Tender Purgatory

You lay flat on the bed with him towering over you, his cock buried deep in your throat while a vibrator buzzed relentlessly against your clit. Every gentle thrust turned your moans into wet, muffled sounds around his length.

"God--fuck," Robert hissed, "You feel s-so good."

For the rather lewd position he put you in, he was painfully tender. His fingers were tangled possessively in your hair as he thrust into you at a careful, deliberate pace. When you looked up through watery eyes, you saw the way his brows were furrowed in deep concentration, clearly fighting the urge to lose control.

A part of you wanted to beg him to just let go. To ignore every inhibition and fuck your throat raw until you were a gagging and drooling mess. But you knew your anxious boyfriend too well--push too hard, and he'd retreat back into his shell, guilt flooding his cautiously bright eyes.

With a shaky breath, you hollowed your cheeks and dragged your tongue along the thick vein running up the underside of his cock. Robert's hips stuttered and a broken moan tore from his throat as he jolted forward, the careful rhythm fracturing for one dangerous second.

You could feel his resolve starting to crack.

"Baby, please," he whined, panting. "I'm trying to be good."

You shrugged in a half-assed apology, but you were in no way sorry.

He felt intoxicating. Thick, hot, and throbbing as he leaked with the need for release. And you had done that. You, naked and trembling beneath him, had brought him right to that edge.

His cock twitched. Hard.

So close.

You pulled back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, looking up at him wickedly.

Robert's breath hitched. "Wha--why did you stop?"

You eased off completely, and he slipped from your lips with a wet pop. You clicked the vibrator off, throwing it somewhere on the bed.

He whined, broken and needy, chest heaving. He was so pathetic, and it all but made you drool.

You shushed him, turning around and rising to your knees until you were eye-level. Your puffy lips were on his within milliseconds, capturing them in a searing kiss.

"Not yet," you murmured against his mouth. "I need you in me."

Suddenly, the soft blue of Robert's eyes flashed a brilliant gold. For someone who believed himself to be strong-willed, he was turning into putty in your hands. He groaned and hid his flushed face against your neck, his arms wrapping tightly around you.

The very one he only ever reserved for you.

Even Sergei, stubborn as he was, couldn't ignore the quiet thrill stirring his heart.

And there you were, enjoying your complimentary dinner at Dima's bar. The waiters had been poised for your arrival—no doubt by the request of Sergei's brother—and quickly jumped into action the moment you stepped inside. They guided you to a secluded booth in the seating area.

Crystal chandeliers hung low, illuminating the room in a melancholic golden glow. Waiters and waitresses darted between tables, trays balanced precariously on their arms. All around you, couples gazed longingly into each other's eyes, their food untouched and wine bottles emptying.

To top it all off was the mesmerising sound of Dima's piano playing, his practiced voice blending sweetly into the background.

It was designed to be the perfect evening.

So why, then, did everything feel so wrong?

From the second you were seated, something changed.

With every passing minute, Sergei seemed to be more and more on edge. He would shift uncomfortably in his seat and grip his fork a little too tightly.

The sudden change in his behavior was jarring.

You tried your best to pull him back; gentle touches to his arm, light jokes about Dima's exaggerated mannerisms when he played the piano, questions about his food and his well-being. Yet with each attempt, he would give you less and less—a grunt, a silent nod, a shrug, then eventually nothing.

The booth felt colder with each attempt. Without you noticing, he had scooted away from you—so far that the space between you could have held a full wine glass. There was no endearing bumping of your knees, no teasing hands on thighs. Sergei wouldn't even look at you, his darkened eyes focused on the bar behind you.

A flush of embarrassment snaked up your neck like a vine. You felt painfully out of place as you drowned in a sea of happy couples, their giggles mocking the silence hanging over you two. You feared that people were staring and judging, wondering how much dignity you had left to sit there while your boyfriend treated you like an afterthought.

Fed up, you set your fork down with a clank so forceful that it made even Sergei jump. "Okay, what the hell is going on?"

"Nothing," Sergei said, his eyes glued to the steak in front of him.

"Bullshit," you hissed. "You've been acting like I'm invisible for the last thirty minutes. Like you don't even want to be here. If you didn't want to come here you should've just said so and save us both the hassle."

His jaw flexed. "I said nothing is wrong."

"Sergei, I'm going to give you one more chance to—"

"Madam, an espresso martini for you."

You had been interrupted by a waiter, who suddenly appeared bearing a singular drink on his tray. He stood a careful step back from your table, no doubt sensing the heaviness in the air.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, but your heart gave a small, stupid leap. "I didn't order that."

Had Sergei ordered it?

"The gentleman at the bar," said the waiter, and nodded towards a lone man sitting on a stool. The man was well-put together, his tailored pin-stripe suit screaming money. He caught your eye with a smile and raised his glass towards you. "He sends his regards."

The hope died as quickly as it was sparked, disappointment crashing over you once more.

He placed the drink down in front of you and scurried away.

You stared at the espresso martini like it was poison. You watched the way the bubbles in the swirling foam caught the light, and how the lone coffee bean in the center bobbed up and down. When your eyes flickered up, Sergei was still eating his steak as if nothing happened.

There was no anger in his face, no sense of possession. It seemed as though he couldn't care any less.

Your throat tightened. How was it fair that this complete stranger was treating you better than your own boyfriend? The same boyfriend who you stood through thick and thin with, and now treated you like you were worthless?

With two fingers, you pushed the martini glass away. The sound of crystal scraping against polished wood was deafening.

That's when Sergei finally looked at you. "Don't drink it."

It was a command, cold and strict in its nature, like you were a child about to touch something hot.

You chuckled wryly. "Oh, now you care? You've been acting like a dick all night, and the second some guy buys me a drink you're back to being the loving boyfriend?"

He set his knife down a little too aggressively. "I said don't drink it."

"And I told you," you said, the volume of your voice raising and drawing a few glances, "to explain yourself. You won't sit next to me, you won't touch me, you won't even look at me. You're treating me like I'm a burden!"

The embarrassment from earlier had blossomed into something angrier. You no longer cared if people were watching you.

"Then leave."

It was a simple statement, but it's cruelty cut deep. Your mouth dropped open in shock as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

"What?" you breathed.

"If it's so bad," he said, "then take the drink and go sit with your new admirer. I'm not stopping you."

You sat back against the seat, biting on your lip to keep from crying. Humiliation and betrayal burned underneath your skin.

"You're serious?"

He shrugged, the motion small and cruel. "You seem interested."

That did it.

You stood up so fast that the glasses on the table shook. Much of the attention was on the both of you now. Conversations stopped, silverware froze mid-air. Only Dima's songs continued on in ignorant bliss.

Gripping the sides of the table, you leaned in, your face inches away from Sergei's. Now he was really looking at you. For a brief second, something flashed in his eyes.

Regret? Panic? You couldn't tell.

"I think I will," you hissed, your words dripping with hostility.

You didn't give him time to recover.

You snatched your purse from the seat and made your way out of the booth, heels clicking against the marble floor. You didn't spare him nor the stranger at the bar another glance.

The coffee bean in the long abandoned espresso martini finally sank into the ocean of foam.

You only made it three steps before Sergei rose.

A low, guttural growl rolled past his lips. It was quiet enough that those nearby might excuse it for him clearing his throat, but you knew that sound all too well, and the way it vibrated your bones.

His hand suddenly closed around your upper arm. His grip wasn't bruising, but rather unyielding. He only stopped you from leaving, didn't yank you back.

"Don't," was all he said through clenched teeth.

You spun to face him, trying to free your arm from his iron grasp.

"Let me go," you spat.

People were openly staring. Somewhere off in the distance a woman gasped. Even Dima's melody faltered for half a second before it smoothed back into proper form.

Sergei's grip loosened a fraction. A frown was etched deep into the lines of his face, his shoulders rigid with restraint. You almost walked away again, but something else made you pause.

It was the uncharacteristic slight tremor in his hand.

You looked up at him only to find his pupils blown wide and eyes darting wildly. No longer was there the emptiness and cruelty that had been mocking you all evening—only desperation.

"Hallway," Sergei rasped. "Please."

You wrenched your arm free and stomped towards the dimly-lit hallway where the bathrooms were. Sergei followed closely behind you, his footsteps heavier than usual.

The hallway was narrow and shadowed, the piano and conversations muffled behind its thick walls. You spun around to face him once you were concealed from everyone's prying eyes.

"Talk," you demanded. "And if you don't, I'm walking out that door and we're through."

Sergei exhaled, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms so tightly that the muscles in his forearms stood out. He stared at the floor, his chest heaving. The silence stretched between the two of you, thick and suffocating.

Finally: "It's the season."

You frowned. "It's—what?"

"Mating season," Sergei said, dragging a hand down his face and rubbing his stubble. "I thought I had a few more days, but it just hit me out of nowhere. Hit hard. Every scent in this place is screaming at me. That fucking guy at the bar—" his lips curled, exposing his teeth, "—he just reeked of lust. Even that goofy-looking waiter. Every one of my senses feels like it's on fire and it's just killing me."

You were stunned, to say the least.

Even though the two of you had been dating for quite some time, this had never been an issue before. In the midst of your fury, sadness begin to swirl deep in your stomach.

It probably wasn't the first time he felt like this, and he had done an outstanding job at concealing his troubles from you.

You breathed shakily. "So mating season is..."

"Exactly what you think it is. It comes and goes every few months and I can usually hide it, but fuck—seeing you in that dress, in that necklace, just drove me insane. And I got scared because I'm worried I might hurt you somehow—"

"So you pushed me away," you interrupted, understanding creeping in.

"I pushed you away," he echoed defeatedly.

Shame started to weigh heavy on Sergei now. There was notable pain in his eyes as his shoulders sagged. With a sigh, you stepped towards him and put a hand on his arm. Anger still simmered beneath the surface, but you were slowly starting to soften.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you have to act like such an asshole?"

"I don't know," he uncrossed his arms, and hesitantly reached one hand out to hold your waist. "I'm sorry, I completely ruined the night. I hurt you and I hate myself for it. I just didn't know what to do."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, finally closing the distance that had been plaguing the both of you all night. "What you do is come talk to me when you're feeling this way. You come to me for help. I don't want you to hide something like this from me."

You searched his face. He couldn't even meet your gaze, eyes glued to the floor out of guilt. Even with the storm passing, you could still feel the frustration and need deep within him.

"Do you want to leave?" you asked.

His grip tightened. "With you, more than anything."

"Then let's go," you stood to kiss him on the tip of the nose. "And once we're home," your voice dropped an octave, "I'll help you out however you need."

Sergei's forehead dropped to yours, a purr dancing past his lips.

"Deal."

It always started the same way: forced smiles for the cameras, muttered insults under your breath, and shared glances of mutual disgust that made the entire room shift uncomfortably. And, perhaps if you were lucky, a 3 a.m. text that contained a message short of telling you to kill yourself.

Yet it usually ended the same way too: the desperate grinding of your hips, your breasts bouncing in the dim light, hushed moans swallowed by the dark.

It was a carefully orchestrated dance bred from lust, sin, and shame—one that you'd performed countless times before.

And your partner for each number?

A harsh slap suddenly echoed throughout the hotel room.

"Touch me again without permission, Ryder, so help me God—"

Tom Ryder, the infamous movie star.

You shoved him flat against the bed before he could sit up, your nails digging into his chest to leave crescent-shaped wounds.

One of your hands clamped around his throat. Not tight enough to completely cut off his access to the musty, sweaty air that surrounded you two; just enough to remind him who was in charge.

You leaned down to whisper in his ear, voice dangerously low. "Keep those fucking hands on the sheets. Or, I'll get up and go back to my room. Leave you here all fuckin' needy and pathetic."

For good measure, you bit down on his earlobe. The hiss that escaped through his clenched teeth was like music to your ears.

God, you fucking loathed him.

Ever since you had the displeasure of meeting him on a movie set all those years ago, he followed you like the plague.

There was no denying that your on-screen chemistry was electric: intense eye contact, falling into each other's arms like second nature, your lips perfectly shaped and melding into passionate, practiced kisses. When it came to the two of you, your joint scenes rarely required reshoots—and directors absolutely loved it.

Even your promotion tours had gone down in history.

Every daytime, nighttime, and variety talk show begged shamelessly for you. The hosts would always lean in, eyes-wide, asking the same tired questions.

"What's the secret to that undeniable spark?"

"Do you remember the first time you met?"

"Can you confirm if you actually are dating?"

You'd always laugh and readjust on those ridiculously tiny sofas, the taste of battery acid on your tongue as your thigh brushed up against Ryder's. The both of you would flash each other the quickest look of longing—one that would make the tabloids blow up with "Will They, Won't They" headlines—before dodging the question entirely.

The mystery was part of your shared brand.

The shared brand, which, unfortunately, brought you so many job opportunities and an obscene amount of money.

It was just easier to play along. Even if it did cost you your dignity.

"Can you hurry it up? I can feel my boner disappearing."

Your legs burned with exertion as you continued your brutal pace.

Dignity. What a joke.

With every bounce on his pulsing cock, you understood the source of Ryder's egotistical nature. Handsome, richer than God, and well-endowed—he was the full package and he knew it.

His thick member stretched you wide, dragging against every sensitive ridge with each punishing drop of your hips. When he sank back to the hilt, a wet, filthy clicking sound echoed from where your soaked bodies met. It was humiliatingly loud on the hotel floor that housed the employees working on your current film.

You hated how good it felt.

Hated how perfectly he filled you up, hated how the blunt head of his cock kissed the spot deep inside you that made your breathing stutter and vision blur. You hated how your cunt could drip for him on command, hated how it involuntarily clenched around him.

Ryder's knuckles turned ghostly white as they clenched the bed sheets tighter and tighter. He'd tried his best to listen to your earlier command, letting you play with him how you saw fit. But his resolve quickly started to crumble as his hips jerked up to meet yours in pathetic, shallow thrusts. The muscles in his stomach and thighs were tight and rippled with each strained breath. The droplets of sweat rolling down his pecs caught the dim light of the bedside lamp and glistened deliciously.

In your trance, you leaned down and stuck out your tongue, licking the drops up in one long stroke.

His dick twitched as he groaned. "Fuck. You're fucking filthy."

Half insult, half praise. The words only made you clench tighter around him, a reflexive betrayal of your body that pulled another broken moan from his throat.

"You like that?" he panted, a cocky grin tugging at his lips. "You fuckin' like that, don't you? Acting all good for me for once."

"S-shut up," you shot back as your pace faltered.

Testing the waters, Ryder smoothed a large hand up and down your thigh. It was refreshingly cool in comparison to your heated skin, and your eyelids fluttered shut at the soothing sensation.

"Poor girl, look at you." Ryder cooed, "You're getting tired. You should let me help."

You bit your lip and shook your head. As much as you craved him pounding into you, you didn't want to surrender control just yet.

But Tom Ryder couldn't care less about what you want.

He snapped his hips up once, and the force of it punched the air from your lungs. You buckled forward with a whimper, both your rhythm and dominance gone.

Now was his time to strike.

One thick arm snaked around your waist, the veins bulging from his forearm. His other hand seized your tangled hair and wrenched you back upright. You were trapped; straddling, stuffed full, and unable to form a coherent sentence—just how he liked you.

"There she is," Ryder murmured, eyes dark as he drank in how submissive you looked. "My stubborn girl. I'll have you screaming like a porn star in no time. Wake up everyone on the floor."

Before you could respond, he planted his feet on the bed and started to thrust into you at a brutal pace. You were helpless in his iron grip, your near-limp body jolting every time he bottomed out.

Your whimpers quickly built to a crescendo, eventually turning into those wanton moans a director told you to make once during an intimacy scene. In the midst of all the noise, you almost missed Ryder's self-satisfied chuckle.

His hand slipped down your waist to rub at your clit, fingers clumsy at first before finding their devastating rhythm. You squealed, your hips jerking at the sudden, overwhelming contact.

"That's it. Let everyone hear you."

You wanted to spit something venomous back at him. To tell him that he was a stupid, arrogant prick whose only use in life was to be your fuck toy. However, your brain was slipping so quickly into catharsis that you couldn't even form a sentence.

You tried to push back, tried to regain a sliver of control. You clawed pathetically at his shoulders and left red trails down his skin, but it only spurred him on to fuck you harder.

The thumb pinching at your clit was the nail in the coffin.

It was too much too fast. Your thighs shook and your walls fluttered wildly around his cock. You were going to cum.

Hard.

Ryder felt it too, his hips moving at an inhuman pace as he chased his own release.

"Hurry up, you needy little slut," he growled into your ear. "I can't wait for you all night."

The words, ever harsh, tipped you over the edge.

You screamed out his name as you milked his cock for everything it was worth. You clamped down so tightly around him that he followed you immediately, curses spilling from his lips like prayers. His seed coated your walls in heavy spurts, making you feel more stuffed than you imagined possible.

You collapsed against his heaving chest, spent and satisfied.

For several long seconds, neither of you said anything.

There were no whispers of sweet nothings, there was no embracing. Rather, there was the mixing of your heavy breaths and the low hum of the air conditioner.

Reality slowly seeped back in.

Another night, another rodeo.

You slowly peeled yourself off Ryder—wincing at the ache as you slid off his softening dick—and his arms slipped off you without resistance. You stood to collect your hastily discarded clothes off the floor, and when you glanced back over your shoulder, Ryder was already turned over on his side like he was ready to sleep.

The end was always the worst.

There was the mutual realization that there was nothing to talk about—that you would go back to your usual, hateful shenanigans in a few hours. Then you'd be right back in his bed the next night.

Round-and-round. Like a carousel from Hell.

In the darkness, you could admit to yourself that Tom Ryder was your worst addiction. It was self-harming and devastating, but so euphoric to reach that high.

Yet once that high disappeared...

Shame and disgust were all that remained.

After each film, you hoped you could finally get clean. You'd delete his number and swerve to avoid him at award shows, sending the media into a frenzy and finally destroying the tether between the two of you. But somehow, the universe always dragged you back together with an invisible magnetic force that refused to let either of you escape.

"Lock the door when you leave, will ya?" Ryder called over his shoulder, not even looking at you.

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

"Always do."

you and bob never liked each other much.

when you joined the thunderbolts as their new member, you tried to be his friend rather than just a co-worker. after all, you'd be living together in close proximity, so why not just try?

you'd offer him food and ask him if he wanted to play board games or watch a movie. you'd invite him out to places, only to be met with: "no thanks, i've got plans tonight."

and even when you'd call him on his bluff, questioning why he told yelena that same morning he was free all day, he'd simply frown and say, "bedtime's at five. sorry."

except you could hear him pacing all night behind the thin wall that separated your rooms, muttering to the ghosts only he could see.

you'd tell jokes to try and diffuse the tension, thinking that maybe he took some time to warm up to new people. however, they were met with a half-assed chuckle, or simply nothing at all. you despised the way you curled in on yourself whenever he gave you that blank look.

weeks went by, and your patience dwindled. any goodwill that you had quickly soured like expired milk.

that's when the halls of the compound came alive with the sounds of your bickering.

sharp jabs. snide remarks. constant hostility.

you couldn't understand why he disliked you so much. maybe it was something about your personality that didn't sit well with him. maybe it was your habit of being a bit messy and unorganized, or your raunchy humor.

or maybe—just maybe—he was an asshole.

so when you and bob got separated from the rest of the team during a particularly stressful mission, you couldn't believe your luck. trying to infiltrate the laboratory in madripoor was harder than you initially thought.

smoke, gunfire, adrenaline—you could barely see five feet in front of you. the comms were down and unintelligible yelling echoed throughout the sterile white halls of the laboratory. overhead lights flickered, creating stuttering flashes that hurt your eyes.

escape seemed almost impossible, and you could feel dread start to weigh down on your shoulders.

you just hoped that bob wouldn't be fuckhead you died next to.

the two of you pressed yourselves up against a wall, breaths ragged and bodies filled with adrenaline. bob peeked around the corner first, his jaw clenching as the smoke only seemed to be getting thicker. your hands trembled slightly as you reloaded your gun.

“see? this is what happens when you don’t listen to me." bob hissed in frustration. "i told you to go right!”

you rolled your eyes as you shoved a new clip into place. “bite me, robert.”

he took a breath, preparing to throw more insults your way—probably about how "you're too stubborn", or how "you never listen", or how "sometimes i feel like you do these things just to piss me off."

however, the snarky reply on lips died when heavy boots suddenly pounded closer, the echoes bouncing menacingly off the walls.

both of you stilled.

you peeked out just as a squadron of guards rounded the corridor. their guns were already raised and searching for their next target. your heart immediately kicked up into your throat.

bob wasted no time in grabbing your arm and ushering you to run.

"shit—back! back, go!"

you both bolted, sprinting down the hall as bullets whizzed past, the air hissing by your cheeks. in the midst of your panic you could feel bob shifting behind you, his bulletproof frame acting as a shield to take the brunt of the gunfire.

a bullet slammed into his shoulder and he grunted, but his pace didn't falter. he shoved you forward with a snarl.

"keep moving, damn it!"

the muscles in your legs burned as you weaved through the halls. you tried ignore the prickling sensation in your lungs, feeling the smoke slowly suck all the oxygen out.

amidst the thick smog, you were able to make out the sparking console looming ahead. its live wires snapped like hungry tendrils, spitting electric sparks that singed the air.

right as you ducked underneath them, you tossed over your shoulder, "you sure you're not leading us into a trap, genius?"

even facing imminent death, you still wanted to push his buttons.

his shoulder brushed against yours as another successful bullet made him stumble slightly.

"just shut up and run!" bob barked.

then, without warning, the lights all but vanished.

pitch black—an abyss.

all you could do was pray that neither of you blindly crashed into a wall, your sprinting slowing to a pathetic jog.

but rather soon, deafening alarms blared as red emergency lights kicked in. they bathed everything in a pulsing crimson glow, giving the smoke an appearance of blood mist.

and that's when you saw him.

a guard only seven feet away from you, rifle raised and eager to shoot.

you skidded to a halt.

time seemed to slow as you felt your stomach drop like a fifty-pound weight. you froze, eyes wide and breathless.

"wait!" you cried, throwing your hands up in surrender. "hang on, hang o—"

the muzzle flashed.

before you knew it, you had been thrown sideways into the wall. you hit the ground hard, completely disoriented, and your shoulder screaming in pain.

bob moved at the speed of light.

he was on the guard in a blur, his fist connecting with a sickening crunch. it was followed by a wet, splattering sound—almost like a watermelon splitting on pavement—and soon, what remained of the guard was slowly dripping off the adjacent wall.

strong arms hauled you up, bob's grip bruising but steady.

"you trying to get shot, or what?" he panted.

even in the middle of your daze, you couldn't help but notice that his usual venom had been replaced by something else—something raw.

something resembling worry or concern.

he pulled you towards a side corridor, boots skidding as he shoved you into a cramped backroom. he slammed the door shut and locked it, red light seeping underneath it to barely illuminate the tight space.

you stood mere centimeters from each other, chests heaving. blood and soot streaked across his face, making his blue eyes appear brighter despite the near darkness. his gaze flickered towards yours, his pupils wide and blown out.

"you okay?"

the question came out rough. reluctant, almost.

you merely nodded, throat tight.

a silence stretched between the two of you. while this wasn't out of the ordinary, it weighed uncharacteristically heavy with the things that couldn't be said: the way he took bullets for you, how he saved you from being killed without a moment's hesitation, the way your hands violently shook.

bob suddenly closed the gap.

he stepped too close—so close that you could smell the gunpowder and the remnants of his cologne.

then he did the unimaginable.

he gently cupped your jaw, holding you as if you were made of porcelain, turning your head side to side as he eyed the cut on your lip—the cut he most definitely gave you when he shoved you out of the way.

his thumb tenderly swiped at the droplet of blood streaking down your chin. your heart leapt, bewildered by the sudden act of kindness.

"fuck, i hate this," he exhaled shakily. "hate that i..." he trailed off, his jaw working. then, ever so quietly: "i thought you were going to die."

something about the atmosphere was becoming far too real—uncomfortably so. your pulse started to beat wildly, wondering what happened to the man who had reciprocated your antagonizing for months.

you managed a half-smile and a wry chuckle, trying to bring you both back to reality. "you turning soft on me, robert?"

bob swallowed, eyes flickering down to your lips.

your eyebrows knotted. what the hell?

ever so slowly, he leaned in, almost as if he were testing the waters to see if you would bolt.

you didn't wait to find out.

the second his lips brushed yours, you shoved him back. the sound of his back colliding against the wall echoed and you gasped, a hand coming up to clamp your mouth as you prayed that you didn't set off another wave of guards.

"what the fuck, bob?" you hissed, trying to keep the panic in your voice contained to a strained whisper. "what the fuck was that? what's wrong with you?"

he dropped his head into his hands out of embarrassment. "oh my god, i'm so sorry. fuck, i don't know what came over me."

his spindly fingers dragged down his face, his panicked gaze meeting yours. "god, please don't hate me."

you were speechless. you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water.

"ar-ar-are you fucking kidding?" you managed to spit out. "you're asking me now to not hate you? when you've been acting like a total cunt since the second i moved into the tower?"

the last part came out as a half-shout, and he raised his hands up in surrender as he shushed you.

"i know i've been such an asshole to you. i'm sorry. i just—" he took a deep breath, "ever since i first saw you, i thought you were the most beautiful girl i've ever seen. like, drop dead gorgeous. you were so nice and funny but i didn't know what to do! i lost control a few months back and basically wiped out half of new york, and—and—sometimes i still feel the void in me, trying to claw its way out. you're so perfect and i didn't want to hurt you at all, so it was just easier to push you away until you hated me and wanted nothing to do with me."

you could only stare at him. to say you were shocked was an understatement.

"then," he continued, "you almost just fucking died, and i slammed you into a wall and now you're bleeding and it's all my fault!"

his voice cracked on the last word. he looked down at his hands in horror, like they were weapons he couldn't trust. "i keep thinking, what if the void comes out? what if i hurt you in some worse way? i push people away because it's easier to hurt myself rather than hurt them. you're beautiful, funny, and kind. you're everything i'm not. i ruin everything i touch. so yeah, i acted like an asshole. it was safer that way. but fuck, when i saw that gun on you i couldn't pretend anymore."

somehow, the closet felt smaller. it was harder to breathe.

you were floored, left tongue-tied amidst the flood of words from this man. the same man who blanked at your jokes, who hurled insults at you, who shielded your body like it was primal instinct.

yes, you were hurt—you were frustrated and sad, but you couldn't ignore the softness that swirled in the tornado of emotions.

then you moved.

you closed the gap, hands fisting in his shirt as you yanked him down into a fierce kiss.

it hit like a collision; your mouth crashed against his, desperation on your lips as you tasted blood and smoke. he froze for a second, no doubt stunned, then groaned low in his throat and kissed back just as hard. bob's hands flew to your face, thumbs brushing against your cheek, holding you like you would vanish any second.

you poured everything into it the kiss: the months of rejection, the bickering, the way he saved your life. your tongues tangled, teeth grazing against each other.

he backed you into the wall, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against yours.

a thin line of saliva connected your mouths together, your breaths ragged.

"i'm sorry," he whispered. "for all of it."

you shook your head and kissed him again, murmuring against his lips. "don't. don't stop."

bob groaned and broke the kiss once more. you were about to complain, but the words died quickly on your tongue as he asked the million dollar question.

"can i—can i taste you?" he panted. "it's okay if you don't want to, i know it's too soon—"

"yes."

no hesitation. resolute.

he wasted no time in sinking to his knees, like the weight of everything was dragging him down. with trembling hands, he tugged your cargo pants and underwear in one rough pull.

the air hitting your pussy made you clench around nothing.

bob hooked your leg over his shoulder, his large hands coming up to steady your waist against the wall.

then he dove in.

his mouth was open and hot, tongue flattening against your folds in one long drag that made your knees buckle. he whimpered as your juices dripped against his lips, the taste of you making his eyes roll to the back of his head.

one of your hands twisted in his unkempt locks, while the other clamped against your mouth to conceal your moans.

your heavy breathing spurred him on, prompting him to lick deeper and savor every inch of you like it was the last chance he would have. you almost squealed as his tongue dove impossibly deep into your core, the muscle massaging your pulsing walls.

obscene wet sounds filled the air, somehow louder than the alarm blaring right outside the door.

your head hit the concrete wall as your eyes fluttered closed.

in the distance, you could hear the echoes of heavy boots thundering throughout the halls. even though you would never admit it out loud, you felt a sick sense of glee imagining the guards walking in and seeing how he suckled at your clit like a starving kitten.

bob's hand slowly slid up your shirt to gently cup your breast, his thumb brushing clumsy circles over your nipple.

"wan' you to cum on my face," he murmured against your pussy. "please."

before you could answer, he slipped his index finger in one long stroke. you all but sucked him in, stars exploding behind your eyes as he gently rubbed that spongy part deep inside you.

that feeling, combined with the way he massaged your breast and the sensation of short, precise licks on your clit pushed you over the edge.

you wanted nothing more in that moment to scream his name like a prayer—to moan and whimper as you rode the wave. but as you started to hear more footsteps outside, you opted to bite your lip to muffle your sounds, teeth digging into your wound.

the pain only served to heighten the feeling of euphoria.

bob pulled away, wiping his mouth and rising to his feet. he steadied you with both hands on your hips as you stumbled forwards on shaky legs.

his chest rose and fell in harsh bursts, lips swollen and chin wet with you. and for the first time—with his eyes wide and pupils dilated—you felt like he was truly seeing you; it felt like he was memorizing every angle and imperfection of your face, as if he were waiting for you to push him away and tell him it was a mistake and that this would never happen again.

you didn't.

instead, you reached between your bodies, fingers clumsily undoing his belt to gain access to where you wanted it the most.

you had only one thought on your mind.

"i want you in me," you whispered. "i want to feel your cock."

he moaned. "as you wish."

bob helped you in taking off his pants, hissing through his teeth once you wrapped a hand around his cock. it was hard, hot, and slick at the tip from how long he'd been aching.

you pumped him once, twice—then he dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a broken whimper.

"don't," he breathed. "don't tease me. just do it, please."

you stood on your tip of your toes, lining his member up with your entrance. you looked up at him one more time for permission, and he nodded before pulling you in for another sloppy kiss.

right as the tip of his cock barely entered you, right as he deepened the kiss, right as you let out a needy groan—

the door handle rattled violently.

then the door burst open.

yelena stood in the doorway, her pistol primed and ready to shoot. but when she saw the two of you half-naked and pressed up against each other, she all but dropped her gun as she stumbled backwards.

"jesus!" she yelled and shielded her eyes. "what the fuck?"

"what?" john asked. you could hear him running down the hall. "what's going o—oh my god!" walker paled as he poked his head in.

bob spun you around so that you were shielded behind his chest, well out of view from everyone else. you clutched the front of his shirt and an embarrassed flush climbed up your neck.

the rest of the team quickly appeared, no doubt concerned at the shouts and cries of their peers. yelena begged alexei to not go inside, but ever stubborn as he was, he tried to get a good look. bob quickly shut the door with the back of his foot before anymore unwanted eyes could see your fucked up little secret.

"is everything okay?" bucky asked, voice muffled behind the door.

yelena exhaled before responding. "i heard heavy breathing coming from the closet. i thought one of them was injured, or maybe there was someone else hiding there. so i opened it, and, well..." she trailed off, probably hoping that bucky would get the hint.

but even in his old age, he was still clueless about some things.

it took ava muttering a disgusted, "got it", before bucky groaned in realization. he banged his fist against the door, making you and bob jump in surprise.

"disgusting!" he yelled, "you guys are so disgusting!"

"look," yelena said, her tone strained. "we cleared out the place. we're heading back to the jet. debrief in fifteen. please have your pants on this time."

you listened for the sound of their quickly receding footsteps before you let out the breath you didn't realize you were holding. you looked up at bob, expecting to find him to look as ashamed as you. instead, you were greeted with a self-satisfied half-smile.

"so worth it," he muttered, pressing a delicate kiss to the tip of your nose. "round two later?"

➻ Given that Sergei has lived alone for most of his life, he doesn't really have a lot of romantic experience. He always put romantic relationships on the backburner, never expecting to find anyone. Especially someone with whom he could be honest about his lifestyle and history.

➻ Sure, he's had one night stands here and there—but he was always gone before the sunrise.

➻ Everything changed the night he met you: the undeniably alluring woman at Dmitri's bar, sitting by herself after being stood up by her date. The conversation between you two was easy, words flowing as easily as the alcohol.

➻ So when the two of you started to date, it was new and overwhelming and amazing and frightening.

➻ The Truth. It would take at least a few solid months before Sergei could be honest about his lifestyle and what he does for "work". It was probably the most nerve-wracking thing he's ever done—he couldn't bear lying to you any longer. Yet when you accept him for who he is, he was completely over the moon.

➻ Cooking. With you in the picture, his eating habits definitely change. He's grown accustomed to eating fish straight from rivers or cooking unseasoned meat. But he makes a conscious effort to learn how to cook his game in different ways to please you. This is a big thing for Sergei, especially since he is someone who is always so disciplined and follows the same regiment.

➻ Flowers. There's always a fresh batch of flowers in a jar waiting for you after his hunt each morning. He'd carefully pluck them from the ground, not wanting to rip the stems in half. He would pick the ones with petals that closely matched your favorite color.

➻ Feelings. Sergei despises them. It's difficult to get him to open up and be honest about what bothers him. There are little tell-tale signs: silence, frustrated sighs, him fidgeting with the handle of his knife. The best way to deal with him is to stay next to him and to not push until he is ready—he finds comfort in your presence.

➻ Outings. Only the finest for you. Think operas, art museums, high-end restaurants. Especially since he has access to a plane, you'll be in Paris one night and New York the next. Although he hates being in crowded public spaces, he just loves seeing you dress up for each occasion. It taps into his more primal instincts, wanting to show you off to the world and make sure everyone knows that you're his.

➻ The Dome. The two of you split your time between London and his home in Russia. Whenever you make it back to Sergei's dome, there's always an undeniable sense of calm—no chaotic bustling city noises or strange smells, no overstimulation from technology. Everything just feels easier and more natural. You go on walks together, and he teaches you how to tell the difference between noxious/non-noxious plants. He'd even teach you how to use his bow.

➻ Family Reunions. Non-existent. Aside from the occasional dinner with you and Dima, he'd never tell his father about you. He fears what his father would do with that information, paranoid that he would try to use you or hurt you in some way.

➻ Missions. Whenever he goes on a mission, he'll fly you out to London so that you can stay with Dima. He never knows how long he'll be gone for, and his mind would be put to rest if he knew you were with someone that he trusted. And when you heard the balcony door open—even in the dead of night—you'd always jump out of bed and run. Sergei would be there waiting for you, bloodied and bruised but still smiling.

➻ Caretaker. You always fuss over his injuries. He'd tell you he was fine, insist that nothing hurt, that it would heal in a matter of days. Yet he'd still let you clean his wounds and bandage each one, kissing your forehead periodically.

➻ When it comes to sex, I think that a lot of Sergei's kinks are rooted in power play and dom/sub dynamics.

➻ Primal play/hunter-prey — Sergei absolutely loves the thrill of the hunt, and I see it translating into the bedroom. He'd bring up a chase scenario, where he stalks you through the forest before pinning you down. Think head starts and mock struggling/fighting (but with fully discussed consent beforehand).

➻ Marking — duh. Hickeys, bitemarks, bruises from gripping you too hard—nothing is off limits. Sergei wouldn't ever want to hurt you deliberately or draw blood, but he wants proof of him on you. He'd love it if you also raked your fingers down his back or biceps.

➻ Size difference and manhandling — The man is built, and wants to make sure you know. Sergei would pick you up and carry you effortlessly, and have sex with you against a wall without breaking into a sweat. Knowing that he could overpower you drives him completely feral.

➻ Light restraints — Nothing too crazy. Probably tie your hands back with his belt while you're face-down, or just use his hands to pin your wrists himself. He honestly just wants to see you all helpless for him.

➻ Praise — This would be kind of jarring. Sergei would be slamming into you on all fours, while whispering sweet nothings in your ear: "My princess." "My darling girl." "Taking me so well, my good girl." It only increases in sweetness and frequency when you're especially vulnerable. He just wants you to know how much he loves you.