$ log - bucky barnes has a crush on you, and he's doing his best; his best is just terrifying!
$ warn --sfw --fluff --steve-and-sam-are-shit-wingmen
$ wc -w 1.4k
$ cd masterlist
$ tag @twentytomidnight (@froggibus here's the horror movie in play 🧍♀️)
$ vi don't-shoot-your-shot-v2
Somewhere between the third mission and the second month, Bucky figured out that something was different about you.
Not in a way he could name at first — just that the noise in his head got quieter when you were around, that he'd catch himself in the middle of a debrief actually listening, because you were talking. That easy, unthinking quiet he hadn't felt in years just showed up, unprompted, in whatever room you happened to be in, and he didn't know what to do with it.
So he did what he always does: he watched, he catalogued, and he thought about it at three in the morning with the same focus he'd once applied to things that actually required it.
Steve called it a crush. Sam called it painfully obvious and immediately started offering unsolicited advice, which became its own problem entirely. Bucky called it none of their business and then spent the better part of an evening thinking about the way you laugh when you think no one's watching — the real one, not the polite one — and the fact that it had taken him four days to notice the difference and no time at all to memorise it.
The thing is, it's not one-sided. You're just as aware of him as he is of you. In that way you notice the shape of someone's absence before you register anything else about a room, where you find reasons to be somewhere he might be and then act surprised when it works. You've replayed certain conversations more times than you'd like to admit, and you'd like to admit zero.
The problem was never the feeling. The problem is that Bucky, with the best intentions and absolutely no remaining social calibration, is now trying to do something about it. And you, with no context and no warning, are on the receiving end.
It goes about as well as you'd expect.
The Staring Problem
Avengers Tower, various locations, two weeks running.
You've been keeping a mental list with the grim focus of someone building a legal case, and it's up to eleven incidents. The evidence is circumstantial but it is consistent.
At this point you're less interested in understanding it than in figuring out at what number you escalate to Fury.
It starts at the coffee machine. You reach for the pot and when you look up he's already looking at you. Not glancing, looking — with an expression that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. You say good morning and Bucky says nothing. You take your coffee and leave at a quicker pace that is definitely not a jog.
It happens in the elevator, the common room, and even in the hallway outside the training floor. Always the same: you look up and he's there, already watching, and he never looks away first. You've started taking the stairs.
You run through the list of possible offenses. You were loud in the kitchen once. You accidentally used his mug, but you washed it? You beat his time on the obstacle course three weeks ago, but surely that's not, surely he's not still—
You mention it to Natasha, very casually, purely as a logistical concern for your continued survival. She looks at you for a long moment, says "hm," and walks away. It’s somehow the least reassuring response she could have given.
He is, for the record, not thinking about any of your eleven incidents. He is thinking about the way you laugh when you think no one's listening, and it's been living in his head for three days, and he has absolutely no idea what to do about that.
The Rifle
Pre-mission briefing, loading bay, five minutes before wheels up
You're running through your gear check with a focus that has nothing to do with the gear and everything to do with the fact that Bucky has been watching you for two weeks and you are no closer to understanding why.
Especially when he appears at your left shoulder without sound and holds out his rifle like that's something people do.
You take it, obviously you do. You don't know what else to do. He gives a single nod and walks away to the quinjet like he hasn't just handed you something that costs more than your apartment and is probably also somehow an heirloom.
You hold it for the entire mission like it's a live grenade. You make every shot count. You are not going to be the person who scratched Bucky Barnes' rifle and lived to tell about it.
Your shots are, objectively, incredible. You don't register that at the time because you are too busy being careful.
He watches your form from across the ridge with an expression nobody else would clock as anything. Sam clocks it, filing it away.
You hand it back after debrief, two-handed, like returning something sacred. He takes it one-handed, casual, and there's something around his eyes that might be — you don't finish that thought. You go to your debrief, trying not to seem scared shitless.
"We Should Shoot Together"
Post-mission corridor, still in tactical gear, he has clearly been waiting
You're tired in the specific way that comes from twelve hours of sustained adrenaline, and you want a shower and about eight hours of not thinking about anything, which is why it's particularly unfortunate timing when Bucky falls into step beside you. He’s got that calm, unhurried energy of someone who has made a decision and is simply waiting for the moment to be right.
He stops walking. You stop walking. He looks at you with the full weight of his complete attention and says, completely evenly: "Your shots were incredible out there."
You say thank you and mean it and wait for the other shoe.
"Use my rifle next time." You think about the last time. You think about how carefully you held it. So, you wonder if your performance didn't meet the standard and this is somehow a test.
"We should shoot together." He says it like it's a normal sentence, like those words in that order constitute a fun activity and not what your nervous system has just interpreted them as — a proposal, a hunt, prey selected.
He turns and walks away. And here is the thing, the thing that keeps you up later: he's smiling. Small, private, to himself. The smile of a man who just executed a plan perfectly.
He has, in his own assessment, just asked you out. It went great. You are currently reconsidering whether your go-bag is packed.
The Smile
Common room, the morning after Sam and Steve got involved
You have faced things that scared you — real things, things with actual stakes — and come out fine, which is why it's genuinely surprising that you're standing in the kitchen at eight in the morning holding a piece of toast and feeling, for reasons you cannot immediately articulate, like something is deeply wrong.
Sam and Steve, well-meaning and catastrophic in equal measure, pulled him aside the previous evening. The conversation reportedly involved the phrase "just smile more, it makes you seem approachable." Steve demonstrated, while Sam refined it. Bucky practiced in the mirror with the focused intensity he applies to everything.
He comes in, sees you, and then — and you will think about this for a long time — he smiles. At you. Directly at you. It is the most deliberate, considered, technically-executed smile you have ever seen on a human face. There are too many teeth. The eyes are not involved. It lasts exactly three seconds too long.
You put down your toast.
He holds it for another beat, nods once like a mission objective completed, and leaves. You hear Steve in the hallway say "how'd it go" and Bucky say "good" with complete sincerity.
You are still standing there when Natasha comes in. She looks at your face and says "what happened." You don't have the words yet.
Twenty minutes later — you're still in the kitchen, the toast long forgotten — he comes back for something and doesn't see you around the corner. Someone says something from the hallway and he laughs, actually laughs, and then this smile, this real one, quiet and a little crooked and completely unguarded, just sits on his face for a moment before he schools it back.
He doesn't know you saw it. You don't know what to do with the fact that you did. You look down at your coffee. Something has shifted and you can't quite name it yet. You're not scared anymore; that's the problem.
$ log - you got annoyed with vampire!dean winchester's constant whining for blood, so you finally satiate him!
$ warn --gn!reader --dom!reader --top!reader --sub!dean --fingersucking --degradation --hair-pulling --power-dynamics
$ wc -w 1.3k
$ cd masterlist
$ tag @twentytomidnight
The bunker was suffocatingly quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the ancient ventilation system and the obnoxious, repetitive drone of the television. The blue light of the screen washed over the room in cold, sickly waves, highlighting the tension in your shoulders. On the couch, Dean was a restless, irritating presence. He wasn't just hungry; he was vocal about it.
Every groan, every sharp exhale, and every snide, half hearted comment about how "empty" he felt was designed to grate on your nerves. He was leaning into that classic Winchester bravado, using sass to mask the desperation clawing at his insides.
He shifted his weight, the leather of the couch creaking under him, and threw another biting remark about how "some people" were being stingy with the good stuff.
It was a performance, a way to keep the monster at bay with a layer of Winchester snark, but you could see the way his eyes tracked the pulse in your neck.
You rolled your eyes, the sheer audacity of his whining finally snapping your patience.
Without a word, you crossed the small distance between you. Before he could launch into another pathetic, hungry plea, you reached down and gripped his shoulders, forcing him off the couch. He let out a startled, undignified huff as you pushed him down, forcing him to his knees between your legs.
He blinked up at you, the confusion momentarily breaking through his mask. He tried to recover, tilting his head back with a lopsided, sleazy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What’s this?" he murmured, his voice rough and thick with a hunger he could no longer hide. "You finally decided to give in?"
You didn't answer.
Instead, you reached for a spare blade on the coffee table, the cold steel catching the dim light. With a deliberate motion, you pricked the pads of your fingertips, the small droplets of blood welling up instantly. Dean’s pupils dilated, his gaze locking onto your hand with a predatory intensity that made the air between you heavy and thick.
You reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair to tilt his head back, exposing his throat and forcing him to look up at you. The sleazy grin faltered, replaced by a raw, desperate yearning. You pressed your fingers against his lips, the scent of your blood hitting him like a physical blow.
"Suck," you commanded, your voice low and devoid of warmth.
He didn't hesitate.
The moment his lips parted, the last of his bravado vanished. He lunged forward with a low, guttural sound, his mouth enveloping your fingertips with a desperate, uncoordinated hunger. The sensation was electric, the warmth of his mouth, the frantic pull of his tongue as he tried to draw every precious drop from your skin.
As he fed, you didn't make it easy. You leaned back, watching him with a look of amused disdain, your free hand winding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
When he began to suck too hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your fingertips with a sharp, stinging pressure, you gave a firm, punishing tug. He let out a muffled, choked sound against your hand, nearly gagging as you forced his rhythm to break, making him struggle for air before he could settle back into the feast.
"Look at you," you whispered, your voice dripping with a mocking sweetness that cut through the heavy silence of the bunker. "Needed your best friend this bad, huh, Dean?" You let out a sharp, mocking huff of laughter, watching the way his throat worked as he swallowed greedily.
The sight of the legendary hunter, reduced to a kneeling, desperate animal at your feet, was a delicious irony. "Fucking bastard. Just using me for blood, aren't you? All that whining just to get you to this point."
He tried to pull back for a second, a flash of wounded pride flickering in his dark, blown out eyes. But you tightened your grip on his hair, pulling his head back sharply to keep him anchored. He let out a low, needy whine that was far more animal than man.
"Don't you dare stop," you hissed, your voice a blend of command and condescension. You leaned forward, your eyes tracing the frantic movement of his jaw. You deliberately slid your fingers deeper into his mouth, forcing him to accommodate the intrusion of your knuckles as he struggled to swallow around them.
The sensation was thick and wet, the friction of his tongue against your skin sending a jolt of sensation up your arm. He let out a muffled, desperate groan, his eyes rolling back in a trance of pure, unadulterated gluttony.
Every time he tried to regain a semblance of his usual composure, you’d remind him of his place, either by tugging his hair until his scalp stung or by shoving your fingers deeper, making him choke slightly on the sheer intensity of the offering.
He was a mess of contradictions, a hunter, a hero, and right now, a starving dog at your feet, completely undone by the very person he usually tried to impress with his bravado. You watched him, a smirk playing on your lips, savouring the absolute dominance of the moment.
The heavy, rhythmic sound of his swallowing finally began to taper off, replaced by a softer, more rhythmic sensation. You felt the wet, sandpaper texture of his tongue performing a slow, sweeping lick across your fingertips, a feline, satisfied gesture that signalled the beast had finally been satiated. The frantic desperation in his throat smoothed out into a low, contented hum.
With a smirk of pure triumph, you withdrew your digits from his mouth. The sudden absence of your skin left him looking momentarily dazed, his lips glistening and redder than usual.
Before he could even attempt to reclaim his dignity, you brought your hand down, delivering a series of sharp, stinging smacks against his jaw. The sound of palm hitting skin echoed in the quiet bunker, treating him no differently than a disobedient pet.
"There we go," you mocked, your voice dripping with condescending satisfaction. "Bloodthirst all satisfied now, huh? You'll stop whining like a fucking cunt now?”
Dean sat there for a moment on the floor, his chest heaving as he fought to pull air back into his lungs. The predatory haze in his eyes was slowly receding, replaced by a heavy, post feed lethargy that made him look uncharacteristically soft. He wiped a stray smear of red from his chin with the back of his hand, his gaze following you as you stood up with effortless grace.
"Yeah," he finally managed, his voice a husky, wrecked mumble. It wasn't quite the suave Dean Winchester the world knew; it was the voice of a man who had just been thoroughly tamed. He offered a faint, sheepish nod of thanks, his eyes lingering on you with a mixture of lingering hunger and newfound respect.
You didn't linger to bask in his gaze or wait for a witty retort that likely wouldn't come. You had already exerted your dominance, and the satisfaction of seeing him so thoroughly undone was enough.
Turning on your heel, you began to walk away, the rhythmic click of your footsteps on the bunker floor the only sound in the heavy silence.
"You better rest up, Dean," you called back over your shoulder, your voice regaining its usual sharp, teasing edge. "I don't want to see you being a bratty little bitch on the next hunt just because you're feeling sluggish."
You didn't look back to see if he was going to throw a snarky comment your way or simply sink back into the couch in a blood drunk stupor. You already knew the answer. He was satisfied, he was quiet, and for once, he was exactly where you wanted him: humbled.
$ log - you're helping relieve a rather flustered cpt. steve rogers!
$ warn --gn!reader --dom!reader --handjob --degradation
$ wc -w 0.8k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo "reader's kinda mean about it, hells yeah" > authors-note.txt
"You really are pathetic," You murmured to Steve's burning-red ears, before nipping the shell softly. It was quite the contrast to the rough pace your hand had past his slacks; his proud uniform was just pushed aside like flimsy material.
He whined helplessly at that comment- him? Pathetic? He's literally a Captain, leading an entire commando unit, he's anything but that- fuck. His hips bucked in reaction to the slight twist in your wrist.
"You've been getting hard on the field?" You scoffed at him, words sweet like honey, landed sharp to his ears.
"Gah-no!" He tried to deflect, shaking his head.
"You sure, Captain?" You pushed, your thumb rubbing circles on his sensitive tip. He had to bite his lip from dragging out a too loud moan.
"Ca-Call me Steve, please!" He replied, muddled brain hooking onto the wrong thing. He didn't like mixing his work with his pleasures.
"Well, then, Steve, how long'd you been hard and aching?" You asked him, jacking him off at a reverent pace, enough to make his hips squirm at the sensation.
He had to seriously focus to sit still. You'd mentioned if he kept moving, you'd stop helping him, oh the horrors indeed.
"Since the start of the mission-mmh!" He just spat out, eyes screwed shut as his head fell back to the wall with each sharp tug of your warm palm. His own hands gripped onto your clothes so damn tight, the fabric might as well rip. "You looked so gorgeous-ah-beauty, during the briefing. I couldn't he-help it!"
"Oh, is that so?" You mused with a cunning smirk, pressing your chest hotly to his side, lips leaving more open-mouthed kisses to the line of his throat. "It seems to me that you're quite the pervert."
He didn't even try to defend himself. He knows it's bad as it sounds- getting hard at the thought of you while out of the field. Then heading straight to your office straight after extraction, no words, just a mere whine and dropped gaze to his strained tent. You didn't really get up instantly, just raising an eyebrow from your desk. But that desperate look in his eyes enticed you enough.
"Pervert..." He just hazily repeated the word. It felt degrading on his tongue, a shiver running through him as he flutters his eyes open.
Ah fuck.
That sly look in your eyes, the other mean comments on the tip of your devilish tongue, and he glances down. The sight of his own agent jerking him off. Court-martials, reports, rules all get thrown out the window as he whimpers, pre-cum spouting onto the back of your hand.
"Ain't ya one?" You pushed him, leaving a firm kiss to his jaw, while your free hand trailed to lazily stroke those golden locks.
He didn't answer at first, gulping heavy. Steve was in fact quite focused on deciding whether to cum or not. He needs to, he can't lose it for another time and stay up all night hard again. But, then he'd be making a right ol' mess on his uniform. Albeit it's past working hours, no one'd be up to spot him.
"Messy little pervert," Your voice whispered tauntingly to his jaw, reading his damn mind, "Gettin' off to dames/fellas while carryin' the shield. Gonna make a mess in your honoured slacks now, baby?"
Honest to God, Steve feels a part of his soul literally leave him.
The comments paired with that ridiculing tone of yours felt embarrassingly hot. He couldn't really respond without spouting out mindless moans, so he just nodded feverishly, biting his lip at the sight of himself spurting hot cum all over your palm, some onto his trousers. Dammit, he'd just fetched them from the dry cleaner too.
His hips kept twitching at each drag of your palm, as you coaxed the orgasm out of him. Your lips kiss his hotly - just enough to drink up those sweet sounds of his.
"But, you're my pathetic fella right?" You tilted your face to murmur against his lips.
"Ah yes, ma'am/sir, only yours, just yours" Steve gulped, answering instantly as if you were the chain of command here. His breaths calmed down as the moments passed. He watched you leave a couple more soothing kisses to his whining lips, before returning to your desk. You fetched a spare cloth from your drawer, wiping your hands and throwing it to him.
"Clean yourself up, Steve, then sit down." You say.
You poured some water into a flask, and placed it in front of the spare chair. "Drink up, we still have to go over the recon's strategy results."
$ log - tony stark developing sex toys for you!
$ warn --gn!reader afab!reader(for rabbit)--toys
$ wc -w 0.3k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo "I've given this a lot of thought actually" > authors-note.txt
Dating Tony wouldn't just be a power move; it would be a technological revolution for your pleasure. Presenting the idea of "StarkTech" sex toys here. Imagine the sheer precision of engineering applied to pure hedonism.
Stark Bullet Vibrator which pushes the boundaries of what's possible. Since he's the master of energy and miniaturisation, it wouldn't just be a vibrating pebble. It'd be a Neuro Sync Micro Bullet.
He'd be using his advanced biometric sensor to make sure this device doesn't just vibrate; it would interface with your nervous systems via low frequency sonic waves.
It could map your pleasure centres in real time, adjusting its frequency and intensity to hit the exact millisecond of your orgasm.
Imagine that on your clit or tip, especially during ovulation or peak horny downtimes.
A Repulsor Pulse feature which uses localised kinetic energy to create sensations instead of a simple vibration.
t's more a focused rhythmic force that mimics a heartbeat - syncing with your own as you approach your climax.
And let's not forget the material. Tony wouldn't use cheap silicone. in fact, he'd develop a self healing, bio compatible smart polymer that adapts its texture and temperature based on your body heat.
Stark "Aura" Rabbit that isn't merely it's own device; it's a sentient extension of your own desire, engineered with the same tech found in the Iron Man suits.
Crafted from a Liquid Metal Smart Alloy, the device's form is entirely fluid which allows the "ears" to morph, expand, or constrict precisely around your clit or tip.
The real game changer is the Neural Link Feedback Loop which uses tiny, non invasive sensors to not only "scan" your reactions, but also aim to communicate with your brain's pleasure centres via electromagnetic pulses.
It anticipates your climax before you even feel it coming.
All devices would have long-lasting battery life, optimised recharging and not on market. Tony knows he could sell it for crazy, but he'd developed his sexual ecosystem just for your pleasure. He doesn't intend on sharing one bit.
$ log - steve rogers thinks it’s the best time to confess when the both of you are drunk!
$ warn --sfw --gn!reader --cutie-drunk!steve --fluff
$ wc -w 1.7k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo "i think i messed up the timings, ignore that" > authors-note.txt
$ tag @twentytomidnight
The invitation had said "Evening Gathering | You've all worked hard this month" in Steve's handwriting. It was delivered in person, one each, with the slightly formal energy of a man who had rehearsed this.
"I wanted to do something for the team," he'd said. "All of you. Everyone here."
The room had stared at him with the most deadpan look ever. Natasha said, very carefully: "Steve, you asked me for Y/N's Spotify."
"I asked for good music."
"You sent me a screenshot."
"I like those artists."
The silence that followed had a texture to it. Bucky was examining the middle distance. Sam had the expression of a man composing a speech he'd been waiting to give.
"I love this team equally," Steve said, with great dignity.
"Sure," said Sam.
"Deeply and equally."
"Absolutely."
"Every single one of you."
"We know, Cap."
Thor arrived forty minutes later with the mead, which was fine, it was a mild batch. It was completely under control — and then somewhere around eleven-thirty, mid-conversation with Clint about something Steve could no longer entirely track, he heard himself say:
"I'm going to put Y/N on all the easy missions. They shouldn't be putting themselves in random danger. So stupid. I'm literally here."
Clint stopped talking, and Steve looked at his cup, regaining his slightly buzzed words.
"The — team," he said. "Lighter workload, all across the board. We've earned it. I look out for you all."
Clint looked at him for a very long time. "Sure, Cap," he said.
By ten o'clock the party had found its groove.
Steve had sourced actual 1940s-label rum from somewhere that Bucky kept looking at like it owed him money. Natasha had taken the aux cord without asking and nobody had argued because her taste was impeccable and she knew it.
The living room had that quality that only good parties get to. The one with a specific warmth of people who actually like each other: jackets on chairbacks, kitchen permanently occupied, conversations that kept branching into better ones.
You'd had two rum and Cokes at a reasonable pace. That was the plan and you'd stuck to it, because you knew exactly how you worked: two drinks and you hit the sweet spot, the one where everything was funnier and warmer and you were absolutely the most charming version of yourself.
Then it was water and snacks and coasting on the feeling until home time.
The snacks situation, however, had been grim. Someone had eaten all of Wanda's dish before you got to it and there were exactly four crisps left in the bowl by midnight sharp and you'd made a catastrophic error in not eating properly before you came out.
Which was fine, not a problem at all. You had chicken selects at home and the Deliveroo app was right there and you were going to handle this like an adult.
You'd ordered at twelve forty-five. The confirmation had arrived with the kind of dopamine hit that cut straight through the rum glow. Estimated delivery: one thirty. Which meant you needed to leave.
The evening had been good, genuinely — Steve had laughed, the real version. The one that went all the way up to his eyes, and once it had been at something you'd said and you'd had to find a suddenly fascinating point on the opposite wall. Good party, a great one even. Time to go.
You find your jacket on the hook by the door, get both arms in successfully, consider this a personal triumph, and Steve appears in the hallway like something conjured.
"You're leaving."
"Yeah." You pull your jacket straight. "It's almost one, I've got —"
"You're leaving."
Steve says it again like the first time. He's looking at you with an expression you've never quite seen on him before — not upset, not annoyed, just genuinely, sincerely baffled. Similar to the way he looks when someone explains a piece of modern technology that shouldn't work but does.
You clock the slight unfocus in his eyes and mentally revise your understanding of his evening. Right, Thor had been here earlier. Thor had brought otherworldly gifts.
"Steve, have you had the mead?"
"A little," he says, in a tone that suggests the mead has a different definition of a little than the rest of the universe.
"Okay." You soften slightly. "It's a great party. I just need to get home."
"Why?"
"Because I'm hungry."
He stares at you.
"There's food here."
"There are four crisps, Steve, I counted them, and someone got to Wanda's dish before me which was a tragedy, and I have chicken selects coming to my door in —" you check your phone, "— thirty-one minutes and I need to be there."
He keeps staring. He is doing the thing where he's listening very hard and something's not adding up.
"Chicken," he says.
"Selects."
A pause.
"What is a select?"
"It's a —" You stop. This isn't the conversation. "It doesn't matter, it's a chicken thing, the point is I ordered them and the driver won't wait and last time there was a fox situation —"
"You keep smiling at me."
The gear-change is so abrupt that it takes you a full two seconds to catch up.
"Sorry?"
"At the party." Steve says it patiently, like he's been sitting on this all evening and has decided now — almost one, hallway, you with one hand on the door — is the correct time to raise it. "You keep smiling when I talk to you. You smile more than —" he frowns slightly, "— it's more than polite."
Your face does something you hope is unreadable.
"I'm a smiley person."
"You weren't smiling at the crisp bowl."
"The crisp bowl had let me down personally."
Steve makes a small sound that in a less earnest man would be called a hm. He's looking at you with that same puzzled sincerity, working through it. You recognise suddenly and with some alarm that he is not going to let this drop because it genuinely doesn't make sense to him.
He does not leave things that don't make sense.
"The film," he says.
"What film?"
"You invited me to a film. Twice."
"The projector broke —"
"The projector broke after twenty minutes and you said we should just restart it another time." His brow furrows. "Sam said that was — he said something about it. He was wrong but he said it."
You can guess exactly what Sam said.
"Steve," you start.
"And the medical bay."
Oh no.
"You were injured —"
"Nat didn't come." He says it simply, not accusatory, just filing the data point. "Nat and I have been friends longer. But you came and you brought the — the thing, the sandwich, from the place I mentioned one time —"
"I was just being —"
"You remembered the place." He looks at you steadily. "I mentioned it once. Weeks before."
The hallway is extremely small. When did the hallway get this small?
Your phone buzzes. You look down at it with the desperation of a person sighting land.
"My order's been picked up," you say.
"Okay."
"So I really —"
"Do you like me?"
He says it so plainly. No performance in it, no weight he's trying to put on it — just Steve, slightly mead-soft around the edges, asking a question he clearly thinks has an obvious answer that everyone has access to except him.
And the thing is — you're two rum and Cokes in. You're warm and a bit golden and your defences are not at full operational capacity and the chicken selects are minutes away and he's looking at you like that —
"I like you," you say, and immediately add, "I like lots of people."
"Right." He nods slowly. "But the sandwich."
"The sandwich was just —"
"From the place I mentioned once."
"I have a good memory."
"You forgot Nat's birthday."
You did forget Nat's birthday. She had made you do her dry-cleaning for a month.
"That's —" You pull your jacket tighter, which achieves nothing. "Steve. You're a little drunk and I'm a little hungry and this is a very weird conversation to be having in a hallway."
"I know." He doesn't move. "Do you like me though?"
He means it so simply. That's the thing about him, and that’s always the thing. He's not playing an angle, he's not building to anything, he just actually wants to know because it actually matters to him and his face is doing absolutely nothing to hide that.
Your phone buzzes again. Probably an app notification. You don't check it.
"Ask me again tomorrow," you say. "When you're sober."
Steve looks at you for a long moment.
"Will you still be honest tomorrow?"
The question lands somewhere it probably shouldn't.
"Go drink some water," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. "I'll text you when I'm home."
Something shifts in his face. Small, almost imperceptible.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't have to."
Another pause. The music drifts through from the living room, something slow Nat put on after midnight. Steve looks at you the way he'd looked at you when you'd laughed at the pigeon joke thing and he'd thought you weren't watching —
"Okay," he says quietly, like it means more than the word.
He steps aside, so you can get through the door.
You are three floors down and in the lobby before you realise you're smiling. You press your hand to your face like you can physically remove it.
Twenty-six minutes. You can hold it together for twenty-six minutes, then your phone buzzes.
Are you getting home safe !!!
You stare at it, then you text back:
yes. drink the water steve
A pause. Then:
Which water ?>!
the tap. the glass by the sink.
Ok
And then, after a moment that is just long enough:
The sandwich place was really good, by the way. you have good taste ][#
You are going to absolutely combust in this lobby.
go to bed steve
Ok. Goodnight
You watch the screen. You know him, and you know he's going to —
The pigeon thing was funnier than sam said right ???
You laugh so hard the night security guard looks up from his desk.
significantly funnier. WATER. BED.
Ok ok. Goodnight
You pocket your phone. The cold air outside hits you and you tip your head back for a second, just a second, and let yourself feel the shape of it — the evening, the hallway, the way he'd said will you still be honest tomorrow like he already suspected the answer and was quietly terrified of it.
$ log - steve rogers wants to stop seeing you, his partner!
$ warn --sfw --gn!reader --fluff --miscommunication
$ wc -w 2.3k
$ cd masterlist
Steve had that look on his face.
You knew that look by now — two months in, you'd catalogued most of them. There was one he made when you said something surprising, a quick blink and a slight tilt of the head, like a golden retriever hearing a strange sound. There was one he made when he was trying not to find something funny, where his jaw went tight and he looked deliberately at the middle distance. There was the one from last Tuesday when you'd finally explained what a meme was for the fourth time and something had genuinely clicked, a small, private satisfaction moving across his face like light.
This one was different.
This one was the one he wore before a briefing; before he'd decided something.
"Can we sit down?" he said.
You both had just finished dinner. You'd made pasta — from scratch, because you'd felt like it. Cooking settled you and you liked feeding for people. He'd looked so genuinely delighted the first time you'd done it that it had quietly become a thing. Steve had two helpings again, as always. The plates were still on the coffee table, the TV murmuring in the background, something you'd put on that the neither of you had really been watching.
"We are sitting down," you said.
He looked at the couch, then at you, settled sideways against the arm of it with your feet tucked under. "Properly."
You straightened yourself — untucking your feet, putting them on the floor like a person. Something in your chest did a small, quiet thing you chose not to examine.
He sat across you, leaning forwards with elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. He looked at you with the full, careful attention that you had not yet, in two months gotten use to.
"There's something I've been meaning to say," he started.
You waited.
"I've been thinking about it for a while now. About us." A pause. He seemed to be choosing his words with the deliberateness of a man who knew they mattered. "I think we should stop seeing each other."
The TV murmured. Somewhere outside, a car passed.
You heard both of these things with a strange clarity. But you didn't say anything. Couldn't quiet locate the shape of a response — your brain had received the sentence and was no doing something slow and stunned with it. Turning it over, looking at it from different angles, not yet willing to set it down and accept what it was.
Steve took your silence as listening, so he continued.
"I mean it," he said. "We really should stop seeing each other." Something in his face shifted, like a tightening, or a resolve. "It isn't good to carry this on too long."
Two months, you thought. Two months.
You had gone to a farmers market and many museums together. You had shown him how to pay things on his phone. He had carried your bags without being asks about bought you a coffee from a stall without asking because he'd already learned you subtly. You had thought about that on the walk home. You had thought about it more than once since.
It isn't good to carry this on too long.
Faintly, you nodded. The nod of a person whose body was continuing to operate while the relevant parts of your brain were somewhere else entirely.
You had liked this one, that was the stupid part. It was the the part that made the specific feeling beginning together behind your eyes both humiliating and predictable. You had liked this one in a way that felt different — quieter, steadier, less like falling and more like—
One tear, just the one, rolling down your cheek before you had the chance to catch it.
You saw Steve register it. Watched something move across his face - a confirmation, a heaviness with his jaw settling.
"Exactly my thoughts," he said quietly. "I never intended to hurt you. But this should've ended sooner."
The tear was still on your cheek. Should've ended sooner.
So not only was it ending, but he had retroactively decided it was a mistake. The whole thing: the two months, the farmers market, the museum, the coffee he'd learned without asking. Even the pasta you'd made twice. The four meme explanations. Him sitting in this exact living room last weekend asking careful, genuine questions about a film you'd picked badly, and you falling asleep against his shoulder somewhere in the second act, and neither of you two mentioning it after.
A mistake, a prolonged error, and he was very sorry about it.
You nodded again.
It was the third nod. The nod of a person buying time until you could locate the correct emotion, which had not yet fully arrived because shock was still occupying the space where it needed to go.
And then it arrived and it came in hot.
"You know what?" you said.
His eyes focused on you.
"Fuck you, Steve."
He blinked, as you stood up.
The thing about your previous breakups — and there had been enough of them, enough that you had a taxonomy, enough that you could identify the subspecies at fifty paces — was that you had never once been ready. You had always been the one caught standing in the wrong place, always the one who thought of everything you wanted to say three days later in the shower, talking to the tiles, finally finding the words when they were completely useless.
Well, you had words now.
"Get the fuck out of my apartment."
"I—"
SMACK. He pouts while cradling his jaw.
"No." You held up a hand. The finger pointed at him, certain. "We're done with your turn. It's mine now. Get out of my apartment, and don't come back. I mean it. This is a you-free zone, effective immediately. You and your stupidly handsome face are banned—"
He opened his mouth, confused by stupidly handsome face as a component of being told to leave, but you were already going—
"—I have been nothing but good to you. I made you pasta, Steve. From scratch. You had two helpings—"
"It was excellent pasta—"
"Don't. Don't you dare." The finger hardened. "I let you pick the next film after I picked a bad one. I explained to you what a meme was four separate times, and I was patient about it, every single time, even the fourth time when I was a little tired —and I sat through your whole—" you gestured broadly at all of him, the entirety of him, the shoulders and the jaw and the eyes that paid attention— "your whole thing, and this is—"
He looked deeply, genuinely confused. The memes had been highlights, in fact he'd even written the good ones down!
"You know what, good." You were pacing now. "I'm glad this is happening. Because I have been here before, Steven. I have been in this exact postcode, this exact conversation, and every single time I was not ready and I had nothing to say, I just stood there like an absolute idiot and let it happen to me like it wasn't happening to me — well not today. You want to end it? Fine. FINE. I'm ending it louder. You can have it back. All of it. The two months, the farmers market, the terrible film, the pasta—"
"Please, not the pasta—"
"The pasta, Steve—"
He stood up. He was a problem solver. This was a problem, and it had gotten quite large quite fast, and he was a man who believed in addressing things directly, and so he stood, and he held both hands up very carefully, very gently, and said—
"If you could just calm—"
SMACK.
The apartment rang with it, while you were breathing hard. He was standing very still. His head had turned slightly with it. He reached up, two fingers, carefully, the way he had the first time, and touched his cheek.
The first cheek. You had now addressed both.
"You said calm down," you said.
"I did," he agreed. His voice was remarkably even.
"Don't ever say calm down."
"I understand that now."
You both stood in the wreckage of the last ten minutes. The television had moved on to something else. The pasta plates were still on the coffee table, witness to everything.
You were still breathing hard. The anger was beginning to shift at the edges — not gone, not even close, but something underneath it was starting to surface, something that felt more like the thing you'd been trying not to feel since he'd said the word ended.
He looked at you, only just. This person who had slapped him twice and paced and pointed and delivered a prepared speech that clearly had history behind it, standing in your own living room with your cheeks flushed and your eyes bright and one dried tear track on your face.
"I wasn't breaking up with you," he said.
You stared at him.
"I've been trying to say that," he continued, patient, steady, "for a while now. Since before you—" a slight pause, "the first time."
"Then what," you said carefully, "were you saying."
He looked at you for a moment. Then: "Where I come from," he said, "seeing someone meant you hadn't decided yet. It meant you were still— working it out. Casual." Something shifted in his expression, quieter and more deliberate. "I've decided."
The word landed in the room and you stood very still.
"I wanted to stop being casual about this," he said. "That's what I was saying. I wanted to stop seeing you and start — being with you. Properly." A beat. "In my time, that was a different thing. I didn't think about the—" he paused, "—translation."
The speech was gone. Every word of it. The whole magnificent shower-prepared exit, all the things you'd finally been ready to say, gone as though they'd never existed. You stood in the absence of it feeling vaguely, absurdly robbed.
"...oh," you said.
And then — you couldn't help it, it was involuntary, it arrived without your permission and took over your face entirely. You smiled. Though not a small one, or contained. The kind that started somewhere behind your sternum and came up whether you wanted it to or not.
"Aww," you said, in a completely different voice than any voice you'd used in the last ten minutes. It was warm and soft and slightly delighted. "You love me?"
Steve just stared at you. You stepped forward, reached up, and with the same hand that had, twice, you smoothed down his collar. Just adjusted it, and patted it into place.
"That's so sweet," you said.
He seemed to be having difficulty locating a response. His mouth opened once, then abruptly closed.
"You were just—" he started.
"I know."
"You hit me—"
"Twice, yeah," you agreed, still attending to his collar.
"—twice—"
"Your face is a little pink," you observed, tilting your head to look, and had the audacity to sound sympathetic about it.
"That's because you—" he stopped to take a sharp breath. "That's not a blush. You hit me."
"Mhm," you said, in the tone of a person who had decided and was uninterested in evidence.
"There is a difference—"
"You are blushing," you said, delighted, like you'd discovered something worth keeping.
He caught your hand, but not to move it. Just — stopped it there, held it against his jaw, the jaw you were definitely not stroking, and looked at you with an expression you didn't have a word for yet. Something between exasperation and wonder and something else entirely that made you want to look away and also not look away at all.
"You thought I was breaking up with you twenty minutes ago," he said.
"Twenty minutes ago I didn't know you loved me," you said simply. "It's a good update."
"You slapped me."
"You said calm down."
"Before that."
"You were breaking up with me."
"I wasn't—"
"I know that now, Steve."
He exhaled a quiet and long breath. The exhale of a man making peace with something. You were still close, with your hand still in his. His palm warm against your knuckles. The collar you had fixed was fine — had been fine - you'd just needed somewhere to put your hands while your heart was doing what it was doing.
"You're going to be a lot of work," he said, not unkindly, moreso the opposite.
"You bankrupted yourself on a bouquet of flowers as a thank you for online banking help," you said. "Don't talk to me about work."
Something moved through his eyes. The almost-smile.
"So," you said, tilting your head up at him. "You want to court me properly, yeah?"
"Yes," he said. Simply and completely, the way he said things when he meant them with his whole chest.
"What does that look like?"
He looked at you — this person who had slapped him twice and fixed his collar after and was now looking up at him with that smile you kept trying to contain and kept failing to — and something settled in him. It felt quiet and certain. The specific peace of a decision that was right.
"Dinner first," he said. "Somewhere proper. I'll make a reservation."
You hummed, considering. "And no spending your entire account balance on flowers beforehand."
"I make no promises."
You laughed, actually — full and unguarded, the laugh that he had quietly decided, some weeks ago, he would do fairly unreasonable things to hear again. Then, very slowly, with the deliberateness of a man who had been thinking about it for two months and was done waiting, he turned his head slightly and pressed a single kiss to your palm.
The laughing stopped, as you blinked, feeling your cheeks heat up.
"Hm," he said. The almost-smile had won, devastating. "Look at that."
You opened your mouth for another quip, but managed, "Not a word."
"I didn't say anything," he said.
He was still holding your hand. You decided, privately and without telling him, that you were going to let him keep it.
$ cd masterlist
$ vi carnations-and-sweet-pea.txt for flowers hint
$ log - steve rogers helping you relieve tension after your stupid shift!
$ warn --fem!reader --riding --praise
$ wc -w 0.5k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo "reader has a j*b" > authors-note.txt
You crashed onto his lap the moment you spotted his car, throwing your shoes and bags wherever. He wasn't surprised by your impulsive actions, just kissing back in an equal fevering manner.
"Thanks for picking me up!" You murmured to his lips during a moment of breath.
"Don't worry about it." Steve gruffly replied back. Why wouldn't he come when his partner calls upon him? Hands ran down your sides, till you started desperately, or angrily, grinded down atop him. Ah, it must be one of those shifts.
Steve knew the perfect method of relaxation, as his hand left your waist, fiddling about the centre console for lube. He's very diligent in his work, as Captain he should be. You don't even realise that he's bunched up your skirt, too busy with kissing all your frustrations out onto his poor lips.
Though, the light graze of his knuckles against your underwear is enough to give the slightest hint of his preparation. Maybe his thumb circling your clit could be another hint, material being pulled aside. Or perhaps, the feel of cock lining himself up, with firm hands on your waist. His lips had moved to the base of your neck, half busy, half eyeing your lap against him, steadily pushing in.
Must have been one hellish shift for you to just cling to his shoulders, hands gripping those golden locks, as you moaned carelessly to the ceiling of his Mustang, the smell of leather and his cologne wrapping around you like a soothing sanctuary.
“There we go,” He murmured quietly to your ear, though it was more a confirmation to him as you adjusted accordingly with his prep.
Steve rocked you against him slowly, helping dull that starting ache, till you found your bearings and started taking out your frustrations on him. Each twist and grind of your hips makes his hands dig into your hipbone, lips to your ears,
“Just like that,” Steve muses, leaving sweet pecks to the shell, “Forget about them, sweetheart, just focus on me, this.”
“Oh, fuck, ah!” You take that advice into mind, seriously, as you get too lost in the sensations and a building pleasure with each timely thrust.
“There’s my girl,” He praises you sweetly, matching his bucking hips with your messy grounding pace. He doesn’t care for you tugging at his scalp like nothing, or just using his cock like some toy. You’re angry, he’s here to fix it, simple. So, at the slightest twitch of your thighs, a tell-tale sign of your orgasm, the grip on your waist switches to a heavier one. He’s overpowering your pace, setting a defined, repeating rhythm that’s just enough to have you quivering, groaning into his neck, eyes shut tight in bliss.
“Yeah, that-that’s just what I needed.” You gasped to his jaw, to which Steve just chuckled. And if it crossed your mind of the mess your clothes are in? Don’t fret! He had actually, knowingly, stopped by the dry cleaners an hour back, collecting spare clothes. He knows you like the back of his hand, body and soul.
$ log - you, an engineer, modded natasha romanov's suit, and she's testing them out on a stealth op!
$ warn --nsfw --gn!reader --dom!reader --sub!natasha --darkfic --dubcon --sensory-overload --sensory-deprivation --sex-toys--remote-control --clit-play --public-sex --orgasm-control --penetrative --doggy --standing-sex --groping --accidental-polyamory --nipple-play --humiliation --debauchery --vibrators-within-suit --clothing-manipulation --voyeurism --praise --teasing
$ wc -w 4.3k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo "i do this for my squad, i do this for my gang" > authors-note.txt
$ tag @twentytomidnight !
The drone’s feed was crisp, a silent, hovering god watching the shadows of the Lower East Side. On your tablet, the HUD flickered with telemetry, but your eyes were fixed on the thermal heat signature of Natasha Romanoff. She was moving through the narrow alleyway, a silhouette of lethal grace, but you noticed the slight hitch in her stride. A subtle tremor in her hands.
"Defences are holding steady, Nat," you murmured into the private comms, your thumb lazily hovering over the 'Intensity' slider on the suit on the screen. "The plating is reinforced, just like we discussed. No structural weaknesses."
A sharp, stifled gasp crackled through your earpiece, followed by the sound of her back hitting a damp brick wall. On the drone cam, you saw her arch her spine, her head tilting back as her eyes fluttered shut. You didn't wait for her to respond; instead, you slid the toggle for the nipple stimulators up a notch.
"Nat? You okay? Your heart rate just spiked," you teased, your voice dropping an octave as you watched her chest heave.
"Fine... just... a momentary... distraction," she hissed, her voice strained, fighting to keep the tremor out of her tone. She was pressed against the cold, grime streaked wall, her legs trembling as the suit’s internal motors began to hum against her sensitive peaks.
You leaned back in your chair, a smirk playing on your lips. You decided to to see just how much of that "Black Widow" composure you could strip away. You swiped a finger across the screen, activating the clitoral pulse setting.
On the monitor, Natasha’s knees buckled. She scrambled into the deepest shadow of a recessed doorway, her gloved hands scraping against the rough concrete as she tried to steady herself. Her breath was coming in ragged, shallow bursts, the sound of her struggle echoing in your ears like a siren song.
"Shhh, keep it down, Nat," you whispered, your eyes devouring the sight of her hips twitching rhythmically against the suit's interior. "You’ve got a patrol passing by the main street just twenty feet away. You wouldn't want them to hear how much you're enjoying your new 'upgrades,' would you?"
"You... bastard..." she managed to choke out, her head lulling back against the brick. Her eyes were glazed, her usual sharp intelligence replaced by a raw, desperate hunger. You watched through the high definition drone feed as she finally gave in, her legs sliding down the wall until she was slumped in the dirt of the alley, her knees spread wide in a posture of total, uncharacteristic vulnerability. The suit’s sleek, dark fabric strained against her thighs, the subtle vibration of the clitoral stimulator visible in the rhythmic, frantic twitching of her hips.
"Spread for me, Nat," you commanded softly, your thumb dancing over the tablet to increase the frequency to a punishing, delicious blur. "Let the drone get a better look. Your clit is that sensitive, isn't it? Look at you... the world's deadliest spy, reduced to a shivering mess in a fucking gutter because of a few lines of code."
A broken, high pitched moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure surrender that she couldn't stifle anymore. She looked up toward the drone, her eyes wide and shimmering with a cocktail of frustration and overwhelming ecstasy. She was staring directly into the lens of the hovering drone, her face flushed a deep, beautiful crimson in the dim urban light.
The professional, untouchable Black Widow was gone; in her place was a woman caught in the throes of a sensory overload she couldn't fight, her hips bucking instinctively against the relentless, buzzing rhythm you were dictating from your chair.
"That's it," you purred, watching the telemetry data on your screen go haywire as her arousal peaked. "Show me how much you love the new tech, Nat. Don't hold back on my account. The street is quiet... for now."
With one final, decisive swipe, you maxed out the intensity. Natasha’s entire body jolted, her back arching so violently it looked painful, a silent, wide mouthed scream of pleasure frozen on her lips as she succumbed to a shattering climax.
Her body shuddered in a long, violent tremor, her fingers digging into the gravel of the alley floor as the waves of the climax rippled through her. The suit’s haptic feedback sensors were screaming on your tablet, recording the frantic, rhythmic contractions of her pelvic floor as she fought to regain her breath. She slumped forward, her forehead resting against the cool, damp brick, her chest heaving so hard you could see the fabric of the suit straining with every desperate lungful of air.
"There we go," you murmured, your voice a low, satisfied hum as you watched the telemetry stabilise from the peak. "Mission accomplished, Widow. You look a little... disheveled. Should we dial it back to 'standard' mode, or do you want to see if we can break your record?"
A low, shaky laugh half frustrated and half delighted bubbled up from her throat. "You... are a menace," she panted
"...but don't you dare think you're getting off easy," she finished, her voice a sultry, breathless rasp that sent a thrill straight down your spine. She slowly pushed herself up against the wall, her movements uncharacteristically heavy and uncoordinated, her legs still trembling from the aftershocks of the climax you had forced out of her.
Even through the grainy, low light drone feed, you could see the predatory glint returning to her eyes, though it was softened by a layer of sheer, unadulterated lust. She wiped a stray tear of pleasure from the corner of her eye and straightened her suit, though the fabric still clung to her damp, flushed skin in a way that made her look utterly wrecked.
"Next time you decide to play god with my nervous system, Engineer, make sure you're ready to handle the fallout when I get back to base." She gave a sharp, playful wink toward the hovering camera, a silent challenge that told you'd be the one in the crosshairs.
You grinned, leaning back in your chair and tapping a final command to dim the stimulators to a low, teasing hum. "I'll hold you to that, Nat," you replied, your voice thick with anticipation. "But for now, try to keep your eyes on the target. You've still got a mission to finish, even if you are walking a little... unsteady."
On the screen, you watched her take a deep, stabilising breath, her expression shifting back into that mask of lethal professionalism, though the slight tremble in her hands and the flush on her neck betrayed the absolute chaos you'd just unleashed within her.
The comms channel was a mess of static and heavy, ragged breathing. You weren't even looking at the monitors anymore; you had the tablet propped up on the desk, your eyes half lidded as you focused on the rhythm of the music playing in your ears, treating Natasha’s vocalisations like a live remix. You were lazily swirling a cherry lollipop against your cheek, your thumb dancing over the screen in a rhythmic, DJ like motion. Tap, slide, and hold.
"Y/N..." her voice came through, a broken, desperate rasp that made your blood hum. "Fuck... please... just come get me. The tech... it's too much. Just... come fuck me. Please."
She was lost. You could hear it in the audio. She was a mess of sensory overload, her legendary composure shattered into a thousand pieces by the relentless, buzzing frequency you were dialing in.
In the dim, grimy light of the alley, Natasha had completely abandoned all tactical pretense. She was draped chest first over a raised metal platform, her hips bucking rhythmically against the edge. She was grinding her aching, hyper sensitive nipples against the cold surface, desperate to find some semblance of friction to match the internal storm you were brewing. "God, Y/N... it's so deep... the sensation... it's too much..." she whimpered, her voice a frantic, breathless prayer.
You didn't even look at the drone feed. You were too busy, your eyes closed, feeling the vibration of her moans through your headset. You decided to switch up the tempo, your thumb sliding a fader on the tablet to increase the sheer toggle intensity.
You wanted to see the feature work. You wanted to see the way her skin flushed under the pressure, so you slid your thumb across the lower quadrant of the screen, activating the translucent mode for her pelvic region. You weren't watching the screen, but you felt the satisfaction of the command landing.
What you didn't realise was that in the dim, shadow drenched alley, that sudden shift to sheer fabric had perfectly framed her weeping, swollen entrance for a passing patrol guard. He had stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching as he saw the legendary Black Widow bent over a platform, her suit rendered transparent over a soaking, trembling vulva that was twitching in time with the vibrations.
"Fuck..." the guard whispered, his eyes widening as he realised she was completely oblivious, lost in a trance of artificial ecstasy. He didn't hesitate in stepping into the shadows, his heavy boots silent on the damp pavement.
Natasha let out a long, shuddering moan, her let out a long, shuddering moan, her head lulling back as a heavy, warm weight suddenly pressed against her backside. She didn't even flinch at the sudden contact; in her haze, she simply assumed it was the suit's haptic feedback intensifying, or perhaps a new, deeper pulse you had programmed to drive her over the edge.
When the guard’s thick, unyielding length suddenly tore through the weakened seam of the stimulator mechanism, forcing its way into her soaking heat, Natasha let out a sharp, startled gasp that quickly melted into a delirious cry of pleasure. "Yes... Y/N... right there... god, that's so much bigger..." she whimpered, her fingers clawing at the metal platform as the guard began a relentless, punishing rhythm.
Back in the control room, you were completely oblivious to the intruder. You were lost in the "mix," your eyes closed as you leaned back, the lollipop stick bobbing between your lips, your thumb still sliding across the tablet in a slow, hypnotic groove.
You were chasing the perfect sonic peak, oblivious to the fact that the wet, rhythmic slapping sound filling your headset wasn't coming from the suit's internal motors, but from the raw, carnal friction of a stranger's pelvis slamming into her.
"Oh god, Y/N... you're... you're so aggressive tonight..." Natasha sobbed, her voice cracking as the guard gripped her hips with bruising force, his fingers digging into the sheer, translucent fabric you had so casually toggled on.
She was a prisoner of her own pleasure, her mind so thoroughly hijacked by the high frequency buzzing at her clit that she couldn't distinguish the man's heavy, desperate thrusts from the mechanical pulses you were sending her way. Every time he bottomed out, hitting her cervix with a blunt, punishing force, she let out a jagged, high pitched keen as if the suit itself was trying to break her.
You, meanwhile, were in a trance of your own, a smirk playing on your lips as you felt the haptic feedback sensors on your tablet spiking in a way you hadn't quite programmed. The data was erratic, violent, and incredibly intense.
"You're really pushing the limits today, aren't you, Nat?" you murmured, your voice a low, teasing purr as you slid your thumb up the screen, accidentally increasing the vibration frequency just as the guard let out a guttural grunt, his pace turning frantic and desperate.
The sound of his heavy, ragged breathing bled into the comms, a low frequency rumble that you mistook for the hum of the drone's motor. Natasha was completely gone, her vision swimming, her entire world reduced to the sensation of being filled, stretched, and pulverized. "Don't... stop... Y/N... please, don't stop..."
Tap. Slide. Tap.
"You're doing so good, Nat," you murmured, your voice a low teasing purr as you slid your thumb across the screen, intensifying the vibration to a frantic, buzzing blur.
In the alley, the guard let out a choked, animalistic sound, his hands sliding under her hips to tilt her pelvis up, presenting her even more brazenly to the dim light. He was hammering into her now, his thrusts deep and uncoordinated, driven by the sheer sight of her weeping, translucent vulva being driven to madness by your tech.
Natasha’s world was a kaleidoscope of white heat and heavy, rhythmic thuds. She felt the sudden, violent expansion inside her, the way her walls were being stretched to their absolute limit, but her mind, clouded by the high frequency stimulation you were pumping into her clit, simply categorised it as the ultimate 'upgrade.'
"Oh god... Y/N... you're... you're so heavy..." she wailed, her voice a jagged mess of ecstasy and confusion, her hips buck ing wildly against the intruder's frantic pace. She was a woman lost in a storm of her own making, her consciousness fractured between the high tech ecstasy you were broadcasting and the raw, primal reality of the man currently claiming her.
The guard was nearing his limit, his breath coming in hot, jagged snatches against the back of her neck as he drove himself into her one last time, his entire body tensing as he spilled himself deep inside her.
Natasha's eyes rolled back, her entire frame shuddering in a massive, soul shattering climax that felt like it was tearing her apart from the inside out. "Y/N! Y/N!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the damp alley walls, a pure, unadulterated sound of total surrender.
Back in the control room, you finally opened your eyes, a satisfied grin spreading across your face as the telemetry data on your tablet flatlined into a beautiful, chaotic mess of post climax. You finally looked up at the drone feed, the lollipop stick poking out of the corner of your mouth as you took a slow, thoughtful lick.
The screen showed a wrecked, trembling Black Widow slumped over the metal edge, her breathing coming in ragged, uneven hitches. She looked absolutely devastated and utterly satisfied. You didn't see the man scurrying away into the shadows of the alley, nor did you hear the frantic, heavy footsteps of a guard retreating in a daze.
All you saw was the telemetry indicating a massive, sustained spike in her pelvic contractions, a level of arousal that should have been physically impossible.
"Damn, Nat," you chuckled, leaning back and stretching your arms behind your head, the tablet resting casually on your thigh. "I didn't know you had that much in you. That was one hell of a performance."
Through the comms, all you heard was the wet, shaky sound of her trying to find her voice.
"...You're a fucking monster," she finally managed to choke out, her voice a wet, breathless wreck of a sound that vibrated with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it felt like a bruise.
You could hear the way her lungs were struggling to pull in air, the sound of her skin sticking to the metal platform as she tried to push herself up. She sounded utterly defeated, a legendary spy reduced to a shivering, weeping mess by your "modifications."
You just chuckled, the sound low and satisfied, as you reached for your lollipop again. "Maybe," you conceded, your eyes scanning the now stabilizing telemetry data with a predatory sort of pride. "But you have to admit, the feedback was incredible. The way your heart rate spiked... it was like you were being electrified. We might have to recalibrate the intensity for the next op, just to see if we can push you even further."
On the screen, she finally managed to pull herself up, her movements slow and uncoordinated, her legs trembling so violently she had to lean her weight against the dumpster just to stay upright.
Even through the grainy drone feed, you could see the way the suit's fabric clung to her, damp with a mixture of sweat and the evidence of her intense, messy release. She looked completely undone, her hair a tangled mess, her lips swollen and wet, her eyes glazed with a lingering, beautiful confusion.
"Next time..." she panted, her voice dropping to a sultry, dangerous rasp that made your blood hum, "...you better be there in person to witness the 'recalibration.' Because if you think you can just play with my body from a goddamn control room and not face the consequences, you're even more delusional than you are sadistic."
She gave a weak, shaky smirk toward the camera a flicker of the old, sassy Black Widow returning through the haze of her arousal before she finally began to stalk to the laboratory.
The control room was silent, save for the low hum of the servers and the rhythmic clack clack of your fingers dancing across the holographic schematics of the enemy lab. You were focused, mapping out the electrical conduits, a half eaten lollipop resting against your cheek. Through the comms, Natasha’s voice came through, breathless and teasing, though you could hear the slight tremor she was trying to hide.
"Seriously, Y/N? StarkMotors? Is that what we’re calling the tech now?" she huffed, her voice echoing in the pitch black corridor she was currently navigating. "The haptics are a little... aggressive tonight. Are you trying to distract me or just punish me for that last mission?"
You grinned, a wicked glint in your eyes. "Maybe a little of both, Widow. You were the one complaining about the 'build quality.' Consider this a stress test."
With a lazy, nonchalant swipe of your thumb, you dialed the clitoral stimulator up to a steady, pulsing buzz.
"There," you murmured, your eyes never leaving the electrical grid. "Just making sure the sensors are calibrated for the dark. Don't lose your focus, Nat."
A sharp, choked gasp erupted in your ear, followed by the sound of her back hitting the cold, metallic wall of the hallway. "God... damn you," she hissed, her voice dropping into a sultry, desperate rasp. "You're... you're really playing with the settings tonight, aren't you?"
“Hey, you’re the one that brought them up again.” You murmured with a shrug, focusing on the screen nearby.
In the pitch black corridor, the guard didn't even have time to wonder why she was trembling on the path. Is this sort of a dirty guardian angel appearing in his lonely path? The same one kept appearing on his exact patrol routes tonight, shaking and begging for someone to fuck her. He might as well make do.
He only saw the silhouette of her hips, the way her breath came in ragged, shallow hitches, and the unmistakable, wet scent of her arousal. He moved like a man possessed, sliding into the small, jagged rip in her suit the small, jagged rip in her suit and burying himself deep inside her.
The sensation was sudden and overwhelming, a thick, heavy intrusion that sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. Natasha’s head snapped back against the wall, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as a long, shuddering moan tore from her throat.
"Oh... god," she gasped, her fingers clawing at the smooth metal of the wall. "Y/N... the... the haptic feedback... it's so... intense... it feels so... real..."
She didn't realise the 'feedback' had a pulse, or that the heavy, rhythmic thudding against her pelvis was the sound of a man’s hips slamming into hers. To her, it was just another masterful tweak of the suit's programming.
When the guard’s large, calloused hand reached around to squeeze her breast, kneading the soft flesh with a hungry, possessive grip, the way her thigh was hooked up, lifting her hips to meet his frantic, heavy thrusts.
To Natasha, it was just another seamless integration of the suit’s exoskeleton, a clever bit of remote stabilisation to keep her upright while her legs felt like jelly. "The... the stabilisation is... incredible..." she whimpered, her voice breaking as the guard’s fingers dug into her breast, pulling her back against his hard chest to deepen the angle. "Did you... add a manual override for the... the tactile sensation? It feels so... heavy..."
You chuckled, leaning back and tapping a rhythmic beat on the console, completely oblivious to the wet, slapping sounds of skin meeting skin echoing through the comms. You were too busy watching the power surges on your monitor. "Just optimising the user experience, Nat. Stay focused. You're almost at the main lab."
"Hard to... focus..." she gasped, her hips bucking wildly as the guard let out a low, guttural groan of pure, unadulterated lust. The man was lost in her, his hands working her body with a desperate, frantic energy, but Natasha was too far gone in her own sensory heaven to notice the difference between a machine and a man. Every time he drove himself home, she felt a surge of artificial ecstasy, convinced that you were just pushing the haptic limits of the suit to their absolute breaking point.
"Y/N... the... the pressure..." she sobbed, her voice a broken melody of pleasure as the guard's teeth grazed the shell of her ear. "It's so... thick... so much... more than the last time..."
"Just a little more calibration, Nat," you replied casually, your fingers flying across the tablet to adjust the voltage on the suit's internal heating elements.
You heard the wet, rhythmic slap slap slap of her body being driven forward, and you just thought of it as a particularly aggressive haptic pulse. "Keep your eyes on the prize, Widow. We're almost there."
"Almost... there..." she whimpered, her entire body vibrating in sync with the guard's frantic, driving rhythm. As the man reached his limit, his thrusts becoming short, punishing stabs that drove her face into the cold wall, Natasha felt a massive, surging wave of heat bloom deep within her.
She thought it was a thermal surge in the suit's core, a programmed climax meant to reward her progress. She let out a long, high pitched wail of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, her internal muscles clamping down hard around the stranger's length in a desperate, rhythmic pulse.
In the control room, you leaned back, a satisfied smirk playing on your lips as you watched the biometric sensors on your screen spike into the red. "There we go," you murmured, tapping the tablet one last time to a final, triumphant little beat. "Calibration complete. You're looking good, Nat. Heart rate's a little high, but that's to be expected with the new stim settings."
In the dark, the guard let out a choked, strangled cry, his body shuddering violently as he spilled himself deep inside her, his much more primal, heavy rhythm finally breaking into a frantic, desperate shudder. Natasha's entire world was a white hot blur of sensation. She felt the sudden, intense warmth flooding her pussy, a sensation so deep and so overwhelming that she thought the suit's internal thermal regulators had finally peaked.
She slumped against the wall, her legs trembling so violently she could barely stand, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
"Y/N..." she whispered, her voice barely audible, her head lolling to the side as the man quietly, breathlessly pulled himself out of her and retreated into the shadows of the hallway. "That "...that was... the best... calibration... yet..." she trailed off, her eyes rolling back in her head as the aftershocks of the "thermal surge" rippled through her core.
She was a trembling, weeping mess, her thighs slick and her skin flushed a deep, feverish red, completely unaware that the warmth pooling inside her wasn't a malfunction, but the hot, heavy seed of a man who had just been granted the ultimate prize.
"Glad you liked it," you replied, your voice smooth and teasing as you swiped through a new set of electrical schematics, totally satisfied with your handiwork. "Now, shake it off, Widow. We've still got a lab to infiltrate. Try to keep your composure, okay? You sound a little... unraveled."
Natasha let out a shaky, breathless laugh, leaning her forehead against the cold metal wall to steady her racing heart. "Unraveled? Please. It's just the... the haptic feedback... hitting a little too hard..."
She let out a long, shuddering exhale, trying to force her trembling thighs to steady themselves. She could feel a strange, heavy warmth settling deep in her pelvis, a viscous sensation that felt far more organic than any thermal regulator you could have programmed. It was thick, pulsing, and incredibly intimate, but she just chalked it up to the suit's high intensity discharge.
"Just... give me a second to... recalibrate my own sensors," she managed to choke out, a dizzy, lopsided grin tugging at her lips as she wiped a stray tear of pure, unadulterated pleasure from her cheek. She stood there for a moment, a legendary assassin leaning against a dark hallway wall, her body still humming with the phantom echoes of a man's climax, all while she waited for your next command, completely oblivious to the absolute, erotic absurdity of it all.
She was a walking, breathing testament to your "engineering" genius. A woman so thoroughly conquered by a ghost in the machine that she didn't even realise she'd just been claimed by the enemy.
"Ready when you are, Boss," she finally whispered, her voice still thick with the afterglow of a climax that wasn't even hers to claim, stepping forward into the darkness with a heavy, slick stride that she mistook for nothing more than a temporary loss of muscle tension.
