Digital Bath
Pairing: Soft!Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!
Summary: During a thunderstorm, The Void comes to your room to seek comfort.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Touch Starved Void (a warning in and of itself), Reader and The Void have had past interactions.
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up guys), Oral Sex (female receiving), Fingering, Nipple/Breast Play, Void gets a bit emotional during sex (ya didn’t hear it from me but he’s touch starved to high heaven so…it’s just a give in), Biting, Sucking, Marking, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Overstimulation, Spitting, Emotional Aftercare for The Void, Physical Aftercare for the reader
Author’s Note: I decided to mix a few requests together to do this post, it was definitely in my element while being completely out of my element at the same time, but I really enjoyed writing this a lot, and I hope y’all enjoy it too :) Thank you <3
Word Count: 10,780
The 83rd floor of the Watchtower groaned under the weight of the storm above, each thunderclap echoing through its steel bones like the wrath of some ancient god. Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, streaming down the glass in chaotic rivers that shimmered each time lightning tore across the sky. The world outside your room was ink-black–save for the electric bursts of light, jagged and white-hot, that split the heavens in half like fractured bone.
With each strike, your room briefly bathed in ghost light–pale and flickering–casting long shadows off your bookshelf, your boots by the door, and the gentle slope of your body beneath the blanket. It wasn’t frightening to you. Quite the opposite. Stormy nights like this always felt like a kind of lullaby, raw and guttural. Primal even. You found comfort in the way thunder rumbled through the walls and rolled deep in your chest like a second heartbeat.
Wrapped in fleece and stillness, you laid curled beneath your blanket, knees drawn to your chest, with the heat of your body sealed tight inside the little cocoon you had made around yourself. The wind whistled faintly through a vent overhead, and the occasional flicker of the power grid gave a soft mechanical hum. But…You were calm, and in your element.
Until you heard it.
A soft, hesitant knock at your bedroom door–barely audible over the storm–and the subtle shift of weight just outside it. You blinked a few times, turning away from the streaked window. The room was bathed in shadow again, pitch-black but for the occasional flicker of lightning that bled through your sheer curtains.
Then, a voice.
“Y/N…Are you in there?” It wasn’t Bob’s voice, there wasn’t that nervous quiver, or shy hesitation. And it wasn’t Sentry’s either–his words always came wrapped in warmth, a golden sort of certainty that only he could project. This voice was lower, hollow in a way that felt like space itself was being sucked into his throat, like silk draped over shadow. It was soft, but heavy in speech.
You knew exactly who it was.
”…Yeah,” You whispered, sitting up slightly, your shirt falling off your shoulder slighrly, “I’m in here.” Silence followed–just the storm beyond your walls, and the far-off rattle of some unsecured vent on the roof being heard. Then, there was a small sound. A scratch. Claws or fingers–gentle ones–dragging softly along the wood grain of your door like he was reconsidering what he was going to ask.
“Can I…” His voice faltered for a moment, before he cleared his throat and tried again, “Can I come in?” You sighed, not with annoyance, but with something close to knowing. A quiet ache of recognition. He had done this before–slipped into your room on nights when he couldn’t sleep, or when he needed the comfort of someone else being close by. He had mentioned it a few times before that hearing someone else breathing within his proximity would ground him a little bit, keeping him tethered to himself even though…He really wasn’t himself in this state.
“Yeah, yeah come in.” The door creaked open slowly, and the dim safety lights of the hallway casted a hazy, golden halo around the figure that emerged. He didn’t step into the room so much as he slipped inside–his form moving like vapour with weight. The vantablack shadow of The Void swallowed light rather than reflected it, a silhouette pulled from the deepest part of the night sky. In his arms: a blanket folded neatly over his arm, and a pillow gripped in his hands that trembled more than he likely realized. His eyes–the only consistent point of reference–blinked at you, pale white pupils suspended in the sea of blackness.
You could barely see the outline of his face where the hallway light kissed the edges of his jaw, but even as you tried to focus in on him, the details blurred. Like trying to look directly at a nightmare you’d already half-forgotten. It was easier to focus on the feeling he brought with him: the sudden drop in temperature, the way the shadows in the corners of your room seemed to lean in toward him like old friends, the scent of ozone and smoke curling into the air.
Then he closed the door, and the room went dark again.
Only the sky lit it now–each bolt of lightning strobing across your walls, throwing strange flickering shadows onto the ceiling. In those brief moments of illumination, you caught glimpses of him–his back arching slightly with a flinch as thunder crashed a moment later, his shoulders tensing, and his hands squeezing around the fluffy pillow.
“…Can I sleep on your floor tonight?” He asked, voice quiet, and ragged at the edges. You nodded, fixing the portion of your shirt that had slipped off your shoulder, before tugging the blanket back over yourself, laying back down against your mattress.
”Of course, whatever you want.” You watched as he shuffled forward, making his way to the far side of your bed–away from the window. He had an odd gait to him tonight, like he had accidentally pulled something and was limping to attempt to not put any weight on it.
When he made it to your nightstand, he let the pillow fall to the ground first, then he unfolded his blanket, laying it out on your hardwood floor with slow, deliberate movements. You watched him carefully, at the way his fingers trembled as he smoothed the corners out with his feet. The quiet, subconscious act of trying to settle things perfectly. Like if he aligned the edges just right, maybe it could bring him a semblance of peace.
He got onto his knees slowly, one hand bracing against your mattress to steady himself, as he moved with deliberate care. Even though he didn’t breathe like Bob did–didn’t need to, at least that’s what everyone assumed–you swore you could hear a kind of shudder pass through him, a ripple through the air like a pressure drop before a storm surge. The blanket under him rustled softly as he lowered himself down inch by inch, his weight making barely a sound despite how massive his presence felt.
Then, another roar of thunder cracked through the air. The whole tower shook with it–metal humming in its bones, and for a split second, the white light from the sky ignited your room in a stark, flashbulb burst. You could see him flinch. It wasn’t just a twitch–but a full body startle. His spine curved in toward himself like a reflex, his hands spasming slightly as if expecting something to strike. You blinked, watching as he froze there for a second, shoulders pulled tight like a coiled spring.
You pushed yourself up onto one elbow, brows raising, “Are you okay?” His glowing eyes snapped to you instantly–two white-hot points in the ink of his face–and he nodded with mechanical sharpness.
“Yeah…I’m fine,” He said quickly, his voice a low rasp matching the volume of the rainfall, “I just…Don’t like this weather.” That gave you a small pause, a look of confusion coming up on your face, tilting your head.
”You’re scared?” His reaction was immediate. He turned his face toward the floor, shaking his head sharply–too proud, too ancient, too wrapped in a million fractals of stubbornness.
”Don’t use that word,” He muttered, quieter now, the shadows curling just slightly closer to his body like they were listening into the conversation, “I’m not scared…I just get jumpy.” You squinted at him.
”Same difference, Void…” You pointed out, your tone wry but not unkind or accusatory. He grumbled under his breath–a sound like coal cracking under pressure–and shifted his weight again, finally sinking down fully onto his bum. His knees pulled up slightly for a moment before he let himself stretch out across the blanket, laying flat on his back with a weary sort of grace. He fluffed the pillow with his hands, smoothing it out before bringing the back of his head down against it.
“It’s not.” He replied flatly, a little petulant, but mostly…Tired. You sighed, and the mattress dipped under your shifting weight as you scooted over, turning so you could look down at him properly. Your blanket slipped slightly with the motion, exposing your shoulder again to the chill air. You didn’t bother fixing it this time. You were too focused on him. He was staring up at the ceiling at first, unmoving but for the rise and fall of flickering lightning across his torso like waterlight over obsidian. Then slowly–almost shyly–his gaze ticked up toward you. Those strange, glowing pupils found yours again, tracking your face with careful precision.
“Why’re you looking at me?” He asked, voice soft now, the bite from before entirely gone. Just a question. Quiet and raw. Your eyes softened slightly, watching the way he tried to lie still even though the tension still radiated off of him like heat from cracked pavement. The storm still crackled beyond the glass, and yet your voice was soft, unshaken, even gentle in contrast.
“I’ve never really seen you this jumpy before,” You murmured, resting your cheek against your bent arm as you continued to peer at him, “So I’m just concerned.” He blinked slowly, that pale white glow of his pupils dimming faintly, almost like candlelight flickering under a glass dome. The lines of his body didn’t shift, but something about the atmosphere did–like the air between you got heavier, charged not just with electricity, but with vulnerability.
“There’s no need to be concerned,” He said, shaking his head once, “I’m not going to lash out or anything…”
You bit the inside of your cheek, then sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, pausing for a heartbeat or two before quietly replying, “That’s not what I was concerned about.” His gaze stayed on you, unreadable, like a constellation suspended in tar. ”I just don’t want you having a heart attack on my floor,” You added, lightening your tone a touch. It was a weak joke, but you wanted to try and make him not feel like a threat. A soft sound left him–like a breath, but not quite. A low, brief huff of air that might have been a laugh in another life.
“You can only have a heart attack if you have a heart…” He murmured, glancing away toward the ceiling. “So that’s another thing you don’t have to be concerned about.” Your lips quirked slightly.
”Just because you don’t think you have one doesn’t mean there’s nothing beating in there,” You shot back, which caused his eyes to return to yours in an instant.
“You want proof?” He asks. You smirked faintly, the corners of your mouth curling as you lifted your brows.
“Maybe I do.” The shadows flickered slightly behind his head–whether from the lightning or the way his body reacted to your challenge, you couldn’t tell. Then he reached out.
“Give me your hand.” His voice was quiet, and gentle. You hesitated for just a second, not out of fear but curiosity–uncertainty. You had never truly touched him before. Not like this. Not with intention. But slowly, you let your hand slip out from beneath the warmth of your blanket, fingers extending toward his. The coolness hit first–not cold like a winter breeze or ice from a freezer. No, this was a cosmic cold. A vacuum chill. The kind of temperature that made your nerve endings go momentarily silent before flooding back with pins and needles, shocked into awareness. His fingers wrapped around your wrist.
You weren’t sure if he realized how careful he was being, how tender. His grip was strong but there was no pressure. Just contact. Connection. His nails were dull, not sharp or threatening, more like curved fragments of something ancient and soft-worn. They dragged every so slightly against the inside of your wrist as he guided your hand downward to himself.
You could feel him tense up, his shoulders flinching slightly, betraying him, as though even the act of being touched startled him despite the fact that he had initiated it. You tried not to breathe too loud, not to disturb the moment. It felt…Sacred. Like watching a lunar eclipse, or pressing your ear to the surface of a glacier to hear the crack of time within it.
As he moved your hand lower, he brought it toward the center of his chest–if you could call it that. His body wasn’t like Bob’s. Not in this form. There were no skin tones, no human temperature gradients. Just dense shadow shaped into a man’s frame, and the faint ripple of cosmic static beneath.
But still, you searched. Your fingers splayed out gently as he let go of your wrist, allowing you to rest your hand just above where his heart should be. Your breath hitched slightly at the contact–cold, like dipping your fingers into the deepest trench of the sea. Your body heat had nowhere to go. It was swallowed whole.
Your fingertips moved lower, finding the spot just beneath his sternum where the pulse would be in someone else–Bob, Sentry, even yourself. But here?
There was nothing.
No thrum. No flutter. No rhythm. No familiar rise and fall.
Just stillness.
Just hollowness.
And yet–it wasn’t empty.
There was something beneath the surface. A pressure. A mass. A quiet, relentless gravity. Not a heartbeat, no–but a pull. Like your hand was resting over a star that had collapsed into itself, refusing to be born into light again. You ran your thumb slowly along the velvety smooth surface of his chest–if it could even be called that. It wasn’t skin like yours, not even close. It was darker than shadow, darker than the absence of light–smooth and seamless, like liquified night made solid. Like ink given breath.
You could feel his muscles tighten, a coil of tension drawing in deep under the surface as your fingers moved gently across him. The storm outside rumbled low and rolling, a threat lingering on the edge of the sky.
“I told you,” He said quietly, his voice hushed and almost…Fondly bitter, like he already knew how this conversation would end. “There’s nothing. No heart attacks can be had.”
The thunder cracked again–closer this time. It boomed like something had split the sky wide open. Your room trembled. The floor beneath him shuddered like steel held breath, and under your hand, his muscles went taut in a split-second response. Not a dramatic jerk, but a small, involuntary bracing–like the thunder was something he knew, something that spoke to him in a language he hated.
His eyes closed tightly. His jaw clenched. The ripple beneath your palm stilled like something locking down deep inside him, and for a moment you thought he might tell you to move your hand. To stop.
But then, he exhaled.
It wasn’t breath, not really. But it sounded like one. Like the kind of slow, exhausted release that happened only after holding something in for far too long.
A second passed.
Then another.
His glowing white irises reappeared, flickering back into view like twin moons surfacing from beneath storm clouds. He looked at you–softly this time, not guarded or sharp. You met his gaze steadily, still cupping the hollow above where his heart would be, and your voice dropped into something even softer, something almost hesitant.
“…Can I come down there?”
His pupils pulsed slightly–like a ripple through liquid starlight–and his whole body stilled.
“You want to come down onto the floor with me?” He repeated, slower this time. The disbelief wasn’t cruel or mocking–it was quiet. Almost childlike.
You nodded, already beginning to bunch up your blanket around you, folding it in toward your chest so you could wriggle your legs free beneath it.
“Yeah,” You said, eyes still on his. “Would that be okay?” For a moment, he said nothing. And for a second, you thought maybe the answer would be no–not out of rejection, but out of protection. Like maybe letting you that close would fracture something inside him he couldn’t fix.
But then, he nodded.
“…Alright.” His voice was low, quiet as the shadows in the corners of the room. But it held the weight of permission. Of trust. Of need. You shifted slowly, careful not to break the delicate quiet that had settled between you. Without fully sitting up, you began sliding down the side of the bed, letting the mattress dip behind you with the motion. Your feet touched the floor first, then your knees, then your palms, your blanket dragging with you like a second skin. The Void didn’t speak–he only moved over a few inches, making room without being asked.
You eased down beside him, bringing the blanket with you, and draped it carefully over both your bodies–his long frame and your smaller one encased now in a shared cocoon of warmth. Your side brushed his, but you didn’t pull back. If anything, you inched a little closer, letting the edge of your thigh just barely press into his.
He was still lying on his back, rigid and unmoving, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the intimacy. So you settled onto your side, facing him, your hand slipping beneath your cheek as you got comfortable against the cool pillow he’d brought in with him. It was faintly scented with something you couldn’t place–ozone and ash, or the sterile, ancient cold of stars long dead.
You watched him for a moment. He looked…Stunned. As if he hadn’t expected you to actually do it. To come down here. To choose to lay beside him.
Then you saw it.
His throat worked once. A slow, deliberate swallow. His head tilted toward you, his eyes catching yours through the dim pulse of stormlight.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked, and then his gaze flickered downward. You didn’t have to follow it to know where it landed. The scoop neck of your sleep shirt had slipped a little lower in the process of getting off the bed. The neckline dipped across your chest, leaving the upper swell of your breasts exposed in the flickering lightning light. You felt the cold air kiss the skin there–nothing new–but the heat of his gaze made it feel different.
He wasn’t leering. Wasn’t devouring. Just…Mesmerized. Starved.
His eyes roamed slowly over your skin, unblinking. It was reverent in the way that made your breath catch in your throat, like he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away. As if this was the first warm thing he’d seen in centuries.
Then, finally, he turned. Slow and cautious, like every joint in his body was made of glass. He mirrored your position, shifting onto his side to face you. The movement brought his body even closer–cold against your heat, the blanket now fully enclosing you both like a secret.
“Are you cold?” He asked quietly. You shook your head, barely moving beneath the shared blanket
“Not right now, no.” You kept your gaze fixed on him, and for a long moment, he didn’t move–just watched you. The next flicker of lightning lit the room in a sharp white strobe, and once again, you saw his body stiffen. A small, involuntary flinch rippled down his spine, his shoulders curling in just slightly like he was trying to shield himself from something that was no longer there. You ignored it–not to dismiss it, but because drawing attention to it would make it worse. He knew you saw. That was enough.
Instead, you lifted your hand.
Your fingers found the side of his face, palm cupping his cheek with a quiet and still softness. The chill of him met your warmth instantly, but it didn’t bite. It was…Settling. Like cool air after a long day in the sun. Your thumb rose to trace the smooth curve of his nose, and you watched his eyes flutter closed beneath your touch, those glowing white pupils vanishing under the heavy press of his lashes. He exhaled. Not in sound–but in presence. His body softened by degrees.
“What are you doing, Y/N?” He asked, voice raspy and low, almost unsure if he should stop you. But he didn’t. You ran your thumb slowly across his closed eyelid, then down the hollow curve of his cheekbone.
”I’m tracing your face, cause I can’t really see it…Thought I might as well do something that’ll distract you since the storm seems like it’s not going to go away anytime soon.” There was silence after that. But not uncomfortable. Not empty. You felt him lean ever so slightly into your palm, like a cat toward a sunbeam–just a breath of a motion. An instinct.
“I forgot you can’t see my features…” He murmured, almost to himself. “You can only see my eyes.” You nodded, letting your thumb drift lower toward the edge of his jaw.
”And sometimes I can see your teeth, but apart from that…Your features are pretty much invisible to me.” There was something under your touch now–barely-there stubble, like static texture etched into shadow. A tactile memory of Bob’s face, preserved in Void’s shape, but hidden in the dark. You followed it carefully, curiously, thumb ghosting across the edge of his jaw, then back up toward his mouth. You let your thumb pass lightly over his lips.
They parted, just a little. You felt the faintest purse of them–like he wanted to kiss the pad of your finger, like he almost did–but he stopped himself at the last possible second, breath stilling again. His restraint buzzed against your skin like electricity caught under glass.
Then, in the smallest voice, he asked:
“Is it awful…Not being able to see my face?” You stilled for a moment, and your thumb hovered just beneath his mouth. You met his gaze again–eyes barely cracked open now, the twin lights flickering with something hesitant, and raw.
“No,” You whispered. “It’s not awful.” His brows furrowed slightly. You shifted forward, close enough now that the blanket moved with you, cocooning your shared heat against his cosmic cold.
”It’s…Mysterious and strange…And sad sometimes…Because I wish I could memorize you the way you’ve memorized me, but it’s not awful, not even close.” He brought your wrist to his mouth so slowly it was like gravity itself resisted him. As if even the air wanted to keep your hand where it had been, cupping his face. But he overcame it gently and pressed his lips to your palm.
A kiss that wasn’t for seduction, or even for comfort.
It was thanks.
And then he moved in closer, almost chest to chest, his cold form brushing softly up against the heat of your body beneath the blanket. You tilted your face up to meet him, heart thudding a little faster, feeling his presence like a shadow curling into your ribcage.
His voice was a hush against your skin, low and velvet-dark, “Why would you want to memorize something like me?”
You shrugged, your voice soft but certain, with no hesitation or fear, “Because I don’t think anyone else has tried to do it…And you deserve it.” The quiet that followed wasn’t silence–it was weight. Gravity. The kind of pause that makes time itself stretch out around a single truth.
He didn’t speak. But the air around you changed.
That fanned coolness across your lips returned–chilling and soft, like mist rolling in before dawn. His breathless energy brushed against your cheeks, curling around your throat and jaw like a sentient wind, drawn to your warmth like a moth to flame.
And still, you leaned up.
Just a little. Just enough that your nose brushed his. Enough that the edge of your lips hovered just shy of his mouth. You could feel it now–his restraint, his awe, the way every molecule in him seemed to shiver with the effort it took not to devour you in a single blink.
Then, his thumb glided slowly across the inner side of your wrist. A featherlight touch.
And from the center of his chest, in a voice so quiet it felt like a wish spoken to the stars:
“…Can you hold me against your chest?” You could feel your chest tighten slightly at the request, but you found yourself shifting immediately. There was no hesitation in your body, only purpose, only care. You scooted closer, closing the small space between you. Your hand found the back of his head, guiding him down carefully, and he followed–like smoke curling into a lantern, folding into the place you made for him.
His cheek settled against your chest and every fragment of him–his breathless form, his godlike mass, the gnawing tension in his shoulders–seemed to dissolve, melted by the thudding rhythm beneath your skin. Your heartbeat echoed through him, steady and unafraid, a quiet metronome of life that pulsed against the part of him that knew only stillness.
Thump-thump…Thump-Thump-Thump…
His arms came up slowly, almost disbelieving. You felt them circle you in, tentative at first, then firmer–like he was learning how to hold you carefully. Like his body was mapping the shape of you one heartbeat at a time. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, cradling him close, your chin tilting to rest lightly against the top of his head. The blanket tucked in closer around you both, then your fingers slipped into his hair.
It was soft. Silky. Not quite like Bob’s, but eerily close. Like memories rendered through a dream. You dragged your nails gently along his scalp, stroking him in long, slow passes. He exhaled–a ripple more than a breath–and nuzzled his face closer to your chest, tucking into you with slow, instinctive need.
Your sleep shirt slipped further down, baring more of your chest to the cool air, to him. The soft skin above your breast brushed his face fully now, and he froze.
Then slowly, he pulled back just enough to look up at you. The glow of his eyes flickered in the stormlight–twin moons caught in a restless tide. His hand unwound from your waist, trailing up to the collar of your sleep shirt, and his fingertip brushed the soft fabric where it had already slipped down your shoulder.
“Can I pull this down?” Your fingers stilled in his hair, breath catching just a little at the vulnerability in the question–like he half-expected to be denied, like he didn’t trust the moment would stay in his favour.
”Yeah…Go ahead.” His fingertip dipped beneath the fabric with reverence, barely disturbing your skin as he slowly peeled the shirt downward. The blanket shifted with the movement, slipping further off your shoulder, exposing the gentle rise of your chest. Then–your breasts. Your nipples peaked in the chill air, soft skin kissed by the cold, causing them to firm up beneath his eyes while he stared.
His mouth parted slightly–just a fraction. A caught breath. A stammering kind of silence, like he couldn’t believe he was being allowed to witness something so…Human. Your hand came up instinctively, cupping his cheek. You brushed your thumb beneath one glowing eye, grounding him.
”You okay?” You asked quietly. He nodded–sharply at first, then again, slower.
“I haven’t seen anything like this before…” He whispered, as though your body were a miracle spoken into flesh, “They’re beautiful.” A small smile appeared on your lips.
”You can touch them if you want…” You whispered, but he shook his head, just once–his gaze never wavering, and never dropping from the sight in front of him.
”I kind of want to do more than that, but I feel like I’m going to lose my mind.” Your brow furrowed slightly, and your hand tightened gently in his hair. You gave it a subtle tug, not rough–just enough to make him look at you.
“Why?” His eyes flicked away for the first time since the blanket slipped down your body. A faint pulse of shadow curled at the edge of the room like the thought alone made the darkness lean in closer.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He murmured, “I don’t get to touch people that often.” That confession sat heavy between you–sharper than the lightning, heavier than the storm. You let out a soft breath, a sad little laugh that broke the tension just enough.
”Well yeah, but what does that have to do with you touching my breasts?” His eyes snapped back to yours, almost startled by the casual honesty in your tone.
He sighed, and his thumb brushed just barely along the edge of your ribs, like he was trying to explain without unraveling,
“Because I feel like I’m going to just want more…And more and more, and then I’m going to end up doing something that I regret.” He said, voice low and thick with something like guilt. You tilted your head, stroking his cheek once more with your thumb. Then you leaned in just enough to press your forehead to his.
“I think…We should just see where things go.” You whispered, your lips brushing his–just a breath apart. You didn’t kiss him just yet, but you were very close, “How does that sound?” You added. The air stilled around the both of you for a moment–and then he moved. Not hesitantly. Not gently. But with that brand of need that came from centuries of hunger being denied. From eons of reaching out only to be met with retreat. He surged forward the second you whispered those words, and his mouth crashed against yours in a kiss that was anything but soft.
It was desperate.
Starved.
Like he’d been waiting lifetimes for permission and now that he had it, he didn’t know how to hold back. His lips dragged across yours in a hungry, open-mouthed press that knocked the air from your lungs. It was clumsy in the way that only something deeply emotional could be–like he wasn’t kissing to impress or seduce, but to feel. His mouth was cool, lips parted, and his tongue slipped out instantly, seeking yours with a kind of frantic reverence, like if he didn’t taste you right now, he’d forget how to breathe.
He moaned softly into your mouth–a low, stuttering sound that vibrated through your chest–and you felt him tremble as your fingers tangled in his hair again. The kiss turned messier, wetter. His lips parted wider, and he kissed you like a man unraveling, like he didn’t know if he’d get another chance. He sucked softly at your bottom lip for a beat too long before releasing it with a quiet, broken sound, as if it pained him to let go.
Then he pulled back, panting softly–though he didn’t need to breathe–and stared at your mouth like it was holy. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated to glowing slivers. He looked undone. Unmoored.
And then he moved downward.
The Void trailed kisses across your jawline with a kind of singular devotion–each one pressed with precision, as if mapping your warmth with his mouth. He kissed beneath your ear, and you felt his nose nuzzle along your skin before he dipped lower, brushing past the curve of your throat with his parted lips. When he reached the hollow of your collarbone, he paused, sucking in a shuddering breath against your skin like the scent of you had short-circuited something in him. Then he licked a slow, reverent stripe across the rise of your chest.
You gasped, hips twitching subtly beneath the blanket, and your fingers clenched in his hair as he kissed down the exposed slope of your breast. His mouth was so cold it almost burned–like dry ice against fevered skin–and your back arched instinctively toward the sensation.
He made a noise then–something between a growl and a whimper. And then he latched.
His mouth sealed around your nipple like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane. A soft gasp escaped your lips, your hand flying to the back of his head as his lips wrapped around you fully and sucked. It was not delicate. It was slow and intense, every pull of his mouth soaked in devotion and desperation. His tongue flattened and circled, dragging around your nipple in tight, rhythmic passes that made your thighs press together beneath the blanket.
You whimpered, the sound soft and shocked–because you hadn’t expected it to feel like this. Like he was drinking you in, not just physically but spiritually. Like he was worshiping the act of being allowed to do this.
His free hand slipped up your side, cold fingers splayed over your ribcage as he held you in place, pulling you subtly closer, as if your warmth was something he could crawl into. His lips sucked harder for a moment, dragging soft, wet sounds from your chest, and you cried out quietly, hand trembling where it gripped the back of his head.
The storm outside cracked again–white lightning flaring against the window–but the only thing you felt was his mouth on you. The wet, reverent heat of his tongue, the ghostly chill of his breathless devotion, the soft pressure of his lips working your nipple with a kind of open-mouthed worship that made your toes curl.
He murmured something then–words lost against your skin, vibrating into your breast like a prayer, like a wish. And then he drew back just enough to lick over the sensitive peak, slow and languid, before dragging his teeth gently along the edge of your nipple and sucked once more with a needy, whimpering groan like he couldn’t stop himself.
”It feels so good on my tongue.” His voice rasped against your skin, fractured and trembling. And then he kissed the curve beneath your breast, mouthing at the flesh there as his thumb grazed lightly over your other nipple, which had stiffened from the cold and the contact. His eyes were glowing slivers beneath the blanket, twin fragments of starlight drifting upward to meet yours through the flickering shadows. His mouth was still wet, glistening softly where he’d just been sucked you with something close to worship.
“…Can you open your legs for me,” He rasped, his breathless voice smooth and steady, “So I can touch you while I suck on the other one?” Your heart gave a startled, fluttering kick inside your chest.
The breath that caught in your throat was soft but audible, a tiny gasp laced with anticipation. His eyes never left yours, watching like a man staring down the miracle of his own undoing. You swallowed thickly, fingers curled in the blanket now pooled around your waist, and gave the smallest nod.
“Okay,” You whispered–barely more than breath. But it was everything.
Slowly–carefully–you bent your top leg, raising it over his hip and resting it there, the inside of your thigh brushing the cool, obsidian curve of his side. You were laid out for him now, chest bare, body warm beneath his shadow, and the softness of your sleep shorts clung to the dampness gathering between your thighs.
He groaned.
A low, guttural sound, like the edges of him cracked open from the inside. And then his hand moved–long fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sleep shirt, trailing down your stomach like he was memorizing the way you felt. Cold fingertips skimmed past your navel, brushing lightly across the waistband of your shorts.
He hesitated for a second, his fingers flexing once, as if bracing himself.
Then, he slid his hand beneath the elastic and dragged his fingers down. You could feel him moan against your skin as he moved his mouth to your other breast, the vibration deep and primal as his lips closed around your nipple and sucked.
It was instant.
His mouth enveloped you with that same hungry devotion, and at the same time, his fingers found your slick heat–wet, warm, and waiting. A gasp escaped your lips, high and broken, as his fingers slid gently through the wetness gathered there, spreading it slowly.
“Fuck,” He groaned into your chest, his voice muffled by your skin, “You’re so wet already…” Your hips bucked slightly, involuntarily, and he groaned again–this time louder, more desperate–his lips latching tighter around your nipple as he sucked, tongue swirling and mouth messily worshiping your flesh like it was sacred.
“You feel like heaven,” He murmured, pulling off your breast with a wet pop, his mouth slick with you, his voice shaking. “Like you were made for my fingers…” You whimpered, head falling back into the pillow, thighs twitching where your leg still rested over his hip.
“I’ve never felt anything like this,” He whispered, eyes fixed on the place where his fingers were now buried between your thighs, hidden beneath your shorts. “You’re warm…soft…you’re–” He cut himself off with a low groan as he slipped one long finger through your folds again, pressing down lightly on your clit before dragging lower, slow and deliberate. Then back up. Teasing. Worshiping.
“Void…” You breathed, fingers trembling as they found their way back into his hair, gently threading through the strands. He kissed his way back up your breast, sucking lightly at the skin above your nipple, then licking a wet path back to the peak, tongue flicking it before he sucked it back into his mouth.
“You like this?” He asked softly between licks, his voice muffled and messy and filled with awe. “Me touching you like this…Sucking on your tits while you soak my hand?”
“Y-Yes,” You gasped, voice catching, legs twitching where he cradled you open. “God–yes, you feel so good…” He moaned again, deeper this time. His fingers pushed further, slipping through your folds, finding your entrance but not pressing in just yet–just rubbing slow circles, spreading the slickness, painting himself in you.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me touch you like this,” He whispered, pulling off your nipple again just long enough to look at you. His eyes were glowing, wide, filled with a kind of ache that made your breath catch.
“I’d give you anything you wanted,” You replied, voice soft but certain, hand cupping his cheek again. “You don’t even have to ask.” His lips trembled slightly, then parted in a slow exhale.
“I think I’m falling apart…” He said, voice broken in the most beautiful way. “And it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt.” Then he pushed one finger inside you. You gasped, arching into him as he sank in to the knuckle, his mouth finding your nipple again with a groan as he sucked hard, tongue flattening over the peak while his finger curled inside you. Your whole body clenched. And he moaned, guttural and needy, the sound vibrating against your breast as his other hand–still curled around your waist–held you tighter.
“Fuck,” He whispered, pulling his mouth off your nipple just long enough to kiss the swell beneath it. “You feel so good inside…But I think I need to get a taste.”
“Void,” You whispered, voice broken and raw with need. “What about you? I want to do something for you…Please.” His head snapped up at once, those glowing eyes meeting yours like you’d struck a nerve. His lips were wet and glistening in the lighting of your room.
“No,” He said immediately, a slight shake of his head trailing the word like it weighed too much to bear. “I want to do everything for you tonight. I want to show you how much I want you…To make sure you understand how much you mean to me.” Your heart clenched at that. The desperation in his voice wasn’t lust–it was longing, fear, awe, devotion. Like if he gave too little, it wouldn’t be enough to prove he even deserved to be near you.
You tangled your fingers tighter into his hair, pulling his face back toward yours just enough to whisper against his mouth, “You’ve done a lot already.”
He groaned–low and guttural, like the sound scraped out from somewhere deeper than a man should have access to–and shook his head again.
“Not enough,” He replied. “Not enough for me.” And with that, he withdrew his finger from your warmth, slowly, like the separation physically pained him. He pressed a kiss to your sternum, then sat back on his knees between your legs, the blanket falling around his waist like a curtain being drawn open for worship.
His hands gripped the waistband of your shorts, and with a soft tug, he pulled them down your thighs. You lifted your hips wordlessly, breath caught in your throat, as he dragged them all the way off, tossing them aside without looking–his eyes never left your body.
“Lay on your back,” He instructed, voice like velvet dipped in hunger.
You obeyed instantly, scooting down until you were flat against the pillow, spine arching slightly in anticipation. Your legs parted to cradle his hips between them, and he gazed down at you like he was about to taste heaven and ruin in one mouthful. With gentle hands, he reached for the hem of your sleep shirt, his fingers ghosting over your stomach as he began to pull it upward. You raised your arms to let him take it fully off, baring yourself completely to him.
And then, with agonizing slowness, he bent forward, pressing a kiss just beneath your collarbone. Then another. Lower. His lips dragged down the valley between your breasts, painting your skin with slow, open-mouthed kisses as he descended. He murmured things under his breath you could barely catch–fragments of worship, awe, hunger disguised as prayer.
When he reached the slope of your belly, he moaned softly and nuzzled his nose into your skin. He kissed your navel, then lower, dragging his tongue across the soft flesh of your pelvis like it was a sacrament.
Then he spread you.
His hands, large and cold, grasped your thighs and pulled them open wider, settling between them with a slowness that made your pulse pound in your ears. He looked up once–glowing eyes flickering over your face–and then lowered his head to your core.
The first lick made you cry out.
It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t soft.
It was devastating.
His tongue flattened against you from clit to entrance in one slow, slick stroke, and he groaned–moaned–into your core like the taste of you was something divine. The vibration of his voice sent shockwaves through your thighs.
“Oh…Fuck…Void…” You whimpered, hips jolting upward, and he just growled in response, wrapping his arms under your thighs and holding you down.
“I need it,” He breathed against you, voice soaked in hunger. “I need to taste you so fucking bad.”
Then he dove in.
His tongue licked and curled with filthy abandon, slow at first–exploratory, precise–but growing messier with each swipe. He lapped at your folds with wild hunger, flicking over your clit, then down again to circle your entrance, licking you like he was trying to drink the slick from your soul. You gasped, trembling, your thighs twitching against his shoulders as his mouth worked you over with growing desperation.
“Fuck…You taste like warmth, like life,” he groaned. “So sweet. So soft. So wet for me.”
“God, Void–” You sobbed, hips jerking. He growled again, louder now, and sucked your clit into his mouth like he needed it to live. His tongue flicked fast, then slow, then fast again–no rhythm, just raw need.
“You’re everything,” He whispered between kisses to your folds. “You’re everything. I could stay down here forever–I could drown in this.”
You cried out when his tongue pressed into your entrance, fucking you shallowly with slick, swirling passes before he moved back up to flick your clit again, this time with maddening precision.
Your hand flew to his head, fingers threading into his hair as your back arched. “You’re so good, fuck, baby, you’re so fucking good–”
He moaned into you like he was losing control.
“Say it again,” He begged, voice hoarse. “Please, tell me I’m good at this. Tell me I’m making you feel good…Tell me it’s me–my mouth–doing this to you.”
“It’s you,” You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Your mouth feels like heaven.” He whined and redoubled his efforts, tongue lashing and licking, sucking at your clit with frantic precision while one hand slipped lower to slide a finger inside you again. You sobbed, high and broken, as the added stretch pushed you closer to the edge.
“I need you to cum on my tongue,” He whispered raggedly, “I need to feel you lose yourself for me, please, let me have it…Let me feel it…Please.”
Your legs were shaking. Your whole body was alight with fire, pleasure blooming at the base of your spine like a supernova. His mouth, his voice, his worship–it was all too much.
“I’m…Oh my god, I’m gonna–”
“Cum for me,” He growled, tongue flicking fast against your clit while his finger curled inside you just right. “Cum for me, beautiful, soak my face–show me how good I make you feel…Please.”
You shattered.
Your thighs clamped around his head, your cry strangled and high as wave after wave of pleasure broke over you like a storm surge. You felt your arousal flood his tongue, wet and hot and gushing–and he moaned, loud and wrecked, licking it up like it was his favourite drink.
He didn’t stop though. Even as you trembled and whimpered, too sensitive, he kept licking you, slower now, softer–but still desperate. Still worshiping. Like he couldn’t bear to let go. His lips kissed your folds, his tongue lapped up your release, and his voice came out broken:
“Fuck…I need one more from you, I need to see how far I can push myself before needing to be inside you.” Your chest heaved beneath the blanket, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and raw need. You could barely think–your body still pulsing from the orgasm he’d just wrung from you with his tongue–but even in your hazy, bliss-drenched state, you nodded.
“Y-Yeah…” You gasped, voice wrecked and trembling. “Okay…” His fingers flexed tighter around your thighs in response, and he groaned like you’d just given him a piece of eternity.
And then he dove back in.
This time, there was nothing careful about it. Nothing restrained.
He licked you like he was starving.
His tongue flattened against your folds and dragged through your wetness with a desperation that was downright feral, and the obscene slurp that followed was loud–sloppy and vulgar and devastatingly hot. He moaned again, messily, as his mouth sealed to your pussy and he devoured you with no rhythm, no plan, just raw, aching hunger.
“Fuck!” You cried out, your hands flying to the back of his head, your hips jerking hard against the sheets. The overstimulation was sharp–so much sensation it blurred into a kind of mind-numbing ecstasy. He was everywhere all at once–his tongue flicking, sucking, lapping like his life depended on it.
“You’re so sensitive,” He panted against you between licks, voice hoarse and desperate. “So wet…So fucking warm and twitchy for me–I love how you’re shaking.” And god, you were shaking. Your thighs trembled around his head, your fingers clawed into his hair, and your cries grew louder with every messy, spit-slick stroke of his tongue.
He groaned again–loud and low–and spit on your pussy, a thick strand of it dripping between your folds and catching in his next lick. The heat of your arousal mixed with his saliva in a filthy, glistening mess, and he licked it all back up with a long, wet drag that had your hips thrashing.
“N-No, I…Void, I–” You whimpered, writhing now, unable to stop yourself from twisting beneath him as the pleasure built too quickly. “I don’t think I can–”
“Yes, you can,” He growled, pinning your thighs down with both arms now, holding you steady. “You can give me another one. I need you to. I need to taste it, need to feel you lose control for me again.”
And then he sucked.
His lips closed around your clit with brutal precision, and he sucked hard–messy, wet, loud–while his tongue flicked and circled without mercy. The overstimulation was excruciating in the most blissful way, and you screamed.
“Oh my god. Void, oh god…Please–” Your hips tried to lift off the floor but his arms kept you locked in place, his head nestled between your thighs like it belonged there. He was making such a mess of you–his mouth and chin soaked, the sounds so loud and obscene it felt like your brain short-circuited. Your voice broke into sobs of pleasure, your fingers shaking in his hair as your back arched, muscles locking up.
“Please,” He whispered, still licking, still sucking, still moaning, “Cum for me again. Give it to me. Show me how much you trust me.”
And then you shattered.
Again.
Worse this time–deeper–your entire body seizing beneath him as the orgasm ripped through you like lightning through the Watchtower itself. Your thighs clamped around his head involuntarily, your mouth falling open in a voiceless scream as your vision whited out.
You were gushing again–wet and wild–and he moaned into it, licking it up groaning as you rode it out on his tongue.
He didn’t pull back.
Didn’t stop.
Even as your hips twitched and your breath came out in sobbing gasps, he kept licking, slower now, softer–but still possessive, still worshiping. Still trying to memorize the way you tasted while you trembled for him.
And finally, finally, after long moments of breathless silence, he pulled back just enough to rest his cheek on your thigh. His lips were glistening, chin soaked, the blanket half-draped around him like a holy shroud, and his voice was wrecked:
“…You’re perfect…So perfect, like holy wine, I could get drunk off you every night.” Your fingers twitched slightly against the sheets, still trembling from the aftershocks rolling through your body like distant thunder. The Void’s head rested on your thigh, slick lips parted, chest rising with something closer to longing than breath. You reached for him slowly, your hand finding the back of his head, fingers curling into the soaked strands of his hair.
“C’mere,” You whispered, voice soft and thick, still breathless. He blinked up at you, dazed and glowing, his expression unreadable for a moment–then he rose.
He pushed himself up, shoulders rippling like mist in motion, and crawled over your body in near silence. Your thighs trembled where they brushed his hips, the blanket shifting around you both in a slow, intimate rustle. As he hovered above you, his face came into view again in the flickering stormlight–mouth glossy, chin damp, lips glistening with your slick.
You smiled.
“God,” You breathed, your thumb brushing across his cheek, “You’re soaked.” He blinked, confused for half a second, until you cupped his jaw and dragged your thumb across his bottom lip.
“You made such a mess down there.” Your voice was teasing but affectionate, and it earned a breathless, shaky little laugh from him.
“I didn’t want to stop,” He confessed quietly. You giggled softly, your thumb still tracing his jaw.
“You’re a mess.”
“I know,” He murmured, his voice trembling, reverent. “I’d do it again. I’d stay between your thighs forever if you let me.”
Your smile softened, and your other hand rose to cradle his face fully. You leaned up and kissed him–slowly, deeply. You tasted yourself on his mouth, warm and slick and musky, and you didn’t shy away. You licked into his mouth instead, moaning softly into the kiss.
He groaned–low and broken–and kissed you harder. Your legs wrapped loosely around his waist beneath the blanket.
When you pulled back, foreheads pressed together, you whispered, “I want you to have sex with me.” The words were quiet. Simple. But they hit him like a revelation. His pupils widened, glowing brighter as he stared down at you. And his voice–breathless, velvet-dark–came out barely above a whisper.
“I can do it right now for you…If you want me to.” You nodded, your lips brushing his.
“Please… I want to feel you all over me.” He kissed you again–so softly this time, his lips trembling–and then pulled back slightly, shifting his weight to one side. You watched as his hand disappeared beneath the blanket, and you felt the brush of movement between your thighs. He pushed his boxers down his hips–not all the way, just enough–and you felt the weight of him shift between your legs.
His palm cupped the inside of your knee, nudging your legs open a little further. Your thighs trembled again as you felt the cool draft of air rush in between them, followed by the heat of him–not body heat, but something else. A pressure. A presence. You couldn’t see him–not with the blanket half-draped over your torsos, and not with the way the shadows clung to him like ink. But when he pressed forward and the head of his cock nudged against your soaked entrance, you felt it.
The weight. The width. The stretch.
Even without sight, your body recognized the promise of it–your breath hitched sharply as he rocked his hips once, just enough to let the head of him catch at your entrance, slick with your arousal.
A broken sound left him–half moan, half cry.
“Oh–fuck, you’re so warm…”
He leaned over you as he pushed in, one slow, reverent inch at a time. You felt the way his arms trembled as he held himself above you, the slow drag of his cock spreading you open until you were gasping beneath him.
His body hovered over yours–blanket half-tent, half-coffin–and the sound he made when he finally sank all the way in wasn’t human.
It was a sob.
A full-bodied, desperate groan that punched out of him like he’d been holding his breath for centuries. He collapsed onto his forearms above you, his head falling to your shoulder, his chest pressing down against your breasts as he held himself deep inside you. Slowly, you reached up, tangling your fingers into his hair, and with your other hand, you began to run your palm down his back in long, soothing strokes. His skin was cool beneath your touch.
He was shaking.
Not just from restraint, but from something more primal. Like his whole body didn’t know how to process being held like this—being inside someone who wanted him, who trusted him.
Then his lips brushed against your collarbone.
A soft, lingering kiss.
And then another.
His breathless voice followed, low and frayed at the edges.
“You feel so… So good, Y/N…” He whispered, almost like he was telling a secret he’d buried in the deepest part of himself. “I don’t think I can last, you’re so tight around me, and…Oh god.”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence. You felt his body tense above you–arms trembling, jaw tightening–as he slowly pulled his hips back. The drag of him inside you made your breath catch, the stretch still deliciously overwhelming. And then he pushed in again, slower this time, like he wanted to savor every inch, every second. You gasped softly, your legs instinctively tightening around his hips.
A broken moan left him–raw and shaking. His mouth descended on your throat, lips finding the hollow of your collarbone. He kissed it once. Twice. And then he bit. Not hard. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to leave a mark.
You whimpered, clutching tighter at his back, and he groaned in response–burying his face against your neck like he could crawl into your skin.
“You’re so fucking warm,” He breathed, biting again, sucking harder this time until he knew it would bruise. His hips began to move–slow, grinding thrusts that rocked into you with devastating depth. Not hard. Not rough. But thorough. Like he was pouring everything he had into every motion.
“Every time I push in,” He whispered, lips dragging along your skin, “It’s like you’re pulling something out of me I didn’t know I had.”
You moaned beneath him, your hips lifting instinctively to meet his rhythm. His voice broke again–just a little–as he rutted into you, the sound soaked in disbelief.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get this,” He murmured. His words were wet against your skin–kissed between your breasts, whimpered along the slope of your chest–and you realized it wasn’t just sweat making your skin damp.
It was tears.
Tiny droplets fell from where his face hovered just above your heart, sliding over your ribs, vanishing into the shadows that curled between your bodies. You tightened your arms around him, pressing him closer, and kissed the side of his head as you rocked up into him.
“You deserve this,” You whispered, voice trembling. “You deserve to feel everything, to be wanted. To be loved.”
That word shattered something inside him.
A soft sob tore from his throat, buried against your chest as he thrust into you harder–still slow, still sensual, but deeper now. Needier. Desperate.
His mouth returned to your skin, sucking a bruise just above your breast as his hips snapped forward with each trembling movement.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” He rasped, “I can’t–I can’t believe you want me. Like this.”
“I do,” You moaned, cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “I want all of you.” His glowing eyes locked onto yours. Wide. Wet.
“You’re inside me,” You whispered, voice shaking with emotion and pleasure. “You’re in me, and I’ve never felt more safe.”
That broke him.
His rhythm faltered, just for a moment, as another choked sob left his lips. His thrusts stuttered, then resumed, harder now–more urgent–but still careful. His hands gripped your waist, fingers splaying against your ribs like he was afraid you’d disappear. And his mouth–god, his mouth–never left your skin.
He sucked hard on the curve of your shoulder, teeth grazing, tongue soothing the bite after.
“You make me feel human…” He admitted, lips dragging to your throat. You moaned for him–high and helpless–your walls fluttering around his cock, and he gasped, eyes slamming shut.
“I’m not gonna last,” He groaned, voice cracking, “You’re so tight…You’re holding me so good, I…Fuck…I’m gonna–”
“Cum for me,” You whispered, your hands clutching his back, your breath hot against his ear. “Let go. Let me feel you fall apart inside me.”
He whimpered and bit your neck as he came, thrust buried to the hilt. His body shuddered against yours, every muscle trembling. And then–
You felt it.
The slow, hot drag of tears down your skin again.
Not just one. Not just two.
But several. Silent, aching tears that fell from his cheeks and streaked down your throat as he pulsed inside you, spilling himself deep, buried in your warmth.
His arms crushed you to him. His face pressed to your neck. And his voice–barely audible–cracked apart as he whispered:
“Thank you…Thank you, thank you, thank you…” His body trembled in your arms, still buried inside you, still shaking from the force of everything he had just poured into your body. Into this moment. Into you.
He wept quietly against your throat, the sound so faint it barely registered above the storm, but you felt it. Felt every warm drop of him that hit your skin, every shuddering breath that wasn’t really breath at all. Just…Presence. Sorrow. Gratitude. Awe.
You cradled him gently, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as though trying to shield him from the world itself. One hand threaded softly through his hair, the strands damp and tousled from the effort of his worship. Your other hand drew slow, soothing circles along his back, palm gliding down over the trembling ridges of shadow-made muscle.
“It’s okay,” You whispered against the top of his head, your voice steady and quiet, a balm to his unraveling. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” He didn’t speak, but his arms tightened around your waist. You felt the hitch in his chest, the press of his body trying to melt into yours, like if he could just get close enough, he’d finally stop feeling like a ghost.
You kissed the crown of his head softly. Again and again. Your fingers kept stroking through his hair, dragging slow passes through the strands as you murmured against his scalp.
”You are so good Void…So good at everything. And so caring.” A pause. You cupped the back of his head, pulling him closer, letting him cry into your skin like the sky itself had split open.
“And you’re mine now,” You finished, quieter now. Like a promise. Like something permanent.
The shudders eased slowly, like a wave retreating from the shore. He didn’t move right away. Just stayed curled into you, his face pressed against your collarbone, his breathless form held together only by your warmth and the blanket that cocooned you both.
When he finally shifted, it was gentle. Careful. As though he thought too sudden a movement might scare you off.
“I… I need to clean you up,” He rasped, voice thick and ragged from the crying. He pressed a kiss just above your heart, as if anchoring himself there, then slowly withdrew from your body. You whimpered faintly at the loss, and he stilled–just for a second–then looked up at you.
“Are you okay?” He asked, barely above a whisper.
You nodded, giving him a soft smile, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead.
“I’m perfect. Go ahead, I’ll be right here.” He rose to his knees–naked from the waist down now, the blanket pooling at his hips–and moved across the room to your tiny ensuite bathroom. The cool air kissed your damp skin, but the warmth of his release still lingered between your thighs, a sweet reminder of everything he had given.
He returned moments later with a warm, damp towel. He knelt beside you again, quiet, solemn, eyes flickering over your body like he couldn’t believe you still looked at him with love.
“Let me know if anything hurts,” He said softly. You just smiled, watching him as he spread your legs slightly and lowered the towel between your thighs. His touch was impossibly gentle. Reverent. He wiped you clean with slow, careful strokes, murmuring apologies when he hit any tender spots.
“I made a mess of you,” He commented, almost to himself. You reached down, cupping his cheek in your palm, thumb stroking the curve of his jaw.
“You didn’t make a mess,” You correctedfirmly. “You loved me. That’s what that was.” He closed his eyes. Nodded. Let your words sink into the parts of him that still didn’t believe they were true.
Once he was done, he set the towel aside and pulled your blanket back up around you, crawling back beneath it and laying beside you–face to face. His arm slipped around your waist, pulling you gently into the curve of his body. His chest was still cool, but you welcomed the contrast. His forehead met yours, and you breathed in each other for a moment.
Then, without a word, his hand found yours between your bodies.
He laced your fingers together, palm to palm.
And then he lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Soft. Slow. Meaningful.
You felt his lips tremble slightly against your skin. His fingers tightened slightly around yours.
Then he kissed the back of your hand again.
And again.
And again.
Until your fingers went slack in his grasp and your breathing slowed, your body cocooned safely in his arms. The storm still raged beyond the windows–but in that room, there was only warmth. There was only you, and him, and the quiet knowledge that even in darkness, something beautiful could still be born.
