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The safehouse was a dim, concrete box tucked in the underbelly of a forgotten city, its air thick with dust and tension. Joaquin Torres knelt on the cold floor, wrists bound behind him with coarse rope that bit into his skin. The knots were tight, professional: Rumlow’s work. Brock Rumlow stood before him, his silhouette looming in the flicker of a single overhead bulb, eyes glinting with a predatory edge. The mission had gone sideways, and Joaquin, the young Falcon, had been caught in Rumlow’s trap.

But this wasn’t about interrogation. Not anymore. The air crackled with something darker, something both men felt but hadn’t named until now. “Comfortable, kid?” Rumlow’s voice was gravelly, laced with mockery as he tugged the rope, testing its hold.

Joaquin’s breath hitched, the pressure on his wrists sending a jolt of pain and something else—something that made his pulse race. He glared up, jaw tight, refusing to give Rumlow the satisfaction of a response. But his body betrayed him, the heat pooling low in his gut as Rumlow stepped closer, boots echoing on the concrete.

The older man crouched, his face inches from Joaquin’s, a smirk curling his lips. “You’re too pretty to be an Avenger,” he murmured, fingers brushing Joaquin’s jaw, rough and deliberate. Rumlow’s hand slid down, gripping Joaquin’s throat—not choking, just holding, a reminder of control. Joaquin’s chest heaved, his breath shallow as he fought the urge to lean into the touch.

The rope creaked as he shifted, the burn against his skin grounding him even as his mind spiraled. Rumlow’s fingers tightened briefly, then released, trailing down to tug at Joaquin’s tactical vest. With a flick of a knife, the vest was gone, fabric shredding under Rumlow’s practiced hands. Joaquin’s shirt followed, exposing his chest to the cool air, nipples hardening under Rumlow’s gaze. “Look at you,” Rumlow growled, voice thick with hunger. “All tied up and nowhere to go.” The older man stood, circling Joaquin like a wolf sizing up prey. From behind, Rumlow’s hands roamed, calloused palms grazing Joaquin’s shoulders, then lower, tracing the dip of his spine.

Joaquin tensed, the ropes holding him immobile as Rumlow’s fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his pants. A sharp tug, and the button popped free, the zipper loud in the quiet room. Joaquin’s cock twitched, already half-hard, and he cursed himself for it. Rumlow chuckled, low and dark, as he shoved Joaquin’s pants down, leaving him exposed.

“Eager, huh?” Rumlow’s breath was hot against Joaquin’s ear, his hand wrapping around Joaquin’s length, stroking once, slow and deliberate. Joaquin bit back a moan, his head tipping back as Rumlow’s grip tightened, the rope around his wrists forcing his chest out, vulnerable. Rumlow’s other hand slid up, pinching a nipple hard enough to make Joaquin gasp. The pain mingled with pleasure, a dizzying mix that left him trembling. Rumlow worked him with ruthless precision, stroking him to full hardness, thumb circling the tip where pre-cum beaded.

"You’re gonna beg for me, Torres,” Rumlow promised, voice rough as he knelt again, this time between Joaquin’s spread thighs. His tongue flicked out, tasting the slick head of Joaquin’s cock, and Joaquin’s hips bucked involuntarily, the ropes creaking. Rumlow pulled back, smirking as he reached for a pair of cuffs dangling from his belt. “Rope’s nice, but let’s make this personal.” He unbound Joaquin’s wrists just long enough to snap the cold metal cuffs in place, the click echoing like a gunshot. Joaquin’s arms were yanked above his head, secured to a low pipe running along the ceiling. The new position stretched him taut, muscles straining, cock bobbing against his stomach. Rumlow’s eyes raked over him, predatory, before he leaned in, sucking a bruise into Joaquin’s throat. His teeth grazed the skin, and Joaquin’s moan broke free, raw and desperate.

Rumlow’s hands were everywhere. Gripping Joaquin’s hips, spreading his thighs wider, teasing the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He produced a length of paracord from his pocket, improvising restraints to bind Joaquin’s ankles to the legs of a rusted chair, forcing his legs apart. Joaquin was utterly exposed, cock leaking steadily now, the humiliation of it only stoking the fire in his veins.

Rumlow knelt again, taking Joaquin into his mouth, sucking hard and fast, no preamble. Joaquin’s head fell back, a string of curses spilling from his lips as Rumlow’s tongue swirled, relentless, the cuffs biting into his wrists with every involuntary jerk of his body. The older man pulled off with a wet pop, grinning as he stood, undoing his own belt with a slow, deliberate motion.

Joaquin’s eyes widened, tracking the movement, his mouth dry with anticipation. Rumlow’s cock was thick, heavy, already glistening as he stroked himself, standing over Joaquin’s bound form. “You want this, don’t you?” Rumlow taunted, smearing pre-cum across Joaquin’s lips. Joaquin’s tongue darted out, tasting him, and Rumlow groaned, fisting Joaquin’s hair to hold him still.

He pushed forward, sliding into Joaquin’s mouth, the stretch making Joaquin’s jaw ache. Rumlow fucked his mouth with shallow thrusts, grunting as Joaquin’s tongue worked, eager despite himself. Joaquin’s world narrowed to the weight on his tongue, the burn of the cuffs, the ache in his stretched limbs.

Rumlow’s pace quickened, his grip tightening, and Joaquin gagged, tears pricking his eyes. Rumlow pulled out abruptly, stroking himself to finish across Joaquin’s chest, hot and sticky. Joaquin panted, his own cock throbbing, untouched. Rumlow smirked, wiping his hand on Joaquin’s thigh before kneeling to untie the paracord. But he wasn’t done. He slicked his fingers with lube from his pocket, pressing one against Joaquin’s entrance, circling slowly.

“Relax,” Rumlow ordered, voice low, as he pushed in, stretching Joaquin with a burn that made him whimper. Two fingers, then three, worked him open, curling to hit that spot that made Joaquin’s vision white out. He was begging now, incoherent, as Rumlow lined himself up, pushing in with one slow, relentless thrust. Joaquin cried out, the stretch overwhelming, the cuffs rattling as he strained against them.

Rumlow fucked him hard, each thrust driving Joaquin higher, the chair scraping against the floor. The world dissolved into heat, pain, and pleasure, Joaquin’s release crashing over him as Rumlow groaned, spilling deep inside. They stayed there, panting, the ropes and cuffs a reminder of the line they’d crossed, the safehouse silent except for their ragged breaths.

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The Brooklyn apartment was a sanctuary of worn wood and soft lamplight, a stark contrast to the storm brewing between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Steve stood in the living room, arms crossed, his Captain America resolve cracking under the weight of Bucky’s defiance.

Bucky, fresh from a mission gone wrong, leaned against the wall, his metal arm glinting, eyes defiant but shadowed with guilt. “You could’ve died out there, Buck,” Steve said, voice low, tight with worry. Bucky’s smirk was all bravado. “Takes more than that to kill me, Stevie.” The air was thick, charged with unspoken need, and Steve’s patience snapped like a taut wire. “Over the couch,” Steve ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Bucky’s eyes widened, but he obeyed, sauntering to the old leather couch and bending over its arm, jeans stretched tight over his ass. Steve’s breath caught, the sight stirring something primal. He stepped forward, palming Bucky’s backside, feeling the muscle tense under his hand. “You need to listen,” Steve murmured, voice rough as he delivered the first smack, his hand connecting with a sharp crack.

Bucky jolted, a low grunt escaping, but he stayed put, gripping the couch cushions. The second spank landed harder, Steve’s palm stinging as Bucky’s jeans absorbed some of the impact. “Off,” Steve commanded, tugging at the waistband. Bucky complied, shoving his jeans and boxers down, exposing pale skin already pink from the hits.

Steve’s hand came down again, the bare contact louder, sharper, and Bucky hissed, his flesh hand clenching. The room filled with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, each strike deliberate, Steve’s strength tempered but unyielding. Bucky’s breathing grew ragged, his body trembling, not just from pain but from the heat pooling low in his gut. Steve paused, running his hand over the reddened skin, soothing and assessing. “You feel that, Buck?” he asked, voice softer now, thumb tracing the curve of Bucky’s ass. Bucky nodded, biting his lip, his cock half-hard against the couch. Steve reached for his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a slow, deliberate hiss. Bucky tensed, anticipation and nerves mixing in his eyes as he glanced back.

The first crack of the belt was lighter, a warning, but it still drew a sharp gasp from Bucky, the sting blooming across his skin. “You don’t get to risk yourself like that,” Steve said, each word punctuated by another swing of the belt, the leather leaving pink stripes that deepened to red. Bucky’s moans grew louder, raw, his metal arm creaking as he gripped the couch harder. The pain was sharp, but it grounded him, pulling him back from the chaos of his mind.

Steve’s control was absolute, the belt’s rhythm steady, but his eyes were soft, watching Bucky’s reactions, ensuring he was still with him. Five strikes, then ten, and Bucky was panting, his cock fully hard, leaking against the leather. Steve set the belt aside, his hand returning, gentler now, rubbing circles over the heated skin.

“Good boy,” he murmured, and Bucky whimpered, the praise hitting harder than the belt. Steve’s fingers dipped lower, brushing Bucky’s entrance, teasing but not entering. He stepped back, grabbing a paddle from a nearby drawer—black, polished wood, kept for nights like this. “You ready?” Steve asked, voice husky. Bucky nodded, bracing himself, his body thrumming with need. The paddle’s first strike was heavy, a deep thud that made Bucky cry out, his hips grinding against the couch.

Each swing of the paddle was measured, Steve’s strength making the impact resonate through Bucky’s core. The wood left broader, deeper marks, the pain blooming into a warmth that had Bucky trembling, his moans turning to pleas. “Steve, please,” he gasped, not even sure what he was begging for. Steve’s free hand slid up Bucky’s spine, grounding him, as the paddle landed again, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

Bucky’s cock throbbed, trapped against the couch, pre-cum slicking the leather as he rocked into it, desperate for friction. Steve dropped the paddle after ten strikes, his hands immediately soothing, kneading Bucky’s abused flesh. He leaned over, pressing his chest to Bucky’s back, lips brushing his ear. “You’re mine, Buck. Don’t forget it.” Bucky nodded, breathless, as Steve’s fingers slipped between his cheeks, slick with lube he’d grabbed from the drawer.

Two fingers pushed in, curling, and Bucky moaned, loud and broken, his body clenching around the intrusion. Steve worked him open, slow but relentless, his own cock straining against his jeans as he watched Bucky unravel. “Need you,” Bucky panted, voice raw, and Steve didn’t hesitate. He freed himself, slicking his cock with more lube before pressing into Bucky, the stretch making them both groan. Steve fucked him slow at first, each thrust deliberate, the heat of Bucky’s spanked skin against his hips driving him wild. Bucky pushed back, desperate, the sting of his ass amplifying every sensation. Steve’s pace quickened, hands gripping Bucky’s hips, leaving bruises of their own. The couch creaked under their weight, the room filled with gasps and the slick sound of skin on skin.

Bucky came first, untouched, his release spilling across the couch as he cried out Steve’s name. The clench of his body pulled Steve over the edge, and he followed, spilling deep inside with a low groan.

They collapsed together, Steve’s arms wrapping around Bucky, pulling him upright. The couch was a mess, but neither cared. Steve kissed Bucky’s temple, murmuring soft reassurances as Bucky leaned into him, spent and sated. The marks on his skin would fade, but the bond they’d forged in that moment—raw, intense, unbreakable—would linger long after.

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The abandoned warehouse reeked of rust and oil, its shadows dancing under flickering fluorescent lights. Betsy Braddock, Psylocke, leaned against a crate, her purple hair catching the dim glow, her lithe frame taut with anticipation. Blade stood across from her, his leather coat open, revealing the hard lines of his chest, his eyes burning with a hunger that matched her own.

They’d been sparring, blades clashing, but the fight had shifted into something else—something charged with heat and unspoken promises. “You’re slipping, Eric,” Betsy purred, her British accent sharp, teasing. “Or are you just distracted by me?” Blade’s lips curled, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest as he stalked closer, his katana sheathed but his presence no less lethal. “You think you’re gettin’ under my skin, Braddock?” he growled, voice like gravel, rough and deliberate.

“I’m about to have you beggin’ for me, girl.” His words sent a shiver down Betsy’s spine, her telepathic senses catching the raw edge of his desire, amplifying her own. She tilted her head, smirking, her psionic blade flickering at her fingertips. “Big talk for a man who can’t keep up,” she taunted, stepping into his space, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. “You want to play dirty, huh?” Blade’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, pinning it above her head against the crate.

His other hand grazed her hip, fingers digging in just enough to make her gasp. “I bet you’re already wet, thinkin’ about what I’m gonna do to you.” Betsy’s breath hitched, her thighs pressing together as his words hit like a physical touch. She could read his mind if she wanted, but she didn’t need to—his voice, low and filthy, painted every intention.

“Go on, say it,” he urged, leaning in, lips brushing her ear. “Tell me how bad you want my cock.” Betsy’s laugh was sharp, defiant, but her body betrayed her, arching into his grip. “You think you’re in charge here, Eric?” she shot back, her free hand sliding down his chest, nails scraping over his skin. “I could have you on your knees, begging to taste me.” Her words were a blade of their own, cutting through the tension, and Blade’s eyes darkened, his grip tightening. “Fuck, you’ve got a mouth on you,” he growled, releasing her wrist only to spin her around, pressing her chest against the crate. “Gonna make you scream those pretty words instead.” His hands roamed, yanking her tight bodysuit down her hips, exposing her to the cool air. “Look at this ass,” he murmured, palming her roughly, his voice dropping lower. “Bet it’s been too long since someone fucked you right, hasn’t it?”

Betsy moaned, pushing back against his hand, her telepathic senses buzzing with his arousal, feeding her own. “Keep talking, daywalker,” she teased, voice breathy but challenging. “Or are you all bark and no bite?” Blade’s chuckle was dark, dangerous, as he leaned over her, his erection pressing against her through his pants. “Oh, I’m gonna bite, darlin’. Gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.” Blade’s hand slid between her thighs, fingers finding her slick and ready, and he groaned, the sound raw. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he said, voice thick with approval as he teased her entrance, circling but not entering. “This pussy’s beggin’ for me, isn’t it? Tell me you want it, Betsy.” She bit her lip, fighting the urge to give in, but his fingers moved, stroking her clit with maddening precision. “Say it,” he demanded, his other hand gripping her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp.

"Eric, please,” she finally breathed, the words spilling out, “fuck me.” That was all he needed. Blade unzipped his pants, freeing his cock, thick and heavy, and rubbed it against her, teasing. “Gonna fill you up,” he promised, voice a low growl as he pushed in, slow at first, letting her feel every inch. Betsy moaned, loud and unashamed, her hands gripping the crate as he stretched her. “That’s it,” he murmured, thrusting deeper, “take it all, just like you were made for it.” His words were relentless, each one stoking the fire in her core, her telepathic senses drowning in his desire, his need to claim her.

Blade’s pace quickened, his hips snapping against her, the slap of skin echoing in the warehouse. “You love this, don’t you?” he taunted, one hand sliding up to cup her breast through her suit, pinching her nipple hard. “Love me fuckin’ you raw, makin’ you mine.” Betsy’s response was a broken moan, her body trembling as he hit that perfect spot inside her. “Eric—fuck—don’t stop,” she gasped, her usual control shattered by his voice, his cock, his everything. He leaned in, lips against her neck, teeth grazing.

“Not stoppin’ ‘til you’re screamin’ my name, baby.” Her climax built fast, spurred by his filthy promises, his relentless thrusts. “Come for me,” Blade growled, fingers circling her clit again, pushing her to the edge. “Show me how much you love this dick.”

Betsy’s world exploded, her orgasm ripping through her as she cried out his name, her body clenching around him. Blade groaned, following her over, spilling inside her with a string of curses, his grip bruising her hips. They stayed there, panting, the crate creaking under their weight, his cock still buried deep.

As their breathing slowed, Blade pulled out, turning her to face him. His eyes softened, just a fraction, as he brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You good?” he asked, voice still rough but laced with care.

Betsy smirked, her composure returning despite the ache between her thighs. “Better than you, daywalker,” she teased, her voice low, promising more. The warehouse was silent again, but the air between them hummed, charged with the words they’d traded and the ones they’d yet to say.

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The Quinjet was parked on a remote cliffside, its sleek silhouette barely visible against the starry night sky, the hum of its engines long silenced. Inside, Natasha Romanoff straddled Steve Rogers in the pilot’s seat, her black tactical suit unzipped to her waist, revealing the curve of her breasts.

Steve’s hands gripped her hips, his own suit shoved down just enough to free his cock, already hard and pressed against her. The cockpit’s wide windows offered a view of the sprawling wilderness below, but also left them exposed to anyone—or anything—that might be watching. “You sure about this, Nat?” Steve murmured, his voice husky, blue eyes searching hers. She smirked, leaning in to nip his lip. “Live a little, Rogers.” Natasha’s fingers worked fast, peeling her suit further down, the cool air of the cockpit raising goosebumps on her skin.

She ground against Steve, feeling his erection through her thin panties, the friction sending sparks through her. “Someone could fly by,” Steve warned, but his hands betrayed his arousal, sliding up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples. Natasha laughed, low and teasing. “Let them watch,” she purred, grinding harder, her panties soaked. “Bet they’d be jealous of you right now.”

Steve groaned, the risk of being seen only heightening the heat between them. She slid her panties aside, guiding Steve’s cock to her entrance, teasing the tip against her slick folds. “Fuck, Nat,” he breathed, his hands tightening on her hips as she sank down, taking him inch by inch. The windows loomed large behind them, the dark expanse outside a silent audience to their intimacy.

Natasha’s moan was soft but unrestrained, her hips rocking as she adjusted to his size, the stretch deliciously intense. “Look at us,” she whispered, nodding toward the faint reflection in the glass, where their bodies moved together, shadowed but unmistakable.

Steve’s eyes flicked to the window, his breath catching at the sight—Natasha’s lithe form riding him, her red hair catching the dim cockpit lights, his own muscles flexing as he thrust up to meet her. The thought of someone catching them: a passing drone, a stray hiker, made his pulse race, his cock throbbing inside her. “You’re trouble,” he growled, one hand sliding to her clit, circling with practiced precision.

Natasha’s head tipped back, a moan spilling out, loud enough to echo in the confined space. “And you love it,” she shot back, her voice dripping with challenge. Her pace quickened, hips grinding down, each movement pushing Steve deeper, the seat creaking under their weight. “What if someone sees?” Steve asked, voice rough, but his thrusts didn’t slow, his body clearly on board with the risk. Natasha leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Then they’ll see how good you fuck me,” she whispered, her words sending a jolt through him.

She clenched around him, deliberate, drawing a low groan from his throat. The windows felt like eyes now, the thrill of exposure making every sensation sharper, more urgent. Natasha’s hands braced on Steve’s shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she rode him harder, chasing the heat building in her core. “Fuck, Steve, right there,” she gasped, her voice breaking as his fingers worked her clit faster, matching her rhythm. The cockpit felt alive with their sounds—her moans, his grunts, the slick slide of their bodies. Outside, the night was still, but the possibility of being caught hung heavy, pushing them both closer to the edge.

Steve’s free hand gripped her ass, guiding her movements, his control slipping as her heat enveloped him. “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” Steve growled, his voice low, commanding, his eyes flicking between her face and their reflection. Natasha’s smirk was wicked, her body trembling as she neared her peak. “Only if you make me,” she teased, but her words dissolved into a cry as Steve thrust up hard, hitting that perfect spot.

The risk, the exposure, the way their bodies looked in the glass—it was too much. Natasha’s orgasm hit like a wave, her body shuddering, clenching around him as she moaned his name, loud and unashamed. Steve followed, his release spilling deep inside her, a low groan rumbling from his chest as his hands tightened on her hips.

They stayed there, panting, Natasha’s forehead resting against his, their breaths mingling in the quiet. The windows still loomed, but the world outside remained oblivious, their secret safe for now. “You’re insane,” Steve muttered, a grin tugging at his lips.

Natasha chuckled, kissing him slow and deep. “And you’re right there with me,” she replied, her voice warm with affection. She eased off him, adjusting her suit as Steve did the same, but neither moved far, their hands lingering on each other. “Think anyone saw?” Steve asked, half-joking, his eyes scanning the dark beyond the glass.

Natasha shrugged, her smirk returning. “Hope so. They got a hell of a show.” She leaned in, stealing another kiss, her hand brushing his still-sensitive cock, making him hiss. The Quinjet felt smaller now, charged with their shared risk, their connection deeper for it.

As they settled back, Natasha curled against Steve’s side, the cockpit’s glow softening around them. The windows no longer felt like a threat, but a silent witness to what they’d shared—a moment of raw desire, reckless and theirs alone. “Next time,” Natasha murmured, her voice teasing, “we’re doing this somewhere even riskier.” Steve’s laugh was low, his arm tightening around her. “With you, Nat, I’m ready for anything.” The night stretched on, their bond sealed in the thrill of being seen, or almost.

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The safehouse in New Orleans was a humid, creaky relic, its wooden walls steeped in the scent of jasmine and old secrets. Sam Wilson leaned back in a worn armchair in the corner of the bedroom, his shirt unbuttoned, revealing the hard planes of his chest. Across the room, Betsy Braddock stood before a cracked floor-length mirror, her purple hair catching the flicker of a single lamp.

She wore nothing but a black lace bra and matching panties, her lithe, athletic body a study in controlled power. Their eyes met through the mirror, Sam’s gaze heavy with heat, Betsy’s sharp with intent. “You like to watch, don’t you, Wilson?” she teased, her British accent cutting through the humid air. Sam’s lips curved, his voice low. “Guilty as charged, Braddock.”

Betsy’s smirk was wicked as she reached behind her, unhooking her bra with deliberate slowness, letting it fall to the floor. Sam’s breath hitched, his hands gripping the armrests, but he stayed put, his eyes locked on her reflection.

“Go on,” he said, voice rough, “Give me a show.” Betsy’s telepathic senses brushed against his mind, catching the pulse of his arousal, amplifying her own. She slid her panties down, stepping out of them, her movements fluid, deliberate, knowing he was watching every curve, every inch of exposed skin. The mirror framed her like a painting, her confidence a quiet challenge.

She turned slightly, giving Sam a better view, her fingers trailing down her stomach, teasing the sensitive skin just above her folds. “You’re just gonna sit there?” she asked, voice dripping with mockery, though her eyes betrayed her own heat.

Sam’s grin widened, his erection straining against his jeans, but he didn’t move. “Oh, I’m enjoying this,” he said, his tone a mix of admiration and hunger. Betsy’s fingers dipped lower, brushing her clit, and she let out a soft moan, her head tipping back, purple hair spilling over her shoulders. The sound hit Sam like a physical touch, his cock twitching in response.

Betsy’s eyes flicked to his in the mirror, holding his gaze as she worked herself, fingers circling her clit with slow, deliberate strokes. “You like seeing me like this, don’t you?” she purred, her telepathic senses catching the spike in his desire, feeding it back to her. Sam’s jaw tightened, his hands flexing, but he stayed rooted, watching her reflection—her parted lips, the flush spreading across her chest, the way her thighs tensed. “Fuck, Betsy,” he murmured, voice strained, “you’re killin’ me.” Her laugh was low, teasing, as she pushed a finger inside herself, her moan louder now, unrestrained.

The room felt smaller, the air thick with their shared tension. Betsy’s movements grew faster, her fingers slick, the wet sounds mingling with her gasps. Sam’s eyes never left her, drinking in every detail—the arch of her back, the way her breasts moved with each breath, the raw pleasure on her face. “You wanna touch me, don’t you?” she taunted, adding a second finger, her hips rocking against her hand. Sam’s “Hell yeah” was almost a growl, his restraint fraying, but the thrill of watching, of being watched by her through the mirror, kept him in place.

Betsy’s telepathic touch grazed his mind again, a deliberate push, letting him feel the edge of her pleasure, the heat building in her core. “Fuck, that’s not fair,” Sam groaned, his hand finally moving to palm his cock through his jeans, the pressure not nearly enough. Betsy’s smirk was triumphant, her voice breathy but commanding. “Take it out. Let me see you.” Sam didn’t hesitate, unzipping his jeans, freeing his cock, thick and hard, stroking himself slowly as he watched her. The mirror reflected them both now—her fingers working her pussy, his hand on his cock, their eyes locked in a shared, electric gaze.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Sam said, his voice raw, his strokes matching the rhythm of her fingers. Betsy’s moans grew sharper, her body trembling as she neared her peak, her telepathic senses amplifying the feedback loop of their arousal. “Come for me, Betsy,” Sam urged, his hand speeding up, the sight of her in the mirror pushing him to the edge. Her climax hit hard, her cry echoing in the humid room, her body shaking as she rode her fingers, her reflection a vision of raw pleasure. Sam groaned, following her over, his release spilling over his hand, his eyes never leaving her.

Betsy turned, panting, her skin flushed, and crossed the room to him, straddling his lap without hesitation. “Good show?” she asked, her voice teasing but warm as she kissed him, deep and hungry, tasting the salt of his sweat. Sam chuckled against her lips, his hands settling on her hips. “Best I’ve ever seen,” he said, pulling her closer, their bodies still buzzing. The mirror stood behind them, reflecting their tangled forms, a silent witness to the intensity of their connection.

They stayed like that, kissing slow and deep, the humid air wrapping around them. “You’re trouble, Braddock,” Sam murmured, his hands roaming her back, grounding them both. Betsy’s laugh was soft, her telepathic touch brushing his mind with a playful nudge. “And you love watching trouble, don’t you?” Sam’s grin was answer enough, his hands tightening on her. The safehouse felt alive with their shared heat, the mirror holding the memory of their voyeuristic dance, a secret shared in the New Orleans night.

As they caught their breath, Betsy leaned back, her eyes gleaming. “Next time, you’re in front of the mirror,” she said, her tone promising more. Sam’s laugh was low, eager. “Deal.” The room settled into quiet, the city’s hum faint outside, but inside, Sam and Betsy were bound by the thrill of being watched, their connection deepened by the raw intimacy of the moment.

Chapter Text

The dimly lit basement of an old safehouse in D.C. was transformed into a makeshift interrogation room, its bare concrete walls and single overhead bulb casting stark shadows. Brock Rumlow stood in the center, dressed as a rogue mercenary—black leather duster, fingerless gloves, and a tactical vest that hugged his scarred, muscular frame. His eyes glinted with cold authority, a cigarette dangling from his lips, playing the part of a ruthless captor. Jack Rollins, bound to a metal chair with coarse rope, wore a tattered civilian outfit—ripped jeans and a blood-stained shirt—his broad shoulders tense, his jaw set in defiance as he embodied a captured resistance fighter. They’d planned this roleplay carefully, safe words established, but the intensity of the scene made it feel raw, electric. “You gonna talk, or do I gotta make you?” Rumlow growled, exhaling smoke, his voice dripping with menace.

Jack’s eyes narrowed, his role as the defiant prisoner unwavering. “Fuck you, merc,” he spat, tugging at the ropes, his muscles flexing, though the bulge in his jeans betrayed his arousal. Rumlow’s smirk was cruel as he stepped closer, tossing the cigarette aside and grabbing Jack’s chin, forcing his head up. “Big words for a guy tied up and nowhere to go,” he said, his gloved hand sliding down to grip Jack’s throat, just enough to make his breath hitch. “You’re gonna break, and I’m gonna enjoy every second of it.” Jack’s glare was fierce, but his cock twitched visibly, the power play igniting a fire between them.

Rumlow circled the chair, his boots echoing, his hand trailing over Jack’s shoulders, teasing the ripped fabric. “You think you’re tough, huh?” he taunted, pulling a knife from his belt, the blade glinting as he sliced through Jack’s shirt, exposing his chiseled chest. “Just another pretty boy who’s gonna beg for me.” Jack’s “Go to hell” was growled through gritted teeth, but his hips shifted, his erection straining against his jeans. Rumlow chuckled, dark and low, as he knelt, cutting away the rest of the shirt, leaving Jack’s torso bare. “Look at you, already hard,” he mocked, palming Jack’s cock through the denim, drawing a stifled groan.

“You’re mine to play with,” Rumlow said, his voice a low snarl as he unzipped Jack’s jeans, tugging them down to his thighs, revealing tight black briefs stretched over Jack’s thick cock. He cut the ropes just enough to free Jack’s arms, only to retie them behind the chair, keeping him helpless. “Try to fight me,” Rumlow challenged, his gloved hand stroking Jack’s cock through the briefs, slow and deliberate, making Jack’s head tip back, a low moan escaping despite his “resistance.” The mercenary persona never faltered, Rumlow’s control absolute as he leaned in, lips brushing Jack’s ear. “You’re gonna beg for your captor’s cock, aren’t you?”

Jack’s “Never” was weak, his body betraying him as Rumlow tugged the briefs down, freeing his cock, already leaking. Rumlow slicked his fingers with lube from his pocket—a pre-planned touch to keep the scene safe—and teased Jack’s entrance, circling slowly. “You’re nothin’ but a slut for me,” he growled, pushing one finger inside, then two, curling them to hit that spot that made Jack’s body jerk, a choked curse muffled by his clenched jaw. The ropes creaked as Jack strained, his role as the defiant prisoner crumbling under the pleasure, the power dynamic driving them both wild.

Rumlow stood, undoing his own belt with a slow, deliberate motion, his cock springing free, thick and heavy. “Look at what you’re gonna take,” he said, rubbing himself against Jack’s lips, teasing. Jack turned his head, staying in character, but his tongue flicked out, tasting the pre-cum, a silent surrender. Rumlow’s laugh was dark, triumphant, as he grabbed Jack’s hair, forcing his head back. “That’s it, break for me,” he said, pushing into Jack’s mouth, shallow thrusts that had Jack gagging slightly, his moans muffled, his cock throbbing untouched against his stomach.

The scene intensified as Rumlow pulled out, spinning the chair to face a cracked mirror on the wall, letting Jack see his own wrecked reflection—flushed face, bound arms, cock leaking. “See how pathetic you look?” Rumlow taunted, kneeling behind Jack, slicking himself up. He pushed into Jack’s ass, slow but relentless, the stretch drawing a raw moan from both of them. “You’re mine, prisoner,” Rumlow growled, his thrusts hard, controlled, the chair scraping against the floor. Jack’s moans grew louder, his body rocking back, fully immersed in the roleplay, the humiliation fueling his arousal.

Rumlow’s hand wrapped around Jack’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, his voice a constant stream of commands. “Take it like the slut you are,” he said, his mercenary persona unwavering. Jack’s “Fuck you” was breathless, his body trembling as the pleasure built, the ropes and the roleplay pushing him to the edge. Rumlow’s thrusts grew faster, his grip tightening, and Jack came with a shout, cum splattering his chest, his reflection showing every shudder. Rumlow followed, groaning as he spilled inside, his hands bruising Jack’s hips.

The scene softened as Rumlow pulled out, cutting the ropes with his knife, his touch gentle now as he checked Jack’s wrists. “You good, Jack?” Brock asked, dropping the mercenary role, his voice warm, grounding. Jack nodded, panting, a grin breaking through. “Fuckin’ perfect, Brock.” Brock pulled him into a slow, deep kiss, their bodies still buzzing from the intensity. “You played that well,” Brock murmured, his hand stroking Jack’s back, easing them both out of the scene. Jack’s laugh was hoarse, his eyes soft. “You’re a mean bastard,” he teased, leaning into Brock’s touch.

They sank to the floor, leaning against the chair, Brock’s arm around Jack’s shoulders, the basement’s cold fading in their shared warmth. “Next time, I’m the captor,” Jack said, his voice playful but serious. Brock’s chuckle was low, his lips brushing Jack’s temple. “You’re on.” The safehouse was silent, the echoes of their roleplay lingering, but the trust they’d poured into the scene deepened their bond, a connection forged in the raw, controlled chaos of their game, binding them long after the costumes came off.

Chapter Text

The penthouse overlooking Manhattan glowed with the soft light of dawn, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing the waking city. Joaquin Torres stood in the center of the plush bedroom, shirtless in just his boxer briefs, his lean, muscular frame catching the golden hues, his skin marked by faint scars from past missions. Bob Reynolds, the Sentry, stood before him, his golden costume partially unfastened, revealing the chiseled planes of his chest. His eyes, warm and intense, held an almost worshipful glint as he stepped closer, his hand brushing Joaquin’s cheek. “You’re incredible, Joaquin,” Bob murmured, his voice rich with adoration. Joaquin’s breath caught, a flush creeping up his neck, the praise striking a chord deep within him.

Bob’s fingers lingered, tracing Joaquin’s jaw with a reverence that made Joaquin’s pulse quicken. “You’re so strong,” Bob said, his voice low, eyes locked on Joaquin’s. “The way you move, the way you fight—you’re perfect.” Joaquin’s lips parted, a soft sound escaping as the words sank in, igniting a warmth in his chest that spread to his core. His cock twitched in his briefs, the vulnerability of being seen so completely making him ache. “Bob,” he started, voice shaky, but Bob’s smile was gentle, encouraging. “Let me show you how much I mean it,” Bob said, guiding Joaquin to the edge of the king-sized bed.

Joaquin sat, his hands gripping the sheets as Bob knelt before him, his gaze never wavering. “You’re so good, Joaquin,” Bob murmured, his hands sliding up Joaquin’s thighs, slow and deliberate, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just below his briefs. “So brave, so beautiful.” Joaquin’s flush deepened, his body trembling under the weight of Bob’s words, each one a caress that stoked the fire in his gut. Bob tugged Joaquin’s briefs down, freeing his hardening cock, and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the tip. “Perfect,” Bob whispered, his breath hot, making Joaquin moan softly, his head tipping back.

Bob’s mouth closed around him, slow and worshipful, his tongue swirling with care, drawing a low groan from Joaquin. “You taste so good,” Bob said, pulling back just enough to speak, his voice thick with reverence. “You’re doing so well for me.” Joaquin’s hands clenched the sheets tighter, his moans growing louder, the praise amplifying every sensation. Bob’s hands roamed, one stroking Joaquin’s thigh, the other cupping his balls, gentle but firm, as his mouth worked with agonizing precision. “Fuck, Bob,” Joaquin gasped, his body arching, overwhelmed by the adoration in Bob’s touch and words.

“You’re amazing,” Bob murmured, his lips brushing Joaquin’s cock as he spoke, his eyes flicking up to meet Joaquin’s, filled with devotion. “So strong, taking this so well.” Joaquin’s breath hitched, tears pricking his eyes—not from pain, but from the intensity of being so fully seen, so deeply cherished. Bob’s mouth returned, sucking harder now, his hand stroking in time, pushing Joaquin toward the edge. “That’s it, my good boy,” Bob said, voice soft but commanding, and Joaquin’s moan was raw, his body trembling as the praise sent him spiraling.

Bob pulled back, kissing his way up Joaquin’s stomach, his chest, each touch a testament to his words. “You’re everything,” he whispered against Joaquin’s skin, his hands sliding to Joaquin’s hips, guiding him to lie back. Bob slicked his fingers with lube from the bedside table, his touch gentle as he teased Joaquin’s entrance. “So perfect for me,” he said, pushing one finger inside, slow and careful, watching Joaquin’s face for every reaction. Joaquin’s moan was broken, his body clenching around the intrusion, the praise making the pleasure almost too much to bear.

“Bob, please,” Joaquin gasped, his voice thick with need, his cock throbbing against his stomach. Bob added a second finger, curling them to hit that spot that made Joaquin’s vision blur, his praise unrelenting. “You’re so good, Joaquin, taking me so well,” he said, his voice a warm anchor as he worked him open. Joaquin’s moans grew desperate, his body shaking, the words wrapping around him like a physical touch. Bob’s free hand stroked Joaquin’s cock, slow and deliberate, keeping him teetering on the edge.

“You’re mine,” Bob murmured, his lips brushing Joaquin’s ear as he withdrew his fingers, slicking himself up. He pushed into Joaquin slowly, letting him feel every inch, his voice a constant stream of adoration. “So strong, so beautiful, taking me like you were made for this.” Joaquin’s cry was soft, overwhelmed, as Bob filled him, the stretch intense but perfect, grounded by the praise. Bob’s thrusts were slow, deliberate, his hands roaming Joaquin’s body, worshipping every inch. “You’re doing so good for me,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion.

Joaquin’s climax hit hard, spurred by Bob’s words, his body arching as he came untouched, spilling across his stomach with a cry of Bob’s name. Bob followed, groaning softly, his release warm inside Joaquin, his hands never leaving him. They stayed connected, panting, Bob’s lips pressing gentle kisses to Joaquin’s forehead, his cheeks. “You’re perfect,” Bob whispered, his voice soft but fervent, pulling Joaquin into his arms. Joaquin, still trembling, leaned into the embrace, a small smile breaking through. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he murmured, voice hoarse but warm.

The penthouse was quiet, the city’s hum faint beyond the windows as they held each other, the dawn light softening around them. Bob’s hands traced lazy patterns on Joaquin’s back, his praise lingering in the air, a tether that bound them closer. “You did so well,” Bob said again, his voice a promise, and Joaquin’s flush returned, but he felt safe, cherished. The morning stretched on, their connection deepened by the worshipful words and touches, a bond forged in adoration that neither time nor battle could break.

Chapter Text

The abandoned warehouse was a cavern of shadows, its rusted beams and cracked concrete floor amplifying the tension between Joaquin Torres and Brock Rumlow. Joaquin knelt, wrists bound behind him with coarse rope, his tactical gear stripped away, leaving him in just his boxers. His lean, muscular frame trembled slightly, dark eyes defiant despite the flush on his cheeks. Brock stood over him, his scarred face twisted in a smirk, eyes glinting with dark amusement. “Look at you, Torres,” he sneered, voice dripping with contempt. “All that hero bullshit, and here you are, on your knees like a pathetic little slut.”

Joaquin’s jaw clenched, his glare sharp, but his cock twitched visibly, betraying his reaction to Brock’s words. “Fuck you,” he spat, voice thick but steady. Brock laughed, low and cruel, stepping closer, his boots heavy on the concrete. “Oh, you will,” he said, grabbing Joaquin’s chin, forcing his head up. “You’re nothing but a needy bitch, desperate for this, aren’t you?” Joaquin’s breath hitched, the humiliation searing through him, mingling with a heat he couldn’t deny. Brock’s fingers tightened, his voice dropping. “Say it. Tell me what you are.”

Joaquin’s lips parted, but no words came, his pride warring with the arousal pooling in his gut. Brock’s hand slid down, yanking Joaquin’s boxers off, exposing his hard cock. “Pathetic,” Brock growled, palming Joaquin roughly, drawing a choked moan. “Hard from just a few words. You’re fuckin’ worthless, Torres.” Joaquin’s eyes stung, the degradation cutting deep, but his hips bucked into Brock’s hand, chasing the touch. Brock’s smirk widened, his other hand gripping Joaquin’s hair, pulling hard. “Can’t even control yourself, can you? Just a desperate whore for me.”

Brock knelt, his face inches from Joaquin’s, voice a low snarl. “You’re not a hero. You’re mine to break.” He stroked Joaquin’s cock faster, relentless, the rough pace making Joaquin whimper, tears pricking his eyes as the humiliation overwhelmed him. “Cry all you want,” Brock taunted, “it just makes you prettier.” Joaquin’s moan was broken, tears spilling down his cheeks, the words slicing through him, each one stoking the fire in his core. Brock’s hand didn’t stop, pushing Joaquin toward the edge, his body trembling under the onslaught of pleasure and shame.

“You’re nothing,” Brock continued, his voice a cruel caress as he leaned closer, his breath hot against Joaquin’s ear. “Just a slut who’d beg for my cock, wouldn’t you?” Joaquin’s sob was muffled, his body shaking, but he nodded, the admission ripped from him. Brock’s laugh was dark, triumphant, as he pulled back, undoing his belt with a slow, deliberate motion. “That’s right,” he said, freeing his thick cock, rubbing it against Joaquin’s tear-streaked cheek. “You’re gonna take it, and you’re gonna love it, you filthy little bitch.”

Joaquin’s tears fell harder, but his mouth opened eagerly when Brock pressed against his lips, the degradation making his submission sharper, more desperate. Brock fucked his mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts, grunting as Joaquin’s tongue worked, muffled moans vibrating against him. “Look at you, chokin’ on me,” Brock sneered, his hand in Joaquin’s hair keeping him in place. “You’re good for nothing else.” Joaquin’s cock throbbed, untouched, the humiliation pushing him to the brink, tears streaming as he surrendered completely.

Brock pulled out, stroking himself as he watched Joaquin’s wrecked face, tears mixing with spit. “Gonna make you come without even touchin’ you,” he said, voice rough. “Come on, slut, show me how pathetic you are.” His words were relentless, each one a lash, and Joaquin’s body obeyed, his orgasm hitting without warning, cum spilling onto the concrete as he sobbed, overwhelmed, his body shaking. Brock groaned, finishing across Joaquin’s chest, marking him, the act sealing the power dynamic.

As Joaquin’s sobs quieted, his body still trembling, Brock’s demeanor shifted. He knelt, his hand surprisingly gentle as he caressed Joaquin’s cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “Hey,” he said softly, voice devoid of its earlier cruelty, “you’re okay, kid. You did good.” Joaquin leaned into the touch, his tears slowing, the tenderness grounding him. Brock’s thumb lingered, a silent reassurance, his eyes softer now, letting Joaquin know the words were just part of the game.

Brock untied Joaquin’s wrists, pulling him into his chest, his hand stroking Joaquin’s back as he caught his breath. “You’re not nothing,” Brock murmured, barely audible, his lips brushing Joaquin’s temple. Joaquin nodded, still shaken but steadied by Brock’s touch, the contrast between the harsh words and gentle aftercare anchoring him. “Asshole,” Joaquin whispered, voice hoarse but teasing, a small smile breaking through. Brock chuckled, holding him tighter, their connection raw and real in the warehouse’s shadows.

They stayed there, Joaquin curled against Brock, the cold concrete forgotten as warmth seeped between them. The degradation had stripped Joaquin bare, but Brock’s caress rebuilt him, their bond deepened by the trust it took to play so close to the edge. The warehouse was silent now, save for their breathing, the intensity of their scene lingering like a pulse, tying them together in a way words—cruel or kind—could never fully capture.

Chapter Text

The Brooklyn apartment was a warm haven, its soft lamplight casting a cozy glow over the worn furniture and scattered mementos of Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes’ shared life. The city hummed faintly outside, but inside, the air was thick with intimacy. Bucky lay on the bed, his shirt discarded, his muscled frame relaxed but tense with anticipation, his metal arm glinting faintly. Sam stood at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes soft yet commanding, his tight black t-shirt hugging his broad shoulders. “You’ve been so good today, Buck,” Sam said, his voice low, warm, laced with the nurturing dominance that made Bucky’s breath catch. “You ready to let Daddy take care of you?”

Bucky’s cheeks flushed, his steel-blue eyes meeting Sam’s, a mix of vulnerability and need in his gaze. “Yeah, Daddy,” he murmured, voice rough but pliant, the title slipping out naturally, grounding him. Sam’s smile was gentle, approving, as he climbed onto the bed, straddling Bucky’s hips, his hands sliding up Bucky’s chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples. “That’s my good boy,” Sam said, his tone rich with praise, making Bucky’s cock twitch in his jeans. The nurturing dynamic, the trust woven into the word “Daddy,” set Bucky’s nerves alight, his body already aching for Sam’s touch.

Sam leaned down, kissing Bucky slow and deep, his lips firm but tender, a promise of care. “You’re so perfect for me,” he whispered against Bucky’s mouth, his hands working the button of Bucky’s jeans, tugging them down with his boxers, freeing his hardening cock. Bucky’s moan was soft, his hips shifting, but Sam’s hand pressed gently on his stomach, holding him still. “Easy, baby,” Sam said, his voice a soothing command. “Daddy’s got you.” He reached for the lube on the nightstand, slicking his fingers, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s, watching every flicker of emotion.

“You’re doing so well,” Sam murmured, his fingers circling Bucky’s entrance, teasing before pushing one inside, slow and deliberate. Bucky’s breath hitched, his body clenching, then relaxing under Sam’s careful touch. “That’s it, let Daddy in,” Sam said, his voice a warm anchor, his free hand stroking Bucky’s thigh, grounding him. Bucky’s moan was louder now, his head tipping back, the nurturing dominance in Sam’s words and touch making him feel safe, cherished, even as the pleasure built. Sam added a second finger, curling them to hit that spot, drawing a soft cry from Bucky’s lips.

“Look at you, takin’ me so good,” Sam said, his tone dripping with adoration, his fingers working Bucky open with steady precision. Bucky’s cock leaked against his stomach, his body trembling, the word “Daddy” a tether that kept him grounded in Sam’s control. “Please, Daddy,” Bucky gasped, voice breaking, his metal arm flexing against the sheets, his flesh hand gripping Sam’s wrist, not to stop but to connect. Sam’s smile was soft, his eyes warm. “You’re so beautiful when you beg,” he said, adding a third finger, stretching Bucky further, watching his face for every reaction.

Sam pulled his fingers out, slicking himself up, his cock hard and ready as he lined up with Bucky’s entrance. “You want Daddy to fuck you, don’t you?” he asked, voice low, nurturing but firm. Bucky’s “Yes, Daddy, please” was desperate, his body arching, needing more. Sam pushed in slowly, letting Bucky feel every inch, his hands gripping Bucky’s hips, steadying him. “So good for me,” Sam murmured, his thrusts slow, deliberate, each one drawing a moan from Bucky, the dynamic wrapping them in a cocoon of trust and desire.

Bucky’s moans grew louder, his body rocking with Sam’s rhythm, the praise and control pushing him higher. “Daddy, I’m—” he started, voice strained, but Sam’s hand wrapped around his cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Go on, baby, come for Daddy,” Sam said, his voice a gentle command, his eyes locked on Bucky’s. The words tipped Bucky over, his orgasm crashing through him, cum spilling over Sam’s hand as he cried out, his body shaking. Sam followed, groaning Bucky’s name, his release warm inside, his hands never leaving Bucky’s skin.

They stayed connected, panting, Sam’s hands roaming Bucky’s body, soothing now, grounding. “You did so good, Buck,” Sam whispered, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, each touch a reminder of care. Bucky leaned into him, still trembling, his voice soft. “Thanks, Daddy.” Sam chuckled, pulling out gently, grabbing a warm cloth from the bathroom to clean them up, his movements tender, nurturing. He pulled Bucky into his arms, the metal arm cool against his chest, their bodies fitting perfectly.

“You okay, baby?” Sam asked, his voice soft, checking in as he stroked Bucky’s hair. Bucky nodded, a small smile breaking through, his vulnerability safe in Sam’s hands. “Better than okay,” he murmured, voice hoarse but warm. Sam’s laugh was low, his lips brushing Bucky’s temple. “That’s my boy.” The apartment was quiet, the city’s hum a distant lullaby, the warmth of their connection filling the space. The “Daddy” dynamic, built on trust and care, had stripped them bare, leaving only love and devotion in its wake.

They lay tangled in the sheets, Sam’s hands tracing lazy patterns on Bucky’s back, his praise lingering in the air. “You’re everything, Buck,” Sam said, his voice a promise, and Bucky’s flush deepened, his heart full. The night stretched on, their bond unshakeable, forged in the nurturing dominance that let them both surrender to each other, safe in the warmth of their Brooklyn haven.

Chapter Text

The dim glow of a single lamp cast soft shadows across the bedroom, where Bob Reynolds lay on the king-sized bed, his lean, golden frame bare except for a pair of tight black briefs. His blond hair was mussed, his eyes wide with anticipation as John Walker loomed over him, shirtless, his muscular build radiating authority. John’s blue eyes were intense, a mix of care and control, as he straddled Bob’s hips, his hands resting lightly on Bob’s chest. “You sure about this, Bob?” John asked, voice low, steady, checking in as always. Bob nodded, his breath already quickening. “Yeah, John. I trust you.”

John’s lips curved into a small, approving smile, his fingers trailing up Bob’s chest, pausing at his throat. “Good boy,” he murmured, the praise making Bob’s cock twitch in his briefs. John’s hand settled lightly around Bob’s neck, not squeezing yet, just resting, letting Bob feel the weight of his control. “You’re gonna be so good for me,” John said, his voice a warm command, as he leaned down, kissing Bob slow and deep, grounding him. Bob’s hands gripped the sheets, his body already buzzing with the anticipation of John’s touch, the promise of breath control adding a thrilling edge.

John’s hand tightened slightly, a gentle pressure on Bob’s throat, enough to make his pulse race but not to restrict his breathing. “Breathe slow,” John instructed, his eyes locked on Bob’s, watching for any sign of discomfort. Bob obeyed, his breaths shallow but steady, the light pressure sending a jolt of arousal through him. John’s other hand slid down, tugging Bob’s briefs off, freeing his hardening cock. “Look at you, already so hard,” John said, his tone approving, his fingers brushing Bob’s length, teasing. Bob’s moan was soft, his body arching slightly, the hand on his throat a constant, grounding presence.

“You’re doing so well,” John murmured, his grip tightening just a fraction, enough to make Bob’s breath hitch, the sensation heightening every touch. John’s free hand wrapped around Bob’s cock, stroking slow and deliberate, drawing a low groan from Bob’s lips. The light choke made every sensation sharper, Bob’s world narrowing to John’s hand, his voice, the pressure on his throat. “That’s it,” John said, his voice steady, nurturing, as he increased the pressure slightly, carefully monitoring Bob’s reactions, ensuring he stayed safe, comfortable, but pushed to that delicious edge.

John leaned back, slicking his fingers with lube from the nightstand, his hand never leaving Bob’s throat. “Gonna open you up now,” he said, his tone firm but caring, as he teased Bob’s entrance, circling before pushing one finger inside. Bob’s moan was louder, his body clenching, then relaxing under John’s control. The light choke intensified, John’s grip tightening just enough to make Bob’s breaths come in short gasps, the sensation amplifying the pleasure of John’s finger curling inside him. “So good for me,” John praised, adding a second finger, stretching Bob with care, his eyes never leaving Bob’s face.

Bob’s cock leaked steadily, his body trembling as John’s fingers worked him open, the choke holding him in a delicate balance of control and surrender. “John—fuck,” Bob gasped, his voice strained but needy, the pressure on his throat making every word feel like a plea. John’s smile was soft, his grip steady, as he added a third finger, curling them to hit that spot that made Bob’s vision blur. “You’re perfect,” John said, his voice a low rumble, loosening the choke just enough to let Bob breathe deeply, grounding him before tightening again, keeping him teetering on the edge.

John pulled his fingers out, slicking himself up, his cock thick and ready as he lined up with Bob’s entrance. “You want this, don’t you?” he asked, his hand still on Bob’s throat, the pressure light but constant. Bob’s “Yes, please” was desperate, his body arching, needing more. John pushed in slowly, letting Bob feel every inch, the choke making the stretch feel all-consuming. “That’s my boy,” John murmured, his thrusts slow, deliberate, each one drawing a moan from Bob, the light restriction of his breath amplifying the pleasure coursing through him.

John’s pace quickened, his hand on Bob’s throat adjusting with care, tightening and loosening in time with his thrusts, keeping Bob in that sweet spot of control and sensation. “You’re so fucking good,” John said, his voice rough with desire, his other hand stroking Bob’s cock, matching the rhythm. Bob’s moans were raw, his body shaking, the choke and praise pushing him toward the edge. “John—I’m gonna—” he gasped, voice breaking, and John’s grip tightened slightly, just enough to make his head spin. “Come for me,” John ordered, and Bob did, his orgasm crashing through him, cum spilling over John’s hand as he cried out, his body convulsing.

John followed, groaning as he spilled inside, his hand loosening on Bob’s throat, letting him breathe freely as they rode out the aftershocks. He leaned down, kissing Bob’s lips, his forehead, his cheeks, grounding him with gentle touches. “You did so good, Bob,” John whispered, his voice soft, nurturing, as he cleaned them up with a warm cloth, checking Bob’s neck for any marks. Bob, still panting, leaned into John’s touch, a small smile breaking through. “Fuck, John, that was intense,” he murmured, voice hoarse but warm. John chuckled, pulling him close, their bodies fitting together perfectly.

The loft was quiet, the city’s hum a distant backdrop as they lay tangled in the sheets, John’s arms around Bob, his hands tracing soothing patterns on his back. “You okay?” John asked, his voice full of care, checking in one last time. Bob nodded, his flush deepening, feeling safe, cherished. “More than okay,” he said, his smile soft. The night stretched on, their connection deepened by the trust and control they’d shared, the light choke a memory that bound them closer, a testament to the love and care woven into every touch.

Chapter Text

The abandoned Hydra training facility was a cold, cavernous space, its concrete walls scarred from years of use, the air heavy with dust and tension. Bucky Barnes knelt on the cracked floor, his wrists bound behind him with reinforced cuffs, his shirt torn away, leaving his muscular frame exposed, the metal arm glinting under the flickering overhead lights. Brock Rumlow stood over him, his black tactical gear unbuttoned to reveal a scarred, broad chest, his eyes dark with a possessive hunger. “You’re mine tonight, Barnes,” Rumlow growled, his voice rough, commanding, the dom in him fully unleashed. Bucky’s steel-blue eyes flicked up, defiant but laced with need, his voice low. “Prove it, Rumlow.”

Rumlow’s smirk was feral as he grabbed Bucky’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. “Oh, I will,” he said, leaning down, his teeth grazing Bucky’s neck, hard enough to make him hiss. Without warning, Rumlow bit down, sinking his teeth into the sensitive flesh where neck met shoulder, leaving a deep, red mark. Bucky’s moan was raw, his body jerking against the cuffs, his cock already hardening in his pants. “Fuckin’ pretty when you squirm,” Rumlow taunted, his tongue lapping at the bite, soothing the sting before biting again, higher this time, marking Bucky’s throat with another bruise.

Bucky’s breath hitched, the pain mingling with pleasure, his skin tingling under Rumlow’s teeth. Rumlow’s hands roamed, nails scraping down Bucky’s chest, leaving red welts across his pecs, catching on his nipples. “You’re gonna wear my marks,” Rumlow said, his voice a low growl as he bit Bucky’s collarbone, hard enough to draw a gasp, the mark blooming dark against his pale skin. Bucky’s hips bucked, his erection straining against his pants, the roughness of Rumlow’s dominance igniting a fire in his core. “Fuck, Brock,” he gasped, voice breaking, but Rumlow’s laugh was dark, unrelenting.

Rumlow shoved Bucky’s pants down, freeing his cock, already leaking, and palmed it roughly, his nails dragging along Bucky’s inner thighs, leaving more scratches. “Look at you, hard from a little pain,” Rumlow sneered, his teeth finding Bucky’s shoulder, biting down hard, the mark deep and possessive. Bucky’s moan was louder, his body trembling, the cuffs creaking as he strained, the mix of pain and pleasure overwhelming. Rumlow’s hand tightened around Bucky’s cock, stroking fast, deliberate, as he bit again, this time on Bucky’s pec, leaving a crescent of teeth marks around his nipple.

“You’re my fuckin’ canvas,” Rumlow growled, his nails raking down Bucky’s sides, leaving red trails that burned in the cool air. He knelt, biting the sensitive skin of Bucky’s hip, hard enough to make him cry out, the mark stark against his skin. Bucky’s cock twitched in Rumlow’s hand, pre-cum dripping, his body arching into the pain, craving more. “Beg for it,” Rumlow ordered, his teeth grazing Bucky’s inner thigh, teasing another bite. Bucky’s “Please, Brock” was desperate, his voice raw, and Rumlow rewarded him with another bite, this one deeper, the pain sharp and grounding.

Rumlow stood, undoing his own pants, his cock thick and ready as he slicked it with lube from his pocket. “Gonna mark you inside too,” he said, spinning Bucky to face the wall, his bound wrists pulling tight. Rumlow’s nails scratched down Bucky’s back, leaving long, red welts, before he spread Bucky’s cheeks, teasing his entrance with a slick finger. “So fuckin’ tight for me,” Rumlow murmured, biting Bucky’s shoulder blade, hard enough to leave another bruise, as he pushed a finger inside, then two, curling them roughly. Bucky’s moan was broken, his body rocking back, the pain of the bites and scratches blending with the pleasure.

Rumlow pulled his fingers out, lining up his cock and pushing in with one hard thrust, making Bucky cry out, the stretch intense. “Take it,” Rumlow growled, his teeth finding Bucky’s neck again, biting hard as he thrust, each movement rough, claiming. His nails dug into Bucky’s hips, leaving crescent marks, his dominance absolute. Bucky’s moans were constant, his cock untouched but throbbing, the pain of Rumlow’s bites and scratches pushing him closer to the edge. “You’re mine, Barnes,” Rumlow said, his voice rough, biting Bucky’s ear, the mark small but sharp.

Rumlow’s thrusts grew faster, his hand finally wrapping around Bucky’s cock, stroking in time with his relentless pace. “Come for me, marked up and mine,” he ordered, his teeth sinking into Bucky’s shoulder one last time, the pain tipping Bucky over. Bucky’s orgasm hit hard, his cum spilling over Rumlow’s hand, his body shaking as he cried out, the cuffs rattling. Rumlow followed, groaning as he spilled inside, his nails digging into Bucky’s hips, leaving final marks. They stayed there, panting, Rumlow’s hands softening, tracing the bites and scratches with surprising care.

Rumlow uncuffed Bucky, catching him as he sagged, pulling him to the floor, their bodies pressed close. “You okay, Buck?” he asked, his voice dropping the dom’s edge, soft and checking in, his fingers brushing a bite mark gently. Bucky nodded, breathless, his body still buzzing with pain and pleasure. “Yeah, Brock. Fuckin’ worth it.” Rumlow’s chuckle was warm, his lips brushing a bruise on Bucky’s neck, soothing now. “Look like a damn masterpiece,” he murmured, his hands grounding Bucky, the tenderness a contrast to his earlier roughness.

The facility was silent, the air heavy with their shared intensity. Bucky leaned into Rumlow, the marks on his skin a map of their connection, each bite and scratch a testament to the trust he’d given. “You’re a bastard,” Bucky muttered, a grin breaking through, and Rumlow’s laugh was low, his arm tightening around Bucky. “I know.” They sat there, the cold concrete forgotten, their bond deepened by the raw, rough intimacy, the marks a secret they’d carry, binding them in the shadows of the old Hydra haunt.

Chapter Text

Joaquin Torres’ DC apartment was a warm, cluttered sanctuary, its soft lighting casting a cozy glow over mismatched furniture and scattered mission gear. Joaquin, a trans man, lay sprawled across his bed, wrists bound to the headboard with his own tactical straps, his lean, muscular body bare and slick with sweat. His chest scars were faintly visible, his thighs trembling as he glared up at Brock Rumlow, defiance in his dark eyes despite his vulnerable state.

Brock stood at the foot of the bed, shirtless, his scarred, muscular frame radiating control, a wicked smirk on his lips. “Think you can keep that attitude, Torres?” Brock taunted, voice rough. “I’m gonna make you scream ‘til you can’t think.” Joaquin’s smirk was sharp, his voice steady despite his racing pulse. “Bring it, asshole.”

Brock knelt between Joaquin’s legs, his rough hands spreading them wide, exposing Joaquin’s slick, sensitive folds. “Fuck, you’re already dripping for me,” Brock growled, his fingers brushing Joaquin’s clit, light but deliberate, drawing a sharp gasp. Joaquin’s hips bucked, the straps creaking, but Brock pinned him down with a hand on his stomach, his grip firm.

“Stay still, brat,” he ordered, voice low, as he leaned in, his tongue flicking against Joaquin’s clit with ruthless precision. The sensation was immediate, electric, and Joaquin moaned, his head tipping back, pleasure crashing through him. Brock’s tongue worked relentlessly, circling and sucking, pushing Joaquin toward the edge faster than he could handle.

“Shit, Brock—” Joaquin’s words dissolved into a choked cry as his first orgasm hit, his body shuddering, thighs clamping around Brock’s head. But Brock didn’t stop, his tongue lapping at Joaquin’s oversensitive clit, making him writhe against the restraints. “Too much,” Joaquin gasped, voice breaking, his body trembling as pleasure bordered on pain.

Brock’s chuckle was dark, his hands gripping Joaquin’s hips to keep him still. “You can take it, kid,” he said, voice thick with command. “I’m gonna make you come ‘til you’re begging.” Joaquin’s protests turned to whimpers as Brock’s fingers joined in, two sliding inside, curling against that spot that made his vision blur.

The second climax came hard and fast, Joaquin’s moans turning to sobs, his body arching as pleasure overwhelmed him, tears pricking his eyes. Brock’s fingers didn’t slow, thrusting steadily, his tongue still teasing Joaquin’s clit, now painfully sensitive. “Brock, please! I can’t-” Joaquin pleaded, his voice raw, but Brock’s eyes gleamed, unrelenting.
"You’re gonna give me more,” he said, pulling back just enough to grab a small vibrator from his bag. The low hum filled the room, and Joaquin’s eyes widened, his breath ragged. “No, fuck, Brock-" he started, but the vibrator pressed against his clit, the intense vibration sending a jolt through his already overstimulated nerves.

Joaquin’s third orgasm ripped through him, his cry hoarse, his body convulsing as tears spilled down his cheeks, the pleasure so intense it felt like it might shatter him. Brock kept the vibrator in place, his fingers still working inside, drawing out every shudder. “Look at you, fallin’ apart for me,” Brock murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent, as he watched Joaquin’s wrecked expression. Joaquin’s sobs were desperate, his body shaking uncontrollably, every touch amplified to unbearable heights. “Please, Brock, I can’t” he begged, voice breaking, but Brock’s smirk was wicked, unrelenting.

Brock eased the vibrator away, but his fingers didn’t stop, curling deeper, his thumb circling Joaquin’s clit with agonizing precision. “One more, kid,” he said, voice low, coaxing. “Show me how good you are.” Joaquin’s body was a live wire, every nerve screaming, his mind lost in a haze of pleasure-pain. The fourth orgasm hit like a tidal wave, his scream silent as his voice gave out, his body seizing, cum slicking his thighs as he shook, tears streaming. Brock’s fingers slowed, drawing out every tremor, his eyes locked on Joaquin’s face, drinking in every detail of his surrender.

Brock set the vibrator aside, his hands gentler now, soothing as he rubbed Joaquin’s trembling thighs. “Fuck, you’re beautiful like this,” he murmured, leaning up to kiss Joaquin’s tear-streaked face, his lips soft against the contrast of his earlier ruthlessness. Joaquin’s breathing was ragged, his body still buzzing, too overwhelmed to speak. Brock’s fingers traced his scars, grounding him, the touch tender as he whispered, “You did so good, Torres.” Joaquin’s tears slowed, his chest heaving, the praise anchoring him in the haze of overstimulation.

Brock unbound Joaquin’s wrists, catching him as he sagged, pulling him into his chest with surprising care. “You okay, kid?” he asked, voice soft, his hand stroking Joaquin’s sweat-damp hair. Joaquin nodded, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. “Yeah… fuck, you’re intense.” Brock chuckled, pressing a kiss to his temple, his arms strong around Joaquin’s trembling form. “You love it,” he teased, but his touch was gentle, grounding, as he grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around them both, soothing the aftershocks.

They lay tangled in the sheets, the apartment quiet except for their slowing breaths. Brock’s hands roamed lazily, tracing Joaquin’s scars with a tenderness that belied his earlier dominance. “You’re somethin’ else, Torres,” he murmured, his voice warm, almost reverent. Joaquin managed a weak grin, his body still humming, oversensitive but safe in Brock’s arms. “You’re still an asshole,” he rasped, but the affection in his tone was clear. Brock’s laugh was low, his lips brushing Joaquin’s shoulder, their connection raw and deep, forged in the intensity of pleasure pushed past limits.

The city’s hum filtered through the window, but the bedroom felt like a world apart, warm and intimate. Brock held Joaquin close, his hands steady, protective, as the younger man drifted, still catching his breath. The overstimulation had stripped Joaquin bare, but Brock’s aftercare rebuilt him, their bond strengthened by the trust it took to surrender so completely. “Rest up,” Brock whispered, his voice a promise. “We’re goin’ again soon.” Joaquin’s soft laugh was all the answer needed, their connection a pulse that lingered in the quiet, binding them in the afterglow of their shared intensity.

Chapter Text

The safehouse was a claustrophobic concrete cell, its dim light casting stark shadows across Joaquin Torres’ bound form. His wrists were cuffed above his head, secured to a pipe running along the ceiling, his lean, muscular body stretched taut.

Joaquin stood shirtless, his chest scars faintly visible in the low light, his cargo pants shoved down to his thighs. Brock Rumlow circled him, a predator’s smirk on his lips, eyes raking over Joaquin’s exposed skin.

"You’re tougher than you look, Torres,” Rumlow growled, voice low, “but I’m gonna break you tonight.” Rumlow’s hand slid down Joaquin’s chest, fingers brushing over the sensitive scars before dipping lower, teasing the waistband of his briefs.

Joaquin’s breath hitched, his body betraying him with a shiver as Rumlow’s touch lingered, deliberate and slow. “Look at you, already wet for me,” Rumlow taunted, palming Joaquin’s front, feeling the heat through the fabric. Joaquin’s hips twitched, chasing the contact, but Rumlow pulled back, chuckling darkly.

“Not so fast, kid. You don’t get to come ‘til I say so.” Joaquin’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes flashing with defiance, but the cuffs held him firm, leaving him vulnerable to Rumlow’s game. Rumlow tugged Joaquin’s briefs down, exposing his swollen, sensitive flesh, already slick with arousal. He knelt, breath hot against Joaquin’s inner thigh as he murmured, “Gonna make you beg, Torres. Gonna have you cryin’ for it.”

His fingers grazed Joaquin’s clit, light and teasing, circling just enough to draw a low moan. Joaquin’s head tipped back, the cuffs rattling as he strained against them, his body aching for more. Rumlow’s touch was relentless, stroking with agonizing precision, building the heat in Joaquin’s core until his thighs trembled, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

Just as Joaquin’s moans grew desperate, Rumlow stopped, pulling his hand away. “Not yet,” he said, voice thick with amusement. Joaquin cursed under his breath, his body thrumming with need, the denial sharp and maddening. Rumlow stood, licking his fingers clean with a smirk, his eyes locked on Joaquin’s flushed face.

“You taste as good as you look,” he said, the words sending another jolt through Joaquin’s oversensitive nerves. Rumlow’s hand returned, this time with a vibrator from his pocket, its low hum filling the room as he pressed it against Joaquin’s clit.

The sensation was immediate, intense, pushing Joaquin toward the edge again. His hips bucked, a strangled moan escaping, but Rumlow pulled the toy away just as Joaquin’s body tensed, leaving him panting, frustrated, and aching. “You’re gonna learn patience, kid,” Rumlow said, his voice a low growl as he leaned in, lips brushing Joaquin’s ear. “I could keep you like this all night–hard, wet, and beggin’.” Joaquin’s pride warred with his need, but the next touch, a slow, deliberate stroke of Rumlow’s fingers, tore a plea from his lips. “Please, Brock,” he gasped, voice raw, “let me come.” Rumlow’s laugh was dark, his fingers pausing just long enough to make Joaquin whimper.

“Not good enough,” he said, resuming the slow, torturous strokes, keeping Joaquin teetering on the brink without release. The cycle repeated—Rumlow’s fingers, the vibrator, even his tongue at one point, lapping at Joaquin’s sensitive flesh until he was sobbing with need. Each time Joaquin neared climax, Rumlow stopped, leaving him trembling, his body slick with sweat, his mind clouded with desperation.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Rumlow murmured, his own arousal evident in the bulge straining his pants. He pressed himself against Joaquin’s hip, letting him feel it, teasing further. “Bet you’d do anything for it now, wouldn’t you?” Joaquin nodded, too far gone to care about pride, his voice breaking as he begged again.

Rumlow’s hand returned, fingers slipping inside Joaquin, curling against that perfect spot while his thumb worked his clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, building faster than before, and Joaquin’s moans filled the room, his body arching against the cuffs. “Please, Brock, I can’t-” he choked out, right on the edge. Rumlow’s eyes darkened, his voice a low command.

“Hold it.” Joaquin tried, his whole body shaking, but Rumlow pulled back again, leaving him gasping, tears of frustration pricking his eyes. “Good boy,” Rumlow praised, the words twisting something deep in Joaquin’s chest.

Hours seemed to pass, though it was likely less, each moment a blur of pleasure and denial. Rumlow’s control was absolute, his voice a constant stream of filthy promises and taunts. “You’re mine to play with, Torres,” he said, pressing the vibrator against Joaquin again, watching his face contort with need.

“Gonna keep you right here, desperate, ‘til I’m ready to let you go.” Joaquin’s body was a live wire, every nerve screaming, his mind reduced to a single need. When Rumlow finally pressed his fingers inside again, working him with slow, deliberate thrusts, Joaquin was shaking, his pleas incoherent.

“You want it?” Rumlow asked, his voice softer now, almost tender. Joaquin nodded frantically, his voice a broken whisper. “Please, Brock, please.” Rumlow’s smirk softened, and he leaned in, kissing Joaquin hard, possessive. “Alright, kid,” he murmured against his lips. “Come for me.”

His fingers moved faster, unrelenting, and the vibrator pressed just right. Joaquin’s world shattered, his orgasm crashing through him with a scream, his body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure tore him apart. Rumlow worked him through it, drawing out every shudder, every gasp. When it was over, Joaquin sagged against the cuffs, spent and trembling.

Rumlow uncuffed him, catching him as his legs buckled, lowering them both to the floor. He held Joaquin close, one hand stroking his back, the other brushing sweat-damp hair from his face. “You did good,” Rumlow said, voice low, almost gentle.

Joaquin, still catching his breath, managed a weak glare, but there was no real heat in it. Their safehouse was quiet again, the tension replaced by something softer, more complicated—a connection forged in the haze of pleasure and control, binding them long after the cuffs were gone.

Chapter Text

Clint's safehouse in upstate New York was a quiet retreat, its rustic cabin walls bathed in the soft glow of a crackling fireplace. The autumn chill seeped through the windows, but inside, the air was thick with heat and anticipation. Wanda Maximoff stood by the bed, her scarlet hair loose, dressed in a sheer black robe that hinted at the curves beneath. Clint Barton lay on the bed, shirtless, his lean, archer’s physique taut, wrists loosely bound to the headboard with silk scarves. His eyes tracked Wanda’s every move, a mix of trust and excitement in his gaze. “You sure you’re ready for this, Clint?” Wanda asked, her Sokovian accent soft but laced with a teasing edge. Clint’s grin was easy, his voice low. “Hit me with it, Wanda.”

Wanda’s lips curved, her fingers trailing over a small table beside the bed, where a bowl of ice cubes sat next to a lit candle, its wax pooling slowly. She picked up an ice cube, her chaos magic swirling faintly around her fingers, cooling it further as she approached Clint. “Let’s see how you handle this,” she murmured, pressing the ice to his chest, just above his nipple. Clint hissed, his body tensing at the sharp cold, goosebumps rising on his skin. Wanda’s eyes gleamed, watching his reaction as she dragged the ice in slow circles, leaving a wet trail across his pecs. “Fuck, that’s cold,” Clint gasped, but his cock twitched in his jeans, betraying his arousal.

She leaned down, her breath warm against his ear, a stark contrast to the ice. “You’re doing so well,” she purred, sliding the cube lower, teasing the line of his abs, watching his muscles contract. The cold made Clint’s breath hitch, his wrists tugging lightly at the scarves, the restraint amplifying every sensation. Wanda’s magic pulsed subtly, keeping the ice from melting too fast, prolonging the chill as she pressed it to his inner thigh, just above the hem of his jeans. Clint’s groan was low, his hips shifting, the cold sending a jolt through him. “Wanda, you’re killing me,” he muttered, voice rough, but his grin stayed, encouraging her.

Wanda set the ice aside, picking up the candle, the flame flickering as she tilted it carefully. “Let’s warm you up,” she said, her voice soft but commanding, as she let a drop of warm wax fall onto his chest, just below the chilled skin. Clint’s moan was sharper, the heat stinging briefly before settling into a warm glow, the contrast making his nerves sing. “Fuck,” he breathed, his body arching slightly, his cock now straining visibly against his jeans. Wanda’s fingers traced the wax, her magic cooling her touch to soothe the burn, her eyes locked on Clint’s, ensuring he was with her.

“You look so good like this,” she said, her voice a mix of adoration and control, as she dripped more wax across his abs, each drop a burst of heat that made Clint’s breath catch, his skin flushed with sensation. She alternated, picking up another ice cube, dragging it over the warm wax, the shift from hot to cold making Clint writhe, a low groan escaping. “Wanda—shit,” he gasped, his voice breaking, the sensory overload pushing him closer to the edge. Wanda’s smile was wicked, her magic swirling to keep the ice cold, the wax warm, playing his body like an instrument.

She unzipped his jeans, tugging them down with his boxers, freeing his cock, hard and leaking. “So responsive,” she murmured, trailing the ice cube along his inner thigh, dangerously close to his balls, making Clint’s hips buck, a choked moan spilling out. “Easy, Clint,” she teased, her voice soothing as she dripped wax onto his hip, the heat sharp against the lingering chill. Clint’s moans grew louder, his body trembling, the scarves keeping him grounded as the temperature play overwhelmed him. Wanda’s magic brushed his mind, a gentle check-in, feeling his trust, his need, urging her on.

Wanda set the candle down, picking up another ice cube, this time teasing it along the base of his cock, the cold making Clint cry out, his body jerking against the restraints. “Fuck, Wanda, please,” he begged, voice raw, his cock throbbing, pre-cum dripping. She leaned down, her warm breath ghosting over his chilled skin, soothing it before pressing her lips to his hip, kissing the wax-marked skin. “You’re so perfect for me,” she whispered, her magic amplifying the warmth of her touch, contrasting the ice still in her hand as she dragged it over his balls, making him shudder.

She alternated again, dripping wax onto his thigh, the heat blooming as she followed it with the ice, the rapid shifts driving Clint wild. “Wanda—I’m gonna—” he gasped, his voice desperate, his body trembling on the edge. “Not yet,” she said, her tone firm but caring, setting the ice aside to stroke his cock with her warm hand, her magic keeping her touch just heated enough to contrast the lingering chill. Clint’s moans were incoherent, his body arching, the sensory overload pushing him past reason. Wanda’s eyes softened, her magic brushing his mind again, ensuring he was safe, loved.

“Okay, Clint, let go,” she murmured, her hand speeding up, her other hand pressing an ice cube to his nipple, the cold sharp against the warmth of her stroke. Clint’s orgasm hit hard, his cry echoing in the cabin as he spilled over her hand, his body shaking, the scarves pulling tight. Wanda eased him through it, setting the ice aside, her hands warm now, soothing, as she kissed his forehead, his cheeks. “You did so good,” she whispered, untying the scarves, massaging his wrists gently, grounding him.

They lay together, the fireplace crackling, the cabin warm despite the autumn chill outside. Wanda pulled Clint into her arms, his head resting on her chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, soothing the wax and ice marks. “You okay, Clint?” she asked, her voice soft, checking in. Clint’s grin was tired but genuine, his voice hoarse. “Better than okay, Wanda. You’re a damn witch.” She laughed, kissing his temple, their connection deepened by the trust and intensity of the temperature play, the cabin a quiet haven for their shared heat, binding them closer in the flickering light.

Chapter Text

In their Baxter Building bedroom, bathed in soft moonlight, Sue Storm straddled Reed Richards, her blonde hair loose, her sheer nightgown riding up her thighs. Reed, shirtless, his lean frame stretched beneath her, groaned as Sue’s hips ground against his hardening cock. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging sharply, pulling his head back to expose his throat. “Fuck, Sue,” he gasped, the roughness sparking heat in his eyes. She smirked, her voice low, commanding. “You like that, don’t you?”

Sue’s grip tightened, yanking his hair as she kissed him hard, her tongue claiming his mouth. Reed’s hands gripped her hips, his body arching, the pain and passion driving him wild. She pulled again, guiding his head to her chest, his lips finding her nipple through the fabric, sucking eagerly. Sue moaned, her control absolute, her fingers relentless in his hair as she rode him, their shared heat a fierce, passionate dance that left them breathless, bound by love and raw desire.

Chapter Text

The old Hydra safehouse was a concrete bunker, its sterile walls lit by a single flickering bulb, casting stark shadows across the sparse room. Brock Rumlow leaned against a metal table, his black tactical gloves off, his scarred, calloused hands flexing as he watched Jack Rollins. Jack stood across from him, shirtless, his broad, muscular frame tense with anticipation, his own hands—large, rough, and marked by years of combat—clenching at his sides. The air was thick with unspoken tension, their usual dynamic of equals giving way to something rawer, more deliberate. “You ready, Rollins?” Brock asked, his voice low, rough, as he stepped closer, his bare hands itching to take control. Jack’s eyes met his, a flicker of challenge in them. “Show me what you got, Rumlow.”

Brock’s hands moved first, one gripping Jack’s jaw, fingers digging into the stubble, forcing his head back slightly. “You’re gonna feel every inch of me,” Brock growled, his thumb brushing Jack’s lower lip, rough and possessive. Jack’s breath hitched, his own hands twitching but staying still, letting Brock take the lead. Brock’s other hand slid down Jack’s chest, fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle, lingering on the scars, each touch deliberate, claiming. Jack’s cock stirred in his pants, the intensity of Brock’s hands—strong, unyielding, yet precise—igniting a fire in his gut.

Brock’s fingers tightened on Jack’s jaw, guiding him to his knees, the concrete cold against Jack’s skin. “Look at you, so fuckin’ eager,” Brock said, his voice a mix of mockery and heat as his free hand undid his belt, freeing his cock. He wrapped his fingers around Jack’s throat, not squeezing, just holding, the control implicit in the touch. Jack’s hands stayed at his sides, disciplined, but his eyes burned with need as Brock guided his cock to Jack’s lips, his fingers tangling in Jack’s short hair, directing him. “Open up,” Brock ordered, and Jack obeyed, taking him in, the roughness of Brock’s hand on his throat grounding him.

Brock’s fingers were relentless, one hand guiding Jack’s head, controlling the pace as he fucked his mouth, slow and deep, the other hand sliding down to pinch Jack’s nipple, hard enough to make him groan around Brock’s cock. The vibration sent a jolt through Brock, his fingers tightening in Jack’s hair, a low growl escaping. “Fuck, your mouth’s made for this,” he said, his hand roaming to Jack’s shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle, leaving faint red marks. Jack’s own hands finally moved, gripping Brock’s thighs, not to resist but to anchor himself, his cock straining against his pants, the touch of Brock’s hands driving him wild.

Brock pulled out, yanking Jack to his feet, his hands rough as he spun him around, shoving him against the table. “Bend over,” Brock ordered, his fingers already working Jack’s pants down, exposing his ass. Brock’s hands were everywhere—gripping Jack’s hips, sliding up his spine, nails scraping lightly, leaving faint trails. He slicked his fingers with lube from his pocket, teasing Jack’s entrance, circling slowly. “You’re mine,” Brock murmured, pushing two fingers inside, his other hand pressing down on Jack’s back, keeping him pinned. Jack’s moan was raw, his body arching, Brock’s fingers curling to hit that spot that made his knees buckle.

“Fuck, Brock,” Jack gasped, his hands gripping the table’s edge, knuckles white. Brock’s fingers worked him open, relentless, his free hand roaming to Jack’s cock, stroking slow and tight, the dual sensation overwhelming. “You love my hands on you,” Brock said, his voice rough, as he added a third finger, stretching Jack further, his other hand never stopping its rhythm. Jack’s moans grew louder, his body trembling, Brock’s hands controlling every sensation, every shudder. The power in Brock’s touch—the way his fingers claimed, teased, commanded—had Jack teetering on the edge.

Brock pulled his fingers out, slicking his cock before lining up, his hands gripping Jack’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He pushed in, slow but unyielding, and Jack’s groan was deep, his body clenching around Brock. “Take it,” Brock growled, one hand sliding up Jack’s spine, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling just enough to make Jack arch. His other hand wrapped around Jack’s cock again, stroking in time with his thrusts, the control absolute. Jack’s moans were incoherent, his body surrendering to Brock’s hands, the touch both punishing and reverent.

Brock’s pace quickened, his fingers tightening in Jack’s hair, his other hand relentless on Jack’s cock. “Come for me,” he ordered, voice rough, and Jack did, his orgasm hitting hard, cum spilling over Brock’s fingers as he cried out, body shaking. Brock followed, groaning as he spilled inside, his hands never leaving Jack, grounding him through the aftershocks. They stayed there, panting, Brock’s fingers softening, tracing gentle patterns on Jack’s back, a contrast to the roughness moments before.

Brock helped Jack stand, his hands steady, checking him over with a rare gentleness. “You good, Jack?” he asked, voice low, his fingers brushing Jack’s jaw, grounding him. Jack nodded, a tired grin breaking through. “Fuckin’ perfect, Brock.” They sank to the floor, Brock’s hands still roaming, soothing now, their connection raw and deep. The safehouse was silent, the air heavy with their shared intensity, Brock’s hands a map of their trust, binding them closer in the aftermath.

The flickering bulb cast soft shadows as they leaned against each other, Brock’s fingers laced with Jack’s, a quiet intimacy settling between them. “Your hands are somethin’ else,” Jack murmured, voice hoarse but warm. Brock’s chuckle was low, his thumb brushing Jack’s knuckles. “Just wait ‘til next time.” Their bond, forged in the roughness and control of Brock’s touch, held firm, a testament to the trust that let them surrender to each other in the cold, concrete bunker.

Chapter Text

The dim light of Karen Page’s Hell’s Kitchen apartment flickered, casting shadows across the room as rain pattered against the windows. Frank Castle stood in the doorway, his black Punisher tactical suit clinging to his muscular frame, the white skull emblem stark against the dark kevlar. Blood and grime streaked his gear, evidence of a long night, but his broad shoulders and intense gaze were non-diminished. Karen, in a simple silk camisole and shorts, froze mid-step, her breath catching as she took him in. “Frank,” she said, voice soft but laced with something heated, her eyes tracing the way the suit hugged his body, emphasizing every hard line. “You… you look good in that.”

Frank’s lips twitched, a rare half-smile breaking through his grim expression as he caught the look in her eyes. “Yeah? This old thing?” he rumbled, stepping closer, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor. The tactical vest, the holsters strapped to his thighs, the way the suit molded to his biceps—it all screamed danger, control, and raw power, and Karen’s pulse quickened. She reached out, her fingers brushing the skull emblem, feeling the rough texture of the kevlar under her touch. “It’s not just the suit,” she murmured, her voice low, “it’s you in it.”

Frank’s eyes darkened, his hand catching hers, guiding it to rest against his chest, the suit’s hard surface a contrast to the heat beneath. “Careful, Page,” he warned, voice rough, but he didn’t pull away, letting her explore. Karen’s fingers traced the straps of his vest, her touch lingering on the buckles, the utility pouches, the way the gear accentuated his strength. “I can’t help it,” she said, her voice breathy, stepping closer until their bodies were inches apart. “You look… fucking hot like this.” Her bluntness made Frank’s breath hitch, his cock stirring in the tight tactical pants.

She tugged at the vest’s straps, pulling him toward the couch, her eyes never leaving his. “Sit,” she said, a hint of command in her tone, and Frank obeyed, sinking onto the cushions, his suit creaking faintly. Karen straddled his lap, her hands roaming the kevlar, fingers catching on the holsters, the rough texture fueling her arousal. “This suit… it’s you,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss his jaw, her lips brushing the stubble, the faint taste of sweat and gunpowder only heightening her need. Frank’s hands settled on her hips, gripping through the silk, his own arousal evident as his cock pressed against her thigh.

“Fuck, Karen,” Frank growled, his hands tightening, but he let her take the lead, her fascination with the suit driving him wild. She kissed him hard, her tongue claiming his mouth, her fingers tugging at the vest’s straps as if she could peel it off with sheer will. “You like me like this, huh?” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire. Karen nodded, her hands sliding down to his thighs, tracing the holsters, the tactical pants stretched tight over his erection. “You’re a goddamn weapon,” she said, her voice raw, “and I can’t get enough of it.”

Karen’s hips rocked against him, the friction making Frank groan, his hands guiding her but not controlling, letting her revel in the fantasy of his suit. She tugged at the zipper of his vest, exposing a sliver of his scarred chest, her nails scraping lightly, marking him in her own way. “Keep it on,” she whispered, her eyes burning as she ground against his cock, the kevlar and leather amplifying every sensation. Frank’s breath was ragged, his control fraying, the sight of Karen’s desire—sparked by the suit that defined his mission—pushing him to the edge.

She kissed him again, slower now, her hands roaming the suit, memorizing every detail—the straps, the skull, the way it molded to his body. “You’re so fucking perfect in this,” she murmured, her voice trembling with need, her thighs slick through her shorts. Frank’s hands slid under her camisole, gripping her waist, his touch grounding her. “You’re gonna kill me, Page,” he said, voice hoarse, but his eyes were soft, adoring, even as his cock throbbed beneath her.

They stayed like that, Karen grinding against him, the suit a constant tease, her hands never leaving the kevlar, the holsters, the symbol of his brutal purpose. “Frank, I—” she started, but her words dissolved into a moan as she came, her body trembling, the friction and the sight of him in the suit pushing her over. Frank groaned, his own release close but held back, his hands steadying her as she shuddered. “Fuck, Karen,” he murmured, pulling her close, kissing her deeply, the suit still between them, a testament to their shared intensity.

The apartment was quiet, the rain a soft backdrop as Karen curled into Frank’s lap, her fingers still tracing the skull on his chest. “You’re keeping that suit,” she said, her voice teasing but firm, a smile breaking through. Frank chuckled, low and warm, his arms wrapping around her. “For you? Always.” He kissed her forehead, the tenderness a contrast to the suit’s harsh lines, their connection deepened by the raw desire it sparked.

The city hummed outside, oblivious to the heat in the apartment, where Frank’s Punisher suit became more than armor—it was a catalyst, binding them in a moment of passion and trust. “Next time, you wear it,” Frank teased, his voice soft, and Karen’s laugh was bright, her eyes promising more. The night stretched on, their bond sealed in the tactile allure of the suit, a symbol of Frank’s darkness that Karen embraced with fierce, unwavering love.

Chapter Text

The cozy Brooklyn apartment was a warm contrast to the autumn chill outside, its soft lamplight casting a golden glow over the cluttered bookshelves and worn couch. Joaquin Torres, lean and compact, stood in the center of the living room, wearing only a pair of tight gray boxer briefs that hugged his toned frame. His dark hair was tousled, his eyes gleaming with a mix of anticipation and vulnerability as he looked up at Bob Reynolds. Bob, a towering 6’4” with a broad, muscular build, loomed over him, shirtless, his blond hair catching the light, his massive frame radiating strength. Joaquin’s breath hitched, the size difference between them—a foot in height and a world of bulk—making his pulse race. “You gonna hold me, big guy?” Joaquin teased, voice low, a grin masking the need in his eyes.

Bob’s chuckle was deep, his blue eyes warm but hungry as he closed the distance, his large hands settling on Joaquin’s hips, fingers nearly encircling his waist. “You know I will, little man,” Bob said, his voice a low rumble, as he effortlessly lifted Joaquin off the floor, cradling him against his chest like he weighed nothing. Joaquin’s legs dangled, his smaller frame enveloped by Bob’s massive arms, the sensation of being held so easily sending a thrill through him. His cock twitched in his briefs, the size kink igniting a fire in his core as Bob’s strength made him feel small, safe, desired. “Fuck, you’re huge,” Joaquin murmured, his hands gripping Bob’s shoulders, fingers barely denting the muscle.

Bob carried Joaquin to the couch, settling him in his lap, one arm wrapped around Joaquin’s back, the other supporting his thighs, holding him like a prized possession. “You fit so perfect like this,” Bob said, his voice thick with affection, his hand stroking Joaquin’s side, dwarfing him. Joaquin’s breath caught, his body pressing closer, the contrast of Bob’s massive frame against his own making his cock harden fully, pressing against Bob’s thigh through the briefs. Bob’s hand slid lower, cupping Joaquin’s ass, his palm engulfing it, the ease of his grip amplifying Joaquin’s arousal. “You like being held, don’t you?” Bob teased, his lips brushing Joaquin’s ear, his breath hot.

Joaquin nodded, a soft moan escaping as Bob’s arms tightened, lifting him slightly to adjust his position, his smaller body nestled against Bob’s broad chest. “Yeah, fuck, love it,” Joaquin admitted, voice rough, his hands roaming Bob’s pecs, feeling small against the expanse of muscle. Bob’s cock stirred in his sweatpants, the bulge massive against Joaquin’s hip, the size difference evident even there. Bob’s hand slid to Joaquin’s briefs, tugging them down just enough to free his cock, hard and leaking. “Look at you, so small and so fuckin’ hard for me,” Bob murmured, his large fingers wrapping around Joaquin’s length, engulfing it, stroking slowly.

Bob’s other arm kept Joaquin held tight, his strength a constant reminder of their dynamic as he stroked, his touch deliberate, teasing. Joaquin’s moans were soft, his body trembling in Bob’s grip, the sensation of being held—completely enveloped by Bob’s massive frame—pushing him closer to the edge. “You’re so good like this,” Bob said, his voice a warm anchor, as he lifted Joaquin slightly, repositioning him so their cocks brushed through the fabric of Bob’s sweatpants. Joaquin gasped, his smaller frame shuddering, the size kink making every touch more intense, Bob’s hands and arms a cage of safety and desire.

“Bob, please,” Joaquin whispered, his voice breaking, his hands clutching Bob’s shoulders, feeling the power beneath. Bob’s chuckle was low, his arm tightening around Joaquin, holding him effortlessly as he ground their hips together, his cock pressing against Joaquin’s through the fabric. “Gonna make you feel so good, little guy,” Bob said, his free hand stroking Joaquin faster, the contrast of his massive hand against Joaquin’s cock driving him wild. Joaquin’s moans grew louder, his body arching in Bob’s hold, the sensation of being so small, so held, overwhelming his senses.

Bob lifted Joaquin higher, kissing his neck, his lips warm against the sensitive skin, his arm never faltering in its hold. “Come for me,” Bob murmured, his voice thick with desire, his hand speeding up, his grip on Joaquin’s body unyielding. Joaquin’s orgasm hit hard, his cry muffled against Bob’s chest as he spilled over Bob’s hand, his body shaking in the safety of Bob’s arms. Bob held him through it, his massive frame a steady anchor, his own cock still hard but secondary to Joaquin’s pleasure. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” Bob whispered, kissing Joaquin’s forehead, his arms never letting go.

They stayed like that, Joaquin curled in Bob’s lap, still held tight, the apartment quiet except for their ragged breaths. Bob’s hands roamed gently now, soothing, one arm cradling Joaquin, the other stroking his back. “You okay, little man?” Bob asked, voice soft, checking in. Joaquin grinned, breathless, his smaller frame nestled perfectly against Bob’s chest. “Never better, big guy.” The city hummed outside, but in the apartment, the size difference—Bob’s strength, Joaquin’s love of being held—bound them in a raw, intimate dance, their connection a pulse of trust and desire that lingered in the warm light.

Chapter Text

In Matt Murdock’s Hell’s Kitchen apartment, the air was thick with heat, the city’s distant hum drowned out by their ragged breaths. Elektra straddled Matt on the bed, her lithe frame bare, her dark hair wild as she rode him, his cock buried deep inside her. Matt’s hands gripped her hips, his senses heightened, feeling every pulse of her body. “Gonna fill you up,” he growled, voice raw, his Catholic guilt buried under primal need. “Want you carrying my kid.”

Elektra’s moan was sharp, her nails digging into his chest. “Do it, Matthew,” she purred, her voice a sultry challenge, grinding harder. “Breed me.” The words sent a jolt through Matt, his thrusts desperate, driven by the fantasy of claiming her fully. Her walls clenched around him, urging him on, and he came hard, spilling deep inside her with a groan, his hands pulling her down to keep every drop. Elektra shuddered, her own climax hitting, her lips crashing against his in a fierce kiss, their shared heat sealing the moment