You're My Only Ho

I love wasting time on this blue hellsite. Reblog trash. 20s. ImOnABitchParade is my main blog. NO MINORS ALLOWED!

[multi-fandom-imagine]

🇺🇸God Bless These Tits || James Bond ||

A/n: He's very patriotic

The late afternoon sun warmed the private villa’s pool deck, the water shimmering under the sun, the water so clear you can see yourself. James had stepped inside for all of five minutes to fetch drinks, expecting to return to the same peaceful scene he’d left behind.

Instead, he nearly dropped the tray.

You were stretched out on one of the lounge chairs, sunglasses perched on your nose and wearing what could only be described as the most aggressively American swimsuit he had ever seen. Tiny stars and stripes covered far too little in his opinion, and the little bow tied at your hip somehow made it even worse.

You lowered your sunglasses and smiled innocently. "Oh, good. You’re back."

James simply stared. “…What are you wearing?”

You sat up slightly, looking down at yourself as though puzzled by the question. “A bikini.”

“I can see that.”

"An American bikini."

“Clearly.”

You grinned. “It’s the Fourth of July.”

“I was aware.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

He set the drinks down carefully, never once taking his eyes off you. "I find myself…distracted...."

A pleased smile spread across your face. “Really?”

James sighed and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “You know precisely what you’re doing.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You emerged dressed as the American flag.”

You laughed. “I am celebrating my country’s birthday.”

He took another long look at you. “Your country appears to be celebrating quite enthusiastically.”

You burst into giggles.

A few moments later, James slowly lowered himself onto the lounge chair beside yours. He was still staring.

Then, to your utter confusion, he leaned forward.

And saluted.

Directly at your chest.

You blinked.

James remained completely serious.

“James…”

He didn’t move.

“Are you saluting my boobs?”

His expression remained utterly solemn. “God bless America.”

For one second there was complete silence. Then you laughed so hard you nearly slid off the chair.

“Oh my God!”

Your laughter only seemed to deepen his amusement. A small smile finally tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You are ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said smoothly, lowering his hand, “I believe this may be my favorite American tradition.”

“You don’t even know what the traditions are!”

“I know enough.”

You swatted his shoulder, still laughing.

He caught your hand before you could pull away and kissed your knuckles.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excited over a holiday.”

“It’s my favorite one.”

“I can tell.”

You smiled, looking out toward the ocean. “I miss home a little.”

James’s expression softened immediately. Without a word, he shifted closer and wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

You leaned into him automatically.

After a moment, he said quietly, “Then we’ll celebrate properly.”

You looked up at him. “Really?”

“Really.”

“You’ll eat hot dogs?”

“If I must.”

“And watch fireworks?”

“Yes.”

“And wear a tiny flag pin?”

He looked pained. "Let’s not get too carried away darling."

You laughed again.

He smiled at the sound, then glanced back at your swimsuit.

Another pause, another salute.

You covered your face with both hands. “James Bond!”

“What?” he asked, sounding entirely innocent. “I’m being respectful.”

“You absolutely are not.”

He grinned. “God bless America, darling.”

[starwarskawaii]

Ethreality

Part 1

A/N: Presenting a new contender for the title of the most fucked up member of the Thunderbolts; Ethreality. She's kind of an oc, but this is still an x reader fic. If you picture me when you read this, I will not be surprised😅 She's similar to Libby, but she has a very different power set.

This series was inspired by the Silhouette and Silhouette in Bloom series by @gayandbasic.

CW: Set in Marvel's timeline, ahead of our own, swearing, child abuse mention, heavy themes of depression, typical Thunderbolts stuff, slow burn because neither of these two have any idea how to feel stuff

Two Months Post-Void Incident.

You saw your own reflection in the elevator doors as you entered. Valentina and Mel flanked you, and Valentina droned on about responsibility and the team she would be shoving you into. You barely recognized yourself. You hadn't had a proper look in the mirror since the morning before the mission that killed your partner and stole your life. From what you could see, the light was gone. You looked hollow. Like you had been carved out and filled with something that didn't belong in you. Like a pumpkin on Halloween. Power pulsed in your veins, but your eyes only showed a miserable woman who had been beaten into submission and forced to become something she never imagined she could be.

You knew the pep talk was all for show. She wanted a mole, plain and simple. Why she thought you would do that for her, you weren't sure. Your body was enhanced, not your imagination. You were already desperately taking in the building layout to make an escape at the first possible opportunity. You weren't sure what you would do once you were free. You had heard about a few different rackets in New York that got people out. It was a more important business than ever, after Fisk's anti-vigilante initiatives a few years back. You were glad that was over, it would make the escape easier.

You shifted uncomfortably as the elevator began it's ascent. Your new gear was uncomfortable. It wasn't made for you. It was made for Valentina's Murder Barbie that she wanted you to be. It was somewhere between Carol Danvers and Natasha Romanoff, in a godawful red, white, and blue colorway that seemed to you to be mocking the bright-eyed rookie agent who Valentina had sent to die all those years ago. You weren't her anymore. Gone was any loyalty to a cause. Your only loyalty was to your own survival, and to making it seem like you were complying so your leash would be loosened.

Val had become bold since the "success" of the Sentry Project. You were the original success. A different project entirely. A precursor, inspired by the original Avengers. In their quest to make the next Steve Rogers, they made you. They triggered a mutation in you on top of cracking a similar super soldier serum. Your physical abilities were between Yelena and John. But your telekinetic and reality distortion abilities surpassed those of the Sentry. Especially since you could actually use yours without plunging Manhattan into a pitch black nightmare. She had long ago moved you from OXE to the custody of another cartoonishly evil company. Which is why you had the great privilege of getting to live through her purge. You had essentially been trafficked to the highest bidder in a much more humane, but no less illegal, manor.

The elevator doors opened, and you braced for the worst. Valentina had told you stories. Stories of a World War II vet who became the world's most dangerous assassin, a hot-headed murderer who took an unstable serum not unlike your own, a Black Widow assassin, an assassin who walked through walls, and... an idiot Russian man. She also mentioned a failed experiment of hers' that she "lets them keep as a pet". You thought that one must be the Sentry Project survivor. You were bracing yourself for a rough and scarred group of individuals, all glaring daggers at each other, and, subsequently, you. You were not expecting the sight you were met with.

The Watchtower had a big, sprawling common room. The one you had walked into, you would later learn, wasn't even the one they usually used. That one was upstairs. This room was filled with things that reminded you of the rec center in college. A Foosball table, air hockey table, a giant 70s style sunken conversation couch in an unsightly gray-blue, carpet ball(you would later learn this was John's request, and the 1 solitary thing you could agree on), a snack station with a fridge and popcorn maker, and a full entertainment center with a DVD player and several game consoles. Sitting on the couch were six people who didn't look anywhere near as cruel as she made them sound.

One of them- the pet, you suspected -looked even more nervous than you felt. He kept rocking back and forth and fiddling with his sleeves, looking as though he wished he could vanish into the air. Perhaps it was the fact that you hadn't been on a date in years, but he was actually rather... cute. He had a sort of boyish look to him, even though he had rather chiseled features. His brown hair fell in soft curls that framed his face, the rest tied back as best he could manage, blue eyes the most wonderful shade of stormy ocean--- you definitely were suffering from the effects of not seeing a man who wasn't experimenting on you for the first time in years. That had to be it. You glanced around quickly at the others, receiving small smiles from the two women, and a nod from the two younger-looking men. The man with the brown hair was looking at his feet, and the big Russian was already talking about "having a new family member". As if. You were there for a mission as far as they were concerned, and a grand escape to Madripoor as far as you were concerned. No need for empty platitudes about family.

Valentina cleared her throat. "Yes yes Alexei, but that's not why I've gathered you here today." The blond haired woman glared at Valentina as she stated that. The very idea of Valentina having authority over her clearly made her bristle. "I've gathered you all here today to introduce you to your new teammate, who you can call Ethreality-"

"That's not my name," the word's tumbled out before you realized you were speaking. "My name is Y/N. Just because I can make things float and distort reality doesn't mean I don't have a name."

Valentina pursed her lips, giving you a look of utter disgust before continuing her spiel. "As I was saying... Miss Y/N," she said, putting extra emphasis on your name while she looked at you with vitriol in her eyes, "will be your new team member. I think you'll find her unique skill set very useful, since, as you all so aptly put it, "all of you just punch and shoot stuff"." Ah. So her disgust wasn't reserved just for you. Relieving, in a way.

■■■■■

One Month Post Ethreality's Introduction

You stood in the kitchen, barely able to comprehend the sight before you. You were too old for this. Yet, somehow, in spite of you and Bob being the youngest ones in the tower, the two of you were the only ones not involved. Save for Bucky, who was on a mission. Breakfast had turned into a full blown battle. Pancakes had been thrown. You and Bob stood in a corner together, watching in disbelief as the grown adults you lived with engaged in a full-scale food fight.

You had been able to deflect everything so far. If there was any method to their madness you would have dragged Bob out the door at the first opening, and treated him to breakfast even though you were both in your pajamas. It was New York. People had seen weirder. Maybe not from an Avenger and that guy who always hung around the Avengers, but still.

As you considered your exit strategy, Ava yelled something about starving children and food waste while reaching her arm through the fridge door and pulling out an egg to crack over John's head, startling him and causing him to toss a pancake into the air. Before you could act, Bob practically leapt in front of you to swat the pancake out of the air.

That was it. "ENOUGH!" You shouted, freezing them in their spots. You hated to use your powers outside of the field or training, but desperate times... "We are all grown adults! Clean this up! Bob and I are going out to get food, and this kitchen better be spotless by the time we get back!" Bob nodded his head in agreement as you spoke.

John nodded meekly. Yelena and Ava mumbled "okay" and "alright", respectively. Alexei pouted, and then promptly received an elbow to the rib by Yelena. You grabbed Bob by the hand and stormed out of the kitchen, stopping only to grab your wallet.

Since your arrival a month ago, you had only become close to Bob. You tolerated the others in varying degrees. You got along with the women. The men... were another story. You respected Bucky, at least. But the only person you had real conversations with was Bob. It had started two weeks ago, when Bob had gotten up for a midnight snack, wandered into a common room, and found you trying to climb into the vents. Surprisingly unsuccessfully, for someone with your training. In hindsight, you realized that Valentina probably knew you would try to escape...

■■■■

Two Weeks Ago

The tower was quiet, except for the sound of your pulse. You felt 16 again, waiting for your dad to get home after he stormed out of the house, threatening not to come back because of how "awful" you were being, the sarcastic words of a child cutting him deeply in spots they were meant to irritate at best. Valentina reminded you of your father. She was more intelligent. More calculated. She never laid a hand on you directly. But she made you feel the way he did. That bone deep knowledge that this person could kill you. That all it takes is one infraction that they decide is too far, and your body will be broken on the floor.

Most of the team followed a pretty strict routine. But tonight, you didn't have to worry about that. Everyone was on a mission. Except for Bob, of course. You had learned their sides of the story right after Valentina left. Their stories, save for Alexei's, were all far more believable than her's had been. They aligned with the kind of evil you already knew she was capable of. But Bob was just Bob. He couldn't stop you. He wouldn't. Besides, while he was a more of a night owl than the others, he still usually followed a general schedule. You had waited till past midnight. He was never up this late.

Little did you realize, Bob was never up this late because of Bucky and Yelena. Without them, he was prone to late nights and early mornings. Not waking, just staying up. At the very moment that you sat crouched next to the vent, desperately trying to break out of the house in the most impractical way possible, Bob wandered into the common room. He blinked. He couldn't be seeing this. Did you know that the doors were unlocked?

"Uh... Y/N?" Bob called out cautiously. "What are you doing?" You startled and fell over, nearly receiving a screw driver to the head as it flew out of your hand when you fell. Thank God for telekinesis. 

"Why do you want to know?" You snapped at him from your place on the ground. You were not prepared for this. Bob was the only one you sort of liked.

"Uh... because the front door is unlocked. And because Valentina made those things basically impenetrable after Lena kept going into them to prank people." You bristled internally at his use of a nickname for Yelena. You weren't sure why it bothered you that a man you had known for two weeks had a nickname for a woman you had also known for two weeks.

You sat up and brushed yourself off before you began to speak. "Ha... was it people, or was it John?" No, no, no! Why were you engaging?!

"John. I suppose you're right, not really people". He chuckled a little, then resumed his concerned expression, "Why are you trying to leave?"

You turned and looked him in the eyes. And you melted a little. He looked so confused.

"I don't want to be here. I've been held captive by her and others like her for years now. I want a life. I can't leave through the front door because the cameras will see me. In here they're disabled. Yelena did it and Val never fixed it, figuring it was a losing battle. If I leave through the door, the receptionist will grill me about what I'm doing and send an army after me if I'm gone for too long. This would give me a better chance..."

Bob's heart broke a little. He understood you perfectly. But he also didn't want you to go. Your powers enchanted him. You enchanted him. You lived up to the name Val had given you. You truly were ethereal in his eyes. You put up the illusion of being cold and uncaring, but he saw your face as each member of the team explained what brought them there. He saw your empathy when he timidly explained his childhood. He could swear he even saw a look on your face that suggested that his stories sounded all too familiar.

"Ethereal- Y/N. I'd- I'd like you to stay." Bob stammered out. He reached out to you, his hand softly brushing your own. As he went in to squeeze your hand and continue his plea, the world around you both shifted.

Suddenly, you were no longer in the Watchtower. You were back in a lab, terrified. Men in lab coats watched from behind a protective glass window as you demonstrated your powers against your will. You watched your past self in horror as you were forced to perform your strength for them.

Bob stood awkwardly, watching the scene in front of him unfold. It wasn't like the other shame rooms he had seen- well, heard he had seen. You weren't doing anything wrong. Your shame was from being used. From being helpless. Bob looked at you- the real you -with recognition on his face.

The scene changed. The lab transformed into a suburban house. Smaller than the one Bob grew up in. Garish wallpaper from the 70s lined the walls, old and stained carpeting covered the floors, peeling up in some areas, an ugly and beat up brown couch in a jacquard print sat against one wall, a TV across from it. In the middle of the scene was a teenager who must have been you, and a man Bob instantly knew was your father. Unlike Bob's father, the man screaming at you was terrifyingly sober. You shook as he yelled at you for a minor infraction- one you hadn't even committed, at that -and lifted his hand towards your face. The sound of skin hitting skin seemed to echo through the room. To Bob's surprise, the slap came not from your father, but from you. You hit him as a reflex. You were promptly hit back, much harder than you could hit him.

In an instant, you two were returned to the tower. You sat on the floor, looking more shaken than Bob thought possible for you. Tears streamed down your face, your body shook, and the horror of reliving something you had tried to push down and forget was etched into your features.

"I am so, so, so sorry! I didn't mean-"

"It's alright," you said throught tears, voice shaking in a way that betrayed you, "Now you know. Now you know why I'm so desperate to get out. My entire life has been spent at the mercy of others. I can't- I can't do this." You choked out, before sobs stole your voice.

Bob knelt down, tentatively. He moved slowly, giving you time to push him away, wrapping his arms around you, careful not to make contact with skin.

You weren't sure how long the two of you stayed that way, but you didn't leave that night.

■■■■

Bob sat awkwardly across from you in the diner booth. He felt a little afraid to speak as he watched you attack your food like it was John and Alexei and you were getting revenge for that stupid food fight. All because those idiots couldn't just make pancakes AND waffles.

He fiddled with his napkin as you looked up suddenly, as if remembering you were across from the one person in the house you didn't want to murder. At this moment, you became aware of how ridiculous you to must look. An Avenger in Princess Peach pajamas, courtesy of Valentina's credit card, and her friend in a threadbare gray burnout t-shirt that had seen better days, and green plaid pajama pants that hung low on his hips. Completed by you being in sneakers that you weren't entirely sure were actually yours, given how fast you bolted out the door, and Bob in his house slides. Anyone seeing the two of you might easily have mistaken you two for a couple that didn't want to cook.

The idea unsettled you. Being perceived as an average human with an average life. Being perceived at all. And, especially, being perceived as being Bob's, well, anything. The idea of being Bob's sat strangely in your stomach, making your pancakes feel impossible to swallow. The idea wasn't wholly unappealing, you supposed... You dismissed those thoughts as part of all your other worries.

Bob, sensing that you were stressing yourself out, and remembering that you didn't bite, only distort reality, decided to start some conversation to pull you back to Earth. "Uh, so Y/n, you, uh, you like Princess Peach?" He smiled nervously.

"What? Oh, yeah, these... Yeah, I loved Mario games as a kid." You looked out the window, finding yourself missing it. You didn't have a good childhood- far from it -but you missed your biggest concern being your dad, rather than people who essentially owned you.

Bob perked up, sensing a safe conversation topic. "So, did you see the movies, then?" You glanced back at him, confusion lacing your expression.

"Movies?"

"Movies. I guess you would have been... you know... during the time they came out. The cinema downtown is playing them as a double feature this weekend. Maybe we could go?" Bob said, the look on his face and the tone of his voice betraying his desire to take you.

"Sure, why not? Are they any good?"

Bob perked up instantly, his face brightening and posture straightening. He spent the next 30 or so minutes giving you updates on basically everything Nintendo you might have missed the last few years. For a little while, at least, you felt at ease.

■■■■

Lunch had come and gone by the time the two of you had returned. It turned out to be easy to lose track of time with Bob. You had gone to the movies, then stopped at a store to grab some games with Valentina's card, inspired by the movies, then grabbed clothes when you realized it was lunch time and you should probably look presentable by now. After your shopping trip, you had a nice lunch at a cafe Bob suggested.

If the two of you were smarter, you probably would have come back from breakfast and changed, catching a later showing, rather than leave the house and come back in different clothes. If it made your idiotic housemates suspicious, they said nothing, save for Yelena giving Bob a knowing expression and eyebrow wiggle that you missed entirely. Bob wanted to die a bit in that moment, suddenly aware that he left the house with a woman in a hurry and came back hours later in different clothing.

Maybe the years underground had dulled your common sense. The idea that anyone would think you and Bob did anything untoward didn't occur to you until after you flopped down onto your bed. You sat up at the realization, then began unpacking your bags to ignore the growing anxious dread at being ribbed on that was bubbling up in your chest.

You laid out the new games, then went to the door to grab the bag Bob had graciously carried up for you. Inside was a brand new Switch 2, so you could play with Bob. It was his idea, actually. You were content to use one of the shared consoles in the tower to game on, but Bob had talked you into having your own by less than subtly hinting that he wanted someone to play his games with. You had a strong suspicion that his main reason for all of this was to get you to actually enjoy something. He had recently made a comment about you needing a hobby that didn't involve a punching bag with John's face taped to it.

The idea of Bob caring about you and for you made you bristle. Again. You didn't feel ready to be a person again. You weren't even sure if you still were one. Maybe you could be, one breakfast out and video game at a time.

■■■■

Another day, another training session. Bob watched intently as his friends sparred, paying special attention to you and Yelena. The latter, his best friend, the former, the snake that thusfar only he had been able to charm.

You walked up to the mat for match number two in a best out of three with John. Every other match up had been one and done, but he didn't like losing much. Especially not to someone he knew he was stronger than. While it was true that he was stronger, it wasn't like you were going to avoid using your powers in the field, so why would you in training? As it turned out, John didn't like having the mat yanked out from under him.

Bob stared as you and John began to fight. While John opted for traditional- and extremely predictable - moves, you made liberal use of your unique skillset. The telekinesis was typically enough to defeat John, but today you felt like experimenting. Bob watched as you dissapeared and the world around you shifted. It glowed like a dream. You reappeared a few feet to the left, causing John to promptly lunge for you. Except, as Bob had already guessed, it wasn't you. It was one of your tricks. You appeared back in the spot you originally vanished from, snickering.

"So, calling it quits yet?" You taunted as you stood over John, who was presently on the floor, tapping his fingers on the ground with one hand and propping himself up with the other. He looked like Wyle E Coyote missing the roadrunner.

"You fight dirty." John said, brushing himself off and walking out of the room, glaring daggers at you.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Bob burst out laughing. It surprised you so much that you began to laugh, too.

"Ethereal... that was amazing!" Bob said, still laughing. You felt your face heat, both at the praise, and at the nickname that Bob had come up with for you.

"Well... class dismissed I suppose." Bucky looked exhausted. "I'll go... deal with John."

"That was pretty good." Yelena said as she walked out behind him, giving you an approving nod.

Alexei and Ava both gave an approving nod as they followed. Only Bob remained with you.

"Well. That was fun." Bob grinned. It was the kind of smile that made all the lines in his face show, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. It made you feel a pang in your chest that you couldn't quite name. "Wanna go play Mario Kart since training is over?"

"Sure, just as long as we do it one of our rooms. The last thing I want is to deal with John being a sore loser for a third time today," you chuckled.

■■■■

Later, the Watchtower

You and Bob had played Mario Kart, petted Alpine, discussed what would happen if you tried to dress her up, received death glares from her at the idea, and then fetched Cucumber, and discussed what clothing might fit him. You were now holding Cucumber looking over his shoulder while Bob scrolled through guinea pig clothes online.

When did your life get so... peaceful? You spent years feeling like you were being hunted for sport, but without any of the perks, like actually dying. Now here you were, so close to Bob you were almost touching, after a day of comparatively light training and Mario Kart, well-rested and chilling with a guinea pig.

"Oh, sorry to interrupt. Just looking for my pet." Yelena had thrown open the door, jarring you out of your thoughts, and making Cucumber(and you, and Bob) startle. "There you are my little картофель!"

"Karto- wha-?"

"Potato. It means potato, Bob. Now, I shall take him," she said, reaching for the little creature as you raised your arms to hand him off, "and let his Uncle Bob and Aunty Y/N go back to their quality time." Yelena gave you two a knowing and utterly mortifying smile as she headed out the door with her guinea pig, closing it behind her.

You felt your face heat, not daring to look at Bob. If you would have, you would have seen him turning a shade of crimson previously unseen on human skin. It was clear Yelena thought you two were doing... something. Something you most certainly were not. You felt whatever fragile thing you two had built crumbling in your mind.

"Uh, Y/N? You okay? Sorry about Yelena, she, uh, she does that to fuck with me. I mentioned us hanging out to her and she started teasing. Sorry." Oh. For some reason, this revelation almost stung. Maybe it was because he was the only person you let yourself be close to. The only one who had been hurt in the same normal ways that you had. Not some secret organization, but a dad who only ever seemed to hurt you. You collected yourself quickly, though clearly not quickly enough, and assured Bob it was fine.

Later, in your room, you found yourself wondering yet again what it was about Bob that made your senses go haywire and your common sense go out the door. Whatever it was, you knew Bob couldn't feel the same way about you. You were certain you weren't worth that.

■■■■

While you spiraled alone in your room, Bob was spiraling with Alpine on his lap in his. Why did Yelena have to say that? He had already texted her, clearly very annoyed, telling her she had scared you off. But it was more than that.

Long before he had superpowers that let him see people's worst moments, Bob was a perceptive child. The kind of child you have to be to survive in an abusive household. Always hyper-aware of the smallest changes in mood. Unfortunately, he always assumed that the worst possible interpretation of events was the true one. From what he could tell, you two were cut from the same cloth. And that cloth had holes burned into it by your fathers.

He sat in his bed, nervously petting Alpine, going through a list of terrible things you might be thinking of him at that moment. You probably thought he had misled Yelena on what kind of relationship you two had and now you were disgusted and wanted nothing to do with him. Or the idea never occurred to you before, but now it did and you were disgusted and wanted nothing to do with him.

There was some rational part of him that guessed at the more accurate answer to why you left- that you had never in your life had a safe space to feel anything and so you had a tendency to, often literally, run off whenever strong emotions hit like a cat does when it's sick -but Bob often missed the obvious while he was spiraling.

A notification on his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. He hoped it was you. He wasn't even sure why. It wasn't you anyways; it was Yelena, responding to his very irritated text from earlier, saying she was going to come to his room so she could ask him what was really wrong.

Yelena threw open Bob's door in extremely dramatic Yelena fashion, holding a bowl of mac and cheese doused in hot sauce and wearing a set of Black Widow pajamas. At least she had the courtesy to shut the door behind her, even if she could never be bothered to knock.

"I saw your friend out in the hallway going into the kitchen. She glared at me. I asked if she wanted to come with me to your room and she glared at me even harder and scoffed. She is not nice." Yelena made a face as she plopped herself down on Bob's bed, startling Alpine.

Bob pouted as he watched Alpine retreat under the bed, prompting Yelena to clear her throat in the most exaggerated manner possible.

"I... I'm worried that what you said earlier freaked out Y/N. She bolted out not long after you left, and she looked uncomfortable the whole time beforehand. I'm worried she thinks I like her, or something."

Yelena raised her eyebrows. "Is this you... not liking her? How attached will you be if you like her?"

"I'm not-" Bob began, the words dying on his lips. He wasn't sure what was happening, if he was being honest. "I- I don't know. I really don't. Part of it is that she understands me so well. And I understand her. We, uh, we have similar pasts."

Yelena raised an eyebrow. "Similar as in... drugs? Or as in shitty abusive fathers? Or just the being experimented on thing?"

"I- it's not my place to say. Well, other than the experimented on part. We do have that in common. But, like, so do Ava and Bucky." Bob gave a nervous chuckle, an adorable nervous half-smile gracing his face.

Yelena smirked. "You don't have to know how you feel, Bob. But if you care about her, you should let her know. I get the feeling she hasn't heard people tell her that much."

Bob nodded. Lena was right. He should at least tell you he cared.

A/n: little note for the the Void scene, apparently Jake said that Bob only takes people into the void at his lowest. I am implying based off of that idea that Bob was already in a low place when Ethreal wanted to leave. Seeing her leaving felt personal for Bob.

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[delopsia]

Ingredients: 18+ MDNI, Rhett Abbott x Reader x Bob Floyd/The Floytt's. Suggestive fluff, ogling over Bob Floyd's ass (and doing something about it).

Surprise! Guess who is still alive 💃

"Which one of you," Bob's voice echoes, muffled by the washing machine, "keeps leaving change in your pockets?"

His words go in one ear and out the other.

What did he just say? You haven't the slightest clue.

To your left, Rhett's eyes meet with yours, before returning to the sight of your mutual partner, pert ass in the air. You don't need words to know that you're both thinking of the same thing.

Bob, entirely unaware of what's going on, remains laser-focused on the task at hand, plucking coins out from the bottom of the washer.

It's amusing how he hasn't the slightest knowledge of the show he's putting on. Bent over, wearing nothing but those tight, black boxers. The tips of his toes slide against the floor, thick thighs flexing as he tries to reach another coin.

Rhett's hand rises. So does yours.

In sync, you creep forward, poised like a pair of lions, ready to strike.

Smack!

"Hey!" Bob yelps. His head smacks against the top of the washer with a resonating thunk, legs flailing. "What was that for?"

"Y' can't put your ass in the air like that 'n expect to get away with it," Rhett laughs, his big hands settling onto Bobby's squirming hips, squeezing them tight. You don't know if you're mesmerized by the curve of Bob's ass or the veins that bulge in Rhett's forearms.

Both?

Both is good.

There's an echoing clatter of something falling into the washing machine, chased by Bob's frustrated grumble. Finally, he emerges, glasses now missing from his face, baby blue eyes squinting as he tries to take in his surroundings.

Bless him, the struggle is making him go a bit cross-eyed.

"Rhett—" He squeaks, pawing at the sturdy arms that have already coiled around his waist. "Wait, my glasses!"

It's a losing battle, Rhett's already gotten hold of him, and you all know it. A wicked grin breaks across Rhett's face, intercepting the sloppy kisses he's pressing into the side of Bob's pale neck.

Bob's brow furrows. Realization visibly strikes. "Were you two staring at my rear this whole time?"

Now it's your turn to bend into the washer, plucking Bob's glasses from the bottom. Careful, you slide them back onto his face. "Can you blame us?"

"Yes!" He jerks backward, trying to break out of Rhett's grasp. But he's used that trick before; Rhett doesn't so much as budge. The defeat is so heavy that Bob deflates. "You two said you'd help with the laundry."

Your thigh slips between Bob's, pressing gently. "But we are helping!" You chirp, innocent hands rising to press against his chest, pushing him further into Rhett and his devilish mouth.

"All you've done is ogle at me and feel—mmh, feel me up," Bob's lashes flutter, his head tilting back for a fleeting second. His hips jump forward, shallowly grinding into your leg with a frustrated little grumble. Too much? Not enough?

Another slap echoes through the laundry room, Rhett's greedy hand squeezing another handful of Bob's poor ass.

Bob jumps, yelping. "Hey!"

All at once, Rhett stops, letting him go in an instant. "Y' want us to stop?"

You can't tell if this is all part of Rhett's elaborate plan, or if something's genuinely set the alarm bells blaring. Just like him, you step away, as if one more touch might cause someone to explode.

"I never..." Bob gulps, fighting to speak through labored breath. "I never said that."

Nobody moves.

At once, Bob spins. His hand darts out, tangling in Rhett's messy hair and hauling your cowboy forward, mouths crashing so hard that you hear their teeth clatter. Rhett winces. Bob doesn't. As if a switch has flipped, he reaches for you next, his thumb hooking into your belt loop and hauling you into the fray.

Laundry can wait a few more hours.

[abbottsgirl]

stealing his hoodie | cameron cassmore x reader

pairing: cameron cassmore x fem!reader

summary: both you and cameron like the idea of you wearing his hoodie a little too much.

warnings: spice but no smut, pre-established relationship, vaguely dom!cameron/sub!reader, dirty talk, lotttttts of pet names

cameron cannot get enough of seeing you in his clothes. when he comes home one day to find you dressed in nothing but his hoodie and some skimpy panties, curled up on the couch like nothing's off, something in his brain short circuits.

"the hell are you wearing?" his voice is rough, trying to hide how affected he is from such a simple sight. you just shrug. smug little thing.

"didn't we just buy you new clothes?" he mumbles as he walks over to where you sit, hands on his hips as he feigns disapproval. the tightening of his jeans weakens his point, but still.

you swing your legs off the couch, hands fidgeting with the end of the hoodie as you smile sheepishly, eyes averted. "yeah, but your clothes are so much cozier. and they're big. and they smell like you."

"and the sight of you in them drives me crazy, but i'm sure that played no part in the decision, hm?" his fingers rest under your chin as he tilts your head up to look at him. the shake of your head is unconvincing. he realizes quick how deep you're already in, fuzzy just from whatever ideas are running through your head. you're so easy to tease like this.

"no? well, then i guess you won't mind if i go get some work done while you relax, then-" he starts, walking away from you. you whine, immediately bounding up after him and tugging on his shirt.

he chuckles as he turns around to find you pouting up at him. you don't tell him how you'd spent the whole day teasing yourself with the thought of him fucking you in the hoodie, the way it'd bunch up around your hips as his hands slid underneath. nor do you tell him how you'd been counting down the minutes til he got home. but the look in your eyes gives enough away.

"come on, angel. what's that look for?"

"you were s'posed to wanna touch me." your voice is so small, like a kid throwing a tantrum. but you'd spent all day forming this plan, and now he's just walking away?

"so you did wear the hoodie to try and get me all worked up, huh?" you nod.

"and then lied about it?" you nod again.

"that's not very nice, y'know. lying to your boyfriend." your bottom lip juts out as you look away, whispering something unintelligible.

"what, honey?" you shiver at the sound of his voice, his hand tilting your head up again.

"said 'm sorry. for lying." the remorse in your eyes is so genuine it hurts. cameron actually feels a little bad at the sight of it. but he's also having way too much fun.

"oh, my poor baby. it's okay. i bet you can make it up to me, if you'd like."

your eyes light up, nodding for him to continue. his hands find your hips, slipping underneath the hoodie the way you'd been thinking about all day. he leans in, kissing you softly. the press of his lips against yours sends your mind spiraling, and you whimper when he pulls away.

but he doesn't go far. his breath fans against you as he whispers, "want you to tell me what you were thinking about when you were putting this plan together today. tell me what you were hoping i'd come home and do to you."

you huff a little bit, shy at the idea. he doesn't let you stay that way, though. his voice is soft as he makes you look at him once more. "don't pout, angel. that's all you gotta do. that one thing. and then..."

his hand slips further down, landing between your thighs. he sighs a little as he feels how slick you are already. "... 'm gonna make all those dirty little fantasies of yours come true."

[abbottsgirl]

talking you through it | cameron cassmore x reader

pairing: cameron cassmore x fem!reader

summary: your first shift at the sowell bay aquarium gets a little complicated when you discover that your new boss is quite a good teacher.

warnings: spice but not quite smut, softdom!cameron, dirty talk, dry humping if you squint

"you gotta do it in circles, not up and down. here, slowly. there you go. see? that's not so hard."

of all the things you'd expected walking into your first day, being guided through the correct way to clean by a very attractive man was not one of them. following his example, you pray to whatever heaven's above that he won't notice the blush on your cheeks under the aquarium lights. he's not even doing anything. you're cleaning a glass enclosure. oh my god. stop acting like such a fucking teenager and do your job.

his chuckle breaks you out of your spiral, eyes knowing but not judgy. you continue through the cleaning with a huff, trying your hardest to ignore the pounding of your heart and the ache between your legs. god. get yourself together! it's been, what... an hour? less?

still, you can't help but watch as his form moves through the halls. the way he greets the animals, the spring in his step like he knows he belongs here. he's confident. assured. in his element.

the real problem comes in when you begin wrapping up for the night. your thoughts hadn't calmed down, necessarily, but had fallen into a rhythm that allowed you to focus on learning. the two of you made small talk as you worked your way through the checklist. you found yourself wondering if he lived alone. if there was someone special in his life. stupid, stupid thoughts. you just met this guy, for fuck's sake.

he leads you to the back closet once more, hauling a mop bucket down from a shelf. your eyes linger on the muscles of his arms, the way they strain out of his shirt sleeve. there's veins trailing all the way down, meeting each other at his wrist, then stretching to his fingers. his long, calloused fingers. what would they feel like, you wonder, slipping inside-

"you good?" fuck. shit.

"yeah. yeah, i'm alright. sorry. just- a little tired, i guess." it's not a lie. not really. surely, there's something else causing your mind to race like this. you've never been like this before. certainly not over a man you'd just met. a man who is, for the time being, effectively your boss.

the glint in his eyes tells you that he doesn't believe you, but he doesn't push the matter further. instead, he talks you through the right way to set up the mop. you can hardly focus on anything but his voice as he dives into an explanation about how shitty the mop solution here is, and shows you how to make your own with some bottles he's got stowed on the shelves.

his eyes flick up to yours as he talks, raking over your flushed cheeks and nervous stance. there's a ghost of a smirk on his face. of course he noticed. how could he not, with how blatant you're being? it's not like it's your fault, though. he's been talking you through the cleaning routine for hours, in that dark, sultry voice of his. anyone in their right mind would be affected.

once the bucket's filled, he slides it to you. the two of you walk over to the far corner of the building, where he instructs you to wring all the water out from the mop. you try to, anxious to get the cleaning done so you can return home and take a very cold shower. pulling the mop up to the top of the bucket, you lean your weight down on the handle, pressing all the water out that you can. but apparently it's not good enough, because within seconds, you hear his voice ring out from behind you.

"use all of your weight on it. you're not gonna get anywhere like that." his voice is kind, but you still flush a little at the scolding. this IS all your weight. if you could press harder than this, why wouldn't you be? i mean, for fuck's sake, what does he-

and then you feel his warmth against your back. you turn your head a little to glance at him. with you hunched over the bucket, he towers over you. god, he looks good like that. he's uncharacteristically quiet and his eyes reveal nothing. you begin to stand up, preparing to move away from him. he's close. too close to keep your thoughts PG, and the last thing you need right now is more fuel for your mess of a brain.

but he steps even closer, his chest nearly flush with your back now. his arm creeps around your side, letting his fingertips brush against your skin as he rests his hand by yours.

"what are you-" you start, but he stops you. his voice is darker now. quiet.

"like i said. you need more weight."

his arm presses down on the handle, and you follow his guide and do the same. your eyes trail over his veins again, now twitching with the effort of his movement. his gaze, on the other hand, is locked on your face.

"atta girl." his murmur forces the breath out of your lungs, so unabashed now. the praise sends heat to your core, your brain going a little dumb under him. he lets up on the mop and adjusts it before pressing down again. your body shifts back a little as you follow his lead, allowing your ass to ever-so-slightly graze the front of his jeans. you let out a breath as you feel the firmness of him against you, hips pushing back unconsciously to chase more of that sensation.

he lets out an unintelligible curse at the feeling, his free hand looping around your waist to pull you back against him fully. his grip on the mop bucket loosens as he tucks his head against your shoulder. his voice is wrecked when he finally speaks, breaking the tense quiet that had settled over you.

"do you have any fucking idea what you've been doing to me tonight? looking at me with those- shit- fuzzy fucking eyes, every time i told you to do something?"

his words are punctuated with slow rolls of his hips, the friction making you both a little dizzy. all you can do is respond with a choked whine, too far gone to form words the way you need to. his lips graze your neck when he notices your absence, kissing a trail up to the spot just under your ear.

"you like it, don't you? when i tell you what to do?" you nod, a little embarrassed and a lot turned on. "yeah, i thought so. sweet little thing like you just wants to be guided. that's all you need, isn't it? need me to take care of you, to teach you."

turning to meet his eyes, you whisper a quiet "yes" against his chest, still towering over you even now that you're both standing straight up. his hand on your waist trails down a little lower, running over your thigh, as his free hand brushes a strand of hair away from your forehead. his eyes are dark now, heavy-lidded with desire and need. they flick down to your lips. yours do the same. the heat between the both of you is almost intolerable. all thoughts of responsibility and professionalism leave your mind as you watch his lips part slightly, the both of you leaning in...

until a clatter from the staff office startles the both of you away from whatever line you were about to cross.

"oh for fuck's- marcellus!" cameron groans, darting off towards the source of the sound and leaving you alone, heart still racing and head still swimming from everything you'd almost let happen.

[em1i2a3]

Miracle Aligner

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader! x Miles Miller

Summary: With the intention of showing Miles how to be more dominant in bed, Rhett decides to take the opportunity to give him an in person demonstration on you.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, PWLP (porn with limited plot), Reader, Rhett and Miles are in a relationship together, Rhett is dominant, Rhett causally smokes, Mentioning of Scars, Miles is portrayed to be inexperienced, Reader is portrayed to be slightly submissive, Some language may by seen as possessive towards Reader, Slight Canon Divergence (events at the El Royale still happened but Miles survived evidently)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (Surprise?), Voyeurism/Cuckolding (kind of?), Breast Play, Cum Eating, Implied Free Use? (slightly mentioned), Oral Sex (female and male receiving), Fingering, Face Sitting, Handjob, Miles being a whimpering mess, Frotting (kind of), Sub/Dom Dynamics, Dirty Talk, Spitting, Light Choking, Biting, Panty Smelling, Aftercare (because Rhett is a caring cowboy).

Authors Note: God, I'm sorry this took me so long, life was getting in the way, but I hope you enjoy the final product! It's my first go at the lewcest fandom so bear with me lol. (only I could post this smut at 11:33 in the morning btw 🤣 just pure chaos)

Word Count: 19,772

There was a dichotomy within the relationship between you, Miles and Rhett, that was the first thing the three of you noticed when you decided to take the plunge to get into a relationship together. It had been a complicated arrangement, one that made it extremely difficult to choose between the two, you liked both of them, and they liked each other, so when the time came to make the decision you had all come to a shared agreement that it would be best to stay together, to take care of one another, to provide for each other.

It was hard getting used to having two lovers who were on complete opposite ends of the spectrum, but you noticed that it settled into something harmonious–something absolutely beautiful.

Miles was soft, careful, and hesitant with his touches. He was a gentle lover, someone that took time with you to discover what you enjoyed because his own innocence prior to getting into this arrangement had hindered him in experiencing the sexual pleasures the world could offer him. With you he felt safe, with you he felt like he could do no wrong, that the hands that had shot countless people were pure and had no blood on them. He forgot about the past when he was with you, and relished in every moment you touched him and kissed his face or body, and that was enough for him. He memorized you just like he memorized scriptures in his bible, eyes wide and wandering, letting you guide him to wherever you needed him and he followed you willingly like he was your disciple of pleasure. When he kissed you it was always messy, spit slicked from his drooling, but there was such gratitude behind it, such awe, because he loved the fact that you willingly gave yourself to him. And when he came apart, it was with your name on his lips, with soft broken whines escaping him as he clutched your body to his and held you like you were his absolution.

Rhett–on the other hand–was the counterweight.

Where Miles hesitated, Rhett was always sure with whatever he did to you. He knew exactly what he wanted, and what you needed, and he gave it to you without question. His hands were rough from years of ranch work, calloused and always meticulous, but when they closed around your hips or throat or slid between your thighs, there was nothing clumsy in the way he handled you. He read your body language as if you were his favourite book–anticipating every shift, every gasp, every clench of muscle, and every moment you grabbed for him or scratched his flesh.

He loved starting slow with you, running the tips of his fingers over your flesh, mapping every sensitive inch like it was his job, making you arch into his touch, and beg for more–building you up until you were at the point of delirium. He loved the way your breath would catch and then rush out when he finally gave you more, but he always made sure it wasn’t enough. He liked the power in it–the way you and Miles both handed him the control without a second thought, trusting him to fill the spaces that Miles left behind–and Rhett wore that responsibility like it was a badge of honour. It fed something deep within him–something hungry and ravenous–the same thing that made his voice drop when he told you exactly how he was going to make you fall apart on him.

And you–you were the star they orbited, the place where their differences stopped clashing and started to compliment each other in ways that left all three of you breathless and spent. Miles’ gentle exploration softened the edges of Rhett’s dominance, and Rhett’s confidence gave Miles permission to discover what he liked, to reach out for things he would never let himself imagine until now. Together they created something balanced, something electric, something that felt inevitable the longer you let it unfold.

Lately, though, Rhett had been watching more closely.

For weeks he had catalogued every careful caress Miles gave you, every time those wide wet eyes flicked up in silent question, every moment he held back even as lust burned behind his lashes. Rhett could see the hunger there–the kind that wanted to forego asking–and it had frustrated him. He knew you were always open and willing to give anything either of them wanted; he had felt it in the way your body yielded under his own hands night after night, pliant and eager to please. But the fact that Miles wasn’t claiming that same surrender made something twist up inside him. He needed a lesson in reading the language your body already spoke so fluently, or better yet, he needed a lesson in taking.

Because Miles wasn’t like that with Rhett. With him, the hesitation vanished. Miles gave and took so easily–teeth scraping along the tendon at the side of his neck, tongue dragging hot down the center of his chest, hands emboldened as they would grip at his hips to pull him closer without a single whispered permission. He used his mouth and fingers without question or second-guessing, running off of pure, greedy need. That was exactly what Rhett wanted him to do with you. And he was going to make sure that Miles would learn how to treat you with the same hunger he showed when it was them getting tangled up in the dark.

—————

When Rhett arrived home that night, you and Miles were curled up together on the couch, his taller frame eclipsing half of yours as you held him close, fingers threading slowly through the soft, soft locks of his hair. The nightly news was playing in the background while the two of you mindlessly listened, but the warmth of his body against yours had long since pulled your attention elsewhere, allowing the weight of his body to settle deep in your bones.

The sound of the door closing made you both perk up, heads turning toward the entryway. Rhett stood there for a beat, taking a breath, before he pulled off his hat and tossed it onto the side table, letting his greasy, sweat dampened hair out from its confines, allowing the light brown strands to frame his face. His keys and wallet followed with a quiet clatter, ignoring the key posts that were right beside the door, opting to have everything in one place rather than spread out. He kicked his boots off in the hallway, the heavy thud echoing his long day–his exhaustion–then he finally stepped fully into the living room.

He was a vision of raw, hard-worked masculinity. Sweat glistened his skin, his cheeks and throat were flushed by the undying Wabang sun, and his thin white t-shirt–stained with mud, oil, and fine specks of sawdust–clung damply to every line of him. The fabric had turned nearly translucent in places, molding to the solid planes of his chest, showing off his tattoos and the ridged contours of his abdomen, the short sleeves straining against the corded muscle of his flexed arms, as if they were going to tear the material. The veins along his forearms were raised, racing up and bulging from the manual labour he had been putting himself through all day, and it gave you the urge to get up just to lick along them, but you stayed still.

The scent of him reached the both of you even from across the room: crisp evening air laced with pine, fresh grass, and a faint trace of woodsmoke, earthy and potent and absolutely intoxicating. It was the mark of a man who had spent the day breaking his body for the land, and now that he was home he was finally getting the break he needed.

Both you and Miles stared in open admiration at him, feeling your bellies tightening at the sight of him like this–solid, glistening with sweat, and radiating an unfiltered strength that always seemed to make the three of you crave one another even more.

Rhett leaned against the frame of the living room, arms crossing over his chest, pulling the fabric of his t-shirt tighter to show off the curve of his shoulders. A slow, knowing smile came up on his lips as he took in the two of you, the way you were so relaxed with each other, wrapped up in each others embraces even when the air inside the house was thick with humidity. 

“Enjoyin’ yourselves?” He asked playfully, raising his eyebrows at the two of you. Miles shifted, pushing himself up from where he had been nestled against your chest until he sat properly on the cushion beside you. His eyes lingered on Rhett, his skin flushing as if he had been caught doing something wrong–though it was just his nerves playing up through his flesh.

“Just…Relaxing,” He responded, the word coming out a touch breathier, trying to steady the rapid beating of his heart. He glanced over at you as your feet slid into his lap, his warm hands immediately wrapping around them, pressing his thumbs into the soles in a nervous, soothing massage. 

Rhett gave the both of you a small smile, but you were far more observant than Miles and sensed there was something playing up behind his eyes–something meticulous, calculated, like he had something planned. His gaze drifted over you, trailing up the length of your bare legs until it lingered at the hem of his shirt that you were wearing, focusing on where it rode high on your thighs, his attention sticking to your flesh like a magnet.

“Hmm, sounds nice,” He said, as his eyes flicked back up to meet yours, making you squint at him, cocking an eyebrow up. He let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to coil tighter in the room, allowing the three of you to settle for a moment.

Then, with his voice dropping lower, he asked, “You guys wanna come to the bedroom with me?” 

And as if the words had triggered some Pavlovian response that was etched into your nervous systems, both you and Miles sprang up from the couch at the same time, stretching your sleepy limbs with slow arches of your backs and rolls of your shoulders. The movement felt almost preparatory, like the two of you were about to go out for a marathon without any training. 

“Sure!” The both of you said in unison, your voices overlapping in perfect sync and carrying the same unmistakable edge of desperation–like you had been waiting just for this very moment to come, the opportunity to get out all the pent-up sexual energy out all together rather than just with each other. An awkward laugh bubbled out between you, the shared eagerness impossible to hide. Miles’ blush deepened across his cheeks, a warm flush that now began to creep down the sides of his neck, disappearing beneath his navy t-shirt, his eyes flicking over to you before going over to Rhett, his stomach turning in anticipation.

Rhett’s smirk only grew at that, the corners of his mouth tugging upward until the faint lines at the edges of his eyes crinkled. He always enjoyed this–the way the two of you responded to him with such immediate, unguarded readiness, like every part of you had been waiting for the shift in his voice, and the weight of his intentions. It flattered him, feeding that quiet authority he carried as the unlabeled head of the household, and he felt it in his chest, the sense of being the one who set the pace, where the both of you came to him so willingly, and so completely. 

Without another word he pushed off the frame, and turned down the hallway. You and Miles followed close behind, the floorboards creaking in a symphony of steps that only built the heat that was growing in your bellies–that soft bloom that only unfurled when you both knew that it was going to be a night of pure lust and heat.

Rhett opened the bedroom door and left it ajar, stepping inside first so you could both trail in after him. 

The room was well kept, thanks to the years of housekeeping experience from Miles, with a king size bed against the far wall dressed in deep green linens and side tables that were crowded with small treasures collected from your antique store outings and greenhouse visits–brass lamps that were given new life by Rhett, a variety of succulents that Miles refused to leave the store without, and the simple rings that the three of you wore when you stepped out into the world together, that now rested in a shallow dish because inside these walls the bond didn’t need to be proved to anyone.

Off to the side sat your work desk, its surface scattered with crumpled scrap papers bearing half-forgotten meeting notes and your laptop that was still open, with its screen that had long since gone dark from the lack of interaction. The chair had been pushed back slightly from where you had abandoned it earlier, the leather seat still warm from the hours you had spent tethered to back-to-back calls.

Normally you migrated between the desk and the living room couch, chasing the change of scenery while Miles moved quietly through the house, but today the pull of his company after his morning cleaning spree had been too strong to resist.

Miles had carved out his place here with the same devotion he brought to everything he did with you and Rhett. He hated that the both of you had to carry the weight of providing for the household, but the destruction of the El Royale had left him with scars far deeper than the ones that still shadowed his flesh and with the past that he had, it made stepping back into any kind of public work nearly impossible.

You and Rhett had shut down the idea of him returning to that life–even if he was working at a rundown motel in Wabang–insisting instead on the steady comfort of having him here, filling the house with order and warmth in ways neither of you could manage alone. He still felt the sting of it sometimes, the sense that he wasn’t pulling his weight, but the way you both thanked him–with touches and kisses, with praise, and with the simple relief of coming home to a space that felt like a sanctuary built for just you three–eased the edges of that doubt tenfold.

You and Miles watched as Rhett crossed to the casement windows, his arms flexing as he unlocked each one and pushed them open. The evening breeze slipped inside, stirring the sheer curtains and flooding the room with the clean scent of freshly cut grass and hay, letting the coolness of it linger against his sun-kissed skin.

He always prepared the space with this meticulous ritual–finding ways to adjust the temperature until it hovered at a perfect middle ground, enough to bring down the fever that still clung to him after a full day under the Wabang sun, but never enough to raise goosebumps on either of you when you were bare and open beneath him. Your comforts mattered to him, and he made that known in these effortless little ways. 

He moved to the bed next, his large hands grasping the edge of the pristine sheets Miles had smoothed to military form that morning, and steadily he drew them down to the foot of the bed, folding them neatly to preserve the order he knew Miles took pride in. It was a small gesture, but one that Rhett never skipped.

When he finally turned back to face you both, a slow sigh left his lips and his hands settled on his hips, the motion stretching the sweaty fabric of his shirt across his chest again, and your eyes couldn’t help but catch the faint outline of his nipples.

“So…Are y’all goin’ to come over and give me a kiss or do I have to do everythin’?” He asked teasingly, his drawl roughening from the dryness that he had been in all day. 

Miles was the one to move first, his feet carrying him across the room with a soft shuffle, and you followed close behind. Rhett bent slightly at the waist, his large veined hand coming up to cradle Miles’ cheek, feeling the pressure of him leaning into the touch–chasing it as if he was going to pull away prematurely. His calloused thumb brushed over his heated flesh, taking in the softness and the warmth there, running over the pockmarked scars from the shotgun gun pellets he had been hit with the night the El Royale burned down, tracing his touch up to the delicate skin beneath his eye before leaning in. The kiss was deep but extremely controlled as Miles’ mouth opened eagerly under his, tasting the salt of sweat on Rhett’s upper lip and letting out a quiet, broken whimper of relief that vibrated against his mouth, and even though Rhett wanted to absolutely lose control just from hearing that sound he knew he had to keep himself in check. Reluctantly, he pulled back, sucking on Miles’ tongue as he did so, like he was sending a final strike to his nervous system before anything could flare out into a heat of tangled bodies. 

Then he turned to you, his other hand rising to catch your chin between his calloused fingers, tilting your face up so he could hold your gaze for a moment. The blue of his eyes caught in the low evening light, bright and intent beneath the sweat-dampened strands of hair falling across his forehead, and you felt the weight of his focus settle over you like a physical touch. Your own eyes softened at the edges, wide and wanting, the kind of look that always made something possessive flare in his chest–to know that you were his, just like he and Miles were yours. He took it all in–the parted lips, the quickened pulse that he felt against his fingers, the way you looked like a doe–and a small, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he closed the distance.

His lips met yours, firm and wet from the kiss with Miles, carrying the faint mint of his toothpaste that was undercut by something far deeper, hotter even: the raw, masculine taste of him after a long day, salt and heat and the faint trace of the cigarette that he had smoked on his walk back to the house. The scrape of his stubble dragged across your skin, while his tongue slid against yours in one slow stroke, tasting the sweetness of you like he wanted it ingrained into his blood stream. You could feel heat flooding low in your belly at the contact, and the temptation to pull him closer burned deep in your body, but just before you could hook your fingers into his belt loops, he broke the kiss. 

He breathed out along your damp lips, cooling the slick saliva he had left behind, feeling you shiver beneath his touch.

When your eyes fluttered open again, that small, knowing smile still played across Rhett’s mouth–the one that surfaced only when something in his mind had finally clicked into place, and you caught it immediately.

“You planning something, Rhett?” You teased, a mischievous smirk curving your own lips. He let out a low huff of laughter, giving a small shake of his head, before his touch slipped away from the both of you. He stepped back toward your desk, fingers wrapping around the headrest of the leather office chair. The muscles in his arms flexed as he rolled it across the wooden floor, positioning it carefully at the side of the bed and swivelling it to face the mattress.

“You know I always am…” He commented, squeezing the leather in his grip until the veins in his forearms jumped beneath the surface of his skin. You raised an eyebrow at him, glancing briefly at Miles–who was already watching with wide expectant eyes–before returning your attention to Rhett.

“Care to share?” You asked, watching as Rhett let out a small sigh, and shifted his gaze to Miles. He observed the way the other man’s hands twisted together nervously in front of him, knuckles paling against the fabric of his pyjama pants. He was always jealous of the way you were able to interpret Rhett’s body language so easily–as if you were able to read his mind like he were an open book to you only–and he couldn’t help but wring his hands even more in anticipation for what was about to be said.

The tension in the room was high, and from the silence you knew that there was certainly something bouncing around in Rhett’s head as he made his way around the chair to stand in front of the both of you again.

“I’ve been wantin’ to give Miles a lesson on how to be a little more…Assertive with you…” He started, choosing his words carefully, being mindful of the language he was using, “And since he’s a little more inexperienced with that sort of thing, I was thinkin’ maybe we can give him a demonstration before lettin’ him try things out on his own.” He continued, looking between the two of you as he spoke.

At the mentioning of his inexperience, Miles’ cheeks burned a deeper shade of red that seemed impossible to achieve unless the person was on the brink of combustion, his lashes fluttering as he absorbed the words that Rhett spoke. He could feel the blaze of heat rushing beneath his shirt, flushing him and setting him alight like he was a walking billboard of embarrassment. He could never hide these feelings, and if he had the choice he would’ve wanted to be stoic during this conversation.

Because Miles knew where he stood when it came to the relationship dynamic–he knew he was still catching up, and that Rhett’s experience with women would always dwarf his own–but the balance had always been a key part of what made this whole arrangement work. Now the idea of shifting the dynamic left him visibly unsettled, and his mind was racing at a thousand miles a minute–the thought that he wasn’t good enough in providing the pleasure you needed, the fact that he was just too soft for you. He knew what Rhett said wasn’t meant to offend him but he found himself overthinking it completely.

Through his eyes the gentleness he provided had always been a safeguard of sorts; he needed to know you were okay with anything he did, needed to hear and feel every response from you so he could chase your pleasure without possibly hurting you or causing you any pain. He had the fear of losing control–of slipping back into the man he was guilty of being so long ago. It made his stomach twist up into knots and bile creep up his throat.

You looked over at him, noticing the way he stared down at the floorboards beneath his feet, hands wringing tighter now–like he was two seconds from folding in on himself–and you could see the vulnerability that Rhett’s idea exposed. As much as you liked the idea of Rhett making a lesson out of you, your mind was immediately preoccupied with Miles and what he wanted. You didn’t want to do this unless he was okay with it, and judging by the anxiousness that was seeping out through his body language it was evident he was hesitant. 

“Miles…Baby…Are you okay?” You asked softly, the words pulling him from his daze. He lifted his head, offering a small, meek smile that didn’t quiet reach his eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” He replied, but the embarrassment bled through his voice, his throat constricting from the nerves that were inching up his body. You felt a pang of sympathy twist in your chest, as you brought your attention to Rhett, who had clearly caught it too–his eyes softening with a flicker of regret while he stepped closer to Miles, bringing his hand to his shoulder to give it a gentle squeeze.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to do it, it was just an idea…I shouldn’t have brought it up–“

“No, no…I want to do it. Let’s try it out,” Miles interrupted, his gaze darting from you to Rhett, his voice coming out steadier now even as the flush remained high on his cheeks. Rhett’s brows pulled together, the faint crease between them deepening with genuine concern as he stepped close enough that the heat of his body pressed against Miles. He could see the sweat that was clinging to the hollow of his throat and when he breathed in he could smell the warmth that was radiating off his skin, which calmed him immediately. 

Miles tilted his head back, his sapphire-blue eyes meeting Rhett’s, with his lashes fluttering  under the watchful intensity of his stare.

“Miles…If you’re really not comfortable with it you don’t have to say yes. I don’t wanna pressure you into somethin’ like this, and I don’t wanna force this if you’re not goin’ to enjoy it, so just be honest…Do you really want to do this?” He questioned, seeking the truth or reassurance from him that he wasn’t putting his comfort aside just to satisfy this request. He knew Miles was a people pleaser through and through and it wasn’t something he wanted to take advantage of just so he could teach him this silly little lesson. He was regretting even bringing it up at this point, and was rethinking how he could’ve done this better so it wouldn’t have put a spotlight on his inexperience.

But Miles held his gaze without flinching, his irises catching the last of the evening light that was filtering through the sheer curtains, and he could see the steadiness within them. Miles knew that if he looked away even for a second, Rhett would immediately scrap the entire plan, so he forced himself to keep his eyes on his. 

He trusted Rhett with his life, and he knew that even though he had this initial discomfort regarding the idea, Rhett would never push him past his limits–he knew them better than Miles himself did. He also understood the value of what Rhett was offering: a chance to push beyond the hesitation that lived within him, to learn how to take what you so willingly gave him, to explore you with an unrestrained hunger without worrying about whether or not you were enjoying it because it would be evident in the way you reacted to him. It had the potential to deepen the connection, to broaden the ways he could pull pleasure from you until you were as lost in him as he was in you. 

He lifted his hand, fingers sliding over the prominent veins on the back of Rhett’s, and squeezed it firmly.

“I want to do this, I promise,” He reassured, keeping his voice steady. Rhett searched his face for a moment, the tension in his body easing only when he found what he was looking for–the lack of hesitation in Miles’ gaze. He gave a small nod.

“Alright…But if you get uncomfortable at all you need to tell us, okay?” Miles offered a small smile.

“Of course.” He replied, feeling Rhett’s grip on his shoulder easing, his thumb brushing over the line of his collarbone before leaning in to kiss him. This one was softer, gentler, a slow press of mouths that carried gratitude and reassurance in equal measure–something that Rhett couldn’t express with his words in those moments. Miles’ lips parted instantly, deepening it just enough to taste him, a quiet needy sound slipping from him before Rhett pulled back. He let out a sigh that ghosted warm across Miles’ lips, then he reached for your hand, his calloused fingers intertwining with yours to give them a small squeeze. His touch was electric, and you could feel the hairs on your arms rise at the contact, like he had triggered your nervous system to go into overdrive.

“Go take your throne then,” Rhett instructed, motioning toward the leather office chair with a small, crooked smirk that deepened the laughter lines around his mouth. Miles let out a soft, surprised laugh, breaking the thick tension in the room, before backing away slowly, letting his eyes flick once more between you and Rhett, lowering himself into the chair. The leather creaked under his weight, the cushion of the seat giving slightly as it molded to his thighs and back, settling in and adjusting his posture until he could lean into it comfortably, resting his hands on the armrests. His fingers traced the faint flaking patches along the edges of it–places where you had absentmindedly picked at the material during your meetings–and ran his thumb over the texture before lifting his gaze back to the two of you–an expectant look flickering in his eyes.

Rhett gave him an approving smile.

“You look like a businessman,” He commented teasingly, as he gently guided you closer, “You should get a job with Y/N…You’d fit right in.”

The remark drew a genuine laugh from both you and Miles, as you shook your head, not because you didn’t believe he could do it, but because you actually agreed with the statement. Rhett had always possessed a rare ability to cut through heavy moments with dry humour, even when the words landed flat as desert dust. It eased the knot in your chest, the one that had slowly tangled in the midst of the conversation between Rhett and Miles, and it reminded you how carefully he was able to balance the both of you and ground you guys even when it seemed like it was close to impossible. 

When you stepped fully into his space, Rhett’s free hand settled heavy on your hip. His palm was broad and warm, and you could feel the roughness of it through the worn fabric of the shirt you were wearing. His thumb traced the tight line of your panties, pressing just enough to feel the elastic that was biting into your skin, releasing your fingers so he could cup your cheek instead. The calloused pads stroked slowly over your heated flesh, absorbing the way your warmth bled into his touch like it belonged to him.

“Ready to give our man a show, Sweetheart?” He asked, the words drawing out rough, like it was meant for your ears alone even though Miles was able to catch them. You hummed in agreement, reaching for the belt loops of his jeans, hooking your fingers tight into them before tugging him forward so your chest pressed flush to his. He could feel your nipples through the fabric of your shirt, as his sweat seeped through dampening your skin and sending a shiver up your spine. The rapid thud of his heartbeat met the frantic rhythm of yours, a cadence matching your shared excitement.

“You know I am,” You replied, your voice already breathy. You rose onto your tiptoes to kiss him, but Rhett met you halfway, a moan rumbling from his chest and vibrating against your lips as his fingers dug deeper into your hip, before snaking it around your waist, pulling the rest of you against him. Your thighs bumped his, and your pelvises aligned for a moment with a slow grind, making you feel the solid length of him, already half-hard beneath the denim, catching you slightly off balance. 

He took immediate advantage of the stumble, spinning the two of you smoothly so your back faced the bed, holding control of your movements so you didn’t fall. His body was caging yours, broad shoulders blocking Miles’ view for a moment before he shifted just enough to give the other man a clear line of sight. He could feel the heat in his body grow as he watched Rhett devour you, his tongue sliding deeper into your mouth, claiming the sweet taste that lived there with a slow stroke, his hand sliding down to grip the curve of your ass, kneading the flesh there, drawing out a little whimper from you.

There was something so erotic about watching the two of you fall into one another so easily, the way your hands travelled each other’s bodies without hesitation, without a single second thought. It was instinctive, ingrained so deep that it looked like breathing, and Miles felt the front of his pyjama pants tighten painfully along his crotch, his cock twitching hard at the sight. He shifted in the chair, the leather creaking under him as he attempted to coverup his erection, knowing that this was only the beginning of the lesson, and that it would possibly be a while until he got some sort of relief–though he couldn’t ignore the heat that was pooling in his belly, nor the sheen of sweat that was coating his temples.

When you broke the kiss it was only when air became necessary, your lips glistening with the wet glaze of Rhett’s spit, chest rising and falling fast as you looked up at him. His hand slid from your cheek down to the hem of your shirt, hooking his thumb beneath the fabric to rub at the soft skin of your hip. 

“Mind liftin’ your arms for me, baby? Wanna get a good look at you.” He whispered, nudging his nose against yours before moving back slightly to give you some space. You raised your arms above your head obediently, feeling Rhett’s hand slide up higher beneath the worn cotton, pushing it upward slowly. The fabric dragged over your torso and ribs, revealing the black cotton panties that were riding low on your hips, then the soft plane of your stomach, the curve of your waist, until it cleared the swell of your breasts and slipped free over your head. He tossed the shirt aside as if it was a scrap piece of material, not caring where it landed because his eyes were glued on the newly exposed skin that was bared to him. 

Neither Miles nor Rhett could tear their gaze off you, admiring the marks they had left on your flesh a few nights ago, the ones that mapped their shared hunger for you: the faint imprint of Rhett’s teeth on your shoulder, the cluster of darkening hickeys that were scattered along the tops of your breasts and nipples, the bruised fingerprints that were branded into the dip of your hips where Rhett had gripped you hard enough to leave evidence. Your body was a living record of them, a collage of pure devotion and obsession that went hand in hand, and the sight of it made Miles’s mouth go dry. The fact that he was able to bury himself inside your beautiful body every night or two was the most beautiful thing he could ever experience, and seeing you display yourself like this with such confidence always made him melt.

Rhett brought his hand up then, letting the tips of his fingers trace the marks, connecting them with an invisible like, as if he was creating constellations on your flesh. He followed the bite on your shoulder, then drifted lower to circle one of the hickeys on the soft swell of your breast, watching goosebumps ripple across your skin as the callouses grazed the sensitive peak of your nipple. You leaned into the touch immediately, a quiet breath catching in your throat.

“Mmm…Look at you,” He cooed, leaning down to press his mouth to the side of your neck, his stubble rasping against your flesh, burning just enough to make your eyes flutter shut. He breathed in deep, letting the warm cashmere scent of your lotion fill his lungs as his lips moved against your pulse point, giving it a gentle suck, “Such a pretty girl, wearin’ our marks with pride.” He added as his thumb and forefinger pinched your nipple, rolling it with just enough pressure to make you flinch against him, pulling a small gasp from your throat. He continued to leave kisses along your neck, letting his tongue flick out to taste the salty sweetness of your skin, widening his palm to cup the full weight of your breast so he could squeeze the plush flesh in his hand before sliding his touch higher to grip the side of your neck, steadying you when your knees wavered.

Miles stared, transfixed, at the way your spine curved so beautifully under Rhett’s hands, the subtle tremble in your thighs, the way your nipples had tightened into hard peaks from nothing more than his touch and the weight of two sets of eyes on you. 

Rhett’s breath ghosted hot against your jaw as he pulled back just enough to speak again.

“Go lay across the bed for me…” The instructions were so simple but it was the way Rhett said them that made your body shiver. You loved it when he took control, when he knew exactly how he wanted you, and you were going to listen to him like you were hanging on every word he spoke. 

His hand trailed down the valley of your spine, fingertips dragging slowly like hot wax melting into your skin, before he stepped aside to give you room, his touch leaving your body completely. 

You moved toward the mattress on unsteady legs, feeling a gust of cool air brushing over your bare skin, making your flesh draw tighter as you climbed onto the fresh green linens and stretched out on your back, your heart hammering in your chest and echoing through your ears. 

You brought your feet up, letting them settle on the bed before allowing your legs to fall open slowly, creating space for Rhett’s body while putting yourself on full display to him. The air brushed over the soaked black cotton of your panties, making the evidence of your arousal feel exposed, as the damp fabric clung to your core. Your pulse was throbbing heavy between your thighs, the ache escalating with every breath, and every second you laid there untouched, and you could feel yourself growing desperate for him to speed up the process.

Rhett’s eyes dropped instantly to the wet patch that darkened the center of your panties, his pupils blowing wide until only a thin ring of blue remained–like he was an apex predator and you the prey he locked in on. His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath the stubble on his cheek, and Miles could see the way his chest expanded on a slow, controlled inhale, his nostrils flaring as he took in the sight of you completely at his mercy–beauty incarnate as he would describe it.

Without a word, Rhett reached down to the hem of his damp white t-shirt, peeling it upward in one smooth motion, the fabric catching briefly on the broad planes of his shoulders and sticking to his skin in patches before sliding free.

The evening light pouring through the open windows caught on every inch of newly exposed skin, highlighting the lean, sun-bronzed lines of his torso and the black ink of the bull rider tattoo that was etched across his right pec–which shifted every time he drew in a breath. A faint, silvery scar curved along the outer edge of his shoulder, catching the light just enough to stand out against the rest of his tanned skin–a display of the permanent injuries that he carried from his past circuits. His veins stood out along the front of his shoulders, and you could help but chase them down to where they disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans–seeing a set of them that framed his v-line in perfect symmetry. A light sheen of sweat was glistening faintly across his collarbones and the hollow of his throat, and now that the damp shirt was gone you could smell the muskiness of his skin–that natural pheromonal scent that drove you crazy every time you took in a breath to get more of it inside your lungs. You felt the urge to jump off the mattress to latch onto him, to clean his skin with your tongue, yet you remained still, biting into your lower lip to try and get a handle on your composure so you didn’t explode into a pit of flames.

You stared in open wonder at him, the same way you always did when he bared himself like this, like every piece of his body had been carved out just for you and Miles to admire. He was perfect in every sense of the word–the definition of handsome–and you loved the fact that he only belonged to the two of you. 

Miles’ breath stuttered audibly from the chair, his eyes wide as he drank in the sight of Rhett’s torso, noticing the scratch marks you had left along his ribcage that stood out like they were fresh–the red lines curving along the bones, raised over the tanned flesh. He was the image of power, and he loved every inch of it.

Rhett tossed the shirt aside without a second glance, letting the damp fabric hit the floor with a soft flop, before turning his attention back to you, his eyes darkening and locking onto yours as he crawled onto the bed. The mattress dipped deep under his weight, his knees sinking into the plush give of it, until he hovered directly above you, caging your body beneath the solid heat of his.

You could feel his jean-clad thighs pressing firmly against the backs of your own, holding your legs open so wide that you wouldn’t have been able to close them even if you tried. The rough denim dragged against your skin with every small shift of his body, feeling the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric, making your flesh prickle and burn from he point of contact. You could feel the thick, heavy line of his erection straining against the front of his jeans, pressing right against your soaked core through the thin, drenched barrier of your panties–the only thing that was keeping you from feeling him fully. The pressure was maddening–all-consuming, perfect yet not enough–and you couldn’t help but roll your hips up toward him, chasing the friction that you desperately needed, wordlessly begging him to give you more, but Rhett shifted back just enough to deny you of it, letting out a low growl of warning.

Rhett’s hands settled heavy on your thighs, the callouses on them scraping lightly over your smooth skin as he stroked slow circles along the sensitive flesh. The roughness of his palms make you quiver, each pass earning a small squirm from your body until his fingers trailed upward, framing the guests of your panties with both hands. His thumbs bracketed the soaked cotton on either side, pressing just enough to feel the heat and slickness seeping through the fabric, as a low hum of approval vibrated in his chest at the proof of how desperately you needed him.

He looked down at you then, his gaze burning through you while your lashes fluttered and trembled against your cheeks–completely flustered with the limited attention he was giving. You dragged in a shaky breath, your teeth sinking into your lower lip, visibly fighting the urge to grind yourself into his hands, to beg for more of this teasing pressure he was applying to you. Then he hooked two thick fingers beneath the edge of the fabric and pulled it away from you core, letting the cool evening air rush in to kiss the slickness coating you folds, before snapping the cotton back against your swollen core with a wet little sound that made your hips jerk. A needy whine slipped from your lips as you moved your body towards his again, frustration flashing hot in your eyes–like you were physically pleading with him to stop toying with you and finally give you what your entire being was screaming for.

“Haven’t even properly touched you yet and you’re soakin’ right through these little panties of yours,” Rhett commented, his voice low and rough with pure satisfaction. You could feel his thumbs dragging along the wet spot with featherlight slides, rubbing the soaked fabric directly over your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through you before he pulled away his touch entirely, hearing a whine escape you.

He shifted down your body without breaking eye contact, placing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the center of your chest, his stubble rasping against your skin, leaving raised marks as he nipped at the sides of your breasts, adding fresh indents to the fading collection of hickeys already scattered there. His tongue flicked over the soft plane of your belly, kissing in random spots and sucking wherever he wanted, until his teeth grazed the lace outline of your waistband before settling fully between your spread thighs. 

With a firm push he slid you higher up the mattress until your head nearly dangled off the edge, adjusting you perfectly so your legs draped over his broad bare shoulders, cushioning them on the hard muscle there. The position kept you completely open to him, exposed and helpless under the weight of his stare–like he was appraising you and the sight of your arousal in front of him.

In your peripheral vision Miles shifted restlessly, one hand pressing down over the obvious tent straining the front of his pyjama pants as he tried to adjust himself to hide it. His cheeks were flushed a deep, splotchy red, eyes glistening with pure fascination and wonder  as he watched every precise movement and hung on every word.

He had always been an eager participant when it came to warming you up for something like this, but seeing Rhett take control–watching the exactness of his hands, hearing the low timbre of his voice, the way he commanded and folded your body without a single wasted motion–had him mentally cataloging every detail, even though he knew he could never replicate it exactly. 

When Rhett pressed his nose against the soaked center of your panties, your attention was immediately drawn back down to him, a little gasp escaping your throat as he inhaled deeply, pulling the rich, musky sweetness of your arousal straight into his lungs like he needed it in every inch of him. He could feel his mouth watering at the scent, and he could’ve sworn he felt his veins pulsing with the essence of you when he let his hot breath ghost through the cotton, warming your clit. Your walls clenched even at the minor tease, and you squirmed against him once again.

“Is that what a lil bit of kissin’ does to you, baby?” He asked, the words vibrating against your core as he pressed his open mouth to the damp fabric, swiping his tongue along the spot and smearing his built up saliva over it to taste the arousal that had already leaked through. Your back arched off the mattress in response, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your fingers flew down to fight tight in his hair. You tugged hard, desperate for more, and Rhett groaned against you, relishing in the desperate plead, but once again he pulled back, fighting your grip to turn his head and nip at the soft skin of your inner thigh–silently communicating that he wanted you to answer him rather than moan.

“Yes…Yes, that’s what it does to me…” You admitted, your voice breathy and wrecked, like you were on the verge of tears. Rhett’s lips curved into a satisfied smirk against your thigh, pressing a lingering kiss to the spot he’d bitten.

“I’m glad…Give me a whole lotta pride that I can get you goin’ so easily.” He murmured, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties, tugging lightly, “Now lift your butt up for me so I can take these off you.” 

Immediately, you obeyed without a second thought, lifting your hips from the mattress in an arch that pressed your shoulders deeper into the cool linens. Rhett’s fingers hooked deeper into the waistband in tandem with your movements, dragging them down the length of your thighs slowly, the drenched cotton clinging to you for a moment before peeling away completely. The cool evening air washed over your newly exposed skin, sending a fresh ripple of goosebumps racing across your belly and up your ribs, making you shiver at the feeling. Rhett shifted back just long enough to get the material off from around your ankles before flicking the ruin fabric toward Miles; the black cotton sailing through the low light before landing warm and heavy across the front of Miles’ pyjama pants, right over the rigid outline of his cock.

His breath hitched at the sight, his long fingers instantly closing around the panties to lift them to the light and into his line of sight. The gusset was glistening with threads of your arousal–stretching and catching the brightness in the room like liquid silk. He stared at the evidence of how thoroughly Rhett had already worked you up, and the sheer image of it made his mouth flood with saliva. Without thinking, he pressed the fabric to his face–burying his nose and cheeks into the warm wetness that greeted him like a homecoming–inhaling the heady scent of you in one long, greedy pull, mirroring Rhett’s actions. The musk of your need coated his skin, dampening his flesh with a slickness that he never wanted to escape, and a broken sound left his mouth as his eyes fluttered shut. He was hypnotized by the scent, so much so that it almost physically hurt him to pull the panties away, but when he did a thin string of your wetness still connected them to his lower lips before it snapped–breaking the spell that he was under. Completely dazed, he let the fabric drop back into his lap, his eyes glassy and hazy as they returned to the bed.

Rhett had already settled between your spread thighs again, his broad shoulders flexing as he hooked your legs over them, your calves draping down the firm planes of his back. He lowered his head until his mouth hovered barely an inch from your bare core, close enough that the heat of his breath fanned across your swollen clit, but not close enough that if you moved you would be able to feel his mouth.

His gaze traced every detail he could take in: the way your entrance fluttered, the glossy sheen coating your fold, the slow trickle of fresh arousal that slipped free and slid down toward the cleft of your ass, soaking into the sheets beneath you with dewy streaks. You felt utterly exposed, pinned open beneath the weight of his hungry stare, and you couldn’t help but shift around in your spot, hoping that it would get him to move to where you needed.

But Rhett couldn’t grant that relief just yet–he needed to take his time, he needed to draw this out–so he moved back slightly, settling at your knees. He looked up at you through his lashes, kissing a slow, open-mouthed path up the inside of one thigh, then the other, scraping his teeth and stubble along the sensitive skin there just to feel the way your muscles jumped, nuzzling into the flesh and relishing in how you squeezed around his head every once in a while. 

When he finally reached your core again, he let a thick strand of spit out of his mouth, watching it drip between your folds and mix with your arousal before dragging his heavy tongue from your dripping entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, drawn out stroke. The wet heat of it pulled a shattered moan from your chest, and out of instinct your fingers dove into his hair, gripping the sweat-dampened strands for purchase as your hips moved off the bed.

Rhett hummed in approval, the vibration rolling straight through your body and shaking your insides, pushing your thighs higher, folding you nearly in half so your knees pressed to your stomach, spreading you even wider. The new angle left nothing hidden to him, granting him the space to bury into you fully without any obstruction–and he was going to take advantage of it. He licked into you like a man starved of air–tongue pushing deep inside you, curling and stroking along your inner walls to gather every drop of your honey-like arousal before sliding back up to circle your clit, flicking the hardened bud quickly. He sucked the swollen bud between his lips, starting with a gentle suction and building it until your hips jerked and another fresh gush of slick coated his chin.

The sounds filling the room were absolutely obscene: the wet glide of his tongue, the lewd suck of his mouth, the low appreciative groans that vibrated through Rhett’s chest every time your thighs tightened around his head, and the soft creaks from the boxspring beneath the mattress that squeaked every time Rhett pushed his face deeper into you. Your own moans were spilling freely from your throat, breathy and broken, each one feeding the fire in Rhett’s eyes as he felt your body arching off the mattress, so you could grind along his face, seeking more from him. 

Miles watched every second of it, absolutely transfixed by the sight, bringing his hand down to his erection straining against his pyjama pants to give it a small squeeze, feeling the wetness of his precum soaking through the fabric and coating his palm. The way your body writhed beneath Rhett, the small tugs you gave to his hair, and those filthy sounds that were escaping the both of you was making it hard for him to not touch himself, and he had to give his cock at least a little bit of relief, so he continued to squeeze the thickness through the barrier, palming himself as slowly as possible so he could keep his erection maintained–knowing that if he came he wouldn’t be able to get it back up for a while.

Rhett moved away from your core just enough to speak, his lips, chin and cheeks shining with your arousal as his tongue came out to lick the sheen that coated his flesh.

“You seein’ how easy she opens up to me, Miles?” He asked, dragging the flat of his tongue through your folds again, before glancing up at him, feeling you squirming for more, “She doesn’t even have to tell me where she wants me…It’s all in her body language. Look at her hips movin’ to try and put my mouth back on her…She can’t even bear to have it off her pussy for more than a few seconds ‘cause she needs it so badly…Don’t you, baby?” You let out a whimper, rolling your hips up in a desperate search for his mouth, chasing the heat that he had stolen away from you.

“Yes–Rhett, please–“

Before you could even finish the plea, he was on you again, rewarding your honestly by sealing his mouth over your aching clit with a hunger that bordered on ravenous. His lips wrapped tight around the swollen bud, sucking in deep, rhythmic pulls that had you arching into him as a white-hot heat sparked up your spine. Your fingers twisted harder into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp while you bucked your hips up against his face, chasing the relentless pressure of his tongue.

He answered the frantic movements by sliding both hands under the backs of your thighs, gripping the soft flesh hard enough to leave fresh fingerprints while pinning you firmly to the mattress so you couldn’t move away. You could feel the muscles in your belly clenching and tightening, as a sweet burn bloomed through them from the position you were in, feeling his tongue dipping into your entrance again before bringing it back up to your clit smearing your wetness along the bud as he continued the same cycle of licking and sucking.

Slowly, he brought one of his hands down to your core, sliding his thick fingers through your arousal before pushing them into your tight heat with a wet sound that made Miles’ cock twitch in its confines. Your mouth dropped open on a silent gasp, feeling him burying the digits to the hilt, and your greedy heat fluttered around the intrusion. When he curled them just right–pressing firmly against that spongy, rigid spot inside you–your eyes rolled back, a broken moan tearing free from your throat. You wanted to say something–to urge him to go faster–but it felt like your brain had become a puddle of matter in your skull, and there was nothing you could do to fight off the lust filled haze that was blurring your vision.

Miles’ chest was heaving at the sight, his hand still squeezing around the aching length of his cock in short bursts just to ease the pain. Every desperate sound you made coiled tighter in his gut, feeding the pressure building low in his belly until he had to close his eyes for a moment just to keep himself from cumming right there. He had heard those same moans when he touched you, tasted you, buried himself inside you–but it was never like this. Never this loud, this wrecked…This utterly lost. And it made him whimper, because he was fighting himself to hold on. He wanted to distract himself but it was nearly impossible when he was hearing those heavenly sounds escaping you, so he found himself opening his eyes draw his attention back to you.

Rhett growled against core, the low vibration rolling perfectly through your clit and travelling straight into your bloodstream. He released the swollen bud for just a second–his lips glistening from your arousal and his spit–breathing hot and ragged against your soaked flesh while his fingers kept thrusting into you in a merciless rhythm, feeling your walls pulsing around them, squeezing so hard that it was almost making it difficult for him to move.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let us hear how good you sound when you’re fallin’ apart on my tongue and fingers.” He urged, bringing his mouth back onto you while his fingers scissored wider to stretch you open. A third finger joined the others on the next thrust and the sudden fullness punched the air from your lungs–and from the shock. It was overwhelming to be so full like this from simply just his fingers, and your thighs shook around his head, digging your heels into the hard muscle of his back as the coil in your core wound tighter.

All your muscles began to twitch as you writhed on the sheets like you were attempting to get away from the pressure that was building and pulsing through your body, feeling waves of warmth exploding up your nervous system like it was going to burn you out entirely. It was as if you touched a live wire and the electricity was humming through your veins, burning your insides so much that it felt like you were going to explode. 

You could feel your wetness gushing and smearing around his hand with every thrust, the slick sounds growing louder and messier, coating his wrist and dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you. Your fingers yanked at his hair until your knuckles ached, back arching towards him as the pressure crested into an absolutely unstoppable clench.

“Rhett–Rhett, oh fuck! I’m–“

“I know, baby…I can fuckin’ feel it,” He growled, his voice muffling against your pulsing heat, never slowing the ruthless drive of his fingers or the tight, suctioning pull of his mouth. “Give it to me. Let Miles watch you soak my face like the good girl you are.” He added, nipping at your clit with his teeth before curling his fingers even more, pressing harder against your g-spot, stroking faster until you were practically delirious and crying out for him.  

Tears were streaming down your temples as your orgasm crashed over you, feeling every muscle in your body tightening up like a vice was wrapped around them. A broken moan tore from your throat as your walls clamped down hard around his fingers, pulsing in long, powerful waves while your release soaked his hand and wrist. Rhett groaned like he was the one coming undone, moving his head down slightly to lick just above his fingers so he could taste the fresh gushes that were pouring out of you–drinking you down like he was dying of thirst–while he fucked you through every wave with slow, deep strokes, working you open even as your body tried to push him out, drawing the pleasure out until your vision went dark.

When he finally felt your body relax beneath him, he slowly eased his movements, gently pulling his fingers out of you to press soft, open-mouthed kisses to your soaked core, your puffy clit, and the slick skin of your inner thighs, lapping up the release that coated you–easing your body back down to earth while your chest heaved and your legs twitched against him. 

He lifted his head at last, showing off the way his mouth, chin, cheeks, and nose were shining with your release, and a slow, satisfied grin curved his lips while he took in your wrecked expression–eyes glassy, lashes wet and clumped, with your lips parting on shallow breaths.

“Mmm, look at those tears…You’re already so drunk on me,” He murmured, the words low and vibrating as he pressed one more lingering kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his lips brushing the fresh marks his stubble had left behind. He pulled back slowly, sliding off the mattress to stand at the edge of the bed, his broad frame casting a long shadow over your spent body. “I think we ought to show this to Miles.” He added, as his large hands found your hips and guided you to turn over onto your belly, your cheek pressing into the cool linens, breathing in the lavender scent of the fabric softener that clung to them.

Your eyes trailed over to Miles, seeing the helpless and wrecked expression painted on his blotchy red face. There was a bead of sweat slipping down his temple, and by the way he was holding his clothed cock, it looked like he was on the brink of cumming. You could see the subtle twitch in his nose, the way he was shivering in anticipation, and when he was able to see the tears that were soaking in your cheeks, and the overwhelming pleasure that sheened your eyes, he almost came right then and there. 

“God…” He breathed, squeezing himself again and letting out a small whimper, “You look so pretty.” He whispered, and you couldn’t help but smile at the gentleness of the compliment. You were still so high from your orgasm that you still weren’t able to form words, but the way your body was wordlessly responding to him made the sight all the more better as you wordlessly communicated your gratitude to him. 

Rhett reached for one of the pillows at the head of the bed, and slid his free hand down to your hip, slipping it between you and the mattress to urge you to draw your body up slightly. 

When you made space for him–holding yourself up on your shaking legs–he shoved the pillow beneath you, adjusting your position so your ass was propped up for him. The cool fabric was a blessed contrast against your overheated skin, and you let out a sigh of relief, feeling his palm smoothing down the outside of your thigh before hooking behind your left knee, and bending the leg outward to open you up to him again. His eyes traced over your glistening, puffy core, still fluttering and slick from your orgasm, and he couldn’t help but smile at the evidence of how thorough he had worked you up to this state.

You could hear the buckle of his belt being undone, listening to the leather whispering through the loops of his jeans before it hit the floor with a heavy thud. Miles’ attention drew back to Rhett, seeing the way his chest had become a hued pink from his exertion, his eyes trailing the beads of sweat that dripped all the way down from his neck to his torso, catching on the lines of his abs. He popped the dark gold button of his jeans, dragging the zipper down with a slow, rasping sound that echoed in the room, then shoved both the denim and his boxers down in one quick motion.

His cock was larger than his, in girth and length–framed by a thatch of hair on his pelvis–and the head was a red, almost rosy colour, glistening with a steady stream of precum that was dripping from the slit and sliding down the veined shaft. He was so worked up, and turned on from going down on you that it looked like he was dying to be buried inside your pussy, and Miles could see the pure, unfiltered desire that was blazing through Rhett’s darkened eyes. He wrapped his hand around himself, giving his cock a few strong strokes, before climbing on top of you again. He settled his broad, sweat-damped chest against your back, as your heat mixed with his and enveloped the both of you completely. 

You felt the blunt head of his cock drag through your soaked folds, gathering the slick mix of your release and his spit over the tip, sliding down to circle the ridged crown of it along your overstimulated clit before gliding back up to nudge at your entrance. The teasing pressure pulled a needy little whine from your throat, and your hips pushed back against him, chasing the thick stretch you craved, and he settled a hand against your torso in an attempt to hold you still.

“Fuck…Rh-Rhett, that feels so good,” You moaned, grinding harder on him so the head caught at your entrance again. Rhett’s breath ghosted hot against the back of your neck, his lips brushing your ear as he held himself there–waiting patiently and letting the anticipation build until you were trembling with it.

“Yeah? You want it that bad, baby? Want me to fill you up while Miles watches?” He asked, rocking his hips forward just enough for the thick head of his cock to breach you, stretching your entrance around him with a slow, delicious burn that seemed to paralyze you. When you didn’t answer immediately, lost to the sensation, he stopped completely–holding still inside you as you whined and clenched around the small intrusion.

“Answer me, Y/N…” He instructed, squeezing just above your hip, while you squeezed your eyes shut.

“Yes! Fuck, I want it so badly Rhett…Please…Please give it to me,” You blubbered, the words tumbling out in a desperate and broken tangle. 

Only then did he move again, feeding his cock into you in a slow push, feeling your walls parting to wrap around every inch he gave. The both of you let out a shared, guttural moan of pure relief, sinking deeper as he let himself go to press his hand onto the mattress just beside your heat to steady himself, until he was buried to the hilt inside you. The heavy weight of his balls pressed snug against your clit, and the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickles your soaked skin as he settled himself on top of you, pressing your body into the mattress. His chest rose and fell against your back in heavy drags, and you could feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat echoing through your spine while he held still for a long moment, letting you adjust to the devastating fullness of him. He pressed a slow kiss to the curve of your should, the scrape of his stubble dragging across your damp skin as he drew in a shaky breath that fanned hot against your neck.

“God damn it, sweetheart,” He groaned against your ear, his tongue tracing a wet line along the top of your collarbone, tasting the salt of your skin and the faint sheen of sweat that had gathered there, “You’re so tight and wet for me…I might not even last for more than five minutes.” The confession came out in a whisper, low and strained, as he rolled his hips in a shallow grind that dragged the thick head of his cock against the deepest part of you, nudging the soft give of your cervix. The pressure punched a broken whine from your throat, your walls fluttering helplessly around the heavy stretch of him. 

“I…I need you to move,” You pleaded, voice wrecked as you shifted beneath his weight, pushing back against him. Your hand found his where it gripped the mattress beside your head, threading your fingers through the spaces between his calloused ones, holding on tight. Rhett answered by pressing a kiss to the side of your neck this time, his lips lingering over the wet patch his tongue left, breathing you in as if he could pull the sound of your need into his lungs.

“Alright, baby,” He replied, the words rough and gravelly. He drew his hips back slowly, the thick length of him dragging along every sensitive inch of your walls until only the thick crown of him remained inside you. Then he thrust forward again, driving you deeper into the mattress with the force of his hips meeting your ass. 

It took him a few moments to settle into a rhythm, but once he found it there was no mercy left in him to give. Each thrust was deep and powerful, and the slap of his hips meeting your skin echoed in the quiet room. His balls swung forward with every rut, smacking wetly against your swollen clit, sending sparks throughout your entirety. You clenched hard around him on every withdrawal, greedy for the stretch to return with each motion, turning your body into a moaning, trembling mess beneath him.

Sweat gathered between your pressed bodies, slick and pebbling, sliding in slow rivulets down your sides and soaking into the linens beneath you in dark, irregular patched. You pushed back into every thrust with a hunger that mirrored Rhett, chasing him, desperate to melt into the solid heat of his flesh, not wanting an inch of space to separate the two of you. 

Everything had narrowed to nothing but the relentless drag and push of his cock inside you, how every ridge and vein ran along the spots that made your vision blur at the edges–taking your breath away. You were so lost in the feeling of him that you hadn’t even lifted your head to look at Miles–yet you could feel the weight of his stare like a physical touch, burning across your skin, absorbing every gasp and shudder you let out.

“Mmm, I’m so proud of you hun,” Rhett murmured against your shoulder, his voice laced with satisfaction as he kept his punishing pace, “You’re takin’ my cock so well…Just like the good girl you are.” The praise sank straight into your core, making you clench tighter around him, as a fresh rush of slick eased the brutal slide of his thrusts. Your head spun, pleasure coiling hotter and tighter with every wet slap of skin on skin, and every hot exhale that ghosted over your neck.

His hand left your hip, sliding up your body until his palm wrapped around the front of your throat–not squeezing it to cut your air off, but holding it steady in his grip, taking in the rapid pulse that greeted the tips of his fingers. He tilted your head up, forcing your gaze toward the chair where Miles sat. The other man’s eyes were wide and glassy, lips parted, as he worked his hand over the drenched front of his pyjamas, watching every single thrust rock through you.

“Go ahead…Tell Miles how good my cock feels,” Rhett instructed, thrusting harder on the next stroke, pulling a sharp gasp from your lungs. Your free hand reached back blindly, sliding your fingers into the damp strands at the side his head, tugging gently, anchoring yourself as the pleasure threatened to drown you.

“Fuck…Miles, his cock feels so good…Filling me up so…So fucking well.” You whimpered, leaning down into the hold Rhett’s hand had around your throat. He grunted low against your neck, the sound shaking through your flesh as he angled his hips just enough to drive in impossibly deeper. He gave the sensitive skin beneath your ear a gentle nip, teeth grazing just hard enough to make you shudder.

“Did you hear that Miles?” He rasped, looking up at his wrecked little face, the way he was squirming in his seat, bucking his hips up into his hand, “You hear how good I make her feel just by fuckin’ her like this? How she likes it rough?” He asked, thrusting harder to pull another moan from you and Miles nodded, trying to mentally note what Rhett was saying even though he was absolutely distracted by how lost you were in the feeling of being fucked so thoroughly. 

Rhett turned his hand over beneath yours, holding it tightly as he leaned down to kiss the side of your neck, sucking the soft skin into his mouth, putting a new mark on your flesh. You clenched around him, feeling his thrusts getting more chaotic, the sound of skin slapping skin growing louder with each shift.

His hand eventually slipped from your throat and your head dropped heavily to the mattress, your cheek pressing into the damp linens because all the strength you needed to hold it up had simply vanished. You felt his calloused fingers trace down the curve of your side, mapping your waist with featherlight lines and the flare of your hip with circles before before slipping beneath you, his hand burying itself between your hips and the pillow. 

“Gonna make you cum again for me…Wanna leave you so wrecked that you’ll be fuckin’ shakin’ all night…You want that, baby?” He teased, his hot breath sticking to your skin and cooling the wet spot he left on your neck. Before you could even attempt to respond his fingers found your clit–soaked with your arousal that had been dripping from your core from each thrust he had given you–circling the swollen bud with just enough pressure to have you writhing beneath him, squeezing his hand tight enough to feel the shift of bone and tendon against your palm.

“Rhett…Oh fuck!” You whined, feeling the angle of his hips changing behind you as he resorted to grinding into you in the rhythm of his fingers, hitting all the right spots while keeping the hot skin of his chest pressed to your back, and you pulled on his hair again. You could feel your muscles tightening, your body undulating into him craving more–needing more–and all he did in response was kiss your neck and scrape his stubble along your shoulder, keeping his pace through the shudders that were wracking his insides. His fingers circled faster on your clit, feeling your walls pulsing around him, squeezing him with such pressure that told him you were on the brink of release. You felt tears building in your eyes again at the overwhelming pleasure coiling and ricocheting through your body, and your moans and whimpers became louder, like you were bracing yourself.

“I’m…Oh fuck, I’m gonna…I’m gonna cum again!” You cried, squeezing his hand tightly as he nodded, nipping at your shoulder.

“I’m right behind you.” He whispered, feeling you seize up beneath him, while another orgasm washed over you, flooding your senses and short-circuiting your brain so all you could do was say his name and whine. It was like all the words were sucked out of your mouth, and all you became was a bumbling mess beneath him–shaking and tightening around him, your release gushing out of you and dripping down until another wet puddle was forming beneath you–soaking the edge of the pillow and the sheets beneath you. Rhett grunted, his chest vibrating against your back at the sensations that overtook him, and gave you a few more thrusts before tensing up and flooding you with rope after rope of his hot cum. You could feel his cock twitching against your pulsing walls, as he let out a heavy breath against your ear.

“God, you feel so good squeezin’ my cock like this…You want every last drop, huh?” He teased, fucking his cum into you, pushing it so deep that it pooled out of you and dripped down to join the puddle of your release on the sheets.

“Wa-Want it all…” You moaned, hearing him let out a little huff of a laugh, kissing your shoulder.

“I know you do…You’re always cum hungry.” He commented, as you felt his lips curving up on your skin, pressing another kiss to your overheated flesh. He thrusted one final time, before all the tension in his muscles dissipated and he relaxed on you, putting his full weight into your back, covering you like a human blanket. As your hand slipped out of his hair he turned his head to press a kiss to your palm, nuzzling against the sweat slicked skin, “But you take it so well that I can’t resist givin’ you everythin’ you need.” He added on a breath, easing the pressure of his fingers on your clit and sliding his hand out from beneath your body, smearing the glossy evidence of your release across the curve of your hip in a slow drag. The sudden absence of that relentless touch left you shaking in the cool evening air, overstimulated and twitching, while another lazy aftershock rippled through your core, forcing you to squeeze around Rhett’s softening cock, keeping him buried deep inside your depths as you recovered. 

Your lashes fluttered open–heavy and damp from your tears–and you lifted your gaze toward Miles. He looked on the verge of breaking apart–eyes rimmed red and glassy, his cheeks were flushed a mottled crimson despite the chill in the room and it spread down the column of his throat disappearing beneath the collar of his sweat splattered shirt, seeing the fabric clinging to his heaving chest. The material of his pyjama pants were absolutely ruined by this point–soaked through with a puddle of precum that glistened in the dimmed lighting of the room, like he had been leaking it for what felt like hours. Sweat beaded along his hairline, slipping down his temple in thin streaks until it reached the edge of his jaw where it ceased to move, and you could see his hands trembling, shaking like leaves, as if he didn’t know what to do with them–like he was one breath away from completely shattering.

You couldn’t stand seeing him like this any longer, and with what little strength remained in your arms, you reached out and curled your fingers in a weak beckoning motion.

“Come here,” You whispered, your voice hoarse and wrecked from the dryness that had settled in your throat. Almost immediately, Miles toppled out of his chair, dropping to his knees on the floorboards with a soft thud, before crawling the short distance to the edge of the mattress like a man starved. When he reached you he stopped, his hands hovering just above the sheets as if he was afraid to touch something that had been so beautifully ruined–like he was going to somehow snap you out of the euphoric state you were under. 

His shimmering gaze roamed over your face, taking in the the glassy, orgasm-hazed gleam in your eyes, the way your cheek kept dropping back to rest against the cool linens every few seconds to seek the contrasting relief of them, and the light coating of sweat that had formed on your skin that caused it to have this dewy glow. You looked ethereal to him, absolutely breathtaking in your own way, and he couldn’t help but feel his heart clench and squeeze painfully at the beautiful sight.

“Are…Are you okay?” He asked, concern lacing his voice, cracking the words in two fragments, as his hot trembling hand rose to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye where the tears had dried slightly in salty tracks. The touch was so soft, almost like you were being caressed by a feather, and it was the complete opposite of the way Rhett’s hands felt on you–creating the perfect balance. You managed a small smile, nuzzling into his palm.

“I’m okay,” You murmured, “I just didn’t want you to sit over there anymore…You seemed lonely.” The words drew a quiet huff of laughter from both men–Rhett’s low and warm against your back and vibrating through your skin, while Miles’ was soft and relieved, like you had eased all the worries that were plaguing his mind. You could feel Rhett’s stubble scrape lightly over your overheated flesh as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering like he couldn’t hold himself back from tasting the saltiness of your sweat. 

“Always the considerate partner, Y/N…” Rhett commented fondly, nipping at your shoulder blade teasingly, making you flinch beneath him as a small giggle escaped your mouth. Miles leaned in slowly, brushing his lips over your damp cheek, then going to the other, allowing the soft kisses to sear straight into your bones. You shifted closer to him, craving his affections, tilting your head just enough to catch his mouth with yours. 

The kiss was slow and sweet, mixing with Miles’ desperateness quickly–his tongue sliding against yours with a grateful messiness that made him whimper into your throat. You tasted the salt of his sweat on his lips, and the sweet coppery flavour of his blood from where it had settled in his mouth when he had presumably gnawed at his cheek while he was watching you and Rhett. It was an intoxicating elixir that made you want so much more from him, but you knew you couldn’t get lost in this so quickly.

When you pulled back, you looked up at him through your lashes, nudging your nose against his and swallowing his shallow breaths. 

“You should get on the bed so we can take care of you…” You suggested, glancing down at his tented pyjama pants before looking back to his blown out pupils that ate away the shimmering blue of his irises. He let out a needy little hum, but shook his head.

“I want to clean you off though,” He confessed, as if he was bringing things to some sort of standoff while he glanced up at Rhett, seeking permission or guidance–or both–to find a solution that would please all of you.

“We can do both at once,” Rhett murmured, pressing one last kiss to the side of your neck before he shifted his weight on your body, “Let me just get off you first…” He braced his hands on either side of your ribs and eased back slowly, as the thick drag of his softening cock pulled a low, involuntary moan from you, feeling your walls fluttering around him like they were reluctant to let him go. When he finally slipped free, a thick strand of his cum followed, dripping in a heated flood down your folds and onto the soaked sheets. You clenched instinctively, trying to keep as much of it inside you as you could, but another slow trickle escaped anyway, glistening under the low light while it smeared on the insides of your thighs. 

The moment Rhett’s body heat withdrew from your sweaty skin, the cool evening breeze slipped into the room and slid over every inch of overheated skin. It traced the damp valley of your spine, raising tight goosebumps along the backs of your thighs, and licking across the slick mess that was leaking between your legs. A soft sigh of relief escaped from your parted lips, feeling the fever within your body easing just enough for you to feel the subtle tremble in your muscles and the heavy, satisfied ache deep within your core.

Rhett’s large, calloused hands settled on your hips, his broad palms spreading the warmth in them as they rubbed over the mottled bruises and fingerprints that your skin bared even more now. You could feel him tracing the marks one by one, dragging as lightly as possible to not cause you pain, before he gave each side a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s get you up on your knees so Miles can lay down on the bed, then you can climb on top of him and face me instead of the headboard,” He instructed, glancing over to where Miles was “And before you get on here, take off your clothes before settlin’ down.” The both of you nodded eagerly at his detailed plan, but neither of you jumped into action immediately.

It took a few moments for your trembling limbs to cooperate, the aftershocks still flickering through your thighs and belly causing a sort of paralysis in your movements, but when Rhett slipped his arm beneath your torso it helped to steady you as you pushed up onto your knees. He guided you back until your weight settled onto your calves, your back arching slightly as you leaned into the solid wall of his chest, feeling the residual heat of his skin, the faint brush of his softening cock against the curve of your ass, and the steady thud of his heartbeat against your shoulder. 

And together you watched Miles rise from his crouched position.

He moved with hurried, clumsy urgency, fingers shaking as he shoved his pyjama pants and boxers down his lean thighs in one frantic tug, his cock springing free from it’s confines at once. It was flushed a deep, needy red at the tip, and the shaft was coated in a sheen of precum that pooled over the tight skin, dripping onto the floor in small translucent droplets. Compared to Rhett, Miles’ size was a little more average, but it was one of the prettiest cocks you had ever seen. It suited him perfectly, not too big and not too small, with a trimmed thatch of light brown hair that settled right above it–almost to the point of it not existing at all. 

At the sight, Rhett’s arm tightened around your torso, providing an instinctive hold that kept both of you from reaching for him too soon–you wanted to relish in this, to take him in slowly rather than rush him, so you melted back into his embrace as Miles reached for the hem of his damp shirt. 

The fabric clung stubbornly to his sticky skin, peeling away with each tug until he yanked it over his head and tossed it aside, letting it join the pants on the ground. When his torso came into view you couldn’t help but trace over every detail with the fervour of a hungry animal, taking in the lean paleness of skin that seemed to have never seen the sun, seeing the sharp lines of his collarbones peeking out beneath his skin, as his ribs expanded and fell with his quick, shallow breaths. Scars were scattered across his chest and abdomen in messy pink lines, most of them were thin and faded–almost like they were barely there–but one thick, raised ridge was cut deeper right above his stomach from where he had been stabbed the night the El Royale burned. He had been lucky that it had missed most of his vital organs, though the recovery process was still ongoing–most days he barely even noticed it, but when he looked for too long oftentimes he found himself remembering that night like it was yesterday.

You had traced the puckered flesh countless times with your fingertips and lips, whispering praises into it until he believed that he was worthy of still being here, that he survived that traumatic night for a reason, and whenever you did that it seemed to have mended something within him for that temporary blip of time, but it never truly quieted the memories–though he was appreciative of your attempts. 

Your eyes continued to roam over him, looking at the freckles that were splattered all over him–cinnamon specks that laid across his shoulders, down the planes of his stomach, along his tights–they were far lighter and more delicate than the sun-deepened ones that marked Rhett’s tanned body, but you showed the exact same affections to them.

Miles’ lashes fluttered under the weight of both your stares, the blush on his cheeks and neck deepening even further as he looked down at the ground. You could tell his shyness was winning over the confidence he thought he had as he brought his hands forward to cover his leaking cock, shifting awkward from foot to foot before finally climbing onto the bed in hopes of relief from the way the two of you were observing him. 

He dragged the sweat-dampened pillow you had been propped on toward the head of the bed, fluffing it once with a few quick snaps of his wrists before settling it into place, lowering himself onto it with a soft exhale as his lean frame sank deep into the mattress and linens, feeling it mold to his body. The motion forced a small gust of trapped air from the fabric, releasing the thick and unmistakably intimate scent of the combined musk of your release and Rhett’s cum. It flooded his lungs in one overwhelming wave, the sweet tang of you layered over the deeper, earthy bitterness of Rhett that carried the undercurrent of his cigarette, and Miles’ eyes couldn’t help but flutter half-closed as the scent drowned him.

He could feel the lustful heat that burned through his veins, making his cock twitch against the taut plane of his lower belly, smearing a fresh streak of hot precum across the flushed skin there, the anticipation tightening in his chest until every breath felt like it burned his lungs with pure need. 

Rhett’s arm slowly loosened from around your waist, his broad hand sliding down the soft curve of your stomach in one unhurried glide, taking in the way your muscles clenched and flinched beneath his touch as he settled it over your navel.

“Go ahead and get on him,” He urged, letting the words warm against the shell of your ear, before shifting back just enough to allow you to move without him, giving your ass a small smack of encouragement.

You braced your palms on the softness of the mattress and crawled forward–feeling the liquid heat between your legs beginning to drip and trail down your thighs in thick rivulets–turning around so you faced Miles’ feet, and bringing your leg over so you could straddle his hips and hover just above the rigid length of his cock. You kept yourself suspended there, your thighs trembling with the effort not to sink down, refusing to grind against him even though the ache between your legs screamed for friction and you knew he needed the same as well. But from the way Rhett was looking, he seemed like he had a plan and you were going to respect it as much as possible. 

Miles’ gaze dragged down the length of your spine, drinking in the plump, flushed swell of your ass and the elegant arch of your back where thin, glistening trails of sweat slid down the valley of it. The sight made his throat work on a silent swallow, and he had to dig his nails into the sheets to stop himself from leaning up and dragging his tongue along every salty line just so he could get a taste of you. When he calmed himself down his hands rose to settle firmly on your hips, helping as you began the slow ascent up his body. 

With every shift of your thighs, thick rivulets droplets of Rhett’s cum and your release dripped freely onto him in hot tracks that painted his lower belly, his sternum, the flat planes of his chest and the scars along there and he couldn’t help but shiver as the viscous fluid slid over his freckled flesh, marking him and claiming him in the most intimate way possible. 

Right before you could fully settle over his waiting mouth, Miles dragged two trembling fingers through one of the small puddles you had left on his sternum, gathering the creamy mix onto the pads of them and bringing the digits straight to his lips.

He sucked them into his mouth, licking them clean with a broken moan that vibrated deep through his chest and straight up your legs, bursting over your nervous system. The sound rolled over your skin like rolling thunder, low and completely desperate, as he savoured every trace of the thick creaminess he had gathered–your sweetness tangling with the musky bitterness of Rhett. He made sure not a single drop went to waste, his tongue curling around each finger until they gleamed with his drool under the low evening light, pulling them free with a soft, wet pop that echoed between your thighs. His hand returned to your hip immediately, digging his fingers into the plushness with newfound urgency, pulling you closer as if the taste he had gotten had only peaked the hunger clawing inside him.

His breath ghosted hot against the sensitive, swollen skin of your fold, fanning over the slick mess leaking steadily from your entrance. A glistening trail of Rhett’s cum slipped free with a small pulse, inching downward, and before it could fall Miles brought you down onto his face with a firm tug of his hands. His mouth opened wide beneath you, catching the warmth on his tongue instantly, swiping through to lick along the glossiness. You let out a gasp of surprise at the sudden eagerness of him, your body tensing as you shifted, trying not to crush his nose or settle too much of your weight onto him out of fear of smothering. 

A low grunt escaped his throat in response, a quiet protest, and his grip on your hips tightened, like he didn’t want you to move at all, like this was where he wanted to be regardless of the possibilities. He held you in place, his damp palms sticking to your skin while he guided you until you were pressed flush to his mouth with no escape. His tongue glided through your folds in long, thorough strokes, gathering every drop of what Rhett had left inside you, sucking gently at your entrance before burrowing his face deeper into you and opening his mouth wider to cover your pussy completely.

Your hands settled on his thighs–balancing yourself before you could fall forward in pure ecstasy–fingers digging into the lean muscle there as your head tilted back and a small, broken moan slipped from your throat. The way he worked you was meticulous and you could feel the hunger blaring through his veins just from the desperate movements–his tongue pressing deep, then flattening wide to ease the lingering soreness pulsing at your entrance while chasing the high he craved. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth filled the room, the soft slurps and needy swallows echoing so loudly that it made heat flood your cheeks while your stomach tightened and a fresh spark of pleasure ignited low in your abdomen.

Rhett let out a sigh at the sight, the sound a rough approval as he knelt onto the mattress to join the both of you, parting his muscular thighs to mirror your position while he adjusted himself to straddle Miles’ shins–inadvertently restraining him. He could feel his legs shift beneath him as he settled his weight onto the bones, and his gaze burned across the scene with pure enamour.

“You like when he cleans you off with his mouth, Y/N?” He asked, glancing down at the way your thighs were shaking, how your breasts were heaving with each shallow breath you took, and how a sheen of sweat was beginning to glaze over the flesh of your chest. 

“God, yes…He always does such a good job,” You praised, the words falling from your lips thinly. Miles moaned loudly beneath you at the compliment as his hands squeezed your hips harder, before his arms slid around your torso to practically hug your pussy against him. His tongue worked faster, sucking your fold between his lips with a tiny, filthy slurp that made your whole body tremble. Rhett smirked at your reply, licking his dry lips as he reached for you, his calloused hand caressing your cheek, feeling you lean into the touch.

“Well why don’t we reward him for his generous deeds then, hmm?” He suggested, tilting your head down so your eyes could meet his, as he motioned towards Miles’ lap. You followed his gaze to his twitching cock, seeing the pool of precum that was slipping along his skin, the veins pulsing like it was silently begging to be touched–or to be seated inside you. A mischievous little smile curved your lips, and Rhett gave you a wink, motioning for you to do as you pleased–content with taking a backseat for the moment, and watching like Miles had done earlier. 

You trailed your fingers slowly up the length of Miles’ thigh, feeling the muscle jump and clench beneath your touch. His skin was fever-hot and damp with sweat under your palm, and when you finally wrapped your hand around the base of his aching cock he let out a startled gasp against your core.

The sound spurred you on, stroking him all the way up to the tip in one firm glide, your palm growing slick with the steady flood of his warm precum that gathered along your flesh. His tongue moved faster between your folds in response, his hips bucking up into your grip as you adjusted your position, leaning forward until your hot breath ghosted over his length. 

You could feel him shaking beneath you, every lean line of his body pulling taut, and you pursed your lips, blowing a cool stream of air over the soaked, swollen head, watching it twitch hard against your fingers as another thick bead of precum welled up at the slit and dripped down onto your knuckles. A small, satisfied smile appeared on your face, and finally your wrapped your mouth around him, taking him in inch by inch, until the head nudged the back of your throat and you were full of him. The saltiness burst across your tongue instantly, rich and heady, and you felt his cock pulse inside the wet heat as you flattened your tongue along the top, swallow around him with a low, throaty hum that made his thighs jerk beneath you. 

Miles whimpered against you, his noises growing louder and more desperate as you began to move–pulling off until only the sensitive tip remained between your lips before sucking and bringing him in again. His arms tightened around your torso, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your sides as he plunged his tongue into your entrance, fucking you slowly with the soft, insistent muscle. You couldn’t help but grind harder on his face, moaning around his cock, as the two of you fell into a perfect rhythm that matched the uncontrollable bucking of his hips. You sucked and swirled your tongue around the head before bringing yourself down when he thrusted up into you, your hand stroking along his shaft and squeezing, placing extra pressure every time you pulled back to the tip.

Drool pooled from the corner of your mouth, soaking him completely and dripping down to wet the trimmed hair at his base as you let him hit the back of your throat with every bob of your head. You gagged softly, producing even more saliva that ran in glossy streaks down his length and over your fingers–the mess only making everything slicker and hotter.

Rhett felt his own cock twitch at the sight, already stirring back to full hardness despite the lingering sensitivity that still plagued his nerves. He wrapped his hand around himself, stroking slowly as he watched you work Miles with such eagerness. You seemed so lost in pleasing him that you barely noticed how hard you were grinding against his mouth, but Miles didn’t seem to mind–he simply held you tighter, and locked around you, letting you use his face while his tongue continued to lick along you.

Rhett could feel Miles’ legs shifting restlessly beneath his thighs, the younger man’s body growing tighter, wound so close to the edge that his breaths were quickening and muffling in gasps against your core. He reached out, grabbing your hair at the back of your head before gently guiding your mouth off Miles’ cock completely. Thick strings of your saliva stretch and snapped between your swollen lips and the glistening, angry-red tip as you pulled away. You looked up at Rhett with watery, lust-glazed eyes, confusing flickering across your heated face, before your gaze dropped to his renewed erection, your brows lifting in silent question.

The two of you could hear Miles’ soft, broken cries muffling against you–a quiet, needy protest at the sudden loss of your warmth. He shook beneath you, hips jerking helplessly upward, hoping that you would catch on that he was close to finishing as he trembled with frustration. You could feel the desperation radiating off him, the way his fingers flexed harder into your flesh, silently begging you to continue because he was right there, just on the brink of collapse.

Rhett shifted higher up his legs, guiding his cock closer to Miles’ until he rested the heavy, heated length of him against his, the two shafts pressing flush together. He opened his hand wider, wrapping it around both of them in one firm grip, the veins in his forearm standing out from the pressure he was placing on them. You mirrored him–your smaller hand joining his, but being unable to close around the combined girth. Rhett gave a low hum of approval as you leaned in and let a thick glob of drool fall from your mouth, watching it land hot on both of the flushed tips while it ran down their joined lengths. You used your free hand to smear the wetness thoroughly over the sensitive heads, coating them until they gleamed, causing your palm to become sticky from their mingled precum.

Rhett shifted his hips, grinding the thick, heated length of his cock along the underside of Miles’, the slick, velvety friction pulling a deep groan from the man buried between your thighs, the vibration rolling straight through your core and making your walls flutter against his tongue as he continued to devour you.

He repeated the motion again and again, fucking up into your joined hands and against Miles’ cock in slow grinds. The wet slide of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with the filthy sounds of Miles’ mouth working relentless at your clit and entrance. You stroked in perfect time with Rhett, squeezing on every upward thrust, feeling both cock throbbing and pulsing hotly in your grip. The combined heat and pressure made Miles cry out and moan into your pussy, the sounds growing more desperate with every pass. 

You leaned down, dragging your tongue slowly along the glistening tips, licking up the steady stream of precum that dripped from their slits. You sucked first on Miles’, then on Rhett’s, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive crowns, and flushed skin where they pressed together, letting the taste of both of them mix on your tongue in salty, bitter, and musky stripes.

“Mmm, that feels nice, baby,” Rhett moaned, as he continued thrusting his hips upward. The head of his cock bumped against Miles’ and occasionally breached your lips, slick and heavy as your saliva coated him. You flicked your tongue teasingly over the underside before spitting again, adding another thick glob of drool to the already messy glide to ease their movements. 

You pushed yourself back up, locking your eyes with Rhett’s as he reached for your breast with his free hand, giving the soft weight a firm squeeze before twisting your nipple between his calloused fingers. The sting of pleasure made you gasp, as your back arched into his touch, pushing down harder onto Miles’ mouth.

Rhett picked up the pace of his hips, stroking and grinding with fervour against Miles, his breath hitching as he continued to massage your breast, keeping his focus on the joined cocks between him, and the sweet sounds of your gasps escaping you. He needed to watch the two of you come undone, and he knew he needed to aid in getting you there. His hand left your breast, sliding down your sweat-slick stomach and over your mound until he reached your swollen clit–feeling Miles’ hot drool that coated it–rubbing the bundle of nerves with two thick fingers. You let out a cry, your hand tightening around the aching lengths that were twitching in your palm, and Miles couldn’t help but grunt, his nails scraping against your torso, as you rolled your hips, smearing your pussy along his face while chasing the dual sensation of his tongue and Rhett’s fingers. 

You leaned into Rhett, pressing your mouth to his in a messy, needy kiss, swallowing his shaky breaths as your core tightened and pulsed against Miles’ tongue. The two of you moaned into each other as Rhett’s rhythm grew more urgent, his body growing hot and tense, his jaw clenching. Miles was right there with him–his legs tensing and shifting restlessly like he was trying to get away from the sensation of his cock grinding over and over again against his, as his cries grew louder and more broken.

Rhett angled his hips, thrusting faster and stroking harder, and with a strangled groan Miles came first. Thick ropes of his cum splattered across his lower belly and over your joined hands, hot and plentiful, and Rhett followed close behind, grunting deeply into your mouth as he ground against Miles one more time before he spilled across the slicked mess. Their releases mingled in pearly white puddles that painted Miles’ freckled skin and dripped down into the trimmed hair at his base, soaking him completely. 

Even through his orgasm, Rhett didn’t stop rubbing your clit, determined to drag you over the edge with the both of them. You leaned your forehead against his, your mouth dropping open on a broken gasp as you ground down hard on Miles’ tongue. The overwhelming pleasure crested suddenly as your release crashed through you in powerful waves despite it being your third orgasm of the night, soaking Miles’ face as your thighs shook around his head. The three of you came together in a raw, beautiful tableau of pure eroticism: gasps, moans, cries, and groans blending and bleeding into one perfect harmony that filled the bedroom.

It took a few moments for any of you to regain focus, like a haze of dizziness had over taken the three of you, but when your eyes fluttered open you found Rhett looking utterly wreck, his pupils blown wide with a permanent pleasure that couldn’t be wiped away even if you tried. You glanced down at the beautiful mess they had made across the flat planes of Miles’ stomach–the thick pools of opaque white cum sliding slowly over his skin with each breath he took, dripping down and smearing along his flesh.

You let out a shaky sigh, grinding down one more time against Miles’ face before carefully lifting your overstimulated core off his mouth. You needed a moment of relief, knowing that if you let him continue you’d be in a time loop of orgasms for the rest of the night. Miles drew in hard, gasping breaths beneath you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you shifted down him, leaning up just enough to press soft kisses to the curves of your ass cheeks, nipping gently at the plump flesh before you were out of reach. 

“That was…Heavenly,” He whispered, his voice cracking with awe. You smiled at the compliment, and leaned forward to give Rhett another deep kiss, pouring every bit of appreciation you felt for him into it–for his mind, for his ideas, and for the way he took care of the both of you so completely. When you pulled back he kissed the tip of your nose, and bumped his forehead gently against yours.

“I’ll get you two some water and wash cloths…You lay back with Miles and wait.” He murmured. You gave him a small nod, watching as he slid off the mattress and walked out of the room in all his naked glory, leaving the door open behind him.

You eased yourself off Miles’ body carefully, your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks that ripples through your belly and core. Every muscles felt loose and liquid, clenching around nothing as you shifted sideways and settled onto the mattress beside him. The cool evening air gusted through the thin curtains, kissing your overheated skin and raising goosebumps along your arms and stomach where sweat still clung in thin trails, hearing the sink turning on from the kitchen.

Miles’ face was a wreck of pure satisfaction–lips swollen and shiny, his cheeks flushed deep with mottled red bursts, and his entire lower face was coated in the glossy evidence of your release. The expression painted across his features was utterly blissed-out, and that dumb and familiar, dazed little smile curved his lips like he had just been granted absolution. His sapphire eyes, found yours in the low light, soft with wonder and something deeper, more grateful.

You reached up, brushing your fingertips along the line of his jaw before cupping his cheek, feeling the heat radiating from his skin and the faint tremor still running through him. You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue–sweet and musky, mingled with the faint salt of his own sweat. He hummed softly into it, the sound vibrating against your lips, but he didn’t deepen it, content to let the moment linger in quiet intimacy.

“Did you like all of that?” You asked quietly, your voice dry and hoarse from all the moaning you had been doing, needing to check in on him to make sure he was okay. Miles nodded eagerly, the short strands of his hair falling out of place with the movements.

“Of course I did…It was fantastic.” He reassured you, the words breathless and sincere as he quickly pecked your lips again. His bright blue eyes ran over your face, tracing the dewy sheen on your skin, the way your lashes were clumped and dried together from your earlier tears, and the soft haze of pleasure that hadn’t quite left your expression. “Did you enjoy it?” He shot back, his eyebrows lifting with genuine concern. You smirked, the expression lazy and satiated.

“Was my orgasm not enough to convince you that I did?” You retorted, the teasing edge softened by the affection in your tone. It earned a quiet huff of laughter from him, the sound warm and relieved as it brushed across your cheek.

“Just wanted to be sure,” He said simply, leaning into the press of your thumb as it stroked gently beneath his eye. He shifted closer but kept his body angled just enough to avoid smearing the cum along his stomach across the sheets, already thinking ahead to the laundry and the double wash he would have to do to get the stains out.

The heavy thud of Rhett’s bare feet sounded from the hallway, growing closer until he stepped back through the doorway. He carried two glasses of water in his hands, the ice cubes clinking softly against the sides, along with a small stack of damp washcloths that were tucked in the crook of his arm. Water dripped in streams down his forearm and onto the floorboard, but he paid it no mind, letting his gaze soften the moment it landed on the two of you cuddled up together on the bed, the pride in his expression unmistakable.

“Alright you two, let’s get y’all cleaned up before we make an even bigger mess.” He said, as he set the glasses down on the nightstand with a quiet clink, before taking one of the warm damp cloths in his hand.

He started with Miles, wiping slow, careful strokes across his stomach, collecting the thick, mingled release that painted his freckled skin and the faint lines of his scars.  Miles’ abdomen flinched at the cool touch, but he didn’t pull away, he just let out a soft sigh as Rhett worked meticulously, not wanting to miss a spot. He was always thorough like this–never rushing, or careless with his movements. He wiped every streak and drip until Miles’ skin gleamed clean again, then he leaned down to press a slow line of kisses along the plane of his belly, his lips lingering just beside his navel.

“You did really good tonight,” He whispered against the warm skin, sucking a faint red mark into the flesh before pulling back to capture Miles’ mouth in a deep kiss, “Maybe next time I’ll sit in the chair and watch you to go at it just to see if you learned anythin’ from my lesson.” Miles hummed into the kiss, nodding.

“Are you going to grade me?” He asked, the words muffled but playful. Rhett laughed softly against his mouth.

“If you want me to.” He replied, before turning his attention to you next, grabbing a fresh cloth, “Your turn, baby, take a drink of water, then lay back and spread those legs for me.” He instructed, watching as you grabbed your glass and took a long, cooling swallow of water before returning it to the nightstand and easing back against the pillow, parting your thighs obediently. Rhett knelt between them, the mattress dipping under his weight, and brought the warm cloth to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs first, wiping away the sticky trails that had almost dried. He moved gently, placing soft kisses along the insides of your knees as he worked upward. 

When the cloth finally reached your swollen, puffy folds, he used a fresh section to swipe slowly, watching the way your body flinched at the contact against your oversensitive flesh.

“You a little sore?” He asked, as his thumb brushed soothingly over your hip to calm you.

“Just a bit sensitive,” You admitted, the words coming out breathy, “You two really did a number on me.” Rhett’s lips curved into a small satisfied smile.

“That’s always the goal, darlin’.” He stated, continuing his careful work until every trace of his cum was gone from your skin, then he leaned in to press a wet kiss directly to your mound before setting the cloth aside. He handed Miles the second glass of water, watching as the younger man sat up enough to take several grateful swallows. Rhett took a long drink himself once Miles passed it back, the ice clinking, then he set the glass down on the opposite nightstand. With a final sweep of his hand, he gathered the duvet and sheets in his grip and pulled it up over the three of you, letting the cool fabric settle on your skin like a comforting weight.

The three of you shifted and adjusted until Miles was perfectly sandwiched between you, his lean frame pressing chest-to-chest with yours while Rhett spooned him from behind. Your legs tangled together beneath the sheets–your calf hooked over Miles’ thigh, Rhett’s pushed to the middle and locked around your free one–and your arms weaved in a warm possessive embrace. Miles nuzzled into the valley between your breasts, pressing his ear directly over your heart, while Rhett put his chin atop Miles’ head, his breath warm against his hair.

“I love you guys,” You whispered into the quietness of the room, the words heavy with exhaustion and pure contentment. They hummed in unison.

“We love you too.”

-----------

Buy me a ko-fi (if you'd like)

[emeraldserenade]

A Dream ~ Robert "Bob" Floyd

synopsis: When a dream makes you look at Bob differently, you have to ask yourself if it's really different or if you've just opened your eyes

tw: fem!reader, aviator!reader, call sign Mystic, reader as a wet dream about Bob, they are practically married but don't realize it, obviously gets suggestive, alludes to them hooking up, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

I had a dream about Bob last night and then this was born

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You weren't sure how you ended up here, but Bob's lips were soft and you never wanted to separate. Not that Bob wanted to separate, not with how he was parting your lips to slip his tongue into your mouth. You couldn't help the moans you let out, and you couldn't help but melt into Bob's chest. Bob used the hold he had on your hips to pull you closer and you slipped your arms around his neck, eliminating the rest of the space. Bob's hand slid from your hip down… down… down, he was just centimeters from where you wanted him to touch you the most. His fingertips ghosted over-

Your alarm made you gasp and sit up, sweat rolling down your back. It had felt so real, down to the feeling of Bob's hands on your waist. You killed your alarm before standing, your mind reeling. It was just a dream, it meant nothing, right?

You rolled your shoulders and neck as you got out of bed, you had to shower before work even though you showered the night before. Your shower was filled with flashes of your dream, of how Bob grabbed you and how he kissed you. The drive to work was much the same, but you paused in the parking lot. Bob was your friend, best friend. You couldn't ruin that, you couldn't throw everything away because of Bob.

You walked into the ready room to most of the others already there, but it was Bob that your eyes cut to. It was normal for you two to greet each other first, to give each other a hug and for you to leave a kiss on his cheek. But you second guessed if you should, only for Bob to look over and see you. Then you couldn't skip it because you saw his face light up at the sight of you, had he always done that or are you just seeing things because of your dream? "Morning," you mumbled, wrapping your arms around his neck while Bob hugged you.

Turning your head, you gave Bob a kiss on his cheek. "Morning," Bob replied, pulling away. God, had he always brushed your waist when he pulled away?

You were trying to keep yourself from combusting when Jake narrowed his eyes at you. "You good, Mystic? You look like you've seen a ghost," you looked over at Jake, blinking a few times.

"Yeah, I just had an odd dream and haven't been able to shake it," you mumbled, not technically a lie but you weren't about to admit you had a wet dream about your best friend.

You sat down into your seat, placing your eyes firmly on the board in front of you. You couldn't look at Bob, but your eyes betrayed you and you looked over. God, look at Bob. He was just talking with Mickey and Natasha about something, but he had rolled his flight suit sleeves up and your eyes traced the veins running down his arm. "Was that dream about a certain WSO?" Jake sat down next to you, cutting your eyesight off from Bob.

You blinked up at Jake, your eyes wide. "What? No," you denied.

Jake raised an eyebrow with pursed lips. "Are you sure? You were staring real hard."

You sighed, looking over at Bob and seeing him already watching you and Jake. "Can you not? At least not here?"

Jake looked over at Bob, a smirk on his face before looking back over to you. "Sure, but we live in the same apartment building and I'm in the middle of a dare with Coyote so I'm not bringing any girls home. You better be prepared to give me a run down," Jake stood but should have known better than to say that and walk away from you.

"Jake Seresin, are you saying you want to be an honorary girly?" you called after him, smirking when he looked over at you.

Jake raised a hand and pointed at you. "Don't say that again," he warned.

"You all heard it, Hangman's a girly now!" you announced, laughing as he huffed and fell down into his seat as the others teased him.

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You spent your day watching how Bob and you acted together. You were second guessing everything, was it normal for you friends to gravitate towards each other. You had always known Bob was attractive, and you couldn't tell if the dream was distorting how you looked at Bob or if you had actually always looked at Bob that way.

Jake had spent the day watching you slowly lose it, how you were desperate to keep up appearances but also reading into everything you were doing. You caught Jake watching and trying not to laugh all day as you panicked.

Bob seemed to notice something was off, and you could tell he didn't fully buy the odd dream excuse as much as the others did. "Hey," Bob caught up to you in the parking lot and you paused to talk to him.

"Hey," you smiled at him, watching him reach out to grab your hand but pause.

You close the distance and grabbed onto his hand, letting him spin the ring you had on. "We're ok, right?"

You tilted your head, confused but nodded. "Why wouldn't we be?"

Bob sighed, spinning the ring on your finger just a little faster. "You've been off today and I know you said it was an odd dream, but I just wanted to make sure," Bob sounded so small.

"I promise," you nodded before stepping closer. "We're still on for tomorrow night, right? Because I have all the snacks waiting at my house," you changed the topic, trying to get Bob happy again.

It worked if Bob's smile was anything to go by. "Yeah, do you still want me to pick the movies?"

You smiled back before giving Bob a hug just to prove you were ok. "Yes, but make sure it's nothing sad," you nodded before pulling away from Bob.

Bob smiled, giving your hand a squeeze before stepping away. "I'll see you tomorrow then," Bob smiled and you nodded before walking off to your car.

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Jake was knocking at your door at 5pm exactly, military precision and southern manners drilled into him. "Ok, spill," Jake didn't even greet you properly, just handed over the take out he was holding and beelined for your kitchen to grab wine glasses.

You'd tease Jake about liking wine more than beer but refusing to drink it in public another day. "It wasn't too… obscene," you started, pulling out the food from the bag. "It felt more like a very realistic day dream," you clarified.

Jake poured the wine glasses with a nod. "Realistic how?" You then, a little embarrassed, explained the whole dream to him as you slowly poked at your food. "Wow, you really are hopelessly in love with Bob," he mused.

"I didn't even know!" you practically shouted, leaning back against your couch. "Well, actually I had an idea but it was like the dream distorted everything. So now I'm not sure if I actually like him or if it was the dream messing with my head," you mused. "And even worse for me, we have our weekly movie night tomorrow night at his house."

"Damn," Jake muttered, grabbing his wine glass. "So are you going to tell him?"

"I can't do that. There's no way he feels the same!"

"Robert Floyd is hopelessly in love with you just as much as you are in love with him, if not more. Dude, come on it's so obvious."

"Then how come I've never noticed?"

"Because you never wanted to notice," Jake raised an eyebrow at you while you shoved a forkful of your food in your mouth. Not so expertly avoiding saying if he was right or not.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

It was almost suffocating to be in Bob's room while the dream was still on your mind, but Bob's DVD player was in his room and you wanted to watch a movie he only had on DVD. Which meant you were in bed with Bob as you both shared the bowl of popcorn and candy you brought. "Are you actually watching the movie? Or am I more interesting?" Bob had a small smirk on his face as you looked away from him.

"I wasn't staring," you defended, your heart pounding at being caught. "I just happened to glance at you," you added, your voice low.

"Mhm, sure," Bob teased as you gently shoved his shoulder and told him to shut it. "Are you ok?"

Even teasing you, Bob had to make sure you were ok. "Yeah, I was just thinking," you nodded, shoving a Twizzler into your mouth. Bob let you lie as he turned his attention back to the TV, taking occasional glances at you as you pointedly avoided looking at him.

By the end of the second movie, the popcorn was gone and you both moved the snacks away from the middle. You were pressed into Bob's side and his arm was thrown over your shoulders, both of your eyes on the TV. You could teach a masterclass on how to avoid looking at someone right next to you with how well you managed to keep your eyes from moving to Bob at all.

Bob had to get up to change the DVD and you took it as your time to take a deep breath, your eyes closing for a moment. "Do you want to watch another movie or are you tired?" Bob asked softly, suddenly next to you and gently touching your cheek to get you to look at him.

You wanted to yawn but you also wanted to watch another movie. "We can watch another," you assured him, watching him round the bed to join you. Bob decided to watch a movie off Hulu instead, you two shared a profile on there since there was one too many of you and only seven accounts allowed.

The movie played as you both got comfortable, Bob not even caring that you had fallen asleep. Bob just adjusted the two of you so you were comfortable and turned his TV off, falling asleep with you.

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You woke up the next day, some of the best sleep you've gotten since you made it to San Diego. Bob had his arm thrown around your waist and his front molded to your back, holding you as close as possible. You didn't know whether to stay still and enjoy it or get up, it's not like you had work or anything.

Sinking into Bob's bed and his hold, you decided to stay where you were instead of getting up. Bob woke up not long after you, if the way his hold tightened before he sat up was an actual indicator. You rolled over and looked at Bob, your smile soft. "You didn't have to let me sleep in here," you told Bob.

Bob gave you a smile too, reaching for his glasses and putting them on before laying down again. "I wasn't going to wake you," Bob said.

You moved over and laid your head on his shoulder, soaking up the slow morning. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

"It's ok, you were tired," Bob said, both of you falling silent for a while before your phone went off.

You reached over and answered it before looking. "Hello?"

"Did you do it?" Jake asked.

"What? No," you answered, sitting up and rubbing your forehead. "It's," you pulled your phone away to look at the time, "9 in the morning. Is that all you called me for, Hangman?"

"Yes, do it. Tell him," were Jake's parting words before he hung up. You laid back down and put your phone on the nightstand again.

"What was that about?" Bob asked softly.

You hesitated for a moment but sighed. "Hangman came over for a little on Friday to gossip, he was just being Hangman," you answered.

Bob huffed a laugh before getting out of bed. A part of you wanted to complain and try to convince him to spend more time with you, but you remembered you weren't actually dating. So you sat up and followed him out to his kitchen, the evidence of your movie night all over the place. "Do you want to go out for breakfast?" Bob asked, looking at the very bare bones in his fridge.

"Yeah, let's get ready," you said, walking off to find your bag still on the couch where you left it after grabbing your pajamas.

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As you sat in the diner across from Bob, the waitress having just dropped off the check, you realized Jake was right and you needed to tell Bob you were in love with him. But you didn't want to do that when you two were just out and about and you still weren't sure he actually liked you. "Your car looks like it belong there," Bob casually muttered as he pulled into the driveway next to your car.

"I'm in love with you," you quickly spit out, your voice steadier than you thought it would be.

Bob smiled at you, turning in his seat to face you. "Yeah? Took you long enough to admit it sober," Bob murmured, leaning in close to kiss you. You melt against Bob's lips before he pulled away.

You blinked a few times before you finally caught up to what he said. "What do you mean it took me long enough to say it sober?"

"You told me once when you were drunk, but you made me swear not to tell Bob," he let you know.

"But I didn't know until Thursday night when I had a dream about you," you blurted out, confused.

"It was a few weeks ago," Bob told you. "Wait, you had a dream about me?" You took one look at Bob's smug smile and got out of his car, shaking your head as you went to unlock his door. "What was your dream about?" Bob was hot on your heels.

You spun to look at him. "I already told you that I had a dream, can't you fill in the blanks?" you pleaded.

Bob stepped closer, boxing you against the wall but leaving enough space for you to side step him if you wanted. "If it's anything like mine, then I'll have no problem with that."

You gasped but didn't move, holding your stance even as you stared up at Bob. "What was your dream about?"

"Which one? The one where I marry you? Or the one where I fuck you so well you forget your own name?"

You closed the distance between you two, pushing your body against Bob's as you kissed him. Bob had quickly backed you fully against the wall, making sure to slide his hand between your head and the wall so you didn't smack it. When you two pulled away to breath, you placed your forehead against Bob's. "It's 10 in the morning," you muttered, your chest rising and falling fast. "Let's at least last until after dinner."

"I've waited since the moment I've met you, I can wait a bit longer," Bob assured you, yet pulled you in for one more kiss.

➽──────────────❥

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[abbottsdarling]

Made Just For You

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x gn!Reader

Summary: Bob giving you a handmade gift for your birthday turns out to be the best thing he could've done to take your relationship from friends to something more.

Warnings: Pure fluff!, pre-established relationship, it's readers birthday, Bob's so awkward in this bless him

Word Count: 1.1k

Note: Based on this request here.

Masterlists

🐂Part of my 500 Follower Celebration🐂

Bob waits patiently outside your door, nervously fiddling with the bag in his hand as he works up the courage to knock. The bag in his hand feels like it weighs a ton, like he has the fate of the world in his hand, and one wrong misstep could lead to disaster.

It was your birthday, and you had just gone up to your room for the rest of the night. You didn’t like doing anything too fancy for your day, but you did enjoy some party games and bonding with the team before you claimed you were exhausted and called it a night, but Bob didn’t want to end the night without giving you your gift first.

He knocks. Once, then twice.

“Hey Bob.”

Your gentle smile is the first thing he sees as you swing your door open. It looks like you were just getting ready for bed, if your pajamas were an indicator of that. The corners of his lips curl up in a sheepish smile as he hands you the bag in his hand, “Hey, t-this is for you.”

“Awe Bob,” You take the bag from him, eyes bright as you thank him. “You shouldn’t have.” You nod toward your room, offering him a warm smile as you ask, “Wanna come in?”

“S-sure!”

Bob winces when he hears how high his voice was when he answers. God, can he be any more obvious?

Bob doesn’t want you to feel like he’s invading your space, so he stays standing near the door. You stay standing too, placing the gift bag on your desk. You glance up at him, and Bob nods, motioning for you to open it.

Bob watches intently as you start taking out all the tissue paper, his heart racing when the first thing you pull out is the card he made for you, a big ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’ written across it. Bob's always had messy handwriting, but he really tried to make it nice and neat for you. The inside of it is decorated with pictures of you and the team, along with dates and little comments accompanying each one.

One is with you and Alpine, the feline curled up on your lap as you scratched behind her ears, a big smile on your face as she purred. One was from a night out when you all went bar hopping after a successful mission, your arms thrown over Ava and Bobs shoulder as you all tried to squeeze into frame.

Your favorite was a picture they had taken of you when you’d fallen asleep during a movie night. Yelena had drawn a butterfly on your cheek that took hours to wash off. You chuckle at that one, glancing up at the man you’ve been crushing on since you met him in the vault all those months ago. He immediately averts his gaze down to the floor and back up at you, his face growing hotter by the minute.

The next thing in your hands was two handmade pottery mugs. They were hand painted, your favorite colors and designs semi-neatly painted on. You knew Bob wasn’t the most skilled artist, but you could tell he really tried to make them nice for you. That he put time and dedication into this gift. It absolutely warms your heart.

“Oh my god, this is amazing!”

Bob looks at you wide-eyed, surprised, “R-really?”

“Absolutely! Did you make all of this yourself?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just -” He scratches the back of his head, eyes blinking nervously as he admitted, “I got the photos from Lena. She showed me how to print them on Polaroid. And you know how I started taking some sculpting classes with Ava to get out of the tower more? Well, I remembered when you said you liked handmade gifts more than anything so,” He gestures to your gift, “Uh, yeah. I- I made you that.”

You stare at him in disbelief, “I can’t believe you remembered that.”

Bob bites back a smile, shyly admitting “I have a pretty shit memory, but I remember everything you tell me.”

When he sees the look in your eyes, he tries to shrug it off and say it was nothing, like he didn't spend hours getting paint and clay in his hair and on his favorite sweater because he was too focused in making it perfect for you to care, but you knock the words right out of him the moment your arms are over his neck and your head against his shoulder as you pull him into a hug.

“This is the best gift ever Bob.”

Bob doesn’t move for a second, his brain short circuits for a moment before he hugs you back. He feels like he could just melt into your arms and stay there forever. And then you take his breath away by kissing his cheek before pulling away.

With cherry red cheeks and wide eyes, Bob stands in shock for a moment before bowing his head down, his hair falling into his eyes as he tries to hide his face from you.

“Anyway, I’ll uh-” He shuffles towards the door, nearly breaking the door off its hinges when he pulls it open. You bite back a laugh as Bob awkwardly chuckles and apologizes, “Sorry! Sorry, I- I just - I’ll get out of your hair. Let you go to bed.”

“Hey Bob?” He stops and turns back to you, “Thanks again.”

He nods with a smile, “Course.”

You’re about to close the door again, but then Bob stops in his tracks and quickly turns back to face you, “Wait-”

You pause and look at him expectantly, “Yeah?”

“Would you want to, I mean, it’s totally okay if you don’t, no pressure, but-” Bob clears his throat, shaking the thoughts telling him to stop and run out of his head, “Want to uh, get coffee, uh, tomorrow? J-just us? Kinda like a… a date.”

Your heart races at the question, surprise clear on your face.

Bob feels how your anxiety spikes the moment the question leaves his mouth and immediately regrets asking. He shouldn’t have asked. He’s about to tell you to forget it, thinking he must’ve blown it, but that’s actually far from it

“Yeah, yeah, I’d like that- I’d like that a lot actually.”

Bob lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relief flooding him instantly as he stutters over his words and speaks too fast, “R -really? I mean – Okay, okay, great. Cool, cool, cool.”

You snicker, leaning against the door as you bid him goodnight, sharing one last look of excitement before you close the door.

Bob stands there for a moment in disbelief before he walks away, fist bumping into the air as he rounds the corner to go back to his room. He nearly stumbles into John, who was rounding the same corner as him. John throws him a bewildered-grumpy look, not used to seeing Bob jumping for joy in the deserted hallway, but Bob doesn’t care, because now he’s got to prepare for his date with you tomorrow.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Love ya!

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

Tagging: @theboardwalkbody @fandomxo @avastarred

[hi-res-tm]

Puppy & Bunny

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Miles Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob needs to switch off. Miles needs to forget. And you really, really want to take the best care of your two boys. Thankfully, Mommy has just the new toy for the job.

Content Warning: Pure threesome smut. Mommy kink, pet play, praise kink, pegging, prostate play, dirty talk, brat taming, light feminisation, spanking, hyperspermia, dacryphillia, edging, thigh fucking, and handjobs.

A/N: Dedicated to @theboardwalkbody and @lalalunascope (who also kindly proofread). Sorry for psychically ransacking your dreams, Amanda - consider this an apology and your formal bribe to get into Lewships 🙂‍↕️

Word Count: 10k. Literally just one 10k smut scene.

Available on AO3

“Come on, Puppy - that’s it. Be a good boy and cum for Mommy.”

It’s cruel, really. You know you won’t let him. The strained, high-pitched keen that’s muffled by the bedding tells you he knows it too. But the man lying next to him, wide-eyed like an innocent, startled doe in the headlights, does not. 

You really are a cruel, cruel mistress.

Not cruel enough, however, that you haven’t spent the last twenty minutes slowly stretching him and your other partner out, generously dribbling lube over the defined crack of his cheeks, letting the cool liquid send a chill through his spine as it slowly slid down… All before feeding it into his tight pucker. Despite his desperate whimpers to hurry up, you knew better. Knew that the strongest being in the universe needed taking care of once in a while with a firm but gentle hand, ready to take him apart again and again, all to make him whole once more.

He had already cum once; they both had. Two fingers, quickly turned into three as both Bob Reynolds and Miles Miller lay on their fronts over the edge of your bed, feet firmly planted on the floor, and grinding their asses back into your clever digits as they scissored and twisted inside of them. It was almost a competition to see who could make the most pathetic noises as they humped the blunt edge of the bed to orgasm, like they had done on your legs just the week prior. His body still periodically twitching to kindly remind you he was still alive and breathing, Miles didn’t seem to have gotten the memo that the round was over.

God, your boyfriends really should be more grateful… The metaphorical lightbulb lit up your face as Bob’s powers fried the bedside lamp. Now there’s a thought.

“You're not going to say thank you?” you ask Bob. Even under the heavy, echoing sounds of your thighs clapping against his supple flesh, Bob can hear the affected pout in your voice. “After I got you all nice and stretched out on my dick?” 

The pad of your finger punctuated your point as it coquettishly traced the ring of spasming muscle - at once shutting you out, sucking further inside the black silicone it already feasted upon, and fighting the urge to take whatever you deigned to offer him. Already, his breathing was running ragged. Turns out, the power of whole universes couldn’t keep up with just one mortal and their 6-inch, strap-on dildo. The one that suddenly stopped, the plush but unyielding head keeping him open as it kissed against his hole. Teasing. Promising.

You couldn’t see his face as he ground his forehead into the quilt, trying to dispel the frantic energy that had no other option than to shoot out through his curling toes, and punch its way through his chest, causing his heart to pound like a war drum until you could feel it under your secure grip on his waist.

“I’ll thank you after I c- Oh god-”. Whatever taunt sat on his tongue was swallowed the second you drove the whole length of your cock back in, back bowing like an over-tuned guitar string when the bulbous head hit his prostate dead on. You plucked at him with each tight rotation of your hips, keeping up the pressure on that smooth bump like you could commit it to memory on your clit through the unfeeling silicone. Each press and rub elicited a delicious light nudge against your swollen pearl, not enough to build, but firm and persistent enough to feel like he truly was on the end of your dick. Stamping your claim on his body and soul as you moulded his guts in the image of your cock. No one made him feel owned as you did, like he finally belonged somewhere. To two someones who had made it their life’s mission to learn what he needed, even when he often didn’t know himself.

And after the week he had, you knew your Bob needed to switch off that chaotic, troubled mind of his, at least for the night. It had started with a movie on the sofa. Bob’s tired, heavy head on your lap, followed by your other boyfriend appearing in the doorway, waking from his second nightmare that week. No longer paralysed by the fear that he was an intruder in the relationship, Miles curled up like a cat under your arm, wrapping it around him like a favourite, weighted blanket. Now swaddled by your body, not much time elapsed before they were kissing each other, and then you, their mouths hanging open in a silent plea to relinquish control. Even fewer minutes passed before they were both on their knees, clawing at your trousers until they lay in a heap on the floor, allowing them to lap at your chosen toy as they snuggled it into place against your bud. 

The memory made your hips stutter. A slap against his ass rang out, jolting both him and his bedmate in sympathy.

“What was that? Lil Puppy tried to bark, did you?” 

“No!” he protested, weakly pawing at the bed to push himself up to plead his case. But you pinned him with the flat of your palm against the valley of his shoulder blades. The mightiest hero who had ever lived, trapped under just your fingertips, and the unsaid promise of his reward if he was a good boy. “M’sorry”, he whined. The incremental shift of his hips as he tried to steal another inch inside himself told you he was not. 

Luckily for him, you loved it. There was something so special about watching Bob take his pleasure, instinctively knowing that he was cared for and loved so much that he could play with the power you and Miles had cultivated in him... Unfortunately, however, he really ought to know better than to take without asking.

The second spank ricocheted off the walls. “What was that, baby?”

“I’m sorry!” he wailed, his cock leaking like a tap despite having recently cum. “I wanna be good- I’ll cum for you Mommy-Ah!, just please touch my c-cock. I’m so close, I promise!”

The gasp from Miles was louder than your own at his filthy words. 

“I believe you, always such a good boy in the end”. The praise made him loll his head to the side, your eager puppy desperate for more. However, you knew Bob wanted to earn it. “... But you need to learn how to control that mouth of yours, and until you do, you’ll come with just my cock or not at all.”

The whine in response was all play as he thrashed against you on a final hard slam. Against the urging of every bone in your body, you ignored the enticing wiggle of his hips and scooped him up under his shoulders, plastering yourself to his now-sweating back. The brazen moan as the cool fabric of the lacey bra met his inhumanly burning skin made the extra $3.99 on priority delivery worth it in an instant. What you now sacrificed in mobility, you more than made up for in depth, feeling his whole body release a week’s worth of tension as you rolled him between your hips and the bed as though you’d slowly run him through a mangle. When he couldn’t stretch out any further, you pulled back and did it again. And again. Harder, slower, stopping and then restarting, anything to keep him from finding an equilibrium. With each repetition, no matter how hard or soft you went, the action never failed to tear out a groan from deep within his soul.

And to your side, just inches away, unseeing eyes bore into you, mouth twitching in silent whimpers, encouraging Bob on. Miles moved as though he and Bob were two puppets tied together, the former hotel clerk rubbing himself against the bed with each of your conjoined movements. You felt like a vampire, watching yourself fuck your beloved in the mirror without you there at all. You sped up, and sure enough, so did Miles. You slowed again, encircling your hips, and he limply followed with feather-light swirls against the bed. 

You brought your mouth to Bob’s ruddy pink ear, the suggestion of a canine lightly nibbled on the shell as you huffed, “I think you have an admirer, Puppy.”

He didn’t move, not at first. You both knew full well what seeing Miles’s wrecked expression did to him… Which is exactly why you took a handful of his locks and turned his face to see. Your thrusts never faltered. You couldn’t fully see Bob under his long hair, but you could see Miles’s pupils dilate the second Bob must have opened his.

Your Bunny’s face was frozen somewhere between fear and bliss, like the pictures of holy saints that he so loved, entrapt in a religious ecstasy that always triggered a ‘bless your cotton socks’ look between you and Bob when Miles protested that no, they were perfectly innocent, thank you very much. Bob must have been thinking the same thing, as a soft laugh bounced you up and down.

You went to tease, but Bob got there first. “E-Enjoying the show?”

Oh, what monster had you created? You patted his head like a dog performing his tricks unprompted, rewarding him further with a quick downward stroke to slide his own length across the sodden sheets. The haze that had descended on Miles’s face since his orgasm was slowly lifted as he realised that yes, despite what his nerves were telling him, he still existed, and he was being talked to. You weren’t sure he knew what he was agreeing to as he absently nodded, the tiny motion dislodging yet more drool from the open slit of his mouth.  

“What do you think, Bob, does our patient Bunny deserve a reward, too?”

He whined like he’d been kicked, nodding so vigorously he nearly took your chin out. Miles, to his credit, seemed to realise Bob’s mistake before he did as his breath hitched.

“Okay, okay. Down boy,” you chided, giggling the whole time. You let go of his shoulders and gently eased yourself off him, his heated skin clinging to you like tape… Until that is, you were gone completely.

“No-! No!” Bob cried. “Don’t go, please - I’m so close.”

He tried to find the leverage to push himself up, but he flopped back down as soon as he felt your hand on his back. You didn’t even need to push. Now standing straight again, you cricked your back, trying not to laugh at the desperation emanating from Bob, and the sheer excitement that speckled Miles’s eyes and made him blush. “Don’t worry”, you gently cooed to Bob. You gave a reassuring pat to his ass, your voice taking on a dark tone that made them both quiver. “Mommy’s not going anywhere.”

It had been a new strap that you had bought just a week earlier, one you had casually instructed them to fetch when they got you ready. The faux-leather holster looked the same, and to keep the surprise, you had kept it assembled and ready for your first time. But this toy had one catch. The dildo was easily detachable.

Bob could hear you doing something, could feel it too as the silicone rattled about, but the hand on the curve of his spine told him to keep still. Which, unfortunately for you, meant looking right at Miles. He never meant to. Your sweet, dear Miller would never do anything to betray your trust, but his open face was your schemes' number 1 arch-nemesis. Before you could untangle it, you spotted their unspoken communication beneath you—a tilt of Bob’s head up. A tremble of Miles’s lips, followed by a dart of his eyes between you. You’d kept your thighs away from Bob for this very reason, so you could walk over to Miles with a new strap without him ever realising that it wasn’t you inside him anymore…

Alas, it was another victory for that baby-faced traitor. “No! Please!” Bob urged, wrapping you in his legs, almost tripping you over as his heels met your butt to keep you locked together. Bob tried to push back, to seduce you to stay and finish the job with a cluster of “Pleasepleaseplease”, breathed out with the prettiest, most desperate tone he could manage this side of another climax. But every one of them fell on deaf ears.

“Ah ah ah, bad Puppy”, another spank, imprinting your palm into his skin, healed as instantly as it started to paint his cheeks. “Gotta learn to share if you want to cum, understand?” “Please, Mommy. Mistress-”. It was a low blow, but not low enough. Bob’s pleas became mindless as you finally managed to detach the dildo. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of trying to escape Bob’s lower-body hold on you, you instead simply leaned forward and picked up the thinner, but still long orange toy from within the chest of drawers. Pulling it through the harness’s ring, you didn’t argue back. You didn’t acknowledge misbehaving puppies after all. You just cleared your throat and waited. 

And waited.

Miles suddenly stared in quiet disbelief, beseeching Bob with every shift in his expression to surrender his hold. You smirked. For all his innocence, you thought Miles knew exactly what he was doing. First, he let his lip quiver, then unshed tears glittered under his batting long lashes. When Bob’s legs merely tightened possessively around you, Miles tried to look annoyed, but anger never rested easily on Miles’s shoulders, so instead he scrambled for heart-wrenching betrayal worthy of an Oscar. Finally, he found his killing blow. His cute lil buttoned nose sniffed a couple of times like he was about to cry, the very action that earned him his eponymous pet name. And as Bob’s calves eased for just a moment, you thought you saw Miles mouth ‘please’, sucking in his lower lip as though a whole babble of them was lying in wait. God help you, you have made two monsters. 

Knowing he was outmatched, Bob’s legs fell from your waist. Giving him a fond tap ‘well done’ to the meat of his thighs, you paced to Miles like a jaguar, appraising your next delicious meal that lay like a sweet innocent lamb, eager to be led to the slaughter. Your teeth flashed in a predatory smile as he subconsciously shook his butt, getting comfortable on the edge of the bed and folding his arms under him to hide the tiny, victorious smile from his boyfriend. 

You grabbed the bottle of lube on the bed and clicked it open. The hairs on Miles’s arm stood on end in a Pavlovian response, his lids fluttering closed so he could hear everything you were doing and see it perfectly in his mind’s eye without breaking your rule on turning. You put a generous dollop of the gel onto your finger and asked if he was ready. When the stuttered affirmative came, you carefully reopened him with just your ring finger. The elongated sigh that escaped Miles’s throat, as easy and free as a spring breeze, set off your own Pavlovian response. A fresh torrent of slick leaked from your pussy, flooding your folds and the leather strap that was wedged between your lower lips. You rubbed your thighs together, trying to relieve the ache that was building in your core, but your wetness had made the harness slide with it, rubbing you with an intensity that cheated you of a surprised, guttural moan.

You stared pre-emptive daggers at Bob, expecting to be greeted by a Cheshire cat grin at your moment of weakness. But Bob had other things on his mind, and more importantly, in his ass. The dildo was still lodged inside him, obscenely pointing up towards the heavens in an offering to a God even The Sentry would get on his knees to worship. His hips canted, trying to drive it in deeper to where he wanted it most. You ignored his cheeky attempts to claim his pleasure and softly giggled when his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to suck the dildo back in. But his attempts were all in vain. He bit the duvet to hide his grunts of frustration as the cock ever so slowly started to work its way out of him, his body doing everything it could to shut the door on it, even as his mind screamed for it to be welcomed back in like a dear friend. Just as it was coming close to falling out, high-pitched, panicked wimpers escaped the gag of silky cotton. Showing mercy, you took it by the flared base with your hand that wasn’t knuckle-deep in hotel clerk, and gave it a gentle series of slaps, hammering it in like the final nail in the coffin of his brattiness. Both men went deadly silent under you, one in wonderment, the other in mind-wiping pleasure as you used him as a sleeve to hold onto your discarded cock.

You twisted the dildo, screwing it into place. Only the black base was visible, a cartoonish circle that pulsed back and forth ever so slightly, as though his hole was pacifying itself on it. You struck him, straight on the toy, causing his whole body to quake until it broke the Richter scale.

“You’ve been a naughty Puppy, but don’t worry, you’re still going to cum”, you promised. Your play never ventured into cruelty. As much as Bob liked to test the rules, you always set them again, letting him feel secure while you found ways to ensure he still got his reward at the end. “You just need a lesson in sharing your toys first. Keep my cock nice and warm for me until I get back, understood?” 

His body relaxing into the soft plush of the bed, the dildo now firmly pressing against him but not overwhelming, Bob nodded. Likely biding his time, but you allowed it. Maybe you weren’t such a cruel mistress after all. 

Refocusing on the eager, slowly impatient man below, you pulled out. Your voice sang with a low burr, in case anything too loud could startle your tiny rabbit, “Now let’s see what we have here. Show me that pretty clit of yours, baby. Did watching our Puppy get it nice and wet?”

The best things in your life had been a quiet, accidental discovery. The terrified New Avenger slumped in your kitchenette, holding his breath as he hid from an enemy that had pushed his emotional buttons when his physical ones proved invincible. The hotel clerk who silently fussed with his sleeve as he appeared on your doorstep, seeking your famed help when his conscience couldn’t take the blackmail anymore. You opened your heart to them both, not letting any of those moments slip through your fingers. But there had been smaller discoveries that proved just as great and momentous. The time you realised Bob slept more easily with Miles spooned in his arms after a late night reading session. The lingering stares that told you their feelings weren’t just for you. And the moment your brain decided to break its connection to your mouth when you called Miles’ pecs his breasts, making him cum with just your and Bob’s hands down his pants.

It had quickly developed from then to the present. Now, Miles turned on his side, giving you and Bob a full display of his (somehow) still erect penis, blushing as hotly as his cheeks at the feminine name. The tip twitched frantically in indecision, not knowing whether to strain towards you or towards Bob with a faint ‘come hither’ bend. Luckily, you decided for him. You took his length within your hand, smothering it as your fingers wrapped themselves around him. Making sure Bob could see exactly what kind of treatment well-behaved boys got, you gave it a few slow and firm pumps, spreading the spend that still clung to his turgid flesh and the soft swell of his tummy. The blunt head peeked out of your fist, a timid mouse courageously braving your and Bob’s ravenous gaze, before disappearing again when you collected the pearl of clear fluid and coated him from root to tip. 

You hummed in a sing-song tune, weighing him up in your palm, luxuriating in the feel of the velvety skin cloaking his hardness as you encouraged the blood flow to engorge him further with steadily quickening strokes. “Beautiful, absolutely stunning. Don’t you think so, Puppy?”

“Fuuck”, Bob quietly slurred, his voice barely registering over the slick, wet thumps of your hand. “So beautiful. Think if you keep touching him, he’s gonna pop already.”

There was no meanness behind his words, just simple, objective fact. One that was not lost on you as you felt the telltale quiver at the base of his prick, his leg nearest you opening wider to make it easier for you to reach. Miles didn’t like to push you as Bob did; he wanted to be told what to do and to follow your orders to a T, handing his body on a platter and knowing you’d cherish and protect the soul within. There was something so sacred to him about being able to let go, knowing you’d both be there to catch him where others had done their best to bleed that trust dry.

And because of that faith, he now owned the parts of himself he had once hated. No longer shying away from Bob’s watchful, intense gaze or your honey-sweet voice, that indulged him in praise after praise, he instead let his small, precious smile shine through. It had taken months for his once thin, watery smiles to grow teeth; now they did so readily whenever both of you were around.

The beaming grin tugged on your heartstrings. Giving Bob a small wink, you knead the underside of Miles’s member with your thumb, coaxing another squirt of pre like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I bet he wants to, but he knows he can’t do that without permission.”

“Yes, Mommy, I’ll be good.”

“I know you will. Now, show Bob what we say”, you teased. He shuddered, his lips tugging imperceptibly wider, “T-Thank you, Mommy. Thank y-you, Robbie.” “That’s it, such an obedient boy for me”. You let the words fill your bedroom as Miles breathed them in, inflating his lungs until he puffed his chest. “As your treat, why don’t you choose your reward?”

He craned his neck and gazed at you like you were an angel sent from heaven, taking in your ethereal beauty while he still had the chance. “Want you to fuck me, please. I-I need it, I feel so empty- it aches so bad, Mommy.”

That was all you needed. A tiny chirp escaped his lips as you quickly manhandled him right back into where he belonged - under you and your cock, side by side with Bob. With a quick heave, you took him by his thin hips and returned him to the edge of the mattress, rolling him back to his front. Bob shifted in place, just as eager as Miles to watch you take him apart.

“Open yourself up, let me see that pretty pussy”, you commanded, soft but firm. Ever the dutiful soldier, he does so in an instant, spreading his legs as wide as he can so you can slot yourself in place. Murmuring another automatic praise, you pick up the bottle of lube again and pour it over the smaller toy, pumping yourself, giving your clit a delicate roll to tie it over for a bit longer. Once it’s glistening obscenely under the mood lighting of your bedroom, you finish the bottle, the final drops eeking their way onto his waiting ass as you anoint it for the final time. He’s still drenched from your thorough fingering from earlier, but Miles often needed more prep than Bob, as well as more time to relax into it.

You quickly knelt to place a lingering kiss on each cheek before taking yourself in hand and running the fat head over his crack and down against his undercarriage. His own tip caught against the bed, his balls hung heavy over the side, you thrusted against the sensitive seam of sac before dragging your cock back along the whole length from perineum to ass. Letting him know exactly how much bigger than him you were. Just the thought of how deep inside his guts that cock could reach made him shudder. 

The orange toy rested against his opening. As you expected, it jumped away, Miles suddenly standing on his tiptoes as he did his best to stoically push down the nerves that always reared their ugly head at the worst moments. “Colour?”

“G-Green”, he stuttered.

Needing confirmation, you held his hand as it lay limply on the bed. Taking the hint, he squeezed twice for go.

“Perfect. You’re perfect, always are for us. So tell me if you need to stop or slow down, ‘kay baby?” You knew drawing attention to it would only make things worse, especially when he was already slipping into that floaty headspace where he needed you to do the thinking for him lest his own mind take over and sabotage everything. 

The toy was only a hair’s width over two of your fingers, but Miles battened down the hatches like there was a fearsome monster on banging its doorstep. You nuzzled yourself just a fraction deeper, letting him get used to the less forgiving silicone. Bob always said it felt like the first time with Miles, and as he gripped you in an obscene chokehold, you believed it. His whole body was on tenterhooks, skin tightly drawn across the expanse of his back, sculpted from years of service. Old muscle memory tried to wrestle him from you, standing to attention to take whatever pain he’d been drilled in to accept as a soldier. He knew neither of you would hurt him, even the supposedly ‘unstable’ superhuman, but that didn’t stop his body from trying to protect him anyway. It wasn’t unlike what the Sentry would do for Bob, taking over when things got too much. Better then, to do what you had done with Sentry and bring his body back on side.

Seeing the challenge ahead, you nodded to your partner in crime. You worked quickly together, a well-oiled machine, honed through months of practice. Even from his new home, faceplanted in the mattress, Bob worked his true magic.

“Shushhh”, you soothed. “It’s okay, baby. You’re doing so well for me, sugar, just need you to relax.”

You gestured to Bob to start. A gentle hand weaved through the curl of Miles’s fringe, slicking it back and out of his tightly clenched eyes. Bob wavered, keeping Miles’s forehead cradled so he could keep his keen, watchful gaze over Miles, looking for any sign he was hiding his discomfort. You saw the roll of Miles’s neck as he tried to burrow his face into the sheets, but Bob was stubborn when it came to Miles and kept him in his line of sight. Bob had been in his shoes once, grinning and bearing everything the world threw at him, not knowing there was any other way to exist. But then you came along. You showed him the alternative, supporting him in asserting and caring for himself within the safe haven of your bed. 

Then you welcomed Miles in, too, and Bob flourished. Under both of your tender, loving adoration, Miles found his path to healing, with Bob passing on the lessons you had learned and crafted together. He wasn’t there yet, but every day brought him closer. And for when he still struggled, Bob was waiting in the wings.

When Bob saw you ease back, unable to penetrate any further, he scooched over. Still on his front, ignoring the tussle of the makeshift plug, he placed a chaste kiss on Miles’s crown, running his fingers through his curls, giving him tiny scritches he knew always drove him crazy. You tried again, and this time you sank in that slightest bit deeper. Not wanting to overstep, you signalled to Bob again.

“Doing so well”, Bob whispered, now so close Miles could feel his warm breath caressing the cooling sweat of his brow. “Feels big, doesn’t it?”

Miles hiccuped. For a while, he felt chagrined that he couldn’t take a cock like the both of you could. Still did, when even now his body struggled over a mental block he wasn’t privy to. But Bob’s encouragement and your soothing hand on his bottom eased a slow, languid “soo big” from his drooling maw.

“Yeah, it is. God, S’not fair, want to see how full you look. Worked so hard to train yourself for our Mommy, didn’t you?”

That got the shattered moan you were waiting for. Although, to be entirely honest, you weren’t sure if it came from you or Miles. The smug, amused smile on Bob’s face staring back at you gave you your answer.

You pushed his dildo back in place to wipe that smirk clean off.

But who could blame you? Just the sight of the two loves of your life, looking absolutely wrecked as Bob talked Miles through taking your juicy cock, his own girthier dildo wriggling as it started to push out again. It was too much. Your pussy throbbed with such force you swore it was swelling around your strap.

“God, Bunny”, you keened, nudging a bit further in. “I-I can feel you on my clit. You’re making me gush.” 

Torturing yourself further, you opened Miles’s cheeks with your thumbs. You stared transfixed. His cute lil pucker quivered around you like it was shy, even as it gradually expanded over the end of the head, finally taking it all inside with a quiet, yet obscene ‘pop’. You took a deep breath to compose yourself before thrusting those couple of inches in and out, not yet going any deeper.

Miles was trembling under you; judging from the pitiful noises he was making, he had gagged himself with the quilt cover. The dirty talk seemed to be working, so as you gave Miles your inch, Bob took a mile. A conspiracy of looks and nods, so complex and instinctive that it would make even a codebreaker weep, your spy bade you forward and back, stopping and starting when he could see Miles relax and tense up. For a moment, you weren’t sure who was leading whom- a moan bubbled low in your chest. You clamped your mouth shut before it could escape.

“You hear that? She can barely keep it together”, Bob teased.

Ah, shit. So much for fucking the sassiness out of him. Maybe you should have let him cum when you had the chance. You rolled your eyes as his narrowed, an evil glint lighting them while his whole face darkened as it always did when he got one of his ideas. 

Miles turned to look at you, but Bob held him in place.

“Keep looking at me”, he continued. “Mommy’s a bit busy right now.” Bob swirled the tresses of Miles’s hair around his pointer finger like a phone cord. He sounded just as casual as an 80s teenage girl gossiping down the line to her friends. Abusing his kindness, he drank you in, knowing you wouldn’t reprimand him while he was helping Miles.  

“You want to know what you’re doing to her?” Miles nodded so vigorously he thumped against the bed like the hind legs of a march hare. Bob chuckled, his eyes flaring brilliant gold as he stared right at you. Served you right for making a deal with a horny devil. “You got her dripping, Bunny. The strap between her looks drenched… Even her thighs are. Every time she’s thrusting into you, her breasts are heaving. They look so beautiful cupped in that bra, I… I think I can see her nipples underneath,” He sounded genuinely taken aback as he raked his eyes over you. “God, Miles - they look rock hard, and you’ve not even touched her. Imagine what they’re going to feel like against your back once she starts to really fuck you. Think if we’re really good, she’ll let us have another taste after?”

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The image of your boys from just a fortnight ago, both of them shucking your bra down just enough to nurse from you to self-soothe after a particularly intense session- you collapsed into Miles, another couple of inches locking into place. You didn’t cum, but god, any more of that and you could.

Miles was now fully squirming like a worm underneath you, a puddle of muscles and sinew melting into the sheets. He had to muzzle himself with the duvet, chewing at it like he was teething. You didn’t know who was more worked up, you or Miles.

But it was Bob, suddenly sounding completely broken, watching the debauched masterpiece unfold, who was truly gone. “Shit, she’s drooling nearly as much as you are”, he muttered, more to himself than either of you. You noted, with just a hint of satisfaction, that his eyes were a steely blue once more. But more than that, they were starting to glaze over.

He had done it. Your beautiful, fiendish, ridiculous boy actually did it.

Just describing you had made him dip that incredible brain of his into the primordial soup, sinking it back to the state where executive function ceased to exist and every nerve and thought all led back to one place. He looked completely mesmerised by your dick, mouth hanging feebly open in a perfect ‘o’. 

So not even Bob could resist Bob’s charms?

You were never going to let him live this down.

Reaching back inside for that dominant spark that re-energised you, you felt the flame ignite in your belly. It consumed you. Standing tall over both of them as you got high off your own fumes, your shoulders filled out, your voice rasped into something between a purr and a lion’s growl.

“Damn right I’m drooling. Got my two boys playing so nicely together, all just so Mommy can fill you up as you deserve”. You spanked them both in succession. “You wanna be my good Bunny? Then I’m gonna breed you like one.”

You would swear under oath you didn’t mean to press forward at that moment, but it was like the gravity suddenly reasserted its authority and slammed you forward. All of Miles’s resistance disappeared before the words had even finished leaving your mouth. A broken, guttural cry was the only thing left in its wake as Miles practically seized under you in ecstasy, feet kicking at the floor as the sheer, overwhelming bliss lay claim to every nerve in his lower body.

It was just a blink, but Bob’s eyes flashed gold once more, brighter than the sun and all the treasures of Solomon. He looked so fucking proud of Miles.

“You did it, baby”, you cooed, letting your soothing voice blanket over him like a fussing babe as he caught his breath. Tears of relief rose over his eyelids, running down his flushed, glowing cheeks like a steady, babbling brook. Before they could reach the ocean of sheets, Bob tilted his face to meet him and kissed them away. A low sussurrus of mindless praise escaped his lips, ‘such a good boy for Mommy’, ‘always so brave’, ‘love you, Bunny’.

You didn’t even need to tell Bob to get back into position. Once Miles was more collected, flopping like a relaxed pet rabbit, flat as a pancake under both of your attention, Bob gently headbutted against him. It was just a little boop, two bonded strays wordlessly expressing what their distant brains could not, and then Bob inched back. Lying on the bed, ass to the air, waiting for his turn. Only this time, Miles didn’t let him go. Arms straining awkwardly, they interlaced their fingers in the space between them, Bob tethering the floating Miles down to earth, and Miles silently thanking him. Watching over him, your Puppy looked like a protective, ferocious guard dog. 

Oh, you were going to make sure he got his reward after.

Miles wriggled himself back onto you, chanting ‘green, green’ like a desperate prayer to a merciful God. And after their display today? How could you be anything but? 

Now that you had uttered those magic words, as powerful as an ‘open sesame’ on the entrance of Fort Knox, you slid in and out of Miles with ease. Each gentle thrust was met with another corresponding kick, a flail of his head into the bed, a thumping punch into the bed. He was already dialled up to eleven, feeling every single atom of the silicone stretch him open in delicious, bone-trembling pleasure.  He sounded almost giddy as he took you in his stride, his excitement reflected back to him by Bob, who looked addicted to Miles’s high as though it was his own.

Their excitement was infectious, making you giggle, “There you go. Such a greedy ‘lil hole”. 

The slap of your skin as your thighs met his sounded more heavenly and victorious to Miles’s ears than the trumpets of Jericho. Both hands firmly planted on his waist, pulling him back onto you as you gradually built up speed, you moved as one being, now in perfect sync as Miles’s body recognised its keeper.

And Miles quietly joined in, even as his mind was slowly turned to putty, he switched off every anxious thought and let himself be led by just instinct and his beloved mistress. Where you gently brought him close, he bounced on you. When you pulled him off, he practically leapt up the bed. “Y-You’re so deep…” he half-sighed, half-yipped. “M-Mommy… More, please-”

The warm hospitality of Miles’s snatch would make his old profession proud. You couldn’t leave him a five-star review, but you hoped that the five quick spanks along the cushion of his bubble butt made up for it. Pulling all the way out until just the tip remained, you opened his cheeks again, watching the way his hole refused to let you go now that it finally had you. He took a shaky deep breath, but before he could exhale, you slammed back in, making him choke on the air as you punched a series of ‘ah ah ah’s from his spit-slick lips. Stuck between a relentless to and fro of ‘too much’ and ‘not enough’, he slinked up the sheets like a soldier going prone.

And each time you laughed, towing him back with a sharp yank and onto the root of your cock. A “Where are you going, baby?” fell trippingly from your tongue, relishing in the chase. The harder you fucked him, the further he went. You pawed at his tender flesh, playing with your prey as he kept squirming away, letting him get so far before you hauled him back, welcoming him back to your claws with a triumphant smack.

You were pretty sure he was doing it on purpose.

Finally tiring your little bunny out, you feasted your eyes on him. If you could think about anything other than the pale twin marshmallows practically begging you to smoosh them together, you would have remembered you were supposed to be aiming for his G-spot. However, they were really, really squishable. Figuring you deserved this much, you groped at them, massaging them like a cat making biscuits as your cock plunged shamelessly between them. That is, until your reverie was broken by Bob’s amused, knowing laugh. The embarrassment jolted you back to reality, and with it, your hips. Miles hissed.

Oh. Right. The celebratory ‘ding-ding-ding’ rang around your empty head as you realised you had hit the jackpot. Yours and Bob’s smirk grew in perfect mirror image as you repeated the action, rubbing against that smooth spot before you testingly ebbed away and rolled back in. A sharp creak of springs struck your ears as Miles jumped, his legs wrenched back towards his ass, clamping under your ribs like a bear trap.

“There! Oh God, there-there-there!”

Your voice was the dictionary definition of innocent, even as your tongue was weighed down with lust as heavy as lead. “Was that it? Did Mommy find your g-spot, baby?”

His crown of curls burrowed into the sheets in a furious nod, his butt jiggling in perfect harmony as you rub against him. Before he could get used to it, your Bunny met Jackrabbit. With a particularly hard thrust, you memorised the spot and bore down on it, changing the angle so you could bully it with a speed even the Sentry would be proud of. “Oh god-” was all he could bargain to as you bombarded your target with hit after hit, a lewd carnival attraction that you’d mastered over months of practice, all for the sake of the prized stuffed bunny you won at the end. When his hitches of breath dissolved into fevered pants, you stopped while you were still ahead and squeezed his engorged, purpling cock from under him.

His feet flailed in the air like a tantruming toddler. “No! Nononono! Please, Mommy- I’m so close. I need it-” 

But it was no use. Miles looked to Bob, pleading with his round, shimmering eyes to say something, to do anything on his behalf. But now that his own pleasure was back on the table, Bob went dumb. Miles didn’t put up the fight that Bob did; his pouting, trembling lip did that for him. However, it wasn’t enough to stop the jostling of leather and metal as you detached the dildo and rested it nice and snug as you had done to Bob, right against his prostate.

Ever the sore winner, Bob lathered his commiserations to Miles swollen mouth before you pulled them apart. Any more, and you were going to have to get the spray bottle on them. You wasted no time threading the dildo back in, quickly ducking down to whisper a ‘thank you’ to Bob’s ears for what he did for Miles. His back bowed at the praise. Bowed even further when you speared him open, rutting straight back into him like an animal in season. 

You didn’t sound much more evolved as you purred straight into his ear, “Been such a good Puppy today, now I’m gonna make you squeal like a bitch in heat”. 

He did so like it was a command - his skin so hot his tears dried before they could reach the sheets. One hand on his shoulder, your mouth worked without conscious thought as your lust took the reins, hips ramming into him like a wind-up toy keyed up too tight.

“Take it - take Mommy’s cock.” you splutted. And he did with unrivalled aplomb.

You heard the shift of fabric even over your obscene ‘plap plap plap’ of sticky flesh. It was Miles, his hands encased in the sheets, twisting them so rigid that he bound his own wrists to the bed. They twitched. He wanted to raise his hand like an exemplary prefect, asking ever so politely if you could come over here and please fuck him into oblivion instead. You felt Bob shake, a shiver he tried to suppress from you and your incredible, mean schemes. He was close.

So you did what Miles’s eyes begged you to do. 

Miles’ expression lay suspended between tremulous anticipation and a fearful, religious awe normally reserved for the prophets as you moseyed on over to him, leaving Bob hanging once again. Knowing you had him sussed, he didn’t even have the energy to protest. You squished Miles’s face between thumb and forefinger, bringing him to look at Bob, so fucked out that at any moment he could turn to liquid and melt through the bed. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he? So handsome when he’s all flushed like that.” 

Miles agreed, or you think he did. It was hard to hear as you put the dildo back on and went to work. Who needed yoga when you had two submissive, perfect boys under you? 

And so it continued. You took Miles nice and slow, promising to ruin his pussy for anyone else. His hips lifted to greet you in supplication to your divine beauty for each unholy thrust, laying like a damned sinner in desperate prayer. His body was your altar as you filled him with your presence until cries of ecstasy overflowed from his lungs. His sniffling prayers for clemency, however, were lost as you returned to your Puppy, leaving him to wallow in his own drool and precum.

Bob wagged his invisible tail as you approached. He whined as you entered. And he panted when you pushed him by the scruff of his neck into the unforgiving mattress. You asked your captive Bunny what you should do with him. Bob must have taken a page out of Miles’s book if the gentle, loving smile on Miles’s face was anything to go by, for the clerk took pity and softly asked you to kiss your puppy. When you did so, Miles parted his lips as though he was joining in.

But while Miles had intended you to be gentle, you knew Bob wanted anything but. Claiming Bob’s mouth with a messy French kiss, you pulled him by the hair so you could lap your way inside. He could do nothing but grant you entrance, the wires connecting his brain to body severed in an instant as you nailed his prostate like you were magnetised to it. 

By the time he registered that you were kissing him, you were already halfway through fucking Miles once more. His tongue lolled from his kiss-nibbled lips, searching for yours, absently waiting for when you came back. 

He wouldn’t have to wait long. With a firm grip, you had tied Miles’s wrists together, holding them to the small of his back as you snuggled your hips into his. He raced towards that final precipice quicker than ever before, struggling in delight as you refused to let him budge. You bade him be quiet, like a good Bunny should. When he failed on each and every thrust, you spanked him until his ass was a lucicious garden of blooming red and pink roses. 

You lost count of how many rounds it took, but eventually they both fell into line, completely under your thrall. No complaint was raised. Every order followed. They took the pleasure you gave them, and basked in the other’s as if it were their own. You didn’t even need to tell Bob to put his hands around his back like Miles had done; they were there before you had even pulled out of your Bunny.

Your pussy ached, rubbed raw from the onslaught until it was starting to chaff. Both of the men under your command were a crying, trembling mess of limbs and barely audible gasps and moans as you pounded into Bob with abandon. You had well and truly fucked them dumb, making them drunk on everything you gave, and still thirsty for more. But each rotation was drawing quicker and quicker to a close, both of them hurdling to the edge in mere seconds. It was time.

“You close, Puppy?” you asked, as though you couldn’t feel every cell of skin ignite with the heat of barely contained, exploding stars. 

The weak affirmative nod was all he could muster, bracing once again for the cruel laugh as you pulled out. But this time was different. You reached around and cradled his balls in your hand, rolling their heavy weight in your palm as they heaved with each thrust.

“That’s a good boy”. He had heard it before, refused point-blank to believe your pretty lies anymore. He whined, another fat tear burning on contact with his oven-hot cheeks. You continued undeterred, watching intently for that beautiful sight. The one where every cell lights up in sheer bliss when he knew, beyond all doubt, that you were finally going to let him cum. “You feel ready to burst - gotta find somewhere for all this to go. Where do you want it, baby? You wanna make a mess of yourself? Of us?” 

You weren’t sure if he tried to speak or not. Maybe, just maybe, you should let him finish anyway, but you were nothing if not a diligent trainer. Puppies should speak when spoken to. The sultry, rhythmic squeak of the bed as you pummelled into him was unrelenting. So too was your mouth. You dived at his neck, sucking a hickey right into his pulse point, trailing another right below his ear. When the serum healed them, you did it again.

You blew on it as it faded from view, like a dandelion you could make a wish on. 

You didn’t even have to contemplate what your wish was.

With a flourish of kisses, your voice led him by the leash, back to the edge, every fibre of his being ready to heave himself over at a moment’s notice. “Come on, Puppy,” you hummed–  seductive siren’s song, promising his sweet damnation. “You’re so close. You know the magic word.”

But he didn’t. He didn’t know any words right now, just ‘Mommy Mommy Mommy’ bouncing around his skull like a ping pong ball, destroying every other thought in its wake. He shook his head, trying to rattle his mind free from its grasp. But the word just grew louder, stronger, until it was the entire purpose of his entire being. Bursting from its cage, your puppy, no- Your wolf, howled majestically.  

“Mommy! Ahhh- Moommmmy!” 

It was gorgeous. Awe-inspiring. Your precious Bob, imploding as you rearranged his insides, emptied his mind and bequeathed control of his body over to you. He was boneless. He was completely and utterly yours. You may not have been able to mark his body, but you marked his soul with every kiss to his throat.

But… That didn’t mean it was the right word.

“Pah”, you popped, rubbing his vocal cords like you could push the word free for him. “La…Eh..”  

He gulped around you, frantically trying to work out what you were spelling before his mind went into system reset.

Just as he was losing all hope, his final functioning brain cells rubbed together.

You thought you saw the ‘Eureka!’ illuminate his pleasure-dulled eyes even from the back of his head.

“Pleaasse!” he wailed. “please-please-pleaseee!”

There it was.

A scream queen couldn’t have done a better job as he stretched the word out again and again until it ran out of oxygen. But still, he went one better, babbling through clenched teeth, he begged, “Wherever y’ want Mommy. Cum wherever- W-Want… Oh god p-please, I just wanna be s’gud f’you.”  

You patted him on his fluff of hair. Wrenching him up, his shaking legs gave way under him. You, however, did not.

The Guardian of Earth fell back onto you with a soft, grateful huff, his back to your chest. The hitch in his breath only served to amplify his moan while a feeble dribble of lube leaked from between your toy and his gaping hole. Cock still lodged inside, you frogmarched him to the barely twitching body next to him, needing to move his legs with your own like a child’s stuffed doll.   

Only the large shadow encroaching over Miles’s face gave him any clue what was happening. He didn’t stir when larger, sweating palms pinned him by the shoulders. Nor did he spot that his bedmate had disappeared at all. It was only when Bob’s meaty cock brushed against his sac that a faint spark of recognition seemed to jolt him back to life.  

“Shushh shush”, you soothed, stroking his hair as you came in close. “It’s okay, baby, been so good for us. Let Puppy have a turn with you now, ‘kay?”

He nodded his consent, a slight shuffle betraying his eager, if exhausted, excitement. After how much of a struggle it had been to get the thin dildo inside, you didn’t want to ruin the evening by pushing Miles to take Bob’s thick cock. So instead, with a tap to his flank, you motioned Miles to spread himself. When he did, you took Bob in hand and inserted him between his pillowy thighs, slotting you all in place like you were all made for each other. Even as his spirit ascended higher than the invincible Sentry could fly, Miles took the hint and closed his legs.

Holding Bob with just the front of your strong thighs and a single arm around his chest like a seatbelt, you started to ride the hero into the veteran. The hours of edging had soaked Bob with pre-cum, his cock glittering with such a shine that you wondered for a second if somehow his powers had rushed to his member as well as his blood. However, it was all his mortal self as he stuttered between you, a limp shell of a man, helpless to do anything other than be a conduit for your cock and Miles’s pleasure. You rolled your hips, bullying his prostate so he could return the favour to the back of Miles’ aching balls. The action jostled the dildo in your Bunny, finding new nerves to pleasure with every clap of Bob’s hips to Miles’s and then yours. 

You hooked your chin over Bob’s shoulders, watching Miles flop about like a fish on dry land as Bob kept him pinned just to keep himself upright. “That’s it, wiggle your thighs together. Puppy is gonna fuck them so good, I’ll make sure of it.”

The soft, padded flesh swaddled Bob’s entire length, billowing as you all moved in rigorous tandem. “G’d M-Miles”, Bob snivelled. “You’re- Ohohoh gawd. 

You slapped Bob’s ass, riding him like a bull as he bucked into Miles so hard he saw stars. The panicked squeak as the dildo threatened to come out of Miles was short-lived as Bob collapsed forward, pushing it back in with his torso. You couldn’t be certain, but you’re pretty sure he nudged it in the rest of the way with his thumb. 

It was meant for Miles’s benefit, but it drew Bob’s attention down to the intersection where Miles swallowed both the dildo and Bob’s aching member. Bob wasn’t sure if he or Miles was the toy. Bouncing between you and Miles, he realised. They both were. His head hung low, too heavy to ever hold up again- the twin sensations were too much. You and Miles overpowered his senses, his very veins and the space between his cells, strong and more potent than even the serum. A splattering of drool rained on Miles’s back before he could draw it back.

“I’m cummin’ - Fuck! Puh-please”, Bob warned. He sounded surprised, like he had forgotten such a possibility ever existed. That this pleasure could ever end, that he hadn’t always existed right here between you and your beloved Miles. 

Miles braced himself, trying to swivel his head back to watch that incredible moment where the power of galaxies obliterated into a supernova, collapsing under its own strength with such force that it previously birthed entire solar systems. You waited in delirious anticipation… but it didn’t come. Only a strangled, muzzled grunt echoed through your ears

You thought his cry of ‘please’ was to not leave again. However, as you caught a glimpse of his lower lip, sucked in between sharp teeth as he tried to hold himself together, you realised.

He wanted, no- Craved your permission.

“Do it”, you commanded. Firm and proud, eliminating any doubt from his mind. “My brilliant, perfect Puppy. Cum for your Mommy. Make me proud.”

The order hit him like it had physical force right between his shoulder blades, pushing him into the body below with a ‘thump’. You didn’t let up, shifting just enough to put whatever strength you still had left into pounding him into Miles’s thighs, chasing that climax for him.

Your Puppy’s voice thrummed, a sustained tremolo as whine, bark and howl all converged together and delirious, earth-shattering pleasure, “Mmphfh! Ah- ahhhhh– Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou!”

The room bristled with Sentry’s power - the light flickering on and off, a low hum crescendoing into another broken filament. You had multiple fairy lights dangling from the window for this one singular reason. They clattered together, a tornado of energy engulfing your tiny bedroom, the reinforced walls and floorboard creaking as though they were mere seconds away from tearing at the seams. The lights moved back and forth in a cavalcade of multicoloured beams, preparing the stage for the grand finale.

If there was one side-effect Valentina hadn’t accounted for (barring the consuming Void that nearly wiped out half of New York), it was this.

You laughed in awe? Jubilation? It was a strange reaction, whatever it was, but your body didn’t know what else to do as it was confronted with such a grand and beautiful spectacle. Whole religions had been founded on lesser visions than the one only you and Miles got to witness in the hallowed ground of your bed.

Your tone trembled as you stood before the divine, quiet and hushed, so neither of you missed a single moment. “Stay nice and still, Bunny, let Puppy milk himself with your thighs. Then you’ll get your treat.”

Wave after wave of cum flooded Miles’s thighs, hitting the side of the bed and falling to the floor. The force tore Bob apart; you and Miles held him together. You placed a tender, reverent hand over his stomach, feeling the muscle that always surged like a piston when he came this hard. It thumped against you, running out of sync with yours and Miles’s rhythm, beating to its own drum as it kept going. Bob caved over your arm, going completely limp, instinctively trusting you to catch him like a fallen angel as his soul plummeted back from the heavens. 

You took the opportunity to quickly remove the dildo from Miles and take Bob’s engorged cock in hand. His mouth leaked just as much as his cock as moan after moan flowed like a waterfall, watching in a daze as you aimed him right over Miles’s empty, twitching hole. 

“Go on, get it right in there”, you encouraged, sounding just as broken as Bob. The tip caught the ring of muscle, not penetrating, but shooting its load right into the begging orifice like a hose pipe. “Stuff our pretty Bunny full of all your cum. Want him nice and round so he can’t even think of leaving this bed again.”

Miles peeked up, twisting awkwardly around to watch. He stared at Bob like he was a rampaging mythical beast, caged by your arm and speared by your cock. Tamed, if just for a moment, to breed him like a virgin sacrifice to a pagan god. He couldn't see his irises under his wild, flowing hair, but he knew what colour they were. “Please, Booobbb. Want you-”

The plea knocked another pitiful dribble from his still undeflated cock.

Finally, there was no more left to give. Miles was a mess, streams of pearlescent cum painted his cheeks and crack, pooling in his opening and the small dimple at the bottom of his spine. Individual streaks descended varying, interlocking and winding roads, cascading over the swell of his thighs, the lean muscle of his calves. Some of it clung to his groin for dear life before dripping onto the ruined towel below. A steady drip-drip was the only sound in the room. 

Before Bob could crush Miles below, you slowly and delicately eased your strap out of him, guiding Bob to the bed with all the grace you could still muster. He looked like he was breaking apart from the inside out. You could still feel that muscle in his belly, coiling and spasming as his orgasm continued to wring him dry. Even his cock bounced on his stomach, a still angry red like it was frustrated that it had no more to give. 

Your Bob always got clingy after an intense session like this. Not wanting to leave him for more than a second, you went to move Miles into him, to give him the contact he needed. But Miles was already sluggishly crawling on his hands, dragging his dead weight to flop bonelessly on top of him. Still in the clutches of his orgasm, his arms grabbed for him blindly, like they couldn’t work out where he ended, and Miles began. But ever your golden-hearted, gentle soul, Miles brought his biceps around him, cocooning himself in his own personal heater while he lay like a weighted blanket over him. You saw the instant Bob’s heaving breaths started to even out.

Miles bunted his hand, encouraging him to comb his fingers through his hair, a trick that never failed to help Bob bring himself back to reality with a landing as soft as Miles’s curls. He slurred, head rolling in Miles’s general direction like he still wasn’t sure which way was up, “Mommy’s gonna make y’feel s’good Mi'..”

Miles placed a loving kiss on Bob’s nipple next to his lips. “Did so well, Bo’… Y’were amazin’. Lo’you…”

Bob wrapped him up even tighter, mouthing an approximation of a kiss to whatever skin he could find. You didn’t think a single villain, in this dimension or the next, could ever prise Miles from his embrace.

They had no right to be that cute while bathed in Bob’s cum, but your boys had done the impossible and saved worlds. Your days were filled with tiny miracles… what was one more?

You kissed along each bump of Miles’s spine, the scars of his shoulder, leading into his thick neck. They were gentle, just enough to let him know you were there, not overwhelming. Not pushing, just small affirmations until he was ready for whatever he wanted next.

Catching your drift, Miles met your eyes and nibbled on his lips, “I’m ready, M-Mommy. Can I please cum?”

It was never even a question. You scooped up some of Bob’s spend with your finger and filled him with his essence. Quickly reattaching his thin dildo, you had to kneel on the bed to reach him from on top of Bob. It wouldn’t take much - Miles was dangling right over that edge, but you wanted to make it perfect.

Taking yourself in hand, Miles jumped like a live wire, snapping with electric pleasure that reverberated right under every point of contact with his two loves. His body welcomed you back in, every movement sliding his cock against Bob’s stomach as he angled himself away from Bob’s oversensitive member.

Each thrust produced a filthy squelch. Your cock quickly coated itself in Bob's semen, fucking it into him on every jab, and letting it seep out whenever you pulled back. Whenever there was a lull in that debauched chorus of wet slaps, you gathered up more and filled him all over again. The thought took form, a thousand fireflies fluttering in your core. You really were breeding your Bunny.

Just as you thought Miles was about to finish, he surprised you. He rather had a habit of it, after all. Hips sensually rolling into him, turning his legs into jelly as he full body trembles, he used the last of his strength to limply raise his head and flop it onto the crux of Bob’s neck, landing softly so he could nuzzle into Bob's sanctuary, where the outside world ceased to exist. You had joked that if he could reach yours or Bob’s nape, Miles was always home. And as Bob tilted his lips down to meet him, you thought they both were. In the one you had made together

Miles was muttering something, what exactly, you weren’t quite sure, but Bob’s eyes rolled back, another squirt of cum painting their conjoined tummys. Bob brought Miles’s chin up to kiss him, their uncoordinated mouths slotting into place, more for comfort than arousal. Miles whispered something again, drawing Bob’s attention to you as Miles somehow found the presence of mind to giggle. Brushing a loose strand of hair from Bob’s face, you saw Bob's disbelief melt into something softer. Lids narrowing, he studied you… and then they softened, gold flecks swirling around the blue whirlpool of his eyes, in perfect equilibrium.

“You’re right”, Bob murmured, “She’s close…”

Wait… What?

Before you could ask, Miles pulsed under you. Your hips stuttered as he suddenly clamped down around you with a startled cry. He knew it was coming, but the force hit him like a runaway freight train. Living up to his namesake, he binkied against Bob, legs straightening and his face contorting in pleasure until they flowed out of his eyes, curling his toes, and straightening him out like he was on a medieval rack. He lost control of his body and his accent as he mindlessly moaned ‘momma’ into Bob’s throat like a mantra.

It was beautiful, gorgeous, every other adjective your brain could still think of- it was what you built your life around, to see him accept yours and Bob’s love like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then it hit you. Bob was right.

His steely gaze pierced your own. His legs reached out for you, drawing you deeper into Miles, pushing the toy perfectly against your clit- He smirked. 

Oh, that fucker.

“Come on, Mommy, be a good girl, and come for us.”

And you did. Your vision blurred, white spots dancing around your periphery like spilt ink blots. Someone was screaming, distantly, you thought it sounded like you. The blobs of human-shaped flesh pulled you into their arms as liquid pleasure radiated from your clit, drowning your core until it erupted like a volcano, singeing every nerve and fibre until all that was left were the places your beloved held together. You’d never cum with just a strap before. The realisation was not lost on Miles and Bob as they chanted praise into your sweat-soaked skin. ‘Thank yous’ finding physical form as they suck hickeys into your flesh for each one, ‘love yous’ littering your breasts as they nibbled their way up and over the swell of your bosom… Until you felt it. Not a platitude, or a thanks… It was Bob at first. Of course it was.

Latching onto your breast as he had promised Miles, Bob laughed, lower than even the taunting jibes of the Void could reach. "Only one, Mommy? Think you can do better than that… We were so good, after all..."

Even dear, sweet Miles betrayed you as he eased your strap from your still gyrating hips, humping the air just in case the breeze from the A/C could somehow provide you with just a modicum of the friction you craved. You were powerless to stop him as he looked up from between your splayed legs, blinking slowly in innocent kitty kisses. You saw why Bob never stood a chance as he played the innocent cherub.

“Let Bunny and Puppy take care of you, Momma. Wanna taste you so bad… Wan’ see you squirt for us.”

God help you, you really had created two monsters.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics Taglist: @musicislove3389

[lewmeister]

Teen Rhett: Ten Years Later, FINALE - Rhett Abbott/Female Reader

briefing: grief is a terrible thing. regret hurts so much. but when a meddling best friend takes charge, an interesting turn of fate arises. words: 9.4k warnings: past emotional/psychological abuse and strained family dynamics(referenced), grief and loss, heavy angst and unresolved feelings, emotional breakdowns, mentions of depression and regret, complicated relationships, and a lot of yearning before things finally soften

Author note: This concludes the MAIN storyline of the Teen Rhett series. This is such a bittersweet moment. and a lovely story. PLEASE REBLOG AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!

April 2026

Morning comes slowly.

Not sharp, not bright—just a soft spill of light through the windows, stretching across the floor in long, quiet lines. It filters through the curtains in that in-between way, where it’s hard to tell if it’s early or already edging toward late morning. Time moves differently here. Softer. Looser.

The house is still.

Not empty—just quiet in a way that settles deep into the walls. No rush. No noise. Just the low hum of something running in the background, the occasional shift of wood, the kind of silence most people would call peaceful.

But it doesn’t feel peaceful.

Not really.

It feels… heavy.

Like something sitting just beneath the surface, not loud enough to interrupt your day—but constant enough that it never really leaves.

You move through the space like you always do. Familiar paths. Familiar motions. Coffee made without thinking. Phone checked without really seeing anything. The rhythm of a life you’ve built—steady, functional, safe.

You and Wesley have made something here.

It’s real. It’s solid.

Shared mornings. Shared groceries. Half-finished conversations that pick back up hours later without effort. The kind of comfort that comes from knowing someone will be there when you walk into a room.

It’s good.

It’s safe.

And you exist inside it easily enough.

You work. You eat. You sleep. You answer emails. You remember appointments. You laugh when Wesley says something ridiculous from the other room.

You function.

Perfectly.

But something in you never quite… settled.

Not after this last Wabang visit.

It lingers in small ways. In pauses that stretch a second too long. In the way your chest tightens at nothing in particular. In how quiet moments don’t feel restful—they feel like something’s missing.

Like something was left unfinished.

Like you walked away from something that never actually ended.

You don’t say it out loud. You don’t really let yourself think it all the way through.

But it’s there.

Always there.

You drift toward the couch without thinking, drawn more by habit than intention. The space is lived-in—blanket tossed over the arm, a mug left from the night before, sunlight catching dust in the air.

And there—

Tucked into the corner like it’s always been there—

Your thistlebear.

Soft. Worn in the way things get when they’ve been held more than displayed. One ear is slightly bent. The stitching is still intact.

You don’t even remember reaching for it.

But your hand does anyway.

Fingers brushing over familiar fabric, grounding without asking.

You keep it close. Always have.

Not on purpose. Not as some conscious choice.

It just… never ended up anywhere else.

And somehow, without ever saying it out loud—

It stayed.

Right within reach.

By the time you step outside, the air’s warmer.

Not hot yet—just that early shift into spring where the sun lingers a little longer, the ground softens, everything starting to wake up again. The backyard smells like turned dirt and something faintly green, like life trying to come back.

Wesley’s already out there.

Kneeling in one of the garden beds, sleeves pushed up, hands deep in the soil like he’s been at it for a while. There’s a small pile of weeds off to the side, a bag of fresh soil split open, tools scattered in a way that somehow still makes sense to him.

“You’re late,” he calls without looking up.

You snort quietly, stepping down into the grass. “It’s like… nine.”

“It’s almost eleven,” he corrects, glancing at his phone before tossing it back onto the table. “Prime gardening hours. You’re missing it.”

“Devastating,” you mutter, grabbing a pair of gloves—but you don’t put them on. You never do.

You settle beside him, knees sinking into the dirt, and start sorting through the seed packets spread out between you. Tomatoes, peppers, herbs—little paper envelopes of intention. Of something growing, if you do it right.

It’s quiet for a bit.

Just the sound of soil shifting, the soft tear of a packet opening, Wesley humming something under his breath that you don’t recognize.

It’s… nice.

Grounded. Real. Something you can do with your hands.

You push your fingers into the dirt, letting it pack under your nails, brushing loose soil aside to make a shallow line for planting. Wesley hands you a packet without asking, and you take it just as automatically.

This part of your life works.

It’s simple. Predictable. Safe.

Wesley breaks the silence like he always does—easy, casual, like it doesn’t matter.

“You heard from anyone back home lately?”

Your response comes before you even think about it.

Flat. Immediate.

“There’s not one person I’d want to talk to.”

Wesley huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite surprised. He keeps working, but there’s a shift in him now. More deliberate.

“Not even that sexy cowboy you fucked,” he says in one breath, tone light but pointed, “that you have a clear history with, history you never told me about?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Just reflex.

“Rhett doesn’t want anything to do with me,” you say, brushing dirt off your hands like that’s the end of it. “If he did, he wouldn’t have left me that day and would’ve given me his number.”

The words land heavier than you meant them to.

You don’t look at him.

You focus on the seeds instead, pressing them into the line you made, covering them too quickly, as if you can bury the conversation with them.

Wesley doesn’t respond right away.

You can feel him looking at you, though. Studying.

Not judging—just… seeing more than you want him to.

Finally, quieter now:

“Are you mad at him… or yourself?”

Your hands stop.

Just for a second.

The dirt shifts under your fingers as you press down harder than you need to, smoothing the soil flat like that’ll even it out.

You don’t answer. You don’t even try.

Because you don’t actually know—and that’s worse than anything you could say.

So instead, you push yourself up, brushing your hands off against your jeans.

“I’m gonna go inside,” you mutter, already stepping away before he can respond.

Wesley doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t call after you.

He just watches you go.

You don’t make it far.

The shift from outside to inside hits you the second the door closes behind you—like the air’s heavier in here, thicker somehow. Quiet in a way that presses in instead of settling.

You head down the hall without really thinking about it, steps slower than they should be. Everything feels a little… off. Like your body’s still trying to catch up to something your mind doesn’t want to look at.

Your room is dim when you step in. Curtains half-drawn, light slipping through in soft, uneven strips across the bed.

You don’t bother turning anything on.

You just… lie down.

“Just for a minute.”

That’s what you tell yourself, even as you sink into the mattress, one arm coming up to shield your eyes from the light.

But your hand shifts almost immediately.

Instinct.

Familiar.

It finds the thistlebear without you having to look. You tossed it onto your bed before heading out to the garden.

You pull it in close, curling slightly around it, tucking it against your chest like you’ve done a thousand times without ever really thinking about it. The fabric is still soft in that worn-in way, grounded in a way nothing else quite is.

Your body settles.

Not because you’re tired.

Not really.

This isn’t physical exhaustion.

It’s something deeper. Heavier.

Two years’ worth of thoughts you never let finish. Conversations you never had. Feelings you kept neatly boxed up, labeled later, not now, don’t touch that. 

It all sits there at once.

And your brain just… shuts off.

You’re out almost instantly.

No drifting. No slow fade.

Just—gone.

—

Wesley notices.

At first, he gives you a few minutes. Figures you needed space, needed to cool off after the garden. He stays outside longer than he normally would, finishing what he started, hands moving on autopilot while his mind stays somewhere else entirely.

Eventually, though—

You don’t come back out.

And that’s what gets him.

He wipes his hands off on his jeans, heading inside with a small frown pulling at his mouth, already half-aware that he pushed too far.

Your door is still open.

He leans against the frame for a second before stepping in, quieter now.

You’re already asleep.

Curled in on yourself, face half-buried in the pillow, arms wrapped tight around the bear like you didn’t even give yourself a second to think before grabbing it.

Wesley exhales softly.

“…well… shit.”

It’s not dramatic. Not loud.

Just… regret.

He steps closer, careful not to wake you, and takes in the way you’re holding it. How fast you must’ve gone down. How hard you must’ve crashed to drop like that in the middle of the day.

He knows why.

He knows exactly what he poked at.

And for a second, it sits heavily on him.

Because yeah—he cares.

More than he lets on most of the time.

But he also knows…

This isn’t something you’re ever going to fix by ignoring it.

He reaches down, gently pulling the blanket up over you, tucking it around your shoulders in a way that doesn’t disturb you. His hand lingers there for a second, resting lightly.

Then he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice low, careful not to wake you. “…I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”

You don’t stir.

Don’t react.

Just breathe slow and steady, like your body finally found a way to shut everything out for a little while.

Wesley straightens, watching you for a moment longer before stepping back.

There’s something thoughtful in his expression now.

Something quieter.

More… resolved.

He turns and leaves the room just as softly as he came in.

The door stays open.

And you sleep—

completely unaware that something has already started shifting around you.

The next few days pass quietly.

Not in a noticeable way at first—nothing sharp enough to call out, nothing obvious enough to question. Just small shifts. Slight changes in rhythm that don’t quite interrupt anything, but don’t sit the same either.

Wesley is… different.

Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would probably clock.

But you do.

You catch it in passing moments.

He’s on his phone more.

Not just scrolling—focused. Typing, reading, pausing like he’s waiting on responses. The screen angled away without him thinking about it, like it’s just instinct.

A couple of times, he steps outside to take calls.

That’s new.

He never really does that. Normally, he’ll just answer wherever he is, talk openly, pace the kitchen or the living room while he chats. But now—

He steps out onto the porch.

Closes the door halfway.

Keeps his voice low.

You don’t hear what he’s saying.

You don’t ask.

At first, you figure it’s nothing.

Work. Friends. Something that doesn’t involve you.

But then—

He starts asking questions.

Little ones, at first.

Offhand.

“What was that place you used to work in high school?” “Your grandma lived where again?” “That rodeo thing—what was it called?”

You answer without thinking.

Because none of it feels important enough not to.

But there’s a pattern to it.

A thread you can’t quite grab onto.

And every now and then, you catch him watching you a little longer than usual. Not in a weird way. Not suspicious.

Just… thinking.

Like he’s putting pieces together, you don’t even realize you’re handing him.

There are moments he disappears, too.

Quick trips.

“Running out for a bit,” tossed over his shoulder as he grabbed his keys.

Gone longer than expected sometimes.

Back with no real explanation—but not in a way that feels secretive. Just… vague.

Normal enough.

Everything stays normal enough.

And that’s what makes it easy not to push.

Because you could ask.

You could press. Call it out. Ask what he’s doing, who he’s talking to, and why he’s suddenly so interested in your past.

But—

You don’t.

You’re tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes.

The kind that makes everything feel like too much effort. Even curiosity.

Even confrontation.

So you let it sit.

Let the questions pass through you without sticking.

Let his behavior exist in the background, just another thing you don’t have the energy to pick apart.

You notice.

Of course you notice.

But you don’t follow it.

You don’t dig.

You don’t want to.

Because something in you already feels fragile enough—

and whatever he’s doing…

feels like it might lead somewhere you’re not ready to look at yet.

So you let it go.

For now.

And somewhere just out of reach—

something keeps quietly shifting without you realizing how close it’s getting.

The house is quiet again.

Not the soft, early-morning quiet from before—this one feels flatter. More hollow. Like everything’s been muted just enough that nothing fully lands.

You’re at the table with your laptop open, a half-finished cup of coffee sitting just out of reach. Your inbox is full. Threads stacked on threads, deadlines tucked into subject lines, little red notifications that should probably feel more urgent than they do.

You’re answering them. Typing. Clicking. Responding.

You’re doing everything you’re supposed to be doing.

It just… doesn’t feel like anything.

Your eyes skim over words without really absorbing them. Fingers moving on autopilot. You reread the same sentence twice before realizing you’ve already responded to it.

Functioning.

That’s what this is.

Just… functioning.

Wesley’s in the room with you, somewhere off to the side. Not interrupting. Just present. The quiet kind of company you’ve gotten used to—comfortable enough that you don’t feel the need to fill the space.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Then—

Casual. Almost absent-minded:

“Remind me,” he says, not looking up from whatever he’s doing, “what got you out of Wabang?”

Your fingers pause on the keyboard.

Just for a second.

It shouldn’t hit like that.

It’s a simple question. You’ve answered it before. It’s not new. It’s not deep.

But something about the way he says it—

or maybe just the fact that you’re already… worn thin—

makes it land heavier than it should.

You lean back slightly in your chair, rubbing at your temple before answering.

“My grandmother,” you say, voice even at first. “She told me when I turned eighteen, I could come live with her. Oklahoma.”

Wesley hums quietly.

You keep going, because stopping would make it worse.

“So when I turned eighteen, I left.” A small breath. “Took a bus out of Cheyenne. Took like… two days or so to get there.”

You try to make it sound neutral.

Like it’s just a fact.

Like it didn’t matter.

Wesley’s quiet for a beat.

Then—

“How’d you get to Cheyenne?”

Your chest tightens.

There it is—the part you don’t like touching.

You stare at your screen for a second longer, like maybe you can just… not answer. Let it sit. Let it pass.

But he’s waiting.

And for some reason, you don’t stop it this time.

“…Rhett,” you say.

The name sits in the air heavier than anything else you’ve said all morning.

You swallow, fingers curling slightly against the edge of the table.

“I asked him to take me.”

Your voice shifts.

Subtle, but there.

You’re not just answering anymore.

You’re remembering.

“He drove me,” you continue, quieter now. “Sat with me at the station.”

You blink hard, like that might keep the rest of it from coming.

It doesn’t.

“I watched him—” your voice catches, and you have to stop for a second, breath stuttering as it hits you all at once, “—I watched him just… disappear.”

The room feels smaller.

Closer.

Like it’s pressing in from all sides.

“And I’ve had to deal with that ever since,” you add, words coming faster now, uneven. “Breaking up with my first love, my oldest and best friend… and hurting the greatest person I’d ever known just because my life sucked.”

Your hands are shaking a little now.

You don’t look at Wesley.

You can’t.

Because if you do, you might stop—and you’ve already gone too far to pull it back.

“What would’ve made you stay?” he asks gently.

And that—

That breaks something open.

You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but it isn’t.

“I never would’ve stayed in Wabang,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “I hate that place.”

Another breath.

Unsteady.

“But—” your voice drops, quieter now, more honest than you’ve been in a long time, “Rhett was the only thing keeping me alive at that point in my life.”

Silence.

You finally look at him.

Eyes glassy.

“I loved him,” you say.

There’s no hesitation in it. No softening.

Just truth.

“And I think I always will.”

The words hang there.

Heavy. Final.

Unavoidable.

“He didn’t want me to leave,” you continue, voice breaking now, emotion bleeding through no matter how hard you try to steady it. “But he understood why I did.”

Your breath hitches.

And then it spills—

the part you’ve been holding back the longest.

“But I never should have.”

The admission hits like a punch.

Like saying it out loud makes it real in a way it never fully was before.

Your hands come up to your face for a second, dragging down like you can physically wipe it away.

“I should’ve found a way to stay in touch,” you say, quieter now, but no less raw. “I should’ve—something. Anything.”

Your voice cracks again.

“I just needed him in my life back then,” you whisper. “ God, I need him in my life.”

There’s a pause.

A breath.

And then—

“I hate what me leaving like that did to him…”

That’s the last piece.

The one that lingers.

The one that hurts the most.

You don’t say anything else after that.

You don’t have anything left to say.

Wesley doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t try to fix it.

He just moves closer, slow and careful, like approaching something fragile.

His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into him without pressure, just enough to ground you.

You don’t fight it. You don’t pull away.

You just let yourself be held.

And for a moment—

you finally stop holding it in.

Because…

This is it.

The point you’ve been circling around for two years.

The thing underneath everything else.

Not your father.

Not Wabang.

Not the life you left behind.

It’s him.

It’s always been him.

And now—

you’ve said it out loud.

There’s no putting it back.

Wesley doesn’t let go right away.

He stays there with you for a minute—hand steady on your shoulder, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like he’s trying to ground you without making a big deal out of it. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t fill the silence.

When you finally pull back, it’s quiet.

No dramatic shift. No sudden clarity.

Just… emptied out.

Like everything you’d been holding finally spilled, and now there’s nothing left to keep you upright.

Wesley studies your face for a second, softer now. Careful.

Then, gently—like he’s testing the ground again:

“Hey,” he says, nudging your shoulder lightly. “We could, uh… watch something. Put on Severance. Distract you a little.”

It’s offered casually.

Like it’s no big thing.

Like it might help.

You don’t even hesitate.

“Go ahead,” you say, voice flat again—but thinner now. “I’m not really in the mood.”

He nods.

Doesn’t push.

Doesn’t try again.

Just gives your shoulder a small squeeze before stepping back, letting you go.

You don’t look at him as you stand.

You don’t say anything else.

You just… walk away.

Down the hall.

Back into your room.

—

The door doesn’t close all the way behind you this time.

It stays cracked, light from the hallway cutting a thin line across the floor.

You don’t turn anything on.

You don’t change.

You just sit on the edge of the bed for a second, staring at nothing.

Then slowly, you lie back.

Eyes on the ceiling.

The quiet feels louder in here.

Heavier.

There’s no distraction now. No conversation. No movement to hide inside.

Just you.

And the thing you finally said out loud.

You stare up, breathing shallow, like if you breathe too deep it might pull everything back up again.

You’d thought about therapy.

More than once.

Told yourself it might help to go back. That maybe you needed it. That maybe there was something deeper you weren’t addressing. You’d made so much progress before you slowly stopped going a year before your dad died.

But lying here now, you know.

It’s not confusion.

It’s not something buried or unclear.

It’s simple.

It’s been simple the whole time.

It was never sadness over your father.

It’s not grief, not really—not the kind that’s been sitting in your chest all this time.

And it’s not Wabang.

Not the town. Not the memories. Not the life you left behind.

It’s him.

It’s Rhett.

The name sits in your head like it always has—heavy, familiar, impossible to ignore now that you’ve stopped pretending you could.

You swallow hard, eyes burning as you blink up at the ceiling.

Because it’s not just missing him.

It’s what comes with it.

The what if.

The version of your life you never got to see.

What it would’ve looked like if you’d stayed.

If you’d tried harder.

If you’d found a way to keep him.

If you’d just… done something differently.

You never got to find out.

And now, you’re stuck with that.

That empty space where something real could’ve been.

Your hand shifts slightly on the bed, fingers brushing against something soft.

You don’t have to look.

You already know.

The thistlebear.

Still there. Always there.

You pull it closer without thinking, pressing it against your chest as your eyes finally slip shut.

Your throat tightens.

And the thought comes, quiet but sharp enough to cut through everything else:

You don’t just miss him.

Not in some distant, vague way.

Not like a memory that faded over time.

You miss Rhett specifically.

The way he talked.

The way he looked at you.

The way he held you like you were something steady.

The way he stayed—

until you didn’t.

Your breath catches.

And for the first time in a long time—

you let yourself feel it fully.

No deflection.

No pushing it away.

Just the truth, sitting heavy in your chest:

You miss Rhett Abbott.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

But the house goes quiet around you.

And you stay there—

curled into something that still reminds you of him—

feeling the full weight of everything you never got to have.

This is it. Your new lowest point.

Nothing left to avoid. Nothing left to hide behind.

Just the truth, and how much it still hurts.

—

Two days pass. Not in any meaningful way.

They just… happen.

You move through them the same way you’ve been moving through everything else—quiet, automatic, untouched by anything that might actually shift how you feel. Work gets done. Meals get made. Conversations happen in short, easy fragments that don’t go anywhere deep enough to matter.

Wesley is around. Present.

Normal, for the most part.

If anything, he’s lighter—like he’s made some kind of decision you’re not aware of. But you don’t question it. You don’t have the energy to pull at threads anymore.

So you let it be.

—

It’s late morning again. Some days later. You’ve officially lost track of time.

The kitchen is warm, sunlight stretching across the counters, catching in the sink where you’ve got your hands under running water. Something simple—rinsing produce, wiping something down, moving through another small task without really thinking about it.

Your mind is somewhere else.

Not focused. Not spiraling.

Just… distant.

You dry your hands absently on a towel, turning back toward the counter—

Knock.

The sound cuts clean through the quiet.

Sharp enough to make you pause.

You glance toward the hallway, frowning slightly.

“Wes?” you call, not moving yet. “Can you get that?”

No answer.

You wait a second.

Nothing.

You huff quietly under your breath, tossing the towel onto the counter.

“He probably went to the store,” you mutter to yourself, already heading toward the door.

Your footsteps are slow. Unhurried. There’s no reason to think anything of it—just someone at the door, middle of the day, normal as anything else.

You reach the handle, hand resting on it for a brief second before pulling it open.

And for a moment, everything still feels completely ordinary.

The door swings open—

—and Wesley is standing there.

Not inside. Not halfway down the hall.

Right there on the other side of the threshold, like he’s been waiting.

Leaning casually against the frame, one shoulder braced like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like, he didn’t just ignore you calling his name two seconds ago.

You blink at him.

“…what are you doing?” you ask, a small laugh slipping out before you can stop it. Confused more than anything.

He just grins. Too easy. Too relaxed.

“What?” he says, tone light, teasing in that familiar way that usually means he’s about to say something dumb. “I can’t come home and say hi?”

You narrow your eyes slightly, leaning into the door a bit, studying him now.

“I thought you were already home,” you point out. “I literally just called for you.”

“Did you?” he says, not even trying to sound convincing. “Must’ve missed it. Because I’m right here!”

There’s something off. Not wrong—just… different. A kind of energy you can’t quite place.

He’s a little too composed. A little too aware of himself. Like he’s holding onto something just out of sight and trying not to give it away.

You tilt your head, squinting at him, light smile still on your face.

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m always weird,” he shoots back immediately, pushing off the frame just enough to shift his weight.

You snort softly despite yourself.

“Yeah, but this is like—” you gesture vaguely, searching for the word, “—planned weird.”

He opens his mouth to respond, and then, a second sound.

Behind him. A quiet shift of movement. A low, barely-there exhale.

You freeze.

Because the voice that follows—

is male.

And for a split second, your brain doesn’t recognize it.

It’s not loud. Not clear enough to fully place.

But it’s there.

And something about it, something deep and immediate, makes your stomach drop.

You straighten slowly, your eyes flicking past Wesley’s shoulder.

“…who is that?” you ask, voice quieter now. Sharper.

Wesley doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you.

Still smiling. But softer now.

Almost… anticipatory.

And in that tiny space of silence, everything shifts.

The air tightens.

Your chest pulls tight with it.

Because suddenly, this doesn’t feel normal anymore.

It feels like something is about to happen.

Wesley doesn’t break eye contact with you.

Not right away.

He just… watches you for a second, like he’s waiting for something to click into place. Like he knows exactly what’s about to happen, and you’re the only one not caught up yet.

Then he shifts, just slightly.

“Okay,” he says, softer now. “Don’t be mad at me.”

Your brows pull together.

“…why would I be?” you ask, your voice even quieter than before, something uneasy starting to creep in.

Wesley exhales through a small smile, glancing over his shoulder for just a second before looking back at you.

“I didn’t go to the store.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I, uh…” he rocks back on his heels a little, like he’s bracing himself. “I went to the airport.”

That doesn’t help. If anything, it makes less sense.

“…why would you go to an airport?” you ask, almost under your breath now, your chest tightening for reasons you can’t quite explain yet.

Wesley doesn’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, he reaches back, out of your line of sight—

and grabs someone.

Pulls them forward.

It happens fast. Too fast for your brain to catch up.

There’s a brief shift of movement, a figure stepping into frame, adjusting slightly like they weren’t expecting to be yanked that hard—

And then—

You see him.

Rhett.

Rhett Abbott.

Everything stops. Not in a dramatic way.

Not in a loud, overwhelming rush.

Just—stops.

Your brain doesn’t process it. Doesn’t try to question it or make sense of it or even confirm that it’s real.

Your body moves first. You don’t think. You don’t hesitate.

You just—

go.

You cross the space between you in a single, breathless step, arms wrapping around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like you never stopped. Like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Rhett catches you instantly. No delay. No surprise strong enough to slow him down.

His arms come around you just as fast—tight, solid, like he was already ready for it. Like he’s been waiting for it.

You bury your face into his shoulder before you even realize you’re crying.

It hits you all at once. Not slow. Not controlled.

Hot and immediate, your fingers gripping at the back of his shirt like if you let go, he might disappear again.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

He just holds you. Just as tight.

One hand pressing into your back, the other coming up instinctively to cradle the back of your head, pulling you closer like there’s no version of this where he lets you go first.

His breath stutters once against your hair.

Then steadies.

And he just stays there.

Holding you like he remembers exactly how.

Like he never forgot.

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world to fall right back into.

And in that moment, there’s no distance.

No time passed.

No second goodbye.

Just this. Just him. Just you.

Instinct. Muscle memory. Home.

You don’t realize how tight you’re holding onto him until your lungs start to burn.

Until breathing becomes something you actually have to think about.

Your grip loosens just enough for you to pull back—slow, reluctant, like your body doesn’t fully trust that he’ll still be there if you create even a little space.

But he is.

Right there.

Hands still on you. Warm. Solid. Real.

You stare at him, eyes scanning his face like you’re trying to memorize it all over again—every line, every shift, every tiny change time might’ve made.

“…what are you doing here?” you ask, voice unsteady, still catching on the edges of everything you haven’t processed yet.

Rhett doesn’t answer right away.

His hands stay where they are—one now at your waist, one still resting lightly at your back—but there’s a hesitation in him now. A flicker of something uncertain passes across his face.

Like he doesn’t know where to start. Like he’s not sure what you’re going to say next.

The silence stretches just a second too long.

And something in your chest twists.

The question changes before you can stop it.

“…why didn’t you give me your number?”

It’s quieter. Sharper.

Less confusion—more hurt.

Rhett’s expression shifts instantly.

The hesitation disappears.

“Why didn’t you come after me?” he shoots back, just as quick, just as raw.

No pause. No filter.

Just truth.

It lands hard.

Right between you.

And for a second, neither of you says anything.

Because there it is. The same thing. The same mistake. The same missed moment that stretched into years.

You both just… stand there. Looking at each other.

Realizing at the exact same time:

You were both waiting.

And neither of you moved.

—

“Oh-kaaaay—”

Wesley’s voice cuts in, firm but not harsh.

“—both of you are idiots.”

You don’t even react to that.

Don’t look away from Rhett. Don’t step back.

Wesley steps closer anyway, inserting himself just enough into the space between you to shift the moment without breaking it.

He looks at Rhett, brows raised like he’s already over this entire situation.

“Tell her.”

Rhett exhales.

It’s subtle—but you feel it.

A small drop in his shoulders. A quiet release of something he’s been holding in.

And when he looks back at you, there’s something different there now.

Less guarded. More… exposed. Nervous, even.

Like whatever he’s about to say actually matters.

Like he doesn’t get another shot at it if he gets it wrong.

His hands tighten slightly at your waist, grounding himself more than you.

Then he takes a breath.

And finally—

starts to speak.

But It didn’t start here.

It started months ago.

Wesley had already been to Wabang once before.

He knew nothing of the roads. He did know how the town felt—too quiet in the wrong ways, too open in others. Knew what it meant to you without you ever really having to say it.

So when he drove back in, it wasn’t too unfamiliar. Just… unfinished.

He didn’t have to ask around long.

A name like Rhett Abbott didn’t exactly hide.

Still—he asked anyway to a local law enforcement officer. Didn’t see the name on his badge, but still hoped for the best.

“Do you know where I would find a Rhett Abbott?”

A pause. The officer glanced Wesley up and down briefly, then gave a quick nod. A point.

“Out that way. Towards Abbott Ranch. You really can’t miss it.”

The drive out felt like it took ages. Wesley didn’t know the way, just really hoped he landed on the right farm.

There were long stretches of land. Fences cutting across fields. Dust trailing behind him as the town disappeared in the rearview.

Rhett wasn’t expecting him.

That much was obvious the second he stepped out onto the porch—wiping his hands on his jeans, squinting into the sun as the car pulled up.

A stunned pause.

Then—recognition.

“…W-Wesley?”

Confusion follows just as fast, brows pulling together as he steps down off the porch.

“…what the hell r’you doin’ here?”

Wesley shuts the car door like this is normal.

Like he didn’t just travel halfway across the country on a mission he didn’t bother explaining to anyone.

“You know exactly why I’m here.”

Rhett’s expression tightens slightly at that. Not defensive—just… bracing.

“…she okay?”

There it is. Straight to the point.

Wesley exhales through his nose.

“Define okay.”

Silence drops between them immediately.

Heavy. Familiar.

Rhett looks away for half a second—jaw tightening, something unsettled moving under the surface before he looks back.

Wesley doesn’t give him time to sit in it.

“She’s miserable.”

A gesture to Rhett.

“You look like you’re miserable.”

Another gesture to himself.

“I’m tired of watching it.”

Rhett doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push back. Doesn’t pretend that’s not exactly what’s been happening.

He just… takes it.

Because he knows it’s true.

A long breath leaves him, slow and controlled, like he’s been holding it in for a while.

“…I haven’t stopped thinking about her,” he admits.

Quiet. Honest in a way that doesn’t need dressing up.

“Not for a second.”

Wesley watches him carefully. Measuring. Making sure this isn’t just nostalgia talking.

It’s not.

“Cool,” Wesley says, nodding once. “Then come fix it.”

Rhett blinks, brows nearly touching in confusion.

“…what?”

“Move.”

Simple. Direct.

“There are ranches in Arizona. Jobs. Land. You don’t have to stay here.” Wesley gestures vaguely around them. “You can start over somewhere that isn’t tied to all this, where you two can be happy together.”

Rhett lets out a short breath, something between disbelief and disbelief that this conversation is even happening.

“…you’re tellin’ me to just pack up and follow her across the country?”

“I’m telling you to stop sitting here acting like you don’t have choices.”

That lands. But it doesn’t settle everything.

Rhett shakes his head slightly, running a hand over the back of his neck.

“Nah…she doesn’t want me there.”

That’s the hesitation. Not fear of leaving. Fear of you.

“You don’t know that,” Wesley says, quieter now.

Rhett exhales, looking off toward the fields for a second.

“…she left me. Twice.”

The words sit heavy.

“I’m not gonna show up somewhere I’m not wanted.”

There it is. The line he won’t cross.

Wesley studies him for a long second. Then steps closer—just enough to shift the weight of the moment.

“She didn’t leave because she didn’t want you.”

Wesley sighed and lightly nudged his shoulder with his fist. 

“She left because her life was a mess and she didn’t know how to keep you in it without hurting you.”

Rhett doesn’t respond right away. But something shifts in his expression. Something quieter. Something that looks a lot like… recognition.

Wesley presses just a little more.

“And yeah—you could sit here and respect that forever.”

He takes a small breath.

“Or you could actually do something about it.”

Silence stretches again. Longer this time.

Wesley’s voice softens, just slightly.

“And look, I don’t hate you.”

Rhett glances back at him at that, one brow raised.

“So you being around shouldn’t be a problem.”

Wesley pauses.

“And she needs you, too.”

That’s the one that sticks.

Rhett looks past him again. Out at the land. At everything he’s been standing in. Everything that’s stayed exactly the same.

Then back.

A long breath. Something settling. Locking into place.

“…I let her go once,” he says quietly.

A pause to correct himself.

“…twice.”

His jaw sets—not hard, not angry—just certain.

“I ain’t lettin’ her slip away again.”

And just like that, the decision is made.

Everything after that… moves.

 And now—standing in your doorway— you’re finally seeing what that choice looks like.

The room feels different when it settles back after Rhett and Wesley’s story.

Like everything shifted while you weren’t looking.

You’re still standing there, still close to him, still trying to catch your breath—but now there’s context wrapped around it. Something you didn’t have a second ago.

You replay it in your head without meaning to.

He did try.

Not the way you expected. Not the way you would’ve recognized.

But he did.

And suddenly, all those empty spaces you filled in yourself, all those assumptions you sat with for two years, don’t fit the same anymore.

Your eyes stay on him, searching, softer now but heavier in a different way.

“…you moved?” you ask quietly, like you’re still trying to catch up to it.

Rhett shifts closer when you don’t pull away. Careful. Like he’s still not entirely sure where the line is. But he steps in anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now, steadier but still edged with something vulnerable. “Didn’t know if you’d want me to—but…” he trails off slightly, then looks at you fully. “Couldn’t stay there.”

Rhett pauses, then continues, quieter—something deeper underneath it:

“I watched you leave once…”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t look away.

“…I ain’t doin’ that again.”

And that—

That’s it.

That’s the thing that finally breaks whatever you were still holding together.

It hits straight through everything you’ve been carrying. Every version of that moment. Every time you replayed it differently. Every “what if” that never had an answer.

You feel it before you even react to it. Your chest tightens, your throat closing up as something sharp and overwhelming pushes up all at once.

And this time, you don’t try to hold it back.

Not even a little.

You step into him like it’s the only place that makes sense. Like it always has.

“I didn’t know how to come back,” you say, voice breaking as soon as the words leave you. “I didn’t—I didn’t know if I was allowed to after everything.”

Rhett’s hands come up instinctively, steadying you, grounding you.

“I didn’t know if I was supposed to go after you,” he admits, just as quietly. “Didn’t know if that’s what you wanted.”

There’s no edge to it. No blame.

Just… truth. Simple and honest in a way neither of you ever let it be before.

“I never stopped loving you,” you say, the words coming out easier now that they’re finally free. “Not once. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

Rhett’s expression shifts—something soft breaking open behind his eyes.

“Me neither,” he says.

And there it is. No confusion. No guessing. No silence stretching things into something they were never meant to be.

Just two people who never stopped, finally saying it out loud.

You don’t think about it this time. You don’t hesitate. You just close the space between you and kiss him.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. There’s no frantic edge to it, no need to prove anything or make up for lost time all at once.

It’s steady. Certain.

Your hands settle against him like they remember exactly where they’re supposed to go. His grip on you tightens just enough to keep you there—not pulling, not forcing—just holding.

Like he’s not taking any chances this time. And you don’t pull away.  Because this doesn’t feel like something starting.

It doesn’t feel new. It feels like something you left mid-sentence finally being finished.

Not a beginning. A return.

The kiss lingers for a second longer before you pull back.

Not far. Just enough to breathe.

Rhett’s still close—hands still at your waist, forehead almost brushing yours like neither of you is ready to create real distance yet.

And for a moment, it’s quiet again.

Not heavy like before. Not tense.

Just… full.

“Okay, great.”

Wesley’s voice cuts in, dry and entirely unimpressed.

“Love that for you guys.”

You let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, pulling back just a little more as reality starts to settle back in around you.

Wesley’s leaning against the wall now, arms crossed, watching the two of you like he’s been waiting for this exact outcome the whole time.

Which… he has.

There’s something soft in his expression, though. Subtle. Easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.

Satisfied. Like something he’s been working toward finally landed where it was supposed to.

But of course, he doesn’t let it stay there long.

“Let’s just—quick note,” he continues, pushing off the wall and stepping further into the room. “Don’t fuck this up.”

You snort, wiping at your face with the back of your hand.

“Wesley—”

“And,” he adds, holding up a finger like he’s not done yet, “do not get pregnant. I do not want to listen to a screaming baby every night.”

You let out an actual laugh at that, shaking your head. “Oh my god.”

He shrugs, already turning away like he’s said what he needed to say. “I’m serious. Boundaries.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you call after him.

“Correct,” he shoots back over his shoulder, already damn near sashaying down the hall. “And I’m right.”

You glance back at Rhett, a small, disbelieving smile still sitting on your face.

“…that’s the gayest he’s ever been,” you mutter.

Rhett huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, but his hand doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t even loosen.

Wesley disappears into the other room like this is just another normal day.

Like he didn’t just orchestrate the most emotionally charged moment of your life.

But the truth of it sits there anyway.

In the way he doesn’t look back. In the way he doesn’t hover. In the way he lets you have this without trying to control what happens next.

He didn’t just stumble into this.

He planned it. Every piece of it.

All the questions. The weird behavior. The disappearing acts.

The airport.

Rhett.

All of it.

He gave you both something you never managed to give yourselves.

A second chance.

And for the first time—

it actually feels like you might not waste it.

—

The quiet settles again after Wesley disappears down the hall.

Not heavy like before.

Just… softer now. Easier.

You’re still standing close to Rhett, your hand caught loosely in his, your forehead brushing his for a second longer than necessary—like neither of you is quite ready to step away from it yet.

But something in the moment shifts.

Not breaking—just easing. The intensity that had everything pulled tight starts to loosen, just a little.

You let out a small breath, your thumb brushing absently against his hand where you’re still holding on.

Then, without really thinking about it, you tug him gently.

“C’mon,” you murmur, voice quieter now, softer.

Not rushed. Not pulling him anywhere specific.

Just… bringing him with you.

Inside.

Rhett follows easily.

No resistance. No hesitation. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to let you lead him somewhere again.

His hand stays in yours as you step further into the house, the door left open behind you for a second before he reaches back and pushes it shut without looking.

The sound clicks softly into place.

And just like that, he’s in your space.

Your life.

Rhett slows as he steps in.

Not stopping completely—but enough that you feel the shift through your hand.

His grip stays loose, steady. Grounded.

But his attention moves.

You can see it in the way his eyes track across the room.

Taking it in piece by piece.

The layout. The furniture.

The little things that make it yours—things that don’t mean anything to anyone else but say everything about how you live now.

A blanket thrown over the back of the couch. A mug left out from earlier. Books stacked unevenly on the table. The small, quiet evidence of a life built in a place that isn’t Wabang.

That isn’t him. Not yet.

There’s no judgment in it. No discomfort.

Just… curiosity.

And something softer underneath that. Something quieter.

Like he’s trying to understand it. Trying to see where he fits into it.

Or if he does at all.

His thumb brushes lightly against yours without him thinking about it.

Still there. Still holding on.

And for the first time, he’s seeing you not as you were.

But as you are now.

Rhett’s hand goes still in yours.

It’s subtle at first. Just a slight pause in his step—barely enough to register until the space between you shifts.

You take another step forward before you feel it.

The absence.

You glance back—

—and he’s not beside you anymore.

He’s stopped.

Completely.

Standing just inside the room, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on something ahead of him.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

Just… stares.

Your gaze follows his.

To the couch.

And there—

like it’s the most normal thing in the world—

sits the thistlebear.

Tucked into the corner, exactly where it always ends up.

Worn soft. Familiar. Yours.

And loosely wrapped around it:

An orange corn snake.

Curled easily. Relaxed. Loosely wrapped around the bear like it belongs there just as much as anything else in the room.

The scene is calm. Unremarkable.

Completely ordinary in this house.

Rhett does not process it that way.

He stands there like his brain just… stalled out.

Trying to make sense of two things that absolutely should not be existing in the same space.

The bear.

And the snake.

Together.

The silence stretches just long enough to feel awkward.

Rhett doesn’t move.

Doesn’t step back. Doesn’t step forward.

Just stands there, eyes locked on the couch like if he looks away, it might move.

Then, carefully—

“…uh.”

You turn immediately.

Wesley does too, leaning halfway back into the room like he’s been waiting for something to go wrong.

“What?” you ask, following Rhett’s line of sight for half a second before looking back at him.

Rhett doesn’t take his eyes off the couch.

He just lifts his hand slightly—barely a gesture, more of a point without committing to it.

“…there’s a snake.”

You glance over. And then back.

“Oh,” you say, completely unfazed. “That’s Earle.”

Rhett’s head turns slowly toward you. Like his brain is trying to catch up to a sentence that did not make anything better.

“…who… the fuck… is Earle?”

“Natalie’s brother????” Wesley answers immediately, like that should clear everything up.

He steps fully into the room now, pointing lazily toward the side table like this is a completely normal continuation of the conversation.

“And that’s Natalie.”

Rhett’s gaze follows.

To the side table, where a second snake sits.

Balled up. Still. Tongue flittering occasionally. Brown this time. Tucked neatly into itself like it’s just… existing.

Rhett blinks. Once. Twice.

“…there are two of them.”

Rhett doesn’t say anything else right away.

He just… looks.

Couch—snake—bear.

Back again.

Then over to the table—second snake.

And back.

It’s slow. Deliberate. Like his brain is trying to file this under something that makes sense, but comes up completely empty.

He doesn’t react the way most people would.

No jumping back. No loud panic.

Just—

a blink. Another. A quiet kind of stillness that reads less like fear and more like his entire system buffering.

His eyes land on the bear again.

And this time—

it’s different.

You can see the recognition hit.

Subtle, but there.

His gaze softens just a fraction, something familiar slipping in under the confusion.

He knows it.

Of course he does.

He’d recognize it anywhere.

The stitching. The shape. The way one ear sits just slightly off.

She still has it…

The thought comes easy. Immediate.

She kept it.

All this time.

Then his focus shifts again.

Back to the snake.

Wrapped around it like it belongs there.

And his brain tries—really tries—to make sense of that.

She lets that thing near something I gave her…

There’s a pause in him. A quiet recalculation.

…she must really love it.

And then, quieter still. Not something he says. Not something he’d even admit out loud.

Just something that settles in the background of everything else:

She never let me go either.

You’ve been watching him this whole time.

At first, because it was funny.

Then, because it wasn’t.

Not exactly.

You can see it now.

The way his shoulders hold just a little too tight. The way his stance hasn’t fully relaxed. The way his eyes keep flicking between things like he’s trying to orient himself in a space that doesn’t quite match anything he expected.

It’s not fear.

Not really.

It’s something softer. Something quieter.

Like he’s just… slightly out of place.

Like he stepped into a version of your life that kept moving without him—

and he’s trying to figure out where he fits into it now.

You don’t say anything right away. You just watch him for another second—really watch him.

And then you step back into him.

Close enough that it’s natural. Easy.

Your arms slide around him gently, settling at his sides like they’ve done this a thousand times before, like your body already knows exactly where it wants to be.

He stiffens just slightly at the contact—

not pulling away, not startled—

just… adjusting.

You tilt your head up at him, a small, knowing smile pulling at your mouth.

“They’re harmless,” you say softly. “Promise.”

But it’s not really about the snakes.

Not fully.

It’s in the way your arms stay where they are.

In the way, you don’t hesitate to touch him.

In the way your voice softens just enough that it implies you’re safe here and you belong here too.

Rhett lets out a slow breath.

You feel it more than you hear it—something in him loosening, just a fraction.

One of his hands comes up, settling carefully at your back. Not tight. Not pulling.

Just… there. Grounding.

He glances back toward the couch one more time, like he needs to confirm it’s still happening.

“…you got snakes now,” he mutters, tone somewhere between disbelief and quiet acceptance.

You shrug lightly against him.

“Don’t be dramatic.”

A soft snort comes from across the room.

Wesley, of course.

“Yeah, Rhett,” he calls lazily. “They’ve been here longer than you have.”

Rhett huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh, shaking his head slightly.

And just like that, the edge of the moment softens.

Not gone. Just… eased.

The tension that had everything pulled tight a second ago slips away, replaced by something lighter. Familiar in a different way. Easier to breathe in.

You stay close. He doesn’t move away.

And for the first time since he walked through that door—

he’s not just standing in the middle of a memory.

Not just the past you left behind.

Not just the reunion that crashed into your life out of nowhere.

He’s here.

In your space.

In your life.

And somehow—

it already feels like he fits.

—

Time passes without either of you really noticing when it starts.

The afternoon fades into evening in that slow, quiet way—light softening through the windows, shadows stretching longer across the floor, the warmth of the day settling into something cooler, calmer.

Nothing big happens.

No more heavy conversations. No more breaking things open.

Just… time.

Talking a little. Not about anything important. Small things. Easy things. Enough to fill the space without overwhelming it.

At some point, Wesley disappears into the house for good—music faintly playing from somewhere down the hall, the occasional thud of him moving around, giving you both space without making it obvious.

And before you realize it, you and Rhett end up outside.

The porch is quiet.

The air’s cooled off, carrying that soft edge of night settling in. Crickets hum somewhere out in the distance, wind moving lightly through the trees, everything around you still in that steady, unhurried way.

You sit side by side. Close. But not touching.

Not yet. There’s no urgency to it. No need to fill the silence right away.

You just… exist there together. Breathing the same air. Letting it be enough.

Your hand rests beside you on the wood, fingers brushing faintly against the grain as you shift slightly.

It drifts. Not intentional. Not planned. Just… moving. Until it finds his.

Rhett’s hand stills the second yours touches it.

Then, without hesitation, his fingers lace through yours.

Easy. Certain. Like it’s always been that simple.

Neither of you speaks right away.

There’s no rush.

No pressure to say something profound or fix anything that’s already been settled.

The quiet holds.

Comfortable now. Real.

Then, after a moment—

Rhett shifts just enough to look at you.

His voice is low when he speaks.

Steady.

“I ain’t leavin’ again.”

The words land without weight this time.

Not heavy. Not desperate.

Just… true.

You turn your head toward him. And there’s no hesitation.

No second-guessing. No fear creeping in to complicate it.

“…then don’t.”

Simple. Certain. Enough.

His fingers tighten around yours, just slightly.

You lean into him without thinking, your shoulder settling against his, your head brushing lightly against him as everything finally—finally—feels like it’s landed somewhere solid.

Inside, something crashes.

Wesley’s voice follows immediately after, loud and dramatic from somewhere in the house.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME—”

You both laugh. Soft. Easy.

And it doesn’t break the moment.

If anything, it settles it deeper. Because this—

this quiet, this closeness, this life starting to fold together around you—

it doesn’t feel fragile. It feels like something that might actually hold.

The laughter fades, but the quiet doesn’t break.

It settles again, easy and familiar, like it knows how to hold the moment without interrupting it.

You stay where you are, leaned into him, your hand still laced with his. Neither of you moves to pull away. There’s no reason to.

The night deepens around you, the sound of crickets steady, the air cooler now against your skin. The porch creaks softly under the shift of your weight, a small reminder that you’re here. That this is real.

Rhett’s thumb brushes once over your hand, absent and grounding all at once. You don’t look at him. You don’t need to.

Because for the first time in a long time, there’s nothing chasing at the edges of your thoughts. No version of something that could’ve been. No question waiting for an answer that never came.

No distance left to close. No moment left unfinished.

Just this. Sitting side by side.

Not holding onto something slipping away. Not reaching for something you missed. Not wondering what it would’ve been like if things had gone differently.

Just—

staying.

-more of my works here-

[quietbluetune]

The Unexpected Bend — B.R.

bob reynolds x fem val’s assistant!reader

summary: pretending you weren’t falling for your boss’s newly recruited superhero is harder than you expected it to be— especially when you can’t seem to set aside your guilt surrounding him and he can’t help but want you anyway

or, two times you lied to bob reynolds, and the one time you didn’t

warnings: 18+, suggestive content but not full smut, heavy making out, grinding, very sensual, slow burn-ish, angst, mutual pining, reader is insecure, valentina is way more evil, the team doesn’t really know how to handle bob’s mental health yet, slight mentions of alcohol (i don’t actually think bob would drink tbh but)

word count: 28.9k (sorry, i got carried away) ao3, masterlist

author’s note: i wrote this two months ago, but this is my first finished and published work— so i think i’ve been scared to actually share it. i’ve been procrastinating and over-editing to avoid it, but it’s something i had fun doing— so if even one person reads it and enjoys, that’s a success in my book! i’d also like to point out that i know there’s discourse on how some tend to infantilize bob and i don’t want that to come across in my writing at all, as i strongly agree that his mental struggles are often misrepresented. a part of this work gently (!!) explores that subject… you’ll see. oh, also yes, i know i use em dashes oddly. idk i’m rambling— please enjoy!

Crestfallen, you walk, a jump at the click of your heels each time they meet the sullen pavement.

It echoes low, muffled sounds trapped between dense, concrete buildings and sticky, summer heat that burns off in the wake of night. This part of the city wasn’t home; it wasn’t much of anything yet— Just another block that looked like all the others, reminding you through the wind that whipped past windows and wove with intention that you still did not yet belong. 

None of it felt right: not the crosswalks you passed through, not the clothes you wore to look the part—tight, restrictive, unforgiving—not even when you finally reached the Watchtower, unrecognizable, a shell of itself and its memories. 

You used to be able to see it from your old job, just a blink away— An unmistakable beacon shining through the city. It was your favorite building to look at from your office late at night, the light dimming from your eyes as you got lost in your work, yet still found in the faint glow of an A that somehow continued to push you along.

Now, you didn’t dwell on what you felt twisting deep in your core when you saw it, absent-mindedly heading up after scanning your security clearance badges and sharing a routine nod with the doorman.

It was best not to think about it.

Soon, you’d be home and could try to forget who you were for a few hours before it pulled you back in again— Same loop, same lethargy.

Soon, you could just pretend to be someone else again.

You never got off easy, though— Still navigating the endless tasks through the city despite the promise of an 8 pm release. At least no one would be around, so you could make quick work of this one last thing.

And you wished that was still the case when the elevator finally opened to the top floor, reaching the end of your night that somehow only turned into the beginning.

The scent of familiarity—of warmth and peace—that allowed you to exhale a strained breath was the same thing that took it away again, making you freeze abruptly. Your heels scraped against the newly renovated marble, your stiff body hovering uncomfortably in the wake of the warm glow of a very occupied kitchen.

Everything about it caught you off guard, considering you not only were expecting the residential floor to be empty, but the kitchen was almost never used— At least when you were around. 

Bucky was used to frozen… maybe that was a bad choice of words, but it was true. Yelena’s grocery list usually consisted of ramen and box mac and cheeses, Alexei made a meal of team-sponsored junk foods, John and Ava relied heavily on DoorDash, and Bob— Well, you never saw Bob with anything in his hand other than a book or his other hand, wringing in nervous, futile energy. 

Until now. 

You didn’t know much about Bob, admittedly avoiding him a bit— Which he made good on, considering he wasn’t exactly a socialite himself. Part of it was because of the guilt that hung heavy in your chest when you’d catch his eye, the other something else entirely you couldn’t quite place. What you did know of Bob was that he never seemed entirely sure of himself. It radiated through his movements, his smile, his pace, and his laugh. It was doubt that covered him completely, coursing through his veins and mingling with an ice of a power too intense for him to even begin to understand. 

And that was evident as you caught him stuck in his own world— A bit removed from the situation you had just walked into, loosely wading through the kitchen, all like he was looking for something that didn’t want to be found.

His steady grip was wound around a wooden spoon— One you didn’t even know the building owned, considering it was never used, bleeding into the background with other untouched reminders of normalcy and an ordinary life. 

Fingers danced over each other around the handle, then found their way to the nape of his neck, rubbing and searching for a thought as he hung his head over a tablet on the counter, eyes looming down through loose, wavy strands. 

His hair was still that unsettling shade of blonde you hated to see— The shade you tried not to think of, yet could never really forget.

You clear your throat, unsure how to handle the silence the two of you occupied— Him unknowingly, and you, not so much. The sound cuts through the low drone of an old stereo haphazardly plugged in at the corner of the open-concept space, playing an even older song. 

His attention shoots up to you, his spine abruptly straightening as his eyes fall on you. The spoon he clung to rattles against the granite as his fingers twitched it free. 

“Oh, h-hi, uh, sorry,” he rambles, pale complexion flushing a soft and supple pink. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I Can’t Begin to Tell You,” you state, inhaling a breath and finding your feet carrying you to the island where he stood.

“What?” His eyebrows meet each other, knit in confusion at your statement. 

“I Can’t Begin to Tell You,” you repeat, setting down your stack of papers and bag on the corner of the expansive surface, gesturing over to the stereo. “Henry James.” 

His eyes follow your finger and relax when he realizes what you meant. “Oh,” he laughs gently, a hesitant yet sweet sound you wished he would share more often. “Right. It’s, uh, not mine.”

Part of you already knew that, noticing the building was still haunted with old stacks of belongings that had lived a million lives before— Stories and memories whispering behind the layer of dust that dulled them until they were forgotten. Forgotten by time, by people, by what—and who—they were once loved by. 

“I think it was Captain Rogers’,” he continues, eyes darting away from the quick glances they stole of yours and back to his work on the stove behind him. “It just gets… quiet.”

“Too quiet,” you add, understanding the loneliness this city could drown you in.

His back stiffens at that before he glances over his shoulder at you. 

“Yeah.” He says it so quietly you almost wondered if he had even said it at all or if you were just subconsciously filling in the blanks of what intent his eyes held.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” You change the subject, not wanting his mind to linger on the heaviness you could sense echoing in his voice, on the weight that held in the air, pushing his tone flat. “I’ll get out of your way, I just had to drop some stuff off on my way home.” 

The simmering pan on the stove began to pop, on the edge of a boil. Steam quickly filled the large room, causing Bob to fiddle with the burner until it turned to smoke. 

He mumbled under his breath as he made quick work of pulling it off the burner, fanning his hand in pain after some of the hot liquid splashed on his skin— Yet he still made sure to take notice of your words.

“No, no— It’s no bother, really,” he rushes, wiping the evidence of his bubbling dish off the stove and counter. “Everyone’s out for the night so it’s just me… so I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here either.” 

A crooked smile pulls briefly at the corner of his lips, sincerity flashing in his eyes when he turns to meet you. It melted you a bit, how much he longed for the company, but you didn’t want it to— You didn’t want to stay, not with him. Not when you still felt the way you did around him.

Not like this. 

“What’s in the folder?” He tilts his chin at the stack of documents you brought over, cluttering the otherwise clean counter— That is, aside from the mess of Bob’s cooking: the spices—virtually all of them—the utensils, dishes, and ingredients all sprawled across his work space. It looked like he was deep into crafting something way too complicated for you to understand. 

“Boring stuff.”

That wasn’t entirely true; the folder actually contained some pretty important legal documents sent over by Sam Wilson. A few brand deals that needed some signatures, some mission reports you sorted through and needed to be filed, a cease and desist… You didn’t want to worry him with any of that. 

“What’s in the dish?” you ask back, changing the subject again so he wouldn’t ask any more questions he wouldn’t necessarily want the answers to. “I didn’t know you cooked.” 

He fiddles with the hem of his sweater— Big and baggy and olive green, just like he always wore.  

“Oh, I-I don’t. Need to find ways to be part of the team, right?”

You shift your weight, trying to meet his eyes, but he keeps them busy elsewhere— Tidying the kitchen and finding aimless work. 

There was a tinge in your heart from his words, dripping with a layer of self-deprecation he tried so hard to hide— His tone chipper, all like he wasn’t finding new ways to put himself down at every turn. 

“You are part of the team. You do plenty, Bob.” His head snaps up at that, finding your eyes, a shyness behind them, waiting for you to continue, for you to say it’s a lie, for you to take it back. You didn’t. “You’re the strongest person on this team. Truly.”

He was quiet for a moment, not sure what to say, his mind racing incessantly as he waded in your words, drowning in what to do with everything you’d said. You didn’t mean to overwhelm him, but you hated when he dismissed himself, when he diminished his impact. 

“That’s the other guy,” he offers gently, a sense of melancholy lacing his tone. He says it with a half-smile—reassuring—all like it wasn’t breaking him to say. “That’s the Sentry.”

“Bob…” Your voice trails off unintentionally— A losing battle on what to say back, on how to tell him that it’s not true.

That he’s more than his other facets he despised. 

“Can you, uh, do you— I mean, do you want to, uh, to try?” He gestures to the meal, fidgeting with his hands, nervously tumbling over his words. “Since everyone’s still not back, you know? I could use the feedback.” 

In another world, you’d want to, your heart skipping a beat at his timid offering, so sweet and gentle, so honest. But you couldn’t shake your hesitation that still pulled you back, reminding you against your will of what you’ve done to him. 

You couldn’t open that door.

“I wouldn’t want to impose…” 

“No, really, you’re not.” He hurries back to his dish, assembling everything on a clean plate before you could say another word— A pair of them, one for each of you. 

“Ava, Yelena, and Alexei are training.”

They were on recon… for something Bob didn’t know about.

“Bucky’s doing congress stuff.”

Bucky was with Sam.

“And Walker… I’m not sure where he is, actually.”  

Similarly, neither did you.

“So no one will be back for a bit.” 

It would be longer than a bit, you already knew that. But he didn’t. 

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be left alone,” you point out, tone balancing on the edge of teasing and seriousness. You hated how it made you sound like a lecturing-parent—wandering mind trying to pinpoint how it made him feel too—but you know how the team was with him since everything happened so recently. You know they worried about him, even if they wore it close to the vest— Know they avoided all being gone at the same time because they don’t like for him to dwell in silence for too long alone.

You didn’t like it either, which is why it was even harder for you to fight yourself into leaving. 

Then he says, 

“Just another reason you should stay.” 

Well, you walked right into that one. 

He was quick with his answer, completing the plates and setting them down, looking at you delicately, like he said too much. “Uh, u-unless you don’t want to. Sorry, I don’t wanna be annoying, I, uh—”

“No, it’s okay.” You give in, your heart breaking at his sudden embarrassment— Like he pushed you too far when in reality, all he was doing was being kind, just like always. “I’d love to. I haven’t eaten yet, anyways… so, thank you.” 

You allow yourself to relax a bit, still nervous at being in his presence with all you held onto, letting yourself find one of the barstools and wait patiently for his masterpiece that he placed in front of you, accompanied by a glass of red wine, which you would never turn down. 

“So, what’s for dinner, Chef?”

It warmed you to watch him smile for a split second, that same pink flush you recognized from earlier creep across his cheeks, scratching the back of his head as he sheepishly averts his eyes and takes a seat adjacent to you, waiting intently now. 

“Penne,” he says nonchalantly, and you tried to fight the up turn that begged to come through at the corner of your mouth. “With tomato sauce.”

“Did you make the sauce from scratch or something…?” you ask gently, scanning around the room at the kitchen, covered in evidence of what seemed like hours of hard work and love— The same delicious smell that knocked you back when you walked in still wafting through the air, dancing with the faint glow of warm kitchen lights and delicate beginnings. 

“No, it’s just a canned one,” he answers sheepishly, somehow wrapped in even more shy, timid manners, his baggy sleeve coming up to his lips that started to curl, hiding the pink that warmed to a red. “I put other stuff in it, though… to make it better.” 

It was cute, the way he folded in on himself at your gaze, smiling and teasing towards his simple nature. You loved it. You wished you didn’t. 

With a stab or two at the pasta, you hold out your fork to him, a quirked brow and a smile to match. “Cheers.”

He brushed a lock of his hair out of his eyes and awkwardly clinked his fork with yours, the two of you taking your first bites and marinating in the flavors in silence.

Your chewing slowed as you thought, face slowly turning to meet his. You didn’t want to be the one to speak first, wanted anything other than to tell him what you really thought of his hard work.

“Do you think it’s kinda…” your voice trails, hoping that he’d take the bait and finish your sentence. 

“Spicy— But not good spicy, like-”

“Pumpkin… spice-y.” 

“And burned. Exactly,” he agrees before letting a light groan escape with the crane of his neck, throwing his head to the ceiling in defeat that made you giggle against your own will.

You rummage your hand through the spices that still littered the counter, sifting through the mess for the culprit— Some sort of explanation to solve the mystery of the utterly odd taste that graced your taste buds. 

“Maybe next time make sure this one stays in the cabinet,” you tease, flipping the label of a bottle of pumpkin spice mix towards Bob for him to see. 

“I should’ve just stuck to doing dishes and laundry,” he grovels in defeat, swiftly taking the evidence with him to clear, tossing the plates into the sink. 

“Hey, at least you made a good salad,” you point out, examining a small bowl on the counter with some fresh vegetables. “It’s a little small, but, y’know.”

“Oh, that’s for the guinea pig. Yelena’s.”

“Well, you’re good at taking care of small animals, then.” You give him a sincere smile, hoping he could sense it in your voice as he focused on plating something else, setting a new set of dishes down for the two of you.

“Here,” he says, a glimmer of pride in his voice, just for a second. “The official Bob Special.” In front of you now was a fresh plate of plain penne pasta dressed in light butter; Simple, universally-loved, a classic. “Oh, and if you want to get really fancy,” he jokes quietly, showing off a bottle of pre-packaged parmesan cheese. 

You didn’t try to hide the smile you wore this time around, happily inviting him to exchange eye contact with you, a little sweet, a little shy, all something you didn’t want with him. 

Something you know he wouldn’t want with you if he knew.

Silence swept through the room, the only sound a swelling swoon of an old orchestra thanks to what was left behind. A tinge of intimacy dances through the air—peace in common ground—something you tried to think else of for your own good. It was hard, he didn’t make it easy— Sitting slouched over his dinner, eyes drifting over to you when you weren’t looking, looking anywhere else when you returned the favor. You can’t even recall the last time you’ve had the privilege of dining with someone, the luxurious feeling of normalcy echoing in each accidental scrape of your fork against the dishware. 

You’re sure he senses that, too, all things considered. 

“It’s been a while,” he cuts through the silence first, earning your attention, like he was reading your mind. “Since, uh, since you’ve been here.”

Because of you. How do you sit here and tell him, it’s because of him?

“Yeah… you know how Valentina is.” It’s all you could think of saying, immediately regretting the mention of her as soon as the words ghosted over your lips, hitting him hard, his body twitching slightly at the name. You hated yourself for reminding him.

His face fell a bit sullen, eyes darkening and darting away from yours, sucking in a low breath, internally trying to walk himself through the mention of someone who has had such a heavy hand in his life so far. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, a quick glance at you then immediately back down at his plate, pushing a few leftover noodles aimlessly. 

Think of literally anything else, you scold yourself internally, words tripping over each other as you racked your brain for a way to subtly ease your guilty conscience through him— To let him know what you really thought of your boss, to let him know what side you were really on. 

“She, um… she,” you sputter, his eyes taking you in now, watching you take your turn at rambling through the fragments of a sentence. You lost the words, what little of them you had, trailing off. You had to be careful what you told him— Knowing her, this place was most definitely bugged and listening to your every word. 

“She hates yellow,” you sigh eventually, gingerly holding your hand up for him to see, nails all uniformly refined and polished a pale, muted lemon. Of all the things, you think. Of all the things you could’ve said. “So… I get them done yellow.”

His eyes dart between yours, trying to decipher what you were saying. You wanted to fold in on yourself—disappear—embarrassed at how pitiful and utterly ridiculous you sounded. Tense bottom lip found its way between your teeth, tenderly biting in purgatory while you prepared yourself for his response— To call you out for your indiscretion, all like he should.

Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches into just barely a smile. 

“We match,” he carefully says, holding a lock of his golden hair, his grin growing a bit. “Two things Valentina hates.” Only you knew he wasn’t talking about his hair. Or about you.

The mention of his new look made your stomach twist, the one very subject you feared. The one thing you were doing everything in your power to avoid.

You took a sip of your wine, now being the one to look away, taking in the twinkling cityscape just past the large windows that adorned every facet of the room. “I’m surprised you still have it— The blonde, I mean.”

Through the reflection you watch him shrug, fingers scrubbing away at something on the counter that didn’t even seem to be there. 

“Everyone says they like it,” he points out, but you weren’t convinced. “Do you… What do, uh, what—what do you think?” He asks so gently, like his word was sacred, something lingering he’s too afraid to act on, your opinion, too weighted.

“It just doesn’t seem like you.” 

Silence. 

You feared his reaction again, but realized if you owed him anything, after all was said and done, the least you could do was give him your honest opinion. 

“I think that’s the whole point,” he says quietly, you still too afraid to look up at him again. “The Sentry needs to look powerful, important.” It broke your heart how he spoke of himself, the slight waver as he said it, like every syllable was a losing battle within himself, waging war with every word.

“I liked it brown,” you mumble, scared of your own honesty. “It was just… you. Just Bob. That’s important, too.” You hoped he could hear how you meant it, how you truly admired him untouched.

He gets up in silence and clears your second round of plates, stirring in thought. Your stomach lurched, fearing you might’ve scared him off, had thrown too much at him, offended him, even. 

Then,

“I did too.” 

He turns around from the sink and gives you a sad smile, a whisper of regret on his lips. You bit at yours again, reeling in his words.

Before you could think of what to say, he kept going. “You’re the only person who’s answered me without worrying I’ll fall apart at the truth or something… so thank you.” It’s shy, it’s raw. He picks at his fingers, lost in the mangle of them now. “Thanks for being honest with me.”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks, the life and wind sucked out of your soul, plummeting to the pit of your stomach, grasping desperately for air. You couldn’t do this, couldn’t let him look at you like you were some sort of savior to his sanity— Like you hadn’t already played your part in maiming the shell of who he used to be. 

So you stood, finding your feet leading you to him at the sink, soaking in the warm glow from the hood of the stove, finding each curve of your face and painting you in it— A new light, in more ways than one.

Without thinking, you grab his hand and look at him. 

“Look at him. He’s painfully pale and has a head like a bag full of cats, but he’ll have to do.”

Valentina exhaled sharply, exiting the room she had just occupied with Bob, acting as if another person’s autonomy was somehow a personal vendetta against her. You watched as she maneuvered past a version of you— One you were trying to forget. 

The old you dodged like your existence was in her way when, really, she was just bulldozing her way through yours. 

“What did he say?” old you asked, watching her slowly, almost afraid to know the answer. You remembered that you were.

“Not important. What is important, however,” she said over a sip of water, “is that we get a team working on him immediately. It’s gonna take a while to fix… that.”

You watched as your old self closed her eyes tightly, remembering how you’d tried to calm yourself at her words before painfully obliging. 

“What do you need?”

“I want him tanner— The pale is sad to look at. He won’t look good overexposed from camera lights. The clothes need to go; he looks like a Boy Scout, not a superhero. Maybe gold for the suit,” she said, thinking out loud and bustling around the room, weaving through workers promptly trying to get the building usable again. “Americans like gold. It’s classic. Looks expensive even if it’s not. Get those old mock-ups for it.”

“They were burned,” you pointed out bluntly.

“Then make them again.”

Your brows knit with worry before you said, carefully, “This seems like a lot, Val. Do you really think a makeover is necessary?”

“I signed up for the hero of superheroes,” she deadpanned, unamused by your interruption. “Not a damn charity case.” 

Once she turns around, you roll your eyes fiercely, fighting the urge to yank that silver strip of hair clean out of her head. 

She keeps going, hitting a million other nonexistent flaws he apparently has—you hurriedly writing them all down as if your life depended on it—until she finally says,

“Enhancements would be nice. They’ll delay the launch, but it’s worth it. I mean— Look at him.”

You stopped her there, your heels skidding against the concrete. “Enhancements?”

“Yes,” she said your name with a condescending bite and groaned like it was the most obvious thing ever. “Enhancements. Trim down his nose, put him on steroids so he isn’t so lanky— Oh, that new, trendy thing that makes your cheekbones look sharp,” she said, sucking her lips in to show off the shadow in her face. “Buccal fat!” She snapped her fingers at the remembrance of it. “Look it up and book a surgeon— Someone who can get this done fast so I have something presentable to show the press.”

You remembered you couldn’t believe what you were hearing— The way she spoke about him like he was nothing, like he wasn’t even a person. 

You looked back at him, sitting in a sheen of sweat, doubled over on himself at the edge of the bed Valentina once waded in with him, clearly unstable and vulnerable.

The sight of him left alone in there made you sick.

Letting her sink unforgiving claws into him and mutilate him, stuff him like he’s the puppet she wants him to be, would destroy him. You couldn’t let her, not in his state, not when he was so clearly aching to have meaning that he would say yes to just about anything she suggested. 

And she knew that.

“Or,” you began, flinching at yourself for attempting to correct her in the first place. “We could start smaller. It’ll move things along faster, y’know, pacify the investigation.”

She looked visibly irritated but stopped her busy work, granting you most of her attention now. 

“They’re really getting restless, Val,” you added, fibbing a tad to help convince her. “They’re pushing back. Hard.”

“And what do you propose then?”

“All I’m saying is you can always… tweak things later,” you offered, breath catching on the word ‘tweak.’ You wanted to sink into yourself and disappear at even acknowledging her sick and twisted ideas to form him into her mold. “You could bleach his hair, maybe. Hair can change the whole appearance, make him look more refined. Maybe a nice blonde, straight and slicked back… Really complete the whole look and compliment the gold.”

You hated your own suggestion, but prayed she took the bait, giving some time to wait on permanently altering him and his body, inflicting irreparable damage he had no control over when he was as fragile as he was. 

She huffed, waving her hand at you— Something you got a lot. “I don’t care, just fix him. I can’t be bothered, okay?” And she walked away, leaving you reeling in worry over how to please your unpleasable boss and keep your hands clean of him, all at the same time. 

You snapped back to reality abruptly, sharing in the panic in his eyes, his hands still woven in between yours. Your breath hitched as you realized what you had just done, almost forgetting just how abrasive that memory was. In your desperate attempt to atone for your sins—show him why you avoid him so incessantly and feel so complacent in a version of himself you know he hates—you hung him out to dry. You let him relive the woman who has already caused him so much harm.

You let her cause more.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, a pathetic presence of self-pity laced through the letters you strung together, tears clinging to the corners of your eyes despite your best attempts to stop them. Skin untangled from his, wiggling your hand free of his grasp, running through your hair, searching for how to explain what just happened to him— Why you did what you did. “I haven’t been honest… not like you think. I needed you to know that.”

He took you in carefully, his eyebrows and forehead wrinkles woven with worry and pain, a similar sheen of sweat dancing across his skin— One you knew all too well. Golden hair came to light again, the messy brown you once loved lost in the darkness left behind once your hand left his, now only an aching memory.

“You were just doing your job,” his voice cracks, raw from the silence it had been swallowed in just moments before, and you wanted to laugh— How could he seriously be standing here right now making excuses for you, comforting you, justifying you?

“You want to know why I avoid you, Bob?” Your voice raises a bit in volume, more courage coursing through your veins as you listen to him excuse your actions. “I avoid you—this place—because every time I look at you, I’m reminded of how I stripped your sense of identity… of how I helped erase you. And it kills me.”

You were so caught up in your own rambling confession, your voice wavering slightly, a sting clawing at the back of your throat, that you didn’t realize he had stepped closer, his large frame towering over you now, casting a shadow over the dips and curves of your skin. 

“You helped save me from much worse,” he whispers, a little unsure of himself— Maybe of the moment, maybe of the breached space… Maybe of you. Was it you? Breath dances with his as you blink up at him now, eyes impatiently searching for the answer like it lay there, honest and open and true when he adds, “Besides, it’s just hair.”

Still unsure, you say back, “I erased a part of you, Bob.”

He shrugs and looks away, taking the smallest step back, a sudden rush of cool flooding you from the loss of body heat he radiated onto you. How could you miss something you barely had? 

“Not much there to erase.”

The way he says it cuts through you like a knife, a feeling of dread worse than you could’ve imagined. How could someone so great, so pure and full of potential, see so little in himself? 

It’s like he was searching for new ways to keep you up at night— The guilt you bear, the senseless burn in the deepest corners of your soul that demanded something more with him, were not yet enough. Your Achilles’ heel. The way he consumed you.

“I’m going to do this thing where I’m only honest with you now,” you start, voice cracking a little over the words, eyes begging to connect with his— To help him see, to understand; you meant it. “That’s not true, Bob. Not at all. Not even a bit.”

A heat burns through the high points of his cheeks, undeniable proof of the way he’s fighting the urge to let himself believe what you so desperately wanted him to see. You knew Bob well enough to know he’d take a lot more convincing than that. His voice crawls with a doubtful chuckle as he says, so quietly you could barely hear, “I don’t know about that.”

His hands find a home at the base of his neck, wobbly fingers pawing at flushed skin, eyes unable to meet yours. It didn’t matter, you still watched him— Eying him intently, learning what he was trying to say through his body instead. Silence was something you were used to when you were around him, the leading party admittedly coming from both ends, but this was a new kind of silence. 

You hated it.

There were a lot of things you wanted to do— Shake him free of the prison in his mind, tell him that he’s something extraordinary, remarkable, tell him you’re scared of what twists inside you for him. You wanted to tell him that your guilt has made it a lot easier to cover up the feeling that scares you most in the likes of him— An unknown ache, yearning to be set free. You wanted to pull his hand out of his hair and to your chest, let him learn by feeling how hard your heart was beating for him, a spark you’d buried, fighting to burn again. You wanted to grab his face in your hands and stop his ragged breathing, suffocate his fears and worries with the certainty of your lips, skin on skin, hearts on sleeves, trust in devotion. 

But you couldn’t do any of that, so you did something you’ve wanted to do for a long time.

“Come on.” He twitches as you latch your hand onto his forearm and pull him toward the door, scared the contact might not take you where you intended, yet you stay grounded in this universe—this moment—his mind racing at your forwardness as he stumbles along behind you. 

“Where are we— W-what are we—”

You stopped abruptly at the side door near a little shoe rack, turning to look at him now— Stability found in the pools of his eyes that made their way to yours again, eyes you’d somehow missed already, shy and tentative. 

“Do you trust me enough to follow me?”

He swallowed hard, wringing his fidgeting hands together, eyes darting around the secluded area of the residential floor you’d taken him to— Like he was surprised you knew it existed, this quiet part of his home. His hesitation made your burst of courage start to fizzle, choked away in the silence, until—

“I… I think I’d follow you anywhere.” 

Your heart leapt like your soul had been ripped through your chest and crashed back into your body when those words left his lips. 

“Good,” you manage to get out, gently instructing him to put on his shoes— Which he obliged, tripping and falling over himself to slip his sneakers on as fast as he could, you watching endearingly, unable to look anywhere else. 

You grab his arm when he recoils from the floor, standing tall over you again, familiar frame and body heat filling the air, and headed for the door. 

“We’re getting your hair back.”

For the first time in your life when you walk toward the building, you feel renewed hope. It was giddy— The energy and lightness that hung in the air around the two of you, walking lazily back to the Watchtower, no longer a fear or worry in the world. Who would’ve ever thought the reason you dreaded that building would be the same one that saved you? 

Everything was starting to feel right— The crosswalks you scurried through, grabbing ahold of his arm like he were a lifeline, no longer uneasy now that he was next to you. You could relax against him, the shield of his body a buffer between you and the busy streets, giggling your way through the flashing traffic lights and honking horns of impatient drivers. 

You used to envy them, their pointed purpose around you, but now you only pitied the restless nature of their souls— The way none of them had a reason to enjoy the moment they were in. 

Unlike you.

It was funny how quickly you realized what you’d so deeply repressed in regards to him. He brought peace to your world, relishing in the time you got to spend with him now— Unburdened, hopeful, reborn. 

It was like your soul had known his forever— A familiar flame, kindling, against all odds, with his.

It was like he was learning to breathe again when he wandered through the hazy city streets with you, his eyes sparkling with wistful wonder as he absorbed the movement around him. He waded in the flickering life of the city all like he wasn’t living in it, day in and day out, like he'd never seen anything like it before. 

You knew that wasn’t true— He made himself busy outside the Watchtower, growing bolder in exploring every day, discovering what the world had to offer just like everyone else. Looking—a whisper of loss behind his eyes—for the thing in this city that could make him tick. Searching for a home in a city of nomads, in a city that was lost like him. Like you.

He hasn’t found it yet. 

A smile pulled at your lips bitten by the cool evening air, absentmindedly, as you watched him take it all in, his hesitancy washing away with every step now. 

Your cheeks warmed again at it— Just like they did when you left, the memory of him stumbling over himself in every sense of the word flooding back like it’s lived in your mind forever now. 

“Are you sure we should be doing this so late?” He had mumbled to you, tone unsure yet hopeful— Hopeful you’d ease his doubt and insist he’s exactly where he needs to be. 

You did.

“Yes, Bob, it’s fine,” you’d said back. “You’re with me.”

“A-and the store— They’ll be open still?”

“It’s only 9 pm, Bob. We’re in New York City.”

“Oh, right.”

You knew it wasn’t about being out late or about a store’s hours— Of course not. He’s lived a life far more complicated than a 7-11 run in the middle of the night, to say the least. 

It was that he was still finding his footing, trying desperately to ground himself in something that would do it back. That would assure he was allowed ownership over himself again. No abuse, no drugs, no demons. 

Just something real. 

He was overly cautious of himself, like he was hyper-aware of the fact that his brain convinced him he was out of place somehow. You knew the feeling.

The rest of the trip went that way— Him clinging to you and your every word, watching with calculated thought churning in his brain while you did your thing: picking out the best shade of brown to match his roots that poked through just enough, weaving through the store with ease— Just two lost souls finding themselves together in the artificial glow of a late-night corner pharmacy.

You refrained from touching him again, fighting off the intimacy you felt creeping up on you. If your fingers wrapped around him you’d only be reminded of the swoop in your stomach when things crossed into a realm you teased— Cautiously, carefully. 

When you grabbed his arm to drag him out the door or keep him with you as you ran through the streets, it felt familiar—felt okay—allowable, even. But there were other ways of touching him that you knew would stop your breathing, swirl your head, shred your better judgment— Hungry claw at your heart. A heart that screamed for him, for more.

You couldn’t touch his hand again. You couldn’t snake your hand across his lower back as you shuffled in front of him in the aisle. You couldn’t thread your fingers through his hair to find the perfect shade—You just couldn’t.  

So you gingerly held the box up and took your best guess, his questions still coming all the same. 

“Is it going to sting?”

“No, Bob. It’s a demi-permanent dye, not bleach. Your hair’s already bleached.”

“This is a bad idea, what if everyone hates it? Valentina is gonna get so pissed—”

“So let her,” you dismissed softly. “She’ll have to go through me first.”

A pink settled on his skin— That same pink from when you startled him in the tower, the color from when he served you dinner, shy and hopeful. The one that blistered his skin when you teased him— One that festered from the way you talked him down, not letting him consume himself in doubt, all like it was already a natural place for you to be. It appeared again when you worked your way around the night shift cashier who didn’t want to honor a coupon Bob mentioned in passing he tried to use last week on snack foods for Yelena. It was still crinkled in his pocket, a reminder of his failure on his grocery run, in his small but monumental tasks— You simply couldn’t have that. 

And now, you walk back, a plastic bag of his newfound authority swaying alongside you as he held the jelly-red candies he munched on up to the streetlights, watching them glow from within— His prize in more ways than one. 

“Do you ever think about why they’re called Swedish Fish?” he muses, voice cutting through the sugar on his teeth. “Like, what makes the fish… Swedish?”

You couldn’t do anything but smile— A smile that stretched so far it pulled his attention with it, rambling questions coming to a pause and looking at you. Cool, flickering lights under the Watchtower’s entrance cradle your skin, making you shine— A physical embodiment of the way he made you glow inside, just like his candies in the streetlights.

“What?” he asks tentatively, thin lips pursed together, stopping mid-chew with wide eyes darting gently back and forth, like he’d done something wrong. 

Eyes connected like constellations decorating the clear, crisp air above you, the soft lull of city life blurring into the background— Somehow completely insignificant in this moment.

You wanted to say, 

It’s just that I like spending time with you. You look so perfect right now I can barely breathe.

Or,

I missed having you in my life. Even if it was small, I still missed you. It meant something to me.

You fought the urge to confess,

I feel something I shouldn’t— Something hungry and restless from the way I let it starve.

I feel something for you. 

You dared to whisper,

I think I’m falling in love with you.

But instead— 

“Nothing,” you breathe back softly, a cautious reluctance haunting your phrase despite your desperate attempt to hide it. The words taste wrong as soon as they leave your lips, a new sin brought to fruition, betraying what you promised him before— Doing the one thing you vowed never to do to him again.

You lied.

You don’t say any of what you want to, just reiterate with a breathless smile, “It’s nothing.”

He pushed further, gently— An offering so delicate, a chance for you to take it all back and give him what burned inside your throat to say. He asks it carefully, like he was dancing on a line he was afraid to cross. 

“Are you sure?”

The key card buzzes you back in, breaking the moment that threatened to swallow you whole. 

“I’m just glad you got your candy, is all.”

When you step inside, you move through the tower silently, a state of mourning, like you both knew what was about to come— A next step, only yours to take. 

You didn’t want to go. You wanted to live in this night forever. It was a night you could only dream of having— So raw, so utterly real that it threatened to shatter what you thought you knew of reality. It felt like if you let it end now, you might never get this feeling back again. 

You wondered if he felt the same.

When you reach the residential floor, you enter, this time, as someone completely new— Or yet, maybe someone you’ve always been, a person who just got lost. You were getting to be the different, better you. The one you fantasized about being when you were alone at your apartment, only now with the only person in the world you’d want it to ever be with. 

Everything was just how you left it: messy kitchen, littered with evidence of a lived-in night, half-had glasses of wine, deep red liquid staining the bottom of the vessel like a scar. Warm light, a pulse radiating throughout the dark floor all from that one space— The space where everything changed for both of you. 

The only thing new was the silence from a finished record, drawing the night to a close. Your cue to go.

Bob was the first to speak, confirming current residents with the comm system, only to reaffirm your impatient suspicion.

You were still alone.

“Wow, everyone’s still gone,” he reiterates after the mechanical voice goes mute, a nervous and low, breathy laugh engulfing the sincerity seeping through his tone— One that threatened to betray his facade and bare the truth of what lies behind intent. 

“Guess so,” is all you say back. 

Beat. 

Say something else, you scold internally. It’s getting too quiet. 

Eventually, you cave and bite first—begrudgingly—but not wanting to crowd him any longer. “Thanks for tonight. It was nice.”

You give him a half smile and move past him, his lanky frame awkwardly shuffling aside with a mumbled ‘sorry’ so you could grab for your bag— But you don’t take it yet. You just encroach on his space, hovering gently, waiting for his next words, fingers practicing wrapping and releasing around the handle haphazardly in wait. 

Holding out the plastic bag from your impromptu errand, you look at him— His timid eyes already watching you, absorbing your every move, thinking intently. You hold out the offer of it—a weighted symbol—waiting in the silence, a moment too delicate to speak. He takes it gently, but neither of you move— Both your hands still clutched onto the bag, not wanting to let go. In more ways than one. 

“I, uh, I don’t really, um,” he stutters. “I mean, what I mean is, I— uh, sorry— It’s just that…” He pauses, taking you in, mind reeling behind his eyes on what to say to you next, suspended in the time you let pass.

Wrap, release.

“Maybe you can come back, y’know,” he says—so shy, so quiet—gesturing down to the bag, your fingers finally slipping free of it once the position is acknowledged, relinquishing sole custody to him. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with all this… so if you don’t mind, or uh, have the time in your schedule…” He laughs timidly, restless fingers around the plastic gripping on for dear life— And oh, there’s that flush again. “Sorry— I know you’re busy, this is stupid,” he rambles but you stop him, touching your free hand to his around the bag. His mind and mouth and meddling fingers come to a screaming stop at the contact, eyes flickering down like you might have unleashed the unwanted.

It didn’t come.

“Of course I’ll help, Bob.” His features immediately relax, a bit of reassurance washing over him as you smile softly, your fingers still stuck to his. 

“Okay,” he croaks. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Your heart thudded hard— So hard you wondered if he could hear it ringing in his ears like it was in yours. 

Wrap, release.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, mulling in thought, weighing the voices, then says,

“Do you think it’ll take long?” he whispers, almost scared. “The dye?”

“No.” Your tone slips lower, matching his, trembling almost. “It’s pretty easy…”

Eventually, he says, “I won’t keep you.” He looks down hesitantly at your hand— One on your handbag, tethering you to an exit you didn’t want to take, the other still meeting his— His eyes not wanting to remind you they were still overlapping, the contact becoming more charged as each second passed. “You’re probably busy, y’know… with work ‘n stuff.”

Did you dare? 

“It’s quarter to 10 on a Friday, Bob.”

You did. 

So you continued. “I have nowhere to be. It’s the weekend, so…”

Wrap, release.

“Do superheroes even get days off?” he asks, but not seriously. He says it like it’s a strained joke, a short laugh covering up the root of something much more complex— Something much more timid and intimate that he wanted to know. 

Your hand twitched free from his, cold rushing to the pads of your fingers from the loss of heat. 

“Lucky for you,” you tease, “I’m not a superhero. That’s your job.” 

When he looks down at his hands, likely mulling over the loss of contact just like you, he follows your lead. “Care to work some overtime, then?” He looks back up, eyes dancing along yours, searching to connect like a puzzle begging to be finished. They echo with hope, glistening from the reflection of the light captured in the dim and dark center of his doubts— The part of him that said, she wants nothing to do with you. Stop bothering her, you’re wasting her time.

But you’d like nothing more. “I think I can swing that.”

Release.

The releasing won— You retreating your grip from your handbag, stranding it on the counter along with your other things, leaving behind the people you were before tonight, leaving behind an old fate, stepping into something new and unfamiliar. A new beginning, together. No longer alone. 

So you let him lead you upstairs into the uncertain.

His hands were buried deep in his pockets, hair shifting against the cool blue hue of the roaring city in restless waves as he walked. Each step echoed into the empty, taking you somewhere you never thought you’d have the privilege of going.

The corridor stretches on— Long, dim, empty of the usual chaos. A steady haze clung to the walls, the flickering heartbeat of twinkling city lights bleeding through tall windows, washing the world in a soft, electric kind of quiet. He stops once he reaches the end.

The hallway wound further, but he didn’t.

He opens the door, dipping his head and shuffling aside, the smallest, sweetest smile breaking across his lips for a split second. It was the kind of smile that made your chest ache and your heart soar. 

He lets you enter first, a wave of goosebumps pecking your skin as his forearm brushes the air behind you, reaching out for the touchpad. The lights come on, his private world unfolding before you, one shadow shattered at a time— Like a secret you weren’t sure you deserved to be told yet. 

His room was more well-kept than you were expecting, considering his battle with inner demons and his tendency to be a bit scattered. Part of you wondered if it was just because he didn’t have many belongings anymore.

Some similarly muted and oversized garments tenaciously cluttered a lounge chair, a few scattered across the floor, the rest held in a closet bigger than your apartment— Though it was mostly empty, lining lights illuminating barren drawers and shelves. 

The outer wall across from his bed was covered in large windows overlooking the city, beneath it a slightly raised landing that stretched along the back edge of the room. Atop it sat a sofa that looked completely untouched and a dark wooden desk, adorned with small remnants of him— A notepad with some scribbles and doodles too faint for you to make out, a pile of crumpled, discarded fragments of papers cluttered around it. A computer and phone, plugged in and seemingly forgotten about, a small succulent on top of some better-known self-help books alongside an empty cup with a thick straw— Seemingly for a milkshake or smoothie. 

His soul touched every corner, a faint whisper of himself embedded in the fabric of his own reality.

Lining one wall adjacent to the windows were several bookshelves, mostly empty yet, but still more crowded and lived-in than the other things in his room. Some shelves held picture frames still encasing the stock photos inside— Naturescapes and famous landmarks, things of that sort. You had to fight the smile that crept to your lips at the invasive thought that maybe, one day, you could be the one to change that. 

And there he stood, raking his hands through his hair and wringing them together as he watched you silently take in the space. 

You take the first steps, freeing yourself from the tight suit jacket you’d been bound to all day, the fabric whispering against your skin— A physical and emotional release. He watched your frame closely—carefully—like he was witnessing something he wasn’t supposed to.

Why did it feel dramatic? Why did it feel weighted? 

Maybe because it was.

Because around him, everything felt heavier— Closer, like stepping too near the edge of something you couldn’t quite name.

You drape it gently on the curve of his bed, leaving with it the urge to hold back, trying your best to stay grounded when stepping into something new. 

Something with him.

“Those look uncomfortable,” he murmurs softly, like he was tapping the ice instead of breaking it. Like he was talking more to the room than to you. 

You study him, trying to connect what he was saying with his eyes to what he was saying with his words. 

“The shoes,” he adds shyly, an almost boyish innocence in his glance at your sharp heels— His form of an invitation for you to settle in, reminding you it’s okay to relax in his space. 

“Oh,” you laugh gently, taking his delicate offer to slip them off, warm pads of your feet finally unwinding against the cool of his floor— An exhale. “They are.” 

He repays you with a mannerism close to a smile, the outer edge of his mouth flashing into a curve for a second, making your stomach swoop with a flutter you can’t contain.

“You might want to, uh,” you continue, gesturing to the sweater hanging loosely over his lean frame, soft and worn. It was the kind of thing you knew he probably slept in. Something that probably still smelled like old memories and half-healed wounds.

“You don’t want to get dye on that,” you add. “It probably won’t come out…” 

Beat.

He glances down, all like he just remembered it’s still on his body.

The favor was returned. Saying it without saying it.

For a moment, he hesitates, then you feel it— That shift, that ache when it happens. It’s not out of debate of your offer, but because his stare is lingering longer than he’s ever let it before, watching you closely—intimately—reveling in the delicacy of your words. 

His eyes trace the curves of your skin, arms now exposed, standing in your blouse. It’s a business-casual tank top. Appropriate for work, but still fun enough to leave a button or two undone.

He quickly tears his gaze away, soft blue irises gently washed in awkward panic— The silent kind that only shows as they dart around the room, his limbs gesturing in small movements toward his expansive closet.

“I—I have things,” he rushes, hand tearing into the nape of his neck, rummaging through his restless hair. “Like, uh, like a t-shirt or something, I mean… if you don’t want to ruin your clothes too.” 

You smile and accept the offer, following him into his closet. 

The enchanting scent of cedarwood drawers mingled with the warm, earthy smell he always wore— So subtle, so effective, just enough to make you forget anything else mattered in the moments when it hung in the air around you, dizzying and distracting.

He rummages through a drawer—half-open, garments half-folded—and pulls out a slightly wrinkled steel-blue t-shirt and a pair of lounge shorts, fabric clutched in his fists, fidgeting nervously. 

“They’re clean, I promise. I just… I hate folding.”

Slipping into the bathroom, connected to both his room and the closet, he hovers, his hand ghosting over the handle. “I’ll, uh, I’ll give you—” he stumbles. “I’ll let you… yeah…” he trails off, a nervous laugh swallowing the rest of the words he failed to find. A blush crept to your cheeks at his timid nature— It was sweet, sincere. It ruins you. 

The door creaks as he pulls it shut for you to change, unknowingly leaving you alone with a heart that pounded for him, a heart that could no longer lie dormant in his empty space. The undeniably intimate feeling of wrapping yourself in his clothes—an extension of him—creates a flustered pull at your lips. A burning. The silent buzz of his closet carrying it all.

When you slip the soft, threadbare fabric over your head, you linger for a second, a persistent thought of proximity curling around you like smoke. The thought clings to you like the fabric, just like how it’s clung to him before. For a fleeting second, you almost drown in the thought that maybe this will be the closest you’ll ever get to be to him— Only some fabric shared.

Once.

It’s large, draped over your body like a blanket, and even then, it still hangs just right— Enveloping you in comfort, all like it was made to be worn by you too. Like it’s been waiting all this time.

The shorts, on the other hand, make a habit of slipping past your waist, hanging there for no longer than a second before falling, the garment gathering down at your feet. You try rolling the waistband a few times, but it’s a useless feat, leaving you to hope your company was okay with a makeshift dress instead. You, in his shirt, bare legs disappearing into the too-long hem. 

Its length stretches just past your fingertips. Sure, you’ve worn shorter dresses to work, around the team, around him… but this felt like something you had to rationalize a lot more.

Just as you swallow your pride and replace it with something more earnest and raw for him—your heart on your sleeve, vulnerable in more ways than one—you freeze. 

In the reflection of the mirror, looming large at the opposite end of the closet, you catch a glimpse of him through the sliver of the bathroom door that’s slipped ajar. 

He pulls the olive sweater up over his head, back facing you, ruffling the locks of golden, wavy hair he tries to pat down to no avail— Something you could still love in the scattered fragments of him, because it was, after all, still him. The movement tugs the white t-shirt he wears underneath up, a patch of smooth, sculpted skin resting at the waistband sneaking through, your breath catching at the mere sight of it— Of him, like this. 

From the freedom of his baggy sweater you could see him better— A fresh glimpse at the way his chest rises and falls with deep and heavy breaths, struggling to tether himself to something that was never really there. His muscle was indescribable, molded into the stretched cotton, something unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. The closest you’d come was seeing it on TV. One of the Avengers— One who didn’t come from this world. 

Yet, there he is. Innately human. 

Those were the most captivating parts of him. Through taught muscle lay a subtle softness at the curves and dips of his skin, his hands like they were large enough to hold the whole world yet were still found fiddling with the simple box dye, restless energy shuffling around the expansive tile until he slipped out of view, taking your pitiful daydream along with him. 

You wish he knew just how alluring he really was. 

Unsure fingers gather the fallen shorts and clothes still warm from your body off the floor, folding them loosely over your arm, draped in front of your body as if that somehow makes the moment any less vulnerable, less revealing. 

When you step into the bathroom, he’s sat on the edge of his tub, cool porcelain cradling his long and lanky frame, fingers still buried in the box— Toying with the cap, absentmindedly picking at the corner of the paper, brows furrowed as he raked through the expansive instructions on the back, all too caught up in anchoring himself to something—anything—to notice you were there standing in front of him. 

A hush and milky white bathes the tile, a low lunar light lingering over every surface like silk. An echo of penance trapped between four walls and two bodies.

The sweater’s gone; he’s in that cotton white t-shirt you already caught a glimpse of— Simple, classic, saying so much without saying anything at all, much like everything about him. It’s somehow the same size as the one you wore, just fitting much more right— Tightly stretched over his broad chest and shoulders like a second skin, fabric smoothing perfectly over the rest of him. His hair is still messy, riddled with movement and life. His feet bare, legs long and in light grey sweatpants, arms exposed and glowing in the dim pooling light of his bathroom.

Was it too much to ask to live in this moment forever?

“The shorts were too big,” you confess, reluctant to disturb him— To steal back the time where observing him feels like the most important thing you’ll ever do, like a gift too good to keep. You look down at what you were left in, the sensual nature of just his t-shirt somehow showing off every curve of your body despite its size like it’s taunting you. “I hope you don’t mind…”

When he looks up at you, the world narrows to a pinhole. Just for a second. It’s like you were in a vacuum, the rest of the world slipping away until it’s just you. Just him.

The box falls free from his hands and clatters to the floor, fingers freezing and pressing against his legs now, a gentle back and forth like he was trying to soothe himself. Thin lips part slightly, so subtle you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t so drawn into his every move like it was a lifeline— Your resuscitation, suspended in aching time. 

He sucks in a slow and steady breath, the only thing present. Just you. Just him.

You lived a lifetime in the flicker of an unspoken spark, a jolt you weren’t supposed to feel, but did. In truth, it was only mere seconds you stood there—a silent offering—before he spoke.

“You, uh…” he starts, a breath catching in his throat, words clinging there, stickier and sweeter than his candy. He gestures vaguely at the shirt. “Looks better on you.”

It’s shy, reserved, like he just said the most obscene thing his mind could conjure— Like it was unholy to say anything at all in this state, in this moment. His voice is low, heavy as gravel, the undeniable weight of his words landing like a stone on your chest.

Nervous eyes glance around the new space, taking in your surroundings to distract from the aching pull on your heartstrings, wound tightly like coiled wire, tension thrumming beneath your skin with no release from his earnest compliment. 

You hated how he did this to you— How he was so unaware and devastatingly oblivious to the way the small things he did made you fight off something ravenous within your soul. 

Every time he looked at you like you mattered, you had to fight the urge to grab his restless hand in yours to calm it. Every time he blushed, you had to remind yourself you couldn’t just walk over and kiss it off his face. Every single damn time he said a sheepish compliment like it was sacred, you had to wrestle your mind into remembering he isn’t yours. He’s not yours.

Every. Single. Time. 

This time wasn’t any different, somehow willing yourself into swallowing the lump in your throat, pushing down the words that were threatening to boil over in a confession and instead do something stupid— Change the subject rather than telling him something absurd, like how you want to wear his clothes forever. You wanted to live within a piece of him, always.

“Do you have a hairbrush?” 

He blinks a few times— Blank, rapid, staccato movements trying to process what you said, like he was surprised by your response. 

“Oh, uh, yeah— Yeah, I have one.” 

His fingers drum against his thigh, then stop. His jaw tightens, like he’s trying to catch a thought before it slips away, and crosses over to open a drawer in the vanity like he wasn’t buried deep in his mind. A small plastic comb turns aimlessly in his fingers before he hands it to you and immediately looks down, avoiding your eyes, murmuring, “I-I think your hair already looks nice, though.”

God, he was killing you. Did he know he was killing you?

“It’s for you,” you breathe, quiet and sure. “If you don’t brush your hair before coloring, it’ll get spots, is all.”

“Oh,” he whispers, a gentle smile in relief breaking across his lips for a fleeting second, like he was happy you weren’t displeased with his appearance. “That—that makes sense.”

“May I?”

You hold the comb up and ask— In a way asking yourself if you were really ready to touch him in that way. Asking the room like the echoes would answer back and reveal what you weren’t quite ready to face.

It was nothing—sure, maybe on the surface—but you’d been avoiding touching him for so long, the restraint was suddenly the thing making it harder for you to hold back. Your heart, light-years ahead of your mind, knew if you touched him in a way that mattered again, you’d only be reminded of how much you didn’t want to let go. Of him. Of yourself.

But he nods, a shy and timid pink flushing his features ever so slightly— All like it wasn’t as weighted as your dragging thoughts were making it feel. You reach up for him on your tiptoes, stepping a little closer, trying your hardest to reach his head that towered above yours until he took the lead and sat on the edge of the tub again. His fingers hovered loosely over the curve of your waist to guide you, accompanied by a soft, “There.”

Sitting down, his head rests just in front of your chest, hanging slightly in silence— A semblance of reckoning as he gives himself to you. 

Shallow and steady breath was hot against your sternum, sending shivers down your spine. He exhaled all like it was something he was trying to control—to contain—a pledge to bury how he was feeling inside. The truth remained exiled in the flutter of his breath like a secret— Or maybe, really, it’s just the vivid inner workings of your imagination meshed with hopeless desire.

When you’re done brushing, he hands you the tube of color with a soft smile, cap already loose from his mindless twisting, the rest of the box still abandoned on the floor. It was like it was the most insignificant thing in the world since you stepped through his door, all despite it being the reason you were still with him in the first place.

Or at least, that’s what you both kept telling yourselves.

You both duck down to pick it up at the same time, his wild waves tangling with yours like a whisper on new skin, the air around him seeping into yours, molding into one the way you so desperately wanted to believe it belonged.

Wobbling lips wear a tentative laugh and exchange breathless ‘sorrys’ when you both retract. You keep your glance down and buried into the box so maybe—just maybe—he couldn’t catch a glimpse of how fearlessly you were blushing— A shamefully senseless smile sneaking across your lips like an utter fool.

You place the mixing bowl—now full of the color—on his lap, whispering a steady, “Hold this,” and work on getting the gloves on, the black plastic melting into your skin, tight and precise. Then he reaches for the developer.

“No, wait,” you instruct lightly, and he freezes like he’s created a catastrophic problem. 

You go to the vanity and grab a different bottle of developer left behind in the plastic bag. When you pour it into the bowl, he clings to it with extra care, all like it was going to shatter under the weight of his grasp. 

“Never use the developer they give in the box, especially if you’re only depositing color like we are,” you explain, eyes flickering from the bowl to his gaze, trying to ease his mind through the aching adoration you couldn’t help but wear for him. “It’s usually a 20 volume,” you continue, “which we definitely don’t want.”

He looked at you like you were speaking a different language, tongue graced by a wisdom and knowledge too foreign for him to know. Eyes darted back and forth between yours cautiously, like you’d given him the answer to quantum entanglement instead of basic hair care, lost in the wavelength of your words. 

“That… that sounds complicated,” he stumbles, a little at a loss for words, trying to find where to even start. Did he know how adorable he was? Stupidly precious confusion weaving through his features, eyes fluttering as he faltered, a twitch in his lip quirking just so, nervous bubbles of laughter dancing intimately over every syllable said. Did he know all that made your knees want to give out?

Did he know at all?

“It’s simple, really,” you soothe, a sickeningly sweet tone flooding your mouth— Something you couldn’t stop even if you tried. You mix the contents in the bowl with the back of the comb and explain, distracting from the way your chest swoops like a threatening storm. “Developer is something that can lift your hair. So the higher the volume, the more lift you’ll get.”

Before you could continue, Bob snatches the bowl away mid-mix and holds it over his head, a teasing grin coming to life.

He maneuvers the bowl further out of your grasp as you reach for it, grinning at how much fun he was having teasing you— Like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Lift? You mean like this?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours once— Pure wonder glistening from getting you flustered and watching you fight it. “No and you know it,” you playfully scold, eventually grabbing it back and continuing your work all like you weren’t smiling fervently. 

“I don’t know, that seems like lift to me,” he levels with a joking tone, hanging on your reaction like it was holy.

When he stared at you with that undeniable grin you wanted to say something disgustingly stupid— Something forward and blunt and rash like how he should lift you instead; Carry you anywhere he wanted to go as long as it was within his arms. God. It made you sick just how badly you wanted him, the ache you tried to suffocate not going down easy, not staying silent, begging to be set free.

You have to choke all that down to say, 

“Lift as in opening the hair follicle so it can lighten and absorb the color.”

He bites the edge of his lip, watching you like it was the only thing that mattered, jaw twitching once as he tried to suppress his smile from growing into something bigger.

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“Mmm,” you hum, wiping the edge of the comb into the bowl and setting it down. “Basically.”

After a moment you hold it up—hesitant for some reason—before you eventually ask, “Ready?”

He nods, quiet and firm, like it was the easiest decision he’s ever made. “Yeah. Yeah,” he says, the repeated agreement said more to himself than to you. “My blonde days are over.” 

“What?” you tease, feeling a little bold now too. “You don’t wanna be a blonde bombshell forever?”

Fiery red scorches his cheeks at that, a blush that reaches the tips of his ears against the pale of his hair. His eyes flash wide before he ducks his head nervously and chuckles under his breath, like he couldn’t bear to hear a compliment, even if you were joking. Even if it were half true.

“Nope,” he mumbles sheepishly before looking up at you again, a gaze suddenly raw and honest— Something stoic humming beneath it all. “I’m good with just Bob now.”

You smile, mind bringing you back to earlier, how you reassured him he was worthy but he couldn’t fathom believing it himself. It was driving you crazy—that subtle confidence he was wearing now—self-assured in what you told him, holding your gaze like he was trying to spell it out for you; Make you realize he wanted to be himself for you.

Was it all in your head? 

“Good,” you whisper back, your intention settling more in your movements than your words. You stepped towards him now, handing back the bowl for him to hang onto, dye covering your gloves. 

His legs shift open—the slightest movement, timid reassurance—welcoming you in like you’ve always belonged somewhere slotted in between him. Arm in arm, fingers in fingers, legs between legs…

Knees brushed together as you hover over him, a breath catching at the back of your throat from the feeling. 

It was new, how close you were— The way his inner thigh tickles your smooth skin even through the plush of his sweatpants and makes you burn like you were scorched by a searing sun. 

You unnecessarily mix the dye around more, numb movements distracting from charged thoughts, averting his eyes like if he saw you for even a second he’d be able to hear the senseless desires bouncing around in your head— The ones saying all you wanted was to touch more of what you haven’t before. The ones saying hands weren’t enough, standing over him wasn’t enough, none of it was enough. You needed more, a carnal instinct you didn’t dare deny. 

How much did you have to drink?

No, it wasn’t that, it couldn’t be that— Not when you’ve only had half a glass. Not when you were already drunk over the illicit game you played, quietly pushing the boundaries of what was, what remained. What could be, maybe one day, maybe never.

You wanted him. He wanted you— Did he want you? How could he after everything… Could you get fired for this?

No, you haven’t done anything. Not like you want to…

Did he know? How long have you been quiet for? What was he thinking about—

“This might be a little cold,” you murmur, your quiet warning heavy with fog like you’d completely forgotten how to speak in the seconds you stirred around in thought— The time that felt like an eternity. 

You seriously needed to turn your thoughts off.

So you did, focusing on the way your hands laced around his golden hair, light from your previous misfortunes dulling upon contact. Dark seeps through every strand like desperate poison, like the life he missed having was being restored one tender touch at a time.

His chest rose and fell—soft and steady—deep pull of air every time you made contact. His eyes flutter shut a tad as you pull the dye through each strand, root to tip, covering him completely, your touch taking over in more ways than one. 

“That feels good,” he mumbles through an exhale, like he’s been holding in praise for devout touch his whole life. Like it was finally meaningful now, the feeling of being cared for.

For caring back. 

Your attention snaps back to reality when he says it, mind forced to finally be grounded again, reminding you where you really were, not just trapped inside the screaming fantasy in your head. The one that only grew the second you found him tonight, the second he let you in, the moment he asked you to stay— Carrying your baggage and all. 

“Good,” you breathe, trying to mask the waver in your voice. “It looks good.”

He smiles at that, faint and pure and utterly devastating, just the smallest of movements wrecking you completely. Lids are still drawn shut—light and relaxed—a gentle push into each movement of your hands, so small you wondered if you were making it up in your head.

Was it all in your head?

When he opens his eyes and takes himself in through the vanity mirror over your shoulder, he bites at his lip and hesitates, soft blue eyes glimmering with a trace of worry and nose crinkled a tad. 

“It’s, uh, does it—does it look kinda orange…?” He says it gently, like he shouldn’t be questioning a thing, like the wrong set of words strung together will make him lose you, make you run. 

“Don’t worry it’ll tone down,” you reassure, working your way to the back, leaning over him to make sure you cover it completely. “I purposely picked a shade with a warm undertone so we don’t run the risk of your hair going green.”

His jaw falls slack and he snaps his eyes off his profile and up to you, chin tilting to fully take you in, your lips being all but a breath away.

“Green? What—What do you mean— Th-that can happen?” 

Despite your best efforts to suppress it, an airy laugh escapes your lips and fans across his face, you ducking your head down into the crook of his neck at his panic only to be met with the intoxicating scent of chemicals and fresh laundry and him flooding your senses. 

“Don’t worry,” you manage to say, laughing a bit harder now as his fingers find your forearm for no longer than a second, cutting you off with a worried huff and trace of a smile spreading across his lips at your giggles— The ones that were almost too close to his skin. 

“I’m serious,” he levels with a clipped laugh, saying your name and trying to sound convincing but it was flushing out of his voice with each sound of yours. A medicine only you could prescribe. “I-I can’t go green, everyone will definitely hate that.”

You compose yourself and pull back to look at him now— Worry worn on his face, yet something reminiscent of ease flickering through when he sees your grounding stare. It was hard to not take his concern seriously— Not when he looked so effortlessly adorable, melting into a pool of a helpless mess at your fingertips. Who could blame you?  

I’d like you no matter how you’d look, you think, pausing cautiously to enjoy one last moment of the crooked smile on his lips. One that said all he needed to. 

Instead, you say, “It won't, I promise.”

“Pinky?” He raises an eyebrow and holds his pinky out to yours, a silent offering, only yours to take. 

“Pinky,” you affirm, holding yours out to his without a second thought.

Then,

“Bob, no, wait—”

Before you could snatch your hand away he meets his skin to yours— Hot, firm grip wrapping around your finger, sure and steady against the cold, dye-covered black plastic of yours.  

“This stuff stains,” you mumble, searching his expression for a reason as to why he did it. 

He doesn’t answer at first, just pulls at the hem of your shirt—his shirt—billowing loosely at your side, suddenly bashful as he wipes the color clean off his skin to bleed into the fabric covering you. 

“There,” he hums, the corner of his lip pulling into a proud smile at his good work for a fleeting second, then wiping it off like it said too much. “All better.”  

You shake your head with a laugh under your breath at his dreamy stare, like he was screaming out something you just couldn’t quite hear yet. 

“You ruined a perfectly good shirt for no reason.”

“I’d, uh… I’d say it was a pretty good reason.”

He says it like he just said something absurd— Like it was incomprehensible, the thread that stitched each word together and delivered them to you like an oath disguised as a letter. Like it was something ordinary, and yet, not at all. 

If you didn’t take a second to walk yourself back in your mind, you might’ve done something stupid— Something like beg him to say what he really means. Something like just answering him by kissing him. Something like telling him you can’t hold back any longer, this feeling you were drowning in, unbearable. 

But you keep it together, biting at the inside of your mouth and playfully rolling your eyes like it could mask the tension of that unsaid, responding with something reminiscent of a laugh as you pull his hair back into your hands where it belonged. 

“C’mere, Reynolds,” you say with a smile, tenderly tracing alongside the edge of his hairline at his temple— A quiet promise in your touch. “We’re almost done.”

He mulls in the silence for a while, letting you feel him in your fingers like it was telling him more.

You rub your hands through him and he asks,

“How d’you know so much about all this?”

You smooth your hands from front to back.

“I don’t know. The printed instructions and a YouTube video or two… A lot of practice.”

You curl your fingertips at the nape of his neck.

“Practice?”

You run them through again.

“How do you think Valentina keeps that stupid stripe so perfectly silver?”

And again…

“Really? Wow.”

And again…

“Yup. Sometimes I don’t even think she could tie her shoes if I didn’t hold the laces for her.”

And again…

“I know it was you, by the way.”

You freeze. 

Fingers release from his hair and you step back slightly, shifting under his gaze and studying him carefully— Trying to read between the lines woven on his face and focus on anything other than the spike in your heart rate or the tightness in your chest.

He said it calmly—smoothly, just like how you touched him—without a trace of malice or blame, only quiet intention. 

You go to turn back to the sink but he stops you in your tracks, solid and warm hand grasped around you. It was insane how he held you so gently yet with so much power, so much purpose. Your eyes glance down, noting his fingers were wrapped around your wrist and not your hand, all like he avoided it— Like he was still so afraid to touch you, to go beyond with you again, but he needed contact.

He needed you to stay. 

So you stopped, running your tongue over your teeth in thought before asking, 

“What do you mean?”

It was said evenly, like all your confidence didn’t just crumble under the weight of your curious words. Like it didn’t just throw you for a loop and leave you a sputtering mess in your head.

But he read right through it. His gaze steadies you—grounds you—somehow walking you back from an invisible edge just by looking at you, all without saying a word yet. 

“Who called— I… I know it was you who called Bucky.”

It was said with such certainty, a phrase harbouring something more honest than truth, a love letter delivered through pure intentions. 

He let go of your wrist, a timid hint of fingertips against the racing of your pulse before he let it drop to your side. Wandering eyes try to meet your gaze, a whisper of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You immediately retreat, suddenly razor-focused on peeling the gloves off and discarding them into the sink, setting a timer on your phone and mulling in thought. Eventually, you turn to him, your back flush against his vanity, his stare still fixed to you and chilling your skin more than the cool granite.

Patience is what he granted you, biting gently at his lips that were drawn into a tight line now. Eyebrows wobbled ever so slightly into soft crescents as he watched you stir, like he was worried about the weight of the world on your shoulders. Like it was hurting him to see you taken aback.

And yet, still, patience.

“Bob, I…” You trail off, struggling to form a coherent sentence, a huff breaking through instead of more words lost in the shake of your voice. “That-that’s—”

“I know, it’s okay.” He cuts you off and before you could blink he was already moving across the tile and standing in front of you, wading in the wake of your shadow. Your body, an eclipse. His hands find refuge in his pockets, tucked away like that somehow makes him take up less space. Like it somehow makes his earnest confrontation less invasive, less emotionally charged. 

It doesn’t.

“You were in there,” you whisper, voice cracking at the end as you try to blink back tears stinging the corners of your eyes, looking anywhere but at him, fingers picking at hangnails you created. “You were in that vault and I—and I—”

“And you called,” he reassures, steady voice countering your wavering one. Something new. With a touch as gentle as his breath fanning across your face, he tilts your chin up to him, finger lingering a whisper too long. “It doesn’t matter when it was. You called and I got out.”

His features were soft, taking you in like you were the only thing that mattered, like if he didn't study the shapes and swirls in your irises he no longer knew the purpose of living. 

“Bob, you died.” 

The hard truth hits the floor with a thud, yet the words were spoken so faintly you thought for a second maybe he didn’t hear them, maybe you spared him from acknowledging that gut-wrenching truth.

You were anticipating the worst— Ready for him to hate you, to yell at you, to force you to leave and to never want to speak to you again. 

What you didn’t anticipate, however, was for him to break eye contact.

His stare flickers down to his hand instead, slowly reaching out to yours at your side until your palms are pressed together— A fragile anchor between people who don’t know how to say what they need to.

It was cautious, desperate yet restrained— No fingers intertwined, no firm grip, just the raw press of skin to skin, something certain for you to hold onto, just like the words he spoke. 

And it felt like maybe you were the one who died and came back to life when his thumb brushed over yours—a tender, hesitant sweep—so gentle, so honest, his fingers a rope pulling you back from the depths you’ve fallen to. 

It was like time stopped when he looked up again, shy and raw, a sneaking suspicion of unbearable intimacy daring to drag you under, rip you from your guilt-wracked reality and trap you in a dream beneath his grasp. 

It was the kind of look that would leave you only to wander in your dreams after seeing it— One that would leave you wondering how to crave the unimaginable after getting a taste of his eyes.

“And now I’m alive,” he whispers, lips twitching upwards at the word ‘alive.’ “Now I have a reason to be.”

Your fingers flinch in his grasp, small and unsteady against him— Suddenly aware after the initial shock that he was holding your hand in a moment still tethered to this reality. You feel it for a split second, the flex in his fingers, like he’s weighing running again— Like he wasn’t yet believing he deserved to be holding onto someone. Like it wasn’t the feeling of you beneath him that made it dizzying, but the fact that you were letting him.

That you don’t pull away.

Glassy eyes dart back and forth between his, trying to decipher if you really just heard him flip your world upside down with a few simple words— If you really were holding him in a way you never thought possible, like maybe—for a split second—he needed it too.

Were you dreaming?

For a fleeting moment, his gaze slips down to uncharted waters, tracing the curve of your lips with a hesitant hunger. You barely dared to believe it’s real—convinced it was your imagination caving to your desires—before he abruptly clears his throat, the spell now broken.

“I-I have this new family,” he clarifies, but he doesn't stop looking at you like you weren’t completely insane for reading beyond what he was saying, for thinking that maybe—just maybe—he meant something else entirely. “I have this job… I have purpose— Or will eventually, at least. If you didn’t call when you did I maybe never would’ve gotten that chance. Maybe I never would’ve gotten out of… there.”

His voice cuts off, a short and sharp breath pulled into his lungs at the mention of it. You knew what he was alluding to, that sinister darkness that swallowed him whole and trapped him with no sign of release— A vault maybe worse than the physical one he escaped before. 

You squeeze your eyes tightly at the reminder of what he went through. 

“Why are you doing this?” you manage to ask, finding him studying you when you come back to your senses, your fingers stiffening against his for a beat before granting a subtle squeeze at his loose fingers, reminding him you were still tethered to him— Reminding him he’s still human and is allowed to crave the warmth of another. 

A tinge of melancholy stains his wobbly smile, and he says, “Because I know what it’s like to only judge yourself on your worst mistakes.”

He hesitates for a second, soaking in your eyes that softened at his words, biting gingerly at his bottom lip, hanging on the moment like he wanted to say more— Like he had another reason he was trying to will himself to set free. 

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his thumb brushes over yours again—slow, methodical—like he was learning every crease and every line.

It was intoxicating.

You never wanted him to stop.

“I just thought that maybe if I kept this job I could try to change her,” you admit, feeling exposed at your honesty— But you wanted him to know. You wanted to unravel yourself and lay every fractured piece at his feet. You wanted to give yourself away, like you were never really yours to begin with, only his.

“I thought maybe I could help become a real part of this team if I—”

He stops you, gaze heavy and dripping with something you couldn’t quite place. “You are a part of the team.”

You stared back at him, reveling in the electric energy coursing through your veins, flowing from his hand to yours, presence finding a missing piece in each other, like you both were a source of oxygen through the tender weight in the air. An addictive and alluring heaviness you couldn’t quite shake.

“I thought maybe I could work from the inside,” you continue, narrowing your eyes, teasing now— Desperate to escape the weight of your own soul. “Y’know, like black-ops or something…” 

Only he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even crack a smile or let a pulse of air drift from his lips. He just stared at you like he couldn’t turn away from something sacred, like he couldn’t let you do it either— Like you were wrapped in something more meaningful than life itself.

He waded in the pools of your eyes and flush of your skin like you were the only thing tethering him to linear time, like not even God himself could rip him from your grasp—from this moment—from the high he chased by clutching onto your skin— Something more addicting than any drug he’d ever been on. 

It made your heart pound harder against your rib cage, a pull stirring deep at the pit of your stomach— A yearning awakening from restless sleep. 

The only thing that mattered was your breathing— In time, parallel, humming in seductive silence together. 

It’s a fever, bulletproof, impossible to break. 

And then it happens again— That hesitant glance down at your lips like he was doing something unfathomable, like the way he chased the rosey flush of your pout was obscene. 

For a second, you started to believe that maybe he could want this. Maybe he wanted this just as much as you. Maybe, somehow, he wanted it more…

Thin lips part open, but nothing comes out. So he tries again, voice thick and low with rasp. “I—”

Suddenly, the phone’s timer blares, sharply shattering the fragile silence with no remorse. The unwanted sound echoed off the tile, vibrating through every inch of skin and ripping you clean out of the moment— A feat you once thought impossible, now accomplished with ease. 

His hand jerks back as if he was caught in the act of something forbidden, retreating with a sudden, awkward haste. You let out a sharp exhale, remembering how to breathe without him again and make quick work of silencing the deafening noise, wanting to scream at what it had ruined. 

You had him.

For a second it felt like you honestly and truly had him. 

And now he was gone. 

“Guess you’re all done,” you say, not even recognizing your own voice anymore. Not when he was taking over your body, your mind. Your soul.

“Yeah,” he mumbles back, looking down at the tile— Far away now, in more ways than one.

The distance between you stretches, leaving you to freeze in the loss of his body heat hovering over yours— And yet still, the chill of his retreat is warmer than the company of anyone else in this world. 

Something you never wanted to live without now.

You suddenly lost all your confidence—what little of it you had—struggling to do what comes next.

“Do you, uh, do you want to,” you stumble, gently gesturing to his shower, “or do you want me to—”

“No, I trust you,” he interrupts, silencing your words and worries with a shy smile, still looking down at the floor until he flicks his gaze up for a second— Something shy and innocent. “I-I want you to do it.”

And for a moment, it feels like even though he let you go, he was still holding onto you.

You feel it when you lead him back to the tub, having him sit down against the cool tile and lean his head back, waiting until the water runs warm out of the faucet in the tub.

You feel it when you take a second to watch him— The way his long neck stretches over the tub, the bump in his throat catching the dim glow of moody bathroom lights. His jaw is relaxed now—soft—a way you rarely see it, lips parted in a hazy, unguarded half-smile like it’s a reflex when you’re this close to him. Deeply dark, glossy hair hangs off the edge, a few thin strands clinging to his forehead. The same strands that slipped free when he waded over you against the sink— A piece of that moment, still pulsing. They hang on like they belong there, like they couldn’t resist their natural state.

You feel it when your fingers hover over his hair—a blink away—a breath until you meet him again. This certainly wasn’t your first time touching him… So why did this feel so different now?

And like he knew you were hesitant, knew you were wrestling yourself deep in the corner of your mind, fighting back against yourself— He touches you first.

It was slow, careful. Like he understood breaking that gap between you and him would break something else too. Something unspoken, something unaccounted for. Like every delicate touch was a vow exchanged, a promise to never stop, to allow yourselves the grace to give in. 

You wanted to surrender.

Did he?

You don’t say a word, just let him gently guide your wrist down the rest of the way so your fingers could wade in his hair, the calloused heat and strength of his presence lingering for a second like he was fighting his brain's command to retreat. Like his fingers wanted to belong on top of your skin evermore. 

When you reached over to test the heat of the water with your other hand, you could swear his face tilted up a fraction toward yours— Like gravity, a new and sudden pull always drawing him to center around you. 

He watches you move. 

Silent. Still. 

Heavy-lidded eyes follow your body as you pull away, gaze thick with a look that reads as tangible desperation. Like he isn’t sure whether to be relaxed or wrecked by the moment. You can feel it humming under his skin, the pulse of something neither of you have had the courage to name. Something unmissable in the air, tension strung heavy like the room was holding its breath for you. 

He exhales when you finally pull your fingers through him again, a jolt pulsing through the air— So quiet, so unsure, yet aching.

Haunted ocean eyes lull shut under the delicacy of your touch, your fingers beckoning him one motion at a time. Deep brown runs from his head like ink spilling over a perfect white page, all sense of direction lost in the bleeding of his former self.

You wash him back to life, tenderly, with deliberate pace, keeping yourself present by focusing on everything utterly and innately him. Long, intoxicating eyelashes flutter under your touch, trembling with a fragile, exchanged energy he didn’t dare to let falter. Soft pink lips drift open, imperceptibly— The gentle gap between them like nothing more than a faint and distant shadow. Stained beads of water cling to the edge of his forehead, down his brow bone, around his jaw, down his neck…

The water collects in your hands and flushes over strands of his hair, cascading over him like a veil. Fingers work through the thick, damp strands, massaging through his scalp with a tenderness that feels more like an admission than an action.

His head pushes into your touch again—honest and true—no longer testing the integrity of your mind that wondered if he craved you as much as you craved him. This time it was done undoubtedly. 

The smell of cheap dye rises between you like a confession neither of you will say out loud. Not yet. 

Like gravity draws you there, your fingers trace along his temple, rubbing free a messy drop of tinged water off his features, like you were wiping away the empty version of him you no longer knew. 

He lets out a breath at the contact, soft and shaky, barely there. The corners of his mouth twitch like he was trying to conceal something that yearned to be set free. 

His careful exhale hung off the edge of his lips and you were jealous of it— Jealous of the way something gets to live so impossibly close to the vulnerable and intimate parts of him. The gentle in and out, all like the complications you wrestled down deep inside.

The ones that questioned if you were worthy of indulging in him. 

“This okay?” you murmur, voice small and cautious, a gentle hum craving to be reassured. 

Cool and grounding blue of his eyes flutter to life at your voice, finding your gaze through the misted air, charged and heavy with sincerity. 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low and hoarse in a way that turns your stomach over— A reminder that he was real under your touch. “It’s… it’s better than okay,” he whispers, warming the air that’s run cold between you.

He says it delicately, a formidable prose, all like he was revealing something that was meant to be hidden, to be buried behind a calm tone rather than the intoxicating cadence of something worshipful. 

You don’t say a word, taking your time to learn each strand like a lost language, sacred scripture, senseless desire. 

Slowly, he’s painted back to himself.

Back to you. 

Tainted conscience comes clean by your hands buried in him, molding him to your touch, inch by inch, second by second, until the stained trail circling the drain lightens to something clear and pure.

Renewed light whispers through the air, a steady rhythm of the running water, beading drips from loose tendrils— The sound, a severance of a soul from purgatory. 

You lather his shampoo through the strands, something earnestly clean and simple filling the air, blending with the smell of chemicals and weighted intentions still chasing the drain.

You don’t mean to drag your fingertips a little slower, trying desperately to memorize the feeling of him tangled through you.

You don’t mean to press your palm against the curve of his neck when you chase away the suds left at the edge of his curls, his pulse a steady drum rattling through your hand.

You don’t mean to let your stare linger, the wet mess of himself suddenly the furthest thing from your mind now that you realized he was looking at you too.

But you do.

And neither of you dare to look away.

Electric tension evaporates any trace of air in your lungs. Neither of you breathe— A moment so delicate, you fear even a gentle exhale would break it.

He’s left to look up at you through familiar brown trusses framing his flushed face.

For a moment, divine intervention takes over— Your lips moving like flesh possessed by something ethereal, something by the grace of God, too earnest to name. 

“You’re back,” you whisper, honey-sweet tone drenching your words.

Beat.

“You came back to me.”

You say it like a vow, like a prayer— And perhaps, this is how religions are made. The cheap dye that ran through your fingers and mingled with the water, the soap that rinsed it free, the whispered words and a devout touch— A confessional, an act of reconciliation. Atonement for your sins done onto him.

His voice cuts through like rolling thunder, like rain on your skin— Clinging and desperate and impossible to ignore. The words come out broken and exhausted, all like they had to crawl their way up his throat to fall from his lips.

“Maybe I never really left you.”

The faucet runs dry after you turn it off, silence stretching unfathomably far. The air between you thickens, heavy and muffled with the weight of almosts.

Impossibly, the city that never sleeps seems to have fallen into slumber the second your world caved to just him. 

You should say something. Say anything. You should pull back, laugh it off, grab a towel and pretend this doesn’t mean what you both know it does. You should stop before you can’t turn back.

But you don’t.

Instead, you lean a little closer, your fingers trailing down the side of his neck, your thumb brushing over his pulse point as your hand cups his jaw, rubbing water into his skin like you can dry it beneath the heat of your touch— Through the heat of your skin, fused to his like it belongs. 

His chest is fluttering faster, pulse a steady beat under the pad of your finger, reminding you this was real. You were really here with him— This is happening. Then his eyes fall down to your lips, and you start to feel dizzy again.

He pulls you back to reality when his lips rasp your name—something sure, something even—a pleading cadence trying to attach itself to you. 

His hand comes up and catches the bend of your wrist gently, heavy fingers finding yours pressed against his neck, and you wonder, for a split second, if he was going to pull you away— If the call of your name was a warning and not a plea. Yet he holds you there, keeps you tethered to him, wiping away any doubts and insecurities you have with something more sure than words.

“I’m not going to stop you,” he murmurs, voice unhurried, lingering in the swelling silence, dancing with the steady beams of light flowing through the veins of the city beneath you.

It’s a promise, it’s a challenge… Maybe it’s both— A reverent ache granting you permission, begging you to take him up on an offer too holy to extend through anything other than an honest whisper. 

The words get stuck between your teeth, careless fibers woven between the cavities and creating pressure against your tongue. 

Warm water snakes from his neck down your wrist, staining your forearm, his wet form clinging to you, reminding you of what was just within your grasp. If you dared.

Instead, you mumble, 

“I’ll get you a towel.”

It’s like you blacked out the second you say those words— The second you leave his body, hot and weighted and impatient against cool tile. It’s like your mind moves to autopilot, rummaging through a cabinet for a towel when he’s already right behind you, always a half a step ahead, grabbing what you seek from a towel rack right in front of you.

And it’s like you're brought back to life the second he holds the plush fabric out to you, heavy breath warming the back of your neck, a steady drip of water beading off the ends of his hanging hair and onto your shoulder, rejuvenating what was lost within you.

So you soak the towel in his hair, slowly, gently, all until it’s merely damp in your hands. 

He watches you, silent worship, eyes roaming you like it was something sacred, completely unaware that you could sense the storm brewing beneath his gaze— The intention that boomed through his thoughts, carefully.

Quietly. 

Fingers linger at the nape of his neck, the towel clutched between your grasp like it’s a lifeline— Something you could hold him through, but still a thin barrier between what you want and what you have. 

It’s only then that you realize how long you’ve just been holding him.

Legs clung so closely they were basically between each other. Chests, heaving heavy with the weight of all that was quietly exchanged and pulsing between you. His eyes— Melted and wrecked and never leaving yours, so completely and utterly new.

Like if he blinked, he’d miss it. 

You tear your lingering gaze from the nape of his neck—his messy, tangled curls—and notice instead the way his hands ghost over the curve of your waist, caving and bending in the wake of your skin. Close, but not close enough. Like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

He notices too, eyes dipping down to his own cautious limbs, breath catching just enough that you could hear it and all it held. 

“Bob…” you whisper, an aching plea—something between a question and a statement—almost too dazed and lost to know if you were really speaking or just beckoning him only in your mind. 

He swallows, thick and heavy, throat bobbing just at your eyeline, body wrestling with his mind— His familiar state. 

Slowly, he retracts his fingers from your space, gone in a heartbeat, cruelly, like they were never even there.

They drum at his side, restless movement like he’s trying to break free of an invisible weight. 

“I keep…” he exhales sharply, like the words hurt to admit, and rubs trembling fingers hard across his face. “I keep thinking if I touch you now, I’m gonna screw it up…”

His confession comes weakly, weighted words faltering— Too afraid to hold all of their worth. An admittance, in some way, of what you both wanted, but have spent so long avoiding.

A religious routine you didn’t dare disturb.

The end of his words trail off and get lost in the space around you, eyes that were so suddenly sure of holding yours, lost again and looking anywhere else. 

He said it so cautiously, like they were damned letters too broken to string together, too haunted to bring to fruition. 

Little did he know, you felt the same exact way— But he doesn’t need that from you.

Neither of you do.

So instead, you let your hand reach out, achingly slow, like there was lead in your fingertips instead of flesh and blood that were all beating for him. Chills shoot through your body as you graze them along his forearm, a gentle up and down, barely moving yet purposeful— A steady movement mimicking his breath that quickened at the contact.

Up.

You trace the curve of his body with your eyes, free hand carefully tilting his chin off of the floor and up to look at you.

Down.

You linger there a second too long, shifting your gaze down at his lips and away in the blink of an eye. 

You stop.

Your voice cuts through, a gravel thick with honesty as you say just above a whisper, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

And there it was, suspended in electric air between you, hanging in the open. Waiting. Watching. 

A devout invitation to stop pretending you didn’t feel what you did.

And that was all it took. 

The hesitation that was rooted in rotten, wild insecurity burns off like fog in pure sunlight. The world narrows down to this, to him. To the way you’re both still terrified, but no longer running.

You don’t know who moved first. 

Maybe it’s been happening for hours, days, months— All in fractions of time since the moment you met him, a subtle shift, your orbit changing direction, slowly, yet all at once. 

Hesitant fingers brush the fabric of the shirt clinging to your upper thigh, pausing for a split second before finding their home against your skin, a sacred pull of his hands up your body. He pauses at the dip of your shoulder then caresses your collarbone that pokes through the slope of the fabric. 

It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hard or demanding, but an aching yearn bleeding through every cell of his body. A desperation that grew the longer that he lived in a world where his flesh wasn't connected to yours. 

Your eyes flutter shut for a breath and you can’t help but wonder if he’s actually set your body on fire with his patient touch, a miracle granted from a god himself— Somehow, worshiping you. 

A simple touch of a body that burned for him.

His other hand found its way to your lips, controlled strength of his thumb tracing the top of your lip and down your cupid's bow like he was saying a prayer to something otherworldly. To something devout. 

You’re so caught up in it you don’t even realize how close he is now, finally leaning into the confidence you offered him. 

The crisp blue of his eyes melt to a deep and desperate cerulean when he looks at you— Every ache and desire flickering behind his gaze. They find the flush of your lips and settle there, unmistakably this time, wading in the wake of their shadow as his thumb stills against you.

Slowly, he slips his other hand up to cup your cheek, featherlight touch cradling the curve of your jaw and skin that’s gone remarkably red. He holds you in the same way his words do— Like you were the only thing tethering him to this reality. Like if he gripped you too hard you’d vanish beneath his grasp and he’d lose himself with you. 

Like you were suddenly the only thing keeping him alive. 

And like he’s already wasted all the time in the world, he closes the gap, breath whispering across your lips as he takes them into his— Delicate, questioning. Like his only mission in the world was to make you melt into him and question the matter you were made of. 

The kiss was gentle, tentative— An exhale of all you held onto as his lips meet yours, a pleading cry to let yourselves get lost in each other, at last, once and for all. Finally achieving salvation through the trembling of your skin introduced to the newfound certainty of his. 

He was soft, careful, but totally and undoubtedly yours.

Your lips stay pressed together for a fraction of a second that felt like a lifetime, pure and aching touch— A thirst you never quite realized would ever be quenched until he starts to move his mouth around yours, cautiously exploring the plush skin of your lips sealed to his. 

Your hand clutches the cuff of his t-shirt sleeve, like gripping onto him would somehow make this moment more real— Your mind in overdrive as you begin to kiss him back. 

It was racing almost feverishly, pounding with a million conflicting thoughts and screaming sensations. He made it all go quiet—just for a minute—but it was starting to flood back again: doubts and insecurities and a nagging, incessant voice that still taunted, 

This is just a moment. 

This is just because you’re here. 

Even the taste of you doesn’t wash away what you’re trying to rid yourself of.

You try to wrestle it down, focusing on the way he gently parted your mouth open and slipped your bottom lip between his, a reverent and sensual pull at your flesh— Pulling you back to him, back from what tried to dull the dizzy stars in your eyes from the way he kissed you like you were the oxygen that filled his lungs and kept his heart beating.

His hands that cupped your face roamed shamelessly, one still anchored and tracing your jaw, the other sliding across your cheekbone before brushing hair out of your face and down to cradle the back of your head. 

Now it was him who made a living in your hair— Rough knuckles tangled in the nape of your neck, raking through the strands and discovering more of what he’s never felt before.

His hands against your skin weren’t greedy, weren’t possessive— They were catharsis incarnate. A living, breathing exorcism of somber restraint, as if the whole city might collapse if he didn’t hold you.

It was a quiet surrender to the hollow kind of ache neither of you could bear to carry alone anymore.

When you let both your hands slide up his arms, fingers wrapping around the curves of his muscle until they settle on his shoulders, he’s drawn to the small of your back like a magnet. Like you touching him back even in the smallest of ways was monumental. Like it was dusting off what he knew of intimate actions. Like it was permission for him to allow himself to have this— To have you.

He brings you in closer, the press of his palm flush against the small of your back like a weight. Your bodies fused together, chests thumping in time, a screaming heartbeat in your ear so loud you were deprived of the sweet sounds he made.

Like the frantic prose of his breath against you.

Like the shudder he let slip when both your hands wandered further up to explore his neck and jawline, fingers tracing every inch.

Or the just barely audible whine that curled in the air around you before he finally speaks again— Noses brushing, bodies heaving and fingers lost in discovering one another. The gift of something new. 

“You’re thinking,” he whispers, lips pulling apart from yours with hesitancy, body reeling you in somehow closer to make up from the sliver of space that lives between you now, all like he was afraid you’ll disappear there. His voice was heavy, deep— The sound of a shameless crave wrapping around each letter he let slip. 

It was making you dizzy— The way he somehow managed to read between what your body is doing and your mind is raking through underneath the surface.

The subtle disconnect you’d never want him to feel, yet he did. 

“So are you,” you murmur, not strong enough to resist flipping his question back on him instead of answering it yourself. “What’re you thinking about?”

For once, he answers with no hesitancy—for a fleeting moment—no longer fearing the insecurity of his own mind and its integrity. 

“Just how much I want this,” he breathes, honest and true, weighted words dancing across your skin and making it shiver with chills. He lets the hand in your hair fall so he can clutch the bottom hem of your t-shirt, his t-shirt, hugging your body. “About how much I want you.”

He takes you in— A deep, desperate gaze, all like he needed you to believe it in order to survive. And when he does, something shifts. It doesn’t break open inside you, it doesn’t crash, or crack, or splinter. 

It’s an unexpected bend, your soul finding his and staying.

Your self-sabotage is suffocated— The one that whispers this is being done out of haste, out of palpable lust and loaded feelings you projected onto him. No, you scold yourself. This is the realest thing you’ve ever had.

So you connect again with urgency, letting yourself fall into him and return your lips to his— The place you wanted to belong forever after getting a taste. Your hands run up his neck with a tender pressure until they reach his hair, instinctively closing around the damp curls at the nape of his neck, helping press him into you again. 

A sharp exhale gets caught in the back of your throat at the feeling, his lips rapidly picking up the pace against yours— Kissing you back. It still wasn’t rushed, or messy or careless, but the kind of frantic burn that scorns through sensual and desperate touch. 

Like you’d never get enough of each other.

His thumb grazes at the hem of your shirt before snaking its way up at the side of your rib cage, helping pull you into him the same way his lips are. The other is still splayed on the small of your back, rubbing tentatively— A gentle vow, each movement making your head spin and your knees uneasy as they begin to tangle with his from the breached space.

His movements become more sure, the power behind his touch no longer grounding but pleading— Soft sounds and labored breathing daring to drag you into a reality where only this mattered.

The weight of him pressed to you felt right, like a prophecy you let haunt you was finally being fulfilled.

You, merely an extension of him, and him of you.  

Damp curls thread through your fingers like an anchor as he holds you tighter, intensity building behind his body— Crashing and hungry and worshipful all at once. It was hardly your first time raking your fingers through his hair but now they moved like they believed they belonged there, no longer like they were asking. 

He pushes it further— His mouth angling to take you in more, noses carrying frantic and heavy breaths as they bump together, your tongue eventually finding its way to his like it's something you’ve done a million times. 

His breath shuddered against you— Vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

Legs tangled, bodies twisted, trying to invent new ways to be closer together right where you belonged.

Then you’re moving— Grabbing harder on his neck to pull him with you, messily stumbling back toward the doorway until your back rests flush and heaving against the cool paneling of the wall. 

You leaned into it, pressure of his hands finding that sweet spot right above your waist, gentle and honest pull until your hips were flush against his, thumb circling slow and steady at the dip of your skin and bone. 

You feel it for a fleeting second— His fingers twitching against you before one hand slips further down, cupping the crest of your waist, your hip, your thigh…

His body betrays him, the questioning flicker of doubt pulsing through the flex of his fingers as they finally rest around the curve of your ass. It was like he was journaling every reaction you had, every careful movement that was flushed out with delicate intentions to know more of you. 

His lips pull apart just barely, forehead resting against yours, and asks,

“This okay?” It comes out with a pant, his ehale warming the inside of your mouth that hangs slightly open trying to catch your breath, lips still clinging against yours as he speaks. The question broke apart as it’s asked— Frayed at the edges, all like he was scared to think he might’ve pushed a non-existent line too far and too fast. 

You nod, peppering the gentlest of kisses at the corner of his mouth and around his jaw, selfishly hungry and not wanting to stop like you were now addicted. 

He’s wrecking you— You shamelessly basking in the broken gasp that breaks across your skin when you push into his hold with something more weighted than that of your body. 

“More than okay,” you mumble into his skin, smiling on his mouth as you get to return the words he assured you with in the tub. 

Then something stoic washes over him, glowing like his skin in the haze of steam and city ambience that cuts through the deep of the night. He bites at the edge of his lip, his mouth twitching like he was cursing himself— Like he was afraid, like he was about to be vulnerable for the first time with you. Like his hand wasn’t currently pressed deep into the curve of your ass and cradling you through sensual, electric tension.

“Is this real?”

The vulnerable cadence of his words gets swallowed into the silence, only the twin beat of your hearts and ravenous breath hanging in the air with the question. It’s asked with disbelief and careful wonder and something reminiscent of awe basking in your presence. 

And you knew what he meant immediately, like you’ve lived inside his head forever. Like he was the better side of a coin you shared. 

You know he asks it because he knows the feeling of living in something of an illusion all too well. The feeling of questioning the integrity of every breath he took— Of everything he touched, or more so, didn’t.

So you do something that shatters the hesitancy in him, shaky breath, an exhale— Your promise to him. 

You pull one of his anchoring hands off your waist and into yours, softly, delicately—no trembling, no hesitation this time—the most honest thing you’ve ever done. 

His brows knit and he pulls back just enough to watch you do it like it was grounding him from losing control. Like you were creating gravity for him. 

His breath hitches in disbelief as your fingers thread together—in the easy, certain way you give him what he was too terrified to ask for—hollow hands whole again once wound in each other.

And for the first time, there’s no flinch. No retreat.

The city’s heartbeat beneath you softens, booms lower, quieter— A romantic rhythm in tandem with yours, like it was alive for you. 

Alive with you.

Fingers squeeze around his— Tight, knowing, sure. You don’t want him to be mistaken as you touch him there, in a place you both avoided, knowing it holds a weight heavier than the breaking of all unsaid.

Eventually, his grip matches yours; slow, reverent. His thumb brushes over yours, unwavering this time. There’s no flex like he’s weighing running, no hesitation like he can’t believe he’s allowed— Only certainty. 

You let him be present in this universe with you. Nowhere else. No other time or memory or false feeling.

Just here. 

Your confessions to him lay naked and bare in the wake of his grasp, no presence feeding off the stained parts of your soul and dragging him away into a place where time lost all meaning. But instead, it loses all meaning here.

Because for once when his hand touches another, time doesn’t shrink or fall still or cower— It expands.

It evolves. 

It grows and moves forward. It feels right— An exchanged commitment to one another in the shape of skin that caves to each other.

A vow that bends linear time. 

You didn’t have to answer his question with words, just your reverent touch he clung onto like you were the answer to all he lost in the fabric of this reality— Like if he let you go his soul will lose its center of gravity.

He lets out a huff in utter disbelief, pure wonder, the mesmerising and magical cadence of something real.

And he moves like fire when you whisper against the shell of his ear, 

“Keep showing me how real it really is.”

Your delicate command gets lost in the sounds of him moving back to how he held you before—pushing you into the wall harder—his mouth crashing into yours with passion and desperation. It swallows the sweet gasp you make as he leaves whatever soft and tentative actions he wore on the forefront behind him, abandoned on the floor of that bathroom that glowed from the fever of your aching touch.

Fingers fly free of your hand and rope through your hair, guiding your face to kiss him deeper. And you do.

His other hand squeezes into the curve of your ass he grips onto, mimicking the way his lips shape around yours— Gentle pull dancing with dizzying pressure with every press at your skin. Then you hook your leg around his thigh, helping him push into you more. 

Even then, his fingers danced like your flesh was burning him, roaming with feverish intent, never lingering too long in one spot. They’re everywhere and anywhere he could reach.

They press flush to your waist, trail up your tummy and follow the gentle curve of your ribs. They live in the marrow of bones that carved your shoulders and neck in sacred city lights, tracing your jaw until he replaces his touch with his mouth, fingers tracing your hair out of his way like it was an act of penance.

You hold his middle, a breathless run of your fingertips on his chest— The same kind of breathless like the sigh that leaves your lips when he bites gently on your neck, like he’s electrocuting every nerve ending in your body with reverent praise. 

Every contraction and flex of otherworldly muscle pulses under your touch, your hands skimming the surface until you slip them under and melt your curious touch into the vast expanse of his body— Skin on skin.

He groans at the sensation of you touching him now without a thin cotton barrier— Soft and pleading and thanking you with the religious pull of his lips on your neck. The mark is dusted with an honest kiss before he finds your mouth again, the sweet taste of cherry candies and deep red wine and something unmistakably him flooding all your senses utill you couldn’t bear to imagine anything else. 

For a split second, your legs wobble from the sensation—like you were becoming drunk off the taste of his mouth on you—but he steadies you, gripping the hand that held you up more firmly against your skin, forearm anchoring the underside of your upper leg that wrapped around him. 

“I got you,” he murmurs, so faint in between deep and lustful kisses you couldn’t tell if it was real or not. 

He holds you like you were nothing more than the air he breathes— Like it was the easiest and most natural state for him to dwell in. It’s done delicately, fingers careful against your skin like you would break from one wrong touch. He holds you with devotion, something sure and unmistakable in the pressure of his body against yours. 

Once he feels you stable yourself, the fingers holding your thigh travel up along your spine and under your shirt. They find the center of your back and rest along your bra, careful, alert, meticulous. They snake around the strap, a gentle pull and play around the stretch of the elastic. It wasn’t rushed or possessive, but grounding— Honest and pure intention breaking free to only leave his questioning fingers tracing another part of you locked away from him.

Your mind is screaming for him to take the leap, so loud and hungry you almost wondered if he could hear what's trapped inside your skull when his fingers find the clasp and fiddle with the latch— Something of a questioning hum or mumble of  “can I” lost in the careful mangle of his fingers.

He focuses harder, his lips stilling against yours slightly until you reach a hand off his chest and over his frustrated fingers behind you, guiding him with ease to pop the clasp open and give more of yourself to him. 

He steers the garment free and it falls to the floor, tangling with your feet.

They move around it, suddenly walking backwards like second nature as he guides you off the door frame and into his room.

His mouth and tongue still meet yours without skipping a beat. His hands, large and wild and lazy, leading you into something new with him. 

The hand tangled in your hair clings to the base of your neck—gently—listening to the cadence of your pulse and ghosting over the sensitive mark he left blooming against the plush of your skin. 

The fingers that splayed around your jaw rub and trace along the shadow of your cheekbone in the moody glow of his abandoned room coming back to life once you were in it. 

The other guides you back, slipping out from under your shirt and finally exploring the side of your ribcage now free of everything other than the clothes of his you wore.

You moan into the haze of his personal space as you press into his mouth deeper, hands trailing up and pushing gently on his neck and head to help him give you what you needed. 

It’s a successful endeavor until you imperceptibly tug on his hair, causing him to lean his head back for a breath and match the sounds you made— Something shameless and broken and desperate cracking between each messy motion toward his bed together.

He’s all over you— Like watercolors on stale paper, like fog clinging to shadows. Like doubt disguised as deliverance. 

His confidence grows steadily with every leading step— His teeth clinging gently at the bottom of your lip making you sigh into every touch, all while simultaneously and haphazardly kicking random things out of your path— Like the damp towel that got tangled at his feet and dragged a few steps or your discarded shoes you stumble over.

You let out a tiny sound of pain as you stepped on the sharp, pointed heel, and though you didn’t really notice or care—considering you were currently under a spell from his mouth—Bob did.

He lets out a taut puff of air through his nose against your upper lip as he continues to kiss you and waves his hand casually, a sudden bang of the hazard in question crashing with undeniable force into his desk and knocking over the chair, your ragged movements coming to a screeching stop at the realization. 

He looked over his shoulder, chest rising and falling quickly, your gaze settling right past him and at the shoes— Now scuffed and torn apart. One of the stiletto heels is broken in half from the impact, making your mouth fall slack in shock at his casual power. 

A red flush sweeps over his skin—even more so now—and paints the soft porcelain of his skin from ears down past his neck and under his t-shirt. He blinks steadily, looking back and forth between you and the mess behind him, mouth desperately trying to spit out words. 

“I-I, shit, I’m so sorry,” he says, voice still raspy and heavy from the taste of you on his tongue. “I didn’t mean to do that, I’ll— I’ll buy you new ones, I—”

You cut him off with another kiss, helplessly giggling at the way you could feel his brain short-circuiting underneath you, instantly moving to hold you again and kiss you back— But with hesitancy as his mind tried to catch up with the instinct now settled in his bones.

“I don’t care. It’ll go on my work card,” you mumbled in between kisses and continuing to pull him backwards again— Into you and back on track to your destination. “Comes with the job,” you continue, caressing his tangled hair out of his face and behind his ears. “Common business expense.” 

He snorts at that— Real, genuine laugh under his breath that vibrates through every cell in your body as it breaks through his starving movements against your skin. 

“Field work,” he adds, smiling against your lips until he finds your ear and kisses gently below it— Nose nudging your hair, breath tickling your skin, all of it making you melt. “Some crazy enhanced got too handsy with you.”

“The only thing crazy about it is saying he’s too handsy,” you tease coyly, head tilting back, breath quickening. He’s kissing your ear, your jaw, your neck… 

You sigh earnestly at his touch, halting once the back of your knees finally meet the side of his bed.

When he pulls away, your eyes flutter open to take him in and he’s breathtaking.

Soft, supple waves blur at the edges, lined lightly in soft, golden light from the bathroom still pulsing behind him. The harsh contrast of the nightswept city flickers with life like the heartbeat you could see in his eyes when he looked at you— Wide and blissful and utterly dazed in your presence. They soaked in the cool blue hue of skyscraper haze and melted into something sacred. His thin lips are fuller now, softly parted and swollen, slicked over with evidence of you all over them— Bright pink flush matching the familiar warmth settling over his skin, his cheeks only reddening as you study him religiously. 

Out of all the ways you watched him blush tonight, this was your favorite. Easily.

You could hear it thrumming in every corner of the room now— His soul, his heartbeat, all an extension of him you now waded in. 

It was pressed between the pages of the books that littered his shelves. It was bouncing off the walls in his room that darkness clung to. It was living, breathing in the floorboards that cushioned your feet and held you afloat— The pure and perfect vulnerability of him, his molten honesty, echoing through everything he touched.

Echoing through you.

Your next moves are slow— More careful and intentional now than the frenzy you let yourself get lost in before has eased. Fingers slip down to the hem of his shirt, electric and alive like sparks when you gently hold it and feel his skin underneath. Like you weren’t just all over him before. 

They toy with the hem gently in waiting question— The smooth cotton flowing against your touch, your eyes on his, burning with something stronger. Hungrier. 

Lips part slightly to do it—to ask—but he beats you to it. His hand finds yours, a gentle rub at your thumb, before he helps you guide his shirt off. It's a slow, aching travel up his body, neckline catching and somehow further messing his tangled waves once it pulls over his head and falls to the floor.

You try not to stare— You really try not to, but god, you can’t help it. How could you?

He was somehow more defined than you ever could’ve imagined, muscle carved through every fiber of his being like he could break you in half with a pinch. He was so gentle, so cautious— So over-calculated and constantly over-thinking, like he was always one step away from curling in on himself and inventing a new way to manipulate matter into sucking his body into a black hole. 

You could feel it brimming behind him still, that unshakable urge to try and hide himself somehow, like his body—this remarkable temple for his soul—was somehow unworthy of existing. Like he didn’t deserve to be observed or watched. Like he was meant to be lost and forgotten about with other unloved things that stilled under the haunted dust of this building. 

But when he stood in front of you like this—like he had a reason for simply being—it was the complete opposite. 

It was evident in the way he looked at you now— Stable, sure, an aching crave of you smothering any small flicker behind his eyes that tried to catch into a flame of doubt.

You wouldn’t let it.

He swallows hard, like he’s pushing down the urge to run again, then moves. 

Slowly, rough and secure hands guide your fingers back to his skin, curves of his muscle heavy under you like stone, expanse of his chest and arms and abs dusted with freckles and marks— Millions of them, all waiting to be brought to life by your hands. 

You drift them along, taking him in, all until your palm rests over his heart, the frantic rhythm of something reverent under your fingertips. 

Something you know beats for you.

Eventually, you break the silence, voice low and honest as you say, “You’re incredible.” You say it like you were in disbelief— And that’s because you were.

He smiles—crooked, wobbly joy etched into his lips—and shifts under your gaze, like he wasn’t used to the praise. Especially when you meant it, truly. Wholeheartedly. 

He comes closer, heaving chest rising and falling against yours now and ghosts the edge of his face against yours. 

A hand brushes wisps of your hair from your eyes, forehead resting gently along yours until your noses are touching. Until you could feel his eyelashes fluttering against your brow bone and the swell of his lips— Holy, like they were swollen from the mere thought of you until they touch yours again.

He slots his lips into yours with a gentle and breathless sigh, free hand cradling the bend of your elbow in his palm.

“So are you,” he murmurs into your mouth, the low and sultry tone vibrating every nerve ending like a tuning fork striking through your body, your cells and soul all singing the ethereal tune of his praise for you. “So perfect.”

Carefully, he guides you back— Slowly, sensually sitting you on the bed beneath him, his body caging you in and hovering just a heartbeat away. His lips whisper against yours as he leans down, melting right back into a deep and methodical kiss like he never left, the weight of his body helping ease you back onto the mattress.

He’s slotted between you like a lost key now returned. One arm presses into the bed parallel to your shoulder, propping himself up to ghost the slope of your body. The other loosely trails up the rest of your arm until he’s cupping your cheek, rubbing aimless circles into the flush of your skin and holding you like he was holding the world. 

The undeniable weight of his built frame clings just above you, enough contact to wrinkle your shirt and send a set of shivers up your spine as you imagine having him fully against you. 

So you do just that, grabbing the back of his shoulders and easing him onto you— Back where he belongs. 

He was reluctant, still holding back like he was afraid of crushing you beneath him, but he relaxes as soon as you work your hands up his shoulder blades and into his hair, pulling him into you with a low and sultry moan— Reminding him how desperately you craved to be kissed as deeply as he could bear.

Lips part your mouth open for him, his tongue gently tickling the tip of yours before he pushes it further, sliding it flush against yours and making a living in the heat of your mouth. The groan he makes when you let him gets caught low in the back of his throat that is already bitten radiant red from your kisses.

You smooth your hands over every inch of his neck, his shoulders— Anywhere you could reach, really. Restless fingers tentatively wrap around the sculpt and flex of his arms, applying more pressure to match the weight he was kissing your mouth with. The way you were kissing him back.

His lips are soft—thin like the boundaries between you now—plush and aching and reverent search against yours like he’d find his will to live there.

He was rewriting everything broken in you— Every trace of guilt replaced with the honorable trace of his fingers along your skin, every mumble no longer shy or cautious but words overwhelmed with hunger or a vibration against your body. 

Every memory of him in a sheen of sweat in a bed that once haunted you, rewritten in real time as it adorns his skin from being pressed against you— Moving, exploring, changing what it means to remember him on a mattress once he’s with you.

No one else.

Like it’s second nature, he rubs at a spot on the side of your upper neck that makes your toes curl and your core coil with striking heat. It’s a sensitive curve just on the underside of your jaw littered in shadows, aching to give itself to him. He kisses at it with an urgency that makes you gasp louder beneath him— A proud smile flickering on his lips and across your skin for a split second, clearly amused at how he was already learning your body so incredibly well. 

Your hand flies up to his hair, pulling him in with a gentle tug to apply more pressure, both of you reveling in a weighted and shaky moan from the way you wanted each other more.

Rough and sturdy palm on his hand finds refuge in the dip of your side, free to roam now that his mouth did that for him on your jaw. It snakes down until it hits your hip bone under your shirt, a careful yet intentful press of his fingers just below your ribs. 

When you hum in approval—too busy turning your neck from the pressure of his mouth and meeting your impatient lips to pepper kisses along the pulse point on his wrist that steadied him above you— he slips his hand up the fabric.

His fingers trail achingly slowly against your skin, rewarded by the anticipating squirm and roll of your body into his touch until they find the beginning swell of your breast. The sensation makes you dizzy, your eyes fluttering to life at the contact and you could swear the room was being lit up with fireworks from the flickering lights that danced above you. 

You should probably be acknowledging the abnormal sight of it, but, selfishly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. 

Not when each suction of his lips was rewriting your brain chemistry or when he was absentmindedly pressing his wrist firmer against your kiss. Not when was working your breast with more confidence now that made you shudder like you were saying a prayer. Not when the undeniable pull of his presence was making your body shamelessly lift from the mattress for a fleeting second to push deeper into his. 

Definitely not when he did it too. 

Impatient flush of your lips craves his, so both your hands find his face, still buried and busy in your neck, and pull him up to you— Both your thumbs rubbing gently just under the restless flutter of his closed lashes as you guide his mouth back to yours—back where it belongs—and he kisses you like he’s never going to let you go.

The movement, the pressure— The combination of his mouth deepening against yours, his tongue warm and tangling around yours. The scrape of calloused and heavy hands against the sensitive skin of your breasts, the smooth of his hair tracing along your forehead and your cheeks make you melt into something for him to piece back together and bring back to life. 

Every heavier touch was balanced with something softer—more delicate—like a light pepper of a kiss pressed to the place his face would hover when one of you needed to catch your breath. Or the whisper of his fingertips tracing the slope of your breast after you’d feel sensitive peaks forming under his feverish touch. 

Each moment was like a love letter, a language— Checking in with you, asking you, talking to you without words. It was thanking you and reminding you through it all, the type of man you were really here with under the heavy tension of a Watchtower bedroom.

A suspended moment trapped in a city that never sleeps that has fallen into slumber when compared to the energy of your body meeting his.

You do it back, slipping a hand free from the slight stubble poking through his face and back to dance along his fist that propped him up above you. It’s needy now, the way your fingers whisper against his skin, pleading to let you in again. 

They do— Finding yours immediately and threading together like they were once forged to be one. 

His other hand works like honey over your chest, fingers rubbing and palming deeper against your sensitive skin until you’re moaning just a hair louder under his reverent mouth— Growing restless as you drown in all the ways you want more of him.

He reads you, one of his legs slipping free from between yours, and he braces the outside of your thigh until you feel every inch of him— Every pulsing, screaming piece of him flush against you.

The pounding of your hearts are loud, heavy— Completely in sync all like the rest of you, labored breath shallowing at how hard you were both working to find new ways to be closer like this was the only chance you’d ever get. 

A sharp, sudden puff of air fanned against your mouth—his exhale cutting—when your hips gently rock up against him. 

Just once. 

It’s quick, it’s fast—it’s barely even a movement at all—but the way he reacts is like you’ve electrocuted all his nerve endings until they were scorched— On fire, burning like the desire washing over his body and flooding your veins.   

He uses the leg that’s still between you to slip up until the weight of his thigh is resting against the fabric of your underwear, covering the part where you needed him most. A breathless and raspy ‘god’ floods his mouth when he does and falls across your skin.

Every sound, every touch, every increase in palpable pressure all fans the flames you swore you’d never feed. A spreading burn you didn’t dare deny any longer.

Now it’s you who’s gasping— Biting down gently on his lip for a moment at the shift in pressure. The hand that wasn't tangled between yours flies from your chest down to the curve of your thigh, pressing with a new buzz of force and desperately anchoring you to him with a steady and sure palm— A signal for you to continue.

It’s a bit harder this time, your move against him. A sleek and steady leg hooks around the back of his, pulling him in as you do it, your body shamelessly arching off the dip of his mattress beneath you.

His hand that grips onto yours flexes tighter at the movement, pressure leaving every line of his fingertips pressed into you— Like all his molecules and matter were being fed into this one moment. 

Like it was inevitable—incontestable—the way your body was carved to be connected to his.

Lips break apart from yours imperceptibly, his gaze holding yours— Something desperate drenched in desire and worship, something unfathomable. Something more intimate than any caress of your body, a fever flickering in a faint trace of pale gold lining the edge of his iris, staining the holy blue.

Then he moves too, undeniably craving you and rolling down into your leg he’s braced over, both of you gasping like the air has thinned from the tension pulsing through the room— The tension of your bodies and their desire for more friction, lips moving around yours again like they knew nothing else. 

And when it happens again, you both do it at the same time. 

Then your name falls from his lips through a breathless and aching plea— A reverent and holy prayer that makes you both freeze, suddenly bringing you back to Earth and realizing just how far you were about to take this. 

Just how far you were both willing—wanting—to go. 

His fingers twitch against yours from the reluctance to pull apart, so you squeeze them and carefully drag your lips across his in an achingly slow comedown. You rest against his lips until he frees them— Heavy breath cooling the flesh he made hot for him. 

Your mind is whirling, reluctantly coming back to life and processing all that’s happening— Trying desperately to will yourself into opening your eyes and saying what you have to. 

When you do, he’s not looking at you anymore, just clinging like a shadow. His head hangs heavy in the wake of your neck, heat washing over you from his presence that was still slotted against you like it was made for only that purpose. 

You move first, free hand coaxing through his curls and tucking stray away locks that cascaded down his forehead so you could see more of him. His hair is still damp, only no longer from the water you bathed him in, but rather in the evidence of your intimacy collecting on him like dew on a morning field. 

His breathing against your chest slows to a more natural pace, but the cadence of his exhale is still frantic— A sharp and staccato dance across your collarbone, calling out to you. 

You’re about to say it— Break the silence and face the reality of what you both waded in. But he does it again, remarkably, reading you in places you didn’t even know you were speaking from. 

You’d start to believe mind reading was a part of his powers, but if that were true, this wouldn’t be the first time his body claimed yours. 

You wouldn’t be stopping.

When he speaks it’s broken, breathless— Barely above a whisper, voice wrecked with the ruin of what he was letting slip through his fingers. 

“We shouldn’t.” 

You know he’s right—you were thinking the same thing—but hurt still flashes through your chest like a pinched nerve— Something heavy, the pressure of what you wanted and what you couldn’t have swelling to life under the reality of his words. 

The sentence pricks across your ears like glass on sensitive skin, but you still say, “I know.” And you say it honestly.

You mean it.

It’s like he doesn’t hear you, slowly lifting his gaze to look at you. When he does, something breaks. 

It’s raw and vulnerable— It’s a look that carries an undeniable weight like lead in the depths of his eyes, wide and calling out to yours. They’re glossed over, all like the rest of him, shimmering in the afterglow of something too holy to name— To shake free of, even if you tried. 

All the confidence he once wore breaks free of him in an instant as he tries to let you down easy, all like you didn’t just agree with him. Like you weren’t on the same page already. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he croaks, the pressure of his hand against your thigh easing slightly. “I do, I really do just… not like this.” 

You’re about to agree but he keeps going, shifting under your gaze and about to recoil his body off of yours like it was unwanted now— Like you weren’t still intertwined in his fingers, like you didn’t still have your leg wrapped around him, tethering him to you without a doubt. 

“N-not that there’s anything wrong with this, I-I loved this,” he stutters, face flashing somehow even hotter and making you smile softly. “I just mean, uh, I—”

“Bob,” you soothe, running your fingers through his hair still. “I know.”

He starts to pull off of you when you grab his arm. It isn’t possessive, it isn’t forceful— Just a simple, grounding touch to extend the offer for him to stay. 

If he wanted. 

And he does, relaxing slightly when he realizes the pin in your intimate dance hasn’t shattered what he held so dearly. 

That it hadn’t shattered you.

“I just don’t want my feelings to get confused.” His fingers lift from your thigh and find your face, hesitant for all of a millisecond before sweeping gently at the height of your cheekbone like his touch could explain better than his words. “I just mean that I don’t want you to think I only want you like this,” he continues, the edge of his voice cracking and showing something more vulnerable he tried to hide. “I don’t want to ruin anything by moving too fast.”

You smile, moving the grip from his arm to meet his hand on your cheek— Running your thumb over his lazily and holding him there firmly, reminding him it was where he belonged. 

“I thought I already told you that wasn’t possible?”

It’s only then that he smiles too—something soft and pure—a wobble in his brows, all tension melting to show what he wore underneath for you. The most honest parts of him that flickered with life because of you. 

And this time when he finally lifts from you, it’s not like he’s running.

It’s like he’s rising— Rising to the occasion of something more meaningful. Like he’s changing with you, holding on and never letting go, even with the fraction of space that lives between you now. 

His leg slowly slides down and out from your center— You trying to hide a hiss that slips between your teeth from a cold rush hitting you from the loss of contact.

It was just then that you realized you were only in your underwear and a thin t-shirt beneath him. All rational thought and awareness slipped from your mind the second his lips touched yours. 

But now you lay pressed into his mattress—still recovering from new parts of you just being pressed into him in more ways than one—and it makes you shiver. 

He breaks through it, slowly freeing his hand from yours to splay it against your shoulder. He helps you rise with him until your intimate positions have unraveled and you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, sitting on the edge of something more earnest— Something new, yet again.

Your ankles are still dangling around each other, thighs pressed gently like the thoughts brimming in your brain.

It’s then that he turns your chin to look at him, this time, holding you there and not retreating.

“I… I don’t regret it.” He says it like a confession, sweet and honest and something more rare than life itself. “Any of it.”

You find your way to him again, no longer scared to allow yourself to have him, your lips pressing gently across his. It’s a closed kiss, yet more open than ever before. 

When you break apart you run your fingers against his temple, damp curls dancing with your touch.

“Me too,” you say. “This was perfect.” And you mean it.

You know he means you too.

You continue, voice finally coming back to life after being suffocated into sensual silence for so long. “Do you know how hard it was to stop though?” 

He laughs in disbelief, like you just said the most absurd thing— Like you just said the unfathomable. 

“Yeah,” he huffs more to the universe than to you, “I do.” The soft laugh lacing his voice falters, his fingers still clinging to you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to touch your body?”

You pause, a teasing smile crawling across your lips and his face flushes a feverish red once he realizes what he’s implied— Suddenly stuttering and awkward all like he wasn’t just driving you insane with the savory of his intimacy two seconds ago. 

“I-I— Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean, I, uh—I just meant—”

“You’re cute,” is all you say, voice light and sure, all worry lifting free and left abandoned to wither. 

He pauses for a moment, marinating in the compliment, eyes flickering back to life as they settle in the light glistening from yours. He ponders, sweet smile growing as he recalls delicately, 

“Just another reason you should stay.” 

You remember immediately— How could you ever forget when he said that to you? When he broke something open inside you, the starting crack that chipped down the guilt you wore like a shield. 

How could you ever forget the moment you started to realize you might really allow yourself to want him? Realize that maybe—just maybe—he could want you too?

All in that kitchen, still a heartbeat— A pulse tethered to the tangle of your souls.

You couldn’t think of anything else— Any invasive thought as to why you shouldn’t. Any nagging and unwanted reminder that you were somewhere you shouldn’t be, because that couldn’t be more wrong. 

You couldn’t think of anything else when he finally lifted from the mattress, leaving a gentle and sweeping kiss on your forehead to go turn off the bathroom light. 

You couldn’t think of anything else when he left the room and came back sheepishly with a pair of sleep shorts to fit you— The smallest gesture that threatened to drown you in its sincerity.

You couldn’t think of anything else when he let you crawl into his bed again, his body settling into place behind you and pressing a whispering kiss to the crook of your neck like a vow to never stop. 

And now, a sense of knowing blooms in the caverns of the unsaid— The quiet reckoning of something stronger than patience and care and honest truth revealing itself in the places it’s been watching all along.

You feel it pressed against his sheets with you— Desire exchanged for devotion.

When you fall asleep that night, you do it for the first time in a long time with a smile— An unmovable force pinned against your lips you didn’t dare disturb. 

You didn’t know it, but he did the same. 

And remarkably, 

The crest of his body curls around yours like a fallen star, a new sense of belonging, splitting matter and mere fragments finding a new orbit once wrapped around you. 

It’s daybreak when John Walker arrives at the tower. 

His limbs are heavy, tired, exhausted and quite honestly too worn to care about how pissed Yelena is at him. The evidence of his indifference is worn on his face— Gruff brows knit together, their natural state, his eyes hard and narrow, lids heavy with something other than the crave of sleep. His mouth, chapped and drawn into a tight line, shoulders straight and stiff, patiently waiting for the elevator to work even a little bit faster so he could get the hell out of this dirty, disgusting suit as soon as possible. 

In all honesty, he wasn’t mad at Bob. How could he be? Sometimes the rest of the team were too delicate with him— Treating him like a child when he was more than capable of spending a full 36 hours alone. Like he wasn’t a grown man. It was ridiculous— Laughable, even. 

He didn’t need the supervision, and John didn’t need to be bothered with it. 

Actually, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he was the teeniest bit proud of Bob for sticking up for what he wants— Even if John had to swallow his pride over how he worked him like a sucker to get it.

Even if now that meant Yelena had a bug up her ass and it was directed at John who—somehow—always managed to be responsible for everything. 

A taut grumble leaves his mouth as the elevator doors whirled open and he watched his call to Bob get banished to voicemail for a third time. 

Whatever. Not his problem. He couldn’t be bothered to think about it. He couldn’t be bothered to think about anything besides a hot shower and some antiseptic, actually. 

Except, he was forced to when he walked into the residential floor, expecting to see Bob sucked into some new useless book—completely oblivious to all the chaos he was causing in the world that existed outside of him—but rather, was greeted by complete silence. 

John’s steps slowed, taking in the eerie lull of quiet washed over the Watchtower, untouched and dead to the world, bathing in stillness and the steel-colored glow of the city waking up along with it just beyond the windows. 

His eyes narrow and sweep across the floor, falling on the kitchen that looked like it was a victim of a bomb drill gone wrong. 

Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink—which was completely clean and empty before he left—and virtually every single culinary-related thing the team even owned was scattered across the counter. 

Spices, utensils, ingredients, dishes— You name it, it was there.

“Jesus, Bobby,” he mutters to himself, tone flat and unamused at the mess left behind to greet him. “Least you could’ve done was cork the damn wine.”

It’d be a lie to say a bottle of wine paired with Bob left alone didn’t make his blood rush a bit harder to his head, indifference mulling into real and genuine confusion… and begrudgingly, concern. He rolled his eyes loosely as he shoved the cork back in and stuck it in the fridge before Yelena saw it and really gave him something to chew on.

Damn, it’s like Bob was trying to screw him over.

He’s about two steps out of the kitchen—stalking off to find Bob to, one, make sure he’s okay, and two, rip him a new asshole—when he stops hard in his tracks, the grip of his combat boots squeaking against the too-shiny, obnoxiously-polished floor. 

One. Two. 

His eyes count them. Wine glasses. 

Two of them. 

They almost got lost in the mess, camouflaged so well that the stain of just nearly crimson left at the bottom of them nearly went unnoticed— Just a mouthful of evidence ratting him out. 

And right next to them, abandoned at the corner seat at the island, was your stuff. 

John knew that bag anywhere. It always brought some kind of new bullshit for the team to mull over, something to ruin their day— New paperwork, new briefings, new completely ridiculous ways Valentina had found to treat them like a multi-level marketing scam in capes and tactical gear. 

But more importantly, it always brought a stupidly bashful grin to Bob’s face whenever he’d see it. 

Because it came attached to you.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbles in disbelief, more to the room than to himself. He stands like a fool, realization washing over him as he nosily fiddles with a folder abandoned under your bag. He shakes his head and lets a puff of air pass through his nose, a cheeky laugh bubbling at the back of his throat as he glides over to the intercom— A sly pep in his step. 

He pauses and laughs under his breath, remarkably, at just how good Bob got him. 

Then, with a teasing tone, and the tiniest lace of respect he could muster to thread through, he pushes it and says, 

“Well played, Bobby.”

The crack of John Walker’s voice through the intercom of Bob’s room rips you free and reminds you that this world wasn’t just you and him after all. 

Even if it felt like it. 

Even if it still did when he looked at you like this—like he is right now—holding you closely, eyes lusted over with something unspoken. Clear and shallow blue whispering more than his lips ever could.

You and him, still tangled together, unmoved forces drawn to each other like gravity, knowing nothing else than the peace found in the arms of each other now. 

Even if you tried, you couldn’t deny the way you always found your way to him now— Legs woven, slotted loosely together, your knee resting just above his. Your chest, now facing him as one large hand rests casually along the crest of your waist like he’s done it all his life. His elbow bent gently under the pillow to prop his head up, his hand just in your reach, haphazardly toying at the collar of your shirt and your hair. Yours lies flush against his chest, steady rhythm of his breathing making it rise and fall like the dust that danced in the air under warm morning haze. 

Together, no longer scared of what closeness might cost in the daylight. 

It woke you gently, the crest of morning sun slipping between the endless height of skyscrapers just beyond the foot of the bed, collecting the pale pink of budding morning. 

Light suspends in the air— Clear. Warming. Patient. It has filled the void of words unspoken that now lives in a realm where hope is watered with opportunity. It dances on his honeysuckle skin as he sleeps, no crinkle of worry or bite of stress carved through the lines in his forehead. It’s sweet, it’s soft— The crescendo of June spilling over his body.

He looks different like this, warm and familiar, pressed against you like a memory you haven’t quite made yet. He looks younger, softer, lips slightly parted— Maybe the most himself you’ve ever seen, and yet, all like you’ve never met him before. Like you didn’t know this version of him.

It pings in your chest—a crawl of yearning—and you realize, 

You really want to. 

You would think it was a dream if you weren’t surrounded by the reminders of you living in his space— Your suit jacket tangled with the comforter half kicked off the bed, your body wrapped in his clothes, your broken shoes, blending into the background of his room like they belonged there. 

You would think it was a dream if you didn’t watch him stir under curious fingers that traced the slope of his nose and curve of his jaw with delicate presence, coming back to life with fluttering eyelashes and soft smile lines at the privilege of being awoken by your touch— Wading in a bed with you, a serene scene rewriting one of your worst memories, knowing now when you see him like this, he’s safe. It’s the good kind of vulnerable. No longer alone. 

You would think it was a dream if you didn’t feel a shock of reality take over you when Walker’s voice cuts through the static of the intercom, the lazy lull of Bob’s heavy eyelids when he looked at you now snapping open into wide panic at the sound— Flinching at the tone, thick and sarcastic like he somehow knew more about your new relationship than you did.

Smug. Just like always.

When the room falls silent again it’s you who speaks, reaching out to gently trace an aimless pattern in Bob’s open palm that stiffened against your hair at the interruption.

“What’s he talking about?”

You ask it evenly, calmly— No accusation or annoyance, no rise in your tone or inflection in your voice. Just patient wanting, voice still glazed over with the best sleep you’ve had in months. 

Bob inhales slowly, his eyes blinking as they settle from the shock. His lips begin to tell you but it’s hard to focus on the words when they’re still swollen and flush with the memory of you wiped all over them. 

Then, they pull into a smile. It’s something knowing and bashful and maybe even a little proud, all accompanied with a hush, breathless laugh caught in the back of his throat like it was a secret cracking through the thin parting of his lips. 

“I lied,” he says, extracting a hand from your waist to rub the dawning of sleep from his face before it finds you again like an instinct. 

Your brows knit together subtly at his response, not really expecting to hear that from him at all. Not when that was your role in your dynamic, even if it were now abandoned once and for all when you vowed to give your heart to him in your sacred touch last night. 

He senses your confusion and continues before your mind can finish raking through the pre-mature, half-formed thoughts it wanted to make. 

“To Walker, I mean. To Walker,” he clarifies, eyes dipping down to watch himself brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear like it was a holy act. “I kinda maybe told him Yelena wasn’t on a mission yesterday when he was supposed to be off even though she was that way I could get him out of the tower since he thought she’d be around.” 

A smile crawls to your lips as you watch him explain, voice lazy and low and scratchy from sleep that made your skin tingle, reminding you of the way the dawning of his stubble would scratch just right whenever his face would find yours.

It was going to be really hard to focus around him now— God, you could barely keep a straight face.

“Why’d you do that,” you hum, leaning closer until your nose was almost touching his, like you couldn’t bear to be any further away from him. Like you needed to feel the words dance across your skin in order to hear them fully. 

“I, uh, I-I don’t know,” he sighs, searching for the right words, eyes gazing into yours like he’d find the answer there instead. “It’s hard to explain, it’s just... sometimes I just want a chance to, like, breathe, you know?” You nod gently, nose bumping into his at the motion which makes him grin just a fraction wider, something for only you to see. “I like having people around, sure. I don’t get lost in my own head as easily when they are. I know they mean well… but I also just want time to myself without feeling watched… or bothered.”

“I get it,” you soothe, wrapping an arm around him to pull him closer, wide and wonderful blue of his eyes becoming your only view. He looked at you like he still couldn’t believe you were beside him, like he was dreaming, just like you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. You hesitate for a moment before hooking your leg around his with more pressure now to pull him closer, eyes dancing with a flicker of tease, your fingers tracing along his arms and saying, “You still wound up being bothered, though.”

Bashful pink floods the smooth of his skin, eyes widening and wobbly lips pulling into a gentle smile like he couldn’t help it— Like he never wanted to stop.

“No,” he whispers, steady and sure, something reminiscent of a loving-tone wrapped around every letter that curls in the air and makes your skin dance with chills. “It was the best lie I’ve ever told.”

Your heart pounds and your head spins and it feels like the grip of his hand on your waist is the only thing keeping you in this new orbit. The light flickers around his face, gentle, natural, but alive— All like it was envious of how he could burn through your shadows in ways it never could.

When he says things like that, it was like he was the one carving you, the one making you, shaping you, holding you— You, merely a vessel, made whole from every swell of him through the pulsing chambers of your soul. 

He carries the softness—the truth, the intent—of his words in every inch of his body. He holds it in his eyes, he holds it in his hands. He holds it down in his blood and bones, every word threaded together with something holy, something that runs all the way down to his marrow. 

When he says things like that, he makes you believe it’s okay to let go. 

To simply be— For him. 

So you do and confess, “I lied, too.”

His expression never falters, just scans your face like he was looking for clues in every line, every glance, every glisten of your eyes. 

“We need to start having different conversations than this,” he teases, nose just barely nudging yours just so he could hear a breathless laugh rise in the air like your heart was singing for him. 

“No, no, it’s not like that again,” you breathe. “I promise.” 

He waits for you to continue, fingers whispering along your skin like he could trace it out of you that way— Each touch, a turning page, your story, meeting the echo of epilogue. 

So you swallow whatever bubble of fear burns at the back of your throat and say, 

“Before. Last night. Outside the Watchtower.”

His brows crinkle more. Now he’s really confused. 

“When you asked me why I was looking at you...” 

The wave of words wash over him like a pulling tide, lips parting gently at its command. Then comes a breath of air that still manages to whisper, “Oh.”

“It wasn't nothing.” 

Your heart races, maybe from the new sense of honesty and beginnings that pulsed through his room, no longer bathed in soothing shadows that made it comfortable for you to bare your soul, but rather, like the light and the time that stretched forward made everything more weighted. 

More meaningful. 

“I was thinking about how perfect you are,” you confess, a silent murmur suspended in the shared sliver of space fighting for dear life to exist between your bodies. “I was thinking about how much I wanted you.” Beat. “About how easily I could… fall for you. If you’d let me.” 

You don’t say it.

You don’t want to scare him, to push him, to unravel too quickly. But you know he feels it too— A new thing unsaid, fostered by delicate touches and sweeping words, blooming gently between you in the hush of twin heartbeats. 

He doesn’t respond with words, just a delicate brush of his lips against yours, sighing into you like he remembers how to breathe only when you’re taking his breath away. When he pulls back, his eyes are still closed, face still resting on yours like you’re holding him together and he whispers against your cheek,

“I already am.”

And through steady breath, a simple exchange, through the soft riots of acquainted souls— Limerence becomes love. 

Or, perhaps,

Quiet truth revels in what has always been.

edit: thank you for 400+ notes ! it means the world to me that people are reading and liking it enough to leave kind comments telling me so. i poured my soul into this little story, so i hope you enjoyed 🤍

© quietbluetune —⋆˚࿔

[abbottsdarling]

Dream Come True

Pairing: Miles Miller x fem!reader

Summary: You were Miles favorite guest to ever set foot on the grounds of the El Royale. You were kind to him. Kinder than anyone else. And you invaded Miles thoughts everyday, his dreams every night. He never thought he'd be anything more than the lowly hotel clerk you semi-befriended in your stays here. That all changes when Miles helps you to your room one night.

Warnings: MDNI, SMUT, there's also some fluff, smidge of angst, wet dreams, coming untouched, premature ejac, nipple play, oral sex (m receiving), dry humping, Miles is YEARNING, Miles's religious guilt, alcohol consumption, mention of reader having no family, reader is wearing heels, mention of reader having insomnia

Word Count: 3.3k

Note: If you couldn't tell by the word count, I was VERY inspired by this request. I love writing Miles so much. He really is my favorite, very special boy of all Lew characters. Based off this request here!

Masterlists

🐂Part of my 500 Follower Celebration🐂

“There, there Miles,” You coo, watching with delight as Miles sucks on your tit. His cock is rock hard against your thigh, already leaking pathetically as he ruts against you, “Take what I give you. Take it like the good boy you are. My good boy. My Miles.”

Miles moans as you press his face further into your chest, his hands holding you tightly, never wanting to let you go. He’s wanted you for so long, and now you’re here, holding him, letting him ravish your breasts, those breasts that he’s been trying his best not to ogle and drool over whenever you wore a top that was low cut. And now, they’re in his mouth, between his teeth as he sucks and sucks.

But then, you pull away, your nipple leaving his mouth completely.

Miles whines, already making grabby hands to pull you back to him so he can get back to work on making your nipples hard and sore, but you cut him off with a hand wrapping around his dick.

“Hush now darling,” Miles chokes out a groan, watching as you leave your place at his side and make your way between his legs, spreading them wide, “Let me show you just how much I adore you. My little hotel clerk, always so polite, so shy, and all mine.”

“Please- please -” Miles whimpers as you engulf him completely, bobbing your head up and down his cock, one hand on his thigh and the other sneaking its way down to fondle his balls.

Miles can barely control himself, so close already, “I- I can’t, I need to - please, I can’t-”

 “Cum for me Miles.”

Miles wakes with a whine of your name, his back arching off the bed as a wet, damp feeling spreads in his pajama pants.

Heavy breathing fills the room as Miles comes to his senses, his mind waking up as he realizes he was in fact, not in your hotel room, or withering under you, but instead, alone in his tiny room as he pathetically dreamed and came at the idea of you. Again.

Shaky hands wipe the tears that started to fall from his rosy cheeks while he was in the middle of his dream, half from ecstasy and half from shame.

If Miles wasn’t jerking off to the thought of you every night, he was dreaming of you instead, and most of the time, it was both. His dreams weren't always as lustful as tonight’s, but every one kept him yearning for more and more than just your budding friendship. Yearning to know what it’d be like to wake up in your warm embrace every morning, to be able to hold you whenever he wanted and to love you so freely.

You were a guest at the El Royale, one of his regulars who stayed once a week every month like clockwork. You were also one of the nicer ones, a breath of fresh air compared to the other guests, Miles couldn’t help but dream of you, long for you.

But it was wrong. He shouldn’t have been thinking of you like that. You were a guest, you thought of Miles as a friend and he repaid you by sinfully pumping his cock as he imagined it was your hands wrapped around him instead of his every night in his cot.

Miles shudders as he slips out of his soiled pajamas, flinching as the sticky substance lightly brushes against this leg. The clock on his bedside table blinks out the time, 4:30AM. It’s too early for him to be up, but he’s too on edge to even try and attempt to sleep for the next hour and a half.

 So, with shaking limbs, Miles stands, slipping on an extra pair of pajama bottoms before grabbing his work uniform and heading for a shower to wash away the remaining evidence of his lustful dreams from between his thighs and lower belly.

---

Miles has a nervous energy around him. A casual smile is plastered on his face, but his eyes told a different story, one that you thankfully didn’t notice, as they anxiously darted all over the room, purposefully avoiding you after the night he had.

None the wiser of his internal dilemma, you giggle into your martini glass as you sit across Miles on the bar stool, a sparkle in your eyes as you lean against the bar. A flicker of amusement crosses Miles’s face momentarily at the sound before he goes back to staring at the bar counter he was wiping down.

“Miles,” you said in a sing-song voice, eyebrows lifting in concern when the glass in Miles’s hand fumbled the moment you said his name, “You sure that you’re all right? You seem a little… tense.”

“M’, M’ fine just…” Miles trails off, making the mistake of glancing up at your lips wrapped around your martini straw before he swings his head to the opposite side, ignoring the twitch in his slacks, “Just- just didn’t sleep much last night is all.”

You hum in concern, letting your hand slide down the counter to where he is, giving his hand a comforting squeeze, “M’ sorry dear. Nightmares?”

Miles gulps, eyes boring into where your hands meet before he pulls back, turning away from you, and already missing the warmth of your hand on his as he acts like he’s polishing the empty, unused glasses stacked behind him, “N-not exactly.”

His heartbeat loudly as Miles tried to focus on anything but you. He was too afraid to turn around. Afraid if he did, you’d notice the subtle but growing tent in his pants that Miles tried so hard to get to go down, but it was no use.

The longer he looks at you, and stares at your lips as they wrap around the straw of the drink he made you, the more his mind wandered to the dream he had about you. Except instead of your lips being wrapped around a straw, they were wrapped around his cock.

Miles’s hands shook as he wiped the glass in his hand, swallowing hard when the image of you whining his name as you laid under him flashed across his mind. Feeling his cock twitch again in his pants, Miles silently chastises himself in his head.

Lord, forgive him for not having self-control.

It especially didn’t help that it was his first time seeing you tonight since your last visit. He was always more… sensitive whenever it was your first day back after being away for so long. Your smile made his heart thump, your laugh had his belly doing summersaults, and the way your fingers brushed as you handed him your glass for a refill made him nearly jump out of his skin.

While Miles was stuck in his own mind, you took the moment he was distracted to really look at him. Admire him.

Your relationship with Miles may not have been one you were seeking out when you first started staying at the El Royale for your monthly business trips, but it’s one you cherish nonetheless.

Miles was the most timid man you've ever met, skittish as a feral kitten the first time you met when you stumbled upon the hotel by chance, catching the hotel clerk off guard when he wasn't expecting any guests for the night.

Slowly but surely, a budding friendship brewed between you two after your third week long stay. You bonded over late night cocoa when you both had bouts of insomnia, Miles more so than you as you've come to learn, sharing childhood stories and memories of a life long past. You learned Miles was once a military man, but noticing how he avoided the topic like a plague and winced at the mention, you never pressed him about it and Miles learned that you were also alone. No family to go home to or spend the holidays with, just like him.

You've come to find yourself falling for the man. You don't know exactly when you fell for him. Maybe it was when you woke up in the middle of the night to Miles, soaked from the rain, rambling apologies for waking you so late as he held a meowing towel in his hands, stressing that he found them out in the nearby forest and he couldn't just let them get swept up in the storm. 

Or maybe it was when you arrived in the middle of the night, running later than normal, expecting to be met with an empty lobby only to find Miles awake, a soft smile on his tired face as he waved at you, saying he was waiting for you. He looked so soft that night, it took everything in you not to just grab him and cozy up against the fireplace and snuggle him tight.

Shaking the memory from your head, you sit up straight, sighing as you stand and grab your bag off the back of the chair, “Ok, I think I’m gonna call it for the night.”

Miles turns back to face you, and you swear you see a flicker of disappointment flash across his face, but it’s gone the moment you blink again.

“O-oh. Ok-kay.”

Noticing his shift in demeanor, you nod toward the door, biting your lower lip as you ask, “Walk me to my room?”

Miles’s breath hitches, heat creeping up the back of his neck as his brain tries to think of a response, but you beat him to it. “It’s dark out already and I don’t want to walk out there alone.”

“O-of course.”

You smile, bravely looping your arm with his when he gets close enough, ignoring or not noticing how his eyes bulge out of his head when you do that, he isn’t quite sure, “Thank you, Miles.”

The wind blows wildly against you, sending shivers down your arm the moment you step outside. Miles immediately hands you his coat, ignoring the nerves building in his belly at how close you are and how his coat looks around your shoulders, like it belongs there. He hopes it’ll smell of your perfume when he takes it back, or should he let you keep it, so he was an excuse to talk to you for longer tomorrow?

Your head leaning on his shoulder breaks his train of thought, and Miles feels his stomach flip. You’ve always kept a respectable distance from one another, and he was so close he could practically feel your body heat and every breath you take as you walk with him.

Miles hopes you can’t tell how nervous he is as he tries to ignore the fact that this was the closest he’d ever been with you. Hopes you can’t feel how loud his heart’s beating or notice the bulge that's still there, aching in his pants.

“Here we are, room 6.”

“Great, let me just get my key and -”

Then, the world goes sideways.

You were trying to get your key out of your bag and Miles, thinking he shouldn’t be so close, pulled back to give you some space. But, the heels your wearing mixed with the uneven pavement works against you because the moment his support is gone, your world tilts.

A yelp and an “Oh my!” echo with the wind as Miles catches you by your waist, nearly smacking straight into his chest if it weren't for the fact that you steadied yourself by grabbing his arm.

“I’m so -”

“Are you -”

Blue eyes bore into yours as you both speak over one another, but all you can manage is a few words as you start to realize how close you are to one another. Much closer than before as the tips of your noses ghost over each other.

Miles feels his mouth dry up, his voice caught in his throat and brain malfunctioning as he stares at your lips, your eyes, and lips again.

You watch as Miles Adams’ apples bobs up and down, feeling the heat of his breath on your skin as he starts to stutter out more apologies, and how his hands are fidgeting along your waist, unsure if he should hold you tighter or let go.

You know what? Fuck it.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you crash your lips against his.

Miles gasps in surprise against you, frozen for a split second before he kisses you back, whimpering against you when you grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him closer, your back hitting the door as you do.

Neither of you break apart as you blindly unlock the door, and before you know it, your backs on the bed, legs wrapped around his waist as you hold him close to you. The kiss is rushed, erratic as all those months of suppressed sexual tension finally breaks. 

You were just about to pull at his belt, when Miles suddenly stops you.

“W-wait -” Miles pulls away, his cheeks cherry red, chest heaving up and down as he tries to collect himself, “I shouldn’t – you’re a guest – you had a drink – I shouldn’t -”

“Shh,” You silence him with your thumb on his lips. Miles instinctively presses his lips forward, kissing it before melting into the warmth of your hand. “It was one drink, Miles. I’m fine, I want this, I’ve wanted this for so long, I swear.”

Eyes fluttering, he shakes his head, “It – it isn’t right.” He sucks in a sharp breath, guilt flooding his eyes as he whispers, “I – I want to, but – but.”

“Miles?” He hums, his grips on you tight as you pull his face closer to yours, “Do you want this?”

“More than anything.”

“So do I.” Seeing Miles at war with himself, you brush a piece of fallen hair out of his eye and reassure him, “We don’t have to go all the way if you don’t want to. We can just stay kissing, touching each other. Maybe some oral, but only if you want to.”

Miles gulps, the corners of his mouth twitching down as he asks, “A-are you s-sure?”

“Yes.”

With a nod, he finally let’s go.

And like that, a hunger flickers through your eyes as you smirk up at him, hooking your legs around his waist again, and arms over his shoulder as you tug him down into a heated kiss. The moment your lips are finally back on his, Miles confesses, “I dreamed of your legs wrapped around my waist, for- for so long. I know it- it wasn’t right, but I did. I still do.”

You chuckle, flipping yourself so you’re on top, straddling Miles’s waist. Miles stares up at you wide eyed, in complete disbelief that this is actually happening.

Stroking his cheek, you whisper, “So have I. Why do you think I still come here after so many months? It sure as hell isn’t because of the room service, though I do love your apple pie.” Miles opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off, pulling him into a deep kiss.

He drank you in, kissing you in a frenzy, like he needed your taste to survive. All of his sleepless nights, dreaming of you touching him, kissing him, loving him, all coming true.

You rush to unbutton his shirt, but it’s hard when you’re too busy kissing the hotel clerk you’ve been lusting over for months. Miles can feel your struggle, and while he probably shouldn’t do this, he only has so many shirts to spare, he can’t help but relieve this annoyance for you and rip his shirt, buttons flying to the floor as he does.

Your jaw drops, “Whoa -”

His lips interrupt you, “They were in the way, sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry, that was the hottest thing ever.”

Miles laughs, tugging your shirt over your head to even the playing field before kissing you again. 

You grind your hips against the bulge in his pants, moaning as his hardened cock brushes against your core. You can’t wait until you can feel the stretch of his cock as he slides inside, filling you to the hilt. But you’re more than willing to go at Miles’s pace. You’ve waited so long for this, you could wait a bit longer if it meant you got to call him yours.

Miles sloppily thrusts his hips up against you, unable to contain himself from chasing the pleasure he feels when his dick rubs against your clothed heat. Neither of you are even fully undressed yet, and it’s already almost too much for him.

He didn’t even know he was so close to the edge, but years without knowing the intimate touch of another human being other than his hand made Miles more sensitive than he imagined. One second you were latched onto his neck, sucking a pretty purple bruise onto his neck, pulling on his hair, and the next, he snapped.

The whine he let out was broken, hips bucking wildly as you felt the wet patch of cum form in his pants. You stare down at him in awe, not expecting that at all.

Miles whimpers under your gaze, covering his face in embarrassment, “M’, M’ sorry. I didn’t – I’m so embarrassed – I didn’t mean to-” you try to shush him, to comfort him, but Miles keeps stammering apologies, “I know we said not all the way, but – we said - and I couldn’t even -”

“Shh, Miles,” You cup his face in your hands, gently wiping the tears falling from his darling blue eyes, stopping his nervous rambling, “It’s okay, sweetheart. I promise.”

He shakes his head, “N-no, I shouldn’t have -”

“Miles.” He rapidly blinks back tears as you press a kiss on his nose, “It’s alright, I promise.” He goes to speak again, to continue to apologize, but you interrupt him with a request you know will calm him down, “Can you just hold me, Miles? Just hold me close, and don’t let go.”

Sniffling, he nods, “Of course.”

Quickly, you get comfortable. Your back on the bed as Miles lays on your naked chest, kissing the space just above your breast over and over. He still couldn’t believe this was real, that his dreams were finally coming true and he needed to savor your first night together, even if it didn’t go entirely as planned.

You comb your fingers through his hair until he gets settled, his kisses getting slower, and soon ceasing once the tiredness of the day catches up to you both.

“Is it okay if I… um,” Miles clears his throat, trying to think of the best way to ask for what he wanted before finally settling on, “repay the favor? Later?”

Your hand stills for a moment in his hair, the way he phrased that question sounds wrong to you. Like a transaction, and that’s not what this is. Miles leans into your frozen hand like a cat who’s questioning why the pets stopped. “I-it’s not a favor, Miles.”

“I – I know! I know that, I just -” He looks away for a moment, before bashfully admitting, “I want to - I want to get you there. Want to feel you… cum on my face… please.”

Relieved, and clit twitching at how needy he sounds, you nod, “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

He nuzzles your cheek before pressing a kiss to your temple, snuggling in closer. Miles falls asleep almost immediately in your arms. He can usually be a bit restless or plagued with nightmares sleeping on his own, but with you, he has the most peaceful and restful night that he’s had in a long, long time.

You were both alone in life, but at the El Royale, split between Nevada and California, you had found each other, and were going to keep each other, for as long as you could.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Love ya!

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

Tagging: @fandomxo @iristheplanet16

[em1i2a3]

Superposition

Pairing: Sentry x Mutant!Fem!Reader! Summary: When you and Sentry both start going through a temperature crisis, the two of you figure out an unexpected cheat code to speeding up the recalibration process. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, This is Tropey as all hell (but I was in the mood to write a trope so…Imma do it), Reader has similar powers to Iceman (from X-men), Sentry is struggling a bit, Reader and Sentry have a bond, Slight Cannon Divergence (because of the whole temperature crisis thing), Porn Without Plot (kind of) Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (Fem Receiving), Marking, Biting, Scratching, Use of Powers During Sex, Sentry is an absolute mess, Thigh Riding (brief), Breast/Nipple Play, Rough (but very intimate) sex (kisses everywhere, clinging to one another, both of them being moaning messes), Pillow Talk, Discussions of having children (just in theory…Sentry’s curious) Author’s Note: Took me a little bit to write this because I got distracted with a few other WIPs, but have no fear, it’s here. I hope y’all enjoy this one, I’ve missed writing for Sentry! Word Count: 13,397

“Hey, can you re-freeze this ice pack?” Sentry asked, holding out the jiggling plastic in front of your view of the television. His broad frame casted shadows over the couch you were laying on, the sheer width of his shoulders covering the low light of the Watchtower’s lounge, causing everything to look darker to you suddenly. He kept his voice low, almost hesitant in his delivery because the last thing he wanted to do was inconvenience you and pull you from the nest of blankets you had burrowed yourself into after you had eaten dinner.

A small hum escaped your throat, slipping one hand free from your heavy coverings, the chill of your own skin already raising an array of goosebumps along your arm, before pressing your small palm to the bag. The liquid inside stiffened instantly beneath your touch, frost racing across the plastic in delicate, branching veins until the whole thing hardened into a solid, icy block.

“Thank you,” Sentry murmured, drawing the pack back quickly, as a few droplets slipped from the plastic and landed on your blankets, darkening the fabric in tiny, perfect circles before they could soak through the layers you had over your body.

“Who needs the ice pack?” You questioned, bringing your arm back under the confines of your coverings and nuzzling yourself deeper into them, chasing the illusion of warmth even though you knew it was pointless–because every shift of your body only caused another burst of cool air to envelop you, putting you right back to square one.

“Me. I’m boiling hot and it feels like I’m coming down with the flu or something…” He explained, pressing the newly frozen pack to the side of his neck. The mentioning of his overheating drew your gaze upward, before you shifted your body toward him to get a better view. 

His normally pale skin had flushed a deep, splotchy red, the colour rising high across his cheekbones and spreading down the strong column of his throat before disappearing beneath his shirt. A faint sheen of sweat glistened at his hairline, dampening the wavy light brown strands that fell across his forehead, making them curl at the ends as if he had just gotten out of the shower. The soft fabric of his t-shirt clung in patches to the solid planes of his chest, outlining the heavy muscle beneath, so much so, that you could practically count every single ridge of his abs that were on display to you. 

Even standing still he looked imposing–broad through the shoulders, arms thick with pale blue veins that pulsed over the muscles as if the rapid beating of his heart had ignited the blood that flowed through them–yet the way he was holding himself was not the typical form Sentry often took when he presented his body to onlookers. It was like he was embarrassed of the uncontrollable heat that was rolling off of him–and embarrassment didn’t look good on a sun God.

“Mmm…I don’t think it’s the flu, Sentry.” You stated, your teeth clattering together as a violent shiver tore through you. The cold sank deeper into your bones, contracting every muscle before you forced yourself to breath through it–even though it was like your heart had seized inside your chest. He frowned at your comment, patting the ice pack slowly down the length of his neck.

“Then what the hell is it? ‘Cause I feel like I’m on the verge of setting this whole place on fire.” He huffed, lifting his free hand to fan himself rapidly, hoping that it would aid in cooling him down. The gesture did nothing but stir the humid air around him though, and he felt fresh beads of sweat breaking out along his skin, sliding down his neck and lower back, creating an inescapable dampness over his entirety. He wanted to rip his clothes off in those moments, because modesty wasn’t going to cure whatever was happening to him, but out of respect for you, he held himself back from becoming a free form tornado of fabric.

“You’re having a temperature crisis…It’s normal for people like us.” You informed, watching the confusion deepen between his brows, seeing wrinkles appear between them.

“Temperature crisis?” He questioned, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you, thinking you were lying to him to make him feel better, but you gave him a small, stiff nod.

“It’s when your body can’t handle the excess energy it takes to constrict your powers, so it just gives up and lets them spiral out of control. It takes a bit of time to recalibrate, but you’ll be back to normal in a few days.” He let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing his forehead roughly, as a few damp strands of hair fell forward to frame his face, tickling the sharp line of his jaw. The ice pack was already softening again, feeling the condensation beginning to bead along the plastic, hissing where it touched his overheated skin and dissolved. You were surprised the encasement didn’t melt in his hands, but you didn’t question it.

“There’s no way to speed up this whole recalibrating process?” He pressed, and you shrugged, tugging the blankets higher until they rested just beneath your chin, even though they were useless at this point.

“I haven’t found a solution myself, and I’ve been through hundreds of these…So I’d say your case wouldn’t be any different to mine.” You replied, the words leaving your lips in a faint cloud of breath as another chill surged through your body. Your muscles quivered deep beneath the layers of fabric, a full-body tremor that started in your core and radiated outward until even your fingertips felt numb. Your heart skipped–a sharp, irregular contraction that made you feel like your blood had stopped flowing through your veins, like frozen pipes–before it steadied again into the strained rhythm it had been fighting to keep all evening.

Sentry watched it happen, observing the way your eyes clenched shut for a single moment, the loud clatter of your teeth cutting through the quiet living space, and how you burrowed even deeper beneath the coverings until only the top of your head and the narrow strip of your eyes remained visible above the blanket’s edge. You looked impossibly small against the wide couch, swallowed whole by the cluster of covers–if he wasn’t actively speaking to you he would’ve mistaken you for the couch cushions, and he was thankful he didn’t accidentally sit on you in the heated haze he was in. 

But then it all the puzzle pieces seemed to click into place from these simple little things you had done…You were going through your own temperature crisis right now, just like him. 

Evidently the two of you had synced up in some inexplicable way–likely from the string of back-to-back mission that had drained your respective reserves at similar paces. You were so used to this cycle you had come to expect it and endured it like normal, but Sentry evidently had a larger power bank than you, and with that came a far more intense reaction. Where you accepted the inevitable discomfort with grim resignation, he looked like he wasn’t going to sit with it and do the same, and you could see the impatience in his glowing eyes–the way they shifted around the room as if he was searching for a physical solution to his problem.

“So what do you do to cope with this whole thing then?” He asked, stepping closer to the couch, hearing the floor panels beneath his weight creak in a soft protest, pressing the icepack to the side of his neck again. The frozen block had already surrendered to the heat, reduced to nothing more than a lukewarm liquid that sloshed inside the thin plastic again just like before–putting him right back to the situation he had been in when he approached you just moments ago. Stray droplets slid across his heated skin and rose instantly in faint threads of steam, vanishing into the air and catching the light for a brief moment.

There was a pang of jealousy that sliced through you in those moments–to be that hot right now would have been everything, a fevered dream of warmth you would have given anything to claim because the frigid cold that overtook your entirety was absolutely miserable. Your eyes lifted toward him, and the same feelings were mirrored by him, etched into the way his gaze lingered on the thin rim of frost that was spreading along the blanket’s edge, each heavy breath you exhaled feeding the delicate crystals that clung to the fabric and expanded along it.

“I just su-suffer,” You stuttered, drawing your knees up to your chest, hoping the shift in position would spark even the smallest pocket of warmth against your skin, though your past experiences had already taught you the futility of it–the pessimist in you was on full display tonight.

A short laugh escaped Sentry, dragging one of his large hands through his hair, pushing the wavy brown locks back from his forehead only for them to tumble forward again in a heavier, more disheveled sweep that stuck to the sweat at his temples. The sound carried no mockery, only the shared frustration threaded with reluctant amusement and a faint hint of disbelief that the two of you had somehow collided in the same miserable state.

As much as the two of you existed as literal opposites in temperature, you had always found a solid ground when you worked together. You liked how straightforward he became once his walls had come down, how the sheer scale of his presence never crowded the mission once he let you set the pace–how he let you lead rather than follow his orders.

He stayed out of your way and you stayed out of his, and when the moment demanded it and the two of you had to stand shoulder to shoulder, you allowed instinct to take over–adjusting into an effortless rhythm where fire and ice moved in perfect tandem, as though the choreography had been drilled into muscle memory long before either of you truly realized it.

Being locked in this crisis together felt entirely different. There was no tactical formation to fall back on, and no clear objective to chase down and eliminate. And that absence of control was exactly what gnawed at Sentry now. He knew there was a solution; he could practically feel it radiating off your bundled form even from the distance that he kept, and he hated to admit it–but he craved it. 

The only question was whether you would agree to it, to the exchange, and he found himself weighing the idea in silence, deciding that the risk would be worth taking if it meant ending this torment faster.

“Well…Maybe we could try something that might solve our issues, since it seems like you’re also going through one of your own crises right now.” He said, watching as your eyebrows raised at the tone of his voice–at the soft hesitance that laced every word, like the suggestion that was pressing down on his tongue was going to jump out at any second and display itself to you. In the few seconds of silence you ran through the only two possibilities that made sense in a situation like this, and both of them circled an intimacy line neither of you had crossed together. Still, you found yourself nodding for him to go on.

When he didn’t continue immediately, you cleared the dryness in your throat.

“Let’s hear it,” You urged, because at this point you were willing to entertain any idea that might recalibrate your system before the shivers escalated into something far worse and far more unmanageable.

“We both have something that the other one needs–you have to get warmed up, and I need to cool down.” He trailed off, his eyes locking onto yours like he was pleading for you to finish the thought and offer up the idea yourself so he wouldn’t have to do it. You could sense the hesitation in his voice and it sat strangely on him–almost boyish, like his typical over confidence had plummeted, knowing that there was a chance of being outright rejected. When he saw the patient blankness in your gaze though, he continued “So why don’t we try using each other for that?” 

For a split second your eyes widened at the way he phrased things. Using each other sounded so…Cold and transactional. And you both knew that it wasn’t going to be anything like that, especially depending on how he decided to approach this solution. There wasn’t any harm in entertaining it, you trusted him with your life during every mission the two of you were sent together on, so trusting him with your body–and with your powers–felt like the next logical step.

You could see him bracing for your reply, as if he were already preparing for the sting of rejection. But when you shifted beneath the heavy nest of blankets and eased your head out a little further–enough for the low lounge lights to catch the relaxed lines of your face and the frost that began to glimmer along your lashes–he knew. The tension in his jaw eased, and the golden hue of his eyes softened, turning just a fraction brighter before dimming to a sweet caramel colour.

“Let’s try it…Wh-What’s the worst that can happen?” You questioned, hearing him let out a huff of a laugh.

“Mmm, maybe you shouldn’t say that…Those are famous last words.” He commented, seeing you shrug, the movement stiff from the cold that was continuing to stiffen your muscles.

“It’s true though, is it not?” He hummed in quiet agreement, tossing the melted ice pack onto the side table near the couch with a thud. The discarded bag landed with a faint slosh, already forgotten as he stepped closer to your lying form.

“I guess…” He mumbled, pausing to look down at you, letting his golden eyes trace the bundled shape of your body before lifting to your face. Even from this nearness you could feel the heat radiating off him in thick waves–almost like a invisible force–pressing against the chilled air around you as it expanded outward from his flesh. 

When you drew in a slow breath, the scent of him filled your lungs–smoky and metallic, like overheated wiring that was under strain, yet undercut by something oddly comforting, as if he was a fresh bonfire.

“So how are we going to do this?” You asked, watching as his gaze dropped to the thick pile of blankets still covering you. His fingers twitched against the hem of his top, toying with the stitches.

“We’ll take off our clothes so that we can have skin to skin contact…It’ll speed up the process, so we won’t have to be against one another for too long.” You felt your stomach drop to your feet at that, a deep pang of worry blooming hot through your nerves despite the cold that was locked in your blood. He sensed it immediately–the slight hitch in your breathing, the way your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket–but he didn’t push. His phrasing had landed poorly again, yet you understood the intent behind it, and after a beat you accepted the practicality of the plan.

“Alright,” You replied, giving him a small nod as you began to shift beneath the blankets. Your hands found the hem of your sweater, tugging it upward, the heavy knit catching briefly on your elbows before you pulled it free and tossed it onto the ground. Three long-sleeved shirts followed, then a plain t-shirt, and finally a thick tank top, the frost along the material melting and creating small puddles of water on the wooden floors.

Sentry’s eyes widened a fraction with every article that you threw off, observing the mountain of clothing that you had created, absolutely shocked that you were wearing all of that beneath the covers that were over you.

“Jesus Christ, how many layers are you wearing?” He asked, the question being followed with a small chuckle. You glared up at him, your hands pausing at the waistband of your sweatpants as your teeth clattered again at the loss of clothing that was containing what little comfort and warmth you had. 

“Unlike you, I need to contain as much heat as possible. It would be crazy of me not to layer up, I would freeze to death if I didn’t, so spare me the judgement.” You shot back, shimmying out of your sweatpants, not bothering to kick them off to the side as you pushed your two pairs of thermal leggings down, letting it join the pile at the end of the couch, leaving yourself in just your undergarments–a simple bra and a pair of long boxer briefs that you were using as another layer for your thighs. 

You tightened your hold on the blankets, the fabric suddenly feeling lighter without the clothes that you were wearing. A gust of cold breath fogged the air in front of your face, while your body started to shake again, this time bordering on uncontrollable. The loss of these additional barriers left your skin stinging, the chill biting deeper now. Your fingers had grown numb, and patches of ice began to form across the plane of your stomach, the blanket sticking to the frozen spots where your body pressed against it.

“Hu-Hurry up and take your clothes off before I start turning into a human ic-ice sculpture.” You managed to say, the words breaking through the violent chattering of your teeth–echoing as if they were knocked loose. The sound snapped Sentry out of his momentary trance, and he made quick work of removing the sweat-soaked t-shirt, dragging it upward in one fluid motion. The damp fabric peeled away from his skin with a wet squishy sound before he let it drop onto the your own discarded clothes with a plop. His shorts followed next, shoved down the thick lines of his thighs, getting kicked aside without ceremony until he stood in nothing but his tight black boxer briefs. 

Through the pounding ache beginning to build behind your eyes, you couldn’t look away from the bare expanse of him. The flushed skin that had been covered by his shirt was on full display now, ruby red and unevenly splotchy, with fresh beads sweat tracing down the ridges of his abs and disappearing against waistband of boxer briefs that hugged his thick muscly thighs that were the width of both your arms combined–not that you were looking to measure. The freckles on his skin carried an almost luminous quality to them, like they were glowing, creating this stark contrast against the ruby hue. He was an absolute adonis, perfectly sculptured and toned–like the God that he was.

If the cold hadn’t locked every other bodily reaction in place, you would’ve felt heat rise in your face at the sight. Instead, your expression laid your enamourment bare to him, eyes tracing every inch of his exposed skin with open appreciation. Sentry caught it immediately, a shy smile lifting on his lips.

“It’s odd seeing me without clothes, huh?” He teased, and even though you couldn’t verbally respond–because your heart kept staggering its beats–you nodded at him, letting your eyes do all the talking. He stepped towards you then, fingers catching the edge of your blankets and flipping them back to reveal your body to him, causing you to let out a little whine at the feeling of the air touching your bare skin. He could see the frosted patches that had already begun to spread up your stomach and thighs, delicate webs of ice forming and thickening in some spots, and that’s when he realized the real time crunch he was on. 

He slipped his arm under your body, lifting you slightly and shifting you onto your side to make space for him, and instantly the both of you let out a joint sigh of relief, hearing his skin sizzling against yours at the contact. He immediately took up the spot he made for himself, laying down and adjusting his position before wrapping his large arms around you, pulling your body into his. He was so soft and warm that if you were able to cry you would’ve in those moments just from the sheer relief of him crowding you in. He slipped his thick leg between yours, getting as close as possible to you while he brought the blanket around you both, letting it rest just below your chests so it could seal the temperature exchange that was happening beneath it.

“Fuck…You really are cold,” He muttered, resting his broad palm between your shoulder blades, urging you nuzzle into him, feeling your soft cheek rubbing against the plush muscle at the top of his pec, finally gaining a semblance of movement back in your bones as the chill began to thaw.

“An-And you’re really hot.” You stuttered, closing your eyes at the heat, hearing a rough laugh escape his throat, quietly acknowledging the double entendre but not saying anything about it directly. 

The smoky scent of his flesh had disappeared with the newfound closeness, and now he smelled like warmed skin and sunlight–naturally creamy and powdery with a hint of clean sweetness that was coming from the sweat that coated his skin. You were used to it–how it filled the room and overtook every space he was in–and often times you got lost in how perfectly it suited him. 

He reminded you of summer days, when the heat felt like it was choking you because of how cloying and thick it became from the humidity, and you found yourself moving your arm over his torso, holding him tighter to absorb the warmth that slipped from his pores. 

You felt like Icarus–flying too close to the sun but accepting your fate and absorbing the heat into your bones–but instead of wax wings it was your icy cool flesh that seemed to be melting, and you could feel water beginning to pebble and slip along your flesh until it sizzled and disappeared against him, followed by a gentle gust of steam that made your skin stick together. 

He shifted against you once more, the solid weight of his body pressing deeper into the couch cushions beneath you that had began to dampen from the condensation that coated your skin, as the frame creaked in protest at the movement. For a moment he drew back, allowing a thin rush of cooler air to slip between your joined bodies, only for him to slide downward, shimmying so there wasn’t a complete loss of contact. 

He settled his cheek against the soft swell of your breasts, chasing the cooling relief that poured from your body, needing the skin of his face to stop heating up. The wavy strands of his light brown hair spilled across your flesh, tickling the thin delicate skin beneath your chin as he moved. You tilted your head from side to side, trying to find a comfortable position that made sure the silken locks didn’t find their way between your parted lips, before resting your chin on the crown of his head. 

Your arms moved of their own accord, sliding around his neck and drawing him in tighter so his face was squished against you. He let out a long sigh, letting his hands roam your back, his fingertips tracing heated shapes along the curve of your spin, each pass melting away the lingering patches of frost that hadn’t left your flesh. Against the plush cushion of your chest, his ears tuned into the steadying rhythm of your heartbeat as it finally found it natural cadence under the influence of his warmth, and he couldn’t help but smile at that–thankful that his plan was actually working.

“You feeling any better?” He asked, his voice sending a subtle vibration across your sensitive skin, his hot breath sticking over the tops of your breasts, sinking into your pores like a body oil.

“Yeah, definitely…I think if it wasn’t for this I would’ve ended up going into natural cryosleep…So thank you for preventing that.” You murmured. His fingers paused mid-motion, right when he was about to draw a triangle on one of your shoulder blades. He lifted his head slightly, his golden eyes meeting yours, as little hints of orange embers lined around his pupils, almost like his curiosity was sparking behind them. 

The flush across his high cheekbones was already beginning to fade in uneven patching, revealing the pale porcelain-like tone beneath, and when your fingers moved to push a few strands of hair away from his face, the tiny flecks of orange brightened. You tucked them carefully behind his ears, and Sentry had to resist the temptation to lean into your touch, allowing you to make that choice for yourself on whether you wanted to keep feeling him like this–though he preferred that you kept doing it.

“Can that actually happen?” He questioned, the tightness of concern lacing his words. You nodded.

“It’s happened a few times. My body’s temperature plummets so much sometimes that all its systems basically go into hibernation mode to compensate. Usually I end up coming out of it a month or two later, but I typically don’t know what’s going on and it takes me a while to get used to my surroundings again…” You explained, watching his expression pull tight with worry–his brows drawing together, and his eyes widening slightly.

“That sounds…Scary.” He commented, his fingers twitching against your back, digging slightly into the soft flesh that lined your spine as if the mere thought made him want to pull you closer so that he could protect you from the possibility of that happening. You offered a small shrug in response, taking in a deep breath that caused your chest to expand beneath his chin.

“It was when it happened to me the first time…I didn’t really have anyone that cared about me back then, so I had to navigate everything on my own.” You said, ghosting your fingers along the side of his cheek, igniting a faint line of frost over the skin there which melted instantly–the droplets of water beading down his skin before evaporating with a small line of steam. You could see the way he was hanging off of every word you were saying, being the attentive listener he always was, and he waited for you to continue, silently encouraging you to keep opening up to him.

He secretly loved learning about you through the little anecdotes you dropped during missions, and oftentimes he found himself looking for more details, but he was always too afraid to ask–more because he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. From what the rest of the team had told him though, he was well aware that you had been through a lot–disowned by your family at a very young age because they couldn’t handle your mutation, being passed around from facility to facility until you ran away to be on your own, discovering that you could use the power that you had for good…There was a lot of mirroring to his own story, but he couldn’t imagine all the other things you had gone through that you chose to hide. 

“But thankfully that’s changed.” You added, giving him a small smile, watching his lashes flutter at the realization that you were talking about the team–and specifically him–with that comment.

“I’m glad.” He murmured, feeling your fingers trace along the freckles dusted across his cheek, connecting them with an invisible line. 

“Me too…” You whispered back, reaching the bridge of his nose and trailing your soft touch down to the tip of it, feeling him let out a long shaky breath that clung to your flesh, his hand twitching against the small of your back. He leaned into your touch then, urging you to continue, basking in the coolness of your touch and enjoying the way it made his skin sizzle when there was a little surge of frost that escaped the tips of your fingers.

When you dragged them down to his lips you could see the way the embers in his eyes shimmered, glowing just a fraction brighter and you let out a little laugh.

“You like this?” You asked, moving your fingers over his thin top lip before doing the same to the bottom one, stopping in the middle of it when they parted, blowing a gentle gust of hot air against them that made your skin crackle slightly.

“I do…It feels nice.” He replied, the words vibrating over your fingertips as his lips brushed them in the faintest of kisses–like he was testing to see if you would pull away. When you kept your hand still for him though, he pressed his lips into the soft pads more fully, kissing each digit and leaving little wet spots behind that froze instantly on your flesh before melting against under his warmth. 

Then he took your pointer finger into his mouth, the velvety heat of his tongue sliding along the pad until he reached your knuckle. Your throat tightened, pushing out a gasp from your mouth. He kept eye contact with you, the dark golden hue of his irises shifting to a richer saffron that glowed, like he had captured the sun behind his eyes. He sucked gently, hollowing his cheeks just enough to create a tight, warm seal around your finger, and you felt your stomach stir, your heart catching on a beat as an undeniable warmth ignited through you despite the biological coolness that wracked your system, feeling every nerve in your body light up so all you could focus on was the way his mouth felt.

He pulled off with a light pop and smeared the saliva on your finger along his face, closing his eyes at the wetness until it dried on his skin. He hummed low in his throat, a satisfied rumble that travelled through his chest and settled in your belly. Only then–when the spell of his mouth finally broke–did you move your hand to cup his cheek.

“Sentry,” You whispered, a hint of seriousness wrapping around his name like a quiet warning. He caught your tone immediately, gazing up at you, seeing the slight shock in your expression–the way your brows were pulled together, how your jaw had slackened just a fraction, the soft rapid breaths that escaped you…It was like you were processing what he had just done. He hadn’t meant to push; he had simply followed his instincts, desperate to show you how he felt, and he knew then that he shouldn’t have taken such a stupid approach to broaching the act of intimacy like this. 

“Did I cross a line?” He asked sheepishly, pulling back just a little more to get a better look at you, though your hand on the back of his neck tightened, almost like you didn’t want him to move away at all.

“No…I…” You paused for a moment, seeing his eyes dart along your face as you bit the inside of your bottom lip–which he noticed, his golden gaze dropping to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning. “I’m just surprised.” You admitted quietly, and you could see the look of concern soften in his eyes, the tension easing from his shoulders.

He let the silence settle between you, until he let out a long breath and shimmied back up your body so he could be face to face with you. His nose bumped gently against yours as he shifted the leg wedged between yours, the thick muscle of his thigh pressing higher until it brushed the edge of your boxer briefs. 

“In a good way?” He pressed curiously, sliding his hand from your back and leaving a slow-burning trail of heat in its wake as it travelled down the dip of your spine to settle at your hip. His large palm engulfed the curve there completely, his thumb stroking broad circles over the sensitive skin, coaxing fresh goosebumps to rise before the deeper chill of your body overtook the spot–only for his warmth to chase it away again in a subtle shimmer of melting frost that left your flesh glistening. You nodded, your gaze dropping briefly to his soft pink lips–slightly parted and glistening from the trace of saliva left behind by your finger–before flicking back up to meet his eyes.

“Yes.” You confirmed, your hand inching lower to cradle the side of his neck, your fingertips registering the rapid, heavy pulse hammering beneath his heated skin. He gave you a small smile, eyes dipping to your mouth now as his pupils flared wider and the scattered orange flecks within them brightened with unmistakable want.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, not wanting to take your physical signs as permission, preferring to hear the answer fall from your mouth–needing to see your lips wrap around the words.

“Please, Sentry,” You breathed, leaning closer to him, bumping his nose against your as the two of you shared a brief moment of exchanged air. Then he closed the distance, pressing his lips to yours. 

They were impossibly soft and searing, the contrasting pulling the air straight from your lungs. A little moan slipped from you as your hand tightened at the back of his neck, drawing him closer while his damp strands of hair brushed against your fingertips. He parted his mouth against yours and you followed, tongues sliding together in a slow, hungry glide that made you feel like someone had set a sparkler off right against your spine. His other hand rose to cradle the back of your head, fingers pressing into your scalp, holding you exactly where he wanted as he deepened the kiss, massaging his lips against yours with growing urgency. You laced your fingers into his hair and tugged lightly at the roots, earning a low groan from him, his hand tightening on your hip. You hiked your leg high, draping it over his hip so it rested against the thick muscle of his thigh. He adjusted instantly to you, his leg between yours fleeing upward until the firm ridge of his quads pressed flush against the gusset of your boxer briefs.

The sudden, solid pressure on your core made your hips jerk forward, a needy whine tearing from your throat at the heat radiating through the fabric, warming you immediately. Sentry held you through it, allowing the natural reaction to take over your body as it chased the friction it desperately craved, smiling into the kiss to silently convey to you exactly how much he loved the way you were reacting to him. 

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his cheeks burned a deep jammy red and his once-soft pink lips were now puffy and slick, glistening with the mess of your shared saliva. He could see a faint flicker of shyness cross your face, noticing the way your eyes widened for a split second as if the eager grind of your hips had surprised even you, and there was an instant moment where he felt the need to urge you to continue–to give you permission to use him.

He leaned in again, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your cheek and jaw, each one leaving wet spots behind that cooled along your flesh. Your back arched toward him in response, tilting your head back to bare more of your throat to him as short, breathless gasps spilled from your parted lips. His teeth dragged lightly along the sensitive line of your jaw, the faint scrape of them being soothed by the flat of his tongue before he reached your ear and nipped at the fleshy lobe feeling you flinch, and drawing out another soft, broken sound from you. 

“You can take what you need from me, Y/N…You don’t have to be embarrassed.” He whispered, his breath warming the shell of your ear, as his hand squeezed your hip gently–providing a reassuring pressure to your flesh. He trailed several more kisses down the column of your neck, letting his lips linger over the rapid flutter of your pulse, giving it a small lick and nuzzling against the frost that formed there to warm it.

Your fingers tightened in the damp strands of his hair you had in your grip, scratching your nails across the sensitive skin of his scalp, drawing a low, appreciative hum from him at the sting. He responded by guiding your hips forward, dragging you along his thigh. Every defined ridge of muscle pressed against you perfectly through the fabric, the contact so intense it felt as though nothing separated your aching core from his scorching skin. Your thighs clenched around him, slipping into the tingling heat that ignited low in your belly.

One of your hands slipped from his neck to brace against the broad plane of his shoulder, the contrast between your chilled palm and his overheated skin trudging up another burst of steam.

“Sen–Sentry…” You stuttered, his name shaking on your breath as he backpedaled along the same trail of kisses with his lips, moving up your jaw until he reached your mouth again. His golden eyes burned even brighter now, pupils blown wide as he registered–and felt–your heartbeat hammering wildly against his chest, a dizzying mix of nerves and arousal flooding through you.

“Y/N…It’s okay. Just rock your hips against me…I want to feel you,” He said, kissing the corner of your mouth with an aching gentleness that made your whole body seize, before blowing a warm breath across the little wet spot he left, “And I want to see you enjoy yourself and indulge…Please…Please grant me that.” He added softly, on the brink of desperation. 

You couldn’t help the way your body yielded to his words–the tension melting from your muscles as you relaxed and loosened against him. He felt every shift, your weight bearing down onto his thigh with just enough pressure that he knew exactly what you were about to do. 

Slowly, your hips began to move, rolling along the thick, flexing muscle with hesitance, adjusting yourself to get the position just right so the fabric of your boxers could rub across your clit, granting you the perfect amount of friction against the swelling bundle of nerves. You shivered against him, a burst of frost spiderwebbing across his shoulder before melting away, turning into droplets of water that slid down his chest, evaporating within seconds under the heat of him. His thumb rubbed slow circles into the soft flesh of your hip, pressing into it every so often as he leaned forward to claim your mouth again. His tongue slid against yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip while he pulled your body towards him, helping your find a steady rhythm that matched the frantic pulse that bounded through your veins.

His fingers dug gently into your scalp, holding you close as your breaths grew heavier, turning into soft, needy moans that he swallowed greedily–letting your noises fill him. You squeezed his shoulder harder, the fabric of your briefs clinging obscenely to you as you ground down onto him with increasing urgency, chasing the tightening coil of pleasure that tightened the muscles in your belly. You whined into his mouth, nails biting into his shoulder while you tugged at his hair with your other hand.

The friction wasn’t enough, and he could tell it wasn’t getting you to where you needed to be–sensing the frustration in your movements, the way you kept adjusting your position so that you could feel more of him, only for it not to change anything. 

His hand left your hip then, his fingertips ghosting just beneath the waistband of your boxers, before sliding beneath it, trailing his touch to your pubic bone, settling it there for a moment. He shifted his thigh down, and the sudden loss of pressure drew a soft moan from you, but the absence of it was replaced almost instantly by his fingers tracing along the heat of your folds. He let out a groan of surprise, pulling back from your lips just enough to breath heavily against the saliva he left there, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours, a pleased smile curving up on his mouth. 

“I was expecting you to be cold here…But you’re…You’re warm. So fucking warm.” He said, marvelling at the discovery as his fingers ran slowly through your folds, savouring the silky softness of your skin while your arousal coated him.

Your breath caught in your throat, head tilting back as your lashes fluttered against the overwhelming sensation of his fingers exploring you, your body tingling with every pass. His lips pressed gentle, open-mouthed kisses over your jaw, each one leaving a warm imprint that made your skin numb where frost tried and failed to form.

When he moved lower, circling your sensitive entrance with the pads of two thick fingers, he felt the way you pulsed and clenched against him, your hips pressing down in silent urgency, wordlessly begging him to push inside. But he held back, drawing the moment out with torturous patients, wanting to hear you break and beg before he gave you what your body was demanding. 

He smeared your arousal up to your swollen clit, covering the throbbing bundle completely with slow, gentle circles that had your thighs trembling. You arched into his touch, urging him to give you more, your nails scraping over his shoulder but doing limited damage to him. It felt better than your own fingers, and it was evident he knew exactly where to touch you to drive you crazy, finding a perfect pressure that made the nub swell even further.

“Sentry…Sentry please.” You breathed, voice cracking with desperation. He hummed against your skin at the sound of your pleas, nibbling at your jaw before licking the spot.

“Please what?” He asked, looking up at you through heavy lashes while your eyes squeezed shut.

“Please give me more…I need more.” You begged, the words tumbling out like you were on the verge of tears, your mind clouded by a thick haze of lust that made every though narrow down to the slow, teasing drag of his fingers. He let out a long, heated breath that clung to your skin, nodding once as strands of his hair tickled your cheek.

“All you had to do was ask.” The teasing edge in his voice sent a fresh shiver racing through you, your stomach stirring and clenching. He brought his fingers back down to your entrance, tracing the muscle for one moment before pushing inside you in a smooth, soul catching stroke. 

You sighed out a broken sound of relief, your walls clenching around the invading heat of his fingers, welcoming him immediately. The stretch was perfect–filling you like a cock would–every ridge and knuckle dragging along your sensitive inner walls until he was buried to the hilt. He curled them deep, stroking firmly against the spongy spot inside you while his thumb found your clit again, pressing steady circles over it.

Frost bloomed up his forearm and his lips turned up into a smile against your throat–proud that he could make you lose control of your powers so easily, relishing in the way the phantom air of you clung to his flesh before evaporating completely. 

His fingers began pumping steadily, setting a rhythm that had your hips rocking helplessly against his hand. His lips met yours again, but this time the kiss was slower, softer, bordering on sensual. He parted his mouth over yours just enough to taste the cool rush of your breath flooding his lungs before sucking your bottom lip between his, pulling on it gently until it swelled and filled with blood under his attention. You clenched hard around his fingers, thighs tightening around his wrist, grinding down on his hand in earnest, riding every thrust, digging you hand into his shoulder even more to keep a steady pace. 

He put more pressure on your clit, rubbing faster, tighter circles along the bundle of nerves, curling his fingers harder against that spongy rigid spot inside you. Your ears began to ring like a stun grenade had gone off inside your head, the world narrowing to nothing but the wet sounds of his fingers working you open and the overwhelming heat coiling tighter and tighter in your core. You became a blubbering mess, trying to form words, but all you could say was his name over and over again, like a mantra–like a prayer of mercy.

“Mmph–Oh god!” You managed to say, feeling a wave of heat exploding over your skin–whether from him or the pleasure itself, you couldn’t tell–as your body shook against his. Your walls clenched tighter around his fingers, pulsing in a fast, rhythmic flutter until you gushed over his hand with a loud, broken whine. Tears stung at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, your nails scraping down his shoulder blade as overwhelming relief flooded every nerve.

Sentry moved to the dewy drops, licking the salty beads before they could even fall along your skin, slowing his fingers down gradually, savouring the way you kept pulsing and fluttering around them, your body shivering from the overstimulation that rattled through your nervous system. 

“See? Wasn’t so bad letting yourself go, hmm?” He whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. You shook your head weakly–like your bones had turned to jelly–chest heaving with each breath you took.

“No…No…That was fucking perfect.” He pulled back just enough to flash you a toothy grin, the embers of orange around his pupils and framing his irises setting alight with satisfaction.

“I’m glad.” He replied, slipping his fingers free with a wet sound that made your cheeks heat, then dragged them slowly up your stomach, smearing the glistening evidence of your release across your skin in lazy streaks. He brought the slick digits up between you both, spreading them apart to show you the honey-like sheen the connected them in translucent webs, the sight so filthy and intimate that it made your stomach clench all over again. 

Light bounced off the glossiness, shimmering across his skin like liquid gold before he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking on them. You tasted salty and sweet, like a savoury dessert, laced with something mineral-like, almost cold in a way like chilled syrup. He let out a little moan, drawing his fingers out slowly, dragging the flat of his tongue along each pad until every trace of your arousal was gone, leaving only the faint sheen of his own saliva. 

“Mmm…You taste amazing…Makes me want to try it straight from the source.” He murmured, pressing a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, putting his weight into you so that you shifted onto your back. A look of confusion drew across your face–brows pulling together, a little frown forming on your lips–and you shook your head. 

“What about you? Don’t you want me to do anything to you?” You questioned, watching as he adjusted himself above you, his knees sinking into the couch cushion so he could spread your thighs wider and settle fully between them, the blanket falling off the side of the couch. He pressed his chest against your stomach, peering up at you through his lashes, a soft laugh of disbelief escaping him.

“Trust me, this is doing a lot for me,” He commented, taking your hand in his and guiding it down to the front of his briefs, letting you feel the warm, daunting thickness of his erection straining against the fabric, heavy and pulsing under your palm. You hadn’t noticed it when you were grinding on his thigh, but now the sheer size and heat of him made fresh heat boom low in your belly again. Your fingers curled around him, giving a gentle squeeze, your thumb brushing over the small wet patch of precum that had soaked through the material. He twitched hard against your touch.

“You didn’t even have to touch me and this happened…So just lay back and let me get a better taste of you.” He said, pressing a kiss to your belly. When you gave his cock another squeeze, he hissed softly, then carefully took your hand off him to settle your palm flat against your stomach, right over the spot his lips had just warmed. He held it there for a moment, letting a thin layer of frost bloom beneath your fingers to preserve the faint imprint of his kiss like a brand against your skin. 

“Okay…” You breathed, settling back against the cushions, using the arm rest to angle your head just enough so you could watch him. He kissed along your hips, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of your boxers and pulling them down your legs in one smooth motion. You helped by lifting your legs, bending them until the fabric slid free. He tossed it aside without a glance, then pushed your thighs open again, one foot bracing on the floor so he could lay comfortably between them.

He stared at the glistening trails of your arousal pulsing from your core as you clenched around nothing, pushing more sweetness out of you, and he couldn’t help but lick his lips at the sight–like he was a dehydrated man looking at a fountain of fresh ice cold water. He rubbed your inner thigh, the heat of his palm sinking deep into your chilled skin as he gave the soft flesh a firm squeeze.

“All wet just from my fingers…Absolutely breathtaking.” He admired, voice thick with hunger. He leaned down, chest pressing into the yielding cushions, his hot lips peppering a slow pathway of kisses up toward your core. He nuzzled his cheek into the cool skin right at the apex of your thigh, breathing you in deeply–your scent was sweet and icy, like ripened fruit laced with peppermint. A beautiful haze of euphoria washed over his features as he kissed along your pubic bone before pressing his shoulders beneath the backs of your thighs, spreading you open wider and locking you firmly in place. 

He glanced up at you, catching the way your kiss-bitten lips parted on a shaky breath. His hands moved to your core, opening your folds up to him before he pressed his tongue flat against you. The first long, slow lick pulled a gasp from your throat, your hand shooting down to lace tightly through his hair. You were so sensitive from your first orgasm that every pass of his tongue felt like liquid fire pouring into your veins, reigniting the heat deep in your belly all over again. 

He buried his face in you completely, head moving slowly so his tongue could part you more, licking deep inside, tasting every drop while smearing your arousal across his chin and cheeks. Low, filthy moans vibrated against your core as he devoured you, his hand gripping at your thighs, fingers dimpling the soft flesh, sliding his tongue higher to circle your clit before sucking it between his lips. He flicked the swollen bundle, eyes never leaving yours, holding you captive under that golden stare while your fingers massaged through his hair.

“God, Sentry…Ho-Holy fuck.” You whined, hips shifting helplessly beneath him. He moaned into you in reply. The noises that echoed through the room were wet, his mouth sucking on your folds and your clit, burrowing deeper before pressing his tongue into you and tasting you straight from the source, doing it over and over again. It was like he was making out with your pussy, his experienced mouth taking all everything you gave to him with ease. You bucked against his mouth again, and he brought his hand up to your hip, pinning you to the couch cushions, holding you still so that he can keep his rhythm exact, sharp focusing on dragging a second orgasm out of you that would eclipse the first.

He felt your thighs trembling against his shoulders, the muscles quivering with every pass of his tongue. Your free hand found the one he had dug into the top of your thigh, fingers lacing tightly with his as he squeezed back in silent reassurance, another grunt vibrating through you. The pressure of his tongue grew heavier, more insistent, as he continued to devour you without thought.

The lamp on the stand beside the couch suddenly brightened, its glow pulsing in time with the waves of pleasure rolling through you, and your eyes flicked to it for a brief second before dropping back down to him, catching the way his irises glowed like captured sunlight–bright and molten. You knew it was him doing this–you certainly weren’t capable of doing that–and a stifled laugh escaped you as the light flickered again, like he was speaking to you in bursts of golden morse code

You could feel him smile into you, plunging his tongue into your entrance one more time before moving back up to your clit again, his lips wrapping around the swollen bundle, snapping you out of the moment of humour and dragging you back into the overwhelming sensation of his mouth.

You took in a sharp breath.

“Sentry! Oh fuck…Please, right there!” You whined, your thighs clenching hard around his head, fingers pulling at his hair as your hips bucked against the firm hold he had on you. He kept sucking, swirling his tongue in tight circles while pressing his face deeper, the wet sounds of his mouth on you filling the silence. 

The coil in your belly tightened unbearably fast, as his lips sealed over you one last time, making it snap instantly. You came hard with a broken cry, your back arching off the couch as your core pulsed against his chin. A powerful wave of frost bloomed across his shoulders and down his arms, racing over his skin like you got a surge of energy from your orgasm. 

He couldn’t stop licking you, craving every shudder, greedy for every last drop until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess beneath him, your thighs shaking uncontrollably and your breath stuttering.

“Yo-You need to stop, I’m gonna turn you into a piece of ice if your don’t.” You warned quickly, forcing your thighs to loosen from around his head so he could breathe and move away from you. He hummed in response, the vibration sending one last aftershock through your body, before he pulled back, placing one final open-mouthed kiss against your quivering core. 

“I’ve got the power of the sun coursing through my veins, you wouldn’t be able to do anything to me…And honestly, I actually like when you get all chilly–shows me I did a pretty good job.” He commented, his voice a low, velvet rumble that shook against your stomach as he began kissing his way upward. His lips dragged slowly over the soft give of your belly, glistening with the sheen of your release that coated his chin and mouth. 

Everywhere he touched, he smeared the slick evidence of your pleasure across your chilled skin in warm, glistening streaks, the contrast drawing faint curls of steam that rose through the air lazily like hot breath on a chilled window. His teeth grazed the tender flesh just above your navel, a gentle nip that made your muscles flutter and tighten beneath him, followed by the immediate heat of his soothing tongue that lapped away the sting. He nipped your again, just below your ribs, and you felt yourself arch into him, your skin prickling with fresh goosebumps.

“But I’ll give you a break since you need one so badly,” He added, the words husky and teasing as he pushed himself up on his powerful arms, the thick cords of muscle in his shoulders and biceps flexing with the motion. He hovered over you for a moment, his golden eyes locking on yours, the orange embers around his irises flickering like distant stars caught in the pull of desire. Then he lowered himself, claiming your mouth in a deep, sticky kiss that stole your breath from your lungs, his lips parting against yours to let you taste the salty-sweet tang of yourself on his tongue as it slid hot along yours. 

The flavour of your own arousal mixed with the clean, sun-warmed scent of his skin, and you let out a small moan, your hand flying up to cradle the side of his neck, fingers pressing into the strong column of muscle there, feeling the throb of his pulse beneath the heated flesh. You tilted your head up to chase the kiss, tongues tangling with wet, needy sounds escaping the both of you, until he finally pulled back to trail kisses along the curve of your cheek and jaw, his breathing rapid and ghosting over your flesh.

You laid beneath him, chest rising and falling in ragged little pants, every inch of you humming, trying to come down from the euphoric high your orgasm put you in. The heavy weight of his body pressed you deeper into the couch cushions, the heat radiating through his chest and abdomen sinking into your bones like liquid sunlight.

Your thighs cradled his hips, legs locking around his to draw him nearer, the thick outline of his cock pressing hot through the thin barrier of his briefs. It rested just above your aching core, the searing length of him throbbing against your lower belly, feeling the fabric was now saturated in his precum–which had only grown larger while he had feasted on you. Small, translucent droplets seeped through the material, smearing against your skin, creating this sticky warm film there. 

You were so tempted to reach down, to slip your fingers beneath his waistband and wrap them around that daunting thickness, to test whether your hand could even close fully around him, to feel the velvet-steel weight of his cock pulse against your palm. But you held yourself back, nails digging into him for a moment. You truly needed the break, knowing that the moment he finally pushed inside you would shatter what little composure you had left–and losing your mind entirely was something you were trying very hard to avoid right now.

So you made quick work of finding a distraction for yourself. 

“…Can I ask why you were flickering the light like a maniac while you were going down on me?” You asked, carding your fingers through his hair and gently tugging at the roots. He let out a little huff of a laugh against the sensitive skin of your neck, the warm gust of it raising fresh goosebumps that ran up to your chin, as he pressed another kiss there.

“It kind of just happens when I’m feeling really good. My brain is focusing on something else then my powers fall out of my control and it does whatever it can to get out the excess energy.” You hummed softly in response, tilting your heat to the side to allow him to continue his explorations. Then suddenly, your brows pulled together as a realization dawned on you, cutting through the lingering haze of pleasure.

“Wait a minute…Is that why we sometimes have a ‘power surge’ in the middle of the night and wake up to every fuse in the Watchtower being blown out?” His lips curved up into a shy smile against your skin, the warmth of it branding the junction where your neck met your shoulder.

“Guilty as charged,” He mumbled, the words muffling where his mouth had settled, sending a fresh shiver racing down your spine that clashed deliciously with the steady heat pouring off his chest. A soft, playful laugh bubbled out of you, pushing against his broad shoulder, your palm meeting the solid muscle there with no real force.

“I knew it was you! Everyone was denying it and calling me crazy!” He let out a rumbling laugh of his own, the deep sound vibrating against your breasts as he nuzzled closer, his large hand sliding up your torso with a slow, possessive glide. His palm spanned the entire width of your ribcage, his thumb slipping beneath the underwire of your bra to brush the plush underside of your breast, the calloused pad teasing the sensitive skin until your nipple tightened. 

“Well, now you know. Let’s not go spreading that around though…Cause I will vehemently deny it.” Your smile widened at that.

“Your secret is safe with me.” You reassured, flinching when he gave the underside of your breast a little pinch, rubbing the spot to soothe it.

“Can I take this off?” He asked, his golden eyes flicking down to the bra still clinging to your frame, the last scrap of fabric separating skin from skin. You nodded, breath catching as his free hand slipped behind your back, his fingers unhooking the clasp before slowly peeling the straps down your arms, and letting it drop off the side of the couch with the rest of your discarded clothes. You were glad that nobody was coming home anytime soon because there was no way the two of you would be able to clean the mess that was scattered along the floor. 

He leaned up on his forearm, drinking in the sight of you, watching the way your nipples pebbled at the sudden exposure, running his thick finger over the bud, the pad covering it entirely before he cupped the full weight of your breast in his large palm, squeezing with just enough pressure to draw a soft gasp from your throat. You twirled a strand of his hair around your finger, watching the light brown colour catch with golden highlights from the lamp.

“I feel overdressed,” He commented, glancing down at his boxers, and you couldn’t help but smirk.

“Maybe you should get undressed then to make it even.” You replied, feeling his fingers twitch against your breast before he nodded.

“Fair enough,” He whispered, his hands leaving you as he pushed off you and reached down to his waistband, pushing the fabric down just enough so his cock sprang out of its confines, bobbing and tapping against his lower belly, before standing erect between his legs. The outline certainly didn’t do him justice, and seeing it in the flesh was far more intimidating than feeling it against you. The crown was large and red, swollen from him holding back this entire time, and the shaft was thick and veined along the smooth skin that led down to the trimmed hair at his base. He kicked the boxers aside without a glance, then settled back between your spread thighs, adjusting himself so the scorching length of his cock rested flush against your belly, the hot, velvety weight of it twitching and leaking fresh beads of precum that smeared over your flesh. 

You let out a sigh, your fingers trailing down the sweat-slicked planes of his abdomen, following the deep cuts of muscle until they wrapped around the tick base of his cock. Your hand barely closed around the heavy girth, the velvet heat of him pulsing against your chilled palm. You stroked him once from base to tip, feeling every ridge and vein drag beneath your touch, the skin stretched taut and burning. His lashes fluttered shut, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth as his hips jerked forward into your fist, chasing the friction with a helpless little gasp that broke from deep in his chest.

Your thumb swept over the slick head, spreading the steady leak of precum in lazy circles before you stroked him again, firmer this time, twisting your wrist just enough to hear him groan. You kept the rhythm precise and unhurried, watching the way his powerful body trembled above you, the flush on his chest deepening as steam began to radiate off of him. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” He groaned, voice wrecked as he reached down to catch your wrist, guiding your hand away from his aching length before he lost the last fragile thread of control. “If you keep touching me like that, this is going to be over before I even get inside you.” He said, pinning your hand beside your head, fingers sliding down your forearm in a heated trail melting the frost that bloomed on your flesh, before he leaned in to press a small, tender kiss to your lips, rubbing his nose gently against yours. 

“Do you want that?” He asked, his golden eyes searching yours, the orange embers sparking and swirling around his irises.

“No…” You breathed, the word barely more than a whisper as you brought your legs up to wrap loosely around his waist, heels digging into the firm, rounded muscle of his ass to pull him closer, “I’d prefer to feel you cum inside me rather than in my hand.” He let out a hot breath against your lips, the warm rush filling your mouth and slipping down your throat. 

“So…Does this mean you’re ready?” He questioned, as the tips of your fingers glided along the broad slope of his shoulder, tracing the muscle.

“Yes,” You said, the single word heavy with want, and he didn’t need to be told twice to confirm it with you. Slowly, he shifted his weight, creating just enough space between your bodies to reach down and grip the base of his cock. The swollen head nudged through your folds, coating himself in the slick evidence of your arousal, sliding hot and smooth along your slit before circling once over your swollen clit, teasing it, before bringing it back down. 

He notched himself at your entrance, pausing to glance up at you, his eyes locking on yours to make sure there wasn’t even a hint of hesitation, and when you pressed your heels harder into his ass, urging him forward, he took it as permission to go on–that you were sure. 

He brought his hips forward in one controlled push, feeling your walls part around his thickness, the broad crown sinking in immediately. The stretch was overwhelming even though it was only the tip that had breached you, and your breath caught in your throat, chest rising as your body adjusted to the warmth that was filling you. He waited, perfectly still, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your cheek, a quiet sigh escaping him as your walls pulsed and fluttered around him.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” He asked, concern threading through his voice, studying the way your breath hitched and how your hands had gripped his shoulders just a fraction more, nailing sinking into the muscle.

“No it doesn’t hurt…I’m just getting used to you. Keep going,” You urged, thighs tightening around his torso. He continued to push forward, your walls fluttering around each new inch he gave you, feeling every ridge and vein dragging inside you until he was finally buried to the hilt. The fullness was unbelievable–his cock seated so deep you could feel him pressing against your cervix.

He stilled above you, chest heaving against your in deep, ragged pulls of breath as he pressed his forehead to your temple. His frame trembled, muscles locking tight beneath your palms, his body fighting the urge to lose himself completely in the tight, fluttering grip of you. He wanted this to feel as good for you as it already did for him; he refused to rush, refused to risk hurting you for even a second.

A few minutes passed in silence, until you rocked your hips against him, testing the depth, and turned your head just enough to catch his lips in a deep, needy kiss. He let out a heavy breath through his nose, the warm rush of it flooding your senses as he finally gave in.

He drew back almost to the tip, the drag of his thick length sending sparks exploding through every nerve, before he rolled his hips forward in one powerful thrust that punched the air straight from your lungs. A keening moan tore from your throat as the blunt head of his cock kissed the deepest part of you as softly as he could. He pulled away from your mouth, closing his eyes tightly.

“God…You feel so good,” He breathed, the words breaking as he felt your nails dragging down his shoulders, leaving faint red trails the disappeared before they could even settle into his skin. He found a steady rhythm then, rocking his hips in deep, claiming strokes that drove every inch of him into you with each forward snap, the wet slap of skin meeting skin echoing through the room as your arousal coated him, smearing along his pelvis. 

His mouth found yours again in a messy, desperate kiss, tongues sliding together in hungry strokes while one large hand came up to cup your breast fully, his thumb circling the tight, pebbled peak of your nipple before pinching it hard enough to make your walls clench around his cock like a vice. A whimper spilled from you, broken and needy, as your nails scraped down his back in response, the sharp sting only spurring him on. 

His hand left your breast then as he slid both arms beneath you, craving a better angle, the thick cords of muscle in his biceps flexing as he lifted your body towards his until you were sitting on his lap. The sudden change in position made you whine, the new angle letting him sink even deeper, pressing against the places inside you that stole every inch of air out of your lungs. It was as if you could feel him in your stomach, pulsing and twitching inside, taking up more space like he wanted to invade your entirety. Your arms came up to wrap around his neck, clinging to him as you steadied yourself against the solid wall of his chest. 

He pulled away from the kiss, trailing his lips down the column of your neck in hot, open-mouthed paths, licking and sucking at any skin he came into contact with, leaving marks that bloomed wide. When he reached your breast he enclosed his mouth around one stiff nipple, drawing it deep between his lips with a low groan that vibrated through the soft, tender tissue. You let out a loud moan, arching your back into him, lacing your fingers through his hair and pulling as his tongue flicked rapidly over the hardened bud.

“Jesus Christ, Sentry!” You cried out, the words breaking on a gasp as his hands settled on your hips, guiding you into a steady rhythm so you could ride him comfortably. His tongue continued its relentless assault on your nipple, sucking and teasing until your thighs trembled around his waist, sending waves of fresh frost up his torso.

The new position let you control the pace, and he allowed it, his large hands splaying wide across the curve of your back as you rolled your hips in deep, grinding circles. Each motion dragged the thick length of his cock through you, the heavy motion stretching you open again and again while he thrusted up to meet you, his pelvis rubbing against your swollen clit with every roll. The added pressure layered the sensations perfectly, your arousal coating him even more, dripping down to soak the skin of his thighs where the pressed against you.

Your moans grew louder, filling the lounge as his hand skimmed up the length of your spine to cradle the nape of your neck, while the other gripped the soft flesh of your ass, helping you lift off him so he could guide you back down onto him with every roll. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin meeting skin echoed louder now, obscene and perfect, each impact sending fresh waves of heat between your joined bodies.

He pulled off your nipple with a pop, breathing heavily against your skin as he moved his mouth to the other breast, enclosing the stiff peak between his lips with the same intensity. His tongue flicked and swirled, sucking hard enough to pull more of your breast into him, a loud moan tearing fro your throat as you laced your fingers tighter through his hair and tugged.

He loved the way you gripped him, the way your walls fluttered and clenched around his cock like you never wanted to let him go, like you wanted to stay like this forever, hearing the broken compliments and needy sounds spilling from your lips in a jumbled mess that only made him thrust up harder.

You rode him like you couldn’t do anything else, nails digging into his scalp as the coil in your belly tightened, every deep grind of his cock and every relentless flick of his tongue pushing you right to the edge. The lamp beside the couch began to flicker again, pulsing once before flaring brighter, as the thawed ice pack fell to the ground with a soft plop. You didn’t lose focus for a second though; the erratic glow only confirming how good he was feeling too, how close he was, how desperately he needed you.

His fingers dug harder into the flesh of your ass, a low moan vibrating through your breast as he felt you fluttering wildly around him.

“Sentry! Sentry I’m gonna cum again.” You whined, and he hummed against you, not wanting to let go of your breast. 

“Give it to me, Y/N…I got you.” He said with his mouth full of you, and that was all the encouragement you needed as you shattered around his cock with a broken cry, your walls pulsing and fluttering in rhythmic waves that milked his thick length, soaking him even more in your slick. Frost exploded across his chest and arms, invading his mouth, making his teeth nibble down on your nipple from the chattering which pulled a surprised gasp from your throat. He grunted, his hips stuttering up into you a few more times before they locked up, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. 

His cum felt scorching hot, almost like it was burning your insides in the most exquisite way, as thick ropes flooded your core, feeling pulse after heavy pulse coating your walls until it overflowed, spilling out around his cock and mixing with your own release on his thighs. The sensation of him filling you so completely, so deeply, sent another wave of relief crashing through your body. 

The both of you trembled, gasping for air, bodies locking together in the aftershocks that raced through your muscles, and slowly the brightness of the lamp eased, just like the frost that had momentarily overtaken his skin. He let out a breathless moan, releasing your nipple before looking up at you, his golden eyes soft and hazed with pure satisfaction.

“You’re a godsend,” He whispered, leaning up to press a small, tender kiss to your lips before carefully lowering you both back down onto the couch, making sure he was still buried inside you as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. The heat of him was now perfectly balancing your cooled skin, and every point of contact hummed with shared relief and warmth.

“Feels like we found a cheat code to the whole temperature crisis thing.” You joked, catching your breath, earning a little laugh from him.

“We might have to keep testing it just to make sure…” You nodded.

“I definitely wouldn’t mind that.” You commented, as he pressed a kiss to your neck, biting down where your pulse fluttered against his tongue. You trailed your fingers over his back, tracing the deep valley of his spine, basking in the comfortable silence of the afterglow, until he cleared his throat.

“I know this may not be the right time to ask given that I just came inside you…But…What do you think would happen if we ended up…” He trailed off, looking up at you in hopes that you knew where he was going with the question, seeing the lustful haze that clouded your eyes.

“Having a child together?” You said, finishing it for him, and he nodded slowly, keeping his gaze on yours, seeing the way you were considering the answer in your mind, like you never truly thought about the topic because it wasn’t something that had ever come up in your entire life.

Sure, you had been to a lot of scientists and doctors who practically tore you apart piece by piece just to test your genetic makeup, but even then they never asked about if you ever wanted to have children, which meant you never explored what could happen in that process. Now that the question was posed though, you had to take a moment to reflect on it, because it wasn’t just about your own mutation being passed down in this circumstance, it was also about his.

You bit the inside of your cheek, your eyes roaming his, seeing that the bright lustre that had overtaken them had eased, allowing his irises to return to a dimmed sun-kissed hue.

“It would be an easy answer if you didn’t have the serum, but factoring in that you do and that we are practically on the complete opposite ends of the temperature scale, I really don’t know what would happen…We might end up making a super mutation or something.” You joked, feeling his hand run up your torso.

“Sounds dangerous…” He murmured, and you nodded at him.

“It probably is…They’d probably end up taking them away if we had one.” He didn’t really know who you were referring to, but he could hear the fear that suddenly encompassed your voice, and his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him, wanting to comfort you immediately. 

“I wouldn’t allow that to happen, you know that.” You gave him a small smile, bringing your hand up to cradle his cheek.

“Of course I do, you’re already extremely protective of me during missions, I couldn’t imagine how you’d be with a baby.” His lips turned up into a smile, tilting his head to press a kiss to your palm.

“Do you like the protectiveness though?” He questioned, and you shrugged.

“I don’t mind it…Makes me feel like I’m special to you.” He pressed another kiss to your hand.

“You are…And I won’t let you forget that.” 

-----------------

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cry for me — b. reynolds

pairing: bob reynolds x gn thunderbolt!reader synopsis: the worst thing you can do to Bob is cry in front of him content: [18+ MDNI!!] all p*rn no plot, male masturbation, dacryphilia, accidental power use, bob cries a little, very little editing word count: 1.3k taglist: @she-sounds-hidieous, @dracuula98, @fandomxo, @hallowedactias, @cillixn, @magicwithaknife, @xxsquiddkiddxx, @mornomn, @theoriginalfemmebot, @laniec03, @kitkatkaitin, @raidstarz, @hoodharlow, @someblessedmonster, @cassandakillian, @everydaydreamer, @heliosphere8 author's note: erm hehe... a small break from scott miller brainrot to think about bawb... nothing to say except if i've accidentally made this lean fem/afab reader pleek let me know!! hope u guys enjoy, please reblog, comment or even leave an ask if u enjoy 🩷 © dividers by sisterlucifergraphics

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The echo of Bob’s fists on the heavy bag ricochet against the walls of the empty training room. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. One hour, no two. Probably closer to four.

He’s cycled through everything: lifted weights until he felt tremors in his arms he thought he’d left in his pre-serum days, run until it felt like his feet weren’t even touching the pad of the treadmill, pounded on the punching bag hoping he might finally split his knuckles open and watch his restlessness drip to the floor in the small beads of blood.

None of it works. No amount of working out could distract from the fact that he’d made you cry just earlier that day.

Every time he shuts his eyes, tries to focus on the heavy beat of his heart in his chest he’s bombarded with the sound of your voice as it broke and the soft quiver of your bottom lip before tears started streaming down your face.

He doesn’t even remember what you were crying about. Just your soft sobs, the way the tears caught like glitter in your lashes and the violent stirring of his cock as he watched you cry, his hands twitching uselessly at his side.

He didn’t comfort you. He couldn’t. Not in any way that mattered at least. Not when he knew that if he touched you, he’d give you something completely different to cry about.

Hours later and his cock strained against his underwear, desperate for relief. No amount of punching, or running, or lifting could erase the memory of your tear stained cheeks and the way your breath shuddered as you tried to hold back the tears.

His control slips, and the next time is fist connects the bag splits beneath the force.

Sand trickles to the floor as sweat drips down Bob’s back, into his eyes. It sticks his t-shirt to his skin, makes every movement feel like torture. Suddenly the lights are too bright, the silence of the training room too silent and he needs to be out of there.

He needs to cool down.

He’ll come clean up the sand later, but for now he marches himself to the shower, sighing in relief when the cold stream of water lands on his skin.

He only remembers to strip when the weight of his clothes pulls him out of his head. He peels off his shirt and shorts, throws them in a wet heap just outside the shower door.

His underwear is trickier. Every slight brush against his cock feels like torture, an invitation to wrap his around around his shaft and do what he should’ve all those hours ago, but keeping them on wet is even worse. The water’s ice cold, but steam begins to build in the shower as Bob’s mind wanders again.

Those eyes, tear-filled and oh so sad as you looked at him.

Bob lays his head against the tiles as he finally slips his hand under the waistband, sighing in relief when his cock springs free.

He knows he shouldn’t but his body moves on auto pilot, hand squeezing tight around the base. He doesn’t open his eyes, but the pre-cum leaking onto his knuckles as he moves his hand slowly along the length gives him a good enough idea of how pathetic he must look. He lets out a weak whimper as the knot in his stomach finally begins to loosen, but after thirty minutes of fucking into his own fist, the regular fantasies are no longer doing it. No matter how much he rubs at his sensitive tip while imagining it’s your tongue or squeezes at his shaft while pretending he’s buried in your tight, pulsing hole it just won’t work.

“Please, please,” he begs no one in particular, screwing his eyes shut tighter against the tears of frustration. It’s useless, and Bob tastes salt when the frustration becomes too much to bear.

He wonders if you’d let him lick up your tears and he feels himself jerk violently in his hand.

“Oh no,” he moans, even as he lets his mind wander a little further and his wrist jerk a little faster. He wants to kiss the tears off your cheeks, feel their wetness on his finger tips while he rubs them away and coos gentle comforts in your ear.

Guilt slithers through Bob’s chest as he uses his other hand to squeeze at his balls, the pleasure making his thighs tremble. You were his team mate. A new team mate who clung to his every word and asked him for advice and trusted him enough to cry in front of him.

You’d cried in front of him and he was rubbing one out to the tears on your face.

He feels like a traitor, but once he’s found that sweet spot it’s impossible to stop, so he shoves the guilt away and thinks instead about what it’d be like to feed you every inch of him. You didn’t look like you could take it — not without gagging and tearing up, at least.

Lights hum above him as every drag of his palm across the ridges of his shaft sends pleasure shooting straight into his toes. He wants to watch you choke on it, tears streaming down your face while he encourages you. Wants you to look at him the entire time so he can watch the way the tears make your eyes glisten.

“Oh god, please I’m so close,” he groans, using his other hand to brace against the tile wall. The steam is thick and suffocating but he doesn’t care.

His mind flashes violently to the way your breath catches under him whenever he has you pinned down after an impossibly long sparring session and he aches with the desire to wear you out, fuck you over and over and over again until you’re a limp crying mess beneath him. The light at the far end of the bathroom blows out with a loud pop, but Bob doesn’t care, his hand only moving faster.

He wonders how much it would take to make you cry. Could he use his tongue alone or would you need a little more? Would you beg if he teased you enough? Say ‘please’ the same way you did when you were asking him to help you with combat?

Another light goes, then another as Bob strokes himself through every possible position he can get you in.

“Come on honey, cry for me,” he groans, as the fucked out version of you in his head whimpers with need. His other hand tightens into a fist then splays out against the tile wall as he tries to control himself but he’s too far gone.

He wants to feel your body weight beneath his as he punches into you in time with your shuddering breaths. A violent tremor runs through him, as he imagines you leaving a wet pillow case where he’s held your head into the pillow as he ploughs into you from behind.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, the slick sound of his hand gliding over his cock only drowned out by the sound of the hand dryer turning on, its electric system going haywire.

The tiles crack beneath the weight of Bob’s arm, falling to his feet in sharp, blue and white fragments, but his hand never lets go.

He strokes and twists and squeezes until Fantasy You is sobbing and trembling, pleading with him for some relief, the tears uncontrollable as he buries himself to the hilt, your tight hole like a vice around him as you milk him.

The last light goes, and the tiles beneath his hand give in to the weight of him as he finally comes, cock jerking violently as he cries out into the empty shower room, ears ringing with the sound of various machines whirring out of control. It’s jerky and prolonged, ropes of come splattering across the wall in front of him as he tries to breathe through it.

When he finally opens his fist and lets his cock hang heavy between his legs he’s lightheaded and dizzy. He’s in the dark, and there’s a distinctly hand shaped dent in the wall that he’ll have to explain to the others, but at least he’s no longer uncomfortable.

Thank God.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

All of you

A/N: This is smut so mdni please. Bob takes readers virginity. The reader is called a variety of pet names like honey, baby, and princess. Bucky's version will be out tomorrow!

You had told him once–awkwardly, cheeks flushed. You said it in the quiet way someone drops something delicate into open hands—that you'd never done this before. Not in a “saving it” way. Not for any big reason. Just… you never met someone. Until now. And now, you wanted to. With him. Bob had kissed you then, slow and understanding, hands cradling your jaw like you were something precious. “Whenever you’re ready,” he’d said. “And only if you want to.”

That conversation was two weeks ago and tonight, with his hands smoothing over your back, his eyes searching yours in the low amber light of his bedroom—you wanted to.

“Are you sure?” he asked again, voice low and steady, every syllable wrapped in patience. You nodded, biting your lip. “I want it to be with you.” Bob smiled, not the playful smirk you knew so well, but something softer, loving.

“You’ve got me, sweetheart,” he murmured. “All of me. Just say stop if anything feels wrong, yeah?” You nodded and kissed him instead of responding verbally.

He took his time, like he always did—like every brush of skin and every look meant something. Because with Bob, it always did. Your shirt was the first thing to go, his warm hands tracing every inch of new skin like he was trying to memorize it. He looked at you like you were art. Like he couldn’t believe you were choosing him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, watching you blush and shift beneath his gaze. “Do you know that?” You shook your head, biting your bottom lip gently. He kissed your neck, then your shoulder, and then he moved lower. “Then Imma keep reminding you,” he spoke against your skin like he was taking a vow.

When you were finally bare beneath him, vulnerable and shaking just a little, he paused—lips brushing yours, one hand pressed to your cheek.

“We can stop right now,” he said. “No pressure. I’m okay with just hold you just like this.” But you kissed him again, deeper this time. "Please, Bob. I want you." He nodded softly and kissed the skin he could reach.

“You still okay baby?” he asked, voice quiet. You were beneath him now, your legs spread and trembling, your body buzzing with nerves and need. His fingers had already coaxed you open, gentle and deliberate. You were flushed and soaked and aching. You nodded, eyes wide, heart in your throat. “Yeah. Just…nervous.” Bob leaned down and kissed your forehead. Then your cheek. Your lips. He lingered there, soft and sure. “You’re allowed to be nervous. We’ll go slow. We don’t have to do anything that doesn’t feel right.”

“I trust you,” you whispered. His breath caught, just a little. Then he reached for the condoms he’d placed on the nightstand. “Okay, baby. I got you. Let me take care of you.” He rolled it on, and even that—watching him, hard and flushed and careful—made your stomach flip. “Deep breath for me baby,” he murmured, settling between your thighs again. One of his hands intertwined with yours, the other guiding himself. His tip brushed your entrance, hot and slick.

The stretch burned a little. You winced—and instantly, Bob froze. “You okay?” he asked. Concern clouded his expression. “Too much?”

“No, no,” you panted. “Just… different. But I’m okay. You can keep going.”

You might've been okay physically, but you were so nervous. He could see it in your eyes. Bob dipped his head, lips brushing your ear. “I’ll go slow. Just the tip first. If it’s too much, I’ll stop. You squeeze my hand, okay?” You nodded, unable to find your words. And then he pushed in—just an inch. Stretching you, slow and steady, burning but not unbearable. You gasped. Your grip tightened on his hand.

“Breathe,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re doing so good for me honey. Just let me in a little more.” He moved gently, easing forward. You could feel every ridge of him, every inch of him as he filled you, his free hand rubbing soothing circles along your thigh. When he was fully inside, you were panting—overwhelmed, full, and blinking back tears.

“Jesus,” he groaned, clenching his jaw to focus on staying still. “You feel incredible. So warm. So fucking perfect. Oh my god.” You weren’t sure if it was the stretch or the way he said it, but something in you cracked open. You moaned softly, hips tilting. “There we go,” he praised, kissing your jaw. “Look at you. Taking me so well princess.”

He rocked into you, just a little. A slow roll of his hips. It hurt less now—just pressure, just a stretch. The sting was starting to become more of a heat, more of pure desire.

He moved again. Another gentle thrust. His lips dragged down your neck. “You’re mine, sweetheart. Got you like this. Wrapped around me. So fucking good for me.” A whimper slipped from your throat. You were gasping now—wanting more, and not sure how to ask for it. But Bob knew. He always knew what you wanted...what you needed. “Want it deeper?” he asked, voice hoarse. You nodded desperately and moaned the only word you could think of. “Please.”

His hips rolled again, this time firmer, and you felt it. The drag. The stretch. The thick push of him sliding against places you didn’t know could be so sensitive. “Oh my god,” you gasped before moaning louder than before. “That’s it,” he growled, picking up the pace. “Taking all of me. You’re doing so good, taking me so well–so deep.” Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. You clung to him like he was the only solid thing in the world. His hands wrapped around your thighs, leaving fingerprint bruises on the soft flesh from how tight he was holding them. And he held you back. Fucked you slow, deep, careful—but deliberate. Like he wanted to imprint the feeling of you in his bones.

You were trembling when you came. Clenching around him, nails digging into his back, breath caught in your throat as pleasure washed over you. Bob kissed you through it, whispering praise, fucking you through the aftershocks until he finally gasped, burying himself deep with a low, “Fuck—baby—” as he came too.

He didn’t pull out right away. He just held you, still deep inside you, stroking your hair and murmuring against your skin.

“Can you talk?” he asked softly. You nodded, eyes fluttering open. “M’still here.” Bob smiled and muttered “Good”, against your forehead. “You did so good. I’m so proud of you, you know that?.” Your body was trembling a little, but not from fear. It was the overstimulation. The exhaustion and emotions flowing through your bones.

He slipped out of you slowly, murmuring an apology when you winced at the ache. Then he rolled to the side, reaching for tissues and gently cleaning between your thighs. “I know it’s messy. But I’ll run us a bath in a minute, okay?” You didn’t answer. You just pulled him down to you before you buried your face in his chest. His arms came around you instantly. “You okay?” You nodded into his skin. “I think I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

His throat worked around a quiet sound—almost a laugh, almost a sob. “You’ve got all of me,” he whispered. “You always have.”

Bob eventually did get you in that bath. He helped you in, washed your hair, sat behind you and kissed your shoulder every time you winced. He whispered sweet nothings while he wrapped a towel around you, dressed you in one of his shirts, and tucked you back into bed. And when you fell asleep curled into his side, he didn’t move. Just held you there. Protectively. Reverently. Like you were something holy he was lucky to touch.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The sunlight was warm. The kind that filtered through curtains in thick strips and kissed your face until you stirred with a little whine and buried deeper into the warmth beside you.

“Hey,” Bob whispered, voice still rough with sleep. “You awake?”

“Mhmmm. Barely.” His arm was heavy across your waist, keeping you tucked into his chest. His shirt—soft and far too big on you—was wrinkled from the way you’d collapsed into it hours ago, too spent and floaty to think about anything but his arms around you. “You okay?” he asked softly, brushing a thumb over your hip. “Sore?”

“A little. But it’s a good sore.” He grinned into your hair. “A proud sore.” You snorted. “Okay, calm down.”

“Just saying,” he drawled, pulling you closer. “You took me like a damn champ. That deserves a trophy... Or at least pancakes.” You smiled into his chest. “There are worse ways to earn breakfast.” His hand rubbed slow circles over your back, and for a few moments it was quiet. Still. Just the soft rhythm of his breathing and the weight of the blanket tangled between your legs.

Then... “Hey.”

You looked up. Bob’s blue eyes were sleepy, but so full of affection it made your chest ache. “I love you,” he said, simply. “Just needed to say it out loud this morning.” You felt your cheeks heat. “I love you too.” He smiled. “You’re really something, y’know that?” You rolled onto your back with a groan. “God, if you keep being sappy I’m never going to get out of this bed.” Bob shifted, hovering over you now, face hovering above yours with a teasing glint in his eye. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You kissed him, slow and sweet. “Pancakes first. Shenanigans later.” He flopped back dramatically, one hand to his chest. “You wound me.” 

“I’ll make the coffee,” you offered, sitting up and stretching. Bob caught your wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside. “You aren't doing anything. Just let me take care of you.”

“You did,” you said softly. “You do. Every day.” His gaze softened again. “Still gonna do it. Every damn day I get to.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Fifteen minutes later, you found yourself perched on the counter in the kitchen, still just wearing his shirt and watching him flip pancakes like some domestic god. His hair was tousled, his jaw still scruffy, and his bare feet padded quietly across the floor as he hummed a tune under his breath. “You’re staring,” he said without turning. “Can you blame me?” He turned around with a smirk and offered you a forkful. “Here. Taste test for me.” You leaned forward, took the bite, and moaned dramatically. “God-tier.” He raised a brow. “That good?”

“Or maybe I’m just still riding the high of last night.” Bob leaned in and kissed your cheek. “Let’s keep you flying then.”

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

Tagging:

@msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

@sarcazzzum

@itsjustisa

@qardasngan

@freakyflora

@nishinoyastoes

@jesterghuleh

@zzz000eee

@ginarely-blog

@nubecita040

[athenaluthor]

Golden Boy

pairing: Bob Reynolds/Sentry x fem!reader.

summary: Riding your Golden Boy. Somewhere along the lines, Sentry takes over and has his way with his girl.

warnings: smut, smut and more smut. bob being a soft boy, sentry being self indulgent and taking you within an inch of your life because you asked for it. (i fear i was the one being self indulgent bcs idk sentry is so hot but so is void. but bob has my heart. let me know what yall think. hope yall enjoy this <33)

word count- 2.2k

masterlist

He wants to live inside you forever. Imprint himself on your very soul and on every fiber of your being. You feel good, you feel so incredibly and unbelievably right.

“Oh God, Bob.You’re so big..” you moan as you sink down on his cock. The dangerously adorable man underneath you has the thickest cock you’ve ever had. The stretch overwhelms you and you bury your face in his neck, arms around him, trying to go as deep as possible. Bob hands grip your hips tightly, stopping you from sinking down on his cock too quickly. Mentally, you curse yourself for taking so long to try this position with your golden boy.

Bob feels dizzy too, his head spinning as he watches you. He craves touch, he craves your touch. His entire life, nobody had ever touched him like you, so lovingly and gently, tracing his skin like you were memorising and worshiping him. Instead, he spent a good portion of his years filling this empty space with drugs, getting high out of his mind and doing awful things he wouldn’t even want to tell you.

Leaning up against the headboard, Bob watches you with lustful eyes, his plump lips part as he pants breathlessly. At this very moment, Bob felt like his heart might explode, death would be welcomed since he had truly lived a life worth living, an angel in his arms, wrapped around his cock. Sex before you was meaningless, he had been far too high to care about anything that was happening anyways.

“G-go slow. Don’t have to get it all in.” He whimpers out between moans, groaning at how wet you are, dripping down the length of the cock.

“I-I want to, baby.” you reply shakily before pushing yourself down fully onto his cock. The stretch makes your eyes water, but he feels so good— you could cum right then and there.

Bob’s hands lift from your hips, moving to clutch your head and pull you away from his neck. “G-god, baby. Y-you didn’t– you didn’t have to.” He stutters out, his forehead flush against yours.

You want to ride him, bounce on his cock until you can't remember your own name. Rolling your hips and clenching down on his cock, your legs tremble at how good it feels. Bob, bless his heart, lets out a choked moan.

“B-Baby, baby. You can’t– you can’t do that. I’ll cum too–oh god, too soon!” He moans.

It takes all your might to begin riding your golden boy. Hands on his shoulders you start lifting your hips, then sliding back down in his cock, over and over again. Your pace is slow yet hard and deep. You want to go faster but the blood in your veins feels so hot, you think you’ll explode if you’re not careful.

His head is thrown back, eyes shut, lips parted and face flushed as you ride him. His hands return back to your hips, clutching you like a lifeline. The Golden Boy under you, is unequivocally and irrevocably yours, and fuck— he looks gorgeous under you.

Letting go of his shoulders, you reach to clutch his face. “Bob? Baby, look at me, please.” you whine, wanting those pretty eyes on you.

He blearily opens his eyes, his pupils blown and he looks utterly debased and lustful. His unnecessarily superhuman senses flare, overwhelmed by everything around him. He can feel every touch on his skin, the soft fingertips on his cheeks trying to reel him in, and the drag of your walls around his cock each time you move up and down.

Bob never wants this to end. He wants to be inside you like this forever. His cock pumping deep inside the love of his life.

The sound of your heart pounding in your chest echoes in his ears as he zeros in on you, the way your blood rushes so loudly through your veins.

The pleasure is too much, it throws you off-kilter. Head spinning, your hands drop down to his stomach to steady yourself.Thoughtlessly, his hands move to cup your breasts when yours let go of his face, entranced by each movement they make when you bounce on his cock. The pads of his thumbs toying with your hardened nipples.

His touch spurs you on, the way his eyes lustfully looks at you has you choking on your own saliva. Invigorated by this, you speed up, bouncing on his cock harder and faster. Bob can only take what you give him, mouth parted, moaning and grunting, here and there. You know you shouldn’t overdo it, but God— his cock stretches you out so good and so deep, you know you’ll feel it tomorrow. You want him to wreck you, rearrange you and ruin you for anyone else.

The coil within you winds up, getting tighter and tighter with each bounce of your body. Body tense and hot, you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, higher and higher. Head light and blood rushing, you’re losing yourself to this pleasure, your legs and thighs begin to cramp but you force yourself to keep going.It's like your mind isn’t yours. You don’t want to stop, you can’t stop.

Bob knows you far too well. He can tell when you’re teetering to the edge of going too damn far. The way your eyes glass over, the way your moans spill out like you're about to cry, and the way you shake. His hands clutch your waist, his grip firm but careful, trying to bring you back to him. “S-Slow down, baby. You’re— fuck! You’re t-trembling.” He says shakily trying not to succumb to how good you feel on his cock.

He says your name so softly, so reverently, trying to rouse you back to him. His arms wrap around you, under your arms, pulling you flush to him. Bob’s hand finds purchase on the back of your head, as it falls into the crook of his neck.

Gibberish falls out of your mouth. Something along the lines of “I want to cum, Robert. Let me make you cum too, please.” if Bob’s superhearing is to be trusted.

“I-I know, baby.” he soothes you. “L-let me do this for you, baby. Don’t— you don’t have to p-push yourself f–for me.” he reasons with you, knowing you wouldn’t stop until both of you had been thoroughly spent.

Too far gone to think straight, you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him take over. Holding your hips tightly, Bob’s hips begin to thrust up into you, his pace is steady but deep.

The way you melt into him makes his heart pound out of his chest, how you trust him to take over, when even he didn’t trust himself. The way your soft moans spill out of your lips could make him cum inside your silky walls right now.

You want him to go faster, harder, make you cum so hard, you see stars. Desire has you so deep within its clutches, you can’t escape. So you beg. “Bob, please. Fuck me harder, please.”

“Shh, I– I don’t want to lose control, baby.” he whines back.

“I don’t care, Bob. Please, just fuck me hard.” You beg him, voice needy.

“I need you to fuck me. Just fuck me hard, Robert.” The words leave your mouth desperately without much thought.

Something shifts in the air and you feel it immediately. The sudden influx of unexplainable energy, it feels sharp and strong. Steady and firm, unlike Bob’s hesitance.

Beneath you, Bob shifts, hands gripping your hips even tighter. Then, he plants his feet down onto the bed, angling himself before thrusting back into you, hard. This new angle hits that spot inside you, the one that makes you scream and see stars

The force of his thrusts has you losing your breath, your arms tighten around his neck as you hold on for dear life. Ecstasy flows through your veins, as he begins to fuck you within an inch of your life while your moans spill wantonly from your lips.

This, you think, is new. Bob has never done this. He doesn’t usually fall into your begging, opting to hold back and not let himself lose. Alarm bells ring in your head, but somewhere between his grunts and the way his cock pounds into you, you forget it.

He’s so deep inside you, pounding your pussy like his life depended on it. The pleasure builds within you, the pressure between your legs borders between too much and just enough.

You don’t have a clue how long he has you like this but the coil finally snaps. Intense pleasure washes through you, sending your body into a state of ecstasy,and leaving you moaning and trembling. Your juices leak down Bob’s cock, coating both your thighs. He doesn’t slow down.

His thrusts don't falter. Bob’s pace is unyielding, grunting as your walls clamp down on him. Utterly spent, your body is limp and pliant atop his as you try to get your bearings, letting him have his way with you.

Before you know it, Bob flips the both of you.

The sudden movement shocks you. Suddenly, you are underneath him. Peering up at your Golden Boy, his eyes are shut and his curls fall haphazardly across his forehead, sticking to the sweaty skin.

Without much thought, your hand reaches up to brush away his curls. You think to ask why he stopped when he hasn’t cum yet.

Then, it clicks. The moment your fingers touch his skin, his eyes open. Otherworldly glow shines from his eyes.

Oh. This isn’t your Bob.

“Sentry?” You breathlessly ask.

The being above you doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks at you with the ferocity of a starved man. Fear rushes through you yet your excitement outweighs it. His cock is still buried inside your sensitive pussy, you don’t know whether to be afraid of him or do you want him to fuck you into the mattress.

Sentry speaks to you, “It’s unfair that he gets to keep you all by himself.”

Now, Sentry takes the reins. He pins you down onto the bed before thrusting into you. His presence is overwhelming, like he invades every inch of your senses.

Your previous climax had already made you sensitive. The sheer force of his unforgiving thrusts sends your body into overdrive. Overstimulation has you arching your back and curling your toes into the mattress.

In your fucked out state, you can’t even comprehend the words that spill out your mouth.

Sentry thinks you look so damn pretty like this. A lover fit for a god like him, moaning and writhing under him as he pounds into you. Only he should see you in this state.

He increases his pace, pounding into you harder. After all, you had asked him to fuck you hard. He can feel your thighs tremble and he can hear how hard your heart is beating.

The blood in your veins rush rapidly through your body as you fall deeper into your sex-induced high. Sentry too gets high on you. His focuses his efforts on bringing to the edge again, too feel you clamp down his cock and wantonly moan for him. Only him.

He knows he’s close to the edge when his balls tighten and the pressure low in his belly becomes too much. You feel yourself losing control, his cock is so big and he’s going too hard and too fast. When you tense and your body arches without your control, he knows your cumming again.

Only this time, he comes too.

He ruts into you wildly, grunting loudly while letting pleasure take over as he spills himself into you. He holds you close, letting your pinned arms go.

Somewhere in your haze, trembles and aftershocks you manage to wrap your arms around him as he spills himself inside you. It’s so much, even in your state, you know it’s too much.

The sheer volume of his thick cum feels so good inside you.

When he comes to, he can tell you’re still dazed. Your body is soft and pliant under him, while your eyes are glassy. His touch on your cheek grounds you a little. It’s like you see that it's him.

“Baby?” You call out breathlessly to him.

“Hmm?” He replies back but he thinks you don’t even notice.

You wince when he slides out of you. Thick fluids both his and yours leak out of you. He holds back the urge to push it back in. He knows that tomorrow that you’ll be sore but he hopes you don’t regret asking him to fuck you hard.

He lays beside you, pulling your weak body into his and letting your head rest on his chest. Sentry feels your body tremble under his touch, the aftershock of your orgasms.

He softly strokes up and down your arm, you are safe and sound here with him. He is the Sentry after all. A God in his own right.

When your breathing slows, he knows you’ll fall asleep soon. Your body is practically melting on him.

Right as sleep pulls you into its grasp, a soft sentence slips past your lips. Barely coherent and understandable but he doesn’t have superhearing for nothing. “Love you, my Golden Boy.”

Your Golden Boy. He likes the sound of that.

As Sentry closes his eyes, he hopes you wouldn’t mind him taking over your Bob next time. After all, it is unfair for Bob to have you all to himself.

Sentry lets sleep take him too, knowing that Bob will wake in the morning with only memories of this.

Sentry- 1, Bob- 0.

Yeah, he thinks. He’s a God, so why not keep a fucking tally.

[lewmeister]

Your dramatic. I just like Owen.

Ew.

But fine, here:

I'll definitely delete this later probably.

-----

You stand a few feet from him, your hands in your pockets, feeling the weight of his gaze.

“You’ve really grown up,” he says, his voice too smooth, too knowing. “Hard to believe you were just a kid in my group, huh?”

You force a smile, nose curling slightly. “Yeah. Time flies.”

He nods, as if weighing something, then adds, “Must be hard keeping it together, with everything you’ve been through. Temptations and all that. But you’re handling it... I guess.”

You don’t respond. He leans in a little too close. "You’re different, baby. Most women can’t keep it together, but you? You’ve always been a good kid.”

You nod stiffly, taking a step back and turning away, his smug smile still burning in the back of your mind.

You walk to your car, your hands cold against the door handle. You get in and slam it shut, the engine roaring to life. You glance at the rearview mirror, and there he is, still standing like he owns the place, still smiling.

Without thinking, you press the gas pedal. The car jerks forward, hitting him with a sickening thud.

You don’t pause. You don’t look back.

You shift into reverse, pulling away from him without a second thought. He’s nothing now.

“Okay,” you say to yourself, quiet and calm. “That happened. Anyway... McDonald's sounds great right now.”

You drive off, the song on the radio barely registering.

It’s over.