Always In Fantasy Land

Shane presented his ID at the door along with Hayden. They both walked into the club. He felt his palms start to sweat. The bar had been rented out for the night. Only approved human volunteers and vampires looking for contracts were allowed in tonight. The atmosphere inside was electric, a strange mix of anticipation and nerves that made the hair on Shane's arms stand up. Low blue lighting cast everything in an ethereal glow, and a heavy bass thrummed beneath his feet. He scanned the room, trying not to look as out of place as he felt.

"Dude, stop looking like you're about to bolt," Hayden said, nudging Shane with his elbow. "You're making me nervous."

Shane swallowed hard. "Sorry."

The place was already crowded with people—humans on one side, vampires on the other, like some bizarre high school dance where nobody knew how to cross the divide. Shane could tell the vampires apart easily enough. There was something about them—a stillness, a predatory grace that made them stand out even when they were trying to blend in.

"Want a drink?" Hayden asked, already moving toward the bar.

"God, yes." Shane followed, keeping close. He ordered a whiskey, neat, and downed half of it in one go. The burn in his throat helped steady him.

A woman approached the bar beside him, her skin so pale it seemed to glow under the blue lights. When she reached for her glass, Shane noticed there was no thrumming of a pulse at her wrist. Vampire. His own pulse quickened.

She caught him staring and smiled, fangs put away. "First time?"

Shane nodded, unable to find his voice. “Yes,” he finally managed, clearing his throat. “That obvious?”

The vampire nodded, her expression neither inviting nor dismissive—just observant. "You have that look. Everyone does their first time." She signaled the bartender with a slight gesture that somehow commanded immediate attention despite its subtlety.

"Your approval status," she said, not a question but a statement. "How long have you been certified under the EFP?"

Shane blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt shift to business. "Three weeks. I got my final approval letter on Monday."

She nodded, her expression unchanged as she took a small sip from her glass. "Recent, then. Any prior feeding experiences?"

"No, this would be my first." Shane glanced over at Hayden, who had already wandered off to chat with a tall vampire in the corner. So much for moral support.

"I see." She set her glass down with precise movements. "My name is Eleanor. I've been registered with the program for eight years, no violations. I typically require feeding three times weekly with a minimum of forty-eight hours between sessions."

“I’m Shane.” Shane felt like he was being interviewed for a job rather than participating in what the brochures had described as a "mutually beneficial arrangement." The clinical nature of her approach was somehow more unnerving than if she'd been overtly predatory.

"What's your availability like? Weekends, evenings?" She pulled out her phone, opening what appeared to be a calendar app. "I prefer consistency."

"I’m, uh, a trainer. For a professional hockey team." Shane took another sip of his whiskey, grateful for its warmth. "Evenings would be fine."

Eleanor nodded. "Good. And your boundaries? The standard contract covers most scenarios, but personal limitations should be discussed in advance. Any sensitivities I should be aware of?”

"I—" Shane started, feeling increasingly overwhelmed.

Eleanor's phone chimed. She glanced at it, then looked back at Shane with a slight shift in her expression. "I should be upfront—I actually have two contracts already. I'm merely browsing tonight, keeping my options open." She tucked her phone away. "Thank you for the conversation, Shane. I suggest you prepare yourself for more interactions like this. Some vampires will be more... intense in their approach." She offered a small, polite smile. "Good luck."

With that, she turned and glided away, leaving Shane standing awkwardly at the bar with his half-empty whiskey. He exhaled slowly, only now realizing he'd been holding his breath. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," he muttered to himself, though his racing heart suggested otherwise.

He scanned the room for Hayden, who was now deep in animated conversation with not one but two vampires. His friend seemed completely at ease, laughing at something one of them had said. Shane envied his comfort in this strange new world.

Shane turned from the bar and tried to look like he belonged. Everyone else did—humans laughing too loudly, vampires watching too quietly—while he stood there with his drink like it was armor. A tall figure brushed past him. Cold radiated off the contact like stepping into shadow. Shane’s skin tingled.

"You look lost," a deep, accented voice said from behind him.

Shane turned to find himself face to face with a man—no, a vampire—with sharp features and blue eyes that seemed to assess him in a single glance. Unlike Eleanor, this vampire made no attempt to appear approachable. His posture was rigid, his expression unreadable.

"I'm not lost," Shane said, aiming for confidence but hearing the uncertainty in his own voice. "Just... observing."

The vampire's mouth twitched, almost a smile but not quite. "First timers always say that. They stand at bar, nursing drink, and pretend they're just here to watch. But that's not why you came, is it?"

Heat crept up Shane's neck. "No, I guess not."

"Ilya Rozanov," the vampire said, extending a hand that Shane knew would feel cool to the touch.

"Shane Hollander." He took Ilya's hand, surprised by the firmness of his grip. Not cold as he expected, but room temperature—as if Ilya had deliberately warmed his hand before offering it. The gesture seemed oddly considerate.

"Hollander." Ilya repeated his name slowly, as if tasting it. "You're with the Metros, yes? Their trainer."

Shane blinked in surprise. "How did you—"

“I like hockey. I played in early days.” Ilya made a vague gesture that somehow encompassed both his current state and a past Shane couldn't begin to imagine.

"You were a hockey player?" Shane couldn't keep the interest from his voice. "When?"

Ilya's expression shifted slightly, something like amusement flickering across his features. "Another century, another life. Not important now." He glanced around the room before returning his gaze to Shane. "So. Your first contract?"

Shane nodded, grateful to be back on more solid conversational ground. "Yeah. Just got approved."

"And what are you looking for in arrangement?" Ilya asked, his accent becoming more pronounced as he leaned slightly closer. Shane thought it was sounded Russian. "Some humans want thrill. Some want money. Some..." He paused, studying Shane's face. "Some are just curious."

Shane felt exposed, as if Ilya had somehow seen right through him. He felt his face grow warm.

"Curious," Shane admitted, the whiskey making him a bit more honest than he might have been otherwise. "I guess that's the main reason I'm here."

Ilya nodded, his expression unreadable. "Honest. Good. Too many come with... expectations." He gestured toward the bar. "Another drink?"

Shane glanced down at his nearly empty glass. "Sure."

As they waited for their drinks, Shane found himself studying Ilya more closely. Unlike Eleanor's pristine appearance, Ilya had a certain roughness about him—his golden-brown hair slicked back yet slightly disheveled, his clothes expensive but worn with casual disregard. There was something magnetic about him, a kind of contained power that made Shane acutely aware of his own humanity.

"How long have you been..." Shane trailed off, not sure of the polite terminology.

"Vampire? Long time." Ilya accepted his drink from the bartender—something dark red that Shane decided not to ask about. "Longer than most here." He nodded toward the other vampires in the room. "Many are new. Last century or so."

The casual way Ilya mentioned centuries made Shane's head spin. He took a sip of his fresh whiskey, trying to wrap his mind around talking to someone who might have been alive during events he'd only read about in history books.

"Does it get easier?" Shane asked. "The feeding, I mean. For humans."

Ilya's eyes flickered to Shane's neck momentarily before meeting his gaze again. "Depends on human. Depends on vampire." He shrugged one shoulder. "Good match makes difference. Some humans even enjoy it. Makes sex great.”

Shane choked on his whiskey. "Sorry," he sputtered, trying not to cough. "They don't exactly cover that part in the orientation."

Ilya's lips curled into a smile. "Government pamphlets leave out best parts."

Shane felt heat creep up his neck at the implication. He'd read about the physical effects of vampire feeding—the release of endorphins, the light-headed euphoria—but the EFP materials had been clinical, carefully avoiding any mention of sexual pleasure.

"I—I'm not sure that's what I'm looking for," Shane said, though he wasn't entirely convinced of his own words.

Ilya shrugged, seemingly unbothered. "Not requirement. Just... bonus for some." He took a sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving Shane's. "Tell me, why hockey? Why not doctor, lawyer?"

The abrupt change of topic caught Shane off guard, but he welcomed it. "I played in college. Was good enough to go pro, but I took a bad hit during a game. Messed up my back.” He shrugged. “Being a trainer lets me stay close to the sport.”

"You fix bodies," Ilya said, nodding. "Strong hands, then."

Shane flexed his fingers unconsciously. "I guess so. Years of working with athletes."

"Good circulation too, I think." Ilya's gaze dropped briefly to Shane's wrist, where his pulse was visible. "Very important.”

The casual reference to Shane as essentially food should have been unsettling, but something about Ilya's directness was refreshing after Eleanor's clinical approach.

"How does it work?" Shane asked, lowering his voice despite the noisy room. "The feeding, I mean. Practically speaking."

Ilya considered him for a moment. "Depends on contract. Some prefer scheduled times, clinical setting. Others..." He gestured vaguely. "More natural. I call, you come. Or I visit. We talk, maybe drink. Then I feed."

"Two or three a times week. Not much each time." Ilya's eyes traced the line of Shane's neck again. "Would not leave marks where others can see. Unless you want."

The thought sent an unexpected shiver down Shane's spine. "No visible marks," he said firmly.

Ilya nodded, respecting the boundary. "Of course. Many options." He touched his own wrist lightly. "Here is good. Inner thigh too.”

Shane's mouth went dry at the intensity in Ilya’s eyes. He took another sip of whiskey. "What about you?" he asked, trying to regain his footing in the conversation. "What do you do besides... this?"

“I own club,” Ilya said nonchalantly. “For fun mostly. But it makes money.”

Shane blinked in surprise. A club owner. Of course this vampire would be wealthy; most of them were, having had decades or centuries to accumulate assets.

"Which club?" Shane asked, genuinely curious.

"The Ice Palace." Ilya's mouth curved into a half-smile. "Near downtown. You know it?"

Shane's eyebrows shot up. "That's yours? That's like the hottest club in the city." He'd never been inside—the line was always around the block, and Shane wasn't the type to wait hours just to get into a club—but everyone knew about The Ice Palace.

"Come sometime," Ilya said with a casual shrug. "As my guest. No waiting."

The offer hung between them, and Shane found himself wondering if it was merely polite conversation or something more. The way Ilya's eyes lingered on him made Shane's skin warm.

"So," Ilya continued, his voice dropping slightly, "you think about contract? With me?"

Shane swallowed hard. He hadn't expected to be propositioned so directly, especially not by someone like Ilya. He'd imagined he'd meet a few vampires, exchange information, maybe schedule follow-up meetings. The immediacy of Ilya's interest caught him off guard.

"I... I'm not sure," Shane said, his voice sounding strangely distant to his own ears. "This is all pretty new to me."

Ilya took a sip of his drink. He glanced down at Shane’s lips before looking back at his eyes. “You’re cute.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black business card. "My number. When you decide."

Shane took the card, his fingers brushing against Ilya's. Even that brief contact sent a jolt through him.

"Thanks," he managed. The black card felt heavy in his hand, embossed with silver lettering that caught the blue light. Just a phone number, no name or title. As if Ilya was confident Shane wouldn't forget who the number belonged to.

"I'll think about it," Shane added, slipping the card into his pocket. His heart was racing, and he wondered if Ilya could hear it. The pamphlets had mentioned enhanced senses—could vampires really hear heartbeats?

Ilya smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that made Shane's mouth go dry. "Good. Don't think too long." He leaned in slightly, close enough that Shane could smell him—an unexpectedly warm scent, like cedar and spice. "Best contracts are ones where both sides want something."

Shane's gaze dropped involuntarily to Ilya's mouth. He caught himself and looked away quickly, but not before noticing Ilya's smile widen.

"I should find my friend," Shane said, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears. He gestured vaguely toward where he'd last seen Hayden.

"Of course." Ilya stepped back, giving Shane space. "Enjoy rest of your night, Shane Hollander."

The way Ilya said his name—letting each syllable roll off his tongue—made Shane's skin prickle with heat. He nodded awkwardly and turned away, scanning the room for Hayden. He spotted him near the back, still deep in conversation with the same vampires as before.

As Shane made his way through the crowd, he felt Ilya's eyes on him. He resisted the urge to look back, though his body seemed to want to turn toward the vampire like a compass needle seeking north.

"There you are," Hayden said as Shane approached. "I was beginning to think you'd bailed."

"Not yet," Shane said, trying to sound casual. "Just talking."

Hayden's eyebrows shot up. "With who? Did you get any offers?"

Shane hesitated, his hand unconsciously touching the pocket where Ilya's card rested. "Maybe. I'm not sure yet."

"Who was it?" Hayden persisted, craning his neck to look past Shane.

"Some guy named Ilya. Owns The Ice Palace."

Hayden's jaw dropped. "Ilya Rozanov? Are you serious? He's like... vampire royalty or something. Been around forever. Super exclusive with his contracts."

"You know him?" Shane asked, surprised.

"Know of him. Everyone does." Hayden lowered his voice. "They say he used to be some kind of enforcer for the old vampire councils before all this went public. Scary dude."

Shane frowned, glancing back towards where he'd left Ilya, but the vampire was gone. A strange mix of relief and disappointment washed over him.

"He didn't seem that scary," Shane said, though something about the way Ilya had looked at him—like he was seeing more than just Shane's surface—had certainly been intense.

"What did he say to you?" Hayden asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"Just... talked about contracts. Asked what I was looking for." Shane didn't mention the comment about feeding making sex better, or the way Ilya's eyes had lingered on his neck. Those details felt too private somehow, too intimate to share even with Hayden.

"And? Are you going to call him?"

Shane fingered the card in his pocket. "I don't know. Maybe."

Hayden shook his head in disbelief. "Dude, if Ilya Rozanov gave you his card, you'd be crazy not to call. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position?"

"It's not that simple," Shane protested. "This is a big decision. I'm literally offering up my blood to a stranger."

"A rich, powerful stranger," Hayden corrected. "Look, I'm just saying, you could do a lot worse for your first contract."

Shane sighed, taking another sip of his whiskey. The alcohol had warmed his body, but his mind still raced. He couldn't deny the strange attraction he'd felt toward Ilya—something beyond mere physical appeal, a pull that seemed almost magnetic.

"What about you?" Shane asked, eager to change the subject. "Any luck?"

Hayden grinned, gesturing toward the vampires he'd been chatting with. "Possibly. They're partners—Helena and Lucien. They share contracts sometimes. Seems like a good setup."

Shane raised an eyebrow. "Share? As in..."

"Nothing weird," Hayden laughed. "They just alternate feeding days. Gives the human more recovery time between sessions, apparently."

The casual way Hayden discussed it made Shane wonder if he was overthinking everything. Maybe this was simpler than he was making it out to be—just a transaction, a mutually beneficial arrangement as the pamphlets had described.

But something about Ilya had felt different. More personal. More dangerous.

"I think I need some air," Shane said suddenly, feeling claustrophobic in the crowded room.

"Want me to come with?"

"No, stay. Talk to your potential partners." Shane managed a smile. "I'll just be outside for a minute."

He made his way through the crowd, careful to avoid eye contact with any vampires who might interpret it as an invitation. The cool night air hit him as he stepped outside, and he took a deep breath, leaning against the brick wall of the building.

The bouncer gave him a nod, recognizing him from earlier. "Everything alright?"

"Fine, just needed a moment," Shane told the bouncer, running a hand through his hair.

He pulled the sleek black card from his pocket and stared at it. The silver lettering caught the streetlight, almost seeming to glow. Would he actually call? The thought of seeing Ilya again sent a strange flutter through his stomach—equal parts excitement and terror. Shane slipped the card back into his pocket and pushed himself off the wall. Time to go back inside and find Hayden. He'd promised himself he'd at least stay until midnight.

***

A few days later, Shane wiped sweat from his brow as he finished wrapping ice around Josh Sanderson’s ankle. The Metros' star forward had taken a bad hit during practice.

"Keep it elevated tonight," Shane instructed, standing up from his crouched position. "And no weight on it until tomorrow, got it? I'll check it again in the morning."

Josh nodded glumly. "Coach is going to have my ass if I miss the game on Saturday."

"Let me worry about Coach," Shane said, patting the player's shoulder. "Just focus on resting that ankle."

After Josh hobbled out on crutches, Shane cleaned up the training room, his mind wandering as he worked. He'd been distracted all week, the memory of Ilya's intense blue eyes following him into his dreams. The black business card sat on his bedside table, untouched but impossible to ignore.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably Hayden, who'd been texting him nonstop since the night at the club. He'd already signed a contract with the vampire couple, Helena and Lucien, and couldn't understand why Shane was hesitating to call Ilya.

But when Shane pulled out his phone, the number was unknown.

Coming to Ice Palace tonight? the text read. VIP entrance, no waiting. -Ilya

Shane's heart stuttered in his chest. He hadn't given Ilya his number.

As if reading his mind, another text came through: Got number from EFP database. Hope you don't mind.

Shane's fingers hovered over the screen. Was that even allowed? Then again, vampires seemed to play by different rules, especially older ones like Ilya.

He should say no. He had an early practice tomorrow. He should be professional. Responsible.

What time? Shane typed instead, hitting send before he could change his mind.

Almost as soon as he sent his response, his phone buzzed again. Whenever you want. I'm there all night.

Shane stared at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. He should be sensible about this. He had work tomorrow. The team needed him fresh and focused.

Before Shane could reply, another text: Come around 10. Best time. I'll put your name on list. Just show ID.

Shane exhaled slowly, feeling a mix of anticipation and anxiety swirling in his stomach. What was he so nervous for? This was just about exploring the possibility of a feeding contract. It was what he had wanted, right? It was why he had signed up. And Ilya seemed to know exactly what to do which was more than Shane knew. So it was fine. Yet, he suddenly felt like he didn’t want to show up to the club alone.

Can I bring my friend? Shane typed. Hayden would go with him. He would barely have to ask.

Of course. Bring whoever you want. I will add plus one.

He typed back a simple "OK" and pocketed his phone, trying to ignore the way his pulse had quickened. He had hours before he needed to leave for the club. Plenty of time to talk himself out of going.

But he knew he wouldn't.

***

The Ice Palace loomed before him, its modernist glass facade illuminated with blue and white lights that made the building appear as if it were carved from actual ice. The line of hopeful patrons stretched around the block, people dressed in their finest club attire, shivering in the cool night air.

"Holy shit," Hayden breathed beside him, craning his neck to take in the full scope of the building. "I've never seen the line this long. We'd be out here all night."

Shane nodded, his mouth dry. He checked his phone again—9:58 PM. Punctuality had always been important to him; showing up early was showing up on time, and showing up on time was showing up late.

"Come on," he said to Hayden, walking past the long queue toward the VIP entrance where a mountain of a man stood guard, his face impassive beneath the blue glow of the exterior lights.

As they approached the bouncer, Shane felt underdressed in his dark jeans and navy button-down. He'd spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear, finally settling on something that walked the line between casual and put-together.

"ID," the bouncer said, his face impassive.

Shane handed over his driver's license, trying not to fidget. Hayden did the same. The bouncer examined it, then checked something on his tablet.

“Shane Hollander plus one,” he said with a slight nod. “Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov is expecting you. Through here.”

The door swung open, revealing a dimly lit hallway with deep blue carpeting. Shane and Hayden stepped inside, immediately enveloped by the rhythmic thrum of bass that vibrated through the floor. A hostess materialized beside him—human, he noted, by the flush in her cheeks.

"This way, please," she said with a practiced smile. "Mr. Rozanov has reserved a table in the VIP section."

She led them through the main dance floor, a vast space filled with writhing bodies and flashing lights. Shane noticed that unlike other clubs he'd been to, the atmosphere here wasn’t frantic or chaotic, though Hayden seemed to have a hard time keeping up, trying to look at everything they passed. There was an elegance to it, a sense of controlled excitement. He spotted several vampires among the crowd, their preternatural stillness making them stand out even as they moved with the music.

The VIP section was elevated above the main floor, separated by a glass barrier and guarded by more security. As they ascended the stairs, Shane caught glimpses of private booths draped in sheer curtains, offering the illusion of privacy while still allowing occupants to observe the dance floor below.

"Here we are," the hostess gestured toward a circular booth in the corner. The table offered a perfect view of both the dance floor below and the rest of the VIP section. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket beside it, two glasses already poured.

"Mr. Rozanov will join you shortly," she said before disappearing back into the crowd.

Shane slid into the booth, Hayden following close behind. The leather seats were buttery soft against his palms.

"Dude," Hayden whispered, leaning in close. "This is insane. Do you know how impossible it is to get VIP access here? People literally bribe the staff."

Shane nodded, his throat dry. He reached for one of the champagne flutes, needing something to steady his nerves. The champagne was crisp, cold, and expensive. "Is it always like this?" he asked, gesturing at the crowd below them.

"Every weekend," Hayden said, his eyes wide as he scanned the VIP section. "Look at all these people. I think that's Melissa Chen—the actress? And that guy over there looks like the tech billionaire who's always in the news."

Shane nodded, only half-listening as he searched the crowd for a particular face. His stomach tightened with each passing minute. What if Ilya had changed his mind? What if this was some kind of joke?

"Shane Hollander," a familiar accented voice said from behind him. "You came."

Shane turned to find Ilya standing at their booth, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked custom-made for his broad shoulders. No tie, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone. His golden-brown curls were slicked back, but a few strands had escaped to fall across his forehead. He looked simultaneously polished and slightly disheveled, as if he'd just run his fingers through his hair.

"I said I would," Shane replied, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt.

Ilya's eyes—that impossible blue—flickered to Hayden, who was staring at him with undisguised fascination.

"Your friend," Ilya said, extending his hand. "Welcome to Ice Palace."

"Hayden," he said, shaking Ilya's hand with enthusiasm. "This place is amazing. I can't believe we got in so easily."

Ilya slid into the booth across from them, his movements fluid and economical. "Friend of Shane is welcome here anytime." His gaze returned to Shane, who felt the weight of that attention like a physical touch. "You like champagne?"

"It's good," Shane said, taking another sip to hide his nervousness.

"French. From small vineyard." Ilya gestured to a server who appeared instantly at his side. "Bring the Macallan 18. Three glasses."

The server nodded and disappeared. Shane recognized the name of the scotch—expensive, even by professional athlete standards.

"So," Ilya said, leaning back in his seat, "you think more about contract?"

Hayden's eyes widened, darting between them. Shane felt heat rise to his face.

"I've been... considering it," he admitted. "But I still have questions."

Ilya nodded, as if he'd expected nothing less. "Of course. Ask anything."

The server returned with three crystal tumblers and a bottle of amber liquid. Ilya waited as she poured two fingers into each glass before dismissing her with a nod.

"How long do your contracts usually last?" Shane asked, reaching for the scotch. It burned pleasantly going down, warming him from the inside.

"Depends," Ilya said, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Minimum is six months by law. But I am okay with going longer.” He took a sip, his eyes never leaving Shane's face. “Like the scotch?”

Shane’s hands tightened on the glass. “Yeah, though I wouldn’t really know. I don’t drink much.” Fitness wasn’t just his job. He liked to practice what he preached.

"You're not a drinker. This is good. Cleaner blood,” Ilya replied with a slight smile.

Shane felt his face flush at the casual mention of his blood. He'd almost forgotten why they were really here—almost.

Hayden leaned forward, apparently unable to contain himself. "So what exactly does a contract with you entail? Like, specifics?"

Ilya's gaze slid to Hayden, assessing him briefly before returning to Shane. "Standard feeding schedule. Three times weekly. I am careful, take only what I need. Payment is generous."

"How generous?" Hayden asked bluntly.

Shane kicked him under the table, embarrassed by his friend's directness, but Ilya seemed amused.

"Six thousand per month, plus expenses. Health insurance, of course." He gestured around them. "Access to club whenever you want. Other perks."

Shane's eyes widened. The pamphlets had mentioned compensation, but that amount was far more than he'd expected. It was nearly as much as his salary with the Metros.

"That's..." He trailed off, searching for words.

"Fair," Ilya finished for him. "Your blood is valuable. Should be compensated accordingly."

Shane took another sip of scotch, his mind racing. The money was tempting—he could pay off his student loans in a matter of months, maybe even put a down payment on a house instead of renting. But this wasn't just about money.

"And where would we...?" He couldn't quite finish the question.

"My place usually. Or yours, if you prefer." Ilya leaned forward slightly. "Privacy is important."

Shane nodded, trying to imagine Ilya in his modest apartment. The image didn't fit—this powerful, ancient creature sitting on his IKEA couch, drinking from his wrist. The thought sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.

"And what about..." Shane swallowed, glancing at Hayden before continuing. "The actual feeding? Does it hurt?"

Ilya's eyes darkened slightly. "First time, maybe discomfort. After that..." He shrugged one shoulder. "Many find it pleasant. Some very pleasant."

The implication hung in the air between them. Shane cleared his throat, using the moment to collect himself.

"And what about... intimacy?" Shane asked, his voice lower now. "The pamphlets mentioned that some contracts include..." He trailed off, unsure how to phrase it delicately.

"Sex?" Ilya supplied, his directness catching Shane off guard. "Optional. Never required." He leaned forward slightly. "But available, if both parties want."

Hayden cleared his throat loudly, looking between them with raised eyebrows. "Well, this just got interesting."

Shane shot him a warning glance. "I'm just trying to understand all the parameters."

"Of course," Ilya said, his expression unreadable. "Important to be clear. No surprises." He took another sip of his scotch. "Feeding creates... connection. Physical response. Cannot be helped. But what happens after is choice."

Shane nodded, trying to appear more composed than he felt. The thought of Ilya's mouth on his skin, drawing blood, sent a confusing mix of fear and an arousal he didn’t understand through his body.

"Would you like a tour?" Ilya asked, his eyes fixed on Shane. "Of club."

"Sure," Shane said, sliding out of the booth. The scotch had left a pleasant warmth in his chest, taking the edge off his nervousness.

Ilya stood with that same fluid grace, buttoning his suit jacket with a single practiced motion. "Follow me."

As they moved through the VIP section, Shane noticed how people's eyes followed Ilya—some with curiosity, others with a deference that bordered on fear. A path cleared for him without him having to say a word.

"This level is VIP only," Ilya explained, gesturing to the plush seating areas and private booths. "Celebrities, wealthy clients. Mixture of human and vampire."

Shane noticed small red lights above certain booths—subtle, easy to miss if you weren't looking for them. From behind one curtain came a sound—half laugh, half breath—and Shane’s grip tightened on his glass before he even realized.

"What are those lights for?" he asked, nodding toward one.

"Privacy indicators," Ilya said, his voice matter-of-fact. "Red means feeding in progress. Staff knows not to disturb."

Shane swallowed hard. The casual way Ilya spoke about feeding—as if discussing drink orders—was both unnerving and strangely compelling. “What if…someone goes too far?” Shane asked hoping it wouldn’t offend.

It was no secret that not every vampire agreed with the EFP. There were still plenty of humans who turned up dead and drained of blood though the numbers were significantly less than they used to be.

"Security team watches every booth," Ilya explained, his expression hardening slightly. "Anyone violates rules is removed immediately. And dealt with.”

Shane nodded, though his spine stiffened. He was sure he didn’t want to know how violators were ‘dealt with’. He glanced at Hayden, who was trailing behind them, eyes wide as he took in the exclusive surroundings.

"What about that door?" Hayden asked, pointing to a sleek black entrance guarded by two imposing figures.

"Private rooms," Ilya said, his tone neutral. "For those who prefer complete privacy."

Shane's imagination filled in the blanks. He looked away quickly, focusing instead on the dance floor below. The music had shifted to something with a deeper bass, the crowd moving in hypnotic unison beneath pulsing blue lights.

"Come," Ilya said, placing a hand lightly on Shane's lower back to guide him. The touch, though brief, sent a jolt of electricity up his spine. "Show you downstairs."

They descended a curved staircase that offered a panoramic view of the main floor. Shane once again noticed how the crowd seemed to part instinctively as Ilya approached, like schools of fish making way for a shark.

"This is main area," Ilya gestured to the vast space. "Dance floor, three bars.”

The bass pounded through the floor as they navigated through the crowd. Despite the mass of bodies, Ilya moved with so effortlessly that it made everyone else seem clumsy by comparison. Shane found himself hyper-aware of Ilya's presence beside him.

"Bar is stocked with everything," Ilya continued, gesturing to a sleek counter where mixologists performed what looked like choreographed routines with bottles and shakers. "Special menu for vampires too."

Shane caught sight of dark red glasses being served to patrons with the telltale stillness of vampires. His stomach tightened.

"Is that...?" he began.

“Donated,” Ilya answered before he could finish. "Mixed with alcohol. For recreational use only. EFP has strict rules."

Shane nodded, relieved. He wasn't sure why the sight of vampires drinking blood cocktails bothered him when he was literally considering letting one drink from him regularly.

"Do you... drink those?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Ilya's mouth quirked into something almost like a smile. "Sometimes. For taste only." He leaned closer, his breath cool against Shane's ear as he spoke over the music. "Fresh blood is... different. Better."

A shiver ran down Shane's spine. He glanced at Hayden, who was chatting animatedly with a bartender, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling between Shane and Ilya.

"One more place to show you," Ilya said, his hand returning to the small of Shane's back. The touch felt more deliberate this time, lingering just long enough to make Shane's pulse quicken.

They moved toward the far end of the club, where another set of stairs led upward. Unlike the main staircase, this one was discreetly tucked away, with another security guard standing at attention.

"My office," Ilya explained as they climbed. "Best view of club."

The staircase opened onto a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire venue. One wall was dominated by shelves filled with books that looked ancient, their spines worn with age. A massive desk carved from dark wood occupied one corner, while a seating area with low leather couches filled the center of the space.

"Wow," Shane breathed, moving toward the windows. From this vantage point, he could see everything—the writhing mass of dancers below, the VIP section with its glowing red lights, the bartenders performing their elaborate mixing routines.

"You can see everyone, but they cannot see you," Ilya said, coming to stand beside him. "One-way glass."

Shane turned to find Ilya watching him, studying him. The silence stretched between them, the bass from the dance floor a distant thrum through the thick glass.

"What are you thinking?" Ilya asked, his voice softer now that they were alone.

Shane swallowed hard. "That this is all a bit overwhelming." He gestured around them. "The club, the contract, all of it."

"You are nervous," Ilya stated rather than asked. He moved closer, closing the distance between them by a step. "Is natural. First time always is."

Shane's heart hammered against his ribs. He was acutely aware that Ilya could probably hear it.

"I've never done anything like this before," Shane admitted, turning back to the window to gather his thoughts. "I'm not even sure why I'm considering it."

"Because you are curious," Ilya said, coming to stand beside him again. "You wonder what it feels like. To be connected to someone like this."

Shane glanced at him, surprised by the insight. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just out of my mind."

A small smile curved Ilya's lips. "Many say same thing. Especially when they meet me." He reached out, his fingers hovering near Shane's arm without touching him. "May I?"

Shane nodded, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to. Ilya's cool fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, turning his arm until the underside was exposed. His touch was so delicate compared to the power he controlled. His thumb pressed lightly against the veins. The touch should have been clinical, but it was somehow more intimate than anything Shane had experienced. His pulse quickened under the pressure.

“Strong heartbeat,” Ilya murmured, his eyes fixed on the lines visible beneath Shane’s skin.

Shane swallowed hard, unable to look away from Ilya’s face. The vampire's expression was focused, almost reverent as he studied Shane's wrist.

“Here would be good,” Ilya said, his thumb tracing a small circle over the pulse point. His free hand reached up to caress the other pulse point at Shane’s neck, making him inhale sharply. “Less painful than here. Easier to hide.”

Ilya’s touch was cold, but Shane didn’t find it unpleasant. It was erotic in how careful he was being. Shane found himself wanting Ilya to touch him more. His mouth went dry at the thought. “You can feel my pulse?”

“Of course.” Ilya’s eyes meet Shane’s in an intense gaze. “Can hear it too. Getting faster now.”

Heat crept up Shane's neck. The idea that Ilya could hear his racing heart was both embarrassing and strangely intimate.

"Sorry," he said, not sure why he was apologizing.

Ilya’s lips curved into a small smile. “Don’t be.” He released Shane’s wrist slowly but his fingertips still trailing along the skin of Shane’s neck. “I make you nervous.”

It wasn’t a question. Shane flexed his hand at his side, still feeling the ghost of Ilya’s touch.

“A little,” he admitted. “But not in a bad way. More like…” He searched for the right words. He couldn’t even really describe what he was feeling right now. “Exciting but terrifying.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Ilya’s face, but it was quickly masked. “Honest. I like this about you.”

Ilya broke Shane’s gaze to move towards his desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. He walked back over and handed it to Shane, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Even that brief contact sent electricity up Shane’s arm.

“Standard contract,” Ilya said motioning to the folder, “Take home, read. Call if you decide to sign.”

"Thank you," Shane managed, clutching the folder like a lifeline. "For showing me around. And for considering me."

Ilya tilted his head slightly. His voice dropped lower. “You are special, Shane Hollander.”

Shane’s skin prickled with heat. Special? Him? He wanted to ask what Ilya meant, but the words stuck in his throat.

"I should..." Shane gestured vaguely toward the stairs, suddenly aware that Hayden was still downstairs, probably wondering where he'd disappeared to. "My friend is waiting."

"Of course." Ilya stepped back, giving Shane space. "Tell security to bring him up if you want."

"No, I should probably head down." Shane clutched the folder tighter, using it as a shield between them. "It's getting late, and I have work tomorrow."

Ilya nodded, his expression unreadable. "I understand. Early practice. Team needs their trainer.”

A flutter ran through Shane’s stomach. He backed toward the stairs, unwilling to turn his back on the vampire just yet.

"Thank you again for the drinks. And the tour," he added. He hoped he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt.

"My pleasure." Ilya remained where he stood, watching Shane with that same intense focus. "Read contract carefully. I will answer any questions."

Shane nodded, finally turning to descend the stairs. Each step away from Ilya felt strange, as if he were fighting against an invisible current pulling him back. When he reached the bottom, he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The music crashed over him again as he navigated through the crowd, searching for Hayden. He found him at the bar, chatting animatedly with a tall woman whose pale skin marked her as a vampire.

"There you are!" Hayden shouted over the music when he spotted Shane. "I was about to send a search party. Where'd you go?"

"Ilya's office," Shane replied, nodding toward the stairs. "He gave me this." He held up the folder.

Hayden's eyes widened. "No way. Is that—"

"The contract, yeah." Shane tucked it under his arm, suddenly conscious of the curious glances from nearby patrons.

"And? Are you going to sign it?"

Shane shook his head. "I don't know yet. I need to read it first."

Hayden rolled his eyes. "Always the responsible one." He drained the last of his drink and set the glass down with a thunk. "So, staying or going?"

Shane glanced around the club. Every surface, every face seemed to remind him of Ilya—the blue lighting that matched his eyes, the dark wood of the bar that echoed his office furniture. Even the air felt charged with his presence.

"Going," Shane decided.

Someone put a drink in your hand.

Turning, you saw Svetlana and Elena a few inches from you, the bright lights almost blinding.

“Birthday drink for the birthday girl.” Svetlana said in a singsong voice, her curls a fiery halo around her face.

With that, you were at your fourth tequila shot of the night, yet you were still reasonably sober.

You flashed both girls a smile, then chugged down the alcohol. Elena clapped her hands and all but dragged you and Svetlana on the dance floor.

While making a bee line to get there, you managed to stop long enough to give Shane the little glass and steal a kiss from Ilya.

They were both sitting at the bar counter, their gazes never leaving you.

“Join us, my loves,” you breathed, hand stretched towards them. “The dance floor is waiting for you.”

“In a bit,” Ilya smiled, his dominant hand on Shane’s thigh. “We want to watch you dance with your friends.”

You pouted, eyes shifting to Shane. Out of the two, he was the one who folded faster whenever you asked for something.

“Are you sure? Work kept us apart, lately. We haven’t seen each other a lot, this week.”

After Shane gave a quick look to your outfit and sighed — according to him and Ilya, you looked a little too good in flared jeans, high-heeled boots and the velvet top Yuna got you for Christmas —, his eyes softened as they landed on your pouty face.

“I know, but we need to discuss something about next month’s match, first. Go ahead, we’ll be with you soon.”

“Come,” Elena rolled her eyes and took you by the hand as she said loud enough for them to hear over the music, “Let them plot while me and Svetlana show you what a good time truly looks like.”

And with that, the girls spanked you at the same time, making you giggle. “Incorrigible, the two of you.”

Still, you looked over your shoulder as you reached to the dance floor. Even if they feigned indifference, you knew them too well not to notice they’d been staring intently at your ass.

You had to admit it: they were right. Those jeans hugged your every curve just right.

And you were going to use every weapon in your arsenal to make them drop the act.

Sandwiched between the girls, you had to shout over the music to inform you were going to take off your jacket. They stepped aside as you shook the leather jacket off your shoulders.

A collective gasp behind you.

“When did you get this?”

You ditched the piece of cloth on the nearest chair and smiled.

“Last week. It healed quicker than expected, but it itches.” You knew your friends’ eyes were on your freshly tatted back, as two other pairs were, too. “The tattoo artist gave the all-clear to keep it uncovered, so here we are.”

“Girl.” Without touching them, Elena traced the fine lines inked on your skin with her fingers. The design started from the shoulder and ended just below the hipbone.

“You got a damn tiger tatted on your back a week ago and didn’t think to tell us? Wait. Did Ilya and Shane know about it?”

“I think they do now. Look at their faces.” Svetlana pointed out with a smirk.  

The three of you turned and it took a lot of effort from your part not to run to your boyfriends and kiss them both stupid.

They were shocked, aroused and pissed off all at the same time. You had wanted to surprise them later, in the intimacy of your bedroom, but they had left you with no other choice.

Blowing them a kiss, you started to dance with the girls, hypnotized by the flashing lights around you.

Two men flanked you, Svetlana and Elena as another song started to play. To your surprise, they weren’t Shane and Ilya, but another couple you had cherished for forever.

“Guys, you made it!” You all but flew in Scott’s open arms, while Kip hugged Elena and smiled at Svetlana.

Considering your line of work, you had crossed paths with Hunter’s team more than once and, over time, a friendship blossomed between the two of you.

Then, when the bond deepened, Scott introduced you to Kip, and you fell deeply for the barista.

No wonder Scott loved him so much.

“Happy birthday, gorgeous,” Scott happily huffed as he wrapped his arms around your middle, careful not to touch the tattoo. They'd seen it from afar as the entered the club, Kip informed you.

“So, how does it feel to be old?”

“Funny, shouldn’t you be answering that?” Laughing, you slapped Scott on the shoulder, signalling him to put you down. Once he did, Kip came to stand by his husband and kiss your cheek, wishing you a happy birthday.

After saying hi to the girls, the hockey player asked: “Where are your debouched boyfriends, anyway?”

“Right ther-” You cut yourself off.

They were not at the bar counter, anymore.

“Uhm…” Svetlana’s voice focused your attention elsewhere, right on the dance floor.

Shane and Ilya were dancing some meters away from your group.

And as the teasers they so loved to be whenever you acted like the brat you so loved to channel, they were grinding against each other, backs turned on you.

“Oh,” Kip commented, blushing. “Did you fight or something?”

Stunned, you picked your jaw up from the floor and inhaled so profoundly you felt your lungs adhere against the ribcage. Those two got back at you in the nick of time.

“If we hadn’t before, we will once I get my hands on them.”

Svetlana looked at Elena, then turned to you. “Wanna give them tit for tat?”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

Elena smiled, waved at your friends to stay there to enjoy the show and dragged you and Svetlana a scarce meter away from your boyfriends.

“Let’s see how long they can resist having to watch you while you touch somebody else.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

First you leaned against Svetlana, and she grabbed you by the hips, laughing, while you mirrored her movements. All while Elena danced close to you both, her eyes beaming with mischief.

Not even bothering to see if Ilya or Shane were watching, you turned to look at Scott and Kip from across the dance floor.

And if the hockey player’s smile was anything to go by, then you were dead certain your boyfriends were going to be livid.

Good.

“Come closer.” Elena prompted with a little grin.

As you did, the dark-haired beauty candidly kissed Svetlana’s cheek, then brushed her lips against yours.

“Остопизденеть.” boomed a very familiar voice beside you three.

“Wow, that didn’t sound nice.” Elena looked at you and Svetlana. “Did he just cuss me out?”

Svetlana shook her head, her own flirty demeanour suddenly reignited by Ilya’s exclamation.

“No, don’t worry. It’s more like ‘I’m so sick and tired of this shit’ sort of thing.”

The girls giggled, but you? Oh, you were having the time of your life.

As the icing on the cake, Scott and Kip joined you for an impromptu shot battle; as you linked both arms with the men’s, one shot in each hand, something in the air shifted.

Pretending you didn’t notice anything weird going on — or that a pair of hands you would’ve recognised everywhere had got hold of your hips —, you stared directly into your boy friends’ souls and smirked.

“On the count of three. One, two-”

 Blonde, long curls was all you saw as one of your shots disappeared behind them. Ilya drank the tequila as if belonged to him all along, indifferent to everyone’s annoyance.

“You really got to stop doing that, Ilya.” Svetlana told him in Russian, because you had told her and Elena what he had done the first night you met.

He ignored her and, unflinching, he angled your head upward to meet his hungry eyes, then furiously pressed his lips against yours.

Still dazed by the stunt he just pulled, you melted into the kiss, but it took you a while to understand what he was doing.

He hadn’t swallowed the shot, rather he was making you drink it directly from his mouth.

Again.

“Double shots for the birthday girl, right?” Shane whispered in your ear. “Wait for the other one, now.”

You fought back a moan yet regained your sanity by pushing them both away to drink the shot still tangled with Scott’s arm. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction to see you all hot and bothered so soon.

Then you leaned low enough for Kip, Hunter and the girls to let them hear you say, “If by tomorrow at noon you don’t hear from me, just know I will be passed out in my king-size bed. Come rescue me, please.”

“Nah, I think you will be exactly where you want to be, girl.” Kip commented with a sly smile.

His husband nodded and ruffled your hair like the gentle-mannered giant he was.

“Go get them, tiger.”

“You’re so not funny.” You wailed, then turned to Svetlana and Elena. “Girls?”

“Sorry, babe,” the auburn of Svetlana’s hair burned as bright as her eyes were shimmering with malice. “I’m catching an early flight to Boston.”

“And I’m working all day. Go be with your men, love.” Elena added.

All pleas fallen on deaf ears, you waved your friends bye and went to retrieve your leather jacket, ready to accept your fate; needless to say, both Ilya and Shane were shadowing you.

They continued to do so in silence even after you got home and undressed.

Clothes discarded on the floor, and still in your underwear, you climbed onto the bed, crossed your legs and stared back at them.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Shane asked.

“Are you just going to stand there and do nothing?" You clarified and pointed a finger at where they were. “The night’s still young, you know.”

“We might,” Ilya crossed his arms and tilted his head. “You lied to us. You deserve no other gift.”

“Oh, come on! I didn’t lie per se. I was just waiting for the right moment to disclose this to you,” you turned to show the tattoo in all its glory. “But you missed the clue. I had to improvise.”

“Still, no sex for you tonight.”

For me? That’s oddly specific, you thought to yourself with sudden clarity.

Then you noticed the boys’ bulges and a huge, gigantic wave of insolence washed over you.

Smiling, you jogged to where they stood and patted their erections with the back of your hand, eliciting soft moans from both.  

“Go on, then. You can have the room. Once you’re done, you can join me in the living room.”

Your fingers fished around Ilya’s back pocket for a second, then grabbed the cigarette packet. “But I’m taking this with me.”

Before taking it out, however, you gave his ass a good squeeze.

As you pulled back your hand, though, Shane wrapped his fingers around your wrist and yanked you closer.

“You picked up a nasty habit.”

“And whose fault is that?” you purred, unwavering, eyes diverting to Ilya. “Have fun, my loves.”

You tried to get past them to reach your living room, you really did, but they both had moved with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine long before you realised what they were doing.

You ended up on the bed again, but before you could attempt to get up once more, Ilya’s hand was on your stomach, pinning your whole body to the mattress.

“No, no, no. You stay. You watch.”

His lips touched your ear shell gently as his fingers played with your panties’ lacy front. “Shane is good boy and he deserves to be fucked by me. If brats like you don’t behave, they get nothing.”

Instead of stinging, the words went straight to your core.

Leave them to toy with your arousal without lifting a single finger.

Yet you held your ground and pushed your chin upward in defiance.

“What are you waiting for? Do your worst. Tame me.”

Totally unfazed by your arrogance, Ilya unzipped his jeans and his cock slapped against your lower stomach.

The sheer girth of it always had your mind buzzing, but this time you had no time to do it because he positioned himself right above you, one of his hands grabbing the headboard as the other tapped your chin.

“Open.”

And you did as Ilya ordered with narrowed eyes, taking every inch with ease. You’d done it plenty of times by now.

Still, you found yourself gasping for air when he suddenly thrusted into your mouth, the tip bruising the bottom of your throat.

“Fuck.” Shane was now at the side of the bed, eyes gone huge. “Are you sure you’re not choking her?”

“Of course. I’m teaching lesson to her, and she is loving it, trust me.” was Ilya’s cooly response, totally contrasting with the white-knuckled grip on the bedhead.

He was unbelievably hard in your mouth, every little movement a fine stroke on his flesh.

Out of frustration, you moaned around him and a string of Russian curses escaped his lips. The hand on your stomach raised to get in your hair.

“Behave.”

And with that, Ilya started pummelling in your throat, quickening the pace as he felt you growing restless underneath him.

“Look at this,” Shane’s index pressed against your throat, right where the indent of Ilya’s cock was. “You’re taking him so, so well.”

“True,” your other boyfriend agreed, punctuating that matter of fact with a sharp thrust that left you breathless. “But you will do better.”  

Rozanov halted his movements and got off slowly, leaving you to yearn for more.

Astonished, you watched as he extended a hand towards Shane. The dark-haired man spat on Ilya’s palm, then moaned as he was hauled closer by the Russian to start a heated kiss that had both backing off to your wardrobe’s mirrored doors.

After stroking their erections together with his spit, Ilya turned Shane on the stomach, then stroked his girth with what was left of his and your saliva.

And as you finally regained control of your body, hand sneaking to the cigarette packet, Ilya eased himself in Shane with a single, relaxed thrust.

Both panted at the same time, but Shane was a goner as soon as Rozanov started to thrust deeper, one of his hands pushing his boyfriend’s face against the door as the other one pumped his cock.

You had just lit a cigarette and brought it to your lips when the two stared at your sprawled form on the bed through the mirror. Shane’s laboured breath had fogged the surface, yet his eyes had been on you for a moment before Ilya delved harder repeatedly, each thrust matching the equally maddening pumps of his dick.

You fought against the brutal need building in you to touch yourself while watching them, an act you’ve been doing since the three of you became an item.

Ilya and Shane had talked you into doing it more often, to be honest, for you had considered it an intrusion of their privacy for the longest time.

“This is such a sensitive topic… I don’t want you to think I’m fetishizing you or anything like that.” You’d been on the verge of tears when you had told them that three months earlier, the three of you lounged on Ilya’s couch.

“You both are gorgeous as hell and I adore the life of you, that’s why I have the impulse to do it, but I’d understand if you feel uncomfortable. Plus, I know people talk behind my back about my relationship with you two, it’s just that I don’t want to caus-”

Shane had stopped your yapping with a finger to your lips. “Fuck them. We don’t give a shit about anyone else’s opinion but yours. If you want to do it, do it.”

“But-”

“He’s right,” Ilya had guided your hand between your thighs, his thumb dragging along the crotch seam of the jeans. “Don’t feel bad about it, because we do not. We like when you touch yourself.”

Green orbs met yours in the clouded mirror, cutting through the memory. As always, he knew Shane’s body language as well as yours.

“Do it.”

One hand sneaked past your panties, fingers quicky spreading your other lips apart as you watched your boyfriends love each other. Moaning at the sensation of being filled, your fingers slotted inside you, you timed their rhythm with Ilya’s thrusts.

They were both so close to their orgasms that you could feel Shane’s moans in your bones, as you did with Ilya’s.

“Wanna cum for me, baby?” Ilya breathed in his ear and Shane keened in response, a hand grabbing his ass to go faster. The other one flew to the mirror door, leaving a sweaty handprint on it as Rozanov did take up pace, the tempo he set so frenzied it made the whole wardrobe shake.

Shane came with a panting whimper, legs trembling as the orgasm washed over his body.

Ilya held him but didn’t stop thrusting until he shoved his face against Shane’s neck and cursed, his own release coming down on him as hard as the other boy’s. “You let your hair grew too much, Hollander. It tickles.”

“Fuck off, you love it.”

When they both returned to planet Earth, Ilya removed his hand from around Shane’s erection to lick it clean. The Russian teaser was aware of his effect on his lovers, so it came as unsurprising when Shane got another hard-on.

“Later,” Ilya kissed him. “We have other thing to do, now.”

“Uhm.” Shane turned to look at you and smiled. “I need to rest a bit, first. You fucked my brains out.”

You had another puff of the cigarette, the other hand still buried between your thighs, when Ilya walked over to you. 

“Did you like it, birthday girl?”

“Not as much as Shane. You did fuck him stupid.”

The aforementioned gave you and Ilya the finger, yet he wasn’t as offended as he wanted to sound like when he stated, “Stop stroking his ego or his head will grow so much he won’t be able to put a helmet on again.”

“You two can stroke other part of me,” Ilya cooed, his gaze fixated on your panties. Well, what was left of them, anyway. The flimsiness of the underwear didn’t go unnoticed.

His smile grew impossibly bigger. “You’re soaking wet. You like us a lot, uhm?”

“Duh.” You rolled your eyes; both observations were the understatements of the century. “Hey, how did you get so good with dirty talk in English?”

“Audiobooks.”

As if that answer sufficed, he put out your cigarette in the ashtray on the bedstand and hovered over you once more. He tried to nudge away your hand but failed.

“Take off panties.”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes, tone as deep as he could drive himself into you and Shane. “I’m not asking again. Take them off, or I will not play nice.”

Suppressing an irritated sob — as a new wave of slick painted your thighs —, you removed your fingers.

But the brat in you awakened with a fierce roar.

Mischievous as ever, you lifted your hand to his face, tapped on the lower lip and the moment his lips parted, your fingers glided inside his mouth.

“I said no. You do it.”

An exasperated but very horny sigh from Ilya, the sound reverberating around your drenched fingers as he sucked on them, the taste of your arousal as intoxicating as Shane’s.

“Still haven’t lost the attitude, have we?” your other boyfriend asked, completely compelled by the scene playing in front of his eyes to do nothing more but sit by the bed, voraciously eating up every second.    

“Ah, my love. We all know you’re the angel, here. Rozanov and I are the imps who corru- Ilya.”

All thoughts went down the drain because the fair-haired demon’s mouth was now on your clothed nipple, sucking and biting through the lace of the bra as if his life depended on it.

He used a hand to knead the other one, his fingers pinching and rubbing and- my God.

He took a breather just to stare up at you and growl, “I warned you”, then continued the relentless attack.

You grabbed him by his hair and mewled, the orgasm you denied yourself to watch them come rushing back to light your entire body on fire.

“Close already?” Ilya asked innocently as if he hadn’t started that whole mess himself in the first place. “But brats don’t deserve to come so soon.”

His entire presence vanished from over you.

You hadn’t realised you had your eyes closed until you opened them again to glare at your boyfriend.

“You just fucking didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.” He indulged in the sight of you, bothered and a breath away from coming just by having his mouth on your tits. “First, I want to try something. Shane.”

You whipped your head in his direction as he leaned towards your nightstand and opened the bottom drawer. Already see where it was going, you squirmed and tried to get away.

All to no avail, because Ilya’s hand was pinning you down again.

“Guys, come on…”

“Ah, not so brave anymore,” Ilya motioned for Shane to pick up the object you kept in that specific drawer and made space for him to join you two on the bed. “The feisty kitten got her nails clipped, yes?”

“I will claw both your backs while you sleep if you don’t stop teasing me.”

Your self-control crumbling before their very eyes, both your boyfriends shared a meaningful look.

Two things happened at the same time: Shane spat on your beloved blue-purple dildo, coating its entire size while Ilya’s teeth came to grab your panties, pulled it down your legs as his fingers went behind your back to unclasp the bra.

Now completely naked, underwear tossed somewhere behind them, Ilya gestured for you to get up; too riled up to disobey, you obliged.

“Get on your stomach.”

 Again, you did as he ordered and changed position to get on your hands and knees and then down, back arched enough to draw a moan from both men.

 “Beautiful.” Shane brushed his fingertips against the tiger. “Can’t believe you didn’t tell us the moment you got it.”

“I wanted to,” eager to feel them closer, you pressed your ass against Ilya’s cock, its tip poking at you. “Didn’t wanna spoil the surprise, though.”

It was Ilya’s turn to touch the tattoo. “It suits you. With this view, we can’t wait to fuck you forever.”

A startled scream bubbled in the back of your throat as he pushed inside you, your inner walls so sleek he hadn’t needed to prep you further. He buried himself to the hilt, balls pressing against your skin.

“Ssh,” Shane cooed and without missing a beat, he slipped in the dildo under Ilya’s girth, stretching you out in ways you hadn’t experienced before. “You’re doing well. Breathe.”

“And she likes it, too.” A playful slap on your ass, Ilya rotated his hips to help you adjust to the new feeling. “She is clenching like crazy around my cock.”

“S-shut up.” You stuttered, out of breath, as you accommodated both lengths through gritted teeth.

By the time you did, you shot a glance to your boyfriends and grinned. “Go on. Isn’t what you were waiting for?”

Shane and Ilya moved in synchro, coordinating their antics to never leave you empty, but at some point, they were always inside you at the same time.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I’m cl-“

“Yes, me too,” Ilya gave a sharp thrust as he bent down to kiss between your shoulder blades. “Come around us, pretty girl.”

You were tensing around them all too soon, the so-long denied orgasm slammed against your ribcage so violently you fell on your front, lower back still encased by Ilya’s hands as he and Shane continued ramming into you.

Eyes watery with pleasure, your head turned to look at them kissing, and a strangled moan from your part was all it took for Shane to remove the dildo and for Ilya to do the same.

He came on your back with a slow hiss, careful not to hit your tattoo.

Meanwhile, your other boyfriend had disappeared into the bathroom for a minute or two, walking back to you both with hot towels and the soft promise of a warm bath.

He helped you and Ilya clean yourselves, then awarded you with a smile. “Let’s get you into the bathtub.”

“Can’t soak into water for long. The tattoo…”

“I have you, don’t worry. Come on.”

With that, Shane lifted you by the back of your thighs as you, too spent and sated to function properly, got carried by him into the bathroom.

He eased you into the tub as Ilya got behind you, his fingers already in your hair to detangle it; Shane, on the other hand, was giving little pecks to your scrunched nose.

 “I really need to get a jetted tub. Enough space for you both to fit.” Your voice came off slurred, almost a whisper.

 Both men kissed your face, then Ilya beamed. “You are pro at that, already. We have no complains.”

“Idiots,” you scuffed, raising both arms to pat their annoyingly beautiful faces. They were beaming with sheer adoration. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Shane squeezed the hand on his cheek.

“Liar. You love us.”

As always, they were right.

toronto, canada. january.

“You are just going to stand there?”

“No,” Shane sighs, face flaming. “I—I just—“

“You are going to join us some time, yes?”

“Yes!” Shane rubs at his neck.

Ilya sighs, head rolling back between his shoulders, braced on the mattress below him. Beside him, Bunny fiddles with the diamonds of her bracelet, shivering a little in the lace set Ilya insisted she wear. Black, intricate, beautiful. He likes to see her like that. Or, at least he used to.

This was new. This—Ilya, Shane, both of them in the bedroom with a woman. A woman Ilya once knew well, whose bedroom he frequented when he played her city. A woman he had years with—before and between years with Shane—but had not seen for a while. A woman he thought of only recently, and wanted to see if she still thought of him.

“Listen,” Bunny starts, pushing off the stack of pillows behind her. “If you guys aren’t sure—“

“He is sure,” Ilya interrupts sternly. “Just being chickenshit.”

She clicks her tongue at him, but continues to gaze at Shane in an adoringly sweet way from where he stands across the room. Hands fumbling and flexing at his sides, shoulders squared stiffly, only a pair of black Nike shorts hanging low on his hips. Ilya must like his play things in black.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to if you don’t want—“

“I want to,” he snaps.

Ilya’s brows shoot up, a little zing of excitement licking at his chest. Shane sighs, mouth opening and closing in a stuttered attempt at what Ilya knows is his need to apologize to the sweet girl beside him on the bed. But Ilya knows better. Ilya knows that she feels the same excitement he does right now, tingling and buzzing all over.

Ilya inhales deeply, reaching over to run the back of his knuckles over Bunny’s bare thigh. “Don’t worry, Hollander, you don’t have to fuck her. I will do all the work. As always.”

Shane scoffs, eyes rolling sideways. He mimics Ilya’s inhale, cursing the way his trembles in and out. Like a shudder.

“He likes to be center of attention,” Ilya tells her, chin tilted her way but eyes focused entirely on Shane, who colors red all over. “Good thing Bunny likes to give, yes?”

Shane swallows and it clicks in his ears. Bunny takes her lip between her teeth and slides off the bed, bare feet padding over white carpet. Pristine, like her skin, smooth and bare and probably so soft. Shane thinks about that when she approaches, and when her hands smooth over his bare chest, he actually shudders.

She is soft. Light and delicate and so fucking soft. She smiles at his reaction and blinks a set of long lashes. There’s sparkles on her cheeks. Her lips are perfectly pink.

“I really am a big fan, Mr. Hollander.”

“Mr. Hollander,” Shane chuckles, mouth twisting into a shy smile. Another lick of heat laps at his skin.

Ilya joins them across the room, cupping one hand around the nape of her neck and the other around Shane’s. He holds them, massages his thumbs into their pressure points. Both melt into his touch, lashes fluttering. It fills him with a pride and power that’s almost indescribable.

“She knows to be polite,” he explains. “Right, Возлюбленный?”

She nods, breaths shallow and blinks slow. Ilya tips his chin to watch her, the way she nestles into the roles he’s laying out for them. The roles they fall into so easily when they’re together—Ilya and Bunny, Ilya and Shane, and now all of them together. Why should things be different just because there’s three instead of two?

“And you?” Ilya turns to Shane, thumb settling in the junction between his jaw and throat. He swallows against it, big brown eyes doe-like and pleading. “You will be polite, too?”

Shane exhales. “Yes,” he whispers.

Ilya lets himself smile, too pleased with his adoring sweethearts to bother hiding it. But it lasts only a moment, before he drops his grip on both of them and steps back.

“Then come. I want you to be polite in bed.”

Shane looks at Bunny, watching after Ilya with glowing cheeks and her lip worried between her teeth again. Maybe it’s the sheer softness of her, or the absolute firmness of Ilya, or Shane’s need to please—but Shane finds himself reaching over and taking her hand. Leading her to the bed with their fingers laced together, and taking the smirk on Ilya’s face as a good sign.

“So sweet, Hollander. You will get first treat.”

Ilya rises to his knees, reaching for Shane—but Shane tugs Bunny forward and in front of him, until her knees hit the bed, and it surprises all of them when he flips her around to face him.

“No. She’s first.”

Ilya practically clambers to reach them, but their mouths are already on each other. Shane’s eyes pinch shut and their mouths are moving with slow, deliberate pace, tongues lolling and lips swelling with every touch. Their breaths pass between each other with noisy huffs, and Shane cradles her face with a care that makes her putty in his hands.

“Oh,” Ilya groans, pressing his chest against her back, running his hands along her arms. “Hollander, you do want her.”

He wants her. Yes, Shane wants her, but he wants Ilya to beam with that lion’s share of pride even more. He wants to give him the rush of power and pride and passion that he deserves. He wants Ilya to keep looking at him the way he is now.

She gasps as she’s ripped away from Shane’s mouth, Ilya’s hand tangled in her hair as force.

“That is enough. Bunny, hop over here for me.”

She lingers, rubbing spit-swollen lips together as she catches her breath and peers up at Shane. He’s a glorious kisser, better than she figured he’d be. Honestly, she pictured tonight being a show for Ilya, less of a game of hot potato between the two of them and more of a one man show—with two people trying to please him. She never thought Shane would care to include her.

“Go on,” Shane murmurs to her, thumb stroking over her bottom lip.

Ilya’s standing now, waiting beside the bed. He points to the center of the mattress when she turns, and she crawls there on her hands and knees. Slinking slowly, ass arched gracefully in the air. Shane tries not to watch it move, tries just to watch Ilya as he peels the boxers off his hips—but he can’t help to watch them both. The hard cock springing against Ilya’s toned stomach, the supple mounds of flesh jiggling and moving as she—their bunny—settled on her hands and knees where directed.

Ilya said he called her bunny because she always seemed on the move, hopping around with urgency. She was a workaholic and never let herself sit down, unless someone made her. She’s just so cute, he told Shane. They looked through her Instagram a few nights ago in bed, when curiosity got the best of Shane. She loves to please, Hollander.

They both gasp when Ilya’s hand comes down on her ass. Just once, sharp and swift and enough to raise the flesh like braille almost immediately. Shane swallows, and damn does his cock harden immediately. He runs his palm down the front of his shorts with a pained exhale.

“Hollander, here.” Ilya points to the space before her, against the headboard.

Shane hurries to the bed, tripping over his own feet as he goes. Ilya stops him with a hand against his waist, lips soft on his cheek.

“You are okay?” he whispers.

Shane nods so eagerly his teeth chatter. “Yes. Yes, ‘m okay.”

Ilya hums, replacing his mouth with the tip of his nose, ghosting over Shane’s cheek. It runs down his jaw, his neck, fanning hot breath over his flesh until his whole body wracks with shivers.

“Strip,” Ilya demands lowly, and the accent Shane swears will never lose its effect works its magic.

Shane hurriedly shoves his shorts and boxers down, kicking them somewhere behind him across the room. Bunny’s still arched in the center, down on her elbows with her hands out before her—but she lifts her head when she feels the bed dip, when she hears the soft, hollow breaths of Shane above her. Their eyes meet, a giddy anticipation thrumming between them.

It’s an odd intimacy, and they know the other feels it, too. To be at the mercy of someone they both care for deeply, and to be in it together. To experience pleasure all as one. Just because they wanted to.

Shane didn’t much care for having sex with women. He wasn’t particularly attracted to them like that, though he knew beauty when he saw it. But something about Bunny was different. She wasn’t just some woman—she was a gift for him to share with Ilya. Something just for them. It was his only way to explain his sudden want for what had otherwise always gone undesired.

“You two want to kiss again?” Ilya muses, monotonous and snarky.

Shane shifts on the bed and Bunny lets her head drop, concealing her coy grin in the sheets. Ilya takes their silence as affirmation and hums as he saddles up behind Bunny, hands bracing her hips to pull her down against his bare cock. Her mouth drops open, a gasp muffled by the mattress. He grinds her there a minute, chuckling when her hips tilt, chasing after the friction of their pulsing sexes. Shane watches Ilya turn a telltale sign of pink—the tops of his ears, across his chest, his lips a deeper shade. He feels his own pleasure warm him all over, settle in the pit of his stomach, pool in his cock. He reaches to tug at it as Ilya pulls Bunny back harder, bouncing her clothed sex against his bare cock.

“She does not like to be teased,” he tells Shane, snickering when Bunny confirms this with a desperate whine. She reaches behind her to pull at the fragile band of her panties only to be smacked away. “But I like to make her work for it. Like you, Возлюбленный.”

Shane hears his own breathing, louder than he’d like it to be. Pants that linger and slip into small whimpers, something like a hungry puppy, waiting for a treat. He watches the two of them in pure fascination, utter wonderment. Her noises are musical, so melodic and sweet. Ilya’s are the same as always, deep and animalistic. The cross around his neck glistens in every jump from his chest, urged by the force of his body moving.

“I should stop teasing, yes?” Ilya asks, and Shane looks away from Bunny’s writhing form to Ilya’s raised brows, a look of expectation.

Shane nods, just as Bunny whines out a long “yesss,” that has Ilya laughing. The grin on his face is sardonic and cruel and so fucking exciting. Shane shifts on the bed again, tightening his fist around his cock.

“Was not asking you, Bunny. But since you are so desperate—up.”

She springs up—like a bunny, Shane thinks amusedly—on her palms and blinks blearily at Shane. His mouth drops a little more, another bated breath escaping him. Her gaze drops to his moving hand, the slow circles he’s making over his aching cock. Her shoulders slump a little, and he thinks he’s dreaming the drool in the corner of her mouth.

Ilya lets them have their moment, if only briefly. He enjoys watching them interact, his sweethearts. They’re the same, the two of them—sweet as honey, soft as silk, all gooey in the middle. They’d do anything to make the ones they love happy. They chase pleasure with an insatiable crave, with a desperate need. They make the perfect pair for Ilya.

“Go on,” Ilya murmurs, hands still firm and warm over Bunny’s hips. They slide in the curve of her waist, tracing the shape of her. She feels his breath at her ear, over her cheek, fanning with every word against her. “You want him in your mouth, yes?”

“Yes,” she gasps, nodding fervently.

“Fuck,” Shane sighs, and he slides down as if to meet her halfway, still working his cock painstakingly slow.

“Tell her you want that, Shane.”

Shane sighs again, long and languid as his head falls back. The sheer thought of her warm, plush lips around him makes his insides squirm. He thinks of the way Ilya does it, all throat and wet heat. If he wonders how hers will feel; how her smaller hands will feel touching him all over.

“I want it,” Shane whispers, fixing his head straight to say it to Bunny, who watches him in her own state of breathlessness. “Want your mouth, Bunny.”

Ilya guides her there, inching her forward until she hovers over Shane’s lap. He can feel her warmth even there, smell the sweetness of her perfume, the berry scent of a lipgloss that lingers on her mouth and that he can taste remnants of on his own. Ilya’s knees are on the bed now, and he settles back on his haunches to slip his finger in the band of her panties, sliding it down until he finds the center of hot dampness that makes her gasp. He smirks, poking with just one finger until she jolts forward, hands grasping Shane’s sides.

“I will fuck you,” Ilya declares, slipping another finger in. “And you will let Hollander fuck your throat. Is your dream, yes, Bunny?”

Bunny moves her head in another quick nod. “Yes. Please, Ilya.”

Her dream? Did girls dream about shit like this? Shane’s insides twist again at the thought, and wrench even further around themselves when she drops her mouth open above his cock. He stops his movements and shivers when her bottom lip grazes him.

“Wait,” Ilya coos, peeling Bunny’s panties down her legs. “Want to be inside you. Want to feel you together.”

Shane huffs impatiently, but obliges and runs the head of his cock over Bunny’s lip instead. Traces the curve of her mouth, feels the slick spit gathering in the dip of her bottom lip. She lets her tongue dart out to flick at his head and he jerks, glancing at Ilya, and then sharing a glinted look with Bunny. Her lip coils into a grin, something beautiful and bashful and full of mischief. It makes his heart skip. Ilya chose perfectly.

Ilya taps his cock once, then twice against Bunny’s dripping core, the obscene wet slap making Shane even more impatient. Ilya guides himself inside her with one hand, the other gripping the dip of her waist before her hip. He pulls her back gently to meet him until they’re flush against each other, both releasing sounds of juxtaposing octaves but synonymous pleasure.

Shane glances at Ilya again, brows pinched and eyes perfectly round in that wonderfully pleasing way that makes Ilya go crazy. It has him rutting a little harder into Bunny when he nods his approval at Shane. Her nasally whine breaks with the intrusion of Shane’s cock in her mouth, his hands big and warm on her head. He doesn’t push her, doesn’t control her, only gently guides her down over his length.

His fingers bury their way in her hair—and fuck, even that’s soft. Like her mouth, small and hot and so wet it makes him wonder how long he’ll really last. Like his first time with Ilya, when the sheer promise of his mouth over his cock in that hotel bed, freshly eighteen, made him battle the edge in a matter of seconds.

Ilya pistons his hips forward, driving his cock into Bunny with steady intention. It has her jolting forward, whimpering in the middle of her throat. He watches Shane’s face pinch, his eyes sink closed, his head fall back to thump into the headboard. He knows the sweetness Bunny’s mouth delivers, and it makes him happy to know Shane’s getting to experience it.

One time, “just to try it” experience or not, Ilya wants commit this moment to memory for as long as he can.

“Feel good, Hollander?” Ilya purrs, sweeping his hand down the decline of Bunny’s arched back.

Shane nods quickly, swallowing loudly. “Uh-huh.”

“Aw, you are making him feel so good, honey.” It’s directed to her now, bobbing her head and hollowing her cheeks over his boyfriend’s cock.

She takes the encouragement in stride, moving her head deeper, faster, a wet suction echoing through the room that has even Ilya grunting. Shane yelps, a glorious look of agony etched into the softness of his features. His hands tighten in her hair on instinct, scrunching strands in his fists until her scalp stings. Bunny inhales sharply through her nose and tosses her ass back against a dumb-struck Ilya.

He quickly corrects, hand coming down on her ass. “Yeah, just like that, Bunny. So good with your mouth.”

Shane doesn’t know if he’s moving her head or if she’s doing it on her own, but he finds his fists moving up and down with every bob of her mouth over his length. He forces his eyes open to watch Ilya, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, all toned, clean lines and taut muscle in dim light. His stomach flexes with every thrust, wide expanse of shoulders tense and alert with every exploration of Bunny’s soft, winding curves.

Ilya watches Shane in return. He watches Shane turn a million shades of pink and red, watches dampness bead along his hairline, gather over his bare chest. He watches his lashes flutter with every bob of Bunny’s head, the veins in his forearms press against his flesh when he tightens his grip on the girl’s hair, his lips part to exhale or gasp or moan beautifully.

They watch each other fuck someone else, and it makes them fucking wild.

Ilya mouth curls sideways even before he picks up pace, but his smirk deepens when Bunny falters at the drive of his cock inside her. Merciless and deep, hitting the spot within her that only he’s ever been able to reach. The suction around Shane’s cock release with a wet pop, confirmed only by the long whine she screams through the room.

Shane groans, swirling his cock along the lazy tongue that pokes out to find it, the mouth still desperate to please despite her body’s sudden inability to.

Ilya lets it happen for what feels like an eternity—this loss of pleasure for Shane, this override of it for Bunny—until he leans forward and snatches her back by a fistful of hair.

He stops completely. Moving, thrusting, fucking. He pulls Bunny flush against his chest, a damp smack of flesh on flesh, and Shane’s chest stutters with an uneasy intake of breath. Her nipples are hard against the thin lace of lingerie. The channel of her throat is long and beautiful. His boyfriend is a fucking god.

“You want me to keep fucking you?” Ilya growls in her ear.

Bunny swallows, panting up into the blue gaze boring into her. She attempts to nod, but his grip is too tight. She sweeps her hands over the thickness of his thighs behind her, nails grazing the warm muscle. His cock is lodged so deeply inside her that she feels it pulse between her walls.

“Y-yes, yes,” she breathes.

Ilya traces her cheek with his nose and presses his lips firmly to her jaw. “Then keep fucking sucking.”

He releases her roughly and Shane feels a sudden need to smooth her hair, wipe the tears pricking the inner corners of her eyes, clean free the mascara melting down her cheeks. But she’s back down on her elbows flattening her tongue along the underside of his cock, and she’s taking him back into her mouth in one swallow, and he’s pulling away from the headboard to clutch her head in one wide palm to hold her close.

“Fuck!”

Ilya hums, the salacious smirk returning as he drops his palm in another sharp smack across her ass. “Is better. Deeper, Bunny.”

Could it go any deeper? Shane wonders. He’s not so sure, but Ilya’s hunching over Bunny and pushing his hand over Shane’s to guide her down to his pelvis, and Shane gasps.

“Ilya, she can’t—“

She can’t breathe, he wants to say. But Ilya would’ve only tightened his grip and grumbled something along the lines of I know. Because little does Shane know—something he’d soon figure by the rock of her hips against Ilya’s cock and the crazy tremor in her thighs—that Bunny loves this.

And Shane doesn’t even care anymore. He doesn’t care if she can breathe—even though, of course he does—or if Ilya’s fucking her too hard and the bed’s starting to whine beneath them, knocking the headboard into the wall behind them, because the pleasure shooting sparks through his veins is enough to erase all thought from his mind. Like, erased clean. An utter void of pleasure when he shuts his eyes and bucks his hips into her working mouth, fucking through her gags and splutters, unintentionally matching a pace Ilya sets behind her.

Shane grits his teeth, palm heavy against Bunny’s head, pinned beneath Ilya’s own still lingering, still directing. It gives him an angle that has him chasing an impending high, tingling in his cock and working its way to the surface. To watch Shane come undone, become feral by a mouth he put there makes Ilya dizzy.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna cum,” Shane whines, the tilt of his hips into her mouth becoming lazy, slow.

Ilya lets his hand roam between Bunny’s thighs, finding the pulsing bundle of nerves with two nimble fingers. He moves in small circles, spreading slickness and practically holding her up when she begins to shake violently.

It’s a masterpiece when they come together. A full mouth, a spurt of warmth across the plain of her back. She chases Ilya’s fingers for only a moment before they become painful, fondling the nerves now fried with pleasure.

And then they’re a mess of limp limbs and wanton pants. Shane collapses against the headboard, fingers massaging Bunny’s head aimlessly. She presses a sticky cheek to his thigh, pinned by the heavy weight of an exhausted Ilya behind her. He presses his head to her spine, thumbs rubbing in the small of her back to ease the ache of her arch. His tongue flattens against her flesh, cleaning his own release from her until she shivers.

It moved like a living thing, curling round the hull and wrapping its fingers round the masts like the groping limbs of some drowned thing clawing up from the deep. The sun had not burned through the veil in over a week. Even the most steadfast sailors were starting to look more often toward the quarterdeck for reassurance. 

Captain Steve Rogers never had been one for theatre or fear, and his calmness had steadied men through far worse than fog. 

His uniform - navy blue once, now leached to charcoal by weather and time - clung damp to his frame, the gold buttons dulled by brine. Occasionally, the blond hair tucked so neatly beneath his hat stirred loose in the wind. And it fell across watchful blue eyes rimmed with sleepless red, ceaselessly scanning for a horizon that no longer existed.

It was as though the ship had sailed into a world that was not finished being made.

Compasses spun like a drunkard, refusing to point anywhere true. The charts made no sense; every calculation put them somewhere they couldn’t possibly be. They had passed the last familiar isle two days before the fog arrived. The coastline should be visible by now, but like the sky, it remained elusive.

The only thing that had not abandoned them was the blinding pall that devoured distance and sense alike.

Until the lighthouse. That damned lighthouse. 

“Captain!”

Brock Rumlow’s voice cut through the mist like a knife, half disbelieving, half warning. Steve stepped out from under the canopy and squinted up into the fog, just making out his Executive Officer in the crow’s nest.

“There’s a light, port side. Thought it was a trick of the mist at first, but, sir, it’s steady.”

Steve moved to the rail, peering into the drowning grey. It was faint, at first, no more than a shimmer through the fog. Then it blinked. Once. Again. A slow, pale rhythm, like something breathing far away. Every rotation came with the same muffled pulse of light, bleeding through the mist - not bright enough to guide, but just enough to feel its watchful presence. Just enough to pull you in. 

Each time the light passed, the tower emerged like a stuttering apparition. Black against grey. It loomed with a kind of dreadful elegance, a single void on the horizon. The fog clung to its ribs like flesh on bone, never fully revealing the surface. Just the ceaseless rotation of that pale, pulsing eye.

Steve’s brow creased, just slightly. “There’s no record of a lighthouse in these waters.”

Rumlow clambered down from the rigging, boots thudding softly against the deck. “Maybe it’s new?” he offered, with the brittle edge of someone trying to believe it.

“Or we’ve drifted much farther than we think.” Steve muttered, mostly to himself. He didn’t sound alarmed, but thoughtful, maybe even cautious in the way a man becomes when the sea starts behaving like something unfamiliar.

Behind him, the crew had fallen quiet, looking towards the lighthouse like it might be some kind of saviour. No more talk of omens or charts. Just the deck creaking like arthritic bones, the ropes above groaning in their rigging like tired muscles. They had been in this fog far too long. The sails sagged with damp. Salt gathered on every surface in thin, crystalline veins, as if the ship itself were beginning to ossify.

Steve turned to Stark at the helm. “Hold course. We don’t approach until we know what kind of land that is - if there’s land at all.”

The crew exchanged uneasy glances, the silence between them louder than the groan of the ship. Steve’s order had not sparked protest, but surprise. The kind that simmers just beneath the surface, waiting for a crack in the calm.

Rumlow stepped in closer, his voice pitched low, meant for the captain alone. “Sir, with respect, the crew are getting nervous. And that light, it’s steady. Clearer than anything we’ve seen in days. Don’t you think maybe it’s where we’re meant to go?”

Steve didn’t answer at first. His gaze stayed locked on the sweep of white that cut across the mist.

“I think visibility’s down to nothing,” he said at last, his voice calm, measured. “And I don’t want us running aground on some reef that doesn’t show up on a map.”

With a tight jaw, Brock swallowed and nodded once. But something in his gaze lingered on the horizon, to the lighthouse buried in the fog.

Steve didn’t look away from it either. His head tilted slightly, as if trying to puzzle it apart, to parse its rhythm, its source. But the longer he watched, the more it felt like the light was watching him back. Each rotation passed over the Nomad like a tongue of pale fire, licking at wood and rigging as if tasting what had come to it.

Rumlow’s voice dropped even lower, “You think maybe that’s where the Valkyrie went?”

The Valkyrie. Just the name alone was enough to make Steve pause. The Nomad’s sister ship. Missing three months now, seemingly vanished near these waters. Commanded by a good man - Captain James “Bucky” Barnes. 

Officially? Presumed lost to storm. The Admiralty had called the search a waste; gone too long, gone too far. But Steve had disagreed, insistently. He knew Bucky, sailed with him since they were boys, before anyone gave them men to lead. And Captain Barnes would not have gone down easy. Not to wind. Not to fate.

“If there’s even a chance they’re still out there,” he’d urged, “we owe it to them to look.”

That was how he’d always been. Never leave men behind. Never bury a crew without a body. He’d volunteered himself to take the Nomad out - retrace the route, follow the last ghosting of the Valkyrie’s known course.

Just a recovery mission, they’d said, a duty. And they’d assigned him a crew that was not his own, to ensure he didn’t linger too long in the hunt. His men would have followed him to the edge of the world without question. These ones, they’d hoped, would make him turn back when the search turned fruitless. 

But now, here they were. No stars. No wind. No world but fog. And the only shape left in it was a lighthouse that should not exist.

Steve blinked, finally tearing his gaze from the light. His eyes met Brock’s, tired but steady. His shoulders rose with breath, slow and measured, before he spoke.

“If the Valkyrie went there, she might’ve had reason. Damage. Crew injured. But we’re not crippled, and we’ve got no map to guide us in. I’m not going in blind, not yet.”

He turned back to the water. Fog pressed against the world like wool over the eyes. The lighthouse blinked again. 

Steve nodded once, resolute in his decision. “We stay careful and wait for the fog to shift.” He placed a hand briefly on Rumlow’s shoulder.  “I won’t risk my crew chasing shadows in fog that thick.”

“Aye, Captain.” 

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓊝𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂁𓂃𓂃˙˳⋆

When the watch was changed and orders were repeated, Steve stepped down from the quarterdeck and made his way back to his cabin below. 

The air was heavier in the belly of the ship, thick with damp and rusted salt, every timber groaning like it ached in its bones. His quarters were dim. A single lantern swung with the slow sway of the ship, casting shadows that seemed to move before the flame did. 

Charts were spread across the desk, dotted with bearings and notations, all meaningless now. Steve sat hunched over them, sleeves rolled, brow furrowed. He’d stripped off his coat but still felt damp; the fog had crept into everything. Dragging a calloused hand through his hair, Steve blinked down at the compass lying beside the map. Still useless. Still turning in lazy circles like a drunk sailor remembering a waltz. 

None of it made any damn sense. Every heading led to nowhere. No drift patterns lined up. He reached for his logbook, intending to write, to record something, anything that might bring order to the chaos. But the ink seemed to bleed too quickly on the page. The candlelight blurred at the edges. His fingers slowed.

Sleep gathered at the edges of him like a restless tide, luring him under.

He resisted at first, his mind too restless to sleep. Rubbed the back of his neck. Shifted in the chair. But the heaviness was strange, not exhaustion, exactly, but pull, thick and difficult to resist. His head dipped once. He snapped upright, jaw tight.

Then it started. Soft, barely a sound. 

The echo of something melodic seeping through the walls of the ship, through the brass fittings and soaked oak beams. It threaded into his mind, quiet and patient, settling amongst the fog of his thoughts, carving out a hollow and making itself at home. And still, it pushed deeper, curling warm and low in a place just below his sternum, where longing and memory and fear all reside together. He was dreaming. Or falling. Or maybe both. 

Visions of the sea rose up in his mind, yet not the familiar cold expanse that prowled outside the hull, not the greedy grey that clung and gnawed and wished to drag all things down. This sea was warmer, velvet dark, soft as the inside of a mouth.

Steve was drifting through it, though he couldn’t tell if he floated or sank. The world had no up or down, only pull. A constant, inexorable lure toward only one thing: the lighthouse. It loomed above him now, vast and depthless, its crown haloed in light that somehow did not illuminate his surroundings. He was so close he could feel it, the warmth of the light, the snatch of currents curling around his limbs like hands, immobilising. 

The water rippled, revealing eyes, open in the deep. Unblinking. Watching. Reflecting that same cursed light from above the surface. Too close, and yet impossibly far. 

As if the sea itself had grown a face and turned it toward him.

Steve jerked awake with a violent gasp, the world slamming back into place - the cramped cabin, the sharp scrape of wood as his chair skidded beneath him, the rush of breath filling his lungs.

The cabin lantern guttered low, throwing frantic shadows up the walls. His skin was clammy, his pulse feral. The taste of salt lingered in his mouth, as if he’d swallowed the dream and brought some of it back with him.

He turned, slowly, gaze drawn to the porthole. The light was still there. Each rotation of the lighthouse beam slid through the fog and across the glass like a spotlight, searching. Still watching.

But the hum was gone. The cabin had fallen back into silence, save for the low groans of the ship as it shifted on the still, breathless water. Rising from the desk slowly, Steve shook his head, as if to rid himself of whatever had slithered into him during sleep. Just a dream. That’s all it was. He was exhausted. Worried. Minds under pressure look for patterns and he’d been thinking about that damn lighthouse too long. Of course it had found its way into his dreams.

He paced once, twice, boots thudding dully against the floorboards, then turned for the door. He needed air. Needed salt and wind and human company to steady his mind.

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓊝𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂁𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃 ˙˳⋆

When he stepped back out onto the deck, the world had not changed. 

The fog had not lifted; still wound tight around the ship like a shroud. It pressed in close, slicking across his skin with a dampness that clung to his clothes. The cold bit into him slowly, teeth sinking through his skin.

For one disoriented beat, he wondered if time had moved at all. If, instead, it had simply curved back on itself like a wave folding under, dragging him into the same moment. Same air. Same fog. Same towering blot on the horizon, casting its glare across the sea like a curse. It was not growing closer. It was not receding. It simply remained, waiting, as though the world now revolved around it.

His watch betrayed the illusion. He’d slept, if it could be called that, just over an hour. And yet it was as though nothing had moved.

Except his crew.

Warm lantern light carved trembling circles through the mist, casting his men in golden haze and long shadows. They were gathered along the starboard rail, clustered together like crows around carrion. Overlapping voices floated across the deck, carrying a ripple of unease.

Brow furrowing, Steve strode across the deck, boots striking the planks with measured weight, the sound of voices growing sharper with every step - too many, too loud, voices that carried the sour heat of argument and something darker beneath.

“I’m telling you,” came one voice, low and suspicious, “it’s not right. She don’t belong here.”

“Pretty little thing though, would be a shame to let her go back under,” another drawled, peering through a spyglass.

“Shouldn’t bring her aboard,” grunted another, older, voice chewed to bone by years at sea. “Bad luck. All this fog, compasses spinning, and now this? She’s a Jonah. Let her drown.”

“Enough,” Steve’s voice cut through the tangle with ease and the muttering fell away at once. 

They parted almost instantly, and Steve stepped toward the rail, spyglass in hand. The fog swirled beneath the low light provided from deck, pooling thick and low across the water’s skin, and for a moment all he saw was drift. It just looked like wreckage, driftwood, rope, a scrap of sailcloth tangled in splintered timber. But then it shifted.

A human form. A woman. You.

Drifting limp across the water, draped half-conscious over a splintered slat of hull like an offering. Limbs slack, pale, boneless in the cold. Mouth parted faintly. Salt clinging to skin like frost. Yet there was movement, just. The soft rise and fall of ribs was the only indication of life.

A seaweed of wet hair tangled around a body wearing nothing but a half-buttoned shirt - unmistakably a sailor’s standard issue. It clung to every curve with the intimacy of breath. White, soaked through, and thin as gauze, it gaped wide at the collar. Its hem dark with water and barely brushing thigh. Every inch of it transparent.

One of his men gave a low whistle, appreciative in a hungry sort of way. Another muttered something crude under his breath.

Steve’s breath hitched. “Jesus.”

He opened his mouth to issue the order, to call his men to help him and do something other than just watch as the sea claimed another victim, but something caught the edge of his vision.

Dark wood, warped and slightly swollen, but unmistakable. Carved faintly into the grain was the faded insignia of the Valkyrie. Faint and weather gnawed, but clear enough to make the blood slow in Steve’s veins. He stilled, the sight striking something low and solemn in him, pulling his thoughts inward, toward darker waters. It held him there a breath too long, until the voices of his crew, sharp and human, tore him back to the surface.

“Women on ships are bad luck,” someone spat. “They call the sea to swallow us. You want to bring that aboard?”

“She’s a woman,” another scoffed, lascivious and oily. “That’s all I care about. And she’s practically naked. I’d say that’s luck enough.”

A ripple of laughter broke the tension - thin, uneasy, edged with hunger. Steve’s hand tightened around the spyglass until the brass bit into his palm. His voice, when it came, was low and absolute.

“I command a ship, not a brothel,” he warned, words edged with ice. “You see a woman half dead and the first thing out of your mouth is filth?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. 

“Help me get her aboard,” Steve continued, low and final, every syllable hard with command. “Now.”

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓊝𓂃𓂁𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃˙˳⋆

They pulled you from the water like salvage. Like a treasure they'd found instead of the trap you were.

The rope they lowered wasn’t elegant - a thick loop knotted fast at its end, more sling than harness. It hit the water with a dull splash beside you, bobbing once, then slackening as someone above braced the rigging. You made no effort to move to it, still draped over the driftwood, barely conscious. Or so you looked.

From the deck above, voices filtered down, rough and indistinct, before the groan of the rope ladder. Someone was coming down. A broad shouldered shadow fell over you through the fog, moving with care. When he reached you, the voice came first. A low rumble, roughed by cold and command, yet still laced with warmth.

“It’s alright,” he spoke, as though speaking to a wounded animal. “We’ve got you. I’m going to secure the rope, just stay with me.”

Then hands. Warmer than they had any right to be. Callused palms, sure fingers, touching only what they needed and not a single inch more. You flinched, of course. Twitched like something helpless. He hushed you again. “Easy,” he coaxed, “it’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Safe. How quaint.

The sling was adjusted around you, tugging tight beneath ribs that housed lungs which had never once known the ache of oxygen, had never felt the brutal, mortal pull of drowning. Still, you let a strangled choke slip from your throat, perfectly convincing. Your head lolled to one side, limbs limp with the art of false exhaustion, as the line above drew taut and began to lift.

The pulley system groaned, and you rose, slow and swaying, through the breathless dark. Fog clung to your limbs like it was loath to let you go. The deck appeared in pieces: boots, knees, hands reaching. The hiss of anticipation from men who had not seen softness in months.

You kept your eyes half shuttered, lashes fluttering weakly against your cheeks. The picture of something fragile, plucked from the depths by the mercy of men. Mercy, you knew, that always came with a price. 

The rope jerked slightly as they manoeuvred you over the side of the ship. You stirred, just enough, letting soft, whimpering moan escape past your lips. Bait on a hook. Several boots scraped closer to you, and you could practically smell their hunger.

But it was the same steady hands that enveloped you once more, lifting you clear of the rope and the greedy eyes that didn’t care to hide their hunger for your softness. He drew you against him without effort, anchoring you to his chest, against his warmth, as though you belonged there, shielding you instinctively from the others. 

"Easy," he said again, close to your ear now, voice achingly gentle. "I've got you.”

You let your fingers curl into the lapel of his coat, just enough to seem desperate. He carried you easily across the slick boards of the deck, accompanied by the murmur of men who hadn’t remembered their decency. 

When he reached the quarterdeck, he lowered you slowly onto a barrel, his hands still gripping you until he was certain you were steady. You made sure weren’t, of course. As if on cue, your body swayed forward, tilting into him like gravity had a grip on your bones. Your cheek brushed the hard plane of his chest, and he caught you instantly.

“Hey,” he murmured, crouching down in front of you, “Hey, can you look at me?”

Warm palms cradled your face, so large that they eclipsed your cheeks entirely. Thumbs brushed your hair aside with aching gentleness, the pad of one brushing your parted lips. You let out the faintest shiver, as though cold, though it was really restraint burning beneath your ribs. Eyes flickering open, you blinked up at him through pathetic, fluttering lashes.

Oh.

He was beautiful. Not in the brash, swaggering way of most mortal men, but in the quiet, devastating way that would’ve made your breath catch if you were capable of such a thing. He didn’t belong at sea, not looking like that.

His eyes met yours at once. Blue. Too blue. Luminous against the dimness, limned with the soft ache of worry, and framed by eyelashes far too long and too pretty for a man’s face. A loose strand of blond hair clung to his brow, damp with fog, brushing the furrow of his temples. 

And those lips. God, those lips. Full and plush, turned down in something too earnest to fake. They were a softness unsuited to cold orders and colder seas. Lips like that were made to ruin.

And yet, for all his beauty, he still bore the sea’s mark. Fair skin kissed pink along the bridge of his nose and the rise of his cheekbones - the ghost of sun long since vanished from these skies. A man shaped by wind and water. Weathered but unbent.

You blinked again, slower this time. Half dazed confusion. Half something else.

Still, you waited for it, that inevitable shift. The drop of the eyes, the slow souring of concern into something uglier. Desire, or even ownership. A hunger you could sink your teeth into. You’d seen it a thousand times. Men were simple creatures; they always turned.

But his eyes stayed on yours, never even tracing the curve of your breasts through the wet, transparent shirt clinging to your skin that you’d stolen from some long dead sailor. They remained blue and beautiful and impossibly sincere. And it made you ravenous.

Something cruel stirred in the hollow place where your heart should have been. You wanted to crawl into that gaze and poison it. To splinter that softness beneath your hands, and make him beg through those perfect lips. You needed to know what it would take to break something that gentle.

A low whistle sliced the silence, sharp and lewd. Your eyes flicked past the broad shield of his shoulders to where the rest of the crew still clustered, hungry-eyed and unrepentant. 

They craned for another glimpse. A pale flash of thigh. The ghost of a shoulder. Or your nipples, dark and peaked beneath fabric turned to gauze by the sea. 

They drank you in with the aching greed of men who hadn’t seen a woman in weeks. And even then, never like this - bare legged, shivering and wearing nothing but a transparent shirt. To mortals, an exposed ankle was a scandal. This was a damn invocation.

Their greedy stares crawled over you, hands twitching at belts, eyes sharp with the kind of cruelty that came easy at sea. One of them licked his lips. Another chuckled low under his breath.

You let a trembling whimper pass your lips and drew your arms across your chest as if the gesture could protect you. White knuckled fingers curled into the ruined fabric, as though you were ashamed and human enough to care.

But then the man in front of you moved. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat and draped it around your shoulders, firm and unceremonious. Heavy, coarse wool settled over your shoulders, warm with his heat. Far too large, it drowned you in fabric that smelled of salt and something deliciously alive. He pulled it closed around you with firm, efficient hands.

“That’s enough,” he barked over his shoulder, the edge of command hard and unmistakable. His gaze swept across the crew, lingering on the ones who hadn't looked away quickly enough.

“Back to your posts.” he said, quieter now but no less protective. “You’ll leave her be. Anyone who forgets that will answer to me.”

There it is. That claim. Perhaps he wants you for himself, and this is just personal hunger cloaked in chivalry.

The crew dispersed, slow and muttering, but they obeyed. Even the boldest among them turned away in the end, though not from guilt, just the command of a man.

And then he turned back to you, face softening again like it hadn’t just been carved from iron a second before. He reached for the coat slung across your shoulders and adjusted it with careful hands, tugging it higher to shield your neck from the cold and from their stares alike. His fingers brushed your collarbone as he worked, knuckles grazing damp skin, but the touch was nothing but reverent.

“I’m sorry for their behaviour,” he said quietly, eyes not leaving yours, “but you will be safe here. You have my word as captain of this vessel.”

Captain. Of course. So this is what held out against you. 

You’d felt that resolve in the dream, touched the edges of his mind, tasted the knotted tangle of duty and grief in his soul.

Most men came willingly. They came with hunger, lust, and darkness already peeling them apart from the inside. Their souls were already loosened, rotted at the edges, ready to be swallowed.

The song was a mercy to them - a velvet leash they begged to wear. You didn’t always need it; sometimes the lighthouse was enough. The pulsing light on the horizon, a suggestion of warmth in a world gone cold with fog and dread.

You hadn’t had anyone resist your lure in a long, long time.

Not the lighthouse keeper who’d torn his shirt off and dropped to his knees at the first note of your voice. Not the deckhand who’d fucked you in the bilge, pressing your hand to his chest like a confessional even as he wept for the wife he’d left on shore. And certainly not the captain who’d begged as you dragged him under, saltwater filling his lungs before your lips ever touched his.

Oh yes, a man’s soul could be consumed in two ways, but both require him trembling at the edge of himself in a moment of surrender. 

One you take in the water, lungs flooding, heart thrashing, the soul straining against the body’s last breath as terror carved it clean. The other you take in bed, just before ruin, when he is blinded by want, and the soul slips loose without a fight. Drowning or fucking - ecstasy and fear blurred so sweetly at their seams, and both left you wet-mouthed and lit from within.

And with this one? With something this pretty? There was no question which method would taste sweeter on your tongue.

But so far, this captain clung to himself like wreckage. The call went out from the lighthouse and he turned his back on it. The song curled round him and he did not answer.

“Come,” he said, breaking the spell of your thoughts. “Let us get you out of the cold. There’s warmth waiting below.”

You didn’t move. Not right away. Just let the tremble run its course, every delicate shiver accentuated by the size of the coat drowning you, as though the cold were sinking deeper than skin. You knew well how to feign fragility and become something that invited protection. You looked up at him, dazed and blinking slowly, lips parted like you could not quite grasp the words he’d spoken.

“Can you stand, do you think?” he asked, with that maddening, patient gentleness that made your skin itch with the desire to ruin it.

You made a soft sound and shifted, lifting yourself just barely from the barrel’s edge, biting your lip like it might hold you steady. Your bare feet touched the deck, wet wood slipping against your soles. The moment your weight tipped forward, your legs crumpled beneath you with theatrical grace. 

His arms caught you before you touched the deck.

“Steady now,” he murmured, catching you before you could collapse. Strong arms swept beneath you once more, one beneath your knees, the other curled firm around your back, holding you close against the solid breadth of his chest. “There we are. I’ve got you.”

You sagged against him, still half unconscious. He adjusted his grip, carrying you with an ease that sent a different kind of hunger curling low in your belly, and turned without hesitation toward the steps that led below.

He was taking you to his quarters.

You let yourself go soft, resting your head against his chest to feel the delicious steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. The coat slipped just enough to expose the curve of your shoulder beneath a tear in the shirt. And though you felt a slight hitch in his breath, his grip never wandered.

It was almost admirable, but he’d come around. You could feel it already. The tightness in him. The restraint. He wanted. Of course he wanted. That was why he carried you, why you wore his coat, and why he scolded his men. He wanted you untouched because he wanted you for himself. 

The ones who thought themselves kind took you somewhere private first, told themselves they were being noble, protecting you, even. They would speak softly, perhaps even brush the hair from your face before their mouth met yours. And then they'd reward themselves for your rescue. They always did.

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓊝𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃˙˳⋆

The captain’s quarters were quiet. A single lantern burned low, swaying faintly on its hook and casting golden veins across the walls. Its light curled into the grain of old wood, flickering across naval maps and shelves of worn books, softening the sharp edges of a captain’s space into something gentle.

His long stride crossed the room easily, slowing before the wide berth at the back of the room. His bed. 

He set you down amongst the folds as though laying a relic upon an altar. 

The bed gave beneath your weight with a low sigh, the layers parting to cradle you in their dense, lived-in warmth. A patchwork of textures met your skin: coarse-stitched navy blankets, a heavy fur throw that might once have belonged to some northern creature, sheets of worn linen, sun bleached to ivory and softened by use. The covers still held the faint heat of his body, the press of his shoulders marked faintly in the blankets’ rise and fall - a hollow twice your size. 

You lay curled in the ghost of his shape and gave a small, pitiful shiver. Without a word, he was moving again, hands pulling another blanket from the foot of the bed before gently setting it across your legs.

Behind him, through the small porthole, the lighthouse pulsed. Patient.

Looking up at him through lashes still heavy with faux exhaustion, you parted your lips in a breathless kind of mute gratitude. He lingered there, caught in your gaze, for just a breath too long.

You saw it, the stutter in his composure, the second blink that came slower than the first, the flicker of something heat flushed across the high plane of his cheek. His gaze did not drop, not quite, but it faltered, hovered somewhere near your mouth. For one aching second, you thought you had him. That you’d slipped into that crack in his restraint, and finally hooked your fingers in the seams of him and started to pull.

But then he shifted. A subtle straightening of his spine, a quick drag of air through his nose, and the spell broke.

“Captain Rogers,” he said abruptly, almost like it had burst out unbidden. The reflex a man who’d just remembered himself after nearly forgetting. The words landed too stiffly, and he seemed to realise it the moment they left his mouth. A flicker of something self-conscious passed across his face.

“That’s, uh, that’s my—sorry,” he added quickly, shaking his head, almost sheepish now. “That’s… my title. It’s not—I should’ve…” he paused, a breath, then, “I’m Steve,” he corrected finally, softer now, but more certain, like he’d found his footing again, “You can call me Steve.”

He—Steve—looked at you properly then, as though trying to offer something gentler in place of command. “Sorry. Ma raised me with better manners than forgetting to give my name.”

And then he turned away, stepping over to a chest near the wall. His movements were brisk, purposeful, trying to rid himself of whatever had overcome him for that moment. Fingers busying themselves with the latch, Steve rummaged for something without looking back.

Your hunger purred louder beneath the surface. 

Because now you’d seen the flicker. You’d felt the heat coil off him like a warning. You could taste the want in the air around him. But he didn’t reach for you like every other man before him, possessed with the kind of goodness men so often wrapped themselves in to feel righteous as they stripped you bare. It was unlike any experience you’d had before, but it made your mouth water all the same. 

Back at the chest, Steve drew a folded bundle of cloth. They were plain garments - his clothes. Trousers cinched with twine, and a shirt softer than the one that still clung wet to your skin. He brought them to the edge of the bed and set them down without fanfare or a glance below your collarbone.

“These are clean,” he said, head tilted with concern. “They ought to be warmer than what you’ve got. If you feel strong enough to change?”

You let your fingers ghost over the fabric, trembling just slightly. Then, lifting your gaze to him, you gave a small nod.

“I’ll step out,” he murmured, quieter than before, “Let you dress in peace.”

Already he was turning, gaze fixed politely away, moving toward the door. His hand paused at the latch.

“I’ll see if Cook’s left anything warm. You’ll need food. Strength.” A glance over his shoulder, not quite meeting your eyes, but close. “You’re safe here. Take your time.”

For a moment, you didn’t react. Just stared at him, lashes low, like your brain was still climbing back toward language.

Then you let it tremble out, breath first, then sound, “Thank you… Steve,” you whispered, voice hoarse, as though scraped from a throat unused to air.

He paused a moment, like the sound of his name in your mouth had startled him. His spine loosened, shoulders lowering a fraction, as something gentle folded into the weather worn lines of his face. A small, almost boyish smile, and it suited him far too well.

“Of course,” Steve replied, the words entirely earnest. A quiet nod followed, punctuating the moment like a full stop. Then he turned back to the door.

And just like that, he left you alone. No weighted silence thick with male expectation. Just the soft click of the door. 

You stared at the wood as though it might open again, half expecting to catch the glint of hunger in his eye as he returned, pretending some false errand only to find you bared and shivering. But no hand turned the latch. No boots lingered on the boards. His footsteps faded into the ship’s bones, until nothing of him remained but the coat around your shoulders.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Was it shyness? Modesty? Some strange, stubborn honour? Whatever it was, it was unbearable and addictive all at once. It made your teeth ache and your thighs clench.

Still. There were other ways to catch a thing that wouldn’t bite. Most men liked their prey helpless, some trembling thing in need of rescue, but some needed to be seduced rather than begged.

And that, too, you could do.

You slipped from the bed, the coat slithering from your shoulders like a shed skin. The shirt beneath was still soaked, still clinging, and you peeled it off slowly, letting it fall to the floor with a wet sound. The lantern light found your skin, greedy as a sailor’s gaze, kissing the shine of saltwater left across the soft swell of your breasts and the curve of your thighs. It haloed you in something mythic. Lure or not, you were a vision.

Then there was a knock. Followed by the captain’s voice, low and gentle, muffled through the wood.

“Ma’am?” A courteous pause, then, “I’ve brought something to eat. Would it be alright if I come in?”

You stayed silent, letting the pause yawn wide. Naked now in the golden hush, you made no effort to cover yourself, no scramble for modesty. The silence lengthened; you could almost feel his hand hesitating on the latch. The knock came again, a little firmer this time, the shape of your absence already sharpening his worry.

“Ma’am?” He called again, more urgent, voice a note higher, gentleness cut now with genuine fear. “Are you alright in there?”

You still gave him nothing. You could almost hear the decision happen behind the door, the quiet warring of his better instincts. He cursed quietly to himself. 

Then, finally, a third knock. Harder. “I’m coming in,” Steve warned, the words gentle but laced with an urgency that left no room for argument.

And then the door swung inward

You gasped, feigning shock, hands darting too late for the shirt that lay on the cot. Your hair spilled across your shoulders, beads of water sliding the length of your bare skin.

He froze. There was a beat of stunned silence. Crimson flooded his cheeks. Panic flared wide in his eyes. Then he scrambled to recover, voice and hands unsteady with mortified haste.

“Oh—Christ, I—” Steve’s voice cracked low in his throat as he spun around so sharply he nearly spilt the content in his hands. “I knocked and I didn’t hear you answer, I thought something might’ve—I’m sorry.”

He stood rooted, mortified, eyes fixed anywhere but you. The lamplight burnished the edge of his jaw, the muscle there ticking with strain.

“No, forgive me, Captain,” you breathed, though inside you’re reeling, half-hoping he’ll try to look, then half-astonished that he does not. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I didn’t hear you knock.”

You finally pulled the shirt he’d left you over your head in slow, deliberate motions, the fabric falling heavy with his scent. It swallowed you whole, hem brushing mid-thigh, sleeves hanging long past your wrists. You left the trousers untouched where they lay folded on the bed, a calculated omission. 

Just enough modesty to allow him to look. Just enough indecency to make him desperate for it. 

Steve remained frozen near the door, spine stiff as a masthead, though his head hung slightly, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. “I didn’t mean—” he began, voice ragged at the edges, “I—my apologies, ma’am. I shouldn’t have—”

You moved before he could finish, bare feet over old wood, closing the space between you. Your fingers found the edge of his sleeve, just at his wrist. His skin was warm. Alive. You let your thumb rest against the bone, just long enough to feel the beat beneath. He let out a stammered breath at the contact, relaxing into it. 

“I don’t blame you,” you cooed softly, peering up through lowered lashes. “Truly. You’ve been nothing but kind. I owe you more thanks than I can speak.”

Cheeks still flushed pink, Steve turned. Slowly. Warily, like a man half-expecting a trap but drawn anyway. His gaze lifted, cautious, catching only your face at first. 

Then, for the briefest moment, his eyes flicked downward, just far enough to catch the pale length of your bare legs beneath the hem of his shirt. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking hard in the hinge, before his gaze snapped back to yours and held there, unflinching, as if sheer will alone could burn the image from his mind.

He cleared his throat. “It’s not much,” he murmured, finally breaking the silence, nodding toward the bowl he’d nearly spilled. “Just broth, but should help you feel better.” His voice was low, almost apologetic, as though the offering were meagre, rather than more kindness than most men ever thought to give.

You’d met hundreds of men who’ve fed you nothing but themselves and expected you to moan for the taste.

You watched as he set the food down on the nightstand, this captain with his broad shoulders and his careful hands and his infuriating, impossible goodness. Now you were certain - he meant it. The shame, the apology. His kindness was not, as you had assumed, the pantomime of virtue donned to soothe his conscience before indulging himself. He simply was that good.

Because this wasn’t how men behaved. Not sailors, not captains, not the devout nor the damned. Not when faced with something half-naked and grateful in their quarters, looking at them like salvation.

And you wanted him worse for it. 

It was insatiable. You had not desired like this before. Not truly. Hunger was different. Hunger was instinct, necessary and sharp. But this was no longer simply appetite.

You wanted to feel him break, to ruin what made him so good. To see that perfect mouth open in surrender. To feel defiance rot into desperation. To lean close, breathe him in as you tore his stubborn soul loose from the sinew of his body, bright and so achingly alive, and swallow it whole.

Easing yourself gracefully back down onto his bed, you slipped into the same hollow of throws he’d laid you in before. You curled your legs between you, letting the oversized shirt ride high along your thighs - a flash of bare skin that went wilfully unseen as he pretended to busy himself with something that didn’t need doing. 

The broth waited untouched on the nightstand beside him, steam still coiling faintly from the bowl. But as the scent reached you, your stomach tightened. Dead sustenance. It was a scent that turned the sea in your blood.

“Steve?” 

He turned toward you again and you met his gaze with a sweet, sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice still touched with that wounded lilt. “I think I’m still a little unwell from the sea. The broth smells lovely, I just…” You trailed off, pressing a hand lightly to your stomach, eyes low. “I’m not quite myself yet.”

He was at your side again in an instant, crouching, eyes filled with worry that made him easier to devour.

“Don’t force it,” he said. “I can fetch you something else later. Tea, perhaps.”

“You’ve been so very kind,” you replied, voice warm with pretend gratitude. “So gentle. So… sweet.” You leant forward, just slightly, eyes big and round, lower lip caught between your teeth. “How ever could I repay you?”

His breath caught. You could feel his restraint. His gaze slipped again, toward your lips, so you pushed, just a little more. Your hand rose like you barely noticed it and found the line of his forearm where it rested on his knee, fingers brushing his skin, warm and solid beneath the rolled cuff. His body shivered in response.

His gaze flicked once more, unsteady, back toward your mouth, then your eyes, then your mouth again. 

You edged just a little closer, palm still resting light against his arm, and whispered, “Isn’t there something I can do for you?”

And for a second, he hesitated. Heat, confused and uninvited, pooled in his gaze. The lighthouse beam swept through the porthole, illuminating his face for one breath, jaw tight, eyes dark with want. Finally, the soft place beneath all that control. 

But then it was gone, swallowed by guilt, or principle, or both. He pushed back on his heels slightly, as though that inch of distance could cool the heat you’d stoked between you. Then he exhaled slowly, gaze steadier now, but you could see the strain in it, the quiet war waged behind his eyes.

He pulled a chair across the cabin with a low scrape of wood on wood, and settled into it opposite you, resting his large hands lightly on his knees. The lantern above cast his face in gentle shadow, catching on the furrow between his brows, the tired edge in his eyes.

“You owe me nothing,” he said, low and sure, though his voice was a little rough at the edges, like he’d had to clear something from it first. “But, if it’s not too much to ask,” he added, softer still, “might I know your name?”

There it was again. That unbearable sincerity. That goodness that made your mouth water with the desperation to peel it from him with your teeth.

You tilted your head, lashes sweeping low in something that looked like shy surprise. “My name?” you echoed, soft, as though the question itself startled you. The smallest frown tugged at your lips.

“I…” You started, letting the word hang, then, “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

It slipped out in a hush, a scared tremor to your voice. Tears welled in your eyes, limning your lashes with the sheen of salt.  You watched the sorrow bloom in Steve's face, how it called him forward like a prayer dragging a sinner to the altar. He leant in again, unthinking, his hand rising to your cheek as if summoned, wiping away a tear before retreating again. 

“That’s alright,” he murmured. “You’ve been through something awful. It’ll come back to you in time.”

He leant back further, elbows to his knees. When he spoke again, his voice was even more gentled.

“The wreckage we found you on, it looked like it belonged to a ship we were looking for. The Valkyrie.” A beat. “Do you remember anything from before we found you?”

You let confusion cloud your features as you drew your knees in a little, making yourself purposefully smaller.

“There was a storm,” you whispered. “Rocks. The ship was… breaking.” You swallowed, as though the memory cut your throat on the way up. “I remember screaming. Wood splintering. And then just… water.” Your breath shuddered, trembling in your chest. “Only water.”

When you lifted your gaze, Steve’s eyes were already on you, full of grief, raw and unguarded. The corners of his mouth were curled tight with a sorrow he tried to hide. Something greedy unfurled in your chest at his expression. This was your in.

He didn’t press you. He only nodded once, small and heavy, accepting something he had not wanted confirmed.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Were the crew important to you?”

He drew a long breath, chest rising slowly beneath his shirt. His eyes did not leave yours now; they held you as if you were the only fixed point in a shifting world.

“The Valkyrie was our sister ship," Steve replied, though the words came out quiet and worn at the edges. "Went missing some weeks back. Her captain—" His voice caught. Stopped. Started again. "Captain Barnes. Bucky. He was... he was my brother in all but blood.”

Oh, you remembered Captain Barnes. Dark-haired, silver-tongued, easier to unravel than this one. 

Oh yes, you remembered the way his mouth had moved when he asked if you were some dream sent to bless him or a devil come to collect. You’d answered with your mouth on his. Dragged him under with salt on his lips. Felt his soul flutter loose like a bird with broken wings. He’d begged, near the end. Not for life, or his crew. Just for another touch.

And now, here you sat, bare-legged and aching, watching his closest friend mourn him from the same mouth that would soon tremble against yours. Strange, how fate always liked to stitch its cruelties with silk thread. 

Once, a lifetime ago, fate had sewn its threads through your flesh too. You had not always been a wave-wrought thing, built of hunger and longing. But the sea takes and takes, until you are hollowed into its likeness - a tide with a heartbeat, a hunger with a face, pulling all things toward your depths.

And your hunger had teeth now, clawing up your throat. You were losing control of it against the heat of Steve’s soul, flickering bright and untouched against the wake of his loss, begging for you to break it.

Steve had fallen quiet, grief settling over him like a shroud. One forearm braced the armrest, his other hand lifting to rake through his hair, dragging it back from his face in a slow, tense sweep. His eyes blurred at the edges as he pinched the bridge of his nose, just before his gaze dropped.

You slid from the bed, the hem of his shirt skimmed your thighs as you stepped between his thighs, so close the heat of him rolled over your skin, that his breath brushed against your sternum. 

A shiver passed through you like a tide, an aching mixture of desire and restraint.

For a moment he didn’t move, just sat, large hands splayed over his knees, shoulders hunched as though to ward off a blow.

You reached for him. One hand cupped his cheek, the other brushed back the unruly hair at his temple. The lamplight burnished his blond strands to a pale gold that pooled around his head like a saint. You coaxed his face up to yours with a pressure so gentle it barely existed, but he followed it, looking up at you, eyes like a summer sky long vanished from this sea, mouth parted in surprise. 

He was heavenly like this. All that strength, all that command, undone in a breath.

For the first time, you wondered if you could even touch it. If you could drown a soul this bright. 

Yet even he couldn’t hide the shake of his breath, or the way his throat moved as he swallowed. The beautiful, terrible struggle of a good man trying so hard not to be anything else. To stay tethered to his impossible compass of a heart.

But you had him in your claws now. Your desire was sharpening further with each touch, each trembling denial. You ached to have him, to feel him fill you, to taste him shatter.

“Steve,” you whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head, tried to gather himself, tried to be a captain again. “No,” he rasped, his voice rough and uneven with restraint, “I—I’m sorry. You’ve been through hell, and here I am—”

You shushed him softly, thumb sweeping across his cheekbone, feeling the warmth bloom there. You leant in just slightly, enough for your hair to brush his brow, “It’s okay, Steve. You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to miss him.”

He stilled a moment, and you watched his body process the words - the ripple through his shoulders, the breath stall in his lungs, the slow collapse of the last of his armour. He leant his head closer to you, seeking your warmth. A surrender, finally. The kind of surrender only kindness could coax from a man like him.

“You’re a good man, Steve Rogers.”

And God, the way he looked at you then. Not as a captain. Not as a saviour. Not even as a man. But as something softer, lost at sea, craving someone to hold him.

He was trembling, you realised. Quietly, almost imperceptibly. The kind of trembling that comes from being starved of warmth and affection for too long. Your fingers slid down from his jaw, and his lips quivered at the loss, tilting his head into the absence of your touch, chasing it.

But your hand found his, and you drew it up to your face, guiding his palm to your cheek. The rough warmth of him made you ache, heat blooming low in your belly despite the innocence of the touch. His palm was so large, so gentle against your cheek that your thighs pressed together without meaning to.

You turned, lips brushing the heel of his hand. Just the faintest, testing whisper of contact. His breath hitched, a quiet, ragged inhale, and his eyes widened with a hunger he seemed half-ashamed to own.

“Let me help you,” you whispered into his palm, letting the need in your voice lure him further. “You’ve been so good to me. Let me—”

“You don’t owe me—” he interrupted, voice already crumbling, but the protest died in his throat the moment you slid into his lap, thighs bracketing his, baring your exposed, aching core to the hard press of the growing need in his trousers. 

The groan that left his mouth was pure need.  “Christ,” he cursed. 

His shirt bunched around your hips, baring the moonlit length of your legs. Steve’s hands shot to your waist, instinctive and steadying, before freezing. A man grasping a the final edges of his strength.

He looked up at you, pupils blown wide, eclipsing the blue entirely. The muscle in his jaw twitched, set against want. 

“This isn’t—” he breathed, throat tight, “We shouldn’t—”

You rolled your hips, deliberately letting your dripping pussy rub against his cock, already hard and betraying his restraint, and the sound that broke from his throat was nearly a sob.

He stifled a moan, hands tightening on your waist as though to hold you at bay.

“Why not?” you murmured, all innocence and invitation.

His hands, meant to push you away, to set you aside and return propriety to the room, stayed exactly where they were. Gripping. Holding. Burning through the thin fabric that separated skin from skin. His head dropped forward, forehead pressing to your collarbone, as though the proximity might ground him. Might make this feel less like falling. 

“Because you’re— I’m—” he tried again, but couldn’t finish, the words dissolving between you.

“Because I’m what?” you murmured. “Grateful? I am.”

Your hands rose to his face, thumbs brushing the flush on his cheeks, dragging back through the tousled gold of his hair, damp from sweat and sea air.

“Because you’re a gentleman?” you whispered. “You are.”

His eyes fluttered, lashes casting long shadows against his cheeks. He looked so young in that moment. So breakable. So yours. You leant in, slow and sure, until your foreheads touched. His breath mingled with yours. You let your eyes fall half-lidded, the ghost of a smile brushing your lips.

“But I don’t want a gentleman right now, Steve.” Your voice fell to a hush, pressing a hand to his sternum, his pulse beating strong against your palm. “I want you.”

Then your mouth crushed into his, your lips meeting in a collision that tasted of heat and want and the sea itself. His breath caught hard in his chest, and for one weightless beat he didn’t move, frozen by shock, by need, by the collapse of everything he had fought so hard to hold back.

And then, God, he kissed you back.

His lips parted beneath yours with a soft, desperate sound and you drank him in. It wasn’t greedy or performative in the way a rake might take his pleasure, pressing and biting and claiming. Just aching, desperate want. His fingers clutched at your waist now, involuntary, digging just slightly into your flesh as if you were slipping from his grasp even while you sat still in his lap.

He groaned into the heat of your mouth as your hips rocked, your soaked cunt grinding against the hard line of him still trapped beneath cloth. You felt him twitch against you, felt the throb of him pulsing hot and needy.

Still, he tried to be good.

“Tell me to stop,” Steve rasped into your mouth, the words trembling between each kiss, even as his hands slid lower, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs like he was trying to remember what it felt like to touch something warm. "Christ, please, just tell me to stop.”

His mouth left yours only to drag over your jaw, your neck, the soft dip beneath your ear, kissing as though your skin were the only holy thing left in the world.

“Please,” he murmured, lips brushing your throat. You felt the ache in it, this man who had likely begged for nothing in his life, begging now, not for himself, but for your escape. “Just say it… and I will, I swear I—”

You answer with a moan, followed by another needy grind, arching against him, dragging your heat along his clothed cock again and wringing a sharp groan from the chest that usually carried command.

“Don’t stop,” you growled against his throat, open mouthed and wanting. “Fuck, Steve, don’t stop. I want you.”

That, finally, broke the captain.

He surged up into the kiss like it was oxygen and he’d been drowning. His hands found the curve of your ass and gripped you tight, easily pulling you closer, until there was nothing between you but damp heat and his pounding heart. The chair creaked beneath you, wood straining beneath the press of two bodies drawn too close. And the light passed through the porthole again, licking over you both, before returning the darkness.

Your hips rolled with wicked purpose, seeking friction, feeding it.

His tongue licked into your mouth with reverence turned desperate. But he let you guide it, let you taste him, let you press him deeper into the heavy chair, his legs spread beneath you as you straddled him like a throne.

You shifted your hips again, slowly now, the slick drag of your pussy soaking the seam of his trousers, and his jaw clenched hard against your neck. He let out a sound halfway between a whine and a curse, muffled against your shoulder where his mouth had now fallen. You felt him tremble. He was so fucking warm. So alive. So solid beneath you, thighs like stone braced between yours, his cock aching beneath thick navy cloth.

Your hands fisted in his hair, tugging until he looked up at you again.

He was panting, lips parted and wet with your kiss, blinking up at you, dazed and so gone, those striking blue eyes wild and wide with devotion. The pretty blush staining his cheekbones turned fever bright. You felt his breath catch when you licked into his mouth again, shameless now, swallowing every gasp.

Beautiful. And entirely at your mercy.

A shaky breath hitched from his chest. “You’re perfect,” he breathed, throat working around a swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing hard like the words had caught on the way out, too big and full of want to pass clean, “so perfect.”

You ground down harder in reply, the damp friction nearly unbearable now. You were so wet, it was obscene. The front of his trousers was dark with it. His hands fluttered uncertainly against your hips like he didn’t know what to do with all this wanting.

So you guided him. Your fingers threaded with his, and slowly, deliberately, you slid his hand between your legs. You pressed his palm against the hot, soaking centre of your need, grinding into it with a soft, keening whimper. His whole body jerked as his fingers slipped through the wetness staining your inner thighs.

“Feel that?” you gasped, rocking into his hand as you pressed your mouth to his ear. “That’s all for you, Captain.”

The groan that cracked out of him was raw, startled, dragged from the very centre of his chest. “Oh—fuck.”

His thumb twitched, his fingers flexed on instinct, and without needing to be told, began circling your swollen clit, spreading the slickness he found. Your mouth fell open, hips canting, and he chased the movement instinctively, before sinking a finger inside.

“There,” you urged, eyes hooded. “Just like that. Good boy.”

You clenched around him, and the broken noise that left him was pure need. Like your words had melted something inside him. Like he’d been starving for that, for praise, for softness wrapped around hunger, for someone to see how hard he was trying to be good.

“Christ, you—you’re so tight,” Steve rumbled, voice breaking open.

His free hand gripped your waist, grounding himself as he worked the first finger deeper, then added a second thick digit, stretching you just enough to burn in that delicious way.

His fingers curled, searching until they found that aching, tender spot inside you, and pressed. You cried out softly, hips stuttering, thighs tensing where they cradled his waist. That sound made him move faster, made his breath stutter against your cheek. His thumb circled your clit now in slow, deliberate swirls, just firm enough to make you squirm.

You let your head fall back, lashes fluttering, and he took it like reward. The wet heat of his mouth found your throat once more. You tilted your head to bare more of it to him, clutching your fingers in his hair as he curled his fingers just so, finding that place inside you that made stars claw behind your eyes.

“You’re good,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “You’re so good, Steve.”

He whined.

Actually whined for you, pulled from the back of his throat, fingers still stroking and curling like he wanted to crawl inside and stay there. You were dripping for him, every thrust sending slick sounds into the air between your bodies, obscene and perfect.

“Such good hands,” you purred, tilting his face up to yours again. His eyes were dark now, unfocused and glazed with heat. “Made to please, weren’t you? I could let you touch me like this forever.”

Steve moaned wantonly. His cock twitched beneath you, thick and trapped beneath too many layers.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you cooed. “Me, dripping all over your fingers, riding your hand, as you listen to how wet I get for you.”

He nodded his head eagerly, lips parted, breathless, “I want it—I want all of it. Want to make you feel good. Want to feel you fall apart on me.”

You’d never taken a man like this before. Never drawn it out. Never let yourself enjoy it, always too consumed with the end, with the soul, the devouring.

But oh, he made you greedy. For more than just the taste. For the whole experience of him. For the way his mouth trembled against your skin, the way his fingers moved in you, chasing your pleasure. He was so responsive. So good. Not crude in his want, not possessive or pushing, just offering.

He wasn’t chasing his own pleasure, he was chasing you. Your sounds, your body, your release. He wanted you to come. He wanted you to use him. He wanted to give himself away. You’d never felt anything like it. And it made you feral, twisting the craving inside you into something sweeter. Meaner. More desperate.

You wanted to sink your claws into his soul and hold it forever.

You kissed him again deeper this time, opened him like floodgates, and he poured into you without resistance. Your tongue pushed further into his mouth, wet and possessive, tasting him, claiming him. And he let you. He kissed you back with all the fervent, broken worship of a man on his knees before a God he didn’t understand but needed more than air.

He groaned into it, so sweet, so full of need it made your clit throb, your own need spiralling over.

You ground down on him, fucking yourself on his hand, and he watched you, devastated, awestruck, jaw slack and lips parted as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. 

His fingers were relentless now, stroking deep with every thrust with deliberate eager pressure, like he wanted to memorise you by feel. His thumb never left your clit, and the pads of his fingers were soaked, slick dripping from your pussy down to his wrist, glistening in the lamplight.

“Fuck, just like that, Steve,” you hissed, moaning softly as he grazed that spot inside you again. “So good for me. You want me to come on your fingers, sweet boy?”

Your walls fluttered again, the coil inside you tightening, threatening to snap. He felt it, that telltale clench of your cunt sucking greedily around his fingers, and his breath broke into something rough and urgent.

“I—fuck,” he rasped, barely more than breath. “Please.”

“What is it, Captain?” you teased, grinding down on his hand harder, and you felt the tension twist in your belly, drawing taut. “Want something?”

His lips were on your throat again, open and reverent, as if kissing the words into your skin. “Want to make you come,” he groaned. “Please. I want—need—to see you.”

“Good boy,” you whispered, the praise dripping from your tongue like honey, and God, the sound he made.

A low, shuddering whimper, muffled against your skin. His fingers twitched inside you, deeper, more desperate now, and finally, you came undone.

Your eyes rolled back, hips jerking, muscles clenching around his fingers as tumbled desperately over the edge. Steve held you close, one arm around your waist as you shuddered through it, letting your pleasure soak his hand, your thighs trembling around him.

You rode it out with your mouth parted, breath catching in your throat, your grip tight in his hair as you came with soft, wet sounds and possessive praise. When you finally stilled, he was trembling beneath you, mouth pressed to your sternum through cloth, his breath scorching.

He eased his hand from you with aching care, your arousal coating his fingers in shining streaks. His eyes lowered, and he brought those fingers to his mouth without hesitation. A light, pleased sound escaped him, and he licked the last of you from his knuckles like he was afraid to waste a drop.

You curled your fingers beneath his chin, tilting his face up. His lips were pink, kiss bitten, and his pupils were blown wide with need. Unable you resist, you leant down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

“You want inside me, pretty boy?” you purred into his mouth. “You want me to let your cock feel my pussy now?”

He whimpered, nodding furiously, “God,” he breathed. “Please—yes.”

Oh, you were going to ruin him. He was so beautifully wrecked already and you weren’t nearly done with him. You dragged your thumb slowly across his lower lip. It trembled beneath your touch.

Your hands found the fastenings of his trousers and made short, deliberate work of them. His breath hitched when your fingers brushed against the damp front of his briefs, his cock hard and straining. You hummed softly, pleased.

“Oh,” you murmured, drawing the fabric down with slow, indulgent care, “look at you.”

His hips lifted obediently, letting you strip him, dragging the fabric down just enough to free him. And Christ, he was beautiful. Big, thick, flushed dark at the tip, veins like carved marble, twitching in the cold air. Your mouth watered.

You wrapped your hand around the base and heard his sharp inhale, followed by the whimper that he tried, and failed, to swallow. His thighs tensed beneath you, muscles drawn tight as rigging in a storm.

“Is this all for me?” you whispered, teasing your thumb over the weeping head. You felt the way his pulse stuttered under your fingers. “So hard, pretty boy. You’ve been aching this whole time, haven’t you?”

He choked on a sound, nodded. His fingers clenched on the arms of the chair. “I—yeah—please.”

“You did so well for me, going to reward you now,” you muttered against his skin. “My sweet Captain.”

He was panting now, almost shaking under the weight of it all - your praise, your hand, the sheer unbearable pleasure of being wanted. His head tipped back against the chair as you shifted forward, letting his shirt that you still wore fall from one shoulder.

“You love hearing that, don’t you?” you cooed, stroking him him in a steady rhythm, “Pretty boy. Sweet boy. My good, good Captain.”

He whined, nodding helplessly, hips grinding up into your hand. “Please. I need you—need to feel you—please, I’ll be good.”

The plea was so soft, so unlike the guttural demands of others, that it made your pussy clench around nothing, eager for the stretch of him. You released his cock then, and let it slap wetly against his stomach where his shirt had rumpled up. The sound was obscene, and the sight even better. Thick and flushed and leaking for you. 

Rising slightly, you guided the head of his cock through your soaked folds until he was panting beneath you, his knuckles white in their grip now.

His hips jerked. “Oh God, please,” he panted.

“I know, Stevie,” you hushed. “I know you need it. You’ve been so, so good.”

You angled your hips and began to sink down.

He was so thick. You felt the stretch immediately, your walls hugging him inch by inch as you lowered yourself down with deliberate, excruciating grace. His head dropped, breath stuttering against your shoulder as his hands moved from the armrest to your waist. His mouth fell open in a silent moan as your heat enveloped him.

“Oh—oh God—,” Steve gritted out, utterly lost in the feel of your heat, so tight and wet around him. 

You gasped, head falling back, your walls fluttering around him, drawing him in deeper. “So big,” you panted, “so fucking deep.”

Steve whimpered, barely holding on.

And when you finally sank fully down, taking him to the hilt, you stayed there, tight around him, letting your cunt throb with every desperate pulse of his cock, every ragged breath, every reverent moan like it was the tithe he owed you just for the privilege of being inside.

You leant in closer, your breasts brushing against his chest, your breath ghosting over his parted lips. His head tipped back automatically, offering himself up without thought. And when you dipped your head and licked a slow line up the sweat slicked tendon of his neck, you felt him melt.

“Feel how well you fit inside me, Captain?” you breathed against his throat. “Like you were made for this. Made for me.”

His groan was broken. Devotional. And you kissed him until breath became an afterthought.

He moaned into your mouth like it was pulled from somewhere deep, dragged out past the bones, his hands trembling as they slid up your back, holding you close like he was afraid you’d vanish. 

You rolled your hips just right, grinding down in a way that made your clit drag against the base of him and his cock press into that spot inside you that made cry out. Steve gasped into your mouth, eyes fluttering, and you caught the rumble in his throat, deep and broken, the sound swallowed between your lips as he bucked once, unable to help it, his whole body shaking with need.

“That’s it, pretty boy,” you urged. “Just like that. You’re doing so well for me.”

You were so wet that every grind of your hips sounded slick and obscene, your arousal coating him, sliding down the thick base of his cock as your walls flexed around him again and again.

He moaned again, sharp and high in the back of his throat. “You’re so tight, and warm, and—God, please, please don’t stop.”

You arched against him, dragging your cunt up and back down again, digging your nails into his shoulders as your walls rippled around him. His breath caught at the feeling, eyes fluttering. He looked at you like you were a vision, like a holy thing. Something between worship and ruin.

He was so deep inside you, thick and hot, pulsing against your walls like he belonged nowhere else. Like he’d been made for the sole purpose of being taken by you, here, like this.

“Does it feel good, sweet Captain?” you murmured. “Being inside me like this?”

He nodded again, frantic, gasping softly. “Yes… God, yes, feels like—” His voice caught, another desperate moan pouring from his lips. You kissed his throat, let your teeth graze the delicious, pounding pulse beneath the skin.

“Feels like what?” You bit the words, punctuating each one with a roll of your hips, slow and cruel. “Tell me.”

His hips bucked once, before restraint tugged him back down into the chair. His jaw clenched. Sweat glistened at his hairline, in the hollow of his throat.

“Feels like I’m gonna lose myself,” he whispered, hoarse and half-drunk on you. “Like I’m not gonna come back.”

You smiled, slow and sweet and predatory, and rocked down harder. The soft, broken sound he made was punched straight from his lungs, and it made your walls flutter around him.

“You won’t,” you promised, lips brushing his. “Not all the way.”

He moaned once more, a sound dragged up from deep in his chest, and let his head fall back, scrunching his eyes closed.

His body trembled beneath yours. He was so strong, so beautiful, his thighs flexed under you, his arms holding you steady, but it was all yours now. He was all yours now.

He was so close already, on the very knife’s edge of surrender. The bright heat of his pleasure bloomed in the air around you like blood in water.

You felt it when he started break open. Not just his body - though that, too, was a marvel, the way his breath stuttered in your mouth, how his hands gripped your hips like he needed something to hold onto or be swept under. But no, it wasn’t that. Not entirely.

It was the moment his soul cracked open. The moment your lips grazed the hinge of his throat, and some part of him unraveled and let you in. You felt it. Not like slipping inside flesh, but like falling into light.

His stubborn soul was finally right at the surface, soft and shining.

You looked down at him then, really looked, and it was still there, that same maddening goodness that hadn’t dulled no matter how much you’d tried to seduce it away. Even now, right on the edge of release, his heart spilled quietly through his eyes, like you were something to be adored.

Oh, and you could taste it. That sweet core of him, lit golden and trembling and so open now, almost yours, bleeding into your skin, leaking through his tongue, his cock, his fingers.

It wasn’t purity, nor innocence; he’d seen too much for that. But a light. A weightless light that clung to his soul even as his body trembled and gave under yours. Every time your cunt gripped him, every slow press of your hips, you could taste it more - that glowing centre of him, this honest, golden want.

It poured to the surface, aching and alive and so human, braided with grief and hope and everything he’d held together with trembling hands. And you, who had tasted countless, who had consumed kings and sailors and men who begged you for death, found yourself still.

And starving. You could take it. It would be delicious. All that goodness, all that impossible light, collapsing into you like a sun drowned beneath your skin. You could drink him down in a single breath and let the sea carry his bones into myth.

But you didn’t. Because for the first time, you didn’t want to end a soul. You wanted to own it.

You wanted to feel that light flicker against your ribs for the rest of eternity. You wanted to trap that impossible warmth beneath your skin and keep it. To bury it in your darkness and keep it safe, selfish and sacred. To make his goodness yours, until the world rotted, and the sea dried, and the lighthouse finally blinked and died.

You rolled your hips with exquisite pressure, and he shuddered.

“You wanna drown in this pussy, pretty boy?” you murmured, voice coated with your need. “Wanna sink so deep inside me you forget which way is up? Wanna be lost in me forever?”

“Yes,” he begged, shameless and ragged, and he dropped his forehead to your shoulder, teeth biting down gently against the slope of it. “Please—let me—please, I want to drown in you, I want to—,” but the sentence never ended. It bled into another moan, this one muffled against your skin, 

“Mmm,” you hummed. “You wanna come while I’m milking your cock, while my sweet little cunt’s got you locked down so tight you’ll never get free?”

He whimpered, loud, desperate, and you clenched around him, watching his eyes roll back, as fingers clawed at your hips - just trying to hold on as you coaxed his pleasure out like a riptide. You were soaking him now, your pussy a hot, tight sheath around his cock, pulling him in, dragging him under.

“My pretty Captain. Mine.” You reaped, voice low and rough with hunger as your teeth grazed his throat. “Say it. Let me keep you.”

“’m yours, please, I want to be—I am—,” he babbled, utterly gone for you, “just let me feel you, want to be yours, forever—please.”

A gasped moan tore free from your lungs at his vow, low and wretched, punched straight from the pit of your hunger. You clamped around him again and he sobbed, just once, pulled from his throat, cracked and quiet.

Your body bucked, hips stuttering above him as your cunt fluttered, aching, coiling tight around the promise of another release. It was too much, the way he said it, so broken and sincere. He gave it freely, that vow, not knowing the shape of the thing he’d handed you.

Forever.

“Good boy,” you praised, riding him a little faster now, the sounds wet and obscene, your slick soaking his cock and thighs. “I’ll be so good to you.”

He whined in answer, cock throbbing inside you. It was twitching with every roll of your body, and still he held back, held on, waiting for you, needing your permission to fall apart.

You curled forward over him, hands bracing on his shoulders, and let yourself grind down hard, chasing that high with a needy gasp. The chair groaned beneath you both, wood whining like it knew something sacred was being defiled.

“Please” he choked, voice breaking. “Please, let me, please—I need—”

The desperation in his voice pulled another high pitched moan from your chest. His soul trembled against the surface, pressed so close it was blinding. His hands shook where they held you, knuckles pale, and you could feel the tension building just beneath his skin.

You leant forward, kissed the corner of his mouth with a gentleness that made him tremble, and whispered, “Come for me, Stevie. Let me have it.”

He broke as soon as the words left your mouth.

He spilled into you with a gasp like a man drowning, clinging tight to your waist as if your body might anchor him against the tide of ecstasy. His whole frame shuddered beneath you, cock pulsing deep inside your cunt as you tightened around him, milking him, letting his pleasure flood you. 

His groan was long and helpless, cracked open at the edges, as you followed him over the edge. Your orgasm tore through you like a storm cracking open the sea, flooding every hollow inside you with heat.

Your lips found his and you sucked at his mouth, hungry, greedy, moaning against him like you meant to drink him in. And oh, how he tasted. 

His soul, sweet as sunlit water, ached with grief and hope and everything you’d never known in all your time beneath the waves. You moaned against his mouth, helpless, delirious, hips still twitching as the aftershocks pulsed through you. It would’ve been so easy to take his light. 

But you resisted. You wanted all of him.

Instead, you opened yourself, freeing the cold, bottomless hollow where a soul should have lived. It spread wide with hunger, aching with want, and you let the black thread of your essence slip into him through the kiss.

It slithered down his mouth, his throat, his ribs before sinking into his chest, coiling tight and possessive around his light. Outside, the lighthouse pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Steve gasped softly at the intrusion, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he opened further, welcoming. And you, starving, drew the smallest thread of gold back with you. Just a sliver. Just enough to live in you.

You kissed him through it, breath panting and broken, as you marked him from the inside out. As your dark thread wrapped around his light like a lover’s arms. He whimpered into your mouth, dazed and trembling, still sheathed inside your body, still pulsing softly. 

He was yours now, forever.

Still panting beneath you, Steve’s breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. The light in his eyes flickered like a candle too close to the wind, barely holding. And all of it for you.

You dragged your hands down the flushed, trembling lines of his chest through his shirt, damp with sweat. You could feel his cock softening inside you, the last of his release spilling from where your bodies joined, seeping down your thighs like a claim. Your claim.

Your cunt, soaked and twitching with the last vestiges of climax, throbbed gently around him, reluctant to let go.

“Good boy,” you whispered, possessive and low, the praise more spell than sound. Your fingers traced his jaw, and he leant into your touch. “You did so well for me, my pretty Captain. Took me so well. Gave me everything.”

He made a small, broken sound at that, something between a whimper and a sigh. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, lips parted, still pink and swollen from your kisses, and the light in his chest pulsed with the echo of you inside it.

You watched him. The way his lashes trembled. The slow, stuttering drag of his breath. He looked spent, like a man who had finally laid down his armour.

Leaning down, you brushed your lips across his temple, a whisper ghosting soft against his skin. “Take me to bed, Stevie.”

His eyes found yours, barely. Dazed and shining and so full of you. He nodded, wordless at first, like he’d forgotten language. 

Then, soft and thick with worship, “You’re perfect.”

He shifted slowly, carefully, and you lifted yourself from him, and his cock slipped from you with a wet sound. He gasped at the sensation, already aching at the loss of your warmth. You watched, pleased and possessive, at how his flushed length twitched against his thigh, glistening with your slick and his seed.

He tucked himself away with trembling fingers, still panting, eyes on you the whole time like you might vanish if he looked away.

And then he gathered you into his arms like you weighed nothing. That strength of his, which he’d kept so leashed before, curled beneath you and lifted you with ease. 

“You feel like heaven,” he muttered, more breath than word, tucking you close as he stood. His lips brushed your temple as he carried you the few steps to the bed. “Like something I’ve been waiting for and didn’t even know I needed.”

The words stirred something low and dark in your belly. Not lust, not anymore. Something worse. A kind of longing so deep it felt like a wound.

You curled into his chest as he settled you down, his body a broad, sturdy shield at your back as his warmth enveloped you. One strong arm banded around your waist, and a leg tangled with yours. You could feel the tender touch of his other hand along your thighs, your hips, your waist.

He tucked you in further against him, fitting himself round your body protectively. His mouth nuzzled the curve of your shoulder, still murmuring soft nothings against your skin. How soft you were. How sweet. How perfect.

Fools’ words, the lot of them. 

Yet you stayed silent and soaked up his worship like something that deserved it. It was a selfish, terrible greed that belonged to dragons coiled around their golden hoards.

But you’d never had this before. There had never been after. Never any body left warm beside you. Never breath, never praise, never touch that lasted longer than the moment before their heart stopped.

And if your heart hadn’t rotted away long ago, maybe you would’ve felt guilt, or shame, or grief for what you took. But you just felt warm.

Like something ancient and wicked curled deep in your chest had finally opened one greedy eye and stretched, purring. You felt his breath against your skin and wanted more of it. His arm draped over your waist and you wanted it tighter. You wanted his pulse. His praise. His bones. You wanted to burrow inside the cradle of his ribs and make a home there.

You shifted in his arms slightly, twisting to face him, watching how his lashes fluttered against his cheek as sleep tried to claim him. You brushed your thumb across his bottom lip, and he sighed softly, leaning into your touch like a man starved.

The air felt heavy, like something was watching. Perhaps the lighthouse. Perhaps the sea. Perhaps something older still.

“Sleep, my good Captain, let the waves take you,” you whispered, voice low and honey sweet, your thumb still stroking the soft swell of his lip. “Let them rock you down beneath. I’ll protect you.”

His lashes fluttered once, twice, before they stilled, his breath deepening, chest rising and falling against yours in a slow, steady rhythm. The tension in his brow eased. One of his hands twitched where it rested against your hip, then stilled too.

Through the porthole, the lighthouse continued its vigil, pale light sweeping across his peaceful face, claiming him. You watched the last of his awareness slip under, watched the final thread of resistance slacken.

“Good boy,” you murmured, just above a breath, lips at the shell of his ear. “So easy now. So soft. So mine.”

And Steve, obedient even in sleep, exhaled like he’d heard you. As though he belonged to you even in his dreams.

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃˙˳⋆

Steve woke to screaming. 

Screaming and blood in his mouth and the taste of iron in the air. The sea cradled the lower half of his body like it meant to drag him down. A dark, unfeeling mass that offered nothing and took everything. His upper half clung to a rock; he could feel the sharp bite of barnacle-slick stone tearing at his uniform.

The fog hung thicker than ever. Sight was smothered to mere metres. But the rest of Steve’s senses still forced a dreadful vision upon him. One of blood, and thrashing, and splintering wood, and wretched cries.

The Nomad was dead.

Steve’s voice cracked through the air, rough and broken, calling the names of his men. But he was met only with their screams.  

The lighthouse now loomed closer than ever. No longer a silhouette in mist, but a vast black monolith. So close Steve could almost reach out and touch its slick, decaying stone if he had the strength. The light still turned at its crown, pale and pulsing, the same ghostly sweep, slow and mechanical, like the breath of some giant godless lung.

And with each pass, it cut through the fog to reveal a piece of hell. And all Steve could do was watch. 

First, it swept across Stark, battered and bloodied, lungs snatching for air as he clung to a piece of driftwood. His mouth screamed, but no sound carried. Then the beam passed. And he was swallowed by the fog.

When the light turned round again, there were bodies, two - no, three - floating limp in the water.

Panic surged up Steve’s spine, and a sickening weight curled around his ribs. His body ached, scraped and bruised, and yet it felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.

Movement stirred beneath him.

Not the tide. Not driftwood. Something darker. Long and glistening like a leviathan’s tongue. Sleek, fast, and far too silent. 

Then the light found two more, Rumlow and Rollins, locked together in a desperate grip over the same piece of wreckage. The surface trembled. The sea quivered like something alive. Then Rollins was snatched beneath the black with a strangled scream. A spray of red bloomed across the water as his replacement.

The light passed. Gone. 

Steve’s breath caught, blinking hard, breath heaving shallow and fast. It had been a violence so swift his mind lagged behind what his eyes had already seen.

He tried to move, pushed against the stone, but his limbs were molasses, heavy and wrong. His hands slipped on the rock. His heartbeat was too loud in his ears. Or maybe that was more screaming. Distant and high, warbling like a gull, but human. Definitely human.

His vision pulsed with the rhythm of the lighthouse. Flash, horror, then dark. Flash, another name he knew, torn from life mid-scream, then dark.

The fog concealed it all again the moment the light moved on. There was no time to process, only to see and lose. See and lose. Another soul torn from the sea like meat. Each glimpse a needle under the fingernails. Each moment of darkness a breath that could be his last.

Then the next sweep of light revealed something different.

Just above the surface, almost human-like in shape, shoulders just breaching the waterline, hair trailing behind like a veil spun from ink. But it moved like no human. 

Steve squinted, chest tightening, bracing himself.

The creature plunged through the sea with a predatory grace. Easy and purposeful. Locked on another target. The man splashed in desperation, arms flailing, mouth sputtering, perhaps to cry out a prayer or plea. But then the creature cooed at him, soft and delicate.

He leant towards the silhouette, and its lips brushed his in a mockery of a kiss. And then it bit. Teeth sank into his mouth and ripped. The blood pulsed from him in thick, arterial sprays. The ocean drank it greedily.

He thrashed once, twice, then the body jerked backward like a puppet with its strings cut, arms splayed wide, the neck bent back too far. A gurgle escaped what was left of his face before the sea swallowed him whole. The light swung away, unremorseful.

Steve choked. A stuttering gasp ripped from his lungs. Salt filled his nose and throat, and the taste of iron doubled, trebled, nausea twisting in his gut. His heart punched against his ribs, mouth open, drawing sharp lungfuls of air as bile rose high and sour in his throat. 

But it was silent now. The screams had stopped. And that felt worse.

The light swung back again, over the creature. A suggestion of form mostly submerged, half-made by the dark. And it was moving towards him.

Then the fog parted, and Steve’s heart stopped. It was you.

A creature of sea and bone and abyss. A gorgeous horror. Your skin pale and slick with saltwater sheen and blood, glistening across your bare chest, streaking down your chin, your collarbones, and your breasts like tears of ruin. Mouth as red as a split pomegranate, lips wet with someone else’s end, the sharp white of your teeth just visible behind the plush curve of your smile.

Below the surface, he made out the movement of dark, sinuous muscle, flexing slow with each tilt of your hips beneath the waterline. The tail was as thick as his chest, scaled and ridged with spines. The water quivered around it like the sea itself deferred to you. You truly were a marvel of monstrous design. 

Your eyes met his, catching the faint beam of the lighthouse like polished obsidian. But the hunger in them sharpened into something possessive as they trailed over him.

He should have recoiled. Should have pushed back, screamed, fought. Should have begged whatever tattered holy thing he had left to shield his soul from what now stood before him. 

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Something in him refused.

You were beautiful. Not soft, nor safe. No. There was no prettiness in your bloodied grace, no kindness in the divine geometry of your face. You were beautiful the way shipwrecks are beautiful - glittering ruin, strewn with bones and treasure. 

And yet, your face was serene, even bared in your monstrous glory. A beauty so terrible it demanded reverence. The kind of beauty men drowned for. Death made flesh.

The moment your fingers brushed his cheek, turning him to you, still wet and stained with another man’s blood, something inside Steve settled. 

He let out a breath like something in him had loosened. Like the storm in his chest had found its eye. The uneven, panic struck jerks of his breath subsided. His ribs stopped straining like they meant to crack open. Instead, warmth spread through his spine.

You leant in close, so close the tips of your fangs almost brushed his cheek.

“There you are, my sweet thing,” you murmured, voice like a lullaby, “Still here. Still mine.”

Your hand moved from his cheek to his throat, thumb brushing where his pulse thundered. His head tilted toward the touch like it was instinct.

“You did so well. My brave Captain,” you crooned, and something inside him cracked. His eyes fluttered, breath catching not with fear but pleasure. “Held on so tight. Watched so much. Poor, brave boy.”

Steve moaned.

A soft, broken thing, barely audible, as his body sagged against the rock, strength bleeding out of him. But he didn’t care. He was watching you like you were the last thing that made sense in the world.

You pressed Steve back, gently, until his spine met the cold stone and your breasts brushed his chest, blood-slick skin against his soaked uniform. He didn’t resist, and his hands found their home at your hips, fingertips gently brushing your scales.

“Let go now,” you purred. “It’s done. They’re gone. You’re safe. You’re mine.”

You kissed him, lips still blood-warm, tongue sweeping through his mouth - yours now. He breathed into it, slipping past fear, past thought, and into the dark your touched summoned, fastening to you with the certainty of something claimed.

⋆˙˳𓂃𓂃𓊝𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂃𓂁𓂃˙˳⋆

They found him adrift in the fog, clinging to driftwood long since worn smooth by salt and time.

His body was half in the water, half out, slack with exhaustion, skin pale and blooming with bruises. The uniform that once marked him a captain had frayed to shreds, threads of navy and gold dissolving into the sea.

They hauled him aboard with ropes and careful hands.

He told them his name was Steve Rogers. That he had captained a ship - “The Nomad, yes, that’s right,” - and that it had gone down in uncharted waters after a storm.

His voice was quiet, ragged from salt and sea, but certain. His gaze steady, even kind. He smiled when they offered him a blanket. Thanked them with pale lips and soft words that didn’t quite match the bruising on his throat or the hollowness in his eyes.

They mentioned the fog, how it had swallowed the stars, that it had eaten their charts alive. Steve nodded, “Yes, it comes and goes around here.”

And when one of them spoke, hesitant and anxious, of the lighthouse they could just make out through the shifting grey, its pale eye pulsing in slow, even breaths, Steve’s smile deepened.

“You should go there,” he spoke softly, but still edged with that captain’s authority that made men listen. “If you’re looking for safe waters. It’s the only thing still standing.”

They murmured amongst themselves, nodded, then adjusted the sails.

The fog began to close in.

Steve hummed as they turned the bow. A low, tuneless thing, carried off in snatches of wind. His eyes never left the horizon, fixed on the slow, mournful glow of the tower in the mist. His body was still, but his expression remained gentle.

“Soon, my love,” he breathed. “Soon you’ll feast again.”

The vestiges of your wet dream clings to you. Heat pools between your thighs even recalling the dream. Hands everywhere, groping and gripping your soft flesh escalating to a fever pitch, every fiber of your being flooded with pleasure as Bucky and Steve murmur the filthiest things in your ear. You’d woken up before the end with your skin buzzing and wet patch on your panties.

A small mrrp draws you attention as Alpine jumps up on the bed. Right, you are at Steve and Bucky’s apartment. You were so exhausted by the time you got to their apartment to water their plants, and feed and cuddle Alpine, you had fallen asleep on the couch with the purring feline. When you woke, it was quite late and it was better to spend the night and leave after caring for Alpine in the morning. You were certain it would upset both Steve and Bucky to know that you’d taken the train alone that late.

 Alpine nuzzles up to you demanding breakfast. You offer her a few pets before climbing out of bed. You open up a can of wet food, refill her water and dry food bowls before you lock yourself in the bathroom. You find the spare toiletries under the sink. After brushing your teeth, you splash cold water over your face and neck in snap out of the horny haze. 

The dream still sticks you when you climb into the shower. Restlessness skitters over your skin, drawing it tight and your cunt aches with need. Under the warm water, you hands inch southwards, dipping into your slick mess. Your mind flips through the dream, and the last time you were together.  It is a vivid recollection. You can almost feel Steve’s breath against your neck, the smooth metal of Bucky’s hand skimming over your chest, the taste of their lips as you slump against the wall, your fingers driving ever forward to your climax.

The relief is short lived. By the time you are drying yourself off, heat is already pooling between your legs, and lurid beast paces in the cage of your belly, hungry. Okay, one more then you absolutely have to leave. You’re sure they have at least a vibrator around. Bucky brought out the last time to tease Steve. Just the memory fans the flames as you step out of the bathroom. 

You find the small bullet vibrator in the drawer of their nightstand. Soon you are reclined on the bed, the bullet buzzing against your clit and your cunt squeezing your fingers. You add another, relishing the stretch. Your mind replays the snatches of memory — short, sweet, and filthy. You shatter, hips bucking with a low long groan. The cobwebs of lust clear for a moment, and you think you might have silenced it for now. That you might actually make it home and properly take care of it. 

The front door clicks open and you sit up straight. Steve’s voice carries through the apartment mingling with Bucky’s sweet chuckles. They’re early. They weren’t supposed to be back for at least another two days. 

 Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit. 

You jump out of bed, wiping your fingers on the discarded towel. You frantically look for something to cover your naked self. As you are wrapping yourself in a robe— Steve’s robe, you can hear Bucky calling for Alpine. Oh you bet she’s hidden somewhere - as she does when she hears sex noises. Fuck. 

When you step out of the bedroom, you still find them in the hallway toeing off their shoes. You haven’t seen them in a month and they look good… really good. They are dressed in dark washed jeans that cling to their thick thighs. Steve wears long sleeved t-shirt and Bucky is in his standard henley. The fabric clings to their bulking frames just on the brink of entirely giving up. Haven’t they heard of  larger sizes? But it isn’t even their ridiculous bodies and their fashion choices that are inspiring thoughts which would make even a seasoned pimp blush. It’s the easy timbre of their voices and the relaxed smiles. It is that they are unharmed and back home. 

Oh god you want to take them right there in the hallway. Before you know it, your legs are carrying you towards them in quick strides. 

“Sweetheart, you’re here —” Steve doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as you crash your lips on his. It takes Steve a moment but he’s kissing you back as his brings his arms around you. Your whole body sags against his. Relief floods you yet it’s not enough. You sigh into the kiss as he opens up to you. You hands grip his jaw holding him still, determined to savor the taste of his lips. 

“We’ve missed you very much too,” you hear Bucky chuckle. 

You reach blindly for him and pull him towards you. You tear yourself away from Steve, and flick your gaze over Bucky. He looks at you with gentle amusement before you catch his lips in a filthy kiss. Your tongue demands he open up. You can feel his grin as he lets you slide along his tongue. The closeness, their hands smoothing over your back, playing with your hair is all intensified by fire in your blood that still burns. 

Steve comes to nibble along your neck drawing a moan from you. The fresh scent of their clothes mingles with the smell of the compound issue soaps, the taste of burnt coffee on Bucky’s tongue, and their stubble dragging across your sensitive skin shrouds your senses. You’re truly wrapped in them but still you crave more. Today, you think you might discover the extent of your greed.

Your hands wander, skimming over Steve’s chest, and hips and coming to rest on the swell of his ass. Bucky pulls you close and you whimper as his chest presses against yours. Almost against your will, your leg slides up hooking over his and you roll your hips. 

You freeze. 

The next moment, you are pulling back and putting a healthy distance between you. Oh Gods! You don’t what possessed you to that. Both of them are looking at you with concern.  

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, pacing in the narrow hallway. “I have to go. It’s good to see you home.” 

“What’s going on, honey?” Steve asks, his hand comes to rest you shoulder.

You still under his touch. That’s a fair question. You are buck naked in his robe in their apartment, which you only stopped by to take care of the plants and Alpine who has mysteriously made herself scarce. Now you’ve just kissed them both senseless, and stepped away like they burned you. You shift from one foot to the other, trying to siphon off your excess energy to the ground. 

“It’s my… uh… cycle,” you say, making circular motions around your middle. Your entire body is heating up with embarrassment. “Sometimes, it makes me… needy.” You add delicately. 

Two pairs of eyes just stare at you for a moment, the apartment painfully silent. Oh god! This is so mortifying.

“Needy?” Steve mouths out, as if tracing the edges of the word would help him make sense. 

The crease between Bucky’s forehead deepens, and then his eyes flicker to you as his face breaks into grin.

“You mean, unbearably horny?” he barks out a laugh. 

“Bucky…” Steve warns, his tone exasperated.

You did not think you could be more mortified and yet here you are. Why are you still in this stupid robe? 

“I’m gonna go,” you say.

You step back towards the bedroom to collect your clothes but Bucky is wrapping his metal arm around your waist and pulling you back. His chest presses against your back as his hand comes to play with the knot on your robe. 

“I’m sorry, Sweets. I’m not making fun of you.” Bucky litters a string of kisses along your neck, nuzzling against your jaw. “C’mere, let’s finish what you started.” 

Steve comes to stand in front of you. His gaze burns a hot brand on your skin as he tucks a crooked finger under your chin. 

“Will you let us take care of you?” 

You are pulled tight, every fiber of your thrumming with desire. 

“I need you,” is all you can say and that is all they need to hear.

Bucky undoes the knot, letting your robe fall apart. His hands slip under your robes mapping every curve and dip of your body. Steve dips low and catches you in an open mouthed kiss. His tongue is hot against your own. A slow hunger simmers beneath his surface but you are already hankering, wild intent coursing through your veins.

Steve slots his thigh between your legs and you could damn near cry as you grind against the rough fabric, uncaring of the wet patch you leave on his jeans. You feel Bucky’s growing bulge pressing against your ass as he moves impossibly close. You are tugging at Steve’s shirt, you need to feel him against you. 

Too many fucking clothes. 

Steve breaks the kiss to pull his shirt off but Bucky’s mouth is on yours. He slowly turns you towards him as Steve wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you back against his chest. His hand cups your aching cunt and a whine rips from your throat. The liquid ecstasy burns through your veins. Oh you want more… so much more. 

When Bucky pulls away, he has Steve pressed up against the wall and you are cradled between them at the mercy of their affection. 

Bucky looks at you like he wants to devour you and leave nothing behind, not even the bones. The silent promise of being turned into nothing but a slick mess sends a thrill straight to your core. This is what you had been trying and failing as you desperately pulled orgasm after orgasm with your fingers and your pitifully inadequate vibrator. 

Bucky sinks to his knees, pushes your legs apart. Hands come to caress the outside of your thighs as he slowly kisses up to your cunt. 

“Oh Sweets, you’re already such mess,” Bucky murmurs, peppering light kisses just around your lips. 

“Buck…” you whine, burying your fingers in his hair.

Bucky decides to stop playing with you and licks stripe between your folds. His tongue sends jolts up your spine and you can’t stop the obscene sound that spills from your mouth. Cool metal slides up the back of your thigh, pulling your leg over Bucky’s shoulder. You’re too lost in the way Bucky’s tongue weaves a girdle of pleasure over you to notice Steve’s lips leaving open-mouthed kisses long your neck and shoulder. The flood of pleasure and relief has turned you thoughtlessly pliant under their loving touch. 

Bucky shifts his attention to your nub, wrapping his lips around it. The heat of mouth, the way he pulls at it crackles along every nerve. A groan rips from your throat as you throw your head back against Steve’s shoulder.

Bucky slips in a finger and then two, his tongue shifting its attention to your clit. Your grip on his hair grows tighter, pushing him impossibly close to you. With Steve’s arm holding you tight, all you can do is revel in Bucky’s attention. Steve is murmuring something in your ear but all you register is his hushed sweet tone and the warmth of his breath.

 Heat coils tight in your belly. Your world narrows to the way Bucky’s tongue swirls around your nub, his fingers curling with purpose, the brush of his stubble against your sensitive skin, and the way he wraps his lips around your clit and pulls, pulls and pulls. 

You shatter with a broken moan, writhing helplessly in Steve’s arms.  Bucky gently laps at your folds as your orgasm wracks through you. The torrid lust eases into a peaceful haze as your limbs grow heavy. You’re certain the only reason you’re somewhat upright is because of your two men holding you. 

Once you are steady enough, Bucky straightens up, face glistening with your juices. Steve turns to him, his gaze raking over Bucky’s face. You see the moment the spark catches, his eyes lighting with a feral glint as his tongue swipes over his lips. Steve pulls Bucky into a kiss, moaning as he tastes you on Bucky’s tongue. 

When Steve finally turns to you, lips swollen and kiss-drunk, he’s speechless for a moment. He pulls you in, nuzzling into your neck and along your jaw.

“Sit on my face, sweetheart,” he says, hoarse. “I have to taste you...properly.” 

“Let’s go—” 

“No, right here.” He lets out a an impatient growl. 

The next thing you know, your robe is pulled away and Steve’s already on the floor, dragging your hips towards his mouth. Bucky bundles your robe and tucks it under one of your knees before taking off his shirt and tucking it under the other. 

Steve wastes no time pulling your hips towards him. His tongue swipes between your folds, groaning as he tastes you. You nearly double over at the onslaught, catching yourself against the wall. Bucky kneels in front of you, hands skimming over your hips, stomach and between your breasts. 

You buzz with new sparks skittering over your skin, raising goosebumps. You rock your hips gently, testing the waters. Steve’s voice muffles in your folds as he pulls you firmly against his face, coaxing you move your hips. 

Restlessness winds through you as Bucky comes kiss you. You palm his bulge through his jeans, swallowing each delectable moan. Deft fingers unbuttons his jeans, carelessly pushing aside his boxers. You wrap your hands around him and pull in long strokes.  

“Bucky, can I taste you?” you murmur against his lips. “I need you in my mouth.”

After a bit of shuffling, Bucky gets on his feet and stands in front of you, his jeans and boxers pooled around his ankles. You run your hands up his thighs, relishing the feel of corded muscle and skin.

“You sure, Sweets?” Bucky asks, holding his cock away from your face. 

“Please, Bucky,” you say, desperation tinging your tone. 

You reach for his cock, swatting his hand away. You pull in slow strokes as your bring it your lips and lick the beading pre-cum. The bitterness bursts across your tongue as you swipe at the head again. Bucky groans, bringing his hand to cradle the back of your head. 

You kiss and suck along the length of him, your hands stroking where you mouth can’t reach. The taste and heft of him, and the little whines Bucky lets out has your grinding down on Steve, his nose bumping against your clit. You tease Bucky until you feel the tremble in his legs, then, only then you wrap your lips around his head. You take him in inch by inch until your nose brush against the patch of coarse hair. 

Between Steve’s incessant mouth between your legs and Bucky’s guttural groan as he tightens his grip on the back of your head, you can’t help the tumble of moans around Bucky’s cock. You lose yourself in the rhythm of your lips working Bucky’s hard length, tongue swirling mindless patterns, the little sucks as you ground on Steve’s face. 

“I’m close,” Bucky mumbles. “Where do you want me?”

You usually don’t mind him spilling in your mouth. It’s neat but today your mind is an unruly thing, driven to indulge the filthiest things you’d never imagined you’d like. The way Steve is lapping at your folds loosens your tongue. 

“On me,” you manage pulling off his cock. 

Steve groans under you, bracing your hips and back, as you put you mouth back on Bucky’s cock. You steady youurself on Bucky’s thighs as you take more of him. Steve pulls on your clit, tugging at the coil wound tight. 

“Fuck, Sweets!” Bucky pulls out of your mouth, taking himself in hand.

In a few strokes, he’s braced against the wall, spilling. You feel the tremor in his thighs as his cum spatters over your chest and belly. The warm liquid slowly trails down your torso and one well placed flick of Steve’s tongue has your hips jerking as you fall apart on his mouth.

For one glorious moment, you think that swirling gluttonous thing has been stated but it awakens with a new found ferocity. Your veins burn with need, and your cunt aches the aftershocks of your orgasm spasming around nothing. 

Bucky is kneeling in front of you, cradling your chin as he watches his spend trickle down your body. He pulls you in for a kiss, tender. You deepen the kiss, tongue swiping at the seam of his lips, demanding entrance. He opens up to you, letting you taste him. You moan into his mouth, skin burning for more. 

The rest of the clothes are discarded somewhere between the hallway and bed. Steve leans back against the headboard, his member hard against his stomach. You straddle his lap as his soft blue eyes take in your cum painted body.  His fingers smear it over your skin, before his mouth comes to lick up the spatter between your breasts. 

“Whatever it is you have, it must be catching,” Steve says. “You shouldn’t look this good, this ravishing covered in Bucky’s spend.” 

He kisses and licks up the spatters along your chest, collar bone. You reach for his cock, pull in long slow strokes drawing little groans from him. You thumb over the head, smearing his precum over his cock. Steve buries his face in your neck, letting out the sweetest whines as he marks you. 

Bucky settles next to Steve, dropping a pile a condoms between them. You cheeks heat at the sheer number in that pile. He’s also found the vibrator you’d discarded when you heard them come in. When you meet Bucky’s eyes, he offers you a wicked smile. He’s enjoying this far too much! 

“You’re so damn greedy today,” He says, taking your hand kissing up your arm. “You might finally wear us out.”

“Don’t let him tease you, honey,” Steve says cradling your jaw, turn you to face him. ”Tell us what you need.”

“I need you in me,” you say. 

Bucky rolls a condom on Steve’s cock, shooting you a filthy wink. He comes to catch you lips in a kiss as he kneads your ass. 

“Make him lose his mind, sweetheart,” he murmurs before settling back against the headboard, taking himself in hand.

“You want a show, is that it Bucky?” You say as Steve helps your lower yourself on his cock.

Bucky’s response is lost somewhere in the ether as every delicious inch sends sparks up your spine. Your walls tremble around him once you are fully seated. His shoulder is firm under your grip and you nails dig in as you try to find some semblance of coherence. 

“You feel so good,” you mumble. “So fucking good.” 

 It is with great effort that you roll your hips, and that first drag of his cock ignites a lurid frenzy. You want… no crave more, like your sanity depends on it. You’re soon slamming your hips down, leveraged on his shoulders. All that spills from your mouth are incoherent babbles of woman possessed. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Take what you need,” Steve murmurs, hands gripping your soft flesh. 

“All the way down, just like that.”

Steve rolls his head back as you grind down on his full length. Bucky latches on to his neck, sucking and kissing along his jaw. Steve leans to Bucky’s touch like the tender green shoots reaching for the sun. Their lips meet for one soft moment before Bucky is cradling the back of Steve’s head, drinking him in. Steve’s hand leaves your hips, trailing up Bucky’s thigh and joining his hand in stroking him. Bucky breaks the kiss, head thrown back with moan. 

A cramp shoots through the back of your thigh and you suppress a yelp. It’s now a race between the cramp and pool of bliss that awaits you. The cramp wins and you bury your face in Steve’s chest with an apology for pulling him away from Bucky.  

“It’s okay, I have you,” Steve’s grip on your hips changes and he thrusts up.

It’s different, it’s firm, steady like he knows all the secret places in you that hunger. You let out a starved mewl, as he sets on taking you apart. Heat blooms under your skin spreading like wildfire. It is not long before you are meeting his hips, with your own as his groaned sweet nothings meld with your babble. Fingers tweak your nub, sending you down, down, down into crashing waves of ecstasy. You pull Steve with you, drowning in the waves of your shared pleasure. 

Bucky kisses up your spine and shoulders, gentle and reverent as you lay slumped against Steve’s chest. His lips spark yet another match between your thighs. It’s unfair how needy your hormones have made you, though you don’t feel as desperate as you were coming on your fingers. Steve groans as your cunt twitches around his softening cock. 

“Is that better?” Bucky asks, hands running down your sides. 

“A little,” you mumble but you need more. You need to be utterly fucked out of your mind. 

“She’s ready to go again aren’t you, kitten?” Steve says 

“Is that so? Tell us what you really need. Whatever this is, I’m loving how insatiable you are.”

There’s a beat. Embarrassment gives way to the insistence of your two men, skilled you might add, to fuck you however you need.

“Fuck me like you want to drive me out my mind,” you mumble into Steve’s neck.

Bucky maneuvers you onto your back next to Steve. He reaches for the pile of condoms at the head of the bed as he kisses you, no tastes you. His tongue licks up into your mouth. You open up to him, tongue sliding along his. He breaks the kiss to mouth along your jaw and down your neck. His hands are everywhere sweeping across your belly, up your arms, cradling your face.

He finally pushes in into your wet heat and waits for you to adjust. You feel full and his blunt head is already pressing against your most sensitive spot. 

“Move, Bucky,” you whimper.

He starts with the slow roll of his hips and you are already halfway gone.

“Look at you, Sweets! All marked up and messy for me. Damn near came in my fist from the show you and Stevie put on,” Bucky says 

You really don’t know how irresistible you look, so damn needy and insatiable, “ Bucky leans forward, pulling your thigh against his hip. He pushes forward with punctuated snap of his hips, mouth on yours in a messy kiss. “What do you need, darling? Anything to keep you sated.”

Even as your pleasure builds, the ache in your clit grows begging to be touched, to be played with, to be — 

“Slap my cunt, Bucky,” you blurt out. 

Everything comes to a grinding halt. Bucky looks like he isn’t quite sure he heard your request correctly. Steve scoots closer to you, taking your hand and brushing his lips against the knuckles. 

“Please, slap my cunt,” you repeat. 

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks

“You won’t hurt me. I’ll tell you if doesn’t feel good.”

Bucky trades a furtive look with Steve. His eyes move back to you as he leans back and rolls his hips. As he resumes his previous pace, his hand comes down on your cunt with wet squelch. The pain pleasure crackles along your spine like lightning, stringing your body taut. A sound rips from your throat unlike any noise you’ve ever made. Your can feel your cunt bearing down on the only thing can hold on to. 

Bucky falls forward with groan, hips stock still. His breath is hot against your neck as he tries to collect himself.  

“You okay?” Steve is stroking your hair, alarmed. He looks ready to pry Bucky off you. 

“Yeah,” you pant. “Fuck… that felt so good Bucky.” All inhibitions have fallen away. You need more and more. You shamelessly grind up to his hips.

“You’re gonna ruin me, if you keep doing that,” Bucky says.

“Please don’t stop, another please,” you beg.

Bucky meets your hips with a thrust, and another, and another, slowing building up again. Then he adds the slap that you so desperately need. It feels so good it’s a challenge to keep your eyes open. You lose count of how many times he brings his hand down on your cunt. You only see the way his body tenses after each one, the way the most unholy sound escapes his throat. If you were to lose your hearing, this is the only sound you want to remember. 

You are barely hanging on but the fire in your belly demands more. Your fingers are digging into Steve’s thighs as you writhe under Bucky. Steve gently peppers kisses on your cheek, forehead, and neck, as his buries his fingers in your hair. The tenderness is in sharp contrast to Bucky’s singular determination to push you over the edge before him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Bucky pants. “Your sweet cunt is going to ruin me.” 

“Then let me watch you fall apart. Come for me, Bucky,” you say with a squeeze to his arm. 

As the last slap falls, he grinds the heel of his palm against your nub. He falls forward on you, his hips stuttering, as he mutters a thousand apologies and profanities. You pull him into a kiss desperate and messy as you push up your hips against his, working him through his orgasm. 

Both you and Steve are rubbing circles on his back as you murmur assurances. You’re not even sure if Bucky can hear you. He rests his head on your shoulder as he stares out with glazed eyes and his chest rising and falling rapidly. Your hand rakes through his hair and Steve leans over to kiss him. 

Bucky finally rolls off you and onto his back. You briefly mourn the loss of his weight and his softening cock. Your cunt is achingly empty and it’s an effort for you not to reach down and touch yourself. 

“Just what did you do to me, Sweets?” he says. “I’m gonna need a moment.”

The lines of his face are softened, he glows with a youthful exuberance you haven’t seen on him before. He flashes you both a crooked smile, accompanied by twinkling eyes. For a moment, you think you see the charming carefree Bucky that left a trail a broken hearts. 

“You look so good, wrecked and pussy-drunk,” you say running your fingers down his cheeks and along his jaw. 

 Before he can respond, Steve hand slides between your legs, drawing a low moan from you.

“You aren’t done yet,” Steve murmurs in your ear, stilling your hips you didn’t know were moving. 

You lean back against his solid chest, titling your head up mouth along his neck. He dips his head and catch your lips. He rolls you on your back, not breaking the kiss. He hovers over you, reaching for another condom. You are aching. 

“Steve, I need you,” you whine, as he leans back to roll on the condom. 

“Just a moment, sweetheart,” Steve leans over kissing you. “I’m going to wipe every single thought from your head, I promise.” 

And he does. He has your hands twisting the sheets as you beg for him to keep going.  You are so close to losing your mind. Each snap of his hips sends sparks dancing up your spine. Heat roils under you skin, begging to be touched everywhere. 

“Steve, please slap —” 

“I think you’ve had enough of that. I want to make you feel good, kitten but not like that,” he kisses you. 

He retrieves the vibrator and presses it against your clit. The strike of pleasure is sharp and you can’t help but cling to Steve. 

Every nerve strung tight and frays with white hot pleasure skittering the edge of release. You babble incoherently, begging for that final push. Steve throws your leg over his shoulders and his thrusts brush against a new sensitive spot. You keen and curl your leg around his waist, drawing him close. He braces your hips, the buzz of the vibrator is languidly steady at your clit, his hips now set a ruthless pace hard set on pulling you apart. 

“C’mon sweetheart, almost there,” Steve pants

Bucky recovers just enough to lazily paw at your chest, rolling and tugging your nipple between his fingers. His breath is hot against you neck as he leaves plush kisses down to your collarbone. 

“Give us one more, honey,” he says, nipping your shoulder “Last one, we know how badly you need it.”

You let out a long low whine as you pry your eyes open to look at them. Bucky is utterly debauched, blue eyes eagerly lapping you up and Steve hovers over you, face screwed up in pleasure and determination. The image of Steve head thrown back, falling apart and Bucky looking utterly debauched pushes you over. You shatter in waves, clinging to Steve.

You are writhing and oversensitive, but Steve continues to drive hips, slow. You world is grows weightless as your leg slips from his waist. Fuck, it feels like a wild mix of euphoria and mania as the coil winds tight in your gut, again.

“You have another in you, kitten?” Steve asks. “I need to feel you fall apart around me again.”

You might… you want to for Steve, and for this to endless haze to stretch on until your mind is nothing but a dandelion fluff drifting, drifting. The slow drag of his cock draws out an incomprehensible string of sounds from you. You arch, seeking more. 

“I need you to tell me, honey,” Steve leans forward, securing your leg against his hip. 

“Yes, another,” you rasp, dredging up the words from a far away recess of your mind. You barely recognize your voice nor the depths of desperation in it. 

That’s all Steve needs. He angles your hips up, driving deeper just as he marches towards his own ruination. Bucky caresses his hand down you torso, and between your legs. He flicks your nub before bringing his hand down in a gentle slap. And that is enough. Steve’s pace staggers as he lets out an obscene moan that mixes in with your own. 

“You like that, Stevie? Fuck, honey, never seen you this eager to be wrecked,” Bucky says before turning to you, fingers toying with your clit. “Sweets, you’re gonna ruin him too.” 

You wrap your hand around Bucky’s wrist, you’re not sure whether to keep him there or move him. Steve is kissing down your calves as he drives his hips forward again. You grip loosens around Bucky. Steve watches you with hooded eyes, pink flush spread across his chest and up his neck, lost in the haze of bliss yet determined to draw every scrap of pleasure. 

Another stinging strike on your mound, followed by Bucky’s fingers running in tight circles pushes you over. Lightning sharp pleasure strikes your world into shards. Steve’s hips stutter, as your cunt spasms around him, drawing him in— to hold, to devour, to cherish. 

And you are lost.

The world comes back to you in pieces. Something, rather someone heavy lays over you, sticky and hot.

You blink hoping to catch some coherent thought to vocalize. There is only the blissful daze. It feels like your brain has melted and oozed out of your ears. Slowly, you recognize the mop of blonde hair tickling your neck. A thick arm stretches across you. You lazily press kisses along the parts of the arm closest to your mouth. Steve raises his head, just enough to catch your lips. His kisses drip like honey, unhurried and sweet. 

“That was exquisite,” Steve mumbles

It is Bucky who finds the will to usher you both into the shower. Once clean, hydrated, and fed, you are curled on the couch between them. Alpine has decided to join you, purring on Bucky’s lap. You float between line of awareness and lull of sleep. Your thoughts wander back to earlier in the day, still in disbelief whether it was real. Now in the clarity of your post-orgasmic haze, you don’t quite know what possessed you nor understand the obscene desire that curled in your chest with mile long demands. Regardless, you can’t recall the last time you’d been this well-fucked. 

“You’ve ruined me for other men. Both of you. Just what the hell was that?” you mumble, snuggling into Steve’s side.

“Sweetheart, you pounced on us the moment we walked in. You poured gasoline and struck the match,” Steve says. “Don’t fault us for burning with you.” 

“I’m not sorry,” Bucky grins. “If you think I’m letting you get away after that, you’re mistaken.” 

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. Your whip your head around to face him. Bucky’s gaze on you is so tender, it cracks open your ribs a little.

“You want to keep me?”

“Yeah Sweets, been wanting to say that ever since our second date.” Bucky leans forward and brushes his lips against yours. “But didn’t want to scare you off.”

When you part, he presses another kiss on your nose. You hadn’t given it much thought. You’ve barely had more than five dates, but something about this felt right.

“What about you, Steve?”

He cradles your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. Steve dips down and catches your lips, firm and affectionate. 

“I always play for keeps, sweetheart.” He says. “You don’t have to say anything now, we can just stay like this for a while.”

You knew you need to time to consider but in the depths of your heart you knew what your answer would be. 

"I want to keep you both, too."

You looked back, noticing the two soldiers' gaze. You smiled that innocent smile that was never truly innocent. Steve held his breath—and hated how this was becoming more and more common when it came to you.

He tried to go back to the book. He read the same line four times. He absorbed nothing.

And then he heard your voice.

“Steve…”

He looked up immediately, as if his body were conditioned to respond. You walked toward him, drops of water trickling down your sun-warmed skin, holding a bottle of sunscreen.

“Can you put some on my back for me?”

It was a trap. Steve knew. He understood the second you spoke, maybe even before. But he didn't have the strength—or the will—to refuse.

“Sure” he replied, his voice lower than he intended.

When you turned, sat on the towel between your legs, and exposed your back, Steve swallowed hard. The bikini top was loose. Your skin glistened. And you arched your back slightly as you felt his hands touch you.

He spread the sunscreen slowly, with firm fingers.

Too slowly.

Too cautious.

But deep down… he just wanted to prolong it.

Steve was gentle, he always had been. But there was something about you that brought out a more possessive, more hungry side of him. He always controlled. Always took a deep breath. He always reminded you of who he was, who he wanted to be.

But you never made it easy.

"Is this good enough, Captain?" you murmured, your voice thick with provocation.

Steve almost smiled. Almost.

"I'm almost done," he replied, with a light squeeze of his fingers on your waist that he pretended was natural.

The truth is, he wanted to touch you more. He wanted to pull you closer. He wanted to do everything he shouldn't do—especially with a certain ex-Sergeant Barnes on the other side, watching everything from behind his sunglasses.

But he didn't do anything.

Not yet.

“Thank you, Steve” you said in a voice that was anything but innocent. “Your hands are so… steady.”

Steadfast.

You chose that word.

Bucky cursed under his breath.

And Steve realized what was happening: you wanted them to react.

At lunchtime…

Later, when the group gathered to eat, Steve was already on edge. Bucky too. The two exchanged silent glances the whole time — the kind only a very old couple understands.

She's messing with us.

I know.

And you're going to let her?

And you're not going to?

The tension only worsened when you walked over to them again, this time with your hands sticky with some sauce Nat had made.

"Buck…" you asked with the most innocent face, "my hands are dirty. Can you tie my hair up?"

Steve heard his boyfriend's heavy sigh.

You turned around, exposing your neck.

Bucky almost growled.

And Steve… was torn between laughing and grabbing you by the hips.

He saw how Bucky's fingers slowly touched the nape of your neck, gathering your hair into a high ponytail. You bit your lip. It didn't help. It didn't make it any easier.

"There," Bucky murmured against your ear, too low to be polite. "It won't stick to anything anymore."

You turned to him with a smile that should be illegal.

"Thank you, James."

Steve closed his eyes for a second.

James.

Not Bucky.

James.

You knew.

And before either of them could react, you slipped between them, brushing lightly—very lightly—against Steve's chest.

"You guys should enjoy the sea," you commented over your shoulder. "The water's great."

And you left.

Leaving them both standing there, stiff, tense, and utterly unable to pretend they didn't want you.

✦·✧·✦·✧·✦·✧·✦·✧·✦·✧·✦·✧✦·✧·✦·✧·✦·✧·✦·✧·

You were sitting on the sand chatting with Wanda when you suddenly stood up, walking slowly towards them. Bucky noticed immediately.

The way you walked.

The smile that appeared even before you arrived.

Your eyes glistening with mischief.

You were about to cause something.

Again.

"James," you called as you approached, and Bucky felt his shoulders tense. Whenever you used his full name, something inside him awakened. "Help me?"

It was always that "help me?"

Always that soft voice that fooled no one.

"What is it now, doll?" he asked, trying to sound light.

You delicately lifted your leg, displaying your hip.

"Tie it here for me."

The bow on your bikini bottom was loose. So loose that one wrong pull would completely undo it.

Steve almost choked.

You noticed.

Of course you noticed.

Bucky had two simultaneous reactions:

A fierce impulse to grab your waist and sit you on his lap.

The absolute need to maintain composure because the Avengers were present.

Then he took a deep breath, knelt before you, and carefully picked up the ribbon.

Your hip was too close.

Your skin too warm.

Your scent too sweet.

He pretended not to notice you holding your breath when his fingers touched your thigh.

"Untying your bikini on the beach?" Bucky murmured in a low, husky voice. "You want to die, don't you?"

You smiled—that smile he hated and loved at the same time.

"I trust you."

He looked up.

You were already looking at him.

And that was it.

He felt his stomach churn. The world slowed down. You looked like you were about to bend down and kiss him, and he was about to let you.

But Steve was there.

Watching everything.

And Bucky had no problem with that—Steve knew everything, shared everything with him—but he didn't know how far you could go.

So he had to stop before he got too blatant.

He tied the knot.

Firm. Precise.

But his hand… lingered.

Just a second longer than necessary.

Enough for you to notice.

"There," he said, slowly standing up. "Now it won't fall anymore."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Not even if I want to?"

He almost lost his breath. Steve did too.

But you just turned around and continued walking along the beach as if you hadn't just left two super-soldiers stiff, tense, and completely in love.

Steve remained silent. His gaze followed you, analyzing your every move, as he always did when trying to understand what he felt.

Bucky knew that look.

It was the same look Steve used when he wanted to draw something—detailed, concentrated, admiring.

"You like her," Bucky said.

Steve didn't deny it.

"You too."

Bucky shrugged, as if it were obvious.

"We've always liked her, Steve." The difference is that now she's noticed.

Steve let out a low, tense laugh.

"And she's having a lot of fun with it."

"We should give her some fun."

They both looked at you again. Their minds racing.

—

The island looked different at night.

As if everything was waiting for something to happen.

Most of the Avengers had already retreated to their cabins, deliberately scattered along the beach—Tony's idea, which he swore was "for privacy," but in practice was pure logistical fussiness. Steve and Bucky's cabin was the furthest away of all. Almost at the edge of the sand and the dense vegetation.

You shared yours with Natasha.

And at that moment, you were in the bathroom, finishing brushing your teeth, your hair still slightly damp from the shower, wearing simple pajamas: soft cotton shorts and a loose shirt.

You were about to lie down when the cabin door opened.

“Hey,” Nat said, leaning against the doorframe with a half-smile you knew too well to be innocent. “The Captain’s calling you.”

You froze for a second.

“Steve?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Nat crossed his arms, watching you with sharp attention.

“Steve. And, technically, Barnes too. But it was Steve who asked.”

You sighed, putting the brush down on the sink.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing specific,” Nat replied, shrugging. “Just that he wanted to talk to you. Now.”

Now.

You looked in the mirror.

The pajamas.

The robe.

The hair too loose.

“Does he know what time it is?” you murmured.

Nat smiled, in that way that said I know exactly what’s going on and so do you.

“He does.”

You felt your stomach churn slowly.

The sand was cold under your bare feet as you stepped out of the cabin.

The moon illuminated the path enough that you didn't need a flashlight. The sea made a constant, almost hypnotic sound beside you. The night wind played with the hem of your robe, lifting the fabric occasionally against your legs.

You walked slowly.

Without haste.

As if each step were part of the provocation.

Their cabin was isolated.

Of course Tony would do this, you thought, almost laughing to yourself. If there was one place where something wrong—or very right—could happen without interruption, it was there.

When you got close enough, you saw the light on inside.

You knocked on the door.

No answer.

You waited a few seconds, feeling the cold night wind chill your skin under your robe, and knocked again—a little harder this time.

"Steve?" you called, your voice low. "Bucky?"

Silence.

The cold seemed to intensify, and a strange discomfort settled in her chest. The light remained on. The cabin didn't seem empty.

You pushed the door open carefully. It creaked softly.

"Hi…" she murmured, entering.

The room was empty. No sign of them. No conversation, no television on, no muffled laughter. Only the distant sound of the sea and the creaking of the wood under her bare feet.

You took a few more steps, closing the door behind you.

That's when you heard it.

A low sound. Muffled. Too rhythmic to be mistaken for the wind or the cabin floor.

Your heart raced immediately.

You walked slowly toward the hallway, each step more conscious than the last. The closer you got to the room, the clearer the sounds became—contained breaths, a deep murmur, another lower one, heavy with tension.

The door was ajar.

You paused for a second, your hand suspended in the air, your whole body torn between retreating… or moving forward.

You moved forward.

Carefully, you approached close enough to see inside the room.

And then you saw.

Bucky was kneeling on the bed, his body tense, facing the door, his hands digging into the mattress as if he were holding onto something much bigger than the moment. His hair fell over his face, his breathing visibly heavy.

Behind him, Steve.

Steve's body moved slowly and intently, his expression completely different from the one he usually wore in public—intense, focused, laden with something too intimate to be seen.

Both their bodies moved as if each gesture were known by heart, rehearsed over years of silent complicity.

Bucky remained leaning forward, his whole body reacting to every movement behind him. The sound escaping his throat wasn't loud, but it was raw—muffled, restrained, failing to be silence. A sound somewhere between a sigh and something that clearly required effort not to turn into an open moan.

Steve was pressed against him.

The rhythm of their hips was firm, constant, marking the time like a dull beat echoing in the room. The sound of his breathing was deeper, heavier, mixed with murmurs too low to be understood, but intense enough to make Bucky's body respond immediately.

The mattress sank under their weight.

With each movement, Bucky's body reacted—his shoulders tensed, his back arched involuntarily, his fingers clenched tightly into the sheet as if it were the only possible anchor. His neck was exposed, his head hanging forward, his breathing completely out of control.

Steve leaned over him at certain moments, slowing the pace only to make everything more brutal. The sound then changed—less impact, more contact, more friction, more presence. The kind of pause that doesn't relieve, only prolongs.

A louder sound escaped Bucky.

A broken sound, ripped from him.

Steve responded immediately—not with words, but with movement. The rhythm returned stronger, more decisive, and the room filled with that damp, repetitive sound, mixed with the accelerated breathing of the two.

You felt your own body react before you could think.

Your stomach tightened.

Your skin crawled.

Your heart was beating too fast.

Steve placed a firm hand on Bucky's waist, his fingers pressing into the skin as if marking territory, holding him in place. The other hand moved up his back, leaving a slow, possessive trail that elicited another involuntary sound.

Bucky trembled.

The rhythm became erratic for a few seconds—not out of control, but by choice. As if Steve were taking Bucky exactly to the limit, pulling back just enough to pull him back with even more force.

The creaking of the bed intensified.

Steve's breathing became a low growl.

Bucky's… chaos.

“Steve…” the name came out drawn out, almost a complaint. “Damn it, this isn't fair.”

The creaking of the bed marked the change in cadence. Slower. Deeper.

Steve seemed determined to feel every reaction.

“Since when do I play fair with you?” he murmured, his voice too close to Bucky's ear.

A louder sound escaped him. Muffled, tense, as if he were biting his own lip to keep it from coming out.

“Steve…” another hoarse moan, more relaxed now. “Don't stop.”

Steve didn't stop.

He leaned over Bucky, the sound of his breath mingling with the other's, deeper, heavier.

“I never stop when you ask like that” he teased, his voice too low, too intimate.

The rhythm became irregular.

Hidden in the doorway, you had a perfect view of the surroundings: Steve's toned chest, the light sweat spreading across his golden skin, his blond hair swaying with the force of Bucky's thrusts.

Bucky was a delicious sight, his strong arms gripping the sheets, his red, swollen mouth open, releasing hoarse moans, his hips thrusting, his round ass swaying with the force of Steve's hip thrusts.

You'd always imagined what Steve and Bucky fucking would be like, and now that they were right before your eyes, it looked like fucking sinful paradise.

You could feel the wetness gathering in your pussy, your nipples were itching to be touched, your body was loving the show, and your mind was short-circuiting.

"You're trembling," Steve commented, almost satisfied.

"It's your fault," Bucky replied, his voice raspy.

Steve let out a sound that wasn't quite a word. Something between a sigh and a low growl.

The movement returned stronger for a few seconds, and the room filled with that repetitive sound, mixed with the uneven breathing of the two. Bucky let out a louder moan this time, without trying to contain it.

Steve responded immediately, as if that were encouragement.

“That… let me hear you.”

Bucky was already fucked, his mouth open as he felt his g-spot being continuously hit. “Damn, Steve… it’s so good. I can’t…ngh~…”

“You like having your ass fucked while thinking about her sweet pussy, huh? My dick isn’t enough for you, huh?” Steve groaned loudly. “Ahh, you needy slut. But I understand.”

You were absolutely fucked, hearing those words coming from the so-good Steve Rogers, you were hot just from hearing them and you weren’t even being fucked by them.

“Damn! Ah, Steve, I’m going to cum! Shit!” Bucky announced through a moan.

“Go ahead, darling… put on a show for our needy girl… I’m going to fill that tight hole…” Steve purred in his partner’s ear as he continued.

“Aah, fuck yeah! Fill me up, Stevie, fill me up, fill me up—!” Bucky was cut off as his face was pushed against the mattress, muffling him.

You then realized something that made your stomach clench.

They knew you were there. They called you over to watch the two of them fucking, thinking of you.

Steve lowered his hand and began to rapidly masturbate Bucky’s cock, the sound of their hips colliding was insane. It took a few thrusts and Bucky was cumming all over the sheet, thick strands of cum gushing from his cock.

You had never seen such a large amount of cum spilled like that, your pussy tightened around nothing, wanting to feel that thick load inside it.

With a muffled groan escaping Steve's lips, he released his load inside the brunette, releasing Bucky's grip on her ass.

Steve slowly dragged his cock out of Bucky's stretched hole, letting the cum spill out of it.

He smiled proudly, patting Bucky's ass, "You did such a good job taking me, darling... you always do." Steve cooed as he kissed Bucky's shoulder, before turning him onto his back and observing the bed beneath him.

Steve hummed as he saw the sheets, "Oh, you were generous with the load, Buck... imagine how beautiful she'll look with your cum dripping from her pussy. I know you'll be giving the biggest load when you're in that wet pussy."

It was too much for you to hear them openly talking about filling your pussy while they were fucking each other, it was too much for your pussy to handle. You just needed to be fucked by two, to be used by them until you tested the limits of your endurance.

You just didn't know how to approach it. Should you go into the room and ask to join in? What if they yelled at you for watching everything and not joining in sooner?

Steve seemed to have heard your thoughts, and the next thing you heard was your name, so clear and unmistakable.

"What are you waiting for, doll?"

There’s an empty wine bottle on the floor. You’ve eaten crackers for dinner two nights running. Your parents are still on their festive cruise, blissfully toasting to their daughter's engagement, and you're alone with nothing but an old stuffed rabbit for company.

So it’s just you here. You, and the persistent pings of one very desperate ex-fiancé, still trying to text his way out of an affair. Funny how remorse arrived once he realised the closet was empty.

But you’ve ignored every message. That is your one victory. 

He’ll have come home from work to find the apartment gutted. You like to imagine him standing in the doorway, blinking stupidly at the space where your life used to fit, maybe realising a little too late that you don’t get to keep the life you’re careless with.

Outside, the snow hasn’t stopped piling thick and muffling the world, like time itself is trying to bury you. Which feels appropriate, really, because it’s New Year’s Eve, and whilst the rest of the world is out toasting to fresh starts, you’re back in your childhood bedroom.

But eventually, even your wallowing gets restless. You don’t want to spend the day in this bed, alone and vaguely wine-sick, watching reruns and wondering if your ex is feeding someone else dessert from the platter you picked out together.

So you drag yourself upright, trading self-pity for practicality, and make the brave decision to go outside. It’s at least a chance to find something to eat that isn’t square, salted, and designed for toddlers.

⋆·˚ ༘*°🌨️⋆.ೃ☕️࿔*:·༘⋆

Main Street is exactly the same - even the lamp posts are still strung with the same festive garlands the town’s been using since you were in middle school. Everything you’d sworn to outrun at eighteen still sits where you left it, as if the town’s been holding its breath all this time, just to watch you come crawling back.

Snow crunches under your boots as you trudge past shuttered shops and dark windows. You're not sure what you're looking for - maybe just somewhere that doesn't feel like it's still wearing your ghost.

But then you round a corner, and something catches your eye. Tucked away at the edge of the street is a storefront you don’t recognise. 

Howlies' Coffee.

You stop in front of it, snowflakes catching in your lashes, breath hanging in the air like steam. The dark wood sign is painted in clean blocky letters with a little stylised wolf howling at a moon. Warm yellow light spills through the windows like melted butter.

The bell chimes softly as you step inside, heat pouring over you. You’re immediately enveloped by the scent of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon, and the distinct warmth of something fresh out of an oven.

It’s cozy in the way only small-town places know how to be - familiar, but not like somewhere you tried to leave behind. Strings of yellow lights draped across wooden beams, mismatched furniture, and walls lined with sketched artwork.

“Holy shit,” a voice behind the counter exclaims, loud and unmistakably familiar. “it’s you.”

You blink, turning instinctively, and then your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god, Bucky?”

“In the flesh,” he grins, a little crooked, like the past 10 years haven’t passed at all. Like he’s still the same smug bastard who used to copy your maths homework and charm his way out of detention.

And really, like the rest of the town, he hasn’t changed much. Same smirk. Same cocky, yet annoyingly charming, tilt of the head. His hair is longer now, however, tied back in a stubby knot that suits him far too well. 

"God," he exhales, leaning forward, "I thought we'd never see you again after your big move to the city." There's no edge to it, just casual observation, but you still wince like you ghosted the whole town.

“Yeah,” you say, voice scraping awkwardness off your tongue. “The big move. Very adult. Lots of overpriced rent and poor decisions I now get to call growth.”

Bucky snorts. “Sounds about right. You just back for the holidays?” 

Your heart clenches, ribs tightening like they’re bracing for impact. You look down, suddenly fascinated with a loose thread on your sleeve, and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, just to have something to do with your hands.

“Something like that,” you murmur, noncommittal, forcing a smile that feels about as real as it looks. “This place is gorgeous, by the way,” you add, keen to redirect the conversation.

Bucky lets you have it. Doesn’t press.

“Yeah, we opened a couple years ago,” he says, glancing around with a kind of quiet pride. “It’s been a journey, but we’re proud of the place.”

“We?” you echo, brow lifting.

“Steve and I,” he replies, like it’s obvious. “You remember Steve, right?”

Of course you do.

You remember the boy with too much heart and not nearly enough body to carry it. The boy who showed up to every fight whether he belonged there or not, who bled easy and healed slow and never once learned the lesson the world kept trying to beat into him. The boy who stood up for you on the playground and got knocked down twice as hard for it.

Of course you remember Steve Rogers. How could you not?

There’s the faint clink of ceramic from the kitchen, a domestic sound that pulls you back into the present.

“Buck,” a voice calls, familiar in a way that makes you still. “Did you write this list drunk?” There’s a pause, then the voice again, closer this time, fondly exasperated in a way that feels intimate. “Seriously, pal. I can’t tell if this says ‘milk’ or ‘mail.’ We gotta talk about this.”

The owner of the voice appears in the doorway mid sentence, looking down at the paper in his hands, brow furrowed in concentration. For half a second, your brain refuses to cooperate. 

It tries to overlay the memory it knows - skinny shoulders hunched over a sketchbook, fingers stained with ink - onto the man stepping into the light, and the images won’t line up. They slide past each other like mismatched transparencies.

This is not the scrawny Steve Rogers you remember.

This version fills the doorway without trying, broad shoulders almost touching the frame, like the world finally decided to build him the way his heart always suggested it should

There’s a sweater situation happening - cream, cable-knit, rolled sleeves. And it’s unfair, frankly, that forearms like that exist on a man who once tripped over his own backpack strap. It fits slightly too well across his chest, the knit straining just enough to suggest it’s losing a battle against whatever’s underneath.

But then Steve lifts his head, and when he finally meets your eyes, it’s catastrophic. 

Because it is still him. Still Steve. The same gentle blue eyes, widening just a fraction as they land on you. The same mouth pulling into that shy, lopsided smile you remember from tenth grade.

For a heartbeat, he just looks at you, like he’s making sure you’re real, like if he blinks too hard you might turn back into a memory.

“Wow,” he finally exhales. “Sunshine… it’s been a while.”

You laugh. A short, startled thing that slips out before you can stop it, half amusement, half what the hell else are you supposed to do with this?

“Yeah,” you reply, stunned, because words are suddenly very hard. “Guess so.”

There’s a pause where nothing useful happens in your head. Then, grasping for something, you try again. “You look…” you trail off, helpless, because good doesn’t cut it. “…different,” you finish weakly. Coward.

Steve lets out a chuckle immediately, warm and self-deprecating, like he’s been waiting for that exact word. He ducks his head, one big hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says, sheepish. “I get that a lot. Puberty showed up about a decade late, but I filled out eventually.” 

He glances down at himself like he’s only just noticed his own body, then back up at you. “Still me, though. Promise.”

You swear you catch the ghost of that old boyish awkwardness under all that new muscle. It hits you right in the chest, sharp and fond, and something reckless stirs in its wake.

So what if your ex-fiancé broke your heart. So what if everything feels a little scorched at the edges. Maybe a concentrated dose of the new Steve Rogers is exactly what you need.

You tilt your head, let your gaze linger openly now, unapologetic. “Well, thank God for late bloomers,” you add, teasing. “And lucky me, showing up just in time to enjoy the finished product.”

Steve goes still. Just for a second. Then he lets out a huffed breath of a laugh, as if to brush it off. But you catch the pink creeping up his neck. Bingo.

Steve clears his throat. “You want anything? Coffee's on the house for returning hometown legends.”

You give him your order, then let your gaze linger, a deliberate smile curing your mouth. “Free coffee, shameless flattery, and a view like this? You really know how to pull them in, Rogers.”

Steve doesn’t even blink, smile easy and unguarded, already turning back toward the machine. “Oh, yeah. Howlies does pretty well for itself,” he nods, like that’s what you meant. “Lots of loyal locals, word of mouth et cetera…”

He trials off, completely unaware that your flirting just bounced off him like a pebble against a boulder.

You bite the inside of your cheek, mildly stunned, then amused. Maybe you’re a little rusty, maybe heartbreak dulled your edge, but that’s fine. You can be patient.

You watch him work. Watch him move with easy confidence as he reaches for the grinder, shoulders shifting beneath that poor, overstretched sweater. He finishes up quickly, sliding the mug across the counter, sleeves pushed up, veins tracing lazy lines along his skin.

Your gaze drops there and lingers, unsubtle. “Damn, Steve,” you exhale. “Those arms…You been lifting cars or something?”

Bucky chokes on a laugh from behind the counter

Steve laughs, ducking his head, still bashful despite the size of him now. “Mostly bags of coffee,” he replies, grin crooked. “Take a seat wherever you like, maybe grab a book too.” He nods towards the bookshelf labeled ‘Take a Book, Leave a Book’.

You tilt your head as he turns away, waiting for any flicker of realisation, but it doesn’t come. Your smile goes a little wry, baffled and amused all at once. Either you’ve completely lost your touch, or he’s is the most aggressively oblivious man on the planet.

You take the mug, thank him, and make a tactical retreat before you embarrass yourself further. Grabbing a random book off the shelf, you settle into a chair in the corner with your coffee and a huff of quiet laughter.

⋆·˚ ༘*°🌨️⋆.ೃ☕️࿔*:·༘⋆

Time slips quietly. For the first time in days, your shoulders actually start to relax. You're three chapters deep and entirely too invested in a fictional detective's marital problems when you finally surface.

The cafe is quiet. Too quiet.

You blink, glancing up from the page, and realise with a jolt that the place is empty. The string lights now glow soft against the darkening windows, chairs stacked on tables, the kind of end-of-day stillness that makes you feel like you've overstayed a welcome.

"Oh god," you mutter, checking your phone. Two hours. You've been here two hours, absorbed in your book while the place closed up around you. 

Movement catches your eye. Steve, wiping down the counter with easy efficiency, sleeves still rolled up, looking utterly unbothered, like this is exactly where he planned to be. Like he’s not in any rush at all. When he notices you watching, he just smiles.

"Good book?" he asks, like it's natural you've stayed past closing “Buck picks them out. He likes making sure there’s something for everyone.”

“I—yeah—shit—sorry, I completely lost track of time," you say, already gathering your things, face warming. "I should’ve—"

"Don't worry about it, Sunshine" he interrupts gently, tossing the rag aside. "I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to stay.”

And there’s something in the easy way he says it that makes your chest to something stupid. 

You straighten in your seat, trying not to seem flustered. “I didn’t realise it had gotten so late. Has everyone else gone?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at the door. “Bucky already ducked out to spend new years’ with his folks. I was supposed to go with him, but…” He shrugs, his mouth quirking. “Didn’t want to rush.”

You blink. Your heart thuds. “You stayed for me?”

He shrugs again, as if it’s not a big deal. “Didn’t want to kick you out. You looked like you needed the quiet.”

You stand slowly, stretching out legs that had been curled for far too long, and cross toward the window. The glass is fogged, but you can still make out the heavy curtain of white blanketing the street. Snow’s coming down heavy now, piling fast, the streetlights haloed and blurred.

Your breath fogs the glass. You press a hand to it absently. “Oh shit,” you murmur.

Steve's beside you in a moment, following your gaze, and frowns a little. “Damn, it got bad fast." He glances at you, brow creasing slightly. "You weren't planning to walk home in this, were you?”

You wince, just slightly, at the thought of trudging back through that snowstorm. “It’s not that far,” you lie.

He hesitates just a beat, then nods like he’s decided something simple and obvious. “No way you’re walking home in that. I’ll drive.” He shrugs, casual, already reaching for his keys.

“Steve, really, it’s fine—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in gently, voice firm but warm. “It’s freezing and dark - please, let me drive you.”

You open your mouth to protest again, but the look on his face brooks no argument.

“Okay,” you relent, “Thanks, Steve.”

⋆·˚ ༘*°🌨️⋆.ೃ☕️࿔*:·༘⋆

The drive settles into loaded quiet. Snow streaks sideways in the headlights, the heater humming, the pineapple air freshener swaying.

You sit angled toward the window, watching the world go soft around the edges, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of the man sitting next to you. But, inevitably, you start watching Steve instead.

The set of his jaw. The way his grip shifts when he turns a corner, forearms flexing. You tell yourself you’re being subtle about it. You are not. At one point, you glance over and catch his eyes already on you, lingering slightly before he turns back to the road. His throat bobs around a swallow.

The silence stretches, grows warm, a little charged, like it’s daring one of you to do something about it. 

Then he pulls up outside your place, tires crunching softly into the snowbank. You both sit for a moment too long. You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly, fingers fumbling a little more than they should, before thanking him for the ride and the coffee.

Steve huffs a breath through his nose, smile soft. “Anytime.”

You hesitate just long enough to curse yourself, then push through it. “Hey, Steve, are you still heading to Bucky’s folks’?”

He blinks slowly, thinking. Before placing at the snow piling on your curb. “With the snow coming down like this, I’ll probably just head home. It’s closer”

“Oh,” you say, carefully casual, “I mean…it would be a shame for us both to spend New Year’s alone.” You pause. “You’re welcome to come inside - I’d appreciate the company.”

Steve hesitates, visibly weighing it, earnest to a fault. “I don’t want to impose,”

You tilt your head, smile turning a little wicked. “Come on Stevie, don’t make me beg you to come inside.”

The blush hits fast - ears, neck, all of it - and he laughs under his breath, embarrassed and utterly undone, though you think it might be more from the childhood nickname rather than the innuendo.

He nods once, decisive now. “Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Okay. That’d be nice. We could catch up.”

You almost roll your eyes. Almost. If it weren’t so Steve, so painfully, stupidly genuine, it would be laughable. But it’s also warm and tugging at your chest in ways you don’t want to name just yet.

Inside, you kick off your boots by the door. Steve follows, pausing just long enough to stomp the snow off his soles, one shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he steps past.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, nodding toward the couch. “I’ll grab us something to drink.”

Steve does as he’s told, settling onto the cushions with an easy sprawl, like the place already knows him. You pause, watching him for half a second too long - how unfairly broad he looks, making your three seater seem like a two - then clear your throat.

“Fair warning,” you add, casually, “the couch is seriously comfy. It’s dangerous really. People tend to stay longer than they mean to.”

He huffs a laugh and sinks back further, one arm draped along the back. “Yeah? I can see that.”

You head for the kitchen. “Also,” you toss over your shoulder, unable to help yourself, “a surprisingly decent place to make out. If you don’t mind getting stabbed by rogue remote controls.”

That gets a louder laugh, head tipping back, utterly delighted. “Wow,” he says. “Haven’t made out on a couch in years.”

You smile to yourself as you grab the wine, already mentally filing that away.

You come back from the kitchen with two glasses and the bottle tucked against your side, nudging the living room light dimmer just slightly as you pass. 

Steve’s right where you left him, leaning back on the couch, still looking unfairly at ease in your childhood living room. You hand him a glass and sit beside him, close enough that your knees nearly brush, close enough that you notice the heat of him.

Conversation slips into place like it was always meant to. You tease him lightly, let your knee brush his once or twice.  Let your fingers graze his when you pass the bottle back and forth. You lace your words with intent, with edges, with invitations that feel obvious to you. He laughs at every one like it’s just a game you’re playing out of nostalgic habit.

But he also listens like every word matters. Leans in when you speak and asks questions that aren’t small talk. He remembers details you didn’t realise you’d given him, and circles back to them later like he’s been holding onto them carefully.

It’s disarming, unfair, and completely charming.

And somewhere between topping off your glasses and his gentle, “What really brought you home?” the wine loosens something you weren’t planning to untie. The humour drains out of your voice before you can stop it.

“My fiancé—ex-fiancé, I guess—was having an affair,” you say, staring into your glass. “Months. I didn’t even know.”

The words keep coming once they start. You talk about leaving. About packing. About coming back to a house that still knew you when you didn’t quite know yourself anymore. Steve doesn’t interrupt, he just remains, solid and warm at your side. The kind of presence you can lean against without being asked.

When you finally run out of words, a heavy silence follows.

You laugh suddenly, brittle, and take a long sip of wine before slumping back. “God,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Listen to me. You did not sign up for this.”

He starts to say something, but you barrel on, groaning. 

“Seriously, Steve. This is not how I planned to spend New Year’s Eve.” You glance at him sideways, half-laughing now. “This is what happens when you ignore all my attempts to get you to sleep with me. Why couldn’t you just be a typical man and take the damn hint?”

Steve’s head jerks up, eyes snapping to yours, wide. “Wait. You’ve been—what?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Unbelievable. Do you mean to tell me I’ve been dropping hints all night and you just, what, thought I was joking?”

His mouth opens. Closes. His brows knit together like the ground has shifted under his feet. “I didn’t think you meant it,” he says carefully. “You weren’t that obvious

Your fingers part. You peer at him through them, eyes narrowing despite the smile that’s tugging at your mouth. “Excuse me? Are you saying my game is bad?”

Steve laughs, the sound a little bashful, but his eyes flick down to your lips before he answers, and it changes something in the air.

“I’m saying if this is your game,” His voice drops into something more deliberate. “It needs work.”

Heat crawls up your neck - not embarrassment anymore, but something sharper.

“Fine,” you murmur, setting your glass aside, your body angling toward his. “Then let me make my intentions very obvious.”

You don’t wait for him to respond.

You grab a fistful of his sweater, yank him toward you, and crash your mouth to his. There’s a split second of startled heat, his breath hitching against your lips, before it melts into a low, rough groan, the kind that vibrates straight through his chest and into you as he kisses you back.

The kiss becomes messy fast, all heat and want and the sharp taste of wine on his tongue as he kisses you like he’s done being careful and has no intention of stopping. And then his hands are suddenly everywhere - one at your waist, the other sliding up your back, his grip possessive in a way that steals your breath.

Then he’s pulling you closer, easily tugging you onto his lap like you weigh nothing. Like the space between you was always a mistake. Like straddling his thighs is exactly where you’re meant to be. 

The control in it makes your stomach flip. You moan into the kiss, needy, and he takes the sound for the permission it is, tongue sliding into your mouth with a greedy, deliberate press that has your whole body tightening.

His sweater is the first casualty. You tug it up and over his head, breathless, fingers dragging along heated skin as he lifts his arms to help.

“Jesus Christ, Steve…” you whisper against his mouth, palms sliding down his chest, fingertips greedily tracing the muscle until you reach the hard line of his jeans.

He groans, hips twitching when your fingers press against the thick bulge straining behind the denim. “Fuck—”

His mouth leaves yours only to trail open, hungry kisses down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. One big hand slips beneath your shirt, tugging your bra up until your breast spills into his palm. His grip his firm, thumb pinching your nipple so you gasp and arch against him.

“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth hot against your throat. “Always knew you’d be sweet.”

You whimper at the praise, hips shifting restlessly in his lap, breath stuttering, “Steve—please, I need—”

He groans at that, low and wrecked, and you swear you feel him throb beneath you.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he coos, voice dark with promise. He his free hand slides under the waistband of your jeans, sure fingers slipping past the fabric until they find the slick heat between your thighs, already soaked for him.

Steve curses, low and guttural, the sound vibrating against your mouth as he kisses you again, needier this time, like the feel of you has tipped something over inside him. His fingers stroke through your folds, spreading you open, slow and deliberate, before his thumb finds your clit and presses down.

You jolt, gasping into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders as pleasure sparks through you. “Oh, fuck—Steve.”

“That’s it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, as his thumb keeps working slow, devastating circles over your clit. “You just let me make you feel good. I’ll give you what you need, baby. I’ll give you everything.”

Then he sinks a thick finger inside you and groans outright when you clamp around him, your walls fluttering with desperate need. He adds a second, stretching you open, and you cry out, hips jerking in his lap.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, voice breaking. “You’re so tight for me.”

The pressure builds fast, sharp and hot, breathless moans spilling from you with every drag of his thumb over your clit. His fingers pump slow and deep, curling just right, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.

He rests his forehead to yours, breath ragged, eyes locked on your face like he needs to watch you come apart for him.

“Good girl,” he mutters, wrecked, as your walls flutter around him. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it. Let me feel that pretty pussy come on my fingers.”

And it’s like his voice drags your orgasm from you, hot and all consuming, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your breath catches in a desperate cry of his name, as your body locks up, soaking his hand

Steve groans like he feels it too, swallowing your moans in a kiss, fingers still working you through it, coaxing every last shudder from your body.

But your orgasm doesn’t satisfy the ache, only sharpens it, twisting your need for him into something hungrier. Your hands go straight to his jeans, fumbling with his belt, fingers trembling with urgency as you try to undo it

“God—” Steve rumbles, catching your wrists with one hand, eyes squeezed shut like it’s costing him everything not to give in. “Don’t—please.”

“Steve, please,” your voice trembles with need. “I need you, need to feel you.”

The low, restrained, sound he makes nearly undoes you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your neck.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that?” he utters, voice cracking at the edges. “But I can’t. Not like this. Not just tonight.”

You freeze, heart thudding.

He exhales hard, chest rising and falling against yours, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, like the words are dragging themselves out of him. “I’ve wanted you since we were kids. Before the growth spurts. Before sweaters actually fit me. Back when you’d smile at me in the hallway and I’d blush so hard I couldn’t breathe.”

“When you left—” his voice breaks, and you feel the shudder that runs through him. “When you left it felt like something got carved out of me. And I thought that was it.”

He lifts his head then, eyes searching yours - wide, uncertain, and far too full of feeling.

“So if this is just a one-time thing for you, if you’re hurting and I’m just convenient, then I can’t.” His jaw flexes, throat working around a swallow. “Because it wouldn’t be casual for me. The truth—”

He catches himself, almost doesn’t say it, then forces it out.

“The truth is, I’d fall in love with you. All over again. And it would tear me apart trying to shove it back down this time.”

You don’t even know what expression you’re making. Your mind just keeps looping in love with you, in love with you, echoing in his voice, low and raw. You should say something - God, you should say something - but all you can do is stare wide-eyed, heart caught in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears.

His thumb brushes gently along your cheek, as if to ground himself.

“Steve…” It slips out, barely a whisper. You blink like you’re still not sure you heard him right.

But he’s not finished. He swallows again, his eyes burning into yours.

“I don’t want to be something you look back on and shrug off,” he continues. “I want to take you out. Walk you to your door. Bring you flowers. Kiss you goodnight. Be the man who gets you, not just for a night, but as long as you’ll let me.”

“Because you mean everything to me,” he adds quietly. “You always have.”

The way he looks at you, hopeful and afraid in equal measure, makes something ache deep in your chest. Because this isn’t a line. This is Steve, laying himself bare and asking you to choose him, not just his body.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, voice dropping, eyes flicking downward. “I didn’t mean to dump that on you. I just—I couldn’t keep pretending. But if you don’t want that, if it was just tonight for you,” his voice dips, soft with pain. “It’ll break my heart less if I stop now.”

You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flex like he’s restraining himself from reaching for you again. He’s giving you space. But your mind is already made.

“Then I guess you’d better take me on that date, Stevie,” you whisper, breath warm against his lips. “Because we’ve got years of catching up to do.”

A smile blooms across his lips, small and boyish and so goddamn sweet it hurts worse than the ache still pulsing low in your belly.

“Yeah?” he breathes.

“Yeah.”

He kisses you again, slow and lingering, before pulling you against his chest. You curl into him, breathing in the warmth of his skin, the clean spice of his cologne, and the comforting trace of coffee that clings to him. 

Outside, the snow still falls heavy. Inside, Steve holds you close, and you count in the new year with the sound of his heart keeping time against yours.

He hadn’t done anything more than present you with a very see through negligee and told you to change so you looked as pretty as he’d been fantasizing about, but you didn’t think he’d have the same gentle patience and soft touch as Steve, or the kind of calm confidence that would make you feel safe and grounded like Curtis.

No, as you stood before Lloyd now, unable to meet his gaze as he slowly circled you like a hungry predator gearing up for the feast of his life, you were just plain old nervous.

Too lost in your own thoughts, you didn’t realize that Lloyd had moved away, retreating to sit on the foot of his bed. 

“Come here, doll face.” 

You startled at his voice, eyes wide as your head snapped up and you met his smoky gaze. He seemed simply delighted by your deer in headlights demeanor, shooting you a wicked grin as he patted his thick thigh in invitation. 

As you hedged closer, he nodded toward you, his eyes drifting over the length of your barely clad body. 

“Do you like it?” he purred. 

You swallowed as you stood right before him now, glancing down at the lacy lingerie because it seemed less daunting than trying to hold Lloyd’s hungry gaze. 

“Um, it’s very pretty, thank you.”

“It’s sexy, just like you.”

“Oh my goodness, I’m not sexy,” you denied that claim without even thinking, feeling your face burn as you hugged yourself to try to hide, just a little.  

Lloyd groaned, licking his lips as he rumbled, “Fuck, you know how long it’s been since I’ve fucked a shy cupcake like you?” 

He reached for you, tugging you into his lap and grinning as you squeaked at the sudden movement as you sprawled against him, your wide eyes darting to his.

“M’gonna eat you alive,” he hummed against your temple, his nose skimming along your skin before he pressed a shockingly innocent kiss to your very warm cheek. 

You squealed as Lloyd suddenly turned and manhandled you to the center of the bed. He urged you up a little further, positioning you on your hands and knees before he was  pressing a large, warm palm between your shoulders and easing your head down. 

“Relax, pumpkin,” he cooed at you, feeling the tension in your body as he shifted closer. 

He touched you with both hands then, taking his time as he mapped your body and the thin fabric keeping a majority of your skin from his. Lloyd massaged your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots holding most of your tension, and you could only moan in surprise at how good it felt, your body going more and more pliant the longer he touched you. 

“Good girl,” he purred, his hands falling away from your shoulders to cup your sides. 

You gasped as he reached around you to palm your breasts, giving them a firm grope that had you mewling as you squirmed before him.

“Fuck, you’re such a responsive thing. I’ve barely touched you, and look at how needy you are already.”

Whining, you buried your face into the blanket, your face flooding with another wave of warmth as Lloyd let out a raspy laugh behind you. 

Still, despite his teasing, you sensed there wasn’t anything mean or malicious about it. If anything, he sounded truly pleased by your reactions to him. 

That’s about as far as your brain got with thinking before you felt Lloyd easing your negligee up, until it pooled along your upper back. You shivered at the cool air of the room, or maybe it was the way that Lloyd’s fingers were curling against the sides of your panties. 

He tugged them down, maneuvering one of your legs and then the other until he could pull them off you completely. Even though you couldn’t see him in your current position, you could hear the way Lloyd inhaled deeply before giving the kind of primal, obscene groan that had your pussy fluttering wildly as you realized he’d just sniffed your panties.

A beat later, you felt him shift behind you on the bed. Then his hands were back on you, sliding up the back of your thighs and rounding the curve of your ass. Lloyd gave another groan as he palmed an ass cheek in each hand before tugging them apart and giving them a lewd jiggle.

“God damn, you’ve got a body on you, cupcake.”

Laughing at your muffled embarrassed whine, Lloyd pressed a kiss to the small of your back, then to each of your ass cheeks. He shoved your legs as wide as they could go before his tongue was on your cunt, dragging up along your slit in a broad stroke that had you keening and rocking forward on the bed. 

Humming at the taste of you, Lloyd lapped at your clit, chuckling into your folds as you squeaked and squealed some more as you writhed as his sudden lustful onslaught. 

“What a tasty pussy you have,” he cooed, thumbing your folds apart so he could tongue at your drippy hole. “M’gonna make you ride my face one night, you just wait. But not tonight, cupcake. We gotta save some stuff for later so we have something to look forward to.”

And then he stopped talking and started eating your cunt with relish.

You’d never been in such an open, vulnerable position. All you could do was writhe and rock and keen as Lloyd devoured your pussy like he’d been waiting his entire life to get his mouth on you.

He wasn’t shy about it either, slurping and groaning, his fingers joining in to tease your clit until you were begging him to make you cum and he was tutting, “Not yet, you don’t get to cum until it’s around my cock,” into your messy folds before going at you all over again. 

You were genuinely teary after what felt like the umpteenth time Lloyd denied you of your orgasm, shoving back against him with a pitiful whine as his tongue dipped just inside your needy hole before dancing away again. 

“Please! Please!”

“Such a needy and messy cupcake,” Lloyd teased, rubbing at your sopping, slick-smeared cunt with his entire hand before giving it a smack. 

You shrieked as pleasure!pain zipped from your clit through the rest of you, feeling your insides flutter and yearn for more as Lloyd nuzzled along your thighs before skimming his lips higher.

The next time you felt his tongue, it was lapping at your virgin rosebud, and you yelped as you jerked forward, trying to clamp your legs closed against that.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” Lloyd laughed, wrenching your legs wide once more before he tongued at your tightest hole until you were moaning and sagging against the bed in supplication. “Thatta girl.”

He continued to kiss and tongue at your asshole, his fingers straying back to your swollen clit to reward you with some rubs and swirls that had you whining again–babbling for more–as you rocked back against him. 

“Fuck,” Lloyd groaned, giving your rosebud a final lick before he was rising up behind you. “You’ve got me so hard, it hurts. C’mere, cupcake, time to return the favor.”

Your entire body was trembling with need, your skin slick with sweat and your brain foggy as you eased up to your hands and knees and looked over to Lloyd with glossy eyes. 

He was in the middle of undressing, and completely shameless about it as he bared his ridiculously fit body and all of those finely toned muscles that you couldn’t help but ogle. 

When your dazed gaze returned to his, he was grinning big and proud before shooting you a wink and shucking off his boxer briefs before standing before you completely naked. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, spreading his legs wide as his hand fell to take his big, hard cock in hand. “C’mere, cupcake. Get on your knees for me, I want that pretty mouth on my cock.”

Your lips parted in surprise, nerves fluttering through your chest even as your pussy fluttered for an entirely different reason. Eyeing his thick length with uncertainty, you gingerly moved closer to him before easing off of the bed and sinking to your knees between his spread legs. 

“I-I’ve never…” you trailed off, shyly humiliated as you confessed the level of your inexperience to Lloyd. 

“Well isn’t it my lucky day?” he grinned at you, winking as you shyly peeked up at him from beneath your lashes. “No need to be embarrassed. We all start somewhere, and I’ll coach you through it.”

And Lloyd did just that, urging you closer as he continued to slowly stroke and squeeze his cock as you got an up close view of the way the crown of it dribbled with beads of pre-cum. 

“Go on, have a taste. Fair’s fair.”

It felt like your face was on fire, but you couldn’t seem to stop your body from swaying forward, your wide eyes mesmerized by the sight of Lloyd’s cock, the way the vein at the underside bulged and a new wave of pre-cum overflowed, just for you. 

Tentatively, you pressed your hands to his thighs to give you proper balance, your eyes flickering to Lloyd’s and finding his gaze so dark it looked black as he aimed his cock your way and gave a gravelly hum of encouragement. 

Unable to look away from his searing gaze, you hesitated for a brief second before you were lapping at the head of his cock with your tongue, and tasting the salty brine of his cream exploding all along your taste buds.

“Fuccccck me sideways,” Lloyd groaned, his head dropping back for a beat before he was once again eyeing you up like he wanted to eat you alive. “Do that again.”

You did, allowing your tongue to linger this time. And then your curiosity got the best of you–and overrode your nerves entirely–as you reached for his cock with trembling fingers. 

You took a moment to allow your soft touch to glide up and down the stiff length of him, then your thumb was tracing that bulging vein and your pussy was fluttering and clenching as you wondered if you’d feel it once he started to fuck you. 

Lloyd groaned out a shaky breath as your hand encircled his shaft, his own hands falling away to grip the edge of the bed as you started to slowly stroke up and down. 

“That’s it, get it a little wet too. Spread my pre-cum around and use your spit if you have to.”

Cheeks blazing, you did as he said, smearing his pre-cum up and down his shaft before letting your saliva pool on your tongue and licking your way up his cock, then doing it again, and again, until his erection was shining with your spit and your hand could glide easier along the length of him now. 

“Yessssss,” Lloyd moaned, his hips rutting into your grip as he panted, “Grip it firmer now, you won’t hurt me. It’ll feel fucking divine.” 

Following Lloyd’s direction, you gripped him more firmly, moving your hand up and down a little faster now and watching as his defined ab muscles flexed and jumped as he moaned without shame. 

He didn’t even need to tell you to use your mouth some more, you wanted to. You wanted to see what it felt like to have the weight of his cock on your tongue, and you were dying to see how he’d react, too. So you leaned forward, guided his cock to your lips, and parted them around it before easing him into your mouth.

“Hnnnngh,” Lloyd husked, his hand shooting out to grip the back of your neck, just resting there as you slowly started to bob your head and suck him off. “Fuck, that’s it. You’re a natural.”

A wave of pride swelled within you, even as a wave of slick gushed from between your legs, and you worked Lloyd’s cock with your mouth more enthusiastically before pulling away to catch your breath. 

You wiped the pool of spit from the side of your mouth, leaning back in to tongue at the head of him. You took just the tip of him into your mouth, suckling on it gently before licking the new drops of pre-cum from his head, ready to draw him back into your mouth when Lloyd gripped your shoulder and told you to ease up. 

Looking concerned, you pulled away immediately, but Lloyd was grinning at you, his cheeks flushed and his nostrils flaring. 

“I did okay? It was…good?” you asked hopefully. 

“So good I almost blew my load down that pretty throat of yours, but I’d rather fill that sweet cunt with my cream instead.” Lloyd waggled his eyebrows at you, grinning wider as you visibly squirmed in response to his words. 

“Come on, you’re gonna ride me until we both cum.” Lloyd slid back on the bed and stretched out. 

He patted his lower pelvis before tucking his hands behind his head and waiting for you to hop to. 

Feeling shy all over again, you slowly followed suit, pausing beside him on the bed before your eyes fell to his hard cock that was pressed against his belly. 

God, you really wanted to feel it inside of you. 

The thought overtook your mind entirely, and you were like a moth mesmerized by a flame as you carefully straddled Lloyd’s hips before reaching for his cock. You rose up on your knees, guiding him between your legs and gently dragging him against your soaked folds.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Lloyd encouraged you on a gritty rasp as you moaned and rubbed his cock against your aching clit. “Fill up that needy hole so I can fuck you like we both need.”

Once again, you did exactly as Lloyd directed, guiding his hard cock to your entrance and slowly easing down on him little by little. 

Lloyd wasn’t so casual now, his hands reaching to grip your hips and his eyes glued to wear your pussy swallowed his cock, inch by inch. He didn’t rush you though, enjoying the way you took your time, the way you kept letting out sharp gasps and little, “Oh”s each time you thought you reached your limit but realized you could take more. 

By the time you were settling against him, and he was buried to the hilt, his fingers were digging into your flesh so hard it hurt, and you were whining at being so full and needing so much more still. 

You started moving of your own volition, first just rocking against Lloyd, writhing as your cunt clenched and fluttered around him. You barely noticed when he reached up and tugged off your negligee, baring your naked body to him completely. 

He palmed both your tits and gave them a squeeze, plucking sharply at your hard nipples and making you squeak before he once again gripped your hips in his hands and encouraged your eager movements. 

“Rise up a little, cupcake, let me fuck this tight cunt.”

Moaning, you pressed your hands to Lloyd’s firm stomach for balance, easing up before sinking back down on his cock with a delighted keen. 

“Fuck, that’s it, keep going,” he groaned. 

Soon, you were bouncing on Lloyd’s cock so enthusiastically that he could barely keep up with you. 

It felt so good, the way he filled you up over and over again, his cock thrusting so deep in your pussy, making your insides clench and release, grip and flutter. But still, it wasn’t quite enough to get you there. 

“Please, I need…I need…more,” you whined, exhaustion slowly seeping its way through your body even as you desperately yearned for release.

“You don’t gotta ask me twice,” Lloyd hummed. 

He gathered you against him, arranging you so you were laying on top of him, chest to chest. Then he planted his feet on the bed and began to pound into you, making you squeal and moan and keen his name. 

The sound of skin clapping filling the room, but that wasn’t the only sound ringing out around you. You could hear how absolutely soaked your pussy was, the way it squelched each and every time Lloyd’s cock shoved its way inside you. 

Moaning without shame, you rutted against the eager, relentless thrusts of Lloyd’s cock, digging your hand between your bodies to rub your clit. Just as your thighs started to shake, Lloyd’s hand eased around the curve of your ass. 

You felt his touch dip between your legs, and then his slick-covered finger was suddenly at your asshole, pushing against the tight ring of muscle that had never been breached before.

You squealed at the unexpected intrusion, gasping as Lloyd’s thick finger began to fill your ass. He fucked you with it in time with his cock pounding into your pussy without relent, and before you could fully process the fact that both of your holes were being filled now, you were cumming so hard, you nearly blacked out. 

Your keen of release was loud and ragged, your body clenching and releasing over and over again as bliss speckled along every inch of your body from head to toe. 

Vaguely, you were aware of Lloyd reaching his own release, gasping as you felt him shove into you hard and deep and give shallow ruts as he pumped you full of his cum with a throaty, wordless drone.

As he went still and boneless beneath you with a satisfied groan, you just laid atop him–dead weight–as you panted and trembled with stray aftershocks as you clung to him. 

You didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt Lloyd gently thumb away the trail of tears along your cheek. 

“You okay, pumpkin?”

At the sound of his genuine concern–which was like another little shock all by itself–you tilted your face up, blinking owlishly as you tried to string together a sentence. You nodded instead, words still lost to you, but Lloyd’s responding smile was soft and warm and had your insides fluttering for a different reason now. 

“Goddamn, you’re a fantastic lay.” He laughed as you shyly buried your face against his chest to hide, gently petting your head in a way that had you sinking against him more and more, your body so pleasantly pliant now. 

Once you started to yawn and struggled to keep your eyes open, you sighed, peeking up at Lloyd. 

You had done what you had come here to do, and even though you were learning that you enjoyed affection after sex–needed it to reground after being so vulnerable–you weren’t sure if Lloyd was into that or wanted company now that the deed had been done.

Even though your stomach sank as you did so, you murmured out a quiet, “Do you…want me to go now?”

“Fuck no,” Lloyd answered immediately, looking a little offended by your question. At your reticent look, he softened, giving you a small smile. “We’re gonna get you all cleaned up and then you’re warming my bed tonight, cupcake. Don’t tell anyone, but even exceptionally scary!hot mercenaries like to cuddle.”

The giggle was spilling from your lips before you could help it. Feeling relief, and something more–something soft and needy in a different way–you couldn’t help but ask, “Can I kiss you? Please?”

Something in Lloyd’s twinkling gaze warmed exponentially, and he was sporting his own soft smile as he murmured, “Yeah you can. Get over here.”

Gripping your bare ass in his hands, Lloyd hefted you up his body, tipping his face back and catching your lips with his before he kissed you with the kind of desire–for just this, just tasting you in a more innocent way–that had what felt like a million tiny butterflies taking flight in your belly. 

Murmuring wordlessly, you sank against him more fully, framing Lloyd’s face in your hands and losing yourself to his kisses. To each and every press of his lips against yours, to every stroke and tease of his talented tongue. 

Until getting cleaned up–and ending this moment between you, this gentle intimacy that you craved so much–was the furthest thing from your mind. 

Not me crying that I finally wrote something new 😭

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