Fingers digging into both of your cheeks, holding them in place with such force that your eyes don't dare to move. Keeping contact with Hannibal's, his hips thrusting, fucking you into his desk.

Moaning in his face, exchanging hot breaths, looking into each other's eyes. Watching Hannibal's face melt, brows furrowing, mouth opening slightly only to be bitten closed, holding back the reward of louder moans. Gelled hair thrown out of place, swinging, touching your forehead with every thrust.

Attempting to look down, wanting a glimpse of his cock in you, but only receiving a strong thrust. Throwing your eyes back into his, noticing Hannibal's head tilted back as if warning you.

Locking back into his brown eyes, getting lost in their commanding ocean. Face heating up, pleasure prickling across your skin, the fabric of Hannibal's expensive suit rubbing your skin raw as his cock does the same to your insides.

Eyes rolling back, receiving harder thrusts that push you more and more towards the end or beginning of the night. Removing a hand from the edge of the desk, digging your fingers into the meat of his hand, stabilizing yourself in the present moment.

Thrusts turning long, hard, and deep, hips circling with every slap to your ass. Moans escaping from your squished lips, mumbling his name, fueling his ugly hunger.

Body shaking, growing weak in his firm hold, crying out his name once again, feeling your atoms spin under his watchful gaze. The sight encourages his cock, twitching within you as he tilts forward, pushing you back.

Creating a loud slap with his final thrust, echoing off the many books lining his office walls, as ropes of cum decorate yours. Fingers tighten on your jaw, brown eyes still just as intense, brows only melting, opening like his mouth, allowing moans to sing from his lips.

Legs closing around his hips, wanting the moment to last forever, even as he releases your cheeks. Seeing pride bloom across his face, looking down at your sore face, imagine your cheeks red, imprinted with his fingerprints.

Catching your breath, lying back on Hannibal's desk, watching as he removes his handkerchief from the chest pocket of his suit. Softly cleaning while your nerves still fired off, holding one of your thighs open, knowing they would close around him given the chance. Being a rare treat, your dear Hannibal fucks you in his office, let alone on his desk, gazing into his beautifully demanding brown eyes.

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their fanfiction being copied, copied & credited, translated, used in videos and/or audios, screenshotted, used in AI.

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DIDN'T WORK (PLEASE RESUBMIT): @wolerinesgirll @schlangering

Brookhaven didn’t feel real.

It looked like it had been painted out of somebody else’s memory—small white houses, quiet streets, a main road with just enough stores to keep people alive. Quaint, but unsettling.

Two days. That was how long you’d been here. Long enough to unpack a few boxes, not long enough for the place to smell like home. Long enough to know that at night, the silence pressed in on you like a hand over your mouth.

You’d told yourself this was a good thing. A fresh start. Freedom. Away from the noise, the constant rush, the strangers brushing too close in New York. You’d wanted peace so badly you convinced yourself this would feel like it.

It didn’t.

It felt like being stranded. No family here. No friends. Just you and your bad people skills, your anxiety that made even buying groceries feel like preparing for a performance.

That’s how you ended up here—aisle five of the only grocery store in town—staring up at the top shelf like an idiot. The box you needed was inches out of reach, and the thought of asking someone for help already made your stomach twist.

Just grab something else. Doesn’t matter. You don’t need it that bad.

But your body stayed there, stupidly rooted to the floor, because of course this was your luck: paralyzed by cereal.

And then a voice behind you, low and steady, slipped through the quiet.

“Need a hand, doll?”

You turned, ready to mumble some excuse, and—holy shit.

For a second your brain just… blanked. Like it couldn’t compute that the voice belonged to the man standing there. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome in a way that felt unfair up close. Blue eyes that seemed too sharp for a grocery store. The kind of face that made your stomach twist with the sudden realization that you were, in fact, staring.

Embarrassment hit like a slap. You cleared your throat quickly, fumbling for composure. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

He grinned, easy, boyish—like he’d been expecting the answer all along. And then he just reached past you, arm brushing close enough that you caught the faint scent of soap and something warmer, something expensive. In one fluid movement, he plucked the Coco Pops from the top shelf, the box that had reduced you to a statue.

“There you go,” he said, handing it over. “Not exactly worth climbing for, but I get it. Sweet tooth?”

You managed a smile, clutching the box like it was proof you weren’t completely useless, “More like comfort food.”

His smile deepened, a faint crinkle by his eyes that made your chest tighten. “Nothing wrong with that. We all need something that makes the day feel better.”

And maybe it was just in your head, maybe it was the anxiety talking, but his eyes lingered too long. Like he wasn’t just looking at you. Like he was searching for something.

“You’re new around here, huh?”

The question was casual, but it still made your cheeks heat. You let out a half-laugh, shifting the cereal box in your arms like a shield.

“Is it that obvious?” you said before you could stop yourself, wincing at how self-conscious it sounded.

He chuckled, eyes never quite leaving you. “It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. Someone new? Kind of hard to miss.”

You dropped your gaze to the box in your hands, not quite able to handle the weight of his stare for too long. “Guess I’m not as subtle as I thought,” you muttered, shifting your grip on the cereal.

“Not a bad thing.” He tilted his head, still smiling. “James Barnes. But everyone calls me Bucky.”

Your throat worked as you nodded, then you remembered—manners, names, normal human interaction. You reached out, hand awkwardly slipping into his. Warm, steady. Firm without being crushing. You mumbled your own name, cheeks heating at how small your voice sounded.

There was a pause, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles before he let go.

“Bucky?” you asked, brow furrowing before your brain could catch up to your mouth. “How do you get Bucky from James?”

Smooth. Real smooth.

His grin widened, the kind that made his eyes crinkle. “Second name. Buchanan. Don’t ask me who decided it sounded like Bucky, but it stuck.”

You laughed, more out of nerves than amusement. “Well, it beats Coco Pops Girl, so you win.”

That earned you a real laugh, warm and genuine, and you paused at the way it made your stomach flip.

Brookhaven was also… nice.

Too nice, if you were being honest.

People smiled at you on the street like they already knew you. The kind of smiles that lasted a beat too long, like you owed them one back.

It should’ve felt sweet. Heartwarming. Small-town America, apple pie, Norman Rockwell painting kind of sweet.

And maybe it was. Maybe this was just how the world worked outside the city—people actually being… decent.

Except you weren’t used to decent. You were used to subway elbows in your ribs, strangers cursing you out if you walked too slow, men shouting “smile!” on the sidewalk like they were doing you a favor. Kindness was transactional where you came from. Nobody held doors open unless they expected your number in return.

So this? This felt alien. You kept waiting for the catch.

Was it my face? Do I just look like a charity case? Or maybe they’re being nice because they think I’m pitiful—tragic new girl with no friends, can’t even reach the top shelf of the cereal aisle without help.

You tried to let it roll off, to remind yourself that maybe this was what “community” looked like. Maybe you’d just been starved of it so long you didn’t know what to do with it now.

You shook it off every time, embarrassed at your own paranoia. Anxiety, that’s all. Just your brain turning harmless niceness into something sinister. You’d wanted a new start, right? You’d asked for this. Peace, quiet, friendly neighbors. And now you had it.

So why did it feel like Brookhaven was watching you?

The Red Room Diner had quickly become your default. Cheap coffee, decent pie, booths you could disappear into without anyone bothering you.

Except today, someone did.

“Refill?”

You looked up and found a girl about your age standing there, dark auburn hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, green eyes warm and curious. Her nametag read Wanda.

“Uh—yeah, thanks,” you said, sliding your mug toward her.

She poured with practiced ease, then lingered instead of walking off like the others usually did. “You’re the new girl in town, yes?”

It wasn’t a question.

You offered a small, awkward smile. “Yeah… I guess so.”

“Brookhaven doesn’t get many strangers.” She tilted her head, lips quirking. “But… you don’t feel like a stranger. More like you finally made it here.”

Your smile froze halfway, brain scrambling to make sense of it. What does that even mean?

“Oh—uh. Thanks?” you managed, heat creeping up your neck. You glanced around the diner to see if anyone else had caught that, but no one seemed to be paying attention.

Wanda just smiled like she hadn’t said anything weird at all. “Don’t worry about the check. It’s on the house today.”

“Really?” you said, blinking. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” She slid the coffeepot back onto the warmer and leaned against your booth like she had all the time in the world. “So, what brought you here?”

You hesitated, fingers brushing the rim of your mug. What’s the short version? Without sounding like a total disaster?

“I just… finished school. Needed a break from the city, I guess. Too loud, too busy. Thought I’d try something different for a while.”

Wanda nodded like she understood. “Yeah, city life can chew you up. Here’s quieter. Slower.” She tilted her head. “Do you like it so far?”

“Still getting used to it.” You smiled, a little sheepish. “Everyone’s… really nice.” Too nice, but you didn’t say that part.

She laughed lightly, and the sound made your shoulders loosen without you realizing it. “That’s Brookhaven. People look out for each other here.”

Or watch each other, you thought, but bit your tongue.

You found yourself leaning in, warming to the conversation. “It’s actually kind of nice, talking to someone my age. Most people I’ve met here are…” You trailed off, searching for a polite word. Older. Married. Staring at me too long.

Wanda smirked like she knew what you meant. “Yeah. I get that. But you’ll fit in. You’ll see.”

There was something in the way she said it, calm and certain, which made you pause.

Wanda lingered a little longer, fingers drumming on your table. “Hey—do you go to church?”

You blinked. “Uh… not really.” Too quick. Too blunt. You winced and backtracked fast. “I mean—I was never super religious. Not against it or anything. Just… not my thing.”

Great. Perfect. Say you hate Jesus next, why don’t you.

But Wanda only smiled, unfazed. “Neither was I.” She shrugged like it was the easiest thing in the world. “It’s not really about the Bible, not the way people think. It’s more… community. A chance to be together, you know?”

You nodded slowly, unsure what else to do. “Right. Togetherness.”

Her eyes lit up, earnest. “Exactly. We share meals, stories, just… connect. It’s actually my favorite part of the week.”

You gave a little laugh, hoping it didn’t sound as nervous as you felt. This is fine. Small towns and their Sunday churches, nothing weird about that. “Sounds… nice.”

Wanda grinned, leaning back just a little. “You should come sometime. You’d fit right in.”

Your stomach twisted at the phrasing—fit right in—but you forced your lips into a polite smile, humor in your tone to soften the refusal. “I’ll think about it.”

Which, translated, meant: absolutely not, but thanks anyway.

Still, you held her gaze, nodding along like you weren’t already picturing yourself awkwardly standing in a pew while strangers tried to pray over you.

After that first time meeting him, it kept happening.

Not that you were complaining.

But you didn’t chalk it up to anything either. Small town meant one diner, one grocery store, one of everything. Of course you’d run into people more than once.

The second time you saw him, it was the diner.

You’d gone in for coffee and pie, needing somewhere to sit that wasn’t your half-furnished living room. He was already there, two seats down at the counter, stirring sugar into his mug with an absent sort of focus. When you slid onto the stool, he glanced up, those blue eyes meeting yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“City girl learns to love diner coffee,” he said with a crooked smile.

Your heart gave a stupid little kick, and you laughed because what else were you supposed to do?

After that, you kept running into him—the post office, the clinic, and then the narrow sidewalk outside the bookstore, where you nearly collided. He stepped aside with that steady grace, hand brushing your elbow just enough to keep you from stumbling.

“Careful,” he said softly, as you balanced a too-heavy grocery bag against your hip.

“Sorry.”

He’d taken the bag from you without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, carrying it to your door with one arm while his other hand stayed casually tucked in his pocket.

You’d stammered a thank you, embarrassed at how winded you were from a short walk, while he barely looked strained.

You were here for a fresh start. And if that fresh start happened to include a hot older guy who was nice enough to smile when no one else did?

Well. You weren’t going to question it. You just… didn’t notice the way he kept finding you.

The bell above the door gave a tired little chime as you stepped into the herbalist shop. It smelled like dried lavender and something sharper, almost medicinal, and the shelves were stacked high with jars of teas, oils, powders in neat little labels that made your head spin.

You weren’t even sure what you were looking for—just something to fill the silence of your house, maybe. Something that made it smell less like dust and more like… home.

“Hello, dear,” came a voice, warm and clipped in that old-fashioned way.

You looked up to see the woman behind the counter—white hair pinned back neatly, glasses perched on her nose. She smiled at you, kind and sharp all at once.

“Hi,” you managed, returning the smile as you drifted toward the shelves. “Just… looking.”

“Of course. Take your time. First month in town, is it?”

You blinked. “Uh… second, actually.”

She nodded, already pulling down jars as if she knew what you’d want. Chamomile. Peppermint. A little vial of lavender oil. You hadn’t said a word, but they were exactly what you’d been eyeing.

“Sleep can be restless when you’re adjusting to a new place,” she said gently, wrapping the jars in brown paper. “A cup of this before bed, and you’ll dream easier.”

You smiled awkwardly, shifting your weight. Okay, small towns, sure. People talk. Harmless. “Thanks. That’s… thoughtful.”

The old lady looked up at you then, her eyes soft but penetrating, and said it as easily as if she were commenting on the weather,

“You’re very pure.”

You froze, smile stiffening on your face. “Oh…thank you?” What the fuck.

She didn’t look embarrassed, didn’t even seem to notice your awkward laugh. Just tied the parcel with twine, sliding it across the counter. “We don’t see that much anymore. It’s rare.”

“Right,” you said quickly, grabbing the bag like it might help you escape faster. “Well. Thanks for the teas. Appreciate it.”

You were already halfway out the door when she called after you, still sweet as ever, “Brookhaven’s lucky to have you, dear.”

The bell chimed again as you pushed into the street, heartbeat hammering.

You didn’t stop walking until you were two blocks away, clutching the paper bag like it might explode.

By the third month, you’d mostly figured out how to blend in. You had your grocery routine, your diner booth, even a few neighborly waves you didn’t hate returning. You still felt like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong picture, but at least you weren’t flailing anymore.

Until this random kid.

You were waiting outside the bakery, paper bag of bread warm in your hands, when a little boy in a striped shirt wandered up to you. Couldn’t have been more than six, hair sticking up in every direction, a smear of chocolate on his cheek.

He stared at you like kids do—too long, unblinking, blunt curiosity written all over him.

You offered a polite smile, because what else do you do? “Hey, honey. Shouldn’t you be with your mom?”

He grinned, a gap where one of his front teeth should’ve been. “You’re the bride.”

Your smile froze. “…What?”

“The bride.” He rocked on his heels, sing-songing it now like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Mommy says you’re the one.”

“Oh,” you said, voice pitched too high. “That’s… nice.” You glanced around frantically, praying someone would swoop in and collect him.

As if on cue, a woman appeared from the corner, hurrying over. “There you are,” she scolded lightly, taking his hand. She gave you a smile—apologetic, practiced. “Sorry about that. He’s chatty.”

“No problem,” you managed, forcing a laugh that sounded fake even to your own ears.

The kid tugged at her hand as they turned to leave, still looking back at you. “Bye, bride!” he chirped, cheerful as anything.

You stood rooted to the spot, blood pounding in your ears.

Bride. Bride of what? Bride of who?

You wanted to drop the bread right there on the street and keep walking until you hit the highway. Instead, you clutched it tighter, pasted a smile on for no one but yourself, and forced your legs to move.

You walked faster than you meant to, bread clutched so tight the paper crinkled in your hands. Your chest still hadn’t stopped buzzing, the kid’s voice echoing in your skull—the bride, the bride, the bride.

It was nothing. Just a kid. Just a weird, stupid kid saying weird, stupid things.

So why did it feel like your skin didn’t fit right?

You were too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice the figure rounding the corner until you collided, stumbling back with a startled gasp.

A hand caught your elbow, steadying you before you could trip.

“Easy there, doll.”

You looked up and felt the air leave your lungs. Him again. James. Bucky.

Of course.

Your panic stuttered, tempered by the calm weight of his hand, the easy smile tugging at his mouth. He didn’t look alarmed, didn’t ask questions—just steadied you like you were something fragile, breakable, but worth holding onto.

“Sorry,” you blurted, too quick. “I wasn’t— I didn’t see you.”

“No harm done.” His grip lingered for a second longer than necessary before he let go. “Where’s the fire?”

Your laugh came out shaky. “No fire. Just… distracted.” By creepy children calling me a bride, but sure, let’s not unpack that here in the middle of the street.

He tilted his head, studying you with that unreadable focus that always left you a little warm. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” you lied, because you didn’t know how to explain any of it. You weren’t about to sound crazy in front of the one person in Brookhaven who didn’t make you feel completely out of place.

His smile deepened, soft but steady, like he believed you even if he didn’t. “Good. Hate to think this town scared you off already.”

Something in the way he said it made your stomach flutter. You found yourself smiling back, nodding too much. “I’ll survive.”

He didn’t just leave it at steadying you.

“Let me walk you,” he said, already matching your stride before you could argue. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

You glanced down at the single loaf of bread clutched in your bag, lips twitching. Yeah, real heavy lifting there. But you didn’t push it. A part of you was… relieved, actually. Company meant distraction. Distraction meant you didn’t have to replay the kid’s words on loop.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, adjusting the strap on your shoulder.

“So,” he said after a beat, voice low and easy. “Settling in yet? Brookhaven treating you alright?”

You shrugged, eyes on the sidewalk. “Trying to. It’s… different.”

“How so?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek. He had that kind of voice that made you want to fill the silence, even when you shouldn’t. So you did. Words spilling out before you could filter them.

“I don’t know. Everyone’s really nice, which should be good, but sometimes it feels like too much. Like I stick out. Like…” You trailed, then huffed a laugh. “Honestly, maybe Brookhaven isn’t the right fit for me. I probably should’ve picked a bigger town. Or closer to the city. Or somewhere with more people my age, or at least—”

You realized you were rambling, but your mouth kept going. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful here. Quiet. Just—maybe too quiet. And I thought that’s what I wanted, but now I’m not sure, and—”

You finally looked up, words faltering, because his gaze was on you. Steady. Unblinking. And there was something darker there now, something that made your chest go tight.

He didn’t look annoyed. He didn’t even look surprised. He looked like you’d said something unacceptable.

Then his expression softened, that easy smile sliding back into place like it had never left. “You belong here more than you know.”

The words landed heavy, almost like an order.

You forced a smile, awkward and thin. “Guess I don’t feel that way yet.”

“You will,” he said simply. His eyes held yours a beat too long. “Sometimes it just takes a little time.”

You nodded, pretending to believe him, because what else were you supposed to do? “Well… thanks for walking me home.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, sliding back into that easy smile, the one that looked harmless if you didn’t stare too long.

You reached for your keys, fumbling a little, when his hand brushed lightly against your hip. Not a grab, not overt—just a steadying touch as he leaned close enough that you caught the warmth of his breath.

“See you around, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Your throat tightened. You managed a nod, muttered something that might’ve been “goodnight,” and slipped inside as fast as you could without slamming the door.

You stood there with your back against it, heart pounding too loud in the quiet.

Just neighborly. Just friendly. That’s all it was.

The next few days, things only got stranger.

At first it was small stuff—easy to ignore, easy to laugh off. The clerk at the grocery store greeting you by name even though you’d never introduced yourself. The mailman telling you your package was “already waiting” before you’d even mentioned one.

Fine. Small town. Gossip traveled fast. Normal.

But then you stopped at the bakery and the woman behind the counter—Mary-Jane, you remembered her name was—slipped an extra pastry into your bag with a conspiratorial smile. “For our girl.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Our girl,” she repeated, like it explained everything. “You’re settling in beautifully.”

You laughed awkwardly, mumbled thanks, and bolted before she could say anything else.

And it kept happening.

At the farmer’s market, a man you’d never met pressed a bouquet of daisies into your hands, saying they were “meant for you.” At the laundromat, two women paused their folding to smile at you, one of them murmuring, “She really is perfect.”

Perfect. Pure. Bride. Words stacking in your head like bricks you didn’t know what to do with.

You’d catch yourself scanning faces for the smirk, the prank, the joke you weren’t in on. But there was nothing. Just wide, genuine smiles that never seemed to falter.

By the end of the week, your nerves were shot. Every knock at your door made your stomach lurch. Every “hello” on the street felt loaded. You lay in bed at night staring at the ceiling, whispering to yourself that you were fine, that you were imagining it.

It’s just small town kindness. It’s fine. You’re fine.

The Red Room had become a kind of refuge, the only place that felt remotely normal anymore. Or at least, it had.

Wanda slid into the booth across from you before you could even react, balancing a tray with your refill already poured. “Thought you might need this,” she said with a smile, pushing the mug toward you.

“Thanks,” you muttered, wrapping your hands around the cup.

She watched you for a moment, chin resting on her hand, before she spoke again. “So… you’re coming to the celebration, right?”

You blinked. “What celebration?”

Her smile widened. “Behind the church. This weekend. It’s big—bigger than anything else in Brookhaven. You can’t miss it.”

Your stomach tightened. “Church,” you echoed, weary. “Right.”

“It’s not what you think,” she said quickly, eyes lighting up like she’d practiced the line. “It’s not sermons and prayers. It’s… a gathering. Like a festival.”

You gave a humorless little laugh, lifting your brows. “What kind of festival?”

For the first time, Wanda hesitated. Her gaze flickered, and then she leaned in slightly, her voice softening. “It’s… special. Something that’s never happened before. Everyone’s been waiting a long time for it.”

Your grip on the mug tightened. “Okay,” you said slowly. “That sounds… vague.”

She tilted her head, unfazed, like she hadn’t heard the edge in your tone. “It’s hard to explain. You’ll understand when you’re there.”

You stared at her, trying to make sense of the words. Something that’s never happened before. Everyone’s been waiting. What the hell did that even mean?

“Right,” you said finally, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I’ll… think about it.”

Her expression softened, almost pitying. “You should come. You’ll fit right in.”

That fucking phrase again.

You nodded, even though your chest was crawling. “Yeah. Maybe.”

You took a long sip of coffee just to avoid looking at her.

Soon the air sharpened with autumn, leaves crisping into gold and red, and suddenly the town didn’t just feel different—it looked different.

Flyers plastered every storefront window, every lamp post. The White Star Festival, scrawled in bold letters, surrounded by little sketches of lanterns and wheat stalks. A smiling family at the bottom, arms linked.

Banners stretched across Main Street, stark white against the brick, swaying in the chilly breeze. White paper lanterns hung in neat rows from every awning. Even your mailbox had been stuffed with a pamphlet detailing the “celebration of unity.”

Everywhere you looked, Brookhaven was dressed in white.

And you hated how it made your stomach twist. It should’ve been festive—pretty, even. But all you could think about was Wanda’s voice in the diner, something that’s never happened before. Everyone’s been waiting.

Your mind snagged on the phrase like a burr you couldn’t shake.

Everyone.

Waiting for what?

You tried to shake it off, tried to pretend it was nothing more than a town fair. Apple cider, hay bales, kids running with sparklers. That’s what festivals were, right? Normal. Harmless.

Still, walking down the street with those white banners fluttering above, you couldn’t help feeling like Brookhaven wasn’t celebrating something.

It was preparing.

You’d buried yourself in work that afternoon, reshelving a cart stacked with hardcovers, the smell of dust and old paper clinging to your sleeves. The library had become your sanctuary—quiet, predictable, safe.

Or so you thought.

“Didn’t know you worked here.”

Your head snapped up, heart stumbling in your chest. And there he was again—James. Bucky. Leaning against the end of the aisle like he belonged there, like he’d just happened to wander in.

Of course.

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just part-time. Keeps me busy.”

He nodded slowly, eyes scanning the rows of books before landing back on you. “That festival’s coming up fast. You planning on going?”

Your hands froze on the spine of a book you’d been sliding into place. “I don’t… I don’t think so.”

It came out more hesitant than you meant it to, your voice catching like you needed to explain yourself. “Crowds aren’t really my thing. And I’m not… you know. Church-y.”

He chuckled, low and warm, like you’d just told him something endearing. “It’s not about church. Not the way you think.” He moved closer, slow and unhurried, until he was right at your cart, his fingers brushing the edge like he was just making himself at home. “It’s about community. Belonging. You should be there.”

You shifted, tucking some hair behind your ear, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the aisle felt. “I mean… maybe. But nobody’s gonna miss me if I don’t.”

That was when his eyes caught yours, steady and too focused, and the easy smile curved his mouth. “That’s where you’re wrong, doll. Everyone’s expecting you to be there.”

The words sat heavy in your chest, too firm to be casual, too smooth to argue with.

You laughed nervously, trying to wave it off. “Well, that’s… flattering, I guess. But I’m really not much of a party person.”

He leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice, his tone soft as if he were letting you in on a secret. “You don’t have to be. You just have to show up. Let us take care of the rest.”

You smiled, because you didn’t know what else to do. But he didn’t let it go. His tone stayed easy, smile never faltering, but there was something behind it—something steady, determined.

“Thing is, I’m on the festival committee,” he said, almost casually, like it was just another line in conversation. “Been helping organize with the church for years. Kinda my job to make sure people show up.”

Your eyebrows shot up before you could stop yourself. A laugh slipped out, half disbelieving. “Really? You? I didn’t exactly peg you as the church type.”

He chuckled, low and warm, tilting his head in that way that made it hard to look away. “People can surprise you.”

You shifted a book from one hand to the other, pretending to be busy. “Guess so.”

He leaned against the cart a little more, his presence filling the space in a way that felt deliberate. “Look, sweetheart, it’s important you come. Everyone’s looking forward to meeting you proper. Getting you involved.”

You laughed again, this time thinner, uncomfortable. “Meeting me? I think I’ve already met the whole town at this point.”

“Not like this,” he said softly, his gaze holding steady on you. “The White Star’s different. Special.”

The name of the festival landed heavy, colder than it should’ve. You fiddled with the strap of your bag, trying to keep it light. “Special, huh? And I’m guessing there’s a dress code?”

“White,” he confirmed smoothly. “Head to toe.”

That made you huff out a nervous laugh before you could bite it back. “An all-white party doesn’t sound like the best thing, if I’m being honest. Little cult-y and… klan-ny.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to bite it back.

He smiled at that, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “White’s tradition. Purity, unity, all that.” He shrugged, casual, his voice low. “Don’t think too hard about it. Just wear something light. You’ll be taken care of.”

Taken care of. The words prickled, but you nodded anyway, the automatic polite response slipping out before you could stop it. “Right. I’ll… think about it.”

He straightened then, pushing off the cart, but not before brushing your arm in that casual, claiming way. “Do more than think about it, doll. Be there.”

You forced another laugh, too breathy, too thin. “Yeah. Sure.”

But long after he walked away, his words clung to you, heavy and inescapable. Be there.

You’d braced yourself for… you didn’t even know what. Hooded robes? Candles? Something out of one of those documentaries that made you swear off small towns in the first place.

But when you crested the hill at the edge of Brookhaven and the festival came into view, your breath caught—because it wasn’t creepy at all.

It looked… fun.

Streamers crisscrossed above the square, fluttering in the autumn breeze. Booths lined the street, their tables piled with candied apples, jars of honey, homemade quilts. A Ferris wheel rose against the backdrop of the church’s white steeple, lights blinking cheerfully. Music carried over the crowd, fiddles and tambourines, voices lifting in song.

Kids darted between adults, faces painted, sticky fingers clutching caramel popcorn. Couples swayed near the bandstand. Even the air smelled warm—roasted nuts, cinnamon, fried dough.

You blinked, half-laughing under your breath. Okay, so maybe you were being dramatic.

Your shoulders loosened a little as you stepped into the square, weaving between stalls. People greeted you with smiles, but they didn’t feel as weird today. Just… normal. Happy.

For the first time in weeks, the knot in your chest eased. Maybe you’d been wrong. Maybe all the paranoia was just boredom and nerves after all. Because this—this was exactly what a town festival was supposed to look like.

You tugged your cardigan tighter around you, breathing in the sweet, spiced air, and told yourself to stop overthinking.

Look. Normal. Totally normal.

You hadn’t taken more than three steps into the square before someone was calling your name.

“Hey! There you are!”

You turned just in time for Wanda to come barreling toward you, a grin splitting her face. Before you could react, she’d grabbed your hand, tugging you deeper into the festival.

“Come on, you have to see everything!”

You stumbled after her, laughing despite yourself at the sheer enthusiasm. “Okay, okay—I’m coming!”

Her hand was warm in yours, her excitement infectious as she wove you through the crowd. She pointed out booths like a tour guide: the pie contest table, the row of hay bales set up for a sack race, the Ferris wheel creaking overhead.

Everywhere you went, she pulled you into introductions.

At the candied apple stand, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard handed you one on the house. Thor, he introduced himself, voice booming as if the title of apple vendor was just a side gig.

At the quilting booth, a woman with sharp eyes and short red hair—Natasha—smirked as she measured fabric. “You’ll fit in here just fine,” she said, the phrase that made you laugh nervously before Wanda tugged you onward.

You even met the guy running the popcorn machine, a young one with brown hair falling into his eyes—Peter—who tripped over his words when you smiled at him.

It was overwhelming, dizzying, but… kind of nice. People’s faces were bright, voices warm, the energy buzzing around you so much that you almost forgot the way your stomach had been knotted tight this morning.

God, you thought, laughing as Wanda shoved a cone of roasted nuts into your hand, you really had been working yourself up for nothing. Like a horror movie playing out in your own head.

And now here you were—eating sugar, meeting locals, hand-in-hand with a girl who’d practically adopted you as her best friend. Normal. Harmless.

You’d been laughing at something Wanda said—something about how Thor cheated at the pie-eating contest every single year—when you heard it.

Your name.

That voice.

Low, steady, smooth enough that it curled right down your spine before your brain even caught up.

You turned, already knowing.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Except not like you’d ever seen him before.

He was dressed head to toe in white—shirt, tie, blazer that fit him like it was made for him. It should’ve looked ridiculous at a fair, but somehow it didn’t. Somehow it made him look important. The kind of man who owned the ground he stood on.

Your first thought was—who the hell wears a suit to a festival? Your second was that you were staring too long.

He smiled when your eyes met, that easy, practiced curve of his mouth that always seemed to say more than he ever actually did.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he said, coming closer.

“Guess I’m full of surprises,” you managed, forcing a grin that you hoped passed for casual.

Beside him stood another man, older, hair thinning but neatly combed, his pale eyes so blue they almost looked glassy. He was smiling too, but it didn’t reach those eyes.

“Alexander Pierce,” Bucky said, touching the man’s shoulder. “Mayor of Brookhaven.”

The mayor extended a hand; you took it automatically, his grip firm, too warm.

“Pleasure to finally meet you,” he said. His voice was soft, polite, the kind of tone that was supposed to be reassuring but somehow made your stomach twist. “We’ve heard such wonderful things about you.”

You blinked. “You have?”

Bucky chuckled quietly. “Word travels fast around here, doll.”

You let out a small, awkward laugh. “So I’ve noticed.”

The mayor—Pierce—tilted his head, eyes still on you. “We’re glad you came today. It’s an important one for us.”

You nodded, not sure what to say. “It looks… amazing. I wasn’t expecting something this big.”

“Brookhaven likes to celebrate,” Bucky said easily, but there was something behind his tone. Pride, maybe. Or something heavier.

“Mayor Pierce is also our priest,” he added, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You blinked, sure you’d misheard. “Wait—you’re the mayor and the priest?”

Pierce smiled wider, the corners of his eyes creasing. “Small town. We all wear a few hats.”

Right. You nodded slowly, trying not to look as weirded out as you felt. Totally normal for a guy to run city council and Sunday service.

Bucky’s hand settled lightly on your lower back. Not possessive, not yet—just there. Solid. Anchoring.

“Pierce gives a beautiful sermon,” he murmured. “You’ll see for yourself later.”

The way he said later made your skin prickle.

You tried to joke, to shake it off. “Guess I’ll have to stick around for the show, then.”

Pierce’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, I think you will.”

You laughed, mostly to fill the space, pretending not to notice the way both men’s eyes stayed on you as Wanda reappeared at your side, tugging at your hand again, oblivious to how your pulse had started to thrum in your throat.

The festival from then on went… weirdly well.

Even after the bizarre run-in with Bucky and the mayor-slash-priest, you’d somehow managed to loosen up again. Maybe it was the cider; maybe it was Wanda’s relentless cheerfulness. You let yourself drift through the fair beside her, watching kids chase each other with sparklers, the Ferris wheel lights winking against the deepening sky.

The air was cooling, that in-between hour when day tips into evening and everyone looks a little softer in the fading light. Music still floated from the bandstand—fiddles, laughter, the murmur of a hundred conversations blending together.

You found yourself smiling. See? Normal. Completely normal.

Then, somewhere around six, you noticed the shift.

The music stopped first—just sort of faded mid-song. Then the crowd began to move, slow and purposeful, all in the same direction. Toward the church at the far end of the square, its white steeple cutting into the darkening sky.

Wanda squeezed your hand. “Come on,” she said brightly, tugging you after her.

You blinked, thrown. “Where’s everyone going?”

“To the service,” she said, like it was obvious. “It’s the blessing part of the festival. You’ll love it.”

“Oh.” You hesitated, half-laughing. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna head home. It’s been a long day.”

She stopped, turning to you with that same open smile, but her grip didn’t loosen. “You can’t leave now.”

“I really should—”

“It’s tradition.” Her voice stayed gentle, but there was something underneath it now—an edge of insistence that made your chest tighten. “You’ve already come this far. You don’t want people to think you’re rude, do you?”

You felt the heat rise in your face, guilt creeping in before you could stop it. God forbid the town’s new girl skips church and becomes gossip fodder for a week.

You sighed, forcing a chuckle that sounded a little too light. “Right. Wouldn’t want to break tradition.”

Her smile softened again, victorious but sweet. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

You let her pull you into the slow-moving tide of white-clad bodies, your shoes scuffing the pavement as lanterns began to glow overhead.

Just one more thing, you told yourself. Stay for the blessing, smile, clap, then go home. Normal people do this all the time.

The church was bigger inside than it looked from the street, whitewashed walls glowing under the flicker of candlelight. The scent of melted wax and something faintly floral hung in the air, heavy enough that it clung to your throat.

You followed Wanda down the center aisle, every pew already filling with people dressed in the same white you wore. The same faces you’d seen all afternoon—smiling, laughing, passing cider and candy—now solemn, silent, eyes fixed on the front like they were waiting for a cue.

Wanda motioned for you to sit. You slid into a space halfway down, the wooden pew cold through the thin fabric of your dress. The hum of conversation had faded to a hush, that thick, expectant quiet that made you feel like breathing too loud would draw attention.

You glanced around, heart ticking a little faster. Every single person in town is here. No kids, you realized suddenly. Not one. You frowned, scanning the back rows—nothing but adults, all standing, hands clasped loosely in front of them.

“Where are the—” you started to whisper, but Wanda only smiled and shook her head, eyes still forward.

Before you could ask again, movement at the front caught your attention.

Alexander Pierce was stepping up toward the chancel, his white robes—or maybe it was still that suit, you couldn’t tell in the dim light—bright against the candles. He didn’t speak yet, only lifted his hands in greeting, and the murmur that had been building behind you died instantly.

The silence was absolute.

You shifted in your seat, trying not to fidget. Okay, you told yourself, it’s just a church thing. A small-town sermon. Normal people lighting candles, saying prayers. You’ve seen this in movies. Totally fine.

Still, your palms felt damp against your skirt.

Pierce finally began to speak, his voice calm, steady, echoing off the walls like it had been built to fill this room.

“Brothers and sisters of Brookhaven,” he began, spreading his hands. “What a blessing it is to see so many gathered beneath the White Star tonight.”

You looked around again, and saw heads nodding. Lips moving soundlessly.

Everyone except you.

Wanda’s hand brushed yours lightly, as if to steady you. You managed a tight smile, your throat too dry to answer.

He launched into it—some history lesson about how the White Star represented unity, purity, the light that binds the town together. A few people murmured “Amen.” You tried to follow, but the words washed together after a while, pleasant but empty.

Still, everyone else seemed rapt. Not polite-listening rapt, but locked-in. Their heads tilted slightly the same way, bodies perfectly still, eyes fixed on Pierce like he was the only thing in the room.

You shifted on the bench, glancing around for something—someone—familiar. Bucky, maybe. You hadn’t seen him since earlier, and you’d half-expected him to be front and center for this. But there was no trace of him anywhere. Just a sea of white.

Pierce’s voice kept flowing, steady and soothing. “The White Star shines for all who walk in its light… its purity cleanses the unclean, joins the lost to the found…”

Your brow furrowed. Okay. Bit intense, but whatever. Small towns love metaphors.

He smiled at the congregation, the candlelight catching on his pale eyes. “We are reminded that only through the vessel of innocence can renewal be born. Through her, we become whole again.”

You froze. Through who?

No one else reacted. No shifting, no murmurs. Just quiet, content faces turned toward the pulpit.

Pierce’s voice grew softer now, almost tender. “Tonight we give thanks that the wait has ended. That what was promised has come to pass.”

A ripple of something moved through the crowd. Not applause, not words—just the faint rustle of movement as people straightened a little taller.

You forced a small, nervous laugh under your breath, whispering to Wanda, “I think I missed a memo. What’s he talking about?”

She only smiled, eyes shining in the candlelight. “You’ll understand soon.”

Your stomach turned.

You tried to keep your polite face in place, hands folded on your lap, eyes aimed somewhere near the pulpit. At first Pierce’s voice just blended with the soft hiss of candles and the occasional cough from the back rows.

Then the tone began to change.

He stopped sounding like a mayor reading a proclamation and more like someone caught up in his own conviction. The rhythm quickened, words sharper, carrying across the rafters.

“…for in the cleansing, we are made new,” he said, palms open, rising and falling with every sentence. “…through the sacrifice of what is unspoiled, the Star burns brighter.”

A murmur of assent rippled through the room. Not loud, just that unified yes sound people make when they already know the words.

Pierce went on. “Purity is not a state of being, but an offering. The unblemished light that passes through the vessel and brings forth renewal.”

Your hands twisted together in your lap. Okay. Definitely getting weird.

Everyone around you looked entranced. Heads slightly tilted, eyes bright, lips moving with the familiar phrases. You glanced toward the exit—only a few steps away—and forced yourself to stay seated. Leaving now would draw every eye.

Your pulse drummed in your ears. Just a sermon. He’s being poetic. You’re tired, that’s all. Don’t be rude.

But Pierce’s voice kept climbing, echo bouncing off the high ceiling.

“The Star asks for faith,” he said, almost shouting now. “Faith and purity! Through the cleansing, we return to the light!”

The congregation answered in a low, unified murmur, “Through the cleansing, we return to the light.”

You stared straight ahead, heart hammering, pretending to follow along while your thoughts tripped over each other. What cleansing? What the hell is this?

The candles guttered with the force of his final words.

“…and tonight,” Pierce’s voice rolled over the congregation, slow and deliberate now, “the vessel we’ve prayed for sits among us.”

He didn’t even have to say your name.

You felt it anyway—the way every head in the church turned as if on cue, eyes drifting from the pulpit to you. Candlelight flickered across dozens of faces, all serene, all fixed on you like you’d just stood up in the middle of a movie.

The air went thin.

Stay still, you told yourself. Don’t make a scene. You’re imagining it.

You turned your head just enough to whisper, “Wanda…”

But Wanda was already staring at you. Not smiling. Not looking confused. Just… watching.

Yeah. Nope. Uh-uh.

You shifted on the pew, ready to slide out, get to the aisle, walk fast, anything—when two hands clamped down on your shoulders from behind. Heavy, immovable.

“What the—”

You twisted to look back and your breath caught. Thor. The candied-apple guy. The booming laugh, the twinkle in his eyes. Only now his face was unreadable, eyes bright but cold. His grip didn’t budge.

Another hand wrapped around your arm—Sam, the Ferris wheel guy, the one who’d been cracking jokes at the fair an hour ago. His expression was calm, almost kind, like he was helping you to your feet, not holding you down.

“Let me go!” you hissed, panic spiking up your throat. “What the hell are you doing—”

They didn’t answer.

“Wanda!” Your voice cracked as you tried to jerk free, heart hammering in your ears. “Help me!”

She didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

They pulled you upright as easily as if you weighed nothing. Your shoes scraped against the floor, your hands clawing at their wrists. The pew creaked as you were dragged out into the aisle.

“No, no, no—stop, please—” Your voice rose into a full yell now, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Let me go!”

Nobody in the congregation moved. Nobody gasped, or whispered, or tried to intervene. They just sat there, rows and rows of white, eyes calm, faces soft, as you thrashed between Thor and Sam’s iron grips.

You dug your heels in, twisting hard enough to hurt your shoulder. This is it. They’re going to sacrifice me. This is real. This is happening.

Pierce was still at the chancel, hands raised as if in benediction, watching you with that same patient smile.

You kicked once, twice, desperate, but their hands didn’t slip.

“Please,” you begged, voice breaking now, “please, don’t do this—”

You twisted, kicked, nails clawing at their arms, but it was like fighting statues. Their grips stayed steady, almost gentle but unbreakable, like they weren’t restraining you so much as carrying out something inevitable.

Pierce’s voice rose over your panic, steady as ever. “…the vessel walks unwilling, but the Star guides her steps…”

The crowd murmured back in unison, their calm faces blurring in the candlelight as you were dragged down the aisle.

“No—stop! Somebody help me!” Your voice cracked, echoing off the high ceiling.

Nobody moved. Nobody even blinked.

The altar loomed closer with every step—a simple wooden platform draped in white cloth, candles burning at its corners. When Thor and Sam lifted you up, your stomach lurched.

You thrashed, trying to plant your feet, but your back hit the cool cloth and your arms were already being pulled above your head. Sam’s hands pinned your wrists to the wood. You bucked against him, but Thor caught your legs easily, pressing them down, forcing them to the far corners of the altar.

Rough ropes—where had they even come from?—snaked around your wrists, your ankles, cinching tight. You gasped as the fibers bit into your skin.

“No! Please—don’t do this!” Your voice sounded high and raw, almost childish to your own ears.

Pierce kept speaking over you, his words rolling on like a tide. “…her body given to the light, her purity the bridge to renewal…”

You shook your head violently, hair falling in your face, trying to block out his voice, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. You’re dreaming. Wake up.

But the ropes didn’t loosen.

Your arms trembled above your head, wrists burning. Your legs strained against the ties, the position leaving you exposed, helpless.

And the worst part—the part that made your stomach twist—was how calm everyone still was. Rows of white, faces serene, watching like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

You choked out a sob, twisting to look for Wanda, for anyone. “Please!”

But she was in the front pew now, hands folded, eyes fixed on you like she was watching a ceremony.

And Pierce’s voice rose again. “…and through her offering, we become whole.”

The congregation answered in a low murmur.

You were still fighting the ropes when a ripple moved through the congregation. Heads turned. A low murmur rolled across the pews like a tide going out.

And then you saw him.

Bucky stepped out from the side of the chancel, all white from collar to boots, his hair brushed back, the candlelight making his eyes look almost translucent. He didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate—he walked like a man taking his rightful place.

Your stomach flipped. Relief and terror collided in your chest.

“Bucky!” Your voice cracked, desperate. “Please—please help me!”

He looked at you. Really looked. His face was unreadable, the easy smile gone, replaced with something colder, older. For a heartbeat you thought you saw a flicker of softness in his eyes… and then it was gone.

Pierce lifted his hands, his voice rising over yours. “Brothers and sisters, the time has come. The White Star burns brightest tonight as we anoint our new leader. The vessel has been brought forth for his initiation, as it was foretold!”

“No! Please!” you screamed, twisting against the ropes until your wrists burned. “Don’t do this—”

But your words were swallowed by the low chant of the congregation, by Pierce’s sermon rolling on, “…he who leads must be reborn through purity. He who carries the Star must take the vessel, and through her, bind himself to the light.”

Bucky mounted the steps to the altar, his footsteps slow, measured. He stopped at the edge, looking down at you where you were stretched out, shaking.

“Please,” you sobbed, breath hitching. “You don’t have to do this. Just untie me—please—”

He didn’t answer.

Pierce turned to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, his voice ringing out. “You have served faithfully, James Buchanan Barnes. Tonight you ascend. Tonight you become the Shepherd of the Star.”

The congregation murmured again, a wave of white and flickering candles.

You thrashed harder, your chest heaving, panic clawing up your throat until you could barely breathe.

Pierce’s voice dropped to a near whisper, but the microphone caught every word. “And as the prophecy decreed… the vessel has come to you.”

All eyes turned to Bucky.

You pulled at the ropes until they cut your skin, your voice breaking on his name. “Bucky. Please. I’m begging you. Help me.”

When he reached you, he crouched low, his fingers brushing your cheek as if you were fragile porcelain. His thumb wiped a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“Shhh,” he murmured, but it wasn’t meant for you. His eyes were fixed on the congregation.

Then he stood, straightening to his full height, turning to face them, his hand still resting on your face like a claim. His voice rang out, deeper and louder than Pierce’s, filling every corner of the church.

“Brothers and sisters,” he intoned, “tonight the Star delivers what was promised.”

You shook your head violently, sobs tearing through you. “Bucky, please—”

But your voice was nothing under his, a trembling note swallowed by his sermon.

“Through her, I rise as shepherd,” he went on, his fingers sliding from your cheek to cradle the back of your head, holding you still. “Through her, we renew our covenant. Through her, the light takes flesh.”

The congregation echoed him in a low murmur, the sound vibrating through the pews, through the floor, through your ribs.

You twisted your wrists, your ankles, anything to get free. “Let me go—please.”

His eyes flicked down at you then, soft and burning at once. He didn’t look cruel; he looked devout. Like a man in prayer.

“You were chosen,” he said, so low only you could hear it. “It’s already done.”

Then he lifted his gaze back to the people and raised his voice again, drowning yours completely.

“The vessel is before us,” he declared. “The Star shines upon us. Tonight, the old leader dies and the new is born!”

The roar of voices answering him rolled over you like a wave. You gasped, sobbed, tried to speak, but his hand stayed firm on your head, holding you in place as if you were anointed, not bound.

You couldn’t tell anymore if you were crying or shaking or both. You couldn’t even hear yourself over them.

He reached for something on the altar. Metal glinted in the candlelight.

Your breath snagged in your throat. A dagger. Long, ceremonial-looking, its blade etched with symbols you couldn’t make out.

Your whole body went cold. This is it. This is where they stab you. This is where it ends.

You jerked against the ropes, sobs clawing up your throat. “Please don’t—please—”

Bucky didn’t pause. He turned slightly, showing the blade to the congregation like a priest lifting a chalice. His voice rolled out over their heads, steady, commanding.

“Tonight the vessel is revealed. Tonight we strip away what is false, so only what is pure remains.”

Your heart was hammering so loud you couldn’t hear the crowd’s murmur.

He lowered the dagger. For a heartbeat you braced for the strike—but instead the cold flat of the blade touched your collarbone. You gasped, flinched—and then heard the faint sound of fabric tearing.

Your dress.

He was cutting through it. Slow, deliberate, the blade whispering down the center seam. The cool air hit your skin where the cotton parted, your chest heaving as the white fabric fell away.

You couldn’t stop the sob that tore out of you. “Why are you doing this—please stop—”

He didn’t look at you. His eyes were on the crowd, his voice rising, even as his hands worked.

“We shed the trappings of the world. We bare what is hidden. We reveal the vessel in her true form.”

The knife slid lower, parting the last of your dress. Cool steel grazed your bra, then sliced through the strap with a single, neat flick. You gasped as the cups fell loose, your arms straining instinctively against the ropes that held them above your head.

The congregation didn’t stir. Their faces were serene, eyes fixed on Bucky as if nothing about this was strange.

Your vision blurred with tears. They’re not killing me. They’re—what are they doing?

Another clean movement of the blade, and your panties were gone too, the last shred of fabric falling away. The ropes bit into your wrists as you tried to curl inward, but your legs were still tied to the corners of the altar.

Bucky’s voice rolled over your sobs, calm and sure, “Through the vessel’s unveiling, the covenant is renewed. Through her, the Star is born again.”

You couldn’t stop crying. The ropes dug into your wrists every time you jerked against them, but you couldn’t lie still. They’re going to do it. They’re going to kill me. Any second now the knife—

But the knife was gone. Pierce had taken it from Bucky, setting it on the edge of the altar like it was just another piece of silverware. He dipped his fingers into a shallow bowl you hadn’t noticed before. Oil, thick and glinting in the candlelight.

Bucky, still in his white suit, stood at the foot of the altar. Calm. Collected. Like a man about to deliver a speech, not preside over a sacrifice.

Pierce’s oiled fingers pressed to your forehead. The scent was sharp—frankincense? Something bitter and floral at once. You flinched at the touch.

“Be anointed in the light,” Pierce murmured.

He turned to Bucky next, daubing the same oil across his brow. “And you, Shepherd of the Star. Be reborn.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear the blood in your ears.

Then Bucky started unbuttoning his blazer.

You stared through the blur of tears as he shrugged it off, laid it neatly on a nearby chair, then began unfastening his shirt.

“What are you—” Your voice broke.

He didn’t answer. His fingers moved calmly down the buttons, revealing skin as pale as the candles, a lattice of scars you couldn’t make sense of.

The congregation murmured in a low, unified hum.

“Through the vessel, the Shepherd takes his place,” Pierce intoned.

Bucky’s shirt joined the jacket. He kicked off his shoes, undid his belt, as steady as if he were alone in his bedroom.

You shook your head violently. “No—no, please don’t—please—”

But the words coming from his mouth were still a sermon, not a reply. His voice carried easily over yours,

“Through her flesh, the covenant is sealed. Through her blood, the light enters me.”

His trousers slid to the floor. White fabric pooled at his feet.

You went still, shock rooting you to the altar.

Bucky stood bare now at the foot of the altar, skin slick where Pierce’s oil had touched him, eyes fixed on you as he spoke to the crowd. His body was lean and scarred, his cock already heavy and upright, the image so surreal it barely registered through your terror.

The congregation didn’t gasp. They didn’t blink. They just watched, serene, as if this was exactly what they’d come for.

Bucky’s voice dropped, still loud enough for the furthest pew. “The Star has chosen. The vessel is before us. Tonight, I ascend.”

He stepped closer to the altar, his hand reaching out, warm and oiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face with almost tender care. His eyes were bright, unblinking, his lips still moving, still preaching to the congregation as if you were an object, a symbol, not a girl bound beneath him.

And for the first time, you understood what his words meant.

Bucky climbed onto the altar, slow and deliberate, like a priest ascending steps to the pulpit. The oil on his skin glistened in the candlelight; the smell of incense and sweat closed in around you. You tried to scoot back, to shrink away, but the ropes burned against your wrists and ankles, biting into your skin.

“Please,” you whispered, your throat raw. “Please don’t do this…”

He didn’t answer your plea. Instead, he straddled you, knees braced on either side of your hips. The weight of him pressed down on you, warm and solid, pinning you to the altar more effectively than the bindings ever could. His palm cupped your cheek again, thumb smearing a tear down to your jaw.

“Look at me,” he murmured, so low only you could hear. It was a request and a command at once. “Don’t be afraid. This is what you were born for.”

You turned your head away, squeezing your eyes shut, but he followed, his mouth brushing your temple, your cheek, his lips soft and damp from whispered prayers.

His hand slid from your face down to your throat, not choking, just resting there, the weight of it a brand. His thumb stroked your pulse as if to calm you, as if you were a frightened animal. “Shhh…” he soothed, his voice a dark lullaby. “The pain is only for a moment. After this, you’re mine, and you’re safe.”

You felt his other hand drift lower, tracing your breastbone, then his hand cupped your breast, thumb circling your nipple slowly, deliberately. You gasped, jerking against the ropes; the jolt only made the cords bite deeper into your wrists.

No. No no no.

His mouth ghosted over your temple, your cheek, his stubble scratching your skin as he whispered, “So beautiful… so pure… made for me.”

His hand moved lower, fingers sliding down your stomach to your hips, then between your thighs. The calloused pads of his fingers stroked you with reverence, parting your folds, gathering slick. You choked on a sob when you felt it—slick betraying you on his fingertips. He groaned quietly at the touch, a sound that made your stomach twist.

“No… no, please—” you whimpered, turning your face into your shoulder. But your hips twitched anyway, a tiny involuntary movement against his palm. Heat bloomed low in your belly, shame thick in your throat.

Goddammit stop. Stop it. Don’t feel anything. Don’t.

He groaned softly at the feel of you, voice still that lullaby, “That’s it… your body knows me. It’s welcoming me already.”

His fingers circled you again, slow, patient, coaxing you open while his thumb stroked your pulse. Each stroke dragged a fresh tremor out of you, and the sound of the congregation grew louder, as if they too could smell your arousal.

His palm left your throat and slid back down, slow as oil over stone. He traced every inch of you with his hands, as if cataloguing a treasure he’d waited years to unearth. Across your ribs, down to your hips, up the inside of your thighs; each pass rougher, more insistent, until his fingers were pressing and parting you with shameless precision.

Your breath hitched. Stop. Don’t react. Don’t.

Bucky leaned down, his mouth close to your ear, his voice a low rasp that threaded under Pierce’s booming sermon. “Shhh,” he murmured, almost soothing. “It’s all right. Let it happen.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, but his words slid right through you, warm and heavy.

“This is what you were chosen for,” he whispered. “All that time. All those signs. All leading here.”

You tried to squeeze your knees together, but the ropes at your ankles held you open. You could feel how wet you were now, slick gathering on his fingertips, slick he spread over your clit in lazy circles. The sound it made against your skin was obscene. You bit your lip to keep the sound in, but a small, strangled moan slipped out anyway.

“God…” he breathed, almost to himself, eyes hooded as he worked you with his fingers. “Look at you. Look how perfect you are for me.”

You turned your head, tears sliding into your hairline. “Please,” you whispered. “Stop. Please stop…”

He bent closer, lips brushing your ear, the words meant only for you.

“This isn’t stopping. This is beginning. Your body’s already chosen.”

“No…” you breathed, but it came out more like a whimper than a protest.

His fingers slid lower, one dipping inside you, slow, then another, stretching you with patient pressure. The sting of his intrusion made you gasp; your hips twitched upward, a tiny involuntary thrust into his palm. He caught the movement, groaned against your cheek.

Stop. Please stop. Why is this happening to me?

Around you, the chant had changed. The hum had become a low, rhythmic moan, dozens of voices vibrating through the room. Dresses and coats swished and the scrape of wood echoed as the congregation rose from their pews. Through the blur of your tears you saw them moving closer, encircling the altar, hands extended as if reaching for a blessing.

Bucky’s fingers curled inside you, thumb circling your clit in slow, deliberate patterns. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Show them. Show them you were made for this.”

Your breath hitched, another moan breaking free. The crowd’s chant swelled in answer, bodies pressing closer, brushing the edge of the altar as if trying to touch the heat radiating from the two of you.

You couldn’t stop trembling; your body was opening under his hands, slick and shameful, even as you turned your face away and sobbed.

He withdrew his fingers from you slowly, dragging them up to your clit one last time before lifting them to his mouth. He sucked the wetness from them like a blessing, eyes never leaving yours. Then he shifted back on his knees, his cock heavy and flushed, veins standing out against the oily skin.

The congregation had crowded in close now, everyone mysteriously wearing robes they retrieved from God knows where. Through the blur of your tears you saw their faces tipped upward, hands raised, mouths open in silent prayer.

Somewhere behind you and Bucky, Pierce’s voice had risen above the murmur—deep, rhythmic words spilling out like scripture, each syllable echoing against the rafters. You couldn’t make sense of it; the only thing you could focus on was the man between your thighs.

Bucky slid the head of his cock along your soaked lips, up and down, spreading your wetness over himself with slow, deliberate strokes. Each pass dragged over your clit and made you jolt, shameful heat pulsing low in your stomach. He hissed under his breath, eyes half‑lidded.

“God, you’re perfect…” he muttered, almost to himself. “Look at how ready you are for me.”

You turned your head away, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of him, the smell of oil and incense, the crowd’s breathless worship. Don’t look at him. Don’t give him that.

Tears kept slipping down your cheeks. “Please…” you whispered, voice trembling. “Stop…”

He reached out, caught your chin with his slick fingers, and forced your face back toward his. His thumb stroked a tear from your cheek, smearing it across your skin like another kind of oil.

“No hiding,” he whispered, eyes bright and unblinking. “Look at me. Only me.”

Then he pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, sliding it against you again and again, smearing himself in your wetness until you felt the thick weight of him poised at your opening.

Pierce’s voice rang out, manic and booming now, echoing against the high ceilings of the church. “As the vessel is taken, so shall the bond be sealed! Let the light of the White Star bless their union! Let the old blood pass, and the new bloom through her!”

Each line was echoed back by the robed figures, their chant swelling, hands lifting higher, bodies leaning in as though they could draw the power from the air. The candles guttered, wax dripping down like blood.

Bucky’s gaze never left yours. His pupils were blown wide, blue irises lit by the flames. He stroked the head of his cock over your opening one last time, groaning as your slick coated him. His palm cradled your cheek again, thumb brushing a tear away.

“Breathe,” he murmured, low enough for only you. “It’s time.”

Then he pushed forward.

The blunt head of him breached you slowly, inexorably. The burn was immediate and sharp, your body clenching around him in panic as your cry was swallowed by the chants. He grunted, jaw tightening, but kept pressing, inch by inch, stretching you wider than you’d ever been, until his hips were flush with yours.

Your breath hitched on a sob. You felt full in a way that was almost unbearable—burning, stretching, the ropes digging into your wrists as you tried to pull away from the intrusion.

You tried to cry out, but the sound barely left your lips, trapped beneath the thunder of the chanting. Your back arched, wrists pulling against the binds, and Bucky… Bucky only groaned like a sinner at the altar, his forehead pressing to yours like a benediction.

‘So full,’ you thought numbly, dazed. ‘It burns. Oh god, it burns—’

“God, look at you,” he whispered, voice breaking on a prayer. “Perfect. Mine. My bride.”

You didn’t realize you were shaking until his hands came to hold you down again, fingers reverent, murmuring something soft you couldn’t hear over Pierce’s ecstatic sermon,

“She is the flame and the offering! The womb and the weapon! Through her, the Order shall rise again!”

Above you, Bucky was gone—or maybe more present than you’d ever seen him. His eyes were locked on yours, unblinking, his forehead touching yours, his breath ragged.

He wasn’t looking at the crowd, or Pierce, or the candles. Just you. And in his gaze there was nothing of the easy man from the grocery store. He looked like someone seeing God for the first time.

Pierce’s voice was a roar now, echoing off the walls, drowning your cries, “The Bride takes the Shepherd! The Star burns in the flesh! The bond is sealed!”

He moved inside you once, deep and deliberate. The stretch sent a hot sting through your core; the friction made you shudder and whimper, tears streaking your temples.

He bent down, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice shaking as he whispered, “Stay with me. Breathe. It’s us now. Just us.”

The crowd blurred. Pierce’s voice became a distant chant. All that remained was the searing fullness inside you and the heat of his body caging yours.

Then he began to move.

Slow at first, each thrust deep and steady, dragging a fresh burn from your core. You whimpered with every push, the sting sharp, your body still struggling to accommodate the size of him. Your wrists pulled uselessly against the ropes. The altar creaked beneath you.

Above you, Bucky was breathing heavy, sweat slicking the hollow of his throat. His hair stuck to his temples, his lips parted as he rocked into you with the reverence of a man praying. No—worshipping. Like you were the altar now.

You squeezed your eyes shut, shame burning hotter than the stretch inside you. But your body betrayed you with every second. The pain began to shift, still raw and aching, but now there was pressure. Heat. Friction. His cock dragged against something deep inside you and your hips twitched upward before you could stop them.

He felt it.

His rhythm faltered for half a breath, then he groaned—loud, rough, broken.

“There she is…” he murmured, forehead pressing to yours. “That’s it. You feel that? You’re opening for me now. You were made for this. For me.”

You shook your head, but the moan that tore out of you ruined the lie. He thrust deeper, slower, grinding into you like he was planting something sacred. And the crowd saw it—heard it.

Their chant twisted into something else now, not just words but moans, cries, hands pressed to their own bodies, to each other. You didn’t know if they were crying or cumming or praying.

One woman sobbed, “She accepts him,” and someone else shouted, “She brings the light!”

Your back arched. Your thighs trembled. Your cunt clenched around him again and again, wetness now pooling, obscene, making each thrust louder, filthier. You hated it. Hated the way your body was betraying you. But it was happening. Your pleasure had bloomed without your permission.

And Bucky knew.

“That’s it,” he panted, slamming in harder now. “That’s it, sweetheart. Don’t fight it. Give it to me. Let me have all of it.”

His lips brushed your jaw, your mouth, your throat. He kissed you like a husband would, tender and adoring, while his cock pounded into you like a sinner.

Then his rhythm shifted.

Whatever restraint Bucky had held onto crumbled as your body writhed beneath him, slick and hot and clenching around him with every thrust. He gripped your hips harder, fingers bruising, and drove into you rougher now—sharp, relentless, the slap of skin against skin echoing over the altar.

Your cry cracked into a sob, but it wasn’t just pain anymore. Not even shame. It was something worse—need.

Your back arched against the ropes, legs trembling as he pounded into you, faster, harder, his groans turning raw and guttural. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged and hot as his cock dragged against that spot deep inside that made you clench and twitch.

“That’s it, beautiful. Let them hear you. Let them see what you are.”

Your cunt clenched around him again, fluttering involuntarily. He moaned—loud, filthy—and slammed in deeper.

Below the altar, the congregation had collapsed into chaos. No longer chanting in unison, they cried out in scattered gasps and sobs, some on their knees, others standing, clothes open or clinging to each other in ecstatic fever.

Pierce’s voice still rang through the room from his place at the pulpit, but it was nearly drowned out now, his sermon buried under the sound of you—your whimpers, Bucky’s groans, the wet slap of him rutting into you like a man possessed.

“The Star descends… the vessel is filled… the flesh becomes divine—”

The words were there, but no one was listening.

Not even him.

Bucky’s hands slid under your thighs, lifting your hips off the altar, so he could drive in deeper. The new angle made you sob aloud, the friction unbearable, pleasure blooming so hard it felt like punishment.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned, jaw slack, sweat dripping from his brow. “You were meant for me. You were born for this.”

He fucked you like a man claiming territory. Like a beast. Every thrust rocked the altar, dragged a cry out of your throat, made your soaked cunt gush louder around him. It was filthy, carnal, and unstoppable—and the congregation worshipped it.

They reached for the altar. Some screamed your name. Others cried Bucky’s. You heard sobbing, gasping, someone whispering prayers. You couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore. You were floating—no, drowning—in sensation.

And still he moved inside you, harder, faster, his body pounding into yours as if salvation could be fucked into your bones.

When suddenly… Bucky’s rhythm stuttered.

He stayed buried inside you, panting, sweat dripping from his jaw. You gasped, disoriented from the abrupt pause, your cunt fluttering helplessly around his cock, desperate for more friction even as your mind screamed no.

Then you saw his hand reach out to the altar.

Your stomach dropped.

Your eyes went wide. The dagger. Oh God, he’s going to—

He lifted it, the blade catching candlelight, and your stomach dropped into ice. Your body went rigid under him, wrists pulling at the ropes until your shoulders screamed.

But instead of striking, the blade moved downward. You flinched when you felt the cool kiss of steel against your ankle—and then the rope loosened. One leg. Then the other. He cut them free with two swift, clean motions.

Your legs collapsed inward, but jelly-soft and shaking, you couldn’t even try to kick him away.

He reached for your thighs, spreading them again himself, gently draping them over his waist like a man cradling his lover.

“No more restraints,” he said softly, like a vow. “You’re not my offering anymore. You’re my bride.”

You stared up at him, gasping, not daring to say anything.

Then, still inside you, he raised the dagger again, but this time angled it toward his own mouth. You watched, breath held, as he pressed the tip to his bottom lip and nicked it—just enough for a bead of blood to rise and glisten. His eyes were on you the whole time, burning and unblinking.

Before you could form words, the blade dipped toward you. You flinched, expecting pain, but all you felt was the lightest sting at your own lip—a mirror of his. Warmth. A drop of blood.

Then the dagger clattered to the floor.

Bucky’s hand slid behind your neck and he crashed his mouth down onto yours, his bleeding lip pressing to yours, smearing the taste of iron between you. The kiss wasn’t tender; it was consuming, anointing.

You made a sound—half‑sob, half‑gasp—as he pulled you up with him, his hands grabbing your thighs, yanking your legs higher, and wrapping them around his waist.

“Now you’re mine,” he growled into your mouth. “Bound by blood. Sealed in flesh.”

He thrust back into you hard, deep, dragging a ragged moan out of you as your walls clenched around him, overstimulated and soaked. The kiss was brutal, all teeth and tongue and iron. His thrusts became frantic again, rough and messy, your now-freed legs trembling as they locked around him instinctively.

He shifted, palms sliding under the backs of your thighs, lifting you higher. In one smooth movement he folded you in half, your knees pressed up to your chest, his shoulders braced under your legs. The new angle left you completely open, his cock driving even deeper.

You cried out, the sound torn from your throat. The ropes on your wrists creaked as you clawed at empty air. The altar rocked with each thrust, the wet slap of his hips against yours echoing louder than the congregation’s chants.

Bucky’s face hovered above yours, flushed and slick. His eyes were wild now—not priestly, not calm, but a man caught in revelation, groaning with each brutal push. He kissed you again, messy and open‑mouthed, his tongue tasting the blood at the corner of your lip.

“Mine… mine… my bride,” he muttered between thrusts, voice rough with pleasure.

He drove harder, faster, his cock hitting something so deep inside you it made your stomach clench and drop. The pressure built low in your belly—hot, unbearable, like you were going to burst. You whimpered, panicked, “No, no, I—” but the words dissolved into a sob.

The feeling grew, impossible to stop. His hips pistoned into you, deeper and deeper, and your body arched off the altar, trembling violently. Your vision blurred. It felt like you were going to pee, horror blooming through you, but you couldn’t stop it.

Bucky felt it—your cunt fluttering, the tremors running through you. He growled low in his chest, an animal sound.

“That’s it,” he snarled, thrusting harder, deeper. “Give it to me. Show them. Show me.”

The pressure broke.

You cried out, back arching, and a gush of liquid burst from you, soaking his cock, his stomach, the altar beneath you. It splashed onto his thighs, down to the stone floor. The crowd gasped, then erupted into screams of ecstasy, their chants turning into a roar.

Bucky’s groan was loud, guttural, almost a shout—not of surprise but of triumph. His eyes rolled back for a moment, his hips still slamming into you through your convulsions. “God, yes… look at you… my perfect girl…” he panted, voice hoarse.

Your whole body shook under him, overwhelmed and humiliated by the release, but his grip on you only tightened, holding you folded open in his hands as though he was presenting you to the congregation, to whatever power he believed in.

And he still didn’t slow.

Even as your body convulsed around him, even as your soaked cunt fluttered and pulsed, still leaking from your release, Bucky kept thrusting—chasing the inevitable.

His grip on your thighs was bruising now, holding you folded tight beneath him in that unforgiving press, his cock slamming into the deepest part of you over and over, soaked with your cum, dragging lewd, wet sounds from where your bodies met.

His mouth was everywhere—your throat, your cheek, your parted lips, whispering desperate, broken prayers between kisses.

“So good… so tight… you were made for me—made to carry my seed, to take all of me…”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Your whole body was trembling, still fluttering from the violent release, but he was relentless. You felt the way his rhythm began to falter—how his thrusts grew more erratic, how his groans climbed into something ragged and sharp.

And then—

He drove in one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and came.

His whole body jerked above yours, a long groan tearing from his throat as his cock throbbed deep inside you, pulsing with wave after wave of heat. You could feel him—thick, warm, spilling inside your raw, open cunt, flooding you full.

The crowd erupted.

Screaming. Crying. Falling to their knees. Dozens of hands raised toward the altar like they'd witnessed a miracle.

Above the chaos, Pierce’s voice rang out like the final bell of a mass,

“Salvation comes with sacrifice!”

Bucky collapsed over you, bracing himself on trembling arms, still locked inside your spent, soaked body. He leaned in, nose brushing yours, voice no longer performative—just raw, real, and terrifyingly sincere.

“It’s done now,” he whispered. “You’re mine. Forever. My wife. My salvation.”

He kissed you again—soft, blood-warm, possessive.

Your limbs were trembling. Shaking. Fucked limp.

You could feel the slick between your thighs—his cum leaking out of you, your own release still wet and clinging to your skin. Your chest rose and fell in shallow gasps as your head lolled to the side.

The congregation had come undone. Robes discarded, hands clawing, mouths open—a tangle of limbs, moans and gasps. Worship had collapsed into an orgy at the foot of the altar, bodies writhing in the candlelight like a living, breathing thing.

They weren’t chanting anymore. They were fucking, their eyes rolled back in ecstasy, praising what they’d just witnessed with their own bodies.

You couldn’t even process it. Your mind was fogged, floating somewhere between pain, pleasure, and shock.

Your vision blurred, not from tears this time, but from the aftershocks rippling through your body. You felt it in every nerve, every muscle. The rawness. The surrender. The shame. And then—

His breath.

Hot against your ear. His cock softening inside you, but still seated deep.

He didn’t move away. He didn’t release you.

You turned your head weakly—eyes fluttering open—and saw him watching you.

Not the crowd.

Not the light.

You.

He kissed your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth—his lips gentle, reverent, claiming. You were still panting when his mouth brushed yours again, whispering something you couldn’t even understand.

Not words. Just devotion.

And in that moment, as the crowd’s voices rose again, a sick feeling twisted in your gut.

Because somehow, you knew.

This wasn’t the end.

It was just the beginning of this cultish nightmare.

a/n — after watching marvels zombies, Wanda gives off such cult recruiter vibes. with her sweet and soothing personality now realistically me, personally would've hauled ass after the first month in town, but lowkey I feel like this cult is the right place to be especially because of Bucky and all the hot ass people in town. anyway hope you enjoyed and tell me what you think!

kinktober taglist:

And they were tested in the form of a sweet apology offered to him, all wrapped up in pretty lace.

Presenting yourself to him like sin and temptation. From the second he came home. He had you bent over his bed, hips up for him, with a sparkly butt plug.

"Gosh — sweet pea." A groan tears through him at the sight of you. Even more so when you sway your ass teasingly, the sparkle catching in the lights.

"All this for me?"

Clark had been subtly hinting at it to you for weeks now. As shy as he was, there was no tasteful way he could put it.

He wanted to fuck your ass.

Whether it was his thumb probing itself into that tight ring when he had his cock stuffed into your pussy, or when he'd tongue fuck your ass.

Clark was far from subtle. He just didn't want to put you in an uncomfortable position if you didn't want to do it.

Which you were apprehensive about at first, like any reasonable person would be. But after blowing off his birthday dinner? Just to chase a lead?

This apology had to be big.

And it came with a heart-shaped butt plug that you eased into yourself, waiting for him to come home and surprise him.

God was he more than happy to ignore the fact that you'd prioritised work over him again.

He'd kicked off his clothes in record speed. Hopping over to the bed while taking his oxfords off one by one. Tumbling into the ground after having tripped over his own slacks.

He was aching. Clark thinks he might just die if he doesn't manage to stick his dick into whatever hole of yours you had to offer.

You squealed in delight when he'd tackled you, his cock poking at your thigh in displaced excitement. You loved seeing him like this, loved seeing him all desperate for you.

"Are you — haha! Clark. Are you just gonna —"

"Mmhm…shh." He'd been burying kisses into every sensitive spot he could nuzzle into. At the nape of your neck, down to the column of your throat, and even beneath your arms.

"This is my present, is it not?" Your teeth hook on your lower lip when he playfully snaps the band of your panties.

"Oh, you bet your ass it is."

You grinned into his jaw, hips tilting instinctively when he pushes the lace off your underwear away from your cunt. He groans at the sight of your slick having stained your inner thighs.

"Geez…so…goshdarned wet f'me while stuffing your ass with this pretty thing…"

A whine leaves your lips when he flicks at the plug. Watching it move in and out from your arousal.

"Mhn…a-all for you."

"Yeah? All for me?"

He smiles, kissing down your neck while he grabs at the base, twisting around it.

"Wanna hear it from you, sweet thing." Clark's words grazed your neck, rolling and pushing it deeper into you.

"Uhn….Clark…"

"Tell me what you want."

It was clear — he wasn't going to move an inch unless he heard it from you.

"Claaark…need you in me. Please…"

You giggle at the barrage of kisses and at him teasing you. "Here?" It slips to a groan when he pulls out the heart plug. Leaving you to clench around nothing.

A guttural groan follows suit when his thick, fat cock head pushes past the ring of tightness. Clark's eyes nearly roll back when you practically suck the whole tip in.

"O-Oh gosh. Oh gosh. Baby —"

It's short-lived. Because why wouldn't the universe play a cosmic joke, why wouldn't you get a call right when he was finally getting to fuck his girlfriend's ass?

Damn near comical was what it was. You'd snapped into work mode in a matter of seconds. All while your boyfriend was deep in your asshole.

"Yes. What's up? Did you find what I was looking for?" You'd propped yourself up onto your elbows, slinking out and grabbing a pen from the bedside table to scribble a number down onto a notepad.

Clark wasn't an idiot. He knew what was coming.

I'm so sorry, baby. I gotta run.

This is the news of a century, babe!

Ohhh my god, this is sooo gonna make the headlines.

There were a billion more he couldn't care enough to name. But somehow, now — while his cock was throbbing, twitching, coated with your slick, left unattended like trash.

It wasn't just that he was robbed of a good fuck, it was the fact that you'd once again chosen your career over him. His wants and needs which were a simple list with one thing.

You.

"I'm —"

No. He doesn't say it outright, but it comes in the form of a peck.

"—mmf—so, so —…"

Another peck.

"—unh! Sorry —" And another, "baby…"

You hold his jaw to stop the last kiss, pouting and offering him one last consolation peck.

"Two hours tops. I pro—" It comes with no warning. "—hmmiisee…—!"

His cock poked at your ass, and he thrusted up once and hard. Palms planted on your hips, holding firm enough to bruise.

"C-Clark — s-shit." You grunt out, not recognising your own voice, it sounded primitive, disgusting.

And yet, you felt so fucking good when he began to snap his hips in and out of the tight muscle.

"Honey — sh-shoot. O-Oh good —gosh, you're — o-oh!"

Your confusion is quickly replaced by unbridled, unadulterated pleasure. Both his groans and what you were currently feeling had unlocked new doors for you.

The back door in particular.

Clark had you pinned down to the bed all goddamn night. Pumping you deep full of cum in your guts, pushing his spend further with every thrust — collecting and pooling in you.

"Ugh! B-Baby, oh, I'm gonna come."

Your thumb swipes over the screen, instinctively, pulling up that tiny, obscure instagram handle. His handle. The one he gave you, that no one else seems to know exists,

@ supe.in.motion

His posts are mundane, it’s almost laughable. Metropolis skylines, sunrises from odd angles, a blurry shot of some pigeons on the Daily Planet. But you scroll through it like it’s scripture. Searching in every picture, reading and rereading the simple captions he left behind.

And it’s replaying in your mind. Especially tonight.

That low voice in your ear, fraying throughout the call. The way he called you sweetheart. Your little secret.

“—oooh, what’s this?”

You jolt, angling your phone away, but it’s too late. Your coworker, Jesse, leans in with a grin, balancing the plate of hors d’oeuvres on his arm away from you. 

“You’re smiling at your phone, who’s the lucky guy?’

“Nobody,” you hiss, turning the phone from his view, and trying to will away the bright red creeping its way your cheeks.

Jesse peeks anyway, catching a glimpse of the profile. His eyes light up. “Oooh, is that his profile? Is he your sneaky link? Lemme see—“

“Nope.” You shove another tray into his prying hand, and sidestep out of reach.

“You wanna help me survive this shift? Keep moving, pass those out to someone else before Senator ‘Im-the-most-important-here’ throws a fit and starts yelling about the food service again.”

He laughs, tossing a “Heard!” over his shoulder as he heads back onto the floor.

You exhale, pressing the phone to your chest before forcing yourself to put it away. No more distractions. Not here.

But your fingers betray you one last time, pulling up twitter in a quick swipe, already flying across the keys:

Stuck at work on a Friday night surrounded by old men in suits 0/10 don’t recommend

You toss the phone into your apron pocket before grabbing another tray of champagne flutes, mind already swirling, and slip back onto the floor, back into routine.

Theres clusters of tuxedos and sequin gowns, the sound of champagne flutes clinking, and posh laughter. You balance the tray against your palm, passing carefully through the crowd, offering your practiced smile that never reaches your eyes to passersby.

From a distance, you probably look effortless. Gliding between the gaps of guests with your tray held steady. But up close, you’re starting to feel the strain in your shoulders, the ache in your wrists from the weight of glasses, the low hum of irritation at the way no one ever really spares you a second glance. Not as a person, just as part of the event.

Still, you wear the smile. Keep your head down. In and out. Its just easier that way.

“Champagne?” You murmur, smooth but neutral customer service voice coming forward.

A senator you vaguely recognize, now tie loosened, eyes glassy, and face flushed, snatches a flute from your tray a little too eagerly. 

“Well, don’t you look serious,” he booms, sloshing the contents of the glass around dangerously close to the rim. “Whys a pretty girl like you working on a Friday night, huh? Should be over here, having fun with us?”

You blink, smile tightening. “Oh, no, I’m fine. Thank you though.”

He doesn’t hear you. Or maybe he does, but the drink in his hand is more interesting. He claps a hand on another politicians back, launching into another story about golfing on Sundays. Your response is brushed off quicker than the laws they should be signing.

You hover for a moment, though. Tray balanced, waiting to see if he’s going to drop the glass. Then, when it’s clear you’ve been dismissed as quickly as interrupted, you slip away. Your shoulders tight but smile still plastered on for the next bunch of guests.

Back in motion. Back in autopilot.

And all the while, you can’t help but think. Maybe if you’d tweeted something like, “currently stuck serving champagne to drunk politicians, send help superman”

He might actually read it.

You keep your steps smooth, gaze forward as your mind drifts farther than the gala.

The senators voice fades into the background noise as you coast further into the party, drowned out by the echo of another mans. That low, velvety voice. Sweetheart. You can almost hear the way it escaped his lips. Heavy with hunger, like he was pressing the word into your skin.

Your tray wavers slightly as you step. In your head, he’s still there. Whispering what he’d do to you if he were with you instead of hovering god knows where in the city. His mouth on you, drawing sounds from your pressed lips like confessions. His quiet command, touch your clit for me.

Heat flares in your stomach at the memory, causing you swallow hard. Your pulse skips and you’re suddenly aware of the weight of your phone in your apron pocket. Tethered back to him if you dared to touch it.

“Hello?”

The voice cuts in, sharp and nasally, snapping you upright.

A woman in a bedazzled gown, rhinestones catching every bit of light, is staring at you like you’ve committed a personal offense. Her perfectly manicured nail jabs downward.

“Are you even listening?” She snaps

Your stomach drops.

On the marble floor at her feet, lie a champagne flute in ruin. Bubbly liquid spreading in a golden puddle around the jagged shards. The woman sniffs, tilting her chin high.

“I reached for one and it just slipped. Someone should really be more careful.”

Shit.

Before you can sputter a response, Jesse appears at your side like some blessed, tray bearing angel. His brow lifts in a silent, ‘you good?’ but he doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes your tray smoothly from your hands with a wink.

“Go,” he mutters only to you.

You exhale in relief, already digging for the folded towel tucked in your pocket. Dropping low, you press the cloth against the spill. Collecting bubbles and splinters of glass as quickly as possible.

The marble is cold under your knees, even through the dark work pants you adorn. The woman’s perfume is clouding above you, and it’s almost suffocating. Your heart still hasn’t settled from the memory of the voice that called you mine just days ago.

But right now? You couldn’t feel farther from it.

You’re still crouched low, blotting the fizz and sweeping shards into a neat little pile with the folded towel, when an empty appetizer plate catches your eye. Perfect. With careful hands, you scoop the broken glass onto the plate, balancing it against your palm as you rise to your feet.

Thats when the shouting starts.

At first, it sounds like some entitled donor being louder for attention, but then an unmistakable crack of glass breaking against stone rings through the ballroom. A sharp scream follows.

Your stomach drops.

The crowd shifts, waves of sequins and tuxedos pulling back as masked men in all black tactical gear storm the floor, their weapons glossy against the chandelier lights.

They begin barking orders. Money, artifacts, leverage. You can’t even track it all over the sudden roar of panic from the crowd.

“Everybody down!” One shouts, rifle waving high.

The senator from earlier drops to the floor, clutching his wife’s arm, the pair wide eyed. The woman who chastised you is sobbing behind her jeweled hands. Staff scatter instinctively, pressing themselves against the walls or frozen in place.

Your heart goes wild.

But even was your hands shake, your response is automatic. You’re reaching for your phone.

The first tweet is quick, almost detached.

Omg this night just got so much worse. Men w/ guns. Horrible way to end my shift

The second comes before you could second guess yourself.

Should’ve stayed home and thirsted over superman instead smh

Your heart hammers as you press your back against the wall, sliding low as your coworker shoots you a startled look. But you’re still typing a third with a shaky smirk, half a joke and half a plea.

@ Superman there’s a situation over here at halcyon. Kinda need ur help??? lol

The plate in your other hand feels oddly fragile compared to the chaos unfolding around you.

One of the gunmen is sweeping his gaze across the crowd, barking at servers to drop their trays, and forcing guests down into trembling groups. Your throat tightens, but in the confusion you spot a gap.

Clutching the plate, you weave quickly between the waves of horrified guests, keeping your head down to match the crowd to get to a service hallway. Jesse and two other coworkers are already there, faces pale, holding each other. When they spot you, Jesse reaches for your arm and pulls you into the huddle.

“What the fuck is happening…” One whispers, voice shaking.

You’re still holding the plate like it’s a lifeline as your chest heaves. Your phones still burning in your other hand.

And somewhere in the city, you pray someone saw your tweet.

But for now, the hallway is suffocatingly quiet. Jesse presses a finger to his lips every time someone even so much as shifts their weight. The others sit stiff against the wall. White knuckled and pale.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. Jesse shoots you a look.

You almost drop it, heart beating hard in your ears. Until you tilt the screen and see the notification.

Superman liked your tweet.

You clamp your lips shut to smother the laugh that threatens to come out, this is hysterical.

Jesse glares at you, are you seriously on twitter right now?

But you can’t look away from the little glowing heart.

The minutes stretch. Out in the ballroom, the masked men prowl. Voices sharp and ugly, shouting something about wire transfers, ‘make the call!’, ‘well bleed you pricks dry!’ Every shout ricochets off your ribs.

Then, your hair stands on end.

Theres a shift in the air.

At first, it’s subtle. A faint vibration you feel more than hear. A low thrum in your bones. The crystal chandeliers above the hallway give the faintest rattle. A shiver of wind licks at the cracks in the windows.

You know that sound. You know.

The room hushes all at once. Then, from beyond the door, a collective gasp rises in the ballroom.

The skylight above explodes inward, raining shards of glass onto the floor below.

He drops through like judgement itself. His cape blazing behind in a deep red against the glare of the lights. The impact of his boots on the marble reverberates through the floor beneath your knees. It’s steady, grounding, even as broken glass rains down around him.

“Superman,” someone breaths. It’s a sob, but also a prayer.

The masked men scramble, their careful demeanor quickly slipping into raw panic. One man swings his gun towards him, but the rifle is swiped away like a toy, quickly being bent into a useless twist of metal. Another makes a run for the side exit, but heat vision, burning red flashes, and the door hisses as the metal morphs. A third lunges at Superman, only to be shoved back with one hand to his chest, sent barreling into a catering table.

It’s over in minutes.

Police sirens wail outside as they get closer. Officers rush in, guns drawn as they sweep the building. Superman speaks briefly with them, his voice calm yet commanding. Directing people to safety and handing over the disarmed men as if it’s just another Tuesday.

You’re still clutching that plate of broken glass like an idiot when the police get to your group. They do a once over, and move on to the next bunch. You’re stuck watching him with your heart caught somewhere between your throat and your stomach, though. Because now you know him not just as a speck on the skyline, or the voice on the other end of the line. But as someone who came when you called.

And maybe, just maybe, because it was you that called.

The chaos finally sizzled out. The ballroom humming with the frantic relief of survivors as they file out into their private limos. You spot him standing off to the side, speaking to an officer as the cuffed men are led to cars outside.

Your legs carry you forward before you can stop and rationalize.

“Uh.. hi,” you manage, clutching the towel uselessly against your front.

His head turns, and it’s almost worse seeing him up close. His eyes are brighter, steadier than you imagined. They flicker across your features, thoughtful.

“You’re…” you swallow. “I mean— I just wanted to say thank you. Im—“ you give him your name, a bit awkward and rushed. Like you’re afraid your voice will betray you. 

He tilts his head, gaze softening on you. “I know that voice.”

The words punch you in the chest.

Your throat goes dry. He knows.

“Oh…” you blink awkwardly, feeling the flush crawl up your throat. “Yeah.”

It comes out smaller than expected, like you’ve been caught. You instantly regret it, shoulders curling in as though you can physically tuck the memory of that late night phone call out of sight.

Superman, Superman, chuckles softly. The sound is warm, low, and far gentler than it has any right to be. 

“Don’t be embarrassed.” He says, cocking his head to the side slightly, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Im glad I remembered someone like you.”

Your heart does something complicated and stupid in your chest. He’s not even really flirting, but the way his gaze holds yours, as if you’re the only other person in the room. It makes it impossible to breathe like a normal human being.

You force a laugh, nerves turning it sharp around the edges. “Someone like me? Should I be flattered, or worried you keep tabs on all your twitter fans?”

His grin widens, playful and amused at the same time. “Maybe both”

You can’t help it. You laugh, genuinely this time, shoulders loosening for the first time tonight. For the briefest moment, you forget the wreckage of glass littering the ground. The chaos of the hostage situation. The fact that you’re still in your apron and probably smell like hors d’oeuvres. It’s just you and him, in this hazy ballroom. Standing close enough that you can see the faint glint of glass dust caught in his hair from his entrance.

Then a sharp voice cuts through the bubble around you two. “Superman!” An officer gestures him over, clipboard in hand. “We need a statement before transport.”

You jolt. “Oh! Yeah, of course, you’re busy—“ 

But he doesn’t move right away. Instead, he dips his head ever so slightly, voice soft enough that only you can hear. “Wait. Before you go… can I see you later?”

For a second, the words don’t register. Your mind blanks and catches on every syllable like a broken record.

“Uh,” Your face is burning so hot you’re shocked you don’t burst into flames on the spot. “Yes. Yeah. Definitely.”

His smile this time is unmistakable. Brilliant, pearly whites flashing with that kind of grin that sells news papers and saves worlds in the same breath. “Good.”

And then, as smoothly as if your entire universe hadn’t just tilted on its axis, he tuns and strides toward the waiting officer.

You’re left standing there alone. Gripping your apron like a lifeline, trying to remember how to walk properly.

When you finally do turn, Jesse’s staring at you from across the room, mouth hanging open so wide you’re pretty sure a fly could set up camp there.

“Holy shit,” He hisses the second you’re in earshot. “Was superman just flirting with you, girl?”

You nearly choke on your own laugh, smacking him lightly with the towel still balled up in your hand. “No! No, he wasn’t, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” He repeats, eyes bugging. “Ridiculous? He smiled at you like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket and asked if he could see you later. Babe, that man was ready to risk it all.”

“Stop, stop, my cheeks hurt” You cant stop laughing, cupping your face with your palms, cheeks aching as you brush past him. Your heart won’t stop going crazy. “You’re just imagining things now”

But Jesse keeps muttering to himself as you head back toward the hallway, something along the lines of ‘Holy fuck’ and ‘I saw that with my own eyes’

Before you get the chance to defend yourself again, your boss’s voice cuts through the chatter, sharply commanding, “Alright, everyone back in! Grab your things, stay together. We’re shutting down for the night.”

Just like that, the spell breaks. Staff shuffle into line, exhausted and shaken up. Collecting their coats and bags under your managers watchful gaze. You sling your bag over your shoulder, apron tucked inside, and fall into step with Jesse as the group filters toward the employee exit.

The adrenaline is still flowing through your system, leaving you buzzing. You tell yourself you’ll process it all later, but his smile, his words, are swirling around your head despite it all.

Can I see you later?

You hug your bag a bit tighter as you walk out into the crisp night.

The subway car is nearly empty when you step on, just the rattle of the tracks and fluorescent hum of lights overhead filling the space. You sink into corner sear, bag tucked to your chest, and let your head rest against the window. The night outside is a blur of tunnels and passing darkness, and your mind wont keep up as it keeps skipping back to everything.

His grin

His voice, low enough for you to hear, ‘can I see you later?’

The way your name sounded in his mouth, on his lips. Like he’d always known it.

You bite back a smile, pressing your lips to your knuckles like it’ll keep it contained.

Then your phone buzzes. 

Not a text this time, not just a notification

A call.

You freeze when you see the name, his name, the one attached to the tiny instagram account.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” your voice is a whisper in the empty train, equal parts disbelief and hysteria. You hesitate for a moment, then swipe to answer before your nerves completely take over.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” His voice is quiet in your ear, phone pressed close. And it’s him, no doubt in your mind. “I hope this isn’t too forward. I just… didn’t feel like waiting.”

Your stomach does a flip. “I wasn’t exactly expecting you to call,” you admit, a laugh coming out nervous and airy.

“Would you rather I hadn’t?”

“No,” you say too quickly. Heat rushes to your cheeks, though no one’s around to hear you trip over yourself. “No, I… I’m glad you did.”

There’s a pause from him, heavy yet warm. It’s filled with the sound of him breathing faintly on the other end. “Where are you?”

“On the train. Heading home from work.” You shift in your seat, glancing at the dim reflection of yourself in the window between passing lights. “Im a few stops away. Getting off at—“ you name the street. “It’s not too far from my place.”

“Good,” he says, something sure and almost relieved in his tone. “I’ll meet you there. Don’t hang up.”

Your mouth does dry. “You’re… what?”

“I’ll meet you when you get off the train.”

It’s ridiculous, you think. Impossible. And yet, when the train finally screeches to a stop, your heart starts hammering so hard it’s almost drowning out the scratchy announcement of the station name. You tuck your phone against your ear, throwing your bag over your shoulder, and climb the stairs two at a time.

The night air sweeps down the steps, against your flushed cheeks as you step out of the station. The city is quieter here, side streets half lit and sleepy at this time of night. Nothing like the chaos of the gala earlier.

Still, you spot him.

Leaning casually against the lamppost at the corner of the street, cape stirring gently in the night breeze, like this is the most natural thing on the planet. He straightens when you catch his eye, the faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

There’s an awkward pause between you two, before you inhale sharply.

“My place is that way,” you motion behind him.

“Right, right,” he nods, a bit too eager. 

You begin to make the trek, and he falls into step beside you like he’s done it a million times before. The sight of superman, actual superman, walking casually through your quiet neighborhood is enough to make you short circuit. His cape barely whispers against the pavement, hands tucked loosely at his sides. You sneak a glance here and there, acting like this is totally normal. Like you didn’t sext him into oblivion a few nights ago.

“You’re quiet,” he says after a block, voice low but almost amused.

“Im… processing,” you admit, cheeks warming. “It’s not everyday Superman shows up to walk me home.”

His grin is quick, sharp against the dimples in his cheeks. “Guess I’ll have to make it a habit.”

You almost trip over a crack in the sidewalk.

By the time you both reach your building, your nerves are humming, buzzing so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You fumble with your keys, trying not to drop them, and push the door open.

“Um. Come in?”

He nods, ducking slightly under the doorframe, stepping inside like he belongs here. Your apartment suddenly feels five times smaller, his presence filling every nook and cranny.

The air feels thick, a bit uncertain as you hang your jacket. You can’t help but blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Okay, so, uh… welcome to my humble abode! This is the living room-slash-kitchen. As you can see, very chic, very tiny apartment I’m overpaying for.” You smile sheepishly.

He chuckles, following your half dramatic wave as you point to the small couch, the little table with mismatched chairs, and sink piled with dishes you definitely should’ve done earlier.

“And over here,” you continue, leaning into the bit because if you don’t, you think you’ll explode. “Is my cat. The real owner of the apartment. Be nice, he’s the landlord.”

Your cat blinks up from his perch on the arm of the couch, tail flicking, and completely unimpressed. Superman crouches slightly, extending his hand toward him. 

“Hi there,” he says softly, baby voicing your fur baby. 

He sniffs for a long moment, then headbutts his knuckles.

“Wow,” you say, jokingly mocking him to cover up the fact that your chest is tight. “Even my cat likes you. Thats... annoying”

He looks up at you with a slow smile, making it even harder to breathe properly.

“Well he just has good taste,” and shrugs playfully.

You laugh, and it comes out more nervous than witty. But you keep moving, heart hammering, pointing vaguely toward the short hallway. “And, uh, the tour concludes with the world’s smallest bathroom. No need to see that. And, um, my bedroom.”

You nudge the door open, trying to make yourself sound as normal as possible, like of course I’m just casually inviting the most powerful man on earth into my bedroom, totally normal thing to do!

The room is dim and cozy, a little messy from your rushed morning. Books stacked on the nightstand, a half finished glass of watery ‘iced’ coffee, your fuzzy blanket draped carelessly over the edge of the bed. He steps inside, eyes scanning the space with quiet interest as you point out random objects.

You linger in the doorway, fiddling with your bag. “So yeah… thats, uh, pretty much it. End of the grand tour.” You pull out your apron, folded and still faintly smelling of alcohol and appetizers. You shove it into the hamper.

When you turn back, he’s by the bed.

His fingers ghost over the edge of the blanket, petting the soft fabric almost absentmindedly. His expressions unreadable for a moment, then, his mouth curves, and he glances over his shoulder at you.

“So…” his voice dips low, that velvety tone you know all too well. “This is the bedroom you were touching yourself to me in, right?”

The words hit you like lightning, straight through your core. Your breath stutters, body freezing mid step, closet door still in your grasp.

“…Oh my god,” you choke out, heat flooding your face. “You...you can’t just say that—“

“I can’t?” He turns fully toward you now. Hip pressed against the bedpost, and arms crossing over his chest in a way that makes his shoulders look unfairly broad. There’s that gleam in his eyes again, mischievous, teasing, and playful, but edged with something heavier.

“Because I remember every word you said on the phone. And now I can picture you, right here, making those pretty sounds for me.”

Your knees almost give out.

“Okay, wow.” You force a laugh, high pitched and quick. As if you’re trying to stop the room from tilting. “So you’re just gonna what? weaponize my horniness against me?”

His grin deepens. “Seems to be working.”

And it is. God, it is. Your whole body feels fuzzy. Heat brewing low in your stomach. You clutch the closet door like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded, every nerve ablaze with the fact that he’s here. In your bedroom, of all places. Giving you that look you’ve only ever imagined.

You can’t bring yourself to move from where you’re half perched against the closet door, hand twitching uselessly at your side as you pick at the wood with the other. The room feels heavier, air humming around you with need, and you’re hyperaware of every breath you take.

Your eyes keep flicking to the door, the wall, your blanket, anywhere but him.

“You keep staring at that door,” he says, tone light but lined with amusement. “Is it really that interesting?”

Your gaze snaps back to him. He’s still leaning on the bed frame, one hand tracing the fuzzy blanket like he’s not the least bit rattled. But his eyes, they’re steady, pinning you in place.

“It’s a nice door,” you mutter weakly, defensive heat crawling up the back of your neck. “Very reliable. Solid wood.”

He laughs again. That soft but low one, already knowing what game you’re playing at. “You’re nervous.”

“Im not nervous.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, the pet name curling through the air like smoke, sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re holding onto that doorknob like it’s gonna save you.”

Your fingers instantly unclench from the metal. “Shut up.”

He pushes off the bedpost, taking a slow step towards you. The space shrinks. You don’t breathe. You can’t.

Another step, and then he’s close enough that the edge of his hand brushes yours, feather light, delicate.

The contact is nothing, barely there, and yet it sets your entire body alight.

You glance up at him, startled by the intensity of his gaze. There’s no smirk, no grin. Just a quiet hunger simmering under the surface, waiting for your permission to pounce.

Your pulse stutters

“See?” He murmurs, vibrations practically thrumming through your chest. “Not so scary up close.”

In a flash, he shifts. Already lowering himself to sit on the edge of your bed before you get a chance to reply. The mattress drips beneath his weight, grounding and dreamlike all at once. He settles easily, relaxed, but his gaze still makes your buckle.

Then, like gravity itself is pulling you, you find yourself stepping forward.

Closer.

Closer still, until you’re standing between his knees.

His cape drapes across your comforter, and his thighs are brushing against yours. He tilts his head back slightly, looking at you from this new angle. the corners of his mouth twitching as he’s fighting a smile.

You can feel the heat of him burning up through the gap between you, your nerves screaming with awareness. Knees brushing the edge of the wooden bedframe as you hover. The space is impossibly small, yet you can’t make yourself move any closer.

“Better than the door?” He asks softly.

Your laugh catches in your throat, shaking, “little bit.”

He notices. He always he does.

His big hands rest lazily on his thighs, but after a moment, one shifts. His fingers ghost upward, tracing the outside of your leg in a slow, absent minded path. Barely a touch. Just enough to make your skin prickle in its wake.

“You’re trembling,” he says, almost to himself.

“Im not,” you whisper, though your voice betrays you with an uneven crack.

That damn grin curls at the corner of his mouth. “You were braver on your phone.” His thumb presses just slightly into your thigh before retreating, teasing you with pressure and release. “Quicker with your words. But now?”

Your breath hitches.

“Now you’re shy.” He leans in, close enough that you can feel the faint brush of his breath against your wrist. “Cute.”

You can’t bring yourself to look at him. Your gaze fixes stubbornly on the ceiling fan, then the window, anywhere but his piercing blue eyes. But every time his fingers skim your leg, it drags you back down to him.

“Hey,” he says gently, pausing mid touch. “Look at me.”

It takes everything in you, but you finally oblige. And when your eyes lock, you see not sarcasm, but patience. Warmth. As if he’s daring you to believe he actually wants this, wants you.

Your heart lurches.

He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face, then lets out a soft laugh. “Thats better. There you are.” His hand resumes its slow pace, fingertips drawing lazy shapes along your thigh. “I like this view much better.”

Your insides do a twist, a storm of nerves and excitement washing over you. He’s too much. Too close. Too... him.

“You always this talkative?” You manage lowly.

“Only when someone makes me curious.” His smile deepens. One hand slides just a smidge higher, brushing the edge of your hip before retreating again. “And you make me very curious.”

You swallow hard, pulse pounding in your head. He makes you dizzy, so dizzy. His teasing is unraveling you piece by piece and he knows it. He’s enjoying it.

But within a second, something shifts inside you. A warmth spreads in your chest. A spark of courage flaring inside by the way he’s looking at you, knowing what he’s trying to play with you.

And you can’t help but think, two can play this game.

So you lean in, just enough that your knee presses firmer between his legs. Your lips twitch upward as you murmur, “what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue now?”

For the first time, he falters. His grin freezes, eyes widening slightly at your boldness.

“Oh?” He breaths, leaning back just a hair, as if he’s reassessing. “Thats new.”

You let your smirk linger, encouraged by his reaction. “What? Didn’t expect me to bite back?”

His tongue sweeps across his lower lip, and his hands flex on his thighs. His laugh is lower this time, rougher. He tilts his head like you’ve just rewritten the rules of this game.

“Careful,” he says, dark and promising. “You might like where that gets you.”

And all at once, the tension is stretched tight. The rope tugging you closer to him is seconds from snapping.

You arch a brow, playing braver than you feel, “maybe thats the point.”

His grin returns, slow, deliberate, almost dangerous. “Oh, sweetheart…”

His hand slides higher, warm against your hip now. Thumb peeking just under the hem of your shirt. “You really shouldn’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

Your inhale sharply, refusing to look away this time. “Who says I don’t?”

For a split second, he just stares at you, unblinking, like he’s weighing the truth of your words. And then he moves, swift but unhurried. A large hand cupping the back of your neck, tugging you closer until your forehead is brushing his.

His breath fans across your lips, but he doesn’t kiss you yet.

“You’re staring at me like you want something?” He teases, voice low and almost smug. “What do you want?”

“You know exactly what I want.”

Thats all it takes. His mouth claims yours in a sudden, hungry kiss. Lips firm and hot, drawing a muffled gasp out of you. The world tilts when he pulls you closer, guiding your hips forward until you find yourself straddling his thighs. Your knees braced against the edge of the bed.

He deepens it, tongue brushing yours with that measured patience he showed before. Tasting you, teasing you, pulling back just when you try to chase the feeling of him.

“God,” he murmurs against your lips. “You taste better than I imagined.”

You laugh a bit shaky, letting your fingers in his hair ground you. “You imagined it?”

“Constantly,” his hands grip your hips harder, holding you steady in his lap. His grin turns wicked. “Don’t act surprised. You’ve been living in my head the past few days, sweetheart. Rent-fucking-free.”

Heat blooms across your chest, stomach flipping in return. You try to hide it with a smirk. “Guess I’m unforgettable then, huh?”

His lips brush against yours again, touch feather light. “More than unforgettable.” He nips at your lower lip, making you gasp. “Addictive.”

You shiver, trying to keep control. But your body betrays you. Pressing closer, thighs tightening around his hips.

“Mm.” he pulls back slightly, eyes half lidded, searching your features. “See. Told you you’d like where this gets you.”

“And you’re awfully smug about it,” you whisper, smile giving you away.

He laughs softly, the sound low in his chest, then tugs you closer until your noses brush again. “I can’t help it. Not when you’re finally where I want you.”

Your kisses turn messy fast, tongues tangling, teeth knocking against teeth. You can’t tell if you’re trying to kiss him or consume him. His hands are roaming your body greedily. One anchored on your ass, the other skimming up your back like he’s memorizing your curves.

Your fingers twitch where they clutch the front of his suit, tugging and tugging, until you finally dare to reach around the back, searching for a way to get him out of it. You find the zipper, fingertips wrapping around the cool metal and pulling slightly. Just enough to press your palm against warm skin and pull him closer. His mouth doesn’t dare tear away from yours in the process, groaning low against you, sending the feeling through your bones.

“Christ,” he mutters against your jaw, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “You’re driving me insane.”

You giggle, fingers numb with nerves. “You’re one to talk”

Then he pulls back, eyes low, pinned to where your top gapes open slightly. He fiddles with the buttons gently as the curve of your bra shows, delicate lace against flushed skin.

“Baby…” his voice is rough. A warning, a prayer, its not quite clear.

“Don’t stop looking at me like that.”

Something in him snaps. He shrugs his broad shoulders and his hands release you, unclipping his crimson cape, letting it fall to the side in a heavy pool of fabric. The sight makes your throat dry. 

Before you could start, he’s on you again. Mouth finding yours desperately, while his hands slide down to grip your thighs, pulling you flush against his pelvis. You gasp as the hard line of him presses perfectly where you’re aching, hips moving instinctively.

The friction sends jolts through you both. He groans into your mouth, the sound ragged, fighting to hold himself back.

“Fuck,” you whisper, grinding again, feeling bolder this time.

He tilts his head back, eyes shut and jaw clenched tight. “You don’t know what you do to me. How hard it is to hold back.”

“Oh” you gasp, fingers tying into his hair as you roll your hips. “I think I do.” You lean forward, taking advantage of his open neck, planting kisses along the tender spot. Sucking hard enough to leave deep purple marks in their place.

The air is thick, tension becoming unbearable. Your shirts bunching up as his hands fumble higher, body arching as his chest presses flush against you. Every moment is slow but desperate, like you’re both drawing it out just to savor how close you are to falling apart.

When his thumb drags over the edge of your bra, teasing the swell of your breast, you stifle a moan. He smirks against your lips, proud of how you’re wearing thin.

“Careful,” he whispers, breath mixing with yours as you whine. “You keep giving me that look. Im not stopping until there’s nothing left between us.”

Your blouse is hanging loose now, his fingers brushing against skin every time you move, dragging the pad of his thumb just under the band of your bra. He’s taking his time with it, unwrapping you like a gift he doesn’t want to tear the paper off too quickly.

“Relax, let me take my time with you.”

The words swirl in your head. Breath stuttering as you slide your palms down his chest, the press of textured fabric brushing against your skin. The ’S’ on his chest is close enough to kiss, but you hold back, savoring the way his eyes darken as you tease him.

You shift in his lap, sliding your knees out further until you’re as close as can be, core impossibly close to the bulge in his suit. The hardness beneath the fabric twitches, solid, sending sparks through you. A shaky laugh escapes you as you grind down, feeling the unyielding strength of him beneath your core.

He moans your name softly, a warning slipping out low and strangled, ruined by a groan that follows.

“What?” You murmur, breath feathering against his jaw. “Am I… distracting you?”

His hand tightens on your hips, but he doesn’t push you off. “I can’t wait much longer”

Your gaze flicks past his shoulder. The bright streak of red, his cape, has slipped halfway off the bed, pooling across the floor. You reach for it, tugging the heavy fabric up and around your shoulders, swirling it dramatically before hooking it into place on the shoulders of your open blouse.

You smirk, settling back down against him. “Huh. It fits better than I thought.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, lips parted. Then one dark brow lifts.

“You’re really going to wear my cape while grinding on me?” His voice is husky, threaded with both disbelief and amusement..

You shrug innocently, rolling your hips with calculated slowness. “What? You left it lying around. Finders keepers.”

He laughs, and its dangerous now. Reverberating through his chest. “Sweetheart, you don’t know what you just started.”

Before you can sass back, his arms hook under your thighs. The motion is so fast, so smooth, you gasp, clutching at his broad shoulders.

“Hey!”

“Hold on,” he says, eyes sparkling. He rises so effortlessly, lifting you as though you’re weightless, and carries you two short steps back to the bed. Your legs twitch as he plants you on your back, his body caging yours, the cape draping around you on the sheets.

Pinned beneath him, your chest rises and falls against the emblem on his suit, the golden mark scratching against your bust.

He smirks, pressing you into the mattress. “We’ll see how long you get to wear it before I take it back.”

His fingers skim up the inside of your thigh, slow but dedicated. He leans down, capturing your lips with a kiss. He’s steady, trying to burn the shape of your mouth into his memory. When he pulls back, his eyes linger, then dip down your body with hunger.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about since the other night?” His lips brush your jaw as he whispers. Moving down to your throat, sucking lightly until you gasp and squirm. His hands trail down, unfastening the final buttons on your shirt to expose more skin for his lips. 

“the sounds you made on the phone. Sweet little noises… begging me to tell you what I’d do.”

Your heart races, face burning as need spreads across your skin. “And?” You whisper, already breathless.

“And now I get to show you.”

He kisses down your chest, pausing to nose against the lace edge of your bra, before moving lower. By the time his mouth traces your stomach, your hands are clumsy on your pants button, fumbling to undo it. He beats you to it, though. Fingers slipping past yours as he opens and drags the zipper down with a low rasp of metal.

You shiver as he eases your work pants down your hips, tugging until they’re off and forgotten. You’re left in your undergarments, sprawled beneath the man of steel, his cape half wrapped around you like his claim on you.

“Perfect,” he breathes, eyes darkly roaming you. He kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, and higher. It’s slow and driving you mad. His hands spread your legs open, fingertips leaving prints on your skin.

By the time his mouth hovers a breath away from the damp heat of your panties, you’re practically shaking.

“Please,” you whisper, more desperate than you meant to sound.

His grin is wicked, eyes peering up at you filled with sin. “Begging already?”

“Don’t… don’t tease”

But he does. He drags his mouth over the thin fabric, inhaling, groaning against like he’s the one coming undone. The he hooks a finger into the band and slides your panties aside, allowing the cool air to fan over before lowing his mouth to you.

The first touch of his tongue has your back arching, a choked cry escaping your throat. He moans into you like he’s been starved, feasting on you, flattening his tongue against your clit and lapping slow and thorough. Then fast enough to make you whine.

Your hands find his hair, tugging, guiding. “God, I can’t…”

“Thats it,” he mumbles against you.

“Yes, yes. Don’t stop—“

And then, at the very edge, right as your body trembles and tightens, he pulls back.

The sudden emptiness makes you gasp, your climax fizzing away before it hits. You blink down at him, dazed, chest still heaving. “Wh—what...?”

He smirks, chin glistening with you. His eyes dark as he peers up at you. “Not yet.”

You tremble as his hands brush up your sides, the ghost of your orgasm denied leaving you flushed and aching. His hands pause at your hips, pale bruises left from his prior grip on them. A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth as he drags one last teasing lick up your folds before pulling away entirely.

“Why would you stop…“

His thumb presses into a purple mark. “Because I want to hear it.” His voice drops, dark, commanding. “You want me to make you come? Say it.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, but the desperation burns hotter. “I… I want you to...”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Louder.”

Your pride cracks. “Please, please make me come.”

He flashes you a grin, “Thats my girl.”

He doesn’t waste another second. In one fluid motion, he’s climbing back over you. Tugging your panties down the rest of the way, tossing them aside like nothing. He frees himself from the suit, just enough to bear the length of him. Its thick, tip flushed a deeper shade as it strains in his hand, as he lines it up with you. The press of his cock at your entrance makes you inhale sharply, eyes going wide at his size.

Then he pushes in, inch my inch. Filling you until you’re stretched tight around him, nails clawing at his shoulders.

“Fuck!” You choke out, legs trembling as he bottoms out. This was more than you’d expected.

“God, you feel so good,” he groans, forehead knocking against yours, breath ragged against your cheek. “So damn tight.”

He doesn’t start slow. He pulls back and slams into you, hard enough that the headboard rattles against the wall. You gasp, throwing your arm up to brace the wood, shielding your head as the force rocks you.

You gasp as he scrambled your insides, “Slow— down!” You choke out.

He growls low in his throat, lowering himself, palm sliding protectively to cradle the back of your head as he thrusts harder, deeper, angling until sparks shoot up your spine. His other arm hooks your leg over his shoulder, pinning you open as he drives his cock into you mercilessly.

Each thrust punches sweet, helpless moans from your throat, his rhythm relentless. His mouth finds yours again, teeth knocking together, swallowing each sound you make like he can’t get enough.

When he pulls back, sweat dampens his hair, and his eyes are wild, blow with lust. “you’re mine,” he rasps, fucking into you deeper.

You’re already unraveling once more, voice breaking as you whimper in between strokes. “Please—“

He grits his teeth, then suddenly shifts, wrapping both arms around your thighs. In one quick move, he drags you away from the headboard, hauling you back to the center of the bed. You gasp, dizzy, clutching at the sheets as he settles above you again.

This time, his thumb finds your clit. Pressing hard and circling the bud with precision as he slams into you.

“Come for me,” his voice is hoarse as he demands. “Come on my cock, sweetheart, I want to feel you.”

The coil inside you snaps. You crumble beneath him, back arching off the sheets as the orgasm courses through you, walls twitching around his cock. Your voice breaks with moans, body trembling as he fucks you through it, chasing his own.

“God, thats it,” he growls, thrusts growing sloppy. “So perfect— so fucking perfect”

Your orgasm grabs at him, walls pulsing tight and greedy around his cock and it nearly unravels him on the spot. His pace grow wilder, hips snapping forward in a punishing way that has you gasping for breath beneath him.

“I— I can’t—“ you whimper, nails raking down his arms.

His eyes squeeze shut, jaw tight, a deep noise vibrating in his chest. 

“Fuck— ‘m so close” his thumb keeps working your clit even as his hips stutter, trying to drag every last tremor from your body before he lets himself go.

Your thighs shake, overstimulated but still clinging to him, urging him deeper.

“Please, baby, want you to let go”

Thats all it takes. His thrusts slow, stutter, then he buries himself to the hilt with a strangled groan. Heat flooding inside you as his release rips through him, cock twitching as he pumps you full. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath fanning over your skin as he shudders.

For a long pause, there nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing, and your pulse pounding in your ears. He stays buried deep, holding onto you like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Finally, with a low exhale, he eases back just enough to look at you. His hairs damp and shiny, curls plastered against his forehead. But his eyes, bright blue and blown wide, are nothing but soft. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the dampness there, then presses a slow, tender kiss to your lips.

His thumb runs over your hip, easing the tension in your joints from the position you were in. But eventually his touch softens. 

His chest rises with a deep breath, “I should go,” his voice is soft above you, low and reluctant.

You blink at him, still fuzzy from everything thats happened tonight. There’s a quick flash of disappointment that crosses your face before you can hide it. He notices, of course he does, and smiles, apologetic.

“Duty calls,” he adds, brushing a few wet strands of hair off your forehead.

You nod weakly, even though you wish the world could wait for him a little bit longer. “Right. Superman stuff…”

His chest puffs with a quiet laugh, leaning down to capture your lips once more. Slower than all the others, lingering a little longer that tells you everything he can’t put into words right now. When he pulls away, he presses one last peck to your forehead, then gently shifts you down against the sheets.

“Stay,” he mumbles, replacing his cape with your plush blanket. He wraps it snugly around your bare shoulders. “Get some sleep.”

You melt into the softness, a faint hum slipping past your lips as you watch him rise. He gathers his belongings, moving with the same demeanor as someone who’s lived here for years. The familiar click of his cape fastening back into place makes you smile, it’s the most surreal reminder of who he is beyond this room, beyond you.

At the window, he pauses. The city’s quiet below, but sirens wail in the distance. the warmth streetlights paint his silhouette in gold. He looks back at you over his shoulder, and flashes a grin, not the practiced one, the one for you. It makes your chest burn.

“Sweet dreams,” he says softly.

“Yeah, yeah, go save the world,” you whisper back, already drowsy.

Before you can blink he’s gone. The rush of cool night air comes in, the soft sound of glass shifting in its frame. You catch a glimpse of red and blue across the skyline, eyes dipping as they struggle to focus.

You'd never know it by looking at him. He’s all grit, all sharp edges. You know him too well by now, you can see through all the gruff scowling and machismo.

The man’s old school. He doesn’t like when people interrupt or speak out of turn. Doesn’t like when people whine, or chew with their mouth open, or show up late. He’s got rules, standards. Expectations.

“Say please.”

“Get your elbows off the table.”

“Sit up straight.”

Logan was raised in time where you stood when a lady entered the room, said your pleasantries, and got your mouth washed out with soap if you dared to let a swear slip.

He’s also the biggest fucking hypocrite on the planet.

Even with your tits bouncing in his face, your pussy fluttering around the base of his cock as you ride him hard enough to shake the cheap motel bed frame, he still has the audacity to correct you.

“Fuck–Logan, god, you’re so fucking big–”

A hand slaps your thigh, enough to sting. Not too hard. Not too soft—just right. You moan at the warmth blooming along your skin, rocking down harder on him like it’s a reward.

“Watch yourself.” The cigar in Logan’s mouth bobs up and down as he talks, the cherry red tip burning brighter when he takes another slow drag. 

You’ve got both hands splayed out on his hairy chest, the metal of his dog tags clinking together with every bounce. There’s sweat beaded across your brow, dripping down your temple and the length of your spine.

The burn in your thighs is nothing compared to the stretch of him. Thick, hot, pulsing inside you like he owns your pussy, like he’s just gonna sit back and let you fuck your own brain right out of your pretty little head and feel no guilt about it.

The room smells like smoke and sex and something else that’s entirely him.

Logan is leaned up against the scratched headboard, all tan skin and rippling muscle. He’s not even sweating. Smoke curls up past his nose, eyes half lidded, watching you with that dangerous smirk like he’s letting you ride for your sake, not his.

He’s come twice already. You can feel it, the gooey warmth flooding out of your abused hole to drip down the length of his cock and soak the scratchy sheets beneath you. The creamy ring around the base sticks wetly to your drenched folds as you start grinding your hips in slow circles.

Logan hums, another thick plume of smoke flowing from his lips. “Feel’s good, huh?”

His free hand falls to clutch at your hip—a big, strong palm that could crush your pelvis to dust if he wanted to.

You whine, more high pitched than you mean to. “Yes, feel’s so good.”

You moan helplessly, trying to lift yourself again, trying to slam back down. It’s hard—he’s too fucking big, too thick, every drag of him against your insides dizzying and deep, like he’s rearranging something important.

Your head tips back. You swear you can feel him in your belly. And you know he can too, because that big hand drags up from your waist to press flat right over the bulge in your stomach.

“There,” he mutters, rubbing circles into your skin like it soothes the ache instead of making it worse. “That where I’m sittin’, baby?”

You whine, a pathetic sound clawed from the back of your throat. Your hips finally start to rise and fall faster, impaling yourself on the thick length of his cock again and again. The sound of your pussy sucking him in deeper has your ears burning, the wet noise of your slick bouncing off the walls.

You try to nod, but it comes out more like a trembling jerk of your chin. You nails dig little crescent moons into the firm muscle of his pecs, pressing down on the skin until it’s white and threatening to break under your touch.

“Answer me,” Logan rasps, voice thick with smoke and that low growl that never really goes away. “Where am I?”

“In my belly,” you gasp. “Shit, Logan–”

Another sharp slap lands across your ass, this one loud, echoing off the walls of the motel room. You yelp, clenching hard around him.

“What’d I say about that mouth?” he snarls, not even bothering to take the cigar out of his teeth. “You know I don’t like you swearin’ like a goddamn sailor when I’m bein’ so nice and lettin’ you get off.”

You whimper, hips stuttering as he grabs a handful of your ass, spreading you wide. “M’sorry,” you breathe, eyes glassy and wide, “jus’—jus’ feels too good—can’t think.”

He grins around the cigar. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Dumb little thing can barely ride without losin’ her damn mind.”

Logan plants his feet on the mattress, thrusting up hard. Once. Twice. Three times.

It knocks the air from your lungs, a moan getting trapped in the back of your throat as you collapse against his chest. You bury your nose in the space where his neck meets his shoulder, eyes screwed shut. “Fuck–”

“You say ‘fuck’ one more time, sweetheart,” he warns tersely, leaning over to drop the cigar into the ash tray resting on the nightstand. His rhythm doesn’t even falter, doesn't stutter in the slightest. “And I’m puttin’ you on your back.”

You smirk, even through the daze, even with your mouth hanging open and drool threatening to slip from the corner. You lean in closer, enough to speak directly into his ear, hushed and sugary sweet. “Fuck me, Logan.”

The moment shatters like you took a hammer to a pane of glass.

The next second, the world tilts and you’re flat on your back. 

Logan’s body blankets yours, his skin white hot where it drags against your own. Those heavy, metal laced bones press you into the mattress so tightly that you can only lay there and take it.

“I said watch your fuckin’ mouth,” he growls, voice like gravel, like it’s been dragged over a hot engine. His hand slaps down hard on your ass, makes your hips jerk forward and your moan catch in your throat. “Usin’ language like that when I’m bein’ so nice to you? That isn’t the sweet girl I know.”

He feels even bigger like this, his cock carving a place for itself inside you so deep you can feel it in your throat. You can feel the fat head pounding against your cervix, the thick vein running along the side dragging across that special bundle of nerves inside you that have your nails raking angry red welts down his back.

You can feel the tacky beads of blood slicking the tips of your fingers before his skin knits itself back together. 

Logan groans at the feeling of it, at the pain. His hands tighten around your hips as he thrusts impossibly faster. Impossibly harder. The lewd slap of skin on skin is all you can hear, loud and sticky with sweat and slick and pre-come.

“Count ‘em for me, baby,” he breathes against your skin, fever hot lips brushing the lobe of your ear with every word. “You’re a big girl. Show me what that smart mouth can do.”

You can’t think, can’t talk. You can hardly breath around the choking pleasure, your thighs pressed to your shoulders restricts your breathing enough to make you feel lightheaded in all the best ways.

“Cat got your tongue, baby?” He drags his cock out halfway, the head catching just enough to make your walls flutter and your toes curl, before slamming back in with enough force to jolt your whole body up the mattress. “Come on, now. Count.”

Your brain fizzes like static, like all the lights in your head got knocked loose and the wiring’s melting. Logan’s cock keeps pounding into you, each thrust punching a weak little noise from your throat, but you try. 

You try, because he told you to. And that’s what good girls do.

“One.” The word bubbles up raw from your chest, broken and wet and needy.

Logan fucks into you hard.

“T-two.”

“That’s it,” he coaxes, grinning like the devil, like he owns you. And maybe he does—because you don’t know where you end and he begins anymore. Your body’s his to play with, his to use.

Another thrust, hard enough to sting the skin of your ass.

“Three, ah! Logan, please–”

The edge is so close, so sharp. You’re trembling all over, eyes glassy and unfocused as he presses his palm back against the slight bulge in your stomach, grinding the heel of his hand down until you feel like you’re gonna burst.

“You’re takin’ it so fuckin’ good,” Logan growls, and this time it’s not mocking—it’s reverent. “So fuckin’ deep. Look at you. Stuffed full of cock and still cryin’ for more.”

You clench around him at that, tight and involuntary.

“Oh, you like that?” He grins, eyes gleaming wicked. His teeth, sharp and biting, nip along the side of your neck. Bright red marks lay claim to your skin, you know they’ll be a deep, blotchy purple come morning. “That dumb little pussy squeezin’ on me like she’s tryin’ to keep me. Like she don’t already got all of me.”

You nod again, desperate. Sloppy. Mouth hanging open.

He leans in, foreheads touching, breath mingling. “You want it, baby? Want me to come again in this soaked fuckin’ pussy? Fill you up good?”

You make some pathetic, strangled noise in the back of your throat that could’ve meant yes, could’ve meant please, could’ve meant I love you—but all it earns you is a low groan from Logan as he starts fucking you even harder.

“Better not waste it,” he pants, his heavy balls slapping against your ass. “You wanna act like a dumb slut, you take it like one too.”

You’re already gone.

Everything inside you coils and then unravels all at once, your orgasm tearing through you so violently you scream. You wail like it hurts, like you’re scared, like it’s the first time you’ve ever come in your entire life.

You crest over the edge hard, your orgasm tearing through you so violently your whole body seizes. You scream his name, thighs quaking as your pussy clamps down around him like a vice.

Logan doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Just chases his own high through the tight, spasming grip of your pussy, snarling against your throat as he thrusts through your aftershocks.

Your name falls from his lips like a prayer. Over and over. Each time a little more hoarse. A little more broken.

Logan hisses, the muscles in his back tightening under your calves. “Jesus Christ, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—gonna milk me fuckin’ dry—”

With one last hard thrust, he buries himself in you as deep as he can and groans into your neck like he got shot.

He snarls when he comes, biting down into your neck like you’re prey and he’s more beast than man. You swear you feel it flood you, hot and thick, leaking out around his twitching cock before he even pulls out.

Your body shakes under his, legs locked around his shoulders, hips twitching helplessly as the last embers of your own orgasm fizzles out to smoke.

“Such a messy girl,” he murmurs, rocking into you even after you’ve gone limp, chasing every last drop of heat he can push into you. “Took it so fuckin’ good, baby. So proud of you.”

You whimper something that might be his name, might be gibberish, but it makes him smile.

Logan finally pulls out with a wet, obscene noise—and you can feel the mess of it, sticky and messy, dripping down between your thighs.

You gasp, hips arching slightly as the emptiness throbs.

He just laughs, low and warm. He falls onto his back beside you with a content huff, chest rising and falling with every quick breath.

“Now,” Logan mutters, eyes glittering with satisfaction, “you gonna watch that mouth, or am I gonna have to fuck the rest of the attitude outta you?”

You grin, slow and sly, voice wrecked and syrupy. “Fuck no.”

He growls—and just like that, he’s on you again.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: oh logan howlett how i've missed you. thank you again anon for sending this ask in, your mind is so beautiful and so big and i wish i could kiss it.

thank you so much for reading, love you!