#sentry fluff

His attention was on you, and it felt like he was two minutes away from being pronounced dead.

You were standing at the bar with your back turned slightly to him, talking to some guy with a drink in his hand and too much confidence in his stance. It looked like he had forgotten to button his shirt up completely and his chest was puffed out and exposed like he was a bird trying to perform a mating call of sorts. It was easy to spot how he was flirting with you, he would lean in close and say something, and you would return the favour by doing the same. Bob swore every time you moved closer to him it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet.

Because your dress was–

”God made flesh.” That’s what Sentry had called it the moment he saw you walk out of your room tonight, and he hadn’t shut up since.

It was satin, maybe. Something dark and indulgent and soft. It hugged you like heat and spilled ink–clinging to every line of your body like it had been painted there. The hemline flirted with your thighs as you shifted your weight, fluttering like it was in love with your legs.

And those legs–Bob was going to have a stroke. They were crossed casually at the ankle, and the muscle of your calves were perfectly defined in heels that made your whole stance shift in the kind of way that rewired his brain chemistry. They pushed your hips out just enough to make his breath catch. Your waist cinched so elegantly it looked like it had been sculpted. And your skin–which was shimmering in the club lights–looked like something a god would ruin themselves to touch.

And that’s exactly what was happening.

“Look at her,” Sentry hissed from somewhere behind Bob’s ribs. Every syllable was thick with acid, and pure, unobstructed worship, “She’s glowing…And so fucking open tonight. She should be at our side. In our lap. Not fawning over that little man-child with mousse in his hair.” Bob’s jaw clenched at the rage that echoed through his head.

”S-She’s not fawning,” He muttered under his breath, his knuckles going white around the glass of Coke Zero he was holding, “She’s j-just being friendly.” He added, fluttering his lashes in the strobed haze.

“Look at her. She’s leaning in! He touched her hip when she laughed, did you happen to miss that part?” Bob let out a huff.

”I didn’t miss anything.” He replied, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips to cover the way his mouth was slightly moving.

“Then explain why you’re sitting here doing nothing while he tries to take what’s ours.” Bob exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, taking a fake sip of the carbonated beverage, feeling his grip tightening around it slightly, like he was going to possibly break it. “You made the choice. Not me. I would’ve taken her in our bed by now. I would’ve lit the fucking sky gold with the sound of her voice.” Bob dropped his hand to his thigh, fingers digging into the loose denim of his jeans–the ones you had convinced him to buy–like he could claw the heat out of his skin.

Across the club, you tilted your head back to laugh. That kind of laugh. The one Bob had heard a hundred times–but never when it wasn’t his words that caused it.

And you looked–God, you looked like every dream he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. One hand resting lightly on the bar, nails painted in something subtle that caught the colored lights like stardust. Your other hand gestured as you spoke, animated and bright, your shoulder dipping as you leaned in again, saying something to the guy–who took it as an invitation to move closer. He was smiling. He was saying something back.

You nodded at him, smiling with the widest one you had, and tapped your glass against his before taking a sip.

Bob’s eyes followed the movement of your throat as you swallowed, his heart beating too loud in his ears.

“She’s not even thinking about us.”

“S-Shut up,” Bob hissed quickly, but it was loud enough to make Walker glance over briefly before going back to his beer and the conversation the rest of the group were having behind him.

“You think you were noble, don’t you? Waiting, respecting her and the team…You think that means something when someone else can just step in and touch her like that?” Bob wiped the sweat off his brow, as the heat began to curl within him, but it didn’t seem to help. He could feel it–the static under his skin, like something golden and furious was trying to claw its way out from inside him.

“You said no to her. You told her she was too important to risk. Now look at her.” You pushed your hair out of your face with a laugh and turned just enough to give Bob a partial view of your profile. The lips gloss he watched you apply at the beginning of the evening in the reflection of someone’s car window glistened. The lights behind the bar lit up your eyes like candlelight through amber glass, and you still didn’t see him looking.

That hurt worse than anything.

He shifted in the booth, uncomfortable in his own skin, and burning hot. His foot tapped against the sticky floor beneath the table, a stuttering rhythm that matched the beat of the music–or maybe it was matching his panic.

“This is when I wish I had my own fucking body,” Sentry growled, “At least then I could make my own decisions instead of running them by a human who’s afraid of his own fucking heartbeat.” Bob flinched. It was small. Barely a tremor across his shoulders. But the heat that followed was almost unbearable, as it sunk into his bloodstream. It pulsed beneath his skin like magma, like light trying to find the cracks in his weak mental armour. His fingers twitched against the table, then he curled them into a fist before dropping it into his lap, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.

“She should be with us,” Sentry snapped, “I’d be on my knees every night for her, I’d hold her in my arms and love her the way she deserves, and she certainly wouldn’t be pressed against some arrogant fuck like that.” Bob’s eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see it. The guy’s hand moved to your waist, sliding around to pull you in closer. His mouth was way too close to your ear, and your face tipped slightly toward him, smile still soft, lips parted.

And Bob–snapped.

His body lurched forward like something had yanked him by the ribs, and the booth creaked. The table shook when his knee slammed into the bottom of it.

Walker and Ava both turned their heads at the sound, but Bob didn’t move forward again.

He sat back down, hard, chest heaving. His elbows braced on the table. His hands pressed flat to the surface to steady himself, shaking. And the golden light beneath his skin flickered–just for a second–visible, crawling like electricity beneath his veins.

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. Her brows were drawn, beer still in hand. She leaned across the table. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t even try to look up at her. He was staring at the floor, like it was safer than looking back up at you.

“Tell her to back off. Tell her we’re in the middle of planning out how to quietly rip the arm off that guy touching Y/N…”

“Bob.” Yelena’s voice sharpened, knocking on the table in front of him, “Hey.” His jaw clenched.

”I’m fine. I-I’m fine.” He responded, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.

”Bullshit.” She shot back. Then she was moving around the table, boots scuffing the floor. Bob tried to avoid her, turning his face away, but she caught him by the jaw fast, fingers sharp and rough, twisting his head toward her. The moment her eyes met his, she immediately connected the dots.

”Oh Jesus Christ.” She hissed, realizing his eyes weren’t just blue anymore, they were streaked with little tendrils of gold exploding in the irises and hazing over the pupils.

“Let me take it from here,” Sentry whispered, “Clearly you’re not handling it.”

“I-I said I’ve got it.” Bob groaned, squeezing his eyes shut like he could shove Sentry back down by sheer willpower.

“Got what?” Walker called from across the table, leaning his arm along the backrest, “What’s going on with him tonight?” He asked, motioning to Bob. Yelena didn’t answer. She was too busy calculating how far they were from the nearest exit. Bob rubbed a hand over his face, trying to cool the flush from his cheeks, trying to breathe through the pulse climbing in his throat.

”I’m controlling him,” He muttered, “He’s pissed but I’m controlling it.” Walker leaned forward a bit, catching the gold that began to shimmer even more in Bob’s irises.

”Doesn’t look like it,” He commented, eyes narrowing at the shimmer that caught in the strobe lighting, then slowly Walker's gaze drifted across the club, over the pulsing bodies, and past the sharp glow of the bar lights–landing on you.

You were still tucked close to that guy, still laughing, and still glowing in that dress, like the universe was trying to punish Bob through you. Walker’s face twisted in understanding, his lips twitching up with cruel amusement.

”Oh,” He drawled, “Ohhhhhh.” Yelena didn’t even look up to him, she kept her eyes trained on Bob.

”Walker, I swear to god.” She warned, already hearing the chaos brewing in his tone.

“You guys look parched. I’m gonna get another beer,” He said, grabbing a spare glass off the table, “And maybe a water for Bob before his brain starts draining out of his ears.” Walker added, pushing himself up from the booth, stretching like he had all the time in the world.

”Walker!” Yelena snapped, but it was too late, he was already moving.

“Oh good,” Sentry crooned inside him, smug and mocking, “Walker. A real man. Watch and learn, Bob. A simple waltz up to the bar, a charming line, a hand on her arm–easy extraction.” Bob let out a long, agonizing groan, pressing a trembling hand to his temple to try and ease the headache that was starting to bloom.

Meanwhile, Walker was on the move. He weaved through the crowd with a practiced ease, long strides–relaxed in the most approachable way possible–glass in one hand, beer bottle in the other. The lights flickered across his white t-shirt and a few girls near the edge of the dance floor gave him lazy once-overs as he passed. He smiled–small, effortless–and tipped his head in greeting, before continuing his journey. He didn’t stop until he was directly beside you.

You didn’t notice him at first, you were too wrapped up in whatever your bar companion was saying. But the moment Walker’s shoulder nudged yours gently, you turned–surprised–and the guy’s arm slipped from behind your back, falling away like it had never belonged there to begin with.

”Hey,” Walker said casually, setting the beer and the empty glass down on the bar, “Fancy seeing you still upright. Thought you’d be buried in that guy’s awful smelling cologne by now.” You raised an eyebrow at him, confused and slightly amused.

”Excuse me?” You said, watching Walker lean in just enough for the crowd and the music to blur around you both, his voice low and loaded with too much amusement to be harmless.

”You might want to ease up on the flirting…Bob’s halfway to going supernova back at the booth.” He said, propping his elbow onto the bar. He smelled like strong wheat from the beer he was nursing, but he still seemed levelheaded enough to know what he was saying to you.

“Bob?” You questioned.

”Yeah,” Walker nodded toward the table, where Bob sat with his head in his hands. From where you stood you could see the faint glow of the veins in his forearms, like someone had poured sunlight into them, with the crown of his hair fluffed and messy–probably from him ruffling it in his hands. “You know–your broody golden retriever…The one who’s got the sleeper build of a house?”

“He’s not–“ You huffed, “He’s not mine…” Walker snorted at the comment.

”Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure you own at least seventy percent of his emotional stability and sanity at this point.” Your eyes narrowed at him as you took a sip from your diluted tequila pineapple.

”We agreed, okay? It was mutual. We said it would be a bad idea–if things went wrong–“ Walker held up a finger.

”Right, right. Let me stop you there, Professor Logic. Because right now Bob’s glowing like a fucking star over there and Sentry has been pacing inside his skull, dying to come out. So clearly this little ‘mutual’ agreement is not really holding up.” You stiffened.

”He hasn’t;’t said anything.” Walker laughed under his breath.

”Of course not. It’s Bob. He’d rather implode than inconvenience anyone. But maybe you should go get your sight checked, sweetheart, because you’re acting absolutely blind if you think feelings just vanish because you both agreed to not ‘ruin the team’.”

“Hey, that's not fair.” You muttered.

”Isn’t it?” He shot back, standing a little straighter, “You’re over here flirting up a storm while Bob’s swallowing the sun god. He wanted you. He still wants you, and just because he respects the boundaries you two have, it doesn’t mean y’all are fully over things. Get what I’m saying?” You glanced again toward the booth–just in time to see Bob brace his hands against the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Even across the room, you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. The light beneath his skin had intensified–glimmering like heat lightning under the surface of his forearms.

Your voice dropped low. “What do you expect me to do?”

Walker blinked at you, incredulous. “I don’t know, go over there and calm the guy down? Maybe take him somewhere private and talk to him before he fucking levels the building?” He leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping into something more serious, less flippant. “Y/N, it’s Sentry. He doesn’t particularly have a track record for waiting or being nice about things that don’t go his way…God complex. Remember?”

You swallowed, nerves climbing up your throat like vines. “And you think I have that kind of power?”

Walker didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at you with the flattest, most terrifyingly honest expression you’d ever seen on him.

“I’m very sure you’ve got his soul in your hands by this point,” He said, voice sharp and quiet. “Now go. Before the floor starts vibrating.”

You hesitated, looking back at Bob again–he was shaking. Hands trembling like static was crawling up his arms, light flaring under his skin in pulses that didn’t sync to the music anymore. His jaw was clenched. His whole body coiled like a live wire seconds from snapping.

Walker’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder, grounding. “Go, Y/N.”

You didn’t need to hear anything else.

You set your glass down with a soft clink, the condensation from the cup already dampening your fingertips. Then you moved–shoulders squared, eyes locked, heart racing harder than the music pulsing through the club’s foundation.

The crowd pressed around you like water, dense and shifting. Heat clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and perfume–an overwhelming blend of cheap gin, sugar-rimmed cocktails, body spray, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of overstimulation. Neon light sliced through the dark like a broken kaleidoscope–flickering greens, bleeding reds, and deep violet strobes that stained everything in shadow-glow and fleeting brilliance.

You pushed past a couple tangled together mid-dance, the woman’s laugh sharp and high-pitched, her partner’s cologne a cloud of amber and pine that made your nose twitch. Your heels stuck momentarily to the floor in patches–spilled beer or soda underfoot–but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Because you could see him now.

Bob.

He looked like he was breaking open.

Yelena was still in front of him, tense and braced with her arms folded, her whole body coiled like she was trying to intercept a detonation. You reached her, placed your hand firmly on her shoulder. She looked up at you, eyebrows already drawn–but one glance at your face was all it took. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped aside to return to her original spot in the booth.

And then–Bob.

His head lifted, slowly.

And when his eyes found yours–it was like gravity halted in his mind.

The gold in his irises was brighter now, sparking outward like little sunbursts, threads of molten light veining toward his pupils. But it was the look on his face that undid you. The moment he realized it was you, standing there, reaching for him. All of that raw, volatile tension melted into something that looked like disbelief. Like hope.

His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed–no, he was never fully relaxed when he was like this–but the storm behind his eyes shifted, just enough to make room for something else. Something softer. The glow faltered like a candle wick flicked by breath, almost like it was a display of relief.

Slowly you reached forward–not grabbing, not pulling, but touching–and let your fingertips drag over his forearms, before your hands found his wrists. You could feel his skin burning, damp from sweat, and his pulse was bounding against your touch, as if something was ready to snap beneath the surface. You curled your fingers around his wrists with deliberate gentleness, and leaned forward.

The light behind you turned gold for a moment–just a flare, like the universe was echoing the chaos inside him. Then the shadows returned, and it was just you in front of him, wrapped in heat and pulse and light. Then your scent hit him–it wasn’t perfume in the traditional sense. Not heavy. It was perfectly you.

It was citrus first–sharp, bright, alive. Like cracked-open blood orange rinds in summer. Zest clinging to skin. Tangy and awakening. Then came the softer notes. Something warmer underneath. A trace of sugar and salt and skin–like sunlight on bare shoulders and the faintest whisper of crushed mint leaves. It was dizzying. It was you. The way you always smelled when you were flushed and warm and a little too close. Bob inhaled like he was starved of it, and Sentry sucked it in like it gave him a new life source.

Then you leaned even closer.

Your body was just shy of touching him, but he felt the heat of you radiating off your skin. Like you were burning through your dress, through the space between you. He could see the outline of your shoulder rising and falling with each breath–too fast. Just like his.

Then–your voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was spoken directly into the space beside his neck, close enough that he could feel the shape of the words before he could understand them. Your breath was warm, and carried the scent of alcohol on it–sweet, sharp, sticky.

Pineapple juice. Cool and sugary. The bite of cheap tequila clinging to the edge. And something cooler than that–mint, from whatever cocktail you’d been nursing. It made the air between you feel electric.

“Come with me,” You said, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear, voice low, tight. Bob’s pulse stuttered. His mouth parted on instinct, like he wanted to say your name, or please, or thank you, or yes, but nothing came out.

Only a nod.

His whole body moved like it wasn’t his own–shoulders curving toward you, the heat in his veins recalibrating, his spine straightening just enough to stand.

You didn’t let go of his wrist as you pulled him through the crowd.

He followed behind like a shadow tethered to your spine–quiet, massive, burning with a light that wasn’t fully human. Every step sent heat crawling along your skin, your grip on him like a lifeline.

You moved fast, past the dance floor and toward the back hallway lined with faux-industrial brick and flickering sconces trying too hard to mimic candlelight. The music was muffled here, pulsing through the drywall like a heartbeat trapped behind ribs.

The private washroom door stood at the end of the hall–sleek, black, and marked with a gold “STAFF ONLY” plaque. You didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the handle, shoved it open, and dragged Bob in after you.

The door shut with a click that sounded louder than a gunshot. Then the lock turned under your fingers–decisive, final.

It was dim inside.

Not in the way that suggested filth or neglect–but in a way that almost felt…deliberate. The club had clearly spared no expense here. There were soft amber bulbs tucked behind frosted glass sconces, casting a faint, honeyed glow that made the marble counters shimmer faintly. The walls were a deep slate gray, matte and textured, broken only by a massive, ornately framed mirror that stretched across the length of the main wall above the sink. The countertop was pristine, black quartz polished to a gleam. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat beside the soap, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness that cut through the lingering sweat and smoke on your skin.

The moment you turned to face him, Bob was already braced near the sink, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep standing. His chest was heaving. The golden veins beneath his skin were glowing more than ever–flickering like wire left too long in the fire.

You crossed the room, slow but steady, until you were standing just in front of him–barely breathing–with a bit of space between the two of you so you weren’t crowding him.

“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Your voice was a mix of caution and heat. Not cold. Not scolding. But demanding in a way only someone who knows the truth of a person could manage.

Bob didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, it wasn’t just him.

It was both of them. Bob and Sentry.

That glow behind his irises was too alive. Too bright. His jaw was locked, his pulse hammering visibly in his throat, the cords in his neck drawn tight like wires on the verge of snapping. When he didn’t speak, you stepped closer.

“I thought we agreed,” You said, softly. “We said it was a bad idea. That it could ruin everything.”

Bob finally opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not fully his.

“That wasn’t my agreement.” His tone was deeper. Not menacing, but vast. Like something old and radiant had peeled up from beneath the surface of his soul. His shoulders twitched like he was trying to contain something stretching underneath his skin.

You stared at him, mouth parted slightly.

“I didn’t get a say,” Sentry added through him, his tone thick with restrained hunger. “He locked me out of that conversation. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you deserved better than both of us. But I’ve been watching him crumble over you every night since…And it’s not fair to me that I need to watch that when I have no choice but to follow whatever he says!” Bob jerked his head slightly, like he was trying to shake the voice off, but you saw it–the way his pupils dilated, the way his hand on the counter tightened until the stone cracked faintly under his palm.

“That guy–” Bob’s voice finally surfaced, raw and hoarse. “T-The way he touched you–your waist–your shoulder–” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

You stepped closer to him, still not enough to invade his space.

“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”

“That doesn’t matter,” He croaked. “Y-You were smiling like that. You were laughing. Not at my words. A-And he got to touch you.” His hands curled, trembling, and you realized then: he wasn’t angry at you. He was in agony.

“Bob…” You breathed.

“I told myself I could handle this. I thought–I thought staying away w-would make it easier,” He whispered, forehead bowing like he was seconds away from collapse. “But then I s-saw you tonight, and you were just–fucking perfect–and all I could think was how badly I-I wanted to touch you. Not Sentry. Not the god. Just me.”

Your breath hitched.

The air in the room shifted–less like breathlessness now, and more like a burn. A shared ache. The kind you only ever get from not touching someone you need.

“You think I don’t want you too?” You whispered, eyes locked on his, not daring to move. “You think that was easy for me either? You think I don’t go back to my room every night and have to lie in a bed that smells like you from your laundry detergent leaking into my sheets?” Bob’s breath hitched–his whole chest trembling with it. His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at you with that look. Like you were the only thing keeping him stitched together. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.

Your next breath barely made it out. “I want you. Even when I try not to. Even when I say I don’t.” There was a long pause in the room, just the sound of your breaths and the thumping bass of the music outside the enclosure of the washroom.

Then suddenly, Bob moved.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even rough. But it was immediate. Like something inside him snapped loose and came tearing to the surface. His hands were on your face in less than a second—big and hot and trembling at the edges. One cupped your cheek, the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his forehead dipped to yours. The air between you ignited.

And then he kissed you.

It was not sweet.

It was not soft.

It was desperate–an open-mouthed, spine-scorching, knee-buckling kind of kiss that tasted like panic and longing and gold-lit hunger all poured into one unsteady breath. His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to carve your shape into his bones, like he was afraid he’d never get another chance. And God, he kissed like he needed you to keep existing–like he’d die if he didn’t.

You gasped into it, just once–surprised not by the kiss, but by the heat behind it–and the second your knees gave a tremble under your heels, Bob caught you.

He growled low against your mouth, not Sentry, not quite Bob–just that middle place where desire lives. His arm locked around your waist, and he spun you with frightening ease. Your back hit the cool edge of the quartz sink counter, and then his hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, dragging them flush to his, his fingers digging into the hem of your dress like he couldn’t figure out whether to lift it or tear it.

You moaned into his mouth–quiet, bitten off–and he groaned back, kissing you harder, deeper, messier.

It was sloppy. Wet. Your lips sliding together again and again as your breaths came sharp and heated. His tongue brushed yours and it felt like fire jumped between your ribs. You couldn’t even think. You were clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

Bob pulled back just a fraction–just enough to pant against your lips, his breath catching on every syllable.

“You’re not stopping me,” He whispered, voice shredded with disbelief, “You’re not telling me to stop–”

You kissed him again before he could finish, grabbing his jaw, tilting him into you, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip as his hips pressed tighter against yours. And God, the way he reacted–his fingers twitching against your waist, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.

“G-God,” He hissed, and the heat of it pulsed out of him like an aftershock.

His hands dropped to the backs of your thighs, slowly despite the chaos. His palms swept up your legs–warm, wide, shaking–until he was holding you just beneath the curve of your ass. Then he lifted. You gasped as he hoisted you effortlessly up onto the counter, the cold stone biting against your skin through the dress, the sensation making your spine arch.

Bob stepped between your knees and immediately pressed himself against you again, lips finding yours in a kiss so deep it tilted your head back. His hand slid up the column of your neck, cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

And then–he moaned.

Not loud, but raw. Pained. Like the taste of you was killing him and healing him at the same time. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and slick, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again–deeper this time, almost guttural.

His hips rocked once into yours, slow and hot, grinding into the space between your thighs, and you gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like every part of him was begging for contact, like he was trying to melt into your skin. His fingertips dug into your waist as he pressed his hips forward again, slower this time, savouring the way your body responded to him, how your thighs widened even more to cradle his body.

Your fingers untangled from his hair, reached down to curl your fingers around the wrist of the hand that held your waist, guiding him toward the skin of your thigh, skin to skin–your dress had ridden up high enough that he could feel the heat of you radiating through the minimal barrier you still wore. His breath caught. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper.

”Touch me.” The syllables broke him open immediately. He didn’t ask if you were sure. Bob’s hand slid upward–slow, shaking–and then it was there. The pad of his fingers brushed the damp, sheer fabric stretched over your aching core, and he gasped so sharply his forehead thudded softly against yours.

“Oh–God–” He whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “You’re already–J-Jesus, you’re so wet.”

You whined, head tilting back slightly, lips brushing his jaw, and Bob nearly lost it right then.

“Is it for me?” He breathed, fingers still resting there, just barely pressing into the heat between your legs. His voice trembled, and it wasn’t just Bob anymore. Sentry laced every syllable with awe and hunger.

“Tell me it’s for me,” He begged.

You nodded, lashes fluttering, as heat crept up onto your cheeks. “Always for you.”

He let out a noise–half groan, half prayer–and his hand moved. Gentle at first, like he was afraid to break you. His thumb found your clit through the soaked fabric, rubbing in slow, languid circles. Just enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Your thighs tensed around his hips, your fingers curling into his shirt.

“Oh my god, Bob–”

That shattered him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open and hot, breath thick against your pulse as he worked you with growing intensity. He mouthed at your skin–kissed and nipped his way up to the underside of your jaw while his fingers kept moving, pressing deeper now, sliding the soaked fabric aside with a gentle kind of desperation. His fingertips met your slick heat, and the soft, wet sound of it made him moan like he was being touched instead of you.

“Y/N,” He rasped, “You’re d-dripping… I h-haven’t even done anything to you yet–Jesus”

He slipped two fingers between your folds, not inside–just gliding through the mess you’d already made for him. His thumb resumed its rhythm on your clit, and your whole body jolted in response, a soft cry leaving your lips. Bob was panting.

“I wanna drop to my knees. I wanna taste you. Right here. Right now. Please.” The words were guttural. Frantic. Worshipful. Sentry was behind them, clawing upward like holy fire, but Bob was still there–guiding him with restraint, grounded by the weight of your body in his hands.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards you, crashing your mouth into his again. He kissed you like he was drowning and your breath was the only oxygen that could save him.

Without breaking the kiss, without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside you–slow, thick, and deliberate.

You gasped into his mouth–sharp and shuddering–your spine bowing against the sink as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips. The stretch made your legs tremble. You fluttered around him, hot and soaked and so desperate for him it almost hurt.

Bob groaned like the feel of you was enough to knock him out cold.

“Oh–God,” He hissed against your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled his hand for just a moment, overwhelmed by how tight and wet you were. “Jesus Christ… You’re so perfect inside. So warm–clenching around me like you need it.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You moaned–loud and broken–your body jerking in his grip. The sound echoed in the marble and tile of the washroom, obscene and beautiful.

“Y-Yes,” You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder blades, “Don’t stop–Bob–please don’t stop–”

His mouth kissed down your jaw, hot and open, and his other hand slid up your throat–giving it a gentle squeeze, holding you steady like he didn’t trust anything else in the room to support you. His fingers began to move inside you–deep and slow, keeping them curled just right, searching for that perfect spot. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing in firm, tight circles, coaxing more slick from your body with every grind of his palm. Every stroke was deliberate. Precise. Designed to make you fall apart for him.

“So good for me,” he breathed against your neck, his voice cracking with need, “So fucking pretty like this. Dripping for me, clenching around me—fuck, baby, you’re singing for it.”

You whimpered again, your thighs shaking.

“I knew you’d be like this,” He groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder now, the wet sounds of it nearly enough to make you come on their own. “So fucking sensitive. I bet you could come just like this–on my hand–if I kept going. You want that? You wanna soak my fingers?”

You couldn’t even speak. You nodded, breath hitching, your mouth open in a silent plea.

Sentry surfaced again in his voice–darker, deeper, reverent.

“She was made for this,” He growled from behind Bob’s teeth. “For us. Look at how she falls apart–so soft for us. So fucking holy between her legs–”

Bob kissed your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw, between every ragged syllable, his fingers never stopping their rhythm, driving deeper, stroking harder.

“I’d worship you every day if you let me,” He whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “I’d wake you up with my mouth, I’d pray at your thighs–I’d give up the sky if it meant I could die with you wrapped around my fingers like this.”

Your breath hitched violently, knowing it was still Sentry projecting through Bob’s mouth.

He kissed the hinge of your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he felt you start to pulse harder around him.

“Y-You’re close, aren’t you?” He panted, his voice breathless and holy, “I can feel it. God, I-I can feel it. Let go for me, Y/N. Let go–come for us–please.”

And with a soft, choked sob, you did.

You shattered around his hand, back arched, mouth parted in a desperate cry as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot electricity. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers as your thighs shook and your hands clawed for purchase against his shoulders, his chest–him.

Bob groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel.

He didn’t pull away.

He kept his fingers deep inside you, slowly working you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body with soft murmurs against your throat.

“That’s it…You’re such a good girl.” He rasped. The voice had shifted–richer now. Darker. It vibrated behind your ear like a drumbeat made of light and thunder. Reverent. Possessive. Starved.

Sentry, of course it was him.

You barely had time to react before his hand slowly slipped free from you–slick, trembling, and soaked. You gasped as he dragged his fingers up, just enough for the cool air to kiss your wetness and make your thighs twitch. And then–

He lifted them to his lips.

He licked you off himself with obscene patience, tongue flattening to savor the taste, eyes fluttering shut for just a second like he was drinking in divinity.

A low, broken moan rumbled in his chest. “Mmm–fuck, you taste like you were made for me.”

When his eyes opened again, they weren’t just Bob’s anymore.

Still blue–but ringed in a molten glow so vivid it felt like looking at the edge of the sun. Gold flecked and shimmering. Two forces inside one gaze, breathing in sync. Worship and hunger, restraint and ruin.

Both of them.

“You feel that?” He murmured, pressing his forehead to yours as his still-wet fingers traced the curve of your jaw, smearing your slick along your cheek like a mark. “That was you. That light in me. That burn. You’re what keeps us sane.” Another kiss–softer, gentler, but so hot it made your breath hitch.

“I need more,” Sentry groaned, voice rasping like smoke and lightning. “I need to taste it from the source.”

You swallowed thickly, still panting, your thighs twitching as aftershocks rolled through you. He kissed the corner of your mouth again, and then dropped his lips to your throat, mouthing at your pulse point as he whispered, “Help me. Help me take these off you.”

Your panties.

His hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress, brushing along the backs of your thighs as he began to drag the soaked fabric of your underwear down inch by inch, reverent as a priest unwrapping holy cloth. It clung to you–drenched, ruined–and Sentry groaned when you lifted yourself up slightly so the fabric slipped past the curve of your ass. You wiggled around, as he slid the underwear off you completely, crumpling them up in his hand, like he was planning on holding them the entire time–or to steal them so he could have them as a keepsake to remember this night.

He dropped to his knees in front of you like a man possessed, the dress bunched up at your hips now, your bare thighs spread on either side of his broad shoulders.

The sight of him down there–gold-flecked eyes wide, flushed lips parted, hair wild from your hands–it was nearly enough to make you come again.

“You’re the altar,” Sentry said, voice low and trembling with need, “And I’m the fucking disciple.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No hesitation.

No teasing this time.

Just devotion.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, and he moaned–loudly–like he was finally allowed to breathe again. Then he latched onto your clit with a kind of desperate reverence, flicking it, sucking it, licking it in the exact rhythm he’d found with his fingers.

His hands slid up your thighs–warm and huge and trembling–and gripped your hips, holding you in place as he worshipped you with his mouth. Every movement, every wet sound echoed in the marble air. His groans blended with your broken moans, his tongue devouring you like he was starving.

You threw your head back, one hand flying to the counter behind you, the other tangling in his hair.

“Sentry–Bob–fuck…Both of you…Please–”You begged, panting like you were in heat. Your voice only fueled the hunger.

He growled into you, the vibration sending another jolt through your spine, and his hands tightened on your hips.

“I can’t get enough,” He groaned between strokes, voice wrecked and thick. “I could die here. Right between your thighs. Heaven and hell, all at once.”

You felt another orgasm building–fast, blinding–your breath catching with each wet circle of his tongue, each drag of his mouth over your clit, each filthy moan he spilled against your folds like worship.

And just before you shattered again, he looked up at you.

Eyes glowing gold. Lips soaked in you. His voice broke the last thread of restraint you had:

“Come for me again, goddess.”

And you did.

Violently. Beautifully. Every nerve ending setting alight with the crash.

You cried out his name–or maybe both their names–as the pleasure crashed through you, seizing your thighs around his head, dragging his mouth deeper as your body gave out.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, past it, deeper–drinking from the source like he’d promised, moaning like your taste rewrote his soul. When your body finally slumped against the mirror, still trembling, still slick and wide open for him, he rose slowly from his knees.

His lips were red. Glossed in your slick. His breath was heavy.

And when he leaned in again, cupping your face with one hand, you leaned into his touch like your neck had melted, jelly-soft and pliant beneath his palm. Your body still trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm–nerves frayed, thighs twitching, your breath a ghost of what it once was. His touch grounded you, burned you, and worshipped you all at the same time.

His gaze drank you in—lips wet, pupils blown wide and gold, voice dipped into something low and wicked as his mouth ghosted the edge of yours.

“What a great introduction, hm?” he murmured, the words dragging across your pulse like velvet-wrapped sin. “You’ve never really met me before… not like this.”

The tone in his voice was soft. Sweet, even. But beneath it was the weight of something divine. The kind of reverence that made your spine ache and your thighs twitch all over again. He kissed you before you could respond–slow and consuming, dragging the taste of yourself across your tongue as if to remind you what he’d just done.

You whimpered into it, and he smiled against your mouth, a low hum vibrating from his chest.

“But I’m not done yet,” He whispered into your lips–so soft, so sensual, it made you clench reflexively around nothing. His hand slid from your cheek to your throat again, not to grip–just to feel your pulse. To feel how hard it was racing beneath his palm.

“I’ve barely begun to show you what it’s like,” He added, nuzzling his mouth along your jaw, the edge of your ear. His voice was molten honey, golden and dripping into every breath. “To be worshipped by a god.”

His hand on your thigh curled inward again, slowly dragging up the bare, damp skin until his fingers slid between your folds once more. You gasped, your hips twitching against the marble counter as he stroked you lazily, like he was testing to see just how sensitive you were now. His lips ghosted over your jaw, kissing along your cheek until he reached your temple.

“You’re shaking again,” He murmured, tongue peeking out to taste the salt-sweet sweat clinging to your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me one last time, sunshine? Hm?”

You nodded without hesitation, breathless and dazed.

“Good,” He breathed, curling his fingers over your thigh again, dragging your legs open wider. You were still trembling when your hand reached down between your bodies, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

He hissed quietly, the sound a shudder against your skin as you worked it open. The clink of the metal was deafening in the quiet of the washroom. You felt the tension in his body ripple the moment the leather slid free of the clasp—his hips pressing forward involuntarily as you popped the button of his jeans.

“W-We’re still in the club,” you whispered against his mouth, panting lightly, tasting yourself on his tongue. “People are gonna wonder where we are… I–we should deal with this and then go home. You can fuck me properly at the compound. I’ll let you take me apart in the shower. You’ll have me screaming your name all night, Bob, I promise–”

But he shook his head before you could finish.

One hand came up and cupped the side of your face, the other curled under your thigh again, holding you open with trembling reverence. He leaned in–kissed you hard, deep, so full of hunger it felt like he wanted to swallow your words down and burn them into ash.

“No,” He breathed against your lips. “No more waiting. We’ve waited long enough.” You felt the bulge in his jeans throb against your thigh as he growled, low and full of restrained power.

“I’m gonna fill you right here,” He whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower–your cheek, your throat, your collarbone–every word pressed into your skin like a brand. “I’m gonna fuck you so slow and so deep, you’ll be leaking with me when you walk back out into that club.” His fingers brushed your jaw again, holding you steady, trembling. “And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.” You gasped as he said it, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers, finding the velvet heat of him–hard, pulsing, so heavy in your hand.

“I’ll make you wait to clean up,” He murmured, kissing beneath your ear now, voice dark and golden, “Let you walk around soaked in me until we get back to the compound. Then I’ll take you again in the shower. I’ll fuck you slow under the water with your thighs shaking around my hips, and I’ll do it just to remind you…”

He kissed you–hard. Deep. With teeth clacking together, and tongues battling, before pulling back.

“…Who you belong to now.”

The words sent a sharp, hot pulse through your spine.

You could barely breathe.

He nudged his jeans down just enough, and you helped–sliding the fabric down over his hips with frantic hands until he was free. The thick length of him brushed your thigh, hot and pulsing, and when you looked down, your breath caught.

The tip glistened in the light from the pre-cum dripping out of it, the head was flushed a blush red as if it was dying to be inside you. He looked unreal–godlike–and you were dizzy from the sight of him alone.

Your thighs spread wider, instinctive. Wanton.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” He whispered hoarsely, his hand gripping the base of himself, guiding the tip to your slick folds. “So many fucking nights. I thought I’d die with the taste of you on my tongue and never get to feel this.”

And then–slowly–he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, your spine arch, your thighs tighten. He was careful. Controlled. Like the act of entering you was a ceremony. You whimpered, body pulsing around him as the thick head of his cock breached your entrance, and then more. Inch by glorious inch. So slow it hurt. So perfect it made your eyes sting.

“Dear l-lord…” Bob groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “You’re–God–you’re gripping me like you were made for this…” You cupped his jaw, pulled his face up to look at you as he sank deeper, until your bodies were fully joined. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

And that’s when you saw it.

His eyes.

The constant battle.

Blue–bright, tender, full of reverent awe. But flickering beneath? Gold. Liquid fire. Sentry. The god…Aching for more. Needing to lose control again. And for a moment–just one–Bob blinked like he was trying to hold them both together for you.

“Bob…” You whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “I see you.”

He choked on a breath. His hips rolled, slow and trembling, dragging himself out an inch before sliding back in–smooth, deep, deliberate. His eyes fluttered shut and then open again, barely able to hold your gaze. You cupped his face tighter, grounding him. His body shook with restraint.

“You’re both here,” You moaned, barely audible. “And I want all of it.”

Bob groaned into your mouth and kissed you–so slow this time. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips with his own. Then his hips began to move again. Long, fluid strokes. Deep, sensual. Every grind sent heat coiling through your belly, and every time he slid inside you, the air in your lungs thinned.

Your legs wrapped around his hips.

Your hands held his face like prayer.

And his thrusts grew stronger.

Still aching.

But with that edge.

That divine, desperate edge.

The god was surfacing through every roll of his hips, every whispered groan, every broken syllable of your name. You could feel it in the way he filled you–perfectly. Over and over. Each time deeper. Each time just a little more heated. His body coiled like a storm, the breath behind his moans glowing brighter with every thrust.

“Mine,” He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, “You’re mine. Always been mine…”

You nodded, clinging to him. “Yours.”

His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the light in the room began to flicker.

As if the whole club could feel what was happening in the dark.

In the holy quiet, where gods and mortals broke together.

His thrusts became less measured–still deep, still slow, but trembling at the edges with something close to ruin. The kind of surrender that came from months of restraint finally breaking. Each roll of his hips ground deeper into you, filling you so completely you swore you could feel him in your chest. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoed in the marble air, obscene and beautiful.

You clung to him, fingers dug into the muscles of his back, your thighs tightening around his hips with every thrust. Your foreheads pressed together. Noses brushed. Breaths mingled.

And then his mouth found yours again.

You gasped into it–sharp and high as a particularly deep thrust hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl–and Bob moaned into your mouth like it tore something sacred from him. His tongue slipped between your lips, slick and hungry, tasting you with a reverence that made your chest ache.

You kissed him back like you were trying to memorize every second.

Tongue against tongue. Teeth catching lips. Moans swallowed between gasps.

“Y-Y/N,” He groaned, barely audible. “You feel so good. So fucking good around me–so tight. You’re pulling me in like you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” You whimpered, voice cracking with need. “I want to keep you. All of you.”

And that broke something in him.

His thrusts deepened–slower, but harder now. Grinding into you so completely you could barely breathe. The counter beneath you shook. The mirror behind your spine rattled faintly with each rhythm, like even the room couldn’t hold this kind of heat.

You could feel him trembling–every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands, his hips beginning to stutter with every roll forward. His breath came out in harsh bursts against your cheek, and when he buried his face in the crook of your neck again, he let out the rawest moan you’d ever heard from him.

“I’m close,” He gasped. “Y/N–I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you–fuck–I wanna know that you’re going to be dripping me all night.”

You cried out, tightening around him. Your own orgasm was on the brink again–high, searing, right there at the edge.

“Do it,” You begged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Bob. Please–need to feel it. Need to feel you lose control.”

His hips faltered–just once–and he groaned through gritted teeth, his body coiled like it couldn’t decide whether to detonate or dissolve.

And then–he reached between you again, his thumb finding your clit one last time.

“Come with me,” he whispered, voice burning gold and low and full of promise. “Let go, sunshine. Let go with me.”

You clung to him. Kissed him.

And you shattered.

Your cry tore from your mouth and into his as he kissed you again–hot, open, gasping. Your orgasm hit hard and fast, convulsing through your body as your walls squeezed around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And that’s when he followed.

His hips stuttered, slammed in deep one last time, and then he was moaning into your mouth–loud, guttural, his tongue still tasting you as he spilled inside you. You felt every thick, hot pulse of him, the way his body shook against yours, how he trembled through it like the pleasure was too much, too full, too holy.

You stayed like that.

Locked together.

Mouths still joined, breath shallow, bodies twitching in the aftermath.

When he finally pulled back just an inch, his lips ghosted over yours. His forehead dropped against yours again, and you felt him shake–every exhale breaking against your cheeks.

”J-Jesus…I-I think I was blacking out during that.” Bob laughed softly–still breathless, still inside you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he knew how to breathe. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still so achingly present even in the aftermath of all that heat. His breath was warm and sticky against your throat.

You laughed, too–just a little–low and shaken but real.

“I couldn’t tell who was in control,” you murmured, dragging your fingers gently through the sweaty strands at the back of his neck. “Hopefully he’s not mad I called him Bob.”

Bob pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, lips curling in a crooked grin that barely held together at the corners. He kissed you once–soft, quick, like a punctuation mark–before resting his forehead against yours.

“I’m sure h-he doesn’t care,” He said, voice hoarse and honey-warm, “He’s definitely shut his mouth now…H-He’s been talking my ear off all night. Especially when you were with that guy.”

You smirked, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Sentry… The god of jealousy.”

Bob hummed a low, amused sound in his throat. “We were both jealous. He just…H-Has a really bad w-way of handling it.”

Then he turned slightly–still inside you, and you gasped at the movement—his body shifting as he reached out and slapped the silver button on the paper towel dispenser with the side of his palm. The mechanical whir filled the room in a way that felt both hilarious and wildly surreal.

“What are you doing?” You asked, brows furrowed in amused disbelief. Bob grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck, then leaned forward again to turn the faucet on with one hand.

“Making sure we don’t stain that pretty little dress,” He murmured, grabbing the paper towel and wetting it under the warm water. “It’s p-probably already ruined…But we shouldn’t make it worse, and w-we should at least do some damage control on it…I’ll pay for the d-dry cleaning.”

You laughed–really laughed this time–and he smiled into your skin like it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Bob gently wrung out the warm paper towel over the sink, his body still braced between your thighs, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The faucet murmured behind him as he turned it off, and the only other sound was the distant thud of club music vibrating faintly through the floorboards beneath your heels.

Then he leaned back slightly, his hands moving to rest lightly on your hips as he looked down between your bodies to assess the aftermath.

He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh.”

You blinked at him, trying not to laugh. “What?”

Bob tilted his head, considering. “It’s not t-too bad,” He said, voice still rough and fond, “But I might have to ask you to c-clench a bit when I pull out–just so I can press this t-there and stop the cum from dripping out before you get your underwear on.”

Your brows lifted. “Sounds like a plan…Speaking of my underwear though…Where are they?”

Bob glanced around like he was replaying the last thirty minutes in his head, then leaned over your shoulder and reached for something just behind the soap dispenser.

“T-Thought they got lost,” He muttered with sheepish relief as he picked up the damp, balled-up fabric, still slightly warm from your skin. “Thank goodness t-that’s not the case… Would’ve been pretty bad if it w-was.”

You bit back a grin, your voice teasing. “Would’ve had to walk back out to the club bare underneath this dress, huh?”

Bob groaned softly, burying his face in your neck for a beat. “Don’t t-tempt me.” Then he pulled back again, lips brushing your cheek as he met your eyes. “Ready?”

You nodded once, steady, and clenched instinctively around him–tight, holding him for one last second. Bob hissed quietly at the sensation, groaned, and then slowly, gently pulled out.

The loss of him made you gasp–a subtle ache, a sudden emptiness–but he was already moving, already bringing the warm, damp towel between your thighs with a kind of reverent tenderness that made your breath hitch. His touch wasn’t clinical or rushed. It was slow. Careful. Like he was scared he’d hurt you if he moved too fast.

You watched him.

Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he wiped you clean with the warm wet paper towel. It brushed between your folds with gentle pressure, catching his release as it began to spill out of you. He dabbed and swept delicately, making sure not to press too hard, his other hand holding your hip, grounding both you and him to the moment.

And the whole time, he was glancing up at you, watching your face–checking, silently, for any sign of discomfort.

Your chest swelled.

The intensity of it hit you like a fourth climax, softer this time–emotional instead of physical. This was Bob. Always Bob. The way he cared, the way he noticed, the way he never made you feel like you were too much.

You reached up, both hands rising to cradle his jaw as he finished, and his gaze flicked up to you just in time for your mouth to catch his.

You kissed him slowly–no hunger, no urgency. Just tenderness. Just that aching, quiet thing that had been living in both of you for months.

When you pulled back, your voice was hushed, but it carried all the weight of truth behind it.

“So…” You whispered, brushing your thumb over the very very light stubble along his jaw, “I guess we’re throwing that whole ‘no dating for the team’ thing out the window, huh?” Bob’s lips curled into the softest smile, something crooked and reverent and completely undone.

“S-Seems like it,” He murmured.

Outside, the night hung heavy on the windows, thick and starless. Even though it was cold, your thick socks helped you bear it.

After a while, you had company in the kitchen. You didn't see the person, of course, but you could strangely feel their presence as if the entire room had been impregnated with that essence. The music continued to play, but it no longer filled the space; now it seemed like a distant echo, unable to compete with the sudden density of the air.

Then you felt it: the faint creak of wood under their weight as they rested an arm on the bar, right next to you. They didn't say anything at first; they just stood there, too close, so motionless that for a second you thought you'd imagined it. The warmth emanating from their body contrasted with the cold outside, and the scent—clean, almost electric—confirmed that you weren't alone.

“Hey,” you heard close to your ear, barely above a whisper.

Their voice made you turn your head immediately. You recognized him instantly, of course you did. It was Bob. His body, his silhouette… but not his posture. He was more upright, as if he weighed less. More relaxed. And he was looking at you. Not shyly, not as if he were waiting for your permission, but as if he already knew he was welcome.

What disconcerted you most was the color of his eyes. They shone a liquid gold, soft but impossible to ignore, as if something very ancient and powerful had peeked out from beneath his skin. The proximity made you notice them immediately.

“Bob...” you said softly, unsure whether to ask or affirm. You still held the spoon tightly. The aroma of dinner still wafted through the air, but everything else had stopped. “What are you doing here?”

“I went out to get a glass of water and found you here. That's all.”

“Your… your hair,” you stammered, barely reaching out to stroke a strand of hair, “what did you do to it?”

It was blonde, but not that horrible fake yellow shade Valentina had dyed it a few months ago. This time, his hair looked like it had been kissed by the sun, a color so golden it resembled one of those cherubs portrayed in old paintings. You could also swear it looked a few inches longer than you remembered.

“Don’t you like it?” he exclaimed. The question didn’t sound uncertain, as it should have, but rather amused. “I think it suits me.”

“Yes, you look… you look great, but why did you do it?”

He didn't respond immediately. His attention shifted to what you were cooking, with an almost unusual interest. He leaned a little closer over the counter, just enough to better observe the contents of the pot without invading your space too much... although you felt the warmth of his proximity extending like an invisible line between the two of you.

“What are you doing?” he asked softly, as if the question were more intimate than it should be.

“Nothing, just… something quick for dinner,” you replied, not quite looking at him. You tried hard to sound casual, even though you knew your cheeks had heated a little without permission.

He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on your hands as you rummaged. He didn't talk like Bob. He didn't move like Bob. And yet, there he was, standing next to you, wearing those wrinkled plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt you'd seen on him before at the back of his closet; the cover of Radiohead's single, Creep, printed on black. Everything was recognizable, but not familiar.

Suddenly, his hand slowly reached out to take a pinch of what you'd left on the cutting board and brought it to his mouth, still looking at you. He did so with disconcerting ease, as if you always shared these kinds of moments.

“Smells good,” he murmured, and for a second, the way he said it didn’t seem to refer to food.

You looked at him, still trying to understand what part of him that was. Because if that was Bob… why did he make you feel like you were a fixed point in his orbit?

“Does your head hurt?” you asked, still unsure. Your voice sounded different, as if it didn't quite come from you.

"No"

"Are you okay?"

A giggle escaped his lips.

“I am,” he assured you. Prompted by your inquisitive eyes, he added, “Don’t worry. You know me, you’ve seen me before.”

The way he spoke to you made you believe he wasn't your friend you were chatting with. He knew you, yes, but he was behaving very differently than usual. The realization hit you suddenly.

“Sentry?”

The name left your lips like a crack in the air. And although he didn't flinch or look away, you saw that faint flicker of acceptance in his eyes. As if you'd finally said what he'd been waiting for since he'd entered the room.

“I was hoping you’d notice sooner,” he said calmly, though not reproachfully.

He didn't sound proud. He didn't sound embarrassed. Just… confident. A confidence that Bob didn't know existed, but was natural to him.

“You weren’t supposed to come out,” you murmured, barely audible, as if naming the abnormality could reverse it. “Bob still doesn’t know how to control you.”

He shrugged with an almost elegant fluidity.

“I don’t need him to control me,” she replied immediately. “I’m not dangerous. In fact, it turns out I'm everything he wants to be."

You remained silent for a second, watching him intently. You didn't know if it was wise to call someone else, walk away, or try to figure out what had brought him to light.

“Don’t fear me,” he continued, as if he had read the doubt in your eyes. “I would never hurt you.”

“Why are you here?” you mumbled. Your back was to the counter, and he was standing in front of you, watching you. “Is Bob okay?”

“Of course,” he smiled at you. His gaze made you feel nervous. “It’s just… he was daydreaming about you. So I thought I’d intervene.”

You froze. When you finally managed to stammer out a response, you asked him to explain what he was talking about.

“I just want to see you up close. He’s watching you the whole time like he’s afraid of breaking you.”

The phrase—and the way he said it—confused you. Why would he have had to show up to get a close look at you? What did that even mean?

Why did it have to be him and not Bob?

“You’re his constant thought, did you know that?” he murmured calmly. “For better or for worse.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He always worries about you. He wants to be good for you, to improve, to leave behind those weaknesses that torment him. But everything he keeps quiet when he sees you walk by, when you laugh near him, when you touch him… he throws it all at me.”

His voice didn't rise in pitch. It wasn't demanding. It didn't crack. But there was an undercurrent, a weariness so deep it reached your chest.

“And honestly, I feel like it kills me a little more every day.

“I can’t understand you,” you faltered. “Do you mean that he-you are… in love with me?”

A stifled laugh was heard in his throat.

“Obsessed, that's the term I'd give it. But yes, let's say so.”

Sentry didn't look at you like someone expecting a reaction. He didn't seem to be looking for shock value. He was just... saying it. As if saying it out loud would take a weight off his shoulders.

You feared you were delirious. The moment was so sudden and unexpected that it was the only explanation that made sense to you.

“I just thought it was time to let you know,” Sentry continued. “Because he won’t. At least not anytime soon.”

He took a step closer, slow, careful, but not hesitant. His movements were confident, as if he wasn't afraid of rejection, but of breaking something delicate.

His fingers brushed the edge of the bar, right where you'd placed the spoon seconds before. He didn't pick it up. He just rested his fingertips there, as if he needed to anchor himself to something real.

Then he reached out with his other hand toward you, very slowly, and with the backs of his fingers, he barely caressed your cheek. It wasn't an invasive caress. It was… careful. Too careful, as if he feared that you, too, were part of the same fracture he was carrying.

His touch was warm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice lower. More intimate. “You’re sweet. Attentive. I understand why he’s going crazy for you.”

And you wanted to say something, anything. But his presence weighed more than your thoughts. You didn't know if it was the tone or the content of his words, but something inside you tensed.

You didn't back down. You didn't touch him either. But your gaze dropped to his hand, still suspended in the air, as if you'd suddenly realized the moment had crossed an invisible line.

He noticed it. Of course he noticed it.

“But you’re not ready,” he said, without annoyance.

He didn't sound disappointed, or impatient. He said it as a logical conclusion. An observation. He slowly withdrew his hand, but didn't move away. He just looked down, as if the gesture of touching you had been more for him than for you.

You were in shock, trying to understand what was happening and waiting for his next move.

“I’m not asking you for anything,” he added after a moment. “I didn’t even come looking for anything. I just needed you to see me. To know that I exist beyond fear.”

Your throat closed a little, and your voice barely held as you replied:

“I… don’t know what to tell you.”

Sentry nodded, once, without drama. His golden eyes softened slightly, though the glow remained, pulsing, like a subtle warning that this form of him wasn't human. Not quite.

“You don’t need to say anything. Not now.” For a second, he was silent. “Sometimes Bob stares at the door for hours, wondering if you’ll ever show up.”

The phrase disarmed you more than you expected. You knew him. Not in words, but in actions. In the way Bob avoided eye contact when you greeted him. In the way he seemed to go silent when you sat down near him. In the way he always had something in his hands to pretend he was busy.

Sentry still watched you, patient. Almost serene.

“And all this stuff you’re saying… Does he feel it? Don’t you?”

“Both,” he explained softly. “But if you’re wondering who wants you more, then it would be me.”

You swallowed, looking at him with some surprise. You hadn't asked that, but he'd thought it prudent to mention it. He could have told you he cared or sought your closeness, but no. He said he wanted you.

“Is that why you came looking for me?”

Your voice was a whisper, gently caressing his ears. You no longer seemed scared, but curious, and that stirred something else in the God who watched you intently.

Sentry didn't answer immediately. He lowered his gaze for a moment, as if your question was too intimate even for him. And when he came back from his thoughts, his eyes had not lost their golden glow, but his expression had softened.

“I only came because… I couldn’t stay without doing it.”

His fingers closed in a slight gesture, as if he had wanted to touch you again and held back at the last second.

“Do you know what it feels like to carry something inside that doesn’t quite belong to you?” he asked, not looking at you directly. “A memory. A longing. An image repeated over and over again. And you didn’t create it, you didn’t dream it, but you feel it. It pulls you in. It transforms you.”

You looked at him silently, recognizing in his words not only the intensity of his existence, but the fragility behind it. As if he couldn't sustain himself for long away from Bob's shadow.

“You’re in him,” he continued. “In all his days. In every damn attempt to ignore you. In every night he forces himself not to knock on your room. In all those moments when he has to hold back as if your gaze doesn’t completely disarm him.”

The intensity of his voice didn't rise, but it became thicker. More tangible.

“I don't have their filters,” he admitted, “nor their fears. And if I'm here, it's because Bob wanted it so badly… that I didn't know how to stay silent anymore.”

It wasn't a confession, not quite. It was more like an inevitable outburst. And he was still there, so close, it was hard to think.

“I don’t know if this is real… or if I’m just feeling what you need me to feel.”

“It's very real”

His silence wasn't empty. It was the suppressed sound of something that wanted to explode but didn't dare. The gold in his eyes flickered like a flame about to go out... or burn out completely.

You felt it. Not for what he did, but for what he didn't do.

The way his eyes dropped to your mouth a second longer than necessary. The slight tremble in his breath as he stared at you without blinking. The way his body tilted, barely perceptible, as if the space between you was an obstacle eating him away from the inside.

He didn't touch you. He didn't say anything. But the desire was there, suspended between you both, as clear as the heat between two bodies that aren't touching.

And you, for the first time, didn't back down.

Your lips parted, not in invitation, but in surprise. There was something reverent about him. As if he were approaching you not as a man, not even as a god, but as an echo. Like someone who had been sensing you for too long in another skin, in another mind, in another contained love.

He knew it then. What he saw in your eyes. Not fear, not rejection. Just the certainty that if he did it, something would change forever. In you. In Bob.

Sentry didn't move anymore.

His lips curved into a small, sad smile. One of those that doesn't seek comfort, but acceptance.

“Now that you know… Will you wait for him? Until he’s ready?”

You nodded, out of inertia. The proximity made you feel dizzy, as if his energy were consuming you entirely, and the only thing left in you was that desire for him to finish what he started.

His beauty was nothing like Bob's. He was shy, discreet, cautious in his gestures. Sentry forced you to look at him. Not by imposition, but by nature. Because you couldn't help it. There was something about him that overwhelmed your senses, something that seemed made of light and gravity, and all of it pushed you to the edge of something you couldn't name.

There was no touch. No unnecessary words. Just that suspended instant in which your whole body understood that he could have touched you, and you would have allowed it. Not because he demanded it, but because there was something in you that had already given in without you realizing it.

You didn't know if it was the way he looked at you or how he seemed to be contained within himself, as if the universe were splitting open in his chest, but for a moment you stopped thinking.

You contemplated him as one contemplates something sacred. Not as one desires, but as one recognizes.

And that's where you truly felt it: divinity in its purest form. Not that of miracles or light, but that of the abyss. Of contained fire.

“I’ll go,” he exhaled. He allowed himself to caress your face one last time. “I don’t want Bob to lose his temper. I just… wanted you to know how much you mean. To both of us.”

He took a step back, and you instantly missed his warmth. You found a certain acceptance in his eyes, as if he knew his time had come to an end. It felt as if that version of himself couldn't last much longer in your presence without fading away.

“Can I ask you something?”

"Yeah?"

“Don’t hate him if he doesn’t remember tomorrow,” he said softly. You knew he was referring to Bob. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to do it. It’s that he can’t handle it.”

And with that last truth, he left.

There were no lights, no sounds. Only the faint emptiness left behind by an intense presence as it retreats. And you, standing in the kitchen, dinner cooling on the stove and your heart beating too close to your throat, realized that something inside you had just changed, too.

You didn't know if everything would be back to normal the next day.

But you knew, with absolute certainty, that you hadn't imagined it.

Although a part of you—the most rational, the most scared—would like to believe that it had all been a dream, a delusion, a fantasy brought on by tiredness or your own badly buried feelings.

Because in the end… was it Sentry who came to you?

Or Bob, in a form that even he doesn't understand?

You didn't know. And you probably never would. But the echo of his voice, the warmth of his presence, the weight of that gaze... that was real.

You couldn't tell anyone. Not because they wouldn't believe you, but because there was no way to explain it without breaking them, without exposing them to criticism. And because, at the same time, you were afraid it might break you a little too.

It had to become a secret. There was no other alternative.

You were ten years old.

You were both in the same special needs class in elementary school.

Even if your needs were different.

It was your first day at a new school after you and your older sister had just moved to a new town. It was a small suburban town, with a small school at its center and small classrooms. Your sister had registered you at the main office, quietly informing the principal that you had a learning disability. He nodded and got up to exchange some hushed wispers with the front desk lady. A moment later, the woman offered a soft smile before motioning for you to follow. "Come with me, hun."

Down the hallway, she led you into a quiet classroom where about ten students your age sat. The teacher paused mid-lesson as the door opened, and everyone turned to look at you next to the front desk lady.

"Miss Brown, please welcome your newest student," the secretary said.

The teacher, an older woman with kind eyes and a denim vest, nodded. "Good morning, why don't you come up here and introduce yourself."

You walked up to the front of the class, slightly fidgeting with the hem of your dress and told everyone your name.

Ms. Brown smiled. "It's very nice to meet you, y/n. We don't get new students often around here."

Gesturing to a boy at the far end of the room, she said. "You can have a seat next to Robert."

He sat alone, half-curled into his hoodie, shaggy brown hair hanging over blue eyes. The desk beside him was empty. You crossed the room with your backpack slung awkwardly over your shoulders, pulled the chair back, and sat down. Your hands were slow as you pulled out your notebook and pencils.

"Hi," he wispered, looking up for only a second.

You smiled. "Hi. I’m Y/N."

He nodded. "I know. You told us a minute ago."

"Right," you chuckled, feeling your cheeks heat. You sometimes blabbed when you were nervous. "I like your name, Robert."

"Bob’s okay," he murmured, opening his notebook and scribbling the date in the corner.

At lunch, a few of your classmates came over, smiling and curious.

Feeling like you somehow said the wrong thing, you turned to your desk and did the same, copying down the teacher’s notes.

Your grip tightened on your pencil as the words blurred. Like they always did.

"Hey, I’m Alex," a boy said.

"I’m Kate. I like your dress," added a girl sitting beside him.

A few more names followed. A boy named Timothy and a girl named Gillian.

"So, what do you have?" Timothy asked plainly.

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

He motioned vaguely around the room. "Everyone's got something in this class. I have ADD. Alex is on the spectrum... what about you?"

"Oh," you understood now, swallowing. "I’m dyslexic," you said quietly, pressing your lips together the way you always did when you told someone about your disability.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Bob glance up from his desk, eyes flicking to your notebook before returning to his.

"What’s that?" Kate asked.

"I... I have difficulty reading," you explained.

They gave you a variety of looks. Some curious, others sympathetic.

"I’ve never heard of that," Gillian said. "Sounds awful."

"Gillian," Bob said, without looking up.

Gillian grimaced, giving you an apologetic look.

"It's okay," You smiled, grateful even for that brief defense. "It’s not too bad," you said, even if you didn’t always believe it.

The truth was that the school didn’t have the resources to distinguish between different types of needs. So, they grouped everyone together. And in time, you all became something like friends.

But Bob was still... distant. When you all tried to include him in group games or projects, he’d just shake his head, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on his desk.

Until one day.

Your sister was late to pick you up, and most of the others had already gone home. You sat on the curb, arms wrapped around your backpack, and then noticed Bob lingering nearby.

You plopped down next to him, your leggings brushing against his scraped-up knees poking through wrinkled cargo shorts.

"Your parents not picking you up?" you asked.

He flinched slightly, then glanced over. His hair was a mess and falling into his eyes. You had the sudden urge to brush it away.

"Sometimes they’re late. Or they forget," he said with a sad little smile, eyes fixed on his shoes. "It’s alright."

You frowned. He smiled, but he clearly wasnt happy. You looked around, trying to come up with something to change his mood.

You froze when your gaze landed on the school playground. "Wanna go on the swings?"

He looked at you, uncertain.

You offered your hand. "Come on. It’ll be fun."

He hesitated. Then, slowly, his hand met yours. It trembled slightly in your grip.

It was that day you first felt it. A little flutter in your chest came with holding his hand. A crush.

From then on, you watched him more closely. How he always sat in the back. How he flinched at loud noises. How his eyes lit up when a teacher asked a question about science, or outer space, or machines.

It was during a group project—the group being your entire class— that you realized how sharp he was.

You and your classmates were brainstorming ideas for a model bridge, and Bob sat at his desk and mumbled something about tensile strength and suspension systems.

Kate blinked. "How’d you know that?"

He shrugged. "It was in one of Ms. Brown’s books."

"Huh. That sounds smart. Let me write it down for the presentation," Alex said, scribbling it down. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bob smiled a small smile. "Sure thing."

And that smile stuck with you longer than it should have.

You enjoyed math's and sciences enough, but your favorite subjects were history and literature. The ones that ironically required a LOT of reading and writing. After your sister showed you a movie about a pair of journalists who uncover a major political conspiracy, you had your goals set on becoming a journalist. And for that, you'd have to ace the humanities.

One afternoon, you were hunched over your history book, researching for an assignment, frustrated nearly to tears. The letters wouldn’t sit still.

"Can I?" Someone asked softly. You looked up and saw Bob, taking a seat next to you, motioning toward the book.

You nodded, swallowing hard and handing it to him. Afraid that if you'd open your mouth, you'd might let out a sob.

He read aloud, voice low and steady. Something about the way he spoke made it all easier. You could’ve listened to him for hours.

You never told him how grateful you were. How safe you felt in that moment.

By the time you both turned sixteen, Bob had started to withdraw even more. You still waved in the halls. Sometimes he waved back, sometimes he didn’t. He was absent more often than not. But somehow, his name always showed up on the academic distinction list that was plastered on the wall at the end of each term.

The crush still lingered, quiet and patient.

He didn’t come to graduation.

And you wouldn’t see him again for a long, long time.

You were twenty-two now.

The surprise press conference was in full swing. Cameras flashed as Valentina stood at the podium, parading the new Avengers. The memory of the recent disaster still lingered in the air.

You’d been on the opposite end of New York during the Void attack, but the moment authorities announced it was safe to return, you were assigned to cover the story. So you rushed to the scene with your press badge and your crew.

You were just an intern at The Post, clutching your phone as you tried to keep up, typing every word Valentina said with great effort. Your brows knit in concentration. This could be your big story. You didn't want to mess it up.

You looked up off your screen to take a brief look at the new Avengers.

Then your eyes caught on him.

One of the team members was clapping awkwardly with the crowd, standing a little behind the others like he didn’t quite belong.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Oh my God.

"What is it?" Your co-worker, Anthony, asked while snapping pictures with his professional camera.

"Uhm, nothing. I'm just excited about the story." You mumbled, your eyes glued to Bob.

He’d changed.

He used to hunch over like he was trying to disappear into a desk. Now he stood tall—broad-shouldered, navy sweater tight across his chest. His curly brown hair was longer and messier, but it still fell into his blue eyes when he looked down.

But his smile—shy, unsure—was exactly like you remembered.

Your old classmate, Bob. Your first crush... was an Avenger. A superhero!

After the conference, you circled the venue until you found him, chatting with the Avengers. You made your way over.

Only to be stopped by a stone-faced agent.

"Stand back," he said flatly.

"Right. Sorry." You lifted your badge. "I’m with The Washington Post."

He gave you a once-over. "Interns don’t get access to the Avengers."

The comment was meant as a dig, but it didn't work. By now, you were used to being overlooked and underestimated. And you knew you could deal with it with sass when the time was right. You raised a brow and offered a charming smile. "You’re gonna regret that when I’m head writer someday."

He snorted. "Come back when that happens."

"Come on," you said, trying not to sound desperate. "I just want one statement from the team."

"No—"

"I give statement to nice young lady," came a booming voice behind him.

You turned to see the Red Guardian looming like a wall of muscle, casting a long shadow over the both of you.

"We have orders—" the agent began.

"Davai, Shoo, little man. I get brand deal now," Alexei said, swatting him away like a fly.

You blinked, feeling starstruck. "You're the Red Guardian. From the Soviet Union."

"I am him, yes." He grinned a bearded, gold-toothed grin. "Washington Post, you said, da? I enjoy watching senators play... what you call... football. Ridiculous game. The name makes no sense. It's called football, but they hold it in their hands—ne vazhno. it's very violent. Entertaining."

You read a lot about him in your history of the Cold War 101, a required course in your journalism program. Alexei was truly a fascinating figure, a warrior. A spy. A soldier. A human experiemnt. There was so much about him still unknown to the public, and let's face it, probably to himself too.

And he stood in front of you in the flesh.

"Uhhh..." Before you could say more, a quiet voice spoke up.

"Y/n?"

Bob had stepped beside Alexei, eyes wide with recognition. Your heart skipped. His voice was deeper now, steadier.

You smiled, a little breathless. "You remember me?"

He nodded, warm and surprised. "Of course I remember you." His gaze roamed down your body, and a pink coloring appeared on his cheek. He'd changed since you were kids, and so had you.

Recovering, he turned to the others, gesturing to you. "Guys… this is a friend from back home."

They all gave you the once-over, some more skeptical than others. You offered a sheepish smile and wave.

Bob glanced at your badge. His brows lifted. "You’re with The Post? That’s amazing!"

There was genuine pride in his voice.

You smiled back, feeling something catch in your throat. "Well… interning for now. But yeah. It’s a real dream come true." You hesitated, then added, "And you’re an Avenger!"

According to Valentina, he was one of the strongest beings alive, too.

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You probably don’t remember me that well. I mostly—"

"I remember you, Bob."

He blinked. Swallowed. Opened his mouth—and couldn’t find the words.

The agent came back, signaling to you to wrap things up.

You cleared your throat and lifted your recorder. "Sentry, can I get a statement on this exciting new team-up?"

Bob opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything. He did this a couple of times.

Beside him, John Walker elbowed him. "Say something before you embarrass yourself."

Bob coughed. "C-can I see you again?"

Walker winced, shaking his head. Alexei let out a deep chuckle, rubbing his belly as he looked between you and Bob.

You froze, lowering the recorder. Then let out a small, surprised laugh.

"I mean, we don’t have to—" Bob backtracked.

"How’s next Monday?" You cut in.

His eyes lit up. "I’d… I’d like that."

You tore a page from your notebook and scribbled your number. When you handed it to him, he looked at it like it was something rare.

"I do not like her," Yelena muttered, pacing the lounge.

Ava rolled her eyes from where she was sprawled on the couch. "What now?"

"Too pretty."

"I know," Bob mumbled sat in a chair, eyes on the floor. "Why would someone like her want to be with someone like me?"

Walker chuckled, chips halfway to his mouth from the bowl he held in his hand. "Nice going, Yelena."

"What?! No—," Yelena exclaimed, then turned to Bob. "I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?"

"You can’t protect Bobby from everything, docha," Alexei said with a shrug, stretching out over the other leather sofa. "Even heartbreak is part of every mans journey."

Bob frowned. "Heartbreak...?"

"Oh my God," Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. "Can you all shut up? They haven’t even gone on one date yet."

He clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder. "Relax, son. It’ll be okay. Not that im, uh... the poster child for romance, but she doesn't seem like the kind to break your heart."

"Plus, you're an Avenger now." Walker piped up. "Show it off... act like it. If you get what I'm saying."

That gave him reassurance. And enough courage to text you that evening and invite you over.

New tech filled the lab at Stark Tower. Bob was tucked into the far corner, flipping through the worn, half-burned files from Valentina’s vault.

Equations lined the whiteboard in his handwriting. On the table beside him lay pages from Tony Stark’s notebooks, dog-eared and annotated with scribbled notes. Every so often, he muttered to himself, tapping a finger on a page.

"Hydrogen density ratios don’t match…" he murmured, then sighed. "Unless the pressure chamber’s offset by six degrees…"

You smiled at the door. Sentry—the mighty Avenger—looked like a very tired, very nerdy engineering student.

You cleared your throat.

He looked up, startled, then grinned sheepishly. "Oh. Hey. Sorry, I was just… working on something for the team."

"It’s okay. Your friend Walker let me in." You stepped closer, glancing over the papers. "Anything interesting?"

"Sam’s flight suit overheats at high altitudes. I thought Stark’s insulation algorithm might be adaptable."

You nodded slowly. "Wow. That sounded really smart. I wish I understood half of it." You chuckled.

"I can explain it to you," he offered, shrugging. "If… that’s something you want to hear."

"Yeah. Definitely." You bit your lip. "Maybe over pizza, though?" You raised your brow in emphasis.

His eyes lit up as he remembered your date. He shoved away at the papers.

"I didn't forget." He rushed out. "I just got carried—"

You let out a soft chuckle. "Its fine, Bob. You don't have to apologize."

His shoulders dropped with a sigh of relief.

You licked tomato sauce off your fingers. "So, you’re solving cooling issues while the Red Guardian is learning how to post on Instagram?"

"He is?" Bob asked before taking a bite of his peperoni and mushroom slice.

You held out your phone. "He’s live right now. Doing a Q&A."

Bob raised a brow. "Wow. Twenty thousand viewers?"

"They mostly ask him about his workout regimen."

He snorted.

The two of you walked side by side down a quiet Midtown street, the city’s hum distant behind you. Hands jammed into his jeans pockets, he nudged a pebble with the toe of his sneaker now and then. No godly aura. Just… a guy.

You laughed softly as you reached your building. "You’re still the same, you know."

Bob looked down. "I don’t feel the same."

You watched him—how his jaw flexed when he was deep in thought, how his brow furrowed like it always had. "You are. Just taller."

At the door, you turned your key. "Thanks for walking me home."

"Anytime." He lingered, hands still in his pockets. "Can I see you again?"

"I’m heading to D.C. next week for a press conference," you said, before joking. "Wanna fly down to meet me, Sentry?"

He smiled. "I might stop by if I’m in the area." Then he leaned in and kissed your cheek before wishing you a good night.

A knock came from your hotel window.

Sunset spilled across the National Mall in orange, blue, and soft pink. Stepping away from your papers and notes you've collected from the day, you walked over, heart skipping as you spotted him hovering over the balcony, wind in his hair, a shy grin on his face.

You threw open the window. "Oh my god!"

"How was work?" he asked.

Shaking your head, you laughed. "This isn’t real."

"I want to show you something." He held out his hand.

"…Are you serious?"

"Trust me."

You hesitated, then pulled on a jacket and boots before coming back and placing your hand in his.

"If you drop me—"

"I won’t."

With a gust of air, you lifted into the sky, wrapped in his hold. The city dropped away beneath you, a sea of lights and honking horns. Your stomach tensed as your hands gripped his shoulders.

"Don’t let go!"

He laughed above you, the sound vibrating agains your ear, and tightened his hold.

"I won’t, I promise." he said quietly.

He brought you to a rooftop that overlooked the Potomac, the city was wide and glittering in the distance. Wind woodshed around as Bob touched down, setting you down gently.

You whispered. "This is… amazing."

By a rusted AC unit, a picnic blanket was laid out with a paper bag and two bottles of Coke.

"Did you do this?" you asked, sitting beside him, knees brushing.

"Do you like it?"

You peeked into the bag and gasped. "Burgers? This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to anyone!"

You took a bite of your burger and moaned. “God, this is good. All i had to eat today was a croissant for breakfast." You turned to him. "You really are a superhero."

He chuckled.

"Im not kidding." You insisted.

"What can I say? I’m setting the bar high."

His smile faltered as he turned and looked out at the horizon. "Still doesn’t feel real."

You wiped around your mouth, lowering the burger in your hand. "Must’ve been a massive adjustment, huh?"

"Sometimes, when everyone’s asleep, I just sit there… waiting to wake up. Like this is a dream."

You blinked, unsure what to say.

"You remember everything now?" You asked.

He nodded. "Bits. Enough. Mostly the bad parts."

You placed a hand on his. "Wanna to talk about it?"

"I should." He hesitated. "My therapist says it’s healthy. But maybe not right now."

You nodded. "Whenever youre ready."

He glanced at you. "I was wondering… when we were kids, how did you handle your dyslexia?"

You leaned back on your palms. "It was hard. People often thought I was lazy. Until I finally went to a school that recognized what having a learning disability means."

His jaw tensed. "Thats not fair. Im sorry."

"It's not so bad." You shrugged with an easy-going smile. "I got creative. Audiobooks helped a lot. Or people reading to me. Like you used to."

He looked at you, something tender in his eyes.

You asked gently, "Where did you disappear to after high school?"

His gaze drifted. "Nowhere good. I tried to… change. To fix myself. But Sentry—he wasnt a good solution. I couldn’t stop the—"

He stopped talking when he realized he was about to say "void" and possibly reveal his dangerous alter ego to you. He wasn't sure how you would react.

"I couldn’t stop the bad times. Until the guys helped me claw my way out."

"Its good you have them," you said softly. "And that you’re here."

He finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy, filled with something wounded and ancient.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess it is."

The two of you sat like that. Talking and watching the city light up the night.

After he flew you gently back to your balcony, Bob touched down with barely a sound, the soles of his sneakers brushing against the floor. The wind tugged at his hoodie, making his hair tousled from the flight.

He stepped back, motioning for you to go inside. But you lingered in the doorway.

"Thanks for tonight," you said, your voice low, carried barely above the breeze.

He smiled, looking down at his shoes. "Anytime."

You hesitated.

Then stepped toward him.

Before he could say another word, you leaned up and kissed him softly.

He froze for a second. His breath caught, sharp and startled.

You wondered if it was a good surprise or a bad one.

But before you could pull away, his hand lifted, finding the small of your back, pulling you gently but firmly closer.

His fingers rose to your jaw, warm against the curve of your neck. His lips softened into yours, gradually going deeper, more certain.

You gasped softly against his mouth as his his thumb traced the edge of your cheekbone. The scent of him, laundry detergent and wind, filled your senses. Your hands found his chest, feeling the muscles and ribs underneath his hoodie.

His hand shot out, bracing against the wall beside your head with a solid thud, his body crowding yours back into the doorway. Your blood roared in your ears.

And then you heard a crack.

You pulled back slightly, breathless. "What was that?"

He glanced at his hand, still pressed to the wall… or rather, into the wall.

A small hand shaped hole had formed beneath his palm—brick flaked and splintered, dust crumbling down.

Bob blinked. "…Shit."

You burst out laughing.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. Smooth. Way to go, Bob."

"You dented my wall!" you exclaimed, but you were still laughing.

"Yeah, well, you kissed me!"

You stared at each other. Then you were both laughing.

You grinned. "Goodnight, Bob."

He stepped back, hovering just off the balcony, the night air catching the hem of his hoodie like wings. His eyes never left yours.

"Goodnight, y/n" he said, voice low and happy.

And then he rose into the sky.

Bob came back to Avengers tower at around two in the morning.

"Where have you been?!" Yelena ran to him in a range, then pulled him into a hug. "Don't just walk off like that without telling us where you're going!"

Bucky leaned against the wall behind her, his face a mixture of disinterest and worry. "She's right. You could have been hurt."

Bob wanted to laugh, he felt like a kid being lectured by his parents, but in a good way. He's never experienced that before.

"Did everyone forget the part where I'm invincible and have superstrength?" Bob patted Yelena on the back as she hugged him, muttering angrily that if she had to tie him to herself, again, she'll do it.

"Yeah, and what about your other version of pops by to say hello again?" Ava walked up to the living room with her hands folded.

His smile dropped. Ava was right. He slowly relearned to control Sentry's powers, but he never learned to control the Void. Hell, he barely understood what the Void even was, and thanks to Valentina, any scientist who may be able to clear that up was dead.

He didn't feel the void resurface as much since becoming an avenger. Even forgetting about him—especially since things were going so well with you.

"Ah, relax and let the kid have some fun, would ya?" Walker strolled out of the kitchen in bunny slippers and civilian clothing, his presence a welcome disruption of the tension. "You did have fun, didn't you, Bobby?"

Bob nodded eagerly, then slowed his movement when he saw Yelena's narrowed eyes. Now was probably not a good time to mention the fact that he got so excited from your kiss that he broke a brick wall with his hand.

"You be careful of pretty girls." She pointed a finger at him, then turned towards the hallway. "Hooligan, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

Sentry’s face was mashed against your chest, his nose and mouth buried so deeply into you that it looked like he was trying to suffocate himself in you. His eyes were closed, lashes brushing faintly against the thin fabric of your shirt like he was experiencing REM sleep, but the careful rhythm of his breathing gave him away that he wasn’t really asleep. Each inhale was too purposeful, dragging in the sweetness of you, savouring it in his lungs, while each exhale came hot and heavy against your sternum, pooling warmth into your skin like he was trying to mark you with the air.

To him, you always smelled like summer–sweet and ripe, like a field of berries warmed under sunlight, with the faint freshness of the leaves that surrounded them. It clung to you no matter what you did, whether you had just returned from a mission or slipped out of the shower. The scent was always there, lodged in his senses, something that never truly faded from his mind. And right now, with his nose pressed tight into you, he was drowning in it, consuming every breath like he would starve if he didn’t.

Your calves curled tighter around him, legs bracketing his torso, holding him down as though you had been carved into the perfect mattress just for his body alone. You hand moved through his soft, light-brown hair, twirling the strands until they curled into loose ringlets before smoothing them loose again. Then, with deliberate care, you gripped gently at the roots, kneading into his scalp. Your nails grazed the crown of his head, dragging over the most sensitive spot you had long since mapped. He exhaled on cue, his breath synching with the motion of your hand, as though his body itself attuned to you and the affection you gave him.

The vibration that rolled through his chest resonated into yours–low and steady almost like a purr. And with it, the air around the both of you shifted. The pen on the coffee table rose lazily, hovering an inch before clattering back down when your hand stilled. The corner of the blanket lifted, as if tugged by an unseen wind, before falling flat again. Even Walker’s half-empty glass in the kitchen drifted faintly before setting back down with a sharp clink on the counter. The world bent subtly with every pass of your finger through his hair and over his back, and only righted itself when you paused.

This was his ritual when he surfaced, and the team knew it well by now, but witnessing it was always a sight to behold. Sentry was a god who could obliterate the Avengers, and sit on the surface of the sun without obtaining a single burn, but he was always reduced to this–curling into you, smothering himself against your chest, desperate for your touch like it was the only thing that kept him tethered to the surface. You had explained–more than once–that your heartbeat grounded him, that your warmth and touch neutralized the chaos inside him, and steadied him when nothing else could. But the others never really listened. They saw only the softness. The submission of a God to his mortal lover, seeking safe haven within your skin.

Regardless of what they saw though, they knew not to test him. Because when Sentry was present, he was possessive. Always attached. Always trailing after you like a golden shadow, taking hand squeezes and forehead kisses as if they were his only source of oxygen. God forbid anyone dared ask something of you while he was around, because even if you agreed, he would bristle instantly, pointing out how others could take the task instead, and demanding repayment for the lost time in some way. It hadn’t taken long for the team to learn that it was better to let him have you uninterrupted than risk what might happen otherwise.

Now, he shoved his arms under your back, hauling you closer, pressing his nose harder into your sternum until a dull ache spread through your chest. He whispered something there, muffled against your shirt, something you couldn’t make out as his hot breath seared through the fabric.

”Sen…Baby…” You cooed breathlessly, stroking your hand down his back in tandem with the rhythm of your nails dragging though his hair, “Take it easy…I’m not going anywhere.”

”Want you closer though…” He grumbled, his voice vibrating into your chest, a sound both petulant and needy.

You parted your lips to answer him, but Walker’s voice cut across the room like a blunt blade.

”How about you two go to your bedroom if you wanna get closer? You’re hogging the main couch, and it’s getting really annoying,” He said, strolling out of the kitchen with a bowl of chips, crunching loudly, oblivious–or maybe deliberately baiting for a reaction. You shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood, shaking your head in warning, but Sentry was already moving.

His head lifted from your chest, golden eyes snapping open. The light inside them blazed, molten and alive, embers of orange and gold swirling until they lit the entire room in their glow. His voice followed, booming, the sound thrumming deep through the floorboards.

”You know what, Walker? How about you shove–“

”Hey.” You interrupted.

Your clammy palm caught his cheek before he could finish, and his face turned back toward you, his voice choking off instantly. His chest heaved, the storm in his gaze flickering brightly, then dimming as you brought the other hand up to cradle his cheeks between your hands, cupping his face like you’d caught the sun itself and bent it to your will. He closed his eyes tightly, releasing a heavy huff of air, his body sagging into your touch.

”Sentry. He’s right…We should go to our room. It’ll be easier to get closer there, and we’ll have privacy. No one will bother us. Right guys?” You asked, your voice steady and stern, casting a glare over your shoulder at the onlookers who had varying levels of surprise on their faces. Yelena and Bucky nodded quickly at you, muttering ‘yeah’ in overlapping tones, and Walker grunted something through a mouthful of chips, but didn’t press further.

When you looked back at Sentry, his head was bowed, and the blaze of gold shuttered as though ashamed. He sighed, the sound being dragged from his chest reluctantly.

”Okay…” He murmured at last, voice soft, acquiescent.

He reluctantly pulled himself from you, the warmth bleeding from your skin where he had pressed. But before you could rise to follow him, he scooped you up in one fluid motion. You wrapped your arms around his neck instinctively, your legs winding around his waist.

As he carried you down the hall, you rested your chin on his shoulder, glancing at the others. You mouthed ‘sorry,’ and they nodded silently, shrinking from view as Sentry’s steady steps took you further away from them.

Being carried by him always felt strange: weightless, dizzying, like the plummet of a rollercoaster where gravity gave out for just a second. Your stomach would swoop, and your body tingled with numbness, but you had grown used to it. You chalked it up to the world rearranging itself again–because when he held you, it seemed as though even gravity bent with the both of you.

He nudged the bedroom door open with his shoulder and slipped inside, kicking it shut behind him with the heel of his foot. It only took him a few seconds to make it to your shared bed, laying you down only for him to immediately follow, sprawling sideways across the bed until you seamlessly shifted back into the same position you were in when you were on the couch, limbs tangling together like you had never left.

A ragged sigh spilled from him, heavy with relief, as he shifted, sliding his arms beneath your shirt, his palms spreading wide as they traced the line of your spine. His fingertips catching the smooth skin, feeling the beauty marks that were scattered over. He shoved his face back against your chest, lips brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric as he murmured:

“I think for once…Walker was actually right.” You stroked his hair, wrapping your arms around his neck.

”And you were going to explode on him,” You whispered. He huffed a small laugh, his breath hot against the fabric near his mouth.

”I only did that because I felt like we were being judged…You know I wasn’t going to harm him.” He stated softly.

”That’s not what your eyes were telling me,” You murmured, brushing your nose against the crown of his head, breathing in the faint scent of his peppermint shampoo. His hair tickled the bridge of your nose as you pressed closer. He shifted against you, fingertips trailing lazy circles up and down the length of your back, each delicate pass raising a new shiver, coaxing goosebumps in its wake.

“That was just an intimidation tactic.” His tone tried for lightness, brushing it off, but the edge of guilt softened the sound. You pulled back slightly, just enough so that his gaze found yours in the dim room. His eyes burned faintly with their molten orange-gold light, reflecting your face like a flame caught in a darkened window, as the glow softened when his features turned vulnerable.

”You’re not an animal, Sentry,” You whispered, your hand sliding up to curl against the strong line of his jaw, your thumb brushing beneath his eye, where the embers flickered brightest, shimmering as though your touch stirred them, “You’re a god. They already tiptoe around you as it is…You don’t have to intimate them more. I want them to see this side of you–the gentle side. The side that loves me. Not the one that tries to play tug-of-war with them because they asked me to leave you for a second and you didn’t like it.” His lashes fluttered closed at your words, his head tilting instinctively into your palm. His cheek pressed harder into your touch, nuzzling as if trying to melt into your skin.

“…I know,” He admitted quietly, his voice reverberating against your palm. “And I’m sorry that I haven’t been…Nice to them. They mean a lot to you. They should mean a lot to me too.” Your chest softened. You leaned forward until your forehead pressed against his, your lips brushing against his nose in a fleeting kiss.

“You don’t have to apologize, Sen. I just want everyone to get along.” His eyes opened at that, molten and earnest, his breath spilling hot across your lips.

“I’ll try my best to refrain from causing any more trouble… and I’ll right my wrongs.” The vow vibrated in the air, steady as a promise carved into stone. You smiled against his cheek, rubbing your palm softly along his skin. He drew in a deep breath, chest pressing closer to yours, and then whispered, almost pleading: “But for now…Can we just focus on this?”

His hands pressed more firmly to your bare back, pulling you flush against him. Your body slid against his broad chest, warmth sealing you both together like a second skin.

“Okay,” You breathed, and closed the distance.

Your lips brushed his with a gentleness that made him shiver–sweet, slow, and coaxing. His mouth was soft and trembling at first, pliant beneath yours. The kiss tasted faintly of wintergreen toothpaste and you, the mixture dizzying in its simplicity. But then his restraint faltered. He leaned into you, lips parting, catching your lower lip with the faintest pull of his teeth. Heat poured between you in an instant, deepening until you gasped softly into his mouth.

A sound rumbled out of him–half moan, half growl–spurred by your response. His hand slipped from your spine, gliding around to your front, his palm flattening over your breast with a reverence that made your body ache. He squeezed gently, thumb brushing over your nipple, teasing the sensitive bud until it hardened and your lips parted with a little sigh.

The sound spurred him. He kissed you harder, deeper, his tongue sliding past your lips to tangle with yours in a hot, messy rhythm. Your fingers slipped from his cheek, curling your arm around his shoulders, dragging him closer. Every scrape of your nails into the fabric of his sweater, every tug closer, pulled a deeper groan from him.

His hips shifted, tilting upward until the semi-hard ridge of his cock pressed against the buttery-soft fabric of your shorts–right on the heated center of your core. The contact sent a rush of warmth spiralling through you, settling deep in your stomach.

“Do you still want to be close to me?” He asked hoarsely, pulling back just far enough to ghost his lips over yours, his tongue darting out to flick teasingly at your bottom lip. His hand continued its slow massage of your breast, squeezing the soft tissue, his thumb circling your nipple again until your back arched into his touch.

“Of course I do,” You whispered breathlessly, pressing your mouth back to his in a kiss that was softer and unhurried. You took control of the pace, drawing him in with each deliberate press of your lips, every tilt of your head pulling him deeper, making him chase the pressure a little bit without rushing.

Your arm wound tighter around his shoulders, anchoring him closer, making sure that every ounce of your body displayed the truth of your words to him. His fingers dug into the small of your back, returning the favour, his palm at your breast kneading a little rougher now, just enough to make you gasp against his lips before you pulled away, pressing your foreheads together again, your mouths hovering in the shared warmth of your breaths.

”I know how we can get even closer,” You teased, voice low, almost a purr, feeling him let out a shaky breath.

Your free hand slid down the front of his sweater, savouring the smoothness of the fabric over the hard ridges of his abs, until you reached the waistband of his sweatpants. Your fingertips lingered right at the edge of it, teasing lightly, tugging at the untied strings that dangled there. You felt the hitch in his breath, the shiver that trembled through him, before his golden eyes met yours again, glowing brighter, swirling and boiling with need.

“Want me to show you?” You asked, as your thumb traced along the inside of his waistband. His eyes flared again, and he nodded quickly.

”Please.” He replied hoarsely.

Your lips curled in a knowing smile, and you slid your other hand down to join the first, tugging at the waistband with deliberate slowness. He got the message instantly, separating from you just enough to shove them off, the fabric whispering over his thighs. At the same time, you hooked your thumbs beneath your shorts, easing them down your legs along with your panties until you were bare to him.

He froze when he realized, chest rising and falling hard, eyes locked hungrily on you. In answer, he peeled his boxer briefs down in one quick movement, tossing them aside before sinking back down onto his side, and facing you again. You mirrored each other like reflections, heat radiating in the narrow stretch of air between your bodies.

“Touch me…” You whispered, shifting closer, hooking your leg over the hard plane of his thigh, feeling your skin burning where it met his. “And I’ll do the same to you.” The sharp breath he drew made his whole chest quake.

“Fuck… Y/N…” His voice cracked as he dragged his hand down your stomach, hovering just above your mound. “You’re going to drive me crazy.” His fingers trembled for a heartbeat before he spit onto them, wetting the pads, and slid his hand down to part your folds. At the same time, you leaned in, licking your palm slowly before reaching down to cup him. His cock twitched instantly at your touch, heavy and semi-hard, swelling and thickening as your fingers wrapped around the shaft. He gasped, golden eyes fluttering closed, forehead falling against yours.

“Oh God…” Your mouths found each other, lips colliding in a hot, greedy kiss. Tongues brushed, teeth caught, and every sound you made fed him like oxygen. As your hand stroked his length, he groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. His thumb pressed against your clit, slow circles that made your thighs tighten around him, your wrist faltering in its rhythm as your body shook.

Your breath hitched when he slid two fingers lower, dipping carefully into your entrance. He groaned at the heat of you, at the way you clenched eagerly around the intrusion. He curled his fingers up, stroking along that spongy spot deep inside you with exquisite precision.

“Y/N…” He whispered against your lips, pulling away just enough for his words to brush warmly across your mouth. “You feel so good. You’re so wet for me…Fuck, you’re perfect.” Your own pace on him faltered as his fingers moved faster, curling and dragging until your stomach tightened and your hips rolled desperately against his hand. He leaned down to your throat, kissing, then nipping, then sucking marks into your skin. Each bruise he left made you gasp, your grip on his cock tightening as you stroked him faster.

“You’re mine,” He moaned hoarsely against your neck, curling his fingers hard enough to make your whole body jolt. “Always mine. Let me feel you, baby. Let me take care of you.” The heat coiled tight in your core until it snapped, your release spilling over his hand as you moaned out his name, body quaking in his arms. He slowed, coaxing you through it, rubbing gently as you shuddered.

When your body finally eased, you caught his wrist, bringing his fingers to your lips–but he beat you to it, lifting them himself. His eyes didn’t leave yours as he licked your release from his skin, groaning at the taste.

”I want you inside me…” You stated, your voice still shaking from the high, and his eyes widened slightly. You pressed yourself closer to him, brushing your nose along his. “But I don’t want you to move. I just want you to stay still. I just want to be filled with you, Sentry.”

For a moment, his entire body stilled. Then he nodded slowly, reverently, voice breaking on the single word: “Okay.”

You reached down, wrapping your hand around the thick base of his cock. He was hard now, flushed and leaking, and you teased the head along your folds, smearing his pre-come against your entrance. He groaned raggedly, his arm sliding firmly around your back, pulling you tighter against his chest as if to brace himself.

With a slow breath, you guided him in. The stretch made you gasp, your body yielding inch by inch to his sheer size. He buried his face into your neck, groaning brokenly as you sank down onto him, inch after inch, until he was fully seated inside you.

You let out a satisfied hum, locking your leg around his hip to keep him flush with you. He could feel your walls pulsing and fluttering around him, every squeeze dragging another groan from his chest. His cock pressed deep, the tip nudging your cervix, filling you completely.

“…You feel so warm inside me like this,” You whispered, your lips brushing his ear. He hummed low, his mouth trailing kisses along your throat.

“Fucking love it,” He murmured, his words ragged, broken with pleasure. “Can feel everything adjusting to me…Every flutter, every pulse…It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” You kissed him, soft and lingering, drinking in the molten glow in his eyes when he pulled back.

“How long can we stay like this?” He asked, desperation bleeding into his tone. You smirked, brushing your thumb across his jaw.

”All night…If we keep you stimulated.” He let out a raged, guttural groan, his forehead bumping against yours.

“Please. Please, I want to stay with you wrapped around me. We need to make it happen. I want to wake up with you squeezing me. I want to spend every moment inside you.” Your smile softened, full of promise, and you kissed him again, sweet and deep.

It hugged your body in a way that felt like it had been stitched to your bones. Every curve, every flex of muscle or turn of your hips, were molded in and accounted for. But that was the point. You had not wanted the standard issue, not something baggy or ill-fitting like the first uniform Val had handed to you. You needed something that moved with you–fluid, breathable, built for speed, agility, and presence.

So months ago, you made your requests. Extra flex panels along the knees and lower back to allow for high-impact landings and aerial flips. Reinforced utility belt loops that wouldn’t dig into your waist. An inner lining that wouldn’t stick to your skin when the heat kicked up. A zipper that was functional and secure–because you weren’t about to flash half the world during a press conference again.

And then, the colors.

You remembered standing in front of the mirror when it was first delivered, twisting to the side and letting your eyes trail down the yellow-gold piping along your hips and thighs. It felt like it was made for you–less like armor, more like a second skin. Powerful. Unapologetically you, and it was mixed with a hint of your mission partner in there as well, which made things even more meaningful for you at least. Sentry was head over heels for the little details you put into it, that was for sure.

The public also loved it, and that was one of the main reasons why you were pulling it out for tomorrow’s event.

Val had scheduled the meet-and-greet as part of a broader PR push, something to completely solidify the “Humanity of the team.” You had all been able to keep up good fronts with reporters, and with civilians thanks to a bunch of other events Val had created, and the public missions she sent all of you on to show the team off to the world, but she wanted to keep up the streak, so…The meet-and-greet idea was created, and everyone had to be on board, or else there would just be more PR stunts to do. You didn’t mind being able to interact with civilians though, it came with the territory,

You let out a quiet sigh, smoothing your palm over the fabric one last time before stepping back, only to freeze when the soft sound of the ensuite door creaked open behind you.

Steam curled into the bedroom as Sentry stepped out, his light brown hair damp and sticking to his temples. He was wearing nothing but a low-slung towel around his waist, his body glistening with a few stray water drops that trailed down his pale skin, slipping through the hard lines of his abs. He reached up to his mane of hair, fluffing it with one of your spare towels, scrubbing lazily as he crossed the room, making sure all the droplets of water were sopped. You gave him a small smile as he tossed the towel onto your bed and came up behind you, the head of his bare chest radiating against your back. He looked over your shoulder, his golden eyes tracing the uniform on the side table.

”You’re wearing that tomorrow?” Sentry asked, his voice low, his breath sticking to the nape of your neck. You tilted your head back and smirked up at him, catching the way a droplet of water clung to his temple before sliding down the sharp edge of his jaw.

”Yeah? Is there an issue?” Your tone was playful, but his eyes didn’t flicker, they just remained trained on the uniform with an intensity that made your stomach flutter.

“Can’t you wear the one that’s designed for your cold missions?” You blinked at him, eyebrows raising in disbelief.

”Sentry, it’s literally the middle of summer,” You started, dragging the words out with mock patience, “I’ll die of heatstroke…You’re lucky I’m not deciding to dress for the weather, because I’d be wearing those pretty cutoff shorts you like.” That earned you a groan–low, and guttural, one that vibrated through your back. His arms looped around your waist like a vice, pulling you snug against his chest as his hips pressed flush to your lower back.

”Those are for my eyes only,” He muttered. You hummed, tipping your head to the side as his lips found the crook of your neck, pressing a soft, burning hot kiss to the skin there.

“You sure you can’t wear…A Thunderbolts hoodie or something?” He added between his little ministrations, each one trailing up higher and higher, leaving little wet marks in their wake until he reached your earlobe where he gently nipped at it. You let out a soft little laugh, feeling his tongue poke out to wet the sensitive flesh there.

“We all agreed we’d be wearing our uniforms, remember?” You murmured, the smile evident in your voice, “And besides…You don’t see me complaining about the fact that you’re gonna be wearing your suit. You know–the one that literally clings to every muscle you have.” That earned a chuckle against your skin, but it was strained, like he was trying not to be swayed.

He shook his head, slow and stubborn, nuzzling the spot beneath your jaw as he said, “It’s not the same…”

You twisted in his arms, turning to face him fully. His arms loosened just enough to let you pivot, your palms finding their way to his broad, still-damp shoulders. You looked up at him, squinting as though solving a puzzle, the smirk never leaving your lips.

“Oh…I see,” You said slowly, your tone lilting with mock revelation. “You’re jealous that I’m going to be talking to a lot of men tomorrow.” His golden eyes narrowed, and he let out a sharp huff of air that hit your cheeks with just enough force to feel intentional.

“I’m not jealous,” He grumbled.

You arched a brow.

“I just feel like these people don’t respect our relationship well enough to know not to flirt with a God’s girlfriend,” He added, voice thick with restrained frustration, but there was something soft under the bite. Something like insecurity. Your expression softened, just slightly.

“You know I don’t see anyone else when you’re around, right? I only have eyes for you.” His glowing irises ran over you, brows furrowed, like he was scanning for any trace of doubt, which he found none of…Because he knew you truly meant every word of what you said, especially when it came to him.

His voice was quieter when he replied, “Doesn’t mean they won’t try.” You brushed your fingers through the ends of his damp hair, then down the curve of his neck, collecting little droplets of water and tracing them along his skin.

“Let them try,” You whispered, stepping in closer until there was no space left between you. “It just means I get to remind you that I’m yours when we get back home.” His hands tightened on your waist, possessive and reverent all at once, and he let out a long sigh–a sound laced with something deeper than exasperation. Something vulnerable. Then he dipped his head and kissed you, slow and purposeful, like he was trying to press every word he couldn’t say directly into your lips.

There was nothing rushed about it. Just heat, and devotion, and something unmistakably his–the way his mouth slanted over yours with this quiet gentleness, like you were something fragile. His fingers splayed against your lower back, anchoring you to him, as if he was afraid you might pull away.

But you didn’t.

You leaned in, melting into the kiss like it was gravity pulling you down–fingers curling into the damp ends of his hair, lips parting just slightly as you chased him when he finally pulled away.

“Fine… Fine…Wear the uniform…” He muttered, golden eyes still half-lidded with longing. You grinned against his mouth, your forehead brushing his as your hands smoothed up over his shoulders.

“I’ll make it worth your while…As long as you behave at the meet-and-greet though.” He immediately rolled his eyes, exaggerating the gesture tenfold.

”I make no promises.” You let out a little laugh, your hands sliding down to his chest–still damp and warm, and unfairly sculpted.

”I know you’ll try though.” You stated, and he nodded, leaning in again for another kiss.

—————————

Val had set up the meet-and-greet at City Hall with military-grade precision and the polished gleam of a publicist’s fever dream. The courtyard had been converted into a PR battleground–massive Thunderbolts banners hung from the stone columns, fluttering in the late afternoon breeze, while a press team buzzed around the perimeter like wasps in black polos and lanyards. Drones hovered discreetly overhead, capturing aerial shots of the event for the inevitable highlight reel that would air on every national news outlet by morning.

The signing table stretched in an imposing arc across the raised platform at the front of the steps. Covered in sleek, matte black cloth stitched with gold threading that shimmered like wire under the sun, it made all of you look like gods presiding over the mortals below. Each place setting had been arranged with meticulous care–team nameplates, thick marker sets, bottled electrolyte water, and individually labeled portfolios of fan art to flip through between signings.

You were seated near the center of the lineup–wedged tightly between Alexei and Yelena, which meant a steady stream of broken pens courtesy of Alexei and dried sarcasm from Yelena when she was called “Black Widow” instead of her actual name.

Sentry, of course, was stationed all the way at the far end of the table. Val had insisted on separating the two of you “to keep visual balance,” whatever that meant, and positioned him as the anchor of the lineup–last to sign, last to photograph, last to be remembered. It was strategic.

But it also meant he had a direct, uninterrupted view of you.

And he took full advantage of that.

From time to time, you’d glance down the line and find him watching–chin rested on his hand, fingers curled near his mouth, golden eyes fixed on you with a sort of calm intensity that felt like being watched by the sun. Other times, he looked away just before you caught him, only to turn back moments later, gaze sharp and unreadable.

Sometimes mothers passed their babies to you for photos, and you could feel the way his attention softened. The edges of his mouth lifted slightly as you cradled tiny hands, cooed at sleepy eyes, and smiled so brightly that he could’ve sworn he needed sunglasses. His expression in those moments was of absolute adoration–tender and affectionate, with something private blooming behind his eyes from how overwhelming it felt to see you in that position for what was less than a minute per interaction.

But then it would be tarnished by the others that brought on that death stare again.

The men who lingered a little too long.

The ones who complimented your smile but looked at your body like it was a piece of meat they were wanting to consume and steal.

You tried not to let it show that you were bothered or uncomfortable with the interactions, or that you were thinking about Sentry and how his patience was clearly being tested. You just kept your posture even, your voice polite, and your hands moving. But even when you did that you still felt the weight of Sentry’s gaze like a second skin each time. He stared hard at them when they reached his end of the table–brows low, jaw flexed, a stillness to his frame that made it feel like he was so close to getting up and snapping. Like one more sideways comment would be the last straw.

And for a while, he held it together. Barely.

Until one guy, tall and cocky with wraparound sunglasses and a paparazzi cap, leaned across the table with a smirk and said just loud enough to carry:

“Damn. That suit’s working overtime with that body of yours. You wear it just for the missions–or to drive the team crazy?” You paused–pen still in hand, smile frozen mid-motion–as the man’s words hung in the air like the aftermath of a bomb. Up until now, most comments had stayed on the safe side of flattery. Nothing you couldn’t brush off with a polite nod or a rehearsed laugh. But this…This was different. Too forward. Too deliberate. The way his eyes traveled down your body, lingering over the curve of your waist and the seams of your suit, made your stomach twist.

You didn’t have to look to know Sentry had heard it.

You felt it.

Like the sun behind you had suddenly sharpened, gone from warm to blistering. Heat prickled at your back–not from the weather, but from the quiet, simmering rage of a god holding himself in check.

Then, calmly–too calmly–he leaned forward in his chair and called, “Yelena.”

She glanced up, midway through signing a poster, and raised a single eyebrow in reply.

“Do you mind switching spots with me, please?” Sentry asked, his tone polite but dangerously low. Controlled, clipped, the kind of voice that sounded like it had to wade through molten fury just to get out. Yelena looked over at you, her eyes narrowing slightly like she was trying to gauge how bad this was about to get. Her expression said Is this going to be a lovers’ spat or a superhuman standoff?

You gave her a small nod and leaned in, whispering just loud enough for her to hear, “He’s not a happy camper with the ogling.”That made her snort, barely containing a laugh.

“No shit,” She muttered under her breath, rising smoothly from her chair. Behind her, Sentry’s jaw ticked when he heard your comment–but he said nothing, golden eyes glowing faintly as he rose and strode toward your side like a man on a mission.

You didn’t even try to hide your smile as he crossed behind the table, swapping places with Yelena in a silent exchange. His cape swept slightly behind him, catching in the breeze, and you caught the faintest glint of gold in the fabric’s threadwork as he dropped into the chair beside you with a subtle but definitive thud.

Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

“Can’t take a break from striking fear into people, can you?” He muttered with a smirk.

Walker, seated just beyond, let out a quiet laugh. “At least he’s consistent with it…” Sentry didn’t even glance at them. He just adjusted the clasp of his navy-blue cape, rested one forearm on the table, and fixed his gaze on the man still lingering in front of you like he hadn’t just made a complete ass of himself.

Your pen resumed its smooth glide across the photo in front of you, but your eyes slid to Sentry’s with a glint of amusement.

“You really are bad at pretending not to care,” You whispered.

He didn’t look at you–still watching the man as he collected his signed photo and finally, awkwardly, moved along.

“Not pretending,” Sentry said flatly. “I don’t care for people treating you like you’re something they get to comment on.” His hand slipped beneath the edge of the tablecloth to rest against your thigh. His palm curved along the muscle, fingers curling possessively as his thumb grazed slow circles against the thin, skintight material of your suit. It wasn’t obscene. It wasn’t even that overt. But it was intentional. A claim made without words. You inhaled a quiet breath through your nose as your thighs pressed together instinctively.

“Sentry,” You murmured from the corner of your mouth, keeping your face angled toward the next fan in line while your hand covered his beneath the table. “It seems like someone’s getting a little territorial.” He leaned in slightly, the scent of clean skin and heat rolling off him in waves, golden eyes flicking to yours just once before dropping to your lips.

“You’re my partner, Y/N,” He said quietly. “Sue me for wanting you all to myself. And for wanting people to treat you with respect.” You gave his hand another squeeze.

”First off,” You murmured, lips barely moving, “You already have me all to yourself.” His golden eyes flicked to yours again–sharp, luminous, and slightly narrowed as though daring you to keep talking. “And second,” You continued, brushing your thumb along his knuckles, “The majority of these people have been fine. A one-off comment shouldn’t make you blow a gasket.” He rolled his eyes, the movement subtle but still laced with exasperation as he tilted his head closer, angling toward you like gravity demanded it.

“It’s been a whole day of you being looked at,” He said under his breath, voice pitched low enough that it vibrated just against your skin. “And it wasn’t just that one comment, you know that.” You turned your head just enough to catch the muscle twitching in his jaw, the steady grip of his hand still firm on your thigh. Protective. Possessive. Warm. You smiled softly.

”Sen…You know I only have eyes for immortal men.” That made his lips twitch, just slightly. But his expression stayed guarded. “These guys?” You nodded your chin toward the dispersing line of civilians. “They’re just having little fantasies in their heads. And that’s all they’ll ever get. You can’t let them get to you. You know they don’t matter.” He stared at you a beat longer, like he needed to drink in the confirmation again for himself–searching your eyes for any trace of doubt. But there wasn’t any. There never was when it came to him.

“I know,” He finally muttered, exhaling slowly. “It’s just… Hard. Watching it all day. Knowing I can’t do anything.”

“You did do something,” You commented with a smile, voice barely above a breath. “You switched seats. Glared. Scared a grown man into silence. Very effective. Very on-brand.” That earned the faintest huff of a laugh from him, his hand relaxing slightly against your thigh as some of the tension bled out of his shoulders.

“Yeah, well…It’s not exactly the image Val’s going for when it comes to me,” He grumbled.

“Maybe not. But it’s the image I like.” You replied with a smirk, he lifted his brow.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm,” You murmured, shifting your knee to press against his beneath the table. “It’s kind of hot.”

His eyes glinted.

And for a second–just a second–you saw it: the pulse of gold flickering faintly along the edge of his pupils, like light filtering through liquid.

“Careful,” He warned, voice low and rough. “You say things like that and I might forget we’re still in public.” You smirked, letting your thumb drag just a little more deliberately across the back of his hand beneath the table, nails grazing the faint raised lines of his knuckles. Then you tilted your head, voice light but laced with provocation.

“Don’t provoke me,” You murmured sweetly. “I may start flirting back with these guys just to get you ramped up a little more.”

His head turned toward you, slowly.

Golden eyes locked onto yours, glowing just faintly in the sun-drenched shadow of the tented booth, and his expression went from smoldering to downright dangerous in a heartbeat.

“You’d be playing a very dangerous game,” He informed, brows rising in a show of mock civility that didn’t quite mask the tightly coiled tension in his jaw.

You shrugged, unbothered. Defiant.

“So?” You questioned, your voice dipped low and syrupy. “You already switched seats like a possessive boyfriend…Might as well make it worth your while.” His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his fingers tensed slightly on your thigh again–no longer just possessive, but practically daring.

“Don’t tempt me, Y/N,” He said, his voice a velvet threat. “Because if you do, I won’t be subtle about reminding everyone who you belong to.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” You whispered, chin tilted up now, smiling like you already knew the answer. Sentry leaned in–closer than before, his mouth barely a breath from your ear, his voice smooth as silk and hot as sunfire.

“It’s both,” He murmured. “And you know I always keep my promises.” You inhaled sharply, the words hitting a nerve that sent a slow burn curling down your spine. The next fan in line stepped forward, blissfully unaware of the searing tension beneath the table, and you plastered on your PR smile like nothing had happened.

But Sentry stayed close.

And his hand…Didn’t move.

Instead, it slid just a touch higher.

“You’re evil,” You said under your breath, biting the inside of your cheek as your hand gripped his wrist lightly to keep him in check. He chuckled low, bumping his temple against yours for the briefest second like he could pretend this wasn’t driving him just as crazy.

“You’re the one who poked the dragon, sweetheart,” he said, lifting your hand and brushing his lips over your knuckles in a gesture that looked chaste to onlookers…But was anything but innocent.

————————

The rest of the meet-and-greet went as well as it could, considering the tension bubbling beneath the surface.

A few more fans flirted–some subtle, others less so. One complimented the color scheme of your suit but clearly didn’t mean the suit. Another asked if they could get a picture “with arms around your waist,” and you had responded with a practiced smile and an evasive pivot, but not before glancing at Sentry just to see the way his jaw locked and his eyes went molten.

You might have leaned into it just a little.

Nothing overt. Nothing that would get you chewed out by Val later. But you let your smile linger longer. Let your laugh ring a touch sweeter. Let your hips stay cocked in that suit he hated and loved so much. Just to watch him seethe in that tightly reined, godly way he did when the rest of the world forgot that you were his.

By the time the event wrapped and the Thunderbolts were herded into the blacked-out SUVs waiting curbside, you could feel Sentry’s patience thinning like glass under a blowtorch.

When the team stepped into the Watchtower’s front atrium, still buzzing with post-event debrief chatter, you didn’t even hesitate.

You took one look at him, saw the rigid way he was holding himself, the faint flush high on his cheekbones, the sheer tension in the lines of his shoulders and arms–and you knew. If you so much as said one more teasing word, he’d snap.

So instead, you turned to the team with a sunny smile and said, “We’re gonna skip dinner. Bit of a headache. Goodnight, everyone!”

“Headache?” Yelena deadpanned, brow arching. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You didn’t even bother to answer. Just flashed her a grin, grabbed Sentry by the wrist, and pulled him down the hall toward your shared quarters. You didn’t look back, but you heard Bucky mutter, “They better reinforce the bed frame,” followed by Alexei’s hearty laugh and Walker’s amused, “Ten bucks says they don’t make it past the door.”

You reached your room with brisk steps, the door whooshing shut behind you like a final seal on your intentions. The moment it clicked into place, you turned–

Only to be pinned.

Sentry was on you before you could blink, hands flat against the wall on either side of your head, golden eyes burning down into yours.

“That was cruel,” He murmured, voice low, raw, and aching with the restraint he’d been holding onto all day. You tilted your chin up innocently, lips parted just slightly.

“What was?” You asked, he stepped in closer–his chest brushing yours, the heat from his body radiating through your uniform. His hand came up slowly, deliberately–fingertips brushing the edge of your jaw before sliding around the column of your throat. Not tight. Not forceful. Just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. To make you feel it. His thumb grazed beneath your ear, his golden eyes locked onto yours with a hunger that looked like it had been gnawing at him since the moment the event began.

“You know exactly what, Y/N…” He murmured, voice a molten thread of restraint and ache. “You were trying to make me jealous…You were trying to make me go crazy.” Your bottom lip slipped slowly between your teeth, biting down just enough to sting as your tongue darted out to wet it. The heat in your belly coiled tighter, rising fast under the weight of his touch, the rumble in his chest, the burning look in his eyes.

“Well…” You whispered, letting the word hang in the air between you like smoke, “judging by this reaction… I’d say I did make you jealous. And I did make you go crazy.” His hand squeezed–not hard, just enough to make your breath stutter, just enough to make your back arch ever so slightly off the wall as your thighs pressed together from the sudden jolt of pleasure that lit down your spine. The air felt thick with the electricity sparking between your bodies.

“You enjoy it,” He growled softly, head tilting as his mouth dipped closer to yours. “You get off on it, don’t you? You like when I get all possessive and jealous–so wound up I’m one second away from tearing your suit off in front of the whole team just to remind them who you belong to. Hmm?” You let out a breathy little giggle, unable to stop the smile curling up your lips. One hand slipped up to cradle the back of his neck, your fingertips threading into the still-damp curls at his nape.

“You already know the answer to that,” You whispered, voice dripping with heat and mischief. His thumb pressed gently against the pulse point beneath your jaw, feeling the fluttering beat that gave you away.

“Oh I do,” He started, dipping his head so that his lips brushed your ear and his hot breath could stick to your skin, “But I wanna hear you say it.” He added. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment as a shiver rippled through you, your heart hammering against your chest at the closeness.

“I love when you get jealous,” You admitted , your voice a breath against his cheek. “I love when you lose control over me. When you look at me like you’re going to devour me. When you remind me–” Your fingers tugged lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck, your tone dropping to a sultry murmur, “–just how much I belong to you.” A low, guttural hum rumbled deep in his ches–ta sound that vibrated against your sternum and sent heat lashing down your spine like a brand. His hand at your throat loosened, fingers dragging down in a slow glide until they settled at the curve of your waist. His other arm looped around behind you, drawing you in until the last sliver of space between you vanished and his mouth crashed into yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle, or patient, it was all teeth and heat and molten need that was barely held back by the thinnest thread of control. Sentry’s lips slanted over yours with bruising intent, tongue licking into your mouth like he was starving for the taste of you. He kissed like a man who waited years to devour you. Like every repressed thought, every jealous glance, every time he had clenched his fists under the table to keep from grabbing you…Was finally being unleashed.

You moaned into it, hands flying up to the clasps at his shoulders, fumbling only once before you unhooked the first one, then the second. His cape dropped to the floor with a soft thud, and before you could say a word, his hands were at the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he pinned you tighter to the wall for a breathless second–grinding just enough to make you shiver–before turning and striding across the room.

When he dropped you onto the mattress the bed creaked under the force of it, the squeak of the springs loud in the quiet room, but it was nothing compared to the heat rolling off him as he followed you down–hovering over you like a storm cloud about to burst.

His mouth found yours again in a frenzy–hot, breathless, feral. There was nothing neat about it this time. No restraint. No mercy. Just raw need and open mouths colliding, your lips parting with a gasp as his tongue slid back in, messier now, wetter. He licked into you like he couldn’t get enough, like he wanted to taste every word you’d moaned under your breath that day, to erase every look those men had thrown your way. His teeth caught your bottom lip–bit down just enough to sting–before sucking it between his own, pulling a groan from deep in your chest.

Saliva clung to both your mouths as he pulled back a fraction, his lips pink and swollen, panting against your cheek. And then he was speaking–whispering–but it wasn’t soft.

It was dirty. Rough. Desperate.

“You have no idea what you did to me today,” He growled, dragging the back of his hand down the length of your thigh as his other reached up–slow, deliberate–toward the zipper at the base of your throat. “Sitting there like a fucking goddess. Smiling. Laughing. Letting them stare.”

He tugged the zipper down with a zzzzrrip, slow and precise, his golden eyes locked on the line of skin he was revealing inch by inch. The suit parted down your sternum like a prayer answered in reverse, and he chased the trail with his mouth–pressing open, wet kisses along every patch of bare skin he exposed. His breath hitched at your collarbone. His tongue slid hot between the valley of your breasts. He nipped just beneath one with enough force to make you gasp.

“I should’ve ripped this fucking thing off you in the middle of the event,” he rasped, his lips dragging lower with every word. “Pinned you to that goddamn table. Let everyone see who you really belong to.”

Your back arched into his mouth, trembling, every nerve ending on fire beneath the wet heat of his tongue and the sharp little bites of his teeth.

“I saw the way you looked at me when they flirted. You wanted me to snap.”

“I did want it,” You breathed, your hands fisting in the bedsheets, voice a wrecked little whisper. “I wanted you to lose it. I wanted you to take it out on me.”

“Good,” He snarled against your ribs, the zipper finally stopping at your hips. He sat back on his knees, chest heaving, hands sliding under your shoulders to lift you just enough that he could peel the suit off–slow, punishing almost.

The fabric whispered off your skin as he dragged it down your arms, your waist, over your hips and thighs, baring inch after inch of skin to the fevered gleam in his eyes–until the suit was a puddle at your ankles.

And you were left in nothing but a black, lacy thong.

He froze.

His jaw clenched.

Then he let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head slowly, golden eyes blazing as they flicked from your hips to your chest to your face.

“That’s all you’ve been wearing under this all day?” He asked, voice husky with disbelief. Lust. You nodded, biting your lip–both teasing and breathless–as your hands reached up and around him, finding the zipper of his suit between his shoulder blades. You pulled it down slowly, the tight seams of his uniform parting beneath your fingers like melted wax.

“Of course I did,” You whispered, dragging your nails down the firm curve of his back as the zipper reached its end. “I wore them for you.”

That did something to him. His eyes squeezed shut like he was physically trying to control the heat rushing through him, his chest rising and falling with labored breath as his head dropped forward. A soft, incredulous sound left his throat–a dark, near-broken laugh.

“Such a cunning little thing,” He muttered, shaking his head slowly, golden strands brushing his cheek as he stared down at you with something feral glinting in his gaze. Something worshipful. Wrecked.

You let out a breathy laugh, feigning innocence even as your fingers toyed with the thick belt still cinched around his waist–the one that bore his insignia, solid and gleaming. With slow, deliberate hands, you unbuckled it. The metallic clink echoed in the quiet room as it fell to the floor with a weighty finality.

He didn’t wait.

He shrugged the rest of his suit off in one smooth, practiced motion–fabric peeling from his shoulders, down his waist, past his hips–until it joined the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor. All that remained were th black briefs that hugged his hips, stretched taut around his erection that was straining against the fabric.

Your breath caught, as it always did.

No matter how many times you’d seen him like this–stripped down, golden eyes dark with need, skin still bearing faint traces of starlight and storm–you never quite adjusted. He was unreal. A god through and through. Carved muscle and shimmering tension, pale skin peppered with freckles across his chest, his arms, the dips of his hips like constellations mapped only for you.

You reached up with a gentle hand, fingers trailing down the warm, solid plane of his chest. The ridges of his abs flexed beneath your touch, his body responding like a bowstring drawn tight as your palm splayed flat over his sternum.

“You’re so beautiful,” You murmured, voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

He leaned down, climbing back over you with a kind of slow, possessive gravity–his body draping yours, all heat and hunger and that impossible weight that came with him. You spread your thighs to cradle his hips, his warmth seeping into every inch of you.

Sentry pressed a kiss to your lips–quick, but full of tension, like he couldn’t afford to linger there too long. Then his mouth began to trail lower. Down your jaw. Over your neck. His tongue flicked at your pulse point before he sucked gently, leaving a faint mark that made your breath hitch.

And then he reached your chest.

His mouth found your breast like he’d been starving for it. His tongue curled around your nipple before his lips sealed over it, sucking slow and deep while his hand came up to cup the other. Your back arched off the bed, the sound that tore from your throat half gasp, half whimper.

“You’re mine,” He growled against your skin, his voice vibrating through your breast. “No one else gets to look at you like this…No one else gets to have you like this.”

You moaned his name, fingers gripping his hair as he dragged his mouth across your chest to lavish your other breast with the same type of care. Tongue flicking, sucking, biting just enough to make your thighs tense around his waist. You let out a soft whimper, the tension in your belly winding tighter with each second, coiling like a live wire as Sentry’s lips slid wetly down your sternum, over the dip of your stomach. He dragged his tongue deliberately across every scar you bore–each little raised line a testament to past battles, near-misses, and the stubbornness that had kept you breathing. And he worshipped every one of them like they were sacred.

His mouth pressed slow kisses to each mark, his tongue tracing the faded outlines with maddening precision. The slick warmth of it made you tremble, breath shallow, your fingers clutching the sheets beneath you.

When he reached the waistband of your underwear, he didn’t hesitate. He hooked his thumbs beneath the lace and yanked them down your thighs with a roughness that made you gasp. The fabric bunched in his fist, and for a second, he just stared at them–then brought them to his face, inhaling deep with a growl that was all hunger and ache and awe.

“Fuck…” He muttered, his golden eyes flashing molten. “Makes my fucking mouth water.” His voice was hoarse, his fingers flexing around the damp scrap of fabric. “You always smell so fucking good. Your body calls to me every second of the goddamn day. It makes me weak.”

And then he dropped to his knees.

A god–immortal, unstoppable–on his knees at the edge of the bed, arms curling under your thighs as he dragged you to him in one smooth motion. Your legs fell open without resistance, spread wide by the sheer force of him, your breath catching as cool air met heated skin.

He pressed a kiss to your knee first–tender and deceptively soft–before trailing more down your inner thigh, his breath hot, his mouth open. Every kiss got sloppier, more desperate. He bit, sucked, nipped, leaving wet, flushed marks in his wake. And then he looked up at you from between your legs, hair mussed and damp, his mouth shiny with spit, and said in a voice that sounded like sin incarnate:

“You know how much power you have over me?”

You blinked down at him, shaking your head slowly, lips parted, chest rising and falling with every breath you tried to catch.

A sharp smile curled his lips.

“You have brought a god to his knees just by spreading your legs…” His mouth hovered just above the apex of your thighs now, breath washing over you like fire. His eyes never left yours–glowing, starved. “You’re such a powerful fucking mortal…Fucking love it.” Your thighs twitched in his grip, muscles fluttering from how hard your body ached for him. And then finally he ducked his head, his mouth descending like a promise.

The first pass of his tongue over your folds was slow–too slow. A wet, languid drag from bottom to top, thick and deliberate, just to taste you. And fuck, the sound he made. It was guttural. Like he’d been starving for this and didn’t know how to pace himself. His grip on your thighs tightened as he moaned into your core, like the flavor of you was a drug that hit too fast and too hard.

“Goddamn…” He groaned, breath hot against your core. “You always taste like heaven and sin, wrapped in one filthy, perfect body.” His nose pressed into your mound as his tongue lapped at you again, a little faster now, messier, wetter–soaked with spit and slick. His jaw worked with a slow rhythm, but his eyes…His eyes were ravenous.

Only he got to look at you like this. Only he got to spread you wide and bury his face between your thighs like a man possessed.

“Mine,” He muttered against your folds, voice nearly slurred from the way he was devouring you. “Only I get to have this. This pussy…This perfect fucking pussy…Was made for me.” Your head tipped back against the sheets with a choked moan, hips jolting upward instinctively. His tongue circled your clit before flicking it fast, relentless, teasing it with firm little lashes that made your thighs twitch. You could barely catch your breath, not with the way he mouthed at you like a beast–no restraint, no pause, just need.

“Sentry–” Your voice cracked, trembling. Your hand flew to his hair, tangling tight in the still-damp strands as your other clutched at the sheets. He growled when you pulled him closer, the vibration sending a shockwave through your entire body.

“You like that?” He panted between licks. “You like riding my face like this? Grinding up into my tongue like a needy little thing that just wants my fingers?” You whimpered something between yes and more, but he was already giving it to you–already dragging two fingers up through your slick folds before plunging them deep inside with a wet, sinful squelch.

“Fuck–yes,” You gasped, back arching off the mattress as he curled them just right, pressing into that devastating spot that made your thighs shake. He groaned again, low and full, mouth working around your clit like he couldn’t get enough of the way you pulsed against his tongue. Every time you rocked your hips into his mouth, he met the motion with his own–tongue flicking faster, fingers fucking deeper.

“You feel that?” He growled, voice wrecked, hot breath sticky against your core. “Only I know this spot. Only I know how to make your whole fucking body tremble.” He angled his fingers just so, brushing your front wall with devastating precision. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna come all over my face like a good girl?” You were past speech–just panting, whimpering, grinding harder against his mouth, against his hand. Your body was thrumming like a live wire, strung tight, seconds from snapping. He felt it. He knew.

That’s when he brought his free hand up–sliding up your stomach, over the curve of your breast–and grabbed you. Full, possessive, thumb brushing your nipple with just enough pressure to make you cry out.

You slapped your hand over his, pressing it harder to your chest as your hips stuttered beneath him. He squeezed back, groaning into your core like the connection turned him feral.

“Oh fuck…Fuck Sentry…” you gasped, heels digging into the sheets as you tugged his hair with your other hand, dragging him closer, deeper.

“That’s it,” he hissed, mouth soaked with your slick. “Use me, baby. Ride my face. Show me how much this pussy needs me.”

You did. God, you did. Your hips rolled up into his mouth with frantic desperation, thighs trembling around his head as his tongue latched onto your clit again–this time fast, sloppy, flicking and flattening in dizzying rhythm.

The pressure snapped all at once.

You came with a cry, your whole body seizing as your orgasm crashed through you like a fucking freight train. Your hips bucked up into his face, grinding against his mouth as your core spasmed around his fingers, soaking him in waves. It was messy. Loud. Completely unrestrained.

And he took it all.

Groaned like a man starved and drank down every drop.

Your thighs quivered uncontrollably around his head as you whimpered, body twitching beneath the overstimulation. He didn’t stop–not at first. He licked you through it, riding the rhythm of your release like he was chasing his own high from the taste alone. Only when your grip in his hair tugged–shaky, wordless, trembling–did he finally ease up.

He pulled back slowly, panting, lips shiny, chin drenched, eyes wild with something unholy.

You stared down at him, breathless, ruined, still spread wide on the bed with your thighs twitching from the aftershocks.

He licked his lips. Smirked.

Then dragged his mouth up your trembling thigh and whispered “You always quench my thirst so well, my love…”You smiled down at him, dragging your fingers through his hair, smoothing back the damp strands clinging to his temple.

”Well, you do a good job earning it,” You murmured, still breathless, a crooked little smirk tugging at your lips. That pulled another soft chuckle from him–low and warm like thunder rumbling in the distance.

“Damn right I do,” He said pridefully, before leaning in again.

His mouth resumed its path up your body like it couldn’t stay away–kissing along your inner thighs, the dips of your hips, your lower belly. Each press of his lips was followed by a little nip, then a soft suck, just enough to draw the blood to the surface. You could already feel the faint bruises blossoming beneath his mouth like little cosmic marks, proof that you’d been worshipped by a god who couldn’t help but claim you one inch at a time.

By the time he reached your chest again, your hands were in his hair, gripping, urging, your nails grazing lightly over his scalp. He moaned against your skin, hot and heavy, before finally meeting your lips once more.

It was messy and desperate, the taste of yourself still thick and slick on his mouth. You didn’t care. You welcomed it, deepening the kiss until your tongues were sliding against one another, wet and ravenous. He kissed you like he needed it to breathe. Like his whole soul was tangled in the way your mouth moved under his.

You arched up against him, your bare chest flush to his, sweat-slick skin sliding together as his hips rolled down into yours–his cock still trapped inside the tight stretch of his briefs, grinding hard against your slick folds. You gasped against his mouth, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist again.

“Sentry…You’re so fucking hard.” You whimpered, breath catching as your hips bucked up into him. He pulled back with a ragged inhale, pupils blown, golden irises blazing.

“I know…And I can’t take much more.” His hand slid between your bodies, and he pushed the waistband of his briefs down, inch by inch, until they were low enough for his cock to spring free.

You couldn’t help the sound you made.

It was beautiful.

So painfully hard, flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking pre-cum that glistened in the low light as it beaded and dripped along his length. It twitched against his stomach, like it knew how close it was to where it belonged. He looked down at you, wild-eyed and wrecked, then slid both hands under your ass–lifting you in one smooth motion like you weighed nothing to him.

You let out a soft gasp, hands flying to his shoulders as your soaked core came down against the thick heat of his cock, your folds dragging along the underside of it, smearing arousal over every inch.

“Oh my god,” You choked, shivering as the blunt head brushed your clit on the upstroke. He groaned–full-bodied, like he was dying from the contact–and then adjusted you higher, angling his hips, guiding your thighs until they folded wide around his waist. One arm wrapped tight around your lower back to keep you upright.

Your bodies melded together, chest to chest, legs tangled around his hips as his cock pressed between your folds again, rutting slowly, dragging through the slick mess he’d made of you. You could feel the head catching on your entrance with every pass. His forehead dropped to yours, breath panting, fingers splayed along your spine.

“Just like this,” He whispered hoarsely. “Wanna come inside you like this. Wrapped around me…Looking me in the eyes when you take me.”

You whimpered, arms winding around his neck as you ground down on him, rubbing your clit along his length. “Do it. I want you inside me. Please, Sentry–”

He didn’t make you beg again.

His hand slid down between your bodies, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance.

And then, with one slow, devastating thrust…He pushed inside.

Your mouth fell open on a silent gasp as he filled you inch by inch, stretching you with a burn so perfect you thought you might cry. He groaned deep in his throat, his whole body trembling, like the sensation of your heat around him was too much to bear.

“Fuck, baby,” He panted, jaw clenched, golden eyes squeezed shut. “You feel so fucking good…Your pussy is fucking taking me so well…”

You pressed your forehead to his, hips rolling instinctively, breath hitching as you took every inch. Your body welcomed him like it had been made to, your walls fluttering around his cock like you never wanted him to leave.

He bottomed out inside you with a slow grind, the thick length of him seated so deep that your breath caught in your throat. Your walls pulsed around him, overwhelmed by the fullness, the heat, the intimacy of being wrapped around someone who worshipped you like you were made from starlight itself.

His breath hitched–a soft, strained sound–and he dipped his head, lips dragging along your collarbone as your fingers threaded through the soft golden strands of his hair.

You rocked against him slowly, chest pressed to his, your soaked folds squeezing around the root of his cock as you moved. His body trembled beneath your hands, and a few soft whimpers slipped past his lips–fragile things that felt too intimate to witness. Then, with a little pop, he pulled off your skin, panting against your throat before lifting his head.

His hand pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding you to him as he leaned back just enough to look at you–his golden eyes glowing faintly with heat and something deeper.

“Tell me who you belong to,” He murmured, low and husky, the words slipping between his teeth like a command layered in plea. His hips rolled upward, slow but deep, and you gasped as the stretch renewed its burn inside you.

Your back arched instinctively from the pressure, your breasts perking up in the space between your chests as he bent forward, his tongue dragging up the valley between them–hot, slow, possessive. You moaned softly, your nails grazing his scalp.

“I belong to you, Sentry,” You breathed, head tipping back slightly. “Only you… Always.”

A growl rumbled deep in his chest.

He rutted up into you with more force this time, the slow friction driving you higher as his free hand came down to anchor your hip. His fingers curled around your skin with the same reverence he touched holy things–with care, with need, with silent awe.

“Tell me,” He gritted through his teeth, “Who’s the only one that loves you like this?” You whimpered, voice breaking as you felt his teeth graze the underside of your breast. He nipped–just sharp enough to make your whole body jerk, the sting mixing with the pleasure until you were dizzy with it.

“Y-You,” You gasped. “Just you. Nobody else can love me like you do.”

His eyes flicked up at you from beneath dark lashes, glowing and wrecked and so, so full of something you couldn’t name without breaking. He hummed softly against your skin, lips soothing the spot he bit with a slow lick, and the sound he made was pure satisfaction.

“That’s right,” He murmured. “Only me.” His next thrust was deep–so deep you gasped, your hands clenching against his shoulders, nails biting into the warm skin stretched over muscle. His chest heaved against yours, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t bear to look away, couldn’t risk missing the way you unraveled beneath him. You felt the tremble in his arms as he pressed forward again, slow but so firm, grounding you to him like he needed you tethered. And then his voice–ragged, tender, full of reverent filth–spilled over your skin.

“Open your mouth, Y/N…” He whispered, the words almost pleading, almost reverent. “Let me be in the places where I can’t reach.”

Your breath caught.

You nodded–slow, obedient, already pliant beneath him–and parted your lips, eyes still wide and locked to his. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, and a shudder ran through him as he leaned closer, golden eyes half-lidded and blown wide with awe and want. His tongue dipped out just slightly, and then–

He drooled into your mouth.

Warm, slow, deliberate.

It spilled from his tongue and into you, and you drank it without hesitation–swallowed it down like it was something sacred, like it was a gift. The heat of it slid down your throat, thick and claiming, and you whimpered softly at the sensation, your body arching instinctively into his as his hand slid up–his fingers wrapping around the column of your throat, not squeezing, just holding. Just feeling.

“Always so beautiful when you take me like that…” He murmured, voice rasping as his thumb stroked along your jaw. “When you’re so drunk on my love that you’d be willing to do anything to prove to me that you’re mine.”

You let out a broken sound–a breathy, desperate whimper–as your legs tightened around his waist, as your hands curled at the base of his neck, grounding yourself to him with every trembling touch.

“Always want to show you,” You said breathlessly, lips brushing his, your words thick with need, “How much of me you already have.”

His golden eyes softened, almost in disbelief. He let out a sound between a groan and a hum, low and full of something dangerous and divine.

“You’re such a good girl…” He whispered, his voice thick with pride and lust and something more fragile buried underneath. “So fucking perfect for me.”

Then his hips snapped up.

Harder now–deeper. You gasped again, eyes flying wide, mouth falling open as the stretch of him rocked through you with punishing heat. He was still holding your throat gently, keeping your gaze locked to his like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

His thrusts began to speed up, each one grounding into you with a fervent rhythm–steady, consuming, every stroke angled to drive you out of your mind. Skin slapped against skin, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding echoing through the room, and your moans were swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, teeth clacking when the thrusts jolted your bodies too hard.

You could feel it building again, that tidal pull in your core, the swell of him inside you pushing you closer with every stroke–but he was closer. You could feel it in the tension of his body, the way his chest heaved against yours, the guttural, choked sounds leaving his throat.

And then–his hand clutched your hip, the other still at your throat like a brand–and he buried himself to the hilt with a low, wrecked moan.

He came with a shudder, his cock pulsing deep inside you as his release spilled in hot, thick waves. You felt every spurt–felt the heat of it flood your core, filling you so full it made your breath catch, made your head fall back as you gasped through the fullness. He stayed buried there, grinding shallowly as he rode it out, pressing into you like he could force himself deeper, like he wanted to leave nothing untouched.

You were both gasping now–panting against each other’s skin, trembling and drenched in sweat and bliss.

Your arms curled tighter around him as his head dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged in your ear. His cock twitched inside you with the aftershocks, and he groaned again–quiet, reverent, broken.

“…You always undo me,” He whispered, voice frayed at the edges. “Every damn time.”

You kissed his temple, heart still thundering, your voice raw as you replied, “That’s because you’re mine.” He hummed softly at your words, nose brushing your temple as the faintest smile played on his lips.

“Eternally,” He murmured, the word slipping from his mouth like a vow–ancient and indelible. Your smile deepened, slow and soft, as your bodies rocked gently together–no longer with urgency, but in the calming aftershock, the closeness that lingered when everything else had quieted. Your arms were still wrapped around him, your breath syncing with his as your heartbeat gradually slowed beneath your ribs.

For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of skin against skin and the warmth of his chest beneath your cheek. Then he shifted slightly, his hand stroking over your back before pressing a kiss to your hairline.

“I’m going to quickly step into the ensuite,” He said softly, his voice a little hoarse, a little tender. “Get some damp towels so I can clean you up.”

You nodded, sleepy and content. “I’d really like that.”

He smiled and gave you a gentle kiss–quick and sweet–before easing you off his lap. He helped guide you back against the pillows with infinite care, making sure you were comfortable before he stood. You watched him cross the room in that slow, post-bliss shuffle, his golden form glowing faintly even in the dim light.

The door to the ensuite clicked open, and you heard the soft splash of running water, the muted wringing of washcloths beneath his strong hands. You exhaled slowly, the sheets warm beneath you, your body humming with the echo of everything he’d given you.

Then he returned–naked, hair still damp, and eyes full of something quiet and tender. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and placed the towels beside him, murmuring a soft “Okay, sweetheart…” as he gently nudged your thighs apart.

You let him open you to him, pliant under his touch. The warm cloth met your skin, and you let out a small breath as he wiped you down—soft, deliberate strokes, reverent and unhurried. He was watching you the whole time, golden eyes fixed between your legs, entranced by the sight of his come slipping from your body in slow, unbidden pulses. He caught every drop, cleaned every inch–never rushing, never faltering, like it was a privilege to take care of you this way.

Once he’d wiped the last of it away, he stood again, crossed to the hamper and dropped the cloths inside. Then he returned, slipping under the covers with you, body warm and solid beside yours.

You immediately curled into him, your head finding its place over his heart, the steady rhythm beneath your ear grounding you in a way nothing else ever could. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady, one hand sliding up and down your spine as he breathed you in.

For a few minutes, you both just stayed there, bathed in quiet and closeness, the scent of sex and skin still lingering in the air.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice broke the silence–soft, musing.

“You know what a positive thing was from today?” He asked, his tone thoughtful. You looked up at him, brow raised, a smile tugging at your lips.

“No… What was the positive?” His mouth curved into a grin, wide and boyish and just a little bashful.

“The positive was me getting to see you holding a bunch of babies…” You laughed softly, eyes scrunching with the sound.

“Of course it was…Did it give you ideas?” He hummed, brushing your hair back with a gentle hand.

“Tons…” His eyes darkened a little, the grin turning wicked. “Because once you’re off the pill I think I’m going to have you carrying my child within less than twenty-four hours.” You blinked–then let out a startled, breathless laugh, your hand swatting lightly at his chest.

“Oh my God, Sentry…” He just chuckled, unrepentant, golden eyes gleaming as he pulled you closer.

“What?” He murmured against your hair. “Just being honest…You can’t blame me for wanting that.”