Out of My Head

First, you waited on the long list of applications and the verification process. Then, once you got approved, your first steps into the seductive molasses of BDSM were wobbly at best. 

But it was expected, you told yourself. Master Simon assured you of that, as well, serving as a chaperone and guidance through the black marble walls and crystals glittering like diamonds. Astonishing, glamorous background for the most carnal, dirty acts. Some of which terrified, or straight repulsed you; some you yearned after.

With the excitement and hope, however, a gloomier mood started appearing. Not because of the club itself, but because each night you attended, you returned home with a heavy ache in your chest. Sadness. Anger. Disgust with yourself. How you wished that disgust came from experiencing filthy things and battling your appalled sense of propriety! Instead, it was from the growing conviction of being a huge disappointment.

As a new submissive in the club, you drew curious stares at first - which was both overwhelming and pleasant. But it didn’t correlate with active interest. Sure, the first two weekends consisted of a few conversations, as well three invitations to scene. 

Which, in a way, were more than you imagined, then later brought a sense of annoyance and disappointment. As if something was missing and the submissive creature inside you wasn’t satisfied with what you got. 

As weeks passed, the worse it became. Doms didn’t approach you. When you mustered all your shaky courage and tried to initiate an interaction yourself, you were very politely declined. Which was okay, you told yourself. Not every Dom had to be interested in you. With each failed attempt, though, a voice in your head cried louder and louder - No one is interested in you. 

The club organised particular activities that allowed all single submissives and Dominants to participate and find unexpected matches for a scene. Those games terrified you with the unknown - of which Dom might pick you, what thing they would do to you - yet you forced yourself to be a part of it. Again, for that flickering hope of clicking with someone for more than just a single scene after which they’d avoid you like the plague.

Thrill at the prospect of another night at the Black Diamond started diminishing. It still bubbled under your skin when you entered the marble halls and re-dressed in the changing room. However, as hours passed with you sitting in the submissives’ lounge, watching the spectacles around you, with no one approaching you even for a short conversation, the thrill died down.

Instead, that awful dread of going back home unfulfilled and forgotten rose. 

You couldn’t say you didn’t get a single scene, that you didn’t moan in a delirious orgasm, or felt the sting of a palm on your asscheek. But each of these scenes built up to something amazing, only to flatline afterwards. 

The Doms provided aftercare, though it felt like an obligation to be checked off the list rather than a genuine interest in making sure you were alright. No Dom asked you to scene with them for a second time.

So your mind worked overtime, thinking up the reasons for your complete failure. 

That night, despite being convinced it would be another night with you crying yourself to sleep, you walked into the club with the same hope you tried to maintain each time. Even if it faded faster and faster. 

As usual, you greeted other submissives with a smile, politely bowed your head to any Dom passed who glanced your way. You were on your route to the sitting area for submissives when Master Simon appeared in your way. 

“Would you please come with me?” Hazel eyes looked at you with a certain glint. You were unsure if it foreshadowed good, or bad things to come. 

“There’s someone who wants to meet you.” He tossed over his shoulder, already turned forward and walked across the club. 

You padded behind him, heart panging in your chest with a sudden jolt. Someone wanted to meet you?! Was it someone new? Newer than you? Or was it another of Simon’s attempts to arrange a scene for you - an act of pity which made you feel ashamed, yet you still clung to it like a starved orphan ready to eat a burned scrap of bread from the street. 

The man Simon took you to was seated on one of the chaises in the resting area. His pose was relaxed, but in a way a lion might be relaxed in the middle of the road in savannah. Legs slightly spread, back resting fully against the cushions, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand. 

He had blonde hair, with darker streaks here and there, all styled back in a soft swipe. His beard was trimmed. A pair of glasses rested on his nose, behind them striking blue eyes watched your approach. 

Master Simon said your name, pointing at you to stand in front of the man, whom he then introduced:

“Master Raymond.” 

With that, Simon simply turned around and walked away. He was always quite direct, and a man of few words, but he also showed care and attention in small doses. That he didn’t bother to do that meant he was sure you weren’t in any kind of danger. 

Or, at least, not in a bad kind of danger. 

You swallowed nervously, fingers fidgeting at the hem of the silky dress you chose to wear that night (it might as well serve as a nightie). Raymond studied you for a silent moment longer, before he spread his legs wider and tossed one of the cushions on the floor between them.

It took you only a single heartbeat of hesitation before you moved forward and dropped onto your knees. 

When you filled out all the forms and signed the contracts for the club membership, there was a thick file of rules. You always had the right of refusing a scene, not only stopping it if your limits were crossed, but simply not starting one. However, as a submissive in Black Diamond, you were also expected to kneel down for a Dom, if they required it (without any sexual acts following), as well undress on command. You quickly figured out it was to reinforce the thrilling power imbalance between a Dom and a sub. 

“I’m Raymond Smith.” The man introduced himself fully. A name you instantly recognized.

“Hello, Sir.” You forced your hands to rest gracefully on your thighs as you looked up at the owner of the club. The man who decided to accept you. 

“You know who I am,” he wasn’t asking, not really, so you only nodded. “We didn’t get a chance to meet earlier,” Raymond continued, “but I returned to find out what an unusual case you are.” 

There was no jab in his words, yet they strummed a sensitive chord within you. Your own insecurities intoned a chorus of hateful words and promises of exile. 

“Black Diamond exists so people can explore and get a fill of their desires. They get to learn about themselves, find themselves, find others who match their needs. So tell me-” slowly, Raymond leaned forward; blue eyes peeking at you from behind the glasses- “why aren’t you thriving?” 

You could shrink on yourself and say that you don’t know. Maybe even lie that you were most appreciative and happy with what the club provided. 

But Raymond was an experienced Dom, who would see right through poorly veiled bullshit. 

You just had to admit the truth without appearing the most pathetic. 

“I’m grateful for the attention I got so far, Sir,” you replied, measuring your breath to take hold of the shaky emotions that were threatening to resurface. “I guess it’s limited because I’m not what most of the Doms look for. Which is understandable, I’m not a jar of Nutella for everyone to like me,” you added with a fake easy smile. 

Raymond didn’t grin back. 

He didn’t glower, either. Simply watched you with the same patience. 

“Not what most of the Doms look for,” he repeated your words slowly, setting his tumbler onto the side table. “Elaborate, please.”

“Um-” you had to quickly regroup, knowing that if you spilled it all out in one rush, your hurt feelings would seep through your words. 

“I’m not a cute, sweet submissive, who needs protection or saving.” You started in what you hoped was a calm, unbothered tone. “For a lot of men, Dominants especially, being a protector and provider is a kink itself. I don’t stir that for them. I’m too put together and independent.” 

“I’m also not a cheeky brat,” you listed, “I don’t provide challenge, I don’t call out to tame me-”

A gasp interrupted your own words when Raymond’s fingers brushed along your collarbones unexpectedly. 

“Continue.” He ordered, trailing light touch further. 

“I-” your voice wavered slightly as he slipped his fingers beneath the straps of your dress. “I don’t have a knack for niche kinks, which could interest some sadists. And I’m not a bombshell to draw attention just by-”

Raymond pushed the straps of your dress down. Silk slipped down like liquid, exposing your breasts fully. 

With wide eyes, you stared at the Dom, chest rising on a hitched breath. His touch alone interrupted your thought process, but being bared unexpectedly completely scrambled your neatly prepared explanations. 

“Ah.” Raymond made a short, pleased sound. “Found the control switch.” 

He caressed the swell of your breasts with the backs of his curled fingers. Lightly. Yet goosebumps appeared on your forearms and your nipples stiffened into hard points. 

“Here you were,” his voice had a warm timbre, but his piercing gaze was terrifying like a sharp blade about to cut you open- “talking about something sensitive for you, yet you kept yourself all locked.”

Raymond observed you as you talked. Your body didn’t match the heaviness of your words. Dressed in logic, he heard the vulnerability and hurt behind each sentence - each comparison. But you didn’t allow yourself to show that ache beyond relaying it like cold facts. 

Only faint flickers he caught betrayed that the wounds ran deeply, only you didn’t allow them to show. 

Which meant you had connection to your feelings, but chose not to display them. Not to show vulnerability.

And what was true submissiveness, if not a raw exposition of everything. 

“I didn’t-” you started objecting, but Raymond’s hands cupping your breasts short circuited your train of thought. 

“Can’t hold up the walls when I tip your balance?” The corner of his mouth tilted in a smirk.

Your lips parted, to counter his assumption, but the words stuck somewhere on your tongue as he began playing with your boobs. Soft kneading turning into a harsher squeeze. Fingers splayed over the heavy roundness suddenly clenched around your nipple in a stinging pinch. 

The zap of pleasure surged straight to your clit. Your core filled with heat, even as your mind couldn’t comprehend how it can be happening when it’s not even a negotiated scene. 

“You give me a tale of being bland and boring, yet here I am intrigued by a subby who doesn’t fit the mould.” Raymond didn’t shift his gaze from your face as he continued to torment your breasts.

“Some Doms proved to be lazy arseholes, too glutted with well-known dynamics to dust off their skills. They brushed the surface of sexual kink, not really looking at you. Not seeing that you want much more than just intense orgasms. And instead of being angry with it, you lock it all up and convince yourself you don’t have a right to those feelings.”

Tears pooled in your eyes at his words. 

You wanted to hiss that you have all that anger and resentment, but you dealt with them on your own. In the safety of your own bed, where no one saw your tears and mocked you for them. 

You had no trouble sharing your joy with others. Smiling, laughing. You always displayed those. Sadness and anger? Desire and need? Fragility of any kind was supposed to be kept secret. They invited mockery and judgement, chinking at your pride and confidence. Controlling them meant you were closer to being a graceful, admirable woman, not some dramatic sap who grated on a partner’s nerves. 

“You’ve experienced disappointment and rejection here, yet you keep coming back.” Raymond’s touch switched to soothing caress again. 

“I suspect it’s because you don’t want anyone to see how much it hurt you, but I believe it’s also because you still hope someone notices those walls and shatters them down. Your eyes-” his gaze seemed to soften a fraction, and he moved one of his hands to tilt your chin up.

“So much fear and hope. Even now, when you hate me for dissecting you.”

“Please, Sir,” your voice was barely above a whisper. 

If you tried to speak up, you’d undoubtedly let out a sob. Beneath your eyelids tears still stung, but a deeply ingrained habit stopped them from falling. That voice in your head screeched about how pathetic Raymond would find you, if you cried. 

“You won’t find mercy with me.” He shook his head slowly. “But you can find what you’ve been craving. The sexual side and everything beneath.” 

Though you didn’t admit it, a part of you was also relieved when your nights at the Black Diamond turned to fiasco - because you remained protected within your safe bubble. No Dom brought you to a state that would cause the shell to crack. Which, in turn, meant you didn’t have to risk being hurt emotionally. 

It was your first interaction with Master Raymond and he was already barging in, unapologetically determined to set your safe space on fire. 

It was fucking terrifying. 

“You’ll have to be very brave,” he gripped your chin tighter, the other hand pinching your nipple again - the jolt of sexual pain once again messing with your head. Messing with your honed skills in putting up walls quickly. 

“You’re all buttoned up, but I’m going to cut off and rip all of those buttons and get you bare for me. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Every. Single. Damn. Time.” 

Maybe if he didn’t have you half naked; maybe if he didn’t hold your chin in an unyielding grip, forcing you to look him in the eye; maybe if he didn’t exude dominance in levels unparalleled to what you’ve been fantasising about; maybe if he didn’t cut you open with perceptive assessment… 

maybe then you would be able to calmly refuse his claim, maintaining a stubborn stance that you only wanted to be sexually satisfied. 

“Do you want that, Button?” Raymond leaned closer, scent of warmed spices and wood of his cologne were like a brush of soft blanket when you were held in an iron grip. “Or do you want to return to your weekly visits that end with nothing but hours on a sofa, keeping yourself away from hurt, but also away from connection?” 

A single tear slipped onto your eyelashes. You held back the rest. 

You tethered between the ache in your chest and the heat still licking between your thighs. 

Often, when emotions were close to the surface, your desire disappeared completely. Somehow, Raymond brought out the raw feelings, yet still kept your body buzzing with arousal. For the first time, one didn’t extinguish the other.

When you began your learning journey with BDSM, you read a lot upon the deep, intimate connection between physicality of it and the psychological and emotional sides. You tended to think of it as the emotional aspect of aftercare after a rough sexual act. You didn’t stop to think how the sex part could influence the process of feeling itself - intensify it, or soothe it. 

“I want to try.” You murmured. 

Raymond didn’t smile with triumph. He didn’t move away. He held you still, tugging on your nipple as he swiped his thumb up your chin and toward your bottom lip. 

“That’s very brave of you.” He praised. “Thank you for not giving up, and for trusting me with yourself.” 

Only then did he gently release you. He gave your cheek a tender caress, before reaching down to pull your dress up into place. Your abused nipples were straining against the silky fabric. 

“I meant what I said about not showing mercy, but I will never cross any boundary you set in the hard limits. I’ll push you, Button. Hard. But I promise to never give you what you can’t take.” 

“Instead, you’ll prove that I can and will take it?” You sighed, giving him a half-defeated, half-unamused look. 

Raymond smiled at that. A sinful gleam that heralded serious trouble for you. 

He leaned back and reached for the unfinished drink. He didn’t allow you to get up yet, so you remained on your knees. Your breasts were throbbing. Between your thighs, clit pulsed in demand for more. Your heart seemed to be bleeding open, yet it didn’t hurt as you might’ve expected. With the pleasure thrumming in your veins and the prospect of a Dom who - at least for now - wouldn’t drop you, the strewn feelings didn’t appear so awful. 

“Come tomorrow.” Raymond ordered. “Wear your highest heels. And nothing else.”

Heat immediately burst through your whole body.

“Nothing else?” You repeated, voice slightly stuttering.

“Once you’re in the club’s changing room, lose all your clothes. Then walk in wearing only high heels. Don’t stop to talk to anyone, you come straight to me.”

Each night you came to the Black Diamond meant being barely dressed and a high risk of ending up completely naked, but it was vastly different from walking inside already fully on display. Having to walk across the marble floors naked, with the sound of heels clicking against the polished stone, would draw all the attention to you. 

Raymond’s office was also dark, but less glamorous and more old fashioned with the oak wood, deep green suede of the armchairs, and rusty gold ornaments.

He didn’t expect Simon to change anything while he was gone, but it surprised him how not a single note of his trusted stand-in and friend’s persona could be felt in the office. 

Simon was sitting behind the desk when Raymond entered. As usual, in all black: black t-shirt with sleeves stretched around his bulging biceps (which gave many submissives wet dreams), black cargo pants, heavy boots. And the skull-printed balaclava mask.

Simon might have been officially out of the military, but Raymond knew his team worked black ops still. It gave him much needed secrecy, while also adding to his brutal aura in the club. 

“The place wasn’t blown up and Dicky Ricky’s body isn’t crucified at the gates,” Raymond gave a short round of slow claps. “Seems you weren’t as bad at minding the club as you threatened when I asked you to do it.”

“It was no fun. Everyone was scared and behaved themselves.” Simon shrugged, standing up.

Though Raymond didn’t ask him to, he moved out of the boss’ chair and took a seat in one of the armchairs on the opposite side of the desk. 

“Which is also ridiculous-” he stretched his legs out, hooking one ankle over the other- “You’re more dangerous than I am.”

“Our appearances serve the both of us, just in different capacities.” Raymond said, taking his place. It felt almost as good as sinking into his favorite wing chair at home.

Spending the last four months abroad, dealing with sensitive business and securing particular alliances, wasn’t all that bad. Food in some places was divine; Americans really knew how to properly make a steak. The thrill of balancing threats and diplomacy rejuvenated his bones. And some conversations were truly pleasant to have.

Like meeting with an old friend and former co-owner of the Black Diamond, Ari Levinson.

“Not that you ever needed additional oil to your fuckin’ Greek god glow, but what creamy subby sucked you this mornin’ that you’re relaxed like a trooper post a first fuck after years in the trenches?” Raymond snorted, glancing at Ari over the rim of his glass. 

Ari laughed, that easy, booming laughter of his that dropped panties and somehow made other men feel like grinning for no damn reason. 

“My sub.” He replied with a cheeky smirk, very pleased with himself for that revelation.

Raymond paused before taking another sip of whiskey. He studied Levinson for a second then shook his head. 

“Levinson settled down with some good girl, huh?” Raymond smiled knowingly.

Ari wasn’t against relationships. He was far from a cynic who didn’t believe in love. But his charming, playful demeanor veiled a deep intensity of a merciless Dominant. Not many submissives could handle that beyond two consecutive scenes. 

“Who said she’s a good girl?” Ari grinned, his eyes twinkling with delight.

Raymond burst out laughing at that.

“You got yourself a brat!” 

“The brattiest of them all,” Ari’s smile didn’t cease, instead turning into unveiled smugness. 

Figures that the submissive, who not only could survive Ari’s type of fun and punishments, but also provoked him to go hard on her, would be the one to catch his interest permanently. 

Raymond himself didn’t allow bratting in scenes with him. He dealt with brats in the club, if it was needed, catering to their need of being tamed. However, he himself held harsh discipline. Without violence, too. There were elegant methods to teach a submissive to follow rules and scrape their throat from begging for mercy.

“Any issues?” Raymond’s gaze slid from Simon’s covered face to the single file on the desk, then back to the man again. 

“No issues. No problems. A riddle.” Simon put his hands behind his head and lounged.

“A riddle?” Raymond arched a single brow, not impressed by his friend’s apparently happy mood now that he could push whatever dire situation on him. 

Simon recited a name. Your name. 

“A newbie submissive. You approved of her membership right before leaving.” He explained. “A good girl. Quite shy and not much confident at first, but bravely participated in anything I directed her to do. It’s clear she approaches every game at the club with fear, but she doesn’t back out. She’s determined.”

“What’s the riddle then?” Raymond opened the file and flipped through the first few pages with basic data and contracts you signed. 

“Lack of response from the Doms.”

At Simon’s words, Raymond’s gaze flew up in surprise. 

Usually, anyone fresh caused ripples through the club. Like a new, shiny toy the others could play with. Of course, it all depended on the person and their energy. Not every dominant had to be interested in a new submissive. Just like a submissive wouldn’t be interested in all the Doms. 

“She doesn’t draw interest. When she approaches a Dom herself, which we’ve been practicing a few times, she gets politely declined. Or, on occasions, politely welcomed, but the scene lacks what she needs.”

“And she’s fucking smart.” Simon continued, his tone sharpening with offence on your behalf.” Smart enough to know that when I order her into a scene with someone, it’s because I organized it, not because someone asked for her. Her pride hurts, but she agrees anyway.”

“She’s not a brat.” Raymond tapped a page with the list of your kinks. “Why don’t they want her?”

Simon sighed and changed his position. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and leveling Raymond with a look.

“One, I think quite a few of our Doms need to be put in BDSM summer school to be reminded that a scene works for both parties, not just to get their own kicks. Two, she’s physically responsive, but her emotional walls need scaling. None of the fuckers put any effort in that. Not even to break her shell with a proper spanking, so she could get some emotional release.” 

“So she’s a little icy and instead of melting her, they crush her to refill their own glass.” Raymond’s jaw tightened, the blue of his eyes turning colder. 

His gaze scanned your lists - kinks, soft limits, hard limits. Without taking his eyes off the files, he grunted at Simon:

“Be a good lad and share with the class what’s been bouncing in that skull of yours when it comes to solving this riddle.”

“Well-” Simon’s face was mostly covered, but even without seeing it, Raymond knew the fucker was smirking.

But the rockstar of your dreams is praising you, telling you how pretty you look as a messy little slut on your knees for him. So you do your best to suffer through it, to breathe through your nose while he skull-fucks your mouth. You can almost pretend you’re having as much fun as he clearly is—and anyway, it’s his birthday. You just want him to have a good time, and you’re still grateful he chose you.

Before he can cum down your throat, Steve pulls out of your mouth and picks you up, tossing you onto the bed. You’re gasping for breath and before you can say a word, he’s on top of you, tearing your clothes off your body and sinking his cock, dripping wet with your spit, into your barely ready pussy. 

It stings a little, and you wince, but Steve only laughs in your ear, amused at your pain and groaning at how tight you feel around him. He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust, already moving his hips in a rolling motion that, despite the ache in your core, starts to feel good. The rockstar teases you for being such a tight little slut for him, moaning loudly when your cunt clenches around his cock.

It’s only then that you realize Steve didn’t put on a condom, and you consider asking him to pull out and put one on, but then he’s bottoming out in you again, grinding the base of his cock against your clit. Between the pleasure, the delicious stretch of his cock in your cunt, and the drinks you’d had and the weed you smoked, your thoughts about protection are lost in the ether. 

Steve fucks you hard and fast, emptying his balls inside you before you even have a hope of coming—but he’s not done with you. He hauls you up, arranging the two of you so he’s sitting against the headboard with you perched on his cock, using your pussy to keep his half-hard length warm while you drink and smoke some more. 

He shotguns twice as much weed smoke into your mouth, until you’re floating and so hazy, you barely know what’s going on. It helps make everything feel good, though, including the way his big dick stretches your pussy nearly to its limit, and the way his hands grab your tits roughly, pinching your nipples and slapping the soft mounds with the flat of his palm. 

You don’t know how much time passes like that, but sometime later, Steve is fucking you again, bouncing you on his cock while you giggle like a dumb little ditz, your bare body on full display for the rockstar. He doesn’t leave any part of you untouched, sucking hickeys into your skin, groping your tits and hips hard enough to leave bruises behind. It’s rough, but you’re so high that everything feels good.

You cum on Steve’s cock like that, and he groans when he feels your cunt gripping him tight, following you over the edge with his face buried in your tits. His cock throbs in your pussy, spilling a second load in your body, his cum starting to leak out around where he’s plugging you full. 

The rockstar rewards you for making him cum again with more drinks and more weed, shotgunning even more smoke into your mouth until you black out. One of the last thoughts you have before your mind slips into darkness is how happy you are that you got to spend the night with your favorite rockstar on his birthday. 

But if you think that’s all Steve Rogers has planned for you, you discover you’re very, very wrong.

For the rest of the night, you’re barely aware of your surroundings, coming in and out of consciousness to find Steve fucking you again—wait, no, not Steve. That’s Bucky Barnes behind you, pounding ruthlessly into your cunt while Steve’s cock is stuffed deep in your mouth. You can taste yourself on the rockstar’s dick, and you can feel an ache in your throat from how hard he’s thrusting, fucking your mouth like it’s a pussy.

Your head spins from lack of air and alcohol and weed, and you black out again. The next time you come to, you’re on your back, Sam Wilson above you, fucking into your aching cunt with slow, deep strokes. His thumb brushes your clit, and his lips whisper praise, calling you a sweet slut, making you cum hard enough that you lose consciousness again.

Bucky is on top of you again, rutting into your messy pussy while he sucks a hickey into the sensitive skin on your throat. You moan, the sound part pleasure and part pain, and Bucky chuckles meanly, telling you to be a good groupie whore and take his cock without complaint. You were made for this after all, isn’t that why you wanted to be chosen by Steve so badly?

Impossibly, you cum again at Bucky’s mean words and his even meaner fucking, your body shaking uncontrollably as pleasure tears ruthlessly through your exhausted body. It’s a relief when the darkness welcomes you back into its waiting arms, and you sink into it happily.

The next time you wake, you search for Steve. He’s sitting in a chair beside the bed, smoking, drinking and chatting with Bucky and Sam while he strums idly on an acoustic guitar. Slowly, you become aware of more men on top of you, but if Bucky and Sam are with Steve, who’s fucking you now? 

It takes you a long moment to turn your head and focus your eyes enough to find two roadies on top of you—John Walker and Joaquín Torres. Their names surface from the dark depths of your mind. Steve had introduced them to you when you’d first gotten on the bus. 

You’re too tired to do anything but lay in the soiled bed at the back of the band’s tour bus and take the cocks John and Joaquín are giving you—alternately thrusting into your pussy. You cling to the meager pleasure they offer, coming weakly once more before they pull out and jerk their cocks until they’re coating your bare skin with their seed.

Finally, you slip into a deep sleep, and you don’t wake again for many, many hours.

It’s early afternoon by the time you’re woken by the gentle rumble of the bus, and you take quick stock of your situation. You’re alone, surrounded only by the thick stench of sex, the sheets of the bed tangled around your naked limbs. 

Your entire body aches, the pounding headache of a hangover beating against your skull, and it takes a very long time before you’re able to wrench your eyes open. When you do, your stomach sinks to see the landscape passing by the windows in the back room, taking you away from your home city where you saw the band play.

Steve enters the room, and you watch him warily. He doesn’t bother to close the door behind him as he rounds the bed and drops an unopened bottle of water and a couple painkillers on the side table built into the back wall. When you don’t move, he leans over and slaps your ass hard, making you jump and let out a tortured groan. 

Distantly, you hear the laughter of a group of men at the front of the bus and your mind is inundated with flashes of vivid memories of how Steve had let his friends fuck you all night. A shiver races down your spine, something between fear and excitement filling your gut as your pussy flutters, cum leaking out of your well-used hole.

“Thanks for the birthday fuck, sweetheart. I had fun,” Steve says with an all-too-charming grin. He sits down on the edge of the bed, watching you roll over onto your back so you can sit up. 

You take the ibuprofen and chug half the bottle of water, watching the rockstar. You want to ask Steve where the bus is going, already knowing it’s left your city behind, but your throat hurts. He must suspect what you want to ask because he volunteers the information.

“We’re headed to the next stop on the tour,” Steve explains, one of his hands settling lightly on your thigh. “If you want, we can drop you off there, and you can find your own way home…” He trails off, his hand skating up your leg until his fingers are teasing the entrance to your thoroughly fucked pussy. “Or you can stick around and keep having fun with us—all of us.”

Steve’s pretty blue eyes glitter like he hopes you’ll choose the second option. The tip of his finger circles your clit and just that little bit of pleasure has your body melting into the pillows at your back, your legs falling open. Steve’s grin widens, brightening so much, he’s almost too handsome to look at. You feel like a flower unfurling beneath the sun.

Even with the ache in your body, you think it might be worth it to stay on the bus, just to earn more praise from your favorite rockstar. So what if he lets his friends fuck you while you’re passed out, getting to belong to Steve Rogers is all you’ve ever wanted. 

Besides, it’s not like you can afford to get yourself home. If the band leaves you at the next stop, you’ll have no way of getting back to your city. You only really have one option, so you might as well make the best of it. Steve, Bucky, Sam, John and Joaquín are handsome and they can make you cum, you’d be stupid to pass up the chance to be their free use fuck toy. 

At least, that’s what you tell yourself to rationalize the only choice you have.

“I’ll stay,” you murmur. 

You catch sight of Steve’s eager, feral grin before your eyes slip closed, and you will the ibuprofen to take effect. You lay limply in the bed as the rockstar climbs on top of you, his hands already pulling his dick out of his jeans. 

“I hoped you’d say that,” Steve rumbles in your ear, sinking into your dripping pussy, not seeming to care that it’s his friends’ cum that’s making the slide so easy. 

The stretch has you letting out a helpless moan, and you can feel the man on top of you chuckling against your cheek. He pulls his hips back, thrusting forward with punishing fierceness, clearly not caring about your comfort as he uses your cunt to get himself off.

“Be a good cock slave,” your favorite rockstar, Steve Rogers, tells you. “Let me fuck you like every night is my birthday, and I’ll take good care of you, sweetheart.”

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You’ve spent the day in the kitchen, putting together a little birthday surprise for Captain America, but it takes longer than you expect. So by the time you’ve cleaned up and put on your pretty party dress, you’re later than you wanted to be. It takes some searching before you find Steve drinking alone in a dark corner of the bar. 

For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake. Maybe Steve wants to be left alone on his birthday and that’s why he didn’t tell anyone. The only reason you know about it is because you’ve studied the files of all the Avengers—and, let’s be honest, paid far more attention to Steve’s than any other.

But then those soulful blue eyes raise and meet yours, and you see a sadness so deep, it nearly cracks your heart in two. You’re so overcome with sympathy for the man out of time that it takes you a moment before you realize he’s seen you, and that means there’s no way you can back out of your plan now. 

So you walk forward, your hands tucked behind your back, keeping your surprise a secret.

“Hi, cap,” you greet him cheerily, watching as he gives you a friendly enough nod. It’s not the warm welcome you’d hoped for, but you can’t begrudge him much.

“Hey, happy fourth,” he says before taking another sip of his beer, the hard Asgardian stuff Thor brought from his home realm. When it doesn’t seem like Steve’s going to say anything more, you take a fortifying breath and pull your hands from behind your back.

“Happy birthday!” you say, holding up an extra large cupcake with frosting and an unlit candle sticking out of it. You didn’t know what flavor Steve liked, so you went with chocolate, vanilla frosting and red, white and blue sprinkles. 

For a moment, Steve just stares at the cupcake in your hands and you wonder again if you’ve made a mistake. The silence drags on, and you have to move so the awkwardness doesn’t swallow you whole. Setting the cupcake on the bar, you pull a lighter from the pocket of your dress.

“I know everyone’s busy celebrating the fourth, but I didn’t want you to think we all forgot about you,” you babble, lighting the candle in the cupcake. “Well, Tony may have, but I didn’t.” You raise your gaze to the super-soldier’s face, giving him a hesitant smile. “I hope you like chocolate.”

Steve stares at you for a long, long moment—so long, it takes all your SHIELD training to stop from squirming under the intensity in his blue eyes. Then the bottle of beer he’d been holding thunks down on the bar and Steve’s arms are wrapping around you, pulling you into his chest while he buries his face in your neck. 

Your arms wind around his broad shoulders on instinct, your fingers sliding against the muscles that are tense beneath the soft cotton of his blue button-up shirt. You knead softly against his bunched-up muscles until he lets out a shuddering exhale and begins to relax into the hug.

The super-soldier’s big body is hunched over yours, and he’s crushing you slightly against his chest, but you hug Steve right back, knowing somehow that he needs this little bit of physical connection. You tuck your face into Steve’s neck, murmuring soft sounds of comfort as you squeeze him tight. 

Steve holds you for so long that your hands grow bolder, your fingers sinking into the soft blond hair at the back of his head. You card your fingers through his hair, raking your nails lightly against his skin until he’s shuddering in your arms and holding onto you even tighter, like you’re the lifeline he desperately needs.

It’s a long time before the big man pulls away, and you’re almost sorry he does, missing the strong bands of his arms around your back, and the steady thrum of his heart against your chest. You swallow down the emotions forming a lump in your throat and watch as the super-soldier mumbles an apology for grabbing you like that.

At first, Steve won’t meet your eye, but when he does, you give him a lopsided smile. “Everyone gets a birthday hug,” you tell him, hoping the nonsensical words will make him feel better. Thankfully, they seem to, and Steve’s shoulders lower from where they’d bunched up around his ears.

The two of you stare at each other for a beat longer than normal, and your smile hitches higher when you see his expression looks lighter than it did when you’d approached. You both look away at the same moment, your eyes finding the cupcake still sitting on the bar. 

The candle has nearly burned down to the frosting and Steve pauses a moment before quickly blowing it out. You clap your hands, the sound almost drowned out by the party still going on in Avengers Tower.

“I hope you made a good wish,” you say, just to fill the muted silence between you two, and rush to continue. “But don’t tell me what it is, or else it won’t come true.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth flickers in a smile. “I think this one will,” he says, his hand finding yours and twining your fingers together. You glance down at your joined hands before his blue eyes capture your attention and his mouth curves into a bigger smile. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze.

“Anytime,” you try to say blithely, but your voice is a little too breathless for you to sound as casual as you want. Tension snaps and crackles in the space between you and Steve. Instinctively, you lean closer to him, spontaneously deciding to press a kiss to his cheek. “Happy birthday, cap,” you murmur, lingering close to him, breathing in the masculine scent of him.

“C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get out of here,” Steve rumbles, grabbing the cupcake off the bar and towing you away from the party by your clasped hands. 

The two of you ride the elevator down to the kitchen, where you find some forks and share the extra-large cupcake together. Steve looks happier than he did at the party as the two of you talk and get to know each other better, his smiles coming more easily as you become more comfortable together. 

You have no way of knowning that you’re making Steve’s birthday wish come true, just by becoming his friend. And you also have no way of knowing that the two of you will become much more than friends. But what you do know is that you’ll never forget Steve Rogers’ birthday, and you’ll do everything you can to make it special every year you’re together.

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Steve has to work hard to keep himself under control as you spread out a soft blanket on the roof, refusing to think about laying you down on it and having his way with you. What would a pretty young thing like you want with an old man like him? He’s got more gray hairs than the years of your life you’ve lived, so he’s determined to keep his hands to himself.

While you settle onto the blanket, Steve looks around the roof and wonders why no one else from the building is up there to watch the fireworks. He’s not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse to be all alone with you in the darkness of the July night, and as he sits down, he’s careful, making sure not to touch you, unsure if he’ll be able to stop himself if he starts.

But when the fireworks start, you scoot closer to Steve and lean against his side, and it feels all too natural to put his arm around your shoulders. It nearly does him in when you look up at him and smile, like nothing in the world would ever make you feel safer than being with him. He tries to remind himself why he needs to stay away from you, but his resolve is crumbling as he stares down at you.

It’s your eyes, bright and sparkling as you look at him, and your mouth—so pretty and enticing, especially when it’s curved into a smile that’s just for him—that make Steve forget all the reasons he shouldn’t want you. He does want you, and he’s tired of running from it. He’s spent too many years trapped, and now that he’s free, he’s not going to take his second chance at life for granted.

So Steve kisses you. Soft at first, giving you a chance to pull away, slap him, run from him the way he expects you to. But you don’t. Instead, you lean into him, one of your hands pressing gently against his chest, right over the place where his heart is thumping against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. 

Steve knows, somewhere deep in his bones, that if he were to put his heart in your hands, you’d be gentle with it. You’d take care of it—you’d take care of him the same way he wants to take care of you. Wholly, unreservedly, for the rest of your lives.

You’re the one to deepen the kiss, dragging Steve back from his overly romantic thoughts and into the moment. The fireworks are still going off in the sky above the Brooklyn apartment building where the two of you live, but Steve only cares about you—and kissing you. 

Steve kisses you slowly, methodically, learning every dip and curve of your lips before he ventures into your mouth, exploring the wet heat and discovering the teasing menace that is your tongue. You kiss him hungrily, so voracious that Steve can practically feel your desire thrumming beneath your skin as he skims his hands up your arms and down your sides.

It takes all of Steve’s hard-won control not to give in to the lust churning in his gut, making his cock strain almost painfully against the fly of his jeans. He’s determined to take things as slow as you’ll let him, but then you’re laying back on the blanket and pulling him down on top of you, spreading your soft thighs to give him somewhere perfect to land.

He can feel the sinful heat of your cunt through his jeans and your thin dress, and when his hips roll, pressing the bulge of his cock into your soft center, you let out a throaty moan that has him leaking in his pants. Steve’s mouth, which had been busy licking and sucking down the line of your neck, returns to your mouth, swallowing your sounds of pleasure while his hips rock between your thighs.

Your breathy whimpers and thready moans are the most beautiful music to Steve’s ears, and he has the errant thought that if only he could hear you make those sounds every day for the rest of his life, every shitty day that had come before would have been worth it. A shiver races down his spine at the thought, not yet daring to hope you’ll want him for more than the night, and he kisses you harder, wanting to taste your pleasure straight from your lips.

All too soon, Steve realizes he’s at the brink of his release, his cock throbbing in his jeans, his balls drawing up against his body, ready to spill. He refuses to cum before you do, though, so he wraps one of his big hands around your soft thigh, spreading you open even wider so he can grind deeper into your clothed cunt.

Your moans turn into high-pitched, keening whines, breathless pleas for more falling unbidden from your kiss-bitten lips. You’re so fucking pretty, Steve thinks to himself, the glimmer of fireworks lighting your skin in shades of pink, blue and white. His heart beats heavy in his chest and he knows he’s done for—in more ways than one.

Steve’s hips jerk, thrusting against your heated pussy harder than before, and he watches you come apart for him, your face twisting up in pleasure before you let out a low moan of his name. And it’s that, the sweet way you say his name in your pleasure-drunk voice, that sends him over the edge.

A low, feral growl tears from Steve’s lips, and his hips hump erratically against your pussy while his cock erupts in his jeans. He’s sure to stain the denim with his hot seed, but he doesn’t care because you’re pulling him closer and burying your face in his beard, little sounds of pleasure muffled against his throat. 

When he’s spent, Steve wraps his arms around your body and rolls onto his side, tucking you into his chest, marveling at the way you fit perfectly against him. You murmur a sleepy apology about making him cum in his pants and Steve can only chuckle and tell you the honest truth, that it was the hardest he’s ever cum in his life, and he’s just glad he could get you off before he made a fool of himself.

You giggle softly, snuggling deeper into his chest and promising to make it up to him. Steve shushes you gently and presses a kiss to your head, watching the finale of the fireworks while thanking the universe for giving him the best birthday present an ex-con like him could’ve asked for—you.

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“What are you reading?” Steve asks, trying to peek at the pages of your book. 

“A romance novel,” you answer, stumbling over your words a little bit, unsure exactly why Steve is choosing you over celebrating his birthday with his friends. He’s always been nice to you, but you didn’t think he liked you like that.

“What’s it about?” he asks, still craning his neck to try to read the page you’ve opened to. You’re quiet long enough that he shifts his gaze to your face, raising a brow in challenge. Finally, you find your words.

“It’s about a girl falling for her brother’s best friend,” you admit, your eyes on anything but Steve’s face. 

Embarrassment heats your cheeks, and you hope like hell he doesn’t see right through you to the real reason you were reading that novel—because you have a big ol’ crush on your brother’s best friend. You have no such luck, though.

Steve lets out a low, knowing chuckle, but he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he shifts around, settling deeper into the couch, his head resting on your thigh. “Read to me, sunshine?” he asks. 

His voice is deeper and more rumbly than you’ve ever heard it, and it makes you want to squirm, but you fight against the urge, not wanting him to know just how much of an effect he has on you. Based on the way his mouth flickers at the edge, a smirk flirting with his mouth, you think he might know.

When you ask Steve if he’d rather be out on the lake watching the fireworks with his friends, he tells you he wouldn’t want to be anywhere but right where he is. It warms your heart enough that you do as he asked and begin to read your book to him. 

The two of you end up falling asleep on the couch together, your body cradled in Steve’s strong arms, your head resting on his chest. It’s the best night of sleep you’ve had in a while, helped by the fact that you feel unimaginably safe while you’re tucked close to Steve.

You wake in the early hours of July 5th, the thin light of dawn creeping into the living room of the lake house. Your brother and the rest of his friends aren’t home yet, likely having passed out on the comfy couches of the boat once they’d docked after a night of partying. 

Steve pulls you in closer, bringing your face to his. The first time he kisses you is gentle, tentative, a question more than anything else. But when you respond eagerly, wiggling closer while your fingers curl into his t-shirt, he kisses you harder. The emotions you’d both been bottling up flow freely as you kiss and kiss and kiss, time passing slowly as you explore and learn each other.

You and your brother’s best friend only break apart when you hear the others beginning to make their way up from the dock to the house. Their heavy footsteps pound on the deck while your heart races, but Steve’s a quick thinker and he hauls you up from the couch, darting up the stairs and pulling you into your room before your brother or anyone else can see the two of you.

Giggling softly so you aren’t overheard, you drag Steve under the thin sheet on your bed, kissing him as you shush each other, your fingers wandering beneath his shirt while his hands explore the curves of your body. You kiss for a long time, getting to know each other in this new light, until eventually the two of you fall back to sleep, curled up together, a mess of limbs and thudding hearts.

Later, when your brother asks Steve where he’d been all night, and why he’d missed the fireworks, your brother’s best friend shoots you a secretive smile and cryptically answers that he’d celebrated his birthday the way he’d wanted, with whom he wanted. Only you know that means Steve Rogers was with you on his birthday. 

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