finding my place

On a seldom quiet afternoon, Daryl finds himself kneeled over working on his bike. The solitary pastime keeps his mind and hands busy when things get unnervingly quiet. 

His grease-covered hands are too preoccupied to wipe the sweat off his brow, let alone grab the wrench he left annoyingly out of reach. When he catches a glimpse of you passing by at the perfect time, you hear that familiar drawl call after you with surprising casualness. 

“Babe!” 

You double back just to be met with sheepishly avoidant eyes. Before either of you can really process or address the slip of tongue, Daryl gives a curt nod towards the open toolbox sitting a few feet away.

"Gimme a hand, will ya?"

You hand the wrench over along with a smug look, which earns a warning glare and a begrudging grumble of thanks in return.

Frantic voices cut through the ongoing gunfire and permeate the staticky airwaves over handheld radio. While it's reassuring to have your found-family fighting at your side, the absence of your other half when the chaos begins distracts you. Steadfast directions are thrown out to maintain some semblance of order, but it's difficult to absorb details as panic begins to rise.

Like a shining beacon, the buzz of Daryl’s worried voice cuts through the surrounding frenzy from the walkie glued to your hip. As soon as you respond, the ensuing exchange is a concise flurry of ‘where are you?’s and ‘are you okay?’s from both ends. The huff of his breath is enough to tell you that he’s rushing to you as fast as he can, but he assures you anyway.

“Jus’ hang in there, sweetheart. ‘M almost there.”

The endearing term slips through the cracks of panic, but it’s enough to steel your nerves and remind you of what you’re fighting for.

Black blood splatters on your skin and decorates your clothes as you take down your targets one by one. When a walker nearly knocks you on your ass, Daryl is there to take it out with a swift arrow to the cranium. With a sharp thwack, the walker crumples to the ground in a limp heap. A rough yank on your arm pulls you to his side.

"What's the matter wit' chu, girl?! Ya got s'mthin' to prove?” 

He takes the brief moment to lay into you before setting off again, clearing a path for the both of you back to the group. Something about the way he growls out the warning prior to effortlessly parting a sea of walkers has you following along without argument.

He may loathe your reckless insistence on sticking near the frontlines and putting yourself in harm’s way, but he has your back without fail.

Solo runs with Daryl are one of the only times you get him all to yourself nowadays. Venturing away from the group may come with its fair share of unpredictable concerns, but those worries are pushed to the back of your mind today. All you care about is the afternoon sun warming your skin, your hair whipping back like ribbons in the wind, the rumble of the bike beneath the leather seat, and the man you currently have your arms wrapped around.

It’s been so long since your last outing alone together that this feels more like a date than a supply run. The notion puts a soft smile on your face.

Those mushy thoughts are abruptly interrupted by an unanticipated lurch of the bike that sends you reeling back as it picks up speed and roars down the open road. Your resulting flinch has you clutching him tighter, palms pressed to his front as you will your racing heart to climb back out of your ass.

Daryl spares a glance over his shoulder. The glimpse you get of an amused twitch at the corner of his mouth stirs up a familiar fluttering in your stomach. He returns his attention to the road, but not without laughing at your expense—a deep rumble that you can feel more than hear.

“Watch those hands, sunshine,” he calls back over the drone of the engine. The rare levity in his voice is unmistakable. One of his hands leaves the handlebar to firmly readjust your grip around his waist.

“At least wait ‘til we stop movin’ t’ feel me up.”

You know he’s only joking, but that doesn’t stop the very tempting idea from lodging in the back of your mind for the rest of the ride.

author’s note: you just read my first ever fic! i started stitching together this teensy collection of daydreams on a whim and have been sitting on the draft for a long while now. considering sharing more substantial fics soon. lmk what you think! anyways, hope u liked it & thnx for reading ♡

Because Spencer had mistaken your politeness for encouragement.

Daryl had been away on a run with Rick and Aaron for nearly two weeks, and though he had left with his usual grumble and a promise to be back before you had the chance to miss him too much, you knew better. You missed him the moment he walked through the gates.

Besides, there were some things easier dealt with when your boyfriend happened to be terrifyingly competent with a crossbow and a permanent scowl.

You hadn't told him. Partly because you didn't want to worry him, and partly because you knew exactly how he'd react.

The mere thought of Daryl discovering another man had been making you uncomfortable was enough to picture the storm cloud that would settle over his face, so you tried to handle it yourself before he arrived.

"Spencer, seriously, quit it. I'm not interested."

"Not interested right now?" he'd asked hopefully.

"No. Not interested. Period."

And he smiled. Actually smiled.

As if his persistence would somehow change your mind.

"I get it, you're difficult."

"No, Spencer, you're being difficult. I don't want you." you pause between every word like you're speaking to a toddler.

His expression changed to something like disappointment for only a second before that easy smile returned, making your skin crawl for reasons you couldn't explain.

"Guess I'll keep trying then."

You'd stopped even replying to his greetings after that, not wanting to give the man any reasons to think he had a shot with you.

When Daryl arrived, you took a mental note to explain him everything. How annoying Spencer had been these last couple of weeks, how scary it was starting to look for you. But you waited the first day to pass, enjoying a peaceful time with him before throwing the bomb when things were calmer.

The next day, you woke up earlier than him, it had rained the night before, leaving the air cool and smelling faintly of wet earth. You had changed into one of Daryl's old shirts, the oversized sleeves hanging past your wrists, curled them up to make him breakfast, while your head wondered how you'd approach the subject without him storming out of your house immediately and stamping his fists directly onto Spencer's nose.

A knock woke you from your thoughts. You sighed deeply.

"Come on, I know you're home." the known voice said from the other side of the wall.

You closed your eyes.

Of course ignoring him had apparently encouraged him. Wonderful.

"Can we just talk?" his voice called through the door. "You've been avoiding me.". No shit.

You remained frozen on your spot. Then came another knock. Louder this time.

"Seriously?"

You were just beginning to gather your voice to yell at him to leave when footsteps sounded behind you and strong arms slid around your waist.

You nearly jumped out of your skin before a familiar warmth pressed against your back.

"Who the hell's bangin' on your door?"

"Good morning, sleepyhead." you dodged the question, turned to face him and press your lips to his. "Missed you so much these days."

"I missed ya too."

He wore only a pair of overused sweatpants, his exposed chest was marked with scars colored differently, some old and some new ones, his hair was a mess, falling over eyes still heavy and swollen with sleep, and there were faint marks from the pillow pressed against one side of his face. Confusion had settled into a frown as he glanced toward the front door and then back at you.

The knock came again. Daryl frowned.

"Seriously, hun, who's that?"

You stiffened, and immediately, he noticed.

"Who is it?"

"Promise you won't get into a fight for this."

That answer earned you a look.

"The hell's going on?"

"Spencer's been bugging me like an asshole but's gotten worse now. He's been knockin trying to get me to talk to him."

"He's-" Daryl looked between you and the door. "He's been coming to your place?" you nodded.

"I told him with all the letters I wouldn't want him painted gold but he won't listen."

Daryl's eyes darkened.

"That little prick–"

"Y/n?" Spencer called from outside.

Silence. You felt Daryl go completely still.

"Daryl?"

His head turned very slowly toward the front door.

"Daryl–" you repeated weakly.

"Sweetheart."

Another knock interrupted you.

"I know you're in there!"

Daryl released you with alarming slowness, you had witnessed walker hordes that looked less threatening. He wasn't angry at you, not even close.

But there was a very particular expression on his face that usually preceded somebody making poor life choices.

"Daryl."

"Mhm."

"Behave."

"Mhm."

"That wasn't convincing."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead so absentmindedly it nearly distracted you from the fact that he was marching toward the front door with absolutely no shirt on. He opened the door.

Spencer's confident smile vanished so quickly you wished you had recorded to replay it later.

Because as the door opened and he expected you, finally deciding to give him a chance or invite him in, stood instead Daryl Dixon, looking thoroughly unimpressed with existence itself, broad-shouldered and shirtless, like he owned the place.

And behind him, visible over his shoulder, stood you. Wearing one of Daryl's shirts.

Spencer blinked.

Daryl blinked back. Then, with all the warmth of a man discussing the weather, he asked.

"Can I help ya?"

The poor fool actually opened his mouth.

"I uh... I was looking for–"

"For my girl?"

Daryl's eyebrow lifted, he sounded calm — which made things worse.

"She's busy, pal."

Spencer's eyes widened.

My girl. The words settled warmly in your chest despite the embarrassment threatening to kill you.

"Didn't know y'all were together."

Daryl's expression got heavier.

"Well, now ya do." The message was, thankfully, finally received.

Spencer muttered something that sounded like an apology before retreating down the street with remarkable speed.

Daryl watched him until he was far enough, then closed the door, turned around and looked at you smiling like a child who just got cotton candy.

The helmet tilted slightly toward you.

“Quiet,” he shot back immediately, voice low and edged with the same irritation while looking down.

Very much down.

Because while the two of you had been sprinting through corridors trying to shake the men chasing you, this tiny hiding place had appeared during a frantic scan of the hallway. Without pausing to debate the idea, Din had grabbed you by the arm and shoved you inside.

He followed a heartbeat later.

The security panel had slid shut with a quiet thunk.

Only then had the reality of the situation become clear.

The space was barely large enough for one adult standing upright. With both of you inside, it became an exercise in awkward geometry.

Din stood with his back pressed firmly against the sealed panel. One armored arm braced against the wall in front of him, creating a makeshift support so he wouldn’t lose his balance in the cramped quarters.

At least he was standing.

You, on the other hand…

You lifted your gaze slowly.

From the floor.

From where you were kneeling.

Directly between his legs.

“Oh, don’t you dare tell me to be quiet,” you muttered sharply, craning your neck to glare up at the visor. “You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place.”

Technically speaking, you were right.

Months of working together had built enough trust that when Din proposed the job, you hadn’t questioned it much.

An easy contract, he had said.

Quick entry. Quick exit. Minimal guards.

Simple.

Every single part of that description had turned out to be spectacularly wrong.

The artifact storage facility had recently made local news - something neither of you had learned about until far too late. Apparently publicity had inspired the owners to double their security.

What should have been a short operation had turned into a crawling nightmare.

Air vents.

Abandoned wastewater tunnels.

Forgotten maintenance corridors that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades.

The two of you had spent hours creeping through the guts of the building just to reach the prize.

Still, the effort hadn’t been wasted.

Your hand instinctively brushed your pocket.

Inside rested the object you’d come for: a Kyber Resonance Shard, a fractured piece of crystal rumored to hum faintly with residual energy when exposed to certain frequencies. Collectors paid absurd amounts for relics tied even distantly to the old Jedi traditions.

You had managed to lift it cleanly from its display.

Unfortunately, the display had also triggered a silent alarm.

Minutes later the corridors behind you had filled with guards.

Not just a few.

Dozens.

The careful stealth of the mission had evaporated instantly. Instead of sneaking out quietly, you had been forced to fight your way through the first wave and run before reinforcements sealed the building entirely.

That was when the plan changed.

Getting out immediately had become impossible.

But hiding?

Hiding might buy time.

Eventually the guards would assume you had escaped the facility entirely. Once the search widened outside, slipping away would be far easier.

At least, that had been the theory.

Which was how you ended up here.

Wedged inside a maintenance cavity barely wider than a locker.

Kneeling awkwardly on the floor.

Directly between the legs of a fully armored Mandalorian bounty hunter who filled most of the remaining space.

You tilted your head again to glare up at the dark visor hovering above you.

“Yes,” you muttered under your breath, “this was definitely your brilliant plan.”

“Maybe you should’ve listened when I told you the alarm might trigger,” Din Djarin muttered sharply above you, the words low and tight through the helmet’s modulator.

You snorted quietly.

“Helpful warning,” you whispered back. “Shame it arrived after I had already pocketed the shard.”

You shifted slightly on your heels, trying for the third time to relieve the pressure building in your legs. The cramped position forced your weight awkwardly onto your calves, and the metal floor beneath you was doing nothing to improve the situation.

Your muscles protested.

“Next time a meteor storm smashes into the Razor Crest,” you added dryly, “I’ll be sure to warn you afterward too.”

Din’s right foot nudged lightly against your leg.

You couldn’t tell whether the movement was meant as a quiet command to shut up - or simply an attempt for him to adjust his own balance in the ridiculous configuration the two of you had been forced into.

“If we get out of here,” you continued under your breath, shifting your weight again, “remind me to avoid any future jobs that involve stealing.”

The response came immediately.

“That from the master thief?” he said. Even without seeing his face, you could hear the faint crooked humor in his tone.

Months of working together had trained your ears well. You had learned to read the small inflections beneath the helmet’s mechanical filter. The subtle changes that meant he was smirking, even if the visor hid it completely.

You had seen that smirk before though.

More than once.

Because you have seen his face many times now.

The first time had been an accident - an unexpected glimpse of his face during a moment neither of you had planned.

The second had been necessity, when he’d taken a nasty hit and removing the helmet had been the only way to patch him up properly.

The third…

Well.

That had happened in the narrow bunk aboard the Razor Crest, sometime after both of you decided that surviving too many dangerous jobs together had earned you a more… relaxed way of blowing off steam.

Originally, the partnership had been strictly professional.

Lately, things had become a little more complicated.

“I wouldn’t mind switching back to bounty work,” you murmured, glancing up toward the dark visor. “You know I’m better at luring targets out than you are.”

A faint pause followed.

Then he replied quietly, “A little too good at it.” The final word slipped out in the soft cadence of Mando’a. “Mesh’la.”

Thankfully the darkness inside the cramped storage compartment hid the warmth that crept across your face.

You had never asked him exactly what the word meant.

Something affectionate, you suspected.

Something he said with an ease that made it feel… oddly intimate.

Even filtered through the helmet, the sound carried a certain weight.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Din,” you whispered, voice tilting playfully. “Is that why you picked this miserable job? So I wouldn’t be flirting with half the galaxy while we worked?”

Your hand lifted almost absentmindedly, sliding along the side of his leg. The motion was half reassuring, half teasing as your fingers traced lightly over the armored plating before settling there.

“Focus,” he said quietly. But the word lacked its usual bite.

“Not much focusing I can do down here,” you replied softly. “We’re stuck waiting. Let me keep my sarcasm - it helps pass the time.”

Outside the sealed panel, the facility remained silent for the moment. No footsteps. No voices.

Still, both of you kept your voices low.

Better safe than discovered.

“You could start thinking about buyers,” Din said after a moment. “Once word spreads that the artifact disappeared from a secure facility, the list of interested collectors will shrink fast.”

You shrugged lightly, the movement barely noticeable in the cramped space.

“Let that be my headache.” He knew you would handle it. You always did. “You,” you added, glancing up again, “just focus on choosing our next job with a little more care.” A faint smirk crept into your voice. “I don’t mind spending time alone in a room with you,” you murmured. “But this setup? Less appealing.”

Your gaze lifted.

The visor angled down toward you.

“Think so? I can’t say the view is terrible.” There it was again - that invisible grin you had come to recognize.

Your hand, still resting on his shin, slid a little higher along his thigh. Your fingers tightened briefly in a light squeeze.

“Careful,” you murmured. “You know I like pushing my luck.”

“Focus,” he repeated again, though the command sounded slightly rougher now. “We need to be ready to move the second an opening appears.”

His tone still carried its usual seriousness. But there was something else hiding beneath it. A quiet thread of tension.

“I can focus just fine,” you said softly. “I’m practically meditating down here. Feeling like a damn Jedi.”

You shifted again, trying to relieve the ache building in your legs.

As you moved, you rolled your neck slightly - 

 - and accidentally brushed your head against his crotch.

The reaction was immediate.

Din shifted abruptly, a quiet hum escaping him through the modulator as he instinctively pulled back where little to no space was left.

You blinked, then slowly looked up. A wicked grin spread across your face.

“Well now,” you murmured, lips parting slightly. “Don’t tell me…” Your voice dropped to a playful whisper. “Din Djarin,” you teased, “are you actually getting turned on by this?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead your hand moved higher along his thigh, slipping beneath the edge of the segmented armor until your fingers found the softer resistance of the flight suit beneath. The fabric was warm from his body heat, taut where it stretched across muscle. You let your palm settle there for a moment - just long enough to confirm what your instincts had already guessed.

And there it was.

A slow, unmistakable firmness growing beneath your touch.

Your mouth curved slightly.

Well. That answered that.

“Cyar’ika…” Din’s voice dropped into a low rumble, the word dragged through the helmet’s modulator like a warning trying very hard to sound stern.

Except the tone betrayed him.

Half caution. Half something else entirely.

“What?” you murmured softly, fingers tightening through the fabric in a deliberate squeeze that completely contradicted the innocence of your question. “Should I stop?”

His breath caught.

“This is not the place,” he said, words slightly uneven now, “and definitely not the time.”

A faint inhale followed, sharp enough that he nearly stumbled over the last part of the sentence.

“Seems to me we’ve got plenty of time to kill,” you whispered.

Your hand didn’t slow.

If anything, the motion became more deliberate - testing, exploring his length through the layers of fabric while your eyes stayed locked on the dark visor above you.

Whatever sharp retort had been forming died instantly when your curious squeeze shifted into a slow, teasing stroke.

Din’s helmet tipped back against the wall behind him with a muted klonk. The hand braced against the opposite surface tightened, his fingers curling slowly into a fist as if he needed the pressure to steady himself.

“You really shouldn’t…” he muttered.

But the growl beneath the words lacked conviction.

It sounded less like a warning directed at you and more like something he was trying to remind himself.

Meanwhile your hand had already found the seam of the flight suit.

You slipped beneath it.

The moment your fingers brushed bare skin, Din’s hips shifted instinctively against your touch. A quiet roll forward.

A reaction he clearly hadn’t intended.

“You keep watch,” you suggested lightly, your voice barely louder than a breath, “I’ll keep you entertained.”

Your fingers wrapped fully around his cock now.

The muffled sound that escaped the helmet in response sent a small thrill down your spine.

You had seen Din without the helmet before. You knew the expressions he tried so carefully to hide from the rest of the galaxy - the tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you touched him just right.

But this?

This was different.

With the helmet still firmly in place, you couldn’t rely on facial cues at all.

Instead you found yourself reading the language of his body.

Every small shift of muscle.

Every subtle change in the way he held himself above you.

The signals were clearer than he probably realized.

And right now they were telling you that you were very much on the right track.

His length twitched faintly in your grasp.

Yes.

Definitely the right track.

“You’re being reckless,” Din whispered after a moment, his head tilting slightly as if he was still trying to listen for sounds in the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.

“This entire mission has been reckless,” you replied with a quiet smirk. “I’m just staying consistent.”

Your hand moved again.

With a practiced motion you eased him free from the remaining fabric, the flight suit sliding aside just enough to reveal his length completely.

Especially from your low position you couldn’t help the brief flicker of appreciation that crossed your mind as he stood towering above you.

Your legs had been aching moments ago from the cramped kneeling position.

Now the discomfort barely registered.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your posture so you were better aligned with his cock in front of your face. Your gaze traveled upward for a moment before settling again on the task at hand.

Almost unconsciously, you wet your lips.

Your hand gave him a few slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried.

“You should stop,” he hissed quietly.

You smiled faintly.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

Leaning forward, you pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss against the soft skin of his tip.

The thing was,  you had never been particularly patient. The teasing kisses you had started with didn’t stay gentle for long. As you closed your lips around his tip you could feel a tension coiling through Din’s entire body and you could hear the change in his breathing.

The quiet restraint he usually carried with such discipline began to slip. A low sound escaped him - muted by the helmet but unmistakable.

Above you, his free hand found your hair. Just threading through the strands in slow strokes that felt almost absentminded, as if he was grounding himself in the sensation. The movement sent a clear enough signal on its own.

You were doing exactly what he wanted, that he did not want you to stop at all.

Encouraged, you took him in deeper, the tight space forcing you to adjust carefully as your tongue circled his soft skin. Din’s hand moved from the side of your head to the back of it as you leaned in further, the grip tightening just slightly as instinct took over.

For a moment the two of you went completely still.

The closeness of the compartment left almost no room for movement anyway. The faint hum of machinery somewhere inside the walls vibrated through the metal around you while you both adjusted to the new position.

Din’s breath hitched again.

“Mesh’la…” The word slipped out rougher this time, dragged low through the modulator as he looked down at you. The dark visor tilted slightly, studying you in the dim light filtering through the vent.

“You look… perfect like this.”

The praise landed like a spark and a shiver ran through you.

Your hand slid higher along his thigh to steady yourself while the other braced against the wall behind you. Slowly you began to move your head, careful in the cramped space, finding a rhythm that worked despite the awkward positioning.

You slowly started to move your head, taking him in just an inch more before rolling back, catching a breath. Spit glistened on your lips and his soft skin, even in the shady dark light of this makeshift hideout, the air inside the compartment growing thick and humid as the seconds stretched.   

Your own pulse had begun to race now and heat coiled low in your stomach. You could feel the wetness between your legs growing although he did not even touch you fully.

It was almost frustrating to realize there would be no space for him to return the favor here - not with the two of you wedged together in a compartment barely big enough to breathe in. Not to speak of the lurking danger outside.

But you had no doubt, the moment you made it back to the Crest, he would remember exactly how to repay you. And different to now he would take his time with you.

For now though, the focus was entirely on him.

Din’s grip tightened slightly in your hair as you relaxed your jaw just a bit more, to take him up to the hilt. Before you could settle fully into your pace, he guided you forward with a firm pressure at the back of your head, pulling you closer with a sudden urgency that stole your breath for a moment.

“You take me so well,” he murmured. The words vibrated through the helmet’s modulator, sending another shiver down your spine. Your lungs protested briefly at the fullness, but your mind was far too focused on the effect you were having on him to care much about that.

Just before the pressure became too much he eased the hold, letting you pull back enough to breathe again.

You inhaled deeply before leaning in once more, eyes slipping closed as you focused on the rhythm he gave you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his flight suit for balance as you let your tongue explore his full length, feeling every vein and twitch. He felt impossibly hard now and you longed for the moment back on the ship when he would bury himself in you, hips rolling in that infuriating slowness he always used to bring you closer and closer to the edge.

Above you, Din’s movements became less controlled now. The subtle tension running through his body and the twitching of his cock told you everything you needed to know.

“I’m almost there, cyar’ika,” he breathed quietly. Then his helmet tilted downward again. “Look at me.”

You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze to the dark visor looming above you. Your jaw softened slightly, preparing yourself for the moment - 

 - but suddenly he froze.

Every muscle in his body went rigid.

A sound echoed faintly from the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.

Footsteps, distant enough but approaching.

The situation became instantly absurd.

You were kneeling in a cramped maintenance cavity, his cock buried deep in your throat, both of you frozen in complete silence while someone walked somewhere nearby beyond the sealed panel.

Din held himself perfectly still, his grip tightening in your hair in a silent command to stop. To wait.

You felt it.

You understood it.

You ignored it. Your tongue moved again in a teasing flick against his underside and his throb told you how he ached for the sweet release. A strangled hiss slipped through the modulator.

The footsteps grew slightly louder as they passed somewhere down the corridor.

Din’s fingers clenched in warning. Not yet pulling you away, but very clearly telling you to behave.

You didn’t.

Your hands slid around the backs of his thighs instead, gripping firmly just beneath the curve of his backside. Then you pulled him closer, deeper, stealing your own breath, all while keeping your gaze fixed on him.

That was all it took.

Din’s head fell back against the wall with a silent thud as the tension snapped.

The insulation of the compartment and the distant machinery thankfully swallowed most of the sound. Outside, the footsteps continued past without slowing.

Inside, you had no choice but to hold steady as the wave finally broke and he spilled into your mouth, his warm cum coating the back of your throat and dripping down.

True to his earlier command, you kept your eyes lifted to the visor above you as you swallowed around his cock, taking every drop of him.

His fingers dug sharply into your hair now, the pressure almost painful as he fought to stay quiet through the release that rolled through him.

The footsteps faded down the corridor.

Only once the silence returned did Din finally exhale.

The breath came out slow and shaky.

After a moment he carefully pulled his still hardened length away, the movement making his tip bump lightly against your lips as he straightened.

“You…” he muttered, voice still rough. “…are an absolute menace.”

You leaned back slightly, licking the corners of your mouth before flashing him a satisfied grin.

“Happy to be of service.” You gave him a small, mocking nod.

With practiced hands you helped Din straighten himself back into the flight suit, smoothing the fabric into place before giving the front of it a light, almost condescending pat.

“Good as new,” you murmured under your breath.

The grip he had held in your hair finally loosened. Instead of the sharp hold from moments ago, his fingers slid through the strands in slow strokes, brushing your scalp before drifting down along the side of your face, tilting your face upwards by the chin. The gesture carried none of the urgency from earlier - just quiet warmth.

“We’re going to have a conversation about your sense of risk assessment once we’re back on the ship,” he said after a moment. Even through the helmet you could hear the grin in his voice. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

“Speaking of taking me places,” you said, nodding toward the sealed panel behind him, “you think things have cooled down out there yet?”

“I certainly have,” he replied dryly. The helmet tilted slightly as he listened for a moment, the faint sounds of the facility humming through the walls around you. “Seems quiet enough. Might be our best window.”

He glanced down toward you.

“Can you get it open again?”

Your lockpicking kit was still tucked safely in your pocket. After all, the panel had sealed itself automatically once you had picked it the first time and Din had shoved you inside. Your part of the job hadn’t exactly ended when the door closed.

You pulled the tools free with a quiet clink.

“What exactly are you contributing to this mission again?” you asked with a crooked grin.

Din awkwardly stepped over you in the tight compartment so you could shift forward, bracing yourself on your knees while you reached the panel controls.

“Because as far as I remember,” you continued, sliding the picks into place, “I handled the theft, the lockpicking, and the tension relief.”

Behind you he shifted his weight against the opposite wall.

“I’m making sure no one stands between us and the ship so I can repay you,” he replied calmly.

The panel hissed softly as the locking mechanism disengaged beneath your tools.

He leaned closer.

“Now hurry up,” he added quietly, “before I make you.”

You didn’t need further encouragement. You scrambled to your feet quickly - only to wobble immediately as your legs protested the long minutes spent kneeling.

Pins and needles shot through your calves.

“Stars,” you muttered, shaking them out. “Did the Jedi deal with this kind of thing all the time?”

Din didn’t slow.

“Less talking,” he said simply. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward down the corridor. “More moving.”

Waiting had been the right call.

The frantic security sweep from earlier had thinned considerably. Most of the guards had clearly moved their search elsewhere by now, likely assuming you had already slipped off the premises.

Still, the path back to the exit wasn’t completely empty.

Twice you had to flatten yourselves against shadowed corners as patrols passed nearby.

Twice Din handled the problem when stealth alone wasn’t enough.

Before long the familiar shape of the Razor Crest appeared waiting at the edge of the landing platform like an old friend.

You sprinted the final stretch. By the time the ramp lowered you were already breathing hard.

Din reached the cockpit first, vaulting into the pilot’s seat as the startup sequence flared to life across the control panels.

You stumbled up into the cockpit seconds later and dropped into the copilot chair beside him, chest still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.

But the grin on your face refused to fade.

From your pocket you produced the prize.

The Kyber Resonance Shard caught the cockpit lights as you tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again.

“Well,” you said, leaning back slightly as the engines hummed louder beneath your feet, “that was an experience.”

You flipped the shard once more.

Din said nothing. His gloved hands moved across the controls with steady precision, initiating the final departure sequence.

The ship lifted smoothly from the platform.

You glanced sideways at him.

“What do you think this thing will sell for?” you asked, turning the crystal between your fingers.

Still nothing.

A small flicker of unease crept into your thoughts. Had you pushed too far earlier?

You cleared your throat. “Maybe we should take more breaking-and-entering jobs,” you added casually.

You tossed the shard again - 

 - but this time Din’s hand shot out and caught it midair before you could.

The motion was so quick it left you blinking.

Without looking at you, he engaged the hyperdrive controls with his other hand. The Crest lurched gently as it entered hyperspace, the blue tunnel of stars stretching across the viewport.

Din turned the crystal over once in his hand. Then set it on the console. Only after that did he rise from the pilot’s seat. His broad silhouette loomed over you.

“Bunk,” he said.

Just one word.

No humor left in it.

The tone wasn’t angry.

But it was unmistakably an order.

And stars help you - you obeyed it eagerly.

You were out of the copilot seat in a heartbeat, heading down the narrow corridor toward the sleeping quarters.

Behind you, heavy footsteps followed.

You reached the bunk and climbed inside just as the familiar sound echoed through the small cabin - 

The quiet hiss of a helmet seal disengaging.

Your grin widened.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you stretched out on the mattress and looked toward the doorway with open anticipation.

You had worked with Din long enough to know exactly how this was going to end.

He always believed in settling the score.

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“Your footing is wrong,” he says. “You’re distracted.”

“Is not!” you huff. “And I’m not distracted!”

He steps closer and places a gloved hand at your hip, the heat of him searing through the material. “Like this,” he rumbles and adjusts your body.

“Like that makes a difference,” you mutter.

He presses closer and your breath hitches. “Distracted,” he whispers at your ear.

You let out a frustrated growl and lift your knee, hoping to catch him off guard. He easily blocks it, grabbing your wrists and spinning you so your back is pressed to his chest.

“You’re just proving my point,” he hums. “Tell me what’s distracting you baby. I wanna know.”

You feel the flex of his muscles in all the places he’s not covered in Beskar, and a shiver of anticipation runs your spine.

His head dips toward your lips, and you don’t need to see his face to know what he wants.

“Well?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you answer, trying and failing to keep the breathlessness from your voice.

“Oh, I think I already do,” he says, removing a glove to deliberately slide his hand down your stomach.

Each movement is slow and controlled as he smooths his hand lower, finding you soaked and ready. You circle your hips in desperation, his fingers turning greedy and wetter with every stroke.

The pad of your thumb runs across his bottom lip. “Is it working?”

His hands shoot up, tightening around your wrists with a bruising force, his helmet falling to the ground with a loud crack. In one fluid, deft motion, he wrenches your arms up, pinning them to the wall on either side of your head. He rolls into you, the hardness between his legs throbbing against your stomach.

“Working?!” he shouts before dipping his head to brush his nose over yours, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “I know what you’re doing sweetheart.”

He tilts his head, his lips hovering inches from yours, tantalizingly close and you roll your hips, grinding along his hard cock.

“Well something is definitely working,” you purr.

His only answer is to crash his mouth to yours with a hunger so strong it feels like it might swallow you whole.

You rub against each other, your leathers and his armor creating a maddening barrier.

“Have you ever thought about the consequences of your actions?” he pants. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

You yank your hands free and reach between your bodies, fingers fumbling with the armor at his waist.

“I can’t promise that I won’t do that,” you breathe out, lips titled into a defiant smirk.

He groans, broken and desperate, hips betraying him as he pushes into your touch.

“Fuck,” he hisses, resistance crumbling. “I’m going to ruin you.”

It is not a new realisation that creeps up on you the fateful Saturday afternoon; but it hits you with a fresh blissful intensity nevertheless.

It’s one of those lovely moments you and Steve got up to sharing lately, precious time in precious company, yet spent each wrapped in your own pastime. It’s a sweet kind of intimacy, comfortable and comforting, even in your relatively new love: being together, breathing the same air, mostly in silence, this time in one of the Avengers’ garages providing a surprising sanctuary on a warm weekend.

You, every now and then sharing a sentence you just read, one you particularly liked or simply made you laugh or think of him or you two together; him, working on his bike, hands smudged with a streak of grease here and there:

And therein lies the problem.

You’re reading, comfy on one of the armchairs which is there just for occasions like this.

Steve is working on his bike, crouched of laid or bend, arms bare to avoid smudging a sleeve.

You’re failing your task spectacularly.

Steve, on the other hand, is excellent; he truly is wonderful at working with his hands.

It’s been a while since you shared a line you enjoyed.

Steve’s not complaining. He is distracting though.

Your gaze, instead of focusing on the page to feed your mind with vivid images and new thoughts born out of the story, keeps wandering to him, the solid lines of his muscle, the tendons and veins on his forearms, his dextrous fingers.

Steve hasn’t noticed. Maybe. Or maybe he’s just being too polite. Or he’s too pleased to point it out.

You catch yourself blatantly staring. Your eyes and mind zero on one single thought, on one single object.

Steve’s hands.

The skin on his palms is roughened by battle and hard work, his knuckles a constellation of little scars scattered across, for not even his enhanced healing can keep up with how often he splits, or bruises, or breaks them when fighting for a better, safer world. His skin is scraped from where he reaches for the world that would fit with the idea of how things should be through the thorny paths of reality, over and over again, for he wants to believe and wants to do his part.

They are hands of a man who fights every day.

They are hands of a man who has taken lives.

They are hands of a man who has protected millions more and inspired others to do the same.

The touch of those hands is the most tender you have ever felt, soft even where the skin is hard, flesh warm and pliant where it meets your skin, fingers careful and meticulous where they hold a pencil or a brush to capture the beauty he sees all around him instead of choosing to only see the pain and wrongdoings; delicate, dextrous and decadent where they play your body to create symphonies of gasps and moans and keens of his name.

His grip is strong, palms broad, made for as much violence as for cradling; long fingers of an artist praying to his muse. A few visible veins rise, trailing up his forearms and enormous arms, the vulnerable paths you sometimes trace with your fingers and can now only think of tasting on your tongue, inhaling the aroma of his skin and salt of the sheen layer of sweat you know he can work when making love to you.

You’ve forgotten to breathe, throat and core tight and burning, memories and not-so-shy manifestation of your desires filling your head, fingers digging into the cover of the book you’ve long forgotten to pay attention to.

The vein running over the thumb edge of Steve’s hand shifts under your gaze, hypnotizing and alluring, making you lick your lips.

The warm, amused and slightly concerned voice sounds from a terrible distance – criminal distance, you deem, once you realize where it’s coming from, who it’s coming from – as it calls your name, clearly not for the first time.

You blink, the ghost of a taste of Steve’s skin lingering on your tongue, the corners of your lips rising on instinct.

“Hm?”

His eyes, however tinged with concern, are just as beautiful, but they inspire softer thoughts rather than sinful ones. You try to focus on those, trying to clear your head, drowning in the lovely sea of blue with a drop of green instead, breath not quite restoring as he rises to his full height; another criminal distraction.

He can hoist you up, you already know as much— the wonderful heights, literal and figurative, he’s made you reach with your back pressed against the wall, one hand squeezing your thigh, the other cradling your face to lick his name off of your mouth-

“You okay, honey?” he asks, sweet.

You blink again, not quite innocent, shifting in your seat.

“Yes, of course. You done?”

He instinctively wipes his hands on a nearby rag, not catching the smudge on his forearm and you ache do to it for him.

“Almost… you zoned out on me, more than usual. Are you really feeling alright? Have you drank enough water today?”

I have, and yet I’m feeling thirsty. Parched, in fact, but not for water. Hand me some?

You gulp, tearing your gaze away from the way one of his thumbs rubs over the other over the cloth with a herculean effort, met with the brilliant blue full of light and genuine, innocent care again.

Tell me, his soft smile coaxes, the wish to know your thoughts to contemplate them or stock them away for later as sincere as maddeningly attractive.

Your lips part with an inhale and a shaky exhale, your heart pounding as you consider whether to answer his wordless plea and answer truthfully.

You lose the battle before it can even start.

“I… I like your hands,” you confess, your own hands fiddling with the cover of your book, something you’d scratch anyone’s eyes out for if you saw them do so. It’s soothing though, especially as it gives your eyes something to look at, heat flushing your face at your admission.

Somehow, admitting it out loud feels more compromising than some of the positions Steve’s lovely hands has arranged you into and there have been quite a few.

“Oh?” he hums curiously, and you can feel his gaze tracing your face like a caress, looking for any further explanation. “Uhm… thank you,” he adds when none comes.

It’s just after one breath, one of his and one of yours, when you cave easily; because you know Steve won’t think less of you, or so you say so to yourself.

“I-“ you sigh, releasing the air slowly, eyes slipping shut. “I really… like your hands.”

Steve understands at the speed of one realisation per ten beats of your frantic heart.

“…oh.”

When you dare to look at him, there’s a faint blush in his cheek, the tips of his ears turning an adorable pink, his smile a little shy, gaze downcast.

“Good to know,” he says and you know he means it even as he turns back to his work.

You finally breathe even as you can hear the wheels of his mind turning madly while he’s tightening whichever things needs tightening on his bike.

Steve acts at the speed of a one heart-stopping action per your mind getting nearly settled from overthinking your confession.

He wipes his hands decisively and properly this time, already stalking to you as he tosses the rag somewhere you couldn’t care to look.

His skin still smells roughly of grease, but it’s his touch all your senses plunge into, broad palms cradling your face most deliberately, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, fingertips caressing behind your ear, tipping your head up just slightly for the perfect angle to kiss you wholeheartedly and--- your brain is melting and words stop making sense.

Steve turns your body into a something pliant, eager and entirely his, one kiss at a time, breaks for air a lot more necessary than needed. It’s impossible to not be hyperaware of the brush and press of his fingers which seem more generous than usual, tingly heat spreading through your skin and veins all the way into your heart and lower stomach.

When you head spins enough for you to worry you might lose balance where you’re sitting, he retreats, brushes his nose over yours with a smile you taste and feel rather than see, one of his hands moving to your hip to steady you instead and the circle he draws there is a bit short of soothing and all the more sinfully warm.

“Careful, honey. Can’t have you falling.”

You can hear the unspoken cheeky ‘for me’ but you forgive him, because he too sounds a little breathy and at least half as affected as you are and as he goes back to fixing his bike, he offers the perfect view of his hands at work again.

For a moment, you watch unabashedly, knowing that trying to read is an entirely lost cause.

Then, when you can’t bear the smug broadness of Steve’s shoulders and puffed out chest, you hide the heat radiating off your face, burning especially where his hands have cradled your cheeks and jaw and hip, behind the book completely.

You don’t have the faintest idea what you’ve been reading about and what you’re reading now, or whether the book is even in English.

You think Steve knows as much.

You bet he also knows he’s ruining your underwear one pair at a time by being himself and pulling stunts like this.

You’re hundred percent sure that the loveable bastard is proud of it too.

You love him anyway.

“Love you,” he says as if he can read your nearly empty mind and all you can do, when you remember how words work, is to have the same fall from your kiss-swollen lips.

He doesn’t mention it.

He doesn’t call you out, doesn’t make fun of you – because of course he doesn’t— but you can tell he’s thinking about it sometimes when his gaze gets absent as you lie on his chest on the couch, snuggled into him like he’s your favourite blanket, your hands toying with his, his fingers toying with yours.

The wheels are still loud in his head, but they are but background noise drowned out in his soft love and quiet smiles and little inside jokes whose number is increasing as the light and yet suffocating overwhelming sensation of love keeps expanding in your chest.

You almost think he has forgotten at times. Which is a ridiculous notion not only because of his eidetic memory.

You might not have one of those yourself, but having been embarrassed and swept off your feet by a dizzying kiss all the same after your confession, you do remember that exactly two weeks have passed when it culminates at last.

You’re spending a quiet date night in, cooking and baking, delighting in making something together and seeing the tangible outcome of your efforts.

Enjoying making things with your hands.

And you have noticed, thank you very much, how dexterous Steve’s hands are, cutting the vegetables, his knife skills tremendous.

You have noticed too, how expertly his hands are kneading the dough, fingers digging in with gentle vigour, the tendons on his forearms working, veins rising before the dough does, the muscles on his arms straining just enough to highlight their alluring outlines.

If you could draw, you’d draw an entire set of studies on Steve’s hands and arms, alas you cannot and so you simply appreciate the sight all the more for it, attention diverted from the task at hand.

Steve’s had a content smile playing on his lips all evening, but when he leaves the dough to rise, washing his hands and turning to you only to catch you staring where his hands has been drying a moment ago, stray droplets of water lingering along the most prominent veins, long fingers slipping between the folds of the washcloth and the towel… you would swear one corner of his lips rises higher.

Two of those fingers slip under your chin like they were made to do exactly that for the entirety of your lives, tilting your head back just a fraction, kissing you on the mouth like the secret and most essential ingredient for the dough to rise is love.

There’s quite a lot of time before the dough is ready, flashes through your mind as your hands rise to Steve’s shoulders, the contrast of his warm skin and solid muscle and the soft pliant fabric of his t-shirt is divine and maddening; the way his large hand sprawls over your hip in a gentle but swift response is mostly the former, but you’re losing your mind anyway.

Several frantic beats of your heart and Steve’s lips gently slanting over yours and you barely bother to remember there is a dough, not caring for the logically terrifying power he holds over you when he cradles your face and kisses you more.

Deeper.

Softer.

Sharing a meaningful secret you’ve revealed and rewarding it tenfold, as you’re soon about to find out.

“Do you trust me?” he whispers to your lips, tone so serious it almost feels out of place in your blissfully domestic bubble, and yet so right at the same time.

With what? is the logical question that should have followed suit.

With all I am, is the only words making sense in lieu of asking.

“Yes.”

You seal your fate; Steve seals your promise with another kiss, dripping of gratitude and excitement.

Steve is careful with you, always has been.

You both fell as hard and fast, so you’ve been careful not to rush or otherwise mess it up; you work hard on communication, because you both had enough misunderstandings and miscommunications in the past and are dealing with those every day in your respective jobs.

Your yes is thus a little foolish and a little outlandish in that sense – but it the most truthful answer you can give.

Especially because Steve has been paying so much attention.

To the faintest hints of you being uncomfortable.

To you being hurt.

Or, Lord help him, to you being hurt by him, even if on accident.

He’s careful with his strength, incredibly mindful always, but he’s all the more careful with how he can hurt you as a person, not just a supersoldier.

You never not notice so; and so when you said yes, you meant it.

You always mean it.

You mean it now and your heart is racing when he gently pushes you to walk backwards to his bedroom, the coil of arousal having been stirring in your belly all night tightening, sending a fragment of rational thought through.

Steve knows all too well what he has been doing all night; because he has not forgotten in the slightest.

When his hands explore slower than usual, lingering like burning marks over your skin – and you wish he had dipped them in paint so he could leave true imprints of his touch, not only for your heart to remember and your body to be blessed, but for both of you to see the wonderful prove of his touches – when his fingers trace the lines and curves of your body and the hems of your clothes indulgently before you discard it, you feel in every minute contact how much he does so both for himself and you.

And it flickers in your mind, as long as logic can when his fingertips and palms and lips drive you mad with their slowly intent and most definitely sweet torture, that the whole evening has been nothing a carefully thought-through foreplay.

And damn has he been playing; but never with your heart.

Never with your trust.

When his lips part from yours with a wet pop, skin blazing with gentle fire, his pupils are blown as much as you imagine yours are; when the soft rope comes out with a quiet May I?, his gaze once again making sure you are on board, you might be surprised, but entirely willing.

It wouldn’t not the first time you’re at the mercy of Steve’s generous and teasing loving, hands tied to the headboard, but he has never used rope before. The material is not as silky smooth as the scarves he has used before and the rope’s length is stirring as much curiosity as arousal deep in your core; but as Steve cradles the back of your hand and guides you to feel the surprisingly unrough strings, you already know that whatever his plan is, he will try his damnest not to cause as much as the littlest pain.

You do gulp when he lays the rope on the bed, and with all but your panties left on, asks you to kneel on the bed sideways to the mirror.

Again, it is not entirely unheard of; Steve loves art and looks for beauty all around him and you have, much to your surprise, quite enjoyed seeing his body with yours, as unreal and all to perfect his is on its own; it warmed your chest and had your head spin to see and feel what being with you does to him, what you make him feel. How much he wants and needs.

Today feels different nevertheless.

His hands roam, tender and lingering, as does his gaze, long enough to have your skin flush and your breathing, already quick, hasten and turn thready, only for your nerves to be soothed by his lips and love.

By God, the way he looks at you erases all the worries the second they threaten to spurt.

Air catches in your lungs when the red rope – like a string of fate, you think with a shaky smile – is laid over your shoulders, Steve’s gaze flickering to yours.

“Is this alright, love?”

Do you still trust me?

You do.

It takes you a moment to find your voice as you have a faint notion of what is coming form in your mind and you find yourself stunned, almost feeling silly when you realize just how natural it seems for Steve to think of trying this.

Steve with his eye for all beautiful things and hands meant to create masterpieces.

Artistic bondage.

And when his fingers slip under your chin when you finally breathe a soft yes, clear enough to his liking, he turns your head towards the mirror.

Heat spreads all over your skin and seeps deep into your muscles and very bones, along with the loveliest of warmth, because it finally all fits together.

Because not only will you see the outcome of Steve’s talented hands’ labour, but you will have the privilege of watching him and feeling him create something wonderful; on your body, no less.

You meet his gaze in the mirror and find him observing your reaction carefully, seemingly more vulnerable and with skin more flushed than yours.

It’s not enough.

You turn to face him with an encouraging and the softest of smiles, your eyes a little glassy; whether from bliss already taking over or from being touched by how thoughtful he was, neither of you could tell and yet you both could. It was both.

“I love you. I trust you. Thank you,” you whisper, earning a small smile, a fraction unsure.

“Don’t thank me yet. I did not practice much.”

“I trust you,” you repeat and watch his chest, still clad in the grey t-shirt, expand with a generous breath.

“I love you too. The second anything hurts, if I pull too tight-“

“I will tell you,” you reassure him, reaching for his face to pull him for a kiss, gratitude and excitement, and perhaps, now knowing what’s coming, a side of cheeky and teasing since you face the very master of the art of that. “How do you want me?”

His irises flash dangerously, speaking volumes of rather general ‘a lot’ as he gives you a deliberately slow onceover, but he kisses you again to taste the small smirk in the corner of your mouth---and mirrors it

“Put your wrists slightly above your lower back, love, however feels the most comfortable… they will stay for a while.”

You do so.

He is not wrong.

He also has been very right thinking you’d love this; that you’d love seeing him do this.

You’re quick to avert your gaze from his when he gets into work, eyes trailing to the mirror when he ties knots on your back or too high on your chest for you to see directly. Your lips part as you marvel at the not all that quick but all the more precise, neat, and careful set of knots scattered over your torso, appearing one after the other, forgetting to breathe in as Steve’s fingers move with more and more ease.

Where the thin rope hangs lose, the pads of his fingers trace their lines; where a new knot appears, he presses with his thumb gently, tendons in his forearm moving in a hypnotic dance, a subtle question of whether the tightness is alright.

You’re not sure you’d be able to tell; your body and your mind alike are floating, your chest feels full enough to burst with every flutter of your heart, your underwear a lost cause as you are near damn sure you are soaking down your thighs.

Steve’s hands are a gift to turn pliant for, your body like clay for him to mould; the muse and artistic medium at once, his gaze and words caressing you as much as his hands and mouth.

Beautiful.

So good for me.

Comfortable, love?

Not too tight?

Precious.

Thank you for letting me do this, honey.

Thank you for being mine.

I’m yours, too.

I swear.

I swear you take my breath away.

All the praise and soft words in midst of sharp focus on his artwork and you, the two blending together in his eyes and consequently, yours.

When he’s done and finally sheds his clothes too, you barely have the time and headspace to admire the work when he kneels behind you and all your gaze is drawn to are his hands, one carefully tangled in the ropes on your front, while the other slipping over your belly to your ruined panties, one clever tug ruining them beyond saving if there any has been a chance in the first place.

The sight is divine.

His touch to your slick skin trailing where you need him the most is electrifying and blissful, heaven and hell aligned so perfectly you feel a sob threatening to spill.

You ride the wave of ecstasy before you know it, Steve’s sweetly sinful lips on your ear.

So fuckin’ gorgeous falling apart on my fingers.

So goddamn perfect at my mercy.

And at his mercy you are and he takes the opportunity and makes the most of it.

Yes, your hands get in a way a bit, grasping at every brush of his heaving abs pressed to your back when he enters you and fills you over and over again, easily despite his impressive length for he’s been preparing you for hours to no end, starting the moment you walked through the door, seducing your mind and body alike like never before.

Like no man before; the idea they could ever compare would have been laughable had you been able to laugh, had your breath not been stolen and punched out of you with every measured and powerful thrust growing sloppy after your third peak, on your knees, on your front, pressed to the mattress with no escape and feeling golden all over.

When Steve buries himself deep inside you, barely keeping on his elbows as his whole body sheaths yours, you catch a glimpse of his hands on you and the ropes and it occurs to you that one of the most beautiful things his hands can be is possessive, needy and all over you. The rope digs into your skin a bit at times, but it’s where Steve’s gripped you that you feel the most, a flicker of delight there might be an imprint or two after all even without paint.

You both pant and struggle to catch your breath as even his last minute thrusts cease, a few moments of Steve fighting not to crush you before you succeed in rolling you over in collective effort; boneless in post-orgasmic bliss, as clearly as you are, he still presses as close as possible, his lips, wet and sloppy and loving, peppering your skin with kisses and gentle, loving words.

Love you.

Thank you for trusting me.

You’re so perfect.

He moves with a curse on his lips to release you from your binds as soon as you hiss at a cramp in your arm; you miss his warmth so much you whimper and mutter for him not to leave. The supersoldier part of him comes in quite handy that moment, as he easily manipulates you on top of him just enough for you to find momentary relief even without untying you.

It is a relief to your muscles though when he finally cuts the binds in a few places, favouring freeing you quickly and efficiently rather than preserving the masterpiece of rope over your body.

You’d felt sorrier for it, hadn’t he muttered that the true work of art was unharmed, he hoped, and if you wanted to, he’d create another one some time. You nearly give yourself a whiplash with how fast you try to nod, earning an unfairly adorable laugh, with his eyes crinkling almost boyishly.

He looks at you, a mess himself, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, skin beautiful flushed and irises blown, and what you read in his face is nothing but love, undiluted safe for the little cheekiness you adore.

“You still like my hands then, I take it?”

You think about trying to scold him for downright fishing when the answer is obvious, but given how much he had humoured you, playing so thoughtfully into your kinks (and knots), you simply smile.

“Yes, Steve. I love them… and I love you.”

The smug jerk, the tender bastard, the wicked gentleman of yours grins briefly before his expression softens and he cradles your face carefully as you lay there, lifts your head like precious porcelain, and kisses you like he’s inviting the muses through your lips for the next time he’s already vowed to bring upon you.

“And I love you. More than anything.”

S.R. masterlist  // Complete masterlist 

Hello dear reader, thank you for reading!

It's been a while, again. I am aware I was supposed to work on other fics, but this one just jumped out out of nowhere (*cough cough* the nowhere being seeing a tumblr post about Steve's hands at the funny cosmic alignment *cough*). I hope you will enjoy reading nevertheless. I'm always happy to hear from you as interaction is love - but please, this was my first time writing referencing shibari, so forgive me any misconceptions and missteps.

I hope that as May blooms into June, life is being kind to you.

You nipped that thought right in the bud, focusing your gaze on Steve’s face—his stupidly handsome face—which was contorted into a cold, furious scowl. You couldn’t help but notice that even that expression looked good on him, and you had to force yourself to concentrate on the problem at hand.

Because the frown on Steve’s face wasn’t the one he typically wore in your presence. No, this particularly charming glower was because he’d discovered you in the secret, locked room in his boss’s Brooklyn mansion. The one that housed the mafia boss’s private collection of art, jewels, and other priceless valuables in a cramped maze that looked like an elegant version of a museum’s storage room.

It was a room that you absolutely, one hundred percent, shouldn’t be in. 

But not everything in that room was priceless. The Blue Diamond of Alqualondë would fetch your employer a cool $5.8 million on the black market. All you had to do was retrieve it, steal it away from the mansion and put it in your employer’s hands. Then you’d get the $1 million you were promised…and your debts would be forgiven. Finally.

Giving your head a subtle, impatient shake, you reminded yourself that you didn’t have time to ruminate on the mess you were in. It didn’t matter that you’d been forced to get close enough to a mafia boss to be invited to one of the exclusive parties at his mansion—or that you’d enjoyed your time with the Brooklyn mob boss more than you should’ved.

You had to focus on the problem in front of you. Namely the fiercely protective and extremely dangerous mafia enforcer standing between you and your freedom.

“Would you believe,” you began, sauntering toward Steve and putting a little extra sway in your hips. The gown you wore hugged your curves lovingly, a slit up the side offering teasing views of your bare thigh. It was meant to be a distraction of a dress and it was doing its job. “That I got lost while looking for the bathroom?”

A little zip of satisfaction shot straight down your spine when Steve’s cold, blue eyes dipped briefly to your body, raking quickly over your chest, your hips, your legs, like he couldn’t help himself. But the excitement you felt at getting the man’s attention fizzled when his gaze returned to your face, harder than before.

But you wouldn’t—couldn’t—be deterred. It was imperative that you distract Steve and get him out of the room so you could sneak back later and steal the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë from his boss’s collection. How exactly you’d do that when the enforcer who already didn’t trust you, would be on higher alert? That was a problem for later you.

All you could do was deal with one problem at a time. So you moved closer to the big, intimdating man and slunk into his personal space, placing a hand over the breast pocket of his jacket while you fluttered your lashes at him. 

“This place is just so big and confusing,” you murmured demurely, trying to play the role of damsel in distress while you surreptitiously searched his jacket for something, anything to help you get free. 

But aside from a couple guns in shoulder holsters, all you found were the hard muscles Steve hid beneath his tailored suit. You forced yourself to ignore the twist of attraction in your belly, the melting warmth that sang in your blood, and urged you to do something stupid, something too fucking reckless, even for you. 

It became easier when Steve’s lithe fingers wrapped around your wrist and he stopped your wandering hand in its tracks. He gave you a tight warning squeeze before letting his hands fall and stuffing them in his pockets, making a show of how little of a threat he thought you posed.

“From anyone else, I might believe that excuse,” Steve rumbled, staring down his nose at you. His eyes were like two chips of ice, sending even more cold anxiety down your spine, and it was only your years of practice that kept you from wilting under his angry stare. “But not from you, sweetheart.”

It disturbed you how much you liked hearing Steve call you by that pet name, even if his tone was dripping with disdain as he said it. In your head, you reached for the calm that typically came so easily when you were working a job, but you found it was rapidly depleting. 

There was something about Steve Rogers that left you feeling stripped bare and defenseless, and it took much more effort than usual to gather your charm and clever tactics around you like protective armor. Giving an indignant, offended huff of a laugh, you swatted Steve’s chest like you were old friends.

“You’re so mean to me, Stevie,” you whined in your sweetest, most ingratiating voice, batting your eyes at the scowling enforcer. “I’m just a little lost,” you said, pouting up at him with your most pathetic expression.

At the same time, you pressed closer, your tits brushing against his chest, sending sparks of pleasure rioting in your belly, your nipples tightening beneath the thin, slinky fabric of your dress. It took everything in you to hold back a shiver as desire ran rampant in your body, making you feel hot and achy.

“Cut the shit, sweetheart,” Steve snapped, his anger bleeding over into his tone in a way that made his voice hard and unrelenting. It got you thinking about other things of his that would feel hard and unrelenting and could help soothe the ache between your thighs…

“This room is kept locked, so try again,” Steve growled, leaning in until he was looming above you, using that stupid heigh to his advantage. 

However, the movement also pressed you closer to him, your tits brushing his chest and making your breath hitch as your nipples rubbed against him again. Steve’s eyes dropped to your tits, which were heaving in the low neckline of your dress, in danger of spilling out. 

A sound, like a choked off, hungry growl, rumbled in Steve’s chest, and the air in the room crackled with unresolved tension. It went straight to your head, that sound, and you could feel your brain melting a little at how much pure, undiluted lust was etched into Steve’s handsome face.

For a moment, between one breath and the next, you thought Steve Rogers might kiss you. You were already sagging in relief at the thought, your body sinking deeper into him, your hands pressed flat against the lapels of his jacket, ready to grab him and haul him even closer. 

You knew the kiss would be good. It would be devastating for the both of you, and your body lit up with the anticipation… but the kiss never came.

With a violent jerk of his head, Steve wrenched his gaze from your mouth, where he’d been staring at your lips like they were the answer to all his life’s problems, and he looked past your shoulder, deep into the maze of the room. He swallowed thickly, put some space between your bodies and finally looked back at you. 

When he did, his expression was guarded, and all the lust that had filled his face had been buried deep within the span of a few seconds. All that remained was the distrust that had haunted his blue eyes since you first appeared in his boss’s life. 

“Now, answer me, sweetheart,” Steve rumbled, his voice going infinitesimally softer on the pet name before he continued on. “What were you doing in here?”

The sudden shift in Steve’s mood was effective in waking you up from the lust spell you’d fallen into, and you realized you had one last card to play in an effort to get out of your disastrous situation. It was a long shot—Steve was so loyal to his boss, that it was unlikely he’d betray him for anything—but you had to try.

So you pressed your soft body more deliberately against the hard, unyielding bulk of Steve’s form, taking care to keep your wits about you as you danced your fingers along the line of his jacket. You let your fingertips trace the buttons of his white dress shirt, down to his abdomen, feeling the muscles of his stomach spasm at your touch. 

Steve’s face remained a stony, unforgiving mask as you teased your nails along the hem of his pants, toying with the leather of his belt. You sucked in a breath for courage, emboldened by the bulge brushing against your hip and looked at the handsome mafia enforcer from under your lashes.

“What’ll it take to make you leave and forget you ever saw me in here?” you asked silkily, pushing up onto your tiptoes so you could murmur in Steve’s ear, your breath ghosting tantalizingly against his bearded jaw. “I promise to make it worth your while, sir.” 

You were pressed so close to Steve that you felt his body go rigid at the honorific, his breath rushing out of him like you’d knocked the air out of his lungs. A pleased smirk teased the corners of your lips and you took his reaction as a sign to press your advantage, brushing your hand lower until your fingertips teased along the hard ridge of his cock in his pants.

But before you could cup his bulge through his clothes, Steve’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling it none too gently away from his lap. He yanked so hard on your arm that it put you off balance, and if it wasn’t for Steve’s other hand settling on your hip, his palm a possessive, heated touch, you might’ve tumbled back onto your ass.

“You’re delusional if you thought that would work on me, sweetheart,” Steve growled, the barest hint of teasing in the pet name as it rolled off his tongue.

A shiver skated down your spine, one you weren’t able to temper, and you felt more than saw Steve’s smirk. Using his grip on your wrist and your hip, he drew you closer, and—damn him—your stomach swooped when you felt the hard length of his cock press against your belly. 

It was all you could do to breathe normally and not pant over the hot mafia enforcer like a dog in heat. But that had its downsides, too, because Steve smelled good. Expensive cologne mixed with something dangerous, like gunpowder, and god help you, but you thought you could get high off his scent. 

You were so close to huffing Steve’s scent like a desperate hussy when his hand around your wrist squeezed, making you blink the lust from your gaze and look up at him. A smirk teased around the edges of his mouth and he looked so fucking devastatingly handsome, you wanted to kick him—or kiss him. 

“Tell me what you were doing in here,” Steve rumbled, looming over you once more in a clear attempt to intimidate you into answering. “And who you’re working for. Be honest, be honest—if you’re honest, we might go easy on you.”

At the reference to your employer, your spine went ramrod straight, and panic flooded your mind. You were so distracted by the thought of who’d hired you that you didn’t notice the way Steve’s eyes flicked briefly over your shoulder. Nor did you notice his use of “we” when it was only him in the room. 

As far as you were aware at least.

In the life of a thief, these were the kinds of rookie mistakes that could get you caught, could get you killed. Unfortunately for you, you were too scared of your employer and too off-balance by the closeness of the mafia enforcer, to even realize you’d made such amateur errors. 

You thought you were still in control of the situation, so you huffed an indignant sound and tossed your head, giving the appearance that you were offended by Steve’s words and the implied accusation. 

Tipping your head back, you managed to look down your nose at the taller man as you scrambled for another way out of the room so you could return later for the diamond you’d been hired to steal. It took only a moment for your clever mind to come up with something, even if it wasn’t your best work.

“Your boss told me to meet him here,” you said, latching onto the first excuse you could think of that you hadn’t tried already. It didn’t matter, in your mind, that it probably wouldn’t work. It had to work because you couldn’t disappoint your employer. It wasn’t an option. “He said he wanted to show me something, but I think he just wanted to get me alone.”

It felt stiff and fake, even to you, as you winked at Steve, but using his boss’s attraction to you was your last-ditch effort to get the enforcer to let you go. You just needed his grip to ease up long enough for him to check in with his boss so that you could use the distraction to escape. 

However, you hadn’t accounted for the universe—and the mafia boss and his most trusted enforcer—to be working so expertly against you. 

That time, you did notice when Steve’s gaze moved from your face to something over your shoulder, something deeper in the maze of the mansion’s secret room. Anxiety flooded your body and no matter how much you tried to remain calm, you could feel yourself beginning to panic.

“Is that right?” Steve asked, and despite all your instincts telling you that he wasn’t speaking to you, you opened your mouth to answer him. But he went on before you could. “Did you ask her to meet you here—did you give her your key?”

Your stomach was sinking down to your knees, which were in danger of wobbling as panic consumed your chest, making your heart hammer against your ribs like a bird trying to escape its cage. Your mouth was dry, and for once in your life, you were too stunned to speak. 

You could only watch in horror as Steve’s gaze—cold, blue and knowing—returned to your face, even as he continued speaking to someone else. You had a sneaking suspicion that you already knew who that someone else would turn out to be.

“Or did she pilfer it and sneak in here like the dirty little thief that she is?”

“That depends,” came a voice from behind you—one that was warm and filled with humor, even as it held a dangerous edge. One that you recognized.

It was the voice that belonged to the man of the house, the one you’d spent the past weeks cozying up to so you could steal from him. The one you’d secretly begun to like, along with his loyal enforcer, though that was a secret you planned to take to your grave. Unfortunately, it seemed tha might happen sooner rather than later.

“Does it count as stealing if I let her lift it off me so I could see what she’d do with it?”

Bucky Barnes sauntered into you line of view, shooting you a devastatingly charming grin that made you feel like your panties wanted to melt right off your body. You’d worked hard to ignore your attraction to the Brooklyn mafia boss, but in that moment, you couldn’t deny the way your body responded to him.

With his broad shoulders, bright eyes and towering stature, Bucky was one of the handsomest men you’d ever met. He was hot enough to give Steve a run for his money, and he had the charisma to wield those good looks like a dangerous weapon. You thought you’d been impervious to his hotness and his charms, but in that moment, you realized you weren’t.

Still, it wasn’t until Bucky slid in behind you, curving his big hands possessively around your waist, and caging you in between him and Steve that you realized just how much trouble you were in. Because the whole time you’d been thinking you were conning the head of the Brooklyn mafia and his right-hand man, they had clearly been three steps ahead of you. 

And now you were caught in their trap—literally. You were caught between their big, strong bodies, with nowhere to go and no tricks left up your sleeve. All you had left was to see what they’d do, and hope you could escape with your life, if not with the score that could save you from your employer’s wrath.

The life of a thief wasn’t for the weak, and it was a good thing you were made of stronger stuff than most. You just had to keep your head in the game and not get distracted by Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, and maybe, just maybe, you could still win your freedom.

But too bad for you, that might be easier said than done…

When Hannah, the manager’s assistant texted that they’re going through every floor with polite introductions, everyone in your office started shifting like debutants about to be picked up for marriage. Instinctively dragged into their buzz, you stuffed the rest of the cupcake into your mouth and quickly swiped any crumbs off your blouse. 

You were curious. Just that. Wondering how old and grumpy the stuffy representative would be. Or maybe they’d be a cutthroat, cold shark who clearly searches for weaknesses to weed out. Whoever they were, it could be telling of what awaited your workplace.

What you didn’t expect - what nobody expected - was a whole group to walk in with the current director. 

Four men. Each so much different from the other, they could as well come from not only different departments, but completely different businesses. 

At the front, a tall, dark blonde with neatly trimmed beard, dressed impeccably like a billionaire CEO might, with glasses atop his nose. Right next to him an even broader man, with thick beard and longer hair, who treated his suit casually - two buttons of his shirt undone, no tie. 

The other two Alphas were a step behind them, though didn’t appear to be any less sure of their power. One looking more like an old money advertisement model, with his neatly combed hair and clean shaven face; looking bored out of his mind. The other a cheeky blonde in biker leathers, with an easy, flirty smile. 

So different. Yet something about them spoke of unity. 

Your curious mind wanted to assess and find threads stitching them together. The answer came to you rather fast. So obvious, it was annoying you didn’t think of it on the spot. 

They were a pack. 

They mingled near the entrance at first, greeting the first few people, so you had quite a distance to take in all the details. But the longer you watched them, the more convinced you were they were Alphas. All four of them! 

It was rare. If a pack even had an Alpha, there was one, two at most. These four were like a new discovery in your tame world. Either their pack was a really big one, with ten people at least, or they were so intense no Beta or Omega lasted with them. 

The air in the office grew hotter. You felt drops of perspiration form at the back of your neck. Slowly, you breathed out through your mouth, attempting to slow the pace of your heart. 

You didn’t usually get nervous much, but maybe the prospect of standing in front of four Alphas at once was a little overwhelming for your Omega instincts. Eyes glued to them, you followed every move they made forward. Your heart rate increased as they shortened the distance.

They weren’t even that close to you when suddenly the blonde one turned his head, his eyes falling directly on you. 

That’s when you felt it fully. The prickle of a needle right through your heart, then a strong pull urging you to rush forward. Straight into his arms. 

He straightened, if that was even possible, becoming taller and bigger. Next to him, the other three Alphas followed suit, each gaze landing on you. Drilling through you. 

“No,” you muttered under your breath, “no, no, no, no.” 

You couldn’t see how the rest of the office acted. If they even noticed what was going on. The director seemed to cluelessly follow the other Alphas as they changed their route and strode towards you. 

You were smart, you knew what was happening. Even though you never expected it in your life. For years you convinced yourself you would never actually want it to happen!

As wonderful the tales and movie plots made it look, reality wasn’t as easy. It could be lovely, if someone gave themselves a chance to simply form connections and fall in love without waiting for the magic click. Because that click was a rarity, even if so many hoped for it.

Packs formed from friends; pairs deciding to bond together for the sole reason of satisfying that primal instinct to have a pack. Family was the first form of a pack one got to grow up in, then it all depended on connections made and risks taken. 

What people dreamt of, however, was the natural matebond. 

That moment when you feel the undeniable pull toward certain people and once it locks into place there’s no power to leave it. Not without hurting yourself and your mates in the process. 

Honestly, it was quite scary, if you looked at it critically. 

What if that matebond snapped into place for a group of really awful people? What if one of them was an Alpha and your Omega instincts would go haywire, overriding your senses and changing you from an independent woman into a helpless, dumb doll?

You tried not to exaggerate, but you knew a few Omegas who joined a pack with an Alpha in the structure and the change was visible. They didn’t seem to mind, beaming like lunatics as they talked about cooking meals and getting pregnant, but it rang alarm bells for you. 

Maybe you spent too many years being on your own. There was an attempt to start a pack with your former partner, a calm Beta, Nick, but your relationship simply dissolved. Without hate and regrets. From what you knew, he was now happily mated into a small pack of three Betas and two Alphas. 

You were happy on your own. 

With an attachment to your family pack, you learned to sate that need for pack time with regular visits and hugs. Otherwise, you found joy in your life. Not just contentment, though you knew many silently judged you for it, pitying you for what they thought was lying to yourself. Many considered a woman your age as way past the time to become a part of a pack, so you should take whatever was offered. 

At nearly forty, you didn’t care for their opinion. Nor did you entertain foolish dreams of one day bumping into a matebond and having your life flipped upside down. 

So when it happened, you felt dread as hundreds of awful outcomes came to your mind. 

You had to brave through it, you thought. Spine of steel, polite smile, and a reasonable refusal. 

These four were businessmen, they dealt with data and risk analysis on a daily basis. Surely, it wouldn’t be hard to convince them there was nothing to explore with you, despite some inner instinct calling out to follow it. 

“Gentlemen.” You greeted them when the director introduced you. 

Right after introducing you, he took a step back, which was enough indication that others realized what was happening. Maybe they didn’t know it for sure, but could suspect it. And stare in wonder, since not everyone got a chance to see matebonds in real life. 

“I’m sure you will trust in our current employees and appreciate the work they already do.” You opted for redirecting any thoughts they might have towards the actual reason for their visit.

After all, they came here to oversee their new business. Not for you. It would be for the best to keep it at that. Best for you and your comfortable, independent life. Best for them and whatever grandiose life they led. 

“Steve.” The blonde one trusted his hand for you to take. “You call me Steve.”

“Mister Rogers.” You deliberately used the last name with which the director introduced him to you. 

Though your voice quivered as his fingers enclosed around yours, a wave of warmth and excitement skipping through the nerve endings in your body.

“We got a stubborn one,” the one introduced as Ari Levinson grinned. 

“I am driven when it comes to work. Some could call it stubborn, I guess,” you smiled politely. 

Don’t fall for the inviting smile and so many muscles to explore!, you reprimanded yourself inwardly. 

“Why bother playing it professional when all your coworkers are already ogling us like a spectacle, suspecting we’re matebonds that just found each other?” Ransom tilted his head slightly. 

You watched him take a step to the side, coming a little closer from your left. A minor move, all within the boundaries of respectable space. At a first glance. But your senses sharpened, attuned to them more than you ever did your surroundings. 

That’s when you realized Ari was already flanking your right. Judging by the smooth, stealthy moves of the youngest one, Johnny, he was about to circle around Ransom and come nearer your back. Though still seemingly leaving you space.

With Steve in front of you, a warm wall of muscle and calm determination, you recognized their tricky attempt to have you caught between them. 

Their intent didn’t appear malicious, rather driven by instinct. Perhaps they sensed your plan to cut them out and flee from the clutches of the uninvited bond. Or, maybe, it was their own need to get to you as close as possible. 

“Office workers love gossip.” You shrugged. “And I am a professional. Which is why we should postpone the conversation regarding this unexpected development.” 

You swiped your gaze over each of them before settling on the Alpha in front of you. Not knowing how their dynamic worked, if it was balanced between all four, or if one took a marginal lead, you simply chose the one right in front of you.

“Continue with your agenda of the day, as I will with my work. I finish at four. There’s a nice place nearby called Buttery. We can meet there and talk about this inconvenience over food.” 

“Inconvenience.” Steve repeated the word, his blue eyes darkening slightly. 

But he didn’t argue with you right away. Didn’t snarl. It struck you suddenly that you didn’t fear him being angry with you for disregarding the matebond, but felt heavy for potentially disappointing him.

Which was, in your eyes, another proof that this whole matebond needed to be snuffed before it developed further. 

“Alright.” He nodded, eyes not once leaving your face. “We’ll be there.”

It was hard to look away from him, but you forced yourself to drop your gaze and quickly retreated back and right into the small office you had in the right corner of the floor. Locking yourself within the glass walls didn’t help much, as it didn’t make the yearning in your chest go away. 

You rubbed at your chest, willing away the pitiful patter of your heart, as well the sudden cold that seemed to brush over your skin without the Alphas overwhelming presence.

Grabbing your personal calendar, you sat down at your desk and started scribbling down potential solutions to the sudden problem, preparing yourself for that dinner meeting as if it was a business negotiation. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

“She’s like a deer in headlights and you just let her run away.” Ransom frowned, glaring at the door behind which you disappeared. 

It irked him that you removed yourself from their space so quickly. Annoyed him even more that he still felt someone’s eyes on his own ass. As if he’d be interested in anyone when he was bonded. 

Beside him, Steve was composed, but the vibration of his barely contained need to rush after you and claim you were pulsing in waves.

“She’s an Omega who just got matebonded to four Alphas. At once.” Steve pointed out, not the least bothered by his packmate’s displeasure. “We can’t fully rip her out of her comfort zone, even if it gives her time to strategize on putting up defences.”

“She’s gonna fight it, isn’t she?” Ari’s mouth curved in a smile. 

He kind of liked the idea of having to work for you to melt into them, to come up with ways to sweep you off your feet. There were some that came to mind right away when he watched you saunter in those tight pants and flowy blouse.

“Most likely.” Steve gave him a knowing look. “And we’re going to push back.”

“How hard?” Ransom perked up at that. 

He wasn’t very patient. In some areas, he could delay, but bonding was a sensitive sphere for him. The need to cut himself off from his family as much as he could and build a pack of his own, one where he wasn’t treated like the worst pest and burden, was boiling in his veins. 

Ari squeezed his shoulder in a short comfort. 

“Depending on how far she tries to run with her denial.” Steve turned to them, face set with that determination he had a few seconds from deciding on a masterplan. 

“Which is why you’re going to get all her private information, Johnny. Address, if she drives a car, social media. Don’t overstep with the family. Ran, deal with that Buttery place. We don’t need loud chaos and snooping when approaching the topic.”

“Ari, contact the designer. Have the corner guest bedroom ready for an Omega. Two weeks tops.” 

“You’re going to deal with the boss?” Ari asked him in return. 

“Not yet.” Steve shook his head. “We don’t know her career plans. Maybe she really likes it here, then there’s no point in taking that away from her. If that’s the case, we’ll take it to the HR and PR on how to approach the fact a mid level worker is matebonded to the owners of the company.” 

He had a suspicion you’d claim to love your work, even if that wasn’t true, only to avoid changing anything more in your life. Or to avoid discovering you might want to do something else entirely, which they could make happen. 

It was a new territory. For all of the Alphas. 

When the bond snapped into place as each of them met, they had no need to fight it. Each for their own reasons. 

Ransom might’ve been the most distrustful at first, but he leaned on the gains, which let him open up to fully form deep bonds with each of them. Johnny never fought it in any way. Ari took everything in stride, as well. Steve… he could never step away from responsibility. 

You drive for forty minutes with no destination until the gas light comes on. When you finally pull over, you're in the gravel lot outside the old auto shop Joel still half-runs even though he says he's retired. The neon "Miller's" sign is off, but his truck is there—same beat-up Ford he's had since before you met his son—and the bay door is cracked open, spilling warm yellow light onto the concrete.

You don't think. You just get out.

He's under the hood of a '78 Bronco when you step inside. Grease-streaked forearms, faded black tee clinging to the broad planes of his back, jeans slung low enough that you can see the waistband of his boxers when he leans forward. He doesn't look up right away.

"Shop's closed, darlin'," he drawls without turning. "Unless you're here to confess you keyed Tommy's new Silverado, I ain't takin' appointments."

You don't answer. Your throat is too tight. Joel finally straightens, wiping his hands on a rag that's more oil than fabric. He sees your face and the easy smirk drops off him like it was never there.

"Jesus. What happened?" You open your mouth. Nothing comes out at first, then you take a deep breath before you speak.

"He's fucking someone else. In our bed. Right now." Joel goes still. Not the dramatic freeze like in the movies but just the slow, deliberate stillness of a man who's deciding exactly how much violence he's willing to commit tonight. He exhales through his nose.

"That little shit." You laugh once, sharp and ugly. It sounds more like a sob.

"I didn't even yell at him," you say. "I just... left."

Joel tosses the rag onto the workbench. Steps closer. Not crowding you, but close enough that you can smell motor oil and sawdust and the faint cedar of whatever soap he uses.

"You want me to go drag him out by his hair?" he asks, voice low. "I will."

You shake your head. "No."

"Then what do you want, baby?" The endearment lands like a match on dry grass. He's called you that before—teasing, paternal, safe. Never like this. Never with his eyes dark and his jaw ticking like he's holding something back with both hands.

You look up at him—really look. The silver threaded through his beard, the deep lines carved around his eyes from too many years of squinting into sunlight, the way his shoulders seem to carry the whole damn world and still have room for more. He's not twenty-five. He's not even thirty-five. He's old enough to know exactly what he's offering, and young enough in the body to make good on it.

You step forward. Just one step.

"I want to feel something else," you whisper. "Anything else."

Joel doesn't move for a long second. Then his hand lifts—slow, giving you every chance to pull away—and cups the side of your face. His thumb brushes the tear track you didn't even realize was there.

"You sure?" he murmurs. "Once we start, I ain't gonna be gentle about it. Not tonight."

Your laugh is breathless. "Good."

That's all it takes. He kisses you like he's been starving for it. Not tentative. Not sweet. His mouth is hot and sure and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours immediately, deep, claiming. One big hand fists in your hair, angling your head exactly how he wants it; the other clamps around your hip and yanks you flush against him so you can feel how hard he already is through denim.

You moan into his mouth. Loud. Shameless. He growls in response, walks you backward until your ass hits the workbench. Tools clatter to the floor. He doesn't care. Neither do you.

Hands everywhere with yours clawing at his shirt, his shoving under yours, rough palm skating up your ribs to cup your breast over your bra. He thumbs your nipple through the lace until it pebbles, then pinches hard enough to make you gasp.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips. "Been thinkin' about these tits for longer than I'm allowed to admit."

The confession makes heat flood between your legs.

You drag your nails down his chest, catching on the fabric, then lower, palming the thick ridge of his cock through his jeans. He's so hard it has to hurt. He jerks into your hand with a guttural sound.

"Off," you demand, tugging at his belt.

He laughs deep, low, dangerous. "Bossy little thing."

But he lets you yank the belt open, pop the button, drag the zipper down. You shove his jeans and boxers just far enough that his cock springs free—thick, flushed dark, already leaking at the tip. You wrap your fingers around him and he hisses through his teeth.

"Easy, baby. You're gonna make me come too fast like that." You stroke him anyway—slow, deliberate, watching his face the whole time. His eyes flutter shut for a second before snapping back open, pupils blown.

He grabs your wrist, pulls your hand away, then spins you around so you're facing the workbench. One arm bands across your chest, holding you back against him; the other hand dives under your skirt, shoves your panties to the side, and two thick fingers plunge straight into your soaking cunt.

You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder.

"So fuckin' wet," he growls into your ear. "This all for me, or were you already drippin' when you walked in here thinkin' about gettin' revenge?"

"Both," you gasp. He laughs darkly, curls his fingers, finds that spot that makes your knees buckle.

"That's my girl." He pumps them hard—wet, obscene sounds echoing off the concrete—while his thumb circles your clit in tight, relentless strokes. You're shaking already, thighs trembling, hands braced on the workbench.

"Joel—fuck—please—"

"Please what, baby?" He bites the shell of your ear. "Use your words."

"I want your cock," you choke out. "Want you to fuck me so hard I forget his name."

He groans like you've wounded him. Fingers slip out. You whine at the loss. Then he's shoving your skirt up to your waist, yanking your panties down your thighs. You kick them off. He spreads you open with one hand, notches himself at your entrance with the other.

"Look at this pretty pussy," he mutters, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in you. "All swollen and needy. Gonna stretch you so good, baby. Gonna ruin you for anyone else."

You push back, trying to take him. He holds you still with that iron grip across your chest.

"Ask me nice." You're beyond shame.

"Please, Joel," you whimper. "Fuck me. Please fuck me."

He slams home in one brutal thrust. Your scream bounces off the walls. He's so thick it burns—delicious, aching stretch—and he doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls out slow just to drive back in harder, setting a punishing rhythm that makes your teeth clack together.

One hand grips your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The other slides up to wrap around your throat—not choking, just holding, possessive.

"You feel that?" he rasps, hips snapping. "That's what a real man feels like. Not some boy who can't keep his dick in his pants."

You can only moan—high, broken sounds every time he bottoms out. He changes the angle, hits that spot again and again until your vision whites out at the edges.

"Gonna come on this cock?" he growls. "Gonna soak me like a good girl?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—" He reaches around, rubs your clit fast and rough.

"Then do it. Come all over your boyfriend's daddy's dick." The words tip you over.

You shatter—screaming his name, walls pulsing, thighs shaking so hard he has to hold you up. He fucks you through it, relentless, drawing it out until you're sobbing from overstimulation. He doesn't stop.

He pulls out, spins you again, lifts you onto the workbench like you weigh nothing. Your back hits the cold metal. He spreads your thighs wide, hooks your legs over his forearms, and drives back in so deep you swear you feel him in your throat.

"Look at me," he orders. You do. His eyes are feral, sweat dripping down his temples, shirt clinging to every muscle.

"Say it," he demands, pounding into you. "Say who's fuckin' you right now."

"You," you gasp. "Joel—your cock—only yours—"

"That's right." He leans down, kisses you filthy and deep while he rails you. "Mine now. This pussy's mine."

You're climbing again—impossibly fast. He feels it, angles his hips so every thrust drags against your clit.

"Come again," he growls against your mouth. "Wanna feel you milk me. Wanna fill you up so deep you'll be drippin' me for days."

You come so hard you almost black out—back arching, nails raking down his arms, cunt clamping down like a vice.

Joel groans—long, guttural—hips stuttering. He buries himself to the hilt and comes with a broken curse, flooding you with heat, pulse after pulse until it's leaking out around his cock. He stays inside you for a long minute, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together.

Finally he pulls out slow—hisses at the sight of his cum dripping from your swollen pussy.

"Fuckin' beautiful," he mutters, almost reverent. He grabs a clean shop rag, wipes between your thighs with surprising gentleness, then pulls you into his arms. You're shaking. He holds you tighter.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

You nod against his chest. "Better than okay."

He kisses the top of your head. "Good. 'Cause we ain't done."

You laugh—shaky, wrecked. "There's more?"

He smirks, already half-hard again against your thigh.

"Baby," he says, voice gravel-rough, "I've waited years to get my hands on you. We're just gettin' started."

He lifts you off the workbench, carries you toward the back office like you're something precious and filthy all at once. The door clicks shut behind you.

The office door shuts with a decisive click. It's not even a real office—just a cramped room off the back of the shop with a battered metal desk, a sagging couch that's seen better decades, a mini-fridge that hums like it's dying, and one naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The air smells like old coffee, motor oil, and now, unmistakably, sex.

Joel sets you down on the edge of the desk but doesn't let go. His hands stay on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles over the places he gripped hard enough to leave marks. You're still trembling from the aftershocks, thighs slick, his cum slowly leaking out of you and onto the desk's edge. You should feel filthy. Instead you feel powerful.

He studies your face like he's memorizing it.

"Still with me?" he asks, voice softer now but still rough at the edges.

You nod, because words feel too small. "I want more."

His mouth curves on just one side, slow and filthy. "Greedy."

He kisses you again, slower this time. Deep, lazy licks of tongue. Like he's tasting the way you taste after he's already been inside you. His hands slide up under your shirt, calluses dragging over sensitive skin until he's cupping both breasts, thumbs flicking your nipples in lazy rhythm with his tongue in your mouth.

You arch into him. Already aching again. Already empty and desperate to be filled. He breaks the kiss long enough to yank your shirt over your head and toss it somewhere behind him. Your bra follows. Then he steps back—just far enough to look.

"Goddamn," he breathes, eyes raking over you. "Look at you."

You're suddenly hyper-aware of everything, with the way your chest rises and falls too fast, the faint red marks his fingers left on your hips, the sticky shine between your thighs, the way your skirt is still bunched around your waist like a belt. He drops to his knees.

No preamble. No teasing. Just wide hands spreading your thighs wide enough that the cool air hits your soaked cunt and makes you shiver. Then his mouth is on you.

You cry out—sharp, surprised—because his tongue is hot and flat and dragging through your folds like he's trying to lick up every drop of himself he left behind. He groans against you when he tastes the mix of you both, the sound vibrating straight through your clit.

"Joel—fuck—" He doesn't answer with words. He answers by sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, while two thick fingers slide back inside you, curling, stroking that spot until your hips jerk off the desk.

You grab fistfuls of his hair. Not to guide him—he clearly knows exactly what he's doing—but because you need something to hold onto while he eats you like a starving man.

He pulls back just long enough to growl against your inner thigh: "Taste so fuckin' good together. Gonna make you come on my tongue, then I'm gonna fuck you again. And again. Until you can't remember what it feels like to be empty."

Then he dives back in. You don't last long. Not with the way he's sucking, licking, humming against you. Not with the way his beard scrapes the tender skin of your thighs. Not with the filthy wet sounds filling the tiny room.

You come with a choked sob, thighs clamping around his head, back bowing so hard the desk creaks. He doesn't stop—just keeps licking you through it, slower now, gentler, until you're whimpering and pushing weakly at his forehead.

He rises, lips shiny, beard wet, eyes blazing. You reach for his belt again—he's already hard, straining against the half-open fly. You free him, stroke him once, twice. He hisses.

"Turn around," he orders. You do. Bend over the desk. Brace on your forearms. Ass up, thighs spread, still dripping. He doesn't make you wait.

One hand fists your hair—not pulling, just holding—while the other guides his cock back inside you in one long, slow slide. You both groan at the feel of it. He's thicker this time, or maybe you're just more sensitive, every ridge and vein dragging against oversensitive walls.

He starts slow—deep, rolling thrusts that make your toes curl inside your shoes.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice wrecked. "That's me claimin' what's mine now."

You push back to meet him. "Yours."

He picks up speed. Harder. Deeper. The desk starts to slide forward an inch with every thrust. Papers scatter. A coffee mug tips over and rolls across the floor. Neither of you cares. His free hand slides around to your clit again—light, teasing circles now, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall.

"Beg," he growls. You don't even hesitate.

"Please—Joel—please let me come—need it—need you—" He slams in hard enough to knock the breath out of you.

"Come," he commands. "Come on my cock again. Let me feel it."

You do—shattering, screaming, nails scraping the wood of the desk. He fucks you through it, relentless, until your arms give out and you collapse forward, cheek pressed to the cool surface.

Only then does he let himself go. He pulls out at the last second—grunts low and broken—comes hot and thick across your ass and lower back in long, pulsing stripes. You feel every spurt, feel the way his hand shakes where it grips your hip.

For a minute there's only the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe. Then he's gentle again.

He grabs that same rag from earlier—wipes you clean with careful strokes. Helps you stand when your legs threaten to give out. Pulls you against his chest, arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.

You rest your forehead against his collarbone. Listen to his heartbeat thundering under your ear.

After a while he murmurs, "You hungry?"

You laugh—hoarse, surprised. "You're thinking about food right now?"

"Gotta keep your strength up," he says, deadpan, but there's a smile in his voice. "I ain't done with you yet."

He leads you to the couch—old, cracked leather, smells faintly of cigarettes someone smoked in here twenty years ago. He sits, pulls you into his lap so you're straddling him. Your skirt's still rucked up, his jeans still open. It's obscene. Perfect.

He kisses you slow, lazy. Hands roaming. Not trying to start anything yet—just touching. Learning.

You break the kiss to ask the question that's been simmering since you walked in here.

"What happens tomorrow?" His thumb traces your bottom lip.

"Tomorrow you decide what you want. You wanna go back to him? I'll help you pack your shit and move out tonight. You wanna burn his shit in the driveway? I'll bring the gasoline. You wanna never see him again? I'll make sure he understands that's the smart choice."

You swallow. "And if I want... this?"

His eyes darken. "Then you got me. All of me. Every night. Every morning. Every time you need to be fucked so hard you forget your own name. I'm yours."

You feel something crack open inside your chest—something that's been locked tight for too long. You kiss him again. Harder this time.

"Stay tonight," you whisper against his mouth. "Don't want to go back there."

He nods once. "You ain't goin' anywhere tonight except my bed."

He stands, lifts you with him like it's nothing. Carries you out of the office, through the dark shop, out to his truck. The night air is cool against your overheated skin. He sets you in the passenger seat, buckles you in like you're precious cargo, then climbs in beside you. The engine rumbles to life. He reaches over, squeezes your thigh.

"Hold on, baby," he says, voice low and promising. "We got all night. And I plan to use every goddamn minute of it."

You and your friends wanted to let loose after a long week. You couldn’t remember the last time you wore your little black dress and now you had a reason. Your group settled at a club after some bar hopping. You drank enough to feel it but not enough that you couldn’t think straight. Everyone moved to the music, living in the moment.

A few guys tried to dance with you, but you subtly moved away. A couple of your friends frowned and you shrugged. They knew you hadn’t been laid in months, but you weren’t about to fool around with a random guy when you had a perfectly good toy at home. 

And then you saw him.

A stranger in all black, from the tight t-shirt down to the boots, watched you from the corner. The handsome man didn’t smile when you two locked eyes. You forgot how to breathe since he wouldn’t look away, his stare somehow both cold and hot. Something told you to run far away because he seemed dangerous.

But a voice in your head said he’d like the chase.

You tried to focus on dancing, but it was difficult with his eyes following your every move. You glanced at him over your shoulder, looking more enticing than you meant to. Or maybe you did it on purpose since it felt good to have his attention on you. You couldn’t understand why since he looked far from safe. 

That was part of the appeal, wasn’t it?

Lust and need sizzled up and down your spine when his gaze went over you from head to toe, your instinct warning you not to play with fire. You didn’t care. You wanted to feel the heat. Hell, you wanted him to burn you by the time he was done with you.

“I need a drink,” you told your friends. 

You walked through the crowd with purpose, not letting any guys brush against you since you weren’t interested in them. Your heart raced, but you did your best to stand with confidence once you reached the bar. From the quick glance at the man, he was more handsome up close and no less intimidating. His muscles were two seconds from bursting through his clothes and his dark hair framed his face perfectly. The trimmed beard added to his allure.

Oh, the burn was going to feel good.

You held your breath when moved beside you, so close you felt the heat from his body. The heady scent of his cologne made you dizzy once you remembered to breathe. Heat rose in your cheeks when he stared, your throat so dry you weren’t sure if you’d be able to speak.

“Bucky,” he said, his deep voice so low you almost missed it.

“I’m sorry?” you asked, confused.

“Bucky,” he repeated, a hint of warmth in the blue of his eyes. “That’s my name.”

A name you wanted to scream before the night was over.

“Oh,” you breathed, giving him your name in return. “Nice to meet you.”

He licked his lips and said your name, making it sound like something sinful. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Were you watching me out there?” you asked, already knowing the answer. 

He tilted his head. “Did you like me watching you?”

Bucky already knew the answer, too.

You inhaled when his finger dipped under the strap of your dress, lightly tracing your skin. It was a bold move. If it were anyone else, you would’ve smacked their hand away. But his touch lit a fire within you that you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I think you want me to do more than just watch.” He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “Come with me.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. The request sounded dirty and intimate, which was likely his intention. “Come with you… where?”

“On my cock.” He took your hand with a firm yet gentle grip, your thighs pressing together as his words registered. “Outside.”

You followed without protest as he pulled you along, your breaths shallow. You should’ve yanked your hand away or called for your friends once he reached the door. The man could be a killer for all you knew. Were you so desperate to get dicked down by a hot man that you threw all caution to the wind?

The door shut with a bang, the music from the club muffled as you realized you were in a dimly lit alley. It was the perfect backdrop for something seedy. “I don’t usually fuck strangers,” you blurted out when he faced you.

You didn’t judge anyone who did. Their bodies and choices were their own. But you made it a point not to hook up with random people. There had to be some sort of connection.

Which is exactly what you were feeling with him, so what was the problem?

Maybe the instant chemistry scared you more than you wanted to admit. 

“I gave you my name and you gave me yours, so we’re not strangers,” he said. 

You laughed because you couldn’t help yourself. His logic was… something. “We’re still strangers.”

“I’m clean,” he said, like that solved everything.

“Congrats. So am I. And I’m on the pill,” you retorted, shaking your head. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come out here.”

His nostrils flared, making you step back as he stepped toward you. You jumped when your back hit the brick wall. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll let you go back inside,” he demanded, grasping your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. His lips were so close that they grazed yours. “You can forget all about me.”

Your mouth parted. You believed him when he said he’d let you go back inside and you didn’t want to forget him, but he was still a stranger. He could be married or have a partner, at least. You didn’t even know his last name. 

But he excited you. Your panties were damp and your nipples were hard against your dress. Your pussy clenched around nothing, begging for some relief. Your body knew what it wanted. That was all you needed to know tonight.

His cold eyes searched yours, waiting for an answer. “You scared of me?” he whispered.

If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought he sounded vulnerable. “No,” you whispered back. “I’m not scared of you.”

Maybe you should’ve been, but you weren’t.

His gaze softened, or maybe it was the dim light playing tricks on you. “Say you don’t want me,” he dared, his thumb brushing your lips. “Say it.”

“I can’t,” you whispered, your next breath shaky. “Because we both know I want you.”

“Atta girl.” Bucky smiled, the first time he smiled since you spotted him tonight. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. And if you say stop, I will.”

At least he cared about consent. 

“Sweetheart?” You raised an eyebrow. “Did you really just-”

He cut you off, pressing his lips against yours in a demanding kiss. You thought your legs would give out when he bit your bottom lip and swept his tongue inside, a sigh escaping as he dominated your mouth. He didn’t release your chin, tilting your head to give him more access. Every thought faded from your mind, your body melting into his. 

Fuck, he was going to ruin you. 

The kiss ended far too soon, but heat flowed from your core when he nipped along your throat. His teeth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, and he bit down hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue soothed the sting, fueling the fire between you. 

How did he know what you needed?

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your legs turning to jelly as his hands roamed your body. 

It was crazy. Insane. Maybe you were daydreaming and still out on the dance floor, letting yourself get lost in some fantasy. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna fuck you,” he promised, cupping your breast and brushing your nipple through your dress. “Wanted to fuck you as soon as I saw you. Wanted to own you.”

He brought his mouth back to yours, devouring you as he slid a calloused hand between your legs. He ran it up your trembling thigh until he brushed the fabric that barely covered your pussy, robbing you of your breath. Your hips jerked when he rubbed lightly, making you grow wetter by the second. 

He pulled back enough to let you breathe and made a rumbling sound of approval. “You’re drenched,” he rasped, shoving your panties aside and brushing a finger through your folds. “Desperate for me.”

You could only nod and moan when he slipped his finger inside you. He groaned at the feel, the sound vibrating through your bones. Pleasure seared down your spine when he added another finger. When was the last time you wanted someone so badly?

Your mouth went dry when he pressed close, feeling his hard cock through his jeans. He was huge. You hoped he split you in half. You wanted to feel him for days. 

He stared at you with a predatory hunger as he removed his fingers and brought them to his mouth, growling as he licked them clean. “Such a sweet cunt.”

You shivered, wishing he could have a proper taste. 

“And it’s gonna feel even sweeter around my cock.”

Without warning, he spun you around and pressed your front against the cold wall. He hiked your dress up, your underwear still pushed aside, and you barely registered the sound of him unzipping his pants over the rush of blood in your ears. Your breathing picked up when he spread your legs wider. 

If anyone walked out and saw you like this…

“Need to be inside you. So beg for it,” he said, the head of his cock breaching your entrance. You tried to squirm when he didn’t push in more, but he held you still. “Beg for me to fuck you.”

You whimpered. Wasn’t your pussy trying to suck him in enough begging? Of course not. He had to hear you say it. 

“Fuck me, Bucky,” you begged, not caring how desperate you sounded. “Please.”

God, you were really doing this. 

You were about to let some guy you just met fuck you in a alley. 

He filled you in one ruthless thrust, you cry echoing in the night air. It was like you felt every ridge and vein of his cock. You had never felt stretched, so full. It was reckless to not use protection, but the feel of his bare cock deep in your pussy heightened your pleasure. 

And at least he was kind enough to give you a moment to adjust to his size. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, letting you feel every inch of him before he nearly pulled out completely and buried himself deep again. “Practically strangling my cock.”

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moaned, your hands scrambling along the wall for purchase. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunted, setting a steady pace. “Say my name and take my cock like a good girl.”

Oh, you did. 

He took you hard and deep, the fog of arousal growing thicker with each movement. Every brutal thrust drove you up on your toes and you could only hold on for the ride. He gripped your hips with a force that bordered on pain, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. No one had ever fucked you like this. 

It was dirty and perfect. 

A hand moved to your throat, your pulse hammering. The possessive grip wasn’t enough to choke you, but it made you aware of his power and dominance. He was in control and you both knew it. 

The world around you stilled until all you knew was him. 

You reached back to grip his hair, making him groan. “Please,” you gasped when he thrust faster, his lips moving across your skin.

You almost stopped breathing as the coiling pressure built, your muscles tight and your nerves igniting. Your moans grew louder, mixing with his grunts in a euphoric melody. He was ripping you apart at the seams. 

“You need to come, don’t you?” he asked, his hand snaking around to rub your clit. The dual sensations sent shockwaves through your body and you didn’t know how much more you could take. “Do it, sweetheart. Come all over my cock.”

His name was a fractured prayer on your lips as you shattered, your back bowing. You convulsed and clamped around him like a vice, colors swimming in your vision. An arm moved around your waist to keep your legs from giving out and he kept driving into you, your head spinning as he drew out your orgasm and chased his own. 

When was the last time you came that hard?

“Knew you’d be perfect,” he gritted, his rhythm starting to falter. “Such a good. Fucking. Girl.”

He groaned your name against your neck when his cock throbbed, his release flooding you. It almost pulled another orgasm from you from how good it felt. If his rough fucking didn’t make you feel owned, him filling you up did. 

If he lied about being clean… Well, you took that risk, didn’t you?

He panted and slowly pulled out you, the loss making you whimper. You were still coming down from your high when he turned you around and you almost avoided his gaze. It wasn’t fair that he looked mostly composed while you probably looked wrecked. But there was a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. 

That had to be a good sign. 

But you swallowed, wondering where you went from there. 

Instead of walking off and leaving you there to collect yourself, he fixed your underwear, which were completely ruined thanks to the mixed release leaking out of you. He fixed your dress after with tender hands, smoothing it out as your breathing steadied. His eyes didn’t leave yours when he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, a stark contrast to the rough, passionate kiss from earlier. It made your heart flutter. 

Oh, no. 

Bucky fucked you against an alley wall. Just because you felt butterflies, it didn’t mean he felt anything. How could he when you gave it up so easily? But why did you have a feeling that he wasn’t the kind of guy who would slut-shame anyone?

“You okay?” he asked, his thumb brushing your warm cheek. 

You leaned into his touch without thinking. “Yeah,” you replied, surprised that you could speak and that he asked. “You?”

“Yeah.” He fixed his hair and tucked himself away. “Ditch your friends.”

“What?” you asked, not sure that you heard him correctly.

He stared at you with a faint, almost amused, smile. “Ditch your friends because I’m taking you home and fucking you in my bed.” His tone implied that it wasn’t a suggestion and you didn’t want to protest. “The night’s still young, I didn’t get to see how beautiful you looked when you came on my cock, and I haven’t eaten your pussy yet.”

You laughed breathlessly to cover up the whimper that tried to bubble up. You had wanted to see his face, too. And, fuck, you wanted him to devour you like a starved man.

“So, more sex?” you asked, already feeling that spark of arousal light up again. 

The smirk he gave was enough to soak your panties again. “On as many surfaces as possible,” he said, taking your hand. “Oh, and food. Gotta make sure you’re comfortable and well fed.”

Your mouth fell open. He wanted to feed you? And was he implying that you’d stay the night? 

“You’re something else,” you breathed.

He chuckled, the sound making you smile, before he snuck in another gentle kiss. You felt that flutter again. “So are you.”

You followed him out of the alley, your body eager for more. You wondered what excuse you’d give your friends for taking off. Surely they’d understand if they got a glimpse of Bucky.

It was reckless to go with him, but maybe it was just the beginning of something more.

Who wants to get dicked down by this man some more? Is it bad that part of me is also leaning soft!dark that he just decides he wants to keep you? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

SWU Series

✨ Be-all and Endor - @djarins-cyare - Summary - Languishing in a dull and lonely existence on the forest moon of Endor after travelling there to help salvage Death Star wreckage, a nearly fatal encounter with a mysterious bounty hunter out in the forest heralds an opportunity to utilise long-forgotten skills and develop something more profound than you ever thought possible. I loved it, it's so richly detailed, the research that was put into this story is phenomenal. And I loved reading the explanations not only for the plot, the characters psychology but also for the Star Wars universe. And the whole linguistic subplot ! Learning to speak Mando'a wasn't on my to-do list but here I am !

✨ Beskar Doll - @justagalwhowrites - Summary - "I said I’d get you there so I’m getting you there,” he growled. “I’m not letting some silly doll make me a liar.” He stalked off toward the fresher, but you followed. “Doll?” You demanded, raising your voice. “That’s what you think I am?” “Yes,” he said, turning back to face you, towels clenched in his fist. “A doll, some decorative, useless thing to sit there in pretty dresses and take up space. A doll.” What a blast! I felt like a was reading a Star Wars story. Action packed, great story, great chemistry (enemies to lovers). It felt like a movie. The last few chapters were absolute perfection. It was such a joyful ride!

✨ Losing my Religion - @oonajaeadira - Summary - Set post season 2, a Mandalorian comes looking for you with an assignment from an old friend, sending you on a mission and a union that you both need. (Canon compliant through season 2, diverges from TBOBF and season 3). I should have know after reading A Girl Walks Into a Bookshop that I would love every work by Adira and this Din series didn't disappoint. It was soft, it was tender, but the world building and the characters were so well written. I can rave about it for hours, I loved losing myself into that story.

✨ The World is light embodied - @davnittbraes - Summary - You have a good life. You move from planet to planet as you see fit, work wherever your skills come in handy, dodge your past whenever it threatens to haul you back and generally find contentment wherever you land. This story is wonderful, detailed, with a lot character development from reader and also Din, and also action, and sweet menace that is Grogu. I really had a hard time letting them go. I feel like there is so much more to say, but just give a try.

✨Quarry - @ak-vintage - Summary - Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities. Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want. I loved Din and this reader. I love the relationship they had together, how they navigated through their feelings. And Grogu, such a sweet boy and such a wonderful dynamic. Every aspect felt so in tune with the SW universe but also so uniquely itself.

✨ Of Beskar and Kyber - @penvisions - Summary - You’ve been on the run for as long as you can remember, from a lot of different people and a lot of different things. Everyone seems to see you as either a prize to show off or a captive to exploit. You had been successful in keeping a low profile and evading brief captures. That is until your mother contracted the Guild and the Mandalorian came to possess your tracking fob.  I read this one a long time ago, I remember loving every part, delighted to have so much of Din's insight, and the dynamic between he and reader is so wonderful.

✨Home is where you are - @saradika - Summary - When it appears the droid repair will take longer than expected, Din finds himself taking Karga up on his offer for the parcel of land. And when you go to give your new neighbor a warm welcome - you never imagine that it would be the very man you haven’t been to stop thinking about. Absolutely loved this and these two. Very sweet and also very real.

✨ a_dope_dope on AO3 has 4 wonderful Din fics:

Their God Was War itself - Mando’s path to redemption is knocked off course by the unplanned rescue of woman—the lone survivor of a failed science mission—from the depths of Mandalore. Every part of his life has become a battleground and it’s only going to get more complicated with an unexpected traveling companion thrown into the mix. He really should just drop her off somewhere but she seems to know far more about his homeworld than she wants to admit... things that might help him wage his many wars.

Into Wild - The Living Waters of Mandalore, waiting dormant for a people who may never return, hadn’t shown him anything and had made him wet but nothing more. Mando was still lost.

Madlands - The search for his lost Tribe calls Mando to the far corner of the galaxy—an untameable sector known as the Madlands. Rife with syndicate factions and ever-shifting spatial anomalies, he needs a guide. The intelligence-trader he picks up comes with a set of secrets as perilous as the region itself.

Nevertheless - The child and his Jedi master are missing. Mando's search for them is going nowhere until he enlists the help of a woman who knows how to get people to give her what she wants. Their temporary alliance should work out well, as long as they both want the same things

My favorites are probably Into Wild and Nevertheless but I really love them all

SWU One shot

✨Regard your people as your beloved children - @vindictivegranny - Summary - After Cobb Vanth gets shot by a renegade during the spice war, Din Djarin deals with the guilt of not protecting the one man he'd trust with his son's life This story is so beautiful and heartfelt. I don't really the words to express how much it moved me. There is a second part I haven't read yet but will soon dive into.

✨Locked out of heaven - @quinnnfabrgay - Summary - With Grogu leaving with the Jedi, and Din labeled as an apostate, he was convinced he'd be wandering the galaxy lost, devoid of purpose. That is until he met you. Tis was delicous, exquisite, beautiful! But you will have to wait for the link as kaitlin is changing her blog name and the links are not updated yet

✨Meet the teacher - @burntheedges - Summary - After your first few weeks as Nevarro's new schoolteacher, there was only one student's parent that you hadn't yet met. When you decided to send Grogu's dad a message, though, you never would have expected where it led. Kate writes the best romances, I adored this story and I could have read 10k more words of it.

✨Chrysalis Heart - @kedsandtubesocks - Summary - As queen you can handle many things (like the assassination attempts threatening your life) but the alluring mandalorian hired to protect you might be your heart’s biggest threat. Such a great story! Very visual, again it read like a Star Wars movie. I so want to be Queen of Naboo.

AU Series

✨ Pas de Deux - @burntheedges - Summary - When Din Djarin – principal dancer at Concordia Ballet Company and generational talent in the classical style – suddenly left CBC and joined the Nevarro Ballet Theater mid-season, it shocked the ballet world. You never would have guessed that he would change your life, too. This ballet AU is such a great fic. The way the story manages to mix canon elements of the show in a modern setting, but also manages to make a story of it's own, with also so many details on ballet, it's mind blowing.

✨ Take me to church - @frannyzooey - Summary - Set in a brothel in the late 1800’s in the Wild West, you’ve only been working there for a month when Din Djarin shows up. A bounty hunter who makes stops into town between jobs, he is known at the inn for his generous appetite and demanding preferences. Asking for you one night, he is pleased to learn you are well suited for him: your sweet nature soothing to his gruff temperament and surprising him with your ability to handle his rougher tastes. Demanding that you be made available to him every time he is in town, neither one of you is ready for where this request leads.This one took me by surprise, because I'm not a big western girl, and at the time I read I wasn't a big AU fan. But boy did this one reconcile me with both!

✨ A galaxy far far away - @grogusmum - Summary - In an effort to keep Din’s son safe from Imps and bounty hunters, he sets a course to a far away galaxy. The Milky Way, to be exact. After almost landing on your house, you take them in and find family again. Sweet and fun and so fluffy, I also would want Din to land near my house

I might be forgetting some, and for that I'm sorry, I didn't always keep a great track of what I read. But please, PLEASE, recommend you own, give love to all the writers out there. I don't remember who is a Din lover and I might have forgotten some, so feel free to tag anyone who might want to join!