eyes boring into you as he lets his tongue push against your swollen clit. You gasp, back instantly arching, your body still so sensitive. You feel his fingers back at your entrance, feeling the way you grind against him.
He pushes into you slowly, you feel every inch of his fingers as he fills you, his grin growing wider as he continues to work his tongue over you. You whine out, desperate for more- desperate for him.
He looks like a man starved. You might be the one whimpering, gripping the sheets, but he's just as needy in his own way. His free hand grabs your thigh again, back on the bruises already starting to form, fingers curled into your skin. His eyes flutter shut, lost in your taste, the low groan forced out of him spreads over you.
You comb your hand through his hair, already slick with sweat, your fingers shaking as you touch him. He looks up at you again, a glint in his eye, admiration as he feasts on the sight of you.
His fingers speed up as he breaks his mouth away, still close enough that you can feel him speak against you, "You look cute like this- so fuckin' eager to please-"
He lowers his mouth again, tongue circling over your clit, pleasure shooting through you.
He looks up at you again, "How long have you wanted this? My fingers in your cunt, my cock goddamn aching for you-"
You let out a low whine at his words, hips rising off the bed, grinding against him, tugging at his hair.
He tilts his head to the side, "Awe- you wanna cum?"
"Yes-"
"Beg."
"Please- Dean please- I'll do anything- anything you fucking want- please can I cum-"
He chuckles, "Of course not." He pulls his hand away, looking down at you as he wraps it around your thigh, keeping you still as you body folds in two. You feel like slapping him- like screaming- but your body's too exhausted to do anything but collapse back on the mattress, shaking slightly as you feel the come-down hit.
He kisses your thigh lightly, eyes still fixed on the sight. He smiles, he clearly knows what he's doing, playing with you, completely in control. Your eyes shut as you try to even put your ragged breath.
"How should I fuck you? From behind? Watch your ass bounce as I pound into you, yeah?" His fingers work up the inside of your thigh, gently gliding against you skin, "Or maybe I'll get you to ride me- really make you work for that chance to cum?" He brushes his thumb against your clit. Your whole body shakes- half of you trying to move away, the other half desperate for more. He smiles, "Next time. Right now I just wanna fuck you so hard you can't walk tomorrow."
You feel him move, his body shifting as he drags his boxers down his legs, and then he's back above you, body pressed against yours as he kisses up your chest, nestles his face into your neck. You feel him let out a soft breath as he drags the head of his cock through your pussy, his jaw strained, blinking hard as he keeps himself together.
"Yeah?" All he's able to get out. He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours.
You nod, "Please-"
He doesn't need anything else, slamming into you with a hard thrust. You gasp, hands wrapping around his biceps, your whole body lurching as he fills you. For a moment a striking pain hits you, the feeling of him stretching you out, any foreplay forgotten by the size of his cock. But then that feeling melts, pleasure overwhelming you, the delicious stretch, the feeling of every inch inside of you.
He drags back slowly, making sure you're used to him before he pushes in again, a loud grunt pushed out of him. You dig your nails into his arms, your head rolling back. He takes the chance to bite down on your throat, fixing another mark to your skin.
"So tight- so fuckin' wet- you're doing so good for me-" he murmurs against you.
You can't reply, your mind going numb, just the quiet uh uh uh falling from your lips on every thrust.
"Silly girl-" he mocks, "-you haven't got a single thought left, have y'?"
Any other time, any other day, any other second, you'd punch him for a question like that. But he's right, your whole brain has gone, replaced by white hot pleasure. You feel your pussy clench around him at his words, nails digging deeper into his muscles.
He smiles, "All fucked out- doin' so good-"
He speeds up, biting at your jaw, panting softly as his whole body works against you. You can feel his chest burning into you, the loud pounding of his heartbeat mixed with your own.
"Just stay like that- drunk on my cock- just let me take care of y'."
You whimper, your whole body on fire, the feeling of him feeling you. He keeps thrusting into you, faster, frantic. The room fills with your desperate gasps, his loud grunts, the obscene sounds of his cock inside your cunt. You can't think of anything, just the noise and the feeling and the need.
He moves his lips next to your ear, whispering quietly, "You wanna cum?"
You nod desperately, your chest filled with fear from his betrayals. You blink up at him, eyes sparkling with tears, silently begging him to keep going, to give you your release.
He takes a long look at you, whole body moving above you, then leans back down, nips your earlobe between his teeth, "Stay there- just stay- make me proud- be good for me darlin'- just another minute-"
Your teeth grind together, a small whimper as your lip quivers, your body right on the edge, ready to topple. His hand moves up to your throat, wrapping his fingers around it. It's not tight, but it's possessive, it's a reminder of what he could do to you.
He pulls back, eyes washing over you, analytical as he takes you in, your dancing eyes, your lips parting in another gasp. He smiles, tilting his head to one side, "You wanna be good?"
You bite down hard on your lip, you try to nod but your mind is too gone to do anything.
His face goes dark, "Cum for me."
Your whole body reels, back arching, legs twitching, a loud moan falling from your lips. Your head rolls back into the pillows, eyes squeezing shut, toes curling. Your orgasm shocks though you, you feel like you're falling, tumbling off that precipice you've been so desperate to leap from.
He fucks you through it, devouring the sight like a wolf. You feel as he cums inside you, deep and desperate, his body twitching above you, pace faltering as he tries to keep going. He slows as you collapse back against the mattress, body weak, mind wiped.
For a second he stays there, still slowly grinding into you, his movements lethargic, the bead of sweat at his temple only just clinging on. Then he pulls out with a tight groan, collapsing on the mattress next to you.
The room is quiet for a long minute- the sound of your panting, his ragged breath, the only noise. You feel your mind falling again slowly, beginning to make sense of your surroundings, the rough fabric below your body, Dean's cum dripping out of you, your body slick with sweat.
He moves slowly, like it hurts him just to lift his head, but in time he gets there- gently pushing your body onto its side- his body moving next to you. He spoons you gently, his arm heavy as he wraps it over you, his breathing still rough next to your ear. He finds his place, palm on your sternum, thumb between your tits as he feels your heart pounding in your chest.
"God baby-" he murmurs quietly, kissing just behind your ear, "-y'did so good."
You nod slowly, feeling the fabric beneath your fingertips, still trying to blink yourself awake.
"Made me so proud, so proud- did such a good job- y'such a good girl."
He kisses along your neck, plants a soft one on your shoulder as he turns you slightly. His eyes rake over your body as he props himself up. He kisses the top of your breast, working down over your ribs as he runs his fingers across your thighs. For a second you think he's trying for more- your body too exhausted to even entertain the idea- but then you see what he's looking at- systematically working his way over the marks on your body. He takes his time to make sure you're alright, gently pressing down on any bruising to make sure it's not sore, watching your expression carefully for any sign of pain. Only when he trusts you're okay does he move back next to you.
"You're so beautiful." He murmurs, quieter, almost shy- "I've always thought you're beautiful."
He shifts, pulling away from you as he moves to sit up. He steadies himself against the mattress before he stands- keeping his movements slow. You reach out instinctively, desperate for him to stay close.
He smiles, running his fingers down your arm, "Just a second, baby."
You hear him move away as you close your eyes, sinking further against the mattress. The sound of running water, the soft padding of Deans feet against the carpet. When you creak your eyes back open he's next to you, leaning down as he moves to sit on the bed.
He pulls the damp towel up, gently pressing it against your forehead. The cold water chills you for a moment, shocked by the sensation- and then you welcome it, your body still on fire without you realising. He drags it down across your neck, over your collarbone, taking the chance to flatten out the bandages across your shoulder- the wound you'd half forgotten until now. He quickly runs it over your breasts, momentarily getting distracted by the sight of your nipples hardening. You see bruising on his own arm, where your fingers dug into him, a soft pattern splayed against his skin.
He moves to your thigh, resting it on the purple marks as he looks at you, "Deep breaths, it'll only be a moment, okay? Just gotta trust me-"
You nod, not understanding but trusting all the same.
He drags the towel up until it's between your thighs, gently pressing it against your pussy. You squeeze your eyes shut, the ice cold sensation half thrilling and half shattering. He keeps it there until the feeling washes over you, replaces with the soothing he clearly intended, your body relaxing again, eyes blinking open.
He throws the towel to the side of the room, letting it join the iodine soaked one on the floor.
He stands again, making his way over to his duffle, still resting on the small table. He pulls out his bottle of water, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand as he moves back onto the bed, sinking down next to you.
He holds the bottle in front of you- you go to take it, wrapping your hand around it- but he keeps his there. Only when you go to move it do you realize why, your body still weak, arms still exhausted. He helps you, bringing it to your lips and pouring a small sip in. You gulp it down, letting it refresh you more than you realized you needed.
He pulls it away slowly and throws the lid back on and dropping it next to him as he drags your body back over. You lay there quietly, your head on his chest, his heartbeat still thumping desperately in your ears. He drags his finger over your spine, slow and repetitive, lulling you to safety.
You hear the soft patter of rain start to hit the window, the sound of the storm breaking outside. Dean kisses your forehead, relaxing into the feeling, "I'll drive out and get us some food in a bit- what do you want?"
You realize you haven't eaten since midday- the hunt outweighing everything else. You think for a moment, "Fries-" another moment, "-and a milkshake."
He chuckles, "What flavor?"
"Strawberry."
He smiles, "Fries and a strawberry shake it is."
He hold you tight, dragging his finger tips over you. It feels nice, being in his arms, the warmth of his body feels comforting, enveloping.
He looks down at you, locking eyes as he gives you a small smile, "Promise me you're not quitting?"
You quirk an eyebrow, "What?"
"I'll give you that whenever you ask just- promise me you're not gonna quit."
You chuckle lightly, rolling your eyes, "You're saying that was all because of what I said? All for me? You didn't get anything out of it?"
"What can I say, sweetheart-" he smiles, leaning down to kiss you cheek, his tone light-hearted, "I'm just helping out a fellow hunter."
I don’t know who needs to hear this but it is actually normal for your pussy juices to bleach your dark colored underwear sometimes. It’s a sign your vagina is maintaining a healthy level of acidity and it’s nothing to worry about and not a sign of bad hygiene. I’m making this post because I mentioned this happening to me once in high school during a conversation with a group of girls about gynecological complaints and one of them made me feel disgusting about it but there is nothing wrong with it and it’s just a sign I have good PH. So, if it happens to you, do not feel ashamed.
Hi everybody! Below you'll find my works organized by fandom and character. Take a peek at the new WIP category - stay in the loop on what's coming up, and if it's not something you're itching to read, send in a request!
Supernatural:
Dean Winchester:
If You Change Your Mind - Ch. 1
If You Change Your Mind - Ch. 2
If You Change Your Mind - Ch. 3
Back Seat
Guessing Game (ft. Sam)
He Wants To Watch (ft. Sam)
Discreet
A Lesson in Manners
Camgirl
Sam Winchester:
Keep Watching
No Vacancy - Day One
No Vacancy - Day Two
No Vacancy - Day Three
Guessing Game (ft. Dean)
He Wants To Watch (ft. Dean)
Size Matters
Research
Sinners (Teaser)
Crowley:
Your Rightful Place
Fitting Room
Vices and Virtues
Castiel:
Obedience at Its Finest (Lucifer!Cas)
Vices and Virtues
The Last of Us:
Joel Miller
But I'm Better (Series, DBF!Joel)
Blood Flow
Daddy's Girl
The Real Thing
Our Little Secret
Too Sweet (Series, Jackson!AU)
Bourbon and Mead
Unspoken Rules
Friendly Competition
The Walking Dead:
Negan Smith:
Easy Access
Other:
Pedro Pascal:
Sway
Coat Check
Sinners (Full) - Sam Winchester x Reader
Unlike Your Brother - Sam Winchester x Reader
A Lesson In Manners - Dean Winchester x Reader
Step by Step - Dean Winchester x Reader
Requests are open! Be aware that if the request is incredibly long, oddly specific, or awkward it may be altered or unused. Some past requests have been questionable, gross, or illegal and I have no intention of immersing my brain in that for hours [*thousand yard stare*]
But, I digress!
Thank you for all of your support, as always. It means so much more than you know! If you have a request or simply want to say hi, my inbox is always open! Daily life impedes quite a bit, but I'm incorporating writing whenever I can. Feel free to give me some creative homework!
Also, check this link to see who I write for, and this link if you'd like to be tagged in future posts! The latter will be a lengthy process to finish, but I'm going to give it a shot! There's gotta be an easier way than doing this with a Google doc, right?
Here's to our lil' family, and to more fanfiction!
AAAAHHHHHH I loved your daryl with a romantic s/o request!!! To add on to it, can I request daryl getting married for real?? It would've all started when they were on a date (because of course, she insists on having regular dates in the middle of the zombie apocalypse), when she asked him if he'd marry her, if they weren't living in the end times. He, of course, says he would. And that puts the idea in her head. Later that week, she comes back from a run, grinning ear to ear like an absolute maniac. Of course, when daryl asks her what's got her so happy this time, she holds up a marriage certificate. She'd spotted a courthouse when she was on a run, and she turned the damn thing upside down looking for a marriage license. And, lucky her, one of the members of the little settlement they're part of used to be an ordained minister. So, she's got everything she needs to make her marriage official. This woman grabs him by the arm and practically skips her way to the minister's house. If she bumps into any members of the group along the way, perfect! They can be witnesses. I think just about anyone from the group would tease daryl about being married, but if it was Rick? Carol? MERLE?? Poor man would never catch a break from all the teasing. But he wouldn't trade it for anything. Daryl Dixon, officially became a married man even after the world had ended
A/N: STOP THIS IS SO FUCKING CUTE I LOVE IT!!!! HERE YOU GO!!! we are pretending that Merle is alive for this cos i need merle to tease daryl
Warnings: fluff overloaddddddddd, marriage,
𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃
The grass beneath you is cool, the night air buzzing with the sound of crickets and the distant murmur of Alexandria settling into sleep. You’ve got dinner spread out between you and Daryl, beans from a can, a couple of stale crackers, and a bottle of water you’ve been saving like it’s fine wine. It’s not much, but with him sitting cross-legged in front of you, chewing slow, it feels like the best date you’ve ever had.
You watch him in the glow of the lantern set between you, the way his hair falls into his eyes, the sharp cut of his jaw when he chews. He catches you staring and squints “What?”
“Nothing” you say with a smile, taking a tiny sip of water, “Just thinking”
His brows furrow “That usually gets ya in trouble ”
You roll your eyes, nudging his knee with your foot, “Would you marry me?”
Daryl blinks, actually choking on a bite of cracker. He coughs, swears under his breath, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “The hell kinda question is that?”
You shrug, playful, refusing to look away “If the world wasn’t like this. If things were normal. Would you?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, staring at you in that way he does, like you’re something he doesn’t quite understand but can’t look away from. Finally, he mutters, “Yeah. Probably”
Your heart flips, your grin widening. “Probably?”
“Don’t push it” he says, cheeks faintly pink. But you don’t miss the softness in his eyes when he looks away, pretending to focus on the beans.
~~~~
A few days later, you come back from a run with your pack slung over your shoulder and a grin splitting your face so wide you’re sure you look like a lunatic. You don’t even care.
Daryl’s waiting by the gate, crossbow propped against his shoulder, eyes narrowing suspiciously “What the hell’s got you smilin’ like that?”
You yank the paper out of your pack and hold it up like treasure. “A marriage certificate”
He just stares. Blinks. “What?”
You wave it at him, practically bouncing on your toes. “Courthouse on the edge of town. I turned the whole place upside down until I found this. And get this, one of the folks here? Used to be an ordained minister” You’re breathless, beaming. “We’ve got everything we need, Daryl. We can get married. For real”
He’s still staring, stunned. Finally he manages to speak, “Sunshine… y’know I’m supposed to be the one proposin’, not you tellin’ me we’re doin’ it”
You shrug, smirking “I know. But who cares?”
And for the first time in a long time, you hear it, his laugh. Rough and warm, shaking his head as he huffs, “You’re somethin’ else”
“Come on” you say, grabbing his arm before he can think too hard about it “We’re doing this”
~~~~
You practically skip down the street, dragging a very reluctant, very red-faced Daryl Dixon with you. People stop and stare, because it’s not every day the camp’s surliest hunter is hauled through town by a giggling woman waving a marriage certificate.
Of course, that’s when you bump into Carol. She takes one look at the paper in your hand, then at Daryl’s scowl, and her lips twitch. “Well, well. Didn’t think I’d see this day”
“Don’t start” Daryl mutters, glaring at the ground.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it” Carol says sweetly, though the amusement in her voice betrays her “Congratulations, Mr. Dixon”
Before he can recover from that, another voice cuts through the street.
“Holy shit. My baby brother’s gettin’ hitched?”
Merle. Of course. He’s leaning against a wall, grinning like the devil, one hand slapping his thigh as he cackles. “Well ain’t this rich. Who’da thought? Daryl Dixon, ol’ lady in tow, marchin’ off to tie the knot”
Daryl growls something low and sharp, but Merle just keeps laughing. “Wait ’til I tell everybody. Hell, I’m standin’ as best man whether ya like it or not”
You can’t stop yourself laughing, even as Daryl shoots you a look that could kill. His ears are flaming red, his scowl fixed firmly in place, but he doesn’t pull away. Not once.
By the time you make it to the minister’s house, you’ve got half the damn group trailing after you, Carol smirking, Merle still teasing, and even Rick shaking his head with that half-smile of his. Witnesses, whether Daryl wants them or not.
~~~~
The minister clears his throat on the porch, holding the worn paper carefully “Marriage is about choice” he says, voice even. “About promising each other that no matter the world, no matter the hardships, you’ll keep walking side by side”
You feel Daryl’s hand twitch in yours. You squeeze. He squeezes back.
The minister nods at you. “Do you take this man to be your husband, to stand by him through the end of days, to love him, fight with him, and never let him go?”
Your chest feels like it might burst “I do. Always”
Carol’s already dabbing at her eye.
“And do you” the minister turns to Daryl, “take this woman to be your wife, to walk beside her through whatever this world throws your way, to protect her, love her, and never let her go?”
Daryl swallows, shifting on his feet. His voice is rough, low, but steady. “Ain’t much I got to give” he says, eyes locked on yours. “But everythin’ I got is hers. Always been hers. Always gonna be”
Merle lets out a loud, obnoxious whistle “Well, shit, little brother, you almost sounded romantic”
Laughter ripples through the crowd. Daryl growls, but doesn’t look away from you.
“Then by what power I still hold” the minister says, signing the paper, “I pronounce you husband and wife. Even at the end of the worl”
Merle whistles, loud and obnoxious again, “Well, hell, baby brother! Kiss the damn bride before I do it for ya!”
Daryl huffs, cheeks red, but he cups your cheek and leans in. His lips are rough, trembling just a little, but when he kisses you, it’s full of heat and promise, and the world disappears.
The crowd cheers, Carol laughing, Rick clapping his shoulder, Merle cackling loud enough to wake the dead.
~~~~
When it’s done, Carol hugs you tight. Rick claps Daryl on the back so hard he nearly stumbles. And Merle? He grins wickedly, throwing an arm around his brother’s shoulders.
“Well, hell. Look at you, Darylina. All grown up. A married man at the end of the world. Didn’t think ya had it in ya”
Daryl mutters, “Shut up” under his breath, but he doesn’t stop smiling. Not really.
And as the group disperses, laughter and teasing trailing in their wake, you slip your hand into his. For the first time, the world doesn’t feel quite so broken.
Because Daryl Dixon is your husband. Even after the end.
Summary: You think you don’t have a chance with Dean, and you’ve accepted that. That is until he clocks you one night while lost in your thoughts and it turns out you have a chance after all.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Reader, Pinch of Angst if you blink, Smut, Loverboy Dean, Soft Dom Dean, Cunnilingus, Spanking (once), Petnames (Pretty girl, Sweetheart, Baby, etc.), Dirty Talk, Sex without protection (wrap it uppp), Slow Soft Sex, Creampie, Smite me down if you must but I won’t stop.
Ducky's Quote Quota: “I wanna grab his cheeks and go AWWWEEEE then I wanna grab his cock and go EURRRRRRRHHHHNNN EUURRRRRRHHHHNNNN! LIKE A STICKSHIFT!”
“I bet you can’t tie this cherry stem into a knot with your tongue.”
If there was something Dean liked, it was a challenge. And Dean never backed down from challenges. You would’ve never handed over your alcohol-soaked cherry you plucked from the bottom of your glass to Dean if you knew he’d start doing this every time you or Sam ordered a drink or milkshake with a cherry.
It was cute watching his brows furrow together and tongue prod around against his cheeks as he focused, and then his face lighting up as he held the tied stem between his perfect teeth. Of course, he was able to tie the cherry stem with his tongue. You would be stupid to think otherwise with the number of women he’s been with. Admittedly, you just wanted to see that familiar boyish grin on his face that etches across his face when he proudly shows off anything he’s done. And he does.
But you’ve created a monster.
“Hey! C’mon, man, I was going to eat that,” Sam grumbles as Dean shrugs and bites into the cherry. Already having finished his meal and dessert, Dean was left to boredly watch you and Sam finish the rest of your meals slowly.
“Too slow,” Dean says after chewing and swallowing the sweet fruit, slipping the stem into his mouth to try and tie it.
Sam gives you a look, the “do you see what you’ve done” look. You just give Sam a small, sympathetic smile, but you’re shriveling up inside— beating yourself up for doing this— to both of you. It’s mostly worse for you because you can’t stop thinking about Dean’s mouth. You already thought he had the prettiest lips, plump and kissable. But with the addition of what his tongue could do? You’re ruined.
He’s still playing with the stem in his mouth by the time you and Sam are following him out the door and getting into Baby to drive back to the motel. And you can’t help but stare intensely from the backseat, eventually meeting Dean’s equally piercing, yet curious gaze in the driver’s mirror. “Looks like you’re thinking real hard back there, sweetheart.”
“Maybe I’m trying to use the force to choke you.”
“Well, with the way you’re looking at me, you’re choking the wrong part.” Dean grins, shooting you a wink that has you snapping out of your tense stare to look away sheepishly. Your heart can barely take it.
“Dean, that’s gross,” Sam groans, covering his face in secondhand embarrassment at Dean’s flirting. Dean just lets out a throaty chuckle before putting the car into drive and taking off in the direction of the motel.
You liked to think that you had a chance with Dean at one point, when you were younger and naive.
Freshly thrown into the world of hunting a couple years ago, you thought you could conquer anything with nothing but Bobby’s knowledge and half-baked skills— all the while running on a maximum of three hours of sleep and a case of energy drinks that were sure to be shutting down your insides soon. You learned your lesson quickly when you nearly lost your head fighting an axe-throwing vengeful spirit, only to be saved last second by Dean pulling you out the way. Despite being chewed out for being so reckless, you couldn’t help but think about how he was one of the prettiest men you’ve ever met. You didn’t plan to stick with the brothers either, it just kind of happened. And Bobby lectured you about how good it would be for you since they were so experienced, so it seemed as if you didn’t have much choice anyway.
You curse Bobby sometimes because of it when you find yourself wanting Dean like you’ve never known what true yearning meant until him. Hands grasping for his only to find your curled fingers empty and his across the bar on someone that wasn’t you. You tried to get over it, really tried, but no one ever felt right— even when they felt vaguely like him in between if you squeezed your eyes closed hard enough.
Arriving at the motel, you can feel a sigh of relief slip from your lips seeing the neon red letters blinking in and out sporadically. Sam must’ve been feeling the same thing because he’s the first out of the car and halfway to the room. And just when you think you’re about to be free from this self-made hell you’ve created, opening the car door to get out as well, Dean calls out to Sam.
“Hey, Sammy? We’re goin’ to the convenience store real quick, be back in a bit.”
You pause halfway out of the car, eyes flickering over to meet Dean’s unreadable gaze as he tilts his head for you to get into the front.
“Uh, alright,” Sam says, sharing a brief look with you as you open the passenger door. And the look on your face had Sam biting his lip to hold back a laugh. “Have fun,” is the last thing you wanted to hear from him, mouthing an aggressive “you’re dead to me” before sitting in place where Sam previously was.
You shouldn’t be this nervous. Why were you so nervous? It’s not like you haven’t driven alone with Dean before. You think maybe it’s because of his recent habit he’s picked up that you can’t get off your mind, but you figure out that it’s most likely because he’s quiet. He’s too quiet. No obnoxious singing, no reaching over the console to ruffle your hair or prod at your side to get you to laugh, nothing. And it makes you uneasy.
Looking at him from the corner of your eyes— he doesn’t seem angry. Sure, his eyebrows are narrowed deeply into his glabella, but the rest of his face seems more thoughtful than anything with the stem bitten between his perfect teeth. Maybe he’s constipated? God, you don’t know anymore— does he know? Maybe Sam told him, but Sam would never betray you like that. And now he’s looking over at you with that weird look on his face like you’re the weird one—
“You good?”
No, not really, you feel like a skittish animal who’s never seen a human in its life. “What? Yeah, I’m fine, I’m good, I’m—“ you pause to clear your throat and lean back in your seat while making a small motion with your hand, “— chill… why?”
Dean suppresses a snort, face contorting into one of amusement as you fumble nervously over your own words. He turns back to look ahead, index finger tapping against the steering wheel slowly. “You’re fidgety.” He takes the tied stem from his teeth and mindlessly tosses it into the cup holder.
“I’m not fidgety, you’re fidgety,” Is your quick retort as you cross your arms over your chest and avert your eyes. “I’m cool.” Christ, you act as if you’ve never been around a guy before.
“Uh huh…” By his body language, now Dean’s shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Great, you made him uncomfortable. “Look—“ he starts out and you dread hearing the “I know you like me but we’re just friends” speech. “If I made you uncomfortable earlier with my joke, I… uh, sorry,” he says almost sheepishly. And you don’t get why he’s apologizing because it’s not the first time he’s ever made a flirty comment or joked with you like that before.
“What? Dean— no, you didn’t…” You trail off, hands falling onto your thighs to tap your fingers anxiously. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable.”
“You looked it. And maybe it’s just because I didn’t notice it before, but I don’t wanna do anything that you don’t feel comfortable with, y’know?”
Banging your head against the window would be ten times better than confronting what you’re about to confront. Damn him and damn your inability to hide the flustered expression creeping over your face. “It’s not like that,” you manage out in a strained voice.
“Then what’s it like?” There’s a tinge of frustration as he says your name and looks over at you. “Because I don’t get— “
You don’t say anything, your silence answers enough as you turn your head and look away nervously like a guilty dog after chewing up the furniture.
“Oh.”
Oh.
There’s a long beat of silence that hangs in the air between you like a thick fog, weighing heavy on your chest. You don’t dare look at him, not when your ears are burning and your stomach’s trying to climb into your throat. You try to stay calm, keep your cool, but your heart is thumping like it’s about to knock your ribs loose.
“You— you like me? Like… like-like me?” Dean says it out loud like he’s in disbelief at the thought.
You let out a short breath in what could sound like exasperated amusement at his words. “I want you. I’ve wanted you, Dean.”
Now he looks at you. Fully turns his head for a second, his jaw slack with surprise before he quickly turns back to the road.
You laugh, self-deprecating and breathless. “See? This is why I didn’t say anything.”
“No—no, hold on,” Dean says, pulling Baby over into a near-empty parking lot and throwing her into park. He twists in his seat to look at you now, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to solve you. “You’re saying that you actually… you’ve got a thing for me? Like, have had a thing?”
You let out a groan like you’re in pain. “Yes, Dean— since the axe-wielding ghost that tried to mount my head on a wall.”
Dean blinks. “You’re kidding.”
You shake your head.
“That’s… fuck.” He rubs a hand over his face. “All this time, and I’ve been—” he groans. “Jesus. I thought you were just… not into me.”
You finally meet his eyes again, confused. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I’m into you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “And I’ve been too chicken shit to say anything ’cause I didn’t wanna screw up what we had. I figured if you did like me, you would’ve said something by now.”
You blink this time.
And then you’re cracking up into a fit of laughter, not entirely sure if it’s from the situation or if you’re about to lose your mind over the fact that Dean Winchester of all people wanted you.
Dean gives you a look, one that’s unsure and slightly concerned.
“Sorry,” You quickly stop laughing and clear your throat, avoiding his eyes again. “I just—“ you take in a deep breath and exhale, leaning back into the passenger seat. “I feel stupid now,” You murmur, head tilting back to press against the headrest as you look at the roof like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
“Yeah, well I feel stupider.”
Both of you sit in silence for what feels like eternity as awkwardness eats away at your nerves until Dean is picking up the cherry stem from earlier and messing with it between his fingers, like he’s waiting for something. And Dean doesn’t wait. At least he usually doesn’t.
But this was different.
“Dean.”
His gaze meets yours, a sheepish almost hesitant look on his face as you push down the urge to run away from the situation.
“Can I kiss you?”
You can practically see him perk up at the question, lips curling just wide enough to show his perfect teeth with a gleam in his eyes. “Really?” His mouth twitches like he’s rewiring before clearing his throat and relaxing. “I mean, yeah.”
And your lips pull into a small grin at his behavior before moving in your seat to face him, his own body turning to you as your hands subconsciously find their way to cup either side of his face to pull him forward over the console.
What you didn’t expect was for him to get too excited and shift his head forward eagerly, forehead slamming into yours.
“Fuck!”
“Ow— shit, sorry!”
You hiss in pain, hand flying to rub at the spot as Dean winces. “Let me kiss you, Dean. You’re like a walking OSHA violation for romance,” You grumble.
Despite the countless women he’s been with, Dean doesn’t remember ever being this awkward— or embarrassed. But he can’t help but get nervous, because this isn’t a passing one-night stand with any woman. You know him. You’ve seen him at his worst moments, the ones where he’s screaming until his vocal cords are raw and his chest is heaving, the ones where he breaks everything he touches because he’s never known how to truly fix things regardless of the bravado he puts on acting like he does.
And it scares him.
Because you’ve never pulled away, never looked at him differently. He wasn’t just a hunter, wasn’t just Sam’s older brother, wasn’t just someone who was doing everything they could to stop an apocalypse— he was just him. Just Dean.
And when your lips finally pressed to his, he was yours.
Dean melts near instantly when your lips slant to shape against him, a calloused hand dropping the stem he’d been anxiously fidgeting with to rest on the back of your neck. There’s a sighed groan that rumbles through his chest and into his throat, head tilting to deepen the kiss. You’re able to taste the cherry pie he had earlier at the diner when he coaxes your lips apart to explore the inside of your mouth, tongue lapping against your own salaciously—mind growing fuzzier each passing second. You refuse to pull away until you’re out of breath and taking in gulps of air, but even then, you’re still hovering just centimeters away from Dean’s lips. He looks just about the same as you, chest rising and falling heavily but ignoring the need for any air other than the breath on your lips. His eyes flicker over your face to take you in, hand moving from your nape to cup the side of your face to carefully wipe his thumb over your bottom lip.
“Wish I did this years ago,” He whispers breathlessly before guiding you into another kiss. This time, his hands are dropping to your thighs to scoop you from your seat as he unbuckles your seatbelt to pull over the console onto his lap. Your legs shift to straddle him properly, ass pressing into the steering wheel before a loud blaring of the horn has you and Dean jumping away from each other. You let out a quiet snort shortly after realizing what happened, leaning forward away from the wheel and into Dean’s chest with your hands resting on his broad shoulders.
“This isn’t very tactical,” You point out with a small grin, Dean chuckling at the levity of the situation before it tapers off into a thoughtful hum.
You watch his head tilt and eyes flit over the backseat before meeting your gaze again, his hands briefly squeezing your thighs. “Depends,” He murmurs, “How far do you want to go?”
Swallowing down the small lump in your throat, you take in the look on his face, the only light reflecting off his features being from the dull luminosity of the moon and faint dashboard lights. And he’s really looking at you, drinking you in like he’d be satisfied if you’d stop here and continue the rest of the night like normal. But that’s the last thing you want because despite the look in his eyes, the bulge in his jeans says otherwise and you don’t think you could say no even if you tried. “Wanna go all the way,” You hear yourself saying quietly before thinking any further.
“Yeah?” Dean murmurs before leaning forward to press a softer kiss to your lips, hands rubbing over your hips before lifting them. “Backseat then, pretty girl.”
A throb pulses through you to your lower stomach, but you hide it by giving a half-hearted nod in return to his words and climb into the backseat, shifting to get comfortable as Dean follows close behind. Just as he climbs over the console, his hand slips off the seat and he tumbles into your lap, foot kicking into the radio with a string of curses following behind as you giggle. The radio crackles to life quietly, the familiar intro to Drive by The Cars playing.
“Fuck—uh, meant to do that,” Dean clears his throat as he moves out of your lap and properly settles into the backseat, kneeling on the seat between your legs.
Your forehead bumps against his, lips clumsily slotting together, hands roaming to undress one another eagerly. You push his jacket off his shoulders, sighing softly into his mouth when his hands ruck up your tank top to grope and palm at your chest. He pulls away from the kiss to tug off the tank top, tossing it aside before leaning back in to kiss down from your lips to your jaw and then to your neck. Sucking in a shaky breath, you can’t help but shiver when his warm lips trail down your cleavage and murmur a surprised noise when his knees drop from the seat to the footwell. “Dean, what are you—” You start out before he’s quietly shushing you and mouthing a trail of kisses down your tummy to the waistband of your jeans.
“Jus’ wanna taste, that okay, baby?” He mumbles against your skin, eyes meeting yours for permission as his hands hover over your jeans.
You crumble under his gaze quickly and nod with a hazy hum before he’s unbuttoning and pulling down your jeans. Your feet kick off your boots lazily when your pants bunch down at your ankles, leaving you in just your bra and underwear.
“God, you’re so pretty, sweetheart,” Dean says reverently, fingers ghosting over your inner thighs before pushing them apart to make more room for him. “So fucking gorgeous,” he adds as his eyes fall to the damp crotch of your underwear. “This all f’me, sweet girl?”
“Mhm,” you hum back, hips jolting when he brings a thumb to press against the wet spot, rubbing small circles over your clothed clit. You try not to squirm too much, but it’s difficult when he’s taking his time with you and talking to you like this, not to mention how he’s looking at you with a carnal hunger in his eyes.
Dean’s low and heavy chuckle breaks you out of your muddled thoughts, a moan slipping past your lips as his thumb drags down from your clit to press forward. The shallow feeling of his thumb prodding just at your entrance through the cloth causes your hips to jolt again. “Sensitive, sweetheart?”
“Dean—” you whine out, growing frustrated with his teasing touch. “Please,” you whisper, hands holding yourself steady on the seat, nails digging into the vinyl seat. “Need you.”
Groaning roughly, Dean’s fingers are curling into your underwear and tearing them off before hooking his arms around your thighs and angling your hips to fit against his mouth. The first taste he has of you is a filthy mouthful, tongue dragging through your slick folds upwards to your clit, sucking harshly enough to make your hips buck up.
You gasp out, hand flying to his hair to grip at the short strands as he laps you up with fervor, arms trapping your thighs from shutting around his head. “Baby— feels s’fucking good.” But he’s barely paying attention, too busy burying himself further between your thighs like it was his salvation. And he can’t help but chastise himself over taking so long to finally have you like this, hands squeezing and holding your thighs to keep them still for him as your arousal drips down his chin.
“Keep still, baby, gotta keep still while I eat this pretty pussy out. Fuckin’ dripping for me,” he rasps out heavily between mouthfuls of your cunt. “Been wanting this, huh? My mouth on you.” You’re trembling in his grasp at this point, but he’s barely started with you. His nose bumps against your clit when his tongue slips down to slide past your tight entrance and then back up to suck around your throbbing bundle of nerves. When you don’t answer him, his hand slaps against the outside of your thigh lightly, mouth parting from your core. “Answer me,” your name slips from his lips and it sounds sinful, sending shivers down your spine.
“Yes!” You whimper out, fingers curling into his scalp. “Wanted you, wanted your mouth on me, De.”
“Atta girl,” he gruffly murmurs out before going back to eating you out eagerly, shifting on his knees from how uncomfortable his cock straining in his jeans were. God, did it ache to not be in you, filling you up and stretching you out to fit around him like you were made for each other. But it sure as hell made it worth the ache seeing you crumble beneath him like this, begging for him like his touch is the only thing you’ve ever known.
And when you fall apart, thighs straining against his firm grip in attempts to clamp down on him, he groans into you. You barely make a noise, your mind swimming in pleasure as you grind against his tongue, chest stuttering at the erotic noise of him loudly slurping up everything you have to offer. Your limbs feel heavy, fingers uncurling from his hair to lazily fix it all the while still trembling from the aftermath of your orgasm.
Dean lets out a breathless laugh at your blissed out state, pulling away from you as he wipes the rest of his mouth with the back of his hand. “You alright there, sweetheart?”
“Shut up,” you mumble out as you gather yourself back together, watching him move back onto the seat with you. Your legs sit spread over his thighs, sitting between his legs and shuddering when his bulge brushes against your sensitive pussy. “Need all of you.”
“I know, baby girl,” he croons, lips brushing against your own before he unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans to pull his cock out of his briefs and nearly signs in relief. It’s thick and lengthy, curved just slightly in a way you know will have your thighs shaking by the end and it’s throbbing with need. When his hand wraps around the shaft of his cock, precum spills out from his tip in rivulets down his length to slicken himself up with a throaty groan. Just as his free hand reaches into his tossed jacket to pull out a condom from his wallet, you grab his wrist.
“M’on the pill, wanna feel you.”
And Dean freezes in place just momentarily to look at you before he’s dropping the condom and crashing his lips against you again like you just broke the world’s best news to him. “Wanna feel you too,” he muffles between your kisses before he’s guiding the tip of his cock to slide between your folds with a moan. “Been thinking about this, having you finally— all spread out and needy for me,” he admits quietly, lips twitching up at the corners when your hips jerk at the way his tip rubs over your clit. He then slips down to your entrance, pressing just barely past your tight hole. “Looking like a goddamn dream,” Dean nearly whimpers as he slides in past the tip, forehead pressed to yours.
Your moans mingle with his own stifled noises, arms coming up to wrap around his neck, holding onto him as he crowds you between the seat and his body, squishing you in the best way possible with every inch he’s slowly pushing into your warmth. “Dean,” you mindlessly let out, a desperate whine falling from your lips as he bottoms out finally. “Please, I—“
“You’re perfect, so fucking perfect for me,” Dean pants out, face falling to the crook of your neck as his hips still against you to take a moment. “And pretty,” he adds with a pitchy sigh as he slowly grinds his hips into you in an experimental manner. “Oh, fuck—“
Your ankles lock together around his waist, heels digging into his lower back to push him deeper despite being pressed against you like the concept of space didn’t exist. “Move, please,” you plead, hips shifting to move along with him until he’s holding you still.
“Uh, uh, baby,” he murmurs, grinding into you again. “You let me do the work. We’ll get there, promise.” His arms wrap around you, hands sliding up your back to hold onto you before he’s sliding in and out of you slowly with his face still tucked into your neck. “Just needed to keep myself from coming right away, you feel too good.”
You’re getting hazy again as his cock breaches places you’re sure no one else could ever reach and accept that you’re ruined for anyone else. You take in his scent, nose and mouth pressed against the slope of his throat as he continues to fuck you slow and thorough like he’s memorizing every ridge and bump inside of you. He smells like faint woodsy cologne with an overwhelming scent that was uniquely him: motor oil, gunpowder, leather, faint smoke, and sweat. And you drown in it, clutching onto him weakly and moaning lowly into his skin when he angles his hips to hit that spongy part buried in you.
“That’s it, baby, all you have to do is let that cock slide in and out of you, just like that,” Dean groans, pace picking up just barely until a mixture of your arousal and his precum is frothing at the base of his cock, dripping down his balls. “My pretty girl— ruin me so fucking good, don’t need anyone else but you,” he rambles mindlessly as he brings his forehead up to press against yours again, lips barely brushing together. “M’all yours. This cock is yours. You hear me, sweetheart?” Dean huffs against your flushed face, chest rising and falling heavily as his hips falter just slightly.
You nod like you’ve barely got any sense left, lidded eyes meeting his pupil-blown ones, barely even a ring of green left. “All yours, too, Dean. Wanna be with you,” you let slip out before you can stop the words from coming out. You’re too far gone at this point, coil drawn tight in your tummy and clit throbbing for his touch.
“Yeah? We can do that,” he whispers before he’s kissing you, lips desperate and hips rutting up in short yet deep strokes into your clenching heat. “Take you out on a proper date tomorrow, how ‘bout that, huh? Just like my girl deserves.”
Your heart clenches in your chest, aching in a good way as you nod again, lips moving along his own subconsciously until he’s pulling away.
“You close, sweetheart? Can feel you around me,” he mumbles, earning a small “yeah” from your parted lips. “Where d’you want it?”
“Inside,” you respond without a second thought, earning a breathy sounding “fuck” in your ears from him.
“You just want it all,” Dean lets out an airy laugh before he’s focusing on bringing you to the edge, half thrusting and half grinding into you with fervor. “Gonna fill you up till you’re fucking stuffed with my cum, baby. Not gonna waste a single drop,” he grunts as he brings a hand between your bodies to rub his thumb over your clit in time with his thrusts.
“Coming, Dean— fuck! Please, please, please…” you practically slur out, thighs quivering when he circles the pad of his thumb over your clit harder as he grinds up into your sweet spot one last time, sending you tumbling over the edge again. Your vision blurs momentarily as he ruts into you a few more times, whining under his breath as your tight cunt pulses around him in a desperate need to milk his cock dry until he’s coming in you with a broken curse and stilling hips.
His release fills you, warm and viscous until his balls are emptied and he slowly pulls out, eyes dropping down to watch his cum slip out of your soft pussy with a groan. He uses his thumb to swipe it up before pushing it back in, chuckling at your weak whimper in return. “You were so good for me, sweetheart.” He tenderly kisses your lips as you both catch your breath, resting his forehead to yours.
The radio still plays in the background quietly, multiple tracks ahead now to Angel Eyes by The Jeff Healey Band and you sigh.
“You alright?” Dean asks, eyes flickering over your exhausted expression as he brings his clean hand up to cup the side of your face with care.
“Yeah,” your voice comes out scratchy before you let a beat of silence between you pass over. “Did you actually mean it?” You clear your throat, finally meeting his gaze. “The date…”
Dean gives you a once over before doing a terrible job of holding back a grin, thumb tracing over your cheek. “Wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t mean it, pretty girl.”
Your lips shape into a small smile back. “Okay.”
“C’mon, gotta get back to the motel or else Sammy’ll take all the hot water,” Dean murmurs, placing a final kiss to your forehead before shifting to help dress you and tuck himself back into his jeans.
The drive back to the motel is quiet for the most part aside from Dean’s content humming to the radio, his hand over your thigh— thumb rubbing soothing circles over you.
Sam is still inside, sitting by the small desk table the motel comes with, reading up on some lore when you enter. He takes one look at the both of you, and he isn’t stupid which is why he mockingly asks:
“So, what’d you get at the store?”
“Son of a bitch— that’s what we were out for!” Dean groans, scrubbing his face. “I knew I was forgetting something.”
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.
“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.
maybe i like pulling out my debit card instead of using apple pay. maybe i like untangling my wired headphones. maybe i like typing something into the search bar instead of using siri or whatever. maybe i like curating my own social media feeds over an algorithm. i just don’t think everything has to be perfectly streamlined and efficient i like it when things feel tethered to the real world.
i cld never shave bush not just bc im morally opposed to it but also bc what would i play with when im lying in bed thinking…a bush is the beard of the modern day philosopher
In which reader is on a mission to get her boss to relieve some stress, not realizing he'd end up doing the same for her.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader
Genre: smut (18+) x fluff
Content warnings: porn with plot, jessica and jack make an appearance, no mention of haley, hotch smiling (lol), reader being sad and a bit insecure bc she hasn't got laid in a while, mentions of drinking wine, no strings attached (but not really bc they're obsessed with each other), soft!dom hotch, praise, breast play, ass worship, oral (f receiving), p in v sex
Word count: 4,7k
A/n: first time writing a fic dedicated to Hotch and i fear i'm obsessed... also i had to do some acrobatics to make sure these positions work (they do) so give me a heart for the effort
your feedback and support are highly appreciated!
Aaron Hotchner is a busy man. And these days, even more so. The responsibilities of being Unit Chief were always demanding, but they seemed to multiply now that he was balancing the weight of single parenthood as well.
As a profiler it was obvious to you how much he struggled with juggling between these professions, even though he always tried to hide it from the team. You noticed his slightly furrowed brow when he thought no one was watching, and the slow drag of his steps as he moved between meetings and paperwork.
Since you’d joined the team, you'd developed a deep respect for Aaron. Where others saw a hard-nosed, no-nonsense boss—a “drill sergeant” in Morgan’s words—you saw a man who held himself and his team to incredibly high standards because he believed in their potential. You saw a man who cared deeply, even when his personal life was slowly suffocating beneath the pressure of it all.
Even if he would never admit it, no human being can go through the difficulties he goes through without ever catching a break, without getting any help. So tonight, as you passed his office, a light still flickering inside, you decided to do something about it.
Your knuckle made contact with the door, knocking three times as you waited. When there was no immediate response, you quietly creaked the door open.
The sight of him behind the desk was familiar. His shoulders were hunched and his brows furrowed in concentration, as he scanned the endless stacks of paperwork that seemed to breed faster than he could handle them.
"Hey," you greeted softly, offering a small smile as you stepped into the room.
Hotch looked up from the pile in front of him, his gaze flicking from the documents to you. There was a slight exhaustion behind his eyes that he didn’t try to mask.
"Hey.” His eyes dropped to his wristwatch for just a moment, his lips curling into a subtle frown. "It’s late. Why haven’t you gone home yet?"
You waved off his concern. "I’m about to. Had to send a few more emails for the lab reports."
He nodded, but didn’t immediately return to his work. Instead, he watched you with that signature intensity of his, silently observing you.
"I- uh, I wanted to ask you something.” You hesitated for a moment as you moved further into the room, the door gently clicking shut behind you.
His brows rose slightly, an almost imperceptible shift of interest in his posture. "Go on."
You cleared your throat, your hands instinctively clasping behind your back. "You’ve been working a lot of late nights."
“That’s not a question.” He stated in an amused tone.
A small smile played on your lips. "I know, but it’s a… concern," you said. "And I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you out."
He looked at you, his expression unreadable. His hands folded neatly in his lap, and he leaned back in his chair. It was hard to tell whether he was considering your offer or mentally debating the logistics of it.
"You want to help me out?" he asked, his voice tinged with confusion.
“Yes.”
Aaron grabbed a stack of papers, knocking them into a neat pile on his desk, then looked back at you. "So, this is something you’re interested in?" His tone was laced with amusement as he nodded down at the amount of paperwork in his hands.
You winced at the sight of it. "Uh... not exactly," you said, trying to keep your tone light. "I was thinking more along the lines of taking care of Jack," you added, raising your voice slightly on the last part, unsure of how he’d react to your suggestion.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Taking care of Jack?"
"Yeah.” You met his gaze, trying to sound confident despite the uncertainty creeping in. "Just on the days we don’t have a case. I could go to your place and stay with him until you get home."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "You know Jessica’s there," he said, referring to his ex-sister-in-law who had taken on the role of taking care of Jack when he had to work.
“Don’t you think she deserves a break every once in a while?”
His expression shifted, becoming slightly defensive. "She offered to take care of him.”
"I know," you responded quickly, knowing he’d never force her into it. "But I’m offering too. I babysat all through university, I know what I’m doing."
He gave you a tight-lipped smile, his eyes flicking back to the papers in front of him. "That’s not necessary, but thank you," he said, his tone closing the conversation.
You weren’t ready to let it go yet. You stepped closer to his desk, hoping to draw his attention back. "Please? I want to help you."
He didn’t look up. "I don’t need any help," he stubbornly replied, his eyes still glued to the paperwork.
“Then let me put it this way,” you pressed on. "I want to help the team, because no offense, your stress is affecting all of us. And on top of that, I want to help Jack."
He glanced up at you, the wheels in his mind turning, and you showed him your best puppy eyes.
"Did you learn that from Reid?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Is it working?" you grinned back.
He chuckled breathlessly. "Alright, fine. One night. Let’s see how it goes."
You fought back a victorious grin. “Good. Just you wait, Hotchner. Once you see how great I am with kids, you’ll never let me go."
—
A week later, Hotch took you up on your offer. Jessica had a wedding to attend, and you’d agreed to look after Jack for the evening.
Though you’d spent plenty of time with Jack when he visited his dad at the office or at events outside of work, Hotch insisted on driving you to his place for a proper handoff.
He held the door open for you as you entered his apartment. You were immediately greeted by Jessica, dressed in a stunning outfit with a purse ready in hand.
"I’m late, I’m late!" she panicked, almost running as she headed for the door. But when she saw you, her demeanor softened.
“There’s my saving grace,” she said with a relieved smile. “Thank you so much for doing this.”
You waved her off with a grin. “It’s my pleasure. You look amazing, go have fun.”
She offered a final smile, then said her goodbyes to Hotch before quickly heading out.
“Hi, Dad!” Jack’s voice rang out as he bounced into the living room, his excitement palpable. You smiled, watching the little boy as he ran toward his father.
“Hey, buddy.” Hotch lifted him into his arms with a small groan. “You’re getting bigger every day.”
Your heart warmed at the exchange. Hotch was a completely different man when he was at home—more relaxed, more playful, the kind of father who carefully kept work and family separate.
He put Jack down, introducing you to him.
“I know who she is, Dad. We colored together. She’s really good at drawing Spider-Man.”
Hotch raised an intrigued eyebrow at you.
"I have more hidden talents than you know,” you playfully shrugged.
You turned to Jack, crouching down to his level. "Want to grab the crayons? We can make some more drawings."
Jack’s eyes lit up, and without hesitation, he scampered off in search of his favorite colors, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll find the red one!”
You chuckled at his enthusiasm and straightened up, turning back to Hotch. “You’ve got a sweet kid,”
Hotch’s eyes followed Jack as he rummaged through the drawer. There was pride in the way he looked at his son, but you could see the hint of anxiety that always seemed to lurk beneath the surface when it came to Jack.
You placed a reassuring hand on his arm, giving him a small, comforting squeeze. “He’s in good hands, Hotch. You don’t have to worry.”
He met your eyes, and for a brief moment, the weight of his responsibilities seemed to lift. His gaze softened with unspoken gratitude. “I trust you,” he spoke sincerely.
“Good.” You gave him a small smile and gave his bicep a final, reassuring pat. “Now get some work done. You might be able to make it in time for dinner.”
With a final glance at Jack, he turned to leave. The door clicked softly behind him, and you were left on your own with the mini version of him, who was already showing off his new crayons.
—
That evening marked the first of many. When you weren’t out on a case, you found yourself naturally heading to Hotch's after work—sometimes taking over from Jessica for the day or picking up Jack from school yourself. You often stayed well into the evening, even after Hotch came home, enjoying dinner together, playing games, or simply talking. There were even times where you stayed the night, sharing a quiet drink after putting Jack to bed. He’d insist you sleep in his bed while he took the couch. In the mornings, the three of you would share breakfast, with Hotch always ensuring the fridge was stocked with your favorite foods and knowing exactly how you liked your eggs.
You knew your colleagues would lose their minds if they’d ever find out, but for you, it never felt strange. It felt right. Comfortable. And whenever you were back on the field, you’d slip back into your professional roles—the accidental first-name slips the only sign of the bond you shared.
Being at their place made you realize how much your work had tangled itself into every aspect of your life. You’d moved away from family, struggled to maintain a personal life, and watched every attempt at dating falter because of your job. Despite how fulfilling your work at the BAU was, you’d forgotten just how deeply you craved a sense of belonging—a place where you were appreciated for more than just your professional skills or your ability to handle a weapon. Around Aaron and Jack, you could simply let go and be yourself.
Today was another day at the Hotchner house. You had spent the entire afternoon with Jack playing soccer in a nearby park until he was utterly exhausted, you practically had to drag him home. This time you didn’t mind though. Today has been a painful reminder of how single you were. The park had been filled with happy couples—some picnicking, some feeding the ducks, and others nervously sharing their first kiss.
You were grateful for how Aaron had allowed you to wiggle your way into his little family on days like these, but still it wasn’t yours. You still longed for one to call your own one day.
So, here you were—alone on the couch, watching a rom-com wishing you were starring in it, and finding comfort in the warmth of his house and the glass of wine in your hand.
You were so absorbed in the movie that you didn’t notice the door unlocking until Hotch stepped inside.
“Hey,” you greeted, reaching for the remote to pause the film.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he said, putting down his bag and hanging up his jacket. He loosened his tie and walked over to the couch, settling on the opposite end.
“Sorry, I opened a new bottle of wine”
He waved it off. “I’m glad that you did. It would’ve just collected dust on the shelf.”
You take another sip. “It’s a good one. Rossi’s?”
“You know it,” he replied with a soft smile, getting comfortable in the cushions as you put the movie back on.
The screen flickered with a romantic scene: a couple dancing in the rain, the male lead spinning the woman around in circles as they laughed.
“I miss that,” you murmured, a wistful smile tugging at your lips as you watched them.
Hotch glanced at you, a smirk forming. “It’s raining outside. Be my guest.”
You rolled your eyes, playfully dismissing the comment. “That’s not what I meant. Just look, Aaron,” you pointed at the TV, where the couple gazed at each other lovingly, before he pulled her in for a passionate kiss. “I don’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that.”
“Sometimes, I feel so desperate that I think about saying yes to the first guy who comes along, just to feel wanted again.”
Hotch straightened, concern flickering in his eyes. “You shouldn’t do that.”
“I know, Dad,” you teased, trying to ease the tension. “I’m unfortunately fully aware of the creeps out there.”
“On top of that, I’m not even sure anyone would take me up on it,” you added with a breathless laugh, your voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. “I haven’t exactly gotten much attention since joining the team. Maybe I’m not considered attractive anymore.”
“People can tell you know how to handle yourself,” he profiled. “Some find that intimidating. But you’re just as attractive—if not more so—than before you joined the team.”
You almost spilled your wine at his confession, the sudden heat in your cheeks betraying the flutter in your stomach.
“You don’t have to say that,” you mumbled, not wanting him to feel pity for you.
“Am I lying?” he asked, his voice steady. You met his gaze—his posture was open, his shoulders relaxed, and his eye contact was unwavering. It was textbook honesty.
“No,” you admitted quietly, feeling the truth of his words sink in.
“I don’t think you need some stranger or a serious relationship to get what you’re after.”
You blinked, not sure if you’d heard him right. “No?”
Hotch leaned in just a little, his voice lower now. “I think we could give each other what we need... without it being complicated.”
Your heart skipped, and you tried to process what he was suggesting. Your mind raced, the words hanging in the air between you.
“Are you suggesting a no-strings-attached relationship with me?”
He gave a small, wry smile. “I’m trying to be subtle about it, but it’s not going so well.”
You laughed, caught off guard, trying to mask your surprise as you saw the seriousness in his expression.
“How will this work?”
The corners of his lips lifted as you acknowledged thinking this through. “We would just… enjoy ourselves. Just when we’re here. Just when it’s the two of us.”
Enjoying yourself with Aaron Hotchner definitely wasn’t how you’d imagined this night going.
You stayed quiet, thinking it over. After a moment you slowly nodded your head. “Okay.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, waiting for confirmation.
“Yes. I am,” you responded, the words coming easier now.
You licked your lips nervously as he moved closer to you. His cologne enveloped you, making your pulse quicken.
As he continued gazing into your eyes, you decided it was your turn to make the next move. Carefully, you reached up to cup his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of his stubble against the palm of your hand. A small prayer passed through your mind, hoping you wouldn’t regret your next decision.
Then you kissed him.
The moment his lips met yours, the cliché of “fireworks” suddenly made sense—the feeling was intense, electric, a rush that left you breathless. His hands moved to the sides of your waist, pulling you closer. Before you could think, you were settled on his lap, the world around you narrowing to the heat of his touch.
A small, desperate whimper escaped you as his tongue brushed against yours. It had been so long since someone touched you this way—especially someone as strong and attractive as Aaron. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your fingertips as your hand slid over his chest, the other wrapping around his neck. He deepened the kiss, and the feeling was so overwhelming that it almost made you cry in relief.
He brushed his hands over the smooth curve of your waist and down the swell of your thighs, digging his fingers into the clothed skin.
Your soft moans were swallowed by your kisses, and you couldn’t help yourself as you moved your hips against his, feeling yourself get more aroused with each movement against the thin fabric of his slacks.
He let out a low grunt as you repeatedly rolled your hips against the hardening bulge in his pants. His large hands roamed up beneath your shirt, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You placed your hands over his, ready to take your shirt off, but just as quickly his hands closed around your wrists, stopping you gently.
“Not here,” he warned. “Let’s move to the bedroom.”
His words sent a rush of desire to your core, and though your legs trembled, you stood from his lap and followed him across the room. As he moved, Hotch unbuckled his belt with one swift, effortless motion. You paused mid-step, breath catching at the sight of the leather coiled in his hand, hypnotised by how seductive the image looked. You blinked a couple of times to get out of your trance, before hurrying after him, your legs trying to catch up to his confident pace.
You stepped into the bedroom, moving until you stood at the foot of the bed as he locked the door behind you. A flutter of nerves stirred in your stomach at the reality of what was about to happen.
Hotch walked toward you, slowly closing the distance. His eyes were dark as they took you in with a look of pure lust—one you’d previously never seen on him.
“Turn around for me.”
Maybe it was because you were so accustomed to his authority in the field, or perhaps it was the undeniable fact that you'd let him do anything to you at this point, but without a second thought, you obeyed, turning your back toward him.
His hands reached out to rub over your shoulders in slow circles. You instinctively leaned into him, your eyes closing as you let yourself melt into the comfort of his touch. He presses in closer, his chin resting against your shoulder.
“What is it that you’ve been longing for?” His voice is a soft, sensual whisper, his breath warm against your skin.
A shaky breath escapes your lips as his hands delicately trail over your collarbones, carefully moving lower, inching toward your breasts. The moment his palms cup them, your nipples harden.
He hummed, still awaiting a response.
“You,” you whispered back, your voice barely audible through the thick need.
You feel the faint curve of a teasing smile against your skin. “You already have me,” he murmured. “Tell me how I can make you feel good.”
His thumbs flick over your nipples, and you arch your back into him, feeling the solid press of his body against yours, the hardness in his pants meeting you once again.
“It’s been a while since-” your words dissolve into a moan as his fingers pinch your nipples.
“Since what?” he teased, his lips tracing the curve of your neck, each kiss setting your skin alight.
You swallowed. “Since… since someone’s gone down on me.”
“Is that so?” he hummed, the sound rich with interest. His tongue slides up your neck, before turning it into a kiss.
“Aaron, please,” you begged, grinding your hips into him.
“How can someone like you have been deprived of pleasure for so long?” he thought out loud, and he finally grabbed the material of your shirt, pulling it over your head.
His hands glide softly over your back, before he unclasps your bra with one smooth motion. Your breasts spill free, and he immediately cups them in his hands, holding them as if he wants to keep you warm and covered. The pleasure is even more delicious now that the contact is skin-to-skin.
His hands roam over your stomach, until he reaches the button of your pants, undoing it. He sinks to his knees behind you, his fingers curling around the waistband of your pants and panties, easing them down. A low curse escapes him as the fabric slides over your ass and down your thighs, revealing more of you inch by inch.
You held onto his shoulder for support, as he steadied your leg, guiding you to step out of your pants. The second he tossed the fabric to the side, he placed his hands steadily on your thighs, leaning in to press a heated kiss to your ass. You let out a moan, bucking forward, but he holds you firmly in place as his lips trail wet, lingering kisses over your cheeks.
“Place your knee on the bed for me,” he tenderly instructs.
You followed his order, lifting one knee onto the bed, your upper body arching slightly as it hovers just above the mattress. The cool air brushes over your exposed pussy as you’re displayed in front of him.
A loud moan leaves your mouth, as his tongue makes contact with your folds. The pressure is just right, each flick of his tongue drawing a sharp gasp from you as he licks up and down in a deliberate rhythm.
“You taste like heaven,” he groans, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating through you as he speaks, “dripping down your thighs already.” His lips trail lower, and he laps up the wetness that has gathered on your inner thighs, his stubble tickling against your sensitive skin. You grip the sheets, desperate for something to hold on to.
Aaron’s tongue returns to your pussy, the tip of it firmly pushing inside, curling upward as he slides in and out, hitting all the right spots, sending waves of pleasure through you. Each thrust makes you cry out.
You let out a small whine as his tongue retreats, pressing a delicate kiss to the tender skin. “Don’t get me wrong,” he starts, licking his lips clean, “I love hearing you, but you can’t be too loud.”
You silently nodded, your breath hitching as his finger unhurriedly traced your sensitive folds. Just as he was about to enter you, you stopped him.
“I- I need your cock,” you whined, your hips pushing back toward him, desperate for more.
“Yeah? You need it that bad?” he teased, as he rose to his feet behind you.
You crawled onto the bed, glancing back at him. His lips still glistened with the trace of you, and his eyes were locked onto yours, filled with predatory focus.
“I need it, Aaron,” you repeated, biting your bottom lip as your gaze lingered on the hard outline of his length pressed against his thigh.
He groaned, his hands quickly pulling at his tie, tossing it aside before he began unbuttoning his shirt. His movements were confident—like a private performance just for you. You leaned back on your arms, your feet planted on the bed, allowing him to see just how much he was making you ache for him.
As he removed his shirt, the muscles in his broad shoulder flexed, and the trail of dark hair down his stomach led your eyes straight to what you craved.
He wasn’t shy as he pulled his pants down, eager to show you just how worked up you’d made him. His length stood hard, the tip flushed red and glistening with precum. You instinctively pressed your thighs together, giving you a soft release of tension.
He joined you on the bed, lying on his side and pulling you flush against his chest, spooning you. His lips crashed into yours in a deep, hungry kiss, his groans vibrating against your mouth. His hand explored your front, squeezing your breasts, while his arousal pressed insistently against your ass.
You moaned, your leg draping over his as you shifted, opening yourself up to him. He reached down, gripping his length, positioning it against you before slowly pushing inside, stretching you inch by inch.
You took a sharp breath, adjusting to the feel of him inside you. His cock throbbed, as if begging for you to move. Slowly, you rolled your hips, taking more of him in, and Hotch’s low growl rumbled in your ear.
“That’s it,” he praised, his voice rough with pleasure. “Taking me so well.”
He was fully inside you now, filling you completely, and his hand slid down to your exposed clit, his fingers moving in slow, rhythmic circles. His thrusts matched the pace, deep and deliberate.
Every movement sent shockwaves through your body, your breath quickening as the familiar knot of pleasure tightened in your stomach.
“I’m close, Aaron,” you whimpered, and he moaned in response, placing soft kisses along your jaw before sucking at your neck, marking you.
His fingers moved faster, pushing you closer to the edge, and your body twitched as your orgasm crashed over you. His arms held you tight, anchoring you as the sensations slowly subsided.
When he withdrew his hand from your clit, it slid down to your knee, bending your leg to spread you even wider. Without warning, he began pounding into you, the sudden change in speed making you cry out, a high-pitched moan escaping your lips.
“Be quiet for me. Don’t make me tell you again,” he warned. You involuntarily moaned at the way he commanded you, and he grunted in response.
With a swift motion, he flipped you onto your stomach, your body pressed flat against the bed. A sharp gasp escaped you as he grabbed your thighs, lifting them to raise your ass in the air, before entering you again.
One hand pressed firmly into your shoulder, holding you down, while the other gripped your hips, forcing you to meet each of his thrusts. The new position did its job—your moans were muffled into the pillow, leaving only the wet slap of skin and the sound of Hotch’s deep, guttural grunts with each push of his hips.
“They're so stupid for not wanting you,” he groaned. “You have me now. I’ll give you everything you want.”
Your heart fluttered at his words. After feeling this, you knew you wouldn’t ever be satisfied by anyone else. You would want no one but him.
“I’m going to come inside of you,” he breathed, bending over so his chest pressed against your back, his warmth enveloping you.
“Oh-“ Your breath caught as the sensation in your core tightened again. “Yes, please. Inside of me, please.” You couldn’t form a full sentence as the heat inside of your core builds up again.
He reaches under you to touch your clit, and the instant his fingers make contact, you come undone. Your legs tremble, giving way beneath you as the rush of pleasure takes over. Hotch pushes into you two more times before you feel him spill inside, the sensation sending you into another, deeper orgasm.
He presses soft, tender kisses to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers in your ear, “I’m sorry I got a little carried away.”
You hum in satisfaction, a pleased smile tugging at your lips. “I’m glad you did.”
—
You weren’t sure what time it was, but you had a quick shower together—Hotch giving you one more orgasm—and were now laying in bed, your clean bodies tangled under his sheets.
“Will you stay the night?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand as he held you close.
It was endearing how gentle and shy he sounded, a stark contrast to what the two of you had just shared.
“Only if you promise to not move to the couch,” you mumbled sleepily, your voice heavy with exhaustion.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
You turned your head to him, noticing the quiet that had settled between you both.
“What is it?” you asked, tracing absent patterns to his skin.
He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I was thinking… maybe we can attach those strings a bit more.”
You chuckled. “Maybe,” you playfully teased, pressing a final kiss to his lips.
