Like An Old Married Couple (John Walker / F!Reader)
Summary: Somehow, you keep falling asleep on John Walker's shoulder. He'd be angrier about it if he wasn't secretly head over heels.
A/N: Life has been repeatedly punching me in the throat lately, so I am reduced to writing fluff to stay sane. I love him, your honor. -__-
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence, but there's no smut
WC: 3.5k (complete)
CW: FLUFF. Rivals to lovers, reader is afab, reader is a new avenger/thunderbolt, reader swears, reader is not described but has vague powers (self-healing), banter, romance, adult language, innuendo, mild depictions of violence and a gunshot wound, John is down bad, reader is down bad.
Sick af dividers by @lobster-graphics
The first time it happened, John told himself it didnât mean anything. Missions were exhausting, and no matter how many times he lectured you about it, you kept overextending yourself in the field. And the transport vehicles to and from safehouses were frequently cramped, with sometimes just the one available bench for passengers, all of your gear and medical supplies occupying the rest of the seating. It was just logical that you would sit side by side. It was just logical that you, dead on your feet after doing too much again, would nod off against the nearest object.
It was just logical that he was a soft place to land.
What wasnât logical was how quickly his brain told him to stay still, not jostle you in the slightest, not interrupt this rare moment of peace. You looked so different when you slept. Your face softened, your expression sweetened, and even the dirt and grit on your face from the field couldnât detract from that.
The first time, he just let you do it, snorting softly in surprise as you slumped against his left shoulder, cheek squished against his armor, then you rolled inward until your head found the gentler pillow of his chest and part of his shield harness. After he got over the initial incredulity, he considered it was a joke, just another attempt to get under his skin (a skill you had developed in record time, by the way). Youâd pop your eyes open in a second and tell him, âin your dreams, Walkerâ and laugh with the others about how dreamy and stupid he looked the time you pretended to fall asleep on him.
But no matter how long he stared down at you, you didnât move. Your chest rose and fell in a slow cadence, puffs of air escaping your nose on each deep breath. You had stripped off part of your gear, laying it across your lap when you climbed in next to him, and as the transport hit a bump, it nearly flew off your legs. John caught it before it could hit the floor and make a noise, carefully resettling it on the bench to his right.
His back ached by the time you reached the safehouse. Alexei always insisted on driving, God help you both, and when his fist hit the back doors of the truck, you jerked awake, blinking around as if you had no idea where you were or how you had gotten there.
âRise and shine, my sleepy babies,â Alexei shouted, flinging the doors open. He must have been watching through the rearview mirror, pointing at you and chuckling. âYou, little lady, have lived the American dreamâfalling asleep on the Captain himself.â
John watched your ears turn red as you grabbed your shit and hauled yourself out of the truck, judiciously avoiding his glance as you brushed past Alexei. âHeâs not Captain America.â
âYouâre welcome,â he called, annoyed, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose before following you out into the cold, waiting until you got very far ahead before making the trudge from the truck to the front door.
âYou two are so silly,â Alexei said, rumbling with fond laughter as he locked up the truck. John tried to ignore the commentary as he stalked away. âMaybe tomorrow she will pull your hair, and you will push her down on playground.â
The second time was harder to brush off.
It was protocol to get checked out in the med bay after any mission, no matter how light the combat, a policy instated after Alexei insisted on âwalking offâ a bullet wound that went septic and nearly killed him. But Yelena was the priority that evening; there was concern she had sustained a mild concussion, so after unloading the quinjet, you and John waited to be seen by the physicians in the darkened strip of lobby outside the exam rooms. There was furniture all over, but you took the spot right next to him on the leather bench between the watercooler and the vending machine.
âThis is on me,â you were saying, leaning back with your arms crossed, legs out in front of you, your head thumping against the wall. Muted voices bled through the exam rooms. Your voice was an exhausted scratch. âI couldâve intercepted that creep. I shouldâve.â
âIt was dark,â John said, tossing his beret on the bench to his left, smoothing both hands through his hair as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. âYouâre not the only one who let her down.â
âYou donât have to do that,â you said, stifling a yawn in your first. âDonât have to let me off the hook.â
âWhen do I ever let you off easy?â he asked, shaking his head. âIt just happens to be true that we both shit the bed this time. Our execution was sloppy. We learn, we move on, we do better next time, the end.â
You barked with laughter, shoulders bunching up as you closed your eyes.
âWhat?â he asked.
âJust imagining us side by side, shitting the bed.â
âJesus.â But John grunted out a helpless laugh, leaning back to mimic your outstretched position. âDid you hear the rest of what I said?â
âNo. Not really.â
God, sometimes you were impossible. Most of the time you were impossible. The minutes ticked by. A weight crumpled against his side, you again, your head falling onto his shoulder, on his right this time. John froze, watching you shift onto your side slightly, your left arm tucked against his ribs, the other settling on his abdomen, your right hand perilously close to curving around his belt buckle. He waited, expecting you to wake up, but you just seemed to get more comfortable, whimpering softly in your sleep.
Shit, it was cute. He didnât want it to be cute. You were such a pain in the ass, a constant, needling thorn in his side, it didnât seem fair that you looked like an angel when you curled up against him like that. Somehow you always wound up by his side. And it was practical, sure, because your skills complemented each other on missions, because you pushed each other, toxically competitive, because even if you bickered like an old married couple, the job always got done and there was no arguing with the results.
Like an old married couple.
John tried to erase that thought from his mind, but the more he flailed at it the stronger it became, a diamond hardening under pressure. You just seemed to fit perfectly there, cheek on his shoulder, hands splayed across him, body temptingly warm. He blinked heavily, trying not to breathe hard and move you up and down but he couldnât help it. It was a tender, intimate position, and it felt good.
With utmost care, he extended his right arm around you, supporting your waist, allowing himself to feel what it would be like to have you in his grasp. It was a mistake. I just need to get laid, he thought. When was the last time I got laid? The answer was so depressing he didnât allow himself to complete the inventory. Touch starved or not, there was no way around the truthâyou connected to him like a perfect puzzle piece, and having you there made his eyes grow heavy and his muscles relax, and bit by bit, he fell asleep, too, calm and content, his head resting on yours, breaths mingling until the door opened and the lights clicked on, and the poor nurse sent out to collect John was forced to lightly shake you both awake.
You unwound from him with a groan, shoving the heel of your palm into your eye and grinding it. âWe have to stop meeting like this,â you muttered.
No, we donât.
âYou started it,â John grumbled, letting you go first. It was the chivalrous thing to do. You pinned him with a glare before disappearing into the exam rooms.
âYou put your arm around me.â
âBecause your head is like a fucking bowling ball. My arm was cramping.â
The nurse glanced between the two of you helplessly, clutching her clipboard.
âWhat does my big ass head have to do with anything? Youâre such a fucking dork, Walker.â You rolled your eyes, which always spiked his blood pressure, made him want to tackle you to the ground andâHe stopped that thought, too, much too terrified of it. âMaybe CT Captain Boobooâs arm, make sure I didnât do any lasting damage to it, canât afford to lose our big strong boss baby,â you joked to the nurse, following her into the brightly lit exam room.
John got to his feet, taking a few huge steps before catching himself. âMaybe scan her head, see how many brain cells are left in there.â
âGood one, Johnny. Slick.â You tossed your head at him. Infuriating. The door closed, cutting off his smart response. He hated being called Johnny. Hated it the most coming from you.
âYeah, yeah,â he whispered to no one, pacing, fuming. âThatâs not what youâll call me when Iâmââ He wound up but pulled the punch that would have crumpled the vending machine, instead giving it the lightest tap he could manage given his surging rage. The machine rocked side to side, settled, then a package of candy tumbled into the tray, knocked loose. John fished the packet out; it was your favorite. He squeezed the plastic until the candy inside was paste.
His glove smelled maddeningly like sugary sweet dust for weeks.
The third time was Johnâs doing, and he took full responsibility.
You absorbed the bullet that was meant for him. He didnât even know where you came fromâthe last time he had clocked your location, you were nowhere near him. But you must have noticed the agent flanking him before he did, appearing at his unshielded side almost the instant the gun fired. John heard the impact, heard you give a single, startled grunt, then pulled you behind his shield and kept you there, both of you using it as a battering ram to run down the bastard who had shot you.
Bucky screamed at John to get you to safety, and he did, without a second thought, with the kind of clarity he often worried had slipped through his fingers after so many years of shame and self-doubt. But Bucky could handle what was left, and you were sagging against Johnâs chest, struggling to conceal the waves of pain that tightened your mouth on every other breath.
âWhere?â was all he asked, swinging his shield onto his back, freeing his hands to lift you into his arms and carry you out into the open air.
âLeft shoulder, itâs fine,â you bit out, shuddering against him, your body undercutting your tough protestations. âMy legs work fine, John.â
âI believe you.â He didnât put you down. He delivered you to the passenger seat of the getaway van and stayed there, shielding you with his body until Bucky appeared. By the time the three of you reached the safehouse, you were clutching your arm, trembling.
âLetâs hope this place was resupplied recently,â Bucky said, leaping out of the back of the van once it stopped, getting to you before John could. John went ahead, fixating on the same concern. This was a remote mountain village in the Balkans, if there was anything besides rat droppings and stained mattresses inside it would be a miracle.
Bucky carried you to the faded, floral sofa, then helped John slam through cupboard after cupboard.
âIâm already starting to heal,â you insisted, rolling back and forth slightly on the couch.
âIs it through and through?â Bucky was asking. He found a roll of cleanish bandages in a cupboard above the rusted-out sink, a bottle of disinfectant in another.
John tried not to notice how much of your blood was on him, a spangle of hope warming his chest as he kicked open the refrigerator and inexplicably found a med kit inside. He ripped it out of the vegetable drawer and hurried back to you, Bucky on his heels.
âNo.â He opened the med kit, fishing out the wrapped, sterile tweezers before pulling off his gloves with his teeth.
Bucky had found another little miracle somewhere in his huntingâa bottle of liquor, no real label, just a piece of masking tape with VODKA written across it in Alexeiâs garbled handwriting.
You eyed the tweezers in Johnâs hands with a grimace, shaking your head, shying away. âItâll come out. I told you, Iâm healing.â
âYou canât know that for sure,â Bucky told you, firm.
âAnd youâd like us to sit here while you suffer and maybe push that bullet out when thereâs a solution staring us all in the face?â John added, grabbing you by the chin and forcing you to look at him. âItâs coming out. Listen to me, itâs coming out. Iâve dressed plenty of these in the fieldââ
You fought against his grip, shrieking suddenly from the pain. Bucky was already pawing your armor off, unzipping your sleeve before holding up the blood-soaked fabric to examine it. The bullet had just missed your armor, a lucky shot, sinking through the tac fabric at the joint by your chest plate. Bucky glanced sidelong at John, showing him the sleeve.
âFuck,â John whispered. The fabric had torn away with the bullet. None of that could be left inside you, not even if you were convinced you could heal your way through it. Alexeiâs nasty brush with sepsis was still fresh on his mind. âIt has to come out,â he said to you again, leaning back as Bucky pushed the bottle of vodka into your right hand.
John closed his hand over the left side of your chest, holding you down, holding you still.
âJohnââ
He blinked hard at the panic in your voice, his eyes crawling from the bullet wound to your face. âTake a swig, baby. Iâve got this.â
For once, you did as he asked. He even saw the faint twitch of your brows at him calling you something sweet. You took a few fortifying gulps, Bucky poured disinfectant down your bare skin, diluting the blood, clearing a path for John and his tweezers.
âThis is going to fucking hurt,â he warned you.
Your eyes hardened, burning into him. âDo it,â you whispered. âI trust you.â
You let go of the bottle, jamming it between your thighs, clamping your hand around his shoulder and anchoring it on his back. He nodded to Bucky, who took a wad of gauze and offered it to you, shoving it in your open mouth for something to bite down on.
John pressed his lips together. âFourâŠthreeâŠâ
He didnât wait until the count of one, having first-hand experience on the other side of the tweezers. When it was done and the shitty little pancaked bullet and the fabric it had torn off your sleeve were in his palm, you shaking and panting on the couch like a feral animal, John allowed himself a single pull from the vodka bottle. It didnât taste like any vodka heâs had before, maybe more like bathtub Everclear. Bucky packed the wound, then taped it, rigging up a clever little harness of bandages across your shoulder and under your arm pit.
You wrestled the bottle out of Johnâs grip with your right hand, leaning back, head on the back of the couch. âTo you, gentlemen.â
You took one last swig, and passed out.
 âIâm checking the satellite phone upstairs,â Bucky sighed, getting to his feet with a groan. âKeep an eye on her.â
John didnât need to be instructed twice. He packed up the med kit, found a mostly finished roll of paper towels and tried to clean himself up the best he could. The sink actually worked when he tried the taps, though the whole house shook from the pipes going to work and the first spurts of water were dark orange. He ran the bullet under the water, saving it for you, or for him, a lucky charm. He dropped it in his pocket, wiped off his hands, and returned to the couch. When he sat down on your good side, the springs jabbed him in the ass in four different places, but it was still a relief.
You were still drifting in and out of consciousness. âWho counts from four?â you mumbled, head lolling back and forth on the back of the sofa.
John smirked, scratching his beard and then his hair, trying to get comfortable on the ancient couch, legs kicked out, and you, all at once, tumbling into his side from the unevenness of the cushions. There was probably a family of mice scurrying under your butts, but it was easy not to think about that when you were alive, healing, nuzzling into his shoulder like it was a feather pillow and this was the Plaza. He had been so jacked up on adrenaline that he hadnât even noticed the safehouse smelled like spoiled milk and mold.
He didnât question it or resist when you cuddled up to his side that time. In fact, he helped it along, wrapping his arm around you before your head had even fully settled on his chest. Once you were solid, he lifted his hand to your head, gently pushing the hair back from your forehead, running his middle finger soothingly up and down your sweat-slicked temple.
When your hand curled on his chest, fingernails catching on one of the edges of the embossed red stripes, he smiled crookedly up at the ceiling. You murmured something unintelligible in your sleep.
âYou know, we should try doing this somewhere nicer,â he said, closing his hand over yours, keeping it right where it was, just a few inches from his heartbeat. âYou ever been to Lake Burton? No, of course you havenât. Itâs perfect this time of year. Used to visit my uncle there every summer. Picnic at Timpson Cove, fish up some bassâŠâ He closed one eye, using the other to peer down at you. âI donât know if youâre the fishing type. Whatever, itâs fine, Iâll teach you.â
You fussed in your sleep, mumbling, pushing against him, shoving your forehead into his neck.
âYeah, I know you hate being told what to do,â John said, watching you latch onto his side like an insanely powerful barnacle. âBut maybe youâd hate if less if we wereâŠif weâŠâ He didnât even know where that thought was going or how to finish it without saying something profoundly embarrassing. Something about you telling him you trusted him had cracked his heart open under his armor. All that bluster and all those jabs at his ego, maybe Alexei was right, maybe you dug at each other because it was easier than confronting the scary truth watching from the corner. John closed his eyes, just for a minute, and allowed himself to imagine that these moments kept happening because you wanted them to, because secretly, you liked being draped across him, his heart under your hand, no space between you.
It was a lovely dream, he thought, but just a dream.
âNow whoâs Captain Booboo?â he teased, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You shifted again, your thigh hitching up as you twisted more onto your side, your warm leg falling across his, your toes hooking behind his ankle. Remarkable, that you found a way to retaliate even while fast asleep.
When Bucky came back downstairs, he took in the vision of you wrapped around John like a spider monkey with a thoroughly unimpressed look. Bored, even. John cleared his throat, suddenly wide awake, and tried not to consider what Buckyâs unfazed reaction might mean.
âTransport out will be here at zero seven thirty,â he said, turning back around to head back upstairs. âYou two, uh, get some rest.â
John waited until his footsteps receded and the house was quiet except for the sound of you breathing against his neck.
âYou heard him,â you said softly, pressing your nose against his adamâs apple. âWe have our orders.â
Johnâs hand stilled where it was still rubbing circles on the side of your head. âYouâŠyouâŠâ
âHave been awake this entire time? Uh-huh.â
You tipped your head against his fingers, urging him to keep going.
âThat lake sounds good,â you added, sleepy.
âYeah?â John kissed your head again, carefully, watching for your reaction. You didnât punch him in the dick, so that was encouraging. âYeah.â
He let his cheek rest against your forehead, all at once too exhausted to keep his eyes open. His hand slid down to your waist, finding the natural curve of your hip and settling there. It was going to be the best nap of his life, he decided, not willing to fight any longer, warm and gooey inside, maybe--dare he suggest it--hopeful.
âYouâre still Captain Booboo,â you whispered, drifting to sleep in his arms.
John rolled his eyes. You could fight it out in the morning.
Summary: Bob's insecurities flare when you're sent on an undercover mission in glamorous Montenegro. You can't help but worry that the arrangement will be too much for him, until it becomes clear he's determined to take control and turn the tables.
This is more or less a sequel to Integration. I suggest reading that fic first.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 13.7k (complete, lol wtf)
CW: Porn with plot, light dom/sub dynamics, reader is afab, reader is not described, reader swears, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, moderate drinking but reader is not drunk, protective bob, mutual pining, somewhat public sex, possessive love, jealous love, risky sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), breast play, texting, teasing, flirting, banter, creative sexual uses of superhero powers, reader is put in somewhat dangerous situations but is unharmed, cw: robert.
Sick af dividers by @lobster-graphics
âBob. We talked about this.â
âYeah,â he murmured, picking at his fingernails, searching the wall behind you for ideas. You noticed his fidgeting and gently closed your hands over his, encouraging him to pause. Denied that outlet, Bob ducked his head shyly. âBut we talk about all kinds of thingsâsugar gliders, X-Files, crust punk, Six FlagsâŠâ He trailed off, glaring down at the diamond glinting on your finger, losing track of the conversation as a cold, sobering realization settled over him; he had waited for what felt like years to have you, and now he would be forced to sit on the sidelines while you took another manâs arm.
You gave his hands a reassuring squeeze and returned to where Bucky stood at the hotel room desk.
âThereâs a tracker in the necklace, one sewn into your bag, too. If it gets too hot, use the beacon activator on the clasp, itâll pulse your location and weâll scramble everything available,â Bucky was saying. A light, lovely breeze swirled in from the open balcony doors, stirring the white curtains there, making them flirt and dance. Bob heard some of what Bucky said, but his mind seized on two words: too hot.
âVorster is a pushover, nothing you canât handle. He knows whatâs on the line and what happens if he fucks this up.â Bucky finished his speech, shoving a few last-minute items into a cream-colored leather bag. A charm dangled from the zipper, another hidden device, another beacon in case things went wrong. The curtains and the bag didnât hold Bobâs attention; your hand, your hand with a diamond ring he hadnât given you was all he could see.
He could feel the Void inside, spreading, whispering.
Sheâs already trying to get away from you.
âIâm going with her.â
Silence. You were with Bucky by the desk in the hotel suite, Bob across from you both, sitting on the edge of the bed. But now he was standing. He looked between you, forcing himself to stop fixating on the ring. Bucky wheezed softly from his throat, head tilting to the side as he waited for you to step in.
âBobâŠâ You looked incredible. Maybe the best you had ever looked. Or the best you looked when you werenât next to him, sweaty and breathless, fucked within an inch of your life. The best you had ever looked while clothed and decent. The ivory skirt suit was tailored to your exact measurements, luxurious without being ostentatious. You looked like a rich manâs wife; his card had declined last week when he tried to get a hotdog at the bodega down the street from the Watchtower.
His stomach turned over, pain singing in his ears.
You came to him, peeling away from Bucky, one hand settling over Bobâs chest. That it was the hand wearing that ring only made him feel more like he was going to fly apart at the seams. Youâve already lost her. âItâs not a good idea for you to come with me. Iâm supposed to be undercover, right?â Your voice dropped to a private whisper, and you leaned in, touching your cheek against his. âWe talked about this. Itâs not real. Itâs just a mission. One week.â
âOne week,â Bob repeated, his throat closing up. His hand pressed yours firmer against his chest, over his heart. The diamond cut into his palm. The band started to grow hot, the metal igniting under his anger. You pulled your hand away, shaking it out, burned from the sudden flare of heat.
âRobert,â you whispered, pleading.
âDo we have a problem?â Bucky asked, turning to face you both, arms crossed, subtle menace in his tone.
Bob pinned him with a look over your shoulder.
âThis is the job,â Bucky muttered, unflinching; he didnât let the eye contact drop. You hovered between them, shoulders back, hands out, like a lion tamer sensing they were losing control. âWeâre talking about mass brain washing tech, shit that could mobilize civilian armies overnight, compromise elections. She canât back out now. This is a highly volatile target, if they get spooked thereâs no telling how long theyâll go underground.â His tone softened. âYou can stay in the same hotel, all right? If she pulls the beacon, youâll be the first to know it.â His jaw worked back and forth, shoulders jumping as he lifted his chin, daring Bob to press it. âThatâs the best I can do, man.â
This had all been made clear to him before he ever boarded the jet to accompany you overseas. It had also been made clear that he was not getting his Sentry suit back, not yet. His integration therapist still hadnât signed off on the requisite paperwork and wouldnât be doing so if Bob sabotaged a critical mission because he lost his shit in a jealous fit over a pretend arrangement.
âYou promised,â you whispered. You had come to stand at his side again, holding his left hand with both of yours. Bucky looked away and turned back to the bag he had been packing for you. Bob knew it didnât really matter what anyone said, that if he wanted to, he could put a stop to it now, or in five minutes, or in two days. Maybe he could just stop time altogether to keep it from happening, he wasnât sure yet; the limits of his power were sketched in darker each day. Everything was still new, especially the trust he was giving himself. You? His eyes scanned down your face, his heart thumping harder just from your touch. You he trusted.
Are you sure?
âItâs fine. Iâm fine.â Bob blinked through the confusion, the only sounds in the room coming from the rustling curtains and his heavy breathing. He brushed a kiss across your forehead, centering himself. He wasnât a child, for Christâs sake. He wasnât a liability.
âBob? Listen to me. Iâll figure out a way for you to still have your outlet,â you said, eyes squeezing shut at the feeling of his kiss.
Like a dog trained with a bell, just the word outlet made the world fuzzy at the edges; the sickness in his body was replaced with hunger and the fan in the bathroom kicked on just for a second. Buckyâs head jolted to the side at the sound.
Bob gazed down into your face, calm on the outside while a dozen increasingly alarming ideas unspooled themselves in his mind. You looked so concerned, so worried that this was too much too soon.
âYouâll be great,â he told you, summoning up a distant smile. âDonât focus on me, okay? Focus on you.â
It actually sounded believable.
So ready to let her go. So ready to give up the fight.
Your relief was palpable, and he drank it in, snugging you to his side quickly for one last kiss before gently pushing you back, stuffing his hands into his pockets before it was too tempting to change his mind and reach for you.
At least he had the pleasure of watching you walk toward Bucky and the desk, the crepe fabric hugging your body like you were born to wear it. Fuck. In his pockets, his hands itched. He had only considered that this would be a test of his willpower, that he would be the one to get their heart cracked wide open, that he would be the one to break. But maybe that was backwards. Clarity struck like a bell. He was beginning to feel the power surges before they escapedâthe room stayed quiet, just the curtains blowing around now, not even his ragged breathing loud enough to disturb the peace.
Bob watched you walk away wearing another manâs ring, and when the light caught it, he felt the atoms making it up bend to his will, ready to transmute. Anything could be anything could be anything. He had looked at this whole thing the wrong wayâyou had nothing to prove to him, and he had everything to prove to you. He made the metal heat up around your finger, just barely, almost imperceptibly, as you took the bag from Bucky. Your eyes locked onto him, brow furrowing until he winked back at you, just sweet, just playful.
Youâre really going to let her go? Just like that?
And Bobâs expression didnât change, nor did his relaxed posture; you had to begin your mission, but now he had one of his own--you were a godâs plaything, and he would make sure you remembered it.
Day 1
A car had been arranged to transfer you to the actual hotel where you would be staying; the target would meet you there. You spent the rider over repeating your backstory, filling in little details, stepping into character. When the car smoothed to a stop outside of concierge, a uniformed staff member rushed forward to open your door. You stepped out into the mild humidity; even the air smelled glamorous here. Ordinarily, youâd jump at the chance to do undercover work for a week in one of the most glamorous locations on Earth, leave behind the city for limestone cliffs plunging down to turquoise water; quiet, private inlets; medieval towers fit for a princess; all the expensive white wine you could run up on the New Avengersâ tabâŠ
But that was before Bob, before you started to fall for a former sign-twirler who used the company credit card to buy tube socks. None of the excess around you made sense nowâthe exotic cars, the tailored couture clothes, the two thousand dollar a night hotel suitesânot now, not now that you were missing a sidewalk art thing Bob had wanted to see back in New York, not when it was his turn to pick for team movie night, not just as he was beginning to settle into himself.
Concierge took care of your bags; you took care of yourself, trying to relax into the posture of someone else as you strutted into the lightly air-conditioned resort lobby. You caught yourself before thanking anyone that leapt to assistâBucky had told you to ignore staff, to take everything in your vicinity for granted.
As you waited for your âhusbandâ in the lobby, you couldnât shake the feeling that something was wrong, that Bob was concealing his true anxieties just to comfort you. You didnât want to make your temporary goodbye a whole thing, because drawing too much attention to the relationship, casting it in a negative light, would reflect poorly on both of you. And Bucky was right, this was the job, and things would never work between you if Bob couldnât cool his jets for a single week while you tried your best to save the world. What would happen if you were actually in danger?
You shuddered just thinking about it.
And in this case, this mission, it had to be you coming in off the bench. You were still the least recognizable of the team, and with a convincing wig and heavier makeup, you were virtually a different person. Tia Mulder, to be specific, youngest daughter of a real estate mogul operating out of Dubai. Tia wore diamonds daily and didnât sweat if one got lost. Tia never left the house looking anything less than elegantly coiffed. Brands begged on their hands and knees for social media collabs. She had staff. She didnât even know what a sign-twirler was and would slap you at the suggestion that she should find out.
Tia Mulder had recently announced her engagement to reclusive tech developer Adrian Vorster, and this little trip to an exclusive, private resort in Boka Bay was your opportunity to keep tabs on him while he negotiated the purchase and transfer of core.ai, an innocuous sounding program capable of truly despicable things. And Tia Mulder was expected to flounce herself in adoration against Adrian for the duration of the trip; at least the booked suite could comfortably fit a family of eight. When nobody was looking, you would be able to escape back to yourself.
âDarling.â
Adrian Vorster strode across the understated, modern marble lobby toward you, dressed to complement you in cream-colored linen. You had studied the dossier Walker put together on the flight over but had either skipped or forgotten the part that showed Vorster was good-looking. He wasnât tall, but he clearly exercised judiciously, and despite being in his fifties, there was still a bright, boyish quality to his face.
âYou look radiant,â he said, reaching you with outstretched hands, pulling you in for three cheek kisses. âI trust your trip wasnât too arduous?â
âUneventful, yes.â
When you tried to lean away, Vorster reeled you in tighter, arm locked around your waist. You suppressed a surprised gasp. âIâve already picked up a tail,â he murmured, voice quivering. âThis needs to look real.â
You smiled through it. âDescribe the tail. Iâll have someone handle it.â
âBy the fern in the corner. Sunglasses. Collared shirt. Big watch.â
You nodded and pretended to kiss his ear. His grip loosened and you disentangled yourself. The smell of his aftershave was all over you now, eye-wateringly strong. âMarvelous, dear,â you said, beaming up at him. âThank you for telling me.â
Swinging back around toward your luggage, you found it had already been handled.
âMother is always so paranoid when I travel,â you sighed, digging your phone out of your purse, trying to make it look natural to unlock it with long, manicured nails. Fucking things. You found the contact labeled Mother which would send updates to the team. Typing out a description of the tail, subtly glancing at the man over the edge of your phone, you took a surreptitious picture and fired off the message.
âGive her my love,â Adrian was saying, looking at his own phone.
You suspected it was Bucky who sent back a simple: Acknowledged.
âWeâve got cocktails at seven,â he added, hooking his arm through yours, attention still pinned to his phone as he steered you toward the interior of the hotel. âIâm eager to show you off.â
âMm.â Your gaze strayed to the other contacts in your phone. Bob wasnât there, of course, too incriminating. Only contacts appropriate for Tia Mulder were listed. But his absence feels like a hollow in your chest. He liked to steal your phone and change the background image to silly shit--cats mid-cough, people falling over, his bare ass--anything to make your composure break, for a smile just for him to sneak out while Bucky lectured about professionalism and optics.
When you reached your suite, that ache for him worsened. Adrian held the door while you hurried inside, while the staff brought in an embarrassing parade of luggage and unpacked it for you. Until you were absolutely, completely alone, the charade must continue. A glass-walled terrace wrapped around the corner unit, giving breathtaking views of the bay below. Adrian escorted you outside, his gaze roaming between the organized dance taking place inside your rooms and you. He extended a hand, waiting for you to curl your fingers loosely inside of it.
âSmile, darling,â he purred out in his lightly accented English, a faded Afrikaans lilt wrapped around each word. âYouâre in love.â
You didnât do Bob the disservice of pretending it was him standing there. You didnât want Adrian to mistake that genuine happiness for anything that belonged to him. âItâs been a long day,â you said.
âIndeed.â He sighed and ran a hand through his silvered ginger curls, his chin working back and forth in thought. âThis doesnât have to be unpleasant. Iâm pleasant company when I want to be. If you want me to be.â
The staff were still bustling around inside. You were still under observation. It was almost a sure thing that one of them was compromised. Adrian glided slightly against the top of the glass railing, inching closer. His hazel eyes hardened, almost black even in the dazzling afternoon light. âI think you should be exactly as pleasant as this arrangement requires.â
âDiplomatic,â he laughed, but it never reached his eyes. âI can see why they chose you. Diplomatic and beautiful, I should say.â
âThatâs not necessary.â
âIt needs to look real,â he reminded you in a rasp, still keeping his light grasp on your hand. "These fellows are jumpy."
âLook,â you said. âNot feel. If youâll excuse me, Iâd like moment to collect myself before our first appearance together.â
His hand sank slowly away, but you saw the flash of regret in his eyes, the tension in his arm. You lifted your head and strode back toward the door leading inside.
âIâm not a lonely man,â he burst out, though it was whispered.
âAnd Iâm not a lonely woman.â You hoped he heard the faint warning in your tone, the chill. For his sake, you hoped Bob was safely tucked away in his hotel enjoying room service and endless hours of syndicated television. He was still discovering the full scope of his powers, and it wouldnât surprise you in the least if he had the pinpoint hearing of an owl. âIâll see you later, darling.â
The cliff-side cocktail patio was already swarming with guests when you arrived. The views down to the water made your breath catch, and you fell a few steps behind Vorster as he led you out onto the warm terrace. Through your sandals, you could feel how sun-soaked the deck had become, and the gentler evening light crawled over your bare toes with a loverâs touch. Hills climbed out of the sea, distant giants, sailboats dotting the bay like bobbing gulls.
You lowered your sunglasses and took it all in, heart twisting painfully at the thought that Bob would love this. He found a way to appreciate everything, even stuff that annoyed most other people. If his therapist was late, he would shrug it off (I get to text you more), if the line outside the empanada place went down the block that was fine, too (Thereâs cat on the fire escape over there, see it?). That kind of gratitude wasnât just a skill, but a blessing. You couldnât imagine how much fun it would be to show him this--all the rich people in their giant hats who somehow managed to look pinched and miserable even in paradise, the electric firepit that you knew he would make flare a little higher just to see your reaction, the soft little loveseats just for twoâŠ
But Bob wasnât there. You were stuck with Adrian, who huffed impatiently at your provincial amazement. Right. You were Tia Mulder and this would bore her to tears. With a shrug, you set your sunglasses back over your eyes and gently swiped your hand across your chest. âAcid reflux,â you said. âFrom the plane food.â
Vorster nodded and clucked his tongue, then put his arm around your waist and guided you toward an empty table not far from the outdoor bar. âMy poor dove.â
âThey only had gnocchi in a tomato sauce,â you went on, loud enough for others to hear.
âBarbaric,â he muttered.
A few curious faces turned to inspect you, but seeing your clothes, your manicure, your bag, your escort, you were soon deemed an acceptable person and the stares drifted away. You stared right back, deciding you belonged there, deciding these strangers would not make you feel like an animal in a zoo. As the two of you walked by a bench heaped with cushions, a woman fluttered her hand at Adrian and popped up to say hello.
âAdrian Vorster? What on Earth are you doing here? Shouldnât you be in Amsterdam?â She was an energetic blip of a woman, with evenly tanned skin and big, swallowing brown eyes.
You were halfway through that drink when your bag jolted against your ankle, your phone vibrating inside of it. With an offhand excuse and an apologyâit could be mummy, and she fretted soâyou fished out your phone, expecting an update from Bucky, but unlocked your screen to a message from an unknown number.
You froze in place. All of the pleasant noise around you faded--gulls screaming to each other in the bay, the soft terrace music, Melody and Adrianâs friendly banter. All of it was gone. You tried not to let it show in your face as your hands trembled around the phone.
At every moment, half of your heart was consumed with the idea that Bob was off somewhere in his hotel crying in the bathtub. But no, it appeared he had allowed Robert to take control of the situation. Well, at least he wasnât crying. A chill wrapped around your spine at the thought of what Robert might do, worse, at the thought of what Sentry might do, at the thought of what you might have unleashed on this place.
You glanced up from the screen, and behind your sunglasses, you swept the deck looking for him. Nothing.
Your phone vibrated softly again, and you shifted it lower on your lap, under the table where nobody could see. It was a trap, of course. After that first message, the right thing to do was to block his number and get on with the mission, but you already missed him so much. And what was the harm? You were a professional. You could handle it.
More buzzing. Several messages came through back-to-back.
does he know I could make you cum right now without even touching you?
maybe I will.
maybe we should show him.
You bit down on your lip, breathing harder. Before you could text back warning him to calm down, not endanger the mission, a strange, buzzing power clamped around your legs, then wrenched them open under the table. Despite your own considerable strength, no matter how hard you tried to close your thighs, they wouldnât budge. Melody burst out laughing; your head shot up. A seagull had shit on someoneâs head. You forced out a giggle through your nose, panicking silently as a whisper of warm energy flicked across your panties.
are you wet for me? bite your lip again if you are.
Again? So, he was somewhere, somewhere with a view of the table. Perhaps your hesitation annoyed him; that ghostly, heated pressure of his power moved over your sex more insistently, impatiently. You squeezed your eyes shut and bit your lip for him. It required inhuman concentration to pull yourself away from the playful way he was teasing you beneath the table and scan the terrace again for any sign of him. And it felt like he had timed his appearance perfectly; golden hour hit, making his silhouette glow, the quiet hints of honey in his hair stand out, all of him so beautiful, as if the light itself had put him there, sculpted him just for this perfect moment. You couldnât imagine where he had gotten those clothesâa soft, short-sleeved collared sweater and pale gray trousers that hugged his delicious thighs. However he had done it, he looked like he belonged.
Your eyes met across the tables and benches and fireplace, his gaze burning with rings of gold as his touch reached you again, pressing into you as if he was right there at your side, hand between your legs. His head tilted to the side, daring you to look away. You tried to listen for gaps in the conversation at the table, but it was getting more and more difficult to do anything but lose yourself to the pleasure, the building sensationâŠ
Bob casually took a phone out of his pocket, tapped something out.
Your eyes crawled from his smugly satisfied smile to the screen. You could use your legs again, and all at once, the teasing stopped, leaving you breathless, bereft, clenching your body around nothing.
Donât worry. The message read. I can be a merciful god.
When you glanced up again, he was gone.
âDarling, youâre flushed.â Adrian leaned over, pouting, remembering you existed, and pressed the back of his hand to your cheek.
You clamped down on a flinch. âItâsâŠthese drinks,â you murmured. âThey mix them so strong.â
Melody wound up staying and tagging along for dinner, which was a relief, because she was much better company than Vorster. She was an encyclopedia of who was staying at the resort, who was friendly and who was to be avoided at all costs. You only received a single message during the meal, which you didnât catch until afterward. It was from Bucky, letting you know the tail had been handled and he was sweeping for more.
It was late by the time you and Vorster returned to your suite. The sellers had finally made contact, naming the time and place for the deal. They had moved it up by two days and it sent Adrian into a tailspin. He uncorked a bottle of brandy and drank directly from the neck, pacing by the free-standing fireplace that separated one unnecessarily huge half of the living area from the other unnecessarily huge half.
âTheyâre trying to throw you off balance, make you panic,â you said, lingering near the door to the wrap-around deck. âWe took care of the tail. There will be more, and weâll watch for them, but all we can do now is stay the course. Donât let them get to you, this is a standard intimidation tactic.â
âYes. Right. Okay.â He huffed and puffed but at least put the cork back in the bottle. Vorster slumped against the edge of the fireplace, gaze hovering over you in a way that made your skin prickle with alarm. âYou were great today, by the way. I wasâŠskeptical about this approach. But you were wonderful. Pitch perfect.â
âThank you,â you said stiffly, taking a step out into the night. âDonât drink too much, Adrian. Youâre in love, remember? You need to look fresh and relaxed tomorrow. Go to bed.â
It seemed like he was going to take your advice, shuffling away and muttering to himself. Honestly, you didnât really care what he did as long as he kept his head down. He was a grown man, though with how many weird, needy looks he gave you, it seemed unbelievable that he had made it this far into his life and somehow created a tech empire. It will all be over soon, you told yourself. And then I never have to see him again.
The night was chilled and you were underdressed for it, but the fresh air was restoring. You wandered down the long, narrow balcony until you reached the corner, took it, continuing down the west side of the building. The scruffy hills across the water twinkled with lights, old towers rising out of the gloom, painted silver by the half-full moon. At the end of the walkway you leaned against the glass, waist-high barrier and hugged yourself, staring out into the nothingness that plunged down toward the bay. Bucky had been extremely clearâyou were never to be anywhere without the purse and the emergency beacon in armâs reach. You fished the phone out of your bag then set the purse down at your feet, scrolling back through the messages from that unknown number.
A light behind you, fixed to the outside of the resort, blinked on. You turned and glanced up at it, watching as moths gathered. Smiling, you turned back to the screen, a wistful lump gathering in your throat. Sometimes he was such a painful romantic.
I miss you, too, you texted.
The little typing dots appeared, your pulse skipping at the sight of him, knowing he was somewhere thinking about you.
just say the word and iâm there.
Shit. You shivered, shaking your head, warring with the impulse to say: yes, of course, right now you stupid idiot.
Good sense and the mental image of Bucky beating your ass into sludge with his vibranium arm won out but it was a close-run thing.
We can't, you texted.
still worked up from earlier?
You smirked. Obviously, you told him.
can't have that, he texted. take this inside.
Then a picture came through of just his abdomen; he had pulled up his shirt, giving you a glimpse of his washboard abs, every muscle sleek and delicious. But maybe the best part was the dark trail of hair leading suggestively toward his jeans and what you knew bulged underneath...
You glanced over your shoulder to make sure you were alone. Fuck. This just wasnât fair. You heard Vorster puttering around somewhere in his room and breathed a little easier. Not slower, but easier. You looked at the picture again, feeling it slide down you like his own sure hand. Maybe it was the salt in the air, but you could swear you could actually taste him, the tang of his sweat as you gathered it out from every crisp dent in his abdomen, lower, into the runnels carved along his hips leadingâŠ
Swaying against the railing, you wiped a hand down your face, once more faced with the impossible task of telling him no.
How do you know Iâm outside? you messaged.
look up.
Out by the towers across the water, a dark shape hovered against the clear, unbroken landscape of stars. One word, one message, and he would be warm and solid against you, maybe Vorster wouldnât see or hear, maybe he would never find out⊠Bob, perhaps kindly, made the decision for the both of you. Your phone buzzed against your palm.
youâre cold. go inside and warm up, baby.
And you knew it was Bob; he was always worrying, caring, still carrying the human anxieties of a man who had lived a lot of life. You watched him float for a while, growing more and more desperate to feel him close the distance. His hands on your back, his chest against your cheek, the heat of him like a solar flare wrapped in skin, the steely command in his voice when he told you to let go, come undone.
So quickly, almost without you knowing it, he had become home. Safety.
The light above you went out. You sighed and picked up your bag and dragged yourself back inside, wandering back through the labyrinth of sofas and bars and fireplaces to your room, carrying the heat of him with you, an ember you knew would never go out. You smiled to yourself, gratified that he was finding a way to cope with this hellish week. Sure, it was torture for you, but at least one of you was enjoying themselves. You dropped your bag next to the nightstand and grabbed your pajamas from the closet, then turned to go into the bathroom and take a very hot and very private shower.
Vorster was standing in the doorway, glowering.
âWhat were you doing out there?â he asked.
Oh boy. His words slurred together, he was unsteady on his feet, he was wasted. The knowing little smile you had been keeping for Bob vanished in an instant. âJust getting some air.â
âWho were you talking to?â
You shifted your weight from foot to foot, calculating how many steps it would be to him, how challenging it would be to incapacitate him if this went sideways, if he didnât let it drop.
âAdrian,â you said calmly, firmly. âWhat do you think this is exactly?â
âWe are being watched night and day,â he said, stumbling a little over his words.
You took a deliberate step toward him, letting your hand become a fist around your pajamas, warning without warning. âGo to your room. Go to sleep. Youâre drunk.â
He blinked rapidly, then looked down at the empty bottle in his hand as if he didnât know how it had come to be there. Like he hadnât pathetically sucked down every last drop. You indicated your unwillingness to bend to the conversation, moving toward the bathroom, the door just to his left, your right. As you came near, his hand shot out, touching the wall, a bar between you and your destination.
âWho is he?â
You laughed incredulously.
âThat man, that man at the bar with the long hair, he was staring at you.â
Gently, exerting just enough pressure, you pushed his arm down and back to his side, stepping into the darkened bathroom. âAdrian, I mean this in the most supportive wayâyou do not want to find out.â You didnât put your back to him, reaching for the light switch. âYou really, really do not want to find out.â
And as you wiggled into it and threw on your sheer beach cover up, dutifully transferring the alert beacon to a more sand-friendly bag and joined Adrian in the common area, you got the distinct impression he was rallying and pushing himself to suffer full sunlight because of that tiny bikini.
Pig, you thought, greeting him with a forced smile, taking his arm and following him to the lobby, then outside to where resort staff came with shuttles to ferry guests down to the water. The ride was bumpy and Vorster looked like he was going to throw up on himself any second. You took a sparkling water from your bag and shoved it into his grasp.
âHydrate, darling,â you hissed. âYou look a little green.â
He groaned, took the water, and plunged into solipsistic hangover silence for the rest of the ride. The staff member driving the buggy cheerfully explained everything available at the cabanas, how to find the bar, what areas of the beach were best for suntanning, and which were best for swimming.
It was magical down by the water, something out of a dream. The white sand begged to be squished between your toes. You had never seen clearer water in your life. The cream-colored cabanas, curtained off and spacious, were placed several meters from each other for privacy. A waiter was supposed to be assigned to each shelter, but yours hadnât arrived yet or was off tending to something else. This was immediately frustrating for Vorster, who hadnât stopped mumbling about a Bloody Mary since you left the buggy behind.
You settled into one of the lounge chairs. In your beach bag, someone had packed two books. When you noticed one was your well-loved copy of Mounted by the Warlord, you had a feeling Mel was not the responsible party. Sweet Bob, making sure you had your smut on hand for a lazy, warm afternoon, something to take your mind off of the terrible noises Adrianâs stomach was making. You unpacked the books, setting them down on a squat, cloth-covered stump of a table alongside a new bottle of tanning oil.
Adrian was still mostly dressed, a long linen shirt half-buttoned over his swim trunks. He lingered, standing on the left side of the shelter, the curtain there pulled open enough for him to examine the beach and everyone on it.
âSeems too pretty of a place for all this unpleasantness,â he sighed. His eyes roamed back to you, then to the table with your things on it. âDo you needâŠshould IâŠwould you like me toâŠâ He nodded toward the bottle of oil.
You rolled your head back and forth on your shoulders, summoning patience. âOh, I already covered myself back in the room.â
âI see.â He didnât even try to hide his disappointment. âIâll be back. Need something to take the edge off.â
âSure,â you said, smiling at him. âTake your time, darling.â
A handful of tufted white clouds stretched themselves across the sky. The curtain right ahead of you was pulled open, giving an unobstructed panorama of the crystal water and the emerald green hills swimming up out of it a few miles offshore. Birds swooped and played. It was going to get too hot to leave the shade soon, so you closed your book, put it back on the table and shrugged out of your cover up, then ventured down the strip of sand between the cabana and the water. The foam lapped at your toes, inviting and cool. You swiveled back toward the hotel, shielding your eyes from the sun as you looked for Vorster. You caught sight of him at the bar a way up the sloping hill. He had found Melody again, apparently, and hopefully that would keep him busy.
You waded out into the water, goose bumps skittering up your legs and across your arms. Tiny fish threaded through your ankles, then scattered. The sand turned pebbly and coarse, transitioning into bigger rocks. You sat down in the shallows, palms behind you, head back, watching behind your sunglasses for any sign of your lover. After his performance yesterday, you werenât naĂŻve enough to think he was done. But you didnât recognize him among the guests frolicking the water or resting on their towels.
When the heat became too much, you picked yourself up out of the water and wandered back toward the cabana. Vorster was still off with Melody, but the waiter he had needed before was there, all smiles as you approached. He was a young man, a bit sunburned across his nose, freckly and friendly. With a little bow, he handed you a fresh towel and asked if you needed anything.
âThe signature mojito, please,â you said, remembering your character. She wouldâve left off the please, but he seemed charmed by it, hurrying off toward the bar, leaving you again in the breeze-ruffled stillness. You sat down on the edge of the lounge chair, gazing out at the water, head swimming from how much time you had spent just sitting in full sun. Sitting forward, hunched, listening, you waited for a bomb to go off, someone to screamâeverything was going so smoothly, and that was not the New Avengers way.
Plucking off your sunglasses, you slipped them into your bag and retrieved your phone, checking, with a blush, to see if Bob had reached out again. But there was nothing. Silence. Faded voices. The waves hushing across the sand and rocks. You felt yourself getting sleepy, complacent enough not to notice that the pace and tread of the waiter when he returned was all wrong.
The drink landed in front of you, hovering, and you took it without thinking. Then, a single, warm finger traced down the line of your strap on the left side, over your shoulder. You jerked forward, shivering.
âYou missed a spot.â
The curtain rings jangled as Bob switched the cloth shut behind him, leaving you enclosed in three walls of fabric. You twisted toward him, lips parting in shock; you hadnât considered how devastating he would look in a pair of little European swim trunks. But now you were finding out, and you didnât know whether to down your drink and tackle him onto the sand or slowly combust.
âYou canât be here,â you whispered, hypocritically gazing in lustful wonder at the hard, smooth planes of his chest, the wall of abs he had treated you with the night before, the cut arms dusted in freckles. You couldnât bring yourself to look at his thighs, not even for a second, because your resolve would collapse.
Bob smirked and sat on the lounger behind you, reaching behind your back for the sun tan oil on the table. Hand trembling, you shoved your drink into the sand, not trusting your fingers.
âGreat,â you muttered, hiding your face in your hands.
Bob twisted you away from him, making you face the water, his powerful thighsâthe ones you refused to think about or look atâbracketed your hips. His thrumming, serum-enhanced heat pounded against your back. The cap on the oil flicked open, then you heard the naughty squirt of some of it landing in Bobâs palm.
His lips, harsh with stubble, brushed your left ear. âUnclasp your top.â
âWhat? Honeyââ
One strong hand closed around your upper arm, squeezing. âDo it. If you get all messy, heâs going to notice.â
The words all messy made your vision dip. Things had a way of getting very messy when you two were alone. A strongly worded email from Valentina showed up in your inbox one day wondering why you seemed to go through so many towels⊠Heaven help you, you did as he said, fumbling with the gold clasp on your bikini top until it gave; you swung the cups outward, gasping softly as the weight of your breasts bounced against your ribcage. They werenât allowed out in the open alone for long, Bobâs slick, oiled up hands scooping up your sides to encase them in his hot, squeezing hands.
Your head fell against his shoulder. He shoved his hips forward until they collided with yours, his dick hard and pulsing against your lower back. He massaged your tits roughly, palming them, then squeezing from the base, the glide of his skin across yours delicious, oil gushing around his slippery fingers as he teased out your nipples, pulling on them in rhythmic bursts until you arched and whimpered.
âDo you know what your body in this swimsuit does to me?â he whispered, pressing his nose to your temple. âThis body. This body that belongs to me.â
All at once, you felt Sentry take over. It was in the possessive pinch of his thumbs and pointer fingers around your nipples, the slight, haunting reverberation in his voice, the heat suddenly scorching up your back and sidesâŠ
You gripped his wrists, whining.
âIâm not leaving until you cum for me,â he said, teasing flickers of energy dancing down your abdomen, ignoring the fabric of your bikini bottom, and nestling into your soaked folds.
âRobert, we donât have time, weââ
âYou donât have time,â he corrected, laughing bitterly. You felt his head turn to the side as he listened for something. âHeâs paying his tab, walking this way. You had better hurry up.â
âPlease.â
You humped against what he gave you, pressure circling your clit like his thumb, like his tongue when he told you to sit on his face and pinned you there with his eerie, invisible strength until you were too shattered and overstimulated to form a thought. His smell wrapped around you, sunscreen and hotel soap and the indelible Just Bob scent that always clung to his skin, flannel bedsheets, comic book pages, sweetarts powder. Â Something was inside you suddenly, not him but something like him, spreading through you, warm and expanding, a new experiment courtesy of his seemingly limitless power. And the thought that someone could just walk right in or happen by the open curtain wall and see you two together, Robert behind you, sinking his teeth into your ear lobe, his hands squeezing like he could milk sanity and sense out of your tits, your hips grinding forward against a cock made of sunlight itself, obliterated your defenses. Your breasts had become so slippery he was having trouble keeping them in his grasp.
âThatâs it,â he groaned against your cheek. âI know you love to cum for me, you do it all the time. Itâs our little secretâhow much you love to moan for me.â
âYes.â You grabbed his wrists, just needing something to hold on to, eyes shut and mouth open as you drew up and went limp against his chest, shivering, the sparkles dazzling on the water splitting apart as he sent you over the edge.
âSo beautiful,â he murmured, stroking the sides of your breasts lightly as you bucked against the aftershocks. Gently, he tucked you back into your top, fixing the clasp, kissing your sweaty cheek. âYouâre such a messy girl, what am I going to do with you?â
Your spine shocked itself upright as the curtain swung open behind you. Adrian was standing there, shirt open, eyes blank, oblivious, a plate of sandwiches in one hand. And Bob was gone, the only trace of him the drink still wedged in the sand, the new voluptuous shine across your breasts, and the curtain to your right fluttering, stirred by more than just the wind.
Day 3
Vorster had been in a strange mood since breakfast. On the boat tour that took you around the bay, he was brooding and silent, chewing his already stub nails. He avoided your gaze, though you frequently caught him staring when your attention was elsewhere. You couldnât tell if he was being intentionally childish or something was genuinely wrong. His jumpiness made it impossible to enjoy a single moment of the excursionâyou could feel the other guests observing him, avoiding him, whispering softly to each other on the other side of the boat.
When you returned to the resort, a staff member stopped you both in the lobby. A message had been left at concierge, scribbled down on a folded piece of embossed stationery. Vorsterâs demeanor only worsened from the moment he had the paper in hand to when you finally crossed the threshold of your shared rooms. You were tired and thirsty from being out in the sun for hours, but there was no rest to be hadâVorster crossed to the sofa and sank onto it, unfolding the message, reading it, and making a sound like a wounded animal.
âTheyâve moved the meeting again,â he grunted, shoving the paper toward you. âTomorrow morning. What are they playing it?â
You didnât say what you wanted to, which was that you were glad the timeline was shifting; you werenât sure you could survive another four days of Bob putting you into a horny tailspin. Taking out your phone, you relayed the new information to âMotherâ aka Bucky and despaired slightly that Bob had gone silent again.
Silly, of course, because it was better for both of you and the mission if he let things cool down.
âThis is another test,â you told Vorster, dispassionate. âThey want to see how you react.â
âAnd how shall I react?â he barked, flipping onto his side to glare at you from across the back line of the sofa. âIâve no stomach for these games.â
You rubbed the vertical edge of your nose, fighting to keep your tone even. âYou will react by getting lunch sent to the room. Tonight, you will react by going to dinner as planned. You will smile at me and flirt with me and behave as if nothing has changed.â
Adrian gave you a cool, unblinking glare. âIâm going to invite Melody; she at least will flirt back.â
âAdrianâŠâ You sighed down at your sandals. âDonât do that. Iâm begging you not to do that. It will look strange.â
He flopped onto his other side, away from you, sulking. âThis is torture, you know. Youâre a very beautiful woman, but I can see someone else is already telling you that.â
âMy personal life is none of your business.â
âThereâs no practical reason for this arrangement to be so miserable. I know how to please a woman, you knowââ
Your eyes swept nervously to the corners of the sitting room, then outside toward the perfect blue of the sky and the wrap around balcony. âAdrian. Lower your voice.â
I can hear every conversation and footstep for a mile in every direction.
âI wonât!â He slapped his palm on the slate floor and then rolled artlessly off the couch, spinning to face you. The high bones of his cheeks were pink with sunburn, his freckles more prominent across his forearms. His eyes darkened, almost black as they fixed on you from across the room. âYouâve been flustered this entire trip. Yesterday, you smelled like sex, though Iâve no idea how you managed it. Yet thereâs an asking in your eyes. Youâre unsatisfied, but Iâm willing to help.â He began to arc around the sofa toward you, while you shuffled sideways to your right, toward the balcony. His eyes turned stormier, meaner, as he noticed your evasion. âIâm glad to help.â
You reached the door leading outside, facing him, and held up your phone, bag tucked under your left arm, beacon in grabbing distance. âDonât make me worry mother, she will be extremely cross.â
âHa.â Adrian stopped, perhaps coming to his senses. His nose wrinkled in frustration as he waved you off and stomped toward the bar. âIs that whoâs left you high and dry? The Winter Soldier?â
This was bait, and as tempting as it was to frighten him with the truth, you understood that this mission was hardly more than glorified babysitting. An actual baby would be easier to deal with. His shoulders sagged as the fight went out of him. You approached him carefully, placing one mollifying hand on his forearm.
âWeâre so close to this being finished,â you told him, in the voice of a mother placating a colicky child. âTomorrow, we can go back to our lives. Try to keep the goal in mind, it makes these things easier.â
Vorster nodded, sighing with a shudder. âYouâre right. Forgive meâŠI was out of line.â
He tried to reach for your hand, but you were already moving away.
One dinner. One dinner and it would all be over in the morning. Adrian didnât listen to you; he invited Melody along, which was bothersome until you remembered Melody could carry the majority of the conversation. There was no stopping her, actually, and she hardly drew breath as course after course of Japanese-Mediterranean fusion dishes arrived at the table. Melody hardly touched the food, adhering to a strict gin and white wine diet.
While Melody held court on everything from Balenciagaâs winter collection (too overwrought, done before) to the absolute misery of hazarding Cinque Terre this time of year (so many Germans, good God), Adrian studied you over his martini while you studied the room over your own drink. Even nestled into one side of the resort on the first level, the restaurant still had a killer view of the water. The architect had understood that everything worth looking at was outside, creating a warm embryo of teak furnishings and soft orange textiles to set a mood without sabotaging the incredible views.
You suspected the tech sellers would have dispatched more tails, particularly after trying to make Vorster panic with another change to the schedule. A man in an ill-fitting suit and a bad haircut caught your eye. He was sitting at the bar, stealing glances at your table a little too frequently. Not good.
âIf youâll excuse me,â you said, leaning toward Adrian as you stood, collecting your bag. âI think I recognize an old friend by the bar.â
This was the pre-set phrasing. An old friend. Adrian knew what it meant, and sat up straighter, clutching the stem of his martini with new urgency. Thankfully, the atmosphere in the restaurant wasnât overly stuffy; other guests rose to mingle with each other, wander out onto the attached deck to enjoy the outdoors, or escape to the bar to avoid their spouses. You took an empty place at the end of the counter, nodding mildly when the bartender took note of your presence. Taking out your phone, you pretended to use the front-facing camera to fix your makeup, instead snapping a picture of the suspected tail. You sent it to Bucky, then swiveled back toward the now attentive bartender to order.
âSheâll have a mojito.â
Your lungs constricted at the sound of his voice, deep and gentle. Sweet and knowing. Just beside you, Bob leaned onto the counter, one curl over his forehead, his cheeks still pink from being out in the sun too long. All of those delicious new freckles dusting his face were going to be the end of you. He was wearing another expensive shirt, dark blue, almost a perfect match for his eyes. He put the billionaires in the room to shame, effortlessly handsome.
You nodded at the bartender, blushing as you glanced down at your hands interlaced on the counter. Bobâs sleeve brushed your arm, and you closed your eyes and prayed to keep from whimpering.
âWhere are you getting these outfits?â you asked in a whisper.
He laughed. âClotheslines.â
âYouâre stealing?â You twisted toward him, mouth open.
âThese people live in castles,â he said, rolling his eyes. âAnd anyway, I put them back after. Maybe slightly used.â
You snorted down into your drink as the bartender handed it to you. After this, you never wanted another fucking mojito ever again. âWant something? Iâll put it on Vorsterâs tab, heâll never notice.â
âHe might. Heâs looking at us right now.â Bob closed the distance between you, his face so close to yours his breath skimmed your bare shoulder. His voice dipped, pitched low and dark with desire. "I donât need anything these people can give me.â
You wanted to lean into him, press your cheek to his, feel the bite of his stubble against your skin, inhale the woodsy scent of his shaving cream. Your eyes felt heavy, your body responding to him like he had you trained, the need for him like a physical weight pressing down on your chest.
âI only want what you can give me,â he said, his front to your right side. You clamped your fingers around the sweaty mojito glass, afraid you would forget yourself and resettle that single, delicious curl back behind his ear. It whispered to you like the fucking Green Goblin mask. Touch me, touch me. Touch him. âWhen youâre ready for me just say the word.â
It was technically mission-related, so you told him, âSoon. The meeting moved again. Tomorrow morning.â
Bob nodded, his pinky grazing your wrist as he considered that news and then you again. âThink you can hold out that long?â
âWe have to,â you said, grimacing as you sipped what felt like the eightieth mojito of the trip. They were good, but it got to a point...
âBut wonât you be lonely tonight?â he asked, using a voice you were becoming all too familiar with. He had so many sides, but some were just for you. When the other New Avengers were around, Robert wasnât nearly so talkative. Or such a brazen flirt. Bob was the one who indulged in PDA, holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him from floating away. âNo one to keep you company. No one to touch you, no one to fill you up.â
Your eyes squeezed shut and you swayed forward, bracing against the bar top. âRobert.â Just this much flirting was making you feel crazy. Your mind flashed back to the cabana the day before, his hands all over you, kneading you, pawing⊠You shifted, your body remembering it, too. âIt feels like you put my boobs through a tumble cycle.â
His ears moved back. âI could help you with that.â
âYouâd just make it worse.â
He leaned in, mischievous. âAre they aching for me?â
âStop.â
âIâm just wondering, baby. Iâm worried about you. I know how needy you getâŠâ Bob did know, over the last few months, he had made it his business and his pleasure. His pinky traced up your forearm, the lightest, most teasing touch, and his eyes followed its trajectory, then continued up your arm to your neck, to your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his chest expand around faster breaths. His lips nearly brushed the edge of your ear. The heat of his power licked playfully at your toes. âIâll be waiting.â
âIâm going back to the table now,â you said, loudly and confidently, like instructions for your own stubborn feet. Bob smiled to himself, waiting to leave the bar until you had collected your drink and started the short walk back to Vorster and Melody.
You expected an interrogation from Vorster, but he was seemingly still taken with Melodyâs story. He didnât even acknowledge your return. It didnât sting, exactly, but you felt suddenly strange, lonely. Even knowing he would be gone, you let your eyes wander back to the bar, hoping for one more glimpse of Bob. The next sip of your drink made you feel dizzy and sick. You had no idea what Melody was even talking about or where they were in the conversation or how you would ever wedge yourself into it.
And it didnât matter, because it would all be over in twenty-four hours, and you could go back home. Home. It was insane to think a place like the Watchtower could be home, but there it was. There was nowhere else that called to you in the same way. Bob had put in a request for new pillows, a request that was reluctantly granted by the team quartermaster after Bob insisted he was getting tension headaches that interfered with his therapy. Really, the pillows were for you, because you liked yours a lot firmer than the ones he kept on his bed. You kept a second toothbrush in his bathroom. Sometimes, when the mirror fogged from showering, you discovered he had left messages for you in the steam. Smiley faces. Cats. Hearts. Broke as a joke, he still managed to make sure your favorite candy was in the nightstand because it helped with anxiety attacks. You had only mentioned that precisely once, and the candy was there the next time you needed it.
You really thought you could make it until the mission was over until you shuffled back to the suite alone, feet killing you from the tall Louboutins (Tiaâs forever footwear) alone. Melody and Adrian had decided to check out the pool-side bar, and you had tagged along until your feet felt like they were going to fall off. You came up with an excuse and left them there, but not before reminding Vorster that the two of you had an early morning. The pointed warning had fallen on deaf ears; someone had started a conga line, Adrian insisted on joining it, and that was your cue to jet.
Your footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, empty sitting room, empty kitchen. You left your heels in your room, freed yourself from the itchy hell of the wig, and showered thoroughly, then changed into a silk robe, downing a glass of ice water to try and chase away the lingering, sugary pre-headache halo left behind by the mojitos. It was late, and the bed was calling; you set your alarm for bright and early, but sensed your brain was still too awake. You padded back out into the main room, texting Bucky to let him know Vorster was still out with Melody. One of you needed to keep an eye on him.
A gentle, salt breeze rolled in from the balcony. You followed it back outside, idly pacing down the wrap-around porch, the wind fluttering the delicate fabric of the robe, lifting the hem. You combed your hair through your still damp hair and traced the hills across the water with your eyes, knowing you would miss this view but also accepting that you would trade it a hundred times over to be back in New York with your team, your friends, your Bob.
You followed the porch to its terminus, back in the private corner where he had turned on that light for you. Leaning onto the glass railing, you told yourself not to pine, not to think about him, but it was a futile command. A noise inside the sitting room jolted you. Turning, you saw the flat screen had turned on above the free-standing fireplace. It took a minute for the image to settle, then you smiled and shook your head, recognizing the darts and pool scene from Mystic Pizza. Julia Roberts with her red curls piled to heaven, rich kids with their feathered hair and turtlenecks, wailing saxophone music and all the sexual tension a person could want.
Bob had started taking you through his beloved collection of 80s VHS movies. Every one of them was cornier than the last, but it never felt like a wasted evening. It took you a few movie nights to realize he was showing you something about himself; he was never going to be an ultra-sophisticated guy. Even with Sentry around, it was never going to be champagne and caviar, it was going to be weeknight pizza specials, sweaty punk shows in Bushwick, and analog media, tube socks on the company credit card and borrowing cashmere sweaters off of clotheslines. You looked down at the diamond on your finger, and it had never looked more out of place.
You fished the phone out of your pocket, composing a text raving about Juliaâs hair in the movie, but then you deleted it. It wasnât the want of his touch that made you crack, though that was real enough, but the want of just him.
Please.
You had hardly hit send before a shape materialized out of the darkness, streaking across the sky like a dark comet. He moved so fast your eyes couldnât track it. The silk of your robe fluttered again, stirred by the wind and by the speed of his flight. Bob was at least wearing clothes you recognized this timeâan old worn in peppery gray tee and jeans. There was no self-satisfied speech or teasing, he just took you in his arms, checked you up and down to make sure this wasnât an actual emergency, and then pulled you in, resting his chin on your head.
âWhereâs Adrian?â he asked, unwinding you gently. He spun you in place, arms still around your waist as he led you closer to the window so you could watch the movie through it.
âConga line,â you said.
âCanât believe you skipped out on that for me,â Bob said, chuckling. âOh! Here, I love this look she gives himââ He said, pointing around your arm at the screen. Julia Roberts was pinning the rich guy with a hot, cocky glance, holding it while she sank another trick shot at the pool table. âThat gave me such a boner when I was sixteen.â
âStill does, I think,â you teased, wiggling back against him.
âThatâs not from Julia.â He laughed, pressing a kiss to your cheek from behind.
Bob kissed along the curve of your left ear. âCouldnât wait until tomorrow?â
You pried yourself out of his grasp, turning your back to the window to look up at him. At last, you could put that rogue curl back behind his ear; his eyes closed gently in pleasure as you did so. âAdrian is acting weird. Possessive. Today he tried to convince me to sleep with him. He thinks Iâm with Bucky.â
It was the wrong thing to say; you saw the change in him right away, Bob receding and Sentry filling him to the seams. His chest flared, gold outlining his pupils. He took your right hand, flattening it against his chest so you could feel the mad tremor of his heartbeat.
âIâm not leaving you alone with him. Iâll stay out of sight, but I wonât be far.â He silenced your rebuttal with a kiss, sliding both hands up your neck to cup the back of your head. He was so warm, deepening the kiss the moment he felt your body relax against his. Groaning, he backed you into the window, his left hand slipping down your throat to your shoulder, pulling until the shoulder of your robe slid down, revealing your bare skin. He kissed and bit the flesh there until it was shiny and sore, hands gripping your ass, holding you fast against his chest, his hips, the thickening jut of his erection.
You knew it was your job to stop him, slow it all down, but you couldnât, drunk off of the feeling of his hand traveling lower, palming your breast and squeezing where you were already tender and overworked from the previous day. He grinned at your helpless little sounds, thumbing your nipple to life before abandoning it to push the two halves of the robe aside and cup your sex through your panties. The fabric burned under his touch, disintegrated, leaving nothing but a faint, tingling heat behind.
âBob, we shouldnâtââ
Your pleas were weak, and you both knew it. He dropped to his knees, nosing apart the robe to lap at the slick escaping you, wetting the creases of your thighs. Your fingers sank into his hair, tugging him closer, tightening when he licked you in earnest, his nose burying into your folds, bumping your clit in time with the rhythm of his tongue strokes. He peeled you apart with his thumbs, going deeper, harder, lost and groaning, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue fucked into you until your legs buckled and he had to readjust his hands to hold you up.
It wasnât going to take long. All of his tormenting and teasing had left you in a constant state of sizzling arousal. He probably couldâve leveled you with a stern, golden-eyed glare and you wouldâve doubled over. You lifted one leg, hooking your thigh over his shoulder, mashing his head into your cunt, faster, faster, convinced he was going to rug pull and leave you breathless and aching again, but noâhe kept going, not even attempting to stop you from humping furiously against his head, determined now to chase that glimmering promise on the horizon.
âFuck, Robert, fuckââ Your head thumped back against the window. Your breasts spilled out, naked for the cool caress of the night breeze. Somewhere inside the room behind you, you heard a door open and close. Your eyes flew open, but it was too late, you were too far gone, and the knowledge that shitty fucking Adrian might see you getting eaten like a buffet, split open on another manâs tongue, made the world flash white and hazy. You spared one hand from his hair, biting onto the edge of it to keep your moaning in check, eyes rolling back as Bobâs face slid higher, all of his concentration zeroing in on your clit, his lips wrapping around it and suckling until you couldnât breathe.
Boneless, buzzing, you went perfectly still, hoping nobody had seen you. Bob, unhurried, stood, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe off his face. His eyes, still burning with gold, shifted from your wrecked face to the room over your shoulder. âIâll keep him busy,â he said, strong, practiced hands slipping around your waist, holding you up again. âIâm not done with you.â
âIf he sees usââ
âHe wonât.â He sounded so sure, looked so sure. His knee parted your legs, and he glanced down to where your damp cunt met his thigh, grinding it against you, stirring the hunger only he could stoke so easily. âNo, Iâm not done with this body.â
You heard Adrian swear inside the hotel, lights flickering in different rooms. Bob smiled, smug, amused by this side quest he had put himself on while you undid his belt and pulled his jeans open. The fabric of his boxer briefs was soaked.
âLet me do that,â Bob murmured, freeing himself, the almost terrifying heat of his dick pulsing against your skin as he worked the tip back and forth from your clit to your entrance, waiting for the lights to dazzle in your eyes before he ground forward, lodging himself inside, hands dipping down to grip your thighs and hoist you up. You gasped, pinned roughly against the window, your exposed shoulders squeaking against the surface as he mouthed against your throat hungrily, shuddering as he pushed, and pushed, opening you up, taking what was his.
You had been waiting on that exquisite stretch for days, the memory of it and your own fingers never close to the real thing. The powerful thrum of his body couldnât be recreated, or the way his evening stubble rasped against your cheek. You could feel the tension coiled in his spine, your hands looped over his shoulders, around his neck.
âGod, you take me like a dream now,â he whispered, but you could tell his eyes were pinned to the inside of the hotel, tracking Adrian, keeping him on a wild goose chase as he turned on appliances and lights room to room. His concentration frayed as you squeezed him tighter between your thighs, flexing your inner walls. âThis pussy knows who it belongs to now, doesnât it?â The false ring on your finger burned slightly, a spiteful little warning. âSay it. Say it.â
âYours,â you breathed, holding on for dear life. His thrusts were brutal, claiming, jarring the air out of your lungs. âMyâmy body is yours, this pussy is yours, Iâm yours.â
âThatâs right,â Bob grunted, sweat popping out along his brow as he dragged you up and down the window, using you for his pleasure, like a warm, living toy, his to fuck, his to please or not please. âYou had a god on his knees, but now I have you where I want you. Maybe we should show him, show him how good you take me, how much you love getting fucked.â
You bit down on a wail, always powerless when he started to talk you through it. And you could tell Robert relished it, too, his dick swelling inside you, the flush across his cheeks higher and redder by the second. He loved every squeak and gasp and moan he drew out of your throat, and you had plenty for him.
His eyes flared orange and gold as he inched backward, just a little, giving himself a deeper angle, allowing you the space to grind your clit against his pubic bone. You couldnât dredge up a single thought or fuck when it came to Adrian. It felt too good. If he saw you, he saw you. There were just your nipples scraping against Bobâs shirt, the friction of your bodies meeting, the squelch and slap of bare, slick skin, the sweet little desperate tremors you felt race down his back as he bounced you faster on his cock, building toward the gushing release you cravedâŠ
Bobâs mouth darted down to your ear. âLet it out, baby. Let me hear it.â
The radio inside the room roared on, deafening. You clung to him, the danger and the pleasure too powerful to resist. âPlease, Iâm so close, I need it, need to feel youââ
âFeel what?â
âNeed to feel you cumâŠâ
He jammed your hips against the window, holding you in place, grunting into a trio of fierce, concentrated thrusts, his hands slack on your thighs briefly as he went silent, shivering, a spasm down his back and the feeling of liquid sunshine spreading through your belly stealing the sound from you both. Bob wedged his hand between your bodies, tracing tight shapes over your clit until your mouth fell open and your skull bumped the window, the stars above bleeding into each other, white hot and searing as the cum he jerked into you as you unwound.
All at once, the lights in the hotel room went out. You heard Adrian swearing and stomping around. Bob gently lowered you to the ground, waiting until your feet stopped shaking to close your robe for you and make you decent. He leaned down, kissing your lips like it was just another sweet, private moment between you in the Watchtower common room. Then, his hand wiped between your legs, two fingers dragging through the mess leaking from you. He slapped that hand on the window, leaving behind a long, milky smear.
Day 4
It went wrong. Of course, it went wrong.
Adrian was groggy and hungover again in the morning. The sellers directed you to a location far, far from the resort. In the car ride to the meeting place, Adrian kept cutting you suspicious glances. You smiled through it, feigning innocence. Wisely, he hadnât tried anything with you, and Bob had remained aloof, though you didnât doubt he was nearby, monitoring.
The warehouse was a few clicks north, along the coast. It was rundown and smelled like rotting fish. Adrianâs knee bounced as you pulled up outside the row of dilapidated buildings.
âJust do as we rehearsed,â you told him, watching two large men approach the vehicle. Their blazers bulged where guns were hidden. âYou know what price to give them. Stay calm. Donât let them see you sweat.â
He wiped his hand across his forehead. âIâm already sweating.â
The armed men escorted you to a table set up behind the warehouse, on a broken, stony overlook with a view down the craggy cliffs to the sea. Gulls circled. There was a rank, dead quality to the air. You picked your way forward in your high heels, making in character complaints about the conditions while Adrian tugged nervously at his collar.
It was a cloudless day. You kept looking to the sky, hoping to see someone watching.
The table had been set with a white tablecloth and three glasses, a nice bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket. The ice had long since melted. You smoothed down your skirt and took a seat with your back to the water; you wanted to keep an eye on the comings and goings. You counted four men besides the seller. They wore odd, nylon masks, colorful, pixelated, like they were playing at censoring their own faces.
âItâs a beautiful day for business, darling,â you told Adrian, trying to calm him as he glanced in every direction.
The seller arrived relatively on time. He had a slender build, and arrived in a gray suit with no tie, one of those same masks pulled snug over his face, damp in the heat. When he sat down and launched into his spiel, you could tell he was using a voice changer, the outline of it bulging against his fabric mask.
âWe appreciate your flexibility,â the seller said. He took a small container out of his jacket and set it on the table. It was the size of a ring box. He uncorked the champagne and poured some for each of you, though you werenât sure how he was going to drink with the mask. He turned slightly toward you.
âDonât mind her,â Adrian said, laughing like an idiot. âWeâre celebrating our engagement. Sheâs not important enough to be a liability.â
âNo, Iâm glad sheâs here,â said the seller. He leaned back, propping one ankle on the opposite knee. âShe should know about theâŠirregularities weâve observed.â
Your heart stopped. Oh no. Oh shit. You looked between the two men.
âI canât imagine what you mean,â Adrian said, fiddling with his glass.
âIâm sure you can.â The seller tipped his head to the side, attention fixed on you again. They had seen you misbehaving with Bob. You were burned. He opened the box with the tech, taking out a card the size of your thumbnail. The sun caught on tiny filaments imbedded in the chip. âOur price has gone up. The cost of your degeneracy.â
Adrian flapped his mouth. You kept your face a blank mask.
âWhat is he talking about, darling?â you asked, lifting a brow.
You gasped theatrically, fluttering your hand over your chest.
âThis is nonsense,â Vorster sighed, glaring toward the sea. âWhat does this have to do with anything? Let us get on with it, let us get on with the sale.â
âThe price just went up again,â the seller sighed, putting the chip down on the table between the three of you. âThe cost of lies.â
You watched Adrian over the top edge of your sunglasses until he muttered, âI went out with Melody last night. She must have drugged me, when I got back to the room I thought I was having a strokeâall the lights were flashing, it was a nightmare.â
âI can forgive,â you said softly, relief loosening your grip on the glass you had yet to drink from.
âHow touching.â The seller pretended to dab his masked cheeks.
âSo. Whatâs the damage, then? Whatâs the price?â Vorster demanded.
âEight hundred and twenty million.â
Vorsterâs face reddened as if he were being choked. âThatâs unacceptable.â
âYou said this was important, darling,â you said through clenched teeth. âAnd after all, itâs just money.â
He snarled, looking between you and the seller with darting eyes. âIâll pay seven hundred and fifty, which is what we agreed upon in the first place.â
The seller clucked his tongue. âIâm afraid the price has gone up.â
Vorster rocked forward in his chair, jabbing an accusatory finger at the seller. âAnd Iâm afraid you can go fuck yourself.â
âDarlingââ
You saw the men advancing and their guns being drawn. The seller snorted, shrugged, then began reaching for the chip on the table. Without another thought, knowing this was it, that if this went south then these people would go underground for months or years and make the sale quietly to someone worse, someone who couldnât be controlled or bribed, you lashed out with your right hand, grabbed the chip and shoved it in your mouth, swallowing.
The beacon activated just as Bucky killed the motor on his bike a mile down the road from the abandoned warehouses. Bob felt the crackle of energy from the receiver in Buckyâs bag before the sound emerged, muffled by the thick leather. Their eyes met across the bag.
âGo,â Bucky told him, hopping back on his bike and gunning the engine. âGo.â
Bob didnât need the order; he was already gone.
Technically, he was on the bench. Technically didnât matter when you were in danger. And it wasnât like Valentina could afford to kick him off the team. The wind tore at him as he arced out of the sky, whistling down toward the warehouse, landing with enough force to knock every man in the vicinity off their feet. You were already gone, somewhere inside the dank, rusted innards of the warehouse, the walls of which were now stripped to the studs and at a slant from Bobâs descent.
Underground, in the twisting, narrow passages beneath the warehouse, he found the seller first. Dead. His throat had been slashed with a knife. Your shoes were abandoned close by. Bob followed the sounds of your breathing, then your screams. The walls were just in the way. If they were structural, heâd deal with that later. He barreled straight to your location, metal and stone and wood imploding; he emerged from a cloud of gray dust, finding you cornered at the far southeast corner of the basement.
Vorster must have used some kind of high-tech stunning deviceâa metal barb stuck out of your neck. Your eyes were glassy, your feet dirty and bruised from pelting through the basement and away from Vorster. He was on his hands and knees, over you, a knife aimed at your stomach. It turned molten in his hand, flashing orange and red, liquefied. He screamed and let go, reaching for the stun gun on the ground.
Bob froze him in place, placing him in a tight prison of energy, just hot enough to be deeply unpleasant. All threats managed, Bob raced to your side, scooping you into his arms. You were coming back to yourself, shaking your head, eyes livelier as you slid one arm around Bobâs neck and leaned into him.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, Bucky using the tunnel Bob had blasted through the underground to reach your position at a run.
âI have it,â you mumbled, struggling to speak. âThe chip. I swallowed it.â
âWhat do we do with him?â Bob asked, cold, hitting Vorster with the toe of his shoe. âHe was going to cut it out of her.â
âSick fuck.â Bucky shook his head. âWe take him in. We take all of them in.â He put his fists on his hips, staring down at Vorster with a curled lip. âVacationâs over, buddy.â
Bob slid the diamond ring off your finger, letting it drop, turning the band to slag before it hit the ground. He held you tighter, grateful just to feel you in his arms, to feel you safe and whole. âLetâs get you home.â
âMovie night,â you murmured against his neck, perhaps a bit delirious.
âAnything,â he said, carrying you away. âAnything.â
Summary: As a New Avenger, you are expected to make an appearance on the Super Bowl broadcast. There's just one problem--you don't know the first thing about football. Luckily, state champion John Walker is available to educate you.
A/N: I'm genuinely in the middle of a giant Bob fic but this came out of nowhere and put me in a chokehold until I wrote it pls forgive
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 4.1k (complete)
CW: Porn just porn, reader is afab, reader is not described, reader swears, mutual crush, praise kink, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart, good girl), fingering (f receiving), banter, flirting, sexual tension, mutual masturbation, discussion of football.
Sick af dividers by @lobster-graphics
It had become obvious that the caffeine from a triple shot latte and the combined sugar from three donuts was not going to save you; you groaned and slid your face down into your hands.
âThis is impossible,â you whispered, to no one, because the New Avengers library in the Watchtower was almost always empty. Bob came down here sometimes, but only to hunt down a book and then leave with it. Nobody stayed. Despite being brand new, renovated, it somehow felt haunted. Weird noises emerged from the stacks, a phenomenon you had become familiar with after sequestering yourself in the study bay at the far, far end, against the windows. This little shit hole had been your home for the past three days. If you had the time, you would have checked to see if the tower had been built on the site of a forgotten tragedy, a turn of the century fire or a collapse, and those eerie whispers you kept hearing amidst the microfiche stations and records warrens were from child factory workers or disgruntled seamsters.
But you didnât have time.
No, you had well and truly run out of time.
It was your own fault. You had known about the Super Bowl appearance request for months. Valentina had voluntold you for it in September. Now it was FebruaryâFebruary 12th, to be exact--and your flight for the event left in just over twenty-four hours. Your brain swam with names, dates, anecdotes, but none of it coalesced into anything meaningful, anything you could summon to mind with a microphone in front of your mouth and a camera in your face. The sum total of your Super Bowl knowledge could be found at the bottom of a nacho plate swimming in liquid cheese and jalapenos.
 The NFL expected you to host part of a pre-show and halftime summary on national television. Tom Brady was going to ask you something and you were just going to drool and fall down.
âBucky is going to bench me for a month,â you muttered, massaging your temples, closing your eyes. But the real punishment for embarrassing the team would be the endless jokes and memes that would emerge from this. You already knew Yelena would clip every one of your gaffs, every painful second of dead air, and revive the videos in the group chat for the next year. Maybe for the rest of your lives.
With trembling, over-caffeinated hands, you reached for the dregs of your iced latte.
âJesus. This place is creepy.â
You couldnât say how a 6â4â, 270 lbs concrete slab of a man surprised you in the uninterrupted silence of the library, but he did, and you decided to blame it on your sleepless state and the stress turning your guts into pretzels. You poked yourself in the cheek with your straw as he startled you, spinning in your squeaky, ancient wheely chair to glare and sulk.
âPlease don't gloat. Let me suffer in peace,â you hissed, spinning back to slump forward and press your forehead to the pile of papers on the desk.
But there was to be no peace. John Walker stepped up beside your chair, leaning down to peruse the mess of notes and articles scattered across the table. âYou printed it all out, huh? You made flash cards? Thatâs...that's almost adorable.â he laughed, genuinely amused, the rare, boyish sound that he never let anyone but his closest friends experience. âIâd ask how itâs going but you look like shit.â
 âThank you so very much,â you said into the table, muffled. âWhy are you here?â
A mug of warm something landed just next to your head. The steam rising out of it was mellow, herbal. âIâm your backup,â he stated. âAnd technically, the search party. Nobodyâs seen you for days. Maybe itâll warm your heart to know we started worrying.â
You sighed and rubbed the grit out of your eyes, lifting your head just far enough to plop it back down on the open cups of your hands. âYouâre too late,â you said. âItâs a lost cause.â
John made the groaning, wheezing sound men always did when they wanted to sound important and cool while taking a seat. A second, ancient metal wheely chair appeared next to yours. Backup. Sidling up to your right, his knee brushing yours under the table, you thought of all the times your heart did a backflip when he genuinely saved your ass in the field, how his rough, urgent on your left or on your right never failed to make you feel invincible.
âNo such thing as a lost cause,â he said, just cocky enough to make it believable and grating.
You took the warm mug into your hands, sniffing it to discover it was some of the expensive chamomile tea Ava kept under lock and key. Maybe they really had been worrying about you. Maybe it did defrost your heart just a bit. Glancing side long at John, you sipped the hot tea carefully. âWhy the hell arenât you going? You love this shit.â
âI did it last year,â he said, flat. âAnd got booed.â His eyes were somehow even bluer in the dim, grim light of the library. The fixtures above your heads stamped broad, orange rectangles across the table. You were sure it made you look like a corpse, but John was freshly showered, beard neatly trimmed, his hair still wet at the ends. The big, cuddly sweatshirt, worn at the sleeves and collar, made you long to curl up in bed.
Maybe with him and that sweatshirt, if you could ever get over yourself long enough to admit your crush.
âI guess it wouldnât be humane to let you get booed in front of the Falcons,â you said, recalling that he was from their home state.
Johnâs nose wrinkled as he looked at you.
âWhat?â You sniffed both arm pits, checking, trying to understand why he was making that face.
âNothing,â he shrugged, brow furrowing. He had an absolutely shit poker face. Without asking, he pooled your notes and flash cards, dragging them in toward his chest before assessing them one by one. A fussy muscle worked in his jaw as he focused. âNo, no,â he muttered, already critical. Wonderful. âNo, see, this is all wrong. Youâre doing way too much. You donât need all of this bullshitâŠâ Again, without input, he began frisbee tossing flashcards into the darkness gathered beyond the desk. What the child ghosts would do with them you couldn't imagine.
âI actually worked really hard on those,â you sighed, trying to intercept one before it gave you a papercut on the chin.
âDo you want my help or not?â
âStill deciding.â
John snorted. âOkay, because from where Iâm sitting you donât seem at all prepared, and I canât for the life of me understand why you thought you could drill all of this into your head two days before the bigââ
âFine. Iâm an idiot. Iâm an asshole. Satisfied?â You slammed the tea down, huffing as he threw another handful of cards away from the table. Did he have to throw them? Jesus. So dramatic. You reached for the rest, knowing it was fruitless but trying to wrestle them out of his grasp anyway.
âNah.â John chuckled, transferring them to his right hand and holding them above his head while you scrambled at his arm and shoulder, trying to reach them, and in doing so, bringing your face dangerously close to his. The last time you two had bickered like this, Yelena had barked at you to get a room.
John let you paw at him, even letting you move him a little back and forth just to make it seem like you had a chance. âSay please,â he whispered, wiggling the cards in his hand just to piss you off that much more. If you werenât running on two hours of sleep and three stale donuts, you might have let it go on longer. But the clock was the clock, and the calendar was the calendarâyou were running out of time and, god damnit, John âGo Bearsâ Walker was your best hope.
âPlease, oh learned one, give unto me your vast and completely useless sports knowledge,â you said, leaning back to press your hands together in a prayer pose, rolling your eyes.
He shook his head, tossing your flash cards back onto the table between you. Crossing his arms, he leaned to his left, into your shoulder, lowering his voice to a register that made your spine tingle. âYou know, youâre cute when youâre flustered.â
You opened and closed your mouth, perhaps proving his point. âIâm not flustered.â
Johnâs brows rose swiftly, his attention darting down to your lips, back to your eyes, assessing. âIs that right? Who coaches the Atlanta Falcons?â
âKevinâŠKevinâŠâ You pursed your lips, mind going completely blank. Shit. âYou know, Kevin.â
âPerfect, yeah,â John said, slapping his thighs and pushing away from the table. âYouâve clearly got it handled, and since Iâm not needed here, Iâll just be heading out. Good luck, you're going to need it.â
âStop.â Fine, it was admitting defeat, but humbling yourself in front of John was less objectionable than humiliating yourself in front of the entire world. You grabbed his forearm, not surprised but awed, as always, at the cords of muscle that flexed at your touch. âOkay. I need help. Please. I'm not even rolling my eyes this time.â
John took pity on you, face softening as he returned to the chair and snugged it up to yours even closer this time. Hmm. âDrink that,â he said, stern but caring, pointing at the mug. âGive your brain a rest, Iâll come up with a plan for us.â
A plan for us. You smiled behind the mug, doing as he instructed, indulging in a quiet moment of just watching him sort through the information you had collected, making piles, a notch of concentration between his brows, his jaw set, gruff, thoughtful sounds grumbling out of him as he made that plan. This was the John you caught yourself admiring during briefings. Skilled, experienced, dedicated John. You wondered if he had any idea how kissable he looked when he got this way.
âAlright,â he said, jolting you out of your close observation, smacking his hands together and rubbing them. âThe Falcons are favored to win, you know that, right?â He swiveled and stared into your suddenly empty eyes. âRight?â
âSure,â you said, nodding vehemently.
âOh boy, okay,â he scrubbed his face with both hands. âThe big storyline will be that theyâve never won a Super Bowl beforeââ
âBut theyâve been twice,â you said, one brain cell firing valiantly.
âYeah. Yeah, thatâs right.â John smiled with relief. âThe Broncos inâŠ?
Oh shit. You squeezed your eyes shut, stammering out, âNinety-nine?â
âAnd the Patriots inâŠ?â
You had just been going over that before he breezed in. Thank God. Not that you were desperate to impress him or anything. I mean, whatever. His blue eyes burned into you, and you got the distinct impression he was willing you to get it right. That he was on your side. âTwenty seventeen,â you said, more confidently.
John turned back to the notes spread between you, but his smile made your heart flip. And it damn near shot out of your mouth when he leaned forward, resettled his hair with a smooth sweep of his hand, and murmured, âGood girl.â
Both of you froze. You stared at the side of his face while it turned a garish, incriminating shade of red. He breathed down at the flash cards like they had all of lifeâs answers scribbled on them, or at the very least a way out of this predicament. The ghosts probably stared, aghast. The lights above you buzzed, reminding you both of the sudden, overwhelming silence.
âI, um.â He squinted, pressed his lips together. âI didnâtâŠâ
Generously, you decided to save him. On your left. âWell. Iâll, uh, Iâll never forget that trivia now. Ninety-nine. Twenty-seventeen. Sheesh.â
John shifted, shoulders hunched; the tiny library chair squeaked under his bulk. The crease between his brows eased. He collected himself, God love him, ever the consummate soldier. âIt wonât happen again.â
And yet. Maybe that was the way to actually remember all of these stupid names and dates and factoids. You were becoming certain he could make the study session incredibly memorable. Impossible to forget, in fact. Your hand landed on his thigh under the table. Through his jeans, his skin roared like a furnace.
âWhy not?â
You saw the question travel through him. His leg jerked toward you. His chest pumped under his sweatshirt. Both hands curled into fists, then relaxed. His eyes slid toward you, lips forming around several silent responses before he went with: âDo you mean that?â Then, his hand reached under the table, sliding over yours where it rested on his leg. âChrist. Do you want that?â
Judging by the flush burning on the back of his neck, there was another question buried inside that one. Do you want me?
âLook at me,â you said, waiting until he gathered the courage to do so. You almost lost the nerve to keep talking, his expression of nervous anticipation squeezing around your heart like a vice. âI need to memorize this by tomorrow. I know you can help me.â Your voice trembled, but you pushed through, encouraged by the way his palm pressed against your fingers, trapping you there like he was afraid to let go. âIâŠwant to be a good student, maybe I could be,â you murmured. âFor you.â
John tore his eyes away from you, blinking hard. âFuck.â
It looked like maybe he was short circuiting. Overheating.
âJohn?â
He swallowed noisily, nodded at something in his own head, then relocated his left hand from his leg to your hip, wrapping his arm around your waist, his forearm sandwiched between your body and the chair.
âCome closer,â he whispered, but he was already yanking you against his side until your chairs collided. You werenât sure what exactly he was planning until you felt the hand on your hip chase lower, resting along the waistband of your leggings. His other big hand folded over the notes, covering them. You huffed out a depressed little sound and he laughed, pressing his nose into your temple, lips hovering by your ear, his breath skipping down your neck and under your shirt. âGood girls donât cheat; they earn their reward fair and square.â
His pointer finger played along the edge of your leggings, slipped just beneath, teasing the delicate skin there. You shivered and gripped the edge of the table for support.
âWho are the Falcons playing on Sunday?â he asked, starting with an easy one.
âThe Broncos,â you said, a bit impatient, a bit insulted.
John hummed with approval, ignoring your bratty tone, the rest of his calloused fingertips easing beneath your waistband. âThat was an easy one, sweetheart, it gets harder from here on out. I thought youâd want me to ease you into itâŠâ
Your eyelashes fluttered shut, the innuendo making your pulse race. âN-Next question.â
âHow many times have the Broncos gone to the Super Bowl?â
He wasnât even looking at the flashcards; he was pulling this from memory. That, or he just wasnât willing to take his eyes off of you, not when he was half wrapped around you, fingers daringly close to the lace trim of your panties.
âSeven?â
John tsked into your ear, hand receding back up your abdomen.
âNo, no, fuck, eight,â you corrected, the jolt of his disappointment and of his punishment zapping the right answer out of you. And your urgency to get it right for him was rewarded, his warm, strong fingers making up the ground and then some, blunt fingernails scratching lightly against your abdomen, playing with lace edge of your underwear.
âGood girl,â he said, absorbing the horny shudder that ripped through you. âHow many did they win?â
Oh, fuck. You wanted to be right so bad. You could feel your temples starting to sweat. His breath was getting hotter on your neck, his leg scalding against yours as the heat built between you. Behind your closed eyes, you tried to imagine that flash card. One edge of it was bent. You had used orange pen on that one, trying to color code the answers to the corresponding team. You could picture the number now, bubbly, roundâŠ
âThree?â
John groaned and nodded, his nose still pressed to the side of your face, the hitch in his inhale telling you he really, really wanted you to get it right, too. Your back straightened as his fingertips smoothed under your panties, tracing the sensitive skin there back and forth, sending buzzing signals through your body, making your stomach flutter and your cunt flood with throbbing need. He kissed the shell of your ear, the scruff of his beard rubbing against your jaw.
âThatâs my good girl,â he growled. âI know you can get this next one. I know you can get it right for me.â
You heard yourself whine. God, what was he doing to you? You couldnât remember ever whimpering for a man before.
âWhoâs their quarterback?â
While you tried to remember, John kissed his way down your ear to your neck, biting gently against your neck, splintering what remained of your concentration. Was he crazy? You were never going to get it right if he kept doing thatâŠ
âJohn, my head is going to explode,â you whispered, shaking.
âThink, baby, you got this.â He clearly had more faith than you did, because he certainly did not stop, tracing the line of your throat with his nose, then his lips, cuddling his face and beard against you like it was just a lazy morning in bed, like you did this all the time, and then his fingertips brushed the soft curls over your sex and you moaned so loudly you were sure a librarian would materialize out of thin air to scold and shush you.
You hadnât even realized you had moaned out the right name at first, teetering on the edge of a pleasure and stress-induced blackout. Johnâs lips curved back up to your ear again, his own shuddering breath of anticipation joining yours as he rewarded you with a husky, âGood fucking girl.â
You arched against the table and your hands as his forefinger curled over your pussy, pressing lightly into the seam, his seeking met with the plush squish of your wet folds. He sucked in his next inhale, a second finger joining the first, staying just shy of your entrance as he smeared the slick up and down, just teasing at first, then purposeful, using the moisture to draw out your clit, lubricate it, bathe it. The pads of his fingers traveled in wide circles, lightning flickering in their wake, a molasses thick feeling pooling in your lower stomach, bleeding your lungs of every last bit of air.
âSuch a good girl, getting so wet for me, soaking wet, sweet for me, doing such a good job,â John whispered, half-babbling, grinding his hips against nothing until you remembered your free will and power of movement and shoved your right hand under the desk, closing it over the immense bulge in his jeans. âN-No,â he ground out, shaking his head. âThis is about you.â
But he didnât make you remove your hand and you didnât want to, letting it rest there, marveling at the size and heat of him. His body tensed, likely from the restraint it took not to buck shamelessly against your palm.
 John collected himself, forehead to your temple, his hair damp with sweat as he licked his lips and fired off another test. âFalconâs coach.â
âJohn,â you whined, having already gotten that one wrong. Or only half-right, but certainly not all the way right.
 âItâs important. You have to know this one. You can do it, I know you can,â he said, fingers dipping back into your slit again, pressing roughly against your entrance, implying what might be yours if you could dredge up the correct name. And you wanted it to be yours, you wanted to feel those huge, powerful fingers spearing you open, fucking into you until you could have the real thingâŠ
He tortured you, returning to focus on your clit, not enough to unwind the knot cinching in your stomach, hinting at a pressure and a rhythm that you knew would be a swift undoing. The sound of him playing with you, wet and sloppy and filthy, made the crawl through your mind unbearable. Your hips worked, chasing Johnâs fingers, but he kept denying you. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You stopped thinking so hard and let instinct and want take over, blurting out a name that you knew was right before John's response ever reached your ears.
Johnâs fingers dove back down, working you open, his thumb joining in to rub your clit in short, delicious bursts, no longer evading the roll of your hips but working with them.
âThatâs my good girl,â he said. âAnd she gets whatever she wants.â
Your mouth dropped open from the onslaught of pleasure, of being filled and stretched by his brutish fingers, of having unabashed access to constant stimulation for your aching clit. He swiveled your chair slightly, turning you toward him by the grip he had on your cunt, his mouth finding yours, lips slanting, teeth hitting yours, tongue gliding into you, matching the thrust of the calloused meat pistoning in and out of your slick hole.
âJohn, I canât, I canât,â you whispered, tearing away from his kiss, overwhelmed, body shivering and shaking as you shoved your face into the crook of his neck. His other hand soothed your back, stroking up and down, holding you to him while you fucked his fingers, rutting on him until everything was silver and white behind your eyelids.
âGood girl, finish for me, just like that, you earned this, baby,â he said, petting your hair, your shoulders, increasing the speed of his thumb slipping back and forth over your swollen clit. âMy good girl, my smart girl, so eager to pleaseââ
You grabbed a fistful of his sweatshirt, sobbing out your release, riding his fingers, his thumb, his palm, the terror and stress and pressure of the last few days shrieking out of you. It felt incredible to let go, to let go into someone, to feel his strong hand on your back, his praise in your ears, his pride seeping into every word and touch. For a second, you couldnât see or even make a sound, letting your release crash down, letting him handle it, handle you, steady and coaxing, your slick pooling on him, on the chair, and all of that a worry for later.
You hadnât even remembered to help him get his own release, your hand still just resting over the pulsing bulge in his pants. As you panted into his neck, circling your hips until the sweet, fading shocks dissipated, you felt warm wetness spreading across his fly. John grunted, going still, his words falling off as he came just from making you unravel.
Serviceman, indeed, you thought, smiling, dazed, dumb, sagging against him until your legs cramped from being wrenched open for him. You gently withdrew, peering up into his face with the intensity of what had just transpired flaring in your cheeks.
 âJesus,â he muttered, carefully smoothing his hand down your thigh, the absence of his fingers making you shudder and clench. Already, you wanted him back. You reached for the napkin under your perspiring latte, offering it to him while you adjusted your leggings and primly closed your legs.
Johnâs eyes were storm blue as he wiped his hand and shot a mortified, helpless look down at his stained jeans. âH-How long until your flight out?â he asked.
You checked your digital watch, sighing. âJust about twenty-four hours.â
âStill, um, still a lot to go over,â he said, eyes raking across the flash cards on the table. âWe havenât even touched the other positions,â John continued, flinching at his own choice of words. You laughed, covering your mouth, enjoying his struggle.
âMm. Maybe we should each have a shower and continue this somewhere less haunted?â you suggested, finding the willpower to gather your notes and cards into a neat stack. John managed to fight through his uncertainty and ponderous, post-nut Neanderthal brain, placing his left hand on the back of your chair, leaning in to brush a bearded kiss against your cheek.
âYou know, Iâm going to be watching that broadcast like a hawk,â he said, low and simmering. âJust to make sure my good girl gets everything right, earns a big reward when she gets home.â
You almost dropped the cards, fumbling to keep them from spilling across your lap. You had given him a dangerous new power, one he was already abusing a little too much. John stood, and with nothing to be done about the obvious wet spot over his fly, stole one of your study sheets to hold by his belt and conceal the evidence until he reached his quarters.
âHow big?â you asked, collecting your still full mug of tea, following him at a trot. When you caught up, you cut a glance down to where that sheet of paper hid his crotch.
John rolled his eyes, laughing, patting your butt, hurrying you toward the elevator. He hit the button impatiently with his fist. The doors opened, and John swept you inside, trapping you against the curved wall, staring down at you like you were his last meal on Earth. âYou tell me without looking who both teams' defensive coordinators are and Iâll make sure itâs big and long.â
You gulped and settled your free hand on his chest. âI think Iâm starting to like sports,â you said. âGo Bears.â
Summary: John Walker is the press's favorite punching bag until an even more controversial hero joins the team. Even if you don't get along, he won't stand by while you're bullied.
A/N: I love love love all of the someone sticks up for John finally fics, but I thought it would be nice to see the roles reversed. And Deane put out a new song that is so insanely John coded I just had to use it for inspo.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 12k (complete)
CW: Porn with plot, no use of y/n, rivals (if you squint) to lovers, discussion of sexual harassment, moderate drinking, reader swears, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart), reader is afab but is not physically described, reader is a new avenger/thunderbolt, discussion of coercive control, reader is a former bad guy, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up), size difference, size kink, fingering (f receiving), banter, slow burn, romance, angst, use of the word wh*re, risky sex, outdoor but concealed sex, protective John, John taking care of business, John is down bad, the John Walker experience, dirty talk and bad language in general, a mannheim steamroller reference in my porn? it's more likely than you think.
Suggested listening: Into my Arms by Deane feat. Elk Darling
John glared at his phone with blood pounding in his sinuses like distant war drums. He didnât know why he insisted on keeping the Google alert for his name. It never produced anything but self-flagellating misery. You know why. His shoulders rounded as he sagged against the balcony railing, eyes darting across the latest headline excoriating him for existing and daring to appear in public.
CAPTAIN PLANET OR CAPTAIN PITIFUL?
Three medals of service, zero fucking breaks.
Page 6 continued to have it out for him. His thumb coasted along the screen, scrolling down to a picture of him smiling with children at a local rooftop garden project. Valentina had them on a rotating schedule for volunteer opportunities in the community, ways to build public trust, but nothing he did was ever taken at face value. The other New Avengers(z) griped about the rotation, but John liked it. He liked being of service.
His blood pressure spiked as he looked at the beaming little faces on either side of him. He remembered all of their names stillâAbby, Jelani, Reggie, Fatima⊠They were good kids. Sweet. Abby had screamed when a worm fell out of a flower pot and John had saved the thing before anyone could squash it.
âWorms are helpers,â he told her, transferring the tiny animal to a raked garden bed.
But the article cast the whole thing in a twisted, cynical light, a self-aggrandizing exercise, implying that he only showed up to make himself look better. He wasnât the smartest man alive, but he could read between the lines: nothing you do will ever be enough; we will never forgive you.
John tipped his head back and looked at the sky, maybe for help, maybe for a lightning bolt to come and strike him dead where he stood. âCommunity service is bad now?â he wondered aloud. âWhat the fuck.â
âOnly when you do it.â
Yelena. Swell. And he had been convinced the day couldnât get worseâŠ
Wind tore at her hair and clothes as she joined him at the far end of the deck that overlooked the city. He didnât lock his screen fast enough. Yelena leaned in, catching a glimpse of the picture and article.
âThat shit will rot your brain,â she said with a shrug. She was carrying a tablet, government-issued, so she hadnât come outside just to bust his balls. âAt least they chose a good picture. You look nice.â
John furrowed his brow. âThanks. I guess.â
âNot even the beret could ruin it.â
âThere it is.â He sighed, shoving his phone into his pocket, crossing his arms, and leaning back against the railing. Valentina had threatened to add safety glass around the deck and pool because Mel had overheard too many grim jokes about jumping. Bucky had talked her down, then given a stern, tired speech to everyone about dark humor in the workplace. The jokes didnât stop, they just got more strategic, but it got Valentina off their backs.
âDid you need something because thereâs a bottle of bourbon inside with my name on it,â he added, eyeing the path behind her.
âAlexei put his name on all of those bottles,â she reminded him with a smirk. âLike with tape and a marker and everything. And anyway, itâs too early for that. And Iâve got something thatâs either going to cheer you up or make a blackout that much more appealing, so.â
Johnâs eyes slid from her face to the tablet. âWhat is it?â
Yelena joined him at the railing, clearing her throat, tapping the screen on the tablet to bring it back to life. A briefing was open, alongside a file marked FOR IMMEDIATE DISCLOSURE. TOP SECRET. He leaned over her, craning to get a better vantage and read the cramped text.
âDo you remember this person?â Yelena swiped the screen with her pointer finger, exposed beyond the ends of her fingerless gloves. She tapped twice on a pixelated image taken with a telephoto lens. It crisped gradually into a woman and a memory that made Johnâs lips flatten into a grimace.
âHard to forget that target. Latvia. Took an entire orphanage hostage outside of Baranova. Real piece of work.â He shifted his weight, rolling his shoulder, the sounds of the children screaming for help still lodged firmly in his waking nightmares. âThree hours just to get close enough to immobilize her, and she still escaped. Let me guess, she did something worse?â
The guilt had eaten him alive, knowing that monster was still out there, that he hadnât been able to finish the job. At least those kids were safeâŠ
âNot exactly.â Yelena zoomed in even more, giving them both a clear look at your face. âSheâs kindaâŠI meanâŠâ She pursed her lips. âHot, right?â
âAre you drunk?â John shook his head. âDid you hear what I said? Target? Orphans?â
âLetâs see another, shall we?â she asked.
Something began to boil at the back of his skull. He could tell now that this was going places he was really going to hate. His suspicion was immediately rewarded as Yelena brought up a video clip, filmed at a distance of someone being perp-walked in chains from an idle vehicle toward a small army of Valentinaâs private goon squad. He recognized their tac armor, their weaponry, the same kind that had been turned upon them, once upon a time. A swarm of black helicopters dipped in and out of frame, circling. John recognized the Manhattan helipad. Cold dread bunched in his stomach.
In the clip, you marched straight from the back of the armored helicopter toward the military escort with the quiet dignity of a woman on her wedding day. You did not look frightened or even nervous, chin high, eyes fixed ahead, somehow wearing the baggy orange jumpsuit like it was intentional, like this was all just a high concept fashion show.
âWhy is she being transferred into OXE custody?â he asked, anticipating and fearing the answer.
âBecause sheâs going to be one of us.â
âNo.â John shoved himself away from the wall, pacing, hands in his hair, combing, fidgeting, as he fought the unfightable. âNo, no, no.â
âYes, yes, yes,â Yelena said over him, voice rising.
John breathed into his hands, headache spreading in needling jabs to his temples. He remembered the searing intensity of your eyes. The madness. The way you had fought him like a fucking demon. The shock when he finally saw your bewitching face up close, just on the other side of his shieldâŠ
âYelena,â he bit out, whirling toward her. âSheâs a war criminal.â
âIs that a personal or professional assessment?â Yelena asked, dry.
âLow blow.â
âWalker, you should be jumping for joy. Finally, someone worse than you will be on the team, maybe you can catch your breath for once. Get the paps off your back.â She shrugged, unbelievably casual given the circumstances. John could hardly think let alone breathe let alone celebrate that a cruel, demented, dangerousâ
âDo you remember hitting her with your shield?â Yelena asked, tearing him out of his mental screed.
âWhat?â He was panting like a lunatic. He gulped to try and slow down the world as it spun around him. This was a disaster. âYes, yes, of course, I do, I--â
âYou knocked something loose.â Yelena handed him the tablet, unphased by the upshot in his temper. John forced himself to take it gently. His eyes scanned down the report as she continued explaining. âDid her a favor, as it turns out. State of the art mind control device. She wasnât an agent working for Hydra, she was their prisoner, brainwashed and controlled into being their weapon.â
John clutched the tablet with both hands, dwarfing it. Everything she said fell in line with the technical aspects of the report, Buckyâs testimony on the tech, and the labâs almost unreadably jargon filled dissection of that testimony.
âAs soon as she could,â Yelena added, almost in a whisper. âShe turned herself in.â
His attention snagged on a paragraph at the bottom of the psychological report.
It is our finding that the subject was unreasonably isolated and deprived of basic necessities since childhood. It is our opinion that the subject was compelled by force to commit the illegal and egregious acts outlined above in Section 2-b.
And further down the report: It is our conclusion that the subject is a candidate for rehabilitation, given the coercive circumstances of her captivity and her subsequent remorse.
John remembered the sound that had come out of you when he bashed you into a wall with his shield; his hands shook as he gave the tablet back to Yelena. Maybe there had been a change in your eyes after that, he couldnât say. Remorse? Sure. Heâd believe it if and when he saw it.
âFuck,â he whispered, staring at the ground, at nothing. âI still donât like it.â
She patted him weakly on the shoulder. âYou donât have to like it, Walker. You just have to live with it.â
Johnâs name fell out of the papers and disappeared from the online gossip rags bit by bit. He hated to admit that it was a relief, just for once, just for one god damn day, not to wake up to someone dunking on some relatively innocuous soundbite of his. The Google alerts stopped coming, and when they popped up, it was just to list generalized articles about the New Avengers, their upcoming appearances, their recent missions.
Instead, the full firehose of the pressâs vitriol had been turned against a prime new target.
You.
The leeches had found fresh blood, and they devoured with relish.
You must be happy, Olivia texted him one day after he had swung by to play with his son for a few hours. Someone else can be nailed to the cross for a while.
The additional team member had come up during that visit to the house, and Olivia had asked a few gentle, prodding questions. Maybe curious. Maybe intrigued. Maybe she had seen photos. John had chosen his responses very carefully; he found himself becoming prickly whenever your name came up. At first, because he outright disagreed with Valentinaâs decision to bring you onboard, and weeks later, because he was already tired of the vultures circling your head day and night.
âHow is she taking it?â Olivia had asked, studying him over a juice box.
âIn stride,â he told her. Itâs remarkable, he didnât add. I have no god damn clue how she does it.
John parked his truck in the underground lot at the tower and decided Oliviaâs text was a problem for later. He didnât know what to say, or how to respond without giving too much away. He kept waiting for an incident to justify his lingering mistrust of you. Everyone else seemed to be willing to just move on, accept you, but they werenât there. They didnât spend the better part of a day just trying to get close enough to even engage, listening to the terrified kids huddling in the old farmhouse barn, heart stopping when they fill silent because it could mean the worst had happened. They hadnât almost gotten their heads blown off by your powers. They hadnât experienced the guilt of watching you get away.
Your face didnât visit them in dreams.
Bob had thrown you a fucking pizza party the first night. John had sequestered himself in the corner and plastered on his fakest smile, sipping his drink and wishing it would at least take the edge off.
It is our opinion that the subject was compelled by force to commit the illegal and egregious acts outlined above in Section 2-b.
He swung his keys up into his palm, squeezing them until the hard edges cut into his skin. By the time the elevator dropped him off in the common room, blood pooled against his sleeve. He was not expecting or prepared for the tableau that greeted himâMel walking a semi-circle back and forth in front of you, the camera on her phone angled to take a video or face time the feed to someone. You had been wearing a weird amalgamation of tactical gear while your official suit was designed and fabricated. But now it was ready.
John, however, was not.
âFinally,â Valentina was saying, through the tiny speaker on Melâs phone. âWeâre sexing up the joint a little.â
âWhat is this supposed to mean?â Alexei shouted from the bar, spinning toward you and Mel, half of a wet steak burrito in his hand, the other half painted down his beard and clothes. He raised his right arm and flexed under his Hawaiian shirt. âThe joint has already been very, very sexed.â
âUh-huh.â Valentina, on the call, ignored him. âTurn around again. Yes. Perfect.â
âIâm not sure this is the right directionâŠâ You turned in a slow circle, ants crawling over your skin as the final member of your ragtag team entered the common room. For your own well-being, you did not look John Walker in the face. He despised you, that much was clear; that much he deserved. The others treated you like a mutt with mange, potentially rabies, but still, the adoption went through.
Johnâs posture changed the minute you walked into the room. You were a hygienic person, but judging by his expression when you were around, something had died in the vent and stayed there all through summer.
The last person you wanted present for this humiliation ritual was John Fucking Walker.
âI think itâs hot,â Ava said, announcing her opinion from the couch. She and Yelena sat side by side, heads together, invested in the outcome. Yelena gave two thumbs up.
âVery hot. Nobody will see me coming, theyâll be staring at you,â Yelena agreed.
âNo, no, that is video game logic,â Alexei drawled, trying to spoon some of the burrito out of his beard and back into his mouth, but missed, his eyes wandering up and down your legs.
âSee?â Yelena snorted, pointing. âYou canât even eat straight with her in the room.â
John sidled away from the elevator, giving you the wide berth of a nuclear crater. He wound up across the room from Alexei. âWhatâs going on here?â he asked, despite the clear evidence before his eyes.
âFinal approvals for the suit,â Yelena informed him. There was something weird in her tone. When you glanced at her over your shoulder, you saw she was fixing Walker with a high-browed stare. âWant to chime in?â
âIâm good,â John said, flat.
âIt is more than good,â Alexei shouted, slamming his fist down on the bar hard enough to make it crack. On the call, Valentina sighed, no doubt mentally tallying another avoidable expense. âWhen a man encounters such beauty, it must be shouted to GOD.â
âOr a man can keep his mouth shut and let the women handle it,â Ava suggested. Bob, at the other end of the couch by himself, had just popped his hand up to venture his thoughts but, at that, quickly put his hand back down.
âThat one,â Mel sighed. She backed up, giving Valentina a full-body view.
âShow me the back again,â Valentina said.
âCan we be done?â you asked. If you turned, you would have no choice but to face Walker.
âHurry up, Valentina, sheâs going to call HR,â Yelena shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth. Behind her, arms crossed and tucked into a corner, Bucky chuckled. If it would make the ordeal end faster, then you could endure the silent, scathing appraisal of one stubborn man. You were never going to win him over, so it didnât matter that his stupidly handsome face made your knees wobble. You shuffled in place, arms slightly out to your sides like a paper doll, preparing yourself for Johnâs sneering reaction.
It would be weirder not to look at him directly, you decided, and you didnât want to give him the satisfaction of your shyness. It wasnât like this suit--the skin-tight fit, the cut-outs up the legs, the somewhat reflective, rubbery material, the square, low neckline that (credit to Valentina) made your tits look great--was your idea. The little half-cape that covered just one shoulder was a nice touch, though. You liked the way it fluttered.
And maybe John did, too, because he wasnât grimacing when you finally got up the courage to check his expression. No, he lookedâŠtroubled. In pain. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders squared, his chest pumping like he had just run a marathon. He so rarely dressed down, but he seemed more approachable in the gray tee shirt and open button down he had worn out of the tower. He pressed his lower lip against his teeth until it went white.
Was he going to cry? Throw up? Both at the same time?
âThereâs no point trying to pretend you werenât a villain.â Valentinaâs voice emerged from the speaker behind you. âWe have to just lean into it, make it a moment, make it part of your brand. We already did the market testing, and this is the play.â Your gaze connected with Johnâs as she added in a laughing way, âEveryone loves a redemption arc.â
The blue of his eyes was intense under normal conditions, but now that color changed, suddenly gray, watery. He blinked through a feeling you knew was tearing him in half because it was slicing you down the middle, too. No, most people do not love a redemption arc, they love the come up and the fall. They love to point and laugh. They love to feel superior.
Your eyes traveled down Johnâs cut glass jaw to his shoulder, down the bulging expanse of his arm to the fist at one side.
âYouâre bleeding,â you said, pointing.
John blinked rapidly, as if emerging from deep, sucking water. He glanced down at his stained sleeve. âYeah,â he said, gruff, distracted. âSo I am.â
Three weeks later, John woke to the screech of his alarm clock, groaned, and slammed his arm across the bedside table until the noise stopped. He had allowed himself to sleep in because it would be a late night. The team had kindly allowed him to skip out on fundraising events for the last six months, cognizant of the shit storm it kicked up for him each time. It wasnât a good look to send a superhero to a benefit for cancer survivors and have the night end up being all about what a sad fuckup he was. It pulled focus. He pulled focus. They usually sent Bucky, and that was fine, but today, Bucky was in Africa somewhere, Yelena and Ava had teamed up to bust a trafficking ring across the country, nobody had any idea who Bob was or why he was still on the team, and they sure as shit werenât sending Alexei to a black-tie event with an open bar.
They were trying to avoid PR nightmares, not create more.
John yanked his phone off its charger and held it above his head, one hand draped across his forehead, the comforter rucked down around his chest, a bare leg flopped out for temperature regulation. He opened the text chain that had doomed him to a Saturday in a tux at the Brooklyn Museum, willing another message to pop up, one that would let him off the hook.
He didnât mind the charity stuff when it was for kids, but this was to fundraise for a new wing at the museum dedicated to superhero iconography. Dealing with politicians and philanthropists made him want to throw a car through a building, but nobody else was available, and it would look terrible if none of them showed up to this specific event.
All day, he waited for a miracle. Bucky would get back early and agree to go in his stead. Bob would figure out how to manage his powers and personalities and make a stunning debut. A sinkhole the size of a city block would open up and swallow him whole. But the minutes ticked by. He dragged himself to the training floor and slammed his fists against a punching bag until the seams tore. He took his equipment down to the lab and ran maintenance protocols. He put on a formless shirt and shorts and a dark baseball cap for anonymity and ran the six-mile paved loop of Central Park. Twice. Between each of these, he checked his phone. Compulsively. Obsessively.
Nothing and nobody were coming to save him.
At six oâclock, Mel interrupted his couch dinner to drop off formalwear. John carried his tepid bowl of rice, broccoli, ground beef, hardboiled eggs, and chicken thighs with him, meeting her at the elevator. She stared in mute horror at the unseasoned pile of protein and shoved the garment bags into his free hand.
âNice to see you, too,â he said, chewing.
Mel pressed her lips together nervously, searching his face.
âWhat?â he asked.
Her eyes slid across the room to the dark hall leading to the dormitory wing. âI think Iâm going to regret saying this, butââ
âOh joy.â
ââI need you to be the man we all think you are tonight,â Mel blurted out, sighing and closing her eyes while John felt it land like a sucker punch. He stopped chewing. Stared. âSorry, IâŠitâs just going to be tough for her, okay? And we all know sheâs strong and scary and she can handle herself, but we both know this isnât like a mission. I think sheâd take a hail of bullets over walking a press line any day.â
John snorted. âMost of us would.â
Mel tugged her phone out of her interior blazer pocket, tucking a long piece of dark hair behind one ear as she scrolled to something and held it up for him at face height. John felt a familiar, sick tension coil around his guts and cinch.
VIXEN OR VILLAIN? THIS NEW AVENGERâS SORDID PAST WILL SHOCK YOU
âClickbait,â he muttered, averting his eyes. He already knew what it would say. He recognized the name in the byline, a guy who had, until quite recently, had a specific hard-on for ruining Johnâs day with vicious hit pieces.
âMaybe.â She kept scrolling, showing him more posts, more opinions, more venom, and all of it with that gleeful, snickering, isnât she just the worst? tone. Rumors. Speculation. Lies.
John nodded once. âSheâs on the team,â he said. âI have her back.â
Mel lowered the phone, brows rising in soft inquiry. She smiled, crookedly, then hid the phone against her chest like she was saving them both from something. Maybe she was. âThanks, Walker. Honestly, if anyone can show her how to get through something like this, itâs you.â
âShe seems to be dealing with it just fine from where Iâm standing.â
Mel retreated a few steps toward the elevator, cocking her head to the side. âYeah? Thatâs what we thought about you, too. Was it true?â
Fuck. John gestured with his unsightly food and then with the garment bags, toward what he couldnât say. Mel saved him the trouble of coming up with a pithy response.
âMake sure she gets that,â she said, pointing to the second garment bag in his grasp.
When Mel was gone, he shuffled back to the couch, draped the garment bags across the top, and finished his dinner standing. Bob, sitting outside with his book, waved, and John waved back, and Bob took that as his signal to use his bookmark and traipse back into the common room, barefoot and laid-back.
âI thought you had a thing tonight,â said Bob, wandering over to the bar area to rummage around in the fridge. âFancy bigwig thing.â
âI do,â John said, scooping the last of his gym slop down his throat before joining Bob, rinsing out his bowl and utensils and dropping them in the rack. He descended into melancholy as he bent down to wash his hands. âFundraising circus for rich assholes. My favorite.â
âUgh.â Bob took a soda clearly marked LENA with a piece of tape and opened it, helping himself to a thoughtful sip as he looked John up and down. âAre you doing your hair like that?â
John stiffened, blinking down at the water. âLike what?â
âNo, nothing.â
Flicking the water off of his hands, John ripped a hand towel off the handle of the oven and balled it up with his fist. âAre you fucking kidding me with this, Bob? Like what?â
With a hapless shrug, Bob squished up his face on one side, thinking. âRugged, maybe?â
âRugged? I havenât even showered yetââ
âOh, no problem, then.â
John used the hand towel for its intended purpose, perhaps with more vigor than was purely required, and smooshed it back around the oven handle with a snort. âJesus Christ.â
âHave fun!â Bob called, as John stalked back to the couch, gathered the garment bags, and thundered down the hall to the dormitories. He knew which one was your room, of course. In fact, he tried to be aware of your location at all times. The trackers you each wore helped. And he had made damn sure your names were never side by side on the mission board. He couldnât control whether or not you were on the team, but he didnât have to enjoy it.
He didnât have to suffer through your cutting sense of humor, your intoxicating eyes, or the way your ass filled out that super suitâŠ
Be normal. Be a professional. How hard could this be?
John thumped on your door a few times, wishing you wouldnât hear it, wishing he could just leave the garment bag hanging over the doorhandle, but his luck had well and truly run out. The door swung open, revealing you standing there in just a damp towel, steam still rising off your clean skin, the scent of your soap and shampoo billowing out around you on a fragrant, warm cloud. John stuck his hand in his hair, combing it nervously to one side.
It was bad enough having to see you in your skintight suit at debriefings, every curve a dream, every inch of skin begging to be touched, but this? Iâm in hell.
Your eyes traveled from the garment bag in his hand to his face, a small, playful smile brightening your cheeks. âThat for me?â
John produced the bag, clearing his throat, finding it had actually gone bone dry. âYour attire, madame.â
What the fuck is wrong with you?
âWow,â you said, humoring him, making a deft little curtsey. âAnd they told me chivalry was dead.â
That towel needed to be bigger or his self-control stronger, because the plush mounds of your breasts above the fabric made his vision swim. He didnât know why he had to be such a man about it. He didnât know why his brain rebooted whenever you so much as walked through the common room, but it did and he was powerless against it. Maybe it was because he knew how dangerous you were, what it looked like when you werenât on their side⊠He had always gone for the good girl, the perfect girl, but it made him hard as a rock knowing you could go toe to toe with him. That he might not have to be outrageously careful when he touched you. That maybe you could take it if he wanted to get a little roughâŠ
âWalker?â
He grunted and stepped back from the open door, holding up the other garment bag in his grasp as if it explained everything about his dazed expression. âI shouldâŠI should go. I should get ready.â
You squinted, head cocked to the side, and John hurried away before you could figure him out, see through the wall he put up whenever you were forced into proximity. Your voice followed him down the corridor as you leaned out after him. âSee you at seven? Downstairs?â
John saluted and hoped you couldnât see the incriminating flush sweeping up his neck.
The towel was bad enough, a psychological mountain to scale, but John hadnât considered that the gown would be Everest. He stood outside the limousine smoothing his hands down the lapels of his jacket, mentally torturing himself over the state of his hair, when you appeared out of the shadows pooling on the sidewalk.
She kidnapped orphans. She kidnapped orphans. She kidnapped orphans.
If he didnât remind himself of your pre-Avengers crimes, his knees would hit the pavement. He would kneel. He would push his hands up the devilish slit revealing so much of you, tear the fluttering silk like tissue paper and shove his face between your legs until someone called the cops to report indecent exposure. Some genuinely diabolical maniac had designed and sewn this dress for you. It was a conspiracy. It had been conceived in a Hydra lab to unmake him. He felt the heat of the serum shoot through him like a comet, every prickle of strength and power coming alive at once, making him stand taller, making his jaw set like freshly poured concrete.
Black silk. A tiny, sparkling red Avengers symbol pinned by one strap, a strap so precarious, so delicate, he instantly began wishing it ill. A stiff wind might snap it.
Or his teeth.
John sucked down a shuddering breath, forcing out a strained smile as you picked your way across the sidewalk in your dagger-sharp heels. They could have been six inches taller, it didnât matter, he still towered over you. That was his advantage, he decided, he didnât even need to look at your face much and risk blushing. He felt good about it until you were at his side, and his height became a distinct liability; if he so much as glanced anywhere but up or straight across, he had a filthy view straight down your cleavage.
God give me the strength of a better man.
He held out his hand, helping you into the backseat.
The ride was tense. Silent. Your perfume wrapped around him like a steel vice. On the leather bench, in the empty space between you, your fingers tapped out a nervous tattoo. The hero in John longed to reach across, take your hand, tell you everything would be all right. He couldnât name what stopped him.
âYou look nice,â you said, staring out the window and away from him.
John could feel his tie slowly strangling him. âSo do you.â
He wanted to say more, reassure you that you looked like a knockout, that any man would be honored to have you on his arm, but he didnât want to throw you off balance, not when the rockiest part of the evening was about to begin. You would need a clear head, and if he started flirting out of the blue after being such a withdrawn, orneryâŠ
John let the silence hang, drowning in it.
He felt your shoulders tighten from across the bench. Then, you sighed. âValentinaâs least favorite misfits. Odds on us surviving the night?â
John just laughed. Oh, I donât know. Iâd take that bet.
John Walker was not your type. That was the lie you told yourself as he offered his huge, calloused hand to you, helping you out of the limousine and onto the curb.
No, he was not your type. He was blonde. He was a military parade of red flags. He was sanctimonious, self-righteous, a distillation of every vomit-inducing, macho American beer and football stereotype that usually made your eyeball twitch. Usually. In the rare moments your paths crossed, you saw him try to be gentle with Bob and patient with Alexei, there were often boxes from his favorite bakery left out on the kitchen counter on Sundays, free to raid. He kept the training room spotless and put in timely requisitions for any replacements due to damage. His mission reports were incredibly thorough and obnoxiously insightful. The man understood a battlefield, that was certain. And you had done your homework; he had made errors, grave errors, and suffered for it in the public square, enduring it perhaps as no one else could.
Anyone else would have retired, disappeared, but not him.
That it had changed him, shaved down the easy assumptions to where glinting bone was exposed, didnât necessarily surprise you. That it made him desirable, however, did.
Not that your desire was pertinent. It couldnât be more obvious that he despised you, even if, just now when he met you outside for the car ride to the fundraiser, you had registered something new in his eyes.
You had been dreading this moment, knowing it would mean roasting in the furnace of his loathing until you were a charred briquette, with him but still apart. You took his hand and felt the simmering heat of his skin, and the reverberating clang that had blasted through you when his shield drove you into a crumbling plaster wall. You thought of that pain every day, how it almost killed you, how it, paradoxically, miraculously, freed you.
The numbness had fallen from your mind and the veil from your eyes.
The truth of who you were and what you wanted to be came flooding in. Unfortunately, so too did the reality of what you had done while a servant to evil.
John held your hand until you were upright on the sidewalk. The grand steps of the museum rose to your right. The fountain sprayed jubilantly. Civilized classical music twinkled invitingly from the open doors above. If only John Walker didnât despise you, the night might almost be romantic. Your fingers hovered in his palm, and you hazarded a glance up at him to your left. He was steady and handsome, the little bare spot below his ear screaming to be kissed, but you recognized the shadow of fear in his bright blue eyes. His grip tightened briefly on your hand, and then he let go, pushing out ahead toward the temporary wall covered in sponsor logos and the museumâs name, starting the charge toward the step-and-repeat, leading with his shoulders like a man barreling toward the enemy.
He unbuttoned and rebuttoned his jacket, fussed with his red pocket square, and paused just as he reached the sea of paparazzi crowding the line. Oh, God, the line. The shame, the terror, the cold, dissociated nothingness was familiar by now. You had bargained with yourself that doing the right thing wasnât always going to feel good. Sometimes it was going to feel like facing down a firing squad. You wondered if John had seen the brutal articles picking apart every aspect of your looks, your history, your character. You wondered if he saw them and smiled.
If he was going to be cold to you, then you could manage the same. Not a single mission together. Not a single shared meal or friendly conversation. It would be helpful if he didnât look so fucking delicious in a crisply tailored suit.
âWeâre up.â John turned back to look at you, mouth firmed up into a thin, taut line. He tried to flash you a comforting grin. It was not convincing. Still, you appreciated the effort until he said: âJust keep your mouth shut. It will be over soon.â
You puffed through your nose, glaring. âTake your own advice.â
âI wasnât--â
âDonât worry. Youâve never said a word to defend me before, why would you start now?â You pointed your clutch purse at his chest, wrangling back deeper fury. Deeper hurt. âIâve got this.â
John rounded on you, pale fire sparking from his eyes. He had a smart comment ready, but you watched him fight with it. He fisted one hand in his hair, spun, and marched back to you. âIâm here, arenât I?â
You tried not to ruin your lipstick by frowning too much. âAnd?â
âAnd you wonât be alone,â he said, his voice wavering. âBefore. It didnât come out right. ThatâsâŠthat is advice I have to take. I have to keep my mouth shut, keep everything locked down. Everything.â
A PA gestured you both forward, panicking. There was no more time to argue. John wrinkled his nose in frustration and let the PA shove him out onto the carpet. Vibrating with fear, you followed.
âHey! Hey! Over here!â Someone started screaming for your attention, for pictures, for content. John eased his shoulders back and gave them what they wantedâthe pose, the confidence, the slightly cocky tilt of the head. Lights dazzled. âHey! John Walker! Look at me, now! Here! Walker, here!â
Then, they saw you.
Converged on you.
âItâs her! The new one!â someone shouted. You squinted into the lights, overwhelmed. Adrift. You couldnât feel your fingers. The straps on your shoes cut into your ankles, the raw skin there pulsing.
âHow does it feel to be the most hated Avenger in America?â
âGive us a smile! Over here! Smile!â
Flashing, flashing, hands flapping at you from every direction, leering faces, snarling mouths, hungry scavengers finding you and descending and licking their chops. Your knees locked. You tried to do the pose Mel had demonstrated for you--three quarters, torso turned forward, hip slightly out, hands at your sides, hands showing the bag, not too much head tilt or the pictures would be all nostril. But the shouting was getting to you. Every shriek was sharper than the last, digging in. It was one thing to see an annoying social media post, quite another to withstand the physical onslaught of so many judgmental, clambering human beings.
âChin up.â John. He was there, suddenly, at your side, an anchor. He subtly moved his elbow out, and you took the life line, hooking your hand through his arm, holding on for dear life. âJust like that,â he said in an undertone. âPretend theyâre naked. Pretend you get to strangle them later. Whatever it takes. Breathe and smile.â
You did as he instructed, showing your teeth.
Someone in the crush shouted your alias, then your real name, trying to goad you. âKill any orphans lately?â he shouted.
âThatâs enough.â Johnâs voice thundered above the din. You saw it ripple across the onlookers like a blast of energy. You donât know how he picked out the right guy in the crowd, but he did, pointing at him. âWeâre done here.â
John pulled you down the carpet, ignoring the rest of the jeers and pleading and lobbed jabs. He was in the crossfire now, too, the old, nasty chestnuts trotted out as punishment for taking your side. It seemed to roll right off of Johnâs back, but you saw the way it made him crust over with ice. His hand gripped yours hard enough to crush; if you were a normal person, it would have been agonizing.
When you were away from the chaos and up the museum steps, shielded now by the invite-only event status and the nice lady checking names and reservations and some sense of calm had returned, John let go of you, angling down to check if you were still breathing.
âI didnât kill any of those children,â you heard yourself say, faintly, as if defending yourself to a ghost.
Johnâs hands closed over your shoulders. You almost swooned into the comfort of it. He waited until you looked up into his searching eyes to speak.
âThat was the hardest part. You survived.â
You nodded, swallowing with difficulty. You wished he would be tender with you, but pragmatically supportive would have to suffice. Nobody was tender with a villain. Former villain.
âLetâs get a drink,â he muttered, giving your shoulders a friendly little squeeze before striding toward the pillars and the door beyond. âWe fucking earned it.â
John watched you from across the gilded ballroom, Melâs plea ringing in his ears, a relentless, guilty klaxon.
I need you to be the man we all think you are tonight.
âSo.â Valentina. It was a given that she would be in attendance, but Johnâs hackles raised just at the sound of her voice. She slid up to him, elegant in black velvet, a pair of expensive pearls dangling from her ears. She sipped her martini, joining John next to the dessert tables and an ice sculpture of his own fucking face. It was melting weird, turning him moment by moment into a sweaty Gary Busey. âWhatâs your assessment?â
John kept one hand in his pocket, just for good measure, just to help with the urge to throttle her. He kept the other hand wrapped around a squat glass of mid shelf bourbon. His eyes remained pinned to your back, memorizing the seductive planes of your shoulders, spine, the smooth valley that scooped down to your ass.
âMy assessment?â he asked, lifting a brow. âOf what?â
âDonât be obtuse.â Valentina swirled the olive on a stick through her drink, doing that thing where she somehow smiled and glared at the same time. âCan she hack it? Can I trust her at these things?â
John nodded, lifting his pinky from the glass to scratch his chin through his beard. âLet me put it this way, if you had trotted me in front of that hit squad outside a few months ago, there would be ambulances on the sidewalk, and weâd be on the news.â He tore his eyes away from you to study Valentina. He was glad he did, because her shifty little pinched mouth gave her away. Melâs warning; she had known something was coming. âFucking unbelievable. You set her up.â
âI just didnât intervene, thereâs a difference.â
"Nominal."
âOoh is Bob teaching you big words now?â she snorted, flicking her hair back with a shake of her head. Johnâs grip tightened on his glass. âTry this one: encumbrance. Or how about: psychologically unsalvageable.â
His glass creaked quietly, threatening to break.
âShe can handle herself.â John found you in the mingling glamor again, keeping a close eye on your progress as you stood in front of an architectural mockup of the new wing. A small line of curious onlookers had formed, and one by one they came to engage you in small talk. His heart started beating in his throat. Be good to her. âThatâs my professional assessment.â
âGood. I wanted it from you,â she said, mercifully beginning her exit from the conversation. âEveryone else wouldâve bullshitted me. But you hate her guts, so I knew Iâd get the truth. Try not to break any skulls tonight, Walker, youâre on a winning streak.â
You hate her guts.
âYeah,â he muttered to Valentinaâs back. âSomething like that.â
He swirled the ice in his glass, watching from across the room as Congressman Gary flirted shamelessly, making you relax into yourself and laugh. Like everything else about you, your smile was lethal. John spared the warped sculpture of his head one last withering look before he trekked back to you. It was a meandering journey, interrupted by donors who wanted a selfie to show their kids or politicians with strong opinions about whatever that they swore he needed to hear urgently. John gave them just enough of his time, attention swiveling back to you in between each detour. He noticed a new person standing with you, his heart plummeting like a cannonball to his dress shoes.
Congressman Noble did not live up to his name; he was anything but. He was a wolf with a buzzcut, a beady-eyed, far right âpatriotâ who had seemingly dedicated every hour of the day to making Johnâs life miserable. When the press got wind of his divorce, John was convinced it was Nobleâs doing. John was not a role model. John was not a symbol of American values. John was a disgrace to the uniform he was still allowed, inexplicably, to wear.
He couldnât imagine what Noble would say to an ex-Hydra asset who went to her job in a catsuit, but he suspected it was going to be bleak. John emerged from the maze of banquet tables just as Noble leaned in to whisper something in your ear. He saw your resolve, then he saw it slowly crumple. Nobleâs hand closed around your bare wrist, the other disappearing behind your back, so flagrantly, inappropriately familiar that John slammed his drink down on an empty table, afraid that if he didnât, it would end up crushed against the assholeâs head. No matter the occasion, the Congressman always wore a checkered bow tie. John had, more times than he cared to admit, imagined using it as a convenient little garrote.
âWhy if it isnât John Walker,â Noble said, greasy as a hangover turd as he pivoted away from you and toward John. The way his slow Southern accent coated his insults in honey just made them harder to withstand. âAmericaâs fallen son.â
âCharming way to begin a conversation,â John said, drawing himself up to his full height. He checked in with you silently, and, seeing the panic in your eyes, took a step to place himself between you and Noble. A hand fluttered on his hip, near his lower back. John reached back to find it with his own, giving a quick, reassuring squeeze.
Iâm here. Iâve got this. Iâve handled this son of a bitch a hundred times.
He wished you were telepathic, even if it would give away all the fantasies he had turned over in his mind.
âThatâs just how we are, John. You and me. I know you can take it. A real man could take it.â Noble laughed, clapping John on the shoulder like they were old chums, like it wasnât taking every ounce of Johnâs restraint to keep from tearing that arm out of its socket. âI just had to introduce myself to thisâŠlovely new teammate of yours.â
Something about that hand squeeze must have given you a boost, because you moved back around to stand properly at his side, staring across his chest at Noble with a look John recognized. It was the one you had given him in that godforsaken barn, when you nearly fucking killed him. Seeing it turned against Noble made the blood in Johnâs body rush south.
âCongressman Noble was just telling me what an embarrassingly brazen whore I am.â
John didnât know what his face was doing but he knew that his fingers were on fire, that they were hardening into fists, that a white hot wire was pulling itself taut between his teeth and his chest, that his ribs were flaring as he breathed twice as hard, that the hair on the back of his neck had bristled into spikes.
Congressman Noble must have noticed, because he burst into giddy, nervous laughter and hid behind his gin and tonic, peering between the two of you as if trying to pick out which was the more imminent threat. In Johnâs eyes, it was truly a toss-up. âSheâs exaggerating, I assure you.â
âNo, Iâm not.â You peeled your lips apart in a bone chilling smile. Atta girl. âYou said those words exactly. Just now. When you touched me and whispered in my ear. Embarrassingly brazen whore.â
He could have heard a pin drop on Coney Island. The whole room, the whole world, grinded to a stop.
John nodded, the night and its direction solidifying in his mind. He hadnât felt this alive, this him, since he smashed Bobâs horrible father in the face with his shield. He knew this game. He knew this pain. All he wanted to do was spare you from it.
It is our opinion that the subject was compelled by force to commit the illegal and egregious acts outlined above in Section 2-b.
Everything you had suffered, everything you now put on the line for ungrateful pricks like Noble, and nobody could muster an ounce of mercy. An ounce of grace. Noble either had a death wish or hadnât grasped the full depth of Johnâs rage, because he stepped across John to try and touch you, playfully, on the shoulder.
John intercepted that hand, encompassed it with his own, entirely, swallowing it neatly until it couldnât even be seen. He folded Nobleâs arm back, exerting just the right amount of pressure to make the man take a large step. Away. Away from you.
âHereâs whatâs going to happen,â John said, his voice dropping to a grimy whisper. Noble balked, glancing around for help, but nobody liked him, so nobody came. âYouâre going to apologize to her, and sheâs going to tell me if itâs good enough. If you try to touch her, if you try to breathe on her, I will take you outside and break every bone in your body beginning with this arm.â He gave it a little twist to demonstrate and Noble hissed through his teeth. âApology. Now.â
You remembered to breathe when Noble stumbled away from John, tugged down his rumpled tuxedo jacket, and shot you a look that could melt steel. He opened and closed his mouth, taking a trembling, fortifying sip of the gin and tonic that had sloshed down his pants when John grabbed his hand out of the air. If you were aware of Johnâs size and strength before, now it was all you could think about. He was a wall, your bulwark, solid and warm and unbending as he moved, again, to make sure someone was between you and the problem.
The politician who had tried to put his hand on your ass when he leaned in to whisper poisonous things. You stored away the ass thing, aware that John might genuinely commit a murder in plain sight if you mentioned it. Not that a single jury would convict. Asshole.
âI am not apologizing to this vulgar, half-cockedââ
Unfortunately, you were drawing a crowd. Attendees had started to notice the confrontational nature of the conversation taking place in front of a giant, eye-catching banner not far from the caviar station and chocolate fountain. John was hard to miss, his blistering rage even less subtle.
âJohn,â you said quietly, realizing that was the first time you had said just his first name. It came out soft, pleading. âYou donât need to do this--â
âYes. Yes, I do.â Maybe he heard the sweetness in your voice, maybe it eased something in him. He urged you closer, into the light, his hand braced against your lower back, firm against the naked skin there. His thumb danced along the edge of your dress, trying to find somewhere appropriate to land. âYou did the hardest possible thing. You turned yourself in knowing nothing easy was on the other side. You signed up to fix what you broke, and to do more, and better.â The pain in his voice made you want to pull him into a tight embrace. His shoulders shook slightly as he drew his gaze across the onlookers, then Noble. âNobody knows what that takes. What it takes from you. But you get up every morning, and you suit up, and you get dropped off in whatever warzone is bloodiest that day, and you do the right thing, even when everyone wants to point and laugh at you for having the guts to try.â
Your heart stuttered in your chest. Even if the fate of the world depended on it, you werenât sure you could sayâŠanything. Nobody clapped, you didnât expect them to, nobody ever gave John the benefit of the doubt. He turned the full force of his fury toward Noble. âApologize.â
Johnâs fingers flattened against your back, flexing. Donât move. Donât let him off the hook.
âFine, fine, Mr. Walker. IâŠapologize. I was out of line and itâŠâ
Johnâs eyebrows went up, prompting.
âAnd it wonât happen again,â Noble choked out, straightening his checkered bowtie. âIf youâll excuse me.â
Now that the fun was over, the crowd moved on, scattering, peeling off to figure out which bar hadnât run out of the good stuff. John kept his hand where it was. You canted toward him, placing your own hand on his chest without realizing how intimate that would look. How intimate it would feel.
But his eyes didnât ice over, he didnât glare or push you away. If anything, his gaze darkened with interest.
Oh.
âHm. I donât know. He didnât wait to see if that was good enough,â you said, cutting the tension with a laughing sigh. âProbably because he needs to go change his bloomers.â
Johnâs clenched, game-time expression finally dropped as he looked down at you and at your hand nestled against the high heat of his chest. âHeâs a fucking dick. Are you okay?â
He faced you fully, plucking your hand from his body and holding it between you, his thumb stroking rhythmically across your knuckles. Oh.
âYeah. Yeah, Iâm okay.â You glanced down, shaking your head. âAnd Iâm sorry, John. Itâs all so relentless.â
âNobody owes me an apology,â he said firmly. âLeast of all you.â
Oh.
You swished your lips to the side, leaning in closer to whisper, âHe touched my ass.â
âWhat?â Johnâs head snapped up, and then his eyes were darting, searching the crowd. âWhere is he?â
âOr.â You put your hand on his chest again, and that was enough to make him fall silent. âWe could forget that loser and get some air.â
Johnâs eyes cut from your hand to your eyes to your lips, and his heart slamming faster against your palm gave him away. His preternatural ability to be where you werenât was starting to make more sense. And that look he had given you the day you suited up for the first timeâŠ
He nodded, taking your hand and leading you past the caviar and the chocolate fountain, snatching two flutes of champagne from a waiter as he led you up a small, private flight of stairs and toward a service exit. When you were alone in the hall, you stopped him with a tug on his sleeve, bracing against his arm to reach down and take off your heels. Grabbing him like that, holding on, it was impossible not to feel the thick swells of muscle bulging beneath his suit. God, he was fucking enormous. Your pussy fast-tracked an image of squeezing those rippling arms while he was pinned beneath you, his bulk making your thighs burn from being forced so wideâŠ
âI can carry those,â he said, watching you.
âI got it.â You opened and closed your hand, and he gave you one of the champagne flutes. Looping your arm through his, John led you down the narrow, echoing hall, his pace increasing until you were both jogging. You laughed, exhilarated by the chance to be naughty together, to escape. You burst out a side door, arm in arm, a small terrace to the left that overlooked the front of the museum, the grand stairs, the fountain. A private little corner away from the glitter and glitz.
You dropped your shoes somewhere and let go of him, letting him get an eyeful of your naked back as you went to a stone barricade and leaned against it. A temptation. An invitation. A question mark in the shape of your tilted head, your beautiful spine.
John shrugged off his jacket, meeting you at the railing. He let the fabric rustle over the stone and half-sat, his left thigh hitched up, his body open toward you. Rushing toward his waiting vehicle, Congressman Noble shrieked into his phone.
âCount your days, you ratfucker,â John muttered, waving unseen at Nobleâs back. He held the champagne flute, comically tiny in his grasp, down by his knees, lowering his head a bit sheepishly. âThat guy just⊠I didnât mean to get so alpha about it in there. I know you can take care of yourself.â
âI think heâd push the Dalai Lama to the brink.â You tried not to look at his quad muscles pushing through the wool blend of his trousers. Looking at him at all was a test of will power, especially after he took up for you in front of everyone. Maybe the concept of a type could change⊠âIf you did beat him to death with his own arm Iâd testify on your behalf.â
âCheers.â John chuckled, clinking his glass against yours. âWe didnât kill anyone. Iâd call the night a success.â
âMm. Itâs not over yet.â
His eyes found yours in the darkness, locking on. âRight. And according to Valentina, I hate your guts. I bet she thinks weâre off somewhere having a cage match.â
You froze, glass halfway to your lips. âIs she right?â
A sound wrenched out of him, half-laugh and half-choke. âNo. No, I donât hate your guts.â He tossed his head back and forth, weighing something as he tore his gaze away to regard his champagne again. In the low light, you werenât sure if he was blushing or not. âI think I might actually be kind of into your guts.â He swallowed, and the noise was thickened. âAnd other parts of you.â Carefully, he leaned forward, pushing your shoulder until you turned around. âYour back in this dress, I mean... Lord have mercy.â His rough knuckles slid down your spine, outlining it. Shivering, you shifted your head to one side, unable to keep still as his fingers splayed and played along the daring scoop showing off your lower back. âAnd here. God, here.â
He stood, placing his glass on the railing and snugging his hips against yours. His nose traced the shape of your shoulder, up to your ear, back again, his beard scratching your sensitive skin to life. âAnd here.â Scruffy, warm kisses landed on the crest of your shoulder, then behind your ear. You leaned into him, offering more of your neck, gasping softly.
âAnd here.â John held your waist, and you had never felt so overpowered, so breakable. But he was careful with you, his touch light enough to be rebuffed.
âThatâs a lot of places,â you murmured. âAny parts you donât like?â
âIâll let you know if I find any.â
His arms wrapped around you from behind, and after hours of scrutiny, hours of being pushed to your mental limits, being held was the one thing you hadnât known would undo you. You felt the tears spill down your cheeks, shocked by them. You twisted out of his grasp, embarrassed, dabbing at your face with the pads of your fingers.
âHey, itâs okay.â John followed you, taking you in his arms again, spinning you. He pressed his pocket square into your grasp and waited while you wiped your cheeks and collected yourself.
âItâs just⊠Tonight was a lot. I know I donât have to explain it to you, I know you know.â
John took the silk square when you were done and shoved it into his back pocket, herding you against his chest. Patient. Standing with you in silent solidarity. You thought you heard him sniffle quietly at one point, and his hand shot up to touch his own face, but the moment passed, and then you were just together. Quiet. Alone. It was hard to say when the atmosphere sharpened, when the pressure of his huge arms around you tightened just enough to remind you that he ached in the way you ached.
You stepped back, pushing yourself against the railing, palms on the stone as you lifted yourself to sit, kicking your bare feet back and forth, watching him. John pursed his lips, reading your meaning perfectly, sliding his hands into his pockets nonchalantly as he swung closer, head dodging down to brush a kiss against your cheek.
You didnât know he could be sweet. And bashful. That was a problem.
âJohn Walker,â you said, sliding both hands up the warm front of his shirt, enjoying his shiver of pleasure and inhale as you did so. âYou did a very kind thing tonight. I think you might be a kind man, underneath all that armor.â
John pressed his forehead against yours. âMm. Donât tell anyone.â
âNo,â you said, tilting your chin, offering your lips for a first kiss. âThatâs just for me.â
He kissed you with his hands still hidden, the prickle of his beard making you remember your makeup, and that your lipstick would be all over him when the lights came on. He tasted lightly of smoked bourbon and sweet champagne, and his kiss was just like himâhard at first, brash, easing into a gentler thaw. Your hands clenched on his chest. Your teeth grazed his tongue, then his lower lip, tugging. Johnâs eyes snapped open at that, his hands suddenly around your head, holding your jaw, forcing you to look up at him.
âAnd you,â he whispered. âAre just for me.â
Your brows lifted, though by now, you were growing familiar with his protective, possessive side. He kissed you again, bending down, hungrier this time, setting a tone that made your ears burn. You were right out in the open, in the dark, sure, but someone could come through the emergency exit for a smoke break at any second and find you two there, wrapped in each other, making out like it was your last day on Earth. Let them see us, you thought, they already hate us.
You tugged him closer by his hair, and he growled into your mouth. His hands dropped from your face to your thighs, easing them apart until he could stand flush with your body. There was no hiding his arousal, it thickened against his fly, trapped between you, hot and huge and mouthwatering. His hands slid up your legs, cheating down, moving aside the long skirt of your dress, draping it over your right leg. The night air whispered against your sliver of a thong, a chilled counterpart to the slick heat on the other side of that flimsy fabric.
âThis is getting ironic,â you whispered, breaking away from him for a gulp of air. He nosed along your throat, groaning as your fingers unshackled his belt, touched the zip on his trousers. His thumb outlined your pussy through the wet thong, and you bit down on a shriek. âBecause here I am, skirt up, out in the open with you, kind of being an embarrassingly brazen whoreâŠâ
John laughed into your skin, flexing his thumb, pushing until the fabric came with him and he could rub the damp silk against your clit. You spasmed against his chest. âNot ironic,â he said, running his teeth along the edge of your jaw, nipping your lower lip until it was plump with blood. âPerfect.â His eyes sought you out, piercing the shadows, his lashes fluttering as you opened his pants and gripped him through his underwear. His shoulders dipped once before he could get control of himself. He tipped your chin up to look at him with one hand, the other still playing a torturous, teasing game between your legs.
âPerfect,â he said again, peeling your thong to the side, his middle finger gliding into you with a filthy squelch. âAs long as itâs for me.â His fingers slid back out, callouses dragging, and he drew a soft moan from your throat as he tested you again, stretching, two fingers now, pumping and scissoring. âFeels like itâs for me.â
So, so cocky.
You arched against him, rubbing your silk-clad tits against his chest, his eyes rolling back, his next words cut short as you dragged the waistband of his shorts down to the base of his dick. He shoved his forehead against yours, gazing down between you, attention drawn first to your nipples pebbling through the dress, then to your hands closing around his shaft, feeling the size, the weight, the compromising amount of fluid leaking from his tip. John groaned like he had been stabbed, the noise cracking into a whimpered gasp.
âFeels like thatâs for me,â you purred, pumping once, twice, thumbs catching the wetness gathering, swirling it back over the velvety head, watching his hips roll into you, his fingers curling in your cunt in response, a reflex, a tell. It wasnât wise to get more undressed, but you ached to see what was underneath his suit. There was so much of him to explore.
âThis is such a bad idea,â John whispered, half-laughing. His hair was damp at his temples as he ripped your hands away from him and placed them around his neck. âIf someone sees usâŠâ
âI know,â you said, waiting for him to back down. He didnât, giving a single reckless toss of his head before easing his fingers out of you, sliding that same hand under your ass, hitching your hips higher. You took the hint, wrapping your thighs around him, both of you dumb and needy and panting as he wedged his dick against your entrance.
âIt can beâŠkind of an experience,â he choked out, and you were going to make fun of him for his choice of words, tell him that he wasnât Mannheim Steamroller and to hurry up and fuck you, but just that amount of him made your eyes cross. Oh fuck.
âOh my God, John.â You clung tighter to his neck, where the muscles bulged from the strain of holding himself back. Sweat poured down your forehead, into your eyes. You didnât want to just keep your mouth open like an insane person, but it refused to close.
âYouâre so fucking wet for me, baby, I know you can do it.â He kissed you, almost apologetically, one arm still supporting your weight, his free hand smoothing the damp hair back from your forehead. âYou can handle anything, I know you can handle me.â
He kissed little encouragements against your mouth. His thumb hooked into your mouth, sliding against your teeth, fucking against your tongue, distracting you as you closed your eyes and sucked on his salty skin, tasting yourself. And he was right, you could take him, you were going to take him, all of him, wetter than you had been in your entire life. There was no world outside of his strong arms and solid chest, no sensation but the slow and steady burn of him opening you up, all of his brutish power coiled tight as he carefully worked you down his shaft. Your fingers turned to claws on his shoulders, biting into the fabric of his dress shirt, threatening to tear it to shreds.
âJohn, Iâm going to breakââ
âLet me have you,â he whispered, rolling his thumb across your tongue. âYouâre doing so good, sweetheart. Almost there, almost there.â
When he bottomed out, when your hips met on a shared rush of relieved breath, the pain and pleasure blurred into something new, rich and strange, swirling from your abdomen to your throat. John threw his head back, clenching his jaw. He rocked forward, catching both of you as you circled your hips, grinding, giving him permission to unleash. He was still careful with you, but his restraint was fraying; John wedged his face against your neck, breathing you in, gasping you in, short groans breaking free as he held you close and pulled you up and down his dick, distant classical music underpinning the wet slap of your bodies.
âChrist. I canât, I canâtâŠâ He half-sobbed into your throat.
âI know.â
âI canâtââ
You were right there with him. The friction, the building pressure, and John finding parts of you that ached anew, that came alive now that he was inside you, fucking you into an animal you didnât recognize, changing you, ruining you for anyone else. You ground against him harder on the downstroke, but it was him swelling and trembling and jerking his cum into you that gave the final burst of stimulation you needed. Craved. You expected a thunderclap, but the waves came gradually at first, a lush heat like being sun drunk. You clenched your pussy around him, not that you needed to, not that you could feel anything but himâhis mass, his strength, his need. It felt like he would never stop, like he would still be pumping into you come dawn.
Warmth. A different pressure, deeper now and intimate, and the shocks like lightning skipping up your spine. You rode out a few tiny afterquakes, taking advantage of his willingness to keep holding you as he caught his breath. And John watched you, rapt, lips parted, eyes soft and bleary as you enjoyed the last of what he could give you.
It felt too soon when he slid out of you.
âJohn.â
âShit, I shouldâve warned youâŠâ He hurried to find your panties, sliding them up your thighs, delusional to think a scrap of wet fabric could stem the absolute tide flowing out of you. âItâs the serum, itâs a pain in the assâŠâ
You covered your face, sliding down to the ground, resting back against the railing, shaking with laughter. âJohn. Itâs all down my legsâŠâ
âI know. Shit. I know. Iâm sorryââ His cheeks turned red as he tore the handkerchief out of his back pocket and tried to clean you up. He threw the hopelessly stained silk into a bush somewhere, turning back toward you with a helpless, boyish expression. You cuddled up against his chest, snorting.
âItâs all right,â you reassured him, going on tiptoes to kiss his chin. âNow I know. Iâll be ready next time with a catcherâs mitt.â
âOkay, okay,â he muttered, but he was enjoying himself, pressing his nose into your temple as you continued giggling. âNext time, huh?â
You swatted him on the chest, then went to find your shoes. âStop.â
âJust making sure I heard you right.â John collected his suit jacket, slung it over his shoulder with a satisfied smile, tucking himself back into his trousers and fixing his belt. He took your hand and led you down a shallow, grassy embankment, catching you around the waist when your heels sabotaged your balance. Then, he offered his arm, and it was sweet and gallant, leaning into him as you hurried to the sidewalk and down to valet.
He didnât separate from you even when you neared the small pool of guests mingling at the bottom of the grand stairs. In fact, he held you closer to his side, leaning down to kiss your head. âFuck, Iâve wanted that for a long time.â
âCouldâve fooled me.â
The limousine pulled up, and John helped you inside, blocking everyone from seeing your less than pristine state as you clambered into the backseat. He settled in beside you with an exhausted whump, shaking the car, wordlessly raising the privacy divider, though his smile told you everything.
âI wasâŠscared,â he admitted, threading his fingers through yours, tugging until your hand was on his warm, broad thigh. âIâve never been with someone who could kick my ass.â
âI can meet you in the training room if you ever need reminding,â you teased, eyes flicking from him to the privacy divider.
John saw it, scrubbed one hand over his face, and urged you onto his lap. You obliged, straddling his hips, biting your lips as his hands molded over your ass and squeezed. He kissed the hollow of your neck. âYouâre trouble,â he whispered.
Summary: Bob tries a new way of folding Sentry and the Void into his psyche, and it involves recreating the vibes of your smutty books.
Bob is a cinnamon roll, but Sentry likes it spicy. If you only like Bob soft and sweet THIS IS NOT FOR YOU.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 11.1k (complete)
Suggested listening: Off the Ground (Feat. MRYN)
CW: Porn with plot, no use of y/n, mutual pining, verbal consent, Bob is down bad, Sentry is a dom, reader is femme coded but not described, reader is also a thunderbolt/superhero (of vague power and origin, you decide!), banter, discussion of sexual harassment, Yelena is the greatest wingperson of all time, mild themes of violence, Bob is jealous, power dynamics, power play, dom/sub dynamics, p in v sex, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, creative sexual use of super powers, unprotected sex (wrap it up folks), cream pie, fluff.
Sick af dividers by @lobster-graphics
âShe likes you, you know. Everyone thinks she likes you.â
It shouldâve made him feel better. It shouldâve made him happy. Bob closed the book he had been pretending to read. Clearly, he wasnât fooling anybody, and especially not Yelena. He was trying not to pretend so much lately, but old habitsâŠ
âI donât know,â Bob muttered, shrugging. Across the common room from them, you sat on the bar top swinging your legs, hands flying as you relayed the details of yet another terrible date while Ava nodded along, absorbing, chiming in with the occasional disgusted grunt, laughing where appropriate. Bob shoved a piece of hair behind his ear and went back to pretendingâpretending that he didnât notice things about you, pretending that he didnât care. Yelena, perched on the right arm of his overstuffed reading chair, shifted as if she might relent and leave him alone. He shouldâve let her. Instead, he blurted out, âShe goes on dates.â
Yelena snorted softly. Like him, she had opted for sweats and sneaks on a rare day off. Well, all of Bobâs days were off, technically; he was on the bench until he learned how to integrate. That was the word everyone kept using. Integrate. His personality was fragmented. He wasnât much use to anyone, least of all a superhero team, until he learned to integrate. It would be easier to try if everyone stopped treating him like a puppy with a busted paw.
âDates shmates,â Yelena said, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the two women gossiping by the bar. âSheâs just waiting for you to work up the courage.â
Bob gave her a worried smile. âItâs um, I think maybe itâs better for her if I donât.â
âI thought we were trying optimism.â
âLike I want to hear about crypto, of all fucking thingsâŠâ you were saying, to a belabored groan from Ava. ââŠruined my chicken parm.â
âSave her, Bob. Save her from the finance bros.â Yelena patted his shoulder, hopping down from the arm of his chair. âThey are a menace and a scourge.â She tilted her head to the side, smirking as she flicked her head toward you and Ava. âDoesnât it sound like she needsâŠa hero? A super hero?â
Yelena kept trying to walk away, but Bob kept saying too much. He flinched as his jealous mind tattled on him again. âYeah? Maybe Walker can ask her out.â
âJohn?â Her brows tugged down along with the rest of her. She knelt beside the chair, folding her arms across the spot she had just been sitting on. Bob opened his book, a reflex, studiously avoiding her more pointed look. âWhy do you sound bitter? What do you know about her that I donât?â
Bob set his jaw, which in his mind projected a supremely tough and firm expression. It did nothing to rebuff Yelena. She went on staring, skipping a hand up the sleeve of his hoodie before poking his shoulder. He winced away from the prod. âPlease donât do that, youâre very strong.â
âYouâre the Sentry.â
Bob shook his head. âJustâŠwe should drop this.â His eyes, unbidden, tracked from the page he wasnât reading, over Yelenaâs head, to you. What did he know that Yelena didnât? Where to start?
When you joined the team, you had gone to shake everyoneâs hand without a second thought. Bob had been too distracted by your eyes, your warm smile, your laugh, to stop you before it was too late. Your hand folded into his, a perfect fit, and then you were somewhere else, a room he didnât recognize, a memory dredged from the darkest shadow of your mind. He had witnessed your deepest shame, a thing he had no right to, a thing he wished desperately to forget.
Or maybe not. He didnât know. He didnât like the idea of forgetting any aspect of you, even the difficult pieces. When the vision faded, you stared at him with your lips parted, a muscle twitching in your jaw. Tears filmed your eyes.
âIâm sorry,â he had muttered, looking down at his shoes. âThatâŠsometimes I canât control that.â
And he wouldâve forgiven you if you never warmed to him after that, but you did.
Yelena and Ava were so overjoyed to have another woman on the team that they took you in as a third sister; he was sure they must have filled you in on his whole sordid backstory. The drugs. The wandering. The lab in Malaysia. The vault. The Void. Even more ticks in the What The Fuck column, but you didnât shun him. Sometimes, when he did the dishes, you just came and stood beside him and waited to help, taking the wet glasses from him and drying them. You didnât always talk in those times, but the silence was fine, companionable. You calmed him down. He knew your darkness, and it hadnât frightened him away or turned him into a judgy prick, and he got the sense that was a relief.
You left books out for him, ones you thought he would like, a hobby crumb trail to gauge his taste. You offered to take the pickles off his burger when he didnât want them. When Walker condescendingly called him âHouse Husbandâ after catching him doing chores, you laid into John for it. âDoes that mean youâre going to start pulling your weight around here? Pick up your shit?â you had shouted, and Walkerâs face turned a hilariously patriotic shade of red. âNo? Didnât think soâŠâ
On and on.
âBob? Earth to Bob?â Yelena snapped in front of his face, then searched it.
âWe shouldnâtâŠâ Bob scrambled for an excuse she would accept so everyone could move on with their lives. Or Bob would try to move on, at least. Someone should move on because thatâs what healthy people were meant to do. âShouldnât fraternize with teammates."
"Fraternize? Who said anything about fraternize?â Yelena scoffed, then laughed, then scoffed again, rolling her eyes. She wiped a nonexistent booger off her nose and lowered her voice to a naughty whisper. âIâm talking about smooching and cuddling and fuââ
âThatâs fraternizing.â Bob shrank down into the chair, trying to disappear. She was never going to relent, ordinarily a fantastic quality for a superhero to possess but in this specific case highly irritating. âLook, if I tell you the real reason will you let it go?â
Yelena hummed. âMm, that depends on the reason. Is it a dumb reason?â
âIâm not her type.â Bob shut his eyes and said it fast, definitively, so he didnât have to hold the words in his mouth for too long. If he did, he knew they would burn. Across the room, you laughed, and it was like an arrow lodging in his heart. He peeled one eye open at the sound, expression softening.
âOooh you are down bad bad, I see.â Yelena clucked her tongue, shifted her legs to shake the ants out of them as she continued kneeling beside the chair. âAnd bullshit, Bob. Bullshit. She tries not to stare at you as much as you try not to stare at her.â
âHow can you even tell something like that?â
âIt takes a yearner to know one.â Yelena heaved a long-suffering, dreamy sigh, then leaned forward slightly and slapped Bob on the knee. âWhy wouldnât you be her type? You have the beautiful, wounded eyes of a basset hound and the floppy hair of a 90s heartthrob. That is a lethal combination for many.â
Bob quirked his lips to one side, temporarily less interested in vanishing off the face of the planet. âYou think my eyes are beautiful?â
âThey are beautiful, Bob. I know it, you know it.â She frowned, narrowing her eyes. âI thought self-image work was part of you integration therapy.â
âIt is,â he said. âThis has nothing to do with that.â
You and Ava had finished your complete evisceration of Crypto Guy and, after a job well done, had wandered off together toward the elevator discussing dinner options. Now that you were gone, Bob felt a little easier about having this discussion right out in the open. God forbid Walker waltz in and overhear something with this super soldier hearing.
Yelena popped up, standing over him, hip cocked, arms folding across her half-zipped hoodie. âSheâs gone. Out with it.â Her eyes somehow narrowed further. âYou know something.â
âListen, Iâm not proud of itâŠâ Bob cleared his throat, ran one hand through his hair, then both, with greater agitation. âI justâŠshe likes to read, right? She left her Kindle out on the coffee table last week and I thought, hey, her birthday is soon, I can figure out what book to get her and like a total dumb ass I snooped.â
âYou snooped.â Yelena repeated it, dry. âDoes this story get more interesting? Becauseââ
âShe has all these books aboutâŠâ He took a deep, centering breath. âSex.â
âSex books!? Bob.â Fluttering her hand over her heart, she pretended to faint and swoon. âOh my God. A grown woman has sex books? Like about sex? Penis vagina sex? How will your pure baby heart ever recover from the shock? Are you okay? Iâm glad youâre already sitting down, because--â
âStop. Forget it.â Bob shook his head, hugged his book to his chest, and stood, bypassing his interrogator as he stormed toward the kitchen and bar. Of course, she followed. Of course, the heckling didnât stop. She always meant well, but sometimes it was just too much. Nimble and a thousand times more athletic than Just Bob, she beat him to the refrigerator, placing herself between it and him.
âItâs not a problem, okay? It isnât that itâs sex. Sex is fine. Sex is great.â Bob couldnât believe the words coming out of his mouth, he sounded like a guidance counselor. But the lines about these things had always been blurry at best. The team gave each other shit like siblings and also like siblings, protected each other fiercely from the criticisms and cruelties of the outside world where normies, like, just didnât get their whole thing, man, and if there were explicit rules against inter-Avenger romances, he hadnât seen it in the paperwork, but if something went wrong, if something got messyâŠ
âSex is fine. Sex is great?â Yelena rolled her shoulders, pursing her lips as she snorted at him. âSex is cool, maybe? Is it wow neato?â
Bob rocked up onto his toes, trying to remember the box breathing exercises his integration therapist had taught him before she accused him of being a virgin. What do you think is holding you back? the therapist had asked, bouncing the butt of a pen against his chin while he appraised Bob over a pair of thick turtle shell glasses. He didnât know that such a therapist even existed, but Valentina had insisted it was totally a real thing, and whatever his reservations might be, the meetings were not optional. This is not a humane society, were her words, and you are not a stray kitten.
There were worksheets, homework. Constant, constant questionsâŠ
Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?
Bob flexed his white-knuckled fingers around the book he was clutching like a life preserver. He closed his eyes because he wasnât sure he could explain it if he had to see her reaction. âThe guys in her books are intense. They're tough and they yell constantly. TheyâŠthey boss the women around. Theyâre fucking jerks, honestly, and I donât want to be a jerk.â
The cackle he expected from her never landed. Yelena lowered her arms, then crossed the distance between them and gently touched his elbows. âBob. Robert. Itâs just a fantasy. She doesnât actually want a jerk, she wants you.â
He shook his head. âNo, no, they were all like that.â
âYou read them all?â
âNo. No. I skimmed. Enough to recognize a pattern. Look, I donât know how to be like that,â he said quietly, deflating. âEven if it is just a fantasy, I couldnât give that to her, IâmâŠâ He sorted through all the unkind descriptions that had been hurled at him in his life, the ones he had internalized, the ones that stung, and the ones he could shrug off. âAfraid.â
âMy sweet Bob. My darling Bob. My tiny baby sweet boy BobâŠâ Yelena patted his elbows, sticking out her lower lip.
Bob twisted away from her. âDonât. Donât do that.â
He was so fucking tired of everyone patronizing him. Yes, he had problems. Yes, it was taking quite some time for him to figure out his fragmented identities, and yes, he was kind of a dead weight in the meantime. Couldnât they see that he was fucked up about it? Couldnât they see him trying?
Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?
He tossed his book on the bar top and reached over Yelenaâs shoulder for the refrigerator door, promising himself a crisp Dr. Pepper could fix this, pulling the panel open with enough force to rip it halfway off its hinges. Yelena leapt back, silent. Bob stared at where his hand was wrapped around the cylindrical handle. A jar of Dijon mustard fell off the lowest shelf and rolled across the shiny floor until Yelena stopped it with a tap of her foot.
âThatâs new,â she said, eyes widening.
âI, umâŠâ Bob tried to put the door back, but it hung loose and to the side, visibly busted. âIâm sure we can fix that.â
âWas that Sentry?â she asked lightly.
âI donât know.â Bob hunched, keeping his eyes turned away from her. âMaybe.â
Suddenly, he didnât have a choice about looking at her. Yelena soccer scooped the mustard jar onto the top of her foot and flicked it up into her hand, tossing it in the air and catching it as she came toward him, chewing her cheek in thought. She took him by the arm, swinging until they were face to face. âThis is a good thing, Bob.â
âItâŠis? Because I think Valentina is going to be pretty pissed, andââ
She felt along his bicep as if to make sure he hadnât secretly gotten jacked while they werenât looking, but she didnât seem to detect any major changes. âI met Sentryââ
Bob groaned, trying to veer away. âGod, donât remind me, Iââ
âAnd he was kind of a fucking asshole.â She smiled, though, squeezing his arm playfully. âBut he could be our kind of asshole. Her kind of asshole.â
Bob froze in her grasp, catching up to her meaning. His mouth fell open as his eyes shifted side to side. âI donât know about this, Lena. I donât know if I can control him if he comes out, and if I did something, hurt her, God, if I hurt her, I would never forgive myself.â
âWhich is why you wonât.â She said it so simply. Honestly? It was kind of refreshing, and certainly more direct than the constant loops he went in with the integration therapist. âYou are Bob and Bob is Sentry and Sentry is Void and Void is Bob, and so on, yes? If you want to keep her safe, they will keep her safe.â She poked him hard in the chest, and Bob jerked backward. âThe heart of one man, but the, uh, diverse skillset of three. So maybe Sentry wouldâŠbe a bit more flexible when it comes to playing the jerk. Just for her.â Yelena waggled her eyebrows and winked. âJust in the bedroom.â
âI thought you hated this stuff.â
You watched Yelena tear through your bookshelf with the zeal of a sheltered Mormon teen, fingers like claws as she dumped romance novel after romance novel into the growing pile at her feet. She was certainly organizing her night around a theme. You glanced at the titles with a knot tightening in your stomach. The Storm and the Stallion. The Sellswordâs Bride. Mounted by the Warlord.
âIâm broadening my horizons,â Yelena said flatly. She picked up Mounted by the Warlord and gestured toward you with it, eyes dark and dubious as she considered you and then the book. âHowâs this one? Intellectually stimulating?â
âIs this a cry for help?â You joined her by the bookshelf. Previously, you had been observing her 180-degree personality shift from the safe harbor of your bedside table and the multicolor reading lamp there. Walker said those were for insomniatic autistic kids, but you had shot him such a poisonously withering look that he had stumbled on to say there was nothing wrong with that and maybe he should get one and oh look the Yankees game was onâŠ
You studied Yelena, growing more suspicious by the second.
âDonât worry about me, worry about you.â She put the novel back down on top of the stack, and pivoted, puffing the hair out of her eyes.
âMe? What did I do?â you asked, mirroring her defensive posture. âDid Bucky say something about bugs in the Britta filter because if so, I had nothing to do with thatâŠâ
âWhat bugs?â
âItâs not important.â You wiped impatiently at your eyes. Valentina had volunteered you for a charity fundraiser the following evening, and you had hoped to take all of the hours between now and then to prepare, decompress, practice your calming mantras before wading into a sea of politicians and paparazzi. You did not expect the Oprahâs Book Club treatment from someone who thought Pedro PĂĄramo was a taco joint. âCan we skip to the part where you lovingly berate me?â
âSure. Fine by me.â Yelena dusted off her hands as if touching all of your smutty books had left a physical residue. She squared up to you, placing her palms on your shoulders, giving her best frustrated big sister sigh. âWhy are you wasting your precious time with finance bros when our dear beloved Bob is right there? I know you are not stupid, so whatâs the problem?â
You opened and closed your mouth a few times, wondering if a stiff headbutt would be enough to knock her out. Anything to escape this conversation.
âThere is no reason to torture yourself with Wallstreet coke heads, my love, Bob is single and ready to awkwardly mingle, and we would all cheer you on. Even Walker, which is saying something.â
âPlease stop talking.â You covered your face with both hands, forcing out a groan through the crack between your palms.
Bob. Oh God, Bob. You had just survived twelve rounds of merciless interviews, a background check that would make even Steve Rogers sweat, and a compulsory media training camp that made you self-conscious about everything from your teeth (showing too much, too little) to your ankles (showing too much, too little) andâexhausted, terrifiedâBobâs guileless smile had felt too good, too kind, to be true. It was, of course, because thirty seconds later he touched you and you were blasted back to the most traumatizing day of your life, but somehow you had known he didnât mean to do it. He fell all over himself apologizing. He found you, hours later, and offered to order you a pizza or shawarma, or whatever, and that shame room thing didnât always happen, and he mostly had it under controlâŠ
When you came home from your first mission, high as balls on adrenaline and public adoration but sporting several new battle scars, you found that he had cleaned off a corner of the main bookshelf in the common room. A place for your stuff. There was a crooked cardboard placard there, handmade, with your name scribbled on it.
In the storm of egos and anti-social behaviors that were the team, he was an oasis.
Yelena did not stop talking.
ââif itâs about the pot head sweaters, I know, I hate them, too, but we could just take him shopping, it will take like ten minutes and then you two can finally--â
âItâs not about the fucking sweaters.â The walls shook from the unnatural clang of your voice. Yelena froze, gently plucking her hands from your shoulders and holding them up in mock surrender. You heaved for air, getting control of yourself, of your power. âHeâs sweet. Heâs gentle. Iâm not that.â
Yelena nodded along, but you could tell she was coming to unrelated conclusions in her head.
The admission toppled out of you before you could stop it. âIâd ruin him.â
âYou canât ruin Bob,â she stated. âYou werenât there; you didnât see it--he almost destroyed Manhattan through the sheer, terrible power of self-loathing. Bob is as ruined as heâs going to get, and we all suffered for it, but heâs trying to be something else now.â
âThatâs the problem,â you said, curling your hands into fists. âYouâve met those other parts of him. I havenât.â
âIâm working on it. But trust me, you really donât want to meet the V-Man--â
You squinted, shifting closer to her. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end. âWhat does that mean?â
âHeâs working on it, I mean, of course,â she hurried to correct. âWith his state-sponsored therapist.â
âUh-huh.â
âJustâŠdonât write him off, okay?â Yelena asked, doing that puppy dog, pouty pleading thing that was annoyingly effective. She bent down and scooped up her stack of books. You had assumed she would forget them, that it was just a pretense to get you alone for this conversation. You tracked the novels in her arms as she shuffled toward the door. âPromise me you wonât write him off.â
Never. Never.
âNo promises,â you said, and went to bed.
Sometimes Bob liked to take his book to Carloâs and sit at the bar, eat a slice or two, and just watch the world go by. HQ was nice, of course, and they were gradually making it feel more lived in, but sometimes there was still a soulless, corporate quality to it that was a real god damn bummer. Carloâs was real. The bathrooms smelled like the stuff they used to clean high schools, the coasters were mismatched, the pepperoni cups on the pies were always wrinkly and spicy, and they still had the red, bumpy plastic cups that somehow made the water taste good but also thrifted. The Rat Pack and only the Rat Pack crooned in mellow swells from the juke box, because Carloâs grandson and the current owner would kick out anyone who tried to switch up the vibe.
The elderly Italian lady who bartended made sure there was a spot at the bar for Bob. She called him âsweetieâ and refilled his sodas before he was even halfway done. It was a hidden gem, something he kept just for himself, which was why he was more than a bit surprised to see Yelena there on a Friday evening. This was usually the time when she and Ava took over the common room for their horror movie nights, but here she was, frolicking toward him with a book bag slung over one shoulder and enough mischief in her eyes to sound the early warning system in his head.
âThis place is cute,â she said, settling in beside him.
Bob wedged a bookmark between two pages to hold his spot, watching as Yelena took the pizza crusts left on his plate and wolfed them down without asking. He didnât want them, but still.
âHow did you--â
âWe have trackers, Bob. We all wear them?â
âOh. Right.â
âI have something for you,â she said, heaving the bag onto her lap with a grunt. Just from the way it dented her thighs, Bob could tell it was heavy. âStart with this one.â Yelena reached into the bag and pulled out a worn, tattered paperback, shoving it toward him.
Bob looked around to make sure the elderly bartender didnât see him holding a tattered copy of Mounted by the Warlord.
âItâs hers,â Yelena said before he could ask, then, pointing a finger at him, added teasingly, âdo not sniff it.â
âJesus, I wasnât going toâŠâ
âPhase One of the plan is goâread these and do some visualization exercises. Probably donât tell your therapist about Phase One.â
Bob flipped the book over on his lap, afraid just touching it would put a scarlet letter on his forehead for the rest of time. âOkay, I wonât tell him because I never agreed to a plan or any phases--â
âBob, please just try.â Yelena swiveled to face him on her stool, chin working side to side as she sized him up. âYou never said you didnât like her, by the way. You just gave me a bunch of excuses for why you hadnât done anything about it.â
He fell quiet, spinning his cup in place and watching the pool from the condensation spread. âI wouldnât be good for her. Iâm not even one whole guy, Iâm justâŠpieces.â Simply for something to do, something to keep his mind occupied, he flipped to a random page in the book. He squinted down at it.
The warlord loomed over her, and she was helpless before his power. âYou are mine to take. I have no patience for your modesty, girl. Remove your tunic and spread yourself, show me all that is mine by rights to claim.â
Bob flopped the book toward her, pointing. âI canât be this guy.â
Yelena quickly read the passage in question, clearing her throat. She didnât even blush. âNo, but Sentry?â
âI donât think Sentry, Earthâs mightiest protector, should be this guy.â
Bob slammed the novel shut and tried to push it into her hands, but she dodged, grabbing him by the wrists until he had no choice but to relent and keep it.
âYou keep sidestepping the pretend part,â Yelena pointed out, lifting a brow. âItâs okay to try different things, play dress up, put on different hats--unless youâre Walker, in which case hats are to be avoided at all costs.â
At that, Bob allowed a grim smile.
âKeep the book for now,â she said, leaving the bag behind on the stool that she slid down off of. He would, and further, he knew he would cave and read it. Probably that night. Probably in one sitting. God damnit. âI worked really hard to get that. I thought she was going to stomp me into paste when I asked to borrow them all.â
Bob fidgeted, fixed his hair. His temperature flamed just at the thought of you. He ran his fingers through the condensation pool to try and cool down. âDid sheâŠâ He glanced to the side. âDid she say anythingâŠâ
âJust that sheâd like to meet all of you, Bob.â Yelena leaned in and tapped his knee before turning to go. âAll of you. Me personally? I think you should let her. I think you wonât get anywhere unless you push yourself a little.â
Bob paid his tab, hooked the book bag over his shoulder, and drifted through the night to the subway. Maybe it was okay to try a different kind of homework, one that wasnât worksheets and self-affirmations that filled him with thoughts and questions but not much else.
Bob stared out the window as the train ca-shookt ca-shookt over the tracks; two girls in their clubbing clothes whispered behind their hands across the aisle from him. The car shook, jostling the overfull bag on his lap. A novel fell out from the commotion, hitting his foot. Bob leaned down, making sure his hand covered the title as he jammed Mounted by the Warlord back in with its mates. Jesus. He shook his head, feeling ridiculous, his gaze unfocusing as he watched the dim lights in the tunnel flash by. It had a lulling effect, turning off the constant stream of checks and admonishments that dominated his mental landscape. And for a moment, his mind was empty, a smooth blank, before an image flashed before his eyesâan image of you on his bed, half-cloaked in shifting silver as rain pelted the window, his shadow falling across you, your eyes filled with excitement that verged on fear; all the power of the world was in his hands, and you knew it, and you liked it, and as he stepped closer, a voice came out of him that was cold and confident and demandingâŠ
You are mine to take.
âFuck.â Bob blinked, squeezing his temples, shaking himself out of that place. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the subway window, and not even the streaks and grime could conceal the faint glint of gold in his dark, dark eyes.
Saturday night. You had survived the charity event by the skin of your teeth, somehow with your patience and dignity intact, and you had every intention of rewarding yourself with a casual night that could go anywhere. No high heels. No high slits. No high expectations.
It was kind of a shame though, you thought, elbowing your way into your favorite bar, that no one else on the team had been there to see you all glammed up. Even Valentina had found a compliment for you, and a vast majority of your responsibilities for the evening became keeping important politicians from saying something deeply uncomfortable in front of their spouses. Nobody had prepared you for how weirdly touchy-feely people got with superheroes, like they were suddenly all drunk dads at Disney trying to feel up Princess Jasmine.
Weâre not real to them. Does a symbol know itâs being sexually harassed?
A question for the next interminable banquet. It wouldâve been nice to show everyone your dress, your makeup, your bag, but it wouldâve been better if someone had come with to help fend off the creeps. Or at least make fun of them with you. You had ideas, of course, for ideal candidates. Candidate. Maybe next time you would beg Valentina to let Bob come along. How bad could it get? He needed the media practice, and he would look nice in a tux. James Bond if James Bond mostly rescued kittens. Seemed like the gentlest possible way of easing him into the job. Eat a few canapes, rub a few elbows, try not to combust when the mayor eye fucks you in front of his wifeâŠ
Speaking of sexual harassment, that would basically just be you taking a circuitous route to landing a date with Bob. A date he couldnât refuse. Holy shit. Maybe not, maybe youâd just wait for him to make a move, which, at this rate, meant sometime during your retirement years.
You went to the bar and got in line. It was a black and white tiled floor, mostly pool, mostly beer and wings type of place. Unpretentious. Easy to blend in with a t-shirt, jeans, and ball cap if you were feeling extra solitary. You werenât noticeable or beloved enough yet to draw a crowd even if someone did recognize you. Your accolades werenât filling up the front page, and nobody was going to buy you a round for surviving the Perv Purge at the charity ball.
You breathed easier here. Your shoulders went down. The staff knew you, liked you, and always made friendly conversation when it was your turn to grab a beverage. Long, emerald lights glowed above the cash register. A few pool tables in the back provided pleasant click-clack percussion under the bluesy music. No juke box, thank God. You found your way to a circular table, high top, and perched there with your drink. The bar started to fill up, and you idly took out your phone, uploading a few choice pictures from the night beforeâthe ones that made your legs look great, the one where the photographer had caught you in profile and the chandeliers made your silhouette glow. Almost as soon as they were live, you noticed a profile liking all of them back-to-back.
justyouraveragebob and two others liked your photo.
His instagram handle always made your heart squish. There was nothing average about him.
A shadow spread across your hands and your phone. You really, really didnât want to be bothered, especially when Bob was somewhere shamelessly liking all of your hot pics, which was about as direct as he got with his flirting, but whoever it was, they didnât budge. You sighed, not glancing up from your phone.
âTable for one, Iâm afraid.â
âCome on, weâre not strangers.â
Your eyes raked up the screen to the man standing across from you. Just as quickly as your heart had somersaulted for Bob, it sank like a stone at the sight of Gilbert. Yes, Gilbert. No, you hadnât known that was his name when someone from your last crew set you up on a blind date. It seemed crazy that he would turn up here. Gilbert wore seven-hundred-and-twenty-dollar Dior cufflinks. Gilbert had shoes made out of crocodiles. Gilbert had shot an honest to god lion on safari once. Gilbert had lunch at Eleven Madison Park on a bi-weekly basis, which he would absolutely make sure you knew within moments of making his acquaintance. The corpse of your last date wasnât even cold, and here he was, that annoying fucking TikTok song come to lifeâtrust fund, 6â5â, blue eyes. Although you were fairly certain he was maybe 6â3â on a good day; his crocodile shoes had lifts.
âWhat are you doing here?â you asked, placing your phone face down on the table, as if Bob could see what you were doing and you wanted to shield his eyes. âI donât think thereâs fennel pollen within six blocks of this place.â
Gilbert smirked, a default facial expression for him. Maybe you were being unkind. He had paid for the meal, held the door, said nice things about your outfit, and asked three standard questions about your life. You didnât know if he would be a generous lover but maybe a tolerable one.
âMy firm had a trivia night thing,â he said, answering your initial question. He had blonde, feathered hair that ruffled itself attractively when he moved. And he had tried to dress like a normal person, a light gray tee under a bomber jacket and jeans. âJust a few doors down,â he went on, pointing to the wall with his beer in hand. âThought I would scope out the local attractions.â
At that, his eyes lingered on you.
âNo fennel pollen required,â he added, with a wink and a laugh at himself. Another man bumped into him from behind, almost but not quite spilling his beer. Gilbert sneered, shoving the man back with a muttered, âAsshole.â
âWell, great,â you said, in a tone that you hoped communicated your total lack of interest. âIt was nice bumping into you.â
He leaned in to shout above the music, which wasnât even really that loud. âWe could go somewhere else,â he said, keeping his face close to yours. âI can get us into Clemente no problem.
You smiled, tight. Iâm one of the fucking Avengers; even with a z, I think I could get a table. âIâm good, thanks.â
Gilbert either hadnât heard you or had decided not to care, barging on. âTheir beverage program is second to none, the Real Talk will knock your socks off, weââ
âI said Iâm good.â
He put down his beer, which was never a good sign, and moved around the table in a half-circle toward you. There was a slack, weird quality to his expression, like he was suddenly wearing a mask of his own face. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his left hand start to move toward your hip under the table. Contact never came; Gilbert froze as a third person arrived, leaning onto the table like he belonged there.
Because he does.
âHey, baby.â The first thing you noticed was that Bob had done his hair. Not a lot, just enough. He had ditched the Grateful Dead sweater for a simple, clean button down tucked into jeans that fit. Your eyes met under the red glow of the hanging BUDLIGHT-themed stained-glass lamp, and the insistent pressure of his eyes said: Trust me. Go with it.
âHey,â you breathed, all of you bending toward him with relief. âYou made it.â
Bob grinned, eyes only for you. âSorry Iâm late. Impromptu dance thing on the subway. I think maybe they were a cult? Not super clear. They should really work on their messaging.â
You snorted down into your drink. âSounds like it.â
He moved in the opposite direction as Gilbert, melding against your left side like he was made to fit there. Your skin started buzzing from the ease of it, and from the flabbergasted expression on Gilbertâs stupid face.
âWhoâs this?â Gilbert asked, allowing you a few inches of space as he sidled back toward his beer.
âThis is Boââ
âRobert,â he said, still with that cool, calculated smile, million-yard stare, but only when turned against Gilbert. He raked his gaze up and down the other man as if he had been forced at gunpoint to give him an ounce of attention. âAnd you are?â
âGilbert.â
And because you knew Bob and Yelena were horrible eavesdroppers, you added softly, almost to Bobâs shoulder, âHeâs in finance. Crypto.â
âItâs the future,â said Gilbert, certain.
âOh.â Bobâs eyebrows went up with a flicker of a laugh. âHa. Right. Makes sense.â He tapped the side of his nose as if to say, the cocaine guy?
âExcuse me?â Gilbert had started getting heated the moment Bob arrived, but now he looked like he might shoot through the ceiling like a rocket. âDid you justââ
âWhat are you drinking tonight?â Bob asked, simultaneously cutting Gilbert off from the rest of his sentence and the conversation at large. The world shrank down around you. You were in Bobâs warm embrace, his hand like a quietly pulsing star against your spine. He kept himself angled toward you, protectively, a preemptive shield. âCan I get you a refill?â
âIâm fine for now,â you said, showing him that you still had half of your drink left. Bob took that in stride, rubbing your back with a soft hum. âGilbert was just telling me about the beverage program at Clemente Bar.â
Bob nodded once, as if any of those words made sense to him. âBeverage program,â he repeated, enjoying himself.
Gilbert chugged a few fortifying gulps of his beer, rightly sensing that the night was not going his way. âThe chef there isââ
âNot relevant,â Bob said flatly. âBecause sheâs not going with you.â His tone brightened, almost cheerful, and for a moment, he was sweet, boyish Bob again. âBut you have fun, Dilbert.â
âItâs Gilbert, freak.â
Bob waited for a beat, maybe giving Gilbert time to walk that back.
âFreak, is it?â Frost settled across Bobâs features. The lights above the pool table flickered. Just once. He didnât move, or blink, and the small smile that tugged at his lips did not indicate pleasure, but rather the beginnings of an impatience that could expand into worse. Bob inclined his head slightly toward the other man; the music fizzled, going to static. You saw the glimmer of gold circling his irises as the air between you deadened. The beer bottle in Gilbertâs grasp shivered, popped, exploded so quickly into hot vapor that the glass didnât have time to break. The sudden rush of heat sent Gilbert reeling back a step as he shook out his singed hands.
A cloud of steam rose between them and lingered, sizzling.
âHad enough?â Bob asked, lowering his voice to a glacial whisper.
âPsycho shit,â you heard the other man mumble before he dodged swiftly toward the exit, running.
When Gilbert was gone, you snort-laughed, leaning into Bob, expecting to glance up and see him smirking back at you. But Bob wasnât present. The gold diminished in his eyes, but the specter of it never completely went away. A shiver caught you off guard. He noticed, and folded you more firmly against his side, the heat rolling off of his body and through his shirt was incredible. Your whole life had been about strangeness, power, but what you felt now radiating off of BobâRobertâwas hard to comprehend.
The power of a million exploding suns, that was how Yelena had put it. The pitch. The tagline. It sounded like an insane exaggeration at the time, but nowâŠ
His voice, rough, baritone, settled over you like a tight hug. âDid I frighten you?â
You stared up into his face. So. This wasnât quite Bob and it wasnât quite Sentry. Integration.
âNo,â you said truthfully. Relief softened the cold blankness in his eyes. He didnât seem interested in letting you go and you were not interested in moving back.
âIâmâŠtrying something,â he said.
Earnest. Nervous. Your heart ached.
âHow does it feel?â you asked, slowly pushing your half-finished drink toward him. He took a single, grateful gulp, but that was enough to empty the glass.
âOkay, I think, Iâm still figuring things out.â Like he was test-driving a car. Like he was encased in a robotic suit. But you could hear Bob in there, nestled in alongside this other guy. âIâm gonna be honest, when the beverage program thing came up, I thought about making his head explode.â
âYou and me both.â You hid your face in his shoulder, both of you shaking with laughter.
His hand tented on your back, less encompassing, less there.
You tensed, as if afraid to lose that point of contact.
âIs this alright with you?â he asked, flattening his palm again, touching more of you.
âYes,â you said. You couldnât help it. âI know this has to be scary for you, letting different parts of you take up more space. If you need to just be Bobââ
âNo,â he said, squeezing his eyes shut for just a second. âNo, I canâtâŠI have to live with my anger, I have to make friends with it. He can be an asshole but heâs not always wrong. Iâm Bob, Iâm him, Iâm all of this.â He shook his head, eyes narrowed. âIâm not pretending. When I saw him bothering you, I wanted it to stop. Thatâs all I had to do, focus on the truth of the thing, and suddenly I could just do it. Be him. BeâŠme.â
You didnât want to ruin the vibe with tears. You pressed your lips together, catching yourself. âIâm really fucking proud of you. Even just for trying.â He looked down at you, and you gazed up at him, not knowing exactly what had changed between you, only that something had. You could stay swimming in his eyes forever, you thought, float in the darkness, bask in the gold. âAnd maybe it was a tiny bit fun?â
âSo fun, oh my God,â he agreed, snorting in a quintessentially Bob way. He rubbed your back again, leaning in, brushing a kiss across your forehead that made your skin ignite. Oh no. Yelena was never going to put away her shit-eating grin when she found out. âAnd is that alright with you?â he asked, doing it again when you nodded.
You pressed into his side, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt over his chest. âCan we get out of here?â
âAnywhere but Clemente Bar,â he teased, his nose in your hair.
You slid your hand into hisâeasy, comfortableâand he tugged you toward the door. âWho are we kidding?â you laughed. âWeâre Avengerz with a Z, weâd never get a table.â
Bob couldnât hear the decision itself, but he detected everything that surrounded itâthe rasp of desperate breath; the jangle of a zipper; the sound of flop sweat hitting the pavement; the cock of the hammer; the implosion within the barrel; the singing of the bullet as it kissed the night air.
And his decision and his movement happened instantaneously, even before the projectile zipped toward you. Way before death was a sure thing. In a blink, he was at your side, then behind you, hand outstretched, not catching the bullet but stopping it in mid-air before it could slam into your shoulder. It flared into a burning red eye, melting.
âShit, shit, shitâŠâ Gilbert, fucking Gilbert, crouched in the alley outside the bar, fumbling with his revolver before deciding to cut his losses and run. All of these finance guys were getting into meth, he thought, so he shouldnât have been surprised. And maybe he wasnât; no, not surprised, just transmuting. Integrating. The gun turned to molten slag in the jerk-offâs hand, cold and metal again by the time it thunked to the pavement. Vaguely, Bob heard you calling his name, but he was already rounding on Gilbert, following him into the darkness.
âI donât know what the fuck is going on, what the fuck you areââ Gilbert broke into a frantic run, screaming over his shoulder. It was no effort to follow. It was a childâs game.
âGood observation,â Bob said, appearing in Gilbertâs path. âIâm still learning what I am, too. Maybe we should find out together.â
His hand closed around Gilbertâs neck, threatening, the flesh and the pulse and the blood of meager interest to a god. The facts of Gilbert were so sad, sad enough to make him wonder if the man ought to exist at all. That was the Void talking, because where Sentry went, Void followed. But then he saw you jogging down the alley toward them with a question in your eyes that Bob must answer.
Are you afraid of what will happen if Sentry or the Void become dominant?
You looked so alive, so beautiful, and Gilbert monstrously defaced by his own choices; the contrast fascinated him. Like a universe blinking out, heat death, he felt the impulse to destroy Gilbert vanish. A human man screamed inside him to rememberâremember his own pain and how he had tried to numb it. And sympathy declared itself like a fourth voice; gradually, his grip eased on Gilbertâs neck.
âGo back inside,â he told you calmly. âIâll be right back.â
âBobââ
His eyes were bright hot in the darkness. âTrust me.â
There was no need for the subway; Bob flew you home.
You almost wished someone had been there to see it. Walker, preferably, so he could finally quit whining about fueling up the jet as if the gas came from his pocket personally. Or Alexei, who seemed fixated on the idea of one day riding Bob into the sky. Instead, the tower was quiet. You clung to Bobâs neck, forearms looped around him, legs kicked up into his grasp. It was, you thought, the most superhero thing that had ever happened to you. And as he set you down gently, allowing but not forcing you to glide fully down his front until your feet touched solid ground, you wondered if it would be too embarrassing to swoon.
Along the way, Bob had promised you that no real harm had come to Gilbert, that he had handed him over to the nearest precinct and waited until Gilbert confessed to his attempted murder. On an Avenger, no less.
âThat was big of you,â you said, meaning it. Bob was still figuring out how to control this side of himâit was a miracle he had wrangled his impulses before doing something extreme. You watched his ears turn pink from the compliment as you walked back inside, where it was warm and smelled faintly of burned popcorn. âYour first night as the new you and no extrajudicial killings. Thatâs major.â
Bob shook his head, sticking his hands into his pockets. Now it came down to itâyou stood chest to chest in the common room, both of your rooms in walking distance. But Bob kept his eyes on you. âYouâre making fun.â
âIâm not,â you said, crossing your heart to show him. âI would tell you what happened the first time I felt my powers manifestâŠâ Your voice dropped, no longer teasing, no longer giddy. âBut you already know.â
The moonlight through the tall windows turned slivers of his hair silver. He touched your cheek, cupping your face. You held your breath, worried, briefly, that you would slide back into those ugly memories just from skin-to-skin contact. But you stayed where you wereâin your new home, with your newâŠ.
âYou were just a kid,â he told you, gentle. His eyes shined with all of the kindness and all of the grace that he rarely showed himself.
âI tell myself that all the time. Somehow, it never sticks.â
Bob tilted his head to the side and down, studying you. âWhat if I told you.â
You kept waiting for it to sound like a question. His eyes burrowed into you, deadly serious. âYou just did, Bob.â
He shook his head, inching closer, not crowding, showing you how solid and real and overpowering his presence could become. Through his fingers, carefully channeled, you felt a growing, odd heat. âWhat if I told you over and over again,â he said, gold liminal in his gaze. It came and went, but you could sense Sentry just on the other side of his brittle restraint. âYou donât have to prove anything to me. Iâve already seen your darkness.â He brought his lips down carefully, his eyes locked to yours, monitoring, checking. His breath ghosted across your mouth, and you let him in.
âWhat about yours?â you asked, kissing his chin.
His composure cracked, just for a millisecond. His eyes changed rapidly, colors shifting, moods flying by, like someone clicking through slides, dark blue to black to gold to a gradient of all three. He shivered, closed his eyes, and kissed you. Both of his hands bracketed your face, thumbs just outside your lips. A rush of air. A feeling like falling. His lips slid against yours, hungry, seeking more. By the time you pulled back slightly for air, you realized you were no longer in the common room together but his quarters, both of you levitating inches off the ground.
âHow did you do that?â you asked, grabbing his neck before you could fall. But he had you, and his smile was mild, amused, as he lightly set you both down.
âDoes it matter?â
His eyes flared gold; the door shut behind him.
âNo,â you whispered, mouth suddenly dry. âNo, I guess not.â
Bob let go of you, hands at his sides, eyes falling to his feet. âI ruined it, Iââ
âYou didnât ruin anything.â You hugged him, arms around his waist, and just as readily his hands found their way back to you, settling on your hips. âThis is new for both of us.â
âCan I kiss you again?â he asked.
You leaned up and pressed your lips to his in answer. His heart hammered against your chest. A quiet, greedy sound rasped out of the back of his throat. The room was cold and dark, and his heat called to you. Your fingers crawled from his back to his shoulders to his hair, threading into the thick golden-brown waves that he had tamed that night just for you. Breaking the kiss, you thumbed a few loose strands of hair behind his ears, stroking his temples. âYou can stop asking, Bob.â
He took you by the wrists, jaw tightening. âAre you sure?â
âYes. You told me to trust youâI did.â
His eyes went up and down your body once, then burned into yours again. âHow attached are you to these clothes?â
You smirked, curious. âNot very, Iââ
A feeling like you had just stepped in front of a bonfire roared across your skin. Light shimmered up from your arms and torso, and then your t-shirt and jeans were dust scattering to the floor, disintegrated. Not a single hair on you had been so much as toasted. Bob touched your cheek again, his eyes difficult to read.
âBetter,â he said.
It was juvenile, maybe, but that show of power thrilled you. There was steel behind his touch, hunger gathering in his gaze. He looked you up and down again, taking his time, absorbing the shudder that ripped through you as he drank in your body, his thumb jerking on your cheek when his gaze reached your breasts. They were caged in sheer fabric, the chill in the room and his heat drawing out your nipples, hardening them, every part of you desperate for more, for his touch.
You undid the top button on his shirt clumsily; you tried to move quickly but your fingers had stopped working, and it only got worse when he laughed softly at your distress. Bob took over, nodding toward the bed just behind you.
âGet on the bed,â he said. There was the slightest tremor in his voice, but by the time he spoke again, it was gone. âShow me whatâs mine.â
Your eyes widened. Not in a hundred years had you considered those words would leave Bobâs mouth. You moved before he could register your hesitation. Not hesitation, justâŠwow. You remembered the feeling of your own clothes burning off of your body, something he had accomplished with a single thought. As you turned and crawled onto his bed, knees and palms sinking into the soft, dark blue flannel, you noticed a stack of books near the bedside table. You wouldâve recognized them anywhere, even in the darkâthey were yours.
A tide of conflicting emotions rose in your chest. It was incredibly sweet that he had made a close study of your desires. On the other hand, if this wasnât him⊠You flipped onto your back, head at his pillows, to say as much, but the concerns died in your throat. You didnât know who was standing thereâBob, Robert, Sentry, the Voidâbut the sight of him took your breath away. He stood at the foot of the bed, stripped down to his black boxer briefs, every perfect muscle visible in the gray slats of gloom allowed in by the half-tipped blinds. Maybe it was the perma pajama pants, but you had never noticed how unbelievably thick his legs were. Thighs. The word pulsed like a neon sign behind your eyes.
âWhat did I say?â he asked, in a voice of quiet command. Not angry, perhaps somewhat disappointed.
âS-Sorry.â The apology spilled out of you. Holy shit. It was one thing to read about a towering figure in the bedroom ready to control, ready to take, but experiencing it with a guy who could explode a gun with his mind was altogether different. It felt like you could levitate again, this time all on your own.
âDonât apologize,â he said, his eyes rotating through that odd catalog of colors again as he tilted his head to the side. âJust do as I ask.â
Sir, yes, sir.
You tried to relax, but there was no hiding the shaking in your legs as you laid back against the pillows and rested your hands across your midsection, subtly opening your thighs as you stretched out. His eyes burned like stoked coals in the darkness, sharp lights in an anti-halo of shadow. A heartbeat later, he was on the bed, over you, his weight sinking the mattress at your sides.
 âJesus,â you whispered, jolting your head up to meet his eyes.
âGood?â he asked. Bob, you thought, he was in there.
You nodded, licking your lips.
Just as quickly as he had come, Bob receded again. His lips descended to your throat, searing across the delicate architecture there, down to your collarbone, across, learning, memorizing. âMaybe I need an outlet,â he said. âWhat am I? A god? A man? A monster?â His hips lowered until you were forced to twitch your thighs further apart to accommodate him. âOut there,â he went on, still dropping kisses across your neck, âI have to be so careful. But in here?â
His voice trailed away. You slid your hands across his back, molding your fingers around the hard juts of his shoulder blades. He made a pained sound against your throat, dragging his nose from your neck to your shoulder. His teeth closed around the ridge there, biting until you gasped and arched against him. âYou,â he said, releasing the hold of his teeth, but blinking up at the ceiling, you knew there would be a mark there in the morning. âYou. My outlet. For the god,â he whispered fiercely. âAnd the monster.â
Bob craned back, looking down at you. Checking. You wondered if the blend of them was becoming more seamless. He was waiting for you to fend him off, disagree, but instead you touched your forehead to his chin. Permission. He allowed himself one weak, ragged breath.
âShow me,â he said. âShow me that youâre mine.â
You took his right hand, sliding it from the mattress by your shoulder to your side, over your left breast and your heart, then down, guiding his palm over your stomach, beneath the waistband of your panties, and toward the soaking wet heat he had generated between your legs. His middle finger curled automatically into you. The power in the building surged, a transformer down the block splitting the silence with a thunderous boom. The sound startled you, your hips driving you against him, forcing him further inside. All of the lights went on in the room, twinkling in a sequence before turning themselves off again.
Both of you were holding your breath.
âWhat happens when you cum?â you whispered.
Bob supported himself on his left elbow, shook his head. âThatâs never happened before.â He tossed his head again, eyes stuttering shut as if in disbelief. A second finger joined the first, shocking your hips up again. âIs this for me?â he asked.
âYes.â You tightened your grip on his wrist as he twisted his fingers, pumping, searching, stretching.
âYouâre so fucking wet.â Golden eyes found you in the dark, brightening, your bra and panties sizzling off of your skin until you were completely bare beneath him. He claimed your mouth with a brutal kiss, forcing your chin upward, then down, his tongue driving into you at the same rate as his fingers, setting a steady rhythm. âLet go of my wrist,â he said, breaking the kiss. His chest rose and fell, expanding like bellows. âPut your hands above your head. Donât move them unless I tell you to.â
You did as he instructed, bracing your fingertips against the headboard.
âGood,â he said. He pulled his fingers out of you with a sound that made your ears burn. Wet wasnât the word for it. The word hadnât been invented yet. You whimpered at his absence. âDonât worry,â he told you, reaching down to free his cock from his shorts. His voice seemed to fill the room, infiltrate you from every direction. âBeg for it. Beg for it from your god.â
He drove home the command with a glimmer building in his eyes. He wasnât even touching you anymore, but you felt a whisper of pressure around your clit, circling, teasing. You shivered and clamped down on nothing, whispering his name. He waited, patient, never increasing the speed of that sensation, making it spread, flickers of energy circling your breasts, skipping up and across your nipples until it felt like they were being lightly, teasingly electrified. You felt it in your teeth. Helpless, you flexed the hands wedged above your head, desperate for relief. Your back bent toward him, but Bob remained still, letting you torture yourself until the words clawed their way out of your throat.
âPlease, Robert,â you whispered, fighting the waves of pleasure contorting your spine. âPlease, I need you. Please, Jesus, itâs too much.â
The touching without touching had been bad, but when he made it stop, that was worse. You slithered back down to the mattress, breathing hard, gasping as he crawled over you, urging your thighs wider before pressing his lips to your ear. His hot, swollen dick pulsed against your thigh, brushing at such tantalizing range you heard yourself whine like a frantic animal. âIâm going to fuck you now, and if it destroys the power grid then so be it.â
He scooped you against him, one arm braced under your lower back, his other hand guiding his cock to your entrance. There was so little resistance it made you both exhale; no more waiting. Stretch but not resistance, your body was ready for him, soaked and pliant. Bob rewarded you with a biting tug on your earlobe, his breath shuddering against your neck as he fit himself inside you to the hilt and groaned. You smiled at the thought of making a fucking god moan like that.
âYouâre mine,â he whispered, ragged. âYouâre beautiful. You look so beautiful when I fuck you.â
He worked his hips back and forth, giving you a preview of just how much delicious friction that could produce. A string of lights stapled around the border of his ceiling sparkled on, warming the space above his head. Your thighs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his sides, technically not against the established rules, and seemingly to his taste. He hummed with approval, slapping both of his palms against your upper thighs as he knelt, shifting his weight, pushing into you on a long, devastating stroke.
âFuck.â Your head fell back, air blasting out of your lungs.
âYou seemed to like this before,â he said, laughing against your throat. âLetâs try it again.â Those cruel, teasing flickers of hot energy coiled around you again, tracing maddening circles around your clit, your peaked nipples, the ends of your toes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Even if those lights hadnât turned on you would be seeing stars. âIs this what you wanted?â he asked, wry. âTo give up control? Give yourself to me? Because now that I have you, I could do anything. Anything.â
The energy was everywhere now, coursing through you, pinging through every cell, mapping every corner of your body. You felt him in your throat, behind your knees, along the inner coils of your ears, zapping your tongue. You arched and cried out for him and then fell silent, dumb, just letting the insane, raw beauty of his power tingle in your blood. Bob fucked into you harder, sweating, his hair damp as it clung to your shoulder. Down the street, another transformer erupted, a dog barked. The air around you sizzled. He angled your hips slightly, finding a new depth, holding his own orgasm at bay long enough to leave you panting, dazed, fucked into a place where your mind had gone blank. There was just him. Just his eerie energy moving through you. He could do anything. Anything.
âPlease,â you murmured, wishing you could hold him, touch him, rake your nails down his back in pent up gratitude. âPlease Iâm so close.â
âThatâs good,â he said, shoving his forehead against your jaw. Finally, he sounded as wrecked as you did. He was coming undone, close, close, driving, swelling⊠âLet go. Show me.â
The little gusts of heat he had been controlling coalesced around your sex, concentrated on your clit, spiraling inward, faster, faster, until the glittering, live wire mesh that had been tightening around your body snapped shut, heat rocketing through your core, burning a clean line from your abdomen to your eyeballs. You couldnât keep your hands away from him any longer. You clung to his shoulders, sobbing out the shocks that had nowhere to go but out.
It sent him over the edge.
Bob ground you into the mattress, holding himself deep, whispering something you couldn't make out as he jerked and bucked and filled you until it felt like you might burst. Jesus, every part of him was powerfulâyou had never felt someone cum like that, distinct enough to push another little climax through you.
His chest worked against yours, his breathing evening out after a prolonged, sweaty moment of total entangled bliss. He let you go gently, setting your legs down as if they might break, but he didnât climb off of you. Lowering himself with utmost care, he nestled against your body, face in your neck and arms around your middle. The string lights were still glowing faintly, like you were just two horny losers in a college dorm. As you came back to yourself and opened your eyes, every single object in his room except the bed was floating.
âNow we know what happens,â you said softly, carding your fingers through his hair. Just from the weight of him, from the sweet way he kissed your throat and held you like his life depended on it, you could tell Bob was back in control. He turned his head, looking around at the desk, the lamp, the laundry basket, the sneakers, all suspended as if you were in outer space. Coughing, perhaps with embarrassment, Bob gradually let the objects float back down. His hands tightened on you in concentration.
âDoâŠdo you think everyone heard us?â he asked, hiding his face against your skin again.
âProbably.â You laughed, relaxing against the pillows as he finally rolled to the side, freeing himself from you with a groan as he crumpled to your right. âI donât mind,â you said, reaching for him. âItâs okay if they know Iâm yours.â
Bob blinked at you, a shy, boyish smile pulling his lips to one side. âIâm yours, too. You know that, right? IâŠsaid a lot of stuff at you just now. I hope it was okay.â
âIt was more than okay,â you assured him. âLike you said. An outlet.â
âThis is gonna blow the tits off my integration therapist,â he muttered, covering his face with both hands. âIâll maybe gloss over some parts. Like where stuff exploded. And the burning your clothes off with my mind thing.â He shrugged and flopped onto his side, gazing at you adoringly from his pillow. âIâll, um, I'll buy you new jeans.â
You snuggled closer, fitting your face against his chest. He pulled you in, sighing. It seemed right, the way you fit together.
You leaned up for one more kiss. âFine, but only if you promise to burn them off again.â
A little zap of energy coasted up and down your back. âDeal.â
CW: 18+ MDNI, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, blindfold use, breeding kink for real do not read this if you're not interested in that, possessive sex, discussion of pregnancy, praise kink, use of nicknames like baby, honey, sweetheart, good girl, etc. Smut smut smut. Light angst at the end.
âËâË°âïœĄÂ° âźË àŁȘ âčâ.Ë
Mate.
The word hung there between you, already huge and expanding, becoming more powerful in the dark. The blackout curtains had robbed the room of almost all of its light; then Robby tied the blindfold securely around your eyes. You felt the trembling in his hands as he did it. He was usually so gentle with you and you wondered if playing this role was difficult for him. You tried to breathe but the crackle between you was palpable--he had driven you back to the apartment like the fire department had called to let him know it was engulfed.
Mate. Your brain circled around the word, fixated on it. You knew Robby well enough now to understand that he rarely did anything haphazardly. That was a specific word specifically chosen. All of its meanings and connotations suddenly fascinated you. And while you meditated on it, time passed. It was difficult to say how long it was between the blindfold covering your eyes and your next indication that Robby was still even in the same county.
Then you sensed his presence close by. Your head tracked it. You became aware of his breathing and your ownâyours fast and ragged, his steadier but with the occasional needy hitch. He wasnât staying still; he was moving up and down along the side of the bed. Prowling. You wondered how a man that large could move so quietly when he was close enough for you to reach out and touch. And since he was making the wait an agony, you decided to try, just playfully, just once, swatting out with your right hand toward the open air beside the bed.
 Your hand found nothing, then Robbyâs closed around your wrist.
âNo.â
Robby so rarely denied you anything. And he always sounded sorry about it, never like that.
It sliced through you, somehow more intense than the point of physical contact. He squeezed your wrist once, a punitive warning. After he had let go, you dutifully put it back where it had been. The silence crept in again, worse now. You could feel his eyes on you, moving over every exposed inch. Your skin prickled with heat, your body buzzing at a frequency you hoped he could hear. What was he waiting for? What was he seeing? There were certainly more flattering poses if he just wanted to admire youâŠ
But this wasnât about admiration. Control, maybe. Dominance. It felt like he was dangling the reason above your head.
You shivered, closing your eyes even behind the blindfold. After that frantic drive back from the brewery, his patience in this moment almost frightened you. You felt him shift again, his legs bumping the edge of the bed. His heat radiated at your side. Your body clenched in anticipation. Robby waited. And waited. When you shook again, his rumble of a laugh made you feel even more exposed. There was a safe word, you could get up and leave whenever you wanted, but you wanted to stay.
A single, strong finger traced the ridge of your spine, precise as the tip of a knife.
Your head jerked up in response.
The mattress dipped as Robby joined you on it, somewhere behind you, you luxuriated in the heat from his thighs. He waited another moment, and you tried not to beg.
âDo you remember the safe word?â he asked, firm.
âYes.â
âSay it for me.â
âRobbyââ
âSay it.â
âLycanthropy,â it sounded stupid, but you blurted it out anyway.
âDo you want to use it right now?â
âNo.â
He leaned over you, hovering, his right hand closed around your neck, pushing, pushing, until your cheek hit the blanket. Letting go, he knelt back again, and once more you felt the pressure of his eyes slide across you, down your back, to where your ass was in the air for him. The audible, half-swallowed groan he gave made you smile into the mattress.
âYou can use that word for any reason,â he said, a new kind of strain entering his voice. âNo questions asked. If itâs something I doâŠâ Robby sighed softly, and you got the impression that it wasnât at you but at himself. âOr something I say.â
 You understood all of that. That was the point of a safe word. Impatient, you wiggled your ass at him. You felt him still behind you.
âCareful.â
Robby had used that warning with you before; this time you believed him. This time you listened. Your back began to subtly ache. You shifted your arms to pillow your head on them, and that didnât seem to violate any of his unspoken rules.
âIâm going to touch you now.â His voice pried the cold darkness open, touched something inside you. The mattress creaked as he moved closer, your toes colliding with his knees. âIâm going to touch whatâs mine.â
He waited again, letting the words settle over you. They worked like a spell. Your spine arched in response, and this time he didnât punish you for it. Robbyâs hands settled on your lower back, bracketing your waist, then slid down, smoothing over your ass, thumbs tucking into you from behind, outlining the swollen, wet lips there before his breath fluttered across your sex. You choked around a gasp, not sure what was allowed, what wasnâtâ
âI want to hear you,â he whispered, peeling you open.
This time, when he licked the broad flat of his tongue over your opening, you werenât shy, pressing back against him, moaning. His beard scraped against the inside of your legs. When he did nothing but wait there, breathing you in, hovering, another sound came out of you, half-broken. What was he waiting for?
âPlease,â you heard yourself say.
âYou can do better than that.â
Jesus. Where had this side of him come from? Your mind screamed back to your teasing conversation in the car. Not trying to get me to break or anything. Beg for you to take me back to your place? Nothing like that?
âFuck,â you whispered, shaking your head against your arms. Sweat poured down your temples, your legs beginning to quake.
âThatâs right,â he said, hearing the recognition in your voice. âYou know what to do.â
âPlease.â You didnât bother waiting, didnât want to. There was no point in pretending you wanted anything besides his face buried in your cunt. âI want you. I need you.â
âYes, you do.â Robby hummed, thumb seeking more diligently through your folds, bathing your clit in the slick he collected there, circling it, rubbing firmly enough to make you see stars. You felt the wiry hair of his beard on your ass, then his breath, hot as an August wind, searing against your wetness. You felt yourself open for him, pulsing, flexing. Your body was familiar with him, with what he could give, all the shattering ways he could fill you. âYou have no idea, baby, what youâre going to beg me for before weâre done here.â
That, of course, made your thoughts race ahead to the possibilities. Not for long, though, because his tongue speared into you, fucking you greedily. Partners had gone down on you before, but not like this. Hungry. Messy. His face in the cleft of your ass and his powerful fingers holding you open, thumbs gradually joining his tongue as he claimed you with wilder, faster strokes of his tongue, scope broadening until he licked you rhythmically from your clit to your entrance and back again. When his beard grazed your thighs, it was softer, soaked in your desire. Your hips worked back against him. You did as he asked, letting every filthy, deranged sound claw out of you until your throat ached. Faster, faster, his hungry growls bringing you closer to the edge you could feel dancing on the edge of your consciousness. Soon. You turned your face into the blankets, arms straightening, fingers sinking into the pillow, no longer just bent over and exposed but in a position of full worship.
âIâm soâŠIâm soâŠâ
Usually, Robby seized on your warnings that you were close, redoubled his efforts, driven to please, but this time he stopped completely, holding your thighs briefly before moving away from you. As he did, you felt the velvety, hot tip of his cock brush your ankle. Fuck, he was so hard⊠You whined at him, babbling, begging again. âRobby, pleaseââ
âSh-hh.â His hand grazed your lower back, a quick, soothing gesture. You shivered, suddenly so alone, cold, and empty. The mattress recoiled as he left you there. The darkness behind the blindfold was terrible. You whimpered, hearing him next to you again, a door on the bedside table opening and closing. A cap snapped open, then you heard Robby put something down on the nightstand. A moment later, he was with you again, resuming his position, this time with his thick, hairy thighs flush with your legs. You heard the quiet slsh-slsh sound of wet skin and friction.
Your back tightened as his thumbs slid into you again without warning, testing you, stretching, then a short absence of his touch altogether before the tip of his dick wedged against your opening. It was artificially slick, coated in something cool and slippery. Lube. Robby worked himself into you carefully, waiting for the now familiar cues of your desireâshort little bursts of your hips against him, the faster exhales as your body adjusted to his size, the breathing that transitioned into rhythmic sighs.
âAh,â you shoved your face into the pillow again, arching. âThank you.â
It came out without you really thinking about it. Thank you? Jesus Christ. Robby laughed, low and hoarse, as if he understood perfectly. He held your hips, then planted his hands on either side of your torso, leaning forward, stretching out along your back as he sank deeper. You lifted your head, his face nestling into the crook of your throat on the left side. âRemember you said that,â he murmured, running his teeth along the corded tendon between your neck and shoulder.
âLube?â you asked, finding your playful edge again, twisting to brush your lips against the side of his beard. It was so strange not to see him at all. He smelled like you, musk and salt and sex, he hadnât even tried to wipe it out of his beard.
âThis is a new angle,â he said, dodging into your kiss, returning it with more gentility than you expected. âI didnât want you to get uncomfortable.â
âSuch a gentleman.â
âRemember you said that, too.â
You shivered. He bit down on the ridge of your shoulder, bracing himself with a more solid position against you. His hips met yours, all of the air rushing out of your lungs as he brought your bodies flush, his cock nested in you to the hilt. The sensation was overwhelmingâhe had never taken you from behind before, and it felt like he was reaching places you didnât know existed. The thought of doing it with him like this had been intimidating for precisely the feelings you were experiencing nowâthat there was too much of him, that he was going to touch a part of you that might make you come undone in ways you werenât prepared to face. His chest and the thick hair there ignited the nerves along your spine as he carefully withdrew, then pressed forward again, setting a pace so glacial, so controlled, you wondered if he was trying to kill you.
One of his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place, keeping you from humping back against his dick as he breached you again, this time the littlest bit faster, the stroke so deep and so good you rasped into the pillow like an animal. Maybe that was what you had become, inhuman, just lust, just a searing wet ache for him to tease and fuck.
Robby's voice hit your senses like a spank. âYou wanted the beast. What do you think he would do with you like this?â
You whimpered senselessly. Taking mercy, Robby didnât make you answer in earnest.
âTake you?â he suggested. You nodded, grabbing the lifeline, gulping down air as you fought to see him beneath the seam of gray light at the bottom of the blindfold. He was everywhere; he was nowhere. âFuck you, mark you, breed you.â
Your breath stopped, hitched. Both of you froze as the dust from that blast settled. It was a game, you reminded yourself, a fantasy. There was a safe word. This was just play. But even if was just play, just a fantasy, that word wrapped in the possessive scratch of his voice lit a flame in your chest that was too high, too hot to go near. Nobody had ever said anything like that to you. That it was him... Fuck. And in your silence, your body betrayed you, told him everything, your hips searching back against him, as if there was still room inside of you left for him to inhabit. Robbyâs arm around your midsection tightened, his breath coming faster against your ear.
Your eyes watered from the crush of his body over yours, from the pressure of his dick reaching the deepest part of you. If he so much as mentioned your clit, you would unravel. You realized then that he was waiting for you to end it, say the word that would bring all of it screeching to a halt. When you didnât, Robby bit down on your shoulder again, holding his teeth there for the duration of another cruelly heavy stroke. If you squeezed down on him, it was too much to bear, your only choice to relax and let him maintain that infuriating pace.
Out, in. Full of him again, he traced your ear with his nose. âYou donât cum until I do,â he said, rewarding your whimper of understanding with a slightly more satisfying snap of his hips. âYou donât cum until I breed you.â
âRobby, oh my God.â He couldnât say shit like that, not if he wanted you to hold out longer. You clenched your jaw around a sob.
âSay you understand.â
You thrashed your head back and forth. âI understand.â
You werenât sure you did, but that was a problem for tomorrow you. Robby nuzzled against the side of your face, unsheathed himself from your drenched pussy, and fucked back into you with a growl. He shifted his weight onto his haunches, still holding you around the middle, his other hand rising to clamp around your neck. âGood girl.â
Robby knew you liked those words, too, liked being praised. It stoked that other fire, joining it, creating a blaze you weren't equipped to snuff out.
He held you in place, he held you down and slammed into you hard enough to bruise. There was no pressure from the hand at your neck, no squeezing, no pain, no attempt to do anything but make clear you were his and held and at his mercy. His next thrust was less brutal, setting the pace he wanted, steady, building, his thighs flexing against your ass as he controlled the depth with less and less accuracy. When you moaned his name, he swore, crumpling slightly against you, fucking you more desperately as the thin threads of his control lost against how good your body felt taking him and taking himâŠ
Robby dropped down lower, fitting his front against your back, the arm around your waist loosening and that hand slithering down, the flat of his palm covering your sex as if for modesty. But it was a trap. You felt yourself roll against that hand instinctively. A hot, sparking spiral tightened in front of your eyes, and without your sight, your universe was just the sound of his increasingly torn breaths, the slap of your wet bodies, the creak of the wooden bed frame and the bang of it crashing against the wall. You were falling into darkness, sensing the bottom with a frantic, itchy feeling in the back of your throat; you had never cum just from the penetration, but this angle was doing something strange, and he just had to open his fucking mouth and make it worse.
âTell me what you want, baby, and Iâll give it to you.â
He was close, too, you could hear it in his voice. Almost anguished. Almost gone. You couldnât believe his dick had stayed this hard and this swollen for so long. You met his next thrust, gasping from the rich, warm feeling spreading through your stomach, down to your abdomen. You didnât just want to orgasm, you wanted to see where this was going, how far he would take it, take youâŠ
Every broken little sound he made, every growl, every hitch in his breath, told you more.
âPlease,â you whispered, turning your head to the side again, to the left, smelling your own scent on the rough hand gripping your neck. âCum for me. Fill me up.â
That broke his rhythm, and he faltered, surging forward, the hand on your neck letting go to find new purchase on the headboard as he enveloped you in the furnace of his body, smothering you, kissing and sucking the side of your neck as he struggled to find the cadence again. But he found it, he fucking found it, sinking home, remaining there for longer than you anticipated. Robby nipped your earlobe, that hand cupping your sex breaking into disparate fingers, two seeking through your folds to rub circles around your clit, tease it just the way you liked.
âNo,â you whispered, shivering. âNo, Iâm so closeââ
âNot yet,â Robby warned, but kept touching you, provoking you⊠âTell me what you want.â
Your hands curled into fists, and you pounded both of them against the mattress, letting the tears coast down your cheeks as you threw back your head and really begged him for it. You couldnât imagine staying like this, so close to an ecstasy that was just maddeningly in reach, only waiting on the other side of words, words you suddenly found yourself more than willing to say. âI want it, Robby, give it to me. Fill me up.â You stammered out the last of what he wanted, feeling his cock swell and his fingers startle on your clit as you did. âGive me everything you have, fuck me, breed me.â
âFuck.â He pressed his face into your neck. You heard a strange crackling noise then a pop like wood giving against a nail. âTake it. Here it comes, baby.â
He was right there and you were waiting for himâjust your voice was enough to bring him off, his hand stilling so you could grind against it, chase after your climax and join him in the fall. He spasmed against you, his cock jerking, the sudden gush of warmth and the callouses on his fingers springing apart the last of what the control you hadnât wanted in the first place. You gave it to him happily, listening to his groans as he shuddered and emptied himself inside you.
It took Robby a while to catch his breath. He eased his weight off of you, still half-crumpled over your back and ass, his chest wet with sweat. His nose traced the C behind your ear, several times, while you rode out the buzzy aftershocks. You couldnât keep your hips up in the air any longer, weak, and you collapsed down to the mattress, just as breathless and dazed as he was. He kissed the back of your neck and pulled out of you, disappearing to another room. You heard the hard strikes of his heels against the wood floor as he returned, the mattress dipping under his weight before he rubbed a cool, damp cloth across your back and down between your legs.
Robby cleaned himself off and climbed over you, into his usual spot.
âYouâre so beautiful like this,â he said, gathering you into his arms. You climbed into his grasp gratefully, just his girlfriend again notâŠwhatever you had just been. His lips rested against your forehead. He must have rinsed off his beard in the bathroom; it smelled more like soap now and less like you.
âThat wasâŠâ You hid your face in his chest, cheeks flaming as you remembered the crazy shit that had come out of your mouth.
âIntense?â he suggested, in a voice that meant gentle, shy Robby was back.
âIntense. Yeah.â
âAre you okay?â he asked, cupping your head with one hand, a shoulder blade with the other, keeping you wedged on your side against his heat.
âI think so.â Your hands curled against his chest. âYeah.â
You didnât remember falling asleep; it wasnât even late. Dimly, you were aware of a big, strong hand massaging in circles on your lower back. When you woke up, the analog clock told you it was late evening. Robby wasnât there, but you noticed a discoloration and a kink in the headboard. You scooted down the bed toward it, squintingânot a bend, a break. That was the noise you had heard, he had broken part of the wooden crossbeam on the bed.
Jesus.
You found an old shirt of his and pulled it on, then your panties, wandering through the house.
Robby was in the kitchen. His ears perked at the sound of your footsteps. He had been standing at the refrigerator in just a pair of low-slung, gray sweatpants, glasses on. He swiveled toward you still drinking directly from a gallon jug of whole milk. His chest and shoulders bulged in the stark light blasting from the refrigeratorâs interior. Your brain registered: Hot. Then: Wait, what?
With his cheeks reddening, holding your gaze with clear reluctance, Robby lowered the milk, pressed his lips together, and screwed the cap back on. If it was possible, Robby seemed larger than he had the last time you saw him in clear light. At the brewery. Which felt like it was about ten years ago but was in actuality mere hoursâŠ
âHungry?â he asked, returning the milk sheepishly to its shelf and closing the door. âTakeout is coming. A few things from Capital Grille.â
âRobbyâŠâ You shuffled over to the kitchen island, meeting him there but keeping the slab of marble between you. He had insisted on bringing you there for Valentineâs Day. You had nearly passed out when you glimpsed the check at the end. âWhy does this feel like a bribe?â
He placed his hands on the island, shifting forward, which only made him look like even more of a fucking unit. Whole milk. Steaks. He still had that sweet, soft belly you loved to cuddle against on days off, but you just couldnât shake the feeling that what he was doing and saying was not adding up with what you could see plainly with your eyes. Robbyâs hands rounded, his knuckles pressing into the marble as he looked down at the floor, avoiding you.
âBecauseâŠit is?â
You laughed, leaning onto your arms and elbows, trying to coax his attention back with a tilt of your head. âAnd why would I need to be bribed?â
Robby shrugged, the flush spreading down to the tops of his shoulders.
Oh my God, he was embarrassed.
âShould we talk about what just happened?â you asked. âWhat we said to each other in there?â
Robby squeezed his eyes shut behind his glasses. âWhat did just happen?â
You almost didnât catch it, he said it so quietly. You extended your arm across the island, flipping your hand and showing him your palm. Your body was sore, exhausted, but your mind was racing. âYou were vulnerable with me. I think. Is thatâŠâ It was your turn to get hot and flustered. His hand inched across the counter but stubbornly remained aloof. âThatâs something you like?â
Robby nodded, still refusing to touch you or meet your gaze.
âYou broke the headboard,â you said, stifling a laugh. âYou just fucked me like it would trigger world peace, you can at least look at me while we have this discussion.â
That got through to him. He slowly stood to his full height, staring at you with a mixture of guilt and terror that made your heart topple. âIâve never done that with anyone,â he told you, eyes hazy gold beneath the island light fixture. âIâve neverâŠlet myself say things like that. I didnât mean to upset youââ
âYou didnât upset me,â you said. âDid I say the safe word?â
Robby looked at your hand on the counter, then carefully fit his on top of it. âYou did not.â
âWhich means?â
He exhaled. âYou liked it, too.â
You gave him a smile, just a flicker of one, and he tugged gently on your wrist. You took the hint, rounding the end of the counter to find your way back into his embrace. He wrapped you up, dropped his chin onto the top of your head, rocking you the way he had the first night you stood in his kitchen, crying about a long, terrible day.
âYou know I have an IUD, right?â you teased, resting your cheek on the furred pillow of his pec.
âYes, honey, I know.â He squeezed you. âAnd Iâm not exactly in the prime of my life.â
âAn evolving conversation, then,â you said, leaning back to look up into his face, read him.
Robby didnât glance away shyly this time. If anything, he seemed to be reevaluating you, filing something away. His eyes went gooey above a sweet, adoring smile. âAnd Iâm honored to have that conversation whenever youâre ready for it.â
You tucked your head back against his chest, his hand cupping your head again, which always made you sigh and go boneless; nothing and nowhere felt safer. You closed your eyes, relaxing into him, and perhaps because your guard had lowered, your brain returned to its regular functionality. A shiver coasted through you as you thought of the splintered portion of the headboard. Robby hugged you closer, trying to keep you warm. But you remembered other things, tooâthe way he had seemed so nervous at the wolf-themed brewery, the way he had reacted to your preference for werewolves over vampires, his almost overnight transformation into a hulking cage fighter, the sudden light in his eyes when you suggested you wanted a dangerous creature in your bed, mateâŠ
And the book. That damned book. You could picture it now, the one that was on the lower shelf of his nightstand. Come to think of it, you hadnât seen it lately, meaning he must have moved it.
The Book of Werewolves: Being an Account of a Terrible Superstition
The doorbell rang. Delivery. Robby grunted out an apology and kissed your temple, then left you to jog to the door. Jog not walk. You turned and watched him go. He came back carrying a bag with enough meat to feed a small army. Leftovers to take to work, he assured you. He fished out your boxâthe entree you had almost creamed over in your chair on Valentineâs Day.
âIt comes with that fig stuff,â he said, dropping it on the island counter by you as he went to grab some glasses.
âThanks, baby,â you said, absently, still watching him. The fig stuff was magical; your mouth was already watering from the intoxicating scent of the food. He didnât really like sparkling water, but he kept it stocked in the fridge for you, and fetched out a can while you continued staring, wondering, formulating.
Who am I falling in love with? you wondered, sliding down onto a stool at the island, taking the fork he handed you, eating without tasting a single fucking thing.
EEP would love to see you do j. abbot!!! Not attached to anything specific!! Shooting some tropey ideas, feel free to use any/all/none! An actress reader; non-sexual intimacy; meet-cute; fondling; etc etc! Whatever your heart desires
I hope this is what you were looking for, anon! <3
