🐇

You smile to yourself. The act coming from a place of slight amusement. It was like routine with Dex, when you close the door, he'll pretend he needs something from the other side — make up some kind of ruse in order for you to open it. 

Making your way to his side of the bed, you look inside his nightstand drawer for the charger that's almost always there, though it isn't. The neatly segregated contents void of the charger he claims he needs to collect. And so you adjust the towel still wrapped around you and sit yourself down at the edge of the bed. You glance to the near empty nightstand and to the door, and it's then you decide to toy with him for a moment.

"I'll pass it to you, one second," you tease. You pretend to search and tap your feet on the floor; remaining in place so as to give the illusion you were actually looking. "It's not in here."

"Well," he sighs, seemingly panicking for an excuse. "It is."

"Where is it?" you question, playfully provoking him. "I'll get it."

"Can I just come in?" he remarks, growing annoyance clear in his tone. "I'll be quick," he adds, voice far softer — like he was prompt to correct himself.

You give him a hum in response, but it doesn't have to be particularly loud for him to hear it. All he needs is the slightest possible confirmation in order to open the door. And like it was an instant invitation, he pushes it open and steps inside. 

He lingers in the door frame for a moment, eyes falling from the exposed expanse of your shoulders and down to your bare legs. His gaze reluctantly pulls away for a quick moment and to the kitchen behind him, the hot pans on the stove reminding him of where his prior attention was. Though he's thankful to have been ahead with forethought, and it's when he finally hears the pans reduce to a quiet, inconsistent sizzle, he steps further into the room.

Your eyes meet his, peered up gaze following his stalk like movements as he grows closer and closer. And it's then that he halts, big broad frame pausing in front of you — intense hazel eyes cast down on you below. You were fine playing with him between a closed door, fine to tease when he didn't face you; but to have him directly ahead of you, watchful gaze locked on you, you no longer felt that same sense to toy with him like you did before.

His eyes lower and focus in on your lap for a moment. And it's then his head tilts aside, like you were supposed to know what it means. 

Though you do and you give him a small nod. Again, it was all he needed. 

He bends at the knee and lowers, movement slow and controlled. He's far closer to the level of your eyes, but still, it feels like he's looking down upon you. Dex places his palms on either of your thighs, hands spread wide as he guides your legs apart — separating you. 

The placement of his thumbs lower on either side of your thighs, the pads itching along the inners of each with faint little circles he draws into your skin. He sits further onto the heels of his feet, and it's then he looks up at you, eyes heavy as they study the growing want in your face. 

His gaze soon diverts from you, though yours remains on him — watching him intently as he dips between your thighs, face turning aside so he can press his lips to the inners of one. Breath hot as his mouth ghosts your skin. The trail of his lips rises higher and higher and in it's place, a litter of kisses are left behind. 

Your head involuntarily falls back, and the rest of you then follows. You adjust and push yourself further up the bed, scooching back so as to kindly make some space for Dex between you. He moves with you, lips remaining in place at the inner of your thigh like his mouth is fused to your skin.

Getting comfortable betwixt your thighs, he rests on his elbows — face subsequently itching in closer to your cunt. He shifts his weight a moment, arms coming up from their placement at the edge of the bed to wrap around you; arms encompassing your lower hips. His fingers paw at the squish of your inner thighs, pads sort of pulsing your skin as he pries your legs further apart.

He's slow and teasing. Like he's making you wait the way you did him a few moments before. But really, he's only taunting himself. 

Nuzzling inwards, he presses a kiss to crease of your inner thigh, and then another and another, though the more that follow, the closer they get to your cunt. And by the fourth, maybe fifth kiss he sears into you, his lips reach the ones of your pussy.

Your stomach shudders as a direct response to his touch and it's when you feel your back lift from the sheets, that your hands shoot down and for his hair. Bending your legs, you lift your feet and place them at the edge of the mattress. You hook them, heels digging into that rimmed cuff as an effort to fix yourself more comfortably.

He presses another kiss to you, but this time, slightly higher than the one before. His lips reach your clit and it's there he resumes a small series of faint, and just as lengthy kisses — each one making your thighs beside his head twitch from the gentle care. His tongue extends outwards and he licks a stripe from the middle of your cunt, to where his lips remain just below the mound of your clit.

And he repeats that — doing so over and over and over until all that coats your cunt is a slight sheen of his spit. Before long, those licks turn into suckles; mouth moving deliberately in one spot, focus honed in on where you're most sensitive. Your clit.

With his grip still encompassed over the uppers of your thighs, he adjusts you within his grasp — angling and tilting your hips so as to better nuzzle his face between. You too reposition; altering the placement of your legs so they can trail down the length of his back, the behinds of your thighs pressing into his shoulders, the heels of your feet hooked at his sides.

It's as if you've inadvertently entrapped him, caged him between your thighs. But he's quick to return the gesture — quick to ensure he's just as trapped as you'd involuntarily made him. 

Dex's hold withdraws from your thighs and instead roams upwards, hands flat, thumbs leading the way as he runs up the sides of you, movement slow and intentional. He pauses when he reaches your tits, and it's then that he cups them; holding each nice and firm as he uses them as a way to anchor himself to you. To keep you exactly as is.

His tongue curls between your folds, the once flat muscle now pointed and deliberate as he pushes it through your pussy's lips — pressure slight, yet apparent as it divides you. While his touch is light, your body processes it as anything but, and as the tip of his tongue knocks up against your clit, you jerk against him. Hips winding and bucking a couple times against his face like you had no control over it.

Your nails rake across his scalp, fingers pushing through his hair just moments before you grab fistfuls on either side. While it was an effort of control on your side, it only encourages him, it simply eggs him on to have you respond in such a distinct and albeit, forceful way. 

But there's only so much direct pleasure you can take, especially when his mouth is so concentrated on your nub of nerves. And when he begins to tweak your nipples between thumb and index, you find yourself eager to scamper from the gratification he brings you. 

The height within you hasn't yet been located, but with every lick and suck and kiss he presses into your cunt, you feel yourself aimlessly creeping closer and closer towards it. Though it begins to teeter into too much and your hips shudder against his tongue as a means to escape from the bottomless pit of pleasure.

He doesn't let you far, not when his grip tightens around you.

"No," he murmurs into you, the word muffled yet firm — voice reverberating against your cunt. "Stay."

But as much as you try, you just can't. You react instinctively, body responding through lack of self-control, and it's in the following moment where you feel yourself reach that edge. 

You feel it harsh and fast. 

Your back curves from the sheets as you cry out, panting out nonsensically as he continues to tongue fuck you through it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you choke out, voice strained. Desperate. 

If you thought it felt too much before, you were surely mistaken; just blatantly erroneous. You make attempts to rid him from you — weakened hands pushing at his head, though it's no use, not when he further secures his grasp around you. 

"Keep still."

"Fuck," you whine. It's just shy of a mewl.

But when you really, seriously, genuinely try to flee, he lets up. He releases your shaking shuddering body and slowly stands, emerging from between your thighs. 

Dex leans over you, hands either side of you for support as he lowers atop, face itching in for yours. 

"Dinner's in fifteen," he hums against your lips, the taste of you on his tongue slight.

Even with his mouth ghosting yours, he neglects to press a kiss. Instead he pushes himself away from your bare body below and stands over you. His eyes trail over you a moment before he covers you with the towel that had fallen open from those ten-some minutes of tongue fucking. 

His absence grows larger, and as he heads for the door, he pauses — turning slightly to look back at you. Features stern, sort of like a warning. 

He taps at the door, head tilting so as to firm his expression.

"This stays open."

⎯ ☆ ⎯

You looked at him again, he laid shirtless in bed, cuffed to the sides. Fresh gauze, alcohol, cotton, a medical stapler and tape sat on the crate beside you, just in case you needed them, which was very likely. They had patched the worst of the wounds before leaving, but the bandages on his side were already seeping again.

You didn’t want to be here. Matt had asked you because he trusted you, an old friend who’d survived Fisk’s wrath once before.—The bald bastard had tried to get you killed, after all— and because Karen had tried to put a bullet in Pointdexter’s head the moment they dragged him in.

To be honest, a part of you, a dark, whispering part, wanted Dex awake and mobile. Wanted him to walk out of here and finish the job Matt refused to fucking do.

But it’s not a matter of what you want.

With a sigh, you made your way to him with the gauze, cotton, alcohol and tape in hand, kneeling next to him on the bed. Your eyes flickered to him, making sure he was still out before daring to touch him. You peeled back the old dressing on his side as carefully as you could. His skin was fever-warm, muscles sculpted even in unconsciousness, marred by fresh bruises and the ugly gunshot wound. You used the cotton and alcohol to wipe him clean again, and then pressed clean gauze over the wound, securing it with tape, trying not to think about how still he was. You tried very hard not to think about how dangerous even this version of him felt, the man could kill people with anything, literally anything.

His hand snapped up without warning.

Fingers locked around your wrist, yanking your hand up against his chest. His eyes flew open, sharp, pale, instantly focused despite the pain. It was an intense stare that pinned you where you knelt beside the bed, it was scary. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to bruise, but there was no escaping his grip.

“You’re not Karen,” he rasped, voice rough from disuse and pain. A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, it was honestly a little unsettling. “Good. She’d have finished the job by now.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You didn’t pull away immediately. “Let go.”

He didn’t, of course. His thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist, almost curious, feeling your pulse racing under his fingers. “You’re playing nurse for the man who killed your friends’ buddy.” His eyes flicked over your face, reading you. “Matt’s idea?”

“Yeah.” Your voice stayed steady even as heat crawled up your neck. “He had to take Karen somewhere else, you know, before she actually shot you.”

“Smart. She’s got fire. You’re different.” He tilted his head against the thin pillow, still looking up at you like you were the only thing in the room worth focusing on, not that there was much else. The cuffs clinked softly as he tested them without real effort. “And you’ve got that look. You've got your own deal. I’m sure you’ve got a motive of your own to keep me alive.”

You swallowed. The temptation was there again, thick and ugly. All it took was one set of keys to unlock the cuffs. He could slip out, disappear into the city, and do what Matt won’t: end Fisk.

Fisk who sent men to drag you into an alley and put two bullets in your torso because you asked the wrong questions.

You’re tempted to reach for the keys, but Matt’s words echoed right after: killing Fisk now would only make him a martyr. Create ten more Fisk’s in his place.

You hated how reasonable it sounded. You hated how much you still wanted the other, less morally correct option.

“I’m here to keep you alive until Matt gets back,” you said quietly. “That’s the plan.”

His smile widened by degrees until it was a quiet, knowing thing. He loosened his hold on your wrist, though his hand remained heavy against your skin. He sat up with a stifled groan, the movement stiff and careful, you watched his expression tighten, knowing exactly how much those staples must be pulling at his side.

“You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes. Part of you wants me walking out that door, part of you is wondering what I’d do to Fisk if I did.” He licked his dry lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before returning. “I’m good at finishing things. Ask Foggy.”

The name hit you like a slap. You twisted your wrist free from his grip, standing up fast. Your hand hovered near the gun at your hip. “Don’t.”

“You know I could take him out.”

“You won’t.”

Dex watched you, calm as ever, even while restrained, bleeding, unarmed and in a clear disadvantage. “Why not? You know what he is. What he almost did to you.” His voice softened, almost gentle. It was fucking eerie coming from someone who holds no regard for feelings. “I’m still balancing the scales. You could help tip them.”

“Who told you about that?”

“I know Fisk tried to get you killed in an alley like a dog that needed to be put down, and I know you’re not happy about that.” He kept talking, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to taunt you or if he’s acknowledging what you went through when no one else seemed to be able to.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” he debated, rightfully so. “I know he sent his men to kill you, your friends know this too, and yet, the man responsible for it is walking around still, free and as the mayor. And… What are your friends doing? Nothing”.

“Don’t.” You tried interrupting him, but he kept going. The gift that keeps on giving.

“They won’t deal with him themselves, and they won’t let me deal with him either—“

“Stop it,” You said, more firmly this time. Without realizing it, your body leaned forward, one knee bending onto the edge of the mattress as you hovered over him, drawn in by his words despite yourself.

“—Which means that your friends are doing nothing to avenge you, you almost got killed and they did nothing.”

“Shut up!” You finally gave in to his provocations and had a reaction, which is what he probably wanted. Your voice came out sharper than intended, breathier, the space between you now dangerously small.

The air felt too thick. You could hear your own breathing, could see the way his chest rose and fell right beneath you, the hard line of muscle leading down to his v line, covered by his sweatpants.

He noticed where your eyes went and tilted his head, shifting his hips deliberately.

That made you draw the gun at him.

“Enough.” The barrel leveled at his chest. “Not another word.”

Dex’s eyes flicked up to yours again. That slow, crooked smile returned, the bastard was having fun despite everything. “You’re not gonna shoot me,”

You kept the gun steady, still leaning over him, hovering close enough that the heat of his body rose up to meet you. You had no intention of pulling the trigger, this is not the way you did things, but the weight of the gun felt necessary.

You held his gaze. He looked up at you from the bed, that intense, unblinking stare locking onto yours, with slightly parted lips, eyes dark and focused only on you. The silence stretched, thick and dangerous.

One twist of the key… Let him go. Let him finish it. The thought slithered back in, hot and treacherous, twisting right alongside the sharp awareness of how close you were to him, with your knee planted on the mattress, body leaning over his, gun steady between you. His warmth radiated up through the thin space that remained. You could smell the faint copper of blood, sweat, and something darker underneath.

Your eyes betrayed you. They dropped.

He was hard. Painfully, obviously hard beneath the thin gray sweats, the thick outline straining against the fabric as he sat upright on the bed, using his strong arms to steady himself, legs slightly spread.

You scoffed, half-shocked. “Seriously?”

Dex followed your gaze. For two full seconds his face flickered, genuine mortification flashing across those sharp, blood-crusted features. His ears went pink.

“You’re very close, and I’m still a man,” he said, voice low and rough, almost apologetic for that split second before the smugness crept back in.

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A weird man, yes. Who gets hard when someone points a gun at him?”

He tilted his head, that unsettling little smile returning even as his breathing grew heavier. Oh.

“Guess so.” His tongue slowly wet his lower lip. “Yet I’m not getting slapped… So what does that say about you?”

“Shut up.”

Oh, that got him smirking.

The gun stayed pointed at his chest, your finger nowhere near the trigger. Your eyes kept flicking down despite yourself. You kept noticing how the thin gray sweats tented obscenely, how the thick, heavy line of his cock strained against the fabric, a small wet spot already darkening the material right at the head.

Dex didn’t look away from your face. His breathing had deepened, each inhale pulling at the fresh bandages you’d just taped down. The cuffs rattled faintly as he tested them again, not hard enough to break free, but enough that the metal bit into his wrists. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second, then back up, pupils blown wide and dark.

“You’re not gonna shoot me,” he said again, quieter this time. “And you’re not gonna walk away either. Not with the way you’re looking at me.”

Your free hand moved before you could stop it. You fisted your fingers in his short hair at the nape of his neck and yanked his head back sharply, exposing the long line of his throat. A low, involuntary sound escaped him— not quite a groan, but close— his Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes stayed locked on yours, pupils flaring even wider at the rough treatment. He didn’t fight it. If anything, his hips shifted forward a fraction, cock twitching visibly in the sweats.

“Tell me to stop,” you said, voice low and steady, searching his face.

The moral storm still raged in your chest: Matt’s trust, Karen’s grief, Fisk’s smug face while his men dragged you. But right now, with Dex’s pulse hammering under your grip and the way he was staring at you,, it all felt distant.

Dex’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip again. His stare never wavered. “Don’t stop.”

The words were simple. No hesitation.

You leaned in and crushed your mouth to his, he was already meeting you halfway.

The kiss was messy, desperate, teeth clashing because he surged up to meet you as much as the cuffs and his injuries allowed. His lips were a little dry from dehydration and blood, but he kissed like he was starving, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against yours with surprising heat. The kiss tasted like the metallic taste of blood mixed with salt and something unmistakably him. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue as he instinctively tried to raise his hands to touch you. The cuffs clinked hard against the sides of the bed frame, metal biting into skin, but he didn’t stop pulling, didn’t stop chasing your mouth.

You tugged his hair harder, tilting his head exactly how you wanted, and he let you, melted into it with another low, hungry noise. His cock jumped against the fabric, hips rolling up in a helpless little thrust that made the sweats stretch obscenely.

When you finally broke the kiss for air, a thin string of spit connected your lips for a second before breaking. His eyes were half-lidded, lips shiny and swollen, that unsettling little smile gone, replaced by raw want.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. His gaze flicked down to where your knee was still planted on the mattress between his spread thighs, then back up to your mouth. “Do that again.”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you holstered the gun—not trusting yourself with it anymore— and climbed fully onto the bed, straddling his lap. The moment your weight settled over his hips, his cock pressed hot and rigid against your core through the layers of clothing. He hissed through his teeth, head staying upright as his hips bucked up once, grinding into you with surprising force for someone cuffed and bleeding.

You shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy and thick against his lower belly, flushed dark, the head already slick with pre-cum that beaded at the slit and dripped down the shaft. He was big, longer than you expected, with a slight upward curve and a thick vein running along the underside.

Your hand wrapped around him without preamble, but you didn’t stroke him properly. Not yet. You kept your grip loose and torturously slow, sliding your palm from root to tip in long, dragging pulls, thumb barely grazing the sensitive head each time. Every time his hips twitched up chasing more friction, you eased off just enough to deny him the pleasure.

Dex’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering but staying locked on your face. His pupils were huge, dark, and when you gave one particularly slow twist around the head, smearing pre-cum everywhere before pulling your hand almost all the way off, a low, wrecked sound escaped him. He loved it. The denial, the suffering. You could see it in the way his abs clenched, in the desperate little jerks of his hips that he couldn’t fully control.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear as you edged him again, stroking just fast enough to make his cock throb in your fist before slowing to a crawl. “This is what you get for taunting me,” you whispered, voice rough. “For knowing exactly what I want and dangling it in front of me.”

He didn’t beg. He just stared at your lips, hungry and unblinking, chest heaving. When you squeezed tighter on the upstroke and then stopped completely, letting his cock twitch uselessly in the air, his wrists yanked hard at the cuffs on either side of him. The metal rattled violently against the bed frame, but he couldn’t reach you. He couldn’t touch your thighs, couldn’t grab your hips. All he could do was take it, sitting upright, muscles straining, cock leaking steadily over your fingers.

“Fuck… yeah,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost reverent. His gaze never left your mouth. “Keep going. Just like that.”

You stroked him again, faster this time, fist gliding slick and tight until his thighs started to tremble and his breathing turned ragged, and then you stopped, pulling your hand away entirely. His cock bobbed angrily against his stomach, flushed and dripping, and Dex let out a shaky exhale, head tilting back slightly before snapping forward again to watch you.

The moral battle roared back louder than ever while you tortured him like this. Matt had asked you to keep Dex alive— locked up, controlled— so he wouldn’t kill Fisk and turn the bastard into a martyr. Karen wanted him dead for Foggy, her hands already stained enough by Wesley. And you… you wanted Fisk gone more than almost anything. The alley, the bullets tearing through you, the fear… it still woke you up some nights. Dex would do it. You knew it in your bones. If you uncuffed him right now and whispered the words, he’d walk out of here and end Wilson Fisk without a second thought.

He’d love it. He’d do it for the sport, for the balance, and maybe— just maybe—a little for you.

But Matt’s voice echoed in your head: I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever. And you knew he was right. Killing Fisk now would only create ten more monsters in his place.

Still, with Dex sitting there cuffed to the sides of the bed, cock throbbing in your hand, eyes dark with want and that eerie calm acceptance… The temptation to just let him go afterward was thicker than ever.

You gave him one more slow, punishing stroke—tight, twisting, dragging your thumb hard over the leaking slit— then stopped again, watching his face twist with frustrated pleasure.

“Enough,” you finally growled, voice breaking with your own need. You stripped your pants and underwear off in one rough motion, kicking them aside. Then you climbed back over him properly, lining his cock up with your entrance. You were soaked, already embarrassingly wet from the power, the wrongness, the sheer intensity of edging him while he sat there helpless and loving every second of it.

You sank down onto him in one slow, relentless slide.

The stretch burned in the best way, his thick cock splitting you open as you took every inch. Dex’s head stayed upright, eyes rolling back for a second as a guttural groan ripped from his chest. “So fucking tight— Jesus Christ.”

You bottomed out with a moan, hips flush against his. For a moment you just sat there, letting yourself adjust, feeling him throb deep inside you while he remained sitting, cuffed hands useless at his sides. Then, when it stopped being too much, you started moving, slow, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.

His hands were useless, cuffed tight to the sides of the bed, so all he could do was take it. Take every roll of your hips, every clench of your pussy around him. His abs flexed with every thrust, the bandages on his side darkening further, but he didn’t care. He just stared up at you with raw hunger, lips parted, occasionally bucking up to meet you when he could, the cuffs rattling with each desperate pull.

You braced one hand on his sweat-slick chest, the other fisting his short hair again as you started riding him in earnest. Slow at first, then faster with deep, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged every thick inch of his cock along your walls, the wet squelch of your soaked pussy swallowing him obscenely loud in the quiet room.

That should’ve sobered you up, it didn’t.

Dex stayed sitting upright, cuffed hands useless at his sides, but he didn’t stay passive. Every time you leaned closer, chasing the friction on your clit against his pelvis, he craned his neck forward with a low, hungry sound. His lips found your throat, hot and open-mouthed, sucking messy marks into the skin just below your jaw while his tongue dragged greedily along your pulse point. When you slammed down taking him to the hilt, he groaned against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue.

“Fuck- so wet,” he rasped between kisses, voice wrecked and rough, lips brushing your collarbone as you rode him faster. “Can feel you dripping down… squeezing me so fucking tight every time you sink down.”

His hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes as much as the pain and cuffs allowed, the motion limited but forceful, driving his cock deeper with every thrust. The cuffs rattled violently against the sides of the bed with each desperate yank, metal biting into his wrists, veins standing out along his forearms as he strained uselessly to touch you. He wanted to grab your hips, to pull you down harder, to feel your skin under his palms so badly that his fingers curled into tight fists, tugging harder every time your pussy clenched around him.

You ground down in tight circles, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you with every roll, your clit rubbing slick and insistent against the base of his shaft. Dex’s head tilted, lips latching onto the side of your neck again, sucking hard as a broken grunt vibrated against your skin. His breath came in hot, ragged pants between each messy kiss, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat.

“Harder,” he muttered against your throat, the word half-command, half-plea, but he didn’t beg, just kept staring up at you with those blown pupils whenever you pulled back enough to meet his gaze. Another violent tug at the cuffs made the bed frame creak as you bounced on his cock, the wet slap of your ass meeting his thighs growing louder, filthier.

Your walls fluttered around his thick length, the stretch burning so good as you took him deeper, feeling every vein and ridge as you rode him without mercy. Dex’s abs clenched visibly under your palm, and he groaned louder when you traced them with your fingers, mouth chasing your neck again, licking a broad stripe up the column of your throat before biting down lightly, hips stuttering up to fuck into you from below.

The pleasure coiled tighter, your pussy gripping him like a vice with every downstroke, slick sounds echoing as you slammed yourself onto his cock over and over. Dex’s breathing turned into shallow, desperate grunts against your skin, his cock twitching and pulsing hot inside you, the head nudging your cervix with every brutal grind.

When you came, it hit like a freight train. A good one. Your pussy clamping down rhythmically around his throbbing cock, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you ground down hard, riding out every pulsing wave while your nails dug into his chest.

Dex followed right after with a low, “Fuck—”, his hips jerking up as much as he could, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled thick, hot ropes of cum, flooding your pussy while he stayed sitting upright, lips pressed open-mouthed against your neck through the whole thing.

The room fell quiet except for your shared, ragged breathing.

You stayed there for a long moment, still impaled on his softening cock, both of you slick with sweat and cum and a little blood from his reopened wounds. Your fingers loosened in his hair, stroking through the short strands almost gently now.

Dex’s eyes were half-closed, but he was still watching you, only that now that intense, pale stare had softened just a fraction by the afterglow. His voice, when it came, was rough and quiet.

“…You still gonna keep me locked up?”

You didn’t answer right away. The moral storm was already creeping back in, quieter now, but still there. Matt’s request. Karen’s rage. Fisk still breathing.

But the way Dex had looked at you when he said “don’t stop,” the way he’d yanked at those cuffs like he’d die if he couldn’t touch you… you knew one thing for certain.

He would do it if you asked, he’d walk out of here and put a bullet in Fisk’s head without blinking.

you don’t even realize you’re doing it at first. the way your lips part, your eyes dropping to his hands like they’re something you shouldn’t want this bad. something you’re trying not to think about. but dex notices. of course he does. he always notices. the way your breathing shifts, the way you hover just a second too long before finally reaching for him. fingers brushing his like you’re asking without saying it. and he lets you. lets you take his thumb into your mouth slow, deliberate. watching the way your lashes flutter as you sink down around him.

“that’s it, bunny.” his voice is low, rough, but softer underneath it, something that only shows when it’s you. and when your teeth graze just a little, just enough to make him tense, his hand comes up to your jaw, steady, grounding. “careful, sweetgirl.” but he doesn’t pull away. not when you do it again, softer this time, like you’re trying to soothe something inside you that only he can reach.

he exhales low, eyes locked on your mouth like he can’t look anywhere else. like he’s already imagining fucking you all stupid and silly. your fingers tighten around his wrist and it only makes it worse. only makes him want to see how far you’ll go. how badly you need it. and when you look up at him like that, lips still wrapped around him, all soft and dazed, like you don’t even realize what you’re doing to him, he almost loses it right there. thumb pressing deeper as his voice drops, quieter now, more dangerous. “yeah. just like that. keep going. i’ve got you.”

You return to the shared apartment expecting to find Dex cleaning his gear at the kitchen table or rummaging in the kitchen. Instead, the place is silent. Dex had left earlier, saying he had something to handle alone, but he’d be back later for date night. Now, the oven clock’s green digits blink 5:30 at you. Which technically isn’t too late, and while you’re aware Dex is capable of handling himself, a frown tugs across your lips.

An uneasy hour slips by with no word from Dex. Finally, you allow the worry to win. You call him twice, only hearing the hollow click of voicemail both times. You send a string of texts, unable to hide the urgency. Yet no response comes from him.

Waiting grows unbearable. You grab your things and head out to find Dex. The city offers no clues or whispers about Bullseye or Dex. The loud AVTF agents at every corner say nothing about him. When your phone vibrates, hope flares, then dies. It's just Matt checking if you're still coming tonight. You concede knowing that if Dex wanted to be found, you would have gotten to him by now, so instead you decide to help Matt.

Imagine the surprise when you’re at one of Kingpin's warehouses, and you turn the corner, only to face your (missing) boyfriend’s muscled back.

His dark blue suit stretches tight while he slams an agent to the ground, said agent already a casualty of Bullseye. You spot him first, giving you the advantage. Irritation flares in your chest, fueling more adrenaline.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He turns quickly, flames igniting around his forest colored irises at the sight of you, “What am I doing here? What are you doing here? You working with Murdock, behind my back, now?”

“It wouldn’t have been behind your back if you had picked up the fucking phone today!” You drive the butt of a knife hard into the ground. A loud thud marks its flight toward Dex’s face. He blocks it with his own knife, but you seize that moment to fling a second blade, barely grazing his suit. It only leaves a paper cut like sting on his skin.

“Are you serious right now?” His growls as he stalks toward you. Each powerful step sets your heart pounding. He’s all unleashed tension, muscles rippling like water, and the heat in his gaze nearly knocks you off balance. But before he can reach you, another voice cuts through the moment.

“Could you two please continue this lovers' quarrel after we’ve made it out of here?” Matt shouts, his voice strained as he takes down an AVTF agent.

Neither of you wavers. The space between you crackles with electric tension, fierce eye contact holding you both hostage. Your face tightens into a deep scowl before you stomp away, energy thrumming painfully in your veins.

It doesn’t take long for you to see Dex again. On your way to the meetup location, you find him. A terrifyingly serene figure in the chaos that unfolds around him.

Something metal bounces around, pinging off of different points, before it finds its resting spot in someone’s skull. Multiple agents simultaneously fall like dominoes as Dex’s small blades spin through the air. His movements remain unrushed, precise, and controlled.

A flame of desire flares in you as you watch his sharp eyes zero in on his target. You love watching him calculate the right angle for the weapon's trajectory. The act never fails to leave your breath a little heavy and knees a little weak.

An agent that had somehow missed the full reign of Bullseye stands up, aims his gun directly at Dex’s head, his hand tenses seconds from pulling the trigger, but nothing happens.

In a split second, before you even realize it, you’ve already neutralized the agent. As your eyelids flutter shut from the warm spray hitting your face, the unmistakable coppery tang of blood floods your mouth. When you open them, the world freezes, each second dragging while Dex’s blood-hungry gaze takes in the sight of you. Standing there, weapon in hand, covered in the blood of a random agent, all for him. All because you cared for him, you had dirtied yourself up for him.

Black pupils swallow his irises until they’re nothing but tiny circles, all while his chest heaves from his breathing amping into heavy pulls. In mere moments, his broad body is in your space. Immediately, everything fades from your brain.

Dex pulls the lower half of his mask up to his nose with a large, veined hand. Pale, scarred skin stands out against his deep blue suit. He grabs your jaw with the same hand, immobilizing you. While his tongue wets his lips, your gaze follows the movement.

“You killed that agent.” The huskiness sends a pulse through you.

“I’m aware. He had a gun pointed at your head.”

“I would have dealt with it.”

“Yeah, but I did it for you.” There’s no condescending tone, no annoyance between the lines, just blatant devotion to your man.

Dex’s eyes get glossy in a way you’ve seen many times before. It’s different than the murderous gaze he gives his opponents or the look of disinterest he wears in public. It’s vulnerability, bare and electric, a look usually confined to your apartment. Now, surrounded by chaos, it feels like a dizzying, overwhelming confession, leaving you breathless.

“You just killed someone for me.”

“I’d do it again.” At your words, long fingers dig into your face.

He bends, getting his face level to yours. Then drags his hot, damp tongue across your blood-stained skin, drawing a moan from you as your eyes roll back. He repeats until the blood’s gone, then slips his tongue between your lips. The thick mixture of his spit and the blood he’d collected slides from his tongue, settling heavily on yours.

Pulling back just enough to see your mouth, he whispers. “Swallow it.”

You follow his command with ease, even showing off your empty mouth afterward. His smile grows sinister from your display. In that moment, you become aware of how wet you are as another wave of arousal washes over you. Dex readjusts his balacalva, gently taps your jaw, then continues to the rendezvous point like nothing had just transpired. Taking a moment to compose yourself, you wait for your knees to stop shaking before you follow after him.

​

After what feels like forever, you’re back at the apartment. Dex stands with his back pressed firmly against the front door, visibly vibrating, with an ever-growing tent forming in his pants. His eyes, blown out again, peer at you from below his brows. A blush has spread across his cheeks and over the tips of his ears. Sandy blonde hair clings to his forehead from sweat, while some locs spike in retaliation from being in the balaclava all night. You don’t look much better than him. Pupils blown, a flush on your face, thighs clenching together, and you bite on your bottom lip, waiting in anticipation. You shift slightly, the feeling of his gaze becoming too much for you to handle in your current state.

Dex charges first. Your body reacts before your brain catches up. You take large strides backward into your bedroom, keeping the space between the two of you. Dex wasn’t usually too rough a lover, but tonight, tonight felt different. Maybe it was the way his frenzied eyes screamed out to the animalistic part of your brain, or maybe it was the way his smile had looked just slightly off all night.

He trudges into the bedroom after you. The walls rattle from the door slamming behind him.

“You were very mean to me today.”

“Me? You weren’t answering your phone. I was worried that something could have happened to you, and I had no way of knowing. But sure, I was mean.”

Acting like you hadn’t said anything, he continues, “Not only did you go behind my back to do something, but with Matt Murdock of all people? And of all days, too, it’s almost like it was on purpose.”

You ignore him, not wanting to entertain his delusions. He continues lecturing during his approach. You ease backward toward the other side of the bed.

“Then, when you do see me, you slice me open,” He shrugs his cut shoulder towards you. “That was very, very mean of you. I’m out there risking myself for your little friend Murdock, and that’s the thanks I get from you?” He gets more condescending the longer he goes on. Suddenly, he lunges, long fingers coming within inches of grabbing you. Instinct kicks in, you jump, scrambling up onto the bed.

Laughing sarcastically you chastise him, “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic. That little slice is quite literally the smallest wound you’ve ever had. It’s more of a warning than a wound.”

Dex, with unfiltered enjoyment, watches your legs wiggle from the unstable platform of the mattress while you dodge his fake attempts at grabbing you. He chuckles, low and rough. “A warning for what?”

“That I could do more damage if I wanted to.” You don’t intend for it to come out as cocky, but it does.

There’s a brief standstill before Dex lunges, his hands gripping your calves. He yanks your legs out from under you, making you slam down onto the bed. A squeal leaves you. Quickly, he pulls you towards him, wrapping you up in his thick arms, keeping you flush against his chest.

He drops his voice to a whisper as he places his mouth beside your ear. “Oh yeah? You gonna hurt me, honey? Slice me up real nice?”

The hair on your neck stands on end, goosebumps span your body.

“Is that what you want, Dex?” you ask, your voice a low, breathy challenge when you meet his gaze.

He pauses, lips twitching as he considers your question, eyes darting over your face. “Nah,” he finally says, the word drawn out, a smirk threatening at the corner of his mouth. “I want you to apologize to me for how you acted today. Apologize for hurting me, apologize for going out with Murdock, apologize for it all. That’s what I want.” His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it.

Giving theatrics to the moment, you thrash against his hold, feigning resistance, knowing exactly how to push his buttons. “No,” you spit out, jaw set, eyes narrowed in defiance.

Dex lets out a low laugh, tightening his grip just enough to hinder your movements. “Now, don’t be a brat. I was going to let you off easy, but if you want to keep up this attitude, it’ll be worse.” His voice drops, threaded with warning.

You stand your ground, thrashing harder for show. “Let me go. I’m not apologizing for shit.”

He leans in, breath warm against your ear, voice barely above a whisper. “Ah, that’s okay. I don’t need your mouth to apologize just yet. I’ll settle for getting it from your body.”

Dex tugs your shirt over your head, but keeps it taut across your arms, letting it keep you immobilized. He shoves you hard enough that you hit the bed with a padded thud. He wastes no time in stripping off the remaining clothes. Using a knife, he slips it under the center of your bra, tugs the blade towards him, shredding the fabric easily. A groan slips from him at the sight of you lying bare before him.

“Fuck, me.” He sounds pained at the sight of your sex and thighs glistening underneath the warm light of the bedroom. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips in hunger. He drops to his knees to get level with your cunt.

A hiss leaves you when a targeted stream of cool air passes over your heated skin. Dex continues the action a few more times before his fingers make their way to your skin. Gently, he traces over the area with the tips of his fingers. Dex watches, transfixed, as more arousal leaks out of you.

With the tip of his tongue, he licks over the hood of the clit, down both sides, then where your inner folds begin, and finally, his tongue softly grazes the bundle of nerves. From just the small touch, electricity courses through your veins.

“I can’t believe you’ve been walking around like this and didn’t let me know. I would have helped you out earlier if you had said something. I woulda devoured you right there in that nasty warehouse.” Flattening his tongue, he encompasses your sex with a big upward lap. Dex gives a throaty moan at the taste of you on his tongue. Your mouth opens in an inaudible moan.

“What got you so hot and bothered?” He does a few more of the big laps before switching to small licks, dedicated directly to your clit.

“Was it our fight? I bet it was.” His drool drips down to your entrance, where it mixes with your slick, before he’s scooping it up with his tongue and depositing it through your folds. He repeats this until you’re fully soaked. Pulling back, he admires his hard work. The tackiness of your skin from his spit mixed with your slick, the way your hole clenches around nothing in a desperate show of need, and your flushed, stiffened clit begging for more. Again, he blows cool air, smiling as you jump from the feeling.

His mouth reattaches to you, and a loud moan leaves you as he begins suckling on your clit. Dex alternates quickly between sucking and swiping side to side with his tongue. He doesn’t allow you to get used to either feeling before he changes it.

It doesn’t take long for the menstruations to get you close, your moans growing higher in pitch. But the relief never comes. Dex jerks away at the last second, leaving you tensing at the ruined orgasm. He goes again, this time, harder and faster. Slurping noise mixed with whines while he edges you, over and over again, fills the bedroom. This time, when he pulls away, he tugs your skin with him, releasing it only when you hiss at the pain. Thick fingers prod at your entrance, scooping the fluid that's pooled, getting fully coated before they press inside of you. The breath is knocked from your lungs as the two fingers fill you in a single motion. The length of his fingers perfectly allows him to nudge the golden spot once they’re fully sheathed inside of you.

“Come on, honey, apologize, and I’ll let you gush all over my fingers right now if you do. I know how much you love cumming on my fingers.” He curls the digits to emphasize his point. His taunting voice makes you clench around him, betraying your stubborn denial to apologize.

“F-fuck you.” It’s a pathetic whimper that carries no fire with it. All your heat had been extinguished the moment his knees hit the floor for you.

His sigh makes him sound disappointed at your words, but his eyes reveal he’s enjoying the game. “Yeah, I thought so.”

The fingers rip out of you. He cleans the wetness off his fingers by smearing them on your thigh. Standing to full height, he disrobes himself of the Bullseye costume before he pulls you to stand with him. He’s nice enough to release your arms from the confines of your shirt before he turns you back to face the bed. His knee knocks the back of yours, causing you to collapse, and your arms jerk to catch yourself. Once you do, you realize now, you’re bent over for him.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Dex drags his tongue up your spine, starting from the small of your back. The sensation ripples through your nerves, electric and reverent, as his breath fans hot and teasing over you. He pauses to press a kiss at the nape of your neck, lingering there, lips parted, letting you feel the heat of his mouth and the scrape of his teeth. A shiver racks through you, making him laugh, a low, dangerous sound right at your ear. He continues his journey, mouth trailing a path of soft, open-mouthed kisses along the tops of your shoulders.

“Still not sorry?”

Not trusting your voice, you only shake your head. He hums, his lips brushing your ear. His hand slides down, fingers skimming over your ass and down to your cunt. Without warning, a sharp smack echoes through the room, heat blooming across your skin. The sting melts quickly into tingling pleasure, as Dex’s palm lingers, rubbing over the spot he’s just marked. He leans in, voice rough against your ear, “That’s for being stubborn. I’m going to give you more, unless you give me reason not to.”

Somehow finding the strength in your voice again, you command him, “Shut up and spank me again.”

He further spreads your legs to gain more access before he spanks you again, but instead of lingering, this time he rubs. His lanky fingers aggressively stroke between your legs, further abusing your puffy cunt. A strangled cry forces itself from your throat, followed by a gasping moan from the intoxicating feeling. He does it again, again, again, and again until your back is arching away from him while you're trying to squirm away.

“Stop it,” Dex growls lowly right into your ear. “You’re going to take this spanking, and you’re to enjoy it. If you don’t stop squirming, I’m gonna get meaner, honey.”

You can't stop the loud moan that bubbles up from his words.

Dex steps in close behind, hands gripping your hips, guiding you where he wants you. He presses the length of his shaft along your slick folds, teasing, letting you feel every inch before the fat mushroom head of it catches at your entrance. He stops there and uses his hands to pull you open, allowing him to watch your pussy beg for him to push all the way in.

Your wet, pink velvety walls contract at the small intrusion, producing more slick that’s started pooling around Dex’s flushed, leaky tip.

Dex mutters, “Mmm, fucking look at that.” Then louder he says, “I wish you could see how this sweet cunt’s fucking drooling for me.”

A low, satisfied growl rumbles from his chest as he buries himself deep, holding you there, letting your body adjust to the fullness. A gasped version of his name leaves your mouth as you feel yourself stretching to accommodate his size.

“Still not going to apologize?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear.

You can only whimper, your answer lost as he begins to move. Each thrust purposeful, claiming, his grip tightening on your waist to keep you exactly where he wants you. He watches your face in the reflection of the window, the way your mouth falls open, the way your eyes flutter shut with every surge of pleasure.

“Look at you. So stubborn, but so needy. At least your body’s honest for me.” He shifts his angle, hitting that spot inside you that makes your legs shake, and your breath turns ragged.

You try to conceal the pleasure, hoping to get your relief before he realizes, but the pressure builds too fast, and the feeling is too strong. You’re trembling hard enough in his hold that he’s fully aware of how close you are. The choking grip your wall have on his cock further confirms how fast you’re approaching the edge. Right as you begin to spasm, he pulls out, leaving you a whining, shivering mess.

“Come here.” He orders from his spot now on the bed's plush comforter. Clambering up to him, you slot yourself between his tree trunk thighs, facing him. You gaze down at his angry, painful-looking cock, catching the moment it twitches, and a bead of pearlescent precum dribbles from the tip. The veins on his lower abdomen bulge as they thump with hot-blooded arousal. Your mouth waters.

“Do you want help with that Dex, baby?” You peer up with big eyes, hoping to convince him to forgo the rest of the punishment.

“Not unless you apologize. You’ll be used with your face shoved in the sheets, until you earn the privilege of facing me.”

“That's not fair.” You pout.

“Save it, I don't feel like hearing it.” He manhandles you to turn around, face down, and ass fully presented in the air for him. When you’re in the position he’s happy with, he reenters you. The pace is absolutely brutal. Your whole body jerks from the piston speed of his hips snapping into you. The globes of your ass bounce off his pelvis, filling the room with the obscene sounds of skin slapping together. The headboard cracks into the wall, and if you weren’t actively turning into mush right now, you’d be worried for the drywall.

Dex shifts the angle, allowing him to bully your cervix repeatedly. The air is fully expelled from your lungs as you give a huge gasp at the change in position. To make matters worse (better), Dex’s huge bicep wraps around your throat right before he’s yanking you closer to him. The arm tightens, making your air supply nonexistent. You’re so fucked out that you can’t even close your mouth. Saliva trickles down your chin, coating Dex’s bicep. He moans, before he’s back to grunting as he ruts deep into your cervix.

A whisper of something ragged hits Dex’s ears. When he doesn’t pause, your hand comes up to weakly pull at his arm. Getting the hint, he eases the pressure off your throat, his hips slowing too.

A soft broken “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” tumbles from your lips. Your voice, raw with so much, lands beautifully in his ears.

“I can’t hear you.”

Tossing your head back, you cry out another string of babbled apologies. He bites his bottom lip, relishing in how your broken voice sparks more lust. It stabs through his gut, and he has to really focus on not filling you up. When he pulls out this time, it’s gentler, matching the softness of his hands as he turns you over.

Tears clump your lashes together as they rim your sex hazed eyes. Your face is flushed from the gut-rearranging position paired with the humiliation of apologizing to him, and spit sticks to your chin and cheek from where you had been drooling on his arm. He’d never seen such goddess-like beauty in the world.

Gently lining himself up with your entrance, he allows your walls to swallow him in at their own pace. Not shoving or forcing himself in, just following the way your body takes him.

“I don’t think you understand how hurt and worried I was today. I come home, ready for our Valentine's plans, and the apartment is empty, with no sign of you anywhere. So I call, you don’t answer me, you don’t even text to let me know that at least you're alive. I started spiraling. Every nasty, evil thought that I’ve ever had all returned in that moment. I was scared you had left, maybe you were missing, or fucking dead in a car trunk somewhere. All my emotions hit at once. The fear, the anger, the grief,” He pulls in a shaky breath, “The-the guilt I felt, it all weighed me down. I was going to find you, but I didn’t know, I-I didn’t know if I was going to find you alive or dead.”

Tears have started rolling down your face, and you can’t seem to control the “I’m sorries” that he’s knocking out of you with each thrust.

“Imagine my surprise when I track your phone and find you with Matt Murdock. Not dead, not hurt, not being held captive, but instead laughing and fighting alongside him. Like I don’t exist. Like we didn’t have plans, like you’re not-like you’re not mine, like you’re his instead. Remind me again, who you’re supposed to be with? Who has devoted his whole being to you? Who has killed for you and who have you killed for?”

The desperation in his voice as he begs for you to say his name makes you clench around him as you wail out his name. Big, hot tears fall faster down your face as you notice the tears rimming his eyes. Dex leans down, kissing your tears as they fall, and licks the ones that have already streaked down your face. His nose nuzzles your cheek before his lips slot against yours for a soft kiss.

“Oh, don’t cry, baby. It’s ok.” He coos, a loving smile tugging at his lips. His eyes are shining brightly with something you can’t place at the moment. Maybe pride or love or both.

Deft fingers rub across your face, up over your head, then back down to hold onto the back of your neck. He ruts harder against you, the tip of his cock constantly stimulating that gummy spot deep inside of you. You pull him against you, desperate to feel him as you drown in the overwhelmingness of being consumed by him. You watch the muscle flex under his skin as he complies with your need. When his bicep is near your face, you don’t fight the instinct of sinking your teeth into him. Dex’s eyes roll back as he hisses from the initial burning of ripped flesh. He soon follows it with a pleasure-filled groan when the spot pulses from the blood rushing to the spot.

“Oh, fuck.”

Removing your mouth, you lick at the small droplets of blood that gather at the bite wound.

“Want me to do it again?”

“Jesus fucking Christ. You really are a freak, huh, sweet girl?” His lazy smile crinkles the skin around his eyes. “Bite me again. Harder this time.”

A gleam appears in your eyes, and you begin salivating.

“I want you to bite me, Dex. Want to feel your teeth-” A deep, harsh thrust from Dex short-circuits your brain ans the words leave your mind. You start speaking again, but the words are shaky from being forced out. “Fuck, baby. I want to feel your teeth in me. I-I want you to taste my blood. Dex, please, please.”

Dex guides your mouth back to his skin to stop your rambling. He mirrors you. Bringing his hot, damp mouth to your shoulder, he smells the mixture of lotion and sweat as he kisses the chosen spot to bite.

His eyes flicker to you at the moment you’ve gone back for another bit. He reels from the twisted pleasure of your teeth breaking skin. His mouth opens, and then his teeth sink into your perfect soft flesh. He savors the feeling of your delicate skin opening for him. The taste of your blood sends electricity down his body. The sweet coppery taste heavily coats his mouth as he lashes the spot over and over with his tongue. A guttural growl rumbles from his chest, and once again, he has to focus on not blowing his load right then.

“I want you to cum for me. You’ve earned it, sweet girl.” His calloused fingers rub small, quick circles on the bud. Your breath hitches immediately and your pussy clenches him so tight it almost hurts. Wet, doe-like eyes peer up at him. He knows you’re close.

“Come on, gush all over my cock, honey. I need to feel you fucking-” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence before you’re cumming so pretty all over him.

“That's it, fucking, Christ.” The words are grunted out lowly and raw. His orgasm hits hard.

All you can hear is deep animalistic growls as he keeps thrusting deeper and deeper into. His hands grip your thighs fiercely, the grasp already leaving bruises. It forces your legs to spread further, letting him get deep, and continue to fill you as your orgasm keeps going.

“You’re not pushing me out. Fucking going to give it all to you.” Dex rasp.

Your walls spasm around his length, milking him for every ounce of hot cum he can give you and then more. You’re crying out his name in breathy, high-pitched moans until you’re calming down with a deep groan.

Dex’s body trembles as he keeps grinding into you. The movement creates a squelching noise from the fluids you two have created.

“Dex, Dex, no more.” You croak out, voice hoarse as you push weakly at his shoulder.

Dex collapses on top of you, caging you beneath him. Your hands trace the rugged lines of his scarred back. A soft smile spreads across your face as you both bask in the afterglow.

Parched, you whisper, “Dex.” He only grunts.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Mmnot mad at you. I wasn’t mad at you to begin with.” His voice is muffled from where his head presses into your neck.

“I’d beg to differ.”

He props himself up on his elbow to get a look at your face. “Then I guess you should start begging.”

His fingers run along the skin of your collarbone, down to the purpling bite marks, jaw, and over your face as he speaks. “You scared the shit out of me today, honey. I-I couldn’t find you, and even in that small amount of time, I went down some dark paths.” The sincerity hangs heavy in the silent room.

“I didn’t want anybody to track my phone while I was out. I can’t have anyone finding you because of me. I turned it off, and fucking forgot to turn it back on.” He says the last part bashfully and without meeting your eye.

“Now you know how I felt.” You whisper.

“I’m sorry for that. I know that it must have been hard for you, too.” His lips land gently on your temple.

“I’m sorry for worrying you, baby.”

He throws a cheeky smile your way, “You just apologized plenty of times while I was all in your guts, you don’t have to say it again.”

A quick laugh leaves you, “So much for normal couple Valentine’s Day plans, huh?”

Dex grumbles, upset that his normal couple plans got ruined.

“You can make it up to me next year.”

His smell is manly and unpleasant, and the bile climbs up your throat. Under it, impossibly, your stomach flips with intoxication. Here’s what you’re going to do, you tell yourself, you scream and beat your hands on his chest and push him away, punish him for leaving, for coming back.

But in two strides, he reaches you and he’s leaning down and he’s sliding a hand under your shirt to remove it, and you let him. His palm is flat over your stomach, breathing heavily against your neck.

“I need you to tell me no,” he says, so low you strain to understand. “Say stop and I will.”

Your lips part but nothing comes out. As if in perfect perception his hand finds your ankle and he drags you forward so your hips are hanging off the mattress now, coaxing a yip out of your mouth, his body crowding you. Dex kneels, his grip on your thighs parting them decisively, and you’re met with his dirty face between your legs. Two lurid thumbs of purple under sullen eyes—you almost don’t recognize him.

“Say no,” he repeats sternly. His mouth brushes your knee, your inner thigh. Where his face and hands touch you it smears blood, then his breath finds the heat between your legs, the cotton of your white underwear damp and flimsy between you. “Tell me you don’t want this.” 

His tongue presses through the fabric, slow enough to make you squirm. “Mmh?” A hum, prompting you to speak. 

“You’re ruining my underwear,” you say lightly, a futile attempt to steer him back to softness. His grip hardens on you, and you can’t help but arch when his teeth catch the hem of your panties. You force out an answer: “I can’t. Want you–”

“No,” he growls and tugs it aside, breath sticky now against bare skin. He licks once, slow and sickeningly good—it does feel good, fuck, you’re so scared you’re not even wet yet, coiled too tight and tense—and as if to punish you further he stops and pulls back.

“I’m past saving,” he says, unfairly pretty under flaxen lashes, “so don’t try. I don’t need your pity.”

Still knelt before you, he fumbles at something at his side. You see it in the dim light—a slab of metal with serrated teeth—his knife. He presses it to your thigh and fixes it inside the seam of your panties, the metal cold and harsh against the soft, goosebumped flesh of your pelvis.

His other hand grips the fabric for leverage, and it comes apart in one long, loud rrrip. The sound makes your head pound violently.

You’re completely bare under him now, your heart jackhammering against bone.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks again, voice firm like he’s reading you your rights. He drags the tip of his knife down the inside of your thigh, “Yes or no?”

“No.”

“And do you trust me?” His knife has traced all the way to your pubic mound, down, almost at your clit, touch so light it almost tickles. “Yes or no?”

Your breath catches.

“...no,” you whisper.

His smile’s a crack that fractures his face open. “That’s my girl.”

He drops the knife and stands back up, tearing his shirt off, sweat glistening over dried blood and raw skin healing badly on his torso. It must hurt all over, you can tell by the way he flinches when he scrambles at his belt, but if it’s anything to go from it only makes him meaner. Roughly, Dex shoves your thighs apart and spits once on your pussy, filthy and speckled with blood, and shoves himself in all at once with a choked sound. You scream, hands scrambling for purchase, eyes watering from the stretch. It’s dry and deep, and his hands grab your hips like he’s trying to force you deeper onto his cock.

“Dex— Dex, fuck, slow down–!”

His hands find your wrists and shove them behind your back, holding them there, pinned hard. Your legs are trembling from the shock of his depth and every thrust is mean, calculated. You don’t know when you start crying, but tears spill hot down your cheeks soon enough. “S’too rough–please, hurts, wait–”

His breath hits your cheek, licking at your tears. “Then tell me to stop.”

You shake your head. “No, don’t wanna…”

He pulls back halfway. You think, for some stupid naïve reason, that he’ll ease up—but he slams back in, hips cracking against you so hard you hear the sound before you feel it. Your scream cuts off in a choke. He does it again. Again. And then—without warning—he hooks his arms under your calves, bends you hard back on yourself, and starts fucking into you at an angle so vicious it feels like your spine might snap in half.

“F-fuck yes—” You’re barely coherent, every thrust knocking more air from your lungs, “Hurts, Dex— feels so good—”

The bed jerks, your back folding into the mattress. He’s sweaty, pouring heat, and it’s mixing with the blood on him, slicking between your bodies, smearing down your stomach, soaking into your skin. It stains your thighs, your cunt, the pristine white of your sheets now blackened with red.

Here you are, split open. Marked.

“Fuck, you’re pretty,” he groans as you preen at the compliment and your cunt pulsates around him, “Sweet girl like you into this kinda shit?”

He pulls at the knife at your side. “C’mon, tell me,” he says, pressing it idly on your cheek, “want me to stop, huh?”

“Mph– no, Dex, no!” you cry, brain static-white and brilliant with sensation, not even sure what it is you’re refusing, all of it bleeding together. No, don’t hurt me? No, don’t leave me?

No, don’t stop? 

He grabs your face, forcing your mouth to his in a filthy, fast kiss, tongue sliding over yours and mouth filling with blood and salt. It’s bitter and you gag a little, nose wrinkling, but it doesn’t let up. When he pulls away your face is wet, and you rub a hand blindly at your own face: sure enough, it comes up red.

“Why’d you even come back?” Your voice doesn’t sound like yours, plaintive and thin under the rasp of his breathing. “You left, you—” Fuck, you give up. “Come back, please, please.”

Buried into your neck, he grunts something that might be your name and you sob harder, nails scratching his back in raw, angry lines.

“No, gotta… hear it,” he pants, pulling back. “Need you to tell me it’s wrong.”

“It’s not, it’s not,” you wail, “want you, please, I…” His form is blurry through your tears. “I love you.”

Ding ding ding, the alarm bell in your head rings. Wrong fucking answer.

His face twists into a disgusted expression.

“Poor… fuckin’… angel,” he laughs dryly, every word punctuated by a snap of his hips deeper into you. His voice is clear and rough, that signature all-American brutality rasping through every word. “You would’ve taken me as I was, huh?”

You try to nod. Another thrust, harder, crueler.

“I fucked it up, didn’t I?”

His hand closes around your throat, thumbing the thickness of the muscle there until your whimpers cut off. You try to croak something out—“Please”—and it occurs to you, by the hot flash of his gaze, that the disgust is for himself, for the parts of him you still deem worthy of kindness. He’s thrown it all away for the native urge of violence, and he knows he can’t go back. 

“Fucked it up and you’re still here.”

I love you.

Stupid, stupid girl you are—you still want him.

He’s so large and overwhelming, his weight crushing so heavily above you that your world narrows to just his face, his sordid half-smile. You can’t breathe. Your cunt pulses around him. 

Sweat’s stinging his open cuts, pain fueling him more as his hips slam down into you, soaked in blood and slick. You’re boneless under him, your arms pinned useless at your sides. Flinching with every thrust, you can feel the raw flexing of his muscles, and the gravity of his body is drawing tighter like a bowstring about to snap.

“Too good for me,” he’s saying trance-like as he fucks you, breath hot against your temple, “so good, so good…”

And fuck, it’s too much and he’s so heavy on top of you, folded underneath him, immense pressure into your core. You feel it first in the clenching of your stomach and further down then up, up—everything going blinding, shuddering, your used pussy contracting around him as you come hard and helpless.

He moans—ragged, cursing breathlessly—and then he’s coming too, cock pulsing thick and hot as he spills inside you, still fucking through it like he can’t stop, won’t, not until he’s scraped himself raw against you.

Your legs ache limply as he rolls off of you. He’s breathing like an animal, collapsed next to you on the bed. After some pause his mouth presses against your temple, unsure.

It’s an alien attempt at tenderness, you know this much: This is what people do after fucking, see, I know. I’m a normal person, look, just like you.

And he’s looking down at you, your stained body, your copper-browned sheets. He could strike you across the face now, he thinks, just once, to snuff out the affection you have for him. Do you a mercy. Do you one last favor, he’s still capable of that. 

Instead, Dex says: “I don’t know why I came back here.”

It’s the most honest he’s been all night.

You turn to stare at the ceiling, feeling his spend trickle out of you. The sweat and blood’s turning tacky, the grime from his body gritting your sore limbs.

No, no, no. 

Fuck this, you’re gonna have to put your sheets in the laundry again.

You sat down on your couch, placing the bowl of cereal down onto the glass table. Your hand reached for the TV remote, clicking it back to life before searching through the channel. Trying to find a distraction, some kind of way to kill time.

Then? The news flashed. Former FBI, Benjamin Poindexter, found guilty of eleven counts of first-degree murder during the attack on Josie's bar, had escaped from custody.

Your fingers froze around the remote. The screen blared with chaos: grainy footage of flashing red and blue lights, helicopters circling above rooftops, a blurred image that might've been him darting into an alley, and then the anchor’s voice again—

"Authorities are urging residents to remain calm but vigilant. Poindexter is considered armed and extremely dangerous. If seen, do not approach. Contact law enforcement immediately."

You stared at the screen.

Then muted it.

The cereal went soggy in the bowl, untouched.

It wasn't shock that settled in your chest. Not really. Not the kind they were hoping the public would feel. Not fear, either.

You'd known this was coming. Felt it in your spine for weeks—some pressure building, tight as a wire being pulled just before it snapped. A whisper under your skin. And now that it was real, now that his name had been spoken again on national television like a ghost summoned into existence, something else stirred deep inside you.

Your brows furrowed, fingers squeezing the remote before you threw it aside. Your back bent forward, eyes stuck onto the shining screen.

The world had gone quiet after Dex had been sent to Rikers Island. No one really showed up on your doorstep beaten or bloodied. You didn't have to patch anyone after a rough fight. You didn't have to worry about cleaning his blood off of the floor or the bathroom mirror.

Now? He was back.

The man who was once your colleague, your friend, your partner in the FBI—became unrecognizable.

He had unraveled before your eyes, thread by thread, until all that remained was something sharp-edged and wrong. A man who couldn't stop spiraling. A man who didn't want to be saved anymore.

And you? You'd realized it too late.

You leaned back on the couch, rubbing your jaw. The cushions groaned under your weight, too soft for a moment like this. Everything about this apartment suddenly felt too still.

Your eyes drifted back to the screen. That flicker of footage—was it him? The grainy blur had his height, that frantic, focused gait. You could almost hear it in your head, the way his boots used to hit pavement when he was zeroed in on something. Back then, it was justice. Back then, it was you at his side.

The news anchor was already moving on to the next story, something about rising temperatures and a heat wave sweeping across the state. You didn’t care. You couldn’t even hear her voice through the mute.

Your mind was buzzing.

He escaped.

Your apartment felt smaller all of a sudden. Like the walls were inching closer. You stood, walked over to the window, and parted the blinds. The street was empty. Still. Too still.

You scanned rooftops. Dark corners. Your fingers flexed by your side, remembering the old rhythm of your sidearm even though it hadn’t left the drawer in months.

A sick little part of you—buried deep, locked down like a vault—had missed him.

Not the Dex the world saw now. Not the one in the footage. But the man he'd been before. The man who watched your six in every raid. Who knew your coffee order. Who cracked his knuckles when he was nervous and tilted his head when he was listening, really listening.

The man who used to sit beside you in your car, stained in sweat and adrenaline, and say, "You trust me, right?"

And you always had.

Until he stopped giving you reasons to.

Your phone buzzed on the table. A text.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Missed you.

Buzz. Buzz.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: You changed your locks. Again. UNKNOWN NUMBER: Why? You know I'd never hurt you.

Your stomach churned.

You didn't need to know who it was. You didn't need to hear his voice.

You knew.

You paused for a moment, as if your brain was assessing this whole situation. Your fingers gripped the phone hard, filled with frustration and something else beneath all the rage.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, tension rippling through your forearm like electricity just beneath the skin. You could block the number. You could call someone—call them. Report it. Let them trace it. Let them find him.

But you didn't.

Instead, you stared. Long enough that the text thread auto-closed and the screen dimmed.

Your breath felt shallow.

He was close.

You knew it the same way you'd known the second you first saw him unravel years ago, that moment when the mask cracked and you caught a glimpse of the void behind his eyes. The same knowing that settled in your bones now—like gravity tilting toward a center that had always been him.

The silence in your apartment didn't last.

Three slow knocks at your bedroom window.

Not loud. Not frantic. Like he already knew you were listening. Like he already knew you were going to open it.

You didn't move at first. You just stood there, back stiff, phone screen reflecting off the glass of the living room window. He could be anyone now. You hadn't seen him in years, and last time, he’d been in restraints.

But somehow, you knew—he hadn’t changed that much.

Three more knocks. Closer this time, like he'd leaned in. Like maybe his forehead was pressed against the glass, the way it used to be when he needed you to open up. When he needed you to see him.

You swallowed hard, walked to the bedroom. Saw him outside the window, still in tactical gear. His mask was slightly tilted up, revealing the lower part of his face. His lips. The tip of his nose.

You didn't open it—not yet. Just walked closer to the glass.

"Dex," you murmured.

Silence. A breath. Then, his voice—low, hoarse, ragged like it’d been scraped against pavement.

"I missed your voice."

Your fingers curled into a fist. His voice did something to you—something you hated yourself for. Something hot and dizzy and heavy with memory. He looked at you through the glass.

"This... is insane." you said. It came out steady, despite the pulse hammering in your neck.

"I know."

"You killed innocents."

Another beat of silence. Then, "Yeah."

You huffed, jaw clenching. "Then what do you want from me?"

The pause this time was longer. Then came the whisper, the kind that crawled under your skin.

"I want to come home."

Your hand trembled.

"You're in the wrong place."

Another pause. Then a quiet chuckle. "Yeah. I figured you'd say that."

One of his gloved hands pressed against the window, his breath fogging the glass up.

"You don't have to open it," he said, quieter now. "I just wanted to hear your voice. Just once. That's all."

He didn’t mean it. You knew he didn’t mean it.

Because he was always starving. For touch, for attention, for something he could never quite hold. For you.

And somewhere deep inside, no matter how many months had passed, you were still tangled up in him—cut on the same sharp edges.

And then—

The window rattled slightly.

It was locked. But he was testing it.

"Dex." Your voice was a warning now.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he said, and fuck—it sounded true. Not performative. Not rehearsed. Just tired. Raw. Like if you opened the window, he might finally fall apart for good.

"...I don't believe you."

A soft sound on the other side—maybe a breath, maybe a sigh. Then.

"I don't blame you."

You stood there, eyes locked onto the silhouette of him—barely visible beyond the pane, but close enough that your mind could fill in the details. The scar on his cheek. The way his shoulders curved forward when he was on the verge of shutting down. All of it came rushing back like muscle memory.

Your pulse wouldn't slow down. Neither would he.

"I don't blame you," he repeated, voice gentler this time. "But you know me better than anyone else ever will. So you know I'm not gonna walk away."

The words were so quiet they almost didn't make it through the glass. But you heard them. You felt them, too—in that place under your ribs that still ached when you thought of him.

"Jesus Christ, Dex." You whispered, "this is fucked up. You know it is. Are you just—waiting for me to take you in? Again?"

"Well, I'm not gonna break in," he murmured, but his hand stayed pressed against the window, palm flat, fingers splayed wide like he was testing the shape of you through the glass. "I could've. You know I could've."

You did.

"Then, what? You're just trying to...test the waters? See if I still accept you? Let you in?"

"No, I..." he breathed. "I don't know what I'm doing either."

For a second, the streetlights outside flickered, shadows shifting across his face. His eyes—hazel, cold, and rimmed with something like exhaustion—stared right through you.

"I'm not here to start a fight." His lips twitched, like he wanted to smile but forgot how. "I'm here 'cause you're all I remember."

You crossed your arms, gaze falling away from him. Your stomach twisted, heartbeat unsteady beneath all the composed look. The air in the room was thick, heavy, like humidity before a storm.

His hand dropped from the glass, but he didn’t move away. He just stood there, shoulders slumped, breathing shallow.

"You still eat Frosted Flakes for dinner when you're stressed?" he asked, voice soft, almost playful.

Your jaw flexed.

He must've seen the bowl on the table.

"That's... not your business anymore."

His breath fogged the window again, but this time he laughed—a soft, bitter sound, like he hated himself for still knowing you this well.

"Yeah," he rasped. "But you used to be my business."

You didn't have a reply for that.

For a long moment, neither of you said a word. The quiet stretched thin between you, like a thread about to snap.

Then—

His head tilted. That old movement. The one from back when he was still human to you.

"You're the only person I got left." His voice cracked—just barely. "I don't wanna hurt you. I don't. But I'm not… I'm not right without you. You know that. You know that I love you."

You closed your eyes for a second, tried to push down the ache that bloomed in your chest.

"Fuck." You cursed underneath your breath, "Christ, this isn't love, Dex..."

"I know," he breathed. "It's worse."

Your stomach dropped.

He shifted closer to the window, forehead resting against the glass now. You could see the tension in his jaw, the tremble in his lips. Like maybe he was holding something back. Like maybe this was him—stripped down, no mask, no armor, just the hollowed-out pieces that still looked for you in the dark.

"I'm tired," he whispered. "I'm so fucking tired."

You wanted to hate him. You wanted to slam the blinds shut, call someone, let them come and take him away.

But you couldn’t move.

His voice was still inside you. Deep down. Like a splinter under the skin.

"You're gonna turn yourself in," you finally whispered, but your voice cracked halfway through.

His eyes met yours. There was something sharp in them—like he was weighing his options. Like maybe he would, just to make you happy. Or maybe he wouldn't, just to see if you'd stop him.

Instead, he said,

"Let me in. Just for tonight."

Your throat closed up.

"I can't."

"You can."

"No, Dex. I—"

His gloved hand pressed once more against the glass. Soft.

"Just—just for a few hours," he whispered. "I won't sleep. I won’t touch you. I just…"

He trailed off, breathing harder now.

"I just need to be in the same room as you again."

You swallowed hard. Nails digging into your palm. Because you knew what this was. This wasn't just a fugitive on your doorstep. This wasn't just a man with blood on his hands.

This was the part of you that never stopped missing him, standing in the cold, asking to come home.

And fuck—you didn't know if you were strong enough to say no.

Not tonight.

You let him in.

God help you, you unlocked the window, slid it up slowly while your heart rams into your ribs. He ducked through the frame like it's nothing, like this is normal. Like you didn't just let a killer crawl back into your life at two in the morning.

He lands light on his feet, standing in the hush of your bedroom, eyes locked onto you like you're the last light in the world. His shoulders twitch, his jaw flexes. You can tell he's trying so fucking hard to behave.

And you hoped he does.

For a second, you think—maybe—this is going to stay manageable.

But it's Dex. You should've known better.

Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting on your living room floor, back against the couch where your legs were tucked underneath you. His tactical gear was half-off now, stripped down to the black undershirt he always wore under Kevlar. His eyes were closed. His head tipped back, resting on your knee.

You should push him off. You should make him leave.

But you didn't.

Because the truth is—his weight feels good against you. Familiar. Dangerous in the way that makes your pulse kick.

"I missed this," he murmured, barely audible.

You stay silent.

His hand twitches—just a flinch at first, fingers curling against his own thigh. But then he turns his face into your leg, lips ghosting the fabric of your sweats. A breath. A brush of heat.

"Dex," you warned, throat tight.

"I know," he breathed. "I know."

But he didn't stop.

Because he was shaking now. Not from fear, not from cold—from needing. He drags in a breath like he was drowning, like the air won't get in unless it’s wrapped in you.

And then—slow, soft—he tilts his head up. His lips press against your knee, your thigh, the curve of your hip. Little grazes of mouth that make your skin catch fire under the fabric.

"I said you could stay," you gritted out, "not—"

"I'm sorry," he rasped, voice breaking. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

But he kissed you again anyway.

Up your side. Over your ribs. Gentle, desperate little touches that felt more like confessions than kisses. He wasn't thinking about consequences. He wasn't thinking about escape routes or next steps. He was thinking about you. About how your body fits against his. About how he was starved for this—for you—worse than for food or rest or safety.

Your hand sank into his hair.

Maybe you should've shoved him off right then. Push him out of the door. Walked away.

But you didn't.

Because you were just as sick as he was.

His breath hitched when your fingers curled at the back of his neck. His shoulders loosened—not relief, not really. More like surrender. Like something in him uncoiled the second you touched him. His lips dragged over your hipbone, heat seeping through thin fabric, his breath coming out ragged.

"We shouldn't—" you started, but it was already too late.

Dex's hands slipped under your sweats, cold gloves peeled away, fingers bare now—warm, shaking as they found your skin. His mouth pressed harder, teeth barely grazing the waistband before he exhaled sharp against your stomach.

"I know, I know, baby," he whispered.

Neither could you.

Your sweatpants came off fast—sloppy, no finesse, just Dex fumbling like he was afraid you’d change your mind halfway through. Like he'd die if you did. His eyes flicked up, pupils blown wide, mouth parted like he was dizzy from just looking at you.

"Fuck," he whispered, almost reverent. "Fuck, you're—"

He breathed.

"Perfect."

Perfect. It was filled with some kind of sick obsession. Worship. That word should've made you hit him. Should've made you shove him back out the window and bolt it shut.

But you didn't.

Instead, you leaned into it. Into him. Into the wreckage of it all.

He shoved his undershirt up over his ribs, tugging at it like he couldn’t breathe in it anymore. Scars stretched pale under the moonlight, the ones you remembered patching up, the ones you'd kissed once before he lost his mind.

His hands ghosted up your thighs, thumbs pressed tight like he was trying to memorize the feel of you again.

And then he was there—pushing into you, no warning, no prep, just the blunt heat of his cock splitting you open in one hard, frantic shove.

"Jesus—Dex," you hissed, eyes squeezing shut as your back hit the couch.

He whimpered—whimpered—into your shoulder, burying his face there like he could hide from how bad he needed this. From how wrong it was.

He was shaking, teeth scraping your neck as he bottomed out. Bare just skin on skin, slick and filthy. You could feel everything—every twitch, every drag of him inside you. Hot, messy, raw.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, but he didn't stop. Couldn't.

His hips rocked, small at first, like he was trying to keep it gentle—but his body betrayed him. He fucked into you fast, frantic, like he couldn't slow down, like his life depended on it.

You could feel the sweat sliding off his temple, his pulse racing against your throat.

"God, baby—" his voice cracked, pathetic in your ear. "I missed you. Missed you so fuckin' bad—"

Your hand stayed in his hair, pulling just enough to make him whine into your neck. His cock twitched inside you at the sound of his own need.

"Need... need you," you whispered, your thighs locking tighter around him, pulling him in deeper.

"I know," he breathed, voice barely holding together. "I know, I know—"

The wet slap of skin echoed in the room, sharp and fast, sweat slick between you both. It was frantic, ugly sex—nothing soft about it. Just desperation. Just two people drowning together because neither one could swim without the other.

His mouth trembled against your jaw. His cock throbbed, already close. He'd gotten too worked up too fast—he always did. His hips stuttered, rhythm breaking.

"Nnh—fuck, I'm—"

You came first, feeling yourself tip over the edge as he continued. You clenched around him hard, watching his body break for you.

His head snapped back, mouth falling open in a raw, silent cry. His stomach jerked tight, cock pulsing inside you, spilling hot, messy. Too much—his cum leaking out as he kept fucking into it, making it worse. Intensifying every move.

"F-fuck—" he gasped, still moving, overstimulating himself with every desperate thrust. His voice cracked, almost a sob. "Feel s'good..."

You gripped his shoulders tighter.

"Dex," you murmured, your voice too soft.

His face twisted, wrecked and open and softer than it should’ve been. His hips stuttered again, another shaky pulse of cum spilling inside you like he needed to mark you, to ruin you so you wouldn’t send him back out into the dark.

And you let him.

You let him ruin you.

A few moments of silence passed. The room no longer had the sound of skin against each other, only the sound of your breaths mixing in together.

He didn't pull out immediately, not yet. He stayed buried inside of you, head nuzzled into the crook of your neck as he pressed a trail of wet kisses down your neck. His mouth lingered against your pulse, teeth scraping your skin.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he groaned.

"Fuck, I'm in trouble." You grunted underneath your breath.

He leaned back, just enough to see your eyes once again. The corners of his lips twitched into a small smile, and his eyes weren't empty anymore. Not fully. He breathed, the gears inside of his head turning.

"I am in trouble." He quipped. An attempt to lighten the mood up.

A beat. Then another.

Dex could feel himself getting even more nervous by the second.

You looked at him, chest heaving up and down before you shifted away from him.

You wheezed, "un-fucking-believable."

"Hey, wait—I was just joking."

mini taglist: @blxckwidxxw

benjamin poindexter, former fbi agent, veteran, and scarily-expert sniper, was in prison, said the TV. your heart stuttered in your chest when his picture filled the screen. blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a chiseled, scarred face. your hand snaked up to your neck, where the bruises had long faded from his strong fingers keeping you pinned against your bedroom floor. he had pressed a pistol gently to the side of your head, snugly in the spot just below your ear that dex refused to admit he wanted to mouth at. you could nearly feel the cool metal on your skin through his empty gaze in the mugshot.

you smirked at the sight of one particular scar on his neck, where you'd gotten him good. the TV switched to video of his arrest and your smirk got wider. you hadn't pressed charges against him after the incident, but this was satisfying enough.

you owed your life to matt murdock. you knew that. he jumped in at the last second, after having tracked dex across the city that night, and got the gun away from dex, away from you, and away from harm.

yet for some reason, when you really thought back to that moment, you couldn't shake the feeling that you weren't in any mortal danger in dex's hold.

you had put up a good fight — you really had — but he took you down in seconds. despite his hand gripping your throat hard enough to bruise, and the obvious threat of the firearm, there was something akin to curiosity in his eyes when you batted your pretty eyelashes up at him. rays of moonlight peeked through the blinds, casting harsh diagonal lines across his ruggedly handsome face. a face you'd seen a few times on the street or the subway, watching from afar, now that you thought about it. when the initial surprise wore off, you willed your wild heartbeat to slow, but it rejected this request at the starved twinkle in his stunning eyes.

"it's you," you gasped.

you...recognized him? dex short-circuited. his mind spun like a top.

your breath caught as his hold tightened on you. you remember the fear that shocked you at the question of whether he had a finger on the trigger. why even bother asking? the answer was yes, of course.

what you didn't know was that benjamin poindexter was doing his absolute best impression of a person holding it together. you, with your minty breath fanning over him, coming from between your soft, parted lips, with your favorite lip balm on them. he was there to kill you after stalking you for weeks, and now you were there, in his arms, pressed against him and the carpet. he should be pulling the trigger. but here he was, wondering what the lip balm tasted like on your sweet lips. dex let out a measured breath. and was that...desire? just there, in the flecks of green in his eyes?

"'s me," he spoke. you thought his voice would be confident, but it rasped, grating the way a gravel driveway might. desperate.

your fear seeped through you. it only emphasized your intoxicating scent: the salt from the sweat beading on your forehead; the layered notes of your perfume; the pheromones stirring beneath your soft skin. the fear mixed slowly with shame as you found your eyes flickering down to his lips.

dex inhaled sharply, tracking your movements. he should just do it. it's simple. pull the fucking trigger and be done with the mission, dex.

you made the situation oh-so-much worse when you drew one of your full lips between your teeth. he took a ragged breath and tried not to calculate the exact distance between your bodies: mere millimeters, if that. everything about you was warm and intoxicating. when was the last time dex was warm? he got lightheaded at the thought.

"what's your name?" you ask, voice shaking, not at all expecting an answer.

a beat passed as he considered you the way a predator would. a dangerous gleam reflected in his his haunting gaze.

"dex."

"you've been watching me," you realized.

"i have," dex answered steadily, carefully, like he was walking on eggshells, terrified of saying the wrong thing. as if this entire ordeal wasn't way past "the wrong thing" at this point.

"you're here to kill me."

"i am," he answered with that same guilty calm. he wouldn't meet your eye, but studied your face.

your stomach churned. you knew your work would get you in this type of trouble someday. you pissed off wilson fisk? this is what you got.

the clock on your night stand ticked the seconds away. otherwise, the charged silence and dex's clean, musky scent in the room suffocated everything else. this stranger was here to kill you and yet, his brows were pulled together, forming a crease on his forehead, like he was reconsidering. you were floored by the overwhelming urge to kiss him on the wrinkled, slightly damp skin...god, you were sick for that, right?

dex warily watched you swallow. he was nearly vibrating with the need to let out a single one of the tormenting emotions he was feeling, especially with how things were now that julie had left. the buzzing in his brain was building. he felt like a dog about to whine, begging to be pet.

without making any sudden movements, you engaged your core and lifted your hips just so, to grind with him gently. his eyes nearly bulged out of his skull, cheeks turning pink when he couldn't stifle the erotic moan that you pulled from him. the barrel of the gun had nodded off, no longer pressed directly to your skull. you grinned wickedly.

"already, baby?" you teased, of course, referring to the quivering erection dex was sporting.

for the life of him, he didn't know what to do. dex was so mortified, he wanted to crawl inside himself and never show his face ever again. the tips of his ears were a shade of deep maroon. equally shameful was how fucking turned on he was by the whole endeavor, down to simply finding you beautiful in the early days, now to this. it took every ounce of self control in his body to wrestle back his appetites before they slipped free from his grasp.

"fuck you," he spat. anything to cool the burn of your rejection. you brushed it off with a chuckle and it only infuriated him more. the corners of your mouth curved upward in a knowing smirk.

"yeah?" you mocked, tilting your head to the side. "you wanna?"

"knock it off, you fucking brat." dex thrust his hips forward, pinning you both to the floor beneath. he stole the wind from your lungs and tore a moan from deep within your chest. humiliation flared instantly.

and then the motherfucker had the audacity to laugh. your nostrils flared in irritation. "sorry, sweetheart. you make fun of me for getting desperate but i get you down here and its..." he took a grounding breath. "well, it's the pot calling the kettle black, here, angel, isn't it?"

"shut the fuck up," you sighed, digging your fingernails deeper into the jumpsuit fabric covering his bicep as punishment. dex sighed too, trying his damnedest to mirror your movements as to not spook you away. he invited the pain from your nails — found it familiar — as something to tie himself to.

he bound himself to your degrading words. he bound himself to the gasp you let out when he rolled into you again; to the feeling of your warm body against him; to the view of you beneath him. dex felt himself becoming obsessed in real-time. it was intoxicating.

you were dizzy for a similar reason, but you'd never admit it, quite literally with a gun pointed at your head. shame cooked low and slow in your core. you had only intended to tease him, to knock him off his game. never did you think you'd like it. heaven forbid. nor did you think he'd be so responsive and...big against you.

you got the distinct impression that if you were to ask, dex would gladly manhandle you in this position onto the bed. to even consider it was horrible...right? to want it was...

"are you gonna kill me tonight, dex?" your voice was barely above a whisper.

dex groaned like he was in pain, leaning down to nuzzle your cheek. "'m still thinking about it, honey, mkay? it's complicated. just...just let me think a second, hold on."

you nodded fervently. he was weighing his options. at this time, you had to weigh yours, too. was it clinical? to want to fuck your stalker? had to be. he's threatening your life, you fucking idiot.

dex's breath came in hot pants against you, his strong nose pressing into the soft skin of your face. yes, this was reckless. dumb, perhaps. if you didn't have so much damning evidence that he wanted you, maybe you could have just acted like a normal person and cried and begged for your life.

by the time matt — a dear friend — had swooped in and saved the day, you were certain that dex wouldn't kill you. he'd thrown something haphazardly after you once matt got him a safe distance away, but you couldn't tell anyone that, least of all matt. by god, how could you begin to explain?

"no, matt, he wasn't going to kill me. what was he doing here? he was here to kill me. but don't worry! he changed his mind!" is that what your line was?

as for exactly how dex changed his mind, you'd blame it all on the lack of oxygen getting to your brain from being choked.

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years went by and benjamin poindexter wondered if you were the same. he wondered if your smile lines had deepened; if you had changed your hairstyle; if you still smelled like an autumn evening. his leg bounced up and down in anticipation. the bus was nearly there.

calm and collected, dex got off the bus and went into the nearest thrift store he could find. after ditching the prison guard outfit in the nearest garbage bin, dex popped the tags off his new hoodie and sweatpants. thank you, goodwill.

in no time, he was off with a spring in his step, headed uptown to the cafe you spent most of your saturdays in. sometimes when he had a particularly awful saturday, he daydreamt of sitting beside you here.

despite being the most wanted person in new york city, dex passed through midtown without issue, with his head down, weaving in and out of people, like any other annoyed, overstimulated new yorker. because of course it was raining. he'd memorized the map to this cafe so many times that his feet took him there without much thought, even after all this time. the thought brought a rusty smile to his lips.

the cafe sign came into view and dex's steps slowed. he clenched his fists repeatedly, trying to keep his breathing steady. he could do this. he could talk to you.

he spotted you instantly: in the back corner as always, nose deep in a book, leg swung over the side of an armchair like a cat. you cradled a mug against your chest, cuddling against its warmth. you looked so cozy. dex let some very specific memories wash over him as he stood there, pretending to read the menu.

"fuck it," he said to himself. dex took a breath and steeled his reinforced spine, eyeing the armchair next to yours. he sat himself in it and grinned wildly at you.

"oh, um, hi," you greeted without looking, a smile on your eternally-pretty face, nose still in your book.

this stranger said your name in a voice that haunted your dreams and you froze. your blood ran cold. your eyes peeked over the edge of your book while your heartbeat was a stereo in your ear, and you met a set of fierce hazel eyes that you'd remembered all too well.

"hear me out," dex begged your name. it was quite the pleasant sound, you had to admit. he must have seen the horror on your face. "jus' wanted to let you know that i'm gonna be coming by tonight at eleven. want to apologize…for what i've done. gonna knock three times on the window, mkay?"

your stomach dropped, and your mug almost did as well.

"w-what?"

"'m home now." ben's cheek scars flexed as he smirked devilishly. "thought i'd come pay you a visit."

"you've already paid me enough visits," you spat with disdain.

"ouch, sweetheart, that hurts," dex softly mocked as he fake-cradled his arm. he leaned in low, lips right next to your ear. "i know you remember what happened last time."

you sat up abruptly, closing your book with a thump. dex caught your drink before it spilled, setting it down on the table beside you gently. you didn't have time to be grateful, instead doing your best not to look panicked to everyone else.

"really not tryna hurt you," he murmured. "i swear."

and with that, dex stood up and strolled to the door, exiting left and disappearing into the manhattan crowd outside.

by the time eleven o'clock had rolled around, your stomach was in anxious knots. you picked at the skin by your fingernails as you tried anything and everything to distract you: your favorite TV show, that book from earlier, etc. none of it could keep your mind from racing.

could you trust his word? probably not.

but something about the earnestness in his eyes was haunting. and he had chosen to spare your life before.

you were not entirely surprised when the tri-knock came at exactly 11:00:00 PM. it was your bedroom window, as you knew it would be. the same one he used to break into your home the night he tried to kill you all those years ago. the knock sent a thrill down your spine. you were frozen in place by it and its implications.

only after you took a shaky breath, and dex knocked thrice again, you scurried over to the window to unlock it. dex stepped into your bedroom and exhaled, smiling. he caught your watchful eye and clamped down his slight display of emotion. but he had to admit that it was nice to be back here again, surrounded by you.

shutting the window and blinds, you sat on your bed criss-cross applesauce, and so dex did the same beside you. your posture was razor-straight, rigid. he liked that about you. among many other things, now that he let his gaze drift over you.

he met your glare. "i'm so sorry…for trying to kill you. fisk made me."

your jaw dropped. "that's it?"

dex straightened, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. your hand landed on his knee. "w-what are you doing?"

you chuckled, inching closer to him with your hand resting softly on his thigh now. "i think i deserve a better apology than that, benjamin."

"you want me to beg?" dex asked lowly, pressing his nose to your neck, inhaling your perfume. part of you ached at the thought. "i'll beg for you, baby. i'll do anything for you."

your fingers gripped his thigh with authority, or maybe it was desperation. "tell me how sorry you are."

"fuck," dex panted. "'m so sorry, sweetheart, i never really wanted to hurt you. you're so good. too good for me."

"you purposely missed at the end — when you threw those pens — didn't you?"

a smirk slid across his pink lips. "i plead the fifth."

you laughed. you actually belly-laughed, and knowing he'd been the source, seeing the twinkle in your eye, ben poindexter could die a happy man.

"just wish i could make it up to you," he whispered, eyes pleading, like a sad retriever.

"dex—" you inhaled sharply when his lips gently attached to the delicate spot of your neck and began suckling. on instinct, your hand on his thigh began to move higher and desire began to pool in your core. dex swatted your hand away and moved to lay between your legs.

your mind was spinning with the wrongness of it all. never mind if he hadn't wanted to hurt you, what about all of the other things he'd done? what about—

dex's quest began with taking off your fuzzy socks and sensually kissing up the insides of your calves. you could think of nothing else with his lips on your skin, leaving trails of fire in his wake. he relished in the taste of the scented lotions and oils that were part of your nighttime routine — they hadn't changed. he reached your pajama shorts and hesitated, looking up at you.

permission? you could have laughed at the absurdity, but you found yourself nodding with anticipation instead.

dex made quick work of your bottoms, exposing your lower half to the cool air of your room and his greedy gaze. with no time to waste, dex's lips teased your inner thighs and vulva for an unbearably long time before he pressed a sloppy kiss to your leaking pussy. the whine that ripped out of your chest was pornographic in nature, and dex giggled like a kid at christmas.

"yeah, you like that, pretty girl?" he teased, tongue swiping your juices off his lips like it was sacred.

"dex, please," you begged. for friction, for some kind of release, for anything at this point. shame tinted your cheeks a shade darker.

he groaned into your pussy, tongue working on your lips, until he finally paid some mind to your aching clit. you weren't shocked that he found it so easily: he was bullseye after all. but the pleasure from his lips wrapping around it was euphoric. your back arched away from the bed, so dex's arm slid beneath you. a smile touched your lips when you realized this was his attempt at closeness.

"so fucking wet…just for me," dex muttered to himself, possession taking root.

his tongue prodded your clit with perfect precision. oh yes, he noted each and every one of your honeyed sighs and rolling shudders. dex learned your body language so well he had you coming undone on his tongue in seconds. your legs shook as you rode your way through it, moaning and mewling.

dex thought he'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

your fingernails scratched his scalp just right when you ran your fingers through his hair like that. he purred like a cat beneath your touch.

dex left open-mouthed kisses along your sensitive cunt, lazily lapping up your cum. "pussy tastes so good, baby. i knew it would."

you whined at the praise. "yeah? you think about me?"

a wicked grin appeared on his frustratingly handsome features. a thick finger pressed at your entrance. he gazed up at you, light-headed, waiting for your permission again. but you wanted an answer first.

dex whimpered, avoidant. "think about you every fucking day, alright?"

a beat of silence passed between you two.

"you're the only good thing i have."

your heart broke at his admission. there weren't any sort of words to convey what you were feeling. you reached down for him, your kind hand cupping his trembling jaw. you beckoned dex to settle between your legs at eye-level, and you laid a soothing kiss on his horizontal cheek scar.

next, you kissed his swollen lips. they were just as soft as you thought they'd be. he tasted of mint and you. your tongue dipped into his damned mouth and dex moaned as you explored him, grinding his clothed erection into your pussy. you kissed him hungrily, pulling at his hoodie, anything to get him closer.

dex nearly ripped his sweatshirt off, and you decided to take your top off too. he choked on air at the sight of you, eyebrows raised. you tugged his pants down so you were both naked and he could have died on the spot.

"please," he croaked.

"i know, baby," you cooed, cradling his cheek. you brushed your lips over his and he sighed in contentment, gripping your waist for stability. dex sat down, hand held out to you in invitation to join in his lap, and you accepted.

he kissed you like a man starved, with feverish, hungry lips and too much teeth. you didn't mind. he reached down between your bodies once again in question, fingers just barely dancing over your dripping cunt, before you were nodding and dex was slipping them in. the stretch of his calloused digits was delicious. dex's head fell like a dead weight against your neck and laid kisses there.

"f-fuck, dex, just like that, please," you insisted, voice high and sharp.

he had two fingers pumping in you while his ruthless thumb worked your clit, already nearing you to orgasm once more. his fingers curled toward him, reaching that spongy part of your insides. your breath hitched as you clenched tighter on him.

"mm, right there, honey?" he teased, gaining confidence now that your moans had become considerably louder. dex increased the pressure on your clit, drawing flawless circles.

"yes, please!" you were putty in his hands and you both knew it.

he chuckled erotically beneath your earlobe, occasionally biting it. "want me to make you cum again, pretty girl?"

you nodded, embarrassed, chewing your lower lip.

dex tsk-ed in disapproval. "words, baby."

"please make me cum again, dex," you sobbed.

the words made dex pause, bathing in the feeling of being needed, his eyelids fluttering shut in pleasure. he grinned like a maniac against your smooth skin.

"don't worry, doll, i will." he peppered tender kisses to your throat as he resumed fingering you. the relief almost made your knees go out and you subconsciously leaned further into his large frame.

"feels so good," you whispered. "don't stop. please don't stop, oh god."

dex grunted, nodding slightly. he kept his pace, pushing his long fingers in and out as you made a mess all over his hand. it was a mess benjamin poindexter sincerely didn't mind.

"'m gonna…" the muscles in your core pulled taut as orgasm washed over you once again. you collapsed against dex, who caught and cradled you as your legs continued to ruthlessly shake.

"that's it, good girl," he grumbled, planting a kiss on top of your head as you lay on his chest.

it took you a few moments to recover from the aftershocks before you lifted your head enough to catch his eye. your saccharine smile made dex melt on the spot. you traced his jaw absentmindedly, admiring his handsome, scarred face.

"thank you," you said bashfully, smothering your shame by capturing dex's lips in a lingering kiss.

"you are very fucking welcome," dex replied with a laugh, kissing you passionately. his fingers slipped out of you and you took an interrupting sharp breath, wincing slightly. "i know, baby, 'm sorry."

"'s okay," you reassured, readjusting your position on his lap. his erection brushed your soaked core and you both sighed.

dex smirked like the devil, bringing his juicy fingers up to your pouty, puffy lips. you opened wide for him, sucking his digits with hollowed cheeks. you tasted your syrupy coating on him and moaned, looking dex square in the eye as you did so. his mouth fell open as you licked his fingers clean, big eyes staring up at him, straight out of one of his fantasies.

when you were finished, you released him with an exaggerated pop! of your sinful lips. but your mercy ended there as you started to kiss along the side of his neck. dex was lightheaded.

you reached between you and gathered some slick from your pussy onto your fingers, then wrapped them around dex's girthy, veiny cock. he threw his head back and let out a choked moan of your name. he throbbed in your hand, length growing as you stroked him with each flick of your pretty wrist.

but as much fun as it would have been to tease him all night, that wasn't what you wanted right now.

you released your grip, positioning him against your cunt instead. dex couldn't breathe.

"not gonna last long, honey," dex confessed honestly, eyes flickering over you in hunger and insecurity. you nodded in understanding. he was in prison for nearly a decade.

you leaned forward and kissed dex slow and sweet, as you gradually sank onto his length, inch-by-inch. his leaky cock stretched you open to perfection as you swallowed each others' moans.

"hng, fuck, s-sweetheart, so fucking wet 'n tight for me."

you nodded with fervor, whines slipping from your beautiful lips, desperate to please him. "just for you."

dex shuddered, cock throbbing inside you. he wanted to scream that you couldn't just say things like that to someone like him, but he lost the willpower when he bottomed out inside you. your gorgeous eyes rolled back as his tip kissed your cervix. you steadied a warm hand on dex's left cheek and he nuzzled into your touch, as you began to build a fixed rhythm of your hips. his hazel eyes bore into yours with intensity and he rocked his hips against yours in tandem. he truly never wanted to leave this moment.

the only sounds that filled the room were the obscene schlucks of your pussy as you rode dex and the feral moans that the two of you coaxed from each other. your unoccupied hand ended up intertwined with dex's much larger one, fingers interlaced.

he took one of your nipples into his mouth, biting and suckling. the pain-pleasure mix sent a fresh wave of heat down to your core and you moaned uncontrollably with your bottom lip sucked between your teeth. the noise encouraged dex, who was a mess of his own, to continue mouthing at your tits and fucking up into you. his breathing was ragged now, as he snaked his precise fingers down to your clit once more.

"yes!" you whined. "fuck me, baby, please. just like that."

dex grunted. "yeah, you like that, beautiful? like having me deep inside you like that?"

"mhm!"

"mm, 's what i thought. look so pretty taking me nice 'n fucking slutty."

you gasped, preening at his explicit praise. he smiled up at you like you were the sun in the sky, sweat beading on his temple.

the familiar knot of tension in your abdomen was building. you could feel yourself getting wetter, the glide of his cock having so little resistance it should have been blasphemy. dex's cheeks were flushed, his intertwined fingers sweaty, his legs trembling.

you maintained your steady pace, licking a stripe of sweat from the base of his throat to just below his ear. dex whimpered and it's the sexiest sound you'd ever heard.

"f-fuck, baby, 'm close," he warned, trying to compose himself. "pussy just feels t-too fucking good. so fucking good."

"it's okay, dex," you said, laying another sweet kiss to his lips. "it's okay."

and something about your tone of voice, coating the "it's okay"s like honey, told him he was safe in your arms, and sent dex straight over the edge in hysterics. he crashed his lips into yours like a desperate teenager. you found it oddly charming, smiling against him. he moaned pathetically into your mouth, murmuring nonsense praise, while his cum spilled deep into you. his cock pulsed as your overstimulated pussy milked him dry.

your climax hit you violently at the sight of dex's red-rimmed, teary eyes. you wondered just how long his body had been deprived of that. you clung to him, trembling, as you rode out your high, leaving a juicy white ring around his cock that dripped onto his balls below. you were still holding hands — the grip suffocating.

you turned dex's gaze to yours and languidly licked up his tears. it almost made dex cry more — your kindness — but he methodically slowed his breathing with every bit of will power he had. and then you were kissing him and his cock was twitching inside you and he was dizzy all over again, but he was exactly where he wanted to be. his mind was dead silent.

you would figure out the mechanics of this tomorrow. for now, you were falling asleep with dex buried balls-deep inside you.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

a/n: hello again from the ether!! my goodness this was fun to write. sry it took so long to my lovely requester, since i wanted to give it my all, i took my time! i would suck this man dry à la capri sun. like mouth is actively watering. ugh. every day i wake up and thank god for wilson bethel.

i've decided to make this an ethel cain series because i think that fits dex horrifically well sometimes lolll

as always, pls lmk your thoughts! and as always, asks and requests r opennnnn!

xoxo, b

For the past forty eight hours, all you’d been able to think about was what had happened in that office with Dex and the potential catastrophic fallout that could ensue. After he was taken back to solitary, you returned home to your own later that night, your stomach twisted in knots with the frayed ends of each boundary you’d crossed. The heat of the moment had long passed, leaving behind the lingering chill of consequences.

Walking down the familiar hallway of the prison towards your office on Friday morning, you bypassed pleasantries and avoided the usual morning greetings, afraid to look anyone in the eye, as if they’d be able to see your sin with one guilty glance. You still had no idea what Dex’s true motivation was for being “cooperative”. All you had to go on was his word, which wasn’t substantial coming from someone who could lie and manipulate with the effortless ease of breathing.

What if it was all a game, just to see what you’d do? A trap you’d voluntarily tangled yourself into for his own entertainment. He couldn’t brag about his victory to the other inmates, but he could to the guards. Would they believe him? Would they take it to the warden? Did he already know? Were you completely fucked?

The only person who had those answers was currently being led into your office, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. He didn’t take his eyes off you once as he was guided in and sat down, the chains rattling while he was being cuffed to the table. Not even a second after the door clicked shut behind the last guard, Dex leaned back in the chair and spread his legs, flashing you a cocky smirk.

“On the desk, Doc.”

Your eyes narrowed in annoyance at his audacity to give commands while he was the one bound.

“No.”

The smirk suddenly vanished from his mouth, a flurry of surprise, confusion, and something that almost resembled panic clearing the darkened clouds of lust from his eyes. He abruptly sat up straight, beginning to notice the closed off body language you exuded with your arms crossed over your chest, and the intentional decision to stand behind your desk to put a physical barrier between the two of you.

“What do you mean no? Why?”

“Did you tell anyone?”

He seemed further perplexed by your inquisition.

“Tell anyone what?”

Normally you were able to keep a level head and remain calm in any situation, it was essential in your profession, but the anxiety that had been compounding over the last two days had eroded your patience and left your nerves raw and exposed.

“Don’t fuck with me, Benjamin. Did you tell anyone what happened on Wednesday?”

His eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by your unprecedented outburst, and then it was like you could see a light bulb go off in his head, only you weren’t privy to his enlightenment. His shoulders relaxed as he leaned back in the chair again, arching one of his brows while an amused smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that what’s got you all amped up?”

The silent scowl you gave him seemed to be confirmation enough, and he let out a deep chuckle.

“Doc, do you think if I told anyone I was fucking around with my psychiatrist, I’d get to keep seeing you?”

A furrow of annoyance nestled between your brows and you placed your hands on your hips.

“No, because I’d lose my job, be stripped of all my certifications and licensing, and probably end up in the cell next to you.”

Dex let out another laugh that rumbled deep in his chest, which only aggravated you further.

“Sweetheart, getting eaten out by a patient isn’t exactly grounds for solitary confinement in a maximum security prison. Besides, even if anyone did find out somehow, I’d deny everything.”

Your aggravation dissipated quickly, painted over with streaks of curiosity and confusion. There was a familiar hint of conviction in his voice, the same one you’d heard when he said he wouldn’t hurt you.

“Why?”

Now it was his turn to look puzzled. His brows lifted for a moment before they knit together, and he spoke in a cadence that made it seem like the answer was obvious.

“I just told you. I wouldn’t get to keep seeing you."

Blinking a few times, you just stared over at him, like your brain couldn’t process the simplicity of his answer.

“That’s it? That’s all you want? Just…to keep seeing me?”

That familiar smirk spread across his lips, and he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to an intimate volume as if he were sharing a secret, although it was just the two of you in the room.

“Well, I think I made it clear the other day that I want to do more than see you, Doc.”

He grinned at the way your body language and expression immediately changed, letting out another deep chuckle before he leaned back in his seat once again.

“You know, I realize that I’m not the most trustworthy person, but I’m a little wounded you think so low of me.”

“You’ve spent your entire life lying and manipulating your way into and out of every situation, can you blame me for being suspicious of your intentions?”

“I suppose not. But I’ve never lied to you, or tried to manipulate you. Why would I start now?”

“Limited opportunities for entertainment.”

Dex grinned again, letting his eyes wander shamelessly over you.

“Oh, but you’ve given me plenty of material to keep myself entertained with.”

A beat of silence passed where the two of you just stared at each other. Dex had evident hunger in his intense gaze, and your body was warming up from the heat of it, but he could still see the hesitation in your eyes. He let out a deep exhale through his nose and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.

“Look, let me put this as plainly as possible so we’re on the same page. I want to keep seeing you, Doc. I want to keep tasting you, I want to keep touching you. I want whatever you’ll give me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it. Now, will you please sit your pretty little ass on the desk and spread your legs for me?”

You should say no. You should nip this in the bud now. Even if Dex meant what he said, every second you didn’t jump back to the right side of your moral and professional boundaries led you closer and closer to some kind of fallout, and since there wasn’t much left they could do to punish Dex, all the retribution would be placed on you.

But the thrill of it all was just so goddamn enticing. That unrestrained hunger he displayed, when had you ever experienced that before? You knew from his file he had a tendency to be obsessive, to fixate on someone and bind himself to them, to offer up whatever he had to in order to be rewarded with acceptance and praise.

And now that someone was you.

It was addictive to be craved so ravenously. To be the object of unrestrained and raw desire. Never had your pleasure been the sole purpose behind someone’s interest in you, but that was all Dex wanted. To please you. The epiphany that you could bring a man like him to his knees with a snap of your fingers was a rush that made you feel almost dizzy. You’d gotten a taste of forbidden fruit, and it was too delectable to not go back for another taste. But you weren't completely blinded by lust to not consider caution.

“I think we need to establish some rules.”

Dex eyed you in curiosity, and his tone betrayed his perplexity.

“Rules?”

“I think you need to remember that you’re the one in handcuffs. You don’t get to come in here and make demands. You get what I allow you to have, when I allow you to have it. If we do this, it’s on my terms, and I have conditions.”

Dex sat up straighter, his intense attention locked solely on you. There was no smug smirk, no mirth or defiance in his eyes, nothing but a serious portrait of focus.

“Tell me.”

“You still have to participate in these sessions. I can’t see you three times a week and have nothing to report. I have to show them we’re making some kind of progress. You also have to keep behaving and cooperating outside of this office. And I want you to promise me that everything that happens in this room stays between us.”

Without hesitation, Dex gave you a firm nod.

“I promise.”

When you didn’t immediately look relieved or come around your desk towards him, he arched one of his brows with a subtle amused smile, curling his thumb and first three fingers inside his right palm before extending his pinky out towards you.

“You want me to pinky swear, Doc?”

“Shut up.”

He laughed at the look on your face and the grumble in your voice. Your eyes dropped down to his juvenile offer before looking up at him again. Finally rounding the corner of your desk, you locked your pinky with his.

“These are sacred oaths. You’re not allowed to break them.”

“I’m aware.”

Dex’s eyes were sparkling with mischief as he tilted his head to the side.

“Anything else, Doc?”

“Yeah, don’t walk in here again smiling like you’ve seen me naked.”

Dex’s lips split in a wolfish grin, and his eyes dropped down to your skirt, licking his lips before looking up at you again.

“Technically I haven’t. I’d love to, though.”

He tapped his fingers on the desk, a silent signal for you to sit. But you had other plans. You wanted to see how far his obedience went. You did lift yourself up onto your desk, but off to the side of it instead of in between his spread legs.

“I want something else."

Dex’s gaze dropped down to your legs, and a flash of excitement struck in them like lightning before the clouds of lust darkened his irises.

“What do you want?”

Ever since he’d mentioned taking care of his needs with his imagination, it had sent yours running wild. You wanted to hear what kind of noises he made, wanted to see what he looked like when he pleasured himself. You wanted to watch.

“I want you to show me how you entertain yourself.”

Dex clenched his jaw, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed thickly. He let out a quiet breathy chuckle, and his voice was husky with want as he gave the chains a faint tug.

“I’m a little tied up here, sweetheart.”

“You can reach if you stand.”

He let out a sharp breath past his lips, and you could see that he was already half hard, the orange fabric straining against his growing bulge. He slowly rose to his full height, and you had to tilt your head back slightly to look up at him. The chains rattled as he stepped closer to the edge of the desk, until it was flush against his thighs. While your eyes dropped to watch him undo the bottom two buttons of his jumpsuit, he never took his eyes off of you.

Your lips parted slightly with a sudden inhale and your thighs pressed together watching him reach in to pull out his cock. A soft noise sounded in the back of your throat at the sight of it. You could almost see the veins throbbing insistently with need along his girth, the tip already leaking precum in anticipation.

When he held out his palm, breaking the bewitchment from his arousal, your eyes snapped up to his. He was breathing heavier, and there was a muddled look in his eyes of pleading and expectation. Looking down at his outstretched palm again, it suddenly clicked what he wanted from you. Lifting your gaze to his again, you leaned over as your tongue collected a generous amount of saliva from your mouth that you let slip past your lips into his eager hand.

He inhaled sharply, wrapping his hand around the base of his cock, using your spit as lubricant to start stroking himself. Your top teeth sank down into your bottom lip hard as you fell under his spell again, watching intently as he took his time, slowly gliding his hand upwards, swiping his thumb over the sensitive tip with a low noise in the back of his throat, giving the head a light squeeze.

“I’ve thought about you…everyday…for the last few months.”

He moved his hand slowly with gentle flicks of his wrist. The way he kept eye contact with you had your panties already soaked through, and you pressed your thighs together more firmly for any kind of relief.

“Especially after the other day. I haven’t stopped thinking about how good you tasted…how tight you were around my fingers…how pretty you look when you cum. And the way you moaned my name…”

He let out a low moan of his own, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, letting out a shaky and heavy breath. He was stroking his cock a little faster now, applying more pressure with his hand, and your fingers gripped the edge of your skirt as you swallowed thickly. He was reliving it in his head, you could almost see the memory playing behind his eyelids. It was the same dirty reel that had been on repeat in your own head.

“Look at me."

You hadn’t noticed you’d closed your eyes until his voice made them snap open. It wasn’t a command. It was almost begging. He was lightly panting now, and his other hand reached out towards you.

“Let me touch you…please.”

Biting your lip, you scooted closer on the desk towards him, and you let out a shaky breath when his hand grabbed your thigh, his fingers dipping beneath the hem of your skirt.

“Are you wet?”

“Yes."

You answered in a breathy voice, almost surprised by your own shameless admission. Dex let out a quiet grunt and gripped your thigh a little tighter.

“Let me see.”

His voice was hoarse and dripping with need. Grasping the hem of your skirt, you tugged it up to your hips and spread your thighs. Your panties were so wet they clung to your dripping cunt, the outline of it visible beneath the light blue cotton that was nearly sheer now.

He was jerking his cock a little faster now, his breathing coming out in heavy pants. Between the concoction of your spit and his own precum, the slick sound of him stroking himself quicker was audible in an almost obscene way. Hooking your finger in the side of your panties, you pulled them to the side so he could see how drenched you were, a string of your arousal stretching between the soaked fabric and your clit. He let out a desperate whimper that made you shudder, and you could feel your wetness dripping onto the desk beneath you. You’d never been so turned on in your life.

“Fuck. Let me have a taste…please, sweetheart. Please.”

Slipping your hand between your thighs, you let out a soft moan as you swiped two of your fingers through your wet pussy, gathering a generous amount of your slick onto your digits before lifting them in offering. Dex immediately leaned in to take them in his mouth, his eyes nearly rolling when your taste hit his tongue. He moaned as he licked and sucked your fingers clean, stroking his cock even faster.

His lips were glistening with your juices and his spit when your fingers slipped from his mouth, and his breathing was ragged now, digging his blunt nails into your soft thigh while he jerked himself off fervently.

“Oh fuck…fuck I’m gonna cum…”

A sudden thought popped into your head that made you blush deeply due to its filthy nature, but it was also a practical solution. Hooking your thumbs in the waistband of your panties, you shimmied a little to push them down your thighs, leaning over slightly to slip them over your heels to take them off. Dex was watching intently, his cheeks flushed as he panted. When you held them out to him, and he realized why, he let out a groan that nearly made you cum yourself.

He swiped them from your hand quickly. Away from your warm cunt, the soaked fabric had cooled when it hit the air, and when he placed your panties over the head of his sensitive cock, he let out a hiss before a moan tumbled from his parted lips. His right hand was moving rapidly now, and his left darted back out to grip onto your thigh again. His eyes were hooded and full of desperation, and he was panting as he maintained his intense eye contact.

Your own hand reached out of its own volition, grasping onto the back of his neck to pull him down closer until his forward was pressed against yours and you could feel the heat of his heavy breathing on your lips. His pupils were blown wide open, and he turned his head to brush his lips against yours. But before either of you could steal a kiss, his eyes screwed shut and his face twisted up in pure pleasure. He let out a guttural moan as his hips stuttered, exhaling shuddering breaths. He came so hard it leaked through your panties and dripped down his fingers.

His skin was blazing to the touch, and your own forehead was damp from being pressed against Dex’s sweaty skin. He twitched slightly, his hips subtly jerking forward as he drenched your panties in his cum, letting out a relieved moan. Your imagination hadn’t even come close to how erotic the reality had been.

He suddenly dipped down to capture your lips in a kiss that left you nearly breathless with the force of its passion. His tongue parted the seam of your lips, and you could taste the gift of yourself you’d given him, letting out a quiet moan that turned into a gasp when he nipped at your bottom lip and gave it a gentle tug.

“Your turn, Doc.”

“When’s the last time you got laid?”

Instantly your hand stilled, and your inked thoughts came to an incomplete halt on the page of your notebook. Lifting your head, you locked eyes with your patient, who was already watching you with a hint of mirth in his eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“You seem tense, Doc. Doesn’t seem like you’re doing much to relax-”

“This session is for you, Mr. Poindexter, not the other way around.”

Benjamin let out a quiet chuckle while leaning back in his chair, the chains connected to the cuffs around his wrists rattling. 

“Sweetheart, I’ve told you my favorite ways to kill people. I think we’re way past formalities.” 

He’d gone through several psychiatrists already. It was mandatory for his sentence, but he’d refused to participate. He was already in prison, and he had no delusion they would ever let him out. What could they really do if he just sat there and ignored everyone they assigned to him? 

The entire time he’d been here at Riker’s Island, that’s exactly what he’d done. Every time someone new was brought in, Benjamin would sit there silently, sometimes barely blinking, and just stare them down. He never said a word. Until you.

You were lucky number thirteen.

You’d been made aware of Benjamin’s refusal to participate in therapy prior to being assigned to him. You had expected to have the same experience as your colleagues. But for some reason, he was different with you. He did talk to you. Sort of. He could be incredibly evasive, and sometimes he made comments just to see if they’d provoke a reaction, but he would participate just enough to keep seeing you and you hadn’t been able to figure out why. It was as puzzling to you as it was to everyone else. 

Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you gripped your pen and continued to write.

“I’d appreciate if you focused-”

“Little hard to do when you look like that, Doc.”

His blue eyes wandered appreciatively over the half of your body he could see sitting across from you, and a wicked smirk stretched across his mouth when he met your gaze again. His remark caught your attention. You weren’t wearing anything out of the norm. It was a dress you’d worn in a session with him before. He’d never made a comment on it before, or on your appearance, until now. 

All of a sudden, a lightning strike of clarity cracked through the clouds of mystery that surrounded him, illuminating an epiphany that made you feel stupid for not considering it before. Pausing your notetaking once again, you lifted your head to look at him, tilting your head to the side as you narrowed your eyes in suspicion.

“Are you only participating in these sessions because you desire me sexually?" 

Benjamin pursed his lips faintly with a casual shrug, that smug smirk of his never fading.

“If you’re asking if I wanna fuck your brains out, then…yeah.”

He’d never been anything but blunt and shameless the entire time you’d been around him, so you weren’t sure why that cavalier comment affected you the way it did, but it sparked something within you that made your cheeks feel warm. Attempting to appear nonchalant, you calmly set your pen down in your notebook and leaned back in your chair while holding eye contact with him.

“So that’s why you’ve been so well behaved.”

“Good boys get rewarded.”

“You’re not exactly a good boy, Benjamin.”

“Oh, but I can be.”

He didn’t bother to hide the hunger that darkened his eyes considerably, and it was audible in the sudden huskiness of his voice. He leaned in closer until his forearms were resting on the desk, loosely gesturing around with his hand, making the chains rattle again.

“See? A little good behavior, a little cooperation, and now we’re alone. No cameras, no nosy guards, no two way mirrors. Total privacy.”

Because of his cooperation, and decent behavior, he’d been given a few more privileges. The big cuff that covered both of his hands was reduced to just cuffs around his wrists. No more guard supervision was required, they now waited outside. And recently, your sessions were able to be moved to an office instead of an interrogation room.

Everything started to fall into place, and his revelation made you let out a scoff of disbelief. He’d planned this.

“And what exactly was your end goal, here? You thought you could just talk me into sleeping with you?”

Benjamin let out an amused laugh, his lips spreading into a tooth bearing grin.

“You don’t strike me as someone who can be talked into anything, Doc. I thought making an offer would be more realistic.”

“An offer.”

Your voice was dry as you repeated his words, sounding as uninterested as you looked.

He stared at you for a moment silently, and for some reason the intensity of his eye contact made something twist in your stomach. The ticking of the clock on the wall suddenly sounded louder, like it was right by your ear, a clandestine countdown you weren’t privy to. He didn’t look away, and you couldn’t. It was like you were stuck in some silent staring contest.

“Let me eat you out.”

Of all the things you expected to come out of his mouth, that was not one of them. Your shocked surprise must have shown on your face, because he smirked as he leaned in closer and dropped his voice to an intimate whisper.

“C’mon, Doc. It’s a mutually beneficial offer. You get to relax, I get to taste you.”

A dry incredulous laugh bubbled up in your throat, and you couldn’t keep it from escaping. Arching one of your brows, you crossed your arms over your chest.

“You really expect me to believe you’ve been playing the long game just to go down on me?”

“It’s not just for you. Like I said, it’s mutually beneficial.”

You couldn’t believe it. He was serious. As far as you could tell, he was actually serious. Very rarely did you find yourself speechless, but you genuinely had no idea how to respond to that. There was the entirely plausible idea that he was fucking with you, just to see how you’d react. He didn’t exactly have many opportunities for entertainment, and being in solitary confinement, you were the only person he “socialized” with.

Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you attempted to redirect the conversation.

“Benjamin-”

“Again with the formalities. How many times I gotta ask you to call me Dex?”

“Nicknames are generally reserved for friends.”

“We could be friends. We could be very good friends, sweetheart.”

Leaning back in his chair casually, he clenched and unclenched his fists, making the metal of the chains connected to his handcuffs rattle once again. 

“Look, I’ve been in prison for a while now, sweetheart. Certain needs I can take care of with a little imagination, but not that one. And I really miss pussy.”

You were supposed to be getting the conversation back on track and make him focus on the session. You should’ve threatened to end it early for how inappropriate he was being. But when he’d clenched and unclenched his fists, it had made his biceps flex, and you unexpectedly noticed just how taut the orange jumpsuit was over his arms and broad shoulders. Had he always been so…big?

“C’mon, Doc. I’ve been good, don’t I deserve something sweet? I promise I’ll make you come. You know I never miss a target.”

Flashing you a wink, Dex’s wicked smirk stretched wide across his mouth once again. That should’ve been the end of the conversation. You should’ve ended it before, honestly. But you’d been curious, and now your curiosity had put you in a confusing situation, because you should be getting up and calling the guards to come take him. But you didn’t. And he noticed. 

“You’re considering it.”

“I am not-”

“You didn’t say no. You’re not walking out. You don’t even look offended or disgusted. As a matter of fact you look…interested.”

This time when he let his eyes wander over you with evident lust, you felt a shiver that straightened your spine despite there not being a draft in the room, and your skin prickled in response. He slowly tilted his head to the side, and it would’ve been menacing if he was threatening to harm you instead of offering to pleasure you.

“When’s the last time someone made you come with just their tongue?”

The heat that bloomed in your cheeks betrayed your silence, and his brows lifted, amusement breaking through the clouds of desire in his eyes as his words dripped with mock sympathy.

“Oh…no one ever has. Now that is a crime, Doc.”

A part of you felt ashamed for being attracted to him. You knew what he was, what he had done. Your brain was screaming at you for even entertaining the thought, for looking at him in anything but repulsion. But the guilt and shame that should’ve settled in your gut and made your skin burn was nowhere to be found. In its place was heat born from reckless curiosity, a carnal chemical demand, and a youthful thrill of doing something you weren't supposed to.

All at once you felt like a teenager again, sneaking out for the first time to meet up with someone you weren’t allowed to be with. What the hell was wrong with you? This was your patient, and he was a dangerous and violent criminal. This wasn’t just crossing a professional boundary, it was crossing a moral one too. But why did it feel so…exciting? Why did it have you pressing your thighs together and your body buzzing with anticipation?

Why did you want it?

“I won’t hurt you.”

His voice interrupted the flurry of conflicting thoughts and feelings he’d shaken up. He was still staring intently at you, but his smirk had faded into a more serious expression. There was a conviction in his voice that made you feel like he meant it. 

“I don’t know that.”

“Trust me, Doc. You’re the last person I want to harm.”

Holding your gaze, he leaned forward again, dropping his voice to that intimate husky whisper that had a flame of desire igniting in your lower belly.

“It can be our little secret. You don’t have to take the handcuffs off. I won’t even touch you if you don’t want me to. All you have to do is come sit in front of me, take off your panties, and spread those pretty legs for me.”

You glanced at the closed door. It wasn’t locked. Anyone could come in unannounced, and that would be the end of your career. That should’ve been the moment the logical side of your brain took over and made you walk out. But instead you glanced over at the clock, noting that you had twenty minutes left with Dex, and your eyes fell on him again. The tension between you was like a dense invisible fog that made it almost difficult to breathe. He didn’t say a word, he just stared you down with his offer dangling in the silence. 

You weren’t sure if it was even a conscious decision when you stood. It was like you were bewitched, your body moving of its own accord. Dex tracked you with his intense stare like a predator as you floated around your desk. He leaned back in the chair and spread his legs wide for you to fit between, and he eyed the hem of your dress hungrily. As you hauled yourself up onto the edge of your desk, you realized you’d never been this near to him before. He was even bigger up close.

He licked his lips as he watched you hike up your dress. Your fingers were trembling as you lifted your hips slightly to slip your lacy panties down your legs. When you slowly spread your thighs, Dex inhaled sharply, and his gaze zeroed in on your glistening cunt. 

“Goddamn, Doc. You’ve been holdin’ out on me.”

He didn’t hesitate to lean in, dragging his tongue languidly through your drenched pussy, letting out a groan as he savored your taste. The warmth of his eager tongue and the vibration from his groan made your eyes flutter, and you gripped the edge of the desk with a soft whimper. 

“I’ve been thinkin’ about how good you’d taste, how pretty you’d be.”

He took his time, taking another slow lick before turning his head slightly to gently nip at your inner thigh, earning another whimper from you. His pupils were completely dilated when he looked up at you from between your thighs.

“But I gotta tell you, sweetheart, the real thing is so much fucking better.”

Immediately his tongue found your clit, giving it a few swift flicks before suctioning his lips around it, and your eyes nearly rolled as you dipped your head back, your hand instinctively flying down to grip at his hair. He growled when you tugged at his roots, and the obscene sound of slurping was the only noise that combated your breathy panting and moans. The metal chains connected to his cuffs were cold against the backs of your thighs, digging into your skin in a way that was sure to leave indented evidence.

“Oh God-”

It was a subconscious reaction when you started to roll your hips, but he didn’t seem to mind that you were essentially riding his face. He groaned against your pussy, his tongue spreading you open and slipping inside you while you grinded your clit against his nose and clamped your thighs around his head. 

You hadn’t realized you’d grabbed onto one of his cuffed hands until you felt him interlace your fingers together and squeeze your hand, a silent gesture of encouragement. You tried to be mindful of the fact that there were guards outside, but God it just felt so good. Dex was tearing noises from you that you’d never heard yourself make, and he made you feel things that only a battery operated toy had ever been able to conjure.

“Fuck…Dex…”

He pulled away just for a moment to glance up at you and growl out a command.

“Let me touch you.”

You were nodding fervently in an instant, and Dex hooked his hands under the backs of your knees to pull your legs over his broad shoulders. His reach was limited by the handcuffs, and the metal was biting into his skin as he pushed the boundaries of his restraints to be able to touch you, but he didn’t stop. One of his hands firmly gripped your thigh, and with his other he slipped two of his fingers inside you right as he wrapped his lips around your clit again.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream when his skilled fingers swiftly found that special spot inside you, stroking it in a ‘come hither’ motion while pumping his digits and suckling at your clit. Both of your hands were now tangled in his hair, and your thighs had started to quiver around his head while your breathing was reduced to choppy, staccato gasps. 

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-”

Dex grunted at how roughly you tugged at his hair, tightening his grip on your trembling thigh. He was fingering you faster and harder, flicking his tongue over your clit like a metronome at high speed. When his teeth just barely grazed over your sensitive bundle of nerves, you completely shattered.  

By the time you climaxed on his tongue, you were practically hugging his head between your shaking thighs, hunched over as a wave of raw pleasure cascaded throughout your body, leaving a tingling feeling of bliss behind. One of your hands had let go of his hair to clamp your own hand over your mouth to muffle a euphoric cry that was accompanied by wrecked whimpers as Dex kept licking your pussy, drawing out your orgasm, swirling his tongue like he was collecting sweet cream dripping down an ice cream cone.

“Dex…fuck…please-”

You begged for mercy with a whine as you pushed at his head, trying to escape his delectable torment. He still had his lips wrapped around your swollen clit, and the hum he let out that vibrated against the hyper sensitive bundle of nerves felt like getting shocked with a jolt. He chuckled against your core at how your body jerked in response. Releasing your clit with a soft pop, he finally leaned back to look up at you with a glistening grin. The lower half of his face coated in your wetness, and when he licked his lips, his eyes were almost as hazy as your own.

“I told you, Doc. I never miss.”

tags: @strawberrycheesecake262 @blueberrystarr

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You hadn’t meant to come this late, you never do.

But your days are a constant negotiation – emails, meetings, decisions that stack and stack until your brain hums like an overworked server. The gym is the only place where that noise cuts cleanly to silence. No thinking, no strategising. Just movement, breath, the burn of muscle, and Bucky’s voice – steady, corrective, unyielding – telling you exactly where to put your body and how to hold it there.

It’s easier, sometimes, to be told.

“Last set,” he murmurs, voice deep enough to vibrate the air-con vents. His metal hand steadies your hips while the fleshy one trails lower, thumb ghosting the waistband of your leggings. “Romanian dead-lifts. Slowly, and a squeeze-hold at the top.”

You brace on the barbell, ass back, hamstrings singing. He crouches behind you, adjusting your stance with practiced precision – knees out, chest proud, hips hinged just right – really an excuse to watch the way your body moves under his hands. By rep eight your glutes burn; by rep ten the heat between your legs burns hotter. Bucky’s exhale fans over the small of your back.

“Perfect,” he says, low with approval. “Feel that engagement?”

“What I feel,” you shoot back, breath catching between words, “is you hovering like you don’t trust me to finish a set.”

There’s an edge to it – half challenge, half the kind of bratty deflection that only shows up when you’re tired enough to stop filtering yourself.

His mouth ticks at the corner.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “You start rushing when you get mouthy.”

You huff, pushing through the last rep anyway, slower now just to prove a point. At the top you hold – one, two, three – then drop the bar with a satisfying clang that echoes through the empty floor.

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose.

“Easy,” he snaps, not loud, but firm – the voice he uses when clients forget themselves. His hand lands back on your hip, grounding, corrective. “You finish the movement before you let it go. Always.”

There’s a beat – just long enough for the reprimand to settle – before his grip shifts, his palm slides lower, settling heavy over your ass, giving it a sharp, corrective pat.

“Discipline,” he mutters. “That’s the whole point.”

You inhale, sharp, the contact sending a flicker of heat straight through you. When you glance back over your shoulder, your expression has already tipped – less chastened, more knowing.

“Like what you’re feeling?” you ask, voice edged with something lighter, dangerous.

His jaw tightens, just slightly. For a second, he doesn’t answer – like he’s deciding which version of himself gets to speak.

Then, rougher than before, “Yeah,” he says. “Strong. Built exactly like how it should be.”

His thumb drags once, slow, deliberate, no longer pretending it’s part of the correction.

“I guess I have you to thank for them, Coach,” you say, glancing back over your shoulder.

That does it.

Something in his expression tightens; professional irritation blurring into something darker, hungrier.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “You do.”

He steps back, rolling his shoulders like he’s resetting himself. “Down on the mat. We’re not done.”

That’s how you find yourself on your back in the functional room, sneakers braced on the turf sled track, sweat still drying in the hollow above your collarbones. Bucky kneels at your side, one knee down on a rolled yoga mat, the other planted for leverage. One hand supports your heel; the other one slides slowly up the back of your leg, warm from body heat, until the heel of his palm meets the back of your thigh.

“Breathe,” he reminds, voice a low rasp that sinks under your skin. “Exhale on the stretch.”

You do – slow release of breath out the nose – while he pushes your leg toward your chest. Glute stretch, hamstring extension, textbook mobility. Except nothing about the look in his eyes feels clinical. His pupils are huge, a storm-blue rim around black. Sweat darkens the front of his training tee; dog tags press flat against his sternum. When the fabric brushes your knee, you imagine the sweat tastes like salt and cedar, the same scent that clings to your towel after every 6 am HIIT class.

The stretch deepens. Luon leggings pull taut over your pert ass; the crotch seam bites into heat you can’t hide. Bucky’s gaze flicks there – quick, guilty – and returns to your face.

“Too much?” he asks, throat thick.

“Not enough,” you try, but your voice gives out, the words dissolving into a low, needy sound that makes his hands tighten on you.

He drops your leg gently, then moves fast and decisive. One strong arm hooks under your knees, the other scoops behind your shoulders, and suddenly you’re airborne. You squeal, slap at his chest, but he’s already settling you onto the padded weight bench that faces the mirrored wall. Your reflection – flushed, wide-eyed – stares back at you.

Bucky stands over you, left hand on the bar rack, right fingers dragging through his crop of dark hair.

“I’ve been trying to be professional,” he says, exhale shaky enough to tremble the words. “But I keep thinking about putting my hands on you.”

You push up on your elbows, letting your knees fall open just enough to give him a view. “Then stop trying,” you murmur, mouth curving. “I’m your client,” your head tilts slowly, deliberately. “You work to my satisfaction.”

His breath leaves on a curse. In two strides he’s between your thighs, calloused palm braced on the bench beside your head, hand sliding up your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge until your lips part on instinct. He pauses there, hesitating for just a second, long enough that you can feel his breath.

Your eyes flick to his, and then back to his mouth. And instead of answering with your words, your lips close around his thumb, tongue dragging over the rough pads, slowly enough that his catches.

That’s all it takes.

He kisses you like he’s finally allowed to – mouth firm, a little rough, pulling a breath out of you before you even realise you’ve given it. His body covers you, heat and weight and the faint rasp of nylon joggers against luon leggings. Between your legs the long, thick line of his cock hardens, grind by grind, until you rock up to chase it.

“Greedy,” he growls, breaking the kiss to nip your lower lip. “I like it.”

He drags you down the bench until your ass hangs off the edge. Hands grip the waistband of your leggings and peel them over your hips, yanking sneakers, socks, Lycra away in three efficient tugs. You’re naked from the waist down, slick already stringing between your thighs. Bucky’s gaze fixes on the wet. His tongue sneaks out, quick, hungry.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

“Your fault for making me do sled pushes,” you manage, a little breathless.

He huffs, almost laughing, then sinks to his knees. “Not talking about the sweat, sweetheart.”

 The rubberized floor muffles the thud; the mirror shows his broad back, shoulders bunching under the tight black tee as he grips your thighs and spreads you.

First lick – broad, from the dip of your entrance to the swollen peak of your clit. Your spine arches. Second lick – pointed, tip circling slow until your fingers claw at the vinyl. Bucky groans like the taste hits a nerve.

“Sweet,” he mutters into slick flesh. “All day I think about this, and my mouth waters through half my sessions.”

You would tease, but he seals his lips around your clit and sucks just hard enough to pull a broken moan from the base of your lungs. His tongue flicks, relentless, pattern precise as an EMOM timing cue. His hand slides under your ass, middle finger prodding your rim, teasing but not entering; the human hand curls over your thigh, thumb stroking the tendon where it meets your pelvis.

Wet squelch, his breathing, your stuttered whimpers - echoes bounce off glass and turf. The neon exit sign glows red in the mirror behind his head; in its reflection you see drool sheen on his chin, eyes half-closed in concentration.

“Bucky, oh – fuck –”

“That’s it,” he praises, voice gravel, and doubles down. He slips two fingers inside, curling up. The stretch plus suction detonates bright heat and your first orgasm crashes hard. You cry out, thighs trembling against his ears, body flushing from collarbones to hairline. He licks through the pulses, greedy gulps, not stopping until you tug at his hair, squeaking from oversensitivity.

He rises, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leans in to kiss you. You taste yourself, tangy-sweet, mixed with salt of his sweat. He pulls back only far enough to strip his tee. Dog tags swing free, clinking as they settle against his chest. Your nails scrape over his shoulder, not hard – but enough to pull a sharp hiss from him.

“I want you inside me,” you say, voice still wrecked.

“You’ll get it,” he promises. “But first…”

He scoops his hands under your sports bra, pushes the damp racerback up and over your head. Your breasts spill out, nipples dark, tight. He cups them, thumbs brushing and brushing until your hips arch into nothing. Then he drags your slick down the curve, using natures lube to shine the skin.

“You have no idea what these do to me,” he mutters. “Every time you pant – bounce, bounce – my brain just shorts out.”

He strokes his cock through joggers, showing the effect. The outline is outrageous, thick and long down his thigh. You bite your lip.

“If you like them so much,” you say, breathless, “You can fuck them, if you’d like.”

His groan is half-choke, half-prayer. Joggers hit the floor, boxer-briefs with them. His cock springs free, flushed dark rose at the tip, a bead of pre-come glittering.

“Nah,” he mutters, shaking his head once, like he’s arguing with himself. “Not like that.”

Your brows knit. “What –”

He grips your jaw and tilts your face up, thumb pressing into your bottom lip until it parts.

“I do love your tits,” he says, voice going low and deliberate. “But I think you can do better than that, sweetheart.”

Heat spikes straight to your core.

“Use your mouth. Show me how grateful you are for the session.”

The words land somewhere between a command and a dare.

You slide off the bench before he can move you, knees hitting the rubber floor with a soft thud. His cock hangs heavy in front of you, flushed, leaking. Up close, he’s bigger than he looks in the mirror – thick, weighty, already twitching when your fingers wrap around him.

“Hands behind,” he murmurs.

You lace your fingers at the small of your back – mind obediently blank again. Bucky’s cock is still hard, a slick sheen of lube and arousal catching the down-lights. He strokes once, twice, thumb sweeping the sensitive underside, and you track the motion like it’s the only moving object in the room.

“Open that pretty mouth.”

You do, lips parted, tongue out. He groans – some feral, grateful sound – then guides the broad head past your lips. Heat floods your cheeks; salt coats your tongue. You hum, pleased, and the vibration makes his hips stutter.

“Easy,” he warns, though the tremor in his voice betrays how close easy is to impossible. One hand fists in your hair – not forcing, but guiding, like everything else he does. His thumb strokes as he feeds you inch by slow inch. The tip nudges the back of your throat; your eyes water, but you relax, letting him set the depth.

“Relax your throat,” he murmurs, voice rough but still coaching, still him. “There you go – good girl.”

He begins to move – shallow thrusts, then deeper, rhythm synchronizing with the squeeze of his fingers. Spit slicks your chin, strings to the floor; the mirrored wall shows mascara smudging, mouth stuffed full. You’ve never felt emptier of thought, never felt better.

The praise goes straight to your head.

You hollow your cheeks, suck as you pull back, then take him deep again, finding a rhythm – slow, deliberate, filthy in a way that makes his control fray at the edges.

“All that attitude earlier,” he breathes. “And look at you now.”

You hum around him in response, and that is what unspools him. Hips jerk; his grip tightens. A low, ragged curse tears free as hot pulses spill across your tongue – thick, salty, endless. You take it, swallow instinctively, the taste thick and salt-slick on your tongue, and when you finally pull off him there’s still a dazed look on your face that he stares at like it’s the most obscene thing he’s ever seen.

When he eases out, a translucent thread lingers from lip to tip. You lick it away, then open your mouth, proving there’s nothing left to waste. He exhales a broken laugh, pride and disbelief tangled together.

“Fuck,” he says again, softer this time. “You actually –”

You lick your lips, meeting his gaze. “Extra protein, right?”

He stares at you for a second too long, something dark settling back into place behind his eyes as the haze clears. His chest is still rising a little too fast, but the slackness is gone now, replaced by something sharper, more focused. His gaze drops to your mouth, lingers, then lifts again, and whatever he finds there seems to decide it for him.

You tilt your chin up just slightly, meeting his gaze head-on. “Need you inside me,” you say. “Go on – finish the job.”

He blinks, then grins – wolfish, exhausted, still game. “Yes, ma’am.”

He grabs a towel, swipes quick across his cock, then hooks your knees over his forearms, lining up. His tip nudges slick entrance, slides in easy, still wet. The stretch is delicious. He sinks to the hilt, groaning when your walls flutter.

You’re positioned bent at edge, your ass half-suspended, angle perfect to bully your most sensitive spot. He sets a slow, grinding pace, thrusting deep and deliberate.

“Feel that?” he murmurs, bending to suck one drool-slicked nipple into his mouth. You keen, nails raking his back. Drool smears between chests each time he presses deep; the obscene squelch mingles with new slick.

His pace mounts – pistoning, pounding. A large hand grips the bar rack above your head for leverage; the other thumbs your clit in tight circles.

Pressure cranks high – too high – and your orgasm slams through again, violent, walls squeezing, vision spotting. You scream his name as your body convulsing. He snarls, thrusts losing rhythm, then empties inside, heat flooding, cock pulsing against hypersensitive flesh.

Aftershocks fade. He slips out, and white spend leaks immediately, trailing down to the crease of your ass. He watches, transfixed, then scoops two fingers through the spill and presses them back in, gentle.

“Can’t waste that,” he mumbles, lazy grin.

You slap his bicep. “You’re terrible.”

“Only the best for you.” He laughs, breathless, and leans down to kiss you soft – contrast to everything messy between. “Shower?”

“Only if you’re coming with me,” you say as he helps you upright; legs wobble. Together you head for the locker rooms, leaving a constellation of footprints, cum specks, and one smudgy handprint on the mirror.

The cleaning staff may wonder, but Equinox charges enough to clean up sins.

yap! who can tell which part of my cycle im on HAHAHA i'd like to take this opportunity to apologise to my actual trainer who's an angel... my girl, im so sorry i'm using all the good knowledge you've imparted to me to write filth... anyway! if you enjoyed let me know (and if you didn't, shhhh i don't wanna know)

DIVIDER BY @pixopix

“There can never be enough powdered sugar,” He replied between chews, his voice rumbling softly as he let his eyes drift shut, savouring the interplay of textures and tastes exploding across his tongue–the crisp snap of toasted almonds giving way to the subtle tart burst of dried cherries, all woven together with the warm depth of the homemade vanilla extract you had been preparing over the last couple of months which lingered perfectly with the generous, melt-in -your-mouth layer of sugar clinging to every crevice of the bite-sized orbs. They had seemed diminutive in the bowl, but pinched between his broad thumb and forefinger, they looked even smaller against the scale of his hand, the vibranium digits digging into the semi-softness of the cookie, leaving faint imprints on the edge of it.

He had been perched on the stool at the kitchen island the entire time, his massive frame filling the space with an effortless presence–broad shoulder straining the seams of his black t-shirt, his long, dark brown hair falling flat, just enough to frame his face, brushing the collar as he leaned forward in complete admiration, transfixed by the ease of you being in your element–or at least one of your elements. 

Watching you navigate the kitchen had become his little ritual, his steel-blue eyes tracing your movements through clouds of flour that settled on your apron and dusted your cheeks. Sometimes you would glance over at him and see how focused he was on you, and you could’ve sworn it was like he was on a mission and you were the mark, because his gaze never left you.

He had peppered you with questions, feigning intent to replicate the recipe someday, though truthfully it was just so that he could hear your voice–your patient breakdowns of learned techniques, and the small anecdotes you gave him about your life that you tied into the explanations of certain desserts you were making. 

Bucky could listen to you go on and on about anything, even the things he wasn’t particularly interested in, because he always found himself spellbound by your words, by the passion that settled beneath them, especially when you were enthusiastic about the topic. It calmed him, but it also made him even more interested in you–and that was becoming something that he could barely control.

A soft huff of laughter escaped you at the sight of his lips and chin that were coated like he had shoved his face into a fresh pile of snow, and you shook you head gently when his eyes reopened, meeting yours with a puzzled glint, a subtle innocence flickering in his eyes as if he was wondering what had sparked your sudden amusement. 

You leaned forward over the cool granite of the island, drawing nearer until the air between you thickened with the close proximity. Immediately he caught the familiar waft of your rosemary and lavender condition, a scent that always lingered in his mind long after you had left a room–one that he had even sought out in your bathroom during your absences, just so he could inhale it deeply into his lungs to chase the comfort it brought him.

Your presence carried an aura of perpetual freshness, as if you had just emerged from a bath that was infused with expensive oils and ripe citrus fruits that were fresh off a vine. It was an aroma that was so compelling that it Pavlov dogged his senses to attune directly to you, so much so that he was able to trail the scent in crowded spaces or during high-stakes operations without fail. 

Now that you were so close though, it felt like the world was spinning around him in a blurred haze, and all his eyes could focus on was the playful little look in your eyes, which had him on edge because not knowing what your next move would be was always something that made his hairs stand up. 

His heart faltered then, delivering a sharp, erratic thump that pumped in his chest like a misfired piston, the pressure intensifying with your nearness–like someone had dropped a cement brick onto him. It was an insistent ache that he had grown accustomed to, but it never failed to completely unsettle him. 

The first time this happened he thought he was having a heart attack–like his enhanced super soldier body was finally catching up to his actual age and was going to give out on him–but when the worrying ache eased when you smiled at him and left his space, he realized you were the cause of it. Over time, he learned he would have to come to terms with the fact that he would feel like he was on the brink of dying when you were near him, and managed the pain as much as he could without displaying it on his face, or pursing the relief he evidently craved.

His palm grew sweaty instantly, and he couldn’t help but clench at the fabric of his sweatpants in a bid for control, wetting the material with the dampness–which was thankfully out of your line of sight due to the lip of the kitchen island shielding the view of his thighs.

“You got some sugar on your face…” You pointed out, as you extended your hand in front of you slowly, like you were aware if you moved too fast he might flinch out of reflex, “I’ll get it…” You added, swiping your fingers along the surprisingly soft hairs of his beard, dusting him off like the old relic he was. You knew how he felt when it came to touching, so you took it slow, using your observant eye to target the white patches that mingled in with the salt-and-pepper bristles on his cheeks, feeling his jaw clenching with each point of contact you made.

Deep within him, Bucky battled the urge to press into your warmth, to capture your fingertips with a kiss or a lick to taste the lingering sweetness from them, sparing you a trip to the sink. Though he could practically picture the surprise that would appear on your face, or the recoil of discomfort or unease at such an unbidden advance, and he fought himself to push the idea down into the depths of his mind.

The lines of your friendship had always been blurred within the controlled environment the two of you were in–the fleeting grazes during tense missions, a reassuring hand on a shoulder, or the occasional drift into sleep against one another on long flights or movie nights. These moments always toed the line on the unspoken boundaries between the two of you without fanfare, rooted in the easy trust the two of you had built, ostensibly devoid of deeper intent, at least from your end–or so he assumed.

Once, in a moment of pure confusion and vulnerability, he had confided in Sam about the ambiguity–questioning whether he was ignoring signs that you were giving him or misinterpreting them completely–only to receive a blunt assessment of the situation: that the two of you were emotionally constipated teammates with unresolved sexual tension that would never be satisfied because neither of you would make the poignant move. After that, Bucky had sealed away the possibilities of any further discussions, choosing to be content–or resigned–on surviving with these fragments of almost’s, consuming them with the same fervour he had when it came to your baked goods. 

Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw a fraction longer than necessary, like you meant to do the soft exploration but masked it beneath the action of cleaning him off, before pulling your touch back entirely. Bucky’s throat constricted, his Adam’s apple shifting visibly as he absorbed the withdrawal, a flush creeping upward from his neck to tint his cheeks in a light pink hue. He adjusted on the stool beneath him, dipping his chin to conceal the warmth blooming across his features, but the motion drew his eyes downward to the black t-shirt straining against his torso, the fabric taut over a newfound softness that hadn’t existed there a few months prior.

The added weight had puzzled him, especially given his rigorous training regimen–he had even escalated his workouts, pushing until his muscles screamed in protest and were sore for hours after, which wasn’t his normal routine. Yet the timeline aligned unmistakably with your newfound baking passion: an influx of cookies, layered cakes, fruit-filled pies, a variety of brownies he didn’t even know existed, and other pastries that were all shared generously. The pounds had accumulated, softening the edges of his broad, formidable frame–his shoulders, thighs, and abs specifically had filled out, not to the point of the definition disappearing, but enough for it to look different. Clothes that once fit comfortably now hugged too closely; his tactical gear chafed, leaving indented lines across his midsection and thighs; his workout clothes became a labour to put on; even his everyday shirts required a preliminary tug to loosen them slightly.

His super soldier metabolism, that was supposedly a shield against such indulgences, had proven fallible, and evidently the bi-weekly treats resisted his efforts to burn them away. The change left him self-conscious, reluctant to acknowledge it aloud, though he suspected you–and the rest of the team–had observed it too. 

A part of him yearned to broached the subject, to gauge your thoughts, to discover if you found the transformation appealing or otherwise. But such vulnerabilities loomed large–the risk of judgment, of confirming any distaste, threatening to put him on the brink of possible unravelling even further. 

Your eyes followed his downward glance, settling on the gentle swell pressing against his shirt, the subtle curve that looked soft and slightly plush–something that you thought to press just to feel the give. Since your paths had crossed during your joining of the Thunderbolts, he had grown more substantial, but far from detracting, the fullness amplified his presence, and there was a grounding solidity to him that stirred a deep urge within you to explore. You sensed his unease though–the quiet embarrassment shadowing his posture, weighing his shoulders and gaze down–and you longed to pull him out of it in any way you could.

“Are you alright?” You asked, head canting slightly as you studied the play of emotions across his features–the furrowed brow, the faint tension in his full lips as he pursed them. He lifted his gaze, nodding with a forced casualness, a tentative smile breaking through the sugar-dusted remnants on his mouth.

“Yeah, just…These are really good, you outdid yourself. Might have to reshuffle my top five list.” He replied, making an excuse to attempt to steer the attention away from the fact you had caught him staring at himself. The praise had ignited a spark of warmth in your chest, followed along with genuine curiosity at the mentioning of this mysterious little list. You drew yourself closer across the island, feeling the uneven lip of the granite digging into your stomach, the coolness of it seeping through the fabric of your apron and t-shirt. 

“You’ve got a top five?” You teased, your eyes sparkling as he selected another snowdrop from the plate in front of him, giving it a light tap to shed the excess powder, biting the inside of his cheek, almost in a bashful way to cover up the heat that continued to build beneath his skin.

“Of course I do,” He affirmed, popping the treat into his mouth and crunching through it in measured bites, “How else would I request repeats of a recipe if I can’t recall the names?” He added, as a little puff of sugar left his mouth. Your brows arched in playful challenge, fixed on the purposeful way he savoured each chew–like he was trying to taste every morsel all over again. 

“Well, now that you’ve piqued my interest…You have to tell me what the lineup is.” He raised his hand to brush as his lips, clearing away the crumbs while masking the remnants of his chew, clearing his throat softly.

“Sorry, that’s classified information. And it’s always changing anyways, it wouldn’t be of much use if you’re planning on baking me an apology sweet or something.” You sighed, leaning your chin on your hand, squinting at him.

“After all the tasting you’ve done for me I think I at least deserve a hint…Come on, Buck.” You coaxed him with a velvet-edged lilt threading through your voice, a small smirk curving your lips in a slow, knowing tilt that caught the warm overhead lights of the kitchen and made your eyes crinkle slightly.

The nickname–Buck–slipped from you like something intimate and treasured, carrying a sweetness so potent it coiled low in his gut, twisting the already fluttering tension there into something deeper, and unavoidable. When his gaze finally lifted to meet the open expectancy in yours, a quiet surrender washed through him, the kind only you ever managed to pry from the guarded recesses of his chest. 

He caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth, the faint sting steadying him while he finished swallowing the last tender fragments of cookie before letting the breath ease from his lungs in a measured rush.

“Fine…Number one is your triple chocolate brownies, but it has to have the flaky salt on top or else it’s just a regular old brownie to me.” He explained, his eyes fixing on the prideful smile blooming across your face, lighting every feature, causing you to beam like a ray of sun peeking through sheer curtains, sending an answering spark through his ribs.

——————

That night,  in the dim hush of his quarters, Bucky stood in the middle of his room wrestling with the stubborn waistband of his training pants.

“Come on…Get on god damn it…” He muttered, the words scraping out of his throat with the frustration that had been building within himself for weeks. The black fabric refused to glide over the thickened swell of his thighs, clinging instead to the new density there–the muscle still present but now layered beneath a plush give. He hauled harder, the broad span of his shoulders rolling forward, trying to put as much strength as he could into the pull, holding his breath in hopes that it would do something to aid him. Then suddenly, a faint tearing sound sliced through the quiet–the delicate threads along the seam surrendering and giving out with a whisper-light rip that might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but rang sharp in his head due to his enhanced hearing.

“Fuck sake.” He said, the curse falling heavy and defeated as he shoved the pants down, letting them drop in a wrecked heap at his feet. He kicked them aside, the motion sending a ripple through the muscle of his calves, and stood there in nothing but his black boxer briefs, as the cool air of the room brushed over skin that suddenly felt too exposed–drawing up a layer of goosebumps along the wide expanse.

The mattress behind him creaked in protest when he dropped onto its edge, the springs compressing under the broader spread of his weight, the sound echoing like an accusation in the empty space. His hands clasped together out of habit, the vibranium cool against his warm flesh, the contrast grounding him even as his mind spiralled with a thousand thoughts a minute.

He could skip his training session entirely, claim fatigue or unfinished paperwork, but the lie would sit wrong in his throat–especially when most of the team had witnessed him completing everything the night before. Borrowing gear was out of the question; the thought of explaining the need for a larger size to anyone made heat crawl up the back of his neck and sent a shiver of discomfort through him. Buying new pants meant an explanation, and it would just be another errand that would draw eyes. 

No, the safest route was to push everything to tomorrow, he would take the grocery list and go on his own to buy everything, then make a quick stop at the nearest sporting goods store and purchase a few new pairs of training pants. He would double the intensity of his workout, and hope the extra session would be the start in burning away at least some of the evidence of your relentless baking blessings. That would be the plan, and it was the only one that could possibly work to save himself the embarrassment. 

He pressed his palms to his knees, feeling the way the flesh there yielded just slightly under his grip, and exhaled through his nose, standing up from the mattress only to hear the impending squeaks in response to the relief of his weight moving off it. Inevitably, his gaze drifted to the full-length mirror on his sliding closet door.

The reflection offered no mercy under the low amber glow of his bedside lamp, its single bulb casting elongated shadows that traced every altered contour of his frame that drew his eyes to all the flaws that could’ve possibly been on display. 

His stomach truly had softened markedly, the once-defined ridges of his abs were now blurred beneath a gentle, rounded fullness that shifted subtly with each inhale, the skin there carrying a warmth and give that no amount of extra reps in the gym had managed to erase. His chest sat broader and heavier, the pectorals expanded into a solid yet pliant mass that seemed to have slightly lowered to almost touch his belly, while his arm had gained a noticeable thickness, the bicep and forearm rounding out in a way that changed how the light played across their surface. He looked uneven–especially because of the vibranium arm that wasn’t compensating for the weight gain–and that just added another thing for him to worry about. 

His thighs pressed insistently against the stretched black fabric of his boxer briefs, the material pulled tight over the increased volume, creating faint indentations where the elastic attempted to compensate for the added thickness of his upper legs. His shoulders were a whole other issues as well, the deltoids were pronounced but no longer sharply carved, their surfaces hinting at a plush layer that transformed the entire architecture of his upper body into the monstrosity that was his new normal. 

He kept his hands locked at his sides, fingers curled into loose fists, because the very idea of lifting them to test any of his body for muscle sent a cold ripple of aversion through him. The mere thought of his fingertips sinking even slightly into that new softness–that softness that replaced the rigid power he had relied on for decades–twisted something deep in his chest, a pain that was similar to how he felt around you only mixed with the quiet dread of self-consciousness and judgment. The mirror had already catalogued the evidence too thoroughly, and staring any longer would only feed the embarrassment that was already heating the back of his neck and flushing his chest.

With a quick exhale–that moved everything out of place even more–he wrenched his gaze away, turning towards his closet and yanking the sliding door open. The rack inside held the growing collection of looser garments he had been favouring recently–the ones that draped rather than clung, that concealed rather than revealed. He snatched a fresh pair of charcoal sweatpants from the shelf, the fabric heavier than he remembered needed, and stepped into them. The waistband settled lower on his hips than it once had, the drawstrings pulled tight and knotted twice for good measure before he tucked the excess ends inside. Next came another plain black t-shirt, the cotton sliding over his head and settling across his chest and back with a soft hush. He ran both hands through his hair to flatten the static the fabric had raised, the dark strands falling back into place around his face, carrying the light scent of his minty shampoo that tickled his nose and made it twitch–sometimes he wished he could use what you did, just so he could walk around with your scent instead of his own, maybe it would bring him a little more comfort rather than keeping him in this limbo state of self-consciousness.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tension that had settled deep in his muscles, feeling his gaze drift sideways, almost unwillingly, toward the shadowed interior of the closet. Tucked against the pale inner wall, half-hidden behind a stack of hoodies, was the single newspaper clipping he had allowed himself to keep–a glossy editorial spread from the gala Valentina had forced the team to attend months ago. The photo captured you mid-laugh under the haze of lighting from the chandelier above, your head tilted back in unguarded delight despite the complaints you had muttered all evening about the ache in your heels from your shoes and the endless small talk that you were enduring. Your dress had caught the flash in soft folds of deep crimson, and the joy in your eyes–bright, and completely unfiltered–seemed to reach straight off the page and into the ache that lived permanently behind his ribs at this point.

He lingered there longer than he meant to, seeing the edges of the paper were slightly curled from the countless times his thumb had traced the curve of your cheek in secret. The sight dulled the relentless thrum of embarrassment into the familiar, quieter pain he had grown almost fond of, and a faint, rueful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as he allowed himself one more heartbeat of indulgence before the feeling turned ridiculous. 

With a quiet exhale, he eased the sliding door shut, the smooth glide of metal on metal sealing away the secret like a confession he wasn’t ready to voice aloud, and the room fell back into its muted hush soon after. He kept his eyes deliberately averted from the mirror, refusing to let his reflection pull him under again, and crossed the length of his bedroom quickly. The door clicked open with a soft snick, and he slipped into the hallway, pulling it closed behind him quietly, as his ears tuned into the low voices and the clattering of utensils that echoed from the kitchen, which dragged him forward even while his stomach twisted with the practiced lie he was about to deliver.

He schooled his features into an expression of mild fatigue, the faint crease between his brows deepening just enough to look convincing, and began to drag his socked feet along the polished floor, as he approached the open archway of the kitchen. The space opened up before him in a wash of warm overhead lighting that glinted off stainless steel counters and the hard granite island at its centre. The air carried the sharp metallic tang of raw meat that was still sealed in its vacuum pack, undercut by the herbal notes of whatever fresh spices that were laid across the open space. Only two figures occupied the room: John, with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his broad back facing Bucky, and Bob, who was leaning against the opposite counter with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, with a perpetual uncertainty in his posture that made him look vastly smaller than he actually was. 

It was their allotted night to make dinner–a schedule that everyone agreed to abide by–and they were never in agreement. Typically they would settle on something–anything–that would speed up the process of working together, but tonight it seemed like they were running into some problems.

“If we make th-the entire pack of steaks, everyone is going to be full and nobody is going to eat the sides…” Bob stated, the words tumbling out of him as he gestured toward the club pack of meat resting on the island, the plastic shimmering under the lights like something freshly hunted. John rolled his eyes dismissively, twisting the faucet handle of the sink with a decisive flick of his wrist, scattering water droplets along the steel countertop.

“Who cares about the sides? We can still make them, and people will eat what they want.” John shot back, reaching for the soap dispenser and pumping a generous stream into his palm before working it into a lather, “And they are going to go out of date if we don’t cook them, so we might as well grill all of them or trash it now, because nobody else is going to make them when it’s their night to cook.” The words landed with the same confident finality John brought to every decision, his shoulders squared as if the debate itself was something he intended to dominate.

Bob shifted his weight, his gaze flicking between the steaks and John, and just as he was about to open his mouth to push back, his eyes caught on Bucky’s silhouette in the archway. Relief flashed rheacross his features, subtle but unmistakable in its unearthing, as though an unexpected ally had stepped into the fray to even out the argument.

“Bucky, he-help me out here. Isn’t fourteen steaks for seven people a little much?” The question came out fast, as Bob straightened slightly as he turned to draw him into the conversation. John glanced over his shoulder, surprise flashing briefly across his face before he masked it, shutting off the water with a quick twist, and snatching a handful of paper towels from the roll and drying his hands with brisk efficient swipes. Turning fully, he planted his hip against the counter.

“Bucky, how about you tell Bob that we are feeding a compound of people who are constantly on missions and working out, and are hungry little gremlins when they don’t eat an actual hearty meal.” He challenged, his blue eyes narrowing in mock accusation towards Bob, who now looked as though he was silently willing Bucky to tip the scales in his favour. 

Somehow, being dragged into this mundane kitchen skirmish felt like the smallest burden he had carried all evening, even though he had always despised wading into these trivial team squabbles that flared up every once in a while. Yet tonight the distraction was completely accepted. He stepped fully into the kitchen.

“You could just freeze some of them instead of making the whole pack. Fourteen steaks is a lot, even for us,” Bucky said, watching the shift in Bob’s posture as the younger man’s shoulders lifted with sudden victory, and a smile broke across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes while he glanced triumphantly toward John.

“Seems like I’ve got the majority, Johnny Bo-Boy,” He quipped, turning on his heel to cross to the towering stainless steel refrigerator. The door swung open with a heavy pneumatic hush, releasing a rush of chilled air that carried the faint, crisp scent of leftover produce. Bob leaned in, his frame silhouetted against the interior light as he rummaged through the cool depths, the plastic bags rustling and glass jars clinking with his search.

“…Won’t have the majority if I knock you out,” John muttered under his breath, snatching up the heavy pack of steaks from the island, the vacuum-sealed plastic crinkling under his grip as he tore into it with quick tugs. The cling film peeled away in one fluid motion, twisting into a tight, glistening ball between his fingers before he lobbed it across the room into the open trash bin with a soft thud. His hands, still faintly damp from the sink, left faint streaks on the counter as he moved back toward the island, pulling out the dedicated meat-prep cutting board from its slot beneath the surface, putting the thick plastic slab onto the granite with a solid thunk. He grabbed one of the large marbled pieces of meat, its surface gleaming with the streaks of fat, and slapped it down onto the board with a resounding, wet plop.

Then his gaze flicked back to Bucky, his eyes narrowing as they traced the evident discomfort etched across his features–the faint downturn at the corners of his mouth, the exaggerated way he curled in on himself, slumping his shoulders, the tension in his jaw–finally noticing the state he was in.

“You look like shit by the way…What’s up with you?” John asked, as he reached for the salt grinder, his movements never slowing while he seasoned the steak with practiced twists of his wrist. Bucky crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the frame of the archway, the solid surface pressing into the widened span of his shoulders as he sough some semblance of support. 

“Just not feeling good I guess, I’ll probably be skipping dinner…” The lie slipped out with calculated nonchalance, though the words tasted heavier on his tongue, laced with the underlying truth of his reluctance to sit through a meal that would only add more to his troubles. It was evident that John’s concern only grew from Bucky’s reply, almost like he was scrutinizing it.

“Really? What’re you feeling?” He pressed, his tone shifting from casual ribbing to something closer to quiet assessment as he set the grinder aside and reached for the knife drawer. 

Bob closed the refrigerator door with his shoulder, the heavy panel sealing shut with a muffled click that released one last fleeting puff of chilled air. His arms were now laden with a colourful bounty–vibrant orange carrots still dusted with soil, deep green broccoli florets clustered like miniature trees, slender zucchini, a pack of earthy brown mushrooms, and crisp green beans tied loosely with twine. The vegetables shifted in his grasp as he moved, their fresh, green scents cutting through the richer aroma of raw meat that began to truly overtake the space. He deposited the pile onto the far end of the counter with a series of soft thuds, his hands quickly arranging them into a neat, organized mound before any of them rolled or fell off the surface. 

Bucky hesitated for the briefest moment, his mind scrambling to weave together a believable excuse from the fragments of half-remembered ailments. 

“Little nauseous, kind of clammy…Think I might be getting a cold or something,” He explained, keeping his voice steady even as John squinted at him from across the island, the chef’s knife that he was now holding creating streaks of refracted light all along the ceiling.

“Bob, go touch his forehead, check if he has a fever,” John instructed without missing a beat, his attention divided between Bucky and the steak as he began to slice into the meat with steady drags. Bob straightened, looking up from his collection of vegetables like he had been called on in class and didn’t know what to say, before clearing his throat and crossing the short distance to where Bucky stood. He wiped his palm on the hem of his sweater, ridding it of the sheen of sweat that was constantly laying on his skin, extending it hesitantly soon after. His fingers, still slightly cool from the refrigerator, pressed gently against Bucky’s forehead–displaying the contrast against the warmer, drier skin there. The touch was brief, clinical in a way, but there was an unexpected gentleness that made Bucky hold still.

“No fever,” Bob announced, pulling his hand back and offering a small, uncertain shrug glancing at John then returning his gaze to Bucky. There was a quiet awareness in the look, as if he had glimpsed the undercurrent of thoughts swirling behind the super soldiers carefully neutral mask–the self-doubt, the frustration with his body–but he chose to be silent about it, respecting the boundary between teammates in a way that spoke volumes with out saying a word. It was a small mercy.

Bob turned away then, returning to the far end of the granite island, where the pile of vegetables waited in their vibrant disarray, sorting them mindlessly, as John’s voice cut through the quiet clatter, resuming his digging for information.

“Seems like we have a liar in our midst…Do you mind telling us what’s really going on, or do you want to continue to fake an illness like a child to get out of dinner time with your team?” The words landed with a casual edge, but Bucky felt them settle heavy against his chest, pressing into the broadened plan with an unwelcome familiarity. He bit down on the soft flesh inside his cheek, the pressure just firm enough to leave faint, temporary indents of his teeth without drawing blood–a small grounding habit that steadied the discomfort he was experiencing.

The camaraderie he shared with John had always been a jagged thing, forged in the heat of missions and their frequent clashes, yet threaded through all of that was an underlying trust that neither of them ever fully acknowledged. It was messy–unpredictable really–but it was real enough that in this moment, Bucky decided that it would be easier to seek some advice from him.

“…I’ve been gaining a lot of weight and I just don’t feel like adding to my calorie intake for the day.” Bucky explained quietly, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. John raised his eyebrows and drew his attention back down to the steak on the cutting board, the blade resuming its clean slices through the fat along the rim of it.

“Ever thought that it’s because you’ve been eating all of Y/N’s desserts?” He asked quietly, his voice carrying genuine curiosity rather than mockery. 

“I don’t eat that much!” The protest bursting out louder than Bucky intended, feeling a defensive heat rising beneath his collar, spreading over his flesh–if Bob were to touch him now, he would’ve felt the hear. John exhaled a short, rough laugh through his nose, not pausing his prep work.

“Bucky…I caught you with a plate full of her chocolate chip cookies the other night. You were mindlessly eating them–could’ve sworn you were a human vacuum with the way you were inhaling the things. With no milk, by the way, which is absolutely psychotic behaviour, no offence.” He lifted his gaze then, stopping his trimming, “No amount of working out or cutting can burn your entire body mass of desserts off…Unless you show some self-control.” HIs attention drifted downward, appraising the way Bucky’s arms folded tighter across his chest, then down to the slight belly that was protruding, “But it’s evident you can’t. Because Y/N is probably putting something in those treats to make you addicted to them.” 

The last sentence landed lighter, more teasing, and it pulled a little huff of laughter from Bob, who had been quietly placing the vegetables into a bowl to wash, deciding to stay out of the conversation entirely until this very point. The sound was small, but it broke the tension just enough to keep the moment from tipping into an argument–thankfully for everyone.

Bucky opened his mouth–ready to fire back, to insist it wasn’t like that, that he could stop whenever he wanted–but the words never made it past his throat, because his ears tuned into the sound of quick footsteps echoing from the hallway beyond the kitchen, bouncing off the floors and bare walls in a quick, slightly uneven rhythm. 

He drew in a short breath, and the scent in the air hit him like a physical force–the rosemary and lavender conditioner, and the clean sweat that you exuded. His stomach plummet straight through the floor, a heavy sickening drop that sent nausea rolling through his gut and up the back of his throat, and the room seemed to tilt for a single disorienting second, like he was going to pass out–and honestly, he would’ve preferred that at the moment.

You stepped into the kitchen breathing rapidly, chest rising and falling in visible pulls beneath the compression of your sports bra. A fine, even sheen of perspiration coated your skin, catching the warm overheat light and turning it liquid gold along the column of your throat, the delicate hollow beneath your jaw, the curve of your chest, and the soft swell of cleavage pressed together by the tight fabric. Your workout gear clung in damp patches across your shoulders and lower back, your thin cover-up darkened in places where sweat had soaked through during what must've been an intense session.

The faded blue towel draped loosely around your neck carried darker streaks where you had dragged it across your forehead, and a few wisps of hair clung to your temples, matting and drying flat. Despite the exertion, a smile curved your lips as you worked to steady your breath, the expression easy and open in that way that always managed to fill whatever space you entered–brightening it up as if you were the sun and the other people around you were just little planets.

“Who’s addicted to what?” You asked, catching only the tail end of the exchange as you crossed the room toward the refrigerator, seeking hydration for your spent form. You offered Bob a quick, friendly pat against his upper back as you passed; his rigid posture easing almost instantly under the brief contact, shoulders dropping a fraction as though the simple touch granted him a momentary reprieve from the thickening tension that had been building.

Bucky’s pulse slammed through his entire body, a relentless drumbeat that shook his bones and pulsed visibly beneath the skin at his throat and wrists. He was certain the other enhanced people in the room could hear it–each frantic throb loud enough to drown out the sounds around him. Panic crashed over him in a visceral wave, immediate and all consuming, feeling a white-hot heat surging upward from his chest until it burned behind his ears, like lava had been poured into his flesh. Everything suddenly felt heavier, and he became well aware of how much his shirt was clinging to his body, making his nose twitch with the discomfort. 

Evidently you had heard something. Not everything–thank God–but enough to slip into the conversation in the simple way you always did, entering with a curiosity that was effortless and refused to let any thread hang loose. Enough to make the air in the kitchen feel suddenly thinner, like the oxygen was slowly being sucked out and replaced with toxic fumes that made Bucky’s throat itch. 

His eyes flicked to John in the same instant John looked back at him. The standoff stretched between them across the granite island, wordlessly communicating in a way. Bucky knew his expression was easily read–the blown pupils, the faint tremor of fear pulling at the corner of his mouth, the almost imperceptible shake of his head. It was a silent, desperate plea to not say anything, to shut up and just lie.

Something passed behind John’s eyes–consideration, perhaps the briefest flash of mercy–before it hardened into a certainty that almost made Bucky scream just to distract the conversation. John had never been the type to let someone off the hook when the opportunity for blunt honesty presented himself, and he wasn’t going to change suddenly now.

“Bucky’s addicted to your desserts and he says he’s getting fat because of them.” He said with the same easy, conversational tone he might have used to comment on the weather forecast or the score of last night’s game, like the words that he had said carried no weight at all to him, and it nearly caused everything to topple forth.

Bucky felt the impact of the confession land somewhere deep in his body, like he had been stabbed, and there was a sudden, hollow compression that made his heart seize mid-beat, as if the organ had forgotten its next contraction–or how it worked in general. The embarrassment that followed was a heavy pressure that built outward from that exact sore spot, spreading through his ribs and up into his throat until the muscles there locked tight. His airway narrowed, each inhale turning shallow and effortful. 

Tears gathered unbidden at the corners of his eyes, hot and stinging and pooling, blurring the polished floor tiles that he had tilted his gaze down to look at. He had no idea why the reaction had come on so fiercely–only that every suppressed thought from the mirror, every tug of ill-fitting fabric, every quiet moment of self-judgment he had buried beneath himself, was rising now in a single, unstoppable surge. 

The years of rigid control over his body–the one that he had kept in top notch shape until now–had been quietly eroded and now the exposure of it here, in front of you, broke something deep inside him that he had not realized was already strained to its limit.

You paused at the open refrigerator door, your hand curled around the handle as the cool air brushing over your damp skin coaxed faint goosebumps along your body. Your eyebrows lifted in quiet surprise, and you turned your head first toward John, taking in the unchanged set of his shoulders as he returned to his task in front of him, before shifting your gaze to Bucky. He had dropped his chin, his dark hair falling forward to curtain his face, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes–but especially yours in those moments. He looked like someone had punched him in the stomach, and he had caved in on himself to tend to the blow, shrinking himself in a room where he was now the centre of attention.

You watched the faint tremor in his vibranium fingers, digging deeper into his bicep, seeing the way his jaw clenched beneath his beard, the muscle jumping slightly, and somehow, you felt an ache of understanding settling low in your own chest. 

It was difficult to reconcile the man you saw with the one he was clearly seeing in the mirror. Yet the embarrassment radiating from him was unmistakable, it was the kind that came from having a private vulnerability dragged into the open without warning. No one wanted to be laid bare like that, least of all in front of teammates.

You couldn’t read the exact shade of his thoughts without seeing his eyes, but you knew him too well–better than you sometimes knew yourself after all the shared fights and quiet debriefs and baking sessions. If he would not look up, you would simply have to give him a reason to lift his head.

The words formed easily, honest in a way that left no room for misinterpretation, because hiding your own feelings on the matter would only leave him more isolated, and you wanted to stray from that as far as possible–while also joining him in the spotlight to take the pressure off his spiralling mind.

“I think he looks really good with it…And if my desserts are doing that to him,” You started, motioning toward Bucky with a small tilt of your head, “Then I might have to keep baking so he can maintain it.” You added with a smirk, reaching into the refrigerator to grab one of the chilled bottles of water, before letting the door close. 

Bucky’s head lifted slowly at the sound of your words, the motion almost hesitant, as though the simple reassurance had caught him off guard and he needed a moment to register that it had been directed at him. The flush that had already begun creeping up the column of his throat now spread fully across his cheeks, a deep crimson that exploded beneath his skin and the short, silver-threaded hairs of his beard that made the colour stand out in stark contrast. His eyes that were still glistening from the unshed tears, widened with open surprise, his pupils dilating even further that revealed something far more deeper than shock–something enamoured, unguarded, something that he had no immediate way to conceal.

Sure, the self-consciousness didn’t disappear entirely, but your words had struck a vital point inside him, sending a sudden jolt through the heavy pressure that had overtaken him in the moments before. It shocked the stalled rhythm of his heart back into motion, like he had taken a defibrillator to the chest and everything had reset itself, pumping with a force that left him momentarily unsteady on his feet.

His mouth parted, lips forming the beginning of a response that never arrived, as he drew in a slow breath instead, catching the air in his throat while every practiced deflection he might have offered, simply dissolved on his tongue. For a long second he stood there, completely disarmed, while the usual guarded reserve in his expression snapped leaving him looking almost stunned, like the warmth of your approval had changed the very chemistry in his being and rewrote it slowly–like an antivirus of sorts.

You offered him a small, reassuring smile, meant to steady him before the moment could slip away and return to discomfort again, then you turned your gaze towards John, shifting focus as you caught the way his eyebrows had risen in clear surprise at what you had said. 

“It seems like you’re trying to put doubt in his mind because you’re jealous that he gets first dibs on all the things I bake.” You stated lightly with enough edge to redirect everything to him. The intention was clear: pull the spotlight further away from Bucky so he could gather himself and breathe while he reset himself. 

John’s face twisted immediately into defensive protest, his shoulders squaring.

“Woah, woah. Don’t blame this on me, he’s the one that brought it up…And also, none of us ever get to try any of your desserts cause he hides them all!” He shot back, pointing the tip of the knife towards Bucky to emphasize his statement, though the gestured lacked any real heat. You let out a soft scoff, the sound slipping into a laugh that cut through the lingering tension, lightening the atmosphere by degrees as it echoed off the walls.

“Well, I’ll be sure to make extra batches so you can try them then…There’s no need to give someone a bad body complex because you didn’t get a cookie.” You teased, twisting open the chilled bottle of water, before flicking the plastic cap at John’s head, which connected with a small, satisfying thud. You smirked at the way his eye twitched in response, the brief flicker of irritation crossing his features before he could suppress it, his hand rising to instinctively rub the spot, like it had hurt him.

“Better watch your steak tonight, I might poison you for that.” He commented dryly, resuming his work on the meat, though the corner of his mouth peaked up with the faintest hint of amusement.

“I’ll know who did it, so you would have to sleep with one eye open, Johnny Boy.” You replied smoothly before taking a long sip of water, feeling the cool liquid slipping down the warmth of your throat. Across the island, Bob fought to contain a smile as he lifted the bowl of vegetables he had sorted and moved towards the sink, twisting it on to run them beneath the steady stream of water. 

“You’re lucky I’m preparing food right now, because if I wasn’t you’d have trouble on your hands.” John murmured under his breath. You raised a hand in front of you in mock surrender, your palm open and fingers splayed, the gesture light and theatrical as a small grin tugged at the corners of your mouth.

“Oh boy, I’m so thankful you’re making dinner and can’t stumble around the kitchen trying to fight me.” You commented, the words laced with playful sarcasm as you pushed away from the refrigerator, crossing the kitchen in quick succession. The path led you straight toward the archway where Bucky stood, “Maybe train with me tomorrow and I’ll take you up on the offer of laying your ass out on the mat.” You added, lifting the bottle back to your lips for another slow sip, your gaze flicking sideways to catch Bucky’s.

He was watching you fully now, attentive to every small motion–the tilt of your head, the subtle flex of your throat as you drank, and the little comforting stare you gave him. Pulling the bottle away from your damp lips with a small sigh, you focused on him only.

“You alright if I leave you with him? Or do you want to come hang around in my room until dinner’s done?” You asked, your voice dropping into something quieter, more private, as your eyes searched his face for any remaining signs of embarrassment on it. You caught the visible effort it took for him to swallow, the anxious lump in his throat working beneath the skin, the faint bob of his Adam’s apple displaying the internal battle playing out behind his guarded expression.

“I’ll…I’ll be okay here, don’t worry about me.” He replied far more steadier than he felt, though the reluctance that stood behind it was unmistakable. The decision sat on his tongue even as he spoke it, regret already beginning to coil low in his gut at the missed chance to follow you, to steal a few quiet minutes in the familiar comfort of your quarters where he could be surrounded in your soothing scent without any interruptions.

You gave him a small, understanding smile, the kind that reached the corners of your eyes and softened the post-workout exhaustion that started to overtake your features. Your hand rose to rest briefly on the softened curve of his shoulder, fingers pressing into he give of muscle and the plush layer beneath the black cotton of his shirt.

“Alright, see you at dinner.” You said, brushing past him deliberately as you moved into the hallway, feeling his eyes following you as he remained rooted in place. 

——————

A few days later, the compound had emptied out in a rare, almost eerie sort of evacuation. Missions had pulled the rest of the team from the Watchtower in every direction–Valentina’s orders left no room for downtime among the New Avengers–and for once, you and Bucky had been left behind, benched for the cycle because it was your turn for a much-needed break.

You were grateful for the scheduled reprieve; the field had been relentless lately, every extraction and high-stakes takedown layered a fresh soreness into your shoulders and an even deeper mental ache that no amount of post-mission debriefs could shake. The quiet halls felt like a gift, one that you didn’t question too closely for fear it would vanish suddenly, so you just enjoyed and tried to make the most of it.

That morning you had found Bucky in the gym, running through a solo circuit on the heavy punching bag, each impact following with a metallic rattle of the chain as it swung back and forth. The sound consistent sound had drawn you down the hallway, and you leaned in the doorway without announcing yourself, arms crossed loosely over your chest as you watched quietly. He hadn’t noticed you at first, lost to the rhythm of strike and recovery, but you saw the way he had faltered for half a second when your small shadow fell across the mat. 

The shift was subtle–barely a hitch in the roll of his shoulders–but it was there, and you caught it. You hadn’t said much, just that the urge to be in the kitchen was calling, that you were going to try a new recipe, and could use a second opinion. His opinion, of course. He had wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, chest heaving from the exertion, and gave you a small nod, telling you that he was just going to finish up and take a shower before joining you.

Neither of you had acknowledged the conversation that had occurred in the kitchen a few nights prior with John, and it was evident. The tension had lingered thick enough that simply standing in his presence made everything feel awkward and lit up with everything that had seemed to be left unsaid. Bucky had been tempted–more than once–to bring up that night just to test whether you had really meant what you said about liking his body this way, or if you had only offered the reassurance to keep him from spiralling further. But the fear of your answer had kept the words locked behind his teeth, because it was easier–and safer–to stay inside the fragile confines of the fantasy that you liked him exactly as he was now, weight and all.

Once he had cleaned off the exertion of his training, he took up his usual spot at the granite island, still damp from the shower. He hadn’t bothered to dry his hair properly or even towel off completely; he didn’t want to keep you waiting. The maroon t-shirt he wore clung in dark, uneven patches where water had soaked through, the fabric doing more drying than the towel ever had. You noticed it immediately–the way the cotton molded to the broadened curve of his chest and the soft give along his sides–and while you could feel your mouth grow drier than the Sahara you didn’t comment on it.

Every time he shifted, the hem rode up just enough to reveal a thin strip of skin at his waist, slightly tanned and plump, exposed by the low rise of the sweatpants he had bought only the day before. The fabric sat lower on his hips than anything he used to own, the drawstring pulled tight but still loose enough to hint at the swell of his lower belly. His hair dripped steadily, leaving distorted wet marks across the shoulders of his shirt, though the rising heat of the kitchen had already begun to dry the strands.

You moved around him, pulling ingredients from the pantry one at a time–almond flour in a wide glass jar with the surface carrying a fine, dusty sheen; a block of unsalted butter that you had put out the night before to soften; dark cocoa powder that released a hazy cloud of brown when you set the tin down; a fresh pack of powdered sugar; and a carton of milk that you snatched up from the refrigerator. You arranged everything on the counter in the precise order you would need it, the routine steadying you as much as it steadied him. The small, familiar motions giving you both something to focus on besides the unresolved tension.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it pressed against your ribs all the same, suffocating the gentleness of your usual interactions, making them odd and uncomfortable in a way. You were tempted to find something–anything–that would spark conversation or at least pull him into the process rather than letting him sit there, stewing in whatever thoughts darkened behind his eyes.

You could feel his gaze tracking your hands: the way your fingers curled around the measuring cup, the way they carefully levelled the flour against the rim, the brief pause when you licked a stray smear of cocoa from the pad of your thumb and hummed in quiet approval at the bitter, chocolate depth of it, everything was just slowly pulling him in. 

His breathing had slowed with the entire process, the rise and fall of his chest welcoming an easy rhythm that displayed calmness, as though the simple domesticity soothed the nerves he tried so hard to hide. He knew, at some point, the elephant in the room would surface, and that it would have to be acknowledged, and he was just bracing for impact.

Before his thoughts could truly fall into the depths of what ifs though, you set a small stainless-steel bowl in front of him, the metal ringing against the granite with a clear, resonant note that cut through the silence.

“Want to help with the glaze?” You asked, trying to rope him into helping you rather than just being a bystander this time, like it would break up the monotony of your usual impromptu baking tutorials. He looked up at you almost like he was nervous to mess up, and you caught it immediately, the slight hesitation in the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders tensed, the little widening of his eyes.

“It’s easy, you’ll just have to whisk in a little milk with the powdered sugar until it’s pourable, nothing fancy,” You reassured, patting the thin bag which took the indentations of your hand perfectly, the plastic crinkling softly under your palm. His lashes fluttered, contemplating, and then he nodded.

“Alright.” He replied, reaching for the bag without hesitation, his fingers brushing yours for just a fraction of a second, which made the hairs on your arms stand up at attention, like a wave of static passed through that minimal contact. The brief warmth of his skin lingered on yours, sending an unexpected current of heat straight down your spine, and throughout your body, feeling a numbness settling low in your gut. He dragged the bag towards him, lifting it and tearing the corner open with his teeth, which made your stomach turn even more, just at the simplicity of the action, and the ease at how he did it. You had to tear your eyes off him, grabbing the whisk and milk, placing it beside the bowl as he poured a generous mound into it, the powdered sugar cascading in a fine, airy drift that caught the overhead light and turned momentarily iridescent.

“That’s good enough I think.” You said, which made him stop shaking the bag, folding the flimsy plastic in on itself so it was sealed, putting it back down onto the granite surface that was now dusted with a thin film of white. He was tempted to swipe at it, but remained stiff, waiting for your next instructions, almost like he had slipped back into his old programming where he was hanging in anticipation for the next task that would be given to him, and you noticed it–the rigid line in his posture, the way his vibranium fingers flexed against the edge of the island like he was steadying himself.

“Now, just slowly pour in a little bit of milk, and whisk, then keep adding until it becomes a semi-thin consistency.” His brows raised.

“Semi-thin?” He questioned, and you smirked, the expression drawing up slight crinkles around your mouth as the crease formed between his brows, with a familiar furrow of concentration he wore whenever he was approaching something new, even something as harmless as making a glaze.

“Yeah, it should still have a little bit of thickness but it should be…” You paused for a moment, trying to find words to describe the consistency to him so he would be able to refer to that image when he was preparing it, but you gave up, “Y’know what, just ask me after you pour the second splash of milk in and I’ll check for you,” You explained with a small laugh. He nodded, grabbing the carton and unfolding the lip of the cardboard. 

You tried to busy yourself with the rest of the preparations, taking out two mini tart pans and placing them onto the island, before going over to the fridge to grab the dough you had made the night prior. You could hear him slowly start whisking, the sound of metal on metal overtaking the silence. There was a little bit of hesitation in his movements at first–the whisk catching slightly against the side of the bowl making a grazing ring the echoed–but once he found a rhythm it seemed like he eased, the motion becoming smoother, more confident. 

When you turned back around you could see he was focused on the task and not on you, holding the bowl with his vibranium hand to steady it so it didn’t accidentally slide along the island, the black plates of his arm gleaming beneath the warm lights, catching stray streaks of powder that clung to the metallic surface like tiny crystals–accentuating the gold seams that traced through the build.

You placed the sough beside the tart pans, unwrapping it while still glancing over at him every few seconds, watching as he reached for the milk carton again and poured another splash into the bowl, hissing at the mistake he thought he made, the sound barely audible but enough to draw your attention to the flush creeping up his neck and spreading across his cheeks.

“If it becomes too thin we can always add more powdered sugar, so don’t worry about making it perfectly on the first try,” You commented, which drew his gaze to yours, the blush only deepening at the fact you had caught him. You fought the urge to smile at the embarrassment, and chose to return you eyes back to the dough, moving the plastic wrap to the side before pressing your warm palms into it to knead, feeling the cool, supples mass caving in under the steady pressure of your hands, releasing a faint, buttery scent. 

He began to whisk again, now glancing over at you and the way you pushed down onto the dough, seeing the way it flattened and bent to your will, the tendons in your forearms shifting with each movement you made. You looked so focused that he almost forgot that he had his own task to do, and quickly he pulled his eyes off of you to look down at his slightly gloopy creation that began to take on the lines of the whisk, the mixture smoothing out into a glossy ribbon that clung to the wires.

“I think I may need…A little bit more milk?” He said, almost hesitantly, like it was a question more than a suggestion. You looked over at him and got onto your tiptoes to glance into the bowl, seeing the consistency, and the way the glaze pooled and folded back on itself with a slow, viscous drag.

“Yeah, just a splash and you should be good.” You confirmed, shaping the dough even further until it was flat, before lifting and fanning it over the tart pan. It draped smoothly, conforming to the ridges of the aluminum, taking the indentations of where each individual tart would be made. You heard another splash followed by whisking, as you began pressing the dough into the molds so they could take shape, going one by one and giving them all the same attention so they were perfect, your thumbs working along the edges to seal the pastry neatly against the metal.

“I think it’s done,” He announced, the words carrying a quiet note of pride that pulled your focus fully to him now. A small smile crept up on your lips as you moved away from the tart pan and made your way over to him, coming to stand beside his broadened stature. You were close enough that the heat radiating from his body had seeped into your own skin, and for a split second you felt your throat tighten at the phantom contact–tempted to get even closer to him–but you kept your composure, peering into the bowl. 

The glaze had reached that elusive balance you were seeking–thick enough to coat the tops of the tarts with a controlled pour, yet loose enough to flow in an elegant, glossy stream that would set with a subtle sheen once it cooled. A single droplet of the mixture clung stubbornly to the whisk, trembling at the wire’s tip before it surrendered and fell back into the bowl with a soft plop.

“Perfect,” You murmured, the word slipping out as you gave him a gentle nudge to his arm, your knuckles pressing briefly into the artificial curve of his bicep beneath the maroon cotton. The contact was purposeful, an excuse to break the touch barrier because you wanted to try and silently communicate that you wanted to feel him–to be closer to him, or convey that you were dropping a hint a few nights ago, one that he evidently didn’t take.

You could see him swallow, the motion visible along the column of his throat, his Adam’s apple shifting beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. With the proximity, it was as if he were drowning in your rosemary and lavender scent, layered along with the the cocoa powder that clung to you. It filled his lungs, invaded every inch of him, creating an indulgent cloud that made his breath catch and his pulse spike. He looked like he would pass out from it along, the way his lashes fluttered and his broad shoulders tensed under the weight of your nearness.

His shimmering eyes flicked to the side to meet yours, holding them for a moment longer than necessary, and you could see the shift behind his gaze–something unguarded, like you had somehow eased the tension from the other night just from the simple press of your hand. Even seated on the stool, he casted a slight shadow over you, forcing you to tilt your head up slightly to challenge his stare, your eyes tracing the details of his face: the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his full lips parted on a exhale, the silver threads in his beard that seemed to be robust compared to when you would see him from across a debrief table or kitchen island, and the was his nose seemed to scrunch slightly, like he was smelling the air between you.

His lashes fluttered when he realized you were taking him in, studying him like you wanted to become an expert in the subject of his body, of his tells. He had to push down the automatic thought that you were judging and cataloguing him, and instead, he took the chance to mirror your actions, letting this gaze roam over you in return. Up close there were so many things he had never been able to account for before–the subtle flare of your nostrils as you breathed him in, the way your eyes softened at the edges when they lingered on his mouth, a mix of desire and lust spinning behind your irises, and the faint movement of your lips where you dragged your top teeth along the inside of your lower one in quiet concentration. But it wasn’t just these small things that hijacked his senses…

He could hear the gallop of your heart in the depths of your body, the steady rush of blood through your veins, the warmth that rolled off your skin to mingle with his–even though the two of you weren’t touching completely. He could see the sudden prickling of goosebumps along your arms despite the thin nylon shorts and loose t-shirt you wore that covered the bottoms–which made it look like you were wearing nothing beneath it. Your breathing had accelerated slightly, and while it would be subtle to anyone else, it was unmistakable to him. 

There was a split second where you leaned towards him again, this time into the open space he left unguarded at his torso, your arm pressing against the plush warmth of his side before you shifted back and reached for one of the drawers beneath the island, sliding it open with a smooth glide. The drawer’s contents rattled faintly–spoons, measuring tools, the occasional clink of metal against the plastic holder–as you retrieved a clean spoon. Bucky’s eyes tracked every motion, the way your body stretched with the reach, and the faint sheen of sweat that was catching the light along the column of your throat.

You returned to your position beside him, dipping the concave edge of the spoon into the glaze, swirling it once to gather a generous amount before lifting it free. The mixture coated the metal in a smooth, glossy layer, pulling it out of the bowl slowly, watching it drip.

“Here–taste it…Tell me if maybe I should put some vanilla in it or something,” You said, holding the spoon out to him, close enough that the sweet, sugary scent cut through the rosemary-and-lavender haze surrounding you both. His eyes dropped to the spoon for a moment, then lifted back to yours, his blue irises darkening slightly with something deeper than hesitation–something that was coiling around his body and drawing him in like a trap, as if you were a siren of sorts. 

Yet he leaned forward anyways–wanting to be dragged into whatever you were offering to him–parting his lips as he took the offered taste, enveloping the spoon with his mouth in one unhurried motion, like he was Eve taking a bite of the forbidden apple. His lashes fluttered closed at the intensely sugary burst across his tongue, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked the glaze clean from the silver before pulling back, ruminating on the flavour with a low sound escaping him–a deep, satisfied sigh that vibrated through his chest and shook the space between you.

You nearly dropped the utensil right then and there, feeling the dormant warmth in your body reigniting and twisting tighter than ever before, coiling low and searing everything inside you like a raging flame on a war path of destruction. Your mind slipped unbidden into far less innocent thoughts in those moments–what that same mouth could do if you offered yourself to him instead of the spoon, how his seemingly soft lips and tongue might feel tracing along your flesh, how his teeth would nip and bite over your most sensitive areas. The images flashed hot, tightening everything within you until you shifted and squeezed your thighs together–like it would somehow dissolve the scenarios that were running through your mind, and you found that it at least helped you refocus. 

“I don’t think it needs anything…It’s good the way it is,” He informed quietly, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingertips, removing the residual glaze there, licking them clean with a swipe of his tongue. Your throat constricted at the sigh, so much so that you needed to cough out the phantom lump forming there, the sudden tightness forcing the sound from your lips as you leaned your stomach against the cool edge of the granite island for a moment. The stone pressed firm into your midsection through the thin fabric of your t-shirt, grounding you while you set the spoon down with a clink against the counter, the metal ringing once before settling into silence.

The quiet pressed back in around you both like an incoming tide that you refused to let pull you under. Progress had been building and you were not about to let it slip backward into the careful distance the two of you had maintained over the past few days. 

Bucky felt the same pull, perhaps even more acutely, considering that his enhanced senses were being assaulted by you in ways you couldn’t fully grasp. He caught every subtle shift in your scent, the way it deepened and sweetened beneath the rosemary and lavender when your thighs pressed together, and the faint acceleration in your pulse that was now thrumming under your skin. It was as if you were vibrating–shooting off signals to him without even uttering a word–and slowly he pieced together that the sweetness he was picking up on suddenly was something natural, and that it was coming from the exact place he wanted to be buried in at that moment. Everything seemed to come to a head in those fleeting seconds, and it all pointed to one thing–you were turned on by his horribly executed tasting of the glaze…And you were totally unaware that he knew.

You had only ever understood fragments of how the serum altered someone who took it–heightened hearing, sharper sight, the way the body would process the world like it could see the atoms that created it–but you had never considered how you could flood those senses, how your nearness could drag him into your bodily systems without even trying, and how it short-circuited the careful control he clung to.

It was easy to underestimate the full scope of it, to miss how every inhale drew you deeper to his lungs and how the warmth of his body only grew now that he was fully aware of what was going on inside of you, and unless you had proper knowledge of it, the one up he had on you in those moments seemed like a slight advantage.

But he found himself at a loss for words. Every option of what to say felt clumsy or wrong, or too small for the feelings he was trying to convey, and he didn’t want to risk shattering the moment entirely, or pulling you out of the state that you were in.

So he did the only thing that felt bearable enough to execute.

He shifted on the stool, making the movement subtle enough that it could be passed for an adjustment, before widening the spread of his thighs until his knee bumped against the soft swell of your hip, holding it there to make sure you knew this was an intentional move. He felt the way you stiffened at first, your gaze dropping to where he was pressed against you, the nylon of your shorts doing little to dull the heat of him that was seeping through the fabric. Then your eyes lifted, meeting his through the fan of your lashes. There was something searching in your expression, something that had finally come to the conclusion that you were done circling around the edge of the truth, and you took the plunge not even thinking about the risks anymore.

“Bucky…About the other night…” You started, your voice soft and strained, the words catching as if all the moisture had fled your mouth the instant you began to speak. You cleared your throat, willing the tremor out, before you continued, “I wasn’t lying when I said I liked the way your body looks.”

The words wrapped around him like an unexpected warmth that sank straight into his bones, turning his limbs heavy, making his entirety border on complete numbness. It spread through him in a slow, staggering wave, starting low in his belly and working its way upward, unspooling beneath his ribs, and exploding through him like mini fireworks. He was stunned by relief, by want, by the mere fact you had said it again when there was no audience to redirect your attention toward. But he still felt exposed–stripped bare in the best and most terrifying way–and even though he wanted to say something, when his mouth parted, no words came.

His thoughts had thinned out to almost nothing, the careful structure of them collapsing beneath an invisible force that you wielded, and it was as if his brain had turned into jello, shaking in the confines of his skull. You could see the way his jaw tensed, the muscle feathering beneath the salt-and-pepper scruff that shadowed his skin, as if he were internally berating himself for the silence that had swallowed up his response, and you decided right then that there was no sense in hovering at the outskirts of the truth any longer.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, the quiet rush of air steadying the fresh slate of nerves that now sparked along your spine. Turning fully toward him, you reached for the curved edge of the stool nestled between his parted knees. His thighs twitched visibly beneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants at the nearness, the material leaving nothing to the imagination when it came to the thickened muscle there. With a gentle pull, you rotated the seat, swivelling his massive frame to face you, and before he could withdraw into himself or find some excuse to angle away, you stepped forward into the cradle of space he had created.

The movement erased what little distance remained, and your legs were now framed by the solid, warm press of his, the stark contrast in size impossible to ignore–his powerful thighs dwarfing yours tenfold. The air between your bodies grew heavier, almost like you were breathing in fog, and there was no longer any room for the careful pretence of friendship or mere teammates sharing a casual moment, because this was something rawer and far more intimate.

Bucky’s hands dropped to grip the edges of the stool on either side of his legs, knuckles whitening as his vibranium fingers flex. The segmented plates shifted with a faint, mechanical whirr, adjusting so he didn’t break the seat from how tightly he was gripping it.

Despite the closeness, he couldn’t bring himself to meet your gaze, fixating his eyes to your shirt and the way your chest rose and fell beneath it, his dark lashes casting shadows over his flushed cheeks. You bit the inside of your lip, and moved your face closer to his.

“Bucky…Did you hear what I just said?” You asked gently, keeping your voice low and patient even though you didn’t entirely feel like that. He closed his eyes, tilting his head downward so that strands of his damp, dark hair fell forward to curtain the sides of his face. A single, barely perceptible nod follows.

“Yes, I heard you,” He whispered, the words nearly dissolving into the quiet hum of the kitchen. You felt your mouth pull into a faint frown at the vulnerability in his voice, and the way his broad shoulders seemed to curve inward, almost like he was cowering because he was scared of you possibly retreating if he said anything other than that. 

Before conscious thought could stop you, you lifted both your hands to cup the heated skin of his cheeks, your palms pressing against the coarse texture of his beard. Your thumbs slid beneath the line of his jaw, cradling it for a few seconds, tracing the strong outline there, feeling your skin burning at the prickling sensation it gave you. 

The contact seemed to freeze him in place, and his breath hitched with a visible catch in his chest. He could’ve shattered under the tenderness of your touch–wept in pure bliss because the warmth of your fingers felt so good against his skin–but no sound left him. It felt like he had been placed on ice all over again, and there was a paralysis that kept him locked in place–restrained beneath your soft hands.

Then he felt you gently coax his face upward, your thumbs guiding him by the line of his jaw with careful, insistent pressure. When his eyes lifted to yours at last, he surrendered to the motion willingly, because there was no escaping this now–he was in far too deep, and whatever you offered to him, he would allow himself to drown in it.

A small smile curved your lips as you registered the raw longing warring behind the blue depths of his irises. Your fingers twitched against the heated skin of his cheeks, cataloguing the frantic bound of his pulse thundering beneath your thumbs, and everything within him seemed to vibrate with barely contained tension; you could feel the faint tremors running through the broad frame caged around you, yet you refused to acknowledge it aloud. 

You were finally this close, close enough that the short, warm puffs of his breath brushed your face with every exhale, and the heat clung to your skin, carrying the light scent of his minty toothpaste. It made the urge to close the last few inches of space almost unbearable, but you held your ground, determined to draw out whatever raced through his mind and left him so visibly unravelled.

Because you had just laid bare something that should’ve brought clarity between you, and instead he was absorbing it like you had dropped a nuclear bomb in the narrow space separating your bodies. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking…” You murmured, dragging your thumbs along his beard once more in slow soothing strokes, physically willing the words from him. His bottom lip slipped between his teeth for a moment, scraping lightly across the flesh until it emerged reddened, damp, and slightly swollen. Then he shook his head, the movement small but heavy with everything he was trying to contain from you.

“I’m thinking that I don’t want you to say these things if you’re just trying to make me feel better,” He admitted, forcing his eyes to remain locked on yours. He searched your expression as though what he had said would pierce any mask you were trying to wear, but all he found in the depths of your gaze was a quick flash of hurt, and it landed like someone had punched him in his chest. He ruined the moment, he knew he ruined the moment right when he opened his mouth, and there was a fraction of a second where he opened his mouth, but then you shifted again.

Slowly, one of your hands slid from his jaw, your warm fingertips tracing the taut column of his throat, feeling him swallow before you felt the damp fabric of his maroon shirt. Your touch was featherlight at first–so delicate that he could scarcely register it–until your palm came to rest over the broad slope of his pectoral, right above the heavy beat of his heart. He could feel the way you pressed gently into the flesh there, like you were testing the softness, rubbing a slow circle along the fabric before spreading your fingers wide across the expanded muscle beneath.

The rhythm of his heart picked up beneath your palm, pounding wildly against your touch as if it wanted to break free from his body entirely. You could’ve sworn his skin grew hotter through the damp fabric of his shirt, radiating outward in waves that seeped straight into your own bloodstream and made your temperature spike in response. It felt as though you were touching bare flesh rather than cotton, and the barrier between you was suddenly meaningless.

“I didn’t say it because I wanted to make you feel better,” You started, shifting closer until your lips hovered mere inches from his. The sheer size of him made you feel smaller than ever in the cradle of his thighs, and you felt those thick muscles tense and flex against your hips, caging you in even further, “I said what I said because it’s true, and because I like you and all that you’ve become.” 

The confession slipped between his lips, stealing every last trace of air from Bucky’s lungs. For one suspended moment his chest simply stopped moving, the words wrapping around his throat and squeezing until every thought in his mind dissipated. 

He had imagined this exact scenario in the quiet hours of the night–had rehearsed every possible response, every careful confession, every way he might hold himself together so he wouldn’t lose control–but now his brain had gone blank, words reducing to ash. All that remained was the reality in front of him–you staring up into his eyes in complete and utter anticipation and relief, like you had finally gotten everything off your chest.

You leaned in closer, the tip of your nose brushing his with a gentle nudge, before you took the chance you had been wanting for months and pressed your lips to his. They were stiff at first, surprised by your bold actions, but they were so soft beneath the short, silver-threaded beard–plush and smooth, as if he had taken meticulous care of them in secret, in hopes that this would happen.

He drew in a sharp breath through his nose, the sound low and ragged, caught off guard by the heat and pressure of your mouth. His hands released their white-knuckled grip on the edges of the stool with a faint metallic click of plates shifting, and his entire body relaxed into the contact at once, lips softening and parting to follow your lead as the kiss settled into a slow, intimate rhythm. You opened your mouth against his, drawing his plush bottom lip between yours and sucking gently, coaxing a broken sound from deep in his chest. 

The hand still cupping his cheek slid away to wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him closer until the softened expanse of his chest pressed flush to yours, feeling your heart beats in the point of contact. 

A small, helpless whimper escaped him when he realized you weren’t wearing a bra beneath the thin t-shirt–your nipples tight and sensitive, hardening instantly against the solid warmth of him, making his mind race. His arms came up slowly to circle your waist, his warm palm settling at the small of your back while the cool plates of his vibranium hand spanned the middle of your spine. His thumb traced the line of your shoulder blade through the fabric, the contrast of temperatures sending fresh shivers racing over your skin, making you to shake against him. 

His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting the faint trace of cocoa powder that clung to you from earlier, and the deep groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated through the your bodies, sending a fresh wave of heat straight to your core. The both of you adjusted into this new found connection, hands sliding slowly to take in every inch of each other, grabbing and squeezing and breathing heavily into one another’s mouths when you parted to tilt your heads to deepen the kiss even further. 

The two of you could’ve stayed like that for hours and neither of you would’ve had a care in the world, all you wanted to do was lose yourself in each other and sink into the burning need that had ignited between the two of you. It was as if you couldn’t get enough of the feeling of him, and it was evident by the way you continued to pull him closer, trying to mold your bodies together even further than they already were. You chin was burning from his beard dragging against your flesh with each movement of his mouth, but you couldn’t care less–he could sand down your skin until it was raw and you’d ask for more over and over again, because all you wanted was him, in any way, in any form.

He moaned against your lips, his fingers tightening and squeezing the fabric of your shirt at the small of your back, before his vibranium hand slipped away entirely from the spot it hadn’t moved from. A small whimper escaped your throat at the loss of contact, and you pulled back just enough to speak and look up at him with shimmering eyes.

“What are you doing?” You whispered against his mouth, feeling the rapid puffs of his breath warming the saliva-slicked skin of your lips.

“Making room,” He replied, nodding toward the bowl of glaze on the island. You glanced over at it, as he maneuvered the two of you so your back was pressed against the granite, feeling the coolness of it biting through your shirt, tempering the heat that he had brought to you so easily. He stood, pushing the stool away with his foot, then crowding you in completely, towering over you while his eyes stayed locked on yours. The bowl slid across the countertop with a low scrape, pushed safely out of the way, and his hands were on you again–large palms gripping your hips as he leaned down to kiss you once more, keeping it slow and almost hesitant, as though he were fighting the urge to let the lust completely consume him.

There was something feral uncoiling inside of him that wanted to rip your clothes off right then and there because he just couldn’t wait any longer to see you naked. But he wanted to savour this moment, wanted to take his time to learn every little thing about you that he hadn’t known already–the sensitive areas of your flesh that made you squeal, the parts of you that he was never able to see because he would cast his eyes away whenever he got the chance to, and the sacred apex of your thighs that he longed to be between, to taste, to caress, to enjoy. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck as you rose onto your tiptoes, compensating for the height difference so he didn’t have to bend so far. He let out a rough, breathy moan at the new closeness, his hands sliding down to the backs of your thighs before lifting you effortlessly and setting you on the granite island. The cool stone met your skin through your shorts, drawing a gasp from you. He pulled back from the kiss, dragging his teeth along your bottom lip, concern flooding him for a fleeting moment.

“Are you okay?” He asked quietly, tilting his head up slightly now that you were at a higher vantage point, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort or hesitation–or god forbid regret. You nodded at him.

“Yeah…Yeah I’m fine,” You started, bringing your hands up to rest on his shoulders, giving the plush muscle there a gentle squeeze, “Was just surprised by the cold counter, that’s all,” You added, before leaning forward and kissing him again, stealing the next breath from his lungs as you widened your thighs and hooked your legs around his hips, pulling him flush between them until you felt the unmistakable line of his erection pressing against your core through the layers that were still separating you.

The two of you let out a joint moan at the physical confirmation of how worked up the both of you were just from kissing one another, and your thighs tightened around him even further. The damp heat of you soaked straight through your shorts, the slick patch blooming unmistakably against the front of his sweatpants, and Bucky felt every bit of it–every faint pulse that your core made when it clenched around nothing, and the shift of your hips as you attempted to get closer.

He let the scent of you fill his lungs again–the heady, sweet musk rising from between your legs, and the sheer form of your very chemistry changing and molding to display your arousal to him even further. It flooded his senses, tightening the coil that was building low in his gut until his hips rolled forward on their own, grinding slowly against you, chasing the friction that made your breath hitch.

His hands slid up the outsides of your thighs, his broad palms mapping every inch of soft skin before slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. The callouses on his flesh fingers rasped gently against the fabric of your shorts, before he finally gripped your hips and pulled you towards the edge of the granite island so the two of you were aligned perfectly. Your own hands fisted the fabric of his shirt, nails scraping lightly over it to trace the solid warmth of his back, then sliding lower to dig into the muscles flanking his spine, pulling the material taut. The give of him under your touch made you press your chest harder into his, craving the plush weight of his pectorals against your breasts.

He opened his mouth again, tongue sliding deep in a slow, claiming stroke that tasted of salt and pure need, like he couldn’t help devouring every trace of you. You felt the low rumble of his groan vibrate through his ribs and into yours as your hands tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying to hike it up, seeking the feeling of his bare skin against yours. He tensed instantly, his breathing accelerating as he pulled back just far enough to breath the kiss. His eyes locked onto yours, his pupils blowing wide until the beautiful blue hue was almost completely absent.

“Why’d you stop?” You asked, confusion flickering across your face, intermingling with the worry that threaded through your question like you were realizing that you possibly crossed some invisible line that you didn’t know the existence of until that very moment.

“I…I don’t want to take my shirt off…” He whispered against your lips, his voice cracking from the dryness in his through,  hands squeezing your hips gently. He could see the way yours eyes softened in realization that he was absolutely terrified to let you see him bare like that–without anything to hide behind–and soon enough your hands eased from his shirt, sliding up his back, tracing the outlines of the muscles there until they reached the sides of his neck, framing it perfectly in your hands. 

His pulse was bounding against your fingertips again–from nerves or from the feral hunger that coursed through his veins, you couldn’t say for sure–and you bit the inside of your lower lip, right on the sore spot where his teeth had grazed, feeling the slight sting and relishing in it, hoping he would give you more soon. 

He kept his eyes glued to your expression shifting, seeing the way you were weighing the options of what to say next in your mind. Yes, you wanted to see him–wanted to take in the very thing you had been admiring for so long–but you didn’t want him to sacrifice his comfort so you could be satisfied. The time would come when he would be okay with it, and you needed to accept that and for now touching him would just have to do.

Your thumbs traced the line of his jaw, scraping along the scruff there, and you could feel him tilt his chin down toward the touch, chasing it, even though you weren’t going to let go unless he asked.

“If you want to keep it on that’s okay…” You replied, leaning in to press a gentle, lingering kiss to his mouth that was so soft he barely registered it before it was gone, “We’ll have lots of time to explore that when you’re ready.” You added, watching the moment when relief flooded his face, softening the sharp lines of tension that had carved themselves into his brow and around his mouth–at both the comfort you offered, and the insinuation that this truly wasn’t going to be a one and done thing between the two of you, that this was just the beginning of what was to come. His mind was racing, thinking about a future with you by his side, thinking about the fact you evidently wanted that–or so he was assuming–and it only made him want you even more.

His lashes fluttered, and he leaned forward, turning his head to the side to bury his face into your neck. His nose pressed into the soft crevice exposed by the loose collar of your shirt, feeling the steady beat of your pulse quickening beneath your warm skin. He breathed you in deep, letting you fill his lungs again, wanting to be saturated in you. A low sigh escaped him, his hot breath clinging to your throat, his beard scraping lightly against the sensitive curve there as he nuzzled into you further.

“Thank you for being so understanding with me…I know it’s not the most ideal thing to ask for and–“

“Buck. It’s okay, you don’t have to thank me…I want you to enjoy this as much as I will.” You interrupted, sliding your arms around his neck to hold him closer, the smooth skin of your forearms brushing the hairs at his nape. You felt him tilt his head as he pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss right under your ear, his tongue darting out briefly to taste the faint sheen of sweat that began to come to the surface of your skin from the heat of your bodies. He blew softly across the damp spot, cooling the heated skin and sending a shiver racing down your spine.

“Nobody has ever really taken my comfort into account when it comes to this stuff…So I want you to know how much I appreciate that.” He explained, his voice a rough murmur against your throat, the words rippling out over your skin as his hands slid away from your hips, going off to explore the rest of the surface area of your body.

The tips of his fingers dragged along your sides, tracing where your waist met your hips before sliding beneath the hem of your shirt completely to settle against the small of your back. He sought the bare skin there deliberately, palms pressing into the warmth and softness he had only ever imagined in stolen glances and restless nights, feeling the heat of you seeping straight into his calloused flesh and cool vibranium alike. The contrast sharpened every sensations–the segmented plates of his left hand tracing slow, precise circles along the delicate dip of your spine, each metallic ridge gliding with a faint, whispering shift, while his right splayed wide, bringing you closer.

The dual temperatures pulled a full-body shiver from you, goosebumps rising in a visible ripple across your arms and the exposed curve of your throat as you arched yourself more into him.

“You’re going to have to get used to that then, cause I want you to feel good too,” You replied, threading your fingers into the soft, damp strands of his hair at the back of his head. It clung to your hand, cool at the roots yet warmed by the rising heat of your bodies, and you tugged lightly, grounding yourself in the thick texture as you felt his breath stutter against your neck. 

He hummed low in his throat at your words, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours like a deep, resonant chord struck just for you. He pulled back just enough to find your mouth again, responding in the only way he knew how–by pouring every ounce of his newly granted relief into the slide of his lips and the gentle sweep of his tongue. His plush lower lip caught between yours as you gave a short, hungry suck, before you melted fully into the kiss. His erection throbbed harder against the apex of your thighs, the thick, heavy length straining at the front of his sweatpants, begging for relief, for something, as his hips pressed against yours to give a fraction of pressure to it.

His hands roamed higher under your shirt, mapping the smooth plane of your torso, thumbs following the soft give of your ribcage as it expanded with each quickened breath. He reached just beneath the swell of your breasts, brushing the pads of his thumbs along the plush, sensitive skin there in slow, teasing strokes that made your skin pucker instantly. Then he shifted, letting those same thumbs drag over the hardened peaks of your nipples, circling them with firm, unhurried intent before taking the sensitive flesh between his fingers to gently pinch and roll. 

You let out a whimper from your throat–one that he swallowed greedily, the sound feeding into his mouth as he continued his ministrations. You gave his hair a light tug, taking in a deep breath and letting it out through your nose, arching yourself into his touch, and urging him to continue as the warmth beneath your skin grew even further, spreading like liquid fire through your veins. 

You could feel his lips tilting into a small, satisfied smile against yours, the subtle curve of pride at how attuned he was to every hitch in your breath, every tremble of your body as he catalogued each reaction and listened to it like it was the only mission that mattered. His hands shifted to cup your breasts fully massaging them slowly, holding their weight and kneading it, feeling your hips rolling forward against him. 

He broke the kiss with a ragged exhale, trailing his mouth downward in a heated path along your jaw, his beard scraping deliciously against your skin before settling at the side of your throat, right beside the sensitive hollow beneath your ear.

I want to taste you,” He murmured, nipping at the fleshy lobe with just enough pressure to make your breath catch.

“Please…” You breathed, the single syllable slipping out on a shaky exhale as his hands dragged from your breasts, sliding down the front of your torso until his fingers hooked into the stretchy waistband of your shorts and the delicate lace trim of your panties beneath. 

Slowly he moved back, pulling the material down as you shimmied on the granite island, helping him ease the layers off without needed to leave the cool surface entirely. He brought them down your thighs until they reached your knees, letting the fabric drop to the ground where he pushed it aside with his foot, the motion sending a faint rustle across the floor. 

Then he knelt down in front of you, the broad span of his body settling between your legs as his hands slid up your calves, caressing the bare skin there. His eyes trailed the smooth length with open hunger, gently guiding them farther apart before lifting them to rest over his shoulders, the weight of your thighs pressing into the thickened muscles there as he locked you in place for him.

He could feel his mouth water at the sight of you bared completely to him now, your glistening core swollen and slick right in front of his face, the delicate folds already parted and shining under the warm overhead lights of the kitchen. The image beckoned him closer, every detail pulling him in–the way your entrance fluttered visibly with anticipation, the glossy sheen of arousal that had smeared on your inner thighs, the swell of your clit begging for attention.

He felt intoxicated by it, or at least what he remembered intoxication felt like from decades ago, as the heady scent of your arousal flooded his senses so strongly the he could practically taste it on his tongue already, sweet and musky and entirely you. A shaky breath left him, his chest rising and falling heavily as he turned his head to press a lingering kiss to the inside of your knee, dragging his teeth against the thin, sensitive skin there, leaving a faint mark that bloomed there beneath his lips. 

His hands reached up toward your hips then, gripping the soft flesh carefully as he pulled you right to the very edge of the island, keeping you steady with the solid weight of his frame so you wouldn’t slip off it. Your hands pressed flat against the granite on either side of you, the cool stone biting into your palms as you held yourself up, leaning forward just enough to look down at him to witness every second of his exploration. 

You could see his eyes fluttering closed in pure bliss as he kissed and licked a slow path along the insides of your thighs, taking his time to savour the velvet softness of your skin and the faint twitches in the muscle whenever his beard scraped along it, leaving tingling, heated trails that made your breath hitch with every pass.

Your breathing came faster now, shallow and uneven, as he finally reached where you needed him the most–his hot exhale ghosting over your core, teasing the sensitive skin before he pressed a firm, open-mouthed kiss directly against your pubic bone, the warmth of his lips branding you there. Then his tongue finally met you, dragging the flat of it in one ling, unhurried stroke from your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit, gathering every drop of your arousal along the way.

The moan that tore from your throat echoed throughout the quiet kitchen, as you leaned your weight back into your palms on the granite, your head tilting up toward the ceiling while the pleasure slammed through you. His mouth sealed fully over your core, tongue working with starving precision–circling your clit in slow, firm passes that layered sensation on top of sensation, refusing to rush, just building the ache deeper with every flick. 

His hands rested heavy on the tops of your thighs, spreading them wider for him as he pressed his face deeper between them, his beard rasping against your sensitive folds with each movement, adding that delicious edge of friction that made your hips jerk involuntarily against his mouth. He grunted, the vibration rumbling straight through your center as his tongue dipped lower, pushing inside your clenching heat to taste you straight from the source, slow and thorough like he was memorizing every pulse and flutter, absorbing your sweetness.

“Oh fuck, Bucky…” You whined, the words breaking on a gasp as you forced your head back down to look at him. His eyes were already staring up at you through his dark lashes, gleaming in the warm overhead light with a lust-filled haze that you had pulled out of him. You were perfect like this–spread open and trembling just from his mouth–and being on his knees in front of you only confirmed what he already knew: he would do anything to stay right here forever, buried between your thighs with your taste coating him.

When his tongue left your pulsing core for a moment, you let out a broken whimper at the loss, only for it to cut off as he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked gently. The sudden pressure made you flinch toward him again, hips grinding forward and smearing your arousal across his cheeks and beard in a glossy sheen. He reached up with his vibranium hand, pressing the cool metal flat against your lower belly, feeling every flutter and clench of your muscles beneath the soft give there, syncing himself to the rhythm of your body like he needed to confirm exactly how good he was making you feel.

He continued to suck, flicking his tongue along the sensitive bundle of nerves in tight, relentless circles before releasing it just long enough for you to catch a breath–only to repeat the same cycle all over again, pulling the coil in your belly tighter with every pass. You took one hand off the granite counter, lacing your fingers through his damp hair, giving the strands a gentle pull as you ground your core against his face again, chasing the friction. He pulled off for a moment, breathing hard, his lips and chin glistening with you, as a small, satisfied smile curved his mouth while he looked up at you.

“Can I finger you?” He asked breathlessly, wanting your approval before he took it upon himself to do anything.

“God, please.” You replied, the words tumbling out on a desperate edge as he returned his mouth to you once again, his tongue resuming its steady work on your clit. His free hand slid off your thigh to join the effort, the tips of his fingers teasing your entrance first–gliding through the slickness, pressing the calloused pads against the soft ring of muscle in slow circles until finally sinking two thick fingers inside with ease. The stretch filled you instantly, the thickness of his digits gliding deep and spreading you open as your walls clenched hot and welcoming around them, reaching spots that your own fingers couldn’t. You hissed at the way he curled them upward right away, seeking that rigid, textured spot he knew would unravel you completely, stroking it with firm pressure that made your vision blur at the edges.

You didn’t know what demanded your attention more–the way his mouth felt as it flicked and sucked at your clit with such experienced, relentless motions, or the feeling of his fingers stretching you open and working that one perfect place inside you that turned every though to TV static. It was an overwhelming assault on your senses, the dual rhythm of wet heat and precise pressure pushing you higher, and you longed for it to never end, already imagining having him like this for hours someday–just so you could feel this blissful, consuming pleasure over and over again until you couldn’t remember anything else.

But before your thoughts could scatter too far, he began to thrust his fingers, curling them along that line of tissue with every stroke, drawing out moan after moan from you.

“Jesus, Bucky, right there! Right there, oh fuck,” You babbled, he words spilling out of you without filter or thought as your body slowly turned to liquid under the way he was lavishing every inch of you. The pressure build fast and merciless, a coiling tea that tightened low in your belly until your thighs trembled violently on either side of his head, your hips rolling helplessly against his face in desperate rhythm with the dual assault. You felt yourself leaning back harder on your one hand, while the other buried deeper into his hair, gripping tight as a glare of white overtook your vision and your body jutted out towards him.

Your orgasm crashed over you in earth shattering waves–like everything around you was going to collapse and cave in–your walls clenching hard around his fingers, as your slick coated his hand and chin while he worked you through every pulsing shudder, refusing to pull away because he couldn’t get enough of the taste flooding his tongue. 

He could feel your legs shaking against his shoulders, your ankles pressing into his shoulder blades to pull him even closer, while his lips gently massaged your clit, waiting for the tension in your thighs to ease before he even entertained the idea of releasing the swollen bundle he had captured. You squirmed against him, letting out a breathy moan, tugging at his hair again as oversensitivity sparked along every nerve, shaking like you were going to have another orgasm if he continued to do all of this to you.

“Bucky…Bucky! Too much,” You whined, completely overwhelmed and overstimulated, voice cracking on the plea. He hummed, slowly letting go of your clit, pressing a small kiss against it like it had bestowed a blessing upon him, before lifting his head to look up at you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes, his beard and lips glistening with your release.

“So-Sorry…Got carried away,” He whispered, his voice rough as he watched you catch your breath, a little laugh escaping your lips despite the way your body was still trembling around him.

“Don’t apologize, that was fucking amazing, it’s just a little sensitive now,” You replied, the words warm and reassuring even while your chest was heaving–like he had put your body through a marathon and you were just trying to recover. He eased his fingers out of you with careful slowness, the wet sound of it filling the kitchen before he brought the glistening digits up to his mouth, cleaning them off with a slow drag of his tongue and letting out a soft, satisfied moan at the sweetness and warmth you had left on them.

“You just taste so good, couldn’t get enough of it,” He commented, voice low and reverent as he adjusted your legs so they slid off his shoulders, the cool air of the kitchen brushing over your slick skin for the first time in what felt like hours. He rose to his feet again, stumbling slightly from the numbness that shot down his calves the moment he stood. You smirked at him, reaching out to bring your hands around his torso, bringing him close again until he was pressed against you.

“Hmm, maybe I should get a sample,” You murmured, leaning forward to kiss his arousal-slicked lips, tasting yourself on him–sweet, musky, and just faintly salty from the sweat that had settled on his upper lip. You opened your mouth to him, letting his tongue slide against your so you could taste even more of the arousal he had lapped up, the both of you letting out low moans at the mingling flavours.

Your hand slid down from his torso, dragging along the front of his sweatpants until you felt a damp spot soaking the fabric where he his precum had leaked through, causing you to smile against his mouth as he grunted. You palmed his erection, squeezing it gently through the material, feeling it pulse hot beneath your touch, before releasing it and sliding your fingers up to untie the loops at the waistband. 

You pulled away from the kiss just enough to breathe against his lips.

“I need you…” You said, nudging your nose against his, hearing him swallow loudly.

“Are you sure?” He asked, his hands coming to rest heavy on your hips as he searched your face.

“I’ve never been more sure in my entire life.” You stated, the certainty clear in your voice.

“Okay.” He whispered, reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants, moving your hand out of the way for him to take over. You moved back, looking as he worked the fabric down his hips, pulling his boxers along with it until his cock sprang free from its confines–it was thick and veined, heavy between his legs, the crown of it was flushed a deep red and it was glistening with precum that was still leaking at the tip, leaving small droplets on the floor below. The sight made your jaw slacken in disbelief at the sheer size, at the thought of it stretching you open far past anything you had taken before, but you couldn’t let those worries flood you, not right now, not when you were so close to finally feeling him. Slowly you hooked your legs around him again, pulling him closer, which earned a soft laugh from him.

“Eager?” He teased, the word warming your mouth as his hands settled on your thighs.

“Aren’t you?” You shot back, smirking as you felt him twitch against your core.

“More than you would ever know, Y/N…” He breathed, reaching down to wrap his hand around the base of himself, stroking along the thick length once before guiding the blunt head through your wetness, smearing it along him to coat his shaft fully so it would allow him to ease in. He slid himself down to your entrance, looking back up at you to make sure you were ready and still okay with this. When you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in, he knew it was enough permission to proceed. 

Slowly, he pushed into you, letting the crown sink into the warm, tight heat that enveloped him instantly. The both of you let out shaky breaths as he leaned his forehead against yours, giving you time to adjust to the intrusion before pressing in just a little more.

He was so gentle, sinking in as slow as possible so he didn’t risk hurting you, letting you feel every inch of the stretch as your walls accommodated his thickness, fluttering and clenching around him in sync with your heartbeat. You were taking him so well, shifting slightly to make him come closer, holding his sides and squeezing whenever you felt him throb inside of you. It didn’t feel real. But you knew having him like this would always feel like a dream, no matter how many times you would do this afterwards.

When his hips finally met yours and his tip nestled against the soft cushion of your cervix, the two of you took a moment to breathe, sharing each other’s oxygen like it was the only thing keeping you alive. You could feel his stomach pressing into yours, rising and falling with every breath, and you rubbed at his sides with open appreciation.

“Fuck…Bucky you feel so good,” You whispered, pulsing around him as your body adjusted to the overwhelming fullness.

“You do too.” He said, peppering slow, wet kisses along your jaw, his voice thick with awe, “Way better than I ever imagined…” 

“How long have you been thinking about doing this?” You asked, a teasing tone lacing your voice as you purposely clenched around him again, hearing him hiss.

“I don’t think I want to disclose that, but let’s just say you’ve been on my mind for a while,” He admitted, tilting his head to press a small kiss to your lips, “Is that okay?”

“Way more than okay,” You reassured, rubbing his sides with slow circles, feeling the give of muscle beneath your palms, “Now please…I need you to start moving before I cum just from this, and get overstimulated again,” You added, the words half-laugh, half-plea.

“I’ll do whatever you say, Sweetheart,” He replied, wrapping his arms around your waist, drawing you closer to him again. He shifted his hips back ever so slightly, the thick length of him dragging along your inner walls so slowly that you could feel the veins pulsing within it, before thrusting into you with a controlled roll that seated him to the hilt once more. His eyes stayed locked on your face the entire time, searching for the faintest flicker of discomfort in the flutter of your lashes or the hitch of your breath that might indicate pain, but all he found was pure want gleaming back at him–your pupils blown wide, and lips parted on a silent gasp. And that was all the permission he needed to continue.

He pulled out further this time, the heavy drag of his cock leaving you achingly empty for a heartbeat before he sank back inside, the wet heat of your core clenching greedily around every veined inch. Your walls fluttered and squeezed in rhythm with the slow build of his pace, pulling him deeper as if your body refused to let even a fraction of him escape. His lips met yours between ragged breaths, the kisses brief, giving you a taste of your arousal with each one, as it began to get replaced by the saltiness of your sweat. 

Each roll of his hips ground his pubic bone against your swollen clit with perfect, unrelenting pressure, the friction sending sparks up your spine while he filled you completely, stretching you open around his girth until the ache blurred into something exquisite and overwhelming.

You tilted your head back, baring the vulnerable column of your throat to him, and he leaned down without hesitation, his mouth latching onto the damp skin there. His beard scraped lightly as he sucked gentle marks into the flesh, his tongue tracing wet paths that cooled instantly in the kitchen air, leaving faint trails that made your pulse jump beneath his lips. Your hands slid up the broad expanse of his back, digging your nails into the taut muscle, anchoring yourself as he angled his hips upward, feeling the crown of his cock dragging against that textured ridge inside you, coaxing a broken whine from your throat.

“Bucky…” You gasped, the sound raw and needy as his arms tightened around your waist, holding you steady.

“Feel good?” He asked, voice low and rough, threaded with the strain of holding himself back. You drew in a breath as he thrusted into you harder now, the impact of his hips meeting yours sending a wet slap through the kitchen.

“Oh fuck…So good. Please…Please keep going, just like that.” You begged, your nails raking down the length of his back through the fabric, catching on the hem and pulling it taut. He hissed at the bite of it, the sensation cutting through the cotton like a hot brand even if it couldn’t mark his skin directly. 

He settled into a powerful rhythm, his hips snapping forward to meet yours with each deep thrust, the slick sounds of your bodies joining growing louder, wetter–your arousal coating his thick shaft and smearing across the tops of his thighs where they pressed against you. The faint give of his softened belly brushed against your abdomen with every forward drive, a press that only made you arch harder into him, craving that solid warmth. 

He brought his lips up to claim your mouth again, swallowing every gasp and moan as your walls began to pulse around his cock in erratic squeezes, tightening and releasing like your heartbeat was right inside your core. Your hips squirmed against him, shaking in his hold, getting closer and closer to another orgasm. He bit down gently on your lower lip, sucking the swollen flesh into his mouth before soothing it with a slow swipe of his tongue, then pulled back just enough to glance down at where you were joined, seeing the sight of his cock disappearing into your slick heat, glistening with your arousal.

“God, you’re taking me so well,” The praise fell from him in a gravelly murmur, and you moaned at the words because your mind had gone hazy, and every coherent though dissolved under the relentless drag of him against that perfect little spot inside you. He kept his hips angled just right, the thick base of him grinding against your clit with each thrust while the head kissed deep against your cervix, filling you so completely that it felt like he was reshaping you from the inside out.

“I…I’m gonna cum again.” You warned, your heart hammering so hard in your chest that it felt like it might break through, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core until your vision was blurring white again.

“I know, baby…Let it go…I’ve got you,” He whispered against your ear, his thrusts growing faster and harder, the snap of his hips driving him deeper as he guided you even closer, one large hand splaying across your lower back to keep you anchored while the other gripped the edge of the island for leverage. Your eyes stung with unshed tears from the overwhelming intensity–the dual drag of his cock inside you and the constant friction against your clit pushing you right to the edge. His hot breath fanned across your neck between open-mouthed kisses pressed to every inch of skin he could reach, his beard rasping against you as your nails clawed at him. Your walls clenched hard around him in rhythmic pulses, and the second orgasm crashed through you, ripping a shattered cry from your throat as you came apart around his cock.

He grunted at the sudden, vice-like tightness, the rhythmic squeeze of you milking him as he kept his pace steady, fucking you through every shuddering contraction without faltering. His mouth moved over your jaw, your throat, the crevice of your neck–kissing, licking, and sucking–while your nails dug harder into his beck. The wet heat of your release slicked further down his thighs, and still he didn’t stop, drawing out every last tremor until your body went boneless in his arms.

“Can…Can I cum inside you?” He asked, feeling the muscles of his abdomen clenching as he held himself back, hips stuttering with the effort so he didn’t finish before you gave him a clear answer, every inch of him trembling with the need to let go.

“Fuck! Yes, Bucky, please…” You cried out, craving whatever he was going to give you, and within seconds, his rhythm faltered, and with one final, powerful thrust that buried him to the hilt, he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan. The first thick pulse of his release flooded you instantly, as rope after rope of cum painted your walls and filled every available space until the sheer volume of it overwhelmed you.

His cock twitched hard with each spurt, his hips jerking in shallow, instinctive thrusts that pushed his release even deeper, as though some primal part of him refused to let a single drop escape. But there was too much–his body shuddering against your as the excess began to leak out around where you were joined, warm trails sliding down your thighs and dripping onto the flood beneath you. The sensation of being so thoroughly filled, stretched, and claimed left your head spinning in a euphoric haze, your legs trembling uncontrollably as aftershock rippled through you.

He was panting hard against you, his broad frame shaking, every muscle drawing taut as the final spurt wrong him dry. With one last, slow push of his hips he buried himself as deep as he could go and whined low in his throat, as the tension finally ebbed from his body in a long exhale.

The two of you stayed locked together for several long moments, the only movement being the slow, shared rise and fall of your chests as you both fought to steady your breathing. His arms remained banded around your waist, holding you flush against him, refusing to let you go. You pressed a small, unhurried kiss along the line of his jaw, tasting the faint salt of his skin beneath the scratch of his beard, while he answered with the same gentle press of lips to your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth–each one slow and reverent, as if the contact alone could quiet the frantic thud of your hearts. The kitchen was filled now with the musk of sex that clung to the both of you, and everything had seemed to have been forgotten, sole focusing on this connection rather than the things that were going on around you.

Finally he raised his head, tilting back just enough to look at you, his mouth parted, and lips swollen from the kisses you had stolen from each other, his blue eyes dark and unfocused beneath the damp strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead.

“Jesus Christ…That…That was…”

“Amazing…” You finished for him, the word slipping out on a soft exhale as your fingers traced idle patters over his shoulders, feeling them twitch beneath your touch. He nodded once, the motion small and almost dazed, before leaning forward to capture your lips in a brief, tender kiss that lingered just long enough for you to taste him. When he pulled back, his breath ghosted warm over your cheek.

“So amazing.” He confirmed, letting out a deep sigh as he pressed another kiss to the flushed curve of your cheekbone, his beard scraping lightly in a way that sent a final shiver up your spine, “Are you okay?” He asked, concern threading through the gravel of his voice even as his arms tightened around your lower back. You let out a quiet laugh, the sound breathy and unguarded, still half-lost in the hazy aftershocks that made your thighs tremble where they bracketed his hips. 

“Yeah, I’m fine Bucky…Are you okay?” He nodded again, slower this time, and pulled you even close, burning his face briefly against the side of your neck, inhaling deep like he could lose himself in you again.

“Can’t believe we waited this long to be honest with each other,” He whispered against your skin, and you smirked, tilting your head just enough to brush your nose along the damp strands of his hair, feeling the way his pulse thrummed steady when you rested your hands on the side of his neck.

“Well…You never really told me how you felt about me, we just kind of kissed and…This happened.” You pointed out, teasing him as you felt the subtle heat of his cheeks flush warmer against your throat. His ears were burning at the comment, but he didn’t pull away, instead he huffed a quiet breath that stuck to your skin before lifting his head again.

“If this didn’t tell you how I feel then I may need to take up sign making so I can make you one.” You giggled softly at that, and he pressed another slow kiss to your lips, this one deeper than the last, his tongue brushing lightly against yours like a quiet promise. When he drew back just enough to speak again, his forehead rested gently against yours, letting your breaths mingle in the narrow space between you.

his hand tightened slightly around your throat—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp.

bucky always loved hearing you gasp.

every single nerve was on fire as his thick cock slid in and out of you, leaving behind a wet, vulgar squelching noise with each hard thrust. every time you and bucky fucked, he always managed to stretch you out impossibly more. the initial burn of getting split open by him was always intense, but the pleasure afterward was incredible—so great that you were left a mewling, crying mess in his arms. and he loved seeing you like this.

“fuuuck, baby,” he grunted, long strands of dark hair framing his face as he stared at you with blown out, hungry eyes. “so fuckin’ small—so small in my arms, but you can take it. you always do.”

your head was dizzy with desire. the way bucky was looking at you, the way he held you against his big, warm body, it could make you cum right there in his lap. you felt like you were high on drugs. the entire room reeked of sex, sweat, and a masculine scent that was purely him.

“oh my god—!”

bucky gritted his teeth, a snarl escaping him as he felt your walls clench around him. your bouncing was uneven and your legs were shaking. you were close. so fucking close, and bucky could feel every flutter and pulse your tight body had to give him.

“bucky, baby,” you gasped, eyes rolling back, “i’m getting close!”

sweat beaded down bucky’s forehead as his grip tightened on your hips, his face contorting at your admission.

“i know, sweets,” he groaned. “fuck. i know you are. shit—”

bucky started to grumble and groan, a telltale sign that he was nearing his own peak. his hands—already rough and demanding—squeezed and gripped you everywhere. his mechanical left arm whirred with the effort of holding back, trying to be gentle. his hips pounded up to meet yours, letting you feel the thick bulge of his lower stomach and the unkept hair at the base of his cock.

“fuuck, mph, ah—shit, baby.”

he cursed, mumbling incoherently under his breath. the sight of your ass bouncing against him as his thick cock slid in and out was enough to drive any man mad. bucky was glad pregnancy wasn’t a concern, because he couldn’t resist fucking you bare.

“shit, i’m gonna cum, sweets,” he groaned as you felt him twitch and throb inside you.

your moans rose in pitch, arching your back even more as you ground yourself onto his lap. your legs shook as your release finally consumed you. “fuck—i’m cumming, bucky…!”

“good girl,” he soothed approvingly, relishing the way you spasmed and clenched around him as you came undone. you let out a high squeal, crying out his name in a way that sounded like music to his ears.

“gooood fucking girl. squeezing all over me, baby. shit. gonna pump myself deep inside, and you’re gonna take every bit of it.”

his thrusts sped up, making you feel dizzy and overstimulated, and all you could do was mewl helplessly as he used you like a personal sex toy.

“fuck—take every last drop, baby.”

both his hands—one cool and one hot—slid down to your hips, holding you tight against his lap as his hard cock pulsed and throbbed until he finally began to spill out. it was thick and warm, making your lower stomach feel sensitive.

bucky always came so much, and it was his personal duty to make sure you were always full of it. the only time he would pull out was when he finally saw his seed seeping out of you, dampening the dark curls at his pelvis.

he leaned back, taking in the debauched sight of you with a deep exhale. perfect. this was always so perfect.