Dex loved sushi night Fridays.

You two had settled into the routine months ago without either of you ever really acknowledging it. Fridays after work. The same tiny sushi place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the sign flickering like it was running on borrowed time.

Inside was all warm amber lighting and fogged windows, the air thick with rice vinegar and the low hiss of the grill.

The hostess smiled the second you walked in now, already reaching for a menu you never looked at, because you already knew what you wanted, and Dex already knew you’d order it before you did.

You referred to it as your “cheat day,” something Dex privately thought was bullshit. You were always working on cutting back on takeout or “trying to be healthier,” only to cave every Friday night without fail.

But the word cheat implied you were doing something wrong. Indulging something shameful. And he hated the idea of you apologising for your own appetite.

He’d watched the pattern long enough to know it by heart; Sushi Fridays. Thai food on bad days (red curry, extra spicy, no matter how much it made you sweat). Wings—any kind really— when you were too tired to cook… or on your period.

And coffee, too much coffee, all throughout the week, the same two-pump vanilla order from the cart on 47th.

Dex didn’t think you needed to worry about your weight. The thought irritated him every time it surfaced, a low-grade static at the back of his skull. You were beautiful exactly as you were.

If he had things his way, you’d indulge every craving that crossed your mind. Midnight milkshakes. Extra dessert. Those strawberry candies you liked from the bodega near your apartment.

He’d drive across the city at two in the morning if you suddenly decided you wanted dumplings or lemon cake or greasy diner fries.

The restaurant lights caught against your jewelry when you moved, tiny gold hoops glinting near your jaw. Warm light softened everything about you.

Your skin took on a honeyed tone, the shadows beneath your cheekbones gentle rather than sharp. It made you glow in a way Dex had never been able to properly explain to himself.

Like candlelight catching honey, or the last sun ray through a window at dusk.

He watched you pick up another fried roll with your chopsticks, your nose wrinkling slightly when it nearly slipped apart before you got it into your mouth.

That made him chuckle. A sound that died in the hollow of his chest, swallowed by the space between his ribs.

God.

He needed this.

Needed the quiet rhythm of it after the last week spent buried in FBI work. The lies. The noise. Too many voices in his ear, too many meetings, too much time spent orbiting Wilson Fisk and his suffocating shadow.

His apartment never helped either. Too quiet and too still. Silence had a way of making his thoughts louder, the walls pressing in until he had to pace just to feel like he still had room to breathe.

But here, things felt… normal.

Outside, rain poured weakly past the windshield of Dex’s car.

The wipers had been off for a while now, leaving the glass streaked with dried residue. The heater hummed low near his knees, filling the car with dry warmth and the heavy, layered smell of fried tempura, soy sauce, and burnt coffee that had long gone cold in the cupholder.

Across the street, through the fogged window of the sushi place, you laughed suddenly at something on your phone, leaning forward across the table.

Dex smiled before he could stop himself.

He adjusted the takeout container balanced carefully in his lap before it tipped against the console. The plastic lid was beaded with condensation, the heat of the food fogging it from inside.

Soy sauce packets crowded the cupholder beside the coffee and crinkled napkins were shoved messily near the parking brake.

One dumpling had leaked grease through the paper container onto his slacks minutes ago, a dark stain spreading across the fabric near his knee, but he barely cared.

He hadn’t even registered the warmth of it until it had already cooled.

Dex stuffed another piece of sushi into his mouth absently, chewing without tasting, his eyes never leaving you.

The rice was a little dry. The ginger had that sharp, stinging bite that made the back of his throat tighten.

He’d picked up the order right before you came in, timed it so the food would still be warm when he settled into the driver’s seat.

His monocular rested against his thigh for barely a second before he lifted it again automatically. He settled it back against his socket without thinking, the world snapping into that familiar, compressed clarity.

His pulse eased the moment your face sharpened back into focus.

There she is.

Chin propped lazily into your palm now, reading something intently on your phone. A server passed behind you carrying a tray and even distracted, you looked up at him automatically. Sweet and polite.

Warm in that effortless way that still twisted something painfully tight inside Dex’s chest after all these years.

You gave pieces of yourself away carelessly without even realising it. A smile here. A laugh there. A small wave to a regular who held the door for you.

You never hoarded your warmth. It just spilled out of you, abundant and unguarded, and Dex collected every stray drop like a man dying of thirst.

His thumb moved slowly against the steering wheel, tracing the seam where the leather had begun to crack near the top.

This was exactly what he needed after the week he’d had.

Just you and him.

The thought surfaced without permission, settling somewhere deep behind his sternum. He let it sit there as his hand drifted toward the glove compartment without looking away from you once.

The latch gave with a quiet click, and his fingers found the familiar bundle by touch alone, soft cotton folded neatly in the dark, tucked beside his registration and a crumpled gas receipt.

He drew it carefully into his lap, keeping his eyes fixed on your silhouette through the monocular.

The pale fabric bunched lightly in his fist. The lace trim was cool against his palm, delicate, a detail he’d traced with his fingertips so many times that he could map it blind.

Almost absentmindedly, like a man reaching for a cigarette or rubbing a familiar scar, he brought the stolen panties toward his face and inhaled slowly.

The smell hit him in stages. First the faint, clean scent of your vanilla lotion, the one you applied after every shower. Then the warmer note of your shea body oil, the one you massaged into your elbows and knees before bed.

Beneath that, something warmer and distinctly you, something saline and soft that settled low in his stomach hard enough to make his slacks tighten slightly. A familiar, hungry ache that bloomed behind his fly at just your scent.

He held the breath for a long moment, letting it steep in his lungs, before exhaling through his nose.

A small souvenir he’d rewarded himself four months ago, after letting himself into your new loft late one night to make sure everything was secure.

You’d forgotten to latch one of the windows facing the fire escape. Careless sweet thing. The lock had been loose, the frame warped slightly from humidity, and when he’d tested it with his fingertips, it had swung open without resistance.

Dex had fixed it for you before leaving. Tightened the screws on the latch, oiled the track, made sure it would hold.

He’d found the panties in your laundry basket on the way out. A pale blue cotton pair, with a small tear near the waistband that you’d never bothered to mend. He’d slipped them into his jacket pocket before he could think better of it.

Across the street, you laughed again, shoulders shaking lightly this time, your head tipping back just enough to expose the column of your throat.

He exhaled softly through his nose, smiling along with you like he really was sitting across the table

Just you and him.

That was all he needed.

He didn’t know what to think when he saw the newspaper.

For one suspended second, there was nothing. Not anger. Not fear. Not even confusion. Just a sharp, empty stillness, like a pin had dropped somewhere inside his head and every part of him had gone quiet trying to hear where it landed.

Dex had been sitting there for hours, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the bank of screens showing Fisk’s penthouse from every angle. The man himself was visible in one frame, seated at his dining table. Calm and unbothered like always.

Then the paper landed in front of him.

FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN.

Agent Kane shifted beside him. “I’m sorry, Dex. This isn’t right,” she said quietly.

He heard her voice, but it came from somewhere far away, as if she were speaking through water. The words landed and dissolved.

Dex stared at the headline until the letters stopped being letters and became just shapes—black ink pressed into pulp, arranged by somebody who didn’t know him, didn’t care about him, didn’t understand anything about what he’d done or why.

The static began to rise. It always started like this, a low hum at the base of his skull, building as the world pressed in.

Around him, the room kept moving. Agents passed behind his chair, their footsteps a rhythmic interruption. Phones rang in overlapping cadences. Somebody laughed too loudly near the elevators, the sound slicing through the air before smearing into everything else, sharp and meaningless.

He could feel them looking at him.

Not directly, none of them were stupid enough to stare. But he felt the glances anyway. The way people looked at car wrecks when they slowed down just enough to see blood but not enough to admit they wanted to.

His jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple pulsed once, twice.

He was being used as a scapegoat.

By the time Winn and Hattley called him into the office, the static had thickened. It filled the room around their fake sympathetic voices.

“We’re going to find out who leaked this,” Hattley said, leaning forward with that practiced look of concern people used when they wanted to seem human.

Dex looked at her mouth while she spoke.

Not her eyes. Her mouth.

The words were too clean. Too prepared. Every syllable landed exactly where she wanted it to, like she’d rehearsed this conversation. There was no surprise in her tone, no real outrage. Just a performance of solidarity.

She was lying.

They all were.

The thing inside him stirred, restless and cold. He pressed it down. But it was harder now, when the structure he’d trusted was cracking around him, when the rules he’d followed were being used to crush him.

It had been the Bureau.

They were throwing him under the bus because someone had to bleed publicly, and it was easier if it was him. Easier because he had no wife waiting at home. No kids. No loud, charming friends in the office to make a scene on his behalf.

Easier because he was useful until he wasn’t, precise until precision made them uncomfortable, disciplined until discipline stopped protecting him from becoming disposable.

After everything, they were disposing of him.

If he followed the rules, he could be normal. He could be safe. Everyone else could be safe.

But the rules had just thrown him away.

“Think of it as a paid vacation,” Hattley said, offering a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

The static in his skull sharpened.

Dex looked down at his badge before he realised he’d already taken it off.

He didn’t remember doing it. His fingers had moved on their own, undoing the clip, sliding the leather folder from his belt.

Now it sat in his palm like something foreign, the gold shield winking at him tauntingly.

His hand didn’t feel like his own when he set it on the desk. The leather made a soft, final sound against the wood. Then the gun. The weight of it leaving him felt wrong in a way that made his stomach tighten sharply.

Badge. Gun. Credentials.

Structure.

Mercer’s voice rose in his head before he could stop it.

Get a job with structure, Dex. Rigid structure. Stay disciplined. Stay useful. Routine is important for you.

Routine. Rules. The job gave him rules. Rules told him what to do. Rules made the edges of the world sharp enough to hold onto. Without them, everything blurred.

Everything bled into everything else. The thing inside him pushed against its cage like an animal scenting an open door.

And now they were taking it away from him like it was nothing.

By the time he reached the hall, the migraine had settled behind his right eye, hot and pulsing. It pressed against his optic nerve, sending thin spokes of light across his vision.

Nausea turned slowly in his stomach, a greasy, rolling sensation that made his throat tighten.

He was aware of his body in pieces. His pulse hammering in his wrists, too fast. Sweat cooling under his collar, the fabric damp and clammy against his neck. The empty space at his hip where his gun should have been.

Empty.

Empty.

Empty.

By the time he stepped back out into the hall, the Bureau felt wrong around him. Hostile in a way it hadn’t ten minutes ago.

But the air had changed. It pressed against him differently now, thick and heavy, as if the building itself had decided he didn’t belong here anymore.

He walked past an agent he’d worked with for two years. The man met his eyes, then looked away.

Dex’s fingers twitched at his sides.

None of it belonged to him anymore.

Or he didn’t belong to it.

The job was gone. The badge was gone. The rules were gone. And without them, he felt himself starting to come apart at the seams, the threads that held him together snapping one by one.

His breathing thinned. Too shallow. Too fast. The edges of his vision began to grey, just slightly, like someone was turning down the lights from far away.

He needed out.

He needed air.

No.

Not air.

You.

He needed to see you. Now.

The thought cut through the static like a blade. A fixed point in the chaos.

Dex looked down at his watch.

6:17 p.m.

Thursday.

You did your grocery shopping on Thursdays after work because you hated weekend crowds. End of the week, but not the weekend. Practical. Smart.

Sometimes you bought tulips even though you worked at a florist and could probably get better ones for free.

He had never understood that.

He loved that he didn’t understand that.

The Bureau, Hattley, Winn, Fisk, the paper, the headline, the badge sitting on that desk like a dead thing. None of it mattered. Not right now.

Not when his mind was splitting open and the only thought holding him together was the image of you standing under grocery-store fluorescents.

He turned before he’d fully decided to move.

His feet carried him toward the elevator. Each step felt like pushing through water. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in, then expand, breathing with him.

By the time he reached the elevator and pressed the button, his jaw ached from clenching. His hands were steady, but only because he had trained them to be.

Inside, everything was coming apart in small, quiet pieces. Like a dam with a thousand tiny cracks, water seeping through each one, the whole structure holding only by habit and memory.

That was fine.

He didn’t need the badge.

He didn’t need their rules.

He had you.

The drive from the bureau to the grocery store did nothing to settle the storm clawing through Dex’s chest.

His palms were slick against his slacks. He’d just walked in. Empty-handed. Bereft of purpose beyond the single, desperate need screaming through every nerve ending in his body.

Find her. Find her. Find her.

The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him inside a world of too-bright lights and Muzak and the sharp chemical sweetness of floor cleaner.

His tie felt like it had shrunk two sizes since he’d left the Bureau, the knot pressing against his throat like a noose. He tugged at it once, twice, but it only made it tighter.

The migraine was still there, settled between his eyes like a hot coal. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, throbbing pressure that made the aisles seem to swim when he moved his head too fast.

And Mercer’s voice.

She was there, in the back of his skull, the way she always was when things got bad. But today she wasn’t the steady, grounding presence he remembered.

Her voice flickered and warped, sliding between registers like a broken radio.

Stay calm, Dex. Breathe. You’re okay.

Then, lower, twisted. Freak. Look at you. They threw you away because they saw it. They knew what you were.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

You were supposed to be better than this. All that discipline. And you can’t even—

“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, but the words came out wrong, too loud, and a woman passing with a toddler shot him a strange look.

He didn’t care.

He checked the endcaps, the seasonal displays, the little stand with flowers near the entrance because you liked stopping there.

You weren’t there.

His breathing got thinner, shallower, each inhale less satisfying than the last. A tightness gathered behind his eyes, hot and humiliating, frustration swelling so quickly it scared him.

Not here. Not here. Not—

He crossed the store, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor. He passed a man in a dark coat who frowned at him. He ignored him. He rounded the corner into the makeup aisle and his chest seized.

Empty.

The shelves stretched out before him, neat rows of bottles and tubes and compacts reflecting the harsh light. A woman stood at the far end, examining a lipstick, but she had different hair. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

The frustration crested, crested, broke.

Tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked furiously against them. His throat closed. His hands shook.

This was stupid.

This was—

Where the hell are you?

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The pressure helped, briefly, grounding him in pain instead of panic. He counted to ten. Then to twenty.

He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way Mercer had taught him when he was thirteen and didn’t know how to exist without breaking things.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. You’re in control, Dex. You’re always in control.

But the voice was quiet now, drowned out by the static.

He dropped his hands and looked up.

There.

The fruit and vegetable aisle. Eight feet away. Your back.

And everything stopped.

The world snapped into focus like a lens being adjusted. The lights dimmed to something bearable. The buzzing of the fluorescents faded to a dull hum.

A shock ran through his system, ice-cold and bracing, like being splashed with water in the middle of a fever dream.

His throat worked. He swallowed once, twice.

He dragged his eyes up, angry at himself and not angry at all. Angry that he couldn’t just walk up to you, couldn’t just be normal, couldn’t just—

His hands were still shaking.

His chest was still tight.

His breathing was still too shallow, too fast, each inhale catching on something sharp lodged in his lungs.

He was still falling apart, and you were right there, six feet away, squeezing pears and humming to music he couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t calm down.

The realisation hit him like a fist to his throat.

If he couldn’t pull himself together now, if he couldn’t drag his shattered pieces back into something resembling a whole person, he was going to have a full mental breakdown with you a few steps away from him.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He couldn’t.

He stood at the end of the aisle, frozen, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes fixed on the curve of your spine and the gentle sway of your hips as you moved down the display.

And for a long, terrible moment, he didn’t know what to do.

The word nectarines repeated in his skull like a lifeline.

He didn’t know why that particular fruit had caught his attention—maybe because they were closest, maybe because they were red and blushing and reminded him of the colour your lips had been at the diner.

It didn’t matter. He grabbed one, then another, turning them over in his trembling hands pretending to inspect them.

Three steps away. You were three steps away.

Dex’s shoe scuffed against the linoleum as he adjusted his stance, positioning himself so he could see you in his peripheral vision without turning his head.

Look at something else. Let your eyes find the target naturally. But his eyes weren’t listening.

They kept sliding back to you, hungry and helpless, drinking in the curve of your hip where your sweatpants rode low.

He could smell you.

Estée Lauder. Beautiful Magnolia.

He knew the scent because he’d bought a bottle once, from a department store in Midtown, just to understand what it was that clung to your clothes and lingered in the air long after you’d passed.

He’d sprayed it on his pillow that night and buried his face in the fabric, breathing you in until the noise in his head quieted to a hum.

He inhaled now, deep and long, hoping it would do the same.

It didn’t.

His hands were still shaking. He could see the tremors as he turned a nectarine over, the fruit wobbling in his grip like he’d never held anything in his life.

Just breathe, Dex, Mercer whispered, but her voice was thin, frayed, like a recording stretched to breaking.

We don’t know how this got out, Hattley’s voice cut in, smooth and false, dripping with pity. We’re going to find out who leaked this.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

He wanted to hit something. Wanted to drive his fist into the display of nectarines, into the wall, into his own skull if it would make them stop.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your breathing. On the fact that this was the closest he’d been to you in years.

But nothing helped.

The voices swelled. The migraine throbbed. His hands shook. His chest constricted. And he was drowning, drowning, drowning in the fluorescent light of a grocery store—

“Excuse me.”

The world snapped into silence.

Dex’s head shot up so fast his neck cracked. His eyes found yours, and everything in him locked up like a circuit breaker tripping. You were looking at him.

He stared.

He blinked.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

The silence stretched, and your smile tightened at the edges, just slightly. You cleared your throat, shifting your weight, the picture of casual confidence.

“I don’t know if this is gonna sound a bit creepy,” you said, and your voice was smooth, rolling, the same voice he’d heard a thousand times in his memory, “but do I know you?”

His heart stopped.

Then restarted at double speed.

Say something. Say something normal. Say something human.

“I—” He cleared his throat. The sound was raw, scraping. He forced a smile onto his face, “I don’t think so.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “No, I do.”

There was no room for argument in your voice. No uncertainty.

He tilted his head, mirroring you. Let his eyes narrow slightly, as if he were searching his memory.

As if he didn’t have every moment he’d ever seen you catalogued and cross-referenced in his mind.

As if he wasn’t memorising the way the light caught in your hair, the faint sheen of gloss on your lips, the tiny beauty mark just above your collarbone.

You snapped your fingers, before pointing to yourself. “I used to work at this diner a few years ago. I don’t know if you know it—Bel Air Diner, maybe?”

He let the pause hang. Let his brow furrow. Let himself pretend, when all he wanted to do was reach out and touch you to make sure you were real.

“Bushwick?” he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.

Your eyes lit up, and the sensation of seeing that, of being the cause of that light, was like injecting ecstasy straight into his veins.

“Yeah!” You nodded, your smile widening into something that crinkled the corners of your eyes. “The one on the corner of 9th Ave. That’s the one.”

Dex’s breath caught. He swallowed, trying to find his footing, trying to remember how to be a regular person, having a conversation with a woman who had no idea that she was the only thing that had kept him from falling apart for years.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. “Yeah, I remember.”

“But you don’t remember me?”

Dex blinked at you, the words landing like a slap he didn’t see coming.

For a long, terrible second, his brain seized, caught between the instinct to apologise and the dawning realisation that you were teasing him.

You were teasing him.

The corners of your mouth curved, and there it was, a glint in your eye, a playful tilt to your chin that he’d never seen before.

Not in all the hours he’d spent watching you. You were straightforward. Bold.

In his head, you were soft. Sweet. A little shy, maybe, the way you’d duck your head when a customer thanked you, the way you’d bite your lip when you were concentrating on an arrangement.

He’d built a version of you that was gentle and malleable, a fantasy that existed to be consumed, not to talk back.

“I’m kidding,” you said, after his silence stretched a beat too long. Like you could see him drowning and had thrown him a line.

He hated himself.

The feeling was familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition, but this was a fresh, raw kind of hatred that made his palms itch.

The Dex in his mind, the one he’d imagined a thousand times, would have had a smooth response ready. Would have leaned against the display, flashed a grin, said something that made you laugh.

That Dex was charming. That Dex was normal.

But that Dex wasn’t real. And the real Dex was standing here, sweat beading at his temples, hands shaking.

He scrambled, forcing a smile onto his face that he hoped read as charming rather than manic.

“No, no.” His voice came out too quick, too eager. He reined it in, softened his tone. “I do remember you now. I’m just surprised you remember me.”

You tilted your head smiling, and the movement pushed the apples of your cheeks up. God, you were beautiful.

“Can never forget a handsome face,” you said.

Handsome. She said handsome. She’s flirting with you. That’s what this is. Say something back. This is how it works. So do it.

But his brain was a white-noise void, every thought scattering like roaches in harsh light.

His smile felt brittle on his face, but he held it there, hoping you couldn’t see how badly his hands were shaking.

“Thank you,” he managed, and the words came out rough, almost shy.

He shifted the nectarine to his other hand, wiping his palm against his slacks in a motion he hoped looked casual. Then extended his hand.

“Dex.”

You smiled and told him your name. Like he didn’t already know it. Like he hadn’t whispered it into the dark of his apartment with his fist wrapped around his cock, gasping it into his pillow like a prayer.

Your hand slid into his.

The contact was electric. Your skin was warm, soft, impossibly real against his calloused palm.

He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, from letting the sensation wash over him and drown him.

Every nerve in his body screamed at him to pull you closer, to bring your hand to his mouth and press his lips to your knuckles, to your wrist, to the delicate skin where your pulse beat just beneath the surface.

Instead, he shook your hand once, twice, like a normal person, and let go before he did something he couldn’t take back.

“So, Dex,” you said, drawing his name out just slightly, testing it, like you were deciding whether you liked the way it felt on your tongue.

You had no idea he’d been waiting to hear you say it for years.

“What brings you to the supermarket at—” you glanced at your phone, then back at him, a small smile playing at your lips, “—seven pm on a Thursday.”

Simple question. Normal question. The kind of question one person asked another when they wanted to keep a conversation alive, when they wanted to prolong it.

And you hadn’t even seemed to notice that he had no shopping cart. No basket.

Just himself, standing here in the produce aisle like a man who’d wandered in off the street with no purpose other than to stare at fruit he had no intention of buying.

There was no way he could tell you the truth. That just hours ago he’d been framed by the FBI, scapegoated for an ambush he’d had no part in, cast out of the only identity he’d ever known.

That he’d spent the last hour spiraling in his car, hallucinating voices, pressing a gun to his own jaw before forcing it back into the glove compartment.

That he’d driven here not for groceries, but because your Thursday evening routine was the only fixed point left in his collapsing world.

He couldn’t say any of that.

So he said the first plausible thing that surfaced from the scrambled mess of his brain.

“End of the week,” he heard himself say instead. The words came out rough, but he pushed through. “But way less crowded on weekends.”

You raised your brows, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “So I guess I’m not original at all, huh?”

You were making a joke, and he’d walked right into it and now he was supposed to respond. Laugh. A laugh would be normal. People laughed at jokes. That was the expected behavior. He should laugh.

He made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle but came out more like a choked exhale, his lips stretching into a smile that felt too wide, too stiff.

“Great minds think alike, I guess.” He tried for laid-back, tried to make his shoulders relax, but they stayed hunched, like he was bracing for impact.

You tilted your head, just slightly, and hummed in agreement.

And then there was a pause.

A little one, at first. The kind of pause that happens naturally in conversation, where one person waits for the other to speak next.

But it stretched. It grew. It filled the space between you like something physical, and Dex felt it pressing against his chest, tightening around his throat.

Say something. She’s waiting. She gave you an opening and now you’re letting it die.

But his mind was a blank wall.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and too loud in the quiet aisle. “So, uh—” He glanced down at the nectarine in his hand, then back up at you. “You come here often?”

The words landed and he wanted to die. You come here often? That was the line he’d pulled from his brain.

The most generic, cliché, forgettable question in the history of human interaction. The kind of thing a mannequin would say if it were programmed to simulate human speech.

He braced for the look. The one that would say really? delivered with a curl of the lip, a shift of weight away from him. He’d seen that look on women’s faces before, when a man tried too hard or said the wrong thing.

So when you let out a laugh, genuine and surprised, it hit him like a punch to the chest.

You were laughing. At him, maybe, but not at him. With him. Like you found him funny, endearing even. Like his awkwardness wasn’t a turn-off but a joke you were both in on.

Dex felt his face go warm. He rubbed his brow, a nervous tick he couldn’t control, the heel of his hand pressing against his forehead as if he could massage away the embarrassment.

“Yeah, I heard it when I said it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Sorry…”

He risked a glance at you through his fingers, and you were looking at him with an expression he didn’t recognise.

You looked like you were trying not to smile and failing, the corners of your mouth twitching upward.

His heart was hammering so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers.

“I’ll give you a pass for now,” you said, a smile breaking through fully now.

Dex’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Nothing came out.

He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. “Thanks,” he said again , the word barely above a whisper. “I—I’ll try to do better next time.”

You raised your brows again, but your smile didn’t shift. In fact, it seemed to deepen, the corners of your mouth curling with delight. “Next time?”

The question hung in the air, but to Dex it felt like a tightrope. One wrong step and he’d plummet.

He hoped to God you couldn’t see the sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pulse was visibly jumping in his throat.

Adapt. You have to adapt. She’s smooth, she’s quick, she’s going to eat you alive if you don’t keep up.

He forced his mouth into something resembling a smile, though it felt more like a grimace on the way up. “You’re the one who said for now.”

And that’s how Dex ended up with your number.

Thirty minutes earlier, Dex had been sitting in his car, the engine off. His spare gun had been in his lap, cold and heavy.

He’d pressed the muzzle against the soft skin under his chin, felt the metal dig in, tasted the copper of a future he’d almost chosen.

His career. His structure. His livelihood. His reputation. All of it gone, stripped away in a single afternoon by people who’d used him and discarded him like a broken tool.

One pull. That’s all it would have taken.

Now, driving home, the streets of New York blurring past his windshield in streaks of neon and headlights, Dex felt something he couldn’t name.

It wasn’t relief, exactly—the weight of what he’d almost done was still there.

But it was layered over with something else, something bright and unfamiliar, like sunlight breaking through clouds after a storm.

He kept glancing at his phone. It sat in the cupholder, screen dark, but he could feel it like a beacon. Your number. 

Your number, given willingly, freely, without coercion or manipulation.

The thought made his chest ache, a dull, insistent pressure behind his ribs. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, and let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob.

It was a high he’d never experienced before. And he was terrified of coming down.

He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, cut the engine, and sat there for a long moment, staring at his phone. The screen was dark, but he could still see your face, the memory of your smile burned into his eyelids.

And then his phone buzzed.

The screen lit up with a number he didn’t recognise, but the area code was familiar. New York. Manhattan.

He stared at it for three rings. Four. Five.

His thumb hovered over the decline button, but something made him pause. Something cold and familiar, settling in his gut like a stone.

He answered, “Hello.”

“When I was a boy…”

His skin wasn’t buzzing.

It was flaying itself from the bone, a high-frequency current ripping through every nerve ending until he couldn’t tell where the violence ended and his own body began.

The climb back through his window was a smear of pure sensation, the groan of the frame digging into his bruised ribs, the distant wail of a siren that might have been real or might have just been the echo of the screams still ricocheting inside his skull.

He tumbled into the living room, the red suit clinging to him like a second skin of sin and sweat, and the silence of his apartment hit him like a physical blow.

He spared a blank look at the microwave. 2:37 AM.

The high was curdling. The exquisite, crystalline purpose Fisk had injected into his veins was souring into a dense, suffocating fog.

The voices in his head were warping and overlapping, layered with the fresh screams of the people he’d just killed.

They weren’t separate voices anymore. They were a single, roaring static that made his skull feel too small for his brain.

He fumbled at the gloves, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, tearing at the constricting seams.

The helmet followed. The seal broke with a soft hiss of trapped breath, and the cool night air of the apartment hit the raw cuts on his cheekbone and split lip like a strip of litmus paper.

He wasn’t in control. He was a passenger, a ghost haunting a machine made of meat and bone.

The machine moved on autopilot, carrying him across the sticky floor through the debris of his life, toward his closet. His safe.

His fingers knew the combination better than his conscious mind. Beep. Beep. Beep. The door swung open.

Mercer’s tapes.

He reached for them, his fingers brushing the familiar edges, and he could already hear her voice in his memory. She would fix this.

She would rebuild the walls, draw the clean lines of the diagram, soothe the static into structured silence.

He paused.

The tapes felt dead in his hand. Cold. Alien. The thing inside him, that had killed tonight with a terrifyingly genuine grin splitting his face under the mask, revolted.

Structure was a cage. Control was a lie he told himself so he didn’t have to look at the abyss. Mercer’s voice was the voice of a woman who had never existed, a blueprint for a life he had never actually lived.

He didn’t want to be fixed tonight.

He wanted to be real.

He set the tapes down. The plastic clattered against the wood shelf, and the sound was a door slamming shut on his old self.

His body, no longer his to command, drifted to the phone on the nightstand. The screen was a blinding star in the gloom of his apartment.

Before he could rationalise the catastrophic stupidity of it, his thumb pressed the call button.

The phone pressed against his ear. The flat, electric hum of the dial tone filled his head.

First ring. A knife. 

Second ring. His breathing turned ragged, harsh stabs of air in and out. He couldn’t control it.

His hand shook, the tremors traveling up his arm to his chest, making his heart rattle against his ribs.

Third ring. Where the fuck were you? The thought was a claw in his chest, desperate and raw, scratched out from the bottom of his fractured soul. 

Fourth ring. Despair hit him like a bullet. The rejection he deserved. The silence he was born for.

His thumb was already moving to sever the connection, to retreat into the familiar dark, to let Mercer be the only voice he ever heard again.

The click.

A breath on the other end. The soft rustle of sheets. The sound of someone shifting out of sleep, pulling themselves back to consciousness for him.

A voice, sleepy and warm, cutting through the static in his soul.

“Hello?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His throat had sealed itself shut, his tongue a dead weight.

The buzzing in his head didn’t stop, it changed, shifting from static into a high, thin whine of pure panic.

What the fuck was he doing?

He should hang up. He should hang up right now, pretend this never happened, crawl back to the tapes and let Mercer stitch him back together.

But he didn’t move.

“…hello?”

Your voice again. Groggy, yes, but there was an edge now. Caution. Awareness creeping in.

He could picture you propping yourself up on an elbow, squinting at the phone, trying to place the unknown number glowing in the dark.

He cleared his throat.

“Hi. It’s Dex.”

Silence. Long enough that he felt his stomach drop through the floor.

“From the grocery store,” he added, stupidly. “Earlier today.”

More silence. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of how insane this looked.

He had your number for less than twelve hours. He had called you at 2:37 AM. There was no version of this that didn’t make him seem unhinged.

Then your voice came through, softer now, a hint of recognition bleeding through the drowsiness.

“Oh. Guy from the fruit aisle.”

The words were flat, stripped of the teasing lilt from earlier. He winced. He was an idiot.

But he couldn’t hang up either.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat again, harder this time. “Sorry. I know it’s late. I—”

He stopped. Ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair. The words weren’t coming. They never came when he needed them. “I couldn’t sleep.”

A beat. Then, “You call everyone you meet at the grocery store when you can’t sleep?”

There it was. The faintest edge of something, not quite playfulness, but not hostility either. A testing of the waters. He latched onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.

“No,” he said, and the honesty slipped out before he could stop it. “Just you apparently.”

The silence that followed was different. Softer. He could hear the rustle of fabric on your end, like you were shifting, settling deeper into the conversation.

“You’re weird, you know that?” you said, but your voice had lost its wariness. There was a thread of amusement in it now.

“I know,” he said. He didn’t even try to deny it.

He could have left it there. Could have apologised again, said goodnight, let you go back to sleep.

But the buzzing in his head was quieter now, drowned out by the sound of your breathing on the other end of the line.

“I was wondering,” he started, and his mouth went dry again. He pushed through it. “If you’re free tomorrow. Or, I guess, today now. For dinner.”

The words came out rushed, jumbled together like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t get them all out at once.

He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the rejection.

Another long pause. Then, a soft, breathy sound that might have been a laugh.

“You’re asking me out at three in the morning?”

“Depends on if you say yes,” he said, and the words surprised him. They were smoother than he’d intended, a sliver of confidence he didn’t know he possessed.

Your laugh came through fully this time, quiet and warm, and something in his chest cracked open.

“That’s a good line,” you said. “You rehearse that?”

“No,” he admitted. “I’m kind of making this up as I go.”

“Pretty good for improv.”

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, almost a smile. “Does that mean you’ll say yes?”

A beat. Then, “Depends on what you’re offering.”

He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His fingers tightened on the phone, grounding himself in the plastic and the warmth of your voice.

“Anything you want,” he said. And he meant it.

Dex prided himself on focus.

It was the cleanest thing he had, the discipline that held the loose pieces of him together. But here, across the table from you, that focus was a dead wire. Useless.

Ten minutes in and he still couldn’t land anywhere. His eyes kept skirting, from the deep crimson painted across your mouth to the sharp neckline of that tight black dress, down to where the fabric pulled across your chest.

He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, forced himself to your eyes instead. The dark liner made them bottomless, pulling at him with every slow blink.

His body was wired tight, locked up like he was bracing for impact. Every breath measured. Every movement too careful.

Terrified of the wrong word, the wrong look, shattering whatever luck had gotten you here.

You took a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. Then you tilted your head, a smile catching at the corner of your mouth.

“Relax. You’re sitting like I’m gonna jump over this table and bite you.”

The image slid under his skin before he could stop it.

I’d let you, he thought. Anywhere you wanted.

He locked that down, managed a rough chuckle. “Still can’t wrap my head around why you said yes.”

You shrugged, setting the glass down. “Got nothing better to do. Thought I might as well get a free meal with a hot guy.”

Hot. You called him hot. 

Then your eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re one of those guys who believe in fifty-fifty for the first date.”

The question caught him off guard. For a second, he just stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. Then he let out a choked laugh, shaking his head quickly.

“No. No, god, no. I promise.”

“Good.”

Your voice softened into something warm, teasing. You leaned back in your chair, swirling the wine in your glass, and the candlelight caught the curve of your smile.

The waiter appeared and Dex grabbed the menu like a lifeline, staring at the words without reading them.

He nodded when you ordered, asked for the same thing. When the waiter left, you leaned forward, elbows on the table.

The neckline of your dress dipped just slightly, and he caught the black lace underneath.

Fuck. Were you doing this on purpose?

“So, Dex from the fruit aisle.” Your voice had dropped, stripped of the teasing edge from earlier. Something warmer now. “Tell me something about yourself.”

His stomach dropped. Just a flash. He pushed it down.

“I’m an FBI agent,” he said. Safe. Simple enough. “Or—was. It’s complicated.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Complicated how?”

“The kind that makes for a bad first date story.” He tried to smile. It came out crooked.

You laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in his chest. “Fair enough. I’ll take a rain check.”

He nodded, scrambling for footing. “What do you do?”

You rolled your eyes and he felt a flicker of panic before you huffed, amused. “Just a florist. Completely boring compared to chasing bad guys, I’m sure.”

There’s nothing boring about you. The thought hit him hard and fast, and he heard himself say it out loud before his brain could catch up. “There’s nothing boring about you.”

You let out a small laugh. “So you do know how to sweet talk a girl.”

He couldn’t hide the blush that crawled up his neck to his ears, burning against the collar of his shirt. “I’m just saying it how I see it.”

“Maybe,” you hummed, “but then again you don’t know anything about me.”

Never had he heard a more untrue statement in his life. 

He knew your schedule. Your favourite coffee order. Your comfort shows you loved to binge. Which soap you preferred. Your go to nail colour. How you liked cats and dogs equally.

But he couldn’t say that. So he just looked at you across the table, watched the candlelight catch your eyes.

The food arrived. Steam rose from the plates between them, the scent of ginger and soy cutting through the moment. The waiter said something he didn’t catch.

“Well,” Dex murmured, “I’m hoping to learn if you’ll let me.”

Being here with you was something he had never experienced before.

The night before was a smear of violence but it all felt muted now, distant, like a transmission he couldn’t tune into anymore.

Not with you across the table, your voice cutting through the static in his head.

You kept the conversation easy. When he fumbled an answer or went quiet because his brain short-circuited trying to keep up with you, you didn’t pull back. You just smiled, shifted, let him find his footing again.

Once or twice he found himself wondering why you were even giving him a chance. You could have anyone. Smarter, smoother, someone without the weight he carried.

It made no sense that you’d picked him. Not that he’d let anyone else close enough to try, but the thought still lingered.

Still, there was a weight pressing down on him the whole time. A clock ticking. He felt it sharpest as the check arrived. Signing it, his stomach twisted into a knot so tight it made him nauseous.

The thought of leaving, of stepping into the cold air alone and watching you walk away, hollowed him out.

He could already feel the emptiness waiting. Maybe he’d just follow you home. Watch you through your window. It would be enough to comfort him.

“How are you getting home?” The words came out before he could stop them.

“Walked here,” you said, pulling out your lipstick. “Guess I’ll do the same.”

He watched your mouth as you reapplied it, the careful, practiced stroke of colour. He couldn’t look away.

“Let me drive you.”

You paused, the compact half-closed. Your eyes lifted to his, and he could see you weighing it, the stranger across from you, the risk of letting him know where you lived. The silence stretched. He felt the whole night teetering.

Fuck. He’d done too much. He ruined it. He’d pushed too hard, too fast, and now—

“Okay.”

It hit him somewhere between the Williamsburg Bridge and the mouth of your street, a strange hollow equation he couldn’t solve.

Away from you, the restlessness ate at him, he couldn’t settle, couldn’t quiet the noise inside his head.

But here, with you in the passenger seat, so close he could feel the warmth coming off your skin through the space between them, he wasn’t any better. His body was locked tight, every muscle braced for a mistake he hadn’t made yet.

He couldn’t stop glancing at you while he drove.

His hands were rigid on the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the passing streetlight. You leaned back in the seat, your head tilted, completely relaxed, watching the city slide past the window.

No tension in your shoulders. No flicker of anxiety. Just calm. It made him feel transparent, like you could see every loose wire and frayed thread in his head.

By the time he pulled up outside your building, his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, a quick, raw pulse that wouldn’t steady.

How had this happened so fast? He’d spent years wanting you, fantasising about you from a distance, and now that you were here, the wanting had twisted into a kind of fear.

The fear of doing something wrong. Of saying the wrong thing. Of breaking whatever fragile spell had let him into your space tonight.

You turned toward him. Your expression was different now. At dinner, your eyes had been sharp, playful, like a vixen toying with her prey.

But here, in the dim lamplight bleeding through the windshield, your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, and your gaze was wider, softer, something he didn’t have a name for.

“I had a good night,” you murmured.

Dex opened his mouth. His tongue felt thick, useless. “Me too.” It came out pitiful, barely a whisper.

You kept looking at him, waiting. Your lashes lowered, then lifted, like an invitation he couldn’t decode.

He stared back, frozen. Should he get out? Open your door? Walk you inside? He had no script for this, no smooth line rehearsed. His eyes drifted from yours to your parted lips. Red. Soft.

He was still scrambling through the noise in his head for the right move when your hand moved. It slid up the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair.

Before he could react, before his brain could catch up, you were pulling him forward.

Your lips met his.

For a long, heavy beat, Dex didn’t move.

His body locked up completely as the reality of your mouth sank in. You were kissing him. The thought cracked through the static in his brain like lightning. You. Kissing him.

Then instinct took over before he could wreck it. His lips started moving, awkward and unpracticed, trailing behind the rhythm you set.

A shaky breath left him, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he relaxed into the warmth of your mouth, the simple unimaginable fact of it.

Until he felt the wet tip of your tongue brush his bottom lip.

He tensed immediately. His eyes cracked open, found yours closed, your face slack and completely lost in it. He parted his lips. Let you in.

The second your tongues met, a raw sound caught in his throat. His cock hardened painfully behind his zipper, a rush of blood that made everything else go distant.

The taste of you flooded his senses, faintly sweet, the slick slide of your tongue against his. His brain went quiet for the first time all night.

Then something inside him snapped.

The careful, terrified version of himself fell away. He had to touch you. Now.

He pulled his hand off the wheel, lifted it. Fingers spread, hesitated. Your hair? Your waist? Your cheek? He had no idea what he was doing. Every option felt wrong, but doing nothing was unthinkable.

His palm landed on your throat before he could decide.

His fingers curved around the column of your neck, thumb settling against the flutter of your pulse. You moaned into his mouth, pleased and approving, and the sound shot straight through his chest. You liked it.

He pushed harder against your mouth, greedier. The hand on your throat tightened fractionally, pulling you closer across the console.

He didn’t care about breathing anymore.

The taste of you flooded every nerve in his body like a drug he’d been starving for his whole life. He’d rather suffocate against your mouth than take another clean breath of empty air.

Your hands found his jaw, and for a split second his brain screamed that you were pushing him away. Too rough. Too fast. He ruined it. 

His grip started to loosen, a fresh wave of shame crawling up his throat—

But your fingers dug into his skin and pulled him closer.

The sound that left him was raw, almost animal. Relief and hunger tangled together as you yanked him deeper into the kiss.

Little noises escaped your mouth, muffled against his tongue, and he tried to memorise each one even as he lost himself in the wet slide of your lips.

His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, fingers curling around the bone, tilting your head back as he pushed further into your mouth.

His tongue swept against yours, messy and desperate. He didn’t know what he was doing, he just knew he needed more. He wanted to crawl inside your skin.

Then your palms pressed flat against his chest.

Push.

The separation hit him like cold water. He broke away gasping, and his mouth chased yours before he could stop himself. But you didn’t pull further back.

You caught his lips in soft, quick pecks, barely there, just enough to soothe the ache you’d left behind.

Your mouth brushed against his when you spoke, voice low and rough.

“Do you wanna come up?”

Fuck. 

The words hit him square in the chest, then dropped lower, settling hot and heavy in his gut. He was already nodding before his brain caught up, pupils blown wide, lips wet and swollen.

“Yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, “Yeah. Fuck—yes.”

Dex’s pulse slammed against his ribs the second the lock clicked behind him.

Standing in your apartment. He forced his eyes to wander like he was stepping in here for the first time, even as his brain catalogued every detail against the map he’d already burned into his memory.

“Nice place.” The words scraped out of him, rough and distracted.

He tilted his head at the bookshelf, the framed photograph he knew was your mother, the throw blanket draped over the armchair that he’d watched you buy from a street vendor three months ago.

Every careful glance was a lie, but he wore it like a second skin.

“Thanks.” Your voice came from right behind him.

Then your hands were on him again, sliding over his shoulders, turning him around. He went without resistance, boneless under your touch. You pulled him down and met his lips halfway.

Your tongue pushed past his lips and he opened for you like a starving thing.

Your fingers twisted into his hair, yanking his head forward just enough to deepen the angle, and he let you. He’d let you do anything.

You bit his bottom lip, sucked it into your mouth, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.

His hands began to move. Everywhere. Your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips.

He grabbed desperate handfuls of your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat of your body through that thin dress made his head spin.

You were soft in ways he’d only ever imagined, and his imagination had been thorough, but nothing prepared him for the reality of you pressed against his aching body. He wanted to touch every part of you at once, to map you entirely.

You broke the kiss first, panting, lips slick and swollen. Your forehead rested against his, your breath hot and uneven on his mouth. “I don’t do this often,” you murmured, the confession raw and almost shy.

“I know,” he breathed without thinking.

The second the words left him, he felt you stiffen. You pulled back, confusion knitting your brows. “What do you mean, you know?”

Dex’s stomach dropped into freefall.

His eyes snapped open, panic flooding his veins. 

Fuck. Fuck. 

He scrambled for a lifeline, his mouth opening and closing before the lie managed to crawl out. “I mean I—I know what you mean. Me too. I don’t—I don’t do this often either.”

You held his gaze for a long moment. The sharpness in your eyes softened, and you snorted, a puff of warm breath against his lips. “You’re so weird.”

Relief flooded him so fast it made him dizzy. Before he could dwell on it, you were kissing him again, swallowing whatever fragile composure he had left.

Your hands guided him backwards. He followed blindly, drunk on your mouth, stumbling until the back of his knees hit something soft. You shoved him. Hard.

He landed on the couch with a grunt, bouncing once before settling, looking up at you with wide, dazed eyes.

Before he could ask, you leaned down, bracing your hands on his knees, and kissed him again. Slow and deep, a thorough occupation of his mouth that erased every thought trying to surface.

He melted into it, his hands finding your thighs, stroking the warm skin exposed by the hem of your dress.

You broke the kiss gently, pulling back just enough that he could see you.

You were on her knees. Between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, your lipstick smudged, your hair loose around your face.

The sight of you there stole the air from his lungs.

“What—what are you doing?” Dex heard himself ask, his voice thin and wrecked, stripped of every layer he hid behind.

You smiled as your hands slid up his thighs, fingers pressing into the muscle.

“Having my dessert.”

Dex’s brain went completely blank when your fingers found his belt buckle. The soft click-clack of it coming undone rang through the room like a gunshot in his ears.

He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to do something other than lie there like a trembling mess offering himself up to you, but all that came out was a strained, cracked confession,

“Are you sure—you-you don’t have to—”

His hips lifted off the couch cushions anyway.

A complete betrayal of every word coming out of his mouth. His body didn’t give a single fuck what his brain was trying to negotiate.

It wanted you. It had always wanted you.

You didn’t hesitate. You dragged his slacks and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, baring him completely to the warm air of your apartment.

He shivered, his cock springing free to slap against his stomach with a wet, heavy sound.

He was already painfully hard, leaking against his navel, the swollen head flushed dark and slick, and the sight of you looking at it made his stomach clench so hard he thought he might be sick.

Your hand wrapped around him like it belonged there. A firm grip that made him grunt, his hips bucking up into your fist before he could stop himself.

The heat of your palm was everything. He watched, completely mesmerised, as your thumb swept across the sensitive head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, using it to slick your stroke.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth hovering inches from his tip.

Your breath was hot and uneven against his sensitive skin, and there was a tremor in your voice when you spoke that made his heart stutter in his chest.

“You don’t want me to suck your cock?”

Jesus Christ. 

The visual was so fucking obscene, you, on your knees, looking up at him with those wide, innocent doe eyes while your hand worked his shaft and your lips hovered so close he could feel the ghost of them.

He had to lean his head back against the couch cushion and squeeze his eyes shut. He was going to cum just from looking at you.

A soft, dark laugh came from between his legs. “That wasn’t a no.”

Before he could answer, something wet touched him.

His eyes snapped open. He looked down just in time to see your tongue trace a slow path along the thick vein on the underside of his cock.

An embarrassing, needy whimper crawled out of his throat before he could strangle it. His hips twitched, desperate to push into the warmth of your mouth, but he held himself still by sheer, crumbling willpower.

You didn’t stop. You laid a soft, lingering kiss right on the crown, your lips parting just enough to ghost over the sensitive slit before pulling away.

When you looked up at him, your eyes were dark and hooded, your lips slick and parted.

“Keep your eyes on me, Dex.”

He nodded. A dumb, jerky motion. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust anything. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

You didn’t even have his cock in your mouth yet and he swore he could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with every second you held his gaze.

His hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles white. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a desperate gasp.

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, watching in rapt focus as you parted your lips and took the swollen crown of his cock into your mouth.

Your eyes stayed locked on his. You held his gaze as you sank deeper, inch by agonising inch.

The wet heat of your tongue curled around his shaft, the velvet pressure of your cheeks hollowing as you pulled him further into the slick, perfect heaven of your throat.

Every inch you swallowed made his hips twitch involuntarily against the cushions. Every flutter of your lashes made his stomach clench tighter. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t.

Oh, fuck. Your mouth was so warm. So impossibly wet.

The slick slide of your tongue curling around his shaft, the flutter of your throat when the tip pressed against the back of your mouth, he didn’t think anything in this world could feel better than having his cock in your mouth.

He was certain of it. This was the single best moment of his entire miserable life. He was ready to die right here and call it a life well-lived.

You pulled back slowly, dragging your tongue along the thick, throbbing vein on the underside of his cock before taking him deep again with a low moan.

A broken whimper crawled out of his throat before he could clamp down on it. “Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” His voice was wrecked, barely more than a ragged whisper. “You gotta stop—or I’m gonna—”

You just hummed casually against his slick, swollen tip, your breath hot and uneven against his sensitive skin.

“No, no, wait—please, I want it to last,” he heard himself begging, the words tumbling out in a desperate, breathless rush. “I’m not gonna make it—I swear to God—”

You didn’t stop. You just held his gaze with those innocent, wicked eyes and took him deeper.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was so fucking pathetic. Lasting like some inexperienced teenager, his first time all over again.

He tried to think of anything else; baseball statistics, the cold metal of his gun, the layout of the presidential hotel, but it was no fucking use at all.

Every nerve in his body was tuned to the wet slide of your mouth, the curl of your tongue, the soft, muffled gag when he hit the back of your throat.

He squeezed his eyes shut, could feel the frustrated tears prickling hot behind his lids. He couldn’t look at you anymore.

He had to stop himself, had to make this last, but his body was betraying him completely, trembling, arching, pushing deeper into your heat.

You took him back into your mouth in a single, fluid motion. Hollowed your cheeks. Pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his shaft.

And when you swallowed around the head of his cock, pulling him deeper into the wet velvet of your throat, he shattered completely.

“Oh fuck—I’m coming—”

His hips bucked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into your throat, feeling you gag around him, feeling your throat constrict and pulse as you swallowed, milking the orgasm out of him.

His release slammed into him like a freight train.

Hot, thick ropes of his come spilled into your mouth, and you swallowed around him, milking every drop, refusing to let him go even as he convulsed through the aftershocks.

His back arched off the cushions. His hands fisted so hard in the fabric he thought he might tear it. His vision whited out completely.

When his hips finally stopped stuttering, when his body went limp and trembling beneath you, you released him with a soft, wet kiss to his oversensitive tip.

The tenderness of it made his chest ache.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he felt himself mumbling, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “That was so fast—I couldn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

His hand came up to cover his face, shame and self-disgust crashing over him in waves.

But you wouldn’t let him hide. You caught his wrist, gently pulling his hand away, and crawled up his body.

Your lips were slick and swollen, your chin wet with him. You cut off his rambling apologies with a kiss, and his own taste flooded his senses. He groaned into your mouth, as your tongue played with his.

You broke the kiss just barely, your lips brushing against his as you murmured, “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He blinked up at you, dazed and trembling. “Yeah?”

You hummed against his lips, a slow, satisfied sound. “And I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”

The words hit him like a spark in a gas tank. The shame, the self-hate burned away in an instant, replaced by an animal surge of hunger.

He looked at you, still dazed, a slow, disbelieving smile pulling at his lips.

He still hadn’t ruined anything yet. He still hadn’t lost you.

His hands found your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Before you could react, he was moving, wrapping his arms around you and hauling you up with him.

You let out a surprised squeal, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss as he stood, walking blindly toward the hallway where he knew your bedroom was.

Dex lay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter the fragile, impossible peace of the moment.

You were curled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your breathing slow and deep, the sound of someone completely and utterly spent.

He had never felt anything like this. Not once in thirty-two years. This is what it feels like. This quiet. This rightness. This terrifying, exhilarating certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Happiness.

His mind drifted back over the hours, replaying the sharp, vivid highlights like a film he couldn’t look away from.

He had learned so much about you tonight. How your breath hitched when he scraped his teeth along your pulse point. How your fingers twisted in the sheets when he found the perfect angle.

You loved being on your hands and knees for him. The first time, he’d followed your lead, sinking into you from behind, gripping your hips so hard he knew there would be bruises.

He pounded into you, watching your body rock forward with every thrust as you cried into your pillows, muffling your pleasure.

But something in him had itched. He hated it like this.

He couldn’t see your face. Couldn’t watch the expressions that flickered across your features when he hit that spot. Couldn’t feel your heartbeat against his chest or taste your moans with his own mouth.

It felt too much like taking, and not nearly enough like having you.

After you came the first time, your body shuddering and clenching around him, he pulled out before you could catch your breath and flipped you onto your back.

He needed to see you. Needed to watch the way your mouth fell open, the way your pupils blew wide when he settled between your thighs.

He buried his face between your legs and drank you in with a need that bordered on worship.

He lapped at your slick, swollen folds until your second orgasm crested, your hands fisting in his hair, your hips grinding against his mouth as you gasped his name into the dark.

By the time your third orgasm rolled through you, he had your legs wrapped high around his waist, his body pressed flush against yours.

He was buried so deep inside you that the world outside the space between your bodies ceased to exist. His nose touched yours. His forehead rested against yours.

He captured your gaze and held it hostage.

“Look at me,” he breathed, the command barely a whisper. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”

He wanted you to see everything he had felt since the first moment he saw you in that diner. The obsession. The desperation. The hunger that had consumed him for years.

He wanted you to feel it in the way he moved inside you, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of himself directly into your bloodstream.

He knew you probably didn’t understand the full scope of it.

But lying here, in the aftermath, he let himself pretend. He pretended you had been waiting for him all this time. That your body recognised him. That this was always meant to happen.

When he finally let go, he held himself perfectly still, pumping his release deep inside you with a low groan.

He pressed so close that he could feel your heartbeat through his chest, grinding against you as if he could transfer his devotion through sheer physical proximity.

His nose stayed pressed to yours, his lips hovering just over your mouth, sharing the same warm, humid breath.

He whispered things against your lips. Broken things. Beautiful things.

Confessions that would never make sense in the harsh light of day, but here, in the dark, felt like the only truth that mattered.

“Been waiting so long. So long. I fucking worship you. You’re mine. I’m yours. Don’t ever leave me.”

His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t care. He let himself be cracked open, let you see the raw, jagged edges of him that he had spent a lifetime hiding.

You didn’t answer. You probably didn’t even hear him. Your eyes had fluttered shut, your body going lax and heavy against him.

Lost to sleep. Lost to him.

He smiled against your hair, a real smile that softened all the hard lines of his face. He didn’t need you to answer. Not tonight.

Just having you here, warm and trusting and full of him, was already more than he ever dared to hope for.

The air in the room had cooled, but wrapped around you, he was warm for the first time in as long as he could remember.

Only twenty-four hours ago, he had been suffocating. Bound by rules and routines and the desperate need to keep himself contained.

But Fisk had shattered the cage he kept himself in. He had shown Dex a version of himself that was raw, hungry, and unapologetic. And instead of retreating from the wreckage, Dex had stepped into it.

He had let go of the ropes and the rules and the white-knuckled grip on control. He had chosen himself for the first time in his miserable, constrained life.

And by choosing himself, he had found the path that curved inevitably, beautifully, right back to you.

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His hand splayed across your stomach, feeling the warmth of you.

I did this, he thought, pride blooming in his chest. I chose this. I chose me. And it led me to you.

Dex buried his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing deep into the warm, sleep-soft skin just behind your ear.

He inhaled slowly, letting your scent flood his lungs. You smelled like home—the faint coconut trace of your shampoo, the salt of dried sweat from the hours you had spent tangled together, and something deeper, muskier, that was entirely, irrefutably you.

God. This was unbelievable.

And that was where his next problem laid.

He spared a glance down, past the rumpled sheet that clung to his hips, and saw the unmistakable tent of fabric where his cock had hardened again.

He let out a quiet, shaky breath, his eyes tracing the outline of his own need with a mixture of frustration and irritation.

He couldn’t fucking help it.

He felt like a kid in a candy store. The kid being him, a thirty-two-year-old man who had never known what it felt like to want something and actually get it. And the candy store was you. Access to your body.

The knowledge that he could touch you, taste you, sink into you whenever he wanted, and you would let him. You would want him to.

He had known it would be addictive. He just hadn’t realised how quickly the addiction would take hold, how it would wrap around his nervous system and tighten until he couldn’t think of anything else.

His body moved before his mind could catch up.

Spooned against you, chest to your back, he felt his hips roll forward in a slow, instinctive grind.

The thick length of him slid into the warm cradle between your thighs, pressing against the soft, slick heat of you through the sheet. A low sound caught in his throat, a choked half-groan that he swallowed against your skin.

Fuck. He should let you rest.

He had been so rough with you tonight. Your body had given him everything.You deserved sleep. You deserved peace.

But his cock didn’t give a shit about what you deserved.

Before he could stop himself, his hips rolled forward again, and this time the tip of him nudged past the edge of the sheet, finding the bare, wet seam of your cunt.

He gasped against your shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut. The slide of you against him was obscenely slick, unbearably warm, a friction so perfect it made his toes curl against the mattress.

Shit. You were still leaking him from earlier.

The evidence of what he had done to you was still there, pooled between your thighs, making you slick and ready for him all over again.

He pressed a quick, guilty kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering just long enough to form a silent apology. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I just... I need you. I can’t stop needing you.

His hand moved, sliding over the curve of your stomach, tracing the soft dip of your waist before cupping your breast.

The weight of it filled his palm perfectly, the flesh so soft and warm, molding against his fingers like it was made for him. He squeezed gently, then let his thumb drag across your nipple, feeling the peak tighten and pebble under his touch.

A small shift rippled through your body. A subtle arch of your spine. A soft, breathy sound that caught in your throat.

He froze.

Every muscle in his body locked tight. His breath stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure it would wake you on its own. He waited, suspended in the pure terror of being caught. 

She’s going to wake up. She’s going to see what I’m doing. She’s going to realise what a fucking creep I am—that I can’t keep my hands off her even when she’s asleep, that I’ve been watching her for years, that I am completely, irreparably obsessed with her.

The seconds stretched like hours.

But you didn’t wake. Your breathing deepened again, settling back into that slow, even rhythm. Your body relaxed against his, soft and trusting and completely oblivious to the war raging inside his chest.

He should have stopped. He should have been grateful for the reprieve, thanked whatever cruel god had given him this moment, and let you sleep.

Instead, he kept moving.

His hips resumed their slow, steady rhythm, grinding against your soaked cunt, the head of his cock sliding through the mess of his own release and your combined arousal.

The sensation was maddening; a wet, slippery tease that promised heaven without delivering it.

His hand stayed on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, feeling the way your body responded even in sleep.

He pressed his lips to the back of your neck, a long, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of salt and skin. His breath came hot and uneven against your nape.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your skin, barely a whisper. “But I can’t... I can’t stop touching you. Every second I’m not inside you feels like I’m wasting time I don’t have.”

His hips rolled again, slower this time, deeper, the blunt tip of him catching at your entrance before sliding away, teasing both of you.

A shudder ran through his entire body.

“Please. Just a little more.”

The words slipped from Dex’s lips against the warm skin of your neck, a prayer offered to himself more than you, a plea for permission he was already taking.

He buried his face deeper into the crook of your shoulder, breathing you in until his lungs ached, and let his hips move.

There was nothing graceful about it. He rutted against you like a man possessed, the thick length of him sliding through the slick heat pooled between your thighs.

The sensation erased every rational thought. There was only you. The need to be inside you again. To own you. To fill you so completely that you couldn’t forget him, couldn’t leave him.

His breath came heavier against your nape, as his hand slid from your breast down to your stomach. He pressed his palm flat against the soft curve of your belly and pulled you tighter against him.

The arch of your back pressed your ass directly against his cock, and a fractured groan escaped him.

That’s when he felt it. A shift in your body. Your muscles tensed, your breathing changed, the subtle alertness of waking. Your voice cut through the dark, rough with sleep.

“Dex...?”

He froze for the span of a heartbeat. Then his hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back just enough for him to press a kiss to your cheek.

His hips never stopped their relentless grind, his cock catching at your entrance before sliding away again.

“Shhh,” he breathed against your ear. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ve got you. Just let me stay right here.”

He needed you to stay in that space between dreaming and waking, where you were pliant and accepting and he could pretend his need wasn’t completely out of control.

But you turned your head toward him, your lips parting.

“Dex—”

He couldn’t let you finish. He kissed you, his tongue sliding into your mouth before you could form the rest of the sentence.

And you let him. No, you kissed him back. Your mouth softened under his, your body melting into his, your tongue meeting his with a lazy, sultry rhythm that told him everything he needed to know.

He felt your hand slide down between your bodies, your fingers searching blindly until they found him.

You traced the slick head of his cock, your touch featherlight, and a shudder ripped through him so violently he had to brace himself against the mattress.

“Fuck,” he gasped against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged. “You want this too.”

You didn’t answer with words. You nudged the tip of him against your opening, a silent direction that drove the last shred of his restraint into the dust.

He answered with a small grunt as he pushed inside.

The heat of you swallowed him whole, and he dropped his forehead to yours, breathing you in. A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips, and your fingers curled against his back.

“Dex,” you murmured again, but this time it wasn’t a question. It was a sigh of surrender. A welcome.

He pressed another kiss to your mouth, before he began to move.

He tried to start slow. He tried to savour the sensation of sinking back into your slick heat. The attempt lasted only a handful of careful thrusts before the hunger surged through him.

His strokes turned hard and punishing. The rhythm of his hips fell into a desperate tempo that rocked the mattress beneath you, the steady thump-thump-thump of the headboard keeping time with the wild beating of his heart.

His hand slid up from your hip, fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach, your ribs, before curling around your throat.

You looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, your pupils blown wide, your lips parted around soft, broken ah-ah-ah sounds that spilled from your throat with every deep thrust.

He leaned down, his mouth hovering over yours, and deliberately let a thick string of saliva fall into your open lips. He wanted more of himself inside you.

More of his taste, his mark, his presence seeping into every crevice of your body.

A low, guttural groan rumbled up from his chest as he watched you swallow it without hesitation, without question. Your throat worked under his palm, accepting him, taking him in, and the sight nearly sent him over the edge.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your lips, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he drove into you harder. “You liked that, didn’t you? Touching you while you were asleep. Groping you. Fucking you like I own you.”

Despite the dazed pleasure softening your features, despite the way he was fucking the very thoughts out of your head, you still had the audacity to smile.

That slow, lazy, knowing curl of your lips that had haunted him since the first time he saw it. You hummed a soft, satisfied, “Uh huh.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, a fractured sound against your cheek.

He hooked your thigh higher over his arm, opening you wider, sinking deeper into your perfect, willing heat.

Your voice came out in fractured moans, but there was a teasing edge to it. “’S fucking hot. Knew you were a freak the second I saw you.”

Dex couldn’t help it. A laugh cracked out of him, low and disbelieving, pressed against the warmth of your cheek.

Here he was, balls deep in the object of a years-long obsession, and you were calling him a freak like it was the highest compliment.

The laugh faded into a shuddering exhale as he shifted his angle, driving into you with hard, deep thrusts that pushed the air from your lungs and left you gasping beneath him.

He wanted to leave a permanent mark on your soul. He wanted your cunt to remember the exact shape of him, the exact weight of him.

He wanted the memory of this night imprinted so deeply into your body that you would feel the ghost of him every time you closed your thighs.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, breath ragged and hot.

“I’m gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

Your response came as fractured, desperate moans, words swallowed by the rhythm of his hips driving into you.

Without breaking pace, his hand moved. Two fingers pressed against your lips. You opened without hesitation, taking them into your mouth just as you took every part of him.

He pushed them deep, curling them against your tongue in perfect time with his thrusts, a double rhythm that had you moaning around his knuckles.

The sight of you like this; mouth full of him, cunt full of him, eyes glassy and fixed on his face, pushed him to the edge. He could feel the tension coiling tight in his gut, the familiar ache building at the base of his spine.

He was seconds away from coming. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

He needed you there first.

With a wet gasp from you, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva breaking between his skin and your lips. His hand dropped without hesitation, finding your clit.

He rubbed fast, precise circles against the swollen bud, his own rhythm faltering as he poured every ounce of focus into your pleasure.

His eyes locked onto your face. He watched every micro-expression. The furrow of your brows, the way your lips parted on sharp, punched-out breaths, the flutter of your lashes as pleasure overtook you.

You looked up at him, dazed and pleading, and he nodded like a man possessed, a dumb, frantic motion that matched the speed of his fingers.

“C’mon,” he breathed, the words cracking. “Let go f’me. Let go, baby.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit you like a wave, your back arching, your mouth opening in a loud moan. Dex felt it, the way your cunt clenched around him, choked him, milked him.

The sensation ripped a loud, guttural groan from his chest, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. He closed his eyes, the world going white, and let himself go.

Deep, pulsing spurts of cum filled you, and he thrust into you with every wave, pushing himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there, making sure every drop stayed inside you.

When it was over, the room was filled with nothing but harsh, shared breaths.

He collapsed against you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. He made no move to pull out. No move to let you go. He stayed buried inside you, as close as flesh could get.

“Jesus Christ,” you murmured in a daze, the words barely a whisper.

The silence that followed was a dangerous thing. It let the thoughts back in. The insecurity. The horrible, gnawing fear that he had done too much.

He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, hiding, breathing you in until his lungs ached. His voice was rough, muffled against your skin.

“Too much?”

A beat. Then your hand, slow and heavy with exhaustion, slid into his hair. You laughed, soft and drowsy.

“No.” A pause. “By all means... keep me in your basement if you want.”

Dex’s eyes snapped open.

The joke hung in the air, clearly just a sleepy, affectionate jab. But he didn’t hear the joke.

He heard the offer.

Having you to himself. Forever. In a place where no one else could touch you, see you, take you. A place where you were his, every single moment of every single day.

And if you wanted it... if you offered it up with that same trust you gave him your body, your mouth, your cunt...

Then why the fuck wouldn’t he do it?

He lifted his head slowly, looking down at your face. You were half-asleep, lips curved in a soft sex-dazed smile. You had no idea what you had just given him.

His voice dropped, quiet and raw. Completely serious.

“Yeah?”

Your lashes fluttered. You hummed, already drifting back into sleep, but the sound was an affirmation. A yes.

His hand slid up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced your cheekbone, and when he spoke, the words were a vow pressed against your lips.

“Then I’m never letting you go.”

a/n | dex feeling absolutely blessed and a surreality of being seen and chosen by you, meanwhile reader is just a youngho and overly horny

You’d expected a lot of things when you agreed your husband’s oldest friend should come spend the holidays with you, but not this: you naked and splayed open, your back against Bucky’s chest, and Steve knelt between your legs, focus absolute as they took you apart.

Bucky’s lips moved against your neck, not quite kissing, hand sliding to cup one aching breast. “You want to feel for the ridge, the soft roof inside. Feel it?”

Steve nodded, learning by the tremors that rippled through you.

And you? You could only moan as his fingers sought a place only Bucky had touched before tonight.

Steve’s breath ghosted along your thigh, cool in comparison to the heat pooling where his fingertips pressed. “Like this?” he asked, looking up, seeking confirmation from Bucky.

Bucky squeezed you, barely-there pressure, his thumb circling your nipple. “Yeah, there—you’ll feel it through the front wall. Little bump.”

Steve slid his fingers deeper, slow and careful, and you arched back against Bucky’s chest. The pressure inside shifted, molten but sudden, and you gasped at the feel of it when he found it—that ridge, the soft roof, as Bucky had described it. Steve’s big hand trembled just a little as he kept it inside you, gentle but greedy, desperate to get it right. The man was as worshipping as he was determined, brow furrowed, lashes dark against his cheek as he mapped each element of your reactions.

And Bucky watched, grinning against your ear, voice thick. “That’s it, Steve. Watch her face, see how her mouth falls open? Touch her there, a tiny bit harder, that’s it, yeah.”

He kept the pressure steady, calloused thumb skating circles over your clit while his fingers pressed up, learning you, working with the careful tenacity he applied to every complex operation.

Bucky’s own hand drifted lower, his touch rough at your hip, a grounding force. You couldn’t move if you’d wanted to, pinned between them, the air thick with sweat and something like ozone.

You bucked, pulse thumping in your throat, teeth gritty against a whimper. Steve’s eyes flicked up again, shining, hungry, and your swore you might come just on the taste of his focus. With every press against that spot, your vision stuttered out, blinking in firework-bright bursts.

Bucky’s voice pressed into the shell of your ear, low and lazy, but with that hint of command that still managed to thrill you, even after all these years. “She’s real sensitive right there, Steve. Just steady. Keep the rhythm—yeah, just like that.”

“Fuck, Buck—she’s gonna—” Steve’s fingers jittered, the tip of his thumb ghosting over your wet clit.

“Let her,” Bucky hummed, open-mouthed over her shoulder. His other hand covered her thigh, holding her so wide the ache felt like a dare. “Make her feel it.”

Steve’s hand was huge, careful, coaxing, until it wasn’t, until the motion grew greedy, needy. You’d never been shy with Bucky, but with the attention of two lovers you felt nearly too open and exposed, nerves sparking along every limb. Bucky’s thumb toyed with your nipple, drawing it taut, while Steve’s fingers pursued your impending orgasm relentlessly.

And the orgasm came with no warning, just an unbearable pressure and then a bright, skittering release, your vision white-out as you shrieked and clamped around Steve’s hand. He nearly lost his balance but Bucky steadied him—steadied you—bracing your shaking limbs as you rode the aftershocks. Even after the pleasure crested, Steve’s fingers didn’t stop. He worked you through every shudder, sucking a breath through his teeth, awed. His voice was a fervent whisper, “Jesus. You—fuck, you look good like this.”

“She always does,” Bucky replied, mouth slick on your jaw, catching the sweat there. “You wanna see her come again?”

Steve’s hand stilled, then slowly slid free, leaving you embarrassingly empty and sticky. He watched you with dazed awe, pink flush climbing from his collar to cheekbones, as if he couldn’t believe the thing he’d just made happen, for you.

“Yeah, I do. Will you let me?” he asked, eyes meeting yours again.

You nodded, voice gone to wool and cotton, incapable of anything but a whispered, “Please.” The word left your lips desperate, high-pitched, a note of wildness that made Bucky’s hand tighten against your thigh, a subtle anchor to keep you from dissolving completely.

Steve’s smile broke open on his face, that cocky little tilt that always got him his way. He ducked down and pressed his mouth to your thigh, some kind of benediction, before giving Bucky a look, a question you weren’t included in: permission, or maybe the next step in instructions. Bucky’s hand still gripped your thigh, and the pressure from his fingertips went from comfort to proprietary.

“Take your time,” Bucky told him, slow as syrup. “She’s got plenty more in her if you work it up right.”

You whimpered, and Steve’s hand found your knee, thumb brushing circles that didn’t seem to know whether they were meant to calm or tease. He spread you even wider, fingers delving again, but now the touch was softer, coaxing in a new way. He watched your face the whole time, never letting you look away, and the sheer heat of his attention made it impossible to catch your breath, impossible to be anywhere but here, between them, for them.

You let your head loll back on Bucky’s chest, and he inhaled you like a secret. Steve’s mouth ghosted over the inside of your knee, the lightest of touches, as his hand slid slick with you, coaxing you open again. There was awe in his expression, like he couldn’t believe the things your body was capable of. That he couldn’t believe you let him see it.

Bucky’s voice was right in your ear, velvet and wicked. “You love this, don’t you? How he touches you, how he looks at you?” His teeth grazed just below your pulse, almost biting, his metal hand now flat and heavy on your soft stomach.

Steve’s mouth found your clit then, hot and wet, and you bit your lip, trying not to break apart too quickly, but Bucky’s other hand snapped up to your chin, forcing your jaw open. He slid two thick fingers into your mouth, muffling your gasps as Steve reached for that place inside you again, a blunt presence that made your hips twitch uncontrollably, mouth kissing and lapping at your clit.

“Be our good girl,” Bucky murmured, voice a velvet drag along your nerves. “Let me hear you, sweetheart.” He pressed your lips open wider, thumb tight on your cheek. Everything about him said claim, but you felt less like territory and more like treasure—something precious they’d both agreed to share.

You moaned and sucked on Bucky’s fingers, desperate for something to hold onto. Steve’s tongue drew slow, wide circles, alternating with little flicks that made you see stars, and every time his fingers curled inside you, you wanted to shake apart. Bucky’s hand pressed at the base of your throat, a leash without pressure, just a reminder of where you belonged.

Steve’s tongue moved with a rough, hungry precision that made your lashes flutter, the strangeness of his mouth—different than Bucky’s, somehow broader and needier—forcing you up against the edge of your own appetite. He groaned into you, animal, and the vibration made your toes curl as your hips bucked, seeking more, seeking everything.

The sound of you—wet and needy—filled the room, obscene, and Steve was impossibly focused. You could feel the shift as Steve’s mouth grew unabashed, each lap and suckle more confident. He lapped greedily, not just at your clit but at the desperate, shuddering noises you made, feeding on them, letting them escalate him past any feigned self-control.

Bucky murmured filth in your ear. “Such a pretty thing, all open for Steve. He’s a fast learner, isn’t he?” His fingers slipped from your mouth, gliding down to squeeze your breast with proprietary delight. “Sensitive here, too, Steve. She likes it just a little mean when you bite.”

Steve’s lips left your cunt, replaced by the blunt, perfect drag of his teeth—just a graze, but amplified by the velvet heat radiating between your thighs. The wild sound you made told him everything he needed. He grinned, eyes bright, and gave you another drag with his tongue and the barest scrape of teeth. Your legs shook, clamped for a second around his broad shoulders as he tormented you, licking through the slick he’d made.

“She’s right there,” Bucky insists, “but don’t let up.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving, as Bucky’s words poured through you, making it impossible not to want to give him everything, even the parts you thought you’d never let anyone else but him see. He tugged his hand from your mouth, and you gasped, “I’m close, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Bucky coaxed, hand splayed again over your breast, pinching and then soothing. “Let him taste it. Let him taste everything.” He nuzzled the space behind your ear, catching the lobe between his teeth, a punctuation to his demand.

Steve’s hand, meanwhile, never stopped mapping you. His thick fingers curling again against that spot inside, a squirming, irresistible pressure, while his mouth closed around your clit and sucked, hard, and the world melted into a soundless scream in your throat. You bucked up, hands grasping at Bucky’s biceps, and came again, hard enough you thought you might black out.

This time Steve didn’t bother with awe, only a growl of triumph and gratitude as he licked you through every convulsion, not stopping until your thighs trembled against his head and Bucky had to murmur, “Enough, big guy, you’ll melt her.”

You didn’t remember the transition—somewhere in the haze of pleasure, Steve had shifted you onto his lap, his cock thick and leaking, pressed impossibly hard against your hip. Bucky sat facing you both on the foot of the bed, blue eyes greedy and soft at the same time, mouth slack with want. Steve held you to his chest, the thrum of his pulse wild and loud beneath your palm.

“Fuck, honey, you alright?” Bucky asked, thumb brushing along your jaw. You only nodded, eyes glassy, limbs a little insubstantial.

“She gets real soft after she comes,” Bucky explained. His metal hand stroked your cheek, thumb scraping your parted lip. “Steve, you ever eat a girl out til she can’t think straight, and then fuck her so good she gets slick again just from the memory?”

Steve’s gaze flicked down to your face, as if he needed to check in, as if the rules of this odd, shared gravity could change at your whim. But you only leaned harder into his chest, the memory of Bucky’s words blooming low in your gut. “Not like this,” Steve said quietly, the confession tumbling out like an apology. “Never had someone so slick and eager and pliant. She’s so fucking sweet.”

“She likes making a mess, especially when she knows someone’s gonna clean it up nice for her.”

It was obscene and beautiful in the same breath, the way your body pulsed and ached for these two men. You knew Bucky intimately, but Steve was still a new entity, it should be unbelievable what you were letting him do to you, and yet you were willing because Bucky said you could be.

“You wear her out, and she lets you do anything you want.” Steve pressed his lips to your temple, the gesture as tender as a prayer, but you could feel the tension in his body—like he was holding himself back as much as he was holding you up.

“Do you want him to fuck you?” It was as blunt as a knife’s edge; Bucky never did like to leave things to implication.

You meant to say yes, steeled and confident, but the only sound you could make was a whimper. Bucky grinned. “Use your words, honey. Steve’s been waiting a long time.”

Steve’s hands tightened on your hips. “Since your wedding,” he confessed, and you gasped.

Bucky nodded, proud, calm, even though this revelation was ricocheting through your mind. Steve had been overseas for years until just recently, and of course he hadn’t missed his best friend’s wedding—had been the best man—but it had also been the first time you’d met him.

You remembered the speech, the toast. Steve smiling at you across a room of strangers, nothing but friendship and pride in his voice, but now you wondered how long he’d been drinking you in, how long he’d been simmering in this kind of want.

You also remembered—vivid as if it bloomed on the backs of your eyelids—the way Steve’s eyes had lingered at the reception, how his hand seemed to swallow yours when he shook it, holding on a beat too long. You’d caught him watching you and Bucky slow dancing, his smile softer than it ought to have been, heavy with yearning. At the time you’d wondered if maybe he was just that kind of romantic, or maybe a little lonely after so much time away.

But now that memory rewrote itself, charged and electric, searing through you as Steve took your chin in his hand and kissed you—soft at first, learning the taste of you. His mouth tasted like you, and you shivered, deep in your bones, at being desired by these two men.

Bucky reached for you, steady hands bracketing your thighs, and you sank back against Steve’s chest. Your husband ducked lower, pressing a line of kisses from your hip bone to the soft, over-sensitive spot at the seam of your thigh.

You shivered as Bucky trailed his tongue through the wetness Steve had left behind, mouth hungry and reverent. He licked slowly, then nosed at your clit, already swollen and sore from Steve’s attention, and the jolt of sensation made you gasp into Steve’s mouth. He devoured your sounds greedily, tongue parting your lips as if he needed to taste how undone you were.

Bucky’s tongue was firmer than Steve’s, more insistent, and when he flattened it against you and sucked, you felt every vibration in your teeth. You whimpered into Steve’s kiss, and he swallowed the noise, hands squeezing your hips as you rolled against the heat of Bucky’s mouth, your body burning, melting, until there was nothing left but sensation.

You weren’t sure Bucky’s mouth could ever be called gentle, but right now it was a new kind of slow, each lap deliberate, stroking the sharp edge of oversensitivity and coaxing pleasure out of it until your eyes watered. Steve’s hand wound into your hair, guiding your head back against his shoulder, and you let him, lost in the heat radiating from both their bodies.

“She’s shaking,” Steve whispered, awe thick in his voice.

“She knows what she likes,” Bucky replied, voice muffled between your legs. His metal hand dug into your thigh, cool and greedy, while the other traced lazy patterns over your ribs, drawing your skin tight with anticipation for what would come next.

Bucky pulled his mouth away with a slick, obscene sound, smirking up at you. “You ready for cock?” he asked, and this wasn’t an idle question. Bucky wanted you to say it, wanted you to beg for it. Steve’s cock pressed up under you, thick and hot, and you could feel how desperate he was for it. You were too.

“Yes,” you said, or maybe just moaned it, letting your knees fall as wide as Steve and Bucky wanted them. “Yes, please.”

“Fuck, she’s polite,” Steve mumbled, hands already guiding you up, shifting you onto your knees, palms bracing the mattress as Bucky moved to the side of you, one hand fisting his own stiff cock, the other smoothing down your back and skimming over your ass. You could feel Steve’s cock, hot and insistent, nudging between your thighs.

“She likes a full feeling,” Bucky told Steve, the statement an offer and a warning both, and you blinked up at him, swallowing. “When you fuck her, you gotta go deep.”

Steve’s hands caught your hips, palms broad enough to span almost from waist to thigh. There was a reverence in his movements, but also the first hints of impatience—the way his fingers flexed, the way his cock jumped when it brushed against you, smearing precum along the seam of your body. He lined himself up and held, not yet pushing in, and the wait felt like another kind of pleasure, anticipation sharp as a blade.

Your chest seized—with anticipation or hesitation, you weren’t sure—as you realized Bucky was going to let Steve fuck you bare.

“He’s a big one, sweetheart,” Bucky warned, and you could hear the grin on his face. He planted a hand at the small of your back, keeping your spine bowed. “Nice and slow. She likes to feel every inch.”

You pressed your face into the pillow, bracing for a stretch that came slow and monumental—Steve’s cock parting you, nudging inside until you couldn’t breathe for the fullness, the hot-dull burn that quickly blurred into something sweeter.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured. “Let him all the way in.”

You were so wet he didn’t even need to force it; the broad head split you open easily. You heard Bucky’s purr, almost proud, as if he had made you this way, greedy for the kind of ache only they could give. Bucky loved to torment you with this kind of fuck when he slid inside you, so his direction for Steve to as well was to be expected.

Steve held, fully sheathing himself, body trembling with restraint. “You okay?” The sound of your name was different in his voice, kinder, stripped of any artifice.

You nodded, eagerly pressing your hips back, and the slide hit something deep, a place that made your toes flex and your mouth fall open. Steve’s hands stroked your hips, grounding you, his breath rough as he held as still as he could manage. Bucky’s voice was syrup-sweet at your ear, “Go on, Steve. She wants it.”

The first thrust was a slow, rolling motion that stole your breath. Steve drew out nearly all the way, then slid back in, the burn giving way to a greedy, clutching pleasure. You held perfectly still, squeezing your eyes shut, learning the new shape of yourself with Steve inside you. You keened, knuckles whitening in the bedsheets. Bucky stayed close, palm at the nape of your neck, his own cock hard and leaking, pressed to your shoulder as he watched Steve fuck you.

“She takes cock so well, doesn’t she?” Bucky crooned, his tone barely above a purr. “Bet you never seen anyone so hungry before.” His metal hand traced your spine, ratcheting the tension higher as he pet you and praised you, the words a molten thread tangled through every harder, deeper thrust. Steve’s hips pistoned slow, but with such force you swore you could feel it in your throat, each time catching a spot Bucky had mapped just for him.

Steve’s rhythm was a miracle of endurance, slow and deep, every thrust measured, watched, almost academic in its hunger. His hands never stopped moving, stroking your waist, your belly, your ribs, learning every inch of you as if he needed to memorize the route. His hips stuttered occasionally, evidence of his own struggle not to lose himself too quickly to the wet heat you offered him.

And he whispered your name between every other breath, like a vow, like he was kneeling in church.

Bucky’s hands grew rougher on you, easing your thighs farther apart, planting dirty encouragements in your head that made you slicker, filthier than before. “You should see her face, Steve. She’s so beautiful right now.”

Bucky coaxed your head up and to the side so Steve could see the exact, filthy pleasure contorting your features. And you felt it, the slide of your own tears, half-joy and half-overwhelm, as Steve picked up the pace, his thrusts deeper, harder.

Bucky wiped a tear from your jaw with his thumb, then sucked it into his mouth. “So beautiful when you’re ruined like this.”

Steve’s fingers dug into your flesh, and you could feel how close he was to letting go of decorum, of caution, of the last rags of self-control. You wanted it. You moaned for it. Your head swam with the ache of being so fucking full, of being seen and used and loved all at once.

“Not gonna last,” Steve groaned, the confession breaking at the seam. “Feels—fuck, Bucky, how do you keep your head—”

“I don’t, punk. That’s why I always make her come first.” Bucky’s laugh was sharp and breathless, the sound of a man profoundly in love with his own wife. He trailed a hand down your front, fingers gliding over the slick mess Steve had made of you. “And always make it up to her after, too. She loves that part too.”

Bucky’s hand found your clit, thumb and forefinger pinching, rolling it just this side of cruel, and you yelped, the sudden spike of pain-pleasure a match to the fullness Steve was feeding you, and your whole body shuddered. Bucky laughed—warm and wicked—and reached down, fingers sliding through the mess of slick and sweat and precum at the seam where Steve’s body split yours, then smeared it over his own cock.

He pumped himself once, twice, eyes locked on where Steve’s body met yours, and you watched, unabashedly.

Bucky leaned forward, mouth hot at your jaw. “You want me to fuck your mouth while Steve fucks you?”

The question, blunt and bright, sliced through your haze. You nodded, desperate, and Bucky grinned, wolfish. He pressed his thumb to your lips, smearing the taste of yourself across them, and then shifted around in front of you, kneeling up so his cock bobbed level with your mouth. It was already slick, the head flushed dark, and you opened for him automatically, tongue out, dutiful and greedy all at once.

“That’s my girl,” Bucky breathed, sliding in slow, letting you feel the heft of him as Steve’s cock ground into your cunt from behind. You could barely spare the coordination to suck and moan at the same time, the boundary between pleasure and humiliation dissolved.

Your throat worked, helpless, as Bucky fucked your mouth in shallow, reverent thrusts, and your jaw burned with the effort of taking him as deep as he wanted. He pulled back every time you gagged, not to spare you, but to watch the string of spit connect your lips to the tip of his cock. You blinked up at your husband, tears streaming freely now, and saw how it undid him—made him thrust a little deeper, fuck your mouth a little harder, hands cradling your jaw, both anchoring and guiding you.

“Pretty thing,” he muttered, almost gentle, “look at you. That’s it. Just like that. God, Steve, you’re going to love fucking her throat.”

“Buck, you can’t just—” Steve had to groan before he could finish his thought. “You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to last.”

You moaned, mouth full of Bucky and body full of Steve, your whole self strung taut between their appetites. The rhythm between Steve’s hips behind you and Bucky’s in front of you a terrifying, perfect sync.

Bucky smirked, thumb wiping spit from your chin, then dragged it down to your throat, pressing lightly so you felt the stretch of yourself inside. “Bet you want him in your mouth right after he fills you up, don’t you?” Bucky’s voice was honey-thick, tugging need like a thread from your cunt all the way up to your brain.

You nodded, desperate, and that was all it took—Steve’s grip on your hips locked down, his pulse a wild thrum against your skin, and he buried himself in you with one last, shuddering thrust. You could feel it, the way he pulsed and spilled hot inside, and the sound he made—it was raw, almost animal. He held inside, grinding so deep you felt it all the way up your spine, filling you so perfectly a whimper broke loose from your lips even with Bucky’s cock still in your mouth.

Bucky eased out of your mouth, palm still warm against your jaw, thumb stroking where his cock had just been. He grinned at you, all sweet-and-mean, then leaned in to press a kiss over your spit-slick lips. “That’s it,” he whispered, reverent, like he was kissing holy ground. “That’s my good girl.” The words landed low in your belly, twisting up with the mess Steve had left in you.

But his cock was still inside you, too, and he collapsed forward, chest to your back, his arms caging you in. You expected him to pull out, to give you a moment to recover, but instead he rocked his hips, slow and greedy, as if he couldn’t bear to lose the feeling of you squeezing around him.

And then, without warning, his hand slid under your belly, fingers finding your clit, already swollen and overstimulated. He drew tight, precise circles with the pads of first two fingers, not letting up, even when you whined and squirmed beneath him. Bucky’s hands held you steady, anchoring you so Steve could play your body like an instrument.

The friction was so good, so dirty, that your cunt clamped around him involuntarily, milked every last drop as Steve’s fingers worked you up again, your body already betraying just how ready it was to be used a second, third, hundredth time.

“Fuck, she’s insatiable, isn’t she?” Steve said, voice almost fond, the sound of it a pressure at the base of your skull.

“She’s always been that way,” Bucky answered, a frayed thread of pride winding through his voice. “After the serum, I never met a partner who could keep up with me until her. Like you were made for a super soldier, sweetheart.”

You laughed, or tried to, but it came out a shaky, desperate gasp as Steve’s fingers wrung another whimper from you. Your knuckles dug into the sheets, the only tether as your overstimulated clit set off sparks behind your eyes. “Bucky,” you croaked, barely audible, “I can’t—”

“You can, honey. You’ll show Steve just how much you can take.” His gaze was intent, and for a moment you remembered every night the two of you had built trust on, every whispered dare and secret need he’d coaxed from you, every time he’d made you shatter and put you back together.

You barely had time to brace—Steve’s closed closed hard and firm around your clit, pinching, sending a lightning bolt through you, and as your body seized, his mouth found the meat of your shoulder and bit down. Not a warning, not a tease—a real goddamn bite. It ricocheted up your spine and detonated any coherence you had left. Your vision went blinding white, then red, and you screamed, nails gouging at the mattress, his hardening cock still buried so deep inside you it felt like you were cleaved in half.

The orgasm hit different—shocking, jagged, beyond pleasure and into a place that was just sensation, raw and total. You were crying, you realized, drool and tears tracking down your chin, but you couldn’t stop, couldn’t get enough, not even when the world blurred and your whole midsection pulsed around Steve’s cock, milking him for everything he had.

Bucky held your gaze the whole time, watching you unravel, watching every second of you coming apart for his best friend.

“Never gets old,” Bucky said, voice ragged with want, “seeing you come apart.” He stroked your hair, gentling you even as Steve’s cock kept you pinned and shuddering.

Steve pulled out, finally, leaving a slick trail down your thigh, and you expected collapse—rest, maybe, or at least a breath of air.

You got part of what you wanted as you were manhandled with a gentle efficiency—Steve lowering you to the mattress and Bucky rolling you over onto your back. The two men bracketed themselves around you. Bucky’s thumb smoothed tears from your cheeks, his lips hovering at your brow. Steve’s palm swept your hair from your face, tucking the wild strands behind your ears, and he smiled at you, dazed and open and deeply, deeply gone himself.

“You okay?” he asked, voice so hoarse you wanted to laugh, if only you didn’t feel so utterly wrung dry.

Bucky’s hands mapped your body, stroking down your arms, your waist, as if to collect every piece of you that had scattered. “She’s perfect. She’s got a thing for being ruined,” Bucky said, rubbing his thumb hard across your jaw, “but it’s more than just the mess. It’s being wanted, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

You trembled, the answer right there but too big for your mouth. All you could manage was a soft, but firm, “It’s both.”

It was. The ache between your legs, the aftershocks twitching in your thighs, crescendoed in the knowledge that you belonged—here, between them—because you were wanted. Not just by Bucky, whose love for you was a still wildfire after the first few years of the life you were building together, but by Steve, the last person you ever expected to want anything at all.

They held you in the perfect kind of silence for a while. Bucky stroked your sternum with two fingers, tracing the rapid pounding of your heart, while Steve drew lazy patterns on your ribs, the gentle touch making your bones melt.

Steve was the one who broke the silence, voice still thick and slow. “I’m sure Bucky’s told you how everything feels amplified for us, after the serum?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice, but Steve caught your chin and made certain you were listening, blue eyes intent on the fall and rise of your chest. He thumbed the corner of your mouth, gentle in a way that didn’t match the bite mark blooming on your shoulder. “It’s true. Everything’s hotter, sharper. Smells, tastes, touch.” His hand wandered down your neck, tracing the chain of your pulse. “It’s like all the dials turned up past what they’re supposed to do.”

Bucky grinned, mouth curving against your temple, proud and a little feral. “It’s why we’re so good at this,” he said, and the “we” wasn’t just the two of them, but you too, looped into their satisfaction by being the one they found satiation with.

You remembered, dimly, what Bucky had once told you—something about how pain and pleasure were just colors in a spectrum for men like them, how sometimes the best you could do was grab hold of the brightest one and hang on until it faded.

You barely noticed when Bucky’s hand slid lower, two fingers sliding along the seam of you, dipping just inside. You’d thought you were emptied out, rung dry, but the dull ache at your entrance proved otherwise—the evidence of Steve inside you, the slow ooze of it, making your lashes flutter in a way that felt almost innocent.

“You want to keep going, honey?” He asked because this—the consent, the agency—was one of the roots of his pleasure. You nodded again, too spent for speech. “Yeah, you do,” he murmured, pressing his own cock flush against your thigh, hot iron against soft flesh. “And you want Steve to watch, don’t you?”

The way Bucky framed it, you didn’t just want to perform, to be seen—you wanted to be worshipped, to be watched while your body proved itself again and again. There was no performance anxiety; there was only the heat of two impossible men zeroed in on every twitch of your muscles. You felt your own slick between your thighs, the slow, filthy trickle of Steve’s cum pooling out of you, the ache where you’d been so thoroughly stretched.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky chuckled. “Words.”

You tried to say, “Yes, please,” but it came out as a sigh, and Bucky’s grin only widened.

Steve cradled your head like a priceless artifact, thumb pressing a sleepy circle against your jaw while his gaze moved between your eyes and the place where Bucky’s fingers cupped your cunt. You felt your hips roll up, wanton, trying to keep contact with Bucky’s hand even as he toyed with your entrance but never quite let you have the friction you needed.

“You want to show Steve how we fuck when it’s just you and me in the dark, how well you take me.” A statement, not a question.

“Mmmhmm,” you groaned, and Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then knelt up, hands guiding your unresisting legs apart. He knelt back on his haunches and pulled your hips close. You heard Steve’s breath stutter at the sight, and it filled you with a greedy, wild pride. Bucky teased the seam of you with the head of his cock, up and down, up and down, making you whine.

At the last moment, Bucky relented and pushed inside, filling you with a swift, brutal thrust that bottomed out in one motion. There was no slow stretch, no easing in—just the violent, relentless press of his cock, and you arched off the mattress with a helpless, desperate moan. Your body was made to take him, every inch of you was slick and trembling, so the pain blurred seamlessly into pleasure and back again until you weren’t sure which you preferred.

He moved slow at first, kneeling above you like a god, letting you feel the thickness of him as he rocked in and out, but it wasn’t long before he found the rhythm he liked—a rough, demanding piston that left you scrambling for breath, for touch, for anything to keep you from coming apart entirely. You felt every ridge and vein, every rutting pound as he chased his own need, each thrust fusing the two of you back together.

All you could do—wanted to do—was take it. The raw, pounding pleasure, the relentless stretch, the feeling of Bucky’s cock rutting into you deeply. You heard yourself sob—and it was not a neat or pretty thing, but a wrecked, raw sound that only made Bucky groan above you. He caught your thighs in his hands, spreading you wider, and you felt the obscene heat of the stretch, the way your cunt seized around him with each battering drive. The slick noise of it—your body, his cock, the fucking mess Steve had left in you—filled the room, a rhythm and a punctuation to Bucky’s breathing as he drove deeper, harder, faster.

Steve’s hand found yours in the sheets. He laced his thick fingers between yours and squeezed, grounding you, letting you feel the reverent awe rolling off him in slow, steady waves. But there was an unmet hunger still lingering there under the surface. You could feel it in the tense of his body next to yours, and when you turned your face, eyes seeking his, he met your gaze without hesitation.

Steve bent to kiss you, and there was no veiling tenderness or shy request for permission. His tongue pushed into your mouth, greedy and wild, tasting the ghost of Bucky on your lips, tasting the salt of your tears. You kissed back with everything you had, drawing another moan from your throat as Bucky pistoned into you, the force rocking your whole body up into Steve’s chest.

Bucky’s thrusts didn’t slacken—they were still relentless, still merciless—but as you and Steve kissed, the tempo oscillated into something deeper, a series of slower,seismic detonations. Each time Bucky bottomed out inside you, he held there, grinding, spine arched, as if the sight of you kissing Steve was as much a pleasure to him as the feel of your cunt squeezing him.

Steve groaned into your mouth, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw, and Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, like he needed to stake a claim even as he offered you up. With every new roll of Bucky’s hips, a different noise tore its way out of your throat—some for the pain, some for the pleasure, some for the blissful humiliation of being made a spectacle for their eyes.

“Fuck her mouth, Steve,” Bucky said, a low, hungry rumble.

Steve didn’t hesitate, and it was only for a fraction of a second before he was shifting up, the broad line of his thigh braced alongside your head. His cock was still half-hard, glazed with your slick and his own release. The sight of it, flushed angry-red and wet, made your cunt clench around Bucky. Steve cupped your chin, thumb curling along the hinge of your jaw, and you sucked him into your mouth, the taste salty and obscene.

You groaned around him, lips stretching, tongue flattening under the thick, salty weight. He barely thrust, just eased forward, but the size of him still made your throat protest. Bucky continued his slow, tortruous pace below, watching intently as Steve’s cock parted your lips, and the sight of it—his best friend fucking your mouth while he still pounded into your cunt—nearly undid him, you could feel it in the grip of his hands on your hips.

“Deeper,” Bucky ordered, and Steve obeyed. He slid in, careful but insistent, filling your mouth until you gagged, until your eyes watered anew. Steve slid in, your throat stretched, and the assault of it made you gasp around him, desperate for air, for mercy, for more. Steve petted your jaw, his other hand cupping the back of your head, and for all the brutality of the act there was infinite patience in how he held you there, letting you adjust, letting you learn the unique shape of his need. Somewhere above, Bucky laughed—a single breath of filthy awe, a marvel at the spectacle of you taking both their cocks at once like this.

The taste of Steve’s cum was thick in your mouth, the smell of sex and sweat and ozone burning in your nostrils. You wanted them both to know how much you liked this, how much you needed every inch of what they gave. So you hollowed your cheeks and sucked, rolling your tongue with just enough pressure to see the effect in Steve’s eyes—head thrown back, spine bowed glorious, hand clenching your jaw with a desperation that made you burn with pride.

Bucky’s cock pounded up into you from below, and Steve’s pushed into your mouth from above, and you—pinned, stretched, used—were nothing but bliss. The sensation was a hinge, your body swinging wild between the two of them. You felt the echo of your own heartbeat in your cunt, in your mouth, in every thrum of the mattress and grind of their hips.

Steve’s thrusts grew bolder, and at each push he eased a little deeper, patience thinning as your mouth softened to his shape. His voice, when it came, was raw and rough, “Fuck, fuck, you feel so good—” your name murmured as its own curse when it fell from his lips in this moment.

He spilled his seed down your throat, but not all of it. He pulled out and shot the rest over your breasts, warm rope after rope of it across your heaving chest as Bucky pistoned in even harder, the thudding slap of his hips the only sound in the world.

Bucky slammed harder, harder, until you felt the actual bruise of him inside you, some deep purple echo of the violence. He reached for your clit, pinched, and your body shuddered into another orgasm, spasms wracking you so hard you thought you’d bite your tongue. You moaned so sweet and so ruined as he flew over the edge.

Bucky’s cock throbbed inside you, a shuddering full-body tremor, and then he was coming, hips jammed flush as he spilled molten and messy into the deepest part of you. His moan was raw, unguarded, and he didn’t let up, kept grinding through every spurt, making sure you took every last drop. The pressure of it set off a chain reaction—your body seized, aftershocks tearing up your thighs and into your belly, squeezing around him in greedy, involuntary pulses.

Bucky’s head dropped back, his jaw flexing as he held your hips pinned. You watched him, glassy-eyed and adoring, as every muscle in his chest locked. “Christ,” he panted, eyes flickering to Steve, “This is unreal.” He pulled halfway out—slow, slow—then pushed in again, a wet, obscene sound marking every inch. “She’s still squeezing me, even after you ruined her.” Bucky’s grin was all teeth, all pride and filth. “Can feel your mess inside her, Steve. So fucking wet she’s dripping down my balls.”

You moaned in the hinge between them, wrung out and wild, as Bucky fucked you through the last quakes and Steve’s hand fanned gently against your throat, thumb pressing the pulse there like he wanted to count your heartbeats—maybe hold them for ransom.

Bucky let out a ragged exhalation and pulled out, the head of his cock dragging on hypersensitive nerves, leaving you gaping and gasping and dripping. Bucky didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction. Instead, he watched the spill with a sick, loving sort of pride, then reached down, scooped his own cum with his fingers and smeared it over your breasts, painting you in it, mixing it with his best friend’s seed until your whole chest was slick with it. He held you there for a moment, painted and panting and caught in the liminal pleasure, before tilting your face up and licking a stripe from your collarbone to your jaw, tongue lazy and flat. Bucky’s mouth found yours, and you tasted the salt of Steve and yourself on his lips. You kissed him like you were dying, and Bucky kissed you back harder, swallowing you whole.

Steve’s voice burrowed into your ear with shocking gravity, arms closing around your limp torso as if to protect you from the world outside this narrow, unrepeatable moment. “You are so fucking beautiful ruined like this,” he said, voice half-reverent.

Bucky’s thumb pressed under your chin, tilting your face: “You want more, don’t you?” You did. That was the devastating truth of it. Even as your body ached and stung from orgasm, you wanted all the ways they touched you, every version of this night.

“Are you sure, Buck?” Steve asked, incredulous.

Bucky’s laugh was a bright, sharp crack in the haze, so full of delight it rang in your bones. “Oh, sweetheart. Steve has no idea what you’re capable of after a few more rounds.”

He bent over you, hands braced by your head, and pressed a kiss to the center of your brow—a benediction at odds with the lazy trail of his hand down your body, cupping your breast, then skimming the mess he and Steve had left there. He rubbed their slick together with an idle curiosity, like a child finger-painting, until Steve’s hand joined his, pinching a nipple between two careful fingers and rolling it until you arched up, spent muscles clenching with electric aftershock.

“We could let her rest,” Bucky said, tongue laving your earlobe as he spoke, “but why waste a perfectly good afterglow when you haven’t even fucked my wife in the shower yet?”

WE ALL KNOW I'M RARELY CAPABLE OF CUTTING SOMETHING DOWN

SO

I HOPE YOU'RE ALL HAPPY/RUINED RIGHT ALONGSIDE ME.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

summary: after a series of terrorist attacks in new york, an article you wrote calling out the cowardice of the organization's leader causes you to become a target, and frank castle is assigned to be your bodyguard. the resurgence of former flames and shocking sinister revelations will test just how far frank is willing to go to protect you. divulgences of his mysterious and convoluted past will make you question just how much you can actually trust him. will frank be your savior? or the reason for your demise?

a/n: a HUGE thank you to my love @thyme-in-a-bubble for that incredibly breathtaking header. this series was inspired by the absolutely lovely @lowkeythor's genius request for a bodyguard!frank x reader fic. it is a slow burn-so get comfy. this is a punisher series friends, so there will be mentions of violence and gore, as well as other mature themes. (there will eventually be spiciness bc i can't resist) if you'd like to be added to the tag list for updates, please let me know!

»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.

»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.

chapter one: it's my job

chapter two: take the day off

chapter three: trouble

chapter four: it's like that

chapter five: conflict of interest

chapter six: invasion of privacy

chapter seven: checkmate

chapter eight: sorry

chapter nine: stakeout

chapter ten: pancakes

chapter eleven: we got a problem

chapter twelve: confession

chapter thirteen: desire*

chapter fourteen: i got you

chapter fifteen: teach me*

chapter sixteen: an adjustment

chapter seventeen: a favor

chapter eighteen: first date*

chapter nineteen: personal

chapter twenty: secrets

chapter twenty one: a little more time

chapter twenty two: fade to black

chapter twenty three: revelation

chapter twenty four: i love you

chapter twenty five: promotion

chapter twenty six: epilogue*

deleted scenes

»— first meeting

the bodyguard soundtrack

​Ari left without another word, leaving you alone in the gilded cage, soft sheets beckoning you into a false sense of security. You allowed yourself to fall into a restless sleep, spending the night tossing and turning till the delicate warm rays scattered on the wooden floor and touched your face. You had a few moments to groggily pull yourself up when the door swung open. Ari’s boots hit the carpet with a series of dull thuds, a tray of food in hand, and without a word, dropped it at your nightstand; coffee dripping down the sides of the mug and bits of egg falling off the side of the plate and left.

You stared after the shut door, pausing for a moment before picking up the mug from the nightstand and sipping on the warm coffee, and picking through your breakfast, leaving most of it on the plate. Your stomach still wasn’t playing ball on the appetite front. You eventually peeled yourself out of bed, freshened up, and found yourself standing in the center of the room, staring out the windows.

You wasted the day by picking through the bookshelf, meticulously analyzing each of the various dusty hardbacks and placing a few on your nightstand for later. You took a shower, popped open different bottles and smelled the expensive scents, and bundled yourself up afterward in a soft, fluffy robe before taking advantage of the walk-in wardrobe.

The men clearly had a particular taste.

Lacy, intricate dresses that would leave nothing to the imagination. Strappy kitten heels in different colors, various racks of lingerie, and, tucked away in the back, sets of matching loungewear, which made you sigh with relief. You were just sat on the edge of your bed, snapping the band of the sock around your ankle when Ari walked in, eyes glaring down at you with a tray in his hand.

“Change your mind?” Ari asked.

“Nope,” you responded, popping the “p” and getting up to take a few paces backward to emphasize your decision by putting as much space as you could between you both.

Ari huffed, swapped out the trays, and left without saying anything else. He returned a few hours later, when the sun was dipping low, sending amber shadows along the cream carpet and scattering across the walls. He was carrying two plates and made his way to the small table you had shared with Steve, watching as he took up Steve’s space, the chair creaking under his weight. Your stomach growled; the lunch he had left you earlier was untouched, and the savory smell beckoned you over.

You shuffled off the bed, snapping the book shut and swiftly made your way over to snag a plate, but Ari’s large hand wrapped around your wrist.

“Sit.”

“Why aren’t you eating with the others?” You asked, unmoved and refusing to give in without an explanation.

“My cousins are here, and they have a habit of getting on my nerves,” Ari offered, giving your arm a little tug and kicking out the chair.

“There’s more of you?”

“Plenty. Sit. Eat.”

“I will. When you leave.”

You tugged your arm away and sat yourself down, crossing your arms over your chest and looking out of the window, praying that he got the message and would leave.

His voice was a cold, stark warning. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Sugar. I’m not gonna keep having the same conversation with you.”

“I really don't give a fuck what you think.”

The air in the room didn’t just drop; it vanished, and to see a man such as Ari, one who moved through the world as a force of nature, towering over everyone he came into contact with, visibly recoiling was, to put it simply, a fucking sight to see indeed. He didn’t move physically, however, but his expression flickered— a momentary crack in the mask of the unbothered eldest brother— and his shoulders tensed up as he let his fork clatter onto the plate.

The silence became so absolute that the muffled tick of the clock in the hallway rang out like a hammer hitting an anvil.

“You seem to have confused my patience for weakness, baby.” Ari tilted his head slightly, eyes focusing on yours. His voice had dropped to a register so low it was almost a vibration, a touch of irritation lacing the tone.

“And you seem to have confused my engagement in this conversation as actually caring about what a liar had to say,” You shot back. “And I am not your baby.”

The word liar seemed to hit Ari like a physical blow, a sharp, thickening tension blooming between you, shifting the room from tense to something far more volatile. Ari still didn’t flinch; he didn’t yell, but the longer he stared silently, the more it felt like walls closing in. Ari abruptly stood, the chair knocking backward. He moved towards the window, his back to you and hands stuffed in his pockets. His massive frame eclipsed the fading sunlight streaming through the window, casting a long, dark shadow that completely swallowed you.

“A liar.” His voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of a landslide.

“Yep,” You confirmed, nodding to yourself.

The word hung in the air, stark and naked; to you it was defiance, to Ari it may as well have been a death wish.

His movements were slow and deliberate, turning slowly from the window and walking over to you with heavy footsteps. You glared up at him, standing your ground, although a ball of anxiety formed in your throat that you were forced to swallow down as he stepped into your space. He leaned down and didn’t stop until his face was level with yours, and up close, the coldness in his eyes was absolute; a deep void under the mask of blue that threatened to pull you under. He didn’t touch you, but he didn’t need to; the sheer proximity of him— the smell of cedar and stale smoke, the heat radiating from the blood boiling under his skin— felt like something close to a physical assault.

“You think you have the moral high ground because I played a part? You think your indignation protects you here?”

Suddenly, his hand shot out. His fingers clamped around the back of your chair, the wood groaning under the sudden, immense pressure of his grip. He jerked the chair an inch closer to him, a sharp, jarring motion that forced you to lean closer to him.

“No,” You answered honestly. “I think you’re just a liar. And the way you’re reacting just goes to show that you know that you are.”

Ari’s fingers tightened impossibly on the wood, a small crack ringing out from the pressure of his hand, and for a second, the mask he had tried to keep glued in place shattered. A vein pulsed in his temple, his eyes elated with a raw, jagged heat. The man who was supposed to be a meticulously constructed pillar of his dysfunctional family had his foundation slapped away by a few words, and you could see it clear as day… He hated it.

“You think you’re the first to call me a liar? You think a little “insight” makes you special, Sugar?” Ari snarled lowly, his face inches from you.

With a sudden, violent motion, Ari didn’t just pull the chair; he knocked it from under you, catching your arm in a bruising grip and hauling you upwards with a single, effortless surge of strength, listing you almost off your feet and snug against his chest. Your eyes burned their way up to his face.

“What? Your wife called you a liar too?”

The silence that followed wasn't just a pause.  The air seemed to freeze, turning into shards of ice that pierced everything.

“You won’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Ari defended poorly, his voice a flat, dead whisper; totally devoid of any human inflection. You found the cord and planned to strike it as often as you could. “So, I suggest—“

“Had a whole wife and you still chose to fuck around with captive women. What a remarkable man you are, Ari. Truly. Out of everything that’s happened to me over these past few months… Fucking you was my biggest regret.”

The words didn’t just land; they detonated, and the room seemed to vibrate with the force of the insult.

You knew that to a man like Ari, a man who seemingly lived and breathed control, the admission that he was not only a liar but a regret was a level of degradation he’d probably never experienced. The thought of knocking him down flooded your veins with adrenaline, a racking shake through your body. But, unbeknownst to you, it wasn’t the insult to his character— he knew he was a monster; he was fine with it— it was the dismissal of the intimacy you had shared; however fake it had been. It was his to dismiss, his to downplay— not yours.

His face became a canvas of terrifying, blank neutrality as the grip on your arm tightened, stealing a hiss through your teeth as his nails pricked at your skin. He didn’t just hold you there; he owned you there. A stark reminder that in his hands, you could be nothing more than a doll.

“I’m not scared of you,” You declared despite the slight waver in your voice screaming otherwise.

Ari didn't respond with words, but the air seemed to rush out of the room as he used his other hand to clamp his fingers around your chin with an aching force, his broad shoulders casting a suffocating shadow over you. He tipped your head up, tilting it back into a sharp, vulnerable angle, his fingers moving to squeeze into the soft flesh of your cheeks. Your eyes were locked on each other's; his gaze had morphed into something else, something burning, a mixture of pure hatred and that familiar glint of raw, uncontrollable hunger.

He looked at you the same way he had in the club; like he wanted to tear you apart and possess every shattered piece of you all at once.

For a long, agonizing moment… Neither of you moved. Both of you are refusing to be the first to give in; to shout, to scream, to insult.

You stood locked in a stalemate of heavy breaths and searing heat; the only sound in the room was the ragged, weighted synchronization of your breathing. The air between you and Ari was thick, electric, desperate for a spark; the residue of the war you had been waging with poisoned tongues and quick wit. Ari’s gaze dropped first, landing on your lips, eyeing the way they trembled with each breath. You waited, and waited; for something, anything when finally…

The tension snapped.

Ari didn’t just lean in; he collided.

He crashed his lips against yours in a kiss that was less about passion and more about a conquest; a point to prove. It was violent and punishing; desperate with a physical manifestation of the fury he couldn’t voice, the want he couldn’t admit. He didn’t ask; he took, his mouth claiming yours with a bruising intensity that even in your weeks together you hadn’t experienced. He tasted like a dark, simmering rage, and you were helpless to fight. He used his weight to push you back until your back hit the edge of the table, the wood digging into your lower back, the plates rattling behind you.

He broke the kiss only to snarl almost breathlessly against your lips; jagged and rough. ‘’Say it again. Tell me you’re not scared while you’re shaking in my arms, Sugar. Don’t want me yet you’re kissing me back, hmm? We can play present, baby, that’s fine—“

“You’re not giving me much choice,” You grumbled at him.

Your hands pushed against the hard planes of his chest, scoffing while your face twisted up and your fingers dug into the expensive fabric of his shirt in a desperate attempt to create space. You pushed with every ounce of strength you possessed, but moving a mountain might have been an easier feat. Ari didn’t even budge- not even a little bit. He simply absorbed the impact of your struggle with a smirk on his lips.

‘’Push harder, Sugar," he goaded, letting out a dark chuckle that vibrated through your hands and rattled your bones.

Instead of letting you go, Ari reacted to your resistance by intensifying his hold. He shifted his weight, his massive thigh sliding between yours, pinning you firmly against the table and cutting off any hope of maneuvering out of his hold. His hand migrated from your jaw and slid down your throat, resting there with a possessive pressure that made your head spin and served as a reminder of how easy it would be for him to extinguish your breath as he dipped his head down, lips close to your ear.

‘’I love it when you fight me, Sugar. It’ll make the moment you finally stop so much sweeter,’’ he whispered against your ear.

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes; his pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the iris; the blues that had suckered you in were nowhere to be found. He looked completely unhinged; the polished facade of the right hand was entirely stripped away, leaving behind the monster, unashamed and untethered. Everything about him in that moment filled your senses and clouded your mind; his hair wild from the struggle, the tobacco and expensive cologne making your head swim, his breath hot on your neck.

‘’You think you’re so brave because you have nothing left to lose, but you’re wrong. You still have your pride, that stupid fuckin’ mouth. I’m really gonna enjoy taking those from you… Piece by piece, he continued to whisper in your ear, low and dangerous.

‘’And then pass me along to your brothers?’’ You taunted. ‘’Playing with something you can’t even keep. You’re pathetic.’’

The words cut through the air, cutting deeper than any physical threats Ari had issued. You could tell by the way his hand tightened around your throat that it was a lethal blow, reminding him that he was nothing more than a man who couldn’t claim his own prize, letting him know he was nothing but a mere placeholder. His reaction was almost instantaneous. The low, controlled heat of his anger flared into a white-hot blaze. He didn’t pull away, but instead pushed you back flat onto the table with such a sudden, violent force that your head thumped against the wood, groaning under the impact and sending a vibration rattling through your spine.

‘’You think I can’t keep you?’’ Ari asked in a hushed, rough tone, his face inches from yours. His grip on your throat tightened more, enough to pin your head firmly against the table; his other hand flew to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a grip that was bound to leave bruises. The cold, detached professional was truly long gone; instead, he was possessed by a primal need to dominate and silence the one person who had managed to see through his armor, and it terrified you. His eyes flashed with an unstable light.

‘’I don’t pass things along, Sugar. I decide who gets what and when–’’ Ari leaned in closer, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, his breath ragged and full of fire. The sheer physical disparity between you both was overwhelming to say the least; you were a delicate flower trapped under a landslide. With each word, he sounded like less of a man and more like a predator ready to claim a kill as his voice dropped to a menacing, vibrating hum. ‘’Maybe I’ll decide you’re too precious for the others. Maybe I’ll decide that the only way to scrub that fuckin’ arrogance out of your mouth is to keep you locked in this room, on your knees, until you forget to speak anything but my name.’’

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression a terrifying mixture of hatred and an obsession he couldn’t quite mask. You let out a shaky breath through your nose, willing your bones to stop trembling, and the sly smirk on his lips told you he had wound up with exactly what he wanted. He wanted you to fear him, but more than that, he was desperate for you to acknowledge that he was the only thing in this world that mattered right now.

“Calling me pathetic? Well…” He trailed off, leaning closer, your noses almost touching, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Let’s see how ‘pathetic’ this feels, Sugar.”

Without any further warning, he dipped his head and crashed his mouth back over yours. It was a sordid collision of teeth and tongue, and you felt powerless to fight. It was a raw, hungry attempt to devour your defiance. He kissed you as if he were trying to drink down your pleas, take in your breath as his own; his hand on your throat guided your moments, forcing you to stay, enduring the onslaught of his fury.

The groan that bubbled in his throat caused you to writhe underneath him, your nails found his forearms, nails scraping against his skin, blooming red, frantic, desperate lines; a feeble attempt to get away, but it only served to heighten the friction. Every move you made only got you more and more trapped under the heat of his chest and the cool, unforgiving wood of the table.

“Fight me, come on, Sugar. Know you can do better than that,” Ari taunted against your lips.

He didn’t flinch at the scratches. If anything, the sharp sting seemed to act as a catalyst, stoking the fire already raging in him. You shuddered when he rocked against you, feeling how he loved the resistance; he was clearly a man who enjoyed having something to crush. He shifted his grip, hand sliding from your throat to the back of your head, his fingers curling ruthlessly in your hair. With a sharp, sudden tug, he yanked your head back, forcing you to expose your throat to him and breaking the kiss with a lewd, visceral wet sound.

“You’re so desperate to get away, yet here you still are. Still breathing me in, still feeling exactly what I do to you, and I know…” His voice was a breathless rasp, his eyes gleaming with something dark. “You fucking love it.”

He didn’t let you recover. Didn’t give you a moment to breathe. To sit with the impending doom. Instead, he began to trail kisses across your jawline, lips bruising and demanding, moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. Each press of his lips was akin to a brand, a claim of ownership that threatened to ignore the schedule, ignore the rules, and ignore the other men in the manor. You bit back a whimper, hating how a mix of disgust and want soared through your veins, trapped under him as he was operating on pure, unfiltered impulse now; driven by a burning need to silence her tongue and break your spirit.

His teeth grazed your shoulder, his voice heavy and breathy. “Tell me again how pathetic I am, Sugar. Tell me while you’re shaking, tell me while you’re pretending to not want me. You’ve always wanted me, Sugar.”

You tried to push against him, fighting to keep him from pushing his weight further against you, his thigh pressed firmly against your core, and you begged your body not to respond, and when you felt the all-familiar ache, you had no choice but to act. You waited until he looked up at you, making his way over to your other shoulder as you gathered spit in your mouth and launched it directly at his face​.

The room went silent.

The wet, sharp sound of the spit hitting Ari’s cheek echoed in the space around you. For a moment, the world seemed to stop spinning. Ari had frozen, his head slightly tilted, moisture glistening on his skin in the fading sunlight.

This wasn’t a verbal jab, a clever quip or pointed insult. This was a visceral, primal act of contempt. It was the ultimate reflection of his power, his masculinity, and his status within the manor walls. It was the only way you could think to get him to stop, but now you feared what would happen when he started again. In a home where respect was demanded through fear and blood, this was an act of absolute heresy.

Slowly and deliberately, Ari turned his head, his eyes locking onto yours. His expression was no longer one of hunger or rage. It was something far more horrifying. His features had gone completely slack, his eyes turning into two cold, dead stones. The fire had been snuffed out, replaced by a glacial, murderous calm. He didn’t move to wipe his face, didn’t flinch or reel back. He simply stared, the silence stretching out until it felt like a physical weight crushing the oxygen from the room and leaving you breathless.

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” Ari asked, his voice a flat, timeless whisper, devoid of everything human.

With a sudden, blurring movement, Ari seized both of your wrists, pinning them in a single, massive grip and slamming them up above your head with a force that made your shoulders feel like they were going to pop. He leaned in, his chest against yours.

“I was going to be softer. I was going to give you the luxury of a slow break, but you… You just can’t help yourself. So, what choice do you give me?” Ari’s gaze shifted around your face, a dark, twisted smirk finally touching his lips. It wasn’t a smile of pleasure; it was the smile of a man who had finally been given a good enough reason to be cruel. “I wonder if Lloyd will consider this as ‘extenuating circumstances.’ I wonder if he’ll let me keep you for the rest of the week, just to see how many times you can spit before you start begging for me to touch you.”

“So much for being the one who makes the decisions,” You huffed. Ari was right. You didn’t know when to stop, and you hoped that if you defied him enough, he would get bored and move on. “Gotta run to Lloyd to see if you can keep playing with the new toy. No wonder your wife upped and ran. I would leave you too.”

The mention of his wife again, coupled with the accusation that he was nothing more than a puppet to Lloyd’s whims, seemed to hit Ari like a physical strike to the gut. The calm he had so easily possessed vanished, his face twisting up as he took in a sharp exhale of breath. The transition was a violent one— switching from the predator playing with his food to a man stripped of every shred of restraint.

You jumped in your skin as his fist hit the table, so close that you could feel the wind from the impact.

“Shut the fuck up,” Ari warned, finger pointed towards your face, eyes glaring down at you, his voice laced with something twisted. “You think you’re so fucking clever. You think you’ve found the one thing that can break me…”

The grip of your wrists tightened, threatening to shatter the bones. He looked completely possessed, pupils expanded until no light reflected. His breathing came out in sharp, jagged heaves. Suddenly, he pulled you up right, manhandling you until you were pinned to the floor. He gripped your hips with a bruising intensity as his voice dropped, leaning down to graze his lips against yours as he spoke.

“I don’t need Lloyd’s permission to break a toy that’s already malfunctioning.”

The coldness was finding its way back, but it was different now. It was a focused cruelty. He wasn’t just reacting now; he was deciding. He looked at you— really looked at you— maybe not as a woman, but as an asset; as something that needed to be silent and subdued until there was nothing left.

“You want to talk about why she left? Maybe I'll let you figure it out while you're screaming my name. Maybe I'll show you exactly why no one survives this family with their pride intact.”

“Careful now, Ari. I’m starting to think you’re all talk,” You challenged. Your mind was split in two. One side hoped he would still leave; the other wanted him to stay, and you were unsure which to listen to. “Starting to think you can only get up on someone else’s say-so. Do it. Do your worst.”

The challenge hung in the air, acting like a spark in a room flooded with gasoline.

For Ari, the invitation was the final piece of the puzzle. He had tried control, he had tried the professional distance, he had tried pure, raw fury— but you; you offered him the one thing that he desperately craved in that moment: a reason to stop holding back​.

Permission.

For you, it was curiosity, wondering how far he would go; it was the other side that clung to the fantasy, the one where you moved away, where he followed— white picket fences, sunset strolls, and happiness. Despite everything, you had grown attached to the man who had betrayed you in the worst way, and if this was a way to pay up and get out, at least it was with him.

“You have no idea what my worst looks like, Sugar. You have no idea what you’ve just asked me for,” Ari purred into your ear, a sick grin on his lips.

​

He looked at you with an expression so vacant of any warmth that it made dread bloom in your stomach, mixing with the desire that still sat heavy there. He looked at you as if you were a puzzle he was about to solve by breaking every single piece. Then, suddenly, Ari shifted his grip. He didn’t just hold you; he manipulated your body with an effortless strength until you were face down on the floor, your chest pressed down onto the cream carpet. He gathered your wrists in his hand, pinning them against your back as he nudged and pushed at your legs until your back was arched, ass in the air. His other hand had made slow work, sliding up the back of your thigh.

The thin sweatpants offered no protection under the heavy weight of his hand, his large palm grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh; possessive and demanding. He leaned his massive frame down onto you, your chest crushing down against the hard floor; his breathing hot and heavy against the nape of your neck.

“You want the monster, Sugar? You want the man who drives women to run?” He trailed off, his hand shifting higher as he let out a mirthless huff of air that felt like a ghost of a laugh. His fingers hooked the edge of the waistband and began to pull it downward with a slow, drawn-out pace as his voice dropped to a lethal, spoken thread. “…I'm going to make you regret every single word that ever came out of that pretty, arrogant mouth. I'm going to make you beg for the "pathetic" man to stop. And then... I'm going to make you beg for him to start again.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He sank his teeth into the sensitive tendon where your neck met your shoulder, not a bite, but a grinding, punishing pressure that threatened to claim you entirely. As his tongue swept over marks left by his teeth, a gasp bubbled up in your throat, and you arched in a poor attempt to escape the assault on your neck, only to end up with your ass flush against the already demanding bulge in his jeans. The sound of your gasp was the only thing that filled the room; a signal to Ari of the first crack in your armor.

For Ari, that movement— that instinctive, physical reaction— was a victory more potent than any verbal submission, which made him let out a low, almost growling laugh against your skin.

“There it is,” He boasted with a grin you could feel. “Here we go, Sugar. We’re really getting started now.”

You knew he could feel the tremor in your muscles, the way your body betrayed that small voice that wanted nothing to do with what was happening. His hand, still gripping your wrists behind your back, toughened for a second, pulling your shoulders back and forcing your chest further into the carpet, the fibers biting at your skin. You felt completely exposed, vulnerable.

“Don’t get big-headed.” You tried to save. “Your hands are just rough, and the position is awkward.”

The defiance, although dwindling rapidly, was still there, clinging to you like a last shred of dignity, although thinner and frayed by the physical reality of his dominance. The way you gritted your teeth and fought through your reaction only served to fuel Ari’s obsession with breaking you. You knew he didn’t want you to be quiet; he wanted to strip away every last excuse you had until there was nothing but the truth of your response to him.

“Rough?” Ari let out a sound that was a half-laugh, half-snarl. He slowly released the grip on your wrist, but before you could even think of moving, his hands found your waist, gripping tightly and pulling you back against him. “I can be as soft as you want, Sugar. I can be the gentleman. I can be the pathetic man who plays by the rules…” He slid a hand down your spine, slow and agonizing, wanting you to feel every second of the anticipation; the suffocating weight of his presence until the hand found its way to your hair. “But you didn’t ask for the gentleman—“ He took a harsh grip, forcing you up against him as you bit back a cry. His voice dropped to that lethal whisper that made butterflies flutter in your stomach. “You asked for my worst.”

He gripped your chin and forced your head to the side, looming over you as he made you look back at him over your shoulder. His face was a mask of cold, focused intent; the void in his eyes now filled with a predatory satisfaction. He looked at your swollen lips, now parted and letting out little, quick breaths; the way your eyes were wide and shimmering with tears that threatened to fall— not from fear or sadness— from anticipation and pent-up frustration.

“You’re not in control here, Sugar. Not your words, your pride… and certainly not your body,” He stated, and you knew, in that moment, that he was right. The contrast between you was stark; your fragility against his brutality. “Now, tell me again. Tell me how rough and pathetic I am while I make you forget your own name.”

“Just do it already,” You provoked, voice a shaky whisper as a shudder made its way down your spine.

The whisper wasn’t a surrender, but an invitation; an invitation to the abyss that Ari was more than happy to plunge them both into. The sound of your voice, broken and breathless, acted like a trigger.

“With pleasure.” Ari’s voice was a quiet promise.

Ari made quick work of ridding you of your clothes. Rough fingers slid your shirt up your back and ripped it over your head before working down your sweatpants, the heat of his body shielding you from the room's cool air. He didn’t bother with sliding down your underwear, simply snapping the bands on either side, the sound ringing out— a symbolic shedding of the last barrier between you and his now unrestrained hunger.

“Look at me, Sugar, back up here,” Ari instructed, voice laced with need.

He didn’t wait for you to comply; he seized a handful of your hair and forced you back up, tilting your head back until your gaze locked with his. It’s like he wanted you to see the monster you had summoned. He wanted you to see there was no soft side left— only a man who had been pushed too far and now had every intent of reclaiming every ounce of power you had tried to strip away from him.

“You wanted my worst, Sugar?” Ari tormented. “That’s what you asked for, right?​

With you flush against him again, he tilted your head to the side with a rough grip on your jaw and crashed his mouth back onto yours; a battle of teeth and tongue, desperate and needing. You let a small whimper die in your throat as you struggled to keep up with his pace; the familiar taste of whisky on his tongue pulled at the desire that still lay thick inside you. He kissed you as if he were trying to devour your breath, his tongue invading your mouth with the same possessive aggression that his hands had on your body.

The hand that was in your hair untangled, sliding down and finding its way to the soft of your stomach, before slipping between your thighs and roughly hooking a finger into your center; blunt and demanding. His large fingers stretched and pushed in a way that made you want to fold. He clearly wasn’t looking for a slow build; he wanted a total collapse. He ground his hips into the meat of your ass, his cock finding friction between the layer of fabric and the softness of you; like he wanted you to feel what was to come— the man you had called pathetic, the man who had taken you apart over and over again, the man you wanted to do it again.

He broke the kiss just enough to rasp against your lips, “Tell me…” His fingers shifted, applying a sharp pressure to your jaw. “Tell me who owns you right now.”

You found his reflection in the window and glared at him through wet eyes, simply stating, “Never.”

The word was a fragile thing, spoken through a veil of unshed tears and a trembling lip, but it was delivered with the same stubborn pride that had defined every single second of your interaction with the family so far. It was the only thing you had left. Even now, your body pinned like a specimen on a board, your body calling out for the same man that had trapped you in a house of horrors, you refused to give him the one thing that he truly wanted… Submission.

Ari froze.

The pressure of his fingers stilled, and the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart against your back seemed to stutter. You could feel his stare, feel the burning. He let out a huff of air. He had broken professionals; he had crushed spirits that were supposed to be ten times more resilient than yours. Yet, here you were, refusing to break even as he tore your world apart.

“You really think this is a game of endurance, don’t you, Sugar?” Ari probed, voice dropping to a dangerous register. A dark, twisted smile slowly spread across his face. It wasn’t a smile of amusement; it was the look of a man who had just found a more interesting way to play with his toy. “Fine. Keep that pride of yours a little longer, baby. It won’t be long until you lose it.”

He shifted his weight, letting you fall forward, hands flush against the carpet as he settled back on his legs and forced your legs wider, exposing your cunt up to him. His hand lay heavy on the slope of your back as he used his free hand to threaten a start in dismantling you. He let his finger ghost down between your slit, finger tip sliding with ease due to the slick that had gathered, which elicited a hum of approval— of success.

“I don't need you to say it. Your heart is hammering against my chest. Your skin is flushing. You're shaking so hard you can barely breathe…” “The more you fight, the more I’m gonna make you feel. I’m gonna keep pushing ‘til you’re so desperate, so utterly undone, that ‘never’ becomes the last word you ever say to me.”

He withdrew his hands, leaving you cold and aching in the sudden void. Behind you, you could hear the shuffling of fabric, the sound of a zipper.

“Look at me, Sugar. Look at what you’ve provoked,” Ari commanded.

You glared back at him, refusing to look where he wanted, teeth gritted and bit out: “Still pathetic.”

The words were barely a breath, a ghost of a whisper delivered through gritted teeth and shimmering eyes, and above all else…

A damn lie, and Ari knew it.

The sight of him, long and thick; the glistening head of his cock where his anticipation had gathered. The vein that ran down the underside, which you’d run your tongue and fingers over time and time; the one that made him groan deep in his throat and tilt his head back. The same one that gave you the sight of him that had embedded itself in your brain, the one you lost yourself in over and over in your hotel room until you next saw him.

Ari let out a low, vibrating sound— a hum that sounded more like a purr, but it carried the weight of a death sentence. He looked at you, and for the first time, the hatred and hunger were eclipsed by a terrifying, absolute clarity.

You were full of shit, and he knew it.

“You’re so proud of that little tongue, aren’t you, Sugar?” Ari mused, toying with a grin to match.

With a sudden, unrelenting surge of movement, he drove himself into you with a brutal, uncompromising force that almost knocked the wind clean out of your lungs and made your thighs want to part and welcome him further; welcome him home. Despite the fact that there was no preamble, no tenderness, no gradual slide, it made you clench and ache around him. It was a taking— a raw assertion of ownership that felt as if he was trying to merge his very existence with yours; or perhaps, to split you in two.

The impact had you fighting against him, your eyes threatening to roll back for a fleeting second as the sheer scale of him filled you completely. He was too big, too much, an overwhelming presence that left no room for air, for thought— for defiance. He folded himself over at you, nudging himself a little inside a little further as his breath ghosted over the shell of your ear.

“Still pathetic?” He taunted, jagged, and rough.

He gave you no opportunity to comment back, no time to slide in an insult or jab. He began to move; each thrust was deep, punishing, and deliberate, designed to jar your entire frame and remind you of the reality of your situation. He used his size as a weapon, grinding his hips into yours with a relentless intensity that threatened and sought to drown out your thoughts, your pride, your “never.” The room seemed to shrink until it was only the two of you— the sound of the carpet biting and scratching into your skin, the wet— visceral and sordid— friction of your skin; the ragged, synchronized moans and pants of two people locked in a war of attrition. Ari’s face was a twisted mask of focused intensity, his eyes locked in yours, searching for the exact moment the light of defiance would snuff out.

His teeth grazed your ear as he rumbled out, “Where’s my noises, pretty girl? Don’t you wanna tell the whole house how pathetic I am… While you’re shaking and choking my cock with that pretty cunt.”

You muffled the whimper that continued its want for escape, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down until you feared the taste of copper. For you, it was a final act of rebellion; the last tool in the box. For Ari, it was an intolerable challenge. You knew he could feel how your walls gripped and pulsed around him; he knew the truth; he knew it with every deep, punishing thrust, but the fact you were still holding the gate shut nearly sent him over the edge.

“God fucking dammit,” Ari damn near growled, frustrated and flustered.

He didn’t just pull out; he ripped himself out of you with a sudden emptiness that left you gasping and hollow. Ari wasted no time, flipping you back over onto your back, rough fingertips bruising into your sides. You landed with a soft thud, the air leaving your lungs, but Ari was back on you within an instant. He gripped your legs under your knees and bent them upwards before his hands found your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he parted your legs, situating himself snugly inside of them.

He pinned you there, hands keeping a tight hold on your legs, large palms pushing into the skin; almost folding you in half. The position utterly degrading, stripping away every last shred of poise you had tried to maintain; washed away under the sea blue of his eyes staring down at you with that hunger shining bright. You were bent, broken, and completely exposed, and you hated how your core clenched, already missing him.

“You think you’re so strong because you can stay quiet? Like it’s gonna stop me?” Ari asked, the low, dark timber rattling against the nape of your neck. He shifted, the head of his cock bumping against your cunt, threatening to sink in deep again. “I’m gonna hit every single spout that makes you lose that stubborn little mind. I’m going to push you until you can’t remember how to hold your breath.”

He reached forward to grab a handful of your hair at the top of your skull, yanking your head back, twinges of pain pricking across your scalp, which made you cry out as he forced you to look up at him; your back was bent almost impossibly, his other hand coming up to keep a tight hold on your neck. His eyes were wild, pupils blown with a mixture of lust and a desperate need to see you break.

Ari grinned as he let the tip of his cock catch against your leaking hole; the only warning you were given before he drove back into you. He used the hold on your neck to anchor you down against him as he hurried himself to the hilt.

“Fuckkk,” He moaned, deep and drawn out. “Let’s see if this works.”

The angle was deeper, more invasive; knees angled towards your shoulder with nowhere to hide. You attempted to close your eyes, but a tight squeeze on your throat that threatened to keep your breath stuck in your lungs made them peel open again. You peered up at him— eyes wet, lashes clumped— and let out a shaky breath as Ari drew backward. He began to move with a rhythmic, punishing violence, his hips slamming against your ass with a slapping, wet, heavy sound that echoed through the opulent room.

“Come on, Sugar. Let me hear that you’re mine. That’s what you wanted, right? Run away and spend the rest of your existence split open on my cock. Tell me that you’re nothing but my toy, my sweet girl, come on,” Ari moaned into your ear, husky and honeyed, small grunts punctuated with each of his thrusts.

The sound was small at first— a broken, airy vibration that escaped your throat despite every ounce of your willpower, but once the dam broke, it was impossible to stop. The moan rippled through you, a physical admission of your pleasure and the pain of being under a man that had done you so wrong colluding in a sordid weapon that made your head swirl and your cunt ache and throb around him— you had lost the fight between wrong and right and all that was left was Ari who let out a dark, triumphant sound; a low growl of victory that vibrated through your back and wrapped itself around your throat.

“Yeah, there she is,” Ari drawled. “Hi, baby. Welcome home.”

Your break was like a drug to him.

The sound seemingly stripped away the very last threads of his detachment, replacing it with a feral hunger. He didn’t slow down; instead, he accelerated, his thrusts becoming faster and more frantic— deeper and unrelenting. He was no longer just trying to punish you for the insults, the defiance; he was trying to consume you, to carve his name into your very soul. The room became filled with the sounds of your collision— the heavy thud of skin on skin, the mix of your airy, strung-out moans and his desperate groans; just two people pushed to their limits.

“You knew you couldn’t fight it, Sugar. You can’t keep fighting me,” Ari rasped as he leaned down, lips brushing against your shoulder.

Ari wouldn’t be satisfied with a simple break, though. He wanted a total collapse. You adjusted to the rhythm, moans coming out as quick, broken whines. The angle was extreme— his massive frame almost compressing you under the weight of him— leaving you completely open, your vulnerability absolute as his forehead almost touched yours before he pulled back a little to look at you with eyes that were dark, void of mercy and shimmering with a terrifying sort of triumph.

“Look at you, folded up like a little doll. S’all you are, right?” Ari hummed breathily as he leaned up and began to shallow his thrusts.

The sudden change in tempo was almost more agonizing than the violent back-and-forth of the previous moments. Ari shifted his weight, leaning back up onto his arms, creating a small gap that made you instantly arch back up against him. He stopped the deep, punishing drives and instead restricted his movements to shallow, teasing frictions— just enough to keep you balanced on the precipice of a peak you couldn’t reach on your own.

He gazed down at you, lids heavy and a sordid smile, a mask of predatory satisfaction. Your legs still pinned, your chest heaving and unable to rock up to get his cock further inside as your gaze glazed over with a shimmering mixture of desperation and lust. You squeezed around him— an instinctive, pleading grip that contradicted every word you had spat at him since he lured you to the manor— earning a small groan and a shake of his head.

“Tell me you’re mine, baby. Tell me, and I’ll let you cum,” Ari crooned lowly; the jaggedness that had been present in his tone was long gone and replaced by a silken, manipulative warmth. He leaned in closer, voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “Just tell me. Tell me what I wanna hear… Tell me what you’ve been hoping for.”

He shifted slightly, a minute movement that sent a jolt of longing through you, and then stopped again, thrusting the tip in and out of your cunt. He was playing with you now, despite you gripping at his forearms and letting out the cries you had begged for. He treated your pleasure as a currency he could trade for your pride. He watched the way your pupils dilated, the way your breath hitched, favoring the power he held over you. That dark, knowing smirk tugged at his lips. He knew exactly how this worked; he knew how you looked at him, wanted him, how you reacted to simply being in his presence, and played like a harp.

“Isn’t that what you wanted? Didn’t you want that? Didn’t you wanna be all mine?” Ari’s ramblings were messing with your head; or, rather, emptying it out. You couldn’t think straight as he gave one more shallow, agonizing thrust; his gaze licked on yours that demanded total surrender. He was offering you a way out of the tension, a release from the torture, but the price was the only thing you had left. His breath was hot against your lips, a soft, commanding lure. “I’ll give it to you, baby… Just tell me. Come on, Sugar. Do it for me.”

Your head lolled to the side. The fight had drained out of you, replaced by a desperate, thrumming need that made every single nerve ending scream for the release he was withholding.

You bucked your hips slightly, letting out shallow and broken gasps— the sounds of a woman who had been pushed far beyond your breaking point and was now floating in the void of your own arousal— when Ari would laugh and hold them still, depriving you of seeking your own pleasure; only allowing what he gave. He refused to move, staying perfectly still; a towering mountain of muscle and heat. He let the room's silence amplify your desperate breathing. He could feel the clenching of your walls, the way your body was begging him to fill you, to drive you over the edge.

As Ari leaned down, his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your ear, the vibration from his voice sending a shiver through you.

“I’ll play with this pretty pussy just the way you like,” Ari lured, shifting his hips just a fraction— a tease, a promise— sending a fresh wave of electricity through you that made your back arch up into him instinctively. “I know how you like it. Come on, Sugar. For me.”

He knew the map of your body now; he knew where the triggers were, he knew how to play you, and he knew how much you could take before you snapped. He wanted you to feel the weight of your dependence on him, to realize that your own path to peace lay within satisfying him. He looked down at you, and you tried to shy away, knowing he had to see how clouded your vision was; the way your lips were parted and trembling. How he was slowly becoming the only thing in your world— the only spice of pleasure and pain, the only authority that mattered. He tightened his grip on your legs, pulling you slightly closer and nudging in deeper; the friction was almost unbearable.

“Just tell me,” Ari whispered, a dark, possessive promise against your lips.

You let out a mix of a moan and a sob.

“I’m yours,” You whined.

The words were barely audible, a shattered fragment of a voice that carried the weight of total defeat. The moment your admission left your lips, the tension in the room shifted. It wasn’t the sudden explosion of rage from before, but a suffocating wave of possessive triumph. Ari didn’t just hear you; he felt the surrender in the way your body finally went lax underneath him, the last wall of your defiance crumbling to dust as you gave in.

A deep rumble of satisfaction vibrated in his chest as his voice dropped into a dark, velvet purr.

“That’s my girl.”

With the victory finally secured, Ari shifted his position.

He pushed himself up, arms locked and muscles straining, creating a space that felt like a vacuum of anticipation. He didn’t pull out angrily; he retreated until he was barely clinging to you, the very tip of his cock rocking rhythmically and shallowly against your leaking entrance— open and aching. His eyes locked on the scene below, lids heavy and lips parted; his hair falling around him like a dark halo. It was a precision stroke, a slow, maddening friction that kept you on the edge.

His eyes shined with a heavy mixture of lust and ownership. In a move of raw, lewd dominance, he spat. The liquid landed with a wet slap directly on your swollen clit that pulsed for attention. The contest between the cool wetness against your burning skin caused a sharp jolt to shoot through your body, making your hips twitch up towards him.

“Now we play,” Ari hummed out, his hand sliding slowly down your body.

He didn’t rush to bring you your release. He brought his thumb down, pressing the calloused pad firmly into the puddle he’d created. He began to move in slow, deliberate circles; just enough pressure to make your head swim, but slow enough to stretch out every second of the sensation. He was molding your pleasure, twisting it into a form that only served him, ensuring that the orgasm he was about to grant you would be inextricably linked to the memory of your own submission.

“Feel that, Sugar? Feel how much you need me to finish this for you?” Ari asked, his breathing heavy, eyes flicking from your soaked cunt to your face.

He increased the speed of the circles slightly, his thumb flicking with a rhythmic precision that matched the shallow, teasing rocks of his cock inside of you. Your face twisted up, letting out a string of cries as you rocked up against him. He was building a storm, a crescendo of sensory overload that threatened to drown out everything but the feeling of his hand. He watched your face, savoring the way your expression blurred into pure, desperate need.

Your hips bucked up against his hand again, a wanton sob falling from your lips.

“Please… Please just let me, please…”

Ari let out a dark chuckle, his thumb pressing harder.

“Please?” Ari mocked with a matching pout, which made you whine and cry out.

The word was music to him.

After spending almost two hours fighting a war against your pride, the sound of you begging was the white flag he had been hunting for. He didn’t immediately give you what you wanted, though. Instead, he slowed his thumb down to a torturous, glacial crawl; teasing you to the very edge of your climax— the coil winding tighter and tighter as your breath came out in breathy hitches, your thighs ached, and you could hear the wetness around the head of his cock which made your cheeks flare up red— before pulling back and leaving you suspended in a state of wound tension.

“No, no, no,” You cried, rocking up shamelessly to get back the same sensation. “Please let me cum. Please, please, please.”

A low, vibrating laugh in his throat made you squeeze your eyes closed, letting the tears fall as he felt your desperate movements.

“Oh, look at you,” Ari teased. “Begging like a little pup in heat.”

Ari's laughter was a cold, taunting thing that echoed through the room, cutting through the sound of your desperate whimpers. He didn't move to help you, didn’t increase the pressure; he simply watched you, his eyes filled with a cruel glint as you continued to buck up beneath him. Your body acted on a primal instinct that Ari had so easily awakened and had completely overridden your mind. All you could think and feel was Ari, and he loved the view— the sight of the woman who had mocked him and spat in his face now reduced to a trembling, pleading mess, fighting for a handful of pleasure that only he could provide.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ari said, halting his movements once again, leaving you to growl out in frustration, which he paid no mind to. “Thought I wasn’t allowed to touch you again?” His voice was a mocking croon, his thumb was hovering just millimeters above your clit; you could feel the heat. “I thought you hated me? Isn’t that what you said, Sugar? Thought you could just walk away from a man like me?”

You frantically shook your head, a pout forming on your lips as Ari’s eyes lit up as he finally made contact with an unrelenting, punishing flick. You arched up against him, your head bending backward and your hands finding his arms.

“You're shaking, Sugar. You're practically vibrating for me.”

He didn't let you answer with words. He began to move his thumb in those same rhythmic, grinding circles, but this time, he increased the pressure, driving you toward the peak with a focused need, as he needed it as much as you did. He suddenly shifted, letting his cock slip out of you before his hips surged forward to replace the thumb with the full, blunt force of the head of his cock, letting it slip over your clit repeatedly before slamming deep into you with a force that knocked out a cry of his name. He didn't stop there; he began to drive into you with a frantic, desperate speed; each thrust was a violent affirmation of his ownership. He leaned down, one hand slipping under your neck, the other pushing on your thigh.

He was no longer teasing; he was determined to push you over the edge, the friction of your bodies creating a heat that felt like it would consume the entire room.

However, the sudden absence of his hand was like a physical blow.

One moment, you were seconds away from the shattering release you had begged for, and the next, you were left shivering in a cold, agonizing void. The sudden drop in stimulation sent you spiraling, your breath coming in ragged, broken sobs that shook your entire frame. You were left stranded at the summit, the tension in your body so tight it felt like a wire stretched to the point of snapping.

He shifted his weight, leaning back on his heels, both hands on your hips, and dragged you with him and began to fuck into you again with shallow, teasing movements. The switching between the two was driving you near-insane. He wasn't trying to reach your depths anymore— like you so desperately wanted, you wanted him to feel you swore you could feel him in your throat; he was merely grazing your entrance, a rhythmic, superficial friction that served only to remind you of what he was withholding.

Ari let out a long, heavy sigh. “I think I wanna see you do it instead.”

He let out a huff of air that was almost a laugh, his eyes scanning your trembling body. He shifted his hips slightly, a small, sharp flick of movement that sent a jolt through you, before settling back into that maddeningly shallow pace. He wanted to see you degrade yourself; he wanted to see the "proud" woman take your own dignity into your own hands just to satisfy the hunger he had created.

“Play with that pretty pussy for me. Show me how much you hate me, Sugar.”

He remained a heavy, unmoving anchor within you, his eyes locked onto your hand, gesturing with a nod of his head towards your core. By the look on his face, you knew he wasn't going to move an inch further until you complied. He wanted the visual— the sight of your fingers working for his own gain, the sound of your whimpering as you tried to find the release he had stolen. He was no longer just possessing your body; he was forcing you to become an accomplice in your own undoing.

You nodded as you slowly reached down, trembling and hesitant.

Ari let out a long moan, deep in his throat, as you let out an airy whine as the pads of your fingers came down over your swollen clit; the pads of your fingers sliding easily with the slick that still pooled there. You knew that for Ari, this had to be what he really wanted— not the moans, not the tears, the words, but the moment you accepted the role of his plaything, performing for his entertainment. He watched with lidded eyes, still rocking the tip of cock in and out of you, his eyes tracking every slide of your fingers, every shudder that wracked your frame.

“That’s it. Just like that.” His voice was a throaty rumble, thick with pleasure and gratification.

He didn't make it easy for you. Every time you seemed to find a rhythm, every time your breathing hitched in a sign that you were nearing the edge, Ari would shift. He would drive deeper for one sudden, hard thrust, knocking you off balance and stealing your focus before retreating back to those shallow, maddening teases. He acted like the sole conductor of your pleasure, playing your nerves like a finely tuned instrument, ensuring you felt every ounce of your own desperation.

His breath was hot and weighted against your neck. “Faster, Sugar. I wanna see you struggle for it. I wanna see how much you’re begging for me to let go.”

He shifted his grip on you, his large hand coming around your thighs to pull you up closer against him, your ass propped up by his knees, shoulder blades against the carpet, chest flatter against the carpet, forcing you to arch your back up further— making your vulnerability even more acute. He wanted you exposed, he wanted you desperate, and most of all, he wanted you to know that even your own hands were only working because he allowed it.

“Tell me, Sugar. Tell me how it feels to be mine. Don’t go quiet on me now,” Ari pried. “Tell me how much you love being my little toy while you do it.”

Your fingers picked up speed, rolling the sensitive bundle between their pads.

“Please,” You gasped out. “Please, m’so close.”

Ari let out something between a laugh and a groan. “Almost there, aren’t you?”

You nodded, lips parted, just as the tension reached a fever pitch, just as the first sparks of a climax began to coil tight, before it shone in your eyes, Ari acted. With a sudden, violent thrust of his hips, he drove himself deep— too deep and too fast— shattering the delicate rhythm you had painstakingly built. The impact was jarring, a physical shock that sent a wave of frustration through your system, knocking you completely off the ledge you had been clinging to.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You cried, unable to help yourself as you let out a desperate whine. “Ari!”

The rhythm was gone.

The momentum was dead.

You were left gasping, your body trembling in the sudden void of interrupted pleasure. The sheer cruelty of the timing was a psychological blow as much as a physical one; he had let you see the finish line only to tear it away at the final second.

“That’s not what I wanna hear, Sugar,” Ari scolded softly, hand coming up to grip at your chin, the palm of his hand applying a slight pressure to your throat.

He waited, staying buried deep inside you, a heavy, unyielding weight that felt like a seal on your fate. Your walls clenched and clung to him as he leaned down to brush his lips over yours before capturing you in a soft kiss, his tongue rolling against yours for a fleeting moment before he pulled back and leaned down. He peppered kisses from the thumb on the column of your neck, up to the shell of your ear, his voice vibrating through you with a manipulated darkness that threatened to keep pulling you further down.

“I didn’t ask if you were close,” He rasped. “I asked how it feels to be mine.”

He shifted slightly, a tiny, teasing rotation of his hips that sent a fresh jolt of longing through you, but he kept you pinned against him, keeping your legs parted so he could get a full view of your own hand still hovering near your heat, useless without his permission to continue. He was savoring it— enjoying it; the absolute silence of your pride, replaced by the loud, frantic drumming of your heart and the broken sound of your breathing.

“Say it,” Ari commanded, his tone dripping with a mocking, silky sweetness. “Say the words I want, Sugar, and maybe— just maybe— I’ll let you finish.”

You let out something between a sob and a moan, a small shake of your head before you gave in.

“I love being your toy,” You whispered, the words feeling heavy and filthy on your tongue. “I’m yours. Please, Ari. Please.”

The admission was a broken, fragile thing that signaled the complete dissolution of your will. You didn’t wanna fight him any longer. You still wanted him; you wanted the fantasy, and if this was the only way to get it—then so be it. It wasn't just a lie to get what you wanted; it was the sound of a woman who had been stripped of everything until the only thing left was the need for the man above you to stop the torture— or start it; you didn’t know anymore.

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, acting as the final key to the lock.

Ari let out a long, shuddering breath that sounded more like the predator finally closing its jaws. He had you. He had you right where he wanted you.

“Good girl,” He cooed out, that mocking tone still laced with every word he spoke. “That’s it. That’s my girl. There’s my baby.”

The change in him was instantaneous.

The cruelty vanished, replaced by an all-too-familiar face. There he was. Your Ari. He seized your hand, pulling it away from your body with a sharp tug, and replaced it with his own. He didn't use the slow, teasing circles this time; he used a firm, rhythmic pressure, his thumb working in tandem with a sudden, violent resurgence of his hips. The tease was over, and in its place came a storm of relentless, focused stimulation. He drove into you with a fervent speed, his thumb grinding into your clit with a fierce precision that left no room for hesitation. The collision of the two sensations– the deep, heavy thud of his body and the sharp, electric friction of his hand— was too much.

You let out a broken, high-pitched cry as your climax finally hit you. It was a violent wave that crashed over your entire body, leaving your muscles seizing and your mind blank; however, Ari didn't stop. He kept fucking you right through the peak, his thrusts jarring and deep, forcing you to feel every single ounce of your own release as it merged with the unrelenting power of his movement. It was like he wanted you to be completely undone, to feel the pleasure as something he had granted and something he still controlled.

“There…” Ari began to moan out in between heavy pants and labored sighs. “That’s it… Take it all, Sugar. Know you can.”

He let out a ragged, heavy breath, his own body trembling with the effort of holding back. He stayed buried inside you for a few moments more, savoring the way you shivered and gasped beneath him, the aftermath of the orgasm leaving you pliant, shattered, and spent. Then, with a sudden shift in energy, he pulled back.

“My turn.” Ari’s voice was a sordid promise— one you didn’t know how you were going to survive; one you didn’t know if you wanted to.

Ari gripped you by the waist and hoisted you up with ease, your body feeling like nothing in his massive arms. He carried you the short distance to the bed, tossing you onto the plush mattress with a blunt lack of ceremony. Before you could even roll over, he was there, lounging back against the headboard and pulling you onto his lap.

He sat you astride him, your legs framing his hips, stretched to capacity over his thick thighs, your chest heaving as you looked down at him. Ari's eyes were dark, his pupils blown, looking up at you with a mixture of predatory lust and a cold, possessive success. He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your soft skin to anchor you in place, ensuring you felt the full, pulsing length of him beneath you.

“Put those legs to work, Sugar. Make me cum,” Ari commanded with a deep drawl. Ari watched with a thick anticipation as you reached under and lifted up into your knees, your fingers wrapping around his length. You stoked the underside of his cock, running your thumb down that thick vein that made him let out a hiss of air. You nudged the head against your clit, rocking for a moment. “Fucking… finally.”

He stayed anchored, his massive hands gripping your hips with enough pressure to leave bruises, forcing you to take full control of the movement. The sensation of your delicate fingers stroking the underside of his shaft, combined with the slow, agonizing tease of the head grazing your clit made you let out a long, drawn-out whine as Ari let out a throaty groan. He watched you through hooded eyes, his gaze tracking your flushed, tear-stained face.

“Don't just tease me, baby. I've been patient enough tonight,” Ari said, almost pleading.

You lifted up as much as your legs allowed, fighting through the shakiness of your thighs, as you nudged the tip against your wet hole, taking in sharp gasps as you began to sink down on him. The stretch seemed more this way, filling you more than before.

Ari let out a low, guttural groan that sounded more like a snarl, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Fuck…”

The slow, deliberate descent was a different kind of torture. As you sank down, the friction was visceral, the wet heat of your body wrapping around him in a tight, desperate grip. Ari's fingers dug deeper into your hips, his knuckles white, as he felt you slowly encompass him, inch by agonizing inch. You knew he could feel the tremor in your thighs, the way your body was still sensitive and humming for him, and it only drove his need higher.

Once you were fully seated, bottoming out against him, Ari's eyes snapped open. They were void of any remaining tenderness, replaced by that raw, pulsing hunger. He didn't let you settle for long. He gripped your waist and began to thrust upward, meeting your descent with a powerful, rhythmic surge that forced you to bounce on him, pulling pitched moans with every jolt.

“Look at you... taking it all,” Ari rasped out, breathless as he tilted his head back against the headboard, watching you closely. “Oh, fuck it.”

He accelerated the pace, his movements becoming less about pleasure and more about a desperate, driving need to fill you up. It was like he was using you as nothing more than a vessel; his breaths coming in short, sharp bursts as he pushed himself toward the edge, his grip on your hips so tight that you cried out, your hands ending up flat on his chest.

His eyes locked onto yours with a taunting gleam.

“What was it you said yesterday?” Ari asked, head cocking to the side slightly as he thrust upward with a sudden, violent force, making your entire body buck and making your breath hitch. He didn't slow down, keeping a relentless pace that forced you to cling to his shoulders for balance. He was no longer just seeking his own release; he was weaving your previous insults back into the act— turning your own words into a leash. His voice was a deep rumble, his grip tightening on your hips until his fingertips sank into your skin.  “A communal fleshlight? Hmm?”

He let out a dark, breathless laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest and into you. He watched your face, searching for the flicker of shame or the return of that defiant spark, wanting to see your struggle with the reality of your current position, but it was long gone. All that was left was the sheer need to keep him buried deep inside you, to lose yourself in hun. He was the one who had broken you, the one who had forced the submission from your lips, and now he was making you inhabit the very role you had used to mock them.

His voice dropped to a lethal hiss that made you choke back a sob.

“Just a fucking hole. That’s all you are now, Sugar. Just a place for me to put this—“ He slammed into you, causing you to sink your nails into his bicep, your forehead touching his as you keened upwards. “A place for us all.”

The words were spat out with a clinical coldness, designed to strip away whatever dignity you had managed to claw back in the aftermath of your orgasm. He didn't pause for a reaction. Instead, he surged upward one more time, another brutal, bottoming-out thrust that seemed to aim for your very core, anchoring you to him with a possessive violence.

He began to move again, but the rhythm had shifted. It was no longer about the slow, seductive build or the playful torture. It was a raw, driving necessity. He used his strength to control your every movement, his hands acting like vices on your hips as he dictated the depth and speed of your collision. He was erasing you as a person, reducing you to the very thing he had just named— a tool for his own gratification— and you were letting it happen.

The room was thick with the scent of sex and sweat; the only sounds were the rhythmic, wet slapping of your bodies and Ari's heavy, ragged breathing mixing with your moans and the breathy chants of his name. He was close now, his muscles coiled and trembling under the skin, his focus narrowed down to the tight, hot grip of your body around him. He let out a low, animalistic grunt, his movements becoming frantic, a desperate scramble for the finish line before seemingly changing his mind, pulling out of you with a grunt and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock, letting out a long, shaky breath.

“Oh, fuck,” He moaned out. “Fuck, that’s— That fucking cunt, sneaky little thing.”

​

The frantic violence of the moment suddenly vanished, replaced by a heavy, suffocating stillness and heavy breaths.

He looked up at you, his eyes half-lidded and dark, glazed with a mixture of lingering lust and an insatiable need. He wasn't finished with you— not even close— but he leaned back like he wanted to savor the wreckage. His eyes wandered to your core, as if searching for the physical evidence of what he had done to you; to see the way your body had been stretched to accommodate him.

“Spread that cunt open for me.” He spoke with a deep hum, a demanding croon; the sound of a man who owned every inch of the room and the woman in it. He shifted his grip, his hands sliding from your hips to the backs of your thighs, his large palms pressing firmly against your skin. He didn't push you; he simply waited, the expectation of obedience hanging in the air like a blade. The smirk on his lips made you lean forward a little. There was no doubt that you were going to do it; that you were going to willingly display your vulnerability, to show him the very place where he had spent the night breaking you. “Let me see it. Let me see how I've wrecked it. Show me.”

He remained perfectly still, his breathing ragged, his gaze fixed intently on the point where you were joined. He was demanding a final act of submission, a visual surrender that would cement your new status as nothing more than an object for his observation and use.

Ari let out a long, slow exhale, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched your fingers tremble as you reached down to slide a hand to part yourself for him, fighting off the shame that wanted to bloom across your cheeks. He watched with a dark, focused intensity as your fingers pulled yourself open, exposing the raw, swollen reality of your encounter.

“That's it. Good girl,” Ari praised, voice almost a whisper.

The sight was so visceral that you couldn’t bring yourself to look down until Ari guided your gaze with a simple flick of his eyes— the flush of your skin, the glistening wetness, and the way your body had clung to him even in this state of exposure. To Ari, it wasn't just sex; it was a ledger of his victory, a physical map of where he had overridden your will and where he had left his mark. For you, it was everything you had wanted, even if it meant pretending you were elsewhere.

He didn't look away. His gaze remained fixed on the intersection of your bodies, his pupils blown wide. Slowly, Ari shifted one of his hands from your thigh as he positioned himself back against your hole, and you knew better than to move your hand away until you got his say-so. He helped you settle back down on him before letting you sit back, giving him a full view of you stretched to the limit around his cock until he reached forward, his large, calloused fingers moving with a sudden contrast of gentleness and intent. He began to trace the perimeter where your soft, swollen flesh was stretched tight around the thick diameter of his length.

His touch was light, almost a caress, but the intent behind it was purely possessive. Your muscles twitched under his fingertips, a shiver rolling through you from the contact. He traced the rim of your opening, feeling the heat and the tension, as if mapping out the limits of your elasticity. He let out a deep, contemplative hum, his breath hitching as he felt you clench instinctively.

“Wonder if I could stretch this any more?”

He didn't wait for an answer.

He applied a small, sudden pressure, pressing a finger against the edge of your opening to test the skin's resistance. You gasped and flinched, but Ari’s heavy hand on your hip kept you firmly in place. The movement was almost clinical, his eyes searching for that familiar spark of fear or the blankness of total surrender in your eyes. He was no longer just thinking about his own release; he was thinking about the capacity of the "toy" he had been given, wondering exactly how much he could break you before you truly snapped.

“I bet I could. I bet I could make you take even more than this, couldn't I, Sugar?” Ari asked, a silky whisper that made you whimper and shake your head, but you still felt the familiar ache as you clenched around him, and you knew you were going to have no choice. A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Shaking that pretty head, but your body is saying something else entirely.”

Ari tightened his grip on your thigh, pulling himself up so there was no gap, no air, only the crushing weight of his presence. You shuddered under his gaze as Ari withdrew his hand from the intimate, swollen heat of your body, but the sudden release brought no comfort. He didn't move away; he simply brought his hand up, the fingers glistening with your own fluids and the evidence of your encounter. He didn't offer a gentle touch. He pressed his fingers firmly against your lips, the smell of your sex filling the small space between them, forcing you to face the reality of what he had just done to you.

“Get 'em wet.” He didn't nudge or plead; it was an order, delivered with the same absolute authority he used to manage the family's dirty work. He held his fingers there, a barrier between you and the air, waiting for you to comply. The contrast was stark— softness of your pouty lips against the calloused, rough skin of his hand. He wanted you to taste yourself on him, to swallow the evidence of your own surrender. “Do it now, or it's really gonna suck for you.”

The threat was unspoken but clear.

Ari had spent the last hour playing with the boundary between pleasure and pain, and he was more than willing to tilt the scale back toward the latter if you hesitated. He remained anchored beneath you, his cock still filling you, a heavy reminder that he held every card in this game. He watched your eyes, waiting for the moment you accepted that your only option was to obey.

You parted your lips and slowly sucked his fingers into your mouth, your hand coming up to wrap pathetically around his large wrist. Ari let out a long exhale as your hand came into contact with his wrist.

“That’s it, baby. Now you’re learning. Just gotta listen, gotta behave.”

Ari watched you, heavy and possessive, as you took his fingers into your mouth. He didn't just let you suck; he exerted a small, controlling pressure, his rough fingers sliding against your tongue and the roof of your mouth, forcing you to accommodate him. He seemed to savor the way your hand wrapped around his wrist with a pathetic, desperate need for stability, as if he were the only thing keeping you from dissolving entirely.

Your other hand came up, fingernails scratching softly at the back of his hand, your thumbs pushed into his palm as your tongue rolled against the calloused fingertips. You let out a lengthy, heated hum around his fingers and rocked your hips down against him.

A growl ripped from his throat, his muscles locking tight. “You little…”

The sudden shift in your behavior— the way you began to actively seek him out, your nails scratching at his skin and your  hips rocking in a slow, desperate invitation— sent a surge of fresh, violent lust through him. He had spent the night breaking you, and now that you had allowed yourself to be broken, you were becoming something far more dangerous: a creature that craved the very hand that crushed you. The humming vibration of your throat against his fingers echoed the pulsing need deep in his own gut.

Ari didn't let you continue the tease for long.

He abruptly withdrew his fingers from your mouth with a sharp flick, his hand moving with a blur of speed to grip the back of your neck; his hold was iron, forcing your head back and exposing your throat to the dim light of the room. He looked up at you, his eyes void of everything but a raw, animalistic hunger, his chest heaving beneath you.

“You like it, don't you?” He surged upward with a sudden, explosive force, his hips slamming into you with everything he had. The impact was a brutal taking that knocked the breath from your lungs and sent you sliding up his body. He began to drive into you with a frantic, punishing rhythm, his movements primal. He was no longer conducting a symphony of submission; he was simply drowning in you. “I'm going to ruin you for anyone else, Sugar… you're going to forget how to even breathe without me…”

The violent intensity of his thrusts reached a fever pitch, the room echoing with the sound of Ari’s desperate thrusts and your needy moans. Ari was a force of nature, his muscles coiled and trembling, his focus narrowed entirely to the friction and heat of your body. Just as he neared the edge, he shifted. He didn't pull away, but he adjusted his grip on your neck, releasing you just enough to slide his hand back down. With a sharp, commanding movement, he thrust his fingers back toward your face, offering them up like a prize— or a leash. He didn't stop his hips; he kept a steady, grinding pace, his cock acting as a heavy, pulsing anchor that kept you pinned to him even as he demanded your focus elsewhere.

He gave a jagged command, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire. “Take them.”

Without hesitation, you opened your mouth and let him thrust his fingers back into your mouth, humming around them.

Ari let out a hiss, his hips bucking upward to meet you. “That's it... just like that.”

The sound of you humming around his fingers, the vibration of it traveling up his arm and settling in his chest, was the final trigger. He wasn't just possessing your body anymore; he had your senses completely occupied. Your mouth was full of him, your body was filled with him, and your mind was reduced to a singular, pulsing need for the man who had dismantled you.

Ari's movements became frantic.

He stopped the grinding and shifted into deep, violent plunges, each one driving you higher and higher until you collapsed on him, your face was snug against his throat, lips parted around his fingers as you cried out above him. He gripped your waist so hard his fingerprints were undoubtedly printing bruises onto your skin, his knuckles white. He was no longer the composed, cold right-hand of the family; he was a man possessed by a dark, singular obsession.

Ari’s voice was jagged, letting out a broken groan, his eyes blowing wide as the peak hit him. “You're mine… fucking mine…”

He didn't let the momentum die. Even as the first waves of his release began to coil in his gut, Ari refused to let the act be passive. It’s like he wanted you to be the one to push him over the precipice; he wanted you to be the instrument of his undoing. He shifted his grip, his massive hands sliding from your waist to the underside of your thighs, lifting you slightly to create a gap before letting you drop back down with a heavy, wet thud.

“Bounce on it, baby, come on,” Ari moaned out, deep and desperate. He began to thrust upward with a violent, rhythmic urgency, forcing your body to mirror his desperation. You kept your hands locked around his wrist, fucking yourself back onto him. He wasn't just asking for movement; he was demanding a performance of pure, unadulterated need. The room was a blur of heat and sound, the heavy scent of your union clinging to the air like a shroud. “Yeah, bounce on my cock, Sugar... make me cum, Sugar. Gonna fill you up. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Your teeth dug into the flesh of his fingers slightly, letting out muffled cries as you bounded feverishly, which earned you a strangled grunt from Ari, it ripping out of his throat.

“Fuck!”

The sharp, sudden prick of pain was the final spark to the powder keg.

It must have sent a jolt of electricity straight to his core, syncing perfectly with the desperate, frantic rhythm of your hips as Ari's entire body went rigid, his back arching off the mattress as the orgasm tore through him with a violent, unchecked intensity. He didn't pull away from the bite; instead, he leaned into it, the pain only fueling the raw, animalistic nature of his release. He gripped your thighs with a crushing force, his fingers digging into the soft flesh to keep you locked against him as he spilled himself deep inside you.

The world narrowed down to the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

For several long seconds, neither of you moved, suspended in the heavy, shimmering aftermath of a battle that had left you both physically and emotionally spent; a battle that both of you won and both of you lost. Slowly, Ari's muscles began to slacken. His grip on your thighs loosened, and he finally withdrew his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. He didn't push you off him immediately; he simply lay there, his chest heaving, his eyes half-closed and glazed with a dark, lingering satisfaction. He looked up at you— flushed, shaking, and completely undone— and a ghost of a smirk touched his lips.

“Look at you,” Ari mused, barely more than a whisper.

You hummed, your legs shaking as they remained stretched over him. You reached for his hand, fingers gently stroking against the bite marks. Your body still felt alive— wound, like you weren’t ready to give in just yet. You couldn’t let it be over. You slowly guided his hand down your body and back between your legs as you kept your gaze locked on his.

Ari let out a deep huff of air, his eyes tracking your every movement with a heavy, hooded gaze. “Still hungry, are you?”

You let out another hum and gave him a nod.

He didn't resist you. You knew he wouldn’t.

He let his hand be guided; his large, calloused palm sliding over the wetness of your thighs until he felt the heat of you. The difference between you was painstakingly obvious— his hand was steady and dominant, while your fingers were trembling, still humming with the electricity of the encounter. He didn't rush to apply pressure; he simply rested his hand there, feeling the way you squeezed around him, the need for your orgasm thrumming through your body.

Ari looked up at you, the coldness that usually defined his features softened by an amused, possessive haze. He watched the way your hair spilled across his chest and shoulders, almost like a curtain that isolated you from the rest of the house and the other men waiting for their turn.

“You're a greedy little thing, Sugar,” Ari cooed as his fingers began to curl, grazing your clit with a skilled precision.

He didn't start a full-blown assault; instead, he began a slow, torturous exploration. He used his fingertips to trace the swollen edges of your opening, testing the sensitivity he had spent the last hour heightening. Every small flick of his wrist sent a fresh spark through you, reminding you that while the storm had passed, he still held the lightning.

His eyes locked onto yours, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Do you want more, Sugar? Do you want me to keep ruining you until you can't even remember your own name?”

“Don't stop…” You whined out behind a bitten lip, staring at him with pleading, desperate eyes.

A dark laugh rippled through his chest, his fingers suddenly pressing firmly down on your clit.  “Careful what you wish for, Sugar.”

Ari's hand shifted from a tease to a focused assault. He knew exactly where your nerves were raw, exactly how much pressure would push you back toward the ledge. He began to work you with a need that matched your own, his fingers sliding through the wetness he had created, mirroring the heavy, pulsing presence of his cock that still filled you.

He watched your face, the way your expression shifted from desperation to pure, unadulterated need. His own eyes lit up at the sigh, and you wondered if he loved the way your eyes glazed over— the same way you loved when his would turn almost black. You wondered if he liked the way your lip stayed caught between your teeth— the same way you liked it when his face would twist up when you would squeeze him just right. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he was no longer just satisfying a physical urge; as much as he was cementing a psychological tether, ensuring that your pleasure was entirely dependent on his whim, he was enjoying the link to you. He was letting himself feel— even if for a moment.

Ari’s hips gave a slow, shallow buck upward.

“Look at you,” Ari said, “Begging for it again. After everything I just did to you.”

He increased the speed of his fingers, his movements becoming a blur of friction and heat. Your walls clenched around his softening cock, your body reacting instinctively to the renewed stimulation. He was building the tension again, a second wave of sensory overload that threatened to drown you. He leaned up slightly, his lips grazing your jawline, his breath hot and heavy.

“You're already becoming such a little addict, aren't you? Addicted to the way I break you. You’re gonna be so fun to pass along, Sugar.” Ari whispered, his tone dripping with a lethal sweetness.

You groaned at him, throwing your words back at you, but despite it, you began to arch your back, your breath hitching in anticipation of another climax, but Ari suddenly stopped. He didn't pull his hand away, but he froze every movement, leaving you suspended in that agonizing, white-hot void once again. He stayed perfectly still, ignoring and enjoying the way you cried out, his eyes locked onto yours, watching the frustration ripple through your shaking frame.

“Not yet. Tell me who you belong to. Tell me who owns every single inch of this greedy little body,” Ari rasped out.

“You own me, please,” You sobbed out desperately.

A dark, triumphant hum vibrated deep in his chest, his eyes darkening as he savored the sound. “That's right. Every single inch.”

The admission was the final piece of the puzzle.

For Ari, the physical act was the method, but this verbal surrender was the goal. For you, it was continuing the lie you had built up in your head.

He didn't reward you immediately; he let the words hang in the air, letting the weight of your submission sink in until you were trembling with the effort of holding yourself up on him. He watched the way your eyes were clouded with need; your spirit stripped bare and laid open for his inspection.

Then, with a sudden, violent surge of motion, Ari snapped. He didn't just resume the stimulation; he unleashed it. His hand became a blur of rhythmic, crushing pressure against your clit, while you chanted his name out like a prayer. He wasn't teasing anymore. He was driving you straight into the wall, forcing your body to collapse under the weight of a second, even more intense climax; your whole body seizing up and then breaking under it.

“Don't you dare close your eyes,” Ari growled up at you, his thumb pressing in with a ruthless skill. “Want you to see me while you fall apart.”

You kept your eyes locked on his as you let out a string of broken moans.

The room around you dissolved into a kaleidoscope of sensation.

Your vision blurred at the edges, but you fought to keep your gaze anchored to Ari's. You saw the hunger in his eyes, the dark triumph of a man who had not only claimed your body but had successfully and undoubtedly dismantled you. Every broken moan that escaped your lips was a testament to his control. You were shaking, your entire frame vibrating with the force of a release that felt less like pleasure and more like a total systemic collapse.

“That's it... Break for me... Just fucking break…”

As the waves of the orgasm slowly receded, leaving you limp and gasping, Ari didn't immediately pull away. He stayed buried deep inside you. He looked up at you, his expression a complex mixture of cold satisfaction and a strange, dark intensity that seemed to border on obsession. He had pushed you further than any of the other men had yet, which made your stomach want to turn up with dread. The sight of him— completely spent, little puffs of breath leaving through his parted lips, the strands of his long hair stuck to his damp forehead— helped push the feeling down for a little while longer.

Slowly, with a lingering, heavy friction, Ari withdrew from you. The sudden absence of his warmth felt like a cold shock to your sensitive system. He didn't help you up; he simply sat back against the headboard, watching as you slumped over his legs, cheek ending up laid against his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart. He reached out, his large hand gripping the back of your neck one last time, not with violence, but with a firm, grounding pressure that reminded you exactly where you stood.

“You did well tonight, Sugar,” Ari said, voice sounding thick with a tenderness that didn’t seem right in the space he had created, but you took it anyway.

He let out a slow, shuddering breath, his eyes scanning the room as the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by the oppressive silence of the manor. The high of the conquest was still there, but the reality of the situation— the debt, the family, the rotation— settled back in. He shifted his hand from your neck to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, which was still swollen from his fingers.

His gaze locked onto yours— a dark, warning glint returning to his eyes.  

“Don't think this means I've gone soft. You’ve got half an hour until Curtis is at that door, and he isn't nearly as... patient... as I am.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and the lingering weight of a psychological storm. Ari didn't move to comfort you. He didn't offer a blanket or a gentle word. He simply watched you for a moment longer, his gaze almost clinical once more, as if he were examining a piece of equipment he had pushed to its absolute limit to see if it would break. The rhythmic thudding of his heart began to slow, but the possessive energy still radiated off him in waves.

He finally shifted, sliding out from under you with a fluid, practiced grace. The loss of his body heat left you shivering in the dampness of the sheets, and you bit back a plea for him to come back. Ari stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over your curled-up form. He didn't look back as he walked toward the ensuite bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up and the steam beginning to leak back into the bedroom; and for a long while after, the only sound was the hiss of the water and your own shallow, trembling breaths.

Then, the shower stopped.

Ari emerged, a towel wrapped low around his hips, droplets of water clinging to the hard planes of his chest and the dark hair of his stomach. He didn't speak as he dressed, his movements efficient and cold, the "right hand" of the family returning to his professional shell.

“Clean yourself up. I don't want you smelling like me when Curtis walks through that door tomorrow morning. He won’t like it,” Ari instructed, not looking at you as he pulled his shirt over his head and smoothed it out.

He walked to the door, his hand gripping the handle and pulling it open. He paused for a fraction of a second, the silhouette of his massive shoulders blocking the light from the hallway.

Wait,” You called out after him.

You didn’t expect it, but he stopped.

While he didn't turn around immediately. He remained frozen, his hand still clamped on the brass handle, his broad back a wall of muscle that seemed to shrink the room. In the hours you had spent together, every interaction had been a battle of wills or a lesson in submission.

“Just... Just come pretend with me for a moment,” You finally pleaded, fighting against the tiredness that pulled at your eyelids.

The request hung in the air, fragile and incongruous against the backdrop of the wreckage in the bed. The word pretend felt alien in this house, a place where every cruelty was honest, and every boundary was meant to be demolished. Ari didn't move for several seconds. His shoulders were tense, his grip on the door handle so tight the metal seemed to groan.

“Come here.” Your voice was small and quiet.

The silence was heavy, save for the distant, rhythmic ticking of a clock somewhere in the manor's bowels. He remained a silhouette against the hallway light, his mind likely racing through the logic of the request.

Pretend.

It was a dangerous word. It implied a world where he wasn't a captor, and you weren't a debt-ridden asset. It was a request for a lie, a momentary truce in a war where he had already declared himself the victor.

Slowly, with a deliberate, heavy movement, he turned. He didn't look soft; his face was still a mask of cold, professional indifference, but there was a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps, or a remnant of the man he had been before the divorce and the darkness of his family's business—in the depth of his eyes. He didn't speak. He simply watched you, his gaze tracking the way you lay there, small and broken among the rumpled sheets.

Ari moved with a heavy, reluctant grace. He didn't rush; every step was a measured calculation, as if he were stepping into a minefield. The distance between the door and the bed felt vast, the atmosphere shifting from the coldness of a command to something thick, suffocating, and dangerously intimate.

He sank to one knee beside the mattress. His massive frame, even while kneeling, dominated the space, his presence a crushing weight. He didn't speak, his expression guarded, his jaw tight. He stayed perfectly still, his arms resting on his thighs, waiting. He was giving you the space to bridge the gap, as if testing whether this "pretend" was a genuine plea for comfort or another, more subtle form of psychological warfare.

As you shuffled toward him, your movements slow and trembling, Ari's gaze followed you with a hooded intensity. He waited until you were close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. Slowly, almost tentatively, Ari reached out. His hand, large enough to cover your entire side, moved with a gentleness that felt wrong in the context of your night together. He smoothed his palm down your side, the calloused skin grazing your ribs in a slow, grounding motion. Ari let out a long, shaky breath, his voice a fractured rumble that barely sounded like him.

“What the hell is this, Sugar?”

Despite his questioning, he didn't pull away. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of your waist with a tentative curiosity. It seemed like, for the first time, he wasn't seeking a reaction of fear or submission; he was simply feeling you, as if trying to remember how to touch something without intending to break it.

“Just for a minute,” You coaxed.

You reached up to stroke your fingers through his damp hair, nails scratching softly at his scalp. You saw his eyes flutter closed; a muffled noise— halfway between a sigh and a groan— escaped his throat.

The touch must have been a shock to his system. For a man who lived in a world of violence, blackmail, and cold calculations, this kind of tenderness had to be an anomaly. You guessed it was a vulnerability he hadn't permitted himself in a long time. As your fingers drifted through his damp hair and your nails grazed his scalp, you felt a sudden, violent tension snap within him. He didn't pull away; instead, he leaned into your hand, his forehead dropping forward to rest against your shoulder.

“This is what I hoped for when I met you the first time,” You admitted, voice almost a whisper. “That maybe I'd get to run away, and you'd follow me, and we'd have a home, and spend our nights curled up just like this.”

The confession must have hit Ari with more force than any of the physical battles he had ever fought. For a long moment, he remained frozen, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. The image you had painted— a home, a life, a quiet sanctuary— was a ghost of a dream you didn’t know he had buried under layers of cynicism and blood. It was a fantasy that had no place in the manor, and certainly no place between a captor and his toy.

“And then you ruined it.”

You pushed yourself away from him, sliding off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom without looking back, the door shutting heavily behind you. The click of the bathroom door was as final as a gunshot in the sudden, oppressive silence of the room. You let yourself sag against the door, bringing your hands up to cover your face while you waited for the lock to click. When it finally rang out, you pulled your hands down and inspected them. The phantom sensation of your nails on his scalp lingered, a ghostly caress that now felt like a brand.

Leaving you while you were so vulnerable would not be polite, even if you were coming onto him. He really wasn’t sure how to feel about that. You were his girlfriend’s best friend and his best friend’s girlfriend. 

But this was a weird time, and everyone had been so alone...

You would've never acted like this with Steve under normal circumstances. Well, not alone. You would've absolutely tried to get all 4 of you to sleep together, and even just the three of you before you got with Bucky, but not...this. Not just Steve. He was hot, yeah, but you weren't a cheater or a homewrecker. Well. Not with your best friend and the love of her life, anyway. 

"Oh, not that...?" You repeated softly, raising a brow at him. His words were saying one thing, but his actions were saying another. He was touching you now, his large hand resting on your small waist, yours on his chest. Damn. He was ripped; you could feel how firm his chest was even over his shirt. You could also feel how quickly his heart was beating. Yours was probably the same. 

“Not…that.” He repeated quietly, keeping his eyes on yours. “I…” 

"Okay. Not that." You went to lift your hand from his chest, but you noticed his grip had only gotten tighter on it. You just shifted away a little bit. Despite being crazy, you were typically nice. At least to the people you cared about. And being nice included not sexually manipulating your best friend's boyfriend. It was okay if you two just platonically touched and lay in bed together. It was still helpful, just not with the pent-up sexual frustration...

"Do you...want me to stop?" You shifted even closer to him, keeping your voice low. You didn't want to make him uncomfortable, and if he really wanted you to, you would stop. You just weren't so sure he really wanted you to... "You can leave, if you want."

He wasn’t sure what to do in this situation. You were clearly in distress. “I don’t want to…to cheat…on her.” His voice was low and quiet. The hand that held yours to his chest tightened its grip a bit. That made him think for a moment, though, about what you'd been talking about earlier. 

"No, I know. I get that...Things are just. So weird and different now." You nodded. Of course, he wouldn't want to cheat on her. It's not like you wanted to cheat on Bucky either...You were just feeling so...desperate. And he was right there, and he was hot, and it was convenient. And is it cheating if they're dead or missing or vanished into thin air?

“Uhm…did you two ever…A-after I asked her out…?” Steve looked incredibly nervous. It’d been so long since he’d been touched, even just like this, that it was hard for him to not get excited about it- no matter how much he didn’t want to.

"Um...yeah. We did, sometimes." You admitted, watching his reactions. He looked almost flustered. It was kinda cute.

His heartbeat sped up as he thought about the two of you girls…uhm. The flush on his cheeks grew deeper, heat radiating off them now. 

You could literally feel how hot Steve's cheeks were, his flush radiating from his skin. No wonder your friend had folded for him so easily; he was adorable. 

His girl was much more sexual than Steve could ever even imagine being- so he wasn’t that surprised…but he still…was. The girls had talked like they were intimate a lot, but he didn’t think you'd actually meant it. All the times you'd asked him to have a threesome…were you being serious? 

He gulped, making his Adam's apple bob visibly in his throat. 

"Steve, honestly," You began, shifting a little closer to him once again. It seemed the idea was maybe growing on him. "I don't think she would be pissed if she found out we...slept together... after years of being celibate, if that's what you're asking." Your face was flushed and hot as you said it. It was kinda weird to be talking about having sex with Steve of all people. 

He watched you move closer to him again, and he was still feeling shy as ever. You weren’t a bad-looking girl. In fact, he thought you were quite pretty. He didn’t want to tell you that, though; it would go right to your head...

“Is it…?” He started softly, obviously nervous to speak now. “Cheating…if it’s with you?” He couldn’t possibly be more flustered. “I mean…no offense, I don’t like you like that…” Casual sex was never even on his radar until he’d met the two of you. The way you two talked about one-night stands used to scare him.

You let out a little laugh. "It's okay. I don't like you like that either. It's just...convenient." You could tell he was really nervous, and you just wanted to reassure him. "But...like I said. We don't have to...do anything. Only if you want to."

“Convenient.” He repeated, his eyes meeting yours. “Right…” 

"Yeah, convenient." You said again, nodding as you spoke. "And...we're both like...not ugly." You laughed just a little, waiting to see his reaction. You were both hot, really, and you were sure Steve knew that. Well, actually, you weren't sure. But with the way he was reacting...he certainly didn't think you were ugly. "Steve..." You came even closer, to the point where your bodies were touching now. 

Shit. What had he agreed to? He was positive you already could feel how excited he was when you got so close to him. 

Oh. 

He was...already excited. That makes things easier, you suppose. "Are you...sure?" You whispered into his ear. 

Feeling your breath hit his ear as you whispered to him made him twitch a little. Geez. 

You pulled your hand away from his, running up the front of his shirt to feel him that way instead. God damn! He really was muscular. You kept your hand low, running your fingers across his muscular stomach. Shit. You were getting turned on already, too. You really were desperate.

“Y-yes. I’m sure.” He didn’t sound so sure, but he definitely looked sure. “I’ll stop you if I change my mind.” He assured you, already basically admitting he was going to let you take charge of him. It took him a while to become dominant with his girlfriend; he definitely wasn’t going to be that way with you. His heart fluttered at your soft touches on his torso. Your hands were so small and delicate.

...If he closed his eyes, it almost felt like you were her... Was that wrong? Probably. It flustered him just a little more.

You shivered when you felt him against your body. God. This was going to be good for you two, you thought. Well. At least, for you. Hopefully for Steve too. "Relax, Steve..." You moved your mouth to begin kissing on his jaw, just lightly. You would listen to him if he asked you to stop, but until then...

He laughed a little nervously. “You should know by now that ‘relaxing’ isn’t in my wheelhouse.” Steve rolled onto his back slowly, placing his hand on top of yours again but not holding it in place this time. He closed his eyes, taking a few deep, heavy breaths as he did. 

"Oh, trust. I know." You giggled a little into his skin, moving your lips down a little bit to begin kissing on his neck. You weren't really sure what Steve was into - your friend had told you some stuff, but you didn't really remember - so you were kinda going in blind here. 

That was fine; you were glad he was being mostly submissive at least. You performed better this way. You shivered a little when you felt his hand rest on yours, big and calloused. Your heart ached for just a moment - it reminded you of Bucky's hand. You tried to shove the thought out of your mind for now, to focus just on the task at hand. As he shifted onto his back, you didn't waste any time slowly climbing on top of him. In this position, the neckline of your tanktop was hanging low and showing your cleavage as you pressed your lips to his neck, kissing and licking just slightly. Your tanktop exposed your hard nipples through the thin fabric, pressed up against Steve's body. You wondered if he would notice...Keeping your hand on his torso, you slowly trailed your fingers up his abdomen, tracing the outline of each defined ab muscle.

His cheeks flushed red seeing down your shirt. It was inappropriate, but so was everything you two were about to do. He swallowed hard again, turning his head to the side and closing his eyes. As he did, he moved both hands to rest on your hips as you climbed on top. Geez. Even with all the weight you'd lost, you were still curvier than his girl was. He should really stop comparing the two of you...That wouldn’t end well.

"It'll feel good. Don't worry..." You continued to press soft kisses to his jawline, the stubble rubbing against your face a bit. You hoped you weren't being too romantic; you just wanted to tease him and make him feel good a little. You loved being a giver...

It was really almost embarrassing how quickly you were getting him worked up. He could already feel himself leaking at the tip beneath his pajama pants. Shit. It was impossible not to notice how worked up he was; it brought a smirk to your lips. Steve was already twitching and hard and breathing heavy...it only made you more confident.

The thoughts running through his head were maddening. Just get it over with. But he didn’t want to rush you; you needed it more than him. He wasn’t sure how to feel about you teasing him, though. Maybe you weren’t trying to. Maybe he should just calm down and enjoy it while he can.

“..sw-sweetheart…” He groaned out with a shuddering breath, his hands tightening their grip as he dug his fingers into your skin. He didn’t want to use your name for this. Seeing how his body was reacting, he almost felt betrayed. He was somehow more nervous than the first time he’d even had sex. Every time you moved around his body, he squirmed a little more beneath your weight.

"Hmmm....?" You hummed into his neck, gently kissing down to the crook of his neck. You sucked there - just gently; you didn't want to freak him out again - as you felt yourself growing wetter down there already. Damn. This felt...nice. Feeling a warm, human body against yours, one that was squirming and shivering under your touch no less. You were already too far gone; if Steve asked you to stop, well...

You moved your hand further up his shirt, your small hand finding his pectoral muscle and giving it a squeeze. Holy. Shit. This guy...was fucking beefy. Omg. You were even more mad now that you guys had never had a foursome before. His body reminded you of Bucky's but...Steve was somehow even more muscular. 

You moved your hand out from under his shirt, instead pulling at the hem of it as you looked at his face. He might've been the most flushed you'd ever seen him. "Can you...take this off...for me?" You asked, tugging on his shirt. You didn't want to entirely dom him, but you thought you could command him a little, at least.

Steve looked back towards you, his face still fully flushed. The soft touch from your hand made his stomach flutter. “Y-yea…” His voice wavered a bit, his breathing still heavy as his chest heaved. He pushed himself up a bit, using just his core to hold his position as he slid his shirt off with shaky hands. Jeez. He still couldn’t believe he was really doing this right now. It’d been so long since he’d had really any kind of touch; it was just making him more shy and self-conscious. He tossed his shirt to the floor and laid back down beneath you. 

He still couldn’t really bring himself to look at you too much right now, though. It was…embarrassing? Shameful? Both.

"Steve." You said, looking at his eyes as you watched him pull his shirt off. He was so...nervous, so tense, so shaky. It was almost making you feel guilty. "Relax..." You said again, moving your hands to slowly trail up and down his now exposed torso. Damn. Even in the dim moonlight, you could still see every defined muscle on his body. It was almost strange to see a man with two flesh arms, but you tried again to push thoughts of Bucky away. 

“I am relaxed…” He protested. Poorly. He moved his attention back towards you, looking to your eyes. Would that help? He didn’t think so now that he was doing it. But he decided to stop trying to hide from you. Your head dipped back down to his chest, and he moved his hands back to your hips. 

You couldn't help but let out a little chuckle. If Steve was relaxed, you were the fucking President. Whatever, hopefully he'd relax after he started feeling good. 

You just needed to focus on making both of you feel good in the moment; you could focus on being guilty later. "Don't think about it too hard." You told him the same thing you were telling yourself. "I'll make you feel good..." You moved your lips down to kiss his neck again, kissing down to his now exposed collarbone. You nibbled on it gently, and then slowly trailed one hand down to fiddle with the waistband of his pajama pants. You were getting...antsy. It had been two years; you weren't really sure how slow you could take it.

“C-careful…sweetheart.” He muttered out. Every time your lips touched his skin, he felt like his heart might burst. Whether that was because of excitement or because of guilt…he couldn’t figure out. Not yet. He bit his lip as you began to fidget with his waistband. “D-Do you…need me to do that…for you too, doll?” He laughed a little. Partly because he was teasing, but also partly because this was ridiculous.

"Hmm?" You hummed into his chest, nipping at his collarbone. It felt...really nice, actually, to touch someone like this. You were definitely...more than excited at this point. You nearly wondered if you'd soaked through your skimpy little booty shorts yet. "You can try," You teased, pulling the band of his pants down to expose him. You looked down as you did, watching him pop out - hard and twitching and already wet at the tip. "Oh my...shit," You said. Fuck, did you say that out loud? Your surprise at his size was meant to be an inside thought. Jesus. Your eyes snapped back up to meet his, your face a little flushed with embarrassment.

“Jesus Christ, Sweetheart.” He rolled his eyes. That wouldn’t hide how flushed his cheeks were, though. He was downright flustered. It was a bit of an ego boost, though, hearing you exclaim about him like that. Thinking about it made him twitch a little. God. He really was touch-starved, more than he ever thought he was. And you hadn’t even touched him there yet. He let his eyes rest on you again, watching your movements, your reactions. It was dark enough for him to pretend you weren’t…who you were. Maybe he should listen to you and actually relax.

Your face was flushed when he spoke. Back in the day, Steve never spoke like that, but things were different now, you supposed. It was still a little weird to hear coming from him, though.

"Hey, language, Steve," You teased, fingers trailing down his stomach slowly. Steve sighed. “You need to stop hanging out with Stark.” He muttered, closing his eyes. 

"But he's so hot," You teased, but you were quickly cut off when you let out a shaky gasp, following Steve's little moan you heard him make. You hadn't heard someone moan for you in far too long. It was getting you even more riled up. 

As fun as going slow and teasing him was, you were going to need some relief soon, and by the looks of his, well....he would too. You moved your hand to gently wrap around him, and you let out a small gasp as you finally touched him. Your hand couldn't actually wrap fully around him - he was girthy. Buck had been the same way. From what you could tell, they were similar in size, Steve just a bit bigger. Not that you should be comparing their dick sizes anyway... He was twitching in your hand, and you stroked him, just gently, lightly, gauging his reaction as you stared at him in the dark moonlit room.

Feeling your small warm hand against him caused him to let out a soft groan. Geez. This wasn’t going to go well; he was going to cum way too quickly. He moved his arm, resting his wrist on his forehead as he turned his head away from you again. Your touch still caused him to squirm- his breaths heavy, causing him to shudder with every exhale. If he didn’t think about it too hard, you really did feel the same way against him as his girl did. Damn. His spine arched just a little bit, causing him to thrust himself against your hand as you held onto him.

You moved your hand on him slowly, dragging the wetness from his tip down to his shaft as you slowly stroked him. Fuck. You might not last long. You hadn't gone this long without getting off since...well, ever. "See? It feels good..." You murmured as you watched him thrust himself against your hand. It caused you to let out a quiet little moan, watching him seem so desperate for your touch. Fucking hell.

He hadn’t doubted it would feel nice. He just had been worried about how it would make him feel…like, on the inside. “Y-yea…” He stuttered out, his hips jerking into your hand still. Christ. “Yea…it feels good.” He admitted sheepishly. You truly hadn’t done anything yet. He flustered himself thinking about it. His hand moved to your thigh, gripping tightly into your flesh as your hand kept playing with him. “Sweetheart…” He moaned out, moving his focus back to you. His face was flushed and his eyes half lidded. He thought that you might be the death of him.

“Mhm, I know…” Your voice was high and teasing, your face flushed as he admitted that it felt good. Damn. You nearly forgot how much you loved pleasing others. You smirked when you felt the way his nails were digging into your thigh, and the way he was staring at you with that lust in his eyes. Fuck. As much as you loved pleasing, you were going to need some relief soon. 

Your grip on him tightened when he moaned out for you; the way he called you those old-timey nicknames was really sexy... You'd always enjoyed it when Bucky did it too. You shifted, pulling your shorts to the side as you moved to line yourself up with him. You were already fucking sopping. You lowered yourself, just the slightest, to rub yourself against him. 

“Oh, fuck,” you immediately gasped out as you made contact. You could’ve already came just from that, and he wasn’t even inside of you yet. Good god.

Steve wasn’t feeling so shy anymore, now focusing on the pleasure you gave him instead. It had been a really long time; he thought he might burst. You seemed to enjoy drawing it out and teasing him however you could. A minute ago he wanted to get it over with because he didn’t like the idea too much; now he wanted to get it over with because if he didn’t he might die. A little bit of an exaggeration, but…it had been almost six years since the last time he had sex. He was allowed to be a little dramatic. 

He shifted beneath you, getting up on his elbows for a moment before sitting up against the headboard of his bed. As he did, he grabbed your hips- almost a little too aggressively- as he pulled you down onto him all the way. Steve pushed his head into the nape of your neck, groaning out into your shoulder as he hid his face from you again. He hadn’t stopped too long to think about if it would hurt or not…surely not. You were so wet, so so wet. It made Steve shudder as he slid you onto him. “F…fuck.” He groaned out against your skin. “Fuck, sweetheart…” He shuddered as he pulled back just a little to look at your face again. 

You were not expecting Steve to act so bold, to suddenly pull you down onto himself. You were not complaining by any means, though. You let out a loud, high-pitched moan as he slid inside. He slid in so easily - you were so wet from being so pent up - and he stretched you out a little as he went in- the sting absolutely delicious. It had been so long since you'd had something this big inside of her...your body wasn't used to it anymore. 

"F-fuck," You murmured, sucking in a breath as you arched your spine towards him. Jesus fucking Christ. He felt good. "Oh...were you feeling that desperate, Steve? Couldn't wait any longer?" You teased, but her façade was crumbling a little, your face flushed and breath heavy as you spoke. 

“S-sorry…are you okay…?” It almost looked like he was drunk, even though he couldn’t be anymore with the serum. He didn’t even know what had come over him; he was just a little embarrassed by how rashly he had just acted.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You can be even rougher, if you want," You said it mostly as a joke, not that you would mind, but because you couldn't really picture Cap being rough with you at all.

If his cheeks could flush more, they would. Rough? Cripes. He knew you were like that, but…hearing it from your mouth was crazy. He certainly wasn’t one to be rough normally. He already kind of had been, though. Steve closed his eyes as he buried his face back into your neck. He almost…wanted to kiss you. Not like…you you…but still. His right hand slid from your hip up onto your breast, groping gently. He let his fingers run over your nipple, gently pinching at it. "Fuck, baby," You moaned out as he pinched at your nipple. Damn. He hadn't even moved yet, and you were already feeling so good.

“Don’t call me that.” He mumbled against your skin, protesting poorly. As he complained, he pinched at you a little harder, his fingers rubbing against you and then moving to pull at the puffy skin of your nipple. Not too hard, just hard enough. You rolled your eyes at his weak little protest. He was being a little bit of a hypocrite, you thought. "You...can call me 'sweetheart'... but I can't call you baby...?" Your words were breathy and whiny as you spoke, your back still arching as he played with your breasts. Fuck. You hadn't felt anything like this in so long...you missed it more than she even thought you did.

“You can call me sweetheart, if you want. If you call me baby…it’ll confuse me.” His voice was soft and shy, just a murmur in the thick air. As he spoke, he lifted his head back up to look to your eyes. “You sound like her when you talk like that.” His voice wavered as he mumbled his words. 

You chuckled at his request. You couldn't call him 'baby,' but you could call him 'sweetheart'? This man was so weird. As he explained it, though...you understood. You and your best friend were similar in that way; you two said the same sort of things when you were fucking, probably picking it up from each other during all the times you two slept together. 

"Alright, sweetheart," You said, putting a little emphasis on the word. "I won't call you that. Sorry." Apologising at all was something you didn't like doing - especially during sex - so you just left it at that. 

As his hand traveled your torso, he noticed that he could feel your ribs now. Maybe he’d scold you about it later. He tried to distract himself, though, instead answering the question you'd asked before.

"Y-you made me feel desperate, sweetheart." He admitted through clenched teeth, his eyes flicking up to meet yours- his big baby blues just barely hidden behind his lashes. 

"Oh, is that right...?" You teased, giggling a little. You were a little flustered, though, surprised that he had actually admitted to being desperate for you. If you could've, you might've even gotten even wetter. "I...was feeling desperate, too," You admitted, though that was probably already clear considering that you two were even fucking in the first place. As he buried his face into your neck, you moved your hand to tangle into his hair, gently gripping his dirty blonde locks, which had gotten quite long recently. It was...sexy. Almost as long as Bucky's had been...

You tightened around him involuntarily, the way he felt inside of you feeling so good and so full. Fuck. At this rate, you were definitely not going to last long. Good thing you could go for a few rounds; in case you came before he did, you'd let him keep going. 

His arm wrapped around your waist tightly, firmly holding you in place on his lap. He needed relief. He needed this. As much as he wanted to protest, he couldn’t. Using his forearm against the small of your back, he began to move you up and down slowly against him, shuddering and groaning out as he did. He felt like he wanted to sink his teeth into your neck, but that was a bit much for him. So he didn’t.

"F-fuck..." You breathed, feeling him grip at your sides and begin to move you up and down on him. The sensation was beyond pleasurable; you couldn't believe how sensitive you were after 2 years of going untouched. The sounds he was making too...God. It was just getting you going even more. You kept your hand gently tangled in his hair as you moved your hips against his, matching his slow rhythm. You were getting the overwhelming urge to kiss him - hot and sloppy and open-mouthed like you always liked to do during sex - but you thought he might not like that.

“Fuck-“ He stopped himself before he finished calling out your name. You felt yourself clench around him when he almost spoke your name. You'd always gotten such a rush from hearing your name during sex, but you kinda understood why he wasn't saying it. It still sorta aroused you, though. “Fuck.” You two were already this far gone…maybe a kiss could be fine. He needed something to do with his mouth other than say embarrassing things. The hand that cupped your breast moved to the back of your neck. He pulled you close and closed the gap between your lips with a groan.

"Fu-!" You were cut off in the middle of your profane moan by his lips on yours. You weren't expecting it at all, but you were certainly not mad about it. You kissed him back, shivering as you heard his moan, the kiss open-mouthed and sloppy as you kept your hips moving against his.

He slid his hand from the back of your neck up into your hair, taking a fistful of it and holding tightly. He yanked your head back, taking his lips off yours as he instead moved his attention to your neck- nipping just a little as he left love bites right in the center of your throat. You said to be rough; hopefully this was fine for you... “Steve!” you yelped out in pleasure as he yanked on your hair. Shit. You said his name. With the way he’d been very clearly avoiding yours…hopefully it wouldn’t upset him too much. Hearing you call his name like that made him gasp out. He hadn’t heard it like that in a long time. Shit. He almost finished just hearing that.

You were the one squirming from his touch now; he was being much more rough than you could’ve anticipated, but…you liked it. A lot. You let out another loud moan as he nipped at your neck, your head tilted back to expose all of your skin to him. “Sw-sweetheart…” you moaned out, taking his suggestion seriously as you figured it was the safest thing to call him. “O-on second thought…” He stuttered out. “Don’t call me anything.” 

"Christ," You tried to roll your eyes, but they ended up rolling to the back of your head instead from the pleasure. "You're so...particular." You were always a name-caller during sex, but whatever. You were lucky enough he agreed to fucking in the first place. You shouldn't test him. 

Steve began bucking his hips into yours desperately, his arm still holding you tightly and maneuvering you however he pleased to do so. God. He was close. He could feel it, and he bet you could too. He was twitching violently, leaking at the tip as he kept thrusting into you. Every time his hips hit yours, he groaned out in pleasure. Every thrust into you made you whine and whimper and clench around him, and when you did, you could feel every little twitch and vein he had. You could feel him getting close…and you weren’t too far yourself. 

“Y-you… you’ve got me close…” He admitted with a shaky voice, his lips still pressed to your skin. “I-I know…” You moaned out, your voice shaky and high-pitched as you stared down at him, your hand on his head, holding him against your neck. You almost felt too good to gloat about him being close for you. Almost. 

“I can feel…how close you are for me…” You just couldn’t resist teasing him, but you were just as close as he was, the orgasm slowly bubbling up inside of your tummy, the coil winding tighter and tighter.

Christ, you had such a filthy mouth. He wondered for a moment if you got it from his girl, or if his girl got it from you. With the grip on your hair, he pulled again, forcing you to bend back away from him a little. His eyes trailed down your body for just a moment. He could almost see your sternum now. He was absolutely going to scold you later. 

"F-fuck...St-" You shut your mouth before you could moan his name again, completely obsessed with the way he was handling you so roughly, the hand tugging in your hair making you moan loudly. Never in a million years did you think Steve Rogers of all people would fuck you like this (or at all). Maybe he was more desperate than you thought. 

Just after a couple more thrusts, he was fully undone. He quickly pulled you off of him, throwing you onto your back beside him on the bed. Maybe not so tactful, and definitely not polite. But he wasn’t thinking rationally right now. You were close, really close, when suddenly, you weren't feeling him inside of you anymore. You stared at him as you landed on the bed, watching the thick streams of cum pump out of him. Oh. Your friend was right. He does cum a lot. "Fuck..." Your voice was a low whisper as you watched him finish. Damn. If he had done that inside of you, you surely would've came along with him.

Once he realised what had happened, he was…really embarrassed. Even though you said you liked it rough- that was a bit much, he thought. It also certainly wasn’t gentlemanly for him to cum before you did. Shit.

Steve was breathing heavily, shuddering as his chest heaved. He was holding himself in his hand, semen dripping off his tip and down his hand and onto his thighs. He was nervous to look back towards you; he had a feeling he pissed you off. He hadn’t meant to react that way; it just happened. 

“Shit, sweetheart.” He looked to you, his face fully flushed and sweat dripping down his brow. How did he break a sweat? You two didn’t even go at it for that long. “I-I’m sorry…” He sounded shy, his voice shaking. That might’ve been from how hard he was trying to catch his breath, though. 

There were a lot of embarrassing things Steve had done, but this might take the cake. Being desperate enough to agree to sleep with his girl’s best friend was already bad, but then not even getting her off when she was the one who wanted it? This would definitely keep him up at night.

You were still staring at the load of cum he let out, watching it drip onto his hand and thighs. You had half a mind to start lapping it up, but realized that would definitely scare him away. You were crazy, but not that crazy. 

"Don't apologize," You almost wanted to tease him, but it was clear by the way he was beet red and sweating that he was very embarrassed, so you let it go. Plus, it had been even longer for him since he'd last had sex, so it was probably hard to even last as long as he did in the first place. 

"It still...felt good..." You shifted a little, leaning over the edge of the bed to look for a towel or something he could clean himself up with. It had still felt good - that wasn't a lie - but you were a little bummed that you hadn't gotten to cum. Oh well.

“W-we can try again…if you just give me a minute…” He offered sheepishly. He was always such a people pleaser. “I don’t…I don’t want you to not…” He was so shy and so flustered, he almost looked how he did when he first came out of the ice again. Clearly, this wasn’t territory he’d ever navigated before. 

Steve’s eyes stayed on you as you searched the room, and he figured he should help. He looked over the side of the bed he was on and saw a pile of towels, so he grabbed one of those to clean himself up. As soon as he was done, he let his eyes rest on you again. Only while you weren’t looking at him. You were pretty, and you had a nice body. Most guys would’ve been head over heels at the idea of sleeping with you. He kinda just felt a little guilty though. His girl and Bucky weren’t around anymore- if they were, then he wouldn’t even be living with you in the first place- but he still felt as if he’d betrayed both of them by sleeping with you. 

To be honest though, he was giving up hope they would ever come back. So maybe sleeping with you wasn’t the worst choice he could make these days.

You chuckled a little. He was kinda cute when he was all shy and flustered. You did sorta want to try again, but you already put him through enough by convincing him to do it in the first place. You'd feel guilty if he felt like he had to do it again. Your face was flushed as you watched him clean himself up. 

You noticed - just for a moment, out of the corner of your eye - his eyes looked over you while you were looking away from him. Was he checking you out...after you fucked? Good god, this man was strange. You did the same thing though, letting your eyes drift across his body. He was nice to look at. Especially when you hadn't seen a body in years. 

"It's okay, Steve..." You ran a hand through your hair, sighing softly. "I'm not gonna make you do that..."

He wasn’t foreign to being rejected, but it did make him feel a certain way coming from you. He decided to ignore it, though. “Yeah…okay…” He looked away from you, readjusting his pants back up over his hips. “Do you want me back on the couch…?” Steve looked back towards you, awaiting your answer. He wouldn’t be surprised if you sent him away after that. It wouldn’t hurt his feelings. 

Is this how modern-day “hook-ups” were? He hated how it was making him feel. Aside from the guilt, he was justfeeling embarrassed. “I won’t mind…if you don’t want me here anymore after that.” He laughed a little, reaching a hand up to rub at the back of his neck.

You quirked your brow as you looked over him again. Was he seriously moping about the fact that you'd said no to him for his sake? You almost laughed. Your eyes drifted down to his pelvis as he pulled his pants up; he was still hard, causing a little tent effect in his pants. You smirked, biting your lower lip as you looked back up at his eyes. "Oh...well, if you really wanna get me off, I won't mind," You giggled, shifting close to him again. "It looks like...you could go for round two." Not only did you not want him to leave you all alone in this big bed, but...you did want to cum. It was almost unbearable how badly you needed release.

“Oh, is that how you feel?” He laughed. You certainly weren't subtle. “I don’t know…you already told me not to…I already put the pants back on…” Steve had a bit of a smirk on his lip. It was refreshing to see him have an emotion other than like…sadness or depression or despair. "Well...I was just trying to spare you the chore of having to sleep with me again..." You joked, laughing a little. "But since you insisted..." Really though, you didn't want to make him do anything he didn't want to...but it didn't seem like he was against the idea. He'd surely tell you no if he didn't want to. Oh. You noticed the smirk on his lips and, wow. You hadn't seen him wear that expression in...years. It looked...damn good on him, you feared. 

Maybe this was good for him…for both of you. “I did tell you you’d only have to give me a minute…” He muttered, leaning back onto the stack of pillows again. His cheeks flushed deep red as he thought for a moment. “Uhm…how do you want to…?” He really was new to this. He didn’t know how to act right with any sexual partner that wasn’t his girl.

Your face flushed at his question...you weren't sure, actually, how you wanted to go about this. You could...ride him, maybe? Sit on his face? No...no, that might give him a heart attack. 

"I dunno, Steve. Why don't you tell me?" Best let him decide so you don't accidentally kill him.

His cheeks flushed, causing him to be a little flustered. “You want… me…to pick? I…you…” He stared at you, blinking a few times. “You have more…experience…” His voice was getting softer the more we went on, like he was too shy to share his thoughts. “You must know…what you like…like…what makes you feel the best…” Steve sat back up, not breaking eye contact with you. “You like being on top, right…?” His cheeks were incredibly red now. “We can just do that…if you want…” His girl liked being on top too. He wondered which one of you topped when you two…oh. Oh no. He really shouldn’t be having dirty thoughts about the girls like that, but…it made him grow harder to think of it. He brought his fist to his mouth, covering it as he coughed to clear his throat. “J-just…just tell me what you need me to do.” He offered.

You giggled, watching his flustered reaction. You hadn't meant to make him react that way, but you definitely didn't mind seeing it. It was almost...charming. You could see why your best friend was so obsessed with him. "Oh, Steve," You mused, a smirk on your face as you slowly climbed on top of him. "You're kinda cute." He was, especially allembarrassed like this. It nearly made you wetter. "I do like being on top...that should work for me. " 

He watched you climb up onto him closely. The anticipation made him more excited. Jeez. He better not cum too quickly again this time. Doing it once was already bad enough, twice?? He’d never live it down. God. You were so filthy-minded. 

How did he know that you liked topping? Did you just have that vibe...? You wondered if he liked women who topped more than topping women. If there was one thing you knew about your best friend, it was that she loved to top. "Just make me cum." You declared, your eyes filled with lust as you stared down into his.

“I-I know that much..!” He protested, still fully flustered. Steve moved his hands to sit on your hips again. He was going to have to try really hard not to handle you like that again. Hopefully he’d have a little more self-control this time. “Go ahead.” He mumbled. “Lead the way.”

You let out another giggle at his words. It was fun, teasing him and seeing him all shy. Moving your hand to the waistband of his pants again, you pulled them down enough to get him out. He was still hard - good. Was that a super soldier thing? Staying hard for a while? No man other than Bucky (well, and now Steve) usually stayed that hard after cumming. Your shorts were still pulled to the side, seeing as you had never fixed them after the first round, so you lowered yourself down to rub against him again. One of the main components of the super soldier serum was enhanced stamina- that was for every part of the body…including his…area. He was so sensitive though, feeling you on him again so soon after he’d already cum. Cripes. He was going to do his best to hold off- he promised. His only job right now was to get you off. 

"Shit..." Even though it had been a few minutes, you were still really close. You lowered yourself down onto him completely, letting out a loud moan behind gritted teeth as you felt him fill you up. The stretch was so delicious- so insane. His hands squeezed your hip bones as you lowered yourself. He hadn’t really meant to, but…fuck. You were so small…so tight and so warm and so…fuck. You moved a hand to cover your mouth and bit down on it, trying to muffle your sound. You were afraid you'd say his name or 'sweetheart' or 'baby' again, so it was best if you just kept your mouth shut entirely.

Steve groaned, rutting his hips up into you a bit as you sat on him. You couldn't help but immediately clench around him. He was so big, and you felt so full...fuck. You were going to be the one to cum embarrassingly fast...You bit at your hand again as he bucked his hips into you, still trying your best to be quiet. You didn't need Steve going all drama queen on you again.  

You felt amazing. He noticed an absence of noise, though, and opened his eyes to see you covering your mouth. He lifted his hand to your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth gently. “I-it’s…it’s okay…sweetheart. I won’t…make a deal out of it…this time.”

You were surprised when you felt his hand on your wrist, your eyes fluttering open to meet his big baby blues. His face was flushed again, and he already looked like he was going to burst soon. Damn. You let him pull your hand away, a loud moan escaping your mouth as soon as it was uncovered. He wouldn't make a deal out of it this time? You thought it was best to test that theory. "Whatever...you say...sweetheart." Your voice was breathy, and you wore a smirk as you spoke. You began to roll your hips down against him, riding him painstakingly slowly. It was to tease him, but really...it was getting hard for you to even want to go slow like that.

Christ, you might be the death of him. Teasing like that still. Hadn’t you learned your lesson about that? “Sh-shit…” Steve threw his head back onto the pillows, his hips bucking into you deeper as he did. He tried to match your speed- slow, teasing, anticipatory. He couldn’t stop twitching. 

"You...have such a dirty mouth..." You teased, still not fully used to hearing Steve swear like that. You didn't mind, though. It was kinda nice knowing that you made him feel good enough to say bad language words. He ignored your teasing, instead deciding to focus on just making you feel good. And it seemed to be working from what he could see. The reactions you were having…God. It really was a nice little ego boost. It was definitely making up for earlier, he thought. 

His hands found their way back to your hips, holding you tightly in place as they ground against each other. Jeez. Maybe you were right. Maybe he did need this, and he just hadn’t thought about it. It was definitely a good distraction from how terrible everything was now. And he did feel a little lighter after cumming. God. You were going to turn him into a pervert, more than his girl already had at least. You shivered when he grabbed at your hips, another part of your body that was typically sensitive. Your heart ached again for a moment - Bucky was obsessed with your hips - but you pushed the thought away again. Just focus on feeling good, on cumming. Depression later.

You focused your mind on how good he felt, and God, he felt so good. You tried to keep a slow pace on him, but when his hips started bucking into you, you couldn't help but speed up just a bit. Feeling you speed up, so did his breaths as he kept pace with your hips. There were knots in his stomach watching how your body and face were contorting in pleasure. “…feel good…?” He panted out between his heaving breaths, watching you closely still with half-lidded eyes. 

Never in a million years did you think Steve Rogers of all people would be fucking you like this, making you feel this good, but...you weren't complaining. No wonder your bestie fucked him so much - he felt good as fuck! "Y-yeah...you feel...good..." You could barely get the words out, looking down at him with a red face and half-lidded eyes. You kept your pace on him, hoping it felt good for him too. You knew he already came, but you didn't want him sitting there feeling like nothing. Based on his heavy breaths and matching half-lidded eyes, though...you thought he was probably feeling alright. 

With a shaky hand, he moved his thumb down towards your core, hovering over your clit for a moment before deciding to go through with his thoughts. He pressed gently, not wanting to hurt you. He circled your sensitive bud so carefully, the rest of his hand resting against your stomach as he pulled at the little skin you had there.

"O-oh...fuck..." You threw your head back as you whined out, feeling his hand against your clit. That...that was going to make you cum pretty quickly. He was being so gentle with your clit, it was almost teasing. You bucked your hips, pressing yourself further into his hand as you moaned loudly again. It didn’t take much for him to get the hint- you weren’t so sensitive there, judging by how you were grinding yourself into his hand. He pressed a little harder, trying to gauge the right pressure to use. His eyes darted down to your chest, just for a moment, watching as you bounced against him. It got him just a little more flustered, so he moved his gaze back to your face.

You let out another loud yelp as Steve pressed into your clit harder, hitting the perfect amount of pressure to drive you absolutely wild. "I-I'm close..." You whined out, reaching up your hand to grab at your own breast, needing something to grip onto.

Hearing your words of praise caused him to twitch a little more. God. You were so dirty. He’d really learned to like it with his girl, though, so he didn’t mind it at all. “That…was…the goal.” He shuddered out between heavy breaths. He was happy to hear it; he really seemed to be redeeming himself with this second round. He hadn’t expected to care so much about what you thought about him as a sexual partner. 

Sometimes his girl made him dirty talk her to help her finish, and he always obliged even though he didn’t like it that much. Maybe you were the same way...

He moaned your name softly, seemingly flustering himself as he did, judging by the heat on his cheeks. “I want…you…to cum…” He was panting out the words now. “Can you…cum for me, sweetheart…?” As much as he said he opposed it, the dirty talk worked for him too. His other hand gripped onto your hip harder as he kept thrusting and rubbing against you. His movements became sloppy and almost lazy as he tried his best to hold off his own orgasm.

Fuck. Was Captain America of all people really speaking to you like this? His girl must’ve taught him well, because it was driving you fucking nuts. 

“St-steve…” You moaned out his name again; you couldn’t help it. Not when you were so close, and he felt this good. And the way he moaned your name out…fuck, it was like you automatically tightened around him when you heard it. “I-is that…what you want…?” Your face was entirely red, your words slurring and your voice whiny as you felt the orgasm bubbling up. “You want…me to cum for you…?” All it took was a few more thrusts and rubs against your achey cunt for you to cum. 

You came violently — your body trembling and convulsing in pleasure as you dug your nails into his huge biceps. Your mouth hung open as your eyes rolled back, riding out your orgasm as you moaned incoherent words. You were totally fucked out.

Feeling you cum against him- feeling your walls clench and watching you convulse got him so close. Seeing your face as you finished, though? God. “Sw...sweetheart...” He stuttered out, consciously trying to slow down his thrusts. You felt so good, though.

“Sweetheart...sweetheart hop off…” You weren't listening, though; you were too focused on your own undoing. 

You couldn’t pay attention to anything Steve was saying; it wasn’t even registering in your mind that he spoke at all. All you could think about was how good the waves of pleasure felt in your body, the first orgasm you'd had in years taking over you entirely. 

He came again-inside this time. He was trying really hard to not do that, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. Steve moved his hands to cup your ass, holding tightly as he put one last strong thrust deep inside of you, his back arching as his head was thrown back. Fuck. That was even better than the first time. His thoughts thinned out, his breath heavy, his brow sweaty. But then after a moment he realised what he’d done. “Fuck. Fuck. Sw...Sweetheart...” He seemed to be in a panic now, face fully flushed and red hot.

You felt him cum inside of you and moaned out loud again. You hadn’t entirely finished cumming yet, and you rode out your orgasms together, bodies slick with sweat and trembling. Fucking hell. You gripped onto his arms still, watching him come down from his own orgasm as you did the same. Your breaths were heavy and panting, your eyes half-lidded and face flushed as you stared at him. You felt drunk from the pleasure. 

“Wh...what…? Steve, what’s wrong?” You were finally remembering how to think and speak when you saw the panic in his eyes and heard it in his voice. Shit. Had you done something wrong? “D-did I hurt you?” You asked, looking into his eyes with concern as you watched him freak out.

Explaining to your girl that you slept with her best friend is one thing, but getting her best friend pregnant? He waspanicking. “Y-you…no I’m not hurt…you didn’t let me pull out…” Interesting choice of words from the Soldier who’d pulled you off of him with ease not even half an hour ago. “Are you…are you on ‘the pill’?” He still wasn’t quite sure what that was, but his girl had been very fond of it during their time together. “Do you need me to go get you the pill?” He asked nervously. Shit. He should’ve asked you about it before he agreed to this. He was embarrassed he hadn’t.

You just stared at him for a second. 

Was he really panicking about that? How had he forgotten…? Didn’t let him pull out was a bold accusation, seeing as he’d just tossed you off of him before, but whatever. You almost wanted to laugh. “Steve…you’re so cute,” You said, watching him freak out about pills. It was kinda cute, seeing him be so concerned for you. “I’m...I'm a Widow, remember?” You looked down at him, and he still looked good: flushed cheeks, hair sticking to his face, sweaty forehead. You could really almost go for a third round. 

“Not an issue with me. No need to panic.” You guessed it made sense he forgot; it’s not like you often talked about your childhood mutilation with him. It was something that never really bothered you that much — you'd never wanted kids, and if you really did, you could adopt. Plus, it made a lot of guys like fucking you since they never had to worry about pulling out.

Oh. 

Oh jeez. He really was just going to keep embarrassing himself with you, wasn’t he? He should’ve stuck to not talking with you. His cheeks were bright red now. “I’m…I’m so sorry…I forgot…about that.” His girl had told him that before, but he certainly hadn’t thought of it much after he found out. A heavy sigh came from his mouth, his chest heaving as he did. He closed his eyes, taking a minute to gather himself. He was so sensitive right now, especially with him still inside. The serum always made him bounce back fast, and he was already getting hard again. One time his girl and him kept going at it for almost four hours. He still wasn’t sure how she’d kept up with him for that long… He shook the thought from his head- even though he really liked that thought. 

“…Did it work…?” He opened one eye to look at you. “Do you feel…better now?” He looked to be so flustered talking with you about this so plainly.

You just chuckled a little, watching Steve be so flustered and embarrassed. It was nice to see him like that, as anything other than depressed, really. You tried to regulate your heavy breaths and fast-beating heart as you stared at him. Damn. You really needed that. That was…really good; it almost made you sad to think this was most likely your last time having sex until…god knows when. 

“Y-yeah…” You could feel him still twitching inside. Holy shit, he recharged fast. You were almost crazy enough to ask for a round three. “Yeah…it felt good. I feel…good.” You were almost shy to say it, but only because it was so weird to admit to Steve of all people. “Did…do you…feel better?” It seemed he enjoyed it, despite feeling weird about it at first. You just hoped it had felt good for him to get his rocks off too.

Steve listened closely, but looked embarrassed the whole time. “Y-yea! But uhm…” He had both eyes on yours, but turned his head away from you as he continued speaking. You looked at him for a moment - he was stuttering and blushing and rambling. Did he...not like it? Was there something wrong?

“I-Im not sure…if it’s the same with Buck or not, but I’m real sensitive…” He turned his head to look at your face again, but it almost looked like he didn’t want to be. “Yknow…because of the serum…” He was rambling now; he didn’t want to be rude, but maybe getting straight to the point with this would be best. 

“Can you get off of me, please?” He murmured. Geez. That sounded way worse than he meant for it to. “I mean..! Just because it’ll start hurting…it’s not that I don’t like you. I mean I don’t! Not like that, like we’re friends.” Oh, this was bad. If you didn’t put a stop to it, there was no telling how long he would babble on for.

"Oh!" Your face was flushed as you quickly - but gently - pulled yourself off of him and instead moved to sit next to him. You were so used to cockwarming with Bucky, you forgot it can make other men really sensitive. "Sorry..." You didn't mean to make him uncomfortable. As soon as you were off of him, though, you could feel all of his cum leaking out of you, dripping down your thighs. Fuck. Even for a second round, it was still a lot. You blushed as she felt it. His rambling was a little charming, though; you couldn't help but let out a little giggle. 

"All better now, Steve?" You turned your head to face him as you leaned against the headboard next to him, looking for the towel he'd used earlier. He noticed your eyes scanning the bed and grabbed the towel from the floor on his side of the bed, handing it to you. “Here.” Steve wasn’t entirely sure how he felt after that. Certainly...less pent up, a little less angry…maybe even less depressed, but…with you? Just thinking about it caused his cheeks to stay flushed. Geez. “Oh, thanks.” You took the towel and cleaned yourself as gracefully as you could before tossing it onto the floor. You weren’t entirely sure how Steve felt. You didn’t want him feeling guilty or regretting it, but you were worried he might be. “Are you…okay?” You asked, meeting his eyes. You didn’t want him to leave the bed still, but if he was uncomfortable sleeping next to you after that, you'd understand. 

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to…reverse how worked up you'd already gotten him again. Once he heard you talking to him, though, he turned his head to look at your face. “Y-yea…” His cheeks were still flushed, his eyes still half-lidded, his breathing still ragged. You looked him over for a moment — damn. He looked wrecked. Face red, chest heaving, and his lips slightly swollen from kissing. If you weren’t careful, you'd get worked up again. 

“I hope…it was helpful for you.” You murmured out. He did look slightly less tense.

Steve noticed how your eyes lingered on him, and he shyly readjusted his pants…again. You were fully dressed still, so he certainly wasn’t going to just sit beside you exposing himself like that. You watched as he put himself away. Damn. You wouldn't have minded that view for a little longer. Oh well. 

“Yeah.” He offered a soft half-smile. He didn’t want to make you feel awkward about it at all. “Just…convenient. Right?” His cheeks were still so flushed as he kept his eyes on yours. It was hard to wrap his mind around the fact that he even agreed to do it. He wasn’t really…as upset as he thought he would be, though. Sex was never a priority in his life before, not that anyone was throwing themselves at him pre-serum anyway- but he hadn’t realised just how pent up he’d been without it the last couple of years. He felt good, but he was shy to admit it. “Are you..? Okay?” You seemed very adamant about making sure he was; it made him curious if you were asking for your own sake and not his.

"Yeah...convenient." And also Steve was really hot and good at fucking. But you didn't want to say all that. It had been really good; you felt lighter, less tense, a little bit more relaxed. Orgasming had always been a great way to release for you any time you'd been stressed - and clearly, even though it was with Steve, this was no exception. You almost tensed up again thinking about the fact that you'd probably not get laid again for at least another two years. 

"Yeah, yeah. I'm good." You played with a strand of your hair before turning to look at him. "Um...are you...still gonna stay in the bed with me?" You didn't really want to be alone in the bed; it was the reason you'd asked him in here in the first place, but if he was uncomfortable now, you weren't going to keep him hostage here...

Once he was settled again, he sat back up, throwing one leg off the side of the bed. He paused, though, hearing you speak up again. The flush on his cheeks grew just a little deeper as he turned his attention back to you. “Yea…yea I will. That’s why I came in here in the first place.” He gave an awkward little laugh, reaching his hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I’ll be right back.” He wanted to say ‘don’t wait up’, but considering you'd asked him there for his presence, he thought that would be a silly thing to say. 

"Oh, okay! Good," Your face was a little red as you spoke, still feeling a little shy about the fact that you wanted to sleep in bed next to Steve. It was his fault, really, for having such a huge bed that made you feel so lonely when you laid in it...

Steve reached over to you, taking your hand in his gently before giving it a soft squeeze as his smile for you persisted. Without saying anything else, he stood, collected all the dirty towels he could see on the floor of the room, and walked off towards the bathroom.

It made perfect sense that Steve would be a shower after sex type of guy, so you weren't really surprised to see him head towards the bathroom. You did feel bad he picked up all of your dirty towels though. You could still feel his cum leaking out of you, and it was making you flustered. 

Christ, if anyone needed to shower, it was you. "Don't use all the hot water!" You called out after him, realizing you should probably take a shower after he's done. You were lazy, but you were full of cum, and he probably didn't want to sleep next to a girl who was leaking his own semen. If you were his girl, he would’ve just told you to come shower with him. The thought caused his cheeks to flush a bit. “I won’t be long, don’t worry.” He called back from the hallway. Oh yeah. Steve had been in the military, and he apparently never dropped the habit of taking 3-second showers, or whatever it was they did there. He was in and out so quick, you hardly had time to even realize he was gone. 

The showers Steve took were incredibly quick- muscle memory from being in the military. They weren’t allowed the luxury of comfort when he was touring. His girl used to make him shower longer- spend time with her in there and force him to enjoy the moment. He didn’t enjoy much anymore. 

Finding comfort within you, though- that was new. And also, a little scary. It couldn’t have been more than 5 minutes before he returned back to the bedroom, and he was drying his hair with a t-shirt. “All the towels are dirty.” He sounded more upset than he looked, but he let out a soft laugh as he looked to you. “Shower’s all yours. Don’t get my sheets wet.” He teased.

You laughed a little, watching him dry his hair with a shirt. It was...sorta cute, sorta...domestic. You'd been living with him this whole time, but you hadn't really been living with him. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. If you could get rid of the guilty depression nagging at your insides. "Feel free to use my robe," You joked with a snort as you stood up. "I'm sure it'll fit you." You stretched as you stood, your tanktop showing your midriff as you raised your arms above your head. 

Your shower was much longer than Steve's had been, somewhere between 15 and 20 minutes, and you felt a little bad for making him wait up for you. You came back in the room wearing a new, cleaner set of skimpy pajamas (it was all you owned to sleep in besides lingerie, and that was NOT appropriate), and you too, drying your hair with some random shirt.

Steve was lying on the bed, scrolling through his phone. Instead of looking sleepy at all, though, he just looked…focused. “Was there enough hot water?” He asked, not bothering to look up towards you as he kept his eyes on his phone. “No, your 5-second shower used it all up,” You joked, tossing the T-shirt aside. You were dry enough, so you figured it was fine to climb back into bed.

As you came closer, you could see his phone screen. He was scrolling through old photos of him and your best friend. He never took them himself- she would always do them and then text them to him. And then she would take his phone from him and save them for him. As much as she liked making fun of him for being too old for modern technology, she still helped him with all of it without complaint. Once he realised that you could see what he was doing, he locked his phone and placed it face down on the nightstand, instead turning his attention back to you.

You definitely saw what he’d been looking at, but you didn’t say anything. You did the same thing often, casually scrolling through her Instagram and looking at all your slutty pics. You missed her so much that it hurt. 

“You’re not tired yet?” You asked casually, reaching over the side of the bed. You grabbed a stray hairbrush from the floor and began to lazily run it through her semi-dried hair. Your darker roots had grown in quite a bit, and you noticed it any time you stole a glance at yourself in the mirror. Your best friend had always been the one to help you bleach it.

He laughed a little, but it wasn’t genuine. “Oh, I’m exhausted. I just thought it’d be rude to fall asleep before you got back.” He was only half joking. "I would've tickled you awake anyway," You joked, tossing the hairbrush aside. You weren't used to taking care of yourself anymore - not even brushing your hair - but if you were going to actually be like, hanging out with Steve...the least you could do was not look a total mess. As you shifted, your ribs showed a bit from underneath your tanktop.  

Spending time with you was actually helping to lift his spirits. Who knew it could’ve been such a simple Band-Aid this whole time. Instead, this whole time you'd just been eating meals silently, pushing your forks against your plates and wordlessly passing each other around the apartment like ghosts. 

His eye fixated on your torso as your shirt lifted up. He didn’t bother to hide his frown. He wouldn’t ever be as small as you again, but he’d lost a bit of muscle himself since the blip happened. Your name escaped his lips, his voice just a tad more serious than it usually was- which was already a lot.

You turned, letting yourself lie fully in the bed next to him, facing him again. He looked...unhappy. Mad? Concerned? You couldn't tell, but he was frowning. "Yeah?" You were a little anxious yourself. His tone was serious...too serious. Did he really regret it already? He sure seemed to enjoy it, considering how he came fast and hard both times...

Steve rolled over to face you completely; looking over his shoulder wouldn’t work once you were in the bed as well. 

Despite his strong start, he seemed to be at a loss for words for just a moment. He sighed, finally letting his eyes meet yours again. “Listen…I’m…I’m not ready. To move on. Honestly, I don’t think I ever will be, but…” His eyes scanned your body up and down before returning to meet your gaze. “We…we need to start being better.” A soft flush danced on his cheeks as he spoke. Hopefully you'd at least think about taking him seriously and not just laugh it off. “I…I can see your ribs. It shouldn’t be like that. You need…” He paused for just a moment, and sighed again. “We need to stop skipping meals.” That was a good start, he thought.

Steve was right. It was time you started...well, trying to live life again. As much as you loved to mope around and be stuck in the past...clearly nothing would come of it. They're either gone forever, or they'll come back somehow, but dwelling on it won't change the outcome. 

You nodded, deciding to take Steve seriously for like, the first time in your life instead of just making fun of him. Maybe it was time you two actually be, like...friends. Not just people who hung out with each other because you were dating each other's best friends. "I...don't want to forget them, but..." You sighed, keeping your eyes on Steve's. "I...want to start living again." Your face was flushed as you thought about what you were going to say next. "Um, with you, maybe. We can talk to each other, hang out and stuff..." You averted your gaze, feeling a little shy to say it out loud. 

Being vulnerable with Steve of all people was not easy. But if you were going to start being there for each other... You looked down at yourself. Your ribs were poking out a little, and your wrists had gotten so small that your favorite bracelets you wore were loose. Okay, maybe he was right about that too. "Um...I can try. But only if you do too. You eat less than I do."

Oh. You were handling this much better than Steve was anticipating you to. You were actually…taking him seriously. He listened to you intently, keeping his eyes on your face as you spoke. You seemed genuine; he was glad. 

“Don’t worry…we won’t forget them.” That was a promise. He wouldn’t dare. They were both far too important to him- to both of you. “That…that sounds nice.” He gave a soft smile. You'd spent far too long waiting for everything to change on its own. This was the least you two could do now, he thought. Build a real relationship as friends, be there for each other in ways that mattered… Steve had Natasha and…well…Natasha. The rest of the Avengers were still around, but everything was different now. Everyone was mad; no one wanted to connect. You, though…you didn’t have anyone with the way Natasha had withdrawn herself from everyone except Steve. The least he could do was keep you properly company.

You let your eyes meet his again, and you noticed his soft smile and lightly flushed cheeks in the dim moonlit room. That was good...you weren't the only one feeling shy. And he seemed to really be genuine. 

"I...think it sounds nice too." Why was your heart racing so fast? Had it really been that long since you'd made a friend that you were this nervous about it? Well...actually...yeah. You hadn't made any friends in over a decade. "Maybe I'd eat more if...the food you made wasn't such ass." You shrugged, a little smirk pulling at your lips. It was a joke, of course - Steve's cooking was fine - but just because you agreed to be friends with him didn't mean you had to stop teasing him.

“Oh, okay.” He rolled his eyes, but laughed as he did. “In the 40s we just boiled everything…be thankful I’m not doing that for your food.” His eyes quickly returned to yours, his smile still on his lips. “I’d like to see you try to cook…last I recall you just always ordered takeout.” 

"Really, Steve?" You laughed again as you looked at him. "Are we doing this? 'Cause we can do this. I can bring up all the bad stuff they used to feed us in the red room - if they fed us at all. And then you'll feel bad for starting it..." You chuckled along with him as you watched him roll onto his back. You guessed you both ate shitty foods in your pasts. 

“That’s not fair, I wasn’t sharing my trauma...!” He argued, turning his head to look at you again as he laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much in one day. He was glad you invited him in; it was really lifting his spirits. 

Maybe getting closer with her wouldn’t be the worst idea. You basically only had each other at this point. At least…consistently. Which was the only way that truly mattered right now. Steve rolled onto his back again, looking up at the ceiling as he put both hands behind his head. “I could stand to regain some muscle, I guess…” He mumbled, commenting on how you proposed he wasn’t eating enough either. You were right, though; it was just impossible for him to look as skinny as you.

"Yeah, seriously," You stretched out a little, letting out a small yawn. You had no idea what time it was, but it was definitely late in the a.m, and being so close to a warm body again was making you sleepy. "You're starting to look like me," you teased, jokingly flexing your arm. Your bicep was comically small compared to his unflexed arm. Steve didn't look all that different to you in body weight, but you thought maybe if he ate better it would bring some color back into his face. Plus, you thought it would be nice if you actually ate together at the table instead of sitting there in silence and playing with your food.

Steve let out a soft yawn, moving his hand to cover his mouth. It was probably 3 or 4 am now if he had to guess. Farpast his bedtime, whatever time it was. Grabbing at the blanket again, he threw it on top of you before adjusting it over himself as well. Seeing as how you'd just…well…he didn’t really see the point in trying to keep his distance from you now. Unless you wanted it, then of course he would comply. You made him realise just how much he’d missed the touch of another human, though. He wanted to be selfish and lie close to you in your sleep. Hopefully you wouldn’t mind too much.

You just laughed again, happily letting Steve cover you with the blanket. You were glad he wasn't being shy about it anymore - the whole reason you'd asked him to come sleep in here in the first place was so that you wouldn't feel so lonely. You were a cuddler at heart - probably from the lack of love in your childhood - so you couldn't help but scoot just a little closer to Steve. You and your best friend had always held each other in your sleep, and you practically slept on top of Bucky most nights, so it was just a little weird that there was a body in the bed with you and you weren't actively smushed against it. 

You were touching just the slightest bit, and his body was so warm. It instantly made you feel more relaxed, like maybe you could get a good night's sleep for the first time in years. Hopefully Steve wouldn't be bothered by the closeness, considering he'd just literally been inside of you not too long ago.

Steve lifted one hand to sit on your hip- over the covers- he didn’t want to be too intimate. 

“Good night, Kid.” He yawned again softly. 

"Night, Steve," You said, your voice deep with sleepiness. You felt even more relaxed and comfortable when he gently rested his hand on you. This was...nice. You slept soundly for the first time in over two years that night. You hadn't thought Steve lying next to you would help that much, but it really did. Well, the sex probably helped too. But still. It helped more than you could've imagined. 

That innate feeling he got for his friends came creeping back into his chest. He had a strong need to protect you and keep you safe going forward. He was glad you had decided to ask for his company- he could better keep an eye on you that way. That much was certain.  

It took a while for him to fall asleep, regardless of how comfy he was. He was distracted by watching you as you slept- how your chest rose and fell, how your face looked so peaceful…how quiet you were while unconscious. 

Eventually, Steve fell asleep as well, his hand still on your hip.

It was one of your favorite rooms in the manor, and not just because you spent so much time here with Andy. The decor was traditional–and expensive–a myriad of dark woods and butter-smooth leather. The walls were lined with built-in shelves, stacked with books and dotted with expensive pieces of decor, and even some antiques that probably cost more money than your brain could comprehend. 

But your favorite personal touch were the two pieces of framed artwork hanging behind Andy’s desk. They were abstract and colorful, and each time you got swept away staring at them, you swore your eyes gleaned a completely new shape or scene or meaning behind them. 

Andy once told you the story of how he had won them in a bidding war at an antique auction after months of tracking down any artwork he could find by his late mother’s favorite artist. 

It seemed like such a small thing about himself that he had shared with you–but it showed the kind of man that Andy Barber was. 

Devoted. Determined. Strategic. Patient when it counted most.

And never willing to give up. 

You smiled as you slowly made your way to where he sat hunched over his executive desk, still deep in his own work despite the approach of early evening. 

It was traits like his devotion and patience that had finally won you over completely–despite how gun-shy you had been at the mere idea of anything more with Andy. 

With anyone, really, given your history.

But even you couldn’t deny that the more you got to know Andy, the more time you had spent with him, the more the thought of something more had taken root in your brain and began to flourish.

And now here you were. 

Clocking your proximity, Andy finally pulled his eyes from his computer screen, straightening in his leather-back chair. His gaze softened as it landed on you, his lips tilting up at the corners into your favorite smile. 

“All done for the day?” he asked, pushing his seat back and making room for you, because he knew you well. 

So Andy didn’t bat an eye when you nodded in response to his question before slowly sinking to the floor, until you were sat between his feet and resting your cheek against his knee with a soft sound of contentment.

“I rescheduled your meetings for tomorrow to next week, like you asked,” you murmured, your eyes fluttering as Andy reached out and began to gently pet your head. “And I ordered flowers for Ari’s mother for her birthday next week, too.” 

“Thank you, honey,” Andy murmured, his fingers teasing along the shell of your ear and making you shiver. “You take such good care of me, of all of us. I bet you even reminded Ari of his mother’s birthday, just to be safe.”

Your cheeks warmed, because Andy was right, and his tone was so fond colored with the kind of tenderness–just for you–that made your insides swoop and flutter. You hid your face against his leg, your insides fluttering some more at the sound of Andy’s quiet, husky laugh. 

But speaking of Ari, something tickled your brain, something that made you frown as you tilted your face up and opened your eyes, your gaze shining with worry. 

“How are things with the art gallery?” you asked. “Is the business owner next door still causing you trouble?”

Andy’s eyes danced at the mention of the woman who owned the tea and bookshop next door to his new business. “She’s nothing to fret over, honey. Ari’s taking care of her.”

At that, you nervously gnawed on your lower lip. As much as you had come to accept the fact that Andy was a mob boss–and sometimes had to do ruthless, unsavory things–he treated you so well, and was so loving, that it wasn’t an issue for you. 

In fact, it provided a sense of security that you had never known until Andy–the fact that you now had such a powerful and competent protector.

But still… you didn’t like the idea of Ari hurting anyone, of the things you were sure he had done and was capable of doing. No matter how respectful and protective he was of you. 

You didn’t wish his dark intentions on anyone, even someone who had proven to be a thorn in Andy’s side from day one. 

But then again, given the rivals and competition he usually dealt with, this woman’s antics were almost… charming. 

“Don’t look so worried,” Andy hummed, gently caressing your cheek. “He’s dealing with her in a way I’m quite certain she enjoys.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Oh.” Your eyes widened enough to make Andy laugh. “Well… good. I know the gallery is your pet project and the first business that you’re genuinely excited for.”

“And it’s the perfect front for arms dealing, which drives the most revenue, so really it’s a win win.”

You hummed in agreement, once again sinking against Andy as he continued his light touches and caresses. His fingers danced along the tension in your shoulders, moving slower and pressing firmly, until you were making a quiet sound of relief as the knots of tension seemed to melt away into nothing.

“You slept fitfully last night,” Andy said. 

You nodded, leaning into the cradle of Andy’s palm that now rested against your cheek. He tilted your face up so he could get a better look at you, observing the shadows beneath your eyes with a small frown and furrowed brow. 

“More nightmares?” he asked.

This time you hesitated, but only briefly, before nodding again.

You didn’t hesitate because you wanted to hide your struggles from Andy, or because you were embarrassed he had of course noticed the state of you, but more so just because you hated to think about your nightmares, and the things from your past that caused them. 

At your admission, and the way your shoulders hunched and curled just a little, Andy’s touch instantly became more intentional. His hand moved to grip the back of your neck, squeezing in that way he knew melted your brain and made all of your anxiety dissipate. 

Of their own accord, your hands lifted so you could cling to Andy’s thighs, pressing your forehead against his knee and nearly curling around his leg like a koala–greedy for his touch. 

Even after all this time, you still couldn’t believe it, the way Andy’s touch affected you–in a good way. That you loved it and often needed it now. 

Because there had been a time when you thought that you would never enjoy the touch of another again…

18 Months Ago

“Another month in the green,” Andy said, sounding pleased as he scrolled through the financial slides on the tablet he held. 

“Bet you’re fucking tickled that you went all in on the club with me,” Lloyd Hansen preened, sinking back in his desk chair and giving Andy a shit-eating grin. “I told you this would be a money maker. There’s nothing like it for miles and miles.”

Andy hummed, setting the tablet on Lloyd’s desk, his face serious as he eyed the other man. “And I bet you’re fucking tickled that I gave you permission to set up shop in my territory.”

Lloyd rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, you made me work for it and go in halfsies with you, so.”

“You’re welcome,” Andy smirked. 

Lloyd scoffed, opening his mouth to likely fire back something Andy would make him regret, but before he could speak a word, his office door flung open and you were forcefully shoved inside. 

You squealed as Lloyd’s head of club security–the brute–gave you another shove that had you nearly face planting into the thick, expensive carpet. 

“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t to be interrupted?” Lloyd snarled at said brute. 

“Sorry, boss,” he grunted, giving you a lethal glare, “but she caused a scene out on the floor.”

Lloyd’s eyes snapped to you so quickly that you flinched. 

“Did she?” The chill in his voice had you cowering in dread as the security guy quickly ducked out of the office, pulling the door closed as he went and shutting you away with your prickly boss.

You were too terrified of Lloyd, and too distressed after what had happened out on the night club floor, to notice the stranger sitting across from Lloyd’s desk. 

“This is the thanks I get for hiring your cry baby ass?” Lloyd hissed as he rose from his seat.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hansen,” you quavered as he rounded his desk and stalked closer. “But… I, I told you, I don’t like to be touched and one of the men out there, he grabbed me and–”

Lloyd didn’t stop his approach until he stood toe-to-toe with you, causing you to visibly tremble as you hugged yourself tightly and kept your head ducked low, your eyes fixed on your feet. 

“You’re in a fucking night club, toots, dressed like that, might I add–“ Lloyd scoffed.

“You made me–“ you countered weakly.

“It’s called a work uniform.”

You thought that was a stretch as you eyed your outfit which wasn’t much more than a pair of metallic booty shorts and a sorry excuse for a shirt that nearly had your breasts spilling out the top. 

And you weren’t even one of the cage dancers, you were just a server. 

“You told me you needed this job, that you were desperate for work,” Lloyd growled.

At that, your head lifted, your gaze frantic as it met Lloyd’s. “I am, I do! Please, I’m sorry–“

Lloyd shook his head. “I can’t have you out there causing a scene anytime the clientele gets a little handsy. That’s part of the job. I mean, what the fuck did you think you were getting into working here?”

“Please, sir, I need this job. I don’t have anything else or anyone or–”

“Oh boo fucking hoo,” Lloyd sneered, dipping his head close and making you recoil. “I gave you a chance. I was more than generous. You get paid well. You get benefits. And this is how you thank me?”

Your chest hitched, a sob working its way up to your throat, because he was right. You had been so obviously out of your depth when you had shown up here for your interview, but you had also been beyond desperate for the gig, for a steady income, to survive. 

And now you had gone and fucked it all up because you couldn’t just do what all the other servers did and acclimate to your environment. 

“Get out,” Lloyd enunciated slowly before straightening. “And don’t come back.”

“No! Please!” Your voice was pitched with hysteria as panic flared within you. 

Because you couldn’t lose this job.  

“I can… I can do something else! Anything else!” you cried, trailing behind Lloyd as he turned his back on you and sauntered toward his desk. “I can tend bar or or do inventory or–”

He whirled on you suddenly, making you squeak as you walked right into him and then sharply drew back as if you’d been burnt. 

There was a mean glint in Lloyd’s eyes as they slowly trailed over you, in a familiar way that had your belly sinking and your skin crawling. 

“The only other use I have for you wouldn’t be ideal since you don’t like being touched, cupcake.” Lloyd made a lewd gesture with his fingers and tongue to get his point across, giving a mean laugh as you hugged yourself tightly and stumbled away from him. “That’s what I thought. I have no use for you. You’re useless. So get fucking gone.”

He turned away, clearly dismissing you, his words reverberating in your head loud enough to drown out all of your panicked thoughts. 

Because you were useless.  

Your tears finally fell as your devastation consumed you. You would be out of your shitty apartment within weeks if you couldn’t make rent. You’d be back on the streets, needing to do whatever it took just to get by. 

You shuddered with dread just thinking about it. Especially in this city. 

But you had nowhere else to go. No one to turn to. 

You had nothing. 

You were nothing. 

“GET OUT!” Lloyd’s holler made you snap back to the present moment.

You physically jumped at his raised voice, whimpering before turning on your heel to scurry out of his office, but a quiet, unfamiliar baritone made you freeze in place. 

“Wait.”

Lloyd huffed. “Really, Barber? You’re undermining me in my own club?”

“Our club. And I’m not undermining you. Just because you don’t have a use for her, Hansen, doesn’t mean I don’t.”

The tiniest, weakest flare of hope flickered within you as you turned and looked at the man who spoke, not nearly as bold in your gaze as he was. 

Even though he was seated, you could tell that he was tall, his posture straight and confident, his shoulders broad beneath the dark suit jacket he wore. His skin was fair and flawless, his face shadowed with a dark, meticulously kept beard that matched the floofy swoop of his brown hair. 

But it was his dark blue eyes that made your own gaze linger, and widen.

Because you realized that the stranger wasn’t watching you with a lecherous look like most men you’d come into contact with. His gaze was shining with something new and unfamiliar–sympathy, and calculation. 

“Take her out to the car,” he nodded, and another man you didn’t even notice until now materialized from the dark corner of the office. 

He was the biggest, broadest man in the room. His hair dark and long enough to curl around his blue, denim shirt collar. He was so big, in fact, that when he stepped toward you, you whimpered again, cowering at the sheer size of him.  

“He won’t hurt you,” the stranger with the pretty blue eyes promised. “Go on. We’ll speak once I’m done here.”

You swallowed hard–nervously–but you were nodding before you even realized it, your body picking up on the softness in his tone and gaze before your brain did. 

It made zero sense, especially given your history, but you trusted him, instinctively. 

So you turned, grateful when the man you assumed was his bodyguard didn’t touch you as he corralled you out of the office and down the back hallway of the club. 

Once you were tucked away in the dark, luxurious SUV parked out back, your mind started to spiral again, all the frantic noise inside your head blaring on a loop.

What were you doing? 

You didn’t even know this man. 

If he was in business with Lloyd, you couldn’t imagine he was much better. 

But then you remembered the softness in his voice when he spoke to you. In his gaze when he looked at you. 

He saw your fear and desperation and it seemed like maybe he actually wanted to help you.

Lord knew you could use that right about now. 

You were startled from your thoughts as the back door opened and the stranger appeared, climbing in beside you. You noticed how he seemed intentional in keeping some distance between you–in respecting your personal space. 

It was such a far cry from Lloyd and pretty much every other man you had ever met, that you felt a lump swell in your throat, and you had to look away from his intent gaze to blink the tears from your own. 

“What’s your name?” he asked gently. 

You took a breath, peeking over at him as you murmured your name. 

He gave you a small smile, introducing himself in return. “I’m Andy Barber, it’s a pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.”

Your lips trembled into an almost hopeful smile.

“You need work?”

You nodded fervently, so much so that you made yourself dizzy as you breathed, “Yes, sir.”

“Do you have any skills or notable experience?” Andy asked.

And just like that–you wilted. 

Because you didn’t. You barely had an education, and your resume was laughable–just a string of odd jobs that never lasted long, and the kind of years-long gap that would make any eyebrow raise. 

The only thing you had to offer was what Lloyd alluded to back in his office. 

Yourself. Your body. 

But you couldn’t do that. You wouldn’t. Not again. Not even if it was your choice this time. 

You wouldn’t, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t.

Andy’s quiet voice broke through your internal spiral–your mindless mental chant–as he told you, “You know, I didn’t start out at the top. I came from nothing. But someone with means saw potential in me. They gave me a chance. So I’m willing to do the same for you.”

And there it was again, that tiny flicker of hope sparking to life in the deep recesses of your tarnished soul. 

“Why?” you couldn’t help but ask. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’m very good at reading people, and I think you’re someone capable of loyalty, and that I prize most above all. Skills can be taught, knowledge can be gleaned, but loyalty? Trust? Those are innate and of the utmost value, especially in my world.”

You looked at Andy again and couldn't help but shiver. His poise, his confidence, his direct gaze. 

You weren’t quite sure who he was, but you knew that you had somehow stumbled your way into the path of someone important. Someone powerful. 

Someone who maybe, if you earned his trust, if you made him proud, he would keep you safe. 

And that, to you, was of the utmost value.

So you took a deep, shaky breath before whispering, “I can be loyal.” You swallowed before continuing, “And I can work real hard, no matter what you ask of me,” your voice faltered. “Except… I don’t… please, I’m not–“

Despite your fumbling, Andy seemed to understand where your mind had gone. What fear overtook you now. 

You saw him reach for you–perhaps his intention was a comforting touch–but he must have remembered you didn’t like to be touched, because he pulled up short and his hand retreated, resting on his thigh instead. 

“That isn’t what this is,” he said gently. 

“Okay,” you squeaked, sinking beneath the weight of your relief. “Good. T-thank you.”

You peeked over at him again, feeling unsure but also a little mesmerized. Because Andy Barber was beyond handsome. In fact, he was beautiful, but his eyes… your gaze couldn’t stop returning to his and the softness that resided there. 

No one had ever looked at you that way before. 

Without vile or cruel intentions aimed your way. Without malice or greed. Without the promise of pain, or worse. So much worse.

“Well, this seems pretty cut and dry to me, and genuinely the most pleasant interview process I’ve ever experienced,” Andy said. “So, you’re hired.” He winked, looking delighted when that got a quiet giggle out of you. 

But the sound of your amusement cut off abruptly as the car began to move, and you jolted upright, panicked. 

“Relax,” Andy soothed, his fingers twitching against his thigh like he was once again resisting the urge to reach out with a comforting touch. “We’re just driving you home, and then you can come to my place tomorrow and we can discuss how you can best support me,” Andy explained. “Where do you live?” 

You didn’t respond for a moment, not so much because you didn’t trust him–didn’t know him–but because you were embarrassed by the answer. But after a beat, you gave it to him anyway. 

Andy didn’t wrinkle his nose in disgust or make a judgmental remark like Lloyd had when he read your address on your new hire paperwork. He just relayed the address to his bodyguard, who was driving, before sitting back in his seat. 

“Would you be open to relocating?” Andy asked, clearly taking you by surprise. “If I have you assisting me daily, it makes the most sense for you to live on my property.”

“I…” you hesitated, not wanting to spoil this gift so soon after receiving it. 

Especially since you had no other prospects. 

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” you said carefully. 

Andy’s eyes sparkled at your diplomatic answer. “You wouldn’t be. Most of my staff have quarters at my manor. Like Ari,” he nodded toward the beefy man in the driver’s seat. “Same with my personal chef and butler.”

“Oh,” you murmured, nervously wringing your hands together in your lap. 

Because it seemed like Andy had a whole staff under his employ. Not to mention a manor.

Again, you couldn’t help but wonder who he was, whose orbit you had been drawn into. 

“Can I think about it, please?” You asked, not wanting to give up all of your minimal autonomy at once. 

Not wanting to make what could be a very life-changing decision before you knew Andy better.

“Of course,” he replied easily. “I can show you around tomorrow to help inform your decision. How does that sound?”

“Very generous.”

Andy shot you a small smile, and your belly swooped at the sight before you quickly looked away, your leg jiggling with nerves as Ari steered the SUV onto your street. 

The vehicle eased to a stop at the curb just outside of your dingy apartment building, and you found yourself unable to look at Andy–to risk seeing the pity in his eyes.  

“Here, why don’t we exchange numbers?” Andy suggested, fishing his cell phone from his inner jacket pocket. 

You pulled your own dated device from your back pocket, quickly fulfilling his request before clutching your phone between your sweaty palms. 

“I’ll send a driver to pick you up tomorrow at eight thirty, does that work for you?” Andy asked.

“Yes, but you don’t need to,“ you objected. “I can take the bus, or–”

“It’s a safety precaution on my end,” Andy assured you. “I don’t give out my home address to many. Not in my line of work.” 

He winked to make light of something serious, and you once again found yourself wondering what–exactly–was Andy’s line of work? 

What were you getting yourself into?

But you just as quickly shook that thought away, because this opportunity–Andy’s kindness–it was all you had, and it was truly a gift. 

No one had ever done something like this for you before, had given you a chance, a helping hand in a moment when you needed it most. 

And you wouldn’t waste it. 

So you nodded, mustering a smile despite your anxiety as you told Andy, “I’ll be ready tomorrow at eight thirty.”

“Perfect,” he smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

He watched as you opened the car door and slipped outside, hesitating before you turned back to him. Because a new feeling was overriding your nerves now.

Gratitude. 

You felt so very thankful for this unexpected opportunity. For Andy’s empathy and belief in you.  

You weren’t used to getting help or lucky breaks. 

You weren’t used to anyone caring about you in any way at all. 

It must have been written all over your face too, all these thoughts swirling inside of you, because Andy’s features softened as he watched you, another one of those small smiles cursing his lips. 

“Go get some rest, honey, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Your belly swooped at the term of endearment, and you lingered for a moment, wishing you were good with words, that you could articulate how grateful you were, how much this meant to you. But you finally settled on a very earnest, “Thank you, Mr. Barber.”

“No need to thank me. And call me ‘Andy.’”

Your insides fluttered at his request, and you nodded. “Goodnight, Andy.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed, watching your retreat.

Despite the way you hurried up the front steps and into the entryway, the SUV seemed in no rush to depart, instead idling at the curb until you were safely inside.

You scurried up the four flights of stairs to your unit in a daze, your brain trying to process everything that happened tonight. You were out of your new job at the club, but it seemed like something better could be awaiting you. 

Thanks to Andy. 

You were terrified to really get your hopes up, because so rarely did things go your way, but this time, weirdly, the excitement–and anticipation to see Andy again–was something you just couldn’t shake… 

“Come here, honey.”

The sound of Andy’s voice brought you back to the present moment, your hazy mind surfacing from one of the few pleasant memories you had. 

Blinking owlishly, you glanced up to find Andy watching you in soft amusement, his big hand held out toward you. 

You slipped your hand into his, allowing Andy to pull you first to your feet, then into his lap. 

His arms circled you in an instant, tugging you close as his lips pressed a kiss to your forehead. As you went pliant against him, resting your cheek on his shoulder, he murmured, “We’re going away for a long weekend.”

Your head snapped up in surprise. “We are?” 

Andy smiled as he caressed your cheek. “Well, as long as you want to, but it’s why I had you clear my calendar tomorrow. I think some peace, quiet, and nature will do you good.”

You couldn’t suppress your giddy smile if you tried. “We’re going to the lake house then?”

Andy’s smile was more of a grin as he nodded, “I know it’s your favorite.”

“Thank you, Andy!” you squealed, nearly bouncing in his lap as you hugged him and pressed a kiss to his beardy cheek. 

Andy’s eyes twinkled at your sweet excitement. As you went to pull away, his fingers caught your chin, staying your retreat as his eyes ignited in a way that had a surge of warmth pooling low in your belly.

Slowly, his gaze meeting yours and not shying away, Andy pulled you in for a real kiss. The kind of kiss that made it impossible to catch your breath because you could feel with each and every press of Andy’s lips against yours how much he loved you, cherished you, wanted you. 

You were nearly panting once he pulled away, your eyes dazed enough to make him smile. 

“You never need to thank me for taking care of you,” Andy hummed, touching his lips to your forehead. “For treating you the way you deserve.” His next kiss warmed your cheek, then he placed a final kiss on the other before pulling away at last. “Why don’t you go pack?”

“I will, in a little while, but first, can we just…” You sank against him, loosely clinging to him as you nuzzled your cheek against his chest. “Stay like this for a little while?” 

“We can stay this way for as long as you want,” Andy promised, his big hand touching your back before settling into a slow, soothing rhythm–up and down, up and down–making you go even more pliant against him.

Humming your content, you allowed your eyes to flutter shut, truly feeling your exhaustion for the first time all day. 

But you felt something else alongside it, something that–once upon a time, but not so long ago–you never would have thought you would ever feel… 

As Andy’s soft, musky scent filled your nose, as his warm, reassuring touch smoothed up and down your back, as you tucked your face against the crook of his neck and breathed in as deep, you felt truly and unequivocally safe.

🥹 You guysss. I love them SO hard. I would be so beyond grateful and delighted if you took a moment to drop me a comment or reblog with your thoughts. Pretty please! With a naked Andy and Ari on top?! 😘

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You’d spot a birthday card half opened on his nightstand as you were tucked into his bed, and soon snug against his chest as he held you tight to sleep. You’d murmur a small “happy birthday” against his chest and earn yourself a slight squeeze and pet to the top of your head.

In the morning, you’d wake him by cautiously peeling yourself out of his arms, wanting to keep him asleep just a little while longer and slide yourself down until you could lay between his legs, head resting on the meat of his inner thigh as you reached up to carefully peel back his boxers, cock springing free and resting heavy on his stomach as if he already knew what to expect.

He’d wake with a sleepy moan, deep in his chest as your tongue massaged the head of his cock, letting spit pooling your mouth before letting it run free down his length. Giving it to him exactly how he’d like, lazy and messy. Soon enough, his eyes would flutter open as his hands found your hair, tangling his fingers up as took your time, letting the tip of your tongue map out every vein, every inch, every spot that would make him buck his hips a little and hiss out a strung out; “fuck, baby, yeah, right there.”

As usual, the second he let go, he’d be rambling away, voice low and thick with sleep, rough and quiet. “So good at taking care of your Daddy, hmm? You love making a mess, don’t you, Sugar?”

Soon enough, spit is pooling at the base of his cock, soaking his balls as you sloppily work your mouth up and down his length, Steve absolutely losing it above you, until he uses the grip on your hair to thrust up into your mouth, using your throat as his own personal toy. “Such a good girl, so fucking hard for you, s’all for you, Sugar. Come on, baby, open wide for me. Let Daddy in, sweet thing. Little deeper, you can do it.” He’d gasp and groan as you swallowed around him, throat constricted around his length.

“Gonna let me use that pretty cunt after? Yeah? Exactly how I want? S’my birthday after all, Sugar. Gotta be nice on my day, gotta be so good for Daddy. You’re always so good for me, fuck, fuck fuck.”

You’d rest your head back on the meat of his thigh after he would guide you off his cock, one of his hands gripped your hair while the other hand fisted his cock, spurts of cum landing on your cheek, your open lips and chin. His head would be thrown back as he chanted your name. You’d clean him up with delicate laps of your tongue, wet eyes peering up at him as he cupped your face, thumb rubbing against your cheek.

The favour is quickly returned, Steve would haul you up, your thighs knees either side of his head, hands gripping your hips as he slides his tongue through your folds. Your hands would grip at the headboard, head falling forward as his tongue lapped at your clit, tip of his tongue catching the sensitive bundle over and over again. He’d eventually guide you to actually sit, shamelessly rocking your hips against his open mouth, your hand gripped in his hair, the other splayed over his large hand pawing at your breast. Blue eyes would lock on yours, wordlessly spurring you on.

You’d cum with his name on your lips. “Steve, Steve, Daddy, m’cumming, don’t stop, Daddy. Daddy, fuck.”

The rest of the morning and afternoon would be spent doting on him, despite him whining that he likes taking care of you and that because it’s his birthday he should get to what he wants, and what he wants is to take care of his baby. But you refuse. You tidy up the room, help him shower, change the sheets. You make him coffee while he rattles away on his laptop and perch yourself at his feet, humming happily around his cock that sat heavy on your tongue, whenever his hand cards through your hair.

Later on in the evening, you’d have dinner together. Obviously you can’t go out to a fancy restaurant, so you’d both get all dressed up and have a meal in the dining room which would be scattered in candles and soft, light music. You’d spend the meal with light touches, bumping your foot against his until eventually your hands are bound behind your back, his silk tie in a tight knot around your wrists, his large hand holding your bound wrists as he drives into you. The plates on the table clatter with each thrust, mixing with both of your moans.

“Fucking made for me.” He’d spew, gravel in his voice as he attempted to tame the monster. “Should keep you like this, fuck the others. Keep you ready for me. Daddy’s baby girl, huh? Just mine, yeah? You mine, Sugar? This pussy belongs to Daddy, right? Come on, give me the best present I could ask for, cum on Daddy’s cock, tell me how much you want it.”

As an added bonus: Darker Steve would keep you chained to the bed, bound and gagged. Your legs spread, tied to opposing bed posts for him to use you throughout the day however he wanted. Can’t have you running off, or worse… Running to one of his brothers or uncles. That just won’t do.

The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town. 

At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true. 

The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing. 

Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it. 

You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly. 

"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."

"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.

One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out. 

"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."

"You said you'd play too!" you accused. 

Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."

You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."

"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."

Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"

"But they're the best ones!" You whined. 

Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"

That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you. 

The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.

Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."

Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"

He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."

He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.

"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."

Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it. 

"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate. 

Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."

"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.

TEN YEARS LATER

As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.

It's kind of uncool.

The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house. 

Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too. 

The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games. 

Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.

“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.

“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.

He always is.

Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days. 

They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup. 

It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.

Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.

And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.

Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.

And you—

You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.

“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”

Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”

You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.

Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject. 

He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—

“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”

You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face. 

"Perfect!"

Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"

You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."

He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.

Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead. 

“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”

“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”

“That’s not what I said.”

You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.

“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.

“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”

“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.

That’s what does it.

Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”

He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.

“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”

“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”

There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”

“Have fun at prom, John.”

And before he can say anything else, you hang up.

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.

For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them. 

Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds. 

You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway. 

And of course it was Bucky. 

"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"

His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate. 

"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue. 

His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"

Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"

He shook his head. "It's not stupid."

You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John. 

"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.

You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."

Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."

"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"

His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss." 

Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."

Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."

You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."

"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face. 

You were confused. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."

"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips. 

He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.

It flipped. 

"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."

Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."

You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."

Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."

You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."

After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went. 

Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate. 

Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"You've got the face."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."

Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside. 

The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.

String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.

Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else. 

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."

"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw. 

"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."

"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"

"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."

You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."

"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly. 

You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."

"I appreciate that."

A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."

Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor. 

The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again. 

Oh my God, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's gonna—

"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"

Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."

"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away. 

"I'm not your baby."

He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again. 

This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."

Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."

Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks. 

Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.

Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.

It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again. 

You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat. 

Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.

Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well. 

"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."

Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes. 

Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.

God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.

Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of. 

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."

It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."

You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."

"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.

Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."

Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long. 

For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed. 

Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves. 

His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.

"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.

His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"

And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.

Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.

For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.

The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.

One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor. 

You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants. 

Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.

That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"

You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.

Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck. 

The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.

He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties. 

You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.

"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"

You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.

He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."

His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.

Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.

"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.

He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."

The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

Condom.

He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—

"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."

His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head. 

Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space. 

You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.

Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.

As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—

"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."

His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.

"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed. 

"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."

You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base. 

Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."

"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."

You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.

He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.

Bolder.

He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"

It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.

"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"

He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."

Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath. 

It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom. 

For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds. 

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.

For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.

Which was concerning.

You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"

He glanced over. "Hm?"

"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."

A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."

Your smile faltered slightly.

Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—

"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."

A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"

"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."

His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.

You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued. 

He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."

You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."

The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.

Forever.

Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."

Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?

Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee

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He felt it in an instant, the first time he saw you on that back row, his cheeks flushing slightly, his pants tightening as he stood at the pulpit and tried to recite the sermon Sam wrote for him. He struggled through, trying not to look at you, trying not to think about everything he wanted to do to you.

And now you're here. Next to him.

"It has been four weeks since my last confession."

And his pants are tightening all over again.

"Go ahead." He coughs slightly, trying to pull himself together.

"I- is Father Michael coming back anytime soon- I was really hoping to talk to him."

Dean leans back, letting a slow breath out his nose, "I'm sorry, he's on his pilgrimage for a few more weeks. I thought he'd be back by now, but I guess this town will be stuck with me for a while longer."

"It's only- I don't want to bother you with this-"

He smiles. He can barely see you through the confession screen, but he can see your chest rising and falling on every small breath, the innocent little church dress suddenly looking more scandalous in this low light.

"Please, there's nothing you can't say to me, I'm here to listen."

He sees you give a small nod, playing with the hem of your dress, "I- uh- I've been having indecent thoughts."

He swallows hard. This can't be happening. "Indecent, how?"

"They're... lustful."

Dean tightens his fist, trying to make himself seem put together, the hairs on his neck standing on end. Why is this so hard? Why do you have to look so cute?!

You take his silence as a prompt to continue, "I think of... Men... A man... Touching me."

"You're thinking about sex?" Dean can't stop himself, he says it before he even realized what he's done.

You let out a small breath, caught off guard by his frank words, "I- yes- yes I am."

"Good sex?" He tries to smile, he feels like his cock might break through the fly of his pants.

You chuckle slightly, thankful for his tone, "Yes."

"Is this real sex or just- thoughts?" This isn't how a confession is supposed to go. Sam taught him how to do it right- Forgive me Father yadda yadda, I'm very sorry yadda yadda, I absolve you from your sins in the name of yadda yadda yadda. If he was honest with himself he'd say he was actually pretty good at them by this point. So he knows he's not supposed to be asking this many questions. But he can't help himself.

You smile, looking down at your dress, "Thoughts, Father. I've never..." You trail off, "This man- he wouldn't want me anyway."

"Who wouldn't want you? You're gorgeous." Dean knows he's fucked up as soon as he says it. That's definitely not part of the script.

You glance at him, you can probably see even less of him than he can see of you, but still, there's an outline there, "What?"

He looks away, "I- you're a god loving woman, surely any man would be lucky to court you."

"This man- he has other matters on his mind."

Dean holds back on another comment. Whatever man you're pining after in the middle of Fuckoff, Nowhere better start appreciating you quick.

You keep talking, "I just- I need forgiveness, Father. I've been trying not to think about- trying to stay pure- I need god to forgive me for these thoughts."

He just can't help himself, "It's just thoughts?"

"Father?" You're playing with the hem again.

"Just- thoughts? There's nothing more you need forgiveness for?"

There's a beat. Air thick. You look over at him, then down again, "I've- I've behaved immodestly."

He wets his lips, "You've touched yourself?"

You don't reply, but he sees you nod through the screen.

"You've avoided confession for three weeks- avoided telling me for three weeks- why?"

You don't look up, the moment draws on, then you speak again, quieter, "I- I've been thinking about... you."

Dean's dead. He's dead and he's in heaven and some angel has served you up on a silver platter because there's no other way he actually just heard what he thinks he heard.

You let out a meak sound, "I'm sorry, Father- I know it's sinful-"

Maybe it's chivalry - he can't leave here knowing a pretty girl's tearing herself apart because of something so natural.

Maybe he's just horny- his pants so tight, cock so hard, he's loosing blood to his brain.

Either way he can't help himself, "How can it be a sin to make yourself feel good, huh?"

You seem to take his words as a test, "The bible says-"

"You're not hurting anyone- you're certainly not hurting me- it's not a sin to...", he sighs, he's already pushed it too far, "Does it feel nice? Do you enjoy it?"

"Father, should we really be-"

Fuck. He wishes you'd stop calling him Father. It's scrambling his brain in a way he can't quite understand, "It's a simple question. Do you enjoy touching yourself?"

He hears you suck in a small gasping breath at his words. There's silence, then your quiet voice, "Yes."

"You use your fingers, I presume?"

You glance at him, there's really no reason to be asking this, surely you know that, but you answer anyway, even quieter than before, "Yes."

"And you touch your..." He's pretty sure there's no godly way to say sweet, innocent cunt so he trails off instead.

"Yes."

Dean's already going to hell- he's already gone to hell- this moment isn't going to shift any tides, what he does now really won't make a difference in the grand scheme of his life, "Do it now."

You don't say anything, but he sees you look up, staring at him through the screen, trying to understand what he just said.

"Touch yourself, here, for me. Let me hear you."

You don't argue, maybe it's what you've been waiting to hear, maybe it's what you've spent every night thinking about.

He hears you shifting, quietly. He tries to catch the light, seeing what you're doing- spreading your legs apart, hand moving between your thighs, head tilting backwards. He stops breathing, stops moving, desperate to hear any sound he can from you.

There it is, a tiny little whimper, fingers pushing into a soaked pussy, a gasp like you're holding back.

God he's gonna blow his fuckin' load. He palms his cock through his pants, looking for some kind of relief as he listens intently.

You moan- it's quiet and reserved, hidden, but he still hears it, still has to slam his head back against the booth to stop himself from cursing.

"F- Father please-"

He can't stop himself, he's standing before he knows what's happening, barrelling out of the flimsy wooden door with his cock aching and his forehead covered in sweat. He slams open your side of the confessional, his eyes glazed as he stares down at you.

Your legs are parted, dress pushed up your thighs, fingers hidden under your panties- biting down on your lip so hard Dean things you might draw blood. You react quickly to his presence, moving your hand and closing your thighs, trying to stutter out some excuse like this isn't exactly what he was asking for.

He sinks to his knees without a word, parts your legs like a man possessed. Your panties are soaked, he practically drools at the sight, so sweet and vulnerable and all for him.

He leans in, pulling your panties to the side and pressing his tongue to your slit in one move. You gasp, hand flying to grip his hair, hips bucking into him. Dean knows sin, this could never be a sin. You taste like heaven.

He pulls at your hips, tugging you into him so he can press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing your thighs over his shoulders. His eyes flutter shut, the feeling too much for him, your arousal coating his cheeks and chin. His tongue finds your clit, circling it before he sucks it into his mouth, hearing you moan in response.

He pushes his tongue into you, one hand still on your hip, the other curling around your thigh, his fingers digging into you to keep you still. Your head rolls back, your ankles locking together behind his back as you pull him in closer.

He's so close his nose is rubbing against your clit as he laps at your cunt, your taste sending him into a frenzy, your thighs twitching as they rub against the stubble on his jaw.

"Father-" you gasp, gripping his hair tighter.

His cock twitches, he's gonna cum in his pants. He doesn't care, he's never felt this desperate for anything.

He pushes his tongue back into you, drags it out to suck on your clit. Your tiny gasps sound like a hymn, his fingers grasping at your flesh, his teeth grazing against your swollen pussy lips.

"Father- please- I'm going to-"

You don't even need to say it. He can feel your cunt clenching, your thighs shaking. You draw in a ragged breath as he moves over your clit. Your hips curve into him, your legs strained as you pull him in, your head rolling back in a loud moan you have no way to conceal.

Dean cums. He cums without a single touch as you topple over the edge, your orgasm twitching through you, your body on fire as he pushes you through it. He laps at you like a man starved, still letting you coat him, still grabbing at you like he can't let you go.

Your hips keep bucking, your breath still tight, your moaning still impossible to hide. He feels as your body starts to melt, relaxing back against the seat, twisting away as pleasure turns into sensitivity. He pulls back slightly, still slowly tasting you, his tongue softer.

He finally moves away, staring up at you, his eyes glossed, his face still wanting. You suck your lip into your mouth as you look down at him, silence pounding in both your ears. He reaches out, adjusting your panties to cover you back up- to stop himself from going in all over again.

You swallow hard, "F- forgive me Father-"

He moves back, jaw clenching. He can feel his own cum, wet against his groin, "Don't. Don't. You have nothing you need to be forgiven for."

"I tempted-"

"You didn't- I promise you, you didn't. I've wanted to do that from the moment I saw you."

You suck in a small breath, nodding as you stare at him, wide eyes.

He stands, he hopes you don't notice the patch on his pants, "You- you get going now."

You nod again, staying silent as you slip past him.

He almost lets you go without another word, but he can't stop himself, catching your wrist, "I expect to see you in church on Sunday."

☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓

Part of the tarot series - 22 unrelated short stories exploring different Dean x Reader archetypes.

Just comment/message to let me know if you'd like a tag. Asked to tag: @pieolsen @bitchinwallaby @icedteabee @angel1withacigarette @lydia-caldwell-writes @eddiemunsonistheloml @bearymuchso @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @leysol @angrydragon90 @globetrotter28

☀️ As always- I'd love to know your thoughts ❤️ Comments are very much appreciated ☀️

He's only half listening, "Bet no one back there has seen this side of you- you're hot when your makeup's all smudged and you've got a joint in your mouth." You take another drag, longer, let the feeling really burn into your veins. He nods, entranced. "Bet no one knows how good these tits look-" he drags his finger down your neck, across your collarbone, just teasing his fingertip across your breast, the edge of your bra. Your breath cuts, you keep your eyes on him as he draws patterns across your skin, "-Bet no one knows you let men fuck your mouth when they drive." You shift, arousal flooding through you. You feel your pussy clench around nothing, he clearly feels it too, looks up at you with a surprised smile. "That it, huh?" The grasp on your hip tightens, fingers curling into your skin, "You don't want a well-mannered man, do y'? You want a man who talks to you dirty? Talks to you like y'deserve? Like this body deserves?" You nod. The joint's almost finished, you see him eyeing it. You hand it back to him. He takes one last drag, let's it burn down to the filter, then he leans over and stubs it out on the nightstand. "Bet they think you're a fuckin' angel-" He hooks his finger back under your chin, pulls your face forward as he leans towards you, speaking soft, "-you wanna see heaven, pretty girl?"

x♡x♡x

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A/N: I know ten-parts is a helluva investment - but each section is it's own little thing and doesn't require any real knowledge of the rest- each one can be it's own little smutty story to enjoy it its own right if that's what you prefer!

The Impala door slams, and it echoes through your bones. 

Even Sam flinches. Sam never flinches. When Dean gets this kind of angry, Sam usually just looks at the roof like he’s hoping the world starts ending again, so he can deal with anything else. He’ll sigh, and give you a look of pity that’s pretty fucking useless when he won’t actually take your side, but that’ll be it. 

This time, though. He flinches. 

You don’t bother to look for the pity or nervousness in his eyes, though. You know it’s there—you can feel it—and it’s not going to help anything. 

Watching Dean storm away isn’t going to help anyone either. But that’s not stopping you from doing it. 

He’s moving in the short, clipped way he always does when he’s furious. Stomping, hands curled into fists at his side, yanking the door open as all the muscles in his back flex. He rolls his neck, glances back with a tight brow, and your eyes meet.

Dean stares at you, a harsh, bright glint in his eyes that seems to be rolling through the air like a storm cloud. You don’t blink, don’t waver, don’t do anything but lift your chin slightly in a silent challenge.

He doesn’t see how your arms are wrapped around your stomach. He doesn’t see how your nails are digging into your sides, and—in the shadows of the car—he doesn’t see the shining tears threatening your eyes. But he doesn’t need to. You don’t want him to. 

That isn’t what this is about. 

Dean's jaw tics, and he turns sharply, marching into the bunker and slamming another door behind him. 

You frown, starting to push up out of your seat, and Sam grabs your wrist.

He says your name softly, not balking from your glare. 

“Sam, let me go-“

“If I let you go, you’re going to go after him.” Sam says softly, with a knowing look in his eyes you don’t. fucking appreciate. “And one of you is going to get really hurt.”

“Yeah, Dean.” You yank your wrist from Sam’s grip. “Because I’m going to stab him-“

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

You make a sour face, sinking back into your seat, because you do. Dean won’t lay a hand on you, but you’ll shout, so he’ll shout, and then one of you is going to shout something you can’t take back. And you know you won’t mean anything you say, but he won’t. 

And if Dean says something to break you, it will break you. 

He’s already formed fractures. Which isn’t fair. 

It might just be whining like a child, but it’s not fucking fair that you could scream the meanest thing you can think at him, and he’ll just get angrier. Any wound you inflict will be drowned in rubbing alcohol, and then blurred into every other cruel thing he’s heard in his life. You’ll be blended in with every person who’s insulted him. And then, he’ll never look at you the same again. 

But Dean will be fine. In the long run, nothing you say will be anything important to him. 

Which isn’t fucking fair. 

Because he just called you a reckless idiot and shallow brat, and you’d almost burst into tears. It had only been bitten down on the inside of your cheek, and he didn’t hear the crack in your voice when you shouted back, but Sam did. Sam didn’t look angry or offended that you called his brother a pathetic, overbearing asshole. He’d just done his sad-puppy look at the roof, and glanced at you like he was begging you to stop. For your own sake. 

It’s a small mercy, that you pulled into the garage when you did. 

If Dean had said one more thing to you with that pure, unbridled wrath in his voice, you might have vomited all over Baby’s seats, which would’ve made him more angry. Then you would’ve started crying, and he would’ve rolled his eyes and left you on the side of the road, and you’d be alone, alone, alone- 

“Just give him a day, okay?” Sam mumbles. “He and I fight all the time about this kind of thing, and he always cools down once I give him space. He just- He needs some space.” 

You nod, and look up at the roof as Sam shuffles out of the car. There’s some small hope in you, that doing that actually helps. Could make the world a little quieter, could back track everything to right before you went into the old church, and your whole world started to crack and split from under your feet.

It doesn’t. 

Tears fall quickly. Silently. You wipe your cheeks and nose with your sleeve, and just keep staring at the ceiling. At some point there’s a creak in the door, and you squeeze your eyes shut to avoid Sam’s judging, sad gaze. The door closes, and you take a tiny, ragged breath that no one is ever going to be able to hear. 

The light in the garage goes off. You take deep, slow breaths. 

Dean wouldn’t leave you on the side of the road.

But he might wait until you’re back at the bunker, then tell you to pack your shit and leave.

So you’re trying to wait him out. If you’re in here long enough, he’ll be in bed, and you can sneak to your room before he breaks your heart. 

Because that’s the real, blaring and loud difference between you that only Dean seems unable to see. 

Dean won’t get more than a bruise, from anything you say to him, because that’s as deep as you go. You’re nothing more than just a blemish, just another person in a long line of people who have let him down. You brush over his skin. Once you’re faded, he won’t think about you again. 

But he goes deep into your heart. You feel his anger in your bones because that’s how far he sinks. The heat over your skin goes right into your gut and twists it, because it’s sickening to hear his anger, but so much undivided attention seems to be confusing your body. In the old Church, when he’d roared your name, you’d felt the rush through every nerve. 

Dean can break you down at a fundamental level. In a way that’s going to take years to repair.

In the way that only someone you love can. 

Sam says to just give him time.

So you do.  

The next morning, you stagger when you wake up so that he won’t have to see you in the kitchen. 

Usually you do the opposite. Get out of bed an hour earlier than you ever did before, just so it can be you and Dean. So you can see his pretty just woke up face—hair mussed, eyes a little unfocused, and lips in a grumpy pout as he takes his coffee—and be the first person that makes him smile in the day. 

But today, you give him space. 

So you don’t see him at all. 

Nothing more than flashes in the hallway. Small bits of proof he is, in fact, in the bunker. His mug in the sink. A light on, under the door of his room. His chair in the war room pulled out, and the Impala missing from the garage, then back a few hours later. 

There’s dinner, left out on the counter when you walk into the kitchen. Two plates already in the sink. 

You stare at it. Take a small half-step forward, glancing over your shoulder. You’re hungry, and Dean always makes dinner. Your plan had been to heat up the microwave mac and cheese in the freezer, and sneak off to your room before Dean came back for his 10pm pie. 

But there’s food, right there. Untouched. Obviously made by Dean. 

It must be his. He’s been known to take seconds, and he’ll probably be back for it soon. 

You take your mac and cheese, and retreat to your room. 

The next day passes almost the exact same. Get up late. Give Dean space. Try not to get in your head about the silence. 

The Impala doesn’t leave the garage today. 

Dinner is out again. Left of the counter, this time still steaming with heat. 

You make a sandwich, and retreat to bed. 

And then it’s the same. And the same. And the same. You see Dean in every single inch of the bunker, but only in the empty mugs and left out books and stray flannel he left on the couch that you force yourself not to pick up. He keeps leaving out food, and you start to put it in the fridge so it doesn’t attract flies. 

The days blur together, and the pit that might have been dug in your heart by Dean yelling at you is turning into a chasm from every bit of nothing. 

He hasn’t spoken to you. Hasn’t even tried to find you for another fight. He’s just… ignoring you. Like this isn’t even something he had to cool down from. Like he’s already forgotten about you so much he can’t even remember there’s supposed to be a conversation after the fight, where you either tear each other apart or forgive. 

Maybe you should have let him just yell at you. Then it could be over, and you could be looking for a way to fix it. Now you’re just drowning in the lack of Dean. You miss the coffee in the morning. You miss sitting on the counter and bothering him while he tries to cook. You miss him bothering you while you tried to read. Miss the verbal sparring matches over dinner, or in the car while you went out for supplies. 

“Dean,” you’d said to him once, dragging him away from the snack aisle to the candles. “Smell this.”

He’d taken the jar from you, squinting at the label. Your fingers had brushes. 

You’d rubbed them, like you could get the electric heat of him to sink into your skin. 

“Summer Solstice.” Dean had frowned. “That’s not a flavor, it’s a thing.”

You’d grinned at him. “Well, it’s not a flavor. It’s a smell-“

“You know what I fuckin’ meant-“

“And the Summer Solstice is an event, not a thing-“

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Dean had rolled his eyes. “Do you get off, on correcting me?”

No. 

But you might get off on the small smile that had been on his face, or the way he’d stood over you with relaxed shoulders. Might get off on the gravity that was always with him, and how he was looking at you. Amused and focused, almost fond.

“Yup.” You’d bounced on your toes, and his mouth had twitched. “Smell the candle.”

Dean had given you a bored look. “Sweetheart, I’m not smelling the candle-“

“Why?”

“Because that’s dumb.”

“Really?” You’d beamed at him, your voice sweet. “What if I say please?”

He’d made a strange face, but shaken his head. “Nope.”

“Please?” You’d shuffled closer. His body radiated heat, and it felt like being pulled by the tide. “I’ll be your best friend.”

Dean had snorted. “Over a candle?”

You’d nodded, and he’d scanned over your face. Sighed heavily. 

“This really important to you?” He’d muttered, and you’d nodded again. 

Dean had grunted, glared at the candle, and popped off the jar top. Taken a long, deep smell, and given you a pointed look. 

“Happy?”

“Yeah.” You’d grabbed another off the shelf. “Smell this one.”

He’d frowned. “No, we said one-“

“Nobody said anything about numbers. Smell it.”

It had taken a little more coaxing, but you’d gotten him to smell it. And Dean will never admit it—even in the car after, he’d been grumbling like you’d just waterboarded him—but he had fun. You got a leather and sandalwood candle—that smelled like Dean, but he didn’t need to know that—and Dean got a spicy apple and honeysuckle one that he muttered was to combat the gasoline in the garage as he put it on the check-out belt. 

“Thank you.” You’d hummed, leaning back in shotgun, and Dean had grunted.

“You’re welcome.”

You’d smiled at him, pulling your knees to your chest. “I’ll pay you back.”

Dean had been silent for a moment. His gaze had been fixed on where your shoes were resting on the seat. You’d slowly moved them off—no stains, and your shorts had been riding up anyway—and he’d coughed. 

“It’s fine. You don’t have to.”

“But I’m going to.”

He’d shrugged. “Nah.”

“Dean-“

The engine had roared to life, and Dean had turned the music up so loud you could feel it in your ribs. 

But that might have just been your heartbeat. Because he’d smiled at you, and made ridiculous, dramatic gestures as he sang along with the music. He’d looked at you like you mattered. You’d leaned towards him like he was the only concrete, certain thing in the world.

And it’s been a week now. Since you’ve even seen, let alone spoken to him.

You miss him. 

Staring at the ceiling in the dead of night, your brain moving too fast to sleep, you press your lips together and just miss Dean. 

He’s just down the hall, but you fucking miss him.

You get up, because if you lie here forever you’re going to drive yourself insane. You can go for a walk while Sam and Dean are asleep, make some tea to help you go to bed, poke your head into the Dean Cave and see if he’s there. Just to check. Just to see if he was ever real at all. 

But you don’t have to go as far as the Dean cave, to find him. 

When you get to the war room, he’s slumped against the table, a beer held in a slack hand, heavy snores rumbling through his chest. His hair is a mess, his mouth swollen and hanging open. 

You move to him like he’s a magnet. The low light makes his skin almost glow, but that might just be the flush of the drinking. His phone is on the table next to him, the screen long turned off. His shoes are one, which is normal for Dean, but they’re not his indoor shoes. They’re his hunting boots. He’s even got his jacket on, and he was either about to go out, or had already gone. 

He smells heavily of liquor. Not just beer. But Dean doesn’t drive drunk, so he either got buzzed at the bar and wasted here, or never made it out of the bunker. 

You’re betting on the former. 

He lit his candle, flickering golden light over him like a halo. 

He’d never do that sober. 

You’re touching him before you can think better. Running your hand through his hair, just to soothe it. 

Dean stirs slightly. Mutters something incoherent you can’t make out, his shoulders slumping and face turning so he’s hidden in the crook of his elbow. So he’s leaning further into your hand. 

There’s a stabbing pang through your heart, and he wouldn’t let you do this if he knew it was you. He must not know. 

But you repeat the motion, and he lets out a heavy, satisfied breath. You swallow, and risk trying to move him. Get him to bed, so his neck doesn’t hurt in the morning. But Dean’s a heavy man, and when you wrap your arms around his torso, you have to let go quickly. He’s too warm. Too firm and soft at once. You would’ve melted into him, and never been able to pry yourself away. 

And it was too intimate. 

He doesn’t want to see you or speak to you. There’s no reason he’d be okay with you touching him. 

But you can’t just leave him like this, so you grab a blanket, and toss it over his shoulders. Grab a pillow from your room, and tuck it between his head and elbow. Carefully grab his beer, and pour it down the kitchen sink. 

You look back, before you retreat back to bed. He’ll be okay. In the morning, he won’t even think of tonight for more than a few seconds. 

If he does, you don’t get to know. He doesn’t look for you, and you stay out of his way. Distance. 

You’re giving him all the fucking distance he wants. Enough of it to stretch you into a thin, desperate and hungry string that watches the shadows under her door, hoping you’ll just get a knock, or a mutter of your name.  

But you get nothing. Not even a text, as if nothing was ever wrong at all, and Dean’s really just been over it. 

He’s still leaving a plate of dinner out. You stare at it every night, and wonder if eating it would finally make him talk to you, if just to yell at you about taking his food. 

It wouldn’t. Before the big fight, Dean had almost never yelled at you at all. But now Dean hasn’t even consciously been in the same room as you for almost two weeks. 

And there’s a gaping ache in your chest that’s going to eat you alive.

The bunker is almost dead quiet at night. You slip in and out without anyone seeing, just to go get some more tea and a candy bar to numb your sorrow. You collapse in the war room, eating and staring at the wall. Grab a book and open it to a random page, just to fight the restlessness of this.  

It startles you, when your phone rings. The sound bounces off the walls, and you fumble as you pick it up, because it’s Dean’s name, flashing on the screen. 

You glance over your shoulder, like he’s going to emerge from the shadows. You’d thought he was in his room. There’s no reason for him to be calling you if he was in his room. Maybe you shouldn’t answer, in case he just pressed the wrong button. 

But if that’s the case, he doesn’t hang up after you wait a few moments. Wait long enough for the call to go to voicemail, holding your breath as you wait for the buzz that means he’s left a message. You’ll read the transcript, but won’t listen to it. You don’t need to hear the annoyance or fury in his voice. It’s already been haunting you enough. 

The notification never comes, though. 

He just calls you again.  

You take a deep breath, before you answer. Whatever he has to say, you can take it. 

“Dean?” 

There’s a moment of silent static through the speaker, and you feel your heartbeat in your throat. 

Then Dean mumbles your name, and you let out a shuddering breath of relief. 

“You… Picked up.”

“Yeah.” You glance over your shoulder again. “You called me, Dean.”

“Hm.” Is all he says, silent again for a moment. “But you picked up.”

You sigh. “I did. What’s going on.”

“Nothin’.” 

“Really?”

He grunts, and you press your lips together. You want to hold him on the phone, just to hear his voice a little longer. It’s just as deep and rich as you remember. 

Space. 

“Okay, Dean.” You sigh, leaning over the table and staring at your lap. “Thanks for the call, I guess-“

“Wait.” He cuts you off, and you hear something slam in the background. “Just- I’m- Are you safe?”

Fuck. 

He sounds like he cares. 

“Yeah, Dean. I’m safe.” You take a deep breath. You have to hang up. “Goodnight-“

“No-“ He calls your name, and you’ve never heard him this urgent. “Don’t- Don’t hang up, I- Uh- I had somethin’ to ask you. ’S why I called.”

You slump into your chair, staring up at the ceiling. You half expect him to come up behind you laughing, or ask you to make him hot chocolate like he might’ve a few weeks ago. Because it tastes better, when you do it, and he’s a huge kiss-ass who has you in the palm of his big, stupid hand. 

“Okay. What.”

He’s silent again, for so long before he clears his throat, and mutters, “I dunno.”

“You… don’t know? What you called me for?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean-“

“Can you tell me ‘bout your day? Just- Keep talkin’?” He grunts again, and you hear something shuffle. “You can curse me out, if you want. Just-“ His voice lowers. “Whatever. Anything.” He’s silent again. “Please.”

You frown, sitting up slowly. Something’s off in his voice. With his words. 

He said please. 

Dean’s kind, and he’s polite, but he never says please. Not casually. 

Only about things that make his voice a little raw. 

Like it is now.

“Dean?” You say softly. “Where are you?”

“Bathroom.”

You glance to the hallway, heat rising to your cheeks. “Oh, um- Are you okay?”

“‘m fine, sweetheart. Bar was just real freakin’ loud.”

“You’re at a bar?”

“Yep. But I’m good, baby, don’t worry about me-“

“How many drinks have you had?” You’re already standing up, fumbling around in the dark for your keys. “And- Are you at the place on Main Street, or Waystar?”

“Waystar. They got good bourbon, y’know. And- Remember that time you hustled those bikers.” He almost groans. “That was so hot. Your ass looked great.”

You swallow. “Dean, how many drinks-“

“Not enough. But don’t worry, Sammy’ll come get me if I start seein’ spots or whatever-“

“Sam’s asleep.” You snap, pushing on your shoes, and he pauses.

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Huh. Dean, you need to tell me how much you’ve had, specifically-“

“I dunno. Five. Six.” His voice drops to a grumble. “Don’t see how it matters to you.”

You pause, hand on the door. “What?”

“Nothin’ for you to worry about, right? My shit ain’t your problem.”

Heat rushes your face, because you'd screamed that at him. He'd sneered a mock you got a death wish? You like trying to give me a fuckin' heart attack? and you'd shouted in return, your paranoia isn't my problem, Dean. 

Because he'd been acting like you were born two days ago. Like you couldn't possibly know how to calculate risks or take care of yourself. 

But it is your problem. He must not have heard the pain in your voice when you screamed, because it is your problem. Anything that hurts Dean hurts you, like a bruise that comes from trying to drag someone out from underwater, and of course his paranoia is your problem. You never want to be something that causes him pain. 

“You’re on Waystar?” You ask softly, turning the doorknob, and he grunts. “Don’t move, Dean. I’ll be there soon.”

He snorts, just before you hang up the phone. 

“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever.”

You shove your phone in your pocket, and head out without looking back. 

He’s slouched at the bar, when you get there. The bartender’s casting him weary looks, and seems pretty relieved when you say you’re here to pick him up. 

“Worried your guy was gonna hurt himself.” She mutters, and you sigh, mumbling an apology as you tap his elbow lightly. 

His head flies up, whole body shaking, and you cross your arms. Wait for his vision to come into focus.

Take a second to pull yourself together. Because you haven’t looked him in the eyes in two weeks.

And even wasted and tired and angry, scowling and flushed, he’s so beautiful.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch-“ He blinks at you, a tight frown on his face, and says your name slowly. With something like awe in his voice. As if he can’t believe you’re there. 

You give him a tight smile. “C’mon, Dean. Let’ go home.”

He just blinks at you slowly. His arm reaches out, hands flexing, and he slowly runs his fingers down your arm. It sends a small shiver through your body. You bite down the hitch in your breath. 

“You’re…” He reaches up, and before you can react, he’s tracing your face. “Real?”

Dean watches you so carefully, and his features are guarded. Like he’s ready for this to be a trick. 

This smile is more gentle. 

It’s ripping something inside of you, to see him in such pain, and you’re going to do anything to mend it. 

Mend him, even if the smarter thing might just be leave him to put himself back together. 

“Yeah. I’m real.” You pull his hand gently off your face. “Let’s go home.”

Dean nods slowly, and lets you lead him out of the bar. Almost stumbles after you, like he’s afraid you’ll turn into shadow at any moment. 

The drive back is silent. Easy. He only glances at the Impala for a second, before crawling into the spare car after you. He doesn’t try to talk to you, or change the radio. And you can feel his gaze, as you drive down the empty roads, but it doesn’t burn your skin. It’s just sweet.  

Soft. 

Close to awe, and almost making the air seem sweet. 

“Sweetheart…” Dean reaches out, his hand resting on your knee. You glance over to see his eyes shining in the dark. “Did you come for me?”

You frown. “Of course I did.”

“Hm. You drive far?”

“It’s only twenty minutes.”

“Ah. Huh.” He pauses. “But… you came.”

You sigh, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Yeah, Dean. I came.”

He makes a low, satisfied noise—his hand still on your thigh—and passes out. When you get to the bunker, he lets you move him into his bedroom with only a few unintelligible grumbles. His shoes get kicked off, his shirt peeled over his head, and his pants tossed away. 

You stand against the door, back pressed to the wood, and fix your gaze on the ceiling. Dean’s all but naked, a few feet away. You’d just have to look down, and you’d see everything you’ve ever dreamed about. 

But he’s drunk, and doesn’t want you like that, and still your friend. You won’t violate his privacy like that. Won’t take advantage of what was clearly one of his worse nights, just so you can feed your own, empty pipe dreams. And- 

Dean grumbles your name, and you squeak as he appears in front of you. His arms cage next to your head, pinning you against the door. Your noses bump, and the heat rolls off his body, into yours. It sparks a wildfire, the proximity. The smell of pure Dean fans it. The warmth stokes it. 

The sight of him, when your eyes drop against your will, fuels it to sweep through you entirely. 

His chest is bare. And everything about him is strong. Not TV strong or cosmetically strong. Not just abs and definition. Muscle and softness that would make him easy to be consumed in. No sharp V in his hips, but thick thighs and a bulge that makes your knees weak. 

He says your name again, and you look up at him frantically. 

“I- I wasn’t-“

“Stay.”

You blink at him, arms wrapping around your stomach. “What?”

“Don’t go again.” He mutters, scanning over your face. “Stay.”

“Dean, I- I have to go to bed.”

He squints at you, leaning in closer. Your lips are almost brushing. 

Maybe this is another form of punishment. It certainly feels like torture. 

But there’s that same shine in his eyes, from the car. And this is so real it might be able to split you cleanly in half. 

“Where?” He mutters.

“Where-“

“Where you goin’ to bed.”

“Um-“ You take a deep breath. “My room?”

The answer seems to satisfy him. Dean relaxes over you, and you try not to whimper when that makes his bulge press on your hip. 

He takes a deep, long breath, and mumbles near your neck. “You smell good.”

“Thank you.” You whisper. There’s a deep, strange fear that if you speak too loud, you’ll shatter whatever this is. This, that’s making him cling to you and touch you so carefully. 

“Flowers.” He takes another breath. “Missed it.”

“There- There are flowers everywhere-“

“Missed you.” He says, a little more firmly, and pushes back up to meet your gaze. His eyes are stripping you bare, even if his gaze never wanders lower than your lips. “You are…”

He trails off, and your fingers curl into his flannel. 

When he speaks, his voice is so low it rolls through your body. 

So pained you can feel it in your bones. 

“Not mine.” He sighs, face dropping once more. “You ain’t mine, are you?”

He laughs to himself, and you blink at the air. A little dazed. Wholly confused. 

“Dean, what-“

“Sweet dreams, baby.” His breath is hot on your ear, and you shiver. “Don’t think of me.”

Dean turns, pulling you with him but giving up easily, and flops on his bed with a groan. It takes a second, for you to remember how to move. And when you do, another few to convince yourself to. 

Then you slip out the door, and try not to sprint back to your room. 

You don’t sleep well. You toss and turn and stare at the ceiling, touching your lips and ear and hip until exhaustion pulls you under. 

But when you dream, it is sweet. 

It’s low drawls in your ear, phantom touches on your skin, and the bare image of Dean burning into your brain. You wake up cold and alone, with the sheets bunched between your legs. 

You can’t take another two weeks. Not having none of him. That had been the tiniest dose, and you’re already high. Spinning around what the fuck that was, what any of it meant, if it means anything at all. He’d been drunk. He might not have meant it. 

You ain’t mine, are you?

Like a question he doesn’t want the answer to. 

As if, if you’d been able to speak, you wouldn’t have screamed yes. 

Given your heart to him. Offered the air in your lungs, and a million apologies. Crossed the country, to get him home safe, even if just from a bar. Let him be angry a million more times, just so long as he never left. 

Missed you, he’d said. 

You missed him more. He haunts you. 

And you’re not even sure he’s going to look you in the eyes, in the morning. 

“Hey.” Sam glances up from his laptop as you shuffle into the library, brows raised. “Where have you been?”

“In my room.” You mutter, grabbing a book, and Sam looks up again. 

Actually looks up. A deep frown on his face, like he doesn’t quite believe you. 

You blink at him. “What?”

“No, it’s nothing- I just-“ He rubs the back of his neck. “We thought you’d been going out.”

“Going out?” You scoff. “Sam, when have I ever gone out.”

“Well, that’s- Fair. But we haven’t seen you in a few days, and I told you to give Dean space, so I figured you’d just been… Around.”

“I have been around. I haven’t left the bunker in like- Six days.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really- I-“ You shake your head. “Did you really think I’d been gone for two weeks?”

Sam turns a little red. “Uh- Yeah? We hadn’t seen you since you and Dean- You know.”

“I’ve been taking food from the kitchen-“

“I don’t count how much food we have! And you- You haven’t been eating the food Dean’s left out for you!”

“For-“ You blink at him slowly. “For me?”

“Yeah!” Sam sighs dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “I mean- You really haven’t been gone?”

“No, I-“ You shake off the for you. Something to worry about later. “I was giving him space. Like you told me to!”

“I didn’t say avoid him like the plague-“

“I haven’t been-“ You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “Sam, I’ve been here the whole time.”

“Well, yeah. I’ve figured that out now.” He mutters. “You should tell Dean, by the way. He’s been worried.”

You snort. “Yeah, alright.”

Sam gives you a flat look. “Come on.”

“What?”

“He was worried.”

“Sam-“

“He’s been beating himself up,” Sam says your name almost urgently. “He thought you were gone forever.”

You feel something cave in on itself, in the cavity of your chest. “Well, he should’ve knocked on my door.”

“I- Look, I’m realizing now that- Conclusions were probably jumped to-“

“Probably-“

“But you need to tell you’re at least okay.” Sam urges. “I’m serious when I say he was really worried. You- You really matter to him. A lot.”

You let out a slow breath, eyes locked onto Sam’s, and he just raises his brows. A silent, challenging expression. 

Stay.

Dean asked you to stay.

He’d thought you were going—maybe that you’d already been gone—and he’d asked you to stay. Like it mattered. Like you really did matter.

You ain’t mine, are you?

You could be. 

He’s never asked. 

“Dean would’ve told me,” you mutter. “If I mattered-“

Sam laughs. Loud, and truly amused. 

“No. He wouldn’t. Or- He wouldn’t have before.” Sam shrugs. “But he didn’t think he’d lose you before, either.” 

You stare at Sam, trying to come up with any words at all, just to say something. But before you can Dean’s voice cuts through the air.

“Sammy, hey, Sammy-“ He grunts from behind you. “You, uh- you haven’t seen-“

He cuts himself off, as he says your name. And you turn slowly, to find him staring at you in his stupid robe that’s always made you want to jump his bones. 

“You’re still here.” He mutters, and you shrug weakly. 

“I never left.”

He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “Yeah. Alright.”

Sam clears his throat. “Dean, she really-“

“I’m goin’ for a walk.” He announces to the air, barely sparing you a glance as he turns, and marches away. 

You look at Sam, and Sam just gives you that tight smile and sad-eyed puppy look. When you just stare at him, he lets out a heavy, slow breath. 

“You should talk to him.”

“I did talk to him.” You snap. “Last night, when he drunk dialed me-“

“Which Dean does to everyone.” Sam says flatly, looking down to his laptop. “He’s really famous, for how he’s always making emotional late-night calls while drunk.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound it. “I’m sure you’re right. You know Dean, he’s a sappy guy. Always talking about his feelings, letting everyone in, never engaging in any self-destructive and sacrificial behavior that’s contradictory to what he really wants-“

“Sam.” You snap. “Stop taking online psych courses and trying to diagnose us.”

“Okay, my very good friend.” He hums your name, still looking at his screen. “Who’s deeply self-isolating and tries to hide from everything in her life that might lead to pain, and would rather die than be the slightest inconvenience- Ow-“

You chuck a book straight at Sam’s head, and stomp out of the library before he can keep saying things. Correct things. 

You ain’t mine.

Yes, you are. 

And he just has to ask.

Dean’s gone for hours, which is more than enough time for you to stare at the ceiling and work yourself into a frenzy. He doesn’t get to stand that close and be that handsome and touch you like you’re priceless—because his fingers had been light, his face filled with awe like you were a diamond from the sky—and then avoid you. Doesn’t get to make you dinner for no reason, then not give you the chance to ask why.

Doesn’t get to allegedly worry about you, to think he’s going to lose you, then get you back and storm away. 

You love him too much to ever just leave. But if this ignoring thing keeps going, you’re going to scream. 

You’d rather fight for something fragile and delicate, than have nothing at all. 

You’re going to fight. You are his, and you are going to scream at him like he’s yours until he breaks you and you go, or- 

Something else. 

It’s late, when he gets back. The whole day spent pacing and anxiously eating, staring at book pages without actually reading and scrolling through your phone. You almost call him a few times. But you held out this long. 

And you want to see him. Try to read him. 

Make him look at you.

The door opens a little while after Sam goes to bed. He’d looked at you—waiting for Dean, your feet up on the table—and sighed. 

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.” You’d muttered, and he’d nodded.

“Yeah, just- Uh-“ Sam had sighed. “Try to get to your room?”

You’d looked up at him with a frown, but he’d already walked away. That’s another thing to demand explanation for later. 

Right now, you’re watching Dean stand at the top of the stairs, looking at you like he’d seen a ghost. 

“Hi.” You give him a small wave, and he coughs. 

“Hey. You’re- Awake.”

“I am. Should I not be?”

He winces. That might have come out harsher than you wanted it to. 

“You can do whatever you want, sweetheart.” Dean mutters, shoving his keys into his pocket. “Night.”

“Dean-“ You push to your feet, scrambling to block his path out of the room. “Dean, wait-“

He freezes, giving you a silent, expectant look, and you flush. He can’t look at you like that. It’s not fair.

“I’m- um-“ You rub your arms, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Are we going to talk about it?”

“‘Bout what?”

“Last night? You- You called me-“

“I was drunk.” He grumbles, glancing over your head. “That’s it. If I- Said something. I was wasted.”

You blink. “You… Don’t remember?”

Dean just shrugs. Like it is nothing. Like you’re nothing. “Nothin’ to remember. Scoot over, I’m trying to go to bed-“

He grabs your shoulder, and the touch is electric. Almost stuns you into freezing, moving, being whatever he wants you to be just because it’s Dean who’s asking, and- 

You ain’t mine. 

That’s fucking something. He doesn’t just get to say it’s nothing, and pretend the past two weeks never happened, and you’re fighting. You told yourself you were going to fight.

“Where were you?” You blurt, and he freezes. “You were gone all day, Dean.”

His face twitches slightly. “I was out.”

“Out where.”

“I don’t know, out and around-“

“Around where.”

Dean looks at you with an almost frustrated awe. “Around…. Places.”

You raise your chin. “Which places.”

“Places, sweetheart, I-“ He chuckles, the sound hollow. “What do you care? I’m not some damsel, and I’m in one piece, aren’t I?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Are you?”

Dean’s eyes narrow, and you push on. 

“You were looking for me before you left. Why-“

“I wanted to check you hadn’t fucked off to places, sweetheart. That’s it. So can we quit it with the interrogation, and-“

“Do you remember asking me to stay?” You ask softly, and his jaw tightens. 

“Told you. I can’t remember anything.”

You take a small step towards him, and he could so easily move you aside. But he’s not. And you’re not just going to let him make you give up. You love him more than that. Your love is worth more than that, if he wants it. 

Dean’s worth more than that, if he wants you. 

“You called me, and I picked you up.” You murmur, and he snorts. 

“Yeah, I fuckin’ remember that-“

“And I put you to bed.” You raise your voice, taking another step forward, and Dean freezes. “You stripped, and pinned me against the door, and- You asked me to stay. You asked if I was yours, and you asked me to stay.” Your voice cracks. “Why did you do that, Dean? Why would you say that to me?”

Your lip is wobbling, and his face is red. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. 

“I told you,” he grunts your name, and you’ve never seen him look so cornered. “I was drunk-“

“So you don’t care. If I stay?” 

Something flashes in his eyes. “No, I- That’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, rubbing his brow. “I never said that, I- I was just damn drunk-“

“So you don’t care.”

“Stop saying- Son of a bitch.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Can we do this in the morning-“

“No.” You take another step forward, and Dean makes a low sound from his chest. It rushes through your body like a drug. His hands flex, and you can see his chest heaving. “We’re doing this now. Do you care? If I stay?”

He blinks at you, and your eyes start to sting. He’s not even saying no. If he did, at least it would be over. But he’s just watching you, like you’re the one about to hurt him

“Because I never left, Dean-“

That gets a snort, like the one he gave Sam this morning. “Yeah. Alright-“

“I didn’t.” You snap. “Sam told me to give you space, after we-“ You take a ragged breath, arms squeezing tight around your stomach. “After the hunt. And I gave you space, and you- You thought I just left? That I’d go without saying goodbye, or anything?”

Dean’s throat bobs. “People have done it before,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes, something white-hot building in your heart. Ready to erupt.

“Yeah, they have, but I haven’t. You really think that I’d just- That I’d do that to you?”

“It’s not about me, sweetheart-“

“Yes, it is.” Your voice rises, and Dean flinches back like you struck him. 

He rasps your name, and you shake your head. 

“It’s about you, Dean. It- I- I dropped everything, to go get you. I stayed out of the way to give you space, I- I spent the whole day-“ You take a deep, uneven breath. “It’s about you, and-“

“Stop.” He rasps, an almost wild look in his eyes. His hands are curled on the wood of the table, his whole body braced. “You- You gotta stop, sweetheart.”

You stare at him. “I- I’m just talking-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, shaking his head, and his grip looks white-knuckled. “Don’t know what you’re- You don’t get it.”

“Then tell me-“

“No.”

You gape at Dean. His handsome, determined face. How he’s almost cowering from you. It’s worse than the fight after the hunt. That had been all rage and spat words, pure fury and a whirlwind of crude words. He’d looked like he’d wanted to throttle you, and it had made you dizzy, but this- 

This looks like he wants to flee. 

“You made me dinner.” You murmur, scanning over his face. “You- You made me dinner.”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Cause. I- I don’t know, alright.”

You stare at him. He lets out a heavy breath.

“I didn’t want you to have nothing. If you came back.”

Fuck. “Dean,” you whisper, and when you take a half step forward, he shakes his head. 

“Don’t. You- Just go the hell to bed-“

“No. I- I’m going.”

His eyes widen, voice dropping. “Wha- What?”

“You want me to stop.” You shrug. “So I’ll stop. And if it’s not about you, and I’m only-“ I’m only here for you. “If that’s it, and you don’t care, I’ll- I’ll go.”

Dean says your name, voice choked, and you shake your head. 

“I’m just a needy, shallow brat, right?” There’s a lump, forming in your throat. “That’s what you think. So I should go.”

“No, that- That’s not-“ His breath is ragged, grip white-knuckled. “I was pissed, I didn’t mean-“

“Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t, I never- You’re not- Goddamnit, you don’t-“

“Get it?” You finish, stopping only an arm’s reach away. “Are you going to tell me.”

He stares at you, nostrils flaring. You sigh. 

“Do you even care? If I go?”

And you know he cares. You wouldn’t be having this fight if he didn’t. 

But he just looks at you. And you feel bile rising in your throat. 

“Tell me you care, Dean.” You murmur, because you don’t want to walk away. Don’t want to leave him. Don’t want to be strong and leave your heart in fractured pieces on the floor. All you want is him, but if he won’t let you have that, there’s nothing left to do. “Please tell me you care.”

“I- Sweetheart-“

“Say you care.” Your voice is only a whisper, and you take an unsteady step forward. “Say you care. Or I- I’m walking away.” 

He doesn’t even have to love you. He just has to care. And he’s still saying nothing at all. 

“Dean, please tell me you care.” You’re begging now, tears pricking at your eyes, and he swallows. 

Mutters your name. It sounds like a plea. 

It’s not enough. 

“Tell me you care, please-“ Your voice breaks. “Dean, just, tell me you care, please, say you care-“

His eyes shine in the dark. “Baby-“

“Fucking- Say you care-“ Your voice is echoing off the walls. He can’t just call you baby like that, it’s not fair. “Dean, I fucking- Just say you fucking care-“

“I care!” He roars, and you freeze. “I care, I care, of course I care, I fucking-“ He makes a face like he’s in pain, his voice gravelly and rough. “I love you, I don’t want- You can’t go, baby, you just fucking came back, and I-“ His voice breaks, and the shine in his eyes is tears. Heavy tears he seems to be fighting with everything in him, rubbing them away with the palm of his hand. Like he’s worried you’ll actually see them. “I fucking care. I care. I- I care. Don’t-“ He shakes his head, hand unsteady on the table. “Don’t go. Don’t fucking go.” His words become choked. “Please don’t go.”

You stare at him, stunned so deeply into silence you almost can’t breathe. Dean’s words linger in the air, heavy and electric. His breathing is unsteady, eyes locked onto yours, and you lean towards him on the tips of your toes. Trying to get closer. Afraid to move, and step on something that’s blooming. That, for once, seems to be good.

“You- You love me?” You breathe out, and Dean’s eyes widen. 

“I-“

“Me too.” A small step forward. He doesn’t flinch away. “Dean, I- If you- I love you. Too.”

He blinks at you slowly, holding onto the table like a lifeline. “Yeah?”

You nod, and his throat bobs. 

“Are you-“

“Incredibly.”

“Oh.” His lips twitch, tears still shining on his cheeks. “Awesome.”

You laugh weakly, wiping your nose with your sleeve. “Is it?”

Dean nods, pushing up off the table in such a smooth motion it’s like he’s being moved. And just before his lips crash over yours, he mutters-

“Yeah. It is.”

And Dean kisses you like he’s a dying man. Like he’s been lost at sea for a hundred years, and you’re the ground as he finally comes home. His mouth is demanding and firm, his touch certain. He grabs at your hips like they’re the only anchor in a storm. One big, calloused hand slides up your back and you arch into the touch. Dean groans. Presses his tongue over your lips, and drags you closer to his body. You’re trapped in his thick arms, melting into his chest as you’ve dreamed about a million times before. 

He tastes like whiskey and fruit. His hand on your back slips higher, grabbing the back of your neck. You bend for him, letting him angle you back further. The kiss deepens, and when you open your mouth, Dean moans into it. The sound is sinful. Intoxicating.

Your knees start to feel weak, as he sucks the oxygen from your lungs. Your arms fly around his neck to keep you upright, and Dean grabs under your ass as you falter with a tiny squeak. 

He breaks the kiss for half a second, allowing you to gasp for air. But then he’s back, and the fervor doesn’t relent. It only grows. 

Dean’s mouth open and harsh over yours. Your own movements sloppy, because you just want more but you can barely think outside of his name. 

“De- Dean-“ You whine against his lips, and he nips at your tongue. 

Gives you a moment to breathe, as he pulls away, but doesn’t give you a single second of a break. He starts to press hot, possessive kisses all over your face. Down your throat and along your jaw. It’s sending sparks over every single nerve in your body, the devotion in every movement making the heat between your legs grow unbearable. 

Dean’s teeth graze your ear, and he starts to suck on the skin right below it. A sound you didn’t know you could make escapes your throat. It’s a strangled whine of his name, and a plea for just more. He’s lighting you up with just his mouth and hands. He squeezes your ass, and you roll your hips into his thigh. 

“Shit.” He leans back with a grunt. His eyes are dark and hungry, blown out with desire. 

For you. 

Desire for you. 

Dean’s fingers flex against your neck, and drag back down. His hand slides slightly under your shirt, sending shivers up your spine. His fingers splay on your lower back. Your nails dig into his shoulders, as you struggle to stop the desire from sweeping you away. Struggle to stay upright. 

“You are…”

“Yours.” You whisper through the daze of lust. “I’m yours.”

Dean’s face splits in a wide, charming grin, and he crashes back over you like a tidal wave. There’s nothing left to fight about. 

He loves you.

And you let that pull you under the tides without a second thought. 

Dean walks you back against the wall, pinning you just like he had last night. He’s still wearing his jacket, though. Still completely covered, while you’re wearing smaller, thinner sleeping clothes. His hand on your back has dipped down to grab your thigh, and hike your knee against his hip. You pull at the collar of his flannel, as his kisses become wet and open. Like he’s trying to take as much as possible. 

You give him all of it. Whatever he wants. Loud moans when he sticks his tongue down your throat, or swipes it over your swollen lips. Your body, pressed right against his. Your burning core, trying to grind onto the rough fabric of his jeans. 

And he gives right back. You claw at his jacket, and he yanks it off and tosses it off to a corner of the room. He stares at you the whole time, chest heaving and face slack with want. You might be drooling, as you watch him flex with the motion, and his eyes gleam with smug pride.

“You like- Oof-“

You drag him back down the moment the jacket is gone, rising up as high as you can to meet him. Dean groans, pulling your arms high over your head and moving his mouth back down to your neck. 

“You are-“ He sucks on a particularly sensitive spot, smirking against your skin when you whimper. “So beautiful. Goddamn gorgeous, and-“ His brow drops to your shoulder, attention fixed on where you’re grinding shamelessly against him. “Needy. Hungry, pretty girl-“ Dean looks back to you, and that’s awe on his face. Pure, open awe. “You want something?”

He’s teasing. The asshole is teasing you. 

“Dean,” you whine, and he chuckles. Leans further in, until your lips are brushing. 

You try to surge up to kiss him. He leans away. 

“Ah,” Dean smirks, thumb rubbing small circles on your wrist. “You had so much to say to me a moment ago, baby. C’mon. Use your words.”

Your hips buck, the desire making your body almost shake. “You’re- An asshole-“

“I know.” He grins. “But you love me. And I,” he lowers back down, and you just manage to stop yourself from trying to kiss him again. “Am gonna give you everything you want. But you gotta say it.”

“Say- Say-“ You can barely think outside of the burn between your legs. This isn’t fair. “Dean, I- I don’t know what-“

“Just tell me what you want, baby.” His free hand moves up, grabbing your chin. His thumb swipes over your lower lip. “That easy.”

You blink at him, and he lets out a heavy breath. 

“Look, I- I can’t give you much. You know my life, my job, my- Shit.” Dean scans over your face, something desperate and almost nervous in his gaze. “You know I’m not gonna be good for you-“

“Yes, you are.” You cut him off with a breath, because of course he’s going to be good for you. He’s Dean. “You- You are.”

He swallows. “I can’t offer a lot.”

“I don’t want a lot.” 

“So what-“

“You.” It passed through your lips with perfect clarity, because that really is all you want. “I just want you, Dean.”

If it’s possible, you could swear his eyes get darker. “How?” He rasps, and you offer him a small smile. 

“Like this.”

His throat bobs, eyes dropping down to where your cunt is still mindlessly dragging over his thigh. Like you couldn’t even bring yourself to stop. He mutters your name, and you whine his. 

“Please.” You throw your head back against the wall, grinding faster. The rough fabric offers little relief, but you need something. “Dean, I- I just want more.”

His eyes move back to yours, and you could swear you hear his breath hitch as he takes you in. It must be an obscene image. You, fucking his leg, your arms above your head, sweat shining through your shirt and your nipple peaked. All the desperation that’s wrecking you, all just for him. 

Dean nods slowly, like he’s just working something out. 

“I’ve got you.” He mutters, and it sounds like it’s mostly to himself. “I’m gonna take care of you, baby, you’re-“

“Yours.” You gasp, and tears of desperation prick at your eyes. “Yours, Dean. Please.”

That snaps something in him. 

Dean crashes back down into another, heavy kiss. His hand drops from your face, his knee pulling away from your core. You barely get to make a noise of protest, though, before his hand replaces it. Pressing, rough and hard, against your cunt. 

Dean groans your name, when he feels how you’ve all but soaked through the thin cloth. 

“You’re fuckin’ dripping.” He mutters, fingers torturously toying with the cloth. “Jesus. Gonna leave a damn stain on the floor.”

You whimper, clutching at his shirt. “Dean, I- I’m-“

“You need more.” Dean’s lips twitch. “I know, sweet girl.” He lands a sharp slap against your clothed pussy, and your body shudders. “C’mon. Relax.”

And you try to. Dean’s words are smooth, and at first, it’s so easy to just go limp. Trust him to keep you upright, and blink at him as he draws away. 

But then he gets to work. His hand drags up your thigh and over your hips, tickling slightly—just enough to make you shiver—and then shoves right down your shorts. You arch with a high noise, and Dean grins. Rubs his palm back and forth on your ruined scrap of underwear. He kisses just your nose, so mockingly sweet, and pulls your panties to the side. 

One, thick finger slides into your pussy, and you clench around him. Trying to drag him in deeper.

Dean grunts, his forehead pressing to yours. He starts to pump the finger slowly in and out, watching your flushed, open expression. Almost studying how every thrust makes your lips part, how the stretch of just one finger renders you silent and desperate. 

But it’s a big finger. And he’s so deliberate and careful, pulling you apart like in just a few seconds he’s worked out every single thing that makes you tic. He brushes another teasing kiss over your lips, right as he shoves a second finger in.

“You’re so tight,” he grunts, fingers crooking deep inside of you. “Soaked and beggin’, but still squeezing me like a glove, baby. Goddamnit, this pussy is gonna fuckin’ swallow me. Can’t wait to feel you cum around my cock-“

You moan, and Dean’s eyes flash. His voice drops lower.

“Like that?” He murmurs. His fingers start to move faster, slamming all the way up to his knuckle. Hitting the most sensitive spot inside of you, every single time. “Like it when I talk dirty, sweet girl? Like hearing me say how you’re squeezing just my fingers, so fuckin’ tight just thinking about it is driving me crazy. How you drive me crazy, how hot you look, fucking my hand and saying my name?”

The pace becomes so fast you can barely think. Your eyes fly down, watching where his wrist and arm are flexing as he fingerfucks you into oblivion. 

“De- Dean-“

“Think you can cum just like this.” Dean says under his breath, scissoring his fingers deep inside your cunt.

Your eyes fly up to his, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel. Your mouth falls open in a long, broken moan.

Dean smirks. “Yeah, look at you, you’re gonna cum on my goddamn hand. Think you can soak my fingers, baby? Show me just what I’m doin’ to you?”

You nod, straining against his hold on your wrists as light starts to dance behind your eyes. Dean slots his mouth firmly over yours, and you moan. Your wound so tight you might be about to explode, your toes curling as his fingers twist again, and-

“Cum,” he rasps your name. “Come on, sweetheart, cum for me-“

Your release rips through you. It’s burning and satisfying and strong. Wiping your head clean, as pleasure overtakes your every sense. You go slack, into Dean’s arms, and he catches you around your waist. Your hands fly to his chest in an attempt at balance, scratching him over his shirt. He groans, pressing the kiss deeper. 

His fingers don’t stop until you’re fluttering around them. You’re dripping through your clothing, almost down your thigh. Dean’s pulls back with a grunt, his hand slowly pulling away. 

It’s coated in your desire for him. He lets out a deep sound, fingers digging into your hips. 

The hand covered in you drops slowly, and rubs against his crotch. Where a thick, proud tent as formed through his jeans.

“You-“ He looks back to you, eyes shining. “You always this wet?”

You somehow feel more heat, rising through your face. “I- I don’t know- I’ve never checked.”

Dean hums, and there’s something like curiosity shining in his eyes.

“Alright.” He grabs your chin, tipping it back down to his bulge. “You seein’ how fucking hard you make me?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“You wanna feel it?” He drawls, and when you look up, the teasing grin has returned to his face. “Feel my cock, let me fuck your pretty, dripping pussy until you can only remember my-“

“Dean.” You whisper, reaching your hand slowly down. 

Grabbing him through his jeans, just to make him feel half of the need you do. His mouth falls open in a loud moan, eyes fluttering slightly. He feels big. You squeeze, and he doubles over you with a grunt. 

“You- You’re playin’ with fire- Shit-“

His mouth attaches to your neck, and you tip your neck back. Wrap your arm around his finger, fingers brushing through the hair at the base of his neck. 

“You worked yourself up.” You whisper, and he chuckles. 

“Yeah. Guess I did.” Dean’s holding you so tight it’ll probably bruise in the morning. You hope it does.

“I wanna feel you.” You whisper. “Please, Dean. Let me feel you.”

His arms tighten around, and once again, something in him snaps. 

Dean drags you off the wall, mouth turning to sear against yours. You grab his face, trying to throw back every bit of desire he offers you. He pulls off his flannel without breaking the kiss, walking you out of the war room and into the hallway. You stumble slightly, and he lurches forward to grab you. Pulls you against his chest, move moving in an unrelenting, bruising pattern against yours. 

The kissing makes you float out of your skin, his hands wandering under your shirt sending you higher, but it’s still not enough. You try to drag him closer, and he grunts, almost falling over you. 

It’s messy. Hungry. And if there was doubt before, it’s gone now.  

He needs you. Just as much as you need him. 

Dean gets impatient of the mess half-steps, and hauls you up his body. You yelp, legs locking around his waist, and giggle when he squeezes your ass.

“That bad?” You whisper between kisses, and he grunts. 

“You got no idea.”

He doesn’t waste time, marching down the hallway. Pauses for a second, glancing at his door, and shoulders it open the split second after you nod. Dean sets you down carefully on the floor, and you both start to shed clothing like it’s made of poison. Somehow, you always manage to keep hands on each other. Dean helps your shirt over your head, his hand planted on your lower back. You do the same for him, and he ducks. Goes one arm at a time, so he can keep a hold of your sides. 

Your mouths crash back together immediately. Your hands wander the panes of his chest as he pulls down your shorts and underwear. You fumble with his belt, palming his erection. Dean moans your name, walking you back until you hit the bed, and fall back with a giggle. 

He crawls above you, kissing over your breasts as he kicks his underwear off. 

His cock springs free. Thick and red, leaking with pre-cum. Your legs spread, your fingers wandering between your thighs as you try to just imagine how he’s going to feel. 

Dean knocks your hand away, and you blink up to find him starting at your cunt. He’s breathing through his nose, dick jumping against his stomach as he takes you in. 

“Dean,” you whisper, and his eyes jump to yours. “I- I want you.”

You swipe your fingers carefully through your own pussy, and he almost growls over you. 

“Baby, you- I’m-“ He lowers himself down, kissing your inner thigh. You run your fingers through his hair, pulling his head up. 

His eyes meet yours, and no one’s ever looked at you like that. 

Like the world could end, and it wouldn’t matter. Not as long as you’re there. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he presses his cheek to your thigh. 

“Hey.”

“Can you come up here, please?”

Dean nods, slowly rising back up. He slowly moves up your body, kissing over your stomach, breast, collarbone. You work your clit, at the sight of him above you. It’s better than any fantasy. It’s Dean. 

You’re breathless, when his lips find yours again. You’re fucking your own hand, and almost scream when you feel his cock slide between the puffy lips of your pussy. 

“Here.” He mutters, pulling your hand to side. “I got it, sweetheart, wait-“

His head bumps that bundle of nerves, and Dean watches with an adoring gaze as you come undone below him once more. 

“That easy, huh?” He teases, kissing the corner of your mouth.

You take a ragged breath, half nodding. “Just- Just for you.”

Dean makes that low, animalistic sound again, and suddenly you’re being rolled over. His cock slaps against your ass, his grip tight on your waist as you straddle him. 

For a moment you just stare at each other. He raises his brow in a silent question. 

You nod, and he grins like you’ve just promised him the moon and stars.

Dean watches, as you slowly pick yourself up. Line him up against you, and sit down on his cock. His hands fist your soft skin, his head throwing back as you swallow him into your cunt. You moan his name as he stretches you open, and his hips slam up. 

You yelp, nails scratching at his chest, and he groans. 

“Sorry- Sorry, baby.” Dean grabs your hand, kissing the inside of your wrist. “You- Oh.”

You’re staring at him with an almost drunken expression. That, the split second of him losing control, was the hottest thing you’d ever seen. 

The way it had been because of you. 

Dean mutters your name, a low warning. You smile at him, and sink fully into him. He splits you wide open, his tip bumps your cervix, the stretch white-hot pleasure. 

You hold his gaze, as you start to move. Grind back and forth, letting him press against every good spot inside of you. 

Dean’s mouth falls open, and he throws his head back as you clench around him. His hand tangles with yours, and he holds it tight against his chest as the other grabs at your waist. You pick up your speed, starting to bounce. You ride him until your legs feel like jelly, until you’re fluttering around him and need is staining his thighs. 

He looks like a picture of sin. Wrecked below you, hair messy and chest rising unevenly. You moan his name, when he drags along your tight walls. Dean watches you under hooded eyes, making guttural sounds that rush straight to your clit. He squeezes your hand so tight it might break you. 

Fuck, you want it to break you.

“Come on.” You coo, trying to edge him on, and his eyes lock onto yours. “Is that-“ You swallow a moan, as he hits another needy spot inside of you. “You’re just going to lie there, and look pretty? Make- Oh-“ His abs flex, as you drag your clit against them. “Make me do all the work?”

That does it. 

Dean’s eyes darken, and whatever part of him that seemed perfectly happy letting you use him—letting you take control—vanishes. 

He grabs your hips, and pulls you up. 

Slams you down.

All the oxygen is knocked happily from your body, as Dean starts to fuck up into you like a man possessed. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, and any attempts you make to keep riding him are met with a small slap to your ass as hammering thrust that makes you almost convulse with pleasure. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You moan. “Dean, I- I can feel you in my fucking throat-“

He groans, driving impossibly faster, bullying your cunt into a slick, oversensitive mess. 

“Can feel you fuckin’ strangling me,” he leans further down into the sheets, craning his neck to watch his massive cock slide in and out of you with ease. “God, you take me like you were made for it, made for my cock-“

Dean moans your name, and you see white as your orgasm hits again. Dean makes a deep, primal noise as you shake above him. 

Doesn’t break his pace for a single second. 

And this might be what people mean, when they say they get enlightened. Dean keeps pounding into you, his own eyes unfocused with desire, and you’re barely out of your third orgasm before a fourth is building in your core. Winding tighter and tighter and tighter, and you call his name and writhe above him. 

It only drives Dean on.  

He surges up, moving you onto your back with your hips in the air. Leans down just enough to kiss you, tauntingly soft and sweet. 

Rubs his thumb around your clit until broken plea are leaving your mouth. 

Then presses down on the button, hard.

This orgasm is so strong you think you see stars. And you’re still almost floating, as Dean folds himself over you. Jackhammers his hips in increasingly uneven thrusts as he chases his own release. You hold him tight, whispering low praise about how big he is, how good it feels, until he stutters. 

His face is pressed into your neck as he slams home, and a tiny, shivering orgasm sweeps through you as he paints your walls white. 

You both just bask in it for a while. The blissful, peaceful and certain feeling of each other. Dean slowly slides in and out, fucking himself back into you, and you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it.

It’s aching, delicious torment, with how sore you are. With how much you want to feel every bit of him. 

You settle on letting him. Just kissing the side of Dean’s head and holding onto him for dear life, until he finally stills over you. 

Still buried deep in your body. 

“Dean.” You murmur, and he grunts. “Baby, you’re still-“

“I know.” He grunts, arms wrapping tighter around your body. “Just- Wanna keep you here for a while.”

“Oh. Okay.” You stare at the ceiling, then whisper. “You meant it, right?”

“Meant what?”

“That- That you- Love me.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Yeah.” Another second of silence. “Why did you-“

“I meant it to.” You say quickly. “I meant it- A lot.”

Dean twitches inside of you, smiling against your skin. You swallow.

“When- How long-“

“I dunno.” He tips his head up, chin resting between your breasts. “Forever?”

You give him a flat look. “Dean.”

“What?”

“You can’t have loved me forever-“

“Don’t invalidate my feelings, sweetheart.” He grins. “That’s not very healthy or whatever.”

You narrow your eyes. “Stop listening to Sam when he talks about psychology.”

“Stop talkin’ about Sam when I’m balls deep inside of you.”

You flush, and Dean laughs. Leans up, pressing a soft kiss against your lips. 

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

You hum. “You’re cute when you’re being an ass.”

“Ah. Well.” Dean bumps his nose with yours, eyes bright. “I’m your ass, aren’t I?”

And it washes over you. An overwhelming sense of this. 

This is what’s supposed to be. 

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and he smiles back like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You are.”

He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.

At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.

Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.

“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”

Run of the mill.

Simple.

Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.

Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.

And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.

Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.

Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.

The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.

He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.

You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.

Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.

The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.

But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.

You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.

You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.

You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.

You would’ve been home by now.

But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.

“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.

Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“

The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-

“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“

“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”

“I’m tryin’-“

“Not hard enough.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“

You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.

“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“

“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”

“They are. Think about it.“

“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“

“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.

“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”

Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”

You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.

It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.

The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.

But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.

You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.

Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.

“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”

Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”

“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.

Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.

“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“

Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-

“Sorry-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.

Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.

It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.

You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-

“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“

“Stop.”

You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“

“No. Don’t want Ella-“

“Emma-“

“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”

“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“

“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”

You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.

He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.

Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.

You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.

Dean wants to be done with this.

You’re not done with him.

You swipe right on Emma.

For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.

“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.

“Baby, I need you not to talk-“

“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”

That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.

But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.

Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-

“No.” He grunts, and you blink.

“It’s okay-“

“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”

You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“

“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.

Looking at you.

His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.

“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.

You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“

“’m fine-“

“You’re not fine-“

“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.

“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”

He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head. 

“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.

Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.

But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.

Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.

Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.

“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”

You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.

It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.

Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-

It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.

You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.

You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“

“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”

“A bar.”

He makes a sour expression. “Why.”

“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”

Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.

You sigh. ‘Dean-“

“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“

“Yes, you are.”

“No-“

“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.

You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.

And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.

He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.

You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.

“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.

“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.

Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.

“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”

You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.

“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.

Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”

You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.

Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.

What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.

You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.

Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.

Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.

But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.

Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.

You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-

Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.

He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.  

“Where-“

“She left.”

Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“

“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“

“I know.” He’s jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. “Just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”

Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.

“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”

He frowns. “No, I’m not-“

“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.

Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”

“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“

“I’m not acting like a child-“

“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.

Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.

“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“

He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.

“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”

You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“

You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.

He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.

You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.

He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.

Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.

“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.

Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“

“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“

He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”

“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”

You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“

“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.

His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”

It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”

You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.

“De- Dean-“

“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.

“Dean-“

“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”

You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.

Dying wish.

He still thinks he’s allowed to die.

“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.

Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“

“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.

He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“

“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“

“I told you, no-“

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”

You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.

It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.

“What if I want to have sex with you?”

Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“

“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”

He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.

There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.

Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.

His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.

Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.

You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.

Dean mouth hangs slack.

“Jesus fuckin’-“

He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.

You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.

Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.

You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.

A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.

Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.

He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.

“You’re sure-“

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”

It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.

You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.

“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“

“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.

A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.

His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.

“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“

“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.

You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.

You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.

This is different.

Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.

He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.

“De, be- Be careful-“

You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.

“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.

And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.

He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”

You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.

“Answer me-“

“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“

“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”

“Dean-“

“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“

“I- I don’t remember-“

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”

Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.

He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.

“Oh my- Dean-“

“I told you, answer-“

“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“

“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”

“Mmm- Mhm-“

“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“

His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.

Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.

He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.

“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“

“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“

You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.

It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.

You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off. 

A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.

Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.

When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.

You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.

“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“

It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.

You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.

Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-

“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”

You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“

“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”

He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.

“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.

“Dean, Dean, please-“

He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Dean-“

Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.

Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“

He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.

“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“

You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.

Then he finally lets you over the edge.

Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.

You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.

“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.

When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.

It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.

But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.

Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.

“I’ll get over it.”

You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.

“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.

“Wha-“

“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”

He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.

“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.

“Blame it on the curse.”

You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.

“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”

You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought  he said. “What?”

“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”

He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.

“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“

“It’s not. It’s-“

He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.

“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”

He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.

“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”