Why does it matter?

“Missed you,” He would murmur, voice hoarse from sleep, breath hot against your skin, “You weren’t in bed this morning…I was sa-sad.” And just like that, he’d grind his hips forward–slow and subtle but intentional–and you would feel the sharp outline of his erection against your lower back, showing his true desires that burned beneath the surface.

If you were watching TV? You would have to have the luck of a thousand four leaf clovers to be able to make it through a full episode of anything. Because he would be curled up with his head on your lap, and his big muscular body stretched out across the couch like he belonged there. You would play with his hair, carding your fingers through those thick, soft brown curls, and he’d hum in response, eyes fluttering shut like he was going to start purring like Alpine.

But then he’d shift. It would be a lazy move at first, nuzzling into your stomach, the tip of his nose pressing into the softness…Then, without warning, he’d twist up and slip his head under your shirt, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses down from just beneath your breasts to the waistband of your shorts.

”You’re so warm here,” He’d whisper, voice dipped in something dark and sultry. Something heavy with longing, “Want to ha-have a taste.”

During training? He was a menace. You could be mid-rep, focused, sweat dripping down the curve of your neck, and Bob would stroll by like a lazy storefront–gravitational, all slow steps and calculating eyes. He would trail his fingers down the center of your spine, it would be featherlight and barely there. And when you’d gasp in surprise and nearly drop the weight, he’d lean in close and murmur something filthy into your ear.

“Careful, Y/N…If you keep making those noises, I might end up bending you ov-over this bench…”

You knew that most of the time when he had these surges of dirty talk and teasing there was always hints of Sentry throughout every interaction. He was like a golden retriever with a god complex. All sunshine and sinew and the impossible, and unnatural heat that ever waned. It pulsed off him like solar radiation. And when he kissed you, it was with the intensity of a dying star. When he touched you, it was like he ached to be let in deeper–beneath your skin, inside your bones, tethered to your soul. He didn’t just crave contact. He craved you. The whole of you. The salt of your sweat. The tremble of your breath, and the flutter of your pulse when he got too close.

Every part of him–from his kiss-bruised mouth to the restless twitch of his fingers–seemed built for worship. Engineered to leave you shivering, soaked, and desperate. But even when that was the case–when his touches turned to gropes, and his gropes turned to grinding, and his grinding turned to growled promises he never quite fulfilled–he always made sure to keep you on the edge. Perpetually suspended in a state of desperate, aching want. Teased into oblivion, strung out on the heat of his breath and the trail of his fingers and the weight of that cocky little smirk he wore when he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

It was like a game to him. An all-day foreplay marathon designed by a celestial being with a one-track mind and a worship kink the size of the sun. You’d be soaked before breakfast, ruined by lunch, and trembling by the time dinner rolled around–only to be told, with a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth, that “Later, Y/N. Go-Gotta make it last.”

He liked to watch you squirm. To see the fire build in your eyes every time he whispered something sinful and then walked away, that cocky, lazy swagger in his step like he hadn’t just made your knees buckle.

And you let him do it.

You let him string you along for hours.

One day though, you decided enough was enough. Because if Bob could play this game, stringing you along until you ached with want and your nerves buzzed from hours of denied pleasure, all the way until the evening time–then so could you.

And the perfect opportunity came up.

The rest of the team had left early that morning for a furniture store run in the city–they had mentioned something about renovations and redecorating the Watchtower to make it a little more comfortable and lived in–and they had practically thrown the day’s itinerary in your face to prove that they would be gone all day long. Which would leave you and Bob in the compound, alone for the first time in weeks, and this time you weren’t going to let him win.

You followed your usual morning routine to the letter–just to throw him off. You trained, stretched, showered. You even hummed while making breakfast like everything was perfectly normal. Like you hadn’t spent the night plotting your revenge down to the way you would move around him.

And right on cue, Bob appeared.

You didn’t need super-senses to know when he entered the room–his presence always shifted the very air around you. The temperature ticked up, and gravity accommodated him. Then–there it was. The feeling of heat behind you, his clean minty scent surrounding your senses. His chest brushing your back. His arms curling around your waist like they belonged there, like it was instinct. His nose pressed into your hair, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice still gravel-rough from sleep.

“Mmm…You smell like a dr-dream.” He mumbled kissing your neck, breath dragging warm and slowly down your skin. His hands slid across your stomach, fingers curling just beneath the hem of your tank top, and you didn’t even flinch.

”Making breakfast, Bob,” You said sweetly, like you hadn’t noticed the hardness already pressing into your back. You slipped out of his arms like smoke, grabbed a spatula, and flipped the eggs without a glance back.

He stilled.

You felt him behind you, watching–processing. His fingers flexed, frustrated and twitchy. He tried again a second later, one hand grazing your hip. “Just wanna hold you, Y/N…” His fingers teased the waistband of your shorts slipping beneath the elastic with practiced ease, but before he could reach where he wanted to you caught his wrist mid-movement. Your grip was gentle but firm, and when you turned your head to meet his eyes, there was a flash of mischief in your smile.

“Bob…Hun. I’m busy cooking breakfast.” His brows furrowed, confused, eyes flicking down to where your hand was still wrapped around his wrist. He looked like you had given him the worst news of his life–flushed, pouty, completely caught off guard.

”But…You always let me hold you wh-when you’re cooking breakfast though…” You sighed, slow and dramatic, biting your bottom lip just to really drive the dagger in.

“Well…There’s a ground rule for today,” You started, your voice honey-sweet and cruel in the way he always was with you on days where he’d tease, “You can look, but you can’t touch.” You felt his breath hitch. Actually you heard it–the little inhale that stuttered in his throat like his entire operating system had just crashed.

“Y/N…” He murmured, blinking like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “I’ll go insane…You ca-can’t do that to me.” You finally turned to face him, one hip leaned into the counter and spatula still in hand like this was just another normal morning. But your smile said otherwise.

“You tease me all day long, Bob. Every day. You think that doesn’t make me go insane?” He opened his mouth, closed it. Let out a huff of laughter like he was half-impressed, half-panicked.

“So that’s what this is ab-about?” He asked, voice low and shaky. “You wanna get back at me?”

“Mhm.” You stirred the eggs without looking, like you hadn’t just shattered every rule of engagement between the two of you. “And I intend on succeeding in that.” Bob sighed–this long, ragged, pitiful sound from deep in his chest.

“Well…” He stepped closer again, voice dropping into that pleading register that always made your legs feel weak. “What if I apologized… on my hands and kn-knees?” You raised your eyebrows, lips twitching at the visual.

“I’m not going to give in that easily,” You said, voice breathy and playful, “even though that would be super hot.” The sound that escaped him was almost a whimper.

“Y/N…Pl–Please…” You shimmied the finished eggs off the pan and into a plate with a smirk, before adding another square of butter onto the sizzling metal.

”You’re already begging? Wow,” You teased, cracking another egg into the pan, the bubbling noises sharp and loud against the thick tension curling between the both of you, “Didn’t take long.”

”You don’t understand what you’re do-doing to me,” He murmured behind you, like he couldn’t keep his words in, “I’ve been aching since I woke up…” You hummed thoughtfully.

”Sounds like a you problem.”

“Y/N…” He pressed his forehead to your shoulder like he was in mourning, breathing deep against the curve of your arm. You didn’t stop him–technically, he wasn’t breaking your rule. He hadn’t touched you. Yet. But the moment you stepped away to grab another plate, he groaned and stumbled after you like gravity had shifted again, like he couldn’t physically bear the distance.

“So what are the parameters of this punishment?” He asked, sounding breathless, his hands hovering like he wanted so badly to just grab you and pin you to the nearest surface. “No touching at all? Or just not until you say so?”

“Not until I say so,” You confirmed, sliding his plate across the counter with a proud little flourish. “And if you behave…Maybe I’ll let you earn a few privileges back.”

His jaw clenched. “You’re cruel.”

“You love it.”

And oh, did he ever. The look on his face said it all–flushed and needy and completely fucked out with zero contact. You had barely touched him all morning and he already looked like he was going to combust. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, and his eyes kept flicking to your mouth like he was trying to memorize it.

“I don’t know how long I’m go-gonna last,” He said hoarsely.

You smirked and leaned in close–just close enough that he could feel your breath ghosting over his jaw.

“Guess you’ll have to try real hard, then…Won’t you?”

Then you pulled back, just before his lips could catch yours, and turned on your heel to go sit at the table–leaving him standing there, hard and helpless, staring after you like he might drop to his knees right then and there. But he controlled himself as much as possible, wanting to play into your little game just to see if he could possibly flip it over onto you…Though it wasn’t looking promising in that department.

———————

By the time lunch rolled around, Bob had completely lost the ability to function.

He was melted into the sofa like overcooked taffy, arms slack at his sides, legs spread in an unconscious sprawl as he tried–really tried–not to look at you. You, perched delicately beside him with one leg tucked beneath the other, your body angled just enough to toy absentmindedly with the hem of your shorts while your eyes remained glued to the television.

It was cruel. Evil, even.

You had intentionally put on one of those chaotic, high-intensity competitive cooking shows–Chopped, maybe, or Iron Chef–thinking it would distract him. But it didn’t. Not even close. Not when your thigh kept brushing his every time you shifted, not when you stretched so sweetly beside him, the dip of your waist just in his peripheral vision.

He wanted so badly to lie down with his head in your lap like he always did. It was his favorite place. His comfort zone. His throne.

But you hadn’t told him he could.

So he sat there, twitchy and aching and pent-up beyond belief, hands clenched in his lap like he was going to snap and tear through the cushion. He was flushed all the way up to his ears. His cock was half-hard again–no, scratch that, still hard, because the damn thing hadn’t gone down since this morning. You’d stolen his touch, and now you were parading around in those tiny shorts like you didn’t know exactly what that would do to him.

And the worst part?

Your plan was working.

Too well, in fact.

Because now you were suffering, too.

At first, denying him had been fun. Watching him squirm, listening to his broken little pleas, catching the way his hands hovered just shy of your skin–it had made you feel powerful, smug, victorious. But now?

Now you were starving.

You missed the way his hands would roam without restraint. Missed the way his lips would suck dark bruises into your skin. Missed his mouth everywhere–his chest against yours, his forehead pressed to yours while he murmured sweet, filthy things you were too wrecked to even comprehend. And you knew that if you even glanced at the hardness in his shorts or heard one more ragged little gasp from those kiss-swollen lips of his, you were going to fold.

The tension between you was thick. Nearly unbearable. Static buzzing through the air, vibrating in your spine.

You chewed your bottom lip, pretending to focus on the TV, but your fingers were restless–fidgeting with the fabric of your shorts, skimming across the bare skin of your thigh like you needed somewhere else to put your frustration.

Bob groaned beside you–barely audible, but felt more than heard. His head tipped back against the cushion, eyes squeezing shut like he was in physical pain.

And that was when something in you snapped.

With a soft sigh, you reached down and slowly–very slowly–hooked your fingers under the waistband of your shorts. You dragged them down inch by inch, over your thighs, your knees, until they dropped to the floor with a whisper.

Now you were sitting next to him in nothing but that little black lace pair he loved–the one he’d once told you made you look like you were meant to be worshipped.

You didn’t even look at him. You just tucked your leg back under you, calm as ever.

Bob choked.

“Fuck–”

His whole body went rigid. You heard the sharp inhale, the wet click of his throat as he swallowed hard. He gripped the edge of the couch like he was about to lift it and hurl it across the room.

You smirked to yourself.

“What?” You asked innocently, eyes still on the TV. “It’s hot in here.” He turned his head to stare at you, lips parted, chest heaving like he’d just finished a sprint.

“You…Y/N–”

“You can still look,” You reminded him sweetly.

“That’s the problem,” He gasped, voice tight and cracking. “You’re ki-killing me.”

You turned your gaze toward him finally, slow and lazy like you had all the time in the world. His eyes dragged down your body and then shot up to your face again like he was afraid of getting caught–like he hadn’t already memorized the exact cut of those panties down to the thread count.

His knuckles were white on the couch.

Your heart pounded with wicked glee.

And then, just to see if you could break him further, you leaned back and let one hand skim down your stomach, tracing idle circles near the edge of your underwear–not quite slipping beneath, but so close Bob visibly shuddered. He turned away with a tortured sound, gripping the hem of his shirt and burying his face in it. You hummed innocently–like you weren’t burning from the inside out just as much as he was.

“I think you need a better view, actually,” You stated, voice syrup-sweet and venom-laced, designed to ruin him from the inside.

Bob didn’t even get a chance to process what that meant before you shifted–slow, deliberate, and sinfully smooth. You turned toward him and climbed into his lap, straddling his thighs like you’d done a hundred times before, except this time…This time there was no pretense. No teasing little giggle. No playful grind or featherlight kiss.

You sat down. Fully.

Right on top of him.

Right where he was aching most.

Your soaked, lace-covered core pressed against the thick, throbbing outline of his cock beneath his shorts, and the sound he let out was less a moan and more a prayer of mercy.

“Oh Jesus fucking Ch–Christ–” He gasped, head dropping back against the cushion with a thud. His whole body shuddered like it had taken every molecule of control not to rut up into you, not to grab you by the hips and fuck up into the heat he’d been starving for all day.

But he didn’t touch you. Not even a fingertip. His hands hovered, twitching like he was holding himself at gunpoint. Because you hadn’t told him he could.

You planted your hands on his chest, palms splayed wide, and dragged your fingers slowly over his pecs–feeling the firm muscle twitch beneath your touch, the tight rise and fall of his breath as you raked your nails lightly down over the warm swell of his abdomen.

His skin burned under your touch. His jaw was clenched so tight it trembled.

“God, baby,” You whispered, leaning in close, your lips brushing the edge of his ear. “You feel how wet I am?”

He let out the most broken little whimper–high-pitched, soft, strangled–and you felt his cock jerk beneath you.

“Ye-Yes,” He choked out, voice wrecked, “I feel it…” You rocked your hips once. Barely.

His thighs tensed beneath you, and his fingers dug into the couch cushion like he was going to tear it apart. His head rolled side to side on the backrest like he was fighting demons.

“Fuck, Y/N, fuck, please, please–” You leaned back just enough to watch him–how his dark blue eyes were fluttering half-shut and shimmering with gold, lashes trembling, throat working over a hard swallow as you moved against him again. The friction was too much and not enough, and you could feel the heat of his cock pulsing desperately beneath the thin cotton of his shorts.

”Such a good boy,” You purred, dragging your nails lightly across his stomach. “So obedient for me, even now. You want to touch me, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “Please…Pl-Please let me.” You leaned in again, lips brushing his jaw as you ground yourself down, slowly, hips rocking in a tight circle that had him bucking up beneath you–just barely.

“Fine…” You whispered against his skin, “You can touch me.” Bob gasped–like air had finally returned to his lungs. “But you can’t move me,” You continued, voice like silk over steel, firm but sensual, “I get to be in control of this… Okay?” He nodded so fast you barely caught the blur of motion, his eyes wide and glassy, lips parted and trembling.

“Okay. O-Okay, yes, yes please…” His hands rose instantly, reverent and trembling as they found your hips, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your tank top like they’d been dying to do all morning. He gripped your skin with aching tenderness, like he needed to anchor himself to reality–thumbs brushing back and forth over your warm flesh absorbing it with a little sigh.

“Fuck, you feel so good…” He whispered, his voice so wrecked it barely sounded like him anymore–just raw breath and longing shaped into sound. You hummed and leaned back slightly, your fingers reaching down with slow precision. You undid the ties of the waistband of his shorts with a little flick, then eased them down his thighs just enough to expose the clinging stretch of his grey boxer briefs. The fabric was dark and damp at the center, stained with the obscene wet patch of pre-cum you’d spent the last hour grinding out of him. Bob moaned helplessly at the exposure, face flushed crimson, head thrown back as he gripped your hips tighter–but still didn’t move you.

“God, look at you,” You breathed, eyes locked onto the aching bulge pressing against the soaked cotton, “You’re so turned on…” You reached beneath his waistband with careful fingers and adjusted him, curling your hand around the base of his cock and adjusting it gently so it laid against his stomach. The head slipped free, flushed and glistening with arousal, twitching at the sudden exposure.

Bob whimpered–high and broken–as you slid his shirt up, baring his stomach to the cool air, warm skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. You propped yourself against him again, your lace panties dragging over the slick crown of his cock as you rocked slowly, deliberately, smearing him with your arousal.

“Oh my fucking god–” He breathed, voice ragged and urgent, hips jerking just slightly before locking still again. “You’re…Oh god, Y/N–” You reached down, and rested your hands against his stomach.

“You just sit there and feel how good I make you feel… Can you do that for me, Bob?” He nodded, completely at your mercy, eyes half-lidded and shimmering gold. And then his hand moved–just one, slowly rising. His fingers curled at the collar of your tank top, his lips already parting in anticipation.

”Can I…” He swallowed, “Can I suck on them…?” His voice cracked, wrecked and needed and adorable in its desperation as he stared at the mounds of your breasts.

Your mouth parted in a breathy laugh and you nodded immediately. “Yes. God, yes, Bob.” That was all it took.

He tugged the tank down in one swift, clumsy pull–ripping the neckline wide and exposing your breasts to the humid air between you. He didn’t hesitate. He surged forward like a man starved and latched onto one of your nipples, mouth hot and wet and messy, drool instantly dripping down his chin and across your skin.

You gasped at the feeling, your head falling back as you ground down harder on him, the drag of his cock against your soaked lace sending electric shocks up your spine.

Bob moaned into your chest, breathless and slurred, suckling your nipple like it was oxygen, tongue swirling messily before moving to the other with the same reverence. He mouthed at you, open and uncoordinated and desperate, letting out these pathetic little whimpers against your skin every time your hips rocked forward.

”Fuck…Fuckfuckfuck…I love you,” He gasped against your breast, pulling off with a slick sound just to nuzzle the warm weight of it, licking a stripe up to your collarbone before returning to your nipple again. “So perfect…So fu-fucking perfect…” You ground down even harder on him, chasing the friction now–your breath catching in your throat as the head of his cock dragged hot and swollen against the drenched center of your lace. It was barely any fabric between you. A whisper of a barrier. And it was soaked straight through, sticky with your arousal and his.

Bob whimpered against your chest, his tongue flicking fast and erratic over your nipple before latching back on like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He sucked harder, sloppier–his drool mixing with sweat and the heat of your skin. And then he nibbled. Just a light graze of his teeth over the hardened bud.

You gasped–sharp and breathless–and your hips jerked against him involuntarily. Your thighs twitched, fluttering with that unmistakable warning sign.

“Oh my god,” You moaned, your hands flying to his hair, twisting into the soft stands as you held him to you. “Fuck, Bob…Just like that–don’t stop–“ He let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a sob, and when he pulled off your nipple to look at you, you saw it–those gorgeous dark blue eyes rimmed with wet, shimmering with little orange flecks that glowed, his lashes clumped and trembling, tears threatening to spill from the sheer desperation on his face.

“Y/N–” He whimpered, “You’re shaking…I can feel it–are you close? Pl-Please come for me–please, I need to feel it–” You were so close, the world had narrowed to nothing but heat and friction and Bob’s broken voice stuttering out praises like prayer. Your thighs locked tight around his hips, your head dropped forward, and your breath hitched on a sharp gasp as the orgasm ripped through you.

“Fu-Fuck–Bob–!”

Your panties were completely soaked as you came, the rush of it soaking over his cock, making a mess of the lace and the line of his boxers and the firm planes of his stomach beneath. Your body trembled hard, grinding through every wave of release, and Bob just held you–tight and reverent, his face pressed against your chest, his mouth mouthing soft kisses over your skin like he needed to anchor you through it.

And then–

Then he broke.

“Oh god…Oh my god–Y/N–”

He came with a shattered groan, arms tightening around your waist as his hips jolted once–just once–his control slipping at last. You felt the warmth spill out of him, thick and hot between your bodies, coating his abs in wave after wave as he cried out, burying his face in your chest like he didn’t want you to see the wreckage.

“I’m sorry…I co-couldn’t…Fuck–I couldn’t hold it–” You stroked his curls gently as he trembled beneath you, as his chest heaved with aftershocks, as you felt his cock twitch and pulse and go still beneath the soaked cotton of his briefs.

It took a minute before either of you could speak again. Your skin was still buzzing, sticky and slick with sweat and need and the shared, messy evidence of what you’d done. You finally sat back on his thighs, breathing slow, dazed. Bob looked up at you, lips kiss-swollen, eyes glassy, cheeks blotched red and wet from the tears that had actually spilled.

And then, still holding his gaze, you reached down.

Gathered a thick stripe of his cum from his stomach with two fingers.

And slid them between your lips.

You moaned at the salty taste–soft and satisfied, eyes fluttering shut for a beat before licking your fingers clean with slow, teasing strokes of your tongue.

Bob just stared–shaking, wrecked, adoring.

”God…You’re so ho-hot when you do that.” You smiled lazily, dragging your finger down your bottom lip.

“Well, I can’t resist…You taste so good.” He let out a little huff of a laugh, before leaning forward and giving you a gentle kiss, before you pulled back.

“Now…” You said sweetly, tilting your head. “Have we learned not to tease me anymore?”

He nodded immediately. Fast. Like he’d do anything to prove it.

“I’m so…So sorry for doing that,” He whispered, voice hoarse and broken. “It’ll never happen again, I swear.”

You leaned forward and kissed him again—soft but smug, licking at his bottom lip before pulling away. “Good…”

You traced your fingers lightly along the mess still coating his stomach, giggling a little at the way his abs twitched beneath your touch. “Now…Let’s get cleaned up, hmm?” Bob let out a tiny breath of a laugh and nodded, still trembling, still dazed, still entirely at your mercy.

The utility belt on your hips sagged, the pockets weighed with spent mags, your brass knuckles, and a variety of additional hand to hand combat weapons that would be within reach if an enemy presented themselves out of nowhere. The rigid vibranium chest plate–still locked tight over the thin undershirt you wore beneath it–felt like it was holding your heat in, forcing sweat to cling to your back, underarms, and chest, creating this sticky feeling against your skin, almost like you were wrapped in a wet towel. The reinforced straps of your weapon harness dug into the tops of your shoulders with each movement, placing an extra strain on your body as you rolled your neck, trying to ease the tension there while you reached for the first buckle.

The rest of the team filed out ahead of you, voices low, mumbling among each other, while their boots squeaked and echoed across the concrete of the hangar floor. Yelena glanced back at you once in a quick, assessing manner, but said nothing to you, knowing that you needed a bit of time to yourself before being spoken to, especially after everything that happened on the field–after you made a decision that was probably going to ruin your night because of the impending aftermath that was going to come with it in a few minutes…Or less. Because you knew the lecture was coming, and you certainly knew it wasn’t going to be a fun argument.

You were halfway through unhooking your harness when you felt it…The pressure in the air. The familiar change in the atmosphere.

It was subtle at first, like the temperature had shifted from being cool and refreshing to being almost close to a sauna. Then everything seemed to have deepened, as if there was a magnet or a static attractor in the room, pulling at the tiny hairs along your arms, and sliding against the weight of your belt. You didn’t need to look over your shoulder to know what it was or better yet…Who it was.

Because Sentry didn’t return with the rest of the team tonight like he typically did. He had taken to the air the moment the mission wrapped, cutting up into the clouds like a blade and leaving everyone else to fly home on their own. This only meant that he had all that time to sit in silence above the world, letting his anger steep and condense until it was molten and borderline lethal.

And now, you could feel it rolling off him as he strode across the hangar–his golden suit catching the light, with the deep midnight blue of his cape dragging a long shadow behind him, giving a stark contrast that you always noticed when you were trying not to pay attention to what he was saying. Your eyes caught the way he squared his shoulders, how his jaw was set so hard it looked like it was going to crack, and the way the glow in his eyes seemed to have gone supernova now that he was back and in your presence. His light brown hair was messy from flight, but it still fell into the same position when he landed– the perfect little golden boy in all his glory…

When he spoke, it hit like a detonation.

”You ignored my order.” The words weren’t loud–but they didn’t need to be. His voice carried that low, seismic resonance that seemed to always vibrate inside your ribs, as if the air itself was his to command.

You didn’t turn right away, you just continued what you were doing–unhooking your harness, and pulling it free so that it could drop onto the workbench in front of you with a clatter. Only then did you meet his stare.

”And because I did, we’re standing here right now with exactly what we needed. No casualties, no wasted time, and the mission has been accomplished without a hitch.” You replied evenly, staring up at him, locking your eyes with his burning gold ones–in those moments his irises looked like twin suns, and you couldn’t help but think that he was probably considering setting you on fire.

”You were supposed to wait.” He growled. With him being in such close proximity you could feel a wave of heat wash over you, radiating through his suit. If you paid closer attention you could’ve sworn that he was probably steaming, but you never truly gave your full attention to Sentry–you humoured his rants and made him believe he was in charge until you pulled the rug out from under him though, and this interaction right here was the result of that.

You let out a short, humourless laugh.

”You mean I was supposed to watch our one opening disappear while you hovered in the air trying to decide if it was worth taking the risk.” You corrected.

”That opening could’ve gotten you killed,” He snapped, his voice getting a little snippy, growing defensive.

“Everything we do could get us killed.” You shot back, stepping forward into his space, leaving a few inches between the both of you for good measure so it didn’t look like you were going to take a swing, “The only difference is that I don’t freeze when it’s my turn to take the shot, and to put my ass on the line for my fucking team.” That flicker behind his eyes sharpened, the gold burning even brighter for a heartbeat, before settling back down slightly when he took in a deep breath.

”You think this is about hesitation?” His tone was razor-thin, dangerous even. “It’s about keeping everyone on the team alive. But you keep throwing yourself into the line of fire like it’s some kind of fucking game you’re trying to win.” You raised your eyebrows at him.

”And you think ordering me around like I’m a rookie is going to change that?” Your own voice rose now, the edge in it cutting through the charged air like a knife, “Face it, Golden Boy. You don’t want a teammate, you want someone who’ll follow your script and make you look good…And I’m not the fucking person that’ll give you that.” His jaw tightened until you could see the faint jump of muscle under the perfect line of his cheek. Your eyes flicked down just once–enough to catch the slow curl of his fingers into fists, the knuckles straining pale.

The air changed once again, and this time it wasn’t the subtle shift you had felt before, but a heavier, rolling pressure that seemed to thicken in your lungs, dragging and clinging to every breath you took. Your utility belt shifted a fraction against your hip as if it was being tugged by some invisible hand. Even the loose straps of your chest plate gave the faintest, imperceptible tremor.

His eyes twitched in the smallest way, pupils narrowing before the molten gold locked on you like a weapon sighted in. When he spoke again, it was gravelly, rough at the edges, like he wanted to strike fear into you, even though you both knew that wasn’t going to work.

”You have no idea what you’re talking about…So you better stand down, Y/N.” The way he said it–not a warning, but a command–thrummed in your bones. You could practically feel him, not just in your ears but in your ribcage, in the faint vibration under your boots, in the sharp heat bleeding off his suit. You bit the inside of your lip, and took another step forward, close enough now that the outer edge of his cape brushed your leg, you could practically feel him, even though you weren’t touching .

”Or what, hmm?” You taunted, “What’re you going to do? Gonna start a fight with me? Val isn’t going to like it if you take out the one person who got the intel we needed today. So I fucking dare you to try something, Sentry.”

From behind you, Yelena’s voice cut through the hum of power in the air, pitched just enough for Walker to hear over the echo of your voices.

”Should I get Alexei, just in case they need to be yanked off each other?” She asked. Ava waved one hand lazily.

”Let them have at each other. This is the third time this week, and I doubt it’ll get to that point anyway.” She glanced toward the far exit with a little smirk, “I do think we should go out and get some drinks, and leave these two to their own devices though.” Bucky, who was still lingering near the edge of the hangar, gave a single, slow nod.

”I second that.” Then there was a shuffle of agreement–Walker muttering something about the room needing renovations anyways–and the group’s footsteps faded toward the side doors, before the heavy panels slid shut behind them with a pneumatic hiss.

Sentry’s next step didn’t just close the distance–it swallowed you whole. The rigid front of his golden suit brushed against the flat of your vibranium plate, the heat rolling off him making the sweat beneath your undershirt cling tighter to your skin. His cape shifted with the movement, the heavy midnight fabric boxing you in.

If you hadn’t tilted your chin, your face would have been pressed into the center of his chest. Instead, you kept your head high, your eyes locked on his molten gold stare. From this close, you could see the faint ripple of fire behind it, like sunlight dancing over the surface of scorched metal. He looked down at you as though the sheer weight of his gaze could crush you. His breath was hot against your face–searing, steady–fanning over your lips and cheeks like it wanted to seep straight into your skin. It smelled faintly of ozone and steel, that electric tang that came off him after a long flight, like he’d carried the atmosphere down with him. You could feel your pulse thrumming against your neck, but it wasn’t from fear, it was from the raw proximity.

“You want me to hurt you?” He asked, voice low and edged with steel, “Is that what you really want me to do?” Your lips pulled into something just shy of a smirk–the kind of expression you knew would cut deep into him.

”I want you to admit you can’t stand it when I don’t listen to you. I want you to choke on the fact that I don’t need your guidance or instructions to complete a mission successfully.” The flicker in his eyes darkened, his jaw locking tight. Then his hand came up, slow but deliberate, until his fingers curled under your chin. His palm was warm, his grip firm–not crushing, but with enough pressure that you knew exactly how easily it could be.

”I provide that guidance to protect you,” He growled, each word deliberate, rough. “To keep you safe. To keep the entire team…Safe.” He leaned in until the gold in his eyes was all you could see, “And you just defy me over, and over, and over again.”

Your eyes narrowed, your own voice sharpening to match his. “Defiance comes with the territory of working with me. If you don’t fucking like it, quit the team. Because I was here first.”

His fingers tightened just slightly under your chin, tilting your head back another fraction, pulling you further into his gravity. The air between you seemed to hum, heavy and charged. He moved closer, so close you could feel the whisper of his lips brushing the edge of your breath–an inch, maybe two away.

“You hate me so much,” He said, voice dropping into something darker, “You’ll put your life on the line just so you can push me off the team…Huh?” Your mouth curved into something poisonous, the words tasting like the last twist of a blade.

“No, Sentry…I don’t put my life on the line because I hate you, I do it because I want to make sure I can remind you that I’m the one person you can’t control.” You saw the exact second the fuse burned down. The golden light in his eyes flared–not bright, but simmering in that way a blast furnace roars before it spits sparks. His jaw locked, a muscle ticking hard enough you could see it under the skin, and then he moved.

His mouth slammed into yours with the force of a collision, all teeth and heat and the hard, bruising crush of lips that felt like they were claiming territory. You gasped–a sharp, startled inhale–and he used it to his advantage as his tongue slid past your lips in a hot, rough sweep that tasted of ozone and coppery heat.

Your hands came up without thought, one tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck, while the other clawed at the line where his cape met his suit. Your nails dug in deep enough to draw a low, guttural grunt from him–the sound vibrating into your mouth, through your chest–and he surged forward like he’d been given permission to do so.

The air between you compressed, as he pushed you back until the wall caught you, the metal reverberating under the impact. His body caged yours, the hard planes of his suit pressing your vibranium plate flush to your sternum. You could feel every line of him, the way his hips shifted so they were pressed flush against you, and how he adjusted his posture so his thigh could slip between yours so your movement was limited.

He kissed like he fought–with precision, brutality, and zero hesitation. His teeth caught your lower lip, biting hard enough to sting before he dragged it free, only to crash back in. The heat pouring off him made the sweat under your undershirt bead and slide, his mouth a furnace against yours, every pull and push leaving you a little more breathless.

When he finally tore his mouth away, it wasn’t because he wanted to stop–it was to look at you, his golden eyes burning into yours from inches away. You could feel his breath–hot, uneven–fan over your lips. His thumb came up slowly, the pad dragging with deliberate pressure across the damp, swollen curve of your lower lip. He lingered right over the bite mark he’d left, smearing the faint sheen of saliva across it, as though he were painting his claim into your skin. His eyes never left yours.

”You’re the one person I can’t control, hmm?” He murmured–using your words against you–his voice rough, and dangerous in its gentleness. The low timbre of it slithered straight down your spine, like lit embers burning through your bloodstream, “Then how do you explain this…” His thumb pressed just a little harder, enough to make your lip pull under the pressure “…How easily you gave in.” Your pulse kicked hard, traitorous, and you hated that he could probably feel it in the air between you. Your breath left you in a sharp exhale, catching slightly as you tilted your chin a fraction higher–your defiance hanging on by a thread.

“You took me by surprise,” You whispered, the words thin but edged, like you were forcing them past the heat coiling low in your stomach. He let out a short, humorless huff against your mouth, close enough that the warm gust feathered over the damp seam of your lips. His eyelids lowered, his head tilting as though to better drink you in.

For a moment, he didn’t speak–just listened. You could feel it, that hyper-focused shift in him, the way his attention tunneled entirely into you. And then you realized–he was listening to your heartbeat. To the galloping pace it had taken on.

The corner of his mouth curved, not into a smile, but something sharper.

“Is that why you’re getting excited being pressed up against the wall like this?” The question was rhetorical, cruelly so, but before you could form any kind of reply, his thigh shifted. The movement was calculated–slow and deliberate–and then it was there, the hard line of muscle pressing up into the seam of your cargo pants. It forced your hips to rock against him just enough to steal a breath from your lungs.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling instinctively into the heavy fabric at his shoulder.

“Or…” His head dipped, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear, voice threading through you like molten wire. “…Is it because you actually like me being in control, and you just can’t admit it to yourself?” Your laugh came out low, sharp, but it caught halfway through, melting into something breathier than you wanted it to be.

“You think I like this?” You asked, your tone mocking but edged with a tremor he wouldn’t miss. “You think I like you pinning me like some–” Your hips shifted just a fraction against his thigh, betraying you, “–Like some prize you get to claim?” The molten gold in his eyes flared at the admission buried in your protest. He didn’t move his thigh away–if anything, he pressed up harder, locking you against the wall so tightly the cool metal bit into your shoulder blades.

“You could’ve pushed me off by now,” He murmured, almost thoughtful, but every syllable was laced with a taunting tone. “But you haven’t.” His thumb left your lip and traced slowly down the column of your throat, the pad dragging over your pulse, which hammered against his touch. “So tell me…” He leaned in until his mouth brushed the shell of your ear, “Are you letting me keep you here because you hate me…Or because you want to know what happens when you stop fighting me?” Your teeth sank into your lower lip, and you hated that you could feel your body answering him before your brain caught up. Your pulse stuttered under his thumb, and you angled your head just enough that his breath slid down the side of your neck like heat pooling under your skin.

“I think…” You said slowly, voice low and a little raw, “You talk too damn much for someone who’s this close to getting exactly what he wants.” It was all the invitation he needed. His hand left your throat only to curl around the back of your neck, pulling you into another searing kiss that felt more like a collision than a connection. His tongue swept over yours with brutal precision, claiming every inch, and you let him take it–not because he’d earned it, but because you wanted to see how far he’d go now that you’d stopped shoving back, and maybe because deep down inside…You were curious. When he broke away, his breath was ragged, his forehead dropping to yours.

“You’re going to regret saying that,” He growled, the sound vibrating through your chest. His other hand dropped to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to promise bruises, and he dragged you against him so there was no space left–just the unforgiving heat of his body pressing into yours yet again.

“I doubt it,” You shot back, but your voice was thinner now, the defiance tangled with something hotter, needier. That golden fire in his eyes darkened, turned dangerous in a way that made your stomach twist with anticipation.

“Then let’s find out,” He said, the words almost a promise, before he shifted his grip and hauled you away from the wall like you weighed nothing.

“Where are you taking me?” The words came out more breathless than you intended, your pulse still hammering from the kiss and the suffocating heat of him.

“Showers,” He bit out, not even sparing you a glance as he stalked forward, his hold on you unyielding. “Don’t want this to be caught on the security cameras.” You’d forgotten about the cameras entirely. The thought of this little clash being replayed in grainy black-and-white footage for Val to pick apart later sent a brief chill skittering down your spine–but Sentry clearly hadn’t forgotten. That was the thing about him–he truly was built for control, always scanning for angles, even while dragging you off with molten fury still flickering in his eyes.

The double doors to the locker rooms banged open under the heel of his palm, the echo slamming against the tiled walls inside. The scent of bleach, damp fabric, and faint traces of gun oil hit you as he pulled you past the rows of lockers without slowing. The hum of the ventilation system was the only sound beyond the deliberate thud-thud-thud of his boots, each step dragging you deeper into his orbit.

When he reached the tiled alcove leading toward the showers, he finally turned, spinning you just enough that your back hit the cold metal of a locker. The clang reverberated behind you.

Before you could speak, his hands were at the clasps of your vibranium chest plate. The buckles came undone with sharp, metallic snaps–efficient, practiced–until the weight of it slid forward and dropped to the bench with a dull thunk. His eyes tracked the movement like he was peeling away your defenses layer by layer, and the precision in his motions was almost unnerving.

You went to reach for the seam of his golden suit, fingers curling in the heavy fabric, but he caught your wrists in one large, heated hand and pressed them back against the locker above your head. The cold bite of the metal seeped into your skin, and the position forced your chest to arch toward him.

“Not yet,” He said, his voice pitched low dangerously in its restraint. His free hand came up, dragging down the zipper of your undershirt in one smooth pull. The cool air of the locker room swept over the sweat-damp skin beneath, and his gaze followed every new inch revealed, the gold in his irises burning hotter. You tested his grip, just to feel the tension snap back against you. It was unyielding. He leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek.

“You’re in my hands now,” He murmured, the words thick with dominance, “And we’re doing this my way, understand?” You nodded slowly, feeling your chest tightening at the way he said it. When he finally released your wrists, it wasn’t to give you control–it was to shove your undershirt off your shoulders, the damp fabric dragging against your skin before it slid down your arms and caught briefly at your elbows. You let it fall the rest of the way, baring your breasts to the heavy heat of his gaze.

His jaw flexed hard, the muscle ticking once before he dragged his eyes down and over you like he was committing the sight to memory–the way your nipples peaked at the temperature of the room, the way they rose and fell from every breath you took. He glanced down at the array of dark bruises against your skin, the healed over lines that cut across your flesh from past injuries. The gold in his irises seemed to burn hotter, flickering almost violently before he looked back up at your face–sharp, assessing, and thick with possession.

Then his attention dropped lower. His fingers found the clasp of your utility belt, working it open with swift, practiced movements until it went slack and slid down your hips with a dull thud against the tiles. He didn’t break eye contact as he stepped back just enough to look you over.

“Take off the rest,” He ordered, the command cutting through the air like a blade.

Your breath caught in your throat–not from hesitation, but from the sheer weight of him watching you. Slowly, you reached for the button on your cargo pants, flicking it open before sliding the zipper down. His gaze followed every movement, heavy and unblinking, like each inch of skin revealed was his to claim.

While you pushed your pants down over your hips, he began to move too–his hands going to the thick clasp at his shoulder. The magnetic seals gave way with a low click, and his cape dropped from him in one smooth spill of midnight blue. He set it aside carelessly, his focus never straying from you.

Your boots hit the floor with soft thuds as you toed them off, stepping out of your pants and kicking them aside. You could feel the air between you thicken as he reached behind himself to unbuckle the heavy belt cinched around his waist, the gold insignia catching the fluorescent light for a moment before the buckle came loose.

The belt hit the bench with a metallic clang. He reached up to the high collar of his suit, undoing the reinforced seam until the zipper split down the center. The golden plate-like fabric being pulled away to reveal the sweat-slick skin beneath, every defined muscle of his chest and abdomen catching the light in sharp contrast.

Your eyes dragged over him shamelessly, tracing the way his ribcage expanded with each slow, deliberate breath, the way his shoulders rolled as he peeled the suit down to his waist. His skin was pale, and freckled, but broad and muscular. His suit didn’t hide anything, so it wasn’t a surprise that he was built so well, but seeing him exposed like this to you was a whole different story. He caught the way you were looking at him and gave you a smile that wasn’t kind–it was the promise of something reckless.

You stood before him now, both of you stripped down to your underwear, nothing but heat and tension filling the narrow space between you. He stepped forward until his chest grazed yours, the heat radiating off his bare skin searing into you.

His mouth found yours again, hot and punishing, his tongue sweeping past your lips with a claiming force that stole the air from your lungs. When he broke away, it was only far enough for you to feel the slick heat of his breath against your mouth.

“I’m gonna fuck the hate right out of you,” He said, voice low and rough enough to make your pulse trip. His hand came up to curl around the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw while his eyes burned into yours. “And I’m going to make sure that after this, you won’t have a choice but to listen to me…” You let out a short, derisive huff, your lips curling just enough to make it a challenge.

“We’ll see about that,” You whispered, the words warm against his mouth. His expression darkened instantly–half threat, half promise–before he surged forward again, claiming your lips with another punishing kiss. His teeth found the same tender spot on your lower lip he’d bitten before, dragging until it stung, then releasing it with a sharp snap that left the taste of copper on your tongue. Before you could recover, his hands dropped to your hips, and then lower, his grip spanning the backs of your thighs. In one effortless motion, he lifted you, forcing a surprised gasp from your lungs as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The solid heat of his skin pressed into your chest as he carried you like you weighed nothing, striding toward the showers with deliberate, unhurried steps.

“Hold on,” He instructed, his voice rumbling through you, shaking your bones. Your arms locked around his shoulders, nails biting lightly into his skin, and you could feel the flex of every muscle in his back as he moved. When he reached the row of stalls, he stopped at the far end, twisting just enough to hit the metal push plate on the wall with his shoulder. The stall door swung inward with a squeak, and he stepped inside without breaking stride. One hand stayed locked under your thighs, the other reaching out to twist the handle on the wall. The water sputtered to life, then roared, steam immediately beginning to curl into the confined space as the heat blasted against the cool tiles.

He set you down slowly, making sure your bare feet met the wet tile without a stumble. The moment your balance settled, his hands didn’t leave you. They slid down from your ribs in a firm drag, his thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts before following the sharp curve of your waist.

By the time his fingers reached your hips, they’d already hooked under the thin waistband of your underwear. He didn’t pause for permission–just pulled, the damp fabric peeling away in one fluid, unbroken motion. You stepped out of them when they caught at your ankles, and he tossed them into the growing puddle at your feet without looking away from you.

His gaze was molten, tracking down the naked lines of your body like he was committing every exposed inch to memory. Then his attention shifted briefly–his hand curling into the waistband of his own boxer briefs.

You’d been too focused on his stare before to really notice the strain against the dark fabric, but now that you were watching, it was impossible to miss. The outline was blatant, the thick length of him pressing against the damp cling of the material. And when he shoved them down his hips in one sharp push, the reality of him made your breath hitch.

You knew he was big, more because of the bulge that showed in his suit sometimes, but you had never pictured this–he was long, thick, flushed deep at the head, the veins along his shaft standing out against pale skin. Your eyes dragged over him involuntarily, as a flicker of surprise you didn’t have time to hide appeared on your face.

“Didn’t expect that, did you?” His voice was low, scraping against the steam that built around you now, thick with self-assured heat. You gulped a bit, the motion slow and tight in your throat, dragging your gaze back up to meet his, your eyes shimmering in the lighting above the shower stall, the features in your face softening a bit.

”Not really…No.” The smirk that curved up onto his lips was deliberate, almost lazy in execution, like he had all the time in the world to savor this. He leaned forward just enough that the damp heat of the steam began to curl into the space between you, clinging to your skin and his.

“You look a little worried,” He teased, his voice carrying that sharp undertone meant to poke at you a bit.

“I’m not,” You replied, keeping your tone flat even though you knew your pulse was betraying you. He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, the sound vibrating in his chest and echoing off the tiles.

”Could’ve fooled me…Your mind’s racing at a thousand thoughts per minute.” You could see the way his eyes roamed over your face, almost like he was trying to resist cracking your mind open to see what you were thinking–the juicy thoughts you may have been having about him and his body–but then he brought his fingers up to the hollow of your throat, resting them there for a moment, almost like he was checking your bounding pulse. He kept still, closing his eyes briefly, before letting his touch slowly trail down the center of your chest with just enough pressure to feel the slick drag over your sticky skin, “…Maybe you should breathe, hmm?”

His touch kept moving, slow and unhurried, slipping over the rise of your sternum and down to the soft plane of your stomach. Each movement felt purposeful–circling, then sketching lazy, almost absent shapes into the heat of your skin. A slow spiral, a small arc, then a gentle line that drew lower until his palm settled firm and warm on your hip, fingers hooking slightly like they wanted to keep you there.

You caught his wrist before he could move further, your grip firm but not pushing him away. The inside of his wrist was hot, the skin softer there–almost velvety–and you let your thumb sweep across it once, feeling the steady, unhurried beat of his pulse. He was calm, and composed, which was surprising given how hard he was.

“You think this is going to solve our problems?” You asked, letting the question hang between the both of you, like you were attempting to see if he was going to draw back a bit.

“Sex always solves problems,” He replied without hesitation, the heat in his tone making the words sound more like a promise than a theory. His fingers tightened a bit on your hip, his thumb dragging slowly over the dip of your skin as he kept his golden gaze on yours, “And maybe,” He tilted his head, studying you the way he might an opponent, “…It’s a better outlet to get our frustrations out, rather than us ending up in a fist fight in the middle of a mission.” You hummed low in your throat, the sound sharp but edged with a note you couldn’t quite bite back.

”And what if the sex makes things worse?” He didn’t blink, didn’t even hesitate–just shook his head slowly, the smirk deepening as though you’d set him up for a line he’d been waiting to deliver.

“That would be an impossible outcome…” His voice dropped a fraction, heavier, “…’Cause I know damn well I’ll have you coming back for more. You won’t be able to resist.” You rolled your eyes, a sharp little gesture meant to undercut him even though your stomach had already started to tighten.

“And here I thought your ego wasn’t going to come out.” He stepped in closer, just enough for the damp heat of his body to brush yours, and leaned in until his mouth hovered by your ear. The steam between you made every exhale thick and heavy, his breath scorching the side of your face.

”It’s not ego…” He murmured, “…I’m just very sure of my skills and capabilities.” His lips ghosted the shell of your ear, it was the barest graze but it still managed to send a shiver down your spine, “Seems like I’m going to have to show you…” His grip on your hip shifted, fingers splaying wider, curling in like he was testing the give of your skin before he moved you. The next thing you knew, his other arm hooked behind your back, and with one deliberate pivot, he had rotated you both so you were directly under the spray of water.

The first blast of heat from the shower crashed over you, stealing your breath. It cascaded down your hair, sluicing over your shoulders and chest, plastering droplets across your skin. The water hit him too, hissing faintly when it met the furnace of his body, and you swore you saw steam curl from his skin before the downpour swallowed it.

His light brown hair darkened beneath the water, the strands sticking against his forehead in heavy, wet waves. Droplets clung to the sharp cut of his jaw, beading down the lines of his throat before disappearing into the ridges of his chest. The heat coming off him didn’t lessen under the water–if anything, it seemed to radiate harder, as though the steam between you was feeding him.

Before you could take another breath, he leaned down, catching your jaw in his free hand, tilting your head to the side. His mouth found the hinge right where your jaw met your neck, the kiss was anything but soft–teeth dragging, biting just enough to make you gasp–you knew it was going to leave a mark. The sting bloomed hot under the shower’s heat, and his lips followed, sealing over it in a possessive press before moving lower.

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a moan, but close enough to have his fingers on your hip curl just a little harder, before his hand trailer lower, skimming over the dip of your waist, down the curve of your ass–giving it a gentle squeeze–before sliding around the inside of your thigh.

The pressure was firm, coaxing your leg to shift outward so you could open up for him. When you didn’t move fast enough, he simply hooked his hand just a bit deeper and put just a little bit of pressure into your flesh. Your knee bent, foot sliding across the slick tile, hips parting under his guidance until you were opened up to him.

He breathed in deeply, eyes fluttering shut until the molten gold vanished beneath damp lashes. His chest expanded against you with the pull, like he was taking in more than air–like he was tasting the way you’d opened for him. The exhale came slow and heavy, his mouth parting just enough for you to feel the heat of it fan across your damp skin.

“Much better,” He murmured, the words rolling out low and satisfied. His hand slid from your jaw in a slow, deliberate drag, the pads of his fingers skimming down over the line of your throat, past the swell of your breast, until they rested on the flat of your stomach. The warmth of his palm seeped through you, and then he began to trace lazy, controlled circles around your navel–each one coaxing goosebumps to rise in defiance of the shower’s oppressive heat.

When his eyes opened again, they were darker, pupils blown wide so the gold was just a molten rim. Hunger radiated from them–sharp, unblinking–right before he leaned in and caught the edge of your collarbone between his teeth. The bite wasn’t savage, but it was rough enough for you to let out a small whimper at the feeling, your stomach turning.

“You’re already turned on…You know that? I’ve got you revved up just from biting you, and kissing you.” He asked against your skin, the vibration of his voice thrumming through your bones.

“I’m not–” You started, but the words faltered when his fingers slid lower, down the taut plane of your stomach, and slipped into the heat between your thighs. He didn’t rush–he brushed against your folds in a slow, knowing pass, the pads of his fingers pressing in just enough to make your hips twitch forward, chasing the contact.

“Not, huh?” His tone sharpened, amused, even as you moved without thinking. The smirk that curved his mouth was almost cruel in its satisfaction. Then, just when your body sought more, he withdrew, leaving you with nothing but the slick heat pooling more between your legs. Your breath huffed in frustration, and he caught it–hell, he was waiting for it. He lifted his hand slowly, deliberately, until the glistening fingertips were right in your line of sight–the proof of your arousal shining on his skin.

”You were saying?” His voice was quiet, teasing you, his breath sticking to your lips. You pulled your eyes off his, lashes fluttering.

”What’s the matter, hmm?” He taunted, the wet fingertips hovering by your mouth, “You don’t like me showing you the truth?” You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, the sore, bitten flesh throbbing faintly–each pulse of ache stretching, expanding, before pulling back.

His gaze dropped to your mouth right as you let it slip free again, the faintest pout forming. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in the smallest, most dangerous ghost of a smirk. Then his slick fingers dragged deliberately over the swell of your lower lip, coating it with the proof of what he’d just collected from you.

Your tongue darted out to taste it, slow and purposeful, and the second his fingers grazed past the edge of your mouth, you caught his wrist. His skin was scorching under your grip, the tendons shifting faintly as he resisted–but you didn’t let him go. Instead, you pulled his hand in, wrapping your lips around two of his fingers and sucking them deep into your mouth.

The taste of yourself coated your tongue, and you let out the smallest hum as you worked your mouth over his fingers with slow obscene pulls that you knew he could feel all the way up his arm, just from the goosebumps that formed over his flesh. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something darker running through them before he exhaled heavily through his nose.

You felt his cock twitching hard against your stomach as you slowly pulled your mouth off his fingers. A thin strand of saliva clung between your lips and the wet sheen on his skin, catching the light before breaking. You let the smile curl lazily onto your mouth, lifting your gaze to meet his.

“You liked that?” You asked, pitching your voice soft and almost innocent, like you hadn’t just been deliberately trying to unravel him.

“No…” He replied, his head tilting slightly, his golden eyes raking over your face, “…It just makes me curious what else you can do with that mouth apart from running it.”The retort burned in your chest, but before you could say anything back, his saliva-slick fingers trailed down from your lips, dragging over the wet heat of your chest and stomach until they found the ache between your thighs again.

The first pass was a tease–two digits circling your entrance, feeling the way your hips twitched involuntarily toward him.

”Look at you…” He whispered, the words low and heavy with amusement, “Squirming like you’ve been waiting all this time for me to touch you here.” You bit the inside of your cheek, refusing to give him the satisfaction of answering, but your body betrayed you, rolling your hips forward just enough to chase his hand. His smile sharpened. Then he sank two fingers into you, stretching you in a way that pulled a gasp from your lips.

Your mouth fell open, one hand shooting up to brace against the dense muscle of his shoulder, while the other pressed instinctively on the hard muscle of his abs.

”Such a needy little pussy…” He praised, a smile coming up on his lips as his fingers curled inside you, “So wet, and tight…Taking my fingers so well.” Your back arched under the words, heat blooming and flooding low in your belly, your eyes squeezing shut as you fought to ride the sensation, not wanting to give in so quickly to how good his fingers felt.

His free hand slid up, hot and firm, wrapping lightly around your neck–not to choke, but to hold you there against the wall, tilting your head just enough so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“Open your eyes, Y/N…” You let out a breathy sound, half-defiance, half-whimper.

“I said–open your eyes, Y/N.” He repeated, this time it was sharper, more of a command than a request. Reluctantly, you forced them open, locking onto his gaze. His forehead lowered until it pressed to yours, the steam curling around the both of you, his breath hot and steady between your lips.

”Much better,” He murmured. His fingers never faltered, keeping a slow and maddeningly steady rhythm that had you trembling despite the fact it wasn’t enough. Every curl inside you was a slow drag against that soft spot that made your legs twitch, his knuckles grazing your heat with each withdrawal before sliding back in with sinful precision. The pads of his fingers pressed deep, spreading that molten burn through your muscles until it licked up your spine. You could feel the slick sounds between you over the hiss of the shower, obscene in the close, steam-suffused air.

Your hips shifted without permission, an instinctive tilt upward, seeking more–more depth, more speed, more of him. His molten gaze dropped briefly to where his hand was buried between your thighs before returning to your face, and you caught the slight curl of amusement in his lips.

“Don’t like that pace, huh?” His voice was low, vibrating against your ribs, the timbre almost smug, “Need more?” You nodded quickly, pulse kicking harder under his palm where it rested against your neck. His thumb stayed anchored just beneath your jaw, applying the faintest pressure, enough to keep your chin tipped at the angle he liked.

“Use your words, Y/N…I’ll stop if you don’t.” He warned. Your breath hitched, chest lifting slightly with the inhale. Your nails dragged over the wet heat of his skin–first along the ridges of his abs, feeling every tense muscle under your palm, then up over the curve of his shoulder where they caught briefly before scraping down in a thin sting.

“I need more, Sentry.” He hummed, a deep sound that was equal parts consideration and taunt, his head tilting slightly as if weighing your plea. Then he shook his head, just enough to make the wet strands of his hair shift.

“I’m going to need a little more than that.” The frustrated moan slipped out before you could stop it, the sound muffled by the heat of his chest as your body rocked forward against his. The ache inside you was mounting, the slow grind of his fingers making you feel full without giving you the push you craved.

“Sentry, please…” The word rasped out of you, your voice gone thin with need. “I need more. I need you to go faster.” A smirk ghosted over his mouth–quick, sharp, the kind that made your stomach drop even as it tightened everything low in your core. His gaze burned into you, molten and unyielding.

“Admit you love the feeling of my fingers inside you.” The words landed like a strike, and your body reacted before your mind did–your back arching off the wall, a sharp whine catching in your throat as your hips rolled forward, grinding shamelessly against the solid heat of his hand. You could feel it then–his telekinesis flexing, invisible but undeniable, a dense pressure pushing you harder into the wall until the cold tile bit at your damp skin. The air between you crackled faintly, the static charge of his power threading into your bones.

“Admit it, Y/N.” His voice was steel now, not a request but a command, each syllable sharp enough to cut. The flex of his fingers inside you matched it–deeper, harder for just a heartbeat before sliding back into that torturously slow pace. Your head lolled slightly, the tension in your neck eased only because his grip allowed it. But your eyes–your eyes stayed on his, locked in on that sparkling orange glare even as your chest heaved. The confession slid out of you quiet, hoarse, edged with surrender.

“I love the feeling of your fingers inside me.” His head tilted, one wet lock of hair falling forward against his temple. The corner of his mouth twitched in faint disapproval.

“Hmm?” His tone was mocking, dangerous in the lazy way it rolled out. “Didn’t quite catch that.” The pressure of his telekinesis flared, pinning you harder to the wall, the cold seeping into your spine while heat built between your thighs. His thumb pressed lightly under your jaw, coaxing your chin higher until your throat stretched for him. The movement forced your chest to rise, your breaths shallow and fast, every nerve screaming with the demand to give him what he wanted.

Your lips parted, and this time, when you said it, your voice came out louder–still breathless, but with that thin, desperate edge you couldn’t hide. “I love the feeling of your fingers inside me.” The words were hot in the air between you, almost swallowed by the sound of the shower pounding against the tile. His smile deepened.

“Now that’s what I like to hear…” He whispered, the words scraping low over your skin like they’d been sharpened. His fingers immediately picked up speed, the slow, tormenting drag shifting into a ruthless rhythm that had your hips jerking helplessly against his hand.

You gasped, the sound catching in your throat when he leaned in and dragged his teeth along the line of your neck–not gentle, not a tease–a rough scrape that ended with his mouth sealing over the spot in a deep, claiming suck. Heat bloomed under the pull, a bruise already forming, and the moan that tore out of you vibrated against his lips.

“There it is…” He breathed against your skin, voice silken, dripping with lust, hunger even “Moan for me. Let the whole damn tower hear how good I’m making you feel.” His free hand stayed firm at your neck, holding you in place, forcing you to meet the molten gold of his eyes. Your nails bit into the muscle of his shoulders, dragging down hard enough to leave faint red streaks, and he groaned–a low, guttural sound that seemed to shudder through him.

“That’s it,” He growled, curling his fingers inside you with brutal precision, hitting that spot that made your knees threaten to give. “Fucking grip me like that…So tight around my fingers I can barely move them. You’re making a mess on my hand, you feel that? You hear it?”

You did–the obscene wet sounds between you were barely drowned out by the hiss of the shower, and your breath hitched when he pressed in deeper, palm grinding against your clit with every thrust of his fingers.

“Sentry–” Your voice cracked on his name, hips rolling forward despite yourself.

“Say it,” He ordered, his thumb pressing into the hollow just beneath your jaw, tilting your chin until your throat arched for him. “Tell me you’re gonna cum all over my fingers.”

Your pulse stuttered, “I–“

”Say it.” The command hit harder than the water slamming into your shoulders.

”I’m…Fuck…I’m gonna cum all over your fingers,” You gasped, and the way his eyes pulsed and flared in brightness made something inside you snap. The hunger radiating through his stare.

“That’s my girl,” he rasped, grinding his palm harder against your clit while his fingers picked up even more speed, the muscles in his forearm flexing from the exertion. “Do it–fucking soak my hand. Give it to me.” The coil low in your belly tightened, every nerve pulling taut until the wave broke. You came hard, your cry torn raw from your throat as you clenched around him, the wet heat spilling over his hand in sharp pulses. He didn’t slow–not right away–he was milking every shiver and twitch from you until you were panting against the tile, vision hazed, and begging him to stop because of how sensitive you were feeling.

When he finally drew his fingers from you, they were glistening–slick and dripping in the steam-thick air. He held them up between you, watching the way your arousal clung to his skin, and smirked, his pupils dilating like this was the most primal thing he could witness, especially from someone who he thought he would never be able to control in any type of way.

”Look at this,” He marvelled, amazed by how much you had soaked his skin, “You’ve got my fucking mouth watering…” He added, and you could see the way his tongue was glistening–pooling with saliva as he slid his fingers between his lips, sucking them clean with a deep obscene pull. You watched his jaw work, hearing him let out a little huff of relief, almost like he had been wanting to taste you from the beginning of this but held himself back until now. When he pulled his fingers free from his mouth with a slick pop, he smiled at you, seeing the way your eyes were shimmering–like you were hypnotized by the sight you had just witnessed. Then he slowly leaned forward.

”Open your mouth.” He whispered gently, his thumb dragging along your jaw in a smooth, comforting stroke. You didn’t even think about disobeying–your lips parted, breathless, and he leaned in, letting a thick string of saliva drip from his mouth into yours. It hit your tongue warm, tasting faintly of you and the sweetness you had given him, and you swallowed immediately without breaking his gaze, like you were waving a metaphorical white flag to him, telling him that he won.

“Good girl,” He praised, the words curling dark and hot through your chest. “Swallowing it down like you’re mine.” He whispered. Your breath left you in a soft, shaky sigh, your head lolling instinctively into the warmth of his palm like you couldn’t quite hold it up anymore. His thumb stroked idly along the side of your jaw, the heat of his hand grounding you against the cold tile.

“You okay, Y/N?” His voice was lower now–not softer, but tempered, like he was gauging just how far gone you were.

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Yeah…” Was all you could get out. He leaned in, his molten-gold gaze dragging over every line of your face–taking in the sheen of sweat on your cheeks, the heat that radiated off of them, the small wet strands of hair clinging to your temples, the glassy haze in your eyes. You were still trying to blink the aftershocks out of your vision, lashes fluttering as you squinted against the steam. You were spent, and as much as he tried to control reading through your thoughts, he let himself peek in just a little, drawing complete blanks.

A slow, knowing smile curved across his mouth. “That orgasm really took you out, hmm? Seems like we may have to stop.” You tilted your head back until it rested against the tile, still catching the faint reverberation of your own pulse in your ears. His hand stayed steady at your neck, his thumb still idly brushing along your skin.

“No…” You murmured quickly, your voice quiet but raw, “No. I’m fine–we can keep going…I want to keep going.” It surprised you–how unguarded it came out, how needy it sounded in the heavy air between you. Your own cheeks heated instantly, the admission ringing in your own ears like you’d just tipped your hand in a game you swore you were winning. He hummed, the sound deep and full of satisfaction, before leaning in until the steam-cloaked space between you felt like it could collapse from the heat.

His lips brushed your ear when he whispered, “I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep up the dominant act for much longer…You’re so drunk on my fingers you can’t even think straight…Begging for more when you can’t even stand me…” The words almost made your stomach start to twist again, like you were being rebooted.

His palm left your neck slowly, deliberately–not like he was letting you go, but like he was choosing a new way to keep you exactly where he wanted. Both of his hands slid down over your shoulders, the drag unhurried, gliding over the slick curves of your arms before spanning your waist. Then, in one smooth, controlled motion, his fingers trailed to the backs of your thighs.

He hooked you there easily, the heat of his grip biting into your muscles, and lifted without hesitation. You barely had time to gasp before your legs instinctively locked around his hips, your calves tightening against the hard planes of his body.

He adjusted his hold, settling you against him, one hand spread wide at the small of your back while the other anchored firmly under your thigh. Even in the way he moved you–deliberate, certain–you could feel the dominance threaded through it. Not rough for the sake of it, but precise, like every shift of your body was exactly where he intended to put you.

His cock was hot and heavy against you–thick, pulsing, and pressed right where you were still slick from his fingers. The heat of him seemed to sear through the small gap between your bodies, every shift making the blunt head drag against your swollen folds.

Your breath hitched, and you tipped your head forward until your lips brushed the damp line of his jaw. The steam was curling up between you, clinging to his skin, carrying that faint tang of ozone with it. You let your words slip out low, deliberate, your mouth grazing his ear.

“I need you to take me, Sentry…”

The effect was instant–you felt his whole body tense between your legs, the thick muscle of his shoulders locking, his grip at your thigh tightening like a vice. Your hips shifted instinctively, the blunt head of his cock dragging across your slick folds again, and your voice dropped even lower, darker.

“Turn me into someone that obeys your every command.” He let out a little huff of air, his gaze locking onto yours, the brightness of his irises flashing.

“Is that what you want?” He asked, the words rough enough to grate down your spine. You nodded without hesitation, your fingers sliding up into his wet hair, the strands heavy and warm between them. You gave a firm tug, tilting his head just enough to pull a low growl from his chest.

“That’s what I want…” You murmured, holding his gaze as the admission hung in the steam. His jaw flexed once before he gave a single, sharp nod–decision made. You felt him adjust beneath you, the hard line of him shifting until the head of his cock nestled right at your entrance. The first press was enough to steal your breath–hot, thick, unyielding.

He started to push in, slow but steady, his grip keeping you anchored as his hips drove upward and lowered you onto him at the same time. The stretch was sharp, that delicious burn that had your nails curling tighter into his hair as your back arched instinctively, chest pressing into his. He pulsed inside you with every slow inch, the throb syncing with the hammer of your heartbeat.

“Fuck…” He let out a short, hot huff of air that hit your ear, his voice vibrating through your ribcage. You could feel the drag of every ridge, every vein, until the broad head was pressing against the deepest point inside you–against your cervix–bottoming out in a way that made your stomach tighten and your lips part on a shaky exhale.

“God, you’re so fucking big, Sentry.” Your voice broke on the words, a gasp escaping your throat. He answered with a low growl, dipping to nip at the side of your neck–sharp enough to make you gasp again–before his tongue followed, slow and heated, sealing over the sting with a languid lick.

“Filling you up so well, hmm?” He murmured against your skin. You nodded hard, lashes fluttering.

“Yes…Oh my fucking god, yes…” You whimpered, the sound thin, desperate. His hands shifted, one sliding higher on your back to hold you flush to his chest while the other stayed firm under your thigh. His hips drew back–just enough for the drag to make you clench–and then pushed forward again with deliberate slowness, letting you feel every inch. The first thrust had you shuddering, your breath catching in your throat.

“That’s it…” His voice was low, molten. “That’s my good girl…Taking me so well, pulsing around me and sucking me in like you don’t want me to pull out.” He kept that slow, grinding pace for just a few strokes, making your body ache for more, then began to build–each thrust a little faster, a little harder, until the sound of wet, colliding flesh filled the steam-thick air. His palm left your back only to curve around and land hard on your ass. The crack echoed, a sharp bloom of heat flaring under his touch. You yelped, the sound melting into a breathy moan when he squeezed, his fingers digging deep into the tender flesh as if to mold it to his hand.

“Perfect…” He rasped, giving another slow, punishing thrust that forced a gasp from your lungs. “I could fuck you like this all night…Keep you right here until you can’t remember your own name.” Your nails dug into the ridges of his back, scraping down over flexing muscle and leaving fresh red trails that made him groan against your mouth. His hips snapped harder, angling up so the blunt head of his cock struck deep, hitting that spot that made you see white.

“Still good for me, Y/N?” The question was a check-in, but his tone left no doubt it was also a dare.

“Yes–” You breathed, and the moment you said it, his pace changed again. His thrusts became rough, relentless, driving into you with a rhythm that made your entire body jolt against the stall wall. The water poured over both of you, turning every movement slick, every grind a deeper slide.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this… All hot and tight, holding on to me like you’re afraid I’ll stop.” His voice was a growl in your ear, his breath scorching over your damp skin. “You want me to keep going? Want me to fuck you until you can’t stand?”

“Yes…Please,” You gasped, your nails clawing harder at his back now, the wet heat of him pounding into you stealing the air from your lungs.

“That’s my girl…” He grunted, hips slamming forward, the force jolting you higher in his hold. His hand under your thigh adjusted, fingers digging in to keep you right where he wanted you. “You’re gonna cum for me again–I can feel you already–squeezing the fuck out of me…” Your moans grew higher, faster, until you were writhing against him, hips rolling in frantic counter-thrusts. The coil in your belly was tightening, every snap of his hips threatening to push you over.

“That’s it–let go for me. Cum on my cock, make a mess of me, I want to feel you fucking drench me.” His voice had dropped into something feral, but there was that faint thread of command that made your body obey before you could think. You broke with a cry of his name, your climax crashing through you in hard, pulsing waves that gripped him tight, your thighs trembling around his hips. Your nails raked down his back, desperate and unrestrained.

“Fuck…” He groaned, the sound raw and ragged, “You’re gonna make me cum–“ His rhythm faltered into harder, deeper thrusts, each one driving him as far as he could go. “Almost there…Almost–” Both of his hands slid up your back, splaying wide across your slick skin to pull you tight against him as he slammed into you one last time. The lights overhead blew with a sharp pop, plunging the room into the pulsing red of the emergency lights.

His cock pulsed deep inside you, thick heat spilling in sharp, flooding bursts that made you gasp. You could feel it–the way each twitch of his hips forced more of his release into you until it was almost too much, the hot, heavy fullness pushing deep into every inch he could reach.

His teeth sank into your collarbone, not vicious, but deep enough to make you shiver. The groan he let out was long, guttural, his chest heaving against yours. You could feel the subtle twitch of every muscle in his back under your hands as the last pulses of his orgasm slowed.

When he finally let go of your collarbone, it was only to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ragged and hot in the steam. His hands stayed splayed across your back, holding you there like he had no intention of letting you go.

The tile was cool at your back, but the weight of him kept you anchored in place, the steam wrapping the two of you in a hazy cocoon. His heartbeat still pounded, heavy and solid where your chests pressed together, and your own lungs were dragging in ragged pulls of air that matched the slow, measured rhythm of his. Neither of you moved at first–just stood there, his hips still flush to yours, the heat of him pulsing inside you with every lingering throb.

You tipped your chin, brushing your lips against his in the barest ghost of a kiss before giving him a softer one, the kind that lacked the bite of earlier, carrying only the warm, tired press of post-release.

“I’m sorry,” You murmured against his mouth, tasting the salt of steam and sweat. “For not listening to you on the mission.”

His eyes opened fully, gold dimmed but still glowing faintly in the diffuse light. He shook his head, a small huff of breath escaping him–not irritated, not sharp this time.

“You were right in your decision,” He said, the words weighted like they cost him something. “I…I just want to keep you safe.” His voice softened near the end, the edges dulled by something that sounded almost like exhaustion. His hands, still warm and broad, began a slow, absent motion up and down your slick back–tracing the curve of your spine, splaying at your ribs, then sliding low again until his fingers curled briefly at your waist. The steady glide of his touch made you exhale, some knot of tension loosening in your chest. A short laugh slipped out of you–not mocking, just low and knowing.

“You care about me…” That earned a low groan from him, one that rumbled more in his chest than in his throat. He tilted his head enough to catch your jaw between his teeth in a playful nip, the sting softened by the hot brush of his lips after.

“Bob cares about you,” He corrected, the cadence deliberate, as if defining the boundary in real time. “And I have a duty to make sure that the people Bob cares about are safe…So I’m just doing what needs to be done.” You hummed at that, the sound curling between the two of you, and let your hands slide slowly down from his shoulders to rest at the middle of his back, fingertips tracing faint circles in the damp skin there.

“And having sex is just one of those things that need to be done, huh?” The corner of his mouth pulled upward, not a full smile, but an admission all the same.

“Mm…” He let out a short laugh–low, amused, slightly self-deprecating. “It’s definitely optional,” He conceded, his tone teasing enough to undercut the seriousness of a moment ago. “But I took my chances.” You smirked, brushing your nose lightly against his, your pulse still steady but elevated in the aftermath. His gaze dipped briefly, almost shy for a fraction of a second before his hands settled a little firmer at your waist.

“Can I…Pull out?” He asked, voice quieter now, almost tentative despite the fact that he’d just had you writhing against the shower wall minutes ago.

You gave a slow nod, shifting your hips slightly in silent permission.

He drew in a breath, then began to ease out of you, the motion slow–too slow to be anything but intentional–his cock dragging against every swollen, sensitive inch until you felt the final, deliberate slip as he left you empty. The sudden absence made you exhale sharply, your thighs twitching from the sensitivity, and you caught the subtle flex of his jaw as if he’d had to will himself to move away at all.

He lowered you slowly, careful with the way your feet touched the tile. Your knees felt weak, the heat in them replaced by a faint tremble, and you could feel the warm, thick slide of his release escaping you, curling down the insides of your thighs before the spray of the shower could chase it away. It mingled with the water droplets already slipping over your skin, the sensation both heavy and fleeting.

He didn’t let go, not completely–his hands stayed anchored at your waist like he was making sure you weren’t going to fall. His thumbs stroked slow arcs against your damp skin, and when he finally spoke, it was in that low, velvety timbre that always made the air feel heavier.

“Let’s clean you up, hm?” You nodded, assuming he was going to reach for the detachable shower head and let the stream rinse everything away. But instead, he stepped in closer, the heat of his chest brushing yours as his head dipped.

The first touch of his lips against your breasts was gentle, almost reverent—just the press of his mouth over the curve, then another just beside it, each one a lingering peck that seemed more for him than for show. Steam curled between your bodies as he trailed lower, slow enough for you to feel the intent in every inch he descended.

By the time he crouched before you, the water was spilling over his shoulders, plastering the light brown waves of his hair to his forehead. His hands eased your thighs apart, his thumbs stroking the insides as if coaxing you to open more. You could see his pupils swell wide, swallowing almost all of the molten gold until his eyes were nearly black save for the rim of light around them. His gaze was fixed on the mess between your thighs, his jaw clenching faintly.

When his mouth closed over you, the first hot sweep of his tongue made your thighs twitch hard. The taste of him and you together must have been exactly what he was after, because he hummed against you–deep and low enough to vibrate through your oversensitive muscles.

The overstimulation had you letting out a few breathless giggles, your fingers tangling loosely in his wet hair as you tried not to jerk away. He took his time, licking in slow, deliberate strokes, following the drip of his release as it mixed with your own, chasing every trace until the water alone touched your skin. The way he drank it in felt less like cleaning and more like claiming.

When he finally straightened up in front of you, with water still tracking down the sharp lines of his chest and arms, his mouth was already parted. He didn’t give you time to ask–just caught your lips in an open-mouthed kiss, letting the mingled taste of both of you spill over your tongue. It was warm, heady, your own sweetness braided with the salty, rich tang of him, the flavors curling together until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

When he pulled back, there was the faintest gleam at the corner of his mouth before his tongue swept it away.

“The perfect mix,” He murmured, voice thick and certain.

You were perched sideways on one of the kitchen stools, with one leg hooked loosely over the other, swaying your foot as you read from a paperback resting on the kitchen island. There was something lazy and unguarded about you at that moment–hair a little out of place, your thumb resting on your bottom lip, pressing it to your teeth as you turned the page–that made his gut tighten before he could even think about why.

Bob had tried to be good about it, discreet. Really, he had. His eyes dropped to the floor the second they linger too long on the line of your legs, the way the bare skin disappeared up into the loose hem of your shorts, it was hard but he pried his sight off the image and gave you the smallest nod, and a rough ‘Morning,’ as he moved past you.

Then you looked up.

And it hit him–your heartbeat. Loud. Fast. So fast it was almost dizzying, the rhythm pounding against his eardrums as if it were lodged inside his own chest. His newly sharpened senses were already a headache most days, but with you? It was different. It wasn’t just hearing it–it was feeling it. His pulse matched yours before he even realized it, thundering in sync.

He was still dressed from training: a long-sleeve shirt soaked through with sweat, clinging stubbornly to every muscle in his chest, abs and back, darkening in patches where it had absorbed the most. The sleeves were pushed up enough to bare the veins of his forearms, and the thick cords that ran up and disappeared beneath the rest of the covering–the pale skin there was flushed and warm, but then again he always ran hot so that was a give in. His sweatpants were loose but heavy, framing the muscle in his thigh and calves in a way that drew your eyes–not that he would admit it out loud. And judging by the little spike in your heart rate, you had noticed and drank up every little detail.

For months now, Bob had been trying to get a handle on all of it–the hypersensitive hearing, the amplified smell, and the worst one, the creeping slide into someone else’s head when his focus slipped. At first he’d fought hard to suppress it all, terrified of catching a thought he wasn’t meant to hear. But lately, he had settled for a different strategy: keep his face neutral, keep his mouth shut, and never let anyone guess just how much he was picking up in the quietness.

Especially not you.

Because with you, it wasn’t like the rest of the world, or even the rest of the team–where it was just quiet flashes of stray noise or scents he couldn’t ignore. No, with you, it was like standing under a floodlight. You projected. Everything. Every skip of your pulse, every time your breathing changed, every stray mental image that came though, it was all broadcasted just for him. And it didn’t matter if the two of you were shoulder-to-shoulder in a crowded room or alone in the kitchen at midnight–he got all of it.

He didn’t mind…But when it got so strong that it dragged him straight into your head without warning? That was when it became an issue.

Like today.

He had been on the verge of retreating to his room after he got himself something to eat, when it happened–your voice in his mind, uninvited and clear, like you had leaned in close to murmur it directly into his ear:

Jesus Christ, why is he wearing that shirt…God those back muscles…All I want to do is dig my nails into them…Or bite them…Oh my god if I had a fucking chance. I would only need ten minutes.

The thought wasn’t just words though–it was a door. And before he could stop it, the picture behind it all rushed at him all at once:

You, sitting on the kitchen counter, head tipped back as he pressed his mouth into the crook of your neck. His training shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, his light brown hair sticking out in chaotic tufts from where your fingers had been tangling and pulling. Your thighs were locked around his hips, drawing him in, nails singing into the solid spread of his shoulders before dragging down his back–leaving blazing, red lines in their wake on his pale, freckled skin. His breath rough in your ear, the heat of him caging you in, and the weight of your body shifting under his grip as he kept you there.

It was vivid enough to make his own hands twitch, to make his jaw clench before he could think better of it, and he paused in his movements, turning his head slightly to look over his shoulder, to look at you, to see if there was any sign you were looking at him.

But you weren’t. You were just blinking down at your book, turning another page, like you hadn’t just given him a mental reel he was going to be replaying for the rest of the day.

He could’ve sworn that maybe he conjured it up himself–that maybe his own mind had wandered and spun the image without any help from yours–until he caught the smallest tell.

The subtle shift of your hips on the stool, the way your thighs pressed just a little tighter where they were crossed, as if to give yourself some sort of relief. Then there was the soft noise of you clearing your throat–you swallowing down the pool of saliva that filled your mouth from staring at him for too long, from fantasizing.

”How was the workout? Was the training bay busy?” Your voice had that practiced casualness to it, light and airy enough to disguise the way you were trying to wrestle your mind away from its chaotic thoughts. It was conversation for the sake of noise–an anchor you threw out before you could sink any deeper into those fantasies about him.

He turned back to the counter, reaching for a Granny Smith apple that was perched in the fruit bowl. The green skin was cool against his palm, his thumb sweeping over the waxy smoothness as if it gave him something to do with his hands besides rushing around the kitchen island to lift you up and kiss you right then and there.

”Uh…” He cleared his own throat, the word catching a little in his mouth, “It was good. Nobody was there if yo-you were thinking of getting in a workout or something." The second the words left him, the temperature in the room seemed to shift. Or maybe it was just him. His body felt warmer–no, hotter–and the strangest thing was that he knew it wasn’t just him. You felt it too. He could sense it in the subtle spike of your pulse, in the faint change to your breathing rhythm, in the heat that bloomed under your skin until it felt like it was seeping into his own.

That was the part that always got him. The way your nervous systems seemed to sync up when you spoke to each other. When your attention tangled with his like a net he couldn’t slip free of. It wasn’t just telepathy–it was immersion. You saturated his senses until there was no clear border between what was yours and what was his.

And that day, it hit him harder than it ever had before–sharp enough to lodge in his ribs, but he was good at hiding the feelings that took over him, just like you were too good at masking your own emotions towards him as well.

Because if he didn’t have the ability to tune into your every thought like some filthy little subscription-only show, he never would’ve guessed you pictured him like that. That you wanted him like that. That the quiet, composed face you gave him was just the surface layer over a mind that was screaming.

He bit into the apple, the crisp snap of it cutting through the air, tart juice hitting his tongue, as he sucked slightly and wiped the corner of his mouth. You flicked your eyes toward him for just a second–like you couldn’t help yourself–before snapping them back to your book.

But your mind didn’t follow your eyes.

And he could feel the pull again, faint but growing. The way you were trying to rein it in and failing.

The image came in pieces this time–your fingers wrapped around the back of his heck, his fingers digging into your hips, the counter edge biting into your skin as his weight leaned into you, his lips kissing your neck, leaving sticky residue on your skin, presumably from the apple you had watched him bite into. He could practically feel your breath at his ear, the short little whimper that escaped your throat.

Then he pulled himself out of it, the apple cracking slightly at the way his grip tightened around it, his knuckles whitening at the tension.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” He said finally, the words low and clipped, like speaking any more might let something slip.

It was an escape, plain and simple–a clean break from the pull you had over him in that moment. He needed distance. Needed to untangle from the thread of your thoughts before it wound too tight around him and he stopped caring about restraint altogether.

You just nodded without looking up, keeping your eyes on the book in your lap. But he knew–God, he knew–that your mind wasn’t on the page. Not even close.

After that morning, things didn’t get better.

It got significantly worse.

The volume of your thoughts seemed cranked to maximum whenever you were near him, and it wasn’t like he could just…Turn it off. Every little flicker of your mind was there, bleeding into his own until the line between you blurred. The mental discipline he’d worked so hard to build was fraying with each passing day, and even his own self control was faltering. He caught himself thinking of you the same way you thought about him–how you’d look beneath him, how your hands would feel in his hair, how they would grab at his arms…How you would sound moaning his name in his ear. It was endless torment, on a cosmic level.

And sharing a wall with you didn’t help.

All the control, all the careful work he’d done to keep himself in check–it was slipping through his fingers faster than he could hold it together. His hearing had sharpened to the point where he picked up everything without even trying, and you…You were not a quiet neighbour.

It was late one night when it happened. The Watchtower was still, save for the faint hum of the HVAC and the occasional groan of the old plumbing. He’d been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to keep his breathing slow and even–trying not to think about the way your presence seeped through the wall–when the first sound reached him.

A soft shift of fabric. The faint creak of your mattress frame as you turned over.

Another shift.

A sigh–frustrated, drawn out–pushed into the quiet.

He could hear your pillow flip, the cotton cover rasping lightly as you turned it to the cooler side.

He knew this rhythm. The restless readjustments, the subtle changes in your breathing. He knew what they meant because he’d done the same himself, on more nights than he could count.

And he knew exactly what you were about to do next.

Because it was what he would have done if sleep wouldn’t come and the heat under his skin wouldn’t settle.

You were going to touch yourself.

The realization landed in his gut like a punch, tightening every muscle in his body.

Then came the soft snick of a drawstring knot loosening–the faintest sound, but to him it was as loud as a gunshot.

The fabric of your sleep shorts rustled against your thighs as you eased them lower.

Bob’s eyes shut, his grip curling tight into the sheets beside him. He could almost see it without wanting to–your bare legs sliding apart under the covers, the subtle press of your knees lifting the blanket just so.

Your breathing changed, almost imperceptibly at first. Deeper. Slower on the inhale. The tiniest hitch on the exhale.

It was obscene, the intimacy of it. He wasn’t in the room, wasn’t anywhere near your bed, and yet it felt like he was right there–close enough to catch the warmth radiating from your skin, close enough to feel the stir of air when your legs moved.

And for a moment, he told himself to stop. To roll over, to put in his headphones, to drown it out.

But his hearing didn’t care about his moral compass. It locked on, hyper-focused, drinking in every breath, every faint shift of fabric, every quickened beat of your heart.

Then he heard it–soft, slick sounds beneath the rustle of your sheets, the subtle, lewd slide of your fingers moving through your wet heat. Your heart rate stuttered, spiking and stumbling, and then your thoughts bloomed wide open like a floodgate swinging off its hinges, spilling straight into him before he could brace for it.

You were picturing him.

Not just the vague shape of him, but the raw, detailed version your mind had clearly built from too many late-night fixations. You saw him in your bedroom, your legs spread for him, his big hands spanning your thighs, his thumbs dragging up the soft inner flesh before gripping your hips like he owned them. One hand sliding higher, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, thumb brushing lazily over your nipple until it peaked for him.

Bob’s body heated in an instant, blood rushing south so fast it made him dizzy. The plaid of his sleep pants grew tight across his lap, the fabric straining as his cock pushed against it, heavy and throbbing.

“Fuck’s sake…” He hissed under his breath, his voice a low scrape in the dark.

Then came the sound–a small, muffled whimper slipping from your throat, pitched just high enough to spike his pulse again. He could’ve sworn he heard his name in it, faint but distinct, though it was swallowed quickly, your voice smothered by what he assumed was your hand clamped over your mouth to keep quiet.

The images in your head sharpened, pulled into finer, filthier focus.

You imagined him kneeling between your thighs, his mouth hot and wet on your stomach, kissing low and slow before sinking his teeth into the flesh there. You pictured the sting of it, and the way he’d soothe the mark immediately after, licking over the bite with long drags of his tongue, saturating the skin until it gleamed with his spit.

Bob squeezed his eyes shut, his palm pressing over the aching bulge in his pants, giving himself just enough pressure to take the edge off. His hips flexed subtly against his own hand, chasing a little friction even as he told himself to stop. But you weren’t stopping.

If anything, you were getting worse.

You thought of him hooking his arms under your knees, hauling your hips up off the bed and pressing his face between your legs until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. You thought about the drag of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, the obscene suck of his lips locking around it, the slow grind of his nose against your swollen folds.

His breathing turned heavier, ragged in the quiet of his room, and his hand moved without restraint now, sliding under the waistband of his pants and gripping himself. His cock was hot and slick at the tip, pre-come smearing over his palm as he stroked, matching the pace of your fingers in his mind.

Your heart was hammering so hard he thought you might give yourself a heart attack. Each beat was frantic–climbing and climbing until the tension in you vibrated down the thread that bound you together.

And then you broke.

He heard it in the hitch of your breath, the sharp gasp you bit back too late, the muffled groan that was definitely his name this time.

It wrecked him.

Bob bit down on his knuckles to keep from making a noise loud enough to wake half the compound as he came, the heat tearing through him in shuddering waves. His other hand worked over his cock, pumping himself through it, the wet sound of his own release mixing with the image of yours until he was spilling over his fist and into the waistband of his pants, making a mess of himself.

He kept his eyes screwed shut as he practically painted himself in his own cum, with his knuckles still between his teeth, and his jaw clenched so hard it ached. The urge to break something–to throw the lamp across the room, to drive his fist into the wall–was sharp enough to thrum in his bones. It took him a minute or two to finally stop, and come down from it all, but even when the peak was settling he wasn’t quite doing that.

He laid on his bed for a long beat, forcing his pulse to slow, wrestling your lingering thoughts out of his head one by one. His palm was sticky, his pants damp where the mess had soaked through the waistband and front portion of them, and the ache in his body hadn’t quite faded–it had just shifted into something lower, heavier.

When he finally pushed himself up off the bed, the cotton stuck to him unpleasantly. He cringed, peeling it away from his skin, the fabric pulling in damp, reluctant clings. His bare feet padded over the floor, quiet but purposeful, until he reached the small door in the corner of his room–the one that opened into the bathroom the two of you shared.

One hand wrapped around the handle, and he swung it inward at the same instant your door did.

The bathroom was dark, and all he could see was the shape of your shadow against the glow from your bedroom lamp. You reached for the light switch on your side without thinking, flooding the small space in warm, golden illumination.

And that’s when you both froze.

You could see Bob standing inside his doorway, shirtless, his pale skin flushed high on his chest and creeping up the strong line of his neck. His light brown hair was messy, still damp with sweat from what you had assumed was him doing a very late night work out–or maybe not from a workout at all. That faint pink flush along the planes of his freckled face and collarbones definitely didn’t look like his post-gym colour.

Then your eyes dropped before you could stop them.

The waistband of his plaid sleep pants sat low on his hips, the fabric darkened in an irregular patch right at the front–everything became obvious in those moments what he had really done to get that colour on his skin. Your breath caught, an involuntary little spike of heat running through you so fast it almost made you sway. You’d barely come down from your own high, and yet just that sight had your body lighting up again like it had been waiting for an excuse for another round of release.

You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze back up to continue to look at him even though you had saw something that he definitely didn’t want you to see.

Even in the unflattering overhead light, he was absurdly, unfairly beautiful–tall and solid, the kind of wiry build that looked deceptively lean until he moved and you saw the carved lines of muscle flexing in his abdomen. His chest was broad and dusted with pale hair, the faint swell of his pecs tapering down to a flat, tight stomach where every breath made the ridges of his abs shift. His forearms looked huge with his hands hanging at his sides, veins prominent from his…’Workout’.

And he was looking at you.

Not a glance. Not the quick flick of polite acknowledgement you were used to. No–this was the kind of look that crawled over you and settled in, like he was cataloguing every inch of your skin that he could sink his eyes on because he was tired of pretending he wasn’t looking.

Your hair was a little messy from tossing in bed. Your sleep shorts sat crooked on your hips, one leg twisted higher than the other, showing more bare thigh than you’d normally allow. Your tank top had slipped down on one side, the thin strap hanging uselessly halfway down your arm, leaving your shoulder and the slope of your collarbone bare. You knew what you looked like–rumpled, guilty, and warm from more than the blanket you’d been under.

“…Couldn’t sleep?” You asked softly, the innocence in your voice fighting a losing battle against the guilty little look you knew was flashing in your eyes. He didn’t blink, he just shook his head slowly.

”Nope,” He replied, voice low, the word catching slightly like he had to push them past something lodged in his throat, “Not even a li-little bit.” You tugged the strap of your tank top back into place, a nervous gesture you couldn’t disguise, as a look of concern appeared on your face

”Is something…Disturbing your sleep?” You pressed. He let out a breath through his nose, the faintest sound of it catching. His big blue eyes locked on yours, burning with the kind of quiet, deliberate intensity that made your stomach flip.

”Yeah,” He started, “You.” Your mouth went dry at his words, heat pooling low in your stomach as you shifted from foot to foot, a nervous laugh escaping your lips.

”Me? Why me?” His gaze didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened–cutting right through the flimsy innocence in your tone. You both knew it wasn’t a coincidence, the way you’d ended up in the bathroom at the same time, looking just as flushed and spent as he did.

Bob stepped forward, slow but deliberate, closing the gap one careful inch at a time.

“Because you can’t keep your thoughts quiet…” His voice was low, quiet enough to make you lean in without thinking. “…And I ca–can hear and see every single thing you’ve been thinking about for the past couple days. I can’t sleep properly because of it. I have to wa–wait until you’re out cold just to get some rest. And it’s been driving me up the wall, Y/N.” The flush in your cheeks burned hotter, the dampness at your lower back from sweat suddenly feeling like a spotlight on your own guilty state.

“…I thought you had the mind reading thing under control.” Another step forward. The air in the tiny bathroom felt heavy with heat, his body warmth and the heady scent of his body rolling toward you like steam. You swore you could feel the thrum of his pulse through it.

“Well evidently I don’t…” He said, eyes never leaving yours, “…Because I wouldn’t be in this bathroom right now trying to clean myself off if I di–did. Now would I?” Your breathing hitched, chest rising a little quicker. He didn’t even have to reach for your thoughts now–you were practically wearing them on your face.

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes, only to drop your gaze a second later, voice quieter. “So this means…”

”That I know that you have fa-fantasies about me?” His tone tightened but it was still in a whispery volume, one that you would have to lean in to hear if you were in a crowded space. “Yeah…” He added, quietly. His hand came up, fingers warm and firm as they slid under your chin, tilting your head back up until you were locked in place beneath his piercing blue irises. The more you looked into them you were able to see more details–the little flecks of black crowding just around the pupil, and the distinct pinpoints of golden specks that showed it wasn’t just you and Bob having a conversation…You had company.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” You murmured, feeling your throat closing at the nervousness and embarrassment that rumbled through you, “I know we’re just friends and I shouldn’t have been thinking that wa–”

His mouth was on yours before the apology could finish, the suddenness of it stopping you dead in your tracks.

It was soft–shockingly soft at first–like he was testing the shape of your lips against his, easing you into it. The heat of him was immediate, flooding across your skin as your palm came up instinctively, pressing against the solid plane of his ribs. His skin burned beneath your touch, muscle shifting under your fingers with each quiet breath he took.

You kissed him back before you could even think about it, as if you had been waiting for this to happen. The gentleness deepened, and sharpened at the edges, until his lips caught your bottom one between his and sucked–slowly like he was massaging it–pulling a startled little moan from your throat. Your knees almost gave when he dragged his teeth lightly over it, the faint scrape leaving you trembling in his hold.

He pulled back just enough for his breath to skate across your mouth, blue eyes locked on you like he was memorizing every inch of your softened expression, the way the look on your face had hazed over because of how dazed you were from what he had just done.

“…Maybe I want to make one of those fantasies come tr–true…” His voice was hushed, but there was a weight behind it, a promise that curled low in your stomach.

Your breath caught. “…What?”

“I want to ma–make one of those fantasies come true.” The stammer was still there, but the firmness in his tone this time, the sultry undercurrent threading through it, sent a shiver straight up your spine. You felt your lips part slightly, your heart slamming against your chest, and just when you thought the knots in your stomach couldn’t get any worse, you felt another wave of heat pooling low inside it. The air between you felt so thick that it was like you couldn’t breathe properly, and your only source of oxygen was going to be from Bob. You could taste him just from the breath he was releasing into your mouth, and all you wanted was to feel him again, so…You leaned forward again to reclaim his lips with yours.

The kiss was different now that you were leading. It was hungry, insistent, Bob could practically feel how much you were craving him. Your arms locked around his shoulders, dragging him closer until your chest pressed to his. The shift pulled your tank top higher, baring more of your hips to him, and his hands slid to fill that space instantly–his broad, hot palms settling against the newly exposed skin. His thumbs swept slow circles there, grounding and possessive all at once, while his mouth moved over yours like he’d been starving for this moment for far too long.

You didn’t even realize you were pulling him until your back hit the doorframe, your fingers curled into the nape of his neck as you guided him into your room without breaking the kiss. It was messy now–breathing uneven, lips crashing together harder than you meant to, teeth grazing, mouths parting only to find each other again. His hands never left you, sliding over your hips, skimming your waist, gripping like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you steady or drag you closer still.

Your steps were clumsy, bumping into the edge of your nightstand before you finally stumbled back into your bed. The mattress caught you with a soft bounce as you let out an involuntary giggle against his lips.

Bob followed you down immediately, cushioning himself between your thighs and bracing his weight on one forearm while his other hand traced up your side. His lips found your jaw, trailing heat along the sharp line of it before dipping lower.

“You okay?” He murmured against your skin, his voice rough from breathlessness.You nodded quickly.

“I really hope this isn’t a dream because…Holy crap, your mouth is way softer than I had even imagined.” That earned you a quiet laugh, the kind that rumbled deep in his chest before he lifted his head just enough to look at you.

“It’s not a dr–dream,” He reassured, the words threaded with certainty. Then his lips were back on you–only lower this time, mapping a slow, deliberate path down your neck, each press of his mouth lingering like he meant to brand you. He teased the edge of your collarbone, his breath warm and damp against your skin, before his mouth found the top of your chest.

His fingers hooked into the neckline of your tank top, tugging it gently downward to bare the tops of your breasts–just enough for him to work with. He kissed there first, then opened his mouth against your skin, sucking until the heat bloomed into something that would linger. He took his time, alternating between soft, teasing drags of his tongue and the sharper pull of his mouth until the flesh was warm, flushed and a bit sore.

The collar slipped lower under his hand, and he revealed more of you, the fabric sliding down until your breasts were fully exposed to him. He stilled for just a beat, gaze locked on you–on the way your nipples pebbled under the sudden cool air and his focused attention.

“God…” He breathed, like the sight alone had stolen the rest of his words.

Then he was leaning in, mouth closing over one hardened peak. His tongue was hot and deliberate, swirling slow before flattening against the tight bud. The wet heat of him pulled a gasp from you, and he hummed in response, the vibration sinking into your skin as he sucked–firm enough to make your back arch. He pulled off with a little pop.

“You like th–that?” He murmured, his voice warm and low, brushing against you almost like another touch. The words came right before a deliberate, cool stream of air ghosted over the wet shine his mouth had left on your nipple, making it tighten further. The contrast sent a sharp, pleasurable ache straight through you, and you nodded quickly. His gaze flicked up through his lashes, locking on yours with quiet intent. The hand not supporting his weight slid up your ribcage until it cupped your other breast, the heat of his palm spreading through you as his thumb traced lazy circles over the peak.

“Tell me with your words, Y/N…” he whispered, his breath hot and rhythmic against your skin. His lips moved in slow, deliberate patterns along the soft swell, peppering kisses over the sensitive flesh surrounding the hardened bud, pausing just to let you feel the weight of anticipation.

“I love it, Bob,” You managed to respond, your voice coming out softer and more wrecked than you intended.

He smiled against your breast, a small, private curve of his lips that you could feel as much as you saw. The warmth of it bled into you just before his mouth opened over you again, sealing around the nipple and drawing it between his lips. His tongue swirled in slow, deliberate circles, each pass firmer than the last, the wet heat making you clutch at him without thinking.

Your hand found his bicep, curling around the solid muscle there. He flexed slightly under your touch, like he wanted you to feel just how strong he was, even in something this intimate.

He sucked again–deeper this time–before letting you slip from his mouth with a faint, wet sound. The absence made you inhale sharply, your chest already arching toward him in a silent plea. He didn’t make you wait long though.

Bob shifted back slightly, coaxing you up so he could remove your tank top, wanting to feel his skin against yours. He tugged the fabric off you, throwing it to the side before adjusting himself so that his weight settled over you, letting the heat of his body press into yours, his hips settling between your thighs–enough that you could feel the wet patch of his sleep pants against your soaked sleep shorts. His chest grazed your stomach as he leaned forward, his mouth finding your other breast like it had been waiting for its turn. His hand stayed on the first, massaging and kneading the soaked skin gently as he latched onto the second, his tongue swirling slow, dragging deliberately over the pebbled peak before sucking it deep into the heat of his mouth.

You felt every pull in the pit of your stomach, the sensation sending ripples outward–down your spine, into your belly, between your legs. His very light stubble brushed against your softer skin, a faint scrape that only made the warmth sharper. When he hummed low in his throat, the vibration traveled through you like an electrical current, making your toes curl. He alternated between pulling you in with suction and teasing you with the flat of his tongue, the pressure and rhythm coaxing small, breathy sounds out of you before you could even think to hold them back.

“God, Bob…You’re so good at this…” The way his mouth moved against you didn’t falter, but you felt the faint tension in his bicep beneath your palm, the subtle swell of it like he was absorbing your praise somewhere deep. You squeezed again, loving the way that solid strength gave beneath your touch, and then–with curiosity and heat coiling together–you slid your hand upward, until you could pinch at the muscle of his shoulder. It surprised you, the way it felt–not all hard angles and steel, but warm and pliable under your fingers, as though your touch could mold it. You gave the flesh a testing squeeze, and that drew a little laugh from him, low and brief against your breast.

Then his lips slipped away from the peak with a faint, wet pop, and before you could miss the heat of him, his teeth caught lightly, giving you a small nip. He glanced up, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You wanna bi–bite it?” Your face went molten in an instant, heat blooming so fast you swore it reached your ears. Your eyes widened and your hand flew up to cover your mouth.

“Oh god… You heard that one, huh?” He didn’t tease right away–just kissed the top of your breast, lingering there long enough that the press of his lips felt like a seal. Then he hummed, the vibration sinking into your skin.

“I honestly think that was one of the more tamer thoughts you had about me…” His voice carried that quiet, unshakable truth. “Never thought someone could conjure up that many sexual situations in their head…But you pr–proved me wrong.” You let out a breathy laugh, the kind that betrayed your embarrassment even as you gave him a playful push. He shifted on you, the movement sliding his body lower, and his teeth grazed gently down the center of your sternum–slow enough that you felt the faint scrape drag heat in its wake.

“It’s unfair that you’re able to read my mind…” You murmured, your tone dipping into challenge. “I bet if I had the same power, I’d catch you fantasizing about me in the same way.”

That pulled another small laugh from him, though this one carried a thread of something heavier. His mouth hovered just over your stomach before his tongue slipped out, warm and damp, dragging lazily along the softness of your belly.

”You…Wo-Would win that bet…” He replied, his voice rougher now, almost shy, "Because I was having thoughts about you too…” Your gaze dropped to him then, and you caught it–the shimmer in his eyes, the faint embers of orange flaring and settling in the blue like banked firelight.

“Yeah?” You asked, surprised enough that it almost came out in a whisper.

He huffed against your skin, the warmth fanning out over your stomach before his hands slid lower. His fingers curled into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them just enough to bare more of your hips to him–exposing skin to the air, to his heat, to his eyes.

“Mhm…” The sound rattled through your bones, “You flooded my head with all these images of your body against mine…” His thumbs traced the line of your hips as if mapping out each thought. “…And it on–only made me want to experience this even more than before.” Your bottom lip caught between your teeth, and you tilted your chin down slightly, meeting his eyes from above.

“…Is it living up to expectations so far?” He didn’t answer right away–not with words. Instead, he bent his head and bit into the sensitive flesh of your hip, just firm enough to make your breath catch. Then he soothed the mark with a slow sweep of his tongue before murmuring against you–

“Exceeding them completely.”

His fingers–still hooked in the waistband of your shorts–traced lazy, teasing lines along the bare skin of your hips, dipping just beneath the soft cotton only to resurface again, the pads of his fingertips warm and deliberate. Every pass left a ghost of sensation behind, like he was sketching invisible shapes into your flesh, memorizing the map of you.

He worked slowly–achingly so–his mouth following in the wake of his hands. Wet, open-mouthed kisses dotted the delicate skin there, his lips pressing in with a tenderness that belied the heat in his eyes. Each kiss deepened just enough for you to feel the faint drag of his tongue before he pulled back, leaving your skin warmer, more aware. He gave both hips the same careful devotion–biting, nipping, soothing–until he had marked you in ways only the two of you would know were there.

When he settled just above your pelvis, his breath was hot against the last inch of space your shorts covered. He lingered there for a beat, his lips brushing you in a feather-light pass before he lifted his gaze. Those blue eyes–still kissed with that ember-like orange that burned even brighter now–looked up at you through his lashes.

“…Can I take your sh-shorts off?” He whispered.

Your hips shifted instinctively, the movement small but deliberate, before you slowly raised them from the bed. Your hands came down, finding where they rested on your waistband, and you pushed gently against them–not to refuse, but to guide.

“Please…” You whispered, the sound barely there but enough to pull the faintest breath of a smile from him.

He liked that–liked how your touch kept seeking him out, how you wanted to steer him even when he didn’t need the direction. His thumbs brushed once more over the curve of your hips, almost as if to commit the feel of this moment to memory, before he eased the cotton down.

The fabric slid over your skin in slow, patient inches, and as soon as it left you bare, the scent of your arousal wrapped around him–sweet and heady, rich enough that his breath caught for a fraction of a second. It was decadent, intoxicating, and it seemed to flood his senses until there was nothing else but you.

He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to steady himself, and lowered his head. His lips found the newly exposed skin high on your inner thigh, warm and reverent, pressing there as if sealing an unspoken promise. His nose brushed the soft flesh next, breathing you in fully, and you felt the heat in your stomach coil tighter–pulling, pooling, waiting.

His hands framed your hips again, broad and secure, his thumbs stroking idly as his mouth inched closer to where you ached. Every touch was careful, loving in its precision, and yet there was an undercurrent of hunger–of him savoring this just as much as you were.

“You were picturing th-this, weren’t you?” The question was followed by the slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue along your inner thigh–hot, wet, unhurried. Then came the gentle pull of his mouth, sucking the soft flesh between his teeth just enough for you to feel the faint graze before he soothed it again with a lazy swirl of his tongue. Each mark he left bloomed warm beneath his lips, a private trail of proof that he’d been here.

“Bob…” You whined, the sound slipping out helplessly, your hips twitching upward in a needy reflex.

His big hands caught you easily, thumbs sweeping over your hips as he guided you right back down against the mattress. The pressure wasn’t rough–just firm enough to keep you grounded, to remind you who was in control. You curled your fingers around his wrists, squeezing as if you could anchor yourself to him, as if you could pull him closer through sheer will alone.

“Admit that you pictured th–this moment,” He murmured, his breath brushing heat across your skin, “Then I’ll give you what you need…” You knew he already had the answer–of course he did–but the way his voice coaxed it out of you, deep and patient, made it feel like a confession. And still, he didn’t give in. His mouth explored everywhere but where you were aching for him most–soft licks up the inside of your thigh, slow kisses that lingered just long enough to make you shiver, even the barest scrape of teeth at the edge of where you wanted him. Every touch was deliberate, a slow burn of anticipation.

Your hips writhed against the hold of his hands, the restless ache in your core building until you could barely think. He pressed you down harder, pinning you there with the weight of his palms, and you finally broke.

“Fuck–” The word tumbled out with your breath, “I’ve pictured this almost every night, Bob… Please…I need to feel your mouth…Please.” You swore you felt it–just the faintest curve of a smile against your thigh. He kissed his way higher, biting lightly, soothing with his tongue until he was exactly where you needed him. His breath spilled warm against your slick heat, the exhale alone making your stomach tighten.

Then, finally, he leaned in and pressed his lips to you in a slow, deliberate kiss that coated him in your arousal. The softness of it made you gasp–it wasn’t hurried, wasn’t greedy, just soft, like he’d been waiting for the exact taste of you. His mouth opened against you, and you felt the first drag of his tongue through your folds–long, unbroken, savoring. When he reached your clit, the tip of his tongue flicked it gently, a teasing rhythm that made your thighs tremble against his shoulders. He didn’t rush, didn’t overwhelm–he moved with patient precision, tasting you like you were something rare, something worth taking his time with.

His tongue flattened and dragged through your folds again, slower this time, like he was savoring every inch, but then he dipped lower, sealing his mouth against you in a way that made heat explode through your spine. The sound he made–low, hungry–vibrated right into you, and when he pulled back just far enough to put a little bit of space between you and his mouth, he let a deliberate strand of spit fall from his tongue onto you. It landed hot and messy over your slickness.

“Your taste has me dr-drooling all over you, Y/N…I want to make a mess out of you…” He murmured, his words damp over your swollen and aching clit. Before you could respond, his grip shifted–big hands locking over your hips and hauling you forward. The mattress dipped with the force of it, and then he was grinding your core against his mouth. His nose pressed snugly against you, the tip of it dragging over your clit every time he rocked you, and his tongue moved greedily beneath you–licking, curling, pushing inside until you couldn’t tell where your own movements stopped and his started.

You cried out, your fingers tangling deep into his hair, pulling hard when the pressure got too much but never enough to really push him away. He groaned into you when you tugged, the sound vibrating against your core, and it made your thighs quake around his head. His hair was damp from his sweat, your nails scratching at his scalp as you tried to hold on.

One of his hands slid lower, his thumb hooking your entrance open before two thick fingers pushed inside–slow for only a second before he started thrusting them hard and fast. The sound was obscene–wet and lewd, every pump echoing in the small room like the filthiest soundtrack.

“Fuck…Listen to that,” He rasped against you, curling his fingers just right so they dragged against your most sensitive spot. “That’s you dr-dripping all over my hand. All over my face.” Your hips jerked forward helplessly, riding the rhythm of his tongue and fingers without shame now. His other hand kept you pinned exactly where he wanted you, forcing you to take every deep lick, every sharp suck. The pressure built so fast you barely had time to warn him before it snapped, your voice breaking on his name as you came hard–thighs clamping around his head, hips stuttering against his mouth.

He didn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your climax spurred him on, tongue and fingers working you through it, swallowing everything you gave him. The overstimulation hit quick, your whimpers turning into desperate little pleas as you tugged hard at his hair, trying to pull him back.

“B-Bob…T-Too much–” You gasped, but he only eased off enough to slow his pace, giving you one last slow drag of his tongue before finally letting you go. He stayed between your thighs for a moment, his cheek resting warm and heavy on the soft inside of one, his lips pressing lazy kisses there while he watched you try to catch your breath. Your chest heaved, your skin flushed, every muscle loose and trembling. It was a beautiful sight to behold, and he could’ve

Then that slow, crooked smile curled his mouth. He kissed both thighs–firm, lingering presses–before pushing himself up over you. His weight sank into you, the heat of his body a solid, grounding weight. You could feel his erection through his sleep pants, thick and straining, pressing right against your still-sensitive core.

You gasped at the contact, the solid weight of him pressing into you, the heat radiating through the thin barrier of fabric making your toes curl. Bob braced himself above you on one forearm, his other hand stroking your cheek with surprising tenderness after how rough his mouth had just been on you.

Your eyes flicked over his face, catching every detail–the faint flush high on his cheekbones, the way his freckles stood out stark against his heated skin, and most of all the glistening shine coating his lips and cheeks. Your arousal was smeared across him, catching the low light in wet streaks that made your stomach tighten all over again. The intimacy of it–knowing he was like this because he had been buried between your thighs, tasting you until you broke–made your pulse skip.

He leaned down, and his lips met yours in a slow, unhurried kiss. You felt his breath hitch faintly when you didn’t hesitate, when you welcomed him in and let the taste of yourself spread over your tongue. His hand on your cheek tightened just slightly, like he was grounding himself in you, and you let your own hands wander–over the hard planes of his chest, the warmth of his stomach, the faint twitch of muscle under your fingertips.

When your fingers slipped down to the waistband of his sleep pants, you felt the faint, tacky dampness there from earlier, the telltale mess of his release still clinging to the fabric. It made you smile against his mouth–knowing that just listening to you through the wall had made him cum all over himself like that. He felt you smile and pulled back just enough to see the look in your eyes, his own narrowing slightly in that quiet, knowing way.

You didn’t say anything–you just dipped your hand beneath the waistband. The heat of him hit you immediately, the fine, neatly trimmed hairs brushing over your knuckles before your fingers slid lower, wrapping around the thick, hot length of him. He was even bigger than you’d pictured–heavy and hard in your hand, every inch of him radiating heat.

Your thumb swept over the slick bead of pre-cum at the tip, and his head dropped forward with a low, broken groan. His hips twitched in your grasp before you even began to stroke him, and when you did–slow, deliberate pumps from base to tip–his breath stuttered hard.

“Fu-Fuck…” His voice was thick, frayed at the edges, the stammer catching as though you’d stolen half his coordination.

You built the rhythm gradually, savoring the way the muscles in his stomach flexed each time your fist glided up, the way his body shifted closer to you. His cock throbbed hot in your hand, and you could feel his restraint in the way his hips kept trying to push but stopped short.

But then his palm wrapped around your wrist, halting your strokes mid-glide. His breathing was uneven, his forehead pressing briefly to yours as if he needed the closeness to get the words out.

“I don’t… I don’t want to cu-cum in my pants again,” He murmured, voice low but heavy with need. He swallowed hard, blue eyes locking on yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “…I wa-want to cum in you. Please, Y/N…Ca-Can I?” His thumb traced the inside of your wrist where your pulse was hammering at the question, his chest rising and falling like he was hanging onto the last thread of his control.

The sound of his plea made something deep inside you melt, and even though the exhaustion from your earlier orgasms was starting to weigh on your body, all you could think about was the one fantasy you’d always wanted fulfilled–being filled by him. The chance was here now, right in front of you, and there was no hesitation in your answer.

“Yes…Yes please,” You breathed, your voice trembling with a mixture of urgency and awe. Bob’s eyes softened for a split second before the embers brightened again. He leaned down to kiss you–wet, brief, but still charged–then shifted back just enough to shove his plaid sleep pants down his legs. The second they cleared his hips, his erection sprang free, heavy and unapologetic in the open air.

You couldn’t help the gasp that left you.

It was big. Thick and long enough that your first thought was that there was no way it would fit without some sort of sting–but god, you wanted to try anyway. The flushed head glistened with pre-cum, a bead slipping slowly down over the angry red tip, the vein running along the underside pronounced and throbbing in time with his pulse. Every flex of his fingers around the base made it twitch, like he was fighting to keep it in check.

His head tilted slightly, the corner of his mouth curling in the faintest smirk as your thought reached him.

“I’ll go slow…You ju–just tell me if you need me to stop, or if you need a break…Okay?” You nodded immediately, too far gone to second-guess yourself, your thighs falling open in silent invitation as he wrapped one hand around himself. His other arm braced beside your head, and he leaned in to capture your mouth again–this kiss deeper, warmer, the kind that pulled you under like a tide. Your nails skimmed lightly along the muscle of his shoulders as his hips adjusted, spreading over you. You felt the wet heat of his tip drag through your folds, gliding up over your clit before sliding back down, tracing your entrance in lazy, taunting passes that made your thighs twitch. When he finally hitched there, catching just on the edge of you, you broke the kiss with a shaky inhale.

Then the slow push began.

You gasped softly against his lips at the stretch–every inch deliberate, every bit of you pulling tight around him. Your nails dug deeper into his shoulder blades without meaning to, leaving faint crescent shapes in his freckled skin. His forehead dropped against yours, his hair falling in loose strands that brushed your temple and tickled your skin.

“You okay?” He murmured, quiet but close, blue eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

“Keep going…Please,” You whispered, voice catching at the end. He kissed you again–slower now, like he wanted to taste the exact sound of your plea–before sinking deeper. It was slow, but absolutely perfect, and the two of you kept whispering to each other, him making sure you were okay, and you reassuring him that you were. He let out the faintest whimper when he bottomed out, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek like he needed to feel you there as much as he needed to feel you wrapped around him.

“God…You’re ta–taking me so well, Y/N,” He breathed, his voice trembling from restraint. “I can feel the way you’re adjusting to me…” Your answering moan was soft but wrecked, your arms sliding around his shoulders to pull him in closer. Your legs intertwined slowly with his, locking him in, making the connection even tighter. His hips were pressed firm against yours, the broad head of him nudging right against your cervix. You could’ve sworn in those moments he was pulsing inside of you, syncing up with the way your walls were squeezing him.

For a few moments, he just stayed there–rock still–peppering your face with small kisses. His lips brushed along your cheekbone, over the slope of your nose, down the hollow just beside your mouth. You tilted into each one instinctively, your breaths leaving you in short, warm huffs.

“You can move, Bob,” you whispered, your voice catching at the edges.

He nodded once, kissed you deep, and then started to move. His first thrusts were gentle, patient, his gaze locked unwaveringly with yours. Every roll of his hips felt measured, like he was memorizing the exact way you clenched around him, how your breath hitched when he bottomed out again.

The pace built gradually; his hips adjusted, the angle changing so his movements pressed into you with more control more deliberate intent. You dragged your nails down his back, catching on the faint, raised heat of the lines you’d already carved into him earlier, and his low groan vibrated into your mouth.

But as the heat between you sharpened, he slid one big hand down your arm, curling his fingers around your wrists. He eased your arms from around his shoulders, pressing them into the mattress above your head with his palm. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was solid enough that you could only clutch the edge of his hand for purchase. The position pinned you beneath him, open and vulnerable, his weight a warm, solid cage over you.

His thrusts deepened, hips snapping with a little more force now, his chest brushing yours with every movement. Your lips ghosted together–almost kissing, almost not–your breath mingling in the hot, narrow space between you. Then his mouth found yours again, slow at first before his tongue slipped in, teasing past your lips with a careful push.

You let him in without hesitation, sucking gently at the slick heat of his tongue. That pulled a quiet, muffled groan from his throat, the sound spilling into your mouth like he wanted you to taste it. You sucked a little harder, and his hips faltered for just a second before he drove into you deeper, his grip over your wrists tightening like he needed the anchor.

The kiss turned messy–wet, open, greedy. You could feel the soft scrape of his teeth, the warm glide of spit when he drew back just enough to breathe before sealing his mouth to yours again. Every thrust synced with the slow tangle of tongues, the rhythm building heat between your bodies until the air felt almost too thick to draw in.

Your legs tightened around his hips, your heels pressing into the backs of his thighs as if to drag him closer, and his thrusts answered–harder now, deeper, until you could feel every thick inch of him filling you, stretching you, claiming you.

You could feel your body tightening, every muscle winding itself like a coil. That hot, aching twist at the base of your spine shot upward in a shiver, leaving you breathless. You were hyper aware now–of the exact way the swollen crown of his cock dragged over that tender, spongy spot inside you each time he bottomed out, the way the friction there seemed to pull your orgasm closer with ruthless precision.

His thrusts began to lose their careful rhythm, turning just a little ragged, the weight of each one landing deep and heavy. His mouth stayed on yours even as control slipped–kisses gone wet and sloppy, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, drool slick between your lips as you sucked it down greedily, unwilling to lose any part of him.

The sounds coming out of him–low, stuttering whimpers that cracked in the middle–only made your chest tighten more. You squeezed his hand where it held your wrists pinned above your head, clutching him like an anchor as your body threatened to shake apart beneath him.

Then his free hand slid down, his broad palm pressing into your stomach for a moment before his fingers slipped lower between you. The calloused pad of his middle finger found your clit instantly, circling with just enough pressure to make your breath break.

“I want you to cum all ov-over my cock…” He panted, the words catching on the tremor in his voice. “Want to feel all of you, Y/N…Want to feel you soak me…” The desperation in his tone cracked something open inside you. The slick mess you’d both made earlier still coated you, his pre-cum and your arousal making his touch impossibly smooth, the glide over your swollen clit a perfect counterpoint to the deep grind of his cock inside you.

Your thighs twitched involuntarily, the muscles locking and releasing in sharp pulses. He groaned low when your walls clenched hard around him, and the sound seemed to vibrate straight through your chest. His strokes against your clit got just a little faster, perfectly in time with his thrusts–deep, dragging, deliberate.

The pleasure crested so fast you could barely warn him–your breath breaking into frantic little gasps, your hips tilting up to chase him, your voice catching on a cry that turned into his name. Heat burst through you like a shockwave, your whole body clamping down around him, your legs tightening until your heels dug into the backs of his thighs.

“Th–That’s it,” He groaned, almost choking on the sound, his thrusts faltering into deep, grinding pushes as you convulsed around him. “God, that’s it, fuck–”

You were still shuddering through the peak when his own restraint snapped. His hips pressed flush to yours, burying him as deep as your body would take, and you felt it–his cock twitching hard inside you, the first hot pulse of his release spilling deep against your cervix. He let out a broken, guttural moan, his forehead dropping to yours as the warmth flooded you in thick, heavy waves, clinging to every inch of you from the inside out.

Your aftershocks dragged him through it, his hips rocking in small, helpless movements like he needed to keep himself inside you, needing to give you every drop. You could feel the mess pooling around him, the way his cum mixed with yours, hot and slick and impossibly full in the tiny space he’d left.

His breathing was wrecked–shallow and trembling against your cheek–as he kissed you again, slow and messy, like neither of you could remember how to let go. His hand stayed over yours on the mattress, fingers curled around your smaller ones, holding you in place as if the moment might slip away if he eased up even an inch.

Bob finally drew back from your mouth, the kiss breaking with a faint, wet sound that seemed to hang in the air between you. His chest rose against yours in long, shaky breaths, each exhale brushing warm across your lips. His forehead dipped just enough to touch yours again, and his voice came out low and frayed at the edges, still trembling from the aftershocks.

“Fuck… Y/N…S-So perfect,” He whispered, the words almost reverent–like he was saying them to himself as much as to you.

Your fingers curled tighter around the one hand he still had pressed into the mattress, the damp heat of his palm grounding you. You gave him a squeeze, your voice catching in the space between you, husky with satisfaction and breathless awe.

“You really know how to please a woman.” You complimented. That pulled a soft, warm laugh from him–quiet but rich, rumbling low in his chest. It wasn’t cocky; it was almost shy, like he didn’t quite know what to do with praise that landed this close to his heart. Slowly, he eased his grip on your wrists. The blood prickled back into your fingers in tiny pins and needles, but he didn’t let go entirely. One of your hands stayed tangled with his, that connection unbroken, as he lowered your joined hands to the pillow beside your head. His thumb kept stroking over your knuckles like he wasn’t ready to lose even an inch of contact. His gaze softened for just a heartbeat before it sharpened again with curiosity, his breath fanning over your cheek.

“Was it better than what you were pi-picturing?” He asked. The little laugh that escaped you was shaky but genuine, spilling out before you could stop it. You tipped your head back into the pillow, your lips curving despite the heat still thrumming through you.

”God, yes…I feel bad for future you, though–because I’ll only be thinking about this moment until the next time you fuck me.” His answering smile was slow, crooked, and devastatingly warm, his eyes catching the low light so the blue flared bright around the faint flecks of gold. He dipped down and pressed his mouth to the side of your throat, kissing you softly there. The press was unhurried, his lips lingering long enough that you could feel the shape of them against your skin even after he pulled away. His voice followed, a hushed brush of heat at your ear.

“It may be so-sooner than you think.” He replied. You felt your eyebrows lift, the playful suspicion cutting through your post-orgasm haze.

”Oh, really?” His breath caught a quiet laugh, one corner of his mouth quirking as he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze.

“Definitely…Bu-But only if you want to of course.” The sincerity under the tease made your stomach flip. You didn’t hesitate–your chin tipped up, lips brushing the faint stubble along his jaw.

”I would never say no to another round of sex with you.” You murmured against his skin. A low, pleased hum vibrated through his chest, and the smile that bloomed across his face wasn’t just bright–it was boyish, unguarded, almost glowing. His free hand cupped the side of your head, fingers slipping gently into your hair as if to frame you there, to hold this moment in place. He bent enough to press one last kiss to your temple, slow and full of something more tender than lust, before he let the weight of his body settle more comfortably into yours.

bob is sure his entire body is about to explode.

for the past few weeks, there's been something buzzing just below his skin that he can't quite name— nerves? anxiety? fear? bob didn't know. he only knew that it was unbearable and that it was trying to crawl out of his skin.

you were here. in new york. in brooklyn. but where exactly? nobody knew. you could have been staying in the hotel right next to the watchtower and he wouldn't even know it.

and bob is nervous. he's thrown up once already, maybe twice. (okay, three times, but who's counting?)

the tab on his laptop blares your name in bold black letters. a picture of you is staring back at bob, smiling at him like you're mocking him. there's an entire website dedicated entirely to you— a movie director. credits, awards, press snippets. there's comments praising you and your work, and they make him smile.

you're still relatively new to the scene, so most of the photos of you are from group pictures. in half of them, you're barely in the frame.

bob scrolls down again even through he's already read through the entire page about fifteen times. he thinks he knows more about you than he does about himself.

he knows what studio you work at. he knows your most recent project. he knows the last three cities you've been too, and the next three cities you want to visit. he knows that you went to film school after the blip, graduated top of your class, and that you trained under all the best directors. he even knows that you had developed a dust allergy.

"bob—" yelena replies flatly after bob tells all of her this, "it sounds like you've been stalking her."

"no, no—" bob quickly shakes his head, his arms shooting up in defence like he's being held at gunpoint, "no, well i mean— not like that. i'm not being creepy about it."

yelena raises a skeptical brow as she slides bob a warm strawberry pop tart. she takes a bite into her own, "you just told me you knew what material her bedsheets are made of. i don't even know the material of my own bedsheets."

bob opens his mouth like he's going to give yelena a detailed explanation as to why he knows these things— why he needs to know these things— but closes it. he shifts uncomfortably, "it's research."

"bob."

"i just—" he winces, "i wanted to be prepared. in case i saw her. or bumped into her. or do something that would make me look like an idiot. i- i don't know. i wanted to impress her."

yelena mutters something in russian that sounds vaguely similar to a prayer, then turns face bob again. she leans forward, voice softer this time, but still firm, "you spent every day together for two years, bob. you already know her."

she holds his gaze for a moment.

"you're not scared of not knowing who she is now. you're scared she's moved on. that she forgot you." how about you find out where she's shooting and just talk to her—"

bob shakes his head in doubt, "it's not that easy—"

"if she cares about you, then it will be." yelena cuts him off, her voice strong, "love doesnt just dissapear like that. trust me, i know. i might have been gone for five years to everyone else, but it was one second for me. and when i came back, nothing felt the same— nothing except for the love i held in my heart. that part was still there."

there's a conflicted look in bob's eyes. he believes yelena. he knows she wouldn't lie to him about this— wouldn't say something like that just to make him feel better— that she'd guide him as much as she can, but he's still so afraid.

you may still be the same you were all those years ago, but you're also a big shot now— famous— and bob is still bob, just sober now. if anything, he hoped you would be proud of him for that.

"look—" yelena can see the thoughts darting behind his eyes. she stands back up and tilts her head, "just find out where in brooklyn she's shooting. if you need me to, i can come with you. i'll even hold your hand if you want."

the corners of bob's mouth twitch, almost like he's about to smile, but he doesn't know quite how to right now. the what-ifs in his brain are still running rampant.

so he does. later that night, bob sits on his bed with his phone, the blue light burning his eyes in the dark of the room. he's been searching for film sets in new york all night.

he glances at the time in the corner of his phone. in measley white text, 2:34am stares back at him. bob takes a deep breath as he leans back against the headboard, a hand running through his hair. his fingers are cold and his palms are clammy, and he finds that his heart is beating way too fast for someone who's barely moved all day.

his search bar is open, filled with every combination of relevant words he could think of. film sets in brooklyn today, movies being filmed this month, [your name] director location now, movie production nyc july. it's endless. of course there's a few results, but there’s nothing involving you. at this point, he thinks it'd be easier to just walk around brooklyn to see if he can spot you.

you were frustratingly hard to track. you didnt have social media—no instagram, no twitter, no facebook, no tiktok, no youtube channel, and not even a crappy linkedin.

then— almost by accident— bob ends up on reddit. he types your name into the search bar without much hope, but the results suprise him. the first thing that comes up is a subreddit dedicated entirely to you— your work, pictures of you, and even clips of you on set. there's only 312 members. nothing huge, but enough to make bob a little proud. he scrolls down the subreddit.

then, tucked deep into a comment thread, he finds it—

'Saw her filming something today in Washington St in Brooklyn. No idea what the movie is about, but the rig setup was INSANE. Can't wait for it!!!'

bob clicks on the image attached to the comment. it's a wide shot— nothing super detailed— of the set, and in corner, bob can see you. he zooms in. you're standing on the edge of the frame, a headset on and a script in your grasp and talking to who bob assumes is one of the lead actors.

washington street. that's only thirty minutes away.

it's a stupid plan. he knows it's a stupid plan. but he also knows that if he spends another day pacing in his room and staring your polaroid when you were literally a couple of blocks away, he was going to lose his mind.

tomorrow. he was going tomorrow.

and the next morning rolls around the corner a lot faster than he thought it would.

bob wakes up to the sunlight streaming in through the curtains and casting warmth onto his bed. his phone is still in his hand, and he remembers falling asleep while watching an interview on a movie you co-directed.

you weren't in it for very long— just a few snippets of you explaining your favourite parts of the film and the wonderful collaboration the entire crew put in to turn it into what you envisioned.

it was barely three minutes. he watched it about a hundred times.

not because it was particularly exciting, but because it was you. you were talking, and bob had always loved listening to you. a small, stupid part of him had been waiting to hear your voice for so long, and now he finally had it.

the knowledge that you were still alive and breathing was good enough for him, living life like you hadn't just vanished into thin air one day. like you hadn't vanished upset with him, and then reappeared five years later still upset with him. like you hadn't vanished when bob needed you the most— when relapse sat heavy on his breath and regret crawled up his spine.

bob turns over in his bed as he blinks the sleep from his eyes. his body is warm and his sheets are swallowing him whole. he's comfy, and for a second, he wants to stay like this forever— but his heart has other plans. it beats against his ribs before his mind even remembers what he's meant to do today.

his phone buzzes.

YELENA

update me

bob sighs. his thumbs hover over the keyboard as he tries to think of the right words. he stares at yelena's text before he types a response.

BOB

They're shooting in Washington street somewhere near the park. We can probably see the set from the living room

he stares at his own text for a moment, then flips to his notes app where he's already saved the address, the crew call time, and the nearest subway stop. he knows exactly where you're filming. he found it hours ago— but that's not the problem.

BOB

But I don't know

I'm still thinking about it

YELENA

thinking is for losers 😡 just do it

just kidding

but also not really joking

bob lets out a short breath— almost a laugh. he knows she means well. he can picture her sitting in the training room a couple floors down with a protein bar in her hand and her phone in the other, rolling her eyes at his cowardice like it's a personal inconvenience.

BOB

It's just been a long time.

She probably doesn't remember me like that anymore

he pauses.

BOB

And I don't want to mess up whatever peace she's made

this time, yelena takes a little longer to answer. bob watches as the 'typing...' bubble flickers in and out about four times before she finally sends the message.

YELENA

if she found peace then i am willing to bet a lot of money that you were a part of it

his heart is racing. his palms are still sweaty— and yet somehow, he's already undressed and in the shower. he even uses the fancy lavender shampoo valentina had stocked the bathrooms with instead of his dollar tree three-in-one.

and when he gets out of the shower, his phone buzzes again.

YELENA

you got this 👍 go bob

BOB

❤️

but oh god, he doesn't know what to wear. what do you even wear when you go searching new york city for your best friend who you liked a little bit more than platonically who turned into dust right in front of your eyes in the middle of an argument about your meth addiction? theres no guidebook for that.

he doesnt even own much— just a few pairs of sweatpants and a couple of hoodies and sweaters. not that he needed much anyways— he never really left the tower.

"geez." he grumbles.

he settles on a navy sweater and the most formal pair of black sweatpants he has (the one with the least stains), along with his only pair of shoes, his beat-up grey nikes.

then he exhales— hard.

"okay—" he says to his reflection in the mirror, "okay. you're going to... possibly see the love of your life. who probably thinks you're an asshole. cool. yeah. okay."

bob grabs his phone and his wallet. he ensures that the polaroid is still tucked deep within the safety of his wallet. he shoves them into his pockets, giving them a quick tap for good luck before he leaves his room.

he steps out of his room, nerves chewing away at his stomach, and walks straight into the living room.

john's lounging on the couch with a bowl of cereal on his lap, begrudgingly watching alexei struggle with the tv remote. the russian clicks helplessly at the little buttons on the remote, but he can't seem to navigate anything. ava's in the kitchen pouring granola into a bowl of yoghurt. as she walks past bob, she looks him up and down.

"you smell good." ava raises her brows as she catches a whiff of his new lavender shampoo. she shoots bob a cheeky smile, "you heading out?

john and alexei turn their heads to watch the commotion.

"i'm, uh—" he nods, trying to instill confidence into himself, "i'm going to brooklyn. to see the set."

john pauses mid-chew. ava stops stirring her yoghurt, and alexei blinks, as if he's recalibrating. he says it, soft but certain, they're all a little surprised.

"seriously?" john asks.

"yeah." bob nods, but the stale energy in the room and the looks on their faces makes his stomach drop a little. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, "why? do you guys think it's a bad idea—"

"it is a great idea, bob!" alexei quickly interrupts as he jumps up from the couch. he saunters over to bob and grabs a hold of his shoulders, squeezing firmly, "today is the day you get your girlfriend to fall in love with you again! we are proud, my boy."

john snorts as he shakes his head, never missing an opportunity to dumb down the conversation, "they never dated, remember?"

alexei ignores john, still gripping bob's shoulders with unshakeable enthusiasm, "that does not matter. your love is bigger than girlfriend and boyfriend labels. labels are for jars, not people."

“thanks.” bob's lips tug into a smile, "do i look okay? i didn't really have anything to pick from, but—"

"you look good." ava adds with a nod, "nervous, but good."

bob glances towards the elevator door. his heart is beating against his ribs like it's going to burst out at any moment— like it's trying to run ahead of him to see you first.

"okay. i, uh—" he awkwardly points to the elevator, "i guess i'm gonna go now."

"bring her home, bob!" alexei beams, patting him once— hard— on the back. it pushes bob towards the elevator, sending him stumbling on his own feet.

"i'm not— she's not gonna—" he turns back and shakes his head, his cheeks flushed, and gives them a measly thumbs up, "wish me luck."

"break a leg, bobby." john deadpans.

ava raises her bowl like she's giving a toast, "go get your girl."

alexei just nods, solemn and serious, "may the force be with you."

he's only been in new york a couple of months, but he thinks he knows where he's going. the directions are pulled up on his phone on maps, but he double-checks his notes where he's written them down just in case he needed it.

bob takes a seat on the subway. his body jerks a little as it starts moving, watching as the graffiti in the station starts blurring as the train speeds up. he counts the stops in his head, tapping them out anxiously against his thigh.

when the train finally pulls into high street, his knee is bouncing like he's about to run a marathon. he gets off and follows the slow trickle of people heading towards the exit. once he's above ground, brooklyn stretches out before him, quieter than manhattan, but still buzzing with life.

bob looks at the map again. washington street isn't far— a ten minute walk, maybe less.

and as he's walking, he's almost knocked over by two girls. they're running in the same direction as him and nearly crash into him as they round the corner. they're laughing breathlessly, giddy with kinetic teenage energy.

one of them quickly turns back and shouts a sincere "sorry!" before turning back around and running towards washington street. bob furrows his brows as he watches them bolt up the block towards where he's heading.

and then he sees it. the orange cones, the large gates and tents blocking off the street, the hundreds of people waiting at the curb just to catch a glimpse of what's being hidden behind the curtain. from behind the gates, there's orders being shouted about lights and positions. the girls slow as they reach the perimeter of the set, one of them pulls out her phone, already recording.

bob's throat goes dry. he's here. he's actually here.

he's not even sure what to expect. he's not sure if he'll get close enough to see you or if you're even here— but there's a pull in his chest that drags him closer and closer to the crowd.

the people that gather around the gate are silent, almost as if they're trying to listen to what's being said on the other side, but they're buzzing with excitement— subtle, but undeniable.

bob finds himself squashed between the two girls from earlier and an older man with a camera around his neck, who bob assumes to be some sort of paparazzi. every so often, someone gasps or points at the set. they're all waiting for something.

"bob!"

he jumps. it comes from behind him, sharp and almost confused. sure enough, valentina's assistant is squeezing through the crowd with mild exasperation and a winded sort of urgency. her eyes are locked onto his like she might lose him in the crowd if she looks away.

"mel?" bob blinks, "what are you— what are you doing here?"

she reaches him, pulling her blazer back up her shoulder, "valentina saw that you left the tower and sent me to bring you back. what are you doing here?" she squints as she looks around, "is this a movie set?"

"uh. well—" bob rubs the back of his neck. how is he going to explain this? "it's… uh..."

then it happens— the cloth is pulled down and a gate creaks open. a rustle moves through the crowd. there's camera flashes already going off, and someone shouts "it's him!"

and out steps the lead actor.

he's tall, and he has sunglasses perched on his head even though it's a gloomy day. he flashes a smile at his fans, signs a few things, and waves a couple times.

"oh my god." bob hears mel complain, but as the crowd surges forwards towards the lead actor, mel is pushed away from bob. she squeals as someone takes her spot, and she disappears into the crowd faster than she appeared.

someone shouts, "how is it working with this director?"

the actor grins, acting calm and casual as if he doesn't have fans obnoxiously shoving their phones in his face, "it's great. she's one of the best directors i've ever worked with. she really knows how to bring her visions to life.”

but bob isnt looking at him. he's looking past him— through the open gate— trying to look for you, but he can't see much. there's tangles of wires and lighting equipment everywhere. a swarm of production assistants move past, but none of them are you.

he leans a little to the side, just enough to peer deeper into the lot. his heart is beating deep in his gut. bob knows it's stupid. if you were there, he's sure something would have happened— he would have felt it, heard your laugh, caught a glimpse of your silhouette— but there's nothing.

bob frowns. maybe it was stupid of him to think it would have been that easy. maybe it was always going to end like this. maybe this would have happened even if you hadn't vanished during the blip. maybe it was always going to end with bob standing behind a wall, watching your life go on while he stays stuck on you.

he doesn't wait for the gate to close. he doesn't wait for mel to find him and drag him back to the tower. he just turns and leaves.

bob finds himself in a small corner café somewhere in lower manhattan. he doesnt really know how he ended up here. he took the subway back to manhattan and just started walking.

now, he's hunched over a graffitied table near the window, chewing on a ham and cheese croissant and his bitter coffee like it's the worst thing in the world. his croissant is stale, but he can't complain. he only had five dollars in his wallet and this was all he could buy.

your polaroid laid flat on the table, mocking him.

bob stares at it like it might move— like it might speak to him or blink— but it doesn't. it's just that same frozen moment in time, taunting him like he had done something wrong.

outside of the window, life moves on. the sun is setting, people are walking by with smiles on their faces, taxis drive by and honk, and there are food trucks parked on the curb serving delicious overpriced food, but bob feels miles away from it all.

he had overheard it as he was leaving— a conversation between two crew members in the smoking area just outside of the movie set.

"we're packing up tonight. trucks start rolling out at 6am up north to syracuse tomorrow. first shoot is scheduled for monday."

bob couldn't go to syracuse. he had barely made it to brooklyn.

there's a horrible gnawing feeling of disappointment festering in his chest. not because he couldn't find you, but because he actually thought he would— that maybe fate would be kind to him and bring him back to you once more.

but no. fate hadn't even led him to a good croissant.

his teeth tear away at another chunk of it. the cheese is cold and rubbery against his teeth, and the pastry flakes inside of his mouth like drywall. he sets it down onto the plate and pushes it a few inches away.

"shouldve just stayed home..." he grumbles.

his phone buzzes.

YELENA

all good?

bob sighs. he wishes.

BOB

No

They're moving the shoot to Syracuse tomorrow

YELENA

syracuse in italy?

| BOB

Syracuse in New York. Google says it’s up North

YELENA

im sorry

you did really good bob. im proud of you

he stands to leave, holding tight onto the polaroid. the cafe bell gives him a half-hearted jingle as he pushes it open. he's still chewing on a bit of the croissant, bitter crumbs sticking to his lips when it happens.

he crashes into someone rounding the corner.

papers fly everywhere. it almost looks like someone just threw an entire stack of coloured paper and tossed it into the air. it's utterly cartoonish.

bob stumbles back in shock— his coffee had slipped from his hand and collapsed to the ground, destroying many of the papers. he recoils as a blue paper flies straight into his face and pens and highlighters drop straight onto his shoes. its chaos.

"shit, i'm—" a stressed laugh breaks through the air as the person drops to their knees, scrambling to pick up their stuff before the new york grime clings to it, "i'm so sorry. i wasn't looking where i was going."

bob's stomach drops to his ass. oh my god.

his eyes drop down in an instant, trying to identify who it was— but a hood is pulled right over their head and he can see the brim of a cap peaking out. but he's not crazy. he knows what he heard. their voice had sounded almost exactly like—

"i'll buy you a new coffee." they offer, wiping their coffee-soaked highlighters against their jeans, "shit..."

it hits him like a punch in the face.

he doesnt lean down to help— he can't. he's frozen in place, and the only thing that could possibly move him is if the world opened up and swallowed him whole. the air around him warps and his breath catches in his throat.

"how much is coffee around here? like 6 bucks?" but the question goes through one ear and out the other.

the person stacks whatever isn’t french in coffee back into their bag and gives a shaky sigh, muttering something unintelligible under their breath.

bob can barely move or think— but a white rectangle lying face down on the floor by his shoe catches his eye. but the stranger is reaching for it before he can even comprehend what's happening. they're standing up and flipping it around before he can reach out and take it.

"hey, you dropped—"

it's the polaroid. his polaroid. your polaroid.

and it's almost like the trembling hand that holds it recognises it too— the polaroid, the setting, the smile, and the woman— but especially the man that she holds.

it's you. it has to be you. nobody reacts like that to a strangers photo, and especially not after they've spilled coffee all over their nice sweater.

your head is tilted just enough that bob can make out your features. your eyes are blinking like you've seen a ghost, and lips curves into a small frown. your eyebrows are curled in confusion and he fears you might start crying.

you're still hidden underneath the shadow of your cap, but bob recognises you straight away. how could he not? he feels a bit ashamed to admit it, but he had been scouring the internet for you for almost a week straight. he’s seen more picture of you now than he’s even seen of himself.

and then your head shoots up— eyes wide and mouth slightly parted— and bob feels his knees turn into jelly.

"...bob?"

and he swears the sound of his name on your lips could kill him and then bring him back to life in the same breath.

but oh god, what does he do now? you're right in front of him— so close that he could reach out and touch you just like he's wanted to since you'd vanished. but he doesn't.

your name slips from his mouth in a soft whisper.

but now he's sure he actually might explode. not in a heart-pounding, stomach-churning way. it's more of a oh-my-god-i'm-going-to-die-from-this kind of way.

you recoil for a moment— just a touch— but it's enough to make bob's heart lurch. there's an unreadable look in your eyes that bob doesn't know what to do with.

he's afraid you're going to hit him. slap him. curse at him. he almost wants you to. he wants you to shove him onto the ground— to do anything at this point. he just wants you to touch him. he wants to feel your hands on him, even if it hurts. his hands twitch at his sides, aching to reach for you, but terrified of what might happen if he does.

"say something." his voice is barely a whisper— barely holding itself together, "please."

instead, you reach out. you both watch as your shaky hand presses flat onto his chest. his pulse thrums hard against your palm, wild and thrashing, and the weight of your touch wrings out a shaky breath from both of you.

bob wouldnt mind if you hit him— if you pounded so hard on his chest that it left dents where your fists landed. he wouldn't have minded if you pressed a little harder and tore his heart from his body.

just take it. bob thinks. it already belongs to you.

and then it hits you— like cold water to the face, like lightning in your veins— he's real. he's not a memory, or a dream, or an awful hallucination brought on by stress. he's real, and he's in front of you, and you can feel his heart beating underneath your palm.

you stumble forwards. you don't think. you just move— fast, clumsy, desperate. your arms wrap around his torso like it's your lifeline, fingers twisting into the fabric of his sweater like youre trying to intertwine yourself with him.

"oh my god." you mutter into his chest, "bob—"

bob inhales like he's been holding his breath for years. he notes the tremble in your voice and the way you cling to him like he might vanish. you’re not hitting him or yelling at him. you’re holding him. you’re as distraught as he is.

his arms come around you slowly— hesitant— and then all at once, like he can’t help it anymore. his eyes flutter shut as he tries to get a grip on his breathing. his arms wrap around your body, anchoring you to him.

and he notices everything. how your body sinks into his arms, how your breath hitches, how you bury your face so deep into him like maybe you’re trying to disappear into him entirely.

and god, you smell so good. soft and warm, like vanilla and something sweet. maybe honey. maybe even lavender— wait, is this weird? bob wonders, he’s being weird, isn't he?

but one of your hands slides down his back like you’re trying to feel all of him, your other arm pulls him tighter than he thought possible.

so no, he decides. he’s not being weird. you’re holding onto him like you need him, and he’s holding you because he does need you.

your arms loosen slowly— reluctantly— and bob follows your lead as you begin to pull apart. it’s just an inch at first, like neither of you are ready to let go, but then your hands slide up to cradle his face. your thumbs sweep across his cheek like you’re recalling lost memories, and your eyes search his like you’re trying to find something you thought you’d lost forever.

then you lean in, your lips kissing at the soft skin on his cheeks several times, each kiss landing harder and harder. bob’s eyes flutter shut, his hands curling around your waist, fingers pressing gently into the fabric of your jacket.

“it’s really you, right?” you ask, still breathless as you press another kiss under the swell of his cheekbone. there’s a hint of humour in your tone, but it’s overshadowed by the desperateness of the question.

“yeah.” he laughs as he nods, almost like he can’t believe it himself, “yeah, it’s me. it’s really me.”

your fingers stay curled at his jaw as you pull away, a giddy smile on your face. bob’s eyes flicker between yours, trying to read everything you’re not saying out loud. he’s afraid you think he’s all old and wrinkly now— that he’s not the bob you once knew, who was an addict, but at least he was your bob.

he knows he’s changed and he knows you can see it. you’ve both changed— but he’s nine years older than the last time you saw him. the five years that had vanished from you hadn’t vanished from him. they etched themselves onto his face in the form of smile lines and shadows under his eyes, his jaw a little sharper and his skin a touch darker.

“is something wrong?” he whispers, brow twitching in worry.

you shake your head as you run a hand through his hair, “jus’ wanna take a look at you, bobby.” you whisper, “i wanna see what i missed.”

and he smiles, loving the feeling of your hands on his face. you’re so close that he can count the eyelashes fanning over your eyes when you blink. he can see the way your pupils dilate as you take him in— like you’re memorising him all over again.

his voice comes out soft, almost unsure. “do i look okay?”

your thumb brushes against the edge of his jaw, eyes swiping briefly over his lips, and then you smile— that heart stopping smile— and you nod, “you look amazing, bob.”

god, you’re so beautiful. he thinks. he never wants you to stop saying his name. his eyes swipe over your lips, still so pretty and plump, and your eyes, magnetic as ever.

but then you let go of his face. the softness in your eyes flickers before something else bubbles up. you blink a few times, jaw clenching, and then your hands are on his chest again— but this time you’re pushing him away.

it’s not violent. its not even harsh. its just hard enough to put distance between you. bob stumbles back, startled by the change. he’s cold now, the warmth of your breath mingling with his now gone.

“why weren’t you there?” you ask. it’s not loud, but it’s enough for bobs heart to feel like it’s suffocating.

your voice cracks, and bob wants to reach out. to grab you and pull you back into his arms. to apologise and say how much of an idiot he is for abandoning you. he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

you frown, eyes glossy but still burning into his, “i turned around and you were just— you were just gone, bob. and everything in the apartment was so… different. i didn’t understand. i didn’t understand anything and… and you weren’t there.”

he tries to step towards you, to try and hold you again, but you hold a hand like you just need him to wait— like you need to get the words out before you crumble to the ground.

“i was so scared, and then i was angry.” you sniffle, “and then i didn’t know what to be.”

bob nods— eager, desperate. “i know. i know, and i’m so sorry i wasn’t there. i didnt mean to. i didnt mean to leave you like that, i swear.”

“it was five years, bob.“ you shake your head, eyes shining under the cafe lights, “five years is a long time to wait for me, i get it—“

“but i did. i waited for you. i waited for so long. but then—“ his voice cracks as he stops himself. his chest rises and falls like he’s bracing for something.

you can see it in his eyes. the hesitation. the fear. the memory of how bad all of it unraveled so long ago. the pain.

“what happened, bob?” you whisper.

he swallows hard. his gaze drops to the ground for a moment, voice hoarse as he answers, “i got bad again.”

“i didn’t mean to.” he adds desperately, looking back up at you, “i was doing okay for a while. i really was. then i… got lonely. and scared. and i didn’t know how to live with how it ended. i didn’t know how to live without you.”

your heart wrenches in your chest. the way his eyes flood with warm tears and how his hands tremble at his sides makes you want to wrap him up, tuck him into your ribs, and never let go.

“but i’m better now.” he huffs out a breathy laugh. theres tears clinging to his waterline, but his smile is so bright that you know he’s okay, “i’m a lot better.”

and you believe him. you don’t even need to hear it. you can see it in his face— in the plumpness of his face, and in the colour and warmth of his eyes. even if he hadn’t gotten better, if he was broken beyond repair, you’d still love him. he’s still your bob.

then you run back into his arms. your head slams into his chest again, and bob is quick to welcome you back in. you don’t think you could ever leave his embrace ever again.

“i missed you, bobby.” you sigh as you push your head gently into the crook of his neck.

“i missed you more.” bob presses a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your face, gentle and certain, like he means it all the way down to his bones, “so much more.”

and then you both laugh. you vibrate against each other, soft breathless giggles that slip out for no proper reason. it’s not even about anything. just relief. just being there together.

you finally pull away, hands still on each others body. there’s still a trace of laughter on his lips, and it makes your heart ache in the best way possible. your arms are around his neck, fingers playing with a strand of his hair, and his hands sit tenderly on your waist. to onlookers, you probably looked like a middle-school couple who don’t know what too much PDA is.

“you’re older than me now, right?” you ask with a teasing glint in your eye.

“i am, yeah.” bob tilts his head and puckers his lip in thought like he hadn’t really thought about it. he had— many times, actually— but only because he was afraid that you might not like how old he looked, “it’s weird to think about, isn’t it?”

you snicker and punch his arm, “you’re an old man now.”

the laughter fades, but the warmth remains. bob’s eyes flicker over your face, slow and deliberate, from the curve of your cheek to the bow of your lips. and you let him. you let him look because you’re doing the same.

you’re so close together— closer than best friends probably should be— but it feels so right.

and bob becomes hyper aware of this— the feeling of you playing with and tugging the soft ends of his hair, the way he pulls you closer when he feels your body stray from him, the way you’re looking at each others lips like best friends shouldn’t.

“can i—“ he swallows, breaking the silence, “can i ask you something?”

you tilt your head slightly and hum in encouragement.

he hesitates. his eyes flick back up, searching for your answer within your eyes, "did you... maybe... like me?"

you blink, "like you?"

there’s a nervous laugh caught in your throat, but it falls out of your mouth light and airy. bob chews at the inside of his cheek, wincing like he almost regrets asking— like he’s already preparing for the hard blow of your rejection.

he wants to take it back— to say its a joke— but he can’t, and he doesn’t. this is you, for heavens sake. he had just gotten you back. even if you didn’t like him— didn’t share the same feelings he had for you— he didn’t care.

“yeah.” he says, a little smaller now, “like… like like me?”

there’s something boyish in the way he says it. like the words are stolen from a younger version of himself. like its a question he’s been carrying around for years and only now feels brave enough to ask.

you lean forward without thinking, brushing a stray hair from his forehead refuge against his cheek, your fingers lingering as your palm settles gently on his cheek. his eyes flutter slightly at the contact.

"i was so in love with you, bob.” you whisper, thumb grazing his cheekbone, “i think i still am.”

he can’t help it anymore. your words poke at something in his brain, like a light in the dark, and something inside of him just gives.

he leans in, fast and sudden, like gravity’s been pulling him towards you this entire time and he’s only just now given in. one hand tightens around your waist, the other cups your face, and then his lips are on yours— warm and desperate and full of every unsaid thing he’s kept buried for years.

it isn’t perfect. its a little messy— your noses bump against each other and your teeth knock slightly in the rush of it all, but it’s real and it’s honest and it’s hungry, like bob’s been waiting forever.

your hands curl into the fabric of his sweater. the world tilts a little. everything narrows to this very moment, and bob is all you feel. he’s so warm and he’s so sweet against your lips, holding you so tenderly with such fervour. his breath catches, especially when your fingers brush the back of his neck and crawl into his hair.

when you both break apart, it’s only to breathe. foreheads pressed together, eyes fluttering open. you’re both grinning like love-sick idiots, dazed and a little breathless.

and then bob laughs— a soft, incredulous sound—and presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, and another, right on your jaw, then another, quick and tender above your eyebrow.

“i take it you like like me back?” you murmur, half-grinning like an idiot, your eyes still half-close and your lips brushing against his.

a quiet, disbelieving laugh falls from his mouth. then bob dips his head catches you in another kiss. it’s slower this time, gentler, like he wants to memorise the way you taste when you’re smiling.

“i do.” he mumbles into your mouth, breathless but so in love, “so much.”

dont think i forgot about the tag list!!! ok so i know you guys didn’t sign up for an official tag list but i wanted to tag you anyways lol thank you guys so much for liking and commenting and reblogging and EVERYTHING. i really do appreciate it and hope you guys stay with me for a long time!! im sorry to the people i didn’t get to tag. i dont know why it does let me but i see you 🫵

Bucky was the only one moving. You could hear the soft rustle of pantry doors opening and closing, the metallic clink of a spoon against a mug, the hush of a coffee machine heating up. His movements were deliberate, quiet, almost tender, like he didn’t want to wake the moment. You and Ava sat perched on the cool granite countertop, shoulders bumping occasionally as you both tried to blink away sleep.

Ava cradled a mug of tea in both hands, steam curling into the space between you. You had your legs tucked beneath you, hoodie sleeves draped past your fingers as you absentmindedly picked at the assorted berries Bucky had placed in front of you. The quiet hum of appliances and the rhythmic sound of Bucky moving around the kitchen felt almost domestic, like the kind of normal you rarely got here.

Then, with a cheerful ding, the elevator doors slid open. The calm broke, but not in a bad way. Yelena was the first to step in, eyes sharp and expression unreadable as always, though a rare smile tugged at her lips when she spotted the three of you. Behind her, John carried an armload of grocery bags that looked one second away from slipping out of his grasp. Bob trailed in behind them, slightly out of breath, balancing two bulging paper sacks filled with produce.

Alexei, true to form, was juggling what looked like an oversized bag of kettle corn and an entire watermelon. “Hey, how was the farmers market? Get anything good?” You asked, eyes flicking between the group as they deposited their haul onto the counter. Normally, this would be the part where Yelena launched into a dramatic monologue about Alexei’s inability to stick to a list, usually punctuated by her chucking a random jar of pickled something at him.

But this time, she stayed surprisingly quiet. Too quiet. You caught the quick glances exchanged between her and John, an amused smirk on both their faces, like they were in on something you weren’t. Before you could even raise an eyebrow in question, you heard the shuffle of footsteps and turned just in time to see Bob making a beeline for you. You straightened up instinctively, suddenly very aware of your appearance, sleep-mussed hair, oversized hoodie, and socks that didn’t match.

Yet Bob didn’t seem to mind. His cheeks were dusted with the softest shade of pink, like he’d jogged over from the elevator, or maybe, maybe it was something else. He held a small paper bag in one hand and a cup in the other, both trembling slightly. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, then immediately dropped to the cup, as though he needed the courage to keep going. “H-Hi,” He greeted softly, his voice shy but laced with warmth. “They, uh… had a matcha booth. I got you a kit so you can make it at home.”

Your breath hitched, but he wasn’t done. “I, um, also got you one for now,” He added, extending the cup toward you like it was an offering. “Since I remember you said you ‘can’t function’ without it in the mornings. Extra matcha foam, a splash of vanilla, whole milk, not oat milk, because, well you hate it.” You blinked. He remembered all of that?God, could he be any more perfect? You laughed, a soft and breathless, fingers brushing his as you took the cup from him. The contact sent a spark up your arm, subtle but unmistakable.

“Thanks, Bob,” You murmured, your voice low and sincere as you looked up at him. “That was really sweet of you.” He opened his mouth to respond, but words never made it past his lips. Because in a rare burst of bravery, or maybe recklessness, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his warm cheek. You felt the way he froze for half a breath, how his shoulders stiffened, and then relaxed with a nervous chuckle as his other hand came up to scratch the back of his neck.

Across the room, John looked like he was trying not to fist-pump the air, and Yelena shot you the world’s most obvious finally face before elbowing Alexei, who just looked confused and whispered something about “young love” under his breath. “I don’t know how you drink that.” Bucky muttered from the kitchen as he grimaced at your bright green drink, breaking the moment with all the timing of a sledgehammer. He lifted his mug of black coffee in judgment.

You took a dramatic sip, eyes fluttering shut as if it was the best thing you’d ever tasted just to spite him. “Touché,” You scoffed, pointing at his cup with mock offense. “Although, you drink battery acid.” Bucky raised his brows in mock offense. “I drink coffee. You drink grass.” Ava chuckled beside you, shaking her head. But your attention drifted back to Bob, who was still standing just a little too close, still looking at you like he was stunned by what just happened.

His fingers lingered at the edge of the counter, tapping nervously. You took another sip of your matcha, watching him over the rim of the cup. That blush hadn’t faded. And the way he kept sneaking glances at you, like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t trust himself not to fumble it, made your chest ache in the best way. “Are you lot mentally prepared for the gala tonight?” Ava asked, her voice too casual to be innocent as she popped a grape into her mouth and leaned against the counter.

Her words cut clean through the pleasant haze you’d been floating in, one brought on by Bob’s lingering smile and the subtle hum of his presence next to you. Your gaze snapped away from him. “Shit,” You muttered, eyes widening as the reality slammed into your brain like a freight train. “I forgot that was tonight.” You let out a groan and dropped your head into your hands, the cool skin of your palms pressing against the heat rising in your face. The gala. Of course.

Between the back-to-back missions, late-night debriefs, and that impromptu grocery run, the fancy evening fundraiser had completely slipped your mind. Somewhere, buried beneath a pile of laundry you hadn’t had the emotional stamina to fold, was a garment bag Mel had sent over weeks ago. You hadn’t even unzipped it yet. It was probably crumpled and hiding behind your winter coats, tangled in a forgotten scarf and a rogue SHIELD-issued jacket.

“Who isn’t ready for an evening of kissing up to potential new investors and getting glares from Valentina across the room because we’re somehow 'misbehaving' and 'ruining our image'?” Yelena scoffed, rolling her eyes as she flopped into the nearest chair like it had offended her. “Don’t forget making small talk with politicians who couldn’t care less if we saved the planet or set it on fire.” Bucky added dryly.

The banter swirled around you, loud and familiar, but your mind was already spiraling, mentally calculating how much time you had to shower, tame your hair, find that dress, steam that dress, fix your eyeliner after inevitably smudging it, and somehow look like a person worthy of attending a gala where half the room would be dressed in five-figure gowns and tailored tuxedos. And Bob. Oh god. Bob would be there too. You dared a glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He was still beside you, watching the group with quiet amusement, his fingers lightly tapping the paper tea cup in his hand. You could just barely see the curve of a dimple when he smiled at something Bucky had said. He hadn’t said much about the gala, just that he’d remembered and already arranged to pick up his suit. Of course he had. He probably knew where his cufflinks were too. Probably even had a backup tie.

Meanwhile, you were a sleep-deprived goblin with chipped nail polish, half a to-do list scrawled on your hand in blue pen, and absolutely no idea what jewelry matched your dress, or if the strappy black heels you wore to last year’s gala were even still intact. They were probably at the bottom of your closet, missing a buckle, or chewed on by the mysterious Watchtower dust bunnies that lived beneath your bed. “Kill me.” You muttered under your breath, dragging your hands down your face until your cheeks were warm from the friction.

“I can fake a head injury,” Ava chimed in helpfully, straight-faced as she leaned back on her elbows. “You’ll be out for the rest of the week. No questions asked. We’ll even throw in a dramatic backstory.” You let out a weak snort. “Tempting.” You replied, voice muffled through your hands, though your attention was already drifting again, gravitating toward the quiet figure moving just a few feet away. You glanced over in time to catch Bob as he bent to retrieve something from one of the grocery bags.

The hem of his navy hoodie lifted just slightly, revealing a flash of worn flannel waistband and a sliver of skin at his hip. The way the fabric stretched across his back, the way his strong shoulders shifted beneath the soft cotton, it was criminal, honestly. He straightened and absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind his ear with the kind of casual grace that shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did. But it did. Oh, it did. The simple act sent your heart into an entirely unreasonable flutter.

You quickly averted your gaze and took a long, too-large gulp of your matcha to distract yourself. The condensation of the cup in your hands was the only thing grounding you. Well, that and the caffeine threatening to jumpstart your entire nervous system. “I’m gonna need a lot more of this if I’m going to survive tonight.” You grimaced, holding up your half-drunk cup like it was your savior. “It’s a good thing Bob has you covered then.” Yelena sang, her voice teasing and smile positively feral as her eyes bounced between the two of you.

Your cheeks instantly flushed with heat. Across from you, Bob choked slightly on the sip of water he’d just taken, coughing once as the tips of his ears turned unmistakably red. Yelena’s smirk deepened. She looked far too pleased with herself. “Yelena.” You hissed through your teeth, but she just wiggled her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders innocently like she’d done nothing wrong.

Bob cleared his throat, recovering admirably, though he was now suddenly very focused on reorganizing a bag of apples. “I can make you another one,” He offered, shrugging a little as his voice dropped to something quiet, gentle, like a secret just for you. “I watched the lady at the booth make them. I, uh... took notes. Kind of. She even showed me how to whisk it so it doesn't clump.” You blinked. He watched the demo just so he could make your favorite drink correctly?

Your heart threatened to leap out of your chest and do a somersault on the kitchen floor. If you weren't already smitten, that alone would have had you swooning. He didn’t meet your eyes, but his voice was soft, hopeful. God, how were you supposed to survive an entire night by his side? Standing beside him during red carpet photos, exchanging polite smiles for photographers, whispering jokes under your breath while pretending to listen to politicians drone on about defense funding.

All while pretending you were a fully functioning human being who wasn’t halfway in love with the boy who remembered your drink order and how you hated oat milk? You were a disaster. No dress plan, no jewelry plan, possibly no working shoes, and absolutely no idea how you were going to stand next to Bob all night without your brain short-circuiting. You were so screwed. It was safe to assure that it was going to be a very, very long night.

The charity gala. Even the phrase sounded intimidating, but nothing could have prepared you for this. The grand staircase unfolded beneath you like something out of a baroque painting, sweeping marble steps carved with painstaking detail, lined with golden banisters that shimmered in the warm light of antique chandeliers. Everything glowed in soft amber, like time itself had paused for this one evening.

The ceilings arched high overhead, frescoed and grand, while the walls whispered with centuries-old elegance. Ornate sconces flickered along the balconies, throwing gentle light across clusters of diplomats, donors, and operatives dressed to the nines. People moved like brushstrokes across a canvas, flowing down the double staircase in slow, graceful waves. Laughter drifted on the air, mixing with the faint sounds of a string quartet echoing from one of the upper halls.

And yet, even surrounded by diplomats, high-profile donors, and operatives in couture, you felt like you were the one out of place. You felt dizzy. The dress Mel had picked out arrived in a box so pristine you didn’t dare touch it until tonight. The sapphire gown hugged your frame like it had been made with you in mind, the fabric falling fluid over your hips and moving like liquid when you walked. A deep neckline drew the eye without giving too much, while the daring open back dipped low enough to make even Yelena raise a brow when she first saw it.

Thin, crisscrossing straps shimmered across your shoulder blades like stars strung in place. A thigh-high slit added an edge of danger, the hem brushing the floor with every step like a promise. And as fate, or fashion, would have it, the color perfectly matched the deep hue of his eyes. Unfair, really. “Stop fidgeting! You look gorgeous.” Yelena snapped behind you, swatting your hand away as you adjusted the neckline of your dress for the fifth time. “I feel like I’m one wrong step away from a wardrobe malfunction.”

“If you do fall, fall into someone rich. Or Bob. Preferably Bob.” Yelena’s deadpan delivery was so casual it made Ava snort. "Would you stop it! I have told you both a million times, Bob doesn't like me like that!" A synchronized eye roll rippled through the room like a perfectly rehearsed performance. Ava arched a brow in your direction. “You are either painfully oblivious, or actively choosing to be stupid, because Bob worships the ground you walk on.” She quipped, adjusting her earrings in the nearby mirror.

“Don’t even get me started on that lovesick puppy look he gives you.” Yelena muttered under her breath, pretending to inspect a non-existent chip in her nail polish. You scoffed, arms crossing defensively over your chest, the thin fabric of your dress pulling taut. “What look?” Ava met your eyes through the mirror, her expression softening just enough to make the jab land sweeter. “The same one you get whenever you’re looking at him.” You didn’t have time to respond, or argue, as if you could, because footsteps echoed down the upper landing.

You turned your head, and there he was.

Bob stood at the top of the staircase like some old-world portrait come to life, dressed in a sleek black tuxedo that fit like it had been sculpted onto him. The crisp white shirt beneath was buttoned perfectly, his tie was tied tight and straight down the center of his chest, and a subtle silver tie clip caught the light as he moved. His hair was swept back neatly, but a few rebellious strands had fallen across his forehead, softening his sharp jawline and giving him that boyish, just-barely-undone look that made your breath hitch.

But it was his expression that really undid you. Because the moment he spotted you, halfway down the stairs, bathed in chandelier light, wrapped in a dress that mirrored the color of his gaze, he stopped walking. Freezing, just for a second, as if he’d been hit by something. His eyes widened just slightly, lips parting, and he didn’t blink until he started moving again, descending the stairs slowly, carefully, like approaching something fragile and sacred. You couldn’t look away and frankly you didn’t want to.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, your fingers clutching your tiny clutch bag like it was the only thing keeping you upright. When he finally reached you, his gaze swept from your heels to your collarbones, and then, almost shyly, met your eyes. “I—” He cleared his throat, his voice low, almost reverent. “You look... incredible.” It wasn’t just a compliment. It sounded like something sacred. Your chest tightened, heat blooming under your skin.

“You clean up really well, Reynolds.” You murmured back, resisting the urge to bite your lip as your eyes traced the lines of his suit. His smile twitched, a little crooked, a little bashful, but the way he offered his arm was nothing short of classic. Chivalrous. “Ready?” You looped your hand into the bend of his elbow, fingers barely grazing the fine fabric of his suit sleeve, but even that tiny contact sent something fluttering under your ribs. “I think so." You whispered, but it sounded like a lie. Because you weren’t ready.

Not for the way he looked at you.

Not for the tension crackling between you like an invisible tether. And definitely not for the idea of surviving an entire night next to him, pretending not to fall deeper every second. As you descended the rest of the stairs together, surrounded by glittering lights and polished conversation, you felt his arm shift closer to yours. Protective. Steady. A quiet promise between the noise. Above you, Yelena leaned toward Ava and whispered with glee. "There’s absolutely no way they don’t crack tonight.”

Not that you or Bob had the slightest clue what was coming.

The grand hall was no less stunning than the staircase. If anything, it was overwhelming. Vaulted ceilings glittered with gold leaf, chandeliers dangled like constellations in glass, and a soft orchestral arrangement drifted from the far end of the room where a quartet played beneath velvet drapes. Candlelight flickered in sconces mounted on carved pillars, casting a warm, amber glow over the polished floor. You and Bob hadn’t taken more than a few steps into the ballroom when— “Group photo. Now.” Came a voice that made your spine instinctively straighten.

Valentina.

She stood to the side of the press station in a gunmetal-gray gown, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, brows raised in expectation. A very polite “smile for the donors” kind of threat behind her smirk. You barely had time to exchange a glance with Bob before the rest of the team was being herded like misbehaving students on picture day. “Let’s make it quick.” Bucky muttered under his breath as he straightened his collar beside Yelena.

You positioned yourself in the middle, as instructed, heels clicking as you moved into place between Ava and Bob. The photographer gestured animatedly behind the lens. “Big smiles! We want you to look like you’re changing the world and having fun doing it!” You barely heard him. Not with Bob standing beside you, his arm ghosting just behind your back, his presence impossibly close. Every time his shoulder brushed yours, your heartbeat fluttered.

Then, as if by accident, but you knew better, Ava shifted, bumping you just enough to send you leaning subtly further into Bob’s side. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she straightened, eyes fixed ahead like she hadn’t done a thing. He didn’t move away. If anything, you felt him steady you, his fingers briefly grazing the small of your back before settling just out of sight. He didn’t speak, but you could feel his eyes on you every few seconds. You could only hope he didn’t notice how wildly your heart was racing.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash.

And then, thankfully, it was over.

Yet before you could so much as step away from the group, a manicured hand slipped into yours. “There you are,” Mel’s voice purred from behind. “I’ve been trying to track you down. Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.” You turned, startled but obedient, catching Bob’s eyes briefly, he looked like he wanted to say something, his brows slightly furrowed, but Mel was already tugging you away with the quiet precision of someone used to getting things done.

You mouthed sorry to him over your shoulder, but then you were gone, swallowed by the swell of chiffon and silk and champagne. She led you toward the bar tucked elegantly into a corner of the room, polished mahogany gleaming under rows of backlit bottles. The crowd had thinned in this pocket, replaced by quiet, murmuring conversations and the occasional clink of crystal glass. “That man there,” Mel murmured low as you both slowed, nodding toward the tall figure at the bar.

“Elias Mercer. Powerful contacts. More interested in policy than politics. Be charming, but don’t make promises. Just listen.” Then she was gone, disappearing like a shadow before you could protest. Elias turned toward you just as you approached, and you understood immediately why Mel had bothered. He was handsome in the well-tailored, effortless power kind of way. He had that cultivated confidence that dripped from every movement: blonde hair slicked back, not a strand out of place; a navy suit pressed so sharply it looked dangerous.

“Well, well,” He drawled, eyes scanning your gown with a slow appreciation that bordered on bold. “They weren’t exaggerating. You’re the prettiest thing this event’s seen in years.” You forced a polite smile, though something in your chest already itched. “I’m not sure if I should thank you or ask who they are.” He chuckled, clearly pleased by your response. “Let’s go with ‘thank you’ for now.” He leaned against the bar casually, lifting a glass of something amber and expensive-looking.

“First round’s on me.” He flagged the bartender before you could protest, ordering for you like it was habit, something sweet, floral, and definitely not your taste. The glass arrived rimmed with sugar, the kind of drink chosen for aesthetics rather than preference. Your eyes flicked to the bar, your brain still playing catch-up with how fast everything had shifted. The hum of music still lingered in the air, and across the room you could just barely make out Bob standing by the photo backdrop, eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for someone.

Elias leaned closer. “So,” He murmured, voice smooth like silk over ice. “What exactly does a woman like you do when she’s not dazzling rooms like this?” Across the ballroom, laughter rose like a tide, but Bob wasn’t listening to any of it. He stood near the edge of the photo setup, posture stiff, barely hearing a word John was saying about security coverage or potential press questions. His eyes kept flicking through the crowd, scanning for one very specific figure. You.

“I swear, if Valentina drags us into one more round of photos—” John was mid-rant when Bob finally cut him off. “Have you guys seen Y/N?” Bucky, who’d been standing quietly beside them sipping from a lowball glass, lifted a brow at the shift in Bob’s tone. “Didn’t Mel pull her away?” Bob’s jaw clenched. “That was fifteen minutes ago, I haven’t seen her since.” He scanned the crowd again. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his chest, a tension building behind his ribs that had nothing to do with the suit or the heat of the crowd.

The ballroom was crowded, sure, but he knew how to find you. He always did. And then, he saw it. You were near the bar, half-sitting on a velvet stool, your posture angled slightly away from the man seated beside you. Clearly uncomfortable. He also noticed something else, the man’s hand, resting far too comfortably on your bare thigh, fingers splayed against the slit in your dress. Your smile looked tight. Wrong. Bob saw red. But more than that, his eyes actually flashed gold. His jaw locked so tight it might have snapped.

Without another word, he’d already handed Bucky his untouched drink and was moving through the crowd. Every cell in his body buzzed, not with rage, but something deeper. Primal. Protective. “This is about to get really interesting.” John muttered, watching Bob stalk off like a predator. You weren’t even fully sure how Elias’s hand had ended up on your thigh. It had been gradual, subtle, the kind of entitled, calculated confidence that crept in like fog. He hadn’t asked. Just leaned closer, his drink in one hand, the other brushing your skin like it was owed to him.

You shifted away slightly, giving him a tight lipped smile. “I think that’s enough bourbon for you tonight—” But before the sentence could finish, a hand closed firmly around Elias’s wrist and yanked it away from your leg. The man let out a sharp exhale in surprise, and you gasped. Bob. He was suddenly there, towering over both of you with a look you had never seen on his face before. His usual warmth, his steady gentleness, was gone. In its place was something cold, crackling, and barely leashed.

The golden flicker in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable, made your heart stutter in your chest. “That’s enough.” He murmured, voice low and even. Elias blinked, startled. “Excuse me—?” Before he could finish, Bob smoothly stepped between the two of you, placing himself squarely in Elias’s line of sight. One hand still gripped the other man’s wrist, while the other slid gently onto your thigh, right where Elias’s had been. You could feel the heat of him through the silk, anchoring you and igniting you all at once. Only this time, it wasn’t unwelcome. You weren’t scared. You weren’t uncomfortable.

You were dizzy.

The heat of his palm on your skin sent a jolt through your body. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes wide as Bob’s fingers splayed possessively against the slit of your dress. You could feel the shift in him, the quiet tension in his muscles, the steady weight of his presence protecting you. “Didn’t realize she came with a guard dog.” Elias slowly raised both hands in mock surrender, lips twitching in annoyance. “She doesn’t,” Bob replied, voice calm yet razor-sharp.

“She comes with people who know the difference between being charming… and being a creep.” Elias chuckled low under his breath, stood, and tossed back the last of his drink. “She’s pretty, but not worth this much trouble.” With that, he walked off, disappearing into the crowd with the arrogant swagger of someone used to getting what he wants. But you weren’t even looking at him. You were looking at Bob. Still close. Still with his hand on your thigh. His fingers didn’t move, not yet, as if anchoring you, reminding both of you that he had been the one to step in.

To claim what someone else had touched without permission. And suddenly, your skin felt electric. Flushed. Hyper-aware of every point of contact between you. You blinked up at him, throat dry. “You—um, you didn’t have to do that.” Bob’s gaze finally shifted down to yours. His expression softened, but his hand didn’t move. “I know,” He murmured. “But I wanted to.” His voice was rougher now, softer somehow, like something inside him had cracked open and started pouring out. The orchestra swelled somewhere behind you. For the first time all night, you were speechless.

Bob’s hand eventually dropped from your thigh as the two of you walked, slowly, toward the long round table nestled near the center of the ballroom. Candlelight flickered over polished crystal and untouched hors d'oeuvres. A string of golden name cards decorated each seat with militaristic precision. As you approached, you could feel the weight of the group’s attention before you even reached the table. Yelena looked up first, elbowing Bucky with zero grace.

He arched a brow, then glanced between you and Bob, eyes narrowing. John, seated on the far side, was nursing a whiskey and doing a poor job of hiding his smug grin. Ava straightened in her chair, her brows raised high mouthing something behind her wine glass. Only Alexi remained blissfully unaware, focused entirely on buttering a roll with the intensity of a man dismantling a bomb. Bob pulled your chair out for you, subtle, careful, but the gesture burned in the back of your neck.

You could still feel the ghost of his hand on your skin. Your body hadn’t quite calmed down. Every part of you still buzzed like static under silk. He sat beside you, and though his posture had returned to calm, shoulders squared, hands resting easily, there was a tension in his jaw that hadn’t quite gone away. Bob cleared his throat, stiffening slightly as he unfolded his napkin. His cheeks still held the faintest pink hue, though whether it was from possessiveness or proximity, you weren’t sure.

Yelena leaned toward Ava, not bothering to whisper. “Who knew he had that in him?” Ava smirked from beside her. “I’m never letting her live this down.” You pretended not to hear them, focusing instead on the champagne flute in front of you, hands a little too still in your lap. Then the lights dimmed, and a hush swept over the room. A spotlight clicked on above the stage. Valentina glided to the podium wearing the kind of practiced smile only politicians and devils wore well.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to welcome you all tonight. As you know, we are entering a new era. A better era. One guided by clarity, strength, and people who aren’t afraid to do what’s necessary for a safer world.” She gestured toward your table with a graceful sweep of her arm. “The New Avengers.” You felt Bob’s arm brush against yours under the table, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers flexing. He hated this part. You all did. Your eyes flicked toward the others. Ava looked like she was trying not to gag. Bucky had tuned out completely, arms folded as he stared somewhere past the chandeliers.

Even John, ever the polished soldier, looked like he was barely tolerating the performance. But it was all for the donors. The money. The future. And you smiled, because that’s what was expected. Polite applause followed. Investors, politicians, and old money donors gave their obligatory nods and toasts. Valentina basked in it.“With your support, this team will do more than protect borders. They’ll protect ideals. Influence outcomes. Ensure peace. Permanently.” Her voice sharpened on that last word.

You shifted in your seat, feeling Bob shift slightly next to you too. The whole thing was so carefully curated, so slippery in its language. She was selling the image of power. Of control. Of all of you. Eventually, the speech ended. Applause rose again, more enthusiastic this time. Cameras flashed. Servers moved between tables, offering more wine and champagne. That’s when Yelena’s hand snuck into yours beneath the table. “Bathroom. Now.” She whispered, dragging you to your feet before you could process it. Ava followed immediately, muttering something about needing to “re-apply her lipstick.”

You barely caught the way Bob looked at you as you left, his blue eyes warm, slightly curious, like he was still thinking about what had happened the bar. The hallway outside the ballroom was cool and quiet, lit with soft sconces and lined with velvet curtains. “Okay,” Yelena declared as soon as the bathroom door shut behind the three of you. “Are we going to talk about the fact that your man just went full golden-eyed possessive alpha male out there or—?” You rolled your eyes, but the pink hue of your face betrayed you.

“He’s not my man, Yelena.” You blurted, though it sounded hollow even to your own ears. Ava crossed her arms, tilting her head. “You’re glowing. You look like you’re on the verge of short-circuiting.” You groaned, leaning over the sink. “It was just… instinct. Right? He was just protecting me.” Yelena snorted. “Protecting you from thigh-grabby Mercer and staking a very visible claim are two very different things.” You stared at your reflection, heart still beating unevenly.

You took a breath, multiple sips of water, and composed yourself. Then reluctantly stepped back into the ballroom, because you couldn’t hide out in the bathroom for the rest of the evening no matter how much you wanted to. Ava and Yelena right behind you as you visibly froze. Your table was just ahead, and someone else was sitting beside Bob. A blonde woman stood beside him, hips tilted, her red dress criminally low-cut, practically a second skin. Her hand rested lightly on the back of his chair, like she was considering whether to touch his shoulder next.

Bob wasn’t leaning toward her, but he wasn’t exactly recoiling either. Then you saw it. Her fingertips grazed his shoulder, and lingered, before sliding down to his forearm. And Bob smiled. Not the full one, the soft one. The one you knew. The one that had made you fall harder than you wanted to admit. Your lungs didn’t quite expand. A quiet, unexpected knot tightened in your chest. That heat in your chest? It wasn’t embarrassment this time. It was jealousy.

Jealousy hit hard, sharp and acidic, curling beneath your ribs like heat. Hot, sharp, and unrelenting. You took a breath and walked back toward the table, slower this time, heart thudding painfully loud in your ears. The blonde noticed you approaching and barely shifted, still smiling at Bob like he was dessert. But then, before you could psych yourself out, you slid right into his lap. Sideways, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your dress shifted to reveal a little more leg, and the silk of it draped over both of your thighs as you curled an arm loosely around his neck.

The other hand came to rest gently, but possessively, over his abdomen. His entire body went still. The air around the table thickened. Your fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of his jacket, right over his ribs. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. “Oh,” You murmured innocently, leaning into the curve of Bob’s neck, breath ghosting his skin. “I didn’t realize we had company.” His hand found your hip instinctively, fingers tightening like a reflex. The blonde blinked, her smile immediately thinning. “I don’t think we’ve met—”

“No,” You replied monotonously, effectively cutting her off. “We haven’t.” Bob was absolutely motionless beneath you, save for the subtle flex of his jaw. His arm moved to wrap around your waist like gravity, pulling you just slightly closer. The blonde stood after an awkward beat, murmured something about needing to “go freshen up,” and walked off, her heels clicking sharply on the marble. You didn’t look away until she vanished behind a curtain of guests.

The orchestra struck its first chord, warm and elegant, notes blooming like silk petals in the air. Laughter bubbled from the dance floor as couples swept into each other’s arms, dresses twirling and polished shoes gliding over the marble. Yet, you remained where you were, perched sideways across Bob’s lap, hand pressed to his chest, rising and falling with every one of his increasingly uneven breaths. His arm curled around your waist as if it had been molded there, unmoving, unwilling to let go.

Your pulse stuttered beneath your skin, too fast, too hot. You knew he could feel it. He hadn’t spoken in nearly a full minute, but the tension in his body spoke for him. Then, he cleared his throat. A soft, barely-there sound that somehow made your stomach twist. You didn’t let him get a word in. “Dance with me.” The words came out breathier than intended, but they hung between you like an open invitation. Bob blinked, startled, then hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if you meant it.

You didn’t wait. You rose smoothly from his lap, your hand sliding down his arm until your fingers found his. You didn’t tug. You just looked at him. And of course, he followed. The two of you stepped into the glow of the chandeliers again, the hush of music guiding your steps toward the edge of the dance floor. You slipped your hand into his, placing the other on his shoulder, heart stammering in your chest as his hand settled cautiously on the curve of your waist.

You began to sway. Neither of you were dancers, but it didn’t matter. The moment held its own rhythm. Your dress brushed against his leg with each turn. His thumb caressed a soft, unconscious circle against your lower back. And though your eyes kept meeting, neither of you really spoke. You were both still pretending. Still holding back. Even with the air thick between you. Even with your fingers curling tighter into his jacket, his jaw tightening every time you swayed too close. And for a moment, it was quiet again. Then, Bob cleared his throat, awkwardly, softly, like he wasn’t quite sure he should speak.

“S-So are we just not going to talk about it?” Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and your stomach clenched. “Talk about what, Bob?” The response came sharper than intended, a defense before you could stop it. “The fact that you nearly ripped a guy’s arm off, or the fact that you were eyeballing that girl’s tits as she was blatantly eye-fucking you.” He froze, his hand on your waist tensed. “W-What, Y/N? She came onto me, I wasn’t looking at her, I swear. I was just… caught off guard.” You arched a brow, your voice dipping dangerously.

“So what, you just let her? Let her paw at you like you were on display?” His voice cracked under the weight of his urgency. “And what about you? That guy was making you uncomfortable, I saw it all over your face. I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there while he—” He cut himself off, jaw clenched, that familiar gold hue resurfacing, swallowing the blue of his eyes. You were quiet. Your chest rose and fell in rhythm with the music, with your own chaotic thoughts. “Just…” You exhaled. “Come with me.” You didn’t give him a chance to argue.

You simply slid your hand down his wrist, fingers curling around his, and pulled him off the dance floor, past the swirling couples and flickering candles, toward a hallway bathed in soft light. Each step echoed with tension, yours, his, shared and unnamed. You reached the terrace doors and pushed through, cool night air kissing your overheated skin. The terrace was quiet, stone beneath your heels, stars scattered across a dark velvet sky. Only the distant hum of the orchestra floated through the open doors behind you. You turned to face him again.

Bob’s chest rose and fell like he’d just finished running, not dancing. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, but from everything he hadn’t said. The silence wrapped around you was thick and fragile. For once, neither of you spoke first. Your eyes flicked to his tie, crooked now from when you’d pulled him into you. Your fingers moved on instinct, reaching up, smoothing it gently. His breath hitched. “You didn’t have to defend me.” He scoffed incredulously. “Yes, I did.” You looked up at him. “Why?” You knew the answer, you just had to hear it from him.

Bob’s lips parted, and the glow in his eyes deepened, flickering like molten gold behind glass. His jaw flexed, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. So you did something instead. You stepped in closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Your chest brushed his. You looked at him through your lashes. “Admit it Bob, you were jealous.” His hand found your waist again, stronger this time, steadier. “And you weren’t?” You didn’t answer.

Because the answer was already written in the way you leaned into him. In the way his breath fanned against your cheek. In the way your eyes dropped to his mouth for just a second too long. And maybe, just maybe, you both finally realized this game was nearing its end. You stood so close you could feel every breath Bob took, every shift in the way he held your waist like it grounded him. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore, it pulsed with something deep, charged, and entirely unspoken.

The golden flicker in his eyes had softened now, but it hadn’t gone. He opened his mouth. Closed it. And then, finally, he let it out. “I’ve been in love with you for months.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was solid. Unshakable. A truth he’d been carrying so long it had carved itself into the marrow of him. Your heart stopped. “W-What?” You breathed, barely trusting your own ears. Bob didn’t flinch. Didn’t backpedal. His gaze never left yours. “I know I’m not supposed to say that, not like this, not here,” He murmured, voice rough with the edges of vulnerability.

“But I’ve been trying to keep it down, to keep it quiet, and I can’t anymore. I just, I need you to know.” You could only stare. He took a breath, his thumb brushing absently over your waist like he didn’t realize it was still there. “Ever since that first mission we got benched on together,” He continued, softer now. “You were pissed. You paced the hangar for twenty straight minutes, muttering under your breath, and I—God, I couldn’t stop watching you. Not because of how you looked. I mean, you’re—” He swallowed.

“You’re stunning, but it was more than that.” His voice dipped, vulnerable and almost reverent. “You didn’t treat me like I was fragile. Like I was broken. Everyone else, they hesitate. They talk to me like I might crack if they say the wrong thing. But you? You’ve never done that. You joke, you push back, you talk to me like I’m just, me. And that, that means everything.” Your breath caught in your throat. “I notice everything about you,” He went on, eyes burning into yours now.

“I know you hate oat milk. I know you hum when you’re wiring explosives because it helps you focus. I know the exact look you get when you’re over-caffeinated but pretending you’re not.” He chuckled, low and self-deprecating. “And yeah, I learned how to make that matcha drink exactly how you like it. Extra matcha foam, splash of vanilla, whole milk. Took me five tries before it didn’t taste like chalk.” Your chest was aching. “But it’s not just that,” He coaxed, quieter now.

“It’s the way you light up when you come back from a mission. Even exhausted, you have this, spark. And every time I see you step into a room, something in me settles. Like everything’s okay if you’re okay.” You could feel your throat closing, emotion swelling like a wave. “I leave you those notes because I never know what to say in person. Because you make my brain short-circuit. So I write it down. And when you’re out there getting bruised and saving the world, I refill your water, I tidy your gear, because it’s the only way I know how to say I care.”

His hand slid gently from your waist to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye, like he’d already guessed you were trying not to cry. “I didn’t mean to fall for you,” He whispered. “But it’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.” You stood frozen, then your voice finally cracked through the silence. “Bob…” You blinked, your lashes wet, your chest tight. “I’ve been falling in love with you this entire time.” His breath hitched. “You… have?” Your laugh was barely a whisper. “Of course I have. You idiot. Do you think I just let anyone touch me like that?”

He laughed through his nose, but you stepped closer, resting your hands against his chest. You felt his heart stuttering beneath your palms, just like yours. “You learned how to make my favorite drink. You leave me the sweetest, dorkiest notes when I get back from fieldwork. And I know you always refill my water bottle even though you pretend you didn’t.” You looked up at him, and this time, you were the one who couldn’t look away. “I notice everything about you too, Bob,”

“The way your voice softens when you're calming someone down. The way you always take the corner booth because you know I hate sitting with my back to the door. How you’re the first one to offer help and the last to ask for any.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. “I didn’t want to admit it. I thought if I did, I’d ruin what we have. But the truth is, I’ve been yours this whole time.” He stepped forward. “I don’t want to pretend anymore, I’m tired of dancing around it. I want this. You.” His thumb traced slow circles along your ribs. “Then take it.” You breathed.

It happened fast. One step too close, one last look that lingered too long, and then the space between you disappeared like it had never existed. His mouth crashed against yours, months of repressed emotion and barely-contained tension igniting all at once. There was nothing careful or tentative about it, just teeth and heat, lips dragging hungrily over yours, and the immediate slide of his tongue demanding entry. He tasted like the Diet Coke he had been sipping and something utterly Bob.

You gasped into the kiss, but it only gave him more access. He swallowed it greedily, his hand rising to cup your jaw, thumb tilting your chin just enough so he could deepen it, tongue sweeping over yours in a hot, bruising stroke that made your knees buckle. Your hands were already tangled in his jacket, gripping lapels like your life depended on it. When his teeth tugged at your bottom lip, just enough to sting, you whimpered, and that sound broke something in him. The kiss turned desperate. His hands roamed like he’d been dying to touch you for years.

One gripped your waist, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body, while the other slid down, trailing over the exposed curve of your bare back, the silk of your dress offering no resistance. His fingertips skimmed the base of your spine, then lower, slipping under the open edge of your gown. He groaned low in his throat when his palm met bare skin, smoothing over the curve of your hip and down your thigh, fingers grazing the slit in your dress that had tormented him all night. Your leg lifted almost instinctively, wrapping around his as your bodies melted together, the slit parting even further to let him in.

His grip shifted to your thigh, strong fingers curling under it, anchoring you to him like he couldn’t possibly stand the thought of ever letting go, now that he was able to touch you like this. You could feel every inch of him, his chest heaving against yours, the twitch of his jaw as he fought for control, the hard press of arousal against your lower stomach. Your back hit the cool marble of the terrace wall. A gasp spilled from your lips, swallowed by his mouth again in a kiss that burned like wildfire.

He pinned you there with his body, hips flush against yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other still on your leg, pushing the fabric higher so his thumb could drag slowly along your inner thigh. Your breath hitched. A soft, helpless moan escaped, and he echoed it with a guttural noise, his tongue sweeping into your mouth again with a new kind of hunger. It was messy. Urgent. Dizzying. The taste of each other. The soft drag of your nails down his neck. His teeth grazing your lip again. The low, desperate sounds vibrating in your throat. His touch, leaving fire in its wake.

And the way you both kissed like it wasn’t just lust, but the breaking point of everything unsaid finally crashing through. Your body arched into his. His mouth barely left yours long enough to breathe. And the gala went on behind the doors, utterly irrelevant now. "Took you both long enough!" Yelena’s voice cut sharply through the thick fog of lust hanging around you like smoke. You and Bob tore yourselves apart, panting, flushed, his lips kiss-bitten and your dress now visibly wrinkled in spots that revealed far too much about where his hands had been.

"Poor guy almost lost his arm." Walker added with a grunt, nodding toward Bob, whose tie was still clutched tightly in your hand. His smirk betrayed no real annoyance, only amusement. "You gotta admit, it was entertaining as hell though." Ava drawled, one brow raised, arms folded as she leaned against the terrace rail like she’d been watching a soap opera play out in real time. That’s when it hit you. "You guys fucking planned this?" You and Bob yelled in unison.

“It was painful seeing both of you pining over the other, we had to do something.” Bucky stated, entirely unapologetic. "You also think Mel coincidentally got you a blue dress that matched his eyes?" Yelena deadpanned, eyes flicking pointedly to the leg slit and the exposed sweep of your back with zero subtlety. Your brow lifted. You narrowed your eyes. Then, slowly, the grin spread across your face like gasoline catching fire. "Well, I hope you all have noise-cancelling headphones."

They froze. Some blinked. Ava’s mouth twitched. Yelena cocked her head with an intrigued hum. But you leaned in, melting into Bob’s side, fingers slipping past his jacket lapel to trail lazily over the spot where his chest rose and fell in short, uneven breaths. "Cause Bob and I have a lot of lost time to catch up on," You purred, tilting your chin up toward him. His hand dropped to your hip again, almost on instinct. Possessive. Firm. Like he was already thinking about what he was going to do to you the moment the others vanished.

“It’s gonna get real loud.” You didn’t wait for a response. You yanked him down by the tie, lips crashing together with a loud, unapologetic smack. His arms locked around your waist instantly, pulling you up onto your toes as he devoured you right there in front of everyone. Tongue thrusting into your mouth without hesitation. His teeth grazed yours in the heat of it, and a growl, raw and deep, rumbled low in his chest as you dragged your fingers up the back of his neck.

You were keenly aware of the reactions behind you: exaggerated gagging, muttered curses, dramatic footsteps retreating, someone snorting with laughter. But it all faded under the hungry slide of Bob’s mouth, under the way his hand slipped lower, palm pressing just beneath the curve of your ass. They’d planned this? Fine. Only, they had no idea what they’d just unleashed. Because this wasn’t tension anymore, no, this was a reckoning. The night was still young.

It was going to be a very long night indeed.

You were hiding in the pool of Water-Blood mixture. Too scared to move from your spot. You were stuck in a corner, the top part of your head peaked out from underneath the water as you watch Paul and Marko look through all the stuff you’ve taken over the few months you’ve been in Santa Carla. Your tail lying against the rocks of the shallow pool of water.

David and Dwayne were somewhere out of the water hole, on the other side of the wall talking. You could faintly hear them due to the echo within the cave. But you couldn’t piece together what exactly they were saying.

“What are we going to do with it?” David asked, the echo hitting your ears faintly.

“Her—What are we going to do with her?” Dwayne corrected, earning him a slight glare from David. Dwayne just looks at him, knowing David wouldn’t do anything.

Your concentration was cut off due to Paul coming a little close to the water edge, too close to you. Out of instinct, you move, poking your head all the way out of the water and hiss. The gills on your neck fluttering, the hiss echoes through the cave, causing Paul to shoot his head towards you. “Woah- hey..” Paul put his hands up in a surrender type way, his eyes wide.

Marko stands off to the side while the other two walk in. The anger seeping from David, strong enough that you could smell it.

“What happened?!” David growled, talking to his boys, but not looking away from you.

When you realize all four vamps were looking at you, you quickly retreat, diving deep into the water and slipping through the hole that leads to the wide ocean. Tail splashing in the water.

Dwayne moves to put his hand on David’s shoulder to which he shrugs it off. Letting out a thick huff as he walks away.

Dwayne thinks about following him, but decides against it as he walks over to the chaotic blondes.

“What happened?” Dwayne asks softly, looking over at Marko who was staring off into space where you were just at.

“I don’t—“ Paul speaks, wrapping his arms around himself, bouncing on his heels.

”She’s territorial.” Marko speaks up, catching Dwayne attention.

Dwayne and Paul look over to the curly haired boy. “Before I joined you guys, I used to be the same way. She must be…”

“—Scared.” A familiar voice hits their ears, they look over and see David waking back in.

“—She’s scared. She’s doing what she has to to survive. We’ve all been there,” David continues.

“Now she thinks we sent her away from the place that kept her safe for.. months.” Dwayne speaks up again.

“We need to find her. We scared her away, now she has nowhere to go.” Marko speaks up, bitting on his glove more harshly than normal as he goes to walk out of the water-hole area.

”Marko..” Dwayne starts, grabbing ahold of the curly blonde’s shoulder. “Relax.” He says softly, turning Marko to face him. Once Marko is facing him, he places both his hands on the side of Marko’s face. Rubbing his thumbs over Marko’s cheekbones.

They were all wondering the same thing; Why did they care so much about her?

Water swooshes past you as you swim fast. Breathing heavily as you feel an ache in your tail as you slip past rocks as you exit the cave. Making your way out into the wide ocean.

You didn’t want to leave, for some reason you felt safe with them and you didn’t know why.

But you were hungry—you haven’t eaten since the wild hair blonde saw you. Hunger shakes your bones as you peak out from underneath the water a bit, looking and listening for any human that’s in the water.

You swim along the darker part of the shoreline where you’d be unseen. The sound of loud music, singing and hollering hits your ears. Making your way to some huge rocks near the bank, you see a Surfer Nazi drunkenly make his was to the side of the bridge, taking a piss on the stone.

Your stomach growls as your hunger increases, telling you that you need to eat.

Then you do what you were known for.

You start singing, the sound was like an angel has come down and gently caressed the man’s ear.

“I've searched oceans for you,” You began, crawling up a big rock just enough that your tail was hidden.

“haunted harbors, and shorelines…” The man looks over to you after putting himself back in his jeans.

“Have you longed for me, too?” You continue, watching as he walks closer to you, inch by inch his feet make its way into the water.

“Oooh-“ You humm, leaning down on the rock onto your elbows.

The lyrics put him into a trance. His eyes scan the ocean border, the water that slammed against the rocks. As he finally sees something in the water.

“Uh- hello?” He calls out, anxiously but drunkenly walking over to you in the water. He stumbles closer to the rocks, as he hears your angelic voice continue.

“Let me sing you to sleep.”

“In my seabed of starfish”

“Down below, in the deep”

“Ooooh-“

He feels his skin tingle with goosebumps, but chooses to ignore it.

“Dumb human” You think to yourself.

”Why don’t you come out the water and join me n’ my buddies. We’d love to have ya!” He laughed out. “Hey guys, com’er!” He shouted to his friends, catching their attention.

“What is it, Johnny?” one asks, grumbling as he walks over to his friend Johnny.

“There’s a lil lady in the water! She singin’ and shit!” Johnny drunkenly laughs, putting himself back in his jeans as he points to the spot he saw you. “Look!”

The rest of the group appeared, concerned about what their friend was talking about.

“What girl?”

“there’s nothing here, dude!”

“You’re seeing shit again, John.”

They all dismiss their friend, walking back to their party. “What? What are you guys… talking- about..?” His voice dies down as he looks back at the spot where you were at, seeing no one there.

“well shit!” He kicks the sand, almost falling from the impact. He turns to back to the bonfire when he hears something from behind him.

“Only there can you weep” You sing again, running your fingers through your wet hair teasingly, just enough to get his attention again.

“In my shipwreck of silence. Will you live here with me?”

When he looks back over, he sees you. Your singing creating a mind smell on him, letting his think your standing on the shoreline, slowly walking backwards into the water.

“There ya are.” He laughed darkly, walking over to where you are, as if he was being called.

“Johnny.” You sung out, his name echoing off your lips as you slipped backwards back into the water. He followed, walking out into the water.

“Johnny? Where- Johnny! Hey man! Come back!” His friend’s all yelled for him as he went into the water, following your angelic voice.

When he was in deep water, and only then did he snap out of his trance. “What- what the fuck?!” He yelled out, looking out all around him. Seeing that he was far from the bank.

“Johnny..” You whispered out again, he looked down into the dark water. It was dark, the only light was from the moon as it cascaded down into the water. The moon rays shining down.

The sight makes his breath catch in his throat. A slightly nude girl from the waist up, only thing covering you was a thin bralette like top that was made out of seaweed. Then a long scaled tail that was a sage green, ending with a long forked out fin.

Johnny looked into your eyes, turning from a natural color to a blinding white as your angelic face morgues into something of a nightmare. Your pupils real small compared to the growing whites of your eyes. Scales formed along your cheekbones as your teeth sharped out, dagger like as you hissed.

“What the f-“ was all that came from his mouth as you dunked him under the water by his legs. Being swiftly brought under the water in a blinding speed, he grabbed at the water. Trying to swim up, flailing his arms around and kicking his feet as he watches the surface disappear in seconds. Water fills his lungs as he starts to see spots in his vision, becoming weak as he passes out.

“Dumb human” You think again.

Commotion echoes off the beach, Johnny’s friends stare at the scene in horror. Their friend had just been taken deep into the water by the Sea Monster they thought was fake.

You take Johnny deep into the ocean, your long fingers digging into his neck as you hold him close to you.

You let out a shriek into the water, using your echolocation to seek out for any coming predators such as sharks and other big predators.

You were territorial over what was yours. Once you even went as far as attacking your fellow sirens over food. It causes you to be banished from their tribe, not allowed to come close the that area ever again.

You wrap your tail around the drowned man as you lay against the ocean floor, digging your nails into his skin till it pokes through the flesh of his shoulders. The smell of the blood makes your eyes dilate, pupils growing wider—making the whites disappear—turning them a dark black as you open your mouth and dig your blade like teeth into his neck, ripping out his skin as you feast.

Blood mixing with the water as you feed off of the corpse till nothing was left. The blood coming up in wisps in the water, surrounding you. Eating flesh and bone, then you finish, quickly swimming away from the area. The sun was starting to come up, and you had nowhere to go. Only place you could go was where those vampires were. Something deep down in your gut told you to just go back. But you were reluctant, but then again you were becoming tired. Using your siren song along with the killing and drowning made you exhausted.

So you took your chances, making your way back to the cave. Slipping and swerving through the holes, making your way to the area you once were in hours ago.

You quietly peak up out of the water, looking around and the sight before you warmed your heart in a way you’ve never felt before.

“We should do something for her.. help her know that she is welcomed here.” Marko said aloud, biting on his thumb nail, having taken his gloves off a little bit before.

“And do what?” David seethes, “She’s already taking our food and our stuff from the cave! She doesn’t need anything.” David finishes, sitting down on his wheelchair.

“You said it yourself, David! She’s scared. She has nowhere to go!” Marko replies. Words filled with venom.

“Marko.” David warned, giving him a side eye.

“What? David?” Marko snaps back to which David stands up quickly, walking over to Marko. Out of instinct Paul and Dwayne stands in between the two of them. Dwayne facing David as Paul faces Marko.

Dwayne looks at David in a certain way. Looking at him in a way that makes David relax just the slightest bit.

Marko on the other hand ignores Paul, walking away and heading down the path to the water hole. “I don’t know why I even asked you.”

“Marko, wait!” Paul calls out to him, following Marko down the cave.

David shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair as he pastes around. His nerves on end as Dwayne tries talking with him.

Little to none, Dwayne can get to David.

Persuading him.

“Marko?” Paul calls out, walking into the water hole and seeing Marko rearrange stuff and putting clothes in certain areas, and items you have collected in others.

Marko has always had an eye for putting stuff together perfectly. Maybe it had something to do with his OCD, or it genuinely was just how he was. How caring he was.

This was the sight you were surprised in seeing. Someone helping you feel at home. Something you weren’t used to.

You watch as the curly blonde fixes up the place a bit, but still leaving room for your options. His tongue poking out from between his lips. And the wild blonde hand him stuff.

It confused you in a way, causing you to tilt your head to the side and emerge from the water just a bit more. The sloshing noise catches the two blondes attention, looking in your direction.

The three of you freeze, not moving a muscle. Just looking at each other before you take a sharp breath in and hold it as you move closer to the edge of the water, placing your hands on the rugged rocks. Your eyes turning from a blinding white—your natural eye color fades in. Eyes big and round, full of curiosity.

“—Hey..” Marko speaks up, slowly moving to kneel down near the edge, facing you.

You shift backwards a bit, but when he gives you a reassuring smile, you move slightly closer again. You shift your gaze from him to Paul, his mouth slightly agape and arms wrapped around himself, hands holding onto his elbows. You can see the mesmerized look in his eyes that he’s giving you, causing you to giggle softly.

You look back over at Marko, feeling a sort of pressure on your cheek, caressing the scales on your jawbone. You flinch, realizing how close the two of you are.

You tilt your head a bit, blinking slowly as you look into Marko's eyes—something feels different. That feeling you felt earlier, returning. Causing your heart to stutter, and your tail to twitch. The feeling was unknown—but it gave you a sense of comfort. Making your cheeks heat up. You shift your gaze to Paul, watching as he walks closer to the two of you, kneeling down to the right of Marko. You can feel his excitement—the way he's using as much self-control that he has to keep him from touching you.

"Think about it, Dad." You're leaning against Daryl's bike, trying to get your dad to follow your idea. The Saviors will come in two days for their first pick up. Half of your shit did Negan say but you don't intend to give him that much. 

You and Carl came up with the idea of hiding the majority of your supplies in the sewer system. That way it would be safe from them. The less you'd have on display for them, the better. You'd lose not as much in the end. 

"I don't know, Y/N. If they find out we are holding stuff back-" 

"Dad, come on." You try again. "What are the odds? Also winter is only a few weeks from now. We have to hord what we can."

Darly reaches the two of you, his crossbow on his back. "Ready?" He asks you. 

Usually you'd go out with Sasha to scavenge around the area, but Spencer wanted to tag along, so you settled for Daryl and a bit of hunting for today. Something about this guy is just rubbing you the wrong way. 

You nod at Daryl before turning your attention back to Rick. "Please at least consider that, Dad. While we still can-" 

Aggressive banging against the gate cuts your conversation short. Startled, you look at the source of the noise.

"Little pig, little pig! Let me in."

You recognize that voice immediately and your head snaps back to your father. "They're too early!" 

"Quick!" He pulls you from the bike. "Get in the house with Carl and Judith and stay put."

You nod and run towards your home, while Daryl and Rick go for the gate. Carl is playing with Judith on the porch, still oblivious to the threat at the gates. 

"They're here!" You warn before lifting Judith up into your arms. "Get in."

Without a word your brother follows you inside. You rush up the stairs to get Judith into her crib. Carefully you lay her down, giving her a kiss on the crown of her head. 

"Why now?" Carl asks, standing in the door. "They said ten days, it's been only eight."

"I know." You reply, pushing past him. "Hide as many cans as you can, I'll take care of the meds"

But Carl just keeps standing next to the door. "What? It's too late for that. They'll see us." 

You turn on your heels, considering him for a moment. "Gather as much as you can in the kitchen, I'll dig a hole in the backyard, they won't see me there."

Your brother nods and runs down the stairs, while you go back to your room. Luckily you kept a few boxes of medical supplies and medicine nearby. You're one hundred percent sure they'll raid your infirmary as well. With two boxes in hand, you make your way downstairs. 

"Oh no." Carl gasps, looking out of the window. 

"What is it?" 

He turns around to you, gesturing for you to take a look for yourself. "They go into the houses."

"Fuck." You look out with wide open eyes. Several Saviors roam the street, entering the homes. "Shit, we gotta hurry!"

Quickly you put the boxes on the kitchen isle, before running for the shovel. You reach the handle of the utility closet, when you hear the front door open. 

A whistle catches you ears, followed by a "Nice house." Damnit, it's too late. With your hand hovering over your throwing knife, you slowly return to the living area. 

Two men are standing in your living room, taking in your house. Carl and you share a glance and you silently command him to get over to you with a wave of your hand. 

When one of the men notices you, his attention shifts from the room towards you. "Hello there, princess."

Shivers are running down your spine. You take Carl's hand and drag him behind you. Both men smile at you, making your fight or flight instinct kick in. 

"Care to give as a tour, beautiful?" 

"Your stuff is at the pantry." You hiss at him. "I can show you the way if you get the fuck out of my house."

Both men share a laugh. One resumes to look through the room, while the others eyes stay at you. "Oh, we're gonna get the stuff from your pantry, no worries. But we wondered what kind of treasures we might find within these walls."

"Oi, Davy!" The other guy calls. "Looks like they've been awaiting us."

You and Carl turn towards the kitchen. The guy's looking over your food and your medic-boxes. 

"Those are ours!" You yell, still holding Carl's hand. "You can-" 

"Let me tell you what we can, princess." Davy grunts at you, annoyed by your attitude. "The Saviors own this place now and everything you have is now ours, too. So we take whatever we want."

"Negan said fifty percent!" Carl argues behind you. He lets go of your hand and takes a stand beside you, glaring at the men. "We already put fifty percent away at the pant-" 

Davy raises a finger, making Carl stop. "Uh-huh, that's not how this is working, kid. We take what we want, you don't get to have a say about it." 

Both men start going through your boxes, satisfied grins on their faces. These asshols clearly enjoy the power they have. Your hand is itching to grab your knife. 

Suddenly Davy holds a bottle of dry syrup up. One you found for Judith, when she got a bad cold. "Jackpot." He jokes, taking out more of your antibiotics. 

"No!" You bark, grabbing the handle of your knife. "We need those, you can't have them!" 

"Once again, princess." He turns around to face you. "We take what we want."

You're holding his stare, not backing down. Your voice turns to a growl. "No."

In an instant Davy pushes you against the wall, knocking the air out of your lungs. With his own knife against your throat, you don't dare to struggle, slowly releasing the hold on yours. 

"Get off of her!" Carl screams, aiming at Davy with his gun. Davy's friend raises his hands in response. 

"Carl, lower your gun!" you demand but he doesn't listen. "Carl!" 

"Better listen, kid." The other guy says. "Or this will turn pretty ugly real quick."

"Get off of her!" Your brother repeats. You hold up your hands in surrender, showing Davy you'll not be a threat. Finally he lets you go, releasing you from his hold. 

"You're not taking our antibiotics!" Carl continues, his gun still up.

You move over to him to stand in front of the barrel. "Stop it." You whisper harshly. Both men return to your boxes, grabbing both. 

"Hey!" Carl yells, but both men keep ignoring him. Unable to fight his anger any longer, your brother pushes you aside, firing on the ground right next to Davy's feet. 

Shocked you stand by his side, staring with wide open eyes. Both men hold their hands up and while the other one looks concerned, Davy has a smile on his face. "Wrong move."

"Put our boxes back or the next bullet will actually hit."

You snap out of your shocked state, when you hear footsteps behind you. Your dad appears next to Carl, holding his hand out to him. "Carl, please lower your weapon."

"No!" He refuses. "They are taking all our medicine. Negan said he'd take only half of it."

"Oh I did, didn't I?" 

You don't dare turning around but you don't have to. Your shoulders go tense when Negan rounds you and your father, stopping right in front of Carl. 

"Really, kid?" He chuckles lowly. Adrenaline is pumping through your veins, your heart's beating hard against your ribcage.

You plead, "Goddammit, Carl! Stop it!" 

"You should listen to her." Negan advises, his eyes not leaving Carl. 

"And you should leave", Your brother retorts "Before you find out how dangerous we are."

Negan narrows his eyes, taking one step closer to your brother. "Well, pardon me, young man. Excuse the shit out of my goddamn french but did you just threaten me?" 

You're clenching your hands into fits. Carl has to drop this fucking gun. 

"Look, I get threatening Davy here but I can't have it. Not him, not me-" 

"Carl!" You growl in warning. 

"Now don't be rude, sunshine." Negan addresses you. "We're having a conversation here."

He turns back to Carl but you notice his eyes lingering on you for a second longer than necessary. 

"So, where were we? Right, your gigant mansize balls. No one's treating us. Listen, I like you, so I don't wanna go hard, proving a point here. You don't want that. I said half your shit and half is what I say it is."

Carl eyes dart between Negan and the boxes, still not giving in. 

"I'm serious." Negan snarls. "Do you want me to prove how serious?" His voice drops even lower, "Again?" 

That's it. You take hold of your brother's hand, twisting it. He releases the gun, groaning in pain. You're almost snapping his wrists in anger, but manage to let go before you can deal actual damage. 

When the gun is in your hand, you try to give it to your father but Negan reaches for it first. "Nope, that's mine now."

You give him the gun without hesitation, glaring at your brother, who is caressing his throbbing wrist. 

"Impressive." Negan praises you before moving his attention to your father. "Know what, Rick? This whole thing reminds me that you have a lot of guns. All the guns you got from my outpost, when you wasted all of my people with a shitton of your own guns and I'm betting there's even more, which adds up to an absolute ass load of guns."

Your father's eyes are glued to the floor. There was a time where you'd be heartbroken to see him like this. But he agreed to attack the outpost, no matter how hard you tried to convince him otherwise. It's making it hard for you to feel sympathy, especially now, with your relationship more tense than ever. When this ordeal is over, you two will definitely have another argument. 

"And as this little emotional outburst made crystal clear," Negan continues, "I can't allow that. They're all mine now. So, tell me, Rick. Where are my guns?" 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You're sitting in front of the infirmary, looking over the remaining inventory. From about eight boxes that were filled to the brim with supplies, only three and a half were left for you. 

Saying you are angry would be an understatement. You are fuming. Why didn't you just follow up with your plan and hide everything in the sewers? Why did you wait for your father's permission? 

You're so done with him and his stupid mistakes. It seems like every decision he's making is adding another nail to your coffin. 

You've lost the prison, because he hesitated. You felt forced to take action and captured Michonne so Merle could bring her to the Governor. Of course you would have killed him before he could kill your friend, but Merle had to chicken out. Lucky Michonne did not hold any grudges towards you, unlike your father. 

And then there was Terminus, a place that's still giving you nightmares to this day. Thank God you and Carol came before it was too late. 

When your group finally got to Alexandria, your practically broken relationship slowly got better. Even though you wanted to make everything work, like Darly and Michonne did, you also felt uncomfortable like your father. The people were too oblivious about the world outside of their walls. 

A few weeks later, when you were confronted with an enormous horde of walkers, you two finally got your shit together. It just took getting missing for a while, making him believe you and Darly died when luring the horde, while in the meantime Carl suffered with yet another life-threatening injury. 

When you and Daryl finally got back to Alexandria, your father almost crushed you in a hug and did not leave you and Carl's side, when you treated him. It's tragic that it took almost losing your brother again to make you and your father grow back together. 

If not for Carl, you'd have left the group long ago. 

Afterwards, when you thought you and your father finally worked through your problems, you found out about Hilltop. From the moment Gregory introduced himself to the group, you could not stand that guy. 

To be fair, it's been Daryl's idea to free Hilltop from the Saviors. But your father had the final say. We're starving, your father argued and finally you've been overruled by everyone else. 

In the beginning Meggie shared your doubts, you both knew actions will always have consequences, but in the end you stood alone against the rest, when they took off to kill everyone at the outpost, which by the time you guys thought was their base. 

And now you have to suffer those consequences. 

You take a moment to breath, trying to calm your nerves. Anger won't get you anywhere right now. When the Saviors leave, so will you. Two days from here is a mall you hope has not been raided before. And when you come back, you will hide everything you've found there. No matter what your father has to say. 

After a few deep breaths you get back to work, sorting the meds by indication. While you're at it, you draw symbols on the containers, stars for antibiotics, lighting for painkillers, trees for vitamins. You're so deep in thought that you did not notice someone approached you. 

"Need paper for your drawings?" 

You jump in surprise, almost throwing your stuff away. Slowly you look up at Negan, who's looking at you with curiosity in his eyes. "The hell you're doing there?" 

"I'm marking the containers, so the others know what to look for, in case I'm not in town."

Negan crouches down next to you, taking the container out of your hand. "Ami… triptyline, and the sun here, what does that mean?" 

"It's an antidepressant but can be combined with painkillers to increase the pain relieving effect." You explain. 

His eyes go to the box, looking over the other containers you've already marked. "Hm, you look too young to be a Doc." 

"I've been a pharmacy technician before the apocalypse." You correct him. He looks back at you, seemingly impressed. 

"So you know that shit?" 

You nod. "Yeah, I'm in charge of the infirmary supplies. Good thing I chose a job that's still useful now."

"Would you show me the infirmary?" 

As if you could say no. You raise to your feet, grabbing the box. "Yeah, sure."

Despite the incident with Carl, Negan seems pretty chill right now. Maybe it's just an act. It's creepy to say the least. 

You lead him inside. It's not much and now after the Saviors it's even less. You put your box back onto your desk, while Negan is browsing through your bookshelf. 

He takes out a notebook. "Medicine for dummies" he reads out loud, turning the pages. With a frown on his face he turns towards you, confused by the handwriting. "What's that?" 

"Um, my notebook. I'm breaking down the books behind you. I'm trying to explain diseases, their treatments and medications for laymen. So the people here know what to do if someone catches something."

Negan's frown only intensives. He grabs another book, turning it to a random page. "So you wanna tell me you understand what all these big words mean, proton pump inhibitors for example?"

You just shrug with your shoulders. "The majority of 'em, yeah. That's what I did for a living, also went to several advanced training sessions. PPI block stomach cells from releasing acid, it's one way to treat severe heart burns, by the way."

"Pretty and intelligent." He comments when he returns the books. A faint blush settles on your cheeks, this should not flatter you as much as it does. 

You lean over the box, trying to appear less nervous. His calm attitude is unsettling you. "Anything else you'd like to know?" 

He sits down on your roller stool, pushing himself towards the other side of the room and back again. You can't contain a little snort. The highly feared leader of the Saviors, rolling around the room with a big smile on his face. This seems way too innocent for a man like him. 

"Dang, with a chair like this in my office, I'd never get any shit done." He jokes, still pushing himself around. "Have you ever done this?" 

"More often than I should admit." You say, now smiling yourself. "If you pull the lever on your right side, it'll also spin."

Negan looks for the lever but doesn't push it. "Next time." 

He stops at the shelf again, leaning against it and facing you. "You know, I can't help but wonder why you look so familiar."

You debate what you should reply to that. He'll most likely find out anyway, so you confess, "I'm a Grimes."

Negan's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Really?" 

You nod in affirmation. 

"Rick's sister, right?"

"Daughter." You correct him. 

"Well, shit." The smile returns and he rests his arms on his knees. "And the trigger friendly boy's your brother? Huh."

He looks like he's thinking about something, after a moment looks back at you, his smile fading. "Wiping out people gotta be like some kind of family trip for you guys."

Your soft smile vanishes and you bite your cheek for a second. "I did not partake in the attack, if you're referring to the satellite station." 

Negan's unreadable expression turns into a frown in response. "You really wanna tell me when Rick went to kill my men, you just what, waved him goodbye and went to bed?" 

"I was tempted to flip him the bird, but yeah." You reply. "I was against the attack."

That's earning you a doubtful look. "Why?" 

"We didn't know who we were messing with, what the consequences would be, thought it's been too much of a risk."

His face splits into a bright smile. "Sucks to be right sometimes, doesn't it? And Rick just left you behind like that?" 

You just shrug again. "He had to. We've argued for hours but I've been overruled in the end, so I simply refused to help."

Negan strokes his beard, considering what you've told him. "Sounds like you're the more reasonable part of the family. I'm sorry your father dragged you into this shit."

If you didn't know better, you'd say this actually sounded sincere. Not knowing how to respond to that, you just stay nothing. 

After one final look around the room, Negan finally stands up, making his way towards the door. "Well, I'll leave you to your work then. Thank you for your time, it's been a fucking pleasure." He tells you with his wolfish grin on his face. 

When he's about to step out he turns around again. "Know what?" He asks you, his voice turning slightly playful. "I think we're gonna be friends, you and I."

Chapter Index: Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 (End)

Masterlist / Negan x Rick's Daughter Series