My safe space ✨️

The Phoenix girls were out for drinks.

Well, not exactly out. The five of you lounged in your shared apartment with Courtney, or everyone knew as Inivisigal, wearing your most comfortable pajamas while snacking on junk food and bottles of cold cider.

The plan had been set from last week from a clean streak of dispatch work. Your Dispatcher, Robert Robertson, finally managed to get a hang of his gig and was able to efficiently guide your calls without any struggles. Although there were still mishaps here and there, a little brawl between the guys over their lack of synergy and one too many close calls, Z-team still came out unscathed and successful.

Now, the boys were out on their own thing. Most likely bar hopping in all villain spots on all sides of Torrance. You have no doubt in mind they dragged Robert into their shenanigans, and if they can manage to get him wasted by the end of the night, you owe them a lot of money.

Meanwhile, the girls were here in your apartment.

It's funny to think that all of you, former villains, gathered here today for a casual sleepover. The last sleepover you had was like—What? Ten years ago when you were in middle school.

It didn't take long for you to convince Visi to have them come here and spend the night. You figured, why not? It could be fun to be the host of this sleepover. Plus, the girls all brought their own food and drinks to share.

Malevola brought the cold ciders, opening a portal while carrying two trays. Her pajamas consisted of her usual tank top, and loose flannel pajama pants—comfy, yet efficient.

Prism brought all sorts of snacks, ranging from cheese crackers, twinkies, and spicy chips. You didn't ask where she got those, but you knew damn well a vending machine from the office would be mysteriously empty the next time you clock in.

And Coupé brought board games. Three to be exact, much to everyone's surprise. Not only was she a book enthusiast, you discovered she was fond of collecting board games as well.

After three hours of chaos, cheating, competitiveness, all three games were played and now you five were on the exciting part of the sleepover.

Gossip. Tea. Juice. Beef.

You name it.

SDN never ran out of it.

If your program was a mess, you were surprised to find out the others were just as crazy as your group. If not, way more hectic. Those guys were just better at hiding their drama than all of you.

The talk continued for another hour, until the topic gradually shifted into something else.

“Alright!” Prism raised her bottle to the air, sitting on the floor in her black tank and pink shorts. “It’s time for the juiciest part. Ladies, villainesses, hot bad bitches in the house! It's time for the mandatory game of fuck, marry, kill. Phoenix Program edition!”

Malevola sat up instantly. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Coupé hummed, her silky black pajama set gleaming against the lamplight. “Very well, I'd say kill for almost all of you. But I'm kinda tipsy, so we'll see if I changed my mind.”

You chuckled, elbowing Vis beside you on the couch. “You're so gonna get exposed, Vis.”

The dark-haired woman narrowed her eyes at you. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Taking a sip of your cider, you tossed her a knowing wink. “Sure you don't.”

Coupé looked at you. “Night, be a dear and pass me those cookies.”

Smiling, you tossed her the pack of cookies laying beside you. “Catch.”

Your villain name, Midnight, was a lazy attempt to sound cool and edgy because of your powers. Being able to blend in and disappear into shadows gives you an advantage of infiltrating the most secured hideouts, banks, and buildings. In the shadows, you were undetected. Not only that, controlling someone else's shadow was the fun part of it—sort of manipulating them like a puppeteer forcing their puppet to dance.

Or in your case, do unspeakable things.

Prism stood up, resting a hand on her hip.

“Rules are simple. Wanna fuck ‘em? Jerk the bottle. Marry? Raise those bitches! Kill ‘em off? Take a sip. Clear, ladies?”

“Crystal,” You smiled at her. “Who's up first?”

“First contender!” Prism snapped her finger, grinning widely. “He's hot. He's fiery. All flames and skin-tight V-neck glory. Flambae!”

Immediately, you took a small swig from your bottle. “Hard pass. Bastard still owes me ten bucks to this day. And he burned my sandwich.”

Beside you, Vis copied your action. “I bet he doesn't even know where or what a clit is, but insists he does. Anyone else have a feeling he's gay?”

On the floor, Malevola shrugged and shamelessly jerked the bottle. “Eh, what if he is? But you'd have to give me at least ten shots before I tap that ass.”

Coupé stayed silent for a while, then took a slow sip of her cider. “Too intense. I'm worried he'd accidentally burn me during sex.”

Unsurprisingly, Prism jerked her bottle. Then, with a wave of her hand, she simpered.

“Ain't that the fun part, girl? Who doesn't want a little heat in the climax? I know I do!”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at your roommate. “You ever experienced that before? Go ghost when you're about to come?”

She blinked at you, her eyes widening in realization, before punching your arm.

“Fucking shut up, Night.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

“You're a fucking bitch.”

“You love me.”

Prism opened her arm to the side in a dramatic flourish. “Second contender! Half genius, half pervert. All batty freak. Sonar!”

Malevola snorted, jerking her bottle again. “Been there, done that.”

Coupé, to your surprise, did the same motion hesitantly. “His disposition makes me curious.”

Prism shook her head, sipping her cider. “I'mma have to pass that. No judgement to you though, ladies!”

You laughed, already done with your sip. “Same here. But really, do you think he squeaks when he's close?”

Another snort escaped from Malevola, her golden scleras glinting. “He definitely does.”

Laughing, you slapped the couch repeatedly. “I fucking knew it!”

Your roommate groaned, another swig was down her throat. “Hey, I'm a freak. But not that much. Kinda scares me he'll turn batshit crazy in the middle of fucking. Hah, get it?”

“But that makes it all more exciting,” The demon countered, shivering in delight. “Plus, it was just a one time thing. He helped me realize I liked women more after that.”

The rest of the round went by in a blur.

Punch Up: Coupé jerked her bottle, the rest of you took a sip. He was sort of like an uncle of the group, and you cannot see him in any other way.

Golem: All bottles raised. The guy was a sweetheart, very marriage material.

Robert: All of you took a sip, but you did give Vis a side glance when she silently (and slowly) took a suspicious sip of her cider—to which she glared at you to keep quiet.

Prism even included all of you, and you were surprised when they all jerked their bottle once your name was mentioned. The scene made you double over in laughter, while Vis pretended to take a sip before raising it into the air.

“Aw, you'd marry me?” You batted your lashes at her.

She gave you an unimpressed look, though there was a ghost of a smile on her lips. “You cook better than me. You'd be the perfect trophy wife.”

“Okay, fuck you.”

All of you laughed, before Prism took the floor again.

“For the final contender,” Her voice lowered, holding her bottle as if it were a mic. “He's new. He's nervous. But most importantly, he's wet. Our very own walking bidet. Waterboy!”

Oh, fuck.

Silence filled the room.

Not even a snort from Malevola, or a hum from Coupé. Meanwhile, you raised an eyebrow at all of them when they proceeded to drink in unison.

Your jaw dropped, bewildered. “Aw, what? He's cute, though. None of you are interested?”

Both Malevola and Coupé shrugged, while Vis and Prism grimaced.

“Well, he's cute.” The latter coughed, sounding completely otherwise. “Except for the fact he pukes the same water he cleans our office with. Yeah, hard pass.”

Pouting, you leaned back on the couch. “I think that's charming. Seriously? You don't think he's adorable?”

Coupé shot you a look of suspicion and curiosity. “Do you have opposing beliefs, then?”

Vis snickered, rolling her eyes. “Oh, you don't know? Night wants to fuck him.”

Gasps resounded from the three women, who all snapped their heads to look at you in question.

Well, there goes my secret. So much for not revealing anything, Vis.

Sighing, you held up your hands. “Guilty as charged. You know what they say about the tall, skinny ones? Yeah, I'm willing to bet he's one of those who's secretly has a–”

“Okay, pause.” Prism shook her hands around, before she pointed at you with her bottle. “You?”

“Me.”

“Would fuck him?”

“Yes.”

“Waterboy? The former janitor? The guy who squirts water from his mouth? That guy?”

“Yes,” You groaned, half in frustration and half in amusement. “I would. No hesitation. No shots. Just me, him, in my bed. Or his. Okay, maybe not his. He lives with his grandma. Not planning to traumatize the old woman.”

Then, the three of them turned to your roommate for more answers.

Vis sighed, very much exasperated being a victim of your hopeless crush. “Hey, I have no fucking clue too. As far as I know, Night likes someone she can order around and likes it back. I already kink shamed her on that.”

You clutched your chest, feigning hurt. “Hey, I didn't shame you when you had that dream with–”

She quickly slapped a hand on your mouth, muffling your voice as you tried to free yourself.

Malevola produced a low whistle, seeming impressed and disturbed at the same time. “Well, to each their own. Have you fucked him yet?”

Finally tearing yourself from her hold, you leaned your head back against the couch.

“Nope.”

“Are you planning to?”

“Yup.”

“When?”

“Dunno. Haven't found the right time yet.”

Prism huffed out a laugh, her dark teal shades catching the light as she appraised you.

“Oh, girl. You can do that whenever you want. You're one hot bitch! Seriously, I heard the others talkin’ ‘bout you and that ass. Saw them lookin’ too. Waterboy will fold if you come up to him with that thang shakin’.”

“But that's the problem,” You raised your hand, gesturing wildly in the air. “I can't talk to him. I mean, I can. Tried a bunch of times. But he just walks away! Doesn't even look at me. Doesn't wanna be in the same vicinity as I am. He talks to you, guys. But to me, it's like I'm holding a gun in my hand and he fucking dips. What gives, huh?”

No one answered you, causing your cheeks to heat in embarrassment from the lengthy ramble.

For a while, you just wanted to be swallowed up by the floor and disappear forever. You almost did. The shadows can reclaim you into the darkness, so you can slip away from their sight and vanish until the next morning.

When you lifted your head, you saw all of them wearing the same expression.

Amusement. Disbelief. And one obvious “What the fuck?” look from your roommate.

It was Prism who broke the tension, hiding a massive smile behind her manicured hands.

“Oh, honey.” Her tone dripped with faux concern and pity. “You're as blind as a mouse, it's honestly cute.”

Blinking, you stared at her in confusion. “What the fuck do you mean?”

Coupé sighed softly. “Do you wonder why he acts so differently around you?”

“Yeah, like, all the time.”

“And you never wondered why he does?”

“I just told you.”

“You didn't wonder enough, it seemed.”

You were about to defend yourself, when Malevola cut in. “Respectfully, I agree with Coupé. The guy is definitely into you, Night. Why else would he actively try to avoid you?”

“Maybe he hates me?” You stated the obvious, rolling your eyes. “Maybe I've done something to give him the ick. Or maybe I'm not his type at all.”

“Bitch, you're everyone's type.” Prism rolled her eyes back at you. “And trust me, girl. You're not the only one who wanna hit! So make your fucking move. You only live once, so go fuck him while you have the chance!”

The rest of them said their agreement, even your roommate gave you a thumbs up as she finished her drink.

Somehow, that comforted you.

Until Malevola decided to ruin the peace.

“Make a tape while you're at it.”

You flipped her off, the heat in your cheeks returning.

At the side, Prism shrugged. “Ain’t gonna lie, I'd watch that.”

You flipped her off as well.

────────────── ★ ───────────────

A week has passed since that night, and you still haven't done anything to make a move.

Like his name itself, Waterboy was one slippery fucker who always left the room before you could even step foot inside. Whenever you had missions together, somehow Robert mysteriously started to pair you up more often, you did most of the talking while he nodded and followed your commands silently—all the while responding immediately to Robert as soon as he talked in his earpiece.

When you tried to strike small talk with him, he'd keep his answers short and curt. Stammering still, but never longer than five words. He avoided looking at you in the eye, stood at least five feet away, and flinched whenever you congratulated him with a simple pat on his arm.

Yeah, you were starting to think he really disliked your guts for some reason.

Well, whatever. Can't please anyone.

You sipped on your spiked punch, hanging at the far back of the office while everyone mingled and celebrated.

Blonde Blazer decided to throw a small celebratory party at your floor level after a month of continuous successful dispatch calls. Chase had his team joined in, as well as the other dispatchers and their respective program members. Beef was freely walking around the place, often getting cuddled by a few people. All the cubicles have been cleared to the side, making space for the table filled with snacks and drinks. Couches at every corner, laughter resounding in every group.

Robert hung around Blonde Blazer, of course he would, and you couldn't help but smile at your roommate’s barely concealed scowl. Even when she tried to hide it, Invisigal was more expressive than she realized. And right now, Blonde Blazer should be fucking buried six feet deep with how how lethal her glare looked.

“You know you can do that discreetly,” You voiced out, elbowing her. “Like don't stare directly at them. Do it every minute or so. They're definitely gonna notice.”

Vis finally tore her eyes from the pair, but the glare was now directed towards you. “Don't you have a wet hose to crack, Boogeyman?”

Snickering, you lightly punched her arm. “Oh, fuck off. I can't crack what I can't fucking touch. The guy's too slippery for me to even hold.”

She made a noise of disgust. “Maybe that's another power of his. Avoiding people who disappear into the shadows. Specifically just those kinds.”

“So, just me?”

“Who else?”

“That kinda breaks my heart, Vis.”

Your roommate flashed you a teasing grin, something glinted in her eyes. “I could get him for you if you want.”

As much as you wanted to accept the help, you really wanted to do this on your own. God knows how many times you tried to befriend the man. You can't even talk to him in the break room without him stammering intensely or sprinting away muttering some sort of excuse. At the start of the party, you greeted everyone on the floor including him. But of course, all you received was a crooked smile and hasty nod before he darted towards Robert.

Any attempts that followed always ended horribly. The Phoenix girls could see you trying and failing every time, even Blonde Blazer caught on. At the end of the hour, you decided to give up. You may be a former villain, but you won’t stoop that low chasing a man around for his attention.

You released a sigh, shaking your head at the offer. “Thanks, Vis. But at this point, I don't wanna fuck him anymore. Well, I still do. But I just wanna know why he doesn't want to do anything with me.”

She spared you a brief look of pity, until something caught her attention past you.

You heard her gasp, felt her finger poke your side, before she whispered low in your ear.

“Don't look but he's giving you these eyes.”

Refraining from looking over your shoulder, you focused on her. “Who? What eyes?”

The dark-haired woman whispered even lower. “Who else? Your future water bed. He has these fuck me eyes when I caught him staring at you. Gross.”

“Stop feeding my delusions,” You stepped back, fixing her an unamused look. “It's bad enough I wanna believe you, and maybe you've had too many of those drinks.”

Vis groaned, throwing her empty red cup to a bin next to her. “But seriously, he’s still giving you those fuck me eyes.”

A battle raged within you, desire clashing with logic.

Whether to turn and see for yourself or rationalize with yourself that he must be looking at someone else. Plus, you knew Vis and her jokes. It’s not the first time she baited you into something like this. At this point, you were too frustrated to fall for it. Weeks, almost a month since he joined, and your stupid little crush worsened every time she gave you an inkling of hope.

Part of you was desperate to look over, but you knew damn well you’re not about to chase the man again. Especially someone who’d run away the minute you show up. So, you chose to sip your drink and set your gaze forward.

“That’s it,” You huffed, glaring at Flambae in particular. He was in your line of sight, pretty convenient to do so. “I’m done chasing after him.”

Your roommate raised an eyebrow, amused and catching on. “You got a plan?”

Flashing her an impish smirk, you winked. “Let’s see how long it takes for him to do something if I ignore him this time.”

She slapped your butt as you made your way back to the center. “You got this!”

With the plan in mind, you regrouped with the party and focused on having fun rather than moping in a corner.

You hung around Prism and Malevola, who were recording themselves in the popstar’s phone while singing. You even participated in beer pong with the guys, playing against Sonar who flipped you off every time you made him drink a cup. Next up was Golem, who was surprisingly good and made you down more cups than you can count. Punch Up was in an arm wrestling contest with another hero, while Coupé watched from the side with her own drink in hand.

And to get her riled up, you casually flirted with Robert while smiling in Vis’ direction, which made her march right up and steal him away after you walked off laughing. You finally talked to Flambae, who handed you your two-week due ten bucks, and you stuck with him ever since.

The party has calmed, and the rest were invested in their own conversations.

Flambae was unexpectedly a pretty good conversationalist. At least, when he wasn’t brooding and being an asshole. You supposed the beer helped with it. Nevertheless, you found yourself enjoying your talk with him. You got to learn where he came from, why he became a villain, why he decided to join SDN.

In turn, you shared some parts of your own story.

In the middle of your conversation, Flambae nudged your arm.

“So, what’s up with you and waterbitch?” He asked, laying his arms behind the couch. “You two have a thing going on?”

Sputtering, you stared at him with wide eyes. “Fuck, you noticed?”

The Flame villain scoffed in amusement, shaking his head. “Anyone with a pair of good eyes would notice. You’ve been running after him since the start of the party. Wanna fuck him that badly, huh?”

“You automatically assume I wanna fuck him?” You tilted your head, he only gave you a deadpanned stare. “Okay, fine. Well, you’re not innocent yourself. I see the way you stare at Rob’s ass when he’s not looking.”

Flambae spat out his drink, coughing and putting his chest in shock. “Woah, woah, woah. Hey! I don’t do that shit. I don’t wanna fuck him. He’s fucking Mecha Man. He burnt my eyebrows. And my pride! I'm banned from Crypto Night because of him, that was my favorite place to drink! Honestly, why do people think that I–”

While he was busy defending himself, you didn’t miss his accent thickening and the prominent hue coating the tips of his ears. And you knew damn well it wasn’t because of the beer. The more words he spat out, the more his voice softened.

It got to the point he realized he was rambling, causing him to snap his mouth shut and glare at you.

“You think this is funny?’

“I wasn’t even laughing.”

“I could see you smiling.”

“Not laughing.”

He clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. You’re fucking crazy.”

That brought a laugh out of you, punching his arm lightly. “Aw, come on. I think it’s cute! I mean, you’re certainly not the only one with a crush on him. Blazer’s been batting her lashes, Vis hovers around him. Some people in other programs are interested. You gonna make a move, fireboy?”

A grimace invaded his features, his gaze briefly flickering towards Robert’s direction.

“How about you?” He deflected the question, regarding you now with a quirk of his half-burnt eyebrow. “Not to feed your delusional ass, but the sprinkler’s been staring at you this whole time. Kinda freaks me out.”

Your heart stuttered, but you forced yourself to remain impassive.

Sighing, you waved him off dismissively.

“Don't even start. Vis already said that earlier, and I'm not in the mood to–”

Flambae leaned towards you, his upper body almost covering yours while he neared his face beside your ear. To anyone, it would seem he was kissing you. You could feel his scruff grazing your cheek, and you involuntarily shivered at the sensation.

“Why not make him jealous?” His rough voice made your breath hitch. “I can see the bastard from here. He's shaking in his fucking wetsuit.”

You maintained a steady voice, though it was too weak. “What else?”

The Flame hero hummed, low and gruff, you pressed your thighs together. Fuck, it's been a long time since you had anyone this close. You might need to jerk the bottle next time you have a sleepover with the girls.

“Fuck me,” You heard him chuckle, you almost considered to. “Never knew he could glare like that. If he can shoot lasers from those goggles, I'd be fucking dead.”

Then, he slowly removed himself from you.

The air in your lungs finally escaped, coming out in light pants as you stared at him in bewilderment.

All you could see was a smug smirk, mischief glinting in his amber irises, and a wink from Flambae.

“Good luck, bitch.”

You offered him a small smile, nodding your thanks, before you stood up from the couch and walked away.

You could feel eyes on you while you sauntered towards the comfort rooms.

When you finally looked over your shoulder, you met gazes with the very man who tried to avoid them. But this time, he stared right back. You didn't miss the way he gulped, the way he clutched his cup tighter to his chest, and how his eyes widened when he realized you caught him looking.

Smirking, you tossed him a wink, before melting into the shadows in a smoky wisp.

────────────── ★ ───────────────

You hummed softly to yourself, fixing your hair and adjusting your clothes as you assessed your appearance in the mirror.

It was already past nine, the party started two hours ago, but there were more people coming in from different programs. You decided this was the best time to take a breather from them, and hopefully, your plan would finally work.

You really hoped he took the bait.

After fixing everything, you smiled in satisfaction and made your way out the comfort room.

Just when you opened the door, a tall figure jumped back in shock on the other side. You knew those yellow and blue colors, and lanky limbs anywhere.

Looking up, you locked gazes again with the object of your attraction.

Waterboy blinked, as if surprised to see you coming out of the women's restroom. His cheeks reddened, clearing his throat repeatedly as he tried to regain his footing. A loud squelch squished under his feet, his wetsuit caught a few trails of water from the light behind you.

He coughed again, shifting his eyes aside.

“Ah, sorry about that! I didn't know it was the women's rest– restroom. I was about to knock on the door. Sorry, didn't see the– uh, sign there.”

Knock on the women's restroom?

You raised an eyebrow, smiling softly at his adorable stammers. “No worries, Waterboy. It’s kinda dark in this hall. Honestly, I’d make the same mistake.”

The Water hero nodded, still not looking at you.

His thumbs twiddled together, and you caught him whispering something under his breath. Something that sounded like your alias, a few unintelligible lines, before he finally released a long breath and straightened himself.

“I was wondering,” The goggled hero inhaled, peering down at you in concern. “If you were okay? You didn't talk to– I mean, you looked like you were having fun– lots of fun out there. But you suddenly left.”

Leaning against the doorway, you smirked at him. “Why? Missed me already?”

“Yes,” He responded quickly, before he realized what he said. “I mean no– No, the others miss you. They were looking for you– where you went. I was sent here to– to look. And yeah! Here you. . . are.”

“Here I am,” You pushed yourself off the doorway, taking slow steps towards him. “So, need me for something?”

He stumbled backwards, you only followed.

“Were they looking for me?”

His back met the wall, and you stopped when you were standing right in front of him.

“Or were you?”

A shaky exhale escaped him, instinctively searching for an exit from your presence.

But you were tired of him running away.

So, you blocked his path with an arm to the wall and leaned up to his face real close. The blush tinting his cheeks deepened. His breathing became more labored, coming out in nervous pants. You searched his expression for any sign of discomfort. It was evident, yes, but the way his pupils dilated didn't miss your attention.

“Tell me something,” Your voice lowered, lashes fluttering. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

He exhaled again, whimpering softly. “I wasn't trying to. I just thought that– that you were. . . intimidating.”

Seriously?

Scoffing, you glared at him. “Intimidating? I've tried to befriend you multiple times, Waterboy. What exactly in me do you find intimidating?”

For a moment, he didn't answer you.

Instead, his eyes dropped to your lips.

You saw him losing focus momentarily, lashes fluttering, posture slouching. He didn't realize that he was slowly inching down, until your noses almost brushed. Until his breath, tainted with the same juice punch you drank, tangled with yours. Until there was only a breadth of space between your lips—only then he paused at the realization.

But before he could pull away, jet black smoke emitted from your palm. When you clenched your hand, his whole body froze. His body tried to resist your power, struggling against your shadow hold.

Your glare sharpened, your power preventing him from physically moving. Oh, he thought he could get away that easily? Oh, fat chance. He won't escape this time.

Not when you finally had him in your grasp.

“Answer me,” Your voice dripped in both a sensual lilt and a dangerous threat. “Or I won't let you leave.”

You didn’t expect a small sound from him to answer, like a whine almost. But fuck, did it spark a wild thought in your mind. You wondered what else you could pull out of him. What kinds of other noises. It was one of the reasons that drew you to him—to find out if he'd be the type to beg and cry for more.

When you tightened your fist, he made another noise from the back of his throat.

“Well?”

“It's– It's because I. . .”

“Go on, baby.”

“S-Shit,” He exhaled, then gasped. “Sorry, I didn't mean to curse. I-I mean– I don't curse. Much. I don't curse much. It's just– That was unexpected.”

Your smirk resurfaced, gaze gleaming. “You like me calling you baby?”

His cheeks deepened in color. “Y-Yes.”

“You like me controlling you?”

“Yes.”

“You wanna get out of here?”

He nodded, as if under a hypnotic trance.

One word escaped him—a single syllable—whispered so softly you almost didn't hear it over the distant music playing from the end of the hall.

“Please.”

Your teasing smirk turned into a victorious grin, immediately releasing your hold over his shadow. When he stumbled forward, your palm caught his cheek—moist and smooth—and your lips grazed the shell of his ear.

“Good boy.”

And the whimper he produced brought a dark chuckle out of you.

────────────── ★ ───────────────

“Oh, fuck.”

You tossed your head back, one hand gripping the edge of the desk. The other threaded against damp brunette strands between your legs. A ravenous tongue devoured your slick cunt, needy moans vibrating your core, causing you to shudder in delight.

Waterboy was far from perfect, but the way his enthusiasm showed through his hunger made up for the lack of experience. And fuck, he ate you out like a starved man who never had the chance to eat anything in his life.

“Fuck,” You groaned, pushing your hips out core more, to which he greedily accepted. “Fuck, that's it. Good boy.”

He moaned, shameless and loud, eyes rolling to the back of his head from the praise.

How did your night escalate to this exactly?

Well, one moment you were leading him to an empty room—God knows whose office it was—and the next, you were pulling him inside and locking the door behind him. Before he could protest, your lips covered his in a searing kiss. Starved and frustrated. After a month of running around, you were done playing these games.

You needed to have him.

Now.

And so, you walked backwards.

He chased after your mouth, gloved hands weakly clutching your hips as you both stumbled in the dark.

When something bumped against your behind, you didn't hesitate to sit on the desk and pull him closer. He settled there, thin hips between your thighs, still kissing you with equal desperation and need. It was a little clumsy, you could tell he didn't have a lot of experience with this sort of stuff.

So, you took the lead and slipped your tongue past his lips.

The gasp he let out allowed you to mold your tongue against his, guiding him to a deeper kiss.

He sighed shakily, whimpering into your mouth as the rush from earlier turned languid. He copied your movements, tilting his head and opening his mouth a little wider. Like you expected, he was a verbal kisser. Moaned into the kiss, whined when you pulled away just a little, and sighed when you tug on his bottom lip. You knew he learned quickly, obeyed without complaints, and that knowledge would be used to your advantage and his pleasure.

You parted briefly, kissing his cheek. “Ever kissed anyone like this before?”

Waterboy shook his head, and that made your heart ache for him. “No. I've never– Never been lucky with anyone. Because, y'know, I'm not that– um, ideal for them.”

You cupped his cheeks, gently stroking his high cheekbones, before you turned his face to look at yours.

“No girlfriend?”

“None– No. No one.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Still no– none.”

The only source of light was the silver streak of moonlight coming from the window behind you, but it was enough for you to see the hesitance and insecurity displayed on his features. If no one wanted him like you do, that meant you could have him all to yourself. You could show him so many things he missed out on. Spoil him real good, and shower him with the endless amount of affection he deserved.

“Too bad for them,” Your voice lowered into a sly quip, lips brushing along his ear. He shivered, and you laughed. “I'll have you all to myself. I'll take real good care of you.”

Your fingers played with the zipper at his collar, lightly tugging it down until his neck was exposed.

Then, you trailed your kisses along his jaw.

Starting under his ear, where his pulse raced, and down his jawline. You heard him gulp, feel his throat moving, and you didn't hesitate to kiss him there. Slow, purposeful, teasing. Your tongue darted out, flat on his Adam's apple, licking a long stripe up underneath his chin before nipping on the flushed skin.

Meanwhile, your deft fingers came up behind his head, nails lightly scratching his scalp.

His breath stuttered, hips rutting against your clothed center. “Oh, f-fu– That feels so– Good. Feels so good.”

You nipped the skin above his pulse, leaving your mark on him. “You like this, baby?”

He nodded, shivering. “Yes, please. M-More.”

More?

Your smirk widened, tugging on his damp strands until his head was tipped back. A high-pitched whine tore from his throat, helplessly bucking into you.

“You want more?”

“Yes. Please. I want– need more.”

“Then, you better earn it.”

You released your hold on him, and he immediately snapped his gaze to stare at you incredulously. Disappointment and hurt swam in his eyes, your heart melted at the sight of him looking so pathetic like that. Oh, he thought you were done with him? After making you chase after his sorry ass all those weeks? You needed to make things clear—he needed to earn it.

With a devilish grin, you caressed his cheek. “Oh, don't be sad, baby. I'm not done with you yet.”

Hope replaced the disappointment, glimmering bright behind his goggles. “Really? Oh. Then, uh, what do you want to– to do now?”

The hand of his cheek trailed up, settling on his head, before you applied enough force for him to bow slightly.

Like you expected, he seemed to understand the action and proceeded to sink to his knees. When he finally knelt, you gazed down at him in amusement and dark satisfaction. Fuck, he looked absolutely good on his knees like that. Between your legs. Wearing that adorable confusion on his sweet face. You could just eat him right up at that moment.

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, round in disbelief. “You want me to do– to please you? Here? In– In the office?”

“I said you wanted to earn more, right?” Your hand trailed down your stomach, and relished the sight of his jaw dropping. “Start with here.”

The rest that followed was a blur.

Your pants were taken off within a minute, alongside your underwear. You vaguely remembered him parting your knees. Kissing your inner thighs. Sighing into your skin. A long tongue licking up towards your exposed cunt. A cool breath pressing against your folds. You remembered him looking up at you, pleading and asking for permission. You nodded once, only once, before he dove in and stole the air from your lungs.

And now, here you were.

With him ravaging you like he's going to die if he didn't.

Waterboy didn't relent. Didn't even pause to take a breather or to rest his tongue. It must've been aching now. Still, he continued his pursuit to earn more. More praises. More access. More rewards from you. And who were you to deny such a sweet boy?

“Circle your tongue on that area,” You coached him, and he obeyed with a slow swirl of his tongue around your clit. “Shit. Fuck. That's it, baby. Doing so good for me.”

The praise fueled him even more, tugging you closer to the edge of the desk as he repeated the motion fervently.

In no time, your breathing picked up.

“Fuck. Don't stop, baby. Keep going.”

He nodded, eager to please, pressing himself even deeper into you. His hands, freed from his gloves, glided over your hips and thighs. There was a little moisture from them, damp from his power, but somehow it triggered another shiver down your spine from the cool sensation.

It contrasted the simmering heat coursing in your veins, blood running hot at the impending peak of your climax. Your thighs began to tremble, but his hands were there to soothe the tremors. The sounds he made were absolutely obscene—the lewd slurps, the needy whines, the tiny little mumbles of please and more.

The shadows in the room shifted, some flaring out like flames from the walls. Dark tendrils manifested beneath him, dancing and caressing his body in light touches. Your power didn't seem to bother him, already seeing it beforehand during your synergy battles. He only grew more persistent, bringing one hand to stroke your entrance before two lithe fingers entered you in deliberate, shy curls.

Your back arched, gasping into the air. “Ah, shit. Fuck, fuck– m’so close.”

His fingers reached that spot within you, repetitively brushing against the area as he dragged them out and pushed back in. He switched to sucking on your clit, causing you to squirm against his mouth and on the desk. The darkness behind your eyelids exploded into a hot white flash. Your toes curled, your chest rose and fell at the surge of your release. Even when your thighs clamped around his head, he still didn't falter.

If anything, he moaned loudly.

Your climax washed over your body in intense waves, and Waterboy drew the tides longer the more he greedily drank from you. After the light vanishes behind your eyelids, fluttering them open to adjust in the darkness, you let your thighs fall away from his head. Your arm almost gave out behind you, but you forced yourself upright.

“Fuck,” It was the only word you could think of, mind still trapped in a foggy daze. “Oh, fuck.”

Between your legs, you felt him finally part from your soaked cunt. He was breathing hard, fast, like he had run a marathon from the office and back. His fingers slipped out of you, drawing another moan out your lips, and you heard him suck on the slick release with a relieved whine.

Your gaze dropped to him, surprised to find his eyes already pinned on you.

Is he crying?

You brought the hand on his hand to cup his cheek, and he immediately leaned against your touch.

“Was I– was that okay?” Waterboy stared at you, half-lidded and teary-eyed, and a tired smile broke out of your features.

Your thumb swept across his glistening bottom lip, before pushing it into his mouth. The whimper he released was needy, sucking on your thumb without breaking eye contact.

“You did perfect,” You praised, still out of breath. “So perfect, baby. You even pulled a trick up your sleeve in the end. Where d’you learn that?”

Waterboy flushed deeper, caught. “Oh, uh. . . Well, I just thought of it during– I just wanted to do it. Try it. See if it works.”

You gave him a knowing smirk, chuckling at his embarrassment. “Did a little research, huh?”

He nodded, avoiding your stare. “You could say that.”

Cute.

Once the feeling returned to your legs, you patted his cheek.

“Up.”

He quickly rose to his feet, a little out of balance, but he towered over you easily. Even sitting on a desk, his looming height shadowed yours. If he didn't hunch most of the time, he would appear much taller than he was. You'd love to help him with that confidence issue, his potential was too great to ignore.

You grabbed his collar and pulled him down for another kiss as a reward for his effort.

With the practice earlier, Waterboy was able to match you in equal fervor. Still clumsy, but so much better. His hands were moist—from his sweat or power, you didn't care which one—gripping your hips as you began to unzip the front of his wetsuit.

But he quickly stopped you before you could.

“My power is not– I can't control it well. Especially when I'm– We should just leave it like this.”

“Hey, it’s fine. You don’t need to worry.”

“But you could get we– soaked.”

Raising an eyebrow, you smirked at him. “Aren’t I already?”

You saw his throat bob at your crude joke. “I suppose that’s– Yeah, that makes sense. I guess we could. . .”

“Shhh,” You pressed a finger to his lips, slipping off of the desk. “I said I’ll take good care of you. Don’t worry your pretty little head. Okay, baby?”

Waterboy nodded, dazed from the small compliment. “You– You think I’m pretty?”

You kissed his cheek, “I think you're cute, pretty boy.”

Without warning, you shoved him aside to an empty chair.

He flopped down, letting out a surprised yelp. Whoever's chair this belonged to, you hoped they wouldn't mind a little mess next time they clock in. But you don’t it would be a problem, not when you have someone who can clean up after you guys are done.

You didn't give him a chance to speak, quickly straddling him down with your legs beside his and your cunt directly against the prominent bulge beneath his wetsuit. Fuck, judging by the hardness of it, you could tell he was definitely hiding a lot more inches to him. Just imagining it brought an ache between your legs, and you wanted to skip this to the main course.

However, it wasn't fair that only he got to have a taste.

Now, it’s time to have yours.

“You said you find me intimidating?” Your fingers returned to his zipper. “I'd really like to know why. Is it because you hated me?”

He shook his head furiously. “N-No– No! I don't hate you. I never ha–hated you.”

You tugged it open, slowly, your gaze following the tab as it descended to reveal unblemished skin.

Stopping just below his belly button, your fingers glided upwards, his stomach tensing underneath your touch. Random patterns were drawn, fingertips dancing along soft dips and flat muscles—no battle scars, and no unhealed wounds—untouched in more ways than one.

“So, what was it? You liked having me chase you around? Wanted me to look like a fucking idiot with a schoolgirl crush?”

Again, Waterboy shook his head. “That's– That's not it– not what it was. I-I’m sorry if it seemed like that–”

You silenced him with another kiss, both hands now on his chest. He did nothing but accept it, whimpering into your mouth, leaning back against the chair as you pushed deeper, rougher, hungrier.

He didn't push you away, instead he did something you'd never expect.

His hands fell to your thighs, before he shyly rolled his hips up to grind to meet yours.

In a small voice, he whispered. “I liked you– like you. I was just scared the others were– they put you up with this. But– haaa, I like you too.”

Fuck.

Momentarily losing focus, you grinded back on him. Your clit caught the end of his zipper, tearing a ragged mouth from you. He took that as a sign to be a little bolder. He still let you lead the kiss, control the pace how you liked, while meeting every roll with his own small thrusts. But as much as you wanted to give in, you still had a plan to follow.

So, you wrapped your hand around his throat and tore yourself away from him. His breath hitched, dilated eyes round in disbelief. His chest quickly rose and fell, throat moving under your palm. But what caught your attention the most was the feeling of him twitching beneath you. Just as you thought, he liked this shit just as much as you did.

Grinning, you squeezed his throat harder.

And his eyes rolled back, rutting against you more desperately.

“More,” He exhaled shakily, whining louder now. “Please. I'll be good– So good. Just want more. Please.”

Oh, poor thing's so touch-starved.

Not that you minded. This was exactly why you had your eye on him.

Sweet, charming, pathetic Waterboy.

Letting go of his throat, you only caught a glimpse of the disappointment on his face before you were sliding off of him and down to your knees.

His gaze followed you, widening even more if that was possible. “O-Oh, mother of– Are you going to– What are you going to do?”

Your attention flitted between his stunned expression and back down to the visible strain on his wetsuit. Fuck, he was long. Even through the layers, you could almost see the length of him. You already knew this was going to be both a treat and a challenge for the both of you.

“Just want to return the favor.”

You tugged his zipper, dragging it slowly over his crotch until it stopped at the end. Of course, his underwear was speedos. Blue ones, no less—practical, yet still ridiculous.

“Fu– Favor?” His words stuttered, a hiss fell past his lips at the contact of your hand on him. “Ah, that’s– Okay. Yeah, you can reta– return the favor.”

Due to his power, you were able to stroke him easily. Enough slickness, easier movements. He twitched in your hand, eyes glazing over in drunken lust. The head of his cock peaked from his waistband, flushed pink, and you couldn't wait to see all of him—all pretty, all begging, and all yours.

You flashed him a coy smirk, eyes glinting in dark delight. “Just sit there and look pretty for me. Okay, baby?”

Waterboy nodded, shifting his hips outwards. “Y-Yeah, I can. I will. Whatever you want.”

“Good boy,” You kissed his hard length. “Now, keep quiet. We don't want the others to hear.”

Your fingers hooked over his waistband, then in a single flourish you freed him. Your mouth parted, and he covered his face with both of his hands.

Fuck.

The girls were gonna have a field day because you were fucking right. Tall, skinny guys definitely pack more. He's long, you didn't need to think about the exact digits because fuck he was, with a slight upward curve and one prominent vein underlining the base. The tip of his cock was flushed pink, almost red if you squint hard enough, precum already leaking out. Oh, the poor boy was so deprived.

Wrapping a hand around him, he immediately throbbed in your touch. Warm, hard, and eager. You gave an experimental jerk, and a loud whimper escaped him, throbbing again as you started a slow work over his length.

“Just like I thought,” You hummed, low and teasing, fixing him with a dangerous look. “So fucking pretty.”

Waterboy peeked through his fingers, goggles slightly skewed. “Th–Thanks. Oh, fu-fuck–”

His sentence never finished, because your lips were on his tip. Kissing him softly. Letting your tongue drag over his slit. Tasting him, and just as you expected, clean and bittersweet. Oh, this was just getting better and better for you. Hopefully, it was the same for him, because you're planning to make him remember this night every time he passes this hall and sees this office.

Without waiting any further, you swirled your tongue around his tip and sucked.

His whole body jolted, almost flying off of the chair. But you held him down with your other hand on his hip. Fortunately, he seemed to get the message from your glare. A warning. If he moved again, you weren't afraid to use your shadows to restrain him. So, he grasped the armchairs instead, giving you a small nod and a pleading look.

Patting his hip, you kissed his tip again.

Before you flattened your tongue beneath him, and took him deep. Nice and slow. The reward you received blessed your ears with his ragged breathing, muffled cries, and broken syllables. His breathing turned heavy, as if he had just resurfaced from the ocean. You could see the sheen on his skin, not sweat, definitely his power.

You breathed through your nose, hollowing your cheeks, before sucking him back up. Then, you did it again. Take him in slow. Suck him back fast. Again and again, until your throat relaxed to the sensation and you were able to take more. And when he tried to talk, you moaned around him and let the words die in his throat.

Meanwhile, his body constantly twitched and flinched every time. Tiny whimpers became desperate mewls. Ragged breathing turned into shortened breaths. His hands were knuckle white, gripping the armchair so hard moisture started to gather.

Still, Waterboy kept his hips still. Even when you felt him squirming, he didn't move.

So, you let him go and decided to reward him.

Kissing his hip, marking on his skin, while your hand continued to work him faster.

“Doing so good for me, baby.”

“Sound so pretty.”

“Look at you, sweet boy. Taking this so well.”

“Might keep you all to myself.”

The flooded praises produced more sounds from him. All equally needy and broken. His breathing quickened, and in time, he was writhing on the chair. When your mouth returned to him, focusing on his tip while your hand didn't falter. You didn't stop even when he was sobbing, your mouth and hand worked in sync until he was gasping for air and one of his hands flew to his mouth to muffle himself.

By the way his noises grew behind his hand, and the way his cock throbbed in yours, it wouldn't be long until he reached his peak.

Waterboy sobbed, goggles too fogged to let you see the tears behind them. “A-Ah, wait. Oh, please. Please, don't sta– stop. Don't stop.”

“What if I do?”

“N-No! Please, don't–”

“You think you deserve to come?”

“But I’ve been go– I'm good. You sa– said I've been good.”

You hummed, kissing him again with mischief swimming in your gaze. “I changed my mind. Maybe I won't let you finish yet.”

Then, you stood up—leaving him aching and throbbing in his seat.

He stared at you, weak frustration evident on his flushed features, but he made no move to follow. Good, he learned fast. You walked backwards, returning to the desk earlier. While you slid on it, your gaze wandered over his body hungrily. From his heaving chest, his smooth stomach, down to his still hard and deeply red length glistening for attention.

You were tempted to walk right over and take him right there on the chair. Straddle him down, keep his mouth quiet, while you chase your pleasure and have him beg. But that would mean you'd do all the work.

No, he needed to work for it.

With a flick of your finger, you gestured for him to stand. “Come here.”

He shot up from his seat, stumbling towards you with lanky limbs and clumsy footing. You quickly removed his goggles, and felt the hot tears finally stream down his cheeks as you cupped his face. How could his skin feel so warm and cool at the same time? You didn't think much about it, bringing him down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss.

A high moan met your tongue, two trembling hands settled on your waist. He pushed himself into you, his stiff length rubbing on your inner thigh. Fingernails raked against a damp scalp. Chests pressed together. The kiss turned breathless and hurried. You didn't mind the clumsiness anymore, all you wanted was to make him lose himself into the pleasure—corrupt him in more ways than one.

When you parted, it was to whisper in his ear.

“Since you want to be good for me, go and work for it.”

He didn't say anything. The nod he gave you told you enough he knew what he was supposed to do. Wordlessly, he took himself in hand—groaning quietly as he pumped himself twice—before lining the head of his cock to your entrance. You shifted your hips, grinding back against him and cursing when his tip brushed your clit.

“Go on, baby.” You kissed his jaw, relishing the tiny whimper he made. “You can take it.”

Waterboy buried his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent. Then, with a shaky exhale, he pushed himself into you—slowly, carefully, finally.

“O-Oh, fuck.”

Your lungs constricted on itself, struggling to take in air from the fullness deliberately inching further and further into your walls. Your arms came up around his neck, clinging onto him, while he entered his remaining length. When he stopped, fully sheathed inside your walls, you both released a long, stuttering breath.

Fuck.

Holy fucking fuck.

You should've known he was dangerous. You should've not underestimated him. That fucking curve of his could make you come in that moment, and he hasn't even started to move. Already he reached that spot within you that no other person in the past has easily done. At least, not while they were keeping still. And here he was, restraining himself from moving too much, yet you were struggling not to clench around him.

If you did, he might come on the spot.

Hot tears dropped on your shoulder, his breathing was uneven and you feared he might collapse from the sensation.

“Can I?” Waterboy whispered, hugging you tighter. “Can I start– Can I move? Please, let me. Want to– Need to move, please.”

You nodded, equally dazed. “Go on, baby.”

He sobbed, whether from relief or pain, pulling his hips back before thrusting into you again.

“Thank you. Oh, tha–thank you.”

The first thrust tore a curse of you, the second made your head swim. The following ultimately erased all thoughts in your head. His rhythm was unsteady, unpracticed, but it made it all the more promising. It meant you could do this again so he could get the hang of it. Even when his thrusts were sloppy, you still found yourself enjoying it.

You supposed this was really for him, rather than yourself. Not out of pity, but because you wanted him to feel what he's been missing for all the months you've been chasing him. Now that he's got a taste of it, he'd be addicted for more. Until that addiction turns into a crave—and you'll give him everything he wants as long as he'll come running back to you.

He started picking up speed, desperately rolling his hips. All that left his mouth were the slurred and broken syllables of the words.

Please. Thank you. So good. More.

And occasionally, breathy curses.

You were right, he was even more vocal when he's into it. He kept on babbling the same words, sobbing louder on your shoulder.

His hands were everywhere. One on your waist, running up and down to your thigh. The other managed to slip inside your shirt, and underneath your bra. Yours were in his hair, tugging his head back to kiss him again to silence his noises.

Anyone can just walk down this hall and hear what's going on inside the office. As much as the thrill excited you, you weren't sure if it would be the same case to him. So, you kept his mouth busy while he eagerly returned the kiss—hot, messy, starved.

You were surprised he hasn't accidentally activated his power yet. Maybe he has more control over it than you previously thought. Or maybe the hero training with Blonde Blazer paid off. Good, you didn't plan on drowning from kissing him.

You transferred your kisses down his neck, leaving more marks so others can know who placed them there.

In return, he gasped and tilted his head to give you access.

“I’m g-gonna–” He let out a strangled sound, pace faltering for a moment. “Close. I'm so– Sorry. I'm sorry. It's too much–”

That was quick.

You hushed him, kissing the darkening bruises on his skin. “Let go, baby. It's okay. You earned it.”

“Can I? Where do I– do you want me?”

“Anywhere you want, hon.”

“Oh, fu– Ahh, really?”

“Okay,” Waterboy sniffled, and this time, he was the one who kissed you. “Thank you. Thank you.”

When you felt him throb violently inside you, you knew it wouldn't take long. You kissed him deeper, clenching around him and he moaned your name against your lips.

Your name.

Not Midnight.

The one you told all of them that night outside the Taco store after the bar brawl in Sardine.

You clenched around him again, feeling your own climax drawing nearer. “Again. Say my name again.”

He said it again—louder, needier—and your blood burned molten heat at the sound. Your name echoed around the room, you didn't care anymore if anyone heard outside the door. All you could focus on was him. The addictive drag of his length in and out of your walls. His tip continuously hit that sensitive spot. The pathetic sounds he made. The sobs of your name. And the unmistakable twitch of his cock.

Finally, after giving him one last squeeze, he slammed himself into you and spilled his release inside. At the same time, there was a cool gush of water streaming from his fingertips, soaking your skin and shirt.

You shivered, coming undone after him with a bite on his shoulder.

Suddenly, you felt like you were being drowned under harsh waves of pleasure. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. You couldn't swim away from it even if you tried. All you could feel was him, slick against your body, shivering just as the same. Hear him gasping for air, like he was drowning with you. Smell his scent, clear and distinct like the ocean.

When the waves finally calmed, you swam back to the surface and opened your eyes to see darkness.

The shadows in the room swirled like smoke, melting back into the corners as you attempted to gather your bearings.

Meanwhile, you felt the desk beneath you drenched in water. And something else.

Fuck, we really did that.

You couldn't help it, laughter tumbled out of your lips before you could stop it.

We broke so many rules.

The reality hit Waterboy as well like a splash, and he immediately pulled out of you with a soft curse.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry– So sorry! I didn't mean to come inside– in there. Here, I'll clean you up. I made a mess. Ju–Just wait here.”

After he clumsily redressed himself, he frantically searched for something around the room before darting away.

You only had a dazed grin on your face, blinking away the awe and disbelief.

Of all things, he's worried about coming inside me?

When he returned, there was a rag—you only hoped it was unused—in his gloved hand. He must've worn it immediately, as well as his goggles which he picked up from the floor. And for the next few minutes, he proceeded to wipe you down. Starting from the water on your skin, and to the mixed spend between your thighs. After that, he wiped the desk after you hopped off and redressed into your underwear and pants.

And fuck, were you stumbling?

Yeah, you were.

Waterboy can definitely make a girl wet and come.

“There, all finished!”

You glanced at the desk, grimacing at the evident traces of water and. . . Well, you just hoped whoever that desk belonged to wouldn't be too mad the next morning.

When the tall hero turned to face you, he gasped in shock when you pulled him down for another kiss. This time, it was softer. Gentler. Sweeter. The kind that melted the both of you into submission. Into acceptance. The rag dropped to the floor, and his hands were back on your waist. The sigh he released into your mouth was heavenly, and you tasted cloud nine.

After a while, you both parted and gazed into each other's eyes.

You grinned up at him, coy and playful. “Definitely an HR violation.”

The smile he gave you was boyish, crooked, and it made your heart flutter. “Definitely.”

Then, his lips were back on yours.

It’s been exactly one week after your last visit to Gladys’s household, where you made a very obvious show of realizing that you were interested in her grandson, and were promptly invited to dinner for — well, you don’t really know, exactly, other than the fact that Gladys had planned it, and nothing gets past her. You’re a little too early for your liking; you didn’t want to make a bad impression, but it’d be a bit of a faux pas to expect them to answer you ahead of schedule, so you spend a few minutes awkwardly fidgeting on the welcome mat caked with mud, a corny message (Cats Are In Charge Here!) emblazoned on the straw.

You’ve been here at least a dozen times already, but it feels so different this visit — not coming here as part of your job, but for a social event. A get-together. Not, you think, that you’re expecting to be getting anything from this at all — it was a completely normal invitation from completely normal people, and it makes sense that you’d eventually progress to visiting their house outside of work, especially with how well you know Gladys at this point.

But at the prospect of Herman being there, too — someone who you may have spent a fair amount of time thinking about in the past week ever since you saw him on the news…

Well. You're here already. You might as well throw yourself into it before you lose your nerve completely and run.

Taking a deep breath, you press the doorbell, the melodic chime horrifyingly announcing your arrival to the whole neighborhood, and then spend the next ten seconds listening to the sounds from the other side: a chorus of meows strumming up and feet hurrying across the tiled surface, accompanied by a clatter of pots and pans.

The door opens, and you open your mouth to greet Gladys, but you don’t do that because it’s Herman who opened it, obviously.

With the absence of the screen separating you from him, you can see him in full detail (4K widescreen, your brain helpfully supplies). Still tall, but hunched over, as if trying to make up for his height by giving himself neck pain. His hero costume is absent. He’s wearing what appears to be swim gear disguised as normal clothing: a light blue, long-sleeved swim shirt and dark blue swim trunks that are dripping water onto the porch, only his white gloves still remaining. Most notably, his goggles are gone, the dark tint of the plastic giving way to wide eyes as blue and beautiful as the ocean themselves.

During one train of thought you’d had in the past week, you’d half convinced yourself that your attraction had been a fleeting thing. Never mind the fact that you’d been thinking about his face from before; you know the TV adds glamour to everything.

But seeing him in person only confirms your attraction — cements it, drags you down into the ocean of his eyes where you are never to resurface. This was a horrible mistake.

Herman, of course, is stuttering a mile a minute, and it takes you a moment to remember that you should be listening and not gaping at him like a goldfish.

‘H-hello! Nice to meet you, I’m — well, you know who I — my name, but it’s nice to meet you, officially, anyway.’

Remembering yourself, you give him a smile back that you hope helps reassure both of you. ‘Nice to meet you officially, too! Thank you so much for inviting me over, Gladys has told me a lot about you.’

‘Oh, no p-problem, me — also.’ The lack of sense in that statement must hit him, because his cheeks flush red (isn't that cute?), and he coughs, stepping aside. ‘Well — come, welcome — in.’

This first social barrier overcome, you step into the house. It, too, is exactly the same as you last saw it, but you find yourself suddenly wanting to commit more of it to detail — you're not here for business anymore, you're here for pleasure.

In the evening, you can see just how much Herman’s presence affects the level of moisture in the air, the dehumidifier on the side table almost half-full, the plants wet and glistening, the cats’ fur sticking to their bodies as they mill around, slightly displeased. A large amount of steam is wafting from the kitchen, a pot about to bubble over on the stove; Herman lets out a keen noise of panic and runs ahead to stop it, leaving you to keep surveying the environment with only a little shame.

Gladys, comfortably seated at the dining table, raises her beaming face towards you. ‘Hello, dear! So glad you could join us tonight. Have a seat! Herm is making a wonderful soup.’

‘Thank you, Gladys.’ You take a seat to the left of her; the table, an antiquated piece of wood with a heavy vinyl tablecloth on it to waterproof it, is already set with bowls and cutlery. ‘And thank you as well for inviting me, it’s very kind of you. How are you feeling this week?’

‘Oh, fine, fine,’ she dismisses, waving it off. ‘And I should really be thanking you for accepting.’

Her voice drops lower, conspiratorial, as she leans towards you. ‘He’s been waiting to see you all week, you know. I’ve told him a lot about you, too.’

Oh. ‘Oh,’ you say, feeling suddenly frozen in place, trapped underneath her stare. ‘I, uh —‘

‘W-what’s that, Gamma?’ Herman yells from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of an excessive amount of water pouring out of a pot. ‘I ha — heard my name.’

‘Nothing, Herm,’ she sings back at him, the perfect picture of a sweet old lady, before turning to you and grinning, the large white squares of her dentures suddenly seeming devilish in the context of what she’s implying. What is she implying? How much has she told Herman? Does he know what she's doing? Did he ask her?

You stare back hard, trying to discern whatever she's got planned, but Gladys has a formidable poker face. (You remember the first time you’d played cards with her in the first place — innocent, she was not, and were you not playing for fun rather than money you would have lost all your life savings to her by now.)

Before you can pry any further, Herman ambles up to the table and sets a pot of split pea down in the middle — ‘w-watch — careful, it’s really hot, Gamma — and uh, you, too.’ Ladling some out into each bowl, he leaves and then comes back in two shifts with bread and, to your surprise, a towering edible fruit arrangement that you can’t help but goggle at a bit. Herm notices your staring and laughs awkwardly as he sits down.

‘I took — got it, not took, it was g-gave — given from work. From a — colleague. He has lots and lots of it.’

‘Guess we’re good on dessert, then,’ you attempt to joke. It’s not one particularly deserving of praise, but Herman chuckles awkwardly as he sits down, a stop-start, musical sound that shouldn't make you as happy as it did.

‘Yeah, hope you’re into — enjoy — it.’

‘Well, let’s eat!’ Gladys chirps, reaching for her soup, the two of you following suit. Blowing on a spoonful of the soup before putting it in your mouth, your eyes widen.

‘Wow, this is delicious.’ That’s not a lie. You had expected it to be at least slightly watery, given, well, his whole situation, but it’s a perfect consistency, slightly sweet and salty at the same time — much better than any canned soup you’ve ever had.

Herman flushes at your praise, ducking his head bashfully. ‘It’s pretty easy when you know h-how to make it. I have a l-lot of knowledge — experience, anyways.’

‘Well, my compliments to the chef,’ you joke again, and at this he laughs again, several drops of water landing on the table, and you want to hear that again for all of time.

Wow, you’re screwed. —— The dinner continues fine, the three of you making normal conversation, or at least playing at it — you're mostly listening to the two of them talk. Herman’s accounts of what happens at work sound frankly insane, and like they’re desperately in need of more people in their HR department. But you can’t deny it’s entertaining, especially when he describes missions he’s been sent on.

He downplays his own actions a lot, but when he gets to something he was really proud of, he’s much more expressive, reenacting certain fights with wild gestures that send drops of water flying everywhere. You have no doubts about him being a good hero, and you’d be perfectly comfortable to listen to him stammer out his recollections all night.

The real trouble starts when he changes the topic.

‘Ah, s-so,’ Herman says as you’re taking a brochette of cantaloupe squares out of the edible arrangement, ‘do you — are you liking your work? Job? With old — elderly — people.’

It’s not often that you actually get questions about your job, so it takes a second for you to actually answer. ‘Oh, well — yeah, of course! They’re all really sweet.’

‘You’re just saying that because I’m sitting right here,’ Gladys remarks, waving her own half-eaten melon stick at you. ‘I’m sure I must drive you all sorts of crazy.’

‘No, really,’ you protest, ‘it’s great. The main reason I got into assistive care is for the people I’m, uh, assisting. You get to talk to a lot of people with interesting perspectives of the world.’

‘That’s code for ‘we’re old and we have opinions,’ Gladys cracks, and you chuckle, eating a piece of cantaloupe before you continue.

‘I can’t say I’ve ever thought about my job at length. It’s just something about — helping people, you know? Everyone needs help, and it makes me happy to do it. It’s hero work in its own way. Although I’m sure it’s nothing compared to actual hero work,’ you add, looking back at Herman. ‘What you guys do is really impressive.’

‘Oh, well, yeah, we both are. Im-impressive, I mean,’ Herman stammers, but he looks happy at what you’d said, smiling as he fidgets with his cloth napkin (wrings it out is more what you should say, twisting and untwisting it in his hands).

Gladys smiles too, but it’s too much like the one from earlier for you to feel at ease. She’s got her hands steepled; in the position she’s at, she can observe both of your faces. She’s laying some kind of trap here, but what? It’s a good thing she never decided to become a villain.

‘Impressive, yes,’ Gladys says, ‘although I do wish he had more time for friends. It’s been a long time since he had anyone over—‘ here, Herman chokes on a mouthful of water — ‘and I’ve been wondering when he’d start getting out there again!’ She shoots you a knowing look, before proclaiming, ‘Dating, even!’

The intention behind her statement hits you like a truck. You suddenly feel a great interest in spearing as much of the melon kebab as you can down your throat to avoid talking. Herman’s hands have begun the process of gluing themselves to his face in humiliation.

To save him further embarrassment, you try to come up with another topic once you recover, lest she begin mentioning children of all things. ‘Uh, so, Herman. Of the cats in your house, which are your favorites?’

He shoots you a grateful look through his fingers, and Gladys narrows her eyes. ‘I mean, can you really — I can’t really choose, but I like M-Mecha — Mecha Meow Prime, and Astral, and B-Blue —‘

Ever the opportunist, Gladys sees a spot in the conversation to steer it back towards her plan. ‘He likes all of the ones I let him name. Herm has been a fan of superheroes ever since he was small. Did you know he still sleeps in an old Phenomaman t-shirt? He’s had it since he was a teenager.’

Herman goes very, very still. A gleam appears in Gladys’s eyes. ‘I never showed you the baby pictures, did I? His parents and I made albums. Waterproofed, of course.’ She pushes herself off of the table with a grunt. ‘Come over to the couch and I’ll show you.’

Now. As much as you don’t want to encourage the further humiliation, seeing baby pictures is too good of an opportunity to pass up, and she knows it.

With the flimsy pretense of helping her out, you walk with her as she pulls out an album from a shelf and sit yourself down to the left of her on the couch. After a short moment of deliberation, you hear Herman push back his own chair and walk over; instead of coming around to the front, though, he climbs over the back of the couch, settling himself in on Gladys’s right side so that the elder woman is sandwiched between the two of you. It’s a little surprising, but you find yourself smiling at the sight, at how clearly both of them are used to it.

Gladys opens the album, pointing to various laminated pictures of Herman gracing the page and cooing over each one. ‘He’s so cute, isn’t he? My little tadpole.’

‘Gamma,’ Herman whines, sliding lower on the couch. ‘Th-that’s so embarrassing.’

‘Oh, hush, you,’ she scolds him, pushing the album further towards you. ‘They’re adorable. Aren’t they adorable?’

You find yourself fully grinning now; you can't help it. They really are adorable. Pictures of a little Herman in a (soaking wet) crib, at the beach (next to a half-destroyed sandcastle), him playing with a Mecha-Man figurine at Christmas with an extraordinarily well-watered pine sapling…

Gladys shows up in many of the pictures, too, often a reassuring presence next to him. It’s clear that despite Herman’s embarrassment, they both love each other, as he doesn’t protest further, leaning into her side and occasionally interjecting with little comments about the context of the photo, mostly to try and save face.

Briefly, you forget all about your own awkwardness for a while, and just enjoy looking through the album. Enough to let your guard down.

It’s then that Gladys strikes. With clearly practiced timing, she yawns loudly, a cartoonish sound that catches both your and Herman’s attention.

‘Well. I am all tuckered out for the evening, and so I think I’ll head to bed.’

Herman starts to rise off of the couch, uttering, ‘L-let me get you up there, Gamma,’ just as you're saying 'Would you like some help with —‘

‘No, no,’ she objects, already shuffling to the staircase, leaving a gap between the two of you on the couch. ‘I can get myself up there fine. I’m not that old, you know. You two have fun without me.’

With no purpose, you and Herman watch, frozen, as she hauls herself onto the stairlift. She adjusts herself, getting comfortable, and then looks directly at you.

‘Feel free to stay as long as you like.’

And then Gladys winks. Whether she’s doing it for your benefit or purely to torment you is uncertain.

With the press of a button, the stairlift begins ascending with a loud whirrrr — it's not fast, but your mind is so full of what what why why that you don't think to even ask what she wants the two of you to do. She maintains a dignified exit all the way up the stairs until she disappears from view, and you hear the door close; then, silence. Silence and the disgruntled meow of one of the eleven cats they have in their house.

And with that, you and Herman are left alone in the living room, sitting awkwardly on the couch like two teenagers.

‘So,’ you start, promptly realizing that that usually requires you to say something along with it and drawing a blank.

‘So,’ Herman echoes, looking just as lost for words as you are.

It’s too much, the embarrassment of the situation, and although Herman is on the verge of saying something himself it’s you who cracks first. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve probably been weird all night. I had a great time, but I —'

You swallow and screw your eyes shut. ‘I. I think your grandmother might be trying to set us up?’

On up, your voice cracks a high octave, unconvinced — Gladys is dearly beloved, after all, and you don’t want to slight the poor man any further by accusing his only living relative of matchmaking. But to your relief, when you crack open your eyes again, Herman is nodding in recognition.

‘No, it’s o-okay!’ he stutters. ‘I — sometimes she —‘

He scrubs a gloved hand over his face, coming away with a fresh layer of water, and flattens himself to the side of the couch. ‘She does stuff like, like that, when she gets worried about me and I, I get really, uh. Well, nervous, and wet — moist w-when nervous…’

‘Right,’ you say, feeling your own face get hot. Humid, you should say. ‘Yeah. I don’t — I can go — but I did really have a nice time tonight, so, thank you.’

Again, you’re struck by the desire to just run out of the door and never look back. You can’t afford to quit your job, but you don’t know how you’ll be able to handle going back to this house any time soon.

Herman fidgets awkwardly on the couch, digging his fingers into one of the towels. So awash are you with your own shame that you almost miss the next thing he says.

‘But we can — could try, m-maybe — going someplace else?’

Wait. Did you hear that correctly? You sit forward fast — probably too fast, given that he shrinks back into the couch a little — and stare at him. ‘You mean… you actually want to go out? On a date?’

'Y-yeah.' He glances around as if trying to find words that have escaped him this entire time. 'Or, at least a — if not a date, then a — friend hang. If you want to? You're really — super, really, nice. And I don’t have many other date — or, uh, maybe-friends in general outside of work, anyways, so…’

He uncurls himself from the couch slowly and extends his hand to you, like he wants to shake it — he actually does, you realize, not knowing what else to do.

‘Try another time, again. Doing — do-over? Our terms?’

You could cry both from how endearing it is, and from pure relief that this could actually go somewhere, and you take his hand, squeezing it lightly. ‘I’d like that a lot. Either dating or, uh, friend hanging, as you put it.’

He pulls back his hand and gives you a smile. ‘Yeah, I — would, much, too. A-any ideas?'

‘Oh, I don’t know. We could maybe see a movie?’ Remembering that the biggest box office hits have all been romantic comedies lately, you hastily clarify, ‘Any movie. I’m fine with basically any genre.’

At your suggestion, Herman’s eyes light up. ‘I th-think they’re actually showing an old biograp — documen — film about the Starlight Era s-superheroes. B-Brave Brigade? If you know them?’

‘Oh, yeah! That would be great.’

‘G-great!’

A moment of silence, the dehumidifiers whirring and the cats purring.

‘…What should we do tonight, though?’ you ask, feeling awkward all over again.

‘Uh.’ Herman brings his hand to the back of his neck. ‘I d-dunno. People don’t normally chill — hang out with me this long.’

‘Well, I can’t leave too early, or else we’ll probably disappoint your grandmother and she'll ask me about it when I come over next week.’ Belatedly, you remember some of his interests. ‘You like metal music, right? I’m always looking for new recommendations. Do you have any favorites?’

‘Um.’ He fidgets, likely trying to decide how much to reveal to you, before the temptation at introducing you to his music taste wins over. ‘D-do you know — Abbath?’

—— Hoplites assemble, don thy bronze Grip aspes in phalanx of Myrmidon!!

Somehow, you’ve ended up rocking out to a black metal song, the sound blasting as loud as it can through the speakers of Herman’s phone, a man growling over heavily distorted guitar.

Herman looks like he’s having the time of his life. Aside from a somewhat awkward start — he’d spent the first minute tapping his foot along on the couch nervous smile on his face — he hasn’t stuttered once through the whole thing, and has only gotten more and more into it as the song rages on.

You’re dancing along, too. Why not? Far less of your elderly clients listen to heavy metal, and it’s been a long time since you let loose. The dance moves he’s pulling are exceedingly dorky, but it’s not like yours are any better. With Gladys being right upstairs, you briefly worry that you might be waking her up. But you know her well enough — she can sleep through anything if she puts her mind to it.

As the song winds into a guitar solo, you’re left panting and out of breath. Taking a step back and plopping yourself down on the couch to regain yourself, you’re left to watch Herman as he strikes a distinctly “metal”-ish pose, striking an imaginary electric guitar and red-faced with exertion instead of embarrassment, this time. His wet hair is flapping in and out of his face, flying out and then sticking itself back on. It’s really cute. What would it look like dry, you wonder? Fluffy, probably, and unused to the lack of wetness, sitting like a little nest on top of his head. He’d probably be able to pull off the goth makeup if they invent a permanent waterproof one. But black and white pale in comparison to yellow and blue. Or red. Red is a wonderful color on him, you’ve decided.

He leans over and switches off the song once it finishes, clearing his throat. ‘Th-thanks for — listening to that. That was super — really nice.’

‘Of course! It was really fun.’ You look back at the table, which still has the dishes you’d eaten from on it. ‘Do you need help clearing up?’

‘Oh, no, I got — h-have it, I —' A mouthful of water gargles in his throat, and he spits it out onto the floor before flashing an awkward smile at you. ‘See?’

‘Ha, yeah, I do,’ you laugh, resolutely trying to ignore how even that is cute about him and there are some things you should examine about yourself later on. ‘Okay, I guess I should probably be heading out. Maybe we could exchange contact info? For arranging further details, obviously, I’m not trying to—‘

You cut yourself off, realizing that you are, indeed, asking for his number properly, and finish with, ‘— it would be practical, I mean.’

‘Y-yeah, sure!’ He holds out his phone to you, and you input your number before copying his into your own and walking towards the door.

Just as you’re about to step back outside, he stops you — when you look back at him, his eyes dart away for just a second before they look back. Ocean blues, just as devastatingly beautiful as before.

‘You can say — call — Herm, if you want. I should’ve told — said that, before.’

‘Herm.’ A cute sound, a lovely sound, as you try it out for yourself — the anxiety of ‘erm’ laced even through his nickname. ‘Okay, then, Herm. I’ll see you next week. Message me with the details, okay?’

‘S-see you next week!’ An echo of the phone call, just as cute as it was the first time you’d heard it. But this one has an additional note of hopefulness in it — a little note of want, if you're not mistaken. Whatever it is, you'll be thinking about it until you see him again.

With a last shy wave, Herm closes the door, and you’re left to stand on the doorstep — the house no longer seeming different to you, the murky darkness of Torrance's night sky far eclipsed by the buoyant giddiness you feel in your heart.

You make it all the way to your car before you begin smiling ear to ear like a maniac. Giggling like one, too. Like a love-struck fool, because you most certainly are, and there's no denying it now.

You’re really looking forward to next week. —— FROM: Herm Hey! I just wanted to confirm the detials: would 7:30 at the Calypso movie theater Wednesday be okay? I got good seats, right in the middle for maximum viewage, haha

FROM: You hey! yeah, that all looks good, i’ll see you there!

FROM: Herm Great!! It’s a date

FROM: Herm Date as in movie date

FROM: Herm Daet for the movie to start

FROM: Herm not that I’m Not happy for it to not be a date

FROM: Herm Well excited to see you!!

FROM: You you too! see you then!

FROM: You :)

FROM: Herm 8)

a/n: we shall see how many parts this ends up being. i'm thinking perhaps 5 (if i can keep up the motivation until then ^^;)

Robert’s beast keeps him on a narrow ledge between heart-on-sleeve and padlocked shut. He’s not hiding the soft bits that make him a fool for second chances and best intentions; everyone can see those, they’re practically in the job description. What he buries is worse. The part that’s convinced he deserves every bad thing that happens. The part that thinks his job is to work himself to the bone for whatever scraps of good land on his desk, then apologise for wanting even that.

And while he’s mastered the game of hide and seek in front of almost everyone, there’s at least one person (besides Chase) who can see straight through him. The doctor.

The doctor, whom he managed to offend on day one by making a crack about not trusting anyone who’s probably closed wounds with a stapler. The doctor, who got her experience stitching up goons but still has the softest touch that’s ever landed on his forearm. Who caught him out on two half-hidden colds and one not-at-all-hidden burnout with nothing more than a glance. The doctor, who answers every attempt to shrug off his long-standing depression and desperate scrabble for purpose with that infuriatingly calm, all-knowing look that says: I see what you’re doing, and it’s not working.

It would be fine if it stopped there—professional irritation, bruised pride, a healthy dose of avoidance. But somewhere along the way self-preservation seems to have grown a rival instinct. Not at all beastly this time. Just a sad, wet dog lodged under his ribs, scratching at the door it thinks hides comfort. It wants things he doesn’t have the language for: fingers at pulse point with no intention of measuring pulse, frown of concentration aimed at his chart (or somewhere closer to his body, were he so bold) instead of his latest screw-up, your voice saying his name in something other than exasperation. It’s needier than Beef and nowhere near as charming. It’s a completely unnecessary thing. A whim. A complication. Some idiotic yearning he’s much too tired and too old for.

So he does what he’s good at: he pretends. Pretends he’s annoyed by you. Pretends he doesn’t notice the whiff of your perfume on Colm when that one comes back from a check-up. Pretends the reason he dodges your appointments is purely bureaucratic and not because sitting on that exam bed under your scrutiny makes him feel naked in ways no HR form has a tick-box for. He does all of that while smiling.

You are the person who kicks his creativity up to cosmic levels. He’s never come up with so many excuses to miss a check-up. But even that has a limit—the moment an old-school paper notice appears on his workstation, stamped in glaring red capitals: OVERDUE. Right in the med-check row, under his ridiculous name.

So he drags it out to the bitter end. Answers every last pointless query on the board. He checks, double-checks, and triple-checks handover notes no one will read. Solves a printer jam that was in no way his problem. One by one, people peel off: Chase with a clap to his shoulder, Galen with a muttered ‘night,’ the floor supervisor with a reminder about the staff survey he is absolutely never filling in.

Comms taper from overlapping chatter to the occasional bored check-in. Then even that dies. The city, miraculously, stays quiet. The big wall clock over the dispatch screens drags its way to seven and tips over it.

There is still a chance you’ve gone home. He sits with that for a minute. If you’ve left already, it’s not his fault, is it? He tried. He had to stay late, had work to do. He can come in early tomorrow and—

He peels the slip off the desk. Two instincts pull in opposite directions as he walks the empty corridor towards Medbay: the well-trained one that keeps his head down and his mouth shut, and the younger, needier thing that sits up whenever it hears you stifling a laugh.

He stops outside, hand hovering for a second. He’s not even sure what he’s hoping for—for you to be gone and grant him a temporary stay of execution, or for you to still be there so he can stop thinking about this and just… get it over with. Or not just that. He doesn’t look too closely at that part.

He knocks before he can think better of it.

“Yeah?”

Your voice, muffled through the door. Still here, then. Of course. A fellow overachiever at everything, including giving him nowhere to hide. The door creaks when he pushes it open, and the sigh punches out of you on instinct.

Robert fucking Robertson.

He looks exactly as you’d expected him to if he ever turned up this late for an overdue med-check: headset finally off, hair a little flattened where it sat, SDN polo rumpled and half-untucked, smile apologetic around the edges.

You’ve never met a man who seemed to file you under definitely not so quickly. From day one he’s kept you at full arm’s length—baseline polite, a bit wary, doing his level best not to need you. Apprehensive at best. Most likely just plain resentful, and for reasons that would be very valid if he ever bothered to voice them.

You know what you look like on paper. Ex-villain medic, Phoenix Programme intake, years spent helping people he used to fight. First day had set you on a certain path with his joke, technically. You laughed. Then you watched him flinch away from your hand when you reached for his arm.

Since then, he’s dodged you with an agility most capes would envy. Barely makes eye contact in the hallway. Sends messages through the Z Team when he can. So when he appears in your doorway at seven p.m. with that sheepish, caught-out expression and a crumpled notice in his hand, your first instinct is not concern. It’s exasperation, sharp and familiar.

“You're joking,” you say, caught mid-way packing up your bag. “Robert. It’s seven. I was about to leave and this close to pretending I didn’t see that form.”

“I, uh… Exciting life you are in a rush to get to?”

Standing there with the screens in sleep mode behind you, you realise this very overdue dispatcher is trying to make it look like this is an inconvenience for you. Of course he’s late. Of course he waited until everyone else had gone home to come and sit on your exam bed like a sulky teenager.

You frown. Fucking asshole. “What a fantastic approach to asking for an off-the-clock favour.”

“I thought it was your job.” He shrugs, flaps the crumpled notice at his face like it’s a fan, already half-turned as if he’s doing you a favour by leaving you to whatever thrilling plans you were ‘in a rush’ to get to.

Ignoring the attempted escape, you turn to the sink and start scrubbing your hands. “It is. But my shift ended at five.”

“Well, it’s ten past seven now. What are you still doing here?”

You catch his eyes in the mirror—big, sad, hopeful. Hopeful for what, you’re not sure. Probably for you letting him off the hook. But… that’s not happening. “Are you willing to answer the same question for yourself?”

“Oh, I was just fully avoiding you.” He laughs, scratching the back of his head, like that’s a charming confession and not a reason to sedate him.

“Hah. I should’ve seen that coming.” You dry your hands, reach up to the cabinet for test tubes, needles, tourniquet. He’s still hovering in the doorway like a particularly dim ghost. “Just… sit,” you sigh. “You can speed things up by taking your shirt off.”

He perches on the exam bed and reaches for his buttons with all the enthusiasm of a man about to be flayed. “You could at least buy me a drink first.”

You scoff. “I can let you sniff some disinfectant while I draw your blood. How does that sound?” Gloves on.

“Like an HR violation,” he mutters. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Flirting as self-defence, maybe. Flirting while hoping for something? Definitely not. Not him.

“You started it,” you bite back, turning with your tray of things—only to walk straight into the sight of him sitting shirtless and hunched, all innocent and mildly terrified on your bed.

There are so many scars on him the canvas of his body is barely enough. Old and new, white and pink and angry, overlaying each other until he’s less man and more atlas of every punch, blast and cut he’s ever taken. He wears it like it’s nothing. You feel heat flood your face and hope to God he can’t read skin temperature as well as you read his.

Eyes down. Professional. You hem your throat and steer hard back into safe waters. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Lunch time.”

“So, like… six hours ago? Eh. It’ll do.” You loop the tourniquet around his upper arm and cinch it tight.

“Very heartwarming to know we’re equally eager to get rid of each other,” he says.

“I have nothing against you,” you reply, checking his vein with your thumb. “I just want to go home. To my exciting life.”

“What does that entail?” he asks, the fool that he is. He has no idea what the survival limit is on possible answers. A boyfriend? He’d probably take that hit, sulk about it, then mull it over within three to a hundred business days. Anything heavier might be lethal.

Salvation or damnation—he doesn’t know yet—comes packaged as one of your softest smiles.

“One very needy and lonely cat,” you say, patting the vein into prominence.

He inhales the sterile air like it’s personally betrayed him.

“What?” you ask. “Did you think I hustle black market organs on the side?”

“Something like that,” he says, because of course he did. He’d hoped for it, secretly. Something clean to work with. Villainy. An excuse to file you off under evil once and for all and stop stumbling over this ridiculous crush.

Instead you hand him something else to work with—a small, ridiculous domestic detail, a gentle crumb. An opening. The sad wet dog part of him immediately starts figuring out how to squeeze every drop of hope out of it. Breath stutters, arteries tighten.

“Are you afraid of needles?” you ask, the pad of your thumb caressed by the flutter of his pulse.

Body a traitor, the beat jumps under your touch. He tries to swallow it down and pukes up a deflection instead. “No. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Just doctors, then.” You smirk. “Or is it a personal animosity?”

“No,” he says. “I hate you all equally.”

Your eyes meet. There it is again—that flicker that could be humour, could be panic, probably both.

“That’s reassuring,” you say, holding his gaze, and slide the needle into his vein making it absolutely, painfully erotic.

His mouth parts on a sigh, lids lowering. Under different circumstances you could probably sell this as a relaxation exercise. You watch the line of his lashes settle, the sputter of freckles across his cheeks, and pretend you’re paying attention to the tube rather than his face. His blood winds into the plastic in a slow, lazy thread.

“You’re dehydrated,” you say, rubbing your latexed finger over the firm line of his bicep.

“I had a lot of fluids,” he murmurs. “Coffee, mostly.”

“That explains it.” You drop the full tubes into the rack, strip off the needle, and reach for the stethoscope. “Alright, I need to listen to your breathing. It requires you to be silent. Are you able not to talk for two minutes?”

He fails to not notice the careful details. The way you hang it over your neck and pick up the diaphragm into your palms to warm it up for him. “Two minutes?” he whispers. “How will I cover up my discomfort?”

“I guess you won’t be able to,” you say, enjoying this more than you should. “It’s alright, just auscultation. Procedure known for its low lethality.” You rest the bell on his chest, right over where his heart thrashes around the ribcage. “Deep breaths for me.”

For you, he’d do either. Breathe deep or hold his breath until you tell him he can come up again. With the room gone quiet, the disobedient muscle pounds up into his ears. He closes his eyes again to salvage at least a little dignity.

You drag it out. A little longer. A little longer still. The stethoscope roams across his chest, then around his back, your fingers brushing here and there, cataloguing the topography of his scars and imagining the architecture underneath. Millimetres of latex have never felt so thick, or so useless.

“H–how much longer?” he asks, all choked up.

You pull yourself up short. His breathing is exactly as fine as it was three minutes ago and, yes, his heart’s running a little fast, but you’d be a hypocrite to point fingers. Yours is, too.

“Just blood pressure left.” You peel the Velcro of the cuff loose. “So eager to flee. Almost as if I’m a dentist.”

He smiles, caught. Offers the unpunctured arm. You cinch the cuff tight, start pumping it tighter still until his fingers begin to buzz.

“Last time you wrote me up, I got three months of weekly psychs,” he says, sounding more betrayed than he intended.

You chuckle between the hisses of air filling the sleeve. “Ah, so that’s the issue. I only recommend what I think is fitting. Do no harm, remember?”

He snorts at that, a sharp, humourless sound. Wonders how much harm you’ve done indirectly by dragging the wrong people back from the brink of death. “Do you even have some basic training in psychology?” he asks.

“No. But I have experience and knowledge of how trauma shows in the body.”

“Really?” He scoffs, seizing on it. Finally—something he can take you on. An opening his embarrassment-beast latches onto, mean and unprompted. “Were the goons traumatised after getting their asses kicked?”

It lands clean. A poisoned seed planted neatly in soft tissue.

“Not that I’m trying to justify villainy,” you say, smile turning sharp, “but not everyone can flex an epically tragic backstory where your genius, absent father gets killed by your arch-enemy.”

Straight for the jugular, no less. All the resentment of everything he brought in here today—freckles, pouty mouth, big brown eyes and that lickable stretch of stomach that would probably withstand you slicing your nails through it—compressed into a tight little ball and hurled right at his face.

His expression dims half a shade. It’s all it takes. Guilt floods you before the sentence has fully cooled in the air. “Sorry,” you blurt. “That was uncalled for.”

Well deserved, though. “A little,” he agrees. The pout twists into a smirk. “It might have triggered my trauma back.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re such a stubborn ass.”

“Alright, alright.” He lifts his free hand, a white flag of sorts. “I’m teasing. It’s self-defence.” His gaze drops to your fingers still curled around the pump. “What do you recommend?”

Your hand stills. “Just talk to someone. Doesn’t have to be a shrink, can be a friend. Otherwise your pep-talk well might dry out.”

“Can’t be my doctor, I suppose?” he asks quietly, hating himself as the words leave his mouth.

“I thought we’d already established I’m not qualified, Robert.”

He tilts his head, studying you, as if there’s a loophole he’s missing. “What good are you for, then?”

“Please make up your mind whether you’re going to be awkward or cocky,” you say. “Those two don’t fit together.”

“I wasn’t aware I was.”

“Cocky?” you repeat, and he lights up in a way he absolutely shouldn’t.

If he were a worse man, he’d ask you to drop everything after the ‘cock’ and say it again, clean and unadulterated, just to hear how it sounds in your mouth. As it is, he saves the moment under: things to think about at three a.m. when loneliness and shame tag-team me.

“No. Awkward,” he corrects, sheepish. “I thought I was incredibly cool.”

You’re barely holding it together. The laugh punches out of you, unbidden—charmed, disarmed by this absolute mess of a man who keeps turning up with a martyr complex.

“Will you stop fucking with me while I’m checking your blood pressure?” you say, because you need the ground back under your feet.

“Of course.” A beat. And then he just can’t help himself. “When you’re done, though—?”

You raise one eyebrow, the kind of eyebrow that has shut down far more dangerous men than him. He aborts mid-suggestion like you’ve hit the big red button.

“Alright, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His shoulders hunch. “I hope you understand that all I am is awkward and this is just a smokescreen.”

“Real smooth, Mr Robertson,” you say, peeling the cuff off his arm. “Blood pressure slightly elevated. I can file you under ‘future risk of cardiovascular failure’ or you can admit you’re nervous around me.”

“I am nervous around you,” he says, instantly.

A beat stretches. Long enough for him to mentally draft his will, choose hymns and coffin type, just in case this whole encounter kills him on the spot.

“Nice try,” you say at last, and turn away to scribble the last note on his chart.

The script says this is the part where you tell him he’s free to go. He feels the moment coming like a drop on a rollercoaster. Which is exactly why he grabs the razor and holds on—figuratively, this time. Desperation works like that: a hand sliced open is better than drowning.

“What does my body say about me?” he blurts.

You look up, caught. For a heartbeat your mind serves up the truth: that you need to be kissed senseless. That you should have your brains fucked out while you say please, please, please. That you take too much on and push too hard, and there’s never anyone there to catch you when you fall. That you collect damage like it’s a hobby.

“What do you mean?” you ask instead, blinking the depravity away.

“How much can you tell about me from me,” he gestures at himself, bare-chested on the bed, “just sitting here in this compromising position?”

Challenge accepted, you strip your gloves off and drop them in the red bin. Then, you move behind him, fingertips skimming very lightly down the line of his spine. Goosebumps rise in their wake before he can order his body to behave.

“Either your mattress is made of planks,” you say, clinical, “or you sleep on the floor. Softest thing this back has seen is your desk chair.”

Your hands slide up to his shoulders, warm and slightly damp from the gloves. You knead once, thumb catching in the hard knot where muscle refuses to unclench. “You lift too much,” you go on. “Some anger, or… frustration?”

When you brush the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, his body shudders. Completely involuntary. Excellent.

You circle back around to face him, take his hand. His knuckles are faintly bruised, skin roughened where it keeps meeting things that hit back. You raise an eyebrow. “Does punching things help?”

The way his face twists, confused and defensive, is answer enough. Before he can scramble for a lie, you let his hand go and cup his face instead, both palms bracketing his jaw as you press your thumbs into the hinges.

“Stress,” you diagnose. “Or tetanus, given the number of scars on you.”

Oh, God. You’re too close. He can smell your breath, which is just breath—no coffee, no mint, no cheap sweets—just mouth. Mouth that should, by rights, have his tongue in it right now if the world were at all fair.

He counts your lashes instead while you stare at the tendon, pretending this is still medical. Merciful, in its way.

“My bet is on stress, though,” you say. “Some serious lockjaw.”

He swallows, the muscles shifting under your thumbs. When you glance up to check you haven’t actually hurt him, his eyes are gone nebulous—brown eaten away by black.

You’re both stuck in the same narrow strip of air. You between his knees, him perched on the edge of the cot, your hands framing his face like you’re about to break bad news instead of bully him into therapy. His skin is warm under your fingers, stubble just starting to rasp at the pads of your thumbs. He looks equal parts startled and wrecked, like he’s been caught out in something much more serious than lying on his wellness form.

You should let go, but how could you?

“Serious… lockjaw,” he echoes, a little hoarse.

One of his hands comes up, fingers curling around your wrist. It’s not restraint; it’s a small, desperate appeal, a please stay. The other finds your second wrist a moment later, grip faintly trembling.

“This is very…” he starts, but the rest gets lost somewhere between his teeth and his courage.

He cranes forward instead.

It’s very unpretty. His neck protests, shoulders hitch, nose bumps yours on the first attempt. But he gets there, mouth brushing yours in a quick, clumsy press that’s more question than kiss. You feel the breath desert him against your lips like he’s just stepped off a ledge.

He pulls back half an inch, eyes wide, as if waiting for the inevitable slap / formal complaint / HR seminar.

You answer by closing the distance yourself.

This time, it lands properly. Softer, more sure. He holds onto your wrists, but the tension shifts; his thumbs stroke along your pulse points as if he’s checking your heart rate by touch. (Elevated, you could tell him, if you trusted your voice right now.)

He makes a tiny, incredulous sound into your mouth when you part your lips for him. That’s all it takes for something to snap the other way. His grip loosens, slides down the length of your arms, slow enough to ask permission without words, then settles at your hips.

“Okay?” he breathes, barely a syllable against your mouth.

You nod, the movement brushing noses, and then he’s tugging you in.

The exam bed creaks under his weight when he drags you closer. Your hips meet the inside of his thighs; your knees bump the metal frame. One of his hands stays firm at your waist, the other climbs up your spine, fingers spreading warmly between your shoulder blades before curling around the back of your neck.

You step in, automatically. There’s nowhere else to go. You hook an arm over his shoulder, fingers sliding into the hair at his nape, making his face meet you properly.

From this angle, you’re suddenly almost towering over him. Your chest lines up with his throat, soft weight of breasts brushing against the base of his neck every time you breathe. For a man who spends most of his life haunted by bad luck, Robert spares half a wild thought to thank whatever fickle force arranges these things that he chose now to finally kiss you.

You tilt his head a fraction more, directing the kiss like you’re adjusting an angle of approach, and he follows without question. His mouth opens under yours, hungry now, the earlier hesitation melting into something that feels dangerously like relief.

He kisses like he does everything else: too hard on himself, too careful with everyone else. You feel the restraint in the way he keeps checking his own grip, the way his fingers flex on your hip and then ease, like he’s terrified of overstepping even while his tongue is mapping the topography of your molars.

It stops being sweet somewhere around the moment you nip at his top lip and he finally lets himself react. He makes a low noise, and answers with a sharper pull of your hips into his, a firmer grip of his hand over the back of your neck. You gasp into him, surprised that you’re the one making the needy sound, and that seems to give him permission to stop holding back.

It tips over from tentative to messy. Your teeth catch, noses bump again, neither of you cares. Heat floods up the column of your spine in waves. He tastes like bad coffee and mint gum and the faint ghost of a Twinkie. You’re suddenly acutely aware of every place your body is touching his: his thighs next to yours, chest pressed to your ribs, thumb stroking tiny, absent circles against the base of your skull like he’s trying to soothe both of you at once.

Then, he bites.

It’s not hard. Just a quick, sharp catch of your lower lip between his teeth, paired with a tiny tug. A hot, startling carnality that has the grooves of your brain smoothing by degrees. You hear yourself make a sound you do not recognise—high, broken, utterly unprofessional.

The realisation hits a half beat later. You jerk back, breath tearing out of you, but you don’t go far. His hand on your neck stops you, just holding you close enough that your foreheads almost touch. Your palm finds his cheek on instinct, thumb brushing the line of bone, and you feel the way his jaw is working, still too tight, breathless for an entirely new set of reasons.

“That’s very unprofessional,” you manage, voice rougher than you intended.

“Mhm.” He gives one tiny nod, like he’s agreeing to a meeting note. His eyes, those big sad brown eyes, have gone soft and heavy-lidded, well on their way from dispatch edition to bedroom version. They lock on yours like he’s bracing for impact and, at the same time, staking a claim.

“Do it again,” he says. “Please.”

You laugh, just to get some air into your lungs. Round two is stripped of neatness. His hands rediscover your pelvis like he’s lost his place, fingers digging in just enough to drag you back into the heat of him. You feel the tension in his shoulders ease by degrees as you kiss him again, like every slide of your mouth over his sands down a layer of panic. His thumbs press into the soft dip above your waistband, and your mind briefly whites out at the reminder that, yes, there are nerve endings there.

You break away, just by a few centimetres, breath sawing. The room feels smaller. Warmer. Too much air, too much skin.

“I thought you don’t trust me,” you hear yourself say. It comes out thinner than you’d meant, challenge stumbling over a confession.

He blinks, drag-slow. His pupils are huge. “I don’t—” he starts and feels you stiffen. The grip on you loosens instantly, like he’s bracing for a step back, getting called an asshole and thrown off the bed. He rushes the rest out. “I don’t trust myself around you,” he adds, voice low and rough. “That’s entirely different.”

Your brain tries to catch up with that while your body does something unhelpful like shiver.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against your chest. “And you know way too much for a person I tried very hard to keep my distance from.”

That lands. You can’t help the small, sharp smile.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” he says, quieter.

It’s a ridiculous thing for a man currently groping your ass and wearing your lip balm to say, but there it is: naked, awkward, painfully sincere.

You snort. “You sure worked hard for that,” you tell him. “But I’m not easily discouraged, Mr Robertson.”

His mouth twitches, half way to a smile, half way to disbelief.

You feel something unfurl in your chest. The admission’s out. Both of them are. No going back to pretending this is purely professional irritation now.

You study him for a beat—the flushed cheeks, the mussed hair, that earnest, worried line between his brows that hasn’t gone away even now—and the next words tumble out before you can filter them.

“I hate how hot you are,” you say.

His eyebrows shoot up. For once, he’s the one caught flat-footed.

Then he laughs, short and startled. It spills out of him in a breathy rush, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear in this particular hellscape of a day. “Yeah,” he says, tugging you closer, greedy for ballast. “It’s a real curse. I can’t get a break.”

You roll your eyes and, because your dignity has clearly fled the building, let your fingers slip into the hair at the back of his head again. “Shut up.”

He grins up at you, all crooked teeth and ridiculous bravery. “Make me—oh—”

The oh breaks on a different note entirely when you slide your hand down, down between your bodies, and press your palm over the front of his trousers.

Heat. Solid weight. The faintest, involuntary jerk of his hips up into your touch, like you’ve hit a secret button to Robert Robertson’s dilapidation.

“Good—” His breath stutters; his fingers convulse on your waist. “Good tactic,” he manages, a little strangled.

“You talk too much,” you murmur, watching his face as you apply the smallest amount of pressure, thumb tracing an idle line along the seam of his fly like you’re drawing on a chart.

His head tips back, throat bared. There’s a flush creeping up from his clavicle, crawling over his neck, turning his ears pink. He looks wrecked. He looks like the kind of man who has not, in fact, been told often enough that anyone finds him hot, curse or otherwise.

“Occupational hazard,” he says weakly. “Radio etiquette. Fill the dead air.”

“Consider this… an intervention,” you say, giving him the kind of look you reserve for stubborn patients and malfunctioning equipment. Your fingers flex, and his breath hitches again, audible this time.

“Noted,” he says, voice gone low and ragged, the word like sandpaper. His gaze drags back to your lips. “I can… work on that.”

“Less talk, more—”

You don’t finish the sentence because he leans in and takes the hint, catching your mouth again. This one is all forward momentum, like he’s afraid if he pauses you’ll change your mind and send him back to the safety of terrible coffee and unfiled incident reports.

You kiss him back because you’ve clearly gone completely mad.

He shifts his grip, fingers doing that delicious tug on waistband about to denude you, about to touch where you’ve imagined different parts of him more times than you’d like to admit, and you let him. You let him, and set your own payback into motion, clawing at his belt, his fly, seeking out the very thing you can almost imagine from the way his crotch bulges.

There he is, warm, hard, heavy, perfect—you can tell by touch only. You lean in, just to have his face close to yours. He doesn’t waste time. It all goes; your trousers with the underwear alike pooled around your ankles, ready to be stepped out of. Likewise, his hand is wandering between your legs. Checking, assessing. Holding you while you hold him, he sighs; a lovely bare sound.

“Careful,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I’m… not going to be very dignified about any of this.”

“It’s much overrated, the dignity” you say, a little out of breath.

He laughs once, and then you perch your knee on the edge, swing your other leg over and just commit, straddling him properly. The bed complains, loud. His hands fly to your hips on instinct, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise.

“Okay,” he says, like you’ve just given him a complicated instruction and he’s trying to follow it to the letter. “Okay.”

Another meeting of mouths before he overthinks his own access to gravity and the fact that your bodies are kissing elsewhere, too.

Time slows in that cheap, fluorescent way it sometimes does on shift. You take every sluggish second you’re given to just feel him, to just look. When you lean back, drag your mouth away to breathe, his cock slots against your groin, pressing insistently, begging to be let inside. The gasp that punches out of him, the sweet little draw of his brows—those you ignore. You have other data to collect.

You let your hands explore instead, the way you’ve longed to since he lost his shirt. Your fingers press to blemishes, red and pearly alike, mapping the mess of him like a new continent, inventing your gentleness from scratch.

“You don’t have to be this nice,” he says, poor bastard. His voice comes out thin, frayed at the edges. “And this is quite unfair.” There’s a little tug at your shirt, as if to underline exactly what the injustice is here.

“Oh, I think we’re rather even, no?” You pinch the waistband of his trousers between thumb and forefinger, then flick it, a tiny reprimand. Together you make about half of a respectably dressed person.

He smiles—doomed, askew—and slides his palms under the fabric instead, working with what he’s been given. His thumbs climb, rough pads dragging over your ribs until they find the edge of your bra and hook under it, pulling the cups down to bare you to his warm hands.

“I don’t have to be nice, hm?” you tease, arching a brow.

You tangle your fingers into his hair and tug, puppeteering him with a practiced pull. His head tips back, throat offered. You take your time, lifting your hips, shifting just far enough that you can reach between you. It’s easy to find him; you’ve already memorised the shape through cloth.

You line him up with one steady hand. “Is that mean enough?” you ask, and start to sink down on him, painfully, arduously slow.

Plethora of blood abandons all other posts. Whatever was left in Robert’s brain drops rank and flees south in a rout. For once you see white instead of brown as his eyes roll, lashes fluttering.

“Yes,” he breathes, mouth falling open before you’ve even taken him fully. The word cracks halfway. “Oh, God, yes.”

You keep going, inch by inch, taking every twitch and stutter of muscle as a personal victory. When your body finally seats itself around him, snug and complete, his hands are gripping your breasts like he needs something to hold onto.

“Fuck me,” Robert says, and only realises it was out loud when your mouth twitches.

Too late to take it back. Too late to take any of it back.

He’s lost this battle in every possible way. He told himself he wouldn’t end up here—on the med bed, half dressed, fully pathetic—but there you are, in his lap, and here he is, buried in you up to the hilt and hanging on by his fingernails.

It still feels like winning.

Nothing he did alone ever came close. His own hand is a bad cartoon compared to this: the heat of you around him, the steady clasp of muscle that says mine every time you move. It scrubs him clean from the inside out—worry, guilt, whatever thing he’s been clutching to his chest since breakfast all shaken loose and sliding towards the one place in his life that currently makes sense.

You.

You sit properly, spine straight, thighs braced either side of him, and he can feel every inch of you. The weight of you. The way you take him all the way in and hold, like you’re testing what his nervous system can take before it shorts out.

“Robert,” you say, hand smoothing down his chest, over the frantic rhythm drumming underneath. “Look at me.”

He obeys. Of course he does. Whatever ragged little instinct he calls self-preservation is curled up whimpering in the corner by now; the dog is running the show.

Your eyes are dark and careful. He realises, distantly, that you’re watching for signs he’s hit his limit. He wants to tell you he passed his limit three kisses ago and is somewhere entirely new now, but speech is… not a strong option.

You roll your hips instead of asking. Deep, then forward, then back again. It drags his full length along you, thick, thick pressure that makes his breath fail and his fingers dig past your tits, into your ribs.

He makes a sound that has no business coming out of a grown man with a mortgage and a dog. “Please,” he gasps.

You go still. Tilt your head, interested. Then, your mouth curves, part fond, part wolfish. Your thumbs find his temples, stroke gently, grounded in a way that threatens to undo him more than the sex.

“How good you are,” you say, bewildered. It sounds like you didn’t mean to let it out.

He almost laughs. If only you knew. He’s never been good a day in his life; he’s just tired and malleable and so relieved to have someone else managing the disaster that is him for five goddamn minutes.

“Say it again,” you tell him.

He should be ashamed of how fast it comes. “Please.”

You rock down on him, slow, purpose and all, and the word turns into something broken halfway through.

“Again.”

“Please,” he repeats. “Please.”

The rhythm you find is ruinous. When you lean forward, the angle punches him deep; when you pull back your hips snap against his, tight and filthy and loud in the small room. Deep, then hard. Deep again. His brain keeps trying to process, to file, to make sure he’s not doing anything wrong, and you keep riding those thoughts right out of his head.

“More,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t know if you mean words or feeling. He gives you both.

“Please,” he whispers. “God, please—don’t stop, don’t—”

Your hand slides from his temple into his hair, back to tugging, just enough to tilt his head back, to open his throat under your mouth. Your other braces on his shoulder, keeping him exactly where you want him.

It’s not rough, not really. Just… anchored. Controlled. You move on him like you know exactly what he can take and exactly how close to the edge you want him.

“The way you’re taking this,” you murmur against his jaw, voice low, warmer than the words indicate. “Letting me—” you punctuate it with a hard slam of your pelvis that knocks the breath out of him “—do all the work.”

He shudders. “Happy to… delegate,” he manages, fingers flexing. “You’re… highly qualified.”

You laugh, short and surprised, and he feels stupidly proud of that too.

He clings. That’s the truth of it. His hands travel, to ribs and back, seeking the slide of your muscles under skin as you move. He lets you set the pace, take what you want, use him as leverage. Just use him. Every time his palms try to guide, your fingers close over his and push them back where you like them—here, on your ass; here, at your ribs; here, flat against the mattress so you can ride him without interference.

“Please,” he says again, because you haven’t told him to stop, and because begging feels less like humiliation and more like offering you something he’s never given anyone else. “Please, please…”

“Look at you,” you murmur. Your thumbs come back to his temples, like you’re soothing a fever. “So good.”

That shouldn’t go straight through him like that, but it does. He feels it hit, low and sharp, tangled up between need and relief. “Yeah?” he asks, dazed.

“Yeah,” you say, and there’s no edge to it. Just honest astonishment. “You’re being very good for me.”

He swallows hard. That’s all he’s ever wanted: to be told he’s doing it right, that he’s not making everything worse by existing in the room. If the price of that is his dignity, he’ll pay in full and tip generously.

You change the rhythm again, chasing something in yourself now; he can feel it in the way your thighs tighten around him, the way your breath gains weight on the upstroke. You ride him in a rougher pattern—no prettiness, just grit and need.

He meets you as best he can, hips jerking up into yours, but it’s still you doing most of the work, using his body like a solid thing you can trust. He lets you. He will let you do whatever you want to him, as long as you keep that look in your eyes, that intent, focused thing that says stay instead of go away.

“Robert,” you say, and his name in that voice is a command. He drags his gaze back from where you’re joined, from the slick slide of you on him, and up to your face. “Stay with me.”

“I’m here,” he says quickly. “I’m—I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” You slow for a few strokes, roll your hips in a way that has his vision greying out at the edges. “If you need to stop, you tell me.”

He huffs a laugh, half-strangled. “Not… a risk.”

“I mean it.” Your fingers tighten in his hair, just enough to get his full attention. “You say stop, I get off. Understand?”

He nods, throat thick. “Yeah. I—understand.”

It hits him then, properly: the line you’re walking. The fact that he’s not just being swept along; he’s choosing this, handing you the reins and trusting you not to jerk them hard enough to break his neck. His chest squeezes. Something in his spine unwinds.

“I trust you,” he blurts, before he can talk himself out of it.

You falter, just for a moment. Your eyes search his face, and for a terrifying second he thinks he’s ruined it, said the one thing too heavy for this space.

Then your expression goes soft in a way he’s never seen. You lean in, kiss him once—slow, almost chaste compared to the rest of it.

“Good,” you whisper against his mouth. “Now, beg again.”

He laughs, choked and delighted, and does exactly that.

“Please,” he says, the word decomposing as you start to move in earnest. “Please, please—fuck, you feel so good—please don’t stop—”

Your breath stutters on a shaky laugh. “God, you really are,” you say, half to yourself. “Better than anything your charts say about you.”

He doesn’t know what that means, but he files it under positive results and lets go of whatever scraps of composure he was still clinging to. He gives you every please you ask for and then some, sheds his worries into your skin, the rhythm you set, the praise you’re stingy with and therefore priceless.

He can feel it building, low and huge, like a wave with his name stamped on it. If you tell him to hold it, he will. If you tell him to let go, he will do that too, without question.

For once in his life, Robert Robertson is not steering the disaster. And it feels—against all his instincts—like safety. 

You change again—less showy now, more focused. Shorter strokes, tight and vulgar, grinding down at the end so he can feel the drag of you around him, the wet heat that is absolutely going to break his spine if you keep this up.

“Robert,” you breathe, and he’s so far gone he almost comes just from that. “You close?”

He lets out an undignified sound that could be yes, could be help. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, I’m—I’m really—”

“Hold it,” you say.

Just that. Calm, but fond. His whole body spasms. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?” Your hands tighten on his shoulders. Your hips keep moving, slow and deep, rolling down in a way that wants to wring him out. “Stay right there. For me.”

He was going to be obedient anyway; you didn’t need to weaponise it. “I—okay. Okay,” he says, because that’s all he’s ever had to offer anyone. Try. “God, I’ll—”

You change angle, and whatever he was about to promise burns up on re-entry.

It hurts, in a good way. Like holding a heavy weight just past the point where his muscles want to give in. Sweat beads on his brow, trickles down his spine. He clamps his teeth together, fists curling in the meat of your ass, and breathes like a man doing fire suppression on his own arousal.

“Good,” you murmur when he doesn’t immediately explode. Your forehead presses briefly to his, your breath hot and uneven. “So good. Just like that.”

He clings to the words like they’re a harness. Good. Just like that. He can do that. He can hold the line if that’s what you want. If you tell him to stay, he’ll stay. Even if it kills him.

Your rhythm starts to fray. He feels it before he hears it—the way your hips stutter, less precise, more desperate. Your hand, which had been steady on his shoulder, slips, fingers digging in for purchase.

He looks up. Your eyes are unfocused, lashes wet, mouth parted around breaths that keep catching on invisible edges.

“That’s it,” he pants, half encouragement, half prayer. “Come on, I’ve got you. I’m not—I’m not going anywhere.”

You let out a laugh that’s about three parts wrecked. “Thank you.”

You bear down on him, again, again, chasing something only you can see. Every squeeze, every clench around him is both agony and reward. His balls are screaming; his pulse is a shrill alarm in his ears; every cell in him is screaming now, and still he holds, because you haven’t said he can let go.

“Please,” he rasps, not even sure what he’s asking for any more.

“Hold,” you say again, voice thin and high. “Just—just a bit longer. I’m—”

The sentence dissolves into a broken noise as it hits you.

He feels it. Every shudder of muscle, every tight, frantic clench around him as your body locks down and rides the wave. Your head tips back; a string of sounds spills out of you, not words, just grunts and whimpers and a raw little oh that sounds like it’s been punched out of your lungs.

It’s the prettiest thing he’s ever heard.

He has to hold you, then, because you’re shaking and clinging and he’s the only solid thing within reach. His arms wrap around your back, crushing you to his chest as if he could hold you together by force. Your nails bite into his shoulders. Your whole body shivers through the aftershocks, bearing down on him in involuntary pulses that push him right up against his limit and balance there.

“Okay,” you breathe, eventually, forehead dropping to his. “Okay, you can—”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to. He’s already nodding frantically.

Before he can tip over inside you, you shift. With a quick, efficient twist of your hips, you lift yourself off him. The sudden loss of pressure makes him groan, low and guttural. His cock slips free, wet and slick and flushed dark, twitching helplessly in the cool air.

He’s so close it hurts. His hands scrabble for something to hold onto that isn’t you dragging yourself out of reach.

You don’t go far.

One hand comes up to the back of his neck, fingers slotting into damp hair, tugging him forward until his mouth is a breath away from yours. The other wraps around him, sure and slick and merciful, stroking from base to tip with a grip that makes his hips jerk without his permission.

“Oh—fuck,” he gasps, forehead thunking against yours. “Oh, that’s—”

“Shh,” you murmur, thumb circling the flushed head, spreading what’s already there into something obscene. “I’ve got you. Just like this.”

You kiss him then, properly—no angle, no wrestling for control, just a long, open-mouthed drag of lips and tongue that he feels all the way down his spine. Your hand works him in steady, firm pulls, squeezing just a little at the top, twisting on the way down. It’s too much, too perfect, like you’ve taken a lifetime of fumbling and rewired it in thirty seconds flat.

“Come for me,” you hum into his mouth.

There’s nowhere for the command to go but straight through him. He breaks.

It rips out of him in a rush, the tension snapping all at once. “Yes, yes, yes—God—thank you,” he cries out into your mouth, the sound mangled by the kiss, hips jerking up into your fist. Hot, ridiculous relief floods him as he comes in thick, helpless spurts—half across his own stomach, the rest striping your abdomen and the inside of your thighs. “Thank you, thank you.”

He has no idea what he’s thanking you for. Existing. Making a spectacular mess of your very sterile med bay. All viable options.

Before you can issue any commentary on said mess, he folds around you, arms wrapping tight, dragging you in against his heaving chest. His whole body is trembling, post-adrenaline, post-orgasm, everything. He tucks his face into the curve of your neck like that’s where it’s always meant to go.

“Hey,” you say softly, one hand coming up to his cheek. You thumb the sweat from his forehead in small, absent strokes. “You okay?”

He laughs once, breathless. “More than,” he manages. “Kind of… illegally more than.”

“Hm.” You lean back enough to see him, properly, and he hates how much he already misses the contact. Your expression is dazed but wry. “I guess it’s you who should buy me a drink now, so this isn’t doomed under professional malpractice forever.”

“Oh, I can do that.” His voice is still wrecked, but a bit of his usual rhythm sneaks back in. “I know just the place for a lady like you.” He swallows, nerves pricking under the afterglow. “Have you ever been to The Sardine?”

You snort. Actual fondness, all teeth bared, honest and bright, flashes across your face. It hits him harder than anything else tonight.

“Even The Sardine will work today,” you say.

You press your face to his again, cheek to cheek, natural and sweet. Your hand comes up in a light smack to his face—not a slap, not really. More of a pat. A gentle thing right on the border between reprimand and affection.

He thinks, absurdly, that he might like to find out what it feels like pushed a notch further. He puts that away for after the drink.

For now, he lets himself breathe. Lets himself feel the way all the old tensions—the clench, the hunched shoulders, the constantly buzzing nerves—have loosened, dissolving somewhere between your hands and your mouth and the way you told him he’s good without laughing.

Lockjaw, at least, is gone. So are a few other things he dragged in here.

It was only right for the man you had been running into all day to be the one to find you now. He glares at the suspicious figure that he caught sneaking around the office after everyone had already gone home. The suspicious figure that was you.

"Hey there, looking for something?" It was clear from the tone of his voice that this was not an offer of help. He was treating you like a thief and you were reminded of how un-heroic your current appearance might seem.

"It's me," you answer, but your altered voice didn't provide any evidence of who you actually were. Robert's eyes just narrow at you. You start reaching for your helmet to remove it, holding up your other hand to show you meant no harm. You pull it off and Robert's eyes widen in surprise.

"Em?" It's an exclamation more than a question. You try to step forward and stumble. Robert is quick to move forward and help you stand. "What the fuck happened?" His tone is no longer hostile, but it was concerned. Your clothes were clearly burned in multiple spots and you couldn't stand straight.

"A mission gone horribly wrong," you explain as you place a hand on his chest to steady yourself. It was surprisingly firm.

"I can see that," he says as he examines you. You don't want to know how bad you look right now. "I thought you didn't do those anymore." He walks you to his cubicle and helps you sit down.

"Yeah, this one was kind of personal," you sigh as you finally get the chance to relax. He sits on his desk and crosses his arms, waiting for you to elaborate. You would rather not do that.

"Is that Visi?" You spot the view on his monitor and change the subject. It's hard not to guess who the person in the movie theater with their feet crossed atop a seat is.

"Shit, I forgot," Robert pulls on the headset that was resting on his shoulders. "I'll see you tomorrow. No spoilers," he tells her as he takes off the headset. "So, what happened?" He turns back to you and you look away. His posture reminds you of a stern dad, one who isn't mad but is very likely to be disappointed.

"I.. had an altercation with Toxic," you sneak a glance and catch his disapproving eyes on you. "I was just trying to talk but apparently I am not welcome in the Red Ring anymore."

"Right, why wouldn't a guy named Toxic be down to talk." You roll your eyes at the obvious sarcasm.

"You don't get it, okay? I needed information. I only came here to see if Royd could fix me up," You cross your arms back at him as you look away again. You hear him typing on his phone. He probably had plans that didn't include running into you looking like this. "Look, you don't need to worry about me, I have dealt with much worse. I'll be fine." You move to stand back up and he barely has to use his hand to push you back down.

"It's not very convincing when you can barely stand up," he argues as he puts the phone aside. "You said there was some medical stuff in the break room, right?" You give him an uncertain nod. You watch as he walks there with your one working eye. While he is gone you decide to look around his desk. The surface holds nothing of interest except the little keepsake Coup had left him when she got fired. You run a finger along the knife's edge as you ponder snooping some more. Before you can stop yourself, you reach out and open the top drawer. There is a pcture. It shows a much younger Robert and his dad. You can't help but smile at the sight.

"Doing some more spying?" You hear Robert behind you but you're too distracted by the image to look away.

"You look exactly the same. Well, except for the light in your eyes and everything," you can't hold back your smile. Childhood pictures were not really a part of your life, but you always found them interesting. People had actual visual reminders of their younger days. It was a foreign concept to you. He places a medical bag and a wet towel on the desk before crouching in front of you. He holds out a hand and looks at you expectantly. You place your own in his with some trepidation. He holds your hand as he pulls up your sleeve. The sting of air on your open wound is overshadowed by how firmly he is holding your hand.

"It was the first time my dad took me to see the Brave Brigade's headquarters. Hard not to be impressed," he elaborates as he starts dabbing the wet towel along your bloody forearm. He looks so focused and you can't help admiring the long lashes covering his eyes. "So, are you going to tell me why you went looking for that asshole on your own? Don't wanna be pushy, but it would be good to know if you're planning on giving it another try anytime soon." His lashes are out of the way once he looks back up at you. It's hard to say no to someone actively treating your injuries. Especially someone with such big, brown, inquisitive eyes.

"There is… someone I'm looking for. A villain, I guess. I figured if they just showed up here the Red Ring would known about it. Tried to recruit them." You hiss once Robert starts applying alcohol. "You don't need to be so thorough."

"So you thought the best course of action was to jut go and ask?" He ignores your request and continues cleaning the cut before dressing it. "And they would what, just tell you? Maybe throw you a tea party while they are at it?" He finishes treating your injury and stands up. You hug your arm to your chest as your eyes remain on the spot where he was crouching.

"It's not like I am a hero, Robert. I am one of them. Or at least they thought I was one of them. Emphasis on thought," you mutter the last part, examining your newly bandaged arm. "I could have gotten Toxic to talk. He is not as bright as he thinks he is - he tied me to a chair. Like that was going to stop me from being telekinetic. I dealt with him just fine," you defend yourself.

"If that's the case, what are you doing here?" He asks as he places both hands on his hips.

"While I was dealing with him... he may have burned one of my augments," you mumble and the frown he gives you actually manages to make you feel bad. "I also might not be able to see with my left eye. Or really feel my legs," you admit and his frown deepens. "Can you just call Royd? I am sure I will get an earful from him too but I also have a migraine that is killing me right now. If I am getting yelled at anyway I would rather it be from someone who can fix the problem." Your rub at your temples as Robert pulls out his phone and begins dialing the man you promised you would not call like this. The phone rings for a while but no one answers. The big man was always a heavy sleeper. And an early one, to boot. Robert tries a couple more times to no avail.

"Doesn't seem like he is up," he notes, and you sink further into the chair as you consider living through this pain till morning. "Look, I have some tools at home still. I don't really know much about augments but I can at least take a look." The suggestion surprises you. Robert Robertson was inviting you back to his place.

"Are you inviting me to your place?" You blurt out your thoughts.

"Can't promise anything, but it beats sitting around here waiting for the sun to come up. Or at least I think it does," he remarks but you are still too surprised to answer. "Em?"

"I… would appreciate that," you eventually manage to answer. You try to stand up as Robert holds out a cautionary hand. You signal to him that you are fine as you steady yourself. You were getting some feeling back in your lower extremities. "You know how to drive?" You ask as you grab your helmet.

"I operate a giant mech, but no, cars are beyond my scope," he retorts. You weren't sure if he was joking, but you were too tired to care. The drive to Robert's place is familiar. Too familiar. It's almost the exact path you use to drive home. He pulls up next to a building that is quite near to yours.

"Huh," You note as he parks the car. "I think we might be neighbors."

"How come?" he asks while pulling the keys out of the ignition.

"I live in the building two down from you," you point in the direction of your apartment. "For a moment there I thought you were driving me home. I was gonna file an HR complain for stalking."

"I would consider it a favor if you can get me a chance to talk to the HR department," he chuckles as you both step out of the car. You can barely feel your legs, and Robert has to support you up the stairs. The closeness almost makes you forget the pain. Almost. You tell yourself that every step gets you closer to relief until you make it to his door. Beef scampers around your feet as you enter the apartment. The sight that greets you once Robert unlocks the door stops you in your tracks.

"Were you robbed while you were in a coma?" You try to rationalize. No actual human being would live like this, let alone Mecha Man. The apartment was almost entirely devoid of furniture, save for a couple of pillows and a chair. At least there was a kitchen.

"No, just trying out the minimalist thing. You don't like it?" When he sees the horrified look on your face he just gives a half smile. "Make yourself comfortable. As best you can, at least." You look at the plastic chair and opt to sit on the floor instead. It's not like a chair was a valid option when he needed to see your back, anyways. Robert comes over once he has his tools as you start taking your shirt off. You can feel the fabric struggle to peel off where the acid had managed to reach your skin. He takes a seat behind you once you finally manage to undress. You might have felt self-conscious if you weren't utterly exhausted.

"Your augments, they are not…" he says as he gets a good look at your back.

"Shroud-approved?" You helpfully provide as you look through the glass balcony doors at the night sky. "It's not his tech, no."

"Good to know that someone else is keeping the art of artificial body modification alive," he notes and you give a bitter laugh. A warmth spreads through your back as you feel his fingers flit around the affected augment.

"You ever heard of a man called Pig Pen?" You ask in a low voice.

"Pig Pen, yeah. He didn't really operate in Torrance so we didn't cross paths. I heard that he…" Robert doesn't finish the sentence as he starts to piece together why you might be asking.

"Experimented with tech enhancements on superpowered kids, yeah." You finish for him and his hands freeze, fingers barely grazing your skin. "Well, you're looking at one of his greatest inventions." Mecha Man doesn't answer, but his hands stop moving. "Managed to get me when I was about twelve. Almost thirteen, actually. I could only move a few light things at first. But that first augment? Sure, it took me six months to recover from the installation but afterwards I could move entire pieces of furniture. His little experiment took so well it wasn't long before he did another one. It only took me three months to recover from that one. I could chuck whole cars around like toys thanks to that one. He didn't just want me to control things, though. He wanted me to control people. The next few augments weren't as fun." You end your rant there when you run out of breath. Your gaze doesn't waver from the few sparkling stars in the sky. A hero darts by like a shooting star. You don't know why you're telling him all of this. Apparently, it was easier to share your life story than tolerate the thought of him thinking you were acting recklessly or without reason.

"I'm… really sorry," the hero finally speaks, his voice dry.

"You don't have to be. All his little experiments eventually helped me blow him up and wreck his hideout. And now he is dead and I am not." Your throat feels tight but your tone is venomous at the memory of the man you owed your powers to. "I woke up in the rubble and headed to the closest SDN branch that day. Luckily, Chase and Blazer were there. They took me in before the Phoenix program was even a thing, helped me settle in." Robert had continued working on your back while you were talking. When you look down you see the white eyes of your headgear staring back at you. "He made us wear these helmets whenever we were out in public. You can't have kidnapped kids running around showing their faces, after all." Robert just listens, quietly working on the augment. He works steadily andd you only feel a slight tingle where he operates. "I destroyed all of them except for this one. I… couldn't get rid of it." You spin the helmet in your lap and look at the name badly scratched on its back. Charlie.

"So yes, when I found a report citing someone wearing another one of these things, I had to investigate. Even if that meant talking to the biggest asshole in the Red Ring," you finish explaining. "So sue me if my plan was a little flawed."

"I think if I am suing anyone it would be SDN for the multiple HR violations. The payout would probably set me up for life," he replies, and you can't help letting out a laugh. "Again, I am sorry you had to go through all of that. I am glad you made it out," he sincerely adds. You give a glance over your shoulder and see the focused look on his face.

"So am I. Any progress back there?" you are eager to change the subject as well as know if there was any relief in your near future.

"Well, the good news is that I think I can remove it safely," he states as you feel a sudden absence on your back. Not painful, but like pulling off a band aid that was stuck to you for a long time. "The bad news is that it doesn't seem very fixable." He holds out the device for you to see. It resembles a small, thick disk. Only now it looks more like a donut after the acid burned a hole straight through it. You were lucky the damage was contained to the augment.

"There goes my ability to explode people," you say, not knowing fully if that is true or not. You turn to face Robert. "At least the migraine is gone and I can sorta feel my legs again. Thanks. For that and for… listening," you say as you blink a few times. Even your vision seems to be coming back and you smile at the realization. He smiles back.

"Anytime," he answers. "Except if you are in the bathroom," you chuckle at his exception.

"And here I was following you into the ghastly depths of the men's restroom. I feel betrayed." You hold a hand to your heart as you fake a frown. Robert laughs as he leans back and rests on his hands.

"I am afraid that's where I draw the line." You give him a grateful look regardless. Unfortunately the nice moment doesn't last long.

GroOOoowl.

It was broken by the sound of unrepressed hunger bellowing from your stomach.

"I… may have forgotten to eat today," you explain as Robert breaks into laughter. "Sorry." You can feel your cheeks burning up and turn your face away from the amused hero.

"For being hungry?" He can barely speak through his laughter, which just makes you feel more embarrassed. "I don't really have anything around here considered edible for people but I can order us something." He pulls out his phone and starts swiping. "How do you feel about chinese food?" You were surprised but your stomach was thrilled by his offer.

"I think there is nothing better than late night chinese food," you reply. With your head no longer in pain, you notice a smell you hadn't noticed before. It smelt like sour milk and burnt fabric. You take a whiff of yourself and grimace as you confirm that the smell is in fact coming from you. You stare at Robert who was busy ordering food.

"Have I… smelt like this all night?" Robert raises a pair of surprised eyes at you before looking back at his phone. You can see him trying to hide a smile.

"I didn't want to say anything, but yes, you do carry the distinct odor of a dumpster fire," Robert agrees. You sag at his description.

"Yeah, thank you so much for not saying anything," you reply sarcastically and he chuckles.

"You can take a shower before the food gets here," he nudges with his shoulder towards the only other door in his apartment. "Bathroom's right there. I think I might even have some clothes that don't smell like they were dunked in vinegar before being set on fire," he muses as you roll your eyes.

"Fine, I get the message," you state as you get up and walk away from the dispatcher who was having too much at your expense.

Robert's bathroom is as humble as the rest of his apartment. You count five personal care products. Toothpaste, shaving cream, a bar of soap, and two bottles of shampoo -- a bottle of 2-in-1 and another one for dogs. You sigh as you think about your own bathroom with it's variety of products. While appearance wasn't your biggest concern in general, you enjoyed the simple pleasure of fancy toiletries. You were grateful for the chance to wash away any traces of Toxic from your body, but the idea of using a 2-in-1 shampoo was not an exciting one.

You are glad that you had already taken your shirt off once you try to remove your pants. The damp fabric fought back as you tried to push it down. Fortunately, it seemed like hot water was not in short supply at Robert's apartment. You closed your eyes as you felt it wash away the filth of the day's struggles. As you washed your hair you began reflecting on what had happened today.

Your mission to gather intel was a giant failure. You couldn't recall the last time you failed at something this badly. While it's true that you had kept your encounters with the Red Ring to a minimum after Mecha Man's explosion, you didn't think that was enough to clue Shroud on who you really worked for. At least you did discover one thing, and that was that the astral pulse that powered the suit was not in the villain's possession. You remembered the day you dragged Robert out of his mech, but you didn't remember feeling any sort of power source there. Usually things like electricity or fire have a certain warmth to them. There was no such warmth in the suit as far as you could tell. If anything, your power over the metal suit felt dampened. You had attributed your struggle to claw open the mech to your distressed state, but what if that wasn't it?

Your thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the bathroom door. You peek your head out of the shower curtain and spot Robert's outstretch arm placing a pile of clothes on the counter.

"Here is what I could find. Let me know if you need anything else," he says as he withdraws his hand and shuts the door behind him. The interruption makes you rush through the rest of your shower and get dressed. The attire Robert left you consisted of an oversized gift shop t-shirt and a pair of shorts. At least they were intended to be shorts, but they were a few sizes too big and hanged below your knees. You dried your hair as best you could before exiting the steamy bathroom.

Beef seemed to have already had his dinner and was all snuggled up on his pillow. He looked like a little loaf of bread all curled up, and the little bit of tongue hanging out of mouth only added to the cuteness. You spot Robert in the balcony, leaning with his arms crossed over the railing.

"Was the smell that bad? I washed myself three times to make sure it was gone," you joke as you step outside next to him. There is a slight breeze and you rub your arms as you feel a chill from your damp hair.

"Just waiting for the food to get here. I don't want the doorbell to wake Beef up," he explains as you adopt the same pose next to him. You both watch the empty streets for a while before you speak up.

"This is the first time, you know," you tell the man next to you.

"First time what? Having chinese food?"

"No, going to someone's place," you clarify. You look at him to see a confused expression on his face. "I… don't really do that. You know, hang out with people and stuff. Like, outside of work."

"How come?" The question is asked softly, but you just shrug.

"It just… felt like everyone lived in a different world than me. They were worried about bills, about what to eat or do after work. Meanwhile I was waiting for Pig Pen to rise from the dead and come after me." You think about the first few times you tried to make conversation with people in the office. You were surrounded by heroes, sure, but their lives were still dramatically different from yours. "No one really knows who I am at SDN besides a few people, and there was no Phoenix program when I first joined. Saying you used to blow up people isn't exactly a great ice breaker when your coworkers are literally paid to stop that from happening." You toy with a strand of hair as you explain.

"I can kind of relate to that," you give the man beside you a skeptical look. "What, you think secretly being the son of a superhero with no powers made me relatable?" You consider that point for the first time. "No one in school knew what that was like either, and I was too busy trying to impress my dad to care. It's how I got this little souvenir," he points at the hole in his ear.

"Are you telling me that isn't just a bite Beef took from your ear?" In the brief time the dog had been around the office, he had become notorious for eating basically everything. "I assumed that's how he got a taste for blood," your assumption draws a laugh from the legacy hero.

"Nope, it was all my doing. I was a dumb kid who thought he knew his way around the big, cool mech suit," he runs a finger around the edge of his missing ear.

"If it makes you feel better, I think it gives you character. Kind of cute, even." You wink at him and he gives a half smile. He looks away when a delivery motorcycle comes to a stop in front of the building.

"Looks like food's here," he notes as he heads for the door. You think about offering to pay until you remember that you left all your things in the car downstairs. You would have to find another way to thank him for all the help. You head inside as Robert pays for the food and shuts the door. He places it on the kitchen counter before opening the fridge. He pulls out a couple of beer cans. The glimpse you catch inside that fridge tells you there isn't much else inside.

"Why am I not surprised that's all you have in there," You tease.

"I have my priorities straight," he affirms as he takes a seat on a stool you didn't notice before. You drag the other one to sit across from him. As he unwraps the food you realize just how hungry you really were. Fighting the urge to stuff your face proves too difficult and you pop a fried dumpling into your mouth.

"This might just be the best thing I have ever eaten," you mumble through a full mouth.

"Nothing beats 2 AM Kung Pao chicken," he agrees, breaking open a pair of chopsticks before joining you. "So, what's your next move?"

"Mm?" You find it too hard to pay attention to anything but the feast in front of you.

"I'm guessing you didn't really get much info out of Toxic. So, what are you planning on doing next?" He watches you as he fills his mouth with noodles. You set your chopsticks down as you ponder the question.

"I am not sure. Not really much to go on," you say as you realize your predicament. "The only thing I know is that there is someone out there wearing that helmet." You look at your own helmet placed atop the counter. "It's just a question of how to find them. I don't think I am very welcome in the criminal underworld right now."

"If you can't find them, why not get them to find you?" Robert suggests, and you give him a curious look. "You think they are someone you know, right? If they just got to Torrance they might not know that you are here. If you were to do something noticeable, they might just notice you." He gives you an impish smile and you deflate.

"you should really consider switching to the marketing department," your simply state.

"I am just saying, it would be a good way to grab attention," he shrugs innocently, focusing entirely on the takeaway box in his hand. He eventually looks at you when you don't reply. Your attention is back on the helmet.

"I… don't think I can be a hero while wearing that helmet," you finally say. "But I don't think I can continue playing villain either." You feel a pang of sadness at the realization. The helmet didn't really hold good memories but it was the only thing you had left of Charlie. Your best friend was the inventor of your group, coming up with gadgets and fixing your augments when needed. They didn't need to venture out much, and the mint condition of their helmet was a testament to that.

"Sometimes we have to let go of things we are used to holding on to," Roberts says thoughtfully, and you realize that might have been meant for himself as much as it was meant for you.

"Does that include letting go of your 'minimalist' lifestyle and investing in a couch, maybe?" He tries to give you a disapproving look, but his smile breaks the illusion.

"I am never inviting you over again," he chastises you with his chopsticks. "What I am saying is that maybe you could try being a hero without the helmet." The suggestion catches you off guard. You hadn't seriously considered being Mindsnap without the helmet. Your superpowered identity was tied to it. It was tied to everything Pig Pen gave you. Everything he took away. A metallic taste spreads in your mouth and you realize that you had bit down on your own tongue. You eat another dumpling to wash away the taste.

"Chase said I could 'rebrand'," you finally speak. "I thought that meant painting the helmet a new color or something." You take a long breath before looking back at the hero. "But maybe it is time that Mindsnap showed their face." Robert studies your expression seriously.

"Does that mean…?" His question is tentative as he leaves it open.

"It means you are going to have a new member on your team, dispatcher," you smile. "Think you can handle that?"

"I am sure I can manage," he smiles back. You weren't entirely sure about this decision, but seeing Robert's smile helped ease your anxiety. The rest of the meal is spent sharing anecdotes from both of your lives. He tells you about the villains he put behind bars and you tell him about the heroes you managed to elude. You keep drinking after the meal is over, moving from the stools to the floor. Eventually the stories and drinks both run out and the night is silent once more.

"Thanks, by the way," you break the silence. "For the help and the food." You weren't that drink but your head as buzzing. Robert seemed to be doing as well as you. His shirt was fully tucked out and one of the buttons was pulled open. It was hard not to imagine unbuttoning the rest.

"Well, you quite literally saved my life so I would say we are about even," he replies as he downs the last of his beer. You watch until he pulls the can away and a drop of alcohol flows down his chin. Your thumb is already rubbing it away before you can register what has happened. When your eyes land on his you realize how close you were sitting. He looks surprised but doesn't stop you. Your heart is thundering in your chest and you are not sure who is closing the distance but it's getting smaller. It's almost like your dream. You can feel his breath and the heat from his skin. The distance between you is almost non-existent, your lips almost making contact. But just like your dream, it all ends there.

"I, um, I am sorry," Robert apologizes as he pulls away and your heart sinks. "I have already had a drunken inappropriate kiss this week, I don't think doing it again is a good idea," he explains as he looks away. A laugh bursts out of you, surprising both you and the man in front of you.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just I had a dream about this," you explain as you try to compose yourself.

"You... dreamt about us not kissing?" Robert asks incredulously, which just causes you to laugh more.

"I dreamt we were about to kiss, but yeah, we didn't re-" you are cut short when Robert's mouth crashes into yours. Your disbelief causes you to hold his face in your hands to ensure that he truly was there. His skin is almost as warm as his lips, and so you kiss him back. Your fingers drift to the back of his neck and get buried in the short hair there. He presses in closer as he places an arm on either side of you, not breaking the kiss. Eventually you are forced to fall back on the floor as you both catch your breath. You look up at him to find his mouth red and glistening with drool.

"Does this make up for your dream?" He asks with a raspy voice. You don't answer, choosing instead to pull him back down into you. This time the kiss is slower. He bites your bottom lip, forcing you to open your mouth. He doesn't hesitate to do the same and you can't focus on anything aside from how your bodies are pressed together. Your hands roam from his hair to his neck and down his scarred chest. He pulls away and looks around before grabbing a pillow and placing it under your head. Your body is already hot all over but the simple gesture warms you regardless. You place a gentle hand on his face and guide him back to your mouth. Your make out continues for a while, tongues exploring each other's mouths. The only breaks you take are to catch your breaths. His hands explore your body as yours explore his. Eventually you are both too drunk and sleepy to continue and you feel Robert pull away as you struggle to keep your eyes open.

"Goodnight, hero," he says just before you drift off to sleep.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ahhhh it's finally done! I really tried to get this chapter done quickly but work emergencies are a horrible, horrible thing. The next couple of chapters are going to involve the Z-team and I want to practice writing them so feel free to ask me for some head canons or drabbles! I have some more free time now and I wanna use it to do more writing so give me all your requests!

“Yes, okay,” you answer, though you’re not sure if it’s for him or for you. He pours the disinfectant into a cotton pad and just as he prepares to press it to your skin, you tense. “Ford, please. . . be gentle, okay?”

“I will, if it’s too much just tell me.” Ford still doesn’t dare meet your eyes, not when he knows his own will betray him. Instead, he focuses on the wound, on the crimson smear of blood that trickles down your skin. But it’s not that damn injury he wants to fix, it’s you, all of you. He wants to be needed by you, to be the one who makes you whole again. 

Ford prepares himself and trying his best, he gently presses the cotton pad to your skin what makes you gasp, oh, sweet mercy, that voice of yours. It’s all he can do to stop himself from leaning in and capturing your lips in tender kiss, getting between your legs and taking you right there. He keeps going, though, his big hands too careful, like you’re made of porcelain. He doesn’t want to hurt you, never, but he just wishes he could be inside you right now, show you how much he’s desperate for you.

“Ahh! Ford, h-hurts!” your fingers are gripping his wrist so tight, nails digging in, and fuck, he shouldn’t be thinking this. You are hurt, in pain, for god’s sake, but all he can see is you beneath him, making those same sounds for an entirely different reason as he makes love to you.

“Shh, I know, I know it does. I know, but you have to let me do this. If I don’t, the wound could get infected. Tetanus, sepsis are not things to take lightly.”

Goddamn, why he’s so close to places he shouldn’t even be thinking about. You’re laying there so beautiful, helpless, voice pleading with him to stop, it’s driving Ford crazy. His cock twitches in his pants and he hates himself for it, hates how his mind creates an image of you crying out his name like that, begging him to keep going instead of to stop. 

He feels the throb in his chest, but in his groin too.

“N-no more, fuck, ugh!” obviously it’s a plea for mercy, but to his traitorous brain, it sounds like—

Ford frowns, looking way too serious than usual as he tries to make his dirty thoughts go away, tries to focus on the wound and not the way your skin feels, but goddamn why are you so soft and warm and why he’s so damn close to you. And then his gaze betrays him, lowering down to the curve of your inner thigh, so close to where the hem of your panties teases him mercilessly.

“That’s enough, please!” you begin, biting down on your lip as the pain grows.

“Don’t move too much, it’ll hurt more,” Ford’s tone sounds rougher than he meant to. “I’m almost done.” 

She’s in pain, you disgusting old idiot. She’s fucking suffering and you’re—

“Please, stop!” 

Ford freezes, stiffening. That’s enough, you’d said, but it’s not, it’s fucking not. It’s never enough. Not your skin, not your voice, not the way you cling to him, not the way you beg, not the way you look at him.

The cotton pad is soaked now in your blood too, pressing too hard against your skin before Ford even realises it. You wince, gasping again and Ford can't help it anymore. His eyes drop to your panties, how they hug your body and his cock twitches in his pants.

He’s a grown man. He should be able to handle this. But all he can see is you, laid out before him like this, looking at him with those needy eyes, begging him to take you, to fuck you.

“Just sit sti—” before he finishes his sentence, he unintentionally presses the cotton harder into your wound, too lost in his own fantasies and the sharp burst of pain makes you hiss so you move involuntarily, your leg jerking straight into his crotch and—

You feel it.

Your foot accidentally brushes against something unmistakably hard. You didn’t mean to move that way, absolutely. But the second your limb drags against him, you feel it. The hardness beneath his pants. His body reacting to you. To this.

And neither of you move.

Ford is first to speak.

“I— I’m sorry,” he blurts. “It’s a natural physiological response. Adrenaline, heightened states of focus, they can trigger. . . well, unintended reactions. Nothing to do with— nothing to do with you.”

The sharp pain in your thigh momentarily forgotten. “Physiological response?” you repeat. “Ford, are you seriously trying to explain away your. . . uh, situation with biology?”

“It’s not what you think. It’s involuntary. Biological. A man’s body doesn’t always obey his mind. It doesn’t mean anything.”

He sounds so awkward, so flustered and you don’t know what to think. He’s not usually like this. . . well, not around you. Around you, he’s always so collected, always the smart, serious, intellectual Stanford Pines who wouldn’t bat an eye at anything that didn’t involve research.

You try to click pieces together, processing. He feels something for you. That’s the only explanation. He wouldn’t be this flustered, this desperate to excuse himself, if he didn’t.

And now you know. Ford’s just as human as the rest of us. And he wants you, too.

You move again, brushing your leg against him again and Ford wants to die because he makes the loudest surprised gasp in the room. “Doesn’t mean anything, huh?” you ask innocently. “so if I just move like this—” you press just a little firmer, feeling him growing harder. “it’s still just biology. Nothing to do with me at all?”

He’s silent.

“Ford, Is that. . . is that really how you feel?”

He sighs and darts his hand out to grip your leg to stop your teasing. “Don’t,” he warns, saying your name. His eyes meet yours for the first time all evening. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

His eyes stay locked on yours. You’re silent now too.

“Don’t— don’t look at me like that. You don’t understand. I. . . shouldn’t have let it go this far.”

But you do understand, more than he could ever realise.

“But why?” your foot slides all over his hard clothed length and Ford’s body responds with his needy cock twitching at your touch.

“This isn’t funny,” he bites out. “this isn’t a game. I’m not a young man, im not— I’m not what you need.”

“You don’t get to decide what I need, Ford.”

“But you’re too young—”

“Stop treating me like I’m some kid who doesn’t know what she wants. I’m an adult, Ford, an adult!”

“An adult?” he repeats, while your foot is still rubbing over his very obvious bulge. “an adult who can't even get dressed normally for the weather?”

You grin, leaning closer to his face. “uh-huh. And here you are, all worked up over me, right?” you press on his cock harder and Ford nearly finishes in his pants. 

He grabs your ankle, even though he doesn’t push you away.

“This. . . now this is inappropriate.”

You rolls your foot over his bulge what makes hips buck just slightly. You bite your lip, grinning at how badly he’s losing control.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite, you know that?” you lean closer and murmur into his mouth. “you’re so worried about what I can handle, but look at you. You’re the one who’s hard as rock right now, who can’t control himself.”

“Enough, I’m serious, stop.”

“Make me.”

That’s all it takes. It’s your smirk that gets him, your teasing voice, your dirty remarks, even as you’re sprawled out on the bed with that horrible wound on your thigh.

Ford is on you in a second. His mouth crashes against yours and you don’t even realise what’s happening yet. His kiss is messy and needy, like he’s trying to consume you whole. And you give yourself to him completely, your body melting into his. Every surprised gasp of yours is swallowed by him, his big hands gripping your face as he deepens the kiss. It’s so messy, the way Ford literally fucks your mouth with his tongue.

And you can’t help but tug at his clothes, dragging him closer until he’s on top of you. Ford’s weight presses into you and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling at it as your body presses against his, your heart pounding so hard you swear he can hear it too. Ford is barely restraining himself from ripping off the rest of your clothes, that oversized T-shirt and panties, and fucking you right here, making all his fantasies come true, which he wrote down in his journal.

His mouth devours yours like he’s starved for you, his hands yanking you closer like he’s holding on for dear life. You let him claim you, let his kiss swallow every thought in your head until there’s nothing left but him, just him, him, him, him. You’re drunk on the way he feels. His hands are everywhere, pulling and tugging at you like he’s losing control. And oh god, you feel it.

You can’t get enough of it. You want more.

Ford is too lost so he lets six-fingered hand slip lower, brushing the side of your thigh and then it lands right where it shouldn’t.

Your fresh wound.

You gasp in pain, breaking the kiss.

“Damn,” Ford instantly pulls away, and his hand is next to your wound, concern and fear are visible on his face. “i’m sorry, i didn’t—”

“Fuck it,” you interrupt, pulling him closer. “worry about that later. I need you now. Please, Ford, just kiss me again.”

But looks like Ford is interested in your wound more than in kiss now.

He’s already inspecting the bandage, ignoring your begging, his brows furrowed with guilt. “i wasn’t thinking, im sorry, does it hurt? did i—”

Why men are so stupid, you think and grab his chin, forcing him to look at you, but he talks first.

“Let me—” he clears his throat, blinking before continuing. “no, let me bandage your leg. We need to, uh, stop the bleeding.”

“Ford,” you groan. “It’s fine. It’s not even that bad now.”

“Not that bad?” he looks you with a glare that’s somehow equal parts concern and anger. “that’s not how infections work, young lady. You could lose a limb if this festers.”

You groan in frustration, rolling your eyes, but he’s already kneeling in front of you. “This is really what you’re worried about right now?” you drawl, raising your brow.

“Yes, this is what I’m worried about.”

And here he is again, between your legs, his hands are still careful as they work, bandaging your inner thigh. Ford is trying so hard not to look at the very place he’s so devastatingly close to. He pulls the knot of the bandage just too tight what makes you let out the softest, unintentional moan.

“You— you cannot make noises like that right now. Stop making this harder than it already is.”

The corners of your lips curl and you lean back on your palms, unbothered. “Says the man who’s between my legs right now.”

“You got a point,” Ford lifts his brows as he clicks his tongue, shaking his head with a rueful grin. “clever girl.”

When he finally finishes tying off the bandage, he proudly looks at the work he done and pulls away, wait, pulls away? However, you don’t let him get far. Your hands drag him back down with a force that surprises him and maybe yourself.

The kiss you pull him into is anything but delicate. It’s urgent and hungry. Ford groans against you as if you’ve stolen the last bit of air he had left. Your fingers fist the fabric at his shoulders and when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeps over your bottom lip. 

“Been waiting for this,” you confess between gasps. “Ford, I need you.” 

His forehead presses against yours. “You think I don’t? I’ve needed you. God, you have no idea. You drive me insane.”  

“Need you,” you breathe, arching up into him. “Ford, please. . . need you so bad.” he swallows your words with another passionate kiss, this one deeper, slower. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling a whimper from you that goes straight to his cock.

His lips trail lower, pressing kisses along the curve of your jaw, the slope of your neck. His teeth graze against your skin making you shiver because you feel like on damn fire, so sensitive for him.

“Ford, ah,” you breathe, tilting your head to give him more room as his kisses grow bolder, hungrier. He’s so desperate he can’t seem to stop himself, mouthing at your collarbone, your throat, anywhere he can reach while he mutters how beautiful you are.

Your hand trembles as it finds his, wrapping around his wrist and guiding him down. “Ford, please, touch me there,” you whimper against his lips now, spreading your thighs apart to make space. “need you. . . need your fingers, your hand, please.”

Ford hesitates at first, as if he doesn't fully believe what he sees in front of him, the object of his fantasies, his clever girl, which he wrote about in his journal, right beneath him, begging for his touch, for his love. It seems like his genius brain cannot comprehend what is happening yet.

Finally his hand moves, two fingers, one extra, rubbing you through the fabric of your panties and the sound that leaves your mouth sounds like a desperate needy sob. His forehead drops against yours as his fingers press against the dampness pooling there.

“You’re so wet,” Ford drags his thumb slowly over your clit. “is this all for me?”

“Yes, yes, all for you,” you gasp, writhing under his touch, bucking your hips up into his hand. “only you, Ford— fuck, just keep touching me, please, need more— need you. . .”

“I know,” he mutters, kissing you hard enough to steal the words from your tongue. “i know, sweetheart, i know.”

Ford’s fingers tugs your panties to the side and you both groan when he finally touches you bare. You squirm, swaying your hips to grind against his hand and he curses again, moving his lips to your neck, kissing and nipping as if he can’t stand being apart from you for even a second.

“Y-you’re driving me insane,” he breathes. “been dreaming about this, you have no idea, been wanting you for so long.”  

“Good,” you manage a weak smile, whimpering when he circles your clit with his thumb. You curl your nails into his shoulders. “then fucking do something about it.”

Stanford groans at your words, his cock twitches, begging to be taken care of, but his pleasure doesn’t matter now. You’re so hungry for his touch and Ford needs to touch you badly, so he slips his fingers through your folds, caressing you while still rubbing your clit in torturous circles. “like this? does this, does this feel good?”  

“Yes, yes, oh my god! more, more, give me more,” you cry when he sinks one finger into you, curling it just right.

“God, I wanna—” but he cuts himself off when his eyes notices that damn bandage on your leg.

“What?” you question and press a light kiss to his cheek, your eyes searching his face. “what do you want?” 

“You,” he admits. “I want to be inside you, want to feel you around me, want to, b-but you’re hurt, and I— fuck, I can’t, I can’t risk it.” 

You whine, your head falling back as his fingers keep moving, sliding in and out of your pussy, brushing against that spot that makes you see stars. “don’t care,” your thighs clenching around his hand. “i don’t care, just need you, need your cock— fuck, please!”

“Please, don’t say that, don’t say that when I can’t give it to you.”  

“Ford, please, I need it! I’ll be fine, I swear—”  

“No, you’re hurt, this is all i can give you right now. . . but i swear, I swear i’ll make it up to you, honey, when you’re better, when you’re not hurt, i’ll—” his fingers thrust deeper into your wetness with his thumb circling your clit in time and you interrupt him with loud cry.

“Ford! please, just don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

Ford nods and watches you. Letting his fingers curl inside you, penetrating deeper into your pussy. His movements growing more confident as your body reacts to him, your beautiful moans spurring him on. His lips find yours again and you both get lost in the kiss, in the way your breaths mix, in the way your bodies press together like you’re trying to fuse into one.

Your moan breaks into a cry as you arch your back, eyes closed tight when Ford’s fingers pumping into you faster, your spongy walls tightening around his digits. Oh fucking heaven, that extra finger feels too good. “Ford, please! oh, god— fuck, you’re gonna make me—”  

“That’s it,” Ford’s lips trail up to your ear, kissing and biting it as he presses his thumb on your sensitive bundle. “let me take care of you, sweetheart, cum for me.”  

His tone and praise is what sends you on edge as you clench around his fingers, moaning his name and cumming while his fingers, slower, but still thrusting into you. You feel so weak and tired, but your Ford is right there to catch you, whispering soft praises into your hair as you shake in his arms.

Ford’s fingers still buried deep inside you as he watches you come down from your high. And it’s so obvious that he putted your needs before his own because his cock, hard as a rock now, strains against the fabric of his pants, creating the most painful bulge you ever seen. He shifts awkwardly, hoping maybe you won’t notice but you do. Oh, you do.

“Ford,” your voice sounds honeyed as you regain your strength. Your gaze drops pointedly to the tent in his pants. “you’re. . . so hard.”

His face flushes and he tries to pull away, to create some distance between you, but you grab his wrist, stopping him.

“Don’t,” you whisper softly. “don’t hide from me. you’ve been so good to me, let me. . . let me do something for you.”

“No,” he says quickly. “you’re hurt. I can’t, you need to rest.”

“Just look at you, you’re aching. You don’t have to do anything to me, just let me help.”

“Oh my god,” he says your name as if ready to scold you. “you’re impossible, you know,” but his shaky hands move to his belt anyway, unsure, like he’s warring with himself even as he undoes it.

“Yeah?” you lean back. “you’re about to jerk off in front of me, Ford, what does that make you?”

Ford cant find any smart or logical response to that because you’re absolutely right, he’s the mess here, the impossible one, the desperate old man. He takes a breath, finally pulling his cock free and fuck, he’s so hard as if he’s going to explode, the head flushed and leaking.

Ford’s cock is already in his hand, the first strokes making him whimper under his breath. His other hand rests on your thigh, fingers nervously flex like he’s desperate to touch more of you, to hold you, to worship you properly like his clever girl deserves, but he’s so lost in this intimate moment, in you, that he can barely think straight.

You’re watching him, trying to control yourself because if you won’t, you might just jump on him and you can't vouch for yourself. 

You’re sprawled out in front of him like a dream come to life: t-shirt rucked up, legs spread, panties pushed to the side, leaving your pretty glistening pussy on full display for his starved gaze. Fuck, you look so hot like that, from everything he’s already done to you. He’s trying not to stare and you think he’s so silly when it’s specially show made only for him, so you shift your hips just enough to catch his attention, drawing his eyes like a magnet.

“Touch yourself for me. Show me how much you want me.” your eyes locked on him, drinking in the sight of his hand moving over his length.

Ford’s chest heaves, his hand grips his cock, which is twitching and flushed an angry red at the tip. But looks like poor old man can’t even jerk himself off properly, so you reach your hand out to brush against his wrist.

“Here,” you purr, guiding his hand with your smaller one, wrapping your fingers around his, forcing him to stroke himself teasingly. At that, Ford’s hips jerk up into your shared grip, and you hum approvingly, watching as his lips part in a groan. “yes, like this, honey. Let me help you.” 

“S-sweetheart. . . you don’t— ah— you don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” you lean back against the bed, shifting your hips, making sure he has the perfect view of your soaked, glistening slit. “Don’t hold back, i want you to feel good.”

Ford lets himself get a bit more vocal as he groans, his hips buck into your joined hands and his cock twitches against your palm. He’s so fucking hard, leaking against your skin, and the sounds he makes as he strokes himself are too good to be true, yet here he is, in front of you, jerking himself off, moaning your name. 

“You. . . o-oh god, sweetheart, you’re incredible,” he whines as you guide his hand again, showing him exactly how to squeeze, how to work himself the way you know he needs it. Meanwhile his other hand braces against the mattress near your head, his knuckles white as he struggles to keep himself together.  

“You’re so big, Ford,” your eyes glued to his dick, watching every move with hungry fascination. “you’re so handsome, so beautiful. I could look at you all night.”

He groans at your praise, more pathetic this time, his forehead dropping forward as he stares at where your bodies almost meet. “Christ, you’re gonna ruin me, love.” that’s when his strokes falter for and you take over completely, your warm hand wrapping around his length and pumping him up and down.

“Keep going,” you urge, feeling yourself getting wetter too. “i can’t stop thinking about how good you’d feel inside me. id take all of you, id make you feel so good, Ford. I need you, all of you.” soft whisper into his lips while all Ford can do is fuck your hand pathetically, your thumb sweeping over his tip, smearing the slick there.

Ford digs his fingers into your thigh, trembling. “Don’t— oh god, don’t say that,” he gasps. His eyes are locked on your opening, on the way your arousal glistens, your folds so wet and swollen and inviting.

“Don’t you want to touch me? Don’t you want to feel how wet i am for you?”

“God, I do,” he breathes as his hand joins again, moving together with yours, faster, jerking himself off faster. “I want you so much it hurts. I’d do anything. . . anything for you.”

“Then come for me,” you whisper, reaching out to thread your fingers into his hair when you kiss the corners of his parted trembling lips.

“I can’t— oh god, sweetheart, I can’t hold on much longer.” thick ropes of his cum spills across your thighs and even stomach, marking your skin as he makes a mess of himself. His hot seed drips down over your hand where you keep stroking and caressing him, milking every last drop forcing whines and mewls from him.

He collapses forward after and buries his face against your shoulder. 

“I need you so badly,” he murmurs into your skin. “you don’t know how much I want you. You don’t know what you do to me.”

You hum softly, threading your fingers through his damp hair as you press a tender kiss on his forehead.

***

It’s morning and sweet scent of batter and syrup fills the air. The noise and conversations are coming from the kitchen and there’s only one explanation for the chaos: Stanley is cooking “stancakes.”  

You’re by his side, propped against the counter, balancing on your good leg, watching Stan cook. Spatula in one hand, the other parked on his hip and he radiates confidence, as if he is ready to host his own cooking show.

“Now listen up, kid,” he says in a voice full of pride. “these are world-famous stancakes. they’ve been called ‘edible’ by at least two people, well, three, if you don’t count the pig.”  

“Oh.”  

“Oh” he repeats, incredulous, spinning to face you with mock offense. “don’t tell me you’ve never had stancakes before?!”  

You grin, shaking your head. “not once. I think Ford’s been keeping them all to himself.”  

Stan looks like you’ve just offended him.  

“That’s practically a felony in this house! what, Ford never mentioned ‘em? selfish bastard.”  

You laugh softly.

“but i gotta ask,” Stan continues. “any allergies to elbow grease? or, uh, whatever was at the bottom of the flour jar. pretty sure it was flour. maybe. . .” he winks and you roll your eyes, however the conversation continues good and friendly between you. 

Your hand rests on the counter for balance and you look down, at the faint tug of the bandage around your leg, which works as reminder of the night before. Memories of Ford’s hands, his mouth, the way he moaned your name, how he touched you, heat your cheeks until you force yourself to focus on Stan.  

His spatula waves in your direction again. “so, what’s the story with yer leg? take a tumble down the stairs, or was it somethin’ spooky out there in the woods?”  

You give him a wide smile. “let’s just say it’s a story. remind me to tell you later.”

Stan raises a brow curiously, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he turns back to his stancakes with a grunt. “hmph, fair enough. just glad you didn’t end up worse. Y’know, if ya ever need lessons on landing on yer feet—”  

Before he can finish, his brother steps into the room and you immediately turn your gaze to him. Honestly, he looks like he’s spent the entire night replaying everything. 

“Ah, there you are,” Ford murmurs when his gaze finds you, then he clears his throat and nods to his twin. “good morning, Stanley.”  

Stan doesn’t miss a beat, gesturing with his spatula. “yeah, mornin’, sixer. Yer just in time for the best damn pancakes this side of the multiverse.”  

At that, Ford’s lips curve into a polite smile as he glances at his brother. “that’s good to hear.” then his focus changes, locking entirely on you. His intonation changes into something warmer as he speaks your name. “would you mind if i borrowed you for a moment? just for a quick talk.”  

You nod a little too eagerly. “sure, of course.”  

Stanley lets out a dramatic sigh, waving his spatula at Ford. “don’t keep her too long, poindexter. She’s gotta try these pancakes before they go cold!” 

Ford leads you to his study and you follow, heart thundering in your chest. You’re grinning like an idiot, barely containing your excitement. He’s finally going to say something, but you’re so fucking ready to hear, to discuss, to scream the loudest “YES” when he’ll ask you to be his girlfriend.

When the door clicks shut behind you, he turns and you finally see his face. He’s always so serious, just like right now. But what did you wait? It’s Ford Pines, it’s his normal state. However, you’re so excited you sure he can see the way you’re literally glowing.

You really try to act casual, but inside, you’re absolutely going insane, nervous, happy, excited at the same time. Last night still feels like a fever dream, you can feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, the heat of his body against yours, the way his fingers slid so perfectly into you. . . 

And now he’s here, just the two of you, and you’re hoping he’ll finally acknowledge the thing that happened between you.

But then he opens his mouth.

“So, about the anomaly. . .” he begins and the words hit you like a slap.  

No, no. No no no. Are you hearing this right?That’s what he’s leading with?! After everything that happened last night, he’s just. . . no, he’s talking about the damn anomaly like he didn’t just leave you trembling with the memory of his fingers inside you. 

Your smile falters fucking immediately, your shoulders stiffening as he goes on, completely oblivious to the storm of disappointment brewing inside you.  

“I’ve been reviewing the notes I took last week. If my calculations are correct, the creature’s molecular structure—”

What the actual fuck.

Your jaw clenches. You stare at him, thinking it’s some kind of joke. He’s talking about science. Fucking science. After everything that happened, this is what he wants to talk about? He’s here, rambling about molecules and rain like none of it ever happened.  

You can’t stand it. The frustration takes over you.

“Ford,” you hiss as you shove him back against the wall.

His eyes widen in surprise, but you don’t let him speak. You press your palms flat against his chest, pinning him there, your voice shaking with anger. All you can think about is how he’s standing there like some fucking genius, talking about molecules and data when last night, you’d literally devoured each other.  

“Are you kidding me? This is what you wanted to talk about? You’re seriously standing here, talking about anomalies and notes like last night didn’t fucking happen?”

For a second, he just looks at you, his face calm and that makes you practically vibrate with rage, the intensity of your emotions making your head spin.  

And then. . . he smirks.  

The bastard smirks.

“I wasn’t aware we had plans to debrief, sweetheart,” your fingers tighten against his chest and he raises a brow, clearly amused by your reaction. “Though I must admit, you’re surprisingly strong for someone with an injured leg. Should I be worried?”

Your face burns as you glare up at him. “Ford, don’t you dare—”

“Well?” his gaze piercing through you. “What is it you want me to say, sweetheart?”

His fucking teasing is driving you crazy.  

“Are you seriously just gonna pretend like it didn’t happen? That you didn’t— god, Ford—"

“Pretend? Oh, but don’t get ahead of yourself. I think you’ve got a lot more to say about what happened than you’re letting on, huh?”

Your cheeks burn hotter than they ever have before. You didn’t expect that. You really didn’t.

“Are you seriously gonna tease me about last night? You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, but you’re so worked up now that you don’t even care. You push yourself closer, getting right up in his space, your chest touching his, and now you’re just fuming.

“I’m the one who teases you? Interesting. . .” he leans to your face, brushing his lips against your ear. “What else did I do to you that made you so worked up last night? I didn’t think I was that good with my hands.”

“You bastard.” you hiss as you pin him against the wall harder.

He tilts his head at your words. “Careful, love, I wouldn’t want you to strain that leg of yours again. Especially not after I spent so much time taking care of you last night.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The nerve of this man! You want to slap him, to push him away, but instead, you pull him closer

“You better watch yourself, Ford.” You give him a dangerous smile. “You think you can just pay with me like this? You’re not as clever as you think.”

Ford’s smirk widens. “Oh? You think you’ve got the upper hand? I’ve got you pinned right where I want you, sweetheart.”

And then his hand trails down your arm to your waist. 

“And if you’re still mad, I can think of a few ways to work out that frustration.”

Your body goes cold and hot all at once, and it takes everything in you not to melt into him. 

Ford is still against the wall where you pushed him, calm as ever, obviously enjoying every second of this, he thinks he’s the one in control.  

Your pulse hammers in your ears, your hands trembling against the chest of his sweater. He’s so warm, and god, you hate that even now, even while you’re mad at him, you can’t stop remembering the way he looked last night. The way he sounded when he let himself fall apart under your touch. 

“You’re insufferable. Worse than Stan.”

“Am I? Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one pinning me to a wall. Quite forcefully, might I add. It’s a little ironic, don’t you think? Considering how you were. . . what’s the term? Begging for me last night?”

Your jaw drops.  

“Begging? You think I was begging for you?”

Ford looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Well, I seem to recall a certain. . . eagerness on your part. Particularly when—”

“You don’t get to talk about my eagerness.” you cut him off, your cheeks flaming. “Not when you were the one moaning my name like your life depended on it.”

That shuts him up.

His smirk falters slightly, and you see the faintest hint of red creeping up his neck. Oh. Oh. Fucking finally. You’ve got him now.  

“That’s right. Stanford Pines, world-renowned genius, reduced to a trembling mess because I—” and to kill him for sure, you lean in to whisper into his lips. “jerked you off.”

Ford goes completely still.  

There’s nothing but silence. His genius mind working, his lips parting slightly like he wants to say something, but no words come out. His face is a mess of conflicting emotions, embarrassment, frustration and something you can’t quite place but looks suspiciously like agreement.

“Got nothing to say now, huh?” you tease, grinning like an absolute maniac. “What happened to all that confidence, Professor?”

“Well played.”

***

Life at the mystery shack doesn’t feel much different, not outwardly. Stan still grumbles about the bills, the tourists still gawk at the exhibits, and Ford. . . Ford is still Ford, except now he’s yours.  

Yours.  

The nights are quieter between you both, more intimate, full of moans and groans, petting and foreplay. Like last night, when his clever hands had slipped beneath the waistband of your pajama pants, his soft and needy voice told you he wanted to make you feel good.  

God, he did. You’d come on his fingers so good, trembling as he whispered your name and called you his good girl, while kissing your cheeks, wiping your tears of pleasure away. And he’d let you touch him too while your hand worked up and down on his pulsing cock and then he spilled against your skin, while you silenced him with a kiss.

No, it actually feels good, really. It’s better than nothing, than not touching him at all, but. . . you crave, you need something else. Something that is not just his fingers, mouth, or hands.

Ford is so careful, so cautious about your stupid leg, his gentle excuses about your injury making you want to scream into a pillow. Like, yeah, it still hurts sometimes, but you can walk, run, pin him against a wall, fuck him six ways to sunday if he’d just let you.  

Ford has his own fears, even if he won’t admit them outright.

But you’re not afraid. 

The woods, your anomaly huntings, are different now too. More dangerous, you’d say. 

You’re pressed against a tree as Ford’s mouth claims yours. His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding up under your clothes, pulling you closer, closer, like he can’t get enough.  

“Ford, aah, please,” you whimper, pulling him down to kiss you deeper. His knee nudges between your thighs, pressing against you and you swear you’re about to melt into a puddle right there in the dirt.  

“Quiet, sweetheart, don’t want the whole forest knowing how desperate you are for me.”  

But it’s him. . . it’s fucking him who’s desperate, dropping to his knees to pull your pants down just enough, fingers slipping into your panties to find you already soaking.  

“So wet already, holy multiverse,” and then his fingers are inside your pussy as he presses kisses to your thighs and stomach.

But you need to touch him too. Your hands are on him again, tugging at his belt, fumbling with the button of his pants. His cock is hard when you pull him free and you stroke him until he’s shaking, gasping against your neck.  

“My love, i’m gonna—” his hips jerks into your hand as he cums, splashing his hot and thick seed all over your fingers. But he doesn’t stop,  his own six fingered hand working you until you finish with a strangled cry, pussy clenching around him as you nearly fall, when he catches you, whispering how beautiful you are.

You both collapse against each other, sticky and hot, despite coldness of autumn, grinning like idiots. And then Ford leans in to kiss you again, like he’s already planning the next round.  

At dinner, it’s you who starts it.  

Your leg brushes his teasingly under the table that has him choking on his water. Stanley doesn’t notice, too busy ranting about some tourist who tried to haggle over a snow globe, but Ford shoots you a warning look.

You just smile sweetly while also agreeing with Stan about his tourist speech as you press your foot higher until you’re brushing against the hard line of his length beneath the table.  

The lab is worse.

He’s sitting at his desk, scribbling in his journal with you perched on his lap, your arms around his shoulders, your hips rocking against his as you kiss the side of his neck.  

“You’re distracting me,” says fucking Ford with his hands on your hips, guiding your movements as his already hard cock strains against his pants.  

“Good,” you kiss his cheek, grinding down harder, feeling him twitching beneath you.

But every time you try to push it further, every time you reach for him, ask for more, he stops you.  

“Your leg,” but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.  

“But i’m fine—”  

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “i’m not risking it, not yet.”  

***

The November crisp air bites at your skin. The faint smoky warmth of the fire crackling in the yard. Well. . . It was Stanley's idea to do this, he said something about rekindling childhood memories, family bonding and roasting marshmallows like it was summer camp, but he's not here. Something about a "quick run to the diner for pie" turned into him being away for whole evening, leaving you and Ford alone under a shining starry sky.

“You know, for a guy with six fingers, you’re surprisingly bad at this,” you tease, leaning back on your hands as you watch Stanford squint at the marshmallow impaled on his skewer. It's already starting to charred, the edges curling into blackened flakes as the fire devours it. “do they not teach you how to roast marshmallows in the multiverse, professor?”

Ford chuckles softly at your words. “Oh, excuse me, but i’ll have you know i’ve mastered much more complex techniques than this primitive. . .” the marshmallow slides clean off the stick and lands with a soft plop into the embers. Ford stares at it, annoyed. “cooking method.”

You can’t help how cute he looks so you laugh. “You’re hopeless,” you brush your shoulder against his, smiling. “here, let me show you.” Ford nods, handing you the stick. “first rule,” you skewer a new marshmallow. “don’t hold it so close to the flame. you want it golden, not a cremation. You’ve gotta keep it turning. Patiently, like this.” you rotate the stick slowly and Ford actually watches, his gaze is not on the fire, but on you. 

“i see,” he says thoughtfully. “golden, not charred.”

“Exactly,” you let marshmallow toast evenly. “you just have to—” you glance up to check on him and Ford’s still watching you. It steals the breath from your lungs and you gulp awkwardly. “. . . focus,” you finish a little quieter. “why you’re looking at me like that?” you smile.

Ford laughs. “maybe in some universe, you do dress appropriately for the weather?” 

You blink at him, thrown off for a second, before realising. Oh. . . oh, right. Your teeth chatter slightly, fingers cold and you’re shaking slightly, it’s so obvious. “i guess no?”

Ford doesn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, he’s already shrugging out of his coat and draping it over your shoulders before you can protest, but it’s not like you wanted to anyways. His trench coat is heavy and smells just like him and your smile couldn't get any wider.

“Thanks, again. . . heh,” you try to sound nonchalant, but the coat is still warm from him and you clutch it around you tighter.

“So, you were saying?” Stanford prompts, tilting his head toward the marshmallow in your hand.

You clear your throat. “Right, uh, where was i? oh, yeah. so, you’ll know it’s ready when it’s this perfect golden brown all over, not a single—”  

“Give me a kiss,” Ford says suddenly, interrupting you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’re not sure who leans in first. You, probably, but he meets you halfway. Ford’s lips are warm, so soft against yours. Your heart stutters in your chest as blood rushes in your ears, one of his hands comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing feather-light against your cheek. Your hands find his chest, fingertips pressing into his sweater as you you sigh into him.

The kiss deepens, not hurried, but like you’ve both waited far too long for this moment. Ford leans into your touch like he’s been craving it just as much as you. 

When you finally pull back, he rests his forehead against yours and none of you speak, both quiet and only fire is crackling softly beside you.  

“I think i might be terrible at marshmallows.” Ford smiles shyly.

You blink at him, you lips still tingling from the kiss, your head feeling too light to even process his words at first. Oh god the whole moment so tender, so beautiful, so intimate it almost makes you want to cry. 

“Ford,” and he hums softly in response.

“Hmm?”

“Give me another.”

Ford doesn’t need to be told twice.  

This time, it’s you who closes the distance, but his lips crash into yours like he’s been waiting, holding himself back and now he simply can’t. His hand slides to the back of your neck as the kiss deepens, hotter, hungrier. You sigh into his mouth, your knees going weak beneath you, but Ford steadies you, holds you.

His coat slips off one of your shoulders as your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer, closer, closer until there’s no space left, and even then, it doesn’t feel close enough.  

“Ford—” you manage to groan against his lips and he pulls back just slightly.

“What is it?” the way he’s looking at you, fuck, like he’s already undressing you in his mind, makes you feel dizzy.  

You pause, staring at him, at the mess of his hair, the faint flush dusting his cheeks, the way his lips are already red from kissing you. This man. This ridiculous, brilliant, beautiful man.  

“My leg,” you feel nervous out of sudden, afraid he might reject you again. “it’s— it’s healed now, you know. . . i can— i can handle more.”  

Ford freezes, thinking. And then. . . Oh.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s different, this time, there’s no holding back, no careful hesitation.

"Inside," your voice is trembling with anticipation. "please, Ford, let’s go inside."  

And god help you both, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to say no. 

***

Ford’s whole body is pressing you into the mattress as though he’s trying to meld you both into one. His hands grip the sheets beside your head and he’s so warm against you. He kisses you messily and desperately, too eager.

“Ford, please,” you whimper, lifting your hips and grinding up against his hard, pulsing length.

“Yes, Ive got you, I’ve got you,” his own voice trembling as one hand dives down, gripping your hip, trying to keep you still but failing miserably because he can’t stop himself from rutting into you. “im right here, my love, i’m gonna take care of you.” the bed creaks beneath the weight of both of you, but neither of you can hear it over the needy moans you two share.

You can’t stop the high pitched whine that escapes you as his knee slots between your thighs, pressing against you just right and you swear you’re losing your fucking mind. “Nngh, Ford, Ford, please,” your voice so fucking needy it feels embarrassing. 

Ford stops, just for a second, pulling back to take a good look at you. His eyes are blown wide, pupils black as they devour every little expression you make. “tell me, tell me what you need.”  

You nearly cry. “touch me,” you plead.

“Oh sweetheart, my good girl,” his trembling fingers brush the hem of your clothes, slipping underneath to glide against your skin, being so careful like you’re too delicate, too fragile for him, he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he’s not gentle. “i’m not going anywhere,” he promises, dragging his lips down your jaw, going lower to the sensitive skin of your neck. “i love you so much.” and before you can even think to respond, his mouth is on yours again, swallowing your moans because he’s desperate to consume every single piece of you. 

Oh, sweet fucking hell, you think when Ford lowers himself between your thighs looking like a man on his knees at an altar and you’re the goddess he’s about to worship. He spreads your legs wide, his six-fingered hands curling into the plush of your thighs and he just stares for a moment like he’s seeing heaven itself. His lips part, and his tongue darts out to wet them, the hunger in his gaze as if he can’t believe this is real.  

"My love," he groans. "so pretty, you’re so pretty. . . this is all mine, isn’t it? tell me, sweetheart, say it, say it’s all for me."  

“It’s yours, Ford,” you melt under his gaze, feeling so exposed and he hums in approval. 

“Good girl,” and then he dips his head down, brushing his lips against your inner thigh, kissing your healed wound. 

You grow impatient with every second, and fucking finally, he’s right here, his face hovering over your throbbing pussy which needs his attention so bad, and he takes a deep breath. 

Ford presses a kiss just above where you’re all wet and your hips jolt, seeking more.

“F-Ford! fuuck. . . fuck fuck fuck!” 

“Shh, just like that, i’ll take care of you,” he presses one hand firmly on your pelvis to keep you still. “just relax, darling, let me have you.”

You’re too far gone to even respond coherently, only letting out pathetic whimper as he drags his lips lower and lower until his warm mouth hovers right over your soaked folds.

His tongue presses flat against your pussy, slowly and oh fuck, you taste so damn sweet, Ford growls and that vibrates straight through you. “oh, god," he pants, pulling back before diving in again, "you taste. . . you taste so good, so sweet, like you were made for me." Ford’s voice muffled against you as his tongue flattens, dragging through your slick, tasting you. 

His hands grip your thighs tighter to hold your squirming body in place as he tilts his head to get a better angle. His lips seal around your puffy clit, sucking gently at first, then harder when your hips jerk up into his face. He holds you open because he’s not letting you go anywhere, his tongue flicks over that sensitive bundle of nerves until you’re sobbing his name.  

“Ford. . . oh god! Ford, too much—!” 

You’re trembling and panting as his tongue circles your little clit in soft lazy strokes that have your back arching off the mattress. You first your fingers into the sheets as his lips seal around your sensitive clit, sucking gently before releasing you with a soft, wet pop.

“Taste so good,” Ford says more than all to himself. He licks into you now, dragging his wet tongue through your soft folds, lapping up everything you’re giving him like a man possessed. “g-give me more, darling, please. . . i need more of you.”

“Ford, Ford! Ford, i—” you buck your hips against his face as the wet sounds of his mouth on you fill the room.

“Mmhm, that’s it, sweetheart,” his voice muffled against your cunt as his lips brushes your clit, letting his fingers slide lower to tease your dripping entrance. “just let me make you feel good.”

Ford pulls back just enough to gasp for air, his lips and chin shiny with your slick and you swear he looks drunk, eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. “you taste so good,” he groans, diving back in immediately, never having enough, moving his mouth against you like he’s kissing you there, sloppily, noisily and so damn messy.

You’re not damn ready for what comes next. When his fingers finally slip inside, you nearly scream, two of them, then three with his extra middle one sliding into your soaked pussy, while another circles your clit, working in perfect tandem with his tongue. "so tight, so wet for me," his voice muffled as he sucks your clit into his mouth again. "give it to me, sweetheart. . . let me have it, be a good girl for me, yeah?"  

His pace quickens as your walls flutter around his fingers. But he doesn’t stop, not even when you’re writhing and tears streaming down your cheeks from the pleasure. He licks, sucks and slurps at you, addicted to the way you taste, the way you feel. “Ford, I’m gonna cum—”  

You cry out and jerk your hips against his face as you do. He growls, gripping you tighter, holding you still as his mouth moves faster, hungrier. Your walls spasming around his long fingers, your clit pulsing between his lips.

But Ford’s mouth doesn’t lift and doesn’t slow, even when your thighs tremble and your fingers push weakly at his hair to tug him away.

“No, Ford, please,” you gasp as he sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling his tongue against it in slow circles. “i-i can’t— too much. . . im sensitive, Ford—”  

But he doesn’t give a fuck, his grip tightens on your thighs to keep them spread wide. “Just one more, sweetheart,” his words slurred, drunk off the taste of you. “please-please, i need. . . one more, just one more for me.”  

You can’t hold back the loud cry that escapes you as his tongue dives back in, licking and lapping. Your legs jerk, trying to close, but his strong hands keep them locked open. “don’t fight me, let me, let me have you.”

“Ford, oh god—” your voice is broken as his tongue works all over your pussy, it’s overwhelming and unbearable, your entire body feels like a live wire as he devours you, never giving you a moment to recover.  

“that’s it, love, cum for me, please. . . be a good girl and cum on my face.”  

And you do again, god, you do, because there’s no stopping it. Your orgasm crashes over you again, ripping a scream from your throat as your back arches off the bed. Your vision whites out, your mind blank as your release floods through you.  

Ford moans into you as you come, his mouth latched onto your clit, his tongue lapping up every drop. When you start caressing his hair as if thanking him, he presses wet sloppy kisses to your trembling thighs. 

You’re still shaking and gasping for air, when he finally lifts his head, his chin glistening as he stares down at you and smiles. But you still can’t have enough, not satisfied, not when he haven’t been inside you and fucked you properly, you’ve been craving this for months and you totally go for it now. “Please, need you, Ford, please, i need you inside me.”  

He doesn’t even make any excuses this time when he kneels between your legs, his cock flushed and throbbing, the head slick with pearls of precum. “you sure?” is all he asks as his hands come up to cradle your hips.

“Yes, god, yes,” you plead, spreading your legs wider, your eyes glazed with need. “please, i can’t wait anymore! i need you.”  

He knows you do because he’s in absolutely same state as you, needy and desperate to fuck you, that’s why he’s pressing into you, the thick head of his cock stretching you open and you both moan loudly when he slides deeper, his girth filling you.

Ford is trembling above you, sweat slicking his brow as he inches himself inside carefully, terrified he might hurt you or worse, lose control. But you’re ready, so ready, your nails digging into his shoulders, “more, please, i can take it.”

Ford’s hips stutter as he bottoms out, his cock buried to the hilt. “Y-you’re so tight, sweetheart, so damn tight. i don’t— don’t know if i can move. . . feels too good. . . god, you’re perfect.”  

You’re no better because your walls clench around him and your voice so high and breathless as you cry, “so full, Ford— oh my god, you’re so big.”

“I know, love, i know,” he soothes, finding your parted lips with his as he starts to move slowly, making shallow thrusts that have you both gasping. “you’re doing so good, taking me so well, feels like heaven, baby.”  

You feel every inch of him, every twitching vein as he sinks deeper, the stretch delicious, making your head spin. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him on. Your wet pussy squeezes his dick so good he nearly loses it right there.

And it’s too much, too good to be true, both of you letting out incoherent sounds and slurred praises as he thrusts into you, moving faster, his thick cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. You try to move together with him, creating a perfect sync.

“You feel so good, sweetheart, too good. i don’t— I don’t think i’m gonna last.”

“It’s okay,” you reply, cupping his cheek when you look right into his dazed eyes. “fuck me harder, Ford, please. . . need you so bad.”

He hears you, snapping his hips against yours, his pace quickening as he loses himself in you. Your moans about how good it feels fill the air while your hands are clawing at his back, nails biting into his skin as you try to pull him closer where it seems impossible. His scars feel rough under your touch as your fingers trace them blindly, making Ford moan at the sensation. His hips jerk forward, driving deeper and you cry out.

“So tight,” he groans into your ear. “you’re squeezing me, love, c-can’t think. . . you feel— oh, sweetheart, pussy so good.”

Your nails dig deeper, leaving crescents in his skin as he fucks into you with deep thrusts that have you gasping. “more, please, more,” you beg and he obeys without question, burying himself deeper, harder into your cunt.

“That’s it, love,” his hand slips between your hot bodies to find your aching clit, circling his fingers over the swollen nub with featherlight touches. “look at you. . . so beautiful, so good for me, you’re perfect, love. . . my perfect girl.”

Your vision blurs when he thrusts into you, at the same time his thumb presses down on your clit and a sharp cry spilling from your lips as the pleasure builds.

“Ford!” you whimper while your hands clutch at him. “oh god, i—”

“I know, love, i know, i feel it, let go for me, sweetheart, cum for me.

His beautiful voice and words are enough to pull you through another powerful orgasm, your body tense as you finish, breathless, boneless, drunk on his cock.

Ford’s dick throbs as your release slicks his length, dripping down to pool at the base of him. “you’re so wet, sweetheart, good girl.”

You cant think, not really, too fucked out and tired, your body trembles and you can barely take a breath, but Ford doesn’t stop, determined to fuck your brains out. His thumb circles your clit again and your hips jerk away, the overstimulation making you whimper. “n-no, wait— I’m sensitive—”

“Just one more, love,” he pleads. “please, baby, just one more for me. you can do it, I know you can.”

You try to close your legs and your body twitches with every touch, too much to handle, but Ford holds you open firmly, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach. “you’re so good to me, so good, can’t get enough of you.”

He continues thrusting into you, filling your pussy to the brim and pulling out, slamming back again, you feel good, you do, especially with right amount of pressure being applied to your clit, but pleasure borders with sensitivity and little pain from overstimulation as he drags against that tender spot inside you. “Fuck, please! i can’t—”

“You can. You’re my good girl, you can give me one more, please, baby, cum on my cock again.” his words light a fire in your veins because the coil of pleasure tightening and building again despite the ache, despite all these overwhelming sensations. He fucks you so deliciously, grinding his hips into you in deep, slow rolls that make your toes curl and eyes roll, your nails scraping across his shoulders and back, all over his old scars. Ford groans at the sting.

“That’s it, love, just like that, let me have all of you.” he wets his fingers with saliva before bringing them on your sensitive nub again. “you like that? y-you like it when i touch you here, sweetheart? tell me, tell me how good it feels.”

“So gooood. . . feels so good, ford, don’t stop, please don’t stop, fuck me, fuck me!” and then you break again, another orgasm crashing over you, but this time you literally scream from how good it feels, your body convulses, your nails dig into his back with such force that blood comes out. Ford watches you come undone as he fucks you through it, his cock coated in your juices once again.

Ford cant hold himself anymore because you notice how his thrusts grow more deeper, harder, more erratic. His sweaty forehead is pressed against yours, his groans changing into desperate pants and you feel how close he is because his cock twitches inside you, his body trembles as he fights to hold on. “don’t w-worry, don’t worry, I’ll pull out— I’ll—”  

“No!” the word bursts out of you in a panic and immediately, you lock your legs around his waist to prevent that. “no, no, Ford, please, don’t, you can’t, don’t leave me, please—” your words tumble out in a frantic, incoherent mess, more sob than speech honestly as you cling to him like your life depends on it. “please,” you babble, your nails scraping against his skin, pulling him impossibly closer. “need it, need you, don’t pull out, please, please, please—”  

His surprised eyes fly open as he processes your words. “but—”

All you do is nod frantically in response, hot tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, your legs squeezing around his waist to keep him in place. “yes, inside, cum inside me, I need it, I need you to cum inside me”  

Ford groans as he gives in, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes you cry out. He holds your thighs, spreading you wider for himself as he buries himself to the hilt, as deep as he can go. He growls as his head falls back, he squeezes his eyes shut and just loses himself. “gonna— g-gonna cum inside you. . .”  

It happens, finally, his hips slam into you one last time and he finishes, his cock pulses as his cum paints your walls white. He hides his face into your neck while loud sound tears from his throat, halfway between a groan and whine. He rolls his hips, continuing to sloppily and lazily thrust into your pussy, grinding against you, unable to stop because he needs to give you every last drop of himself. “you’re— my love, so good, I feel so good. . .”

You lay under him and take it all, milking him for everything he has. Your fingers tracing his beautiful scars, ones you gave him now and his own ones, smearing a little blood over his skin, your legs tightening around him as you whimper, feeling every pulse of him, every twitch of his cock inside as he fills you. Oh god, such intimacy leaves you dizzy, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst.  

“Thank you, Ford,” your body arches into him, asking, no, seeking more, always more. “feels so good. . .”

Ford finally comes back to his senses upon hearing your voice, he wraps his arms around you, holding you close as he shudders through the last waves of his orgasm. He presses kisses to your face, your neck, your shoulders. “I love you, i never want to let you go.”  

He pulls out with a shaky groan as he tries to catch his breath, his cock still glistening and twitching. But the loss of him leaves you feeling achingly empty, your walls clenching around nothing as a soft whimper escapes your lips.  

Ford is frozen above you, though, his chest heaving, his wide eyes fixed between your legs. The sight of his warm thick seed slowly trickling out of you renders him completely silent.

You let out a deep sigh, dazed, a dumb little smile curling at your lips as you look up at him, completely blissed out and so beautifully ruined. You trail your fingers down slowly, maybe to tease him once more, until finally dipping between your thighs to catch the mess he’s made.  

You circle your clit gently, then lowering your fingers to your hole, collecting his cum, covering your fingers with this sticky mess and Ford tracks every movement. And then, oh, you push it back inside, curling your fingers deep, your head falling back with a quiet moan as you savour every drop.  

Ford fucking whimpers at the sight as he watches you pump his sperm back into yourself.

“Don’t. . . don’t want to lose it,” you smile, looking at your scientist through half-lidded eyes, gaze unfocused. “don’t want it to go to waste, want to feel you.”  

Before you can say another word, he’s on you again. His hands spread your thighs wides when he positions himself at your entrance. Without word, he pushes back in, groaning as he stretches you open again. “you’re beautiful,” he gives you a kiss, while slowly fucking his cum back into you again, making sure to not miss a drop, letting it stay where it belongs.  

You hold him close, caressing his face and looking into his beautiful eyes. “I love you so much,” but you get interrupted by a little sudden thrust he makes. “oh, ah, Ford!” 

“Shh, i’ve got you, love,” Ford gives you a warm loving smile, rocking his hips gently. “you were so good for me, sweetheart.” he looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered, like he’d give you the whole world if you asked and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Your crazy heart thunders in your ears as you hug and cuddle him, lost in the way he fills you so completely, so perfectly, like you were made for this.

The two of you don’t even bother moving because there’s simply no energy left to clean up. Ford stays buried inside you with his heavy body on top of yours like a blanket. For the first time in life, you feel that safe, good and loved, warm and. . . full in every sense of the word.

Sometime later. . . hours? you’re not sure, but the soft gray light of dawn creeping through the curtains. You feel Ford’s broad chest pressed against your back and suddenly his hand skims up your thigh.

“Ford,” you murmur, half-asleep as his lips brush the curve of your shoulder. His hand finds your leg, gently lifting it as he settles himself against you. “yes, please. . .” you smile, closing your eyes as you feel his cock rubbing against your folds.

He kisses the side of your neck. “just need you again, can’t help it. . . need to feel your pussy around me.”

You moan softly as he slides into you from behind. The angle is perfect as he fills you, sending shivers through your sleepy body. His hand lays on your thigh, holding you steady as he starts rocking into you, slowly, still sleepy, but fucking deep, each thrust making you sigh and whimper.

“I’ll never get enough of you,” his free hand skims over your waist, cupping your breast and playing with your nipple.

Meanwhile your hand reaches back to clutch at his hip and your head falls back onto his shoulder, Ford drives deeper into your pussy. “Ford. . . oh, Ford, yesss. . . just like that.” you mewl sleepily when you feel his fingers on your clit. 

You dont know what time is it, probably very very early morning, but you let him take you. There’s no rush, no urgency, just sleepy, languid thrusts and quiet soft moans you two share in the early morning while being half awake.

The sun is higher now, casting autumn golden streaks across the room, when you wake again. You’re alone in the bed and your body deliciously sore, marked with the evidence of last night. . . and this morning. Faint marks of kisses and hickeys bloom along your skin, the ache in your thighs reminds you of how thoroughly he’d claimed you.

The blanket is all over you, keeping you warm despite your nudity. You stretch out, yawning and blink away the last traces of sleep, but you notice him at the edge of the bed. Ford sits with his scarred back to you, hair messy, but his posture is perfectly straight as he leans over his. . . ah, yeah, now you see it, journal.

He’s scribbling something down there, intense focused, face serious and you just lay there, enjoying comfortable silence and watching him, taking in the way he looks so handsome even in his rumpled state.

“Morning, genius,” you murmur finally.

Ford glances over his shoulder. “Oh, good morning, love,” he says warmly, setting the journal aside and moving to your side of the bed. He leans down to kiss you, brushing his hand over your hair. “how are you feeling?”

“Sore,” you admit with a smile as you stretch beneath the blanket.

Ford studies you. “i’d say that’s to be expected. Rest a bit longer, okay? I’ll make us something to eat soon.”

“You better hurry because i’m so starved,” you yawn, covering your mouth with your hand.

“Starved, are you? well, you’re taking a shower first,” he says seriously, though his tone remains gentle. “you’re not wandering around covered in. . .” he stops himself as his cheeks flush a little, trying to find right words to use.

“Hm? Covered in what, ford?” you tease, propping yourself up on one elbow.  

“You know what, honey, don’t make me say that.”

Your eyes flick to his journal. “what are you even writing in there, anyway? can’t believe you’re making notes after the night we had. Is it, like, some x-rated research?”  

Because of your question, Ford straightens up, his face expression changes, the earlier embarrassment melting away as excitement takes its place. He looks like he’s just cracked the secret of the universe. “actually,” he begins, adjusting his glasses, “i think i’ve finally solved the equation for that anomaly we’ve been tracking! The one that disappeared because of the rainstorm, remember? I had a theory about the dimensional distortion rate and this morning, it all just clicked!” Ford launches into an explanation now. 

You, however, just blink at him and knowing grin spreads across your face. “so, what you’re saying is. . . my pussy literally makes you smarter?”  

Ford stops mid-sentence as he stares at you, flustered. “i— I wouldn’t put it like that,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, looking everywhere except at you. “but. . . perhaps there’s a correlation. . .”

You just laugh, dropping back onto the pillows as you watch his awkward attempts to compose himself. “yeah, yeah, Ford, I got you.”

He grumbles something about inappropriate comments, but the corners of his mouth betray him, curving into a shy smile.  

“So, my pussy is the key to unlocking the mysteries of the universe? Who knew i was a genius all along.”