#prettycalla writes

And the more he helps — the more he protects, rescues, saves — the more he wants to do it. It becomes an unbearable itch that he can’t quite reach, can never truly satisfy.

It becomes an addiction. The power he holds. Valentina was right — he is a God. And shouldn’t a God use his powers for good? Shouldn’t he keep the helpless humans safe from danger? From themselves?

And then there’s you. Oh, he’d burn the world to the ground to protect you. And slowly, these thoughts come to him, over and over. Unrelenting. Persistent. At first, he tries to ignore them. They feel irrational, delusional even. But then, gradually, they start to wear him down.

They start to make sense.

You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He couldn’t bear to lose you. He doesn’t want to remember the man he was before he met you. And he won’t ever have to, if he can just keep you safe.

After all, you’re as human as the rest of them. Shouldn’t he protect you too? Protect you from harm, from those who would hurt you, from those who would use you to hurt him?

Shouldn’t he keep you safe from yourself? Doesn’t a God know what’s best?

At first, it’s subtle. Barely noticeable. Blink and you’d miss it. Bob’s always been a little clingy with you. You've always thought it was sweet. It’s nice to be needed. You know what he's been through, and it feels like a privilege for him to trust you so much.

But then, as time goes by, it starts to change. Grow. Wherever you go, he always seems to be there first.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by the others.

Walker passes by the two of you sitting together at the kitchen table one afternoon. There's no mistaking his blatant grimace.

“Can’t remember the last time I saw one of you without the other,” he snarks. “It’s getting creepy.”

A sudden crack erupts through the room as the table collapses in pieces beneath Bob’s palms. Before you can process what’s happened, he’s on his feet, pulling you away from the mess. He checks you over with care, turning your hands over in his and muttering to himself about splinters.

You and Walker exchange a glance while he’s distracted. All too soon, Bob’s pulling your attention back to him, a worried expression on his face as he caresses your cheek. The ground feels as though it’s been pulled out from under you. You’ve never seen his eyes so golden before.

The Watchtower is a sanctuary, but now, it’s starting to feel like a gilded cage. When was the last time you left? The last time Bob didn’t have an excuse, a distraction? Something to keep you by his side, under his watchful eye.

And when you finally confront him about it, you expect denial. An argument. Lies.

But that’s not what happens at all.

He paces the room, back and forth, head bowed as he speaks, hands wringing over and over.

“You don’t understand how dangerous it is out there,” he says, voice low and laced with something you can’t quite place.

Something that makes heat pool in your stomach and twists it in knots all at once.

You watch him as he moves, as his blinks quicken, as his jaw tics over and over.

“What if something were to happen? And I- I wasn’t there. If I wasn’t fast enough. If I couldn’t-”

His voice cracks, and he stops suddenly, blinking back tears.

“I have to keep you safe,” he whispers despairingly.

He crosses the room to where you sit, dropping to his knees at your feet. Forehead pressed to your thighs as his hands search clumsily for yours. His grip is just teetering on the wrong side of too tight.

“I know it’s wrong of me to try and keep you all to myself, but I- I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you,” he murmurs in a choked voice.

When he raises his head, his eyes are as bright as the sun. And while you wipe away his tears — try and reassure him, sate him — you don’t notice how the shadows creep up over you both until it’s too late.

The more Bob helps, the more he wants to help. Until it's a never-ending cycle. The better a person he is — the more helpful, more useful — the better he feels about himself. This is his purpose in life. Every time he felt helpless, powerless… None of that matters anymore.

He can cast it all off. A snake shedding its skin.

He finally feels fulfilled. And that feeling gives him a rush that he can't get enough of. Gradually, that meek, shy man starts to disappear, and in his place stands the man with the power of a thousand suns. He's not as easy to read anymore — there's a confidence about him that might seem arrogant coming from someone so mild-mannered, and a wild energy that leaves the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

Where he used to skirt around things, explain himself in mumbled words, he's now calm and collected in how he speaks. He knows what he wants. And what he wants is to keep you safe from harm.

You'll see things his way. He knows you will.

And eventually, you do. It all starts to make sense. The world is such a dangerous place — how did it take you so long to realise?

He really does know what's best for you. How could you possibly know better than a God?

Rarely are you ever out of his sight. And when you are, he's always quick to find you again. To gather you into his arms, press kisses to your face and tell you that it's alright.

Somewhere along the way, he stopped caring about the world so much. You're his world now. Nothing makes him happier than seeing you happy. Holding you close. Whatever your heart desires — he'd go through Hell and back for you.

You're all he thinks about. All he cares about. A high he never wants to come down from. You're perfect.

And when he finally has you alone, beneath him, clinging to him like your very life depends on it — fuck. You're his weakness. He can't let you go. He won't. Not until he pulls you apart, piece by piece, sees exactly how you work, so he can meticulously put you back together again.

Not until he hears you say his name.

He keeps you right on that edge for hours, could keep you there forever — what does time matter to a God? It's the most blissful torture. He wants to commit every inch of you to memory. Every sound, every sigh and gasp and trembling "oh, God".

And when you're close — head thrown back, nails leaving welts across his shoulders as you clutch desperately at him — it only makes him more determined. He needs you to fall apart for him, feels like he'll lose his mind if you don't.

A sharp gasp is pushed from you as it hits you all at once, your back arching, pushing you closer to him.

"Fuck- Bob-"

Exhaled like a prayer. Whispered between clenched teeth.

He doesn't stop. He can't stop. Not until you give him what he wants. You swat at him with a weak hand, tell him to slow down, to let you catch your breath.

His teeth nip the skin beneath your ear, worrying it until he's certain he's left a bruise blooming in his wake.

"Nuh-uh, you know what I want from you," he grits out, lost in the feeling of you. "You promised."

Having this power over you — this control — there's nothing else in the world that can compare to it.

You blink up at him, swallowing hard as you try to think. He doesn't want you to think, he loves you like this — without a care in the world.

"What are you-"

Realisation seems to dawn. Your eyes widen.

"Bob, I did- I did say it. I swear I did."

He looks at you, drinks you in — your parted lips, the cute little line between your brows. He's so in love with you, it makes him delirious.

He laughs then, a low breath of a sound that sends a shiver through you.

"Maybe you did," he concedes. Not once does he stop. "Sounded too much like God to me."

The blissed out, dreamy smile that spreads across your face could do more damage to him than any monster he's ever gone up against. He presses a line of kisses along the edge of your jaw, until you're squirming.

"You think you can try again for me, baby?" he asks softly. A plea and a command all at once. "One more? Please?"

You're both in for a long night. But he's going to make sure every second of it is worth your while. Couldn't forgive himself if he didn't. He might be more powerful than a God, but you— you rule him, mind, body and soul.

The night of the gala, he ends up drinking just a little too much. Before the serum, it would have been enough to leave him in the hospital, but now? He’s tipsy. He feels warm all over. It's nice.

The company's even nicer, though, he has to admit. You’d said you were stepping out for some air, and he hadn’t exactly been subtle about following you. He’d tried, really he had — but his inhibitions seem to have gone out the window along with his nerves tonight.

Even outside, the place was buzzing with people. He’d innocently suggested taking a breather in the car, and you’d all too readily agreed.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen, he swears, but he’s certainly not complaining. How could he? When the prettiest girl he’s ever laid eyes on is sitting in his lap in the back seat, knees pressed to his hips and hands on his chest. His own settle on your legs, fingertips running light lines up and down. Head resting against the seat, he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes, a lazy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so relaxed,” you say, hands smoothing out the slight wrinkles in his shirt.

He hums. He’s sensitive at the best of times, but now? Your touch feels like heat licking at his skin. If he’s not careful, it could become addictive. Maybe he doesn’t care.

“Is that a bad thing?”

You shake your head. “No, of course not. Just wish I could see it more often. You deserve it.”

His smile widens. You always seem to know what to say. He takes your hands in his, gathering them together against his chest and giving you the gentlest little tug. He’s always so careful with you, knows exactly the damage he’s capable of. Would never dream of hurting you.

But even when he’s gentle, he’s still so strong. A squeak of a sound escapes you as you yield all too easily, finding yourself pressed flush against his chest.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmurs, and there’s no mistaking the effect his words have on you.

A shuddered breath against his skin. His nose brushes yours. You’re trembling in his hold, he can feel it. Every minute movement feels like waves crashing over him. It’s intoxicating.

He wants to take his time with you, cherish every single second. Every breath, every glance, every smile — all of it. But there’s a part of him that wants to give in. Let that building urge take over. Leave you overwhelmed and at his mercy in the most delicious way.

His resolve is slipping.

So is yours, from the looks of it. But he has to be sure.

“Y’know, everyone’s probably wondering where we’ve got to…”

He deliberately trails off, holds your gaze. Waits.

You bite your lip. “What’s ten more minutes?”

And that’s all the answer he needs. He gives in, lets that feeling that’s threatening to overpower him take over. The mask falls away. He kisses you like he’s never going to see you again. He can’t help himself — he needs this. Needs you. The one thing that makes him feel safe when he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.

His hands slip under your dress, and you don’t stop him, pushing yourself closer as you thread your fingers through his hair. His thumbs press against your hips, anchoring you. A quick squeeze is enough to make you gasp, and his head is swimming. He might be obsessed with you. You do things to him that no one else ever has.

He should reward you.

Focus isn’t coming easy to him right now, but he pushes through, forces himself to concentrate. Find that one spot that'll make you see stars. And when he does — oh, it’s so worth it. He’s never heard that noise from you before — a mix of sheer pleasure and shock. You’re quick to pull away, disbelief written all over your face, his name whispered in a shaky breath. Your hands slide down to his.

“How did you-” you start to ask, but when your eyes meet his, you falter.

And it hits you.

“Your eyes…”

He should feel scared, but he doesn’t. He feels confident. Powerful.

“What about them?” he asks.

As if he doesn’t know. He waits for your mouth to open in reply before he strikes again. Hits that same point. Pulls that same noise from you.

His hands are still securely on your hips. You both know that. And he can’t help himself. He pushes further. Touches you everywhere he knows you like — and not once do his hands move.

He’s never needed you more than he does right now, but he needs to see you fall apart first. Make a mess of you. Ruin you for anyone else.

It’s selfish, he knows that, but how can he help himself? He’s so head over heels for you.

And when you do finally break, when you’re so overwhelmed that you can’t take any more and it all hits you at once, he’s mesmerised. He’s never seen anything as beautiful as you are right now.

He might have the powers of a God, but you? You make him feel so weak. He loves it. Loves the power you have over him.

It takes you a minute to catch your breath. He lets himself bask in it. Just you and him. He couldn’t ask for more.

Until you’re tearing at his suit like you’re possessed, exposing every inch of skin — how could he possibly refuse you?

Taglist: @getaapologist @nomajdetective

You blink hard, trying to shake some of the fatigue from your head as you drag yourself upright. It's only when the blanket slips down your torso that you realise just how icy the room is. The air is biting, nipping at your skin like shards of glass. Bob tends to run hot, even more so in his sleep, so the air conditioning is rarely, if ever, turned off.

But this…this is different. Unnatural, even.

You pull the covers back up to your shoulders, trying to stop yourself from trembling. Maybe Bob overheated in his sleep and he got up to adjust the room temperature. But you can't hear its usual quiet hum. You can't hear anything. The room feels like a vacuum. Dead.

Pulse quickening, you try to scan the room again. Hoping to find something. Anything that might set your mind at ease.

That's when you notice it. On the other side of the room, by the armchair next to the window.

Two piercing, white lights. Unmoving, unblinking. Aimed directly at you.

Your blood runs cold.

The Void.

You don't dare move, blink, breathe. But it doesn't matter. Those mesmerising little stars tilt to one side.

"It's about time," his voice rumbles. "So glad you could finally join me."

His words are hypnotic, layering and echoing in a way that no human voice can do.

But then, he isn't exactly human.

A muted shuffle of fabric, and the lights rise, never once leaving your sight. They move closer, slowly inching their way across the room. You feel frozen, trapped in place.

He stops in front of you. The cold air that surrounds him seems to permeate your skin, right through to your bones. You can't stop shivering.

"You have questions."

There's a smile in his voice, you can hear it. It makes your stomach twist.

"But…"

He drags the word out, low and slow. Building towards something.

"You also have the answers to those questions. Don't you?"

He speaks the same language as you, yet nothing he says ever seems to quite make sense. As if he talks in riddles. Every word makes your head hurt.

He leans in close, so close that his frigid breath ghosts across your face. He could touch you if he wanted, but he seems to enjoy being just out of your reach far more.

"We should talk," he murmurs, his tone calm in spite of the feeling of dread that emanates from him in waves. "We don't get many opportunities like this, do we? Just you and me."

You swallow, trying to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. "Where's Bob?" you croak.

He laughs then, a biting snarl of a sound. The air somehow feels colder. Those piercing lights creep closer.

"We should talk," he says again, through clenched teeth. "Just you. And me."

You don't dare push him any further. You don't know how he's managed to escape, or how far he has Bob under his control, but you're not stupid. You need to be very, very careful.

"Okay," you reply, forcing yourself to look him in the eye. It hurts. "Let's talk."

The cold seems to slip away from you for a fraction of a second. Before you have the chance to feel any sort of relief, the bed creaks quietly, the mattress dipping beneath you as he sits down. Every movement feels unhurried, deliberate. There's a lazy ease to it all, yet you've never been more scared.

What feels like an eternity passes before he finally speaks again. There's some sick satisfaction to be gained from dragging things out like this — you know how he likes to play games.

"There are things you want. You can hide them from Bob, but not from me. I see everything."

His tone is so eerily innocent, as though he were talking about the weather. But every word leaves you on edge. Anxious.

"Every little thought that runs through your head. Things you would never dare say out loud. And I know why."

You find yourself squinting as his gazes meets yours. Somehow, his eyes feel even brighter.

"Because you're ashamed…aren't you? If Bob only knew the things you thought…Oh, I think it might be enough to break him."

A wide smile spreads across his face, the slide of his mouth giving it away. You can picture all of his too-sharp teeth so clearly.

"He's such a fragile thing, isn't he? And you wouldn't dream of hurting him."

His tone is downright gleeful.

"So you dream of me. Isn't that right, little bird?"

You feel sick, and you wish more than anything that it’s because he's wrong. But he's not. His words — so enticing and revolting all at once — makes you feel as though the ground has been pulled out from under you, leaving you suspended so precariously in thin air. Under his control and at his mercy.

There are things you've never told Bob. Things you might never tell him. And now here they are, each dirty secret methodically laid out on display in front of you. Your very own shame room.

"He's so careful, so gentle with you. He'd never entertain the thought of harming you. But I would."

Cold air curls around you like fog, drifting across your skin. It both stings and soothes. He hasn't moved.

"And that's what you want, isn't it? Deep down, so far down where you think no one will ever see. You think if you keep pushing, maybe it'll go away. Maybe you'll forget all about it."

You wince as that fog winds tightly around your wrists. When you try to move, it follows, clinging hard until you stop.

"But you can't, can you? You want your timid, mousy little Bob to lose control. To scare you. Hurt you."

That same coldness slithers its way under the covers, winding itself around your ankles. He's still sitting exactly in the same space.

"All that power bottled up in him, and he treats you as if you were made of glass. So fragile. So…breakable. But you want to break, don't you? You want to be unmade. At the mercy of a god. The very thought of it…It's intoxicating. I don't blame you for wanting it."

More and more, that coldness start to move, ghosting across your body. Gradually, it starts to feel solid. Real.

"But I'm the part of Bob that he can't stand. That he'd cut himself free of if he could. You know that better than anyone. And yet…you want me. You want what Bob hates so much. Doesn't that fill you with shame? Keeping such a terrible secret from him? How can you look at him, when you hide what you do?"

It feels as if he's everywhere and nowhere at once. His head tilts again as he observes you. A hand presses at your throat, fingers curling around your arms, palms pressing against the insides of your knees to ease your legs apart.

But he still hasn't moved. And all the while, those bewitching eyes stay on you. Never once blinking out of sight.

A sharp breath is forced from you as your back suddenly collides with the mattress. It doesn't hurt, but it makes you jump in fear all the same.

It's becoming harder and harder to think as he continues, those strange sensations moving across your body, exploring every inch of you. You know it's him, what else could it be?

He creeps closer, and never have you felt more like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. You can't look away. Like you've been hypnotised.

"This is wrong, isn't it?" he asks slyly. "How I'm touching you. How you're letting me touch you."

Not once does he stop. Along your sides, across your chest, between your thighs. He seems to know exactly where to go — where to touch, where to push, to leave you lightheaded. You press your lips together, determined to hold in the noises that are bubbling up in your throat, threatening to slip loose.

The lights narrow. He presses harder, tighter, and all too soon, you lose control, letting out a whine.

"You should tell me to stop. This isn't fair on Bob."

You don't bother arguing that he technically is Bob. What does any of that matter now?

But he's right, you know he's right. What you're doing, what you're letting him do to you— If Bob ever found out, it would break his heart.

And the worst part of it is you don't want to tell him to stop. Because everything he's said, it's the truth. You love Bob, probably more than anyone or anything else in the world, but he's so caught up in keeping you safe, in reining himself in. He goes so far into his own head, his own anxiety — he's so afraid of hurting you that sometimes he won't touch you at all. And you understand, of course you do. But it frustrates you too. Because you know how hard he's been working to keep his powers under control. And you might only be human, but you're not as fragile as he seems to think.

"Tell me to stop," he says again.

You manage to shake your head. You can't speak — so lost in the overwhelming feeling of him all over you.

He lets out a sigh, a low, soft sound. "You're so stubborn."

A wince is pushed from you as his grip tightens, squeezing you like a vice. Tears start to well in your eyes — whether from pleasure or guilt, you can't tell.

"If you won't tell me to stop…"

His words feel like fire licking across your skin.

"Then tell me how much you're enjoying it. I can already tell by how your body's reacting. But I want to hear it. You can do that for me, can't you?"

He's not going to stop until he's completely broken you down, made you admit your shame out loud. He won't be satisfied until he's crushed every last bit of your dignity.

And all this time, this unbearable ache has been building, higher and higher. He could keep you like this forever if he wanted, and you wouldn't stop him. You couldn't. Not when it feels so good.

That tell-tale warning begins to wash over you. Your breath hitches, your body shaking.

You're close, so close to—

Then slowly, it begins to disappear. That overwhelming feeling trickles away from you, evading your grasp, until it's nothing more than a dull thrum.

You could cry. You'd be willing to bet that's what he wants.

"Tell me you like it," he says again.

The hard, heavy pace he had set picks up again, and every one of your senses feel as though they've been set alight. He's everywhere at once, all over you, and it's taking every last bit of what self-control you have left not to scream.

"Three little words," he croons. "That's all I ask."

Even in the state he has you, it's impossible to ignore how much he's clearly enjoying himself. Having you like this — entirely undone and unmade.

His.

"This can end. You have the power to make it all stop. Just tell me what I want to hear, and I'll give you everything."

He pushes you all the way up to that edge again, leaves you dangling there, about to fall, and—

Once again, it all fades away. Waves dashed across the rocks of the shore. A crescendo reduced to a whimper.

"Please."

The word is forced from you. You'd give anything to take it back. But you're at your wit's end. Desperate. You don't think you can bear another second of this.

He hums, soft and pleased. "I didn't even have to tell you to beg," he murmurs. "Is it really so bad?"

You nod, eyes squeezed shut as he starts again. All too quickly, that feeling of pure ecstasy begins to overwhelm you. His pace is brutal, unrelenting — it's a wonder you're still conscious, it's all so much.

"Say it," he hisses, his tone suddenly souring. He's losing patience too. "Tell me what I want to hear."

That's when you finally break. Any more of this and you might go insane.

"I like it," you blurt out, your voice wavering. "I do, I really do. Just please- Please don't stop-"

At last, he takes pity on you, giving you what you want. Taking what he wants from you. It's like nothing you've ever felt before — the sheer power he possesses. When he finally releases you, your body doesn't quite feel like your own. Like a puppet with its strings cut.

You make the mistake of closing your eyes for a moment. When you open them again, his face is hovering right above you. He leans in, his lips grazing yours. He's surprisingly gentle in how he kisses you, as his hands cradle your face.

"Whenever Bob leaves you wanting again, you know where to find me."

You flinch as his teeth nip your lower lip.

"Keep dreaming of me, little bird."

He disappears in a thick plume of smoke. It covers every inch of you, choking the air from you until you jolt awake in a panic. Your entire body is trembling, sweat beading across your skin.

In spite of your fear, relief begins to fill the spaces in-between. You were never awake at all. It was a dream. A horribly vivid nightmare.

A soft mumble distracts you. You turn your head to find Bob curled up by your side, as he always is. He sighs as he shifts closer to you, a strong arm draping over your waist. His hand searches sleepily for yours.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice rough from lack of use.

Your eyes close in shame. How are you supposed to answer that?

"Yeah," you force yourself to reply. "Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep."

Bob hums, his hand gently squeezing yours as he drifts off again.

It's at least another hour before you finally succumb to sleep as well. All you can hope is that he'll have forgotten about this in the morning. The last thing you need is him prying out of concern.

Whatever this was, it has to stay with you, and you alone. Bob can never know.

Your union was arranged, of course. As was expected, and not to be contested. For no one could possibly entertain the notion of an Emperor falling in love.

And yet, that was exactly what had happened. Not at once, but through time on his part, and patience on yours, Geta found himself growing more and more enamoured with you.

No one had ever shown him the care that you had, that you do.

Even as a boy, he knew that there was something discordant in how his parents cared for each other. It was sterile at best, and hostile at worst. His father had a ferocious temper, made only worse with age.

Geta remembers it well.

They were the very antithesis of love. As though Cupid's arrow had arched too high, and fell short, some ways away. And yet, what they had was all that he knew. It was what his future held for him, in spite of his reluctance, his fear.

But you...

Oh, you were most certainly a surprise.

And to this very day, you remain so.

You take care to ask his opinion on whatever matter may be at hand, and you listen to what he has to say. Not from a sense of propriety as his wife, but because his thoughts actually matter to you.

In the beginning, it was close to pushing him to the brink of madness, this habit of yours. Surely, you must be mocking him. Hoping that he would falter, stumble in what he had to say. Make a fool of himself for your amusement. You had had as little say in your marriage as he. This must be punishment of some kind. Recompense for this life that had been forced upon you.

When Geta had admitted this to you, in a fury made only worse by sleepless nights and potent wine, you had looked at him with such heartache. As though his words had struck your skin like lashes.

He has never spoken to you in such a manner since that night. And he never will again.

Regardless of how well Geta performs his duties, there is always a hand guiding him to work harder, push further. The demand that he marry was satisfied for no more than a day, before the demand for an heir was placed upon him. The pair of you had looked at each other, with such unspoken trepidation, knowing what was to be expected.

A boy.

Nothing else would satisfy an Empire as greedy and relentless.

Offerings were placed at the Temple of Juno, prayers offered to Priapus, and a statue of the dea nutrix - a goddess who takes the form of a nursing mother - brought to the palace. Medici and midwives were chosen with the utmost care, and your diet was carefully constructed to ensure the health of you and your unborn child.

Geta remembers the hours of labour as though they were a dream brought about by fever - pacing the corridor continuously, back and forth, back and forth, as he waited for news. And all the while, he could hear you, in such unbearable pain, locked away from him. There was nothing that he could do; not even he could go against such a long-standing tradition. Emperor or not, he was not permitted inside. He could not be with you. And so he paced on, for hours on end, until the small hours of the morning.

When the door finally opened, he has never known relief like it in the time since.

He had rushed to your side, to find you in a complete state of disarray, and yet still the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. You had looked up at him with such a warm smile, the one that reached your eyes, before casting your gaze down to the little bundle tucked carefully into your arms. His own followed, and he had felt as though the very earth had been pulled from beneath him.

A girl.

After every offering, every prayer, everything, the Gods had been cruel enough to give him a daughter.

In hindsight, he is able to see what a fool he was. You had held her out to him; this fragile, delicate, little thing, and he is ashamed to admit now that he felt nothing but disdain. Why had the Gods forsaken him?

He held his tongue, allowing you to place her in his arms. Her little hand had stretched out, opening and closing around nothing, until finally she found him. Her tiny fingers wrapped around his, gripping him so tight, as though he were her anchor.

It was only when a teardrop struck her skin that he realised he was crying. In that very moment, all of those feelings of disappointment and anger melted away. He would protect this little girl - his daughter - with his life, Empire and its cruel demands be damned.

There were whispers, of course. Geta knew them well. Poisoned words from forked tongues, of you, of your infidelity, your unfaithfulness. How else could the Emperor have been cursed with a daughter? Geta was merciless in his retaliation, and those tongues soon fell still.

He would not have your name sullied in such a manner. In spite of his fear, he knew that you were devoted to him, and only him.

How you have never wavered; stood only steadfast and loyal by his side.

On days such as today, long and arid, he finds that his mind is prone to wandering as it has. He rouses himself from his meditations, watching as you slowly pace the marble floors of your living quarters. Your child lies in your arms, her head resting against your chest as she continues to defy sleep. You hum softly to her, a soothing breath of a sound that would surely defeat a much stronger being.

It has been the undoing of Caracalla on many an occasion, and though he would be reluctant to admit it, Geta himself.

During your pregnancy, there had been talk of finding a suitable nutrix, but you had been quick to dismiss it. You would not have another person take the responsibility of raising your child from you. You had spoke with such ferocity that Geta knew it was a losing argument, and no more was ever said on the matter.

He rests his chin in his hand, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. To think that there was a time when the very scene playing out before him would have made him recoil in disgust.

How he pities the man he used to be.

"Geta," you call softly, pulling him from his thoughts. "Perhaps you might try for a while?"

You cross the room to where he sits. Your child is still fussing, refusing to allow Somnus to cast his spell over her. Without a word, Geta rises, reaching out to take his daughter in his arms. When he looks down at her, it is to find her bright gaze already fixed on him.

"Whatever is the matter, little one?" he asks in a murmur.

Slowly, so as not to startle her, he rocks from one foot to the other; a gentle, back and forth rhythm. Her hands grasp at his robes, as her feet kick lightly at him. She is nearing the age where she is close to her first steps, but not quite. How it frustrates her.

He continues on in this manner, quietly placating her with gentle words, and rocking her slowly in his embrace.

"How she fights," you whisper from where you now sit.

Geta cannot help but smile. "She is truly Caracalla's niece."

It is some time before her eyes finally fall closed, her head pressed against Geta's chest. Her faint little snuffles are the only sounds to be heard, as the pair of you collectively hold your breath, so as not to disturb her. Carefully, Geta sits down next to you. You lean close to press a kiss to his cheek.

"And you were worried that you would not be fit for such a role," you say softly.

Geta frowns. "I said no such thing."

You gently wipe a dot of drool from your daughter's lip. "It does not matter. A wife always knows."

Geta cannot argue with you; at least, not without having to lie to you. So often has he worried that he is too much like his father. He wonders if given the choice, would he have ever become a father in the first place.

"Do not retreat too far, dulcissime," you say, your gaze still fixed on your child. "You are needed here."

There have many times throughout your marriage that Geta has been close to accusing you of witchcraft. For how can a mere mortal always seems to know what he is thinking?

"Shall I take her? Your arms will tire if she is to grace us with a long sleep," you tell him.

Geta shakes his head. "Not yet. Let me stay as I am for a little while longer."

You do not argue with him, merely resting your head against his shoulder, as you bask in the quiet of the late afternoon.

Just for a moment, Geta can pretend that this is his only responsibility. That he is but a man. A husband. A father. All of this, and no more. It is a quiet delusion that brings him a fleeting feeling of peace. For here, with you by his side and his daughter asleep in his arms, he finally has something that he can truly call his own.

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It’s around dinnertime when you decide to check on him. He’s most likely in his room, since there aren’t many other places he would go, and you know he hasn’t left the Watchtower. It’s not that he’s not allowed, more that he prefers not to. 

“It’s not just me going out there, is it?” he’d explained to you with a nervous smile, one hand clasping the other a little too tightly. 

Maybe he’s taking a nap. He’s never been a great sleeper, from what he’s told you. The light in the hallway is dim as you make your way to his bedroom, but it’s a familiar walk now, so you don’t really think much of it.

Maybe you should.

You gently knock on his door.

“Bob?” you call softly. “Dinner’s almost ready if you wanna come down.”

There’s no answer. You wait a few seconds before reaching for the handle. This isn’t really something you would do with anyone else, but lately, you and Bob have been spending more time together. At the start, you’d had to instigate almost every conversation, and it felt like trying to draw blood from a stone, but more and more now, he comes to you. There have been a few nights where the two of you have stayed up talking for so long that the sun was rising by the time you were done. 

He isn’t just as nervous around you anymore, and you’re grateful for that. You want him to feel safe when he’s with you. Because that’s how he makes you feel. 

He’d smiled when you’d confessed that to him, in that shy way of his where he ducks his head to hide himself beneath his hair. But you’d seen the worry in his eyes too.

The fear.

He didn’t have to explain it to you. You know. Know what he’s done, what he’s capable of. You’ve seen the footage. How those people just…disappeared. It didn’t look real. 

There haven’t been any incidents since then. He’s been trying so hard to keep himself calm, stable. And as chaotic as they all are, being around everyone as much as he is has been helpful. He knows that they’ve seen and heard and done things that most people couldn’t even imagine.

He doesn’t have to face this alone anymore. 

Still, he’s cautious. Especially around you. At first, you thought it was because he didn’t trust you. You tried not to take it personally. You knew he wasn’t going to just let you in with open arms. He’s been through too much for that. 

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he’d told you eventually, whispered words caught between the fingers pressed to his mouth.

“I know,” you’d replied softly. “And you won’t.”

You’d reached for his hand, carefully prying it away from his face. His eyes were brimming with tears. 

“But I will,” he’d said in a trembling breath, and the look he’d given you was enough to break your heart. 

It had taken some time on his part - and a little coaxing on yours - to pull him out of his shell again. He doesn’t like being vulnerable like that. But you’d treated him as you always did, didn’t try to pry further, and gradually, things felt as though they were back to normal again.

But something in you had shifted. Suddenly, Bob wasn’t the same person as he was before. And it wasn’t fear, or worry. It was something else. 

Something you didn’t want to name. Didn’t want to pin your hopes on. 

You push the thought aside, turning the handle and opening the door. “Bob? Are you-”

You stop, involuntarily sucking in a sharp breath. The air in the room burns as it slips down your throat.

It’s cold. Too cold. 

You know Bob tends to run hot, but the chill in the air is painful. Biting where it touches your skin.

The room is dimly lit, but even in the gloom, there’s something hanging in the air. A mist. Like dust that’s been unsettled. 

And in the midst of it all sits a lone figure, right in the centre of the bed. Legs crossed, head lowered. Shrouded in a shadowy fog. You could be forgiven for thinking it was Bob, crudely lit by the faint sliver of light spilling from the open door. 

But you know better. 

You can’t seem to make yourself move, still gripping the door handle. 

“Is he…what?” the figures asks.

His voice is low, quiet, the edge of his words rough in a way that makes you shiver. It sounds just enough like Bob that you could allow yourself to pretend, if you wanted. 

But you know better. 

The figure raises his head, and whatever thought of escaping you might have had crumbles to nothing. Two sharp pinpricks of bright white focus on you. Magnetic. Hypnotising. You can’t look away. 

His head tilts. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he murmurs. “Have we?” 

There’s a smirk in his voice. You don’t like it. 

“But then…I suppose that’s not strictly true, is it? I know all about you.”

He taps his temple slowly with one finger, before gesturing to the space in front of him. 

“Won’t you join me?” he asks. 

He pats the bedspread softly, but the sound feels thunderous in the otherwise still room. He asks as if it’s an invitation, but you don’t really feel as if you have much of a choice in the matter. 

Cautious, you force yourself to move, your eyes never once leaving him. The door swings shut behind you, far too loud, and you try not to flinch. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how afraid you are. 

His hand continues patting, over and over, until you’re sitting on the bed in front of him. A pleased sound leaves him - not quite a laugh, more of a hum. 

“I should apologise,” he starts, not sounding in the least bit sorry. “You were expecting Bob, weren’t you?”

The way he says his name - tears at it with his teeth and spits it out like the taste of it disgusts him - makes your chest ache. 

“It’s okay,” you reply carefully.

You cross your legs where you sit, laying one hand on top of the other. A perfect mirror image of him. 

His eyes narrow, those bright sparks dimming for a brief moment as he observes you. Scrutinising you, as though he has you beneath the lens of a microscope. You fight the urge to look away.

“It’s okay,” he echoes. His tone darkens, drips with mockery. “It’s okay.”

He raises a hand, stopping just short of your face. His fingers flex, mere millimetres from touching your cheek, and he chuckles.

“Oh. You’re scared,” he notes, almost pleasantly. 

You say nothing, more focused on keeping your breathing under control as he moves lower, fingers tracing the air along your jaw, across your chin. Stopping at your neck. His gaze follows his movements in fascination.

Another laugh escapes him. Tight-lipped, muted, almost a giggle; if you could call such a vicious sound that.

“He’s scared too,” he tells you, his voice a low sing-song. “The closer I get to you…”

He draws nearer, still not quite touching, but the cold fog that envelops him stings where it licks against your throat. 

“…the more he screams.” 

Slowly, he withdraws again.

“Easy, Bob,” he purrs into the silence. “I won’t bite.”

His eyes suddenly focus on you again, and the weight of his full attention feels oppressive. As if it could squeeze the life from you.

“Not unless you want me to.” 

Your blood runs cold. He seems none the wiser. His words, his actions; all of it is so normal for him. 

“I bet you’re wondering why I’m here, hm?” he says. “Why Bobby let me out to play.”

You blink hard. You know how much he hates that name. 

“He’s been so sad lately,” he tells you, pretending to wipe a tear from his cheek. “Ever since you came along.”

You stare at him in confusion. Sad? But you’re friends. Surely Bob would have told you if you’d done something to hurt him. Right?

“Poor little doormat that he is, he’s just so afraid of hurting people’s feelings. He can’t be the bad guy. No, that’s my job, isn’t it?”

His voice drops lower, those last few words spoken in a growl. The fabric beneath him rustles as he grips it tightly.

You don’t dare move. 

“I bet you’re just dying to know what you’ve done wrong.” he murmurs, his tone now unnervingly saccharine. “How you’ve hurt him, made him lose so much sleep. He’s lost weight lately, have you noticed?”

You had noticed, but you didn’t know how to bring it up without upsetting him. The last thing you want is for him to withdraw from you again. What you have is already so delicately balanced.

“I can feel you searching. Trying to remember. Was it something you said? Something you did?”

He leans forward, and those bright lights feel as though they’re burning into your soul. You desperately want to avert your gaze, but you can’t. You refuse. 

“Or maybe it was something you didn’t do. Did you forget something important to him?”

His mouth slides into a smile, exposing the sharp line of teeth hidden from view. 

“Poor thing, he always has been so sensitive.”

He moves again, creeping closer and closer to you, until his nose is no more than a hair’s breadth from yours. Not once does he blink. 

“Or maybe…Maybe you don’t care,” he says, and his tone turns sour. The smile disappears. “Maybe you just humour him, say all the right things to make him happy.”

Anger starts to swell up in you at his words. It’s one thing for him to insinuate that you’ve done something to hurt Bob when you can’t remember, but how dare he imply that you would be so cruel. 

“Act like you give a damn, when really you’re playing pretend.”

He keeps pressing, digging at the wound. You shake your head.

“Do you enjoy getting his hopes up?” he asks, persistent. Aggravating. He wants a reaction. “Leading him on like you do?”

“No, I don’t,” you retort. Pain blooms across your jaw from how hard you were gritting your teeth.“Of course I care about Bob. I-”

You falter. That smile returns. He can smell your fear.

“You…what?” he prompts. “Say it.”

The way he watches you is terrifying. Ravenous. 

“If you don’t want to tell me, I could always just…”

He makes a show of walking his fingers across the air, just above your arm. The implication is all too clear. He could just look into your mind. Could have done it right from the beginning. But this, the game he’s playing, is much sweeter to him. Hurting people like this, he craves it, feeds off of it. He wants to keep Bob alone. All to himself.

And then it hits you.

He doesn’t want to hurt Bob. He wants to protect him.

Because while none of you want to admit it - least of all, Bob himself - the shadow that sits in front of you is Bob. His pain, his trauma, all of it, made manifest. A living, breathing thing. 

You can’t hate him.

You swallow your anger, taking a breath to steady your nerves.

“You said earlier that you know all about me,” you say softly. “Tell me something about you.”

That seems to catch him off-guard. For the briefest moment, his gaze drifts from yours. Has no one ever shown interest in him like this before? 

“Why are you changing the subject?” he asks. 

He’s trying to gain the upper hand again, but you can hear how his voice wavers, however slight it might be. The damage has been done.  

“Because I want to know more about you,” you tell him. “And I want to hear it from you.”

He pauses, observing you. The room somehow feels colder all of a sudden. Darker. 

“You don’t want me,” he spits, his fingers twisting into the sheets again. “No one wants me.”

Tentatively, you reach out, your hand drawing nearer to his face. He snarls, but you hold your nerve, until your palm grazes his cheek. He feels surprisingly solid, like marble. At last, his eyes close, and you foolishly dare to move a little closer. They snap open again as quickly as that, and he snatches your wrist. You wince as he begins to squeeze.

“You want to tame me, keep me calm so I’ll slip back into my cage,” he seethes. His grip is merciless, and tears prick at your eyes. “You want me sedated, just like everyone else.”

He tugs your wrist, dragging you so close that you can feel his breath against your face. 

“You’d kill me if you could,” he growls through clenched teeth. 

In spite of the searing pain spreading through your arm, you shake your head. 

“No, I wouldn’t,” you reply, voice trembling. 

He sneers at you. “Then you’re more of a fool than he is.”

“You’re wrong. You’re a part of him. I don’t just love him for what he lets me see, I love all of him. Because that’s what makes him who he is.”

His grip falters ever so slightly.

“You…love me?” 

That’s Bob’s voice. It’s small, but it’s there. He’s still there.

“I do,” you tell him sincerely. “All of you.” 

His head jerks violently, as though he’s trying to keep control. But he’s failing. Warmth begins to bloom beneath your palm, across your wrist. You know how hard Bob’s fighting.

“I love you,” you whisper. “I really do.”

This was never how you pictured this moment. But then, you never thought you’d gather the courage to even say it. What you have with Bob is so special to you, and you couldn’t bear the thought of losing it. So when those thoughts started to arise, you pushed them down. And pushed and pushed. But no matter how hard you tried, they kept rising to the surface again. Threatening to choke you. To take away everything you had spent so long building. The friendship. The trust. 

Slowly, the shadows begin to fade away, the wispy fog and biting chill disappearing along with them, eventually revealing a very tired-looking Bob. His dark eyes meet yours for a moment, before he collapses onto his back on the bed. He’s still holding your wrist, and you find yourself being dragged down with him. You only just manage to stop yourself from knocking the wind out of him, pressing your hands to the mattress to hold yourself up. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles nervously. 

He tries to wriggle out from under you, but you drop onto your forearms and he stops suddenly, wide-eyed as he watches you.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice soft and earnest. “You don’t have to run away from me.”

Bob shakes his head. “No, I- I can’t risk that happening again. It’s dangerous. I’m dangerous-”

You can feel the panic rising in him. How scared he is.

“Bob,” you call gently. “Hey. Listen to me. It’s okay.”

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away from him. You need to keep him grounded.

“We’re alright. We’re safe. Nothing bad’s going to happen.”

Despite the fear still thrumming through you, you mean every word.

“I know you’re scared. I can only imagine what it feels like to lose control like that. But you don’t have to hide it from me, okay?” you say. You keep your voice low, as if you’re trying to coax a frightened animal. “You won’t hurt me. You can’t. Because it’s you. And I’m not afraid of you. Not enough that it would drive me away. Maybe that makes me stupid, but I don’t care.”

Carefully, you rest a hand against his cheek. He flinches at your touch, but still reaches for you all the same.

You smile warmly at him. “I love you.”

A tiny, broken sob slips from him, and without a word, he pulls you close to him. You don’t fight him. You wouldn’t dream of it. Not when you’ve wanted this for so long. 

It’s some time before either of you speak. Bob breaks first. His breathing begins to even out, his pounding heart beneath your cheek gradually slows to a steady pace. 

“I’m, um…I’m sorry you had to be the one to say it first,” he whispers. 

You raise your head. His eyes are squeezed shut as he speaks.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“I wanted to…I wanted to tell you. How I felt. It’s been driving me crazy,” he confesses. He laughs then, a short, nervous sound. “But I was so scared. Scared of…”

He trails off, running his tongue across his lower lip.

“...losing you.”

It’s strange, considering his size, but the way he is now, he looks so small. He seems to have a knack for taking up as little space as he can. 

It makes your heart ache. You wish you could make him see himself the way you do. 

“Bob, look at me. Please?” you ask quietly. 

It takes him a minute, but he opens his eyes. They’re red-rimmed.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you say. “I promise. I trust you.”

He still looks as though he wants to argue with you, but you refuse to hear it. 

“You’re still figuring things out. I don’t expect you to have total control over it all. Sooner or later, it was going to happen. And…I’m glad it did. Because I want to get to know all of you. Even the parts you don’t like.”

Something seems to click, and at last, he admits defeat with a little nod. Either that, or he’s too tired to keep fighting. Whichever it is, you’re grateful for it. 

“Okay,” he replies, letting out a shuddering sigh. “Okay.”

He’s gentle when he reaches for you this time, tracing along your jaw as if in reverence. You let him lead as he leans in to kiss you. It’s slow, hesitant, and it takes everything to fight the adrenaline rushing through you, to drag him in and kiss him hard like you so desperately want. 

Next time. Right now, he needs to be in charge. Needs to feel as though he’s in control. 

He’s smiling when he pulls away from you. Not his usual shy smile, or that nervous flash of teeth - this feels genuine. Real. 

You rest your forehead against his, allowing yourself a moment. Air brushes against your skin, and you realise that Bob’s saying something.

“...never actually said it back, did I?” he murmurs.

You hold your breath, afraid that you’ll miss it. He leans in to kiss you again. 

“I love you too.”

Your heart feels like a hammer in your chest. You’ve never felt as happy as you do right now. You can’t help yourself - you kiss him again, and again, until you’re both breathless and laughing. 

This won’t be an easy road, for either of you, but you have each other, and at the end of it all, that’s what makes it worth it. No matter what happens, he’ll always be worth it. 

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Tired of his own mind beating him down, again and again. Maybe it's right. That voice that slithers around him. Gentle at first, always so gentle. Luring him in, allowing him respite.

It's only a matter of time before it starts to tighten its grip. Pull him closer. Squeeze the air from his lungs. Leave him gasping and screaming. Begging.

He'd give anything to make it go away. He's sick of the pain it brings. But it doesn't matter how far he runs or where he hides. It's all the same. Because he can't outrun himself. Can't outrun what he is. This darkness that festers in him. Like a sickness. Rotting him from the inside out. Infecting everyone around him.

He wants to be alone. But he is alone. That voice…It's his own. Thoughts and words picked up from other people — people who should have been kinder, better — but the voice is his. No matter what he does, he's destined to lose.

Soon they'll see. Wouldn't it be better if you left before they realise? You've been feeding them so many lies. They don't know you like I do. I see you for what you really are.

He tried to leave. He really did. But there's always an excuse to stay. A late night talk with Yelena, a training session with Ava, a silly inside joke that Alexei loves to make with him.

Always an excuse. He's so weak. He's going to hurt them. How long can he keep lying to himself? How long can he keep pretending that he isn't dangerous?

And then there's you. God, if he hurt you, he'd never forgive himself. The rest of them are like a family to him, but you…

He can't say what you are. If he lost that…

But you will. You always hurt the ones you love.

So he does what he knows best. He retreats. Locks himself away in the furthest room of the Watchtower, away from concerned questions and worried eyes.

If you really cared for any of them, you'd leave. Disappear. Let them forget all about you. But you're a coward. You always have been.

He just wants it to stop.

Bob's been disappearing more and more lately, and it's becoming hard to ignore. You try to give him his space - he's quieter than the others and needs more time to himself - but it's becoming too much, even for him.

The Watchtower is an enormous building, even for the amount of people who occupy it, and some of the rooms furthest from the common area are gathering dust from lack of use.

You're willing to bet that's where Bob's hidden himself away.

You leave under the pretence of wanting to spend some time alone in your room. Whether anyone believes you or not remains to be seen, but depending on Bob's current state, you know that he likely won't appreciate the entire team descending on him like a flock of mother hens. Even just one of you is probably pushing it. But you need to know if he's okay. Call it selfish, but you really miss his company.

You keep as quiet as possible as you make your way across the building. Bob's hearing is sensitive at the best of times, and you don't want to alert him to your presence too early. You can't let him run away before you've even found him.

When you reach the end of the hall, you expect to find the door locked, but you're grateful that it opens easily. The room is dark, which doesn't come as a surprise. It's easier for him to hide this way.

Slowly, you close the door behind you, conscious of making any sudden sounds. You close your eyes, letting the silence wash over you. This is the last room. He has to be in here.

There. A sniffle, from the far corner of the room.

"Bob?" you call in a hushed voice.

Muted shuffling against the wooden floorboards. A stifled whimper.

Your stomach drops. Is he hurt?

"Bob?" you call again, soft and low. "Can you make another sound for me? So I know where you are."

You hold yourself still, poised for any minute sound. The silence is unnerving.

"Go away." His voice is hoarse, as if he's been crying.

The room is fairly small and sparsely decorated, and with some concentration, you're able to make your way around the furniture without too much of an issue. Faint lines of evening light fall through the cracks in the curtains, dimly illuminating your way.

Another muffled sniffle, and you've found him. A hunched silhouette on the floor, huddled against the wall.

"Bob?" You carefully crouch down in front of him. Not so close that you might startle him. "Are you hurt?"

A shuffling sound. Shaking his head, perhaps. If he's hurt, you need an answer. You try again.

"No- No, you need to leave. I need you to leave," he begs. "Please."

You squint in the low light, and as your eyes adjust, you begin to make out the shape of him. His head's lowered, chin tucked behind his knees as he hugs them tight to his chest.

Like a frightened child.

"Bob, I'm worried about you," you say gently. "We all are. I know you need your space, and that's okay. But this isn't healthy, you're isolating yourself."

You stretch your hand out to him, to comfort him in some small way.

"I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm going to stay right here with you, for as long as you need me to. Will you let me?"

He flinches as you touch his arm. His head snaps up suddenly, and in one swift movement, your back collides with the floor. The air's forced from you in one quick breath. Bob leans over you, heavy hands pressed to your shoulders. His eyes are wild. You've never seen him like this before. He's scaring you.

As quickly as that, he's gone. Retreats back into his corner liked an animal that's been spooked. He clutches tightly at his hair, whispered sorries tumbling from his trembling lips.

Carefully, so as not to startle him again, you pull yourself upright.

"Bob?" You keep your hands to yourself this time. "Bob."

Over and over, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

"Bob," you say again, firmly. Willing your voice to remain steady. "Listen to me. Please?"

His grip tightens. If you don't stop him, he's going to hurt himself.

"I know you didn't mean what just happened." Every word is chosen carefully. "You're scared. I know. But it's okay. I'm here with you."

His head shakes. You're not sure if he can even hear you.

"You- You have to leave," he mumbles. "Before he- Before I-"

There are parts of Bob that you still don't fully understand. Parts that he does his best to keep hidden. Everyone has secrets. But his can turn people into shadows with barely a thought.

The Void. All of Bob's pain - his rage, his sadness, his despair - brought to life by the Sentry serum. Sometimes it's it, sometimes he. But never I.

"You're not going to hurt me," you tell him. Fear still runs like a current through you, but you believe what you say. "I know you won't. Because you're strong."

A barely stifled sob slips from him, and you press on.

"You are. You're so strong. You don't want to hurt me, and you won't. And I won't leave you."

"But what if I do?" he whispers. "What if I hurt you? What if I lose control and- and-"

He shakes his head again.

"Please. Just- Just go."

Pushing through the thrumming anxiety, you reach for Bob's hands. He clutches harder at himself, reluctant to let go. So you stop trying, lightly running your thumbs back and forth across his skin instead.

"It's okay," you murmur, in an attempt to soothe him. "It's okay."

It takes some coaxing, but gradually, his grip loosens, and his hands slip from his hair. You gently guide them down so he doesn't hurt himself.

"If anything happened to you and it was my fault…"

He stops, swallowing another lump in his throat.

"I- I can't let that happen. You…You mean too much to me."

It's the first time he's ever said anything like this. Bob's always been more of a listener than a talker, and it can be hard to tell what he's really thinking. But this…

This feels like an admission. A confession.

Something you've been wanting to hear for a long time. What you've been desperately hoping for.

You take a breath, hoping that you can keep yourself together for a little while longer. For his sake.

"And you mean too much to me to let you fight through this alone," you tell him. "So let me help you. And it's not because I feel like I have to. It's because I want to."

You pause, giving your words the time to sink in. Hoping that Bob's letting them.

"I want to help you, Bob."

You want to keep talking, keep pushing, anything to make him give in and let you care for him. But you know that'll only scare him away. So you wait, sitting quietly in the dark with him for as long as he needs.

It's some time before Bob finally moves, and when he does, he all but collapses into your arms, clinging to you as if he's worried you'll disappear. He's heavy, and the angle is awkward and painful, but none of that matters right now. All you care about is that he's letting you in.

The light outside is gone completely by the time you and Bob leave. He trails after you in the dark, neither of you saying a word. He's exhausted after what he's been through, and you're not faring much better.

Bob's room is your first stop. Even if he knows the Watchtower as well as you - better, perhaps - you wouldn't feel right leaving him to find his way alone.

You're about to say goodnight when Bob reaches for you, a trembling hand clutching at your sleeve.

"I- I can't," is all he manages.

I can't be alone.

You place your hand over his, gentle and reassuring. "Can I stay with you tonight?" you ask softly.

You've learned from experience that wording what Bob wants as something you want makes it far easier to get a straight answer from him.

He quickly nods in reply. You give him a little squeeze, not letting go as you lead him into his room. He follows you readily without a word. You're already in your pajamas, and Bob doesn't even stop to undress - he just climbs right into bed with you.

Normally, he's hesitant around other people touching him, but he falls easily in your arms. Maybe he's too tired to care, or maybe you've finally proven yourself trustworthy enough. Either way, you're not about to question it.

"Promise you'll still be here in the morning?"

His voice is so small that you find yourself suddenly fighting the urge to cry.

"I promise," you murmur.

His hold on you tightens for a moment, before slowly, it begins to relax.

"Try and get some rest, okay? You're safe here. I'm not going anywhere."

It takes Bob a while before he settles - you can feel every minute twitch and warm sigh - but eventually, fatigue overwhelms him, and his breathing gradually starts to even out into quiet snores.

Your mind is still racing, and you let yourself breathe properly for what feels like the first time tonight - in slowly, out slowly. There's nothing to do right now except sleep. You rest your cheek against the top of Bob's head, trying not to think about soft his hair is.

Whatever's waiting for you can be dealt with in the morning. Right now, the only thing that matters is that Bob's safe. That's all you can ask for.

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Whenever everyone's able to get together and hang out, someone will inevitably make the mistake of asking to play a few rounds of Mario Kart, which is immediately followed with a collective groan from the rest of the room. Ironically, it's never Bob's idea - he's just happy to be spending time with his friends. He doesn't really mind what they do.

The first time you suggest it, you're quickly left wondering if you've killed someone in Jake's family and somehow forgotten all about it from the way he glares at you.

"What?" you ask, oblivious. "I thought it would be fun."

"You're joking, right?" he shoots back. He still looks deadly serious. "You really want to take a perfectly nice, peaceful night between friends and ruin it like that?"

You're obviously missing something. Natasha rolls her eyes, leaning across you to lift a can of soda from the table.

"There's a few things about your dear Bob that you haven't found out yet, clearly," she says with a smile that knows too much.

This only leaves you more confused. You and Bob have been together for a few months now, and while he isn't always the most forthcoming, it's less to do with the fact that he's hiding something, and more of a combination of shyness and not having anything to hide in the first place. You're confident that you know him pretty well by this point.

At the sound of his name, Bob looks up from his slice of pizza, eyebrows knit in a slight frown as though he's in trouble.

"Wait, you haven't said anything?" Mickey asks him.

Bob just blinks. "About what?" he asks in return.

At least he's as clueless as you are. That's reassuring.

Jake looks as if he's about to lose his mind. "About King Bob!" he exclaims, throwing his arms up with enough force that poor Reuben almost loses his pizza to the floor.

"Dude, c'mon," he snarks, elbowing Jake in the ribs.

In spite of your confusion, you find yourself laughing. "Sorry, King Bob?" you ask, lightly prodding Bob in the side. "What are you hiding from me?"

He sighs as he adjusts his glasses. "It's nothing. Just a silly nickname."

Mickey looks offended. "We've never been able to beat you at a single game - ever - and you're calling that silly?"

"It's like he's cheating, he's that good," Natasha explains. "And Mario Kart's the worst one. None of us have ever won a race against him."

“And he always picks that damn lizard, which is an insult, honestly,” Jake gripes.

“His name is Yoshi,” Bob mutters, low enough that only you hear it. His frown deepens then, as if he's genuinely annoyed.

Now you're curious. You had no idea that Bob had an competitive streak. He's been doing a great job of hiding it from you.

After a bit more moaning and complaining from Jake - because it wouldn't be him if he didn't - Natasha sets up the console, digging the extra controllers out of the drawer. A couple of games in and you soon find out that Bob doesn't seem to have a competitive bone in his body, and this is what pisses Jake off so much. Not so much that he's untouchable, but that he's so polite about it. He doesn't brag, doesn't shit-talk; he just calmly crosses the finish line every single time like he's on a pleasant Sunday drive. He makes it look zen. Jake looks like he's about to kill someone.

Slowly, an idea begins to form in your head.

Reuben offers you his controller after yet another victory for Bob. "You wanna try the impossible?" he asks with a grin.

You shake your head. Thankfully, he doesn't insist, passing it to Bradley instead.

This plan of yours is going to require some privacy. And if it goes well, you just might be able to dethrone the king once and for all.

It's a few nights later when you decide to set things in motion. Bob's sitting cross-legged on the floor at the coffee table, putting the finishing touches on his latest model fighter jet. He's so meticulous about keeping everything clean as he works - newspaper pages cover the table in a neat formation, and he's wearing an old T-shirt kept solely for painting - and yet somehow he always ends up with flecks of paint scattered across his face, like colourful little freckles.

You don't tell him. You never do. Once he's finished, you always make him sit next to you and take your time cleaning each tiny splatter yourself. He gets so flustered every time; it's more than enough of a reward for your work.

"Hey, I was thinking…" you start casually, as you carefully clean the paint from Bob's skin.

He tries his best to focus on you as you speak, but with his glasses off, you can tell he's struggling, because his eyes keep crossing the smallest amount. You bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing at how cute he looks.

"Since you're done with your painting," you continue, once you've composed yourself. "Why don't we play a few rounds of Mario Kart?"

Bob's eyebrows raise, as if he's surprised by that. "Sure," he replies simply.

Well, that was easy. You finish up, running your fingers through his hair to push it out of his face as he puts his glasses back on. His cheeks are slightly ruddy from where the more stubborn flecks were.

You leave him to tidy up his supplies while you set up the console. Now onto phase two of your plan. This part might be a bit trickier to pull off.

You pass Bob a controller as he makes himself comfortable on the couch next to you. As always, he immediately chooses Yoshi, patiently waiting for you to go through the different characters. It doesn't matter who you play as, you know you haven't a chance of winning. Still, you want to make it look as though you don't have a secret agenda. You're just having a nice time playing video games with your boyfriend, that's all.

About twenty minutes pass, and Bob's won every single round, as predicted. There were a few times when you came pretty close, but every time, he managed to evade defeat. It doesn't matter how you play, what character you pick, how you hold the controller - he's untouchable. And like every other time, he's an absolute sweetheart when he wins. No bragging or boasting, or rubbing it in your face. Nothing. Just that pleased little smile. From anyone else, it might come off as condescending or patronising. But with Bob, it's different. He really is a quiet winner - nothing more to it.

Time to instigate the next part of the plan. You watch as Yoshi crosses the finish line a whole lap ahead of everyone else before letting out a big sigh. As predicted, Bob's immediately checking in.

“You okay, honey?” he asks, and there’s not a trace of sarcasm in his voice at all. “We can play something else, if you want.”

You shake your head, letting out another exaggerated sigh. “No, it’s okay. It’s just…What would you say to making things a little more…interesting?"

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. Oh, you've definitely got his attention.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well…Why don’t we make a bet?" you reply, choosing every word carefully. "If you win, I give up trying to beat you and you can stay the undisputed king of Mario Kart. But if I win…”

You pause for dramatic effect. Bob leans in closer. You’ve got him hooked. Perfect.

“…I get to kiss you.”

The whole idea is ridiculous, and you're well aware of it. You and Bob are in a relationship - you can kiss whenever you like. But life's far too serious sometimes, and you're nothing if not a little stubborn. You turn to him with your hand held out resolutely.

“Deal?” you ask.

You're fully committed to pretending to be oh so serious about it all, not breaking eye contact for a second. It's hard to miss the faint tinge of pink creeping into Bob's cheeks. He stops, as if he's processing what you've said, before taking your hand in his.

"Deal."

You're not sure how this next part's going to go. Bob might not be the most competitive, but you're also having a bit of a hard time imagining him just throwing away his unchallenged title over something as silly as this.

So, of course you're surprised when not thirty seconds into the next race, Yoshi's cart slows to a complete stop. There's a soft thump against the couch, and when you look down, it's to find that Bob's dropped his controller. He looks at you, almost expectantly.

"I think my controller's broken," he says quietly, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Guess I lose."

It takes you a second, before your own controller slips out of your hand to join his. You're not quite sure which one of you moves first - what really matters is that your plan actually worked. And you can't even be annoyed at him for not putting any effort in. Because it might not mean all that much to him, but he still threw his undefeated title away - for you.

By the time you pull away from him, the tinge from before has spread to a flush right across his cheeks. You don't think you'll ever get used to just how smitten he is with you. You're no better.

"You know you didn't technically lose, right?" you tell him, as he catches his breath. "I didn't finish the race either."

He squints over your shoulder at the screen. "Mm…No, you definitely stopped after I did. You win," he insists.

He's rooting around the couch cushions before he finishes speaking, quickly finding the remote and turning the TV off. Before you can even think about wrestling it away from him, he's tossing it out of your reach and pulling you in for another kiss. You don't fight him on it - after all, this was all your idea.

Bob might not technically be the king of video games anymore, but that little secret can stay between you and him. As far as you're concerned, no one else needs to know.

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You look up at him then, a little confused, but you're smiling nonetheless.

"Of course I do. Bob, what are you-"

That’s all he needs to hear before his knees are hitting the floor with a soft thump. Your confusion only seems to grow as you try to straighten yourself up.

"Honey, are you okay?" you ask.

He doesn't answer; his hands find the bare skin of your legs as he shuffles closer. Sometimes he gets so far into his own head about things like this that he ends up talking himself out of it altogether.

But he wants to. God, he wants.

How could he not? You're the prettiest thing he's ever seen. From the very first moment he saw you, he knew he was a goner. There'd be no one else for him. No one that could ever make him feel the way you do. And he wants to tell you, wants to show you, but sometimes it becomes so overwhelming that all he can do is stare.

He's smitten with you.

People talk about the 'honeymoon phase' - the couple of months where everything's perfect and you don't see any of the other person's flaws through that haze of early love. And then, over time, the haze lifts, the cracks begin to show, the less sturdy relationships crumble and fall to pieces.

Bob doesn't believe in the honeymoon phase. Because it's always felt perfect with you. Even when you argue, even on the nights he can count on only one hand where one of you has gone to bed in a bad mood, he knows that it'll always be okay. There's not a doubt in his mind about that. There's nothing the two of you can't work through and make right.

He hopes someday that he won't need a little liquid courage to spur him on. He's working on it. But right now, he has you exactly where he wants you - where he needs you- and he's not about to let it slip away.

Strong hands run along the underside of your thighs, sliding up to your hips with a gentle squeeze. His fingers hook into the elastic of your sleep shorts. Giving the fabric a little tug, he lets it snap lightly against your skin. He doesn't miss the way you jolt.

"You just say the word and I’ll stop," he murmurs.

The way you're looking at him, like you're hanging onto his every word, does things to him that he couldn't explain even if he tried.

"I trust you," you tell him. Your voice is barely more than a whisper, but it's firm. Resolute.

Your pajama shorts soon find the floor, underwear following quickly after, and that's when it really seems to click with you. What he's about to do.

A nervous laugh escapes you at being so suddenly exposed, and your legs reflexively press together.

"Come on, no hiding. Let me see you," he tells you softly, with a kiss to your knee.

When he looks up at you again, he almost wishes he hadn't. Your cheeks are flushed - from the alcohol or from him, he can't tell. Your eyes are half-lidded, a shy smile curling the corners of your lips. You're like an angel. Beautiful.

You reach for his glasses, carefully removing them and setting them to one side. He blinks hard, trying to focus. His eyesight is terrible without them, but right now, they'll only get in his way.

Besides, he doesn't need them to see you. He has every part of your face, every line and slope and curve, committed to memory. He'd know you in the dark.

Slowly, you let your knees part, and his breath hitches in his throat. To know that you'll let him do this - that you trust him to do this - is something that he'll never take for granted. He knows how shy you can be at the best of times.

He needs to show you how much it means to him. Make every second of it worth your time.

His touch is gentle but firm against your thighs, pushing ever so slightly to make more room for himself. You get the message, yielding under his touch. He starts slow, pressing soft lines of kisses along the length of sensitive skin exposed to him, from your knee right up to your upper thigh. He feels your fingers thread through his hair and a sudden shiver runs down his spine. He reaches up, placing his hand over yours. Squeezing a little. Hoping you'll understand.

Tentatively, your grip tightens. A groan slips from him, deep and low, and that seems to encourage you. You pull again, harder this time, and that's about all Bob can take. He needs you, and he needs you now.

You're fond of telling him that he's a tease because he drags everything out, but he would never dream of doing that to you. He thinks it's cruel. But he can't help that he wants to take his time, explore every inch of you, give you everything you deserve and more. Sometimes, it's not until the early hours of the morning that he's finally satisfied.

You can't accuse him of being a tease now.

The sharp gasp that fills the air from the very first press of his tongue against you might be the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. He wants to hear it again. Needs to hear it. Needs to hear you, feel you fall apart in his hands. You leave him feeling woozy in the sweetest way. Like he's laid down on his bed after a couple of drinks and the room's slowly spinning around him.

He could become addicted to you, if he let himself.

He moves again, his hands steadfast against the backs of your legs as he drags you closer, until your heels are digging into his shoulders blades. There's a part of him that's struggling to keep it together, struggling to stop himself from pulling you into his lap and burying himself inside you.

But a bigger part of him wants this. Wants to be on his knees for you, let you take your own pleasure from him like this, feel you fall apart against his tongue. He can't pretend there's anything selfless about what he's doing.

He wants to worship you like you deserve.

He doesn't let up for a second, determined to pull every gasp and moan and whine from you that he can. And when you say his name, a breathy whisper of a sound, God- It’s almost his undoing. He's a grown man, and just the sound of his wife crying out his name has him almost coming untouched. That's what you do to him. The power you have over him.

And when you finally break for him, when the tension finally snaps and you cry out, fingers tight in his hair as your back arches, he thinks this might be what heaven feels like. He holds you close, not letting up for a second until he feels you collapse against the couch again, until you gently swat at his back.

"Okay, okay," you tell him, your voice trembling as a breathless laugh leaves you.

Reluctantly, he sits up. His back protests from the position he's been in for so long, but when he sees your face - all smiles and flushed skin as you try to catch your breath, the pain seems to vanish.

"Oh God, you're a mess," you say, embarrassed. "Let me just-"

The rest of what you were about to say dies in your throat. Pushing past his rising nerves, he holds your gaze as he cleans himself up, fingertips dragging along the corners of his mouth as he licks his lips.

"Got it," he replies, and he's surprised at how steady his voice sounds.

You laugh again, and this time when you reach for him, he doesn't stop you. You pull him close, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him breathless. His palms rest against the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. It's impossible for either of you to ignore how hard he still is.

"I wanna return the favour," you murmur between kisses. "Let me?"

The word 'yes' has barely left his mouth before you're pushing him against the couch and climbing into his lap. His hand fumbles along the cushions, searching for his glasses. There's no way he's going to miss a single second of this. He wouldn't dare. You're like a dream he never wants to wake up from.

He hopes he never does.

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