Uggghhhhh1

The throne he had long coveted was finally his. A seat of iron that made any man sit awkwardly.

Not Aemond Targaryen, first of his name. No, he was upright and tall, pricked like a horse's ear. By the way the corners of his mouth upturned just slightly, one could tell: He was looking forward to this one.

His niece — you — were dragged to the steps — resisting the guard's hold, bloody, and clad in a ripped black and red embellished dress. Fitting.

The last survivor of Rhaenyra's line. His childhood companion. The object of his lifelong desire.

"Princess."

The light, airiness of his expression could be felt without sparing him a glance. Not only did you have no desire to face him, but you simply couldn't. Too much had been lost. Your mother, your brothers, your cousins, your near sanity. The impossible love you held for your uncle since but babehood, all gone for the vacuous chair he assumed to sit.

"You will address your king."

That made you lift your head. The sight of him on that sharp seat dressed in obnoxiously decorated leather, and the conqueror's crown upon his brow, made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. He looked how your mind's eye had always pictured Maegor The Cruel.

He fit the bill, too. He had taken an inheritance that was not his, burned the Riverlands to their mucky foundations, and still had the gall to call himself king.

You may have been on your knees, but you were in no way obeisant. Your violet eyes locked onto his lone blue one, and you spat without breaking the look.

"You will respect your king!" Ser Kevan Bracken hissed down at you as he pushed the back of your head roughly, forcing you to fold as if you were worshipping the throne itself.

Aemond blew out a quick breath through his nose, and snapped. "You dare cuff about the princess as if she were a common criminal! Leave, Ser. You are relieved of your duties."

The knight's eyes widened and his head snapped up, his hands letting go of you and joining behind his back like a guilty child.

The split on your bottom lip was dripping red and you took the opportunity to wipe it. Aemond's declaration of "Do not have a hair on her head harmed." followed by a quick list of threats was clearly not heeded.

The picture of the straightest, strongest woman he had ever known or loved, knelt and bloodied as a boy after stealing a loaf of bread, well, it had his grace prepared to have those fists Kevan so loved broken and mangled until his fingers were shaped like letters.

"…Your grace, I am sworn to safeguard House Targaryen until the end of my days. To protect against enemies and punish traitors."

"You were. Before you dared to strike the epitome of our line." The king stood and began slowly stepping down the flight of iron. "Go quickly, I will have your head taken along with your title."

The king stood and descended the throne quickly, until he was stood just one step above you, gazing down at your greasy silver hair and scratched shoulder. His hand moved to the back of your head.

You tried to jerk away from his hold. But he didn't let you, only gripped your unharmed shoulder to keep you still. The blood from your lip was now dripping onto his boot.

"Who hurt you, my love?"

Any drab of sense had left your body months ago, you were not in your right mind. All you saw was red. His words made you want to pull the dagger from his belt and finish him. Unfortunately, he had anticipated that, and didn't wear his weapons.

"I am not your love." Spoken hoarsely as your forehead pressed against his knee. The familiar scent of pine, smoke, and leather making you want to both vomit and weep.

"Yes," He lowered himself to crouch, gripping your jaw without letting go of your shoulder. "you are."

The words were barely out of his mouth before your palm cracked against his cheek.

The war had hardened you, made you even more fiery. The king suppressed his irritation at the petty slap, instead keeping his expression neutral despite the red mark blooming on the side of his face.

He stared into those wide, bright eyes he loved so much. "Behave, princess. You would not want your groom to have a bruise on the day of your nuptials, now, would you?"

Your knuckles were about to connect with his face, judging by the look strained across your features. Your uncle adjusted his grip to hold your wrists together tightly but gently, stroking the bone sticking out at the joint of your hand and arm. All the while not letting the hold on your jaw slip.

"Nuptials? Has your mind truly gone to waste as they say, uncle?" The rip at the waist of your dress only widened as you rose onto your knees, exposing your navel. Nothing but outrage was felt by you. You were shouting so loudly that the Kingsguard was likely alert behind the heavy throne room doors.

Aemond's expression didn't change at your outburst, in fact, your bother made him come even closer, his nose almost brushing yours as he leaned in.

"I know you feel great grievance, and yet, there is no need for all of this commotion."

"Commotion? Fucking commotion? You and your half-breed siblings murder mine in cold blood, and you class that as commotion?"

Difficult to shut up, as always — but he was not complaining, he had missed your voice so. He would allow you this rant, occupying himself with stroking his thumb along your jaw. Words continued to spill for a few long moments, before stopping, your voice taken by the tears dripping down your face.

Tears which he tasted the salt of when he kissed them away. "Do not be saddened, sweet niece. You will be my queen, as you were always meant to be."

The familiar touch of his lips against your skin made you shiver. You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head so hard it would be at risk of falling from your neck.

The dilemma which his words had you facing made you want to be buried in black soil and absorbed into the earth from which you came.

"You shake your head at my words. For what reason, ñuha jorrāeliarzy? I have claimed for us what you were scorned."

You were the eldest of your siblings, the only who possessed undeniable Targaryen features — whether you were your true father's or Daemon's was besides the point — yet your claim was passed over for your plain brother. The petty reasoning Rhaenyra gave? To not overwhelm the lords. That made you carry a certain resentment for the woman who gave birth to you — your brothers as well. But to resent and to wish death are entirely different things.

"Do not act as if you committed heinous atrocities for the sake of love for me. You wished to kill Lucerys. You wished for the throne. It was all for your own selfish gain."

"Perhaps I did seek vengeance. But do not act as if I did not have you in my thoughts when I claimed this crown."

"Do not connect me to your cruelty. In mind or on spirit." You snapped.

"Sweetling, I have done awful things." He murmured without empathy as he made the somewhat risky choice of letting go of your wrists to wrap an arm around your waist, rubbing his hand up your back slowly.

"I have burned many a man and his home, culled mere meek orphans sent to battle, and all of it mine own. But only ever for want of you. We shall be one, as we were destined to."

His lips pressed against your temple. You didn't recoil. You had never felt so weak.

"Don't you wish to be my wife?"

"Not. Like. This."

"I regret all hardship the war has cost you," His lips pressed against your temple every few words. "I would take your pain trebled and bear the weight dutifully."

The throne room felt colder than ever. Being here, in the keep. It all felt wrong. The way he murmured soft words like some sort of sorcerer didn't, though.

"And I shall spend my life atoning for hurting you." His hand — now with your blood smeared across it — let go of your jaw to tuck your hair behind your ear.

"No one can atone for what has happened."

The words were shaky, your voice quiet as to not let tears fall once again. This was no simple matter; he had killed Lucerys, plotted with his grandsire to murder your siblings while his own elder brother watched with pervasive pleasure as his dragon devoured your mother in six bites.

"The gods have scorned us to live in torment for our sins."

"The gods? My sweet love, have you become pious to justify placing your desires aside?"

You huffed out a short breath and shut your eyes.

"You will be my queen, and I but your humble servant." He pecked each of your eyelids softly. "As we have always wished… You would deny me, my darling?"

You let out a broken, shaky sigh. "Aemond… I cannot." His name felt heavier than before.

"But, you can. You will. That feeling in your bones, dear niece, that heaviness will be gone once you give yourself wholly to me." He tugged you even closer, the hand on your back still rubbing firm, grounding circles over the tattered velvet of your dress, his other lithe fingers weaving into the hair at your nape.

His lips pressing against your scalp, as he nuzzled his nose there to inhale your sweet scent he had missed so much. That was the worst part of the gods-forsaken war, — not losing his siblings or mother — being away from you. Six moons felt like a lifetime.

The whisper of your name felt too personal. "I may have the throne, but it is an empty prize without you by my side." His hand snaked to cup your cheek, making you look at him as your foreheads pressed together.

His eye was teary.

"I beseech you, my love. I kneel before you, my person lies all unlocked to your occasions."

He let go of your waist to cup the other side of your face, his large hands taking over your cheeks.

Aemond was not ashamed to beg. Not to do so if it was for you. "I plead for your hand. For without it I am nothing, as I was before I had you."

All you felt was exhaustion. Exhaustion from grief, hunger, tiredness, and emotion. Giving in seemed so sweet. So easy… but you couldn't.

"Tell me to take my egregious words back into my hollow soul." He said hoarsely as his lips almost brushed yours.

Violet locked on blue, pupils blown wide. You didn't shake your head. You didn't squeak out a word of defiance.

Aemond waiting for a short moment, giving you the opportunity to back down. Such a thing did not happen.

So he kissed you. And you didn't fight it.

The touch was gentle — as to not hurt your poor cut more — but not lacking passion, embracing until his tongue was wrapped around yours, and both of your saliva was mixed and squelching. He could taste your blood, and it only angered him. His sweet niece was hurt. This kiss felt final. Deeper than any rushed embrace that you had ever shared in a hidden alcove.

You pulled back after a few long moments, and sniffled. Crimson smudged across his chin as he stroked your reddened cheeks.

"You will not regret this, my queen." He murmured quietly as he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose.

Those words made your insides flutter in a way that had you shivering.

His hand slipped down to your waist, feeling the goose flesh where your ripped dress wasn't covering — you never did tolerate winter well, such hot, pure dragon blood unsettled by it. He quickly unclasped his cloak and draped it around you carefully.

His thumb stroked across your cheek slowly, eyeing the dark circles under your eyes. "Are you wracked with fatigue, sweetling?"

You nodded.

"Let us get you to bed then. Or would you like a meal first? A bath?"

"All of it." The words were soft and hoarse.

"Of course." The king scooped up his niece effortlessly, and strode towards the exit, boots quietly tapping against the stone floor.

"Door!" He called out, and the guards opened them dutifully. If it wasn't for their helmets covering their baffled expressions, they might have lost their eyes to his grace's dagger. They saw the rabid king carrying his disgraced half-sister's only remaining child as if she were some sort of precious jewel.

The corridors of the keep were emptied already, your uncle having commanded the entire court into their chambers without a word of context.

The walk to the holdfast felt like a dream. Inhaling his scent, wrapped in his furs, being held like a bride as your cheek pressed against tough leather, listening to his heartbeat. After everything, you should've fought him. but you didn't. You had no ire now, if ever you did.

The king's chambers, that's where he brought you. Not to your rooms, not to his childhood ones, but the king's; his.

A bath was drawn in the bathing chamber, the space wafting with scents of exotic incense and the marble tub filled to its lip with steaming, milky, oiled water.

Aemond left you alone to bathe, only so he could command that all of your things remaining in your old rooms be moved to the queen's chambers, for a ship to fetch your other possessions from Dragonstone, and a dragonkeeper to unchain Vermithor, and allow your restless beast to fly to King's Landing. As well as to call a council meeting to plan his wedding.

The small council was a fight he made quick work of, his hand, Tyland Lannister, being the dutifully prudent — and cautious — man he was, followed every order with a nod and delegated easily.

The king returned to his chambers when you were in the middle of your meal, sat in one of the window alcoves in a red silken nightgown that made you look especially valyrian. “Gevie." Your uncle spoke as he strode over.

Your gaze was scarcely pulled from your fork — he had venison smoked in anticipation for your arrival, your favourite — before he was staring down at you.

Long, cold fingers reached out to tuck your damp silver tresses behind your ears as he looked down at you. "Clean? Contented?"

Your head moved in an automatic nod, looking up at him with wide, calmed eyes.

"Good. Very good." He took a seat beside you — the warrior sitting on embroidered cushions —, his body angled towards yours as he pulled your legs into his lap and clasped a hand around your calf. "The food is to your liking?"

A soft chuckle escaped you as you took another bite.

"What is funny?"

It seemed that your dynamic was the same, as if war hadn't torn your family asunder.

"In our time apart, I had almost forgotten how worrisome you are."

He huffed and wrapped his other arm around your waist. "You mock me."

"No." You murmured against his shoulder as you laid your head there. A twinge of amusement could still be heard in your voice.

That seemed to content him, and he just rubbed your side for a few moments. Your plate was set aside in favour of leaning into him. While in the quiet embrace, it hit him once again that no one was going to stop this, to pull them apart for propriety's sake as had happened so many times before.

He is the king. His word is law. His wants are his. "Will you sleep in here with me tonight?"

The nod was slow but sure. Your fingers ran up his clothed arm slowly, tracing the stitched black dragons on his sleeve. "Yes."

He sighed in relaxation and kissed the top of your head.

After an hour of sitting there, conversing quietly, the sun had set. Your uncle picked you up, placed you carefully onto the bed, and tucked you in, hands creasing duvet like some sort of nursemaid.

The large doors creaked when he left for one last duty, then returned and slid behind a divider to get into the bathing chamber and change his clothes. His hair was down when he was back in your view, his chest bare, and his scar uncovered. He had decided to leave on thin linen pants, not wishing you to think he had an alternate agenda.

The sight was so soft, you curled up in his bed, waiting. He climbed in swiftly, and drew you to him with an arm around your waist, his other hand adjusting the covers around you.

You let your head fall into the pillow, eyes trained on him being so attentive. He relaxed and laid fully beside you, face to face.

The scar on his left side was calling to you. Is it odd that was the part of him you missed most? You raised a hand to his cheek and stroked your thumb over it slowly, brushing his waterline carefully.

He did not bristle at the touch — after he lost his eye, you were the one to comfort him, defying your mother to hold his trembling hand while the maester stitched him up — but rather shut his lone eye and leaned his forehead against yours, lips pressing against your cheek. "I have dreamt of this moment more times than I can recall."

You let out a quiet breath at that, and tucked your head into his neck.

He kissed your head. "Avy jorrāelan."

With that, sleep took you. Your rest was far too peaceful.

A part of you was wicked, you had always felt deep down. There were bite marks on your soul from that imp clawing it's way in. Now you realised how much larger that rotten part was.

His grace saw that part of you. It was his greatest pleasure, to have your tenderness all to himself while watching the evil simmer inside for others. It emboldened his own.

People whispered of your uncle's madness, and yours as well. The Realm's Beauty, devolved into a woman whose comprehension of cruelty had disappeared. None of it mattered, for Aemond had you.

Tragedy had claimed your shared kin, but it had to happen. Death upon death was the only currency strong enough to pay for a love as true as yours.

Aemond Targaryen m.list

my first time writing for this man but i've been yearning to for years, so spiritually i have an entire library of fics for him

also can u tell i wrote this while listening to waco, texas on repeat lol

please lmk what you thought and send any requests my way!

@torturedpoetism i've read your aemond work and it's amaze, i hope you like this!

TYSM FOR READING <33

House Of The Dragon taglist

She stared at out at the waves as her loyal maid’s words caused her ears to ring. The crashing waves and breeze did not cause her to blink or shiver. Her maid gave her a moment, though standing by loyally to assist her as the grief slowly consumed her. Slowly, tears filled her eyelids until she let out a screech of pain and grief and collapsed to the floor.

Her baby brother was dead. He was murdered in cold blood by her husband.

Her maid tried to console her, but she was inconsolable, sobbing and screaming for her brother, for her mother, for anyone of her true family. The guards, who were usually tasked with ensuring that she did not leave the room with Prince Aemond’s heir in her belly, rushed in. Upon the sight of her on the floor, howling in pain, one hurried to get the Maester.

“Luke,” she sobbed, shaking her head as sobs wracked her body. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

*~*~*~*

When he returned to King’s Landing with his nephew’s blood now dripping from his name, Aemond was first sent to inform his grandsire and mother of his travels. Including the death of Lucerys Velaryon, which was unplanned and had certainly ignited the sparks of war. But once he completed those tasks, Aemond found himself climbing the stairs to his wife’s chambers.

She was with child—with his child—and he knew that the news of her brother’s death would certainly put their child in harm’s way as well as her own.

The door to her chambers felt heavier than he remembered as Aemond pushed it open. Slowly stepping inside the quiet space, Aemond found his wife sitting in one of the chairs, staring despondently out at the sea with her back to him. She did not turn to greet or acknowledge him. But he was certain that she was aware of his presence.

During the time that Aemond was informing the Small Council of what occurred during his travels, she was being pulled up from the floor in her distress. The Maesters had forced a tea down her throat to calm her despite her and her maid’s protests. And now, although physically calm at a first glance, her eyes remained a storm of emotions.

Aemond remained silent and folded his hands behind his back, waiting for her to speak. Throughout their time spent together, first as children and now as husband and wife, he always found that it was more difficult to silence her than to encourage her to speak.

But now his caged songbird remained defiantly quiet, letting him stew in the consequences of his own actions.

“How is the babe?” he requested, sounding like he was speaking with a diplomat and not his wife. She did not respond, continuing to stare out the window. Aemond began to feel almost itchy as he walked a few steps forward, the echoes of which felt harsh against his ears. She continued to ignore him, barely even blinking as she sat in her chair. “Wife?”

“Do not call me that,” she growled out, sounding much like a dragon when it felt cornered. Her grip on the arms of the chair suddenly tightened. “Do not ever call me that again.”

Aemond stared down at her before slowly walking around so that she was facing him. But when she finally stared up at him, her eyes were filled only with the sharpest daggers as she glared deep into his very soul.

“You have heard then?” he asked rhetorically as his eye dropped down to her abdomen.

They had learned the news that she was with child not long before King Viserys took his last breath and one could barely see a bump now. But the Maesters had informed them both that she would soon grow round with child. An heir to his claim.

She slowly stood up from her chair, though her legs quaked from her grief and the liquid they forced down her throat. She stepped forward until she was merely a breath away from him, staring at him with disgust and betrayal written all over her features. Aemond did wish to be able to comfort her, but he knew that if he reached for her, she would bite his finger off.

“Is it true?” she demanded from him, pursing her lips together. When he did not reply, through gritted teeth, she snapped, “I wish to hear the truth from your own lips. Are you a kinslayer?” They stared at each other as they stood in silence, neither moving to break the tension. She lost her patience first and grabbed the front of Aemond’s tunic with an iron grip, shaking him as she repeated her question, “Are you a kinslayer!?”

“Yes,” Aemond admitted aloud, causing her to release him.

She took a step back, as if she had been slapped, and rested her hand on the arm of her chair as she slipped onto the furniture once more. Holding her face in her hands, she sobbed once more. Tears slipped down her arms and neck, causing the blue fabric to wet with her sorrow. Aemond stood there, unsure what to do.

All he saw was a woman broken by the loss of her brother. And the executioner that she held her hatred and contempt for was him, her own husband. Aemond reached for her, but the action only served to anger her further.

“Do not touch me!”

She smacked his hand away. Aemond quickly realized that there was no way to fix their marriage, for there was no way to change what happened. He could not bring Lucerys back to life. And she could never look at him the same way again.

“GET OUT!” she screamed, throwing a nearby book at him. “GET OUT!”

Aemond hesitated, but then he started to move towards the door. She turned away from him as more sobs tore at her throat. Aemond looked at his wife over his shoulder, wanting to fix what he had done.

But he could not.

*~*~*~*

When it came time for him to leave King’s Landing once more, he left careful instructions with his mother that his wife was to be constantly guarded. She was pregnant and emotionally unstable from the death of her brother. And he feared that some dark forces would take advantage of her weakness. His mother had dismissed him with a promise that she would be looked after in his absence.

In all of Aemond’s calculations, however, he forgot to consider his wife’s own actions. He had written off her usual sharp mind due to her state, assuming that she would spend her time simply crying or staring out the window in her grief.

But she was tired of living within her husband’s expectations of her.

When she gifted the guards a bottle of wine for their troubles, it was seen as a kind gesture. After all, she was young, pregnant, and bright eyed. A soft and gentle woman unsuited for battle or war. And they had only seen her weepy and weak over the hours of their shifts.

But when their cups dropped along with their bodies, poisoned and dead before help would reach them, she did not bat an eyelash as she stepped over their corpses. She left no note. No explanation. No regrets. No remorse.

Aemond started the war. And she was not going to simply sit and wait for it to end.

She made her way to her dragon through the secret passageways and took off under the guise of darkness, having carefully planned out every step of her escape. But the days of stress and agony and insurmountable pain seemed to finally take their toll on her once King’s Landing was out of view and she was allowed a breath.

Tears streamed down her cheeks once more as she clutched her abdomen. She let out a cry of pain, feeling a trickle of hot liquid drip down her legs, staining her dress. Her dragon growled, trying to fly faster to help her, but she could only hold on.

She clutched her saddle with her remaining strength, as her body seemed to reject her child. The spawn of the man who killed her brother. Her newfound hatred for Aemond had poisoned her own blood against their very own child. She let out an ear-piercing scream of pain, crying for mercy, causing her dragon to let out a screech as well.

The people of Dragonstone hurried around, anticipating an attack, but when Rhaenyra stepped outside and saw her daughter’s dragon, she did not hesitate to rush forward. Her dragon lowered to the ground while she let out another cry of pain. 

Releasing her iron grip on the reins, she trusted her dragon to gently roll her into the waiting arms of her mother. Rhaenyra, forcing herself to remain calm and focused in the face of possibly losing yet another child, held her daughter close.

“Mummy,” she begged, gripping her mother’s dress.

“Shh, shh. You’re here now,” Rhaenyra told her daughter gently, pressing a soft kiss to her hair. Turning to the others gathered, she ordered, “Help me get her inside. Now!”

*~*~*~*

When Aemond returned to King’s Landing once more, he made his way to his wife’s chambers first. He had stopped receiving regular updates about her health and state and assumed the worst. And his suspicions were confirmed when he noted the open doors.

Stepping into the room that belonged to his wife, Aemond narrowed his eyes when he did not find his wife among the room’s inhabitants. Aegon turned to him, having been in the middle of a heated discussion with their mother and grandsire, and stormed forward.

“Oh, at last he returns!” Aegon snapped sarcastically.

“Where is my wife?” was all Aemond replied.

“Where is she?” Aegon asked incredulously, looking back at his mother in disbelief before returning his stare to Aemond. Mockingly, he yelled back, “Where is she!?” Aegon threw his goblet onto the ground, causing Alicent to place a hand over her heart. “She murdered three of my kingsguard before taking her dragon and fucking off to her bitch mother’s island!”

“She’s gone?” Aemond demanded as his stance widened.

Aegon scoffed, “Yes, your pathetic whore is—”

Aemond moved swiftly, grabbing Aegon by his neck and forcing him to the floor. Aegon stared up at his brother with shock, too inebriated or stunned to grab onto the hand that was slowly closing tighter around his windpipe.

“Aemond!” Alicent admonished, stepping towards them.

“Do not ever speak of my wife in that fashion again,” Aemond threatened, until Otto pushed him away.

Aemond straightened up, glaring down at his brother to reinforce his threat as Otto pulled Aegon back to his feet. But before the brothers could have an opportunity to fight or argue once more, the sound of quick footsteps caused the room to pause. A messenger ran into the room, nearly out of breath as he held a package aloft, wrapping in fabric.

“A parcel from Dragonstone.”

Aemond did not hesitate to snatch the scroll. Placing the parcel on the desk, Aemond sliced the rope and pulled it open. But when he saw one of his wife’s beautiful blue dresses, which had dark blood staining the skirt, Aemond felt his heart leap into his throat. Picking up the piece of parchment a top the gown, Aemond gently unfolded it.

“Aemond?” Alicent called, stepping towards him. “What does it say?”

But he did not reply.

He let the parchment slip through his fingers and did not blink when it hit the ground. Turning without a word, he stalked out of his wife’s chambers. For he did not wish to be reminded of what he once had. And of what he had lost.

Alicent did not follow after her son and instead reached for the piece of parchment that he left on the ground. Standing up, she unfurled it and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth in horror when she read the short message.

“In those circumstances, we have to assume your betrothal to her daughter is broken,” Otto continued, and while he knew the man to be right, he loathed to face this truth. “And as such, you are now free to make another alliance.”

Aemond’s chest tightened at the prospect—he had been betrothed to you in childhood, no long after the birth of little Joffrey, as a gesture of goodwill and reconciliation, and despite what had occurred later on, he had always been satisfied with such a match. 

The two of you shared interests and had an understanding of duty and your place in the world. Over the years, temperaments settling and characters growing, he had found a kindred spirit in you and had come to privately cherish you, as any man should his betrothed. 

In many ways, you completed him, and by your side, he felt a sense of freedom and belonging he had never experienced anywhere, and in anyone's presence. 

Ignoring his grandson’s inner torment, Otto stood and paced the room as he talked. “House Baratheon does not want for girls to marry, and still has not declared,” he said, and Aemond understood now he had not been summoned for a discussion, but to be given his marching orders like a soldier. “You are to fly out to Storm’s End and choose a bride.”

“I do not wish for a Baratheon bride,” he protested. He loathed how quickly you were set aside, and how he was expected to turn his back on you without a second thought.

The Hand sighed, looking at him sternly. “I understand, but in matters of war, our wishes must take second place now to what is necessary to preserve your brother’s reign.”

Aemond stood in turn, knowing that all protest was futile. His fate had been sealed before he had even stepped into the room. “I understand,” he said as though the words burned the roof of his mouth.

“Lord Borros has four girls, you may have your pick of them,” Otto said as though it was a favor he was bestowing, handing Aemond a roll of parchment no doubt containing the terms of the alliance. “Wed the prettiest, or the most cunning, it matters not. What matters is an alliance sealed in flesh.”

The image disgusted him, but he nodded—in his hand, the parchment weighed more than paper.

Never had you thought that you would live to see a war, and now that it was your reality, you were finding out that it was quite unlike what you had learned in books. It was slow and agonizing, days spent bent over maps and drafting letters, waiting for banners to declare themselves and men to march into place.

This slowness did little to ease your anguish, and even after months, the devastation of Luke’s death still weighed heavily on your mind, grief as fresh and sharp as the first day. It seemed the cruelest fate that he had met his death at the jaws of Vhagar, under the command of the man you had once been promised to, and you could not reconcile it. Even though you knew of the hatred Aemond harbored for your younger brother, you could not bring yourself to believe it had been done out of cruelty. 

In the first days following the death of the king, you had flown to the Eyrie on your mother’s orders, to negotiate with her cousin, only to return to tragedies—the death of a brother, by the dragon of a man who you loved, who had in turn wed another.

Secretly, almost ashamed, you mourned Aemond as well as Lucerys—despite the hatred that now lived in your heart, the love you once felt for him was festering, like neglected flowers rotting in a vase that you could not bring yourself to throw away. Even though you had never spoken those words to him, and he had never spoken of love either, you had found respite and ease in your courtship, admiring his mind and his calm demeanor, and you knew you would have been proud to call him your husband.

It seemed to you as though your future had now been stolen from you, your whole life in ruins around you, and you standing among the rubble. In the deepest corner of your heart, you loathed how quickly he had wed another, and the permanence of it was near unbearable—a simple betrothal would have been easy to break, to buy off in gold, but a marriage was permanent.

Such thoughts plagued your evenings until sleep claimed you, exhausting forcing you into rest, which you spent in the library, searching for escape in books. One such evening as you were pouring over a tome on the Reach, footsteps interrupted you.

It was Jacaerys, dressed in his riding clothes, hooded cloak draped over his arm. “Why aren’t you abed?” you inquired.

“I can sit still no longer. I must act,” he replied, to which you discarded your book to the side and rose, suddenly worried as he was prone to rash actions. “The Freys control the crossing at the Twins, and Cregan Stark’s men are marching south.”

“Are you flying out?” you asked, coming to face him. He took your elbows into his palms, your hands curling at his forearms, and nodded decidedly.

“If his men had a direct route into the Riverlands, we would not have to wait for Daemon to act,” he explained with conviction. “I will treat with The Freys to secure it.”

“And leave me here, being forced to play the coddled princess,” you retorted.

“You may find an expedition of your own,” he encouraged. “Hide my absence from mother, and I shall hide yours when I return.”

With a sigh, you brought up what had been your preoccupation these days. “The Tyrells still haven’t declared for either side. I may fly there, persuade them,” you mused, and Jacaerys nodded along. “Perhaps a dragon in their courtyard will convince them to call their banners in mother’s name, and they might unite the Reach.” 

With that, your decision was made.

Highgarden sat alone upon a hill, nestled in a small patch of woods, and Aemond thought it was truly unremarkable from the skies, but then he had hardly expected otherwise from a house who had refused to pledge itself to either side of this war. Lord Lyonel was still a child, but his mother, a severe woman with a practical approach, had refused to call her banners and risk lives for a conflict she believed the House of the Dragon should resolve on their own—at least, that had been her words.

Aemond thought that with a dragon at the bottom of her hill, she could be persuaded. He circled the castle slowly, evening falling over its eastern side, and it was only when Vhagar had landed on the slope that a chirping sound came, a call he knew only too well—that of another dragon.

There were only so many riders it could have been. Aemond’s heart lurched in his chest and he found himself praying as he made his way past the first gate, the guards letting him in without issues after a glance at Vhagar. Overhead, gray clouds were gathering and a thin, cold rain was pattering on the ramparts.

Crossing into the first courtyard, he released the breath he had been holding when he saw that it was indeed your dragon waiting near a fountain, the beast making another one of its chirping sounds as Aemond walked past. 

Entering the hall, his heart was thundering under his breastbone and his stomach coiling in on itself, and he could not prepare himself for the sight of you—there you were, the object of his regrets, of his laments, standing in front of the lady of Highgarden, wearing riding clothes and a cloak bearing your mother’s colors. 

However, he quickly had to set his torment aside, as Lady Margot, unimpressed by his arrival, had risen from her seat. “If you have come to wage war, you will not be well-received,” she called, and the rows of guards on either side of her hall suddenly stood straighter, their hands twitching towards their belts.

Breath catching in his throat as he came to stand in front of her—and thus, closer to you than he had been in months—it took him a second longer to find his voice. “I have not come with threat of violence, my lady, but to negotiate,” Aemond replied, clipped, and handed her a roll of parchment.

To his utter disappointment, your eyes remained firmly ahead of you, refusing to even glance at him. In that moment, he bitterly regretted his loss of control, faced with the living, breathing evidence of what Vhagar’s attack had truly cost him. 

Lady Margot glanced down at the seal, but did not open it. “An offer has already been made to me, and I reserve my judgment for later,” she declared, but his eye was still on you, fearing that the moment he would look aside, he would miss a glance, a sigh, any sign that your cold indifference was only a mask. 

Ears ringing with your silence, he thought that he would rather face your fury and your grief. 

It was then that you spoke, and hearing your voice was almost enough to quench his thirst. “I shall leave you with my mother’s proposal, to discuss it with your council,” you offered in a perfectly controlled tone before turning on your heels and making your way towards the door.

In a split-second, Aemond’s heart made the decision to follow, as though pulled by an invisible thread weaved around his breastbone.

“Leave her be. Do not bring bloodshed to my hall,” Lady Margot shouted, a sense of alarm in her voice. “Prince or not, I will not tolerate it.”

Ignoring her call, he rushed after you. “Do not let him leave the courtyard!” she ordered her guards, but his longing was so, it would take dozens of them to keep him from you.

Uncaring that his negotiation would likely fall through, he knew that if he let you go now, you would be lost to him forever, and it mattered to him more than any army. 

Rushing outside under the arches, Aemond called your name, but you barely heard him over the thundering of your heart—it had nearly frozen in your chest when you had heard a guard announce him, breaking anew at the sight of him crossing the doors. It had taken all your strength not to shatter here and then, and now you needed to escape his presence, else you feared what would occur.

“Would you at least look at me?” he shouted, urgency bleeding through his tone. 

Rain had started to fall, chilling you to the bone and running down your temples as you checked the buckle of your dragon’s saddle. “Look at me!” he repeated, catching up to you and looming over your shoulder.

He almost regretted his request when finally you turned, showing not only fright but contempt. “Or what, will you fly after me as you did my brother, subject me to Vhagar’s jaws?” you accused, your voice strangled. 

“Never. I would never cause you any harm,” he replied, nearly shaking with the prospect. The cold rain and the curve of Vhagar’s spine over the rampart brought back that fateful night, and he cursed his grandsire then, who had ordered him to wed another, as well as he cursed himself for not having refused. 

“And yet you have,” you cried, four devastating words that undid him as your unshed tears did.

“I did not mean for it to happen! I did not intend to kill him. Vhagar flew out of my control,” he confessed, and for a moment you stared, searching his eye. There was a frightening glint in his eye, one you had never seen before, but you knew enough of him to know he was telling the truth. 

“Even if I were to believe you, we have nothing else to say to one another,” you replied, taking a step back towards your dragon, reaching back to grab its rein, but Aemond stopped you, curling a hand around your arm firmly—it was the tightest he had ever held you. “Unhand me! Do not make this torment even more so—”

“So you admit it is torment, as it has been for me,” he said then, his face contorted in anguish, and never before had you seen him so undone, untethered. “You have plagued my every waking hour.”

The words escaped your mouth before you could reign them in. “And yet you wed another.”

It seemed to shatter him, a flinch crossing his graceful face, and to see a man usually so composed tearing at the seams from your words soothed your anguish and filled you with arrogant pride. “I loved you,” you said, as much an accusation than a confession. “My heart was yours until you—” 

“Tell me it still is!” he cut you off, crowding you against your dragon’s flank, his breath hot on your face.

“It isn’t,” you lied, and you could swear a sob tore out from his throat before he pressed his mouth to yours, his lips carrying words he could not say. 

Never before had he kissed you so fiercely, so desperately, and you closed your eyes as more tears flooded your cheeks. You sobbed as you mourned what could have been, loathing him as much as you longed for him, and you hated yourself for the way you responded to him. 

Aemond felt the moment you surrendered, and while he had thought it would soothe the ache inside of him, instead it tore a new wound across his chest. He pulled away slightly, enough to force you to look at him, and you held his gaze through your tears. 

There was no disgust on your face, no horror, only the worst heartbreak he could have ever imagined. “Let me go,” you whispered, and as though your words carried a spell, he complied, stepping away, his chest suddenly hollow.

A/N: Dividers by @/saradika. Based on an anonymous request.

Comments are always deeply appreciated ♡

Aemond taglist: @chattylurker @multyfangirl @thenameswinter99 @darylandbethfanforever9 @still-jon-snow

@jasminecosmic99 @merovingianprincess @bunbunbl0gs @dixie-elocin @xxxkat3xxx

@fluorescentadolescent1 @milostkag @alexxavicry @zaldritzosrose @sapphirehearteyes

@aemondsbabe @targaryen-dynasty @snowtargaryen @lilithgreenbean @persephonerinyes

Loki gazed down at you, brow raised in mild amusement. You were laid beneath him on cotton sheets, one of his hands braced by your head, the other lying flat along your ribcage. The latter had previously been cupping your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple, circling the peak. Your torso had lifted then, twisting away as a whimper caught in your throat, prompting a soft huff from your lover, and his gentle comment of your intolerance.

"...Kind of," you admitted, heat rising to your cheeks at the murmured truth, even as it was one he was well aware of already. "I'm sorry, I want this, really, it's just...a lot."

"You needn't apologize, I know," he murmured back, voice softening slightly in understanding. His head tilted in contemplation then, eyes meeting yours again, this time with the familiar hint of mischief. "Though I do believe we've discussed a solution to this little trait of yours, yes?"

You swallowed at the suggestion, heart stuttering at the implication of his words. You had discussed bondage before; Loki had introduced it teasingly one night as you were wrapped in his arms after a particularly intense bout of coitus, only to find that you were genuinely unopposed, which in turn led to further discussion. Still, it was only that. Discussion. The conversation had never made it past words, and the thought of it brought out your bashfulness tenfold.

"Yeah...we have."

"And has your consent on the matter changed?" he questioned, you could see the care written in his features, despite the inclination in his gaze. You shook your head embarrassingly quickly, pulse jumping at the smirk that graced his lips, dangerous and unfairly gorgeous.

"Then let us put this idea into practice, little vixen." His hands trailed upward once more, and you tried your hardest to remain still despite the way your body naturally trembled. His hands found your wrists, slowly raising them above your head, letting your heart race at the anticipation. Your hands in his reached the headboard, followed by a cool, tingly sensation accompanied by a faint green glow, the same that shone in Loki's eyes.

When he lifted his hands, you found your wrists bound by silk scarves, emerald colored, of course, tight, but not uncomfortably so. While you were fixated on your restraints, Loki's hands traveled down your sides, settling at your hips where the same glow illuminated once more, this time, prompting some invisible force to keep your hips still, forbidding any further squirming.

"This stops the moment you wish it to," Loki reminded, voice low, completely sincere.

"I don't want it to," you murmured breathlessly, a thrilled flutter in your stomach as he loomed over you, unable to squirm as you usually would. A low laugh from the god followed your words, their effect on him evident as his cock stiffened against your thigh.

"You precious thing," he murmured, cool fingers trailing down your sternum, then stomach, then thigh, uninterrupted this time. "Let me ravish you like I've intended all this time, uninterrupted"

Loki's hands slid under your thighs, gently hiking your knees up over his shoulders, their slight trembling prompting his breath to hitch. One hand dipped lower, middle and ring finger gliding just barely through your folds. Your hips twitched instinctively with the desire to buck away, a whimper sounding from your throat at the inability to do so.

"You are exquisite when you are not running from me," he mused lowly, thumb angling to rub your clit, achingly slow, torturous in your forced stillness. He slid one finger into you then, crooking easily with the lubrication of your arousal, evidence of your pleasure in this position. "By the norns you are drenched, beloved. I should have suggested this far sooner."

"Loki!" you cried out as he inserted a second finger, scissoring slowly in preparation, thumb on your clit circling as a means to sooth.

"Hush, my love, I shall take care of you," he murmured, pupils blown at the obscene squelch that sounded from your wetness; the sight of your expression - brows drawn in pleasure, jaw slightly slack, head tipped back - causing his cock to ache in its lack of stimulation, tip twitching eagerly.

Loki pulled out of you then, your juices stringing from his fingers, a soft noise of disappointment escaping you at the sudden emptiness. One hand caressed your hip soothingly, the other spreading your slick over his length, allowing himself a few independent preliminary strokes, lips parted with a soft groan.

"Loki, please," you drawled out, clit throbbing at the lack of attention, body tellingly rigid, patience far too thin already.

"Such impatience," he mused, lips twitching as he shifted your knees higher, aligning his cock with your entrance, much to your eagerness. He circled his tip around your slit, taking pleasure in your clear desire to squirm and declination of being able to do so. "I must say, I rather enjoy you like this," a pause, "though I suppose you've done wonderfully thus far, and I am a benevolent god to grant you the pleasure you seek..."

He trailed off, and any words of agreement or gratitude you had been forming were abruptly cut off by a guttural moan from your lips. Loki had plunged his cock into you with no warning, his girth stretching your walls and crooking exquisitely into that spongy spot that made your senses blur.

"Loki!" You cried, back arched upward as much as it could within your restraints, hips glued as you were compelled to take every overwhelming thrust, every movement on your end limited to a tea. "Fuck, it's so much!"

"You can take it, you will," he grunted, a low moan strung from his lips as your walls clenched around him, his fingers finding your clit once more to work you to that blissful state that he insisted you glowed in. "You," he huffed, "are doing extraordinarily."

You whined, head thrashing side to side as he focused your clit, overstimulated tears filling your eyes as he bottomed out, only to thrust deeper, harder, keeping a maddening, inescapable pace. Heat was pooling low in your belly, quicker than you could catch your breath, tension raveling tighter as Loki continued drawing you to the edge.

"I can't, I can't, Loki, I'm gonna- ah!" you stammered through sobs, thighs trembling against his shoulders. Loki's head dipped down, littering soft kisses along your collarbones, the gentleness a calmer contrast in an attempt to lull your overwhelmed state.

"I know, darling, I know," he whispered against your skin, angling his hips to hit your g-spot perfectly, drawing the knot in your belly taught, on the precipice of snapping. "You're nearly there, come for me, beloved."

Your orgasm hit you hard, crashing over you in waves that tore wrecked moans from your throat, your muscles spasming from the sheer intensity. Loki worked you through it, fingers steady on your swollen clit as he drove into you, milking every ounce of ecstasy he could from you. Your cunt squeezed his cock with every wave of pleasure, Loki's own orgasm soon chasing your own. With a few final thrusts, he pulled out, cock sprung up, thick ropes of his release spurting out onto your stomach, his head thrown back rapturously.

The two of you came down from your highs, the room sounding with your concomitant pants. Coming to, Loki gazed down at you, curls hanging around his face in a halo that made him look angelic. You met his gaze with a watery one of your own, offering a weak smile in your worn out state, your own hair mussed and sprawled out against the pillows.

"Oh my love..." he murmured softly, hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb swiping away a stray tear that had rolled down your temple. "look at you, absolutely ravishing. You did beautifully."

As he praised you, the same soft glow from earlier returned, encapsulating your wrists and hips once more, removing the restraints. You flexed and stretched slightly, arms dropping to lazily grasp at whatever parts of Loki you could reach, anchoring yourself in your dazed state.

"Thank you," you managed to mumble, humming quietly as the god leaned down to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

"Do not thank me for giving you the pleasure you more than deserve," he murmured against your lips, fingers tracing your jaw delicately. "My adoration for you exceeds the words that this realm has to offer, I am grateful you trust me enough for me to attempt to fulfill it through such actions."

You weren't sure quite what to respond to such kind words; your heart felt as if it could melt, a similar feeling that encapsulated the rest of your body. As if he could sense this, and as if you didn't need to, Loki simply pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, fingers tracing the path of your spine tranquilly.

You didn't need words for Loki to know you loved him endlessly, nor did you need to remain still on your own accord, your lover knew, and in knowing he fulfilled your every need completely, all in the sake of loving you.

‿ᖭི༏ᖫྀ‿‿‿‿‿ᖭི༏ᖫྀ‿‿‿‿‿ᖭི༏ᖫྀ‿‿‿‿‿ᖭི༏ᖫྀ‿‿‿‿ᖭི༏ᖫྀ‿‿

Loki tag list: @soulpiercing

Ever sharp and poised, the man—or in your case, god—who gave you a fright caught it effortlessly with one hand. You might've been impressed by his fast reflexes if it wasn't for your poor heart still thumping in your ears.

"Apologies, darling. Didn't mean to scare."

But the familiar tease in his sultry voice immediately put you at ease.

Darling.

You still managed to get butterflies with how casually Loki used the term, the way it rolled off his tongue like butter on warm toast.

"Hey," you replied, a little breathy.

You noticed Loki's expression then—the smooth, defined contours of his face turning into rigid lines as he momentarily took in your appearance. The crease between his eyebrows deepened, and he placed the prized box of doughnuts on the counter without breaking your gaze, taking one step forward.

"Are you… alright?"

You hadn't been able to properly catch a glimpse of yourself throughout the mission, but you were well-aware of the feeling of debris and sweat clinging to your skin. Barrelling into rough concrete walls, scuffling around explosives in the background, running and dodging bullets that fired from every direction—you had suffered a few blows as well, sustaining some minor cuts, the stinging effects subdued by adrenaline.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You shrugged, not wanting him to worry. "Just scratches, that's all."

Loki eyed you knowingly, his voice warm with concern. "Allow me."

He reached to cup your cheek, so gently it always surprised you knowing the strength that gods possessed. His fingertips were cool against your skin, and a tingling sensation rose beneath his touch, pleasant and harmless, vanishing your light wounds. You felt a slight shiver then, and a glimmer of green washed over your body, your battle-worn tactical suit suddenly changing into a clean, comfortable set of clothes.

The spark of magic reflecting in Loki's irises faded, and his mouth curled into a small smile. His hands moved to lightly squeeze the sides of your arms, before situating on your hips.

"There. Beautiful as ever."

Feeling afresh, you melted into Loki's embrace, resting your palms against his chest, fingers toying with the loose threads of his forest green tunic. "You don't like me when I'm dirty?" you said, a playful glint in your eye.

Loki returned an amused look. "On the contrary, I don't mind that in the slightest," he quipped back, not missing a beat, gaze flickering dangerously to your lips. "But, I dislike knowing somebody had laid their hands on what's mine."

Your heart fluttered at his words.

It was difficult to pinpoint exactly when your relationship began, but you only knew you never wanted it to end. Your mind spun into a sweet daze in his presence, like how the edges seemed to blur in the dreamy sequences of old Hollywood rom-coms. 

You felt Loki leaning in for a kiss then, eyelids heavy, nose brushing against yours, lips parting as if this was routine—

But no. 

In that moment, you couldn't resist being a tease. Besides, you were still hungry.

You slid out of his grasp, not missing the way he paused, blinking twice in confusion before shooting you a pout. A cheeky grin twitched at the corners of your mouth, and you reached for the box of doughnuts he had set aside, seating yourself on the granite countertops.

"Want one?" You gestured to the box as you opened the cover, catching a promising whiff sugary goodness.

A dozen doughnuts, of frosted varieties and a few simpler-flavoured ones, laid out in a way that would make anyone spoilt for choice. After much serious thought, you eagerly snagged a strawberry frosted doughnut, generously topped with coloured sprinkles.

Loki, however, was a little hesitant. "I'm not exactly tempted," he said kindly, peering into the box.

You smiled softly. "We can share," you offered, knowing his palate was still slowly adjusting to Earth's food spread—accustomed to the more royal and sophisticated delicacies on Asgard.

Loki seemed pleased with your idea, and he inched closer as you allowed him the first bite. His fingers came to lightly wrap around your wrist, guiding your hand nearer as he bit into the doughnut. You watched as he slowly processed the flavour, letting it settle on his tongue.

"Hm." Loki hummed in contentment. "Not bad, but I've tasted sweeter," he added, throwing you an imperceptible wink.

As if scandalised, you shot him a cautionary look, then playfully swatted his chest. Mischief twinkled in his eyes, and he leaned further into your space, hands falling once more to your sides, mindlessly tracing slow, lazy circles at your hips.

A moment passed as you both finished up the doughnut in silence.

"I've missed you, you know?" Loki eventually started, voice rich and low. "You weren't in bed when I woke up." His gaze lingered lovingly, if not a slight worry beneath.

"Oh, right." You gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry. Mission only came up last night," you said, dusting off some of the sugar on your fingertips. "Forgot to tell you I had to get up early."

"A real shame," Loki mused. "I was so looking forward to our morning proclivities."

You caught a smirk threatening to curl at his lips, a pretense of decency behind the words he had put so delicately.

When your mornings weren't disrupted by sudden missions or scheduled for dreadful meetings, they were filled with quiet, tender intimacy—which would then, of course, quickly transition to unrestrained arousal and hot, steamy sex. It made up for the rest of the day, where you both had to go about your separate assignments, pretending to be nothing more than colleagues and who didn't harbour frequent thoughts of exploring each other's bodies.

Safe to say, you were missing him terribly as well.

You silently obliged when Loki wedged himself between your legs.

His grin surfaced, chest now brushing against yours. "Shall we… make up for lost time?" His hands continued their circular motions down the sides of your thighs, each touch growing more sensual.

Your skin buzzed with anticipation as heat pooled in your abdomen, want and excitement flashing in your eyes. You let it hang—waiting with bated breath for that brief flicker of green to send you stumbling into the bedsheets, all your troubles forgotten in the next hour or so.

Only nothing happened.

You caught on then, raising a brow. "What, here?"

"Where else, darling?" Loki answered almost immediately, all smug.

You stared at him, shaking your head. "You know we can't—"

"Oh, a little frivolity couldn't hurt," he cut in, voice deliberately seductive and smooth. "Besides, we've already denied each other long enough."

Loki could so easily have you both transported to the bedroom with a flick of his wrist. But what did you expect? He loved the chaos, even if you had agreed to keep your relationship a secret, uncertain of how the others would react—and fooling around risked actually getting caught.

Sensing your growing doubt, Loki murmured in the shell of your ear, as soothingly as he could, "We'll make it quick."

And then, before you could respond, his lips crashed into yours.

All hesitation died when you remembered the feel of his mouth, reciprocating his movement in a heartbeat. Warmth spread through your body, and your head only grew more dizzy with need when his hands moved to cradle your jaw affectionately, deepening the kiss. Your fingers curled at the nape of his neck, catching onto a few obsidian curls. Loki let out a small groan, and he nipped at your bottom lip, tongue prodding for entrance.

You indulged him, the pleasure familiarly addictive, too far gone to stop. He began licking into your mouth, faintly tasting of strawberry sweetness from the doughnut you shared earlier—all the more irresistible. He practically drank you in, lips continuing to move against yours in sync, intensifying at a furious rate with every expert caress of his tongue.

Refusing to break the kiss, Loki's hands began to frantically roam your back. His palms repeatedly slid along the material of your shirt, as if smoothening the creases, and a soft sigh escaped your lips when his hands shamelessly slipped beneath to explore your naked skin, making you shudder.

You were ready—ready to fully surrender yourself to him, giving in just this once to the desperate tent in his trousers that pressed against your core.

That was, until you heard the distant hiss of a metallic door, and for a brief moment, faint rock music thrummed in the hallways.

You stirred, breath uneven. "Loki—"

He only kissed the corners of your mouth, answering lazily, "Mhm…"

"No, Loki—" You tried to pull back, but he secured his hold around your waist. He closed the distance once more, lips coming to suck a trail along your jawline. Weakly, you added, "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Loki murmured against your skin, eyes still shut as if trapped in a daze.

"I think someone's coming."

You drew a sharp breath when his hot mouth freely descended down your neck. "So soon?" Loki teased, smiling as he nudged you with his nose to tilt your head, teeth gently scraping along your throat.

"I…" His kisses were quickly lulling you back into a trance. "I really think we shouldn't—"

"There's nothing to worry about," he coaxed, voice slightly hoarse.

He was such a liar—you should've known he was going to take his own sweet time with you in the kitchen, his feverish but controlled progressions nowhere suggesting anything quick.

You stifled a whimper when his lips skimmed upwards, catching onto your earlobe and licking at the soft flesh. His breath tickled your cheeks, and your hands buried deeper into his curls. You were trying—and failing immensely to deny his pleasure, for the sake of your own.

The final resistance crumbled when Loki began sucking on a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear. "Oh, fuck—"

"This is a public space, you guys."

You froze.

"Not that I don't understand the appeal of doing it in the kitchen, but seriously—have some consideration for the rest of us before you make a mess on the counters."

The words rang loud in your ears, the distinct air of nonchalance and laid-back authority alarming you tenfold. Loki released his hold, quickly allowing you space, and you unceremoniously slid off the counters, feet unsteady on the floor.

You both exchanged glances, equally flustered and dishevelled in appearance—the pink flush that crept up his neck and the burn in your cheeks only cementing that you had landed yourselves in hot water.

After a beat of painful silence, Loki addressed the other man standing in the room, his voice teetering beneath skilled caution.

"Stark—"

"Say, are those doughnuts?"

Tony circled around the counter, all the while unfazed as Loki threw a look of confusion. He must've been tinkering in the lab for hours, an empty mug held in one hand, the bags under his eyes telling of all the heavy brainwork and mechanical labour he often lost himself in. Yet, Tony was evidently still in high spirits—even if he had also just caught the two of you red-handed.

He skimmed over the selection, then picked up a glazed doughnut, popping a bite into his mouth.

"Huh. That's actually pretty good," Tony noted, though more so to himself, "Would go better with some more coffee." 

As if you and Loki weren't still standing there, dumbfounded, he sauntered over to the coffee machine. He set his mug down, grabbing the pot to refill as he took another swift mouthful of the doughnut.

When he was done, he turned back to you both, expression inscrutable. "So, how long has this been going on?" He said as he chewed, posing the question like it was a casual "get-to-know-you" session.

"Um." You swallowed nervously. "A while."

"Wow," Tony replied, voice flat. He took a loud sip of coffee, staring blankly over the rim of his mug, seeming to gather his thoughts. Then, with much skepticism—

"Is he really that good?"

Loki's face immediately dropped to a scowl. "I'll have you know that I'm—"

You caught your lover's arm before he took another impulsive step forward, then shot a pointed look at Tony. "Dude!"

Tony suddenly cracked into a wide smirk, as if he had been holding it back all along. "Sorry—I'm just messing with you."

You paused, blinking. "You're not… mad?"

"Mad?" He quirked a brow. "If anything, I'm disappointed—I expected more subtlety on your part, Agent."

Loki's scowl deepened. "So you have known about us?"

"Oh, please. You two couldn't have been more obvious, really," Tony answered dryly. "Making bedroom eyes during conferences, playing footsie under the dinner table, sneaking off early during movie nights—I'm surprised no one else has caught on."

"And you wouldn't think to share your findings, would you?" Loki continued, his words measured and laced with vague threat.

Tony only rolled his eyes. "Relax, Space Romeo. I haven't told anyone, and I won't, alright? Your secret's safe with me."

You sighed softly then. A weight lifted off your chest, even if you weren't exactly confident about Tony's abilities when it came to keeping secrets.

"Right, well, for the sake of preserving what little is left of our dignity, let's just all pretend I was never here," he concluded plainly. Doughnut and coffee in hand, Tony began trailing out of the kitchen.

"Also, if you even think of tampering my mind with your green magic thingy—" He called out, directing a final glance at Loki, "FRIDAY will revoke your Avenger privileges."

Once Tony was out of sight, Loki turned to you with a wry smile. "I'd say that went well."

You gave him a sharp look, then frowned. "This is your fault, by the way," you said, folding your arms.

"My fault?" Loki replied in an incredulous tone, growing amused. You could already see the playful spark in his eyes returning. "I recall you thoroughly enjoying the moment as well."

"Yeah, until I heard someone was coming."

Loki let out a small chuckle then, stepping closer, gently nudging your arms to unfurl from its tight hold. You let him—and when he reached to cup your cheek, you yielded entirely, features softening against the crevices of his palm. His gaze swept low as a thumb brushed over your lips.

And in a low, almost tentative voice, he had the nerve to ask—

"…Still in the mood?"

but some nights you wait up for him, occupying yourself with a book or a new tv series as you sit curled up in your chair in the dark.

he assumes you’re still in bed sleeping soundly and he heads quietly into the bathroom to start cleaning himself up, not noticing that you’re silently watching. he’s known for being stealthy, but tonight you’re the one who’s slipping into the shadows.

his clothes hit the floor piece by piece as he turns the water on and strips bare, the steam from the shower quickly filling the room with heat and fogging up the mirror.

the hot water stings the bloody cuts on his knuckles, and he hisses as he runs his hands beneath the shower stream, watching the blood wash down the drain. they’re just minor scrapes and it’s nothing he isn’t used to by now, but it’s always a chore to take care of himself at the end of the night.

you open the bathroom door just a crack and peek your head inside to call his name, and instantly his head whips around at the noise. droplets of water collect in his eyelashes as he stares at you, his piercing gaze locked with yours as tears of black eyeliner roll down his cheeks, the warm water melting away his dark exterior. he's tired, he's aching and bruised from this routine of difficult nights, but everything disappears the second he sees you.

you pause as he wipes his hand across his eyes, smearing the fading makeup even further before he jerks his head to beckon you to join him, and you quickly start to undress. your clothes slip off, collecting in a pile on the floor next to his as you slide back the glass door and step inside.

your heart races as his eyes silently roam over your figure, streams of water trickling down his toned chest, and you can’t help but study him in return. you reach out to trace your fingers over the old scars that litter his skin, and you note the fresh scratches and cuts he’s earned himself while out in the city tonight.

you start to pull away to grab the soap, but his hand wraps around your wrist and you freeze, looking up at him. you can see the flash of lust in his eyes as he grips you tightly, pulling you closer until you’re standing flush against his body, and the proximity sends a shiver of desire down your spine.

he leans forward to capture your lips, his deep voice groaning out your name as his arms sliding down to sit firmly around your waist. you melt into him, automatically moaning into the kiss, and he greedily swallows your noises until it feels like he’s going to suck the breath right out of your lungs.

he kisses you harder, one hand falling to your hip while the other reaches up to cup your jaw and guide your mouth further into him, his tongue prodding between your lips in a way that makes you feel warm from the inside out.

his hand on your hip travels lower to grope your ass, and he squeezes a little harder when you let out a gasp against his lips, relishing in the responses he’s drawing from you. he starts to move and suddenly you feel the ice cold tile of the shower wall against your back, and you arch away from it instinctively, seeking the warmth of his body.

a large hand grips your thigh and hikes your leg up around his waist, securing your ankle behind the back of his thigh for balance. his pelvis presses between your legs, and you can already feel his cock hardening against your skin.

“bruce,” you whine as you try to rock your hips against him, desperate for the friction he provides.

he doesn’t reply but he lets out a soft noise under his breath, somewhere between a hum and a growl, and he attaches his lips to your neck just below your ear.

he pushes himself into you and you gasp, your heat enveloping his length as you cling to him. your legs tremble as he begins to thrust slowly, your arms wrapping around his neck even tighter. you can feel his biceps flexing around you as he holds you against the wall, supporting nearly all of your weight as he starts to build up his pace. drops of water trickle down your neck and between the valley of your breasts, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from the shower or if it’s sweat.

even after a night of patrol and the physical toll it takes on him, bruce’s stamina far outweighs yours. it only takes minutes before he has you whimpering and clenching around him, struggling to keep up with his relentless pace.

he pulls back to adjust his hips, giving him a better angle to drive his cock into you so that his tip kisses your spot with each stroke. he can tell you’re about to cum when he feels you starting to pull away from him, all the tension in your body building up like a dam about to break as your back arches and you squirm in his grasp.

with one more pointed thrust you come undone, a constant stream of whines pouring from your lips like the shower water pouring down his back. he doesn’t let up until your body goes limp in his arms, fucking you through your orgasm while you can barely keep yourself standing up straight.

suddenly he swoops in and presses his lips to your mouth once again, his perfect pace slipping and becoming more and more erratic, and you know he’s close behind. with your leg behind him you pull him closer, giving him just enough extra leverage to bury himself inside you as deep as he can go before his release slams into him.

his grip on your hips is almost bruising as he keeps you held tightly against him, letting out low, deep groans as he spills into you. warmth floods your stomach and you exhale a shaky whimper as you start to come down from the dizzying effects of your high.

just before you feel your leg starting to cramp up he pulls back, slipping out of you but keeping his arms still firmly around you to keep you supported. he tilts his head down to study you, secretly preening at the fucked-out look on your face. he looks much worse off, his cuts and scrapes still forming scabs and the black makeup streaked across his cheeks, but he’s still more concerned about you than himself.

he gives you a moment to stand on your own, and he smirks when you immediately reach again for the soap and start to scrub at his body with a loofah.

he lets you pamper him for now, because he knows neither of you will be getting any sleep until dawn.

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Labeled boxes overflowing with tech gear, your clothes crammed into vacuum-sealed bags that had slowly started to reinflate. Half a dozen posters rolled into tubes. A shoebox full of knick knacks, mismatched cords, and pins from old missions. And of course, the plastic bin of tangled charging cables that had somehow followed you from dorms to safehouses to apartments since 2020 without ever being untangled.

You turned, squinting into the sun, and found Bob exactly where he’d been standing for the last five minutes–rooted by the passenger door like he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to get in yet.

His hoodie sleeves were tugged down past his wrists, hands fidgeting near the frailed seams of it. His hair was still a little damp at the edges from his shower, and the morning light caught in the light brown locks that draped around his face, framing it and caressing it so nicely it was as if someone was holding his cheeks.

At his feet sat two cardboard boxes and that was it.

One was a store-bought shipping box, pristine and almost too clean, like it hadn’t been lived in yet. The other was older, more worn, marked in thick black Sharpie with your handwriting: Books for Bob.

He gave a sheepish shrug, his voice small.

“D-Didn’t really have m-much to bring. Just had those t-two boxes, remember?”

You paused.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that. Not the first time he’d gestured vaguely to the corner of your shared living space with that soft, self-deprecating shrug–two boxes and a borrowed life. But it still hit you low and hard in the chest, like it always did, because he wasn’t being dramatic.

That really was all he had.

Two boxes.

One was filled with clothes you’d helped him pick out on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, just a week after he’d admitted–haltingly, almost ashamed–that the threadbare scrubs Valentina gave him weren’t actually his. Just something someone had tossed his way after the Void incident, like a temporary name tag slapped on a stranger. You’d taken him shopping that day not because he asked, but because you noticed. Because the way he tugged at his sleeves and kept checking if his shirt covered the scars on his wrists said more than any words ever could.

The other box…Well, it hadn’t started out as his. The books inside were yours. Dog-eared, tea-stained, a few with notes scrawled in the margins. But slowly–so slowly you almost didn’t notice–they’d migrated across the apartment. From your nightstand to the coffee table. From the coffee table to the arm of the couch. Until they found a home at the far end of the sectional, right next to the blanket he always folded the same way and the chipped mug he used whether it was clean or not.

That corner had become his sanctuary.

He didn’t say much when he read–just curled in on himself, long legs tucked up beneath him, blanket pulled over his knees, tea going cold in his hands while the soft lamplight pooled around his shoulders. He read them again and again, like the words were anchors. Like they reminded him that he existed. That he was still here. Still allowed to take up space.

And every time he said it–this is all I have–you felt the weight of how much he meant it.

And how badly you wanted to give him more.

Because you remembered the day where you agreed to take him in.

Not in the vague, hazy way people recall calendar events or checkmarks on a to-do list–but in the bone-deep, clear-cut way that memories get branded when they’re born from moments that matter.

It had been the night after the last press conference. The final gauntlet of public statements, forced smiles, and tightly controlled answers. Cameras flashing. Journalists circling like vultures around roadkill. Words like “recovery,” “reform,” and “containment” were getting tossed around like they meant something, like they could undo what The Void had done in New York.

And through it all, Bob had stood just behind Valentina’s shoulder–silent, unmoving, eyes glassy like he was watching it all from underwater. Like his body was there, but he wasn’t.

When the cameras finally shut off and the world stopped demanding things from him, it was like watching a puppet go slack. His shoulders caved. His posture buckled. Whatever thin thread that had been holding him together snapped the moment no one was looking.

Then, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the team finally had the opportunity to sit down and talk. No comms in their ears. No missions ticking like time bombs in the background. Just silence, pure uninterrupted attention, and a problem that none of you had the answer for.

Bob was still in the compound, still alive and kicking, but he was barely present. He spoke in short bursts, when prompted, and gave mechanical answers–like he was on a scripted loop with a shaky voice. His eyes never focused on the person in front of him. He ate only when someone put something in his hands, and even then, it was minimal–just enough to pass as functioning. Barely enough to keep him upright. He slept too much for days on end, then not at all for a stretch so long that the medical aides started whispering about sedatives again.

He hadn’t even been given a proper room, he was just tucked-away in a corner bed in the medical wing, hidden behind a curtain that never fully closed. The air in there always smelled antiseptic and medicinal in a nauseating way. The lights were always buzzing faintly, like they needed to be replaced but nobody would do it. And the nurses assigned to check in on him swapped out too fast for him to learn anyone’s name.

You had passed by his bed once that morning, and you had caught him sitting upright with the sleeves of his scrubs tugged down over his hands, staring blankly at the white wall. His tray of food was untouched, and the plastic fork had been snapped in half.

And because of you Valentina called that meeting.

The conference room was too cold and too bright, the overhead fluorescents were a jarring contrast to the hollow, silent fatigue hanging in the air. You sat near the end of the long, mahogany conference table, with a dull ache still pulsing under your ribs–healing fractures from fighting the Sentry that hadn’t quite fused. Every time you shifted in your seat, the pain reminded you of why you weren’t on active rotation anymore, and why you were the only one not running logistics or field reports.

Valentina stood at the head of the table with her clipboard. Yelena paced around because she couldn’t keep still, sharp eyes flicking toward the window every few seconds because she thought something was going to fly through it. Bucky leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched–stone-faced, but simmering beneath because he had other things to do and this was just another thing he needed to deal with. Walker was on edge, a spitfire as you would call him, always loaded up with something to say, but for once, he kept his mouth shut. Ava stood beside you in total silence, and Alexei…Well, even he had stopped trying to lighten the mood, because he knew how serious the situation had become.

The air was thick, and palpable, heavy with everything that was unspoken between the group. Everyone was waiting for someone else to offer a solution.

Because the homing of Bob Reynolds–The Sentry, The Void–was a question none of you knew how to answer.

Until you said it…

”I’ll take him.”

The words slipped out before you’d fully thought them through, though you had been mulling it over for a bit.

The room had gone still in those moments, and Valentina’s eyes lifted from her clipboard to look at you, she seemed caught off guard that you were willing to take him in–especially after all he had done.

You could feel Yelena stop pacing behind you, the sudden absence of motion louder than her footsteps.

”I’ve got the space,” You said, quieter now, “And I’m not on active rotation right now because of…Y’know…” You gestured vaguely to your side, where your ribs were still taped under your shirt, “So I can keep an eye on him until the Tower’s ready. Just a few weeks. It’ll give him some place quieter and less…Sterile.”

For a moment, nobody responded, it was as if you had sucked all the air out of the room like a vacuum seal.

Then Bucky gave you a slow, almost unrecognized nod.

Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian that you were pretty sure meant “Of course it’d be you.”

Valentina tilted her head and scribbled something onto her notes without comment.

Walker shifted like he wanted to object, but thought better of it.

And everyone else…Had nothing better to offer up, so they had to agree to it.

That night, when you pushed open the curtain to the medical wing, you found Bob was already awake.

He was sitting on the edge of the cot, motionless, elbows balanced on his knees, hands limp between them like they’d forgotten how to hold anything. His hoodie–one he must’ve asked for or found from the pile of clothes Valentina handed him weeks ago–was bunched at the wrists, the frayed threads twisted around his fingers. He hadn’t put the hood up, but his hair had fallen over his face in soft, uneven strands, just enough to shadow his eyes.

He wasn’t looking at anything. Not the wall, not the bed. Just…Out. Like the space in front of him was wide open, endless, and empty.

You stepped in quietly. No sudden moves. Just a presence, steady and real.

“Hey,” You said, your voice a hush in the too-bright room.

His head lifted a little. Not all the way. But just enough for you to catch a flicker of blue under the fall of his hair. You took a few steps closer, not touching, but close enough that your presence could be felt in the air between you.

“Thought you might want to get out of here.” He didn’t speak, didn’t nod. But he didn’t shrink away either. His gaze found yours–and for a second, just a second, you saw the faintest crack in the fog.

“I–I don’t…” He started, voice barely audible, rough like it had been unused for too long. “I don’t know w-where to go.” You felt your heart swell slightly, hearing the way he croaked out the words, how timid he sounded, how scared he was.

”You’ll be coming with me just for a little while…Until the Tower’s ready.” You explained softly, keeping your distance still. You could see his jaw tighten, and he shook his head.

”I–I can’t…What if…What if he comes back?” His voice cracked on he. It was barely a whisper, thick with dread and self-loathing.

And your heart fractured a little at the way he said it–not like a warning, but a confession. Like he believed The Void was a thing still inside him, curled in the corner of his chest, waiting to be let out. Like he believed he wasn’t safe.

”Well,” You started, voice quiet but sure, “Then I guess we’ll just have to figure it out. Hmm?” You let the words hang there–soft but certain. It wasn’t a dismissal, nor a sugar-coated promise, it was just a truth from you to him.

And then you held out your hand.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just…Open. Steady. Waiting.

It was a gesture to show you weren’t afraid of him or his touch. You weren’t bracing for him to break something or bolt or pull away. You simply stood there with your palm outstretched, and your eyes on his.

It took him a second to truly process what was happening, but then, with the hesitance of a person who was afraid of themselves, he reached out and wrapped his boiling hot hand around yours. You immediately gave it a small squeeze of reassurance, and gave him the warmest smile you could muster.

And that’s how it all began.

The first few days weren’t quiet.

They were full of soft noises, background ones–drawers opening, kettle whistling, the low static of the TV at night. Bob didn’t talk much those first couple of days, but he hovered around you, and he listened when you would talk to yourself. You never pushed for conversation, you just offered him space, and food…Lot’s of it.

You hadn’t realized how deeply the Sentry serum had affected him until the end of day one, when you caught him standing in front of your open fridge like he was looking into a portal.

”Are you hungry?” You asked, causing him to jump ten feet into the air–literally–with guilt flashing through his expression.

“I–I didn’t want to ask, I–I know we just ate two hours ago…I–I just…I’m starving. It feels like my stomach is e-eating itself…I–It really hurts.” Your brain immediately jumped to the conclusion that his metabolism had gone haywire after the serum, which caused him to have this unresolved hunger–you couldn’t imagine the pain he had been experiencing throughout the time in the medical wing of the compound, especially with food that was not too appetizing. So in an instant you were there to help, shuffling around him to look into the abyss that was your fridge, grabbing a stack of Tupperware and piling them onto the kitchen island.

“Let’s get you something to eat then…” He had pasta, leftover chicken and rice, cold soup, some roasted vegetables, and half a loaf of bread.

He ate and ate and ate and you sat nearby, flipping idly through your phone but mostly just watching him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t rushing, it was just a constant conveyor belt of his fork travelling to his mouth. His hands didn’t tremble–but his shoulders stayed tense, like he was waiting for you to tell him to stop.

You didn’t though…You just kept refilling his water and asking if he wanted anything else.

By the time he finished his second bowl of rice and reached sheepishly for the rest of your peanut butter with a spoon, you knew what the rest of the week would look like.

Thankfully Val had given you her credit card, because you had restocked the fridge twice in four days, and he apologized every time you brought a new bag of groceries inside the apartment.

“You’re not eating too much,” You said flatly on day three, unloading yogurt and apples and protein bars onto the counter while he slowly restocked the fridge, looking guilty, “Your body’s catching up, just let it.” You added. He bit the inner part of his cheek.

“But–“

”Bob.” You interrupted gently, giving him one of your looks, the one that encompassed all the words of reassurance. He stopped and nodded, surrendering.

Though he still apologized the very next morning when he finished all your maple cinnamon oatmeal–which had eight packs left last time you had checked.

By the end of the first week, the fog started to lift–just enough for you to really notice the change.

You had caught him lingering in the hallway after his first night of catching two full hours of uninterrupted sleep. He looked confused and unsure. Like he didn’t know what to do with the energy that began to vibrate through him again. Like he was afraid that if he overdid himself things would happen again.

So you handed him a basket of laundry and asked if he wanted to help, and almost in an instant he took the offer. It was an easy pastime, and he didn’t mind helping you, especially with everything you had been doing for him.

By the second week, you finally managed to drag him to Target in the early hours of the morning–when there wouldn’t be chaos, or crowds, just the hum of employees and muffled pop music.

The mission was to get him some clothes. Just an array of hoodies, sweatshirts, sweatpants, boxers and undershirts, and of course socks. He didn’t ask for any of it, but you had guided him aisle by aisle, nudging his elbow to encourage him to pick out whatever he wanted.

Once you reached the bath and body care section you helped him pick through scents.

”Get what you want,” You said, “Do you like lavender? Mint? Vanilla?” He shrugged, popping one of the caps open to sniff, before returning it to the shelf. He ended up picking one that reminded him of your conditioner–a mix of coconut oil, sage, and grapefruit.

You didn’t call him out on it, but he knew you noticed just by the smirk that came up on your lips, and how you gently bumped shoulders with him on the way to checkout.

That week, he finally showered alone.

The week prior, you had to sit on the floor of the washroom with your back turned towards the door, and knees drawn up to your chest. You listened to him closely, and heard him take shaking breaths behind the curtain as the steam curled around you.

When he asked you to stay in the washroom with him he knew it was an awkward request, but you listened intently to his reasoning, even though you had already made up your mind to do it regardless. If it helped him, the awkwardness was secondary to you.

”I don’t w-want to be alone…I’m afraid I’ll…I’ll see him…W-Whatever I was.” And you had been there every time, until day eleven, when he said he wanted to try to be on his own. You gave him that privacy, and closed the door. He came out fifteen minutes later, wrapped in the towels you had left on the radiator smelling like a whole citrus section in a grocery store.

By the third week, the apartment smelled like lemon zest and something faintly burning at least once a day.

You had started waking up to the faint clatter of mixing bowls and the low creak of cabinet doors. The first time it happened, you walked into the kitchen at 2:43 in the morning, to find Bob standing at the stove barefoot, sleeves rolled up, squinting at a dog-eared page in one of your long-forgotten cookbooks,

You startled him when you padded in.

”S–Sorry–I didn’t mean to wake y-you,” He whispered, glancing over his shoulder, “I–I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d try s-something.” You looked at the mess—sugar scattered across the counter, a cracked egg leaking beside a whisk, flour dusting the air like snowfall. It should’ve felt chaotic, but it didn’t. It felt like motion. Like healing, somehow.

“Want company?” You asked, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with your knuckles.

He hesitated for only a second before giving you a tiny, grateful nod.

That happened again the next night.

And the one after.

He made banana pancakes at 1 a.m., grilled cheese at 3:00, and once attempted a souffle with comically disastrous results.

Eventually, you offered a different solution.

“How about we try watching a boring movie instead?” You asked as he stood in the living room one night, holding a bowl of half-mixed muffin batter. “Might help wind your brain down a bit more than cooking and baking.” He pursed his lips, looked down at the bowl, then back up at you.

”…O-Okay.”

You didn’t put on anything exciting, just some old obscure movie. It was the kind of film where nothing really happens, you didn’t need to observe and you certainly didn’t have to pay attention to it.

Bob settled onto the couch beside you, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around them.

Halfway through, his head started to dip sideways.

You felt the soft weight of it first–hesitant but real–when he let it rest on your lap.

You froze. Not because it startled you, but because it meant something. The trust in that gesture was palpable. Heavy.

His hair, now finally growing out in soft, tousled waves, was thick and slightly uneven—darker at the roots, lighter where the sun had kissed it through your windows. A little unkempt, curling faintly behind his ears. You let your fingers hover over it for a second, unsure…

Then you touched him.

Gently.

You threaded your fingers into the locks at the crown of his head, letting your nails lightly scratch his scalp, slow and rhythmic. He didn’t pull away.

He sighed.

A soft, long exhale. And then–you felt it happen.

His breathing evened out. His shoulders softened. The tension in his jaw unclenched. He didn’t just rest his head on your lap–he slept.

It was the first time he’d truly let go.

The first time he’d let you hold him without flinching from the weight of being seen.

You stayed there for hours, barely moving, running your fingers gently through his hair while the muted light from the screen flickered across his cheekbones.

You didn’t dare wake him.

The next morning, you didn’t mention it.

Neither did he.

But something had shifted. A soft, invisible thing between you. A comfort that didn’t need words.

And when the email finally came through a few days later–Tower’s ready. Moving in next Friday–he was the one who walked into the kitchen holding a roll of tape and a stack of folded boxes.

“I can help you pack,” He said, and you let him.

Now after the weeks bonding with him you found yourselves in front of the car staring at the boxes that had defined his stay with you. You shrugged and opened the passenger door for him.

“Well, now you’ve also got the car full of my chaos to babysit with your boxes,” You teased, “Congratulations, you’ve been promoted to co-pilot-slash-box guardian.” Bob blushed at your comment and shook his head, stepping into the car with ease as you handed him both of his boxes.

“A-At least the ride is only half an hour. P-Please don’t drive like a m-maniac.” He commented, watching you place a hand on your chest, feigning offence.

”I follow the rules of the road…It’s everyone else’s fault that I have to drive the way I do.”

——————

The Tower loomed like a monument to a future neither of you were quite ready for yet.

All glass and steel, the building glittered in the late morning sun–its reflection cutting across the sky line in clean, perfect angles. The closer you drove, the more you felt the tension shift in the air. A pressure. Something expectant. It was the kind of silence that clings to the edge of change.

The security gate recognized your plates on approach, and the barrier lifted with a hiss, allowing you to pull into the underground parking garage that smelled like burning concrete. Your tires glided across the laneway, as you found your assigned spot–Bay 21A, right beneath the elevator hub.

With straight precision you backed into the spot, putting it between the lines perfectly without cheating–Bob liked challenging you by covering the screen that showed the footage of your review cameras, and every time you somehow managed to impress him with your pure skill of parking like an expert.

You let out a soft sigh and cut the engine, letting the silence envelop the car completely.

Bob sat quietly in the passenger seat, picking at the lid of one of the boxes in his lap. He was nervous to see everyone again–he had told you that multiple times when he was helping you roll up your posters in your room–and every time he said it you tried to reassure him there was nothing to worry about. This was another one of those times where his nerves were coming out to haunt him, along with guilt for what he had done to everyone.

Slowly, you reached over and covered one hand with yours, giving it the faintest squeeze, which brought him out of his trance.

”They’re not expecting anything from you,” You said quietly, “You being there is enough…Okay?” He nodded once, but didn’t look at you. His gaze was locked on the glossy dashboard, eyes wide with the kind of dread that sinks its claws in and pretends to be logic. You gave him a moment, then gently opened your door.

The air in the underground garage was cooler than the heat outside, but still held the faint echo of gasoline and ozone. You circled the car, popping the trunk and pulling out the first set of bags while Bob slowly emerged on the other side with his boxes in his arms. You could feel his nerves in the way he hovered, shifting his weight from foot to foot, watching you slowly empty your trunk and mentally checking off the things that you labeled.

Bob crouched down carefully, setting his two boxes on the smooth concrete with a quiet thud. You didn’t even have to ask what he was doing—because you already knew. It was in the set of his shoulders, the way he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows with precise movements, knuckles cracking once like a silent warm-up. You arched a brow as you slung one of your overstuffed bags onto the ground beside him.

“You’re gonna try to carry all of it, aren’t you?” He gave you a small, sheepish look as he reached for the nearest vacuum sealed bag.

“J-Just want to get it done in one trip…I-I can handle it.”

You didn’t doubt that he could. You’d seen what he was capable of–really capable of–once.

It had been during your second week together, when he’d sneezed of all things. A completely ordinary, human, unremarkable sneeze. But when he braced his palm against the edge of the counter, you heard the wood crack. Split straight down to the support beam. The look on his face afterward had been sheer horror. He apologized for an hour. Then he avoided touching anything solid for the rest of the day.

He hadn’t used his strength since.

Not until now.

You watched silently as he lined up the boxes like a game of cautious engineering. He braced your backpack against the top of the stack with his knee, then reached for the plastic bin full of tangled cords. You winced.

“You’re gonna throw your back out before we even get to the lobby,” You muttered, crouching beside him. But when you reached for one of the smaller bags, he stopped you with a gentle touch to your wrist.

“I got it.” He said firmly, with no stammer or nerves. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Bob…” He didn’t look at you–just adjusted the bin one more time on top of the pile, his arms curling around the whole absurd tower of your combined belongings like it weighed nothing. And maybe it didn’t–not to him.

But the stillness in his face made you pause.

Without thinking, you stepped closer and gently reached out, fingers curling around his jaw to turn his face toward you. He resisted at first, a quiet kind of resistance–not physical, but instinctual. Like he didn’t want to be looked at too closely. But he didn’t stop you either. His eyes were closed tightly, as if he was shielding something from you.

“Hey,” You said softly, thumb brushing just beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Open your eyes.”

He let out a soft sigh and blinked, once.

The gold shimmered faintly through the blue–just a soft hue, like the sun glinting off metal buried under water. You smiled, small and knowing, a breath of fond exasperation curling from your lips.

“Knew it,” You murmured, tracing the warmth of his cheekbone gently, “You better shake the gold outta those eyes before the elevator doors open, or Yelena’s gonna throw a knife at you on instinct.” He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been nerves. But it was something. And then he nodded, clutching the tower of boxes tighter as you stepped back and popped the trunk closed with a gentle slam. You locked the car with a chirp, then turned and motioned with your head.

“C’mon, Hercules. Eightieth floor, express ride.” Bob followed you closely, his steps careful but somehow steady beneath the weight of everything he carried. You led the way into the sleek glass elevator at the far end of the garage, pressing your palm against the biometric scanner until the panel lit up green. The numbers climbed on the display, fast and smooth, the elevator doors sliding open to reveal a surprisingly quiet car.

“Eighty,” you said aloud, and the panel blinked in acknowledgement.

The doors closed. The hum of the lift filled the silence.

You glanced over at him. “Still with me?”

“Y-Yeah,” He whispered. “Just…Trying not to break anything.”

“You’re doing great,” You said, and reached out to squeeze his elbow. His knuckles were white around the box edges, but his jaw was unclenched. That was progress.

The numbers blinked in rapid succession, each floor a soft ding that echoed in the space like a countdown. Bob stood beside you, arms wrapped around the towering stack of boxes and bags, the gold in his eyes dimmed now to a whisper. You could feel the nervous energy vibrating off him—not in any visible way, but like static on the skin. His chest rose and fell a little too fast. His fingers shifted to tighten their hold around the base box. You glanced up at him and gave his elbow another quick squeeze.

“Hey,” you murmured, “Deep breath. This isn’t the press room. It’s home…Kind of.”

And then–ding.

EIGHTIETH FLOOR.

The doors slid open.

And chaos hit like a brick wall.

“DUDE, THAT WAS MINE!”

“It was not, I CALLED DIBS!”

“I tagged it with my name!”

“Your name is not ‘BOOG’, Walker, it’s not exactly an ironclad claim!”

The common area was a battlefield of cardboard boxes, scattered shoes, half-assembled IKEA furniture, and rogue throw pillows that looked like they’d been used in an actual skirmish. Somewhere between the couch and the kitchenette, Walker and Ava were tangled in a tug-of-war over a branded coffee machine neither of them had apparently paid for.

Alexei was shirtless, inexplicably, perched on top of the breakfast bar with a screwdriver in his mouth and a kitchen cabinet door in one hand.

Alpine was sitting in the center of the chaos like some smug, unbothered little queen, tail flicking as if supervising the disarray, licking her paws and wiping her face.

Bucky stood a little ways back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the scene like he was trying to calculate how quickly he could disappear before anyone roped him into it. His hair was tied back messily and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing his polished vibranium arm.

Yelena whipped around the corner, sleek boots scuffing across the hardwood, hair cropped into the fluffy bob you remembered but now styled back with deliberate, greasy charm. It looked like she’d stolen a page out of Bucky’s post-pardon playbook: part assassin, part disgruntled congressman. The effect was wildly successful. She froze mid-step the second she saw you.

Her eyes bounced from you to Bob.

To the boxes.

To Bob’s arms.

To Bob’s face.

“…Holy shit,” She muttered.

The noise didn’t die instantly, but it dropped. Just enough for everyone to glance up from their various ridiculous activities and follow her stare.

Ava blinked twice.

Walker’s brows lifted in slow, dramatic awe.

Alexei whispered something in Russian that definitely sounded reverent.

Even Alpine paused her paw licking, like she knew something was off in the room suddenly.

Because Bob Reynolds didn’t look like the man they’d last seen sitting glassy-eyed behind Valentina at that press conference. He didn’t look hollow anymore.

He looked solid. Stronger in more ways than one. It was evident he had been eating well with how broad his shoulders had become. In addition, the group could see the slight confidence in the way he stood beside you–like he wasn’t a disappearing act anymore.

His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, forearms flexed under the absurd weight of what he carried, jawline more defined, face not quite as sunken in. The faint sun-kissed warmth of his skin, the way his hair curled slightly at the base of his neck from the shower, the steadiness of how he stood–all of it painted a picture none of them were expecting.

Bob stood there frozen for a breath, blinking like the elevator had transported him to another dimension instead of the eighty-fifth floor of the most secure building in the country. The silence that followed was thick, stunned, and oddly reverent.

Then, without fully realizing he was doing it, Bob crouched down and gently eased the tower of boxes to the floor, careful not to drop or jostle a single thing. He took a step back, pushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, and gave the room the smallest, most hesitant wave imaginable.

“H-Hey,” He said, his voice quieter than it had been all morning. It wasn’t shaky, but it wasn’t loud either–just a soft offering. “Uh…Hi.”

There was a beat of silence before the reaction hit like a slow-building wave.

Walker, never one to play things subtle, gave a long whistle and crossed his arms. “Damn, Y/N has really been feedin’ you, huh?”

“You’ve grown into the size of a house.” Ava muttered, almost in disbelief.

“You look better,” Yelena said simply, “Much better,” Then she paused, a rare smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “We’re glad you’re here Bob.”

“Da,” Alexei added from his perch atop the counter, “We thought you would show up glowing from the eyes shooting laser beams…This is better.” Bucky stepped forward at last, the quiet anchor among the chaos. He met Bob’s gaze evenly.

“You look good, man.” There was no flourish to it. Just truth. And it hit harder than any of the jokes or smirks.

Alpine leapt gracefully off the couch and padded over to Bob like she was the real authority of the floor, circling him once before rubbing up against his leg like she approved. That–more than anything–made Bob let out a shaky little exhale. You saw it in his shoulders. A sliver of tension released.

“I…Th-Thanks,” Bob said softly, pushing his sleeves back down and tugging them past his wrists again. “It’s good to see you guys. I-I didn’t think…you know…”

“We’d all be here together under one roof?” Yelena offered helpfully.

“I was gonna say ‘still like me,’ but–yeah, that too.”

“We’ve all had our Void moments,” Walker said, slinging an arm lazily around Ava’s shoulder, who ducked out from under it immediately. “Just glad you’re back. For real this time.” You gave Bob a small nudge with your elbow, and he glanced at you like he still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming this part. Yelena stepped forward, clapping her hands once.

“Alright, you two. You’re both in the south wing–rooms 804 and 805. Hopefully you two are okay with sharing the washroom.” You snorted softly.

”We’ve been sharing a washroom for the past four weeks, I’m sure we will manage just fine.” Bob’s ears turned pink, but the faint grin tugging at his lips told you he didn’t mind.

The others returned to their chaotic unpacking–Walker trying to assemble a lamp with brute force, Ava muttering about WiFi passwords, Alexei still shirtless for absolutely no reason–and Yelena waved you and Bob off with a lazy salute, “Go get settled!”

You nodded and turned down the hall with Bob trailing just behind you, his eyes darting over the sleek white walls and polished wood trim like it all felt too new to touch. When you reached the south wing, the hallway widened. Soft LED lights glowed inlaid against the baseboards. You reached two adjacent doors labeled 804 and 805.

“This one’s you,” You murmured, thumbing the pad on 804 until the panel clicked green. The door slid open, soundless.

Bob stepped in.

And stopped.

The room was huge. High ceilings stretched up, a soft echo already present in the sterile quiet. White walls. Pale oak flooring. A twin-size mattress resting on a raised platform bed frame with no sheets. A basic black desk and chair in one corner. A minimalist bookshelf built into the wall with three empty shelves, and natural sunlight beaming through the large window panes that lined the walls with a cityscape. That was it.

No color. No lightbulbs warm enough to feel like home. No blankets tossed over couch arms. No ceramic mug sitting on a coaster. No smell of your lemon-ginger tea or vanilla candles. Just newness. Cold and clean and…Blank.

You didn’t miss the way his body language changed. His shoulders didn’t drop. They stayed stiff. His mouth twitched–not with a smile, but with something like confusion and disappointment carefully stitched together.

Because sure he was back, but he’d lost something in the return.

The cozy warmth of your living room–the worn grey sectional with the throw pillows that never matched. The bookshelf bursting with novels stacked sideways and double-layered. The corner where the floor lamp glowed gold at night. The soft scent of cinnamon, lemon, and fresh laundry that clung to the fabric. The hum of your voice talking to yourself in the kitchen while he sat curled under the blanket with a book cracked open across his knees.

This place didn’t have any of that. This place was a reset button. And Bob–after weeks of slow, careful healing–was suddenly standing in an empty room with nothing that looked like it remembered him.

You stepped in beside him quietly.

“You okay?” You asked, voice soft. He nodded, but it was the kind of nod that didn’t carry truth behind it. His eyes were scanning the walls like he was waiting for them to close in.

“It’s just…Quiet,” He said finally. “Too clean…It kind of reminds me of the lab in Malaysia.” You touched his elbow, giving it a gentle stroke, a comforting smile appearing on your face.

“We’ll fix that.” He turned to look at you, brow furrowed, like there was no way that would be possible, “You’ve got your books. Your mugs. The blanket. We’ll get your lamp and your tea, and I’ll buy one of those weird lemon candles if you miss the smell.”

That got the tiniest laugh out of him. Barely there. But his eyes softened.

“I miss the couch,” He admitted.

“I miss it too.” You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “But we’ll make this work, Bob. Just give it time.” Bob gave you a small nod, slow and silent, eyes lingering on the bare bookshelf now, like he was trying to will it into holding memories that didn’t exist yet. You let out a small sigh and reached up to touch his warm smooth cheek to draw his attention down to you.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go out,” You started gently but firmly, like it was already decided, “And we’ll pick out paint, plants, decorations, throw blankets, dumb little desk trinkets…Whatever it takes to make this place feel like it’s yours okay?” Your thumb brushed just beneath the curve of his eye, and his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t used to being held this gently.

His eyes were glassy–not with tears, but something close. That strange shimmer of overwhelm that comes when your heart is too full of quiet things. When someone sees you exactly where you are. For a long second, he didn’t say anything. Then he sighed, low and quiet, and leaned into the touch–not all the way, but enough to press his cheek into your palm, like he was absorbing it.

“…Okay,” He whispered.

The single word carried a thousand more underneath it. Agreement. Gratitude. Hope. A soft kind of surrender.

You let your hand fall away gently, not wanting to make it weird, not wanting to overstep–but you caught the way his eyes followed the movement like he wasn’t quite ready for it to end. So you cleared your throat lightly and nudged him with your shoulder again.

“Alright. Enough brooding. Come help me set up my room before I lose my mind trying to untangle all those extension cords I packed like an idiot.”

Bob blinked, then let out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

There wasn’t a single second of hesitation. No pause to overthink it. He just followed–like he always did with you now. Like he wanted to be where you were, because that was the only place that made sense anymore.

Bob went back to where he had left your boxes and gathered everything into his arms again, balancing everything with pure precision, cradling the whole mess in his arms as he walked down back to your room. You tapped the panel on your own door–805–and it opened with the same quiet hiss.

He followed you slowly making sure he didn’t bump into you in the process as the door closed behind the both of you once he stepped in fully. The quiet that settled over the space was immediate and unforgiving.

The room was the exact same as his. White walls, pale oak floors, empty shelves, the bed frame with no warmth, the desk, and the wonderful view of the cityscape. You stood there for a moment, expression unreadable, then sighed, letting your shoulders relax.

“Well,” You muttered, stepping into the room a little more fully and crossing to the wide, clean-lined windows. You pressed your thumb to the side panel, and with a soft click, the glass slid open, letting in a breeze that stirred your hair and carried in the smell of the city: hot concrete, wind, and faint smoke from a food truck somewhere below. Bob set everything down in a neat row near the foot of the bed–the vacuum sealed bags, and the labeled boxes with generic scrawl ‘Desk Stuff + Nightstand’, followed by ‘Y/N’s Books,’ and ‘THIS HAS BREAKABLE STUFF IN IT DON’T DROP!’. He set that one down with exaggerated care, like it contained lit dynamite.

You put your hands on your hips.

”Guess we’ll start with whichever box is first.”

Bob gave a soft huff of acknowledgement, already crouching down and slicing open the tape on the topmost one with the side of a key he pulled from his pocket.

The first item out was your worn, pilled blanket. Fleece, with a weird faded pattern of crescent moons and stars and old Sharpie stains you swore were from high school. You plucked it from the box and immediately tossed it across the bed, smoothing it out with a flick of your wrists. The effect was instant. The sterile mattress looked lived in now.

Bob handed you the next item without comment–your bedside lamp. An old brass thing with a twisted base and a shade that looked like it had been mauled by a cat in a past life. You plugged it in and clicked it on. The bulb flickered once, then glowed with a soft amber hue that made the whole corner of the room feel warmer.

“Better,” you said softly.

Next came a small cluster of mismatched mugs–two chipped ones with cartoon characters, one heavy ceramic thing that looked handmade, and one novelty mug that said ‘Running on Coffee’. You lined them up on the desk next to your portable kettle and stash of teas and hot chocolate packets–something that you also had in your old room in your apartment as well, it was just for convenience, especially if you were enthralled in whatever you were doing and didn’t want to leave your room.

Bob unpacked your books with care, handing you each one like it was fragile. You stacked them on the shelf haphazardly: poetry first, then science fiction, then a tiny shrine to emotionally devastating literary fiction. You placed your favorite–Never Let Me Go–face-out on the middle shelf like it was sacred. Bob didn’t question it.

There was a box of trinkets and sentimental chaos next. You fished out a tiny figure of a goat in a superhero cape–a gift from Ava–a tarnished lucky coin, a broken watch you hadn’t had the heart to throw away, a photo strip of you and Bob from the CVS kiosk. You pinned that to the corkboard on your desk without a word, right above your calendar–like it was something you wanted to remember, especially because it was one of Bob’s good days during the four weeks of staying together.

Soon, the space began to fill.

Your flannel was tossed over the desk chair. A plant was set by the window–half-dead, but stubborn. You arranged your pens in a clay cup. Bob found your spare set of fairy lights and handed them over without being asked, and you looped them around the headboard, twisting the cord to keep it tight.

And then…Came the collection of posters.

You pulled the long cardboard tube free from the box with a reverent sort of care and twisted the cap until it popped with a quiet snap. Bob glanced over as you began to slide the rolled posters out, one at a time–each print carefully preserved with tissue paper and worn edges. There were no fold lines. These weren’t flimsy college dorm reprints. These were theatrical releases.

Real ones.

Bob crouched down beside you looking at them closely with curiosity. You could imagine the questions going through his head.

“I used to work at a theatre during my internship,” You said, peeling the tissue from the first one and holding it up against the light. “Whenever we’d change the marquee, they’d let the staff take whatever we wanted from the promo bin. I fought for this one.”

The poster was tall and dramatic–Vertigo by Hitchcock. Bright swirls of orange and red, the silhouettes locked in that spiraling, dangerous fall. It was striking. You stood slowly, angling it toward the wall above your bed.

“They’re all long like this,” you added. “Old school sizing. And I want them to start high and cascade down like a film reel.” You grinned to yourself. “I know it’s excessive.”

Bob stood up behind you, brushing off his hands. “It’s you.”

You turned to glance at him.

He looked a little sheepish. “I mean…You love movies…So…The r-room wouldn’t be yours if you didn’t have s-something dedicated to it…” You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh, grabbing the removable adhesive tabs from the supply pile and peeling one open between your teeth. But when you hopped up onto the mattress and tried stretching, the top corner still sat a full foot out of reach.

You frowned and leaned on your tiptoes, paper flopping awkwardly in your hands.

“Damn it…Maybe I could get a stool or so–.”

“I could, uh–“ Bob cut in, voice low and a little unsure, “I–I could…Put you on my shoulders?” You paused mid-stretch, glancing back over your shoulder.

He was standing just behind the edge of the mattress now, hands half-lifted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you or if he’d made some kind of grave error by suggesting it. His eyes flicked up to yours and then back down to the floor, as if it might open up to eat him alive to give him a better alternative.

You turned the rest of the way around, brows lifting, poster still in hand. “You’re offering to carry me like one of those boxes over there?” You asked, motioning to the discarded cardboard.

“No! I-I mean–not like that, I wouldn’t–” He flinched a little at himself, then groaned softly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not like a box. I wouldn’t treat you like a box.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the way he stumbled awkwardly through his explanation.

“So, not like a box,” You teased gently, stepping closer to the edge of the mattress and letting the poster droop at your side. “You sure you’ve got me? Because I’m not exactly made of foam peanuts, and I just recovered from my broken ribs…” Bob looked up at you then, really looked, and something in his face shifted. Softened. You weren’t sure if it was the golden glint rising behind his blue eyes again or just the quiet steadiness that lived somewhere deep in his chest now—but it was enough.

He swallowed once and nodded “I–I know he’ll be c-careful…You’re…You.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flip.

And then you held out your hands.

“Alright, alright…What’s the worst that could happen? Let’s do it…” He stepped close and braced his warm, soft palms at your calves, waiting for you to climb onto his shoulders with careful movements that bordered on meekness. You perched cautiously, gripping the top of his head gently for balance as you settled on the muscles shifting a bit to make sure you weren’t hurting him. His hands moved instinctively–large and steady–one resting just above the backs of your knees to keep you stable, the other hovering in case you swayed.

From your new height, the top of the wall was suddenly accessible. You could reach it easily now, the edges of the Vertigo poster fluttering against your chest in the soft breeze from the window.

“This…Is weirdly effective,” you murmured, peeling the backing off the adhesive tabs. “If anything fails with the Thunderbolts…Or New Avengers…Whatever we’ll be named…I think we could go do circus work.”

“Don’t tempt me…” Bob said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, even if you couldn’t see it. You turned the poster and pressed the top corners to the wall with slow precision, smoothing the paper down with practiced hands. The steadiness in him was almost soothing–warm and solid and unshakable. Bob shifted slightly beneath you as you pressed the last corner flat, moving his hands to the tops of your thighs–strong, but gentle. Always gentle. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the fabric of your shorts, and every so often, you caught the subtle rise and fall of his breath, steady like the rhythm of an old song you didn’t know you’d memorized.

“There,” you said softly, leaning back just enough to take in the full image of the Vertigo poster now secured high on the wall. It looked perfect–like it belonged. “One down, five to go.” Bob let out a quiet laugh, almost a breath more than a sound, and gently backed away from the wall to give you space. His hands never left your legs until the very last second–he steadied you instinctively as he shifted, his palms ghosting along your thighs before slipping away like the weight of a blanket being pulled off in slow motion.

You wobbled slightly, still perched up high, but Bob crouched at your side before you could even flinch. With practiced precision, he reached into the pile of still-rolled posters and plucked the next one out of the tube without looking. He offered it to you with both hands like it was sacred.

You took it with a quiet “Thanks,” but he didn’t move right away.

Instead, he tilted his head back to look up at you.

And in that moment, something flickered behind his eyes again–the soft, golden, like glow of a late summer sun cresting through the clouds. It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t overwhelming. Just there. Lurking in the blue like a memory half-awake. His mouth parted, barely.

You looked down at him and saw it immediately. That faint shimmer. That quiet power. That strange, ancient thing that gave him the ‘power of a million exploding suns’ as Val had coined.

Your free hand moved without thought. You reached down, ran the side of your thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone with a featherlight touch, and felt him still completely beneath you, his eyes still locked on yours.

“Does he know me?” You asked softly.

Bob blinked once, then twice.

His lips parted again, and this time, sound came—barely more than a whisper, shaped around hesitation.

“H-He does,” He said, voice caught somewhere between himself and something deeper. “B-But he…he doesn’t remember what he did. When we all fought…” You felt his breath catch just slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it aloud in this space. Like voicing it would make the memory real again. But he kept going.

”I think…He remembers you from the night that Val’s people gunned me down…” His eyes scanned over yours, unreadable, searching, “But I don’t know for sure…It’s like–like flashes.” Your thumb stilled against his cheek. You could feel the muscles in his jaw shift beneath the skin, tense and taut like he was trying to hold the rest of it back. His pulse was hammering against your inner thigh, you could feel it radiating into his muscles.

“W-We aren’t fully c-connected anymore,” He admitted. “At least…Not the way we used to be. It’s quieter. But also…Stranger.”

You didn’t speak. Just listened.

Bob swallowed hard, then added in a low, almost guilty murmur, “I can still do the whole s-super strength thing–I mean, clearly,” He gestured halfheartedly to where you were still balanced comfortably on his shoulders, “But I d-don’t know where he begins and I-I end anymore. It’s not like flipping a switch. It’s not that clean.”

You brushed his cheek again with the pad of your thumb. “Does it scare you?” He shakes his head immediately.

”I-It used to…A l-lot but I think I can manage it a bit b-better. You’ve been able to help w-with that.” You were about to say something–something honest, something warm, something just for him.

Maybe it was going to be “You’re doing better than you think.” Or maybe “I see you, Bob. All of you.”

But the words caught on the edge of your tongue like a thread snagging in fabric–because the door hissed open with a hydraulic sigh, and Walker’s voice cut through the room before you even had time to turn your head.

“Jesus Christ–”

Bob stiffened instinctively beneath you.

You both turned at the same time–which was unavoidable due to the position.

Walker was frozen in the doorway, one hand still braced against the panel, his eyes squinting like he couldn’t quite compute what he was seeing. His gaze flicked from you–perched high on Bob’s shoulders, one hand still cradling his face like a lover’s whisper–to Bob, who was blushing so hard it looked like he might actually combust on the spot.

Walker blinked. Once. Twice. Then gave a slow, amused whistle.

“Well…That is not what I expected to walk in on.”

“Walker,” You deadpanned, not moving from your place. “Knock next time.”

“You don’t even have a real door,” He said, walking in like he owned the place, arms crossed and boots heavy on the floor.

“I was just–s-she needed help with the posters,” He mumbled, carefully lowering his arms to begin letting you slide down. “I w-wasn’t–It’s not what it–”

”No need to explain yourselves….It’s all good.” You finally slid off Bob’s shoulders, landing with a soft thud on the hardwood, your hands brushing his shoulders gently on your way down. Bob looked like he wanted to retreat into the nearest drawer.

Walker, mercifully, spared him further commentary.

“Anyway,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Lunch just got here. Got delivered a bit late, but it’s hot. Couple boxes of noodles, some dumplings, and that weird green juice that Yelena keeps pretending she likes. If either of you want in, better grab a plate before Alexei eats everything but the box liners again.”

“Thanks,” You said simply, brushing your hand on your shorts. “We’ll be there in a few.”

Walker gave Bob a wink that made him flinch like he’d been hit with a spotlight. “Don’t take too long.”

Then he was gone, the door whispering closed behind him like nothing had happened.

The silence that followed was thick with whatever had just almost happened–suspended, tender, delicate like breath on glass.

You glanced over at Bob.

His face was still flushed. His lashes low. But there was the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed, yes. But not retreating.

You let the silence stretch for another beat, just long enough to let the moment settle without breaking it.

Then you turned to him, voice soft, but sure.

“We’ll finish after lunch,” You said, like a gentle nudge. “I don’t trust Alexei not to start sampling the furniture if we wait too long.”

Bob exhaled a short, nervous breath through his nose–half a laugh, half relief–and nodded.

“Y-Yeah…Okay.” You reached down to the scattered pile of posters and gathered them into a neat stack, tucking them carefully into the cardboard tube like you were handling film reels from an archive. Bob crouched beside you to help without being asked, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he adjusted the cap and clicked it back into place.

“Thanks,” You murmured. You meant it for the posters. And everything else.

He just nodded, eyes flicking up to meet yours, then back down again with a faint flush still clinging to his cheeks.

You rose to your feet first, offering him a hand to stand. He took it without hesitation, his palm warm and steady in yours. You didn’t let go right away–even once he was upright again. Not until you had squeezed once, just barely, and let it go as if you hadn’t done it at all.

As you both turned toward the door, Bob hesitated–just for a second–and looked back at the Vertigo poster on the wall. The first thread of something new stitched into this blank place.

His voice was low when he spoke. “It looks good up there.”

You glanced at him with a quiet smile.

“Yeah,” You said. “It does.”

And then you left together–out into the bright hallway, toward the sounds of laughter and clattering chopsticks, and the smell of soy sauce and scorched dumplings

———————

The next morning rose slowly, spilling honeyed light across the edge of the skyline just beyond your window. It kissed the walls in soft amber streaks, warming the pale wood floors and the flannel still slung over your desk chair. The city was just beginning to wake–quiet traffic below, a distant horn, the hush of wind curling through the slight crack in your window.

You stirred beneath the weight of your fleece moon blanket, legs tangled and one arm draped across your stomach. The pillow beneath your cheek was the same one from the apartment, the cotton worn soft from too many washes, still faintly infused with the scent of lemon detergent and something unmistakably Bob–clean, warm, a little tangy from that body wash he never bothered to read the label of. You turned your face into it without thinking, breathing in deeper, letting the scent settle in your chest as you thought about yesterday.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you. Head tilted back, lips parted slightly, eyes wide and gold-touched like he was seeing something divine.

Your chest tightened a little as the image flickered back to life behind your eyes.

You could still feel the curve of his hands on your thighs, the way they held you steady–not possessive, not hesitant, just… Sure. Like you belonged there. Like he couldn’t imagine you anywhere else.

You’d meant to say something.

You had–right before Walker burst in and shattered the moment with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

But you hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had your body. Your pulse thudded low in your belly, not urgent, but present. Like the idea of him had taken root in your blood and was now blooming slowly, quietly, just beneath the surface.

You turned onto your back with a soft sigh, eyes tracing the ceiling for a few slow seconds before throwing the blanket off and sitting up. The floor was cool beneath your feet as you padded across the room, pushing your hair out of your face to cool yourself down.

You crossed into the shared bathroom, the silence between your quarters familiar now, softened by the faint scent of mint toothpaste and warm skin left behind in the air. You knocked lightly on the frame–habitual, gentle–before stepping through into his room.

Bob was already awake, bent slightly at the waist as he tugged the drawstring of his dark sweatpants into a loose knot. The hem of his maroon sweater had ridden up with the movement.

Your mouth went a little dry.

It wasn’t even that much skin. Just a sliver. A glimpse of pale muscle right beneath his navel, the edge of the soft line that led lower, disappearing into the fabric of his waistband. But there was something about the way it caught the light–casual, unbothered, unknowing–that made your pulse jump traitorously against your ribs.

It was too early for this. Too early to feel like your skin was buzzing with the ghost of his hands. Too early for your brain to short-circuit over a slouchy sweater and a knot being tied.

Bob straightened slowly, letting his sweater fall back into place. He reached up and raked a hand through his hair, tousling it gently between his fingers, like he hadn’t bothered to check the mirror yet–maybe he didn’t need to though. A few strands stuck up stubbornly, and his palm lingered for a second at the crown of his head, like he was debating whether it was worth taming.

Then his gaze slid over to you.

His eyes lit up the second they landed on your face–gentle and warm, crinkling slightly at the corners, and you felt it hit you low and soft in the chest.

“M-Morning,” he said with a small, sheepish smile. It was the kind of smile that curled just a little to one side and took its time settling in like it had nowhere else to be. “You, uh…Slept okay?”

“Yeah,” You said, and you meant it. Then, after a beat: “You?” He shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck.

”I got…Maybe an h-hour or two, b-but it’s a new place, so any sleep is good sleep.” You gave him a small nod, agreeing with him. Bob’s eyes flicked over you–just for a second. There was a blink of hesitation before they dropped down, tracing the loose hem of your sleep shirt where it hung just past the tops of your thighs. You were still warm from sleep, hair mussed from your pillow, collar stretched just enough to show the slope of your shoulder. Nothing scandalous. Nothing intentional. But his breath still caught.

You saw it.

The way his throat flinched with a quiet gulp as he tried–bless him–to return his gaze to your face like he hadn’t just nearly lost it at the sight of your bare legs and bed-warmed skin.

His ears pinked, and he gave a small, nervous chuckle–like he had been caught red handed stealing something, “Uh…W-we’re still doing the shopping thing, right? F-for the room and all?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” You said, smiling as you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe. “Of course. I’ll go get ready.”

You turned, heading back toward your room before either of you could combust from the tension curling quietly between you. Just before you slipped out of view, you looked over your shoulder.

”Oh, make sure you eat something by the way,” You added softly, “We may lose track of time…Don’t want to risk you passing out or something.” He let out a breath that was probably meant to be a laugh, eyes following you with something tender, almost awestruck.

“R-Right, I’ll d-do that.” You gave him a small smirk, then disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a quiet click, letting the buzz in the air ebb.

—————————

The store was massive.

That was the first thing Bob said–softly, under his breath–as the automatic doors whooshed open in front of the two of you and the sheer overwhelming scale of the home decor superstore revealed itself like a cathedral of curated domesticity. Neatly stacked rugs, end caps of throw pillows arranged by season, hanging plants suspended like jungle chandeliers from industrial beams. It smelled like eucalyptus, lemon oil, and waxed wood floors. Music played somewhere overhead—something instrumental, cheerful, and entirely ignorable.

“Stick close,” You teased, brushing his elbow with yours. “You get lost in the storage section and I’m not coming to rescue you. That place is a labyrinth.”

“I-I won’t,” He muttered, eyes wide as they took in the sheer number of lamps.

Despite his nerves, Bob was easy to lead. You grabbed a cart–he insisted on pushing it–and you moved together aisle by aisle, your steps steady, his just a half beat behind. He didn’t say much at first. Just sort of…Hovered. Eyeing everything like he wanted to throw it in the cart. You gave him space to acclimate, letting your fingers trail over textured blankets and woven baskets until, eventually, his hand reached out too.

The first thing he touched was a throw pillow.

It was simple–soft knit, goldenrod yellow with a stitched sun on the front. He ran his thumb over the embroidered rays like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

You watched him for a moment, then smiled.

“That’s a good one,” You said. “Warm. Soft…And the design suits you.”

“M-Me?” He asked, pointing at himself.

”Yeah…It’s the sun…And you…Y’know…Have the power of a million exploding suns…Remember?” You murmured, nudging him gently, watching his ears turn pink as he looked down at the pillow again with a sheepish smile on his face.

Bob held the golden sun pillow a second longer, running his thumb along the stitched rays like he was trying to memorize the texture. Then, after a beat, he placed it gently in the cart.

From there, it got easier.

The two of you drifted down the aisles in quiet tandem, picking out what felt right and skipping what didn’t. In the paint section, Bob stood still in front of the wall of color swatches for a long moment, brows knit as he scanned shade after shade of white-gray-beige. You could see the hesitation brewing in his eyes–too many choices, too many wrong ones.

You touched his arm lightly, drawing his gaze.

“What are you drawn to?”

He hesitated, then reached toward a swatch a few rows up. It was a soft, cloud gray with the faintest cool undertone. It looked almost blue in some light, depending on how Bob held the little tile. You took it from his fingers and read the name.

“Cathedral.” You muttered.

“L-Little dramatic for a p-paint swatch.” Bob replied, his eyebrows crinkling together slightly.

“It’s fitting I think…Could’ve been named anything though, Dolphin Gray even.” That got the smallest smile out of him. The kind that tilted the corner of his mouth before he looked away like he hadn’t meant to do it.

The employee at the counter mixed the paint while you grabbed a tray, rollers, edging tape, and a drop cloth Bob insisted was overkill because he wouldn’t make a mess, but you threw it in anyway. While the shaker did its thing, you pulled him back into the decor section. That’s when he stopped at the string lights.

“Warm white,” He murmured, almost to himself, fingers brushing the edge of the box. “Not too bright.” You nodded and added two sets to the cart.

Next aisle over, you spotted a small section of candles on a recessed shelf–there were only a few options, and they were all tucked into recycled glass jars. Your fingers drifted over a few of them until you settled on one that caught your eye. You slid it off the shelf and popped the lid off before inhaling slowly. Vanilla. Lemon. Something faintly earthy beneath it all, like ginger or roots. It wasn’t exact, but it was close. You turned and held it out to him

“This one smells like my apartment.” He took it from you immediately, cradling it in both hands like it was something fragile. He slowly lifted it to his nose, and closed his eyes, as if he was absorbing every inch of the scent. You couldn’t help but smile at the moment, at the gentleness, the calm that invaded his face, like he was remembering your living room. When he opened his eyes again, they were soft and relaxed.

“I-It really does…” He responded before slipping it into the cart without any explanation.

A few minutes later, in a section of half-price indoor plants, Bob paused in front of a small hanging basket. A trailing pothos, lush and green, leaves curling over the edge like ivy from a fairy tale. He crouched slightly to get a better look, brushing the soil gently with his knuckle.

“I-I think I’ll get this one,” He said after a moment. “Room’s got a lot of light…Feels like something should grow in it, y’know?” You smiled at his train of thought, looking down at the greenery.

“I think it’s perfect.”

He picked it up, holding the pot carefully against his chest like he was already invested in keeping it alive. It suited him more than you could’ve imagined. This gentle care. The quiet desire to nurture something in his own space. To bring life into a place that had once only held silence.

By the time you circled back to pick up the paint, the cart was full: the sun pillow, the plant, the candle, two boxes of lights, a gray fleece throw blanket, a small framed print of an old seaside map Bob claimed reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place, and a wooden picture frame you nudged into the pile without comment. For the extra photo strip you had–just in case he ever wanted it on his nightstand.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And when you caught Bob glancing down into the cart, his eyes tracing over the soft, mismatched collection of items, you saw it: the slow, quiet realization that this wasn’t just stuff.

It was the beginning of something that could finally feel like his.

He looked over at you, his hair slightly mussed from where he’d run his fingers through it too many times, and smiled–really smiled this time.

“Thanks for helping,” He said softly.

”Don’t thank me yet, we still have to paint and get all this stuff set up.”

——————————

Back at the compound, the city traffic gave way to the familiar hush of the underground lot as you pulled into Bay 21A. Bob unbuckled quickly, murmuring something about “not letting you carry anything,” before slipping out of the car and circling to the back. You barely had time to pop the hatch before he was already stacking the bags in careful tiers against his chest, paint can balanced on top with the plant cradled like a fragile infant in the crook of one elbow.

“I can help, you know…I’m not a piece of glass,” You said, raising a brow as he adjusted the throw blanket and tucked the bag with the candle under his arm like a seasoned pro.

“I-I got it,” He insisted, cheeks already pink with effort and pride. “B-Besides…This stuff’s important. I don’t wanna j-jostle it.” He glanced down at the plant with something bordering on reverence.

You rolled your eyes fondly, grabbing only the receipt and the keys before trailing behind him toward the elevator.

Back on the eightieth floor, the moment the door hissed open to the hallway, Bob adjusted the box of lights with his forearm and moved with quiet precision down the hall like a man on a mission. You tapped the panel for his room, and as the door slid open, he stepped inside and finally exhaled.

Everything was still as it had been the day before–blank walls, stripped bed, faint echo in the corners. But the weight of your shared errand buzzed in the air like something alive now. Potential. Comfort waiting to be built.

You breezed across the room and tapped the window control again, letting the breeze rush in.

“Not getting high off paint fumes today,” You said over your shoulder. “If we pass out mid-coat, Alexei will probably assume we were huffing it.” Bob let out a breathy laugh and carefully lowered the mountain of bags to the floor.

“I’m gonna change,” You added, already backing toward the door. “Don’t want to ruin my decent street clothes.” Bob gave a little nod, brushing the back of his hand across his brow where a stray curl had fallen.

“Y-Yeah, I’ll probably do the s-same,” He murmured, already toeing off his shoes by the entryway. You ducked out with a small smile and padded back into your room, flicking on the light. The process didn’t take long, you pulled on a pair of sleep shorts–soft and worn from years of laundering–and a baggy, sun-faded t-shirt, with the Stark Industries intern logo barely visible across the chest. The hem hung loose past your hips, and the neckline was wide and flimsy. A small smear of old red paint still clung to one of the sleeves from a project you’d long forgotten.

You grabbed a few bobby pins from your nightstand and pulled your hair back loosely, pinning the front sections away from your face, before returning back to Bob’s room soon after.

He was standing by the window, adjusting the drop sheet with one hand, the soft gray fleece blanket already tossed over the desk chair behind him. The sweatpants were still the same–dark, loose, slung a little low on his hips–but the sweater was gone now, and in its place…

A white undershirt.

And not just any undershirt. The kind that clung.

It clung to him like a second skin–thin cotton stretched just slightly across his chest and shoulders, outlining the sharp lines of his upper body like someone had sketched him in soft charcoal and left the strokes unfinished. The fabric hugged the slope of his collarbones and dipped gently over the muscles in his arms–biceps carved like they’d been sculpted by Phidias. You could see the outline of every ridge, and every subtle shift as he moved. The shirt was just snug enough across his stomach to trace the flat plane there, but loose enough around the hem to flutter when he bent slightly at the waist to grab the roller tray. The light from the window hit the curve of his deltoids, casting shadows you didn’t know cotton could catch.

He looked like a man carved from warmth. Golden light bled across his skin, tracing the veins in his forearms as he flexed his grip on the tray, veins that twisted like poetry across the backs of his hands and up toward the cuffs of his sleeves. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this–but God, it still felt like it.

Every time felt like the first.

Bob looked over his shoulder and caught you standing in the doorway, his mouth parting slightly when he saw you in your baggy shorts and oversized shirt, your hair pushed back with a few stray wisps curling around your temple. His gaze flicked over you slowly–hesitantly–like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t stop.

“Y-You, uh…Look ready,” He said finally, his voice a little rougher than before. “G-Good shirt for painting.” He added, motioning to the outfit. You stepped in slowly, trying not to stare. But he looked like something out of a sun-drenched dream. Still gentle. Still Bob. But the kind of quiet you wanted to trace with your hands.

“Same to you,” You murmured, voice soft. “Didn’t know we were modeling for a Carhartt commercial today.”

He flushed instantly, tugging the hem of the shirt like it might somehow hide the obvious breadth of him.

“I-It’s just an undershirt,” He replied, his face turning a deep red–even though his lips were twitching into a smile that was a slow bloom of nerves.

Bob’s hands moved with care as he peeled the lid off the paint can, the soft metallic creak cutting through the quiet of the room. The scent hit immediately–sharp and chemical, softened only slightly by the breeze curling in through the open windows. He crouched to pour the soft gray paint into the tray with slow, deliberate control, letting it pool into the rigid plastic until it settled into a smooth, mirrored surface.

You stood beside him, your roller already in hand, trying hard not to stare at the way the muscles in his arms tensed as he steadied the can. He looked…Absurdly good. The undershirt hugged his frame like it had been designed with reverence, clinging to every dip and line and curve that his oversized sweaters usually swallowed whole. The light caught the pale sweat glistening at his temple, and when he reached back to set the can down, his shirt pulled just tight enough across his back that you had to actually will yourself to blink.

“You ready?” he asked gently, offering you your tray like he didn’t know he looked like a golden-age painting of ‘boy-next-door who also bench presses cars for fun.’

“Born ready,” you murmured, grateful your voice came out steady.

You dipped your roller into the tray and began to work, and Bob followed without hesitation, starting from the opposite wall. The gray went on smooth and clean. It was a quiet shade–not dull, not harsh–something in-between that felt like soft stone or the sky right before a storm. It caught the light well, turning the blank sterility of the walls into something deeper. Something lived in.

You painted in tandem, the rhythm of your movements syncing without you even realizing it–dip, roll, sweep, and stretch. You didn’t speak much at first. Just worked. Occasionally you’d catch him glancing at your section, making sure your coverage was even, and you’d glance over a beat later and find that he had already finished another wall and was patiently waiting for you to catch up, roller dripping, his shirt sticking slightly to the curve of his spine.

After about thirty minutes, you both stepped back, breathing a little heavier now, speckled with the first coat and faint dots of gray flecked on your arms and calves.

“It’s… Already better,” Bob said softly, wiping his hands with a rag he’d found in the bag. His eyes were on the wall, but they flicked to you after a second. “It doesn’t feel so…Blank anymore.” You nodded, brushing a stray streak of paint off your wrist.

“Yeah. Kinda feels like a place a person might actually live now.” You both stood there in the middle of the room for a moment, shoulders relaxed, the hum of the city outside brushing the edge of the silence. And then he sat–right on the floor, cross-legged in his paint-streaked sweatpants, undershirt rumpled slightly at the waist. You followed, easing down beside him, knees knocking once before settling close.

Conversation stirred back up–light, easy and in hushed tones.

But you weren’t really listening. Not completely.

Because Bob was…Glowing.

Not in the Sentry way. Not that raw cosmic glare that split the sky. No–this was something else. Something low and golden and warm. It lived in the curl of his laugh, the tiny streak of gray on his collarbone where he’d bumped the roller against himself and hadn’t noticed. It shimmered in the way he looked at you–really looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile every time it curved. And when he talked, it wasn’t just words–it was an offering. A thread pulled between you. One you both kept holding.

You realized then that you hadn’t stopped watching him for the last five minutes.

And based on the way his eyes dropped to your mouth mid-sentence–lingered there, soft and stunned like it wasn’t on purpose–you weren’t the only one.

Bob blinked once–slowly–and then again, like he was trying to recalibrate his vision. His gaze kept flicking down from your eyes to your mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like something in him had given up on pretending not to notice the way you looked sitting there beside him, sun-drenched and soft and glowing in the afterglow of effort.

Then he cleared his throat, but it came out more like a gulp. A quiet hitch of breath that gave him away.

“You, uh…” His voice barely rose above the quiet in the room. He reached up and gestured with two fingers, a small motion toward your cheek. “Y-You’ve got paint… Right here.” His hand hovered near his own cheekbone, mirroring the spot. “Can I…?”

You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned forward, heart suddenly pressing against your ribs like it wanted to rip out of you and escape. Bob’s hand moved slowly as if rushing might ruin the moment that was simmering between the two of you. His fingertips grazed your skin with a featherlight touch, his thumb brushing the smear of gray just below your eye.

He didn’t pull away when it was gone.

Neither did you.

The hush that settled between you was different now. It wasn’t silence. It was a sound held gently between two people on the edge of something too big to name. His hand lingered against your face, thumb tracing the faintest curve of your cheek like he needed to memorize the texture. And when you looked up at him you saw it.

That same light.

Not the blinding kind. Not the kind that cracked the sky and split atoms. But the kind that came just before dawn. Soft. Resolute. The kind that touched everything gently and asked nothing in return. It lived in the blue of his eyes now, threaded through with something honey-warm.

“Y/N…” He whispered, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say your name like that–soft and aching, like it meant something he hadn’t dared admit aloud yet.Your hand found his cheek the way it always did. That familiar path of comfort, of care. The one place he always let you touch, even when everything else in him trembled. Your thumb brushed just beneath the apple of it–soft and supple–and his eyes fluttered at the contact, lashes dark against flushed skin.

He leaned into it, just a little. Just enough to let you feel how much he needed it–how much he needed you.

And then the air changed.

It was subtle. A breath caught in a hush. A tremble at the edge of stillness. Like the second before rain kisses the ground. Bob’s eyes held yours–not with uncertainty, not with apology–but with care so tender it undid you. As if this–your hand on his face, your knees pressed close to his, the light painting silver across your bare shoulder–was the holiest thing he’d ever known.

“I–” he started, voice barely a sound, and then stopped. His throat moved around the words he didn’t have yet. Instead, he reached up–slowly, slowly–and covered your hand with his own, pressing it further into his cheek like he didn’t ever want it to leave.

You could feel the tremor in him.

Not fear. Not anymore.

Just the weight of everything he was finally ready to let you see.

Your other hand rose without thinking, fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw, then curving around the back of his neck where soft curls dampened with heat. You pulled him closer–just enough for your foreheads to touch. Just enough to feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your lips.

“Bob…” You whispered.

Your lips were almost touching now, but you continued to let the moment swell, and ache.

His mouth hovered a whisper away from yours, the barest sliver of air separating you–shared breath, warm and trembling. You could feel the curve of his bottom lip brush yours when he exhaled, and that smallest touch–so light, so accidental–made your stomach coil with heat. You leaned forward instinctively, but he didn’t move back.

He didn’t move forward either.

Not yet.

You felt it when his lips parted. When the tip of his tongue darted out, barely grazing your bottom lip in an attempt to taste you. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a question. A pull. And it made your breath catch so sharply that your chest almost forgot how to fall.

Then he whispered it.

Something small.

Something that cracked your ribs open with its softness.

“…I-I’ve daydreamed about t-this moment.”

His voice was low and shaken, like a confession whispered in a church pew. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he inched just closer–his nose brushing yours now, and the tremble in his hands telling you this was costing him something to say aloud.

everything in you was focused on the man in front of you—on the tremble in his voice, on the way his breath feathered across your lips, on the reverence in his eyes like he was standing at the altar of something holy.

His confession lingered between you like incense—soft and heavy, curling into your ribs. You could feel it there, warm and aching, as your thumb swept the line of his jaw. His hand was still covering yours like it was a lifeline, like if he let go, the whole world might collapse inward.

So you didn’t let him fall.

You leaned in first.

Just a little.

Just enough that your lips brushed his again—deliberately this time.

A whisper of a kiss. A promise made in the hush between heartbeats.

He shuddered the moment you touched him, and you felt it everywhere—in the curl of his fingers at your jaw, the way his breath hitched low in his chest, the quiet gasp he let out like the wind had been knocked clean from his lungs.

And then—

He kissed you back.

Not rushed. Not greedy. But slow.

So slow it made your skin prickle.

His lips moved against yours with the kind of aching reverence usually reserved for relics and prayers. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t unsure. It was careful—like every second of it mattered. Like he didn’t just want to taste you—he wanted to remember you. Your shape. Your breath. The way your lips parted for him like a secret being told for the first time.

It was holy.

You tilted your head, deepening it slightly–your hand sliding from the back of his neck to tangle in the curls at his nape, anchoring him to you. His hands curved along your hips, firm and trembling all at once, like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t dare.

And God–you wanted closer.

So you shifted.

One slow, smooth motion.

You moved into his lap, straddling his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world–your knees pressing into the paint-flecked floor, your body fitting against his like you were meant to be there. Bob inhaled sharply against your mouth, and you swallowed the sound with a kiss deeper than the one before.

He melted beneath you.

You felt it–every inch of tension releasing from his body like a dam giving way to floodwaters. His arms wrapped around your waist now, strong and warm, pulling you in with a groan so quiet you could’ve mistaken it for a plea of mercy. His hands splayed at your lower back, fingers flexing like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold you like this.

Your lips danced together, slow and consuming, mouths parting just enough to breathe the same air, to taste the softness in each other’s sighs. His tongue brushed against yours in the subtlest question–timid but wanting–and you answered him by tilting your hips forward ever so slightly, deepening the kiss until your whole body was singing with it.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

There was nothing else.

No city outside the window. No walls still half-painted. No ghosts of past lives or broken silences.

Just the quiet miracle of his mouth on yours–every kiss a verse in a psalm neither of you had ever dared to read aloud until now.

When the kiss finally broke, it was slow. Lingering. His lips chased yours for one last brush, like he didn’t want to stop. Like the parting itself was unbearable.

You pressed your forehead to his again, your breaths mingling, your chest rising and falling in time with his. He looked at you and his eyes were liquid sunlight, the warm glow invading the ocean blue of his irises–but they were unbearably tender.

And then he closed them tightly.

Like it was too much for him. Like having you this close was triggering something in him he needed to get control over. His hands at your waist tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself. Bracing for impact.

You leaned in.

Not to tease. Not to rush. Just to give.

And with aching care, you pressed your lips to one of his eyelids.

A whisper of contact. A kiss that was less about passion and more about trust. You felt his breath stutter–his body going still beneath yours like he’d just been blessed. Like no one had ever done this to him. Not like this.

You kissed the other eyelid just as slowly.

And when you pulled back, his breath trembled out of him—ragged and low, laced with something that made your stomach tighten and your hands ache for more.

Then–

He surged forward, finally.

His mouth found yours again, harder this time. Still gentle, still reverent, but charged now. A hum of electricity laced through the softness. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your hands instinctively fist into the fabric of his shirt. You clung to him—not out of desperation, but out of instinct. Because of course you would hold onto him. There was nothing else in the room. Nothing else in the world.

Your fingers curled at his shoulders, dragging across the thin cotton, feeling every flex of muscle beneath it. He groaned softly against your lips when you tugged just slightly–his hands slipping lower, cradling the curve of your spine like you were something breakable and divine all at once.

You kissed him like you meant it.

And he kissed you like he couldn’t believe it.

When he finally pulled back–barely, just enough to breathe–his forehead pressed to yours again, his breath hot against your cheek. His lips brushed the edge of your mouth with every word.

“I–uh…” He murmured, voice cracked and raw around the edges, “I think maybe we should go to your room.”

You blinked, still catching your breath.

He swallowed, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. “I mean–just ‘cause–there’s a lot of paint fumes in here,” He added, clearly flustered, clearly not thinking about paint at all, “A-And I don’t wanna get dizzy and…Fall over or something while you’re…O-On my lap…”

The way he looked at you then–flush blooming down his throat, hands still cradling you like he didn’t want to let go–it was too soft to be funny. Too vulnerable to mock. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his and letting your lips ghost across his jaw.

“Right,” You whispered. “Wouldn’t want to pass out while kissing or anything.”

His breath caught again–so beautifully–and he nodded.

“Y-Yeah,” He murmured, dazed, “That would be…A tragedy.” Your lips hovered just over his skin, brushing the warmth of his jaw with a breathless smile. His hands stayed firm at your waist like he was still trying to convince himself you were real–that this was real–that you were really curled into his lap with paint on your legs and want in your eyes.

You let your mouth ghost lower, just to the edge of his neck.

Then, softly–like a secret–

“Take me to my room,” You instructed gently.

Bob inhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching at your hips like the words had struck something sacred in him. He blinked once, as if to double-check he’d heard you right, and then nodded–so small it was barely noticeable.

He rose with you in his arms, like it was nothing. Like you weighed less than air.

And he didn’t hesitate.

Instead of going through the hall like any rational person might have, he turned and headed straight for the bathroom that adjoined your quarters and his–taking the shortcut–the private path. You giggled under your breath at the way he moved with such gentle urgency, like the act of walking was suddenly too slow. Like he needed to get you there now.

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck as he carried you, your lips brushing the delicate skin just beneath his jaw, sucking gently at the faint stubble there. His steps faltered for a second when he felt your lips there–nothing more than a soft press of your mouth to his pulse and a little pull–but it was enough to make him grunt softly and pick up the pace.

“Y-You’re really not helping,” He muttered, breath shaky and hot, his fingers tightening just slightly around your thighs where he held you. You kissed his neck again, smiling against him.

“Didn’t realize I was supposed to be,” You replied.

He let out something that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe a groan–then fumbled with the bathroom door, kicked it open a little too fast, and spun the both of you through it like a man possessed.

By the time he reached your side of the quarters, he was a little breathless, and completely flushed–enough that you could’ve sworn you saw blush peeking through his white undershirt. You kissed his throat again, and that was it.

You felt his hands shift as he bent forward, setting you gently on the bed, your back sinking into the familiar comfort of your duvet. Bob hovered over you for a breathless moment, suspended between want and worship. His chest rose and fell above yours, his curls shadowing his forehead, damp from the warmth blooming beneath his skin. Your legs were still loosely looped around his waist, cradling him there, holding him in that weightless space between everything you were and everything you were about to become.

Then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

Not on the mouth this time. But everywhere else.

Soft, fluttering presses of lips to skin. A brush at your cheekbone. Another to the edge of your brow. A third to the tip of your nose, which made you let out the kind of breathy laugh that pulled something tight in his chest.

He kissed your forehead last, and lingered there, just long enough to let you feel the shape of it. When he finally pulled back, his hands slid gently to your thighs. He rubbed slow, reverent circles into your skin–paint-flecked, warm from effort, bare from mid-thigh down. His thumbs pressed into the dip just above your knees, and then, with a soft inhale, he murmured–

“Let me go lock the door…So we don’t get interrupted.”

His voice was low. Still frayed around the edges with awe.

You nodded, your legs loosening around his waist as he coaxed them gently down with the flats of his palms. You let them drop to either side of him, feet brushing the floor now, knees parted slightly around where he still knelt between them.

He rose with quiet care, and you sat up slowly onto your elbows, the hem of your oversized shirt falling back into place, bunched slightly around your hips. The cotton was thin and soft and stretched with sleep, one side still slipping off your shoulder. You shifted your weight just slightly, legs swinging idly off the edge of the mattress, watching him.

The room glowed with the kind of light that only happened at dusk.

Evening had begun to settle behind the skyline just outside your windows–cool shadows bleeding slowly across the hardwood floor. But the city’s sunset didn’t reach this far into your quarters. Not fully.

Instead, the soft amber glow of your nightstand lamp lit the space.

It cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

The bulb was shielded behind a woven linen shade, diffusing the light until it looked like honey melting through gauze. It hit the edges of the room with a quiet softness–just enough to turn skin to candlelight and shadows to velvet. The kind of light that made everything feel slow and sacred. That turned every breath into something you wanted to hold.

You watched him walk across the room barefoot, his white undershirt clinging to his frame like it was woven from sunlight and tension. The muscles in his back flexed beneath it, pulling at the thin fabric just slightly with every movement. His hand reached for the sleek panel on the wall near the entryway and pressed his thumb to the edge of the glass.

A quiet chime confirmed it. The soft swoosh of magnetic locks sliding into place.

And still–he stood there for a second longer, his hand lingering against the door panel.

You saw it, even from across the room.

The rise and fall of his shoulders.

The silent inhale. The weight of the moment catching up to him in the hush between the lock and the turning back.

Then he did turn.

And when he looked at you, it was like gravity itself had shifted–like you were the axis now.

That soft glow from your bedside lamp painted amber along the edges of his jaw, spilling gold into the hollow of his throat and casting his frame in the kind of warmth usually reserved for cathedral windows or old film reels. His undershirt clung to him in the most unfair way–ribbons of cotton stretched delicately over muscle and tension, bunched slightly at the waist from where your legs had wrapped around him only moments ago. And yet, he looked…Hentle. Steady. Like something you could pray to if you didn’t know better.

He came back to you slowly.

Each step measured.

Deliberate.

His gaze never left you–not once–as he returned to where you sat on the edge of the bed, your thighs parted just enough, feet brushing the hardwood, shirt draped long over your hips. You shifted as he approached, moving like you meant to scoot farther up the mattress, to lay back and make room. But his hand stopped you. Gentle. Firm.

“N-No,” He said, voice soft but sure. “I…I want to stay here. L-Like this…Trust me.” Bob leaned down, hunching slightly to meet your mouth where you sat at the edge of the bed–legs parted, eyes glowing in the lamplight, waiting for him like gravity waited for stars. His hands braced on either side of your thighs, and then he kissed you again–slow and a little clumsy this time, the angle not quite perfect, his spine bending to reach you. But it didn’t matter.

You moaned into it anyway.

Because he was right there. All of him. The weight of his chest against yours, the tension in his arms, the way his breath hitched as your hand slid back up beneath the hem of that cruel little undershirt.

Your fingers clawed at it. Not delicately. Not with patience. Like you needed it gone. And Bob–sweet, reverent Bob–broke the kiss just long enough to whisper,

“Y-Yeah, okay–hang on–”

His voice cracked as he tugged the shirt over his head in one rushed motion. The cotton caught briefly on the back of his neck, then slipped free with a quiet shh of static and landed somewhere near your feet.

And then there he was.

Bare.

Bathed in lamplight.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You had imagined this. Of course you had. It was always in flickers and flashbacks–like when his scrubs had been practically shot off him when he distracted Val’s special ops so you, Walker, Ava, and Yelena could escape the vault. But this–seeing him like this, lit in soft honey gold, the shadows of his body sloping into the hollow of his ribs and the rise of his chest—this was different.

He wasn’t chiseled. He wasn’t flawless. But God, he was real.

The kind of real that could wreck you again and again and you would say thank you.

His skin was flushed, warm from exertion, and his arms flexed where they framed you–long and lean, thick in the right places, his veins peeking just beneath the surface like scripture written under skin. His shoulders were broad, with scattered beauty marks kissing his skin, and all you could do was bite the inside of your cheek.

Your eyes drank in every inch.

And then your hand followed.

You reached for him–almost reverently–palm sliding flat against his stomach. The skin there was soft, but the muscle underneath twitched, hard and sudden, at your touch. His hips jolted the barest bit, a sharp inhale escaping through parted lips.

You let your fingers drift up.

Across the ridge of his abs, over the slight dip between his pecs, tracing a slow, steady line up the center of his chest.

“You look like a god,” You whispered.

And he hummed.

Low. From somewhere deep in his chest. Like the compliment vibrated straight through him and he couldn’t contain it.

His head dipped as he let out a breathless sound against your cheek–half a laugh, half a groan. “Th-That’s… That’s not true…”

You pressed your hand flat over his heart.

“It is,” You murmured, voice soft but insistent. “You’re the sun, Bob. You shine.”

And he hummed again–longer this time.

The sound of it curled between your legs like silk.

He shuddered a little, then kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, like he didn’t know what else to do with the feeling. You moaned into it and dragged your nails lightly down his ribs just to feel the way his body reacted to you–twitching and shifting a bit.

And when you whispered, “God, I could worship you like this,” His breath hitched so hard he nearly stumbled.

His breath was ragged now–hot and uneven where it puffed against your cheek, like every single thing you said was costing him control he barely knew how to hold onto in the first place.

“You…” He rasped, voice frayed and unsteady, like it was coming from somewhere much deeper than his throat, “You don’t… You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You smiled against his jaw.

“Yes, I do.”

His hands gripped the blanket–white-knuckled, grounding himself in the cotton and not the way your voice made his muscles twitch beneath your touch.

“You don’t understand,” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, like he couldn’t even look at you without giving something away. “I… I can’t keep–if you keep saying things like that–if you look at me like that–I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”

His voice broke off with a shuddering inhale. His whole body trembled slightly over yours, caught between restraint and desire, and God, it was glorious.

You lifted your hand again–slow, gentle–and brushed your knuckles along his cheek. The scruff there was warm and soft, velvet over steel. He turned his face toward the touch before he could stop himself.

“Look at me,” You whispered.

He hesitated.

But only for a second.

Then he opened his eyes.

And it confirmed everything.

That glow wasn’t just a metaphor. It wasn’t poetic. It was real. His irises shimmered like molten honey shot through with starfire–like something barely leashed beneath the surface had opened a single, trembling eye.

The Sentry.

You saw it flicker there. Just enough.

Not violent. Not threatening. But watching.

And you smiled.

“I was right,” You murmured. “You really are the sun.”He tried to look away again. His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, his arms trembling where he held himself over you.

“You’re playing a d-dangerous game,” He warned, voice hoarse. “I don’t think you…I-I don’t think you know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for,” You breathed, sliding your hand down the curve of his ribs, across his waist, back to the firm plane of his abdomen. He flinched under your palm, hips jerking forward slightly before he caught himself. “I want all of it. I want both of you…And I know you can control it.”

Bob let out a sound then–something low and wrecked, somewhere between a moan and a growl, like the words had reached some part of him buried deep and sacred.

“Y-You don’t understand,” he whispered again, almost begging this time. “You don’t u-understand what you’re doing.”

You cupped his jaw and kissed him again, slow and hot and certain, your tongue sweeping into his mouth like a vow. His hands flew to your thighs, fingers gripping tight now, anchoring himself there as he kissed you back with everything he had. Desperate. Consuming.

And when you pulled back just enough to speak again, lips brushing his as you said it–

“I do understand.”

You leaned in and dragged your teeth lightly along his bottom lip, and his whole body shuddered.

“And I want it anyway.”

He groaned–loud this time. No holding back. No shame. Just the pure, guttural sound of a man unraveling.

And when he kissed you next, it wasn’t careful.

It was devotional. No longer the soft, trembling offering it had been moments prior. This one was hungry. A little rough around the edges. A gasp swallowed. A whimper chased. Bob’s hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt like he couldn’t stop himself, and you arched up instinctively, giving him the space–giving him everything.

The fabric lifted slowly, dragged over your ribs, baring warm skin to cooler air. You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. His breath caught when he saw you in the golden light, chest rising with something close to reverence.

Then his hand slid behind you, trembling but sure, fingers working the clasp of your bra. It came undone with a quiet snap, and he slipped the straps down your arms with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. He let it fall to the floor like something holy, something he would not dare to crumple.

And then you laid back.

Slow, easy.

Your shoulders met the mattress first, followed by the curve of your spine, the arch of your hips, and the duvet puffed beneath you, soft and sun-warmed from the light still pouring through the linen lamp shade. Your chest was bare now, rising and falling with anticipation, skin kissed in shadows and gold.

Bob just stared.

And for a second, he didn’t move.

Because you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The way the light painted across your collarbones, soft and sloped. The subtle curve of your breasts, rising with every breath. The softness of your belly, the delicate line of your ribs. You looked like art. Like a myth. Like something that should’ve only existed in dreams.

He swallowed hard. His eyes shimmered.

And then, slowly, he sank to his knees between your thighs again.

His hands slid up your sides–warm, large, trembling just slightly. He mapped every inch of you like he needed to learn it by heart. His palms ghosted over your waist, up the softness of your ribs, and then…

He cupped your breasts carefully.

And let out a sound so low, so shattered, it made you ache.

“You’re…” He whispered, voice catching, “You’re s-so soft… So—God—beautiful.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and the contact sent a ripple through you—sharp, electric. Your back arched slightly, and he leaned in without thinking, mouthing gently at the swell of one breast while his hand continued to cradle the other. His lips were warm. Open. His breath huffed against your skin as he kissed, sucked, nuzzled—like he couldn’t decide what to do first.

“You’re perfect,” He whispered again, voice rougher now–lower, tinged with something molten that flickered beneath the surface.

His mouth closed around your nipple–slow and hot–and you gasped aloud, your fingers threading into his curls as your thighs shifted on either side of him. He moaned into you. Soft. Almost desperate. His tongue flicked gently, again and again, drawing it into his mouth with a devotion that bordered on worship.

“You d-don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured between kisses, dragging his mouth across your chest to give equal attention to the other. “Y-You’re everything… Every fucking thing–”

His voice cracked again, and this time there was no mistaking it.

That tone.

Just slightly deeper. Not quite his. Not quite the Sentry either–but something born of both.

It vibrated through his chest, warm and unsteady, like two frequencies overlapping. He kissed you again–lower now–over your ribs, then your navel. Every press of his lips was filled with awe. His hands stayed at your waist, holding you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

“I c-could die right here,” He whispered, his voice still shaking, still fighting to stay human. “You…You’d be the last thing I see and I’d be okay with it. I swear, I—”

His mouth found your stomach, trailing down with the heat of his breath and the brush of his lips, his hands never stopping their gentle, grounding rhythm. Circling. Worshipping.

You reached down, fingers finding his jaw, guiding him up for another kiss. And when he kissed you again, it was with more hunger. More heat. But still careful–still Bob. Even when his hands roamed again–up, over your ribs, back to your breasts, where he cupped them and whispered broken praise between kisses.

“So soft… Fuck, you’re so soft…Please let me… Let me love you–let me remember all of this–”

His voice shook with restraint, with reverence, with want so deep it nearly broke you. Your fingers still cradled his jaw when you whispered it.

“I’m yours.”

You didn’t even realize the words were leaving your mouth until they’d already cracked the air between you open like a vow, and Bob stilled like you’d just spoken the incantation that undid him.

His breath caught, sharp and audible–like his lungs didn’t know whether to inhale or collapse. His eyes fluttered shut. And when they opened again, they glowed. Not bright. Not blinding. But deeper. Gold laced in blue. A quiet surrender written in starlight.

His hands clenched at your waist, and his voice came out low. Lower than before. The edges rasped with something rough, barely reined in. Like the Sentry had pressed just behind his teeth, watching from the shadows of his throat.

“Can I…” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “Can I take these off?”

His fingertips brushed just beneath the waistband of your shorts–trembling, reverent, barely there.

“Yes,” You breathed, hips tilting upward in offering.

He let out a sound like a prayer and leaned forward to kiss your mouth again–deep, slow, aching–before pulling back and sliding down the bed. His hands rose to your hips, and with careful fingers, he began to peel your shorts and underwear down your thighs. Inch by inch. Like unwrapping something sacred.

He didn’t rush. Not for a second.

He took his time baring you to the honey-colored light. His gaze never left your skin–like he was memorizing every inch, every curve. Like this was the moment he’d waited his entire life for.

And then, when the cotton hit your knees, he paused.

He bent forward.

And kissed the top of your thigh.

Soft. Open-mouthed. Warm, and wet. Doing the same to the other.

His breath stuttered, and he sank lower–kneeling now. Fully. Both palms spread wide across your thighs, grounding himself there. And it made sense then, why he had stopped you from crawling back on the bed. Why he kept you on the edge like this.

Because it let him kneel. It let him worship. He kissed your thighs like they were holy. Lips brushing up toward where you ached for him most, the anticipation a silk-wrapped noose around your lungs. He looked up once, just once, and the heat in his gaze nearly burned you alive.

“I-I’ve wanted this,” He whispered, breath trembling against your skin. “I’ve dreamed of this–of you–just like this…”

He didn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t have to.

Because his mouth descended, slow and devastating.

A kiss–directly over your folds.

Tender. Lingering. His breath was warm. His lips parting against you in something deeper than intention.

You gasped–soft and sharp–as his tongue followed, slow and exploratory, dragging upward with a pressure that made your whole body seize. He moaned into you. Like the taste of you had broken something open inside him.

And then he did it again.

And again.

Until your hips were arching. Until your hands were in his hair. Until all you could hear was the wet, reverent sounds of him worshiping you like you were his only tether to the world.

He kissed every part of you like it mattered. Like he could feel your heartbeat in his mouth. His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting, spreading, cradling you wider. His thumbs pressed into the crease where thigh met hip, holding you open for him, and he groaned–deep, low, wrecked–as his mouth found your clit.

He sucked gently, lips sealing around it, and your whole body jerked. A breathless cry ripped from your chest, and you felt his hands tighten, grounding you. His tongue circled, slow and sure, his lips sliding against you in worshipful rhythm.

“Bob–” You gasped, the name slipping out like a plea. “Oh, my God–”

He moaned again–vibrating against you–and the sensation made your head fall back. The edge of the mattress bit into your spine, your legs trembling where they hung over his shoulders, and still–he didn’t stop. He didn’t even falter.

His mouth moved like it was built for this.

Slow. Devoted. Intoxicating.

You felt the tension coil–tight and deep–in your belly, in your spine, in the backs of your knees. And Bob felt it too. You could tell by the way his hands gripped tighter. The way his tongue flicked just a little faster, more precise now, teasing and coaxing as he devoured you. He drank your sounds like nectar. Like every moan was oxygen. His own breath was ragged now, and still–he praised.

“You taste like heaven,” He whispered, lips brushing you wet and wanting, voice thick and torn in two. “So fucking sweet–so good–God, you’re everything–”

You were shaking.

You were unraveling.

Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, and still–he stayed locked in place, mouth relentless and full of worship. One hand slid up your belly to your chest, grounding you again, his fingers curling over your ribs while the other stayed hooked beneath your thigh.

And then–

He flattened his tongue and dragged it up the center of you, slow and hard, and sealed his mouth around your clit one last time–sucking, flicking, groaning into you with a desperation so tender it broke you wide open.

The orgasm hit like sunrise.

Warm. Blinding. Slow at first—and then fast and full, like light spilling over the edge of your bones. Your whole body arched into him. You cried out–his name, the stars, everything–and his arms locked around your hips, holding you steady as he worked you through it, mouth still worshipping, still licking, still kissing every quake of pleasure like it was a gift he’d been waiting a lifetime to receive.

And when you finally collapsed–boneless and glowing, chest heaving, eyes wet with aftershocks–Bob pulled back slowly, lips slick, face flushed, and looked up at you like a man reborn.

He was breathless.

Shaking.

But his eyes were molten gold.

“You’re…Everything,” He whispered again, voice reverent. “Everything.” The words melted into your skin like heat, and when he spoke next–his lips still brushing just above your knee—it wasn’t just Bob.

“I want to give you another one…”

His voice was wrecked. Darker. Threaded with something molten and greedy.

“I want to feel you fall apart again, just for me…”

Before you could speak–before you could even breathe–his hand slid up the inside of your thigh. His fingers were slow, wet from where he’d worshiped you moments ago, and when they reached your center, he groaned softly at the heat still there.

“So warm,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Still trembling for me.”

Then—you felt it.

The press of two fingers, thick and slow, gliding through your slick folds, parting you with devastating precision.

You gasped—legs twitching from the aftershocks still fluttering through your body. “B-Bob—wait—”

But he didn’t pull away.

He looked up at you, eyes glowing—lit with starlight and hunger—and smiled. Soft. But feral.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, fingers still dragging gently through your folds. “I know you’re sensitive. But I promise—I’ll be so gentle.”

And he was.

Even when he slipped the first finger in, and then the second—stretching you slow, curling inside you with aching care—his touch was worship. His breath shook with restraint, with reverence, with something barely caged beneath his ribs.

You cried out—half from pleasure, half from overstimulation—as his fingers began to move. A steady rhythm. In and out, in and out, curling at the top each time until sparks flared up your spine.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours. “So fucking good for me.”

The pace never quickened. But the pressure built. And built.

He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thigh with every stroke, like he was timing his mouth to your unraveling. Your hands fisted in the duvet, your hips twitching every time his fingers brushed that devastating spot inside you—and still, he moved like a man being fed by your pleasure. Like this—wrecking you gently—was salvation.

“I can feel you,” he whispered, voice thick. “You’re clenching around me already, aren’t you? You’re so close…”

You whimpered, nodding, barely able to hold yourself up.

He pulled his fingers nearly all the way out—then pushed them back in, slow and deep, curling them harder this time. You choked on a sob.

“I want it,” he murmured. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go again—one more. Just one more for me.”

Your thighs shook. Your lips parted on a gasp as the pressure bloomed hard and fast this time—your body raw and exposed and aching for him.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your inner thigh as he worked you open on his fingers. “I want to see your soul when you come. Please, baby, show it to me.”

The second orgasm hit like a wave breaking against rock.

Rougher. Hungrier. You cried out again, back arching clean off the mattress, thighs locking around his wrist as you shattered all over him. The sound that tore from you wasn’t pretty–it was real. It was desperate. It was a gift.

Bob groaned–deep and guttural–as you pulsed around his fingers, your release soaking him, your voice ragged and broken as you whispered his name again and again.

He didn’t stop until your body finally slumped back against the sheets, spent and shaking, your skin glistening with sweat and devotion.

Only then did he slide his fingers free slowly, and lift them to his mouth.

He sucked them clean.

Eyes locked on yours.

And when he finally stood–shoulders heaving, sweat dripping down the curve of his throat–he looked like a god descending from whatever mythical place they belonged to

The Sentry was still there in the golden flicker of his eyes. Greedy. Glowing. Waiting.

“Now,” He said, voice low and reverent as he reached for his waistband, “I’m going to make love to you.” You were still gasping, chest rising in sharp, uneven waves, your limbs spread across the bed like they’d melted into the duvet. Your fingers twitched where they gripped the sheets. The light from the nightstand made everything feel golden and close, like time had slowed just for the two of you.

Bob moved carefully.

Softly.

You barely noticed at first–only the shift of pressure beneath your thigh, the way his hand skimmed under your back. But then he was there, lifting you just enough to guide you farther up the bed. His touch was trembling but sure, all Bob again–no flicker, no pulse of divinity. Just the man. The hands that had brushed paint onto your walls, the voice that had whispered to you in the dark when nightmares clawed through the silence.

“L-Lay back,” He murmured, eyes searching your face like he needed permission again. “J-Just wanna get you comfortable…”

You nodded, boneless and warm, your heart still fluttering in your chest.

He kissed your neck as he helped you settle, lips brushing right where your pulse fluttered. It wasn’t sexual, not yet. It was grounding. Anchoring. The kind of kiss that said you’re safe. That said I’ve got you.

You sighed against him.

And when he pulled back just enough to stand again, his hands went to his waistband.

He hesitated.

Only for a second.

But then–he slipped his thumbs beneath the edge of his sweatpants and boxers, and pushed them down slowly, hips rolling just slightly as the fabric slid over his thighs.

And there he was.

His erection stood proud and flushed, the head a soft blush red, glistening at the tip, his length thick and veined–aching and heavy with want. It wasn’t just beautiful–it was intimate. Unfiltered. Bob, exposed. Unhidden. And yet… utterly perfect.

You inhaled softly, lips parting around a soundless gasp. He looked vulnerable like this, not in shame, but in reverence. He wasn’t flaunting it. He wasn’t posing. He was present.

Breath stuttering slightly, Bob stepped out of the bunched fabric around his ankles and nudged it aside with his foot before crawling onto the bed, careful not to jostle you too fast. He kissed your knee first, then your hip, then the soft underside of your ribcage, working his way up your body with aching, deliberate slowness.

You reached for him without thinking, needing to touch all of him now. Your hands slid across his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingers, the little tremors in his arms. He nestled between your thighs as he reached you fully, bracing himself on one forearm while the other arm hooked gently beneath your thigh, guiding it up and around his waist. Then–

He slipped one arm behind your neck.

Cradling you.

Like you were the most precious thing in the world.

His hips rested just above yours, the heat of him brushing your center, not yet aligned–but enough to make you both moan at the contact. His body blanketed yours, but not heavily. He held himself up with care, like every ounce of pressure he applied was measured, considered.

His lips found your throat again, this time pressing just below your jaw. “Y/N…” He whispered, voice cracking. “T-This is all I’ve e-ever wanted.”

You turned your head, your lips brushing his temple, then his cheek.

“Bob,” You breathed. “You’re so good. You’re so perfect…I want you so bad.”

He let out a shuddering sound. A whimper, almost. And when he kissed you again–open-mouthed, lips dragging along your collarbone–you felt him whisper something against your skin.

“I’m gonna go slow… I–I wanna feel all of you. I want you to feel me.”

His voice stuttered again, and that alone almost undid you. Because it was him.

Not the Sentry.

Not the glowing power that had shimmered behind his irises. Just Bob–soft, trembling, and wrecked with love, and holding you like you were divine.

Bob shifted just slightly–allowing his hand to slip between your bodies, low and slow, until he wrapped his fingers around himself. You could feel the tremble in his arm as he lined himself up, the heat of him pressing right where you were still soaked and aching for him.

“Okay?” he whispered, eyes searching your face.

You nodded–barely, breath caught in your throat–and lifted your hips just enough to meet him.

His hand slipped to your thigh, guiding it back up around his waist, and then–

He kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Tongue brushing yours like it was a prayer. And as your mouths moved together, slick and open and gasping, he began to press in.

The stretch stole your breath.

The head of him pushed into you, thick and hot and slow, and your lips parted with a gasp that he swallowed greedily. His whole body shuddered over you as he sank deeper–inch by inch–your walls fluttering around him, still trembling from the afterglow of the orgasms he’d already given you. Every nerve ending felt raw and alight, turned inside out by pleasure, by sensation, by him.

“Oh my God,” you whimpered, nails digging lightly into his back.

He moaned into your mouth–long and low and desperate–and pushed in further, your body yielding for him, stretching to accommodate the full length of him. His hips trembled with restraint, his hand never leaving your thigh, thumb brushing small circles into your skin to soothe you as he sank deeper and deeper.

You felt full.

You felt wrecked.

You felt like you were being split open in the most perfect, intimate way–and still, he didn’t stop. Not until he bottomed out completely, hips flush against yours, his chest heaving above you like he couldn’t believe it was real.

And then…

He stilled, breathless, inside you.

His forehead dropped to yours, and you could feel the sweat on his skin, the warmth of it, the shiver still running through him as he tried not to move. He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your temple–his lips brushing each place like a whispered offering.

“You feel…” He choked, “You feel so good–so warm–so soft–”

Your hands slid up his back, anchoring there, and he kissed the corner of your mouth again.

“I don’t ever wanna move,” He whispered, voice wrecked and thick and glowing at the edges. “I just wanna stay right here. Inside you. Forever.”

You whimpered, barely holding onto your breath, your hips twitching slightly beneath his.

”Bob…I’m all yours and…My god you’re amazing.” He groaned against your skin–low and needy–and kissed the tip of your nose, your eyelids, your throat.

Then, softer–

“Tell me when,” he whispered. “I won’t move until you’re ready.”

You breathed in slowly, body still adjusting to the stretch of him, to the heat and fullness and sheer beauty of having him this close. His thumb was still brushing lazy circles against your thigh, the other hand stroking your hair back from your temple.

And then you nodded.

You turned your face to his, kissed him slowly, and whispered:

“Now.”

He moved.

Just a little.

Just enough for you both to feel it–just enough for the glide to send a shudder through your spine. His hips drew back, slow and measured, and then pressed forward again with aching care. Your mouth dropped open around a moan—his name falling from your lips—and he echoed it with a broken sound of his own.

Every thrust was deliberate.

Every movement was a confession.

Every time he sank back into you, he gasped–like the sensation was too much, like he still couldn’t believe you were real beneath him, taking him in, holding him so tight and perfect and wet.

“You’re perfect,” He rasped, hips rocking into you slow and deep, his lips never straying far from your skin. His hips rolled into you slowly filling you with each deep, reverent thrust like he couldn’t bear to pull away too far. His lips trailed up your jaw, brushing your cheek, then your temple, and every time he bottomed out, he moaned like your body had answered a question he hadn’t dared to ask.

You gasped again–sharp, breathless–your back arching into him. The motion pressed your chest to his, and your nails curled slightly into his back. Just enough to drag. Just enough to leave a faint trace.

Bob shuddered. His breath hitched, and he groaned–low and ragged–into your skin.

“D-Do that again,” He begged, voice breaking, “God–please–do that again.”

You did. Fingertips digging a little deeper this time, dragging down his spine, and the reaction was immediate–his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering with a gasp that sounded possessed with pleasure.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his voice muffled against your skin.

“Fuck–you feel like heaven–you are heaven–” He breathed, hips beginning to move again. A little faster now. Still deep. Still careful. But urgent.

His hand cupped the side of your face, brushing hair from your cheek, and the other remained locked at your thigh, holding it high around his waist. You could feel every inch of him–the stretch, the heat, the connection–and God, it was unbearable how good it felt.

“I’m not hurting you a-am I?” he whispered, just barely audible. “T-Tell me if I am, tell me–”

“No,” You gasped. “No, Bob, it’s perfect–you’re perfect–please don’t stop–”

That made him whimper. His whole body shivered above you, and you felt the light from the lamp begin to shift. It had been warm and muted before–but now, it pulsed. Like a heartbeat. Like something responding to the heat in the room. Each time he thrust into you, it grew just a little brighter.

Neither of you noticed at first–too lost in each other, in the intimacy coiling tight between your bodies–but you felt it. That warmth. That power building in the air. The glow of something just beneath the surface.

Bob kissed you again–messy, deep, almost broken–and your hips rolled up to meet his. You were moving with him now, chasing the friction, your body writhing beneath his, needing it. Needing him.

“I-I can feel all of you,” He moaned, pulling back just enough to look down at where your bodies met, his voice wrecked. You keened at the words, thighs tightening around him, heels pressing into the backs of his legs. He was fully inside you now with every stroke, and you could feel another orgasm building, hotter and faster than before–simmering low in your belly, pulsing in time with the light around you.

His face hovered over yours, sweat clinging to his temple, lips trembling with restraint.

And his eyes–

They glowed.

Bright now.

The Sentry wasn’t gone.

But he wasn’t in control, either.

Just there. Watching. Letting Bob feel it all. Letting him worship you with everything he had—every thrust, every kiss, every broken praise.

His voice dropped, deeper than before. Still Bob. But laced with something else.

“Where do you want me?” He asked, his breath hot against your cheek. “Where do you want me to come, sweetheart?”

You met his eyes–gold and blue and glowing–and you moaned through clenched teeth, your whole body beginning to tremble again.

“Inside me,” You gasped. “Please, Bob–I want you to come inside–I want to feel it–want to feel you fill me up–”

He snapped.

His rhythm faltered. His hips ground against you harder now—still deep, but no longer controlled. There was hunger now. Desperation. He chased it with everything he had, every stroke punctuated by breathless moans and praise, his mouth dragging along your skin like he couldn’t stop kissing you, couldn’t stop telling you how perfect you were.

“Gonna give it to you,” He choked out. “Gonna give you all of it—fuck—you’re mine—”

The light in the room brightened to a crescendo–gold washing over every surface, turning the walls to fire and your skin to sun-kissed silk. And just as you felt your orgasm snap again–fast and hard and all-consuming, your body tightening and convulsing around him–

Bob let out a broken moan, that sounded like he was on the brink of crying. He was out of breath, and so hot it felt like he had fallen from the sun.

And then the lightbulb burst.

Glass popped with a sharp, cracking sound, shards raining harmlessly inside the shade as the room flickered and dimmed.

And he poured into you.

Thrusting deep one last time–hips locked against yours, arms shaking, his name echoing from your mouth as his pleasure hit–blinding and endless. He held you through it, his body shaking over yours, gasping your name like it was the only word he knew.

And somewhere–distant, muffled–you heard raised voices. Muffled arguing, like yelling.

But it was all far away.

Because your ears were ringing.

Like someone had struck a tuning fork behind your ribs and sent the vibration through your entire body. You could feel the aftershocks echoing in your spine, down your legs, across your fingertips still curled in his back.

Bob’s body trembled against yours, skin damp with sweat, chest heaving like he’d run miles through a sunstorm just to get to you. He didn’t move—not right away. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his forehead resting against the curve of your shoulder as he whispered your name again. Softer this time. Wrecked. Worshipful.

Your hands were still in his hair, fingers brushing through the damp curls at the base of his neck, your heartbeat thudding in your throat. Your whole body felt molten—boneless and glowing, like you’d been struck by lightning but kissed by it too. And the warmth between your legs, the slow throb where he still pulsed inside you, grounded it all in something sacred.

You shifted slightly—just enough to feel him twitch as he began to soften, still deep inside, your bodies tangled like ivy in the low light of the room.

He kissed your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then your lips—slow and trembling, a thank-you in every brush.

“I-I love th-that I get to call y-you mine…” He breathed, barely audible against your lips.

One of your hands cupped the side of his face, thumb stroking his flushed cheek, and he leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.

But then…

The sound of shouting finally cut through the quiet.

Your eyes opened.

Bob’s head lifted slightly, brow furrowing. Somewhere down the hallway—muffled through the compound walls—came the unmistakable sound of bickering. Loud. Confused. Walker’s voice, sharp and irritated. Yelena’s voice following with something distinctly Russian and exasperated.

“…I’m telling you that wasn’t the oven–” Walker yelled.

“Then what was it, genius? Light bulbs don’t just explode like that!” Ava screamed.

“Maybe you sneeze too hard–” Alexei chimed in.

“Oh my God, shut up, all of you–there’s glass in the hallway–”Bucky interrupted.

Bob pulled back slowly, just enough to look at you. His eyes were still a little dazed, his hair curling at the temples from sweat, and his cheeks were flushed pink from effort and something more vulnerable, and then he glanced over at the remains of your lamp's lightbulb. The connection was immediate.

”Oh…O-Oh Jesus Christ…” He whispered, and you watched his face go a deeper red. “Oh god…T-They’re gonna know it’s me…W-What the hell is wrong w-with me?” You let out a soft and breathless laugh, before reaching out to caress his face.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.” You leaned in and gave him a gentle is on the lips, as he groaned.

”I just b-blew every lightbulb on this level…God o-only knows what e-else I did.” You snorted, now picturing every level of the Tower needing replacement light bulbs and tears of laughter began prickling at your eyes.

And Bob, still buried inside you, still flushed and glowing, started laughing too. Quietly at first. Then louder. The kind of laugh that shook through his chest and softened everything. Like the sound of guilt melting into joy. Like sunlight cracking through the last remnants of a storm.

”We’re definitely going to need a really good excuse.” You murmured, leaning forward to steal another kiss, earning a soft hum from Bob.

𑣲 sea otters and hand holding I @pagesfromthevoid

4 times the team tries to get Bob to go out + 1 time he goes out himself

𑣲 jealous I @/pagesfromthevoid

𑣲 drabble I @gay-dorito-dust

𑣲 shadows beneath the light I @violetrainbow412-blog

Valentina contacts you to conduct a complete team assessment regarding the mystical arts. But when Bob's turn comes, it turns out he needs more of your help.

𑣲 let them see I @/violetrainbow412-blog

you and Bob are forced to attend an event hosted by Valentina, where more is revealed than you would have liked.

𑣲 touch starved!bob I @eyelessfaces

𑣲 i just feel you I @scarletmika

Bob Reynolds was broken, and he knew that, but he was trying. He was trying to be better, to control himself. But like Stitch had said: broken, but still good. You were beginning to make Bob believe that he was, in fact, still good.

𑣲 let me in I @/scarletmika

Sometimes, when two broken people find each other, they become each other's comfort through the hurt. You became Bob's, and as much as you tried not to let him in, he became yours too.

𑣲 only good thing I @/scarletmika

There was so much Bob regretted, so much shame riddled through his past, he didn't know what he'd see in his own shame rooms. He hadn't been prepared to see you around every corner, to be reminded of the way he'd left you behind in an effort to be what you deserved.

𑣲 kiss me again I @/scarletmika

A crush isn't a problem, and when that crush becomes love, it's usually a good thing. For Bob, it terrifies him, because he'd managed to fall in love with a literal Goddess. Why would a Goddess choose a broken man like him?

𑣲 velour and velcro I @em1i2a3

You have a hobby of drawing and designing things in your spare time, one day Bob stumbles across your sketchbook and discovers something surprising.

𑣲 detonate I @/em1i2a3

Move in day is happening at the Thunderbolts/New Avengers Compound, and Bob is having a hard time dealing with the changes.

𑣲 affection I @/em1i2a3

You’re in extreme pain from your period cramps, and Bob is the first person to jump in to help you.

𑣲 be my baby I @castielthinkr

𑣲 cowboy like me I @goldenlikedayl1ght

you get a text from an old friend and think.. you could do worse than a book club.. with some benefits.

𑣲 the lighthouse I @hanginginthevoid

you’ve always been drawn to bob. at first you think it means something, but then you remember that yelena’s also always been drawn to bob. and its obvious that he prefers her over you.

𑣲 seasons I @abbysbenchpr

three times you and bob are almost walked in on and the one time you are

𑣲 that’s what i like I @blank-potato

You love everything Bob does, and he doesn't seem to notice.

𑣲 no dick sucking in the communal areas I @callsign-swan

𑣲 request I @nghtwngs

𑣲 understanding I @ang3ltine

Bob told Yelena about the only person who had ever loved him from start to finish. He said it like that too, from start to finish. Like it was some grand, unbelievable gesture bestowed upon only the most deserving; like the Pope, or the son of “The Crocodile Hunter”.

Bob’s aunt had been one of those old-school hippies whose biggest achievement had been performing in a shoegaze band at Woodstock. She’d worn fringe vests and clunky crystal earrings and laced her coffee with turmeric powder. In summer, she'd rage against the cicadas by playing the guitar on her porch, her yellow bungalow at the end of a cul-de-sac, with the crooked eaves and the sun catchers that scattered the loveliest light. 

Her favorite movie was The Man Who Fell to Earth starring David Bowie.

She spent most of his childhood fleeing the suburbs for beautiful places; Jaipur, the Sinai Peninsula, sending postcards from the Yellow Mountains in Anhui that Bob hid from his mother, who always thought of her sister as "dangerously progressive". Off and on, she reappeared on the porch of her little bungalow, the adventurer returned home, bestowing upon him riches from countries so far away they felt huge and cartoonish in his head at thirteen.

She taught Bob chess and how to roll a cigarette, and every once in a while, she taught him some dusty dance in her backyard—disco fox, Viennese waltz—her ditzy laughter, and her breath bloated with alcohol.

Like her sister, she had a bad taste in men. She forever fell for the lead singer, and they forever did something horrible that chased her out the country. That’s why you go for the drummers, Robbie. You go for the compass, the pulse of the group. They’re worth their weight in gold.

She died of lung cancer. Bob was nineteen. He spent months crashing in his dealer’s trailer at the edge of town, trying to get so high he’d forget or maybe die, but each time he came to, he was spit out into a world without her.

Bob had spoken about his aunt only once and then never again.

Yelena wondered if you could piece someone together based on the people they’d loved, or further even, if you could love someone based on who they were loved by. She wasn’t sure yet. She wasn’t sure about a lot of things.

But, bit by bit, she’d piece Bob together, a patchwork of tossed-aside comments and strange stories and extraordinary mistakes and the sun tattooed in the dip below his right ankle, and by the time the fourth month rolled around, whatever had been coming for her, came for her all at once.

It felt more like a reckoning than a realization.

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

Being in a room with Bob made every part of her tilt towards him.

Yelena imagined herself living the rest of her life always standing at an angle, like the shadow of a very defective, very useless sundial. Pivoting every time Bob moved from bedroom to common area to kitchen to couch to gym to therapy to the helipad to everywhere else. Pivoting even when the pivoting meant it would earn her a hunting knife to the arm.

It had happened on the last day of a two-week mission to shut down some black-market biotech ring dabbling in interdimensional manipulation (which was a mouthful). In Svalbard of all places (which was super awful). Because of course international super villains never tried to dismantle the fabric of reality from some cushy beach villa in the Bahamas.

And of course Yelena had been too busy wondering about Bob back at the tower, wondering if he’d woken up yet, if his hair was stringy and curling from his shower, if he’d made himself a cup of coffee yet, and how ridiculous it was that he always added a spoon to it even when he skipped the milk, and how she’d asked him once, and how he’d said he’d only had Folgers instant coffee growing up, and how he’d gotten used to grinding down those tough little kernels—

“Alright, count to three because this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker,” Bucky warned her on their flight back, lifting a field stapler to her bleeding arm and pressing down.

He wasn’t kidding.

The clarity barely lasted a minute. Before, hunched in her seat trying not to scream, she thought about the only thing she’d been thinking about for days: Are you reading in the den? Are you watching The French Chef without me? Are you out for a smoke? Are you letting Valentina talk you into that horrific supersuit again? Yellow’s not your color. Are you bored? Do you miss me? Are you thinking of me? Do you ever just sit there and think and think and think and think and think of me—

“—I’m just saying, I’d appreciate it if I were utilized more. It’s always: Ghost, run through that wall! Ghost! Disappear!”

Walker groaned. “That’s what you do.”

“Case in point, you fucking moron.”

They were a clump of bloodied, beaten cretins by the time they slopped into the tower, dragging themselves to the common area like a funeral procession.

Ava and John had been at each other’s throats since takeoff, and the endless flight from Svalbard’s base had made Yelena ponder ripping the staples out of her arm to let herself bleed to death.

“Bucky, why don’t you jot this very serious issue down so we can discuss it with HR," John said, grinning when he was met with Bucky's vibranium middle finger. 

“Just because mass casualty is off the table, doesn’t mean I have to be shoved aside to pick locks,” Ava swung her arm towards John, “while Captain Cuck over here gets to spray his bullets around like he’s Tony Montana.”

“Oh, that’s good one, Ava. Very funny.” Dragging his fractured leg, Alexei howled the way he always did. He had a real pervert’s laugh, and it was loud and bellowing enough to smack even Yelena out of her stupor.

She rolled her eyes. “Not that I enjoy jumping to his defense, but they had us cornered.”

Vindicated, John waved at her. “Thank you—”

"What was he supposed to do?” she cut him off, “smack them with his hat?”

“For the last time, it’s a beret.”

“You gave your hat a name?” Alexei scrunched his brows.

“No, that’s the—You know what, screw all of you. It tested well with the focus groups. Plus, my kid likes it.”

“Didn't know god-awful taste is genetic," Ava mumbled.

Judging by the look on John’s face, she wouldn’t have made it to the kitchen in one piece if Bob hadn’t kicked the door open, wielding a baking dish filled with blistering, bubbling cheese. 

“Welcome back,” he said, like a mother in a 50’s sitcom, all frazzle-haired and oven-mittened and wonderful.

Something in Yelena sagged with so much relief she wanted to crawl towards him on her hands and knees and wrap herself into a ball at his feet.

He looked just the way they’d left him.

“You made your lasagna?” she croaked. She sounded like someone who’d had their arm stapled shut on a ten-hour flight from a frozen tundra at the end of the world.

“I made four.”

Satisfied groans from all around.

“Come here.” Alexei was already climbing over John and Bucky to grab Bob by the face.

“That won’t be necessary.” Caught in a chokehold, Bob’s cheeks ripened with a brilliant flush. “Thank you—Oh. Okay. Please…stop—”

“We missed you, Bobby boy.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you food that isn’t poached.”

Alexei grumbled another one of his dirty-old-man laughs before giving Bob’s head a silly smooch.

And as they spread across the counters and dug into heaps of Lasagna alla Bolognese in exhausted silence, Bob watched over them like a mother hen counting all of her chicks, and then counting them twice.

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

After a long visit to the med bay and an even longer shower, Yelena lay sprawled on the couch in the den, lumped under so many blankets and throw pillows she’d have to be exhumed. Loafy-warm and liquefied and aching, she struggled to keep her eyes on the projector screen: The French Chef, season two, episode four: "Coq au Vin".

(Bob hadn’t watched without her.)

It turned out, he’d spent most evenings in the den, hints of him lazily scattered about; his AirPods on the coffee table, a forgotten mug, a notebook and pen, a tattered paperback with a strange bird on the cover and a title Yelena couldn’t decipher from afar.

The faint smell of his deodorant. Clean lemongrass.

Every once in a while, her attention drifted towards Bob, who was the only one awake enough to join her. (Also, the only one who was willing to sit through an hour of Julia Child explaining how to properly chop chives.) Sitting on the blankets next to her, his hand so close she could touch him if she just flexed her pinkie far enough.

Something about this made her feel young, like she was back in Ohio having returned from a sweltering summer afternoon out on the block, lolling on the couch with the television on while Natasha braided her hair in slow measured strokes.

Yelena didn’t know when returning to the tower had started to feel like returning home. This bastioned mountain filling a space in her mind that had been kept vacant for a reason. Now, home was a military-grade security system and steel beams and tinted glass and the loose collars of Bob’s pale blue sweaters that dipped just so, and dipped so sweetly sometimes she could spot the space between his collar bones, begging for her thumb to be pressed to it.

What did you do without us around? Did you wonder about me? Did you think of me, ever? Did you miss me? Were you so miserable with the missing of me?

“Were you okay?” She asked this carefully, checking in like she was checking for a fever.

Bob gave one of his silly Bob-snorts. In her head, she could eat them. “You know,” he arched a brow, “contrary to popular belief, I’m able to survive in a glorified luxury bunker without talking to a volleyball…or like, I don’t know, hanging myself in a closet.”

“That’s not funny, Bob.”

“It’s a little funny,” he mumbled, smiling. She wanted to touch his eyelashes. “It was fine. Boring, but uh—you know. I think I spent way more time in therapy just to have someone to talk to. Umm…practiced with the nunchucks. Still terrible at it. Oh, and I tried making a soufflé.”

Her slow tired smile. “From season one, episode twenty-nine?”

He snorted again, endlessly amused by her knowing each episode's name and number by heart. Outdated American references stored tidily in her head, relics from her time spent strapped in front of television screens leeching on this country’s culture like a tick.

“That’s the one,” he said. “Apparently, I’m worse at making soufflés than using nunchucks, so do with that what you will.” He picked at the blankets. “I taught Mel how to play chess. We did a whole tournament-type thing.”

“Did you win?”

“Oh, she beat me, like, immediately. And then she let me win the last round because she felt bad.”

Yelena huffed a laugh. “How would you know? Maybe you’re better at chess than making soufflés and using nunchucks.”

“No, she made sure to tell me. Multiple times.” Bob snorted again.

“I feel like Mel could secretly beat the shit out of me.”

“We should probably keep an eye on her.”

“Make sure she doesn’t cause global annihilation."

"Yeah."

"Yup."

He smiled, then took a breath, then looked up. “What about you? Were you okay?”

Yelena swallowed.

Anywhere else, with anyone else, her answer might’ve been different. She might’ve skipped over those long agonizing nights staking out in the hull of a cargo ship, or the young Interpol agent who’d been caught in their crossfire, his body going limp in her arms. She might've scoured through herself looking for the right box to push it into, push it away.

But this was Bob, and she was so tired.

“No,” she said.

Shifting, he turned towards her fully.

His eyes looked darker like this, darker even when his attention zeroed in on her bandaged arm. It happened sometimes, this disquieting panic that felt instinctual, old, swelling inside of her, reminding her of the day his black shape rose over New York. A gaping pit of nothing, its never-ending tunnels to places unfathomable. 

She wanted to hold his face in her hands and tell him that she was fine, she was okay, I’m okay like this, I’m okay now. But she was tired. She’d missed him. She’d been so miserable with the missing of him.

With every ounce of energy she had left, she arched her pinkie towards his—just a little, inch by inch—until, finally, the tip of her nail grazed the tip of his.

She knew the shape of this feeling by heart.

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

Yelena had spent most of her life doling out punishment for people who believed they had the right to lord over those who deserved it and those who didn’t.

She was twenty-seven by the time she’d destroyed the last trace of the Red Room. People intentionally had kids at twenty-seven, they went on their last backpacking trip before settling for a career, they had cars that didn’t have to be shitty, they had a place of their own where they could afford the furniture. They were in relationships and went on dates and had sex and went out and complained about how they couldn’t drink the way they used.

At twenty-seven, the first thing Yelena had ever gotten herself was a tactical vest (with pockets), followed by a vinyl she couldn’t play (Dusty Springfield), and a gay porno on VHS that she’d watched in a motel in Arkansas (Saving Ryan’s Privates).

She supposed at that point, sex had been an alien thing, only to be whispered about in the bunk beds of the Red Room, a lecherous thrilling secret, oh, the things to be felt, Yelena! Have you tried it with a showerhead? Even kissing had been alien—kissing was for jewelry commercials and rom-coms about witty men meeting witty women in rainy cities, it was for Italian frescoes and horny poets and the horny chain-smoking Frenchmen in Bob’s New Wave movies.

The first person Yelena had ever kissed was Kate Bishop, and it had been as terrifying as it had been perfect, this trembling thing that unspooled inside of her, how the needing of it had surprised her so completely she could’ve begged for it on hands and knees. She’d concluded that kissing was as much for jewelry commercials and horny poets—as it was for the Kate Bishops of the world.

But then Kate had broken her heart, and Yelena had stumbled through the rest of her life wondering if she was meant for kissing too, or if all she was good for was assembling a gun.

And then there was sex.

And sex was something she didn’t know how to have sober. (Even with the Kate Bishops of the world.)

It wasn’t a thing she thought or worried about much. It existed mysteriously in the periphery of her life; along with dating and backpacking trips, and whatever average customs and crises plagued the people her age. But then sometimes, just sometimes, every once in a while during moments so minute...Bob stretched and the hem of his sweater skimmed up his skin…Sometimes he brushed past her in the kitchen, and his hand grazed her waist so tenderly it must’ve been by accident…Sometimes she felt his breath blast down the back of her neck, her elbow in his ribs, his knee sinking into the meat of her thigh—

“—faster. You’re dragging.” With a shove backward, Yelena unhooked Bob from herself, and he went tumbling onto the training mat. “You can’t second-guess yourself. You don’t have time for that when you’re fighting for—”

“—for your life, I know. I know.”

“Then move like it.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do? And that’s a rhetorical question, please don’t answer that.” Bob fell to his back, his T-shirt shucked up to reveal the taut planes of his stomach.

Swallowing, Yelena looked away. She leaned forward to catch her breath, wiping away the sweat stinging her eyes. The stitches in her arm had popped; she could feel it.

Bob sat up, completely dry and breathing normally. “Do you want to take a break?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yelena—”

“I said I’m fine, Bob.”

His concern shouldn’t have bothered her the way it did. Neither should his sweat-less-ness.

Sure, he fought like someone who’d avoided fighting his whole life, stiff and unsure, and more stiff and unsure than he usually was on the mat. But he was far stronger than he had been a month ago, faster too, and Yelena knew what that meant. Soon, the only people he could train with were those able to survive a super-serum-induced punch with the blowback of a sonic boom. Yelena was for the regulars, the humans with their breakable bones and woundable flesh, and here she was sparring with a man who had the potential to be the most cataclysmic force on planet earth.

The very least she wanted to do for him was teach him how to fight when fists were the last resort: Hand-to-hand, face-to-face, bound, gagged, feral, with nothing to lose. She’d been doing this long enough to know that even gods and super-humans met their match eventually.

She needed Bob to pack a nasty uppercut once the time came.

Nudging him with her foot, she said, “Come on, get up.”

“Yelena…”

“Again.“

He sighed. She cocked a brow. He relented. Again, they circled each other. And again, his movements dragged, almost as if it were deliberate. Yelena was so fucking tired of being held back on. Sliding her foot between his legs, she managed to unbalance him, aiming at his ribs in a series of quick cruel jabs, his breath close and damp enough she felt it spill below her ear. She pushed. He tumbled.

Again, she demanded. Again. Again. “Again, Bob.”

“Yel—”

“Again. “

And so they returned to the same sequence of movements—elbow hook, low sweep, slip and circle—again and again, until finally, Bob, like an ancient colossus exhausted from defending himself from some mortal’s fickle weaponry, grabbed her by the waist and hurled her onto the mat so hard her breath spewed out in one vicious blow. The pain in her arm wrecked through the rest of her body. Teeth clenched to keep herself from yelling. Dizzy, reeling through the whiplash, a body shoved above hers, head stooped low, shrouded in dark as it crowded out the light.

The panic this time was strange. Thicker. Hot. Something primal that dug through her skin. She felt it vibrate in her hands as she reached for him. An impulse so ingrained it was muscle memory. Grabbing hold of his head, she tugged him close, and when he turned his face…light pooled along the smooth valleys of it. 

He blinked. He softened, his head bumping puppy-like and clumsy against hers. 

“Shit,” he ground out. “I didn’t mean to, I’m—sorry. Sorry. Are you—”

“I don’t break that easy.”

He was so close his face was a pale blur. “I’m sorry," he said again. 

Her fingers tightened in his hair, then loosened. “Don’t apologize.”

The heat of him like this. Her feet ground into the mat. Her chest swelling with air, and his breath, and the smell of his deodorant, clouding her over in a haze thick enough to chew on, Oh, the things to be felt, Yelena—and what a horrible fucking time to be feeling them.

“You won't always be able to depend on your powers, Bob,” she said this so quietly she was afraid he hadn’t heard.

“They’re designed to be dependable.”

“Everything in this building is designed to be dependable until it isn’t. When people are able to do the things you can do, relying on anything is conditional.” He was still so close. How was he still so close. “Trust me.”

“I do,” he said without hesitation. “But, I just—I need these powers to be dependable, because if they’re not…” he trailed off. She didn't want him to finish that sentence. 

Whatever spell had pinned her to the mat, unpinned her. She released him. As if on cue, everything inside of her lost its balance.

“Because if they’re not, you’ll be left with a shit right hook.” She cut him off before he said something stupid he couldn’t take back, and rolled out from under him. “Get up. We’ll take a break in a bit.”

She wanted to say more but stopped when the gym came back into focus. The dumbbells weren’t where they were supposed to be, nor were the keg rings or the weapons on the racks. Her eyes tracked as half the room floated in the air, spinning in slow circles like comets.

“Bob—”

“It’s okay,” he said, and then he said it again, and before Yelena could protest, her body loosened itself from the ground.

She never expected weightlessness to devastate her.

“I wanted to tell you. But it just never...I don’t know, it just—” He shook his head. “I’ve been able to do a lot since you guys left for Svalbard.”

“That’s a long time, Bob.” Trying not to panic, she bobbed upside-down, before a warm invisible pressure tipped her upright and kept her steady.

“I know," he said. 

Was he devastated too?

In another version of this very moment, Yelena might’ve cackled with her head tipped back. She might've let Bob pinwheel her between floating barbells and training dummies until her head bonked against the ceiling. She might’ve told him to show her more, show her everything. 

In this version though, she stared at Bob rooted in the center of the gym like a planet around which everything spun. And when he rose, slowly, slowly, she thought he looked nothing like that day; lit from above, he fit into his body in ways she’d never seen before.

The benevolent titan carrying the world in his orbit. 

“Sometimes it almost feels like it did back then," he said, and she didn't like the way it sounded. 

“Does Valentina know?”

Bob's eyes flicked to something behind her shoulder, but Yelena was too busy trying to keep her balance to check what it was. “I’m not worried about her,” he said. A breath, then, “This doesn't change anything.”

“It’s already changing."

He was floating above her now, power rippling all around, his hair and clothes flowing in a tide she couldn’t feel but wanted to so frantically the wanting of it surged through her, from top to bottom, and how she could’ve arched towards him then, her body like a pebble knocked loose in a current.

Two weeks she’d spent in a frozen tundra, obsessed with the thought of Bob safely tucked away in a glass box, endlessly looking forward to returning to him.

How had Natasha done this? Any of this? Had she expected the people she cared about most to stay put if she'd just expected it hard enough? Did she have someone back then? And did she expect that someone to always be the thing waiting for her in the tower, waiting to be returned to. Had she wanted to stand between them and life itself? Breakable bones and woundable flesh and fickle mortal weaponry and all?

How did you live like this? 

Yelena tossed that question onto the pile of other questions she’d never get to ask her sister.

Staring up at Bob, his powers lowering her gently to the ground, she thought of the first time she’d ever seen him fall from the sky. A solar flare over Utah. She thought of his aunt. She thought of that movie with David Bowie. 

You tend to sleep like it’s the first and the last time you ever will. You’re wild in your slumber, not a moon but a beast, and forced to wear it all the next morning. Your mussed hair, puffy eyes, and rounded cheeks testify to the barbaric nature of your beauty rest. Your mornings, more often than not, are usually battles with the unrecognizable monster you wake with.

So, to save yourself from the inevitable embarrassment, you opt to get an early start on your day.

You try to slip soundlessly out of bed, but every movement feels aggressive in the quiet. Your blankets shuffle too loudly, your floors creak with every step, and your door squeaks more violently than you’ve ever heard it. Despite your gentleness, it’s all too audible when you’re still swaddled in the solitude of an early morning. 

The strident sound of metal door hinges makes you wince. You look over your shoulder, expecting to see the sleeping boy beginning to rouse. You’re relieved to find him as still as ever. Still wrapped up in the blankets and clutching the pillow in a death grip, Eddie’s face is shoved contently into the cushion. Lips pouted. Snores muffled. Hair untamed.

The ocean. The moon.

You wonder how often he shares a bed. If he ever has before. 

He spent the majority of the night taking up most of the mattress. The only time his limbs weren’t totally starfished was when he was curled up and stealing the blankets. You didn’t mind, though. You found it quite endearing, actually. Especially when Eddie would wake at some random point in the night and cover you back up again, ushering you back into his side.

“Sorry,” he’d mumbled, slurred and still groggy with sleep.

“’S okay,” you’d whisper in response.

Because it was.

You’d happily suffer the cold and barely an inch of space on any bed if it meant Eddie was beside you to pull you back into him again.

Your assurances went unheard, however, because he was already slipping back into his slumber. When he was deep asleep once more, Eddie would turn to his other side and forget you were there. He’d take the blankets and the cuddles with him while you curled into his back in attempts to chase them both.

And, rather strangely, it was the best night’s sleep you think you’ve ever had.

That’s probably why it’s easier for you to get out of bed now, despite all the things calling you back to it. Stormy weather, warm blankets, and a beautiful boy wrapped up in it all. Your body longs to dress up in it and him, but you don’t allow yourself the privilege. 

You can’t.

The last boy to stay over that wasn’t Steve was Jason Carver. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed douchebag woke up before you the following morning — the six o’clock wake time likely engraved into the gym rat’s psyche. And you, having put far too much work into your appearance than he was worth and having slept in all of it, didn’t look your best. 

Your makeup was smudged, your hair was a mess, and your eyes and cheeks were swollen with sleep. 

To Jason, you were a different person entirely. 

A beast. A monster.

“It’s nothing,” he’d shrugged when you asked him why he looked like he just saw a ghost. “You just… You look different.”

Not yet recovered from the Hargrove heartache, you had little patience for assholes disturbing your peace. You squint your tired eyes at him in return. “If a girl’s never let you stay over before, you can just say that, Carver.”

That shut him up real quick.

You think you could probably take that kind of assholery from a lot of people. It’s not like you haven’t before, but it’d be different coming from Eddie — from the only boy who’s made you feel worthy of actual affection. Not just the bogus kind that disappears when the sex is over.

To save both of you from any potential suffering, you slink quietly out of your room and tiptoe down the hallway. You wash your face and brush your teeth with the faucet on low. You try your best to tame your wild hair and sleep-ridden features without making too much noise.

It wouldn’t matter how quiet you were, though. You could’ve been completely and utterly silent; Eddie still would’ve known you were gone.

He noticed your absence the second you got out of bed. 

It was like you left an iceberg of emptiness in the place of your warmth. 

He heard the creak of your short trek down the hallway, the soft click of the bathroom door latching, and then the low hiss of the faucet when you turned on the sink. All of your nearly inaudible noises reminded him that he wasn’t alone — that, for the first time in his life, he was sharing a bed with someone who wasn’t just a friend.

It’s a little uncanny, living a life he never thought he would have. The freak from Forest Hills Trailer Park is sleeping in a pretty girl’s bed. A pretty girl who cooked him dinner the night before and gave him mind-blowing head right after, providing him an orgasm from which he swears his legs still tingle. 

It’s something straight out of his dreams. Something that only could’ve existed in his head before now. Before you. It’s almost too good to be true.

More than feeling underserving of it, Eddie’s got no idea what to do with it. 

What do you do for a girl who’s too perfect for everything? 

There’s nothing he could do for you, nothing he could give to you, that would come close to matching how he feels about you. Having all these feelings but not the means to describe them is frustrating. Suffocating.

He just wants to be able to tell you that he doesn’t want any of this to be about him, that he doesn’t want to be like all the assholes you’ve known before. You’re not a toy to him, not some pliable thing without feelings that’s only fun until it isn’t. 

He wants whatever parts of you you’re willing to give him — grateful for a piece of your heart, enraptured for the whole of it. Eddie just wants these too big feelings to be mutual, those innocent and otherwise.

He hears the bathroom door creeaak slowly open after a few minutes more. It’s followed by the soft padding of your feet down the hall. He can tell you’re trying to be quiet. 

Because he loves you, he pretends to be asleep when you come back to the bedroom. He buries his smile into the pillow when you slither into bed with the softest touches a human being can muster. All because you don’t want to wake him.

The boy humors you for a few moments before acting like he’s waking up all over again. He groans to himself, writhing as he tenses his tired limbs.

You wince. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” you whisper.

With his eyes still closed, Eddie shakes his wild head against the pillow. 

He squeezes them shut while he stretches, turning onto his arched back and curling his arms above his head. The cutest, muffled whine sounds from the back of his throat while he tries to make use of his stiff limbs. The noise resembles that of a yawning puppy making a sound much larger than itself. You can’t help but smile.

“Morning,” you greet, grinning at the newly woken boy. You prop yourself on your elbow and lean a few inches over to press a chaste kiss to the apple of his warmed cheek.

Eddie smiles a tired, crooked smile in return.

With the sleep finally cleared from his eyes, he can see you much better. Now, freshened up, you look less like a casualty of the early morning. You’re glowing, smelling of vanilla and flower petals, beaming at him without the added weight of exhaustion. No one should look so pretty at this hour. 

Or any hour, really.

“Yes, it is…” he lilts, a tad bit gruff with sleep.

Your cheeks speckle with hot embers. 

Despite the very visceral reactions each of his compliments give you, you squint at him in return. “Are you always this charming so early in the morning?”

“When there’s a pretty girl in bed next to me, yeah.”

“Did you sleep okay?” you ask him, opting out of what would otherwise be ten minutes of meaningless banter.

“Better than I have in a long time,” Eddie answers without thinking. He says it with full sincerity but forgets to forgo the teasing inflection in his voice. It makes you roll your eyes, figuring he still must be mocking you. 

He quickly adds: “And I’m not just saying that because you’re the pretty girl in bed next to me, alright? I promise.”

“Good,” you hum with a tightlipped smile. “‘Cause I slept pretty good, too... You’re like a personal space heater, you know?”

It makes sense, really, for such a spitfire to radiate such warmth. And you, lacking enough blankets to stay sufficiently cozy throughout the night, took to Eddie like honey on toast. He was a weighted blanket, a heating pad, and a teddy bear rolled into one. 

You think he might be the most comfortable person you’ve ever slept with — in the most literal sense, of course. But you’ll keep that to yourself, lest you break Robin Buckley’s heart.

“Is that why you kept putting your cold feet on me all night?” he jokes.

Your cheeks blot with heat all over again. Your face scrunches softly, partly in embarrassment but mostly in apology. “Sorry…” your murmur.

“It’s okay,” he shrugs. His assurance comes swiftly, a brisk slap in the face to your simmering worry that you might’ve made him uncomfortable in some way. Eddie often forgets how quick you are to take the blame for something. Or to find a too literal meaning in one of his dumb jokes. 

He makes a mental note to work on that. He can’t have his best girl thinking she’s less than perfect because he never learned to think before he speaks.

“I’m just glad I could be of service, sweetheart.”

“So you don’t regret sleeping over?” you wonder like a meek child, voice tiny and gaze swimming with timidity — expecting rejection.

“No,” he answers assuredly and with the curt shake of his head. His lips jut softly out as he turns his gaze to the ceiling. He seems to think to himself for a moment before turning his umber irises back to you again, nose scrunched. “I don’t think I could regret anything with you, honestly.”

You know there are a lot of things you could do in this moment.

You could squeal like a teenage girl and run around your tiny apartment. With the burst of energy his affection gives you, you think you could take a lap around the block in five seconds flat. 

You could also smack a kiss to his lips if you wanted. You could kiss him and keep on kissing him until both of you are blue in the face.

Or you could pretend you’re not all that affected by his words. You could play it cool, joke around like this foreign fluttering feeling in your belly is one you’ve felt before.

It’s too easy to choose the latter.

“Wow,” you lilt with wide eyes, dragging out the vowel for effect. “The charm really charged up overnight, huh?”

“You caught me at a good time,” he quips.

“I’m honestly a little impressed.”

“Well, be prepared to be fucking baffled, sweetheart, ‘cause I’m not getting out of this bed all day,” he threatens, brown eyes twinkling and pink lips curling. 

He rises from the mattress to lean over you. His slender figure cages yours in the same way his words do. Both are equally as warm and all-consuming.

The offer is bold and not really an offer at all. He could easily blame it on the weather if he needed to. He could bluff and say it was because of the pounding rain outside — not because being away from you for too long hurts like burning lungs screeching for air. 

If you take angst with his self-invite, there are a million lies he could come up with on the spot. But he knows you won’t. You’re too kind for your own good, and you love on him more than he deserves.

So, it really shouldn’t surprise him when you smile and wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Eddie has to fight back a shiver that crawls up his spine when your fingers curl into his untamed hair.

“Good,” you hum again, mouth parting to welcome his own shortly after.

He kisses you like he was made to do it. Your lips interlock, break apart, then press together again in an even rhythm. It’s like nodding your head to your favorite song — Eddie doesn’t have to think about doing it, he just does it.

It makes you wonder when he stopped overthinking each of his movements with you. His confidence bloomed like a flower, too gradual for you to catch. You only know that he’s blossomed wholly now. He’s at ease and finally comfortable with you. That’s all you ever wanted in the first place.

Your lips separate with an audible click when Eddie pulls away from you.

“Should I brush my teeth?” he wonders with furrowed brows, made self-conscious by the minty freshness on your tongue.

He’s sort of looking for guidance here. Really, his question is, do couples care about morning breath, or do they love each other too much to think about it? 

“I feel like I probably have crazy morning breath.”

“It’s not too bad,” you shake your head and fight the urge to tell him you’ve tasted far worse than stupid morning breath. You don’t want your slutty humor to sour the mood.

“No?”

“No. I promise. It’s fine.”

Eddie’s face scrunches for a moment as he thinks to himself. He tries to gauge whether or not you’re bluffing — if you really do mean it or if you like him too much to tell him that truth. 

But maybe that’s what couples do. Maybe they don’t care about morning breath. Maybe they just love the other person enough to brush their teeth anyway.

He shakes his head. “I’ll be right back—”

“Eddie, don’t!” you plead, borderline whining when he threatens to slip out of your grip. You tighten your arms around his shoulders but don’t fight when he keeps inching away.

“I’ll be right back!”

Your mewls of displeasure are muffled when he reaches the bathroom.

Eddie stays gone for no longer than five minutes. He uses the toothbrush you bought for him to freshen up his mouth. He brushes them a tad bit aggressively in his haste. And when he gargles your spearmint mouthwash, he nearly chokes on it because he’s scrambling like a madman to get back to you. 

He knows he’s got no real reason to rush other than his promise of being right back. Truth be told, he just hates depriving himself of you longer than he has to.

Despite having hurried, Eddie finds you all covered up and facing the opposite way of the door when he returns. “Did you survive?” he jokes as he walks back into your bedroom.

“No,” you answer into the pillow.

He laughs softly to himself when he crawls back into your bed, bounding over you and to the opposite side of the mattress. The blankets are still crumpled up in his shape. It’s all too easy to slip back in beside you — especially when you slither closer to him almost immediately.

“Poor thing,” Eddie coos at the sight of your playfully pouted lips. He ducks down to press a kiss to them. 

The action comes so suddenly it makes your eyes go wide. You pull the blankets up to your chin. “What was that for?” you ask in a shy, warm murmur.

Eddie shrugs. 

He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know why he’s just kissed you or why he’s ever wanted to before. Sometimes it just feels right to. 

“You just looked like you needed to be kissed,” he concludes.

Your grin widens. “I do.”

“I knew it.”

“Desperately so,” you affirm, only partly joking. “More than I need to breathe, in fact.”

“Ooh,” Eddie hums in return. “Guess I should keep kissing you then, huh?”

“Never ever stop kissing me, Eddie Munson.”

The confirmation of your yearning is all he really needs. Your playful but still wholehearted affirmation bats away his lingering insecurities. You want him like he wants you. The validation lets him melt emphatically into you like pancake syrup or marshmallow fluff. 

Something sickly sweet and twice as sticky.

Your kisses are just the same. They’re languid and made of velvet. As they deepen, you begin to suck on the soft plush of his bottom lip. Your expert tongue swipes against his mostly unskilled one. It’s slow and easy and relaxed — like you’ve already been kissing him for an eternity with a willingness to kiss him for an eternity more.

“See?” Eddie teases, partly muffled against your mouth until he can pull far enough away to smile at you with his freshly brushed teeth. “Isn’t this better?”

“I thought I said to keep kissing me,” you answer, wrenching the collar of his shirt in your fists to pull him back down again.

“Yes, ma’am,” he jokes back. Thankfully, your mouth is already on his by the time his words settle over him. It wasn’t supposed to be sexual — but now, lying over you and between your legs, it feels sexual. 

You don’t see the flash of shock on his features — not the wide eyes or the raised brows — but you do feel him tense. It’s like a rock is suddenly lying on top of you. You couldn’t make fun of him even if you wanted to, though. You’re exponentially wetter at his words.

Your innocent kisses become passionate. They’re wide, quicker, needier. 

Weighed down by the heaviness of the moment, you don’t think twice when your hand trails down his chest. 

Your touch is soft like rain. Your fingers drip drip drip down his torso and stomach, heading for the hem of his pajama pants. You hardly realize you’re doing it until Eddie’s hand wraps around your wrist. 

He’s not pulling you away. He’s not even urging your closer. He’s just reminding you that you don’t have to.

“Sorry,” you mutter against his mouth anyway.

“Don’t be,” he assures, shaking his head as he pulls back from you. The edges of his fluffy curls tickle your jaw. “It’s my turn now, right?”

“Your… turn?” you echo.

“I mean... I gotta return the favor now. Right?”

He’s talking about the night before. About the head-rolling orgasm and the haze he’s been in ever since. It’s the only way he can ask to eat you out without stuttering over himself like an idiot. The only other time he’s been able to talk about it was that evening on the phone with you — when he held the plastic telephone in one hand and his cock in the other.

“Wish I’d gotten to taste you earlier,” he confessed, so close to his orgasm he could taste it. “I’m thinking about how I coulda taken you on that bench... Get on my knees for you… Shove my head between your legs…”

The longing to taste you hasn’t yet left him.

He knows he might’ve had the opportunity forever ago if he wasn’t such a loser. But now, all he can do is make some lame excuse that sounds a lot less enthusiastic than he feels. He figures it might be better than getting on his knees and outright begging to put his mouth on you, though.

“Eddie…” you mutter in a delicate whisper.

He lifts your wrist from between your bodies and lays it on the pillow beside your head. The move feels strangely dominant. It strikes a feeling of overwhelming desire within you. You know you’d do just about anything he wanted in that moment. 

If he wants to make you feel good, that’s great. If he wants to use you to make himself feel good, that’s okay too. You don’t really care what he wants to do with you — to you.  But you do want to know if he truly wants to do them.

“What’s that look for?” he asks at your bemused expression.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Eddie nods.

He’s memorized the whole spiel already. Don’t do it if you feel like you have to, you always tell him. I’m fine just making you feel good if that’s all you wanna do. Or if you don’t wanna do anything at all. It’s all okay, I promise.

“Just because I did it for you doesn’t mean you have to—”

“I know,” he repeats, a bit more desperate than before. He drops his face down to nudge his nose against the bridge of yours, then rises again shortly after. “That was just my way of asking…”

“To eat me out?” you press.

Eddie nods.

“Well… You coulda just said.”

“Yeah,” the boy scoffs. “Because ‘good morning, can I perform cunnilingus on you’ is so romantic.”

You laugh. It does sound quite strange, but you only meant that most guys aren’t usually polite enough to ask. The few that care to return the favor at all just assume you want it without question.

Most times, you do.

But still, an invitation would be nice.

“Well, I would’ve said yes,” you manage through your giggles. “Just so you know.”

Eddie’s nose scrunches. “Really?”

“Totally. I mean, my legs would’ve been wide open immediately—”

It takes him a moment too long to realize you’re just messing with him. You’re serious, sort of, but still teasing. He huffs in annoyance and nods just to humor you. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Like— ‘Oh, my god, where did my underwear go?’”

“Shut up,” Eddie grouses despite his own laughter. He presses another kiss to your mouth, partly to end your harmless taunting but also because he thinks you’re so damn cute.

He didn’t think the girl people call the town slut would turn out to be such a dork. He almost can’t believe there was ever a time when you intimidated him — when he would walk on eggshells around you out of fear of losing cool points with you. You’re a bigger idiot than he is a lot of the time.

You try to kiss him back, but it’s hard when you’re smiling so wide.

“I’m kidding, but I’m serious,” you confess after he’s pulled away again. Your eyes sparkle as they flit between both of his cinnamon-tinted ones. “You have… no idea what you do to me, Eddie Munson.”

He figures that’s at least half true.

As easy as it is for him to you read most times, he finds it incredibly difficult to gauge what’s going on inside your head. He’s still confused (and a little concerned) at how he got you in the first place. He has no idea why you ever wanted to be his friend, let alone anything more than that.

But, on the other hand, he knows how he feels about you. It’s all pounding hearts and aching chests and swirling stomachs. You might be afflicted by the same sort of love bug he is.

“I don’t know,” he singsongs. “I think I might have an idea.”

“I can show you better than I can tell you,” you offer with his wrist already in hand.

Eddie props himself on one arm while his other journeys down the length of your body. He’s forced to mourn the feeling of your warm skin when your oversized t-shirt from the night before shields him from you. His grief is fleeting and quickly fulfilled when you guide his fingers through the hem of your underwear.

You’re far warmer beneath the cotton fabric. Wetter too. The pads of his fingertips slide over the thatch of trimmed hair at your pubic bone before settling over the softness of your lips. They feel like velvet compared to the silk they keep hidden.

His finger dips between them, just below the button of your clit, and it makes both of you moan. You, from a brief ripple of pleasure, and Eddie, from the notion that you’re this wet only for him.

“If you ever needed proof of how much I want you, here it is,” you tease, all breathy and with a pretty smile.

Eddie’s too overwhelmed by the feel of you to respond. Overcome with the want to touch you all over, all he can do is duck down for another kiss. It’s abrupt and a bit jejune — noses knocking together before your lips can meet properly. 

Eddie feels you smile against his mouth and exhale a laugh through your nose. He’s too clouded with lust to care that you’re finding humor in him. Too affected by his adoration for you to feel humiliated.

Several moments pass like that one. With his lips caressing yours the same way his hand caresses your cunt. He seems to be more focused on feeling you than rushing you towards an orgasm.

He spends ample time tracing the edges of your pussy. He circles the swelling button of your clit before dipping down to feel your hole clench around nothing as it threatens to suck his fingers inside. He’s only memorizing you — committing every inch of your cunt to memory — lest it be the last time he ever gets to touch you.

You wonder if he knows where to go from here, what to do next.

You decide it might be better to guide him anyway. For his sake and for yours.

“Should I take them off?” you ask.

Eddie nods. The tip of his nose glides against yours, and the ends of his hair brush the sides of your face. He parts from you and sits back on his haunches. When your hands reach for your underwear, his dart out to stop you. 

“Wait,” he protests, your wrists in his grip. “Let me do it.”

You trap your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your smile and rest your hands obediently on your stomach as Eddie’s fingers curl around the hem of your panties. His touch is much colder compared to your warmed skin. It makes you wonder if he’s nervous.

When he tugs your panties down, you lift your hips to aid him. He pulls the fabric up your thighs and over your legs, then balls the cotton in his fist to chuck them rather dramatically over his shoulder. You hear it land somewhere on the floor behind him. It makes you giggle. 

He’s too distracted to hear you, though.

You watch him watch you. His chocolate eyes are wide as they blink down at you like they’ve never seen you before. His palms absentmindedly caress the very backs of your thighs, keeping you nice and spread for him so he can gape at your glistening pussy without issue.

You figure this must be what virgins do — stare in absolute wonder at the first vagina they ever see. You certainly gawked at Steve Harrington’s inhumanely large cock the night he took your virginity. 

It was a lifetime ago now, but you still remember how the leather of his backseat stuck to your sweaty skin and how his car rocked with each of his languid thrusts.

It’s sort of what Eddie’s doing now, making mental notes of everything so he’ll never forget them. And as proud as it makes you feel, you can’t help but writhe in self-consciousness below him. 

“I hate when you do that…” you half-whine within your half-joke.

Eddie feels your thighs tense and drift closed. He lets you half-heartedly shield yourself, but the attempt is futile. You can’t quite shut your legs from where he sits between them. He rubs soothingly along the outsides of your knees.

“Do what?” he wonders with furrowed brows.

“Look at me like that…”

It doesn’t lessen his confusion. 

He hadn’t seen anything wrong with what he was doing before. You were his girlfriend, after all — surely he was allowed to look at you every now and then. 

Eddie figures he can’t be blamed for it anyway. Looking at you was like looking at the moon or the ocean. It only felt right to awe at your beauty, even if it is one he’s already amply admired.

But it’s different, still.

The moon didn’t rise for him. Oceans didn’t touch horizons for him. But your cunt, made of the finest silk and looking just the same, glistened all for him. Just for him.

“I’m not allowed to look at you?” he laughs.

“No one’s ever, like… stopped and looked at me before,” you confess, still wriggling like you can’t quite get comfortable. You’ll never get used to being ogled at like a piece of fine ancient art when, at best, you feel like some mundane painting that might suffice in a motel lobby. “It’s weird…”

“Well, it’s not my fault you’re so pretty.”

“Shut up,” you laugh but wholeheartedly accept the kiss he threatens you with anyway.

It’s a simple peck. A sweet one. An easy one. Not too deep, but passionate still.

Eddie forces himself to pull back again. He loses his usually playful disposition and grows quite boyishly serious. “Not to be, like, super lame or whatever, but you’re probably gonna have to tell me what to do and stuff because I’ve never—”

“It’s okay,” you interject, still as gentle as ever. You know he hates having to remind you, and himself, that he isn’t well-versed in the means of pleasuring you. No one likes asking for guidance, especially not when it comes to the intricacies of sexual pleasures. 

But, as Hawkins’ resident expert on the matter, you know no one gets good at a thing like this without asking for help every now and then.

“I’ll help you, Eds,” you promise in a seductive lilt and with a mischievous grin.

Your hands rise to his flushed cheeks to pull him down for another kiss. This one is much more ardent than his peck had been.

Eddie takes the lead. Not so much with ease, but without any push from you.

Your lips separate with a wet smack, only for his rosy ones to migrate down your jaw. His mouth trails down your neck, tongue darting out to lick you there. His smile curls against your skin when it makes you shiver. 

He moves further downward, copying what you had done the night before. The kisses feel a lot less effective when pressed over your shirt. He kisses the fabric at your sternum where the faded face of Debbie Harry is printed. 

You hold back your laughter when he huffs in frustration.

“Can we— Can I just take this off?” he wonders, impatient and annoyed with the thing, already tugging at its hem.

Your giggle escapes without warning.

Eddie lets you tug the shirt up and over your body without asking to do it for you. You let the fabric fall from your outstretched arm onto the floor beside your bed.

For the first time, you’re totally bare before him.

He’s seen bits and pieces of you, of course. Enough to know what you look like. Enough to think of you when he jerks off in the shower. Eddie’s seen enough of your body to fall in love with it — but to experience its glory in its entirety is much, much different.

“You’re doing it again…” you complain playfully. You feign displeasure when really you just hate feeling like a piece of glass.

“Shh…” Eddie shushes you. His glazed-over eyes don’t stop glossing over your naked body. “Let me look at you…”

You let him.

And he just looks at you. For several agonizing moments, all he does is look at you.

He commits every inch of you to memory. The rise and fall of your breasts with each of your anticipatory breaths. The pudge of your belly that pairs so nicely with the plush of your hips. The way his hands fit perfectly hugging your sides.

He caresses you up and down — from your ribcage to your stomach to your hips. He settles on your thighs and finds himself squeezing you there again, though he isn’t totally sure why. He just doesn’t know what else to do with such a beautiful thing other than to hold tightly onto it.

Eddie leans down again to press a kiss to your newly bare skin, right between your breasts, and you’re not sure why you’re moaning, but you are. There’s something quite tender in the intimacy you’ve been deprived of for so long.

His lips trickle down down down your body like gentle drops of summer rain. He moves with the ease of someone who’s done this before. He’s forgotten to be nervous.

When he gets to your stomach, he leaves another kiss just below your belly button. His heavy breaths fan over your cunt when he ignores it completely and instead decides to pay tender attention to the insides of your thighs. His arms curl around them. It feels like he’s embracing them.

You watch him, a little amused with the whole thing — with this unsure boy between your legs. You don’t even realize you’re smiling. 

One hand snakes into the curls at the crown of his hand, and the other sits contently over his knuckles along your thigh.

“Just kiss my pussy like you’re kissing me now,” you guide gently. The moan he exhales fans against your skin. “Whenever you’re ready, okay? There’s no rush. You’re already doing great, Eds.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he mutters into your inner thigh.

“I can’t compliment you?”

“No, I’m talking about— about your… pussy.”

“What’s wrong with saying pussy?” you giggle.

“What’s wrong with it?” Eddie echoes with wide, inquisitive eyes. His swollen mouth curls into a grin as he laughs alongside you. “It’s gonna make me fucking explode without you even touching me — that’s what’s wrong with it.”

“That’s… really hot, actually,” you admit rather candidly.

Something about Eddie finding his own sort of pleasure in pleasuring you makes you somehow needier for him.

He shakes his head, feeling like he’s being teased again. “Shut up…”

“I mean it,” you assure, then decide to joke. “But I guess I can get, like, anatomical or whatever if it’ll make you feel better.”

Now he knows you’re teasing.

Eddie rolls his eyes at you and turns his attention back to the warmed skin of your inner thigh. “Jesus Christ…” he grouses to himself just before pressing his lips there. He doesn’t know how to be anything but tender with you. Even when you are being a dumbass.

“Oh, Edward— please touch my vagina,” you joke with all the makings of a pornstar plucked from the Victorian age.

“I hate you so much,” the boy laughs despite his delicate kisses on your body.

“Your tongue feels so good on my labia minora—”

Eddie separates from you, then, meeting your playful smile with a much more cynical grin. “Stop talking,” he directs with raised brows and wide eyes, looking like a parent slowly losing patience with an unruly child. “Unless you want me to shut you up myself.”

He doesn’t mean anything by the half-hearted threat. It wasn’t even supported to be dirty — he just sort of said it because he was tired of being the butt of the joke. It’s rare for him to be on the receiving end of any teasing because, most times, he’s too busy dishing it. 

But you go quiet almost immediately. Your smile ebbs as your eyes go big and glassy. Eddie can’t help but feel like he’s just done something horribly wrong. 

His grin fades and a childlike gape of horror floods his features. “Hey, I was just— I was just kidding. I didn’t mean it like… I’m just an idiot, okay? I’m sorry.” 

You don’t mean to laugh, but you do. 

He’s apologizing like he’s just done something irreversible, something awful he’ll never be able to take back. All he really did, though, was turn you on so desperately you had to remind yourself to breathe.

“It’s okay, Eds. It’s okay,” you assure through a burst of horribly suppressed giggles. “I liked it. It just— It surprised me. That’s all.”

“You liked me telling you to shut up?” Eddie wonders with furrowed brows. He’s not judging you, exactly, just confused and a little relieved.

“Not exactly. I just… I like when you’re assertive. You know, dominant?”

“Right,” he nods, but you can tell he still doesn’t quite get it. 

You figure you’ll have ample opportunity to bring his gentle dominance to light. Just not this time. You think if you explained to him now, how he can have his mouth on your pussy and still have all the power, his brain might implode on itself.

“Just kiss me, Eds,” you guide, direct but still soft.

He shifts on the mattress. You can feel him getting ready to rise and lean over you again. Your hand in his hair tightens to stop him.

“Not there,” you hint.

Your smile is kind, yet playful. Sarcastic, yet sensual. Every one of your expressions is so complex. There are a million beautiful and conflicting labyrinthine flitters to your features he could point out to you.

Meanwhile, his face only goes lax with the realization. Dumbfounded and, well, just dumb.

“Oh…”

“Don’t overthink it,” you instruct quickly when you see him retreating to the shell of his mind. “I know it’s hard to, but… I’m gonna like anything you do, okay? I promise.”

Of course, your assurance quells perhaps his biggest problem — the oh shit, what if nothing I do feels good because I don’t know what I’m doing problem. But when he’s finally face-to-face with your glittering cunt, wetter than it had been just moments ago, he’s got no idea where to start.

He wants to touch you all over. He wants to dive in deep with his tongue and make you unravel entirely underneath him. He’s almost sure, though, that no guy’s ever got anywhere from being overzealous. Or worse, overconfident.

So he just kisses you. Like you asked. He presses his lips to the button of your clit in a peck he would otherwise insist upon your mouth.

The pleasure is fleeting. Negligible, at best. It’s a brief flash of distant lightning from your cunt to your spine. Your hips cant towards his mouth anyway, desperate for more of what he’s teasing you with.

Eddie’s eyes flutter open again. He licks his lips and tastes traces of you on them. His half-hard cock stiffens between his body and your mattress, trapped in the most delicious feeling.

“Good?” he asks you.

He knows he hasn’t done much. He just wants to make sure you’re okay with this — with him — or even that you’re just okayat all. He doesn’t want to do anything before he knows you’re comfortable.

You nod. “Good,” you echo, already breathless.

“Can I… Can I do more?”

“You can do whatever you want, Eds.”

And while that isn’t the most helpful in terms of guiding him, it gives him the go-ahead to touch you all over. That’s all he really wanted in the first place.

At a loss of where to start, Eddie begins to mirror what he’s seen in the movies — the rated XXX kind. He licks a flat stripe up the length of your cunt, from its opening to its apex. The irregular pattern of his tongue is much rougher compared to your smooth silk. 

For a guy who has no idea what he’s doing, you seem to like it well enough. You exhale a low moan through an agape mouth, bucking your hips in a desperate attempt to follow his touch.

“You like that?” Eddie wonders. Just to be sure.

Your keen fades to a soft laugh. “Are you gonna ask if I like everything you do before you do it?”

“I just, you know… wanna make sure…”

Make sure I’m doing okay, he thinks to himself. Make sure it feels good for you and that I’m not making a total fool of myself.

“Here’s some advice,” you start, rising on your elbows to see him better. “If a girl’s moaning, that means she likes it. You can totally tell when they’re fake, I promise. Checking in every once in a while is good, but really the best time to ask is when she stops moaning, okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods, features gaping with wonderment. You think if you gave him a pen and paper right now, he’d start taking notes. “Okay.”

“Visual cues are always the best in terms of, you know, making sure someone’s into what you’re doing.”

“Visual… Cues…?” Eddie echoes slowly. Like a total idiot.

“Yeah. Like, if you can feel her getting wetter or if her legs are shaking… Things like that.”

The boy nods to himself. “Right…”

“I’ll tell you if I don’t like something, okay? Or if I want you to do more of something,” you assure. Your fingers scratch gently at the back of his head to seal your promise. “I’m here to help you, yeah? I’m like your… personal sex trainer. I’m gonna turn you into a professional, Eds.”

Instead of telling you that he doesn’t care much about being a professional anything — that he doesn’t need to learn how to make every girl feel good as long as he’s making you feel good — he just scoffs and gets to work again.

Eddie licks at your pussy with languid strokes, focusing mainly on your clit because it makes you moan the loudest for him. He full-on makes out with your cunt like he would your mouth, just like you asked.

It’s passionate and a little sloppy. He uses his tongue to spread you open as though he were prying into your mouth. He sucks your clit between his lips as though he were nipping at the plush cushion of your bottom one. It’s easier that way, to think of eating you out as expressing a sort of tenderness.

Making you feel good is just a bonus.

According to your pithy list, you seem to be enjoying yourself. Getting wetter? Check. Legs shaking? Check. You’re moaning quite a lot, too — breathy, deep, and satiny ones that make him groan against you. 

Both of you are too far gone to notice Eddie’s hips grinding into the mattress. His neglected cock finds a distant relief with every half-hearted pass against the cotton.

Every delicate choice Eddie makes with your pussy is so easily felt.

He was nervous at first. If that fact weren’t already obvious to you, you would’ve known by the unsure kisses to your clit. He was trying to gauge your reaction, figure out what you liked most. Then, when he got more comfortable, so did his mouth. His kisses grew more confident, more languid, more unaware of himself.

Suddenly, and perhaps with the fleeting thought to heighten your pleasure by doing something different, Eddie starts doing more with his tongue. He becomes less confident, less languid, less himself.

He traces a sharp A along your pussy, quickly followed by a rounded B. You clock it immediately because you’ve felt it so many times before. And though it still feels quite nice, you find yourself laughing.

When Eddie feels you softly trembling, his chest swells with pride. He thinks you must be quivering with pleasure. A second later, he realizes you’re laughing. 

His swollen mouth smacks when he pulls away from your pussy, lips glistening with your slick. He gapes at you with horrified honey eyes. “What?” he slurs, slightly drunk on the taste of you.

“Are you doing the ABCs?” you ask him, still giggling.

Eddie falters at having been caught so quickly. “…No.”

“That’s the oldest trick in the book, Munson. Every guy does it. I can tell you’re doing the ABC thing, babe.”

“I, uh… I read it in a magazine,” he confesses with his cheeks glowing red.

“I know,” you hum softly. “It’s okay. It still felt good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I told you I would tell you, so I’m telling you,” you remind with a gentle smile. “Do you still want help?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, more sure now.

“If you want to use your tongue, you can put it where you’d normally put your fin— oh—” Your attempt to guide him ends in a tiny, broken moan when Eddie dives in quicker than you expect him to.

You thought he might take a second to hesitate, to ask if you were still sure like he always does. But, for perhaps the first time with you, he doesn’t think twice. He slips his eager tongue into the satin of you with an obviously unpracticed motion, and you whine pathetically underneath him.

It’s not how easily his tongue slithers into you. 

It’s not how he explores the walls of your cunt like undiscovered territory. 

It’s not even how the tip of his nose nudges your clit in a manner that can only be described as merciless.

What really gets you is the thought that he’s only ever done this with you — that you’re the only girl he’s ever tasted, that your pussy is the first to grace his tongue. The proud, borderline possessive feeling is nearly as gratifying as his mouth.

You can barely talk through Eddie’s attempts to swallow you whole. Every time his nose bumps your clit when he flicks his tongue just so, an electric shock shoots down your spine. You’re slowly forgetting how words work. 

You try to coach him through it anyway.

“Most girls… They, uh— They like when you switch between your tongue and your… your mouth. But I, um… I like this for a while— fuck, Eds.” You throw your head back when he audibly slurps at your drooling pussy. His own moan is muffled against you as your hand tightens in his hair.

It takes a moment or three to catch your breath again.

“But when I get close, like… right before I’m about to come, I usually like when guys— oh— when they suck on my clit—”

And even though you’re not exactly talking dirty to him, your words make Eddie groan against you anyway. The heavy grunt is hummed into your cunt — low and rumbling like thunder that travels the length of your body in the same resounding way.

Eating pussy was easier than Eddie thought it might be.

It had its little intricacies, of course, but it wasn’t too hard once he got the hang of it. Your tip on visual cues helped him more than you realize. It really was all in the optics. 

You clenched around his tongue every time his nose accidentally bumped your clit, so he started to do it more intentionally. When he focused on your sensitive button and pulsating cunt at the same time, your pussy dripped more honey on his tongue. You moaned louder for him too, begged for him outright.

“Eddie, please,” you whined. “Right there, Eddie.” 

“Oh, your tongue feels so good, Eds.”

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.”

But just because it was easy didn’t mean it was effortless.

His tongue gets quickly tired from such fervent use. His jaw aches from the constant open-shut motion of the joint. His neck grows sore and stiff from its constant tilted position.

It makes it harder for him to touch you how he wants to — harder to make you feel as good as he needs to. So when your vocal moans turn into quieter whimpers, he parts from your pussy with a loud smack and gives his mouth a break. 

You whine at the loss of him, immediately cold without his mouth covering you. 

You’re crying out again the second he replaces his tongue with his thumb. He presses the pad of it to your clit — not rough, exactly, just eager and firm. 

To be touched so ardently in a place so delicate feels like you’ve been dipped in scalding hot water. And, being that you’re more sensitive there than most tend to be, your body reacts accordingly to the suddenness of his touch. Your hips buck upward, legs closing on instinct. 

Eddie’s in the line of fire for all of it.

“Shit, Eds,” you grimace when your knee smacks his jaw. You rise on one arm and use the other to caress his cheek. Your thumb rubs at the skin there in a futile attempt to soothe the ache. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay,” the boy answers with an immediate shake of his head. With his eyes still glassy and his tongue still tasting of you, he only wants to put his mouth on you again. Despite the distant throbbing in his jaw, he grins. “Didn’t even feel it.”

He had, of course. The dull feeling is ebbing. Slowly. 

But it’s still okay.

Eddie turns his attention back to your pussy. His arms curl around your thighs again. Now that he’s not busy devouring you, he can see how wet you’ve gotten. 

Honey leaks relentlessly from your pussy. He feels almost undeserving of the amount you give him. It darkens the sheets beneath you and clings to your skin like silk. 

It’s lewd and sinful. Beautiful, still.

“Shit, babe,” Eddie sighs to himself. “You’re fucking— You’re dripping.”

You know you are. You can feel it. It trails slowly from your pulsating cunt to your ass and wets the sheets below you. You’re a little embarrassed, to have made such a mess without even orgasming.

He swears he sees you wince. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t apologize,” Eddie directs with a practiced swiftness. “It’s hot. It’s... really fucking hot, okay? I mean, it’s like… Your pussy’s fucking drooling for me.”

You’re moaning at the vulgarity of his words before he ever puts his mouth on you.

It doesn’t take long for the pleasure to crescendo again. The distant orgasm looms nearer and nearer, like a storm cloud rolling in. You barely have time to realize you’re succumbing to the heavenly feeling before it’s already there.

“I’m about to come, Eds,” you manage to warn, half-slurring and already seeing stars.

Eddie answers with another low moan into your pussy.

He remembers what you told him, slides his mouth from your velvet walls and migrates to your clit. His mouth engulfs the sensitive button. He sucks it between his lips, flicking his tongue along the very peak of it.

And you? You were already long now. Now you feel like you might as well be in outer fucking space.

“Oh my god, Eddie,” you whine pathetically, trapped in the dense haze of immense pleasure. 

You feel all of it and none of it, all at once. Your hips buck forward and backward, trying to chase the feeling and run away from it, too. You don’t realize it, but you’re all but grinding against Eddie’s mouth. 

He can’t do a single damn thing but revel in it.

A distant part of his consciousness registers that his hips are rolling against your mattress. The thought is too far away to make him stop, though. 

What was he supposed to do, anyway — when a pretty girl was making even prettier sounds for him, begging for him to keep making her feel good? It made him so hard it hurt.

Eddie grinds his stiff cock into your bed and tries to relieve the overwhelming pressure you and your lewd noises burden him with. He moans against you without thinking. 

You figure he must be torturing you, using the vibrations as a weapon to make your orgasm that much more forceful. Really though, Eddie’s just coming in his pants for the second time since being with you.

His cock spurts several unforgiving loads into the cotton of his underwear. He buries his pitiful moans and whimpers into your pussy, hips still rocking through his high.

You come right along with him.

Your back arches, unintentionally pushing your cunt further into his mouth. “Fuck, Eddie—” you cry, high and fragile, as you drip more honey for him. Your mouth falls agape in a silent moan that leaves in another feeble whine a moment later.

And Eddie, never having been a man who knows his limits, has no idea when to stop.

He doesn’t particularly want to. He thinks he could probably eat your pussy forever, though the lingering ache in his jaw and neck begs to differ. The way you say his name when you come for him — over and over and over again — would make the pain worth it.

“Eddie—” you gasp for the hundredth or millionth time when his tongue swipes across your clit again. Your hips twitch at the sensitivity. You’re forced to pull him away by his hair. 

You begin to laugh to yourself as your high slowly subsides. The breathy giggle that falls from your lips sounds delirious, almost, as your fuzzy brain comes down from the clouds again.

Eddie, just as incoherent as you, presses sloppy kisses to the insides of your thigh. His heavy eyes flutter open to find you smiling tiredly at the ceiling. “Good?” he wonders through labored breaths.

It’s a “Was that good for you?” as much as a “Are you back now?”

You trap your smile between your teeth as you nod.

Tilting your ear to your shoulder, you peer down the expanse of your body to where the wild-headed boy lies between your legs. His flushed cheek rests along your inner thigh. Your fingers dance through his curls.

“I might just make a professional out of you yet, Eddie Munson.”

A grin tugs slow at the edges of his swollen mouth.

He rises so he’s leaning over you again and doesn’t waste a second to start kissing you — the same way he’d been kissing your cunt moments ago. His rosy lips are still slick with you. You can taste the briny tang of your honey upon them.

Before you have time to acknowledge any of it, though, something sticky presses into your stomach. You blame yourself for it almost immediately. It wouldn’t have been the first time you’ve stained someone’s pants. A second later, you realize it couldn’t have been you. So it must have been Eddie.

The crotch of his pants is wet because he came in them. 

“Eds,” you murmur into his kiss.

“Hm?” he hums and pulls back with furrowed brows.

“Did you… um…” you trail off, trying to find the best way to ask your question without sounding like you’re making fun of him. 

You’ve noticed he tends to get a little self-conscious about these things — conversations that remind him that he’s mature but not at all experienced. You often approach the topic with caution. Likely the same way he does with you and subjects on promiscuity.

Eddie’s face twists further in confusion. It makes you wonder if he even noticed.

The flash of realization on his face is evident. As soon as his come cools and leaves the fabric of his underwear sticking to his skin, his eyes go wide and he jerks away from you. “Shit. Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. It’s fine,” you assure him quickly, chasing him as he sits up again. Your legs curl beneath you as Eddie’s hang over the mattress.

“No, it’s not,” he scoffs out a laugh. “It’s lame.”

You reach for his face and take his cheeks in your gentle hands to make him look at you. You meet his sheepish gaze with a softer smile. “It’s sexy,” you correct. “This isn’t even the first time you’ve done it. It’s not a big deal to me. You know that.”

“Yeah, it was lame then, too.”

Your smile widens as you shake your head at him. 

It wouldn’t matter if you provided him an itemized list of everything he did that you found attractive — sexually or otherwise — he still wouldn’t believe you. He’d just laugh and say you were joking, probably find a way to make fun of you for it like he always does.

“You have a crush on me?” he’d tease. “That’s so gross…”

Rather than press the issue, you leave a chaste peck on his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” you say, still holding him. “Then we can go get breakfast or something.”

The smug smirk he gives you isn’t surprising. 

“Ooh,” he hums. “A shower, huh? Sounds fun.”

“Alone.”

“Why?” he wonders with a pout.

“Because we’re adults and not a couple of teenagers. We’ve got better things to do than fuck like rabbits all day.”

You’re serious, for the most part. Even a slut’s got to have her own boundaries. You didn’t get the title by having sex every chance you could — not exactly, anyway. The art was in the chase. You get your prey clouded by lust until it’s all they can do not to fuck you. That’s when you strike.

It’s why you weren’t just a slut. You were the slut.

But still, there was more to your rejection, a deeper meaning to it you keep to your chest like playing cards out of pure embarrassment.

You don’t think you could keep your hands to yourself — not with Eddie’s bare body pressing against yours after bringing you to an orgasm that had you seeing stars with nothing but his mouth. 

And you want so desperately to take things slow, to make all of his firsts special. You want to wait, but he makes it so damn hard.

“I’m gonna go shower,” you repeat and place a barely-there kiss to his lips before you go. You pluck your shirt from the floor and throw it haphazardly over your naked frame. “There’s some tissues on the dresser if you wanna clean up!” you shout from the hallway right before Eddie hears the bathroom door click shut.

You’re gone for twenty minutes. 

The shower was far quicker than the more drawn-out ones you’re privy to, especially when you’ve got a pretty boy over. You don’t see the point in doing the whole routine now, anyway. Eddie had already seen you naked — tasted you, no less. It doesn’t make sense to care about stubbly legs and frizzy hair now.

When you return to the bedroom for fresh clothes, you find the boy lying in the center of your bed. He’s got Bowie on his belly and your basket of cassettes at his side. He slouches against the headboard and flips through them like index cards, occasionally humming to himself when he finds one he particularly likes.

There’s something really special about the sight before you. This beautiful boy with wild hair has made himself comfortable in your bedroom — amid all your pretty decorations and with your less-than-affectionate cat. 

Eddie’s at home in your home. Like he’s always been there. Like he’ll never leave.

“I don’t know if you wanna shower or not, but I might have some t-shirts you can change into,” you tell him absentmindedly as you search through your drawers for something to wear. You rifle through the folded clothes with one hand, using the other to hold your towel to your chest. 

You’re looking for something pretty but casual — something fitting for a day at home that’ll still make Eddie compliment you.

“But I don’t know if I have sweatpants…” you caution. “Or boxers.”

Eddie shrugs. “It’s okay. I brought some extra clothes.”

He slips out of bed and tucks Bowie neatly back into the mattress. When he emerges from beneath the covers, you find he’s already changed. He’s still in the same shirt, but he’s wearing different underwear. They’re as baggy and thin as the ones he made a mess in, just a new shade of plaid.

“Oh,” you hum, smirking. “That is very presumptuous of you, sir.”

You hold the tank top and shorts you’d picked to your chest as Eddie walks the short distance to meet you. He rolls his eyes at your insinuation. “Not like that. I’m just… an idiot. And I don’t know how to pack… Also, I was nervous.

“Nervous?” you echo.

“Yeah,” he confesses, shifting his weight on his feet. Nervous, still. He grins to cover it. “First time spending the night alone with a pretty girl… I think that’s something pretty normal to be nervous about.”

You get it. You do. It’s not like you didn’t spend the entirety of your afternoon agonizing over all this the day before. You just hate that Eddie was nervous, too. That you hadn’t made him feel better.

“You don’t have to be nervous around me, Eddie,” you promise.

“You don’t make me nervous. I make me nervous,” he corrects. 

Your brows pinch together in confusion.

He explains. “‘Cause I wanna, like… Impress you and everything…”

You smile. Then nod. “You do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Every day,” you answer like it’s obvious. “You always give me something new to like.”

Eddie hopes his face isn’t as red-hot as it feels. 

“What was it today then, huh?” he wonders with a teasing lilt as he takes one step closer to you. His chest rubs against the hands holding your clothes and towel. His fingers settle along your waist. “Or is it too early in the day to ask?”

“Your tongue,” you answer honestly, but with a seductive undertone — just to make him melt.

It works.

 ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

You finish getting ready in the bathroom. 

The tank top you chose is simple and white ribbed — an easy four-quarters at the thrift store. The neck of it comes up too high to reveal much of your cleavage, but it clings to you like it was made to do it. 

Your shorts are much of the same. Cheap. A little boring. They’re floral patterned and frilled at the bottoms. If you pull the top of them to your belly button, the edges of your ass threaten to poke out.

You’re feeding Bowie in the kitchen when Eddie returns from the bedroom. He’s dressed for the day in his usual attire — the thrifted concert merch and baggy jean duo. The all-black outfit matches the stormy weather outside. It’s quite the opposite of your brighter garb, though.

You don’t realize he’s there until he’s pressing himself against you, effectively pinning you against the counter. His arms wrap around your waist, embracing you almost, as he tucks his face into your shoulder.

“You look pretty,” he mumbles into your skin.

You giggle as you fork cat food into Bowie’s bowl. “You’re so cuddly today.”

Eddie grins against your neck. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Of course not! I just had to chase you all night because you refused to snuggle.”

Your use of the word snuggle makes him scoff. He parts from you and leans his hip against the counter beside you. “Sorry for the worst sleeper known to man. Sue me.”

You slide the calico her food and set the fork down with it as you turn to face the boy. You instantly notice he looks different from before but can’t quite gauge why. More of his face is visible than usual — the edges of his rosy cheeks and the pale points of his jaw.

It takes you several embarrassing moments to realize his hair is tied up.

He’s done a rather haphazard job of it. Several strands have been left out of the knot at the back of his head. It’s not entirely pulled through the tie either, so it’s in this vaguely shaped messy bun. You figure it was more to get his curls out of his face than anything remotely stylistic.

“…What?” he murmurs at your silent stare, head jutting slightly backward. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Sorry,” you apologize and shake your head out of its stupor. Your squeezed-shut eyes open again and twinkle when you smile. “It’s just… Your hair…”

Eddie hadn’t expected you to notice. He does it so often he forgets how different it makes him look. 

Long curly hair was totally metal, but it was annoying. He usually keeps a hair tie in his bedroom for when it’s particularly bothersome. Being that he was without one now, he thought the pale pink scrunchie on your dresser would do the trick.

His pale hand instinctually darts to his head. He scratches at his hair, loosening the already slacked strands. “Yeah, I, uh… I used one of your hair ties,” he admits, embarrassed but unsure why. “I hope that’s… okay?”

“Of course, it’s okay,” you tell him, laughing. “I’ve just never seen you with your hair pulled back. It’s cute.”

It takes everything in him not to crumble when your hand rises to his face and combs through his hair. Your gentle fingers tuck a few ornery strands behind his ear, then rest on his jaw.

You’ve got a vague hint of a smile on your lips, one of wonderment almost, like you can’t believe he’s real. You look at him like he’s some beautiful thing you can’t believe managed to get more beautiful.

He loves it so much that he hates it. He needs it so much that he can’t help but shy away from it.

“Well, I’m nothing if not adorable,” he jests with a sheepish grin and tilts his reddened cheek towards his shoulder.

“Damn right…”

Eddie’s too slow in his shyness to meet you halfway like he typically would. It leaves you doing most of the work — standing taller to reach his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck to press more wholly against him. You smack a single kiss to his mouth and pull back to admire him with a smile.

His hands settle on your waist, at the very apex of your hips, where they always seem to gravitate. He kisses you this time in a longer, languid, more drawn-out thing. The constant locking and separating pattern of your lips persists through the sounds of rolling thunder and a cat lapping rather dramatically at her food.

Even as someone knocks at your door with several sharp raps, you’re less than enthusiastic to part from him.

Eddie separates from you when he realizes you aren’t planning to. “Do you wanna get that?” he asks, figuring you must not have heard it over the rain or the feeling of him.

“No. It’s probably nothing. They’ll leave,” you assure him quickly, desperate to feel him again.

Eddie, similarly longing, only nods. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he leans down to kiss you again.

The knocking returns. Louder now. A female voice accompanies it. “I don’t know if you’re asleep in there or something, but it’s fucking pouring out here! So if you could let me in, that’d be great!”

You part from Eddie suddenly, a tad bit aggressively, and without thinking twice.

It’s like a switch has been flipped within you, from indifference to immediate concern. You hear Eddie start a question — a trailed of “who’s…?” — but you’re out of the kitchen before he can finish it. You’re at the front door in a few quick strides, swinging it open before you realize you’re doing it. 

It’s like muscle memory, almost. To come when you hear that voice calling.

Seeing Max Mayfield on your doorstep isn’t the most surprising thing in the world. It’s pretty expected, actually, but seeing her now — in the pouring rain, with nothing but her skateboard? You’d be a little impressed if you weren’t so shocked.

“What are you doing here?” you ask her, practically screeching, as she shoves past you and into your apartment. Her soaking wet Converse stomp into the living room. You can almost hear the subtle squelch of the damp soles.

“If I stayed on Cherry Lane for one more second, I was gonna go insane,” she spits as she toes off her sneakers.

“Did you… Did you skateboard all the way here?”

“Well, it’s not like I have a car, so…” she answers without really answering, flashing you an equally sardonic smile.

Amber strands hang from her two braids and cling to her freckled forehead. She tugs off the yellow raincoat that didn’t seem to do much of anything. Her t-shirt and jeans are drenched in splotches and sticking to her skin.

“It’s pouring outside, Max! That’s dangerous!”

“I didn’t die, so I’d say it’s fine.”

You sigh to yourself — a deep exhale that deflates your chest.

Max Mayfield is a spitfire. Everyone knows that. Sarcasm is quite literally her love language. When she’s mean to you, it’s because she likes you. She only gets really snappy like this on occasion.

Derision becomes her shield. Being hurtful is the only way she knows to keep people at arm’s length. So, when something’s really wrong, and she’s at your front door in the pouring rain, it’s easier for her to be closefisted than actually ask for help.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” she shrugs.

You send her a knowing look. A no one skateboards halfway across town in the rain for nothing kind of look.

“It’s just my brother,” she caves in a huff. “It’s always my brother. I don’t even know why you bother asking at this point.”

Your fists clench at your sides. “What’d he do now?” 

“It’s my stepdad, mostly. They just… fight. Like, all the time— a lot more than they used to, and you know how bad they used to,” Max explains, halfway rambling, as she paces with socked feet along your living room carpet. She gesticulates wildly as she continues. “I don’t even know what they’re arguing over now. I’m not even sure they know, but my mom refuses to do anything about it, and I’m pretty sure Billy would kill me if I tried to, so…”

The girl trails off with a shrug and stops pacing to face you again. The nails on her left hand pick at the skin of the pointer finger on her right. 

Your concerned gaze makes her cower.

“I just can’t stand the yelling, and my walkman only turns up so loud, you know?”

“Color?” you ask her.

To Eddie, who’s hearing all this from the kitchen, it sounds quite vague. Almost purposefully vague. He’s got no idea what it’s supposed to mean, but Max answers so suddenly it’s clear to him that both of you know.

“Before I left? Orange. But... if Billy didn’t leave before I did… red,” the girl agonizes with ocean eyes wide in apprehension. “Like, bright red. Fucking blood red— whatever the darkest shade of red is, it’s that one.”

Eddie decides to make himself known then. He leans against the doorway that connects the kitchen and the living room. “Crimson?” he offers, then corrects himself. “Or, no, maybe scarlet… I don’t know the difference between them, actually.”

Max falls eerily silent. Her head darts over her shoulder at the sound of the familiar voice. She’s less surprised to find someone else in the apartment than she is to know that, out of anyone in the world it could have been, it’s Eddie fucking Munson.

She turns back to you, pale face and auburn brows contorted in confusion. She jerks her thumb in the boy’s direction. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“He stayed the night,” you shrug.

“You let Lucas’ weird new friend spend the night?”

“Wow, Red,” Eddie laughs behind her. “I thought we’d be on a first-name basis by now.”

You shift your weight on your feet and try to swallow down any lingering nerves. You know you shouldn’t be this concerned about losing cool points to a fourteen-year-old, but Max is different. Max is cool. Way cooler than you are.

“Well, we’re dating, so…”

“You’re dating Lucas’ weird new friend now?” she gapes.

“His name is Eddie, Maxine,” you argue, full-naming her because you know how much she hates it. You walk past the girl dripping all over your carpet and head towards the hallway for a towel and fresh clothes. “And he’s standing right there, so you could be a little nicer.”

“Yeah, I’m sensitive, Maxine,” Eddie teases. He brings a hand to his chest to feign offense as he inches toward her. “Wait to talk shit about me when I’m out of earshot, yeah?”

Max squints at him. “Well, this is my safe space, Lucas’ weird new friend, so don’t hog it, alright?”

“Funny you say that because I’m pretty sure only one of us was invited here,” Eddie retorts.

You emerge from the hallway then with a towel and spare clothes. 

“And none of you pay rent, which makes it even funnier,” you quip to quell the petty banter and hand Max the fresh linens. “Here. Get changed. Take a shower if you want. Me and Eddie were about to get breakfast.”

The redhead falters at the act of kindness. She still isn’t quite used to it — the way you help her without thinking twice. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and she knows it won’t be the last. But still, it’s hard to accept.

“Thanks,” she wavers and tries her best to smile. It looks more like a wince than anything else.

She slinks off down the hall. You hear Bowie’s paws hit the floor in a muffled thud as she hops off the counter to follow her.

Eddie waits until he hears the bathroom door click shut to turn to you, more serious than he had been before. “Um, so… What was that, exactly?”

“It’s nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “She just stops by sometimes when her brother is bothering her.”

He nods though he’s still sort of confused. He crosses his arms over his chest and furrows his brows. “And the colors…?”

“It’s easier for her to describe the fights by what color they felt like. Blue is the sad fights, green is the stupid fights, orange is right before they get bad, and red is when they do get bad,”  you explain, then huff. “Black is… the worst one. They’re the fights you don’t come back from.”

You’ve only seen one code black before. That night at Steve’s — that one was black. The night progressed, and it only got darker. It became a shade that swallowed all the colors surrounding it — a black hole.

Black is the kind of fights that change you. The fights that stick with you forever. The fights you can’t forgive and can’t forget.

“Oh. Shit,” Eddie mutters to himself. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, eyes flitting between you and the empty hallway. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He wants to comfort you — the both of you — but he’s got no idea how. “Should I… Should I, like, go?”

You want to tell him no. 

You want to tell him that you need him there, that you don’t want him to be far away again, that he might actually help. But you know Max. She puts up a wall with you, and you’ve known her for years. There’s no way she’ll talk to you with Lucas’ weird new friend around.

“If you wanna go get breakfast or something, that’d be really cool,” you answer sheepishly, scrunched face like you’re scared you might hurt his feelings. You inch closer to him, arms wrapped around yourself, as you explain. “I wanna get her to talk and everything, and… she might not if you’re around… ‘M sorry.”

Your shy gaze is met with a grin. He shrugs. “Hey. It’s okay. I can take my van and get us something to eat. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

Like Max, you try to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thanks, Eds.”

You kiss him before he leaves. A brief peck to his cheek that doesn’t even mean anything. Your lips brush his lower jaw so softly that he barely feels it, but it takes him by surprise anyway. Not because you’re kissing him, exactly, but because it’s so strangely domestic.

Eddie’s pretty sure no one’s kissed him goodbye since he was five. 

It’s the little things — those mundane, innocent, and slightly stupid things — that he never missed because he’d gone without them for so long. But you’re reminding him now what it means to be cared for, telling him in your way that he’ll never have to be without them again.

His fingertips are buzzing when he leaves your apartment. 

He’s certain he’ll get struck by lightning before he gets back.

Eddie stays gone for thirty minutes, and you spend that entire time trying to get Max to talk. It’s a more difficult feat than you initially thought. She’s got a sarcastic remark for each of your questions.

“It’s not just nothing, Max!”

“It’s no different than code green!” she argues, sitting below you on the couch in one of your oversized tees. “I just don’t wanna listen to them argue. It’s not like I’m… scared. Or whatever.”

“It’s okay if you are scared, though. You know that, right?”

“Well, I just said I’m not, so…”

One stern look from you, and she breaks.

“I’m always scared, okay?” she bursts. “Even when they’re just talking, I’m fucking terrified because I’m waiting for everything to blow up again. And I— I fucking hate living like that, so I left. Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

The only thing you know to do is ask her if she wants to get Hopper involved. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s talked to her stepdad, least of all Billy.

Her answer is a balanced and very nuanced — “Fuck no.”

She’s only comforted by your offer to let her spend a few nights at your place and an invitation to your yearly spring break trip to Lake Lemon — only on the condition that her mom is alright with it. 

You know it’ll bite you in the ass eventually. The vacation was just supposed to be you, Robin, and Steve, after all. You figure they’ll understand why you inevitably had to invite Max and all her high school friends when you tell them your hands were tied. Besides, Steve Harrington was the best babysitter around. He could watch over a few teenagers for a weekend.

When Eddie returns, he comes with a paper sack of biscuits and a “Honey, I’m home!”

Bowie is the only one not rolling her eyes at the cliche announcement.

“I didn’t know what you guys wanted, so I just got, like… everything,” the boy explains while the two of you dig ravenously into the bag.

You’re a lot less glum than when he left. Especially Max. She’s smiling now — cracking jokes about Eddie’s wet hair and how it makes him look more like a poodle than usual— in between feeding Bowie spare sandwich crumbs. 

She even thanks him, a week and monotoned expression of gratitude, more spurred on by a look from you than anything else.

“Thanks, Lucas’ weird new friend…”

He’ll take it. He’s just happy the storm’s clearing up.

“No problem, Red. Glad I could be of service.”

He means it in the most literal sense.

Eddie’s happy to have helped in some way, even if it doesn’t feel like much. You and this strange redheaded girl are getting full on food he bought specifically for the both of you, and something about that thought is very distinctly warming. You laugh over two dollar sausage-egg-and-cheese biscuits, talking so loudly it makes it almost impossible for him to get a word in edgewise, but he doesn’t even care.

The clumsy boy who can never seem to do anything right is just happy that he’s finally done some good.

It is a bit weird, though — having to share you. He watches you give all your attention to Max, and a childlike sort of misplaced jealousy simmers within him.

Like usual, you’re totally selfless. You let Max choose the movie and the food you eat with it later that evening. Instead of the typical Star Wars trilogy Eddie often picks, you end up watching Karate Kid. He’s forced to go without his usual hot-sauce-chocolate-syrup-popcorn concoction because Max insists on making nachos.

They’re good. They’re great, even. But Eddie’s too busy sulking to enjoy them because you’re sharing a blanket with Max instead of him. You sit on the couch together while he’s banished to the recliner across the room. 

Bowie’s good enough company, but she’s certainly no replacement for you.

Eddie doesn’t get you to himself until the movie’s over.

You make a semi-comfortable bed for Max on the couch, complete with all the spare pillows and blankets you could find. You tuck her in like a parent would their child — just to hear her laugh as she swats you away — then make Bowie promise to watch over her for the night. You don’t come to bed until you’ve checked on them both five separate times.

Eddie makes no complaint when you finally settle in next to him. 

There is no half-joke or sarcastic quip waiting for you — just a warm arm he wraps intently around your middle to pull you closer to his chest.

Because he gets it, why you dropped everything to help Max. He would’ve done the same for Dustin. He has done the same for Dustin. And with the way you so effortlessly take care of him every other day of the week, Eddie can’t blame you for doing the same for someone else. 

He’d be an idiot to be angry at how kind you are.

He’s just grateful to have you now — grateful to have you at all — even if it is only to sleep.

The both of you have just finally dozed on when your phone starts to ring. The repeated chime sounds so much louder in the quiet. It’s suffocating, almost, in the darkness of your bedroom.

Eddie stirs first. He finds himself on the other side of your bed, turned away from you entirely, and with the covers to himself. 

You don’t seem to mind too much, too sleepy to care. You’re on your belly, face smushed into the pillow, with one leg hiked. Your sleep shirt has risen up your spine to reveal the black cotton panties you wear underneath. 

You groan at the intrusion on your slumber.

“Who is it?” Eddie groans, slurred with sleep.

“Robin,” you grumble as you flip to your other side.

He doesn’t ask how you know that.

Your heavy eyelids flutter shut, totally against your will, forcing you to reach blindly for the ringing phone. When your fingers finally wrap around the plastic, you bring it to your ear. The curled wire is cool against your chin.

“What?” you slur into the receiver.

“Well, it’s good to hear your voice, too,” Robin quips on the other line. She sounds too chipper for so late into the night.

“Why are you calling me? It’s almost midnight.”

“I’ve been waiting to call you forever, but Keith wouldn’t quit hogging the phone!” She sounds like she’s shouting that last bit over at the man himself. She turns to the phone again, quieter this time. “I don’t even know who he was calling. It’s not like he has any friends.”

Your brows furrow. “You’re still at work?”

“Yep. Inventory. Graveyard shift. We’re getting overtime, but it’s totally not worth it.”

“So you called ‘cause you were bored?”

“No,” she insists in a scoff. “Well, I am, but I thought I should tell you that Billy came by before closing.”

That wakes you up immediately.

The name in itself is an adrenaline rush. 

Suddenly, you’re wide awake and your heart’s beating like you’ve just run a marathon.

“He what?”

“Yeah. I mean, he was just asking for Max — said she ran away or something. He’s probably making the rounds looking for her, but… He asked about you…”

“What do you mean?” you ask and try not to sound too panicked.

“I don’t know if he thought she was with you or if you might’ve been in the back— I don’t know,” Robin rambles, voice distant like she’s multitasking between talking and working. “He wanted to know where you were.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were out of the country.”

Despite your alarm, her answer makes you laugh. Robin was always good at that. Making jokes to distract people from their problems was her specialty. It takes you a moment to realize she isn’t laughing with you, though, and you wonder if it was a joke at all.

“Wait, seriously?”

“I didn’t know what else to say!” she defends half-heartedly. “I was just scared he might’ve come by your place.”

“Well, he hasn’t… Not that I know of.”

The thought of Billy Hargrove often looms over you. He was like your own personal storm cloud. Even with the real storm long gone, you hear thunder roll over your head and rumble down your spine.

“Maybe he just gave up,” Robin lilts optimistically.

You know Billy doesn’t know how to, though. For him, it’s win or die trying.

“Maybe…” you waver anyway. “Is Steve there?”

“Yeah— say ‘hi’ Steve!” After a second or more of silence, you hear the boy himself groan a distant and obviously exhausted greeting in return. Robin’s voice follows. “Sorry. He’s grumpy.”

“Why?” you laugh.

“He sorta told Billy off when he came by. Keith got pissed,” she summarizes, the mocks her manager’s monotoned drawl. “‘You’re not allowed to talk to customers that way, Harrington. Even if they are raging douchebags.’”

You smile to yourself. There’s something warming about Steve defending you even when you’re not around to see it. He’s sticking to his word without needing to be rewarded for it.

“Tell him I think he’s very brave,” you joke.

“She wants you to know that she thinks you’re very brave, Stevie,” Robin tells him.

Steve grumbles a faraway thanks.

“Are you guys working tomorrow?

“Yep,” Robin answers, popping the p. Her words are dripping with venom. “Morning shift. Nine o’clock sharp.”

“Maybe I can come by then,” you offer.

“Get your personal P.I to keep tabs on Billy in the meantime. You know, just in case.”

“You say that like he’s a serial killer.”

“You never know! He could be our very own Ted Bundy.”

“—Also, Hopper is not my personal P.I.,” you laugh when her words finally dawn on you.

“He totally is, but… whatever you say.”

You roll your eyes with a distant smile on your face. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rob.”

“Sweet dreams… Since I’m not getting any tonight, apparently,” she speaks too sweetly into the receiver. “Love you.”

“Love you more.”

“Love you most!”

You sit the phone back on the hook. It takes a few tries because you’re still sort of sleepy and less than coordinated. The quiet room fills with the rattled sounds of your repeated failures. You succeed on the fourth try.

You turn back around and find Eddie awake, too. His curls are wild — umber strands dancing in a halo on his head and on the pillow. His eyes are a darker chocolate from sleep, honeyed and heavy. 

His brows pinch together. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” you answer, more focused on getting comfortable again. “It’s just… girl troubles.”

“You people are full of that these days,” Eddie scoffs through his exhaustion.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everyone’s having girl troubles,” he elaborates. “Robin, Dustin, Mike, Lucas. Probably Steve, too, because he’s Steve.”

“Lucas?” you echo, distantly concerned because his girl troubles aren’t just girl troubles — they’re Max troubles. “What’s going on with Lucas?”

Eddie sighs and shakes his head against the pillow. “I don’t know. Something with Max, I guess. He won’t talk about it.”

“How do you know Max?” you change the subject with a soft smile. “Where’d the nickname come from?”

“I don’t really know her. She just hung around with Lucas a lot. For a while, I think I really was his weird new friend to her. Like, after the first couple days of school, those kids were practically glued to me, you know?” he explains with a reminiscent grin. “I think they just liked having someone older too… I don’t know… Protect them, I guess?”

“That’s sweet,” you gush — tired and in love.

Eddie scoffs. “Yeah. I’m a real hero, sweetheart.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m… I’m not a hero,” he rejects quietly, with a quieter smile. “In D&D, you know, maybe. But in real life? I’m a total coward.”

You shift closer to him until you’re sharing the same pillow. When you settle again, your noses are nearly brushing and your breaths are intermingling. You lift your hand from the blankets and rest it on his cheek, smoothing your thumb over the apple of it.

“Well, it takes a lot of bravery to admit to cowardice,” you counter in a lilt.

“I guess so…”

“And I think if it really came down to it, and you really had to fight for something, you could do it,” you tell him with a sparkle in your drowsy gaze. Your eyes flit between the both of his deep outer space ones. “Even if you were scared.”

You believe it, even if he can’t. You know Eddie could be brave in the face of something frightening, as much as you know that you couldn’t be. It’s why you’ve still got this black and ponderous storm cloud hanging over you. Since you can’t do it — be brave — you hope Eddie could be that for you instead.

“You’ve got a lot of faith in me, sweetheart,” Eddie quips and tries to swallow down the emotion swelling in his chest like so many rays of sunshine.