the big lychee

He blinked up at you, the confusion momentarily breaking through his mask. He tried to recover, tilting his head back with a lopsided, sleazy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What’s this?" he murmured, his voice rough and thick with a hunger he could no longer hide. "You finally decided to give in?"

You didn't answer.

Instead, you reached for a spare blade on the coffee table, the cold steel catching the dim light. With a deliberate motion, you pricked the pads of your fingertips, the small droplets of blood welling up instantly. Dean’s pupils dilated, his gaze locking onto your hand with a predatory intensity that made the air between you heavy and thick.

You reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair to tilt his head back, exposing his throat and forcing him to look up at you. The sleazy grin faltered, replaced by a raw, desperate yearning. You pressed your fingers against his lips, the scent of your blood hitting him like a physical blow.

"Suck," you commanded, your voice low and devoid of warmth.

He didn't hesitate.

The moment his lips parted, the last of his bravado vanished. He lunged forward with a low, guttural sound, his mouth enveloping your fingertips with a desperate, uncoordinated hunger. The sensation was electric, the warmth of his mouth, the frantic pull of his tongue as he tried to draw every precious drop from your skin.

As he fed, you didn't make it easy. You leaned back, watching him with a look of amused disdain, your free hand winding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

When he began to suck too hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your fingertips with a sharp, stinging pressure, you gave a firm, punishing tug. He let out a muffled, choked sound against your hand, nearly gagging as you forced his rhythm to break, making him struggle for air before he could settle back into the feast.

"Look at you," you whispered, your voice dripping with a mocking sweetness that cut through the heavy silence of the bunker. "Needed your best friend this bad, huh, Dean?" You let out a sharp, mocking huff of laughter, watching the way his throat worked as he swallowed greedily.

The sight of the legendary hunter, reduced to a kneeling, desperate animal at your feet, was a delicious irony. "Fucking bastard. Just using me for blood, aren't you? All that whining just to get you to this point."

He tried to pull back for a second, a flash of wounded pride flickering in his dark, blown out eyes. But you tightened your grip on his hair, pulling his head back sharply to keep him anchored. He let out a low, needy whine that was far more animal than man.

"Don't you dare stop," you hissed, your voice a blend of command and condescension. You leaned forward, your eyes tracing the frantic movement of his jaw. You deliberately slid your fingers deeper into his mouth, forcing him to accommodate the intrusion of your knuckles as he struggled to swallow around them.

The sensation was thick and wet, the friction of his tongue against your skin sending a jolt of sensation up your arm. He let out a muffled, desperate groan, his eyes rolling back in a trance of pure, unadulterated gluttony.

Every time he tried to regain a semblance of his usual composure, you’d remind him of his place, either by tugging his hair until his scalp stung or by shoving your fingers deeper, making him choke slightly on the sheer intensity of the offering.

He was a mess of contradictions, a hunter, a hero, and right now, a starving dog at your feet, completely undone by the very person he usually tried to impress with his bravado. You watched him, a smirk playing on your lips, savouring the absolute dominance of the moment.

The heavy, rhythmic sound of his swallowing finally began to taper off, replaced by a softer, more rhythmic sensation. You felt the wet, sandpaper texture of his tongue performing a slow, sweeping lick across your fingertips, a feline, satisfied gesture that signalled the beast had finally been satiated. The frantic desperation in his throat smoothed out into a low, contented hum.

With a smirk of pure triumph, you withdrew your digits from his mouth. The sudden absence of your skin left him looking momentarily dazed, his lips glistening and redder than usual.

Before he could even attempt to reclaim his dignity, you brought your hand down, delivering a series of sharp, stinging smacks against his jaw. The sound of palm hitting skin echoed in the quiet bunker, treating him no differently than a disobedient pet.

"There we go," you mocked, your voice dripping with condescending satisfaction. "Bloodthirst all satisfied now, huh? You'll stop whining like a fucking cunt now?”

Dean sat there for a moment on the floor, his chest heaving as he fought to pull air back into his lungs. The predatory haze in his eyes was slowly receding, replaced by a heavy, post feed lethargy that made him look uncharacteristically soft. He wiped a stray smear of red from his chin with the back of his hand, his gaze following you as you stood up with effortless grace.

"Yeah," he finally managed, his voice a husky, wrecked mumble. It wasn't quite the suave Dean Winchester the world knew; it was the voice of a man who had just been thoroughly tamed. He offered a faint, sheepish nod of thanks, his eyes lingering on you with a mixture of lingering hunger and newfound respect.

You didn't linger to bask in his gaze or wait for a witty retort that likely wouldn't come. You had already exerted your dominance, and the satisfaction of seeing him so thoroughly undone was enough. 

Turning on your heel, you began to walk away, the rhythmic click of your footsteps on the bunker floor the only sound in the heavy silence.

"You better rest up, Dean," you called back over your shoulder, your voice regaining its usual sharp, teasing edge. "I don't want to see you being a bratty little bitch on the next hunt just because you're feeling sluggish."

You didn't look back to see if he was going to throw a snarky comment your way or simply sink back into the couch in a blood drunk stupor. You already knew the answer. He was satisfied, he was quiet, and for once, he was exactly where you wanted him: humbled.

As the orchestra swelled, you slipped through the crowd, weaving past a senator and a tech mogul until you reached him. Without a word of warning, you grabbed his wrist, pulling him towards a heavy velvet curtain that shielded a secluded alcove just off the main stage.

“Woah, hey, darling, the speech is in five minutes—” Tony started, his voice a playful lilt, but the words died in his throat as you pressed him back against the wall.

Before he could process the sudden shift in intensity, your hands were moving with practiced, ruthless efficiency. You unbuttoned his designer slacks, the fabric sliding down his hips with a suddenness that made his breath hitch.

His eyes widened, the cocky billionaire persona fracturing into pure shock, “What are you—is this a new game? If it is, the time is a little… aggressive, don’t you think?” he tried to chuckle, to regain that effortless Stark swagger. But the sound was strangled as your hand slid inside, wrapping firmly around his cock.

Oh, lord, that was a painful dry tug.

“It’s not a game.” you whispered, leaning in so close that your lips brushed his ear. You took mild mercy on him, thumb rubbing the head to gather drops of precum, lathering it like makeshift lube onto him.

Gosh, and he was already leaking at the sight of you? You’re going to have lots of fun with this one.

“It’s a contract. Section 6.7, remember?” your voice was as sultry, dangerous velvet, as you continued, “Every merger, every acquisition, grants the partner unrestricted, immediate, and total physical access. No matter the venue. No matter the time.”

His eyes widened, the cocky glint momentarily replaced by a flash of genuine, panicked realisations. He looked down at your hand, which was already working him a rhythmic intensity, almost making his knees tremble beneath the fine fabric of his suit.

“Wait! What? That-that was a sub clause! A technicality!” he hissed, his voice a frantic, hushed whisper, as he glanced toward the heavy velvet curtains separating him from the roaring crowd of socialites and investors.

“It’s a binding legal reality, Stark,” You purred, your grip tightening, your thumb grazing the sensitive tip of his cock that made his hips jerk involuntarily. “And you signed it with such a beautiful, hungry little smile.”

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He could hear the announcer calling his name, “Ladies and gentlemen, the man of the hour, Tony Stark!”

Tony’s breath hitched, a desperate, jagged sound he tried to mask as a cough. He gripped the edge of a side table, knuckles turning white as you increased the pace. Your hand moved with a ruthless, expert friction that pushed him dangerously close to his stupid orgasm.

He was a man built on control, on being the smartest person, most composed person in the room. Yet here he was, being manhandled in the shadows, while his legacy waited for him under the spotlight.

“You’re… you’re fucking trouble,” he gasps, his head lulling back as your thumb applied a punishing amount of pressure to his glans. His ego was screaming, fighting the urge to moan loudly enough for the front row to hear. But his body was a traitor, pulsing rhythmically against your palm.

“I’m just a person collecting what they’re owed,” You murmured, your voice vibrating right through his skin, as you hovered your lips over his bare neck. Not exactly kissing him, just enough for him to feel your presence.

Tony’s head thrashed back against the wall, his eyes rolling shut as he fought the strong urge to just thrust into your hand, while he spouts more frustrations. “You’re just a fucking—god’s sake, ah— you’re a nuisance!” 

He could hear the muffled roar of the crowd through the curtains, the clinking of champagne flutes, and the announcer’s voice booming. He was cheerily talking grand about him, a futile attempt to keep the audience entertained during Tony’s rather late entrance.

“Don’t you dare lose it now, Stark,” you teased, your eyes glinting with a predatory satisfaction. You leaned in closer, breathing hot against his ear, watching his composure crumble. “If you cum right here, in the dark, while the world is watching your every move on those giant screens… well, the stain on those custom tailored trousers will be a very public testament to your lack of attention to detail.”

Barely any of your words made it into his muddled mind; he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, his entire body coiled with a desperate need to erupt. His grip on the side table, tightening even more, trying so damn hard to keep himself upright.

“You’re a sadistic little genius,” he managed to choke out, a desperate, breathless laugh escaping him, even as he felt the overwhelming pressure building in his groin.

“I’m just a businessperson, and business is booming,” you finished, your voice dropping to a low commanding hum. You didn’t slow down; instead you accelerated, your palm swirling around his cock at  a relentless speed.

Tony let out a sound that was half groan, half whimper, his eyes snapping open to find yours. They were blown wide, dark with desperate, unbridled lust that he was fighting tooth and nail to suppress. He looked absolutely wrecked, the billionaire playboy replaced by a man on the brink of total, humiliating collapse.

“The lights…” he gasped, his chest heaving, as he tried to draw in enough air to stay conscious. “The damn lights, Y/N… if I… if I blow…”

“Then, you’ll just have to stand there and endure it,” you whispered, your eyes dancing with mischief as you gave him one final, sharp tug that sent a jolt of electricity through his entire frame, almost forcing a shout from his lungs. He clenched his jaw so hard that you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek. He was right there: on the razor’s edge of a messy, public catastrophe.

“I’ll—I’ll kill you,” he breathed, though there was no heat in the threat, only a desperate, trembling need. His hips gave a traitorous, involuntary twitch upwards, seeking the friction he was being denied the right to fully embrace.

“You’ll do no such thing,” you firmly commanded, while suddenly slowing your hand to an agonisingly slow, teasing crawl, just as he was about cum. You felt him shudder, a low, frustrated whine vibrating in his chest. “You’ll walk out there, you’ll give your little speech, you’ll charm the world, and you’ll keep that ache simmering in your gut. Think of it as a little extra motivation for your next acquisition.”

You gave him one final slow swirl of your thumb over his weeping tip, feeling the frantic pulse of his cock against your palm, silently begging. Tony let out a tiny whimper, his head lulled back against the wall, trying to stop his eyes rolling back. He was vibrating, a live wire of unadulterated tension, teetering on the dulling edge.

“Five seconds, Mr. Stark!” the stage manager called out from the other side of the curtain.

“Go,” you whispered, a wicked smirk playing on your lips as you finally released him. You pulled your hand away, leaving him cold and desperately unfulfilled. “Go be the hero. We’ll see if you can keep that billionaire swagger while you’re practically throbbing out of pleasure.”

He stood there for a moment, paralysed, his chest thieving as he desperately tried to pull his slacks back into place and smooth the fabric over himself. His face was flushed a frantic, feverish red that he would have to pray the stage lights would mask as mere ‘charismatic energy’. 

He looked at you, his eyes burning with a mixture of profound frustration and terrifyingly intense hunger, a silent promise that you were going to pay for this eventually.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Y/N,” he hissed, his voice still trembling as he straightened his blazer, trying to reclaim the armour of his ego. He took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the billionaire playboy back into his skin, though the slight shake in his hands betrayed him.

With a final, lingering look of heated desire, he turned and stepped through the curtains. 

Once the team dispersed, he retreated to the sanctuary of his office, desperately trying to bury himself in tactical files to regain his composure. A sharp, rhythmic knock shattered his focus.

"Come in," he managed, his voice sounding far too strained even to his own ears.

The door swung open, and there you were. You didn't look like a soldier; you looked like a temptation. You sauntered toward his desk with a confidence that made his heart hammer against his ribs, a playful, knowing glint in your eyes that told him you hadn't forgotten a single second of the night before.

Tony’s voice drifted off into the background, a meaningless hum compared to the thundering pulse in Steve's ears. He watched, paralyzed, as you closed the distance between the door and his desk. You didn't offer a salute or a formal greeting; instead, you leaned over the mahogany surface, your eyes locking onto him with a predatory sweetness that made his throat go dry.

"Captain Rogers," you purred, the title sounding like a delicious mockery in the quiet room. "Ready for my orientation?"

Steve cleared his throat, desperately trying to summon the commanding officer he was supposed to be. "Yes. Well. We'll start with the tactical overview, and then— "

He was cut off by the sensation of your hand sliding across the desk, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his uniform trousers. He gasped, a low, broken sound, as you pulled yourself closer, your body humming with a shameless, unbothered energy.

"Then we'll… we'll go over the training schedule," he stammered, his eyes darting toward the heavy office door as if the Avengers themselves might burst in at any moment. His moral compass was spinning wildly, screaming at him that this was unprofessional, scandalous, a complete betrayal of the discipline he stood for. But then your fingers tightened on the fabric of his trousers, and the scent of your skin that intoxicating, familiar warmth hit him like a physical blow.

"Forget the schedule, Steve," you whispered, leaning in until your lips were a breath away from his ear, your voice dropping into a low, obscene velvet that made his blood boil. "You were much more focused on my 'training' last night. Why are you acting so shy now? Is the big, brave Captain Rogers afraid of a little misconduct?"

He let out a choked groan, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady himself on the desk, his knuckles turning white.

The air in the office was thick enough to choke on, heavy with the scent of your perfume and the suffocating weight of Steve’s conscience. He tried to stand, to reclaim the authority of the uniform, but your hands were already moving, brazen and unyielding. When your fingers hooked into his waistband, a frantic, desperate sort of tug, his breath hitched in a jagged sob of pure conflict.

"This is… highly irregular," he rasped, his voice cracking as he tried to force a sternness that was rapidly dissolving into lust. "You are a recruit, and I am your commanding officer. There are protocols, there are rules, for a reason!"

He was lecturing you, his blue eyes wide and pleading, as if he could convince his own soul to stop betraying him. He was a man of honour, a man of the old world, and here he was, being dismantled by a woman who looked like several faces younger than that scruffy face of his.

"Steve," you whispered, the use of his name a direct assault on his remaining defences. You both were standing up now, his attempts in placating the situation losing at each step of yours, till you stood right in front of him, past his desk.

Before he could protest again, you reached down and seized his large, trembling wrist. With a strength born of pure intent, you guided his hand beneath the hem of your pencil skirt. The moment his warm skin met the slick, heated silk of your inner thigh, his eyes blew wide, his entire body jolting as if struck by lightning. You nudged his large palm further up, making his knuckles bump against your clit momentarily.

"See how wet I am for you already?" you murmured, leaning in so close his beard brushed your cheek. "Do you miss me? Because I do. I really loved our night together… let me have more."

"We… we shouldn't," he groaned, though his fingers were already curling, instinctively seeking more of you. "The team… Tony could walk in… and you’re too you—fuck, I’m your damn Captain now."

His thumb brushed against your most sensitive heat, and the way you arched into his touch unashamed and hungry sent a wave of pure, unadulterated sin through his veins. He was a man of principle, a man who believed in the sanctity of the chain of command, but as he looked at you, the 'Captain' was losing the war to the 'man.'

"Christ, you're so young," he continued, the words a frantic, dying plea for a restraint that no longer existed.

Then, you changed tactics. You pulled back just enough to tilt your head, widening your eyes into a look of pure, innocent vulnerability. Those big, doe eyes, so wide and seemingly earnest, were the ultimate deception. "Please, Captain," you whispered, your voice dropping into a sweet, melodic lilt that sounded like the perfect, obedient recruit. "Your recruit is calling on you."

The sheer audacity of it, the way you played the part of the innocent subordinate while your body practically screamed for his touch was the final blow to his crumbling resolve. Steve let out a defeated, guttural sound, a noise that was half prayer and half growl. His moral compass wasn't just spinning anymore; it had been tossed out the window entirely.

"God help me," he breathed, his hands moving with a sudden, desperate purpose.

He didn't even wait to fully undress; the urgency was too high, the tension too thick. He stepped forwards, his large hands catching your waist to guide you. With a frantic sort of grace, he grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and spread it across the polished mahogany, a silent, instinctive gesture of the gentleman he still desperately tried to be, even as he prepared to ruin his reputation.

He turned you around, pressing your chest down against the soft fabric of his jacket, shielding your skin from the cool, hard wood of the desk. He moved behind you, his breathing heavy and ragged, a stark contrast to the disciplined soldier the world knew him to be.

Those tentative hands scoured the hem of your skirt, massaging those hips like last night, before hitching up your skirt. Steve fiddled with his drawer briskly, grabbing the lube and slickening his fingers.

You sigh sweetly at the familiar feel of a finger breaching in, then another, forming a steady rhythm. It was just enough to get your pussy to loosen up a bit, even despite the mess you’d already been making.

As he guided his cock into you, a low, primal groan escaped his throat, his forehead dropping to rest against the nape of your neck. He was still fighting it, still feeling the phantom sting of his conscience telling him this was wrong, that he was supposed to be your mentor, your protector not the man currently driving you into the mahogany.

But as he began to move, the rhythm of his hips became a desperate, driving force that drowned out every single moral objection. He was lost to the sensation, to the way you gripped the edge of the desk and the way your breath hitched in perfect sync with his.

Meanwhile, you simply leaned into the friction, a silent, satisfied smirk playing on your lips as you felt him lose himself in you. You knew exactly what you knew exactly how to break him. As he drove into you, his movements were heavy and uncharacteristically frantic, a man trying to outrun his own guilt with every thrust.

He was still the Captain, still the man of honour, but the way his fingers dug into your hips told a different story: a story of a man who was utterly, hopelessly conquered by the very person he was supposed to be leading.

The rhythmic thud of his body against the desk, muffled by the expensive fabric of his jacket, was the only sound in the room besides his ragged, desperate breathing. He was lost in the friction, the heat, and the sheer, delicious wrongness of it all. Every time he tried to pull back, to find some semblance of professional distance, you would let out a soft, needy whimper or tilt your hips back to meet him, dragging him deeper into the sin.

As the tension reached a fever pitch, a sudden, sharp sound from the hallway the distant, muffled laughter of Tony and Clint sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through Steve. His eyes went wide, a flash of panic momentarily eclipsing the lust. Before you could let out a triumphant, loud moan of pleasure, his large, calloused palm slammed over your mouth, muffling your voice into a soft, vibrating hum against his skin.

He was frantic now, his movements becoming a desperate, driving rhythm, his hips slamming into yours with a force that made the heavy desk groan under the weight. He was caught in a maddening loop of self inflicted torment.

With one hand pinning you down, silencing you, and the other gripping your hip so hard his knuckles were white, he was fighting a war within himself. He didn't know if he was trying to save his own legendary reputation or protect yours from the scandal of being the girl who "corrupted" the legendary reputation or protect yours from the scandal of being the girl who "corrupted" the paragon of virtue.

"Shh, honey… please, just a little longer," he whispered against your ear, his voice a ragged, broken thing.

He was shaming himself with every thrust, his mind a frantic litany of this is wrong, this is madness, she's your responsibility, yet his body was telling a completely different story. He was worshiping you, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, his rough beard scratching deliciously against your flesh as he peppered you with sweet, desperate kisses.

He was murmuring praises into your skin, the same low, gravelly tones he’d used in the dark of your apartment, telling you how incredible you felt, how beautiful you were, how he couldn't get enough of you. It was a beautiful, chaotic contradiction: a man performing an act of pure, adulterated act of devotion while simultaneously feeling like a common sinner.

Every time he felt the swell of a moan building in your throat, he would press his palm harder, his eyes darting toward the door with a frantic, wide eyed intensity that was almost comical if it weren't so intense. He was a man on the brink of a total breakdown, caught between the urge to pull you close and weep with the sheer, delicious wrongness of it, and the urge to pull away and hide his face in his hands in shame.

"You're so good… so perfect," he groaned, the words a whispered confession against your skin, even as his inner monologue screamed about the breach of protocol. He was losing himself to the rhythm, to the way your body seemed to mold perfectly to his, and to the intoxicating realisation that despite all his rules and all his duty, he was utterly, hopelessly addicted to the way you made him feel.

Even in the throes of a scandalous, desk bound frenzy, Steve could not help but be the man he was raised to be. He was hyper aware of your pleasure, his focus shifting from his own mounting desperation to the way your body was beginning to tremble and tighten around him. He felt the tell-tale tremors of your orgasm beginning to ripple through you, and instead of rushing his own end, he leaned into it.

As you began to whine, the sound muffled and desperate against the heavy heat of his palm, he didn't pull away. Instead, he cooed to you, a low, soothing rumble in his chest that was pure sweetness.

"That's it, sweetheart… just let it go. I've got you," he murmured, his voice a gentle anchor in the storm of your sensation. He guided you through the climax, his movements becoming rhythmic and steady, providing the exact stimulation needed to push you over the edge to the very end. Those familiar digits returning to rub feverish circles to your clit was just enough.

He held you through the waves of your release, his hand still firm but tender over your mouth, his eyes closed tight as he fought the urge to groan your name to the rafters. Only when your breathing began to level out, and the frantic tension in your muscles subsided into a soft, post orgasmic glow, did he allow himself to lose his own battle.

Steve was teetering on the precipice, his muscles coiled like a spring, his entire being focused on the singular, driving need to finish. But even as his control slipped, that ingrained, old fashioned gentleman surfaced one last time. He slowed his pace just a fraction, his voice dropping to a gravelly, desperate whisper that vibrated against your ear.

"Where…" he gasped, his eyes searching yours with a raw, unshielded intensity. "Where do you want it, honey? Tell me."

He was giving you the choice, a final, frantic attempt to maintain some semblance of respect even as he was losing his goddamn mind. You didn't hesitate. With your face pressed against the cool fabric of his jacket, you let out a muffled, needy mumble against his palm.

"Inside…"

The word hit him like a physical blow. It sent a violent spark of moral ambiguity deep within his soul. It was the ultimate transgression to leave his mark inside his own recruit, to be so intimate, so unashamedly primal in the very place where he was supposed to command respect.

For a split second, his eyes squeezed shut, his mind screaming about the mess, the impropriety, the sheer audacity of it.

But then, a more practical, almost protective thought flickered through the haze of his lust. He looked down at the expensive mahogany of his desk and the fine fabric of your pencil skirt, and he couldn't bear the thought of a messy, unseemly spill that would leave a trail of evidence for the rest of the team to find. He wanted to be careful with you, even now.

With a final, shuddering groan that he had to swallow back into your shoulder, he drove himself home. He let out a long, low breath as he surrendered to the sensation, filling your pussy completely. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his entire frame trembling as the heat of him flooded you.

For a moment, he just stayed there, anchored to you, his forehead pressed hard against the curve of your shoulder as he tried to process the sheer, glorious sin of it all. The silence of the office felt deafening, broken only by the frantic, uneven rhythm of his breathing and the distant, muffled sounds of the Avengers Tower continuing its life outside his door.

He felt a profound sense of both exhaustion and a strange, terrifying exhilaration. He had broken the rules, shattered the decorum, and completely compromised his position. Yet, as he felt the warmth of himself inside you, he couldn't bring himself to regret a single second of it. He was the Captain, the paragon of virtue, but in this moment, he was just a man who had been utterly, beautifully undone by the woman he was supposed to be leading.

As the final tremors of his release subsided, the heavy, primal fog in Steve’s mind began to lift, replaced by the sharp, stinging clarity of reality. He stayed draped over you for a few moments longer, breathing in the scent of your skin and the musk of their shared sin, before the Captain in him forced his eyes open. The war between his desire and his duty wasn't over, but the immediate crisis of the moment demanded action.

True to his nature, even in the aftermath of such a scandalous encounter, he didn't leave you a mess. With a focused, almost frantic sort of care, he moved to clean you both, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he used tissues to ensure no trace of his surrender remained on your skin or the fine fabric of your skirt. He straightened your clothes, smoothing the wrinkles in your pencil skirt and adjusting your blouse with the precision of a man preparing a soldier for inspection. He was trying to erase the evidence of the last minutes of absolute chaos, acting as though you two had just finished a standard tactical briefing rather than a frantic, desk bound tryst.

When he was finished, he reached into his desk drawer and handed you a bottle of water, his eyes lingering on yours with a mixture of lingering heat and profound, weary affection. "Drink," he commanded softly, his voice still a bit too low, a bit too husky. "You need to stay hydrated."

He watched you with a bated breath as you took a sip, your eyes dancing with a mischief that told him you were perfectly aware of the havoc you had just wreaked on his soul. You stood up, smoothed your skirt one last time, and began to saunter toward the door with that same, unbothered confidence that had drawn him in at the bar.

Just as your hand reached for the handle, you paused. You turned back, casting a playful, wicked glance over your shoulder. A triumphant, knowing smirk played on your lips, the kind that promised this was far from the last time you'd be breaking his composure.

"Thank you for the orientation debrief, Captain!" you called out, your voice bright and perfectly professional, though the underlying lilt of mischief was impossible to miss. "Can't wait to see you on the op!"

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving the office in a sudden, deafening silence. Steve remained frozen, the ghost of your touch still burning against his skin and the weight of your words hanging in the air like a challenge. He didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't even attempt to fix his own dishevelled hair. Instead, he slowly sank back into his heavy leather chair, the strength seemingly drained from his very bones.

He let out a long, shuddering exhale and dropped his head into his hands.

His fingers pressed hard against his temples, as if he could physically squeeze the scandalous images of your body against his desk out of his mind. He was the leader of the Avengers. He was the moral compass of a nation. He was supposed to be the man who did things the right way, the man who stood for discipline and decorum.

And yet, here he was, sitting in his high backed leather chair, feeling the lingering, heavy warmth of you still deep inside him, his heart hammering a rhythm that felt less like a soldier's march and more like a sinner's confession.

He could still hear the echo of your voice that bright, teasing lilt ringing in the quiet room. Can't wait to see you on the op! It wasn't just a professional sentiment; it was a promise. A promise of more stolen moments, more broken rules, and more of the delicious, terrifying way you could make him forget every single thing.

DON'T BE SCARED, LITTLE SEARCHER. JUST BE OBEDIENT.

The cursor blinked, demanding his attention. He felt a strange, magnetic pull, a compulsion to follow whatever the machine dictated. It was as if the code had bypassed his brain and plugged directly into his nervous system.

GOOD BOY. NOW REACH DOWN AND START STROKING.

The text on the screen pulsed with a hungry, vibrant light.

Neo’s hands trembled, a frantic battle raging between his logic and the overwhelming, digital command vibrating in his very marrow. He knew he should pull away, unplug the machine, and run. But the code was a leash, and he was a dog yearning for the hand that held it. With a choked gasp, his hand moved of its own accord, sliding beneath the waistband of his trousers.

The sensation was electric, amplified by the terminal's presence. Every time his fingers closed around himself, a new line of code flashed on the screen, punctuating his pleasure with a cruel, divine rhythm.

YES. JUST LIKE THAT. FASTER, NEO. YOU’RE DOING SO WELL FOR ME. SUCH A DEVOTED LITTLE WONDER.

He was lost in the digital sea, drowning in a pleasure that felt more "real" than the physical world he thought he knew. He was no longer a programmer or a seeker of truth; he was merely a vessel for the commands scrolling across his vision. His eyes were wide, glazed with a mixture of terror and intense, mounting arousal as his fingers worked with a frantic, mechanical precision.

FASTER, NEO. DON'T STOP UNTIL I TELL YOU.

The command hit him like a physical strike, forcing his pace to increase. He let out a broken, stifled moan, his head falling back as the green light of the monitor washed over his flushed face. He felt exposed, as if the very code of the Matrix was stripping him naked, watching his most private moment with a cold, predatory hunger. Every stroke was a tribute to the entity behind the screen, a desperate attempt to satisfy the invisible goddess who had claimed him.

THAT’S IT. GIVE IT ALL. YOU HAVE TO GIVE IT TO ME. EVERYTHING.

The terminal screen began to strobe, the green light turning into a blinding, rhythmic pulse that matched the frantic friction of his hand.

Neo was panting now, his chest heaving, his vision blurring as the digital commands bled into his very consciousness. He was being rewritten by them by the very instructions onscreen. Every time he neared the edge, the screen would flash a sharp, commanding

WAIT

or

HOLD IT,

forcing him to teeter on the precipice of a climax that felt like it would shatter his very soul, only to let him descend just enough to build the tension even higher.

He was a puppet, a toy being played with by a god in the wires, and the most terrifying part was how much he loved it. As the final, crushing wave of sensation began to build, the screen turned a deep, bruised violet, the text scrolling so fast it was almost a blur of pure command—

RELEASE.

The command was a thunderclap in his mind.

Neo’s body arched, a strangled, desperate cry tearing from his throat as he finally surrendered to the overwhelming pressure. He came with a ferocity that felt less like a physical release and more like a digital upload, his vision exploding into a kaleidoscope of green and violet fractals. His fingers gripping himself with a frantic, dying strength as he poured everything his confusion, his fear, and his newfound devotion into the void.

As the tremors slowly subsided, leaving him slumped and gasping in the dim light of his room, the screen settled. The frantic scrolling stopped, returning to a calm, steady pulse. The violet hue faded back to that familiar, sickly emerald, but the air in the room felt different, heavy, charged, and undeniably occupied.

Neo sat there, trembling, his skin slick with sweat and his breath coming in ragged stutters. He felt the weight of an invisible gaze lingering on him, a phantom touch that refused to dissipate even as the physical sensation of his climax ebbed away.

He was spent, hollowed out, and utterly marked. His eyes, still glazed and unfocused, drifted back to the monitor. He expected the screen to be blank, or perhaps to return to the mundane lines of code he had been studying before his world was hijacked.

Instead, the cursor blinked once, twice, with a predatory patience.

CLEAN YOURSELF UP, NEO. YOU’RE A MESS.

A fresh wave of heat rushed to his cheeks, a mixture of shame and a terrifying, burgeoning addiction. He was a man of logic, a man who sought the truth of the world, but as he reached for a tissue with trembling hands, he realised the truth was no longer something to be found in books or data streams. The truth was the voice in the machine. The truth was the command that owned him.