warnings: hurt/comfort (Frank being comforted), descriptions of injuries, Frank's vocabulary is colorful, Frank's self-loathing is ever present, this was based on DDBA but could be compared to current America so read at your own risk? But it's very comforting and hopeful, I think??
a/n: I started this drabble forever ago and decided to finish it while I wrote for the one word prompt challenge I put out! Please enjoy this piece about frank being patched up based on Hozier's Hymn to Virgil (which is SUCH a Frank song btw). As always, if you like this, please comment and reblog!
w/c: 2k join my taglist :)
The city was burning. Smoke curled into the air all around him, thick and ravenous as it journeyed into the sky. Carcinogenic clouds of ash suffocated the tiniest sliver of light that remained in the city, any sense of order the city once had vanishing into the darkness. Piercing screams and manic yelps rang through the streets, punctuated by gunshots and the clamor of footsteps on pavement.
Mustering his last ounce of energy, he hobbled faster. He needed to get there. To make it back to you. To hold you in his bloodied hands, feel your pulse beneath his fingers. To be certain that you were alright, that you hadn’t fallen victim to the chaos he’d neglected to prevent.
Maybe Red and Karen were right after all.
Shit load of good that did him now.
Another step forward. Then another. Anything to close the distance between his location and your surely powerless building. His movements were rigid, his muscles locking up from overuse. By the time he’d made it to your fire escape, he was practically on all fours, his posture severely hunched as he undoubtedly left a trail of blood in his wake.
He dragged himself upright, his breathing ragged and inefficient. Forcing a curled fist up to your window, he let two knuckles rap against the glass pane. Inside, there was a muffled clatter, the consequence of a broken man knocking on your third story window in the middle of a blackout. Guilt clogged his throat as his weight shifted, relying heavily on the rusted steel bar of the makeshift balcony to stay upright. One of his hands gripped the frame of your window in an attempt to steady himself, smearing crimson along the chipped wood in the process.
“You know, this building has a pretty strict No Soliciting policy,” Your volume was dampened by the wall between you, though your dry humor was clear as day.
Despite the pain and rage and exhaustion dragging down his limbs like cinder blocks, his lips cracked into a smile. “Real funny, doll. But I ain’t here to sell you crap you don’t need.”
A soft pop shattered the eerie silence that had fallen over the alley, your manicured fingers lifting the pane off its sill. “No? I thought you mentioned something about my car’s extended–”
Whatever witty remark you had prepared died when you found his face in the dark. “Oh, Frank,” The shock and concern in your words made him grimace.
When he’d busted out of that cage, he’d been grateful for the lack of electricity. As long as the grid was down, he could hide, cloaked by shadows and the resulting mayhem as he sought you out. But under your gaze? All of his injuries, even the metaphorical, were laid bare. Obvious and unavoidable. “‘S not–”
“Don’t you dare.” You hissed, keeping your voice low so the pair of you didn’t draw unwanted attention. Hiking a leg outside of your apartment, you approached him with your hands outstretched. His eyes fluttered closed as you gingerly cupped his cheeks, careful not to put too much pressure on the bruises that were certainly forming beneath his skin.
“I’m sorry. So sorry, sweetheart.” Legs trembling as he stood, refusing to let you bear more of his burden, his forehead thunked indelicately against yours as he tipped into your hold. “Didn’t mean to be so late, wasn’t tryin’ to scare ya.”
“Shh, shh,” Caressing his face with your thumbs, you planted the softest kiss on the tip of his nose. “No sorries. You came back to me. You kept your promise. Now let’s go patch you up.”
It was a miracle he didn’t end up with his bloody nose mashed against your floor. Thank Christ you were strong and well-versed in his faults, with a knack for knowing where he needed the most support.
Even with your assistance, it was a struggle. One limb at a time, you moved him from the rickety platform and into your cozy apartment, slowly arranging and rearranging his posture to avoid bumping any of his obvious injuries against the walls as he clambered inside. As you carefully lifted his leg through the gaping hole, shoulder rotated intentionally to give him something to hold so he didn’t lose his balance, he felt utterly useless. The pair of you grit your teeth in unison, you from pure exertion and him from pain.
“S’rry,” He grunted, flashes of agony strobing over his back, sending his focus adrift.
“What did I say, huh?” Slightly out of breath, you still managed to glare at him as you slammed the window shut with one hand. “Stop with the apologies, tough guy. Don’t need em, don’t want em.”
A wheezy chuckle left his lips as you parroted the phrase he frequently used when you apologized. There were more words on his tongue, more he wanted to say. Strings of gratitude and relief and love that he was desperate to convey, but far too tired to voice. Instead, he remained silent, his eyes locked onto your familiar outline as you moved through the darkness. He clung to the hand stretched out behind you, unwilling to part from you, not until his body had rested and the city was aglow again.
With cautious footsteps, you dragged him around furniture and through doorways until you reached your bedroom.
“Sit,” You ordered softly, pointing to the edge of your mattress as you released your grasp on his calloused hand.
“The blood, doll, I’ll–” Protesting, Frank shuffled backwards, ignoring the way his joints ground together when he moved.
“I don’t care, Frank.” Moving back into his space, you planted one hand on his waist as the other trailed up his neck. “I don’t care that you’re covered in blood and sweat and who knows what else. You’re hurt and exhausted. Sit the fuck down.” Punctuating your tender command with the barest hint of a kiss, you shoved at his hips until he toppled into a slouched heap on your plush blankets.
The snort of laughter he let out morphed into a grunt as the force of his fall ricocheted into his battered torso. “Fuck.”
“I know, baby, I know.” You murmured, positioning yourself between his legs as he groaned. Two nimble fingers crept beneath the metal buckle of his belt, swiftly lifting the end of the fabric and undoing the clasp.
“I can do that, sweetheart,” Finally realizing what you were doing, he wrapped his fingers around the wrist of your dominant hand, weakly trying to break your hold.
“Course you can, but I want to.” Laying a palm over his split knuckles, you set his larger hand aside, tugging the woven fabric free of the denim loops lining the waistband of his slacks. “You just sit there and look pretty.”
Shaking his head wearily, Frank did as he was told. You leaned and arched around him, removing the belt and its accompanying weapons as if they were live explosives—folding it with care and setting it aside. His vest was next. Each rip of the thick velcro straps across his torso made him flinch. You whispered reassurances as you worked, trying your best to keep noise to a minimum as his hearing recovered from the shoot out earlier. Given how little he'd told you about the events of the past few hours, he must've looked worse than he felt.
Once you'd unlatched the clasps of his vest and peeled it away from his blood-soaked jacket, you knelt between his legs. The image normally worked him up, but the heat creeping up his neck now was something else entirely. Shame, guilt, the knowledge that every minute he spent in your apartment, letting you clean him up, only put you further at risk. Yet, sitting here, watching your brows furrow in frustration as you peeled off the stubborn padding he'd strapped to his shins, he was frozen.
He'd failed you. Again and again and, even worse, you were in the dark about all of it. You didn't know that the blood currently seeping into your pristine duvet had come not only from him but from the assholes he'd killed. You didn't know about the fires and the screaming, and the corruption he'd chosen to ignore. You didn't know the sins he'd comitted in an attempt to right his wrongs.
“Stop thinking so hard, I can smell the smoke coming out of your ears.” Your gentle quip caught him off guard. Refocusing his gaze, he was met with an inquisitive look from you, a mix of concern and amusement dancing in your eyes.
“Yes ma'am.” He answered with a nod, slouching towards you as you stood. Warm hands cupped the back of his neck as you evaluated your next steps.
“Whatever happened, Frank, it's over now. You're here with me. We're both ok.” Your words were steady, your resolve evident as your eyes locked onto his. “I'm gonna clean you up, and we'll deal with the fallout together.”
Shifting where he sat, he opened his mouth to protest. “It's not—”
“Safe?” You finished for him, your tone sharp with frustration as he rekindled the perpetual argument you had. “Frank, people are setting fire in the streets because cops are shooting civilians. There isn't a soul in this city who's 'safe' right now.”
Whatever rebuttal he'd cooked up died on his tongue. Swallowing roughly, his eyes fell shut. Shame's fierce itch pricked nemeath his skin.
“Frank, baby, look at me,” There was a palpable weight in your tone, making his heart hammer against his fractured ribs. He obeyed your command, his body becoming pliable in your hands as you lifted his chin to stare him down. “We're in this together. You and me, like always.”
“It's my job to keep you safe.” He managed to rasp out the words, though they were garbled with emotion and pain.
“And it's our job,” You added, gesturing between the two of you with one confident finger. “To keep them safe.” You pointed to the window, letting your point hang in the air for a minute.
With a sigh, you swiped a thumb over his less-bruised cheek, smearing the stale drops of blood that sat on his skin. “It's impossible to argue with you when you're staring at me like a kicked puppy.”
He laughed at that, a hand flying to his chest instinctively as the sound wheezed through him. “Ain't doin' it on purpose, doll.”
“Believe me, I know.” You hummed, your bottom lip sticking out in distaste as you pried his hand away from its landing place. “Let me finish getting this crap off so I can clean you up. You can lecture me about your duty to protect me after a solid eight hours of rest. Minimum.”
Leaning back so you could tug on the zipper of his jacket, he nodded, the back of his throat aching from overuse and sheer gratitude. “You got it, sweetheart.”
As you stripped off his final layers, you hissed in sympathy, eyes raking over his beaten body. "Fuck."
He hummed in agreement. The brief argument had sapped the last of his energy, leaving him spent and aching in your hold.
Time seemed to pass in chunks. One blink and you were standing over him with a damp cloth, swiping it over his skin tenderly. Your touch was so light he barely registered it. As the pile of stained rags on the floor grew taller, you removed the blood and dirt and grime caked over his flesh. Any open gashes or bullet holes were stitched and bandaged, without so much as a groan from his lips. It must've taken hours, but it felt like mere seconds—your precise, rhythmic movements lulling him into a semi-conscious state. His vision swam with abstract shapes, fatigue and blood loss hitting him all at once as his adrenaline finally wore off.
"Careful, tough guy." Catching him as he listed sideways, you grunted under your breath, hauling him towards the head of the bed. "If you fall asleep on the floor, I'll never manage to get you back up here."
"Th'nk you." The sentiment was ruined by the thick slur to his words, but you softened anyway.
"We take care of each other, Frank. It's a two-way street." Scratching your nails over his scalp, you pulled the blankets over him before slipping under them yourself. "Get some sleep."
With explicit permission from you, he let his eyes fall shut. He rapidly drifted into oblivion, taking comfort in the fact that you were there to anchor him as he slept.
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader
Summary: The Thunderbolts go to a club downtown for the night, and while there Bob and Sentry are having a tough time watching you flirt with a guy.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and Jealousy (the spicy triforce). Bob and reader are both aware of each other's feelings but want to remain friends to not ruin the team dynamic in case things go sour. Sentry is extremely jealous in this, and we love jealous Sentry I say…He’s also a bit possessive but…That’s him lol, Bob is just trying to be a good guy and keep things calm, but Sentry is really ripping into him for fumbling the ball.
Smut Warnings: Semi-Public Sex (happens in a private washroom, but it’s inside a club), Unprotected P in V (hahahaha…please wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), and a Praise/Worship Kink cause Sentry and Bob are pleasers just trying to stake their claim lol, there’s also light choking, and some dirty talk….And Overstimulation to a degree. And some aftercare.
Author’s Note: Jesus lord, I loved this request, and I loved the ideas that came from it, and thank you so much for requesting it! It was so fun to write this possessive type of Sentry, and I loved writing the clashing dialogue between Bob and Sentry too. Whew, thank you again @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for such a fun little thing!
Word Count: 10,244
The music was thrumming like a heartbeat Low, slow, and thick with heat. Everything in the club was moving like smoke–dark, senseless, and breathless. The lights stuttered across the floor like strobe-starved lightning, painting bodies in quick colourful flashes of red, violet, blue, and green.
But Bob wasn’t looking at the lights, or the crowd, or the Coke Zero he hadn’t touched, or even his teammates–who were scattered around the booth behind him, too caught up in cheap liquor, bottles of beer, and loud conversation to notice the slow-motion train wreck unraveling across the club floor.
His attention was on you, and it felt like he was two minutes away from being pronounced dead.
You were standing at the bar with your back turned slightly to him, talking to some guy with a drink in his hand and too much confidence in his stance. It looked like he had forgotten to button his shirt up completely and his chest was puffed out and exposed like he was a bird trying to perform a mating call of sorts. It was easy to spot how he was flirting with you, he would lean in close and say something, and you would return the favour by doing the same. Bob swore every time you moved closer to him it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet.
Because your dress was–
”God made flesh.” That’s what Sentry had called it the moment he saw you walk out of your room tonight, and he hadn’t shut up since.
It was satin, maybe. Something dark and indulgent and soft. It hugged you like heat and spilled ink–clinging to every line of your body like it had been painted there. The hemline flirted with your thighs as you shifted your weight, fluttering like it was in love with your legs.
And those legs–Bob was going to have a stroke. They were crossed casually at the ankle, and the muscle of your calves were perfectly defined in heels that made your whole stance shift in the kind of way that rewired his brain chemistry. They pushed your hips out just enough to make his breath catch. Your waist cinched so elegantly it looked like it had been sculpted. And your skin–which was shimmering in the club lights–looked like something a god would ruin themselves to touch.
And that’s exactly what was happening.
“Look at her,” Sentry hissed from somewhere behind Bob’s ribs. Every syllable was thick with acid, and pure, unobstructed worship, “She’s glowing…And so fucking open tonight. She should be at our side. In our lap. Not fawning over that little man-child with mousse in his hair.” Bob’s jaw clenched at the rage that echoed through his head.
”S-She’s not fawning,” He muttered under his breath, his knuckles going white around the glass of Coke Zero he was holding, “She’s j-just being friendly.” He added, fluttering his lashes in the strobed haze.
“Look at her. She’s leaning in! He touched her hip when she laughed, did you happen to miss that part?” Bob let out a huff.
”I didn’t miss anything.” He replied, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips to cover the way his mouth was slightly moving.
“Then explain why you’re sitting here doing nothing while he tries to take what’s ours.” Bob exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, taking a fake sip of the carbonated beverage, feeling his grip tightening around it slightly, like he was going to possibly break it. “You made the choice. Not me. I would’ve taken her in our bed by now. I would’ve lit the fucking sky gold with the sound of her voice.” Bob dropped his hand to his thigh, fingers digging into the loose denim of his jeans–the ones you had convinced him to buy–like he could claw the heat out of his skin.
Across the club, you tilted your head back to laugh. That kind of laugh. The one Bob had heard a hundred times–but never when it wasn’t his words that caused it.
And you looked–God, you looked like every dream he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. One hand resting lightly on the bar, nails painted in something subtle that caught the colored lights like stardust. Your other hand gestured as you spoke, animated and bright, your shoulder dipping as you leaned in again, saying something to the guy–who took it as an invitation to move closer. He was smiling. He was saying something back.
You nodded at him, smiling with the widest one you had, and tapped your glass against his before taking a sip.
Bob’s eyes followed the movement of your throat as you swallowed, his heart beating too loud in his ears.
“She’s not even thinking about us.”
“S-Shut up,” Bob hissed quickly, but it was loud enough to make Walker glance over briefly before going back to his beer and the conversation the rest of the group were having behind him.
“You think you were noble, don’t you? Waiting, respecting her and the team…You think that means something when someone else can just step in and touch her like that?” Bob wiped the sweat off his brow, as the heat began to curl within him, but it didn’t seem to help. He could feel it–the static under his skin, like something golden and furious was trying to claw its way out from inside him.
“You said no to her. You told her she was too important to risk. Now look at her.” You pushed your hair out of your face with a laugh and turned just enough to give Bob a partial view of your profile. The lips gloss he watched you apply at the beginning of the evening in the reflection of someone’s car window glistened. The lights behind the bar lit up your eyes like candlelight through amber glass, and you still didn’t see him looking.
That hurt worse than anything.
He shifted in the booth, uncomfortable in his own skin, and burning hot. His foot tapped against the sticky floor beneath the table, a stuttering rhythm that matched the beat of the music–or maybe it was matching his panic.
“This is when I wish I had my own fucking body,” Sentry growled, “At least then I could make my own decisions instead of running them by a human who’s afraid of his own fucking heartbeat.” Bob flinched. It was small. Barely a tremor across his shoulders. But the heat that followed was almost unbearable, as it sunk into his bloodstream. It pulsed beneath his skin like magma, like light trying to find the cracks in his weak mental armour. His fingers twitched against the table, then he curled them into a fist before dropping it into his lap, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.
“She should be with us,” Sentry snapped, “I’d be on my knees every night for her, I’d hold her in my arms and love her the way she deserves, and she certainly wouldn’t be pressed against some arrogant fuck like that.” Bob’s eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see it. The guy’s hand moved to your waist, sliding around to pull you in closer. His mouth was way too close to your ear, and your face tipped slightly toward him, smile still soft, lips parted.
And Bob–snapped.
His body lurched forward like something had yanked him by the ribs, and the booth creaked. The table shook when his knee slammed into the bottom of it.
Walker and Ava both turned their heads at the sound, but Bob didn’t move forward again.
He sat back down, hard, chest heaving. His elbows braced on the table. His hands pressed flat to the surface to steady himself, shaking. And the golden light beneath his skin flickered–just for a second–visible, crawling like electricity beneath his veins.
“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. Her brows were drawn, beer still in hand. She leaned across the table. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer, he didn’t even try to look up at her. He was staring at the floor, like it was safer than looking back up at you.
“Tell her to back off. Tell her we’re in the middle of planning out how to quietly rip the arm off that guy touching Y/N…”
“Bob.” Yelena’s voice sharpened, knocking on the table in front of him, “Hey.” His jaw clenched.
”I’m fine. I-I’m fine.” He responded, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.
”Bullshit.” She shot back. Then she was moving around the table, boots scuffing the floor. Bob tried to avoid her, turning his face away, but she caught him by the jaw fast, fingers sharp and rough, twisting his head toward her. The moment her eyes met his, she immediately connected the dots.
”Oh Jesus Christ.” She hissed, realizing his eyes weren’t just blue anymore, they were streaked with little tendrils of gold exploding in the irises and hazing over the pupils.
“Let me take it from here,” Sentry whispered, “Clearly you’re not handling it.”
“I-I said I’ve got it.” Bob groaned, squeezing his eyes shut like he could shove Sentry back down by sheer willpower.
“Got what?” Walker called from across the table, leaning his arm along the backrest, “What’s going on with him tonight?” He asked, motioning to Bob. Yelena didn’t answer. She was too busy calculating how far they were from the nearest exit. Bob rubbed a hand over his face, trying to cool the flush from his cheeks, trying to breathe through the pulse climbing in his throat.
”I’m controlling him,” He muttered, “He’s pissed but I’m controlling it.” Walker leaned forward a bit, catching the gold that began to shimmer even more in Bob’s irises.
”Doesn’t look like it,” He commented, eyes narrowing at the shimmer that caught in the strobe lighting, then slowly Walker's gaze drifted across the club, over the pulsing bodies, and past the sharp glow of the bar lights–landing on you.
You were still tucked close to that guy, still laughing, and still glowing in that dress, like the universe was trying to punish Bob through you. Walker’s face twisted in understanding, his lips twitching up with cruel amusement.
”Oh,” He drawled, “Ohhhhhh.” Yelena didn’t even look up to him, she kept her eyes trained on Bob.
”Walker, I swear to god.” She warned, already hearing the chaos brewing in his tone.
“You guys look parched. I’m gonna get another beer,” He said, grabbing a spare glass off the table, “And maybe a water for Bob before his brain starts draining out of his ears.” Walker added, pushing himself up from the booth, stretching like he had all the time in the world.
”Walker!” Yelena snapped, but it was too late, he was already moving.
“Oh good,” Sentry crooned inside him, smug and mocking, “Walker. A real man. Watch and learn, Bob. A simple waltz up to the bar, a charming line, a hand on her arm–easy extraction.” Bob let out a long, agonizing groan, pressing a trembling hand to his temple to try and ease the headache that was starting to bloom.
Meanwhile, Walker was on the move. He weaved through the crowd with a practiced ease, long strides–relaxed in the most approachable way possible–glass in one hand, beer bottle in the other. The lights flickered across his white t-shirt and a few girls near the edge of the dance floor gave him lazy once-overs as he passed. He smiled–small, effortless–and tipped his head in greeting, before continuing his journey. He didn’t stop until he was directly beside you.
You didn’t notice him at first, you were too wrapped up in whatever your bar companion was saying. But the moment Walker’s shoulder nudged yours gently, you turned–surprised–and the guy’s arm slipped from behind your back, falling away like it had never belonged there to begin with.
”Hey,” Walker said casually, setting the beer and the empty glass down on the bar, “Fancy seeing you still upright. Thought you’d be buried in that guy’s awful smelling cologne by now.” You raised an eyebrow at him, confused and slightly amused.
”Excuse me?” You said, watching Walker lean in just enough for the crowd and the music to blur around you both, his voice low and loaded with too much amusement to be harmless.
”You might want to ease up on the flirting…Bob’s halfway to going supernova back at the booth.” He said, propping his elbow onto the bar. He smelled like strong wheat from the beer he was nursing, but he still seemed levelheaded enough to know what he was saying to you.
“Bob?” You questioned.
”Yeah,” Walker nodded toward the table, where Bob sat with his head in his hands. From where you stood you could see the faint glow of the veins in his forearms, like someone had poured sunlight into them, with the crown of his hair fluffed and messy–probably from him ruffling it in his hands. “You know–your broody golden retriever…The one who’s got the sleeper build of a house?”
“He’s not–“ You huffed, “He’s not mine…” Walker snorted at the comment.
”Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure you own at least seventy percent of his emotional stability and sanity at this point.” Your eyes narrowed at him as you took a sip from your diluted tequila pineapple.
”We agreed, okay? It was mutual. We said it would be a bad idea–if things went wrong–“ Walker held up a finger.
”Right, right. Let me stop you there, Professor Logic. Because right now Bob’s glowing like a fucking star over there and Sentry has been pacing inside his skull, dying to come out. So clearly this little ‘mutual’ agreement is not really holding up.” You stiffened.
”He hasn’t;’t said anything.” Walker laughed under his breath.
”Of course not. It’s Bob. He’d rather implode than inconvenience anyone. But maybe you should go get your sight checked, sweetheart, because you’re acting absolutely blind if you think feelings just vanish because you both agreed to not ‘ruin the team’.”
“Hey, that's not fair.” You muttered.
”Isn’t it?” He shot back, standing a little straighter, “You’re over here flirting up a storm while Bob’s swallowing the sun god. He wanted you. He still wants you, and just because he respects the boundaries you two have, it doesn’t mean y’all are fully over things. Get what I’m saying?” You glanced again toward the booth–just in time to see Bob brace his hands against the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Even across the room, you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. The light beneath his skin had intensified–glimmering like heat lightning under the surface of his forearms.
Your voice dropped low. “What do you expect me to do?”
Walker blinked at you, incredulous. “I don’t know, go over there and calm the guy down? Maybe take him somewhere private and talk to him before he fucking levels the building?” He leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping into something more serious, less flippant. “Y/N, it’s Sentry. He doesn’t particularly have a track record for waiting or being nice about things that don’t go his way…God complex. Remember?”
You swallowed, nerves climbing up your throat like vines. “And you think I have that kind of power?”
Walker didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at you with the flattest, most terrifyingly honest expression you’d ever seen on him.
“I’m very sure you’ve got his soul in your hands by this point,” He said, voice sharp and quiet. “Now go. Before the floor starts vibrating.”
You hesitated, looking back at Bob again–he was shaking. Hands trembling like static was crawling up his arms, light flaring under his skin in pulses that didn’t sync to the music anymore. His jaw was clenched. His whole body coiled like a live wire seconds from snapping.
Walker’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder, grounding. “Go, Y/N.”
You didn’t need to hear anything else.
You set your glass down with a soft clink, the condensation from the cup already dampening your fingertips. Then you moved–shoulders squared, eyes locked, heart racing harder than the music pulsing through the club’s foundation.
The crowd pressed around you like water, dense and shifting. Heat clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and perfume–an overwhelming blend of cheap gin, sugar-rimmed cocktails, body spray, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of overstimulation. Neon light sliced through the dark like a broken kaleidoscope–flickering greens, bleeding reds, and deep violet strobes that stained everything in shadow-glow and fleeting brilliance.
You pushed past a couple tangled together mid-dance, the woman’s laugh sharp and high-pitched, her partner’s cologne a cloud of amber and pine that made your nose twitch. Your heels stuck momentarily to the floor in patches–spilled beer or soda underfoot–but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Because you could see him now.
Bob.
He looked like he was breaking open.
Yelena was still in front of him, tense and braced with her arms folded, her whole body coiled like she was trying to intercept a detonation. You reached her, placed your hand firmly on her shoulder. She looked up at you, eyebrows already drawn–but one glance at your face was all it took. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped aside to return to her original spot in the booth.
And then–Bob.
His head lifted, slowly.
And when his eyes found yours–it was like gravity halted in his mind.
The gold in his irises was brighter now, sparking outward like little sunbursts, threads of molten light veining toward his pupils. But it was the look on his face that undid you. The moment he realized it was you, standing there, reaching for him. All of that raw, volatile tension melted into something that looked like disbelief. Like hope.
His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed–no, he was never fully relaxed when he was like this–but the storm behind his eyes shifted, just enough to make room for something else. Something softer. The glow faltered like a candle wick flicked by breath, almost like it was a display of relief.
Slowly you reached forward–not grabbing, not pulling, but touching–and let your fingertips drag over his forearms, before your hands found his wrists. You could feel his skin burning, damp from sweat, and his pulse was bounding against your touch, as if something was ready to snap beneath the surface. You curled your fingers around his wrists with deliberate gentleness, and leaned forward.
The light behind you turned gold for a moment–just a flare, like the universe was echoing the chaos inside him. Then the shadows returned, and it was just you in front of him, wrapped in heat and pulse and light. Then your scent hit him–it wasn’t perfume in the traditional sense. Not heavy. It was perfectly you.
It was citrus first–sharp, bright, alive. Like cracked-open blood orange rinds in summer. Zest clinging to skin. Tangy and awakening. Then came the softer notes. Something warmer underneath. A trace of sugar and salt and skin–like sunlight on bare shoulders and the faintest whisper of crushed mint leaves. It was dizzying. It was you. The way you always smelled when you were flushed and warm and a little too close. Bob inhaled like he was starved of it, and Sentry sucked it in like it gave him a new life source.
Then you leaned even closer.
Your body was just shy of touching him, but he felt the heat of you radiating off your skin. Like you were burning through your dress, through the space between you. He could see the outline of your shoulder rising and falling with each breath–too fast. Just like his.
Then–your voice.
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was spoken directly into the space beside his neck, close enough that he could feel the shape of the words before he could understand them. Your breath was warm, and carried the scent of alcohol on it–sweet, sharp, sticky.
Pineapple juice. Cool and sugary. The bite of cheap tequila clinging to the edge. And something cooler than that–mint, from whatever cocktail you’d been nursing. It made the air between you feel electric.
“Come with me,” You said, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear, voice low, tight. Bob’s pulse stuttered. His mouth parted on instinct, like he wanted to say your name, or please, or thank you, or yes, but nothing came out.
Only a nod.
His whole body moved like it wasn’t his own–shoulders curving toward you, the heat in his veins recalibrating, his spine straightening just enough to stand.
You didn’t let go of his wrist as you pulled him through the crowd.
He followed behind like a shadow tethered to your spine–quiet, massive, burning with a light that wasn’t fully human. Every step sent heat crawling along your skin, your grip on him like a lifeline.
You moved fast, past the dance floor and toward the back hallway lined with faux-industrial brick and flickering sconces trying too hard to mimic candlelight. The music was muffled here, pulsing through the drywall like a heartbeat trapped behind ribs.
The private washroom door stood at the end of the hall–sleek, black, and marked with a gold “STAFF ONLY” plaque. You didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the handle, shoved it open, and dragged Bob in after you.
The door shut with a click that sounded louder than a gunshot. Then the lock turned under your fingers–decisive, final.
It was dim inside.
Not in the way that suggested filth or neglect–but in a way that almost felt…deliberate. The club had clearly spared no expense here. There were soft amber bulbs tucked behind frosted glass sconces, casting a faint, honeyed glow that made the marble counters shimmer faintly. The walls were a deep slate gray, matte and textured, broken only by a massive, ornately framed mirror that stretched across the length of the main wall above the sink. The countertop was pristine, black quartz polished to a gleam. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat beside the soap, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness that cut through the lingering sweat and smoke on your skin.
The moment you turned to face him, Bob was already braced near the sink, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep standing. His chest was heaving. The golden veins beneath his skin were glowing more than ever–flickering like wire left too long in the fire.
You crossed the room, slow but steady, until you were standing just in front of him–barely breathing–with a bit of space between the two of you so you weren’t crowding him.
“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Your voice was a mix of caution and heat. Not cold. Not scolding. But demanding in a way only someone who knows the truth of a person could manage.
Bob didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, it wasn’t just him.
It was both of them. Bob and Sentry.
That glow behind his irises was too alive. Too bright. His jaw was locked, his pulse hammering visibly in his throat, the cords in his neck drawn tight like wires on the verge of snapping. When he didn’t speak, you stepped closer.
“I thought we agreed,” You said, softly. “We said it was a bad idea. That it could ruin everything.”
Bob finally opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not fully his.
“That wasn’t my agreement.” His tone was deeper. Not menacing, but vast. Like something old and radiant had peeled up from beneath the surface of his soul. His shoulders twitched like he was trying to contain something stretching underneath his skin.
You stared at him, mouth parted slightly.
“I didn’t get a say,” Sentry added through him, his tone thick with restrained hunger. “He locked me out of that conversation. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you deserved better than both of us. But I’ve been watching him crumble over you every night since…And it’s not fair to me that I need to watch that when I have no choice but to follow whatever he says!” Bob jerked his head slightly, like he was trying to shake the voice off, but you saw it–the way his pupils dilated, the way his hand on the counter tightened until the stone cracked faintly under his palm.
“That guy–” Bob’s voice finally surfaced, raw and hoarse. “T-The way he touched you–your waist–your shoulder–” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t breathe.”
You stepped closer to him, still not enough to invade his space.
“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”
“That doesn’t matter,” He croaked. “Y-You were smiling like that. You were laughing. Not at my words. A-And he got to touch you.” His hands curled, trembling, and you realized then: he wasn’t angry at you. He was in agony.
“Bob…” You breathed.
“I told myself I could handle this. I thought–I thought staying away w-would make it easier,” He whispered, forehead bowing like he was seconds away from collapse. “But then I s-saw you tonight, and you were just–fucking perfect–and all I could think was how badly I-I wanted to touch you. Not Sentry. Not the god. Just me.”
Your breath hitched.
The air in the room shifted–less like breathlessness now, and more like a burn. A shared ache. The kind you only ever get from not touching someone you need.
“You think I don’t want you too?” You whispered, eyes locked on his, not daring to move. “You think that was easy for me either? You think I don’t go back to my room every night and have to lie in a bed that smells like you from your laundry detergent leaking into my sheets?” Bob’s breath hitched–his whole chest trembling with it. His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at you with that look. Like you were the only thing keeping him stitched together. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.
Your next breath barely made it out. “I want you. Even when I try not to. Even when I say I don’t.” There was a long pause in the room, just the sound of your breaths and the thumping bass of the music outside the enclosure of the washroom.
Then suddenly, Bob moved.
It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even rough. But it was immediate. Like something inside him snapped loose and came tearing to the surface. His hands were on your face in less than a second—big and hot and trembling at the edges. One cupped your cheek, the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his forehead dipped to yours. The air between you ignited.
And then he kissed you.
It was not sweet.
It was not soft.
It was desperate–an open-mouthed, spine-scorching, knee-buckling kind of kiss that tasted like panic and longing and gold-lit hunger all poured into one unsteady breath. His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to carve your shape into his bones, like he was afraid he’d never get another chance. And God, he kissed like he needed you to keep existing–like he’d die if he didn’t.
You gasped into it, just once–surprised not by the kiss, but by the heat behind it–and the second your knees gave a tremble under your heels, Bob caught you.
He growled low against your mouth, not Sentry, not quite Bob–just that middle place where desire lives. His arm locked around your waist, and he spun you with frightening ease. Your back hit the cool edge of the quartz sink counter, and then his hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, dragging them flush to his, his fingers digging into the hem of your dress like he couldn’t figure out whether to lift it or tear it.
You moaned into his mouth–quiet, bitten off–and he groaned back, kissing you harder, deeper, messier.
It was sloppy. Wet. Your lips sliding together again and again as your breaths came sharp and heated. His tongue brushed yours and it felt like fire jumped between your ribs. You couldn’t even think. You were clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.
Bob pulled back just a fraction–just enough to pant against your lips, his breath catching on every syllable.
“You’re not stopping me,” He whispered, voice shredded with disbelief, “You’re not telling me to stop–”
You kissed him again before he could finish, grabbing his jaw, tilting him into you, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip as his hips pressed tighter against yours. And God, the way he reacted–his fingers twitching against your waist, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.
“G-God,” He hissed, and the heat of it pulsed out of him like an aftershock.
His hands dropped to the backs of your thighs, slowly despite the chaos. His palms swept up your legs–warm, wide, shaking–until he was holding you just beneath the curve of your ass. Then he lifted. You gasped as he hoisted you effortlessly up onto the counter, the cold stone biting against your skin through the dress, the sensation making your spine arch.
Bob stepped between your knees and immediately pressed himself against you again, lips finding yours in a kiss so deep it tilted your head back. His hand slid up the column of your neck, cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear like he needed to memorize every inch of you.
And then–he moaned.
Not loud, but raw. Pained. Like the taste of you was killing him and healing him at the same time. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and slick, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again–deeper this time, almost guttural.
His hips rocked once into yours, slow and hot, grinding into the space between your thighs, and you gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like every part of him was begging for contact, like he was trying to melt into your skin. His fingertips dug into your waist as he pressed his hips forward again, slower this time, savouring the way your body responded to him, how your thighs widened even more to cradle his body.
Your fingers untangled from his hair, reached down to curl your fingers around the wrist of the hand that held your waist, guiding him toward the skin of your thigh, skin to skin–your dress had ridden up high enough that he could feel the heat of you radiating through the minimal barrier you still wore. His breath caught. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper.
”Touch me.” The syllables broke him open immediately. He didn’t ask if you were sure. Bob’s hand slid upward–slow, shaking–and then it was there. The pad of his fingers brushed the damp, sheer fabric stretched over your aching core, and he gasped so sharply his forehead thudded softly against yours.
“Oh–God–” He whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “You’re already–J-Jesus, you’re so wet.”
You whined, head tilting back slightly, lips brushing his jaw, and Bob nearly lost it right then.
“Is it for me?” He breathed, fingers still resting there, just barely pressing into the heat between your legs. His voice trembled, and it wasn’t just Bob anymore. Sentry laced every syllable with awe and hunger.
“Tell me it’s for me,” He begged.
You nodded, lashes fluttering, as heat crept up onto your cheeks. “Always for you.”
He let out a noise–half groan, half prayer–and his hand moved. Gentle at first, like he was afraid to break you. His thumb found your clit through the soaked fabric, rubbing in slow, languid circles. Just enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Your thighs tensed around his hips, your fingers curling into his shirt.
“Oh my god, Bob–”
That shattered him.
His mouth dropped to your neck, open and hot, breath thick against your pulse as he worked you with growing intensity. He mouthed at your skin–kissed and nipped his way up to the underside of your jaw while his fingers kept moving, pressing deeper now, sliding the soaked fabric aside with a gentle kind of desperation. His fingertips met your slick heat, and the soft, wet sound of it made him moan like he was being touched instead of you.
“Y/N,” He rasped, “You’re d-dripping… I h-haven’t even done anything to you yet–Jesus”
He slipped two fingers between your folds, not inside–just gliding through the mess you’d already made for him. His thumb resumed its rhythm on your clit, and your whole body jolted in response, a soft cry leaving your lips. Bob was panting.
“I wanna drop to my knees. I wanna taste you. Right here. Right now. Please.” The words were guttural. Frantic. Worshipful. Sentry was behind them, clawing upward like holy fire, but Bob was still there–guiding him with restraint, grounded by the weight of your body in his hands.
You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards you, crashing your mouth into his again. He kissed you like he was drowning and your breath was the only oxygen that could save him.
Without breaking the kiss, without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside you–slow, thick, and deliberate.
You gasped into his mouth–sharp and shuddering–your spine bowing against the sink as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips. The stretch made your legs tremble. You fluttered around him, hot and soaked and so desperate for him it almost hurt.
Bob groaned like the feel of you was enough to knock him out cold.
“Oh–God,” He hissed against your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled his hand for just a moment, overwhelmed by how tight and wet you were. “Jesus Christ… You’re so perfect inside. So warm–clenching around me like you need it.”
His fingers curled inside you.
You moaned–loud and broken–your body jerking in his grip. The sound echoed in the marble and tile of the washroom, obscene and beautiful.
“Y-Yes,” You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder blades, “Don’t stop–Bob–please don’t stop–”
His mouth kissed down your jaw, hot and open, and his other hand slid up your throat–giving it a gentle squeeze, holding you steady like he didn’t trust anything else in the room to support you. His fingers began to move inside you–deep and slow, keeping them curled just right, searching for that perfect spot. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing in firm, tight circles, coaxing more slick from your body with every grind of his palm. Every stroke was deliberate. Precise. Designed to make you fall apart for him.
“So good for me,” he breathed against your neck, his voice cracking with need, “So fucking pretty like this. Dripping for me, clenching around me—fuck, baby, you’re singing for it.”
You whimpered again, your thighs shaking.
“I knew you’d be like this,” He groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder now, the wet sounds of it nearly enough to make you come on their own. “So fucking sensitive. I bet you could come just like this–on my hand–if I kept going. You want that? You wanna soak my fingers?”
You couldn’t even speak. You nodded, breath hitching, your mouth open in a silent plea.
Sentry surfaced again in his voice–darker, deeper, reverent.
“She was made for this,” He growled from behind Bob’s teeth. “For us. Look at how she falls apart–so soft for us. So fucking holy between her legs–”
Bob kissed your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw, between every ragged syllable, his fingers never stopping their rhythm, driving deeper, stroking harder.
“I’d worship you every day if you let me,” He whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “I’d wake you up with my mouth, I’d pray at your thighs–I’d give up the sky if it meant I could die with you wrapped around my fingers like this.”
Your breath hitched violently, knowing it was still Sentry projecting through Bob’s mouth.
He kissed the hinge of your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he felt you start to pulse harder around him.
“Y-You’re close, aren’t you?” He panted, his voice breathless and holy, “I can feel it. God, I-I can feel it. Let go for me, Y/N. Let go–come for us–please.”
And with a soft, choked sob, you did.
You shattered around his hand, back arched, mouth parted in a desperate cry as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot electricity. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers as your thighs shook and your hands clawed for purchase against his shoulders, his chest–him.
Bob groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel.
He didn’t pull away.
He kept his fingers deep inside you, slowly working you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body with soft murmurs against your throat.
“That’s it…You’re such a good girl.” He rasped. The voice had shifted–richer now. Darker. It vibrated behind your ear like a drumbeat made of light and thunder. Reverent. Possessive. Starved.
Sentry, of course it was him.
You barely had time to react before his hand slowly slipped free from you–slick, trembling, and soaked. You gasped as he dragged his fingers up, just enough for the cool air to kiss your wetness and make your thighs twitch. And then–
He lifted them to his lips.
He licked you off himself with obscene patience, tongue flattening to savor the taste, eyes fluttering shut for just a second like he was drinking in divinity.
A low, broken moan rumbled in his chest. “Mmm–fuck, you taste like you were made for me.”
When his eyes opened again, they weren’t just Bob’s anymore.
Still blue–but ringed in a molten glow so vivid it felt like looking at the edge of the sun. Gold flecked and shimmering. Two forces inside one gaze, breathing in sync. Worship and hunger, restraint and ruin.
Both of them.
“You feel that?” He murmured, pressing his forehead to yours as his still-wet fingers traced the curve of your jaw, smearing your slick along your cheek like a mark. “That was you. That light in me. That burn. You’re what keeps us sane.” Another kiss–softer, gentler, but so hot it made your breath hitch.
“I need more,” Sentry groaned, voice rasping like smoke and lightning. “I need to taste it from the source.”
You swallowed thickly, still panting, your thighs twitching as aftershocks rolled through you. He kissed the corner of your mouth again, and then dropped his lips to your throat, mouthing at your pulse point as he whispered, “Help me. Help me take these off you.”
Your panties.
His hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress, brushing along the backs of your thighs as he began to drag the soaked fabric of your underwear down inch by inch, reverent as a priest unwrapping holy cloth. It clung to you–drenched, ruined–and Sentry groaned when you lifted yourself up slightly so the fabric slipped past the curve of your ass. You wiggled around, as he slid the underwear off you completely, crumpling them up in his hand, like he was planning on holding them the entire time–or to steal them so he could have them as a keepsake to remember this night.
He dropped to his knees in front of you like a man possessed, the dress bunched up at your hips now, your bare thighs spread on either side of his broad shoulders.
The sight of him down there–gold-flecked eyes wide, flushed lips parted, hair wild from your hands–it was nearly enough to make you come again.
“You’re the altar,” Sentry said, voice low and trembling with need, “And I’m the fucking disciple.”
And then his mouth was on you.
No hesitation.
No teasing this time.
Just devotion.
His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, and he moaned–loudly–like he was finally allowed to breathe again. Then he latched onto your clit with a kind of desperate reverence, flicking it, sucking it, licking it in the exact rhythm he’d found with his fingers.
His hands slid up your thighs–warm and huge and trembling–and gripped your hips, holding you in place as he worshipped you with his mouth. Every movement, every wet sound echoed in the marble air. His groans blended with your broken moans, his tongue devouring you like he was starving.
You threw your head back, one hand flying to the counter behind you, the other tangling in his hair.
“Sentry–Bob–fuck…Both of you…Please–”You begged, panting like you were in heat. Your voice only fueled the hunger.
He growled into you, the vibration sending another jolt through your spine, and his hands tightened on your hips.
“I can’t get enough,” He groaned between strokes, voice wrecked and thick. “I could die here. Right between your thighs. Heaven and hell, all at once.”
You felt another orgasm building–fast, blinding–your breath catching with each wet circle of his tongue, each drag of his mouth over your clit, each filthy moan he spilled against your folds like worship.
And just before you shattered again, he looked up at you.
Eyes glowing gold. Lips soaked in you. His voice broke the last thread of restraint you had:
“Come for me again, goddess.”
And you did.
Violently. Beautifully. Every nerve ending setting alight with the crash.
You cried out his name–or maybe both their names–as the pleasure crashed through you, seizing your thighs around his head, dragging his mouth deeper as your body gave out.
But he didn’t stop.
He licked you through it, past it, deeper–drinking from the source like he’d promised, moaning like your taste rewrote his soul. When your body finally slumped against the mirror, still trembling, still slick and wide open for him, he rose slowly from his knees.
His lips were red. Glossed in your slick. His breath was heavy.
And when he leaned in again, cupping your face with one hand, you leaned into his touch like your neck had melted, jelly-soft and pliant beneath his palm. Your body still trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm–nerves frayed, thighs twitching, your breath a ghost of what it once was. His touch grounded you, burned you, and worshipped you all at the same time.
His gaze drank you in—lips wet, pupils blown wide and gold, voice dipped into something low and wicked as his mouth ghosted the edge of yours.
“What a great introduction, hm?” he murmured, the words dragging across your pulse like velvet-wrapped sin. “You’ve never really met me before… not like this.”
The tone in his voice was soft. Sweet, even. But beneath it was the weight of something divine. The kind of reverence that made your spine ache and your thighs twitch all over again. He kissed you before you could respond–slow and consuming, dragging the taste of yourself across your tongue as if to remind you what he’d just done.
You whimpered into it, and he smiled against your mouth, a low hum vibrating from his chest.
“But I’m not done yet,” He whispered into your lips–so soft, so sensual, it made you clench reflexively around nothing. His hand slid from your cheek to your throat again, not to grip–just to feel your pulse. To feel how hard it was racing beneath his palm.
“I’ve barely begun to show you what it’s like,” He added, nuzzling his mouth along your jaw, the edge of your ear. His voice was molten honey, golden and dripping into every breath. “To be worshipped by a god.”
His hand on your thigh curled inward again, slowly dragging up the bare, damp skin until his fingers slid between your folds once more. You gasped, your hips twitching against the marble counter as he stroked you lazily, like he was testing to see just how sensitive you were now. His lips ghosted over your jaw, kissing along your cheek until he reached your temple.
“You’re shaking again,” He murmured, tongue peeking out to taste the salt-sweet sweat clinging to your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me one last time, sunshine? Hm?”
You nodded without hesitation, breathless and dazed.
“Good,” He breathed, curling his fingers over your thigh again, dragging your legs open wider. You were still trembling when your hand reached down between your bodies, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.
He hissed quietly, the sound a shudder against your skin as you worked it open. The clink of the metal was deafening in the quiet of the washroom. You felt the tension in his body ripple the moment the leather slid free of the clasp—his hips pressing forward involuntarily as you popped the button of his jeans.
“W-We’re still in the club,” you whispered against his mouth, panting lightly, tasting yourself on his tongue. “People are gonna wonder where we are… I–we should deal with this and then go home. You can fuck me properly at the compound. I’ll let you take me apart in the shower. You’ll have me screaming your name all night, Bob, I promise–”
But he shook his head before you could finish.
One hand came up and cupped the side of your face, the other curled under your thigh again, holding you open with trembling reverence. He leaned in–kissed you hard, deep, so full of hunger it felt like he wanted to swallow your words down and burn them into ash.
“No,” He breathed against your lips. “No more waiting. We’ve waited long enough.” You felt the bulge in his jeans throb against your thigh as he growled, low and full of restrained power.
“I’m gonna fill you right here,” He whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower–your cheek, your throat, your collarbone–every word pressed into your skin like a brand. “I’m gonna fuck you so slow and so deep, you’ll be leaking with me when you walk back out into that club.” His fingers brushed your jaw again, holding you steady, trembling. “And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.” You gasped as he said it, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers, finding the velvet heat of him–hard, pulsing, so heavy in your hand.
“I’ll make you wait to clean up,” He murmured, kissing beneath your ear now, voice dark and golden, “Let you walk around soaked in me until we get back to the compound. Then I’ll take you again in the shower. I’ll fuck you slow under the water with your thighs shaking around my hips, and I’ll do it just to remind you…”
He kissed you–hard. Deep. With teeth clacking together, and tongues battling, before pulling back.
“…Who you belong to now.”
The words sent a sharp, hot pulse through your spine.
You could barely breathe.
He nudged his jeans down just enough, and you helped–sliding the fabric down over his hips with frantic hands until he was free. The thick length of him brushed your thigh, hot and pulsing, and when you looked down, your breath caught.
The tip glistened in the light from the pre-cum dripping out of it, the head was flushed a blush red as if it was dying to be inside you. He looked unreal–godlike–and you were dizzy from the sight of him alone.
Your thighs spread wider, instinctive. Wanton.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” He whispered hoarsely, his hand gripping the base of himself, guiding the tip to your slick folds. “So many fucking nights. I thought I’d die with the taste of you on my tongue and never get to feel this.”
And then–slowly–he pressed in.
The stretch made your breath catch, your spine arch, your thighs tighten. He was careful. Controlled. Like the act of entering you was a ceremony. You whimpered, body pulsing around him as the thick head of his cock breached your entrance, and then more. Inch by glorious inch. So slow it hurt. So perfect it made your eyes sting.
“Dear l-lord…” Bob groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “You’re–God–you’re gripping me like you were made for this…” You cupped his jaw, pulled his face up to look at you as he sank deeper, until your bodies were fully joined. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.
And that’s when you saw it.
His eyes.
The constant battle.
Blue–bright, tender, full of reverent awe. But flickering beneath? Gold. Liquid fire. Sentry. The god…Aching for more. Needing to lose control again. And for a moment–just one–Bob blinked like he was trying to hold them both together for you.
“Bob…” You whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “I see you.”
He choked on a breath. His hips rolled, slow and trembling, dragging himself out an inch before sliding back in–smooth, deep, deliberate. His eyes fluttered shut and then open again, barely able to hold your gaze. You cupped his face tighter, grounding him. His body shook with restraint.
“You’re both here,” You moaned, barely audible. “And I want all of it.”
Bob groaned into your mouth and kissed you–so slow this time. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips with his own. Then his hips began to move again. Long, fluid strokes. Deep, sensual. Every grind sent heat coiling through your belly, and every time he slid inside you, the air in your lungs thinned.
Your legs wrapped around his hips.
Your hands held his face like prayer.
And his thrusts grew stronger.
Still aching.
But with that edge.
That divine, desperate edge.
The god was surfacing through every roll of his hips, every whispered groan, every broken syllable of your name. You could feel it in the way he filled you–perfectly. Over and over. Each time deeper. Each time just a little more heated. His body coiled like a storm, the breath behind his moans glowing brighter with every thrust.
“Mine,” He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, “You’re mine. Always been mine…”
You nodded, clinging to him. “Yours.”
His hands gripped your hips tighter.
And the light in the room began to flicker.
As if the whole club could feel what was happening in the dark.
In the holy quiet, where gods and mortals broke together.
His thrusts became less measured–still deep, still slow, but trembling at the edges with something close to ruin. The kind of surrender that came from months of restraint finally breaking. Each roll of his hips ground deeper into you, filling you so completely you swore you could feel him in your chest. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoed in the marble air, obscene and beautiful.
You clung to him, fingers dug into the muscles of his back, your thighs tightening around his hips with every thrust. Your foreheads pressed together. Noses brushed. Breaths mingled.
And then his mouth found yours again.
You gasped into it–sharp and high as a particularly deep thrust hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl–and Bob moaned into your mouth like it tore something sacred from him. His tongue slipped between your lips, slick and hungry, tasting you with a reverence that made your chest ache.
You kissed him back like you were trying to memorize every second.
Tongue against tongue. Teeth catching lips. Moans swallowed between gasps.
“Y-Y/N,” He groaned, barely audible. “You feel so good. So fucking good around me–so tight. You’re pulling me in like you want to keep me forever.”
“I do,” You whimpered, voice cracking with need. “I want to keep you. All of you.”
And that broke something in him.
His thrusts deepened–slower, but harder now. Grinding into you so completely you could barely breathe. The counter beneath you shook. The mirror behind your spine rattled faintly with each rhythm, like even the room couldn’t hold this kind of heat.
You could feel him trembling–every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands, his hips beginning to stutter with every roll forward. His breath came out in harsh bursts against your cheek, and when he buried his face in the crook of your neck again, he let out the rawest moan you’d ever heard from him.
“I’m close,” He gasped. “Y/N–I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you–fuck–I wanna know that you’re going to be dripping me all night.”
You cried out, tightening around him. Your own orgasm was on the brink again–high, searing, right there at the edge.
“Do it,” You begged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Bob. Please–need to feel it. Need to feel you lose control.”
His hips faltered–just once–and he groaned through gritted teeth, his body coiled like it couldn’t decide whether to detonate or dissolve.
And then–he reached between you again, his thumb finding your clit one last time.
“Come with me,” he whispered, voice burning gold and low and full of promise. “Let go, sunshine. Let go with me.”
You clung to him. Kissed him.
And you shattered.
Your cry tore from your mouth and into his as he kissed you again–hot, open, gasping. Your orgasm hit hard and fast, convulsing through your body as your walls squeezed around him like you never wanted to let him go.
And that’s when he followed.
His hips stuttered, slammed in deep one last time, and then he was moaning into your mouth–loud, guttural, his tongue still tasting you as he spilled inside you. You felt every thick, hot pulse of him, the way his body shook against yours, how he trembled through it like the pleasure was too much, too full, too holy.
You stayed like that.
Locked together.
Mouths still joined, breath shallow, bodies twitching in the aftermath.
When he finally pulled back just an inch, his lips ghosted over yours. His forehead dropped against yours again, and you felt him shake–every exhale breaking against your cheeks.
”J-Jesus…I-I think I was blacking out during that.” Bob laughed softly–still breathless, still inside you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he knew how to breathe. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still so achingly present even in the aftermath of all that heat. His breath was warm and sticky against your throat.
You laughed, too–just a little–low and shaken but real.
“I couldn’t tell who was in control,” you murmured, dragging your fingers gently through the sweaty strands at the back of his neck. “Hopefully he’s not mad I called him Bob.”
Bob pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, lips curling in a crooked grin that barely held together at the corners. He kissed you once–soft, quick, like a punctuation mark–before resting his forehead against yours.
“I’m sure h-he doesn’t care,” He said, voice hoarse and honey-warm, “He’s definitely shut his mouth now…H-He’s been talking my ear off all night. Especially when you were with that guy.”
You smirked, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Sentry… The god of jealousy.”
Bob hummed a low, amused sound in his throat. “We were both jealous. He just…H-Has a really bad w-way of handling it.”
Then he turned slightly–still inside you, and you gasped at the movement—his body shifting as he reached out and slapped the silver button on the paper towel dispenser with the side of his palm. The mechanical whir filled the room in a way that felt both hilarious and wildly surreal.
“What are you doing?” You asked, brows furrowed in amused disbelief. Bob grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck, then leaned forward again to turn the faucet on with one hand.
“Making sure we don’t stain that pretty little dress,” He murmured, grabbing the paper towel and wetting it under the warm water. “It’s p-probably already ruined…But we shouldn’t make it worse, and w-we should at least do some damage control on it…I’ll pay for the d-dry cleaning.”
You laughed–really laughed this time–and he smiled into your skin like it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Bob gently wrung out the warm paper towel over the sink, his body still braced between your thighs, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The faucet murmured behind him as he turned it off, and the only other sound was the distant thud of club music vibrating faintly through the floorboards beneath your heels.
Then he leaned back slightly, his hands moving to rest lightly on your hips as he looked down between your bodies to assess the aftermath.
He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh.”
You blinked at him, trying not to laugh. “What?”
Bob tilted his head, considering. “It’s not t-too bad,” He said, voice still rough and fond, “But I might have to ask you to c-clench a bit when I pull out–just so I can press this t-there and stop the cum from dripping out before you get your underwear on.”
Your brows lifted. “Sounds like a plan…Speaking of my underwear though…Where are they?”
Bob glanced around like he was replaying the last thirty minutes in his head, then leaned over your shoulder and reached for something just behind the soap dispenser.
“T-Thought they got lost,” He muttered with sheepish relief as he picked up the damp, balled-up fabric, still slightly warm from your skin. “Thank goodness t-that’s not the case… Would’ve been pretty bad if it w-was.”
You bit back a grin, your voice teasing. “Would’ve had to walk back out to the club bare underneath this dress, huh?”
Bob groaned softly, burying his face in your neck for a beat. “Don’t t-tempt me.” Then he pulled back again, lips brushing your cheek as he met your eyes. “Ready?”
You nodded once, steady, and clenched instinctively around him–tight, holding him for one last second. Bob hissed quietly at the sensation, groaned, and then slowly, gently pulled out.
The loss of him made you gasp–a subtle ache, a sudden emptiness–but he was already moving, already bringing the warm, damp towel between your thighs with a kind of reverent tenderness that made your breath hitch. His touch wasn’t clinical or rushed. It was slow. Careful. Like he was scared he’d hurt you if he moved too fast.
You watched him.
Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he wiped you clean with the warm wet paper towel. It brushed between your folds with gentle pressure, catching his release as it began to spill out of you. He dabbed and swept delicately, making sure not to press too hard, his other hand holding your hip, grounding both you and him to the moment.
And the whole time, he was glancing up at you, watching your face–checking, silently, for any sign of discomfort.
Your chest swelled.
The intensity of it hit you like a fourth climax, softer this time–emotional instead of physical. This was Bob. Always Bob. The way he cared, the way he noticed, the way he never made you feel like you were too much.
You reached up, both hands rising to cradle his jaw as he finished, and his gaze flicked up to you just in time for your mouth to catch his.
You kissed him slowly–no hunger, no urgency. Just tenderness. Just that aching, quiet thing that had been living in both of you for months.
When you pulled back, your voice was hushed, but it carried all the weight of truth behind it.
“So…” You whispered, brushing your thumb over the very very light stubble along his jaw, “I guess we’re throwing that whole ‘no dating for the team’ thing out the window, huh?” Bob’s lips curled into the softest smile, something crooked and reverent and completely undone.
“S-Seems like it,” He murmured.
And then he kissed you again–gold-lit, warm, and entirely his.
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