Moon Doll

But then came a fourth tap. Just one. Sharp enough to make your headache throb like it was answering.

”Y/N…It’s Bob…Can I come in?” You winced at the sound of his voice, even though it was always super gentle and timid.

Bob.

Of course it was Bob.

You’d almost forgotten in the haze of your sickness that you were technically on Bob duty. Because apparently being half-dead with the flu made you the least threatening option to keep an eye on the world’s most powerful man while the rest of the team went on recon. Bucky had said it so casually, like the fate of the planet couldn’t possibly unravel while you were tucked under three blankets with a thermometer hanging out of your mouth.

“All you gotta do is check in on him every hour or so,” He’d told you. “Make sure he eats. Make sure he’s not spiraling, and doing something to keep himself occupied. Y’know. Normal people stuff.”

It had been simple, at first. When the worst symptoms you were experiencing was a runny nose and a dull headache, you’d shuffle past Bob every so often with a thumbs up and a mumbled “You good?” While he nodded earnestly over his book, asking you the same thing back.

But once you started coughing so hard you felt like your ribs were breaking, and the chills that you were experiencing gave way to night sweats and dry heaving, keeping tabs on Bob Reynolds fell hard to the bottom of your to-do list–somewhere below “don’t die” and “get a new tissue”.

“…It’s open,” You rasped, your voice raw and thin from all the coughing you had been doing.

The doorknob turned slowly, like he was still asking permission even after you gave it. Then Bob stepped inside with that careful kind of energy that people only reserved for hospital rooms or museums–like one wrong step might unplug or break something important.

He hovered in between the doorway, not coming too close–being mindful that you had told him a few times to keep his distance because you didn’t want him getting sick, even though it was nearly impossible for him to catch anything. His baggy navy sweater hung off him like a weighted blanket, and the sleeves were stretched over his knuckles, worn from the way he would always pick at the fabric. He looked small in it–even though he was quiet muscular underneath all the layers. His posture was slouched, and his shoulders were drawn up like he was nervous about something. On top of all that though, he was wearing his new wardrobe staple–a dark brown beanie that he shoved his bleach-blonde hair under, he never came out of his room without it.

You stared at his figure through half-lidded eyes, watching as he avoided looking directly at you.

”You okay?” You croaked, reaching up to your face to rub the sleep off your face, attempting to sit up to get a better look at him. He glanced over at you, nodding quickly.

”Yeah. Of course…I mean…I’m good, I just…” He trailed off, the sentence losing momentum halfway through as his gaze drifted around the room.

He wasn’t just avoiding your eyes anymore, it was like his attention had been dragged elsewhere–behind you, beside you, and all around you. His brows twitched slightly as he took in your space for the first time, and slowly you connected the dots that Bob had never actually been inside your room before– the first time was always an experience for people who didn’t know you were a secret collector of everything.

His eyes swept over the cluttered desk in the corner that sported wires, pliers, circuit boards and half built gadgets, before going to the large overstuffed bookshelf beside it, which was packed tight with thrifted novels and comic books that were still in their original plastic sleeves. There was a milk crate of vinyls on the floor near your speaker, with the old record player you insisted on fixing instead of replacing, even though you would complain every few days about it.

There was a flicker in his expression–surprise, maybe. Or something quieter, like he’d just stumbled into a part of you that he didn’t expect to find. You saw it in the way his jaw went still and the way his shoulders shifted slightly, like he was dying to ask you questions about everything you had, but he was holding himself back.

”…Bob,” You said hoarsely, trying to draw his attention back to you. He didn’t blink, his eyes were fixated on something in the far corner where your posters were. You reached your hand up over your head, waving slightly, and snapping your fingers, “Earth to Bob. Are you sure everything’s okay?” He shook himself out of his trance, and glanced over at you.

”Sorry…Sorry,” He said quickly, his voice a little higher than usual, as he cleared his throat, “Didn’t mean to, uh…Y’know, snoop or anything. I’ve just never seen your room before, you’ve got a lot of cool stuff.” You raised your eyebrows at him with a small smile on your face.

”You’re lucky I feel like death. Otherwise I’d be giving you the grand tour right now…I also include a quiz at the end.” Bob let out a nervous laugh and looked down, picking at the loose thread on his sleeve.

“I’d definitely fail…So I’m kind of glad…Well I’m not glad you’re sick, I’m just glad I don’t have to do a quiz.” Your lips twitched, amused despite the ache that was still clawing at your skull.

”Very smooth recovery Bob, very smooth.” Bob made a quiet noise–somewhere between a breathy laugh and a groan–keeping his eyes pinned to the floor as his cheeks turned a soft pink. You pushed yourself up a little more than before, elbows trembling from the effort of holding yourself up.

”So…What’s going on? Why’d you knock on my door at…” You paused, glancing over at your alarm clock, “Seven fifty three in the morning?” Bob sighed.

”Well…I need to go to the drug store,” He admitted, his voice sheepish, “And I know Bucky’s not really a fan of me going out alone so…Thought I’d ask my babysitter.” You squinted at him through your blurred vision, feeling the room tilt slightly, as you brought your hand up to your face, pressing gently at your temples.

”Are you getting sick or something?” He immediately shook his head.

”No, no it’s nothing like that. I haven’t really gotten sick since I took the Sentry serum…” You quirked your brow at him.

”So…What’s the reason for the drug store trip then?” Bob shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the floor creaking under him loudly as he did so.

“I um…I need to buy something. For myself.” He responded, dancing around the truth. You stared at him.

”Is it serious?”

”No,” He said quickly, “It’s not like…Health-serious or anything, I’m fine physically, I just…” He paused, clamming up again, not knowing how to explain himself. You narrowed your eyes at him, coughing into your arm, clutching your ribs when a dull ache pulsed through the area.

”You do realize I’m gonna find out anyway if I go with you , right?” Bob sighed and dragged his hand down the side of his face, like he was physically wiping the resistance off of himself, letting his hand drop down to the hem of his sweater.

”Fine…Fine…I need to buy…Hair dye.” He mumbled under his breath. You tilted your head slightly, blinking through the fevered haze that clouded your vision.

”Hair dye?” Bob winced at the way the words left your mouth, even though you didn’t mean for it to sound like you were judging him.

”Mhm…” You stared at him for a second longer than he could handle, as his eyes began to wander again, his hands wringing the fabric of his shirt, wrinkling it.

“You woke me up at seven-fifty-three in the morning…For hair dye?” You asked again, trying to confirm what you were hearing once more, hoping that you weren’t experiencing an odd version of delirium at this point.

”It’s not just–“ He started, then shut his mouth again, biting the inside of his cheek, shaking his head, “I mean…It is…But I just…” The sentence fell apart in his throat, as his cheeks began to heat up. He looked genuinely embarrassed, and you could see himself curling even more into his sweater, “I just don’t like what it looks like anymore.” There was something raw about the way he said it, and you couldn’t help but feel empathy for him, your heart clenching at the way his words cracked in the air.

“The bleach… The whole look,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor, “It was for him. For the Sentry. That’s what they said, anyway– they said that it would help. That it would make people see someone new. Something brighter…Like it would somehow separate us…But I still have to live in this body when he’s not around.” Bob continued, his throat swelling with a lump, “I still have to see myself…And the longer I look like him, the harder it is to remember who I am when I’m just…Bob.” You didn’t say anything at first–not because you didn’t want to, but because there was something about the way he was talking about himself that made your chest cave in a little. The words hung in the air like mist, as he bowed his head even lower, keeping his eyes on the floor, not daring to look at you or anything else in the room.

“It’s not stupid.” You could see his hands stop moving at your words, watching his eyes glance up at you hesitantly. You gave him a tired but sincere look, hoping that it was enough for him to understand that what you were saying was coming from a place of care, “Wanting to see yourself again isn’t stupid Bob…It’s just you trying to cling to the one thing you have control of…I get it.” His mouth parted, like he was going to thank you, but no sound came out. He was relieved that someone was finally understanding what he meant, it was like he had been running around talking to walls when he would speak about how he was feeling, but with you in this moment…It was like he felt seen.

”So I’ll help…But I need to see what we’re working with first.” You added, motioning to his head. Bob looked like a deer in the headlights when you said it, caught off guard by your suggestion, but also scared to even follow through with it.

”W-What?” You sighed.

”That hat Bob…Just take it off…I haven’t seen your hair since we moved you in here and you’ve been hiding it like it’s some sort of radioactive test subject.” He felt his heart gallop in his chest a little bit, as the nerves began to build up in him.

”I-I really don’t think that’s necessary,” He stammered, already figuring out a way to retreat out of the conversation, eyeing the hallway that was in the far corner of his vision.

”Bob, you dragged me out of a flu coma to ask me for help…So let me help you…Let me see it.” The gentleness in your voice was always something that got to him. Even on your toughest days you would use that tone with him, and for some reason it was the only thing that truly had him melting like putty in your hands.

You could see the conflict playing out within him, like he was weighing out the risks, until a look of resolve appeared on his face, a small sigh escaping his lips as he gave in to your request.

Bob’s fingers trembled as he slipped them beneath the edge of his beanie, hesitating for a second before slowly tugging it off his head. The static cling made the knit fabric resist him just a little, like even the hat itself didn’t want to let go of the safety it provided him.

The moment it came off, a curtain of hair fell across his face. You blinked through your fevered haze, eyes widening slightly–not in shock, but in recognition. His hair was longer than you remembered–shaggy, uneven, the ends fried from months of bleach. The top was still harshly pale, the yellow-white of it stark under the low morning light, but underneath, near the roots, his real hair was coming back in–soft, and light brown, just like you recalled from the brief glimpses you got of him before it all got changed. But the line where bleach met natural color was harsh and jarring, cutting across his scalp like a bad decision frozen in time.

He looked like someone in between versions of himself, not quite Bob, not quite Sentry–just…Stuck. You studied him for a moment, your body heavy with exhaustion but your chest buzzing with quiet sympathy. There was something so tender about the way he stood there, hair falling into his eyes, his beanie clutched in his hands like a comfort object. He looked younger somehow. Not in age, but in vulnerability–like this was the version of himself that never got the chance to just be soft and carefree.

“It’s not that bad,” You started, the rasp still thick in your throat, “Really. It just needs some love, patience…Maybe a deep condition…And the right shade of brown.” Bob’s head immediately shot up to look at you, like he couldn’t believe what you were saying.

”S-So you’re actually going to help? Y-You didn’t just try to trick me into showing you my hair right?” You shifted yourself down to the edge of your mattress, groaning at the way your bones protested and pulsed with each movement.

”No I didn’t try to trick you… I’m going to help, but first, I’m gonna need you to come here and make sure I don’t fall, because I think my legs are going to wiggle like they’re made of jelly.” For a split second Bob wasn’t sure if you were serious or not about needing actual help, but he moved anyway, shuffling towards you with his socked feet sliding across the floor. He opened his arms hesitantly, elbows bending like he wasn’t sure where they were supposed to go, offering himself up into your space.

”Alright…Whenever you’re ready I g-guess.” He said softly, his voice cracking a bit on the ‘guess’ like he was more nervous about touching or dropping you than you were about falling on your own.

Your hands found his forearms instantly, fingers curling into the soft, worn cotton of his sleeves, watching him brace himself. He looped one arm under yours, while steadying the other against your back as you pushed off the mattress, feeling your knees buckling beneath you like a baby deer on ice.

“Woah–woah, okay.” Bob muttered quickly, tightening his arms around you without a second thought. He adjusted himself accordingly, trying his best to be gentle while still being secure enough to hold you upright. You ended up closer than either of you really expected, with his chest pressed against yours, and your cheek inches away from his shoulder.

Despite everything—the fever baking your skin, the chills clinging to your limbs, and the flu that had knocked you down hard enough to rattle the walls—you still smelled…Good.

Bob noticed it the moment you got within his arms reach.

It wasn’t some kind of artificial, pampered scent. It wasn’t perfume or lotion or anything curated. No, it was just you–fresh soap, soft worn cotton, and that barely-there trace of eucalyptus from the body wash and shampoo combo you swore by. He heard you muttering something about it being the only thing strong enough to trick your sinuses into opening, and Bob had thought it was actually going to work because the sniff you gave him from the bottle made him have a sneezing fit, but he heard your frustrated grunt in the shower when it had not been the case.

”You alright Bob?” You asked, feeling the tension in his body against yours. He let out a short breath, which fanned across the crown of your head. He didn’t say anything right away, he just gave you a quick nod.

”Yeah, yeah I’m okay.” You could feel how careful he was being, feeling his arms flexing around you, not too tight, and not too loose. He was warm, and steady, while trying so hard not to be in the way, even though you requested his help. You couldn’t help but think about how strangely nice it was to be close to him, despite the situation.

You stood like that for another moment longer, your body leaning against his, the rhythm of your fevered breathing matching the rise and fall of his chest. Even through the blocked sinuses you had you could smell his laundry detergent on his sweater–fresh from the dryer, another thing you seemed to like about the moment.

Though you snapped yourself out of your self-induced daze once the floor felt less like a rocking ship beneath your feet. You pulled back just enough to glance up at him.

”You can let go now,” You whispered, startling Bob with the cue. Quickly he stepped back, like he just realized he was touching a hot stove or something, trying not to seem like he had been enjoying the odd moment of closeness. Despite the warmth of his body leaving yours, his hands still hovered around you just in case.

”I’m good,” You reassured, wobbling slightly but managing to keep yourself upright, “Just give me a few minutes to brush my teeth and get my bearings so I don’t scare the public by looking like a corpse.” Bob nodded immediately.

”Yeah, of course, I’ll just…I’ll wait in the hallway. There’s no rush or anything, uh…Just take your time. Seriously, I mean it.” He said, backing away while he clutched his beanie in his hand, “Just call me if you need anything.” He added, slipping out of your room and pulling the door shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, you sat back down on the edge of the bed with a slow, rattling breath. God. Your whole body felt like it had been microwaved–sweaty, sore, and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes for a second, trying to reboot your nervous system. Not just from the fever, but from how close Bob had been. How soft he’d been. How good it had felt to be held with such warmth and gentleness even if it was for a fleeting moment.

You let out a sigh, before getting up again, dragging yourself into the ensuite bathroom you shared with Yelena, flicking on the bright fluorescent light. You let out a hiss, catching your reflection in the mirror. Surprisingly, the damage was minimal, sure your hair was an absolute mess from spending the night tossing and turning, but you looked half-awake at least.

Quickly, you got yourself ready, brushing your teeth, splashing some water on your face, fixing up your hair, and changing into a fresh set of clothes. By the time you were done, only fifteen minutes had passed–your new personal best. You cracked the door to your bedroom open, finding Bob sitting on the floor waiting with his back against the wall and knees drawn up. He looked up quickly when he heard the creak, and gave you a soft smile.

“Let’s get outta here.”

——————

Twenty minutes later, you found yourselves shoulder to shoulder in front of the painfully fluorescent wall of boxed hair dye in your local CVS.

It was still early, so thankfully not a lot of people were in the store. You actually thought that it was just you and Bob who were customers and the rest of the people there were employees and managers. On the overhead speakers there was a faint crackle of old 2000s music groaning throughout the store. The air smelled like plastic and dryer sheets, which was an odd mix for a drugstore of all places.

Bob stood stiffly beside you, his hands jammed into the front pocket of his jacket, eyes wide as he took in the absurd variety of brands and colours in front of him. His mouth was parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t decide on what panic stricken sentence he was going to go with. So you spoke first.

“Well…We know what row we need to look at.” You said, motioning toward the more natural leaning colours–rows of caramel, ash, chestnut, and espresso–pushing the cart gently in that direction as Bob trailed behind you like a nervous shadow. Your eyes scanned over the various boxes and brands, trying to find ones that would do minimum damage to his hair while actually doing the job.

“I didn’t think it was going to be so complicated…” He murmured from behind you, “I just thought there would be straight forward choices…” You looked up from the boxes, seeing the way his jaw was clenched.

”It’s just overwhelming because all the companies who make this stuff create different versions of the same thing. See…” You pointed at one box “This one is ammonia free, and is semi-permanent,” Then pointed to the other one right beside it,”While this one is permanent and has argan oil infused in it so it doesn’t do a lot of damage, but they’re the same colour.” Bob squinted at the wall of labels, then back to the boxes you had motioned to, visibly confused, shaking his head.

“Alright…But what if I just want…Normal dye?” You looked up at him, one brow arching in mild amusement.

”Bob…This is normal dye.” He turned a sharp shade of red, as the heat rose to his cheeks, taking over the paleness.

“W-Well yeah but–but you know what I mean don’t you? It doesn’t have to be so complicated, just have one of every colour.” You let out a small laugh.

”Welcome to the wonderful world of capitalism, Bob. You want brown? Well, first you gotta pick from thirty-seven kinds of brown. Do you want cocoa chestnut or honey almond toast? Because those are apparently different.” Bob took his hand out of his pocket, rubbing the back of his neck.

”Okay…I guess you’re right.” He replied nervously.

”We’ll find your colour, I promise.” You said calmly, continuing to look over the boxes in front of you.

“Should I, uh…Take my hat off? Would that help?” You tilted your head at him, and nodded.

”It would definitely make this a much quicker process…But if it really bothers you, I’m pretty sure I could go off of memory.” Bob shrugged a little, his eyes flicking around the store for a moment.

”I don’t mind, it’s basically just us in here anyway.” You nodded, watching him remove the beanie again, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He tried to not make a big deal out of it, but you could tell he felt exposed, so you were going to attempt to make things quick.

”Alright,” You said, stepping a little closer to him, grabbing a few boxes from the shelf, “Bend down a bit, I need to get a good look at the roots so I can compare.” He obeyed, ducking his head so you could see the top of his hair properly. In doing so, he stepped closer than you expected—closer than he expected, probably. Your foreheads were nearly aligned, noses maybe a breath apart. He was tall enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to get the right angle, and Bob found himself frozen there, inches from you, not sure where to look. So, he looked at you.

You smelled like cherry cough drops–sickly sweet and medicinal—and it hit him instantly, like a quiet little exhale in the space between you. He remembered the moment you popped one into your mouth earlier, halfway to CVS, saying it was the only thing keeping your throat from giving out. And now the scent lingered on your breath, mingling with the warmth of your skin and the faint trace of eucalyptus from before. Bob swore his brain short-circuited for a second.

You were focused, eyes narrowing slightly, as you held one box up beside his roots, then another. Your fingers brushed through the longer strands near his crown, gently separating pieces to get a clearer view of where the bleach ended and his real colour began. You were so precise about it, so tender, and Bob didn’t know where to put his hands or how to keep breathing without accidentally inhaling you.

Then you paused, lips turning up as you caught the way his chest rose a little faster, how his fingers curled and uncurled in his sleeves

A soft rattling sound reached your ears then–the kind of nervous, involuntary vibration that sometimes came from him when he was overwhelmed. You smirked slightly, brushing your thumb against his temple on purpose as you pushed a few more strands aside.

“Is the Sentry getting a bit flustered?” You teased, your voice still raspy from the flu but still playful. “Or is that just you rattling like a soda can?”

Bob made a noise–half sigh, half laugh–ducking his head a little more like it would hide the warmth that continued to spread over his skin, all the way down his neck. “It’s definitely just me. He’s, uh…He’s fine.”

“Good,” You hummed, still close, eyes flicking between the swatch and his roots. “Because I don’t think he’d let me manhandle his hair like this.”

“You’re not…Manhandling anything,” He mumbled, trying to cover up the wavering tone. “Feels…Kinda nice, actually.” You paused at that comment, your eyes glancing down to his, seeing little glints of sparkling orange through the sea blue that his irises normally sported. For a second, neither of you said anything. The store had faded by that point and all that was left was the faint scent of cherry and the feel of your fingers still resting lightly in his hair.

“…This is your shade,” You said finally, voice soft, motioning to the box in your hand. He didn’t move at first, it was as if his brain hadn’t caught up to the moment yet, or his ears were ringing so much he didn’t hear what you had said. Then you shifted your weight, easing back slightly, giving him some space as you cleared your throat, dropping the box into the cart with a clunk. He quickly slipped the beanie back on, shoving his hair up into it, sealing away the moment beneath it.

“Now we need to get you one of those conditioning treatments, and after that I’m grabbing some snacks, cause I’m getting hungry.” He looked away from you, nodding.

”Yeah, okay…Conditioner and snack. Got it.” You glanced up at him, seeing the way he was avoiding you eyes again, before turning back to the cart, pushing it down the aisle with him following close behind. You turned into the next section without fanfare–the shampoo and conditioner area–and skimmed over a wide array of labels until your eyes landed on the exact jar you were looking for: the rich brown packaging, the heavy text that scrawled out all the promises of repairing and restoring.

“This one,” You muttered, reaching up for it and dropping it into the cart with a soft thunk, “Will do miracles for the damage, you’re gonna love it, smells like sweet coconuts.” Bob glanced at the package.

”Does it…Sting?” Your eyebrows drew together.

”Bob…It's conditioner, not acid.” He bit his inner lip.

”No, I-I know, I’m just asking cause when they bleached my hair it really really burned…Then my head was super sensitive for like a whole week after, j-just don’t want to go through that again.” You could hear the way his voice tapered off, like he didn’t really want to talk about it, but he just wanted to let you know.

“I promise this will be way less abrasive.” You said, with a small smile tugging at your lips, nudging the cart forward again, “Now let’s get to that snack aisle before my stomach eats itself.” Bob chuckled softly at your words, following you again as you turned into the next section, noticing the sharp fluorescent lights had dimmed just slightly. The sterile smell of the store had completely faded by that point, being replaced with sweet confectionery items; gummy snacks, granola bars, marshmallows, anything you could think of really. You stopped your cart, feeling Bob’s chest bump into your back, as your eyes began to skim over the shelves, squinting at the shimmering bags, the look of contemplation drawing up into your eyebrows.

“So…What’re you craving?” He asked softly, watching your eyes dart around the wide variety, “Sweet? Salty?” You hummed.

”Might buy the whole aisle to be honest…” He laughed under his breath, the sound quieter than the store’s staticky music, but warmer than anything you’d heard in days.

”Seems like your appetite has come back.” You turned to look at him, letting your body sway slightly toward the cart to brace yourself.

”Yeah, I think the fresh air has put me on the road to recovery…Just don’t touch my lower back…It’s a little sweaty.” There was a beat of silence, before you continued “My stomach might also be trying to fool me into a false sense of security and I’ll end up throwing it all up after I eat it.”

“Well that took a turn…” You shrugged, plucking a bag of sweet chili chips, throwing it mindlessly into the cart.

”I like to keep you on your toes Bob.” You replied with a smirk.

—————-

Back at the compound, you retreated into your room to change, making quick work even though you were feeling a faint headache coming back, but it was more manageable than your prior ones.

You swapped out your clothes for a pair of beat-up black compression shorts and an old t-shirt from your days at training camp–frayed at the collar and speckled with faded bleach stains from when you touched up Yelena’s hair. The crooked letters on the shirt were faded but you could make out the words “I SURVIVED CAMP HAMMOND” on the front of it, a great memory of how long it’s been since you were actually training.

You grabbed your dye bowl and one of the brushes from under your bathroom sink, tucking them against you as you headed down the hall. Your bare feet padded softly against the cool flooring of the compound, reaching the bathroom that Bob shared with Bucky, seeing the door was already cracked open. You gave it a slow push with your knuckles, poking your head in.

Bob stood in the middle of the tiled space like he wasn’t sure where he was going to sit, clutching the CVS bag with both hands, wringing it in his grip, the sound crinkling plastic echoing off the walls. He already had taken off the beanie, fully prepared for what was coming.

“Alright,” You announced as you stepped inside, “Your hair hero has arrived.” Bob looked over at you quickly, his shoulders dropping slightly when he laid eyes on you and your outfit. The tension in him bleeding out of him in small waves.

”You brought your own bowl?” He asked, trying to cover up the fact he was staring at your bare legs for longer than he intended.

“Of course I brought my own bowl,” You replied, holding it up slightly before setting it down on the porcelain counter, “What kind of amateur do you think I am?” You asked jokingly, earning a small smile from Bob, motioning for him to hand you the bag.

You unpacked the contents onto the sinks edge–the dye, the conditioner, the gloves, and a couple of CVS coupons that the cashier had stapled to the receipt.

“Okay,” You said, flipping the box of dye around to double-check the instructions even though you were seasoned enough to know what you were doing without them, “Let’s get you situated hm?” Bob hovered behind you awkwardly, watching your hands move with precise, and practiced ease. You pointed at the closed toilet lid.

”Go sit on the makeshift barber chair, hope you like stiff seats.” You joked, watching him go over to where you pointed, sitting down without protest, seeing the way his long frame compressed itself into the small space. He looked over at you with a soft smile, his hands clasping together, as you slid on a pair of gloves.

“Uh…Just wanted to say thank you for doing this, especially with being sick and everything…I didn’t mean to be a bother.” You cracked open the box of dye, flipping the flaps back and pulling out the developer bottle and aluminum tube of colour, the gloves squeaking slightly as you did so. You opened the cap with a satisfying pop and reached for the dye bowl beside you.

”You’re not a bother Bob.,” You said, glancing over at him as you squeezed the thick brown sludge into the bowl, “I don’t mind.” He blushed a bit at the softness in your voice, letting out a sheepish laugh, nodding before taking his eyes off you, his fingers finding the hem of his sweater.

You turned and flipped the small ceiling fan on, letting it whirl to life with a soft click and hum, it was your little attempt to keep the room from smelling like a chemical spill before you started stirring in the developer with the dye.

It was quiet for a moment–peaceful almost. Just the faint humming of the fan and the soft scrape of the plastic bristles rubbing against the inside of the bowl. Bob’s eyes drifted down toward your shirt absentmindedly, reading the faded words that were scrawled over the fabric that was clinging to your frame.

”What’s…Camp Hammond?” He asked quietly, with genuine curiosity in his voice, as he looked down to his hands. You didn’t look over at him immediately–still focused on making sure the mixture reached that perfect pudding-like texture–but your mouth twitched slightly.

”Did you think I was born with the skills of a mercenary?” You asked, glancing over at him with a teasing glint in your eye, “Hate to burst your bubble, but I wasn’t that cool.” Bob felt his cheeks heat up as it spread to his ears and down his neck.

”So what is it? Like…A boot camp or something?” You shrugged, looking down at the bowl again.

”Kind of. It was a training facility for recruits who showed promise in their assigned roles. I was a teenager when I got scouted, actually. They stuck us in bunk beds and we ran drills at five in the morning. Sometimes we were able to go home to see our families but I spent about three years there just learning the ropes and honing my skills.” He leaned forward a bit.

”Was it…Bad?” You paused the stirring for a moment, biting the inside of your cheek when you heard the way he asked.

”No. Not always. It was intense, but not all of it was horrible. I met my first team there actually, so that should tell you something about the experience.” At the mention of your first team, the conversation had faded, because true to Bob’s nature he was observant enough to catch on that you weren’t going to answer any questions about them. He just nodded, and sat still, with worry tucked beneath his lashes. You cleared your throat, breaking the silence.

”Before I forget–you should probably take that sweater off. This stuff is probably going to stain it and there’s a really low chance you’re going to be able to get it out.” You said, motioning with the brush, “Unless you actually want brown splatters all over it.” You added, seeing him look down at himself.

“Oh…Uh…” He said, curling his fingers into the hem of it, hesitating, “I’m not…Wearing anything under it.” You paused.

”You could go find something you don’t mind ruining, I can wait.” Bob shook his head, not looking at you, avoiding your eyes.

”I don’t really have anything…I wear pretty much all of my clothes, and donate the ones I don’t.” You put your hands on your hips, biting the inner side of your cheek.

”Guess we have a dilemma then.” You said jokingly, looking around the bathroom for a towel–a solution of sorts.

”I mean…I could take it off, I just…Just promise me you won’t laugh.” You stopped your movements immediately, looking back at him, raising your eyebrows.

”Okay. I won’t laugh.” You said, feeling your chest tighten. Bob nodded once, his fingers finally tugging up the hem of the sweater. It caught slightly on the undersides of his arms—he had to peel it upward with a bit of a twist—and then suddenly, it was gone, crumpled in his hands and resting in his lap.

You froze.

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught somewhere in your throat, stalling completely as you took him in.

The heat that burned inside your body hit you like a second fever.

He was…Lean. But solid. Not showy or overly built, but undeniably strong. His chest and shoulders were broad in a way that looked natural. There were fine lines of definition that carved down his sternum and stomach, soft traces of light and shadow where his muscles rested. His skin was fair, with scattered freckles that dotted across his collarbones and shoulders like sunspots. A small scar cut just under his left rib–thin and silvery and healed long ago–and there was a faint stretch of color along his ribs, a faded birthmark maybe, or it was the aftermath from the serum he was given. Tying it all together though were the very very small stretch marks that were scattered around the expanse of skin, which made your brows raise a bit in admiration…

And his arms–Jesus Christ, his arms–were gently corded with strength, biceps not flexed but still clearly shaped beneath smooth skin, dusted with barely-there hair in the hollows of his elbows. The veins on his forearms sat just under the surface, pale blue and almost glowing under the harsh light of the bathroom.

He wasn’t perfect. But you didn’t want perfect. This–this was so much better.

The heat rushed up your neck and onto your cheeks so fast it was like your body had short-circuited, and you were suddenly very aware that your own shirt was threadbare and clinging to your frame. You tried to clear your throat quietly, to ground yourself, but the sound came out shakier than you liked. Bob caught it immediately, and his cheeks went a dark hue of pink. Now you were able to see the pale skin of his chest matching the same colour.

You felt nauseous looking at him, but for all the right reasons. How the hell were you supposed to get close to this man now without passing out? And how the hell was he able to hide this so well from you– Or anybody else for that matter?

“Wow…” Was all you could say, and you didn’t even mean for it to come out of your mouth. Bob’s head tilted up at you, noticing the way your eyes were glued to him like he was some sort of museum exhibit. He clutched the sweater in his lap a little tighter, curling in on himself a bit as if he was trying to hide, looking down at himself.

”Yeah I know…” He muttered, tone awkward and clipped, like he was attempting to defuse the silence before it got worse, “I know it’s bad…The serum kinda…I don’t know made me grow a little too quickly, and-.” You raised your hand to stop him.

”Woah woah…Don’t even go there Bob. I wasn’t saying wow in a bad way.” He looked up at you instantly, his eyes glistening in the lighting, the soft blue still shimmering with those little flecks of orange.

”…You weren’t?” He questioned, his lips parting a bit.

”Bob…You’re built like a fucking house.” You said bluntly, the edge in your voice softening from the next wave of nausea that sloshed in your stomach. Bob made a noise like he was suppressing a laugh, his throat closed a bit.

”That’s…A very generous interpretation, but you don’t have to lie to me…” Your expression twisted slightly, not in offense, but in something rawer than that. It was as if his words scratched at a place in you that was already tender.

”Bob, I’ve never lied to you…And I’m certainly not starting now.” Bob’s lashes fluttered like he was processing your words, like no one had ever said something so plainly true to him in a long time. You could see the way he swallowed hard, almost like he was choking back his words, “You look amazing, and I mean it.” That was when you heard it again–the faint rattling sound, you assumed he was shaking something in one of the cabinets, it didn’t really matter at this point though. He drew in a shaky breath to quiet it, his fingers tightening around the bunched-up sweater.

Then you stepped towards him, taking up the space between his knees. You were close enough to feel the warmth coming off his bare chest, to see the smallest cluster of freckles that laid just beneath his collarbone, and to feel his breath against you. Bob tilted his head up, slow and steady, his eyes finding yours immediately, seeing more orange taking over his irises.

“…You’re really not going to laugh at me?” He asked, almost like he truly couldn’t believe it. You sighed, tucking a piece of bleached hair behind his ear.

”Bob, the only thing I’m going to be doing right now is wondering how I’m supposed to function with you sitting in front of me like this…Does that make you feel any better?” Bob let out a soft, startled breath–almost like a laugh or like he didn’t know what to do with the surge of warmth that spread through his chest.

His hands, still knotted around the sweater in his lap, flexed–then unclenched. The tension there began to melt, bit by bit.

“I…” He started, then stopped. His voice caught, his tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was trying to steady himself. His eyes searching your face, shining under the light “I think that makes it so much worse, actually.”

“Worse?” Bob nodded faintly.

“Yeah…Because now I’m trying really hard not to kiss you...” His voice was barely above a whisper when he said it, and all consideration for the flu you had been battling was thrown to the curb.

The rattling came back. Louder this time. Almost a tremor that ran through his chest–not violent, not dangerous, but charged. Like there was a wire humming under his skin that was just barely holding.

And still, somehow, he smiled.

The kind of smile that only showed up when he was trying to hide how badly he wanted something.

You swallowed. Your hand was still in his hair, fingers brushing at the soft edge of his temple. You could feel his warmth, his nerves, the small, careful gravity that existed between his body and yours. You let your gaze drop to his mouth, just for a second, and then back to his eyes.

“Well,” You said, keeping your voice low and playful, in an attempt to mask your heart beating out of your chest “You’re gonna have to wait until after your hair’s done. I’m not making out with someone mid-dye job–this stuff stains.” You added innocently, a smirk drawing up on your lips. You could hear Bob’s breath catching in his throat at the sheer mention of making out.

”Right, right, of course.” He said, trying to cover up the excitement that bloomed in him.

”Now, be a give boy and stay still, so I can work my magic.” You whispered tilting his chin up even more with your gloved hand.

”Y-Yes, ma’am.” He responded breathlessly, without even thinking–so soft, and so automatic that it made your pulse spike. You cleared your throat a bit before dipping the brush into the bowl, letting the creamy dye coat the bristles, then gently you began to cover the stark blonde lengths of his hair in the dark brown colouring. The scent of it—chemical but faintly sweet—mingled with the warm air drifting down from the little ceiling fan, and you tried to keep your breathing steady as you worked. Bob’s hair was softer than you expected, silken even after all the damage. And the way he tilted his head just slightly to give you better access made your chest ache.

He closed his eyes at the first touch, his jaw going slack as you parted the strands with careful fingers, keeping your brush strokes slow and methodical. You could see his throat move as he swallowed, the faintest tremble still present in his frame–but now it was quiet, more soothed than shaken.

You worked in silence for a little while. It wasn’t awkward—just thick with the kind of tension that lingers when two people are trying not to break a moment that’s humming with too much energy. You kept your movements fluid, coating each section with care, your free hand occasionally grazing the side of his neck or the curve of his temple to steady him.

Bob let out a slow, shaky breath.

“…Can I touch you?”

The question barely made it past his lips. His eyes were still shut, but his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t sure if he should open them yet. You paused, brush hovering midair.

“Touch me?” You asked, like you were confirming what he just said. He nodded, just once.

“Not in a weird way I just–I need to…To do something with my hands.”Your lips parted, the heat returning in full force, knowing that he was probably making an excuse to put his hands on you, to feel you, to take you in, but deep down inside, you didn’t mind one bit.

“Yeah,” You said quietly. “You can touch me.”

The second you said it, you felt his hands move. Slow, careful. The sweater slipped from his lap and landed with a soft thump on the tile floor. Then his palms came to rest on the sides of your thighs, just above the hem of your compression shorts.

They were warm. Gentle. And a bit shaky.

Bob exhaled like the contact untied something in him, his fingers curling lightly around your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to hold you like that. His thumbs swept slow arcs along the fabric, and then you saw it–his bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes still closed like he was savoring every inch of sensation, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath his palms.

You could barely focus on the hair in front of you. Your hands just kept moving, but your entire body was tuned to him–how he sighed when your knee brushed his, how he flexed his hands slightly when your knuckles grazed his cheek. How he chased what little touch he was getting from you.

“You okay down there?” You asked, voice low, and tinged with amusement. His eyes finally opened–heavy-lidded, and flushed with emotion, as his fingers stayed firm on your legs.

“Yeah,” He breathed. “Just…I think this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in weeks.” You couldn’t help but smile at the softness of his voice.

“Well, I’m glad I could contribute to that…Even though now you’re going to have to wait thirty minutes for this to set in.” He wet his bottom lip with his tongue, nibbling on the inside of it, as you placed the empty bowl and stained brush onto the counter, taking off your gloves and letting them drop in the garbage all while staying in the space between his knees. You set a timer for yourself on the speaker radio that was near the conditioner.

“…What could we possibly do to make the time go by faster?” He asked shyly, almost like he already knew the answer, but he just wanted you to initiate it, because he was too nervous to do it himself.

You weren’t going to give in that easily though.

“Oh I’m sure we could think of something.” Allowing your voice to be a bit more breathier than before. He blinked up at you, hopeful and unsure all at once, but he still didn’t say anything, he Just kept holding you like he was afraid that any sudden shift he did would scare you off.

You didn’t move much at first–just enough to lean a fraction closer. Just enough to let your shirt brush his bare chest as you planted your palms on the edge of the shelf behind him, caging him in without pressure, while also being mindful of his dye coated hair. Bob inhaled, and you felt the tremble of it, the way his breath shuddered as your faces moved closer.

You dipped in–slow, and teasing–until your lips were just above his. A hair’s breadth away from connecting.

But then you stopped.

Bob was dazed. His lips parted, breath warm in anticipation, waiting for you to do it…But you just stayed there, close enough for him to swallow the air you breathed out into him, and to smell the faint hint of cherry that was still clinging to your lips from the cough drop.

“…Y/N.” He whispered, his voice almost breaking off into a whimper. You tilted your head with a knowing smirk.

“What?” You asked quietly.

“Y-You know what…You’re driving me crazy…” He tried to lean up but you moved back just enough for him to lose the air you were giving him.

“That’s the point.” You replied, brushing the tip of his nose with yours. His fingers tightened a little on your thighs, but he didn’t move you closer, even though he could’ve. He stayed obedient. Soft. The way he was in his everyday life and you smiled down at him, leaning in again to brush your lips across his bottom one, feeling him shiver against you.

Bob let out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering half-shut from the close proximity of your mouth. His palms on your thighs shifted upward, sliding under your baggy top so they could rest against the waistband of your compression shorts, his fingers brushing the skin of your hips.

“…You don’t know what you’re doing to me…God…You have no idea.” He said, his voice aching and on the verge of spilling over into begging.

”I think I have a pretty good idea,” You murmured back, trailing your lips across his again, feeling the wetness of his saliva this time before going to the shell of his ear “You’re the one shaking, Bob.” You whispered, your breath hitting against his skin.

”I’m t-trying my best to be good for you…But you’re making this so hard.” The heat between you curled together, tightening in your belly. You drew back just enough so you could look him in the eyes again. “…You can do whatever you want to me…” He whispered, “Just please…Please don’t stop touching me.” Your breath caught at his word, not just because of the desperation that laced them, but because of the truth that hung below them.

It was the kind of truth people usually only say in the dark, or when they were half-asleep or drunk, but Bob was fully sober, wide-eyed, and trembling beneath your hands as if he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. It was like you were pulling a loose thread from a shirt and it was completely unraveling the whole thing. You stared at him for a long moment.

”…The timer is going to go off in about twenty minutes,” You said softly, “And I think we’re both a little overheated, aren’t we?” Bob’s eyebrows knitted together, almost like he was preparing himself for you to stop this from going any further.

”W–What do you–“

”I think we should take a shower together when the timer goes off,” You interrupted, tilting your head to the side, “That okay with you?” There was a beat of stunned silence. Then a choked little nod, as Bob’s fingers gently pressed into your hips on reflex.

“I’ll rinse out your hair, get the dye out…Then maybe–“ Your voice dropped into a whisper, “–I’ll let you kiss me…Think you can manage to wait?” Bob let out a small broken sound–between a laugh and a groan.

”I-I can try,” He whispered, not even sounding convinced by his own voice.

The next fifteen minutes passed in a kind of suspended quiet. You didn’t step away from him entirely–just retreated enough to clean the brush, rinse out the bowl, organize the conditioner and the towel you’d need for later. But the whole time you felt his eyes on you. And every time you glanced over at him out of the corner of your eye, he was still perched on the makeshift barber chair, elbows on his knees, trying not to look like he was counting the seconds.

With five minutes left on the clock, you went over to the shower and reached in, twisting the handle on the built-in panel. The pipes groaned quietly as the water surged out, spraying onto the shower floor. Within seconds steam was curling out from behind the frosted glass enclosure. The room warmed fast, the mirror fogging slightly at the edges, the air heavy with moisture and the faint scent of developer and dye.

The heat from the shower stuck to your skin as you turned your head back to look at him–still seated, trying to play it cool like he wasn’t about to explode from the anticipation. Bob leaned back against the tank, making room for you without hesitation, his knees parting instinctively like muscle memory, like his body already knew what was coming. You crossed the tiled floor with quiet, deliberate steps, the steam from the shower weaving between you both, making the bathroom feel smaller, more intimate–like the air itself was folding in to watch.

You stepped between his knees again, standing tall in front of him, the light of the ceiling fan casting a warm haze on your skin.

Your hands found his shoulders again, fingertips skating lightly along the curve of them.

“Want to undress me?” You asked, your voice like a secret you were offering just to him. No teasing this time–just heat, thick and warm and sweet in your chest. He exhaled like you punched the breath out of him.

”Y-Yeah, o-of course I do.” He said, barely above a whisper. You took his wrists into your hands, and guided him to the hem of your shirt, giving him the signal to do it.

He took his time with it–not from hesitation but from wanting to tease you back just a little. His knuckles brushed against your stomach as he gathered the worn fabric up, pausing briefly just beneath your ribs, looking up at you just to make sure you were still okay with this. You gave him a nod.

He peeled it up off you, slow and careful, taking in the way the shirt slowly revealed everything he wanted to see in short increments. Your ribs, the soft swell of your breasts, your collarbones, your shoulders, all the way up until he was able to take the shirt off entirely. He let it drop to the floor behind you.

Bob’s gaze dropped before he could stop it, letting his eyes roam over you like he was witnessing something holy–like he wouldn’t blink in case you suddenly vanished. His mouth parted for a moment as he audibly gulped. He was silent, his expression flickering between awe and hunger, tangling up in the open and stunned way he drank you in.

He was memorizing every inch of your skin. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the soft curves and defined edges. Every freckle, birthmark, scar, or stretch of the skin, it was all there in his head, committed like it was a sacred text. You were completely unhidden, and you trustingly offered yourself to him with nothing but openness, and it was breathtaking to him.

“Jesus…” He said quietly, like your body was rewriting something inside him. He reached up and touched the soft skin of your stomach, the tips of his fingers tracing along your navel, before his eyes met yours again, revealing the beautiful haze of blue blurring together with the specks of orange that lived there. You brought your hand up to his face, caressing his cheek carefully, running your thumb just below his eye.

“You’re so beautiful…” You whispered, feeling Bob’s fingers curling beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“And you’re immaculate…” He responded, slowly tugging your shorts down, his eyes never leaving yours as he did it. He just wanted to look at you, to take you in, to hold you close until you didn’t want to be held by him anymore. He wanted you so bad he felt like he was going to explode, and the heat in the washroom wasn’t helping him control that. The shorts dropped around your ankles with a soft flutter, and you stepped out of them slowly, brushing your hand down to his jaw.

“I’ll meet you in the shower,” Your voice was low and soft like a promise. Then you turned, and walked behind the frosted glass, sliding the door shut in one swift movement. Steam swirled around you like a second skin as you stepped fully beneath the stream of water. It hit your scalp first, then your shoulders, pouring down your body in comforting waves. The warmth soaked into your tense muscles and melted along your spine, rinsing away the leftover ache of your fever and the lingering hum of restraint you’d been nursing for the last hour.

From beyond the frosted glass, you saw movement. Bob had gotten up and walked over to the alarm, clicking it off with a single beep–because what was a minute going to do for him. Then you heard the shuffle of bare feet on tile, followed by the soft rustling of clothes dropping. You could see his shadow moving, leaning down then straightening up again, seeing him step out of his sweatpants and his underwear before reaching for the handle.

He slid the door open and stepped into the steam. You could see him squinting at the change in scenery, until his eyes caught yours. Under the dimmed lighting that the shower had you looked ethereal, like a siren calling to him to come closer. You tilted your head at him.

”Remember, we gotta wash your hair out first.” Bob nodded silently, too stunned to speak or protest, and stepped closer to you until he was right against you, letting the water cascade down his body. You reached up without hesitation, brushing your fingers along the slope of his neck as you cupped his jaw gently, feeling the very faint stubble against your fingertips.

”Close your eyes,” You murmured, and he obeyed immediately, trusting you with all of him. You reached for the bottle of shampoo, flipping the cap open with a soft click. The scent was clean, crisp–something like cedar and citrus–and you poured a generous amount into your palm before lathering it between your fingers. He hunched forward slightly to help you because of the height difference, the muscles in his back bunching as he bent, his hands braced loosely on his thighs.

Your fingers found his scalp and began to move, slow and deliberate, massaging through the dye-stiffened strands with practiced ease. His breath hitched at the first touch–soft and barely audible over the rush of water–but he relaxed into you, the tension easing from his shoulders as you worked through his hair, your nails dragging along his scalp gently, sending shivers down his spine despite the warmth of the shower that was smothering him.

He tried to peek down at you through his lashes, but flinched the moment some suds landed on his brow. You caught the twitch of frustration in his mouth and grinned faintly to yourself.

”No peeking,” You teased, your voice low and sultry, “You’ll get soap in your eyes, and that’ll just prolong the process.” You added, with a smirk.

”I-I’m not peeking,” He muttered back, clearly lying.

But while he couldn’t see you, you saw everything.

Your eyes dropped as your fingers moved through his hair, and your gaze caught on the rest of him–completely, gloriously bare under the water’s fall. And it hit you like a weight to the chest.

He was hard. Completely, achingly hard.

It curved upward from between his thighs, thick and flushed and dripping from the spray. Your breath caught in your throat involuntarily. He was…Big. The kind of big that made your pulse thrum deep in your core, the kind that made something flutter behind your ribcage. The kind of big that made you a bit nervous. His thighs were braced, strong and trembling slightly as the water poured down over both of you, and yet he stayed still–eyes closed, waiting, unaware of just how deeply you were watching him.

You swallowed, trying not to stare too long–but your fingers slowed in his hair for just a beat before you lathered more shampoo and brought it back to the roots, working it all through. You focused on your task, rinsing gently, letting the water carry away the suds and the last traces of harsh dye. As the dark rivulets streamed down and swirled at your feet, the natural color beneath began to reveal itself.

The soft brown, the colour that belonged to him, and only him. Not the Sentry.

You smoothed your hands through the damp strands with a smile on your face, and you could feel him relax further at the calmness of your touch.

”There you are,” You whispered, more to yourself than to him, “Back to you…” You could see his brows lift slightly at your words, still not opening his eyes.

”…W-What does it look like?” He asked softly.

”Like it’s all you…It’s perfect Bob…” You responded, seeing his eyes slowly flutter open, the soft blue still burning with those beautiful flecks of orange from the Sentry. When they locked on yours, something in him snapped completely, and he blinked a few times, steadying himself against you.

”…Can I kiss you now?” He whispered, breath catching in his throat.

You nodded.

And the second you did, he surged forward, his hands finding your face like he’d been aching to hold you there for days. His palms were warm and a little shaky, fingers threading gently into the damp strands of your hair as he tilted your head just right. He kissed you like it was the only thing that would quiet the trembling in his chest–deep, and full of the kind of hunger that had nowhere else to go.

His lips parted against yours with a soft sigh, molding to your mouth like he already knew every shape of it. You responded in kind, letting your hands press flat to his chest before sliding up, feeling the slick heat of his skin, the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms. One hand drifted upward to cradle the back of his neck, the other anchoring at his side.

Bob shifted, pulling you flush against him, his hands sliding down to your waist, gripping gently as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. There was nothing hesitant about it anymore–only quiet desperation, the need to be close, the need to feel you pressed against every inch of him. His thumbs rubbed slow, anchoring circles against your ribs as he kissed you over and over, his breath catching between each one like he couldn’t quite get enough.

You felt your knees wobble when he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, and he steadied you instantly, one hand sliding down to the back of your thigh, coaxing your leg to lift so he could hold you open against him.

You gasped softly into his mouth when he did it–because now you could feel all of him. His length, hot and heavy, brushing between your thighs. But he didn’t push it. He just held you there, breathing hard through his nose as his mouth broke from yours for a second, bumping his forehead with yours.

”I-I have to touch you…Can I p-please touch you?” His words vibrated against your chest, shaky from the kiss he had just pulled away from. Immediately you nodded, drunk off of the way he held you, the way he kissed you so desperately. You were his, and you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

He dropped his hand from your thigh, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he guided you back, each step careful, like he was afraid to rush a single second of this. The warm tile met your spine gently, as the steam curled around your shoulders–like it was dying to be part of the moment too. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the anticipation tugging at you like a puppet.

Bob’s hand, still curled gently around your hip, gave it one reassuring squeeze before sliding away. The loss of his hand made you let out a desperate sigh, wanting to feel him again. He looked down at you as he brought his fingers up to his lips, his tongue darting out of his mouth to coat the tips of them slowly, not for show, but for purpose. For you. His gaze never dropped from yours as he did it, and when his hand fell again between the both of you, he didn’t hesitate.

His knee eased your thighs apart gently, and then his fingers found your clit. The first contact made your knees buckle slightly, and he caught it, pressing in with his knee to steady you, his free hand braced against the wall beside your head. His touch was gentle at first–soft circles, slow and attentive. You gasped, head tipping back, exposing your throat without thinking.

That was all the invitation Bob needed.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the base of your neck, just where your collarbone met your shoulder. The kiss was wet and open-mouthed, like he needed to taste you and the saltiness of your skin. He breathed in like he could anchor himself in your scent. Another kiss, and another, working up the side of your neck as his fingers circled your clit with more confidence now, slick from the water and his spit, moving with practiced pressure.

”So…So soft,” He whispered into your skin, voice shaking, “So goddamn soft…” Your breath caught as his pace shifted. You could feel your body responding–arching into him, a wet heat building between your legs. You whimpered, and that sound nearly undid him. His teeth grazed your neck but didn’t bite, his lips returning to kiss it better as if he could soothe the tremble in your body.

Then his fingers dipped lower, and he felt it immediately.

You were soaked–slick, warm, and pulsing beneath his touch. His breath hitched at the sensation, at the way your body welcomed him without hesitation. And when he eased two fingers inside of you ever so slowly you gasped, arching into his hand like your body had been waiting for that very moment.

“F-fuck,” You breathed, the word slipping out as your nails found purchase in his shoulders. You clawed at him instinctively, dragging across the muscle there, needing something to anchor you while he pushed them in deeper. He didn’t flinch at the scratch–he moaned. A soft, broken sound that came from the back of his throat like he liked the way it felt, like it made him feel wanted in the most primal sense.

His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his mouth kissing along your collarbone with a tenderness that contrasted the stretch of his fingers inside you. He mouthed at the skin there–kissed it, licked it, sucked until it was sensitive and bruised. He pulled back looking at the little love bites, each one tinged with hunger. Bob wasn’t the possessive type but there was this ache in his chest to mark you as his, and even if the water washed it away, he wanted to be sure he left something on your skin.

“Y-You feel so warm…” He said, his voice fraying at the edges. His fingers curled gently inside you, causing your knees to buckle again. Your body shuddered as the pads of his fingers dragged against that spot inside of you that made your entire frame light up. Bob’s hand moved to your hip, keeping you steady as his other hand worked in smooth, slow thrusts, each one more confident than the last. He found a rhythm, watching you, studying every moan and gasp like it was gospel.

And when you whimpered his name, when your body clenched around him so tight he had to grit his teeth, he gave a quiet, shaky laugh–utterly wrecked by how responsive you were.

“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” he asked, lips brushing your ear, breath heavy and hot. “I can feel it…God, I can feel you squeezing me…”

You nodded, unable to form a word, your nails biting into his shoulders again as your hips rocked against his hand.

Bob adjusted his angle, changing the pressure, and that’s when you saw stars.

Your head dropped forward, forehead against his collarbone, the air thick with steam and the sharp scent of him—clean, masculine, tinged with desperation. His fingers moved faster, wetter, the slick sounds between your legs obscene and perfect, echoing between the tiles. He was muttering praise now—soft, reverent things that fell from his lips like prayers.

“Just like that, baby—so good for me… You’re doing so good—feels like heaven—fuck, I want to see you fall apart…”

You felt it hit like a wave rolling up your spine.

A tight, burning coil of pleasure twisted inside you and then snapped. You gasped—loud, broken, as the climax ripped through you. You trembled, back arching hard into him as your thighs clenched and a rush of wetness gushed out around his fingers.

Bob stilled for a second in awe.

“…Oh my God,” He breathed, stunned, his eyes wide as he held you through it. You collapsed into him, breath heaving, skin flushed and shining under the steam. He kept his fingers buried inside you, not moving, just holding you close, letting you ride it out as you trembled against his chest.

He looked down between you both, seeing the slick mess on his hand, the way your body had responded so violently to him–and his mouth dropped open slightly. Not because of shock, but because of wonder and awe.

”You…You did so good.” He praised, his voice barely holding together under the weight of what he just experienced with you. His lips brushed your temple first, then your cheek, before finally reaching your mouth.

The kiss wasn’t hungry nor urgent, it was adoration in its purest form. His lips moved like they were tasting something he’d only ever imagined–careful and soft, like he was trying not to overwhelm you. He trembled against you, being crushed from everything unspoken between you. His hand was still between your thighs, cradling you like something precious, and you could feel how hard he was, pressed just barely against you, restrained only by the shivering line of self-control that hadn’t yet broken.

When he finally, carefully, slipped his fingers out of you, you let out the tiniest gasp from the absence–but before he could fully draw away, you grabbed his wrist.

He was still in his movements.

Your eyes met his, holding steady as you lifted his hand–and then you took his soaked fingers into your mouth.

Bob made a sound that almost didn’t make it out of him–a soft, wrecked sigh that died at the back of his throat. His lips parted slightly, eyes darkening as he watched you suck him clean, your mouth warm and wet, tongue dragging along the pads of his fingers slowly, like you were claiming every last drop of yourself from his skin.

He could barely breathe.

You kept eye contact the whole time. It wasn’t a power play–it was intimacy. Connection. And it unraveled him.

Once you were done, you let his fingers slip from your mouth with a soft pop, and he dragged them–slow and reverent–down your chin. Then your throat. The hollow of your chest. His fingertips were wet with saliva, and he trailed it down like he was painting you–smearing it across your sternum, over your ribs, and finally down to your hips.

“Y/N…You’re so…So perfect,” He whispered, in disbelief, shaking his head as his hands ran down your waist, going straight to your thighs, before lifting you effortlessly. You let out a soft breath as your legs bracketed around his hips instinctively, your arms wrapping around his shoulders for balance.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the middle of your chest, and his voice came out barely above the noise of the shower

”Do you want to…Still have sex with me?” You looked down at him, caressing the side of his neck.

”Of course I do,” You responded instantly.

Your lips found his right after–soft and sure. You kissed him with everything you had, as if answering his question with your entire body. His breath caught, his hands clutching at your thighs with a startled need, grounding himself in the reality that you weren’t going to vanish, that you really did want this–want him.

As the kiss deepened, you felt one of his hands slowly slide down your thigh, tickling the skin, but this time there was a purpose in his touch. He shifted beneath you slightly, and then you felt it–the soft brush of his tip against you. Hot. Heavy. And trembling in his grasp.

You broke the kiss for just a breath, resting your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering shut as he lined himself up. His hand shook slightly, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Like he was terrified of getting it wrong. But he didn’t rush. And neither did you.

“I want you,” You said, your breath warm against his mouth. “All of you.” Bob let out a wrecked whimper from his mouth, before kissing you once more.

Then slowly he began to push in, moving his hips gently.

Your mouth parted in a silent gasp, your eyes flying open as your body stretched to take him. It was so much–thick and deep and slow. He paused when he was just a couple inches in, his forehead still pressed to yours, panting.

“Is that okay?” He asked, voice cracking. “I—I can stop if it’s too much…”

You shook your head immediately, curling your fingers into his shoulders, drawing him closer.

“No. Please don’t stop.”

Bob exhaled a breath that shook all the way down to his spine, then kissed you again–slow, sweet–before sinking deeper inside.

You both moaned at the same time, and your tongues met in between the space your mouths made.

It was like he was imprinting himself into every inch of you. His hands gripped your hips with the kind of gentleness that made your chest ache, guiding your body until he was fully seated inside you, hips pressed flush against yours.

“Oh…God.” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, trembling as he held still. “You’re so…So perfect… I can’t–God–”

You kissed his jaw, whispering against the sensitive skin just beneath his ear. “You’re okay, Bob. You’re doing so good…”

He began to move–shallow at first, rocking his hips into you in slow, reverent strokes. Each one pulled a quiet gasp from your lips. The water cascaded around you both, steam curling at your shoulders as you clung to him, your body humming in time with his.

He found a slow and steady rhythm, thrusting as deep as possible with each movement of his hips.

He kissed you everywhere he could reach–your cheek, your mouth, your jaw, the slope of your shoulder and his praise was neverending. Whispered fragments between kisses and gasps.

“You’re so beautiful…”

“You feel so good around me…”

“I want to make you feel everything…”

Your hands were tangled in his hair, your body arching to meet every thrust, until your forehead was pressed to his again and your breaths mingled in the tight space between you. Each slow movement of his hips sent sparks crawling up your spine and you rocked against him, chasing every moment, trying to keep it from ending too soon.

Bob looked completely undone in front of you though. His mouth open, cheeks flushed, hands gripping your waist like you were his lifeline.

Then his thrusts started to falter.

You felt it in the way he gasped–sharp and helpless–the way his hold on you tightened and his voice pitched higher.

“I—Y/N, I—oh God, I’m—”

You kissed him, hard, your voice hot against his mouth. “It’s okay. Let go. I’ve got you.”

He came with a broken gasp.

The lights flickered.

Just once–flicker, flicker, black–and then back on again. The overhead bulb buzzed faintly, a hum that matched the pulse of his release as his hips jerked forward, holding deep inside you while his whole body tensed. You could feel the warmth filling you in thick ropes, his body instinctively pushing up into you as if he was trying to keep it from spilling out.

And then he went still.

Completely, and utterly still.

He stayed buried in you, face tucked into the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged as the water pounded softly over your bodies. You felt the way he trembled, felt the heat of his skin and the wild thud of his heart against yours.

He didn’t move for a long time, he just stayed there, clutching you like you were the one thing that was bringing him down slowly.

And then you felt it–the slow exhale against your neck, the soft tremor that followed. His voice came out low, cracked with embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, still breathless. “That was so fast. I didn’t mean to-God, I just couldn’t hold it…”

You pulled back, just enough to see his face, his brows drawn together with worry, his mouth still parted from the weight of what just passed between you. And yet, even flushed and wrecked, he looked beautiful. Lit up from the inside out, like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.

You shook your head gently and brought your hand up to brush a damp lock of hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear with the same tenderness he gave you. “You didn’t finish too fast, Bob.”

He blinked, lips parting like he didn’t believe you.

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then whispered against his skin, “You were perfect. I loved every second of it…Because it was with you.” His features softened at your word, that shy smile blooming across his lips, one you felt in your ribs. You saw the glow of it before you felt his body move. He kissed you again, this time gentler, slower–like he wanted to say thank you with his whole mouth.

Then, carefully, he pulled out of you. You both shivered a bit at the sensitivity, and you caught the way his brows knit together, like he didn’t want to stop touching you. But your body welcomed the shift, and your legs dropped from his hips as the moment passed, leaving behind only warmth and steam.

He reached for you instinctively, his hands skimming your waist like he was still trying to keep you close, like he couldn’t quite accept that you were separate again. You smiled at him, brushing your fingers along his jaw, watching the way he leaned into the contact, like it was his oxygen.

”You really like touching me, huh?” You teased lightly, watching his cheeks turn a deeper red, the corners of his mouth curling up shyly.

”…Yeah…I really do.” He admitted. You let out a soft laugh, then looked toward the water still streaming from the showerhead behind him.

“As much as I’d love to stay in here and get all wrinkly,” You said, thumb brushing the hollow of his cheek, “If we don’t rinse off soon, the compound’s water bill is gonna bankrupt Valentina.” Bob let out a breathy laugh, head dropping against your shoulder for a second.

“I guess you’re right, but once we get cleaned up…I want to just lay on the couch with you and hold you for a little while…If that’s okay?” You nodded.

”Of course it’s okay.” You replied, guiding him under the steady stream of water. You each took turns, helping the other wash up. He was gentle when he touched your body as if you hadn’t just taken him completely inside you minutes ago, and he ran his hands over the marks he had made on you, smiling proudly at his work. You matched his care, running soapy fingers down his spine, over his shoulders, through the strands of his newly darkened hair, rinsing the last of the evidence down the drain.

And when the water finally cooled, you stepped out first, digging around the towel closet for a spare. Bob followed right after, grabbing the one that he usually used, with steam rolling off his shoulders, making the air thick and warm as he wrapped the towel around his waist, pausing by the foggy mirror, wiping it off with his hand.

You watched from the side, pulling your towel around you gently, as he lifted his gaze slowly–like he wasn’t sure what would be staring back at him. When he caught his own reflection, something shifted in his expression.

A smile. One of relief. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.

You stepped behind him, and gently kissed his shoulder, looking at the small little scratch marks you had left on him.

He turned toward you slightly, reached out, and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to your lips–barely more than a breath, but brimming with emotion.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You smiled into him, nose brushing his. “Don’t thank me yet,” You whispered. “I hope you don’t get the flu from all of this.”

He laughed, his eyes shining as he bumped his forehead against yours.

“If I do,” He said, “It’ll be worth every damn minute.”

“I don’t know,” Bob muttered, shrugging. Across the common room from them, you sat on the bar top swinging your legs, hands flying as you relayed the details of yet another terrible date while Ava nodded along, absorbing, chiming in with the occasional disgusted grunt, laughing where appropriate. Bob shoved a piece of hair behind his ear and went back to pretending—pretending that he didn’t notice things about you, pretending that he didn’t care. Yelena, perched on the right arm of his overstuffed reading chair, shifted as if she might relent and leave him alone. He should’ve let her. Instead, he blurted out, “She goes on dates.”

Yelena snorted softly. Like him, she had opted for sweats and sneaks on a rare day off. Well, all of Bob’s days were off, technically; he was on the bench until he learned how to integrate. That was the word everyone kept using. Integrate. His personality was fragmented. He wasn’t much use to anyone, least of all a superhero team, until he learned to integrate. It would be easier to try if everyone stopped treating him like a puppy with a busted paw.

“Dates shmates,” Yelena said, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the two women gossiping by the bar. “She’s just waiting for you to work up the courage.”

Bob gave her a worried smile. “It’s um, I think maybe it’s better for her if I don’t.”

“I thought we were trying optimism.”

“Like I want to hear about crypto, of all fucking things…” you were saying, to a belabored groan from Ava. “…ruined my chicken parm.”

“Save her, Bob. Save her from the finance bros.” Yelena patted his shoulder, hopping down from the arm of his chair. “They are a menace and a scourge.” She tilted her head to the side, smirking as she flicked her head toward you and Ava. “Doesn’t it sound like she needs…a hero? A super hero?”

Yelena kept trying to walk away, but Bob kept saying too much. He flinched as his jealous mind tattled on him again. “Yeah? Maybe Walker can ask her out.”

“John?” Her brows tugged down along with the rest of her. She knelt beside the chair, folding her arms across the spot she had just been sitting on. Bob opened his book, a reflex, studiously avoiding her more pointed look. “Why do you sound bitter? What do you know about her that I don’t?”

Bob set his jaw, which in his mind projected a supremely tough and firm expression. It did nothing to rebuff Yelena. She went on staring, skipping a hand up the sleeve of his hoodie before poking his shoulder. He winced away from the prod. “Please don’t do that, you’re very strong.”

“You’re the Sentry.”

Bob shook his head. “Just…we should drop this.” His eyes, unbidden, tracked from the page he wasn’t reading, over Yelena’s head, to you. What did he know that Yelena didn’t? Where to start?

When you joined the team, you had gone to shake everyone’s hand without a second thought. Bob had been too distracted by your eyes, your warm smile, your laugh, to stop you before it was too late. Your hand folded into his, a perfect fit, and then you were somewhere else, a room he didn’t recognize, a memory dredged from the darkest shadow of your mind. He had witnessed your deepest shame, a thing he had no right to, a thing he wished desperately to forget.

Or maybe not. He didn’t know. He didn’t like the idea of forgetting any aspect of you, even the difficult pieces. When the vision faded, you stared at him with your lips parted, a muscle twitching in your jaw. Tears filmed your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he had muttered, looking down at his shoes. “That…sometimes I can’t control that.”

And he would’ve forgiven you if you never warmed to him after that, but you did.

Yelena and Ava were so overjoyed to have another woman on the team that they took you in as a third sister; he was sure they must have filled you in on his whole sordid backstory. The drugs. The wandering. The lab in Malaysia. The vault. The Void. Even more ticks in the What The Fuck column, but you didn’t shun him. Sometimes, when he did the dishes, you just came and stood beside him and waited to help, taking the wet glasses from him and drying them. You didn’t always talk in those times, but the silence was fine, companionable. You calmed him down. He knew your darkness, and it hadn’t frightened him away or turned him into a judgy prick, and he got the sense that was a relief.

You left books out for him, ones you thought he would like, a hobby crumb trail to gauge his taste. You offered to take the pickles off his burger when he didn’t want them. When Walker condescendingly called him “House Husband” after catching him doing chores, you laid into John for it. “Does that mean you’re going to start pulling your weight around here? Pick up your shit?” you had shouted, and Walker’s face turned a hilariously patriotic shade of red. “No? Didn’t think so…”

On and on.

“Bob? Earth to Bob?” Yelena snapped in front of his face, then searched it.

“We shouldn’t…” Bob scrambled for an excuse she would accept so everyone could move on with their lives. Or Bob would try to move on, at least. Someone should move on because that’s what healthy people were meant to do. “Shouldn’t fraternize with teammates."

"Fraternize? Who said anything about fraternize?” Yelena scoffed, then laughed, then scoffed again, rolling her eyes. She wiped a nonexistent booger off her nose and lowered her voice to a naughty whisper. “I’m talking about smooching and cuddling and fu—”

“That’s fraternizing.” Bob shrank down into the chair, trying to disappear. She was never going to relent, ordinarily a fantastic quality for a superhero to possess but in this specific case highly irritating. “Look, if I tell you the real reason will you let it go?”

Yelena hummed. “Mm, that depends on the reason. Is it a dumb reason?”

“I’m not her type.” Bob shut his eyes and said it fast, definitively, so he didn’t have to hold the words in his mouth for too long. If he did, he knew they would burn. Across the room, you laughed, and it was like an arrow lodging in his heart. He peeled one eye open at the sound, expression softening.

“Oooh you are down bad bad, I see.” Yelena clucked her tongue, shifted her legs to shake the ants out of them as she continued kneeling beside the chair. “And bullshit, Bob. Bullshit. She tries not to stare at you as much as you try not to stare at her.”

“How can you even tell something like that?”

“It takes a yearner to know one.” Yelena heaved a long-suffering, dreamy sigh, then leaned forward slightly and slapped Bob on the knee. “Why wouldn’t you be her type? You have the beautiful, wounded eyes of a basset hound and the floppy hair of a 90s heartthrob. That is a lethal combination for many.”

Bob quirked his lips to one side, temporarily less interested in vanishing off the face of the planet. “You think my eyes are beautiful?”

“They are beautiful, Bob. I know it, you know it.” She frowned, narrowing her eyes. “I thought self-image work was part of you integration therapy.”

“It is,” he said. “This has nothing to do with that.”

You and Ava had finished your complete evisceration of Crypto Guy and, after a job well done, had wandered off together toward the elevator discussing dinner options. Now that you were gone, Bob felt a little easier about having this discussion right out in the open. God forbid Walker waltz in and overhear something with this super soldier hearing.

Yelena popped up, standing over him, hip cocked, arms folding across her half-zipped hoodie. “She’s gone. Out with it.” Her eyes somehow narrowed further. “You know something.”

“Listen, I’m not proud of it…” Bob cleared his throat, ran one hand through his hair, then both, with greater agitation. “I just…she likes to read, right? She left her Kindle out on the coffee table last week and I thought, hey, her birthday is soon, I can figure out what book to get her and like a total dumb ass I snooped.”

“You snooped.” Yelena repeated it, dry. “Does this story get more interesting? Because—”

“She has all these books about…” He took a deep, centering breath. “Sex.”

“Sex books!? Bob.” Fluttering her hand over her heart, she pretended to faint and swoon. “Oh my God. A grown woman has sex books? Like about sex? Penis vagina sex? How will your pure baby heart ever recover from the shock? Are you okay? I’m glad you’re already sitting down, because--”

“Stop. Forget it.” Bob shook his head, hugged his book to his chest, and stood, bypassing his interrogator as he stormed toward the kitchen and bar. Of course, she followed. Of course, the heckling didn’t stop. She always meant well, but sometimes it was just too much. Nimble and a thousand times more athletic than Just Bob, she beat him to the refrigerator, placing herself between it and him.

“It’s not a problem, okay? It isn’t that it’s sex. Sex is fine. Sex is great.” Bob couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth, he sounded like a guidance counselor. But the lines about these things had always been blurry at best. The team gave each other shit like siblings and also like siblings, protected each other fiercely from the criticisms and cruelties of the outside world where normies, like, just didn’t get their whole thing, man, and if there were explicit rules against inter-Avenger romances, he hadn’t seen it in the paperwork, but if something went wrong, if something got messy…

“Sex is fine. Sex is great?” Yelena rolled her shoulders, pursing her lips as she snorted at him. “Sex is cool, maybe? Is it wow neato?”

Bob rocked up onto his toes, trying to remember the box breathing exercises his integration therapist had taught him before she accused him of being a virgin. What do you think is holding you back? the therapist had asked, bouncing the butt of a pen against his chin while he appraised Bob over a pair of thick turtle shell glasses. He didn’t know that such a therapist even existed, but Valentina had insisted it was totally a real thing, and whatever his reservations might be, the meetings were not optional. This is not a humane society, were her words, and you are not a stray kitten.

There were worksheets, homework. Constant, constant questions…

Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?

Bob flexed his white-knuckled fingers around the book he was clutching like a life preserver. He closed his eyes because he wasn’t sure he could explain it if he had to see her reaction. “The guys in her books are intense. They're tough and they yell constantly. They…they boss the women around. They’re fucking jerks, honestly, and I don’t want to be a jerk.”

The cackle he expected from her never landed. Yelena lowered her arms, then crossed the distance between them and gently touched his elbows. “Bob. Robert. It’s just a fantasy. She doesn’t actually want a jerk, she wants you.”

He shook his head. “No, no, they were all like that.”

“You read them all?”

“No. No. I skimmed. Enough to recognize a pattern. Look, I don’t know how to be like that,” he said quietly, deflating. “Even if it is just a fantasy, I couldn’t give that to her, I’m…” He sorted through all the unkind descriptions that had been hurled at him in his life, the ones he had internalized, the ones that stung, and the ones he could shrug off. “Afraid.”

“My sweet Bob. My darling Bob. My tiny baby sweet boy Bob…” Yelena patted his elbows, sticking out her lower lip.

Bob twisted away from her. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

He was so fucking tired of everyone patronizing him. Yes, he had problems. Yes, it was taking quite some time for him to figure out his fragmented identities, and yes, he was kind of a dead weight in the meantime. Couldn’t they see that he was fucked up about it? Couldn’t they see him trying?

Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?

He tossed his book on the bar top and reached over Yelena’s shoulder for the refrigerator door, promising himself a crisp Dr. Pepper could fix this, pulling the panel open with enough force to rip it halfway off its hinges. Yelena leapt back, silent. Bob stared at where his hand was wrapped around the cylindrical handle. A jar of Dijon mustard fell off the lowest shelf and rolled across the shiny floor until Yelena stopped it with a tap of her foot.

“That’s new,” she said, eyes widening.

“I, um…” Bob tried to put the door back, but it hung loose and to the side, visibly busted. “I’m sure we can fix that.”

“Was that Sentry?” she asked lightly.

“I don’t know.” Bob hunched, keeping his eyes turned away from her. “Maybe.”

Suddenly, he didn’t have a choice about looking at her. Yelena soccer scooped the mustard jar onto the top of her foot and flicked it up into her hand, tossing it in the air and catching it as she came toward him, chewing her cheek in thought. She took him by the arm, swinging until they were face to face. “This is a good thing, Bob.”

“It…is? Because I think Valentina is going to be pretty pissed, and—”

She felt along his bicep as if to make sure he hadn’t secretly gotten jacked while they weren’t looking, but she didn’t seem to detect any major changes. “I met Sentry—”

Bob groaned, trying to veer away. “God, don’t remind me, I—”

“And he was kind of a fucking asshole.” She smiled, though, squeezing his arm playfully. “But he could be our kind of asshole. Her kind of asshole.”

Bob froze in her grasp, catching up to her meaning. His mouth fell open as his eyes shifted side to side. “I don’t know about this, Lena. I don’t know if I can control him if he comes out, and if I did something, hurt her, God, if I hurt her, I would never forgive myself.”

“Which is why you won’t.” She said it so simply. Honestly? It was kind of refreshing, and certainly more direct than the constant loops he went in with the integration therapist. “You are Bob and Bob is Sentry and Sentry is Void and Void is Bob, and so on, yes? If you want to keep her safe, they will keep her safe.” She poked him hard in the chest, and Bob jerked backward. “The heart of one man, but the, uh, diverse skillset of three. So maybe Sentry would…be a bit more flexible when it comes to playing the jerk. Just for her.” Yelena waggled her eyebrows and winked. “Just in the bedroom.”

“I thought you hated this stuff.”

You watched Yelena tear through your bookshelf with the zeal of a sheltered Mormon teen, fingers like claws as she dumped romance novel after romance novel into the growing pile at her feet. She was certainly organizing her night around a theme. You glanced at the titles with a knot tightening in your stomach. The Storm and the Stallion. The Sellsword’s Bride. Mounted by the Warlord.

“I’m broadening my horizons,” Yelena said flatly. She picked up Mounted by the Warlord and gestured toward you with it, eyes dark and dubious as she considered you and then the book. “How’s this one? Intellectually stimulating?”

“Is this a cry for help?” You joined her by the bookshelf. Previously, you had been observing her 180-degree personality shift from the safe harbor of your bedside table and the multicolor reading lamp there. Walker said those were for insomniatic autistic kids, but you had shot him such a poisonously withering look that he had stumbled on to say there was nothing wrong with that and maybe he should get one and oh look the Yankees game was on…

You studied Yelena, growing more suspicious by the second.

“Don’t worry about me, worry about you.” She put the novel back down on top of the stack, and pivoted, puffing the hair out of her eyes.

“Me? What did I do?” you asked, mirroring her defensive posture. “Did Bucky say something about bugs in the Britta filter because if so, I had nothing to do with that…”

“What bugs?”

“It’s not important.” You wiped impatiently at your eyes. Valentina had volunteered you for a charity fundraiser the following evening, and you had hoped to take all of the hours between now and then to prepare, decompress, practice your calming mantras before wading into a sea of politicians and paparazzi. You did not expect the Oprah’s Book Club treatment from someone who thought Pedro Páramo was a taco joint. “Can we skip to the part where you lovingly berate me?”

“Sure. Fine by me.” Yelena dusted off her hands as if touching all of your smutty books had left a physical residue. She squared up to you, placing her palms on your shoulders, giving her best frustrated big sister sigh. “Why are you wasting your precious time with finance bros when our dear beloved Bob is right there? I know you are not stupid, so what’s the problem?”

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, wondering if a stiff headbutt would be enough to knock her out. Anything to escape this conversation.

“There is no reason to torture yourself with Wallstreet coke heads, my love, Bob is single and ready to awkwardly mingle, and we would all cheer you on. Even Walker, which is saying something.”

“Please stop talking.” You covered your face with both hands, forcing out a groan through the crack between your palms.

Bob. Oh God, Bob. You had just survived twelve rounds of merciless interviews, a background check that would make even Steve Rogers sweat, and a compulsory media training camp that made you self-conscious about everything from your teeth (showing too much, too little) to your ankles (showing too much, too little) and—exhausted, terrified—Bob’s guileless smile had felt too good, too kind, to be true. It was, of course, because thirty seconds later he touched you and you were blasted back to the most traumatizing day of your life, but somehow you had known he didn’t mean to do it. He fell all over himself apologizing. He found you, hours later, and offered to order you a pizza or shawarma, or whatever, and that shame room thing didn’t always happen, and he mostly had it under control…

When you came home from your first mission, high as balls on adrenaline and public adoration but sporting several new battle scars, you found that he had cleaned off a corner of the main bookshelf in the common room. A place for your stuff. There was a crooked cardboard placard there, handmade, with your name scribbled on it.

In the storm of egos and anti-social behaviors that were the team, he was an oasis.

Yelena did not stop talking.

“—if it’s about the pot head sweaters, I know, I hate them, too, but we could just take him shopping, it will take like ten minutes and then you two can finally--”

“It’s not about the fucking sweaters.” The walls shook from the unnatural clang of your voice. Yelena froze, gently plucking her hands from your shoulders and holding them up in mock surrender. You heaved for air, getting control of yourself, of your power. “He’s sweet. He’s gentle. I’m not that.”

Yelena nodded along, but you could tell she was coming to unrelated conclusions in her head.

The admission toppled out of you before you could stop it. “I’d ruin him.”

“You can’t ruin Bob,” she stated. “You weren’t there; you didn’t see it--he almost destroyed Manhattan through the sheer, terrible power of self-loathing. Bob is as ruined as he’s going to get, and we all suffered for it, but he’s trying to be something else now.”

“That’s the problem,” you said, curling your hands into fists. “You’ve met those other parts of him. I haven’t.”

“I’m working on it. But trust me, you really don’t want to meet the V-Man--”

You squinted, shifting closer to her. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end. “What does that mean?”

“He’s working on it, I mean, of course,” she hurried to correct. “With his state-sponsored therapist.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just…don’t write him off, okay?” Yelena asked, doing that puppy dog, pouty pleading thing that was annoyingly effective. She bent down and scooped up her stack of books. You had assumed she would forget them, that it was just a pretense to get you alone for this conversation. You tracked the novels in her arms as she shuffled toward the door. “Promise me you won’t write him off.”

Never. Never.

“No promises,” you said, and went to bed.

Sometimes Bob liked to take his book to Carlo’s and sit at the bar, eat a slice or two, and just watch the world go by. HQ was nice, of course, and they were gradually making it feel more lived in, but sometimes there was still a soulless, corporate quality to it that was a real god damn bummer. Carlo’s was real. The bathrooms smelled like the stuff they used to clean high schools, the coasters were mismatched, the pepperoni cups on the pies were always wrinkly and spicy, and they still had the red, bumpy plastic cups that somehow made the water taste good but also thrifted. The Rat Pack and only the Rat Pack crooned in mellow swells from the juke box, because Carlo’s grandson and the current owner would kick out anyone who tried to switch up the vibe.

The elderly Italian lady who bartended made sure there was a spot at the bar for Bob. She called him “sweetie” and refilled his sodas before he was even halfway done. It was a hidden gem, something he kept just for himself, which was why he was more than a bit surprised to see Yelena there on a Friday evening. This was usually the time when she and Ava took over the common room for their horror movie nights, but here she was, frolicking toward him with a book bag slung over one shoulder and enough mischief in her eyes to sound the early warning system in his head.

“This place is cute,” she said, settling in beside him.

Bob wedged a bookmark between two pages to hold his spot, watching as Yelena took the pizza crusts left on his plate and wolfed them down without asking. He didn’t want them, but still.

“How did you--”

“We have trackers, Bob. We all wear them?”

“Oh. Right.”

“I have something for you,” she said, heaving the bag onto her lap with a grunt. Just from the way it dented her thighs, Bob could tell it was heavy. “Start with this one.” Yelena reached into the bag and pulled out a worn, tattered paperback, shoving it toward him.

Bob looked around to make sure the elderly bartender didn’t see him holding a tattered copy of Mounted by the Warlord.

“It’s hers,” Yelena said before he could ask, then, pointing a finger at him, added teasingly, “do not sniff it.”

“Jesus, I wasn’t going to…”

“Phase One of the plan is go—read these and do some visualization exercises. Probably don’t tell your therapist about Phase One.”

Bob flipped the book over on his lap, afraid just touching it would put a scarlet letter on his forehead for the rest of time. “Okay, I won’t tell him because I never agreed to a plan or any phases--”

“Bob, please just try.” Yelena swiveled to face him on her stool, chin working side to side as she sized him up. “You never said you didn’t like her, by the way. You just gave me a bunch of excuses for why you hadn’t done anything about it.”

He fell quiet, spinning his cup in place and watching the pool from the condensation spread. “I wouldn’t be good for her. I’m not even one whole guy, I’m just…pieces.” Simply for something to do, something to keep his mind occupied, he flipped to a random page in the book. He squinted down at it.

The warlord loomed over her, and she was helpless before his power. “You are mine to take. I have no patience for your modesty, girl. Remove your tunic and spread yourself, show me all that is mine by rights to claim.”

Bob flopped the book toward her, pointing. “I can’t be this guy.”

Yelena quickly read the passage in question, clearing her throat. She didn’t even blush. “No, but Sentry?”

“I don’t think Sentry, Earth’s mightiest protector, should be this guy.”

Bob slammed the novel shut and tried to push it into her hands, but she dodged, grabbing him by the wrists until he had no choice but to relent and keep it.

“You keep sidestepping the pretend part,” Yelena pointed out, lifting a brow. “It’s okay to try different things, play dress up, put on different hats--unless you’re Walker, in which case hats are to be avoided at all costs.”

At that, Bob allowed a grim smile.

“Keep the book for now,” she said, leaving the bag behind on the stool that she slid down off of. He would, and further, he knew he would cave and read it. Probably that night. Probably in one sitting. God damnit. “I worked really hard to get that. I thought she was going to stomp me into paste when I asked to borrow them all.”

Bob fidgeted, fixed his hair. His temperature flamed just at the thought of you. He ran his fingers through the condensation pool to try and cool down. “Did she…” He glanced to the side. “Did she say anything…”

“Just that she’d like to meet all of you, Bob.” Yelena leaned in and tapped his knee before turning to go. “All of you. Me personally? I think you should let her. I think you won’t get anywhere unless you push yourself a little.”

Bob paid his tab, hooked the book bag over his shoulder, and drifted through the night to the subway. Maybe it was okay to try a different kind of homework, one that wasn’t worksheets and self-affirmations that filled him with thoughts and questions but not much else.

Bob stared out the window as the train ca-shookt ca-shookt over the tracks; two girls in their clubbing clothes whispered behind their hands across the aisle from him. The car shook, jostling the overfull bag on his lap. A novel fell out from the commotion, hitting his foot. Bob leaned down, making sure his hand covered the title as he jammed Mounted by the Warlord back in with its mates. Jesus. He shook his head, feeling ridiculous, his gaze unfocusing as he watched the dim lights in the tunnel flash by. It had a lulling effect, turning off the constant stream of checks and admonishments that dominated his mental landscape. And for a moment, his mind was empty, a smooth blank, before an image flashed before his eyes—an image of you on his bed, half-cloaked in shifting silver as rain pelted the window, his shadow falling across you, your eyes filled with excitement that verged on fear; all the power of the world was in his hands, and you knew it, and you liked it, and as he stepped closer, a voice came out of him that was cold and confident and demanding…

You are mine to take.

“Fuck.” Bob blinked, squeezing his temples, shaking himself out of that place. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the subway window, and not even the streaks and grime could conceal the faint glint of gold in his dark, dark eyes.

Saturday night. You had survived the charity event by the skin of your teeth, somehow with your patience and dignity intact, and you had every intention of rewarding yourself with a casual night that could go anywhere. No high heels. No high slits. No high expectations.

It was kind of a shame though, you thought, elbowing your way into your favorite bar, that no one else on the team had been there to see you all glammed up. Even Valentina had found a compliment for you, and a vast majority of your responsibilities for the evening became keeping important politicians from saying something deeply uncomfortable in front of their spouses. Nobody had prepared you for how weirdly touchy-feely people got with superheroes, like they were suddenly all drunk dads at Disney trying to feel up Princess Jasmine.

We’re not real to them. Does a symbol know it’s being sexually harassed?

A question for the next interminable banquet. It would’ve been nice to show everyone your dress, your makeup, your bag, but it would’ve been better if someone had come with to help fend off the creeps. Or at least make fun of them with you. You had ideas, of course, for ideal candidates. Candidate. Maybe next time you would beg Valentina to let Bob come along. How bad could it get? He needed the media practice, and he would look nice in a tux. James Bond if James Bond mostly rescued kittens. Seemed like the gentlest possible way of easing him into the job. Eat a few canapes, rub a few elbows, try not to combust when the mayor eye fucks you in front of his wife…

Speaking of sexual harassment, that would basically just be you taking a circuitous route to landing a date with Bob. A date he couldn’t refuse. Holy shit. Maybe not, maybe you’d just wait for him to make a move, which, at this rate, meant sometime during your retirement years.

You went to the bar and got in line. It was a black and white tiled floor, mostly pool, mostly beer and wings type of place. Unpretentious. Easy to blend in with a t-shirt, jeans, and ball cap if you were feeling extra solitary. You weren’t noticeable or beloved enough yet to draw a crowd even if someone did recognize you. Your accolades weren’t filling up the front page, and nobody was going to buy you a round for surviving the Perv Purge at the charity ball.

You breathed easier here. Your shoulders went down. The staff knew you, liked you, and always made friendly conversation when it was your turn to grab a beverage. Long, emerald lights glowed above the cash register. A few pool tables in the back provided pleasant click-clack percussion under the bluesy music. No juke box, thank God. You found your way to a circular table, high top, and perched there with your drink. The bar started to fill up, and you idly took out your phone, uploading a few choice pictures from the night before—the ones that made your legs look great, the one where the photographer had caught you in profile and the chandeliers made your silhouette glow. Almost as soon as they were live, you noticed a profile liking all of them back-to-back.

justyouraveragebob and two others liked your photo.

His instagram handle always made your heart squish. There was nothing average about him.

A shadow spread across your hands and your phone. You really, really didn’t want to be bothered, especially when Bob was somewhere shamelessly liking all of your hot pics, which was about as direct as he got with his flirting, but whoever it was, they didn’t budge. You sighed, not glancing up from your phone.

“Table for one, I’m afraid.”

“Come on, we’re not strangers.”

Your eyes raked up the screen to the man standing across from you. Just as quickly as your heart had somersaulted for Bob, it sank like a stone at the sight of Gilbert. Yes, Gilbert. No, you hadn’t known that was his name when someone from your last crew set you up on a blind date. It seemed crazy that he would turn up here. Gilbert wore seven-hundred-and-twenty-dollar Dior cufflinks. Gilbert had shoes made out of crocodiles. Gilbert had shot an honest to god lion on safari once. Gilbert had lunch at Eleven Madison Park on a bi-weekly basis, which he would absolutely make sure you knew within moments of making his acquaintance. The corpse of your last date wasn’t even cold, and here he was, that annoying fucking TikTok song come to life—trust fund, 6’5”, blue eyes. Although you were fairly certain he was maybe 6’3” on a good day; his crocodile shoes had lifts.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, placing your phone face down on the table, as if Bob could see what you were doing and you wanted to shield his eyes. “I don’t think there’s fennel pollen within six blocks of this place.”

Gilbert smirked, a default facial expression for him. Maybe you were being unkind. He had paid for the meal, held the door, said nice things about your outfit, and asked three standard questions about your life. You didn’t know if he would be a generous lover but maybe a tolerable one.

“My firm had a trivia night thing,” he said, answering your initial question. He had blonde, feathered hair that ruffled itself attractively when he moved. And he had tried to dress like a normal person, a light gray tee under a bomber jacket and jeans. “Just a few doors down,” he went on, pointing to the wall with his beer in hand. “Thought I would scope out the local attractions.”

At that, his eyes lingered on you.

“No fennel pollen required,” he added, with a wink and a laugh at himself. Another man bumped into him from behind, almost but not quite spilling his beer. Gilbert sneered, shoving the man back with a muttered, “Asshole.”

“Well, great,” you said, in a tone that you hoped communicated your total lack of interest. “It was nice bumping into you.”

He leaned in to shout above the music, which wasn’t even really that loud. “We could go somewhere else,” he said, keeping his face close to yours. “I can get us into Clemente no problem.

You smiled, tight. I’m one of the fucking Avengers; even with a z, I think I could get a table. “I’m good, thanks.”

Gilbert either hadn’t heard you or had decided not to care, barging on. “Their beverage program is second to none, the Real Talk will knock your socks off, we—”

“I said I’m good.”

He put down his beer, which was never a good sign, and moved around the table in a half-circle toward you. There was a slack, weird quality to his expression, like he was suddenly wearing a mask of his own face. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his left hand start to move toward your hip under the table. Contact never came; Gilbert froze as a third person arrived, leaning onto the table like he belonged there.

Because he does.

“Hey, baby.” The first thing you noticed was that Bob had done his hair. Not a lot, just enough. He had ditched the Grateful Dead sweater for a simple, clean button down tucked into jeans that fit. Your eyes met under the red glow of the hanging BUDLIGHT-themed stained-glass lamp, and the insistent pressure of his eyes said: Trust me. Go with it.

“Hey,” you breathed, all of you bending toward him with relief. “You made it.”

Bob grinned, eyes only for you. “Sorry I’m late. Impromptu dance thing on the subway. I think maybe they were a cult? Not super clear. They should really work on their messaging.”

You snorted down into your drink. “Sounds like it.”

He moved in the opposite direction as Gilbert, melding against your left side like he was made to fit there. Your skin started buzzing from the ease of it, and from the flabbergasted expression on Gilbert’s stupid face.

“Who’s this?” Gilbert asked, allowing you a few inches of space as he sidled back toward his beer.

“This is Bo—”

“Robert,” he said, still with that cool, calculated smile, million-yard stare, but only when turned against Gilbert. He raked his gaze up and down the other man as if he had been forced at gunpoint to give him an ounce of attention. “And you are?”

“Gilbert.”

And because you knew Bob and Yelena were horrible eavesdroppers, you added softly, almost to Bob’s shoulder, “He’s in finance. Crypto.”

“It’s the future,” said Gilbert, certain.

“Oh.” Bob’s eyebrows went up with a flicker of a laugh. “Ha. Right. Makes sense.” He tapped the side of his nose as if to say, the cocaine guy?

“Excuse me?” Gilbert had started getting heated the moment Bob arrived, but now he looked like he might shoot through the ceiling like a rocket. “Did you just—”

“What are you drinking tonight?” Bob asked, simultaneously cutting Gilbert off from the rest of his sentence and the conversation at large. The world shrank down around you. You were in Bob’s warm embrace, his hand like a quietly pulsing star against your spine. He kept himself angled toward you, protectively, a preemptive shield. “Can I get you a refill?”

“I’m fine for now,” you said, showing him that you still had half of your drink left. Bob took that in stride, rubbing your back with a soft hum. “Gilbert was just telling me about the beverage program at Clemente Bar.”

Bob nodded once, as if any of those words made sense to him. “Beverage program,” he repeated, enjoying himself.

Gilbert chugged a few fortifying gulps of his beer, rightly sensing that the night was not going his way. “The chef there is—”

“Not relevant,” Bob said flatly. “Because she’s not going with you.” His tone brightened, almost cheerful, and for a moment, he was sweet, boyish Bob again. “But you have fun, Dilbert.”

“It’s Gilbert, freak.”

Bob waited for a beat, maybe giving Gilbert time to walk that back.

“Freak, is it?” Frost settled across Bob’s features. The lights above the pool table flickered. Just once. He didn’t move, or blink, and the small smile that tugged at his lips did not indicate pleasure, but rather the beginnings of an impatience that could expand into worse. Bob inclined his head slightly toward the other man; the music fizzled, going to static. You saw the glimmer of gold circling his irises as the air between you deadened. The beer bottle in Gilbert’s grasp shivered, popped, exploded so quickly into hot vapor that the glass didn’t have time to break. The sudden rush of heat sent Gilbert reeling back a step as he shook out his singed hands.

A cloud of steam rose between them and lingered, sizzling.

“Had enough?” Bob asked, lowering his voice to a glacial whisper.

“Psycho shit,” you heard the other man mumble before he dodged swiftly toward the exit, running.

When Gilbert was gone, you snort-laughed, leaning into Bob, expecting to glance up and see him smirking back at you. But Bob wasn’t present. The gold diminished in his eyes, but the specter of it never completely went away. A shiver caught you off guard. He noticed, and folded you more firmly against his side, the heat rolling off of his body and through his shirt was incredible. Your whole life had been about strangeness, power, but what you felt now radiating off of Bob—Robert—was hard to comprehend.

The power of a million exploding suns, that was how Yelena had put it. The pitch. The tagline. It sounded like an insane exaggeration at the time, but now…

His voice, rough, baritone, settled over you like a tight hug. “Did I frighten you?”

You stared up into his face. So. This wasn’t quite Bob and it wasn’t quite Sentry. Integration.

“No,” you said truthfully. Relief softened the cold blankness in his eyes. He didn’t seem interested in letting you go and you were not interested in moving back.

“I’m…trying something,” he said.

Earnest. Nervous. Your heart ached.

“How does it feel?” you asked, slowly pushing your half-finished drink toward him. He took a single, grateful gulp, but that was enough to empty the glass.

“Okay, I think, I’m still figuring things out.” Like he was test-driving a car. Like he was encased in a robotic suit. But you could hear Bob in there, nestled in alongside this other guy. “I’m gonna be honest, when the beverage program thing came up, I thought about making his head explode.”

“You and me both.” You hid your face in his shoulder, both of you shaking with laughter.

His hand tented on your back, less encompassing, less there.

You tensed, as if afraid to lose that point of contact.

“Is this alright with you?” he asked, flattening his palm again, touching more of you.

“Yes,” you said. You couldn’t help it. “I know this has to be scary for you, letting different parts of you take up more space. If you need to just be Bob—”

“No,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut for just a second. “No, I can’t…I have to live with my anger, I have to make friends with it. He can be an asshole but he’s not always wrong. I’m Bob, I’m him, I’m all of this.” He shook his head, eyes narrowed. “I’m not pretending. When I saw him bothering you, I wanted it to stop. That’s all I had to do, focus on the truth of the thing, and suddenly I could just do it. Be him. Be…me.”

You didn’t want to ruin the vibe with tears. You pressed your lips together, catching yourself. “I’m really fucking proud of you. Even just for trying.” He looked down at you, and you gazed up at him, not knowing exactly what had changed between you, only that something had. You could stay swimming in his eyes forever, you thought, float in the darkness, bask in the gold. “And maybe it was a tiny bit fun?”

“So fun, oh my God,” he agreed, snorting in a quintessentially Bob way. He rubbed your back again, leaning in, brushing a kiss across your forehead that made your skin ignite. Oh no. Yelena was never going to put away her shit-eating grin when she found out. “And is that alright with you?” he asked, doing it again when you nodded.

You pressed into his side, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt over his chest. “Can we get out of here?”

“Anywhere but Clemente Bar,” he teased, his nose in your hair.

You slid your hand into his—easy, comfortable—and he tugged you toward the door. “Who are we kidding?” you laughed. “We’re Avengerz with a Z, we’d never get a table.”

Bob couldn’t hear the decision itself, but he detected everything that surrounded it—the rasp of desperate breath; the jangle of a zipper; the sound of flop sweat hitting the pavement; the cock of the hammer; the implosion within the barrel; the singing of the bullet as it kissed the night air.

And his decision and his movement happened instantaneously, even before the projectile zipped toward you. Way before death was a sure thing. In a blink, he was at your side, then behind you, hand outstretched, not catching the bullet but stopping it in mid-air before it could slam into your shoulder. It flared into a burning red eye, melting.

“Shit, shit, shit…” Gilbert, fucking Gilbert, crouched in the alley outside the bar, fumbling with his revolver before deciding to cut his losses and run. All of these finance guys were getting into meth, he thought, so he shouldn’t have been surprised. And maybe he wasn’t; no, not surprised, just transmuting. Integrating. The gun turned to molten slag in the jerk-off’s hand, cold and metal again by the time it thunked to the pavement. Vaguely, Bob heard you calling his name, but he was already rounding on Gilbert, following him into the darkness.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on, what the fuck you are—” Gilbert broke into a frantic run, screaming over his shoulder. It was no effort to follow. It was a child’s game.

“Good observation,” Bob said, appearing in Gilbert’s path. “I’m still learning what I am, too. Maybe we should find out together.”

His hand closed around Gilbert’s neck, threatening, the flesh and the pulse and the blood of meager interest to a god. The facts of Gilbert were so sad, sad enough to make him wonder if the man ought to exist at all. That was the Void talking, because where Sentry went, Void followed. But then he saw you jogging down the alley toward them with a question in your eyes that Bob must answer.

Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?

You looked so alive, so beautiful, and Gilbert monstrously defaced by his own choices; the contrast fascinated him. Like a universe blinking out, heat death, he felt the impulse to destroy Gilbert vanish. A human man screamed inside him to remember—remember his own pain and how he had tried to numb it. And sympathy declared itself like a fourth voice; gradually, his grip eased on Gilbert’s neck.

“Go back inside,” he told you calmly. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bob—”

His eyes were bright hot in the darkness. “Trust me.”

There was no need for the subway; Bob flew you home.

You almost wished someone had been there to see it. Walker, preferably, so he could finally quit whining about fueling up the jet as if the gas came from his pocket personally. Or Alexei, who seemed fixated on the idea of one day riding Bob into the sky. Instead, the tower was quiet. You clung to Bob’s neck, forearms looped around him, legs kicked up into his grasp. It was, you thought, the most superhero thing that had ever happened to you. And as he set you down gently, allowing but not forcing you to glide fully down his front until your feet touched solid ground, you wondered if it would be too embarrassing to swoon.

Along the way, Bob had promised you that no real harm had come to Gilbert, that he had handed him over to the nearest precinct and waited until Gilbert confessed to his attempted murder. On an Avenger, no less.

“That was big of you,” you said, meaning it. Bob was still figuring out how to control this side of him—it was a miracle he had wrangled his impulses before doing something extreme. You watched his ears turn pink from the compliment as you walked back inside, where it was warm and smelled faintly of burned popcorn. “Your first night as the new you and no extrajudicial killings. That’s major.”

Bob shook his head, sticking his hands into his pockets. Now it came down to it—you stood chest to chest in the common room, both of your rooms in walking distance. But Bob kept his eyes on you. “You’re making fun.”

“I’m not,” you said, crossing your heart to show him. “I would tell you what happened the first time I felt my powers manifest…” Your voice dropped, no longer teasing, no longer giddy. “But you already know.”

The moonlight through the tall windows turned slivers of his hair silver. He touched your cheek, cupping your face. You held your breath, worried, briefly, that you would slide back into those ugly memories just from skin-to-skin contact. But you stayed where you were—in your new home, with your new….

“You were just a kid,” he told you, gentle. His eyes shined with all of the kindness and all of the grace that he rarely showed himself.

“I tell myself that all the time. Somehow, it never sticks.”

Bob tilted his head to the side and down, studying you. “What if I told you.”

You kept waiting for it to sound like a question. His eyes burrowed into you, deadly serious. “You just did, Bob.”

He shook his head, inching closer, not crowding, showing you how solid and real and overpowering his presence could become. Through his fingers, carefully channeled, you felt a growing, odd heat. “What if I told you over and over again,” he said, gold liminal in his gaze. It came and went, but you could sense Sentry just on the other side of his brittle restraint. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I’ve already seen your darkness.” He brought his lips down carefully, his eyes locked to yours, monitoring, checking. His breath ghosted across your mouth, and you let him in.

“What about yours?” you asked, kissing his chin.

His composure cracked, just for a millisecond. His eyes changed rapidly, colors shifting, moods flying by, like someone clicking through slides, dark blue to black to gold to a gradient of all three. He shivered, closed his eyes, and kissed you. Both of his hands bracketed your face, thumbs just outside your lips. A rush of air. A feeling like falling. His lips slid against yours, hungry, seeking more. By the time you pulled back slightly for air, you realized you were no longer in the common room together but his quarters, both of you levitating inches off the ground.

“How did you do that?” you asked, grabbing his neck before you could fall. But he had you, and his smile was mild, amused, as he lightly set you both down.

“Does it matter?”

His eyes flared gold; the door shut behind him.

“No,” you whispered, mouth suddenly dry. “No, I guess not.”

Bob let go of you, hands at his sides, eyes falling to his feet. “I ruined it, I—”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” You hugged him, arms around his waist, and just as readily his hands found their way back to you, settling on your hips. “This is new for both of us.”

“Can I kiss you again?” he asked.

You leaned up and pressed your lips to his in answer. His heart hammered against your chest. A quiet, greedy sound rasped out of the back of his throat. The room was cold and dark, and his heat called to you. Your fingers crawled from his back to his shoulders to his hair, threading into the thick golden-brown waves that he had tamed that night just for you. Breaking the kiss, you thumbed a few loose strands of hair behind his ears, stroking his temples. “You can stop asking, Bob.”

He took you by the wrists, jaw tightening. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. You told me to trust you—I did.”

His eyes went up and down your body once, then burned into yours again. “How attached are you to these clothes?”

You smirked, curious. “Not very, I—”

A feeling like you had just stepped in front of a bonfire roared across your skin. Light shimmered up from your arms and torso, and then your t-shirt and jeans were dust scattering to the floor, disintegrated. Not a single hair on you had been so much as toasted. Bob touched your cheek again, his eyes difficult to read.

“Better,” he said.

It was juvenile, maybe, but that show of power thrilled you. There was steel behind his touch, hunger gathering in his gaze. He looked you up and down again, taking his time, absorbing the shudder that ripped through you as he drank in your body, his thumb jerking on your cheek when his gaze reached your breasts. They were caged in sheer fabric, the chill in the room and his heat drawing out your nipples, hardening them, every part of you desperate for more, for his touch.

You undid the top button on his shirt clumsily; you tried to move quickly but your fingers had stopped working, and it only got worse when he laughed softly at your distress. Bob took over, nodding toward the bed just behind you.

“Get on the bed,” he said. There was the slightest tremor in his voice, but by the time he spoke again, it was gone. “Show me what’s mine.”

Your eyes widened. Not in a hundred years had you considered those words would leave Bob’s mouth. You moved before he could register your hesitation. Not hesitation, just…wow. You remembered the feeling of your own clothes burning off of your body, something he had accomplished with a single thought. As you turned and crawled onto his bed, knees and palms sinking into the soft, dark blue flannel, you noticed a stack of books near the bedside table. You would’ve recognized them anywhere, even in the dark—they were yours.

A tide of conflicting emotions rose in your chest. It was incredibly sweet that he had made a close study of your desires. On the other hand, if this wasn’t him… You flipped onto your back, head at his pillows, to say as much, but the concerns died in your throat. You didn’t know who was standing there—Bob, Robert, Sentry, the Void—but the sight of him took your breath away. He stood at the foot of the bed, stripped down to his black boxer briefs, every perfect muscle visible in the gray slats of gloom allowed in by the half-tipped blinds. Maybe it was the perma pajama pants, but you had never noticed how unbelievably thick his legs were. Thighs. The word pulsed like a neon sign behind your eyes.

“What did I say?” he asked, in a voice of quiet command. Not angry, perhaps somewhat disappointed.

“S-Sorry.” The apology spilled out of you. Holy shit. It was one thing to read about a towering figure in the bedroom ready to control, ready to take, but experiencing it with a guy who could explode a gun with his mind was altogether different. It felt like you could levitate again, this time all on your own.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, his eyes rotating through that odd catalog of colors again as he tilted his head to the side. “Just do as I ask.”

Sir, yes, sir.

You tried to relax, but there was no hiding the shaking in your legs as you laid back against the pillows and rested your hands across your midsection, subtly opening your thighs as you stretched out. His eyes burned like stoked coals in the darkness, sharp lights in an anti-halo of shadow. A heartbeat later, he was on the bed, over you, his weight sinking the mattress at your sides.

 “Jesus,” you whispered, jolting your head up to meet his eyes.

“Good?” he asked. Bob, you thought, he was in there.

You nodded, licking your lips.

Just as quickly as he had come, Bob receded again. His lips descended to your throat, searing across the delicate architecture there, down to your collarbone, across, learning, memorizing. “Maybe I need an outlet,” he said. “What am I? A god? A man? A monster?” His hips lowered until you were forced to twitch your thighs further apart to accommodate him. “Out there,” he went on, still dropping kisses across your neck, “I have to be so careful. But in here?”

His voice trailed away. You slid your hands across his back, molding your fingers around the hard juts of his shoulder blades. He made a pained sound against your throat, dragging his nose from your neck to your shoulder. His teeth closed around the ridge there, biting until you gasped and arched against him. “You,” he said, releasing the hold of his teeth, but blinking up at the ceiling, you knew there would be a mark there in the morning. “You. My outlet. For the god,” he whispered fiercely. “And the monster.”

Bob craned back, looking down at you. Checking. You wondered if the blend of them was becoming more seamless. He was waiting for you to fend him off, disagree, but instead you touched your forehead to his chin. Permission. He allowed himself one weak, ragged breath.

“Show me,” he said. “Show me that you’re mine.”

You took his right hand, sliding it from the mattress by your shoulder to your side, over your left breast and your heart, then down, guiding his palm over your stomach, beneath the waistband of your panties, and toward the soaking wet heat he had generated between your legs. His middle finger curled automatically into you. The power in the building surged, a transformer down the block splitting the silence with a thunderous boom. The sound startled you, your hips driving you against him, forcing him further inside. All of the lights went on in the room, twinkling in a sequence before turning themselves off again.

Both of you were holding your breath.

“What happens when you cum?” you whispered.

Bob supported himself on his left elbow, shook his head. “That’s never happened before.” He tossed his head again, eyes stuttering shut as if in disbelief. A second finger joined the first, shocking your hips up again. “Is this for me?” he asked.

“Yes.” You tightened your grip on his wrist as he twisted his fingers, pumping, searching, stretching.

“You’re so fucking wet.” Golden eyes found you in the dark, brightening, your bra and panties sizzling off of your skin until you were completely bare beneath him. He claimed your mouth with a brutal kiss, forcing your chin upward, then down, his tongue driving into you at the same rate as his fingers, setting a steady rhythm. “Let go of my wrist,” he said, breaking the kiss. His chest rose and fell, expanding like bellows. “Put your hands above your head. Don’t move them unless I tell you to.”

You did as he instructed, bracing your fingertips against the headboard.

“Good,” he said. He pulled his fingers out of you with a sound that made your ears burn. Wet wasn’t the word for it. The word hadn’t been invented yet. You whimpered at his absence. “Don’t worry,” he told you, reaching down to free his cock from his shorts. His voice seemed to fill the room, infiltrate you from every direction. “Beg for it. Beg for it from your god.”

He drove home the command with a glimmer building in his eyes. He wasn’t even touching you anymore, but you felt a whisper of pressure around your clit, circling, teasing. You shivered and clamped down on nothing, whispering his name. He waited, patient, never increasing the speed of that sensation, making it spread, flickers of energy circling your breasts, skipping up and across your nipples until it felt like they were being lightly, teasingly electrified. You felt it in your teeth. Helpless, you flexed the hands wedged above your head, desperate for relief. Your back bent toward him, but Bob remained still, letting you torture yourself until the words clawed their way out of your throat.

“Please, Robert,” you whispered, fighting the waves of pleasure contorting your spine. “Please, I need you. Please, Jesus, it’s too much.”

The touching without touching had been bad, but when he made it stop, that was worse. You slithered back down to the mattress, breathing hard, gasping as he crawled over you, urging your thighs wider before pressing his lips to your ear. His hot, swollen dick pulsed against your thigh, brushing at such tantalizing range you heard yourself whine like a frantic animal. “I’m going to fuck you now, and if it destroys the power grid then so be it.”

He scooped you against him, one arm braced under your lower back, his other hand guiding his cock to your entrance. There was so little resistance it made you both exhale; no more waiting. Stretch but not resistance, your body was ready for him, soaked and pliant. Bob rewarded you with a biting tug on your earlobe, his breath shuddering against your neck as he fit himself inside you to the hilt and groaned. You smiled at the thought of making a fucking god moan like that.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, ragged. “You’re beautiful. You look so beautiful when I fuck you.”

He worked his hips back and forth, giving you a preview of just how much delicious friction that could produce. A string of lights stapled around the border of his ceiling sparkled on, warming the space above his head. Your thighs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his sides, technically not against the established rules, and seemingly to his taste. He hummed with approval, slapping both of his palms against your upper thighs as he knelt, shifting his weight, pushing into you on a long, devastating stroke.

“Fuck.” Your head fell back, air blasting out of your lungs.

“You seemed to like this before,” he said, laughing against your throat. “Let’s try it again.” Those cruel, teasing flickers of hot energy coiled around you again, tracing maddening circles around your clit, your peaked nipples, the ends of your toes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Even if those lights hadn’t turned on you would be seeing stars. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked, wry. “To give up control? Give yourself to me? Because now that I have you, I could do anything. Anything.”

The energy was everywhere now, coursing through you, pinging through every cell, mapping every corner of your body. You felt him in your throat, behind your knees, along the inner coils of your ears, zapping your tongue. You arched and cried out for him and then fell silent, dumb, just letting the insane, raw beauty of his power tingle in your blood. Bob fucked into you harder, sweating, his hair damp as it clung to your shoulder. Down the street, another transformer erupted, a dog barked. The air around you sizzled. He angled your hips slightly, finding a new depth, holding his own orgasm at bay long enough to leave you panting, dazed, fucked into a place where your mind had gone blank. There was just him. Just his eerie energy moving through you. He could do anything. Anything.

“Please,” you murmured, wishing you could hold him, touch him, rake your nails down his back in pent up gratitude. “Please I’m so close.”

“That’s good,” he said, shoving his forehead against your jaw. Finally, he sounded as wrecked as you did. He was coming undone, close, close, driving, swelling… “Let go. Show me.”

The little gusts of heat he had been controlling coalesced around your sex, concentrated on your clit, spiraling inward, faster, faster, until the glittering, live wire mesh that had been tightening around your body snapped shut, heat rocketing through your core, burning a clean line from your abdomen to your eyeballs. You couldn’t keep your hands away from him any longer. You clung to his shoulders, sobbing out the shocks that had nowhere to go but out.

It sent him over the edge.

Bob ground you into the mattress, holding himself deep, whispering something you couldn't make out as he jerked and bucked and filled you until it felt like you might burst. Jesus, every part of him was powerful—you had never felt someone cum like that, distinct enough to push another little climax through you.

His chest worked against yours, his breathing evening out after a prolonged, sweaty moment of total entangled bliss. He let you go gently, setting your legs down as if they might break, but he didn’t climb off of you. Lowering himself with utmost care, he nestled against your body, face in your neck and arms around your middle. The string lights were still glowing faintly, like you were just two horny losers in a college dorm. As you came back to yourself and opened your eyes, every single object in his room except the bed was floating.

“Now we know what happens,” you said softly, carding your fingers through his hair. Just from the weight of him, from the sweet way he kissed your throat and held you like his life depended on it, you could tell Bob was back in control. He turned his head, looking around at the desk, the lamp, the laundry basket, the sneakers, all suspended as if you were in outer space. Coughing, perhaps with embarrassment, Bob gradually let the objects float back down. His hands tightened on you in concentration.

“Do…do you think everyone heard us?” he asked, hiding his face against your skin again.

“Probably.” You laughed, relaxing against the pillows as he finally rolled to the side, freeing himself from you with a groan as he crumpled to your right. “I don’t mind,” you said, reaching for him. “It’s okay if they know I’m yours.”

Bob blinked at you, a shy, boyish smile pulling his lips to one side. “I’m yours, too. You know that, right? I…said a lot of stuff at you just now. I hope it was okay.”

“It was more than okay,” you assured him. “Like you said. An outlet.”

“This is gonna blow the tits off my integration therapist,” he muttered, covering his face with both hands. “I’ll maybe gloss over some parts. Like where stuff exploded. And the burning your clothes off with my mind thing.” He shrugged and flopped onto his side, gazing at you adoringly from his pillow. “I’ll, um, I'll buy you new jeans.”

You snuggled closer, fitting your face against his chest. He pulled you in, sighing. It seemed right, the way you fit together.

You leaned up for one more kiss. “Fine, but only if you promise to burn them off again.”

on the couch (winter)

it’s movie night and everyone is late. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

in the shower (spring) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a drawn out call of your name. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

when the ac breaks (summer)

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

smack in the middle of summer. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the heat makes everything feel hazy and your movements sluggish. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“damn, bob. you get in a fight?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“bob’s been busy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

in the middle of it (autumn)

the team is onto you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hey, have you seen-” 

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

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

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

“i knew it. i fucking knew it!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comfort wasn’t part of your morning routine. This was different; no jet engines, no early calls, just the steady rhythm of someone breathing behind you.

You turned your head a fraction, glancing over your shoulder.

Jake Seresin’s arm was slung over your waist, heavy and warm. His chest rose and fell against your back, legs tangled with yours. 

Fuck. You really needed to stop drinking tequila.

Your mind caught up in stages. Last night at the Hard Deck, you had told Phoenix you were definitely not going home with anyone. Then, you had told yourself you were definitely not doing this again. And lastly, you had told Hangman, well, whatever it was that led him between your sheets. 

Again.

He never stayed the night. That was one of the two rules you had, the other being that you never ever acknowledged what you were doing. It kept your confusing cycle of getting drunk, fighting, and hate-fucking private from the inevitable judgment of your squadron. 

Yet here he was, evidently not gone. 

You lay there, very still, while irritation travelled up your spine. Of course, Hangman had to stay the one morning you needed him gone. His breathing was obnoxiously relaxed.

You shifted, and his grip tightened around you.

“Morning, honey,” Hangman mumbled against your shoulder, voice rough with sleep. His Texan accent was thicker in the morning, heavy like molasses.

Your eyes shut on instinct. Hangman’s morning voice was unfairly sexy, even as he used the condescending nickname he’d given you when you met. 

“Get out,” you snapped, no patience for civility. “We don’t do sleepovers. You were supposed to be gone by now.”

“Funny,” he hummed, kissing the bare skin of your shoulder far too casually. “You didn’t sound this mad when you were begging for me last night.”

Classic Hangman. You should have known he’d be petty first thing in the morning.

You pushed his arm off and sat up, ignoring the warmth creeping up your neck. “You need to go. Phoenix will be here any minute.”

“Phoenix already knows I sleep naked,” he said easily. “She’ll survive.”

“Hangman,” you warned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He said it with that lazy drawl that meant he wasn’t taking you seriously at all.

You climbed out of bed, grabbed the clothes on the floor, and tossed his service khakis at his chest. “Up! Clothes, now.”

Hangman caught them one-handed without sitting up. “Sweetheart, if you didn’t want me here, you wouldn’t have picked a fight with me last night.”

“You’re easy,” you scoffed. “That’s not my problem. And I was drunk.”

“You weren’t that drunk. You knew exactly who you were dragging home.”

“I made a bad decision after three drinks. You were sober. You knew not to overstay your welcome.”

Hangman laughed under his breath. “Don’t act like I’ve lost my mind. You can’t keep your hands off me.”

You bristled. “Don’t worry, this is the last time you need to worry about my hands being on you.”

“I’m not worried,” he murmured, eyes dragging down your body leisurely. “I know I won’t have to wait much longer.”

“I mean it, Hangman.”

He looked at you like you’d just said you were moving to Mars. “Sure you do. You’ll mean it next time, too.”

Annoyance flickered hot under your ribs. The worst part was that Hangman wasn’t entirely wrong, and that always made him intolerable. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of giving in.

“Screw you,” you shot back. “It’s never happening again.”

Hangman pushed up on his elbows, watching you with sharp, alert eyes. The shift of muscle in his biceps hit your stomach before you could ignore it. 

“Course it is,” Hangman said. “You always say the same thing. It’s cute; you pretending you don’t give me fuck-me eyes as soon as everyone’s gone.”

He moved slowly, like he was humouring you, and stepped out of the sheets. He was, regrettably, a glorious sight: all lean planes and long lines, muscles pulling tight under golden skin as he stretched. Every flex was a reminder of exactly how he’d used that strength to his advantage last night.

His mouth curved, his grin dangerous and knowing. “You always get real serious when you’re lyin’ to yourself,” Hangman added, smug as all hell. 

“Oh, please,” you snapped. “If I’m lying, you’re delusional. You strut around base like you’re God’s gift to naval aviation when most of the time you run on sheer dumb luck.”

Hangman’s jaw tightened. “Right. And you’re, what? The poster girl for righteous indignation? You start a fight with me every time you see me.”

“You think everything’s about you,” you said. “Typical.”

He closed the space between you in three steps, one hand cupping the back of your head.

“You really think this is the last time, honey?” Hangman murmured.

You should’ve pushed him away. You meant to push him away. Instead, you pulled him closer the second he pressed his lips to yours.

Hangman kissed you as if he were making a counterargument.

It was deliciously familiar: his lips expertly weakening your knees, his thumb sliding over your jaw. You hated the way your body answered before your mind did. Your hands were already on his shoulders, your mouth already opening against his.

He angled his head, chased your mouth, swallowed the tiny sound you made.

You broke away, breath unsteady. “You need to go,” you said, glancing at your alarm clock. “Phoenix is almost here.”

That earned you a slow, smug curl of his mouth. “Sure, Bee,” Hangman drawled. It was almost impressive how he made every nickname of yours sound patronising—even your callsign. “Whatever you say.”

He started dressing piece by piece, pulling on a tank top and then his trousers. He wasn’t touching you, but your body reacted like he was kissing his way down your neck. 

It didn’t matter how good the sex was. Or how Hangman looked right now. He was a bad habit, and you sure as hell weren’t going to let this happen again. Eventually, one of you was going to crash and burn, and it wouldn’t be you.

“See you at briefing,” you managed once he was dressed.

Hangman smirked, taking one last chance to sweep his gaze across your kiss-bitten lips. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

When he was gone, you exhaled hard.

New rules: no more tequila, no more Hangman, no more mistakes.

You walked into morning briefing with Phoenix thirty minutes later, pretending you hadn’t just made out with your sworn rival.

Hangman was already in his seat, leaning back like he owned the place. He caught your eye and smirked knowingly. You rolled your eyes and sat beside Rooster, because getting caught punching Hangman by your superior officer was frowned upon.

“Alright, today we’re running three-versus-one drills,” Maverick declared once everyone arrived. “Let’s see how many of you can work together to take me down.”

Cue the disgruntled groans. Fanboy mimed slamming his head against the table.

“You’ll be running mixed teams,” Maverick continued, ignoring your dramatics. “Team leaders have been selected for the day. First up,” he checked the clipboard, “Is Bee.”

The room looked at you in unison, nodding in collective respect. You were the only person in the room who could cut through everyone’s nonsense and get them pointed in the same direction without sounding like a drill sergeant or a babysitter. 

With you in charge, they flew cleaner, faster, and better.

That moment of silent affirmation was immediately shattered by a much louder complaint from Hangman.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, chortling. “Honey Bee?”

You rolled your eyes. “You should really work on your jealousy. It’s not very professional.”

“I’m not jealous,” Hangman fired back immediately. “I just think the team leaders shouldn’t be slow, overcautious, and afraid of a little risk.”

Phoenix kicked the back of his chair without glancing up from her pre-flight notes. “Then it’s a good thing you’re not in charge, Bagman.”

Maverick ignored all of you. “Bee, your team is Hangman, Phoenix, and Bob.”

The groans that rose from your side of the room were perfectly synchronised.

You slumped a fraction in your seat. Across from you, the light visibly faded from Bob’s eyes. Phoenix didn’t bother masking her irritation; she just kicked Hangman’s chair again, harder this time.

Beside you, Rooster whispered, “I’ll pray for you.”

“Prayers aren’t enough,” Bob said, shaking his head in resignation. 

Hangman smirked and tapped his pen on his desk. “Can’t wait.”

You resisted the urge to throw your binder at his head.

In the air, Phoenix tightened the formation around you without question, sliding neatly into place. Her and Bob’s trust in you was bone-deep. 

Hangman, on the other hand, never enjoyed taking orders from you.

“Team Leader, requesting permission to actually use my aircraft instead of admiring the scenery,” he drawled.

You smiled. “Permission denied. Stay on my wing.”

“You really get off on saying that, don’t you?”

“Only because it annoys you.”

Hangman huffed. “One day you’re gonna admit you like flying with me.”

“One day you’ll stop talking,” you replied sweetly. “And then I will actually like flying with you.”

Maverick’s voice sounded through the comms. “Team One, I hope you’re paying attention,” he said. 

Your breath sank low in your chest. It was easy to slide into the clean, dependable part of your brain that always focused when you were in the air.

“All right,” you said calmly. “Phoenix, left side containment. Bob, keep your eyes on the radar. Tell me the second you see Maverick. Hangman—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupted. “I’m the watchdog?”

You scoffed. “If I wanted a watchdog, I’d get one that barked on command, not whenever he feels like it. You’re right-flank aggression. Don’t you dare take that as permission to—”

Hangman launched himself forward like a missile. “Right flank engaged,” he announced.

“Hangman!” Phoenix barked. “You asshole!”

You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw clicked. “Hangman, return to formation. Now.”

He made a low, playful hum. “Oh, Honey Bee. Your whole thing is patience. Let me be the excitement.”

“Your thing is getting everyone else killed,” you shot back. “Return to formation. That’s an order, Hangman.”

Maverick dove at you out of the sun. You rolled left, Phoenix sliding under you, the two of you syncing with the kind of ease that only months of practice could build.

“Sloppy,” Maverick observed. “Bee, you’ve got Phoenix covered, but you’re flying without a wingman.”

“Only because someone’s allergic to teamwork,” Phoenix quipped.

You steadied your breathing. “Hangman, tighten up. You’re leaving too big of a gap.”

Bob chimed in, gentle as always, “He’s coming around again—two o’clock, descending.”

You saw it cleanly: Maverick’s angle, his speed, that little off-kilter move he did to tempt you into lunging. But you’d practised this scenario before, and you were ready to face him.

“Phoenix, pinch him left,” you ordered.

“On it.”

“Bob, let’s get a lock on him.”

“Copy.”

You dipped low—just enough to look exposed and make Maverick think you’d gotten overeager. It worked. You tracked the tiny twitch in his angle, the micro-shift he always made when he thought he saw an opening.

Hangman chimed, “Careful, Bee. You’re pushing too close.”

Of course, he’d say that. King Reckless himself warning you about boundaries? You didn’t dignify it with a reply.

You just pressed the advantage, rolling smoothly back toward Maverick’s tail. 

“Come on, Bob,” you said, eyes locked on Maverick’s plane. “Give me tone.”

Phoenix shifted into position, and you knew Bob would be able to get you a tone with that clear line to Maverick. You nudged the nose of your jet another degree. Almost there. Almost—

You exhaled, ready for that sweet hit, when everything went to hell.

Hangman shot through Bob’s line without any consideration for all the work you’d put in, engines screaming loud enough to rattle your teeth.

“I got him!” he shouted.

You watched in a moment of awful, slow-motion clarity as Hangman blocked Bob’s perfect shot. Without a wingman to help you and without Bob getting a lock on Maverick, you were doomed.

“Hangman, don’t—”

The high-pitched squeal of Maverick getting a lock on you rang throughout your plane—a final, devastating blow. Maverick had slipped beneath Hangman with a single elegant roll, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment of idiocy. 

You were a sitting duck after playing bait.

“That’s a fail,” Maverick said happily, like he hadn’t crushed your soul. “Team One, you’re dead. Sorry, Bee. It would’ve worked if your entire team had followed your lead. Team Two, suit up.”

You sat in stunned silence for a beat, breathing hard as fury made your pulse spike. 

You had him. You had sacrificed yourself to give Phoenix and Bob the perfect shot, and you lost just because of Hangman’s typical self-interest.

This was why you couldn’t stand Hangman.

The flight back to the hangar was suffocating in its silence. Your jaw locked so tightly your molars ached. You weren’t sure which made you angrier: what Hangman just did in the air, or the knowledge that you’d let him put his mouth on yours that morning.

By the time you landed, your heart was pounding, your breath clipped and shallow. You tore your helmet off so fast that the chin strap scraped your jaw. You didn’t even wait for the ladder to settle before swinging a leg out, boots hitting the metal rungs with sharp, angry clanks.

You saw Hangman descending his own ladder with that maddeningly casual confidence. He didn’t seem to think he’d just blown your chance to finally best Maverick, but that wasn’t anything new.

Bob offered you a sympathetic wince before putting distance between himself and whatever volcanic event you were about to become. You just moved, boots hitting the ground with determined strides as you marched toward Hangman.

The second he spotted you, that infuriating smirk began to form. You didn’t give him the chance to finish it.

“You asshole—” you screeched, shoving Hangman so hard he toppled backwards.

“Woah, woah, woah!”

“Bee, chill!”

Rooster and Payback each caught an arm as they passed, steering you away. They were already headed out for their turn in the exercise, and the last thing they wanted was you getting written up—even if Hangman had it coming.

Bob reluctantly helped Hangman up.

“I can’t believe you—” you began, chest still heaving from anger.

“I almost had him,” Hangman interrupted, maddeningly calm.

“You sabotaged us! You flew directly into Bob’s shot!” You jabbed a finger at him, heat prickling across your face. “You just had to make it about you.”

He smirked. “It’s always about me.”

“Not when I’m in charge,” you corrected. “And not during a team exercise.”

“I was helping.”

“Yeah, helping Maverick kill me!” you snapped, your voice cracking upward into a pitch that made Rooster flinch beside you. “You undermined the chain of command,” you said. “You ignored formation. You showboated. You risked everything—”

“Look, you had a nice little plan going,” Hangman allowed. His gaze flicked to Rooster’s hand still around your arm before he dragged his attention back to you. “But if you hadn’t been crawling like you were driving your grandma to Sunday brunch earlier—”

“Do you seriously think you can blame me for this?” You stepped forward, and Rooster’s fingers tightened instinctively to keep you from closing the distance. “I played the bait, I had Maverick hooked!”

“And I had a better shot.”

You barked out a laugh so sharp it made Hangman’s shoulders tense. “Apparently, you’re delusional as well as a selfish bastard.”

“You’re welcome for trying to get us a win.”

“Us? Us?!” You yanked your arm free from Rooster, giving Hangman’s shoulders another shove. 

It made your skin crawl that you’d had him this close only hours ago. 

You laughed incredulously. “You threw the entire drill because you can’t stand someone else getting a hit first! It doesn’t matter who gets a lock on Maverick, but it does matter that you fucked it up for everyone else!”

Phoenix saved you. “Okay, let’s go hit the showers,” she said, ushering you off the tarmac. 

You let her guide you a few steps, your pulse still hammering in your throat. You turned to see Hangman raise his chin, already bracing for another round.

“You know what your problem is?” you said. “You’re terrified that if you’re not the one who gets the win, no one will bother noticing you at all. All that bravado,” you flicked a hand dismissively at Hangman, “is just you trying to outrun the idea that you’re only as good as your last solo victory. And God forbid anyone else shine for half a second.”

Hangman’s posture twitched just enough for you to notice.

“So do us all a favour,” you finished. “If you don’t want to be part of this team, put in for a transfer. At least then we won’t have to worry about you getting us killed on a real mission.”

Phoenix’s hand landed between your shoulder blades. “Bee,” she warned quietly.

Hangman exhaled something that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so sharp. “Funny,” he said, his voice matching your cutting tone. “For someone who’s so damn sure she knows how to lead, you crumble the second anyone challenges you. That’s the real reason you’ll never be team leader outside of a simulation.”

His words punched harder than you expected. Not because they were true, but because he’d designed them to hurt you.

Phoenix tugged you away firmly this time, steering you off the tarmac before you could keep the argument going.

“You’re a saint for not killing him,” she muttered under her breath.

You hummed noncommittally, trying to ignore the sick twist in your stomach. 

Last night you’d had your hands in his hair, tugging him closer. Today, you’d used them to push him hard enough to lose balance. You hated being stuck in this cycle.

By the time the squad hit the Hard Deck that night, the teasing had already started.

“Here we go,” Harvard said, elbowing Yale. “Bee and Hangman. Round… whatever this is. Are we counting by years or fights?”

Coyote grinned. “I’m losing track. We should make it a drinking game. Every time they say something hurtful, take a shot. No, wait—every time there’s a physical altercation, take two shots.”

You exhaled and leaned against the rail. Everyone assumed you and Hangman would fall into the usual routine: fight, make some sarcastic quip, get aggressive, and argue until everyone went home. 

Little did they know what you used to do after all that noise.

The squadron kept teasing you, even though you’d already decided you were done with anything that involved Jake Seresin.

“Sober Bee,” Bob said, passing you the Coke you’d ordered. “I approve.”

“Thanks,” you said, accepting the glass. “I’m done getting tipsy and letting Hangman bait me into an argument.”

Bob grinned and raised his own Coke. “I admire your commitment.”

Fanboy overheard and groaned loud enough for half the bar to look over. “Sober Bee? Guess we’re starved for entertainment tonight.”

“Truly the end times,” Fritz said dramatically. 

Phoenix didn’t look up as she lined up a shot on the pool table. “Calm down, boys. It’s not like she gets drunk every week,” she defended you. 

Rooster smirked. “She’s only sober because she almost bagged Maverick today and wants to remember the glory in crystal clarity,” he said, pulling you into a side-hug so tight you almost spilt your drink.

“Your team almost had a kill shot,” Halo said, pointing at you like you were a celebrity. “If Maverick had been one second slower—”

You held up a hand. “Alright, children, let’s not rewrite the story. We didn’t bag Maverick. He Houdini’d out of our trap like he always does.”

“Yeah, but you rattled him,” Payback said, grinning proudly. “He seemed proud.”

The table erupted in agreement.

Halo gave you a look. “Face it, Bee. You’ve been flying better than all of us ever since the squadron became permanent. You’re the only one who can stay calm up against Maverick.”

“Unsettlingly calm,” Bob confirmed, nodding sagely. 

You chuckled. “Calm is good, Bob. Calm means no one ends the night with a black eye.”

“Hangman ends every night with a black eye,” Phoenix said. “Emotionally speaking.”

That earned her a round of delighted laughter.

Rooster tilted his head, conspiratorial. “Speaking of Hangman, he’s watching you.”

Coyote grinned. “He’s malfunctioning. Doesn’t know what to do when Bee isn’t screaming at him.”

You rolled your eyes at their dramatics. “I’m choosing peace from now on,” you declared. “If that means I don’t have to talk to his arrogant ass tonight, then I call that a win.”

Your squadron’s laughter, their drunken banter, and Hangman’s sidelong glances were background noise for the rest of the night. 

That is, until Bob ducked away toward the bathroom. Because who else would slide into the vacant space but the devil himself?

Hangman leaned one elbow on the rail, posture loose in that unbothered manner he’d perfected. 

“You’re behaving tonight,” he said, voice low and amused. “Should I be worried? It’s getting late. If you’re planning to start something, now’s your window.”

You held up your glass. “Sorry to disappoint. No hostile takeover scheduled.”

Hangman blinked at your Coke. “You’re sober?”

“Tragically.”

“Really?” He looked you over, slow and assessing. It infuriated you that it still made your spine tingle. “I mean, it’s not like you’re drunk all the time. But I thought after today…” You raised an eyebrow. “I just mean you aren’t usually glued to Bob all night long.”

“It’s called having a conversation,” you said. “You should try it sometime.”

His mouth curved. “I don’t do ‘conversation.’ I’m more of a hands-on communicator.”

And there it was—subtext thick enough to choke on. Heat shot low in your abdomen, annoying and immediate. You straightened your spine like that would shove the feeling back down where it belonged. 

You were frustrated at the effect Hangman’s words had on your body, and infuriated that he had noticed it. 

“Well,” you said sharply, “good thing I’m off duty. No ‘hands-on’ anything. No more… whatever this was.”

Hangman’s brows lifted in amusement. “Sure,” he said lightly. “We’re doing the whole ‘pretend to fight because people are around’ routine.”

“Hangman, I’m not pretending.” You heard the sharpness in your own voice. “We argue because we never agree on how to do our jobs. Not because other people are around.”

Hangman’s smirk faltered. “Come on, honey,” he murmured. “You’re still mad about this morning? You wanted to win your way, and I wanted to win the right way.”

“‘The right way’?” You gave a short, bitter laugh. “You tanked a team drill because you needed to be the hero.” 

“That’s not what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened.”

Hangman leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost your cheek. “You think you’re the only tactician in that cockpit?”

“No,” you said, “but I was the team leader, and ignoring me made you a liability. When you’re a bad teammate, you’re a bad pilot.”

You knew that would hit its mark. 

Hangman’s shoulders tensed; his jaw flexed hard. His eyes darted to your Coke again, like he wished you were tipsy so he could recognise this behaviour as foreplay. But you weren’t drinking, and you weren’t starting a fight just to tear his clothes off later.

“So that’s it?” he asked, brows pulled together in mild confusion. “You’re done?”

“I told you this morning it was the last time,” you reminded him. “I meant it.”

“Thought it was just post-sleepover dramatics,” Hangman admitted.

Something flickered behind his green eyes; the memory of your warm hands on his shoulders and in his hair last night. You refused to acknowledge any of it.

He huffed out a laugh, but it came out thin. “So this is it?”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t a cooling-off period?”

“Nope.”

Hangman stood there, letting the silence stretch. His eyes kept drifting to your mouth in quick, guilty flicks he clearly didn’t mean to give away. You accidentally mirrored the movement before catching yourself. 

Nope. Not happening.

Hangman’s voice dropped low enough that you felt it in your ribs. “So we burn the whole thing down and walk away?”

“What’s there to burn?” you asked. “We don’t even like each other.”

His laugh was sharp and humourless. “Never said we did.”

“Exactly. I’m tired of waking up feeling like an idiot.”

Hangman nodded once, too sharply. “Right.”

Then he pivoted on his heel, swagger switched back on, and headed toward the bar to flirt with the nearest warm body. 

Bob returned a moment later, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, I think I’m done for the night. Did you want a ride home?”

You nodded, chugging the rest of your Coke. “Yeah, I’m definitely done.”

The change didn’t happen overnight. It was more of a slow radio static you kept trying to tune out until it got too loud to ignore.

A couple of days later, during morning drills, Hangman missed an opening so obvious it was practically outlined in neon. 

He was flying at Rooster’s five, perfectly positioned to take the clean shot Maverick had left open as bait, but he surprised everyone. Instead of swan-diving into the shot with that infuriating confidence, Hangman waited.

He just stayed there, keeping an eye on Maverick long enough for Payback to slip in and tag the target.

“Uh—thanks?” Payback said, confused.

Hangman just nodded. No bragging, no gloating, not even a sarcastic salute in your direction acknowledging his teamwork. Nothing. 

You felt a prickle on the back of your neck, but it was too early to understand what was wrong.

It wasn’t just the lack of gloating. Hangman was almost silent over the comms. And, fine, maybe you looked at him a half-second longer than necessary, purely because you were waiting for the punchline. He didn’t deliver one, and that alone was unsettling.

By the time you landed, you thought you’d imagined it.

But the next few days didn’t snap him back to normal. If anything, the errors got stranger. Hangman was a beat too slow here, hesitated awkwardly there. Twice, he overshot an angle he could’ve flown in his sleep. Another time, he clipped a pass so wide that Phoenix muttered about checking him for head injuries.

You noticed the other things no one else would’ve clocked, like the way his fidgeting changed. Most of the time, Hangman was all effortless swagger, fingers tapping on the table. Now his tells were silent: tight little flexes of his gloved hand, averted eyes.

Day five made it impossible to brush off.

You were halfway through a dogfighting sequence when Hangman chose the defensive angle over a ballsy opportunity he’d never ignore. His flying style was starting to resemble yours, one he often made fun of you for adopting.

You felt the disruption before you really understood it. Your instincts were reacting as they always did when Hangman was about to barrel through a gap, and you’d already adjusted your angle to make room for him. 

But Hangman didn’t take the risk, so you lost the positional advantage you’d built. Maverick slipped out of your trap and tagged Phoenix before she could blink.

On the tarmac, Phoenix stared at the sky in shock. “What the hell was that?”

Hangman pulled off his own helmet. “Didn’t want to compromise the team’s spacing.”

You and Phoenix exchanged a look that said Who is this man, and what has he done with Hangman?

But Hangman wasn’t being entirely unlike himself. He still muttered at Phoenix under his breath. He still rolled his eyes when Rooster was being overdramatic. He even smirked at you once, but it came out wrong, like his mouth had forgotten the shape of it.

You knew what Hangman’s real smirk looked like. You’d seen it on nights you pushed him far enough to end up in your bed, and you’d felt the shape of it against your neck. 

This one wasn’t it.

The next time the squadron hit the Hard Deck, you didn’t talk to him. You hadn’t interacted much since you decided to stop hooking up. There wasn’t a need for it; you weren’t friends, and you’d never tried to get to know each other.

By week two, the whole squad was convinced he had a virus of some kind.

You were running a tight-knit combat simulation when Hangman raised his hand during planning. “Maybe we keep Rooster on high cover,” he suggested. “Safer for the team that way.”

The entire room turned to look at him.

Fanboy began muttering, “He’s sick. He has to be.”

Rooster just stared at Hangman like he was possessed.

You were waiting for Hangman to throw a jab at you, bait you into arguing, or make some snide crack about your flight speed. But he never looked at you long enough for you to register anything on his face, so you had no idea what he was thinking.

After the simulation, the team regrouped on the tarmac. 

“Does anyone else think Hangman’s been replaced by an alien?” Fritz asked quietly.

Harvard sighed. “I miss when he was insufferable.”

You just sipped water and watched Hangman, who stood out of earshot, double-checking a checklist you know he’d memorised back in flight school. 

The picture of responsibility; the antithesis of Hangman.

He wasn’t doing anything, but that was the problem. Hangman’s worst qualities made him a pain in your ass, but his best qualities kept the team sharp. He was the idiot who risked someone else getting hit so he could make a clean shot.

You’d never realised how much of your own flying relied on reacting to Hangman—dodging his chaos, anticipating his arrogance. 

Without Hangman flying the way he always did, the team was failing. The little mistakes and miscommunications were starting to add up.

In week three, after a messy practice that would’ve gotten you all grounded if Cyclone had been watching, Rooster finally snapped.

“Okay,” he exclaimed, sweeping an arm toward Hangman, “what is going on with you?”

Hangman barely shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Phoenix muttered.

Bob elbowed her, reminding her to keep things light. “We’re just a little confused,” he said. “You’re not flying like yourself.”

You stood there, helmet under your arm, watching Hangman stare at the ground. His shoulders were strong as ever, but the set of them was too careful.

Your chest tightened. It wasn’t your problem, and you didn’t owe Hangman anything, but it was throwing everyone off. Even as you tried to shut it out, you couldn’t avoid the fact that the once well-oiled machine of your squadron was misfiring.

When Hangman finally looked up, his eyes flicked to you once before skittering away.

Phoenix pulled you aside and said what everyone had been tiptoeing around. “You need to talk to him.”

You frowned. “Why me?”

“Because you’re good at this,” she insisted. “You’re the one who fixes people when they’re screwing up. You did it for me at Top Gun, and you did it for Rooster last year before the Uranium mission.”

“Hangman and I don’t—”

“It doesn’t matter if you two fight every time you breathe in the same direction,” Phoenix cut in. “Someone has to get him back on track, and you’re the only person on the team he actually respects as a pilot.”

You knew she was right. Hangman was a crucial member of the team, and the team was falling apart. Unfortunately, you happened to be their glue.

Perfect. A heart-to-heart with the man you’d been avoiding for the last three weeks. What could go wrong?

You barely lasted ten minutes before approaching him. As you walked beside him after debrief, matching his pace, Hangman kept his eyes on the ground. 

Every step toward him was a battle with your frustration. Despite everything, you couldn’t let Hangman spiral. You had to be the Bee the team relied on, not the one who remembered all your reckless spats.

“Hangman,” you finally said, because someone had to say something.

Nothing. Hangman just blinked and kept walking.

You knew that slow and deliberate expression, the one he used when he was thinking too fast and trying not to show it. Only you had the dictionary of Hangman’s moves, the little provocations and glances nobody else ever endured.

Fine. You could be rude, too.

“You’re flying weird,” you declared bluntly.

Hangman exhaled. Not annoyed, more like he’d been waiting for you to bring it up so he didn’t have to. “I’m flying safe,” he corrected you.

“That’s the problem.”

His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk that never fully formed. “Thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I don’t appreciate you switching up the entire rhythm of the team without warning,” you said. “Nobody knows how to fly around you right now. Do you think that’s helping?”

Hangman didn’t answer. He just kept walking, boots scuffing against concrete, hands tight at his sides instead of swinging with that usual swagger. 

After ten paces of silence, Hangman spoke. “I don’t like the idea that my role on the team is to get people killed.”

You stopped walking. 

Hangman got a few steps ahead before he realised you weren’t beside him anymore. When he turned, his face was pinched.

You hated how much it mattered to you; how unwilling you were to let him falter, even if he’d never done the same for you.

“That’s not your job,” you said quietly.

Hangman tilted his head. “You’d know, right? Since you’ve always had such strong opinions about how I fly.”

“You make it very easy to have opinions,” you snapped.

He stepped closer, a little too casually. “Are you watching me that closely?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Didn’t say you liked what you saw.”

You glared. “For once in your life, can you not make this about your ego?”

“Is that what you think this is?” Hangman asked. His voice was calm and practised.

Your chest tightened.

“Tell me,” you said carefully, “What’s going on?”

He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I’m the one who takes the shots no one else can; the one who pulls the moves that’d get most people into trouble; the one who—” Hangman cut himself off, jaw clenching. “I don’t like that the only reason I’m useful to the Navy is that I’m willing to risk your lives.”

Something twisted behind your ribs. You’d said versions of that to Hangman’s face several times since you first met. You’d judged him for it, rolled your eyes at it, built half your rivalry on the assumption that he was a self-centred showboat with no concern for others.

It hadn’t occurred to you that he’d actually thought about the cost.

Suddenly, it felt like you’d been picking a fight with someone who’d already been bleeding.

Hangman scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “So I’m trying something different.”

“And it’s making the team fly worse,” you added, softer than you intended.

“Can’t win, can I?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You closed the distance. Hangman’s shoulders were tense, his posture tight.

“Hangman,” you said, and you hated the way your voice gentled automatically. “Being reckless isn’t the same thing as being careless.”

He blinked at you. It was the same look he used to give you at the Hard Deck, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to argue with you or pin you against the wall. 

“You fly instinctively,” you continued. “Aggressively. Sharply. Sometimes stupidly, yes, but you take the crazy shot so the rest of us don’t have to. That doesn’t make you a liability. It makes you important.”

His throat bobbed when he swallowed.

The air between you tightened in that annoying, hot way that made you acutely aware of the two weeks of silence and the history that came before it.

“Look,” you said, shoving the feeling aside, “you don’t have to calculate risks and think of what’s best for the team. That’s my job.”

Hangman’s head tilted. “Then what’s mine?”

You hesitated. “You’re the wildcard. You take the stupid shot, so the rest of us get the safer one. You’re still a pain in my ass,” you added, because you were well past lying to him. “None of this should give you a big head.”

Hangman chuckled. “Too late.” 

It tugged at something annoyingly low in your stomach, the same part that was overly aware that Hangman knew exactly how far he could push without hurting you. 

You exhaled. “Whatever this is,” you gestured vaguely at Hangman, “you need to knock it off. The team needs you to be you. No matter how much that seems to clash with me being me.”

Hangman didn’t answer at first. He just watched you, expression unreadable. But for the first time in weeks, he didn’t look away.

Finally, he nodded. “Alright,” he said.

You turned before he could see the way your conversation had rearranged every label you had on him.

Great, now you respected Hangman. The thought made you shiver in discomfort.

You walked toward the locker rooms, muttering “Idiot,” under your breath.

Behind you, you heard him reply, “Control freak.”

At least some things never changed.

You were pleasantly surprised that your conversation with Hangman actually made a difference. A few days later, he was flying like himself again: sharp, ballsy, and irritatingly confident—but less prone to throwing others under the bus to get his perfect shot. 

The team’s rhythm snapped back into place with the same neat click as a helmet visor locking.

There was one difference, though: you and Hangman weren’t fighting.

Sure, you still made comments under your breath, berating and cursing him. He still smirked when you screwed up the simulation timing by half a second. You still gave each other looks that said I could push your buttons if I wanted to, and you know I could.

But you never did.

Every time one of those almost-fights hovered between you, there was a strange little beat you didn’t know how to fill. Usually, you would’ve thrown a jab, or Hangman would’ve rolled his eyes. Now you both just looked away.

You pretended you weren’t thinking about it.

Maverick wanted you early to help set up for a multi-ship coordination drill, which meant deciphering his handwriting and loading flight paths before the others arrived.

When you rounded the corner of the hangar, you paused. Hangman was in the hangar beside his jet, too busy working to even notice you.

The side panel of his jet was open, one of his hands braced against the metal frame as the other tightened something inside the wiring. His sleeves were pushed to his elbows, a smear of grease on his forearm, mouth set in concentration. 

Watching him like that made you feel like you’d stumbled onto something private. 

“Wow,” you said. “You’re doing manual labour? What’s next, hell freezing over?”

Hangman just glanced back, gave you an unimpressed once-over, and returned to the wiring. “Morning to you, too, Honey Bee.” 

You stepped closer before you realised it, drawn in by his quiet focus. “What are you doing?” 

He ignored your question, “Hand me the wrench.”

You blinked. “You’re trusting me with tools?”

“Trusting you to pass them to me,” he corrected. “Not use them.”

You found the wrench on the cart and gave it to him. Your fingers brushed, but neither of you acknowledged it. Hangman tightened something with clean, practised movements.

“Just some quick adjustments and tightening,” he said. “Saves the mechanics a few minutes.”

You stared. “Do you do this often?”

“Whenever I can spare a minute.” Hangman shrugged. “If something feels off in the air, I want to know I didn’t ignore it on the ground.”

You hadn’t expected that from him.

“That…” You hesitated. “…sounds like something I’d say.”

Hangman paused for half a second. Then he cleared his throat and kept tightening the bolt. You didn’t see the faint grin he tried to smother as he angled his face toward the jet.

He snapped the panel shut, wiped his hands on a rag, and turned to you. “You’re here early. Maverick rope you into cone duty?”

“He needs someone who can read the runes he calls handwriting,” you said. “Apparently it’s me.”

Hangman snorted. “Good luck with that.”

You nodded, then added, “I’m convinced it’s going to get the Navy in legal trouble one day.”

He cracked a genuine smile at that. You felt something in your chest unclench in relief. Hangman wasn’t quite back to normal with you, but at least he looked more like himself.

“So, you’re an unofficial mechanic now?” you asked.

“Only for the boring stuff.” He shook out his hand, though it looked suspiciously like he was shaking off nerves. “And before you say it, I’m not doing it to impress anyone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I know. If you were trying to impress someone, you’d be doing it shirtless.”

Hangman made a face. “It’s six in the morning.”

“Never stopped you before.”

You both chuckled. Yours fading a little quicker, Hangman’s dragged half a beat longer. The lack of unity made that extra moment stretch awkwardly.

You were both acutely aware of how new laughing without menace was for you both. You couldn’t remember if you’d ever had a conversation with Hangman that didn’t end with someone storming off or tossing insults like grenades. 

“So,” he said, tilting his head, studying you with that too-familiar focus. “Why’d Maverick need you early?”

“He likes to make me suffer,” you said. “It’s character building.”

Hangman scoffed. “You don’t need more character. You’re already annoying enough.”

His words didn’t land with their usual edge. Instead, he looked strangely friendly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to tease you gently yet.

“Says the man who colour-codes his clothes,” you shot back.

“I do not—”

You raised one eyebrow.

“…fine,” he muttered. “Once.”

“You mean you only got caught once.”

“By you,” he said.

You laughed, surprised because it wasn’t the you’re-an-idiot you usually aimed at him. You couldn’t remember the last time someone made you laugh like that, and you definitely hadn’t expected it to be Hangman.

He looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the fact that he was laughing too, like he couldn’t help himself.

You started heading towards Maverick’s office together. 

“Honestly, I’m happy to be early,” you admitted. “Gets me out of 5am pickleball practice.”

Hangman groaned. “Don’t say pickleball to me. Coyote’s trying to recruit me like it’s a cult.”

“It is a cult,” you agreed vehemently. “If one more person asks me to ‘just try a game,’ I’m joining the Air Force.”

He smirked. “So we’re hiding out in the hangar until the cult loses interest?”

“That’s the plan.”

Hangman watched you with mild amusement, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t sure what else to do with them. “Weird,” he said.

“What is?”

“Talking to you without you threatening to throw me off the carrier.”

You fought a smile. “I still might.”

“Good,” he said. “I was worried you might’ve gone soft.”

“You just admitted that you worry about me,” you pointed out, smug. “At this rate, I should be exhausted from how often I’m running through your mind.” 

Hangman huffed a laugh at your comeback, shaking his head. 

“Seriously, Hangman,” you went on. “Rent-free. Have some shame.”

“That sounds exactly like something my little sister would’ve said to piss me off growing up.”

You blinked. “Weird. Didn’t think I’d have anything in common with anyone in the Seresin gene pool.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “My sisters don’t let me get away with anything, and they definitely don’t take my shit.”

“You have sisters?”

“Both younger and a lot smarter than me.”

“That tracks.”

Hangman nudged your shoulder with his. “What about you?”

You smiled faintly. “I’m close with my family. I just don’t see them much.”

“Mine complain about the beach constantly when they visit,” he said. “Guess that’s what happens when you grow up far from it.”

“Right,” you said, smirking. “Texas farm boy. I get it, though. I used to get seasick just looking at boats—being on them was hell.”

Hangman chuckled, agreeing. “First deployment, I used to skip meals so I wouldn’t throw up.”

“Seriously?” you asked, a laugh already bubbling.

“Seriously,” he said. “I learned the hard way when my stomach growled loud enough to interrupt an Admiral.”

You burst into unrestrained laughter, and Hangman joined in naturally. For once, neither of you rushed to fill the silence that followed. It wasn’t even awkward, just surprisingly pleasant. 

“I should go find Maverick,” you finally said, glancing at your watch.

“Right,” Hangman said. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”

You walked side by side to the other end of the hangar. 

You’d known Hangman for years, just not this version. You knew the pilot, the competitor, the guy who made a hobby out of getting under your skin. You knew the version you saw in the air and the one you fell into at night when you both should’ve known better.

You’d spent so long assuming Hangman was all sharp corners and ego. But you enjoyed it when you weren’t fighting. For years, you’d both been too busy competing to ever actually talk. Now that you had, every assumption felt a little off.

You didn’t make it three steps into the Hard Deck before your squadron shouted your name. It was loud enough that Penny shot all of you a warning look over the bar, which Fanboy ignored by whistling loudly.

“Beeeeee!” Coyote sang. “Our favourite early bird.”

Hangman, sitting beside him, smirked. “Maverick had her running errands before sunrise. You know him, never met a chore he wouldn’t outsource.”

The table dissolved in giggles. You dropped into the empty chair across from Hangman, who looked pleased that he’d made you laugh. 

“You think Maverick forces me out of bed just to annoy me?” you said lightly. “That was only half the reason tonight.”

Phoenix leaned forward. “If he had you in early for anything other than his horrible handwriting, it must’ve been important.”

You shrugged. “Well… he wanted to tell me before he told anyone else.” You tried to make it sound casual, even though your stomach had been doing Olympic-level gymnastics ever since.

“Tell you what?” Rooster asked, brow raised.

“Cyclone made me team leader for the upcoming mission,” you said, and the second the words left your mouth, the table went still.

And then all of them absolutely erupted.

Phoenix slapped both palms on the table so hard the salt and pepper shakers toppled over. Coyote launched halfway out of his seat. Rooster choked on nothing. Even Bob pushed his chair back in pure shock.

“Bee, holy shit!”

“Finally!”

You laughed as Phoenix grabbed your shoulders and shook you like a maraca. Bob beamed at you with shiny eyes, and you caught Hangman’s expression softening into genuine satisfaction.

“Mav said Cyclone was watching our last drill and thought it was time someone other than Mav took the lead,” you said. “And, more importantly, he already told Penny that drinks are on him tonight.”

Phoenix raised her beer. “To Bee! Our fearless leader!”

You felt your face warm despite trying to play it cool. You all toasted, clinking bottles and glasses happily. Somewhere in the noise, Hangman’s “to Bee” came in just half a second late.

Your eyes flicked to him on instinct, catching the faint smile he smoothed away before anyone noticed it. Something low in your stomach tightened.

Everyone was in a fantastic mood for the rest of the night.

You meant to enjoy the party, but you kept noticing things you’d never really paused to see before; things that had been happening right under your nose while you were too busy hating Hangman.

Coyote dragged you into a darts game, and you immediately sent your first throw wide enough to make him wince. He laughed, nudging your shoulder, and you were lining up your second shot when Phoenix’s voice cut across the bar.

“No way, Hangman, that’s a scratch,” she said, sharp, competitive, and fond.

“That’s called natural talent,” Hangman argued, grinning widely.

“You clipped the eight-ball.”

“I nudged the eight-ball.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes and reset the shot while Hangman leaned against the table, amused and unbothered. 

Your eyes tracked the loose curve of his posture before you caught yourself and looked away.

Hangman ceded the table with a little salute after Phoenix sank her next two shots in a row. She smirked, victorious. He smirked back, gracious enough to let her have it.

A little later, Rooster roped you into picking a song for the jukebox. As you scrolled through the options, he hovered like he wasn’t trying to influence you. You elbowed him, he shoved your shoulder, and you landed on a song you both liked.

When you turned around, you saw Hangman and Bob at the end of the bar. They were joking back and forth, Hangman pretending to be offended while Bob said something bone-dry enough that Hangman let out a loud cackle.

Your eyes tracked the shape of his grin like you were memorising it.

It was easy and comfortable in a way you hadn’t realised they’d become over the last ten months since the squadron became permanent.

“I’ll get the next round,” Hangman said like it was non-negotiable, patting Bob’s shoulder and grabbing nearby empty bottles with one hand.

Hangman was still arrogant, still insufferable, still absolutely capable of grinding your nerves into dust. But the more you looked, the more you noticed all the things you’d never given him credit for. 

As you let your eyes linger on his hands picking up the next round, you missed the way Hangman’s gaze kept flicking back to you. It was as if he was checking if you were still there, because he didn’t want to miss anything you did.

You forced yourself to look away before you started thinking about those hands in ways you absolutely shouldn’t.

When Fanboy’s attempt at doing a cartwheel forced you to rescue an airborne beer bottle an hour later, you went to the bar to get another round.

Penny smiled. “Congratulations, Bee.”

“Thank you,” you said, grinning.

Before you could ask for the drinks, someone slid into the empty space beside you. A tall, objectively attractive man you didn’t recognise, with an easygoing smile.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to interrupt. But your group’s been celebrating you for the last twenty minutes, so I had to come over and say congrats.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “Thank you.”

He laughed. “You Navy pilots? Or just very enthusiastic bar patrons?”

You talked for a few minutes, just light, friendly small talk. The guy flirted softly, and you didn’t shut him down. You recommended your favourite coffee shop, and you politely laughed when he asked if you’d be there this week.

Across the bar, Phoenix slapped Rooster’s arm.

Yale murmured, “Uh oh.”

They turned to Hangman, waiting for the inevitable snark. The classic, she’s not worth your time, man, or she’s a walking red flag. 

Hangman surprised them all by saying nothing. His jaw was locked to hide the fact that seeing you flirt with some guy was affecting him.

If you’d been looking his way, you would’ve seen how carefully he inhaled and exhaled, like he was reminding his body to behave.

The guy at the bar leaned in a little—not close enough to overstep, but close enough to show he was interested—and that was enough for Hangman.

He didn’t storm over or square his shoulders. Hangman walked like a man doing something he had decided on long before his brain caught up.

“Hey, honey,” he said smoothly, sliding into your space.

The nickname, one you’d only heard him use condescendingly, was sugared and affectionate. It was claiming you in a way that made your blood warm.

Your heartbeat tripped at the sudden proximity. Partly because you knew what Hangman was doing and weren’t sure how you felt about it, but also because this was familiar territory.

Only this time, he wasn’t getting close to you to pick a fight.

Hangman gave the stranger a polite nod. “Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to make sure you had help carrying all the drinks back.”

The guy blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Oh, we’re not—” you started.

“Yeah, we are,” Hangman insisted.

Your heartbeat jumped hard enough that you felt it in your throat. Hangman wasn’t wearing the smug, heat-soaked look he usually used when he wanted to get under your skin. His eyes held yours like he was quietly pleading with you to hear him out.

The man picked up his drink and backed off with an easy smile. “Nice meeting you.”

You didn’t answer. Your focus was on Hangman. 

“What was that?” you asked.

Hangman took a slow breath, gaze never leaving yours. “Let’s step outside.”

“I’m not—”

“Please, Bee.” His tone wasn’t commanding but startlingly sincere. 

You followed him out to the back deck, where the ocean air cut through the heat of the bar. You crossed your arms, more for balance than defence, and took half a step back.

“You don’t get to swoop in like that,” you said, pulse still unsettled. “I wasn’t interested, but you don’t—”

“I know.” Hangman rubbed a hand over his jaw, shoulders tight. “I know you weren’t.”

“Then why—?”

“Because I didn’t like watching it.”

There it was. A truth Hangman would typically have buried under three layers of arrogance.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I know.” His voice dropped into something quiet and aching. “But I was.”

Hangman stepped closer, not boxing you in, but closing the distance slowly. Close enough that you felt the warmth of his body through the cold wind.

“You and I…” He shook his head. “We spent so long fighting that it felt like the only way we knew how to talk. And it worked for a while. Until it didn’t.”

You didn’t move—your body refused.

“And once we actually talked, it changed things for me.” His voice softened. “I know I can be arrogant, and stubborn, and a pain in your ass. I know you have every reason to think I’m not worth the trouble.”

Hangman’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“But I also know that the more I get to know you, the more I’m sure I want you. And not the way I used to have you, when we’d argued so much that sex was the only way to relieve the tension.” He steadied himself. “I want you for real.”

You inhaled so sharply it was almost a gasp.

“I know I’ve messed up, and I know you’re not looking for a guy to fix. I’m not asking you for anything right now. I just…” Hangman hesitated, then confessed, “I think I could deserve you, if you gave me the chance to prove it.”

The wind rustled the string lights overhead. Inside, the jukebox changed songs again, its sound muffled through the glass.

You stepped toward him.

Hangman’s breath caught when you did. He didn’t reach out to you, even though you were more than close enough now. He just stood, waiting, eyes tracking every inch you moved.

“Jake,” you said quietly. 

His name on your lips did something to him. His chest rose sharply, his lips parted just barely, and his whole posture went attentive in a way that was entirely open to you.

“I don’t know what this is,” you told him honestly. “I don’t know how to do this with you.”

“Me neither.”

“But I want to try,” you said.

The breath he let out was shaky and reverent, like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

You didn’t rush it. You stepped close enough that your chest brushed Jake’s, and he dipped his head just slightly, waiting for permission. Lifting your hands, you curled them into the front of his shirt, and that was all he needed.

Jake kissed you like he’d been holding himself together for weeks.

At first, it was restrained, almost careful, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he went too fast. His mouth was warm, steady, patient in a way he’d never kissed you before. He wasn’t trying to win, or provoke, or dominate.

And then you kissed him back.

Jake’s restraint broke like a wave. His hand slid to the side of your neck, thumb brushing your pulse, not pulling you closer but holding you like you were something precious.

This kiss wasn’t like the drunken, angry ones in the dark corners of parking lots or your hallway or his truck. Those had been frantic, messy, born of adrenaline and frustration and the fastest route to forgetting why you hated each other.

You kissed him back with equal parts want and disbelief.

You slid a hand up the solid line of his chest and into his hair, and Jake groaned quietly against your mouth, pulling you flush to him. He angled his head, deepening the kiss with a low sound in his throat that almost made your knees buckle. 

Heat shot down your spine so fast you felt dizzy, the world narrowing to nothing but the press of Jake’s mouth and the way his fingers flexed at your waist.

He knew you too well—how you liked pressure, where you liked tension, the exact moment to ease off just enough to make you chase him.

When his tongue brushed yours in a slow, deliberate sweep, your stomach tightened hard enough that you had to brace your hand on his shoulder to keep steady. Jake responded instantly, tilting you back a fraction, kissing you deeper, slower, hotter. 

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard but steady, you kept your forehead pressed to his because pulling back felt wrong.

Jake whispered, voice rough, “Honey?”

You whispered back, breath still uneven, “Yeah?”

“That was…” He exhaled, chest rising against yours. “Wow.”

You huffed a breath of a laugh against his lips. “Shut up.”

Your pulse still wouldn’t settle. You weren’t sure it ever would around him again.

Inside the Hard Deck, the squadron had gone dead silent at the sight of you two through the back window. 

Payback slowly lowered his beer, eyes huge. “What the hell—”

Phoenix slapped a hand flat on the table so hard the darts jumped. “Absolutely not! No, just no!”

Rooster pointed at the window like a man who had just witnessed a crime. “Am I have a stroke?! Someone check my pulse. I think I smell burnt toast—”

Fanboy gasped, clutching the bartop. “I feel light-headed…”

Bob, who had been quietly sipping his Coke through a paper straw, shrugged. “I mean… they’ve been hooking up for, like, six months, right?”

Every single head snapped toward him in eerie, synchronised horror.

“What?!” the table exploded.

Bob blinked at all of them, unbothered. “I thought it was obvious. Why do you think they always fight until we’ve all left the Hard Deck?”

Outside, Jake huffed a quiet laugh, his forehead still against yours. You slid your hands down, looping them loosely behind his shoulders.

“Jake?” you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth despite your best efforts. “You gonna drag me home and finish what we started?”

You meant it half as a joke, half as a challenge. 

“No,” he said, voice steady in a way that made something low in your stomach tighten. “I’m gonna take you out.”

That pulled you up short. “Like a date?”

“Yeah,” he said, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a barely-there pass. “A real one. Dinner. Walking you to your door. The whole thing.” His smile deepened. “We already know we’re good together in bed. Now I get to show you I’m worth more than that.”

You blinked. “You… want to take me on a date.”

“I want to take you on a hundred,” Jake murmured. “But I figured I should start with one.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re being serious,” you said quietly.

“I’m being very serious,” Jake said, meeting your eyes without flinching. “You gave me a chance. I’m not gonna waste it.”

Something warm and helpless pulled in your chest. You pressed your forehead to Jake’s again, smiling widely.

The two of you had escaped the chaos of the team for this much-needed retreat, a rare pocket of peace amid months of grueling missions that had blurred into an endless cycle of deployments and debriefs. You couldn’t recall the last time you had savoured a full night’s sleep, let alone a day free from the weight of orders and objectives. When you had floated the idea to Val of taking a week off–just for you and The Void to be away from it all–she’d grumbled about timelines and resources, but ultimately relented.

Camping had seemed like the simplest choice: no elaborate plans, just a tent pitched in a secluded clearing deep in the woods, surrounded by towering evergreens that rustled like guardians in the wind. It was relaxing, yes–hiking trails by day, quiet conversations by night–but after a few days, the routine had started to feel a touch monotonous. Tonight, though, as you traced invisible constellations overhead, a spark of mischief ignited in your mind, an idea that promised to shatter the calm and inject a thrilling edge into your escape.

You rolled onto your side to face him, pressing closer to his camouflaged form, which blended seamlessly into the shadows of the night. If not for the occasional firefly alighting on his velvety, inky surface–drawn perhaps to the subtle cosmic glow within him–you might have lost sight of him entirely in the dim light. His star-flecked skin was subdued, the tiny white specks across his cheeks and shoulders dimmed to a soft, barely-there luminescence, like stars viewed through a foggy night.

He responded instinctively, shifting to draw you nearer, his arm curling around your shoulders in a protective embrace that enveloped you in his cool, otherworldly essence. You tilted your head up, meeting his gaze, where his piercing white pupils pulsed faintly, syncing with the steady rhythm of your heartbeat–a phenomenon you had come to adore, a silent testament to how attuned he was to you in these intimate moments.

“What’re you looking at?” He murmured, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated through his form and into yours. His eyes flicked down, scanning your face with an intense, unblinking focus, his white irises glowing softly against the endless black of his silhouette. In the moonlight filtering through the canopy above, you caught a subtle glint of his teeth–a boyish hint of a smile, reminiscent of Bob’s easy grin but muted, shrouded in mystery. It drew your attention to the details you cherished: the scattered white freckles dusting his cheeks like a private galaxy, the faint cracks in his smooth, silk like skin that mapped out old scars like veins of starlight, each one a story you had traced with your fingers on lazy afternoons.

“I’m looking at you…And your pretty face,” You replied, your voice soft and teasing, laced with affection. It earned a quiet laugh from him, the sound like a distant rumble of thunder, and you watched as those freckles brightened just a fraction, his equivalent of a flush–something you had noticed early on, back when your interactions were tentative explorations, building from curiosity to this deep, unspoken bond.

”You only lay your compliments on thick when you’re about to ask something of me,” He said, his tone heavy with playful suspicion. He turned fully onto his side to mirror you, his cool arm gliding across your torso, pulling you flush against him until the chill of his being seeped through your clothes. The contact was electric, a contrast that always sent a shiver racing down your spine, but one you’d grown to crave.

”I wasn’t going to ask you to do anything, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You protested, feigning wide-eyed innocence as you rested your hand against his silky-smooth torso. Your fingertips dancing lightly over the subtle dips and ridges there–imperfections in his flawless darkness that felt like Braille under your touch, each one familiar from nights spent mapping him out while the both of you were wrapped within one another. He hummed sceptically, shaking his head, the motion sending a faint ripple through his form.

”Spill it. What’re you not saying to me? What do you want that you’re too embarrassed to admit?” He leaned in closer, until your noses nearly brushed, his cold breath ghosting over your lips like a winter mist, making them tingle with anticipation, “You know I’ll just read your mind if you don’t tell me, so you might as well say it…” You let out an exaggerated gasp, pulling back just enough to create a sliver of space, though his hold kept you locked into him.

”Read my mind? That’s cheating! Don’t you like the mystery of wondering?” His arm tightened in response, drawing you back into him until your bodies pressed together seamlessly, your warmth clashing with his coolness, sending fresh shivers through you despite the thick cotton of your shirt that should’ve been shielding you from his temperature.

“It’s not cheating if you’re withholding your desires from me,” He countered smoothly, his hand trailing up your body with deliberate slowness, his thumb grazing the side of your breast in a featherlight tease that made your breath hitch, “And you know my mind races when I wonder…” He lingered there for a moment, his touch circling the hardening peak of your nipple through the fabric, pinching it gently and drawing a breathy giggle from your lips.

”So are you going to tell me or not?” He pressed, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. You sighed, realizing he wouldn’t relent, and shifted slightly away–not breaking contact entirely, but enough to prop yourself up on your elbow, your cheek resting against your hand as you studied him.

”Alright…Fine.” You paused, letting the words form carefully, your free hand still tracing idle patterns on his chest, “What if I told you…That I wanted you to chase me through the woods?” His reaction was immediate–his white pupils widening, dilating until they nearly swallowed the surrounding glow, leaving only thin crescents of light. He propped himself up to match your position, his form fluid and graceful in the movement.

“I’d be a little concerned, but I wouldn’t be closed off to the idea,” He admitted, his hand sliding down to toy with the hem of your shirt, settling his fingers possessively on the bare skin of your thigh, just below the edge of your tight shorts, “Why would you want me to do that, though?”

“Well, I thought it would be fun to try it out…We’re surrounded by all this forestry, so it would be neat to see how long it would take for you to find me.” Your voice carried a thrill of excitement, and he huffed a soft laugh, his touch kneading your thigh with gentle pressure.

”You think it would be fun for me to…Hunt you?” He questioned, and you shook your head, correcting him with a grin.

”I didn’t say hunt; I said chase.” He rolled his eyes, the gesture somehow visible in the subtle shift of his glowing pupils.

”Same difference. It’s going to trigger my predatory response,which means I’m going to be hunting you…” His fingers squeezed a bit firmer, massaging the muscle beneath your skin, sending a warm flutter through your core.

“Okay…Fine. You’ll be hunting me. But my statement still stands that I think it would be fun.” You trailed your fingertips up to his chest, following the constellations of his freckles, each one pulsing faintly under your touch like stars awakening. He sighed, his voice tightening with a mix of concern and intrigue.

”You do know I could potentially hurt you, right? Once the adrenaline kicks in, it’ll fog my brain, and all I’ll want is to catch you. I won’t be able to stop until that happens.” His words were laced with worry, but you could sense the undercurrent of curiosity, and the way his form seemed to hum with restrained energy.

”I want that, though. That’s kind of the whole point in being chased.” You stated, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb tracing just below his eye, feeling the cool, velvety texture yield slightly under your warmth, “I also know you won’t hurt me…And even if you do, it won’t be anything you can’t heal.” You shrugged lightly, your trust in him absolute, a foundation built from shared battles and stolen moments within the confines of your bedrooms. He always marveled at that–your casual acceptance of his darkness, your unwavering faith in him, even when it came to something as fragile as your own safety.

For a long moment, he was silent, his pupils searching your face, delving into the spark of anticipation in your eyes. He could hear it–the quickened rush of your blood, the eager thrum of your heart echoing in his senses. He didn’t want to let you down by saying no, especially since you shared with him the idea in the first place and trusted him enough to do so knowing that there was a possibility of judgement being cast on you–though he wasn’t going to outright show it. The potential of possibly hurting you ran through his mind, and he weighed the risks significantly. As much as he knew he was in control of himself, he knew there was a chance of slipping up and turning into the monster everyone perceived him to be, the one that came out during missions when the team least expected it…The one that decimated enemies like it was routine. But, he remembered how easy it was for you to bring him down from that frantic state. After months of going out on missions together you had adapted to situations where he needed you to diffuse him, and he knew that even if you wouldn’t be able to subdue him immediately your assassin training would probably kick into high gear and you would just take him down some other way.

You could see him mulling everything over, his eyes twitching slightly every couple of seconds until finally, he let out a long exhale, his cool breath hitting your warmed cheeks like a gust of arctic air.

”Alright…Fine.” A radiant smile broke across your lips instantly, and just as you began to sit up fully, he added, “But we need a safe word.” You paused, turning back to him with raised brows, noting the seriousness in his tone.

”Safe word?” You echoed, watching as he sat up too, his arms draping casually over his knees, his form a striking silhouette against the starry backdrop behind him.

”Yes, a safe word. Just in case things get too intense.” He stated, holding your gaze steadily, displaying his unwillingness to budge on the subject. You bit the inside of your cheek, considering the word, then nodded.

”Cranberry.”

”Cranberry it is.” A beat of silence followed, charged with a building tension that you couldn’t seem to ignore, as you stretched your legs out in front of you, feeling the satisfying pull in your thighs, the grass cool and slightly damp beneath your sweaty palms.

”So how do you want to start this?” You asked, glancing over at him. He rolled his shoulders a few times, loosening up, his neck cracking as he shifted his head from side to side, the motion sending faint ripples across his starry freckles.

“I’ll give you a three-minute head start…Then I’ll come find you.” He replied, earning a small scoff from you, a playful challenge coming up in your eyes.

”Three minutes is pretty generous if you’d ask me.” You shot back. He chuckled, low and knowing, shaking his head at you. His teeth shining in the dimmed lighting.

”Trust me, you’ll be wishing you asked for more once we get started,” He teased, his voice dropping to a gravelly timbre that sent a delicious shiver down your spine. You pushed yourself up off the ground, the cool earth yielding slightly beneath your palms as you swiped your hands along the back of your t-shirt and shorts, brushing away the stray blades of grass that clung stubbornly to the fabric like tiny green hitchhikers. The night air nipped at your skin, carrying the faint, smoky aroma of the dying campfire mingled with the earthy richness of damp soil and pine resin. Your bare feet sank into the soft, loamy ground, the sensation grounding you–cool and slightly gritty, with the occasional poke of a twig or pebble that reminded you of your vulnerability in this wild expanse. You walked toward the edge of the campsite, where the flickering firelight gave way to the impenetrable shadow of the forest, the trees standing like ancient sentinels under the moon’s pale glow.

The Void watched you intently, his starry form reclining slightly. As you stretched your arms high above your head, arching your back to loosen the knots from days of hiking, your shirt rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of midriff, the tight training shorts hugging the curves of your hips and thighs showing your body off to him in an unintentional tease. He could hear the subtle clicks of your joints popping into place, the faint rustle of fabric against your body, and beneath it all, the steady crescendo of your heartbeat–a rhythmic drumbeat that echoed in his own ethereal core. His gaze lingered, tracing the way the moonlight highlighted the sheen of sweat already building on your skin.

“Aren’t you going to put on your shoes?” He asked, his voice a low vibration that cut through the quiet night. His eyes dipped to your feet, already smudged with dirt and flecked with grass clippings, the earth claiming you as part of its domain. You shook your head, a determined glint in your eyes as you flexed your toes into the soil, feeling the cool moisture seep between them.

“Nope. Need to be as quiet as possible. Shoes would crunch leaves and snap twigs…It would give away my every step.” You shook out your legs one at a time, hopping lightly in place to get your blood flowing, the motion sending a jolt of energy through your muscles. Your breaths came quicker now, shallow and excited, and he couldn’t help but notice the way your breasts bounced subtly beneath the cotton of your shirt, the fabric clinging to the faint outline of your hardening nipples in the chill air. His own form hummed with restraint, the tether between you pulling taut–he could sense your arousal building, a sweet undercurrent to the adrenaline, but he forced himself to ignore it for the sake of fairness. Still, it was impossible to sever completely; you were woven into him, your vital signs a constant whisper in his mind.

“Alright, if you think that’ll help…I won’t stop you,” He said, a low chuckle rumbling from his depths, the sound like distant thunder rolling through the trees. You turned to face him fully, your stance poised and ready, like a coiled spring.

“Give me a three-second countdown?” You asked, watching as he nodded and rose fluidly from the ground, his shadowy silhouette unfolding with an otherworldly grace that made the surrounding darkness seem to bend toward him.

“Three…Two…One…”

The word had barely left his lips when you exploded into motion, sprinting into the thick forestry like a shadow slipping through cracks. The world swallowed you whole in an instant–total darkness enveloping you as the canopy overhead blotted out the stars, leaving only faint slivers of moonlight piercing through the leaves like silver daggers. The soft grass underfoot gave way to a carpet of fallen pine needles and moss, cool and springy, muffling your steps as you wove between the towering trunks. The air was thick with the scent of resinous pine, damp earth, and the faint, floral undertone of wild blooms hidden in the underbrush–lavender and honeysuckle, perhaps, carried on the breeze. Your eyes adjusted swiftly, your assassin-honed instincts kicking in; you could make out the gnarled roots snaking across the forest floor, the low-hanging branches that reached out like grasping fingers, the occasional glint of dew on leaves that caught the sparse light.

Adrenaline surged through your veins like liquid fire, your heart pounding a fierce beat against your ribs as a thin sheen of sweat bloomed across your forehead and the small of your back. You steadied your breathing–deep, controlled inhales through your nose, silent exhales through parted lips–years of training ensuring not a single gasp betrayed you. A few stray branches whipped against your bare legs as you dodged through the undergrowth, their sharp edges drawing fine lines of blood that stung in the cool air, warm trickles seeping down your calves. You ignored the pain, pushing deeper into the darkness, your hands grazing the rough, textured bark of ancient oaks and pines for guidance, the wood cool and ridged under your fingertips telling tales of centuries past.

Time blurred in the rush–seconds? Minutes? All you knew was the forest thickening around you, the air growing heavier with the musty scent of decaying leaves and fertile soil. You paused behind a massive trunk, pressing your back against its solid form, the bark scratching lightly against your shirt as you caught your breath. Your pulse thundered in your ears, but through it, you strained to listen–the night alive with the chirp of crickets, the distant hoot of an owl, the whisper of wind through branches.

Then, it began. The telltale signs of The Void starting his hunt: a faint rustle of bushes in the distance, the sharp crack of a twig underfoot, deliberate and echoing. Your heart stuttered, then raced anew–he was moving, methodically at first, his presence a growing pressure in the air. But then the sounds shifted, multiplying. A snap to your left, leaves crunching to your right, a low branch swaying behind you. It wasn’t possible; he couldn’t be everywhere at once. Or could he? The realization hit you like a cold wave–he was projecting, using his ethereal abilities to scatter illusions of noise, throwing echoes through the trees to disorient you. Toying with you, just as you’d hoped.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…” His voice drifted through the darkness, a taunting whisper that seemed to come from all directions at once, low and gravelly, laced with that predatory hunger that sent a thrill straight to your core. Your thighs clenched involuntarily, a flush of heat building between them despite the chill night air. God, he was taking this seriously–and it was turning you on more than you’d anticipated, the danger mingling with desire in a heady cocktail that made your skin tingle.

You took a few deep, steadying breaths, forcing calm into your limbs. Stealth was your domain; as an assassin, you’d evaded far deadlier pursuers in shadows like these. You moved silently, ghosting from tree to tree, your bare feet padding noiselessly over the forest floor, avoiding dry leaves and brittle sticks with practiced ease. The sounds pursued you–branches snapping in tandem with your subtle shifts, rustles that mirrored your path but never quite caught up. He wasn’t on your tail yet, but he had a bead on your general direction, his projections closing in like a net. Your breaths came quicker, the adrenaline fueling a euphoric high, every sense heightened: the cool breeze kissing the sweat on your neck, the metallic tang of blood from your scraped legs, the erotic edge of fear twisting into arousal as his voice echoed again.

“You can’t hide forever, Y/N…I can smell you from here.” The words slithered through the trees, closer now, and you bit your lip to stifle a gasp, the heat pooling low in your belly making your steps falter for just a fraction of a second. Damn him–he knew exactly what he was doing. You darted left, then doubled back right, weaving an erratic path to shake the illusions, your muscles burning with the effort but alive with the thrill. Minutes stretched like hours, the chase a dance of evasion and pursuit, your body thrumming with a mix of terror and exhilaration that left you breathless and aching.

Finally, the trees began to thin, the dense forestry giving way to the outskirts of the woods. Before you lay a vast meadow, bathed in the ethereal glow of the full moon hanging low in the indigo sky like a luminous pearl. The tall grass swayed gently in the breeze, reaching waist-high in places, a sea of wildflowers–daisies mostly, their white petals tinged blue in the nocturnal light, interspersed with flecks of yellow centers that caught the moonlight like scattered stars. The field stretched out endlessly, bordered by a distant line of silhouetted trees, their branches reaching skyward as if in quiet vigil. Mist clung low to the ground, swirling in ghostly tendrils, and the air here was sweeter, laced with the delicate perfume of night-blooming jasmine and the fresh, dewy scent of the grass itself. It was a dreamlike expanse, serene yet haunting under the starry vault above.

You didn’t hear him immediately behind you–no rustles, no snaps. Seizing the moment, you bolted forward, stepping into the meadow. The plush, cushiony grass enveloped your feet like a living carpet, soft and yielding, the tall blades brushing against your legs in a whispering caress that sent fresh stings through your cuts but felt almost sensual in the heightened state of your arousal.

You’d barely made it a dozen strides when it happened–a cool, silken tendril snaked around your ankle, then another around your calf, yanking with unyielding force. A scream of surprise tore from your throat, equal parts shock and delight, as the world spun. He twisted you mid-air with effortless precision, your body flipping so you fell backward into the thick grass. It billowed out around you like a natural cushion, the flowers and blades cradling your impact with a soft whoosh, their petals releasing a burst of floral scent that mingled with the earthy musk of the soil.

You landed with a breathless laugh, giggles bubbling up nervously as you locked eyes with him. The Void knelt down into the grass, his starry form cutting a striking figure against the moonlit meadow, shadows rippling across his inky surface like waves in a midnight sea. He crawled toward you with predatory grace, his porcelain white irises glowing with a feral intensity that made your pulse skyrocket.

“Hey! That’s not fair! You used your powers!” You exclaimed, your voice breathless and teasing, though your body betrayed you–legs parting instinctively as he settled between your thighs, his cool, ethereal presence a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your core.

“You never specified I couldn’t use my tendrils to catch you,” he murmured, his voice a husky growl that vibrated through you, laced with triumph and desire. He scanned your form, noting the fine cuts and scrapes marring your legs from the whipping branches, thin rivulets of blood glistening in the moonlight. “So I did what I needed to…Didn’t want you thinking you were truly going to win this.” His cold breath fanned over your skin, freezing the perspiration that coated your flesh, raising goosebumps in its wake and tightening your nipples further beneath your shirt.

Your pulse raced from the exertion and the intoxicating rush of being caught, your arousal evident in the way your breaths came in shallow pants. He leaned in, peppering slow, deliberate kisses along your sticky cheeks, his cool lips a soothing balm against your heated skin. His tongue–velvety and chilled–swiped over the sweat beading there, drawing a low grunt from him at the salty, tangy taste of you, mingled with the faint metallic hint of adrenaline.

“So… What’s my prize for catching you?” He asked, his voice a teasing rumble that vibrated against your ear, his sharp teeth nipping playfully at your earlobe. The sensation sent a spark of electricity through you, your body arching toward him instinctively, craving more of that cool, ethereal touch against your overheated skin.

You grinned wickedly, wrapping one leg around his thigh in a swift, calculated move–your assassin training kicking in even in this moment of play. With a surge of strength fueled by your lingering adrenaline, you twisted your hips and flipped your positions in one fluid motion, pinning him beneath you on the soft bed of grass and wildflowers. The meadow’s tall blades swayed around you like a living curtain, their dewy tips brushing your arms as you straddled him, your hands pressing down on his starry shoulders. His form yielded slightly under your weight, cool and velvety, like silk woven from midnight itself.

“Just because you caught me doesn’t mean you won,” you declared, your voice breathless with laughter, eyes sparkling with mischief under the moon’s silvery gaze. The air between you crackled with electric tension, the floral scent of crushed daisies rising up as you shifted, grinding lightly against him just to tease. He let out a deep, resonant chuckle that echoed through his chest and into yours, his white pupils dilating further with a mix of surprise and delight.

“Oh, is that how we’re playing?” He murmured, his hands coming up to grip your waist, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to send a thrill racing down your spine. But you weren’t giving in that easily–you batted his hands away playfully, leaning down to nip at his collarbone, your teeth grazing the faint, starry cracks in his skin that pulsed like distant nebulae.

The playfight erupted in a whirlwind of giggles and breathless laughter, your bodies tangling in the moonlit grass like lovers in a fever dream. You grabbed for his wrists, trying to pin them above his head, your fingers sliding over his smooth, inky surface as he twisted beneath you, his form rippling with restrained power. He bucked his hips lightly, not enough to dislodge you but enough to make you gasp and laugh harder, your breasts brushing against his chest through your shirt.

“You’re feisty tonight,” He growled playfully, his voice laced with affection, as he hooked a leg around yours and rolled you sideways, the two of you tumbling through the wildflowers in a flurry of petals and dew. Grass stuck to your sweat-dampened skin, the cool earth grounding you as you wrestled back, shoving at his shoulders with a mock glare, your laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. His starry freckles brightened with each peal of your joy, mirroring the flush of excitement in his ethereal being. You managed to straddle him again briefly, pinning one of his arms with your knee while your hands roamed his torso, tracing the subtle ridges and dips that felt like cosmic valleys under your fingertips. He pretended to struggle, his free hand sliding up your thigh in a teasing caress that made you shiver, but then he surged forward with a grin, capturing your lips in a quick, sloppy kiss that dissolved into more laughter as you pushed him back down.

Every touch was electric, every playful shove laced with underlying desire, the adrenaline from the chase transforming into this joyful, heated tussle. But he was stronger, his otherworldly nature giving him an edge, and with a sudden twist, cool tendrils emerged from his form like silken shadows, wrapping around your waist and wrists with gentle but unyielding firmness. You yelped in surprise, giggling as he flipped you effortlessly onto your back, the grass cushioning you once more as petals fluttered down like confetti.

Now he loomed over you, his starry silhouette framed by the indigo sky, pinning your hands to the sides of your head with his own, his fingers interlacing with yours in a tender contrast to the dominance. Both of you were breathless, chests heaving, laughter fading into heated stares as the play shifted seamlessly into something more primal.

“I think I’ve officially won now that I’ve got you pinned,” He joked smugly, his voice a low, gravelly purr that sent heat pooling between your thighs. He leaned down, capturing your lips in another hungry kiss that devoured any remaining playfulness–his mouth cool and insistent against your warm one, tongues tangling in a frantic dance as you both breathed heavily through your noses. The taste of him was otherworldly, like cool starlight and faint ozone, mingling with the salty tang of your sweat from earlier. He pressed his body fully against yours, his ethereal form molding to every curve, and you felt the hard ridge of his erection straining against the fabric between you, throbbing with need. It ground against your damp shorts, sending jolts of pleasure through your core, and you moaned into his mouth, your hips bucking up instinctively.

He let out a deep grunt against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like thunder, before pulling away just enough to speak, his breath fanning cool over your burning hot skin.

“God, you’re so fucking wet…You really loved me chasing you that much, huh? Liked the danger of it? The thrill of being hunted like prey?” He teased, his voice dripping with feral hunger as he trailed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, nipping lightly and soothing with his chilled tongue. Goosebumps erupted across your flesh, your body arching into him as the contrast of his coolness against your heat made everything feel more intense.

“Loved it…You were so sneaky too…Didn’t know when you were going to catch me,” you replied, your voice husky and breathless, tilting your head to the side to grant him better access. His teeth sank into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, biting down with just enough pressure to mark you, a possessive claim that drew a sharp gasp from your lips. The pain bloomed into pleasure, and you wrapped your freed arms around him–since he’d released your hands in the heat of the moment–fingers coiling into his silky, shadowy hair, tugging to pull him closer. Your hips jutted forward again, grinding teasingly against his erection, the friction through the thin layers of fabric making him hiss.

His hands tightened at the waistband of your shorts, gripping with desperate urgency, the adrenaline from the chase fueling a frantic need that mirrored your own. With a low growl, he pulled back and yanked them down your legs in one swift, rough motion, tossing them aside into the swaying grass without a second thought. You weren’t wearing panties underneath–exposed to the cool night air and his starving gaze, your arousal glistening on your inner thighs, dripping from your core in slick, needy trails that caught the moonlight like liquid silver.

“Fuck, you smell so good, Y/N,” He moaned, his voice raw and animalistic, pupils blown wide as he inhaled deeply, the scent of your desire driving him wild. He surged back on top of you, hiking one of your legs high against his torso, the position spreading you open for him completely. His hand dipped between your bodies, fingers wrapping around his thick, throbbing cock–cool and velvety like the rest of him, but pulsing with an inner heat that betrayed his arousal. He dragged the tip through your slick folds, teasing you mercilessly, the thick crown rubbing against your swollen clit, smearing his precum over it in slick circles that made you gasp and arch up into him, chasing more friction.

“Void… Please just fuck me, don’t hold back,” You rasped, tugging harder on his hair, earning a deep, guttural groan from him that reverberated through his form.

“I’m going to make you forget everything… You won’t even remember how to talk,” he whispered darkly, his voice a feral promise as he guided his cock to your entrance. With one powerful thrust of his hips, he buried himself inside you, stretching you wide and filling you completely. A sharp moan tore from your throat, your head tilting back into the grass, petals tangling in your hair as waves of pleasure crashed over you. He sucked greedily on your neck, leaving blooming marks as he shallowly thrusted into you, adjusting his angle before bracing himself–one hand planted beside your head for leverage, the other gripping your thigh with bruising force, nails digging into your skin as he held you open.

His hips snapped forward in a frantic, relentless pace, the tip of his cock slamming against your cervix with each deep, punishing stroke, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the meadow like a primal rhythm.

“That’s it, take it all, you fucking love being chased and claimed, don’t you? My little prey, so wet and tight for me,” He growled against your ear, his breath cool and ragged, teeth nipping at your lobe. The roughness was intoxicating–feral and passionate, both of you expelling the built-up adrenaline in this raw, animalistic union, bodies slick with sweat and arousal.

“Yes–fuck, harder, Void, please…Take your prize.” You urged him on, your voice breaking into moans, nails raking down his back, leaving faint trails over his starry skin that made him shudder and thrust even deeper. The pleasure built like a storm, overwhelming your senses; you were getting dick drunk on him, mind hazy with bliss, every nerve alight as he pounded into you, hitting that perfect spot over and over. Your free hand left his hair, reaching for his, and he grabbed it immediately, intertwining your fingers and pinning it near your head, his grip tight and grounding.

He leaned back slightly, his feral gaze locked on yours as he kissed messily over your face–forehead, cheeks, lips–in sloppy, desperate presses, both of you lost to the moment. His nails dug deeper into your thigh, your own dragging harder down his back, moans and grunts filling the air in a symphony of raw need. Then, one of his tendrils slithered out like a shadow come alive, slipping between your bodies to rub firm, insistent circles against your clit, the cool, silken texture sending shocks of ecstasy through you.

You gasped, arching violently into him, the added stimulation pushing you over the edge. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, walls clenching around his cock in rhythmic pulses, pleasure exploding through every inch of you–your vision blurring with stars that matched his freckles, body trembling as waves of heat and release washed over you, soaking him further.

He thrust a few more times, erratic and deep, before burying himself to the hilt with a shaky grunt, his cock pulsing as he filled you completely. You felt the cool flood of his cum spilling into you, overflowing around him and dripping out in thick rivulets that trickled down your thighs, warm against the night air.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you utterly spent, breaths coming in ragged pants. You squeezed his hand gently, and he squeezed back, a silent affirmation in the afterglow.

“Fuck…That was so good,” You rasped when you finally caught your breath, your voice hoarse from moaning. He let out a huff of air, leaning back to look down at you, his pupils softening slightly.

“Absolutely worth the chase…You’re dangerous when you’re drunk on adrenaline,” He whispered, leaning down to give you a tender kiss, before nipping at your bottom lip with a playful growl. Slowly, he pulled out of you, both of you letting out soft gasps at the loss–the slick slide of him leaving you empty, cum trickling out in his wake. He pulled back fully, his gaze dropping to your scraped-up legs, the cuts now mingled with grass stains and faint bruises from your tussle.

“I’m gonna patch these up quickly if you don’t mind,” He murmured, concern threading through his tone despite the satisfaction in his eyes.

You shook your head, smiling lazily. “Please…Go ahead.”

His smile caught the moonlight, sharp and affectionate, as he leaned down, his cool tongue lapping gently along the scrapes and cuts. He licked up the dried blood with deliberate care, the sensation oddly soothing–tingling as his saliva worked its ethereal magic, healing the wounds in seconds, leaving your skin smooth and glistening, saturated in his essence like a protective sheen.

“Much better…Now let’s get you back in your shorts…We have to find our way back to the tent,” He stated, retrieving your discarded shorts from the grass and helping you slide them on with gentle hands. You let out a groan, your limbs heavy with post-orgasmic bliss.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to walk…Not after you fucked me like that.” He let out a little laugh, scooping you up effortlessly into his arms, your head resting against his cool chest.

"okay," you whisper to yourself, "everything's okay, you're okay,"

you throw the paper towel away and stay your hands on a new one, tossing that one too. you open the door and step out into the big atrium. people litter the space, making small talk and shaking hands.

nothing special happening just a regular morning, but it didn't make the deep weight on your chest lift any.

"mornin sunshine," hangman greets you as he walks through the front doors, late as always, “how are you doin this rainy morning?”

"hangman. fine," you push a smile across your face, "you ever gonna be on time?"

he shrugs and lifts his coffee cup, "better to have this in me and late than early and irradiated,"

"guess we'll take it," you force a small laugh and follow him through the hallways silently.

the conference room was full of the daggers, everyone surrounding the table with either sleepy eyes or wide awake ones. mav stands at the front, swiping through some papers getting ready for the debrief.

phoenix pulls out the chair next to her and you slide onto it and sit back with crossed arms. there was small chatter happening all around and your eyes scan the table. packets set out and your eyes move up to everyone. bob makes you stop your scanning, settling on him for a moment.

he gives you a smile, but his brows are furrowed. his eyes squint at you like he's studying you, trying to look into you. you pull away turning to phoenix.

"you ready for today?" she asks with her head back against the chair, her own arms crossed at her chest and lazy smile.

"guess so, don't really have choice do we?" you give her the same force laughter you gave to hangman and it works. she takes it.

“you alright? still good for everyone coming over tonight?” she asks with furrowed brows and questioning expression.

you didn’t want to lie, especially not to her but you didn’t want to have a whole talk right now. so you give a tight lipped smile and nod and gave her much reassurance.

mav clears his throat and begins the meeting. his voice drones on in your ears, your mind retaining barley anything. it was hard to focus when you felt like this. an emptiness that could never really be filled, just waiting for the feeling to slip away.

when lunch finally came around the feeling was still sitting deep in your bones, you could feel the weight of it pulling you down.

“hello sunshine!” roosters voice finally drew you out of your blank stare at the table, your food untouched, “you doin okay over there,”

you push a smile and sit up, “yeah, yeah. just tired is all, weather isn’t helping either,”

“it is nasty out there, doubt we’ll go up,” his voice trailed off in your ears, turning into mumbling. you eyes lock back on your food, hands pulling at a thread on the side of your pants.

something taps your foot, you look down and see the WSOs shoe next to yours. you look up at the man across from you. his eyes are soft, they always are, and his eyebrows are in the same position they were this morning. a questioning expression on his face, asking the question you’ve been avoiding from him.

you push back from the table and stand, grabbing your lunch and throwing it away as you go back to the bathroom. it was a rough day, and it didn’t seem like it was going to give any time soon.

when you were finally able to get back home to your shared apartment with phoenix, you fell onto the couch with a quiet groan.

“everyone will be here in ten, so look alive,”

“we spent all day with them, like we always do.” you whine. the headache behind your eye was pushing harder against your skull and you didn’t know if you could handle another how ever many hours of the squad.

there was a knock at the door and you slipped away to your room for just a little bit more alone time before putting on another fake smile.

you almost felt guilty. you’d prayed for days and nights like these, working with friends and then having fun nights with them. and now here you were wanting to do nothing but lay in bed with noise canceling headphones.

tears began to fill your eyes as the overwhelming feeling in chest rose. your mind spinning as you tried to push the feeling away but it was no use. you couldn’t stop the immense feeling of needing to screaming.

a knock sounded at your door now. you swallowed your tears and fears, wiping your eyes and taking a deep breath.

“give me a second!” you shout but the person knocks again, “i said give-“ you open the door, expect phoenix to be the one on the other side about to beg you to come out but she isn’t there.

bob stands in a white t shirt and grey sweatpants, tube socks covering his feet from the cold floor. one hand in his pocket and the other leaning on your door frame.

you hide your face from him, “bob, i’ll uh ill be out in a second just…” your voice trailed off.

he pushes through your door gently, guiding you back and closing the door.

“are you okay?” he asks in such a gentle voice it almost breaks you.

you look up at him, another forced smile, “i’m fine, we can go,”

you start to walk around him but he grabs your wrist and pulls you back kindly. you turn back to him, your smile beginning to waver.

“everyone else might be buying it, but i’m not. what’s wrong?” his voice is firm, he’s not one to back down. he wasn’t leaving until he knew what was wrong and how he could fix it.

“nothing,” you close your eyes and scratch your forehead, “bob, i’m fine. i just… it’s been a long day,”

his hand squeezes yours, your name coming from his name so softly when you hear it your hard exterior breaks. the weight of the day and your mind and the emptiness falls out. it pours from your eyes and a loud sighs breaks from your vocal cords.

“i’ve just had a really bad day,” you breathe out through tears.

bob pulls your hand again, bringing you to his chest. his arms around your shoulders, caging you into his space and letting you release everything that been pent up throughout the day.

your arms hug his torso, holding onto him so tightly like someone was about to rip you off of him. your hands fisted his t shirt as a small sob escaped your lips.

one of his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, “what can i do?”

“this,” you tell him in the most genuine tone. being held by him, the feeling a safety he gave you on the moment was almost curing the feeling.

“i feel awful. i don’t even know why,” you try to explain, “the whole day has just been me staring and not being able to focus. i couldn’t do anything but stare today. nothing was happening in head, nothing. i wanted to talk, i wanted to talk at lunch with everyone about what new show they were all watching, i wanted to talk about what we’re doing tonight. i want to go out there and be with everyone but i just…” you sigh, “i cant.”

“it’s okay,” he coos.

“i feel so utterly bad. i have no desire to interact with anyone. this is all ive ever wanted and yet here i am, crying about an overwhelming feeling that i can’t get rid off,”

“no one’s asking you to put on a smile,” he tells you, a soft kiss to your head, “you don’t want to go out there? don’t. they’ll understand. you’re allowed to not want to do something. you’re allowed to want to be alone. none of this…” he pulls back and lifts your head to look at him, “none of us are going to disappear. we’ll be tomorrow and the next day.”

“and the day after that?”

he smiles with a light laugh, “and the day after that,” he assures you.

you lay your forehead against his shoulder, “you always know what to say,”

“you’re not the only eh feels like this. you’re not alone,” his voice finally being the one to penetrate through the feeling and not be mumbles.

“thank you,”

he nudges his shoulder, you take the hint and lift your head. his hand cusp your jaw, his thumb brushing the skin of your cheek, his eyes looking deep into yours, “i’m always here. i’ll never leave you, hear me?”

you hand grasps his wrist, yours staying on his, waiting for his next move. his head leans down, yours rises-

a knock sounds on your door again, “everything okay?” phoenix’s sounds through the door. you hang your head and for the first time today a genuine, real smile spreads on your face.

“yeah! i’ll be out in a second,” bob shouts and you can hear her footsteps retreat.

he looks down at you, “get shower and rest,”

“no, i can go-“

your name comes out as a plead, “rest, i can entrain em i promise,”

“thank you,” you hug him again, and when you pull back you rise and kiss his cheek.

he walks to the door, heat rises up his neck and his ears hot. his cheeks growing into a shade of pink. he opens the door and steps out.

“she’s getting some sleep, let her be,” he looks back to you, sending you a wink before closing the door.

you do as he told you. a hot shower, loose pajamas, and your bed. you sink into your mattress and fall asleep with a small smile.

At first, he'd thought he must've left in the laundry or to dry but it was at neither of those places.

Then, he thought he might've tucked it in some corner of his wardrobe. Although that was highly unlikely since that hoodie always clung to him like a second skin.

He blew out an exasperated breath as he failed to recall where he might've left it.

At last, he ventured out of his room into the living room to find you, in hopes that you might have some idea about his beloved hoodie's whereabouts.

"Darling have you seen my -" the words died on his tongue as his gaze fell on you.

He looked at you, eyes wide open, mouth agape .

You were curled up on the couch, coffee in one hand and your phone in the other.

But it wasn't what you were doing that had caused him to be taken off guard.

 You were wearing his hoodie, the very hoodie he'd turned the entire watchtower upside down trying to find.

And he was in love with how it looked on you.

 It was, of course, far too big for you. The sleeves were pushed way up and bunched up around your elbows, and the hoodie practically reached up to your legs.

But seeing you in his hoodie, made him feel a sudden warmth in his chest. And suddenly, he didn't even need the hoodie anymore.

“Hmm?” you asked, l00king up from your phone.

You quickly set it down as you saw the look on his, "is something wrong, love? " you asked, concern washing over your features. "are you okay?"

"Y-yeah" Bob gulped. "Yeah I'm great!" he nodded.

“Okay that’s good” your features relaxed. “What were you gonna ask me?" you pouted.

"Oh it's just-" Bob took in the sight of you. "You're wearing my hoodie," he pointed out.

You blinked, "Oh" .

You looked down at the hoodie, "Yeah I got up this morning and it was kind of cold so I saw it and I just put it on," you explained.

"but really, I had been looking for an excuse to wear this for a while now," you chuckled.

A smile tugged at the corners of Bob's lips.

"it's so warm and fluffy, it's like i could sink it" you shifted in your seat to make space for Bob, who was heading your direction.

"it is, yeah" he smiled as he sat down next to you and wrapped his arm around you.

"oh and I can just pull the-" you set down your cup and pulled the cap of the hoodie over your head. "the cap's so big for me, it covers half my face, so I look like the main character from assassin's creed" you grinned as you explained.

Bob chuckled before slowly moving the cap away from your face and planting a kiss to your lips.

"You know," he began. "I was actually going crazy looking for this" he brushed his hand across the sleeve of the hoodie.

"my room is a complete mess, " he let out a slow, breathy laugh.

Your lips curled into a frown, "Oh no I didn't want to make you worry I'll help you clean up your room".

"Oh no don't apologise" Bob held your hand in his. "I love seeing you in this..." he slowly lifted a shoulder. "in my clothes".

You smiled.

"Okay good cuz I've been eyeing one of your flannels.." you began.

Bob laughed again, louder this time. "You can take whatever you like darling," he mumbled against your lips before kissing you once again.

Outside the room, the entire team except for Bob was sitting side by side waiting to be seen, a simple routine checkup. Still, it was a great relief to their slightly tense and nervous bodies to see Bcuky come out with a big smile. He looked at them. "What? Oh, come on, it's not that bad, she doesn't bite," he said, almost comically.

"We know, we're not chickens," John replied arrogantly, but he moved his leg anxiously.

Meanwhile, you were inside your living room, cleaning the place and your utensils while looking at the list Valentina had given you. There weren't many, but you wanted to be sure; Yelena was next. You opened the door and called her.

"Miss Belova, you're next"

The blonde sighed and stood up with a grunt. "Alright, wish me luck."

You greeted her with a warm smile and politely instructed her to remove her heavier clothing and sit on the stretcher. She obeyed, and you began to listen to her heartbeat.

"Take a deep breath please" she did and you continued passing the stethoscope over her chest "Okay, now with your mouth open"

You continued your work, and suddenly she laughed lightly at the cold, round part of the utensil against her skin. Her smile was wide and youthful, and she looked cute. "Sorry, it tickles."

You laughed too, understanding. "I understand, it's okay. Your heart is fine anyway."

You continued examining her, asking her to stand on the scale, then measuring her, checking her eyes and ears, etc. While you were doing all this, Yelena's body relaxed, even making jokes, feeling comfortable with your presence. You quickly wrote everything down in a notebook and smiled at her.

"Well, everything's fine for now. You'd better stay that way when you go on missions and when you come back."

She laughed amused "It will be difficult but I will try, I don't promise anything tho, doctor"

When Yelena left, everyone noticed that, like Bucky, she looked smiling and more relaxed. Before leaving, she commented, "He was right. I don't know why we were so scared."

Walker grimaced. "I wasn't scared."

"whatever you say.."

At that moment you peeked through the door again. "Please let Mr. Walker come in."

Upon hearing his name, John sat up straighter in his seat as if a spring had been activated, and his body tensed, alert. Then he looked at the others and cleared his throat, standing up. "You'll see how it's done, so you won't be afraid later."

Ava laughed sarcastically. "Yeah, good luck with that, Captain."

And so, for hours on end, the patients passed by. Walker entered with a bit of arrogance, trying to hide his obvious nerves, but you were kind to him, and he had to admit it was no big deal. Alexei entered the room, and since he was too tall, he almost collided with the door frame and clumsily tripped over a table. He was also very talkative, even when you needed him to be quiet. He couldn't help but tell you anecdotes about his native Russia. Even so, you listened to him patiently and amused. Alexei left, more cheerful and cheerful than when he came in. When Ava's turn came, everything was quick and silent. She didn't talk much, but she was obedient and helpful. You liked her; her stillness was a pleasant contrast to the previous super soldier.

Sitting in your chair, you sighed a little tiredly. Luckily, there was only one patient left: Bob. You opened the door and called out to him, but no one answered. The other team members had been waiting; they didn't want to miss his reaction upon seeing you, but he hadn't arrived yet.

"Mr. Reynolds, you're next!" You raised your voice so it could be heard throughout the hallway.

Nothing.

Silence.

With your hands on your hips, your brow furrowed in concern. The others also didn't understand what was happening, since they hadn't seen their friend for most of the day. Yelena was about to open her mouth, gesturing to go look for him, when they all heard hurried footsteps and panting.

"Sorry!! I'm here now" said Bob catching his breath

But when he saw you, he gasped again. You were standing there with a big smile as if you were genuinely happy to see him, like someone who hasn't seen their best friend in years. You didn't seem angry; on the contrary, your gaze was warm and relieved. Ava snapped her fingers to get his attention.

"where the hell were you, huh?"

"I uh was... uhm" his mind went blank and he didn't know what to say

Yelena grabbed his arms "It doesn't matter, now go in there at once" she pointed to where you were

Bob nodded and approached you. You invited him in with a loving smile and closed the door. When he entered, a strong smell of disinfectant invaded his nose. The room was very bright and spacious, but he felt a little intimidated. The doctors always scared him, and he didn't know what to do. He just waited for your orders. He stood stiffly in his place with his arms crossed in front of him until you spoke.

"Okay, please take off your clothes and then sit on the stretcher. You can change in that dressing room."

Bob quickly walked to where you pointed and took off his shoes and shirt, leaving only his bare torso. Before leaving, he folded his clothes and heard you exclaim.

"You had us worried, I thought something bad had happened to you"

Curious. You said "I thought" instead of "we thought." Were you implying that you genuinely cared about him? Bob shook off those thoughts and swallowed. "I'm sorry. I just went to get something and was late."

You hummed happily in response. But the truth was different: Bob was afraid of doctors. They reminded him of his drug addiction, and even though that phase was long behind him, that fear still lingered. What would happen if you found something wrong with him? Was it possible to detect an anomaly, even if you were a super soldier? Bob took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and left the locker room. You turned to look at him with a smile and immediately pursed your lips—not in a bad way, of course, but you hadn't expected his body to be so toned. Bob blushed a little, and you diligently looked away.

"Alright Mr. Reynolds, please get on the stretcher. I'll start by listening to your heartbeat"

He smiled as soon as he heard his last name. No one called him that, but he thought it was polite and sweet. He sat down and said, "You can call me Bob. Everyone calls me that." His tone was soft and low.

The smile that formed on your face was sweet and made your cheeks swell like red apples. "Okay, Bob. Thanks for your vote of confidence."

He puffed out his chest a little and a shy chuckle escaped him. You really were fascinating and kind, even though he had barely met you. You put on the stethoscope and before resting it on his skin you commented, "The stethoscope might tickle because it's cold. That happened to Yelena." You laughed.

Your contagious laugh made him laugh too, and Bob thought everything would be fine. But as soon as you placed the utensil on his chest, he got nervous; he couldn't help it. Your closeness and your gaze on his bare chest made his breathing shallower and his hands sweaty. You were just doing your job, but you were so pretty and so polite to him that Bob couldn't help but blush. He closed his eyes, concentrating on staying calm.

After finishing you took off your stethoscope "Well I don't find anything wrong but you're a little agitated, have you been running?"

When you looked at him his face was as red as a strawberry "Uh yeah! yeah uhm it's that I had to run or else I would have been late..." he said not very convinced

You smiled at him, understanding that he might be nervous about the doctor's appointment. Getting regular checkups could be stressful, and that was normal; there was nothing wrong with that. But they were necessary.

"Okay, I'll take your blood pressure anyway just in case. Would you mind extending your arm please?"

He obeyed without complaint. How could he if you were so kind as to ask for things? You placed the elastic fabric band over his muscular bicep, and he trembled a little at the touch of your fingers. You giggled. "Don't worry, it won't hurt. It'll just feel a little tight, okay? Tell me if it's too much or if it bothers you."

He nodded again and took a deep breath. The band began to tighten on his arm, and he winced as his bicep felt like it was going to explode from all the pressure, until the discomfort eased and he breathed a sigh of relief. You raised an eyebrow and tilted your head; he looked at you, frightened.

"What? Is everything all right?"

You nodded. "Well, your blood pressure is a little high, but it's nothing out of the ordinary. Besides, if you were running, it's logical that your blood pumps more."

He let out an airy chuckle and nodded. He was actually embarrassed to admit that you were the one making him nervous and pumping more blood. As time passed, you continued to examine him, always with a smile and kind words. You were more talkative than he was, but that didn't bother Bob. On the contrary, it made him feel more secure since you never spoke quickly; it was always at a slow and gentle pace, sometimes whispering or laughing gently. And that had Bob's head spinning, in a good way.

"Okay Bob, everything is in perfect order as it should be. You can go," you smiled warmly.

He blinked uncertainly, "So... I'm healthy?"

You laughed. "Yeah, of course! Why wouldn't you be?" He shrugged shyly, and you said understandingly. "Listen, Bob, your body is healthy, yeah? But if you notice any signs that your body isn't right, just tell me. Remember, the body talks... and so does the mind."

He looked at you and listened attentively, nodding slowly. So you were also a wise counselor now? Valentina couldn't have chosen a better option, and Bob would be eternally grateful to her for that. You spoke again.

"Healthy mind. Healthy body, Mr. Reynolds." You laughed, then covered your mouth in embarrassment, raising your eyebrows. "Oh, sorry. I mean Bob."

He shook his head laughing happily "Don't worry, it sounds nice coming from you" It was adorable how you tried hard to respect his words

For the first time, your confidence wavered, and you tilted your head, blushing and smiling. You turned around, searching a drawer for something and handing it to him. It was a red lollipop. "Here, for you. For being such a good patient."

He looked at the candy in confusion and grabbed it. "I thought they only gave that to children." He smiled.

You shrugged. "Wrong. Lollipops are for those who behave well, whether they're children or adults." Then you added in a low tone, "Or for those I like..." You winked.

He chuckled, "Well, thank you, doctor. I've never received a lollipop..."

"You can tell me Y/n" you said sweetly

As he left, Bob savored the cherry popsicle with gusto and smiled at the same time. The others saw him and asked him how it went.

He said almost in one breath, "Oh, she's wonderful. She's warm, polite, and kind. She said I was healthy, which surprised me, but if she says so, then I trust her. And she always has such a beautiful smile on her face. It reminds me of the sun reflecting off the sea, and... Oh! She also gave me this lollipop for being good!"

Bob looked like a happy puppy, which doesn't happen often, but when it did, it was like seeing a rainbow. It doesn't happen every day, but when it is, it's beautiful. The team looked at him skeptically and suspiciously. Alexei was the first to speak.

"Oh ho ho, so you like the doctor!"

He got nervous "I didn't say that"

"Well, it's true that she was very kind to us, but she didn't give us a lollipop!"

"Maybe you guys didn't behave so well..." he said in a low voice

Yelena rolled her eyes. "Okay, okay. The important thing here is that everyone is healthy. Now, who's hungry?"

Everyone raised their hands and went to the nearest fast food place to order takeout.

John was the last to leave and he grunted softly.

"I wanted a lollipop..."

×××××

Ellipsis~

The days passed, and you were no longer new to the tower; you'd grown accustomed to your job, and they had grown accustomed to you. Sometimes they arrived badly injured, and you understood why Valentina had hired you. More than once, you had to stop a hemorrhage or reposition a bone (luckily, none of Bob's). And speaking of the devil, Bob was your favorite patient; you connected with him better than with the others, and it became a habit for you to use the familiar form of address and end the session by giving him a lollipop, whether cherry, orange, or grape.

Sometimes his heart rate was still high and he kept saying it was from running, but over time you learned to realize that his heart, although healthy, already had another place.

You.

He knows he's an asshole. The Thunderbolts know it, and sometimes, on the rare occasion, you do too, but you know there's more to him. He just has a hard time saying what he means.

What he wants.

It's quiet, how it usually is before a mission. A sense of anticipation and adrenaline fills the space. Bucky is flying the plane, Bob is co-pilot, Yelena, you, and John are in the back of the aircraft.

Yelena has her eyes closed, mentally running through the plan for the mission. She feels you getting up from next to her, and you wander over to the storage area. She hears a heavy set of footsteps follow you.

She cracks an eye open and sees it's Walker who followed you, and she sits up, ready if she needs to intervene if he pushes your buttons. You have a tendency to get short-tempered before missions. A combination of your anxiety and pre-mission jitters.

The past few months, she has noticed a change in Walker's behavior around you, but she can't put her finger on it. He's like a silent shadow where you are; he's not far behind. Ava jokes about how he acts like a guard dog.

A well-trained guard dog who waits for their owner's permission to jump into action, because everyone on the team knows you can hold your own.

Yelena watches as your hand twitches next to your side, the other running along the edge of one of your knives hidden in your tactical vest. She can barely hear what Walker is saying to you over the hum of the aircraft.

You're slouched against the wall, eyes on the ground, as he continues to talk to you. Probably repeating the plan to you, not like he hasn't already done so twice.

Yelena is about to get up and rescue you from him when she sees him shift. It's not subtle, probably because he doesn't think anyone is watching the two of you. Walker is surrounding you. His stance is too intimate to be considered camaraderie.

Your body language changes, opens up, allows him to come closer, a silent sign that says you need him to be close to you.

"You need to get out of your head," John says, his tone is blunt, but his eyes tell a different story.

"Right," you mutter, eyes still locked on his boots.

John heavily sighs, and suddenly, his hand is under your chin, tilting your head up so you're looking at him.

"Your overthinking can't be a liability on this mission."

Your eyes narrow. "I said. I got it." You try pushing his hand away, his grip on you tightens slightly, not in a painful way, but as a silent warning.

"Hey, we're about to land soon," Yelena calls out, as your eyes remain locked on his.

He finally drops his hand, but doesn't step away from you. You're about to brush past him when his hand reaches out to stop you.

Yelena watches as he mutters something and then, in a very brisk way, starts adjusting your tactical vest. She sees a slight smile on your face as he does so.

defending your honor

A month later, you, Ava, and John have hit a slight hitch in your mission that has led you all the way to Montreal.

The three of you have been tracking a group of mercenaries and have been ordered by Captain America himself to bring them back to D.C.

The three of you are currently negotiating with the Montreal police regarding the extradition process. Even though you have the proper paperwork.

Ava is leaning against the wall, watching as you and John deal with the police. She observes you two. The pair of you are like magnets. You move, he moves. She finds it sickening how you and Walker are unconsciously moving as one.

She can tell that Walker is about to blow a fuse with the way his hands are clenched. It's fleeting, but she sees you reach out and touch his thigh.

A few moments later, it's a full-blown shouting match between Walker and the captain of the station, standing toe to toe. The captain throws an uncalled-for derogatory term at you, and Walker loses it.

Walker lunges for the man, but you're suddenly there, on a hand on Walker's tense shoulder, and you're saying something to him. Your face is livid, and John reluctantly backs off, but not before glancing at your face.

Ava hovers behind, not sure if she should step in or if it would make matters worse. You manage to shove Walker back a few feet before turning your attention back to the captain.

Later, the three of you are waiting to be picked up, and Ava overhears a bit of conversation between you and Walker.

"...don't know what you were thinking," you hiss at him.

"I know, I know. But c'mon, the way he was talking to you was completely-"

"And I could've handled it."

"I know you could have, but you don't have to."

She hears you sigh. "You stress me out, sometimes."

Ava walks in just as you're pulling away from Walker, and she has her suspicions. She can't believe you have a soft spot for John Walker, who she thinks is the walking epitome of masculine stupidity.

patching you up

Bob didn't mean to walk in on you and John. He didn't even know he was walking into anything until he saw how gentle John was being with you.

"Ow, ow, ow! I'm saying ow!" Bob hears your loud voice coming from your open bedroom.

"Shut up and sit still." That's definitely John's voice, and why is he in your room?

Bob wanders down the wall to your room and finds an empty room, but the voices are coming from the conjoined bathroom. Bob follows the voices and sees you perched up on the bathroom counter.

John is standing between your legs and is in the middle of stitching up a large gash on your upper arm that makes Bob's stomach churn. In his opinion, you should see an actual doctor.

Bob is about to say something when he realizes that you and John haven't even realized he's standing right there. John is focused on your arm, and you're staring at his concentrated face with amusement and adoration.

Bob doesn't think he's seen John so focused unless it's mission-related. Or the gentle way he's holding your arm as he inspects his stitch work.

"Do you think it'll leave a badass scar?" You ask, glancing down at your arm.

John quietly chuckles. "That's your concern? Not that fact I found you bleeding out 10 minutes ago."

"I wasn't bleeding out. I had it under control."

"Sweetheart, you were trying to patch yourself up with Band-Aids."

"Well, thank goodness you showed up in time," you reply and hand him a roll of gauze. He carefully wraps your arm and absentmindedly tosses the gauze aside.

Bob isn't expecting you to wrap your arms around John's neck, and he suddenly has the urge to flee. He does so, but not before bumping into the door frame.

"Bob," you happily call out, shoving John out of the way as you hop down. Bob sees how John reaches out to you, his hand finding your hip.

showing interest in something you like

Bucky had stopped by the tower on a Sunday afternoon. He needed to drop off some important documents. What he didn't expect to find was John Walker sitting in the living room watching some reality TV show.

Bucky finds it odd. He just stands behind the couch and stares at what John is watching. He forgot the name of the show, but he does know it's something you like to watch in your spare time.

He vaguely remembers you trying to get anybody on the team to watch it with you. He definitely recalls Walker making fun of you for enjoying something so, in his words, stupid.

"Walker," Bucky says, but John doesn't even flinch.

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing?" Bucky can't hide his amused tone. John turns around and blankly looks at him.

"Just channel surfing."

Bucky smirks at him. "Uh-huh." Bucky hears rushed footsteps and a shout of excitement as you come running into the living room.

You completely ignore Bucky and leap onto the couch right next to John.

"Oh my god! You're watching it without me." You reach out and hit him.

John tries to play it off. "I was just channel surfing and this was the only thing on."

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"So, have Nev and Kamie started their investigation yet?"

John snorts. "Cute, you call it an investigation."

"Uh, yeah, that's what they do."

John turns to you. "These people do realize Google is a thing, right? I can't believe this woman thinks she's been in an online relationship with Brad Pitt for two years. I mean, come on."

Bucky has no idea what John is ranting on about, but from the expression on your face, Bucky can tell it means something to you.

You're smiling at John. "So you are invested in the show?"

John huffs. "I suppose it's rewarding when the catfish turns out to be the actual person."

"I knew you would like it." You lean into his side, and he lifts his arm, wrapping it around you.

Your eyes return to the TV, but John's remain fixed on your face, admiring you.

"Catfish like the actual fish?" Bucky asks.

letting you have the first/last bite of their food

Alexei is a foodie, and John Walker is secretly as foodie as well. The one thing Alexei knows and the rest of the team knows is that John never shares his food.

So he is absolutely floored when he keeps seeing John share his food with you like it's second nature. The first time it happens, he thinks he's seeing things.

The whole team is out on the town, a very rare occasion. They're all at a bar. Ava and Yelena are playing darts. Alexei, Bob, and Bucky are sitting at the table. You and John are getting drinks at the bar.

Once everyone is back at the table, you're sitting next to John, murmuring something into his ear. The food arrives, and it's slightly chaotic. Everyone is reaching out for their food.

Alexei does notice how you're not reaching out for yours. He's about to say something when he sees John holding out his untouched burger to you.

At first, Alexei thinks John is silently asking if you think it looks okay, but the next thing he knows, you're taking a bite out of it. John silently urges you to eat more, but you shake your head and finally reach out to grab your own food.

Alexei is flabbergasted. He remembers the one and only time he tried to "playfully" steal some fries from John's face, and it ended up in a literal wrestling match.

The second time, Alexei is waiting for it. He's ready to call John out, maybe tease him about it.

Yelena and Bob have baked their infamous cookies, and it's all-out war when it comes to who gets them. Alexei gets there too late and runs into John, who's leaving the kitchen.

"Don't tell me, they're all gone," Alexei groans.

"Afraid so," John replies and claps him on the back. Alexei spots John pulling something from his hoodie pocket, and he follows him all the way to your bedroom.

John doesn't even knock. He walks in, and Alexei can hear your excited shout of "Oh my god, are those the cookies?"

And Alexei definitely knows something is going on between you and John when he sees you two constantly sharing the same spoon or fork.