You’re leaning over the evidence table, deliberately bending farther than necessary to reach a photo, when Rossi sidles up beside you.

“You trying to get fired, kid?” he mutters under his breath. Already knowing exactly what you're playing at. Rossi knows Hotch too well, knows you too well. And has definitely figured out just what your relationship entails behind closed doors.

You don’t even look at him. “Just keeping him on his toes, David.”

He hums, unconvinced. “He’s gonna put you on your knees later, and not in the fun way.”

You grin, sharp and sweet, when in reality you should've been mortified at the words coming out of Rossi's mouth. “We’ll see.”

Hotch’s voice cuts across the bullpen. “L/N. My six. Now.”

You straighten slowly, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. “Yes, sir.”

You saunter over, boots echoing, and stop just inside his personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to glare at you.

The rest of the room pretends they’re suddenly very very busy. And definitely not listening to whatever is about to happen between the two of you.

“You’re off the raid,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear the tremor of fury underneath. Meaning that you've just struck bingo, and Hotch is giving you exactly what you were playing for later.

You blink, all mock innocence, before you raise your brows at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re staying here with the locals.”

You laugh, actually laugh, straight in his face. “No, I’m not.”

“That wasn’t a request.” His eyes flash, his pupils dilating, darkening. You can tell that he is trying to claw his way out of Hotch, begging to be released upon you.

“And this isn’t a negotiation.” You step closer, dropping your voice to a purr. “You want me on a leash, Aaron, you’re gonna have to put it on me yourself. In front of everyone. Go ahead.” You cross your arms over your chest.

His nostrils flare. For one electric second, you think he might actually do it, might snap right here, take his belt off, and drag you out by the back of your neck like you both know you want him to.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to ground himself before he says something too unprofessional. When he finally speaks, he leans down to whisper in your ear through gritted teeth, “Fine! You’re with me. You leave my sight for less than .01 seconds, I'll cuff you to the SUV and leave you in the car overnight like some abandoned pet left on the side of the road. Try me.”

You lick your bottom lip. “Promise?”

He turns on his heel before he does something he can’t take back in front of twenty witnesses and the entirety of his team.

The raid is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and you are the match.

Hotch wants to go in quietly through the back. You’re already halfway across the parking lot toward the front door before he grabs your vest and yanks you back.

“Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish today?” He says, leaving little to no discussion in his tone, you know that tone all too well, even strive to get it out of him on occasion... well, more times than not.

You spin, grinning up at him. “Only if you’re the one pulling the trigger.”

He looks like he’s two seconds from gagging you with his own tie and bending you over right here, right now.

Morgan’s voice crackles over comms. “Hotch, we’re set on the east side. You two coming or getting a room?”

You reach up and key your own comm without looking away from Hotch. “We’re coming, 'baby girl'. Unit Chief’s just having a little performance anxiety.” You can already imagine Morgan's confused look at the nickname.

Hotch rips the earpiece out of your ear and crushes it under his boot.

You whistle, low and a little playful. “That’s destruction of FBI property, sir. Very naughty.”

He grabs the front of your vest this time, hauling you in until you’re nose to nose. There he is. “You do not speak again until this unsub is in cuffs. Not one fucking word. Nod if you understand.”

You nod, solemn and mocking. Already planning to break that exact promise.

He releases you like you’re radioactive.

The warehouse is a maze of rusted machinery and broken skylights. Moonlight stripes the concrete floor. You move ahead of Hotch, deliberately, clearing corners before he can tell you to wait.

He hisses your name, barely audible.

You ignore him.

You hear the unsub before you see him: panicked breathing, the clatter of a dropped magazine. He’s reloading behind a stack of crates twenty feet ahead.

You raise your weapon before you step into the open.

Hotch swears viciously behind you and moves to cover, but you’re already talking.

“FBI! Drop it!”

The unsub spins, wild-eyed, gun up.

You don’t flinch.

Hotch is shouting your name now, furious and afraid all at the same time, but you keep your voice steady, taunting. “Come on, sweetheart. You wanted us to chase you. Here I am.”

The unsub’s finger tightens on the trigger.

Hotch’s arm hooks around your waist from behind, and he yanks you sideways, throwing you both sideways behind a forklift just as the shot rings out. Concrete explodes exactly where you were just standing.

You land half on top of him, ears ringing, heart slamming against your ribs.

He’s shaking with rage, hands gripping your vest so hard the straps bite.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls into your face.

You grin, breathless, high on adrenaline and the feel of him under you. “You’re welcome.”

Another shot pings off metal above your heads.

Hotch flips you onto your back, shielding you with his body, weapon already up. His voice in your ear is lethal. “Stay. Down.”

This time, you finally listen.

He rises in one fluid motion, one precise shot to his leg, and the unsub drops like a puppet that just had its strings cut.

Silence falls in the warehouse, broken only by distant shouting as the rest of the team floods in.

Hotch holsters his weapon, turns back to you, where you’re pushing to your feet.

You meet his eyes across the moonlit warehouse, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears.

The unsub is down.

The cuffs are clicking.

And Aaron Hotchner looks like he’s deciding exactly how long it’s going to take to make you cry tonight.

The jet is grounded until at least morning due to a mechanical failure in the engine, so the team books into the hotel closest to the hangar and landing strip.

Everyone’s exhausted, adrenaline crashing hard, all a little annoyed from the lack of sleeping in their own beds tonight. But the air between you and Hotch is still a live current, ready to explode any second now.

You’re leaning against the check-in desk, tapping your badge against your palm, when Hotch steps up beside you and quietly tells the clerk, “Two singles.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Separate rooms,” you echo, loud enough for Hotch and the clerk to hear. You flash him a saccharine smile. “How very professional of us, Agent Hotchner. Gotta keep up appearances for the Bureau. Wouldn’t want anyone to know their precious unit chief has been balls-deep in his subordinate every night for the last eight months.”

The night clerk’s eyes go wide. Rossi, waiting for his key behind you, chokes on a laugh which he pretends is a cough.

Hotch doesn’t flinch. He just signs the receipt with a pen that might actually snap in his grip, then hands you a keycard.

“Room 312,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You open that door for anyone else, you won’t sit for a month.”

He walks away before you can answer.

You take the stairs two at a time, pulse already racing.

The second the door clicks shut behind him, the mask is gone.

He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it toward the chair in the corner of the room, and stalks toward you like a predator who’s finally off leash and pouncing straight toward its next meal.

“Strip!”

You arch a brow at him. “Please?”

He’s on you in two strides, hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, hard.

“Don’t push me any further tonight,” he warns. “You’ve used up every last ounce of patience I have.”

“Good.” You smile slowly up at him.

He kisses you all teeth, no mercy, until you’re gasping against his mouth. Then he spins you, shoves you chest-first over the foot of the bed, yanks your jeans and panties down in one rough motion.

His palm slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat. You feel the heat of him behind you, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass through his slacks.

“You’ve been begging for this all day,” he says, his voice low and more controlled than you had anticipated when you started pushing him this morning. It's the way he gets right before he completely unravels you. “Every smart-ass comment, every eye roll, every time you said my title like it’s a fucking joke. You want my attention? You have it.”

He drags your hips back until you’re bent perfectly for him, feet barely touching the carpet. The first thrust of his clothed hips against your bare skin is deliberate, grinding, a promise and a threat all at once.

You push back, greedy for him to enter you.

He stills you with one hand splayed over the base of your spine, the other winding your hair around his fist until your neck arches.

“Stay still,” he growls. “You move when I tell you to move.” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “Color?”

“Green,” you breathe, already trembling. “So fucking green.”

He pulls back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink loud in the almost silent room. You hear his zipper, feel the blunt, bare heat of him drag up the seam of your body.

He doesn’t enter you. Not yet.

Instead, he notches himself at your entrance and holds there, agonizingly still, while you try to rock back and take him, sheathe yourself on his cock. His grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Beg!”

“Please, Sir—”

“Louder.”

“Please fuck me, Sir, I need—”

He slams into you in one brutal stroke, no warning, filling you so suddenly your breath catches on a scream.

Your legs wrap around nothing, toes curling into the carpet, hips snapping hard enough to jolt the bedframe into the wall with every thrust.

He flips you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your knees over his elbows, and spreading you wide. The new angle drags a broken sound from your throat as his thrusts take him deeper and deeper.

“Look at you,” he growls against your collarbone as he shoves your shirt up and runs his mouth over your skin, teeth scraping against you. “Acting like a spoiled little brat in front of the entire team. You think they didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see the way Morgan smirked every time you opened that mouth?”

“Maybe I wanted them to know,” you taunt, breathless, reaching for him. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t belong to—”

He cuts you off by pulling out entirely and flipping you again, this time onto your knees, face and chest pressed against the mattress.

He thrusts back in so hard your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets.

“Say it,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to collar your throat from behind, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning. “Finish that sentence.”

“I belong to you,” you sob, clenching around him. “Only you—fuck—Aaron—”

“That’s right.” He presses you deeper into the bed, hips relentless. “You’re mine. And tomorrow, when you can’t walk straight and my cum still dripping down your thighs during our briefing on the jet, you’ll remember exactly who you answer to.”

He reaches beneath you, finds your clit with better precision than a trained sharpshooter, no searching, no hesitation, just the rough pad of his finger settling right where you’re swollen and aching for him. He doesn’t move at first. Just presses, holds, lets you feel the weight of that single point of contact while his cock throbs inside you, stretching you open, owning every trembling inch.

You try to rock back, to chase more, but his grip turns iron.

“Stay,” he growls against the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice shredded. “You take what I give you.”

Then he starts to move, slow, cruel circles that drag over your clit with exactly enough pressure to make your thighs shake. Every stroke is perfectly timed with the roll of his hips, the thick drag of him pulling out until only the head remains before he slams back in, forcing the air from your lungs.

Your hands claw at the sheets. Your spine arches so hard it hurts. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, vicious and unstoppable, until you’re sobbing his name into the pillow, broken and desperate little pleas of his name.

He speeds up, just barely, thumb flicking faster, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of him fucking you filling the room along with your wrecked moans.

“Cum,” he orders, voice cracking with restraint. “Cum on my cock right now. Show me who you belong to.”

The command rips through you.

You shatter, back bowing, toes curling, a raw scream tearing from your throat as your entire body locks down around him. Wave after wave crashes over you, so intense your vision whites out, every pulse of your orgasm dragging him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic clenches.

He swears once and loses the last thread of control. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming forward one final time as he cums with a rough groan, spilling inside you.

You feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks and grinds through it, forehead pressed hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to fuse himself to your skin.

He stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling in the aftermath, slick with sweat and utterly spent. You can’t help it, your hips give a tiny, greedy roll, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, trying to keep him deep.

A soft, satisfied moan slips out of you.

Hotch’s chuckle rumbles against your spine. His arms tighten, pinning you flat to the mattress so you can’t move an inch further than you've already wiggled.

“You think we’re done?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He nips the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my time to play.”

He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every inch drag against your oversensitive walls. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but before you can protest, he’s already moving, shirt buttons flying, slacks kicked the rest of the way off, socks gone.

In seconds, he’s gloriously bare, all hard lines, cock still half-hard and glistening with your cum.

He turns his attention to you next, signaling with his hand for you to flip over on your back. You do as ordered.

Your shirt is shoved up under your arms. He yanks it off, unhooks your bra, and tosses both across the room. Then he grabs his discarded tie and crawls over you.

“Hands up,” he orders.

You obey instantly, stretching your arms above your head. He loops the tie around your wrists, threads it through the headboard, and cinches it tight. Not painful, but absolutely inescapable from your end of the deal. You tug once; the silk holds firm.

A helpless little thrill shoots straight to your core.

He settles between your thighs again, slides back inside you with one smooth thrust that makes your back arch. You’re so wet, so swollen, the stretch burns in the best way, you're not sure you can take the sensation much longer before cumming again.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Stay just like that.”

He starts slow. Long and deep strokes that hit every spot inside you. His mouth finds your neck, your breasts, sucking bruises into your skin while his hips roll in that maddening rhythm he knows drives you absolutely insane.

It doesn’t take long before you’re writhing, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his waist.

“Please! Sir, I’m close,” you whimper.

He pulls out completely.

You cry out, hips bucking at nothing. He watches you struggle against the tie, thighs squeezing together for friction that isn’t there.

“Shh.” He strokes your hip in a soothing yet cruel manner. “Calm down a little. We’re nowhere near done.”

He waits until your breathing evens, until the desperation fades, then slides back in and starts all over again.

He does it four times.

Four times, he builds you right to the brink, fingers on your clit, mouth on your nipples, cock dragging slow and steady against your walls, until you’re sobbing, begging, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes.

The fifth time you get loud, really loud, a broken, whining “Please, please, I can’t—” spilling out over and over.

Hotch clicks his tongue. “Too noisy, baby.” He reaches for your discarded panties and balls them up. “Open.”

You shake your head, playful defiance flaring even through the haze.

He arches a brow. “Open that pretty mouth, or I stop entirely and you get nothing.”

Your lips part instantly. He stuffs the panties in, the taste of yourself flooding your tongue, muffling every sound to desperate, garbled whimpers.

“There we go,” he croons, brushing the back of his hand over your cheek. “Much better.”

He fucks you like that for what feels like hours. He comes once deep inside you again, groaning your name against your throat. Pulls out, strokes himself, and paints thick stripes across your stomach and breasts.

Later, he pushes your knees to your chest, and spills across your face while you keen helplessly behind the gag.

Each time he finishes, he starts again, sliding through the mess he’s made across your frame, using it to make you slicker, filthier. You lose count of his orgasms. You’re a trembling, oversensitive wreck, and still he denies you that second release, pulling out the instant your walls start to flutter.

Finally, finally, he collapses over you, sweat-slick and breathless, cock spent and utterly dry. He reaches up and carefully unties your wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Then he gently pulls the soaked panties from your mouth. You work your jaw, swallowing hard, voice hoarse.

He kisses you softly. “Up,” he murmurs.

You’re boneless, but he helps you sit. He slides the same wet panties that he just pulled from your mouth back up your legs, tugging them into place with deliberate care. The fabric settles against your abused, swollen pussy, trapping every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the pressure.

He leaves for a second before coming back with a wet cloth in his hand.

When he settles back down beside you, he cups your chin, tilts your face to his, and with the warm cloth, he cleans your cheeks, your lips, your eyelashes with tender, reverent strokes that make you melt against his hand.

But when you reach for a tissue to wipe your chest and stomach, he catches your wrist.

“No.” His voice drops into that stern, deep tone that makes you freeze. “You don’t clean the rest off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until we’re wheels-down at Quantico and you’re standing in my shower at home. You’re going to feel me on your skin every second on the jet, every time you shift in your chair. You’ll remember exactly who you bratted off to today, and exactly who owns every inch of this body. Understood?”

You nod, throat tight, arousal somehow flaring all over again despite everything.

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiles, a small, satisfied, and soft smile, before he pulls you into his chest. His hand spreads possessively over the sticky mess on your stomach, holding you close.

“Sleep, trouble,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re going to need it.

You’re already half-asleep when he speaks again, voice low in the dark.

“Next time you pull a stunt like that in the field, I won’t wait until we’re in a hotel room.”

You smile against his skin, sore and sated and utterly ruined.

“Next time,” you mumble, “I’ll be worse.”

He bites your shoulder in warning.

You wake up to the alarm on Hotch’s watch at 5:47 a.m. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, knotting a fresh tie. You try to roll over and immediately regret it. Every muscle between your hips screams. Your thighs are sticky, your pussy swollen and aching, and when you clench experimentally, you feel the slow, obscene slide of everything he left inside you only a couple of hours ago.

He glances back, eyes satisfied.

“Up,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex. “Wheels up in forty.”

You groan. Actually groan. Getting vertical feels like an Olympic event that you never trained for.

He watches you struggle into yesterday’s jeans with the faintest smirk curling his mouth, when in reality, all you want is a pair of sweatpants.

The panties he pulled back up your legs after he finally untied you are soaked through, his cum, yours, the evidence of four separate loads, and every step makes the fabric drag against your oversensitive clit.

By the time you limp into the hotel lobby, the whole team is already waiting. Morgan does a double-take.

“Damn, sweetheart. You pull a muscle wrestling that unsub... or something?”

You flip him off with the hand that isn’t clutching your go-bag strap for support.

Hotch doesn’t say a word, just opens the back door of the SUV for you like a perfect gentleman, as you make it to the cars. You slide across the seat and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering when your ass meets cold and slightly hard leather.

On the jet, you take the seat farthest from the group, legs pressed tightly together, praying the movement of the plane doesn’t jostle anything loose. Hotch sits directly across the aisle from you, tablet in hand, leading the debrief like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t wreck you so thoroughly that you’re still tasting him through your pussy.

He starts with the profile review. You’re supposed to contribute. Instead, you’re hyper-aware of the slow trickle working its way down your thigh every time the jet banks left. You shift, and the wet drag of cotton against your folds makes you swallow a gasp.

Hotch’s eyes flick to you. Calm and professional. Except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Agent L/N,” he says smoothly, “care to walk us through the victimology again and what we can learn from it for future cases?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Clear your throat. “Uh. Females, twenty-two to twenty-nine, brunettes, all abducted within—”

Your voice cracks on the last word because the plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and you feel a fresh pulse of warmth slip free. You clamp your thighs harder, face burning.

Reid starts rambling about geographic decay rates. You stop listening. All you can focus on is the slow, steady throb between your legs and the way Hotch’s gaze keeps drifting to your lap like he’s cataloging every squirm.

Forty unending minutes later, the wheels finally touch down in Quantico. You stand too fast, and your knees nearly buckle. Hotch’s hand shoots out to steady your elbow, the perfect picture of a concerned boss... or partner.

You make it down the stairs on wobbly legs, every step making the mess in your panties shift and cling. You’re praying no one notices the way you’re walking like you just rode a horse for twelve hours straight.

Rossi falls into step beside Hotch as you head for the car park. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice.

“Atta boy,” he mutters, clapping Hotch once on the shoulder.

Hotch doesn’t answer, but you catch the faint, wicked tilt of his lips before he slides on his sunglasses.

You flip Rossi off behind Hotch’s back.

Rossi just laughs knowingly and calls over his shoulder, “Feel better, kid.”

You’re going to kill them both.

Later.

Much, much later.

When you can walk again.

Bucky had rehearsed this moment in his head for two months. Two months of sneaking around, of hooking up in cars and ordering takeout instead of sitting down to dinner where you could be seen with him. Two months of you nagging him to talk to your father so that you could go on an actual date for a change.

All that waiting, all that rehearsal, and he still feels his knees shaking just a little, his heart pounding in his chest as he meets your father’s eyes with an unwavering gaze. If nothing else, he will appear unafraid, even if inside he’s shitting bricks.

Your father, sitting back in his chair with his hands folded casually in his lap, lets the silence swell for a moment, his eyes piercing Bucky’s. Bucky could practically feel the air flex around him, every molecule in the room responding to your father’s authority, his power.

Slowly, he leans forward, his expression unchanged. “Run that by me one more time.”

Bucky swallows, already feeling nervous sweat beading at the back of his neck. He refuses to let it show. Instead, he stands up straighter and explains, “You know that we spent all that time together on the road. I think she’s a great girl. She's smart, and tough, and surprisingly sweet, and…” Bucky trails off, shaking his head. He’s talking too much. “Anyway, I’d like to… take her out, show her a nice time. But you’re the boss, so if it’s a no, it’s a no.”

He needs it to not be a no. You’ll never let him hear the end of it if it’s a no.

Your father’s eyes narrow by a fraction. He takes his time considering, looking Bucky up and down as he does. Evaluating him.

“You’ll be respectful? Hold doors open for her, get her home safe?”

“Yes, sir.”

"And you understand the consequences if you mess this up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you break her heart, I’ll break you.”

He doesn’t say it threateningly. He delivers it as fact, like he’s observing that the sky is blue.

Bucky swallows again. “I understand.”

After a moment, your father breaks into an amiable smile, which is honestly more terrifying than the expression he’d worn before. “Good. I don’t see why not.” He points a thick finger at Bucky’s chest, warning him, “But you better show her a nice time.”

Bucky breathes a quiet sigh of relief and nods stoically. “Thank you, sir. I will.”

As Bucky turns to leave, assuming he’s been dismissed, your father rises from his chair and walks around the edge of his desk. 

“Not so fast.” He claps a large hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You wanna take my daughter out, I’m calling in a favor.”

Bucky winces. That can’t be good.

Three fucking hours late. 

You’d put on the dress and the heels and the lipstick, dolled up in the exact way you knew would test Bucky’s patience in public, and you waited. And waited. And waited some more.

No call, no text, nothing. Your calls went straight to voicemail.

Suffice to say, you’re royally pissed. Whenever you see him next, you plan to rip him a new one.

You debate calling up a girlfriend and hitting a club, letting Bucky see on your instagram story exactly what he’s missing. But you don’t, because you already know your bad mood would just infect everything around you.

You throw your shoes across the living room and collapse on the couch, sulking.

At 11:13 pm, the man of the hour finally rolls in the door, letting himself in with the spare key you’d given him two weeks ago.

“Sorry I'm late, babe,” he calls out, hanging up his jacket and setting down a black gym bag in the dim light of the entryway.

Fuming, you launch yourself up off the couch and plant your hands on your hips. “Is that all you have to say for yourself? I waited three fuckin’ hours for you.”

Bucky makes a beeline for the kitchen, barely even glancing in your direction. “I got caught up. Family shit.”

Family shit. Code for anything involving his particular line of work that you weren’t privy to know. The excuse did absolutely nothing for you.

“Do you know how hard it was to get that reservation?” you call after him, your voice gaining a shrill edge as it bounces off the walls of the hallway. “There’s not another open table for two weeks, Buck.”

The faucet in the kitchen turns on. “I said I'm sorry,” he snaps over the quiet roar of running water.

That makes you see red, and you storm down the hall, bursting into the kitchen. “Don’t you take that tone with me—”

The admonishment dies in your throat as you take in the sight of Bucky standing over the sink, his cheekbone marred with a cut and his bloodied knuckles thrust under the flow of the faucet.

“Christ, that fuckin’ stings,” he mutters to himself.

Guilt washes over your temper like cold water. You'd been so angry that you hadn’t even considered why he was late, hadn’t even thought to be worried about him.

You grab the first aid kit from a nearby cabinet and face him. “Bucky.”

He grunts, “I’ll be fine, I just need to—”

“Come here.” you say firmly. When he doesn’t move, your voice grows sharper. “Now.”

Bucky sighs, dries his hands, and reluctantly approaches you, looking every bit like a kicked puppy. You hop up onto the counter to better see what you’re doing, dig around in the kit for an antiseptic wipe, and clean the cut on Bucky's cheekbone.

He stands between your knees, his palms warm against your thighs. “I really tried to make it on time,” he says apologetically. “Things got a little hairy.”

“Are you all right?” you ask, unwrapping a small bandage and pressing it carefully over the cut.

“Just a scratch.” The corner of his mouth curls upward at your dubious and concerned expression. “I'm all right, I promise.”

All of your ire from before deflates out of you, and you drape your arms around his shoulders, drawing him closer. “C’mere.”

Bucky wraps his arms around your waist and melts into your embrace, tucking his head into the crook of your neck and sighing. Tension bleeds out of him as you hold him tight, rubbing slow strokes along his spine. With every touch, you try to tell him — you’re safe. You're here. You're home.

Eventually, he lifts his head, his hands wandering to your hips as he looks you over with a particular type of gaze — soft, and just a little hungry.

“You look pretty,” he remarks, squeezing your hips. “You get all dressed up like this for me?”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Restaurant has a dress code.” Leaning in close, you add as a concession, “But I did pick the color for you.”

He closes the distance to your lips and kisses you deeply, humming appreciatively as he runs his hands along your curves. It's your turn to melt into it, your body turning pliant underneath his touch.

“Got you somethin’,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the hollow below your ear, earning a little shiver from you. “Earlier today, before everything went south.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” He shoots you a roguish grin, the troubles from earlier tonight fading to the background. “You wanna see?”

You nod, biting your lip excitedly. Bucky isn’t one for frills himself, but he likes to spoil you, and he’s good at it, too. The last gift he procured for you, a beautiful pair of earrings, sparkle in your earlobes at this very moment. He likes when you show off his gifts.

Bucky slips back down the hall to grab his bag, and when he returns, he holds a cardboard shoebox in hand with a familiar logo printed on the top.

You gasp in delight and snatch the box, throwing aside the top of it. Inside, beautiful patent leather shines back at you — luxurious, red-soled stiletto pumps. Louboutin.

“Oh my god. They’re gorgeous,” you whisper, lifting one of the shoes carefully out of the box to examine it from every angle. Catching the self-satisfied smile on Bucky's face, you raise an eyebrow at him. “You're not gonna give me some bullshit story about these falling off a truck, are you?”

“Need-to-know only, princess,” he replies, kissing your cheek. “Try ‘em on for me.”

As slow as a striptease, Bucky runs his hand along the length of your leg until he reaches your ankle, and slips one of the heels onto your foot. It fits perfectly, of course, because Bucky is a man who pays attention. He repeats the gesture with your other foot. You stretch your leg out in front of you, rotating your ankle so that the patent leather glitters in the kitchen light.

“Oh, Bucky,” you coo. “I love them. Thank you.”

“You forgive me?” he asks, settling between your knees again, his hands wandering to your waist, thumbs pressing little circles through the fabric of your dress.

You tilt your head, presenting to consider. “You might have to work a little harder for my forgiveness.”

“You love to make me work for it, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Bucky tugs you forward to the edge of the counter, pressing you against him completely. He kisses you slow and lazy, the hunger still there, but rumbling below the desire to savor, to revel in the taste of you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, letting him feel every inch of your body against his, letting yourself feel every inch of his cock as it hardens between you. You nip his lower lip teasingly, in an effort to wind him up a bit.

It works. With a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, Bucky pulls down the front of your dress to access your breasts, which are just barely still covered in the scrap of lace that somehow qualifies as a bra. Just as you open your mouth to nag him not to stretch the dress (because it’s designer, of course), he closes his mouth over one of your nipples, sucking hard through the fabric. You gasp and tangle your fingers into his hair, manicured nails grazing his scalp and drawing a moan out of him that vibrates against your skin.

As he lavishes your chest with his tongue, you writhe against him, the hem of your dress rucking up around your hips, one of your shoes falling loose and dangling off your toe. Bucky slides down the zipper of your dress like he handles a weapon — careful but certain, reverent but restrained — and he pulls the garment up, off. When his eyes settle on the matching lace underwear and bra that lay underneath, his eyes grow dark, starved.

Smoothly, he catches the dangling heel before it falls and slips it back into your foot. “Keep ‘em on,” he says, his voice low and a little dangerous. “You look too pretty in them to take ‘em off yet.”

He sinks to his knees right there in the kitchen, bringing the warmth of his mouth to the inside of your thigh. Your hand finds his hair again, tugging him towards where you want him, but he ignores you, preferring to take his time working up the velvet soft skin of your thigh. When you tug again, Bucky sinks his teeth into you, not hard enough to draw blood, but certainly not gently. You yelp, indignant, and then your complaint fizzles out into a moan as his tongue soothes the wound.

“You trying to boss me around, princess?” he teases, then leans down to suck a mark into your skin.

“Bucky,” you complain breathlessly, pushing weakly at his head.

“What? No one’s gonna see it here.” He pulls back to admire his handiwork, absently grazing his thumb over the soaked fabric of your panties with a feather-light touch. "Don't worry, I’m not gonna get you in trouble with daddy dearest.”

As he continues his slow journey up your thigh – leaving bites and marks as he pleases, persisting in his teasing strokes against your panties that are just shy of the pressure you need – you groan, frustrated and needy, tugging once again on his hair.

A strong hand grips your wrist, and Bucky looks up at you again, his expression stern. “Is that any way to get what you want?” He pins your hand to the countertop, and with his other hand he gently pulls the lace to the side, exposing you completely to him. “Ask me nice, and maybe then I'll give it to you.”

Smirking, Bucky blows cool air over your glistening cunt, and you shudder, feeling the irresistible tug of surrender.

“Please, Bucky,” you beg, “Want your mouth so bad.”

“Better.” His smirk softens, and he presses an open-mouthed kiss right over your clit, perfect but fleeting as he pulls back to reply.

“Let me make it up to you, baby.”

Then he drags the flat of his tongue along the length of you, briefly dipping into your entrance before continuing his ascent. You gasp, struggling to keep your balance on your countertop perch as you throw your head back in pleasure.

As Bucky devours you, slowly and thoroughly, you try not to clamp your thighs around his face, mindful of his injured cheekbone. Bucky, however, doesn’t seem to have any reservations about this, and seems almost offended that you’re holding back. He buries his face between your legs, fucking you relentlessly with his tongue in an effort to make you let go.

Against your judgment, you do, your trembling thighs pressing in against his ears. As you rock your hips towards his face, you wobble atop the countertop momentarily and, completely by accident, scrape one of your heels along the muscle of his back.

Before you can apologize, Bucky lets out a muffled, strangled noise as if he’s the one seconds from coming, not you. Stunned and deeply aroused, you experimentally press the heel in again, testing the sharp wood against firm muscle. He practically growls and latches his mouth over your clit, lips sucking, tongue swirling. Without warning, your orgasm pulses through you like a shockwave, overwhelming, cataclysmic.

You dig both heels in then, shamelessly riding his face through the crest of it. Bucky groans against you as he works you through your climax, hands gripping your hips so hard they’re sure to leave marks. He laps at you until you’re shaking all over, until you push at his head pathetically again.

As soon as Bucky rises to his feet, he scoops you into his arms bridal-style, carrying you to bed like a gallant knight carrying a damsel in distress. You suppose you are — your need for him is considerably distressing.

He places you down on the mattress and begins peeling off your undergarments, careful to adjust the fit of your heel when he almost pulls it off along with your panties.

The gesture makes you smile, and you place your heeled foot against his chest. “Bucky Barnes, do you have a thing for heels?” you ask cheekily.

“I have a thing for you,” he replies, with a kiss and nip at the inside of your ankle. “But these are sorta doin’ something to me.”

You gently nudge his cheek with the toe of your shoe. “Are you gonna take your clothes off or not?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Try again.”

Sitting up, you reach for his belt buckle and bat your eyes a little for good measure. “Bucky, please take your clothes off and fuck me.”

Finally, he tugs his shirt overhead and smiles wickedly down at you. “She can be taught.”

Eagerly, you unfasten his belt and lay back, practicing patience as he takes his gun out of his waistband, peels off the rest of his clothes and rolls a condom onto himself.

“So pretty,” he croons, easing himself over you. “Laid out for me wearing nothing but these.” His nose nudges the delicate jewelry dangling from your earlobes, then his teeth graze the shell of your ear, making you shiver.  

Manhandling you a little, he sweeps up your legs, pressing forward until you’re folded in half beneath him and your legs are up by his shoulders. 

“And those,” he adds, turning his head to admire your heels, rutting his cock lazily through your wetness. “Should be illegal.”

“I have the sense that it might be, Buck,” you say breathlessly.

He grins. “Details, details.”

You both groan simultaneously when he pushes in, the angle allowing him to fill you so deep you feel him everywhere. Some faraway part of your brain thinks that you wouldn’t mind him messing up every now and again if this is how he makes it up to you. And when he starts moving, all parts of your brain go dumb.

Every thrust makes the headboard thud against the wall, makes you mewl and cry out his name like it’s the only word you know. Pressed beneath him like this, you can only grasp at the sheets like they’ll somehow keep you tethered to earth, can only throw your head back in ecstasy.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he rasps as you clench around him. “Always take me so well. You feel like a fuckin’ dream.”

“Bucky, please, I'm so close—“

“Come on, princess,” he encourages you, thumb finding your clit with ease and stroking you in time with his thrusts. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

He drives into that spot inside of you that makes your vision blur, makes everything disappear except him and his cock and the all-consuming pleasure that rushes through you. As your muscles lock and you whimper deliciously and your insides squeeze around him in waves, Bucky shudders and buries himself to the hilt, spilling into the condom with your name on his lips.

When his little aftershock-thrusts subside, he carefully unfolds you, looking you over to make sure he didn’t get too carried away. When all he finds is a blissed out expression on your face, he kisses your cheek, stepping away to dispose of the condom and grab something to clean you up with.

In the afterglow, he collapses half on top of you, his head resting heavy against your stomach, occasionally brushing his lips against the soft skin just below your ribs.

“You may consider yourself forgiven,” you declare as you card your fingers through his sex-mussed locks.

He smiles, victorious. “I still wanna go to that fancy restaurant with you. What are you doing in two weeks?”

"Putting on another fancy dress and making you work for it again.”

“Sounds perfect.” Another kiss, this one just above your navel. “Did you eat?”

“No, I was too mad to be hungry,” you admit.

“What about now?”

You consider for a moment, then reply decisively. “I want pizza.”

He chuckles. “That's my girl. I'll order Sal’s.”

As Bucky reaches for his phone and rolls onto his back, you watch him, the echo of ‘my girl’ looping in your ears like a beloved song you can’t get out of your head, and don’t want to.

The order placed and phone tossed aside, Bucky returns his attention to you, eyes warm and soft in the low light.

“I’m sorry you had a rough night,” you murmur, resting a hand against his chest.

He shrugs. “Eh, it was worth it.”

When you raise an eyebrow at this, he sighs and explains, “I was doin’ your dad a favor. It was a bargaining chip that let me finally take you out in the first place, ironically.”

Suddenly, your heart feels a little too large for your chest. “Bucky…”

“Told you, worth it,” he repeats, like he didn’t risk life and limb tonight just for the privilege of being seen with you in public.

You feel a surge of affection, too strong to contain, so you wriggle close to him, wind your arms around his torso, and squeeze him so hard it knocks a laugh out of him.

“I really, really like you, Bucky Barnes," you mumble into his chest.

He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of your hair, brushes his lips momentarily against the crown of your head. “Feeling’s mutual, princess.”

It starts like every fight does: with something small.

A text left on read leads to a shift in tone. Or an errand she didn’t run, or one he didn’t ask for nicely enough. The fuse was already lit, but neither of them could ever leave it at a low simmer.

“Why you always gotta say shit like that, Michael?” she snaps, pacing the living room with her phone in one hand, speaker on, while her friends sat on FaceTime on her laptop. “You don’t ask – you tell. Like I’m supposed to jump when you tell me to.”

Michael’s sigh is heavy on the other end. Too calm. Too deliberate. “Because every time I ask you to do something, you catch an attitude like you just did.”

“Because I don’t like being bossed around!” she fires back instantly, heat rising in her voice. “I’m grown. I don’t need to be managed.”

“I’m not trying to manage you. I’m trying to help you not burn yourself out–”

“Then stop acting like I don’t know how to handle my own shit!” she cuts in again, voice sharp and unwavering.

He goes quiet. Not defeated… Calculating. She knows that silence by now. It’s not retreat, it’s containment.

But her blood’s already boiling. That headstrong fire in her chest keeps pushing. “You don’t get to tell me how to do me, Michael. I don’t care how many times you think you’ve been around the block–”

He cuts her off this time. Firm. “Will you shut up for one goddamn second?”

The air shifts. Her mouth opens, then closes. No one’s ever told her to shut up like that. Not like that. It’s not cruel, not abusive. But it is authoritative. Stern and low, laced with a patience so razor-thin it could slice clean through her next sentence.

Her throat tightens. It’s instinctual, the way her pulse thuds. The silence on her end stretches for a moment too long.

“Are you done?” he asks, quieter now. More like a warning, than an actual question to be answered.

Something about his tone makes her feel cornered, like a match pressed too close to oil. So instead of backing down, she doubles down.

“Y’know what?” Her voice is cold now. “Bye.”

And just like that, she hangs up.

That’s the part she should’ve thought twice about. Because if there’s one thing Michael doesn’t do, it’s being hung up on. Not by producers, not by directors, and definitely not by her.

But in the moment, it feels like a win. She tosses her phone on the counter and exhales, shaking out her hands. Her friends are mid-FaceTime, witnessing the entire blow-up from their side of the screens – jaws agape and eyes wide.

“Whewwww.” Tati whistles, “You really hung up on him?”

“Sure did,” she says, her chin lifted. She squares her shoulders like she’s proud. Like she didn’t just pour gasoline on a lit bonfire.

Nas cackles. “You know that man is probably already on his way.”

“He can try.” Her lips twitch upward. To no one’s surprise, defiance is a badge she wears proudly. “Ain’t nobody scared of his ass.”

But less than ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. A deliberate, slow, three-count knock that sounds like it was carved out of brick.

Kris’s eyes widen on the computer screen. “Oh. My. God.”

“You better go answer that before he kicks the door in,” Tati whispers with glee, gleaming with secondhand chaos.

She squares her shoulders and stalks to the door, heart pounding, jaw tight, her phone in hand. She doesn’t even pretend to be surprised when she opens it and finds him standing there: grey sweats, black tee, jaw sharp enough to cut a diamond.

Michael doesn’t say a word. Not at first. He just glances at the phone in her hand… then at her… then steps inside like it’s his apartment. (And the way he moves, it is.)

“Hang up on them,” he says, voice steady. 

She doesn’t move.

“You heard me.” He closes the door behind him and locks it, chocolate eyes fixed his eyes on hers. “Hang up on them like you did me.”

She hesitates, lips parted like she wants to say something clever—but nothing comes.

Tati’s voice chirps faintly from the laptop on the table. “Girl…”

Michael leans in, slow, invading her space like smoke slipping under a door. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

That does it. Hurriedly, she pads over to the coffee table… and she ends the call.

He takes her phone from her gently, places it face-down on the entry table, and doesn’t look away once. Not when she shifts. Not when she swallows. Not even when she tries to stand taller, like that’ll save her.

“You got your little audience hyped. You got your last word. You done?”

“Are you?” She squeaks.

His brow ticks. “You keep pushing like you want me to remind you what happens when you act like this.”

“What, you gonna yell at me?”

He steps even closer, his voice dropping to something low and coiled. “No. I don’t yell. I don’t need to.”

She tries to keep her expression even, but her breath stutters. Because she knows exactly what he means.

He doesn’t need to raise his voice to break her down. He can do that with a look, a touch, a command whispered at the just right frequency. And the worst part is that she likes it. Loves it, actually: The challenge of pushing because she knows he’ll push back.

And still… this time feels different. He’s not playing.

“You wanna act grown, talk reckless, hang up on me? Cool. Be that girl.” His gaze narrows. “But don’t forget who you do that with.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, but he’s already closing the space between them. Backing her up until her spine hits the wall by the door. His palm braces the wall beside her head, and suddenly she feels very small.

Not in a bad way. In the way that makes her toes curl, that reminds her that for all her fire, he’s the flame that started it.

His voice is barely audible now. “You like to mouth off. You like to see how far you can take it. But now I’m here. So go ahead, baby…”

A pause.

“Talk your shit.”

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out besides a shaky breath, caught between pride and surrender.

And he smirks. A dark, knowing kind of smile. “Hm.”

She swears her heart skips a beat when he leans in just a little closer, breath brushing her cheek like a whisper lined with warning.

“You had a lot to say earlier.” His hand doesn’t touch her yet, but it’s so close it feels like it does – his palm against the wall by her head, his body radiating heat like a second skin. His tone is slow. Deliberate. Mocking. “Where’s that mouth now?”

She lifts her chin in a futile attempt at pride and tries not to blink too fast. Still bold, still standing tall, but the tension is in her shoulders now, coiled and tight.

She wants to answer. She wants to clap back and grab that smug smirk off his face and remind him she’s not scared of him.

But her tongue won’t move the way she wants it to and her pulse betrays her.

Michael watches all of it with sharp, steady eyes. His lips twitch once at the corner, smug and low. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs. Then he drops his hand and steps back, only slightly, just enough to make her feel like she can breathe again.

But the air is heavier now.

“Go ahead, run that mouth again,” he says as he steps back, “Go ahead. Tell me how independent you are. How grown you are. How you don’t need me telling you what to do.”

She doesn’t respond. Or rather, can’t. Not because she’s afraid, but because he knows exactly how to hit the spot between irritation and need. 

Between rebellion and submission.

“You don’t like being told what to do?” he asks softly, voice like black silk. “That’s too bad, baby. ‘Cause I’m not asking.”

He stops in front of her again, lifting her chin between his fingers. Not rough, but not soft either. She meets his eyes and feels her knees threaten to give.

“You think I pulled up just to argue?” he mutters. “You wanna hang up on me like I’m some random nigga? Run that mouth around in front of your friends and think I’m not gone handle it?”

She swallows hard.

“You think you grown?” he asks again, lips brushing her jaw as he leans in close. “Then act like it. Apologize.”

She blinks at him.

For a split second, she thinks about pushing back or cracking a joke. But he’s looking at her like he’ll put her through the wall if she tests him again … and not in a way she wouldn’t love.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, voice quiet.

He hums condescendingly, cupping a hand behind his ear. “Huh? I didn’t quite hear that.”

“I’m sorry.” Stronger this time but still tight-chested.

Michael’s eyes narrow, but he nods once. “Better.” Then he leans in again, closer this time, his  lips at her ear.

“But that mouth still got too much confidence,” he whispers. “So here’s what we’re gonna do.”

He reaches down, takes her hand, and laces their fingers.

“You’re gonna go to the bedroom. You’re gonna keep that same energy. And I’m gonna remind you why you don’t ever do me like that.”

She gasps – quiet and involuntary – but it’s already too late. He’s leading her down the hall, not looking back.

“You wanna be a brat?” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll give you something to cry about.”

She stumbles slightly, heart in her throat, thighs already pressing together.

The bedroom door shuts behind them with a soft click, but it may as well be a jail cell clanging shut.

Michael drops her hand the moment they cross the threshold. He doesn’t say a word – just walks toward the edge of the bed and sits down, legs spread, gaze sharp. “Take off your shorts.”

She pauses. Just for a second.

“Now.”

It slices through the air. The kind of command that doesn’t need repeating. Her fingers go straight to the waistband.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t argue. Just slides them down, revealing the soft cling of cotton panties underneath, the faint tremble in her thighs, and the defiance still flickering – nay, dying – in her eyes.

But he sees the way her chest is rising faster. Sees the goosebumps crawling up her skin even though the room’s warm.

“Come here.”

She steps forward slowly, like she’s daring him to do something.

He does.

The second she’s within reach, he grabs her wrist and yanks her over his lap. She lets out a gasp, balance thrown, hands hitting the mattress to brace herself.

“You wanna act like a brat?” he growls low, one strong arm locking across her back. “Then I’ll treat you like one.”

CRACK.

The first spank lands sharp and sudden, and she jumps. Half from pain, half from the shock of it. But doesn’t give her a second to process.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

Each one lands harder than the last. She writhes against him in his lap, biting her lip, fists clenched tight in the comforter.

“Mouth runnin’ like a faucet all night,” he mutters to no one in particular. “But now you got nothing to say?”

She gasps, trying to twist. “Michael—”

SMACK. His hand slides up her back, to the nape of her neck, pushing down just enough to pin her head down to the mattress. “What happened to all that attitude, baby?” he taunts. “What happened to all that grown shit? Huh?”

Her voice breaks. “I–fuck, I’m–”

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“You’re what?” he whispers. “You sorry? Or you just sorry you’re in trouble?”

She whimpers. And he loves it.

He yanks her up, flips her effortlessly onto her back. She lands on the mattress with a bounce, wide-eyed, breathless, thighs pressed tight together.

He climbs on top of her, knee between her legs, fisting a hand in her hair.

“You hang up on me again,” he warns, face inches from hers, “and next time, I’ll spank you in front of your little friends. You understand me?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“…Yes, Daddy.”

He crushes his mouth to hers, a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that drags the air from her lungs. His tongue slides deep, claiming, devouring, then he pulls away with a growl.

“Strip.”

She scrambles, breathless, pulling her shirt off, her panties down until she’s completely bare and her skin’s still flushed from the spanking. Her upper thighs are slick, mouth parted in something between fear and desire.

Michael sheds his clothes with a terrifying calm, like a predator uncoiling as he stalks his prey. His cock is hard, thick, already leaking. When she reaches for him, he grabs both wrists and shoves them above her head.

“Don’t you even think about touching me.”

He keeps her wrists pinned with one hand while the other trails down her body. Across her throat, between her tits, down to where she’s soaked and trembling.

“Drippin’ like this, but swore you didn’t need me,” he growls. “Independent, huh?”

She’s panting, squirming, aching, trying to roll her hips toward him.

He slaps her pussy once – just once – and she chokes on a moan.

“That mouth got you in trouble,” he murmurs, settling between her thighs. “So I’m gonna fuck it outta you.”

And then he does: one thrust, fully to the hilt. No time for her to even think of taking a breath. One hand still holding her wrists, the other gripping her hip so tight she’ll feel the bruises tomorrow. He’s talking the whole time, each word filthier than the last.

“You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m–fuck–I’m yours!”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Daddy!”

“That’s what I thought.”

He leans down, one hand wrapping around her throat, squeezing against her pulse point until she’s gasping for air. 

Her raspy moans turn into choked sobs. Her legs shake as her body thrashes beneath his, overwhelmed and unraveling.

“You wanna cum for me?” he pants, voice rough.

“Yes–please! Please, I–”

“You’re grown – earn it.”

He flips her again, face down, ass up. Doesn’t bother with any pleasantries as he buries himself back into her, pounding mercilessly with one hand tangled in her hair, the other spreading her cheeks.

“Yout better not ever hang up on me again,” he growls through clenched teeth. “And you better say thank you when I put you in your place.”

She’s babbling now, just a mess of whines, moans, broken pleas.

“Please–Daddy! Please, I can’t take it–”

“You can. You’re a big girl, right? You can do it..”

He reaches around, rubs her clit in tight, fast circles, and she screams when she cums again, her back arching, walls fluttering around him like a fucking vice.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t event slow down.

She cums again. Then again.

And by the time he spills inside her with a deep, guttural groan, she’s shaking, face buried in the sheets, crying from overstimulation, whispering “thank you” like a prayer.

—-

He doesn’t say a word at first. Just breathes heavy, catching his breath. Then he pulls out gently, and she gasps, more from the loss of contact than the pain.

He gathers her in his arms without a word and carries her to the bathroom. Sets her down in the tub while warm water washes over her legs. He grabs a cloth to wipe her face free and thighs, and pressing soft kisses to the bruises he left on her skin.

“You okay?” he murmurs against her temple, hand stroking up and down her back.

“Mhm.” She hums with a nod, still dazed. “I’m good.”

He chuckles softly. “And still hardheaded.”

She smiles weakly, nuzzling into his kiss. “Still yours though.”

—-

The next day, her thighs are still sore. Though kissed every bruise, massaged her legs in bed, cooked her breakfast like he didn’t fuck the attitude clean out of her the night before, he remembers. And he expects gratitude in silence.

So when he calls later that evening, his voice low, calm, and affectionate, and she’s got the audacity to hang up on him again?

He doesn’t call back. He doesn’t text.

He just gets in his truck and drives to her building. 

She hears the knock, knowing what (and who) it is before she even turns her head toward the door. Her stomach flips with the kind of anticipation that tastes like sin.

She opens the door, leaning against the frame. “Oh. We doing this again?” she says, arms folded.

Michael doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink. He just walks past her into the apartment, locks the door behind him, then turns. “Get on your knees.”

She raises her brows. “Michael–”

“Don’t speak.” He raises a hand to stop her interjection, stepping in close. “Not one word. You lost mouth privileges.”

Her lips part, almost reflexively, but his expression kills the thought where it stands. He’s not playing. 

She drops to her knees. And for the record, it’s not because he asks. It’s because she has to – because her body’s already aching for whatever punishment he’s been planning since she ended their call.

Michael walks behind her, then back to the front, slow like he’s circling prey. He tilts her chin up with two fingers, his voice terrifyingly gentle. “You hung up on me again.” He notes simply.

She doesn’t answer.

“After everything I gave you last night. After I made your little bratty ass cry into the sheets.” He brushes a thumb across her lips. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Her heart hammers in her chest.

“You wanna act like you don’t need me?” His zipper comes down slowly, tauntingly. “Fine.”

His cock is already hard. She reaches for it with open lips, but he grabs her wrist tight. “No hands. No talking. You just take it.”

He ushers his cock into her mouth with no preamble, filling her throat so deliciously she could cry – and she does. He doesn’t give her time to adjust; just buries himself to the hilt, one hand on the back of her head.

“There she go,” he mutters. “That mouth that wouldn’t shut up yesterday.”

He rocks his hips forward again, slow and punishing. Her throat stretches to take him, eyes fluttering with effort as she gags around him.

“You so loud when you’re on the phone.” His voice is low, like a dark wave crashing inside her skull. “But you can’t even breathe when I’m in your mouth.”

She whines around him as she tries to pull back for air.

Michael growls. “No. You asked for this.” He fists her hair tighter, holding her still as he fucks into her throat. Her eyes are glassy now, spit dripping down her chin. Her mascara is ruined, her knees are aching, but she just can’t get enough.

“Go ahead, baby. Cry on it.” He doesn’t stop or soften. “You wanted to act out. You wanted to hang up on me again.”

He pulls out just enough for her to gasp, then shoves back in again, deeper than before.

Her nails dig into her own thighs, holding herself still as her throat spasms around him. She’s choking, drooling, absolutely wrecked, and loving every second of it.

He finally pulls out, letting her collapse forward onto her hands, coughing.

“Up.”

She shudders.

“Up. On the couch. Now.”

She scrambles to obey, tears streaking her cheeks, chest heaving.

The second her knees hit the cushions, he’s behind her, yanking her leggings and panties down her thighs, spreading her wide. He spits once on her pussy then slams in with a growl that could test the strength of her couch.

“You don’t get to be smart and disobedient. Pick one.”

He fucks her silent, with each stroke heavier than the last. He’s grabbing at her neck, her hips, her wrists, pressing her face into the cushions as he makes her take it, over and over.

“I told you,” he snarls into her ear, hips snapping, “I don’t play when it comes to that phone. I don’t play when it comes to you.”

She sobs out. Choked, gasping sobs of pleasure so overwhelming her whole body trembles. She’s completely wrecked: can’t think, can’t talk. 

All she can do is take it.

And he doesn’t stop until she’s limp under him.

Later, he pulls out gently, breathing hard, and scoops her up in his arms before she can even sit up. Like last night, he carries her to the bathroom again, runs a bath, and holds her in the water until she stops trembling.

His lips brush her temple as she leans into his chest. “You okay?”

She nods faintly. Then whispers, barely audible: “…yes, Daddy.”

Michael chuckles, warm and deep.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

---

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The rain didn't stop. It didn't even slow. The clock tower was an island of rust and rot, surrounded by muddy fields and skeletal trees. For the last eight hours, the only sounds had been the rain, the occasional creak of metal, and steady rasp of Ghost's breathing.

You were cold, hungry, bored, and buzzing with a restless energy that had nowhere to go. Your spot was a crate in the corner, a good ten feet from Ghost's position by the south-facing window. It felt like a mile.

You pulled the dossier closer, the laminated pages crinkling loudly in the quiet. You turned to the photo of the target, a man named Volkov. He was a bland-looking man in a suit, but the intel said he was a mid-level arms dealer with a nasty habit of double-crossing his clients.

"Volkov," you said, your voice echoing slightly in the space. "Looks like a middle-manager who got lost on his way to a tax seminar. You think he ever contemplates his life choices, Simon?"

"Focus on the guard rotation," Ghost's voice cut through the damp air, flat and devoid of inflection. He didn't turn his head from the scope.

You sighed, letting your head loll back against the crumbling wall. "I'm just saying. He's got a wife, two kids. A golden retriever, according to this file. You think the dog knows what daddy does for a living? Maybe the retriever's the real brains of the operation."

Ghost's hand, which had been resting on the stock of his rifle, stilled. You saw it in the subtle tension of his shoulder. He was a statue of lethal intent, and you'd just thrown a pebble.

"His personal life is irrelevant," he said. "He's a target. That's all you need to know."

You smirked, a small, victorious curve of your lips he couldn't see. "Just trying to add a little humanity to the situation, LT. It's so cold up here. Might be nice to remember we're dealing with people, not just blips on a map."

He finally turned his head, just enough to pin you with a look from the dark eye hole of his mask. It was a look that could have frozen the rain outside.

"You want humanity? Go join the fucking Red Cross. You're here to be my spotter, not his biographer. Now, report."

You sighed, picking up your binoculars and peering out the north window. "North perimeter is clear. Two guards at the main gate, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. One's smoking. Sloppy."

Ghost grunted, a sound of vague acknowledgment. He turned back to his scope. The silence returned, suffocating. It lasted for about ten minutes.

You shifted again, the rusty nail you were sitting on digging into your thigh. With a groan of protest from the old wood, you stood up, stretching your arms over your head. The movement pulled your jacket tight across your chest.

"Simon," you said, your tone casual as you walked toward him. You didn't call him 'LT' this time. "You ever think about how ridiculous this is? Two highly trained soldiers, sitting in a pile of junk, waiting for one guy to do something stupid?"

"Every day," he replied, his voice flat. "It's called the job."

You stopped right beside him, close enough to smell the faint scent of gun oil. You leaned your hip against the wall next to him, your shoulder brushing his. 

"Doesn't mean I have to like it. It's boring."

He tensed at the contact. You could feel it radiating off him, a wave of irritation. "Boredom is a luxury, Sergeant. Pay attention."

"I am paying attention," you countered, your voice dropping to a challenging murmur. "I'm paying attention to you. You've been knotted up like a pretzel for hours. You need to relax."

His head snapped towards you, the skull mask a terrifying void in the dim light. He loomed over you, even with you both standing. The size of him was a wall of heat and muscle.

"My relaxation is not your concern. Your concern is the target."

You held his gaze, unflinching. You could see the storm brewing in that single dark eye. "Maybe I'm just trying to be friendly."

"I don't need a friend." He turned back to the window, dismissing you with a finality that was meant to be cutting. "I need a spotter who does her fucking job."

The sting of his words was a familiar thing. But you weren't done. You reached out and picked up the canteen sitting on the ledge beside him, a blatant invasion of his space.

"Thirsty," you announced, unscrewing the cap. "You don't mind, do you?"

You knew he did. It was his canteen. Everything in this nest was meticulously placed, part of a system you were currently gleefully dismantling. You took a long, slow drink, the sound of you swallowing loud in the quiet. You saw his jaw clench beneath the mask.

"Put it down," he ordered, his voice low and tight.

You took another sip, watching him. "It's just water, Simon. Don't be so territorial."

In a blur of motion, he moved. One hand shot out, faster than you could track, and clamped around your wrist. His grip was like iron, firm enough to stop you cold, but not enough to bruise. He twisted his hand, forcing you to release the canteen. It fell to the floor with a dull thud, water splashing onto the dirty concrete.

He didn't let go. He pulled you closer, until you were nearly chest-to-chest, your boots scuffing against the floor. He loomed over you, his masked face inches from yours.

"You want to play games, Sergeant?" he rasped. "Is that what this is? You're bored, so you're trying to get a rise out of me?"

His breath was warm against your skin. You could feel the heat of his body through his layers of gear, a stark contrast to the chill of the room. Your heart hammered in your chest, but you refused to back down. You tilted your chin up, a defiant spark in your eyes.

"Maybe I am," you whispered. "What are you going to do about it?"

For a long, agonizing moment, he just stared at you. His gaze was an assault, stripping you bare. Then, he let go of your wrist as abruptly as he'd grabbed it. He took a step back, putting distance between you, his posture rigid with control.

"You're going to sit down," he said, his voice clipped and professional again, as if the moment of raw tension had never happened. "You're going to shut your mouth. And you're going to do your job. Because if you compromise this mission with your juvenile antics, I will make sure the only thing you're ever bored with is counting the tiles in your cell. Am I clear?"

You stared at him, a thrill running down your spine that had nothing to do with fear. You'd poked the bear, and he'd shown his claws. Slowly, you bent down, picked up the canteen, and placed it back on the ledge. You didn't return to your corner. Instead, you sat down right where you were, cross-legged on the cold floor, in his space.

"Crystal clear, Lieutenant," you said, your voice soft but steady.

He let out a slow, heavy breath, the sound of a man holding onto his sanity by a thread. He didn't tell you to move. He just turned back to his scope, his broad shoulders a wall between you and the rest of the world. The rain kept falling, and the clock on the tower just kept ticking. 

The stakeout stretched into its fifteenth hour. The rain had finally eased to a miserable drizzle, but the damp had seeped into everything, chilling you to the bone. You'd been "good" for a while, as promised. You'd called out guard changes, noted vehicle movements, and kept your commentary to yourself.

But boredom was a relentless enemy.

You watched Ghost, his focus absolute. He was a machine, and it was time to throw some sand in the gears. 

You pushed yourself up from the floor, your joints aching, and sauntered over to the stack of supply crates against the far wall. You perched yourself on the very edge of one, the one with the stenciled red 'A' for ammunition.

The crate groaned under your weight. You knew he heard it.

From your pocket, you produced the combat knife. Not yours. His. You'd lifted it from his belt when he'd grabbed your wrist earlier. It was a beautiful, lethal piece of steel, and you began idly cleaning the dirt from under your fingernails with the tip.

The silence in the room changed. It went from professional quiet to charged, electric stillness.

You didn't look at him. You kept your eyes on your task, humming a low, tuneless melody that you knew would scrape against his nerves. It was a slow, obnoxious dirge that echoed in the chamber.

You felt his gaze on you before you saw him move. It was like a pressure on the side of your face. You kept humming, scraping a little harder at your nail. The knife was his, the crate was his, the silence was his, and you were violating all of it.

He moved. Not the explosive blur from before, but a deliberate unfolding of his frame. He pushed away from the window, his rifle now dangling from its strap, and stood to his full, intimidating height. He crossed the room in three long strides, his boots heavy on the concrete.

He stopped in front of you, a wall of black tactical gear and simmering anger. You finally looked up, meeting that darkeyed stare. You didn't stop humming. You just tilted your head, a picture of feigned innocence.

"Something wrong, LT?" you asked, your voice muffled as you put the tip of his knife between your teeth.

His gloved hand shot out, faster than you could react. He didn't grab the knife. He grabbed your wrist, the same one as before, his grip absolute. He pinned your hand against the rough wood of the crate. He leaned down, his masked face level with yours, the skull grinning inches from your lips.

"That's my knife," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "That's my ammo crate. And that is my fucking patience you are scraping away with your goddamn fingernails."

He wasn't shouting. That was the most terrifying part. His voice was controlled, a current of menace that made the air crackle. His body caged yours, one hand on your wrist, the other braced on the crate beside your thigh. You were trapped, and the thrill of it was dizzying.

You pulled the knife from between your teeth, your voice barely a whisper. 

"You could have just asked for it back."

His eyes narrowed. "You're a brat. You know exactly what you're doing."

"Maybe," you breathed, your heart pounding against your ribs. "Or maybe you're just too wound up. You need an outlet, Simon."

He leaned in closer. 

"You think you're an outlet? You're a distraction. A liability. And I am one second away from gagging you and tying you to a fucking chair until this op is over."

The threat should have scared you. It didn't. It sent a bolt of heat straight to your core. You swallowed hard, your gaze locked on his. "Is that a promise, Lieutenant?"

For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in those dark eyes. A crack in the armor. A hint of the storm you were trying to unleash. Then, it was gone, replaced by cold, hard resolve.

He let go of your wrist and snatched the knife from you. He straightened up, sheathing the blade with a sharp, final click. 

"Get off the crate," he ordered, his voice back to that flat, professional tone. "Go back to your corner. And don't touch my gear again."

You held his gaze for a long second, your own pulse still racing. Then, with a slow movement, you slid off the crate. You didn't go back to your corner. You walked to the window, taking up a position a few feet away from his original post, and picked up your binoculars.

"Target's vehicle just pulled into the compound," you said, your voice steady. "Volkov is out. Heading for the east building."

Ghost was back at his scope in an instant, the shift in his focus immediate. The game was over, for now. The mission had taken over. But as you watched him work, you knew you'd left a mark. The quiet in the room was different now. It wasn't just empty space anymore. It was filled with everything that had just been said, and everything that still hadn't.

You waited, the ghost of his touch still burning on your wrist, for the next opportunity to push.

The next hour passed in a tense, professional silence. You called out Volkov's movements, his meeting with two other men, and his eventual return to his vehicle. Ghost grunted acknowledgements, his focus unwavering. The brat had been locked away, replaced by the soldier. 

But as Volkov's car disappeared down the muddy track, the job was done for the time being. The immediate threat had been observed and recorded.

The silence that settled back over the clock tower was heavier than before.

Ghost finally stepped back from the scope, rolling his shoulders in a rare display of fatigue. You took the opportunity, leaning against the wall, your arms crossed over your chest.

"So, that's it?" you asked, your voice cutting through the quiet. "We just sit here for another thirty hours until we get the green light?"

"That's the op," he said, not looking at you. He was checking his rifle.

You pushed off the wall. 

"You know, I have a hard time taking orders from a man who's too scared to show his face."

His hands stilled on the rifle. He didn't turn, but his entire body went rigid. It was a subtle shift, but you'd become an expert at reading the micro-expressions of his body.

"What did you just say?" His voice was quiet, deceptively calm.

"You heard me," you pressed, taking a step closer. "You bark all these orders, expect all this respect... but you're hiding behind a mask. It's hard to take seriously. It makes me wonder if you're even a real person under there, or if you're just as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside."

That was it. The line. You watched as his control, the thing he held onto with an iron grip, finally splintered. He turned. The skull mask was a twisted, grinning horror in the dim light.

"You think this is about respect?" he growled, taking a step toward you. "You think I give a single fuck if you, a cocky little sergeant who thinks the rules don't apply to her, respects me?"

You held your ground, even as he closed the distance, looming over you. 

"I think it's about leadership. And I can't follow a ghost."

He let out a dark, humorless laugh. 

"You want to see my face, is that it? You think that'll make you obey orders?"

"I think it'd be a start," you shot back, your chin jutting out defiantly. "What's the matter, Simon? Scared I'll laugh? Or is it worse than that?"

His hand twitched, and for a second, you thought he might actually touch you. His anger was a palpable force, rolling off him in waves. His chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths.

"You have no fucking idea—" he began, but he was cut off by a sharp crackle in his earpiece. 

"Riley, this is Price. Do you copy?"

Ghost froze. He turned his head slightly, his jaw clenched. You saw the war on his face—the desire to finish this conversation with you warring with his ingrained discipline. Discipline won.

"Copy, Captain," he said, his voice suddenly devoid of all emotion.

"We've got new intel. The target's meeting a bigger fish in two hours. Location's a warehouse thirty klicks east of your position. We need eyes on it. You're mobile?"

Ghost's gaze flicked to you, a look of frustrated fury in his eye. He was being pulled away from you, forced back into the role of Lieutenant. 

"Affirmative. We're mobile."

"Good. Rendezvous at the old textile mill. We'll send coordinates. Watch your six, the area's hot. Price out."

The comms went dead. The silence in the tower was deafening. Ghost stared at you. The moment was broken, the tension shattered by the call of duty.

He moved without another word, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and starting to pack up the gear with brutal efficiency. He shoved the scope into its case with angry movements.

You watched him for a moment, your own heart still hammering. You'd pushed him, and you'd seen the rage simmering just beneath the surface. It was exhilarating and terrifying. You started to pack your own gear, the silence between you now a chasm filled with unspoken threats and promises.

As you zipped up your pack, he spoke. His voice was low, directed at the floor.

"When we get to that mill," he said, "you will be a professional soldier. You will follow my orders without question. You will not speak unless spoken to. And you will not," he finally looked up, his gaze pinning you to the spot, "mention my fucking face again. Are we clear, Sergeant?"

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. For the first time, you heard the command in his voice, not just the anger. You gave a short, sharp nod. "Clear, Lieutenant."

"Good," he grunted, turning back to his gear. "Because next time, I won't be responsible for what happens." The threat hung in the air between you, a promise of a reckoning that was just out of reach.

He was lying. You could see it in the way he moved. The way he kept his back to you for a beat longer than necessary after his gear was packed. The tension in his shoulders hadn't eased; it had coiled tighter.

You slung your own pack over your shoulder. You had one foot on the first step down when he spoke again.

"Stop."

A command, sharp and absolute. You froze, your hand on the rusted railing. You turned your head, looking back at him. He was still facing the window, his silhouette a dark shape against the grey light.

"Simon?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He moved then. It wasn't the slow, predatory advance from before. It was a blur of motion. He crossed the space between you. His hand shot out for the front of your tactical vest. He fisted the heavy material and yanked.

The air left your lungs in a gasp as you were hauled off your feet. Your boots scraped against the floor before you were lifted, your entire body suspended in the air, your face level with his. The strength in the single movement was staggering.

He slammed you backward. The impact with the large window was jarring, the glass rattling in its frame. A whimper of surprise escaped your lips as your pack was crushed between your back and the cold, damp pane.

His face was inches from yours, the skull mask a terrifying void. 

"You wanted to see my fucking face?" he snarled, his voice stripped of all its military polish. "You wanted to see what's under here?"

His free hand came up to his mask, his fingers hooking under the hem. You were still reeling, your hands flying up to claw at his arm, at his chest, trying to find purchase. His grip on your vest was unyielding, an iron shackle holding you captive.

He yanked the mask up, just enough. It wasn't a full reveal, just a teasing glimpse. The bottom half of his face was exposed. His jaw was clenched, a thick, dark stubble shadowing his skin, stark against the fabric pulled up over his nose. And his mouth... it was full, a beautiful, cruel slash in his face, twisted in a snarl.

You stopped struggling. Your breath caught in your throat. He wasn't ugly. He was the furthest thing from it. He was all harsh angles and raw masculinity, a stark contrast to the cold, inhuman mask.

And then his mouth was on yours.

It was an assault. It was punishment. His lips crushed against yours, hard and demanding, fueled by the hours of frustration you'd heaped on him. It was sloppy, all anger and barely contained rage. His stubble scraped against your upper lip, a burning, delicious friction.

You fought it for a second, your hands pushing against his chest. But his taste, the raw, masculine scent of him flooded your senses. Your resistance crumbled. A soft, involuntary moan escaped you, and your hands slid up, no longer pushing but clinging. They wrapped around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, under the edge of the mask.

The shift in your response was all the permission he needed. The kiss deepened, the anger giving way to a hungry heat. He angled his head, slanting his mouth over yours, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours. It was a filthy kiss, one that promised all the things his threats had only hinted at. He tasted of sin, and you were lost.

He finally broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. He held you there, pinned against the window, his dark eyes—those beautiful, stormy eyes—boring into yours. He was still holding his mask up, the glimpse of his face a shocking, intimate secret.

"That's what's under the mask," he rasped, his voice thick and gravelly. "That's what you get when you push me too far. Now, are you going to be a good little soldier and follow my orders? Or do I need to fuck the brat out of you right here, right now?"

Your mind was a haze of lust and adrenaline. Your body was thrumming, pressed against his, aching for more. You licked your swollen lips, tasting him there. You knew, with absolute certainty, that this was a point of no return. You could nod, agree to be his soldier, and see what happened next. Or you could keep pushing, and see if he'd make good on his threat.

A slow, wicked smile curved your lips. You let one of your hands slide down from his neck, tracing the hard muscle of his chest until you reached the front of his pants. You pressed your palm against the hard, thick length straining against the fabric.

"I think," you whispered, your voice husky, "you need to be more convincing, Lieutenant."

His eyes flashed. The corner of his mouth kicked up in a dark, feral smile that was more terrifying and more arousing than anything you'd ever seen.

"Your funeral," he growled.

He didn't give you another chance to speak. He crushed his mouth to yours again, and the world outside the rain-streaked window ceased to exist.

The kiss was a brand, searing away every coherent thought. His hand released your vest only to fist in your hair, craning your head back to give him better access. You were no longer pinned against the window; you were plastered against him, the hard lines of his body a contrast to the heat of his mouth.

He broke away with a ragged gasp, his forehead pressing against yours. His breathing was as labored as yours. 

"Down," he commanded. He didn't wait for you to obey. He used the grip in your hair to push you down, guiding you to your knees on the cold, dirty floor.

You landed with a soft thud, looking up at him. He was a dark god towering over you, the skull mask a grim reaper's visage above the exposed, sensual line of his mouth. 

"You wanted this," he snarled, his hands moving with frantic, angry precision. He ripped open the Velcro on your vest, yanking it over your head and tossing it aside. "You just couldn't fucking leave it alone, could you?"

His movements were rough, but not careless. He freed your breasts from your shirt and bra with a single, impatient tug. The cool air pebbled your skin, but you barely felt the cold.

"On your fucking knees and stay there," he ordered, his hand going to the rifle slung across his chest. He lifted it, not aiming it, but holding it with casual, terrifying ease, the barrel pointed in your general direction. It was a threat, a reminder of the power he held. "Don't move."

The message was clear: this was still a punishment. You were at his mercy, and he was going to take what he wanted. And God help you, you wanted to take it. You knelt, panting, your hands at your sides, your eyes locked on his.

He kept the rifle trained on you with one hand while the other worked at his own belt. The sound of the buckle and zipper was obscenely loud. He freed himself, his cock springing out, thick and hard and flushed a dark, angry red. He was huge, and the sight of him made your mouth water.

"Open your mouth," he commanded. "And if you think about using those teeth, I will make you regret it."

You did as you were told, your lips parting. He stepped closer, the head of his cock brushing against your lower lip. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the conflict warring in his eyes. Then, with a guttural groan, he pushed forward, sliding into your mouth.

The taste of him, salty and musky, exploded on your tongue. He was hot and heavy, filling your mouth completely. He kept the gun trained on you for a few heartbeats, a final, chilling reminder of his control. Then, as you swirled your tongue around him, his hand finally dropped the rifle. It clattered to the floor, forgotten.

His other hand flew to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair again. "Fuck," he growled, the word torn from his throat. "Look what you fucking made me do."

You hummed in response, the vibration making his hips jerk. You set to work, your head bobbing as you took him as deep as you could, your hands coming up to brace against his powerful thighs. This was no longer a punishment; it was a conquest. You were going to undo him, piece by piece.

He started to move, his hips thrusting shallowly, fucking your mouth with a growing urgency. His breathing was coming in harsh pants, the only sound over the rain on the roof. You looked up at him, meeting his intense gaze, and the look on his face—raw, unguarded pleasure—was your undoing.

He seemed to realize he was losing control. With a snarl, he pulled back, his cock slipping from your lips with an obscene pop. He tried to step back, to regain the upper hand. 

"Enough," he bit out, his voice rough.

You weren't having it. You surged forward, catching him off guard. Before he could react, you lunged up for his hand. You grabbed his wrist and yanked his gloved fingers toward your mouth, sinking your teeth into the leather and fabric over his palm.

He hissed in surprise and pain, his body going rigid. "You little—"

You bit down harder, a warning. You released him and glared up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

"Don't you dare pull away from me," you panted, your voice fierce. "You started this. You finish it."

He stared at you, his chest heaving. The skull mask made his expression unreadable, but his eyes... they were burning. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he was finally solving. Then, he did something you never expected. He laughed. It was a dark, utterly feral sound.

He yanked off his gloves, tossing them aside, and reached for you again. This time, there was no anger in his movements, only a desperate, consuming need. He hauled you to your feet and spun you around, pressing you against the window ledge once more. His hands were on your pants, roughly tugging them down over your hips.

"Too many fucking clothes," he muttered against your ear. His hands, finally bare, were hot on your skin as he shoved your pants and underwear down to your knees. The contrast of his warm, calloused palms on the cool skin of your ass made you shiver.

You reached back, your own hands fumbling with his shirt, desperate to feel him. You pulled it from his pants, your fingers sliding underneath to touch the hard, warm plane of his stomach. You felt the taut muscle there, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. The sound was pure victory.

His hand slid around your hip, between your thighs, finding you wet and ready for him. "Fuck," he breathed, his fingers sliding through your folds with a deliberate, teasing slowness that made your knees buckle. He held you up with his other arm, his body a solid wall behind you.

Just as he was about to sink a finger inside you, a sharp, static-filled crackle erupted from his discarded vest on the floor. 

"Ghost, this is Price. Do you copy? What's your status, over?"

Ghost froze, his hand still cupping you. He let out a string of profanities so low and creative they made your head spin. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

He reached over, snatching the comms unit with his free hand. "Copy, Price," he said, his voice impressively steady, if a little strained. "Just... a minor gear malfunction. We're on our way out."

"Good. Don't be late. Price out."

The line went dead. He dropped the comms unit on the pile of clothes. You felt his cock, still hard and heavy, press against your ass. He turned his head, his lips brushing your ear.

"Ten minutes," he growled, his finger finally pushing inside you. "You've got ten fucking minutes to make me forget every goddamn rule I just broke. Starting now."

His finger was thick, calloused, and utterly devastating. He curled it inside you. He added a second finger, stretching you, the slight burn quickly giving way to a deep, pulsing pleasure.

You couldn't hold back your moans. The sound echoed off the stone walls, shameless and loud. If anyone was within a mile of the tower, they would know exactly what was happening. The thought only spurred you on.

"Simon," you gasped, your head falling back against his chest. "Fuck, your fingers... they're so big."

He groaned against your back. His thumb found your clit, circling it with a pressure that had your legs trembling.

"Talk to me," he commanded, his voice a harsh whisper. "Tell me what you want."

You laughed, a breathy sound. "You want me to talk dirty, Lieutenant? You want to hear how good you're making me feel?"

"Yes," he hissed, his fingers pumping faster.

"I'm so fucking wet for you," you panted, your hips rocking back against his hand. "I've been wet for you for hours. Thinking about you pushing me up against this wall, taking what you wanted from me."

He made a choked sound, his control clearly slipping. He yanked his hand from between your legs, leaving you feeling suddenly, achingly empty. Before you could protest, he spun you around, lifting you onto the narrow window ledge. He kicked your pants and boots the rest of the way off, leaving you completely bare from the waist down.

He knelt before you, a dark, worshipful and terrifying sight. He pushed your thighs apart, his hands gripping them tightly. "I need to taste you," he growled, the words a primal declaration.

He didn't wait for an answer. He leaned in and dragged his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke. The sound that tore from your throat was obscene. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

"Fuck, you taste so good," he murmured, his voice muffled. He licked and sucked, his mouth working you with a desperate, hungry intensity. Your hands flew to his head, your fingers gripping the edge of his mask, holding him against you as you writhed on the ledge.

"Simon, please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for. More? Less? Release? "Please."

He pulled back, his chin glistening with you. He looked up, his dark eyes locking with yours. "You're going to come on my tongue," he stated, it wasn't a question. "And then I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name, let alone mine. Understand?"

You could only manage a choked nod, words shredded by the pleasure searing through you. He buried his face against you again, his tongue a hot, wet lash against your clit as his thick fingers thrust deep to replace his mouth. The obscene sounds of his fingers pumping your slick cunt, combined with the hungry slurping of his mouth, were a symphony of filth that had you crying out. His tongue was a devil, flicking and circling with a brutal precision that made your thighs shake. He wasn't just eating you out; he was fucking devouring you. This goddamn Ghost was a fucking master at it.

The pressure coiled deep in your gut, a white-hot inferno that threatened to incinerate you from the inside out. His tongue was a masterful tormentor, his fingers a relentless invasion. It was too much, it wasn't enough. You were on the edge of a precipice, and he was the only thing holding you there.

Then, he did something that shattered you completely. He reached up with his free hand, the one not buried inside you, and offered it to you. It was a gesture so startlingly intimate, so out of place in this desperate encounter, that it broke something open inside you. You stared at his hand, large and calloused, the knuckles scarred, and then you looked at his eyes, burning up at you from between your thighs.

You took it.

You laced your fingers through his, a desperate clinging grip. He squeezed back, his hand firm and grounding, a silent promise that he was there, that he had you. He was the anchor in the storm of sensation he was creating, and you hated him for it. You hated how much you needed it, how much you loved this raw, painful intimacy.

The pressure broke.

Your orgasm tore through you, a violent, seismic event that ripped a scream from your lungs. You weren't just coming, you were unraveling, every nerve ending firing at once. Your back arched, your body convulsing, and you squeezed his hand so hard you thought you might break his fingers. 

He didn't stop. He drank you down, his tongue lapping at your release as if it were the sweetest nectar. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your oversensitive flesh, pulling another, smaller wave of pleasure from your exhausted body.

When it was over, you were a boneless, panting mess, slumped against the cold glass of the window. He finally pulled back, his chin glistening, his chest heaving. He stood up slowly, his cock jutting out, impossibly hard and flushed a dark, angry red. He didn't let go of your hand. He kept his grip firm as he grabbed your hip with his other hand, pulling you to the very edge of the ledge. He was going to fuck you now, and you were going to let him, your hand still clasped in his, a silent, damning testament to the fact that you were his.

"Time's up," he rasped, lining himself up with your entrance. "Brace yourself, Sergeant."

He pushed inside you in one long, powerful thrust. The stretch was intense, a burning, full sensation that stole your breath. He was big, and he filled you completely, hitting places deep inside you that you didn't know existed. A low, guttural sound escaped your lips, your head falling back against the window.

He didn't give you time to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin loud and primal in the quiet room. His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples.

"Fuck," he groaned, his eyes fixed on where your bodies were joined. "You're so fucking tight. Squeezing my cock like this..."

You couldn't form words. The pleasure was too overwhelming. All you could do was hold on, your nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. Your mouth hung open, a string of saliva escaping to trail down your chin. You were gone, lost in the raw, animalistic way he was taking you.

He seemed to notice your state, a dark satisfaction in his eyes. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. He swallowed your moans, his tongue dueling with yours. Every time a particularly hard thrust made you cry out, he kissed you harder, silencing you and demanding everything you had.

"Can't take it, Sergeant?" he teased, his voice a rough pant against your lips. He pulled back slightly, watching your face with an intensity that was almost too much to bear. "Is my cock too much for you?"

You shook your head, your hands fisting in his shirt. "No," you managed to gasp. "Don't you dare stop."

He chuckled, a dark, sexy sound. "That's my girl," he praised. He slid one hand down to where you were joined, his thumb finding your clit again. The dual sensation of him pounding into you and his skilled fingers on your most sensitive spot was too much.

The pressure built again, faster and more intense than before. 

"Simon, I'm gonna come again," you whimpered, a warning. You'd never... you'd never done this before. Not like this.

He just smirked, that feral light back in his eyes. "Do it," he commanded. "Come all over my cock."

And you did. The orgasm ripped through you, and with it came a gush of fluid that soaked both of you. You cried out in shock and pleasure as you felt yourself gush around him, the wetness coating his thighs and the floor below.

Ghost froze, his eyes widening in surprise. He looked down, then back up at you, a look of utter, unadulterated awe on his face. "Fuck me," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You're a squirter."

Before you could feel an ounce of embarrassment, he kissed you again, a deep, filthy kiss that seemed to say he loved it. He didn't stop, didn't even slow down. He kept fucking you through your aftershocks, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate.

"Such a good fucking girl," he praised, his voice breaking. "So fucking perfect. Made a mess all over me, and I'm going to fill you up."

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself and came with a deep, shuddering groan. You felt the hot pulse of him inside you, filling you up, just as he'd promised. He stayed like that for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying to catch your breath.

Finally, he pulled out, a soft whimper escaping you at the loss. He reached down, grabbing your hand with a surprising tenderness, and helped you off the ledge. As soon as your feet touched the floor, he gently pushed you to your knees again.

"Open your mouth," he ordered softly. You obeyed, looking up at him. He took his still-hard cock in his hand and stroked it, aiming it at your face. You watched, mesmerized, as he brought himself to the edge again with a few quick tugs.

"Simon," you breathed, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.

He came with a low, drawn-out moan that was the sexiest thing you'd ever heard. Hot, thick ropes of cum splashed across your face, painting your lips, your cheeks, your forehead. He held your hand the entire time, his grip firm and grounding.

When he was spent, he looked down at you, a smug, satisfied look in his eyes. "Fuckin' beautiful," he murmured, his voice husky. He reached down, using his thumb to smear his cum across your lower lip. "Now swallow."

You did, your eyes never leaving his. He let go of your hand and stepped back, his chest still heaving. He looked around the room, at the discarded gear, the puddle on the floor, and then back at you, kneeling on the ground, covered in him. A slow, genuine smile spread across his exposed lips.

"Price is going to kill me," he said, but there was no regret in his voice. He reached down, pulling you to your feet. "Come on, Sergeant. Let's get cleaned up. We have a meeting to get to."

He finally pulled the mask all the way off, tucking it into his belt. He was just as handsome as you'd imagined, all sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, his eyes a warm, rich brown you could get lost in. He handed you your shirt, his touch lingering.

"And after the mission," he said, his voice dropping to a low, promising rumble, "we're going to finish this. Properly. In a bed. For about a week."

You smiled back, feeling a dizzying mix of satisfaction, exhaustion, and anticipation. The mission wasn't over, but you knew, without a doubt, that something fundamental had just changed between you.

"Looking forward to it, Simon," you replied.

To say the air between you was thick would be an understatement.

Inside the impala was quiet. Too quiet. It makes every sound all that much more wince-inducing. The engine purring beneath you as the wheels cut up the old country highway, rocks clinking off the bumper when the tires dip through concrete divots, the subtle humming of the heat flowing from vents that definitely need replacing. The road ahead’s only illuminated by blaring high beams, and the soft moonlight, dimmed by heavy fog. Endless rows of tall pine trees line the pavement on both sides, a constant reminder of just how impossibly long the night is going to be. 

Sam’s driving, much to your dismay. Which means silence. Tense hands gripping the steering wheel like it owes him more than a couple bands. No fingertips tapping on the wheel along to some classic rock music, or cracking jokes between guitar riffs. 

It’s times like this that you miss Dean. Really miss Dean. 

Usually, when you work with the Winchesters, it means both Winchesters. It means kicking your feet up along the spacious bench in the backseat of Baby, a blanket sprawled over your legs, as Sam and Dean bicker up front. Means stopping at the occasional gas station, the older Winchester chucking you a bag of your favourite chips, even after muttering about how he wasn’t going to get you anything. Pushing your favourite albums into the cassette player, because you just have such great taste, he says. 

Sam? Yeah. Sam’s never quite been so welcoming.

You can’t quite be sure why, not really. Because right from the moment you stepped foot into their motel room after a call from Bobby, when he told you he knew some boys who needed help—Sam had given you the cold shoulder. 

It surprised you. Bobby had warned you about exactly this, but from Dean. Insisted that Sam was intimidating, sure, but a sweetheart. 

So much for that. Because the only thing he’s done since the day you met him was scoff every time you tried to add to the conversation, or bristle if, God forbid, you so much as breathe a little too close.

It’s annoying. Very annoying.

Sure, maybe it doesn’t help that you picked up on his indifference right away, and decided that you wouldn’t just sit back and take it. But hey. He started it. 

Though, unfortunately for you, Dean managed to bust his ankle on their last hunt. So when Ellen handed over a file at the roadhouse, some group of werewolves terrorizing Iowa, you only got the pleasure of joining one Winchester on the hunt, while Dean heals up on Bobby’s couch. Lucky you. 

Sam was very instant that you immediately started your trek back to Bobby’s before the last silver bullet was even lodged in that final werewolves chest. Sure, maybe he’d had excuses—‘Bobby shouldn’t have to babysit’, or ‘we should skip town before the bodies get cold’. But you’re smart enough to know the real reason. 

You both know just how hard it is to breathe when you’re close. 

So now, you sit in the passenger’s seat of the Impala, legs crossed tight, one over the other. Adrenaline’s still pumping through your veins like a powerful drug, sweat still drying on your skin. Dean’s box of cassette tapes lies open on your lap as you shine a little flashlight over it, the one you keep in your pocket for nights just like these. You rummage through just about every mullet-rock hit in history; needing something, anything, just to break that God-awful silence.

Sam’s jaw tightens even further with an almost audible tick, his knuckles near white around the steering wheel. He spares a glance over at you: taking in the way your knee bounces in your seat, the tremor in your fingers shuffling through tapes, the way you worry your lip between your teeth, that familiar mixture of annoyance and irritation visible in his eyes. You almost comment on it. Almost. Say something snarky like ‘you’re not as subtle as you think you are’. Instead? You bite your tongue.

You can tell he’s trying to focus on the road ahead. He really is. His expression is still mostly cool, or maybe a shitty attempt at aloof, but it’s clear he’s struggling to put up with your presence. It’s scoff worthy, really. The way his eyes linger on your fingers like that shake pisses him off, or he doesn’t believe you deserve to touch anything remotely his.

Finally, he breaks the silence with a tense huff. 

“What’re you looking for?”

You raise a brow at his tone, tilting your head towards him, his lips pursed into a tight line. The question itself? Innocent. It’s all in the way he says it. Sharp, gruff, like it was ripped from his chest. It would be comical if it wasn’t so… annoying. Your eyes practically roll themselves. Because of course, even after a hunt, the man is still going for the jugular with that bitter scoff.

“Something decent,” you shrug, trying to keep your own voice even. Uninterested. You don’t even spare him another glance, not when you know he’s grinding his teeth. “Metallica. Maybe some Skynyrd. Better than that Celine Dion crap.”

A dig? Maybe. You’ve seen the kind of music he listens to. And you can’t deny the way that low rumble of irritation he lets out isn’t incredibly satisfying. No matter how much it gets on your nerves, sometimes—only sometimes—you love how easy it is to push his buttons, to rile him up. Especially when it’s his childish scoff that started everything.

“Maybe I like Celine Dion,” he retorts, the words bitten out between clenched teeth. You swear if the man tensed his jaw any further, he’d chip a damn tooth.

He keeps his eyes on the road, practically refusing to look at you, as you pluck out a tape between two fingers, ‘Ride the Lightning’, before shoving it in the cassette player. 

“Mhm. ‘Course you do,” you tease, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice, just as the familiar strains of Metallica echo through the impala. Sam’s thumb presses into the steering wheel, just for one vexing second, a muscle in his forearm jumping (not that you’re looking, or anything), and you have to forcefully ignore the way your pulse skips. Christ.

He doesn’t say anything else. Something you both despise, and are immensely grateful for. 

Spending the last couple days with him? Absolute torture.

Not even because of the bickering, or his constant questioning of your skill (though, that definitely irks the hell out of you), but also? The goddamn proximity. 

For nearly a week, it’s been driving you up the wall. Sitting in the passenger seat while he drives. Researching lore across the library table. Bumping into him when you’re picking a lock, or feeling his breath on the back of your neck while you’re caught in a tight space. Sleeping less than five goddamn feet away from him, because of course, the motel you were staying in only had one room available. You’re just lucky it was a double. 

So yeah. Maybe you’re going a little stir-crazy. You shift in your seat for what has to be the hundredth time since you climbed into the impala, drumming your fingertips on your denim covered thighs. Antsy doesn’t even begin to cover how you’re feeling, especially when your body won’t stop buzzing like you’re still mid-hunt. And that silence between you? Yeah. It certainly doesn’t help. Not even when there’s a guitar solo shredding through the speakers. 

“…How far out are we?” you ask after a moment, cracking your knuckles, lips pursed in a tight line.

“Almost two hundred miles,” Sam mutters simply, eyes flicking to you for half a second. Just long enough to catch the way your fingers tap, the restless shift of your hips. He notices. He always does.

He clears his throat quick, adjusting his grip on the wheel. Grounding himself. Or, maybe just regaining circulation, ‘cause that fist he had curled around it looked damn-near painful.

“Should hit Bobby’s by midnight. Assuming you don’t ask for another piss break,” he rasps, voice still tight as ever, like he has the world’s longest stick up his ass. You scoff. “…And stop moving so much. You’re making me antsy.”

You almost let out a very overdramatic sound at that, but you manage to shove it down. Sam responds only by leaning forward, turning up the volume like Metallica will drown out everything else. And Christ, at this rate? You can only hope it does.

Sitting on the cool leather seat of the impala is already uncomfortable enough, especially when there’s someone who very clearly hates you is sitting a foot away, body heat radiating off of him like a furnace. Adding that to the tense proximity, your buzzing veins, and that remaining post-hunt energy that you can’t quite squash? You’re surprised you haven’t already lost your fuckin’ mind. 

You need a comfortable bed. A drink (or five). Someone to show you a good goddamn time. Maybe all three.

You tap your foot on the floor mat once, twice, earning you another pissed off glance. The dam breaks.

“Can’t we just… I don’t know. Find a motel for the night?” you snap, cracking another knuckle, and you shift uncomfortably. “Or a dive. Something.”

The look he gives you then is far more scrutinizing than the previous, which is impressive, honestly, and you can’t decide if that just makes you bristle, or fuels your restlessness. His jaw clenches, again, just as he takes a breath like he just can’t believe how well you’re getting under his skin. Like in his mind, every little move you make is just designed to push his buttons. 

“Bobby is expecting us. And so’s Dean,” he says gruffly, in that stupidly-deep voice that makes something in your chest tighten. Your hand instinctively moves to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose. He doesn’t even let you reply before he’s speaking again, raising two fingers on the wheel like he’s prematurely willing you to just shut up. “We’re not stopping.”

Great. Just great. 

You can’t decide if you should groan or punch him at that, so you land on simply shooting daggers at him with your eyes: then sighing when he remains unaffected. 

“It’s ten o’clock, Sam,” you deadpan, tilting your head towards him, and you have to try very hard not to focus on the way his adam’s apple bobs. You tell yourself it’s the proximity. Or, God, it’s just ‘cause you’re antsy. It has to be, because you hate him. Obviously.

“…One’s old, the others hurt. They’re probably asleep, or four beers deep.”

Sam grits his teeth hard enough to make his temples ache, but still, he doesn’t respond to you right away. Why? Because you’re right, and you both know it. Your argument is logical, and logical just makes him mad when it comes out of your smart mouth. That tension on his face makes the corner of your lips twitch.

“You’re impossible,” he retorts after a moment, clearly the most reasonable response he could muster—words laced with far more venom than necessary.

“Oh, I’m impossible?” you laugh, half caught in a scoff, and he finally turns his head towards you for a single moment, just to glare. His voice dips low, sharp as a knife’s edge. 

“Yeah. You.”

Oh God.

He should not be allowed to look at you like that. Not now. Not when you’re already flushed and restless, with hips that can’t quite stop shifting, and a stomach that flips every time his voice comes out as a growl. Because Christ, this is Sam. The man who hates you. The man you hate. So why the hell does that look set your entire nervous system on fire?

His eyes flick back to the road as quickly as he turned, and he swallows down that irritation, visibly, that muscle in his throat leaping again, which certainly doesn’t help your situation. His expression is still tight. Eyes narrowed. Neck shiny with drying sweat. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a quick flash of pink, probably unintentional. So fast you could’ve missed it, but, um. 

Yeah. You don’t. 

Maybe you’re staring. Just a little. You tell yourself you’re just trying to mentally blow his head off or something, but c’mon now. The truth is only becoming more and more obvious (and overwhelming) with each subtle shift of your hips, every time you squeeze that pulse between your thighs. Sam, to his credit, doesn’t say anything: but he sure as hell notices that look. Those movements. You know he does, because his next breath comes more… shaky. Deeper than before. He continues avoiding your gaze like the plague, but now? The air in the impala feels impossibly heavier.

You half expect him to argue further. Maybe throw out another smart remark about getting back on schedule, or Dean needing him. Part of you almost hopes he will, just to listen to the way he snarls out the words with all that Sam-Winchester-bite. But all words seem to die in his throat the moment you shift again, your now-clammy hands sliding over your thighs like that’s supposed to be subtle.

He clears his throat.

“You can’t stop squirming for five damn minutes, can you?” he remarks, sudden, voice gruff. And oh, doesn’t he just shift in his own seat as he says it. 

Interesting.

“And you can’t shut that big fuckin’ mouth,” you bark, that tenstion between the two of you pulled tight enough to snap, and Sam nearly chokes on air.

 He doesn’t look at you. Can’t.

Because if he does, he might just say something stupid. Something like this is all your fault: which sounds like a twelve year old, and that won’t fix the way his pulse is hammering in his throat so fast you can almost see it. 

His fingers flex against the leather of the steering wheel, knuckles going white, and you hate the way the veins in his hands make your mouth water. The music still pounds through the speakers, Metallica screaming about fire. But all either of you can hear is the way your hips shuffle against the seat as you try to force yourself comfortable, or that shaky cough that escapes his throat as he attempts to stifle every less than innocent thought swirling through his head. But God, you can see it. You’re both losing.

Badly.

Sam doesn’t even speak when his hand jerks on the wheel, right hand shifting the impala fast enough to make you surge forward a fraction. Tires hum against asphalt as he pulls onto the shoulder of the highway, slamming the car into park. 

Oh. 

“Hey,” you fume, brows pinching tight, your eyes flickering back to him, but still: he doesn’t look at you. Not yet. “What’re you—”

“Shut up,” Sam growls, but for once? It’s not sharp. It’s just low. Rough. That thrill it sends up your spine is completely involuntary. 

He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he kills the engine, plunging the car into sudden silence, besides the ticking of cooling metal, and the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in those dark trees. The impala idles off, headlights cutting a narrow path into the night. Shadows pool around his face in a way that sends a shock through your system; sharp jaw, heavy brows pulled in concentration… or something else. Something deeper.

Finally, he turns his head. Slowly. Those eyes catch yours, hazel tint almost lost in just how dark his gaze holds. Like they’re just burning with something he’s been trying to shove down for damn days.

“Get in the back.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command.

For being a strong, independent hunter, it’s stupid how quickly those words kill any coherent thought you could’ve conjured up. Your brain stutters for a beat, a beat far too long for your liking, your thighs squeezing together subconsciously. And… yeah. He definitely saw that.

“…What?”

“You heard me,” he says, voice dropping even lower, quieter now, like he’s fighting himself with every word. His eyes never leave yours. But now, the fire in them isn’t anger. It’s hunger. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

And fuck, if it doesn’t just look like part of him is already regretting this. And yet? He doesn’t take it back. It’s too late. That dam is cracking.

“I can’t even think when you’re sitting there. Moving like that. Like you’re tryin’ to drive me crazy.” His thumb flexes on the wheel again, just once, before he releases it entirely. “So pick a side. Either sit there and behave, or get in the back and let me take care of it.”

Just like that? Your brain short circuits entirely.

Now that he’s looking at you, really looking at you, you can take him in. That slight flush on his skin. Those dilated pupils. The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips (so it wasn’t your imagination), or the way his gaze flicks to your mouth, before he has to force himself back to your eyes. Like looking anywhere else is physically painful. 

You want to argue. To tell him he can’t order you around like he owns you. But… that tone. The way he’s looking at you. The fact that you’re wound so tight, you feel like one good vibration from the impalas purr could send you over the edge. 

So yeah. Your self control? Worn thin. So thin, in fact, that your trembling hand is pulling open the door handle before either of you can get another word in.

The second your thighs hit the cool leather of the long bench in the back, that door clicking shut, Sam’s following.

He moves fast, long legs barely hitting the pavement below before his fingers curl around the door handle. Shadows cling to his broad form as he yanks open the other back door and slides in after you, shutting it with a firm thud that rocks the entire car, sealing both of you into darkness.

The air is suffocating now. Charged. The only light comes from a sliver of the moon breaking over tall pine trees, catching in his eyes as he faces you, his breathing just a touch too uneven. Still, he doesn’t move to touch you. Not yet. Not even when you push your legs up onto the seat, knees bent, your back pressed tight to the door behind you. Instead, he braces one back on the cool leather next to your shoulder, caging you in without quite crossing that invisible line. You’re half surprised he can fit with the way he’s knelt over.

“…You want me to take care of it? Make you feel better?” he taunts, lip curling up in a smirk that’s all too smug for your liking. “Shut you up?”

The glare you send his way does absolutely nothing to stifle that expression, and it’s just as infuriating as it is fucking hot. You almost feel like you can’t breathe. Not when he’s so close. Not when the small space makes him feel bigger somehow, and all the primal part of your brain wants is for him to absolutely ruin you. Fortunately, you still have some fight left. Enough to not answer him right away, until he continues. “Say it.”

Well, fuck.

“…Yes,” you huff, tone almost defiant, and all you earn in response is an eyebrow raise. 

“Yes… what?”

“Sam. Fuck off,” you warn, reaching for him, like you’re going to grab his collar, and just shake some sense into him—but he bats your hand away. Bastard. You almost fucking whine. “…Goddammit. Just… touch me, Sam. Take—take care of me. I need it.”

And oh God, the second your voice drops into that raw, almost breathless whisper? Every last ounce of Sam’s control snaps.

He surges forward in one fluid motion, one hand slipping from the seat to cup your jaw, the other sliding back to tangle in your hair. His touch is firm and urgent, bordering on rough, the force of his mouth tilting your neck back until the crown of your head thumps against the window. His lips move quick, hot, demanding against yours, and fucking Christ, it’s electric. 

The kiss isn’t gentle. Not at all. It’s all hunger and pent up tension finally breaking free after months of glares and snark and stolen glances in the rearview mirror. His tongue sweeps against yours in wet laps like he’s trying to swallow you whole, claim you, make you his. He breaks apart just long enough to drag air into his lungs, being sure to nip your lip on the pull back.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he murmurs, voice absolutely wrecked, and you barely get to hum before he’s back on you. 

Sam kisses like he argues. Intense, sharp, and pushy, like he just has to win. A deep groan rumbles in his chest as he leans into you harder, leather creaking beneath your shifted weight. You can feel it, that sound, right down to your goddamn bones, sending shockwaves of need so heavy that you have to wiggle your hips to sate some of that agonizing pressure between your thighs. 

Of course, Sam sees it. Feels it, maybe, you can’t be sure. But either way, one big man paw slips away from your jaw just to press down on your hip, effectively pinning you to the seat below. Your little protesting whine only fuels him further, the deep laugh vibrating against your lips telling you everything you need to know. 

His thumb presses into the curve of your body like he’s trying to leave a bruise, anchoring you against him as he rolls his hips forward, just once, giving you exactly what you’re silently begging for for a single heavenly second. That little bit of contact is fire. Quick, rough, and definitely deliberate. Your head falls back in a silent plea, and he breaks the kiss with a broken gasp, lips trailing hot and hungry down your throat.

And oh, is it ever good. His teeth scrape over sensitive skin, surely leaving a mark, before smoothing it over with a wet drag of that broad tongue. Your back bows, your body’s cry for more, but you’re stopped by a sharp bite.

“Stop squirming,” he breathes, voice dark, damn-near trembling. “You wanted relief? You’re gonna earn it.”

…Right. If you weren’t fucking soaking already, it’s that comment that would make you drip. You laugh, choked, a little lost in a sound far too blissful for how little he’s given you. “Don’t be mean,”  you complain, like it’s some stupid joke.

But then his grip on your hip tightens. His fingers in your hair fist, hard, a warning tug, just as he starts to suck just below your pulse point.

Oh.

Not a joke. 

“Sam…” you whisper, cheeks burning now, but God, he only presses closer. So close that you can feel every hard plane of his body over yours, close enough to feel the way his muscles are pulled taut. He’s teasing you, you know he is, one hand drifting from your hip to your lower belly, fingers splaying over soft skin, pressing just hard enough to leave indents in your flesh.

You don’t know what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. Rough. caging you into the seat like he owns you. He’s supposed to be the sweet Winchester, the gentle one. But hey, those rules never quite applied to you, did they? 

But it doesn’t quite make you want to submit. No, it makes you want to test. 

Your hips buck against him then, just as he’s smushing messy kisses over your jaw, and the groan you receive in response tells you he’s feeling this just as much as you are. 

His lips are damn near bruising. Sucking, biting, licking, grazing every sensitive part of your neck like he just knew they were there. Apparently, though, he’s running a damn strict program, because he does not let that little grind slide. 

“You’ve got no damn patience, do you?” he provokes, teeth grazing your collarbone, and he finally pops the button of your jeans open with nimble fingers.

“I’m not particularly known for it, no,” you tease, but your smirk dies into parted lips when his thick fingers drag your zipper down, slow, like he’s relishing in that sound it makes in the quiet car. He lifts his head just to watch your face, and fuck, you know you must be a… sight.

Pupils blown, lips swollen from his harsh kisses, breath coming in short, desperate pulls. The moonlight shining on the sweat that’s certainly beading at your temples, burning flush creeping down your chest, disappearing beneath your shirt.

His hand slips inside your jeans, palm pressing flat against your fabric-covered mound first, warm like a brand. You can’t help it. You twitch, just once, and the sound that escapes with your sigh is almost a whimper.

“Shh…” he croons, fingers moving in a smooth circle just above where you really want him. And when your back bows, pressing into his touch? He stops. Completely. “Stay still.”

You blink once, twice, your brows pulling together in a pathetic attempt at a scowl. He only laughs.

“You move again, and I stop,” he adds, and you get that sudden urge to strangle him again—but you’re far too afraid that he’s telling the truth. 

You force yourself still, his hand moving again, cupping the heat radiating from your core through soaked panties, letting out nothing but a breathless: “bossy.”

Sam lets out a low, dark chuckle at that, more of a vibration than a sound, and he dips his face low again. Not quite close enough to kiss, but close enough that every breath brushes your lips.

“Bossy?” he mocks, fingers finally sliding beneath the waistband of your panties, and holy fuck, you damn-near shudder. “You have no idea how bossy I can be.”

One long finger slips through your slick folds, slow and teasing, spreading that wetness, before applying a whisper of pressure over your clit for one blinding second. He watches your face like he’s cataloging every expression, every twitch, before adding another finger just to stare at the way your arousal coats the digits. 

“You hate me, but I get you pretty fuckin’ wet, don’t I?” he teases, and you don’t even get through the first syllable of the string of insults your brain conjures up before he’s stuffing two fingers right to the hilt. No resistance, just a slick stretch, your head smacking against the window all over again.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, the heel of his palm teasing your clit, before he pulls back. Maddeningly slow, stretching you with deliberate control, all while staring at the way your cunt sucks in his fingers like you’re made for him. You know he’s doing it on purpose, those slow movements. All manufactured to rile you up. Make you push against him, so he can scold you.

And God, you hate that it’s working.

He starts to move, pumping those thick fingers so beautifully, your pussy fluttering to accommodate him. The sounds are obscene, wet, gushing, and you can tell he’s getting off on every one, licking his lips like he’s just dying to taste it. His thumb finds your clit as his fingers plunge deep, circling with sharp, relentless precision while his knuckles curl just right, the pads of his fingers brushing that spot that makes your vision go white. 

Apparently, Sam Winchester knows what the hell he’s doing. Because even moving at a fucking snails pace (Jesus, you could just about punch him), he’s still making your eyes roll back. Curling those perfect fingers deep in your core, circling your clit with just enough pressure, stealing wet kisses across your neck every time a whimper slides through your lips. 

It’s torturous, and he knows it. You want to move. To fuck yourself on his hand, so goddamn bad, but you’re smart enough to know how that will go. And oh, is he ever mean about it. Keeping up the slow pumps. Holding you there, but not further. Lips brushing yours, but not really kissing.

“…You want it faster? You wanna come, baby?” he coos, combined with a slow thrust, and holy-fucking-hell, your entire body damn near explodes. You’ve never nodded so fast in your life. “Then earn it. You’re gonna stay still, ‘n take what I give you. Got it?”

Your eyes pinch shut for one humiliating second, because you want absolutely nothing more than to push harder. To give him a piece of your mind. But that’s kinda hard when he’s fucking you dumb with those big hands that haunt your fantasies. “Mm… uh-huh. Fuck, yes.”

“Good,” he murmurs against your ear, and the way his voice breaks exposes how his control is slipping. “So goddamn good. Just for me.”

And just like that, finally, he starts to thrust those fingers faster. A real rhythm builds: deep thrusts paired with firm swirls over your sensitive bud, each motion just designed to take you apart. He watches in near silence besides those quick pants, puffing over your cheek, taking in every little sound you provide, relishing in the way your cunt sucks him in.

He curls his fingers perfectly, a warning, or maybe a promise, letting out one breathy groan as he leans down to bite over your pulse point. He keeps those digits stuffed deep inside, moving just his knuckles now, swirling circles right over that spongy spot and holy fuck you see stars—

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, head tilting back again, hands trembling at your sides, because goddamn the pressure in your lower belly is building, and it’s building fast. “Sam, ‘m—oh, I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.”

His free hand clamps down on your hip, holding you still just as you try to buck up towards him, his fingers curling deep. His thumb presses hard in one sudden, firm circle that damn near pushes you over the edge, then… he stops.

Entirely.

“W-what?”

He pulls back just enough to watch your face, your breath caught, body trembling, and smirks. Dark. Dangerous.

You want to slap it right off his face.

“You come when I say,” he rasps, before starting again. Back to slow. Torturous. Long digits dragging through slick heat, teasing every sensitive inch, but avoiding those spots that make your vision go white. Deliberately. “Be good.”

“You’re… you’re mean,” you complain, tone bitter, but you break off into a whimper when he pinches your clit with a stupid little laugh. “F-fuck you, Winchester.”

“Mm.” Sam’s fingers still, again, buried to the last knuckle inside your sweet pussy, thumb just barely grazing your clit like it’s an afterthought. His lips ghost over yours, like he’s going to kiss you: but of course, he fucking doesn’t. 

“Getting to that.”

Another slow drag. Out… then back in. Barely even thrusting now, just toying with your sopping cunt like it’s his to play with. But then he lifts his head. Eyes lock on yours, and there’s barely any hazel left at all.

“You want to come so bad?” he growls, jaw twitching when your walls pulse around him. “Beg for it.”

There’s a moment there where you genuinely don’t know if you’re going to try to kill him, or kiss him, but the moment his lips brush yours again, all your instincts scream at you to chase them. Like your body has become your own goddamn worst enemy. And just to make things worse? You can feel your vision starting to blur. 

“Beg?” you repeat, like it’s just about the most insane thing you’ve ever heard. You’re about to laugh when he presses on your clit, giving you a look. One that says don’t test me.

So what do you do?

Fucking test him.

“Make me.”

Something in his eyes flickers. Dark. Hungry. Almost possessive. Not something you’ve ever seen from him, and damn if it isn’t just exhilarating. Like you’ve flipped a switch you didn’t even know was there. “Fine.”

He pulls back slowly, too slowly, just to pump back in with two rough thrusts that make your back arch off the seat. They curl deep and drag across that sweet spot like it’s some punishment, thumb slamming down on your clit at the same time, firm, no mercy now. He brings you right to the brink, of course he does, before pulling out his fingers completely with a slick pop.

The sound you let out is half a growl, half a whine, and it’s fucking loud. If your eyes weren’t glassy before, they sure as hell are now, your body just buzzing with frustration, with need. But then his free hand is on his belt, tugging it open, and your eyes blow wide.

Oh. 

Okay, then.

His eyes never leave yours as he shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough, freeing himself, cock thick and heavy against his stomach.

Listen. You knew Sam was a big guy. You’re not blind. And yeah, you felt it when he ground his hips down against your thigh. But—what the fuck?

He strokes himself once, slow like he’s teasing himself, using your arousal to coat his length, and you’ve just got to stare. No one should be allowed to have a pretty cock, and yet? Here he is. You start to shimmy down your jeans until they’re slid onto the floor, all shame gone now, because holy hell. You’re only human. His thumb swipes over his thick, pink tip to glisten it with pre-come, and your breath hitches like you just can’t help it.

“Wanted to test me, baby?” he murmurs, barely even to you, like he’s already losing himself. “Gonna make sure you’re feelin’ me for fucking days.”

He grabs your hips again, hard, yanking you towards him with those massive (and very talented) hands until you’re mostly-reclined on the bench seat, head just barely propped up by the door. His fingers dig into your ass as one hand hooks behind your knee, lifting it high over his thigh, opening you up like it’s a goddamn command.

There’s no teasing now, no hesitation. He just parts your folds with that bulbous tip, then slides in one deep, relentless thrust that bottoms out in one smooth motion. His fat cock stretches you so perfectly around him as he groans low in his throat, that blinding combination of pleasure-pain exploding in your core. His forehead drops against your shoulder, bangs tickling your sensitive skin, just as your nails dig into the muscle of his back.

He waits, just for a beat, until your pussy stops fluttering around him like you just can’t take it, and he pulls back to lock eyes with you. Checking without words. And when all he sees is your completely lust-clouded expression? He grins. Actually grins, like he’s not stuffing you to the brim. Cocky asshole.

Then he pulls back. Just to snap in again. Harder. 

You’re so tight around him. So hot. He grits his teeth as he sinks into your cunt, hitting impossibly deeper this time, hips rolling forward with that same relentless force. And when you whine, blissed out, stupidly high-pitched? Yeah. It just about undoes him.

Because God, he doesn’t hold back. He pulls almost all the way out, just that thick cock-head working you open, just to slam back in again with a groan that sounds like it was torn from his chest, a sharp ‘ah!’ ripped from your own. He pushes your shirt up over your breasts, exposing soft skin, staring down at you like he can’t get enough. 

“You—” he chokes on the word between thrusts, pelvis slapping hard against your thighs, the car no doubt rocking beneath you. His hair falls over his forehead, messy and skewed, and you want nothing more than to tangle your fingers in it. “—Fucking knew what you were getting yourself into.”

And, well. To his credit? Yeah. You did. Doesn’t stop you from turning into a fucked-dumb puddle anyways, moans and mewls slipping from your lips with every brutal thrust. Those tears that didn’t spill earlier still don’t fall, but they pool in the corners of your vision like a damn threat. It’s like he’s consuming you whole, like you can’t tell where you end and he begins, and it’s fucking glorious.

“This is what you wanted, huh? Shifting—fuck—shifting around in your seat,” he grits, and fuck, his cock is just as mean as he is, slamming against your sweet spot with that delicious curve that damn-near has you drooling. “Shoulda’ bent you over the goddamn hood. Fucked you where anyone could see. You’d like that, yeah? Wouldn’t you? Bet you’d really beg for it.”

“S-Sam—ah,” you choke, nails digging into his flesh, barely able to form a coherent thought with just how quick he’s fucking you into the leather. 

You can’t even try rolling your hips to meet his thrusts, because he’s moving so damn fast, not to mention the way he’s holding you down. Not even just with his hands, now, but his body, heavy and solid, pressing you into the seat with every harsh drag. All you can do is take it, everything he’ll give you. And oh boy, aren’t you just fucking greedy for it. 

One of his hands slides up your body, threading right back into your hair, gripping tight. He tilts your head back with quiet force, exposing the curve of your throat, licking and sucking over marks that are already starting to purple.

“C’mon, baby… gonna give me what I want?” he murmurs, sharp, nipping your jaw, but you’re too far gone to even whimper. 

His hips don’t stop, can’t stop, each thrust deeper than the last. Slamming into you so hard that you’re almost sure his tip has kissed your cervix more than once. Your arousal is coating your thighs, no doubt dripping into the seat (Dean might just kill you later), leaving a hot pool beneath you. The impala creaks, rocks, windows fogged to all hell now, leather moaning just like you do.

But when you simply cry out instead of answering him? Instead of obeying?

He slows. Just slightly.

Just enough so you really feel him. Every ridge. Every vein. Every thick inch sliding through your slick walls, maddeningly perfect, before picking it back up right at the edge of cruelty. 

“Beg,” He snarls, louder this time, coupled by a pinch to your sensitive inner thigh that makes you gasp. “Or I’ll fuck you just like this, all night—and won’t let you come.”

It’s growled out like a threat and a promise wrapped in one, and apparently, your body doesn’t know the difference between being chased by a werewolf, and Sam threatening to ruin another orgasm; because holy hell, does your pulse ever pick up. You’re shaking. Your body rocks against the seat with every brutal thrust. Your vision is glassy, your throat growing tight.

So as humiliating as it is?

You give in.

“Sam, please.”

He stills completely for a single moment, buried deep, his pelvis pressed tight against your mound. Like he didn’t quite expect you to comply, but goddamn, does it ever destroy him.

A low, rough sound rumbles from his chest, not quite a groan, not far off from a growl. He pulls back slowly again, which only makes you even more frustrated, the heavy drag making your toes curl, before he slams right back to the hilt without warning, a broken cry tumbling from your throat.

“Please?” He mocks, voice dark, thick as honey but still so goddamn harsh. He does it again, one ruthless thrust after another, each one teetering you closer and closer to the edge of pure bliss. “That’s—fuck. That’s all I get? Please?”

His hand in your hair tightens, another warning tug that goes straight to your core.

“That’s not begging, sweetheart. That’s whining. You want me to make you come?” His breath ghosts over your lips, hot and perfect. “Say it like you mean it.”

You can’t even tell if you’re really damn mad at him or not, because all of your senses have been fucked into oblivion. All that remains is your body entirely pliant beneath his, pussy practically gushing around his cock with just how soaked you are. 

The next moan that escapes your lips is broken. Why? 

Because those glassy eyes? Yeah. Not just glassy anymore. You squeeze them shut, completely consumed by overwhelming pleasure, lust, frustration, white-hot need, so much that your body just doesn’t know what to do with it all.

So: you break.

“Sam please. Please, I need it,” you beg, finally, and your cheeks heat up because Jesus your voice sounds so goddamn wrecked. “I—fuck, need to come. Need it s’fucking bad, please please please—”

A tear falls before you can catch it. Just one, sliding down your temple as your pleads break off into a sob. And oh God, Sam lets out a broken sound of his own, something between a groan and your name—and he gives in, too.

His mouth crashes onto yours, swallowing down every whimper, every plea, just as he gives you fucking everything. No more teasing, no more restraint. His hand returns to your hip with deep, desperate, perfectly timed thrusts that drive you higher and higher with each stroke. His thumb returns to your clit, firm, urgent. But now? He’s not just pushing. He’s giving. 

“That’s it,” he breathes against your lips. “Come f’me.”

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly your body gives in to the command.

The first pulse hits, white-hot and fucking perfect, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Like all that frustration, all that tension, all that adrenaline explodes at once through blinding shocks of pure ecstasy. Your cunt squeezes him tight, sopping-wet arousal no-doubt dripping onto the leather below. Your thighs shake, tears fall, sobs spilling into his mouth as wave after wave tears through you. 

But for crying out fucking loud, Sam doesn’t stop. Can’t.

He barely even eases up, his own breathing ragged, like seeing you fall apart chips away at whatever bit of restraint he was holding onto (if any was left). “One more,” he whispers, voice barely even audible against your lips. “Gimme one more.”

“Oh, holy—mmph, I can’t—”

“You can,” he encourages, voice dipping low again. But instead of being bitter like before? It’s full of something almost sweet. Something like awe.

Your body is still recovering from the shockwaves of pure pleasure when he drives you right back there with that perfect cock and those talented fingers. More waves. Double the intensity. Every single nerve in your body is set alight, every sound slipping from your lips entirely incoherent.

“So—so pretty when you beg, baby. When you come,” he drawls, completely drunk on the feeling of your cunt pulsing around him.

Sam feels it, all of it. The way your pussy squeezes him like you’re trying to milk him dry, how you sob into his mouth between euphoric gasps, the way your thighs tremble so hard he has to hold them open just to keep fucking you through it.

“That’s a girl… fuck—!” he chokes, broken off in a sound that holy fuck you’ll never get out of your head, one that’ll be the centre of all your goddamn fantasies from here on out. It’s feral, almost animalistic, burying himself to the hilt just one more time before pulling out. Hot ropes of come paint your stomach, your thighs, his forehead dripping to your shoulder, riding out those aftershocks through sloppy kisses to your collarbone, his fingers digging into your flesh.

There’s a few long moments where neither of you move. Neither of you want to move. He’s still half-hard against your thigh, both of you breathing ragged like you just ran a goddamn marathon.

But then he pulls back. Slow, so slow, like he’s worried he’ll startle you. His hand slides from your hip up your side, slow but sure, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until he reaches your cheek. He brushes those tear tracks with a sweet tenderness that sends a whole new kind of shock through your system.

Because this is Sam. Sam isn’t supposed to be like this. He’s not supposed to be soft. 

And yet, when he speaks again? You’re not sure you’ve ever felt more soothed. 

“Hey,” he whispers, honey-sweet, still thick with lingering arousal. Not once, in all the time that you’ve known him, have you experienced the infamous Sam-Winchester-puppy-dog-eyes. But right then? Holy shit. Makes you understand everything you’ve been warned about. 

He leans in close, nose brushing your cheek, and the way your eyes flutter closed is entirely involuntary. He peppers kisses everywhere he can reach. Your temples, your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth, until finally—your lips. But it’s not heated, or hungry like before. No, it’s fucking gentle. 

Huh. 

And when he pulls back to look at you again, there’s no ounce of that familiar irritation in his eyes. No anger, or doubt, or control. Just care.

“You okay? Not… too much? Not hurtin’?” he questions, thumbs pressing into your thighs, though it’s not possessive anymore. Almost like a massage, or a caress, an involuntary sigh escaping your lips as you nod. He hums. “Okay.”

You never would’ve expected so much goddamn reverence as he cleans you up slow. Dragging a clean cloth over your stomach, your thighs, your oversensitive skin. Whispering sweet praises when you wince, pressing soft kisses when you hiss. And when he’s done, he holds you close, breathing you in, dropping one last kiss to your neck, before:

“…I, uh. I think we should book a motel.”

AN: Hello! I feel like my posting schedule is all messed up, oops. I wanted to do one a week, but that doesn’t seem to be working…

I can’t decide if I like this or not, so I’m gonna leave that decision up to you guys, lol! Also also… another Metallica reference in the title. Can you guys guess what kind of music I like? (PS: No shade to Celine Dion. Sorry.)