#biglychee

Though, the light graze of his knuckles against your underwear is enough to give the slightest hint of his preparation. Maybe his thumb circling your clit could be another hint, material being pulled aside. Or perhaps, the feel of cock lining himself up, with firm hands on your waist. His lips had moved to the base of your neck, half busy, half eyeing your lap against him, steadily pushing in.

Must have been one hellish shift for you to just cling to his shoulders, hands gripping those golden locks, as you moaned carelessly to the ceiling of his Mustang, the smell of leather and his cologne wrapping around you like a soothing sanctuary. 

“There we go,” He murmured quietly to your ear, though it was more a confirmation to him as you adjusted accordingly with his prep.

Steve rocked you against him slowly, helping dull that starting ache, till you found your bearings and started taking out your frustrations on him. Each twist and grind of your hips makes his hands dig into your hipbone, lips to your ears, 

“Just like that,” Steve muses, leaving sweet pecks to the shell, “Forget about them, sweetheart, just focus on me, this.” “Oh, fuck, ah!” You take that advice into mind, seriously, as you get too lost in the sensations and a building pleasure with each timely thrust.

“There’s my girl,” He praises you sweetly, matching his bucking hips with your messy grounding pace. He doesn’t care for you tugging at his scalp like nothing, or just using his cock like some toy. You’re angry, he’s here to fix it, simple. So, at the slightest twitch of your thighs, a tell-tale sign of your orgasm, the grip on your waist switches to a heavier one. He’s overpowering your pace, setting a defined, repeating rhythm that’s just enough to have you quivering, groaning into his neck, eyes shut tight in bliss.

“Yeah, that-that’s just what I needed.” You gasped to his jaw, to which Steve just chuckled. And if it crossed your mind of the mess your clothes are in? Don’t fret! He had actually, knowingly, stopped by the dry cleaners an hour back, collecting spare clothes. He knows you like the back of his hand, body and soul.

He stays silent, allowing your words to keep washing over him.

“If we don’t account for the physiological spikes caused by intense physical pleasure, our ballistics calculations for your high exertion manoeuvres will be off by a significant margin. We can’t have you losing focus in the field because your body is struggling to regulate its own chemistry, can we?”

You stepped closer, the hem of your skirt brushing against his coarse combat tracks. You reached out, your fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw before sliding down to the buttons of his trousers. You felt him hitch a breath, his entire body tensing like a coiled spring under your touch.

“Besides,” you added, your voice dropping to a silky, dangerous purr as you looked him dead in the eyes, “if you find the data collection too… distracting… I can always find another subject. There are plenty of men in the barracks who wouldn’t mind helping me stabilise these variables. It would be such a shame to lose such a clean baseline, but they certainly wouldn’t provide the same level of… robust data as you. ”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the sudden, electric charge of his reaction. Steve’s blue eyes darkened, the pupils dilating until they were nearly black, a telltale sign of the serum reacting to the sheer tension in the room.

He looked like a man caught between a prayer and a sin. His hands, large enough to crush stone, hovered uncertainly near your waist, trembling just slightly with the effort of maintaining his legendary discipline.

“Another man?” he repeated, the words sounding strained, almost pained. The thought of you applying your “methods” to someone else, someone less capable, someone who couldn’t handle the sheer intensity of his enhanced stamina clearly struck a chord of strategic dread in him.

“That would… that would compromise the entire study, wouldn’t it? The variables would be all over the place.”

“Exactly,” you whispered, sliding your hand inside the waistband of his trousers, feeling the searing heat of his skin.

“It would be a mess. Inconsistent, unreliable, and frankly, a waste of everyone’s time. Do you really want to risk the mission’s success on a handful of unrefined data from some sergeant who can’t keep up with your output?”

Steve let out a low, guttural groan, his composure finally fracturing. The Captain was receding, replaced by the super soldier whose every nerve was screaming for the contact you were so casually offering.

His large hands finally closed around your hips, his grip firm and possessive, pulling you flush against him so you could feel the heavy, pulsing evidence of his “metabolic spike”.

“No,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a hunger he could no longer pretend was purely professional. “No, we can’t risk it.”

His grip tightened, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your hips with a strength that would’ve bruised a less woman. But to you, it was merely more data to record. He pulled you upward, forcing you to straddle his massive thighs, the friction of your skirt against his heated skin sending a jolt of electricity through the small tent.

The disciplined soldier was gone; in his place was a man driven by a biological imperative he couldn’t rationalise away.

“Then stop talking about the mission,” you commanded, you voice a sultry challenge as you began to undo the rest of his fastenings, your eyes never leaving his. “And start showing me how much your body needs this stabilisation.”

Steve didn’t need to be told twice.

With a low growl, his hands slid from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you down with an urgency that boarded on desperate. The sheer force of his movement knocked the breath from your lungs, but you only smirked, leaning into the heat of him.

As you finally stripped away the last of his barriers, the sight of him all corded muscle and sun kissed skin, reading a feverish heat was the most beautiful data set you had ever encountered.

When you lowered yourself onto him, the sensation was overwhelming. The serum made his every movement feel heavy and tectonic, a rhythmic force that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. Steve’s head fell back against the cot, his eyes squeezed shut as a choked sound escaped his throat.

He wasn’t just reacting to you; he was being consumed by the sensation. His hands wandered widely, mapping the curves of your body with a frantic, uncoordinated hunger, as if he were trying to memorise every inch of you. He was trying to ensure no variable was left unmeasured.

As you began to move, a slow, deliberate grind that forced a shark gasp from his lips, the sheer power of him became undeniable. He wasn’t just a man; he was a force of nature, his muscles rippling like granite under your palms as he met every downward thrust with a powerful, upward surge of his hips.

“God, ma’am…” he choked out, his voice a wrecked, gravelly mess of pleasure and disbelief. He reached up, his large hands framing your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a reverence that felt almost sinful given the carnal intensity of the moment. “The… the data… it’s too much…”

“Don’t fight it, Captain,” you teased, leaning down to nip at his earlobe, feeling the way his entire frame shuddered at the contact. “Just record the sensation. Let me record it for you.”

You sank down fully, taking all of him in one long, agonisingly perfect stroke. Steve’s back arched off the cot, as a loud strangled cry tore from his throat, echoing against the canvas walls of the tent. The serum was working overtime; his heart was thundering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

He wasn’t just a soldier anymore – he was a man drowning in you. His hands moved from your face to your waist, his fingers dug into your flesh as he thrust upwards, meeting your rhythm with a rash ferocity.

He was trying to maintain some semblance of control, some tactical discipline. But every time you leaned forward to graze your breasts against his chest, or whispered a clinical observation about his rising temperature, he lost another piece of his hard won composure.

The Captain was being systematically dismantled by the sheer, overwhelming friction of your body against his. His breath came in ragged, desperate hitches, his chest heaving as he stared up at you with a primal sort of worship. 

He wasn’t performing a duty anymore– never with you. He was a man possessed by the very variables you were so ruthlessly documenting.

“Ma’am… please,” he groaned, the word more a plea for mercy than a command. His hips bucked upwards with a sudden, violent surge of strength, driving you deep and forcing a sharp, high-pitched cry from your throat.

You sat atop him, your hips moving in a slow, controlled grind, watching the way his jaw clenched so hard you thought the bone might snap.

“Captain,” you breathed, leaning down so your hair brushed his heated cheek. “Your heart rate is stabilising, but the muscular tension in your thighs is still too high. To get a true accurate reading of the pelvic  drive, you need to increase the surface area of contact. Use your hands. Grip my thighs and pull me down harder. Don’t be afraid of the friction, Steve. It’s just physics.”

His eyes, dark and clouded with a hunger that would’ve terrified any other dame, flickered with a brief moment of hesitation. He was a man of discipline, a man who valued restraint. But the serum was a roaring fire in his veins, and your voice was the gasoline.

With a guttural sound that was half a groan and a growl, he obeyed.

His massive hands, scarred and calloused from combat, clamped onto your thighs with a strength that felt like iron bands. He hauled you down onto him with a sudden focus, the impact sending a jolt of pure electricity straight through your pussy.

“Like this?” he rasped, his voice a wrecked shadow of its usual self.

“Exactly,” you purred, your eyes gleaming with a predatory satisfaction as you felt the sheer power of his grip. “Now don’t stop there. To monitor the sensory feedback loop, you need to engage the upper torso. The tactile stimulation of the mammary glands is crucial for measuring the hormonal spikes in the bloodstream.”

Steve’s breath hitched, a ragged sound. He looked almost pained by the command, his moral compass spinning wildly, but the serum driven need to be the perfect subject won out.

His hands drifted upward, leaving your thighs to find the weight of your breasts. When his large warm palms finally cupped you, squeezing with an unpracticed intensity, you let out a melodic cry. 

He watched your expression with a frightening focus, his thumbs beginning to roll over your nipples as if he were performing a delicate surgical procedure. Though, the heat in his gaze suggested something far more carnal.

As he kneaded your flesh, his thumbs circling your areolas, you leaned back, arching your spring to give him better access. “Excellent,” you gasped, your head tossing back. 

“And one final variable,” your voice trembled as you reached down, guiding his larger palm to the center of your heat. “To measure the peak neurological response and the subsequent hormonal cascade, we need to observe the climax synchronisation. If you stimulate the clitoris with a consistent, circular pressure while we… finish… it will trigger a reciprocal metabolic spike in your own system.”

You whisper the fruit of his desires to his lips, “It is essential for the data to be conclusive.”

“Synchronisation…” Steve repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue, stripped of its scientific weight by the unadulterated lust in his eyes.

He didn’t doubt you this time. He couldn’t. The logic was sound, even if his heart was hammering a rhythm that felt anything but logical.

His thumb began to move in a relentless, rhythmic circle, the friction sharp and electric against your swollen clitoris. The sensation was quite the contrast to the heavy, blunt force of his cock driving deep inside you.

You were caught between two worlds: the tectonic thud of his hips and the high frequency of his thumb.

“Christ, ma’am… they’re working… the readings… they’re spiking!” He choked out, voice too much a mess of pure sensation. He was a man being dismantled by the very data he was meant to provide. His thumb didn’t falter, its circular motion becoming faster, more insistent, as he felt tremors starting to rack your frame.

He was chasing that synchronisation, his own body coiled like a spring.

“Don’t stop, Steve! ‘M coming!” you cried out, your fingers digging into his shoulders, head tossing back, the world dissolving into white light.

You reached your orgasm with the sheer intensity of your wet release triggering the exact reciprocal spike you had promised. Steve drove into you one last time, a punishing thrust that felt as though he were trying to merge your very souls. Then he shuddered, his entire massive frame convulsing as he spilled himself into you.

As the final, violent tremors of your orgasm began to subside, you didn’t pull away. Instead, you tightened your legs around his waist, gripping him with a possessive strength, feeling the pulsing heat of his cum filling you.

You stayed perfectly still, a silent, predatory smirk playing on your lips in the dim light of the tent. You were the architect of this chaos, and the satisfaction of seeing the world’s greeting soldier reduced to this was more intoxicating than any drug.

Steve, however, had completely lost the war. The stoic Captain, the main of iron discipline, was gone. In his place was just little Stevie.

The man who could face down entire battalions without blinking was currently clinging to you as if you were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly turned to liquid.

His massive arms wrapped your back, pulling you tightly against his heaving chest that it was hard to tell where your skin ended and his began.

He was just a man drowning in sensation with his face buried deep in the crook of your neck, as let out soft broken whimpers and desperate, needy whines.

You didn’t let him drift away into the void of his exhaustion. Instead, you reach up, your fingers moving with a deceptive, motherly tenderness to stroke his damp hair in a soothing motion. You could feel the warmth of his ragged breath against your skin as he clung to you with a vulnerability that would’ve shocked the entire command staff.

“There now, Captain,” you murmured, your voice dripping with a sweet, double edged honey that masked the sharp intellect behind it. “You did wonderfully. Truly remarkable.”

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered the lie that kept him tethered to your whims. “This data is absolutely invaluable. The way your metabolic rate responded to synchronisation… it’s going to allow me to calculate the ballistics and tactical maneuvers for the upcoming recon mission with unprecedented precision. You’ve been so incredibly helpful, Steve. So brave to push yourself this far for the sake of the mission.”

A soft, contented sound escaped him, a tiny, muffled noise of pure pride. Even in his state of sensory overload, even with his brain aching from the barrage of scientific jargon you used to dress up what was essentially a carnal conquest, he thrived on it.

Steve needed to be the hero; he needed to be the indispensable asset. The fact that his “service” involved you riding him until he was a whimpering mess of nerves was a small price to pay for the validation of being your most successful variable.

He tightened his hold on you one last time, a slow squeeze of his arms as he let out a shuddering sigh. He was spent, legendary stamina finally bowed by the sheer intensity of the “study”. But as you continued to stroke his hair, lulling him into a post-coital haze, he felt a profound sense of accomplishment.

He was the Captain, the soldier, the marvel of the serum, and more importantly, the man who had provided you with exactly what you needed.

He didn’t care that the “ballistics” you spoke of were actually the rhythmic pulses of his own pleasure. Or that the “tactical maneuvers” were merely the ways you had manipulated his body to your own satisfaction.

In the golden warmth of the tent, wrapped in your scent and deceptive praise, he simply felt useful. He felt seen.

As he drifted toward a heavy, well-earned sleep, his last conscious thought was a quiet, desperate hope that you would need to collect more “data” very, very soon.

By ten o'clock the party had found its groove.

Steve had sourced actual 1940s-label rum from somewhere that Bucky kept looking at like it owed him money. Natasha had taken the aux cord without asking and nobody had argued because her taste was impeccable and she knew it.

The living room had that quality that only good parties get to. The one with a specific warmth of people who actually like each other: jackets on chairbacks, kitchen permanently occupied, conversations that kept branching into better ones.

You'd had two rum and Cokes at a reasonable pace. That was the plan and you'd stuck to it, because you knew exactly how you worked: two drinks and you hit the sweet spot, the one where everything was funnier and warmer and you were absolutely the most charming version of yourself.

Then it was water and snacks and coasting on the feeling until home time.

The snacks situation, however, had been grim. Someone had eaten all of Wanda's dish before you got to it and there were exactly four crisps left in the bowl by midnight sharp and you'd made a catastrophic error in not eating properly before you came out.

Which was fine, not a problem at all. You had chicken selects at home and the Deliveroo app was right there and you were going to handle this like an adult.

You'd ordered at twelve forty-five. The confirmation had arrived with the kind of dopamine hit that cut straight through the rum glow. Estimated delivery: one thirty. Which meant you needed to leave.

The evening had been good, genuinely — Steve had laughed, the real version. The one that went all the way up to his eyes, and once it had been at something you'd said and you'd had to find a suddenly fascinating point on the opposite wall. Good party, a great one even. Time to go.

You find your jacket on the hook by the door, get both arms in successfully, consider this a personal triumph, and Steve appears in the hallway like something conjured.

"You're leaving."

"Yeah." You pull your jacket straight. "It's almost one, I've got —"

"You're leaving."

Steve says it again like the first time. He's looking at you with an expression you've never quite seen on him before — not upset, not annoyed, just genuinely, sincerely baffled. Similar to the way he looks when someone explains a piece of modern technology that shouldn't work but does.

You clock the slight unfocus in his eyes and mentally revise your understanding of his evening. Right, Thor had been here earlier. Thor had brought otherworldly gifts.

"Steve, have you had the mead?"

"A little," he says, in a tone that suggests the mead has a different definition of a little than the rest of the universe.

"Okay." You soften slightly. "It's a great party. I just need to get home."

"Why?"

"Because I'm hungry."

He stares at you.

"There's food here."

"There are four crisps, Steve, I counted them, and someone got to Wanda's dish before me which was a tragedy, and I have chicken selects coming to my door in —" you check your phone, "— thirty-one minutes and I need to be there."

He keeps staring. He is doing the thing where he's listening very hard and something's not adding up.

"Chicken," he says.

"Selects."

A pause.

"What is a select?"

"It's a —" You stop. This isn't the conversation. "It doesn't matter, it's a chicken thing, the point is I ordered them and the driver won't wait and last time there was a fox situation —"

"You keep smiling at me."

The gear-change is so abrupt that it takes you a full two seconds to catch up.

"Sorry?"

"At the party." Steve says it patiently, like he's been sitting on this all evening and has decided now — almost one, hallway, you with one hand on the door — is the correct time to raise it. "You keep smiling when I talk to you. You smile more than —" he frowns slightly, "— it's more than polite."

Your face does something you hope is unreadable.

"I'm a smiley person."

"You weren't smiling at the crisp bowl."

"The crisp bowl had let me down personally."

Steve makes a small sound that in a less earnest man would be called a hm. He's looking at you with that same puzzled sincerity, working through it. You recognise suddenly and with some alarm that he is not going to let this drop because it genuinely doesn't make sense to him.

He does not leave things that don't make sense.

"The film," he says.

"What film?"

"You invited me to a film. Twice."

"The projector broke —"

"The projector broke after twenty minutes and you said we should just restart it another time." His brow furrows. "Sam said that was — he said something about it. He was wrong but he said it."

You can guess exactly what Sam said.

"Steve," you start.

"And the medical bay."

Oh no.

"You were injured —"

"Nat didn't come." He says it simply, not accusatory, just filing the data point. "Nat and I have been friends longer. But you came and you brought the — the thing, the sandwich, from the place I mentioned one time —"

"I was just being —"

"You remembered the place." He looks at you steadily. "I mentioned it once. Weeks before."

The hallway is extremely small. When did the hallway get this small?

Your phone buzzes. You look down at it with the desperation of a person sighting land.

"My order's been picked up," you say.

"Okay."

"So I really —"

"Do you like me?"

He says it so plainly. No performance in it, no weight he's trying to put on it — just Steve, slightly mead-soft around the edges, asking a question he clearly thinks has an obvious answer that everyone has access to except him.

And the thing is — you're two rum and Cokes in. You're warm and a bit golden and your defences are not at full operational capacity and the chicken selects are minutes away and he's looking at you like that —

"I like you," you say, and immediately add, "I like lots of people."

"Right." He nods slowly. "But the sandwich."

"The sandwich was just —"

"From the place I mentioned once."

"I have a good memory."

"You forgot Nat's birthday."

You did forget Nat's birthday. She had made you do her dry-cleaning for a month.

"That's —" You pull your jacket tighter, which achieves nothing. "Steve. You're a little drunk and I'm a little hungry and this is a very weird conversation to be having in a hallway."

"I know." He doesn't move. "Do you like me though?"

He means it so simply. That's the thing about him, and that’s always the thing. He's not playing an angle, he's not building to anything, he just actually wants to know because it actually matters to him and his face is doing absolutely nothing to hide that.

Your phone buzzes again. Probably an app notification. You don't check it.

"Ask me again tomorrow," you say. "When you're sober."

Steve looks at you for a long moment.

"Will you still be honest tomorrow?"

The question lands somewhere it probably shouldn't.

"Go drink some water," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. "I'll text you when I'm home."

Something shifts in his face. Small, almost imperceptible.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to."

Another pause. The music drifts through from the living room, something slow Nat put on after midnight. Steve looks at you the way he'd looked at you when you'd laughed at the pigeon joke thing and he'd thought you weren't watching —

"Okay," he says quietly, like it means more than the word.

He steps aside, so you can get through the door.

You are three floors down and in the lobby before you realise you're smiling. You press your hand to your face like you can physically remove it.

Twenty-six minutes. You can hold it together for twenty-six minutes, then your phone buzzes.

Are you getting home safe !!!

You stare at it, then you text back:

yes. drink the water steve

A pause. Then:

Which water ?>!

the tap. the glass by the sink.

Ok 

And then, after a moment that is just long enough:

The sandwich place was really good, by the way. you have good taste ][#

You are going to absolutely combust in this lobby.

go to bed steve Ok. Goodnight

You watch the screen. You know him, and you know he's going to —

The pigeon thing was funnier than sam said right ???

You laugh so hard the night security guard looks up from his desk.

significantly funnier. WATER. BED. Ok ok. Goodnight

You pocket your phone. The cold air outside hits you and you tip your head back for a second, just a second, and let yourself feel the shape of it — the evening, the hallway, the way he'd said will you still be honest tomorrow like he already suspected the answer and was quietly terrified of it.

Twenty-four minutes.

Ask me again tomorrow, you'd said.

You kind of hope he does.

A Repulsor Pulse feature which uses localised kinetic energy to create sensations instead of a simple vibration.

t's more a focused rhythmic force that mimics a heartbeat - syncing with your own as you approach your climax.

And let's not forget the material. Tony wouldn't use cheap silicone. in fact, he'd develop a self healing, bio compatible smart polymer that adapts its texture and temperature based on your body heat.

Stark "Aura" Rabbit that isn't merely it's own device; it's a sentient extension of your own desire, engineered with the same tech found in the Iron Man suits.

Crafted from a Liquid Metal Smart Alloy, the device's form is entirely fluid which allows the "ears" to morph, expand, or constrict precisely around your clit or tip.

The real game changer is the Neural Link Feedback Loop which uses tiny, non invasive sensors to not only "scan" your reactions, but also aim to communicate with your brain's pleasure centres via electromagnetic pulses.

It anticipates your climax before you even feel it coming.

All devices would have long-lasting battery life, optimised recharging and not on market. Tony knows he could sell it for crazy, but he'd developed his sexual ecosystem just for your pleasure. He doesn't intend on sharing one bit.

The TV murmured. Somewhere outside, a car passed.

You heard both of these things with a strange clarity. But you didn't say anything. Couldn't quiet locate the shape of a response — your brain had received the sentence and was no doing something slow and stunned with it. Turning it over, looking at it from different angles, not yet willing to set it down and accept what it was.

Steve took your silence as listening, so he continued.

"I mean it," he said. "We really should stop seeing each other." Something in his face shifted, like a tightening, or a resolve. "It isn't good to carry this on too long."

Two months, you thought. Two months.

You had gone to a farmers market and many museums together. You had shown him how to pay things on his phone. He had carried your bags without being asks about bought you a coffee from a stall without asking because he'd already learned you subtly. You had thought about that on the walk home. You had thought about it more than once since.

It isn't good to carry this on too long.

Faintly, you nodded. The nod of a person whose body was continuing to operate while the relevant parts of your brain were somewhere else entirely.

You had liked this one, that was the stupid part. It was the the part that made the specific feeling beginning together behind your eyes both humiliating and predictable. You had liked this one in a way that felt different — quieter, steadier, less like falling and more like—

One tear, just the one, rolling down your cheek before you had the chance to catch it.

You saw Steve register it. Watched something move across his face - a confirmation, a heaviness with his jaw settling.

"Exactly my thoughts," he said quietly. "I never intended to hurt you. But this should've ended sooner."

The tear was still on your cheek. Should've ended sooner.

So not only was it ending, but he had retroactively decided it was a mistake. The whole thing: the two months, the farmers market, the museum, the coffee he'd learned without asking. Even the pasta you'd made twice. The four meme explanations. Him sitting in this exact living room last weekend asking careful, genuine questions about a film you'd picked badly, and you falling asleep against his shoulder somewhere in the second act, and neither of you two mentioning it after.

A mistake, a prolonged error, and he was very sorry about it.

You nodded again.

It was the third nod. The nod of a person buying time until you could locate the correct emotion, which had not yet fully arrived because shock was still occupying the space where it needed to go.

And then it arrived and it came in hot.

"You know what?" you said.

His eyes focused on you.

"Fuck you, Steve."

He blinked, as you stood up.

The thing about your previous breakups — and there had been enough of them, enough that you had a taxonomy, enough that you could identify the subspecies at fifty paces — was that you had never once been ready. You had always been the one caught standing in the wrong place, always the one who thought of everything you wanted to say three days later in the shower, talking to the tiles, finally finding the words when they were completely useless.

Well, you had words now.

"Get the fuck out of my apartment."

"I—"

SMACK. He pouts while cradling his jaw.

"No." You held up a hand. The finger pointed at him, certain. "We're done with your turn. It's mine now. Get out of my apartment, and don't come back. I mean it. This is a you-free zone, effective immediately. You and your stupidly handsome face are banned—"

He opened his mouth, confused by stupidly handsome face as a component of being told to leave, but you were already going—

"—I have been nothing but good to you. I made you pasta, Steve. From scratch. You had two helpings—"

"It was excellent pasta—"

"Don't. Don't you dare." The finger hardened. "I let you pick the next film after I picked a bad one. I explained to you what a meme was four separate times, and I was patient about it, every single time, even the fourth time when I was a little tired —and I sat through your whole—" you gestured broadly at all of him, the entirety of him, the shoulders and the jaw and the eyes that paid attention— "your whole thing, and this is—"

He looked deeply, genuinely confused. The memes had been highlights, in fact he'd even written the good ones down!

"You know what, good." You were pacing now. "I'm glad this is happening. Because I have been here before, Steven. I have been in this exact postcode, this exact conversation, and every single time I was not ready and I had nothing to say, I just stood there like an absolute idiot and let it happen to me like it wasn't happening to me — well not today. You want to end it? Fine. FINE. I'm ending it louder. You can have it back. All of it. The two months, the farmers market, the terrible film, the pasta—"

"Please, not the pasta—"

"The pasta, Steve—"

He stood up. He was a problem solver. This was a problem, and it had gotten quite large quite fast, and he was a man who believed in addressing things directly, and so he stood, and he held both hands up very carefully, very gently, and said—

"If you could just calm—"

SMACK.

The apartment rang with it, while you were breathing hard. He was standing very still. His head had turned slightly with it. He reached up, two fingers, carefully, the way he had the first time, and touched his cheek.

The first cheek. You had now addressed both.

"You said calm down," you said.

"I did," he agreed. His voice was remarkably even.

"Don't ever say calm down."

"I understand that now."

You both stood in the wreckage of the last ten minutes. The television had moved on to something else. The pasta plates were still on the coffee table, witness to everything.

You were still breathing hard. The anger was beginning to shift at the edges — not gone, not even close, but something underneath it was starting to surface, something that felt more like the thing you'd been trying not to feel since he'd said the word ended.

He looked at you, only just. This person who had slapped him twice and paced and pointed and delivered a prepared speech that clearly had history behind it, standing in your own living room with your cheeks flushed and your eyes bright and one dried tear track on your face.

"I wasn't breaking up with you," he said.

You stared at him.

"I've been trying to say that," he continued, patient, steady, "for a while now. Since before you—" a slight pause, "the first time."

"Then what," you said carefully, "were you saying."

He looked at you for a moment. Then: "Where I come from," he said, "seeing someone meant you hadn't decided yet. It meant you were still— working it out. Casual." Something shifted in his expression, quieter and more deliberate. "I've decided."

The word landed in the room and you stood very still.

"I wanted to stop being casual about this," he said. "That's what I was saying. I wanted to stop seeing you and start — being with you. Properly." A beat. "In my time, that was a different thing. I didn't think about the—" he paused, "—translation."

The speech was gone. Every word of it. The whole magnificent shower-prepared exit, all the things you'd finally been ready to say, gone as though they'd never existed. You stood in the absence of it feeling vaguely, absurdly robbed.

"...oh," you said.

And then — you couldn't help it, it was involuntary, it arrived without your permission and took over your face entirely. You smiled. Though not a small one, or contained. The kind that started somewhere behind your sternum and came up whether you wanted it to or not.

"Aww," you said, in a completely different voice than any voice you'd used in the last ten minutes. It was warm and soft and slightly delighted. "You love me?"

Steve just stared at you. You stepped forward, reached up, and with the same hand that had, twice, you smoothed down his collar. Just adjusted it, and patted it into place.

"That's so sweet," you said.

He seemed to be having difficulty locating a response. His mouth opened once, then abruptly closed.

"You were just—" he started.

"I know."

"You hit me—"

"Twice, yeah," you agreed, still attending to his collar.

"—twice—"

"Your face is a little pink," you observed, tilting your head to look, and had the audacity to sound sympathetic about it.

"That's because you—" he stopped to take a sharp breath. "That's not a blush. You hit me."

"Mhm," you said, in the tone of a person who had decided and was uninterested in evidence.

"There is a difference—"

"You are blushing," you said, delighted, like you'd discovered something worth keeping.

He caught your hand, but not to move it. Just — stopped it there, held it against his jaw, the jaw you were definitely not stroking, and looked at you with an expression you didn't have a word for yet. Something between exasperation and wonder and something else entirely that made you want to look away and also not look away at all.

"You thought I was breaking up with you twenty minutes ago," he said.

"Twenty minutes ago I didn't know you loved me," you said simply. "It's a good update."

"You slapped me."

"You said calm down."

"Before that."

"You were breaking up with me."

"I wasn't—"

"I know that now, Steve."

He exhaled a quiet and long breath. The exhale of a man making peace with something. You were still close, with your hand still in his. His palm warm against your knuckles. The collar you had fixed was fine — had been fine - you'd just needed somewhere to put your hands while your heart was doing what it was doing.

"You're going to be a lot of work," he said, not unkindly, moreso the opposite.

"You bankrupted yourself on a bouquet of flowers as a thank you for online banking help," you said. "Don't talk to me about work."

Something moved through his eyes. The almost-smile.

"So," you said, tilting your head up at him. "You want to court me properly, yeah?"

"Yes," he said. Simply and completely, the way he said things when he meant them with his whole chest.

"What does that look like?"

He looked at you — this person who had slapped him twice and fixed his collar after and was now looking up at him with that smile you kept trying to contain and kept failing to — and something settled in him. It felt quiet and certain. The specific peace of a decision that was right.

"Dinner first," he said. "Somewhere proper. I'll make a reservation."

You hummed, considering. "And no spending your entire account balance on flowers beforehand."

"I make no promises."

You laughed, actually — full and unguarded, the laugh that he had quietly decided, some weeks ago, he would do fairly unreasonable things to hear again. Then, very slowly, with the deliberateness of a man who had been thinking about it for two months and was done waiting, he turned his head slightly and pressed a single kiss to your palm.

The laughing stopped, as you blinked, feeling your cheeks heat up.

"Hm," he said. The almost-smile had won, devastating. "Look at that."

You opened your mouth for another quip, but managed, "Not a word."

"I didn't say anything," he said.

He was still holding your hand. You decided, privately and without telling him, that you were going to let him keep it.

$ cd masterlist

On the monitor, Natasha’s knees buckled. She scrambled into the deepest shadow of a recessed doorway, her gloved hands scraping against the rough concrete as she tried to steady herself. Her breath was coming in ragged, shallow bursts, the sound of her struggle echoing in your ears like a siren song.

"Shhh, keep it down, Nat," you whispered, your eyes devouring the sight of her hips twitching rhythmically against the suit's interior. "You’ve got a patrol passing by the main street just twenty feet away. You wouldn't want them to hear how much you're enjoying your new 'upgrades,' would you?"

"You... bastard..." she managed to choke out, her head lulling back against the brick. Her eyes were glazed, her usual sharp intelligence replaced by a raw, desperate hunger. You watched through the high definition drone feed as she finally gave in, her legs sliding down the wall until she was slumped in the dirt of the alley, her knees spread wide in a posture of total, uncharacteristic vulnerability. The suit’s sleek, dark fabric strained against her thighs, the subtle vibration of the clitoral stimulator visible in the rhythmic, frantic twitching of her hips.

"Spread for me, Nat," you commanded softly, your thumb dancing over the tablet to increase the frequency to a punishing, delicious blur. "Let the drone get a better look. Your clit is that sensitive, isn't it? Look at you... the world's deadliest spy, reduced to a shivering mess in a fucking gutter because of a few lines of code."

A broken, high pitched moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure surrender that she couldn't stifle anymore. She looked up toward the drone, her eyes wide and shimmering with a cocktail of frustration and overwhelming ecstasy. She was staring directly into the lens of the hovering drone, her face flushed a deep, beautiful crimson in the dim urban light.

The professional, untouchable Black Widow was gone; in her place was a woman caught in the throes of a sensory overload she couldn't fight, her hips bucking instinctively against the relentless, buzzing rhythm you were dictating from your chair.

"That's it," you purred, watching the telemetry data on your screen go haywire as her arousal peaked. "Show me how much you love the new tech, Nat. Don't hold back on my account. The street is quiet... for now."

With one final, decisive swipe, you maxed out the intensity. Natasha’s entire body jolted, her back arching so violently it looked painful, a silent, wide mouthed scream of pleasure frozen on her lips as she succumbed to a shattering climax.

Her body shuddered in a long, violent tremor, her fingers digging into the gravel of the alley floor as the waves of the climax rippled through her. The suit’s haptic feedback sensors were screaming on your tablet, recording the frantic, rhythmic contractions of her pelvic floor as she fought to regain her breath. She slumped forward, her forehead resting against the cool, damp brick, her chest heaving so hard you could see the fabric of the suit straining with every desperate lungful of air.

"There we go," you murmured, your voice a low, satisfied hum as you watched the telemetry stabilise from the peak. "Mission accomplished, Widow. You look a little... disheveled. Should we dial it back to 'standard' mode, or do you want to see if we can break your record?"

A low, shaky laugh half frustrated and half delighted bubbled up from her throat. "You... are a menace," she panted

"...but don't you dare think you're getting off easy," she finished, her voice a sultry, breathless rasp that sent a thrill straight down your spine. She slowly pushed herself up against the wall, her movements uncharacteristically heavy and uncoordinated, her legs still trembling from the aftershocks of the climax you had forced out of her.

Even through the grainy, low light drone feed, you could see the predatory glint returning to her eyes, though it was softened by a layer of sheer, unadulterated lust. She wiped a stray tear of pleasure from the corner of her eye and straightened her suit, though the fabric still clung to her damp, flushed skin in a way that made her look utterly wrecked.

"Next time you decide to play god with my nervous system, Engineer, make sure you're ready to handle the fallout when I get back to base." She gave a sharp, playful wink toward the hovering camera, a silent challenge that told you'd be the one in the crosshairs.

You grinned, leaning back in your chair and tapping a final command to dim the stimulators to a low, teasing hum. "I'll hold you to that, Nat," you replied, your voice thick with anticipation. "But for now, try to keep your eyes on the target. You've still got a mission to finish, even if you are walking a little... unsteady."

On the screen, you watched her take a deep, stabilising breath, her expression shifting back into that mask of lethal professionalism, though the slight tremble in her hands and the flush on her neck betrayed the absolute chaos you'd just unleashed within her.

The comms channel was a mess of static and heavy, ragged breathing. You weren't even looking at the monitors anymore; you had the tablet propped up on the desk, your eyes half lidded as you focused on the rhythm of the music playing in your ears, treating Natasha’s vocalisations like a live remix. You were lazily swirling a cherry lollipop against your cheek, your thumb dancing over the screen in a rhythmic, DJ like motion. Tap, slide, and hold.

"Y/N..." her voice came through, a broken, desperate rasp that made your blood hum. "Fuck... please... just come get me. The tech... it's too much. Just... come fuck me. Please."

She was lost. You could hear it in the audio. She was a mess of sensory overload, her legendary composure shattered into a thousand pieces by the relentless, buzzing frequency you were dialing in.

In the dim, grimy light of the alley, Natasha had completely abandoned all tactical pretense. She was draped chest first over a raised metal platform, her hips bucking rhythmically against the edge. She was grinding her aching, hyper sensitive nipples against the cold surface, desperate to find some semblance of friction to match the internal storm you were brewing. "God, Y/N... it's so deep... the sensation... it's too much..." she whimpered, her voice a frantic, breathless prayer.

You didn't even look at the drone feed. You were too busy, your eyes closed, feeling the vibration of her moans through your headset. You decided to switch up the tempo, your thumb sliding a fader on the tablet to increase the sheer toggle intensity.

You wanted to see the feature work. You wanted to see the way her skin flushed under the pressure, so you slid your thumb across the lower quadrant of the screen, activating the translucent mode for her pelvic region. You weren't watching the screen, but you felt the satisfaction of the command landing.

What you didn't realise was that in the dim, shadow drenched alley, that sudden shift to sheer fabric had perfectly framed her weeping, swollen entrance for a passing patrol guard. He had stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching as he saw the legendary Black Widow bent over a platform, her suit rendered transparent over a soaking, trembling vulva that was twitching in time with the vibrations.

"Fuck..." the guard whispered, his eyes widening as he realised she was completely oblivious, lost in a trance of artificial ecstasy. He didn't hesitate in stepping into the shadows, his heavy boots silent on the damp pavement.

Natasha let out a long, shuddering moan, her let out a long, shuddering moan, her head lulling back as a heavy, warm weight suddenly pressed against her backside. She didn't even flinch at the sudden contact; in her haze, she simply assumed it was the suit's haptic feedback intensifying, or perhaps a new, deeper pulse you had programmed to drive her over the edge.

When the guard’s thick, unyielding length suddenly tore through the weakened seam of the stimulator mechanism, forcing its way into her soaking heat, Natasha let out a sharp, startled gasp that quickly melted into a delirious cry of pleasure. "Yes... Y/N... right there... god, that's so much bigger..." she whimpered, her fingers clawing at the metal platform as the guard began a relentless, punishing rhythm.

Back in the control room, you were completely oblivious to the intruder. You were lost in the "mix," your eyes closed as you leaned back, the lollipop stick bobbing between your lips, your thumb still sliding across the tablet in a slow, hypnotic groove.

You were chasing the perfect sonic peak, oblivious to the fact that the wet, rhythmic slapping sound filling your headset wasn't coming from the suit's internal motors, but from the raw, carnal friction of a stranger's pelvis slamming into her.

"Oh god, Y/N... you're... you're so aggressive tonight..." Natasha sobbed, her voice cracking as the guard gripped her hips with bruising force, his fingers digging into the sheer, translucent fabric you had so casually toggled on.

She was a prisoner of her own pleasure, her mind so thoroughly hijacked by the high frequency buzzing at her clit that she couldn't distinguish the man's heavy, desperate thrusts from the mechanical pulses you were sending her way. Every time he bottomed out, hitting her cervix with a blunt, punishing force, she let out a jagged, high pitched keen as if the suit itself was trying to break her.

You, meanwhile, were in a trance of your own, a smirk playing on your lips as you felt the haptic feedback sensors on your tablet spiking in a way you hadn't quite programmed. The data was erratic, violent, and incredibly intense.

"You're really pushing the limits today, aren't you, Nat?" you murmured, your voice a low, teasing purr as you slid your thumb up the screen, accidentally increasing the vibration frequency just as the guard let out a guttural grunt, his pace turning frantic and desperate.

The sound of his heavy, ragged breathing bled into the comms, a low frequency rumble that you mistook for the hum of the drone's motor. Natasha was completely gone, her vision swimming, her entire world reduced to the sensation of being filled, stretched, and pulverized. "Don't... stop... Y/N... please, don't stop..."

Tap. Slide. Tap.

"You're doing so good, Nat," you murmured, your voice a low teasing purr as you slid your thumb across the screen, intensifying the vibration to a frantic, buzzing blur.

In the alley, the guard let out a choked, animalistic sound, his hands sliding under her hips to tilt her pelvis up, presenting her even more brazenly to the dim light. He was hammering into her now, his thrusts deep and uncoordinated, driven by the sheer sight of her weeping, translucent vulva being driven to madness by your tech.

Natasha’s world was a kaleidoscope of white heat and heavy, rhythmic thuds. She felt the sudden, violent expansion inside her, the way her walls were being stretched to their absolute limit, but her mind, clouded by the high frequency stimulation you were pumping into her clit, simply categorised it as the ultimate 'upgrade.'

"Oh god... Y/N... you're... you're so heavy..." she wailed, her voice a jagged mess of ecstasy and confusion, her hips buck ing wildly against the intruder's frantic pace. She was a woman lost in a storm of her own making, her consciousness fractured between the high tech ecstasy you were broadcasting and the raw, primal reality of the man currently claiming her.

The guard was nearing his limit, his breath coming in hot, jagged snatches against the back of her neck as he drove himself into her one last time, his entire body tensing as he spilled himself deep inside her.

Natasha's eyes rolled back, her entire frame shuddering in a massive, soul shattering climax that felt like it was tearing her apart from the inside out. "Y/N! Y/N!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the damp alley walls, a pure, unadulterated sound of total surrender.

Back in the control room, you finally opened your eyes, a satisfied grin spreading across your face as the telemetry data on your tablet flatlined into a beautiful, chaotic mess of post climax. You finally looked up at the drone feed, the lollipop stick poking out of the corner of your mouth as you took a slow, thoughtful lick.

The screen showed a wrecked, trembling Black Widow slumped over the metal edge, her breathing coming in ragged, uneven hitches. She looked absolutely devastated and utterly satisfied. You didn't see the man scurrying away into the shadows of the alley, nor did you hear the frantic, heavy footsteps of a guard retreating in a daze.

All you saw was the telemetry indicating a massive, sustained spike in her pelvic contractions, a level of arousal that should have been physically impossible.

"Damn, Nat," you chuckled, leaning back and stretching your arms behind your head, the tablet resting casually on your thigh. "I didn't know you had that much in you. That was one hell of a performance."

Through the comms, all you heard was the wet, shaky sound of her trying to find her voice.

"...You're a fucking monster," she finally managed to choke out, her voice a wet, breathless wreck of a sound that vibrated with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it felt like a bruise.

You could hear the way her lungs were struggling to pull in air, the sound of her skin sticking to the metal platform as she tried to push herself up. She sounded utterly defeated, a legendary spy reduced to a shivering, weeping mess by your "modifications."

You just chuckled, the sound low and satisfied, as you reached for your lollipop again. "Maybe," you conceded, your eyes scanning the now stabilizing telemetry data with a predatory sort of pride. "But you have to admit, the feedback was incredible. The way your heart rate spiked... it was like you were being electrified. We might have to recalibrate the intensity for the next op, just to see if we can push you even further."

On the screen, she finally managed to pull herself up, her movements slow and uncoordinated, her legs trembling so violently she had to lean her weight against the dumpster just to stay upright.

Even through the grainy drone feed, you could see the way the suit's fabric clung to her, damp with a mixture of sweat and the evidence of her intense, messy release. She looked completely undone, her hair a tangled mess, her lips swollen and wet, her eyes glazed with a lingering, beautiful confusion.

"Next time..." she panted, her voice dropping to a sultry, dangerous rasp that made your blood hum, "...you better be there in person to witness the 'recalibration.' Because if you think you can just play with my body from a goddamn control room and not face the consequences, you're even more delusional than you are sadistic."

She gave a weak, shaky smirk toward the camera a flicker of the old, sassy Black Widow returning through the haze of her arousal before she finally began to stalk to the laboratory.

The control room was silent, save for the low hum of the servers and the rhythmic clack clack of your fingers dancing across the holographic schematics of the enemy lab. You were focused, mapping out the electrical conduits, a half eaten lollipop resting against your cheek. Through the comms, Natasha’s voice came through, breathless and teasing, though you could hear the slight tremor she was trying to hide.

"Seriously, Y/N? StarkMotors? Is that what we’re calling the tech now?" she huffed, her voice echoing in the pitch black corridor she was currently navigating. "The haptics are a little... aggressive tonight. Are you trying to distract me or just punish me for that last mission?"

You grinned, a wicked glint in your eyes. "Maybe a little of both, Widow. You were the one complaining about the 'build quality.' Consider this a stress test."

With a lazy, nonchalant swipe of your thumb, you dialed the clitoral stimulator up to a steady, pulsing buzz.

"There," you murmured, your eyes never leaving the electrical grid. "Just making sure the sensors are calibrated for the dark. Don't lose your focus, Nat."

A sharp, choked gasp erupted in your ear, followed by the sound of her back hitting the cold, metallic wall of the hallway. "God... damn you," she hissed, her voice dropping into a sultry, desperate rasp. "You're... you're really playing with the settings tonight, aren't you?"

“Hey, you’re the one that brought them up again.” You murmured with a shrug, focusing on the screen nearby.

In the pitch black corridor, the guard didn't even have time to wonder why she  was trembling on the path. Is this sort of a dirty guardian angel appearing in his lonely path? The same one kept appearing on his exact patrol routes tonight, shaking and begging for someone to fuck her. He might as well make do.

He only saw the silhouette of her hips, the way her breath came in ragged, shallow hitches, and the unmistakable, wet scent of her arousal. He moved like a man possessed, sliding into the small, jagged rip in her suit the small, jagged rip in her suit and burying himself deep inside her.

The sensation was sudden and overwhelming, a thick, heavy intrusion that sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. Natasha’s head snapped back against the wall, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as a long, shuddering moan tore from her throat.

"Oh... god," she gasped, her fingers clawing at the smooth metal of the wall. "Y/N... the... the haptic feedback... it's so... intense... it feels so... real..."

She didn't realise the 'feedback' had a pulse, or that the heavy, rhythmic thudding against her pelvis was the sound of a man’s hips slamming into hers. To her, it was just another masterful tweak of the suit's programming.

When the guard’s large, calloused hand reached around to squeeze her breast, kneading the soft flesh with a hungry, possessive grip, the way her thigh was hooked up, lifting her hips to meet his frantic, heavy thrusts.

To Natasha, it was just another seamless integration of the suit’s exoskeleton, a clever bit of remote stabilisation to keep her upright while her legs felt like jelly. "The... the stabilisation is... incredible..." she whimpered, her voice breaking as the guard’s fingers dug into her breast, pulling her back against his hard chest to deepen the angle. "Did you... add a manual override for the... the tactile sensation? It feels so... heavy..."

You chuckled, leaning back and tapping a rhythmic beat on the console, completely oblivious to the wet, slapping sounds of skin meeting skin echoing through the comms. You were too busy watching the power surges on your monitor. "Just optimising the user experience, Nat. Stay focused. You're almost at the main lab."

"Hard to... focus..." she gasped, her hips bucking wildly as the guard let out a low, guttural groan of pure, unadulterated lust. The man was lost in her, his hands working her body with a desperate, frantic energy, but Natasha was too far gone in her own sensory heaven to notice the difference between a machine and a man. Every time he drove himself home, she felt a surge of artificial ecstasy, convinced that you were just pushing the haptic limits of the suit to their absolute breaking point.

"Y/N... the... the pressure..." she sobbed, her voice a broken melody of pleasure as the guard's teeth grazed the shell of her ear. "It's so... thick... so much... more than the last time..."

"Just a little more calibration, Nat," you replied casually, your fingers flying across the tablet to adjust the voltage on the suit's internal heating elements.

You heard the wet, rhythmic slap slap slap of her body being driven forward, and you just thought of it as a particularly aggressive haptic pulse. "Keep your eyes on the prize, Widow. We're almost there."

"Almost... there..." she whimpered, her entire body vibrating in sync with the guard's frantic, driving rhythm. As the man reached his limit, his thrusts becoming short, punishing stabs that drove her face into the cold wall, Natasha felt a massive, surging wave of heat bloom deep within her.

She thought it was a thermal surge in the suit's core, a programmed climax meant to reward her progress. She let out a long, high pitched wail of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, her internal muscles clamping down hard around the stranger's length in a desperate, rhythmic pulse.

In the control room, you leaned back, a satisfied smirk playing on your lips as you watched the biometric sensors on your screen spike into the red. "There we go," you murmured, tapping the tablet one last time to a final, triumphant little beat. "Calibration complete. You're looking good, Nat. Heart rate's a little high, but that's to be expected with the new stim settings."

In the dark, the guard let out a choked, strangled cry, his body shuddering violently as he spilled himself deep inside her, his much more primal, heavy rhythm finally breaking into a frantic, desperate shudder. Natasha's entire world was a white hot blur of sensation. She felt the sudden, intense warmth flooding her pussy, a sensation so deep and so overwhelming that she thought the suit's internal thermal regulators had finally peaked.

She slumped against the wall, her legs trembling so violently she could barely stand, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.

"Y/N..." she whispered, her voice barely audible, her head lolling to the side as the man quietly, breathlessly pulled himself out of her and retreated into the shadows of the hallway. "That "...that was... the best... calibration... yet..." she trailed off, her eyes rolling back in her head as the aftershocks of the "thermal surge" rippled through her core.

She was a trembling, weeping mess, her thighs slick and her skin flushed a deep, feverish red, completely unaware that the warmth pooling inside her wasn't a malfunction, but the hot, heavy seed of a man who had just been granted the ultimate prize.

"Glad you liked it," you replied, your voice smooth and teasing as you swiped through a new set of electrical schematics, totally satisfied with your handiwork. "Now, shake it off, Widow. We've still got a lab to infiltrate. Try to keep your composure, okay? You sound a little... unraveled."

Natasha let out a shaky, breathless laugh, leaning her forehead against the cold metal wall to steady her racing heart. "Unraveled? Please. It's just the... the haptic feedback... hitting a little too hard..." 

She let out a long, shuddering exhale, trying to force her trembling thighs to steady themselves. She could feel a strange, heavy warmth settling deep in her pelvis, a viscous sensation that felt far more organic than any thermal regulator you could have programmed. It was thick, pulsing, and incredibly intimate, but she just chalked it up to the suit's high intensity discharge.

"Just... give me a second to... recalibrate my own sensors," she managed to choke out, a dizzy, lopsided grin tugging at her lips as she wiped a stray tear of pure, unadulterated pleasure from her cheek. She stood there for a moment, a legendary assassin leaning against a dark hallway wall, her body still humming with the phantom echoes of a man's climax, all while she waited for your next command, completely oblivious to the absolute, erotic absurdity of it all.

She was a walking, breathing testament to your "engineering" genius. A woman so thoroughly conquered by a ghost in the machine that she didn't even realise she'd just been claimed by the enemy.

"Ready when you are, Boss," she finally whispered, her voice still thick with the afterglow of a climax that wasn't even hers to claim, stepping forward into the darkness with a heavy, slick stride that she mistook for nothing more than a temporary loss of muscle tension.

You were twenty minutes into your morning when you felt it - that particular shift in the room's atmosphere that preceded him whenever he moved through it, though not dramatic. Just a quiet parting, like people instinctively gave him a half-step more space without meaning to. You didn't look up immediately. You just finished the line you were typing, then glance up.

Steve was standing a few feet from your desk with the expression of a man who had done something he considered reasonable and was now trying to gauge its reception. He was looking at you. Specifically, you realised, he'd been watching your face.

You became aware that you'd been smiling slightly at the caranations.

"Mr. Rogers." You said.

"Morning. Please call me Steve." He replied, then he nodded at the bouquet. The faintest thing - not quite a smile, but the neighbourhood of one. "Alright?"

You folded your hands on the desk. "What's this about?"

"You helped me yesterday."

You waited. He seemed to feel this was sufficient. When you continued to wait, he elaborated: "You walked me through the whole process. Placed my funds somewhere safe." A small, definitive nod. "Seemed right to show appreciation."

You looked at him for a long moment, then the bouquet, then back at him.

"Steve," you said carefully, "I helped you create a Bank of America account."

A beat.

"You walked me through it," he said, as though this clarified everything.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You looked again at the ivory sweet pea. which smelled genuinely extraordinary and was probably worth more than your parking permit. You thought about making the point - the full point, all of it, the proportionality argument. Then you looked at his face, which was patient and earnest and completely unbothered and you thought: no. Not today.

You exhaled, and shook your head once, slowly.

"Okay," you said, "Never mind. They're very pretty. Thank you." You pulled your chair in. "Now, today, I want to get you set up an overdraft, alright? Just a safety net. Can you pull up your account?"

Steve reached into his jacket, produced his phone with the careful deliberateness of a man who had recently learned where the app lived, and open it. He found the account, turning the screen to you.

You glanced at it, then you looked more closely.

The balance column contained a number made entirely of zeros.

You took the phone from him gently, the way you might take something fragile from a child and stared at it. The account had been opened yesterday. You had personally watched him set it up. You even watched him note down his login details in actual handwriting, in a small notebook, because he didn't trust himself to remember them.

"Steve," you said.

"Mm."

"Where did your money go."

It wasn't really a question. Your voice had gone very even, which meant some part of your brain was already several steps ahead and decided that calm was the only viable approach.

Steve leaned over slightly to look at the screen, as though confirming something he already knew. "Ah," he said. "Yes. I believe the funds got vapourised." A small pause. "When I bought the carnations and sweet pea."

The office continued around you two - keyboards, distant phones, and the humming of the ventilation system.

You set his phone gently on the desk.

"You spent all of it," you said. "You spent your entire account balance. On the bouquet."

"It was there yesterday afternoon."

"I'm sure it was."

"I checked."

"And then you spent it."

"I wanted it done properly."

You put your face in your hands. Not for long, just a moment, just enough.

When you looked up, he was watching you with a slight furrow between his brows, which on Steve passed for looking genuinely concerned.

"Too much?" he asked.

You thought about how, yesterday, you had felt quite good about yourself for helping him. You had thought: he's Captain America, what's he going to do, overspend? You had thought: this is a nice thing to do for someone, a simple favour, very low stakes.

You had thought a lot of things, none of which had included he's going to liquidate his entire account on kraft paper and ribbon.

"Right," you said, and reached for your keyboard. "Overdraft. And a spending limit." You glanced at him. "Sit down, Steve, this might take a minute."

He sat.

On the corner of your desk, the carnations and sweet pea stood in a patch of morning light, lush and fragrant and completely worth it, which was the most annoying part.

He blinked up at you, the confusion momentarily breaking through his mask. He tried to recover, tilting his head back with a lopsided, sleazy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What’s this?" he murmured, his voice rough and thick with a hunger he could no longer hide. "You finally decided to give in?"

You didn't answer.

Instead, you reached for a spare blade on the coffee table, the cold steel catching the dim light. With a deliberate motion, you pricked the pads of your fingertips, the small droplets of blood welling up instantly. Dean’s pupils dilated, his gaze locking onto your hand with a predatory intensity that made the air between you heavy and thick.

You reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair to tilt his head back, exposing his throat and forcing him to look up at you. The sleazy grin faltered, replaced by a raw, desperate yearning. You pressed your fingers against his lips, the scent of your blood hitting him like a physical blow.

"Suck," you commanded, your voice low and devoid of warmth.

He didn't hesitate.

The moment his lips parted, the last of his bravado vanished. He lunged forward with a low, guttural sound, his mouth enveloping your fingertips with a desperate, uncoordinated hunger. The sensation was electric, the warmth of his mouth, the frantic pull of his tongue as he tried to draw every precious drop from your skin.

As he fed, you didn't make it easy. You leaned back, watching him with a look of amused disdain, your free hand winding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

When he began to suck too hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your fingertips with a sharp, stinging pressure, you gave a firm, punishing tug. He let out a muffled, choked sound against your hand, nearly gagging as you forced his rhythm to break, making him struggle for air before he could settle back into the feast.

"Look at you," you whispered, your voice dripping with a mocking sweetness that cut through the heavy silence of the bunker. "Needed your best friend this bad, huh, Dean?" You let out a sharp, mocking huff of laughter, watching the way his throat worked as he swallowed greedily.

The sight of the legendary hunter, reduced to a kneeling, desperate animal at your feet, was a delicious irony. "Fucking bastard. Just using me for blood, aren't you? All that whining just to get you to this point."

He tried to pull back for a second, a flash of wounded pride flickering in his dark, blown out eyes. But you tightened your grip on his hair, pulling his head back sharply to keep him anchored. He let out a low, needy whine that was far more animal than man.

"Don't you dare stop," you hissed, your voice a blend of command and condescension. You leaned forward, your eyes tracing the frantic movement of his jaw. You deliberately slid your fingers deeper into his mouth, forcing him to accommodate the intrusion of your knuckles as he struggled to swallow around them.

The sensation was thick and wet, the friction of his tongue against your skin sending a jolt of sensation up your arm. He let out a muffled, desperate groan, his eyes rolling back in a trance of pure, unadulterated gluttony.

Every time he tried to regain a semblance of his usual composure, you’d remind him of his place, either by tugging his hair until his scalp stung or by shoving your fingers deeper, making him choke slightly on the sheer intensity of the offering.

He was a mess of contradictions, a hunter, a hero, and right now, a starving dog at your feet, completely undone by the very person he usually tried to impress with his bravado. You watched him, a smirk playing on your lips, savouring the absolute dominance of the moment.

The heavy, rhythmic sound of his swallowing finally began to taper off, replaced by a softer, more rhythmic sensation. You felt the wet, sandpaper texture of his tongue performing a slow, sweeping lick across your fingertips, a feline, satisfied gesture that signalled the beast had finally been satiated. The frantic desperation in his throat smoothed out into a low, contented hum.

With a smirk of pure triumph, you withdrew your digits from his mouth. The sudden absence of your skin left him looking momentarily dazed, his lips glistening and redder than usual.

Before he could even attempt to reclaim his dignity, you brought your hand down, delivering a series of sharp, stinging smacks against his jaw. The sound of palm hitting skin echoed in the quiet bunker, treating him no differently than a disobedient pet.

"There we go," you mocked, your voice dripping with condescending satisfaction. "Bloodthirst all satisfied now, huh? You'll stop whining like a fucking cunt now?”

Dean sat there for a moment on the floor, his chest heaving as he fought to pull air back into his lungs. The predatory haze in his eyes was slowly receding, replaced by a heavy, post feed lethargy that made him look uncharacteristically soft. He wiped a stray smear of red from his chin with the back of his hand, his gaze following you as you stood up with effortless grace.

"Yeah," he finally managed, his voice a husky, wrecked mumble. It wasn't quite the suave Dean Winchester the world knew; it was the voice of a man who had just been thoroughly tamed. He offered a faint, sheepish nod of thanks, his eyes lingering on you with a mixture of lingering hunger and newfound respect.

You didn't linger to bask in his gaze or wait for a witty retort that likely wouldn't come. You had already exerted your dominance, and the satisfaction of seeing him so thoroughly undone was enough. 

Turning on your heel, you began to walk away, the rhythmic click of your footsteps on the bunker floor the only sound in the heavy silence.

"You better rest up, Dean," you called back over your shoulder, your voice regaining its usual sharp, teasing edge. "I don't want to see you being a bratty little bitch on the next hunt just because you're feeling sluggish."

You didn't look back to see if he was going to throw a snarky comment your way or simply sink back into the couch in a blood drunk stupor. You already knew the answer. He was satisfied, he was quiet, and for once, he was exactly where you wanted him: humbled.