You woke to a knock at your door.

Not loud. Not rushed. But heavy.

You didn’t ask who it was. You knew. You always knew.

Matt stood there, bleeding from his temple, suit half-peeled from his chest. No mask. No words. Just bruises and shadows.

“Come in,” you whispered.

He did. Slowly. Carefully. Like he was scared he might shatter something—himself, maybe.

You led him to the bathroom, sat him on the closed toilet lid, pulling out the first aid kit you’d used too many times to count.

He winced when you cleaned the cut on his cheekbone. You didn’t flinch.

“You shouldn’t be helping me,” he murmured. “I’m not good for you.”

You dabbed peroxide on a scrape near his jaw. “You’re not leaving.”

His throat bobbed. “I almost didn’t make it out tonight.”

You met his eyes. “But you did. You always do.”

His hand caught your wrist—not hard, but firm.

“Stop treating me like I’m still a man,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m not.”

You dropped the gauze, sitting on his lap, kissing him gently.

He melted under your touch like you were holy water. Hands shaking. Breath stuttering. You guided his hand to your waist, to your thighs, to the skin he always touched like he didn’t deserve it.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered. “No mask. No Devil. Just Matt.”

His lips trembled.

“I’ll ruin you,” he said.

“You already have.”

That’s when the kiss turned hungry.

His hands explored slowly, reverently—nothing like the bruising grip from the basement or the booth. This was the man beneath it all. Unarmed. Ashamed. Wanting.

He carried you to the bed like you might disappear if he blinked. Laid you down gently. Stared at you like you were something divine.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed, fingers brushing up your sides. “And I’m filthy. How is that fair?”

You pulled him down by the back of the neck. “Then sin a little more.”

When he entered you, it was slow—achingly deep. A gasp caught in his throat as your walls stretched to take him.

“God, you’re tight,” he whispered. “Like your body knows me. Remembers me.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him deeper.

“It does. I do.”

He started to move—gentle thrusts that sent fire blooming under your skin. His forehead rested against yours, lips brushing your cheek.

“You feel like forgiveness,” he whispered.

You cupped his face. “Then take it. All of it.”

He rocked into you, groaning softly each time you clenched around him. His thumb stroked your cheek. His lips kissed your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he was marking each part of you with prayers.

“You’re everything,” he murmured. “Everything I was told I’d never deserve.”

You kissed him again, slow and deep, as your body coiled tighter beneath his.

“I want all of you,” you whispered against his mouth. “Even the parts you think are too dark.”

His pace picked up slightly, still gentle, but with purpose. Each thrust pressed your body deeper into the sheets, your moans growing louder as the coil inside you snapped.

“Matt—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

“Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let me have it.”

You fell apart beneath him—writhing, shaking, his name a cry on your lips as he watched you unravel with pure awe.

He didn’t last much longer. Your body, your voice, your soft little please as he started to pull out—he lost control.

“Inside?” he gasped.

“Yes. Fill me. Please.”

He groaned your name like it was sacred and came deep inside you, buried to the hilt, hips trembling as he pulsed again and again, giving you everything.

When it was over, he didn’t move. Just collapsed into your arms.

You held him. Fingers in his hair. Lips to his temple. Skin to skin.

This time, he didn’t run. Didn’t hide.

It starts soft.

Because Eddie Diaz is always soft.

He kisses you like he’s scared you’ll break. Holds your waist like porcelain. Asks if you're okay every time he touches you like the answer might change between breaths.

But tonight?

You want more.

So you whisper it.

“Don’t hold back.”

He pauses.

Eyes on you. Still. Sharp. Dangerous.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do.”

His jaw clenches.

“I mean it, Eddie.”

Something flickers behind his eyes.

You don’t realize how tightly he’s been reining himself in until he finally lets go.

And suddenly? You’re not in control anymore.

“Get on the bed.”

His voice is low. Rough. So different from the Eddie you’re used to, it sends heat straight through your chest.

You hesitate for a second.

Then he tilts his head.

“Now.”

You obey.

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t kiss you this time.

Just pulls your shorts off in one motion and tosses them across the room.

“You want me to stop being careful?” he murmurs, crawling over you slowly. “Then don’t beg for mercy when you get exactly what you asked for.”

Your breath catches.

He spreads your legs. Drags two fingers through your folds.

“So wet already.”

You gasp when he slips them inside—deep and slow.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he mutters, watching the way your hips twitch. “And you’ve been letting me go easy on you like a good girl.”

You moan.

He pumps his fingers faster.

“But that’s not what you are, is it?”

You bite your lip.

He slaps your inner thigh once. Not hard. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

“Answer me.”

“I want it, Eddie.”

He groans.

Then?

He pulls his fingers out, sucks them clean, and flips you over like you weigh nothing.

“You’re not gonna be able to walk tomorrow.”

You arch back against him.

“Good.”

He grins. Dark. Dangerous.

Then he grips your hips, lines himself up, and slams into you.

You scream.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust. Just pounds into you with a rhythm so deep and rough your entire body shakes.

“This what you wanted?” he growls, one hand wrapping around your throat as he fucks you harder. “This what you’ve been begging for?”

“Yes—yes—Eddie, fuck—”

“You like being fucked like this?” he snarls, slapping your ass once, then grabbing it to pull you back onto him even harder. “Like a cockdrunk little slut?”

You whimper.

He leans down. Bites your shoulder.

“You’re so fucking good when you stop pretending you’re innocent.”

He slides one hand down—rubs your clit fast, relentless—and your orgasm hits like a truck.

But he doesn’t stop.

He just fucks you through it.

You scream again. Your legs give out.

“Stay up,” he pants. “We’re not done.”

“Eddie—please—”

“You begged for this. You take it.”

He flips you back over, drags you down the bed, throws your legs over his shoulders, and starts fucking you harder.

You’re shaking. Sobbing.

He watches every second of it.

“Look how wrecked you are,” he growls, staring at the way your tits bounce, the way your face twists. “Fucked stupid and still begging for more.”

You moan.

“You want me to come inside you?” he asks, voice wrecked.

“Yes—please—want it—”

“Then take it.”

He slams in one last time and comes deep. Groaning. Grinding into you as he fills you up.

And when he’s done?

He stays there.

Buried inside you. Breathing hard. Holding your face like he didn’t just ruin you.

Then he finally says it.

“I’ve been dying to fuck you like that.”

You laugh. Wrecked. Shaking.

You only had one shot.

One knife. One breath. One silent step in the marble hallway of a Neapolitan church before he turned around and caught you.

Metal fingers closed around your wrist, and the blade clattered to the floor. You barely blinked before your back hit the wall and his body pinned you there—solid muscle, wet leather, the scent of rain and something expensive you couldn’t name.

“Finally,” he said.

You didn’t flinch. “Don’t move.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

His voice was calm. Unshaken. Like you hadn’t just tried to carve his throat open. His flesh hand rose, slow and unbothered, unbuckling the collar of his black coat. Like he was bored.

“They sent you with one knife?” he asked. “Either they underestimated me, or they overestimated you.”

You pressed your knee up between his legs—sharp and sudden. He caught it with his thigh, grunted once, then smiled.

God, he was beautiful when he smiled.

“Cute,” he said. “Try that again and I’ll break your kneecap.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten you like a man used to making noise. Just stated it. Calm. Cold. True.

James Buchanan Barnes. Il Don Invernale. The Winter Don. Rumored to run every black market pipeline south of Milan, and to kill without leaving a mark. Hydra’s ghost. Naples’ king.

And now, the man breathing against your cheek with his metal hand wrapped tight around your throat.

“You gonna scream?” he asked.

“Should I?”

He tilted his head, leaned in, and smiled like sin. “Only if it’s for me.”

You spit in his face.

He laughed. Actually laughed. A short, ragged sound like he couldn’t remember the last time someone made his blood run hot.

Then he dragged you out of the church, into the rain, into a black car. You fought. He didn’t care. You swore you’d kill him.

He said, “Get in line.”

Now you’re in his penthouse. In his lap.

Wrists still sore. Lip still split. And his fingers tracing the bare skin of your thigh like you’re already his.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice low, mouth near your ear. “Not so mouthy now, are you?”

“You haven’t asked a real question.”

He hums. “Fair.”

He presses his thumb into the inside of your thigh, where your pulse beats fast.

“You’re not gonna tell me who sent you, are you?”

“No.”

“You gonna beg when I make you come?”

You laugh once. Sharp. Bitter. “Keep dreaming.”

He shifts beneath you. You feel him—hard under those tailored black slacks, slow and steady, like he’s been hard since the moment you pulled that knife on him.

You’re still wearing your ruined blouse, wet with rain. One side torn. He looks at the exposed lace beneath and exhales like a man trying to keep himself from doing something unholy.

“I should kill you,” he says, palm sliding higher, fingers grazing where you’re already wet. “I really should.”

You tilt your head. “Then why haven’t you?”

He looks up at you. His eyes are hungry. Calm. Dangerous.

“Because I want to fuck you first.”

Your breath stutters. He feels it. Smiles again.

“I want to fuck the fight out of you,” he whispers. “I want to see how many times I can make you come before you forget why you came here in the first place.”

You should spit in his face again. You should claw at his skin and bite his jaw and remind him who the hell you are.

But when he slips two fingers into your panties and slides them through your folds, you arch into his hand.

His eyes darken.

“Wet,” he murmurs. “You gonna lie to me again, sweetheart?”

You grit your teeth. “It’s adrenaline.”

He presses two fingers inside you. Deep. Slow. Filthy.

“Sure it is.”

You bite your lip so hard it almost bleeds. His thumb circles your clit with calculated precision, the kind that comes from a man who doesn’t guess—he knows. He feels the way your hips twitch, hears the change in your breath, watches your mouth fall open.

“You come on my hand,” he says, “and I might let you ride my cock after.”

You hate him. And you hate that it feels this good.

His metal hand wraps around your throat, thumb under your jaw as he fucks you on his fingers, fast and deep. You tremble. You clench. You break.

You come hard. Shaking. Crying out into his shoulder. Clawing at his shirt like he’s the only solid thing in the world.

He groans, pulling his fingers out slow.

Then he lifts them to his mouth and sucks them clean, eyes on yours the entire time.

“That’s mine now.” he murmurs.

You try to stand. He yanks you back down onto his lap, grinds up into you until you feel the shape of him between your thighs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, unbuckling his belt.

“You said if I came, I could ride you.”

His hands drag your panties off in one rough motion. “Then do it.”

You slide down onto him. Slowly. Tight around him. His breath hitches and his fingers dig into your waist like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “So fucking tight.”

You start to move. He doesn’t let you. His hands keep you there, grinding slow circles into his lap, keeping him deep inside while your head falls to his shoulder.

“You tried to kill me,” he whispers. “And now you’re dripping on my cock.”

“You haven’t won.”

He thrusts up once. Hard.

You scream.

“I haven’t even started.”

He fucks you like a man with no time and no conscience. Brutal, deep, relentless. His metal fingers leave bruises on your hips. His mouth moves against your neck—biting, sucking, claiming.

“You want to kill me still?” he pants.

“Yes—”

He slams into you harder. “Then do it. After I fill you up.”

“You’re a fucking psychopath—”

“Maybe. But you’re still taking every inch of me like you were made for it.”

You come again, this time with your head thrown back, spine arching, fingers clawing into his shoulders. He follows with a growl, coming inside you, holding you down while he empties into you, twitching deep, cock pulsing.

He stays there. Buried. Breathing hard.

“You try to leave,” he whispers, “and I’ll make you scream like this in front of every man who hired you.”

You open your mouth to threaten him again.

But all that comes out is his name.

The Church was empty.

You sat quietly in the last pew, watching the candlelight flicker along the walls, waiting for him to show. You’d felt it earlier—something dark vibrating beneath his skin after what happened in the basement. He left without a word.

Now it was after midnight. And he was here.

You didn’t see him enter, but you felt him. The silence shifted. The air thickened. Your breath caught when the curtain to the confessional booth rustled.

He slipped in. Red suit. Mask still on. Bruised and burning.

You waited only a beat before rising and slipping into the other side of the booth.

“I shouldn't be here,” he said, voice low, wrecked. “Not like this.”

“You came anyway.”

Silence.

“I came to confess.”

You swallowed, pulse spiking. “Go on.”

“I sinned,” he rasped. “With you. In His house. And I liked it.”

You bit your lip, heart pounding.

He continued, slower. “I fucked you like you were mine. I filled you. Marked you. I wanted to leave something inside you that couldn’t be washed away even by holy water.”

You were already wet—sitting in a sacred place, his voice doing things to your body that no prayer could undo.

“Matt—”

He cut you off. “Don’t say my name. Not here.”

You exhaled shakily. “Then what do I call you?”

His gloved hand slipped through the partition between you, fingers brushing your knee.

“Say Father.”

Your hips bucked at the word.

You leaned into the wood. “Forgive me, Father. For wanting it all over again.”

He groaned.

“You shouldn’t,” he whispered, fingers tracing up your thigh under your dress. “But you do. You want to be used right here. Right now.”

“Do it.”

The click of his glove being removed made your breath hitch. And then his bare fingers were between your legs, sliding under your panties, already soaked.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You came into His house like this? Dripping? Waiting for me?”

You whimpered as one finger slid inside you, slow and deep.

“Tell me your sins,” he said, thrusting gently.

“I touch myself when you’re gone,” you confessed, eyes fluttering shut. “I think about your mouth. Your hands. The way you sound when you break inside me.”

He added a second finger. The stretch made you cry out softly, head thudding against the panel.

“What else?”

“I dream of you—above me, inside me—mask on. Telling me I’m yours.”

“You are,” he growled, curling his fingers. “Every part of you.”

You moaned, hips bucking as he fucked you with slow, deliberate strokes. His thumb found your clit, circling cruelly soft.

“You close already?” he asked, breath hot through the wood. “You gonna fall apart just from my fingers?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

He stopped.

You nearly cried.

“Why—why’d you stop?”

“You don’t get to come until you repent,” he whispered.

“I did.”

“Not enough.”

He leaned closer through the divider, voice like a blade.

“Beg for it.”

You whimpered. “Please. Please, Father—make me come. I’ll be good. I’ll confess everything.”

“Say what you are.”

“I’m yours,” you choked. “Your fucktoy. Your sinner. Your girl.”

That was all it took.

His fingers slammed back into you, hard, fast, filthy. Your orgasm ripped through you like a storm—biting your fist, back arching, body shaking as he worked you through every wave.

When you collapsed back against the wood, gasping, trembling, he pulled his fingers out slowly.

“Say thank you,” he murmured.

“Thank you, Father.”

You heard the faintest sound of his breath hitch.

Then he was gone.

Just like that.

The door creaked. You didn’t flinch. You knew it was him.

He always came here after a bad night. Slipping into the side entrance of the church, bleeding and breathing hard, limping toward the basement where no one but you ever saw him fall apart.

You stood quietly at the end of the hallway, watching him descend the stairs—suit ripped, mask still on, knuckles scraped raw. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. Not just from pain. From something deeper. Hotter.

“Rough night?” you asked softly.

His head tilted toward you, his voice gravel. “They tried to kill a kid. Wrong place, wrong time. I didn’t let them.”

Your heart clenched. “And now what, Matt?”

He didn’t answer.

He walked toward you—slow, deliberate—until your back hit the wall. His hands braced beside your head, caging you in. The red lenses of his mask burned into yours.

“Now I need something to remind me I’m still a man,” he rasped. “Not just the Devil.”

Your breath hitched. You nodded.

“Then take it,” you whispered. “Take me.”

And he did.

His mouth slammed into yours—mask still on. He didn’t bother taking it off, and you didn’t ask. The rough texture of the suit scraped your palms as you tugged him closer, his body pressing yours into cold stone.

“You come here like this,” he growled, dragging his gloved hand up under your shirt, “wearing that little fucking look on your face like you’re waiting for me to ruin you.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m trying not to.”

But he was lying. He wasn’t trying at all.

He pulled your pants down just enough to shove his hand between your thighs—two fingers sliding through your slick folds with filthy precision.

“You’re already soaked,” he hissed. “Fuck, you want this. Want me to use you like I used my fists tonight.”

You whimpered. “Yes—please, Matt—”

“No,” he snapped. “Not Matt right now.”

You swallowed hard. “Daredevil.”

He groaned like the word physically affected him.

Then he dropped to his knees.

The suit creaked as he lowered himself between your legs, strong hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. His mask tilted up slightly, just enough for you to feel the hot breath from his mouth over your core.

“I’m not going to be gentle,” he warned. “Not tonight.”

“Don’t be.”

He growled—and then his mouth was on you.

Even with the mask on, he ate you like a man possessed. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, hands holding your hips down as you bucked against his face. You were already close, already trembling, the whole thing filthy and sacred in the same breath.

You came with a strangled cry, hand flying to the crown of his head, gripping the hard material of his mask as he groaned against your pussy, licking you through it.

But he didn’t stop.

He stood, pulled himself free from his suit, and hoisted you up into his arms, pressing you back into the stone wall. His cock—thick, flushed, and already leaking—rubbed against your entrance, hot and heavy.

“You ready to take me?” he whispered, voice shaking. “Ready to let me bury everything in you?”

You nodded, dazed. “Yes—God, yes—”

“Don’t say His name,” he growled, thrusting into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. “Not when I’m doing this to you.”

He fucked you like he was trying to exorcise the violence from his soul—fast, rough, unforgiving. Every thrust bruised. Every moan from your mouth only made him go harder.

“You feel that?” he hissed, his hand slipping around your throat—not choking, just holding. “Feel how deep I am? That’s how you’ll remember me.”

You were babbling, lost in it—his name, his title, the way he hit that spot with perfect, punishing accuracy. Your second orgasm built like fire in your spine, your body shaking around him.

“I’m gonna come again—fuck, Daredevil—”

He gritted his teeth, hips jerking.

“Good. I want you to,” he groaned. “Wanna watch you fall apart, take every drop of me like it’s the only thing that’ll save you.”

You shattered—loud, sobbing, soaked—clenching around him so tight he cursed through clenched teeth. He wasn’t far behind.

“You want me to come inside you?” he growled, voice low and wrecked. “Want me to fill you up, make sure you’re mine?”

“Yes—please—inside—”

He slammed into you, coming with a guttural moan, his body collapsing into yours as his cock twitched deep inside, spilling every ounce into you.

You held each other there, bodies trembling, breath tangled, masked forehead pressed to yours like confession.

“I shouldn’t do this to you,” he whispered. “Not here. Not like this.”

You brushed your fingers across his cheek, where the mask met skin.

“But you need to. And I need you to.”

A pause. Then:

You knew something was wrong the second he stalked off the jet.

Bucky didn’t say a word during debriefing—barely looked at anyone. You caught the tremor in his jaw, the tightness in his fists, the way he kept flexing his left hand like it was burning through his wrist.

You didn’t speak until you found him in the dimmed corridor below deck, near the emergency equipment lockers, pacing like a caged animal.

“Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, turning toward you, wild-eyed.

You froze. His pupils were blown, sweat beading at his temples. His face looked like a war zone—gritted teeth, flared nostrils, storm in his chest.

“They tried it,” he growled, voice gravel. “They tried to use the words.”

Your stomach dropped.

The trigger words.

You closed the distance carefully, like you were approaching a lit fuse. “But they didn’t work, right?”

His silence was the answer. Not because they succeeded—but because they almost had.

He stepped in close, breathing hard. His metal hand clenched and unclenched at his side, the plates groaning with tension.

“I need something else to take over,” he said, voice low and shaking. “Before the memories eat me alive.”

You met his eyes and nodded, barely whispering, “Take it.”

Then his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t a kiss—it was a claim. His flesh hand grabbed the back of your neck, the cold press of vibranium pushing up under your shirt like it needed to mark you, own you. He backed you up into the wall with a growl, mouth devouring, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, voice rough. “You hear me?”

“Yes,” you gasped, fingers already tearing at the straps of his tac vest. “Always.”

His metal hand tore your shirt open like paper. No finesse—just need. You moaned at the cold glide over your breasts, the sharp contrast against your heated skin.

“You gonna let me fuck the Winter Soldier out of me?” he hissed, rutting his hips against yours, already hard and straining in his combat pants. “Remind me who I really am?”

“Please.”

That’s all he needed.

Your pants were ripped off you and thrown somewhere you couldn't see. He shoved his down quickly, not wasting another second. He lifted you against the wall, metal fingers digging into your thighs as he lined up and slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

You screamed—not from pain, but from the shock of fullness, the way he filled you so deep it felt like he reached your soul.

“Fuck—this pussy,” he grunted, snapping his hips up. “Always so fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

You clung to him, fingers fisting in his hair as he fucked into you, rough and relentless. The metal arm held you effortlessly, locked in place like a vise while his flesh hand slid between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with no mercy.

“You like this?” he growled. “You like me losing control on you?”

You whimpered, already close, already unraveling from the brutal pace. “Yes, Bucky—don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”

“You’re gonna come,” he ordered, thrusts picking up speed. “You’re gonna come, and then I’m gonna fill you up. Fuck a baby into you, make sure nobody ever fucking forgets you belong to me.”

You shattered.

Your orgasm slammed into you, sharp and overwhelming, and Bucky didn’t slow down. He kept thrusting through it, chasing his own high, whispering broken things in your ear:

“Mine.” “No one else touches you.” “Need you. Only you.” “Can’t lose myself—not with you here—”

Then with a final deep thrust and a guttural growl, he buried himself to the hilt and came—hot, thick, pulsing inside you in waves. His hips jerked with each spurt, and he held you so tight it felt like he was trying to mold your body to his.

But he wasn’t done.

You were still shaking when he pulled back just enough to watch your pussy flutter around him. He slid out halfway, then slammed back in—again. And again.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, overwhelmed.

“One more,” he said, lips brushing your ear. “Give me one more. I know you can.”

His thumb found your clit again—faster this time, rougher. Your legs trembled. His cock throbbed inside you.

“I need to see you fall apart,” he whispered. “Need to know I didn’t hurt you. That I didn’t become him again.”

The second orgasm hit like lightning—your body arching, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent cry as you clenched down on him like a vice. He grunted, hips faltering, spilling into you again with a broken moan.

You sagged against him, completely spent.

His hold on you loosened, just enough to let you breathe. His forehead rested against yours, sweat dripping onto your cheeks as his breath came in ragged gasps.

“I didn’t mean to be that rough,” he murmured, shame already creeping in.

You cupped his cheek, pulling him in for a soft kiss.

“You needed it. And I needed you.”

For a second, the Helicarrier didn’t exist. The mission, the words, the war—it all faded. Just him. Just you. Still here. Still whole.

“I don’t know what I’d be without you,” he whispered, voice cracking.

The front door slammed so hard it rattled the frame.

You didn’t flinch. Not anymore. You knew that sound—the way it always came on the heels of the worst kind of shift. The kind that left blood on Eddie’s uniform and silence in his soul.

You stayed curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, phone dimming in your hand. The air shifted when he entered. You could feel the storm in his body before you even saw his face.

He didn’t say a word as he tossed his turnout coat to the floor. It landed with a thud, still smelling like smoke and sweat and asphalt. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked through, muscles tense like he was still bracing for a collapse.

“Bad call?” you asked gently.

Eddie didn’t answer. He stood there, chest rising and falling fast, jaw ticking like he was chewing through regret. You saw it in his eyes—the residue of something awful. Something he couldn’t fix. Someone he couldn’t save.

“Eddie…”

That broke him.

“I watched a kid die,” he choked, voice so low you barely caught it. “Held pressure on his chest for ten minutes before I realized it didn’t matter. He was already gone.”

You stood slowly, heart aching. “Come here.”

But he didn’t move. Just shook his head like he was barely holding himself together. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to process it. I don’t want to fucking breathe right now.”

Your eyes met his, and there it was, the need. Twisted up in grief and fury and something else only you ever got to see. The desperate hunger to feel instead of remember.

He took one step toward you. Then another.

By the time he reached you, the heat coming off his body was suffocating. He raised a hand, hesitant at first, then cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw.

“I need you,” he whispered, throat tight. “I need to fuck you so hard I forget the sound of that mother’s scream.”

You swallowed hard. Not out of fear—but from the raw honesty bleeding from him.

You grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric over his chest. “Then do it.”

And just like that, the dam broke.

His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and tongue and breathless groans. He gripped your face, your waist, your ass—everywhere at once, like he was trying to mold you into his hands. You clung to him as he walked you backward, stumbling toward the wall, knocking into furniture on the way. Neither of you cared.

The kiss turned messy. Angry. Like he was punishing himself for feeling good. Like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Fuck,” he hissed, dragging your shirt up and over your head. “You always look at me like I’m worth something.”

“You are,” you breathed, barely able to think with the way he was touching you—rough, fast, starving.

He didn’t respond with words. Just shoved your panties down and lifted your leg around his waist, grinding against you through his jeans. You could feel how hard he was already.

“I need to be inside you. Now.”

Then he unzipped, shoved his boxers down just enough, and lined himself up.

And when he thrust into you—deep and unforgiving—you swore you saw heaven behind your eyelids.

The stretch was sharp, borderline brutal, and you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he bottomed out in one hard thrust. No teasing. No build-up. Just pure, pent-up fire pouring out of him and into you.

“Jesus,” he growled, forehead pressing to yours. “You always take me so fucking well.”

You could barely breathe, let alone speak. He didn’t give you a chance to adjust, just set a punishing pace, thrusting into you like he was trying to bury the pain inside your body instead of his own.

Every movement was desperate. Powerful. Angry. His grip on your hips tightened, fingertips digging in like he wanted to leave a mark—needed proof that he was still here, still alive, still capable of feeling something that wasn’t death and failure.

You moaned his name, voice catching on each thrust. He shoved your other leg up, wrapping both around his waist, pinning you to the wall like you weighed nothing.

“You’re mine,” he hissed, breath hot against your cheek. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, head falling back, fingers tangled in his hair. “Only yours.”

He snapped his hips harder, deeper, hitting that spot that made your whole body seize. His hand slid up, fingers around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding himself in your pulse.

“Look at me,” he demanded again. “Don’t you fucking look away. I need to see you come.”

You did. You locked eyes with him, even as your body trembled, even as your walls clenched around him, fluttering dangerously close to release.

“I’m gonna—Eddie—”

“Yeah, baby. Come for me. Right now. Let me feel it.”

Your orgasm slammed into you like a wave breaking over rocks—violent, electric, all-consuming. You cried out, hands clawing at his back, your walls pulsing around him with rhythmic, desperate need.

He groaned, loud and broken, losing rhythm as your body milked him. His thrusts turned erratic—deeper, slower, like he was chasing the last flicker of control.

Then he slammed into you once, twice, and stilled.

His release hit with a grunt, buried deep inside you. His whole body shuddered, arms locking tight around you as if you could anchor him to the earth.

You stayed there, clinging to him, your bodies sticky and sweat-soaked, your hearts racing in sync. His head dropped to your shoulder. For the first time since he walked through the door, he exhaled like the weight on his chest had finally cracked.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to be—”

“You weren’t too much,” you interrupted, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “You were just… hurting. And I can take it. All of it.”

He pulled back to look at you, really look at you, and for the first time that night, his eyes weren’t wild. They were soft. Wet. Human.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

“You do,” you said. “Every broken, bruised piece of you. You deserve someone who sees all of it and stays.”

His lips found yours again—this time slow. Tender. Grateful.

“I’m not done with you tonight,” he murmured against your mouth. “Not even close.”

Your pulse kicked back up. “Then take me to bed, Diaz.”