Soft!Matt who knows he is hard to date... so he feels the need to make it up to you. Crawling between your thighs, covering you in kisses, apologizing, and begging for forgiveness. Lapping at your sopping pussy until you see starts.. hoping for forgiveness
Pairing: John Constantine x !FReader
Rating: E
Warnings/Tags: Fluff, smut, p in V sex, sex instead of talking about feelings, drinking, John is a problem but we love him anyway
Word Count: ~2.6k
Summery:John shows up late, drunk after a year...and against your bet judgment... he looks damn good
The knock came at half past one.
She wasn't asleep. She'd been on the couch with the TV on low… a cup of tea gone cold on the side table. It was warm…she was in a tank top and her tiniest pair of short. Expecting no company. Nobody knocked at half past one.
Nobody except one person…
She knew before she opened it. But of course…as always… she opened the door anyway.
The rain was coming down in sheets. John Constantine stood on her doorstep, trench coat soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, a bottle of something cheap hanging from his fingers. Swaying. Not much. But…enough.
His eyes found hers. Bloodshot. Too blue. God.. they were beautiful eyes…
Oh, for fuck's sake.
"Hey, love." His voice was raw, slurred at the edges. "Mind if I come in? Pissin' rain out here."
A year. They'd talked... sure. Letters. Phone calls that said… nothing. Stupid careful distance that neither of them had the guts to name for what it was. And here he was. Drunk and dripping on her welcome mat, looking at her like no time had passed at all. Rude
She wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused. Both of those feelings tended to come up when John was around.
"Well, hello to you too," she said.
He grinned. Even wet, even swaying, John Constantine could grin like he'd already won something. Infuriating. He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and let his eyes wander... shameless... down her neck, her bare arms, the thin white cotton of her tank top that was doing absolutely….nothing…
His gaze came back up. Darker.
"Don't give me that look, darlin." His voice dropped, rough and warm under the weight of the whiskey. "You know you've missed this mess."
Goddamn those eyes. Those eyes had gotten her into more trouble than she had any business getting into. Prettiest blue she'd ever seen on a man who was…objectively… a terrible idea.
She had missed the mess. The whole goddamn mess..she would rather die however than ever tell him that…
"And what makes you think I'd let you in?" She leaned against the door. "It's late. What if I had someone here?"
He laughed. Short, rough. Rude. Stepped closer. Close enough that the cold coming off his soaked clothes hit the warmth of her skin. He smelled like rain and cigarettes and whiskey, and underneath all of it... just…John.
"Someone else..." He said it flat, amused, like it was a joke. "Right…. And I'm the bloody Pope."
"I might start fucking a demon if it keeps you away," she hissed.
But still…she moved to let him inside.
"Take your shoes off. You're soaked, and if you get mud everywhere I'll kill you."
He laughed... real…gravelly, the kind that came from somewhere low in his chest... and stepped past her into the warmth. The door closed behind him. The rain went muffled.
He kicked off his boots. Dripping on her floor. Already looking around her place like he owned it.
Like he'd never left.
"Careful now," he said, shrugging out of the trench coat. Water pooled on the hardwood. "Sounds like you're plottin' my demise already."
She moved past him into the hallway. She could feel him following. Close. His presence heavy at her back, she could feel the heat of him.
"Fucking a demon, though." His voice was right behind her. Low…easy. "Bit risky, innit. Might find they lack the stamina."
She didn't turn around…She didn't need to. She could hear it... that grin, that insufferable, devastating grin... in every word he said. Goddammit
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He was close. Too close. Standing in her hallway, dripping on her floor, smelling like rain and smoke and the particular brand of bad decision…
That was the thing about John. He didn't ask. Never. He just moved closer, and closer, and by the time you thought about whether you wanted him there he was already taking up all the air in the room.
His thumb found the bare skin above her waistband. Just resting there. Warm.
Fuck
"You're thinkin' too much, love," he said. Low, close to her ear. She could feel his breath on her neck. "Stop trying to figure out if this is a mistake."
It was a mistake. It was always a mistake. John Constantine was a rolling disaster in a trench coat, and she had let him into her house\when he knocked and she opened the door. Because she always opened the door.
"We both know mistakes are the only things worth livin' for," he murmured. And the worst part... the absolute worst part... was that he meant it. He was a liar about almost everything, but not about this. Never… about this.
She narrowed her eyes. Stared at him. She wanted to tell him to fuck off, to get out of her house, to never talk to her again. She wanted to say she loved him
But.. she didn't. She never did.
"God dammit, Johnny..."
Without particularly meaning to, she reached out and hooked her fingers into his belt loops.
Not pulling. Just... holding.
The grin dropped. Just for a second, underneath the charm and the whiskey and the whole John Constantine performance... something real.
He let out a breath. Dropped his forehead against hers.
There.
It lasted maybe two seconds. His eyes closed, his forehead warm and damp against hers, and it was the quietest he'd been since he walked in. Then he opened his eyes and the hunger was back, but different now. Sharper. His hands slid up her ribs under the tank top, his thumbs finding the underside of her breasts, and the sound she made...
Her breath leaving her lungs all at once.
He kissed her. Not gentle. Not careful. Never careful…. He tasted like salt and tobacco and cheap whiskey, and his mouth was hot and desperate and familiar in a way that loosed something in her chest she'd spent a year trying to keep tied shut.
Fuck.
She kissed him back. Her fingers tightened in the belt loops. He pressed her into the wall and she let him, and the rain was still hammering the windows and his hands were everywhere and she couldn't think.
That was it. That was her favorite thing about him. John Constantine could make every thought in her head simply... disappear.
He pulled back. Barely. His lips still touching hers, breathing hard, eyes blown dark.
"Take me to bed," he said. Rough. Not charming anymore. Just demanding.
A sound escaped her throat... small, involuntary, something she would deny later if he ever brought it up. She pushed him back toward the bedroom.
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He tried to pin her.
Of course he did. The second they hit the bed he was all hands and weight and tongue, trying to get her underneath him because that was John... take the lead, run the show, be the one in control. She could feel the urgency in him, his fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons, his mouth already on her neck.
She grabbed his wrist. Rolled him over. Climbed on top.
The look on his face…
Classic
"Mmm." She was grinning. She could feel it, the slow, spreading grin she got when she had him exactly where she wanted him. "You wanna see how much I missed you?"
She slid down his body. Slow. Deliberate. Past his chest, past the scars she knew by heart... every story, every stupid reckless thing he'd ever survived... past the trail of hair below his navel, down to the hard outline of his cock in his boxers.
She looked up at him with wide eyes.
She was not particularly self-conscious about her body. She was not particularly confident in it either. But she knew what she looked like from down here, on her knees, looking up. She knew what her eyes did to him.
She palmed him through the fabric. Nipped at the sensitive skin at his waist.
"Christ..." His head dropped back against the pillow. His hands found her hips, fingers digging in. "You're a cruel woman, you know that?"
"Mm-hm."
She pulled his cock out. Heavy and thick against his stomach. She ran her fingers up his length..slow..watching his face the whole time. Watching the way his jaw went tight, the way his breath came apart.
She teased the tip with her tongue. Let him feel her breath.
"Did you miss me?"
And then she swallowed him whole.
The sound he made... god, the sound he made. Choked, wrecked, not a word in it. His head slammed back. His hips jerked up. His fingers twisted in her hair, not pulling, not pushing, just holding on.
She took her time. She'd missed this... feeling him in her mouth, the way his whole body went taut, the way John Constantine, who had a smart answer for everything, couldn't form a sentence.
Finally shut him up
"Fuck..." Barely a word. More breath than sound. "Missed you... Christ, I missed you..."
She pulled off. Slow. A string of spit connecting her lip to the head of his cock. She climbed up his body, kissing the scars as she went. This one from a binding gone wrong. This one he got in Newcastle. This one he wouldn't talk about. She knew them all.
She reached his face and kissed him deep. Let him taste himself on her tongue.
Then she hovered. Right there. His cock between her thighs, her slick folds sliding against him, not taking him in. Just... teasing.
He groaned. His hands grabbed her hips. His eyes were blown, pupils swallowing the blue.
"Then fuck me like you missed me, John," she whispered in his ear.
His grip tightened.
Good.
She loved this. She loved when his mission was to break her.
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He flipped them.
One second she had him pinned, grinning down at him with his cock sliding between her folds. The next his hands were on her hips and she was on her back and he was over her, between her thighs, and the look on his face wasn't charming anymore. It was starving.
"Like I missed you?" His voice was a growl. Barely recognizable. He bit the cord of her neck, hard enough to make her gasp, hard enough to leave a mark. "I'm gonna fuck the thought of anyone else right out of your head."
She missed this. She missed how his accent thickened when he was like this, how his pupils blew out until there was almost no blue left. She missed the filthy things he said, low and rough against her ear, talking her through it like a prayer he didn't believe in anymore.
He pushed inside her in one long, punishing stroke.
Oh.
Full. Too full. The stretch of him after a year, the ache of it, the way her body remembered him before her brain caught up. Her back arched off the mattress.
"Please, John..." She moaned it into his neck. Barely a word. "Please."
He didn't ease in. Didn't give her time to adjust. He started to move... deep, hard, a rhythm that was less about finesse and more about claiming. His face was buried in her neck and his breath came in pants
"You like that? You like feelin' me stretch you open?" His voice was a low, filthy rumble, punctuated by the slam of his hips. "After a whole year of actin' like you didn't need this..."
She couldn't think. That was the point. That was always the point with him. John Constantine could take every thought in her head and scatter it, and all that was left was the weight of him and the sound of him and the wet, rhythmic slap of his body against hers.
More. Fuck. More.
"Look at me." His hand found her jaw. Tilted her face up. His eyes were dark, blown, and underneath the hunger there was something else... something raw that he would never, ever say out loud. "Look at me while I fuck you."
She looked.
This was their game. Neither of them was any good at feelings. Neither could say what they meant… that they cared. They fought, fucked, ran away from each other... only to end up right back here. His cock splitting her open and her begging for it.
Yours. Yours. Yours.
Something in him shattered. She felt it happen... his rhythm went ragged, his grip on her tightened, a sound tore out of him.
"That's my girl..." Low and wrecked and shaking.
He stopped making sense after that. So did she. It was just bodies and heat and the headboard hitting the wall and her nails in his back and his mouth on her throat.When she came it hit her like a train, her whole body clenching around him, her thighs shaking.
He followed her over. Buried deep, hips stuttering, his face pressed into her neck. She felt him spill inside her in hot, pulsing waves, felt his whole body go rigid and then collapse.
He stayed. His weight on her, his chest heaving, his breath hot and damp against her skin. His arms tightened around her…heavy…possessive like he was afraid she'd disappear if he let go.
Stay.
For a long moment there was nothing. Just breathing. Just the rain on the windows and his heartbeat against her ribs.
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This was her favorite part.
Not the sex... though the sex was good, the sex was always so damn good with him... but this. After. When John was just John. No charm, no performance, no walls.
She felt him soften inside her. She didn't move. She liked this... the fullness, the closeness, the way it felt like he was still hers even after the urgency had burned itself out. She'd keep him here for hours if he'd let her.
He huffed against her skin. Half laugh, half sigh.
"Think you've killed me this time, pet."
"Mm." She smiled. "Maybe we can just share a grave. Less digging."
He laughed. A real one, low and tired, vibrating against her throat. He lifted his head just enough to press a kiss to her temple... slow, soft, the kind of kiss that didn't match anything else about John Constantine. The kind he only gave when he thought she wasn't paying attention.
She was always paying attention.
"You're a greedy thing, aren't ya," he murmured. Sleepy. No bite in it. "Wantin' to keep me pinned here all night."
"Mm-hm."
He nuzzled back into her neck. His stubble scraped her skin. She could feel his heartbeat against her ribs, finally slowing down.
Stay.
Just stay.
A beat. Two. The rain on the windows and the warmth of him and the quiet.
Then she squeezed around him. Deliberate. Slow.
He groaned. His hips twitched.
She grinned.
"You gonna fall asleep on me" She said it light, musing "D id I tire you out?"
A sound came out of him... half snarl, half laugh. He lifted his head. His eyes were tired but there was something sparking behind them again, that insufferable, magnetic thing that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.
"Tire me out." He said it flat. Amused. Like she'd insulted him. "That a challenge, love?"
"Might be."
He shifted his weight. Ground into her, slow and shallow, and she felt him thickening again inside her. His hand slid down to her hip. His thumb pressed into the bone.
"Don't go complainin' tomorrow when you can't walk straight," he said. Low. His mouth close to hers, not quite kissing. "'Cause you asked for this."
Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter (Bullseye) x fem!
Warnings: violence, blood, weapons, gun kink, hostage situation, choking, rough sex, possessive/obsessive behavior, BPD Dex, morally dark content, Dex's POV (unreliable narrator), this man is unhinged and thinks he's the hero. Reader is a weirdo too
Word Count: ~5.7k
Summery: After a break in his routine, Dex takes you hostage only to find out you aren't exactly afraid...
Author's Note: i struggle with tense so....sorry. I havent written in a long time so please be nice.
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Dex had a system for Thursday nights.
He ran the dishwasher at 6:15. Cleaned the Glock at 6:40, field-stripped and reassembled in under ninety seconds, the parts laid out on a white cloth in the same grid every time. At 7:00 he stood in the hallway outside apartment 4B, positioned between his door and yours, his back against the wall and his hands in the pockets of his jacket like a man who'd just stepped out for air.
He'd been doing this for six weeks. You came home between 7:05 and 7:20. You always took the elevator. You always smelled like vanilla and something he couldn't name... something warmer, something that lived underneath the lotion and the laundry detergent, something that was just skin.
Tonight you were late. 7:23. The elevator groaned open and you stepped into the corridor, keys already in your hand, your coat damp from the rain outside.
He tilted his head toward you. The motion was casual, loose, the kind of half-glance a person gives a neighbor they're friendly with but not close to. Beneath it, every nerve in his body recalibrated. The pitch in his skull... the low, grinding frequency that had been sawing at him all day... dropped by half a register.
"Rough commute?" he asked. Warm voice. Soft voice. The voice he'd practiced in front of the bathroom mirror until the muscles in his face remembered how to shape it without his brain having to steer.
You gave him a tired smile and something about it... the way it didn't quite reach your eyes, the way you looked at him a beat longer than a stranger would... made his fingers stop itching.
"The worst," you said. "Signal problems at 34th."
He nodded, sympathetic, already closing the distance between you. He did it the way he did everything that required someone not to flinch... slowly, smoothly, as if the space between two people was something he had every right to occupy. He reached out and tugged the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder where it had been slipping. A nothing gesture. The kind of thing a good neighbor did without thinking.
His thumb grazed the side of your neck on the way back down. He let the contact hold for exactly one second longer than it should have.
"I left something at your door earlier," he said, his expression open and easy. "The super was handing out notices about the water shutoff next week. Slid yours under the mat so it wouldn't get lost." He smiled, and the smile was a weapon... dimples cutting into his cheeks, the scar across his face softening into something that looked almost boyish. "Figured you'd want to fill a few bottles."
You thanked him. He watched the way your mouth moved around the words.
"Anytime," he said. "Seriously. That's what neighbors are for."
He waited until you were inside. Listened for the deadbolt... the one he'd oiled last week, the one that now turned without a sound, the one whose spare key he'd copied from the super's ring three months ago. It clicked. You were sealed in.
He walked the two steps to his own door and let himself inside.
The performance ended the moment the lock engaged. His face went flat, the warmth draining out of it like water from a sink. He pulled the jacket off and hung it on the hook behind the door... the third hook, always the third, the first two stayed empty because the spacing was wrong otherwise.
The apartment was silent and precise. Every surface clean, every object in its designated position. The couch cushions aligned with the seam of the floorboards. The books on the shelf arranged by height, not title. A place where the inside of his head could be quiet, or at least where the noise could be managed, sorted, contained in its proper grid.
He crossed to the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the stove. The Glock went back in its case. He closed the cabinet door.
Then something hit the fire escape outside the living room window, and the glass came apart.
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The sound was enormous... a percussive crack followed by the shriek of metal and the bright, cascading shatter of the window blowing inward. Rain and wind poured through the gap. A figure rolled across the floor through the debris, compact and armored, already rising before the glass had finished settling.
The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Red suit slick with rain. Billy clubs in both hands, humming with intent.
Dex's vision shifted. The color bled out of the apartment in a single, nauseating lurch... warm amber and grey replaced by a blinding, electric blue that turned every edge in the room razor-sharp. The whine in his skull screamed up to a frequency that made his teeth ache.
His sanctuary. His grid. His clean, ordered, silent space. Violated.
He was already moving.
Daredevil swung first. The baton cut a horizontal arc toward Dex's jaw. Dex slipped under it and came up inside the swing, driving the heel of his palm into the base of the vigilante's helmet. The impact jarred up his arm to the shoulder. Daredevil's head snapped back but he didn't go down.
Dex's hand found the knife block on the counter. He pulled the santoku free without looking, reversed his grip, and slashed at the gap between the chest plate and the shoulder guard. The blade caught armor and skidded, leaving a bright scratch across the crimson surface. Daredevil countered with a kick to Dex's lead knee that buckled his stance and followed it with a baton strike to the ribs that sent white light flooding across his vision.
Dex hit the kitchen island with his hip. Pain bloomed across his side, hot and immediate, and he used the momentum... grabbed a cast-iron skillet off the stovetop and swung it two-handed into the side of Daredevil's head.
The clang was obscene. Daredevil staggered sideways into the bookshelf, which toppled, spilling its contents across the floor in a cascade of paper and broken wood. Dex didn't give him time to recover. He threw the santoku.
The blade punched through the armored mesh at Daredevil's hip and sank in two inches. The vigilante made a sound that was more fury than pain, ripped it free, and charged.
They crashed into each other in the center of the living room. Close-quarters, no room to swing, just brute force and dirty mechanics. Dex drove his elbow into the hinge of Daredevil's jaw. Daredevil answered with a headbutt that split the skin above Dex's eyebrow and filled his left eye with blood. Dex grabbed a fistful of the suit's collar and drove his forehead into the bridge of Daredevil's nose, felt something give beneath the mask.
The apartment was being destroyed around them. The coffee table collapsed under their combined weight. A lamp shattered against the wall. The couch was shoved three feet out of position, its cushions thrown, the careful alignment he maintained every morning demolished in seconds.
Blood ran into Dex's eye. He wiped it with the back of his hand and kept swinging. He was grinning... a wide, savage thing, all teeth, the dimples turning his face into something feral and delighted. The violence was the only honest thing about him. The only place where what he felt on the inside matched what was happening on the outside.
Then he heard the door.
Not his door. Yours.
The hallway. The soft mechanical click of a deadbolt retracting, then the creak of hinges. Your voice, muffled at first, then clear as the door opened wider... "Dex? I heard..."
You stopped. You were standing in his doorway, framed by the fluorescent yellow of the corridor behind you, and you were looking at the wreckage. Broken glass. Overturned furniture. Two men bleeding and breathing hard in the ruins of what had been a perfectly ordered living room.
The blue in his vision pulsed so bright the edges of you blurred.
You were in the open. Unprotected. Unarmored. Standing six feet from a man with weapons who had just kicked through his window.
Dex didn't think. He reacted.
Three strides and he was on you. His arm locked around your chest from behind, clamping your arms to your sides. He hauled you back against him, your feet leaving the ground for a half-second before he set you down flush against his body. You were small. Terrifyingly, maddeningly small against the width of his chest and the length of his arms.
His right hand went to the cabinet he'd opened thirty seconds before the window broke. The Glock. He racked the slide and pressed the barrel to the hinge of your jaw, just below your ear. The metal was still warm from his hands.
"Stop," he said. Not to you. To the Devil, who had frozen in the center of the room, batons lowered, head tilting toward the sound of your heartbeat.
"Let them go, Bullseye." Daredevil's voice was gravel and barely controlled rage. "This is between us."
"Was between us," Dex corrected. His voice had shed every layer of performance. No warmth, no softness, no neighborly charm. What was left was clipped, flat, efficient. "Then you put her in the middle of it."
Daredevil took a step forward.
Dex pressed the gun harder against your jaw. Made sure the Devil could hear the scrape of metal on bone.
"Ah-ah. Stay right there." A breath. Then, louder, the words punching out of him with a sudden, wild energy that bounced off the hallway walls: "You think I wanted this? You came into my home. My home! I was done for the night. I was clean. I was quiet. And you come crashing through my goddamn window like you have the right..."
He was shaking. You could feel it... a fine, rapid vibration running through the arm locked around your chest. He pulled you tighter against him, inhaled through his nose. Vanilla. Warmth. The sharp note of your fear.
The shaking stopped.
"I'm not the villain here, Murdock," he said, and his voice had gone soft again... dangerously soft, the fake tenderness layered back on like a coat of paint over rot. "Fisk is eating this city alive. I'm the one trying to stop it. I'm willing to do the things you won't. That makes me the good guy."
He believed every word. You could hear it. There was no waver, no crack, no performance. He believed he was a hero the way other people believed in gravity.
"But you," he continued, tilting his head, his cheek nearly brushing yours. "You broke into my apartment. You destroyed my things. And you scared her."
A pause. Then:
"That wasn't very heroic."
He began moving backward down the hallway, taking you with him. Your feet scrambled for purchase on the linoleum but his stride was long and unhurried, his arm a steel bar across your ribs, and all you could do was move with him.
"I'm leaving," he said. "She's coming with me. And you're going to stand there and let it happen, because if you take one more step I will put a bullet through the wall of every apartment on this floor until I find something that makes you flinch."
Daredevil didn't move.
"I'll take care of her," Dex added, quieter now, the words dropping into something almost intimate. "Better than you ever could. Better than anyone."
Then, softer still... barely above a whisper, meant for himself as much as for the man in the mask:
"She's mine anyway."
He pushed through the fire door. The stairwell swallowed both of you in cold concrete and flickering light, and the heavy metal door slammed shut behind you, severing the corridor, severing the Devil, severing everything that existed outside the circle of his arms.
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The stairwell was cold and smelled like concrete and old water damage. Dex took the stairs two at a time, half-carrying you against his side, the Glock still pressed to the curve of your neck where the pulse ran closest to the surface. You were keeping up. He registered that somewhere beneath the static... you weren't dragging your feet, weren't going limp, weren't doing any of the things a hostage was supposed to do to slow their captor down.
He filed it away. Kept moving.
They hit the ground floor and he shouldered through the exit into the parking garage. The fluorescent tubes overhead buzzed and popped, throwing uneven light across rows of dented sedans and oil-stained concrete. His car was in the far corner. Nondescript. Grey. Nothing about it worth remembering, which was the point.
In the elevator, in the stairwell, in the narrow corridors of the building, the noise in his head had been a roar. Out here, with the cold air hitting the cut above his eye and your warmth pressed against his ribs, it was beginning to thin. Not gone. Never gone. But manageable, like a frequency he could almost tune out.
He opened the passenger door without letting go of you. The gun shifted from your neck to the space between your shoulder blades as he guided you into the seat... not gently, but not with the wrenching force he'd used upstairs. He stood over you for a moment, filling the open door frame, and looked down at your face.
You looked back at him.
That was the thing. You looked back. Not the glazed, thousand-yard stare of someone in shock. Not the darting, animal panic of someone calculating an escape route. You looked at him the way you had in the car, the same way you had in the hallway for months... through your peephole, across the corridor, from behind your half-open door when you thought he didn't notice.
Curious. Alert. Watching him the way you'd watch a house fire... not because you wanted to put it out, but because you couldn't stop staring at the way it moved.
Dex felt his jaw tighten. He shut your door, walked around to the driver's side, and got in.
The car was small enough that his shoulder nearly touched yours. He could smell you... the vanilla, the warmth beneath it, and now the sharp, bright edge of adrenaline layered over everything like a coat of varnish. He set the Glock on his thigh, barrel angled toward you, his hand resting on the grip. Casual. The way another man might rest his hand on the gear shift.
"You're not screaming," he said.
He didn't look at you when he said it. He was watching the rearview mirror, checking the garage entrance for movement, for the silhouette of a man in a red mask. Nothing. He pulled out of the space and pointed the car toward the street.
"Most people would be begging for their lives by now." He let the observation sit for a moment, let the silence fill the space around it. Then he glanced sideways. "But you're just sitting there."
You were. Sitting there with your hands in your lap, your breathing still elevated but steady, your eyes on him instead of the door handle.
He knew what fear looked like from the inside and the outside. He'd worn it and he'd caused it, and he could catalogue its variations the way a sommelier could catalogue wine... by region, by intensity, by year. What you were wearing didn't fit any category he knew. Fear was in there, yes. The elevated pulse, the slight tremor in your fingers. But it was braided with something else, something warmer, and the combination was doing things to the architecture of his thinking that he didn't have language for.
So he did what he always did when the world didn't fit his framework. He took control of it.
"You've been watching me," he said. Not a question. He turned onto the avenue, the city lights sliding across the windshield in streaks of white and amber. "Don't look surprised. I know. I've known for a while. The way you open your door a crack when I come home late. The way you find reasons to check your mail when I'm in the hallway."
He paused.
"The nights I came back with blood on my clothes. You saw that too."
He said it flatly. No shame. No defensiveness. He was listing facts the way he might list the contents of a room before clearing it.
"And you never called the cops." He looked at you again, longer this time, his eyes leaving the road in a way that should have been reckless. "You never once called the cops."
The light ahead turned red. He stopped the car. In the stillness, with the engine idling and the rain starting to bead on the windshield, the space between them felt pressurized... like the air before a detonation.
"Where are you taking me?" you asked.
He liked that you asked it that way. Practical. Direct. Not please let me go or what are you going to do to me. Just logistics. Where.
"Somewhere safe," he said. His thumb traced the barrel of the Glock on his thigh, an absent, repetitive motion. "Somewhere the Devil can't reach. Somewhere no one looks at you but me."
The light turned green. He drove.
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The second apartment was in a building fourteen blocks north. Different name on the lease. Different locks. Dex kept it the way he kept everything... ordered, clean, stripped of anything that didn't serve a function. White walls, minimal furniture, blinds drawn. A place designed to disappear into.
He brought you up through the service entrance. The gun was still out but it had migrated... no longer pressed to your body, it hung at his side, almost an afterthought. He was watching the hallway, the stairwell, the sight lines from the windows, but some part of his attention had shifted away from tactical assessment and toward you.
You weren't pulling away from him. You stayed close. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm with each step, and every time it did, the contact registered in his nervous system like a small, bright flare.
He unlocked the apartment door and ushered you inside. The space was dark except for the ambient glow of the city filtering through the blinds. He locked the door behind them. Deadbolt. Chain. He checked the windows by habit... all sealed, all latched. Then he turned around.
You stood in the center of the room, watching him. Still watching him, the same way you had in the car, the same way you had in the hallway for months. Like he was the most interesting thing you'd ever seen and you hadn't decided yet whether that was a good thing or a terrible one.
The static in his head was almost quiet now. The blue had faded from his vision. What replaced it was something more dangerous than rage... a focused, narrowing intensity, like a scope dialing in.
He crossed the room. He didn't rush. He walked to you the way he walked to everything he intended to take... with the absolute certainty that it was already his.
He stopped close enough that the heat between them had nowhere to go. He reached up with his free hand and tilted your chin so you had to look at him.
"You're shaking," he said.
You were. A fine tremor running through you, visible in your hands, in the line of your jaw.
"But you're not afraid." He said it slowly, tasting the words like he was testing a theory. His thumb traced the edge of your jawline. "Not really. Not the way you should be."
He set the Glock down on the table beside them. The metal made a dull, heavy sound against the wood. He didn't take his hand off it. Not yet.
"Tell me what you are, then," he said. His voice had gone quiet... that low, soft register that sounded almost kind if you didn't look at his eyes. "If you're not afraid... tell me what you are."
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You didn't answer right away. He watched your throat work, watched the way you looked at his mouth, then at the gun on the table, then back at his mouth. The tremor in your body hadn't stopped. If anything it had deepened, running through you like a current, and the heat coming off your skin where his hand rested on your jaw was almost feverish.
"Please," you said. Your voice came out small and rough, scraped raw by everything that had happened in the last twenty minutes. "Please, Dex... I need it. Use me."
The words landed in his chest like a fist. Not a blow... a key turning in a lock he didn't know he had. Use me. Not let me go. Not don't hurt me. You were standing in a dark apartment with a man who had just held a gun to your head, and you were asking him to do it again.
He'd been searching for something his entire life. A fixed point. A person who could look at the full scope of what he was... the precision and the violence and the black, screaming need at the center of all of it... and not flinch. Not run.
You weren't running. You were leaning into his hand.
"Good girl," he said. The words came out thick, almost reverent, and the sound of them changed the air in the room.
He kissed you. Not the way people kissed in movies... slow approach, tentative contact, the gentle question of is this okay. He took your mouth the way he took everything. Hard. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your skull, fingers knotting in your hair, and he pulled you into him until there was no air between them.
You tasted like adrenaline and something sweet beneath it, and when you moaned against his lips the sound vibrated through his teeth and down his spine.
He walked you backward without breaking the kiss. His free hand found the bedroom door, shoved it open, steered you through. The room was sparse... a bed, a nightstand, blinds cutting the city light into horizontal bars across the sheets. He guided you down onto the mattress and followed you, his weight settling over you, his knee pressing between your thighs.
Your legs wrapped around his waist. He felt the heat of you through both layers of clothing and his hips ground forward on instinct, pressing himself against you. He was hard... had been since the hallway, since the car, since the moment he'd felt your heartbeat shift from panic into something hungrier.
The pressure of your body against his cock was a blunt, aching relief that only made him want more.
He pulled back to breathe. Looked down at you... hair fanned across the pillow, lips swollen, eyes dark and glassy and fixed on him like he was the only solid thing in a dissolving world.
Then your gaze slid past him. To the Glock on the nightstand.
He'd set it there without thinking. Muscle memory. Weapon within reach, always. But you weren't looking at it with caution or with the dull awareness of a person noting an exit. You were looking at it the way you'd looked at it in the car. Heavy-lidded. Hungry. A low, desperate sound caught in your throat... not quite a word, not quite a moan.
You didn't know how to ask.
He knew anyway.
"You're filthy," he murmured. He said it the way another man might say you're beautiful... with genuine, awed admiration. He reached for the gun.
He picked it up slowly, deliberately, letting you watch his hand close around the grip. He brought it to your face first. Traced the barrel down the line of your cheek, your jaw, the column of your throat. The metal was cold and you shivered under it, your back arching off the mattress, your pulse hammering visibly beneath the steel.
"You want this," he said. Not a question. He dragged the muzzle lower, down your collarbone, between your breasts, pushing the fabric of your shirt up as it went. Your nipple hardened under the cold contact and he pressed the barrel against it, watched you gasp, watched your hands fist in the sheets.
"You want the gun and the man and the fear. It's all the same thing to you." He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. "It's all just me."
He kissed your neck. Bit down on the tendon where it met your shoulder... hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make you cry out. He sucked at the skin until he tasted salt and felt the tissue swell under his mouth. When he pulled back there was a dark, livid mark blooming on your throat, and the sight of it sent a hot, possessive satisfaction flooding through him.
He worked your clothes off with efficient, impatient hands. Jeans, shirt, the rest of it... tossed to the floor without ceremony. He stripped his own base layer over his head, and then he was over you again, bare skin against bare skin, the dense weight of his body pressing you into the mattress until your world shrank to the dimensions of him.
His hand found you between your legs. He groaned against your throat when he felt how wet you were... slick and swollen and radiating heat. His fingers slid through your folds, spreading you open, and he pushed two inside you with a blunt, demanding stroke.
"Look at you," he rasped. His thumb found your clit and pressed down with a heavy, grinding pressure that made your hips buck off the bed. "Soaking for a man who had a gun to your head an hour ago. You're out of your mind." He curled his fingers inside you, found the spot that made your back arch, and worked it with a relentless, rhythmic precision. "You're perfect."
You were grinding against his hand, desperate and graceless, all pretense stripped away. He loved it. He loved the way your composure had disintegrated, the way you'd stopped trying to control your sounds and your body and had given all of it to him.
He brought the Glock up and pressed the barrel to your temple... light, almost tender, a mirror of how he'd held it in the hallway. But this time you didn't freeze. You turned your face toward it, your cheek pressing against the cold metal, and the moan that came out of you was guttural and broken and so raw it made his cock throb against his zipper.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed. "You really are mine."
He pulled his fingers out of you. You whined at the loss and the sound nearly broke him. He freed himself from his jeans, shoved them down just far enough, and settled his weight between your legs. He gripped your hip with one hand, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. The other hand kept the gun where it was, resting against your temple, a constant cold point of contact that you kept pressing into like a cat leaning into a hand.
He drove into you in one long stroke.
The sound that came out of him was half growl, half breath forced through clenched teeth. You were tight and scalding and the clench of you around him was almost too much. He held still for a beat, buried to the hilt, feeling your pulse from the inside, your body gripping him in waves.
Then he moved.
He didn't go slow. He didn't ease into a rhythm. He fucked you the way he fought... with precision and force and a total, consuming focus that left no room for anything else. His hips drove into yours with a heavy, rhythmic impact, the sound of skin on skin filling the dark room. Each thrust pushed you up the mattress and he hauled you back by the hip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
"Look at me," he commanded. His voice was wrecked, barely holding together. You'd let your eyes close and he needed them open. Needed to see himself reflected in them. "Don't close your eyes. Look at what's doing this to you."
You obeyed. Your eyes found his and stayed, and the connection was more intimate than anything their bodies were doing. He could see himself in your pupils... a dark shape looming over you, the gun glinting in the low light, his face split between exertion and something that looked, from the outside, terrifyingly close to worship.
He shifted his angle, hiked your leg higher on his hip, and the new depth made you cry out. He felt you start to tighten around him, your body drawing taut like a wire about to snap. He dropped the gun to the mattress. Both hands went to your throat.
He squeezed. Not to damage. Just enough to narrow the world, to slow the blood, to make every nerve in your body amplify the building pressure between your legs. Your eyes went wide and then half-lidded, your lips parting, and the flush that spread across your chest was the most beautiful thing he'd ever destroyed.
"Give it to me," he said. Low and absolute, the voice of a man who had never been denied anything he'd decided to take. "Give it all to me."
You came apart.
Your whole body seized, your back bowing off the mattress, your walls clamping around him so hard his vision whited out at the edges. The sound you made was airless... a silent scream that became a gasp that became his name, repeated over and over, Dex, Dex, Dex, like a prayer spoken into the dark by someone who'd finally found their god.
He lasted three more strokes. The rhythmic grip of your orgasm pulled him over the edge and he buried himself deep, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, a guttural sound tearing out of his chest as he spilled into you. His hands loosened on your throat and slid to the mattress on either side of your head, holding his weight just off your body as the last tremors rolled through both of them.
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For a long time neither of them moved.
Dex's breathing came in heavy, ragged pulls against the skin of your neck. He could feel your heartbeat everywhere... against his chest, around his cock where he was still inside you, in the pulse point under his lips.
He didn't want to pull out. Didn't want to create even that much distance. The idea of any gap between his body and yours made the static threaten to return, so he stayed where he was and let his weight settle onto you, not enough to crush, but enough that you'd feel the full reality of him with every breath.
You reached up. Your fingers, still trembling, found his jaw and traced the line of it with a touch so gentle it almost stung. You pulled him toward you and he went, covering your mouth with a kiss that was slower than the first one. Deeper. The kind of kiss that wasn't about hunger anymore but about confirming that the other person was real and still there.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. You were wrecked. Hair tangled, lips bitten dark, the bruise on your throat already deepening toward purple. The marks his fingers had left on your hip and collarbone were visible even in the low light.
He catalogued each one with a slow, proprietary gaze, and something in his chest expanded... a hot, dense pressure that he didn't have a name for, that felt too large for the architecture of his ribs.
"You're so good for me," he said. His voice had lost all its edges. It was quiet and raw and stripped of performance for maybe the first time since you'd met him. "So fucking good."
He rolled onto his side, taking you with him, pulling you into the curve of his body so your back pressed flush against his chest. His arm locked around your waist. His face buried in your hair.
He breathed you in... vanilla, salt, sex, the faint copper tang of the blood that had dried above his brow hours ago. The combination was the most grounding thing he'd ever known. More stable than routine, more reliable than ritual. A fixed point made of skin and warmth and the steady rhythm of your breathing.
You curled into him. Not the stiff, careful arrangement of two people sharing a bed for the first time, but the full-body surrender of someone burrowing into the one place they felt safe. Your smallness against the bulk of him made his arm tighten without conscious thought.
You fit. You fit in a way that felt engineered, as though the empty space inside his architecture had always been shaped exactly like you.
"Mine," you whispered into his neck.
So quiet he almost missed it. A breath more than a word. But he heard it because he was tuned to you now the way he was tuned to the trajectory of a thrown object... completely, involuntarily, with every instrument he had.
His chest vibrated. Not the high-pitched whine of approaching violence but a low, resonant hum, something closer to the satisfied sound of a machine reaching its designed operating state.
"Damn right," he rasped into your hair. "You're mine. And I'm yours. Every fucking part of me."
He didn't interrogate the word. He didn't weigh it against clinical definitions or try to parse the difference between love and obsession, between devotion and fixation. The line didn't exist for him. It had never existed. The world was simple: there were things that belonged to him and things that didn't, and you had just placed yourself in the first category with the same certainty he felt in his own chest.
You were already fading. He could feel it in the gradual loosening of your muscles, the way your breathing lengthened and deepened against him. You were sinking, and he was the thing you were sinking into. He let you go. Held you while the tension bled out of your body in slow, ebbing waves until you were boneless and warm and entirely his.
He didn't sleep. He lay in the dark with his eyes open, his thumb tracing the line of your spine in a slow, repetitive arc. The city hummed outside the windows. Somewhere out there the Devil was licking his wounds, and Fisk was moving his pieces, and the world was grinding forward in its usual ugly way.
None of it touched him here. None of it reached through the walls of this room, past the deadbolt and the chain and the warm weight of the woman sleeping against his chest.
He was the judge and the jury and the executioner. But for you, he would be the walls and the roof and the lock on the door. He would hover and he would guard and he would suffocate everything that tried to get close, because you were his, and in his world that was the only law that had ever mattered.
"Sleep," he murmured, though you were already gone. His arm tightened around you one more degree. "I'll be here when you wake up."
The room was quiet. The rain had stopped. Outside the window, the city went on bleeding, but inside the apartment, in the narrow space between his body and yours, everything was still.
You'd been acting up all afternoon during his work conference.
Purposely wearing a short sundress, only bending over when you knew he'd catch sight of your underwear riding up your ass. Hand lying on his thigh during presentations, inching so painfully close to his groin and stopping just short of cupping his balls through his slacks.
To say you were getting on his nerves was an understatement.
It all built up on the elevator ride down to the next conference room, after a quick lunch in his office where he surprisingly kept his composure - much to your dismay. So, you took drastic measures.
His hand was slack by his side, not quite touching you though you could tell his fingers were aching to. Wrapping around his wrist, you dragged him carefully under your skirt, letting him feel how wet you were. Your panties now damp from hours of working yourself up.
Wordlessly, you let his wrist go, not surprised when his hand lingered for a moment before dropping back to his side. He didn't so much as glance at you, but you noticed the tick in his jaw as the elevator reached the destined floor. One after another, people filed out.
Just as you moved to slip past Zayne, his fingers caught the mid-section of your ponytail and yanked it hard. You barely swallow the yelp that crawls up your throat, eyes widening a fraction as Zayne doesn't let go. Instead, he steps forward, iron grip still on your hair.
Your scalp stings slightly from where he had tugged, the pain sending a new wave of arousal straight into your abdomen. The doors nearly shut on the two of you before his free hand shot out to stop them. Leaning down in the process, his breath warm as he presses his lips to your ear. Two words were all you needed to hear.
"Behave yourself."
Since we wanna act all crazy n shit mid-day @zaynezone
Until the World Slows Down (John Walker / F!Reader / Bob Reynolds)
Summary: John comes home after a hard day to find you and Bob already in bed together; after joining in, a shared fantasy is exposed.
Fifth in the series with Until the Wheels Come Off, Until the Roof Caves In, Until It All Falls Down, and Until the Light Pours In.
A/N: To celebrate 500 reblogs and 200 followers (eeee!), here's a horny little kink exploration with the throuple. Thank you so much for sharing my stories and commenting and for all the continued love! <3
Yes, I'm obsessed with this trio right now, but don't worry, I'm still working through all your requests; thanks for being patient with me.
This one is pretty intense so please read the CWs if you are picky about kinks.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 4k (complete)
CW: Porn with plot, impregnation and pregnancy kink (fantasy only), mixed POV, no use of y/n, romance, light angst but HEA, throuple dynamics, kink exploration, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, everyone is down bad, john is kind of dommy in this one (yum), thigh humping(m on f), use of nicknames (babe, baby, sweetheart), breastplay, protected sex (reader is on bc), pinv, serious titty sucking, mentions of lactation kink, very dirty language, teasing, creampie, talking reader through it.
Suggested listening: Heal by Myrne, Shallou
It was a rare time John arrived at the apartment and actually found you and Bob in bed together.
Once upon a time, that outcome might have wounded him to the marrow, but it hardly registered now as he caught sight of your bodies lying the short way across the bed. Summer was fading, the colder months announcing themselves with the first reds and golds in the trees. He couldn’t believe the three of you had managed to keep this thing going for four months, through the anniversary of his life falling apart and a holiday and a birthday, and soon another season.
The shock of that fact didn’t linger. He was tired of relitigating it to a jury of twelve skeptical versions of himself.
And anyway, there were other things to concern himself with, like your beautiful, naked form lying on top of the covers, a pillow under your neck, a paperback in your right hand, your left tangled in Bob’s messy golden-brown hair. He was in his boxer briefs, curled around your heart, one leg hooked over your thigh, his eyes closed blissfully with his lips sealed around your nipple.
“We’re trying a new thing,” you said, without prompting, hearing John’s heavy tread reach the end of the bed.
“Think that was invented a while ago,” he teased, shrugging out of his henley and tossing it effortlessly into the laundry basket a few feet away. His undershirt followed, then his belt and jeans.
Whatever this was, he wanted in. After a brutal afternoon of custody paperwork with his lawyer, he had promised himself a quiet, uneventful evening, but cozying up to your naked body would fix his mood expeditiously.
You shot him a wry look over the edge of your book. Bob looked comatose or maybe hypnotized, frozen, gone, latched onto you like he was using your nipple for air.
“It’s good for your brain,” you added. “Calming.”
“Again, this is new how?”
“Not in a sex way,” you sighed. Your eyes slid down and to the left, regarding Bob like you had forgotten he was even there. “He’s been like that for an hour.”
“An hour?”
“Honestly, he might be asleep,” you added lightly, going back to your book.
"You've ruled out dead, I assume..." John sat on the bed by your feet, pulling one onto his lap and massaging it absently. You purred, lashes fluttering from the strength of his fingers digging into your instep.
Against your side, Bob groaned, letting you both know he was not, in fact, asleep or dead.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this might be the weirdest thing that’s happened in our bed,” John said, putting your foot back down on the mattress and turning to crawl up beside you. He knelt just on the other side of your book. His fingers traced yours along the book’s spine, tickling down your forearm and up your bicep. It was childish, but he wanted attention and he wanted it right away. You looked so good, and the stress knotting the base of his spine needed somewhere to go. He didn’t mean to be such a horn ball, but your naked body turned his brain into mud. “Although the collar was memorable…”
Still latched onto your breast, Bob moaned softly in agreement, squirming, rubbing himself against your thigh in a way that told John this was now very much becoming a sex thing. John wouldn’t say your bedroom had been sedate lately, but a series of missions had kept the three of you occupied, deployed in various combinations and for various lengths of time, which often meant catching a quickie before someone had to suit up and fly out. It was still a harrowing challenge keeping the whole thing concealed from the team, and there had been more than one close call.
John was pretty sure you were one more stolen kiss in the Watchtower away from Yelena figuring it all out. He felt like he was constantly giving himself away with how he looked at you during briefings, like he was counting down the seconds until he could get you back to the apartment.
Your hands combed through Bob’s hair again, and as John carefully closed your book, put the marker in place, and leaned across to shelve it behind the bed, you gave him a petulant little pout that John absolutely knew to his core was fake. He recognized the glimmer in your eyes, and the way your thighs were rubbing subtly together, trying to work up friction.
“John…” You whined, actually whined. Please. He wasn't born yesterday.
He took your now free hand, lavishing kisses along your knuckles, blue eyes searching your face, lingering on that desperately cute, unbearably manipulative pout. “What is it, baby?”
John was using your favorite voice, the one that was graveled but tender, like his need for you was starting to slowly choke him. But he was fighting it, just kissing your fingers, baby blues so electric in the soft afternoon light that your mouth watered.
“I don’t want him to stop,” you said, eyes sliding toward Bob’s blissed out face. Your nipple was practically vibrating, way beyond overstimulation, the sensation a constant, tingling burn that you were starting to get hooked on. You hadn’t seen Bob this calm in weeks. “It feels good and it’s relaxing for both of us,” you went on, pulling a thick piece of hair behind Bob’s ear, giving you a better view of his rosy cheeks and half-lidded eyes. He hadn’t even been hard for most of it, but now he was, grinding lazily against your thigh, a wet spot forming on his underwear and dragging against your skin.
Bob hollowed his cheeks, sucking more aggressively for a second, making you arch into him before he let go. There were bruises forming on your breast where he had focused his attention; your nipple was slick and puffy, swollen from being wedged against his tongue for an hour. Everyone was reverently silent as your breast came free of his mouth and resettled with a buttery jiggle against your ribcage.
“It’s crazy,” Bob murmured, nosing against the side of your tit. “My mind hasn’t been that quiet in like…years. I don’t know. Can’t explain it.”
John took this information in with his lips pressed together, eyes switching between the two of you like he wasn’t sure if this was for real or an elaborate, annoying joke. He held your hand loosely in both of his, weighing something. When his gaze fell on your sore, somewhat abused nipple, his dick visibly twitched on his leg.
Huh.
“She doesn’t want you to stop,” John said. “So, don’t stop.”
Their eyes met. Not for the first time, you lamented how swiftly they could set aside their many differences and unite against you. Bob nodded slowly, also deciding something. He shot John a sympathetic half-smile. “Rough day, man?”
“Very.”
Bob’s chin worked forward and then back, a sly golden glimmer in his eyes for just an instant before he lowered his head back to your breast. “I got you.”
“What the hell does that mean?” you asked, still pouting.
Bob grinned against your side, then circled your swollen peak with his nose. “Can we make John feel good, babe? He needs it.”
“Thank you, Bob,” John said, pointed, tilting his head to the side as he regarded you. He let go of your hand, outlining your jaw with one knuckle. “What about you?”
You gasped, plunged into a different head space as Bob humped against your leg again, lips closing around your nipple, sucking audibly, hungry and filthy and raw. Your answer to his question was given silently, though clearly, your fingers wrapping around John’s growing erection, pumping a few times to bring him to full arousal.
He sucked down a breath through his teeth, reeling slightly on his knees. He managed to keep his eyes open, studying Bob as he fell back into his hollow-cheeked bliss.
“Doesn’t seem fair, just one side getting all the attention,” John teased, running his knuckle down your chin, over your throat and your fluttering pulse, grazing your collarbone before he just barely thumbed your nipple. “Bobby’s been working on the other one all day, right?”
“Mmhm,” you could hardly answer, fingers tightening against Bob’s scalp as he bit gently, just enough to send electricity scattering down your stomach.
John pushed your hand away from his cock, sliding down to lay against your right side, mirroring Bob’s position. “He’s gonna come in his shorts if he doesn’t slow down,” John whispered, mouth tight to your ear, thumb passing teasingly across your tit again, your back arching to chase the touch a millisecond too late. “Shit, he's really into it.”
Bob whimpered, nodding, apologizing for what his teeth had done with rolling flicks of his tongue. The ache was insane. It felt like the welts there would last for weeks, the throb spreading through your chest and down to your abdomen. Your hips worked against nothing, a rich, wet gush between your legs making the emptiness that much worse.
Your head dodged toward John’s face as he bit down on the shell of your ear and tugged a few times, laughing when you whimpered as loudly and pitifully as Bob. “Think if he sucks hard enough, you’ll give him some milk?”
The sound that came out of Bob made you both freeze. Not Bob, though, Bob kept going, left hand smoothing across your stomach possessively.
“Please,” he hissed in a horny little whisper, brows meeting as he rubbed his entire face against your saliva-slick tit. “Please, please, I want it so bad.”
Your eyes slid to John’s as he craned his neck up. He looked…stunned. Stunned and then thoughtful, then an evil third thing as a new light bounced around in his eyes. John was a dog with a bone when someone let information like that slip out in bed. If you reacted strongly to any movement, any nickname, he seized on it, unabashedly, razor sharp military mind unspooling a hundred ways to use and reuse that knowledge, exploit the advantage.
He cleared his throat, warm and hard and steady against your side. “I think Bobby wants your milk.”
Again, that sound from Bob, the one that made you think he was either going to fragment into a million pieces or unload immediately in his shorts.
Not that you were faring any better.
“John.” You stared at him helplessly, wildly turned on and a little confused and a lot frustrated.
“I know, baby, I know you can’t,” he cooed, delivering a soothing kiss to your forehead. You could feel him studying every micro expression on your face, trying to read you. A worried dent formed between his brows. He kissed you again. “If it’s too much—”
“No, no it’s not too much—”
Your interest declared, John picked up right where he had left off to give you an out, his thumb and forefinger carefully closing over your nipple and giving a single, firm twist. “I know you can’t,” he said, and Bob whimpered in his throat, urging him on with frantic, climbing sounds. Whatever fantasy Bob was lost in was driving him into a frenzy, you weren’t far behind, chest pumping as your pulse kicked into a new gear, your eyes glued to John’s lips as you waited for him to go on, drive the bus off an even higher cliff.
“You can’t,” John whispered, swallowing thickly. “Not yet.”
He checked your reaction again, keen on the way you sucked your lip between your teeth.
“Not until we fill you up a few more times, right? Give you a baby…”
From the way his chest was drilling in and out, you got the sense this was a fantasy he had been waiting to test for a while. This wasn’t just building off of Bob’s reaction, this was John’s way of pushing into a new frontier. Bob’s hand spasmed over your stomach. You almost couldn’t feel the pressure of his sucking for a second as John’s words sank in. His eyes were hot, laser focused, yours stuttering shut as you let yourself unwind into the scenario. Oh. Oh, okay.
“Fuck,” you heard Bob moan as he flattened himself against your side. “Do it, give her one, do it right now.”
John dragged in his next breath with difficulty, jaw clenched. He was being outplayed at his own kinky game, and it seemed to be hitting him hard that neither of you were telling him to pump the breaks.
His hand slid down your stomach, leaving your breast behind, curling over the sopping mess between your legs. You both were a little rattled by how wet you were. Your entire body locked up for a second, then relaxed like your insides had been liquefied. John took it in silently for a second, running his fingertips through your slippery folds, then fingering you with all of that glorious slick, head dipping, tongue caught between his teeth as he tried to remember what he was meant to be doing—
“Bobby thinks I should knock you up right now,” he said, finding it.
You closed your eyes, reaching for him, tiptoeing up to delirium. This felt like a Pandora’s box that all three of you had bumped open like a bunch of idiots. But the box was fucking open now, and there was no shoving any of this back inside. And you didn’t want to; you wanted to see what other nasty goodies were hiding in John’s head.
“Is that what you want?” John asked, struggling with the words, grimacing when it came out too real and too tender and too excited.
You let go of Bob’s head, pushing both hands through John’s hair as he lifted your thigh up the coverlet and crawled between your legs.
“Want me to fuck you right now?” You could tell he was lost, that he had made the same calculation you had—everyone was raising, might as well go all in. “Want me to put a baby in you, sweetheart?”
It was an empty threat, all three of you knew that, you had been fastidious about your birth control for months. But even just the way he said it, fuck, like he had been circling the idea on his own, getting worked up about it, dreaming about it, like this was a script he had acted out with you a hundred times in his head… You nodded, tiny, stupid sounds dribbling out of you, because in this insane fantasy he had concocted, in this world that wasn’t the real one, you did want it.
“Please,” you whispered, holding him by his hair, risking direct eye contact as he eased his impossibly swollen dick into your body. He did it carefully, slow and aching, letting you feel every demanding inch. “Fuck. Please.”
“Have to hear you say it.”
Bob concurred in a frantic whimper. He had slowed down with grinding against your thigh for a while to stave off his orgasm, but he started up again, reaching down to push his underwear to his knees, the hot, velvety kiss of his dick against your bare thigh making your eyes cross. The hand on your stomach remained locked there until John was deep, deep inside.
“Fuck…fuck a baby into me,” you mumbled, a searing flush blasting across your cheeks. John dragged out, surged back in, cranking your thigh higher and to the side, finding the last space to claim and making it his, bottoming out, glancing against your cervix. “Oh fuck,” you whined, thrashing underneath him. “That…you’re so...can't...so deep.”
“Can’t think when I’m this deep?” John asked, rolling his hips, making you see stars. Bob sucked your nipple back into his mouth, his fingers dancing down from your navel to your pubic mound, sandwiched between your bodies while he rooted around for your clit. John’s abdomen pressed against Bob’s hand, both sensations melting into one molten pool. Even as your mouth fell open and your orgasm washed over you like a late summer storm, John wasn’t finished with you. “Can’t think when I’m about to give you a load, huh?” You shook your head, senseless, writhing. “Just know you want this baby inside you, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, yes, yes, please.”
“Your tits are going to get big and full,” John murmured, chest shining with sweat, muscles popping as he drove faster, fucking you in earnest. “Isn’t that right, Bobby? She’s going to be even more beautiful, isn’t she?”
Bob cried out around your breast; it slid free, his teeth scraping the side as he jerked against you, his cum arcing over the top of your thigh, painting sticky ropes across your lower stomach, your hip…
He trembled for a second with his eyes tightly shut, jaw slack, fingers still curling around your clit, slower now, less teasing and insistent. His lips worried across your shoulder as he got back in the fight, whispering into your ear while John lost the powers of speech, huge, harsh breaths forced out of him as he pumped and pumped—
“Gonna milk you every day, messy girl,” Bob murmured, forehead to your temple. “You’re gonna taste so sweet. Shit, I can’t wait. You ready for him, babe? Ready for him to come?”
Post-verbal, you tossed your head, whining, afraid of the sneaky aftershocks coalescing into another shivery ache deep, deep inside...
"That's it. She's ready, our sweet girl--"
"Mmhm."
"Want it bad?"
"Mmhm."
"You're just our greedy, messy cumhole--"
"Agh."
Fuck. You wailed, clenching around John, toppling him right over the edge.
“Jesus. Bobby’s gonna…after I…just gotta…oh fuck, oh fuck—” John leaned into you, jamming your thigh a little higher, one last pummeling shove of his hips keeping him fully sheathed while he gave you his heat. “There it is, there it is,” he whispered, eyes opening suddenly like he was remembering where he was and what was going on. Those eyes found you, a little nervous, a little melting, deep blue and honest as he filled you until the extra leaked out. “That’s it, baby,” he said, shivering. “That’s what you need.”
You could tell John was feeling the slightest bit sheepish about the whole thing by how fast he bolted from the room to clean himself up.
You practically saw the road runner lines hanging in the air as he raced to the bathroom, leaving you and Bob to stare at each other and float a thousand quiet questions just with your eyes.
Side by side on your backs, Bob’s seed cooling on your thigh and John’s trickling out of you slowly, you reached for Bob’s hand. He looked up at the ceiling like he was begging it to just come down and smother him, spare him the awkwardness of the very imminent conversation.
“So, that was something,” you said softly, thoughtfully. You weren't about to start hurling stones in a glass house you had helped build. His thumb traveled back and forth across your knuckles.
“I’m not…” Bob trailed off, rubbing his eye, scrunching up his face. “It would be hot and everything, but that’s…that’s just fantasy stuff, right?”
“Yeah,” you said, giving him a quick smile. “Yeah, of course.”
“Right now, I mean. Obviously. Yeah.”
You lifted a brow. He coughed into his fist.
Bob heard the bathroom door open and quite literally materialized across the room to escape the implications of that exchange. No sooner had John appeared than Bob took his place, disappearing behind the door.
Warm, damp towel in hand, John reported for duty, posture stiff, eyes above your head, jaw set.
You patted the empty space beside you on the bed. “Sit, soldier”
John lingered near your feet for a moment, gripping tight to every second of silence before the inevitable. He used the towel to wipe Bob’s spend off your leg, then folded it to a clean side and used it to dab between your legs. After folding the rag again, he tossed it onto the nightstand, then scratched his beard, sitting down on the bed hard enough to make the frame shriek.
“Can’t imagine what you want to talk about,” he muttered, studying his hands.
You scooted down the mattress until you could touch your toes to the sparse thatch of hair on his lower back. John flinched at the touch, bunching up.
“I wasn’t telling you to stop,” you said.
At that he gave a dry snort-laugh through his nose.
He drew in a breath that expanded along his entire, broad back. “When you get pregnant, especially where I’m from, everyone tells you it’s going to be the best time in your life. Beautiful, you know? Joyful. It wasn’t, guess we were just unlucky. It was hell for her, and we…we just couldn’t do a lot of things.” He made a helpless sound in his throat. “And it’s hard to let go of all the things you thought it would be. It can…stay. Get stuck, I guess. There were things I did want to do--try--but we couldn't.”
You pulled your foot back, swiveled, crawling onto your knees and joining him, pressing a firm hand between his shoulder blades. John sagged forward. “That makes it sound like I want a do over or some shit. Jesus.” He scratched both hands down his face, sighing. Finally, he hazarded a look at you over his shoulder, eyes full and sad. “I think about you that way and it…it makes me insane. Seeing you like that, tasting you..." He growled into his hands. "I don’t even know if I actually want it, or if you do, but I think about it. I think about it all the time. Especially the way we…”
“Fuck like rabbits?”
“Yeah.” He laughed again, gentler this time. You slid against his back, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his nape. “I’m sorry you both had to deal with that. And with us…look, it can stay a fantasy, John. We can just enjoy it. It's just a lot of words until we decide something changes.”
His hands closed over yours on his stomach.
“And we can table the real conversation for a time when this isn’t so new and we’re not putting our asses on the line at work every day and the world doesn't depend on Bob to keep spinning,” you said, spitting it all out in one nervous breath. “But if you ever want to do it again, what we did just now, maybe it would be good for you. Let…let some of that curiosity out.”
John squeezed your hands, groaning. “This is not how I saw this day ending.”
“That’s why you adore us,” you said, nuzzling into the back of his ear, making him fold in on that side. “We keep you on your toes.”
The bathroom door opened and Bob wandered out.
“Heeeey,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Everything extremely chill out here?”
John pinched the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes under his hand. “You know what? Yeah. Not sure how.”
A big, relieved smile broke across Bob’s face. “Oh. Oh okay, good. ‘Cos I’m…I’m cool. I’m great, actually.”
You snorted into John’s shoulder, then collected the dirty rag from the nightstand, tossed it into the laundry, and went to use the bathroom. You washed yourself up a bit more and peed before the UTI fairy could visit. Bob had left quite an array of marks down your left side; thank God it was getting colder, you could almost justify a turtleneck.
Bob was parked in his usual spot when you returned to the main room, kicked back on the bed, the book you had been reading in both hands up above his head. John watched you very, very closely as you sauntered as smoothly as you could back to the safe harbor of their company. You took your spot in the middle, gazing up at John while he sat against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent.
“You have to stop worrying,” you murmured, leaning over to kiss his side. “I’m fine. We’re good. I’m not weirded out, I still want to jump your bones.”
He seemed to finally let go, nodding, cracking a relieved smile, lowering himself to lie next to you properly, crooking one arm behind his head, the other reaching for his phone, only for him to freeze up again, leaving his phone where it was. With a grunt, he twisted around, leveling an oblivious Bob with a narrow-eyed look, glaring across your chest. "Hang on. If we're debriefing, not sure how I feel about cumhole."
Bob shrugged. "She liked it."
John's gaze flicked downward as he ran that by you, jaw locked hard enough to break brick.
You hid your face against him. "I, um, yeah, I did."
He heaved a sigh. "Fine. That's all you, Bobby."
Bob smirked up at his book, giving a thumbs up.
It wasn’t even close to bed time, but you found yourself getting drowsy, head slumping against John’s shoulder, one ankle tossed lazily over Bob’s knee. Bob massaged that limb absently.
You were about to drift off into a much-needed nap when Bob piped up from the corner with the cadence of someone just thinking aloud. “How would we…I mean, theoretically, you know, how would we..." John was already groaning, but Bob, of course, kept going. "Would we like, flip a coin, do you think, or...?”
Until the Light Pours In (Bob Reynolds / F!Reader / John Walker)
Summary: During a mental health dip, Bob fears the Void is trying to sabotage his new relationship.
Fourth in the series with Until the Wheels Come Off, Until the Roof Caves In, and Until It All Falls Down.
A/N: So, I tortured John, it's only fair that Bob gets some hurt/comfort content in the throuple series. :>
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 3.5k (complete)
CW: Hurt/comfort, some fluff, some romance, established relationship, throuple dynamics, bob's POV, bob's neurodivergence, reader is she/her, discussion of mental health issues, the Void makes an appearance, depression, anxiety, self-esteem issues, discussion of medication use, angst, self-love (m), rumination, fantasies about pinv and series-related smut situations.
Bob couldn’t control when the bad days showed up. He knew the second he opened his eyes that morning that the feeling was back. That feeling. There wasn’t always a trigger. Sometimes the world just went gray; it was like his mind was going numb, like there was a fogged, glass wall between him and every sound, interaction, touch…
He never knew how bad it would get or how long it would last, just that it was the fucking worst. It would resolve in its own time, but that was also the shitty part, he had to ride it out.
Bob had a strategy now, so at least there was that.
And he had you.
Bob woke up on his stomach, groaning into consciousness, already dreading the weight that would settle on his chest once the melancholy really took hold. You were flopped onto your side, facing him, scrolling on your phone. Sunlight and the world pressed in at the edges of the curtains, but Bob focused on you, committing this sweet moment to memory, hating that he would have to go away.
John had left, probably hours ago. There was a big, deep divot in the mattress on your other side, like the blank in an egg carton where one egg was missing. Bob didn’t understand the ache that brought on but acknowledged it was there.
You noticed he was awake, shoving your phone under your pillow and wiggling closer, cuddling into Bob’s chest. He wrapped you up, greedy for the familiar things, the centering things—the way your nose fit into his neck, the light scratch of your fingernails on his back, your warm breath puffing down his chest, the smell of your soap and shampoo, the soft feathering of your hair under his chin…
“I’m not great today,” Bob said, voice thick. “I’m…sorry, babe.”
“Shit. Is there anything I can do?”
“Nope. It’s just the…you know. The stuff. My stuff.”
You nodded against his throat, balling up your hands and pressing them against his chest. “You’ll let us know if you need anything.”
It wasn’t a question. Bob smiled into your hair, giving you one last squeeze before he forced himself to go. Fuck, it hurt. “Just need a few days.”
Bob rolled out of bed with a shadow climbing up his back, hanging off his shoulders. It was getting close, and he couldn’t linger. The last time, he had waited too long, hooked on the feeling of that apartment oasis, of being with both of you. But you had woken up screaming from a nightmare, covered in a cold sweat, struggling to find the words for what had happened in your head. A lamp crackled to life on the bookshelf, illuminating your stricken face. You had slept pressed against Bob that night, and the Void had escaped, just for an instant, visiting you in your dreams. It was probably a mercy you couldn’t remember much of it. He would never forget John’s helpless look, like he had lost a war he only learned about in the aftermath.
If He was stirring again, Bob couldn’t risk another breach like that. He had no idea what that creep was up to, but it couldn’t be anything friendly.
He went to grab his toothbrush and razor out of the bathroom; John had tidied things up that morning, Bob’s things neatly side by side with John’s. If he thought about it too long, he would fuck up and stay. Bob finished packing his bag, threw on yesterday’s clothes, and let himself have one last kiss, one last hug, finding you waiting for him at the door in your sleep shirt.
“Don’t make me come looking, okay?” you warned gently, fingers lingering against his palm as he slipped out the door.
Bob’s room in the Watchtower was nothing like the apartment. Sure, it was filled with his stuff and there was a place to sleep and wash up, but that was where the similarities ended. His life here was lived in chaotic piles. There was a stale, sad smell to the unwashed clothes that spilled out of his dresser drawers and gathered in mounds by the bed. He had too many books for the amount of available storage, so those were everywhere, too. His plants needed watering. He had forgotten to throw out a mostly eaten sandwich on his desk, and it was furry with mold.
And he didn’t have the energy to deal with any of it.
Shame sat prickly and expansive in his stomach at the realization that he probably liked the apartment so much because he didn’t have to worry about cooking or cleaning up after himself; you and John had your shit together, passing the baton of responsibility back and forth while Bob did…what, exactly?
That’s right, you lazy fuck. You’re a drain on everyone you touch.
Bob shuddered from the deep unkindness of that voice. He could at least throw away the moldy sandwich, start a load of laundry…
Wow. Look at you go. Maybe they’ll give you a medal, you special boy, maybe you can ask John what it’s like to get one. He has three.
There was a laundry service for the team, but Bob always felt weird using it. He wasn’t comfortable with personal chefs and nutritionists and trainers and staff. None of it felt like it was really his. He gathered up a load of socks, shirts, and underwear, ferrying it down the hall to the shared laundry room. It was clean-smelling and neat, concrete and drains and huge, modern machines.
Bob tracked back to his room and started the ritual. There was no way out but through. He changed into a ratty old bathrobe and fished his noise cancelling headphones out of his bag, found a playlist that didn’t make him want to puke, and flattened himself against the floor.
He took a stuttering breath, chest tight, pain radiating out from a heart that was always one wrong word away from splintering into pieces. It was the thing he had always hated the most about himself, how fucking sensitive he was to it all. Everyone else could just get on with things, but he saw the cracks in conversation, the fake smiles, the jokes that were just a little too pointed, the person in the room who was obviously on something, and he couldn’t look away and he didn’t know how other people could. And it all hurt so fucking much, and he didn’t know how to stop carrying the world’s pain around, or if he should try to stop…
The music burned through him, cauterizing until He arrived. There was nothing that stopped Him. Bob knew better than to fight. He was going to get his licks in, and Bob was going to endure it, and on the other side, the world would brighten again and he would breathe.
I went inside her. Your girlfriend…
Bob clasped his phone under his hands on his stomach. He shuddered. The Void was learning, getting better at finding ways to torture him. He knew this would be a bad episode, but the shadow inside really had teeth today.
Learned a lot while I was in there. She doesn’t think about you, you know that, right? She thinks about him. Oh boy, does she think about him. Constantly. But then, he’s the capable one. The adult. She’s in love, but not with you. They’re just biding their time. When they get sick of you, you’ll be out on your ass, back in this dirty pit. Alone.
Fuck. Bob clenched his teeth together, his jaw locking against the pain. Tears burst against the tight seam where his eyes were shut. He had to be a fortress. No open windows. No unlocked doors. No way for this motherfucker to get in and stay in.
Knowing how to survive the onslaught was one thing, but actually doing it was another.
When you’re not there, they laugh about you. At you. Their little court jester. You’re just their weird pervert goblin, a freak, what’s lovable about that?
And on and on. Bob was on the floor for hours. He dragged himself to the kitchen and made a thing of instant noodles, ate it over the sink, went back in for another round, a punching bag to an invisible menace.
He fell asleep eventually, in the bed, at least. He stopped feeling hungry, and he wasn’t even very tired or very anything. But the days bled together, and he woke up again at some point realizing he had never changed over his clothes. When he shuffled to the laundry room, they were damp and musty. He ran the load again, embarrassed, terrified that if he washed them too many times everything would shrink down two sizes and he’d have to ask accounting for the money to buy a new wardrobe again.
Bob returned to the front lines, lying on the floor again, headphones on.
How much you wanna bet when you go back, they’ve changed the locks?
That one stung.
He's fucking her right now. They've been going at it like crazy. She can't get enough of him. You're just a bonus, just a fucking bystander. That's why you always let him go first, because you know you're second best.
He was almost tempted to listen, believe. On his stomach, his phone vibrated. Bob blinked through the tears, lifting the screen toward his face, squinting at the sudden blast of light.
It was you. Shared chat. He and John had both balked at naming it, but it was your idea to make it a red heart, a pink heart, and a yellow heart. John. You. Him.
hey handsome. it’s 2pm. don’t forget to take your meds. <3
Bob had promised himself, if he did nothing else during this episode, he would stay consistent about his medication. He scrambled onto his stomach, crawling to the overnight bag by the bed. There was a glass of water on his nightstand from the night before, so he climbed up and sat on the mattress and gulped everything down.
He stared at the group chat window for a minute, easing down his headphones, letting them rest around his neck. The message before that was a picture of a stick bug he had seen in the park. You had heart reacted; John gave it a thumbs up.
Bob remembered his laundry. He emerged from his room like a scraggly, malnourished, hibernating hedgehog at the end of winter and transferred the clothes into the drier, then realized he was starving. More noodles, but this time he added some hot sauce and crammed a Pop-tart into his mouth while he walked back to his room.
It was silent in the darkness. Actually silent. Silent in his head and within the four walls. Bob crawled into bed, deciding to stay there until his clothes were dry. He looked at his phone again, scrolling, but he just kept returning to the text chain, those three hearts, your reminder to take care of himself.
He went back in the message history a little, smiling at a selfie you had taken together at a polka music festival. John had been gone on a mission. The caption said: wish you were here even though you would hate every minute of it.
You probably had no idea how much John had messaged him on the side during that week, anxious to know how you were doing, if you had remembered the guy was coming to look at the stove and fix the one eye that had gone out, fishing around for meaningless little updates because he was halfway across the world and lonely but determined not to look pathetic. Every message had some mundane justification, but Bob detected the paranoia underneath.
The last thing in that chain was a picture of you that Bob had sent him. You were fast asleep, turned away, angled toward the place John usually slept. Your back was bare and beautiful, gently curved, the sheet sliding diagonally across your hip. The light in the apartment was pale and blue, peaceful.
John stopped reaching out frantically after that, like just seeing you had quieted something in him, given a reassurance that words couldn’t.
Bob felt it, too, looking at you--the calm that smothered the ache.
A new ache started, and he sighed and let his phone tumble off his chest, reaching for himself under the blanket. He was only just beginning to understand why This worked for him. Sex had never been easy for him, his mind a constant shouting maze, doubts rearing up and pressing close the second his buzz wore off or the lights came on. It was overstimulating, too much input, and then the insecurities would start—am I doing it right? Do I look crazy? What is my face doing? What if I smell weird? Is my dick too small, too big, too whatever? Are they faking it? Am I? Oh shit, do I even like this? What if I secretly hate this?
Everything got quiet when he could watch you with John, see your face, actually read the nuances of your reactions, your pleasure. He was pretty sure you couldn’t fake it when the sex dust was hitting all three of you, and now he had a control to compare everything else to. And he had been utterly himself that night, doing whatever felt good, and nobody had kicked him out of bed, even if things had become tense occasionally with John.
For the first time maybe ever, he had been naked with someone, two someones, and not collapsed into his own mind. His therapist said he craved novelty and stimulation, and now he had it; he suspected you needed it, too. And when he was too in his head to get started, when the voices were still a drowning sea, John was there and Bob could watch and gradually wade in when he was ready.
He liked John’s commands, the way he reassured both of you. Sometimes Bob lost himself in you so deeply he couldn’t dredge up a single word to tell you how good it felt, but John filled the sweaty silence, voice low and graveled, just audible above the wet squelch of bodies. She likes it so much, Bobby, or I think you found the spot, or just like that, she’s getting close, fuck, she’s gonna come…
He talked you through it when Bob had to lock everything down and just focus on sensation. Like now, when he imagined your tits pillowing against his chest, and your lips nibbling his neck, his cock hilted, warm and slippery, sheltered in your body. He touched himself lightly, teasing his fingers around the swollen, leaking head of his dick, the way you always did when you started playing with him. Then he fisted himself more firmly, stroking hard, picturing your feverish little gasps, the way you groaned and squeezed your eyes shut when he pushed in all the way.
Bob shoved the covers down, jerking himself off until he came in a shuddering fit against his stomach. In the clarity that followed, while he cleaned himself up, he realized it was time to go home.
He retrieved his clean laundry, packed it into his bag. His own smell finally hit him, so he showered, then shaved a few days of stubble off and changed into clean clothes. When he was leaving the tower, he ran into Bucky.
“Hey, man, didn’t realize you were back,” Bucky said, slapping him on the shoulder in passing while Bob waited for the elevator. “Where do you keep disappearing to these days?”
“Just seeing some friends,” Bob replied, clearing his throat.
“Yeah? You good?” Bucky paused, waiting for Bob’s answer. He had been looking at something on his phone, distracted, but he tore his attention away to glance over his shoulder.
“Totally, yeah. Better all the time.”
Bucky nodded, a slow smile creeping across his face. “Good stuff.”
“Cool. Catch you later.”
Bob could’ve gotten to the apartment in an instant, but he walked instead. The world was bright again, crisp, and the late summer air was gentle after a heat wave, the breeze like a whispered apology. The silvery quality to the sky didn’t register until he thought harder and realized it was early, early morning. When he checked his phone again, he discovered he had been away almost four days.
He wondered if he would catch you two in bed together. The voices almost kicked up again, conjured by the brief flicker of jealousy that tightened his chest. It felt like a quintessential throuple experience that he had yet to have—opening the door to find you pinned under John, shrieking his name.
Bob jangled his keys kinda loud at the door, half-announcing himself, weirdly nervous. When he stepped inside, nobody was fucking anyone or anything; John was lying down on the couch lengthwise, facing the entrance--he never put his back to a door if he could help it—the Sunday New York Times crossword folded and held above his head and yours. You were nestled against him, your back resting against his chest, legs tucked up, one of his own dangling off the edge to make room for you.
John did the crossword every Sunday, an old habit from West Point that he claimed kept his memory sharp as a tack. He lowered the paper just a bit, peering at Bob over it, reading out the next clue like nothing had changed. “Website that calls itself 'the heart of the internet,' six letters…”
“Reddit,” Bob said, without even thinking. He unhooked the bag from his shoulder and dropped it by the sideboard, then kicked off his sneaks.
“Yeah, huh,” John muttered, checking the boxes with his lower lip poking out in thought. “That’s…probably it, actually.”
You rolled off the couch, running to meet him like he was returning from war. Maybe he kinda was.
“Hey,” Bob said, nodding as you asked for permission to hug him with a twitch of your hands and a lifted brow. “Yeah, please.”
“There’s coffee.” You breathed him in from his neck, lingering in his arms and then leaning back to brush a kiss against his chin. “Want some?”
“Sure, why not?”
“I’ll get it.” John groaned, unfolding his big body from the sofa and stretching, dropping the folded-up paper and his pencil on the coffee table before retreating to the kitchen.
You unwound yourself from Bob with another stolen kiss, this time on his shoulder. “I smell terrible,” you sighed. “I’m gonna hop in the shower.”
Bob watched you cross to the bathroom, heart squishing around in his chest as he breathed easier, breathed in the now familiar scent of the apartment. He shuffled to the kitchen, listening to the shower turn on and the pipes chug. He almost missed the new curtains hanging over the living room windows. They were dense and black, pulled back now but he could imagine they blotted out almost all light when closed.
“Those are—” He pointed, frowning.
“Didn’t throw out the other ones,” John hurriedly told him, delivering a cup of coffee with a tight smile. “They’re in the front closet, just thought these might be better. I know you both have trouble sleeping, so.”
Bob accepted the coffee, blowing softly on the surface out of habit; it could be boiling hot and it wouldn’t burn him. While he lingered in the doorway, John went back to the sink, dumping out his own mug and rinsing it, shoulders high, almost to his ears. He leaned against the counter, rocking slightly onto his toes, chewing something over like a father deciding just how hard he wanted to lay into his kid.
“We were worried,” John said quietly to the dirty dishes. “Did you remember to take your meds?”
Bob looked at his feet. “Yeah. She sent me a reminder.”
“Good, that’s…good.”
Bob sipped his coffee a few times, both of them listening to the hush of the shower water through the walls. It stopped a minute later, and then you were sliding up behind him, damp and soft in your towel, wrapping your arms around his middle and resting your head on his back.
“We missed you,” you said, nuzzling into him.
Bob’s gaze flickered to John, who tensed at the collective pronoun.
“Yeah?” he asked. “Do anything fun?”
“Oh no,” John murmured, huffing out a laugh. He finally tore himself away from the sink, passing the two of you on his way to sit on the edge of the bed. “That’s her thing.”
Bob spun slowly until he could give you a coffee-flavored kiss, then pressed his cheek to yours. “I’m okay.”
“I know.”
“I don’t…I don’t think that other guy will show up again for a while. He tried his best. He sucks. But I came back.” His voice faltered as he swiveled and put his cup on the counter, then gathered you closer to his chest. “I’ll, um, I’ll always come back.” Over your shoulder, John was taking off his socks, rolling down his sleep shorts, somehow reading Bob’s mind. “Can we…can I…”
“You want to hear about everything?” you asked, hands sliding up his chest, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.
“Please, yes, yeah.” He leaned in, heart pounding, heart full, letting you guide him toward the bed. “I want everything.”
Dex Finds Himself a 'Good Girl' 🔥🥀💀 by aquaticmercy
I need to pee 🔥 by saintlea You need to pee and he makes you hold it.
Dex is Naturally More Submissive 🔥 by aquaticmercy
Little Monster 💗🥀🍿 by aquaticmercy Your first date with Dex turns out to be an unforgettable one.
Intrusive Thoughts 🔥💀 by i-smoke-chapstick A bit of Dex's sadism shows through despite his best efforts.
Matt Murdock
So Sensitive 🔥 by hornheadswhxre For the first time, you explore just how sensitive Matt really is.
Heatwave 🔥🥀 by hornheadswhxre There is another record breaking heatwave this summer, and Matt is struggling with how hot it is. Maybe you can help him out a bit, or at least take his mind off it.
KITTY CAT ! 🔥🥀 by peterftpercy In your teens, you and Matt were a couple. Years after breaking up, you meet again unexpectedly — you needed a lawyer, but your involvement in the situation reminds Matt how much your youthful attitude puts him in a moral dilemma.
Divorce papers 🥀 by peterftpercy Things between you and Matt hadn't been good for a long time... and time was always cruel, so it was time to meet at a cafe to sign the divorce papers. Papers that Matt conveniently forgot.
THUNDERBOLTS
Bucky Barnes
Take It, Baby 🔥 by pleasantlycrazyworld Bucky was just too big and he was desperate for just one more.
A Kiss As Encouragement 🔥💗 by ronearoundblindly You hate the gym, but you have goals, too. Bucky is here to help.
what if he's mine 🔥💗🥀 by godmadeaterribleerror You fell for Bucky a long, long while ago, and you think about him every day and every night — if only you knew that he thought about you too.
John Walker
Until It All Falls Down 💗🥀🩹 by paging-dr-werewolf With the anniversary of Lemar's death looming, John pulls away, questioning whether this new arrangement is sustainable. Gets into the psychology of someone like him trying to make it work in a throuple
Until the Roof Caves In 🔥💗 by paging-dr-werewolf Life takes some adjusting when you have two superhero boyfriends, especially when they seem to be forging an unlikely alliance. Throuple domesticity turns into something much more.
will be updating this periodically — reblog for visibility!
dailybridgerton
2087
jacobvanloon
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