#bar au

Process was exhausting, and guys were much angrier at first. Also I have no idea how to find shadows then I'm drawing from imagination without reference. Some physics and math miracles for shadows sake

You were polishing a highball glass when the bell above the door gave a small, bright chime.

It wasn’t the bell that made you look up.

You didn’t need the shift in temperature, the barely-perceptible pressure change, the way the room seemed to inhale and hold it. You didn’t need the faint shimmer at the edge of sight where holiness tried to behave like a human coat and failed.

You looked up because you’d learned the shape of him by now.

Steve Rogers stepped inside like he expected the floor to argue with him. Not hesitant, exactly – he didn’t do hesitant. More like he was bracing for impact. The door swung shut behind him and the city noise died, leaving only the bar’s low murmur and the soft buzz of neon from the beer sign someone had left you years ago and never came back to claim.

He wasn’t in “uniform”. No symbols. No wings. Just a plain jacket that looked too small across his shoulders, dark jeans, and the kind of careful, contained posture that screamed trying not to be noticed.

It didn’t work. It never worked.

You kept wiping the glass with slow, deliberate circles, as if you hadn’t noticed him at all. Then you let your mouth curve into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Mocking. Amused. A little too pleased with yourself.

One eyebrow lifted – half question, half mockery.

Steve paused just inside the threshold. His gaze swept the room, quick and sharp, as if counting exits, evaluating threats, measuring souls. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked to you, then away again like contact itself was a risk.

When he finally walked up to the bar, it was with the same expression he’d worn the first time: righteous irritation poorly disguised as duty.

“You’re here again,” you said, as if he was the one being suspicious.

Steve’s jaw tightened. You watched it happen. You tasted the edge of restraint in the air like ozone before a storm. The truth of him sat heavy and bright behind his ribs, a lighthouse trying to convince itself it wasn’t shining.

“I’m checking,” he said.

“Checking what?” You set the glass down and reached for another without looking. The cloth in your hand was damp, cool. Your movements stayed lazy on purpose.

His eyes narrowed, pinning you with that earnest, infuriating focus. “That you’re not–” He caught himself, rephrased, because even angels could hear how childish it sounded when they said it out loud. “That you’re not taking advantage of people.”

A laugh wanted to slip out of you, but you held it back, letting only a soft exhale escape through your nose. Teasing wasn’t the point. Not yet. Not when he’d come in loaded with justification like armor.

“People come here to drink,” you drawled. “Not to sign contracts.”

Steve leaned his forearms on the bar like he owned the space by proximity alone. The wood creaked under the weight of him. “You’re a demon.”

You didn’t blink. You didn’t flinch. If anything, you softened into it, the label draping over you like silk.

“And you’re an angel,” you replied. “And yet, here we are. Again.”

His eyes flicked – briefly – toward your hands. Toward the glass. Toward the cloth. As if watching you do something as mundane as polishing could make you less of what you were. As if it could make this easier.

It didn’t.

Steve’s gaze shifted past you to the shelves, to the bottles lined up in orderly rows. He looked faintly offended by the existence of anything stronger than beer.

“You’re… charming them,” he said, as if the word tasted bitter. “Humans. Getting them to give you things they shouldn’t.”

Your eyebrow rose higher. “Like tips?”

Steve’s mouth tightened. He didn’t smile, but the muscles around his eyes pulled as though some part of him wanted to, against his will.

“You know what I mean.”

Oh, you did. You knew exactly what he meant, because you’d learned the vocabulary of angels the way you learned the scent of lies: by proximity, by repetition, by the tiny tells they couldn’t help.

You leaned closer over the bar, just enough that the space between you narrowed and his attention had nowhere else to go.

“No,” you said softly. “Tell me what you mean.”

For the first time since he’d walked in, Steve’s gaze locked onto yours fully. There it was – the stubborn, impossible sincerity. The refusal to look away. The kind of devotion that made demons hungry and angry in equal measure.

“You don’t get to do this,” he said, voice low. “You don’t get to–” He stopped, swallowed, and his throat worked around words he didn’t want to say. “You don’t get to mess with them.”

You hummed, considering him like a drink you hadn’t decided whether you liked yet.

“And you,” you countered, “don’t get to walk into my bar five times in two weeks and pretend it’s about them.”

His shoulders went rigid. The air around him tightened. You could almost feel his wings – carefully hidden – pressing against the inside of his skin like he wanted to flare and couldn’t.

“It is about them,” Steve insisted, too quickly.

Your smile widened just a fraction.

You didn’t call him a liar. Not now. Not yet.

You let the moment hang like a drop of honey, heavy with implication, and then you turned away with deliberate calm to set the clean glass on the shelf.

When you faced him again, you rested your palms on the bar, casual as sin.

“Do you want a drink,” you asked, “or do you want to keep pretending you’re working?”

Steve’s gaze snagged on your mouth for a fraction of a second – quick enough he’d deny it if accused, long enough you’d remember it later.

Then he said, stiffly, as if ordering could make this less personal: “Whiskey.”

And just like that, the fifth visit began the same way the first four had – duty first, truth second, and something unnamed simmering beneath it all, waiting for the night to push too hard on its edges.

You turned to pour the whiskey, and the moment your back faced him, you felt it.

His attention wasn’t loud. It wasn’t leering, either – Steve didn’t leak desire the way humans did, messy and careless. It was cleaner than that, sharper. A steady, concentrated warmth that followed the line of your shoulders like a hand that hadn’t asked permission but somehow knew it would be granted.

It brushed along your spine. Lingered at the small of your back. Pressed, feather-light, at the place where your body narrowed and then widened again.

Like a caress.

It coaxed a smile out of you before you could stop it. Not the mocking one you’d given him at the door, not quite. This one was quieter, pleased in a way that felt almost indecent. You let it sit on your mouth as you reached for the bottle, as you tilted it, as amber liquid slid into the glass with a soft, patient splash.

“You’re staring,” you said lightly, over your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence – just long enough to be an answer.

“I’m not,” Steve replied, too fast.

The lie didn’t sting. It barely even registered. It tasted familiar now, like a refrain.

You set the bottle down and turned back, resting the glass on a coaster before nudging it toward him across the bar. The surface was polished enough that the low lights made thin gold ribbons on the wood. Your fingers stayed on the rim an extra second – because you could, because you wanted to see what he’d do, because his restraint had started to feel like a challenge you hadn’t agreed to play.

Steve reached for it.

When his fingers brushed yours, it was nothing. An accident. A breath of contact.

And yet the air snapped.

His hand jerked back as if he’d been burned, as if your skin had left a mark on him that he couldn’t explain. The glass wobbled slightly on the coaster before he caught it again, this time with a grip too careful to look natural.

For a moment, he didn’t look at the drink. He looked at your hand.

Like he expected it to be different. Like he expected himself to be.

You raised your brow again, the same silent question, and watched color creep up the high line of his cheekbones. Steve swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes flicking away and then back, caught in some private battle he was losing one breath at a time.

“Oh,” you murmured, voice all softness and teeth. “Is that how it is?”

His jaw set. “It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t a lie this time, exactly. It was a prayer.

You made a small sound in the back of your throat – a little click of amusement, sharp and quick. A gesture more instinctive than intentional.

Then you let your tongue tap against your upper teeth.

A neat, subtle clack.

The tip of it slid past your lips – just a fraction – split down the center like a blade made for tasting secrets.

It should have been ugly. It should have been a warning.

Instead, in the warm bar light, it looked… intimate. Private. Like you’d accidentally let something true show through.

Steve froze.

His eyes dropped to your mouth as if pulled by a hook. The rest of him held perfectly still, except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Even his hand, wrapped around the whiskey glass, stopped moving.

Hypnotized.

You watched the way his pupils widened, the way his lower lip parted a hair’s breadth, the way his breathing seemed to forget what it was doing. You could practically hear the thought he tried not to have – bright and frantic behind his eyes.

“Steve,” you said, almost gently.

His gaze flickered up for half a second, startled at being named. Then it fell right back down again, obedient as a confession.

You smiled. Slow. Knowing.

And you let the split tip of your tongue disappear back behind your lips like you hadn’t meant to show him anything at all.

“So,” you said, voice low enough that it slid under the bar’s noise instead of cutting through it. “Why are you here? Really, I mean.”

Steve’s grip tightened around his glass. The ice clinked once, a small, nervous sound. He kept his eyes on the amber swirl instead of on you, as if the whiskey might offer him an answer he could live with.

He couldn’t say the truth.

He couldn’t say that your existence had lodged itself under his skin the first time he’d seen you – sharp as a splinter, impossible to ignore. That he’d gone back to whatever passed for duty and still found you there, in the gaps between prayers, in the quiet seconds before sleep, in the moment his hand reached for a doorknob and his mind was already on your mouth.

He couldn’t say he’d walked past this block twice on the fourth night, turning around like a man caught in a current he pretended was his choice.

So he did what angels did when they were cornered by something they wanted too much.

He lied.

“I’m making sure you’re not hurting anyone,” he said, carefully measured, like he’d practiced the sentence on the way here. “That you’re not–” His jaw flexed. “Taking souls. Manipulating people.”

The words left his mouth clean, almost convincing.

But the lie bloomed anyway.

It rose between you like heat off asphalt, sharp and metallic, carrying the sour bite of restraint. You inhaled without moving, and it filled your lungs – falsehood threaded with something sweeter underneath. Want, buried deep enough that he could pretend it wasn’t there.

Your tongue flicked against the inside of your teeth, split tip tasting the air.

It was absurdly easy. Like tasting salt on skin. Like touching a bruise and finding the tender spot.

You let your gaze stay on him while you savored it, watching the way his shoulders had gone rigid, watching the line of his throat work as he swallowed around his own deception.

Then you smiled.

It wasn’t cruel. It was… delighted. Like someone watching a soldier try to outmarch gravity.

“Steve,” you murmured, and the way you said his name made it sound like a secret you were keeping for him. “You know demons can detect lies, right?”

His eyes snapped up, a flash of alarm in the blue. For a second, he looked almost offended – like the universe had broken a rule by letting you be this sure of him.

“I’m not lying,” he said immediately.

The lie tasted even stronger the second time.

Your tongue clicked softly, a small, satisfied sound, and the split tip slipped past your lips again – just enough to make the point without turning it into a threat.

Steve’s gaze darted down, helpless, then back up, caught somewhere between indignation and something far less holy.

You leaned in slightly over the bar, close enough that he could smell you – clean glass and citrus and whatever ancient thing lived comfortably behind your human shape.

“Try again,” you said, sweet as poison. “Or don’t. But don’t insult me by pretending I can’t hear what you’re doing.”

Steve’s knuckles went white around the glass.

And the truth, pressed tight behind his teeth, shifted – restless now, like it was getting tired of being caged.

Steve stared at you for one stubborn second – eyes bright with denial, jaw set like he could grind the truth into something manageable.

Then he made his decision.

He lifted the glass and drank it like it was medicine. Not a slow sip, not a reluctant swallow. A full, unbroken pull that emptied the whiskey in seconds, the ice clacking against his teeth once before the glass hit the bar again with a controlled thud.

Your eyebrow rose all over again, but you didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. The message was clear.

If talking meant being seen, then he would drown the conversation.

He pushed the empty glass toward you, not looking up. “Another.”

The words were clipped, almost formal, like an order could make this less personal. Like he was addressing a bartender and not the thing in front of him that could taste his lies like sugar.

You took your time reaching for the bottle. The amber sloshed softly as you tipped it, the smell blooming between you – oak and heat and recklessness. When you set the fresh glass down, your fingers brushed his again on purpose this time, just a whisper of contact.

Steve snatched his hand away so fast it made the coaster shift.

His throat worked as he swallowed nothing at all.

Fine, you thought, amused. That’s the game tonight.

He drank the second one slower, but not by much. Like the burn in his throat was preferable to the burn in his chest. The alcohol hit him quickly – faster than it had any right to – and you watched it take hold in small, betraying ways.

His shoulders loosened. His posture lost its iron straightness. The sharp line of vigilance around him softened as if someone had turned down the volume on his self-control.

And then, there it was.

A blink that lasted half a second too long.

A faint flush climbing up his neck, warming the planes of his face. His gaze going a little glassy around the edges, like the world had become just a touch too bright.

He tried to compensate by tightening his mouth, by squaring his shoulders, by looking stern.

But his eyes kept drifting back to you anyway, as if the gravity between you had finally decided to stop pretending.

The thing about angels was that they were built for devotion, not indulgence. They were meant to be clear-headed, unclouded, anchored. Earthly intoxication didn’t slide over them the way it did humans – it seeped straight in, settling into the spaces where faith usually lived.

Steve had forgotten that.

Or maybe he’d never known.

Either way, he learned fast.

By the time he finished half the third glass, his control started slipping in ways he couldn’t hide. He set the drink down a little too hard. He rubbed a hand over his mouth as if he could wipe the heat away. He blinked again and again, like his body was trying to reboot into righteousness.

“This is–” he started, then stopped, as if the sentence had evaporated before it could form.

You leaned on the bar, watching him with a patient sort of interest.

“You doing alright there, angel?” you asked lightly.

Steve frowned, the expression slightly delayed, slightly exaggerated. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t even a lie this time. It was just… optimism.

He reached for the glass again, as if speed could outrun consequences, and you watched him with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had seen this exact kind of stubbornness destroy itself before.

He’d chosen the safest option, apparently – drink instead of speak.

Only he’d forgotten one important detail.

Angels weren’t supposed to drink.

And they didn’t hold their liquor worth a damn.

By the fifth glass, you decided Steve had had enough.

Not because you suddenly cared about his well-being – at least, not in any way you were willing to name out loud. Not because you were afraid he’d fall off his stool and crack his skull on the sticky floor like some college kid on spring break.

You decided because the way his attention kept snagging on you had stopped being merely amusing.

It had started to feel like heat.

Steve’s hand closed around the whiskey again, stubborn as ever, even as his movements betrayed him – just slightly too loose, just slightly too slow. His fingers didn’t find the glass on the first try. He adjusted, frowned at his own hand like it had committed a personal offense, and tried again.

You reached out and slid the glass away with two fingers.

“Alright,” you said, light and final. “That’s enough.”

Steve’s head snapped up. The motion was a touch too sharp for how heavy his eyes looked, like he’d forgotten the lag between intent and body. “No,” he said immediately, as if refusing could sober him up on principle.

You arched a brow. “Yes.”

He leaned forward, broad shoulders bunching under his jacket, and made a grab for the glass with all the indignation of a man who’d never been told no without a war attached to it.

“Don’t–” he started.

You moved at the same time.

His palm bumped yours. Your fingers hooked the rim. The coaster skidded. For half a second the glass hovered in the air between you – caught in the stupid tug-of-war of angel pride versus demon patience.

And then it slipped.

Whiskey flared in a sharp, sweet burst as the glass struck the edge of the counter and shattered. The sound was bright, ugly, immediate – cracking through the room like a snapped bone.

A few heads turned.

Steve jerked back on instinct, the reflex too late. One of the shards bit into the tip of his finger. It wasn’t deep, not really – nothing dramatic. Just a clean slice across the pad.

But blood bloomed anyway.

Red. Human. Out of place on him.

For a heartbeat, Steve stared at it like it didn’t belong. Like he expected his body to correct the mistake. His mouth opened, closed. He sucked in a breath that hitched in his chest, and the color rose up his neck again, hot and angry and embarrassed.

“It’s fine,” he said, already reaching for another piece of glass like he was determined to make it worse.

You caught his wrist before he could.

“Steve.” Your voice was low, sharp enough to cut through his stubbornness. Your fingers tightened just slightly – enough to make your point without bruising. “Don’t.”

His gaze flicked up to you, unfocused at the edges, still too bright. “I’m not–” he started, and then his words tangled. His brow furrowed in frustration as if the sentence had betrayed him. “I’m not… being–”

You could taste the alcohol on his breath from here, sweet and burning. You could also taste the truth under it: the way his body leaned toward yours even while his mind tried to pull away.

You exhaled through your nose, the closest thing you had to a sigh.

“Come on,” you said, already steering him, guiding his hand as if he’d forget what to do with it. “Back room. I’ll clean it.”

Steve bristled. Of course he did. Even drunk, he tried to square himself into authority. “You don’t have to–”

“I do,” you cut in, and your smile turned sharp at the corners. “Unless you want to drip holy blood on my counter and explain to the humans why you’re bleeding like you’re not supposed to.”

That got him moving.

He followed you with reluctant steps, shoulders too broad for the narrow space behind the bar, a little unsteady as he navigated the gap between stools and patrons. A couple of customers glanced up – curious, unimpressed, too busy with their own problems to realize they were watching a cosmic incident over cheap liquor.

You pushed open the door to the back and slipped inside. The storage room was cooler, quieter, lit by a single fluorescent strip that made everything look a shade too honest. Shelves lined the walls – bottles, crates, cleaning supplies, a battered first-aid kit tucked behind a stack of napkins.

You closed the door.

The muffled hum of the bar vanished into a dull background throb, and suddenly it was just the two of you in a small space that smelled of old cardboard.

Steve leaned back against the wall like it was holding him up. He watched you with that same dazed focus, gaze drifting to your hands as you opened the kit. The movement of your fingers. The way you didn’t rush, didn’t panic, didn’t treat his blood like it was sacred.

You pulled a small bottle of disinfectant out and a pack of gauze.

“Give me your hand,” you said.

Steve hesitated, then held it out, palm up, like he didn’t know whether he was offering you trust or surrender. The cut had already started to bead again, a small line of red that looked wrong against his skin.

You took his hand in yours. Warm. Too warm. His pulse was steady, even now, even with his mind softened by liquor and something worse.

“Hold still,” you murmured.

Steve’s breath caught when you dabbed the disinfectant onto the gauze. It stung – just enough. His fingers twitched reflexively, and his thumb brushed the side of your hand.

An accident.

A question.

You glanced up at him, slow. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I know,” he said, but the words were thick, slightly slurred around the edges. His eyes didn’t leave your mouth. “I’m not–” He swallowed, as if the motion was hard work. “I’m not… weak.”

The lie hovered.

You tasted it without even trying.

It wasn’t weakness. It was wanting.

You cleaned the cut anyway. Gentle. Thorough. You didn’t comment on how his hand kept tightening around yours, how he didn’t pull away this time, how his gaze stayed fixed on you like the rest of the world had finally gone blurry enough to ignore.

When you finished, you pressed the gauze over his fingertip.

Steve stared at it for a second, then lifted his eyes to yours.

There was a pause – too long, too heavy. The kind of silence that suggested his thoughts were stumbling over themselves, trying to find a path that didn’t lead straight into disaster.

His voice, when it came, was quiet and tangled, like the words had gotten stuck on the way out.

“Can you…” He blinked, slow. “Can you kiss it better?”

You went still.

The fluorescent light hummed overhead. Somewhere beyond the door, a glass clinked. Someone laughed.

But in the back room, Steve’s question hung between you like a match held too close to paper – small, ridiculous, and capable of changing everything.

His thumb moved – barely–against your skin, as if he was grounding himself in the only thing he could still feel.

He looked at you with the earnestness of a man asking for mercy, not healing.

And you could taste, sharp as whiskey on the air, that he meant it.

You let the silence stretch – just long enough to make him feel it.

His hand was still in yours, the gauze pressed to the pad of his finger. The cut had stopped bleeding, but the red had already seeped into the white, a small stain like evidence. His skin was warm against your palm. Too warm. Alive.

Steve’s eyes didn’t leave your mouth.

They tracked every movement – your inhale, the faint shift of your lips as if you were deciding what shape to give your answer. He looked almost furious about it, like his gaze had betrayed him and he was too drunk to punish it properly.

You could have been kind. You could have let him off the hook. You could have pretended you hadn’t heard the way his voice had softened on the request, the way his breath had caught as if he’d asked you to do something forbidden.

But you had demons’ instincts and a demon’s patience, and he had walked into your bar five times in two weeks and lied to your face like it was a hobby.

So you decided – just slightly – to take advantage.

Not cruelly. Not dangerously.

Just enough to make him stop hiding behind duty.

You tilted your head, letting your voice go velvet-soft. “Do you want me to kiss it better,” you asked, glancing pointedly at his bandaged finger, “or to kiss you?”

The question landed like a weight.

Steve didn’t answer right away. He swallowed, his throat working hard. His lashes fluttered, and for a second his gaze dropped to your tongue as if he remembered the split tip and couldn’t decide whether it terrified him or fascinated him more.

Then his eyes rose again and locked back onto your mouth with a kind of helpless focus that made something inside you curl.

He licked his own lips, slow and unconscious, like he was practicing.

When he finally spoke, the words came out rougher than his earlier defiance, stripped down to raw want with none of the polishing.

“Me,” Steve said.

His voice cracked on it, like it was the most honest thing he’d said all night.

“Kiss me.”

There it was.

No duty. No excuses. No talk of souls and humans and righteousness.

Just an angel in a back room that smelled like antiseptic and cardboard, looking at a demon like he’d found the one sin he couldn’t convince himself to hate.

His hand tightened around yours – careful, as if he was afraid you’d vanish if he held too hard. His breath came shallow, uneven.

And you could taste it in the air, bright as lightning and sweet as ruin:

He meant it.

“Why?” you asked.

The word came out softer than it should have, considering you’d just baited him into an admission. Still, you held his gaze, stubbornly curious – because if Steve Rogers was going to fall, you wanted to see what story he told himself on the way down.

Steve’s eyes stayed on your mouth as if looking anywhere else might save him. His brows drew together, a frustrated, helpless crease. He looked like a man trying to argue with gravity.

“Because…” he mumbled, and the syllables tangled like his thoughts had gotten too warm to hold their shape. He swallowed, then tried again, slower. “Because you’re… you’re enchanting.”

That one landed with a strange sort of weight. Not flirtation. Not a compliment meant to win. A statement that sounded like an accusation he’d been carrying in his chest since the first night.

He breathed in, then, as if honesty required oxygen.

“And I can’t stop thinking about…” His voice dropped, rough, embarrassed, and yet utterly locked onto you. “What it would feel like. Your–” He blinked, lashes heavy. “Your forked tongue against mine.”

For a second, the back room felt smaller.

The fluorescent hum sharpened. The smell of antiseptic seemed to spike. Outside, muffled laughter filtered through the door like it belonged to another universe entirely.

You couldn’t help it – your smile curved, slow and wicked, equal parts entertained and touched in a way you refused to examine too closely.

“You’re really drunk,” you murmured. “If you’re starting to be honest like that.”

Steve’s jaw flexed. The flush on his cheeks darkened, creeping along the bridge of his nose. He looked offended by your amusement, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

“Are you going to do it or not?” he demanded.

The authority in his tone didn’t match the way his hand still clung to yours as if you were the only solid thing in the room. It didn’t match the faint tremor in his fingers, or the way his breathing had gone shallow, waiting.

You let out a quiet, delighted sound – a little click of your tongue you didn’t bother hiding this time.

“Bossy,” you said, drawing the word out, savoring it. “And impatient, too.”

Steve’s eyes flared with something that wasn’t righteous at all.

“Don’t–” he started, and then stopped, because he didn’t even know what he was asking you not to do. Not to tease him? Not to make it real? Not to look at him like you could see every thought he’d tried to bury?

He swallowed again, and the lie he might’ve reached for–I shouldn’t, I can’t, this is wrong–never even made it to the surface.

All that remained was the raw, unpolished truth in his gaze Now.

So you moved in.

Not all at once – not like a pounce, not like a performance. Just a slow, deliberate closing of distance, the kind that made it impossible for either of you to pretend this was an accident.

Steve didn’t back away. He didn’t even blink.

Your faces hovered close enough that your breaths tangled, close enough that the remaining space between your mouths felt like something physical – thin as a thread, taut with the weight of everything he’d refused to say out loud. You could see the faint sheen of whiskey on his lower lip, the way the alcohol had softened the hard lines of his self-control without erasing them.

You could almost taste it already.

Your tongue slid, distracted, over your lips – an absent little motion that wasn’t absent at all. The split tip flicked briefly at the corner of your mouth as if testing the air.

Steve’s gaze dropped to it like it had a gravity of its own.

His breath hitched.

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the fluorescent hum above you and the muffled life of the bar beyond the door – distant laughter, a glass setting down, a song changing on the jukebox like the world hadn’t just narrowed to one quiet back room.

Then Steve leaned in.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was a demand – urgent, almost angry, as if he’d finally gotten tired of starving. His mouth pressed into yours with the kind of certainty that made your pulse jump, the kind that said enough without needing words. His hand – still bandaged, still in yours – twitched like he wanted to grab you and didn’t trust himself to choose where.

A rough sound broke from his throat, swallowed by the kiss. Not quite a growl, not quite a sigh – something edged and relieved, like the moment of impact after a long fall.

As if this was the answer.

As if he’d been asking himself the same question for far too long – what would it be like, what would it do to me, would it ruin me, would it save me – and your mouth had finally cut through all of it in one decisive, brutal stroke.

He kissed you like he needed proof.

Like he needed to feel the truth with his own body because his mind had betrayed him too many nights in a row.

His lips moved against yours, insistent, searching, a little clumsy with drunkenness but not uncertain – never uncertain. Steve Rogers didn’t do half-measures even when he was falling apart. He did conviction. He did devotion.

And apparently, tonight, he did you.

You let him have that first rush – let him take it, let him claim it – just long enough to feel the tremor of it in his breath, the way his whole frame seemed to loosen a fraction, as if something inside him had finally unclenched.

Then, very slowly, you answered. Not by yielding, not by retreating – by meeting him with the same steady pressure, the same unhurried intent. By making it clear this wasn’t a mistake you’d allow him to regret in the morning.

Your tongue flicked – barely there – testing the seam of his mouth, tasting whiskey and heat and the stark, impossible honesty of an angel who had stopped lying.

Steve made a sound against your lips that was almost helpless.

His blue eyes darkened with a hunger that no angel should possess, and he parted his mouth willingly, inviting you in.

You wasted no time, sliding your forked tongue past his teeth to coil around his own, tasting the sharp bite of whisky that lingered there like a forbidden secret. The alcohol burned on your senses, a stark contrast to the pure, ethereal warmth of his breath mingling with yours.

Steve's hands, large and calloused from battles fought in realms beyond this one, finally moved.

He gripped your hips with a firm urgency, yanking you flush against his solid frame.

Your body pressed into the hard planes of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his shirt – a heartbeat that quickened like a mortal's under temptation.

The storage room around you faded into shadows, shelves of dusty bottles and stacked crates forgotten as his fingers dug into your flesh, holding you captive in the heat of the moment.

Your serpent tongue explored deeper, twisting and teasing his, drawing out another muffled groan that vibrated against your mouth.

The whisky on his tongue grew bolder with each sweep, a sinful flavor that made your demonic blood hum with satisfaction.

Steve's body responded instinctively, his hips shifting forward to grind against yours, the growing bulge in his pants pressing insistently into your core.

You could sense the lie he told himself – that this was just a momentary lapse, not the pull of damnation – but your demonic instincts detected no deception in his desire; it was raw, unfiltered want.

He broke the kiss just enough to gasp for air, his lips brushing yours as he murmured, “This... this shouldn't feel so good.”

But even as the words escaped, his hands slid lower, cupping your ass and pulling you tighter, as if he couldn't bear the slightest distance between you.

You smirked against Steve's lips, the curve of your mouth a wicked promise as you pulled back just enough to let your words slither out in a husky whisper.

"Let me guess," you murmured, your breath hot against his flushed skin.

"You've never fucked a demon before. Another angel? Yeah, I bet… pure and proper, all that celestial fire. Maybe even a human or two, chasing that fleeting mortal heat. But a demon..."

Your voice dropped lower, teasing the edge of temptation.

"You're in uncharted territory, angel. And I can smell how much you want to explore it."

Steve's breath hitched, his angelic purity warring with the dark pull in his eyes, but he didn't pull away. Instead, his grip on your hips tightened for a moment, as if anchoring himself before you slipped free.

Slowly, deliberately, you eased down his body, your hands trailing over the firm ridges of his abdomen, feeling the tremor in his muscles.

The storage room's dim light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw as you sank to your knees on the cool, concrete floor. Dust motes danced in the air, forgotten amid the scent of aged whiskey and rising arousal.

Your fingers worked quickly at his jeans, popping the button with a soft click that echoed in the confined space. The zipper rasped down, inch by inch, and Steve's chest heaved with a sharp inhale.

He stared down at you, those piercing blue eyes widening in a mix of shock and raw need – like he'd never seen a woman kneel before him, never felt the deliberate intent of someone ready to worship and devour. His hands hovered uncertainly at his sides, fingers flexing as if unsure whether to stop you or tangle in your hair.

"What are you–?" The words tumbled out in a breathless rush, cut off abruptly as your hand delved into the open fly, pushing aside the fabric of his boxers.

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, thick and already hardening fully under your touch, pulling it free into the open air. It sprang out heavy and hot, the velvety skin taut over veins that pulsed with his quickening heartbeat.

Steve's groan filled the room, low and guttural, his head tipping back against a nearby shelf that rattled faintly from the impact.

You stroked him once, slow and firm, feeling him twitch in your grasp, the head already beading with a drop of precum that glistened in the low light. His angelic restraint cracked further; no lies hid behind the way his hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking more friction.

The serpent tongue in your mouth flicked out briefly, tasting the charged air, as you looked up at him through your lashes.

"Shh, angel," you purred, your voice a velvet command. "Let me show you what you've been missing."

Your thumb circled the sensitive tip, smearing the slickness, while his free hand finally moved, cupping the back of your head with a gentleness that belied the fire in his gaze.

You extended the tip of your forked tongue, the serpentine length unfurling with deliberate slowness, its split ends quivering in the humid air of the storage room.

The demon essence in you thrilled at the vulnerability before you – Steve's cock standing rigid and exposed, the flushed head begging for attention.

You leaned in closer, your breath ghosting over the sensitive skin, and lapped gently at the tip of his glans. The salty tang of his precum coated your tongue first, a forbidden nectar that made your forked tip curl in delight as it traced the smooth ridge, teasing the slit with feather-light flicks.

Steve's body jerked at the contact, a sharp gasp escaping his lips, but you didn't stop. Emboldened by his reaction, you pressed forward, sliding the pointed end of your tongue ever so slightly into the narrow slit of his urethra.

It was a bold invasion, intimate and invasive, the agile muscle probing just enough to send shockwaves through him. His hips bucked involuntarily, and then the words poured out – filthy curses tumbling from his angelic mouth in a torrent that no celestial being should utter.

“Fuck... oh, God, that's– shit, don't stop,” he growled, his voice rough and broken, laced with a desperation that betrayed his heavenly origins.

The profanity hung in the air like smoke, his broad chest heaving as he fought the surge of pleasure threatening to overwhelm him.

Satisfied with his unraveling, you decided to reveal more of your demonic gift, to demonstrate the full reptilian prowess of your tongue – long, sinuous, and impossibly flexible.

It extended further now, coiling out like a living vine, wrapping around the swollen head of his cock with a firm, undulating grip. The forked ends twisted gently, squeezing and releasing in rhythmic pulses that mimicked the throb of his vein-laced shaft.

Slowly, you let it slide upward, the slick length gliding along the underside of his length, tracing every ridge and bulge from base to tip. It curled and uncurled, massaging the heated flesh, the texture rougher than any human tongue could manage, sending jolts of ecstasy straight to his core.

Steve's eyes squeezed shut tight, his face contorting in exquisite torment as he surrendered to the sensation.

His free hand clenched into a fist at his side, knuckles white, while the other remained tangled in your hair, holding on as if you were his only lifeline.

He bit his lower lip hard enough to draw a faint bead of blood, stifling another moan, but it escaped anyway – a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through his body.

Looking at you, he knew, would shatter his control entirely; the sight of your demonic form kneeling before him, tongue ensnaring his cock like prey, would push him over the edge too soon. Instead, he tilted his head back against the shelf, shelves creaking under the strain, lost in the overwhelming bliss of your touch.

As you prepared to delve deeper, to envelop his throbbing cock fully with your serpentine mouth, Steve's hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back with a firm, insistent pull. His fingers dug into your scalp, separating your lips from his slick shaft with a wet pop that echoed in the dim storage room.

A low, displeased growl rumbled from your throat, the sound vibrating through your chest like distant thunder, your demonic instincts bristling at the interruption.

But when you lifted your gaze to meet his, the fire in his eyes stopped you cold – his control fracturing like fragile glass, raw hunger blazing there, an unquenchable thirst that transformed the pure angel into something feral, driven by the primal need to claim and dominate.

Your tongue retracted obediently, coiling back into its more subdued form, still elongated but no longer the full reptilian weapon it had been moments before.

Your lips parted just enough to reveal the forked tip peeking out, glistening with his precum, a silent invitation hanging in the charged air – as if you knelt there solely to receive his release, to let him mark you with hot spurts of his seed across your waiting tongue and face.

He didn't keep you waiting long.

With a surge of strength born from his celestial heritage, Steve hauled you up to your feet, his grip unyielding as he spun you around and pressed your back against the rough wooden shelf. You rose without resistance, your body pliant under his touch, but a sharp, undemonic yelp burst from your lips when his hands moved with urgent speed.

In one swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants and panties, shoving them down to bunch around your knees in a tangled heap. The cool air hit your exposed skin instantly, your bare ass and pussy bared to him, vulnerable and aching with anticipation.

The sound you made was high-pitched and startled, utterly at odds with your infernal nature – a squeak of surprise that made your cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and arousal as his eyes raked over your newly revealed form, dark with intent.

In his intoxicated haze, Steve's brow furrowed with a flicker of irritation as he stared down at the fabric tangled around your ankles, the pants and panties stubbornly refusing to slide free because of the sturdy boots you still wore.

His angelic patience, usually so steadfast, frayed at the edges under the influence of the liquor he'd foolishly indulged in – angels weren't built for such mortal vices, after all.

He muttered something incoherent under his breath, his large hands hovering uncertainly, as if the simple obstacle had become an insurmountable barrier in his lust-clouded mind.

Amusement bubbled up inside you, a wicked spark in your demonic core that softened the edges of your surprise. With a playful smirk curling your lips, you bent down gracefully, your fingers deftly unlacing the boots and kicking them aside along with the discarded clothing.

The cool floor met your bare feet, sending a shiver up your legs, but you straightened up smoothly, helping him complete the task by stepping out of the last remnants of your lower garments. Now fully exposed from the waist down, your skin prickled under his gaze, the air in the storage room thick with the scent of dust, arousal, and the faint metallic tang of his earlier injury.

Steve watched every movement with wide-eyed awe, his blue eyes tracking your hands as if you'd just unraveled the mysteries of the cosmos rather than solved a minor wardrobe mishap. There was something almost childlike in his wonder, a pure, unfiltered admiration that clashed beautifully with the feral hunger simmering beneath.

His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, his shirt clinging to his broad frame.

Then his focus shifted, dropping lower, locking onto the slick folds of your pussy, bare and glistening with your own building need.

The hunger roared back to life in his eyes, darkening the heavenly blue to stormy depths, his pupils dilating as he drank in the sight of you – vulnerable, inviting, utterly demonic in your allure. A low growl escaped his throat, not quite angelic, as his hands moved with renewed purpose.

Before you could utter a word, his palms cupped the undersides of your ass cheeks, fingers sinking into the firm flesh with possessive strength. He lifted you, his divine might making the act feel effortless despite your weight, hoisting you high until your thighs framed his face and your pussy hovered directly at his mouth's level.

The storage room's low ceiling loomed close, the top of your head brushing against a dusty beam, forcing you to arch your back slightly to avoid bumping it. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of thrill and vertigo washing over you as your legs dangled, boots forgotten on the floor below.

You opened your mouth to protest – or perhaps to tease – but the words died on your tongue as Steve dove in without hesitation.

His warm, wet tongue plunged deep into your core, thrusting past your entrance with a bold, insistent stroke that stretched and filled you. He lapped at your inner walls like a man dying of thirst in the desert, broad swipes of his tongue dragging along every sensitive ridge, collecting your juices with greedy fervor.

The sensation was electric, his mouth hot and unyielding against your clit as he sucked lightly, then delved back in, fucking you with his tongue in rhythmic pushes that made your hips buck involuntarily. Your hands flew to his shoulders for balance, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your demonic body responding with a flood of heat that only spurred him on.

He groaned against your pussy, the vibration humming through your clit, his grip tightening on your ass to hold you steady as he devoured you whole, lost in the taste of your infernal essence.

It was as if Steve derived even greater ecstasy from feasting on your cunt than you did, his tongue delving deeper with each fervent lick, as though he were quenching a thirst buried deep within his celestial soul – one he hadn't even realized existed until this moment.

His groans vibrated through your core, low and primal, betraying the angelic facade as he surrendered to the demonic temptation of your taste, lapping at your slick folds with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just uncovered their ultimate indulgence, a forbidden delicacy that made his body tremble with unrestrained need.

Your words spilled out in a husky torrent of encouragement, your voice breathy and laced with genuine delight as you praised him lavishly.

“Oh, Steve, yes– just like that,” you murmured, your fingers threading through his golden hair, tugging lightly to guide him.

“Your tongue feels so fucking good inside me, stretching me, filling me up. Don't stop, angel, you're making me so wet, so ready for you.”

Each compliment seemed to ignite him further, his blue eyes flicking up to meet yours for a split second, darkened with lust and a hint of triumphant pride, before he redoubled his efforts. He sucked on your clit with a hungry pull, then thrust his tongue back into your entrance, swirling it against your inner walls to coax out more of your essence, his hands kneading your ass cheeks to spread you wider for his access.

The pleasure built relentlessly, a coiling heat in your belly that made your thighs quake around his head.

You felt his moan rumble directly against your sensitive flesh, the sound sending fresh sparks of sensation shooting through you, as he devoured you without mercy – like a man starved for centuries, finally given sustenance. His chin scraped deliciously against your inner thighs, adding a rough edge to the slick glide of his mouth, while his breath came in hot pants between laps, fanning over your exposed skin.

When the edge of your climax loomed, sharp and inevitable, your grip tightened in his hair, yanking him closer as your body arched against the dusty ceiling. Waves of bliss crashed over you, your pussy clenching around his invading tongue, flooding his mouth with your release.

“Steve!” you cried out, your voice breaking into a desperate whine, echoing softly in the cramped storage room amid the scattered crates and forgotten bottles.

Your legs locked around his shoulders, hips grinding instinctively against his face as you rode the orgasm, every pulse drawing out more of your juices for him to swallow greedily, his own arousal evident in the way his cock strained against his unzipped jeans below.

As the last ripples of your climax faded, leaving your body humming with aftershocks, Steve eased you down from your perch against the ceiling, his strong arms cradling you with surprising tenderness until your feet touched the cool, gritty floor of the storage room. His chin glistened with your slick arousal, droplets of your release tracing paths down his jaw, and his full lips shimmered wetly under the dim light filtering through the cluttered shelves.

You couldn't resist; your hands cupped his face, pulling him into a fierce kiss, your serpent tongue darting out to tangle with his, tasting yourself on him as you nipped at his lower lip with sharp, playful bites that drew a needy whimper from his throat. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you close, his body pressing forward with barely contained urgency, the heat of his erection grinding against your thigh.

“You want more, angel?” you purred against his mouth, your voice a sultry tease laced with dark promise, your forked tongue flicking out to trace the shell of his ear.

Steve nodded eagerly, his blue eyes wide and pleading, like a devoted pup anticipating its reward, his breath coming in ragged bursts that betrayed how deeply he'd fallen into this sinful haze.

With a wicked grin, you took his hand and led him deeper into the shadowed confines of the storage room, weaving past towering stacks of crates and dusty bottles until you reached the narrow alcove where a makeshift kitchen counter hugged the wall, complete with a rusted sink and a faint scent of old spices lingering in the air.

Without a word, Steve scooped you up effortlessly, his angelic strength making the motion feel effortless as he perched you on the edge of the counter, the cold metal biting into your bare ass. He stepped between your spread thighs, his broad frame caging you in, his hands sliding up your sides to grip your waist possessively.

Your fingers worked quickly, shoving his jeans and boxer briefs down his hips in one fluid motion. His cock was thick and throbbing, the flushed length curving upward with veins pulsing along its shaft, the tip already beading with precum that caught the low light.

You didn't stop there – your nails raked down the front of his leather jacket, finding the hem of his t-shirt beneath and yanking upward, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip to expose the chiseled planes of his torso, his skin warm and smooth under your touch, marked only by the faint glow of his ethereal nature.

Steve shot you a glare, his brows furrowing in mock annoyance, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he glanced down at the shredded shirt. You merely shrugged, your lips curving into a unapologetic smirk, your eyes gleaming with demonic mischief.

“What? I needed better access,” you taunted, your hands roaming over his exposed chest, thumbs circling his hardened nipples before trailing lower to wrap around his cock, stroking him firmly from base to tip, feeling him twitch and harden further in your grasp.

His annoyance melted into a shuddering gasp, his hips bucking involuntarily into your hand, the conflict in his angelic soul warring with the raw lust you'd ignited, but it was clear which side was winning as he leaned in, capturing your mouth again in a bruising kiss, his free hand tangling in your hair to hold you steady.

Your hand wrapped around the base of Steve's throbbing cock again, guiding the swollen head to your slick entrance, the heat radiating from your core like a forbidden flame that made his breath hitch sharply.

The moment the tip brushed against your folds, parting them with insistent pressure, his eyes fluttered shut, a low groan escaping his lips as the warmth enveloped him, drawing him in like a siren's call that shattered his angelic resolve. He was losing it, his body trembling with the overwhelming sensation of your demonic heat clenching around just the barest inch of him, pulling him deeper without mercy.

“I... I shouldn't–” Steve murmured, his voice a fractured whisper laced with guilt and desperation, the words tumbling out even as his hips betrayed him, pushing forward so the broad crown of his cock breached your pussy, stretching your walls with a delicious burn that sent sparks of pleasure racing through you both.

He couldn't finish the thought, couldn't summon the willpower to pull away, his angelic purity warring against the raw, carnal need you'd awakened in him.

You reached up, your fingers gentle as they cradled his face, thumbs stroking along his jawline to soothe the tension etched there, your serpent tongue flicking out briefly to taste the salt of his sweat.

“It's okay, Steve,” you whispered softly, your voice a velvet caress that wrapped around his doubts like smoke.

“It's okay. You want this, don't you?” Your eyes locked onto his, holding him captive in that gaze, your touch light and reassuring against the storm of his internal conflict.

He whimpered, a broken sound that vibrated through his chest, and nodded jerkily, his blue eyes glazed with lust and surrender. Emboldened, his cock slid deeper, inch by thick inch sinking into your welcoming heat, your pussy gripping him tightly, milking every ridge and vein as he buried himself halfway inside you.

The stretch was exquisite, your body yielding to his angelic girth while your inner muscles fluttered around him, and he collapsed forward, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he fought to steady himself.

“You're doing so well,” you murmured, your hand sliding up to thread through his golden hair, fingers massaging his scalp in slow, comforting circles.

“It's okay, angel. You have every right to this– to feel good, to take what you need. I want you inside me, Steve. I want all of you.”

Your words were a steady rhythm, each one chipping away at the remnants of his hesitation, your other hand trailing down his back, nails lightly scraping over the muscles there to ground him in the moment.

To seal the fracture in his barriers, you leaned in closer, your lips brushing his ear as you began to whisper filthier truths, your voice dropping to a husky purr.

“Love feeling you like this– your cock stretching me open, filling me so perfectly. You're so thick, so hard for me, hitting every spot that makes me ache. Deeper, Steve... give me more of that heavenly dick.”

Each word was deliberate, painting vivid pictures of the pleasure coiling between you, and you felt the effect ripple through him instantly – his cock twitching inside you, swelling even harder as fresh precum leaked from the tip, coating your walls.

The last of his resistance crumbled like ash under your demonic allure; a guttural moan tore from his throat, his hands gripping your thighs bruisingly as he thrust forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

Your pussy clenched around him in response, the sudden fullness sending waves of ecstasy crashing through you, and he stilled for a heartbeat, buried deep, his body shuddering against yours as the reality of his fall sank in.

But there was no turning back now – his hips began to move, slow at first, savoring the drag of his cock through your slick channel, each withdrawal and plunge building the fire between you higher, his angelic moans mingling with your encouraging gasps in the dim storage room.

Steve's initial thrusts were measured, almost reverent, each slide of his thick cock into your dripping pussy a deliberate exploration of the sinful depths you'd drawn him into, his hips rolling with a controlled grace that spoke of his lingering angelic discipline. The drag of his shaft along your inner walls sent shivers through you, your body clenching greedily around him, but you could feel the tremor in his muscles, the way his breath came in short, ragged bursts against your neck – he was unraveling, thread by thread, under the weight of your demonic heat.

You did nothing to steady him, nothing to temper the fire you'd ignited. Instead, you arched your back, pressing youself against his chest. His left hand clamped down on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh there with a firmness that bordered on possession, holding you in place as he drove deeper, the head of his cock nudging against that sensitive spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

Leaning in, your lips brushed the shell of his ear, your serpent tongue darting out to trace the lobe before you whispered, hot and breathy, “Harder, Steve. Fuck me harder– I want you to leave marks. Want it to bruise.”

The words were a deliberate spark, fanning the flames of his restraint until it crackled and burned.

His head snapped up, blue eyes locking onto yours with a feral intensity, pupils blown wide like a beast in the throes of rut, all traces of the pure angel eclipsed by raw, unbridled hunger. A growl rumbled low in his throat, primal and unrestrained, and his pace shattered – thrusts turning savage, hips slamming forward with bruising force, his cock pounding into your pussy with wet, obscene slaps that echoed off the storage room walls.

Each plunge stretched you wide, filling you to the brim, your slick arousal coating his length and dripping down your thighs as he chased the friction, lost to the rhythm you'd orchestrated.

You reveled in it, in the way his control slipped further with every grunt and moan that tore from him, but you weren't done pushing.

Your hand captured his right one, the strong fingers that had once wielded shields now trembling slightly as you guided it upward, pressing his palm against the column of your throat. Your eyes held his, a wicked gleam in them as you tilted your head back, exposing the vulnerable line of your neck, and nodded once.

“Squeeze.”

He hesitated for a split second, his thumb brushing over the rapid flutter of your pulse beneath the skin, feeling the lifeblood racing in response to his dominance.

Then, with a shuddering exhale, his fingers curled, tightening around your throat in a grip that was firm but not cruel, applying just enough pressure to make your vision haze at the edges, to send a thrill of power straight to your core.

It was an illusion of control you gifted him, letting him believe he held the reins while your body dictated the tempo – your hips rising to meet his brutal thrusts, your pussy squeezing his cock in rhythmic pulses that milked him relentlessly, drawing him deeper into your web.

The constriction heightened everything: the rush of air when he loosened just enough for you to gasp, the way your walls fluttered around him in response, pulling a guttural curse from his lips as he fucked you harder, faster, his hand on your hip leaving red imprints that bloomed like dark flowers on your skin.

“Fuck... you feel... so good,” he rasped, voice hoarse and broken, his forehead dropping to yours again as sweat slicked your bodies together, the air thick with the scent of sex and whisky and forbidden desire.

Your free hand clawed at his back, nails raking down to urge him on, while the pressure on your throat made every sensation sharper, every thrust a claim that blurred the lines between angel and demon, heaven and hell.

Steve's grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your pulse thunder beneath his palm, the pressure syncing with the relentless rhythm of his cock slamming into your soaked pussy, each thrust grinding against your clit in a way that built the coil inside you tighter and tighter.

You could feel your breath hitching, coming in shallow, desperate gasps that he sensed immediately – his fingers registering the frantic rise and fall of your chest, the way your inhales stuttered against the constriction.

It fueled him, that evidence of your unraveling, and he drove harder, his hips snapping forward with a ferocity that pinned you against the edge of the small kitchen counter, the cool metal biting into your ass as your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper.

Your walls fluttered wildly around his thick length, clenching in rhythmic spasms that milked him, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest as he felt you teetering on the edge.

“That's it,” he murmured, voice rough and edged with that angelic timbre now twisted by lust, his free hand bruising your hip while he chased your release.

The friction was overwhelming – the way his shaft dragged along your sensitive folds, the head battering that sweet spot with unyielding precision – until the wave crashed over you. Your second orgasm ripped through you like hellfire, your pussy convulsing around him in powerful contractions, gushing slick heat that coated his balls and thighs.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the hand at your neck, your body arching off the counter as tremors shook you, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw faint lines of blood, even through the layers of clothing.

As the peak subsided, leaving you trembling and boneless, Steve's hand finally released your throat, his fingers trailing down in a dazed path, slick with your sweat.

But you weren't ready to let go of that contact. With a predatory glint in your eyes, you captured his wrist, guiding those strong digits to your lips. Your serpent tongue flicked out first, coiling around his index and middle fingers, tasting the salt of his skin mingled with the faint tang of your own arousal from earlier.

Then you sucked them into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you drew on them deeply, your teeth grazing the pads before you bit down – not hard enough to break skin, but firm enough to send a jolt through him, a sharp contrast to the velvet heat enveloping his cock still buried inside you.

The sight undid him completely. Watching your lips stretch around his fingers, your tongue wrapping and teasing like it had his shaft moments before, while your pussy still pulsed with aftershocks around him – it was too much.

Steve's eyes darkened to stormy blue, a snarl escaping his lips as his control shattered. His thrusts grew erratic, brutal, hips jerking forward one final time as he buried himself to the hilt, his cock swelling and throbbing before he erupted. Hot spurts of cum flooded your depths, painting your walls with thick ropes that overflowed, trickling down to mix with your juices on the counter below.

He came with a roar, body rigid and shuddering, every muscle locked as waves of ecstasy tore through his angelic form, corrupting it further with the raw intensity of release.

When his hips finally stilled, the last twitch of his cock spent inside you, Steve collapsed forward, his weight pressing you into the surface as he panted heavily, chest heaving against yours. Sweat dripped from his brow onto your collarbone, his breath coming in labored bursts that fanned hot across your skin.

His forehead rested against your shoulder, blue eyes half-lidded in exhaustion and sated bliss, the once-pure angel now marked by the scent of sin clinging to him like a second skin.

You held him there, your hands stroking lazily down his back, feeling the rapid beat of his heart slow under your touch, a smug satisfaction curling through you at how thoroughly you'd claimed him in this dim storage room.

Steve was still catching his breath when he finally looked at you.

For a few long seconds he didn’t seem to know where to put his hands – like his body remembered exactly what to do and his mind had only just staggered back into the room. His chest rose and fell in deep, uneven pulls, skin flushed and warm, hair mussed beyond anything he’d ever allow in daylight. There were faint marks along his throat, his torso and collarbone – evidence of teeth, of heat, of the kind of want that never stayed polite.

The back room smelled different now.

Antiseptic and cardboard had been pushed aside by the sharp bite of sweat and whiskey and something older that clung to the air like smoke after a fire. The fluorescent light overhead felt too bright, too honest, bleaching the edges of reality until everything looked stark and undeniable: the rumpled edge of the narrow couch, the discarded cloth you’d used for his finger, the smear of condensation where his glass had been set down and forgotten.

Steve drew in another breath, slower this time, and you watched his focus return in layers.

First came the blink – heavy, deliberate. Then the way his gaze sharpened, taking in the details around him like a man reorienting after a storm. The familiar steadiness slid back into his posture, subtle but unmistakable; shoulders squaring, jaw setting, as if the force of his will could put the world back in order.

Like he could make what just happened stop being true.

Like he could rewind himself to the moment before he asked you to kiss him, before he begged, before he stopped fighting.

His eyes lifted and met yours.

There was something in them that wasn’t there ten minutes ago. Not righteousness – never that, not in here, not after – but clarity. The kind of lucid horror that arrived after drunken bravery wore off. The kind of awareness that made his throat work as he swallowed, slow and careful, as if he could force the taste of you out of his mouth by sheer discipline.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

You could hear the question in the way he held himself: What did I do? What did I let happen? What does it mean?

And you – comfortable in your own skin, comfortable in the aftermath – just smiled.

It wasn’t the teasing curl you’d worn earlier at the bar. It wasn’t even the wicked amusement you’d offered him when he tried to out-lie a demon.

This was something lower. Hunger satisfied, but not extinguished. A predator’s satisfaction that didn’t require violence to feel sharp. Your eyes tracked his face as if you were memorizing it – every flicker of doubt, every attempt to rebuild a wall out of thin air.

Steve’s breath faltered when he realized you were watching him like that.

Like a meal that had turned out better than expected.

Slowly, you leaned in, letting the movement be unhurried, letting it carry the weight of your confidence. You let your gaze drift to the bandage on his fingertip – still wrapped, still stained faintly pink where his blood had seeped through earlier.

“You’re lucky,” you murmured.

Your voice came out soft, pleased, indulgent – like you were praising him for surviving something he didn’t fully understand. Like you were still tasting him when you spoke.

Steve’s brows pulled together. “What–”

You didn’t let him finish.

“You’re lucky you don’t have a soul to give me, Steve.” The words brushed the air between you like velvet over a blade. “Because you would’ve handed it over without thinking for one second.”

His eyes flashed, instinctive indignation rising – then faltering, because some part of him knew you were right. Even now, even shaken and sobering, he knew he would have done anything you asked.

You tilted your head, studying him. “And I would’ve taken it.”

That made him go still.

Not because he didn’t believe you. Because he did.

The quiet in the room thickened. Outside the door, the bar went on living – muffled conversation, a laugh, the faint clink of glass. Here, though, the silence carried a pulse.

Steve’s gaze dropped – briefly – to your mouth again. Like he hated himself for it. Like it didn’t matter.

Your tongue tapped your upper teeth in a small, thoughtful click, and you watched the way his throat bobbed.

Then you moved.

Both hands came up to frame his face. Your palms fit along his jaw, thumbs resting just beneath his cheekbones. You could feel the heat still radiating from him – angelic warmth, impossible and grounded. You could feel the faint tremor in his breath when your fingers settled, the way his body reacted before his mind could decide if it should.

You drew him closer.

Not with force. Not with a yank.

With certainty.

Steve’s hands lifted as if to catch your wrists – hesitating halfway, torn between stopping you and leaning into you. His fingers hovered, then landed lightly, like he didn’t trust himself to grip.

“Listen,” he started, voice hoarse. “I– I wasn’t–”

You smiled wider, and it was all teeth and satisfaction.

“But now,” you whispered, and the words sank into the space between you like a promise, “you’re mine, angel.”

Steve’s eyes widened just a fraction – an instinctive flare of alarm, of outrage, of that’s not how this works.

Yet he didn’t pull away.

He should have. He knew he should have. You could see the thought forming: wings flexing under skin, duty trying to surface, shame lining itself up behind his ribs.

And still, he stayed.

His breath came out slow, shaky. “I’m not–” he began, reflexively, and you almost laughed at how familiar it sounded. The start of a denial, the start of a lie. The start of him trying to reclaim control with words.

Your thumbs stroked his cheekbones, almost tender.

“You’re sober enough to pretend again,” you said, voice sweet. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? The moment you remember what you’re supposed to be, and you try to climb back into it like it still fits.”

Steve’s jaw clenched under your hands. His eyes flicked away, then back, trapped. “I shouldn’t have–”

“No,” you interrupted softly, and your tone turned sharp in its gentleness. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn it into penance.” You leaned closer until your lips hovered near his, not touching, making him feel the almost. “If you regret it, say you regret it.”

The room held its breath.

Steve stared at you, and for a moment you saw him on a knife-edge – caught between the righteousness he’d been made for and the truth he couldn’t stop tasting.

Then he exhaled, long and defeated.

“I don’t,” he admitted, so quietly it was almost nothing. Like the words hurt to release. Like they cost him something.

The confession softened him. It also made him look furious at himself.

You hummed, pleased, and the sound vibrated against the space between you. “Good.”

Steve’s fingers tightened slightly on your wrists, not pulling you away – just grounding himself. “That doesn’t mean I belong to you,” he said, trying for firmness, trying for principle. It came out rough, breath-frayed around the edges. “I’m not… property.”

Your smile didn’t fade.

“No,” you agreed, and your eyes gleamed with something that wasn’t cruelty – it was appetite sharpened into control. “Not property.”

Your split tongue flicked briefly over your lower lip, tasting him still in the air. Steve’s gaze dropped automatically, caught, and you watched the flush bloom again on his face – faint, humiliating, real.

You leaned closer until your forehead nearly brushed his.

“But you are mine,” you repeated, quieter now, intimate as a secret. “Because you came back. Five times. Because you lied and I tasted it. Because you asked me to kiss you. Because you didn’t stop me once you started. Because you took me like you needed me more than you need your God.”

Steve’s breathing hitched.

You felt it through the space between your hands and his jaw, through the slight tremor that ran through him like an aftershock.

“And because,” you added, voice dropping to a near whisper, “I can tell you’re already wondering if you’ll come back a sixth.”

Steve’s eyes snapped up, startled – then narrowed, offended – then softened into something helplessly resigned.

He opened his mouth to deny it.

You clicked your tongue once, a quiet sound of amusement.

He closed it again.

The truth sat between you, heavy and bright.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your hands held his face, thumbs warm against his skin. His hands held your wrists like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go – like he was afraid of what it would mean if he didn’t.

Finally, Steve swallowed. “You can’t just… claim me,” he said, but the protest lacked bite. It sounded like a man arguing a rule he had already broken.

Your smile turned softer at the edges – not less predatory, but more… possessive in a way that almost resembled care.

“I can’t,” you agreed. “And I won’t– if you tell me no.”

The words were simple. Honest. They hung in the air like a line drawn in chalk, clear enough that even an angel could see it.

Steve stared at you as if that option – no – was both salvation and tragedy.

His breath shuddered out. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted, quieter. “I don’t… do this.”

“You did,” you said gently. “Tonight, you did.”

Steve’s eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion now that the adrenaline had ebbed. He looked older for a second – tired in a way that wasn’t physical. Like he’d been holding himself together for so long that even pleasure felt like a crack in the dam.

“I’m supposed to be better than this,” he whispered.

You tilted your head, studying him. “Better than wanting?” you asked. “Better than being honest?”

Steve’s throat worked. He didn’t answer.

You didn’t push. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you leaned in and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of his mouth – soft enough to feel like permission, pointed enough to feel like a reminder.

Steve’s breath caught, and his hands tightened on your wrists again, not stopping you, not letting go.

When you pulled back, your lips hovered close, your voice a murmur that only he could hear.

“Tell yourself whatever story helps you sleep, angel,” you said. “Call it a mistake. Call it weakness. Call it temptation.”

Your smile returned, sharp and satisfied, but your eyes stayed fixed on his like you were holding him in place.

“But don’t call it nothing.”

Steve’s eyes searched yours, desperate for an argument that didn’t exist.

And in the end, all he managed was a rough, quiet, helpless question that was half defiance, half surrender: “What happens now?”

Your thumbs stroked his cheekbones once more, and you leaned close enough that your next words warmed his lips.

“Now,” you whispered, “you decide whether you walk out there and try to forget… or whether you come back to me anyway.”

You paused, just long enough for his breath to hitch again.

“And either way,” you added, smiling like a secret, “I’ll know if you’re lying.”

taglist: @mrsevans90 | @blobfishlol | @phoenix-in-writing | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @fantasyfootballchampion | @theoryxwaller + @elixirfromthestars for the event

Author’s Note:

I've always loved the idea of Frank before someone knows he's The Punisher—just another quiet guy at Josie's who happens to notice everything.

This is a softer, first-meeting take on Frank that leans into the subtle protectiveness he shows in Daredevil and The Punisher: not because he thinks the reader can't handle herself, but because stepping in is second nature to him.

Hope you enjoy. ❤️

Imagine: You see him at a bar. He's already seen you first.

The small group of friends he came with keeps trying to pull him back into their conversation, but he's too focused on you. When you sit at the opposite end of the bar, he waves over the bartender and tells her, "Put her on my tab."

And you haven't even spoken a word yet...

Just a glance.

…….

Lily slides your way, cleaning a glass with a mischievous glint in her eye. She only gets that look when someone seems remotely interesting.

"What did he want—my number or to buy me a drink? I'm surprised you let him send you instead of telling him to do it himself."

Your eyes glitter in the faint neons as you scan tonight’s scene at Josie’s. The city's been lively lately, and this weekend is no exception. Your favorite local dive is comfortably packed, the neighborhood celebrating the big win together. Everyone’s raucous, loudly exclaiming, boisterously laughing except for Mr. Brooklyn Lager glooming at his corner stool.

You noticed him the second you walked in. He was hard to miss, dressed entirely in black among a sea of denim, khakis, and button-downs. His broad shoulders were slightly hunched as he rested his elbows on the bar, slowly sipping his beer while reruns of the game played on the mounted TV. He hadn't said more than two words to the group of guys standing nearby, and the only time you'd seen him speak was when he called Lily over.

"I'm surprised too," she says with a grin. "But it looks like all your drinks are on him tonight."

She sets your usual on the bartop, sliding it toward you with a wink.

"Drink up."

Your brows furrow as your gaze drifts from the drink to him—

Only to find him already watching you.

The air catches in your chest as the intensity of his gaze pins you in place. Everything around you seems to fade into silence. He holds your attention without moving, almost as though he's silently beckoning you over. His eyes are sharp, cataloging every feature of your face, every subtle shift in your posture, as if he can hear thoughts you've never spoken aloud. He doesn't wave. Doesn't smile.

He just watches.

Then, almost imperceptibly, his expression softens.

He tips his beer toward you in a quiet toast before turning back to the television.

You blink rapidly, desperate to shake yourself free from the spell of dark, brooding eyes and unfairly perfect cheekbones.

God.

You grip both the edge of the counter and your drink for dear life, taking several long swallows before pressing the cold glass against your flushed cheek.You glance back. He's still watching the TV. Good, great even.

Because you were starting to think one look from Mr. Brooklyn Lager was enough to short-circuit your entire nervous system.

The night rolls on, and you spend most of it avoiding the magnetic aura of Mr. Brooklyn Lager by playing a few rounds of pool. There are a handful of newcomers tonight, so you decide to take it easy on them. After all, as Josie's reigning pool champ, crushing first-timers isn't exactly sporting. Unfortunately, every casual game eventually attracts one thing: a misogynistic asshole who's a sore loser and one drink past his limit. You've already had enough of Benny—or was it Brian?—by the time you head back to the bar for a refill.

Naturally...

He follows.

"Heeeyyy..." he slurs, stumbling toward the bar. "I wasn't fin'shed playin'. C'mon, you gotta come baaack... 'cause I was winnin'. I was absolutely winnin'. Tha's not fair."

You turn toward him with a sigh.

"Brian, I—"

"Ma name's Benny!"

"Right. Benny. Listen, you lost every round we played. You've gotta cut your losses, dude."

"C-CUT MY LOSSES?"

You raise an eyebrow as his voice climbs louder. You pick up your third drink, silently hoping you won't have to violate Josie's no-fighting policy. You really like your neighborhood bar. You'd hate to have to walk another five blocks to the next closest dive because you broke some idiot's nose. Before you can finish calculating whether it'd be worth it an unmistakable presence looms behind you.

Judging by the sheer terror spreading across Benny's face, you know exactly who's standing there.

So...

He's tall.

Really tall.

Your spine prickles with awareness as warmth radiates from his body through the thin cotton of your button-down. Maybe it was his proximity. Maybe it was simply the thought of him nearly touching you.

"I think the lady said to cut your losses, Brian," he says, his voice deep and gravelly. Gravelly enough that you feel it before you fully hear it. “And she won't say it again."

The low rumble vibrates through you as he leans over your shoulder. You catch the scent of cedar with something darker beneath it—musky, almost metallic.

For reasons that are almost certainly tied to your third drink, you lean fully back against Mr. Brooklyn Lager's chest.

He freezes.

Every muscle tenses beneath you long enough that you're certain you've made a terrible mistake. Then Benny sways uncertainly, and Mr. Brooklyn Lager relaxes. One arm slides past you, bracing against the bar, boxing you safely into the space between him and the counter. The other settles around your waist, drawing you gently closer.

Protective.

Possessive.

Neither of you acknowledges it.

"But... my name's B-Benny..."

"I don't fucking care what your name is."

The words come out calm. Almost conversational. Which somehow makes them ten times scarier.

"Do I look like I fucking care what your name is?"

Benny doesn't answer.

"Get the fuck out of here before I make you."

Your hand instinctively settles over his forearm, your thumb tracing slow circles against the inside of his wrist. He's hot when he’s mean. Which is... honestly a little unfair.

You can't even see his face.

Benny, poor guy, wisely disappears. Probably deciding tonight isn't the night to die and practically scrambles away.

"Stay away from assholes, sweetheart."

"Oh? So we've skipped introductions and gone straight to pet names?"

You smile as you relax comfortably against him.

"Don't worry, sweetheart." His chest vibrates with quiet amusement. “Your friend Lily already told me everything I needed to know."

"And now you and my favorite bartender are conspiring against me? I see whose side you're on. Looks like I might be an asshole magnet."

He ducks his head, resting his forehead lightly against your shoulder as though trying not to laugh too hard.

And somehow...

That tiny gesture feels even more intimate than the arm around your waist.

You slowly turn in his arms so you can actually look at him.

God.

He really is handsome.

Rugged, with dark brows softened by kind eyes. Built like he’s used to taking up space and making people move around him. There’s a smattering of pale scars along his jaw and sharp cheek bone. The meanest post-military fade you've seen in years, grown out just enough to feel lived-in. But it’s his eyes that hold you.

Steady.

Watchful.

Strangely gentle in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him at all. He follows your movement as you study him, not flinching, not performing—just letting you look. He glances over your head, scanning the room one last time before looking back down at you.

"Sorry about that," he says quietly. "You shouldn't have had to deal with him."

"I could've handled it."

"I know you could've."

That answer catches you slightly off guard not disagreement, just certainty.

Then he adds, softer:

“Still shouldn’t have happened.”

A beat passes between you.

The noise of the bar feels farther away now than it did all night.

You recover first.

"Well," you grin, "now that you've scared him off... you ready to get your ass handed to you in pool, Mr. Brooklyn Lager?" His brow lifts slightly.

“What did you call me?”

“Brooklyn Lager.” You nod toward the bar without breaking eye contact.

“Your beer of choice. Since you apparently know my name but I don’t know yours.”

His nose wrinkles as a quiet huff of laughter escapes him— short, rough, almost disbelieving.

“You’re gonna be a piece of work, aren’t you?”

“Guilty.” You smile wider. “Mr. Brooklyn Lager.”That earns a real laugh this time. It’s low and a little rusty, like it hasn’t been used often enough to come easily.

He shakes his head.

“Frank,” he says finally. “Call me Frank.”

The name lands differently than the nickname. He watches to see how you take it. You don’t hesitate.

“Well, Frank…” You lace your fingers through his large, calloused hands and he lets you tug him gently toward your favorite corner pool table. “….let me show you why my name's still at the top of that champions list."

And for the first time all night, he lets you lead. The noise of Josie’s swallows you whole again, laughter, clinking glasses, the crack of a cue ball. But this time, he stays close behind you.