Reality Is An Illusion

You and Rhett had something, something complicated. You weren’t just friends (not with the way he fucked you in the bed of his truck every week for the past year), but you weren’t dating either. You danced together in this weird limbo, and you were sick of it, telling him so not even a week ago. Told him if he wanted you, he better take you and make it known for all of Wabang, because you were sick of feeling like a secret.

He said nothing as you stomped away, hands tucked in his jeans as he watched you walk away. He wanted to run after you, to make you his, but he didn't. Because the way you made him feel, it scared him. Scared him more than the bulls he tried surviving every night at the rodeo. His feet stayed rooted in the ground, regret filling his chest with each step you took toward the door.

But what he was seeing in the bar filled him with more than just fear, it was something more mean and greedy.

His eyes followed you as you moved across the building, heading to the bar for a refill. Rhett stood fast, taking his chance to get you alone and away from the idiot who'd been at your side all night.

“Whatcha doin’ with Tillerson?”

You chuckled, “Wow, you sure get straight to the point don’t ya Abbott.”

He leaned in toward you, trapping you between his arms as he stared down at you, and you smirked up at him, happy because you got exactly what you wanted, to make Rhett Abbott jealous. Maybe that was the push he needed to finally make you his.

His hand came up, brushing against your exposed shoulder, as he brushed a stray strand of hair out of the way, and his fingers, they lingered, ghosting along before finally the settled right there on your side. Your fingers twitched, anticipation coursing through you at his sudden displays of affection, how public he was being about it. If Rhett Abbott was anything, he was subtle with his affection. But after seeing you in the arms of another, subtle went straight out the window.

He grabbed your freshly ordered beer of the bar top, looking like he was debating his next action, if he should be so bold, before bringing it to his lips. You watched as he drank it, your eyes locked as he gulped before he pulled it away, and brought the tip of the bottle up to your lips as if asking if you wanted a sip.

You stilled for a moment, sucking in a shaky breath at his actions, all the previous snark you had washing away and a warmth was filling your belly. Eyes never leaving his, you simply tipped your head back, and invited him in, feeling the gush of the acidic beer rushing down your throat. Your eyes never leaving each other as this heat grew between you too in this bar. Finally he pulled the bottle away, a hand coming up to your lips to wipe away the beer from the corner of your mouth. It felt like time stopped for you two, like you were the only people left in this bar.

"Wanna take this back home darlin'?"

---

Rhett pushed you up against the wall of your room, your laugh silenced as he attacked your lips so fiercely that you barely had the chance to breathe. His calloused hands were gripping you tight, trapping you against the wall and his chest as his tongue explored your mouth.

“Didn’t have no right to touch you,” he muttered against your lips before sucking hard on your neck. You moaned, gripping the back of his neck as you tried to get some friction, rubbing up against him. Already feeling his bulge practically begging to be set free from his jeans.

“No, he didn’t-”

Rhett captured your lips in his again, hungry, before moving your back to the bed, quickly making do with his pants, his cock shooting up, slapping hard against his stomach. You were salivating at the sight. You've had Rhett's cock in you more times than you can count, but this was different. This was primal and full need, need to make what this is between you two real.

“Imma make sure everyone in this goddamn town knows your mine, gonna have you scream my name darlin’. That’s what you wanted, right? Why we in this mess in the first place? Want me to fuck you so hard everyone in Wabang could hear ya?”

You moaned against him, chanting yes's as his hands went up your skirt, pushing your panties to the side as his cock teased your entrance. You were already so open and wet for him after he stretched you open good and wide on the car ride over. One hand on the steering wheel and the other knuckle deep in your clenching heat as you withered in your seat, already panting and moaning for more like the needy little thing you are.

“I asked you a question.” he said as he dragged his cock along your folds, teasing you more until you finally croaked out, “Yes! Yes! That’s what I wanted! I'll scream your name! Now come on and fuck-!”

He cut you off as he plunged his cock all the way in. Your walls tight a around him as you shouted, throwing your head back at the stretch. No matter how many times he’d been inside you, he always stretched you wide open like you were still a virgin.

Rhett thrusted into you fast, gripping the sheets tight before his fingers came to your chest, cupping your breast in his hand as he toyed with your hardened nipple, making your back arch in pleasure.

“Atta girl,” he said as you preened at his praises, "You miss this cock baby? Been only a week and already miss me this much?"

You were panting and thrashing under him. Relishing in the speed, in his words, as he fucked you, making sure your pussy would never forget the shape of his cock, how deep you could feel him in you, how good he made you feel. That no one could ever make you feel this good.

Rhett moved his hand from to your neglected clit, his fingers circling it at a gentle rhythm, just the way you liked it. You jolted up again, your hands moving to grip his shoulders tight, your nails digging in, “Who can make you feel this good pretty girl?”

You moaned, barely paying attention to his words, “M’gonna, m’gonna-”

Rhett slowed his fingers around you, making you whine as you were denied an orgasm.

“Wanna hear you say it.”

Tears glistened in your eyes as you nodded your head fast, “Only you, only you, Rhett, only you make me feel this good. Only you can fuck me like this. Only you can love me like this.”

He moaned as he brought you into another kiss. His fingers picked up speed against you as you felt your orgasm approaching in waves.

You whined loud, your fingers coming down, and scratching Rhett’s back as you came around him, your pussy clenching his cock tight.

Rhett’s thrusts stuttered as he spilled in you, making sure to fuck his cum deep into you, so your cunt would never forget who you belong to.

Finally, he stopped, slumping over as he peppered your neck with kisses, “You were so good for me, my sweet darlin'. Never lettin' ya go again.”

You responded by nuzzling deeper into his chest, kissing his chest along his tattoo before your eyes closed as you fell asleep against him. Rhett pressed another kiss to your forehead, moving your hair out from your face as he rested you on his chest, nuzzling your cheek, keeping you in his arms, where you belonged.

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"Please," he whimpered, pressing several messy kisses to your inner thigh. "Just a taste, please."

You carded your fingers through his soft hair as you bit your lip. "Just a taste? Hmmmm." You pretended to ponder it for a moment just to toy with him. You absolutely loved when he got this deliciously desperate. "You need it?"

Bob nodded urgently, his hands squeezing the flesh of your thighs, his glassy eyes gleaming up at you. "I need it so bad, you have no idea, I-- I'll do anything."

Your head gently fell back on the wall you were currently leaning against. God, how could you ever deny him? "Keep begging like that and you can do whatever you want to me."

Bob groaned in response to just the idea of doing whatever he wanted to you, pressing his nose and mouth against your clothed core. "I'll make you feel so good, I promise."

You placed your hand on his cheek, gently lifting his head so you could look at him properly. "You always do."

He gave you one of his sweetest smiles, almost innocent like he wasn't about to completely devour you, before his deft fingers slid underneath the waistband of your panties and yanked downward, exposing you. "Jesus," he whispered, eyes now locked in at the space between your thighs with awe. He swallowed harshly in anticipation. "You're so pretty." He leaned in closer and began pressing kisses everywhere except right where you needed him most, until you began to squirm.

"Don't tease," you whined, tugging at his hair. "I--"

Your voice died in your throat when his hot, wet tongue slid right through your folds, your body tensing up at the sudden action. "Bob."

He moaned greedily at the first taste of you. "You're dripping."

You nodded, gasping when he dove back in and licked at you like he'd been waiting his entire life for that very moment. Your chest was heaving with adrenaline; he'd barely began and you were already almost incoherent. "For you."

Bob groaned shamelessly and shuddered against you at your words, the rumble of his voice vibrating deliciously against your soaked cunt. His nose was nudging your clit with every stripe he licked against your entrance, his hands gripping your ass to keep you close. "Taste so good," he mumbled before wrapping his lips around your sensitive bud and sucking hard.

You just about flew off the wall you'd been leaning against, both of your hands gripping his hair for purchase as your knees buckled. Bob never ceased, instead hiking one of your legs up over his shoulder to get an even better angle. The precision of his tongue against your swollen clit sent sharp pleasure shooting across your lower abdomen. "Holy--oh my god, I can't--"

Bob's mouth was relentless as he ate you like a man starved. You normally would've been embarrassed at the way your slickness was dripping down your thighs if it hadn't been for Bob's tongue chasing after it, like he couldn't afford to waste a single drop. It was fucking messy and loud, the sounds of yours and his moans competing with the sounds of his hot mouth lapping at your soaked cunt.

Your climax hit you without warning the second his tongue dipped into your entrance, the pressure exploding in your lower belly before you could process it. You barely registered Bob lowering one of his hands to palm himself through his boxer briefs as he worked you through it, the sight spurring you on. "Jesus Christ, Bob."

Bob didn't answer. His left hand was squeezing your ass to keep your cunt against his mouth while his other hand dipped into his boxer briefs and gripped his pulsing cock. He let out a guttural moan at the relief, his hips bucking forward into his hand.

It was sensory overload. Tears were threatening to escape your eyes as he continued alternating between sucking unrelentingly on your clit and dipping his tongue inside you. "It--it's so much, I can't," you whined, incoherent as your body tried squirming away from him.

He chased after you, his free hand pulling you back to his relentless mouth. "No no no, wait, please I'm not done yet," he begged. "Just please give me one more, I know you can."

And to think you'd been in charge at the start of this.

You'd been squeezing your eyes shut as you had no choice but to take what he was giving you, barely processing your come-down until you opened them at the wet repetitive sound from below you and almost came again from the sight alone.

There he was, face buried between your thighs, eyes shut and brow furrowed in blissful focus as his free hand stroked himself relentlessly, pre-cum glistening at the angry red tip.

"Oh my god," you groaned, thighs shaking around his head. "Fucking look at you."

Bob opened his eyes at your words, mouth never leaving you, and gave you the most doe-eyed, pussy drunk look you'd ever seen. And that was your undoing.

It was devastating, completely desperate, so much more intense than the first time. The image of him getting himself off to eating you out replayed in your mind over and over until the only word you knew how to say anymore was his name. You vaguely registered Bob releasing a sob of your name as he came with you, the sound spurring you on until you were trembling.

You weren't even aware of how much time had passed when Bob finally pulled away from you. You sagged back against the wall, taking your time opening your eyes as you came back to your surroundings. And there he was, sitting back with a dazed grin on his face, his nose, mouth and chin sparkling with your slick. His hand and stomach were covered with his own mess, though he didn't appear to even register it.

"How was that?"

You laughed, lowering yourself onto the ground on shaky legs to get at eye-level with him. You took his face in your hands, gently wiping your mess away as you quirked a brow at him. "I think you don't even have to ask."

He chuckled, looking away bashfully. "I guess not."

You leaned in and kissed him deeply, a small whine escaping you as you tasted yourself on his tongue.

Bob was whimpering and withering as you kissed and nipped the skin of his neck, grinding down on him as he moaned for you. It was like his head was so empty the only thing he could remember was your name. His hips moved desperately under you, chasing for friction, any type of contact with you really. He was so desperate for it. His neglected cock laid under you, flushed and leaking, desperate for your warmth that was oh so close yet oh so far.

His breath hitched every time you grinded down at just the right moment when his cock felt the heat radiating from you inviting hole. If he could just thrust up fast enough, he swears he could feel you on his tip. But every time he brushed up against your inviting entrance, you'd move, and he'd cry out in frustration, tears streaming down his pretty face, so desperately missing the feeling of your warmth engulfing him, but you paid no mind to him.

You were too busy focused on ruining his pretty little neck.

Bob tried moving to gain control. He was so desperate to kiss you, your lips, your neck, your chests. But when he moved, you’d pin him down by his wrists, bite down hard on his neck in warning, and he’d whine so prettily about how he’d been a good boy, how he was always your good boy, and all he wanted was to touch you.

You'd simply smirk, bending forward to whisper, “So needy!” as you nipped at his ear before going back work.

He was always so desperately hungry for you, to please you. Your screams of pleasure when his cock plunged into you as you left scratches down the sides of his back was all he wanted in life, but you were on a mission.

You lapped at his neck as you thrusted against him again, hard and mean, his back arching as he cried. He was always so pathetic for you. His lips wobbled as his baby blues stared up at you, following your every move.

You savored his taste, heat building in your core as he withered and moaned, babbling a "hmmm!" or "pleasepleaseplease!" when you hit a spot that was especially sensitive. You could almost get off entirely just from those angelic thready noises escaping his lips.

You didn't let up until there was a ring of purple, red, and indents of your teeth from where you bite and sucked him around his neck. Almost like there was a collar of your hickies around his neck, so everyone knew who he belonged to. It made your mind wander. The thought of him, with his big blues staring up at you all wide and round and a pretty collar with your name on it wrapped securely around his beck made your clench your thighs. You shuddered at the the possessive thought as it passed through you.

Bob was absolutely wrecked under you. His eyes glossy, neck bruised, body trembling as you grabbed your phone and took pictures of your work.

“My beautiful, beautiful boy.” you cooed, making him whine against your lips as you brought him into a kiss full of tongue and teeth. He chased after your lips as you pulled back, wanting more of your taste. Bob jumped high as your fingers traced the marks you made around his neck, a strangled moan leaving him, he was so so sensitive.

You pushed him back down onto the bed, and Bob looked up at you with wonder as your fingers danced along his chest, “Think I wanna mark your pretty little chest now too, baby.” Bob shuddered under your hungry gaze as you started leaving a trail of kisses along his chest, giving his cock a light stroke that made him jolt and let out a pathetic whine.

Boy, he was in for a long night

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Please do not copy or repost. Love and thank you all!

Sometimes Rhett imagined what it would look like to anyone passing by–a man bundled on a porch in the dog days of summer, shaking like frostbite had claimed him. Wabang summers were merciless, sweltering, and yet here he was, displaying a living contradiction. They would probably think something was wrong, maybe fever-sick or delirious. But no headlights came down this road anymore, and no curious eyes came to remark on the ghost that was left to rot in the Abbott house because six years had passed since the town last laid eyes on him. His family had told people that he had moved away, but the rumours had run rampant anyways–ones that usually consisted of him drinking himself to death, or vanishing across state lines to chase the next bull riding championship. The truth was way worse than anyone could comprehend though, because Rhett Abbott had been buried in plain sight, condemned to nights like this, waiting for the sun to go down just so he could breathe fresh air without dying right when he stepped outside.

From behind him, he could hear the familiar shuffle of Perry’s boots scuffing the wooden floorboards, steady but weighted, almost like he was limping. Rhett didn’t need to look up; he could already feel the scrutiny pressing against him, sensing his brother staring at him, cataloguing everything he could–the way his skin had grown thin and pale, the ink-dark veins that ran under it like poisoned rivers, and the hollows that were etched beneath his eyes. Perry gave a knock on the frame of the door for Rhett to look at him so he could immediately confirm his suspicions, because his once-bright irises, that were as blue as the sky he hadn’t seen in years, were rimmed with a faint bruised red, a hunger-ring only visible if you stood close or stared long enough.

”Want me to stop at the butcher on my way home from the bar?” Perry asked, casual in tone but anticipating the answer and bracing himself. Rhett dragged his eyes away from his brother's face resting his gaze on the open gravel drive in front of him.

“I’m starvin’…So yeah that would be good. Take anythin’ they have I don’t care what type of blood they’ve got, and just…Make sure to get me a few containers of it and that he doesn’t skimp this time, cause I don’t think dad’s gonna be transporting any cattle this week, so it’ll need to last me for a bit.” He explained, the words scraping low and raw from his aching throat, carrying both shame and desperation in tone. He couldn’t stop the way his lips trembled while he spoke, as he tried to hide a chill that shook through him by curling even further into the folds of his blanket. The thought of that copper-sweet blood sent a pang through him as sharp as a wire cutting through butter. It was a craving not even he was able to get used to still, and it only left him missing how easily accessible real food was when he used to be able to eat it.

His mother, Cecilia, had tried in the first few months of his turning to fold blood into his food for him: marinades, sauces, soups, anything to keep him at the table with them. He had forced down every attempt, sick with hope, until his body just absolutely revolted. Human food became soured in his gut, and it was rejected violently, followed by a week's worth of pain as his body tried to reset itself. That’s when he had given in, and started drinking pure animal blood from reusable water bottles, just to be able to feel like he was less of a monster than he already was.

“Will do. I’ll get your five big ones so it’ll last you the week at the very least…I’ll be back soon with it.” Rhett gave a faint nod, his mouth and throat too dry to actually form a response. Perry’s hand came down on his shoulder in a brief pat–steady, and grounding–but the weight of it vanished as soon as it had landed. The floorboards creaked under his retreating boots, the crunch of gravel trailing after him until the slam of the truck door reverberated like thunder through the quietness of the night. Headlights swept across the porch, bleaching Rhett’s pale skin in their glare, as he watched them disappear down the road, hearing the sound of the engine dwindling while it was swallowed whole by the darkness of the night.

The second Perry’s headlights went out of Rhett’s line of sight, the hunger pains erupted. It clawed through Rhett’s body like a wildfire. His stomach cinched, a hollow drum of ache, but it was his throat that bore the worst of it–burning as though someone had poured molten lava down it, searing until every breath felt like it scorched the lining raw. His vocal cords themselves seemed to fry alive, shriveling under an invisible brand, so that every swallow scraped like splintered glass. He clutched his throat once, reflexively, but there was no soothing the inferno.

He forced his arm from the cocoon of blankets, pale and trembling, and turned it over in the dimmed yellow porch light. The sight before him was grotesque. Scars crisscrossed the meat of his forearm, ragged crescents and pits where he had to practically rip himself off his own flesh. Some sank deep, indented valleys that refused to smooth over. Others rose pale and ridged like ropes beneath the skin. Between them, his veins stretched black and swollen, pulsing faintly–as if they were ink-filled rivulets, poisoned rivers writhing beneath translucent parchment. In the lamplight, they shimmered like something inhuman. Something broken.

When the thirst was at its worst, when it hollowed him until he shook apart, Rhett pressed his lips tight against his own flesh to muffle the sounds, sank his teeth in, and sucked until he felt something like blood fill his mouth. He had found out by accident that he could do it when he was delirious one night with hunger, biting down just to quiet the ache. Now it was just a habit–awful and shameful, but necessary.

It was always agony. His own blood never tasted clean. It was bitter, tainted, thick on his tongue like the stagnant water of a rotting sponge. It lacked the copper-bright fire of fresh blood, but it still carried what he needed. Enough to dull the hunger’s edge. Enough to remind him that he still bled, and in those moments, he clung to that one shred of humanity.

It was better than the alternative. Better than the potential frenzy that he was always on the brink of falling into–the one that he had only experienced once.

The memory hit him in the chest like a thrown stone.

The night he lost control.

The thirst had consumed him, left him blind and ravenous. He’d torn through the ranch like a beast, splintering gates with strength he hadn’t known he had, staggering into the pens where the cattle cried out in terror. Their fear thickened the air–sharp, electric–and then he was on them. His teeth sank deep, his hands tore through hide, and hot copper flooded his mouth, his chest, his very skin. Blood spattered his shirt, painted his arms to the elbows, ran in rivulets down his neck. He gorged himself, deaf to the bellowing animals, blind to everything but red.

Until Perry’s voice broke through.

Until his brother stood before him, face pale, body trembling but steady, calling his name again and again until the fog cracked. Rhett came back to himself kneeling in the dirt, his hands dripping, his shirt soaked, the stench of slaughter filling his nose. He looked around and saw what he had done. And the horror had nearly killed him. That was when the truth carved itself deep: he wasn’t a man anymore. He was a monster.

And tonight, he felt like he was on that brink again. His throat cinched tighter, folding in on itself as though it were collapsing, begging him for release. His body shook so violently the swing’s chains rattled against the porch beams.

With a groan, Rhett leaned forward, bracing his arm against his knee, and let his fangs drop. They slid long and sharp from his gums, gleaming like knives in the porch light. He didn’t hesitate. He drove them into the meat of his forearm.

The slide was obscene–smooth as butter at first, then grinding into resistance as they sank into hard muscle. The burn was instant. White fire shot through him, searing his nerves until his entire arm spasmed. His eyes watered, teeth grinding into the wound deeper, chasing the pulse. Hot blood welled into his mouth, metallic and sour, and he groaned low, muffled against his own skin.

Still, he drank.

Each swallow ripped down his throat like knives, worsening the burn even as it fed him. His chest heaved. His body jolted in waves, shuddering with the pain. He clung harder, sucking until blackness flickered at the edges of his vision. Stars burst behind his eyes. He could feel himself beginning to faint, but the craving inside him was louder than reason. It always was.

He shook with tears streaking hot against his cheeks and temples, until finally–finally–he tore himself free.

His head snapped back, mouth slick with blood, with his chest heaving in ragged breaths. The world swam in dizzy halos, the porch light bleeding into black. Blood ran down his arm in thin rivulets, staining his blanket, streaking his palm. Reflex took over. He swiped the mess with the back of his hand, then licked it, swallowing again even as his stomach twisted in protest.

Relief came in the smallest, cruelest measure. The hunger dulled, but the grief roared in to replace it.

Rhett slumped back against the swing, arm clutched close, blankets tangled around him like burial cloth. His head lolled back, eyes slipping up to the starless sky, as his mind filled with the mourning that always followed a feed.

He dreamed of sunlight. He tried to recall its heat, its warmth, but the memory was almost gone, reduced to a phantom press against skin that no longer lived. He dreamed of the rodeo–the grit of dirt under his boots, the violent lurch of a bull beneath his thighs, the roar of a crowd lifting him high. He dreamed of the bar, of easy laughter and beer, of strangers who looked at him and saw a man, not a shadow.

And he dreamed of women.

That longing gnawed deeper than hunger. He remembered the press of soft bodies grinding against him, the taste of mouths opening under his, the rasp of fingernails raking down his back. He remembered the tilt of throats when they moaned his name, the musk of perfume on sweat-slicked skin, the sacred praise whispered in the quiet afterward when they lay warm and trembling in his arms. That desire had never left him. It was etched into his marrow, as vital as thirst, as damning as blood. But it was gone now, as unreachable as the sun. No woman would ever press against him again. No lover would ever thread fingers through his hair or trace his face in the dark. He was too cold. Too cursed.

His chest spasmed suddenly, pain lancing beneath his ribs like a blade. It stole his breath, sharp and cruel. Once, those pangs had terrified him, convinced him he was dying. Now he knew better. It wasn’t his heart failing. It was the emptiness screaming inside him, clawing to get out.

Rhett thought that over the years it would get easier–that he might learn to live with the isolation, to settle into a life of shadows with only his family for company. But nights like these proved him wrong. Nights like these dragged him into a wormhole of what-ifs. What if he’d never climbed into his truck that night, what if the accident hadn’t happened, what if he’d been allowed to live as himself. The list was endless. And it was suffocating.

There were so many things he never got to do. So many things he would never do. It left him wondering what there was to even stay around for. Once his family was gone, he would truly have no one.

And he would never damn them to this sort of life. They hadn’t done anything to deserve such suffering. Neither had he…But it was just bad luck.

He drew his blankets tighter, tucking his bitten arm beneath the fold, and let his head sag forward. Blood still clung to the corners of his mouth, drying tacky, and he licked it absently, the taste bitter, hollow. The hunger still sat like embers in his throat, raw and searing, when the screen door creaked open behind him. Rhett didn’t need to turn–he knew the rhythm of that step, softer than Perry’s but still weighted with decades of ranch life. His mother. He could feel her before he saw her, the air shifting with the warmth of her presence, her heartbeat steady and slow in the dark housecoat she wore.

It was a sound he could never escape: the rush of blood through her veins, the slow cadence of her heart keeping time. To anyone else, it was silence. To Rhett, it was deafening. A song he’d learned to live alongside, one of the few he could bear without tearing himself apart. He’d practiced, trained, endured nights of temptation and clawing hunger until her scent became part of him–safe, familiar, something he could never harm. His family’s blood was different; it didn’t call to him with the same razor-edged demand. It was home, not prey. Their scents were written into him, dulled by memory and years of willpower, the one fragile grace he clung to that kept him from becoming the monster he feared.

Cecilia’s outline appeared in the porch light, housecoat wrapped tight against the night’s heat, an extra blanket folded in her hands. She crossed to him with a kind of quiet purpose, the kind only a mother could carry, and held it out.

“I warmed it up for you,” She said softly, her voice lined with fatigue and tenderness. “I could practically hear you shakin’ from the living room.” Rhett managed the faintest curve of his lips–a ghost of a smile, but the most he could muster. He reached out with trembling fingers, careful not to brush her skin more than he had to, and accepted the blanket.

“Thanks, Ma…” His voice cracked low, words rasping like brittle wood. He unfolded the fabric with shaking hands and spread it over himself, the warmth bleeding into his bones, though the shivers still racked through him as if nothing could ever thaw the winter he carried.

Cecilia didn’t leave right away though. Instead, she reached out, her hand smoothing back the strands of his light brown hair, her touch gentle as a summer wind. In the yellow glow, the flecks of grey threaded through his hair glinted faintly–grey that always surfaced when he was starving, a strange cruel quirk of whatever curse gripped him, fading back to brown only once his hunger was sated. Her fingers lingered, then slipped down to cup his cheek.

“My sweet boy…” She whispered, her thumb brushing against the hollow beneath his eye, the skin too thin, too bruised. “I wish I could help you more than this…” The words fractured something in him, because he knew they were true. Six years, and she still carried the same raw grief. She had watched him unravel night after night, and still she hadn’t stopped mourning. To her, he was both alive and buried, a son stolen and yet sitting right before her.

It hurt her every time, even though habit should have dulled it by now. But when Cecilia allowed herself to truly look at him, to truly remember, a pit hollowed her stomach all over again. The memory of that night never loosened its grip–the call she got from the hospital, the urgency of the way Royal drove, swerving in and out of traffic to make sure that they would get to Rhett safely but fast, and the way she had nearly torn herself apart in the emergency room begging the doctors to do anything, absolutely anything, to save her boy. She had screamed until her throat was raw, bargained with God and the medical team alike. And they had saved him, but not in the way she’d wanted.

If she had known the cost, if she had known what they would bring him back as, she wasn’t sure she would’ve made the same choice. That thought poisoned her, and lived under her ribs like a splinter that never worked free. She thought about it every day. And Rhett–Rhett felt the weight of it humming in her even when she didn’t speak it. He’d long since learned to tune out her thoughts, to spare her the shame of knowing he could feel the guilt she bled, but sometimes it was evident just in the looks he gave her that he knew what was going on inside her head.

He let out a weary breath, closing his eyes against the sting of her thumb tracing the hollows of his face.

“Ma…” He murmured, voice raw with something softer than the hunger that still burned through him. “You’ve done everythin’ you could. I’m fine. Perry’s gonna bring me back some blood and I’ll be good as new.” She shook her head faintly, eyes wet, but nodded anyway, because what else could she do?

“You know I’ll always be worryin’ about you,” She said, her voice thin with a sad smile. “It’s just what a mother does.” From the cocoon of blankets, Rhett pushed one trembling hand free and reached out. His palm came to rest gently against her elbow, the pressure weak but deliberate, a small squeeze meant to comfort her more than himself.

“You should get some sleep,” He suggested softly. “I’ll be fine out here for the night.” Cecilia sighed, the sound heavy with reluctance.

“Okay…We’re going to be goin’ out in the mornin’, so you’ll have the place to yourself. Thought I’d mention that, just in case you go through one of your blackouts.” Rhett nodded, eyes still closed, his head tilted back against the swing.

“Thank you for tellin’ me…” His words were quiet, trailing into the night. For a long moment, she lingered, as though her presence alone might shield him from the cold gnawing at his insides. Finally, she leaned down, pressing her lips softly to his clammy forehead. The kiss was warm, and achingly human.

“Goodnight, Rhett,” She whispered against his skin, letting her hand linger against his cheek, trembling faintly, before giving him one last pat. But it wasn’t like her prior touches. This one landed heavy, weighted with everything she couldn’t say aloud. In that touch, he felt her sorrow seep straight into him–the grief so strong it spilled past her skin and into his own. It burned cold like his skin, a tide rushing through marrow, threading down into every hollow place inside him. He had long since realized that when emotions swelled too sharp in people, they leapt from people's flesh and into him like sparks jumping from flame, and this was just one of those times that he was absorbing whatever his mother had been harbouring.

”Goodnight, Ma…” He rasped, his voice catching like gravel in his throat.

And then she slipped away, retreating back into the house without another word.

The blankets clung damp to his clammy skin, and he burrowed deeper into them, but the heat his mother had gifted him fled within minutes, leaving only that marrow-deep cold that no fire could thaw. He sighed low, breath rattling, and tilted his head back into the porch swing’s chains.

Rhett’s eyes dragged upward, fixing on the swollen white disc of the moon. To anyone else, it was pale and ordinary, but to him, it was a cruel substitute for the sun he hadn’t felt in six years. Cold light in place of warmth. A reflection in place of the real thing. Still, it was all he had, and he clung to it the way drowning men clung to driftwood–his anchor in an endless night. He let his gaze linger there, ignoring the fire in his throat, ignoring the pulse of pain threading through his veins like barbed wire pulled taut–his last excuse for a feed was wearing off. The burn rose and fell in waves, a tide of hunger breaking against him, demanding. But he refused it. For now.

His ears betrayed him though. Off in the distance, he heard the muted shuffle of hooves in the barn, the soft exhale of cattle, the rustling of bodies shifting against straw. The noises were quiet, ordinary, but to Rhett they struck like gunshots. Every low groan of the animals, every twitch of movement, came to him sharpened, thickened by the scent of blood hidden beneath their hides. His jaw clenched. His fangs ached. His chest tightened.

The temptation was growing–louder, sharper. The barn was close. Too close. He could already picture the wooden latch, how easy it would be to slip it open because Royal refused to lock it–trying to display that he still trusted his son. He could see himself stalking through the rows, shadows stretching, the animals stiffening in terror before he even touched them because they would know what was coming, and he could smell it–hot copper flooding the air, dripping down his chin, searing his tongue.

He closed his eyes tightly, lids pinched until white sparks bloomed behind them, trying to exile the visions clawing through his mind. His hunger writhed inside him like a living thing, twisting and clawing for attention, pulsing deep in his stomach, boiling up into his chest until bile seared his throat. Every swallow was a burn, every breath a reminder of what he lacked.

No matter how easy it would be, he wasn’t going to do it. He couldn’t.

Instead, he clung to a single fragile hope: that Perry would hurry up and end his night quickly and come rattling back up the drive with the crate from the butcher. That crate was salvation. He could already see it in his mind, stacked with heavy containers full of blood, condensation slicking the lids. He pictured the first one warm in his hand, the seal tearing free. He wouldn’t even bother with a cup tonight–what was the point of civility when his body was unraveling? No, he’d rip the lid off and drink until it was empty or until the beast inside him finally curled quiet in its cage.

He swallowed hard at the thought, Adam’s apple jerking painfully, the taste of phantom copper already scratching his tongue. A low sigh leaked out of him, frayed and shaking.

And then–mercifully–his ears tuned to something other than the barn.

The low, familiar rumble of Perry’s truck rolled through the night, tires chewing over gravel, the sound rising with every heartbeat. Rhett’s head snapped up, eyes widening with raw relief.

“Thank God…” He muttered, voice cracked, hoarse, nothing but bone-deep desperation. He pushed up from the swing at once, blankets pooling at his feet like shed skin. His body trembled so hard his knees nearly buckled, but adrenaline pushed him forward. He stood taut, at the ready, every nerve wound tight for the moment the truck pulled in.

Headlights swept across the porch, bleaching his hollow face in white for a fleeting instant before cutting off. The engine died. Silence fell, broken only by the slam of the door and the heavy scrape of boots. Perry emerged from the cab, green milk crate in hand, the containers inside clinking together with their weight.

Rhett was on him before Perry even had the chance to draw a steady breath. He darted across the yard in a blur, so fast and sudden that his brother startled, nearly dropping the crate.

“Christ, Rhett–” Perry choked out, heart stuttering hard in his chest.

But he didn’t hear him.

He had already ripped one of the pints free, fingers fumbling the lid with frantic strength until it cracked open. In the next heartbeat, the rim of it was at his mouth.

The first swallow was perfection. Warm, thick, and alive in a way his own blood could never be, it hit his tongue with a copper-sweet sting sharp as pennies. It carried a gamey edge, musky and wild, tasting of grass and soil and sweat and life lived under open skies. It was rich, almost cloying, sweet and metallic in a marriage that burned down his throat like molten honey laced with iron. Nothing like the bitter, stagnant sludge he siphoned from his own veins. This was fire. This was salvation.

A guttural moan tore from him as his throat worked hard, gulp after gulp, the sound thick and obscene in the quiet night. He tilted the container back, chugging like a man downing beer after a twelve-hour shift, but with far more desperation. The blood coated his mouth, smeared his lips, spilled in rivulets down his chin to soak into his white shirt. He didn’t pause to wipe it; he didn’t care. Each swallow drowned the hunger in his throat, each gulp seared into his veins like a hot brand cooling to embers.

“Don’t–” Perry barked, panic flashing through his voice. “Rhett, slow down, you’ll–” But Perry stopped himself as Rhett’s hand lifted, a single finger raised in a silent plea–wait. His brother’s eyes were still closed, throat working in desperate gulps, but the gesture was clear enough: let him finish. Perry stood frozen, boots rooted in gravel, listening to the hollow sound of swallowing, thick and wet, each gulp dragged from somewhere deep inside.

Rhett tilted the container higher, draining the last crimson mouthfuls, then pulled it away from his lips with a shuddering breath. His tongue swept over the rim, catching every trace, unwilling to surrender even a drop. Blood gleamed at the corners of his mouth, glistening dark against his pallid skin. He licked it away, slow and deliberate, as though savoring it.

“Don’t worry, Per,” Rhett rasped, voice cracked but steadier now, that faint dry humor clinging stubbornly to his words. “I’m not goin’ to throw it up…I’m a bit too hungry for all of that.” He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing red across his knuckles, then he bent his head and licked the stain clean. Perry’s stomach clenched at the sight–not from disgust, but from the sheer reminder of how far his brother had been dragged from the world of the living.

Perry exhaled sharply, raising his brows and nodding toward the green crate still heavy in his grip. “I don’t know how the hell these are goin’ to last you all week if you’ve already chugged one.” Rhett gave a faint shrug.

“Well, I was starvin’ just a few minutes ago. Now that I’m all balanced out again, I think I’ll be able to survive on two cups a day.”

Perry let out a small, dry laugh, though it carried no true ease–just a brittle attempt at normalcy. “I’ll hold you to those words…”

——————

The next morning, everyone had emptied out of the house, leaving together in chaos. Doors slammed, voices overlapped, boots clattered across the porch. The roar of trucks pulling away rattled the old glass panes until the noise dwindled into nothing, swallowed by the Wyoming distance. Silence was sudden and heavy, settling like dust after a stampede.

Rhett had retreated to his room after chugging down the pint of blood, and he hadn’t moved much since. He stretched out across his bed, head tilted toward the boarded-up window, with music whispering faintly through the battered headphones that curled crooked around his ears. A steel guitar hummed low through the static, notes rising and falling in the quiet, though his eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling as if he was staring through it, seeing nothing at all.

His bedroom looked less like the space of a young man and more like a mausoleum for a life paused mid-breath. A television sat squat on a dresser opposite his bed, the screen clouded with dust, long unused. Beside it, his record player rested, needle still sharp, the turntable scarred but working. Stacks of vinyl leaned against the wall—country greats, outlaw crooners, a few Springsteen and Mellencamp sleeves worn soft at the edges, spines cracked from years of handling. Books littered every surface, paperbacks splayed open on the nightstand, piled uneven on the floor where buckles and trophies once held pride of place. Those sat now in shadowed corners, dulled with dust, half-forgotten–small glimmers of a man he no longer recognized.

And the window–his only glimpse of the outside world–was sealed shut with thick boards, nailed down in overlapping layers. The cracks between them glowed faintly, where sunlight clawed in, thin and bright, filtered to nothing by the heavy curtains pinned overtop. He sometimes let himself imagine what it would feel like to pull those curtains back, to pry up one board and steal a single look at the morning. Just one look at the wide-open fields burning gold. But he knew it would be futile, and reckless. The sun was no longer his. It would kill him before he even had the chance to marvel.

With a groan, he shoved the tangled blanket aside and pushed himself up, bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor. His body still felt hollow, but steadier than the night before–the blood in his veins quieting the hunger for now. He crossed the room in slow strides and pressed his hand to the doorframe before pulling it open.

The living room greeted him, shadowed and silent, but not abandoned. His family had been careful, the way they always were when they left him behind. The removable boards had been slotted into the windows, covering every last inch of glass, sealing out the sun completely. The familiar sight hit him square in the chest–not just protection, but consideration. They did this for him, every time. If they were going to be gone, they made sure the house was dark enough that he could roam without fear.

A few lamps had been left burning, their light dim but golden, throwing small pools of warmth across the space. One on the side table beside the sagging couch. Another in the kitchen beyond, its glow catching on the chrome of the sink and the wood grain of the cabinets. The house carried its age in every line and sound. The wide living room still had its rough pine beams stretching low overhead, wood darkened by years of smoke and weather. A patterned rug lay beneath the coffee table, threadbare in patches from decades of boots. The furniture was sturdy but tired, each piece bearing the weight of generations.

From the living room, the kitchen was visible through the wide archway–open, homey, cluttered in ways that spoke of daily use. Countertops lined in worn laminate were scattered with yesterday’s dishes drying on a towel. The cabinets were simple, pale wood with the varnish rubbed soft at the handles. The old gas stove sat against the far wall, blackened slightly at the edges from years of family meals. Above it, pots hung from a rack Royal had built himself. The air still smelled faintly of coffee, bacon grease, and bread–morning clinging to the rafters even though everyone had left to do their own errands.

Rhett let out a low sigh that rasped through his chest, shoulders sagging as he shuffled toward the fridge. The linoleum beneath his bare feet was cool, each step making him feel heavier, as though the hunger inside him was anchoring him deeper into the earth. He gripped the handle and pulled, the rubbery suction of the seal breaking with a faint pop. The faint chill wafted out, brushing his clammy skin.

He stared into the shelves like a ghost visiting his own grave. Leftovers filled every container—last night’s pot roast, smothered carrots slick with butter, mashed potatoes whipped pale and light. He could almost taste them on his tongue, the memory vivid: fat melting against his teeth, salt blooming in his mouth, the warm, heavy comfort of meat and bread. His stomach clenched in phantom hunger, a trick of memory. Six years gone, and the craving still hadn’t faded. It mocked him. He knew exactly how it would end if he gave in—pain, convulsions, days of his body rejecting it with violent rage. His curse left no room for indulgence.

So, with the dull resignation of ritual, he reached past it all and pulled out one of the butcher’s pints. Condensation slicked the plastic, the liquid inside thick and sluggish, catching the light. He set it onto the counter with a muted thud, fingers already fumbling for the lid.

And then–

A knock.

It was firm, yet polite at the same time. It echoed through the quiet, startling him so sharply that his entire body went rigid, and his spine straightened like it had been yanked by an invisible wire. His hand froze above the container as the veins in his forearms pulsed beneath his skin.

“Mrs. Abbott?”

The voice floated in–clear, sweet, and laced with a summer warmth that cut straight through the airless hush of the room. Rhett’s breath hitched. His chest clenched so suddenly it hurt, a violent squeeze right beneath his ribs, like his heart itself had forgotten how to beat. The sound of you–it was angelic, a tone that shimmered with ease and kindness, so alive it bordered on painful to him. He pressed his palm against his chest at once, rubbing over the ache like he could ease it away.

“I know I’m a little early with your egg delivery this week, but I have an oversupply and thought it would be okay to drop this batch off for you!” Each syllable rolled through him like light pouring into a cave. His throat burned hotter at the sound, hunger flaring sharp and sudden. He could already taste the copper that wasn’t there yet, could imagine the heat of it sliding over his tongue–because you were human, untouched, and alive.

“God damn it,” Rhett muttered under his breath, frustration rough against his teeth. His family’s absence pressed harder on him now. He couldn’t leave the eggs outside–not in the merciless Wabang sun, where they’d spoil before anyone could return home. Royal would curse him for wasting food, and Cecilia would sigh with that quiet disappointment that gutted him worse than anger. He couldn’t let the eggs rot because of what he was.

But what choice did he have?

The door stood between him and annihilation. To open it fully, to step out even an inch into the sunlight, would mean scorching alive where he stood. His scars still remembered the agony of that mistake once before–the sear of flesh, the way he had collapsed, screaming, while Perry and Royal dragged him from the fields not knowing what was happening. He would never survive that pain again now that he was fully aware of it.

Still, he had to move, there was no choice…

He let out a sharp exhale, jaw tightening as he crossed to the door. His hand hovered on the knob for a moment, trembling faintly, before he turned it and eased it open, slow enough to move with it and slip behind it. He pressed himself flat to its shadow, using the wood as a shield to cover him completely.

The sun poured in along the floorboards in a long, blinding sweep. It hit the wood like molten gold, spilling across the grain until every groove gleamed as though the house itself had been set alight. Dust motes rose and spun in the sudden blaze, suspended in the air like tiny stars adrift in their own private constellation. Rhett’s breath caught ragged in his throat. He couldn’t feel it on his skin, couldn’t risk even a kiss of its heat without burning alive, but looking at it was enough to make his heart seize.

And in the middle of it–your shadow.

It cut through the sunlight like a dark etching, clean and perfect. The slope of your shoulders, the gentle line of your waist, the tilt of your head–they were enough to make him dizzy. Even your outline was pretty, beautiful in ways that made his throat close. He had to bite down on the inside of his cheek just to find his voice.

“Put the eggs…Just off to the side,” He rasped from behind the door, forcing the words through his cracked throat. “Beside the frame. That way I can shut the door without…Crushin’ ‘em.” He made his instructions clear and easy to follow, and you obeyed them, stepping carefully over the threshold as though you were being mindful of some sort of invisible boundary that was between his world and yours. The cartons shifted in your arms with a dull cardboard scrape shifted against the fabric of the dress you were wearing, and you crouched to set them down where he asked–neat and precise.

And that was when it hit him.

The smell.

It shattered him like glass, a tidal wave breaking through every wall he had built. For six years he had trained himself to dull his senses around his family, to numb the sharpened edges that made the world unbearable–but the second you entered that doorway, all of it broke loose. His lungs flared, his body seizing as your scent filled him whole.

Honey and oat soap clung faintly to your skin, warm and clean. Beneath it, citrus lotion bloomed, tart and bright like summer itself. But those were only the surface notes, the soft distractions. Underneath, threaded deep, came the truth of you–the heat of your blood coursing through your veins, copper-rich and unbearably alive. He could smell it as though your skin were translucent, smell the way it pulsed under the delicate surface of your wrists, your throat, and your thighs.

You sang to him in ways no one else would ever hear. The musk of pheromones whispered sharp against the sweetness of your sweat, a heady edge that told him exactly what your own body displayed–you were ovulating. Fertile. Ripe. The knowledge struck him like a fist to the gut, dragging hunger into something feral, carnal. He hadn’t been near a woman in six years. Six years starved of touch, of intimacy, of heat. Now his senses drowned in it–your hormones blooming like a second perfume in the air, his every nerve sparking with a need so sharp it bordered on agony.

It was like his body tuned into every system you carried inside you. Rhett could hear it all, as though your skin were glass and every hidden function laid bare for him. The steady push of your heart worked like a piston, pumping life through you with mechanical precision. Each contraction sent warmth flooding down into your arms, threading into your palms, surging into your legs until it curled in your toes. He could track it–the blood rushing like a river through your carotid, the delicate flutter along your wrist, the full-bodied pulse that pooled low in your abdomen.

Every breath you took fanned that rhythm, lungs drawing in summer air only to press oxygen into the flow, brightening it, heightening it, feeding your body like coal feeding a furnace. You weren’t just standing there–you were a living engine, copper and iron spinning through tubes of flesh. Rhett felt every gear turning, every chamber firing.

And it terrified him. Because he knew what it meant: you were nervous. Your heart was running just a little too fast, not the calm cadence of someone at ease but the jittery clip of someone who didn’t quite trust the situation. He heard the stumble in your thoughts, quick and anxious. That’s not Royal. Not Perry. Whose voice is that? Your suspicion rang through him, sharp as if you’d spoken it aloud.

The sheer weight of it all hit him like a flash bang. Light and sound and scent detonated at once, and for a heartbeat, he was drowning in you–your pulse, your scent, your thoughts, your voice, your warmth, your soul, and it swallowed him whole.

His throat cinched at once, clamping down like a vice. The craving lit inside him like a struck match, flaring so hot it scorched his windpipe raw. He had never tasted human blood–not once. Not unless he counted the ruinous swallows he dragged from his own veins when the hunger broke him. But that had always been a corrupted thing: foul, stagnant, bitter as mold. Nothing like this. Nothing like what was standing only a few feet from him, warm and unspoiled. The idea of the real thing–your blood, hot and coursing–made his chest constrict until every breath rasped like sandpaper.

He coughed hard, low in his chest, as if the force of it might jar the thought loose. But the burn only worsened. It licked up his esophagus like molten tar, thick and merciless. The carnal urge rose sharp and undeniable, every nerve screaming at him to drag you inside, slam the door shut, and sink his teeth into the tender curve of your throat. His body painted the picture for him without his consent: the snap of your breath, the gush of heat flooding his mouth, your pulse hammering once, twice, then dissolving into him. He could drink until the ache finally stilled. Until he was full. Until silence reigned inside him again.

Maybe she’d be okay with it, some stray, wicked thought whispered. Maybe you’d tilt your head back and let him. Maybe you’d sigh and surrender. The fantasy ripped through him so violently he had to press his forehead against the door to keep himself grounded. No. No, she wouldn’t be okay with it. She’d scream. You’d ruin her. You’d ruin yourself.

Through the hairline crack at the hinge of the door, his eyes sought you, and the sight nearly killed him.

You were an angel. That was the only word that came to him that could describe you. Sunlit, soft, achingly alive. Your features glowed in the spill of daylight like they were carved from warmth itself. The light green dress you wore clung delicate against your frame, straps thin as thread, fabric patterned with little flowers that seemed to bloom brighter just for you. The cotton skimmed your skin in a way that made his mouth water–shoulders bared, collarbones gleaming, the tender stretch of your throat pulsing with life. Every curve, every inch of exposed flesh sang to him like a hymn of access.

It was too much.

His gaze flicked lower and caught on the glint of silver at your chest. A crucifix. Tiny, polished, suspended on a fine chain that hugged the hollow of your throat. The sunlight struck it and nearly blinded him, a flare of white against skin he already ached for. It should have driven him back. Should have seared through his hunger like salt in a wound. But it didn’t. It only made him reel harder, stomach lurching, something close to awe tightening his chest.

Purity. That was what it looked like, a brand of innocence resting over the very place he longed to bite. The cross wasn’t repelling him–it was drawing him in. Making him sick with the idea of desecration, of tearing into what was sacred. He hated himself for how much more it enthralled him, how much more the gleam of silver against the line of your pulse made his fangs ache.

Easy access, his mind whispered, venomous. He wouldn’t even need to hunt. No searching, no fumbling. Every vein he could want was already offered up in plain sight. He could be fast. He could be thorough. He could make it neat. And he could hide it. He knew how to keep secrets. His family didn’t have to find out. This could be his, his alone.

The fantasy swelled so sharp that his stomach turned. He clenched his eyes shut, teeth grinding until his jaw pulsed with ache. Stop. Snap out of it. You’re not a monster. You’re not a fucking monster. Go drink your animal blood, you fiend. He scolded.

But his body didn’t listen. His thoughts drifted anyway. Drifted to you. To the heat of your flesh under the dress, to the warmth of your veins thrumming beneath, to the faint glisten of sweat he swore he could smell even though your skin looked untouched, flawless. His imagination betrayed him–how hot you’d feel beneath his hands, how soft your throat would give, how sweet your pulse would taste when it burst over his tongue.

His throat squeezed until he nearly gagged on air.

And then you spoke again.

“Sorry, but…Do you happen to have the payment as well? It’s usually fifteen dollars.” Your voice was gentle, almost shy when asking, and it ripped him clean out of his spiral. Reality slammed into him–mundane, human, utterly ordinary. Payment. Money. His heart staggered, his head dropping against the doorframe with a dull thud. Fuck. The payment.

He dragged a shaking hand across his forehead, trying to think through the static.

“Yeah…Just give me a second, okay?” His voice came out cracked, “I’m going to close the door for a moment, I promise I’ll be back. I just need to grab the money.” He could sense the hesitation instantly–the way your heart picked up a nervous clip, stuttering against your ribs like a trapped sparrow. He could hear it. He could feel it. The sound ran through him like a drumbeat, echoing sharp inside his skull, each thud pushing him closer to the edge. Your thoughts brushed against him too, jittery and suspicious, tumbling over themselves in staccato bursts. Cecilia never mentioned another man lived at the house…Who the hell am I speaking to?

The words stabbed at him, more painful than he wanted to admit. Because you were right–Cecilia never mentioned him. No one in this town even knew he still existed. He was a secret rotting behind boarded windows, a ghost with a pulse, and that was just how he needed to be.

“Oh…Okay.” You replied softly. Through the slim hairline crack he was peeking through, he saw the movement of your face as you bit the inside of your cheek–a tiny, nervous gesture, but it lit him up like a brand. His vision tunneled on that small indentation in your skin. The fragile flesh giving way beneath your teeth. The possibility–however slight–that you might pierce through and draw blood.

If she does, you’re toast, he hissed at himself, throat tightening so hard it felt like rope. One drop. One taste of copper, and he wouldn’t have the strength to keep himself behind the door.

Panic snapped his control into motion. He shut the door quickly–too quickly, maybe, the wood slamming against the frame with more force than he’d meant. He didn’t give himself time to dwell on your startled inhale. His body already carried him across the dim kitchen, movements sharp, desperate. He reached high, hands trembling as he grabbed the egg money jar from the top of the fridge. Glass clinked, coins rattling. His fingers dove inside, fishing out a folded twenty-dollar bill.

He clutched it tight enough to crumple it, then rushed back to the door, chest heaving as though he had sprinted miles. His throat burned like he had swallowed fire. With one hand, he fumbled the bill onto the top of the cartons stacked by the frame. Only then did he risk pulling the door open again, slipping back behind its shadow like a sinner ducking beneath a confessional’s screen.

He could hear your heart lurch slightly at the sight of the bill, a little misstep in rhythm that sounded deafening to him, like a cymbal crash in the hush of the house. Then came the shift of fabric, the faint slide of leather straps as your hand moved toward the crossbody bag at your hip. He could picture it without seeing: your fingers working at the zipper, fumbling inside for bills or coins, the small metallic clink of change waiting to fall into your palm.

“You can keep the difference,” He rasped, forcing the words out quick and hard, a blade of sound through the crack.

He heard you pause. A beat of silence that felt like forever. Then your voice, soft and almost startled:

“Oh…It’s no trouble, I can get you the change.”

Rhett’s throat screamed. It was more than a burn now–it was a roar, a wildfire trying to claw its way out of him. His body shook with it, every muscle taut with restraint. He could see it in his mind–your hand extending into the threshold again, your veins so close he could lean forward and tear in before you had time to gasp, he’d risk getting burned by the sun to taste you.

“It’s okay!” He blurted, louder than he meant, voice cracking, frantic. “It’s for your troubles.”

The silence that followed nearly killed him. He could hear your heartbeat galloping faster, the nervous flutter making your pulse stammer like a frightened bird’s wings. And then–God help him–he saw it through the hairline crack. The way your lips pressed tight, teeth catching on the soft swell of your lower lip. A nervous habit, innocent and human, but it lit him up like a brand. He imagined the faint sting you must have felt, the way blood might bloom beneath the skin if you bit too hard.

“Okay…Well…Thank you, that’s very kind.” Your voice cut the air, calm but carrying that careful edge of nerves. He watched you bend down, saw your hand reach in and pluck the folded bill from atop the cartons with a featherlight touch. You tucked it away, your movements precise, deliberate. “I hope you have a good day.”

The words nearly unmade him. Simple, ordinary, but warm–so warm he almost believed them.

“You as well…” Rhett croaked, the words scraping like gravel from his throat. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, ruined and desperate.

Before he could think twice, he slammed the door. The wood cracked shut, the lock sliding home in a sharp metallic click. Safe. Contained. He braced against it for a second, forehead pressed to the panel, chest heaving like he had just outrun something that hunted him.

The eggs stayed abandoned by the frame, untouched. He couldn’t bring himself to move them–not yet. He couldn’t prolong this. Not even by a heartbeat.

The hunger snapped loose inside him like a whip, vicious and demanding. He staggered across the kitchen, feet dragging, chest hitching with ragged breaths. His hands fumbled at the counter, seizing one of the butcher’s containers with such force the lid almost cracked under his grip. He tore it open, plastic whining, and pressed it to his mouth.

The first gulp was fire.

Thick, coagulated, metallic, and sharp with iron, it rushed down his throat like molten copper, searing, burning, but soothing in its cruelty. He drank hard, gulp after gulp, throat convulsing around the flood. Each swallow was loud, obscene, echoing in the quiet house. Blood smeared his lips, dripped from the corners of his mouth, streaked his chin. He didn’t stop to wipe it. He couldn’t stop at all.

He tipped the container higher, throat working with greedy, guttural pulls until air caught between swallows, until his chest heaved like bellows. He moaned low, rough, almost broken, as though the act of drinking itself hurt even as it healed. His hand shook around the plastic, knuckles bone-white, but he drained it down, not daring to waste a single drop.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

Because you lingered.

Even as he leaned against the counter, panting, the container limp in his hand, he could still smell you. The soap, the lotion, the bright copper of your pulse. It threaded through the kitchen air like smoke, curling in his lungs until it was all he could taste, even over the blood.

He could still hear your voice, bright and soft, replaying like a hymn in the cavern of his skull. He could still feel the phantom of your heartbeat, rattling like a drum against his bones. He could still taste the imagined sweetness of you, warm and alive, a taste he had never had but now knew he would crave until it destroyed him.

It came out rushed, all in one breath. You were silent for a moment, before you reached for his hands, clasping them gently. “You mean, like, consensual non-consent?”

He nodded quickly, eyes wide. “Yes. Yes, that. Are you okay with it?” He so desperately needed to hear your consent. Because wanting this…it sort of frightened him. Made him think that perhaps something was wrong with him for having such depraved desires. Really, who would get off on their partner begging them to stop? Even if it was consensual? 

But you knew he’d spiral, because you knew him well. You seemed to be one of the only people who truly understood what went on behind those beautiful? stormy eyes of him. You hummed, sliding off the barstool, moving into his space. “Don’t you start that mental spiral, Robert Reynolds.” Your pointer finger lovingly tapped the end of his button nose. “I’d love to try CNC with you.”

The furrow in his brow softened, and his mouth parted slightly, relief palpable in his features. “Oh, thank goodness. I was worried maybe it was too much.” That was his insecurity speaking. The fear that one day, he would be too much for you to handle, and you’d slip away. Of course, that fear was irrational, and he knew that. After all, he’d been talking to his therapist lately in detail about his fear of abandonment. He was making progress, but sometimes, that insecurity still got the better of him. 

Lovingly, your hand was pressed to his cheek, thumb brushing beneath his left eye, which had a tendency to twitch slightly when he was worried about something. “Nothing you asked for could ever be too much. You know I want to explore anything and everything with you.” You wanted to be his safe space. The one person he could go to without fear of judgment. 

“I know that. I just…I dunno, I kinda went down a rabbit hole on that one, uh, erotic fiction site you showed me, and—”

“Literotica?” You replied with a slight knowing smirk. The two of you had spent many a night scrolling through that site, reading all sorts of debauched erotica together. It had resulted in some very intense love making between the two of you. 

His cheeks reddened again, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, I came across the CNC genre and I read a few of the stories, and they were all so hot. I couldn’t stop imagining doing all of it to you.”

“Yeah?” You leaned in closer, eyes drifting to his lips, hand dropping so your thumb could trace the pink softness. 

“Uh-huh.” His brain seemed to short-circuit a moment before he continued. “I was thinkin’, maybe we could—”

“Oh, ‘scuse me, sorry to interrupt whatever you two lovebirds have going on,” the sharp, smug tone came from the doorway, and in an instant, Bob gasped, yanking you against his side, almost protectively. 

“What do you want?” He asked, more of an edge to his tone than he intended. But he didn’t want John Walker being made privy to your intimate life. He didn’t want the blonde even thinking about you in such a vulnerable state. Of course, John would never try to make a move on you, he was respectful of your relationship, and he wasn’t interested in you like that. But for whatever reason, Bob couldn’t handle the idea of Walker picturing your sex life. It made his skin crawl. 

And, most of all, he didn’t want John hearing what you’d just been talking about. That was for your ears only, and Bob was mortified at the thought of anyone else hearing him admit he wanted you to pretend you didn’t want it. What would they think of him, if they knew he had such dark desires?

John eyed Bob for a moment, brow raised. “Relax, buddy. I was just teasing.” 

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t funny,” Bob clipped. 

You eyed your boyfriend for a moment, placing a gentle, careful hand on his chest. Don’t engage. 

“Tell your guard dog to stand down,” Walked told you, as he ducked into the fridge to grab a bottle of Gatorade. 

Bob stiffened beside you, but you tugged at the front of his shirt, shaking your head. He and Walker had a much better relationship than they did when they first met. The two might even be considered good friends. However, John still knew how to get under Bob’s skin. Sometimes, he did it on purpose. Other times, it was genuinely unintentional. This time, it was definitely unintentional. He was merely joking around. 

But because of the intimacy of the moment you had shared before John walked in, Bob was a little more on edge. He didn’t like that the precious interaction had been shattered. Granted, it probably wasn’t the best idea to discuss it in the middle of the kitchen, a communal space, but you had believed you were truly alone. Clearly, you’d been wrong. 

“Who’s getting a dog?” Yelena’s voice carried through the room as she entered the kitchen, freshly showered after a sparring session, dressed in a soft gray t-shirt and terry cloth shorts. 

“No one,” Bob muttered, grip tightening on your waist. 

“I interrupted their make out session,” John clarified as he cracked open his drink. 

Yelena smirked slightly, mischief in her eyes. “Oh. You know, I think Walker here is jealous,” she teased. She wasn’t about to gang up on Bob. Walker, however, was fair game. 

“I am not,” the super soldier scoffed. 

“Yes, you are. Anytime these two show affection, you have to comment. In my mind, that equals jealousy,” she countered. 

John shot back a response, but you tuned it out, gaze drifting back to Bob. He still hadn’t relaxed beside you. His jaw was hard set, his eyes were narrow. He clearly wasn’t enjoying the little teasing banter going back and forth. So, as Yelena and John went back and forth with each other, you took his hand, gently guiding him out of the room. The bickering pair hardly noticed. 

Padding down the hallway that led to your shared room, you were quiet, and you didn’t speak until the bedroom door was shut firmly behind you. 

“Hey, Walker was just being his usual asshole self, he didn’t mean—”

“No, I know he was just messing with us. But…” He trailed off, as if afraid to speak his mind. 

The bed was soft beneath your thighs as you took a seat upon it, patting the spot next to you. Bob filled it, sitting shoulder to shoulder with you. 

“But what?”

The sigh that left him was deep. “It was stupid of me to bring up something that intimate in a public space. I should’ve pulled you aside privately.”

“Hey, it’s okay, we thought we were alone. How were you to know Walker’d come barging in?”

“That’s not—” Another sigh. “I guess I just hate the thought of anyone hearing about our sex life. Least of all him. I don’t want him picturing you like that. He doesn’t…he doesn’t deserve to even think of you the way I get to see you. That’s for my mind, and my eyes only.”

You were quiet for a moment, letting his words settle. It wasn’t possessiveness. It was protectiveness. 

It appeared that he wanted to continue, so you didn’t interrupt. You just let him talk, let him have the floor. 

“I also don’t want anyone to hear about what we, um, explore in the bedroom. If anyone heard what I asked for in the kitchen…god, they’d be horrified. I mean, I know you want me to explore my desires and all that, and I’m grateful. But what if something is wrong with me, for wanting this? I just asked you to act like you don’t want it. Is that not a little fucked up?” 

There was genuine concern on his face. 

“Bob.”

He looked at you. 

“Do you truly believe it’s fucked up? Or are you just afraid that’s what others might think?” 

“I don’t know. I, uh, I guess it’s a little of both? When I was reading those stories, I couldn’t stop thinking about you in situations like that. Helpless under me, begging me to stop. Does it make me a bad person, thinking of you that way?” Genuine fear washed over his face, as if he hadn’t considered it before this moment. 

Immediately, you turned your body fully toward him. “Don’t even go there. It doesn’t make you a bad person at all. You communicated a desire to me, and I told you I’d be willing to try it. Because as much as you’re into it, I’m into it too. Do you think I’m a bad person?”

“No. God, no. You’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met.” Conviction was heavy in his tone. 

“Then there’s your answer. Just because you have a more ‘taboo’ desire doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re expressing it in a healthy way, with a loving partner, where consent and boundaries were discussed beforehand. There’s no reason to be ashamed. I love you, and I’ll never judge you for expressing your desires.”

His eyes grew misty, tears shimmering along his lash line. “I love you too.” Then he lowered his head, gathering himself. “It’s just that, sometimes, when I have these desires, I get scared that maybe they’re coming from…him.”

He didn’t have to say his name for you to know who he was talking about. An extension of his own psyche. A manifestation of his insecurity, doubt, and self-loathing. While The Void hadn’t made an appearance in a year and a half, Bob knew he was never truly gone. He was still there, lurking in the edges of his subconscious.  

It didn’t happen often, because with months of therapy, the proper dosages of medication, and a solid support system, Bob had managed to get a handle on those soaring highs and horrific lows. Still, he had moments where he was terrified that the darkness would return full force. 

He could often ignore the voice of self-doubt. Or, at least, it wasn’t as loud as it had been before. But moments like these, raw and open, where he was at his most vulnerable, the voice would creep in. Whispers here and there. 

“You aren’t good enough for her.”

“You’re going to scare her off with all these filthy desires of yours.”

“What kind of man wants the person he loves to beg him to stop?”

But you were there, hands bracketing his face, eyes boring into his own. “He’s not here, Bob. I won’t let him lie to you again. You’re a good man. A loving man. Expressing your needs and desires is healthy and safe. I know you’d never hurt me. I trust you, and I want to try this scenario out with you, if you’re up to it.”

A shuddering breath escaped his lungs. Hearing you tell him that you trusted him always set off something deep inside himself. You’d given your heart to him, set it right in his trembling hands, because you knew he would handle it with care and tenderness. He’d never break it. 

“I am up to it,” he whispered in response. “But I don’t know where to start.”

Once again, you took his hands in your own. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out together,” came your gentle reassurance. “Let’s start by you telling me how you want the scene to play out.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “Well, uh, in the stories that I read, they usually involved chase scenes. Like, the guy would chase his girl down and kind of, um, overpower her.”

You considered that for a moment. “Okay, so you like more of a predator, prey situation.”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“Yeah. I’m down for it. But I don’t know where exactly we could do that, since the hallways have cameras.” You were quiet for a moment as you mulled over the possibilities. 

“I thought about that too. Maybe we could—”

“Wait!” You suddenly interrupted. “I have an idea.”

One Week Later

“Bob and I are going on a road trip.”

It was an announcement made to the team one morning at the breakfast table. One of the few times in the day when everyone was together in one room. 

They all looked at you as you set your plate down at the table, right next to the aforementioned man. 

“Since when?” Walker asked. 

“Since like, five days ago, when I booked us an Airbnb.” You spread butter across your muffin as if you’d just said the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Just the two of you?” Bucky’s voice carried across the room, where he stood with a freshly poured cup of coffee. 

“Yep,” came your response. 

“No way Valentina said yes to that,” Ava piped up, over the rim of her matcha glass. 

“That’s where I might’ve…stretched the truth a little bit.” You were a bit sheepish as you set your butter knife on the edge of your plate. 

“So, you’re saying you lied.” Bucky’s voice again. Closer now, as he crossed the room. A brow was raised. Suspicion swam in his eyes. 

“I maybe, sort of, told her that The Void was threatening to come back, and that Bob would benefit from some time away from everything.”

“The Void is back?” Alexei asked, spoon hovering over his bowl of Wheaties. He’d only been half listening to the conversation, it seemed. 

“No,” John replied, “apparently they’re using it as a ruse to get out of work.”

Your gaze snapped to him. “What work, huh Walker? We haven’t been sent out on a mission in weeks. Us being gone a few days won’t hurt anything.”

“You can’t just use The Void as a get out of jail free card,” he muttered. 

“Val wouldn’t have let us leave otherwise. So, if she asks, you can all vouch for us and tell her that Void was returning, and Bob needed time away.”

Yelena, who’d been observing quietly, in true ‘I’m not a morning person’ fashion, finally spoke. “Quit causing a stink over it. If they want some time away, they should take it. Lord knows we’re all insufferable, and it’s a little hard to enjoy your relationship when you’re living with five other people and you have little to no privacy.”  

Beside you, Bob’s eyes drifted across the table, and he shot the woman a grateful smile. She nodded in acknowledgment. 

“We aren’t trying to slack off,” he decided to offer his two cents. “If you guys end up getting an assignment, we’ll come back as soon as possible to help. But we just want some time to ourselves, and we hope you understand that.”

“Alright. If Val asks, you’re off in the mountains battling your demons,” Bucky relented. 

“Yeah, what he said,” Ava chimed in with a smile. 

“I am happy to lie for you both!” Came Alexei’s enthusiastic response. 

“Whatever. Your secret’s safe with me,” John agreed with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

You beamed, reaching for Bob’s hand beneath the table. “Thanks guys. I really appreciate it.”

And that was how you found yourself packing your tiny Volkswagen Jetta with a week’s worth of supplies. Much to your surprise, Bob was not a light packer. Most of his clothes were bulky, and took up a lot of space in his bags. Sweatshirts, sweatpants, various hoodies and cozy pajamas. 

As he eased his two overstuffed duffel bags into the trunk, you caught sight of the sock monkey plush you’d gotten him for his birthday, peaking out of the side pocket. Though he had you with him, he still preferred to bring a comfort item. This was his first time being away from the Tower for an extended period of time. He’d been on overnight missions, but this was different. This was a leisure trip, and he’d never gone on one of those. 

The last time he could remember a family vacation was when his mother took him to a tiny beachfront house on Sarasota Beach. His father had gone on a rare work trip, and Annie had decided a little overnight beach visit would do her and her boy some good. It was one of the few fond memories Bob had with just his mother. They’d collected seashells, and watched tiny white crabs scuttle along the sand. And for a small moment in time, his mother seemed genuinely happy. 

He was a man now. Many years removed from that beach trip. He’d endured much hardship since then. But this time, the trip he was going on wasn’t an escape from his abusive father. There was no fear in his bones as he helped you pack the car up. He felt at ease. At peace. 

And when he caught you eyeing the sock monkey in his duffel, he offered a sheepish smile. “Thought he might like a change of scenery. He’s never been away from the Tower,” he joked. 

You giggled, stepping toward him, tucking yourself against his side. “I’m sure he’ll have a great time,” you replied, without missing a beat. 

Leaning your head back, you sought out his lips, and he kissed you sweetly. He was warm and snuggly in a pair of thin sweatpants and a light sweater. There was a ball cap on his head, holding his unruly curls back. He looked so domestic, and it made your heart clench in your chest. 

“C’mon, beautiful boy. Let’s hit the road,” you said. 

As you slammed the trunk shut, Bob rounded the car to open your door for you. He loved showing up for you in the little things. Making you snacks. Filling up your water bottle at night. Setting out your pajamas. Opening doors for you. Subtle ways of taking care of you. You let him do it, because it had been a long time since anyone had cared for you, and Bob found great comfort in being able to look out for you. 

His mouth curved into a sweet smile as you slid into the driver’s seat, and he pushed the door shut only after you were settled. Quick on his feet, he reached the passenger side in seconds, long legs just barely fitting in the foot well of your car. 

“Sorry, my car isn’t really made for long-legged beauties such as yourself,” you teased, at which Bob’s cheeks warmed.

“It’s fine, I can still fit.”

A beat of silence. Then, “that’s what she said.”

The two of you melted into a fit of giggles, like a pair of twelve-year-olds. “Okay, okay, sorry. You have everything?” You finally asked after you’d stopped laughing at your own joke. 

Grinning widely, Bob nodded. “Yeah, I’m all set, honey.”

Your laughter died down completely at the pet name. He’d been calling you that for months now, but it never got old. It always sent your heart fluttering in your chest. 

“Alright. Let’s get outta here. First stop is coffee, I need something to get me through this drive.” You nudged the gear into drive, heading out of the parking garage that was attached to the Tower. 

“I can drive if you get sleepy,” Bob offered, half joking. 

“With what license?” You deadpanned, turning out onto the main road after clearing the gates. 

“Hey, if I’m careful, no one will know I don’t have one,” he insisted. 

“Yeah, right. The last thing we need is to get pulled over when we’re trying to be low-key and not raise Val’s suspicions.” 

“Just don’t fall asleep on the road. That way we don’t have to put my driving skills to the test,” Bob concluded with a grin. 

Bob’s license had been revoked years ago, and although Val herself had offered to pull some strings and have his record wiped clean, which would have afforded him the ability to get a new driver’s license, Bob had declined. He would own up to the wrongs he had committed, he didn’t want them swept under the rug. 

He’d never really liked driving, anyway. It made him anxious. He was perfectly content to be your ‘passenger princess’ as you’d jokingly dubbed him. He took that role very seriously and always made sure to choose the best snacks when you went out on movie night snack runs. 

“Can we go to Rising Star?” He asked, referring to your shared favorite coffee shop. 

It was your turn to grin. “That’s exactly where I’m headed. Thought we could get a couple of their pastries too. I know you’re probably starving.”

As if on cue, his stomach growled, and he giggled shyly. “Yeah, I am.” He was used to eating a hearty, protein rich breakfast each morning. He’d found that the Sentry serum gave him a very sizable appetite, and he had to make sure he ate enough to keep up with his metabolism. 

A breakfast pit stop was very important. Otherwise, you’d have a very hungry Bob on your hands, and when that happened, he got agitated, and his blood sugar would drop low enough to make his hands shake. 

Thankfully, he wouldn’t go hungry this morning. At the coffee shop, his eyes were wide as they settled on the glass bakery case. He was already rattling off which ones he wanted to try, body pressed against your back, one large hand wrapped around your hip. While he was perfectly fine being out in public, busy settings did make him a bit anxious, and he often found himself needing to touch you in some way to keep himself grounded. 

“So, basically, you want me to buy the entire case?” You teased. 

He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, it all just looks so good.”

In the end, you did in fact buy every baked good on the menu. Plus, two iced lattes. Vanilla bean for Bob. His favorite. He hadn’t tried any other latte flavorings here, because he was afraid to stray from his favorite and end up with something he hated. Vanilla was always a safe flavor to stick with. 

Back in the car, Bob was already opening one of the bags full of baked goods, choosing what looked most appealing before he selected one for you. You got settled, playlist going in the background (a compilation of songs Bob had titled ‘super secret road trip’), enjoying your sugary treats as you headed toward the highway. 

You’d booked a little cabin near Whiteface Mountain. Together, you had browned the Airbnb website one night, cuddled side by side, combing through options. You wanted something secluded. Private. Because what you had planned required such privacy. 

“What if you chased me through the woods?” You’d suggested, after he told you he liked the idea of chasing you. “It would feel a lot more realistic. And there would be no one around for miles. No cameras, no nosy neighbors.”

He couldn’t hide the way his eyes darkened slightly. At the same time, his throat went dry. “Y-yeah. Yeah, that sounds like fun.”

You’d been to Whiteface Mountain as a teenager, and you remembered its splendor vividly. Lush green trees, fresh, cool air, breathtaking beauty. Not only would it be the perfect place for you and Bob to enact your little escapade, but it would also be very relaxing. A true vacation. 

Together, you settled on a clean, modern chalet in the middle of the woods. It was gorgeous, but still modest and simple. Perfect for what you and Bob needed. You’d booked it for an entire week, which was perhaps a bit excessive, but you decided that the two of you deserved it. It had been a long year and a half, and not all of it had been easy. 

In fact, you’d been through hell to get to this point. Many tears had been shed. Nights spent holding Bob in your arms as he sobbed and wailed and moaned from the agony of what he’d done. What The Void had done. 

Initially, he hadn’t remembered the events of New York. But they came to him in flashes. Painful. Violent. Searing headaches that would crackle behind his eyes, forcing him to relive the memories. 

Those had been dark times. Troubling times. Often, he would find himself buckled on the floor of his bedroom, trembling, aching, sobbing. The pain was too much to bear. There were moments where Bob wasn’t sure he had the strength to push through it. 

But you always believed in him. And even in his most vulnerable moments, when his ribs cracked open to reveal the ugliness of his own soul (at least, that was what he believed), you didn’t turn your back on him. You stayed by his side, unwavering. 

It meant more to him than you could ever know. 

It wasn’t love, at first. It was support. Quiet words of encouragement. Sitting beside him in silence when he couldn’t be alone. Showing up in big and small ways, like driving him to his therapy appointments, or advocating for him when he froze up in front of others. 

You gave him the space he needed to figure things out on his own, but you made sure he knew that you were there to guide him through whatever storms life brought his way. The progression was slow, and not linear. He had some good days, and many difficult ones. 

The journey had been arduous. Extensive therapy sessions, trying to figure out the right array of medications to help manage his symptoms, seeing countless doctors and professionals who were well-versed in handling people who had been given super soldier serums. 

There were times when he felt like he was losing himself, becoming just another set of numbers and statistics on a stack of medical papers. And in those moments, you were the only one who saw him. Not his symptoms. Him. Robert Reynolds. 

He didn’t mean to fall in love with. In fact, he didn’t even realize that it was happening. Not until he sat on the roof beside you one night, gazing up at the stars. It was there, under that sparkling velvet sky, that he became truly aware of just how important you were to him. Not just as a friend. But as something more. 

The realization that he was in love with you hit him like a blow to the chest. It knocked the wind out of him. Stole the oxygen right out of his lungs. Every atom in his being trembled with the gravity of this knowledge. As if his bloodstream was made out of steel shavings, and you were a magnet dragging across his skin, attracting those tiny particles of metal

But it didn’t scare him. In fact, it was strangely comforting. Knowing he loved you. Not just enjoyed your company, or tolerated your presence. No, he adored you. In a safe, warm, lovely way that made his heart sing, and his mind glow as if the sun had managed to sneak into his skull. 

He was overjoyed, and he attributed that to the fact that this was the first time in his life that he’d had any sort of relationship, platonic or otherwise, that was truly healthy. He wasn’t dependent upon you, as he had been on people in the past when he was in the throes of his addiction. He wasn’t obligated to love you, as he had felt when it came to loving his parents. Loving you came easily, naturally. It was pure, and good, and wonderful. 

There was never a dramatic confession. No scene of him falling to his knees before you, professing his undying love. No running toward each other in a misty field as the sun rose behind your shoulders. 

It was almost…underwhelming, in a way. But for the two of you, it was perfect.

It happened one night, as you sat beside each other on the couch in the common room, cups of tea cradled in your hands, blankets strewn over your laps. The rest of the team had already retired to their respective quarters, and that left the two of you entirely alone.

Bob watched you, in the light of the television glow, and the words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them. “I’m falling in love with you.” Blunt. To the point. But he didn’t regret them. They felt right, leaving his mouth, and they settled between you like the steam from your tea, heady and warm. 

You stared at him for a moment, processing his words. And then, you smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm. “I’m falling in love with you too, Bo.”

And that was it. The natural profession of events between you soon led to spending more time together. Showing physical affection. Going on little outings together, such as walks in the park or visits to ice cream parlors. 

The day he asked you to be his, you had just come to the end of a walk through Central Park. The sun was setting, casting its golden glow through the trees. If the light caught just right, you could see gold flecks shimmering in his irises. 

“I, uh, I’ve been thinkin’,” he told you, cheeks a little pink. “We’ve been getting really close lately, and I really like spending time with you.” 

You couldn’t help but smile. “I like spending time with you too.”

He, too, smiled shyly at you. “What if we made things official?”

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend, Bob?” You asked, heart quickening in your chest.

He nodded, a little sheepish, but he never broke eye contact with you. “Yes. Will you be my girlfriend?”

Then came your reply. “Only if you’ll be my boyfriend.”

At that, his smile turned into a wide grin, and it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. “So that’s a yes, then?”

You threw your arms around his neck. “It’s a very emphatic yes.”

Oh, how far you’d come since then. Now, here you were, on your very first road trip together, doing things that normal couples did. It felt surreal, in a way. But wonderful. Utterly wonderful. 

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” Bob spoke from the passenger seat, where he was currently wrapped up in a soft blanket. “I can’t wait to have a whole house to ourselves.” He left out the part where he was eager for you both to be as loud as you wanted. 

“Me too. Sometimes it feels like there’s no privacy in the Tower,” you agreed, as you signaled to switch lanes. 

“You’re tellin’ me. I love the team but they’re all terrible about minding their own business.”

A beat passed before a grin slowly spread across your face. “We won’t have to be quiet anymore,” came your revelation. 

Out of the corner of your vision, you saw his wide eyes go even wider still. “Oh. You’re right.” For so long, sex had been quiet between the two of you. Bob often had to shove his large hand over your mouth to keep you quiet, while he bit down on your shoulder to keep himself quiet. 

All the fancy renovations, and Val hadn’t thought to make the walls soundproof. You were perpetually pissed about that. 

The only time you got to be loud was if the rest of the team was gone, and that didn’t happen often. So, muffled whimpers, moans, and gasps were what you had to settle on. And oh, how difficult that was. Because Bob always hit it so good. Pistoning deep with that gorgeous, thick cock of his. And it took everything in you not to scream for him. 

He felt the same. Being enveloped in your velvet slick was enough to have his eyes rolling back in his head, and when he came, he had to fight not to shout your name. But here, nestled in the mountains, you wouldn’t have to worry about your volume anymore. 

The thought of that made Bob’s heart flutter in his chest. 

“I keep thinking about the scene,” he admitted. In between moments of conversation, when comfortable silence settled between you, he’d been imagining the roleplay you’d carefully planned out together. 

“Which part are you most excited about?” You asked, grabbing your half empty coffee cup to take a sip, grimacing at how watered down it had become. 

For a moment, he was quiet. You stole a glance at him, and saw his cheeks had gone pink. “Chasing you.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m looking forward to that too. I think it’ll really get our adrenaline flowing.”

He hummed in agreement, gaze drifting to watch the long stretch of highway. After a minute or two, he spoke again. “Thank you for making this happen. You didn’t have to do all this, but you did it anyway.” He wasn’t used to someone caring so deeply for him, to the point where they would willingly change up their routine just to try out something he wanted to do. 

“You don’t have to thank me, Bob. Really, I’m happy to do this with you.”

He reached across the console, placing his hand on your thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I love you so much. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

It was the truth. He’d never felt more comfortable and at ease around anyone, than he felt with you. You were a constant source of love, support, and encouragement. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d ever had that before. 

Prior to you, he’d never experienced a genuine, safe, intimate connection before. He wasn’t proud of the man he was before. He was ashamed at the lengths he had gone to just to get another fix. Sometimes, sex was part of those lengths. He did what he felt he had to, to survive. 

Other times, he would fall into bed with someone, both him and the partner high out of their minds. He barely remembered those nights. They were just flashes, small remembrances of unfulfilling, impersonal sex that left him feeling used and hollow.

He was so used to it. It had become so normalized in his own mind, that when he slept with you for the first time, he hardly knew what to do with himself. The love and tenderness you showed him was more overwhelming than any kind of intense sex he could have participated in. 

During the come down, he’d sobbed. Deep, shuddering, painful sobs that dislodged from his chest and rippled through his body. You’d held him in your arms, cradling him close, assuring him that he was safe, that you wouldn’t let him go.

But it wasn’t that he felt unsafe. Far from it. “I-I never knew that it could feel this loved,” he’d whispered to you, face buried against the side of your neck. 

That broke you. 

You grieved for him, because he’d been so robbed of the love he deserved. But you pledged right then and there that you would show him what it felt like to be cherished, respected, and adored. And since then, you had shown him that, and so much more. 

He couldn’t imagine his life without you. It felt as if he’d been searching for you for all this time, and now that he had you, he never wanted to let go. You provided him with a safe place, free of judgment, to be himself. He could express his feelings, needs, and desires without fear of being mocked and ridiculed for it.

And he, in turn, offered you his unwavering support and devotion. You were precious to him, and he made sure you knew that. 

Being able to have you all to himself for an entire week sounded like a dream. And not just because you were going to embark on a brand new sexual endeavor. It was because he would get uninterrupted time with you. No prying eyes, no teasing from anyone. Just you and him, completely alone. 

Free to be yourselves. 

He already felt lighter, away from the tower. As if a weight had been lifted. He loved each one of his teammates dearly. They’d seen him at his worst, and still stuck by him, and he was grateful for that. But he’d gone from being strictly on his own, to being surrounded by these people almost twenty-four-seven, and sometimes, he just needed some peace and quiet. 

It was nothing a trip to the mountains couldn’t fix. 

The mountains were quiet. Peaceful. In the past, he would have been afraid of silence. It was deafening. Vast. Open. An invitation for the darkness in his mind to overcome him. But ever since you had come into his life, he no longer feared silence. In fact, he cherished it. 

He found that he could sit with you, in utter peace and quiet, not a word traded between you, and find comfort. Silence with you was never heavy or burdensome. It was comfortable, easy, welcome. You didn’t need to fill the gaps in conversation. You didn’t need to entertain each other. You could just…be. And Bob loved that. 

An entire week of easy quiet sounded glorious. And as you finally neared the mountain range, he found his heart quickening in his chest. Not from anxiety, but from eagerness and awe. A sense of peace washed over him as he took in the sight of the earth jutting up toward the sky, its cap dusted with snow. It reminded him of powdered sugar.

“There it is,” you breathed in wonder. 

“It’s beautiful,” he echoed, eyes shimmering. 

It took you another thirty minutes to get up to the area where your cabin was, and you stopped in the cozy little ski town to buy some essentials for the week, such as meal items and snacks. Later, when you finally pulled into the long, gravel drive leading up to the cabin, you were floored. It was even more beautiful than it had been in the pictures. A quaint, modestly sized A-frame cabin, with a dark green tin roof that complimented the surrounding rich green foliage. 

“Whoa,” came Bob’s quiet remark. “I can’t believe we get to stay here.”

You grinned as you shifted the gear into park. “Me neither. C’mon, let’s check it out.”

You both climbed out of the car, shoes crunching against gravel as you approached the cabin. The air was clear, cool, and quiet. Birds sang in the trees. Water flowed somewhere nearby. 

Standing there, surrounded by trees and wildlife and everything in between, Bob took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and smiled. “This feels like heaven,” he whispered, as if speaking louder would disturb the quiet. When he met your gaze, there was deep gratitude shining in his irises. “Thank you.”

You were moving toward him, taking his hand, fingers intertwining. “Anything for you, Bo.”

That made his heart sing.

The two of you were quick to get settled. You wasted no time in typing in the code on the keypad on the front door, and once inside, you were greeted with warm wood tones, cozy rugs, a plush couch, a fireplace framed with large gray stones, and all sorts of charming little things you would find in a traditional log cabin.

You worked together to bring in luggage and groceries, and within the hour, you were all settled. Bob was overjoyed, relishing in every single second he had alone with you. He was determined to make the most of it all, and he wouldn’t take a moment of it for granted. 

The first night in that cabin was calm and domestic. You had agreed to give yourselves time to settle in before you carried out the CNC scene you had planned. Bob grew a little antsy every time he pictured the scene. He was so eager to enact it, but there was still a part of him that was slightly apprehensive. Although you had assured him you were into it, and that there was nothing wrong with him for wanting to try it, that nagging little voice in the back of his mind still made him question his own desires.

Thank goodness you were there to chase the doubt away. 

“We can stop at any time,” you had assured him. “That’s why we’ve got a color system and a safeword. Both of us have control over how long the scene goes.”

There was a reason you had meticulously planned the scene out. That way there wasn’t even a modicum of doubt between either of you. Bob knew your limits, and you knew his. You trusted each other implicitly. And that was something he took very seriously. Your trust in him. It was so deeply important to him, because if he didn’t have your trust, he had nothing. 

It was not lost on him, that you would allow him to enact this scene with you. Your consent was sacred to him, and he would never exploit it. 

“Ready for tomorrow night?” You asked him, as you climbed into bed together after a comforting dinner of grilled cheese. 

He hummed as you snuggled into his side. “Yeah. I’m kinda nervous, too.”

“Why?” You let your palm rest against his chest, your head on his shoulder. Your tone wasn’t accusatory or impatient. You were merely curious about his hang ups.

“I dunno, I don’t want to mess things up, I guess. What if we start the scene, and I can’t go through with it? Then all this will have been for nothing.”

You lifted your head, fingers tilting his chin toward you. “Hey, you won’t mess anything up. If we start the scene and you can’t go through with it, that’s okay. We can just do it another time. Or we can scrap the scene altogether. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

“Just…don’t wanna disappoint you.”

“You won’t.” You were adamant about that. 

Your assurance seemed to give him peace of mind, and soon, you both settled in to sleep, bodies curled around one another, safe and warm. 

The next morning started like any other would. Quiet, slow, relaxed. You woke up naturally, with no help of an alarm. Breakfast was pancakes, one of Bob’s favorite foods. He took his with lots of syrup and butter.

After breakfast, the two of you got ready for the day and headed out to explore the little ski town. It overlooked the entirety of the valley below, and the view was breathtaking no matter which direction you went. 

Throughout the entire morning and afternoon, Bob was buzzing with barely contained energy. So were you. One would think you were two kids excited for Christmas morning. On the contrary, you were merely excited for your boyfriend to chase you through the woods.

You had no idea that your plans would be foiled that night.

The weather was clear all day, not a single cloud in the sky. The weather app on your phone didn’t even show a chance of rain whatsoever. However, much to your dismay, when you returned to the cabin that evening, the sky had begun to darken with approaching storm clouds.

“Guess we’d better hurry things along. Looks like a nasty storm is moving in,” you told Bob as you unlocked the door. 

His eyes lingered on the sky, and an uneasy look passed over his face. “Maybe we should just wait ‘til tomorrow to do this.”

“No, it’ll be fine. I bet we can beat the rain if we’re quick.”

The plan was for him to chase you through the woods, and into the house. If you made it to shelter before the storm rolled in, you would be fine. Even so, Bob couldn’t ignore the feeling of worry in his chest, tight and insistent. He didn’t like storms. Growing up in Florida, he’d experienced plenty of terrible hurricanes and tropical storms. He supposed that he should have gotten used to them, but they’d always frightened him. 

He didn’t like the idea of running through the woods during a storm. But, he decided to go along with you, because maybe you were right. Maybe you’d make it back to the house before the storm hit. 

He forced his worry aside, and let his excitement over enacting the scene take over. It grew tenfold when you approached him with a knowing grin on your face, after you’d changed into a pair of hiking shoes.

“Alright, I’m heading outside. You ready?”

He couldn’t help the smile that washed over his own face. “God, yes.”

You leaned in to kiss him sweetly. “I love you, Bo.”

“I love you too.” 

A moment of tenderness before the chaos that would soon follow. 

One last kiss before you slipped away, heading out the door. He stood there, in the middle of the entryway, heart hammering against his chest. He’d agreed to give you a five minute head start. The time seemed to both drag on, and move fast as light. Once he was certain he’d given you enough time, he closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and allowed himself to slip into character.

Goosebumps trailed over his flesh as he stepped onto the porch, wood creaking beneath his feet. A strong breeze rippled through the trees, rustling his hair. Anticipation hung in the air, as if nature was bracing itself for what was about to happen. Or maybe it was just preparing for the storm.

It was easier than he thought it would be. Stepping off the porch, heading in the direction you’d disappeared into. He moved with purpose. Eyes sharp, body on high alert. Entering into the mind of someone who was stalking an innocent young woman in the woods. It sent a shiver down his spine as he journeyed out into the wood, sneaker clad feet almost silent atop the fallen pine needles and dirt. 

He could just barely see you several feet up ahead, already disappearing into the trees. He moved a little faster, jaw tense, skin buzzing with the first flickers of adrenaline. Overhead, thunder rumbled in the distance, and he tried to ignore it as he went deeper into the forest, trailing you.

He zeroed in on you, watching your every move. You were playing a clueless hiker, minding your business, enjoying a walk in the woods. Entirely too trusting of your surroundings. Too comfortable. Surely no one would be lurking in the shadows in such a gorgeous place.

When you heard a twig snap, your head jerked up, and you whirled around. Gasping softly, Bob ducked behind a large oak tree, hidden from your view. Eyes narrow, you searched your surroundings, but when you didn’t see anyone, you shrugged it off.

Even so, the deeper you went into the woods, the more it felt like someone was watching you. As if the trees had suddenly developed eyes, and were analyzing your every move. The hair at the back of your neck stood on end, and you shivered, dread sinking in the pit of your stomach. It felt too easy to get in character. You imagine yourself genuinely alone and vulnerable, and you couldn’t deny the desirous pulse that flashed deep within you.

This was already turning you on, and you’d only just begun.

Another clap of thunder sounded overhead, and you picked up your pace, making a wide turn onto a trail that would lead back up to the cabin. In the distance, you heard rustling that sounded suspiciously human, but you told yourself it was just a deer. Maybe a bird.

But it was a man. Eyes locked on your every movement. You looked so innocent and unassuming. Out here, no one would hear you scream. And that thought alone sent his blood rushing south, face burning as his dick hardened slightly in his pants. 

Soon, he would make his presence known. But not yet. He had to let you get used to the silence of the woods. You were meant to think you were just being paranoid. That you were merely imagining the footsteps, the shifting of leaves, and movements that were much too large to be coming from a raccoon or a squirrel.

The wind picked up as you walked, cool against your face. Thunder pressed closer, right above you, and the sky darkened further. Though it was sunset, there were no golden orange hues in the sky. The rolling clouds had hidden the sun entirely, and the woods suddenly seemed so much darker than before.

Your shoulders grew tense as it closed in, oppressive and a little frightening. But oh, so exciting. When your footsteps grew quicker, so did his. Still quiet. Undetectable, unless you were listening closely. The heavy wind was working to his advantage. You wouldn’t be able to hear him over it rustling through the trees.

As the light began to disappear, and the weather went a little wild, you grew slightly disoriented. But not in a bad way. You knew Bob was close by, somewhere, and if you truly needed help, he would break character and come to your aid.

But your body was conflicted. Heart racing, hands shaking, sweat prickling on your spine despite the cool air. It was an odd sensation, to feel as if you were in danger, but to feel safe all at once. 

However, when a flash of lightning illuminated the woods, you jumped, and you swore you saw a shadow in the distance. When a violent crack of thunder followed, you turned on your heel and began walking quickly in the direction of the house. 

Another flash of lightning. Seconds later, the soft patter of raindrops began hitting the trees. Behind you, Bob kept up with your pace, far enough away that you didn’t know exactly where he was, but close enough that he didn’t lose your trail. 

But in an instant, the weather shifted, and the soft patter of rain turned into a heavy downpour. It took mere seconds for visibility to be reduced to a few feet ahead, and it took Bob right out of the character headspace he’d been in. 

He moved forward quickly, in the direction he’d just seen you. The tension in his shoulders was no longer enjoyable. He was anxious, and he knew that it was time to call the scene off and wait until the storm passed. But with visibility so low, he couldn’t see you.

He called your name, ignoring the fact that his shoes were already soaked through, and would likely be ruined after this. That wasn’t important. The only thing he cared about was getting to you. 

As the ground became slick, he nearly stumbled, but kept himself steady as he ambled through the woods, eyes searching, trying his best not to grow frantic. Panicking wouldn’t help the situation. 

But the dread he’d felt earlier had returned. Unease creeped back along his spine, like a wandering spider, and soon, he was running, shouting for you, trying to be heard over the roar of the rain. 

And then he stopped. Feet skidding against mud, body jolting as he forced himself to be still. Darkness enveloped his vision as he allowed his eyes to fall shut. Breathing slowly, silencing everything around himself, zeroing in on you. The serum running through his veins had gifted him heightened senses. Including a keen sense of hearing.

The medications he was on had dulled those senses somewhat, but if he really focused, he was able to use them still. 

It took a moment, but soon, he could hear it. The sound of your labored breathing, the squelch of your feet against wet ground. His eyes snapped open, and he was moving again, in the direction he’d just heard you.

And then he saw you, just up ahead. 

Relief flooded his body, and he called for you again. When his voice reached your ears, you came to an abrupt halt, whirling around to see where it had come from. But what you failed to notice was the uneven ground beneath your feet, and before you could register what was happening, you were falling, a shriek of surprise ripping from your throat. 

Bob saw you fall, and his heart leapt violently in his chest. “No!”

He had no recollection of sprinting, but within seconds, he’d made it to the clearing. The brush concealed a steep drop-off, which you’d ended up tumbling down when you lost your footing. He could see you, a few feet down the hill, and he scrambled after you, half sliding, half stumbling, desperate to get to you. 

“Hey, hey, I’m here!” He cried, once he reached you. You were sprawled at the foot of the hill, dazed and frightened. 

“Bob!” You whimpered, tears already spilling down your cheeks. The fall had been so harsh and sudden, and you knew you were hurt, but you had no idea to what extent the damage went. 

Your precious, loving boy was above you, eyes searching, face pale as a ghost. “I’ve got you, baby. Are you hurt?!”

“I-I don’t know.”

In a split second, your surroundings were illuminated as lightning struck nearby, and on instinct, Bob grabbed you, scooping you right into his arms. “We can’t stay out here. I need to get you to the house.”

And then he lifted you, enhanced strength allowing him to carry you with ease. He cradled you protectively against his chest, shielding you from the pounding rain as he made the hike back to the cabin. Even above the sounds of the storm, you could hear his heart thudding against his chest erratically. 

Several minutes later, he could see the outline of the cabin just up ahead, and he moved quicker, with more purpose. He needed to get you inside, needed to make sure you were alright. Your fall had frightened him deeply, and he wouldn’t forgive himself if you were seriously hurt. After all, this scene had been his idea. He couldn’t stomach the thought that his own selfish desires had resulted in you being harmed. 

But it wasn’t about him. Not now. All that mattered was you.

He managed to get the door open, even with you in his arms, and he rushed inside, kicking the door shut with his foot. The nearest surface was the living room couch, so he swiftly carried you to it, ever so gently laying you down.

His trembling hand reached for the lamp on the end table, and seconds later, the room was illuminated in a soft, warm glow. In the low light, you could see the fear and worry on his face. His bottom lip quivered, and tears filled his eyes. 

“Let me look at you. I ha-have to make sure you’re okay,” he spoke, voice wavering. His breathing was labored. His hands were so careful as he helped you move each limb, ensuring you didn’t have any broken bones. 

But he could see a few cuts on your arms, as well as one on your cheek, and your forehead. They weren’t deep, but blood was still shimmering along each one. 

“Maybe I should take you to the hospital,” he suggested, barely able to speak above a whisper. 

“Bob, I’m okay. Really. I think the worst I have is a couple bumps and bruises. Nothing’s broken.”

Fearful, wide eyes flickered to your face. He couldn’t stave off his tears any longer. They streaked down his cheeks in hot trails. “This is…this is all my fault.”

“No, don’t–”

But he was already spiraling, raking his fingers through his wet hair as he began to pace. “All because I was selfish and wanted to chase you through the fucking woods. I knew this was a bad idea, I knew it.” 

“Bo–”

“I was only thinking about myself and what I wanted. And now you’re hurt!”

“Robert!” Your tone was slightly sharp. It caught his attention instantly. On trembling arms, you pushed yourself into a sitting position, eyes locked on him. “Look at me.”

He did.

“I’m safe, because you made sure I was. So don’t you dare start blaming yourself for this. Accidents happen. I should’ve paid closer attention to where I was walking. This isn’t your fault, baby.”

A shuddering breath rattled through him before he closed the distance between you, lowering himself to his knees before you. His hands found yours, cool and damp from the rain. 

“I’m fine, Bo. So are you. We just had a little scare, is all.”

It was as if he was finally looking at you for the first time since he’d brought you inside. Realization washed over his face. “You’re fine,” he echoed. 

“I am. All thanks to you.”

Another unsteady breath. “You really scared me.”

“I know. I scared me, too. I didn’t even realize there was a drop-off there, until I was already falling. But thank god it wasn’t worse.”

Blue eyes filled with concern took in the sight of your cuts and scrapes. ”It could have been so much worse, he knew that, but his heart still broke at the knowledge that you’d gotten hurt. Now, all he could do was take care of you. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

His hands were gentle, reverent, as he removed your sodden shoes. You were soaked to the bone, clothes stained with mud and grass. The stains would not easily come out, that was for certain. But that didn’t matter right now. 

Bob lifted you into his arms again, pace steady as he ascended the stairs. The bathroom was where he brought you, and there, he cared for you. Slowly, lovingly. Removing your clothing, tending to your cuts with the first aid kit he’d spotted in the bathroom cupboard earlier. 

The emotion he felt was written all over his face, deep and concerned, aching somewhere within the very core of his being. He didn’t want to constantly talk about how badly he felt about the situation, so he kept quiet, and merely focused on tending to you.

It wasn’t until you were both showered, dressed in warm clothes, and settled in the queen-sized bed in the other room, that he spoke again.

“Maybe I should take this as a sign not to do this scene at all.”

Silence settled between you as you processed his words. “If you really don’t want to do it, then we don’t have to. But I want you to know that I’m still on board. This didn’t change anything for me.”

Wide, gentle eyes flickered up to meet your own. “It didn’t?”

“No. And if I needed something to show me just how much you care about me, well, tonight was it. You jumped into action the second I fell. You cleaned me up and helped me get changed. You’re a good man, Robert Reynolds. And I trust you to keep me safe during a CNC scene.”

His shoulders relaxed, relief flooding his features. When you pulled him close, he let you, head resting upon your shoulder. “Okay. I think…I think I just need a reset. We can try again tomorrow, depending on how we’re both feeling.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Sleep came quickly that night, and you both slept like the dead, bodies exhausted from the adrenaline rush you had experienced. When you woke the next morning, it was still raining, the sky dark and drear. 

You took the morning at your own pace. No rushing. No time constraints. For the first few hours, Bob remained curled around you, warm and soft and protective. He asked you how you were feeling, if you were okay, if you’d gotten enough rest. 

There was some residual soreness from your fall the night before, but in all honesty, you felt okay. Even though you insisted you were fine, he still took it upon himself to care for you that morning. He wasn’t the best at cooking, but he could handle a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, which he brought to you in bed. 

He made you feel so loved and cherished, and you basked in that softness, allowing him to dote upon you. It gave him great peace to do so. After spending so long on his own looking after himself, being able to freely care for someone else was so fulfilling. 

But there was something unspoken in the air between you. The question of whether or not you would go through with the scene you had planned. 

Not wanting Bob to feel pressured, you waited for him to bring it up in his own time. And he did, a few hours later, after you’d eaten lunch. The couch was soft beneath you as you lay curled against him, fluffy blanket spread across both your laps. 

The television played softly in the background, but neither of you were quite paying attention to what was on. Bob’s mind was a million miles away, and it only returned when he took your hand in his, thumb brushing over your knuckles. 

“I think I wanna try to do the scene again tonight. If you feel up to it.”

A beat of silence passed before you shifted to look at him fully. “I’d like that,” came your agreement.

“But I, uh, think we should try a different approach. I don’t want you getting hurt in the woods again.”

Now, you’d turned completely, cross-legged before each other, knees touching. “Okay. What were you thinking of doing instead?”

And so, he explained the new scenario he’d been mulling over in his mind. No detail was left unspared as he laid it all out for you to consider. And when he was finished explaining, you couldn’t hide your excitement. 

It happened that night. 

The rain was still falling, pounding against the tin roof, but you were safe and warm inside the cabin. And you were alone. Curled up on the couch, book in your lap, trying to focus on the words, but failing miserably, because you knew what would happen very soon. 

When the knock at the door came, your heart lept in your throat. 

It was time.

Feet quick against the floor, you crossed the room, breathing deeply as you slipped into character. You opened the door only slightly, peering through the space, into the darkness. Someone was there, shrouded partially in shadow. A man, from what you could tell.

He stepped forward, and the soft light from within the house illuminated his face. Boyish. Apologetic. “Excuse me, miss, but I’m so sorry to bother you. My car quit working on me, and my phone is completely dead. I was wondering if I could charge my phone here?”

Goosebumps creeped along your spine as you hesitated. You were a woman alone in the middle of nowhere. It was foolish to let a stranger into your home. “Um…I guess that would be alright.”

The chain lock was cool beneath your fingers as you slid it from its track, allowing the door to open fully as you stepped back, motioning for the young man to step inside. He offered a smile as he crossed the threshold. 

You shut the door behind him, enclosing you both in the quietness of the little cabin. “There’s an outlet over there,” you told him, pointing to the living room. 

“Thank you, you’re a lifesaver,” he breathed, kicking his shoes off before he moved across the room to the outlet. Moments later, his phone was plugged in, and he’d taken a seat on your couch.

You shivered as his intense blue eyes landed upon you.

“Is it just you that lives here?” He inquired. Innocently enough.

How foolish of you to answer. “No, I’m with my boyfriend. But he had to run into town, so it’s just me right now.” Stupid, stupid girl.

His mouth parted slightly as he nodded. “Oh. I see.” He leaned back, settling into your couch completely, as if he owned the place. His knee bounced restlessly. 

“Maybe he could help you with your car,” you suggested, shifting from foot to foot. 

He eyed you, and you suddenly felt so naked beneath his gaze. Though you were certain his eyes were blue, they looked almost black now, darkening in the low light. “Maybe.”

Your sleep shorts and tank top exposed more than you wanted him to see, and it soon became clear that he was staring at your body. You swore you saw hunger flash across his face.

Wanting to be free of his intense gaze, you turned, heading toward the kitchen. “Would you like anything to drink? I have juice, milk, coffee…”

You were met with silence as you opened the fridge. That struck you as odd, and you straightened, turning to call for him, only to realize he’d appeared in the kitchen doorway. You hadn’t even heard him approach.

“Jeez, you scared me!” You exclaimed, hand flying up to rest over your racing heart. 

He said nothing. The look on his face was almost…mournful, in a way. Glassiness clouded his eyes, and you swore you saw his bottom lip quiver. For a split second, you almost broke character, worried that maybe Bob had changed his mind. But you very quickly realized that this was part of his act.

“Is…is everything alright?” 

Head dipping down, eyes cast toward the floor, he took an unsteady breath. “Why did it have to be you?”

Your heart seized. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t know you’d be so beautiful. So perfect. And now I have to ruin you.”

Cautiously, you stepped back, gasping when your back hit the fridge. He had you cornered. “What are you talking about?”

“When does your boyfriend get back?” Completely ignoring your question in favor of asking one of his own.

“Any minute. You’d better be gone by the time he gets here.” There was no confidence in your voice. No hint of a threat. You sounded like a scared child.

“I don’t need long.” And then he was moving. Closing in on you in two large strides, quick as lightning.

A gasp tore itself from your throat as you ducked, sidestepping him at the last second. But it was clear that he let you get away. Unconcerned, he watched you run toward the door, but you barely managed to reach for the doorknob before you felt him behind you, arms hooking around your waist as he dragged you back.

“No! Let me go!” You shrieked, fighting wildly against his grasp. 

Unphased, he wrestled you toward the living room. “Don’t you understand? You can’t get away. This has to happen.”

“No it doesn’t! Stop, just let me go!” You kicked and struggled, but he was deceptively strong, and he shoved you down to the floor with ease.

His grip was firm against your jaw, and when you looked into his face, you saw the remorse in his features. “I’m sorry. I-I have to.”

“No you don’t. Please, you can just leave now. I won’t tell anyone you were here, I swear.” But your pleading was futile.

He took hold of both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them to the floor above your head before his fingers curled around the waistband of your shorts. The whimper that left your throat was broken, pathetic. 

When he realized you weren’t wearing any underwear beneath your shorts, his eyes darkened, mouth parting as he gasped. “It’s almost like you knew I was coming. You made it so easy.”

Weakly, you pushed at his chest, but it was no use. “This isn’t right.” 

With ease, he yanked your tank top down, exposing your chest to the cool air. You were bare, unable to  “I’ll make you see that you’re meant to be mine.”

His hold on you was firm, unyielding. Even as you sobbed and begged and squirmed beneath him. He was entirely naked while you were barely clothed, shorts discarded, tank top barely clinging to your body. 

“Please, just stay still. I don’t want to have to hurt you.” There was no malice. In fact, he sounded incredibly, mournfully apologetic. 

That sent a jolt through you, You should have fought against him. Should have screamed and thrashed and kicked. But heat was spreading through your body, head to toe, a delicious warmth that made your brain fuzzy.

And then his mouth was by your ear, hot at he whispered, “what’s your color, honey?” And there he was. Your sweet, gentle, kind Robert, eyes blue as forget-me-nots, making sure you were okay.

You grinned as you replied. “Green. What’s yours?”

A soft giggle left him as he said, “yeah, mine’s green too.”

And the scene continued. There were no dramatic pauses, no panicked glances. Just a simple check in, and back to business. You were a little surprised that Bob seemed to be handling it so well. He was even better at portraying his character than you’d expected him to be, given the way he’d reacted the night before, and the hesitancy he’d had over enacting this scene altogether. 

As he slipped back into character, his grip tightened on you again, he reached into his pocket, sliding out a familiar bottle and setting it on the floor beside you before he moved to shove his sweatpants down. Just enough to get his cock free.

Your mind went haywire, and you almost forgot you were supposed to be begging him to stop. Shaking out of your trance, you let out a frightened whine, hips shifting beneath him. “No! Stop, stop, don’t do this!” 

He grabbed the bottle, cap clicking at he opened it. The cool drizzle of lube against your cunt made you gasp sharply, even more so when he gently smoothed his fingers over you. “You’re already wet, pretty thing. Barely even need this stuff. You want this just as much as I do, don’t you?”

“You’re insane!”

Something shifted in his face then. The darkening of his features. The sharp set of his jaw. He hummed, deep and low in his chest, and it reminded you of an animal growling. “You’re going to wish you hadn’t said that.”

The wet schlick of his hand smoothing lubricant over his cock reached your ears, and you couldn’t deny the burning ache deep within you. His cock was flushed deep pink, already leaking, painfully hard. 

When he pressed against you, you tried to wiggle away, but his grip was like iron, holding you in place. One still pinning your hands above your head, the other holding your hips in place. When the thick heat of him breached your opening, a broken, pathetic whimper tore from your throat. 

He kissed you. Wet, open-mouthed, deep. It was filthy. Disgusting. Delicious. “Shh,” he soothed, “it’ll all be over soon.”

And then he pushed forward in one fluid thrust, swallowing your cry, tongue delving into your mouth. The stretch made your head spin, and you clenched around him involuntarily. “Pl-please, it’s too big, it hurts!”

His lashes fluttered, cheeks heating molten red as your words hit him like a blow to the chest. Christ, he wasn’t going to last. “I know it hurts, but I can’t stop yet.” 

He thrust his hips forward again, and you whined, eyes squeezing shut. Half-heartedly, you tried to pull yourself out of his grasp, knowing it was no use. But he shoved you back in place, soon wrapping an arm around you to hold you against him as he moved.

“Stop! Get off of me!”

His palm settled over your mouth, and again, he thrust into you, hard and deep. He built a rhythm, albeit rushed as it was, and it wasn’t long before you were gasping and moaning pathetically against his hand, eyes nearly rolling back in your head.

Against your breast, his mouth was hot and open, tongue swirling around a peaked nipple, moaning and drooling against you

The constant slide of his cock against your sensitive walls was almost too much as he used you, violated you, for his own pleasure. He was losing himself in it all. Short groans and sighs. Barely contained growls when you clenched around him. He was an animal in heat, rutting into a soft, wet cunt. And he’d make you take it until his seed was deposited deep within you.

His eyes were hooded as he leaned back to fully look into your face. He brought a hand between your thighs, fingertips pressing against your swollen clit, and he soothed you when you whined. “It’ll feel good soon. You just need to let it happen. You’ll have so much fun if you just give in to it.”

“You’re sick!”

He let go of your hands to grip your face in his trembling hand. “Can’t help it. This is what you do to me. The second I saw you through the window, I knew I had to have you. Knew it was inevitable that you would be mine.”

You stared up at him, eyes wide, bottom lip quivering. “Y-you were watching me?”

His hips shunted forward again, so deep you’d be feeling him for days after. “Of c-course I was. Pretty thing like you, all alone in the woods…how could I resist? And now I have you all to myself.” A deep, broken whimper as you squeezed around him again. “It’s like your pussy was made for me.”

Fuck, his words were going to be your undoing. It was all so filthy, so salacious. 

“No! No, no, no.” Squirming beneath him, legs kicking out, attempting to escape. But you didn’t want to, not really.

He groaned brokenly, thrusts stuttering. “O-oh! Oh, god, please stop fighting, I don’t wanna finish yet.”

And that fucking broke you. Your brain went haywire, as if you’d been struck by a lightning bolt. He looked so remorseful, as if he was truly sorry that he had to do this, and it was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen. Tears pricked your eyes as heat washed over you, and you trembled so intensely that your teeth chattered. 

You were so turned on that you gushed around him. Slick and wet and impossibly warm. His eyes rolled back in his head at the feeling of it, dripping down his pistoning shaft, soaking his heavy, aching balls. “See? I knew you wanted it, angel. You’re leaking all over me.”

It was so difficult to remain in character. It felt much too good to pretend you weren’t loving every second of it. The hurried push and pull of that deliciously thick cock inside you, the slow, deliberate circles he made against your pulsing clit, the way he mouthed at your neck and licked your sweat away. It was so good. He was so good. 

Fighting it was nearly impossible when it was all you’d ever wanted. With Bob, you always wanted it. Morning, noon, night, it didn’t matter. Sometimes, you felt like some love blind addict, who just couldn’t get enough. Good thing he felt the same way.

Even so, this was his fantasy, and you were meant to be resisting. With what little control you had left over your brain, you forced a protest out of your mouth. “Just…just don’t come inside me.”

His face crumbled. Mouth parting, eyes fluttering, moaning like a man possessed. “Oh, sweetie. I wish you hadn’t said that.”

Then both of his hands, large and unrelenting, were gripping your hips, holding you in place as he drove his cock into you repeatedly, ignoring your cries and whimpers as he used you to get himself off. You were gone. Mouth open, drooling and panting like a dog. It felt as if your brain was melting. You were just a pathetic, wet cunt for him to use, nothing more.

The sounds he made had taken on a higher pitch. Broken gasps and whines as he lost himself in you. Mumbling incoherent, half-sentences. “S’pretty. All for me. G-gonna claim you. Fill you up.”

You tried to protest. Tried to tell him no, but you couldn’t speak. Your mouth was loose, as if you’d lost control of your own jaw and ability to speak. All you could do was stare dumbly up at him, eyes shining.

He trembled above you. Hair curling against his sweat dampened forehead, eyes barely focused, made dumb by pleasure. Then his mouth was by your ear, breathing labored as he spoke. “I’m sorry. Can’t help it, you feel too good. I have to come inside you.”

Something about the way he said it, pathetically, apologetically, regretfully, made your vision go white. Body taught, back arching, silent scream ripping from your throat as your orgasm engulfed you out of nowhere. It sizzled through your veins like electricity, snapping, crackling, popping.

A deep sob ripped itself from Bob’s throat at the feeling of you clenching tightly around him. He couldn’t hold back any longer. He was past the point of no return, as you fell limp beneath him, gasping, convulsing with the aftershocks of your own pleasure.

“Oh! Oh, fuck, oh my god, I-I can’t stop. I’m coming inside you.” Strangled, high-pitched, pitiful. 

Warmth flooded you in thick, hot spurts. There was so much of it, and all you could do was lay there and take it as he pumped you full. His face was buried against your neck, mumbling an endless string of apologies, even as his viscous release seeped into the deepest part of you. He wasn’t sorry in the least.

As the intensity slowed, he deflated above you, his weight resting against your body, both of you still jolting from the aftershocks. For a moment, there was silence, save for your mingled breathing. You stared up at the ceiling in awe, mind blown. 

When Bob lifted his head, he was still in character. “I’m sorry. I-I had to do it. I just couldn’t help myself. You understand, don’t you?”

Blinking up at him, you struggled to form a single sentence. He was still seated deep inside you, and you could feel his cum beginning to trickle out around the base of his cock, sure to drip down and ruin the rug beneath you. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care about that.

“Y-yes,” you relented, deciding to play the part of the defeated victim, despite the fact that you were currently buzzing with satisfaction and delight over what you had just experienced.

Then, Bob’s facade cracked. He couldn’t stay in his character’s head for a minute. Wide eyes searched your face, looking for any sign of fear or sadness from you. But you merely smiled up at him. “I’m okay, Bo.”

His hand, gentle and warm, cupped your cheek. “You’re sure? It wasn’t too much?”

“God, no.” You threw your arms around his neck. “I think that was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. Holy hell, you were incredible.”

The blush that dusted his cheeks was crimson. “Really? I didn’t… things didn’t go too far?”

It was your turn to hold his face in your hands. “Don’t even let your mind go there. I loved every second of it. If it was too much I would have safe-worded.”

Relief flooded his face, and he nodded in understanding. “I know. I just had to make sure.”

Tenderly, your mouth found his, kissing him in a way that showed him you adored him. “I felt safe the entire time. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me for real,” came your reassurance. 

He nuzzled his nose against yours, grateful for your words. For a few moments, he remained there, half hard and still hilted inside you. But as he began to soften, he eased his spent cock out of you, kissing you to swallow your hiss of slight discomfort.

His eyes flickered downward, narrowing slightly as he watched his release begin to slide out of you. It was a sight he’d never tire of seeing, no matter how many times it happened. “Made a mess,” he murmured, “gotta clean you up, baby.”

“S’okay,” you mumbled. “Can you hold me for a bit?”

“Of course.” He wrapped his steady arms around you, tugging you into his lap, uncaring about the mess smearing onto his thigh as you settled against him. He could clean you both up later. For now, he needed to hold you just as much as you needed to be held.

When you buried your face against the crook of his neck and sighed, safe and content, his heart swelled in his chest. “I had so much fun, Bo. Y’made me feel so good.”

That meant everything to him. “Yeah? I had fun, too. I, uh, liked it a lot more than I was anticipating. Didn’t expect it to be so easy to get into character,” he admitted.

You smiled against his neck. “I’m kinda glad the woods didn’t work out. I liked this scenario a lot.”

His lips were soft as he kissed your temple. “So did I. A lot less messy than running through the muddy forest.”

Silence settled between you as you both enjoyed basking in the physical closeness. A gentle reminder of your love for each other. Bob was surprised at the way he felt in the afterglow. He’d expected to feel dirty, in a bad way. Perverted. Instead, a comforting warmth had begun to spread through his chest.

He’d been open about his desires, and enacted them with a partner that he trusted. It was a mutual trust. An agreement between two people who loved each other deeply. He was exploring his wants and needs in a safe, healthy way. There was no reason to feel guilt, or disgust. He could rest in the fact that you supported him in his desires, and wanted to participate in them just as much as he did. 

“You’re a good man, Bob. The best man I’ve ever known,” you whispered against his skin, as he held you on that floor. And oh, that undid him.

He closed his eyes as his tears began to fall. “I love you so much. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for letting me do this with you.”

At that, you leaned back, searching his face. “I love you too. Thank you for trusting me enough to do this roleplay with you.”

When your mouths joined, it was tender, loving, a display of your deep devotion to each other. And as you parted, something unspoken passed between you. We’re safe. We’re okay. I love you.

Another beat of comfortable silence stretched on, until Bob hesitantly looked down at the creamy white puddle on his thigh. Another kiss to your lips before he decided to lift you into his arms.

“Gotta get you cleaned up, baby.” He was quick to whisk you up to the bedroom, moving with ease. The bed was soft beneath you as he lowered you onto it, careful not to jostle you. 

Then he walked, naked as day, to the bathroom, where he took the time to grab the small kit sitting on the counter. An aftercare kit that you had both put together. Full of hypoallergenic wipes, first aid items, soothing creams, and the like. 

After he’d stopped to clean himself, he returned, finding you curled up on the bed, head resting on the pillows, soft and sleepy. The sight made his chest ache with love and adoration for you. His perfect, darling girl. 

When he cleaned you, it was soft, gentle, reverent. And once he was satisfied with his work, he guided you back into his arms. “C’mon, can’t forget to use the bathroom. Don’t want you gettin’ any UTIs on me now.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his words, allowing him to guide you into the bathroom. He had come so far, in regard to aftercare. In the beginning of your time together, he hadn’t been entirely sure what to do, because he’d never experienced it before. There was never aftercare with his pervious sexual partners. There was no reassurance, no gentle physical contact, nothing.

Together, you had learned what you liked best after sex. Snuggling, words of encouragement, cleaning each other up. When Bob had learned how important it was for you to pee after sex, he always made sure you did it, no matter how sleepy you were. He took your health very seriously. You loved that about him.

Minutes later, your bladder was empty, your pajamas were on, and Bob was curled around you in bed, blankets warm over your bodies. The bedroom television was playing in the background. The Lion King, a comfort movie for both of you.

The weight of your body against his made him feel at peace. As the movie played, he found himself enamored with you, resting against him, lashes growing heavy as sleepiness overcame you. He’d been so anxious to bring up his desire to you, so worried it would be too much. And yet, trusted him all the same, perhaps even more so now that you’d experienced the scene together.

He was so glad he’d been honest with you. Although there had been some hiccups along the way, he didn’t regret carrying out this scene with you. In fact, he found himself looking forward to the next one, and hopefully many more.

It felt as if something had shifted between you, in a good way. Crossing this threshold would open up the door to so much more than you ever could have dreamed of. Bob had no idea what the future held, but he did know that, as long as he had you by his side, he could face anything. 

it wasn’t so much in the words — no one around here ever really said what they meant anyway — but in the way the room carried it. the usual atmosphere of forced nonchalance never settled. tension hung uneven, heavy in the air like an impending storm. someone should’ve cracked a joke by now. a shitty one from walker or one of alexei’s weird, half-lost-in-translation anecdotes. but no one did.

your gaze drifted over them, picking up little tells. bucky’s hand flexed once on the table, the metal fingers tapping out an uneven beat. yelena stared straight ahead, her face carefully blank but her nails digging into the edge of the conference table. even ava looked… brittle. brittle in a way that suggested she was replaying every possible point of entry, every second she might’ve missed something.

it’s only when walker’s chair scraped loudly against the floor that it cut through the oppressive quiet. you blinked, half-startled out of your own spiraling thoughts, as he stood up and shoved his hands through his hair. “and where the hell are you going?” val’s voice was sharp, clipped. a challenge dressed as a question.

walker scoffed, shaking his head like the sheer audacity of the situation was too much to swallow. “what, are we supposed to just sit around? a man — fuck, someone that was under our care — was found dead. in our goddamn basement. wrapped up like some sick joke.”

the name flickered in your mind before you could stop it. vic.

vic had been good. early thirties. easy smile. a little flirty, sure, but it never felt invasive. it was warm, in a way not much around here was. genuine in a way most of the people in this tower didn’t bother to be. three kids. you remember when he told you. only, it turned out later one of them had died a few years ago in a car accident. he didn’t mention it often — only once, when you’d shared a bottle of stolen liquor after a grueling week. his voice had cracked on the words. you remember you’d pretended not to notice.

vic delivered your medical supplies every few weeks. always double-checked the orders, carried the heavy boxes even when bob insisted on helping him.

and now he was dead.

rolled up in a rug.

in the blast freezer.

yelena was the one to break the quiet this time. “people die every day,” she said, like it was a fact, not a dismissal. but the way her voice dipped, the way her eyes darted somewhere just over walker’s shoulder told you it wasn’t apathy. it was survival. you wonder if she’s always been like that — stuffing grief down into some unreachable pit inside herself and filling the empty space with duty.

walker whipped around to glare at her. “people don’t die every day in the basement of the tower we fucking reside in.”

that shut them up. even the silence felt heavier after that, thick and suffocating.

you felt yourself pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, something cold creeping up your spine. the tower was supposed to be secure. you lived here. you showered here. you slept here. whatever danger you ran into was supposed to be out there, in the field, not two floors below you.

val straightened from where she’d been leaning against the far wall. “the blast freezer is a government asset,” she started, her tone the kind of even that made your skin crawl. “when they installed it, they issued a specific access code. only people with clearance can get in.”

ava spoke then, voice small but cutting through the silence like a scalpel. “they only gave the code to us.” not a question. not a guess. a statement. and the way the room responded — by not responding — meant everyone knew it was true.

“well,” val drawled, smoothing her hands down the front of her jacket like this was some dry policy meeting and not a murder investigation. “doesn’t that lower the pool of potential suspects.” yelena snapped her head toward her. “and what exactly are you suggesting, huh? that one of us did it?” her accent thickened when she was angry. the words sharp, brittle. her hand hovered dangerously close to the knife she kept tucked into her boot.

val didn’t flinch. “i’m suggesting,” she said slowly, like she was speaking to a particularly dense child, “that statistically, when someone winds up dead in a sealed environment with limited access, you start looking at the people with access.” bucky pushed back from the table, his jaw ticking. “we don’t need a statistics lecture.”

the tension was fracturing now, jagged edges splintering outward. you felt your pulse behind your eyes. the flickering overhead lights made the room look more like an interrogation chamber than a conference room. you didn’t notice bob until then. quiet in the corner of the room, half-shadowed by the way the overhead fluorescents cut unevenly across the walls. his head was ducked, hands folded too neatly in his lap. there was a fresh cut on his knuckles. you’d seen him yesterday — he hadn’t had it then.

no one else seemed to notice. val’s voice cut through again. “until i get word from upstairs, no one leaves this tower. no missions. no supply runs. no ‘personal errands.’ full lockdown protocol.”

“you can’t be serious,” walker barked. she didn’t even blink. “watch me.”

it was bucky who spoke next, voice low. “we got a killer in the building, val. you better figure out real fucking quick whether you’re hunting him… or covering for him.”

the room held its breath. you realized you were still staring at bob. and for a moment, you could’ve sworn he was staring back.

“talk to me.”

your voice was soft — not commanding, not pleading, just… there. it hung in the room, low and gentle, curling around the space like smoke. maybe it was the way you said it, or maybe it was the way you lingered in the doorway like you didn’t belong there, but didn’t plan on leaving either. bob looked up from his book. some old, battered thing you were sure he wasn’t actually reading. the pages hadn’t turned once in the five minutes you’d been standing in the hall, watching him through the half-open door.

he gave you that boyish, shy smile. the one you knew wasn’t entirely real — or maybe it was, but it was covering something else. something splintered. something sharp. it tugged at the corner of his mouth like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be happy to see you. like it was a risk.

he always looked a little nervous around you. not in a fragile way, not really. it was like his body couldn’t decide where to put itself. his hands fidgeted, his shoulders hunched or rolled back, his eyes darted away only to flicker back again. it was a constant, silent negotiation with himself — between wanting to get closer and wanting to disappear.

you stepped inside, glancing once over your shoulder before shutting the door. it clicked softly into place, the sound somehow loud in the otherwise quiet room. his fingers tightened around the edges of his book. you crossed to him without saying anything, the muted light catching in your hair. you noticed how his breath hitched just a little when you got close.

his room looked exactly the same as it had the night before. you weren’t supposed to be here then, either. not that it had stopped you. not when his hands were on you. not when your head had hit that pillow and his touch made every rule, every protocol feel like someone else’s problem. you perched on the bed beside him, your fingers brushing the worn fabric of his blanket. everything smelled faintly like him — clean laundry, antiseptic soap, something warmer underneath.

bob cleared his throat. “don’t really… don’t really know what to talk about,” he mumbled, eyes dropping to the floor like it might offer him a script. you hummed, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. then you moved closer. and closer.

until your knees were bracketing his hips and you were straddling his lap, you accidentally roll your hips and his breath stuttered. he stared at you like you were made of glass and hellfire all at once. his hands hovered at your waist, unsure if he was allowed to touch you despite how greedy he’d been just last night.

you let the silence stretch, watching the way his throat worked when he swallowed.

“about earlier,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. your fingers ghosted along the side of his neck, tracing the line of his pulse. it jumped under your touch. “you seemed…” you paused, searching for the right word, “upset?”

bob’s jaw clenched. “someone died,” he said, voice low, like it should’ve been obvious. and you realized, in a flicker of clarity, how ignorant you must’ve sounded. of course someone died. someone you both knew. someone bob helped carry medical crates with. someone he saw in the hall.

your mouth opened, words catching on your tongue, but you didn’t say them. instead you took his hands — rough palms, calloused fingertips — and brought them to your lips. you kissed the tips of his fingers one by one, soft and lingering, like it might mean something. you felt the tremor in his hands.

your thumb brushed the back of his knuckles, moving to check the cut you’d noticed earlier. a shallow split across his skin that hadn’t been there the day before. only now it wasn’t there at all.

your stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in your chest. gone. clean skin, not even a scar. like it had never existed. bob went very still.

“i wanted to—” you started, but the words choked off when he spoke.

“ask me if i did it?” his voice cracked slightly. just a hairline fracture in the sound, but it was enough to punch a hole through your ribs. his gaze finally met yours — glassy, rimmed with something raw and vulnerable you hadn’t seen before.

“you think i killed him.”

you hesitated. not because you didn’t know the answer, but because you did.

and in that silence, bob’s expression crumpled. not into tears, not into grief — into something tight and ugly and desperate. he wrenched his hand out of yours, the force of it enough to jolt your balance. then, in a single rough motion, he grabbed your shoulders and moved you off him. not a push, but firm, decisive. a strength you sometimes forgot he had. a strength you remembered last night when those same hands pinned you down.

your back hit the mattress with a quiet thud, and you scrambled upright, your hand catching his shoulder as he stood. his chest was heaving, the book discarded on the floor.

“bob—”

“no,” he snapped. sharp, unsteady. his eyes looked wrong. too wide. too dark.like something else was staring out through them.

“you didn’t ask anyone else.” his voice cracked, but it wasn’t weak. it was sharp, cutting in a way you didn’t expect from him. bob’s hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles gone white, his jaw tight enough you thought it might splinter.

“you came here.”his voice was louder now. accusing. wounded. “to me.”

you opened your mouth to answer, to deny it, to say something soft or sharp or disarming — but nothing came out. you just stood there, caught between the door and his stare, like you’d been caught in a snare you didn’t remember stepping into.

“you didn’t even bother thinking about it.” he barked out a humorless, breathless laugh. one that sounded too thin, too brittle. his eyes darted to the door like he was about to bolt. or maybe bar it.

and then he moved.

fast. faster than you could track in that half-beat of hesitation. bob’s hands landed on your shoulders, not rough, but firm enough to make you stumble back a step, your shoulder blades hitting the wall behind you. “rolled up in a rug.” he spat the words like they tasted foul, like he couldn’t believe you didn’t get it.

“a rug. val showed me the crime scene photos”

you shook your head, confused, your brow furrowing as your heart hammered against your ribs.

“bob, i don’t—”

“there’s only one rug in this whole fucking tower.” his voice cracked, his face folding like a man on the verge of breaking, but his grip on you never loosened. his thumbs brushed the skin just under your collarbones, grounding you there while his eyes bored into yours. “ava’s room.” his breath hitched. “helps her with her shifting, remember?”

your stomach twisted. you did remember. it was thick, woven, dark. she’d complained about the static it caused, how it didn’t feel quite right against her skin in a shift but it helped her feet grip when the floor felt wrong beneath her.

you felt yourself backing up without thinking. his hands stayed on you as you moved, guiding you, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed.

then bob was on you. his full weight pressing into you as you sank onto the mattress, his face burying itself in the crook of your neck like it was the only place in the world he felt safe. his breath was hot, uneven against your skin. his arms snaked around you, pinning you there, clutching you so tightly it almost hurt. “i didn’t—i would never—”his voice trembled. not just with grief now, but something deeper. fear. rage. something thick and crawling just beneath the surface.

you didn’t know what else to do. your hands came up to his face, cupping his cheeks. his skin was burning hot under your palms, his stubble rough against your thumbs. you whispered apologies, half-formed words that barely made sense even as they left your mouth.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—bob, i—i was wrong, i didn’t know, i should’ve—” you felt his body shake against yours. not with tears exactly, but with something like it. like his entire frame was threatening to come apart under the weight of it all.

“go look for yourself,” he rasped, his lips brushing the skin of your neck as he spoke. his voice so quiet now, barely a whisper, like it was a secret meant just for you.“it’s gone.”

and you feel something stir, as if it really wasnt only you in bob in the room. your breath hitches as you feel a touch against your cheek, something as soft as a kiss, but it sting it made you want to itch. bob’s face was in your neck and his hands were around you. your throat tightened. your mind screamed at you to pull away, to get up, to run down the hall and check, to prove him wrong — because the alternative was so much worse.

but you didn’t move.

because his arms tightened around you and his breath was warm against your skin and his voice was soft, trembling, breaking in a way that made your heart ache in spite of everything else. “why would i do something like that, huh?” he murmured, nuzzling closer. “you know me. you know me.” his fingers dug into your back, almost tender. “i just… i just need you to believe me.” and somehow, without meaning to, you felt yourself nod. just a tiny movement. his lips brushed your jaw, the corner of your mouth. a ghost of a touch as he quickly pulls away and looks at you.

“i thought you loved me, fucking trusted me.” he whispered it like it hurt. “don’t do that to me,” you tell him, your voice low, the kind of stern you hope will land. but it’s wet at the edges, frayed in a way he’s too skilled at noticing. you see the way his brows twitch, his lips part just slightly. he drinks your words down like they hurt him.

“i do—” your palms cup his face, his scruffy jaw rough against your touch. you feel how warm his skin is, the tremor in his breath under your fingers. “i love you.”

and it breaks him. you can feel it in the way his lashes flutter, the way his throat works around a choked, desperate swallow. like he’d been holding himself together with brittle wire and those words cut it clean through. “do you trust me?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, cracked open and bare. but he doesn’t give you a chance to answer — he never really does. not because he doesn’t care what you think, but because he already knows. or tells himself he does. tells himself that even if you said no, you’d mean yes by the time he was done with you.

before you can blink, he’s on his knees, sinking down like gravity’s too much for him to fight, hands gripping the edge of the mattress so tight his knuckles go white. he tugs you forward, greedy and clumsy with it, and the startled little gasp you let out only seems to spur him on.

your pants are gone in a blur, discarded somewhere on the floor without care, and he barely spares a second before his fingers hook into your panties and drags them aside — doesn’t even bother taking them off properly, just pulls them far enough to expose you to the cool air and his ravenous gaze.

his eyes go wide, the blue of them blown out and glassy, lashes damp like he might cry over it. maybe he is. his lips part, pink and already a little swollen from where he’d been biting at them, and he lets out this broken, reverent little sound that goes straight to your core.

“god,” he mutters, voice thick. his thumb comes up to spread you open, watching the slick catch in the low light, glistening against the pads of his fingers. “‘s wet. it's so sticky”

and then his mouth is on you — pressing in, kissing you there like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing left on earth to keep him alive.

he pauses, just barely, lips slick and shiny now, your arousal clinging to the soft swell of them. his face is already a mess, cheeks pink, chin wet, nose brushed against your clit as he breathes you in like he can’t get enough.

“can i?” he rasps, voice so gentle it borders on pleading, though there’s nothing soft about the way his hands grip your thighs, about the way his fingers dig into flesh like he’ll leave bruises he’ll apologize for in the morning. and maybe you hesitate for a half-second, some flicker of rational thought trying to claw its way through the fog he’s built around you, but it doesn’t stand a chance.

you nod.

and bob lets out this desperate little whine, a high, needy thing that betrays just how far gone he already is for you. before you can blink he’s burying his face in you again, tongue hot and insistent, licking long, slow stripes before closing his lips around your clit and sucking hard.

your head falls back, hips twitching, the heat of it all making your skin feel too tight. every drag of his tongue sends sparks down your spine, and it’s messy — wet and loud, obscene, his mouth sticky and shining with you already.

he pulls back just a fraction, lips pink and swollen, face shining with slick. his breathing’s ragged, pupils so wide you can barely find the blue in them anymore. his voice is wrecked when he speaks.

“i want you to watch me,” he says, thumb brushing your clit in lazy circles, eyes flickering up to yours. “please. wanna see how good i do it, how good i make you feel.”

and then — like he can’t help it, like he’s physically unable to keep his hands off himself — one hand drops down between his own legs. you watch the way he palms himself through his jeans, the dark patch there betraying how worked up he’s gotten just from this, from the taste of you, the sound of your voice catching in your throat.

he ruts against his palm, hips canting forward in small, desperate rolls, like it’s not enough but he can’t stop. and the whole time, his eyes stay locked on you, watching every twitch of your face, every arch of your back.

his mouth finds you again, faster this time, hungrier. tongue flicking, lips pulling, sucking, working you over like a man possessed. and it’s not sweet — it’s desperate. like he’s trying to crawl inside of you, like he’s trying to ruin you so bad you’ll never be able to leave him, so no one else will ever get you like this.

and maybe he is.

he hums against you, the sound vibrating through your skin, and you can feel him moaning against your cunt, swallowing every drop you give him like it’s a reward. his face is fucking soaked, cheeks flushed, lips slick, his chin shiny with your slick and his own spit.

and he looks ruined. so completely gone it makes something in your chest tighten.

he dives back in with a desperation that borders on savage. his tongue working you open, curling and flattening against your clit, his jaw moving as he sucks, the wet, obscene sounds of it filling the room.

you feel his hand trembling against your hips as he holds you there, keeping you pinned against his mouth. he drags his tongue lower, pressing it inside, fucking you with it before pulling back to replace it with two thick fingers, easing them inside you with a groan that sounds like it tears from the depths of his chest.

“‘s good,” he murmurs, half-delirious, his eyes rolling back as your cunt clenches around him. “you’re making me feel ‘s good”

your hips jerk, your breath breaking in sharp little gasps as he fucks you on his fingers, mouth sealing over your clit once more. and god — the noise he makes when your thighs start to shake, when you moan his name like it’s a prayer — it’s not just needy. it’s possessive. it’s greedy. your body burns, your skin fever-hot, your stomach tightening as he drags you toward the edge, relentless, like a man dying of thirst. you feel your release coming sharp and fast, your hands clenching in his hair, tugging.

he groans again, a raw, desperate sound, the vibration rolling through your core like the deep, distant rumble of thunder just before a storm cracks open the sky. it shatters you. the tight, hot coil in your stomach snaps so hard it feels like something inside you gives way, and you cry out — a sharp, high thing that echoes in the dim, overheated room. your back arches, your hips jerking against his mouth, but bob holds you steady, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you where he wants you.

your climax rips through you in heavy, breath-stealing waves, every nerve ending sparking white-hot, your skin feverish to the touch. and bob doesn’t stop. not for a second. his tongue still working your clit, lips wet and swollen, fingers relentless as they fuck you through the shudders, through the aftershocks, through the trembling way your legs threaten to give out beneath his palms.

he devours you like he’s starving, like it’s not enough. like it’ll never be enough. like if he lets up even for a moment, you might slip away.

your body gives out first — your hips falling limp, a breathless, broken noise clawing up your throat as your back drops heavily against the mattress, arms spread boneless at your sides. your lungs drag for air. your heart pounds in your ears, loud and thick and unsteady.

bob finally pulls away, slow, reluctant, dragging his mouth from you with one final, messy kiss against your oversensitive clit that makes your thighs twitch. his lips are glistening, his chin slick with your release, flushed all the way up to his cheekbones, his mouth pink and swollen, darker than it should be. his breathing’s ragged, and when you manage to lift your head — eyelids heavy, vision slightly blurred at the edges — you catch the look in his eyes.

utter fucking wreckage. glassy, wide, possessive.

he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh, a slow, lingering thing, almost tender if it weren’t for the bruises blooming under his fingertips where he held you down. his hands rub over your thighs now, slow, grounding, a sharp contrast to what they’d done a moment before.

your eyes flutter, lashes heavy against your cheeks. sleep threatens to pull you under. your whole body feels weightless, like you’ve been hollowed out and filled with heat. like you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

three hours since you let yourself be swallowed whole by bob, the dead weight of his body pressing down on yours like a goddamn anchor, a weight you couldn’t shake even now as you crept down the eerily silent hallway. the pair of dull medical scissors felt stupidly light in your palm, fingers clenched around them so tight your knuckles ached. a blunt, useless weapon — it wasn’t even worth the name. but you clutched it anyway, because it was something. something between you and whatever was turning this place inside out.

the hallway stretched out before you, a long, flickering passage lit by a single emergency bulb burning faintly at the far end. you couldn’t help but think how wrong it was. how every horror story you’d ever heard started exactly like this.

you swallowed, the inside of your throat raw from breathing through your mouth too long, the metallic taste of fear sitting thick on your tongue. pathetic. this was exactly what val wanted — for all of you to start cracking at the seams. to turn on each other like rats in a cage. you shifted the scissors in your grip, adjusting your fingers, your pulse rattling in your ears. you didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right behind you.

"what are you doing?"

the voice made your spine snap straight, breath catching so sharp in your throat it hurt. your heart jackhammered against your ribs as you spun, a strangled yelp forcing its way out before you could swallow it back down.

yelena.

deadpan as ever, face unreadable except for the slight tilt of her head. like she couldn’t quite decide if she was disappointed in you or just pissed off. she flicked her gaze down to the scissors in your hand and arched a brow. "those are too dull to stab anyone, by the way."

you opened your mouth. closed it. god, your heart felt like it was trying to crawl out of your chest. "yelena, listen — i have to talk to you."

you cast a glance down the hallway, toward the dim emergency light at the far end, and back behind you — where bob’s room was, and the patio area where the external lockdown seals had been bolted shut. val had made sure to cut off every exit, physical and otherwise. your voice dropped to a desperate whisper.

"privately."

yelena’s eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but something colder. disappointment. not exhaustion, not surprise. like she’d expected better from you and you’d already let her down. it made your stomach churn.she sighed, slow and sharp, like she was reining herself in. your name came out flat, devoid of inflection. she didn’t ask what you meant, didn’t tell you to go to hell, didn’t accuse. she just turned and started walking down the corridor without another word.

you hesitated for half a second, pulse hammering, then followed.

yelena pushed open the bathroom door at the end of the hall and gestured you inside. the lights flickered above, but held. the lock clicked shut behind you with a finality that made your skin crawl. you perched yourself awkwardly on the edge of the closed toilet seat, your fingers still curled tight around the scissors, though you knew by now they wouldn’t save you from anything worth fearing in this place.

yelena didn’t speak. she didn’t have to. but she locked the door, one swift motion.

why the fuck would she lock the door if there truly was nothing to worry about?

"so," you start. yelena quickly brings a finger to her lips.

she reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a crumpled takeout receipt from the shitty chinese place you always ordered from on movie nights, the one that never delivered on time and always forgot to send soy sauce. wrapped up in the flimsy paper was a stub of pink crayon — one of the ones ava kept for doodling on mission briefs when she was drunk, or pretending not to listen to val. your chest tightened. yelena crouched down in front of you, resting her elbows on her knees, bringing and held the paper and crayon out to you like some unspoken pact.

it was ava's rug wrapped around vic.

yelena stares down at the words for a moment, jaw tightening. she lifts the crayon, scribbles underneath it.

how do you know?

you swallow hard, heart hammering so loud you’re sure it can be heard through the walls. you reach for the paper, writing in cramped, crooked lines.

bob. his room. said he saw some crime scene photos from val, either way there are no other rugs that i know of in the tower.

yelena doesn’t react right away. her fingers trace the edge of the paper, her mouth a hard line. when she finally writes, her hand moves fast, sharp before scribbling something out.

let's go see.

with a determined nod you follow her on the way out, not before quickly flushing the note down the toilet.

you can hear your own footsteps in the thick, close dark of the tower, the dull scuff of rubber against too-sterile floors. each step sounds louder than the last. not loud in a way that echoes, but loud in a way you can feel it in your chest, like the walls are closer now, like the whole place is made of lungs instead of concrete and glass. breathing in time with you, breathing around you.

yelena doesn’t say a word, but you can tell by the way her shoulders stay squared, tight, and how her hand never leaves the hilt of that battered knife on her hip, that she feels it too.

and it’s only when you hear it once you get close enough — that sharp, sudden thud against ava's door, something heavy colliding hard enough to rattle the frame — followed by the scraping of what sounds like furniture dragging across the floor — that your heart lurches into your throat.

instinct, not strategy, has your hand snapping out, fingers curling around yelena’s forearm to yank her back the other way, toward the intersection where the hall breaks left into the security quarters. you don’t even have time to speak, to form words, it’s just panic and the urgent, unthinking knowledge that whatever’s in ava’s room, it’s not right.

but yelena rips her arm free like she’s offended you even tried to stop her. doesn’t hesitate. her boots hit the floor hard, a short sprint to ava’s door, the one barely cracked open like a crooked grin. she plants her foot, kicks it in with one sharp motion — you brace for it. a shout, a scuffle, a gunshot, maybe the guttural noise of one of them finally losing it in this place that feels like it’s closing in, minute by minute.

but none of that comes.

instead, she just stands there, scowling, the rising and falling of her chest the only thing giving her away. because for a split second, something flickers over her face. not fear, not anger. relief. the kind of relief you don’t say out loud because it admits you were worried to begin with.

“what the hell are you doing, walker?”

her voice is low, sharp as broken glass, carrying too well in the silence. you move in behind her, not wanting to but needing to see, leaning around the doorway. the room’s a mess, even for ava — whose idea of tidiness was usually just shoving things under the bed or into a half-zipped duffel. the mattress is half-off the frame, one of the chairs from her desk turned over, drawers open and clothes pulled out like someone had either been frantically looking for something or having a violent tantrum. walker’s standing in the middle of it, one of ava’s white shirts balled tight in his fist like he’d been about to stuff it in his pocket. or maybe just needed something to hold.

his face is red, sweat shining at his temple. like he’s been at it for a while.

“ava,” he gruffs out, not even a greeting, voice rough and raw like maybe he hasn’t spoken since the lockdown. “you seen her?”

you don’t want to answer. you don’t want to be the one to give anything away — not to walker, not to anyone. you feel like your skin might peel itself off from how exposed you are standing there.

“we were just coming to look for her,” you say, and it comes out too fast, too neat, the edges a little too smoothed down. you don’t like how your voice sounds. you hear it and you don’t believe it.

walker narrows his eyes, sharp and assessing. and before you can breathe relief or prepare for a blow, another voice cuts in.

“why?”

it’s soft, almost lazy, and yet it makes your spine stiffen.

you turn, slowly, and there he is. bob.

barefoot. sweatpants slung low on his hips, the kind of worn-out black ones you knew for a fact he used to steal from your room, likely due to ruining his own pants when he was tongue deep in your cunt, an old tee clinging to his chest, hair a mess of sleep-flattened brown mess, and a slow, almost apologetic yawn as he rubs a knuckle into one eye. like he’s just wandered out of bed. like none of this has touched him at all.

“have you seen ava?” yelena asks. bob furrows his brows, a faint frown flickering over his face as he gives a slow shake of his head. “no,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “is she missing now too?”

now. too. like there’s been others. like he’s been keeping track. you dont mention it because yelena doesn't seem to notice the wording, and suddenly a flash of the tears welding in his eyes from earlier at you even asking if he had involvement with vic, so you bite the suspicion down.

yelena’s eyes dart toward you — and it’s not a casual glance. it’s one of those long, hard stares where you can feel every unspoken thing passing between you. like she’s trying to fit a puzzle piece into a space that won’t quite accept it. you come to her about ava and suddenly she gone? when she looks away, it’s to walker, who, you realize with a sick little jolt, is already looking at you.

his gaze is heavy. too heavy.

no one speaks for a beat too long.

then walker snorts, lets ava’s shirt drop like it’s just now occurred to him what he’s holding. “place’s a goddamn tomb,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “something’s not right. i thought maybe she was holed up in here. didn’t think she’d leave it a fuckin’ warzone though.”

yelena steps further into the room, toeing a discarded pair of boots aside, eyes scanning every inch of the space. “or someone was looking for something,” she says, too casual.

bob moves to lean against the doorframe, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes, and you feel it again — the weight of him. not just his body. the pressure. like the gravity in the room shifts with him in it.

he doesn’t look at you right away, his gaze following yelena as she picks up a knife from the nightstand — one of the little throwing blades ava liked to keep tucked into arm’s reach — turning it over between her fingers.

walker grunts, glancing at the window, which is still blacked out by whatever reinforced bullshit val activated three hours ago. “whole goddamn place is a rat maze.”

you want to speak. want to suggest you all move. regroup. anything to get away from this room, where everything smells wrong, where you can still see a faint, dark streak across the floor you’re positive wasn’t there yesterday.

but bob finally looks at you then.

and it’s soft. the corners of his mouth twitching up into something that might be a smile if it weren’t for his eyes, a pale, glassy blue that never quite smiles with the rest of him.

“baby,” he murmurs, too quiet for the others to catch it. “you okay?”

it’s a simple thing. harmless, if someone else heard it. but your stomach flips. yelena stiffens, turning sharply toward the both of you like a dog that’s just scented blood in the water.

you nod too quickly. “fine,” you croak, clearing your throat. “just— tired.”

“aren’t we all,” bob says with a soft chuckle, leaning in a little too close, the familiar warmth of him a threat in itself. yelena moves between you, not a word, just a quick, practiced step, breaking the line of sight. “we should check the north wing,” she says. “storage. garage access.”

walker frowns. “why the hell would she be in storage?”

“if she’s hiding,” yelena says, not missing a beat. “she wouldn’t stay near her room. not if someone already trashed it.”

bob lifts a brow. “and who do you think trashed it?”

yelena gives a half-shrug. “whoever’s doing this.”

walker shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he shoulders past you, making for the hallway again. yelena gives you a look — one you’ve seen before, one that means stay close, don’t be a goddamn idiot, before she follows.

you feel bob’s hand brush against yours, fingers catching yours for half a second before he pulls away, offering nothing but a soft, tired smile like this is any other night.

you don’t say anything. you can’t.

the three of you made your way around the tower in near silence. it wasn’t the sort of silence that felt restful, or tense in the way a briefing room might before a mission. it was brittle. frayed at the edges. every footstep felt too loud, bob's weird nudded against walker to annoy him and soon he started moving with his arm behind his back like hes hiding something, even though the thick walls muffled most of the complaining from walker. the soft hum of the air system overhead and the occasional hiss of the old tower pipes were the only other sounds, save for the occasional strained, humorless remark from walker — not to break the tension, but because it was the only way he seemed capable of managing his nerves. fear made itself known in different ways, and with walker, it came in the form of forced bravado, muttered complaints about how "this was bullshit" and how he "should’ve doin' somethingg productive" instead of playing hide and seek with a goddamn ghost in a locked-down building.

bob kept his fingers laced through yours the entire time. not once letting go. not even to adjust his sleeves or scratch at his jaw. every time a pipe let out a shudder or some metallic clang echoed down the corridor, he squeezed your hand — sometimes gentle, sometimes too tight, like he wasn’t even aware of how strong his grip could be. his thumb brushed over your skin in slow circles, an absent motion that might’ve been comforting if the circumstances weren’t what they were.

it took almost five minutes to make it from the south wing to the central bar and lounge area, a stretch of hallway that seemed to grow longer and darker every time you passed it. the emergency lights were low, everything bathed in dim amber, the sleek chrome finish of the walls casting warped, uncanny reflections of your group as you passed. you tried not to look too long. you’d seen horror movies. you knew what happened to the idiot that stared at a reflection too long.

the first thing you saw when you came down the stairs was bucky. he was crouched near the wall panel by the bar, hands deep in an open access hatch, a tangle of cables and circuits splayed out around him like some kind of surgical scene. his brow was furrowed, hair tied back but a few strands sticking to his forehead. he hadn’t noticed you yet.

alexei, meanwhile, had clearly given up trying to be useful. the massive man was posted up behind the bar, steadily emptying every bottle he could get his hands on. he looked over when he heard your footsteps, raising a brow and then a bottle in lazy greeting.

“fridge’s gone out,” he grunted when your eyes met his, lifting the half-empty bottle of something vaguely amber. “alcohol’ll go bad.”

“it’ll be room temperature,” yelena muttered from beside you.

“exactly. bad alcohol.”

you didn’t have the energy to roll your eyes. you just kept moving, following the others down the rest of the steps. walker snorted, the sound too sharp in the quiet, and muttered, “this is a fucking joke,” before he stomped across the floor to where bucky was working.

bucky spared him a glance. “unless you’re here to be useful, shut the hell up.”

walker ignored that. “we’re looking for ava. you seen her?”

it wasn’t walker who answered, though. it was bob. his voice sounded too light, too casual for how tense he felt beside you, his thumb still moving over the back of your hand like a clock’s second hand that couldn’t stop. “yeah. you guys seen her?”

alexei tipped his bottle in your direction. “she was lookin’ for you.”

and your stomach dropped.

it was like the words hung in the air, slow and thick like smoke curling in the half-light.

“what?” the word left your mouth before you could think to stop it. you heard it clearly, too clearly, the sharp spike of your own voice in the heavy quiet of the room. you didn’t even know what you were asking. the dread had already bloomed in your chest before you’d spoken. you hadn’t seen ava — not since before, not since you’d left bob’s room. your mind stutters over the timeline, the hours lost in blackout stretches of adrenaline and blood and whispered secrets. but ava? no.

yelena’s eyes snapped to you then. it wasn’t anger, not immediately. it was something else. sharper. a glint of something that made your heart pick up, made your lungs tighten. it wasn’t even the look that did it, not exactly. it was what that look meant. you were in a room with trained killers and professional liars, and you’d just told on yourself without saying a goddamn thing.

you should say something now. you should say it’s not what you think. but that was exactly what someone would say if it was. if you were guilty. if you’d done something wrong. if you’d let something happen that you shouldn’t have.

bob’s hand was still tight around yours.

yelena moved down the last few steps to the lounge floor, crossing her arms and leaning against the back of the couch like she wasn’t already calculating the distance between herself and the nearest weapon.

“val leave us any way to contact her?” she asked bucky, who barely grunted in reply.

“shut the whole system down when lockdown hit,” he said. “no outgoing comms. internal lines are jammed too.”

“convenient,” walker muttered.

bucky didn’t even look up from the wires. “welcome to government hospitality.”

yelena turned her attention back to you. the others hadn’t quite noticed yet — walker was pacing, alexei was too busy pouring another glass of whiskey, and bob’s grip hadn’t lessened — but you felt it. the shift. she was looking at you like she already knew something wasn’t right.

you opened your mouth, but whatever words you thought you had, they didn’t come out. not yet.

“how long since you saw her?” yelena asked, tone flat.

“i — i haven’t.”

it sounded weak. worse, it sounded like a lie. bob squeezed your hand again. too hard this time. you flinched.

yelena’s gaze dropped to your joined hands.

bucky spoke then, breaking the moment. “she came through here an hour ago. asked if we’d seen you too. didn’t say why.”

“and you let her go alone?” walker snapped.

“what were we supposed to do?” bucky shot back, glaring up at him. “this place is sealed. no way in or out. if she wanted to move, we weren’t gonna stop her.”

“did she say where she was going?”

alexei shrugged. “south wing, i think. something about the service tunnels.”

your stomach twisted. the south wing. where you’d come from. where bob’s room was. yelena was still watching you. like a hawk. like a predator waiting for the right twitch of a mouse’s whisker before pouncing.

“you remember anything else?” she asked bucky, but you knew it wasn’t for bucky’s benefit.

“no.”

“if she’s dead,” bob murmurs, “if whoever’s doing this got to her—”

“she’s not dead,” you snap, harsher than you mean to, but you can’t let yourself think it. not when your stomach’s already turning over what alexei said. yelena pushed off the couch, moving to grab a bottle from behind the bar. she twisted off the cap, took a swig. her eyes never left yours.

“so. what’s the plan now?” walker grumbled. “wait around for someone else to get strung up, or—”

he didn’t finish. a sharp clang from the hallway made everyone freeze.

yelena straightened. bob’s hand turned clammy in yours.

bucky reached for a wrench beside him. alexei set down his bottle.

“stay here,” yelena said. it wasn’t a suggestion.

“like hell—” walker started. but she was already moving.

you tried to pull your hand from bob’s grip, but he didn’t let go. “come with me,” he murmured, voice soft, too soft.

you shook your head. “yelena said—”

“i don’t care what she said.” his eyes met yours. and for a moment — for one long, awful moment — you swore it wasn’t bob looking back at you. it was something else. something older. darker. his grip tightened again. and from down the hall, something moved.

“where are we going,” you whisper harshly, voice thinner than you mean it to be, clinging to the frayed edge of composure you’ve barely held onto since the lockdown started. every step feels heavier, not because of the distance but because of the sickening churn in your gut, the sensation of eyes you couldn’t see but felt lingering at the back of your neck. it made you want to scream.

but you don’t. you keep moving.

bob’s hand is clammy in yours, fingers squeezing too tight every time a pipe groans overhead, or the faint mechanical click of something—somewhere—reminds you the tower is alive and sealing you in like a mausoleum. there’s too much quiet. even walker had stopped his grumbling. it was the kind of quiet that felt like it was holding its breath.

until suddenly, without warning, you feel yourself wrenched sideways.

slam.

you gasp, head snapping back as your shoulders hit the cold wall of a hallway you hadn’t noticed bob veering into. he’s panting, trembling so hard his whole frame shakes, and the look in his eyes is wrong. it’s not fear, or even anger. it’s something shattered. something desperate.

he looks like he’s about to fall apart, and instead of asking for help, he’s pulling you under with him.

you barely have time to register the chill seeping through the socks you stupidly left on, or how dim the flickering light makes this corner of the tower. all you know is the sudden burn around your throat as bob’s hand wraps around it—not tight enough to choke, but tight enough to scare you. to make your stomach clench and your limbs go numb in a way that’s horribly familiar.

and for one insane second, your brain makes a sick connection. is this what it feels like for him when you ride him, cocking dragging so sweetly against your walls, when he’s under you, whining into your neck, needy and starved and wrecked? that sickly, helpless vulnerability curling in your stomach.

but there’s no time to think. because then he’s kissing you.

it’s sloppy, wet, more teeth than lips, his whole mouth trembling against yours like he’s barely holding himself together. you taste salt and tears and something coppery, and you don’t know if it’s yours or his. it barely lasts a second before he’s crying into the kiss, muttering broken apologies you can’t keep up with.

“’m sorry, love you ’s much. i love you, i love you, i love you—”

hot white heat. a sudden, searing ache beneath your ribs.

you don’t even register it at first. you just feel sick. nauseous, a hot wave of something primal rising up through your chest, throat clenching, stomach turning. your vision goes hazy at the edges. and then you look down.

there it is.

the blade. no longer a glint, but a dull shine in the hallway’s pale light, slick and buried to the hilt in your stomach. you don’t know when it happened, if he said anything before, if you even made a sound. but it’s there.

bob’s crying harder now.

“don’t cry,” he whispers, voice cracked and hoarse as he peppers frantic, messy kisses along your cheek. your vision swims, throat tight as a scream tries to claw its way up, but his hand’s already covering your mouth. he leans in, his breath hot and damp against your ear.

“shh, please don’t cry. ’m sorry, i know it hurts, i didn’t wanna, i just—i had to, i had to. you’ll understand soon, i promise.”

his words smear together, wet and desperate, like a man confessing sins he doesn’t even fully regret.

“’gonna pull away now, please don’t scream.”

you don’t nod. can’t. you just tremble beneath his weight as he carefully, slowly, draws the blade back, a sick, wet noise following it, and a white-hot burst of pain blooming so sharply it feels like the world narrows to a pinpoint.

you slide down the wall the second he lets you, legs giving out. bob cradles you like something fragile, like he hadn’t just opened you up in a back hallway like a butcher gutting something warm. his palm smooths hair from your forehead.

“it’s okay, baby. ‘m gonna fix it. we’ll be okay. just—stay quiet, alright? for me?”

it’s getting harder to breathe. every inhale feels like swallowing glass. your fingers twitch around the wound, coming away sticky and red and so much worse than you’d hoped. “they think it’s you,” he breathes out, voice wobbling as he lifts your shirt and winces at the mess he made. he fumbles in his pocket, pulling out something that catches the light. a badge. smeared and cracked. he sets it gently down beside your pool of blood, his touch too soft for what he’d done.

he chokes on a sob.

“they were gonna hurt you. i had to make it stop. i had to.” you try to speak, try to ask what he means, what the hell he’s talking about, but it comes out in a wet gurgle.

“‘m sorry,” bob says again, voice cracking, and he kisses your temple, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. desperate, clinging. his hands trembling where they touch you.

then — words you almost don’t catch.

“you’re gonna pass out. you won’t die. i promise.”

and his voice breaks so badly he sounds like a boy. a kid. a kid who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. like it’s not his own blade still buried in you.

then, “gonna make you feel good ‘til then, baby.”

it takes a second for you to register it. to process what that means. and then a cold draft ghosts across your skin as your bottoms are tugged down, and you realize exactly what he’s doing.

a sick, hot pulse of horror surges through you, but your body won’t move. everything’s gone heavy, the pain sharp and awful but your limbs distant, detached, like they don’t belong to you anymore. your mouth works, tries to shape words, a plea, a scream, but nothing comes out. your lips are dry, your throat raw.

bob moves like he’s wading through some sacred, spoiled thing — careful not to let the blood touch him, though it clings to the air, thick and metallic, hanging between you both like something alive. his hands are trembling, and they ghost over your thighs in a way that should be tender, should mean something kind, but it feels wrong. it feels obscene. it feels like he’s pretending, playing dress-up in the skin of a man who loves you, a man you might’ve let hold you once, before everything sour curdled between you.

he tucks a sticky strand of hair behind your ear, his touch so gentle it makes your stomach turn. his thumb traces the curve of your cheek, and it’s warm, damp, tacky with sweat or blood or both, and the way he looks at you — like you’re a thing worth weeping over — would be almost pitiable if it didn’t make your skin crawl.

“so pretty,” he whispers, voice a low, hoarse hush, cracking around the edges. his thumb lingers at your jaw, tracing the trembling shape of your lips like he can mold them into a smile if he tries hard enough. his eyes shine wet in the low light, though it’s not grief — it’s something messier, needier, something feral dressed up in reverence.

you hear the soft rustle of fabric before you feel it — the waistband of his sweatpants being pushed down, his boxers following, and though you can’t quite look, some sick part of you registers the way his tip shines flushed and slick, a droplet of pre-cum catching in the hollow between his fingers as he smears it around lazily, giving himself a few long, steady strokes. he exhales sharp through his nose, his lips parting as he stares down at you with something close to awe.

he shifts you like you’re weightless, moving your legs just so, angling your hips in a way that spares him the mess pooling on the floor. your panties are pushed aside with a flick of his fingers, and for a moment — a single, sharp moment — he grins. a boyish, proud little thing, teeth tugging at his lower lip as his gaze drops between your legs.

“you’re wet,” he breathes out like it’s proof, like it means something, like it isn’t just terror and shock pulling slick from your body. his voice cracks on it, and the sound is almost a whimper. “even now. even like this.”

he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean of sweat and blood, of whatever he’s gathered from you, and you see his throat work as he swallows. his lashes flutter, lips shiny as his hand drops back down. the pads of his fingers press into you, spreading your folds, gathering wetness and blood alike as he works a pair inside, scissoring you open with a kind of absentminded care — as though he’s trying to stretch you without hurting you, as though that line hasn’t long since been crossed.

his gaze keeps darting around, checking the dark, glancing over his shoulder, down to your stomach, where blood sticks to your skin in long streaks. he frowns when he sees it, leaning down without a word and dragging his tongue across the wound. it’s hot and thick and wrong, and you flinch, but it only seems to encourage him.

he spits a mouthful of blood and spit onto your cunt, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet, and then he’s lining himself up, pressing his aching, weeping tip against your entrance.

the sound he makes when he sinks in is drawn-out, sharp and cracked, a ragged whine that slips free before he can catch it. his fingers tighten around your hips, holding you in place as he pushes deeper, the stretch burning, wet and thick with blood and slick alike.

“‘s tight,” he breathes, words catching in his throat. his hips stutter forward, his cock throbbing inside you, and his eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes dark against his skin. “fuck, baby… you feel — you feel so good. like you were made for it.”

he pulls back just enough to glance down again, watching the way his cock shines with a mix of your slick and blood. his lips part in something like awe, tongue wetting his lower lip.

“wonder…” his voice is soft now, barely a whisper, like he’s talking to himself. “wonder if i could fuck your new hole too…”

he brings a hand up to your cheek again, thumb stroking over the curve of your lip, pressing against it until you part them. his eyes meet yours, and there’s something raw there, something cracked and ugly pretending to be tender.

“baby,” he murmurs, voice shaking, “you still there? still with me?”

it’s almost pitiful — how quick it happens. the way his breath hitches, teeth sinking into the swell of his bottom lip, his voice cracking on your name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once. his pace falters, hips stuttering in a last, desperate grind against you before he’s pulling out with a slick, wet sounds. the head of his cock flushed angry and glistening as he fists himself fast, desperate, and then he’s spilling over you.

a strangled cry tears from his throat as he comes, thick and hot, painting the open wound on your stomach with it. the pearly white mixing with blood, streaking down in thin, viscous lines. his hand doesn’t pause, smearing it around with his fingers, almost absentmindedly, like he’s marking something, making it his in a way words never could. there’s a shine to his eyes, a sick kind of reverence on his face like he thinks this means something. like it’s tender. like it’s love.

he leans down to lick at it, tongue dragging through blood and come alike, groaning low in his throat as he swallows. it leaves his lips stained, his chin slick with it. a shudder runs through him as he pulls away, licking the mess from his fingers, taking a moment to check the front of his sweatpants for blood — ever careful, ever fastidious.

your body’s gone slack now, heavy and unmoving, the too-pale cast of your skin telling more than you could. your chest rising in shallow, uneven little breaths. or maybe not at all. you've passed out by now.

he glances beside you, eyes flicking to where the badge lies next to your body, catching the light in the gloom. a satisfied little hum in his throat.

and then he leaves.

but no. it’s none of those. it’s the sterile buzz of the medbay’s overhead lighting. it’s the faint scent of antiseptic and dried blood. it’s the distant hum of security shutters groaning back open.

a face blurs into view, close enough you smell the sweat clinging to her skin.

“she’s awake.”

yelena’s voice is hoarse but steady. her hand on your chest pushes you down when you try to rise, and the sudden bloom of pain in your side jolts the world into focus. your mouth opens, a ragged wheeze escaping before you even register it.

this isn’t heaven. isn’t hell either.

another voice, rougher, pulls your eyes sideways. the words shape around you like a chain tightening.

"you’ve been stabbed."

bucky.

he’s slumped in the chair by the far wall, arms crossed so tight his knuckles have gone white, jaw locked in a way you’ve only seen when bodies hit the ground in front of him. he watches you with a hollow kind of intensity, like he’s already run the worst-case scenario through his head a dozen times.

you breathe shallowly, every inhale snagging on the fire blooming in your side. it’s hot, thick, a pulse all its own. the memory floods in slow and cold—the hall, bob’s trembling hands, his voice breaking against your ear. the kiss, the apologies, the knife. the sick, wet slide of it pulling free, the wetter feeling of whatever had been left of him between your legs. your stomach lurches.

yelena catches the shift in your expression.

“hey. stay with me. don’t fucking pass out again.” her hand tightens against the makeshift bandage, a strip of someone’s jacket by the looks of it, already dark with blood.

"can’t believe she’d fucking do that," bucky says, pacing now. he drags his hands down his face, the exhaustion in him making his movements sluggish. like if he stopped moving, he might shatter. yelena looks up from you, an unreadable expression flickering over her face. it’s not one you’ve seen often. softer, but awkward, unsure. one she reserves for the rare moments she thinks she’s gone too far—a sharp word to bob, a ruthless jab at john. a moment she regrets.

“i’m sorry,” she murmurs, low enough it’s only meant for you. her fingers work deftly to peel away the blood-soaked jacket, stained through with your blood. it’s not a whisper, but not loud enough for bucky to catch. “i didn’t think she would—doesn’t make any sense. there’s no gain for her.”

her voice dips into something quieter, something more like a question meant for herself.

“who?” you rasp. your throat feels wrecked, like you’ve been screaming for hours, raw and thick with copper.

yelena exhales, her jaw tightening. “ava.” she watches your face, the confusion written plain there.

“she stabbed you. me and john found her over your body, drenched in blood, knife in hand.”

the world seems to tilt then.

no.

the word stays in your throat, heavy as a stone. you don’t say it. you don’t have to. your face says enough, the disbelief, the cold trickle of dread unspooling in your chest. ava hadn’t done anything. she was missing. she was—bob. it was bob. you remember his eyes, glassy with tears, his trembling hands, the heat of his breath against your cheek. the kiss, the apology, the blade.

but your voice won’t work. you can’t make it.

you let out a cry as yelena pulls the makeshift bandage away from your side, digging through the drawers for supplies—cotton swabs, clean gauze, a proper wrap. the cool air hits the wound and you make a sound you don’t recognize.

against your better judgment, you look down.

two stab wounds.

bob had only stabbed you once.

you were sure of it.

nausea claws up the back of your throat. your vision blurs at the edges, and you reach blindly for something to steady yourself. yelena catches your hand, her grip firm. “easy,” she mutters, voice threading somewhere between clinical and kind. “you lost a lot of blood. stay with me.”

bucky’s voice cuts through the thick quiet. “it doesn’t add up. ava wouldn’t have done it. even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be sloppy enough to get caught standing over the body. not her style.”

yelena doesn’t answer right away, focused on cleaning the edges of the wound. you wince at the sting, a hiss escaping your teeth. “i know,” she finally says, and it’s so soft you almost miss it. “but it was her. bloody. knife in hand.”

bucky shakes his head, weary. “then why the bullshit excuse about pym? ‘killing hank pym,’ it’s a stretch. doesn’t track.”

you swallow hard, breath ragged. “where is she?” the words scrape out, barely audible.

yelena finishes securing the last piece of gauze and lets out a slow breath. “don’t worry. val took her.” she doesn’t look at you when she says it, but her voice is the gentlest you’ve heard it all night.

you glance toward the wall where a window should be, expecting a view of the storm-drunk sky or the city’s dead glow. instead, just dull, metal-plated walls. no way to tell how long you’ve been here. how long since it happened.

“why are we still locked up?”

“precaution.” bucky sighs, slumping back into the chair, raking a hand through his hair. “ava hasn’t admitted to it. val’s not letting us out until she gets what she wants.”

your stomach knots, memory folding over itself. bob had stabbed you. you remembered it too clearly—the tremor in his hand, his lips against your ear, the metallic drag of the blade. ava… she wasn’t there. not in that moment. yet someone else had struck. two wounds. two different angles.

ava was beating a dead horse. had she just stumbled onto you too late? or had someone framed her? those quiet moments—the midnight runs for a bag of chips, swapping stolen stories in the dark—ava wouldn’t. not to you.

a sudden crackle splits the air, sharp as a whip.

the comms.

heavy breathing. then a sound you can’t place. laughter. a low, whole-hearted laugh, ragged and mean, shivering through the static.

yelena freezes, the bandage she’d been holding slipping to the floor with a soft, traitorous thump.

bucky’s already moving. reaching the medbay door, flicking the lights on and off in a desperate, silent code. nothing.

“power’s still dead,” he growls.

then how were the comms working?

“but the light—” you croak, motioning to the bright medbay lamp overhead.

yelena shakes her head sharply, snatching a sidearm from the tray near the medkit. “battery powered. stay here.” she levels a look at you both, the kind you’ve only seen before a fight. bucky’s jaw tightens, glancing back at you. “don’t move.”

you shift anyway, biting back a grunt of pain, and slide one leg off the cot, then the other. every movement feels like tearing stitches, each stretch of skin pulling too tight over bruised, battered muscle. cold sweat beads at the nape of your neck and trickles down your spine, the fabric of your shirt clinging damp and uncomfortable. you duck behind the bed’s bulk, one arm clutching your side, the other pressed to the floor to steady your balance. the room swims in a haze of stale air, antiseptic, and the metallic tang of your own blood.

somewhere beyond the medbay’s door, footsteps scrape to a stop.

you hold your breath.

a pause.

the kind of silence that isn’t empty but thick, waiting, alive in the walls.

then—a knock.

soft.

not like a stranger. not like a soldier. something… measured. patient. familiar in a way that curdles your stomach.

yelena, already half-tensed by the comms interference, flicks a glance at bucky. it’s a fast, tight look, one they’ve shared a thousand times in a thousand ugly situations. one that says be ready. her sidearm lifts fractionally. bucky eases up from his crouch, his flesh hand flexing once at his side while the metal one curls slow around a combat knife left abandoned on the counter.

the knock comes again.

three beats, evenly spaced.

you try not to breathe.

"open up, getting weird fucking feelings out here," comes a voice through the door.

yelena’s grip loosens, her eyes narrowing into slits, her mouth twisting in recognition and distaste. she knows that voice, the way it always sounds like a bad joke with a worse punchline waiting just out of earshot.

"walker," bucky mutters under his breath. not a question. a name, flung like a stone into dark water. it lands with a weight neither of them bothers to disguise.

yelena’s fingers curl around the door’s manual lock, the rough metal warm beneath her touch. she flips it open with a sharp click, the tension in the room knotting tighter as she pulls the door inward.

there stands john walker, broad-shouldered and sweat-slick, the harsh lines of his face deepened by the emergency lighting. there’s a smear of something dark on his collar and an unsettled glint in his eye that makes the air feel colder than it already was.

"didn’t we tell you to stay with bob and alexei?" yelena snaps, voice like snapped wire.

walker scoffs, shoving his way into the room, his bulk and arrogance trailing behind him like smoke. he drops into the chair bucky had been occupying minutes earlier, the metal frame groaning under the sudden weight. his expression is dark, shadowed by something neither of them can name.

he lifts a hand, jabbing a finger toward the ceiling. "you guys hear that shit?"

bucky’s grip on his knife doesn’t slacken. if anything, the dim light catches on its edge as it shifts fractionally. yelena lets the door swing shut behind walker with a muted click, not taking her eyes off him as she steps around, positioning herself between you and the intruder.

"hear what?" bucky’s voice is a low rasp, the kind of tone he reserves for conversations that start bloody and end worse.

walker leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees, his head tilted as if straining to catch some distant, unheard sound. there’s a raggedness to him that sets your teeth on edge, a frayed wire threatening to spark.

"voices," he says, his voice rough, one hand gesturing vaguely. "like fuckin' whispering. in the vents. in the walls. you’re telling me you didn’t pick up on that?"

yelena and bucky exchange a glance, a silent, brittle understanding flickering between them. you press harder against the wall, pain flaring sharp and hot beneath your ribs.

"we’ve had comms interference," yelena answers, her tone tight and clipped. "nothing else."

walker lets out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand down his face, leaving a smear of grime in its wake. "it’s out there," he insists. "a fuckin’ chorus. i can’t make out the words, but it’s moving. following. maybe this place isn’t as dead as val swore it was."

a heavy, awful quiet settles over the room.

you realize, distantly, that your hands are shaking.

bucky takes a step forward, metal blade glinting, the pale gleam of his stare pinning walker where he sits.

"you leave your post for ghost stories, john?"

walker bristles, jaw clenching, his body tensing like a dog about to snap. "don’t start with me, if something’s prowling this place, you’ll thank me when it’s my knife in its throat instead of yours."

"and if it’s just you losing your shit?" yelena throws back, the words like a whip crack.

walker’s gaze drifts to you then, lingering in a way that makes your skin crawl. there’s a calculation behind his eyes, some sick equation working itself out.

"or maybe," he says, slow and deliberate, "it’s already got one of us."

the air shifts. sharpens. bucky’s grip tightens, yelena’s shoulders drawing taut as a bowstring.

you feel your stomach knot, bile rising hot in your throat.

bucky moves closer, a single step, the knife lifting just slightly, enough to catch the flicker of overhead light.

"watch your mouth, john."

"i’m not implying anything," walker snarls, standing abruptly. the chair screeches across the floor. "i’m saying something’s wrong. you feel it. she’s been off since the meeting. maybe it’s her. maybe it’s not. but we need to lock this shit down before we end up picking each other off."

pain stabs deep in your chest, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your ears. yelena’s voice drops to a deadly softness. "that still wouldn't explain ava with a knife in her hand over her."

his lip curls in a snarl, but the tension clings to him like oil.

bucky lifts his chin. "sit down quietly. or get the hell out."

walker holds his ground a moment longer, something ugly flickering behind his eyes, before he scoffs, sharp and bitter, and turns for the door.

"fine," he spits. "but when those walls start talking to you too, don’t come crying to me." he yanks the door open and vanishes into the corridor’s gloom, the scrape of his boots fading into the restless hush beyond.

the silence he leaves behind is thick and sour. yelena turns to bucky once more, her brow furrowed, the harsh lines of her face shadowed in the low light. "is it worth going to communications?"

bucky doesn’t answer right away. his eyes flick to the ceiling, to the walls, to the silent hum of the medbay, as if weighing the odds, as if listening for something no one else can hear. his metal fingers tap a restless, irregular beat against his thigh. when he finally exhales, it’s a sound like gravel shifting under heavy boots.

"it’s worth checking it out," he says, the words carrying the weight of inevitability.

yelena nods once, sharp and decisive, like she’s already moving through the plan in her head. her hand absently tightens the strap of her sidearm, a small, unconscious gesture she’s made a thousand times before a fight. "i’ll go."

"not by yourself," bucky counters immediately, his voice like a snap of ice. the air between them crackles, old habits and old battles flaring back to life. "who’s going to watch her?"

he jerks his chin toward you, huddled against the cold wall, your skin clammy and pale, sweat slicking your hair to your forehead. pain gnaws at your side with every breath, the dull throb of your injuries a constant, insistent pulse.

"i’m fine," you manage, your voice rough, raw, the words scraping your throat on their way out. "just have alexei or bob come up here."

your skin prickles as you say his name aloud. bob. the first time since he’d left you bleeding and half-conscious, his face a blur of violence and betrayal. the memory flashes hot and sharp, bile rising in your throat.

"no," bucky says, his tone final, brooking no argument. his gaze stays locked on yelena, the tension between them thick and unyielding. "in the case that it wasn’t ava—"

"it was ava," yelena snaps, her voice like flint striking steel, offense plain in every sharp line of her face. "i saw her. her face, her hands, the fucking knife. it was her."

bucky’s jaw tightens. "in the case that it wasn’t," he grits out, emphasizing every word like it’s a stone dropped into a bottomless well, "they are the suspects."

there’s a beat of silence, long enough for the blood to pound in your ears, before yelena throws a sharp, humorless smirk his way. "that includes you too, correct?"

it lands like a slap. bucky’s face barely shifts, but something in his gaze darkens, a flicker of old ghosts rising behind his eyes. for a moment, neither of them speaks. the only sound is the steady drip of something in the corner, a metallic patter into an unseen pool.

"yeah," bucky says finally, quiet and cold. "that includes me."

yelena stares at him a moment longer, her jaw clenched tight, then lets out a breath through her nose and turns back to you. "then we move together. both of us. to comms."

"and leave her here alone?" bucky’s voice is rough, but there’s a note of something else underneath. not quite concern. not quite regret. something heavier.

"she’ll be safer if we get a line out. you want to post walker on her?" yelena asks dryly, one brow raised.

bucky grimaces. "i’d rather put a bullet in my foot."

"then we lock the door." yelena’s hand brushes your shoulder briefly, a gesture equal parts apology and promise. "you keep quiet. you hear anyone but us? you don’t answer. you stay behind the cot. got it?"

you nod, your throat too tight to speak.

bucky moves to the terminal, his fingers flying across the keys. the monitor flickers to life, the feed grainy and patchy, but enough to show the dimly lit hallway outside. empty, for now.

"we'll go fast," he mutters.

yelena gives you one last look. "don’t die."

and with that, they’re gone, slipping through the door like shadows, weapons drawn, the lock hissing shut behind them. you’re alone again. and the medbay feels colder than it did a moment ago.

time is a nuance.

it’s been a little over an hour since yelena and bucky slipped out of the medbay, leaving you alone with the sterile hum of machines and the cold press of metal walls. an eerie quiet settled in their absence, thick and unyielding, a suffocating kind of stillness that clung to the air and wrapped around your chest like a noose. it was a quiet you might’ve savored, once — a week ago, maybe. a quiet where you could’ve closed your eyes, let your bones ache, let the storm inside your head settle just enough to remember how to breathe.

but there’s no peace in this quiet now. no escape. no sanctuary. it’s not silence — it’s the absence of everything that should be here. the gentle whirr of power running through the walls, the buzz of the overhead lights, the soft, distant shuffle of someone’s boots against the tile floor. all of it replaced by this. a yawning, endless hush, filled only with the erratic beat of your heart and the shallow rasp of your own breath.

you keep expecting someone to come to the door. john, maybe. sharp-eyed and strung too tight, voice edged with suspicion as he questioned you again, his gaze half-distracted because his mind would already be made up before you opened your mouth. or alexei, with his too-loud voice and broad, rough hands — maybe he’d come in, offer a punch to the shoulder too firm for someone bleeding out, only to remember himself halfway through the motion. maybe even bob.

would bob come? the thought needles at you, jagged and mean. would he come to finish what he started, or would he stumble in with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands, apologizing, a devastated wreck of a man like you’d seen him before? would he look at you with the guilt already swimming in his face, the kind of sorrow that couldn’t undo anything? because whatever his reasons — and god, you wanted to believe he had them — you couldn’t forget the way his knife had felt. the way your own blood had pooled hot and fast around your fingers. he'd kissed it better though, sweet words that sounded submerged underwater but they were still there, he said there was reason. you wanted a reason. you wanted to believe in the curve of his crooked smile, in the way he laughed boyish and unguarded, nose scrunching up, like the world wasn’t always on fire.

it hadn’t been his voice over the comms.

you replayed the laughter in your head over and over, trying to stretch it into something familiar. it hadn’t been bob’s. too rough, too hollowed out and sharp at the edges. bob’s laugh was light, boyish — this had been something else. something guttural and cracking. and if the power had really been out this long, maybe a full day now, maybe longer depending how long you’d been out cold, then whoever spoke over those comms shouldn’t have been able to.

time slipped through your hands like sand. every second dragged while whole hours vanished. you yearned for a sense of it, for a clock, a watch, a window where you could tell if it was morning or night or somewhere in between. but the medbay was sealed up tight, the entire tower was. government grade metal sheets bolted over the windows, and the emergency lights running on battery gave nothing away. an endless dusk.

and if the power was going to come back online, it wouldn’t be from the comms room.

that was the thing no one had mentioned, but you knew. you should've told them, yelena and bucky. tony had built the generators himself — enough juice to power a small city, tucked away in the basement of this place, the thick, humming heart of it. val had the power to turn it off, sure, but maybe — maybe someone had gotten smart. a wire spliced, a jumpstart rigged up with whatever scraps they could find. like a car, right? something desperate, something ugly, the kind of move you made when you were cornered.

it could be bullshit. you didn’t know. your head pounded, and your side burned, and maybe you were chasing ghosts. but you had to move. the medbay was closing in, a shrinking box, every inch of it pressing too close, and you could still hear yelena’s voice in your head, warning you to stay put. but fuck, you needed to breathe somewhere else. needed to see if any of this made sense.

you groaned as you slid fully off the cot, one hand clutching your side, the other bracing against the cool frame of the bed. every movement felt like a pulled stitch, a burst of fire under your skin. you staggered toward the corner where the small medical lamp still flickered weakly, its battery nearly spent. grabbing the handle, you turned toward the door — then stopped.

better to have something. anything.

you limped back, scanning the surgical tray. a pair of scissors — long, sharp, gleaming in the low light. not much, but better than nothing. you grabbed them, curling your fingers tight around the cold metal, the edges biting into your palm.

swallowing, you faced the door.

it still bore the marks of bucky and yelena’s departure, scuffed and hastily closed. you hesitated, listening hard for any sound beyond it. nothing. but that meant less than it should’ve. the comms had clicked on in the dark, voices breaking through dead systems. power could run where no one expected. it took everything you had to move the last few feet, to press your ear against the cool metal, straining for any sign of movement. silence. but it was a loaded kind of quiet, stretched taut like a tripwire.

one breath. two.

and then you slipped the scissors into your sleeve, gripped the lamp tighter, and pushed the door open.

the tower was truly like a maze with the lights off.

it was all too easy to get lost in, consumed by. the absence of sound felt like a trick — your own footsteps dull against the floor, every breath louder than it should’ve been. you stalked through the narrow halls moving purely on memory now, counting turns and doors, disjointed pieces of the layout you clung to like a lifeline. every step sent a pulse of pain lancing up your side, hot and wet beneath the gauze, but you pressed on.

right now, your only instinct was to move away from the mid-wing entrance, away from where you remembered being before bob had grabbed you, rough hands and rougher words, dragging you somewhere you hadn’t had the chance to map in your head. you winced as the memory surfaced unbidden, the scent of his skin too close, the heat of his breath curling in your ear. you squeezed your eyes shut, grounding yourself on the rasp of your breathing. it was all you had to trust.

you passed the weaponry — the door slightly ajar, a pair of assault rifles propped haphazardly against the frame like someone left in a hurry. a bathroom, its cracked mirror reflecting a slice of your silhouette. alexei’s room. the old man would’ve had a laugh about this, you thought bitterly. maybe tossed a joke over his shoulder about your sorry face and worse odds. you weren’t sure if you hoped he was dead or alive out there. it hurt either way.

the scent of metal was thick in the air, rust and ozone and old blood. you didn’t let yourself linger on it. you knew what it meant.

the emergency lights cast everything in a low, yellow haze. your shadow bent sharp against the walls, too long, too distorted. you kept moving.

it wasn’t courage. it was exhaustion.

you turned another corner, this one leading deeper into the old residential block. a stretch of rooms once meant for agents who didn’t leave the compound. most of them empty now. you counted them as you passed — 14, 15, 16 — half the numbers missing from their plaques. you ducked into the old security control hub, hoping maybe a terminal had juice. nothing. the faint smell of burnt wiring clung to the walls. someone had been here, tried something. failed.

you kept the lamp raised, its beam weak but steady. the basement access was past the rec room, down another hall you barely remembered from one late night years ago. you followed the path by instinct.

by the time you reach the cold metal door of the basement, your lamp’s glow is little more than a sickly pulse in the darkness, each flicker threatening to leave you in the pitch black. the metal knob feels slick under your palm, not from condensation but from the sweat of your own nerves. it turns with a soft, traitorous groan, and the door opens to a black mouth, the stairwell yawning out before you like the throat of some old beast. a steady descent into nothing.

you hesitate, watching the light bleed out as you step inside, swallowing you whole. instinct screams at you — wait for yelena, wait for bucky, even john. but you know better. time doesn’t work the same here anymore. minutes stretch and snap back like rubber bands. you can’t afford to wait. whatever’s happening, it’s happening now.

you pull the door shut behind you with a dull thud. it’s so dark, the act feels final. one step. then another. the stairs creak under your weight, old wood buried under metal plating, and with each footfall you hold your breath, counting the steps, imagining what lies at the bottom.

a web glints in the faint glow of your lamp, and you recoil, instinctively swiping it away with the edge of the light. it clings to your fingers, sticky and fine. the basement smells wrong. damp and metallic. like rust and the thick scent of old, dry blood. you tell yourself it’s your wound — maybe you're bleeding more than you realized, the ache in your side a dull, omnipresent throb.

halfway down, your grip on the scissors slips, a wet palm betraying you. they fall, clattering against metal, then concrete. the sound ricochets off the walls, far too loud in this place. but it isn’t the clatter of steel that makes your blood run cold.

it’s the delicate tinkle of glass shattering somewhere ahead.

your stomach lurches. a chill prickles your scalp.

run.

run back upstairs, go now.

your brain fires off the command, but your body stays rooted. like a deer staring down headlights, you glance up, trying to measure how far you’ve come. too far. and no light above. the dark swallows everything.

by the time you force yourself to keep moving, your legs feel hollow, wooden. each step weighted with the press of a thousand unseen eyes. when your foot finally meets cold concrete, you nearly collapse from the relief of reaching solid ground.

the basement stretches out before you — a vast, low-ceilinged space cluttered with relics of other lives. you spot a light switch, worn down to the plastic nub. you flip it, breath snagging in your throat as a wash of dim, amber light floods the room.

it’s worse than the dark.

you quickly move to snag your scissors back before letting your eyes fall to rows of shelves sag beneath the weight of dust-covered equipment. old training gear — padded helmets, gauntlets, a tattered punching bag bearing some long-faded initials. cobwebs drape over stacked crates labeled in faded sharpie: "HALLOWEEN '18," "TONY'S JUNK," "ARCHIVES."

you pass a pile of forgotten costumes — cheap plastic masks warped with heat, an old werewolf head with matted fur. a bloodstained cheerleader outfit. you don’t let yourself linger. toward the far wall, old science equipment sits abandoned. glass beakers dulled with grime. cracked monitors. a blackboard with faded chalk equations you don’t pretend to understand. a thick metal table bears what looks like the remains of a long-forgotten experiment: wires, a disassembled mechanical hand, and what might be a scorched lab coat crumpled in the corner.

and then you see it.

the generator.

an industrial beast. huge, half as tall as the ceiling and twice as wide as the medical cot you’d been lying on earlier. built by tony, no doubt. everything about it is sharp-edged and unforgiving. it hums — faintly, inconsistently, like an old heart refusing to give up. patched wires dangle off one side. scorch marks kiss the wall behind it.

cautiously, you step closer. each move feels monumental. you’re aware of every drop of blood still seeping from your side, the tacky wetness on your shirt sticking to your skin.

you reach out, brushing grime from one of the panels. someone’s been here recently. the dust is disturbed, smeared by fingers. there’s a faint bootprint in the grime on the floor.

the hairs at the back of your neck rise.

there’s a single control panel at the front — analog switches, a battered gauge, and a flickering green indicator light. the power is on. at least partially. enough for the coms, maybe. you glance down at a crumpled notebook on the nearby table. pages water-damaged and torn, but one word leaps out, scrawled in angry, blocky handwriting: "OVERRIDE."

you thumb through it, finding diagrams of the tower’s electrical systems. someone had been planning something down here. rerouting power. you don’t know enough to make sense of the specifics, but it’s clear this wasn’t official.

there are glass tubes on the table beside the notebook — old vials filled with long-coagulated liquid, some shattered, pooling dark stains over the papers. one bottle, unbroken, bears a handwritten label "SERUM — TEST 3."

you hear it again.

that sound. not glass, this time. the scrape of something metal against concrete.

your heart lodges in your throat. you turn, eyes scanning the dim room. shadows shift between the shelves. one of the halloween masks leers back at you from the top of a box. it’s a cheap vampire grin, plastic teeth yellowed with age.

you’d closed the door behind you. heavy, metal, stubborn on its hinges. you would’ve heard if someone came in. the old hinges always gave a sharp, aching creak like bone grinding against bone. nothing had come down. no one had followed. and the spiderweb stretched tight across the upper steps had been untouched, trembling only when you tore through it with the dim bulb of your portable lamp. no signs of disturbance, no boot scuffs, no tell-tale shift in the air. you were the only one here.

and as messed up as it was, the thought brought you a flicker of comfort. twisted, desperate comfort, but comfort all the same.

you rolled your shoulders, squaring them in the oppressive dark. the basement stretched ahead like a blackened throat, devouring the weak light that haloed around you. the walls were cold, concrete blocks stained with years of neglect. pipes lined the ceiling like skeletal fingers. old cobwebs clung to corners. the scent was sour and metallic, thick with age and something else you didn’t want to name. your stomach cramped as you kept walking.

to your left, the science equipment loomed in haphazard towers. old centrifuges gathering dust, microscopes cloaked in grime. glass vials resting in cracked wooden racks. you stepped cautiously around them, the floor sticky in places from who knew what.

that’s when you heard it. a soft scraping sound, like something being dragged.

your stomach flipped. you froze, the tiny beam of your lamp trembling as you swung it around.

nothing.

just piles of old training gear stacked against the wall. weathered punching bags leaking their innards like burst organs. shelves filled with dismembered mannequin heads, their glassy eyes catching the light in a way that made your skin crawl. faded halloween costumes stuffed into plastic bins—matted werewolf masks, tattered cloaks, a rubber devil horn peeking from under a dislodged lid.

but no one there.

heart pounding, you turned back toward the science equipment. a glint of something caught your eye, liquid moving like a sluggish vein across the floor.

a thick, viscous fluid crawled from a shattered vial. not oil. not water. red. dark and clotted. blood.

then you saw it, the broken glass scattered like jagged, crystalline teeth on the concrete floor. the pale gleam of liquid snaking a path away from the mess. red. too dark for anything else. your gut twisted as the sour, metallic tang of blood reached your nose, sharper now that you were closer. it clung to the heavy, damp air, mingling with dust and old earth and the unmistakable musk of something left to rot.

you forced yourself forward. one step. another.

you were about to dismiss it as some old leftover from the tower’s past—there’d been worse things lurking in its bowels over the years. spilled samples. forgotten experiments. hell, maybe a dead rat or two. you almost managed to turn away, until your gaze snagged on something just wrong enough to anchor your feet to the floor.

words.

written in blood. coagulated clots breaking up the crude, hurried scrawl.

cold slammed through your veins.

you nearly dropped the lamp.

your stomach lurched. for a second you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. your pulse thundered in your ears, a nauseating, off-beat drumline pounding in your skull. the letters gleamed wetly under the lamp’s failing glow.

“fuck,” you breathed. it came out too loud in the small space, bouncing off walls lined with rusted shelves and old, covered machinery.

you stumbled back instinctively, the need to put space between you and the message stronger than the pain in your gut. your heel caught on something, a low box left haphazardly in the middle of the walkway. you threw a glance behind you.

nothing.

no one.

but your nerves remained razor taut, your muscles wired and ready to snap.

in your frantic retreat, your elbow clipped a shelf, sending a cluster of glass vials tumbling to the floor. they hit the concrete with a sickening chorus of sharp cracks and splashes, some shattering on impact, others bouncing before rolling off into the dark. whatever liquids they held mixed into a murky, viscous puddle at your feet.

you back up once more, heartbeat ragged and skipping, every inch of you crawling with that ancient, primal knowledge that you weren’t alone. your back collides with something, not a wall, not metal or pipework, but something hard and cool and unmistakably human-shaped. it steals the breath from your throat before you even manage to turn.

when you do, it’s already moving. the figure steps out from the dimness like a shadow bleeding out of the wall, tattered black fabric trailing in its wake, a sick parody of some old party costume or slasher-flick killer. the ghost mask stares back at you, its long, hollow eye sockets empty, the mouth an eternal scream. it isn’t the cheap plastic you remembered from party stores and halloween nights; this is older, cracked and yellowed at the edges, slick with something you don’t dare identify. and those empty holes — no light touches them. it’s as though they drink it in.

for a moment, you can’t scream. something inside you buckles under the sheer wrongness of it.

then its hand — if you could even call it that — sinks into your hair. cold fingers coil against your scalp like wire cables, so cold it burns, and yank your head back so abruptly your vision whites out around the edges. you suck in a sharp breath, the air tasting of old rust and earth and something coppery sweet that you pray is your own blood.

instinct kicks in. you grapple for its wrist, but there’s nothing solid. your hand meets something impossibly cold and slick, and it bites back, a searing jolt lancing through your palm as though your nerves were being set alight.

“stop—!” you manage, barely a rasp.

the thing moves fast. impossibly so. it drives you to the grimy concrete floor. the sour, decayed scent of old chemicals and older blood makes your stomach flip.

before you can pull in enough air to scream, something presses against your lips. no — it’s forced in, rough and unyielding. your teeth scrape against the cold hilt of as it shoves the handle into your mouth. you gag on the intrusion, the sharp tang of iron and old leather gagging you. your eyes water, the sharp ache in your scalp relentless as the figure leans in closer, its face inches from yours.

it tilts its head. slow. deliberate. mocking.

some part of you, desperate and animal, thrashes beneath it. you try to jerk your knee up, to push it off, but it’s like wrestling a corpse, a phantom with hands made of ice and the weight of stone. your palm lands on something wet, slick. blood. too much of it for comfort.

you whimper around the blade handle, chest rising and falling in ragged, panicked hitches.

the figure lets out a sound then. not a word. not quite a laugh. a low, vibrating hum that seems to crawl beneath your skin. it’s pleased. it knows it has you.

its free hand brushes your cheek, a mockery of tenderness that leaves a frozen welt in its wake. fingers drag down your throat, and you feel the scrape of something sharp, like claws or broken glass. not deep enough to bleed, but enough to promise worse.

"be quiet." it murmurs. you don’t know if you hear it with your ears or in your bones.

you squeeze your eyes shut, you faintly gag on the handle, refusing to let it see the tears spilling over. your hand scrabbles for anything — a shard of glass, a loose wire, a fallen piece of old lab equipment. your fingertips brush metal and you grip it like a lifeline.

the figure seems to sense it. it leans in closer, the ghostface mask brushing your temple. your skin crawls. “let’s see if you bleed,” it breathes.

it takes the handle from your mouth, slow and savoring, a smear of your spit clinging to the hilt. your throat works around a hoarse sob as it angles the blade down toward your neck. you shake your head, wild and broken, tears tracking hot down your cold-flushed face.

"no," you croak, the word barely a breath.

it laughs.

the sound is sickeningly familiar. the way its shoulders shake, the harsh bark of it. it’s the same one you’d heard over the comms — the voice that haunted the static, that made grown soldiers freeze.

something primal in you snaps. instinct, memory, fear. your hand flies up, grabbing the edge of the mask, and you rip it away before you can think better of it.

what you see makes your stomach drop.

you hadn’t been there when bob lost control, hadn’t witnessed the aftermath firsthand, but you knew the stories. you’d sat at ava’s side, changing dressings, hearing her stammer through the horror of it. you’d seen the footage val insisted on showing.

what they called the void.

and now, it stared back at you.

those same white-hot, pitiless eyes. the twisted parody of bob’s features, stretched and wrong. hair damp and clinging to his temples. his mouth twitched into something too wide to be human. it made your chest ache in some sick way — the cruel shadow of something familiar, something you trusted once. he grips your throat tight, slamming you down onto your stomach, forcing the cold floor against your cheek. his other hand digs into your back, shoving you into an arch that wrenches a strangled sound from you.

his grip on your throat tightened, a punishing squeeze that made your head go fuzzy, “look at you,” his voice came low and cracked, fraying at the edges. not bob’s voice. no warmth, no lazy charm. just something shredded and ruined in his throat. “fuckin’ pathetic.”

the knife clattered to the floor beside you, but he didn’t leave it for long. you felt the ghost of its handle trace down your spine, you shiver despite your shirt being a lazy means of protection. a sick mockery of tenderness, before it pressed against your clothed cunt — cool and unyielding, making your stomach twist. you breath out now, all you hand on were pants.

bob had taken your panties.

the phantom feeling of your pants being tugged down still lingers, some dazed, aching imprint left behind, and you let out a soft, breathy whine against the cold concrete beneath you. you feel it then — the slow, thick drip of cum leaking out of you, a steady, warm trail down your thighs, sticking to your skin. you know it’s bob’s. the figure above you mutters something — a sharp, cutting slut spat — but you’re too far gone, brain hazy, too caught in the static buzz crawling under your skin to catch the full bite of it.

your body’s moving before your mind can catch up. you're forced onto your back again, shoulders scraping against the rough floor, and instinct has your legs parting — a broken, unconscious submission that makes your stomach churn even as the ghost of want curls hot and shameful in your gut. the being — the void in bob’s skin — lets out a sound, a fractured, guttural thing you can only guess is a moan, the ragged hitch in his breathing sharp as the edge of a knife. it’s obscene. not a trace of tenderness, not even the cruel mockery of it. just something primal, ugly, and sickeningly pleased as it drinks in your wrecked, shaking form.

you feel it — the tension in him. a palpable thing, thick and suffocating in the air, like the coil of a storm about to snap loose. the chaos barely chained under his skin, bleeding through every rough touch. and then the handle’s pressing to your cunt again, the blunt, unyielding shape an impossible contrast to the heat thrumming in your core. the coolness making you twitch and clench without meaning to, some traitorous instinct.

he pushes it in, slow, unrelenting, no care for your stuttered gasp as your body gives way. you’re trembling, thighs twitching as the intrusion stretches you, fills you in a way it shouldn’t. “good,” the voice rasps out — barely a voice at all, frayed and tattered, like something dead that’d clawed its way back up just to ruin you. it shouldn’t feel like praise, you know that. but it coils dark and tight in your belly, makes a desperate, broken whine slip from your lips, your cunt clenching down on the handle like you wanted this.

another ragged sound from him, low and feral, before the handle starts to move — dragged out and shoved back in, slick with your arousal and the mess still leaking from you. your body betrays you further, hips stuttering up to meet each thrust, chasing some awful, electric edge that buzzes just out of reach. your head tips back, mouth slack as the obscene wet sound of it fills the room, your slick pooling in a ring around the hilt.

and then — it stops. the sudden absence enough to make you cry out, a raw little sob clawing up your throat. his hand — or whatever it is now — lifts your shirt, cold fingers dragging up your stomach. you barely register the motion before it finds the bandage over your ribs. you flinch, a sharp spike of fear lancing through the haze, but it’s too late. the fabric tears with a single quick snap, the sting making you choke on a gasp, fresh, bright pain flaring where old hurt still lingered. you sob, broken and soft, and he hums at the sound — a jagged, ruined thing, something resembling love in a voice that was never meant to carry it. ruined by teeth, by grief, by madness.

his grip never falters, one hand splayed against your chest, pinning you down like a butterfly to a board. you feel the burn of air against the fresh split in your skin where the bandage had been torn away, heat blooming in hot pulses as the blood wells up, sticky and warm. you whimper at the sensation, the sharp sting of it eclipsed only by the way his weight settles over you, suffocating in its finality. the knife handle still rests against your cunt, glistening with your slick and the last of bob’s cum, catching the low light in a way that makes your stomach turn.

his hand drags through the blood, fingers slick and careful, as though savoring it, and you feel the smear of it as he brings it down between your legs. the first touch is jarring — wet, obscene, the metallic warmth of your own blood smeared against your folds, mixing with what’s already there. you gasp, a hoarse, broken sound, as he works it over you, coating the knife handle where it rests at your entrance.

you don’t want to, but your head turns anyway, your gaze snaring on the mask — on the void behind it, something that might’ve once been bob. but it isn’t now. it’s too far gone, too hollow, too desperate.

he presses the handle back in, slow, unhurried, and you sob at the way it slides easier now, the added slick making the stretch feel deeper, filthier, the wrongness of it burrowing under your skin. it should ache, should make you sick, but your body betrays you again, thighs falling further open to accommodate it.

"good girl," he rasps, voice catching on a jagged edge of lust, the words sticky and awful as they settle over you. his blood-slicked hand comes to your throat again, fingers curling in a bruising grip as he starts to fuck you with the handle in earnest — sharp, wet sounds filling the air with each thrust, your cunt squelching around the makeshift toy, slick and blood mixing at the base.

you can feel it — the ring of red around the hilt, your blood marking each thrust, and he uses it like it’s nothing, like it’s what you’re made for. another harsh squeeze at your throat makes your head spin, vision tunneling at the edges.

"messy fuckin’ thing," he murmurs, a sick kind of fondness threading through the brutality, and you keen at it, at the heat curling low in your belly despite everything, the degradation sharp enough to bleed into need. you don’t know how long it goes on, lost to the rough drag of the handle, the constant, sticky slide of blood and cum making a mess between your thighs, the bruising hold at your throat, the endless, suffocating weight of him on top of you.

it’s only when you feel him lean in close, the air cool and ragged as it fans over your skin, that he speaks again. "gonna ruin you," he hisses, and you believe him.

his bloodied hand leaves your throat, the sharp indent of his fingers still searing your skin as he drags those same slick, wet fingertips down your chest. the thick smear of crimson glistens in the dim, dirty light as he paints it over the curve of your breast, sticky warmth contrasting with the cool air as he circles your nipple with it — slow, almost lazy.

your breath catches, a sob breaking loose when he pinches it between his stained fingers, the sting of it immediate, made worse by the rawness of your skin. you twitch under him, hips bucking, and his other hand presses down harder on your pelvis, pinning you still as the knife handle stays buried inside you.

“hurts—” you choke out, voice small and shredded, nothing more than a ruined whimper in the thick, suffocating air.

"good," comes the rasp, low and threadbare, more animal than human now. the sound of him — of the void that wore bob’s face — breaks against your ear, something almost like a chuckle catching in his throat as he rolls your nipple between his blood-slick fingers again, harder this time. you cry out now, this must've been what sent him over the edge. pain was pleasure. the deeper it went, the brighter he burned. the void didn’t climax—he detonated. his shadow-form pulsed with violent hunger, splitting into a thousand shrieking fragments that tore through the air like smoke and knives. reality bent. suffering echoed back at him, and in that agony, he found bliss. not peace, never peace—but something rawer. purer. perfect

the sharp pain lances through you, but it blooms too — an obscene pulse of heat pooling lower, meeting the steady, merciless drag of the knife handle working your cunt open with each wet, filthy thrust. you sob again, thighs trembling, unable to stop yourself from rocking up into it, from chasing it.

he hums, a ragged, pleased little noise like he’s proud of you for breaking so easily, for making a mess beneath him, for falling apart at the seams. his hand doesn’t stop, spreading the blood across your chest, smearing it until it’s tacky and warm and you can’t tell where the sting ends and the heat begins.

you shudder, the degradation of it a sick twist in your gut.

“please—” it’s barely a word, more of a wet gasp as your body tightens, the unbearable, filthy tension cresting inside you, your cunt clenching hard around the blood-slick handle still grinding into that soft, aching spot inside.

and he feels it — of course he does — the way you pulse around it, the broken cry you let out, the way your hips jerk up, helpless against it. he snarls, hand moving faster now, dragging over your nipple again as you writhe, your orgasm hitting hard and ugly, a burst of heat and wetness flooding out of you, slicking his phantom fist, slicking the hilt of the weapon. he fucks you through it, relentless, forcing you to ride it out while you sob and whine, every nerve frayed raw, and he doesn’t stop — not until you’ve gone limp, too wrung out to fight, the mess of blood and cum a ruined halo around you only then does he pull it out with a cruel squelch sound, eyes closed and somehow finding yourself bleeding out on the floor again.

a sound.

soft. distant.

the basement door — a heavy, creaking groan of old wood swinging open upstairs.

And maybe that’s what stung the most—how easily he wore it. How effortlessly he stepped into the space someone irreplaceable had left behind.

With every mission, every close call, your resentment festered. He called himself “Captain America” like it was a job title. Like he earned it. You’d catch him giving press interviews with that painted-on grin, answering questions like a politician, like a man who hadn’t watched the blood dry on his hands yet.

But you’d fought beside Steve Rogers. You’d seen him fall and get back up, not because the world expected it—but because he did. Because he couldn’t bear to do anything less. You knew what it really took to carry that weight—and it sure as hell wasn’t a shiny resume and a PR team.

John Walker… he didn’t have that in him. Not that kind of goodness. Not that kind of determination.

You’ve never had missed your chance to remind Walker of it.

The fight was over. The Flag Smashers were gone, the mission was a mess, and you were still standing on the side of the road somewhere in the middle of goddamn nowhere, heart pounding, blood rushing in your ears—with him behind you.

Captain fucking America.

You turned away from the road, from Sam’s exhausted voice and Bucky’s growl of frustration, trying to catch your breath. Not from the fight—you were used to the fights. It was the way he looked at you. The way he spoke. That unbearable calm in his voice like he’d actually done something good.

Like he thought he was helping.

“You know,” he said behind you, casual, too casual. “We actually made a pretty good team back there.”

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. Then ten. Somehow that heat behind your ribs didn’t fade.

You turned slowly. Met his gaze. Held it, even though it made something twist in your chest.

“Team? That what you think that was?” you asked, voice low and rough.

He shrugged, like he couldn’t see the storm building in your eyes. “I mean, we stopped the trucks. Nobody died. I’d say that’s a win.”

God.

You laughed. Sharp, bitter. It scraped your throat on the way out.

“You really believe this, don’t you?” you said. “You actually think you’re the good guy.”

John frowned, just slightly. “I’m doing what I was asked to do. What this country needs.”

“You think this country needs you?”

You didn’t mean to let that much venom slip out. But you couldn’t stop it now. You were tired. Angry. And something about the way he stood there, looking like the perfect soldier in that uniform that didn’t belong to him—it made you sick.

“You want to be seen as a hero so badly,” you whispered. “But you aren’t one.”

You stepped forward, and something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Uncertainty.

He didn’t move. You didn’t stop.

“You were handed that shield. You didn’t earn it. You didn’t carry it. And every time I look at you, I see a man playing dress-up in a uniform that belonged to someone who was ten times the person you’ll ever be.”

That landed. You saw it—the brief flicker of something raw in his face, like the words had actually hit bone.

He swallowed. His voice was quieter now, almost tired. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t want to.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Too heavy. The wind whipped past your face, pulling at your jacket, and still—he didn’t look away.

But you did. You turned your back to him, jaw clenched tight, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break out.

———

You thought it couldn’t get worse.

You thought you’d already seen the ugliest parts of him—the arrogance, the cocky one-liners, the way he walked into every room like the hero in someone else’s story. You thought your hatred for John Walker had already carved its place into your chest, a familiar wound, sharp but manageable.

And then came Lemar’s death.

And the shield—Steve’s shield—slick with blood that wasn’t his to spill.

You weren’t there when it happened. You didn’t see it fall. You were busy chasing one of the terrorists.

But then Bucky sent you the video. The footage that circled like vultures online—grainy, shaky, someone’s phone camera catching it all: the broken body, the gleam of the shield raised overhead, the fury in Walker’s face as it came down again, and again, and again.

Your stomach twisted when you saw him later. He was standing in the warehouse like a ghost, the shield still strapped to his back like he deserved it.

You should’ve stayed outside. You’d told yourself that. Let Sam and Bucky handle it.

But your feet carried you in before you could stop them.

He turned when he heard you, the edge of his profile illuminated by the fractured light through the busted windows. Eyes rimmed red. Hands twitching.

“Don’t.” Sam said behind you.

But you were already walking toward him. Sam didn’t even try saying anything again or stopping you.

You didn’t speak at first. You just looked at Walker and tried to find something left in his face that resembled a man.

You couldn’t.

He looked up at you like he expected a fight. Like he welcomed it.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, voice rough. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what they did—”

“No,” you said quietly. “I didn’t see that. I just saw you kill a man with a shield that was never yours to carry.”

His jaw clenched, but you didn’t stop.

“You’re not Captain America. You never were. You’re a man with a suit and a name and a pile of bodies that you think justify themselves.”

“I lost my best friend,” he snapped. “What would you have done?”

“I would’ve done the right thing,” you whispered. “That’s what Steve would’ve done. That’s what any decent man would’ve done.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

Good.

But it wasn’t enough.

Your fist moved before you could stop it—sharper than the words, heavier than your restraint. You struck him clean across the jaw, the impact echoing off the steel walls. He stumbled a step, but didn’t go down.

He looked back at you with something wild in his eyes. Hurt. Guilt. Fury.

You saw his hands twitch again—and this time, he didn’t hold back.

He came at you fast. Not with full force, not like you were the enemy, but enough to knock you backward, enough to fight.

You hit the ground hard, rolled, came up swinging.

The two of you clashed in a storm of fists and broken breath. You weren’t thinking. Just moving. Just feeling everything you’d buried since Steve gave that shield away. Since Walker took it. Since he tarnished it.

You landed a knee to his ribs—he grunted, doubled over—and you could’ve stopped. Should’ve.

But you didn’t.

You shoved him back, threw another punch. He caught your wrist this time, eyes blazing.

“This what you want?” he hissed. “You want to hurt me? Go ahead. Get in line.”

You yanked your hand free. “You deserve it.”

And you meant it. Because something in you was cracking now—something deep and buried and filled with a grief you hadn’t wanted to name.

It wasn’t just about the shield. Not anymore.

It was about everything he wasn’t.

Everything Steve was. Everything you lost when the world decided to move on without asking if you were ready.

You were both breathing hard now, blood on your knuckles, bruises blooming under skin.

He stared at you like he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Like he didn’t know how to be hated by someone who used to believe in what the shield stood for.

And now here you were. Staring at him back like you couldn’t forgive.

Staring at a man who wore your friend’s legacy like a weapon.

A man who made you feel like nothing in this world would ever be right again.

———

Everything changed after that day.

After the blood dried and the shield was stripped from his hands and everything he thought he was collapsed under the weight of what he’d done.

And few days later when Sam finally took the shield, when he earned it—stood tall and steady in a suit that actually meant something—you thought that was it. The end of it. Of him.

You figured you’d never have to think about John Walker again.

But time passed. The world kept breaking in new, creative ways. And now—now you were standing in a cold facility in the middle of nowhere, gripping a gun with your name on the target folder and a job from Valentina echoing in the back of your head like a dare.

Get rid of John Walker.

Get in. Get rid of him. Clean break. Simple.

You took it. It wasn’t like you, not really. But the hatred you had in the back of your head spoke louder than your heart and everything you thought you stood for.

Little did you know it was all a setup. A trap.

You should’ve known the moment you got the assignment. The briefing had been vague—too vague. No layout of the facility, no escape routes, just a location and a file with a familiar name stamped across it in thick black ink.

And then you walked into the belly of a concrete labyrinth and found other people—including Walker—standing there, weapons drawn, faces just as confused and angry as yours.

The doors sealed behind you with a hydraulic hiss. Locking down. Air pressure shifted, and red emergency lights flickered on like a funeral march. Somewhere deep in the walls, system roared to life. Not to protect you. To go up in flames.

Valentina had played you all like chess pieces, and now the board was on fire.

Ghost moved first, flickering out of sight, trying to go through the walls, which failed miserably. Bob stayed silent. Yelena cursed in Russian, muttering something about never trusting Val ever again.

And Walker—

God. Walker was standing with his hands raised slightly, like he thought someone might still shoot him. His face was tight, unreadable.

“What the hell is this?” he said, voice cutting through the silence. “This wasn’t the op.”

“No shit,” you snapped.

You hated how different he looked. Like time had pressed in on him. Like regret had left fingerprints all over his face. He wasn’t the clean-cut puppet from years ago anymore. Just a man left standing at the edge of the wreckage he helped build.

Gladly you all managed to get out. With Ava’s strange ability, Yelena’s plan and Walker’s „On your left,” when he smashed the power source. You almost punched him in the face just for saying that.

You didn’t want to work with him. You didn’t want to stand on the same side of any fight as John Walker. But when the truth about Valentina came out—about Sentry, about her plan to kill you all, and the experiments in Malaysia—you didn’t have a choice.

You told yourself it was temporary.

You told yourself he was just… useful.

And then you landed back in New York.

The Void descended with no warning—rupturing through the skyline, swallowing people like smoke through a keyhole. People screamed. Reality bent. You were thrown into the heart of it with no backup, no plan, and too much debris between you and the people you were trying to protect.

The city was collapsing, falling.

You fought through the chaos. Through the ripping wind and the shifting streets. Until something bigger caught your eye—a building fracturing at the base, tilting in on itself. Fast.

It was about to hit people below so you ran towards it—of course you did—hoping you’ll manage to save them.

You didn’t see the metal bar swing into your ribs.

You didn’t see the rubble above start to fall.

You hit the ground hard. Vision spinning.

And then came a a grunt. A thud. Arms around your waist.

You gasped as you were yanked sideways just before a concrete slab slammed into where you’d been lying.

Dust filled your throat. You coughed and blinked up.

There he was. Walker, blood on his cheek, breath ragged. His body practically covering yours like a shield.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

The sounds of the city raged around you—sirens, crumbling steel, distant screams—but in that second, everything went still. His arms braced on either side of you, holding his weight just above your body, chest rising and falling against yours in rough, uneven gasps.

You could feel the heat of him through your suit. Smell the dust and blood on his skin. See the tight clench of his jaw as he checked the collapse behind you, as if making sure the danger had really passed.

And still… he didn’t look at you. He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just pulled back, slow and steady, like if he moved too fast you’d shatter.

You sat up once he was off you, cradling your ribs, avoiding his eyes. You didn’t thank him. Couldn’t. The words felt too sharp in your mouth. Like admitting what he’d done would rewrite everything you’d believed about him.

And maybe it had.

Because he didn’t have to come back for you. He didn’t have to throw himself into the collapse. He didn’t have to look at you like that—like the grudge didn’t matter anymore. Like it never had.

You told yourself it was just instinct. Just battlefield protocol. But that moment stayed with you.

Long after the end of everything. After Void was sealed. After the city’s streets were crowded again.

You were brought back to reality from your thoughts when Val announced you as The New Avengers.

You didn’t even pretend to hide your reaction.

A scoff escaped your throat before you could catch it. You folded your arms, weight shifted to one side, glaring at the floor like it had answers.

This wasn’t what you signed up for.

You were supposed to survive the facility, stop Val, shut down the Sentry project. Then walk away. Back into the dark. Back into the part of the world that didn’t ask questions about how much you hated or trusted the people you bled beside.

But now?

Now there were press conferences being planned. Uniforms being discussed. Public names, joint assignments, coordinated housing.

And all of it included Walker.

You hadn’t spoken with him since that day.

You couldn’t.

Not after the way he pulled you out of that collapse. Not after the way he didn’t say a damn thing and somehow that meant more than words ever could.

You tried to ignore him whenever you passed him in the Avengers Tower but you could always feel his presence, heavy in your periphery.

He avoided you as well. Like he didn’t know what to do with it either.

This was supposed to be easy. He was supposed to be the one you hated. The one you didn’t have to forgive.

And now you’d have to see him every goddamn day. Train with him. Fight beside him. Sit across briefing tables trying to pretend like nothing had shifted inside your ribs the moment he shielded you with his body like it was instinct.

———

You weren’t sleeping. Not really. Your body ached from training and you tossed in bed every two minutes.

So you got up wandered the hallway in silence, the floor cold under your bare feet, hoodie hanging loose around your frame. You told yourself you were just getting water. Just stretching your legs.

But the second you turned the corner near the common room, you froze.

He was there. Walker. Leaning against the wall, head tilted back, arms crossed over his chest. In sweats and a T-shirt, no armor, no shield, no sharp edges. Just him. Just John.

You almost backed away but his gaze landed on you.

Shit.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.

You shrugged. “Didn’t think anyone else would be up.”

Silence bloomed, thick and pressing. You crossed your arms, suddenly cold despite the hoodie.

“I’m not gonna thank you,” you said. „For saving me back then.”

His mouth twitched like he almost smiled. “Didn’t expect you to.”

“I just—” you faltered, jaw clenching. “You don’t get to pretend like it didn’t happen.”

He nodded slowly, gaze steady. “I’m not pretending.”

You hated the way your stomach turned. The way your chest tightened when he looked at you like that—not smug, not superior. Just honest.

“I don’t get it,” you muttered. “Why’d you even do that?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Because I didn’t want you to die.”

You stared at him. Your throat tightened. “You hated me.”

“Maybe I did,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted you gone.”

He pushed off the wall, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave or come closer. His voice softened.

“I know what I did. Who I was. And maybe you’ll never forgive me for it. But that doesn’t mean I’d let you go down in a pile of rubble just to prove a point.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

Because you wanted to be angry.

You wanted to throw the past back in his face. But all you could feel was the echo of that moment again—his weight over you, his arms around you, the silence between you burning louder than any scream.

“You’re still an asshole,” you said finally, voice flat, throat tight.

He huffed a laugh, low and tired. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

You should’ve walked away. Shut the door to this half-buried thing between you before it cracked wider. But your feet didn’t move. And neither did his.

The hallway felt too quiet. Too still. Like the tower itself was holding its breath.

Walker ran a hand through his hair, eyes dipping down, jaw clenching. He looked like he was debating saying something. Like whatever it was might undo the last few years of distance you’d tried so hard to build.

“You know I’d do it again.” His voice was softer now, quieter.

Your chest went still.

He glanced up, eyes catching yours. “If it happened again. If everything was falling and you were under it.” He paused. “I wouldn’t think twice.”

The words shouldn’t have hit you the way they did.

But they did. Harder than any rubble ever could. Heavier than the shield he used to carry.

You swallowed, hard. “That doesn’t mean we’re—” You broke off. “That doesn’t fix anything.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” he said. “I’m just… telling you the truth.”

Your hand curled around your arm. Fingertips digging into your sleeve. “You make it really hard to keep hating you.”

His mouth pulled into something between a smile and a grimace. “That’s not intentional.”

“Well, try harder.” You meant it to come out cold. Dismissive. But it sounded… tired.

Exhausted by everything you’ve carried for years—the blood, the betrayal, the fire in your chest that never quite settled. And now it’s shifting. Changing. Because of him and his stupid act of bravery.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he finally learnt how to do the right thing and became the man you expected him to be when he got the Steve’s shield years ago.

Walker stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough that you felt the gravity of it. The pull.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” he said.

You didn’t answer because you didn’t know how to say “I don’t want to hate you either.”

So instead, you closed the distance between the two of you. Your lips crashed into his—no warning. No pretense.

Just heat and exhaustion and years of something tangled and unsaid breaking loose all at once.

You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe it was your way of saying thank you, even though you said you were’t going to do that. Maybe you hoped it would stop that burning feeling inside your chest whenever you saw him.

His lips caught yours like a second too slow, like he didn’t believe it at first but then he was on you.

Hands at your waist. Then your back. Then tangled in your hoodie like he needed to get under it, like the feel of you wasn’t enough with cotton in the way. His mouth was rough, warm, desperate. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it since the day you told him you’d rather kill him than work beside him.

You gasped when his hand slid up under your hoodie, skin to skin, dragging heat across your ribs. He caught that sound in his mouth—bit your bottom lip like he couldn’t help it.

“You really wanna do this?” he muttered against your jaw, breath hot, voice thick.

“I wouldn’t be kissing you if I didn’t,” you snapped, and tugged him back in like you were trying to punish him for making you feel this way.

He groaned. Like the way you hated him turned him on more than anything.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was everything else—anger, relief, want.

You pulled him back with you until your spine hit the wall, your hoodie rucked up, your hips dragged against his thigh as he slotted himself between your legs. His hands gripped your waist, pulled you flush, and god—he was hard already.

You weren’t doing this to be sweet. You didn’t want slow.

You just wanted to feel something real after too long pretending you didn’t.

“Off,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt. “Take it off—”

He obeyed, pulled it over his head and tossed it behind him, and fuck—

You hadn’t let yourself think about what he looked like, but now you couldn’t not see it. The way his body moved. The way he breathed. The scars and wounds which still haven’t faded from the last mission he was on.

Your hands were on his chest, then lower—scraping nails along his abs as you dragged his waistband down enough to feel the heat of him straining against fabric.

John hissed. Caught your wrist gently but firmly. He kissed you harder, deeper. One hand sliding down the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist. His fingers pressed between your legs through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts and you gasped—hips grinding forward, aching.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered against your ear, breath ragged.

“Shut up.”

But you were.

You didn’t care.

All you cared about was the way he touched you—how fast his fingers slipped past the fabric, how his thumb pressed against your clit just right, how your hips jerked and your head hit the wall and you let out a sound that was definitely not subtle.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” he said and took of your shorts off for easier access.

You bit your lip. Nearly drew blood.

But he knew what he was doing. His fingers circled, slid inside, curled. You gasped again, louder this time.

Your hand gripped the back of his neck, the other fumbling for the waistband of his sweats. He helped you—pulled them down with one hand, never letting up with the other.

When he pressed the head of his cock against you, your hips lifted to meet him like instinct.

“No teasing,” you muttered. “Just fuck me.”

And he did. One deep thrust that filled you to the hilt, his head dropping to your shoulder with a low, guttural curse. Your fingers dug into his back, your leg tightening around his waist as he began to move—slow at first, then harder.

The hallway was filled with the sound of skin, breath, need.

It was rough, frenzied at first—your bodies crashing together like the only way to silence everything between you was to fuck through it. You held onto him like a lifeline, nails dragging down his back, and he rutted into you with all the restraint of a man who’d waited so long to touch you.

Then something changed.

He slowed. Just a little. Hands smoothing over your hips, your waist, up under your hoodie like he needed to feel you. Really feel you.

You tried to kiss him again, tried to draw him back into the rush of it, but he broke away and pulled out of you, which made you whimper at the loss. His lips began trailing down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“Take this off,” he whispered.

His fingers slipped under the hem of your hoodie, pushing it up, revealing inches of bare skin as he went. He kissed every part he uncovered—slow, reverent. Like peeling you out of your clothes was something sacred.

He tugged it over your head. You stood there, naked in the dim glow of the hallway, chest rising and falling too fast, heat rushing to your cheeks. The clothing dropped to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

His gaze drank you in.

“Fuck,” he murmured. His hand lifted to trace the line of your breast, your ribs, like he didn’t trust himself to grab hold too fast. “You’re…”

You rolled your eyes, flustered. “Don’t get sappy on me, Walker.”

But your voice betrayed you—breathy, shaken, softer than it should’ve been.

His lips brushed your ear. “You’re so pretty like this.”

You felt it in your stomach. Low. Aching.

He kissed down your chest, mouth hot and open, leaving a trail that had your spine arching off the wall. His hands moved with him—down your sides, your hips, thumbs sweeping across your thighs as he sank to his knees like it was nothing. Like it was natural and you’ve had done it a thousand times before.

He pressed his mouth to your skin, just above your most sensitive area.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered.

You didn’t ask when. You didn’t need to.

Because you’d thought about it too. Even when you hated him. Maybe because you hated him.

Your hand found his hair, tugged gently.

He looked up at you—pupils blown wide, lips slick, chest heaving—and there was nothing cocky left in him.

Only want. And the sharp edge of something deeper. Something you didn’t dare name.

There was no hesitation. His mouth was on you in seconds—hot tongue parting your folds, lips wrapping around your clit like he knew exactly how to tear you open from the inside out.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, one leg draped over his shoulder, your hands scrambling for balance—fisting in his blonde hair, clutching at the smooth tile behind you, anything.

But it was him.

It was him holding you steady. Him on his knees like it was right where he belonged.

“Jesus, Walker—” you gasped, hips rolling forward before you could stop them.

He groaned like it encouraged him. His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you pinned. His tongue moved in long, slow drags, then faster flicks—pressing and circling like he was studying you, learning every twitch and breath and curse that spilled from your lips.

You looked down at him and nearly choked on your own breath.

His eyes were on you. Dark, heavy-lidded, full of something close to reverence. Like he needed to see your face while he broke you open.

“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered against your skin, the vibrations making your knees buckle.

“Shut up,” you rasped, breath catching. “Just—fuck—keep going.”

And he did.

Tongue fucking you now, nose brushing your clit with every movement, jaw working with a kind of desperation you hadn’t expected. He wasn’t doing this for you to moan pretty. He was doing it because he needed to.

Your leg trembled around his shoulder. Your body started to tighten.

You could feel it—fast, sharp, barreling toward the edge like gravity, and he must’ve felt it too, because his grip tightened and his mouth slammed against your clit, sucking hard and fast while his fingers replaced his tongue, curling inside you—

You came with a broken cry. Your whole body went tense. Then loose like he’d knocked the fight right out of you.

Your hand clutched his hair, riding it out, legs shaking as he worked you through it—slow now, gentle licks, like he was savoring the last of it.

You gasped, tried to speak, failed.

John kissed the inside of your thigh once. Then again. Slow. Almost sweet. He looked up at you, lips slick, face flushed.

Your legs were still shaking. You dragged in a breath, swallowed hard, then whispered, “I need you.”

His brows lifted slightly.

You leaned down, fingers sliding into his hair again—not to pull him back this time, but to bring him up. Back to you. Where he belonged.

Your voice cracked, soft and raw. “I need to feel you inside me again, John… Fuck, please—”

It spilled out before you could stop it. His name. The please The desperate, aching want in your tone.

And you hated how much you meant it.

His mouth twitched—like he could barely process hearing you beg for him, like some part of him didn’t believe it was real. But then his hands were on you again, lifting you up into his arms without a word, carrying you back down the hall toward your room like nothing else mattered.

Like he couldn’t wait another goddamn second.

He kicked the door shut behind him.

Laid you down like you were something fragile—even though you both knew better. Even though you were already reaching for him again.

He groaned when he saw how wet you still were. How ready. How wrecked just for him.

You spread your legs and pulled him between them.

He knew what you wanted and didn’t hesitate. He buried himself in you deep and hot and so good it knocked the air out of your lungs.

“Fuck—” you gasped, head tipping back. “God, yes—”

He moved over you with that same rhythm he had before—hips rolling deep, like he was trying to memorize every flutter of your walls around him.

You clung to his shoulders, nails dragging down his back, needing more—more pressure, more stretch, more him.

“Harder,” you whispered. “Please, just—don’t stop.”

“Not planning to,” he growled into your neck.

Then he really started fucking you.

Harder. Deeper. Every thrust slamming into you like he was trying to chase the memory of hate from your body and replace it with this. With him. With the burn and ache and heat of wanting you back.

His hand slid between you, fingers rubbing quick, tight circles over your clit while his cock pounded into you and you swore you saw stars.

“John—fuck—John—” Your voice was wrecked. Your body was so close again, too soon and he could feel it.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Come on, sweetheart. I want to feel you come around me. Want you to squeeze my cock just like that—fuck, that’s it—”

You shattered.

Legs shaking, mouth open, nails digging into his skin, leaving crescent shaped marks as your orgasm hit so hard you almost sobbed.

He followed with a broken sound, hips jerking, breath ragged as he came deep inside you—head buried in your neck, arms tight around you like he needed to hold you together.

The silence that followed was heavy and full of everything you didn’t know how to say.

Your body still trembled slightly—aftershocks of what you’d just shared, what you’d just given. You could feel his breath against your skin, still uneven, still catching on the edges like he didn’t know how to slow down either.

He pulled out of you slowly and lay down next to you. Then, gently—tentatively—his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face. Like he was afraid you’d flinch. Like he wasn’t sure he had permission to be soft with you.

You didn’t flinch. You looked at him instead. Tired. Raw. Searching.

Neither of you said anything. Neither of you knew what this meant. What came next. What the hell to do with it.

You gave him a weak, shaky smile. Small. Almost embarrassed. But real.

Before you could change your mind, you shifted—just slightly—and curled into him. Buried your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat and heat and him. Your arm draped across his waist like muscle memory.

And he… let you.

More than that—he pulled you in tighter.

One arm around your back. The other coming up to cradle the back of your head like you were something precious. His lips pressed a soft, almost hesitant kiss into your hair, and he exhaled slow, like it let something out he’d been holding for years.

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

“you- you can’t be in here,” you stuttered, starting to feel a little bit like cornered prey.

“you look good,” ben said. his eyes roaming up and down your body, licking his lips at your exposed legs. “love that dress.”

“i need to get back to my date,” you said, voice shaky. he always made you nervous. and damn it, your stomach fluttered and heat built up between your thighs as he walked closer, cornering you against the sink countertop.

“you don’t want him,” he murmured, fingertips dancing up your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “he can’t take care of you. can’t give you what you want.”

“ben…” you breathed out.

“come home with me.”

“no.” you said and pushed past him. “we can’t do this, remember?” and that was the last thing you said before you unlocked the door and went back to your table, to ryan.

and ryan was sweet. driving you back home to your apartment. walking you to your door. kissing you on your cheek. and you should’ve invited him up for a cup of coffee. but you couldn’t. couldn’t stop thinking about the man you drove you mad. the man you flipped your world around and made you feel desired.

so, when your hand slid between your legs that night, you couldn’t stop ben’s name from escaping you as you reached your peak.

the next couple of weeks were dizzying. you were preparing for finals while also working on your dissertation. and while you didn’t want you, you knew you were going to have to ask for help. for ben’s, dr. mears’, help.

you sucked in a deep breath before knocking on his office door. shuffling of papers were heard on the other side. he opened the door and you felt lightheaded. his glasses were perched low on his nose and his tie was off. the top two buttons on his shirt undone, a peak of chest hair showing.

“dr. mears, is this a bad time?”

you didn’t miss the way he sucked in a deep breath at the official title. it always got him hot and bothered.

“no.. no it’s okay. just finishing up some grading. come in.”

you situated yourself across from him, pulling at the hem of your skirt as you crossed one leg over the other, catching ben’s eyes watching your every move from his seat on the other side of the desk.

“what’s going on?”

“i need help with my research. i’m just- i feel like i’m stuck.”

so for the next forty minutes, he helped you find resources. told you places to look that you hadn’t even thought of. he was so intelligent. it made him that much sexier. you couldn’t stop your thighs from clenching as his hands wrapped around the book he pulled from his bookshelf. a strand of hair falling out of place and his bottom lip sucked in, worrying it with his teeth as he concentrated. damn him for being that good looking.

ben could feel you staring, practically eating him alive with your eyes. and he reveled in it. knew the power he held over your. he slammed the book shut, causing you to jump slightly in your seat and he made his way towards you.

he towered over you from where you sat and your breathing became shallow in an instant. you could smell his expensive cologne. woodsy and spicy and something so incredibly ben, it made you dizzy.

“what do you want?” ben questioned, bracing his hands on the arm rests of the chair, leaning into your space until you could feel the heat radiating from him.

“what?” your brain was fogging up, becoming delirious from the desire that was coursing through you now.

“don’t play stupid, sweet girl. i know you better than that.”

“i want-“

“say it,” he demanded.

“i want you…” you said under your breath, almost scared to admit it. but it was the truth. and that’s all ben needed to hear before a strong hand gripped the back of your neck and hauled you into his arms, slamming his mouth against yours in painful, lustful kiss.

it was sloppy. tongues fighting against each other, hands gripping at body parts. your hands were ripping at the buttons of his shirt and his hands were pushing your skirt above your waist. he groaned when he grabbed handfuls of your ass.

“knew you wouldn’t stay away long. you need it too bad. those boys… they can’t fuck you like i can, can they?” he moved his mouth to your jaw, sucking a mark into your skin. “answer me, doll.”

and when your answer was delayed, a sharp smack landed onto your ass cheek.

“no! no, sir!”

“good girl.”

he pushed you towards his desk, swiping off all of the papers and supplies, causing them to crash into the floor in a mess. you couldn’t help but laugh. he was just as desperate as you were. his chest was heaving as he towered over you once more, his shirt half way undone and his chest on display. his cross necklace hung between his pectorals.

“wanna taste you,” ben said, not even bothering to pull your tights down, just ripping them at the seams so he could pull your panties to the side and devour you. he sucked your clit between his lips which caused you to arch your back off the wood beneath you. and he was filthy with it. moaning into your pussy like it was his favorite dessert. his tongue found its way to your dripping hole and he circled it a few times before thrusting inside you. you’ve never been eaten out like this before. like he couldn’t get enough of you. like you were his last supper.

your thighs shook and squeezed around his head, biting the heel of your hand to stifle your moans. and when you came, you nearly squealed his name. waves of aftershock washed through you as he slowed his licks. he pressed one last kiss to your clit before pulling away. a cheshire like grin was spread across his wet mouth.

“delicious. want you to taste,” he said. he gripped your jaw and worked his before a drop of spit fell into your mouth. the mix of your juices and his saliva was enough to make you moan wantonly. “taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

“ben! please!”

“what’s that, baby?”

“need you!” you whined, pawing at him.

“and i need you to be patient,” ben retorted back.

he eyed his office until they landed on the leather couch that was flush against the wall.

“wanna see you bent over for me.”

and that’s how you ended up with your face squished against the cool leather, hands held behind your back as ben pounded into you. the sound of skin slapping filled the space. the hand that wasn’t gripping your wrists was landing smacks against your ass with every thrust. you just knew there would be handprint marks there later.

“s’fucking tight. know you love it like this. love your professor fucking you senseless. dirty little girl. letting someone old enough to be her father do this to her.”

“dr. mears! ben! just like- like that! almost- almost there!” you hiccuped, pushing your body back into him to feel him even deeper.

“come for me, baby. come on daddy’s cock,” the name made you both release at the same time, the intensity of it causing you both to nearly scream.

ben released your wrists and fell forward, putting his full weight on you as he pulled out. you could feel him leak out of you and down the inside of your thighs. you blushed profusely as he placed a kiss to your shoulder and got up to grab his handkerchief to clean you. he took his time, shushing you when you winced and whined.

“i got you, baby,” he said as he hauled you into his arms to cuddle naked on the couch. “not letting you go again.”

tagging those who asked!