Ari the Writer

“Ugh.”

What you’re doing isn’t helping you and you see it in the tremor of your hands when you push the loose curls of your braids from your face. You need to get out of this apartment that doesn’t quite fully feel like home. Grabbing one of your leather jackets off the coat rack, you tell yourself that you need fresh air, that the one in here has become stale and suffocating.

The September breeze kisses your face, grounding you. You’ve done little exploring outside what was necessary for the investigation and your appetite. You take in the old buildings, some that seem like the slightest touch would send them tumbling down and others that seem like they’ve withstood the test of time. The city has its own sort of charm, one that inspires goodness and madness alike.

You remember how when you were younger, Zatanna would tell tales of Gotham like spooky campfire stories and you would act like you weren’t scared until the night was too dark and the space under your bed was much too terrifying. Then you would appear in the crack of their bedroom door, eyes begging for comfort and protection. John would mumble something in London slang you hadn’t quite grasped yet and a new stuffed animal would appear in his hands, promising to protect you.

Your hands toy with the pendant of your gold necklace. You miss them. It’s still too tense, the wound is still raw enough that all you can muster is an “I’m okay, love you” text. You tell yourself that after all of this was over, you would go back home and talk to them. You would go back and they would look at you with pride and forgiveness.

The kind of forgiveness that was a bit stronger than the kind you offered a particular costumed individual a little over a week ago. One that he took in with a relieved sigh when he made it back to his apartment right before dawn. His body sunk into the couch and his mind replays the conversation, and he hates how it betrays him by already committing your smile to memory.

Jason winces when he remembers what he said, there’s times where the voice modulator hid more than his voice. It hid the awkwardness that lurked in between his consonants, and he was beyond grateful. And he noticed something about yours; that it was pillowy-soft, you spoke like even though life was heavy it didn’t weigh on your tongue in the way it did on his.

He runs his hands through his hair and yawns, “She forgives too fast.”

The last few days of September faded much like the colors of the autumn leaves. October brought its pumpkins, horror films, and skeletons. However, it didn’t bring any clarity on what was going on.

Jason tugs at the ends of his hair, the sun slowly creeping up behind him, and his bed beckoning him to succumb to slumber. His eyes sting with exhaustion, it’s been a heavy week. The lack of progress in the case and the constant fear that he’ll stumble on another body with the same knowledge he has now and not a hundred steps closer to the killer, is not exactly doing wonders for his mood.

Even if the crime scene photos scream at him to look them over for the nth time, there’s not much he’ll be able to do if his body starts to shut down due to lack of sleep. It takes him a shower, some scribbles in his journal, and few pages of the new book he picked up earlier this week before his eyes fully close and his breathing becomes deep and steady.

And he begins to wonder if there were some hidden fees in the sleep debt he recently paid back or if he was still stuck in one of those dreams that felt entirely too real. Because there’s no way he’s watching you stick your arm through the wall of Gotham City Morgue.

More of your limbs emerge from the gray wall and Red Hood steps back, letting the shadows swallow him. You head toward the drawers, fingers running along the cold metal as you try to find the most recent body.

“Do you only have one jacket?”

“Do you always wear that silly ass hood?”

He ignores your response, “Kinda important you check it’s clear before you walk through the wall. What if I attacked you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” You hear a sigh and you fight the urge to laugh, “and I knew you were there.”

“Mhmm.”

You see his left arm reach to the pull open the cooler right above your right hip, the man you were searching for, laying there with nothing but a thin white sheet covering him. You whisper a “Thank you,” and it doesn’t take long for that familiar, rotten smell to hit your senses. You hate breathing it in, but you have to know what else lurks underneath the surface.

“Ginger… Witch-hazel, lemongrass, vanilla and cedar.” You recite slowly, like you’re trying desperately to connect the dots.

The vigilante pushes the man’s head to side gently, showing you a roman numeral seared into the delicate skin behind the right ear.

“They all have this, the first one starting at zero.”

Your eyebrows crease in confusion, “Did you see anything else?”

“Had an…outside source do another autopsy and the cause of death is poison. There was never enough Bliss in their systems for it to be an overdose.”

“It’s the foxglove, the symptoms are really similar to an overdose,” You explain but you don’t stop there, “the other herbs… it’s like they’re sacrifices or maybe ritual. I just don’t know.”

Red Hood crosses his arms, “Assuming sacrifices have to have something in common, the only connection is the drug and even that’s sparse. They didn’t have the same dealer.”

You chew on your bottom lip. You’re missing something and not finding out means another person will fall victim to an unfair death.

He watches you, and it’s like he can see you force-turning the gears in your head. The knowledge of magic he has is limited to what he learned during his time with the League and there’s aspects of this he doesn’t understand. Jason thought you would have more answers, but it’s like both of you only have a quarter of the larger scheme.

Your hands tug at the hem of your miniskirt, frustration pricking at your nerves, “It’s magic, I can feel it. When I was around each of them before, it was so faint… almost like nothing. But now with all of them in one place, it’s like a buzzing in my ear. And I can feel that it’s incomplete.”

“Then when is it complete?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“We don’t know how they’re picking their victims and they kill erratically, some are days apart and others are weeks. Feels like we’re just waiting for another body to turn up.”

Your face falls and Jason wonders if he snuffed out the flicker of hope you might’ve had. It wasn’t his intention, but he was trying to be realistic. Gotham was ugly and more often than not, it takes more than it gives.

Before any other words can be exchanged between the two of you, his phone buzzes in his pocket; a reminder about the family dinner he promised he would attend.

“Gotta go. Next time we see each other, maybe we’ll have more answers.”

He pulls up the window, getting ready to disappear into the night. Until he feels a touch graze over his shoulder, so light it was almost like you were afraid that anything harder would make it too real or would cause him to fall apart.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to work together?”

Together?

Together meant a baseline of trust, it meant relying on each other. It meant being vulnerable. His ego and pride weren’t the problem, it’s the other softer more tender emotions that make it difficult. And even if Jason was changing lately, and was opening his heart up once again to the rest of his family, you weren’t someone he knew. He would be navigating uncharted waters.

He’s worked on teams before; the idea of collaboration isn’t a foreign concept to him. It’s just you, you were his point of contention.

But you were looking at him a little too sweet, too expectant, like a cat showing its belly. And he hates to admit it, but you were right. Waiting to run into each other to exchange information wasn’t working. It would make more sense to pool your resources and work together.

You watch him fiddle with something on the side of the metal that covers the lower half of his face.

“Okay.” He breathes out soft, and you notice it’s only soft. No crackle, no static, its all him and his voice alone.

“Okay.” You repeat back, awestruck about not only his agreement but how much you like the sound of his voice. But you won’t let that distract you and give him enough time to change his mind.

You dig in the inner pocket of your jacket, pulling out a small notebook and a pen. You scribble down your address and phone number.

You rip out the page and hand it to him, “We can meet at my apartment and figure it out from there?”

Jason nods, trying to hold back a snort at the irony that you’re staying in Coventry.

“I can come over to yours tomorrow night, is that good?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

EASY MONEY. That’s how the mission was described to you, anyways. Something simple according to Valentina. Just a smash-and-grab at an abandoned lab on the outskirts of Bucharest. The instructions were almost insultingly simple:

1. Find the experimental serum. 2. Call a retrieval team. 3. Hand it over to Ross’s people. 4. Go the fuck home.

Except nothing with the New Avengers was ever easy, and you have a sneaking suspicion that this is about to blow up in your faces. Figuratively or literally, it’s inevitable, and very often the latter with this lot.

Yelena is the first to say it out loud. “Simple mission, my ass,” she mutters from the co-pilot seat, fiddling with the front of her combat vest. “Place your bets on how we die today.”

“You always think we’re going to die,” Bob chips in brightly, far too cheerful for three people discussing their own mortality.

“That’s because we always almost do,” she deadpans. “I’m just being realistic.”

You look up from the tablet in your lap, adjusting your headset. “Relax. It’s just recon. It can’t be that hard.”

“That’s what you said in Berlin,” Bob says.

“Berlin was an outlier!”

“Berlin was a shitshow,” Yelena cuts in dryly.

You sigh as Bob laughs in the seat next to you. Definitely not winning this one.

With the rest of the team on the other side of the country visiting a similar lab, you’re stuck as a trio. Not that you mind. The three of you work well together. Surprisingly so, given how different you are. Bob, a bundle of energy to get you through hard times. Yelena, sharp and unpredictable, chaos in human form. You’d like to think you’re somewhere in the middle. Alexei likes to call you the glue of the bunch—”ah, it iz my favourite neutraliser!”—thanks to your ability to talk everyone down when sparks fly.

And boy, do they fly.

The jet touches down outside the old facility at dusk. The air is thick with fog, and Bob shudders at how eerie it looks as you all clamber out of your seats.

“Why’d we have to do this in the dark? This mystery thing would be way easier to find during the day,” he complains. (And gets ignored, as per usual.)

“Thermal says minimal heat signatures,” you supply informatively with a glance to your wrist display.

“Well, at least we aren’t walking into a nest,” Yelena says. (But chambers a round anyways.)

“Oh! We got lucky.” Bob shoulders his gear—he’s not much use when he isn’t being all creepy and powerful, but he’s content enough with the role of glorified equipment mule.

“When have you ever been the kind of man to rely on luck?” Yelena flashes a toothy smirk over her shoulder.

His smile fades at that, a look of mild offence briefly crossing his features. But he holds out a hand to help you down the ramp anyways. “Such a gentleman,” you drawl, and he brightens up immediately, spending the rest of the walk into the facility grinning proudly to himself as your pilot departs.

Inside, the lab is mostly stripped bare—empty containment units, shattered glass, flickering lights. You can still smell the sharp sting of chemicals in the air, faint but persistent.

“Creepy. I don’t like it.” Bob wrinkles his nose behind you.

You can’t help but agree. The place is so quiet you can hear your own breathing, quickened with nerves. You almost jump when Yelena flicks on her flashlight, sweeping it across the ruined lab benches, shards of glass glinting menacingly on every surface.

“Looks like they packed up in a hurry,” she mutters, crouching down to inspect a cluster of overturned canisters. “Or... someone made them.”

You follow her gaze to a set of marks scarring the floor—parallel lines like someone’s boots had been dragged against the floor. Bob lets out a nervous laugh. “Maybe the janitor just sucks at cleaning.”

Yeah. You all doubt that.

The deeper you head into the lab, the worse it gets. Flickering emergency lights hum overhead, casting the hallways in stuttered bursts of red and shadow. You half expect someone to pop out screaming from every door you pass.

You tighten your grip on your sidearm. “Thermals still clear,” you mutter. “No life signs.”

“Let’s split up, then. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to,” Yelena says.

Despite Bob’s obvious reluctance about not having someone to (metaphorically) hold his hand, the three of you split off to search in different directions. Eventually you stumble across a lab room significantly less destroyed than the first one—you doubt you’ll have much luck, but it’s better than roaming dark hallways with scary flickering lights.

You’re only halfway through tagging sample cases when you find it. A row of vials sealed in a reinforced crate, the liquid inside glowing faintly pink under your flashlight. There’s something unsettling about the fuchsia shimmer.

“Uh, found something,” you mutter into your comms link.

When you regroup, Bob gives a low whistle at the sight. “Pretty. Like a Valentine’s Day gift.”

Yelena stifles a snort. “Yeah. I’m sure you’ve had a lot of luck giving pretty girls weird chemicals from creepy labs.”

You tune out their playful bickering about Cupid’s arrows to kneel down, studying the label on the side of the crate. “Project Eros,” you recite aloud, and they fall silent, eyes shooting towards you. “Experimental biochem formula.”

“Translation?” Bob asks with a tipped head, rocking back and forth on his feet.

You shrug. “There’s no data sheet. Could be anything. A pheromone enhancer, neural stimulant—”

“—Or poison,” Yelena chips in.

“... Or poison,” you sigh.

Bob groans. “Great.”

You reach for the scanner tucked into your belt, intending to log the crate for Ross’ team to pick up… and that’s when Bob loses his balance behind you from his bored rocking. His hand hits your shoulder to keep himself upright, knocking you against the crate. The vials within jostle as you catch yourself.

“Fuck, careful—”

“Sorry!” He grimaces, straightening up and patting your shoulder apologetically. Before you can reply, you hear the hiss of a pressure seal. A thin mist shoots out of one of the cracked vials, coating the air around you.

“Shit—!” Yelena lunges, grabbing you by the arm to yank you back while Bob stumbles out of the way. But it’s too late. You’ve already inhaled it. The pink haze shimmers, disappearing in seconds, leaving a metallic taste in your mouth and a rush of heat in your chest.

Yelena’s voice sounds sharp and distant. “You okay?”

Your heart is racing and your skin tingles with static. “I—I think so,” you manage shakily, blinking out of it.

“I’m so sorry!” Bob says, hands raised in panicked surrender. “I was just— I didn’t mean to—”

“Let’s just get her out of here,” Yelena interjects, already requesting extraction on her wrist. All the easy teasing from before is gone, her brows pinched together as she studies your face for any adverse reactions. “Run some tests back at base. Maybe it’s nothing.”

But as the jet lifts off minutes later, the heat under your skin doesn’t fade. When Yelena straps you in to the sound of Bob’s profuse apologies, it only spreads. It feels like a molten crawl along your sensitive nerves, lighting you up from the inside.

By the time you get back to base, you feel like you’re about to die. Not from pain, or blood loss, or any of the usual ways someone in your line of work dies. But from pure fucking horniness. You can’t imagine a more embarrassing way to go.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat as Yelena hovers above you to check your blood pressure. The base—if you could even call it that—is a humble thing. A low-level apartment on a busy street, hidden in plain sight. The kitchen you’re in is stocked with rations and medical supplies, though you’re certain half of them are expired.

Your skin feels too tight, and your breath catches as she touches your arm. Just a slight brush of fingers has you fighting the urge to jolt.

“Are you okay?” She asks, brows pinched together.

“I’m fine,” you lie through your teeth, voice rougher than it should be. “Just… warm.”

Bob’s preoccupied with pacing on the opposite side of the room like a caged animal, talking animatedly with his hands. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. It never goes well. I ruin everything. Oh my god, Valentina is gonna kill me—”

“Shut up, Bob,” Yelena snaps, eyes never once leaving you. And then it hits suddenly. A wave so strong it makes your thighs clench under the fabric of your suit. Yelena watches as your pupils dilate when they land on Bob.

It’s so sudden it takes you by surprise. This sudden, overwhelming hunger coiling tight inside you, fixated on him. On his stupid earnest eyes, his stupid broad shoulders crammed into a too-tight shirt. He’s fidgeting now, and you have the sudden urge to pin those hands down until he stops moving.

But it’s not just him, you realise, when your panicked eyes snap back to Yelena. All cool and sharp-eyed with blood on her lips from biting them with worry as you snuck back into the city. With her, the urge is to taste where she bled. You inhale shakily as the drug sinks deeper into your bloodstream—everything feels amplified. The scent of Yelena next to you, the sound of Bob wringing his hands nervously, the feeling of want between your legs.

And suddenly, Project Eros is making a lot of fucking sense.

“Shit,” you whisper as it dawns on you.

Yelena’s eyes narrow. “What is it?”

You can’t bring yourself to answer. Not when the truth is so humiliating.

What are you meant to say? That all you can feel is something twisting through your body like liquid arousal, sharpening every sense until all you can think about is them: Bob with his stupidly pretty face and that lost-puppy look in his eyes, Yelena with her razor-sharp grace and blood on her lip.

“I’m horny,” you blurt out.

Oh, okay. That works.

A strangled noise of surprise escapes Bob. Yelena manages to remain a little more composed, clearing her throat. “Horny?”

You squirm awkwardly in your seat, forcing yourself to avert your eyes. Your body flushes hot under your skin. “Yeah. I don’t know. I just feel warm. And really, really turned on. Like, you don’t even understand how wet I am right now—“

Bob chokes on another sound.

“—Sorry,” you grimace. “Maybe it’s making me honest too. I just… fuck. I really want to fuck you both. Oh my god, I can’t stop talking.”

There’s a perverse sort of joy in watching Bob’s face turn red, eyes wide as saucers. You promptly file that away as another symptom of the drug. Yelena hovers awkwardly by your side for a moment.

“Well, that’s flattering,” she says, a weak attempt at lightness.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, shifting in your chair. Your thighs chafe together, and the slight friction between your thighs has you stifling a desperate moan. “I don’t know how to make it stop. Maybe I need to just sit in a cold shower until Valentina’s people get here.”

“Can’t we help?” Bob tries. You both turn towards him, and he falters for a moment like he’s unsure of himself. Then, with a confidence he doesn’t necessarily feel, “I mean, it was my fault, right? I’m kind of responsible for getting you out of this.”

“How are we supposed to help her? Fuck the horniness out?” Yelena counters exasperatedly.

The silence that follows her question looms awkwardly. Because the truth is you’ve all been thinking about it since you blurted out the dreaded words of I’m horny. It’s the only viable solution when you’re surrounded by expired medical supplies and a double bed in the next room.

“... Yes?” Bob says with uncertainty.

“Yes,” you blurt out at the same time with significantly less.

Her gaze shifts between you. “Wait, you’re serious..?” 

“Deadly.” You shift again, the dampness between your legs making you ache with an impatience you haven’t felt in a long time. “Please, Lena? I’m going insane.”

Yelena’s breath catches in her throat, then she stutters out a dry laugh. “Jesus. Okay.”

Bob is still frozen—wide-eyed and red-faced—but the thought of him being useful forces him out of that temporary paralysis. He owes it to you to fix what he broke, right? That’s the only reason his cock is stirring in his pants. Probably. Maybe.

“Okay,” he says. Then louder: “Okay! We can do this.”

So, the decision is made. Yelena helps you out of your chair and ushers you out of the kitchenette towards the bed. You stumble a little, legs weak, as she aids you into a sitting position on the edge. Bob hesitates as he follows, but when you reach out and tug at his waistband, he falls into the space in front of you like a well-trained dog.

Yelena exhales sharply—half laugh, half disbelief. “We’re really doing this.” Not that she makes any effort to put an end to it, taking a seat next to you.

Bob is looking up at you with those big, dumb eyes of his, half-expecting you to snap out of it any moment and tell him he’s insane for suggesting this. So you cup his face and pull him down until your lips brush his ear.

“Do I need to beg?” You whisper. “Because I will.” And when he whimpers, you do. “Please, Bob,” you breathe. “Let me suck your cock.”

Bob didn’t think he had any more blood left to blush with—especially considering how much rushed to his cock as soon as you agreed to this—but fuck if his face isn’t on fire. It’s like some dirty fantasy: come to life: smoking hot teammate needs you to fuck her to save her from drug. He makes an inarticulate noise in the back of his throat at the thought.

For a second—and you aren’t sure why—you think he’s going to say no. But then:

“Um. Okay.”

A low laugh bubbles out of you. “Okay..?”

He nods, more confident this time. “If it helps, I’ve—I’ve just never really…”

“What? Had your dick sucked?” Yelena chips in from your side.

“No!” He protests. “I’ve… I’ve had sex. Like… a few times, actually.” She laughs. “Just never, y’know, like this. With a friend. But it’s just to… to help you out, right? Cure you. So it’s fine.” His hands fall to the button of his trousers, nervously fumbling to undo them.

“Let me,” you murmur, voice already thick with need. You undo him yourself, zipper dragging down, loud in an otherwise quiet room. Then the fabric is shoved down just enough to free his cock. He’s already hard, twitching as the cool air hits him.

You didn’t think it was possible to be any wetter than you currently are. Even Yelena seems to enjoy the sight of his flushed pink cock (though maybe she just thinks it's amusing how easy it is to turn him on), humming with approval next to you. You lean forward, licking a slow stripe up his shaft, moaning at the salty taste that fills your mouth. 

Then you take him deep without hesitation, hollowing your cheeks around his thick cock while he gasps above you. “Fuck—“ He chokes out, fingers trembling against your shoulders. “You don’t have to— I mean, I just want to get you off and fix you— you don’t need to do this—“

You pull off just long enough to smirk up at him, eyes hazy from the aphrodisiac pulsing through your blood. “I know I don’t have to,” you whisper, tongue dragging along his veiny underside. “I want to.”

Yelena’s hands find your hair, pulling it out of your face as you devote yourself to sucking him off. “There you go,” she murmurs, and you catch the hitch in her breath when your lips glide down Bob’s length. 

He’s already a whimpering mess above you. He can barely bring himself to meet either of your eyes, as if that’ll make it too real. Like you aren’t already sitting on the bed of a safe house with your head bobbing in his lap.

You can feel it building higher: that desperate, coiled heat in your belly, rising with every slide of his cock against your tongue. Yelena leans in closer over your shoulder, studying the way your lips stretch around him.

“There you go,” she murmurs. “Nice and slow.”

You take him deep, eyes fluttering shut as your mouth works at his cock. Soft sucks, long pulls, tongue swirling around the head before diving back down until your nose is nuzzling into the hair at his base. Bob briefly wonders whether you’re always this skilled with your tongue or Project Eros has just made you insanely good at giving head.

“I—I can’t… oh, God. That’s so good—“ He can’t quite help himself, fucking into your mouth with slow, desperate thrusts. And then he’s whimpering suddenly:

“Wait, wait, wait. Supposed to making you cum, not me—“

With a wet slurp, you pull off of him, an obscene string of saliva connecting you to his tip. You wipe sheepishly at the corner of your mouth. “Right.”

Yelena helps ease you onto your back, hooking a thumb under your waistband. “Lift for me,” she prompts, and slides the fabric down your hips. Your underwear follows, and both of them inhale sharply at the sight of your cunt. You’re glistening with desperation, legs parting wider under their hungry gazes.

“Such a pretty pussy,” she breathes.

“Yeah,” he echoes stupidly.

Yelena braces a hand on your thigh while the other brushes through your damp folds. Tentative at first, but she grows bolder when she feels how soaked you are. A Russian curse slips out that flies right over your head.

“You’re drenched. All this just for us?”

Both of them know that’s not technically true. You were seconds away from humping your hand for relief in the kitchen—it’s not quite them you’re eager for. But the thought is arousing nonetheless as you squirm desperately underneath them.

“Can I…?” Bob asks.

Her hand withdraws, replaced with his own. You moan as he slides two fingers easily into your eager cunt—slow at first, then curling in a way that has your back arching and a broken cry slipping out. “More,” you whimper, grinding against his trembling hand. “Please. I need more.”

He obeys instantly. A third finger sinks inside you as Yelena guides him deeper with one firm push to his wrist. “That’s it. Finger her like you mean it.”

Bob stammers something about not wanting to hurt you, but the way you’re clenching around him and bucking against his hand has his protests dying away. The wet sound of his fingers pumping into you fills the cramped room.

But when he starts to falter—fingers slipping from the sheer panic of having someone this undone because of him—Yelena rolls her eyes and nudges him out of the way. “Let me,” she says. “You’re never going to get her off that way.”

She takes over as he apologises bashfully, shifting out of the way with his cock still throbbing between his legs. And then her fingers are working you beautifully: strong, precise strokes that hit exactly where you need them, a practiced thumb gliding over your clit. When she leans forward to spit on your hole, fucking her saliva into you with deep strokes of her fingers, your thighs clamp around her hand at how filthy it is.

“Oh— oh, Lena, that’s— mm—“

Bob can only stare. You look like heaven, with your head thrown back and lips parted in ecstasy—but Yelena looks like a goddess, perched above you as she works you towards the edge with ease. Her bleached blonde hair falls into her face, bitten lip caught between her teeth in concentration.

“Fuck,” you whine, jerking against her. “Right there— m’gonna—“

A wave of pleasure hits you before you can finish. Your back arches up off the bed, toes curling inside your boots, and a choked cry tears from your throat as your orgasm rips violently.

She fingers you through it until your back hits the bed again, then pulls her fingers out slowly, glistening with your release. “Told you I knew what I was doing,” she smirks. “Take notes, eh, Bob?”

You’re still trembling and coming down from your high when you realise you can still feel it. The heat of the drug pulsing through you, and the aching feeling of emptiness. It takes every ounce of strength to look up at them both, breath still ragged.

“It didn’t work.”

“What?” She asks. Bob looks concerned, fiddling beside her.

All you can manage is a helpless, humiliating whimper. “It wasn’t enough. I need more.” Your hips cant upwards. “I still feel empty. Like… like I need something bigger.”

Yelena glances at Bob—or more accurately at his cock—then back to you. “You want him to fill you up?” She murmurs. 

You’d be embarrassed by how eagerly you nod—jerky and desperate—if your mind wasn’t currently clouded with insatiable lust. “Please,” you pant. “I know I’m asking a lot— oh, God— but I need it.”

“It’s worth trying,” she says after a moment of deliberation. Your thighs, already slick with your release, clench around nothing and you almost feel like crying when you hear Bob’s hesitant voice.

“Are you sure?” 

“Please,” you repeat, entirely devoid of the usual mortification that comes with begging. 

He hesitates for just another moment, then withers under Yelena’s sharp look. “Okay.”

You roll over, positioning yourself with your ass high in the air. The thin fabric of your underwear is still hooked around one thigh, but you don’t bother yourself with removing them. Just spread your legs wider and look back at him over your shoulder.

“Bob,” you whimper, bottom lip jutted out. “Please hurry.”

He scrambles behind you, his cock already thick and wet from his unfinished blowjob. One hand braces on your hip, the other wrapping around himself to line up with your dripping cunt. Then he pushes inside.

“Fuck,” he grunts, eyes rolling back at the warmth and tightness surrounding him as he sinks in inch by inch. The stretch has you groaning into your forearms, walls fluttering as they adjust to the size of him. “I didn’t think I’d actually be doing this. I thought I’d just— ah, you’re so tight— I don’t know. Eat you out, or something. But this is so much better.”

“Move,” you beg, fingers twisting into the sheets as he bottoms out. “Just fucking move.”

He obeys instantly—shallow thrusts that make your spine bow and your breath hitch—but is not enough. Not when you can feel that fiery heat burning through you, desperate for release. So you rock your hips back to meet him harder.

“Faster,” you moan. “Harder.”

Bob almost stumbles forward with the force of it, then adjusts himself. He grips both of your hips and starts to fuck into you in earnest. Each thrust drives a cry out of you, bed creaking against the wall to the rhythm of his movements.

You feel the bed dip next to you with Yelena’s weight, and two hands on your stomach. One snakes up under your shirt, palming one of your breasts through your bra.

“Oh, wha—?”

“Extra stimulation,” she cuts you off, as if groping your tits is necessary right now when you already have Bob fucking you senseless. But any remark about that dies in your throat when her other hand slides down further, gathering the creamy wetness around your hole as he pummels into you. She drags it back up, fingers slick against your swollen clit, circling it gently.

“Nghhh—“ Bob moans out as you clench around his cock at the feeling. “I’m gonna cum if you do that—“

Yelena’s hand manages to find its way under your bra cup, fingers gently tweaking your nipple, and that’s what sends you over the edge. Your face buries into your arm and you cry out, fluttering around Bob’s thick cock as Yelena rubs you through it in tantalising circles that have your legs trembling.

“Wait, I’m— fuck, relax. Squeezing me so tight,” he chokes out. But he barely manages a few more sloppy thrusts before he’s whimpering his way through his own orgasm.

“Ah, s-sorry—“ He stutters out as the warmth of him floods your cunt without permission. His pulsing hot release floods down your thighs as he hastily tries to pull out—as if the damage hasn’t already been done—with a grimace.

Both of Yelena’s hands retreat, and you collapse into the sheets with a sigh. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself—or maybe you do want to keep going—but with your cunt (somewhat) full and your body thrumming with the pleasure of a second orgasm, you feel better.

Or, more accurately, you don’t feel like you’ll die if you don’t get fucked anymore. 

“I think I’m good,” you mumble into your arm.

Bob collapses onto his back next to you with a groan, face flushed with exertion and sweat beading along his hairline. You barely have it in you to turn your head towards Yelena. Only now has it dawned on you that she hasn’t found the same release you and Bob have.

“You didn’t get to—“ You start.

“Oh, no need. I’m a professional,” she declines, leaning back lazily on her hands. As if she hadn’t been knuckle deep in your cunt and telling you how pretty your pussy was five minutes ago. “One of us has to be fit to answer the call and explain why we’ve been radio silent for half an hour post opp.”

That pulls you back to an unfortunate reality. “Shit,” you laugh weakly. You know you’re all in for a lecture about incompetence and the sheer audacity of the three of you to sleep together instead of waiting for them to get a medic on the ground.

“Well,” Bob says chipperly, still panting. “At least we know there’s a cure!”

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Yelena who gets your name and number that night and goes back to the tower to do a deep dive and get whatever she can find on you. She thinks it’ll help her feel like this is a mission and there for she’ll be more equipped but all she finds is your instagram , college records, and a few parking tickets that give her nothing to go off of

Yelena who has to do the second most mortifying thing she can think of and ask John Walker how to flirt with girls before your date that weekend. Because as far as she knows he’s the only person on the team who’s had a decently long healthy relationship. So she deals with the teasing and quips all for him to tell her to call you pretty and just be polite which is everything she planned on doing and completely unhelpful.

Yelena who shows up to your dinner date in a pair of corduroys and that same striped blouse she broke into kate’s house in. Who trips over herself internally when she sees how nice you look but externally gives a tight awkward smile and soft but genuine compliment. Opening doors and pulling out your chair when you sit.

Yelena who thank the lord loosens up during dinner after a glass of wine. Who is finally able to show off her dry humor and witt instead of staring at you like jasper cullen. She still stares but it’s softer , more contemplative , and only when she thinks you won’t notice.

Yelena who walks you home cause she watches movies and that’s what supposed to happen. Interlocking your fingers as your knuckles brush hers for the fourth time . And who gives you a tentative but earnest peck on the cheek when she drops you off.

Yelena who’s a dream to date. Who plans things once she starts to pick up on what you like to do an enjoy. Picnics , cat cafes, festivals in the park. Who is hard to gauge sometimes but if you ask her questions she answers honestly and if she isn’t ready she puts a pin in it. Who knows when to push and when to simply exist in your space on bad days.

Yelena who while inexperienced isn’t a saint. She’s aware that things are gonna get heated eventually. She’s just also a little too confident in her ability to gauge how things are gonna go and how well she’s gonna do once actually in the situation after a few nights of ‘research’.

Yelena who kisses you outside your apartment at the end of one of your dates two months into things and when things start getting heated is too excited to act right. Whose kisses are a little too toothy and sharp but who learns fast and takes corrections with no fuss.

Yelena who suddenly, as she’s pushing you against your couch, remembers that she really truly has no goddamn clue what the hell she’s doing. Who kinda regrets not getting around after escaping the red room cause now she feels like a fish out of water. Who resigns herself to the fact that she’s gonna have to actually admit to being new at things out loud before you just think she sucks.

Yelena who is a little mortified when you chuckle and say you figured but feels better when you tell her you don’t mind teaching her a thing or two. Who stays on top but lets you have the reigns as she straddles your lap and you kiss her like she’s something valuable not just useful.

Yelena who’s hips start to roll against your own before she can even realize it but doesn’t have it in her to be embarrassed when you hold her waist and help her set a steady rhythm. Who lets breathy moans she’s never let anyone but herself hear leave her lips and fill your mouth . Who shudders against your thigh when the pressure and friction catch just right against her clothes cunt causing her to clench around nothing

Yelena who starts to realize a little too late that she’s getting off on your leg and has left you high and dry . Who pulls away from your mouth to ask if you want to switch but when your lips come into contact with the sensitive skin of her nape quickly shuts down the prospect of stopping.

Yelena who lets out the most melodic moans known to man and groans you can feel in your stomach as she grinds against you. Who’s hips are starting to pick up pacing along with her breathing that gives you just enough of a hint for what’s coming before it does.

Yelena who throws her head back and lets out the most broken raspy moan of your name you’ve ever heard in your life as strong legs press against your thighs and hips rutt animistically against you as she cums in her pants.

Yelena who is all to aware and very embarrassed about the fact that she just came virtually untouched in her pants . Who looks down at you with bashful and almost tentative eyes only to be met you own that are blown wide in arousal and adoration. Who apologizes anyway even if you brush them off because that was totally not cool.

Yelena who has no idea what she’s doing but she’ll learn and she’ll learn quickly as long as it means she gets to learn with and for you.

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

on the couch (winter)

it’s movie night and everyone is late. 

yelena had texted, telling you the group would be stuck in traffic and to not start until they got back. that was almost an hour ago. bucky had walked into the living room, found you and bob waiting a little too inconspicuously on the couches and turned on his heel, going back the way he came. 

you’d looked to bob then, grinning conspiratorially as you crawled down the length of the curved couch, right into his side. 

it’s innocent enough, at first. muffled by his shirt in your face when you tell him that it’s only because you’re cold, and he warms you up better than anything else could. 

he gives you a look—like he knows what you’re up to but can’t find a good enough reason to refuse himself the feel of you. makes something warm in his chest when he thinks about how you’re always looking for any reason to touch him, that you don’t shy away.

he likes it, because while your relationship isn’t exactly new, he still worries—doesn’t know if he could bring himself to initiate it even if he wanted to (he really, really does). 

but when you come to him, he welcomes it. revels in it, actually.

his arms lift, wrapping around your frame. immediately, you’re enveloped by the smell of his laundry detergent and the 2-in-1 shampoo he’s been trying to use up before opening the real shampoo and conditioner you’d bought him. 

his chin rests atop your head, breathing steady while your fingers aimlessly trace lines down his sleeve. 

“y’know…” you say, trailing off in the way he knows means you’ve got something to say that likely will get him in trouble. he holds his breath. 

“we’re the only ones here,” you continue, pulling your head back to look into his eyes, hoping those pretty blue eyes will take the hint. 

bob laughs softly, eyes flickering across the utterly empty room. the christmas decorations the team had spent an afternoon assembling, ending up a little lopsided and mismatched hanging above the mantel and from the ceiling. the string lights twinkle in your eyes. 

 “yeah,” he breathes, “i- i can see that.”

the look you give him is expectant, and he blinks owlishly in return. 

he watches your nose scrunch when you try to decipher whether he’s being clueless on purpose or if he genuinely can’t fathom what you’d want to do with him in an empty room on a couch much too big for two. 

the noise you let out is a cross between an exasperated groan and a teasing giggle. your cheeks burn a little when you tell him plainly, “i want to kiss you, bob. make out a little.”

his lips fall into a perfect little ‘o’ when he exhales the syllable. you grin up at him when his ears turn red. 

“i- i mean,” he stammers, darting between you, your lips and the elevator doors. you can almost tell when he makes up his mind, gaze catching on your lips and struggling to drag them back up to your eyes. licks his lips before he says, “okay.” 

he only catches a glimpse of the giddy look on your face before you’re pulling him down to you with a gentle hand on his cheek. 

he kisses a little unsure, a little messy—but god, does it send pleasant shivers down your spine when he’s the one to part your lips and glide his tongue against yours. 

you sigh contentedly into his waiting mouth when his grip on you tightens, and his hands start to roam—like the more he kisses you the less restrained he remembers to be. 

“w- we… we should-” he sighs against the side of your face when your head tilts to press your lips to his cheek, chest rising and falling hard. 

“we should probably move,” he manages to get out on the third try, voice raspy and deep. his blue eyes have gone dark, half-lidded as he rests his forehead on yours, catching his breath.

he’s probably right. the chances of you getting walked in on are rising by the minute—you can only imagine the shit you’ll get if the team finds you and bob, equally flustered and dazed. 

but bob makes no move to get up, to peel you off from where you cling to him, just to make that long, cold walk to somewhere more private. you hold your breath, mentally debating if it’s worth it. 

bob licks his kiss-swollen lips, and the choice is made for you. 

your arms tighten around his neck, pressing impossibly closer as you capture his lips between yours. a knee goes between his, and presses dangerously close to where he’s starting to stiffen in his plaid christmas bottoms. 

bob’s head jerks back, curls jostling as he gasps. his  hands flying to your hips to pin you down before you can do any further damage to his already-crumbling restraint. 

you know you shouldn’t tease. you’ve only seen bob at his most vulnerable a handful of times, all in the comfort and safety of your rooms, locked away from the world. 

but he’s just so pretty, and when he makes sounds like that just from your leg, you can’t stop yourself from doing it again, and again, until he’s whimpering and reaching a hand down to hold back your leg. a little pointless, considering how his hips buck in search of more. 

“they- they’re going to come back,” bob chokes, lashes fluttering as he fights to keep his eyes open. white-knuckled fingers twitch against your thigh, “someone could see.”

and you’re about to argue otherwise, that they’re not about to just walk in the next second, but it’s like he’s summoned them with magic, or spoken it into existence. 

the elevator dings twice, announcing their imminent arrival. you have seconds before the team files into the room and finds bob borderline humping your thigh. 

bob yelps in alarm, his hold on you tightening in reflex as the ‘freeze’ part of his fight or flight instinct takes over. slapping at his hands, you climb out of his grip, launching yourself to the opposite end of the couch. 

when the team walks in, you’re on your phone scrolling haphazardly, glancing up in faux-annoyance when they mill about. you chew them out for being late, and bob is grateful for the distraction—nobody asks why his cheeks are so red, or why he’s more jittery than usual. 

by the time the lights are turned off and everyone is placated with snacks and a christmas movie, bob thinks he’s off the hook. but then you’re squeezing into the only seat left with an innocent smile—between him and bucky.

the super soldier side-eyes you when the movie ends and bob still has that damned pillow clutched over his lap. 

in the shower (spring) 

the water beating down against slick tiles does a halfway job of muffling the sounds coming from your bathroom. 

it hadn’t been your intention, when you’d agreed to help yelena train bob, to end up caged under him in the shower. 

you’d lingered in your doorway while yelena disappeared into hers, already wriggling out of her sweaty top. bob had come to a slow stop behind you, waiting for the telltale swoosh of the blonde’s door closing. 

there’s something about that post-exercise high, the rush of endorphins in bob’s system that makes him walk with his shoulders a little less curled and his gait steadier. his limbs are loose, and the slow blink he gives you while he leans against the doorframe makes you pause. 

it reminds you of when the sentry peeks through. makes you swallow, peering curiously at his eyes but no—only crystalline blue already staring back.  

his hair stuck to his forehead and a light sheen of sweat around along his throat—evidence of how much he’d pushed himself. thanks to the serum, it takes a lot for bob to work up a sweat these days. 

“’m gonna shower,” you say simply, and that was that. 

he’d followed you all the way into your room, set his things down next to yours and waited patiently until the water warmed to get his hands on you. 

he descends on you, big hands engulfing your cheeks, kissing you hard. it’s hungry, and your teeth bump a little, but when one hand trails down your slick skin to crook a thigh around his hip, you can’t help the breathless sigh into his mouth at the way he’s already hard and feverish against your inner thigh. 

“bob,” you cry out when he sucks at the spot behind your ear—the same time his hand on your thigh moves to cup your ass. his tongue swipes at your pulse point and your breath hitches on your words, “what’s got you all hot and bothered?”

“i- i don’t know,” he breathes against your skin, wet lips searing more than the hot water raining down on you. he manoeuvres your bodies out of the spray when he feels how hot your skin is getting. “just- just need to…” 

he trails off, mouth falling open on a low groan when your hips twitch, and the ruddy head of his cock brushes the junction of your thigh and pelvis. 

bob’s forehead presses to the cool tile beside you when you do it again, smearing precum against your thigh. 

“shit- need to feel you,” he pleads, hands finding purpose in kneading your tits. 

“how d’you want me?” you murmur, turning your head so the words fall on his parted lips. he watches in a daze as your hand slips between your heated bodies, fingers curling around the length of him. 

bob chokes on a breath, back caving in. he’s on the brink already—on edge from hours of sparring and watching you dance around him in your tight workout gear and a determined glint in your eyes. he sees the same one now, and he knows he won’t last long enough to be inside you. 

you squeeze, flicking a thumb over his slit to get his attention, and bob realises he’s been staring into space. 

bob may as well babble—incoherent as he tries to beg you to do literally anything to make the ache go away—anything you want. “- just want you.”

he seems to swell in your grasp when you coo at him, twisting your fist as you stroke him steadily. “oh, baby,” you give him a kiss he struggles to reciprocate, “wan’ me to take care of you?”

all the bravado from earlier washes down the drain. he’s whimpering low in his throat, nodding feverishly. “y- yes, please, oh- fuck.”

“okay, pretty boy, i’ll take care of you.”

he lets you push him, back to the wall. you’re slinking down his front, straight onto your knees. his cock rests under his belly, flushed all over and leaking like a faucet. 

“you did so well today,” you whisper and it’s almost drowned out by the water, “worked so hard.”

your lips press closed kisses up the side of him. when you take his tip into your warm mouth, bob has a flicker of genuine worry that he’ll pass out. he whimpers as you work more of him into your mouth, withdrawing only to pucker up and dribble down a glob of spit over his tip. 

“oh god,” he whines, head thrown back against the tile. wet hair clinging to his cheeks and neck, lashes clumped with water (or tears)—he looks so good and you make up your mind to make him cum in record time. 

he deserves it, you think. hadn’t protested once while you and yelena had demonstrated the 101 ways to throw a grown man down. (zero complaints when your thighs had clamped around his head and swung him down, legs locked at his throat.)

you can barely fit half of him in your mouth, so your hands come up to stroke in time with your hungry tongue. 

bob thinks he actually sees stars. there might be hearts floating above his head, because if he hadn’t known he was in love with you before, he definitely knows now, when you’re smiling up at him through your lashes. 

the warning heat in his belly ramps up to a boil when he feels your tongue swirling around his head. 

“honey, i’m- i think i’m gonna-” he manages to pant, chest heaving as his stomach tenses. a jolt of satisfaction courses through you, and you’re readying yourself for his end when there’s the world’s loudest knocking at your bathroom door. 

a drawn out call of your name. 

bob fights the desperate, pleading whine when your mouth pulls off of him at the last second. he stares down at you—deer in the headlights, when the urgent knocking continues. his hand flies to your hair, not pressing, but urging. 

his wide, panicked eyes find yours—the surprise is wearing off and now you’re just mildly annoyed. 

yelena’s on the other side, short blonde strands dripping onto the towel she clutches around her. 

“can i borrow some conditioner? i ran out!” she shouts to be heard over the water. 

your hand never leaves bob’s dick, wrapped loosely as you bite your lip in contemplation. “why can’t you use ava’s?” 

“yours smells better!” she reasons, fingernails tapping against the metal. 

your face scrunches, figuring it’ll be easier to just give her the damned thing than try to talk her out of coming in. 

so you look up at bob from between his legs, press your fingers to your lips even as his head shakes, mouthing a pitiful “please”. presses himself further into the wall like it’ll absorb him out of this utterly painful situation. 

“fine, but i’m in the shower,” you call out, hands fumbling for the offending bottle. you both hear it when the doorknob turns and her footsteps enter the steamy room. 

“don’t worry, i won’t look,” yelena mutters jokingly, approaching the shower curtain. to her credit, she does turn away before your hand pulls the curtain aside a little to pass her the conditioner. it’s good she did— would’ve caught a glimpse of dark hair and a muscled shoulder, otherwise. 

the whole time, bob is shaking with tension and throbbing in your palm. you want to put him out of his misery, but you also want to drag it out a little. so you give him a slow, firm stroke and he slaps a hand over his mouth. 

she thanks you for the conditioner, and you think that’s that, but her steps stop right before the door. 

“hey, bob’s been getting better, don’t you think?” yelena hums thoughtfully, “he’s a fast learner.”

you agree, muffling a giggle because she doesn’t know just how right she is. bob’s eyes narrow at your smirk, even worse when it spreads into a devilish grin. 

your fingers curl tighter around his cock, speeding up. his head shakes vehemently, squirming under you as quietly as he can. 

“he’s got good teachers,” you say, winking up at him when he gives up on trying to not thrust into your fist. he looks absolutely debauched like this, back arching off the wall as he chases your strokes. 

yelena cackles, “no kidding. should’ve seen his face when you did that widow move on him. i think he has a crush on you.”

you do laugh then, and you feel a little bad because bob’s breathing is getting faster and his hips more erratic. but you can’t help it when you ask, “really? what makes you say that?”

yelena hums like she knows something you don’t, ironically, and you can almost see her outline through the curtain as she waves a hand, “ah, we’ll open that can of worms another time. thanks again!” 

when the door clicks shut again, bob counts five seconds before he releases the neediest moan he’s ever heard himself make. it makes his cheeks go red because he’s a little embarrassed. 

but he’s peeking down at you and finds your eyes alight with arousal as you frantically tug at his swollen cock. “you did so good, baby. stayed so quiet,” you sigh, thumb gliding over his slit with every pass.

bob cries out, biting his lip at the coil in his tummy returning, sneaking up while he’d been so caught up in being quiet—being good, for you. 

“cum for me, sweet boy,” you tell him, lips brushing his tip as your head lowers, “wan’ it in my mouth.”

that’s it for him. his whimper pitches high, cracking in his throat. your mouth closes around him just as he twitches in your hand and then he’s spurting into your mouth in thick ropes that you swallow down with a soft moan. he can’t help the way his hips jerk, nudging his cock further into your mouth. you welcome it, even as your jaw aches.  

it takes over him, dragged out by your tongue and hollowed cheeks. he cums so much—a few drops leak down your chin from the corner of your lips.

bob watches in awe as you scoop up what you missed with your fingers, suck them clean with your mouth. it feels like a gut punch to watch. 

his hand flails, shutting the water off blindly. bob carries you out with ease, uncaring in the moment that he’s tracking water over your floor. 

he’ll apologise profusely later, but for now bob drops you onto the bed, and him onto his knees. your legs are thrown over his broad shoulders, and he proceeds to give you three more reasons for a real shower. 

when the ac breaks (summer)

it’s ridiculous, really. the notion that a place like the new avengers tower, worth billions, could suffer from the mundane struggle of a busted air conditioning system. 

smack in the middle of summer. 

the entire building had been given the day off, save for the poor souls residing on the residential floors. the seven of you, condemned to braving this heatwave in a bulletproof glass box. 

the one saving grace should have been the olympic sized pool on the training floors, but as luck would have it, it’s closed—scheduled to be cleaned sometime in the day. 

so you resolve to lying splayed out on bob’s floor, against the cool floor with the only mini hand-held fan oscillating between yours and bob’s sweaty bodies. 

you’d stripped down to your underwear, bob in his boxers. laying shoulder to shoulder, skin prickling from the heat. 

“how sure are we that we’re not in hell?” 

your head turns to the man next to you, reaching out to brush damp hair off his forehead. he laughs, and hopes you don’t notice when he makes sure the fan stays pointed at you longer. 

your eyes narrow when you do, nudging at his hand to turn it back to him, scolding him lightly because you don’t want him getting heat stroke. 

the heat makes everything feel hazy and your movements sluggish. 

you groan into the thick air, shifting on the ground in search of a cool spot. eyeing him suspiciously as he stays completely still—how other than the light sheen on his body and the flush in his cheeks, there aren’t any outward signs of suffering. “how are you so calm right now?”

bob shrugs, a lax hand arcs through the air. “i run warm. ‘m pretty used to it.”

you give him a pout that his eyes catch on. he wonders if he’d taste the salt on your skin if he kissed you now.

“no fair,” you mumble, head thrown back. the move exposes the line of your throat, the way it glistens with sweat. he licks his lips, tries so hard to stop himself from following the bead of sweat that tracks down your cleavage. 

bob distantly wonders how he’s still so affected, even after he had you writhing under him last night, just twelve hours ago. remembers how you’d dragged your nails down his back, raising welts between his shoulder blades as he had you pinned between him and the mattress. 

to answer your question, he thinks there is a chance he’s in hell. only because you’re inches away, in nothing but a bra and panties, skin shimmering in the afternoon light and he can’t do anything about it because it’s just so hot.

when you shift again, bob takes the risk and kisses you. makes sure to keep his torso hovering away from yours, only connected by your lips. 

you reciprocate, craning your neck up into him. his mouth is warm, but it’s a nice contrast to the stifling heat surrounding you. 

it’s muscle memory, reaching up to pull him closer. but your fingers slip against tacky skin, chests sticking together uncomfortably. bob retreats when he hears your low whine, squirming beneath him. 

“no no no- i want to keep going,” you say breathlessly, voice catching when the heat stings at the nape of your neck, “but ‘s too hot.”

bob can see when it gets overstimulating, your eyes watering with it. he scoots away, not too far but just enough to let the air flow easier around you. sets the mini fan next to you on the strongest setting and gathers your hair away from your neck. 

“hey, you’re okay,” he murmurs soothingly, “i know, it’s hot. d’you want me to get your water bottle?”

you shake your head, still pouting. you know you’re being a little melodramatic, but you can barely think straight, you’re bloated from drinking enough water to drown a dolphin and all you want is to cuddle with your boyfriend but you can’t. 

“what can i do, honey?” he hums, scooting closer to link your pinkies. he’s surprisingly level-headed about the whole thing, and it makes you wonder if this is really how he feels most of the time. then you feel bad for ever complaining about how cold he keeps his room. you’d much rather be huddling for warmth.

your voice is small, a little petulant—it’s embarrassing to be felled by a broken ac system. “can you… can you kiss me again?”

his heart skips at your shy question. so used to the tables being flipped that he feels a little zip down his spine at the opportunity to take care of you this time.

bob’s mind becomes one-tracked, the need to make all your troubles disappear and have you happy and sated taking over his thoughts. he tells himself he’ll make it all better (maybe even says it out loud.)

“lay back,” he tells you softly, nodding when you go down without a word. he dutifully adjusts the fan again, and then he’s appearing in your vision, blocking out the ceiling. 

bob hovers over you, in a push-up position so none of his body heat reaches you. he looks so big like this, his newfound strength apparent with how he holds himself in place without struggle. 

his hair curtains his face from this angle, and you reach up to tuck it behind his ear again. he has stars in his eyes when he peers down at you, still so pretty. 

“’s this better?” he asks, voice low and gentle.

when you nod, you’re smiling and looking like yourself again. who could’ve known all you needed was bob on top of you. 

he leans down, chest only just brushing yours this time as he kisses you deep. makes it a good one (he always does), but especially since you’d asked so sweetly. 

you forget why you were upset in the first place when his tongue slips over yours. it gets a little heated, ironically, but even then bob holds himself above you, never letting his hot skin touch you. 

you start to whimper for it, especially when you feel bob sporting a semi through his thin boxers, even from where he hovers. he’s about to bring himself to do something about it—ears burning a little when he thinks about maybe asking if you’d want him to take you from behind this time, reasoning that you’ll overheat less like that.

but then through the thick door, bob’s enhanced hearing picks up on heavy, thudding footsteps approaching. you don’t need crazy senses to hear walker calling bob’s name from down the hall. 

the pair of you freeze, your glassy eyes stuck on him. the breath catches in your chests when his voice grows louder. “bob! pool’s open—let’s go!”

he rolls off of you, barely sparing a second to adjust himself in his boxers before ushering you to the en-suite bathroom. 

“stay here,” he says, even when both of you know there’s nowhere else to go. “i’ll be right back.” 

bob steals one more kiss before he ducks out of the bathroom, shutting the door right behind him just as walker barrels into the bedroom. 

“wha- maybe knock next time?” bob runs a hand through his hair, standing on the opposite side of the room from the blonde super soldier who’s already got his trunks on. 

“what’s the point? not like you’re doing anything in here, anyway.” john reasons, shrugging with a hand on his hip. 

“right… pool’s open, you said?” bob tries changing the subject. 

“a few of us are heading down now. get changed, buddy, you look like you’re about to pass out.” 

bob purses his lips, and wonders briefly if you’re listening through the door. he hopes walker doesn’t ask why he’s standing so weird. 

“s-sure thing,” bob agrees, already turning around to look for the new pair of trunks he’d picked out with you the last time you’d gone out.

a high whistle rings out behind him, and the way it pierces the air makes bob freeze in his tracks. 

“damn, bob. you get in a fight?” 

bob’s confused, grasping for any idea of what john could mean when it hits him, and he whirls around before john gets more fuel for the teasing that awaits him now. 

his face is burning up, trunks clutched in his hands. he blinks rapidly, floundering as john watches with a smug grin. 

“good for you, man,” john says simply, and bob just knows he’s holding back for later, when he has everyone’s attention. 

“o- on second thought, i don’t- i don’t feel too good,” bob struggles, eyes frantically searching for a shirt, but the last time he had one on was hours ago. he can’t remember where he’d tossed it, because his brain turned to mush the second yours came off.

“oh, come on, there’s nothing to be ashamed of!” john waves, cracking a little as a laugh bubbles in his chest. “wear it with pride! means you did a good job.”

bob wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. he’s sure he’s in hell, when his door slides open and both yelena and ava step in, clad in swimsuits and towels slung over their shoulders. 

“guys, what is the holdup?” yelena demands, gesturing exasperatedly with her hands. 

“it’s like you want to get heat stroke.” ava snips, glaring at john, whose face is crimson from how hard he’s holding himself back. 

“bob’s been busy.”

the girls look at him questioningly, irate at being made to wait even longer as john waits for them to figure it out. 

bob squeaks, shaking his head when john declares to the room, “bob fucks!”

he is in hell, because the room falls silent as ava and yelena stare between the two men. bob scoots a little too far to the left and they catch a glimpse of his scratched up back in the full-body mirror behind him. 

their gasps fill the room, and yelena, at least, tries to cover it with a hand over her mouth. 

“go on, bob!” ava nods approvingly, breaking into a cackle as yelena nods her agreement, speechless. 

it makes bob cringe, mind darting through all the ideas of how to squirm out of this situation, because they’re all probably picturing him in their minds right now and it makes him want to curl up in a hall. 

“oh my god, who do you think it is?” ava gasps, slapping excitedly at john. he swats her hands away, but he’s wearing a shit-eating grin when he says your name, drawling, “obviously.”

ava’s jaw drops just as yelena elbows him hard enough to make walker wince. 

bob swallows back the protest in his throat, because he doesn’t trust his ability to lie right now. decides it might be easier to just let them think what they want. 

“whoever it is-“ yelena cuts off ava and john’s gabbing, “-is a very lucky person. clearly!”

they leave bob to change in peace, snickering the whole way to the elevator. when the bathroom door opens, you find his face in his hands, sighing in resignation. 

when his hands fall, there you are, trying to muffle a laugh, half-guilty but very amused. 

“i’m sorry, baby,” you coo, running your hands up his arms to his shoulders, “should’a told you to put on a shirt first.”

you enjoy yourself plenty, watching him stammer through the group’s interrogation by the pool while you act none-the-wiser. even sprinkling in a question or two. 

it’s not as funny later that night, when the ac is fixed and bob has you on your back before it can even kick in properly. 

it’s decidedly unfunny when you have to watch tutorials the next morning on how to cover up the purple-red splotches mapped down your throat, save for the one at your collar—bob asks you to leave that one bare. 

in the middle of it (autumn)

the team is onto you. 

it’s hard to miss the pointed looks exchanged over dinner when you and bob chat intently, in your own world, totally unbothered by their squabbling. 

or when the two of you coincidentally walk into the kitchen for breakfast together. sure, you bumped into him on your way down. 

it’s been almost a year with bob, and you’re still buried under the weight of pure love when he comes to you first about what’s bothering him, or when he wants you to cut his hair, or when he doesn’t even have to ask for your order when he gets takeout for just the two of you. 

sneaking around was fun at first, a harmless secret that protected the peace that only existed when you were together. every stolen kiss and lingering brush under the table sent shocks through your system. 

the longer it goes, the harder it is to leave him in the morning, slipping into your own room quietly on the off chance that someone might catch you tiptoeing out of his. 

when bob shuffles into the kitchen, eyes bleary and hair mussed from sleep, and you have to hold yourself back from peppering kisses all over his sleepy face—it makes you wonder why exactly you’re keeping it a secret. it’s not like the team would really give a shit, hell, they probably know. 

so you stop being careful. the mask starts to slip, and bob finds that he quite likes getting to hold your hand outside the confines of your rooms. 

the day it finally happens is one of those days, where you wake up in his arms, clutched to his chest like his personal teddy bear. his lips part on a soft snore, face smushed into the pillow.

you’re a little sweaty, trapped under the covers with the heat radiating off of your dead-asleep boyfriend, but you can’t bring yourself to peel away from him. 

it’s still early. the tower is silent—on the cusp of consciousness. 

as you try to recall what exactly woke you up, bob shifts behind you and—oh. bob moves again, still asleep, and this time there’s no mistaking what nudges at the back of your thigh. 

a hitch of a breath. you wait a beat, in time with your pulse, until you decide to push back experimentally. he’s still asleep, and you’re debating whether it’s worth waking him early. 

he’s thick in his pyjamas, insistent as he grinds into you again, notching between your ass cheeks. this time he lets out a low moan, the arm banded around your middle clamping down.

you’re entirely locked against him now, unable to move as bob’s hips continue their lazy rocking. you want so bad to let him sleep, but it’s getting uncomfortably hot and sticky between your legs. 

you think you could slip a hand down and take care of yourself quietly, but then your entire body jolts up the bed on one hard thrust. the mewl you’ve been biting back finally slips out. 

that’s what wakes him, in the end. when your hand flies to his forearm against your stomach, baby blue eyes flutter open and blink slowly in confusion. 

it hits him all at once—cock throbbing in his pants and your overheating body squirming in front of him and the little sounds escaping your mouth. his name. 

bob makes a puzzled sound, halfway to a moan when the fog clears. his arms loosen enough for you to turn around, facing him as his cock now pokes at your belly. 

“i’m sorry i woke you” you whisper through the clench in your core. bob shakes his head, still sleepy, dragging you into a slow kiss, the first of the day. 

“are you-” his hand slips between your bodies, resting at your navel until you nod. “fuck, you’re so wet already.”

he runs his long fingers through your folds, spreading the arousal he finds waiting for him there. brushes against your clit, and then you’re whining, tugging at his shoulders. 

“bob bob bob, please, i need you inside,” is all it takes for him to nod against your lips, wriggling out of his pants and lifting your thigh over his. 

he guides himself to your entrance, sliding in slow, like always. lets you adjust as he groans low at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him. 

when you tell him to move, he wastes no time in drawing his hips back, pushing in steadily. each time he does, a breathless moan is punched out of you, gripping him like a vice and sucking him back in. 

“s- shit, honey, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he stutters, a soft laugh turning breathless when you seem to clench down on purpose. “s’that feel good, honey? t- talk to me.”

he needs it. with this angle, he reaches so much deeper, his coarse hairs rubbing at your clit with each push forwards. it sets your insides alight, but there’s nowhere to run in this position. his fingers clamp down on your hip, dragging you along his cock. 

“f- fuck, you feel so good,” you cry, burying your face in his firm chest, “so- so deep like this. can feel all of you.”

your praise goes straight to his cock, twitching inside you on a whimper. he moves with purpose, aims for that spot he knows is there—the one that makes you cry his name. 

he knows when he’s found it, because you’re keening, high and sharp into the room. the stillness of the morning is shattered, taken over by the steady slapping of skin on skin, the squelching where bob pushes his thick cock into your leaking hole. 

“you’re so- so fucking wet, sweetheart. ‘s all for me?” he pants, voice raspy and thick with sleep. it scratches at your brain just right, makes you arch into his touch. 

his tip batters at that spongey spot just right, and he thinks he might need to cover your mouth or something. while he’s sure the team wouldn’t be opposed to your relationship, he’s not too sure about how they’d feel waking up to your repeated chants of his name.  

he shushes you with this mouth on yours, swallowing down all your wanton moans. “you’re gonna wake everyone,” he says against your lips, a little teasing. just this side of cocky, now that he has you falling apart on his dick first thing in the morning. 

your head shakes vehemently as you cling to him. “don’t care,” you say, breath catching when he rolls your clit in slow circles. “want ‘em to know-” your hips buck with a yelp when his touch grows firm, “-want them to hear how good you fuck me.” 

bob’s eyes roll back into his head, a shiver running down his spine. “cum for me then, baby, c’mon.”

his thrusts grow harsh, and you know he’s almost there when he bites down on your shoulder to stop the pathetic moan at how your wet walls choke him. 

he keeps working at your clit, pumping in and out of you in a way that’s fucking devastating. the heat simmering in your belly bubbles over, and you’re creaming all over his cock with a wrecked whine, bucking your hips to meet his. 

“loveyouloveyouloveyou,” he hears you mumble as you wade through your high, and it does him in to hear that word. it’s not the first time, but it always feels like it. 

his fingers squeeze your hips so hard they’ll bruise for sure, marring your skin shades of blue and purple that he’ll kiss better later.

when he cums, it’s with a drawn out moan, barely muffled by your skin as he presses his face to your neck. you can feel him pulsing as he paints your insides, squeezing just to draw out his pleasure. you don’t want the feeling of him filling you up to stop. 

“i love you, oh, god- love you, baby.”

too bad the moment is fucking stomped on all over, becoming bob’s most ruined orgasm when his bedroom door flies open, revealing a blond super soldier, suited up at 7 in the morning. 

“hey, have you seen-” 

it takes a second to register but when it does, bob is tugging the covers up and shielding your body with his. 

“holy shit.” john freezes in his tracks like he’s been slapped, piecing together the flash of your mortified face and the curve of bob’s bare ass. 

“get the fuck out!” you shout from under bob, whose mind has gone completely blank. not only because he’s been walked in on, butt naked by the most annoying of all super soldiers, but also because he can feel where his cum is leaking out of you onto the sheets. he pulls the covers tighter around your bodies, blushing bright red. 

“i knew it. i fucking knew it!” 

“gold star to you, walker! now can you leave, please? the briefing doesn’t start for another hour, you psycho.”

“god forbid we get breakfast before a day-long mission! it’s only the most important meal of the day!”

your eyes roll hard, staring up at bob, both of you doused in annoyance at how john is still in the room when bob is still in you. 

“bob, i’d offer you to join but i assume you’ve already eaten-” he’s cut off by your indignant yell, easily dodging the metal water bottle hurled at him. 

“alright, alright,” john huffs, turning heel with a shudder. 

when the door slides shut, bob meets your eyes with a sigh. you look up at him, helpless to stop the unhinged giggle when you process what just happened. 

“cat’s out of the bag?” you offer, whimpering a little when bob pulls out slowly. he shakes his head, huffing a laugh with his head in the crook of your neck. 

bob cleans you up diligently, and so, so softly. within the hour, he’s zipping up your tactical suit and waiting at the door so he can walk you out to the elevator. 

“are you gonna be okay fending for yourself while i’m gone? they’re going to have questions,” you tease, raising on your tiptoes loop your arms around bob’s neck. 

he smile is small but it’s real and stays even after you kiss him goodbye. 

Seriously, you need to get out of the house and meet people instead of fantasizing about the cool touch of your fridge. But the outside is infinitely hotter than the inside.

You kick the bedsheet away from your body, grumbling at the lingering day heat. You’d stripped the sheet from the duvet the moment spring chill had plunged into summer heat and stuffed the latter into the closet until fall. Even then, you tend to wake up without the sheet in the morning, finding it crumbled on the floor. Yesterday was another sweltering day. It has left the air stuffy and the fans only push the warm, stale heat around without providing any relief. You unplug them in a fit of frustration and cringe at the feeling of moisture when you lay against your pillow again.

Sleep doesn’t completely evade you but you’re not fully asleep, either. You think so, at least. There are moments of brief blackouts, where you open your eyes and turn to look at the time only to find not even an hour has passed. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Then, there are the hands on your body. Caressing, petting, groping. They’ve been there for some time now, just touching, feeling. They’re not cold, just cool enough to feel pleasant against your heated skin and inject some relief into your sluggish thoughts of sun and heat. A sigh escapes your lips at the sensation. Fingertips trance the expanse of your skin, draw constellations between your moles and freckles. The other hand moves to rest on your breast. It kneads the soft flesh, gently pinches your nipple between its fingers, runs a thumb over it.

You inhale sharply, heart thrumming in your chest, pressing your thighs together. It does little to quell the desire for friction, or touch. The hand tracing its fingertips down your body reaches your hip, then skirts across your flesh to rest on the inside of your thigh. You blink languidly; the heat is stifling, your head feels thick.

Cool fingers dip between your legs, press against your clit like — like they’re what? Testing the waters. You stifle the half-baked moan in the back of your throat.

The hands leave you all at once and you croak out a sound that doesn’t even sound like you, desperate and needy. They’re back not even a moment later, though, heavy on your hips as if they’re trying to guide you. You reach for a pillow and prop it under yourself. It’s a nice dream, you don’t need it to end because it forces you into an uncomfortable position that drives home the realization that it’s a dream. Because then you’ll wake up, alone again.

Something thick and heavy rests on your pelvis. Maybe this makes you a bad sex partner in this brief dream but you don’t want to reach out and touch it, guide it. If it’s your dream, your partner should know the where and how. The cool hands planted firmly on your hips pull you forward just slightly and the weight from your pelvis disappears. It rests against your entrance, but doesn’t push forward just yet. One hand leaves you and the tip of its cock drags through your slick folds, bumps against your clit.

“Please,” you croak, staring at the ceiling. Your throat is dry.

The stranger’s cock angles itself against your entrance and pushes in carefully. You take a slow, deep breath in, try to relax around the pleasant intrusion. The hands — under your knees now, guiding your legs apart. A body presses against your thighs. Whoever it is, stops, pauses for a moment. You clench around the cock buried in your cunt. A cold, shuddering breath hits you. Goosebumps rise on your skin. The hands push your knees further apart until there’s an ache in your muscles, and then they depart, one finding a spot on your waist, the other your breast.

It moves, then. The cock nestled deep within you sharply pulls back and thrusts in again. You scramble for anchor, to grab onto something but all you come up with is sheet that tugs loose. Their pace is dizzying, thighs slapping against yours, cock plunging into your wet cunt. The sound is so wet and lewd and goddamned loud in the still silence of your home. You go to stifle the half-moan half-groan in your throat but— wait, it’s your house, your dream, who gives a fuck about the neighbors? The cock in your cunt pulls nearly all the way out and thrusts in again and hits that spot, so good, dragging against your slick walls and you swear you feel every groove and dip, every goddamn vein. Your moan slips out involuntarily, and whoever it is here with you, seems invigorated.

The hand on your breast leaves, a forearm rests around your thigh, pulling it up and — fuck, their cock drives in so incredibly deep you nearly choke on your own spit. You scramble upwards, resting your weight on your elbows to look at your partner —

There’s no one there. Your bedroom is empty. But there’s a hand on your torso, cool fingers digging into your flesh and a forearm supporting your thigh and the shape of someone’s shoulder against your Achilles’ tendon. There’s a cock plunging into your cunt and you hear someone’s labored breathing.

The full-length mirror skids across the laminated floor and stops in front of your bed. Something invisible is thrusting into your pussy, gaping back at you in the reflection. Your face burns — your whole body burns. You can’t look away from the debauchery staring back at you. Whoever — whatever — it is, thrusts harshly, cold hands pulling you against their body. Your thighs are wet and sticky, slamming against theirs, your hole gaping back at you, being abused by something you can’t see. It sends you hurtling over the edge.

You come around the phantom cock with something reminiscent of a shriek and a moan and terror and pleasure all combined. Your cunt clenches around the thing your muscles sore and sweat beading on your skin. The cock plunges into you again and again and again and you blink back the tears and the fear and the overwhelming pleasure. The fingers on your body dig into your flesh and the cock nestled in you buries deep, thighs pressing against your own, and spills. It’s so warm, so pleasant. The mirror skids closer, right until it touches the edge of the bed.

Your cunt is forced wide open. Stuffed. The pearlescent cum coats your walls, oozes out from inside you, dribbles onto your bedsheets. The cock in you stays there but the body moves.

A small fogged patch, like warm breath, appears on the mirror, and then, letters.

Hi :)

Oh. So that's why this place was so cheap.