tit-tit-toe

25 🫧

[epiphanyrogers]

a fever he can't sweat out

steve rogers x roommate!fem!reader

summary: the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but medical cleared him forty minutes ago. it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and his jeans suddenly feel far too tight. and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you. warnings/tags: SMUT, sex pollen (dubcon-ish elements), masturbation (m), oral sex (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms, creampies, overstimulation, hyperspermia, mating press, standing sex, aftercare, manhandling, size kink/size difference (reader is smaller than steve, but it's steve he's massive), praise kink, dacryphilia if you squint, sweat kink if you squint, roommates to lovers, guilty!pervy!steve who apologizes but can't stop, PWP but lowkey with plot?, sprinkle of yearning, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI word count: 14.4k (wtf) from maddie: official, diagnosed, terminal case of the yapperitis for this one. i got stressed writing pt. 2 of ocayf, and so decided to take a "little break" from it, and accidentally wrote this instead. it's sort of inspired by this post by @blobfishlol (hope you don't mind the tag!) and it was meant to be a quick, filthy little pwp but apparently my brain said no 🤍 it’s been a hot minute since i’ve posted anything this long and i feel like i forgot how to write halfway through, so pls be gentle with me!! (pls don’t be mad this isn’t ocayf pt2, it’s coming 🥹) dt: my bb @love-stucky for letting me yap her ear off about this fic, and also for the edit of the steve pic <33

masterlist

Steve's still running through the debrief in his head when he pulls up outside his apartment block. 

The bike's engine cuts out with a rumble, but Steve still feels a deep thrumming vibration in his chest that won't quit. His heart's pounding - has been pounding since he left the compound, he realises - and that doesn't make sense for someone whose resting heart rate is forty-five. Frowning, Steve rolls his shoulders like he can physically shake off whatever this is. Adrenaline, probably. Leftover cortisol. 

Plus, the mission ran long, the debrief even longer, and he's been running on fumes for the better part of eighteen hours. Maybe this is his body reminding him that he's not actually invincible even if the serum makes it feel that way sometimes. He's tired. That's all this is.

Medical cleared him forty minutes ago. Routine checkup, vitals normal, no injuries to note. Mission success. Another HYDRA facility taken out, mostly inactive but still operational enough to need clearing. A handful of guards, computers full of encrypted files for Nat to sort through, and more dust than seemed reasonable for a place that was supposedly still in use. 

It was a weird amount of dust, actually. Steve keeps snagging on that. Active facilities don't accumulate dust like that, yet the lab was covered with the thick powdery kind that coats every surface and blooms up in pale clouds when you move through it wrong.

And move through it wrong Steve had. 

When he'd taken down three guards in the main lab, the force of the fight had sent up a particularly thick puff of it. Enough that his throat constricted and his chest went tight. A too familiar tightness, low and stubborn, like he was twelve again when every breath was a negotiation. The kind that used to plant itself behind his sternum on cold Brooklyn mornings and refuse to shift.

He'd actually coughed. Hard enough that he had to step out of the room, hand braced against the doorframe while he caught his breath like some rookie who couldn't handle a little particulate in the air. But medical had checked his oxygen levels, listened to his lungs, found nothing wrong. Probably just particulate irritation, they'd said. The serum would clear it. And they'd been right - his breathing's fine now. Everything's fine.

Steve shakes his head, swinging a leg over his bike, and heads into the building. He's overthinking. Natasha told him he looked like shit and should go home and sleep for once. He'd laughed, told her she was projecting.

But now Steve's starting to think she might've been onto something.

The building's stairwell is mercifully cool and quiet, and Steve takes the stairs two at a time like always. Five flights is nothing. He's done it a thousand times, usually without thinking, but tonight by the second floor he's warm - too warm for the mild evening. The leather jacket that felt fine on the ride home now feels stifling, clinging to his shoulders and back.

By the third floor, he starts pulling at his collar. By the fourth, he's unzipped the jacket entirely. And when he hits the fifth floor, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and his breath is coming harder than it should.

Steve pauses, hand on the door to your shared apartment, and for a second he considers turning around. Going back to the compound, making medical run more comprehensive tests.

But the thought of another hour in that sterile medical bay instead of being home - instead of seeing you, sinking into that easy warmth you always seem to carry with you - stirs something wrong in his chest. Makes something tighten uncomfortably. He needs to be home. Needs the particular brand of domesticity that only exists in your shared space, where he gets to be Steve and not Captain America.

Yes. He just needs to get inside, see you, shower, and maybe eat something if you've made dinner. Then sleep for ten hours. Simple.

He pushes through the door before he can second-guess it, and the apartment wraps around him immediately - warmth, music drifting from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and pancetta that means you’re making his favorite pasta. Dropping his duffle by the door, Steve heads to the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of you humming off-key, moving around, the comfortable domestic soundtrack that usually settles something in his chest.

Some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. This is good. Normal. Exactly what he needs.

Until he rounds the corner and his brain stutters to a halt.

You're wearing his hoodie. Stood at the stove with your back to him, intently focused on cooking, and you're wearing his hoodie. It practically swamps your frame. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows because otherwise they'd swallow your hands, shoulders so broad they slip off one of yours, exposing a lacy bralette strap and the curve of bare skin that Steve wants his mouth on.

And shorts. Tiny black shorts that barely qualify as clothing, just peeking out from under the hem of his hoodie, leaving your legs completely bare from where the hoodie ends. 

You're swimming in the hoodie. In something of his. The size difference so obvious it makes his hands itch at this sudden, visceral urge to grab you and see how you’d disappear under him. To see how easy it would be to cage you in, crowd you back against the counter. To get his hands under his hoodie and find out if you're wearing his scent on your skin the way you're wearing his clothes, if you smell like him now, if you thought about him when you put it on, if—

"Oh my god, Steve, you startled me!" 

The sound of your voice catches him mid thought, and his brain slams back to room. You've spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and despite the startled words your whole face lights up. There’s genuine relief there, happiness that seems disproportionate to him just walking through the door. "How was the mission? You look exhausted, are you—"

"Is that my hoodie?"

The words come out rough, almost accusatory, cutting across your concern. Steve doesn't even know why that's the first thing out of his mouth, why out of everything he could say - something normal like hello, mission was fine, dinner smells good - that's what his brain latched onto.

You blink, clearly surprised by the abruptness, then glance down at yourself like you'd forgotten. 

"Oh. Yeah." When you look back up there's mischief in your eyes. "It's way comfier than all of mine. You don't mind, do you?"

Mind. Right. 

Does he mind that you're standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes, drowning in fabric that smells like him, looking so at home and domestic and pretty that something in his chest is pulling tight enough to hurt? Does he mind that this is somehow more intimate than it has any right to be? That the sight of you in his hoodie is doing things to him that he absolutely cannot examine right now?

"No, it's fine." His mouth is dry. When did his mouth get dry? "Keep it."

"Good," you reply, grin widening. "'Cause I wasn't giving it back anyway."

There’s a teasing lilt to it that Steve feels low in his gut. Or lower than his gut. Somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to be feeling things about his roommate, his friend, the person who should feel safe and comfortable in her own home without him losing his mind over a fucking hoodie.

But God, you turn back to the stove and Steve can’t stop watching. Even as you start chattering to him about dinner, about your day, something that would normally have him leaning against the counter asking questions, he's not hearing your words anymore. Instead, Steve's gaze drops without permission, returning to the way the hoodie shifts when you move, how it rides up when you reach for the spice cabinet and shows more of how those shorts cling to your ass.

He takes a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Close enough now that your scent hits him properly and floods his senses - that particular sweetness he associates with you, but underneath it, woven through, is him. His scent. 

You smell like you've wrapped yourself in him, like you're marked with it, and the possessive bolt of heat that shoots through Steve nearly buckles his knees. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw clenching as his body responds with alarming intensity to something as simple as you wearing his clothes.

The kitchen feels too small suddenly - too hot, the air too thick, and Steve can't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. No prizes for guessing where else it's heading.

And the heat under his skin, that constant low simmer since he left the compound, suddenly cranks up to something that makes him lightheaded. His jeans are getting tight, his cock beginning to harden. And there's this clawing need building in his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to control.

Of course, it's not new, the attraction.

He's been attracted to you since you moved in six months ago. Since Sam had shoved your number at him and told him his apartment was depressing and lonely and that he needed a roommate. Since you'd shown up with boxes stacked in your arms and made some joke about not being a serial killer that surprised a laugh out of him. 

Living with you has been comfortable in a way he hadn't expected, all casual dinners and movie nights and inside jokes. And yes, maybe he's spent more time than he'd like to admit thinking about what it might be like to close that distance, to make this more than friendly, to kiss you. 

But Steve's not stupid. Asking you out could ruin everything. Could make you uncomfortable in your own home, make you feel like you had to say yes because of who he is, or worse, make you feel like you had to leave if you said no. The risk of destroying this easy, comfortable thing you've built together isn't worth it, no matter how many times Sam and Bucky tell him he's being an idiot and should just ask you to dinner already.

And yet, now his body doesn't seem to care. It's like every nerve ending in his body has suddenly rewired itself to point at you like a compass finding north. Something that's making his hands shake and his brain offer up increasingly detailed images of what he could do if he just closed the distance between you, if he just reached out and—

"Steve? Are you even listening to me?"

Your voice cuts through the spiral once again and he realizes you've been talking. You've turned back to look at him, and your eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together with worry. 

"You look really flushed." You're studying him now, concern sharpening in your eyes, and then you're moving toward him. "And you're kind of just... standing there like something's wrong."

Your hand comes up, and the second your fingers make contact with his forearm, Steve jerks back like you've burned him. Nearly trips over his own feet putting distance between you. The brief touch sends electricity straight through him, and his cock responds immediately, twitching and thickening in his jeans until they feel obscenely tight. He shifts his stance, angles his body slightly away, desperately trying to hide what's becoming impossible to conceal.

This is insane. He's going insane.

Your eyes are darting over his face now, head tilted in that way you do when you're trying to figure him out, and there's genuine worry written across your features. Everything about it - you being this close, smelling like him, looking up at him with those big, concerned eyes - is making everything exponentially worse. The ache low in his gut intensifies, spreading outward until his whole body feels like a live wire.

"Steve, are you okay?" you ask, and he makes the mistake of watching your lips form the words. "You're really worrying me."

"Yeah." His voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. He clears his throat, trying again. "Fine. Just tired."

"Are you sure?" You take another step closer and Steve's back hits the doorframe. "You're sweating. Like, a lot. And you're breathing hard."

He is. He can feel it now, a bead of it running down his temple. And his t-shirt is sticking to his spine despite the fact that the apartment isn't remotely warm. What the fuck was happening to him? His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Prickling with something that's not quite pain but certainly is more than uncomfortable. Every nerve ending feels raw and oversensitive.

His jacket is still on and it's unbearable, too tight across his shoulders and trapping heat against his skin. He needs it off. 

"I'm fine," he lies, and even he can hear how strained it sounds. "Just—I need a shower."

"A shower?" Your frown deepens. "Steve, maybe we should call Bruce or someone, you're clearly not—"

"I'm fine." It comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he watches you flinch. Fuck. Fuck, he's making this so much worse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—it's just muscle tension. From the mission. My muscles are sore and the serum makes me run hot sometimes, you know that, and I just need—a cold shower will help, it'll help cool me down and—"

He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, throwing out excuse after excuse while you stared at him like you'd never seen him before, like he's a stranger wearing Steve Rogers' face, but he can't seem to stop.

"The mission was intense," he continues frantically, needing you to believe him, needing you to stop looking so worried. "Lots of close combat and I'm just—I'm tense. All my muscles are tense. A shower will help. Just need to cool down and relax."

He turns and practically flees down the hallway, before he can say what he really needs - you, spread out beneath him, wrapped around him, making sounds he's only let himself imagine in his weakest, most shameful moments when his hand is on his cock in the dark and he pretends it's you touching him instead.

Steve stumbles into his bedroom and straight through to the en-suite, shutting the door and leaning against it like something's chasing him. His reflection in the mirror looks frantic. Face flushed dark, pupils blown so wide, chest heaving. His lips look fuller somehow, plumper and pinker, like he's been biting them without realizing.

Guilt churns in his gut alongside the relentless heat. He'd scared you. Snapped at you when all you'd done was try to help. Made you worry. Been completely fucking weird and now you probably think he's losing his mind.

Maybe he is.

Because he's so hard it actually hurts. His cock is straining against his jeans, thick and aching, pressing against the zipper unbearably. He can feel his pulse in it, each throb sending a jolt of sensation through him that was equal parts pleasure and agony. When he shifts his weight, the friction of denim against sensitive skin makes him bite back a groan.

He's never felt like this. This desperate, all-consuming need that won't quit no matter how much he tries to think it away, logic it away, force it down with sheer willpower.

Sweat runs down his temple, his neck. The leather jacket is still on and Steve tears it off with shaking hands, letting it drop to the floor. It doesn't help. Everything still feels too hot, too tight, like his skin has shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit his body anymore.

Steve's fingers fumble with his belt, clumsy in a way they never are. They're shaking now, struggling with the simple mechanics of a belt buckle while his cock throbs insistently behind the zipper.

He gets it open finally, pops the button on his jeans, and the relief of pressure is so immediate and intense that he has to brace one hand against the sink. But it's not enough. Not even close. He shoves the jeans down his hips and they catch on his thighs - still damp with sweat, fabric clinging - and Steve has to peel them off with more force than should be necessary.

His boxer briefs are tented obscenely, a wet patch of precum already visible at the tip, and Steve can't even meet his own reflection in the mirror.

The shirt comes off next, pulled over his head and discarded without ceremony. His dog tags clink against his chest, metal warm from his overheated skin. Every piece of clothing that comes off should make him feel better, cooler, but it doesn't. If anything, being bare makes him more aware of how wrong everything feels. The hypersensitivity of his skin, the way even air movement feels like too much stimulus.

Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and just the brush of fabric as he moves pulls a sound from his throat he doesn't recognize. When he shoves them down, his cock springs free, completely erect and already leaking.

This isn't normal. Even for him, even with the serum's effect on his libido, this is excessive. Steve looks down at himself and feels something close to shame. 

Turning away from the mirror, Steve reaches into the shower, cranking the cold tap as far as it will go. He steps in the moment the water starts flowing and the cold hits him like a physical shock. For a blessed moment, it cuts through everything else. His overheated skin welcomes the icy spray like a mercy, the temperature difference sharp enough to make him gasp in relief. Steve braces his hands against the tile, head hanging under the stream, and tries to breathe through it. 

Tries to think about anything other than you. Anything other than your scent and your touch and the sight of you in those shorts and his hoodie.

The water runs over his shoulders, down his spine, plastering his hair to his forehead. It should help. But his cock is still hard. Still throbbing. And as the initial shock of cold fades, the heat comes creeping back. That insistent burning under his skin that the water isn't touching.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately regrets it.

Because his mind is flooded with images of you leaning over the counter in those tight little shorts, making dinner. And his traitorous brain doesn't stop there, it keeps going, imagining you in that same position but for different reasons, imagining him behind you, imagining his hands shoving that fabric out of the way to find you wet and needy for him.

"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth.

His cock throbs in response, another bead of precum forming at the tip despite the freezing water, despite the fact that he's actively trying not to think about you. He looks down at himself - still achingly hard, heavy between his legs - and feels another wave of confused arousal crash through him that makes his knees weak.

Maybe it's just because it's been so long?

Steve tries to think back to the last time he actually took care of himself. Weeks? No, longer than that. A month at least, maybe two. He's been so focused on missions, on taking down HYDRA bases, on being Captain America, that he hasn't exactly had time for anything "extracurricular."

This is probably the longest he's gone without any kind of release since waking up from the ice.

The serum amplified everything about him, including ramping up his sex drive to levels that had taken some getting used to. Back in the forties, right after the transformation, he'd been blindsided by it. Suddenly he'd gone from Steve Rogers who could barely keep a girl's attention to someone who had urges that were damn near overwhelming.

He'd had to learn to manage it, to deal with needs that were sharper and more insistent than anything a normal man experienced. So he'd figured out his body's rhythms, what it needed, how often. Learned to take care of himself efficiently and move on. 

Except now he's apparently pushed too far, gone too long, and his enhanced biology is making its displeasure violently known.

That has to be it. Has to be why he's reacting like this. Not because something's wrong, but because he's pent up and his body is responding to deprivation the way the serum makes it respond to everything: excessively.

And you. God, you in those shorts, in his hoodie, being so sweet and domestic, had just been the trigger. The match to kindling that had been building for weeks.

It's not pervy. It's just biology. Enhanced biology, biology nonetheless. So if he just takes care of it, he'll be fine. The need will ease, his head will clear, and he can go back out there and have dinner like a normal person instead of someone who can barely look at his roommate without getting hard.

Steve's hand drifts down his stomach almost without conscious thought, and when his fingers wrap around his cock he can't stop the groan that rumbles from his chest. The touch sends electricity up his spine, pleasure so intense it's almost painful after being hard and neglected for so long. 

He strokes slowly at first, testing, and his head falls back against the tile with a dull thunk. The cold water streams over his chest but he doesn't feel it anymore. All his focus narrows to the heat building in his core, the slick slide of his fist over sensitized skin, the way his cock throbs with every stroke like it's been waiting for this. 

And in his thoughts, you're there. 

Steve's grip tightens involuntarily and he strokes faster, chasing friction, telling himself to think about something else, anything else. But his mind won't cooperate. It just keeps offering up increasingly vivid fantasies: what you'd look like without his hoodie, whether you were wearing anything under those shorts, if you'd be wet if he checked, if you ever touched yourself in your room late at night thinking about— 

"Shit—," he curses, the sound echoing off the shower tiles. 

God, what would you sound like? The question burrows into his brain and won't let go. Would you whimper? Moan his name? Would you be loud or would you try to stay quiet, biting your lip the way you do when you're concentrating? Would you beg? He thinks you might. Thinks you might say his name all breathy and desperate while he slowly thrusts into you, feeling you stretch around his cock inch by inch. 

A low groan builds in his chest and Steve has to bite down on his lip so hard that he tastes copper. You're just in the kitchen. The walls aren't that thick. And the thought of you hearing him like this should horrify him but instead it sends another bolt of heat straight through his gut.

Steve's free hand slaps against the tile, bracing himself as his knees threaten to give out.

His cock is leaking steadily now, precum making the slide slick and easy, as his hand speeds up, rhythm getting rougher, chasing the sensation. And Steve can't stop imagining it's your hand instead of his. Your smaller fingers wrapped around him, struggling to fit around his girth, looking up at him with those eyes while you learn exactly how he likes to be touched.

Or better yet, your mouth. Fuck, your mouth. Those pretty lips he'd caught himself staring at stretched around his cock, your tongue sliding along the underside, taking him deeper while he threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you, feeling your moans vibrate around him.

A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Steve has to sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle it. He's so wound up, weeks of neglect and pent-up need making him hair-trigger sensitive. His hips thrust forward into his fist, searching for more friction, more pressure, chasing the orgasm building at the base of his spine with alarming speed. 

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. You're his friend, his roommate, someone who trusts him enough to live with him and wear his clothes and worry when he seems off. And here he is jerking off to fantasies of fucking your face. While you wait for him to come back for dinner.

But he can't stop. Can't make his mind go blank or think of anything else.

"Fuck—" His forearm isn't enough to muffle it and Steve bites down on his own arm as his orgasm slams through him. "Oh god, fuck—"

His cock pulses in his grip, and your name tears from his throat. Thick ropes of cum paint the shower wall, more than seems possible. The serum already makes him produce more than normal, but this is excessive even for him. It's almost painful in its intensity, pleasure so sharp it makes his legs shake, and he has to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright while it works through him.

For a few blissful seconds, pleasure drowns out every other sensation in his body

Then reality crashes back in, and with it comes the guilt.

Steve stares at the evidence of his release being washed away by the spray, chest heaving, and feels the shame burn through him hotter than the need had been.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

But even as guilt churns heavy in his gut, even as he tells himself he's disgusting and inappropriate and a terrible friend, he looks down and his stomach drops. He's still hard. Not just half-hard, not softening. Fully, achingly erect like he hadn't just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life. The relief he'd expected, the clarity that should have come, was nowhere to be found.

Steve stares in disbelief. The serum gives him a faster refractory period than normal, sure, but this? This isn't normal. Even for him.

He wraps a hand around himself experimentally and has to bite back a groan. The touch sends sparks through his overloaded nerves, pleasure bordering on unbearable, but underneath it the need is still there. Still clawing at his insides, unsatisfied and demanding more.

If anything, the ache in his gut feels worse now. More insistent. Like his body is genuinely angry that he came and it wasn't inside you, that it was his hand and not your body taking it, not your pussy clenching around him and milking him dry.

"No," Steve says out loud, voice hard like he's ordering a subordinate. Like he can command his own body back into line through sheer force of will. "Stop it."

This can't be just pent-up sexual frustration. Something else is happening. Something must've happened at that Hydra base. It has to that - the dust. The way it had hung in the air, gotten in his lungs, made him cough like his body was rejecting it. What if it wasn't just particulate irritation? What if HYDRA had something in that lab, some kind of bioweapon that got into his system?

Steve's jaw clenches. He should call Bruce. Should've called him an hour ago instead of convincing himself this was normal. Bruce would run tests, figure out what he'd been exposed to, synthesize a counter-agent if needed. Or Tony. Tony has access to SHIELD's entire database on HYDRA weapons, might recognize the symptoms.

But the thought of making that call, of trying to explain, "Hey, I can't stop thinking about fucking my roommate, I'm hard enough to cut diamond, and I just jerked off in the shower while moaning her name," makes him want to die. Tony would never let him live it down, would make jokes about it for the rest of Steve's natural life. 

He'd probably tell Natasha, who would tell Clint, and then the entire team would know that Captain America got dosed with some kind of HYDRA sex drug and spent the evening jerking off to thoughts of his roomate. 

Maybe it'll pass on its own. The serum processes toxins faster than a normal metabolism; whatever this is might just need time to work through his system. He can get through dinner, make some excuse about not feeling well, go to bed early. Wake up tomorrow back to normal.

Turning off the water with more force than necessary, Steve reaches for a towel. Even the act of drying off feels like too much. The terry cloth dragging across his oversensitized skin makes him grit his teeth. He manages his chest and arms with rough, perfunctory swipes, but when the towel brushes his cock he actually hisses, the sensation sharp enough to make his vision blur.

He abandons the towel halfway through, still damp, and pulls his boxers back on, hissing at the friction of fabric against sensitive skin. The compression just makes him more aware of his situation. He's tenting the boxers obscenely, the outline of his erection impossible to miss, a damp spot already forming again where he's leaking. There's no hiding this. No way to pretend everything's fine when his body is advertising exactly how not-fine he is.

And the thought of putting anything else on makes his overheated skin crawl. Maybe he could manage sweatpants. Loose ones that won't cling. And then he'll return to the kitchen, try and act normal for dinner.

Steve takes a breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs, braces himself, and opens the bathroom door.

You're in his bedroom.

Standing there with frozen peas in one hand, and a pill bottle and bottle of water in the other. The shock of it - you, here, in his space when he's barely holding himself together, when he's standing here in nothing but his boxers with his cock still straining obscenely against the fabric - roots him to the spot. Your head snaps up at the sound of the door, eyes going wide.

"Oh! Sorry, you'd been a while and you were so weird earlier and I got worried..."

The words trail off. Steve watches it happen, the way your gaze catches on his bare, dripping chest. You're trying to be subtle, he thinks, trying to make it look clinical, concerned, but there's nothing clinical about the way your focus catches on the water beaded across his chest.

Your lips part slightly as you track a single droplet running down his sternum, over the defined ridges of his abs, following its path like you're memorizing it until it disappears into the waistband of his boxers.

And then your gaze drops lower.

Steve watches your pupils dilate the moment you see what’s impossible to miss, impossible to misinterpret. Time stretches. Your breath hitches just loud enough for him to hear, and neither of you moves.

"I thought—" Your voice comes out different. Breathier. You swallow so hard he can see your throat work. "I thought these might help. For your muscles."

You hold up the peas and pills like they explain why you're in his bedroom, but your gaze hasn't moved back to his face. It's still tracking over him - shoulders, chest, the V of muscle at his hips - and Steve can see the flush creeping up your neck in real time. 

He should grab something to cover himself, should apologize, should do literally anything other than just stand there letting you look at him like that.

You start rambling now, that nervous spillover of words you do when you're flustered. "Frozen peas for the soreness, and Bruce made these painkillers specifically for your metabolism, remember? For when—"

"You didn't have to do that." His voice sounds like gravel.

"Sorry," you say quietly, and your eyes finally drag back up to his face. "I'm just… you really scared me earlier. I've never seen you like that."

The concern in your voice is palpable. But then you shift your weight and he catches the way your gaze dips again, just for a second. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips - unconscious, he's sure, but it doesn't matter because the sight of it sends heat straight through him so fast it makes his head spin.

Did you hear him? In the shower? Is that why you came to his room? Because you heard your name, heard what he was doing? The thought should mortify him. Should make him want to disappear through the floor. Instead, his cock gives an interested twitch that he knows you can see.

"Steve?" 

Your voice pulls him back. You've moved closer. When did that happen? The peas and water are on his nightstand now and you're right there, close enough that when Steve pulls in his next breath, your scent floods his senses again. But there's something else now. Something sweeter, headier, that makes his enhanced senses lock onto you like a target.

Arousal.

You're aroused. The realization slams into him with physical force. He can smell it on you, subtle but unmistakable, and every instinct in his body that's been screaming at him all evening suddenly focuses with laser precision on that single fact.

"You're still really flushed," you say, and your voice has gone soft. Worried. "And you're breathing so hard. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

Everything's wrong. You're too close and you smell too good and he can see your pulse fluttering in your throat and all he can think about is closing that last foot of distance and finding out if you taste as good as you smell.

"I'm fine," Steve lies, and it might be the most blatant one yet.

You turn to face him fully, and the genuine worry etched in your features makes his chest tight for different reasons.

"You do so much, Stevie," you probe, and the nickname lands like a caress. "You hold so much in. You've been working so hard lately, mission after mission." You step closer and Steve's breath catches, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. "I'm worried about you. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please tell me. I'll do it."

Anything at all.

Steve's mind immediately offers up about a dozen graphic answers to that - vivid, explicit images of exactly what you could do to help, each one more detailed than the last. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, has to physically fight back the thoughts of your mouth on him, your body under his, the sounds you'd make if he just gave in and took what his body is screaming for. 

You don't mean it like that. You're just being kind, being a good friend, offering comfort the way you always do. You have no idea what's running through his head right now, how close he is to snapping.

"You don't—" His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat, has to force the words out. "You don't need to worry about me."

But you're not listening, or maybe you're just too concerned to care about his protests, because your hand comes up toward his face and Steve's reflexes take over before his brain can catch up. His hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-air, and the second skin touches skin everything goes white-hot.

The touch sears through him like lightning. He can feel your pulse under his fingertips, quick and fluttering, can feel the softness of your skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to yank you against him right then and there.

"Let me see," you protest, and before Steve can process the words you're pulling your wrist free of his grip. A determined tug that his lust-addled brain doesn't think to resist. Both of your palms come up to cup his face, cool against his burning skin.

Steve's lungs stop working. Your hands on his jaw, your thumbs at his temples, the way you're studying him with those worried eyes while standing close enough that he can see the individual flecks of colour in your iris is obliterating what's left of his control. "Oh my god, you're burning up. Steve, you're literally…"

He can't hear the rest. Can't process words when your hands are on his face and your arousal is flooding his senses and the coil of need in his gut has pulled so tight he thinks it might actually snap him in half. All he can think about is grabbing your wrists, pulling you flush against him, finding out if your mouth tastes as good as he's imagined when he finally stops being careful and takes what he wants.

Your fingers move to his neck - checking his pulse - and Steve stops breathing entirely. His cock throbs so hard it's painful and he can feel his control dissolving like sugar in water, going from solid to nothing in seconds.

He needs. God, he needs. Needs to touch you, taste you, needs to rip those tiny shorts off and find out if you're as wet as you smell, needs to bury himself inside you until this relentless burning finally stops, needs to pin you to his bed and fuck you until you're screaming his name and all of a sudden he can't remember why he was fighting this in the first place.

"I'm calling Bruce—"

"No!"

The word comes out too loud, too violent, and Steve watches you jump. He's scaring you again and he hates it but he can't stop, can't make himself be gentle when his whole body is screaming.

"You need to leave." The words sound strangled, barely human. His control is hanging by a thread and that thread is unravelling fast. "Please. You need to go. Right now."

"What? No, Stevie, I'm not leaving when you're clearly—"

"Please." It comes out like a whine, and some distant part of Steve registers that he's begging but he's too far gone to care about pride or dignity anymore.

He takes a step back, needing distance before he does something unforgivable. "You don't—you don't understand. You need to go back to your room. Lock the door. Don't come near me."

Your expression shifts to hurt and confusion, brow furrowing in that way that makes his chest ache even through the haze of need. "Why? Steve, I just want to help!"

"You can't help with this!" Too sharp, too harsh, and he watches you flinch like he's struck you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just—please just go. Please."

"You're scaring me." Your voice comes out small and it kills him, absolutely kills him. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, we can figure it out togeth—"

"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and desperate and too honest. "I can't—fuck, I've been trying, I've been trying so hard to hold it together but I can't think straight and all I want—all I can think about is—"

He cuts himself off with a harsh breath but it's too late. The truth is out there now, hanging in the air between you like something physical.

You stare at him with your eyes wide, and Steve can see your chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see the exact moment his words register. The shock flickering across your face, then understanding, then something that looks dangerously close to want. Your scent spikes so sharply it makes his knees weak, that sweet arousal flooding his senses until he can barely think through it.

"Steve," you breathe, and there's something in your voice he's never heard before. Something breathless and urgent.

You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up to rest against his chest, right over his hammering heart, and Steve's breath stops entirely. He can feel the tremble in your fingers, can see the way your eyes flick to his lips, and he knows with sudden, devastating certainty what you're about to do.

You push up on your toes, tilting your face toward his, close enough that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips, and Steve's last thread of control frays to nothing.

Lunging that last inch, he captures your mouth in a kiss that tries, briefly, to be gentle - some buried instinct trying for something tender, wanting to do this right. But the moment your lips part under his, a deep rumbling growl tears up from his throat and his hands are suddenly everywhere. One hand fists in your hair, gripping tight to angle your head exactly where he needs it, while the other clamps onto your waist. Tight enough that you know you'll feel the imprint of his fingers tomorrow.

God, you want to feel it tomorrow.

He yanks you flush to his body and you stumble into him with a gasp that's his undoing. Your mouth opens for him and Steve takes immediate advantage, greedy for it, greedy for every breath you'll give him, tilting his head to seal his mouth over yours properly.

His tongue sweeps past your lips to finally taste you properly, and you're even sweeter than every fantasy promised. Better than anything he imagined in that shower with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat.

When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, you make this small wounded sound that goes straight to his cock. You feel it twitch against your stomach through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he's so big, so overwhelming, radiating heat and the salt musk smell of his sweat that makes your head spin and your thighs clench.

Heat floods his system at the knowledge that you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. And he knows he can't satisfy the clawing need in his gut through your mouth alone.

Steve tears himself away from your mouth and every cell in his body revolts violently like he's ripping off his own skin. A needy little protest escapes you as you chase after him without thought, lips wet and swollen and so devastatingly pretty he almost stops caring. 

"You don't," The words come out between ragged pants, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable as his own. "You don't understand." His chest heaves against yours, breath coming hard and fast as he presses his forehead to yours, hand still fisted tight in your hair because letting go simply isn't something his body knows how to do anymore. "I'm not in control right now. I don't know if I can be gentle. Don't know if I can stop once I start—"

"Then don't stop," you whisper against his lips, and your hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Take what you need, Steve."

And there’s no universe, no timeline where Steve Rogers could survive hearing that from your mouth, not even if he were perfectly himself. 

His last thread of restraint frays to nothing.

Steve's mouth crashes back into yours with bruising intensity, all desperate hunger and zero control. You open for him instantly, no hesitation, just pure wanting, and the primal satisfaction that rolls through his chest is almost violent in its intensity.

Then his arms slide down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing. You're so light in his grip, so easy to position exactly where he wants you, and the rush of it - the physical proof of how easily he can manhandle you - sends a dark thrill surging through him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and your body moulds to his perfectly, soft curves yielding to hard muscle, and he can feel everything.

The frantic beat of your heart hammering against his chest. The clench of your thighs around his hips. The damp heat between your legs settling right against his cock through the layers separating you, and it makes him throb so hard he groans into your mouth.

But still, it's not enough. He needs you impossibly closer, needs to consume every inch of space between you. One hand shifts to palm your ass with a possessive squeeze that makes you whimper and roll your hips against him. It's an instinctive, needy grind that drags your core along the length of his still covered cock. 

"Steve, please," you whine against his mouth. "I need—"

Your desperation makes Steve's pupils blow completely black, swallowing the blue entirely. He turns and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his hips, using the solid surface to hold you exactly where he wants you.

"God, I know, sweetheart. I know you do," he rasps against your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Tried to be good. Tried not to think about this. But so damn sweet I can’t think straight." His hands tighten on you possessively, fingers digging into flesh. "'m gonna take care of you now, I promise. Gonna make you feel perfect. Gonna stretch you open on my cock and fill you up until you can't take anymore. Fill you up so good you'll feel me for days."

Heat curls low and tight in your belly at his filthy promise, and your body reacts instinctively, clenching around nothing so sharply that a needy little moan slips out before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his bare shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the overwhelming reality of finally having him like this. 

All that heated muscles under your palms, slick with sweat. He’s so much bigger like this, crowding every inch of space you have, caging you in, and your head swims with the sheer physicality of him.

But it’s the heavy, hard length of his cock grinding against you through thin cotton that nearly undoes you. Thick and insistent, pressed exactly where you’re throbbing for him, dragging against you with every subtle shift of his hips. The friction makes your breath stutter, your thighs tightening helplessly around him, trying to draw him even closer, to get more of that impossible, intoxicating pressure.

Steve moves with urgency that borders on frantic, carrying you the few steps to his bed and laying you down with slightly more care than the desperation vibrating through his body would suggest. But the second you're on the mattress, that restraint evaporates. He follows you down like he's magnetised, covering your body with his.

Heat radiates off him in waves, overwhelming, consuming. His breath fans over your cheek, uneven and ragged, and when his hips slot between yours, you feel just how hard he is. Thick, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers like he’s seconds from losing his mind entirely.

"Jesus," he groans, almost a choke, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the contact alone might save him. "I need—sweetheart, I need you, I need you so bad."

He kisses you again, harder this time, nothing gentle left in him. His mouth is hot, frantic, stealing your breath as his hands slide over you in frantic sweeps, already pulling at your clothes. It's rougher than he intends - though he’s trying, god he’s trying - but whatever is burning through him is stronger than his control.

His hoodie is the first causality, tugged over your head and tossed aside without care for where it lands. Immediately his mouth is on your bare skin, lips and teeth working down your throat to your collarbone while his hands slide up to cup your breasts through the thin bralet. 

The delicate fabric does nothing to hide your peaked nipples straining against it, and the sight combined with the feel of them hard beneath his palms makes him groan low and desperate against your skin. His fingers hook under the elastic, pulling it up with greedy, impatient hands before it can register that he should probably slow down, be more careful with you. 

But he can't. His mouth trails lower, hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple between his lips, tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it lightly, teasing. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging. He groans at the sting of it and sucks harder, alternating between your breasts with ravenous attention. Licking, sucking, nipping until both nipples are peaked and glistening with his spit, until you're squirming beneath him and making those breathy little sounds that drive him insane.

His hand palms and kneads the soft flesh while his mouth works, and every arch of your back, every tug on his hair, every whining plea that falls from your lips just winds him tighter. Normally could spend hours here, mapping every response, learning exactly what makes you fall apart.

But it's not enough right now. None of it is enough.

The need burning through Steve's veins is almost painful now, an ache so deep and consuming he can barely think past it. He needs more. Needs all of you. Needs to be inside you with an urgency that's rapidly shredding what little control he has left. 

His mouth trails down your stomach, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become bites, small sucks that leave wet heat on your skin. He’s losing the thread of gentleness entirely, hands already at your shorts, fumbling with the waistband for half a second before impatience overrides coordination entirely.

He doesn't mean to - or maybe he does, he can't think straight enough to know - but his enhanced strength rips through the fabric like tissue paper, taking your panties with it. The startled sound you make is half protest, half arousal, because the ease of it, the sheer strength, makes heat pulse between your legs.

"Steve—!"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps into your skin as he chucks the ruined scraps aside. "I'm sorry, I'll replace them, I promise, I just—" His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider for him. "I need—I can't—"

But the words die in his throat completely because the sight of your pussy, slick and glistening for him, combined with your scent flooding his heightened senses, makes something in Steve's brain simply stop working. Every coherent thought evaporates, consumed by primal need. He's gone. Completely lost to whatever's burning through his veins. 

All that exists is the need to taste you, claim you, bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets where he ends and you begin.

"Look at you," Steve breathes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip absently, like he can already taste you. "So fucking pretty and wet for me." 

His biceps flex as he drags you down the bed effortlessly, hauling you closer with enough strength that a startled gasp tears from your throat. Your thighs end up over those broad shoulders and he settles between your legs like he's exactly where he's meant to be. His breath ghosts hot over where you're aching for him and you arch involuntarily, seeking and retreating all at once.

He's staring at your exposed pussy with an intensity that borders on feral, like you're something he wants to devour. Like's he's been starving for you longer than he'll admit.

Your cheeks burn. Heat pools low in your stomach as you try to squirm away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are despite how desperately you want this.

"Don't," he growls against your folds, the word a dark, commanding rasp in a tone you've never heard from him before but makes heat flash down your spine.

His arms clamp tighter around your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you in place easily. Utterly at his mercy. The possessive dominance of his grip steals what little breath you have left.

Then his mouth seals over you and any coherent thought you have dissolves into nothing. There's no teasing; whatever's burning through Steve's veins has burned away every shred of patience. He buries his face between your thighs and devours you like a man who'll die without his mouth on every inch of you. 

His tongue drags through your folds in one long, devastating stroke that punches a broken cry from your chest that you barely recognize as your own voice. Steve's answering moan is one of pure relief, rumbling from deep in his chest and vibrating against your cunt. Your hips buck helplessly in his arms as he licks and sucks with focused, consuming desperation, and within seconds you're gasping his name. 

Broad strokes of his tongue work through your slick folds, greedy in his pursuit of your pleasure and you're writhing against him, biceps flexing to keep you where he wants you. He finds your clit and sucks it between his lips with perfect pressure, circling the swollen bud with his tongue, and you grind against him shamelessly, fingers twisted so tight in his hair it has to hurt.

But Steve just groans his encouragement and you feel it everywhere, feel the way he's grinding against the mattress below seeking his own friction, aching for a bit of relief from the pressure, while he loses himself completely in the taste of you.

God, the sight of him. All flushed skin and flexing muscle, sweat making his broad shoulders gleam, chin glistening obscenely with your arousal. And those perfect plush lips are pink and swollen now, parted around another appreciative moan that makes you clench around nothing. His eyes are closed like he's savouring you, and when they flutter open to meet yours they're so dark and blown wide with need it sends another pulse of heat straight through you.

The flat of his tongue drags up again, licking up through your folds before spearing inside, and the obscene wet sounds of it mix with your gasping moans and his rough growls. One of his hands shifts from your thigh to spread you wider with his thumb, opening you up so he can fuck you with his tongue properly while his nose grinds against your clit.

The combination makes your back arch violently, pleasure spiking so sharp and quickly it's overwhelming.

"Steve—fuck—Steve, oh my god—" The words tumble out incoherent, your brain shorting out under the onslaught.

But he doesn't slow down. If anything, your babbling spurs him on. Two thick fingers slide into you, curling immediately to stroke that devastating spot while his tongue works in tight, merciless circles.You're shaking now, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his bruising grip, that coil winding tighter and tighter until you think you'll actually break apart from it.

"Need you to come," he rasps against you, and there's desperation in his voice that matches the frantic grinding of his hips against the bed, like making you come is the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Please, sweet girl, need to have it."

The raw pleading in his voice is what does it. That broken desperation, the way he's begging you like he needs this more than air, sends you over the edge so hard and fast you don't even have time to warn him.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches clean off the bed, thighs clamping around Steve's head as you cry out his name - or try to, the sound coming out more like a broken sob. White-hot pleasure explodes through your nerve endings, radiating out from where his mouth is still working you relentlessly, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except shake apart in his grip.

But Steve doesn't let up. He keeps his mouth sealed over you, licking and sucking like he wants to devour every aftershock, like he's trying to pull more from you even as you're already flying apart. It's too much, bordering on overwhelming, but when you try to squirm away his arms lock you down harder.

"Stevie—'s too much—I can't—"

He finally pulls back just enough to press open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hipbones, working his way up your body as you try to remember how to breathe. His hands roam restlessly over your skin and when he reaches your face his lips are glistening, hair dishevelled from your grip, face flushed and chest heaving.

"Perfect, you're so fucking perfect," he rasps against your mouth, kissing you deeply enough that you taste yourself on his tongue. "But I need to be in you, need it more than I've ever needed anything." His hips grind against you unconsciously, the hard length of him pressing insistently through his boxers, now soaked through. "Need it so bad I can't think, can't breathe. Please, pretty girl, need you so bad I'm losing my mind—"

He's already moving, pushing himself up just enough to shove his boxers down with shaking hands. The elastic catches on his cock and he makes a frustrated sound, yanking the fabric down his thighs and kicking them off entirely. When he springs free, your breath catches.

He's big. Thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach with prominent veins running along the length. The head is already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and he's so hard it looks almost painful. Your eyes widen involuntarily as your brain tries to process how that's supposed to fit inside you.

Steve notices your stare, follows your gaze down, and a sound rumbles from his chest that's pure male satisfaction. The visual does something to him, you can see it in the way his pupils dilate even further, the way his jaw clenches, the way the muscle ticks. How much bigger he is than you, how easily he could manhandle you, how small and vulnerable you look pinned beneath all that muscle and raw strength.

"It'll fit," he promises, voice rough and absolutely certain despite the tremor in his hands. He settles between your thighs, caging you in completely with his body, surrounding you with heat and want. "I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you can take me, 'm gonna make sure you do."

One hand drops between your bodies and the thick head of his cock drags through your folds, gathering your slick, and the sensation punches a desperate sound from both of you. Each time he rocks forward your hips chase the friction instinctively.

His mouth finds your neck, lips and tongue working over your pulse before he sucks with an impatience that you know will bruise. You gasp and tilt your head without thinking, offering more, and Steve groans his approval against your skin. Teeth scrape over the sensitive tendon before biting down hard enough to make you whimper, and he soothes the sting with his tongue only to move lower and do it again. Marking you deliberately. Claiming you.

He keeps talking in between - words tumbling out of him like he’s not even talking to you anymore, just spilling whatever delirious need is consuming him.

“Fuck…'m gonna stretch this pretty little pussy open on my cock,” he babbles, almost dazed, eyes locked on where he’s lining himself up with you. “Fill you up so good… so fucking full. You'll feel me for days, sweetheart. Days. Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you."

He's so hot and hard against you, and when he notches himself at your entrance - just the tip of him pressing in - and even that has you whimpering at the stretch. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.

Oh god—Steve—" It comes out high and shaky, almost a whine. "Please—"

The plea tears from your throat but you don't even know what you're begging for. For him to go slower? For more? For relief from the burning stretch that's somehow perfect and too much all at once?

"I know, baby, I know," Steve coos against your throat, pressing kisses between words, and there's that desperation threading through his voice again. "Shh, I've got you, pretty girl. Just breathe for me."

But even as he's soothing you his hips press forward incrementally, working himself deeper, and you can feel every thick inch as he pushes in and your body struggles to accommodate him. The stretch burns and you bury your face against his neck with a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.

"Wait—Steve, you're too big, I can't—"

"You can," he pants, his voice is strained, shaking with the monumental effort of going slow when everything in him is screaming to just thrust home, to bury himself completely in your wet heat. "You're doing so good f'me. So fucking good. Just a little more—fuck—just need you to take a little more."

His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he rocks forward another inch. You're so full already and he's not even halfway in yet, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, and the whine that tears from your throat makes him groan and press his forehead to yours.

"That's it, that's it," Steve breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple - anywhere he can reach. "I know it's a lot, baby. But you're taking me so perfect. Look how good you're opening up for me." Another shallow thrust and you whimper against his mouth, nails raking down his back. "You're doing so perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, I promise. Just let me in, baby. Let me fill this tight little pussy up like you need."

The combination of his words and the relentless stretch is overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your nerve endings spark. Your body reacts instinctively, walls clenching tight around the thick length of him already inside you.

Feeling your wet cunt constrict around hi breaks whatever fragile restraint Steve had left. With a low, guttural sound he slams the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

The cry that rips from you is sharp and broken - pain and pleasure so intense they're indistinguishable, blurring together into something that has you arching violently against him. You're so full you can barely breathe, stretched impossibly wide around him, and the sensation is so overwhelming you almost come from that alone. 

Your walls flutter and clench around his length, desperately trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. Tears spring to your eyes, spilling over to track down your cheeks.

"Fuck—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracks as he kisses frantically at your tears, lips pressing to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. "I'm so sorry, pretty girl, I didn't mean to—you just felt so good, I couldn't—"

But even as he's apologizing his hips are already moving, pulling back and rocking into you with needy thrusts. He's not giving you time to adjust, can't seem to stop himself, his body operating on pure need now.

"So tight," he gasps against your skin. "So fucking perfect around me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need—" Another thrust, deeper this time, and you sob against his shoulder. "Need you so bad. Can't stop. Please tell me you're okay, please."

You try to speak. Try to form words through the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full but your brain can't form coherent words. All that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering "Stevie." 

It's all you can manage before he shifts his hips slightly, angling deeper, and on the very next thrust the blunt head of his cock grinds right against your g-spot.

Pleasure detonates through you so suddenly you can't even cry out, mouth falling open on a silent gasp as he thrusts into you again. Your eyes fly wide, a shocked gasp tearing from your throat as white-hot sensation explodes through every nerve ending.

You're coming before your brain can even register it's happening. Two thrusts, maybe three, and your orgasm rips through you like lightning.

Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down violently around his cock as you gush around him, soaking his length and making the slide obscenely wet. The sounds falling from your lips are helpless and incoherent, your back arching clean off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure shorts out your brain completely.

"Fuck—oh fuck, that's it, that's it—" Steve's voice breaks on a groan as your walls spasm around him. "Good girl, such a good fucking girl, coming all over my cock—"

You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except convulse in his arms while your pussy milks his cock with desperate, rhythmic pulses that has Steve following you over the edge. With a guttural snarl he buries himself as deep as he can go as his cock throbs inside you, pulsing violently as the first rope of cum floods your pussy. Then another. And another. And it doesn't stop.

"Fuck—oh fuck!" Steve's voice breaks on a groan, hips grinding into you as he empties himself, and there's so much. Too much. Your walls are coated, flooded, completely painted white with his release, and he just keeps coming. Spurt after thick spurt filling you beyond capacity until you can actually feel it. Hot and excessive and so overwhelming your body can't contain it all.

"Steve—Steve—oh god." You try to squirm away instinctively, whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being pumped so full. "I can't—there's too much, I can't—"

But Steve's hands lock onto your hips like a vice, fingers digging in bruisingly as he holds you in place and grinds you down harder onto his cock, forcing you to take more.

"Shh, shh, you can," he hushes against your neck, pushes you down harder onto him, forcing himself impossibly deeper even as his cock continues pulsing, and more cum floods into you. "You can take it, sweetheart. Take all of it. Every fucking drop, just a little more."

Cum starts leaking out around the thick base of him, even though he's still buried deep, still pulsing, still pumping more into you. It spills out of you despite how tightly your pussy is stretched around his length, dripping down your ass and pooling on the sheets beneath you.

"Please," You're babbling now, tears flowing freely as you shake your head helplessly. "Steve, please, 's so much, I'm so full." 

"Fuck, you're dripping with it," Steve pants against your neck, hips still rocking through the aftershocks, trying to fuck his cum further into your already overflowing pussy. "Taking all of it. Every drop. Knew you could. Knew this sweet pussy was made for me, pretty girl." 

His cock gives another violent pulse and you whimper helplessly, completely stuffed, cum sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of his hips.

Your limbs feel boneless, trembling with aftershocks, and you expect him to soften now, to give you both a moment to recover. But Steve doesn't slow down. Doesn't even pause. His cock is still rock-hard inside you and his hips keep moving - pulling back and thrusting in with the same urgent intensity, maybe even more now that you're slick with both your release and his excessive cum.

A broken whimper falls from your lips as oversensitized nerves spark with each thrust. You're so full, so overwhelmed, you can barely process that he's still going, still hard, still needing.

"I know, baby, I know—I'm sorry," He sounds almost pained, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down. "I'm sorry, I can't—fuck, just need one more from you—just one more, yeah? Need to feel this perfect pussy clench around me again. Can you do that for me? Please, baby, just one more."

His rhythm picks up, hips snapping forward with primal desperation. You can barely nod, can barely do anything except take it as he pounds into you, the wet obscene sounds of his cum squelching with every thrust filling the room alongside your breathless whimpers and his desperate groans.

But it's still not enough for him. With a frustrated snarl Steve pulls back, and before you can even whine at the loss of him, he's grabbing your legs, pushing them up and back. Your knees press to your chest as he folds you completely in half, and when he sinks back in this new angle has you seeing stars.

"Oh god—" The broken cry tears from your throat as he sinks back in, and he's so much deeper like this. Impossibly deeper.

"That's it—yes," Steve's voice is guttural as he starts moving again. "Need to get deeper, need to—fuck, you feel that? Feel how deep I am?"

You're completely pinned beneath him, folded in half and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but take the brutal pace he sets. The new position has gravity working against you too, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you're babbling - words tumbling out that don't even make sense.

"Can't—oh god, Stevie, you're—'s too deep, I can't—fuck—s'good—please."

Your hands scrabble frantically at his back, nails digging in and dragging down, leaving angry red crescents that make him hiss and thrust harder.

Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest, your neck, and he leans down to lick it off with a groan, tongue dragging over your heated skin. His hips never stop that relentless grinding, working himself as deep as physics will allow. Driven by something beyond his control to keep fucking into your used, dripping pussy like his life depends on it.

"Taking me so well," he pants into your neck between messy kisses. "Look at you, so good for me. Letting me use this perfect cunt."

One of Steve's hands snakes down between your bodies, finding your clit, and the second his thumb makes contact you cry out - sharp and broken - because you're so oversensitive, swollen and puffy from two orgasms already

"Steve—no, I can't—can't again, 's too much."

"You can," he insists, and his fingers start circling that abused bundle of nerves with just enough pressure. "Can feel you getting tighter already. You're gonna come for me again, pretty girl. Need to feel you squeeze my cock one more time, please."

The stimulation is so intense you need to escape it. Every muscle in your body wants to flee the overwhelming sensation, but pinned beneath him like this there's nowhere to go, no way to twist away. You're utterly trapped, unable to do anything but take it. Take his cock pounding into you and his thumb working mercilessly over your puffy clit until pleasure starts building again despite your body's protests.

"Oh god, oh my god—Steve please." You're sobbing now, tears streaming as sensation builds too fast, too intense.

But your body betrays you. The combination of his fingers and his cock and being trapped beneath him with nowhere to go builds faster than should be possible when you're this wrung out. Your pussy flutters around him, clenching weakly, and Steve groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.

"That's it, come on, give it to me."

And you do. Your third orgasm rips through you with less intensity than the others but somehow more devastating because you're so oversensitive every nerve ending feels raw. You clench around him with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently where they're pressed to your chest.

But this time when you come down, gasping and trembling, Steve doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything he gets more frantic, more desperate, like your orgasm just made the need worse instead of better. 

His rhythm gets more erratic, more brutal, like he's chasing something just out of reach and it's driving him insane.

"Not deep enough," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "Still not—fuck—need more, need—"

Without warning he pulls out completely, ignoring your confused whimper, and his hands are on you - gripping, lifting. You barely process what's happening before you're airborne, completely off the bed, and Steve is standing with you in his arms like you weigh nothing.

"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, voice rough, and you obey on complete instinct, the words not even processing in your brain. The moment you do he's lining himself up and pulling back you down onto his cock with brutal force.

The angle is devastating. Gravity works against you, impaling you on his full length, and the depth has you choking on a scream. You can feel him everywhere, so deep and stretching you in ways that shouldn't be possible.

"There—fuck yes, there." Steve's head falls back on a guttural moan as he starts using you, biceps bulging as he fucks you on his cock like you're a toy made for his pleasure. Lifting you up and pulling you back down with ease that should be terrifying but instead has you clenching around him.

You're completely helpless, just a ragdoll as he manhandles you exactly how he needs. Your hands scrabble desperately at his shoulders for any kind of stability. Every time he pulls you down gravity does half the work, driving him impossibly deeper, and all you can do is take it. You can't form words anymore, just needy little sounds as he uses your body. 

Your brain is completely gone, drunk on the feeling of him, on being so full, on the obscene wet sounds of his cum leaking out with every brutal thrust and dripping down both of you to splatter on the floor.

"Look at you," Steve rasps, eyes wild as they lock onto where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. "Fucking look at you taking my cock. So small I can just—" He emphasizes with a particularly brutal drop that has you wailing. "Use you however I want."

Your thighs are shaking violently, muscles screaming, but it doesn't matter because Steve's holding you up effortlessly. Using his strength to fuck you on him at whatever pace he wants, and right now he wants it hard and fast and deep.

"Steve—fuck—oh god, oh god." You're babbling, tears streaming, completely cock-drunk and overwhelmed.

"Shh, I know, I know," he coos even as he doesn't slow down at all. "But you're doing so good f'me. My perfect girl, letting me use this tight little cunt. Can feel myself in your stomach, can you feel it? Feel how deep I am?"

You can only whine in response, completely overwhelmed, pleasure bordering on too much but your body keeps responding, keeps clenching around him like it can't help itself.

The last of your strength gives out entirely. Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore, and you're just gone. Completely boneless in his grip, every muscle turned to liquid, unable to do anything except let him use you exactly how he needs. Arms hanging limply around his neck, your legs barely maintain their grip around his waist; if it weren't for Steve's hands on you, you'd slide right off him.

"Can't—can't—Stevie I can't." The words slur together, muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck, your brain too fried to form anything coherent.

"I know, baby, I know, almost there." Steve assures, his rhythm getting choppier as he gets closer. "Just a little more, need—fuck—need to fill you up one more time."

His muscles flex and strain as he bounces you faster, using you like you're weightless, like you're nothing but a warm sleeve for his cock. The wet sounds are obscene - cum and slick squelching with every brutal thrust.

You're not even moaning anymore, just making these small broken sounds with every impact, completely and utterly spent. But your body still responds, still clenches weakly around him when he hits that spot deep inside.

"That's it, that's—fuck—" Steve's breath hitches and his grip on you turns almost painful. "Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"

His hips slam up one final time, burying himself as deep as gravity and anatomy allow, and then he's coming with a snarl, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His cock pulses violently inside you and somehow - somehow - there's still more. 

Hot thick ropes of cum flooding into your already overfull pussy, and you can actually feel this time, the way it has nowhere left to go, just gushing back out around his length to run down your thighs, down his, pooling on the floor. It's insane. He's already filled you once and yet he's still pumping more into you, his body shuddering with the force of it, and you can only mewl meakly against his throat as he empties himself completely.

His hips slow gradually, the frantic rhythm finally easing as his cock gives one last weak pulse inside you. Steve's breathing is ragged against your hair, chest heaving, but something shifts - you can feel it in the way his grip on you gentles, the way the manic edge bleeds out of his muscles.

The burning under his skin that's been driving him insane for hours finally starts to fade. His temperature drops, the desperate clawing need loosening its grip on his chest, and for the first time since he walked through that door he can actually think.

His cock softens inside you, and the relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost dizzying.

"Shit," he breathes, and his voice sounds like his own again. Clearer. "Oh god, sweetheart, I—"

You make a weak, mewling sound against his neck and Steve's heart clenches with immediate guilt. You're completely limp in his arms, trembling, and guilt crashes through him so hard it nearly takes him to his knees.

"Hey, hey, I've got you," he murmurs, voice going soft and gentle as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands, which had been bruising just minutes ago, turn tender as they stroke up and down your back. "You're okay. I've got you now, baby."

He's still buried inside you and he knows pulling out is going to be uncomfortable, so he takes his time. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your sweat-damp hair, while the other supports your back.

"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He waits for some sign you've heard him - a tiny nod against his shoulder - before carefully lifting you just enough to slip free. You mewl at the loss, at the feeling of his cum immediately starting to leak out of you, and Steve makes a soothing sound. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby. Just let me take care of you now."

He shifts you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're something precious, and presses a kiss to your temple. His heart is still racing but it's slowing now, the frantic edge gone, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion and worry.

"You still with me?" he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face.

With gentle fingers, Steve brushes the strands of hair plastered to your sweat-damp forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a tenderness that's almost painful after the brutality of moments before. Your head lolls without the support, too heavy for your exhausted muscles, so his hand slides down to cup your chin, thumb stroking your jaw as he carefully tilts your face up to meet his gaze.

"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Need to see those pretty eyes."

Your lashes flutter, and when you finally manage to focus on him, Steve's chest constricts painfully. Your eyes are glassy, still wet with tears that cling to your lashes, pupils blown wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to exactly how far gone you are. The cloudiness there, the fucked-out haze, it's beautiful and devastating all at once.

Another wave of guilt crashes through him so hard he has to close his eyes briefly against it.

Keeping one hand cupped under your jaw to support your head, he reaches blindly for the nightstand with the other, fingers finding the water bottle you'd brought for him earlier - back when you'd been worried about him, before he'd lost complete control. The thoughtfulness of that gesture, the care you'd shown him, makes his throat tight.

"Gonna get you some water, okay?" He uncaps the bottle one handed, bringing it carefully to your lips. "Small sips, sweetheart. Just a little."

You make a small sound of protest, like even that is too much effort, but he persists gently.

"I know you're tired. But you need it, pretty girl." He tips the bottle carefully, supporting your head with his other hand, and relief floods through him when you part your lips and take a small sip.

The cool water touches your lips and you drink instinctively, slow and uncoordinated, and Steve watches with laser focus to make sure you don't choke. Some of it spills down your chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, murmuring praise the entire time.

"That's it. Good girl. Just a little more."

He coaxes a few more sips into you, before setting the bottle aside. And then his hands start hovering over you like he's not quite sure where to touch, if he should touch. The contrast between how he'd been manhandling you minutes ago and this careful hesitation would be almost funny if the guilt wasn't eating him alive.

"What do you need?" he asks quietly, and there's an edge of desperation to it. "I can—do you want food? A bath? I should probably get you cleaned up." His thumb strokes almost absently along your jaw, the only point of contact he seems to allow himself. "Just tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything. I'll give you anything."

There's an edge of desperation in the offer, like he's trying to make up for everything, trying to fix what he broke.

With what little strength you have left, you burrow closer into his chest, nose finding the warm curve of his neck, and the small movement seems to surprise him. Your breath ghosts over his skin as you mumble, words slurred with exhaustion but unmistakable. 

"Jus' want you," you mumble against his throat, words slurring together. "Don' go."

Steve goes very still. Then something in him seems to unlock, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the frantic worry in his eyes softening into something almost reverent. His arms finally wrap around you properly. Securely. Like he's allowed to hold you now.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Okay, baby, I've got you."

Carefully, like you're something infinitely precious, he shifts you both down onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and gathers you against him, pulling you flush to his chest with one arm wrapped securely around your waist and the other sliding up to cradle your head. You immediately melt into him with a soft, appreciative sound that's almost a purr, and Steve feels some of the horrible tension finally start to ease.

"That's it," Steve whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I've got you, pretty girl. Not going anywhere."

His hand trails down from your hair to stroke along your thigh with soothing, repetitive motions. Soft and steady, like he's trying to ground you both. Another kiss to your forehead, then your closed eyelids, his lips lingering there as you start to drift.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."

You make another small sound, already halfway gone, and Steve tightens his arms around you. As your breathing evens out and your body goes completely slack against him, Steve presses his face into your hair and tries not to think too hard about what happens when you wake up. Tries not to wonder if you'll regret this, regret him. 

He should probably be planning how to explain what happened. How to apologize for losing control. How to convince you this wasn't just whatever got into his system, that he's wanted you for months, that this meant something.

But exhaustion is pulling at him too, and you're so warm in his arms, and he's too tired to fight the way his body wants to curl around yours like he can keep the world out if he just holds on tight enough.

He'll figure it out in the morning.

For now, he just holds you closer and lets himself have this - your warmth, your weight, your trust - even if it's the only time he gets it.

more mads: thank you so much for reading this absolute filth fest (like… 7k of it is smut. i’m unwell.). i hope you loved it!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make me grin like an idiot. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 p.s. i hope someone got the panic! at the disco reference in the title 🙂‍↕️

taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @/love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll - if you’d like to be added to my taglist, please leave comment here!

[unfrauded]

GO TO TOWN!

summary: adebayo's cousin y/n comes to visit her in evergreen and ends up in a bed with vigilante (?)

word count: 1.7k

warnings: smut, little fluff at the end because i can’t help myself, me having little knowledge of how to write smut, getting caught (kinda), and creepy guy (mentioned once)

a/n: this was so hard for me to write because i’m a die hard fluff girl but it’s time to step out of my comfort zone (divider creds: @pixopix)

The first time you met Adrian Chase was chaotic. You had driven all the way to your cousin Adebayo’s apartment from the airport. Adebayo and her wife Keeya welcomed you into their apartment with open arms and cute dogs. 

 “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you, Lee!” you say, embracing her in a hug. Leota pulls away from the hug, holding her hand out to her wife.

 “And this is my wife, Keeya,” she says. You turn to Keeya to shake her hand.

 “It’s very nice to meet you! Any family of Lee’s is a family of mine.” 

 Adebayo whips her head towards the door as frantic knocks rap against the door. She walks towards the door, opening it to a disheveled Adrian. He stops at the sight of you. 

 “I.. I didn’t know you had guests.” He stutters out.

 “Hi, are you a friend of Leota’s?” you ask. 

 “Yeah! Totally besties for life.” He mumbles, looking down. You turn to Leota and back to him. “Is that right? Gosh, I just realized I never got your name,” you state. Adrian’s head shoots up. 

 “Shadrian, shit! Uh, it’s Adrian,” he felt the heat rising on his face as he stumbled over his own name. You let out a small giggle and tell him your name. “Well, it was really nice talking to you, Adrian. But now I have to unpack my bag, I’ll see you another time,” you said. Adrian’s eyes trail after you as you walk away to the spare guest room, opening the door and locking it behind you.

 Adebayo snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Hey! Maybe instead of eyeing my cousin, you could tell me why you’re here,” she asks. Keeya put a hand on her shoulder to signal that she was retreating to their bedroom. Adrian walks around to the barstools and sits down. 

 “Um, yes, Harcourt needs to see you about the plans for tomorrow.” He discloses. Adrian opens his mouth to say something, but Leota cuts him off. “If you’re thinking about asking me if my cousin is single, don’t.” 

 You unpacked your luggage and put your clothes and toiletries away. Heading to the bathroom to unwind for the night. You run water on your face, rub your cleanser in, brush your teeth, and leave the bathroom. All your mind could focus on was that guy from earlier.  

 How long had he and Adebayo been friends?

 Why hasn’t she brought him up?

 Does he always wear those fitted khaki pants?

Stop it. You shouldn’t think about your cousin’s friend like that. But damn, he did look good in those khakis. 

 The next morning, you got up with the sun, padding into the kitchen to make breakfast. Eggs. Bread. Butter. Adrian. Wait. 

 You can’t believe that he was still on your mind. You had only met the guy a few days ago. Maybe you shouldn’t feel this way about a guy you barely know. Heading to the fridge, you open it to the sight of a missing ingredient.

 Fuck, there’s no butter.

 “Maybe there’s a convenience store nearby,” you mumbled, full of hope.

 You walk out of the complex down the street to a dinky store on the corner. Jackpot. 

 Entering the store, the tiny bell moved as the door opened and released a tiny sound. Grabbing a basket, you navigate the various aisles of the store. You head to the dairy section, grabbing a tub of butter. Checking everything on your mental list, you gather your things to head to the checkout line until you hear a voice call your name. 

 It was him.

 “Hey, Adrian! What are you doing here?” you ask him. 

 “Just picking up a few things,” he shrugs with the few items in his hand. 

 “Me too!” you say with a smile on your face. “Sorry, I don’t know why I sound so happy over butter.” 

 “It’s okay, I find lots of things amusing, like Pokémon and animal facts,” Adrian says in an attempt to make you feel better.

 “Well, that is cooler than churned cream,” you reply. “Oh, let me put my number in your phone. You know, just in case I can’t reach Lee or when I need to learn some cool animal facts.”

 You hold your phone out for Adrian to take. He takes it, types some numbers in, and hands it back to you. 

 Adrian 🧜‍♂️

 “It was nice to talk to you again. See you, Adrian,” you say to him with a wave.

 “See you.” 

 Adrian didn’t expect to receive a call only three days after getting your number. You had called him after Adebayo left the apartment. There was a creepy guy who was watching you at the convenience store and slowly started appearing in places you were. You hadn’t told your cousin only because you didn’t want to worry her. So you went to the only other person you could think of. 

 Knock. Knock.

 You got up, looked through the peephole, and opened the door. Adrian walks in, toeing his shoes off at the door. “I can’t thank you enough for coming,” you say appreciatively. “Especially for a girl you barely know.” 

 “No problem. So, how do you like Evergreen so far?” he asked.

 “It’s fine besides, you know…what I have going on now,” you say with a chuckle. 

 You hadn’t realized that you had inched closer to him. 

 “So, what about you Adrian, what do you like about Evergreen?” 

 He gulps, taking a breath in. 

 “Seeing new people, unfamiliar faces.” 

 You tilt your head to the side. “Huh. Interesting.” You peer over at Leota’s center console. “How about a movie?” you offer.

 “Sounds good.” 

 You grab the remote, turning to Hulu, scrolling through the endless recommendations before landing on “The Bear.” 

 “Do you think that guy is really Italian?” Adrian says abruptly.

 “Nah. But that’s his charm,” you comment.

 An hour goes by, and the sound of the TV fades into the background. Adrian had kindly draped the throw blanket that was on the couch. Your eyes were staring at the TV before you heard Adrian clear his throat. You turn your head to him, chests almost pressing together. You were closer than before. 

 You let out a few breaths, looking up at him. After thinking about it for a few beats. You leaned in, heart pounding, and pressed your lips against his. 

 Adrian’s hands splay on your lower back, and he maneuvers you onto his lap. Your hands rake through his hair as you deepen the kiss. You pause to give attention to his neck. Sweet kisses litter Adrian’s neck, and you continue your journey down. You hold his face in your hands, seeing the lust in his eyes.

 “Take me to the bedroom.”

 He smirks at you. You squeal as Adrian hoists you up, wrapping your legs around him. 

 You reached your hand back as you gripped the headboard. You had never had a guy go down on you, and definitely not like this. 

 “H…Holy shit,” you moaned, taken by pleasure. Adrian hiked your legs over his shoulders for a better angle. Tongue delving deeper than before. Adrian looked up at you with pleading eyes.

 “Can I have more, please?” 

 “Fuck, yes!” you scream out your hands leaving the headboard for the pillows.

 Adrian sucks your clit into his mouth, pumping two fingers into your pussy. He was drunk on you. 

 You felt electricity buzz through your body as Adrian continued his attack on your clit. 

 Adrian moves his mouth from your clit to your breasts. Adrian takes one of your nipples into his mouth, circling the bud, this feeling sends your mind into overdrive. 

 “I need you now, Adrian,” you purr.

  You were breathless as Adrian sat up to prepare himself for you. “I want you to let me know if you’re ready for this,” he says, placing a peck on your lips.

 “I am. I want you, I want this.”

  Adrian rubs the tip of his dick against your pussy before slowly sinking into you. His head falls onto your shoulder as he bottoms out. You pull him up by his hair to suck his bottom into your mouth. Adrian breaks from the kiss to look into your eyes as he ruts deep into you. Adrian reaches his hand down to rub your clit and he fucks your pussy. You squirm as you try to press yourself deeper into.

Him. A rush of pleasure runs through your body as you embrace Adrian for all he is.

 “Oh, fuck! Shit, you’re perfect.”

  You pulse around him as Adrian takes your nipple between his fingers to tease you. He stilled his pelvis against yours. “I want to fuck you from behind,” he says, flipping you over on the bed, pulling you up on your hands and knees. Putting your hands on the headboard, he sinks you onto his dick with his hips snapping against yours, fingers digging into your flesh.

 “Shit, you feel so good, Adrian,” you say, rocking your ass back onto him. Adrian decides to try something out and smacks your ass. Your pussy clenches tighter at his action. 

  “You like that, don’t you?” he teases leaning down to your ear. “Yes, I want you to make me cum, Adrian,” you say back to him, voice filled with lust.

  “Anything for you,” he said before pulling your hips down harder and matching your rocking. Adrian places kisses on your shoulder as he continues rolling his hips into yours. You felt fire pooling in your lower abdomen as you got close to your orgasm. Adrian had shockwaves going through his body as you got closer to your climax.

 “I want you to cum with me,” you rasp out. 

 Adrian loses his rhythm as his own orgasm approaches. Bodies pressed, breaths intertwining, your grip getting tighter on the headboard. Time seems to slow as both of you cum together. Adrian pulls out of you, heading to the bathroom to get something to clean you up with.

 He walks out of the bathroom with a small towel in his hand. Adrian cleans himself up, then himself before throwing the used towel in a nearby laundry basket. He wraps his arms around you to pull you closer. 

 “I really enjoyed doing this with you,” he says. “And if you want, I could totally make you an aftercare snack,” Adrian adds.

 “Can we do it together?” You ask out of curiosity.

 “Sure,” he responds.

 Just as the two were about to get up, throw on some clothes, and head downstairs. The door to the guest room opens.

 “WHAT THE FUCK!”

[justmine-lindstrm]

Drunks and tries \\ bob reynolds

[REPOSTING] Bob Reynolds smut x reader

summary: It was supposed to be a night to catch up with your friend Bob when things got escalated when both of you got drunk

warnings: MDNI! fwb , porn with minimal plot , p in v unprotected , no use of y/n , cliche , friends to lovers , smut , r18 , practice of soaking

author's note: trying my luck in posting this again to see if im still shadowban

word count: 3.5k

It was a fine Friday to spend your day with a friend that you haven't seen for months maybe more than a year. Robert Reynolds, also apparently now has connections with the new avengers or avengerz— whatever copyright issue they are facing. 

You haven't seen for quite a while but you've been consistent getting in touch with him and almost checking him time by time. You knew his history, from childhood, addiction, isolation, soul searching and almost everything, maybe not the part how he got into the avengers/z.

You invited him to come over for few drinks but more of chichats. you two agreed to meet in the grocery store nearby to buy more drinks in case your supply was not enough for both of you.

"Yes, Yelena, I'll be back by evening, maybe morning, but I'll keep my phone on track. No, Alexie, We won't- No I am not buying that thing. She is a friend."

Tall guy wearing his plain jacket and some cool t-shirt standing in the spot where you asked him to wait for you was actually there. You waited for him to finish his call before walking closer to him and poke his arm. "Oh hey haha-" before he could finish himself talking you hugged him tight.

All the anxiety you’d been carrying— every worry, every what-if, spilled out in the way you clung to him. You could’ve swung a soft punch, could’ve scolded him, could’ve said you hated what he put you through. But instead, you told the whole story with a hug. 

"I hate you" you whispered while your face buried in his shirt, you felt his hand on your back and slowly caressed it. "I'm so sorry for making you worry, I'm doing fine now." 

and there you throw a small punch in his arm. 

"what was that for???" He confused asked you.

"I just wanted to." raising an eyebrow to him but turning to smile right after. "Let's grab our drink, shall we?"

After grabbing enough drinks and snacks, you two went straight to your new apartment. 

You’d been itching to ask who he was talking to on the phone earlier. You didn’t want to cross a line or intrude on his privacy  but you also needed to know. Needed to set boundaries if he was seeing someone. After all, the two of you were just best friends. friends who once kissed to make your past lovers jealous, sure. But still—nothing more.

"So..." you started, "...girlfriend's calling you earlier?" You asked him while in the elevator.

"Girlfriend c— oh no no. That's Yelena and Alexie, her father. just checking on me."

"Ohh I see, I thought– wait? Yelena? Yelena Belova? like the widow Yelena?" He just smiled and nodded. 

"You have many things to tell me, Robert."

He was amused with your new apartment as it was not the bedroom only one unlike before, now you have separate rooms, living room, and more space. 

You handed him a beer. "We're not that much teenage broke." You winked.

He still insists on giving more details on why he is close to avengers now– aside from he was employed by Valentina while he was on vacation in Malaysia, and you did not push much. 

You two started to have more drinks, and more talks ofc. He told you how great he's with the team and now he's been consistent with his therapies and treatment which was also provided by the government with the help of new avengers. 

"I haven't apologized yet for being uhm uncooperative?" His voice went neutral.

"I have seen those messages you sent me. I appreciate checking on me time by time, you did better than my own family- and I know I should have told you what was happening to me, inside my mind and everything. But I don't know..."

"It's just... I isolate myself even from the people I love the most. One of them was you."

You sit next to Bob on your couch, and give his shoulder a squeeze. "That's alright, Bob. I was just worried about what happened to you when you said you were going South East Asia. You know that I couldn't hate you, right?"

"Maybe next time, just give me a simple heads-up. alright?" You added. He smiled and agreed to it.

As the hours passed by, more beers were consumed than expected and both of you had this unspoken competition of who would be last man standing.

Questions went from one to another and stories were being randomly brought up, mostly the time you often spent days with him. 

It was a different kind of happiness whenever he was around—lighter, warmer, almost pure. “So… you’re still with that last guy?” he asked suddenly.

“You mean guy or girl?” you teased.

His brows lifted. “Oh. You’re lesbian?”

“Bisexual.”

“Oh, I see… semi-lesbian.”

You snorted. “No. And no—I kicked him out. Pfft.”

Then you narrowed your eyes at him. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Just curious. Didn’t think anyone else was here.”

You grinned, already sensing something underneath that answer, and poked his side—right on his weak ticklish spot.

“You didn’t like him, huh? Did you?”

“Hey—hey! It’s not like that—stop— my beer” He tried to catch your hands, laughing under his breath.

You laugh hard at him, "You're still ticklish." Bob was already crying and laughing at the same time. You knew a lot of him that you could still do the same tricks you were doing before on him.

After minutes of breath taking (of him) ticklings, You stopped, panting, dizzy, and resting your head on his arm. Bob was catching his breath but smiling at the same time. 

You took half the bottle like it was nothing and scooted closer to him, the alcohol already buzzing in your veins. You were definitely drunk… but not drunk enough to miss the way Bob was very obviously shifting in his seat.

You hadn’t meant to look. You really hadn’t.

But now you couldn’t unsee it—and it was starting to bother you more than it should.

You nudged him with your elbow. “Hey—why are you—?”

He blinked at you, eyes half-open and clueless. “Why am I what?”

You stared at him for a full second before blurting out, “Bob. You’re— you’re bulging, Bob. What the hell.”

His whole face went crimson instantly. You wanted to laugh at his reaction and the way he was trying to hide it more. He was thankful that you kept a pillow close to him.

“Its not like I’m not blaming you,” Bob said, voice lower than it should’ve been, knuckles white on the pillow. “But I kept seeing your bo—your chest earlier. just… don’t tickle me. Or else…”

You slid closer until his shoulder hit the back of the couch, nowhere left to run. “Else what, Bob?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for a second too long. “Nothing. You’re my friend. Best friend.”

You smirked, dragging your thumb along his jaw. “Then why does the ‘friendship card’ sound like you’re trying to remind yourself and not me?”

There was an obvious movement of his throat, "Remember when we wanted to get rid of those toxic people we were dating before? so we make out and record it?" He asked and met your glaze. "It was not making out, we are so stupid not to think it was almost foreplay. So..."

"I agree, Bob." You smiled at him while playing with his hair. He knew you would understand that both of you should have boundaries, especially that you are a woman at the same time special to him. 

Bob also knew he would benefit since he would have control, not only for himself but also the golden boy in him. He can't be fragile else it would break something, triggers. But unexpectedly, "I agree that we are so stupid" You started.

“And I know more stupid things we could do…” You murmured in his ear, letting your gaze ask the question you didn’t need to say aloud.

His eyes flickered with confusion, but his breathing betrayed him—rapid, shallow, excited. The slight flinch in his jaw betrayed his attempt to compose himself, to hold back what he desperately wanted.

"You know I'm just trying to not go off boundaries, but you keep pushing it." he murmured under his breath. 

"Bobby, No one's here telling you to hold back. Plus it's no harm to us, we're still friends.... have you heard soaking?"

The way his eyes widened was priceless. “Yes— and no,” he managed.

"Why? We are just going to try it, nothing more. Why so scared?"

Bob starting to stuttered, "I am not scarred, it's just— that's basically–" 

"No, it's not. That depends on you if you'll move too much." You answer. He was about to explain more but you took more drink at once and started stripping your clothes in front of him leaving your undies on. 

“Oh— oh my God— ow, ohh. wait—” He was half looking away, half sneaking glances.

you raised an eyebrow to him, "Don't act you haven't seen me in my underwear before! Stop acting like I'm harassing you." 

You got rid of the pillow and tossed it across the room and initiated the first move and sat on his lap. "Just to remind you, Bob, You are the one on bulge. I’m just being a good friend and helping you out.”

"Manipulative." He whispers and tries to hide his excitement yet it was still obvious in his breathing.

You run your fingers into his hair which made him rest his head on the board of the couch and while looking up at you with his half open. "Now, do you want me to help you?" He was staring directly into your eyes and answered your question with a nod. letting his guards down.

"You gonna let that out first, mind helping me on that part, Bobby?"

Bob starts to undoing his belt then let his pants slips before moving off his boxers, letting it sprung out, his length brushing warm against your thigh

"Just to let you know," he laughed under his breath, nervous and adorable.

"I haven't laid down for more than a year now. This would be challenging for me. Are you also sure about this?" He asked without leaving your eyes.

"I trust you, Bob. Yes. I'm sure." 

He felt your cold hand wrapped around his cock in his entire body and that was something he couldn't hide. Bob holds your waist to support your body, while you are assigned to have him inside you. 

You move aside your undies and brush the tip in your entry to lubricate it. Both of your eyes met each other just before having the tip goes in which you'd catch a flinch in his face. 

Your breath came out in a little gasp, your mouth falling open as the new warmth pulled you in deeper while slightly opening your mouth when you lowered yourself and took him whole till you completely sat on him till on the base of him. thigh to thigh.

"Well… that wasn’t as complicated as we thought." you laugh under your breath, "but honestly, you are pretty rock."

Bob swallowed hard— hard enough that you saw his throat move. “Oh. Uh… thanks?” 

The smile was still sweet but the way he looked at you was different, he was still holding on to something in him. half eyes open still drooling on you. "What now?"

"We stay like this. No much movement, especially no thrusting."

You slowly reached out for a beer you ready on the table beside the couch and took almost half of it again. Bob gladly took the drink when you offered it to him. 

"To ease your nervousness. Chill, Bobby, we are just having fun."

"Yeah, I haven't tried this before, just to let you know."

"So do I, just read it on the internet." You grinning and slightly laughed which made it more hard for Bob as he felt it moving around him. 

Bob could feel you soaking and making his cock more wet, He knew you were doing that intentionally but it questions him if you were always this wet. While you were talkatively drunk, he was there trying to focus his mind, yet, he can't help but to caress your waist more.

"You good, Bobby?" You genuinely asked.

His focus went back to you, "Yeah– yes. I'm fine. I don't know what's with my hands. Just don't mind it"

That gave you an idea, maybe you could 'help' him more— if that's the right word to use. "Want to touch these?" You said while shaking your chest right in front of his face. 

"W-what?"

"You can touch these. I mean what could go wrong? It's just your hands on my boobies. You're in me btw if you forgot it. We're doing foreplay already." 

The drunk Bob was pretty convinced by you. So he indeed grabbed your offer by sliding his hand beneath your bra and slowly caressing with his full palm. He was still being gentle with you and respectful by not moving his hips a bit.

"Having fun?" You asked him.

"Never been this fun before" He answered.

There must be something in the air. You don't want to admit it with him but every time his hands move in your chest it is making it more warm. It was just a few minutes past and you could feel still dripping wet down there in him, You knew he felt those too and to see if he really felt you inside you intentionally made a squeeze around him.

He gasped but also just nodded when you asked if he was alright. 

You reached out for your phone which was near but enough to make you move, not exceeding to letting his dick out of you. you heard him softly cursed. "Shit."

"Oh sorry, Bobby." you love seeing his reaction. 

"It's fine. Just don't move that much." He looks so helpless but that is what makes you more satisfied.

He finally took the step and removed your bra, making your panties the only cloth in your body.

"You said nothing could go wrong since it's already inside you right?" You were caught guard when his voice changed to more of a husky. 

"Bob? What do you mean-"

He didn't wait for you to finish what you were about to say and pulled you closer to him and laid his lips on your chest while the other one played by his hand. Bob even squeezed it both to each other and buried his face in between.

His eyes made a look at you before his lips took over your nipple and sucked it which made you a small gasp. You even tried to pull him by his hair but for some reason he effortlessly pulled you more to him.

Your body was the one betraying you, it was supposed to be just for fun only but you couldn't help to give him squeezes and you knew it has something to do with him as his fingers digs more to your skin and to your waist. 

"If I were you, I wouldn't do that." He warns.

You smirked, "Do what?" and gave him another hard squeeze. He firmly closes his eyes and sucked some air. He was fighting for his life not to take you but you were the tease one. 

Bob knew it wasn't a good idea to agree with this makeout first place. He doesn't know yet how the golden boy reacted to it.

"Sorry Bobby... have I done something wrong?" you murmured.

You were about to tease him more when he opened his eyes and glared at you. It is correct that you are drunk as fuck, but you were more sure that there was golden ring in his eyes when he opens his eyes. "....Bobby?"

"I warned you, didn't I?"

He did not give you a chance to give and held your nape to catch your lips with his. with that, it made you firmly sit down in his lap more making him deeper in you. 

Your lips were dancing along with the rhythm of his lips. Bob just shows his other side that he hasn't shown to you before, this dominance he has. 

His hand was in your nape pulling you closer to him to make his tongue explore your mouth more, the other hand was supporting your waist and even making you pin down to his lap where you could feel his length moving inside before it could ever thrust you.

"W-we're not doing it, right?" You asked in between your lips. 

"I'm glad you are having the hints already. you little slut."

He stands up along with you effortlessly carrying you and doesn't even let out. You have no time to protest when he claims your lips again and walks towards your bedroom.

As he lays you down, he immediately kisses the back of your ear while still not moving himself inside you. "You should have listened to the poor guy earlier." Bob whispered, but his voice was way more husky than usual. 

Before you could respond, he pulled himself and gave you a nice smooth deep thrust that went to all of the nerves in your body. 

Bob was just watching your face the entire time to see how you would react in every move he does to you. in every slap of your skins to each other. in every sound it makes whenever he moves his hips towards you.

"You're such a fucking whore. I couldn't resist you. fuck." He says in every thrust he did unto you. 

Your hand went running to his hair and the other one went to his back which made an unintentional scratch. Calling out his name was only helping him to go more deep and harder to thrust.

“I could feel you earlier…” you whispered against his lips, your smirk brushing his skin. “You were—god—throbbing, Bob.”

 The thought of teasing him will make him go easy but went opposite when wraps his hand to your neck and went straight to the pressure point below each side of your jaw.

"Yeah? You felt that earlier? It's your fucking fault, and you know it." He whispers in your ears, "You'll fucking pay." 

Never a time you heard Bob talk to you like that. 

He's been very nice, polite and gentle, but now it was completely different. quietly wanting you, quietly losing his mind over you, quietly swallowing every feeling he was too gentle to say out loud.

Bob inserts a finger into your mouth which you gladly took and sucks in. The pleasure was displayed in his face that he couldn't hide, jaw clenching and your bedsheets crumpling tight on his palms while keeping the same pace of his hips towards you.

He was unraveling for you, but still he managed to keep his dominance. 

The combination of his hand on your neck and the pace on his thrust was building up a sensation inside you that started to slowly crawl to your system that you could feel in every part of your body. 

“wanna know a secret?” he murmured, breathing warm against your cheek, never once losing his pace. "I could go as fast as I can and hit that— yes I know, I can feel how close you are— but I wanted to take as long as I can."

You would’ve answered—something teasing, something desperate—but the words just wouldn’t come but only sound coming out from your mouth or calling his name out.

Bob indeed wanted to keep the pace or even turn it slow to take as much time as he could, but whenever he heard you calling his name like a prayer begging for mercy to take you all was a trigger to him. It was an urge for him to keep it better and faster.

"fuck— bob— please just—" you were screaming out his name enough for the neighbors to remember it. "just— please— I'm begging you! I'm begging!"

seeing you crying out for him was different. His body was automatically going beyond his will and making every thrust deeper and faster. His mouth was wide open as you kept sucking his fingers against. 

you knew he was that near as well as you felt a different kind of speed and warmness from his body but your mind was all focused with your own climax building up inside. Both of you caught each other's eyes. He was chanting your name under his breath and gripping more to your waist and hips not minding the bullets of sweat in his face and hair.

with a little more thrust you came. He continued as you felt shivers all over your body not expecting you'll feel this pleasure from your own best friend.

As soon as you came back to your senses, you saw him catching his breath kneeling in front of you while his cock resting on top of your clit and his cum all over your belly. 

"I swear I didn't plan this." you said and chuckled at him.

"I believe in you.." He kissed the temple of your nose

"But next time, don't let your neighbors know my name that way. It's on you anyways."

"Shut up Bob hahah— wait what? what next time?"

"shhh... let's take a rest now."

[54nboo]

"girls on film." bucky barnes.

summary: when your best friend comes to you asking if you can teach him how to make a girl feel good, you thought he meant simply explaining it to him, but you should’ve known that he’s always been more of a hands-on leaner. and of course you let him film it— how else will he remember what you’ve taught him?

prompt: “is this okay?” 🌶️

pairing: bestfriend!bucky x bestfriend!fem!reader

word count: 3.4k i think

content contains: +18 content — smut. sub!bucky but i’m not good at writing him subby (or at all), he’s inexperienced and so is she, they’re filming, mostly just fingering, a little nipple sucking lets go, dry humping lets go, lots of banter and a little bit corny

authors note: day three of the galentines collab and my first freaky one. im tired of this grandpa. i like this idea i might keep in locked in the chamber of my mind until i have time to write for it

erin’s galentines collab masterlist

never in a million years would you have thought your thursday night would be spent sprawled out on your best friend's bed wearing nothing but your hello kitty underwear and a see-through tank top, yet here you are, doing exactly that and more.

bucky had approached you with the seemingly innocent request of teaching him how to pleasure a girl, and you'd been ecstatic to help. he's been your best friend for years and in all of the time that you've known him, he's never even mentioned a girl, let alone being with one.

at first, you had planned to simply explain it to him. you've always been praised for being well-articulated when it comes to explaining difficult concepts, but as soon as you'd opened your mouth to begin talking about the female body, bucky had quickly shut you down.

"i don't want you to explain it to me like a textbook. i've read everything and i know all of the words. thats not what i'm asking for."

so that's why you'd crawled through his window at half-past midnight (even though his parents would have let you in) with nothing but yourself, your phone light, tiny pajamas, and a reckless confidence you haven't felt in years.

and although he'd been the one to bravely ask for a more hands-on approach to the lesson, he'd also had the balls to ask to record it all with the excuse of 'how else would i remember what you're telling me?' and you let him do just that.

the camera beeps as bucky presses the record button, rubbing his hands together to calm his nerves as he turns to face you. you're already laying on his bed, over the sheets and half-naked, comfortably lounging around while fire crawls through every nerve in bucky's body.

you've been in his bed hundreds of times, but it's only now that bucky is seeing you differently. he's almost afraid to even set a knee down on the mattress, let alone start touching you.

"is it on?" you casually ask, a hand thrown behind your head while the other absentmindedly drums against your stomach.

bucky glances towards the camera, "yeah."

"is the door locked?" you ask.

bucky blinks before he waddles over to the door and twists the lock. he tests the handle and the door doesn't open. he turns around and awkwardly gestures to the now locked door.

you hum in acknowledgment, eyes flicking towards the camera and then away again, deliberately casual in an attempt to calm bucky down. "good. just wanted to make sure."

you notice bucky's eyes flick down. the apples of his cheeks turn pink before he turns his head like staring at you for too long will cause him to have a heart attack.

"you're not... wearing a bra?" he blinks.

you grin, amused. "dude, you're about to see my vagina. i dont think me not wearing a bra should be the biggest issue right now."

bucky shifts his weight as he wanders back over to the edge of his bed, suddenly aware of his hands, his posture, the fact that you're sprawled there like this is nothing at all. he doesnt even know what's going to happen. are you going to touch yourself in front of him? are you going to let him do the touching? he doesnt know, but the questions make his mouth feel dry.

you blink up at him for a second. "you're gonna have to get on the bed with me, buck. you cant exactly get a girl off when you're standing two feet away."

"right, okay. i was—" he stammers, "okay."

he pulls his jacket off of his shoulders and throws it onto the pile of clothes on his desk chair (something you'd have to force him to put away later) and carefully crawls onto the bed like it might explode with too much weight. his movements are a little clumsy, his body a little rigid and his hands planted on his thighs as he finds his spot beside you, staring ahead at his headboard instead of at you.

you sigh as you sit up, holding yourself up with your elbows. "you need to relax. i don't know if you're scared because it's me or if this entire thing is scary, but it's not gonna change our friendship."

"i just—" he gulps, "i dont want to mess anything up."

the sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache.

"you wont." you say it without hesitation, steady and sure, like its a fact you've already proven and would die trying to defend.

you reach out, slowly guiding his hands towards your waist. his palms rest there, his fingers tense and skin warm even through the fabric of your tank top. his eyelashes flutter as he finally lets his eyes settle on you— on your waist, on your exposed skin, where your underwear digs into the plush of your hips.

"first rule: you pay attention." you start, your voice low. "pay attention to how she reacts. that matters more than technique"

bucky swallows, nodding once. his thumb shifts, brushing against the skin of your stomach— just barely— but its instinctive instead of rehearsed, and that brings a small smile to your face.

"see? you're doing it already." you praise. "now lay down next to me. it's a little hard to start from where you're sitting."

and he does almost immediately like he's finally relieved to have to do something he actually knows how to do. he scoots down until he's laying on his side, his eyes checking your face the whole time just like you'd told him to. his hand slides back onto your stomach unprompted, and you honestly feel a little proud.

your lips twitch as you slide one of your legs over to the side. "good. now slowly go lower until you're right above the clit. you do know where the clit is, right?"

bucky glances at you, "i'm not that clueless."

"just checking. i don't want you going around and rubbing someones labia thinking it's getting them off when all it's getting them is annoyed. i just wanna make sure you're educated."

you should be confident in what you're saying, but there's a small part of you that shakes with fear. you are experienced in the art of female pleasure, but only because you know what you like. you know you cant speak for every girl out there, and at the end of the day, this isn't a lesson on female pleasure, it's a lesson on your pleasure.

sure, you're putting on a strong face, but your facade crumbles the moment the pads of bucky's fingers press into your clothed clit.

"oh—" you gasp, one of your hands landing on bucky's shoulder.

bucky's head quickly shoots up, searching your face for any sign that you don't like it. "what? did i— are you okay?"

your brows knit together, your hand crawling up the back of his neck as his fingers press into your needy clit, the pressure he gives you not letting up. you almost have to stop yourself from bucking your hips into his hands, remembering that this isn't for you, it's for him.

"no, it was good. that was really good." you quickly regain your composure, looking down at where his hand cups your mound. "now just... start moving in slow circles. starting too fast can mess with—"

so he does, slowly rubbing wide circles with his fingers. he does it just as you had told him to— and a little too well for your liking. you almost think he's done this before. but then he looks up at you with some of the starriest— and the most pathetic— eyes you've ever seen, and you know for a fact that you're the first woman he's ever laid a hand on.

"is this okay?" he asks, voice hushed but still curious.

you can feel him breath fanning over the skin of your shoulder, a little ragged as it leaves his parted lips. you're a little worried he might start making out with your shoulder, and honestly, you wouldn't put it past him.

"it's more than okay, buck." you reassure him. "keep going until it starts getting wet down there. thats how you can tell she's feeling good."

he nods, but then his nod falters as he looks back up at you.

"what if it was wet down there before i even started?" he asks, the question innocent, but the next words out of his mouth make you want to slap a hand over his mouth to shut him up. "you were."

"it's good. means they're comfortable. its not something you need to worry about if it's already happening." you blink, a little embarrassed. "just keep doing what you're doing until you've got the hang of it, okay?"

bucky hums as a small pleased smile crawls onto his face, his attention focused back on where his fingers press against the dampness in your panties. he continues the slow pace, his brows drawing together in focus as the silence of his room fills with your soft panting.

every slow stir of his fingers digging through your folds builds in your lower stomach, your legs involuntarily spreading as your body aches for more of his touch. every so often, bucky's fingers dip lower and press into the hollow space underneath the cotton of your underwear almost impatiently.

"i think i've got it." he whispers as he turns back to you, eyes falling onto your parted lips and your dazed expression. "can i... take them off now?"

"my panties? yeah, go ahead." you nod with a hum, hiding your frown when his fingers leave you and fall to your hips instead. "just don't throw them off of the bed. they're my favourite pair and i dont want to lose them in your garbage dump of a room."

your jab lands just as you wanted it to, lightening the tense mood. a soft huff of a laugh slips out of bucky's mouth before he can stop it.

"i just haven't gotten around to cleaning it yet." bucky deflects as his thumb hooks under the band of your hello kitty underwear and you lift your hips to make it easier for him. "we could've done it at your house, but you said no."

you fondly roll your eyes. "because my place has thin walls and i dont feel like traumatising my neighbours. your house is big and empty half of the time— great for lessons about love making."

"whatever." bucky grumbles as he slides your panties down the length of your legs, and although his hands are occupied with making sure he gets rid of them, his eyes are entirely fixated on the wet mess in between your legs.

your underwear slips from your feet and bucky bunches it in his hands, he looks around his bed for a place to put them, but he settles for putting it on his nightstand, setting it down carefully.

your eyes flick to the camera still sitting on makeshift tripod at the end of the bed and notice that it's a little too far for him to capture anything. if you didn't care that much, then you wouldn't have bothered, but this seems to be important to bucky, so you take an extra second to get it right.

"hold on," you murmur into the air, more to yourself then anyone. you reach out with your feet and nudge the camera a little closer with your toes until it sits just close enough to get a good view of everything you plan on teaching bucky. "there— that's better."

when you settle back down, you catch bucky watching you— not hungry or intense, just soft like he appreciates the effort.

"okay," you say gently as you lay back down, your head crashing back down onto his pillow with a soft smile, "where were we?"

bucky's hand falls back to your stomach as he lays back down beside you, familiar and unhurried. his thumb traces mindless circles at your stomach as he looks back at you, checking in without realising he's even doing it.

"the second step." he reminds you.

"oh right. okay, so—" your legs fall open just as they were before and bucky's eyes involuntarily look back down at the camera that points right at you. "you can start to do what you did before, but this time, you can start fingering me."

your words catch bucky off guard even though he knew it was coming eventually. but he does just as he did before— his hand trails down your stomach until his fingers run over your mound, and then his fingers press into your swollen clit, swirling the bundle of nerves around in a circle until the hand at the back of his neck tightens.

the circles he rubs are tight this time, something he learnt you like by simply watching you. he took in the quiver of your lip and the frequency of gasping as a sign of enjoyment, and he continues.

bucky feels your slick gather on his fingertips, dipping lower and lower like he can't help it. he's mesmerised with how you writhe and twitch in his arms. his lips brush against your shoulder, and he presses a absentminded kiss to the soft skin there.

"do i just—" he trails off, a little confused on how to start.

your hand slides up his neck, fingers digging into the bottom of his scalp. "yeah, just... slide a finger in first. feel around for a bit and you'll know where to put it."

the gentle pressure on your clit eases up as bucky tries to figure out to to touch you. his middle finger searches around just as you'd told him to, brushing through your arousal, and then he dips past your entrance before pulling back out.

"right there— put it back in there." you shamelessly whisper, your eyes falling shut.

the tip of his finger presses in and before you can make a noise, he pushes in until your clit presses against his palm, the stretch and the pressure dragging a filthy moan from you. he pulls it out, almost testing you, before he pushes back in, making sure to grind his hand against you.

"tell me how to make it better." he whispers into your shoulder, looking up at you through his lashes. "i wanna know how to make you feel good."

your brows furrow at his request. his finger is dragging so slow inside of you that you think you might actually go insane, but you try to gather your thoughts as best you can while he finger fucks you.

"don't start doing stuff based off of what you think she'd like. look at her face and listen to her. that'll tell you what she actually likes—" you pause, your breath catching in your throat when he adds a second finger inside of you, the stretch catching you off guard.  "fuck— and if you're unsure, ask her what she wants."

"what if that ruins the mood?" he asks, a genuine and innocent question, but the way his fingers pump inside of you is anything but.

"then it wasn't worth it in the first place." is all you can manage through ragged breaths.

his fingers pump inside of you, the rhythm building with every moan that falls from you. almost testing how much he can play with you, bucky moves his leg and hooks it over yours, sliding your leg until it slots in between his legs. the sudden shift allows for his fingers to sink deeper than before.

"what do you want? tell me what you want." he whispers into your ear, and even through the daze, it clicks in your brain that he'd been talking about you. "please."

you breathe, "just... keep going."

so bucky combines everything you'd taught him so far. his hands work on you while his eyes watch your face, paying attention to the way you lean into his touch, the small gasps and moans that fall from your lips when his fingers press against your walls, the feeling of your hands gripping his hair at the root. he absorbs every small micro-expression on your face to make sure he's making you feel good.

you gasp out when his fingers brush against that spongy spot inside of you, the "are you sure you don't know what you're doing?"

bucky's eyes are fixated on watching his fingers pump into you, tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your arousal collecting in his hand. "i've watched a few videos."

you try to scoff, but all that comes out is a wrecked moan. "you've watched videos, but you still needed a physical lesson?"

"i can't exactly reach through the screen and touch the pornstars." he grumbles, his head bowing just enough for his chest to press into the flesh of your breast. "and they'd never touch me. needed somethin' more familiar— someone who knows me."

and then, like he knows you need more, a third finger slides into your pussy. the squelching sound that echoes through the room is almost filthy, and the moan that rips from you is almost pornographic, but bucky finds that the sound is better than anything he's ever heard online.

"and if you— god," you pause, brushing your fingers through his hair just to bring him a little closer. "if you wanted to make her feel even better, you could—"

bucky mouth latches onto your clothed tit completely unprompted, brainlessly tonguing at your nipple through the fabric. you let out a gasp as he wets your tank top with his saliva, the warmth seeping through and landing on your skin.

"oh, fuck..." you moan.

your hand is so entangled in his hair that every small tug only brings his face closer, his mouth working at your chest like a man starved.

if bucky was a little more experienced— not that he isn't doing good, he's just a little sloppy— you probably wouldn't have noticed something hard rutting against your thigh. you glance down to see that bucky's grinding against you, his neglected cock weeping through his boxers and his sweatpants and smearing onto your skin.

"bucky." you whimper,

his tongue circles around your peaked nipple, his eagerness to please you evident in the way he speeds up at his name.

"are you gonna cum?" he breathes against your breast, his words a little warbled with his mouth now wide open, and you watch his tongue swirl around the bud like it's his very own lollipop.

you eagerly nod, "mh-hm, so close. go a little faster."

and he does, his mouth latching back onto your breast and his fingers pumping into your pussy with the end goal of making you cum in his hands. the ball of heat that'd been growing in your stomach becomes almost unbearable and the pleasure that runs through your nerves only amplifies with ever slam on his palm into your cunt.

with an experimental angle of his wrist, bucky fingers slam into the spot that finally brings you over the edge, the gentle assault on your weeping pussy coming to an end with a filthy moan from you and a loud hum from bucky, the thick squelch turning into a wet plapping noise instead.

bucky slows down as his lips pull away from your nipple, a singular string of saliva connecting him to the bud, and only a moment after, he pulls his fingers out of you. he stares at his fingers before shamelessly bringing them to his mouth and sucking the slick off of them, eyelashes fluttering at the taste.

you sit up and lean over, pressing the stop button on the camera and watch as the red light turns off. with a huff, you fall back into his pillows, and the two of you just kind of lay there for a while to catch your breaths. your hand is still sitting in his hair, nails scratching gently against his scalp, and bucky is fidgeting with his sweatpants.

his cock is a little softer now and the wet spot on his sweatpants sits awkwardly right at the front. he unhooks his leg from around yours and leans back against the pillow, his chest heaving just slightly from his own orgasm. he lets out a loud sigh before his head rolls over to look at you.

"did you wanna sleepover?" he asks, and you try not to laugh at how casually he says it as he wipes at the saliva coating his mouth with the back of his hand. "i can go make popcorn."

"yeah, okay." you grin, a little breathless and spent, but still happy to be there for your best friend. "maybe i can teach you how to use your mouth next."

can you tell i dont know what the fuck im talking about. in the part where he takes off her underwear, i wanted to make a really stupid joke wgere he’s saying goodbye to her hello kitty underwear but saying hello to the kitty. but no… i’m grown…. i have to be normal

🏷️ @whiteghostlyclouds

[plutodexay-nsfw]

˳✧༚Package deal, I guess?˚✧₊

˳✧༚ Yelena Belova x reader x Bob Reynolds ˚✧₊

18+ Content. Please be mindful of what you read.

My creation. I'm pretty sure this is the longest oneshot I've ever written. This is from a poll I made about a week ago, and one made yesterday so you guys chose this. Thankfully my bisexuality makes me able to write many match ups. (Still, this is only my second time writing woman on woman so be gentle please I tried.)

A mission brought them to your bar. You thought they were a couple, they both couldn’t stop staring. If being a package deal was the way they could both have you, then I guess that’s what they are.

Includes: Fem!Reader, bartender!Reader, drinks mentioned but not specified (they’re sober), gendered language, Yelena w/reader, Bob w/reader, slight Yelena w/Bob, PinV, protection, oral (Both women receive), mocking, teasing, praise, one night stand, sharing.

4,409 words ~ Bob masterlist

The mission wasn't a violent one. Simple really, scope out the club the man frequents far too often and try to study his patterns or overhear anything. It was a boring one; Ava and John were on opposite sides of the dance floor, Alexi threw a tantrum until he was the one to be on it, and Bucky was covering the side exit in case anyone decided to run.

That left Bob and Yelena watching the scene from the bar, right in front of you, the unknowing bartender just doing your job so you could get back home and sleep off every rude thing you've had screamed at you tonight. You caught on by the second time the brunet man abruptly turned away from your gaze as the blond women kept staring.

This wouldn't be the first time a couple had invited you to things, a con of the job was how often people hit on you. This was however the first time the idea wasn't repulsive. The dynamic between the two was something different than you normally witnessed, it was sort of alluring.

"Date night?" You asked the woman as you handed her the second glass she'd had tonight.

Her eyes went from calm to confusion, brows narrowing at your question. You watched as they shot over to the man who was dazing off in your direction unaware of your awareness. She took a while to respond to it, waiting until you started to work on another drink. "Yes." The word came out slow, but emphasized the accent you weren't expecting. "It is, that type of night for us. Right Bob?"

"Huh?" The man, Bob, seemed to zone back in. All it took was looking towards the blond to nod enthusiastically. "Yeah! Whatever Yelena said!" He smiled at you, that dazed look already starting to take over his face.

You finished making the drink in front of you, walking a few seats away to the man who ordered it, thankful that he couldn't care less about you standing there as you returned to the more interesting spot. Yelena was just finishing the sip of her drink, licking her lips a little too enthusiastically as she caught your eyes. It was bold, they had to have talked about this before hand.

"Yelena, that's a pretty name." She smiled at you, eyes flicking down to the stupidly designed gold name tag you had to wear.

"Yours is beautiful, fitting given who it belongs to."

"Holy shit that was smooth." Bob cut in, looking at Yelena with wide eyes.

It was hard to try and conceal your laughter. Turning around so they wouldn't see the comedic expression cursing your face. You heard a sarcastic 'thank you Bob' leave the Russian which only made it worse.

—

You spent the next hour paying extra attention to the couple, replying in a less than professional manner at the flirty comments coming from Yelena, and winking at Bob every few minutes as he continued to stare. It was nice, fun even. That was until they both shot up, looking at each other for maybe the third time that night with a shared look of annoyance.

"What time do you leave?" Bob asked as Yelena downed all of her drink at once.

"2am."

"I'll be back." Yelena spoke up, not giving you a second to reply as she dragged Bob away from the counter top, his face covered in sheer despair.

—

"What if I want to go back?" Bob whispered to Yelena as the elevator of the tower finally stopped.

She turned to look at him as the others exited, mumbled groans of annoyance filling the air. Walking away from him her shoulders slumped as she heard him following close behind.

It wasn't like she could answer right away. The other members were pissed, the only person who got any sort of valuable information was Bucky and even then it wasn't that good. They could've figured it out from a different source if they really needed it. Yelena was the only one in that room thinking of the night as a success, at least thats what she thought until Bob said that.

"You want to go back?" Her accent was thick with the accusation as she pulled Bob into her room.

"She winked at me." Excitement filled his voice.

"Oh she winked at you, congratulations." Yelena groaned, meticulously pulling her weapons out of their hidden pockets, placing them in their cases on her dresser. "I got fuck me eyes from her all night, that means more than winking." In a form of dramatics, she turned towards him and winked. "I'm going back, I said I would so I am and I will be going home with her."

Yelena made her way towards the bedroom door, her excuse for leaving the tower so soon after their homecoming on the tip of her tongue. Bob didn't offer her much time, quickly blocking the doorway with his large frame.

"I'm going with." His tone was surprisingly firm. "I want a shot too without Bucky being a dick in my ear."

"Kinky." Yelena replied instantly, laughing at her own joke and the look it pulled from the other man. "Fine, but you'll have to call someone to pick you up."

—

You were a bit shocked when you saw the both of them walking back through the door. You weren't shocked by the beeline they made directly towards you. They both stood in front of the bar, Bob smiling wide and Yelena with a smirk.

"Welcome back." You tried to pull out a professional sounding tone, failing as you looked at them.

"I said I'd be back." Yelenas' confidence dripped off her words in the crowded room.

"I'm here too!" Bob smiled, leaning against the counter.

"Yeah he's here too."

You laughed, turning your gaze to the clock behind you seeing you had about 20 minutes til you were clocking out. They both were staring at you, the familiar look on their faces. The energy between them felt intense, almost suffocating.

"Well I'd hope so, aren't you two a package deal?" You tried your best to put on a flirty face while looking between the both of them.

They did the same, you didn't quite catch the confusion on both of their faces as they seemed to communicate without words. Silence lasted for ages at your question, the enjoyable feeling starting to turn sour. Just as you were about to break the silence they nodded at each other and looked back at you.

"Yeah we are, you caught us." Yelena laughed, sounding a little more forced than you would have expected. It would have concerned you if her eyes weren't mentally undressing you the entire time. "Are you interested in that?" Her eyes were back up at yours now, the confidence never dropping.

"We are, heavily interested." Bob chimed in, pulling your eyes back to him to see a similar, slightly less confident look.

You took the time to really take them in, the bar significantly less crowded now that they were going to close not long after you leave. Yelena had blue eyeliner on, smudged just enough that it didn't look messy but brought out the color in her eyes almost perfectly. Her short blond hair pushed to the side framing her face.

Bob had a softer appearance. Wearing a dark sweater and jeans, leaving everything but the size of his shoulders to your imagination. His light brown hair was long, slightly longer than his counterparts. There were waves making it cascade across his pale skin,just enough to highlight his jaw.

They fit together well, sharing similarities while their own personalities seemed to shine through their appearance. The way they both were watching you, waiting with baited breath for your response almost had your head spinning.

"Very interested."

—

Yelena took the lead almost instantly. Just as fast as you let them into your apartment, she had your back against the closed door. You could hear Bob gasp off to the side at the act, his cheeks bright red out of the corner of your eye.

Her lips were soft, the taste of her lip balm melting against your tongue at the intense kiss. You brought your hands to her waist, pulling her against you as you reciprocated. One of her hands held your waist, while the other was soft against your face.

It felt like time didn't exist, you didn't know how long you two had been pressed against the door. However long it had been was long enough for Bob to grab your attention with a whine. You pulled away, Yelenas' lips trying to follow, whimpering when you didn't let them.

"I'm here to you know." Bob's voice was quiet yet pointed, eyes soft until they looked at the women next to you.

"We were giving you a show." Her accent was thick, voice caught in her throat for the first few syllables.

You smirked at the slight bickering the ensued. Watching them as you made your way into your place. They both followed, still muttering to each other with every step. Before they realized, you were sitting on your bed, watching them argue with a smile.

"As much as I'm enjoying this show, I do think we could be doing something much more fun right now.". Both of their eyes shot towards you.

Bob made the first move shocking both of you. He was on the bed next to you almost instantly. Large hands found their way to your face, pulling you into a harsh kiss.

His lips were rougher than Yelenas, you could feel the cracks against your lips. His tongue pushed into your mouth without much hesitation, sending the taste of the drink you'd made him not long ago into yours.

It didn't take long before you felt hands slide across your waist, soft fingers dancing against the skin once hidden by your work shirt. Her head came to rest against your shoulder, lips pressing against your neck in the exact opposite way she had kissed you earlier.

Her hands made their way up, stopping once they reached your breast. She massaged them over the fabric, careful not to slip beneath it without your okay.

"I can—I can take it off if you want." You whispered, pulling away from the man's lips. "I don't want to be outnumbered though."

You expected a bit more of a fight. Not for both of them to instantly strip their shirts off, leaving Bob in nothing but the unforgiving jeans and Yelena in the tight sports bra. Your eyes couldn't stay in one place for long, trying to commit both of them to memory.

Staying true to your word you mimicked them, pulling the dark shirt over your head with ease. Both sets of eyes were on you making you feel on fire. You heard gasps from both as you unclasped your bra, letting it fall off without much effort.

"So hot." Bob mumbled, eyes scanning across your newly exposed skin.

"Seems like we have great taste." Yelena hummed, lips finding your neck once again.

You brought one of your hands to Bobs face, feeling the slight stubble beneath your fingertips. He was quick to move towards you, bringing his lips to yours again. The contrast of both of their lips made your skin burn.

Yelenas' hands made their way back up to your breasts, no longer moving carefully. She rolled your nipples between her fingers, laughing against your neck at your barely audible gasps. Her lips started to trail lower, lips ghosting over your shoulder as they went down your back.

"Share." Bob mumbled against your lips leaving you confused. That was until you felt his larger hand pushing the softer one taking occupancy on your breast. You felt Yelena groan against you as she shifted a hand away, opting to have it mess with the button of your pants instead. "Thank you." Bob whispered, large hand now encompassing your breast.

His lips started to follow a similar path down your neck as you laughed at the interaction. It was cut short by Yelena managing to undo the strict button, slipping her hand along your covered pussy. You felt her smile against your back as you gasped.

"So sensitive." She teased, doing the action once more. "Want to move to more fun things?"

"If that means one of you touching me then please."

"But we are touching you." Came her reply, her eyes now level with yours.

You tried to a make a comeback but Bob spoke up almost immediately. "Where do you want it?" His face now directly in front of yours again, a small smirk brewing on the edge of his lips.

"That's not how you tease someone Bob, god." She groaned, following his lead despite the annoyance in her voice by slipping her hand underneath your underwear.

He laughed, shuffling his way further up your bed, the new space allowing him to push his pants down his legs and onto the floor. You could see the outline of his cock hidden beneath the gray boxers, almost choking as it twitched.

"I'm not trying to tease, Yelena." He responded, eyes staring directly into yours. "I'm trying to do whatever the pretty lady wants. Any ideas?"

The question lingered in the air for an awkward amount of time, your mind unable to come up with anything as Yelenas thumb lightly circled on your clit. You looked between both of them, hoping someone else would answer the difficult question. Yelena seemed to read your mind.

"What if, I get you ready for him with my mouth." She whispered against your ear, too quiet for Bob to hear. "Then pretty boy can fuck your brains out while I tell you how good you are, hm?" She laughed as you nodded enthusiastically.

In quick succession, she helped you lay down against your mattress, Bob grabbing one of your pillows and placing it beneath your head. He sat next to you, hand running through your hair in an oddly loving manner.

Yelena took her time pulling your pants down you legs, throwing them off into a similar direction of Bobs. The teasing look in her eyes was back, you could tell she had a plan hatching by the way she was staring at your covered cunt.

An unknowing, or maybe extremely aware, Bob didn't allow the plan to come to light. His hands took a quick path down to your underwear, pushing them down as far as he could before returning to his comfortable seated position against the headboard. You didn't turn to look, but by the grimace on Yelenas' face you imagined he was wearing a smirk.

You swore to yourself you heard her mumble a curse towards the man, but she didn't offer you much time to think. Soon she had her head pressed against your inner thigh, soft lips scattering across the sensitive skin.

"Such a pretty pussy." She whispered, winking up at you before letting her lips brush against your clit.

Bob coo'd as you threw your head back, returning the comforting hand through your hair mixed with praise filled whispers. The soft sounds anchored your rushing mind as Yelena wasted no time prepping you.

Her lips were practically attacking your clit, tongue pressing against it in intricate patterns that your mind was too crowded to try and comprehend. One of her fingers slide along your entrance, only pausing for a moment before pushing into you.

Despite the small size you felt your stomach tighten as she added a second finger. Instantly they curled, her eyes on yours waiting for the reaction she was searching for. Once your head fell back again as she rammed her fingers into your g-spot she smiled against you.

You reached a hand down, threading it through the short blonde strands. She didn't seem to have any complaint as you pulled her impossibly closer to your aching cunt. You felt the vibrations of her laugh against your clit at the action, making a loud moan echo through the room.

It almost felt as if the room was spinning, the coil in the pit of your stomach growing tighter with every thrust of her fingers,every stupid shape she made with her tongue. You were so close, imagining the mess that was spread across her face from how closely she was pressed to you, barely able to breath without a single care.

That was until she pulled away, the light in the room showing you how true your thoughts were. You barely managed to look as you were ripped away from the orgasm that was at the brink, groaning as your body twisted in their grasps.

"I don't know how big he is so you might need more—"

"I don't care I don't— please just—I want," Your words came out in a jumbled mess, ignoring the odd comment by the women who's lip gloss was smeared across your thighs.

"It's okay it's okay." Bob spoke, still running his hand through your hair, leaning down awkwardly to press his lips against your forehead. "You'll get exactly what you want okay? I'll make sure it works baby girl."

You heard Yelena scoff as Bob brushed a piece of hair out of your eye. It was hard to keep track of who was moving where. After you managed to calm yourself from the edge you were brought to you saw that they had basically switched positions.

Yelena had your head in her lap, smiling down at you with a soft grin. Bob was now between your legs, boxers thrown off making his cock stand out on display. His fingers slide through your folds, his middle finger pushing into you to see if the others concern was an actual issue or not.

You could see his eyebrows crease as he slowly pumped his finger into you, a second one joining shortly after sending your head further into the blondes lap. He hummed, making eye contact with Yelena over you. They did it again where they seemed to communicate without a single word. You whined at this, feeling left out of your own enjoyment.

Yelena chuckled, brushing her thumb over your lips, her other hand reaching toward your breast sending a shiver through you as she once again rolled your nipple between her fingers.

"Ladies choice." Bob started, his voice somehow softer than before yet booming off the walls. "I can either prep you more, or if you think you can take it, I can fuck you. Think you can chose?" In any other circumstance you'd think the question was laced with condescension, but the look on his face had that thought brushed away.

"I can take it, I swear." Your voice shook with your reply.

Bob didn't ask again. In quick succession, he ripped open the condom he pulled out of god knows where and rolled it down his cock. He slowly ran the head along your folds, teasingly pushing against your entrance.

When all that left you was a small whimper, he pouted dramatically. He leaned down, pressing a small kiss against your lips in promise before pushing the tip into you.

Once he had his hips stark against yours he sat up. Allowing you to once again see the blonde above you. Her eyes weren't on yours, instead focused on the place were you and Bob met. Her soft hand still resided on your breast, movement slow but still noticeable in your state.

"How long are you going to make her wait there?" The accent hit your ears once more. She had her head cocked to the side, gaze now flickering between your hips and Bobs face. "You heard her, she can take it."

The mocking tone seemed to push him, as the moment she stopped speaking his cock was slowly dragging against yours walls until only the head remained inside. With no warning expect a small smirk, he slammed his hips back against yours. His hands quickly grabbed your hips, using the leverage to quicken his thrusts.

The only sounds echoing through the room were the sounds of your moans combined with his, and the loud sound of his skin into yours. Yelena was silent above you, watching with wide eyes and a flushed face. Her other hand managed to find its way to your face, two of her fingers sliding between your open lips.

Your body was going into overdrive. The feeling of Bobs cock dragging along your walls mixed with two sets of hands roaming your skin had your orgasm growing closer. You managed to lock your legs behind the mans back, digging you heels into it making him laugh through his deep moans.

"Fuck you're so tight." His voice was strained, looking down at you with a grin. "She's so fucking tight 'Lena." He groaned, looking at the Blonde for a split second before his eyes came back to yours. "God I'm close."

"Me too, so close." You tried to reply, stuttering towards the end as his thumb came to rest on your clit.

"Cmon baby, make a mess on my cock just like you did Yelenas face." The mention of her name made her laugh, humming in agreement at his words.

You did, the slight pressure against your clit sending you over the edge. Your legs tried to pull Bob closer into you, the action seemingly bringing him to his climax. You felt his hips start to stutter as your back arched into him. Muttered praises barely made it to ears as your mind staggered behind. Taking ages to catch up to the people around you.

Once it finally had, you could see both of them staring down at you. Bob had a fucked out expression, his pupils blown and his face a mess of patchy red and sweat dripping down it. Yelena looked similar despite her involvement. Her hair was still a mess and the eyeliner you'd admired earlier was smudged.

"How are you feeling?" Bob's voice rang through your ears.

All you could do was laugh, your mind and body exhausted. Your eyes kept flickering between the two, making you notice that while Bob was calming down alongside you, Yelena still seemed riled up, her chest rising fast and if you turned your head slightly you could see evidence of what the two of you did to her.

"Do you need help?" You whispered, making eye contact with the woman still above you.

She smiled at you, trying and failing to put up a facade. "I'm fine, you focus on breathing okay?" Her hand brushed a piece of hair out of your face with shaking hands.

"Yelena." Bobs voice boomed in your ears, a stern tone lacing the name. "You're shaking."

"So is she." Came back the harsh voice. "I'll be fine, I'll—," Her voice cut off, you could feel her thighs clenching beneath your head.

You moved to sit up, stumbling slightly until she helped you lay back against the headboard next to her. Bob had a scowl on his face, you could tell it wasn't directed towards you as he spoke.

"She's not the only one that can help you." Her eyes went wide at his words, odd given the circumstances.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You look like you're gonna fucking die if you don't cum in the next 5 minutes." His voice was deep, riddled with annoyance. "I can help, however you want me to."

They sat in silence for what felt like eons. She started at him eyes still wide while her breathing got more erratic. Looking over at you, you smiled, nodding in hopes that she would agree to his idea. Partly for your own benefit of watching and because she seemed genuinely desperate.

"You're saying if—if I asked you to do to me what I did to her earlier, you would?" He nodded, moving himself closer to you both on the bed. "Even if it would be awkward?"

"I would, and if you want you can look at her while I do to help." Bob smiled at you.

Yelena didn't say anything, instead looking towards you where you met her with a nod. After a few moments she mimicked you, nodding at Bob with that same non verbal communication between them.

It all happened fast. Yelena pushed down her pants until they joined the pile on the floor. Bob situated himself in front of her, winking at you as she gave him the okay.

You watched as her head flew back, narrowly missing the headboard as Bob's tongue slid through her folds with ease. He wasted no time, even from your angle you could see the speed at which his mouth was moving against her.

He had one hand on her pussy, fingers rubbing her clit as his tongue thrusted into her. His other hand was on your thigh, rubbing small circles against the sensitive skin.

Yelenas eyes locked onto yours, her hand quick to find space on the nape of your neck. she used this to pull your head towards her, careful when your body went slightly off balance at the speed, still catching up.

Once you were, she pressed her lips against yours in a messy kiss. You were doing most of the kissing as moans kept slipping through, your mouth muffling most of them.

You could see Bob out of the corner of your eye, his locked onto yours. Her other hand landed in his brown hair, pulling him closer as she started to shake once again.

It was unmistakable. She almost screamed as she finished against his face, her forehead resting against yours as she shook.

"You're so hot, both of you." You whispered as she started to breathe again.

"No you." She whispered back, smiling wide while staring into your eyes.

You heard Bob shuffling around, unable to bring yourself to look away from her. Soon you felt him sit next to you, a large hand running up and down your back.

He pressed his lips against your shoulder. You couldn't ignore the fact that you knew why they were so soft compared to early.

"Hey Bob." Yelena spoke, her voice starting to return to her normal tone.

"Yeah?" He replied, lifting himself from your shoulder just enough.

"Tell any of them about this and I'll fucking end you."

"Kinky"

[cadiecore]

The Honey Jar Incident | Bob Reynolds

Summary: Yelena decides to literally shove Bob into your arms at a farmers market…so the least you could do is say yes to a date, right?

Warnings: MDNI 18++ SEX. some good sex. bit of public sex but like nobody sees obv. nothing toooo rough…lots of kissing and touching. illegal activity.

A/N: this story includes dining and dashing. PLEASE DO NOT ACTUALLY DO THIS. i’m literally a server it’s so fucked but i had this idea and i couldn’t not do it. i think this is my favourite thing ive ever written i hope you all enjoy <3

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The market was already alive by the time Bob and Yelena arrived, the narrow street buzzing with movement and sound.

People drifted from booth to booth at an unhurried pace, paper bags brushing against their legs, the hum of conversation blending with distant music and the occasional bark of a vendor calling out a deal. The air smelled warm and sweet, bread baking somewhere nearby, fruit cut open and exposed to the sun. Yelena slowed slightly as she walked, lifting her drink and turning it in her hand like she expected it to do something unexpected.

“I do not hate it,” she said after another sip. “But it is very… pink.”

Bob glanced at the cup. The foam clung stubbornly to the lid, pale and glossy. “What is it?”

“Strawberry matcha,” she said, clearly still deciding how she felt about that. “I am trying a new thing every morning.”

He nodded, listening, fingers curled around his own cup. Tea. Plain black tea. Enough sugar stirred in that it had taken him an extra few seconds to dissolve it all. He took a sip and let out a quiet breath through his nose, shoulders easing.

“That one’s good?” Yelena asked.

“It tastes the same every time,” he said.

She snorted. “Boring.”

“Reliable.”

That earned him a laugh, sharp and amused, and she bumped her shoulder into his as they continued down the street.

They did not get very far before a little girl suddenly broke away from her mother in front of them, sneakers slapping against the pavement as she ran toward the pair, her backpack bouncing wildly behind her.

“Are you really you?” the girl asked, skidding to a stop in front of Yelena.

Yelena stopped immediately, crouching down so they were eye level, her expression bright and open. “I am really me,” she said. “You run very fast!”

The girl beamed, chest puffing with pride. Her mother hurried over moments later, already apologizing, but Yelena waved it off easily, chatting like she had all the time in the world. Bob stepped slightly aside, giving them space, hands tucked around his cup. Another child waved at him from behind a stroller and he lifted his hand in return, smile small but genuine. He will truly never get used to being so…In the public eye? If you could call it that. He wondered if the hype around him would die down soon.

The sounds of the market pressed in around him as he waited for Yelena. Voices overlapped, laughter rising and falling in waves. Somewhere nearby, something clinked rhythmically against glass. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and let his gaze wander without much intention.

That was when he saw her.

She stood at a small booth draped in linen, rows of honey jars catching the light and glowing amber and gold. An old woman with silver hair braided loosely down her back was speaking animatedly, her hands moving as she talked. The girl across from her leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, fully engaged. Then she laughed. It was not quiet. It was not restrained. It spilled out of her easily, bright and unguarded, carrying over the noise of the market. Someone else added onto the conversation and she laughed again, head tipping back slightly, smile wide and effortless.

Bob stopped every movement without realizing it. His attention stayed fixed on her as she reached for a jar of honey, turning it slowly in her hands, reading the label while the woman continued talking. She nodded along, responding easily, clearly enjoying herself. Bob watched her pull out cash, watched her thank the woman with warmth that felt genuine, watched her step away from the booth still smiling to herself.

“Bob.”

Yelena’s voice reaches him, but it barely lands. It blends into the noise of the market, into the chatter and movement and music, and slips right past him without sticking.

She says his name again, closer this time, stepping back into his space.

“Bob.”

He does not answer. His posture has gone oddly still, shoulders set, cup hanging loosely in his hand as he watches her move away from the honey booth. She pauses at the next stand, glancing down at something laid out on the table, attention caught again so easily. The smile lingers on her face like it has nowhere else to be. Yelena watches him for a moment, head tilting slightly.

“Bob,” she says again, sharper now. When that still does not work, she sighs and adds, “The Hulk is behind you. He is very angry. He is destroying the market!”

That finally gets a reaction. Bob blinks, like someone waking up too quickly, and turns just enough for Yelena to follow the direction of his gaze. She looks past him, down the row of booths, and spots the girl immediately.

“Oh,” Yelena says. Then she straightens a little, eyes narrowing with interest. “Oh!”

Bob realizes too late that he has been caught. He shifts his weight, grip tightening around his cup, shoulders pulling in like he wants to make himself smaller.

“I was not staring,” he says quickly, like he already knows what she’s about to say.

Yelena does not bother pretending to believe him. She steps closer and elbows him firmly in the side.

“If you keep staring like that, you will get arrested,” she says.

“I was just looking,” he insists, staring very hard at a completely different booth now.

“At her,” Yelena says, still looking at the girl, delighted at this situation.

He exhales, long and slow, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I did not mean to.”

“You absolutely did.”

She leans slightly to the side, peering around him again, clearly enjoying herself. “You should go talk to her.”

Bob stiffens instantly. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“She is very hot,” Yelena adds, unhelpfully. “If you do not go, I will. She is very much my type.”

That gets him moving, but not in the direction he hoped. He turns abruptly and starts walking in the opposite way, weaving through the crowd with the clear intention of escaping. Yelena follows immediately, long strides eating up the distance between them. She grabs his sleeve and tugs him to a stop.

“You never like anyone,” she says, lowering her voice just enough to sound serious. “This is suspicious. You can’t let her go!”

“I do not even know her,” Bob says, glancing back over his shoulder despite himself.

“So fix that,” Yelena replies easily.

He hesitates, standing there with the crowd flowing around them, indecision written plainly in the way he keeps shifting his weight.

“What am I supposed to say?” he asks finally. “I cannot just go up to someone. She’ll think i’m a creep!”

“Yes, you can! and no she won’t,” Yelena says. “You say hello. You compliment something. You ask a question. People love questions.”

“I do not,” he mutters.

“That is because you do not let anyone ask you any,” she shoots back. “Now stop panicking.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, hands lifting slightly like he might actually gesture his way out of this, when the crowd shifts.

People move aside. A gap opens, and she is suddenly much closer to Bob and Yelena.

Yelena however, does not notice. She is too busy watching Bob, trying to convince him. When her final try doesn’t work, her hands her hands start to raise, and she makes the decision to shove him forward towards the direction of the girl. Yelena unfortunately does not see how close she is to them or that she has stepped directly into Bob’s path.

Yelena shoves him, and Bob stumbles.

He collides straight into the girl. The impact knocks the breath out of both of them. The small glass jar slips from her hands and shatters against the pavement with a sharp, sticky crack. Honey splashes outward, thick and golden. Bob’s tea sloshes violently, spilling down the front of his shirt as he scrambles for balance. The girl loses her footing and falls backward, landing hard on her ass with a startled curse.

“Oh my god,” Bob blurts, already crouching down. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry.”

“I am so sorry,” Yelena echoes immediately, dropping down beside them.

The people around them react all at once. Someone gasps. Someone else kneels to help, while shaming Bob for being so clumsy. Hands reach in from every direction. Bob grabs one of the girls hands, Yelena the other, and together they pull her carefully back to her feet. She yanks her hands free the moment she is upright, brushing at her clothes, fury written clearly across her face.

“What the hell,” she snaps. “Watch where you’re going!”

Yelena is already fussing over her as everybody around them disperses, hands gentle as she brushes dirt from her back, plucking a leaf out of her hair with surprising care. “Yes, this one is very clumsy,” she says, shooting Bob a look. “Are you hurt?”

Bob stands there, frozen, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on her face like he is afraid to blink. “I really did not mean to knock you over,” he says, words tumbling out too quickly. “It was an accident.”

She looks between them, irritation sharp and immediate. Her gaze drops to the pavement where the honey spreads uselessly across the ground, glass glinting in the sunlight.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters. “I just bought that.” Bob swallows hard.

——

The world tips sideways without warning.

One second you’re walking, half distracted, already scanning the next booth, and the next you’re going down hard. You barely manage to get a curse out before you hit the pavement, the impact jarring straight through your spine. You most definitely were going to be bruised up tomorrow, the back of your things stinging from scraping the ground. Glass shatters next to you, and honey splashes everywhere, thick and golden and completely ruined.

“What the hell,” you shout, palms stinging as you push yourself upright, heart hammering in your chest.

“Oh my god.”

“I am so sorry.”

The voices come at you all at once, overlapping and frantic. People crowd in immediately, shadows blocking out the sunlight for a moment as hands reach toward you from every direction. You’re still blinking, still trying to process what just happened, when someone grabs your hand.

Then another. The grip is steady. Strong. Careful. You’re pulled back to your feet before you can protest, legs wobbling slightly as you find your balance again.

“I am so sorry,” the man in front of you says, breathless. “I really did not mean to knock you over.”

“I am so sorry,” the woman beside him adds immediately, already brushing dirt from your back like she’s on autopilot, fingers quick as she picks leaves out of your hair. “It was an accident.”

Your adrenaline is still spiking. Your heart is racing. You glance down at the pavement and your mood tanks instantly. Your honey is completely shattered. Glass glints uselessly in the sunlight, sticky and unsalvageable.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you snap. “I literally just bought that.”

“I swear it was an accident,” the man says again, words tumbling over each other. “I was pushed and I did not see you and I-“

You open your mouth to really let them have it, but then you finally look at him, and whatever sharp thing you were about to say evaporates. The man that ran into you is tall, much taller than you. He had brown floppy hair that looked incredibly soft falling into his eyes no matter how many times he tries to push it back. A knit sweater that fits him in a way that makes it painfully obvious he’s far more built than he looks at first glance, paired with brown corduroy pants that look intentional, put together. Even soaked in whatever drink he spilled, standing there apologizing like he might actually die of embarrassment, he’s… adorable.

Your words die somewhere in your throat.

You blink, then glance back down at the ground. His drink is ruined too, dark liquid soaking into the pavement beside your honey. The two casualties sit there together, equally tragic. You look back up at him.

“You owe me a new jar of honey,” you say.

The woman beside him snorts, but quickly covers her mouth to hide it.

“Oh my god,” she says, “I was fully prepared for you to yell at us.”

You smirk despite yourself. “I might still.”

She grins wider. “Fair. But actually, this was completely my fault.” She jerks a thumb toward herself. “I shoved him. I was trying to get his attention.”

You glance between them, taking in the way he looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole.

“So,” you say slowly, nodding between them, “are you his girlfriend?”

Her reaction is instant and dramatic.

“What?” she says. “No. Absolutely not.”

She waves her hands like she needs physical distance from the idea.

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing playfully. “You sure? So does that mean you’re single then?” You decide to flirt playfully, because what could it hurt?

“Very sure,” she says, then looks you up and down without shame. “You, however, are much more my type, and I am very much single.”

You laugh, surprised and a little delighted. “Oh?”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Careful,” you say. “You’re making it tempting.”

She beams. “Trust me, I know.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the clumsy man standing there, completely red from the collar of his sweater all the way up his neck, hands fidgeting uselessly at his sides. She notices too and finally snaps herself back into focus.

“Okay,” she says, clapping once. “Enough flirting. Stop panicking.” She elbows him sharply. “You need to fix this.”

“I am trying,” he mutters.

“You are doing terribly,” she replies cheerfully. Then she turns back to you. “He should take you to buy a new jar of honey.”

He blinks. “I should?”

“Yes,” she says. “Right now.”

There’s a beat where he clearly considers arguing. Then he nods. “Yes. Okay. That makes sense. Lead the way?”

You gesture back toward the booth. “After you.”

You walk away from his friend together, and the first thing you notice is how carefully he moves. Not just around you, but for you. He gives you space, a deliberate half step to the side, like he’s afraid of bumping you again. When someone passes too close, he subtly shifts so it’s his shoulder that takes the hit instead of yours. It’s quiet, instinctive, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

He hasn’t said anything yet. His hands hang awkwardly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they’re restless. He keeps opening his mouth, closing it again, jaw tightening every time he aborts whatever thought was trying to escape. You catch it. All of it.

“So,” you say first, because you’re getting bored of waiting.

He startles like you caught him doing something illegal. “Sorry. I just-“He stops. Clears his throat. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I’m Bob..”

“Hi Bob. I am ok,” you say easily. “You knocked the wind out of me, but I’ve survived worse.”

He winces hard at that, shoulders tensing like the guilt physically hurts. “I really am sorry.”

“I know,” you say, glancing at him. “You’ve said it like twelve times.”

“I can say it more.”

You laugh, quick and unfiltered, and that somehow makes him even more nervous. He looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if that was a good sign or a bad one. You keep walking, unbothered, letting the silence stretch again. It’s not uncomfortable for you. It’s interesting. You can feel how badly he wants to say something, how every step feels like another chance slipping past him.

“You were going to talk to me,” you say suddenly. He almost trips.

“What? How did you know?”

“You were staring,” you add calmly. “You didn’t exactly hide it, I could feel your eyes on me the whole time.”

His ears turn red instantly. “I wasn’t- I mean, I was, but not in a creepy way.”

“Relax,” you say. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought it was in a creepy way.” That makes him stop walking for half a second before he forces himself to keep moving.

“I had thought about maybe asking you out, but was too chicken,” he admits quietly, like the words taste strange. “Before my friend interfered.”

You glance over at him again. He’s not looking at you now. His gaze is fixed ahead, jaw tight, like he’s annoyed at himself more than anything else.

“So you froze,” you say.

“Yes,” he says, relieved you put it into words. “Exactly.”

You smile. “Cute.”

He looks at you sharply. “It is not.”

“You’re wrong,” you reply. “It is.”

The honey booth comes back into view slowly, the old woman already rearranging jars like she has all the time in the world. You feel him hesitate beside you, like the moment is getting heavier instead of lighter.

She looks up and smiles when she sees you reach her booth once more.

“Back already?” she asks.

You gesture lazily between yourself and him. “Violent collision. He bumped me and I fell, my jar broke.”

Her eyes sweep over him in one long, unapologetic look. “Honey,” she says, “I’d get knocked down by him any day.”

You laugh, loud and easy. He freezes like he’s been hit by a stun gun. His face goes red in stages, spreading up his neck, into his cheeks, all the way to his ears. His hands curl into fists, then relax, then curl again.

“I was going to ask her out,” he blurts suddenly, defensive and breathless. “I just didn’t get the chance.”

That’s when you fully turn toward him.

“Oh,” you say slowly. “So this was intentional?”

“Yes,” he says immediately, then groans. “I mean- the asking. Not the falling. God.”

You grin. “You’re spiraling.”

“I know.”

The old woman chuckles and slides a fresh jar of honey forward. “Then stop thinking and do it, son.”

He stares at the jar like it’s a lifeline. Takes a breath. Then another. His shoulders rise and fall slowly as he steadies himself. He looks at you again, like he’s finally accepting that there’s no rehearsed version of this.

“I saw you laughing,” he says quietly. “And I immediately thought that I wanted to be the reason you kept on laughing.”

Something sharp and warm twists in your chest. He swallows. “So… would you like to go out with me?”

You don’t let the moment hang. “Yes,” you say immediately.

His eyes widen, like he didn’t actually expect success.

“There’s a restaurant nearby,” you add, stepping closer, invading his space without apology. “Tonight. You’re buying. For the honey. Let’s say 8?”

He lets out a breathless laugh. “Yes. Absolutely.”

You take the honey from him, let your fingers brush his on purpose, and you feel the way he stills at the contact.

“Thanks for the honey,” you say, then lean in and kiss his cheek.

He forgets how to breathe, and you melt back into the market like you were never there. One turn between booths, one slip into the flow of bodies, and you’re gone. That laugh he was already so fond of vanishing before him. Your perfume, that smelt like sweet candy, is already fading into the smell of bread and fruit and honey.

He stays exactly where he is. Honey jar paid for, cash still half out. Tea still drying on the front of his sweater. He’s standing too straight, like his body forgot it can move without permission. His cheek is warm where your lips were, and it looks like he’s afraid to touch it in case it makes the whole thing feel less real.

The old woman watches him with a pleased little smile as she rearranges her jars. She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have to. He finally blinks. Then blinks again, slow, like his brain is rebooting. His gaze stays fixed on the direction you vanished, scanning for a glimpse of you between shoulders, between sun hats, between the hanging bouquets at the flower stand. He doesn’t find you, not really. Just movement and color and the occasional flash of hair that isn’t yours.

A triumphant cheer snaps through the air behind him. Then a familiar voice, far too close.

“I leave you alone for one minute,” Yelena says, breathless with excitement, “and you get yourself a date.”

He flinches, like he forgot Yelena existed.

She’s practically bouncing on her toes, eyes bright, hands already on his arm like she’s checking he’s still solid.

“She said yes,” she says, loud and proud, like she’s announcing it to the entire market. “You did it. You asked. She said yes.”

He opens his mouth, and then closes it. His throat works like he’s trying to find words and none of them cooperate.

“I know,” he manages finally, voice quiet.

Yelena stares at him like she expects him to be screaming too.

“That’s it?” she demands. “I know?”

He swallows. His gaze flicks back toward the crowd again, like he might still catch you.

“I did not think she would say yes,” he admits, and the honesty of it makes him look even more stunned. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

Yelena makes a sound of disgust. “Of course she said yes. Did you see her? She is fearless. She kissed you. She left. Like a criminal.”

He looks at her, dazed. “She kissed my cheek.”

Yelena’s grin turns vicious. “Yes.”

He exhales slowly, almost like he’s trying to calm his body down. “You shoved me.”

“I helped you.”

“You shoved me into her,” he corrects, still quiet, but now there’s a hint of something else under it. A little annoyance. A little disbelief. Like he can’t decide if he wants to thank her or throttle her.

Yelena shrugs, completely unapologetic. “And now you have a date. I am proud of you,” she says, suddenly serious again, grabbing his shoulders and giving him a firm shake like she’s trying to rattle the nerves out of him. “You were like a normal person for once!”

He looks pained. “I was not normal.”

“You were close enough,” she says, then taps his chest where the tea stain is drying. “Except for this. This is pathetic.”

He looks down at his sweater like he’s just now remembering he spilled tea all over himself. “Oh, right.”

Yelena grabs his wrist.

“No,” he says immediately, panicked. “What are you doing?”

“We are leaving,” she says, already dragging him away from the booth. “We are going home. We are changing you. We are picking an outfit.”

“I can pick my own outfit,” he says weakly, stumbling after her.

“No, you cannot,” she replies. “You will wear that sweater again and think it counts as romance.”

“It’s a nice sweater,” he mutters.

“It is a nice sweater,” she agrees. “It is also covered in tea. You are going to look like a sad book boy.”

He tries to pull back, still staring over his shoulder at the crowd as if you might reappear, as if you might suddenly decide to circle back and talk with him again.

Yelena tightens her grip and tugs harder.

“Eyes forward,” she says sharply. “You will see her tonight. Do not ruin this by spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” he lies.

“You are spiraling,” she says, delighted. “It is adorable. But we do not have time.”

He lets himself be dragged, feet reluctant, head still turning every few steps. The market recedes behind them, the noise softening, the smells fading. But his gaze stays stuck on the place you disappeared, like part of him is still standing there with the honey booth and the shattered glass.

Yelena starts listing outfit options like she’s planning a mission.

“No sweaters,” she says. “No corduroy. You need something that says I am calm and I do not get pushed into girls.”

He makes a quiet sound of misery.

“And you need to shave,” she adds.

“I do not need to-“

“Yes you do,” she says. “You are going to look clean. You are going to smell good. And you are going to bring flowers.”

He frowns. “Flowers?”

“Yes.”

“Is that too much?”

Yelena stops walking just long enough to stare at him. “Bob.” He goes still. “You are a sweet man,” she says, like that should be obvious. “She is a woman. She likes sweet.”

His ears go pink again.

Yelena grins. “Now move. We have hours of preparation. I will not let you embarrass me.”

He lets her drag him the rest of the way, still stunned, still quiet, still trying to understand how a morning coffee routine turned into a date. And somewhere back in the market, you’re still out there, honey in hand, smile on your face, already living in his head like you pay rent.

———

Bob stands in front of the mirror while Yelena refuses to let him exist peacefully.

He is dressed. He knows that. The three

different shirts piled up on the floor in front

of him was a clear sign that he was panicking. He couldn’t explain why standing still feels impossible, and Yelena notices immediately. She tugs at the collar of his shirt, smoothing it down, then frowns and does it again like the fabric is personally offending her.

“Stop moving,” she tells him.

“I’m not moving,” Bob replies automatically, even as his shoulders shift and his weight rocks back onto his heels.

Yelena meets his eyes in the mirror. “You are.”

“I’m standing,” he insists.

“You are standing badly.”

She grabs his shoulders and physically squares them, forcing him upright. He freezes for a second, trying very hard to cooperate, but his fingers twitch at his sides and his foot taps once against the floor before he can stop it.

Behind them, Walker lets out a quiet laugh. He’s seated comfortably in a chair near the wall, arms folded, clearly enjoying himself far too much. Bucky leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, expression neutral, though his eyes flick back and forth with interest as the scene unfolds.

“So,” Walker says, stretching the word out. “You met a mysterious woman at the market, knocked the poor girl over, broke her jar of honey, and now you’re going on a

date?”

Bob glances at the mirror again, then away. “Uh yep, pretty much…”

“You nervous? You have to be, You changed shirts three times,” Walker points out.

Yelena steps back, examining her work critically as she gives Walker a dirty look for adding to Bobs nervousness. Bob is wearing a dark button-down that fits him properly without looking stiff, the sleeves rolled to his forearms in a way that looks intentional but still natural. Dark jeans. Clean shoes that are nicer than his usual but still comfortable. He looks like himself, just… sharpened.

“He looks acceptable,” Yelena decides.

“That’s high praise,” Bucky says dryly.

Walker leans forward. “Alright, describe her. What’s she look like?”

Yelena doesn’t hesitate. “She’s short. Very attractive. Confident in a way that suggests poor life decisions.”

Walker grins. “You sure you aren’t the one taking the market girl out Lena?”

“I did flirt with her,” Yelena says, smirking

up at Bob who was rolling his eyes at the comment. “But Bob saw her first. He gets the girl this time.”

Bob exhales through his nose, hands flexing at his sides. “She has a nice laugh,” he says suddenly.

Walker’s grin widens. “A nice laugh?”

Bob shoots him an annoyed look. “I’m serious.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly. “Go on.”

Bob hesitates, then keeps talking, like once the door is open he can’t quite close it again. “It’s loud. Not fake. She doesn’t stop herself or try to soften it. She laughs like she means it. That’s what drew my attention in the first place, I heard her before i saw her.”

Yelena watches him through the mirror now, quiet, attentive.

“She was laughing with strangers,” Bob continues, warming to it despite himself. “People she didn’t know. Like it was easy. Like she didn’t care if anyone thought she was too much.”

Walker sits back, nodding. “That’s like

the exact opposite of you.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Bob replies, frustration creeping into his voice. “She doesn’t shrink. She takes up space like it belongs to her.”

Bob rubs a hand over the back of his neck, clearly annoyed that this conversation has turned into an interrogation of his feelings. “I thought she was going to yell at us at first,” he adds. “But the she smiled and told me I needed to replace her honey and i just knew I had to at least try and ask her.”

Yelena steps in again, fingers immediately in his hair. She smooths it back carefully, then pauses, studies him, and shakes her head before messing it up again.

“No. That makes you look like you’re about to file paperwork.”

“Yelena quit fussing,” Bob mutters, even as he shifts again.

“What did I say about not moving,” she replies, unbothered.

She moves to the dresser and starts sorting through his cologne with exaggerated seriousness, sniffing one and immediately rejecting it.

“No. That one smells like regret.”

Another spray. Sniff. Then she gags, quite dramatically, before picking up the final one.

Yelena turns and gives Bob a pointed look. “Hold still.”

He nods, immediately flinching when she spritzes it lightly at his wrist and collar.

“I said hold still.”

“I didn’t move!”

“You flinched.”

“That’s not the same.”

She then reaches into a drawer and pulls out a single flower, placing it carefully in his hand. Bob looks down at it, then back up at her.

“A flower?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. “You are a sweet man. Do not argue. I know what’s best.”

Walker stands and claps Bob on the shoulder. “Listen. You’re overthinking it. You show up. You eat. You talk. You laugh. You don’t apologize every thirty seconds.”

“I don’t apologize that much,” Bob says

weakly.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You apologized like ten times just a couple minutes ago.”

Bob sighs.

Yelena steps closer again, straightening his collar one final time, slower now, gentler.

“She already said yes,” she reminds him. “That’s the important part.”

Bob nods, gripping the flower a little tighter. He takes a step toward the door, then hesitates. He makes it two steps before Walker pushes off the chair and moves into his path, casual but deliberate, like he’s blocking a hallway more than a person.

“Hey,” Walker says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial.

Bob pauses, already suspicious. “What.”

Walker doesn’t answer right away. He steps closer and presses something small and unfamiliar into Bob’s palm, curling his fingers around it before Bob can fully register what it is.

Bob looks down.

It takes a second for his brain to catch up.

Then it does.

His eyes widen. His entire body stiffens.

He snaps his hand shut on instinct and looks up at Walker, horrified. “No. No, that’s not- absolutely not!”

Walker grins, unrepentant. “Just in case?”

Bob tries to shove it back at him immediately, thrusting his hand forward like the thing might burn him. “Take it back. I don’t need that. This is dinner.”

Yelena turns sharply at the sound of his voice. “What did you do?”

Walker holds up his hands, innocent. “Being prepared.”

She crosses the room in two strides and smacks Walker square in the chest, hard enough to make a point. “You are making him panic worse!”

“I’m not using this,” Bob says quickly, words tumbling over each other as he gestures

helplessly between the three of them. “I am not even thinking about that. I am going to eat food. I am going to sit in a chair. That’s it.”

Bucky, who has been watching with quiet amusement, finally speaks. “You can still carry it and not use it.”

Bob turns to him, scandalized. “Why would I carry it?”

“Because,” Bucky says calmly, “you’re already panicking, and this is not the thing you want to spiral about later.”

Bob opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. His grip tightens around the flower in his other hand. He looks down at the small square in his palm like it personally betrayed him.

“I am not using it,” he says again, slower now, more stubborn. “It is staying in my wallet. It will not leave the wallet. This is not that kind of night.”

Walker’s grin widens. “Sure.”

Bob glares at him, then exhales through his nose and reluctantly tucks it away, shoving his wallet back into his pocket like he wants the entire subject buried with it.

Yelena points at Walker. “If he has a panic attack in the elevator, that is on you.”

Bob rubs a hand over his face, then drops it, straightening slightly as if reminding himself why he’s here. He looks at Yelena. She softens immediately, reaching up to smooth his collar one last time, slower now, gentler.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says. “You don’t need that to have a good night.”

He nods, still flustered, but steadier.

“I know,” he says quietly.

He grips the flower tighter, turns back toward the door, and this time he doesn’t stop.

———

The restaurant is closer to the tower than Bob expects. He realizes it halfway there, when the streets start to look familiar to his morning coffee walks with Yelena. The walk that felt long in his head passes too quickly in reality, and suddenly the warm glow of the restaurant is right there in front of him, light spilling through tall windows onto the sidewalk. He slows without meaning to, steps faltering as the sounds of conversation and clinking glasses drift out every time the door opens.

It’s nice. Really nice. White tablecloths, soft lighting, the kind of place where people linger over wine and talk with their hands.

His nerves spike immediately. What if she’s already inside? What if she’s sitting at a table right now, checking her watch, wondering why she agreed to this? What if she doesn’t show up at all? The thought hits harder than he expects, settling heavy in his chest. He stops just short of the entrance, standing there like he’s forgotten what comes next. His fingers tighten around the single flower in his hand, thumb rubbing along the stem until he realizes he’s bending it slightly and forces himself to stop.

He exhales slowly and runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it back, then immediately fussing with it again like it might betray him at any moment. He straightens his shirt, then second-guesses that too, tugging at the hem and then letting it fall. You’re fine, he tells himself, which somehow makes it worse. He glances at the door again, heart thudding. The idea of walking in alone suddenly feels unbearable. He can already picture it, the awkward pause, the host asking if he’s waiting for someone, the inevitable pity when the answer stretches too long.

He’s so caught in the spiral that he doesn’t hear footsteps behind him. A light tap lands on his shoulder. He turns too fast. And there she is. For a moment, his brain simply gives up. She looks even more stunning than she did that morning, which feels unfair considering how impossible that already seemed. She’s dressed for the evening now, something sleek and fitted that walks the line perfectly between elegant and dangerous. The fabric clings in a way that makes it very clear she knows exactly what she’s doing. Black heels ground the look, confident and sharp. Her makeup is darker, sultrier, lipstick rich and distracting enough that Bob forgets how breathing works entirely.

His knees actually feel weak. He just stands there, staring, words completely gone, the flower dangling uselessly in his hand.

She takes one look at his expression and laughs. That laugh. The same one from the market. Loud, warm, unfiltered. It cuts straight through his panic, loosens something tight in his chest, makes the world feel steadier again. His shoulders drop without him realizing it.

“Hi,” she says, clearly amused.

“Hi,” he manages, voice a little rough around the edges.

They stand there for a second, smiling at each other, the city moving around them like they’re the only two people not in a rush. He finally remembers the flower, lifting it like it might be an offering.

“I, um,” he says, then clears his throat. “This is for you.”

Her eyes light up instantly. “A flower?” she says, genuinely delighted. “For me?”

She takes it from him carefully, like it’s something precious, then grins. “This almost makes up for the scrapes on my ass.”

Bob chokes. Not on food. Not on a drink. Just air. He coughs once, then again, one hand flying up to his chest as he desperately tries to recover. She bursts out laughing, completely unrepentant, and the sound only makes him blush harder.

“I’m sorry,” he says once he can breathe again. “I just wasn’t expecting that.”

She smiles at him, pleased. “I like keeping people on their toes.”

There’s a beat where neither of them speaks, the moment stretching comfortably instead of awkwardly. He gestures toward the door, suddenly very aware that they’re still standing on the sidewalk.

“Would you like to go inside?” he asks. “Before I embarrass myself further.”

She hooks her arm loosely through his without hesitation. “Absolutely.”

They step into the restaurant together, the door closing softly behind them, and Bob thinks distantly that whatever happens next, the hardest part might already be over.

The restaurant feels different from the inside. It’s tucked farther back than you expected, your table hidden in a corner booth where the light is low and warm, candles flickering softly between baskets of bread and folded menus. Everything smells incredible. Garlic, butter, fresh pasta. The kind of smell that settles into your skin and makes you relax whether you mean to or not.

You slide into the booth first, and he follows a second later, close enough that you feel the brush of his knee against yours before he pulls back, flustered. The lighting is doing dangerous things to him. Or maybe it’s doing dangerous things to you. Either way, you can see the way his gaze keeps flicking to your face, to your mouth, then quickly away like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“I didn’t realize how close this place was,” he says, glancing toward the front of the restaurant before looking back at you. “It’s… embarrassingly close to where I live.”

You smile. “So I made a strategic choice.”

He laughs, a little breathy, clearly relaxing now that you’re smiling at him like that. “I walk past it all the time. Yelena and I get coffee around the corner every morning.”

“Every morning,” you repeat. “That feels very routine for someone who knocked me over in a farmer’s market.”

He winces playfully. “I swear I’m usually more coordinated.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say. “What kind of coffee order are we talking about.”

“Tea,” he admits. “With too much sugar.”

You light up. “Oh. You’re one of those?”

“One of what?”

“The secretly sweet ones pretending they’re not.”

He laughs again, this time easier. “Yelena says it’s a character flaw.”

“She sounds wise.”

“She is,” he agrees, then pauses. “Terrifying, but wise.”

You lower your menu and rest your chin in your hand. “So what do you do on these coffee walks besides people watching and accidentally planning dates?”

He thinks about it. Actually thinks. You can see it in the way his eyes drift for a second.

“We talk about everything,” he says. “Work. Life. Things that annoy her. Things that scare me.”

“That’s a wide range.”

He smiles at that. “She does most of the talking.”

“Shocking.”

He chuckles, then catches himself watching you again. This time he doesn’t look away immediately.

“What about you,” he asks. “Do you come to places like this often?”

“I like good food,” you say. “And places where people linger. I hate anything that feels rushed.”

His shoulders ease at that, like it’s permission. “Me too.”

The server comes by, and you order. You choose something indulgent, creamy and rich, unapologetic. He hesitates for a moment before ordering something comforting and classic, clearly a creature of habit but not ashamed of it. Red wine ends up on the table after all, poured slowly into wide glasses. Once the server leaves, he exhales.

“I feel like I should admit something,” he says.

You raise a brow. “I’m listening.”

“I was very nervous you weren’t going to show up.”

You grin. “Oh. I absolutely considered it.”

His eyes widen. “You did?”

“Briefly,” you say. “Then I remembered your face when I kissed your cheek.”

He groans softly and drops his head for a second. “Please don’t.”

“I liked watching you turn red,” you tease lightly.

He looks back up at you then, something warmer in his expression now. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been told.”

You smile at the way the candlelight catches the curve of his face, the way his lashes cast shadows under his eyes. He’s looking at you again, but this time really looking, and something about the way his attention settles on you makes your stomach flip.

Your smile softens without you realizing it.

That’s when you notice he’s staring, but at your eyes. Your lips. He’s gone quiet, mid-thought, gaze fixed like he forgot the rest of the world exists. The silence stretches just long enough to be noticeable. You don’t call him out.

Instead, you reach for your purse.

The zipper sounds louder than it should in the quiet booth. He blinks, startled, attention snapping back to you just in time to watch you pull out a small metal flask. His eyes widen and your grin turns wicked. You duck slightly behind your menu, unscrew the lid, and take a quick swig. The burn makes you wince just a little, enough to make him stare like he’s witnessing a crime.

You shake the flask once, amused, and whisper, “I’m not really a wine girl. Want a drink?”

His mouth opens.

Closes.

“I usually don’t,” he starts, then stops himself, glancing at you again. Something in his expression shifts. Curiosity. Nerves. Something braver.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Okay.”

You slide the flask under the table, your fingers brushing his as he takes it. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends a small jolt up your arm anyway. You bite back a smile. He copies you, lifting his menu like a shield, taking a quick swig. You watch his face carefully, waiting for a reaction.

Nothing. No wince. No cough. No dramatic gasp.

Your eyes widen. “Oh.”

“What,” he asks, lowering the flask.

“That was incredibly sexy,” you say.

He nearly drops it.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says.

“Exactly,” you reply, grinning. “Terrifying.”

His face goes bright red, and you huff amused as he hands the flask back. The plates arrive like an interruption neither of you asked for.

Steam curls up between you, rich and fragrant. Your pasta is glossy and decadent, ribbons coated in cream and pepper and parmesan. His is darker, heartier, something with red sauce and slow-cooked meat, the kind of dish that smells like it takes its time. The server sets everything down, asks if you need anything else, and you both shake your heads a little too quickly.

As soon as you’re alone again, the space between you feels smaller.

You take your first bite, humming quietly without meaning to. The sound slips out of you, soft and pleased, and his eyes flick to your mouth immediately. You notice. Of course you do. You chew slowly, deliberately, letting your gaze stay on his as you swallow. You wonder what that brain

of his is thinking as he watches your lips move.

“Good?” he asks.

“Really good,” you say. “Yours?”

He nods, but he hasn’t eaten yet. He’s still watching you. You smile into your next bite.

Conversation keeps going, but it’s different now. Slower. Looser. He leans back into the booth, one arm draped along the seat behind you like he hasn’t realized he’s done it. Or maybe he has and he’s choosing not to move. You tell him another story, something ridiculous and only half appropriate, and he laughs, warm and low, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I can’t believe you actually did that,” he says.

“I absolutely did,” you reply. “And I’d do it again.”

He shakes his head, smiling, and finally takes a bite of his food. You watch the way his throat moves when he swallows. The way his lips press together for just a second afterward. You’re mid-bite when you feel his attention sharpen. He stills slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration.

“Hang on,” he says softly. “You’ve got something here.”

Before you can ask what, he’s already leaning in. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, warm and gentle, wiping away a trace of sauce. The contact is brief at first. Then it isn’t. His thumb lingers, barely moving, like he’s forgotten what he meant to do next. The air goes tight, and you don’t break eye contact. Instead, you part your lips, just enough. And without thinking, or maybe because the wine and the night have both gone to your head, you close your mouth around his thumb and suck gently, slow and deliberate, cleaning it.

The reaction is immediate. His breath catches hard, chest rising sharply as his entire body goes still. His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide, jaw tightening like he’s physically holding himself in place. For one suspended second, neither of you moves. His thumb stays right where it is. Your lips linger. Then you release him.

He pulls his hand back slowly, carefully, like sudden movement might shatter something fragile. He rests it on the table, fingers curling in on themselves, knuckles faintly white.

“Oh,” he says, very quietly.

You smile, unapologetic, and take another bite of your pasta like nothing happened.

Conversation resumes. Technically.

You talk about work, about music, about nothing at all. But everything is layered now. Every glance lasts a beat too long. Every brush of your leg against his under the table sends a spark up your spine. He’s closer than before, shoulder angled toward you, voice lower when he speaks like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

At some point, he realizes she’s flirting.

And instead of panicking lol he already has been, he leans into it.

“You do this on purpose,” he says, eyes flicking to your mouth again.

“Do what?”

“Make people nervous.”

You tilt your head. “Is it working?”

He laughs softly. “Yes.”

You clink your wine glasses together again. The red wine is warm in your stomach now, mixing with whatever you’ve been sneaking from the flask. His nerves are gone, replaced with something steadier. Bolder. He’s talking more with his hands, leaning in, making you laugh hard enough that you have to look away once or twice.

“You’re blushing,” he points out at one point.

“So are you,” you shoot back.

He doesn’t deny it. By the time the plates are cleared, the candles have burned lower and the restaurant has quieted around you. The server places the cheque gently at the edge of the table and walks away without comment. You glance at it, and then you look at him. His eyes are already on you, warm and curious and just a little undone.

A very wicked idea takes shape. You smile slowly, say nothing, and let your foot slide just a little closer to his under the table.

And you watch his breath hitch.

Your shoulder presses into his side, soft and deliberate, close enough that he inhales sharply before he can stop himself. You feel it. The way his body reacts instantly, tension snapping tight beneath his calm exterior. You let yourself linger there, cheek close to his, lips just barely brushing the air near his jaw as your heel slides up his calf beneath the table. Slow, teasing, Intentional. His breath stutters yet again.

He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move at all, actually. He’s holding himself together by sheer willpower, eyes fixed on yours, pupils dark, mouth parted just slightly like he forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

Your lips drift closer. Close enough that you feel the heat of him, close enough that your noses brush. Close enough that he could kiss you if he wanted to. Instead, you whisper.

“Let’s run.”

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“Run?” he asks, genuinely confused, voice low and rough. “What do you mean run?”

You laugh quietly, softer this time, leaning back just enough to look at him properly. You give his arm a light, playful smack.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Run.”

You start gathering your things like it’s the most obvious plan in the world. Sliding your bag onto your shoulder, scooting toward the edge of the booth. Bob just watches you, completely lost, mouth opening and closing like his brain is lagging behind your actions.

You stop and look back at him when he doesn’t move.

You roll your eyes, and sigh dramatically. “Listen. I know you’re a fancy Avenger and everything and this could look bad, but also who cares. Gotta live a little. Have some fun.”

Thats what does it. His expression shifts from confusion to outright shock.

“You know I’m a…” He trails off, blinking hard. “How did you know I was a…”

You cut him off with sigh, warm and easy, like it’s not even worth making a thing out of.

“Oh, babe. Of course I knew,” you say. “I just didn’t care.”

You lean closer again, close enough that your lips brush his cheek.

“That’s not all you are,” you continue quietly. “I wanted to get to know you. Not the fancy new Avenger.”

Something breaks open in him at that.

It’s not just that you knew. It’s that you didn’t care, and that you saw him standing there in a market, awkward and quiet and staring at you like you hung the moon, and that was enough. The weight he’s carried without realizing it suddenly lifts, just a little, and it makes his chest ache. You go to stand, but he grabs your arm. The touch is firm but gentle, grounding. You turn back to him, surprised, and he looks steadier now.

“You mean run,” he says slowly, “as in not pay?”

You grin, leaning in to kiss his cheek again as you shrug into your coat. “Yes. Run. Not pay. Dine and freakin dash. This place is way overpriced.”

You whisper it like it’s a secret, excitement buzzing through you. He lets you go, brushing his fingers over his cheek where your lips just were. He exhales a quiet laugh, knowing exactly how bad of an idea this is.

“You really are trouble,” he says.

You wink, standing up to start the show. “Okay, honey, you pay. I’m gonna run to the washroom. The kids are probably waiting up past their bedtime for us. You know how cranky Todd can get.”

You lean down once more, close enough that your breath ghosts his ear. “There’s a back door by the bathrooms. Meet me out there in five minutes.”

You turn to leave, and he stops you again.

This time, it’s different. He takes your hand, lifts it slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Soft, deliberate, and absolutely lethal.

“Do hurry back,” he says, voice smooth and low, almost with a bit of an accent? “Every moment away from you is just torture, darling.”

You freeze and your mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. Without another word, you slip away, heart racing, cheeks burning, disappearing toward the bathrooms before you embarrass yourself further. Five minutes later, you slip out the back door unnoticed.

Bob waits longer than he should, nerves spiking again, guilt creeping in as he spots the waiter busy across the room. He pulls cash from his wallet, scribbles a quick note, and leaves it on the bill for the tip before finally making his move. The back door opens and as the cool night air hits his face, he exhales in relief. Then he spots you.

Leaning against the brick wall, jacket open, one knee bent casually as you take a drag from a cigarette. The glow lights your face for a moment before fading.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he calls out.

You yelp, startled, then roll your eyes as you stub it out quickly. “You scared me.”

You jog over and hook your arm through his as if this is all perfectly normal. “I only smoke if I’ve had a few drinks.”

He opens his mouth, clearly about to say something responsible and sensible about how smoking is bad for you, but a door slams open behind you and interrupts you.

“Excuse me!”

You both freeze.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “That’s our waiter.”

Bob’s heart slams into his ribs. “What do we do?”

You stare at each other, panic flaring. “I don’t know,” you hiss. “I’ve literally never done this before.”

The waiter starts moving faster.

“Does your Sentry thing make you run fast,” you ask desperately.

Bob barely has time to answer before you grab his hand.

“Run.”

You don’t give him time to argue before your fingers lace through his and you take off, heels striking the pavement hard as you drag him out of the alley and into the open street. The sound of footsteps behind you spikes your pulse instantly, shoes slapping against concrete, someone shouting your direction. Bob’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears, adrenaline flooding his system faster than his thoughts can catch up. He thinks back to his past, wondering how he ended up in a place like this again. Although this time what he’s doing is much less dangerous, and a lot more fun.

“He’s coming,” you hiss, glancing over your shoulder.

“I can see that,” he pants, already struggling not to laugh from the sheer insanity of it.

You pull him harder, tugging him around a corner just as a door bangs open behind you. The street widens and suddenly there are people everywhere, couples strolling, someone walking a dog, a group laughing loudly on a corner. You slow just a fraction, trying to blend in, chests still heaving, hands still locked together. You don’t let go.

“Okay,” you whisper urgently. “Act normal.”

Bob straightens as best he can while walking, running a hand through his hair, trying to slow his breathing. Then the waiter’s voice cuts through the noise again.

“There they are!”

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

You bolt once more. You cut sharply to the left, pulling Bob with you across the street without waiting for the light. Horns blare instantly. Tires screech. Someone yells something that definitely is not polite. Bob’s grip tightens on your hand as he stumbles, heart leaping into his throat.

“You’re in heels,” he blurts out, half impressed, half terrified.

“I know,” you shout back. “Don’t think about it!”

You make it to the other side by sheer luck, dodging a car far too close for Bob’s liking. The waiter is stuck now, blocked by traffic, shouting something you can’t quite make out, but you don’t slow down. You duck into another alley, then another, weaving through dumpsters and fire escapes, mumbling breathlessly now about losing him because it’s all too much. Bob keeps pace easily, but he stays close, protective without thinking, one arm occasionally coming around you to steer you away from obstacles when the ground dips or the alley narrows.

At one point, you trip slightly. He catches you instantly, arm tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him for half a second before you’re moving again. The contact sends a sharp jolt through both of you, electric and undeniable.

“Sorry,” you gasp.

“Don’t be,” he says, voice low, breathless. “That was… fine.”

You finally slow a few streets over, turning into a darker side alley where the noise of the city dulls to a distant hum. You stop abruptly, pressing a hand to the brick wall, chest rising and falling hard. Bob stumbles to a stop across from you, hands braced on his knees, laughing in pure shock now because he can’t help it. Adrenaline is still roaring through him, limbs tired and one fire, heart racing like he just survived something impossible. You straighten slowly and your eyes meet. The laughter between you fades.

You’re close again. Too close. The air between you feels charged, alive, humming with everything you haven’t said and everything you almost did back at the table. Your breathing starts to slow, but the heat doesn’t fade with it. Bob steps closer without realizing he’s moved, and so do you.

“You’re insane,” he says softly.

You smile, breathless. “You loved it.”

He doesn’t deny it. For a second, he just looks at you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, hair a mess from running. The city feels far away now. The only sound is your breathing and the faint echo of heavy breathing still trapped in your chest.

Soon he is moving without even thinking. His hands come up to your face, palms warm and sure as he pulls you into him, and the kiss crashes into you with no warning at all. It’s messy and urgent and completely unplanned, mouths colliding like neither of you can afford to hesitate another second. You hit the brick wall behind you with a soft gasp, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs just as his mouth claims yours. The kiss deepens immediately. There’s nothing gentle about it. No testing. No tentative brush of lips. He kisses you like he’s been holding himself back all night and finally lost the ability to pretend otherwise. His grip tightens at your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leans into you, crowding your space, pressing his body close enough that you feel every solid line of him.

Your hands fist in his shirt without you realizing you’ve moved. He makes a sound against your mouth, low and involuntary, and it sends a shiver straight through you. His mouth moves against yours with hungry intention now, lips firm, demanding, like he needs to feel you there, needs the confirmation that this is actually happening.

You kiss him back just as hard. Your fingers slide up into his hair, tangling there, tugging slightly. He groans softly into your mouth at the sensation, hips rocking forward just a fraction before he catches himself. The restraint in him is palpable, vibrating under his skin, every muscle tense like he’s holding back on instinct alone.

Bob’s hand slides from your jaw to your waist, settling there, anchoring you. He presses closer, forehead dipping toward yours as the kiss breaks for half a second, just long enough for you both to breathe.

He doesn’t pull away far or for long. His lips brush yours again, slower now, deeper, the urgency melting into something heavier, more intentional. You can feel his breath against your mouth, feel the way his chest rises and falls against you, feel how badly he wants this in the way he’s barely restraining himself.

“Jesus,” he breathes, so quietly it’s almost lost between you.

Then he kisses you again, even harder.

Your back presses into the wall as his body cages you in, one arm braced beside your head, the other still tight at your waist. The city feels impossibly far away now, the noise reduced to a dull hum. There is only him. His mouth. His hands. The way your pulse is racing like you’re still running. When he finally pulls back, it’s slow and reluctant, lips brushing yours one last time like he’s memorizing the feel of them. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closed, breath uneven.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Your hearts are still pounding. Your legs feel weak. The air between you feels electric, alive, like one wrong move could tip you both straight over the edge. He opens his eyes, and looks at you. He can’t decide what he’s going to do next. He isn’t even sure what he wants. His mind is clouded with wanting you right here, right now, and wanting to just end the night right here at this perfect kiss. His mind was racing until one small word decided everything for him.

“Bob?” You whispered, worried if maybe you did something wrong. You place your hand gently on his chest and the action grounds his wandering mind.

“I want to be a gentleman,” He instantly snaps out of it to confess. “But I also want you. Right here, right now.”

He searches your eyes and waits for a response, a reaction, anything. His one hand still on your waist and the other tucked under your jaw brushing your skin with his thumb. He expected you to push him away, to call him disgusting for wanting to have sex right out in the open, in a dirty back alley in the middle of the night. But instead, your look of worry turned into a smirk as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down so he’s closer to your eye level. Your lips brush his and he lets out a small whine as he chases a kiss from you, but you move just out of reach.

“So take me. Right here, right now,” you whisper.

Bob didn’t need any more permission. He pulled you flush against him, his breath hot against your neck, body crowding yours against the wall once more. He’s flooded with things he could do with you here. The thought of it being so out in the open almost excited him even more. Slowly, Bob takes his hand and places it on your knee. You try and hide the full body shudder this causes, but Bob of course catches it as his hand starts to slide up your leg, bunching the fabric of your dress higher. His fingers brush the smooth skin of your inner thigh, inching toward your core. You were holding your breath, knowing exactly what Bob would find if he moved any closer.

You drop your head back in embarrassment against the wall as he reaches the heat between your legs and finds nothing but slick, bare folds hidden underneath your panty hose. He pauses, a low moan rumbling in his chest at the realization.

"Did you just forget to wear them, or was this on purpose? Trouble," he mutters, the word rough and laced with hunger, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bob then grabs your hips with both hands, guiding you so that you were now facing the wall instead of him. Gently he pushes you forward so you were just slightly bent over in front of him. He hisses at the sight, and it was taking everything in him not to just get on with everything he wanted to do. But he couldn’t rush this, he needed to take his time. Carefully, he reaches both hands below you, running them over the exposed skin of your ass. He’s careful around the scrapes from your fall this morning, which he honestly thought you were exaggerating about. You shift your weight from one foot to another and sigh, clearly getting annoyed with waiting so long.

Bob decides to finally give you at least something, and without warning rips a large hole into your pantyhose. You gasp loudly, the cool air hitting your now exposed flesh as you grab the wall for support at the sudden rough movement. He wastes no more time, deciding you’ve waited long enough, and his fingers part your pussy lips, sliding through the wetness that's been building since the chase began. You didn’t want to admit how much the adrenaline turns you on.

You're drenched, your arousal coating his digits as he strokes your clit in slow, deliberate circles. He’s moving this way on purpose. He wants to know exactly what makes you practically melt in his hands. He wants to know exactly how to get you to make all those sounds he’s been imagining from the first touch. A sharp gasp escapes you, turning into a needy whimper that echoes off the alley walls. Raw almost pornographic sounds that make your cheeks burn even as they fuel the fire in his gaze.

He presses harder, and decides to test his luck further by carefully dipping two fingers inside you, curling them until he finds that special spot that sends sparks up your spine. His other hand runs up your back, gently pressing down to hold you in place against the wall. Your hips buck backwards involuntarily, another moan spilling out, high and desperate, almost so perfect it sounded fake.

Those noises were driving Bob wild. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide, as he watches your face contort in pleasure. He shakes his head to try and distract himself from the almost painful tightness in his pants. He wants to be inside you, to pull every obscene sound from your throat as many times as he could. His thumb starts to grind against your clit while his fingers pump faster, the wet squelch of your pussy filling the narrow space. You clutch at the wall with one hand, the other reaching back and holding his arm, your nails digging in, body trembling as the orgasm builds fast and fierce from his touch.

But he doesn't let you finish like that. He wants to feel you finish with him. With a swift motion, Bob withdraws his hand, the sudden emptiness immediately making you whine. You go to protest, to beg him to keep going, but you were cut off by him spinning you around so you were facing him again.

Everything was moving so fast. He grabs your thighs, hoisting you up against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The cool brick scrapes your back through the thin dress and you hiss at the strong, knowing tomorrow there would be even more scratches all up and down your body. But right now you couldn’t care less. You were chasing the high that was taken away from you, truly unable to form much of a thought as you watch him fumble with his belt. You were nervous for what you were about to see. This was all so new, so exciting.

You watch as he frees his thick cock. It's hard and throbbing, the tip already leaking pre-cum as he lines it up with your soaked entrance. He stays there though, not allowing himself to push into you just yet. Bob searches your eyes, looking for any sign or regret or not wanting to do this anymore. But they weren’t there. In fact, you were practically drooling over the thought of him finally being inside you.

He leans forward and kisses your neck. “Are you sure you want this?” Bob can’t help himself. He needs to hear you, needs to know this is okay.

You nod eagerly, not bothering to respond with real words because you were unsure if it would even come out as anything more than a whine or a babble. He starts to push into you, slowly burying himself to the hilt inside you. You try to keep it contained, but it’s almost impossible. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, the stretch burning deliciously, but he clamps his large hand over your mouth before the sound can carry too far. He makes sure to distract you from

the pain by peppering soft kisses across your whole face, comforting you in any way he can.

His palm muffles your moans, pressing firm against your lips as his fingers splay across your cheek. The risk heightens everything. The alley could be full of prying eyes or footsteps at any moment, but that only makes your walls clench around him tighter.

Bob starts off painfully slow as you get used to his size. But it wasn’t long before his pace quickened and he was fucking you pretty hard, his hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm, each plunge driving his cock deep into your core. Your back bounced roughly against the wall, but you felt none of the pain. The brick bites into your skin, but soon all that pain mixes with the pleasure, your body arching to meet his thrusts.

You taste salt on your tongue from where your lips press against his hand, your breaths coming in hot pants through your nose. Desperate to mark him, you turn your head to free yourself from his muzzle. It’s just enough to lean forward and latch onto his neck, sucking hard on the pulse point below his ear. Your teeth graze the skin as you bite down, leaving a blooming hickey, then another lower on his collarbone, your mouth working feverishly while he pounds into you.

His shirt strains under your grip as you claw at it, frustration and lust making you yank hard. Buttons pop free with a sharp ping, scattering into the shadows, exposing the taut muscles of his chest. You drag your lips across the newly bared skin, sucking bruises into his flesh. Dark possessive marks that make him hiss through gritted teeth. His free hand grips your ass, fingers digging in as he angles his hips to hit deeper, the head of his cock slamming against your cervix with every thrust.

Your muffled cries vibrate against his skin as you try to keep them contained by leaving whatever marks you could, but they were growing louder, more frantic as the coil in your belly tightens. The public danger amps up the adrenaline, your pussy fluttering around him, slick and greedy. Bob's breaths turn ragged, his thrusts erratic as he chases his own release, the veins in his neck standing out under your latest hickey. He grinds against your clit with each thrust, pushing you over the edge.

You come with a strangled scream into his neck, your body convulsing, walls milking his cock in pulsing waves. The orgasm rips through you, leaving you shaking, but he doesn't stop fucking you through it until his own climax hits.

With a loud groan, he pushes in deep one last time, his cock twitching as he floods your pussy, spilling inside you until it leaks down your thighs. He holds you there, both of you panting, his hand still over your mouth as the aftershocks fade. Slowly, he lowers you to your feet, but his eyes promise this is far from over.

The night feels quieter after. Not completely empty, just softer. Bob is now tugging his pants back into place, movements careful and a little clumsy like his body hasn’t quite caught up to what just happened. You’re fixing your hair, smoothing your dress back down over your hips, fingers lingering there for a second as you straighten the fabric. Neither of you speaks for the first few minutes after you finish.

The alley smells like rain and brick and something faintly metallic. Your heart is still beating too fast. Bob glances at you once, then again, clearly unsure what to say, and finally steps closer. He reaches out gently, brushing your hair away from your face with his fingers. The touch is soft now, in a way that makes your chest ache. He leans in and presses a small kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

You smile, nod, then lean in and give him a simple kiss on the lips. Slow, sweet. You couldn’t help but wonder where the hell this version of Bob came from. Nothing about your interactions with him today could’ve prepared you for the way he fucked you just a few minutes ago.

“So,” you say lightly, like nothing monumental just happened, “are you gonna take me back to the famous tower now, or do I have to wait for more than sex in a dark, dirty alley?”

He short-circuits instantly. It’s impressive, honestly, how fast he snaps back into flustered Bob like he didn’t just do incredibly illegal things with you under the open sky. His mouth opens, the closes. He clears his throat.

“Of course,” he says quickly, reaching for your hand like it’s instinct. “Of course I’m taking you there.”

You sigh happily and lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder as he guides you out of the alley and toward the quiet glow of the tower in the distance.

———

The common area of the tower is quiet in the way it only ever is late at night. Lights are dimmed low, the city glowing faintly through the tall windows. Yelena is pacing, arms folded tight across her chest, boots thudding softly against the floor as she moves back and forth.

“He is late,” she says for the third time.

Walker doesn’t even look up from where he’s stretched out on the couch, one arm slung over the back like he owns the place. “He’s on a date, Yelena. That’s usually how they work. They probably went for a walk after or something.”

“It has been hours,” she insists. “What if she murdered him?”

Bucky, perched on the armchair nearby, snorts. “Bob is literally bulletproof.”

“That does not mean he is immune to being stabbed by a hot, mysterious woman,” Yelena fires back.

Walker finally looks up, amused. “That’s actually exactly what that means.”

“I am being realistic here!” She pulls out her phone, thumbs already moving. “I am calling him.”

Before she can hit the screen, the elevator behind them dings, and all three of them freeze.

Yelena exhales in relief, shoulders dropping. “Oh good, He’s home. He is fine.”

Then the doors slide open, and Bob steps out first. He is very much not alone. Yelena’s relief lasts exactly half a second before it turns into wide-eyed panic. Bob is smiling, distracted, one hand laced firmly with someone else’s, and he doesn’t notice anything beyond the person beside him. He guides her forward like the rest of the world has simply ceased to exist. Walker reacts on instinct.

“Oh shit,” he mutters, grabbing Yelena by the arm and yanking her down onto the couch. Bucky barely has time to react before Walker hauls him down too, all three of them ducking just as Bob and his date stumble fully into the room. They peek over the back of the couch like idiots.

Bob and the girl are whispering and laughing, shushing each other between kisses like teenagers sneaking in past curfew. They bump into the edge of the coffee table, giggle, and immediately dissolve into another kiss.

Walker squints. “Damn.”

Yelena elbows him hard. “Do not.”

“What,” he whispers back. “I have eyes. She is in fact hot.”

Bucky leans forward slightly, trying to see without being obvious. “How does he not see us?”

Walker snorts quietly. “He’s busy!”

Bob backs into the wall, moaning softly as the girl presses into him, hands already all over his jacket, his hair, his neck. Walker’s eyes widen as they settle on Bob’s neck.

“Is that a hickey?” he whispers. “Oh my god. That is a hickey.”

Yelena covers her mouth, half scandalized, half delighted. “Oh. He really did it. I hope he used that condom you gave him..”

Bucky blinks slowly. “I did not know Bob had that in him.”

Neither did Bob, apparently. Because he suddenly scoops the girl up without warning, her laugh turning into a surprised gasp as she wraps her legs around him. They disappear down the hallway, still kissing, still whispering and shushing each other like they’re committing a crime. A bedroom door closes, and silence follows.

Walker leans back and gags dramatically. “I am going to bed. I have seen enough.”

Yelena stands slowly, smoothing her t shirt, a soft smile tugging at her mouth. “I am very proud of him.”

Bucky rises as well, shaking his head.

They all scatter awkwardly, each pretending they didn’t just witness something deeply personal, doors closing one by one as the tower finally settles back into quiet.

———

The door to Bob’s room closes softly behind you. The tower feels different up here, quieter, removed from everything that just happened outside. The city glows faintly through the windows, distant and blurred, like it belongs to another life entirely. Bob flicks the light on out of habit, then hesitates and dims it again, leaving only the bedside lamp and the city glow to fill the room.

For a moment, you just stand there. He reaches for you without thinking, fingers brushing your hand like he needs the contact to ground himself. His movements are slower now, careful, like he’s suddenly aware of how real this is.

“I, um,” he starts, then stops.

You smile and step closer, smoothing your dress down over your hips, fixing your hair with a quick shake. He watches you the entire time, eyes warm and almost disbelieving, like he still isn’t sure you didn’t disappear somewhere between the elevator and his door. He turns away first, suddenly shy again, and starts undoing his belt. The quiet sound of it feels louder than it should. He pulls his pants down just enough to step out of them, then fumbles briefly before kicking them aside. When he looks back at you, there’s color high on his cheeks.

You slip your shoes off and take your time with the rest. You let your dress slide down your body slowly, catching it just before it hits the floor. You don’t rush. You’re very aware he’s watching. He doesn’t look away.

You pull one of his shirts from where it’s folded on the bed and tug it over your head. It hangs loose on you, soft and familiar already, the fabric brushing your thighs. When you turn back to him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, shirtless, boxers low on his hips, hands resting uselessly on his knees.

He looks undone. Not frantic. Not hungry. Just… stunned. Like the day caught up to him all at once.

“Quit staring,” you tease gently.

He smiles, small and genuine, and reaches out for you. “Come here.”

You crawl onto the bed and settle beside him. The sheets are cool at first, then warm quickly as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close. You fit against him easily, like this isn’t the first time you’ve done this instead of the first night you’ve met. You talk quietly for a while. You point out things in his room. The neat shelves. The careful way everything has its place. You tease him about it, light and affectionate, and he just laughs softly, brushing his thumb along your arm.

“Your sheets smell nice,” you say, burying your face into his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he replies, pleased in a way that makes your chest feel warm.

He looks peaceful. Blissed out. Like the world finally stopped demanding things from him.

After a moment, he shifts and gently pulls you so you’re sitting in his lap, legs folding around his waist beneath the covers. His hands settle at your hips, steady and warm, thumbs brushing slow circles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You kiss him again. It starts soft. Slow. Unrushed. Nothing like the alley. This one is quieter, deeper, lips lingering like you’re both trying to memorize the feel of it. His hands tighten just a little as the kiss deepens, breath catching against your mouth.

You pull back first. There’s something wicked in your eyes now as you slide lower, hands trailing down his chest. You leave gentle kisses to his skin as you move down, feeling goosebumps grow under your touch.

“What are you doing,” he asks, voice already unsteady as he watches you.

You don’t answer. Instead, you lift the blankets and disappear beneath them.

“I’m returning the favour,” you murmur softly, “for what you did back in the alley.”

Bob exhales sharply, immediately gripping the sheets next to him to ground himself. As you work his boxers off him, his one hand reminds buried in the bed, the other lifting to cover his eyes like he needs a second to prepare.

And the night stretches on, with absolutely no sleep in sight.

———

Bob wakes up carefully. He realizes almost immediately that moving too fast will wake her, and that feels unthinkable. She’s still curled in his bed, half tangled in the sheets, one arm flung over the pillow like she fought sleep and lost. Her hair is everywhere. Her face is soft in a way that makes his chest tighten, like this version of her is something private he wasn’t meant to see yet.

He watches her breathe for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he slips out of bed. The kitchen is quiet when he gets there, still dim with early morning light. He moves on instinct, grabbing bread, the good honey he never uses, butter softening on the counter. Toast feels right. Simple. Comforting. Something that says I noticedwithout him having to say anything out loud.

The toast is now done. It popped up a full minute ago, and he just… stared at it, knife hovering uselessly over the butter, brain somewhere else entirely. He keeps glancing down the hallway like the act of looking might pull her out of sleep sooner, like he can will her into waking up just by missing her hard enough. How does he miss her so much already, and she’s only down the hall?

He exhales, forces himself to move. Butter first. Slow, careful strokes. Edge to edge. Honey next, drizzled deliberately, watching it sink into the warm bread. He uses more than he usually would. He tells himself it’s because she likes honey.

“Okay,” Yelena says from the doorway. “You are being weird.”

Bob nearly drops the knife.

“I’m not,” he says automatically.

She steps fully into the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes sharp and observant. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at him. The plate. The honey. The way his shoulders are slightly hunched like he’s bracing for something. Then her gaze lifts, and she squints. She tries to move his shirt to check him out, but he shoos her away and goes back to his toast.

“Oh,” she says.

Bob immediately reaches up and adjusts his collar, too late. “It’s not-“

“It’s several,” she cuts in. “Several is what it is. Is she a vampire?”

Walker appears behind her, yawning, followed by Bucky. Walker clocks Bob’s neck and stops mid-step.

“Wow,” he says. “You look like you lost a fight with someone enthusiastic.”

Bob groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Can we not do this first thing in the morning?”

Bucky’s eyes stay on Bob’s face instead of his neck. “You’re making breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“For her?”

“Yes.”

Yelena’s mouth curves slightly. “You like her.”

Bob doesn’t answer right away. He sets the plate down on the counter with more care than necessary, then leans back against it, arms folding loosely like he needs something solid behind him. His gaze flicks to the hallway again before he speaks.

“I can’t stop thinking about her,” he admits quietly. “Like… I woke up and she was still there, and I thought maybe I was dreaming. And then she moved and I realized she was real.”

Walker raises his brows. “He’s whipped.”

“I really like her,” Bob says.

Yelena steps closer. “Tell us.”

He hesitates, clearly unsure where to start. “She’s so funny,” he says finally. “She’s lived a life just like me. She takes up space, she’s like the completely opposite of me. She isn’t awkward or scared of anything.”

Walker smirks. “Whiiiiiiped,” he teases as bob continues.

“And she watches,” Bob continues. “Like she’s clocking everything. When I talk, she actually listens. She looks at my mouth when I speak. Not in a polite way.”

He rubs the back of his neck, flustered now that he’s admitting it. He doesn’t want to tell them too many details, but they are his best friends. And it doesn’t help that he knows they will never stop pestering him about it. “And She’s hot,” he adds suddenly, blunt and honest. “Like, distractingly hot. I forgot how to speak multiple times.”

Nobody says anything to him this time.

“And she knows it,” Bob says, half in awe. “But she doesn’t wield it like a weapon. She just… exists. It’s worse.”

Yelena smiles knowingly. “So what happened on your date?”

Bob stiffens. His ears turn red instantly. “We talked.”

Walker waits, noticing the blus creeping up on his friends face. He knows there’s more to it. “And?”

“We drank. She packed a flask filled with tequila..”

“Tequila,” Yelena nods in approval. “That’s a bold choice for a first date. I like it.”

Bob exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself. “We ran from the restaurant. We didn’t pay…”

Bucky blinks, in complete disbelief. “You what?

“The alley,” Bob adds, voice dropping. “Things escalated.”

Yelena, Bucky, and Walker all look between each other with confusion, trying to decipher what the hell Bob could mean. It takes a few minutes, but they finally get there and Yelena’s eyes widen. “You had sex in an alley! In public?!”

Bob nods, mortified. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know I was capable of that.”

Walker grins. “We didn’t know that either. I knew that condom would be useful. And after?”

Bob gestures helplessly toward the hallway. He decides to keep the fact that the condom remains unused to himself. “After was… also not planned.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then. Walker lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. You’re nasty! Who knew it took a mystery girl from the market to let out Reynolds’s freak.”

“Please keep it down,” Bob says quickly. “She’s asleep. I don’t want her to hear me talking like this.”

And almost as if he summoned her, small footsteps shuffle softly down the hall. Everybody and everything stops.

———

You appear in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bob’s shirts, hair a disaster, eyes still heavy with sleep. You pause when you realize you have an audience. It was incredibly clear they were trying to act normal, as if they weren’t just talking about you before you walked in.

“You were absolutely talking about me,” you say, walking up next to Bob like you owned the place.

Bob closes his eyes. Yelena straightens immediately. “Good morning. You look good this morning. It’s nice to see you again.” She tries to hold her laugh to herself, but isn’t able to hide the smile. You wink at her, because of course you had to flirt a little.

Walker smirks. “We-“

Yelena smacks his arm. “No.”

You laugh softly, rubbing at one eye. “Relax. I don’t bite before coffee.”

Bob moves toward you like he’s been waiting for permission, holding the plate out carefully. “I made you toast. Butter and honey.”

You smile at him, warm and sleepy. “For me?”

He nods. You take a bite, eyes closing for a second. “Oh. Yeah. This is really good.”

The look on his face is ridiculous. Like you just gave him a giant gold star. And as you lean against the counter beside him, stealing another bite, Bob thinks with startling clarity that he’s already in trouble with you.

You lean against the counter beside him, still sleepy, still warm, absently having another bite of toast. Honey sticks slightly to your fingers. You lick it off without thinking. Bob watches. He shifts uncomfortably, a flash of exactly what your mouth was doing to him last night crossing his mind. He immediately looks away like he’s been caught doing something criminal.

They all notice, because of course they would, it’s not like you were hiding anything very well. Walker groans in disgust at the sight in front of him. “God it’s bad enough we had to see you guys last night when you came home,” Yelena shoves him lightly, knowing they all agreed to take their watching party to the grave. “Sorry! It’s gross. New horny Bob is gross.”

“So,” you say casually, glancing around the kitchen, trying to do anything to change the subject, “is this the part where you all interrogate me, or does that come after coffee?”

Walker grins. “Oh, we already interrogated him.”

You glance up at Bob, amused. “Oh yeah?”

He clears his throat, ears pink again. “They’re exaggerating.”

“Absolutely not,” Yelena says. “You should have heard him.”

You raise a brow, clearly intrigued. “He talk about me? Did he tell you about the sex in the alleyway?

Bob shifts his weight, suddenly very interested in the countertop, turning the darkest red of shade youve ever seen him. “Not like-“

“He absolutely did,” Walker cuts in. “Very detailed.”

Yelena shoots him a look. “Not that detailed.”

You laugh softly and lean a little closer to Bob, shoulder brushing his arm. “What kind of detailed?”

Bob exhales, defeated. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Oh yes honey, Immensely.”

You take another bite of toast, humming again. Bob swallows.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness.

You tilt your head, studying him openly now. “You don’t look like someone who regrets last night.”

His answer comes too fast. “I don’t.”

The kitchen goes quiet for half a second.

You smile at him, slow and knowing. “Good.”

Yelena clears her throat loudly. “Okay. Enough. This is starting to feel like something I shouldn’t be watching.”

Walker nods. “Agreed. I suddenly need coffee. Far away from this.”

Bucky mutters something about training and makes a quiet exit. One by one, they scatter, leaving the kitchen to settle back into something softer. Something almost private again. You finish the toast and set the plate aside, then turn back to Bob. You step into his space without hesitation, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to look at you.

“You okay,” you ask lightly.

He nods, then pauses. Shakes his head slightly. “I think I’m… catching up.”

“To what.”

He hesitates, searching for the right words. “To the fact that I don’t know how to do this casually.”

You blink. “Do what.”

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “You. Last night. This morning. I keep thinking it was just fun, and then you walk out wearing my shirt and eating my toast like you’ve been here forever.”

You smile, softer now. “That freak you out?”

“A little,” he admits. “But mostly it just… feels important.”

The word hangs there.

You study him for a moment, then reach up and fix the collar of his shirt, fingers lingering at his chest. “Good,” you say quietly. “Because I don’t really do casual either.”

Something settles in him at that. Clicks into place.

Bob realizes, with startling clarity, that this wasn’t a one-night thing the moment he woke up and checked to see if you were still breathing beside him. That it wasn’t casual when he made toast instead of coffee. That it definitely wasn’t casual when he imagined you leaving and felt a tightness in his chest he didn’t know what to do with. He reaches for your hand without thinking.

And for the first time, he doesn’t feel nervous about it at all.

[epiphanyrogers]

Backstage Pass

bodyguard!steve rogers x popstar!reader

prompt: they said get up there and make some trouble summary: steve's idea of warming up before your performance is very hands-on. warnings/tags: SMUT, p in v with protection (woohoo!!), petnames (sweetheart, superstar), semi public sex, one ass spank, 18+ MDNI from maddie: this should've been day 21 of january jumble scribbles!! i really enjoyed the popstar x bodyguard steve i did for day 9 so wanted to revisit them, but you don’t have to read that one to read this! word count: 337

Event Masterlist | Prev | Next | Masterlist

The dressing room spins, star-bright with vanity bulbs and the rhythmic thud of bass bleeding through the floor from the arena outside. You brace yourself on the edge of the counter, glitter-streaked eyes barely able to stay open, breath catching as Steve fucks you from behind - controlled and relentless - like he’s got all the time in the world even though you’re due on stage any second.

His cock drags along every soaked, swollen inch, pushing you to the edge for the second time - or maybe third? You’ve lost count. Your forehead rests against the mirror, lips parted, a whimper ghosting across the glass.

Somewhere down the corridor, the roar of the crowd swells, hungry for you. A knock comes, sharp, then your manager's voice through the door, crisp and impatient.

“Two minutes! Let’s go, we need you backstage!”

You try to speak. Try to respond. But Steve chooses that exact moment to angle his hips just right, and all that spills from your mouth is a ragged, broken: “I’m—oh fuck—I’m coming.”

Steve laughs low behind you, breath hot against your shoulder as he leans in, still driving into you. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he coos, thick with amusement. “You are, aren’t you? So fuckin’ needy.” His hand drops, fingers slicking over your clit, working you faster. “C’mon then, let me feel that pretty cunt tighten up. Milk my cock like a good little pop princess.”

Your thighs shake. His two fingers circling your clit press firmer, coaxing you right to the edge again. You come hard, pulsing around him as he groans and thrusts deep, spilling into the condom with a muttered curse.

There’s barely a breath between before he’s pulling your panties back in place, and pulling your sparkly little dress down like nothing’s happened. He gives your ass a sharp little slap, more patronizing than punishing, and grins as you stumble forward on wobbly legs.

“Go on, superstar,” he teases, voice full of smug satisfaction. “They said get up there and make some trouble.”

thank you for all the love on these scribbles so far!! the reblogs and comments have been much appreciated and i'm having a lot of fun with the prompts! if you enjoyed, please like & reblog/comment as i would be super grateful for feedback <3

[cadiecore]

Hell’s kitchen | Bob Reynolds

Summary: You realize housewife Bob is cooking for your approval so you decide to have some fun with it

Warnings: Bit of sex…and some more sex…i say this a lot (and will continue to) but this genuinely might be at least the second best sex i’ve ever written so yall better EAT IT UP

A/N: this is another request from my lady @tittittoee i really hope you like it. also i stg anytime i wanna write something non sex i end up writing sex anyway i just can’t help it. im gonna start writing some really angsty stuff that nobody’s gonna read and will just put me in my feels but it’ll be fun

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

By the time the quinjet touches down, everyone is talking at once, voices overlapping in that familiar post-mission chaos that only happens when nobody wants to sit with the adrenaline crash in silence.

Walker is already replaying the entry point like it’s a courtroom argument, hands moving as if the rest of you are a jury he is trying to win over. Yelena interrupts him every few seconds, not to correct him, but because she enjoys watching him get louder. Ava leans against the wall near the ramp, arms folded, quiet and observant, eyes flicking between speakers without comment. And Bucky sits across from you, forearms resting on his knees, gaze steady and unreadable, saying nothing but clearly clocking everything.

Bob is not with you, he never is, though that part barely registers anymore.

The ramp lowers after what feels like forever, the cool air hitting your face, and you roll your shoulders as you step off and head into the tower. already thinking about a shower and maybe ten minutes where nobody speaks to you. You know that’s unlikely with this group of people. The compound doors slide open and the first thing that hits you is the smell.

Butter. Garlic. Something roasted. Something with potato maybe?

You slow without meaning to in the doorway, and Walker nearly runs straight into your back.

“Oh god,” you say, flatly. “Not this again.”

He puts his hands on either side of you and forcefully guides you through the door and out of their way. “What do you mean again?”

You don’t answer him right away. Your eyes are already on the kitchen. The lights are on. The counters are way too clean for somebody spending what seems like the whole day cooking. Food is already laid out like someone planned for this.

Walker’s entire expression changes. “He cooked?”

Yelena’s smile spreads instantly. “He cooked.”

Ava tilts her head, considering. “Smells…like chicken.”

“That’s how he lures you in, with chicken!”you say. “Next thing you know, he’s labeling leftovers.”

Walker laughs as he shrugs out of his jacket. “I love when he labels leftovers.”

From the kitchen comes the soft clink of a utensil being set down, followed by footsteps that are unhurried and familiar.

Then Bob appears. He looks comfortable here in a way he never quite does out in the field. Sleeves rolled up, apron tied neatly at his waist, hair slightly mussed like he’s been moving around for hours with no break. There is a faint smudge of flour on his forearm that he clearly has not noticed. You look him up and down and bite down the smile at the little mess he’s made of himself.

He smiles when he sees all of you, relief softening his expression. “You’re back earlier than I thought,” he says. “Everything go okay?”

Walker drops his bag and the rest of his gear as he walked deeper into the kitchen. “You made food.”

Bob nods once. “Dinner’s ready.”

Walker spreads his arms like this is a miracle bestowed upon him. “I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t,” Bob says.

You snort. “He’s emotional. Ignore him.”

Bob’s eyes flick to you without him meaning to, then back to Walker. “Hi,” he says, like he forgot to greet you specifically.

“Hi,” you reply. “So. This is happening again?”

He frowns slightly. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” you say. “If you like enabling.”

Yelena drifts toward the counter, peering at the plates like she’s inspecting art. “You are spoiling us. This is dangerous behavior.”

“I’m feeding you,” Bob says. “That’s it.”

Ava grabs a plate quietly, but pauses just long enough to glance at Bob before she does it, like she’s checking whether it’s okay to accept.

Bucky moves last. As he passes Bob, he murmurs, “You didn’t have to.”

Bob’s shoulders ease just a fraction. “I wanted to.”

You hang back a moment longer, arms crossed, watching him move around the kitchen with that infuriating calm competence. This phase of his has been building for weeks now. First it was laundry. Then repairs. Then breakfasts. Then lunches. Now full dinners that smell like effort. The team loves it. You hate how natural he looks doing it. You hate how on days where you have nothing to do, you find yourself peeking in on Bob, watching him in his happy place. You didn’t want to admit it but if you could, you’d tell yourself you could stay there and watch him all day.

You finally decide to grab a plate and sit. Bob notices immediately. You don’t even have to look up to know it. The shift in his attention is subtle, but it’s there, like the room has tilted just slightly in your direction.

Walker is already eating. “This is ridiculous,” he says through a mouthful. “You’re outdoing yourself.”

Bob shrugs, clearly trying not to look pleased. “It’s not that big a deal.”

You take a bite. You chew slowly, deliberately, fully aware of the fact that Bob is watching you like you’re holding his final exam between your teeth.

“You’re staring,” you say without looking at him.

“I’m waiting,” he replies.

You glance up, lips curling. “You look nervous. You that desperate for my approval darling?”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Walker groans between bites. “This is painful.”

Bob folds his arms at you. “Just say whatever you’re going to say.”

You hum, thoughtful, taking another bite like you’re genuinely considering it.

“It’s fine,” you say.

Bob exhales, shoulders loosening just a fraction before he catches himself. “Fine?”

“Yes,” you continue. “Which is unfortunate.”

Walker slams his fork down. “There it is.”

Yelena props her chin in her hand, delighted. “Explain.”

Bob’s jaw tightens. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s trying too hard,” you say. “It’s food.”

“It’s?” Bob scoffs, questioning. “Don’t you mean me?”

“It wants approval,” you reply. “Which is embarrassing.”

“I see what you’re doing. I am not trying to impress you,” Bob says quickly.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why are you arguing with me so hard?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Ava snorts quietly into her drink. Bucky’s mouth twitches.

Bob exhales. “What would you change?”

You smile, slow and knowing. “Relax. Stop performing.”

“I’m not performing!”

“You are,” you say lightly. “But it’s kind of cute.”

Walker points between the two of you. “This is flirting.”

“It is not,” Bob says at the same time you say, “Absolutely not.”

Yelena claps once. “Excellent timing.”

Bob looks at you again, and this time he doesn’t look away as fast. There’s something annoyed there, sure, but there’s also focus, curiosity, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that keeps moving.

“You always do this,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Push,” he says. “Then pretend you don’t know why I’m reacting.”

You lean back in your chair, pleased. “Maybe you’re just sensitive.”

“Or maybe,” he says, voice steady, “you’re enjoying it.”

Your smile sharpens. “What would give you that idea?”

“The fact that you’re still eating it.”

You glance down at your plate, realize you’re nearly finished, and scoff. “I can critique and still be hungry.”

He watches you take another bite, eyes flicking to your mouth and lingering far too long before he can stop himself. Bob knows everybody saw this happen, and quickly tries and fails to play it off.

Walker makes a gagging noise. “I hate this table.”

You finish the plate. Every bite. You set your fork down. “See. Fine.”

Bob shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you say sweetly, standing. “You keep asking.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The air feels tight, like something is being stretched just a little too far.

Then Yelena laughs loudly, breaking it. “I cannot wait to see how this ends.”

Bob looks away first.

You walk out of the kitchen to finally have that shower, wearing a smile you don’t bother hiding.

————

You wake up the next morning with the irritating awareness that you need to start your day. Not alert. Not energized. Just… conscious. Your ceiling stares back at you while your brain replays the end of last night in pieces you absolutely did not ask for. Bob standing at the counter. The way he folded his arms when you criticized the food. The way his jaw tightened before he smoothed it out. The way his eyes stayed on you even when he pretended they weren’t. The way he watched your mouth every time you took a bite and didn’t even try to hide it.

You roll onto your side and groan softly.

This is stupid. You are not thinking about him. You are thinking about the reaction. That’s different. You enjoy reactions. You enjoy getting under people’s skin. You enjoy knowing you have an effect. Especially on him. That’s all this is.

You push yourself out of bed and pad into the bathroom, hair a mess, eyes still heavy. As you brush your teeth, your reflection watches you with mild suspicion. You smirk at yourself without meaning to. He did get flustered last night, and it was all because of you grading his food. That thought lands warmer than it should. You rinse your mouth and shake your head, trying to dislodge it. Bob Reynolds is annoying. He is too calm. Too earnest. Too willing to engage with you when you needle him instead of backing off like a sane person would. That does not make him attractive.

You pause.

Okay. Maybe it does a little.

You pull on clothes and head out into the hallway, determined to occupy your time with literally anything else. Training. Coffee. Picking a fight with Walker. Something.

The compound is quieter this morning, the usual hum of activity spread thin. You pass the kitchen without looking inside on purpose. You almost make it to your room again after your little morning routine before you notice the container. It sits just outside your door, neat and intentional, like it belongs there. Your name is written on top in handwriting you recognize immediately.

You stare at it for a full five seconds longer than necessary. Of course he left you lunch today. You glance down the hall, half expecting him to be there pretending not to watch. The corridor is empty. Quiet.

You crouch and pick up the container, heavier than you expected, and slip back into your room, shutting the door behind you like you’re hiding something. You sit on the edge of your bed and open it. The smell hits first. Warm. Familiar. Simple. Not showy.

It’s not one of last night’s elaborate dishes. This is… thoughtful. Something easy to eat. Comforting without trying to impress.

You frown at it. It’s like he knew you’d have a hard time finding something wrong with this to poke at him.

“Unfair,” you mutter.

Tucked beneath the lid is a small sticky note.

Let me know what you think.

No qualifiers. No jokes. No defensiveness.

Just that. You chew on the inside of your cheek, annoyed by how much that works on you. As you eat, you tell yourself you’re being critical, cataloging flaws, ready to pounce on whatever you can tear apart. But halfway through, you realize you’ve stopped doing that. You’re just… eating. And enjoying it. You scowl at the empty container when you’re done. This is not how this was supposed to go.

You grab a pen and stare at the note, tapping the tip against the paper while your thoughts chase each other in circles. You could be nice. You could say thank you. You could give him the satisfaction. The idea makes your skin prickle.

You write instead:

Better. Still overthinking it. Relax.

You hesitate, then add a tiny line beneath it.

You’re not auditioning.

That feels right. You tuck the note back into the container and set it outside your door like you’re returning a challenge. You don’t see Bob for most of the morning, and that somehow makes it worse. Every time you pass the kitchen, you half expect him to be there, pretending to clean something that doesn’t need it. Every time you hear footsteps, your attention flicks up before you can stop yourself. This is ridiculous.

By the time you cut through the kitchen in the afternoon to grab water, he’s there, exactly where you knew he’d be. Bob stands at the counter with the container open in front of him. He’s holding your note between two fingers, reading it like it might change if he stares long enough. You lean against the doorway and watch him for a moment before announcing yourself.

“That bad, huh?”

He looks up, startled, then clears his throat. “No. I mean. Not bad.” A redness dusts his cheeks as you stare him down.

“Liar.”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “You said relax.”

“I did.”

He sets the note down carefully. “I just wanted to make something you’d actually eat.”

You lift a brow. “I eat everything.”

“You critique everything.”

“Because you keep asking.”

“Because you keep answering.”

You smile, slow and pleased. “You like my answers.”

“I like… honesty.”

You hum. “Sure you do.”

You’re still leaning in the doorway when footsteps sound behind you. Bob hasn’t noticed yet. He’s still looking at the note, brows faintly drawn together like he’s trying to decode it instead of taking it at face value. Then Yelena appears, coffee in hand, eyes immediately zeroing in on the counter.

“What is that,” she asks lightly.

Bob’s head snaps up. “Nothing.”

“That,” she says again, already reaching for the note.

He reacts on instinct, sliding the note out of reach with a quick flick of his wrist. “Yelena.”

She grins. “Oh, so it is something.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. Yelena lunges for it anyway. Bob shifts sideways, blocking her with his body, one hand flat on the counter, the other keeping the note just out of her grasp.

“No,” he says. “It’s not for you.”

“For who then,” she asks sweetly, trying to lean around him.

“For me.”

“That’s suspicious.”

Before either of them can react, Walker appears out of nowhere, hand darting in like he’s been waiting for his moment.

“Got it.”

Bob spins. “John.”

Walker is already backing away, holding the note up triumphantly. “You cannot dodge two threats at once.”

Yelena abandons Bob immediately and joins Walker, peering over his shoulder as he reads.

“Oh,” Walker says. “Oh this is good.”

“Give it back,” Bob says, following them. “It’s private.”

Yelena squints, doing her best to mimic your voice. “Better. Still overthinking it. Relax.”

Walker snorts. “You’re not auditioning for her you know.”

Bob groans. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Yelena looks up slowly. Then she looks at you. Then she looks back at Bob. Her smile spreads, slow and delighted.

“Oh,” she says. “This is the flirting that Walker said.”

“It is not,” Bob says immediately.

You say it at the same time, just like yesterday, as if it was almost rehearsed. “Absolutely not.”

Walker looks between the two of you. “You wrote this?”

“You cooked for her,” Yelena adds. “And you left note. That’s so cute.”

“It was with the food,” Bob says weakly.

“And she wrote back,” Walker says. “With instructions.”

Ava drifts in just then, glances at the note once, then at Bob. Ava shrugs. “It’s flirting.”

Bob rubs his face. “It’s lunch.”

Yelena beams. “Aggressive lunch.”

You push off the doorway at last, unable to help yourself as you hold your hand out for the note. “If you’re done dissecting my feedback?”

Walker hands the note back reluctantly, smirking down at you. “Five out of ten. Could be meaner.”

“Noted,” you say.

You shove the note against Bob’s chest and he catches it immediately, not without letting his fingers linger over yours a little longer than he should. You swore you could feel his heartbeat quicken at your touch.

You meet his eyes for a brief second. There it is again. That focused, slightly flustered look, like he’s trying to decide whether he’s annoyed or intrigued by you and failing at both.

“I’ll let you guys know how the next one goes,” you say casually.

Bob watches you leave, the note still in his hand. Yelena watches him watch you.

“Oh,” she says softly. “He is doomed.”

———-

The teasing becomes routine faster than you expect.

Not comfortable, exactly. Just familiar enough that it slips into the rhythm of the compound like background noise. Bob cooks. You comment. The team lingers a little longer than necessary, pretending they are not waiting to see how you will react.

It starts small. At breakfast, Bob sets a plate in front of you without comment. Eggs done the way you usually prefer them, even though you never explicitly said how. You notice. You do not acknowledge it.

You take a bite, then another.

“Huh,” you say. “Not bad.”

Bob looks up from the counter a little too quickly. “Just not bad?”

“Don’t get cocky,” you add. “You’re still on thin ice.”

From the table, Walker points his fork at Bob. “She didn’t insult it. That’s progress.”

“I did insult it,” you reply. “Subtly.”

Bob presses his lips together, clearly trying not to smile. He fails.

By lunch, he asks questions. Casual ones, he pretends. Ones he throws out while wiping down the counter or reaching for a pan, like the answers do not matter as much as they very clearly do.

“Too much heat?” he asks once.

You shrug. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re trying to prove something.”

He shoots you a look. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you say lightly. “It’s very you.”

From the doorway, Bucky pauses, coffee in hand, eyes flicking between the two of you. “You’re enjoying this? It doesn’t hurt your ego too much?”

Bob glances at him. “I’m just getting feedback.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, then moves on.

At dinner, the banter sharpens. Bob is bold enough to argue back now. Not loudly, not dramatically, but enough that you can feel the push and pull settling into place.

“That’s not what you said last time,” he tells you when you comment on the seasoning.

“That was a different context.”

“It’s the same dish.”

“And yet,” you say, leaning back in your chair, “you managed to make it more insecure.”

From beside you, Ava glances up from her plate. “I like it.”

Bob’s eyes light up for half a second. “You do?”

“Yes.”

You scoff. “She has bad taste,” you nudge her with your elbow. “Quit contradicting me, you’re supposed to be on my team.”

Ava looks at you flatly. “Contradicting? You finished yours.”

You do not dignify that with a response.

Yelena has started rating the exchanges out loud.

“Today was six,” she announces one night, leaning back in her chair. She furrows her brows, contemplating her rating. “Yes, 6 rating. Good tension. More eye contact than usual.”

Bob groans, running his hand over his face.”Please stop.”

You grin. “No, keep going. I want to know what to improve to entertain you guys more.”

He shoots you a look. “You’re insufferable.”

“You keep feeding me! It’s like you get off on the judging.”

That shuts him up, but just for a moment.

You catch him watching you more often now. as the time passes. Not just when you eat, but when you pass through the kitchen, when you lean on the counter, when you open the fridge and stand there too long deciding what you want. You notice the way he adjusts things for you. Portions. Ingredients. The way he stops using one spice and switches to another without explanation. You tell yourself you are enjoying the game. You tell yourself that the warm twist in your stomach when he looks pleased is just satisfaction at winning.

You are lying to yourself, but you do not stop.

It’s late when it finally happens.

The tower has gone quiet, the kind of quiet that settles in after midnight when everyone has either gone to bed or is pretending they have. You pad into the kitchen in your pajamas, glasses perched on the end of your nose, hair loose and unstyled because you are not trying to impress anyone. You should be asleep right now, but it was always around this time that you couldn’t help but feel like snacking. Boredom eating would kill you one day, but you push those thoughts away.

You open the fridge and stare into it, light spilling out and illuminating the room around you. Leftovers. Containers. Things that require effort to heat up that you do not currently have. You sigh and fiddle with your glasses, pushing them up, then letting them slide back down your nose. Your head falls back in a groan, holding the fridge as you sway back and forth. Somehow there was so much food, and yet none at all.

“Looking for something in particular?”

You practically jump out of your skin as you let out a loud yelp, and you quickly spin around covering your mouth as you straighten yourself.

Bob stands in the doorway to the kitchen, hair damp like he showered not long ago, sweatshirt hanging loose over sweatpants that sit low on his hips. You could smell him from where you stood and your heart practically fluttered. Why did he have to smell so good? Like he was sitting next to a campfire all night, but in a good way. He looks far too good, which is unfair this late at night.

“You scared me!” you say.

“You were rattling containers,” he replies. “It was suspicious. You’re gonna wake up the whole tower with this hunger.”

You snort. “I’m starving. Don’t judge.”

He steps closer, peering into the fridge over your shoulder. “You don’t ever eat what I make this late.”

“I don’t want a whole production. I require snacks not a five course meal.”

“I can make something simple?”

You glance at him sideways. “I said a snaaaaack,” You whine, about ready to admit defeat and walk back to your room.

“You know,” he says, then pauses. “You always snack around this time.” He waves you away from the fridge, shutting it behind him.

You blink as you lean against the counter behind him. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

The way he says it makes your chest tighten just a little. How did he know that? Does he watch you? Does Bob take an interest in your late night activities?

All of a sudden, He reaches past you into the cupboard above your head, close enough that his arm brushes yours. His shirt lifts as he stretches, just enough that you catch the line of muscle at his side, the way it moves under skin, the way his sweatpants dip lower than they probably should.

Heat floods your face so fast it almost makes you dizzy. You stare, you cant help it.

Bob pulls down a box and sets it on the counter. Captain Crunch. You freeze, because he really was watching you. It wasn’t just a line, a cheap thing to gauge your reaction. He glances at you, casual, like this is nothing. Like he doesn’t know your favourite guilty pleasure snack.

“I figured this is what you actually want. I always buy extra box’s so you don’t run out.” He refuses to look you in the eye as he admits to watching you.

“You snoop,” you say weakly. It was the best you could come up with, your brain still fuzzy picturing the stretch of his arm and his exposed skin.

“I notice,” he replies. “You keep hiding boxes in your room.”

“I do not hide.”

“You absolutely hide.”

You snatch the cereal off the counter, flustered and irritated and suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat. “This is a violation!”

His mouth twitches. “Relax..”

You glare at him, trying to come up with a rebuttal. Anything. He was using your own line against him now. Sighing, you push your glasses up once more. “I’m going to bed.”

You turn and leave before he can say anything else, clutching the cereal like contraband, pulse still racing. Behind you, Bob watches you go, expression thoughtful, like he just learned something important. His eyes don’t leave your back until he hears the soft click of your bedroom door.

And as you crawl into bed, cheeks still warm, you finally admit it to yourself.

You don’t just like messing with him. You like him noticing, you like how close he gets.

You like how flustered he makes you feel. You definitely like looking at him, and that realization is far more dangerous than any teasing you’ve done so far.

———-

You wake up later than you meant to yet again.

Not because you slept well, but because you kept waking up and deciding it was easier to close your eyes again than face the day. The light filtering through the curtains is already too bright by the time you finally roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed you. Your first thought is cereal. Your second thought is Bob.

You groan out loud and roll onto your side, shoving your face into the pillow like that might smother the memory. It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse, because now you’re thinking about the way his arm brushed yours when he reached past you, the casual confidence of it, the fact that he didn’t even hesitate. You yank the pillow away and sit up.

“This is stupid,” you mutter to the empty room.

You are not fourteen. You do not get flustered over arms and cereal and late-night kitchens. You mess with people. You enjoy reactions. That’s all this is. Bob is easy to poke at because he reacts, and you like knowing you can get under his skin.

That does not mean you want him.

Except… you liked the way he noticed things. You liked that he knew what you ate when you thought no one was paying attention. You liked that he didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t preen or tease you back, just handed you the box like it made sense for him to know.

That part sits heavier in your chest the longer you think about it. You drag yourself out of bed and change into something comfortable, then promptly climb right back onto the mattress like you never left. You scroll mindlessly on your phone, not actually absorbing anything, until there’s a knock at the door that doesn’t wait for permission.

Yelena lets herself in like she owns the place, which she sort of does. She takes one look at you sprawled on the bed and smiles.

“Oh,” she says. “You are avoiding?”

“I am relaxing.”

“You are hiding,” she corrects, kicking off her boots and climbing onto the bed without asking. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She raises an eyebrow. You sigh. That’s when you tell her everything. Not all at once, but in pieces. You start with the kitchen, then the fridge, then the cereal. You skip over your reaction at first, glossing over it like it’s irrelevant, but Yelena notices immediately.

“And then,” she prompts, eyes bright, “you ran away.”

“I left.”

“With cereal. That he bought you. After watching you sneak it to your room.”

“Yes.”

“In panic.”

“No.”

She grins. “In panic.”

You drop your face into your hands. “I did not mean to react like that.”

“But you did,” she says cheerfully. “This is interesting. He is hot, you reacted like he is hot.”

“It’s annoying. You’re annoying!” You reach across and hit her on the arm with a small stuffed bunny you keep on your bed.

“It is sexy,” she corrects. “He noticed you. He paid attention. You do not like this because you like control.”

You peek at her through your fingers. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I am delighted.”

You sit up, cross-legged now, agitation buzzing under your skin. “He shouldn’t know things like that about me.”

Yelena tilts her head. “But he does. And you did not stop him.”

“I didn’t know he was paying attention.”

She smiles slowly. “That is the part that scares you.”

You scowl. “You’re reading too much into it.”

She leans closer. “Did you like it? Did you like watching him back?”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Exhale.

“…Yes.”

Yelena claps her hands softly, thrilled. “There it is.”

“I don’t want to,” you add quickly. “I don’t want this.”

“And yet,” she says gently, “you have it.”

You spend the rest of the morning in your room, half venting, half spiraling, Yelena alternating between teasing you mercilessly and offering unsettlingly accurate observations about your behavior. She points out every sign you’ve missed. The way you always sit in the kitchen longer when Bob’s there. The way you argue with him more than anyone else. The way you watch him, and then deny deny deny when you’re caught by anybody else. The way you soften, just a little, when he looks genuinely pleased.

By the time afternoon rolls around, you’re curled on your side, staring at the wall, emotionally exhausted.

“I am not going to dinner,” you announce.

Yelena hums. “You are absolutely going to dinner.”

“No.”

“There is food. Food is fuel.”

“I don’t care.”

She smiles wider. “It is your favorite.”

Your stomach drops. Before you can argue, there’s a knock at the door. Heavy. Impatient.

Yelena hops off the bed. “Showtime.”

The door opens to Walker, arms crossed, already annoyed.

“Get dressed, it’s dinner!”

And you know, with sinking certainty, that whatever you were trying to avoid is waiting for you in the kitchen.

By the time you make it halfway down the hall, you know. Not because you see anything yet. Because the smell reaches you first, warm and heavy and unmistakably familiar. Bread, cheese, tomatoes in a slow-simmered sauce, the kind that clings instead of sliding away.

You slow your steps without meaning to.

Stuffed pasta. Not just any kind. The kind packed full of cheese, soft and indulgent, the kind you order at your favourite italian place on the corner. Whether it was a good or bad day, that meal was always there for you. The kind you eat when you want comfort and nothing else. When you want something that will not surprise you or challenge you or ask questions.

Yelena’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, light but insistent. “You see,” she murmurs, voice amused. “It’s not a trap.”

“Lena help me!” you plead, but it’s too late. she’s already leaving, snickering to herself.

The kitchen is already occupied. Ava sits at the table, arms folded loosely, eyes on you instead of the food. Bucky leans against the counter near the sink, posture relaxed, gaze fixed not on the stove but on Bob.

And there he is. Bob stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, movements steady and unhurried. He looks at peace, like he’s never had a rough moment in his life.

He glances over his shoulder, catches sight of you, and something shifts in his expression. Not nerves. Not surprise. Awareness.

“Hey,” he says.

The word lands softer than it should.

“Hi,” you reply too quickly.

Yelena slides into a chair like she’s settling in for entertainment. “This smells incredible,” she announces. “Deeply suspicious.” You roll your eyes, knowing she’s just instigating at this point.

From behind you, Walker pushes past, already grinning. “Okay, wow. This smells serious.”

You stop just inside the doorway.

There’s no denying it now. Stuffed cheese pasta sits steaming on the counter, sauce glossy, edges just slightly crisped, plated with care that makes your chest tighten uncomfortably.

You sit because everyone is waiting for you to. The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you pull it out, the sound cutting through the quiet that’s settled over the kitchen. Bob sets the plate down in front of you without ceremony, and starts to grate some fresh parmesan over top. He stops at the perfect moment, because of course he does, and then steps back, like he’s giving you space instead of hovering.

Walker digs in immediately. “Okay, wow. That’s… yeah. That’s really good.”

Yelena hums in agreement, twirling her fork before pointing at you. “You look offended already.”

You ignore her and look down at your plate.

There’s steam still curling up from the sauce. Bob watches you, careful not to stare too hard.

“You don’t have to eat it,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply, and pick up your fork anyway.

The first bite is slow. Not because you’re trying to be dramatic, but because you’re bracing yourself. You chew, letting the texture settle, the flavors hit. It’s exactly right, and you just hate that. Ava notices your reaction first. She doesn’t say anything, just glances at Bob, then back at you. You swallow and take another bite before you can stop yourself.

Walker looks between you and Bob. “So. Are we waiting for commentary, or can I relax?”

You set your fork down.

“It’s good,” you say.

Bob’s shoulders ease just a fraction. It’s subtle, but you catch it, and something sharp twists in your chest.

Then you add, “But it’s a lot.”

The relief drains from his face, and a look of hurt you’ve never seen takes its place. “A lot how?”

You shrug, trying to keep it light, and maybe shake the look off his face. “You didn’t need to go this hard.”

“I wasn’t trying to impress anyone,” he says.

Yelena tilts her head. “He absolutely was.”

Bob shoots her a look. “Not helping.”

You exhale. “This isn’t just dinner.”

He frowns slightly. “It’s food?”

“No,” you say, tapping your fork lightly against the plate. “It’s my food.”

The table goes quiet as Bob straightens. It’s hard to read the look on his face. “What does that mean?”

“It means you didn’t guess,” you say. “You didn’t ask. You knew.”

“I paid attention to you,” he replies. “That’s not a crime. At least it wasn’t when i pointed this out yesterday.”

You cringe at his comment, hoping there would be no questions from the peanut gallery watching this whole thing go down. “It is when I didn’t know you were doing it.”

Walker shifts in his chair. “Way to make it weird guys..”

Bucky speaks for the first time, calm and even. “Let them talk.” You’re surprised he hasn’t left, he isn’t exactly the kind of guy for drama.

Bob keeps his eyes on you. “I didn’t think it would bother you.”

“Well, it does,” you snap, then immediately soften, annoyed at yourself. “Because it feels… personal.”

“It is personal,” he says. “That was the point.”

That lands harder than anything else.

You laugh, short and defensive. “See, that’s the problem.”

Bob’s brow furrows. “How is that a problem?”

“Because you don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I wasn’t deciding anything,” he says. “I was trying to do something nice.”

“For who,” you ask. “Me, or you?”

The question hangs there, ugly and heavy.

Bob’s jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe,” you say, voice sharper now. “But neither is turning me into something you figured out without telling me.”

Silence.

He stares at you for a long moment, hurt flashing across his face before he pulls it back under control.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

That’s it. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t explain. He reaches for the plates and starts clearing them, movements controlled and efficient like he’s shutting something down.

The table feels colder immediately.

Yelena watches him go after he’s finished cleaning up, then looks at you. “That wasn’t teasing.”

“Was a little bit harsh,” Ava nods, agreeing. “And i don’t totally understand the problem?”

Bucky’s voice is steady. “You panicked.”

You stare at your plate, appetite completely gone. “I didn’t ask him to care like that.”

“No,” Bucky says gently. “But he did.”

Walker exhales. “Well. That sucked.”

No one disagrees. You drop your head onto the counter with a thud, wondering where the hell you go from here.

——

You lie awake long after the compound goes quiet.

Not because you’re replaying the argument line by line, but because every time you try to pin down why you reacted the way you did, your thoughts slip right through your fingers. It doesn’t make sense. That’s the most frustrating part. You didn’t yell. You didn’t accuse him of anything unforgivable. You didn’t even say anything you can point to now and go, that was the moment I messed up. It was just a feeling, sharp and sudden and completely uncooperative, and you let it steer you instead of stopping to examine it.

You stare at the ceiling and try to walk yourself through it again. He cooked your favorite food. Not poisoned it. Not ruined it. Not weaponized it. He cooked it perfectly, and you couldn’t even be nice about it.

Your jaw tightens. That shouldn’t have made you angry. It should have made you grateful. Or flattered. Or at the very least neutral. Instead, something in your chest had locked up like a trap snapping shut, panic flaring hot and fast before you could talk yourself down.

Why? You turn onto your side, burying half your face in the pillow. Was it the attention? Was it the timing? Was it the fact that he knew without you telling him? You groan softly.

“Get a grip,” you mutter to yourself.

People notice things all the time. That’s normal. That’s not invasive. That’s not some great betrayal. If anything, it’s… considerate. That thought makes your stomach twist with incredible guilt. Because maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it wasn’t just the food. Maybe it was the way he’d been paying attention for weeks. The lunches. The adjustments. The questions he pretended were casual but clearly weren’t. The way he looked at you when you critiqued his cooking, like it mattered in a way that irritated him and intrigued him in equal measure. The way he looked at you in general, like your presence made his day better. All that care, aimed directly at you.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Idiot,” you whisper. “You absolute idiot.”

You weren’t upset because he crossed a line. You were upset because he stepped closer to one you didn’t even know was there. And worse than that, some traitorous part of you liked it. The realization settles in slowly, heavy and unwelcome. You liked that he noticed. You liked that he remembered.
You liked that he cared enough to try, even knowing you’d probably tear it apart.

You curse under your breath and roll onto your back again, staring up at the dark.

All this. Because of cooking, because of attention to detail. Because he learned you the way you learn something when it matters. You didn’t see it coming. That’s what really got you.

Sometime before morning, exhaustion finally drags you under. When you wake, the first thing you notice is the quiet. Not peaceful. Just… missing something. You lie there for a minute longer than usual, listening for sounds you’ve come to expect without realizing it. The clink of a pan. The low hum of the stove fan. Movement in the kitchen that signals someone is already awake and doing something useful. There’s nothing.

You get up anyway, moving on autopilot, and wander toward the kitchen before you can stop yourself.

It’s empty. No food laid out. No coffee already brewing. No containers lined up like a quiet offering. You stand there longer than necessary, arms folded, irritation prickling under your skin even though you know you have no right to it. Of course he’s not cooking, and that’s all your fault. Five minutes later, Walker storms in and immediately starts opening cabinets like the answer might be hiding.

“What the hell,” he mutters. “Did the apocalypse start without me?”

From behind him, Yelena peers into the kitchen, then looks at you.

“Oh,” she says softly.

“What,” Walker demands.

“He is not cooking,” she replies.

“Interesting.”

You shrug, too quickly. “Maybe he’s busy.”

Walker turns to you. “He’s never busy when there’s food involved. This is your fault. You broke our chef.”

That stings more than it should. Somehow Lunch is worse. People hover. Open the fridge. Close it again. Ava eats a protein bar with visible disappointment. She the watches you tear open a wrapper with more aggression than necessary.

“You look miserable,” she says.

“I’m fine.”

She tilts her head. “You’re a bad liar. You’re really not fine.”

By the second night, the absence has weight to it. You pass the kitchen twice without going in. The lights stay off. The counters bare. It feels wrong in a way that sits heavy in your chest.

Eventually, you find him there anyway. Not cooking, just cleaning.

The kitchen is dim, lit only by the soft glow beneath the cabinets. You almost turn around when you see him there.

Bob stands at the counter, methodically wiping it down even though it’s already spotless. His shoulders are tense, posture rigid like he’s holding something back. He’s wearing a baggy long sleeve shirt, and a pair of blue plaid pj pants you’ve never seen before. There’s no music, no hum of appliances, just the quiet scrape of cloth against stone. You hover in the doorway for a second too long.

“Hey,” you say.

“What?” He doesn’t even look up at you when he says it, as flat as can be.

You step inside anyway, the door clicking shut behind you. The sound feels final. “I didn’t mean for it to go like that.”

That makes him stop mid counter wipe.

He straightens slowly, sets the cloth down, and turns to face you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something tight in his jaw, something simmering just beneath the surface.

“You don’t get to decide that after the fact.”

You take another step forward without realizing it, closer to the counter, closer to him. “I panicked.” You can smell his shampoo again and it almost makes you knees a little weak.

“I noticed,” he replies. “That doesn’t excuse it, now does it?”

Your stomach flips. You couldn’t tell if it was from feeling bad or the way he was speaking. You weren’t used to stern Bob, and you kind of liked it. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

His mouth curves slightly, but there’s no humor in it. “Well, you did.”

The certainty in his voice makes your pulse stutter.

“You stood there,” he continues, taking a step closer, “and made me feel stupid for doing something nice. For you.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Your voice cracks, watching the distance between you close.

“No,” he cuts in, sharper now, moving closer again. “It’s what you did.”

You swallow and back up instinctively until your hips brush the edge of the counter. You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten.

“You crossed a line,” you say, trying to steady your voice.

“I cooked you dinner,” he snaps. “After weeks of you tearing into everything I made. Pushing me. Challenging me. Enjoying watching me try harder and harder.”

He takes another step forward.

“You don’t get to do that,” he says quietly, “and then act offended when I finally get it right.”

Your back presses fully against the counter now. You don’t move away. You can’t.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper, staring at the tiled floor.

He steps in once more close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him.

“It’s exactly fair.”

Your breath starts to come faster. You hate that you can feel it. You hate that you like it.

“You liked messing with me,” he says, voice low, controlled. “You liked knowing I cared. You liked knowing you could get under my skin. That id do anything for your approval.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

“And then,” he continues, even closer now. “the second I stop playing along, you punish me for it.”

“I didn’t punish you.”

“You rejected me,” he says plainly. The word hits hard.

“I didn’t ask you to care like that,” you say, your voice softer than you want it to be.

“No,” he agrees. “But you encouraged it.”

His hands come down on the counter on either side of you, and you completely freeze.

He’s caging you in now, arms braced, body close enough that your breath catches every time his chest rises. You’ve never seen him like this. Assertive. Angry. Focused in a way that feels almost dangerous. Your glasses start to fog from how fast you’re breathing. Bob notices immediately.

He huffs a quiet, almost amused breath. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “All that attitude, and now you can’t even breathe straight.”

Heat floods your face. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches up and hooks a finger under the arm of your glasses.

“Hold still,” he says, almost gentle, condescending in a way.

He tosses them onto the counter with a clatter, his hand sliding down to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze without the barrier. Your vision blurs slightly at the edges, but his face, sharp jaw, that infuriating half-smile, is crystal clear, and it sends an unwelcome thrill straight to your core. You had no idea how much this would you on, this mocking edge to his dominance, the way he makes you feel small and exposed.

You shove at his chest, a half-hearted attempt to push him away, but he doesn't budge. You try to reach for your glasses but you can barely move. Bob chuckles at your weak attempts, deep and rumbling in his chest that’s practically pressed against you now. You fidget under his gaze, not realizing how much bigger he was than you. You’d never been this close to each other before.

“Bob! I need those it’s dark in here.” You try to say with confidence, but it came out all broken. You made a mental note to curse yourself out later for letting him get under your skin.

His words hit like a slap, humiliating and electric, making your thighs clench involuntarily. You bite your lip, trying to deny it, but the heat building between your legs betrays you. Before you can snap back, Bob's grip tightens, and he drops to his knees in one fluid motion, the tile floor echoing softly under his weight. Your breath hitches, eyes widening as he looks up at you from that position, still somehow towering in his control, his hands already yanking at the waistband of your pants.

“Bob, what the-stop!” you hiss, glancing wildly toward the open doorway to the shared kitchen.

The tower is never truly empty; anyone could wander in, Yelena for a midnight snack, Ava grabbing water. The risk makes your pulse race faster, a mix of fear and forbidden excitement. He ignores your protest, tugging your pants and underwear down in a rough pull, exposing you to the cool air. Your hands fly to his shoulders, pushing, squirming back against the counter, but he's relentless, hooking one of your legs over his broad shoulder to spread you open.

“Freaking out already?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your inner thigh, eyes gleaming with that smug satisfaction. “Better shut up and finish quick then, if you're so worried about company.”

The command is laced with mockery, like your panic is just another thing to tease you about, and it only makes the ache in your pussy throb harder.

“Just tell me to stop and I will.” He’s close enough you can feel his breath against you, making you gasp slightly.

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. You push down slightly on the back of his head, your version of giving him permission. He wastes no time and his face is buried between your legs, no warning, no buildup, just his tongue flattening against your clit in a firm, hungry lick that rips a gasp from your throat. Your hand clamps over your mouth instinctively, muffling the sound as he dives in like a man possessed, starved for your taste. His mouth devours you, lips sucking greedily on your folds, tongue thrusting inside your slick entrance before swirling back to circle your swollen clit with relentless pressure. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core, his hands gripping your ass to pull you closer, lifting you slightly off the ground so you're balanced precariously on the counter's edge.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, not sure if you're pulling him away or holding him there, but the pleasure crashes over you in waves, overwhelming any resistance. He eats you out with brutal intensity, tongue lashing, teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt, lips sealing around your clit to suck hard while two fingers push inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes your vision white out. It’s almost like he’s trying to force a noise out of you, like the possibly getting caught is exciting him. You start to bite your lip so hard you swear it’s bleeding, but you couldn’t care less.

Your leg over his shoulder trembles, toes curling in your sock as he works you mercilessly, his nose bumping your clit with every deep plunge of his tongue. It's filthy, the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy echoing in the quiet kitchen, and you switch from biting your lip to biting down on your palm to stifle the moans building in your chest. Honestly, even that wasn’t stopping the noises he was forcing out of you.

The humiliation burns, knowing he's on his knees but still utterly in charge, reducing you to this quivering mess with his condescending hunger.

Bob pulls away long enough to taunt you some more. “That's it,” he pants against your skin, and you hear smugness in his voice before diving back in. “Cum on my face, then you can tell me how good I did after.”

His words push you closer, the edge sharpening as his fingers pump faster, tongue flicking without mercy. Your hips buck against his mouth, chasing the release despite the panic clawing at you, anyone could walk in, see you like this, legs spread, Bob's head between them. You don’t even bother answering, worried it would come out as nothing more than a scream. It hits you all at once, the orgasm ripping through you like lightning. Your body arches, pussy clenching around his fingers as you come hard, flooding his mouth with your release. He doesn't stop, lapping it all up greedily, tongue prolonging the spasms until you're shaking, oversensitive and panting behind your hand. But just as the waves crest and start to fade, footsteps echo down the hallway. Heavy, casual, shuffling past the kitchen door.

Bob freezes, his mouth still pressed to your throbbing pussy, eyes snapping up to meet yours. You both go still, breaths ragged, your leg still hooked over his shoulder, his fingers buried deep inside you. Any sane person would scramble away, fix themselves so they wouldn’t get caught, but the fear basically paralyzed you both. The footsteps pause for a heartbeat outside the door. Someone was muttering to themselves, maybe Bucky or Walker heading towards the bathroom, their steps fading away without a glance inside. No one notices. The kitchen remains your dirty secret.

For a long moment, you just stare at each other, chests heaving, shock mirrored in his widened eyes and your flushed face. Bob stands, his lips glisten with you, a smirk threatening to break through the surprise, but he doesn't move, doesn't speak. He just holds you there, suspended in the aftershocks and the thrill of almost getting caught. You want to say words, but instead you lean forward and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down.

You lick his lips, tasting yourself on them, salty, musky, and Bob makes an unholy noise, a guttural groan that rumbles from his chest like thunder.

"Fuck this,” he mutters, voice hoarse, eyes dark with something feral. "We're not done. Not here."

Bob grabs your wrist, dragging you out of the kitchen and down the dimly lit hall to his room, the door slamming shut behind you with enough force to rattle the walls. The space is sparse, bed, nightstand, a few scattered files, but right now, it's just a battlefield for whatever this is. He doesn’t give you much time to look around before he

spins you around, shoving you against the bed so you land on your back, legs splayed.

Bob's on you in seconds, stripping off his shirt to reveal that chiseled chest, veins bulging from the rush of almost being caught. He yanks your top over your head, palming your breasts roughly, thumbs flicking your nipples until they're hard peaks. Normally you’d want this to move slower, to be able to admire everything happening. But right now you couldn’t care less, wanting nothing more than for Bob to just rip your clothes off and have you right here, on his bed. The sheets smelled like laundry and his soap, and you felt like you were in heaven.

"I'll show you what I can do. What I do best."

His annoyance with you fuels him, but there's that desperation underneath, the way his eyes search yours for any sign of approval. He wants you to praise him, to finally tell him how good he’s doing, and he intends to get it. You reach for his waistband, undoing the knot with trembling fingers, and he hisses as you free his cock, thick, throbbing, already leaking pre-cum at the tip. It's bigger than you expected, veined and heavy in your hand as you stroke him once, twice.

"O-oh my god,” he protests, but his voice cracks just a little, betraying his once confident demeanour.

You slide down, heart pounding with giddy anticipation, the thrill of seeing golden boy Bob unravel like this. You wrap your lips around his head, tongue swirling over the slit, tasting the salt of him. He bucks into your mouth, hands fisting your hair, not guiding, but holding on like you're his lifeline.

"Shit-“ Bob groans, hips jerking as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard.

You bob your head, letting him fuck your face with shallow thrusts, gagging slightly when he hits the back of your throat. Saliva drips down your chin, mixing with his pre-cum, and he watches you with hooded eyes, that annoyed edge sharpening his pleasure.

"God that feels so good. I can’t stop thinking about how you taste. Bet you didn't think I could make you come like that in the kitchen, hm?” His speech is filled with panting, like he’s close and is trying to keep from finishing too fast.

You hum around him, the vibration making him swear, and pull off with a pop to gasp,

“You're full of surprises, aren’t you?”

It's teasing, but it spurs him on, thrusting deeper, his control slipping as he chases that validation. But he's not content to just receive. He hauls you up, flipping you onto all fours on the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight.

“My turn to prove it," he grunts, slapping your ass once, hard, leaving a stinging red mark. You yelp, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core, your pussy clenching in anticipation.

Bob lines up behind you, rubbing his cock along your soaked slit, teasing your entrance. "Tell me you want it. Want me to fuck you like you deserve." His voice is rough, but there's a vulnerability there, like he's waiting for you to say he's enough.

"Yes, fuck me, Bob. Show me," you breathe, pushing back against him. He doesn't hesitate, slamming into you in one brutal thrust, stretching your pussy around his thick length. You cry out, the burn mixing with pleasure as he bottoms out.

"Like that?" he pants, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in, hard and deep.

His hands grip your hips, bruising, as he sets a punishing rhythm, rough, unrelenting, each snap of his hips jolting you forward. The bedframe bangs against the wall, a dirty symphony to his grunts and your moans.

“Not so funny now, huh? Me taking what's mine."

You twist to look at him, seeing the sweat-slicked determination on his face, his hair bouncing with every thrust. His eyes were glued on your ass, watching it bounce against him over and over.

“Harder! god, Bob, you're so fucking good at this. Better than-ah! better than your damn cooking." It's half-tease, half-truth, and it lights a fire in him.

He laughs, dark and breathless, leaning over you to bite your shoulder, not breaking skin, but enough to mark. "Damn right. Gonna make you scream my name so loud the whole tower hears."

One hand snakes around to rub your clit in tight circles, the other pinning your wrists behind your back as he pounds into you, cock dragging against that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyes. The room fills with the obscene sounds, wet slaps of skin on skin, your pussy wrapped around him, his ragged breaths in your ear.

"You feel that? How wet you are for me?" he murmurs, voice dripping with smug satisfaction mixed with need. "Cum on my cock. Show me I'm not a joke."

You do, shattering around him with a scream, walls pulsing and milking him as waves of pleasure crash over you. He doesn't stop, fucking you through it, chasing his own release. "Fuck, yes, take it!” he groans, burying himself deep and coming with a groan, hot spurts of cum flooding your pussy, spilling out around his cock as he grinds against you.

He collapses over you, both of you panting, sticky and spent. But even in the afterglow, he presses a surprisingly tender kiss to your neck, whispering, "Was that... Worthy of approval?” His voice is soft now, the desperation peeking through the roughness, making your heart flutter with that giddy warmth.

He stays there for a moment, breathing you in, like he’s making sure you’re real.

When he finally pushes up onto his elbows, his hair is a mess, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it, like the anger burned itself out and left something warmer behind.

He clears his throat.

“Are you… hungry?”

You blink at him, then laugh, breathless and a little dazed. “Fuck yes.”

That gets a quiet smile out of him. Not smug. Not teasing. Just pleased, like he’s been hoping you’d say that. He helps you clean up without a word, movements careful, surprisingly gentle. You steal the long sleeve shirt he’d been wearing the second his back is turned, tugging it over your head before he can stop you. It hangs off you, sleeves swallowing your hands, smelling like him. He notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says, mildly offended. “That was mine.”

“Too bad,” you reply. “You should’ve guarded it better.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no heat in it. Just fond resignation. By the time you make it to the kitchen, the place feels different. Not tense. Not loaded. Just quiet and warm, like it’s finally exhaled. You hop up onto the counter while he moves automatically, opening cupboards, grabbing a bowl, reaching for a familiar box without even thinking about it. Captain Crunch.

You snort. “Wow. Really pulling out all the stops.”

“Nope,” he says, pouring the cereal. “I’m off duty.”

Milk. No fuss. No presentation. Perfect. He steps in close to hand it to you and doesn’t step back. Instead, he settles between your legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world, hands coming to rest on your hips, grounding and warm. You take a bite, then another, humming contentedly.

“This,” you say, holding the spoon up toward him, “is a ten.”

He scoffs, but leans in when you offer him a bite anyway. He eats it straight off the spoon, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.

“And yet,” you reply sweetly. “You still had sex with me. So, i win.”

His hands tighten just a little on your hips as he dips his head, pressing an innocent kiss to your neck. Then another. Nothing heated. Just affectionate, like he can’t help himself.

You tilt your head into it, still eating.

“Hold on,” he says suddenly.

You pause. “What.”

He reaches up and gently nudges your glasses into your hand. “You forgot these.”

You blink, then laugh. “Oh.”

He carefully puts them back on your face for you, fingers brushing your cheeks, adjusting them until they sit just right.

“There,” he says softly.

And then he kisses you. Slow. Easy. Smiling into it, then the kitchen lights snap on.

“Oh for the love of god.”

You freeze. He freezes. Slowly, you both turn your heads. Walker stands in the doorway, hand still on the switch, staring at the sight of you sitting on the counter in Bob’s shirt, cereal bowl in hand, Bob planted firmly between your legs like he belongs there.

He squints. “Is that my lucky charms?”

You lift the bowl slightly. “Captain crunch..”

He makes a sound of deep, spiritual regret. “Good. came in here for water.”

Bob clears his throat and steps back, hands lifting like he’s been caught committing a crime. “We can explain.”

Walker holds up a hand. “Nope. Don’t. I don’t want context. I knew I wasn’t hearing things earlier.” He turns around immediately. “I’ll be thirsty later.”

The lights click off as he leaves. You and Bob stare at each other for half a second, and you both lose it. You laugh so hard you nearly spill cereal everywhere. Bob drops his head against your shoulder, groaning.

“We’re never hearing the end of this.”

“Worth it,” you say, feeding him another bite.

He kisses your cheek, still smiling.

“Completely.”

And for the first time since this all started, the kitchen finally feels like home.

[sumoattack-gooddog]

Graffiti — Masterlist

pairing: adrian chase x gn!reader

tags/warnings: 18+, stalker!vigilante, coworker adrian, cat and mouse dynamic, no use of y/n, eventual smut

summary: You learn Vigilante kills graffiti artists. You decide to challenge that by making them messages worth caring about.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

[lalalunawrites]

I Want My Boyfriends To Kiss

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x John Walker x Fem!Thunderbolts!Reader

Word Count: 22.5k

Summary: Your boyfriends have been acting strange recently, like they're hiding something from you. After you come to find out they have some secret plans involving you, them, and a whole lotta rope, you take it upon yourself to come up with a plan of your own to turn the tables on them.

Tags/Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, 18+ ONLY, planned seduction, dirty talk, teasing, John calling Bob "Bobby" with pre-established consent, alcohol drinking, lingerie, "forced" submission (consent established ahead of time), BDSM, bondage, handcuffs, usage of sexual nicknames (good boy/pretty boy/sweet boy, good girl, mistress, puppy), hair pulling, praise kink, dry humping, facesitting, degradation, oral (f and m receiving), squirting, light nipple play, masturbation (f and m), vibrator usage, handjob

A/N: It's finally here!! Been working on this one for a month and a half. HOPE YOU LIKE SMUT because there is SO MUCH of it. Happy gooning, I suppose. Once again, based on the eponymous song "I Want My Boyfriends to Kiss" by Ashnikko. This is the sequel to Swap Spit, Lock Lips and in the same universe as Starting Patterns. I've been mentally referring to it as the Smoochieverse. I've already started a (much shorter) sequel to this one where John and Bob get their revenge...

Part 1: Swap Spit, Lock Lips

John thought he was so damn clever. That he could rope Bob into his schemes and pull a fast one right under your nose. But you? You knew that man. And John, for all his top secret ops and specialized military stealth training, was garbage at being sneaky. He stuck out on the battlefield like a red, white, and black battering ram, running into enemy fire with a battle cry, his shield whizzing from enemy to enemy. And he stuck out when he was trying to plot in private.

All of the sudden, John and Bob were seemingly inseparable. As if that wasn't enough of a red flag in and of itself, they always had guilty expressions whenever you'd enter a room with them, dead quiet like they'd heard you coming and dropped the conversation before you got within earshot.

At first, you thought maybe they'd finally acted on the tension that had been building ever since you all slept together that first morning. The way John had grabbed Bob and told him what to do to you? And the heat in Bob's eyes as he obeyed, looking to John for approval? Absolutely undeniable. And, if you were honest with yourself, it was hot as hell. There was some part of you that had wanted to see them kiss since John slammed Bob against the wall back in the vault.

But before you could overthink the situation (was it even really cheating if you were already dating both of them and actively having threesomes together?), Ava took it upon herself to intervene. Rather, she took the opportunity to spill the beans out of spite. John really shouldn't have eaten her last pack of Jaffa Cakes.

"They're planning something," Ava had said, apropos of nothing. Just walked up to you in the gym and proverbially laid it on the table like a cat would drop a dead bird at your feet. There was no question who she was talking about, so Ava didn't even waste her time saying their names. "Overheard their conversation in the kitchen this morning. And it involves you."

"Do I want to know?" you'd asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oh, you most definitely did.

Turns out, Ava didn't overhear some romantic date plan or a surprise weekend getaway; she overheard plans to forcibly dominate you. It was consensual, of course. You'd discussed rules and boundaries with John and Bob, both separately then together after the three of you had started your exploration of bedroom possibilities as a single unit. And while the idea of both of your boyfriends overpowering you and ravishing you was extremely tempting…so was the idea of flipping the script on them.

According to Ava, the plan was going to be carried out during your weekly threeway movie date…which just so happened to be tonight. It didn't leave you a lot of time to work with, but fortunately for you, John was very good at pissing people off. Which you could use to your advantage.

The next disgruntled party was, of course, Bucky. Even though he and your boyfriend's relationship had calmed significantly since their…rocky introduction, Bucky wasn't exactly the president of the John Walker fan club. So, when you presented him with the opportunity to thwart the other super soldier, Bucky readily agreed.

"Make sure it's worth the strings I pulled to get 'em," he said eying you with playful suspicion. You made grabby hands at him, and he actually cracked a bit of a smile.

"What kind of strings?" you asked as he passed over a medium-sized silver briefcase. Laying it on a nearby table, you flipped up the clasps and attempted to open the case. Unfortunately, your plan was temporarily foiled by the lock. You shot Bucky a look, extending your hand as he fished the keys out of his back pocket and tossed them to you.

A moment later, the case was open, revealing a thick pair of manacles - ones strong enough to hold even a super soldier. Unlike regular handcuffs, these didn't have a chain in the middle. That gave too much room for movement and were far too easy to snap no matter how reinforced they were. Instead, this set had a thick block of metal connecting the cuffs, forcing the wearer's hands to stay closer together and better impeded any potential escape attempt. Unlike most shackles, these were lined with a soft, black fabric and seemed to have some foam added for comfort.

"The kind where my contact is convinced they're for my personal use. Never gonna be able to look that man in the eye again." When you snorted at his words, Bucky fixed you with a glare, but there was no real heat behind it.

Satisfied, you closed the case and turned back to your woefully besmirched teammate. "Don't worry. I'll make sure John knows that you aided in his downfall."

The next injured party was Yelena. You desperately needed to go shopping for a specific item of clothing, and you needed backup. Sure, you could go alone, but plotting was so much better with a friend. As were the food court soft pretzels.

But, when you originally asked Yelena, she said she was busy. Busy looked an awful lot like sitting in the main living room, idly flipping through a tactical gear catalog that had come in the mail and half-watching some particularly trashy reality television.

Her schedule miraculously cleared up when you name-dropped your boyfriend and hinted at you plotting against him. Turns out, Yelena wasn't a big fan of people using her equipment without her permission. And she actively hated when said equipment was damaged from said person spilling pre-workout all over it. Needless to say, Yelena would have preferred to shove one of her short-circuited batons up John's ass, but she'd make do with aiding your scheme.

The soft pretzels also helped.

"What are we looking for again?" Yelena asked, flipping through hangers until she found something low cut in your size. She pulled it out and held it up for inspection.

You shook your head, and she put it back on the rack, continuing the search. "It needs to be low cut enough to draw Bob's attention but casual enough that it doesn't look like I'm trying to dress up."

"What's wrong with dressing up?" Yelena grumbled as you shook your head at another top, this one a bright cerulean. Another one far too low cut. Too obvious.

"Our movie dates are always casual. Like, 'sometimes I wear pajamas' level casual. It would attract notice if I dressed up. John would know something's up."

Yelena cocked an eyebrow at you. "You really think he'd get suspicious? If you wore a slutty little 'fuck me' dress, I'm not sure he'd be doing much thinking at all."

You shrugged. "Fair. But it isn't part of the plan to work John up. Just Bob." You pulled out a sweater that was just the right amount of casual with a neckline just low enough to draw Bob's gaze. Unfortunately, it was a deep maroon color. With a sigh, you returned it to the rack.

"What was wrong with that one?" Yelena asked, her tone a little on the exasperated side.

"Wrong color," you muttered, taking a step to another rack of clothes. "I need something a stain would show up on."

Stopping dead in her tracks, Yelena turned to fix you with a glower. "You're looking for a new top that you're planning on ruining," she deadpanned. She wasn't asking, just stating facts as if she couldn't believe them.

"Well, I won't be ruining it, not if I can pop it in the wash somewhat quickly."

Yelena stared at you, completely unblinking. It was the kind of look that would cause even the most stubborn person (i.e. John or Bucky) to back down from an argument. Or force a confession out of a captured enemy combatant. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable.

"Something tells me that's going to be the last thing on your mind."

Having no argument for that, you picked up the red sweater again and put it over your arm. "I'll try it on."

"That's all I ask." Pacified, Yelena returned to the hunt, flipping through hangers again.

You managed to find the perfect top: a heather grey sweater cozy enough to wear around the Watchtower that also hugged your breasts enough to hold Bob's attention. And after a pit stop at another store Yelena suggested and some food court junk food (including one too many soft pretzels courtesy of Yelena's expert-level peer pressuring), your plan was ready to commence.

Naturally, John showed up first. Even without recognizing his jaunty knock, you knew he would be the one standing there when you opened the door. After all, it was precisely 7 o'clock. Not a minute before or after. And, as always, he had a large bowl of freshly buttered popcorn in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

John was always a little less casual than you and Bob, wearing a dark blue flannel neatly tucked into a pair of boot cut jeans, complete with a large silver belt buckle. He'd most likely been wearing boots but had the decency to toe them off outside the door, knowing you didn't allow shoes in your quarters. The second those bright, sky blue eyes locked on yours, he fixed you with a wide smile, one that always made your heart flutter.

Leaning down, John kissed your temple, mumbling, "Evenin', pretty lady," because he knew it would make you roll your eyes at him. Which you did.

Taking the bowl of popcorn from his hands, you walked over and placed it on the coffee table next to the glasses you'd already brought out. You didn't see John's eyes travel down your body, eying your ass in the loose, comfortable skirt you wore, but you definitely noticed when you turned back around and caught his gaze on your legs. He didn't even try to hide his lecherous gaze, just quirking up his lips when you caught him staring.

"John," you playfully admonished. Coming back over to where he stood stock still inside the doorway, you gave him a light shove, one that didn't even budge him. It was ridiculous how hot that was. The man didn't move, and it made you wet. You knew that if you really tried, braced your hands on his arms and shoved, John might be forced to move back a little. And those same arms could pick you up like you weighed nothing and throw you over his shoulder. Judging by the look on his face, John was tempted to do just that. Instead, his free hand found your hip like it was magnetized, and his other arm wrapped around you, pulling you neatly against his chest.

"John," you said again but with a warning tone in your voice, managing to keep your words steady. If he wasn't careful, John was apt to ruin his own plan, let alone yours.

"Hmm?" he hummed, leaning down to start planting slow, closed-mouth kisses along your jaw. Each subsequent brush of his lips made it harder and harder to resist turning your head and seeking out another kiss. A deeper one.

"Remember the rule of movie night - no making out," you said, just as much to yourself as to John.

That was a rule you'd had to make early on in your weekly movie dates. Otherwise, you ended up finding yourself topless and straddling one of your boyfriends barely halfway through the movie. Or, like one particularly fun night, sitting between them with your hands on their cocks, slowly stroking them to completion while you happily watched Legally Blonde. While that was a fantastic night, you'd had to re-watch the movie the next week because neither man remembered a damn thing about it. So you'd all (reluctantly) agreed - movie first, sexy times after. And for the most part, it worked.

"It's not making out if I get on my knees and stick my head under your skirt while you watch the movie," John practically growled, starting to move his kisses down your neck. You inhaled sharply at his words, nails biting into his arms. He smiled against your skin, pleased at your reaction.

For a split second, you were tempted to say fuck it to your carefully crafted plan and let John's mouth wander where it wanted.

Fortunately, there was a tentative knock at the door that broke the spell his lips had cast on you, startling you out of John's embrace. He tried to pull you back in, but the moment was gone.

"Bob's here," you reminded, moving out of John's quickly encroaching arms and trying to take a step past him. He let you move by him unimpeded, but strong arms encircled your waist from behind as you reached out to grasp the doorknob. You allowed it - for now.

Opening the door revealed the missing element of your trio - Bob. He was dressed exactly how you expected - in a fresh pair of loose grey sweatpants and his favorite blue hoodie, the wrists worn from Bob absentmindedly picking at and rubbing the fabric. He held a bottle of sparkling juice in one hand and a bag full of snacks in the other, the same as he always did on movie night.

By the look on his face, Bob almost immediately noticed John plastered to your back. Before he could make a snarky comment, however, his gaze flitted down to your neckline. The double take he did was almost comical, eyes bulging like you'd opened the door in the nude.

Bob was the biggest breast man you'd ever met. He was absolutely obsessed with yours, always working to get your top off as quickly as possible. Sometimes he was so impatient he didn't even take off your bra. He'd just pull down the cups, groaning like he'd found home as he latched onto your nipples. On more than one occasion, he'd fallen asleep with his mouth on one and his hand on the other, fully splayed across you. And if you tried to move, his limbs would tighten to keep you in place. And, judging from the look on his face and how his fingers were twitching, you'd picked the right top. Thank you, Yelena.

"You okay there, Bobby?" John asked with a smirk. He saw exactly where Bob's eyes went and followed them himself, peering down at the very tops of your breasts that pressed against the grey fabric. It was subtle, a peak of cleavage that hinted at what lay underneath, hugging your breasts tightly enough to entice without making it look like you were bursting out of your blouse. "Mmm, I see why he's so distracted. You tryin' to kill us, baby? Wearin' that cute little skirt with your legs showin' and that top?"

Even though your outfit was hardly skimpy, you'd once again underestimated just how horny your boyfriends were, especially when they egged each other on. You'd just have to make due.

You scoffed. "You would say that if I was wearing a crusty hoodie and a pair of old granny panties."

From the flash in Bob's eyes, 'panties,' granny or otherwise, was the wrong word to say.

"Okay, down boys," you said with a shaky laugh, reaching forward and taking the bottle of sparkling juice out of Bob's hands. You did your best not to sway your hips as you walked over to the couch, but you could feel their eyes on you anyway.

When you didn't hear any footsteps behind you, you turned around with your arms crossed just below your chest. Bob's eyes raised from where he'd been watching your ass but not high enough to look you in the face like John was.

"Robeeert," you admonished, drawing the 'e' in his name out with a warning tone in your voice. His eyes snapped up to yours, head jerking like a stretched rubber band that had just been released. Covering your mouth with your hand, you fought down a laugh.

"C'mon, it's movie night." Settling in the middle of the couch, you patted the seats next to you welcomingly. "Plus, I could use some wine," you added, gesturing at the bottle in John's hand. That finally propelled him into motion.

The sexual tension lessened to a quiet hum of anticipation as everyone prepped for the night ahead, falling into a familiar rhythmic pattern. John poured the glasses - wine for you and him, the sparkling juice for Bob - while Bob worked on laying out various snacks, sorting them to put them in easy reach.

When everything was ready, John dimmed the lights as you pulled up the movie of the week, Lethal Weapon. It was John's choice, and neither you nor Bob were surprised at his pick. His love of buddy cop movies was well documented between the three of you at this point, just like Bob's love of stoner comedies and your love of what you considered classic romcoms.

All three of you settled in, Bob resting his head on your shoulder and John with his arm around your waist, as the opening credits started to roll. They were good, you'd give them that. If you weren't looking for it, you never would have noticed the way John reached down to check that the rope and handcuffs he'd placed below his seat cushion were still in position. It just looked like he was straightening out the leg of his jeans. And you'd never have noticed the questioning look Bob shot John and the latter's slow nod of confirmation if you hadn't been watching them sharply in your peripheral vision.

You slowly gathered the ingredients for your plan to work - five minutes in, you snagged the bowl of popcorn, placing it in your lap. That was usually how it went anyway, making the popcorn equally accessible for everyone. A few more minutes after that, you leaned forward to grab your wine. Bob lifted his head, letting you get the glass and putting it back on your shoulder as you settled back down. Lightly sipping on your wine, you waited for the right moment.

That moment came more quickly than expected when Bob reached for a box of candy on the table. You had to time this perfectly. For your plan to work, you needed what was going to happen to be equally your fault and Bob's.

"Bob, baby, can you get me my candy, too?" you asked innocently.

Wordlessly, he obeyed. If there was one thing that was always true about Bob Reynolds, it was that he aimed to please. And that went doubly so in your relationship. He was the kind of man that, if you asked for it, would figure out a way to pluck the stars from the sky for you. So naturally, Bob immediately forgot about his own candy and prioritized your request.

You angled your body to face him, your arm positioned just right so that, when Bob sat back up, his elbow knocked the wine glass in your hand, spilling it all over your top, down your chest, and directly into the bowl of popcorn.

The room went completely still, all three of you staring in shock at your ruined top, a literal splash of deep scarlet spreading on your grey sweater. It was as if you all were temporarily frozen in time. The only signs of life were the sounds of the TV playing with no one watching it and the slow seep of wine bleeding further into your clothes. That unnatural stillness lasted for a few beats before you all snapped into motion, first John, then Bob, and finally you.

John grabbed the bowl of wine-soaked popcorn out of your lap, placing it square in the middle of the coffee table to prevent it being knocked over. Bob took the glass from your hand and scooted the coffee table over to give you more room. You stood up, turning around to make sure that no wine had dripped onto your couch, breathing a sigh of relief at the unsullied seat.

John took charge immediately. It was kind of adorable, seeing him treating a simple spill like a battlefield, instantly strategizing a plan of attack and commanding his soldiers. It was exactly what Bob needed. Instead of getting in his head and feeling like he'd ruined the night (and your shirt), John made him feel useful.

As they both dabbed at your clothing with the paper towels Bob fetched from the main kitchen, you decided to cut to the chase. Taking a step back, you ignored the men's confused reactions, grabbing the hem of your sweater and tugging it over your head. You had to bite back a wicked smile at the wide-eyed looks on their faces, staring at you like their brains were buffering.

Bob at least had the decency to look away. He seemed to understand that you needed to change your outfit and was doing his best to not openly stare at your chest. But the flush climbing his neck betrayed his reaction.

John, on the other hand, grinned at you wolfishly. "If I knew all I had to do to get you naked was spill some wine on you, I'd've brought more than one bottle."

You gave him an exaggerated roll of your eyes before looking down at your wine-covered chest. The red liquid had gotten on your bra as well, but, with the tension that had been permeating the room all night, taking that off as well would open the floodgates. Instead, you touched your skin, making a face at the stickiness that lingered on your hand. You could feel your boyfriends' eyes on you, greedily drinking in the sight of you half naked. Now was the perfect time to implement phase two before John managed to remember about his own plan and that pair of handcuffs under the couch cushions.

"I think I'm going to have to take a quick shower," you said, keeping your voice casual like you didn't know exactly what that imagery would do to your already wound up boyfriends. You didn't miss the way Bob licked his lips or how John took a step closer to you.

"Well, you know…" John started, playfully drawing his words out like he was coming up with some brilliant idea. His eyes had a mischievous light in them that you knew all too well - you were mere seconds away from him doing something like grabbing you and throwing you over his shoulder. "We could always -"

"Here." Thrusting your hand out in front of you, you deposited your soiled sweater in the hand John brought up to touch you. He blinked, taken aback. But his fingers obediently clenched around the fabric as you let go of it.

"Why are you -"

"Would you mind throwing that in the wash?" you asked, making sure to look up at him from under your lashes. "And maybe make us some more popcorn? That way we can all be ready to start the movie over after I get cleaned off?"

When John hesitated, clearly torn between being helpful and being lecherous, you pouted at him, jutting out your lower lip just a little. For extra ammo, you wrapped your arms around your torso seemingly for warmth but in reality it was so you could subtly press your breasts together, exaggerating your cleavage.

"Please?" you asked sweetly, batting your lashes at him.

"Okay, okay," John grumbled. Despite his grouching, he couldn't quite hide his smile when you stood up on your toes to press a grateful (but chaste) kiss to his lips.

You wasted no time once you'd stepped into the bathroom. For your plan to work, you needed to be quick. Unfortunately, your room was fairly close to the kitchen. That combined with John being super particular and refusing to use anything but an extra-speedy air popper on his popcorn meant that, normally, you'd only have about five minutes to pull this off. But the laundry room was on another floor, giving you a few extra precious minutes, ones you were determined not to waste.

After shedding your clothes, you ran the shower to maintain your ruse, but you didn't step inside. Instead, you grabbed a washcloth, adding a small drop of soap and quickly cleaning and rinsing your wine-sticky chest. Then you broke out your secret weapon.

Right now, it just looked like a little bundle of delicate black fabric pressed flat underneath the stacked towels you stashed it under. It was soft to the touch as you slipped it over your shoulders, the silky material caressing your skin as you smoothed it down your body, gently coaxing the chemise over your hips. The stockings came next, sliding on easily and coming to rest mid-thigh. The elastic on the lacy hem was probably enough to keep them on, but you used the garter straps dangling from the bottom of the chemise to fully secure them. There was something that appealed to you about the tug when you shifted, the straps pulling lightly at the stockings. It was like you were secured into the entire outfit, stockings included, a kind of self-inflicted bondage that sent a pulse of warmth through you.

Looking in the mirror, you were slightly caught off guard by your own reflection. Sure, you'd tried it on in the store, but those florescent yellow light fixtures did no one any favors. Here, under the warm glow of your bathroom lights, you were a vision in lace and satin. The fabric clung to you, each breath making your breasts lift, straining against the nearly sheer material. There was just enough opacity on the lace cups to blur, merely hinting at the tantalizing skin that laid underneath. Your eyes followed the light boning that stretched down the front, helping the material press flat against your body while still maintaining the structure of the little dress. Most of the fabric was opaque except for two lace panels down the side, making your silhouette look more sleek while accentuating your hips.

Turning around in the mirror, you couldn't help but grin at yourself. The entire back of the dress was made of the see-through fabric, showcasing the elegant curve of your back and the plush softness of your ass. Sure, the outfit came with a little lacy thong, but those wouldn't be on for long anyway. Might as well save your boyfriends the effort of removing them.

Next, you reached under the sink, pulling out a mesh bag you'd hidden earlier. Carefully, you lined the contents up on the bathroom counter, mentally triple checking that you had everything.

Now, it was time to implement phase three of your plan. You cracked open the bathroom door and positioned yourself on the opposite side of it, closer to the shower.

Cupping a hand to your mouth to amplify the sound, you called out for your first victim.

"Bob! I need your help!"

You pressed your ear to the door, heart pounding in your chest, as you strained your ears for any subsequent noises - an answering voice, a creak of the bedroom door, or the sound of heavy footsteps. There was a muffled murmur but no further movement. So you called out again.

"Bob! I need you to grab my shampoo! Please!"

There were some distinct rustling noises but nothing definitive. With a sigh, you braced yourself, using your diaphragm to really shout.

"BOB! C'MERE!"

You didn't have to wait long before the bedroom door opened, and Bob shuffled his way over to the bathroom. Ever polite, he hovered outside the door.

"Did you call for me?" Bob asked from the other side.

You cupped your hand to your mouth again, this time angling it away from the door, toward the shower to make it sound like your voice was coming from there.

"Yes! Could you grab my shampoo for me? It's in the cabinet." You paused, then grinned mischievously to yourself before continuing, "I'd get it, but I'm soaking wet."

Your words had the intended effect. "Jesus," you heard Bob mutter to himself, groaning at the imagery you'd conjured for him. You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

"Coming, angel!" he said louder for you to hear, pushing the door open and stepping in. Immediately, his eyes were drawn to the items you'd laid out on the counter.

"What the…" Before Bob could turn, you closed the door behind him, leaning against it to block the way out.

Bob started, whipping around. He already looked surprised, but his eyes widened further and his lips parted as he took in your change of wardrobe. His eyes traveled up your stockinged legs, over the garter straps, and followed the lines of the chemise before stopping at the semi-transparent fabric just barely covering your chest. You could practically feel his gaze on your breasts like a physical caress, your nipples hardening under his intense scrutiny. You were sure he could just see the peaks through the fabric.

Finally, Bob managed to wrench his eyes away from your chemise. He was flushed and dazed, chest visibly rising and falling as he took in air like he couldn't quite catch his breath. There was a wildness in his gaze, a mix of sudden arousal and sheer confusion, that sent a wave of heat through your body.

"Baby," Bob started but stopped, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, licking his dry lips, before continuing. "Baby, what is this? Why are you wearing…" He stared in awe at you like Aphrodite herself had descended from the heavens to grace him with her presence. Words seemed to fail him, like he was completely unable to describe the temptation in physical form that was in front of him. So he finished his sentence by croaking out the word, "…That?"

"What? You don't like my new outfit?" you asked innocently, tilting your head to the side. Stalking towards him, you let your hips sway tantalizingly. You felt like some beast of the hunt that had finally located its prey and was contemplating what spot to sink your teeth into first. Bob froze to the spot, watching you like a sailor enraptured in a siren's song, watching helplessly as the ship sailed closer and closer to the jagged rocks that spelled his doom. It was a heady kind of power, one you'd only ever felt before in the bedroom. Just the idea that you could entrance a man with the powers of a god with a lacy outfit and a few choice words was intoxicating. He stared at you like you were a goddess. And you fucking felt like one.

You backed him up against the counter, stepping into his space, stopping only mere inches away. So close you could practically feel his warmth through his hoodie.

"Do you want me to…" you started, using your index and middle fingers to walk your hand up Bob's chest. He was fixated, hanging on your every word like they were of the utmost importance. So you lowered your voice to a husky purr as you finished your sentence. "…Take it off?"

Bob's hands shot down, bracing himself against the counter like his legs suddenly needed the extra support. Like he was going to fall down at your feet if he didn't.

"Oh my God," he muttered shakily, eyes darting away like he couldn't stand to look at you directly, like he was unworthy.

You didn't wait for him to answer. You continued speaking.

"I thought of you when I bought it, baby," you purred, tilting his chin down to look at you. Even though you were shorter, it felt like you were towering over him in that moment, your domination a physical presence in the room.

"Y-you did?" Bob asked breathily, letting his eyes wander down, taking in your form again as though he couldn't help himself. Naturally, they rested on your chest, watching as your breasts strained against the fabric.

"Of course I did. Wanted to make sure my sweet boy would like it," you cooed. Bob visibly melted at your words, his tense muscles relaxing so much that even his eyes drifted half shut, looking up at you under his lashes.

"Really?" Bob asked, and his words were so earnest it made your heart skip a beat. "What about Walker?"

Your answering smile was a little less predatory and a little more playful.

"You haven't seen the back yet. The front's for you, baby," you said with a wink.

You took one of his hands in yours, lifting it from the counter and bringing it up to cup your breast. Audibly, Bob sucked in a harsh breath through his nose and let it slowly out of his mouth, ghosting over your bare skin. You shivered at the feeling, your nipples tightening almost painfully. Of course he noticed. As if it was unconscious, Bob's thumb rubbed circles over the peak of your nipple, biting his lower lip as he watched the motion as though as if he was hypnotizing himself.

When he brought his other hand up to your chest, you arched your back, pushing your breasts further into his grasp. You were practically leaning against him by then, the contained heat of his already thickening erection pressing against your thigh.

"I have an idea, Bob. One I think you're going to enjoy just as much as I will." Bob's eyes flicked up, trying to look you in the face, to give you his full attention, but you could feel how he wanted to look down, to stare further at your breasts.

"O-oh?" he murmured, eyes flitting down and back up again. You couldn't help but smirk. He was already wrapped around your finger.

"I need you to do something. Think you can be a good boy and help me?" The words had barely left your lips before he was nodding, mumbling the word 'yes.'

"What would you do for me, Robert?" you whispered, maintaining eye contact with him. His pupils were blown, his irises a thin ring of storm-dark blue.

"Anything," he answered breathlessly.

And in that moment, you knew one thing for certain - that you had Bob right where you wanted him.

You had barely taken your post behind the bedroom door before you heard the telltale sounds of John reentering your quarters. He was much louder than Bob, so you didn't need to strain to hear him call for you, grumpily muttering to himself when no one answered.

As John's footsteps grew nearer, it felt like your heart was going to burst its way through your ribcage. Every step caused it to beat faster, so much so that you could practically hear it in your ears. You gripped the manacles tightly, the cold metal biting into your hands just enough to ground you in the moment.

"You two better not have started the fun without me," John called out, chuckling to himself when he added, "Or I'll have to take you both over my knee."

His words struck like a bolt of lightning. You could see it so easily in your mind's eye: you trussed up, hands bound in cuffs behind your back, feet dangling as your body stretched over John's lap. There would be tears running down your face as you dutifully counted each time his hand came down on the heated skin of your ass, sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure in equal measure radiating through your body.

And you weren't the only one affected by John's words; Bob let out one solitary, plaintive whimper that hung in the air even after he bit the sound off abruptly. Instantly, all noise from the living room ceased.

John heard.

The ensuing steps were fast and heavy, his determined stomps crossing the room in record time. The bedroom door swung open, concealing you behind it. He took one step, then two before coming to a complete halt.

You didn't need to look to see what had snagged his attention, because you'd set the scene yourself. John always barged in, guns blazing, whether it was on the battlefield or into a room to try to catch his girlfriend and her other boyfriend shacking up without him. So you'd needed a distraction. Something so arresting that even his super soldier senses wouldn't help him detect you. And you had set the perfect trap.

Bob.

He was splayed out like an offering on your California king bed, wrists bound and tied to the headboard to keep him in place. The rope that held him matched the sheets that he squirmed on top of, both a deep, sumptuous purple that starkly contrasted his pale skin. And there was so much of it on display. Every inch of him was naked barring a few little accessories you'd adorned him with: a strip of cloth covering his eyes, a pitch black ball gag with breathing holes, and the pièce de résistance - a thick band of leather wrapped around the base of Bob's heavy cock which was flushed a dark pink, the tip weeping streaks of precum on his abs.

John made a sound like the wind was punched out of his lungs, his breathing audibly ragged as he took in the sight before him.

"Bobby," he breathed, his next inhale shaky. When he continued, his voice was strained, "Bob…why are you…?" John cut off his own question, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. "Where is she?"

The only answer Bob could give was unintelligible, his sounds muffled even through the air holes in his gag, lips and jaw too stretched to form words.

Keeping your hands behind your back to conceal the manacles, you stepped out from your hiding spot. "I think Bob's a little…tied up at the moment. Maybe I can help."

The John who turned to look at you was markedly different than the one who went to go fetch more popcorn. For one, his hair was rumpled, some strands sticking straight up like he'd absently rubbed his hand through it. A bright pink flush flooded his cheeks with color that dipped below the neckline of his flannel, no doubt running down to his shoulders and chest as well. Glassy blue eyes roamed over your body, disbelief and hunger warring for control on his face. As you'd heard, his breathing was labored, panting through his parted lips. If someone saw him in passing, he could almost play off his arousal as physical exertion, like he'd had a particularly invigorating workout. He could deny it all he wanted to, but there was no hiding the growing bulge in John's jeans. And that it was there before he turned around to face you.

A surge of vindication washed through you, transmuting into a powerful throb of desire between your legs. You could still picture it in your mind - John's hand tangled in Bob's hair, tugging hard. Bob's lips wrapped around your nipple, eyes locked in a heated stare with John's. How John's voice got so fucking deep when he called Bob a good boy. And the way Bob's eyes rolled back in his head at his words.

"Baby," John groaned out, stepping forward and gripping your hips nearly hard enough to bruise. He swayed like he wasn't sure if he wanted to press you to his chest or keep you at arm's length to admire you.

"You look…" He paused, eyes darting over you like he was trying to absorb every inch, to etch it into his memory. His thumbs rubbed circles into your sides, like he couldn't keep himself from stroking your skin through the fabric. Finally, John lifted his eyes to yours. "You look like a fucking dream."

"You don't look so bad yourself, handsome," you teased, standing up on tip toe to lightly press your lips to his bearded chin. John chased you, hunching over to slant his mouth over yours in what was immediately a passionate kiss.

There was no time wasted. John slipped an arm around your waist, the other tilting your chin to just the right angle to kiss you even deeper. You indulged him, letting him dominate you, invading your mouth like it belonged to him, his tongue swirling around yours.

He didn't notice anything was off until the cold metal cuff snapped closed around his wrist, its sharp clicking echoing in the quiet room. John's whole body went stiff, the muscles of his arm tensing around you. All you could do was wait, barely breathing as he pulled back, eyes fixed on the manacles dangling from his arm.

His thoughts were so clear you could practically see them scrolling across his eyes like ticker tape. The pieces were coming together: the lingerie and Bob as a distraction, the wine spill, the new sweater, tracing it all the way back to the small noise he'd heard in the kitchen that morning as he and Bob finalized their plans before you came down to breakfast.

This was the one variable in your plan that you just couldn't account for.

You'd wracked your brain all day, trying to come up with some way to both catch John off guard and be able to get both of his hands in the cuffs. You couldn't overpower him. You couldn't count on stealth. And tricking him was far too great a risk.

So you took the only option left - you let John choose.

When he finally looked back up at you, his eyes were narrowed. Thinking. Assessing. Calculating. You couldn't help but smile at how blown his pupils were. No matter what he chose, the three of you were in for a damn good night.

You closed the space between the two of you, and John wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer. He didn't hesitate for even a second. It was like a gut instinct that he couldn't help but follow. The cold metal of the cuffs brushed your back, the skin there only covered by a thin layer of lace. You couldn't stop the shiver that went through you at the feeling. From the look in John's eyes, he noticed it too.

Your lips parted, mouth open to speak, but John beat you to it.

"So," he murmured, his lips right next to your ear. Goosebumps rose on your arms as his hot breath ghosted over your skin. His voice was deep as sin, gravelly in that way he only got when exhausted or particularly worked up. "You gonna cuff my other wrist? Or you plannin' on cuffin' me to something…" He paused for effect, letting the weight of his words sink in. "…Or someone else?"

Pulling back enough to look him in the eye, you found yourself searching John's face for any hints of displeasure. There were none. His eyes were fixed on yours like he couldn't bear the thought of looking away. His lips were already reddening from your brief kiss, parted like he couldn't get in enough air, like the mere act of near you made breathing more difficult. This was the face of a thoroughly entranced man, ready and willing to submit to your pleasure.

"Wanted to give you a little bit of a fighting chance," you teased, smirking up at him.

Normally, John would quip back something smart like 'Is that why you ambushed me at the door?' or 'Sure seems like it, what with the industrial-grade handcuffs and all.' But his words caught you off guard.

"Never stand a chance against you when you've got your mind made up, darlin'," John said earnestly, his voice rumbling in his chest as he spoke. His free hand rubbed up and down your back, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the thin material there. "'Specially not with you dressed like that. Lookin' at me like that."

"What am I looking at you like?" you asked, trying to keep your voice smooth and seductive but coming off far more breathy than you intended.

"Like you're gonna eat me alive." The heat in his voice made your whole body pulse with pleasure, and the glint in his eyes told you he knew exactly what he was doing. Which is why he took a step back right as you surged forward to kiss him, sinking down to the floor on his knees in one graceful move, arms raised up before you as if in supplication. The act of submission took the very air out of your lungs.

"John," you breathed, chest rising and falling more rapidly.

"Please," he said, bowing his head reverently. "I'm ready for my punishment."

Taking a step forward, you rested your hand on his head, threading your fingers through his hair like you were either going to pet him or yank him up by force. You took in a deep, shaky breath, letting oxygen fill your lungs to compose yourself. When you breathed out, it was steady. A few more calm breaths, and you were ready.

"Please what?" you prompted, tightening your grip in his hair just a fraction. Not enough to cause pain, but enough to let him know you very well could.

"Please," John pleaded again, shuddering slightly as he finished his sentence, "Mistress."

The word thrummed through you - Mistress. It wasn't a title either of your boyfriends had ever used to describe you, though John had raised the idea before in passing. The closest they'd gotten was 'ma'am' - Bob's go-to honorific and one of John's favorite ways of teasing when you got bossy. It felt good, though. Fitting. Correct. There was a sense of power about it, the kind where you had a super soldier on his knees in front of you and a literal god naked and whimpering for your touch. Like you owned them.

Because you did.

"Stand up," you commanded, and John silently followed your orders, keeping his head down submissively. "Turn around. Hands behind your back."

You didn't snap the other cuff on John immediately; you took your time closing it, the sharp sound of each of the jagged metal teeth click into place slowly around his wrist. By the time the manacles were firmly on, John's breathing was audibly more shaky, the muscles in his upper back tensed and not from the positioning.

You let your hands roam, running up his flannel-clad back and back down his arms, feeling the roped muscles underneath his sleeves. When you reached his hands, you checked the security of the handcuffs, making sure they weren't tight enough to hurt or loose enough for escape.

"Color?"

"Green," John answered immediately. You hummed your approval, pleased at his easy obedience.

"What do you do if you can't speak?"

"One tap for no, two taps for yes," John faithfully recited. He was standing at parade rest like he was being commanded by a superior officer: legs shoulder-width apart, staring straight ahead with his chest puffed out and shoulders back, hands dutifully clasped.

Sliding your hands even further down, you cupped his ass, squeezing roughly. Even though he didn't always wear pants that showed it, John had such a nice ass. There was muscle there, sure. And great definition. But it was also plush, more plump than anywhere else on his body save for the little belly he got occasionally when overindulging, especially during the holidays. You'd said it before and you'd say it again: John Walker had a fat ass.

Letting go of him, you raised your hand, letting it come down in a hard smack that was, unfortunately, muffled by his jeans. It may not have hurt him, but the hitch in John's breath was beyond satisfying.

"Good job, soldier," you purred, pressing your torso against his back. You kept your hips back to avoid his cuffed hands, only letting the delicate lace of your chemise brush over his palms. Your hands, however, roamed of their own accord, one slipping under the hem of his shirt, his muscles twitching under your fingertips. The other danced dangerously close to the firm outline of his now fully-hard cock, just enough to tease by sliding up and down his thighs.

John held himself together admirably. But when you stepped back, fully removing yourself from him, John practically gasped for air, like he hadn't allowed himself to breathe as you touched him. Or perhaps he'd temporarily forgotten how to.

"Sit," you commanded, pointing to the low armchair you'd moved to the base of the bed. Normally, you'd find the chair draped in random clothes it'd gather between cleaning days - shirts you'd only worn for an hour or two, jackets you should have hung up, a bra you'd put aside to wear in the morning but forgot about. Now it was John draped across the chair, leaning fully against the backrest, his cuffed hands squished against the plush, grey fabric, his manspreading less like a expression of careless dominance and more like an invitation. One you willingly took up his offer on, climbing into his lap, stocking-clad knees resting on the seat of the chair on either side of his hips.

You hovered, not quite sitting down, your core mere inches away from the bulge in his jeans. He gazed up at you with wide eyes and parted lips, looking like a lost soul in a desert who'd just spotted a lush oasis that would be his salvation.

"Do you know why I have you tied up like this?"

John shook his head, not taking his eyes off yours. When you didn't continue, he seemingly realized his mistake and answered in a gravelly voice, "No, mistress."

Leaning down, you brushed your mouth along his jaw, his soft beard feeling exquisitely rough against your lips.

"You've been bad, haven't you?" you whispered, your breath ghosting over his skin. If his arms weren't covered by the sleeves of his flannel, you'd have been able to see the goosebumps that erupted there.

When John opened his mouth, face screwed up to protest, you silenced him with your hand, muffling his words.

"Don't lie to me," you hissed, nipping at his skin hard enough to make him jolt a little, his back now ramrod straight. "You thought you could cook up some little scheme and rope poor, sweet Bob into it without me noticing." When he hesitated for a second, not answering, you leaned down, biting the soft skin of John's throat just hard enough to sting but not hurt. You expected a little sound of pain in response, maybe him sucking air between his teeth or a gasp, but John let out a shaky moan under your palm.

"Didn't you?" you prompted, your voice syrupy sweet but venomous, like honey laced with poison.

The only answer he gave was a frustrated little noise. You smiled against his skin, huffing out a small laugh. He was trying to follow your rules but couldn't. Your hand was covering his mouth.

"You don't have to say the words this time, baby. Just nod or shake your head for me." Condescension dripped from your words, but John either didn't mind or he was already too far gone to notice.

When he nodded, you hummed your approval.

"Good boy," you purred, hand slipping from his lips to the nape of his neck, curling in the fine blond hair there. He inhaled sharply when you gripped hard, yanking his head back to look you in the eye. "And you know what good boys get?"

"No, mistress," John panted out. You kept a taut hold on him, staring down, eyes searching his face as if to discern the truth in his words. He was lying, but you couldn't fault him. At least not this time. From the desperate way his eyes bored into yours, he needed to hear you say it.

"Good boys get rewarded," you purred.

In one fluid motion, you lowered yourself, rocking down against the swell of him and capturing his lips in what quickly became a heated, sloppy kiss. The friction of his jeans against your clit felt magical, both you and John finally receiving the stimulation you'd both been craving.

The heat of the moment gripped you, and everything outside of your bodies fell away. You let yourself give in to the sensations - the way John panted against your lips in the brief moments your mouths parted like he'd forgotten to breathe, the smooth slide of his tongue against yours, the little throaty noises John would make when you sucked on his lower lip, and how you could feel John's jeans becoming wetter with each roll of your body against him. You could've done this for hours. Hell, you could have ridden him for days. But a high, keening whine from behind you pulled you back, slamming you into reality.

Unconsciously, John chased your lips when you broke the kiss, leaning back on your haunches to gain your bearings again. You chuckled, giving the man one last peck on the lips but not lingering, much to his chagrin.

"Mmm, you almost got me," you admitted, grinning at John. "That mouth almost made me forget you needed to be taught a lesson." You ran your finger over his lips and down his chin as he stared up at you with large, sad eyes, wordlessly pleading for you to continue.

Slipping out of his lap, you padded over to the head of the bed, tugging your chemise down from where it had ridden up. John let out an involuntary groan as he finally spotted the one part of your outfit he hadn't seen before - the see-through back panel. You grinned to yourself at his suffering.

Kneeling next to Bob on the lush purple bedspread, you wasted no time untying both the ballgag and blindfold, flinging them off the bed and onto the floor. Bob's eyes squinted immediately, even the dim light of the bedroom blinding to his newly freed senses. He opened his mouth, stretching his jaw until it audibly popped. You couldn't help but wince in sympathy, moving to gently massage the muscles right under his ears, your hands helping to ease the ache there.

"You doing okay, baby?" you asked soothingly, an apologetic lilt to your tone.

"Yeah," Bob whispered, voice groggy until he cleared his throat. "Yes, ma'am," he corrected, his voice at its regular volume.

You smoothed some of his hair off his forehead before reaching to inspect his bound wrists, checking for any redness and making sure his arms still had full circulation. You'd been careful when tying him up, but Bob wasn't exactly the type to complain about his own comfort.

"I'm sorry I took so long, sugar," you cooed down at him, stroking his hair. Bob closed his eyes, soaking in the affection. "Didn't mean to tease you that hard."

"S'okay," he murmured, turning his head and pressing a tender kiss to the inside of your wrist.

"My sweet boy," you whispered, peppering kisses all over his face until Bob's muscles fully relaxed, his body sinking deeper into the comforter. "You okay to continue? Need to take a break? Change position?"

Bob shook his head, his deep blue eyes fluttering open. "'M good. I feel good."

"Yeah?" you murmured, pressing your lips to his jaw, lingering longer there, your kisses becoming more heated.

"Yeah," Bob affirmed, voice noticeably huskier than before. "Green. Very…very green."

"Mmm," you hummed, starting to run your hand down his torso. Your fingertips traced the sharp line of his collar bone from his shoulder to the center of his chest before trailing down. His cock, which had flagged a little bit before you sat down on the bed, was at full attention again. It twitched as your hand slid further down his body, between the pectoral muscles, going from just one finger to the whole of your palm easing down his stomach, still sticky with precum.

Bob didn't fight the full throated moan that ripped out of him when you wrapped your hand around his length, slowly stroking him from the base all the way up to his leaking tip. Just the weight and heat of him in your hand was enough to make your mouth water. You had to force yourself to let go of him, biting your lip to keep from grinning at Bob's whimper of protest.

"Sorry, baby," you said almost mockingly, not even a trace of remorse in your voice.

Turning to face him, you brought your hand up to your face, licking off a droplet of precum. Bob's answering whine was so delicious that you couldn't fight down the cruel smile that tugged at your lips.

"Do you know why you're here?" you asked Bob, gesturing at the rope that held him captive.

Bob nodded, biting at his already reddened lips.

"Tell me."

For a split second, his eyes darted to the end of the bed, to the other man quietly observing you. But you put a stop to that, snapping your fingers to draw his attention back.

"Eyes on me, baby. Now…" You let your words trail off just as you started to run your hand over his chest again, fingertips barely grazing his skin. His nipples hardened under your touch, and you drew lazy circles around them. "Tell me why I have you here like this."

"I…" Bob hesitated, but when you whipped your head to look at him, he quickly choked out an answer. "I was bad. I should have told you."

Satisfied that he'd continue to answer, you refocused your attention on Bob's nipples. They were small and dusky pink with a little ring of hair growing right around them. And you knew from experience just how sensitive they were.

"Keep going," you prompted. "Told me what?"

"I-I should have told you about John's plan," he admitted.

"Bobby, don't you dare…" John started to warn, but another snap of your fingers, and he went silent. Despite the grumpy look he shot you, John's eyes were alight.

"Uh uh uh. No more talking from you," you admonished, enjoying the way John squirmed under your glare. "Keep going, sweetheart," you encouraged Bob. You let your thumb swirl around the pebbled skin of Bob's nipple, redirecting his attention. He inhaled sharply through his nose but kept going.

"He…" Bob's eyes twitched like he wanted to look back at John but forced himself not to. You felt a small swell of both pride and pleasure in him following your orders. "He wanted to trick you. To tie you up and…" His words trailed off, looking like he was working himself up to finish his sentence. "Have…his way…with you. 'M sorry."

"That's okay, sweetheart. I can forgive you," you cooed, smiling down at him. God, you loved the way he looked up at you, big blue eyes so full of love, staring at you like you were his very salvation. "And, because you were honest with me and helped me with my plan, I have a reward for you. You want your reward, puppy?"

Bob nodded furiously. "Yes! Yes, please. Please, mistress," he pleaded, surging up as much as he could before you lightly pushed him back down on the bed. Hearing that honorific from Bob's lips - mistress - was almost more than you could bear. Your pussy clenched, clit throbbing in arousal. Fortunately, relief was in sight.

Reaching under his pillow, you pulled out a small piece of plastic. It was about an inch long, white, and perfectly rectangular. Bob's eyebrows furrowed in confusion when you held it in front of him. He didn't voice his question, just looked up at you for answers. You pressed your thumb on the indented area, and the loud, metallic click the object made seemed to echo in the room. Instead of answering his question, Bob looked even more perplexed as you pressed the clicker into his hand.

"Click it for me," you ordered. There was a moment of hesitation before Bob obeyed, pushing down on the metal part of the clicker. The sound was less jarring this time, but no more enlightening than before.

You couldn't help but smirk. "Looks like it's not just for training dogs," you teased. "Then again, you are my good little puppy." You didn't think it was possible for Bob's face to turn even more pink than it already was, but the blush that dusted his cheeks was almost scarlet.

You didn't mean to say the words "You're so pretty" out loud, but, judging by how Bob turned his head to the side, trying to bashfully duck away from your gaze, you must have. Grabbing his chin, you pulled his head back up to endure your undivided attention, letting your eyes roam over him.

God, he was indeed beautiful. You could catalog everything you loved about his face: the shallow wrinkle on his forehead and cute little lines under those expressive eyes, the strong and mostly straight nose that ended in a slightly bulbous tip that was perfect for planting a kiss on, the five o'clock shadow that always haunted his skin no matter how closely he shaved, his thin but oh-so-soft lips that knew how to kiss you breathless and drive you mad in turn, all the way to the strong jut of his jaw and the delicious protrusion of his Adam's apple. And his eyes. Oh, they were as deep and dark as the ocean and sometimes just as stormy. But not now. Now they gazed up at you with a look of sheer reverence, waiting for your next command, ready and willing to follow your every whim like it was the gospel, like he was your most faithful disciple.

And you kissed him. Despite the heat of the evening's proceedings, it started slow, a simple pass of lips coming together and separating in turn over and over again. When you ran your tongue across the seam of his lips, they parted smoothly, like he hadn't even made the conscious decision. It was just that natural. And, when you kissed him, you tasted him, sliding your tongue along his as if sampling its delicacies. It grew in intensity naturally, building and building until Bob was panting against your lips, barely able to bite back the little sounds at the back of his throat that threatened to spill out and into your mouth. You could feel him trying to stay still, to be good for you, body going so stiff Bob was practically shaking from the tension. When you finally broke the kiss, you rested your forehead on Bob's, both of you fighting to catch your breath.

"Fuck," you muttered, not missing the way Bob's lips turned up at the edges in a pleased smile. "You almost distracted me too, baby."

"'M sorry," Bob breathed. He was lying, but you couldn't fault him for it this time. In Bob's perfect world, you'd be on top of him right now, kissing him until his lungs felt near to bursting, his throbbing erection buried deep inside of you as you ground down against him. As wet as that thought made you, he still needed to be punished. Bob wouldn't get your pussy until he earned it.

Sitting back up, you pushed the hair that had fallen down back out of your face. "Still have that clicker, baby?"

"Yes, mistress," Bob answered.

"What's the code for when you can't speak?"

Bob frowned slightly, a little confused. But he answered anyway, his words lilting up at the end as if he wanted to turn them into a question but he didn't quite dare to ask. "One tap for no, two for yes."

"We need to use a slightly different one this time," you murmured, brushing the hair back out of his face. "One click is pause. And two clicks is for stop. Do you understand?"

"One click for pause, two clicks for stop," Bob repeated, making the appropriate number of clicks for each part of the sentence.

You spared a glance over your shoulder at John. Bob may not have pieced together what his reward was, but John sure as hell did. His eyes burned into you hot enough that you were momentarily grateful that Bob was the one with heat vision. You could see his chest rise and fall just a little too quickly under his shirt, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth to calm himself. His lips were a dark, lush pink, like he'd been biting at them, fighting to keep silent. You smirked back at him. That was the face of a man who knew exactly what he was missing out on.

You looked back down at Bob, who was still looking up at you with wide, searching eyes, his forehead furrowed, eyebrows adorably pushed up in the middle.

"You hungry, puppy?" you cooed down at him, grinning sharply when his look of confusion only grew.

Shifting your weight, you swung your leg over Bob to straddle his chest. In a second, it was like a light bulb had flickered on in Bob's head.

"Oh my God," he practically moaned, voice shaky. He'd done a good job not speaking unless asked a question this whole time, but it was like any other thought had left his head. "Please, baby. Fuck, I need this. Need you. Need to taste you. Please." Bob almost dropped the clicker, but you pressed it back into his hand before moving to hover over his face, knees on either side of his head on the pillows. Your thighs were already starting to ache, but you pushed the pain into the back of your mind.

"Remember, one click for pause and two clicks for stop," you purred down at Bob, adjusting quickly when he craned his neck, desperate to taste you. He was definitely hungry.

You didn't make him repeat it back this time. This time, you were merciful. You lowered your dripping pussy onto his awaiting tongue, his resulting moan vibrating against your clit. Your hands shot out, grasping the headboard to help hold yourself up. After all, you didn't want to crush his pretty little face.

Bob was everywhere all at once, licking and sucking every inch of skin he could reach, the most obscene sounds filling the room. He ran his tongue up your slit and back down again, stretching his neck for a better angle.

"Tongue flat, baby," you ordered, letting out a hum of cruel amusement when he immediately obeyed. You rocked your hips, grinding your clit into his tongue, moaning at the delicious, wet friction.

Bob's hands twitched, uselessly trying to grab for you. Normally, Bob helped when you rode his face. Sometime around the middle, your legs always seemed to turn to jelly. So Bob was always there to help, effortlessly holding you up by your hips, letting you control the pace and positioning as you got off on his mouth. But this time, you'd have to do it all alone. Hopefully, the Sentry serum gave him an increased lung capacity.

You rode his face, using his mouth however you wanted it. After grinding your clit on his tongue, you grabbed Bob's head, fingers clutching his scalp, and angled him further down. His tongue lapped at your entrance, happily drinking you straight from the source.

"Fuck me with your tongue, baby," you commanded, and Bob wasted no time obeying. He thrust his tongue inside of you, both of you moaning in tandem. Yours was with your head thrown back, grinding down even harder on his face, clenching your walls around him. His was muffled inside of you but still so loud in the mostly quiet room filled only with your and John's heavy breathing. You canted your hips forward, letting his nose nudge your clit with each subsequent grind.

It quickly became harder and harder to hold yourself up. Where you'd been hovering, barely touching Bob's face, you were now firmly seated on him. Not that he minded. Bob was locked in, his eyes closed in focus, that little line forming between his eyebrows as he furrowed them in concentration.

"Bob, baby," you murmured down at him, stroking his hair idly. "Look at me, sweet boy. Wanna see those eyes."

His lashes fluttered as he opened his eyelids, his glassy gaze and wide pupils telling you everything you needed to know.

"Aww, is the little puppy pussydrunk already?" you cooed, an edge of mockery in your tone. Bob just whined against you in answer, and you could feel the bed shift as his hips bucked into the air, fruitlessly searching for any friction to soothe his aching cock.

"You're doing so good," you moaned, gripping his hair even harder as you angled your hips to let Bob's tongue run along your slit from your entrance all the way to your clit, which he happily took in his mouth. "Fuck," you swore, biting your lower lip as you rocked against Bob's mouth. "Suck that clit, baby. You're making me feel so fucking good. Gonna cum on that pretty little face."

There was a choked sound from the end of the bed, and you looked back over your shoulder at John. This was definitely punishment for him. He couldn't stop fidgeting in his seat, prick so eager for friction that even the uncomfortable rub of the metal teeth on his zipper provided a kind of sharp, painful relief. Gone were the deep breaths in through the nose and out through his mouth; John was panting, lips parted enticingly. He was staring fixated at what he could see of your cunt smearing Bob's face with your arousal.

"Oh, looks like Johnny's liking the show, puppy," you teased, exaggerating the next roll of your hips to pull a groan out of John's mouth. He didn't disappoint. And neither did Bob who answered your question with a quivering moan of his own that vibrated through you pleasantly.

"You want some, baby?" you taunted John. He nodded immediately, leaning forward in the armchair hopefully. "You want to eat this pretty pussy, sugar?"

"Please," John practically moaned. All pretense of dominance was long gone from the man. He'd already tried tugging on the restraints, finding them much sturdier than he'd at first thought. He'd practically melted, finding something strangely erotic about feeling weak and helpless. Like he was completely at your mercy to do with as you pleased. And he desperately wanted to be used.

"You hear that, Bob? John wants a turn," you said innocently, stroking Bob's hair as if to calm him while your words were doing anything but. "I should let him have a taste. It's only fair."

Before you could even pantomime starting to lift a leg to pull yourself off of him, a growl ripped its way out of Bob's throat. You had to bite your lip to keep from whimpering at the look of sheer, unmitigated possessiveness in his eyes as your boyfriend glared up at you. The headboard creaked violently as Bob strained against his restraints. He wasn't using his full strength, but, judging by the flash of gold in his eyes, Bob definitely would break something if you tried to climb off him. When you stayed quiet, he made another low, dangerous sound, letting his teeth lightly scrape against your clit. You tried to hold back your gasp but to no avail. Bob hummed in pleasure when you bucked your hips, lathing that little bundle of nerves with his tongue before sliding his teeth over it again.

"Fuck! Bob, oh my God!" you cried out, clenching your fists tighter in Bob's hair, your teasing instantly forgotten.

Your knees went weak, and you found yourself sinking down completely on his face, unable to hold yourself up. If you weren't so distracted riding his mouth, you would have noticed that the gold didn't disappear from his eyes, that it almost felt like there were hands holding onto your thighs, ones that helped you rut harder against his face. His mouth was everywhere, lapping and slurping at your folds, fucking his tongue into you, and mouthing his lips over your sensitive clit, practically moaning when you thrust down, hips stuttering against him.

Soon enough, you were shaking, stomach muscles twitching, thighs tightening around Bob's head. He didn't seem to mind, making a happy noise in the back of his throat as he panted against your slick skin. Focusing on your nub, Bob swirled his tongue around it before flattening, letting you lewdly hump his face, dragging your clit over the flexing muscle. When you started whimpering, making desperate little noises that were practically begging him for release, he increased the suction on that little bundle of nerves, suckling hard enough to make you see white spots behind your closed eyelids. Each flex of his jaw, each swallow coincided with each roll of your hips, the rhythm of it combined with the pleasure-pain of pressure driving you closer and closer to the edge.

With one last rut of your hips and a wail, your whole body went rigid as your release slammed into you, leaving you gasping and shaking. Bob worked you through it, still licking every inch of skin he could get his mouth on but slowing down. He only let up once you were whining, trying to pull yourself off of him to collapse on the bed. Reluctantly, Bob let you go, and you flopped down next to him, gasping for breath like you'd run an Olympic marathon.

You only gave yourself to the count of five before you forced yourself to sit up, carefully pulling the rope on the quick-release knots holding Bob's wrists in place. As soon as the purple ropes were gone, you went to take his hands to inspect them, but you didn't have a chance to. The next thing you knew, you were on your back, head now at the foot of the bed, legs thrown haphazardly over Bob's shoulders as he buried his face back between them, eagerly lapping at your sensitive cunt.

"Bob!" you cried out, once again grasping honeyed-brown locks in your hands. He was relentless. And he was everywhere, tonguing your folds like he was desperate to wring every last ounce of pleasure out of you. Bob rutted his hips against the bed in time with the movements of his tongue, your ecstasy turning into his own as he whined and panted against you.

You almost gave in. You almost let him manhandle you to another orgasm. But, when you caught John's eye and saw the warring desires written plainly on his face - the desire to please you versus the desire to pleasure you - you came back to your senses.

"Bob," you said again, mustering enough authority in your tone to cause the man between your legs to pause, looking up at you. He was a mess - hair clutched between your fingers, lower face soaked with your juices, eyes a swirl of black, blue, and flecks of gold.

"Bob…no, baby. You gotta let me up," you scolded. It felt a bit ridiculous, what with your legs in the air and a literal god holding you down, but you pushed through the feeling.

Bob let out a whine of complaint, opening his mouth to protest. You fixed him with your best schoolteacher glare, and he visibly withered.

"You got your treat, puppy. C'mere," you urged. Tugging on his hair to pull him closer to you, Bob allowed your legs to drop down, crawling up between them.

Not all of him had deflated when you glowered at him. His hips bucked, sliding his hard length along your slick folds. You gasped when the swollen head nudged your abused clit, pulling him down into a blistering kiss. The taste of you was sharp and sweet on his lips, drawing a moan out of you that Bob willingly drank from your mouth.

When you finally drew back, Bob moved down, mouthing at your neck, tongue out to taste your skin. You allowed him this much, closing your eyes and letting your hand idly scratch his scalp until he reached the base of your neck, sucking a possessive mark into your skin.

"That's enough, sweetheart," you murmured to him. This time, when you tried to sit up, Bob got the hint, leaning back to sit on his knees, watching you for instruction.

"There's my good boy," you purred, stroking his cheek with the back of your hand. Bob closed his eyes, leaning into your fleeting touch. That was until you pulled something out of a clever little pocket in the chemise, pressing it into his hands - a key. His eyes fluttered open, looking from the key in his hands to John in the armchair and back to you. "That's right, baby. Go unlock those handcuffs for me."

After one more brief kiss, Bob quietly obeyed, getting off the bed and padding his way over to the grey armchair. You took this time to pull yourself to the top of the bed, sitting up against the headboard, watching your two favorite boys.

Bob was gentle as he unlocked the manacles from John's wrists. Without your prompting, he knelt down and took John's hands in his, checking them for any signs of redness or abrasion the same way you'd meant to do with Bob before he abruptly tackled you. His touch was soft, running the pads of his thumbs over the delicate skin of John's wrists.

"You okay?" Bob asked quietly in that low, breathy voice of his, looking up into John's eyes. Maybe you were just seeing what you wanted to see, but it certainly seemed like both men's eyes were softer when they looked at each other. It wasn't one of the myriad ways you'd seen them looking at you, but it was…something.

"Yeah," John answered, his voice just as soft as Bob's and even more breathless.

"Can you…feel everything? No numbness?" Bob pressed.

A wry smile curled John's lips. "I'm good, Bobby. I promise. Scout's honor."

You cleared your throat, and both men pulled their hands away from each other like they were caught doing something they weren't supposed to. The smile you gave them was both condescending and self-satisfied. You couldn't help yourself.

"Good boys," you commended. Both of them seemed to sit up straighter at your words, preening under your watchful gaze. You let your eyes slowly slide down and then back up their bodies, smirking. "I think someone's a little overdressed. Bob, sugar?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Help him take those clothes off."

He swallowed hard enough that John probably heard it, his Adam's apple bobbing and making your mouth water with the urge to lick his throat. You wet your lips instead, and both pairs of blue eyes shot down automatically, watching the brief flash of tongue. When Bob looked back up and met your eyes, his widened, a flash of panic there when he realized he didn't verbally answer you.

"Y-yes, ma'am. Mistress? Yes, mistress." Bob winced, cringing at his own words. "Sorry, mistress. I just got sidetracked. I'll-"

"It's okay, baby," you reassured him, his shoulders relaxing with a small sigh of relief at your words. You crossed your legs in front of you on the bed, exaggerating the movement to make sure they caught a glimpse of your nakedness under the lingerie. "I'm flattered you find me so…distracting."

"Always," Bob breathed, eyes taking you in like he was trying to burn the sight of you into his retinas. And John wasn't any better. Even though he couldn't see under the chemise, he stared at your crossed legs like he was mentally willing them to part for him.

"I won't hold it against you, I promise," you said with a teasing smile that had Bob blushing. You gestured at John. "Now, get to it, or I might have to change my mind. And go slow." You gestured at the front of John's flannel. "Unbutton it. Take your time."

Bob's fingers fumbled on John's shirt. You couldn't tell if the man was having a kind of stage fright, being put on the spot and watched, or if the proximity to the other man and the intimacy of the act was affecting him.

After he'd managed to undo a few, you directed John to help. Instead of taking over for Bob, John placed his hands on top of the brunet's, coaxing his fingers to slip the buttons through the holes of his flannel, his shirt falling more and more open, exposing a thin undershirt beneath it. When it was fully undone, Bob pushed the fabric off John's shoulders and down his arms, fingers running over the newly bared skin.

The undershirt was next, John raising his arms and letting Bob slowly pull it up his torso and over his head, the dangling silver dogtags on John's neck brushing the skin of Bob's chest. The metal had been pressed against John's chest the entire night, so there was no way it was colder. But, when they touched Bob, he'd shivered like they were freezing anyway.

The jeans were next. John stood up to help unbutton them, but one word from you kept Bob kneeling. Bob looked up at the man hovering over him. John's breathing stuttered for a second, and you knew why. You'd seen those storm-blue eyes gazing up at you from between your thighs more times that you could count, and the sight never failed to send a rush of heat straight between your legs, stealing the air from your lungs. If the stunned look on John's face was any indication, he felt the same.

The belt came off easily enough. Even though you'd never seen Bob wear one, he certainly knew the easiest way to remove one, not even struggling with the belt buckle that you yourself had fumbled with before. He placed it on the armchair before continuing.

Bob's fingers weren't shaking anymore as he unbuttoned the fly on John's jeans, keeping eye contact the whole time. John stood transfixed, pink lips parted in silent awe. The teeth of John's zipper sounded loud in the quiet of the room, each one making a little metallic noise that echoed in your ears.

Finally, when the pants were unfastened, Bob rested his hands on John's hips, thumbs going through the belt loops. When John nodded, barely jerking his head down then up again, Bob began pulling, coaxing the jeans down his legs. His hands could have stopped around mid-thigh and let gravity take over, but Bob was nothing if not diligent. He traced John's legs all the way down, leaving the jeans in a pile around the other man's feet.

Looking back up, Bob was face to face with the obvious tent in John's boxer briefs. He was so close, his breath puffed warm air over the erection, and John was far from unaffected by his proximity.

"Jesus Christ, Bobby," he muttered under his breath just loud enough for you to hear it. Bob tried to play innocent, his big eyes opening wider, becoming even more round like he had no idea what he was doing, but the smirk tugging on the corners of his lips gave it away.

Soon, Bob's hands were on the waist of John's boxer briefs, fingers slipping under the elastic band, rubbing against the skin there. John was biting his lip, his breathing kept slow and steady with visible effort. Bob glanced at you for permission, and you wasted no time granting it with a sharp nod of your head. He took his time, even more so than with the jeans, skimming his palms over the bare skin he revealed inch by inch.

By the time John stood fully naked at the end of the bed, both men were breathing hard and painfully erect. John's cockhead was almost purple, a few sparse droplets of precum glistening on his glans. If Bob quickly looked away and licked his lips, John didn't comment on it.

A soft, wet schlick drew both of their attention to you. While they were distracted with each other, you'd occupied yourself, two fingers slowly circling your clit, teasing yourself. Your hand dipped, sliding through your slick folds, wetting your fingers before bringing them back, the touch tantalizingly light. Seeing their attention back on you, you spread your legs further, giving them both a better view.

"Want a taste?" you purred at John, a smug smile on your lips at his dazed expression.

"Please," he said, the word no more than a breathy whisper. It was as though he didn't know where to look, his eyes flickering between your face and your soaked core.

You let your hand slip down, skimming your fingertips over your slit, before slowly pressing two fingers inside. Watching John, you pumped them in and out of you, the sounds of your arousal quickly filling the bedroom. Only a single sigh of pleasure spilled out of you as you curled your fingers, touching that spongy spot inside of you that sent tendrils of sensation through your body.

Stopping abruptly, you removed your fingers, holding them up in front of you, glistening in the dim light with your slick. John's stare bore into you. There was a tension in him, not unlike a string on a violin, one that had been overly-tightened and was ready to snap given the slightest opportunity.

"Bob," you called. The brunet, who'd been kneeling patiently on the floor, watching the scene play out, snapped his head toward you, blinking in obvious surprise.

"Y-yes, ma'am?" he asked, voice tentative.

"C'mere." You quirked your wet fingers at him, and he rushed to crawl to you on the bed. Extending your hand in front of him, you only spoke one word. "Suck."

And Bob happily obeyed. He opened his mouth, letting you thrust your fingers in, where he sucked on them happily. Bob tried to keep his eyes open, to keep looking at you, but he couldn't help himself. His oral fixation was too strong and having your fingers in his mouth was too soothing.

Once you were satisfied he'd cleaned them thoroughly, you removed your fingers from Bob's mouth with a wet pop. Those deep blue eyes fluttered open, watching you with a half-lidded gaze. It took everything in you to not pull him into another kiss when he gave you that sweet, dopey smile that you only ever saw when he was fucked out or drunk off your pussy.

Turning your attention back to John, it took everything in you again but this time to not laugh at his expression. The man looked devastated. Those sad eyes that drew you to him originally were in full force now as he gazed at you. It was the face of a man who had accepted his punishment but just couldn't fight down his disappointment. He didn't pout. He didn't scowl. He didn't even look put out. He just looked resigned to his punishment.

"Don't worry, baby. You'll still get a taste. Come here, handsome boy," you cooed at him.

You'd teased John more than once that he was the human equivalent of a Golden Retriever, and the way his face lit up in excitement like you were holding his favorite toy didn't help his case. If he had a tail, John would definitely be wagging it. He crawled over to you on the opposite side from Bob, sitting back on his heels, mirroring the other man. It was like your legs had their very own book ends.

On the outside, you looked cool and collected, amusement dancing on your lips. But on the inside, your heart was a war drum pounding against your ribcage, like you were leading an army into battle. Your stomach fluttered with nerves, but you steeled yourself. Doubts flooded your mind, but you pushed them aside.

It was like a mission. A high-stakes mission with potential long-lasting consequences, but you'd done plenty of those before and come out the other side. And if you were wrong? So what? Sure, it'd be awkward, maybe even a little painful. But these two idiots would never take the dive if you left them to their own devices. They'd been skirting around their attraction for months. It was time for you to give them that final little push.

"You know…" you started, drawing out the words in an almost sing-song voice. John frowned immediately. Sometimes you thought he might just have some precognition, the way he could sense trouble on the horizon. Especially if that trouble came from you. "I don't think you deserve to have some straight from the source."

John opened his mouth to plead his case, a rebuttal already fully formed and ready to go in his mind. But you cut him off before he could gather steam.

"But you can have a taste secondhand."

You waved your hand at Bob, the gesture casual, almost flippant even though your words were anything but.

Bob understood first. His mouth fell open, kiss-swollen lips parting with a soft noise of surprise. He went pale beneath the flush on his skin, his eyes widening as he watched you, as if waiting for confirmation that he heard you correctly. You gave him one firm nod, and he muttered the words 'holy shit,' under his breath.

John took a minute. He looked down at your hand, as if expecting you to touch yourself again so he could suck the juices off your fingers the way Bob had, but his expression was pure puzzlement when you pointed instead. His eyes followed, turning to look at whatever you were gesturing to. When his gaze met Bob's, it was still one of confusion. That is until Bob licked his lips.

It was an instinct, a nervous habit he did in stressful situations. His mouth would go dry and so would his lips. Bob normally remedied this by carrying around lip balm everywhere he went - putting one in each of his hoodies and stashing some in the common areas he used the most. But this time, he didn't even think about it. He just did. And John's eyes followed his tongue like they were magnetized to it.

When he looked back up, Bob was watching him closely, trying to judge his reaction. And react, he did.

It was like a light bulb lit up in his mind - a bright, neon one with a lurid image on it, like something you'd find in a trashy strip club in the 80s. His eyes went wide as saucers, mouth falling open in surprise. Even though he was turned to the side, you could see those long, blond lashes fluttering as he blinked rapidly like his brain was recalibrating.

When he turned to you, John's face was a swirl of emotions - shock, shame, and stubbornness chief among them. You laid your hand on his forearm, and, when he didn't rebuff you, you took his hand in yours.

"Hey, we don't have to do anything anyone doesn't want," you told him gently, dropping character entirely. "We can go back to what we were doing. Or we can stop entirely. Or anything in between."

You glanced over at Bob, only to find him watching John closely, an unreadable look on his face. You smiled, catching his attention and tentatively offering your other hand to him, which Bob accepted with a gentle squeeze.

"If I went too far or this is too much, I'm sorry," you said earnestly, eyes flitting back and forth between your boyfriends. "It just seems like you two have been dancing around each other for months. That maybe you needed a little push."

"We could have just talked about it," Bob said wryly, rubbing his thumb on the back of your hand, giving you a smug little smirk when you had the grace to look bashful.

"You and I could have talked about it, sure," you admitted, turning to look at John. "But something tells me you would have just kept running forever."

John's answering smile had an edge of self-deprecation. "You're probably right about that," he admitted with a sigh.

"I'm right about most things," you teased, and John's smile turned more genuine.

"Dunno if I'd go that far," he said with a chuckle. Leaning in, you kissed his cheek, his stubble grazing your skin not-unpleasantly. Turning his head, John captured your lips in a brief but oh-so-sweet embrace. Bob watched you both, his gaze so heavy it felt like it had physical weight. It was like earlier when he caught sight of you in your lingerie, but this time, Bob wasn't watching just you.

"You sure you're okay with this?" John asked as he pulled back, his breath ghosting over your lips.

"You're asking me if I want my boyfriends to kiss?" At John's answering nod, you couldn't help but let out a sharp bark of a laugh. "Of fucking course I do. I didn't even consider it as a possibility until recently. But the better question is - do you?"

John's eyes flickered past you, looking at Bob, and they darted away just as quickly. It was like he wasn't able to hold Bob's intense gaze for long. At the same time, he couldn't quite keep his eyes away. They kept glancing over, catching little glimpses of Bob's stare as though he was drawn in by those storm-dark eyes.

"I meant it when I said you don't have to if you don't want to," you said softly, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb with little back and forth motions. "And it isn't a 'now or never' situation either. We can always talk about this later."

"I," John started, licking his lower lip nervously. "I do." He finally met Bob's eyes. This time, he was steady, not breaking eye contact. "I'd like to."

"Bob, are you -" you started, but Bob already sat up, getting on his hands and knees and pressing his lips to John's.

Suddenly, it was like the air was sucked out of the room. Your brain seemed to stop functioning properly, completely freeze-framing on the sight right in front of you, one you had imagined so many times but never thought would leave the confines of your mind.

John's eyes closed the second their lips touched, his blond lashes fluttering against his skin. His face went slack, like all the anxiety, all his thoughts slipped out of his head, smoothing the lines on his forehead and in the corners of his eyes. His hand hovered nervously before tentatively placing it on Bob's forearm, grip gradually tightening until there were little white crescents in Bob's skin there.

Even though Bob had his head angled away from you, the smile that curled his lips was unmistakable. Balancing on one hand, he lifted the other to cup John's cheek before slipping it down to John's chin, using that leverage to hold the other man back when he tried to follow Bob's mouth when their lips parted. When John made a sound of protest, Bob smiled even more, moving back in and placing a series of kisses on John's lips that kept the other man wanting more. The sound of their lips meeting and parting filled the room with soft, wet smacking noises.

It didn't take long for John to get bolder, hand slipping up to the nape of Bob's neck, trying to hold Bob closer to deepen the kiss. Bob just nipped at John's lower lip, leaning back slightly and making John chase his mouth until their positions had switched with John practically on his hands and knees instead of Bob. But just when it seemed there was no farther back for Bob to move and John opened his mouth to lick at the seam of Bob's lips, the brunet put his hand on John's shoulder, gently holding him back.

When John's eyes opened, he looked almost dazed. "Bob. Bobby," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "Please."

"Please what?" Bob teased, lightly shoving John back off of where he was resting on his knees and making him sit directly on the bed. He wasn't pushing John away, however. Bob followed him down, climbing onto his lap.

John's hands fell to Bob's hips automatically, squeezing his flesh with a throaty groan. Just the proximity was enough to take John's breath away, the blond breathing harder, pink dusting his cheeks and his kiss-stained lips. His eyes were everywhere, taking Bob in - the little smirk, the way his eyes swirled with gold-flecked heat, and, most pressingly, the still-hard cock that stood proudly between Bob's legs, hovering mere inches away from John's own throbbing length.

"Please kiss me," John pleaded quietly, not bothering to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Bob obliged. He surged forward, capturing John's mouth hard enough that you could swear you heard their teeth click. Bob pressed his body firmly against John's, swallowing the other man's shaky moan. Their mouths only parted enough for you to see the flash of their tongues sliding against each other. John's hands moved farther back, grasping the other man's ass and pulling him even closer. When Bob started moving, slowly grinding his hips down against John's, your hand had slipped under your chemise, teasing yourself with featherlight touches against your still-sensitive clit.

By the time they broke apart, both were out of breath. Bob rested his forehead against John's, panting against his lips. John's eyes never left Bob's face, watching him with a look that was dangerously close to awe.

"Fuck," Bob breathed, biting his lip. "I've wanted to do that for months."

"Why didn't you?" John asked, his ragged voice thrumming through you, your clit pulsing under your own touch at the naked desire there.

Bob laughed, the sound joyous and carefree in the way he only ever seemed to be with you. And now with John. He laid a small kiss on the tip of John's nose, the same affectionate way he did with you. The sight could have made you jealous. Maybe it should have. But it only made your heart feel as warm as your body already was.

"Honestly thought you were straight," Bob admitted with a grin. "That kiss says otherwise."

"I'm straight-ish," John professed with a shrug. "Not exactly my first rodeo, so to speak."

You raised your eyebrows. This was news to you.

Bob, however, didn't look particularly surprised.

"Mmm, yeah, you don't kiss like I'm your first guy." Even from your angle, you could see that mischievous light in Bob's eyes that spelled nothing but the most delicious kind of trouble. It was the same look he got the day he spontaneously went down on you in the control room, making you cum mere seconds before the rest of the team walked in. The same one he had on the date where you made the mistake of wearing a low cut top and Bob ended up railing you against the wall of your favorite bookstore's bathroom. But this time? It was focused on John.

"Tell me about it," Bob murmured, leaning down to run his tongue along the shell of John's ear, making the other man shiver beneath him. "You fool around with a friend in high school?"

"Not 'friend.' 'Friends'plural; more than one," John admitted almost sheepishly. Bob rolled his hips, a little reward for the truth. He smirked when John moaned.

"What, were you fucking the football team?" Bob teased, biting and tugging at John's earlobe.

John let out a shaky laugh. "No. Not…not exactly. We'd go get drunk in the woods on the weekends sometimes. Just guys tailgating, drinking beer, and shooting the shit. Eventually, we'd start talking about girls, and one of the guys'd pop a stiffy. And, you know, no one around, so we'd…" John shrugged awkwardly. "Yeah."

"Give each other a hand?" Bob teased.

"Or…a mouth," he said with a coy smile on his face.

"Jesus," you said, voice practically a moan. Both men turned to look at you, one with a questioning look on his face, the other with a knowing smirk.

"Looks like we're not the only ones enjoying ourselves," Bob said, eyes fixed on the hand between your stocking-clad legs. Wordlessly, you spread them farther apart, giving your boyfriends a better view of your dripping pussy. In an almost Pavlovian response, both John and Bob licked their lips. It would be funny if it wasn't so fucking hot.

"You enjoy the taste you got, baby?" you asked John, making a show of swirling your finger around your sensitive nub.

"Yes," John breathed. Before you could say anything, he corrected himself. "Yes, mistress."

"Good boy," you purred, dipping your fingers through your slick folds teasingly before bringing them back up, continuing the circles around your clit. "Bob, I think he deserves a little reward for being so good. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, ma'am," Bob said maybe a touch too enthusiastically. With two flicks of the wrist, he undid the snaps holding his cock ring on and carelessly tossed the black piece of leather across the room. He then shifted in John's lap, moving back just a fraction, ignoring the little noise of complaint the other man let out. Before John could voice his objections, Bob's hand closed around both of their cocks, stroking them roughly.

"Fuck!" John cried out, thrusting his hips up, his cock sliding against Bob's inside the other man's fist.

Bob was grinning wildly. His other hand came up to fist into John's hair, pulling a gasp from his mouth. Yanking, he tugged John's head to hover directly over his fist.

"Spit on it," he commanded. John obeyed, letting his saliva well up before opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue, letting strands of his spit land on their already-leaking glans.

"Yeah, that's it. Fuck my fist," Bob murmured in his ear, voice just loud enough to carry. Both you and John moaned at the same time, your free hand coming up to cup your breast through the lacy fabric of the chemise.

"You're leaking so much, baby. So wet for me. Practically dripping," Bob purred, starting to mouth at John's neck, nipping and sucking at the skin there. You could see him thumb the slick heads of both of their cocks in one swipe, and you followed the motion, rubbing firmly over your clit.

Eventually, Bob appeared to tire of John setting the pace. He pushed at John's shoulders, urging him down onto his back on the bed. Bracing one hand on John's abs, Bob rolled his hips, throwing back his head and letting out a long groan. He started riding John in earnest, rutting into his own hand, cock sliding easily against John's. It was mesmerizing. You could see all the muscles in Bob's ass and the backs of his thighs flex almost hypnotically as he started up a rhythm.

The thought occurred to you that that must be what John got to see all the times Bob fucked you in front of him, burying himself deep into your cunt. You gritted your teeth to hold back a particularly undignified noise, feeling yourself growing impossibly wetter at the thought. You'd believed John was just watching him spear you open, watching as Bob pistoned his cock in and out of you. But you knew in that moment that your blond boyfriend's eyes had flickered back and forth, watching the way Bob's cheeks dimpled with each thrust.

And now, John grabbed at those dimples, fingers digging into the flesh of Bob's ass, unconsciously aiding Bob's momentum. His face was slack, mouth open, watching the man above him with a look of pure awe, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Smiling down, Bob bit his lip coyly, a look deliberately designed to entice.

"Feel good?" he murmured teasingly.

"Yes," John panted, his hips twitching with the urge to grind up against him. His fingertips grasping at Bob's skin hard enough to leave white half-moons. "Fuck, Bobby. You're so goddamn pretty."

Bob's hips stuttered at the words, and he let out a moan that reverberated through the room. It was loud enough that you felt like you could feel it through the bed, rumbling through your body, making your cunt pulse with desire.

"So goddamn pretty," John repeated, unable this time to resist thrusting up into Bob's hand. Bob reacted like you imagined he would if John was inside of him, forcing down a shuddery gasp, letting out a breathless sound instead. "Look so fucking good on top of me. Fuck, I can't believe -"

But Bob cut him off, swooping down to capture John's lips with his in a deep, filthy kiss. He'd had to move both his hands to lay flat on top of the blond, but that didn't stop him from rutting down, grinding their lengths between their stomachs. John only squeezed his ass harder, soliciting another greedy noise from Bob that John eagerly swallowed.

Bob only pulled away to fasten his lips to John's nipple, jaw working as he suckled deeply, only stopping to switch sides, running his tongue over the neglected nub, and repeat the process. John's back arched against his mouth, exposing even more of his neck as he let out a wanton noise of pleasure.

This was everything you could have hoped for and more. That spark of desire you'd seen between them so many times had ignited into a raging fire hot enough to burn the room down, and you found you didn't give a damn about the flames.

The room filled with the sounds of grunts and moans, of flesh against flesh, and the wet schlick of your hand between your legs. When Bob started letting out little involuntary whimpers, the same sound you'd heard a hundred times before he spilled inside of you, you had to step in.

"That's enough, boys," you said, mustering all your resolve to fill your voice with authority. As much as you wanted to see Bob cum all over John's stomach, you couldn't let them derail your plans.

Complying almost instantly, John grabbed Bob's hips even harder, forcing the brunet to a stop. Bob sunk his teeth into the skin around John's nipple, fighting down the disobedient whine that threatened to escape his lips.

"Shit!" John grunted, snapping his hips upward, helpless to hold still under Bob's mouth. "I'm sorry, mistress," he panted, turning his head to lock his pleading eyes on yours. "Didn't mean to keep going."

The smile that tugged at the corner of your lips was fond but the gleam in your eye was predatory.

"You're okay, baby," you soothed, and John visibly relaxed, breathing out a soft sigh of distinct relief. Getting up on your hands and knees, you leaned forward, curling your fingers into Bob's hair, giving him a warning tug. "But you need to be a good boy and let go."

He did so, releasing John's nipple with a faint 'pop.' His teeth marks were visible, making a circle framing John's reddened nub. It was temptation incarnate. You couldn't resist.

Despite the awkward angle, you found yourself leaning down, blowing on the skin still glistening with Bob's saliva, making John whine and squirm, rubbing up involuntarily against Bob enough to make both men groan. You let out a deep, throaty laugh that seemingly sent a shiver up both men's spines.

After you positioned yourself back against the headboard, you patted the space next to you invitingly. Your boyfriends' eyes met, light blue gazing up into dark, and a look passed between them, one that you couldn't quite read.

Before climbing off of him, Bob pressed his lips to John's in, what was for them, a new kind of kiss. One that was surprisingly tender. John readily responded, eyes fluttering closed as he craned his neck up to lean into the kiss. It lasted for only a few scant seconds, but both men looked a little dazed when Bob pulled back.

Bob eased his way off of John, careful only to put his hands and knees on the bed and not accidentally elbow the other man in the stomach. He made a show of crawling the short distance, playfully laying kisses up your body to the inside of your ankle, the outside of your thigh, the back of your hand, the crook of your elbow, and the curve of your shoulder before resting his chin there as well, batting his lashes up at you.

You laughed, giving him a quick peck on the tip of his nose before capturing his lips in a brief, gentle kiss. When you pulled back, Bob gazed up at you with his heart in his eyes, his whole expression having softened from his previous teasing countenance.

"Love you," Bob murmured almost dreamily, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Love you too," you whispered back, pulling your lip between your teeth to fight the urge to give him yet another kiss. Instead, you patted the spot next to you by the headboard.

Bob didn't hesitate, putting his back against the wall, playfully draping his right leg over your left one. Giggling, you pulled your leg out from under his, doing the same thing right back to him. When you could feel him start to repeat the silly game you had accidentally started, a quick, painless pinch to his thigh stopped him in his tracks with a little yelp.

"Oh, stop it, you big baby," you laughed.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed John wasn't laying on his back anymore. Sometime when Bob made his way up the bed, John must have moved, positioning himself back how he was before, sitting on his knees. But this time he was fully facing the both of you, a curious expression on his face.

It didn't surprise you to see a quiet look of affection when he was watching you, but seeing it there when looking at Bob was new. Or maybe it wasn't new at all. You'd seen him observe Bob before. But those times, his expression wasn't readable. It was like he had a wall up, his face borderline expressionless. This time, however? His guard was down, and he didn't hold back the small, crooked smile or the tenderness in his gaze as he watched Bob as the other man pretended to be wounded by your oh-so vicious attack.

You shushed Bob with a wink and a little nudge, clearing your throat and rolling your shoulders back to get back into character. Then you crooked your finger at John.

Wordlessly, he obeyed, slowly crawling up the bed while straddling your and Bob's overlapping legs. When he came to a stop, his hard length was pressed against your thigh, pink lips parted as he breathed deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth. You wished for a fleeting second that you thought to buy a collar for him. The image of tugging him into a kiss with one finger curled under fitted leather was deeply enticing.

So you used your favorite method instead, running your fingers through his hair before fisting a handful, relishing in his quivering gasp before pulling his lips to meet yours. He melted into you, letting your tongue ravage his mouth, each touch reinforcing that you were in control and he was just your plaything to be used. And, judging by his answering moans, John loved every second of it.

Taking his lower lip between your teeth, you bit down just hard enough to hurt, eliciting another delicious sound, soothing the ache with your tongue before you fully let go. You turned John's head to face Bob, who immediately followed suit, kissing the blond until he was breathless.

"You wanna make it up to me, baby?" you cooed at John. His eyes were blank for a moment, just blinking at you like you'd spoken to him in another language, one he was familiar with but couldn't quite place. "Gotta make amends for being such a naughty boy."

John nodded dumbly, little to no light of recognition in his eyes.

Bob beat you to the punch. "Use your words, Walker. You gonna make it up to her?" he coaxed.

"Make it up to us," you corrected, and Bob shot you a slightly lopsided little grin. "After all, he roped you into this."

"That's right. You gonna make it up to us, pretty boy?" Bob cooed, cupping John's cheek in his hand.

"Yes, sir," John mumbled, his words a little muddled but not quite slurred. "And ma'am. Yes, ma'am. Wanna make it up to you."

"Then do it. Make us cum," you said simply, spreading your legs invitingly. John's eyes flickered from your core, arousal wet and glistening in the dim light, to Bob's rigid cock, the angry red crown of which was sliding in and out of Bob's fist as he lazily stroked himself.

Despite being spoiled for choice, you weren't surprised when John maneuvered himself between your legs and wrapped his arms under your thighs, spreading you even further. If you weren't dripping on the bed by this point, you were sure you would be now watching John's eager eyes drinking in the sight of your bare, drooling cunt. You couldn't stop the gasp that escaped from your lips when John blew a stream of cool air across your heated flesh, sending a pulse of warmth through your body.

If Bob had tasted you like he was starved for you, John ate you like a man possessed. The second his tongue touched your slick folds, his mouth was everywhere. He lifted your hips like it was nothing, causing you to let out a little shriek and grip onto whatever you could for stability. That ended up being Bob's shoulder and the bedpost, clinging to them like lifelines as John practically picked you up. Bob coaxed you to lean against the headboard, resting your upper back against it while John supported your lower body with his hands and forearms alone.

It was messy and fast and loud and so fucking perfect. He wasn't gentle about it. His hands dug into your hips hard enough you knew there were going to be finger-shaped bruises by the morning. In his haste to devour you, he wasn't as cautious with his teeth as he normally would be, but the brush of them against you contrasted in a sharp but sweet way that only served to crest your pleasure even higher. John was everywhere, sucking and slurping and drinking you, going from thrusting his tongue deep inside of you to running tight circles around your clit to everywhere in between. He barely seemed to breathe, pulling back only for desperate, wet drags of air like a long-distance swimmer, too concentrated on your pleasure to care about getting any oxygen in his lungs.

By the time he lowered you back onto the bed, your head was swimming in a haze of ecstasy. You didn't even feel the fingers at your entrance until he plunged them inside of you. You arched your back, letting out a strangled cry as you raised your hips, still wanting more and harder. He worked you quickly, thick digits stretching you and curling to hit that spongy spot inside of you that made your vision go white at the edges. John slipped a third finger in, and you weren't even sure what sounds you were making, just that your throat was already sore from them.

He didn't even let up when your second orgasm of the night crested, hitting you hard and fast enough that you were gasping for air. John kept going, pumping his fingers into you, mouth wrapped around your throbbing, oversensitive clit. With each thrust, you felt something different, a strange new pressure inside of you like you needed to pee. You tried to warn him, but the words just wouldn't come out. You tugged at his hair, but that only seemed to spur him on, sucking hard on that little bundle of nerves until your third orgasm of the night hit you like a freight train. Your thighs clenched tight around John's head, shaking as they kept his mouth pulled against you like that wasn't exactly where he already wanted to be. A different kind if pleasure hit, one that was hot and wet and explosive. With a wail, it burst out of you, soaking John's face and drenching the sheets beneath you with waves of your release.

You laid back on the bed, feeling completely boneless, your breath gradually returning to normal. You watched idly as Bob surged forward, pressing his mouth against John's, their tongues dueling like they were fighting over the taste of you. The blond only pulled away to check on you, gently stroking your skin, pressing wet kisses to your thighs.

"Doin' okay there?" John asked, his voice soft and low, just the barest hint of an accent peeking out. "What color are you at?"

"Green," you rasped out without hesitation. "So fucking green. Oh my God, John."

John beamed up at you, his smile proud without being too smug. He looked effervescent, practically glowing like you'd made him orgasm his brains out, not the other way around.

"That good?" he teased. Even in your winded state, you could hear the genuine need for praise behind it.

"Fucking…incredible, baby. Holy shit. Thank you." As you talked, Bob tossed John a washcloth from the stash you'd squirreled away in the bedside table. He hesitated for a second but wiped his face dutifully, carelessly tossing the cloth off the bed to land amongst all the discarded clothes.

"Pretty sure you meant for me to go back and forth between you and Bobby, but I was wound up a little too tight to multitask," John explained with a grin.

"I noticed," you said with a chuckle. You reached down to cup John's face, and he leaned into your touch, briefly closing his eyes. "That just means you'll get to focus fully on Bob."

"If…" Bob hesitated, biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes flitting back and forth on the bed, like he was searching for the right words. "If you want to. You don't…have to," he finished lamely, looking back up.

Blond eyelashes fluttered as John opened his lids, those sky blue eyes suddenly sharp and focused as they met Bob's sea blue ones.

"Do you really think…" John sat up, starting to climb over your and Bob's intertwined legs to fully face the other man. "…You could kiss me and touch me like that? And not let me at least return the favor?"

"You don't have to," Bob repeated weakly.

"I want to," John emphasized. He reached out, lightly putting his hand over the one on Bob's cock. Even from where you were, you could see the way it twitched under his touch. "If you want me to."

"Yes, please," Bob said breathlessly. John inched closer, resting on his elbows as he looked up at Bob through his lashes, a sultry expression on his face.

"Then move that hand, Bobby. Let me taste you."

Bob did as he was told.

John started slow. He placed a gentle, closed-mouthed kiss to the glistening head of Bob's cock before laying a trail of them down his shaft, pausing after each one. By the time John was lathing his balls with his tongue, Bob's whole body was rigid as he tried not to squirm. A few tentative strokes of his hand as John sucked first one then the other into his mouth, and Bob was white-knuckling the sheets and worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

Pulling back with a pop, John smirked how far Bob had come undone in just a few minutes.

"I wanna do this right, take my time with you." At his words, Bob's face scrunched up as if he was pained. But John continued, "But you've been worked up for long enough. No more teasing."

True to his word, John's lips enveloped the very tip of Bob's cock. His throat worked as he suckled at the sensitive head, drawing a whine out of Bob and an aborted thrust of his hips.

John didn't waste any time, slowly starting to inch his way down, taking more and more of Bob into his mouth until he inevitably gagged and pulled back with a gasp, eyes watering and lips wet. Even though he wasn't able to get down nearly as much as you could, it was still impressive. Bob wasn't exactly small, something that, according to him, the Sentry serum didn't affect. Yet John got a considerable amount in his mouth. But judging by the annoyed look on his face, he used to be able to take more.

"Easy there," you cautioned, stroking John's hair. "Take your time. You don't need to deepthroat him."

John glared at you, his jaw clenching stubbornly, and you couldn't help but laugh. "That wasn't a challenge, baby."

"It might as well have been," he muttered, starting to stroke Bob's shaft tentatively, rubbing his thumb over the frenulum right beneath the tip. A small gasp left Bob's lips, and John smirked up at him. "Feel good, baby boy?"

"Fuck," Bob moaned, jerking his hips up involuntarily. You couldn't tell if he was reacting to John's hand or the pet name, but you suspected it was a mix of both.

It didn't take John long to get back into the swing of things, bobbing his head up and down rhythmically on Bob's cock, his hand stroking the length he couldn't fit. Eventually, he grabbed one of Bob's hands, prying it away from the sheets and offering his head as a hand hold. Bob's fingers lightly gripped his hair, and John let out a pleased noise, Bob whimpering at the vibrations.

The scene before you was incredible: Bob with his eyes closed, chest heaving as he laid his head back against the headboard, his angry red cock sliding into and out of John's bright pink, abused lips. His chest heaved with each shaky breath, nipples hardened and begging for attention. He panted open-mouthed like he was winded and trying to catch his breath, his hand gripping John's hair more and more the closer he got to the edge.

And John was no better. Saliva slicked the bottom half of his face as thoroughly as your arousal had minutes before, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He didn't stop for breath. His nostrils flared each time his head rose as he forced himself to breathe through it. It was a beautiful sight - so much beautiful, barely sun-kissed skin. You could trace all the freckles down his body, from the little ones on his face, to the tantalizing one on his ear, down his neck and over his shoulders, sliding across his back and even on the rounded globes of his ass. You fought back the urge to touch, not wanting to disrupt him. But, by the way he rutted against the mattress in time with each dip of his head, John was probably too distracted to even feel it.

By the time Bob was close, it was glaringly obvious to both you and John. He was practically vibrating under John's mouth, eyes clenched shut and teeth gritted as he let out all the little noises he couldn't fight down - whimpers, whines, and breathy grunts. John sped up, hollowing his cheeks to increase the suction, big blue eyes watching Bob's contorting face with wrapt attention.

"Look at him, baby. Watch him make you feel good," you cooed at Bob, kissing wherever you could touch - his shoulders, his neck, his face. He obeyed, wrenching his eyes open, and gazing down at John with an expression that could only be described as ruined.

"Almost there, aren't you?" you purred, unable to resist the siren call of those dusky pink nipples, dipping your head to run your tongue around the peak of one.

Bob gasped, his hips trying to twitch forward, but John held them pressed down into the bed.

"Oh, fuck. So close," Bob moaned as a warning, weakly trying to pull himself out of John's grip. John only held him down harder, the muscles in his forearm flexing deliciously "John…Johnny…gonna cum," he whined.

You pulled back from Bob's chest just in time to see John's eyes roll back in his head, rutting down hard against the bed, moaning wantonly against Bob's cock. It was the first time you could recall Bob ever using John's given name, a fact that didn't seem to be lost on him. He only sucked harder until Bob let out a cry, hips jerking in spurts as he spilled down John's throat.

John didn't stop, milking Bob for each drop, until he started twitching from oversensitivity. When he finally pulled back, letting Bob's softening dick fall from his mouth, John barely had time to smile up at the brunet, opening his mouth to say something before Bob interrupted him.

He crashed his lips to John's in a frenzied kiss, licking into the other man's mouth like he was desperate for a taste of himself on John's tongue. John melted into him immediately, making soft, breathy noises as Bob ravaged his mouth.

Bob didn't even break the kiss when he picked John up and manhandled him onto his lap as if he weighed nothing. John let out an undignified squawk of surprise, eyes flying open. He went to pull back, but Bob cupped the back of the blond's head with his left hand, holding him firmly in place. John moaned at the casual display of power, eyes fluttering closed as he sucked on Bob's tongue.

Bob reached down to wrap his hand around John's cock, which was brushing up against Bob's stomach, leaving little streaks of precum there. But before he could, you grabbed his wrist. Bob pulled away, ignoring John's protesting whine, looking at you, eyes rounded with surprise at being stopped.

John was close. That much you could tell, judging by how much he was leaking and how it throbbed in anticipation of Bob's touch. And you wanted to finish the night off right.

Before Bob could ask, you dug around under your pillow, batting away the white clicker you'd given Bob what felt like hours ago and grasping the item you'd left there. Pulling it out from its hiding spot, you showed Bob the long, white cylindrical object. He blinked at it in confusion, still dazed both from the kiss and the orgasm. It wasn't until you pushed the power button and it began to rumble did the pieces come together for Bob.

The buzzing sound drew John's attention, and he looked at you in confusion until his eyes fell upon the wand vibrator in your hand.

"You did such a good job making it up to us, baby. Do you want your reward for doing so well?" you asked, your voice a husky purr.

"Yes. Please," John croaked out. "Please, mistress. 'M so close."

"Good boy," you cooed, kissing his temple as you situated yourself closer. "Bob, make sure you keep his hips still."

Bob nodded, licking his lips, a look of anticipation in his eyes. "Yes, mistress." His hands captured John's hips, pressing them against the bed.

When you pressed the rumbling head of the vibrator against John's cock, he cried out, overwhelmed by the stimulation. He thrust up against Bob's hold almost immediately, but Bob's grip held him firmly down.

"Color?" you asked.

"G-green," John stammered out. "Green. Greengreengreen! Please don't stop!"

And you didn't, moving the vibrator around, testing to see what spots made him cry out louder than the others. By the time you pressed the wand against John's frenulum, he was a babbling mess, drool and tears streaming down his face.

You hadn't given him permission to orgasm, so he held on tight. His whole body itself practically vibrated, spine straight and rigid, hands clenched, and toes curled as he fought the overwhelming desire to cum.

You inched the vibrator up, the rounded edge just barely touching the crown of his cock. John was shaking even more violently now, begging and pleading with you to let him finish.

You caught Bob's eye, and he nodded his head once. John had had enough. And you agreed.

"Okay, baby. It's time. Need you to cum for me." With your words, you pressed the speed button, turning the wand on an even higher setting.

John broke, throwing his head back as he let out a wordless cry, cumming in hard spurts that painted both his and Bob's torsos in his spend. You kept the vibrator going through it, flipping it back to the lowest setting as Bob stroked the shaft of John's cock, milking every last drop out of him.

Tossing the vibrator aside, you reached over to the other bedside table, grabbing another washcloth while Bob maneuvered John onto his back between you. Bob took the cloth from your outstretched hand, starting the work of cleaning everyone up while you laid down next to John, resting your head on his shoulder holding him close as he came down from his orgasm.

It felt so nice, so cozy. Even without a blanket, the heat you felt both from your space heater boyfriends and your previous exertions wrapped you up in its warmth. You weren't intending to sleep. After all, you needed to check in with both your boys, make sure they were feeling all right, and talk out anything that needed to be said. But your body seemed to have other plans.

You don't remember closing your eyes, and you definitely don't remember drifting off, but the next thing you knew, you were waking up. At first, you weren't sure what woke you. Someone had pulled the comforter up over you and John's hand was now intertwined with yours. You had apparently clung to his arm in your sleep, and he had made no attempt to extricate himself. Judging by the way his thumb idly stroked the back of your hand, John was happy to have you close.

That's when you heard what had woken you up - a hushed conversation. The rumbling of John's whispers would normally have lulled you even further to sleep, but it seems to have disturbed it this time. It took a little effort, but you tuned in, straining your ears to hear the words they spoke.

"…new for all of us. It'll take some time to adjust, but we did just fine after we all started cohabitating."

Bob let out a quiet snort, one that had John shushing him, using his free hand to lightly swat at Bob's arm.

"'Cohabitating,'" Bob said laughingly. "Riiight. That's a nice way to say we were fucking each other's brains out."

"Be quiet, you brat," John angry whispered. For a second, you thought he was genuinely mad and considered speaking up, but the soft chuckle he let out disabused you of that notion.

"If you call me a brat, I'm going to act like one," Bob warned. Your eyes had adjusted enough that you could see Bob lying on the other side of John, mirroring you. His head was on John's shoulder, arms wrapped around John's as well. Their hands were both under the covers, but you suspected John was holding Bob's just like he was holding yours.

"Don't tempt me," John said playfully, leaning down and kissing the tip of Bob's nose. The brunet scrunched it up at John in an expression of put upon indignation, which only made the other man smile more. "You're a cute brat."

Bob groaned quietly, making a show of burying his face in John's arm, much to the other man's obvious amusement. Bob's voice was muffled, but you could still make out his words when he said, "God, now there's going to be two of you saying shit like that."

"If it's any consolation, I've already been thinking it. Just haven't said it out loud," John added helpfully, only smiling even wider in amusement when Bob scoffed.

He tilted his head just enough to be able to eye John through the curtain of unruly brown hair that fell in front of his face. "That makes it worse," Bob muttered.

"Well, there is a silver lining at least. Now you don't have to act like you're not staring at my ass all the time," John said, not even bothering to hide the smugness in his tone.

That was enough to make Bob properly lift his head, glaring at John open-mouthed, unable to decide if he was playfully pissy or playfully surprised.

"You knew?" Bob hissed at him.

"You're not subtle, Bobert. I saw the where your eyes went when I'd wear shorts at the gym. Made sure to wear shorter ones just for you," he added with a wink.

"You asshole," Bob said, narrowing his eyes at John. When the other man just grinned harder, Bob stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry at him. You felt more than heard John's answering laugh.

"So childish," John murmured, inching his head closer to Bob's. The brunet blew another, smaller raspberry in retaliation.

"Can't help it. I'm a brat, remember?" Bob lifted his head, starting to lean in towards John, not close enough for them to kiss without the blond straining his neck and risking disturbing you, though.

"Yeah, you are," John said, fondness in his voice. They drifted nearer and nearer to each other, neither of them seeming willing to break the stand off. You couldn't help yourself.

"Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss," you chanted, and both men's heads snapped towards you. You didn't stop - you doubled down. "Kiss-kiss-kiss-kiss!"

"How long have you been awake?" Bob asked. "You were out like a light."

"Yeah, so exhausted from your long day of evil plotting," John teased.

"Long enough to clock the sexual tension," you quipped back. Both men had enough shame to look slightly bashful if completely unashamed. "Now, go on. Do it!" you urged. "I'll start chanting again."

Bob rolled his eyes theatrically, making sure both of you saw it but pulled himself up further on the bed to get closer to John. You thought you heard him whisper something, but before you could ask him to repeat himself, John spoke up.

"Well, if the lady insists…"

When they kissed again, you cheered, wolf whistling at them until they were smiling too hard to keep going.

"Better?" John asked.

"Much," you confirmed with a decisive nod of your head. Both men glanced at each other put of the corner of their eyes, a mischievous look on their faces.

Before you could open your mouth again, Bob shouted "Now!" and both men pounced on you, peppering your face, neck, and shoulders with obnoxiously loud kisses. You laughed, shrieking and squirming, halfheartedly trying to break free to no avail. You didn't really mind, though. There's no place else you'd rather be.

Divider Credit -> @/strangergraphics

Images in header are not mine

Cross-posted to AO3

Hope you liked it! Feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

Please do not repost or reproduce in any way. You do not have my permission to use this for AI scraping.

[slutdier]

❝ 𝑭𝑰𝑳𝑳 𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑼𝑷 ❞

You keep bringing your pink Beetle to Steve Rogers’ auto shop, blushing at his easy smile and loaded comments. One night, you stop by after hours with treats to thank him for fixing your car but in the empty garage, he has a very different idea of how you can repay him.

car mechanic!steve rogers x f!reader

word count : 5,6k

warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, explicit sexual content, semi-public sex, dubious consent (car sabotage), pervy behavior (panty theft/sniffing), oral sex (f & m receiving), vaginal sex, semi-public sex, dirty talk, possessive Steve, risk of being caught, size kink, overstimulation, creampie, reader is portrayed as sweet & naïve

author’s note : the thought of pervy mechanic!steve has been bouncing around in my head for WAY too long and I fear I had no choice but to write it. also I would sell my soul for a pink beetle, I’m dead serious. hope you enjoy!!

The late-summer sun beats down on the cracked asphalt as you coax your pink Volkswagen Beetle into the last open spot in front of Rogers’ Auto Repair. She coughs, sputters and finally gives a pathetic little shudder before the engine dies completely. You sit there for a second, patting the dashboard like she’s a sick puppy. “I’m sorry, baby,” you murmur. “We’ll get you fixed up.”

You climb out, smoothing down your sundress, already feeling a little embarrassed. Cars have never been your thing; you just know this one is old, temperamental and lately impossible. The rattling noises and refusal to start have you completely out of your depth.

The garage doors are rolled up, classic rock drifting out on the warm air. A pair of boots sticks out from under a truck, and then the man himself slides out on a creeper, rising to his full, ridiculous height. Steve Rogers wipes his hands on a red rag, grease streaking across strong forearms and gives you the kind of easy, all-American smile that makes your stomach do a tiny flip.

“What seems to be the problem sweetheart?”

His voice is low and friendly, like he’s got all the time in the world. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of how the breeze is pressing your dress against your thighs.

“Um… she’s been struggling to start lately and there’s this awful rattling sound. I really don’t know anything about cars, I’m sorry. She’s just… acting up.”

Steve’s blue eyes flick to the pink Beetle, then back to you, something unreadable sparking in them. “Let’s take a look.”

He moves to the rear of the car, popping the engine cover with practiced ease. You trail after him, eager to understand at least a little of what’s wrong.

“Here, come around this side,” he says, gesturing you closer. “I’ll show you what I’m seeing.”

You step in beside him, leaning forward innocently to peer into the tight engine compartment. The sundress is light and floaty; as you bend at the waist to get a better look, the soft hem rides up just a few inches at the back of your thighs. You don’t notice, too focused on trying to follow his explanation but Steve does.

His gaze drops for a split second, catching the fleeting glimpse of your soft, cotton panties, delicate lace trim peeking out like an accidental secret. The sight hits him like a punch: sweet, innocent, completely unaware. He swallows hard, jaw tightening, before forcing his eyes back to the engine.

“Well, look at her,” he says, voice a touch rougher than before. “She’s a beauty, alright. But she’s gonna need some real good attention. Tight little spaces in here… gotta get in there deep and work her over properly.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, though you’re not sure why.

He glances sideways at you, lips twitching into a faint smirk. “She’s purring a little now that I’m touching her but I bet she needs a firm hand to keep her running smooth.”

“Oh- thank you,” you manage, straightening up quickly and tugging the hem of your dress back into place without realizing why you suddenly feel so fluttery. “She’s my baby.”

Steve’s smile deepens, eyes lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Yeah, I can tell. Don’t worry sweetheart. I’ll take real good care of her.”

The way he says it, gaze drifting briefly down your legs before returning to the engine, makes your heart skip. But he’s already back to work, poking and prodding.

“She’s thirsty,” he adds after a minute, voice low and rough. “Needs some fresh oil. I’ll fill her up good, get her nice and slick again.”

You nod quickly, swallowing. “That sounds… perfect.”

He finds a loose battery cable pretty fast, tightens it with a few twists of his wrench but then hums thoughtfully, running a hand along some hoses. “Couple other things I oughta check while she’s here. Belts look a little worn. Better to catch it now than leave her stranded.”

Your stomach sinks. “Oh no... is it serious?”

“Nah, just routine.” He wipes his hands again, smudging more grease across his fingers, and shuts the engine cover gently. “I’ll need to keep her overnight, run a proper diagnostic. You okay getting a ride home?”

You hesitate, then nod. “I can call a friend. Thank you, really. I feel so bad bothering you with this.”

Steve chuckles, stepping closer to hand you a business card with pickup time scribbled on it. His fingers brush yours, warm and rough.

“No bother at all,” he says softly, voice almost a murmur. “I like working on pretty things that need a little extra care.”

You smile gratefully, completely missing the way his eyes linger as you walk away, hips swaying gently in that sundress.

He watches until you’re out of sight, then glances back at the pink Beetle with a slow, wicked grin, replaying that soft flash of lace in his mind.

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the concrete floor of Steve’s shop. Your Beetle sits patiently in the bay, engine cover still propped open, tools scattered around like Steve’s in no rush to finish.

Bucky Barnes, Steve’s oldest friend and occasional helper, strolls in from the office with a couple of wrapped sandwiches and beers, kicking the door shut behind him. He tosses one to Steve, who catches it without looking up from under the hood.

“Time for a break, punk,” Bucky says, leaning against the workbench and unwrapping his own. “You’ve been poking at that little pink thing for an hour. Thought you fixed it already.”

Steve straightens, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a fresh smear of grease. He smirks, taking a bite of the sandwich before answering.

“I did fix the battery cable,” he says, voice low and amused. “But these old Bugs… they’re delicate. One loose spark plug wire and she’ll be coughing again in no time.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “You didn’t.”

Steve’s grin turns wicked as he glances toward the street you disappeared down earlier. He reaches back into the engine, fingers nudging one of the plug wires just enough to work it loose, nothing dangerous, just enough to guarantee another breakdown in a day or two.

“Oh, I did,” he murmurs. “That sweet little thing in the sundress? She’ll be back real soon. And next time, I won’t be in such a hurry to send her on her way.”

Bucky snorts, shaking his head. “You’re a real bastard Rogers.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, eyes glinting as he shuts the engine cover with a soft thud. “But she’s too damn cute to let walk away that easy.”

They eat in companionable silence for a minute, the only sound the distant hum of traffic and the faint tick of cooling metal.

Bucky finishes his sandwich, crumples the wrapper, and tosses it into the trash. “Just don’t get us sued when she figures out you’re sabotaging her car to get another look at her legs.”

Steve chuckles, low and dirty. “She won’t figure it out. Too sweet for that. And when she does come back…” He trails off, gaze fixed on the pink Beetle like it’s already you bent over the fender.

Bucky just rolls his eyes and heads for the door. “I’m out. Try not to jerk off in the shop again pal.”

Steve’s laugh follows him out, deep and unrepentant.

He lingers a moment longer, running a hand along the curve of the Beetle’s rear fender.

“See you soon pretty,” he says softly, to the car, to the promise of you walking back through his door.

Exactly two days later, your Beetle gives a dramatic cough and rattle just as you're pulling out of the grocery store parking lot. Your heart sinks, you swear she was running like a dream when you picked her up from Steve's shop.

“Not again,” you whisper, turning the key futilely until she finally sputters to life long enough to limp back to Steve’s shop. Embarrassment burns hot in your cheeks as you park her in the familiar bay, the engine wheezing its last.

You step out in a soft skirt and white blouse, clutching your keys like a lifeline and there he is, Steve leaning against the workbench with that same easy smile, like he was expecting you. A fresh streak of grease mars his jaw and his faded jeans sit low on his hips, white tank top clinging to his broad chest from the midday heat.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, face flaming as you hurry into the garage. “She’s doing it again… I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

Steve pushes off the bench with an easy grin, eyes lighting up the moment he spots you. He saunters over, wiping his hands on a rag that does nothing to hide the grease already streaked across his knuckles. “Back so soon, sweetheart? Told you she needs regular maintenance. Can’t just neglect a pretty thing like her, she’ll start misbehaving every damn time.”

You duck your head, fingers twisting nervously at the hem of your skirt. “I try to take good care of her, I swear.”

“I know you do,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, like he’s soothing you instead of the car. He leans in a little closer, that crooked smirk tugging at his lips as his gaze drifts over you, slow, unapologetic. “Jesus darlin’… you cleaned up real nice today.”

The words roll out gravel-rough and you feel them land right in your stomach. One of his hands slides into his pocket while the other reaches out, knuckles barely brushing the edge of your skirt. “Makes a guy forget he’s supposed to be a gentleman.”

Your cheeks burn hotter; you can’t quite meet his eyes. He exhales, gaze dropping to where your blouse clings just a little too perfectly, and then he straightens, tilting his head toward the Beetle. “Let’s get her up on the lift. This won’t take long.”

He maneuvers the car onto the hydraulic lift with effortless strength, the pink frame rising smoothly until the undercarriage is fully exposed. You linger nearby, arms crossed loosely, trying not to stare as he grabs a creeper and slides underneath. The tank top pulls tight across his back and shoulders, outlining every ridge of muscle; his jeans strain over his thighs and you swallow hard, forcing your eyes to the concrete floor.

“God, she’s so tight back here,” he grunts from below, voice echoing slightly. The wrench clinks against metal. “Gotta loosen her up slow… nice and easy or she’ll fight me the whole way.”

Your breath catches sharply. Thighs press together without permission. It’s just the car. Mechanics talk like this. Totally normal. You fidget with your bracelet, shifting your weight, the garage suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.

After a couple of minutes, he pauses, sliding out just far enough to look up at you from the floor, one thick arm propped behind his head, grease-streaked and relaxed. “So, baby, what are you up to later? Got plans or you free for me?”

You blink, startled he’s asking something so personal. “Oh- um, nothing exciting. I was thinking of staying in, maybe trying to bake something. Brownies or cookies. I’ve been wanting to practice.”

His eyes darken instantly. That polite smile turns slow and filthy, like a switch flipped. He lets out a low, appreciative hum, gaze dragging over you again as if he’s picturing it in vivid detail.

“Baking, huh? All alone in that little kitchen… getting nice and messy. Hands covered in something thick and sticky.” He licks his bottom lip, voice dropping to a rumble. “Bet you’d look real sweet licking it off your fingers, wouldn’t you?”

Your mouth falls open. Heat floods every inch of your skin, pooling low in your belly. You’re frozen, brain short-circuited between mortified and desperately confused because he can’t possibly mean… but the look on his face says he absolutely does.

Steve’s grin widens, wicked and knowing, like he’s savoring your reaction. He doesn’t give you time to recover, just slides back under the car with a soft chuckle that echoes in your ears.

A minute later he rolls out again, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. He flexes his hands, wiping them slowly on the rag. “There we go. Spark plug wire was a little loose, nothing major. She’s purring again.” He steps closer, close enough that his knuckles brush your arm as he reaches past you. “All slick and happy now.”

The touch lingers, his thumb grazing your skin, leaving a faint black smudge on the sleeve of your blouse. Your pulse is hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“T-thank you,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper. “How much do I owe you this time?”

He waves it off, tossing the rag aside and crowding just a fraction closer while he lowers the lift. His shoulder bumps yours, another press of warm, solid muscle. “First one was free. This one? My treat.” His voice dips, eyes locked on yours, blue and intent. “But don’t stay away too long, yeah? I’m startin’ to miss the view.”

You nod, too flustered for words and climb into the Beetle with shaky hands. The engine turns over perfectly, humming sweetly as you pull away.

In the rearview mirror, you catch him watching, arms crossed, that filthy smirk still in place, one grease-stained hand trailing possessively along the fender as if saying goodbye to both you and the car.

“Drive safe, baby,” he calls after you, voice carrying on the warm air. “Wouldn’t want that sweet little thing breakin’ down without me there to handle her right.”

A couple of days later, the garage is quiet for once, no radios blaring, no customers waiting. The afternoon sun slants through the open back door, turning the alley behind Rogers’ Auto Repair into a patch of warm gold. Steve and Bucky sit on overturned crates, paper-wrapped sandwiches balanced on their knees, cold beers sweating in their hands.

Bucky takes a bite of his roast beef, eyeing Steve over the top of the can. Steve’s gaze keeps drifting toward the front bay, like he’s waiting for something, or someone to roll in.

“Jesus, Rogers,” Bucky finally drawls, smirking. “You’re starin’ at that door like you’re waitin’ for that pink Bug girl again. You’re lookin’ at her like she’s a goddamn meal.”

Steve doesn’t even flinch. He just chuckles, low and rough, leaning back against the cinder-block wall. “Goddamn right she is.” His voice drops, eyes going half-lidded with memory.

“That sweet little thing, comin’ in here all innocent in those sundresses… bendin’ over to look at the engine, ass up, not havin’ a clue what she’s doin’ to me. Completely oblivious. Makes me wanna ruin her right on the hood of that car.”

Bucky nearly chokes on his sandwich, laughing. “You’re a perv, you know that?”

Steve shrugs, unbothered, taking a slow swig of beer. “Takes one to know one.”

“Yeah, but I don’t sabotage innocent girls’ cars to keep ’em comin’ back.” Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning. “Just don’t scare her off, man. Town’s too damn small for that kinda drama.”

Steve’s smile turns sharp, predatory. “Nah. I’m playin’ the long game.” He crushes the empty beer can in one fist, gaze flicking back toward the front again. “But fuck… next time she shows up with those treats she kept talkin’ about bakin’? I’m done waitin’.”

Still amused, Bucky shakes his head, rises, and tosses his trash into the bin. “That one’s on you, pal.”

Steve stays seated a moment longer, staring at the empty doorway, that hungry look settling deeper.

He’s not worried.

He knows you’ll be back.

The rich scent of warm chocolate chip cookies and brownies still clings to your skin when you guide your pink Beetle back into the empty lot. The air has cooled with the setting sun, carrying the faint metallic tang of the garage and the distant hum of crickets. You duck under the half-lowered bay door, the tin balanced carefully in your hands, the brownies inside still soft and gooey, the cookies crisp at the edges.

Inside, the garage is dim and quiet, lit only by slanted golden light and the harsh glow of a single bulb over the workbench. The concrete floor feels cool through your sandals and the lingering smell of motor oil, rubber and hot metal wraps around you like a blanket.

Steve’s locking the office door, broad back to you, the thin cotton of his T-shirt damp with the day’s sweat and clinging to every line of muscle. He turns at the soft scuff of your steps and the polite smile he’s worn for days slips away, replaced by something raw and ravenous.

“Oh!” you say, voice bright and a little breathless as you hold out the tin. “I hope I’m not too late. I made these for you- brownies and cookies, still warm. For fixing her so many times.”

Steve steps forward slowly, the faint creak of his boots loud in the stillness. He takes the tin, fingers brushing yours, rough, warm, streaked with faint traces of grease and sets it aside on the workbench. The metal lid clinks softly against the wood.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a harsh glow on the scattered tools and the glossy pink hood of your Beetle, which gleams like candy under the bulbs. The evening chill seeps through the half-open bay door but it’s nothing compared to the heat building in your core as Steve steps closer, his boots scuffing softly on the oil-stained concrete.

“That’s real sweet of you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gravel-rough, vibrating straight through your chest. “But I’ve been dyin’ for a taste of somethin’ far sweeter than brownies.”

Your breath hitches, a soft, needy sound slipping out before you can stop it. “Sweeter…?” You tilt your head, cheeks already blooming pink. “Like… extra frosting? I can make another batch tomorrow if you want, I don’t mind-”

Steve’s low, dark laugh cuts you off. “Oh baby, no. Not brownies.” He crowds closer, pinning you gently against the workbench. “I’m talkin’ about this sweet little cunt between your legs. The one that’s already soakin’ through your pretty panties just from me talkin’ to you.”

Your eyes go wide, cheeks flaming. “My… what?” you whisper, voice tiny. “Steve, that’s not polite to say. And I don’t- I mean, I feel kinda warm down there... Like I need something, but I don’t know what.”

He grins, slow and filthy. “That’s your body beggin’ for a real man to take care of it, sweetheart.” His grease-streaked hands slide to your hips, thumbs stroking the soft fabric.

“That time you leaned over your Beetle, skirt ridin’ up, ass out… I’ve been rock fuckin’ hard ever since, jerkin’ off in the back room thinkin’ about bendin’ you over that hood and fuckin’ you till you scream.”

You swallow hard, pulse racing. “Jerking off… like touching yourself?” Your voice is small, curious, a little shy. “I’ve… tried that a couple times. It felt nice but nothing really happened. I thought maybe I was doing it wrong.”

Steve’s eyes flash with dark, thrilled hunger. “Oh we’re gonna fix that now baby. You’ve been with boys who didn’t know shit about makin’ a woman come.” He cups your jaw, thumb dragging across your lower lip, pressing just enough to part it. “First though- Christ, I need to breathe you in. Been dreamin’ about how this sweet cunt smells when you’re this worked up.”

Before you can answer, he drops to one knee, shoving your sundress up to your waist. Cool air kisses your soaked panties and you squeak, hands fluttering uselessly.

“Steve- wait, that’s-” You glance toward the half-open bay door, voice tiny. “Anyone could walk by and see…”

“Let ‘em watch,” he growls. “Might teach ‘em how a real man eats pussy.” He hooks his fingers in the waistband and peels your panties down slowly, the wet cotton clinging before slipping free. He balls them up, presses them to his face and inhales deeply with a guttural moan. “Fuck. You smell like sex and sugar. These are mine now-gonna wrap ‘em around my cock later and come so hard thinkin’ about you.”

Your knees wobble. “You’re… keeping them?” You bite your lip, embarrassed but oddly flattered. “That’s… kind of dirty, isn’t it?”

“Real dirty,” he agrees, smirking up at you. “And you love it, don’t you?” Strong hands grip your thighs, spreading you wide. “Hold the hood, sweetheart. I’m gonna eat this pussy till you understand why every other fuck you’ve had was a waste of time.”

He dives in, hot mouth sealing over your clit, sucking hard. You cry out, hands scrambling on the warm metal.

“Steve- oh my god-” Your voice cracks. “No one’s ever… put their mouth there before. It feels… so much better than anything I’ve tried myself.”

He hums against you, tongue dragging slow and filthy. “That’s ‘cause you’ve been with selfish little boys who didn’t know how to treat this pretty cunt right.”

He spears his tongue inside you, curling it, then pulls back to flick your clit fast and merciless. “This little button right here? That’s your clit. Suckin’ on it makes you shake like this. You like it, baby?”

You nod frantically, thighs trembling. “Yes- please don’t stop- it’s so intense, I didn’t know it could feel like this… I’ve never… never came from this before.”

“Good girl,” he growls, sliding two thick fingers inside you, stretching. “Feel how wet you are? That’s your pussy tellin’ me it’s finally gettin’ what it needs. Been cravin’ a man who knows how to fill it up and make it come, hasn’t it?”

You whimper, rocking into his hand without thinking. “I… I think so. The couple times I had sex it was just… quick. He finished fast and I didn’t feel much. I thought that was normal.”

Steve groans, curling his fingers to hit that spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Fuck, baby. No more of that. I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every half-assed dick you’ve ever taken.”

He adds a third finger, scissoring slow while his lips seal around your clit again, sucking in pulsing pulls.

The pressure builds fast and overwhelming. “Steve- I’m- something’s happening- I feel like I’m gonna burst-”

“Come for me,” he orders, voice muffled and rough. “Let it go. Squeeze my fingers and scream my name. Show me how sweet and slutty you can be when a man finally does it right.”

You shatter with a high, broken cry, back arching off the hood, thighs clamping around his head as pleasure crashes through you in waves you’ve never felt before. He licks you through every pulse, greedy and unrelenting, until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.

When he rises, he’s painfully hard, the thick outline straining his jeans so obviously you can’t help but stare, eyes wide and curious. He guides your shaking hand to the bulge, pressing your palm flat so you feel the scorching heat and the insistent, heavy throb.

“Feel that?” he rasps, voice gravel-rough and cracking at the edges. “That’s my cock baby, thick and leakin’ just from watchin’ you come on my tongue. Been like this every goddamn time you walked in here in those cute outfits, hips swayin’, not even knowin’ what you were doin’ to me. Now get on your knees and learn how to suck cock like a good girl.”

You sink down slowly onto the gritty concrete, the faint bite of it sharp through your dress but drowned out by the heavy throb between your legs and the excited flutter in your chest. You look up at him with wide, cheeks still flushed from your climax.

“Suck…? Like a lollipop?”

Steve’s grin is pure sin, eyes dark with lust and a flicker of something almost tender at your sweetness.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to hold himself together. “You’re gonna kill me sayin’ shit like that. Yeah, exactly like that. Open wide, sweetheart. Let me teach you. Go on, don’t be shy.”

He undoes his belt with a metallic clink, zipper rasping down, then frees himself. His cock springs out, thick, flushed, heavy, veined, curving slightly upward, the fat tip already glistening with pre-cum. It’s bigger than anything you’ve seen before, and your breath catches audibly.

You blink up at him, cheeks flaming. “It’s… really big. And it’s leaking. Is that… normal?”

“Normal as hell when a man’s this hard for you,” he growls, wrapping your small hand around the base, your fingers can’t even meet. “See how it jumps when you touch it? That’s it beggin’ for your mouth. Go on, lick the tip. Taste me. I want you to know exactly what you do to me.”

You lean forward hesitantly, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of pre-cum. It’s salty, warm, a little bitter, and you hum softly in surprise. “It tastes… kind of good. Like… salty skin and something else.”

Steve groans low, fingers threading gently but firmly into your hair.

“Fuck yeah, that’s it. Now swirl your tongue around the head, slow circles, like you’re lickin’ an ice cream cone you don’t wanna finish too fast. Yeaaah, just like that. Look at you, so sweet and curious, tongue flickin’ over my cock like it’s candy. You have no idea how fuckin’ hot that is.”

You obey, tongue tracing slow, tentative circles around the swollen head, eyes flicking up to watch his face. His jaw is clenched, nostrils flaring, breathing ragged.

“Good girl,” he praises roughly, voice cracking. “Now open wider. Take me in slow. Just the tip first. Let your lips seal around it and suck gently. Like you’re kissin’ it. Yeah… fuck, baby, just like that.”

You part your lips, sliding the head into your warm mouth. It’s hot, velvety, heavy on your tongue. You suck softly, unsure, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Christ- yeah, perfect. Now use your tongue underneath, flick it along the slit. Feel how it throbs? That’s me leakin’ more for you. You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart- messy little mouth already droolin’ all over me. You like havin’ my cock in your mouth, don’t you?”

You hum around him in response, the vibration making his hips jerk slightly. You pull back just enough to speak, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Am I… doing it right? It’s so big, I don’t know if I can take more.”

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, guiding your head gently. “Now, you can take more, slide down slow. Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat. I’ll go easy. You’re safe, baby look at me. You trust me?”

You nod trustingly, sliding further down, inch by inch, until he bumps the back of your throat. Your eyes water but you don’t pull away. You hollow your cheeks and suck, clumsy but earnest.

“Fuck- look at you,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Takin’ my cock like you were made for it. Messy little mouth, droolin’ down your chin. You like havin’ me in your throat, don’t you? Nod if you do, baby let me see those pretty eyes waterin’ for me.”

You nod as best you can, eyes glassy and eager, and he curses under his breath.

“Goddamn. Now bob your head, slow up and down. Use your hand on the base, twist it a little while you suck. Yeah- fuck, just like that. You’re a natural sweetheart. Gonna make me come down your throat if you keep goin’ like this.”

You moan softly around him, the sound vibrating straight through his length. Your free hand rests on his thigh for balance, fingers digging in as you find a rhythm, awkward at first, then smoother, more confident with every ragged praise he growls.

“Such a good girl,” he rasps, hips rocking shallowly. “Look at me while you suck. Let me see those big eyes. Fuck, you’re killin’ me. Never had anyone this sweet and eager. You’re learnin’ fast, aren’t you? My perfect little cocksucker already.”

You keep your gaze locked on his, tears pricking from the stretch but refusing to stop. Saliva drips down your chin, slick and messy but you don’t care, you just want to please him.

He’s close, you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his cock pulses harder on your tongue. “Gonna come soon, baby,” he warns, voice strained. “You want it in your mouth? Or you want me to pull out and paint that pretty face? Tell me- use your words.”

You pull off just enough to speak, voice hoarse and breathy. “In my mouth… please. I want to taste you. I want to be good for you.”

Steve’s control snaps. “Fuck- open wide then. Take every drop like a good girl.”

He guides your head back down, thrusts shallow and careful, then groans deep as he comes, hot thick pulses flooding your mouth. You swallow instinctively, some spilling past your lips but you try so hard to take it all, eyes watering but shining with pride.

He pulls out slowly, thumb swiping the mess from your chin, then pushes it back between your lips. “Swallow it all sweetheart. Good girl. You did so fuckin’ good- look at you, lips all swollen and shiny with my cum. You liked it didn’t you?”

You lick his thumb clean, dazed and flushed, then smile up at him shyly. “I… I did. It was strong, but… nice. I liked making you feel good.”

Steve hauls you up, kissing you hard, tasting himself on your tongue, groaning into your mouth. “You were perfect. Now it’s my turn to fuck you properly. Bend over the hood baby. Spread those legs wide. I’m gonna show you what a real cock feels like, gonna stretch this tight pussy till you’re cryin’ my name.”

You scramble to obey, bending over the warm pink hood, dress rucked up, thighs trembling. He kicks your feet wider, notches the thick head at your entrance, dragging it through your slick.

“Look at this greedy little cunt,” he growls, voice raw. “Still drippin’ from comin’ on my tongue. You ready for me, sweetheart? Gonna fill you so full you’ll feel me every time you walk tomorrow.”

You nod frantically, pushing back. “Yes- please, Steve. I want it. I’ve never felt this… needy before. I need you inside me.”

He sinks in slow, one relentless inch after another, until he’s buried to the hilt. You gasp, nails scraping the paint.

“It’s… so big,” you whimper. “Bigger than anyone else. I feel so full- oh god, I can feel every vein.”

“That’s ‘cause you’ve been takin’ inadequate dick,” he grunts, starting to move, long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot.

“This is what you’ve been missin’. Feel how deep I am? That’s me hittin’ places no one else ever reached. This pussy was made for me baby, tight and wet and suckin’ me in like it never wants to let go.”

You moan, high and sweet. “Yes! Oh god- right there. It’s so much better. Don’t stop- please don’t stop.”

“Never,” he promises, snapping his hips harder, balls slapping your clit with every thrust. “Gonna ruin you for every other man. Every time you sit in this car, you’re gonna remember how I fucked you on the hood, how I made you come again and again on my cock. You feel that? That’s me ownin’ this pussy now.”

He reaches around, rough fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast circles. “Come on my cock, baby. Milk me. Show me how much you love bein’ filled up. Squeeze me- yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re so tight when you come.”

You shatter again, crying his name, walls clamping down hard, fluttering around him. He follows with a guttural roar, slamming deep and spilling inside you, thick pulses that leave you trembling and dripping.

He stays buried a long moment, both of you panting, the garage thick with sex, sweat, chocolate, and gasoline. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum trickle down your thighs with a satisfied growl.

He helps you stand, legs shaky, smoothing your dress down even though it’s ruined, grease-smeared, wrinkled, damp. He presses the brownie tin back into your hands, thumb brushing your swollen lip.

“Best treats I’ve ever had, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough and fond. “Come back anytime. You and this pretty little car will always need my kind of maintenance.”

You nod, dazed and glowing, leaning up to press a shy kiss to his cheek. “Thank you Stevie,” you whisper sweetly. “For… everything. I feel so good. I didn’t know it could be like this.”

He catches your chin, stealing one more slow kiss. “Anytime, baby. Drive safe. I’ll be waitin’ for you to break down again.”

You slip out into the night, thighs slick, heart fluttering, the taste of him still on your tongue and the sweetest ache blooming between your legs.

© 𝓼𝓵𝓾𝓽𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓻 2026 (do not copy, translate or repost)

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[webslinger-holland]

Busy Woman | Bob Reynolds from Thunderbolts

Summary: She's always busy and he thinks she doesn't notice him, but she does.

Warning: NSFW smut 18+ minors DNI, mutual pining, slow burn, teasing and flirting, sexual tension and eventual smut, mentions of nudity, some language, fem!receiving, praise, unprotected sex, p in v, just saying...I've warned you, listened to too much Sabrina Carpenter and got inspired

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.9 k

Type: Oneshot

One thing was certain: Bob Reynolds was not a morning person. He hated seeing the early sunlight leaking through the curtains and dreaded getting out of bed every morning. But he recently learned something...

She was a morning person.

And that's what got him out of bed in the morning.

Sometimes, Bob woke up before everyone else in the tower. He'd grab his keys and go out to a local coffee shop just to get her something. By the time Bob got back, he would find her hunched over the kitchen island, reading a debrief file, and enjoying a donut.

He was nervous to approach her; something about her made him not really know how to act around her. He timidly set down the special drink he ordered for her, sliding it closer to her and retracting his hand quickly as if he feared she'd bite him like a wild animal.

Very slowly, Y/n tore her gaze away from the file in front of her and to the plastic to-go cup of coffee in front of her. Her eyes drifted upwards until they found the socially awkward boy standing in front of her.

“Did you get up early just to bring me this?” She knew. Of course she knew. She always knows.

“I was already up,” Bob mumbled, which was a lie. A huge lie. He’d set three alarms.

Accepting the drink, Y/n kept her gaze locked on him and was curious if he'd break under the pressure. “That right?”

He nodded too quickly and avoided her eyes as if they were burning. “Yeah. I— uh— I like walking in the morning.”

She hummed and glanced back down at the file. She brought the drink to her lips. “You didn’t poison this, did you?” she asked casually, as if it were a normal thing to say before sunrise.

Bob shook his head innocently.

"Good," Y/n smiled at him appreciatively. The look alone caused him to blush and his heart threatened to break out of his chest.

“I—It’s a caramel macchiato!” Bob blurted, louder than he meant to. He was just desperate to keep her attention on him. She looked back up at him with the tiniest smile on her face. He faltered under her watch. "W—With an extra shot...of...espresso."

"Is it just a coincidence that you know my coffee order?" Y/n wondered curiously.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound normal. “You… mentioned it once.”

That got a smile out of her—a small one, but a real one. One that made his heart leap so high.

She eventually redirected her attention back down to the file like nothing serious happened. Bob could feel the heat rising in his face. He wanted to say something else, anything, but his mind was just white noise. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck—a nervous habit, one he was sure she’d noticed by now. Then Bucky entered the room.

“There he is,” Bucky announced with an all knowing smirk, swiftly moving through the kitchen. “You're up early today. Out fetching coffee again?”

Bob groaned softly and backed away from the counter.

“You fetch hers too?” Bucky glanced between them, then grinned. “Of course you did.”

She didn’t say anything—just kept reading, totally unfazed. And Bob stared at Bucky unamused.

"You didn't bring us back anything?" Bucky looked offended and searched around as if expecting his coffee order to just magically appear.

This was something that Bob was teased about constantly by the team because all of them knew about the crush he harbored on her. He ultimately didn't want to have to explain his reasons to Bucky of all people, so he opted to leave the room.

But as Bob turned to leave, she glanced up again. Not with a smile this time, but with a thoughtful sort of look.

Like she was waiting.

The rest of the team was scattered around the base—except Bob, who was just walking and hoping he'd find something to get his attention. He didn't have a real destination, but he might have secretly hoped he'd run into her in the process.

Spotting her open bedroom door just ahead, Bob straightened his back in posture. He walked past her room, glanced inside, and continued on. Then he froze like he’d hit a wall when he realized what he just witnessed.

The lights were soft, the window cracked open. A breeze fluttered the curtains slightly. And there she was—laying on her bed, reading a book. Bare legs behind her and feet hanging over her back given that she was on her stomach. She looked completely at ease.

Just like bees to honey, Bob did a double take and backed up—slowly, quietly—just to get another glimpse of her laying there. He wasn’t even being subtle about it.

Hovering in the doorway, Bob awkwardly placed his hand on the doorframe. She was reading with her head propped on her hand, glasses sliding slightly down her nose. She looked so relaxed; she hadn’t noticed him at all.

Which, for some reason, made him ache a little.

“Hey,” he offered, voice hoarse and soft.

She glanced up, then smiled a little when she saw him. “Hey, Bob.”

He stared for one second too long. And then another. The silence stretched between them like taut wire.

“Did you need something?” she asked, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

"Yes—I mean no. I was just—passing by." His voice cracked. He cleared it and stood straighter. “I was, uh… going somewhere.”

"Where?" Y/n pressed.

Bob blinked, fiddling nervously. “Somewhere... not here.”

She smiled—lazy, amused. "Well. I wouldn't want to stop you from your very important mission."

His mouth opened and then closed. The gears in his head were grinding so hard, he could practically hear the smoke. She was doing that thing again—talking to him like she knew. Like he was a deer and she was just waiting to see if he’d bolt.

"R—Right," Bob's words caught up with his thoughts. He blinked twice and awkwardly shuffled away from the door. "Guess I'll get out of your hair then."

Her gaze found the page she left off on, still unfazed. "Have fun."

As Bob disappeared down the hallway, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, Y/n let a small smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t look up from her book, but she didn’t keep reading either.

About once a week, Alexei prided himself in making a big hearty breakfast just for the boys with claims of them needing to spend time together as men. He served every kind of protein imaginable: bacon, sausage, eggs, ham, even steak once. He’d sometimes take requests—except waffles.

Bob had asked for them once.

Alexei had looked him dead in the eye and said, “Waffles are for children and men who fear chewing. I make you meat instead.”

And Bob obediently ate the ham served that day.

The three of them seated at the kitchen island. Bob sat with a fork in hand, picking at a pile of food he didn’t remember asking for and mindlessly thinking about her. Meanwhile, Walker was already halfway through his plate, Bucky was drinking a black coffee, and Alexei was flipping something massive in a cast iron pan over the stove like it owed him rent.

“Eat,” Alexei barked when Bob just poked at a sausage link. He promptly slapped two more onto his plate without asking. “You need more protein; women like men with muscle."

"She knows, guys,” Bob groaned, changing the subject. “She definitely knows.”

"Knows what?" Alexei glanced between John and Bucky like they'd left him out of a group chat. "I do not know. Who knows what?"

"Of course she knows," Bucky proceeded to lower his coffee. "You're not exactly subtle about it—bringing her coffee, walking past her room, turning into a tomato every time she so much as breathes in your direction."

"Ah, you mean her," Alexei connected the dots because even he saw how he looked at her.

"He’s hopelessly in love with her, but won't say anything." Bucky announced.

“She’s too busy for me anyway,” Bob mumbled, shoulders hunched. “She’s got stuff going on. Important stuff.”

John snorted. “That’s your excuse now?”

“She’s literally everywhere,” Bob said, throwing up a hand. “Working out, reading briefings, sparring—like, I’m supposed to just waltz up and flirt while she’s in the middle of combat training?”

“You already do everything but flirt,” Bucky pointed out and John agreed. “You bring her coffee, open doors for her, wait for her to finish meetings just so you can walk the same direction."

Alexei grinned. “He is soft for her.”

"I’m not soft—" Bob sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “She doesn’t even notice me.”

“Oh, she notices,” John said with a smirk. “She’s just pretending not to, which is way worse.”

“I can’t just say something,” Bob muttered. “What if it ruins everything? What if she laughs at me?”

“She won't laugh," John said confidently.

"And we’re not judging," Bucky added. "We’ve all been there. Someone cold, deadly, completely out of your league—”

“Whose out of whose league?”

All heads snapped toward the hallway.

There she stood. In absolutely nothing, but a towel.

Her hair damp, held up loosely in a messy bun. Her skin flushed pink from the hot shower. Her body glistened in the light, littered with small specks of water still. The towel hugged her body like it had been custom-measured to torment Bob specifically—just enough to cover, far too little to handle.

No makeup. Barefoot. And utterly unbothered. Just looking the picture of innocence.

When Bob saw her, he could have sworn his soul left his body.

The room went dead silent.

She couldn't really read the room, just noticed four stunned, absolutely useless men just staring at her like she’d walked in wearing fire.

She raised a brow. “Did I… interrupt something?”

“Nope,” John said, way too fast. “Just guy talk. Carry on. Totally normal.”

“You’re… uh… wet,” Bob blurted, mortified instantly.

She looked down at herself, then back up, amused. “Yes, Bob. That’s generally what happens when you shower.”

He made a small, broken noise that might have been a whimper.

"Just carry on. I'm not even here," Y/n waved off. She moved across the room and made her way over to the refrigerator, oblivious to the sets of eyes that tracked her movements.

The towel swayed. Bob’s jaw tightened. His face went red, then pink, then red again. His hand subtly shifted under the table as he sat up straighter, panicking slightly.

Spotting her peach yogurt, Y/n bend forward just enough to reach the back. The towel hitching up just high enough to give any of them far too much hope.

Each of them react different.

While Bucky sported a wolfish grin, he didn’t even try to look away. His eyes lingered—appreciative, amused, and entirely unbothered by what was clearly a nuclear-level distraction. He leaned back in his chair like he was settling in for the best part of the morning.

His lips curved. He was definitely tempted to whistle.

“Damn,” he muttered with a low chuckle. “Morning just got a whole lot better.”

Walker was mid-bite when he saw her. One second he was chewing toast, the next—he choked so hard he had to thump his chest to recover. He reached for his mug like it was a tactical maneuver, taking a long, steadying sip of black coffee. His eyes shamelessly watched her every move.

Walker murmured under his breath, “Sweet mother of—"

Next, Alexei is the only one unbothered by her actions. Instead, he finds pleasure in watching the other's reactions, smiling wildly like he was enjoying his favorite show on tv.

“Is very fun to watch strong men crumble,” Alexei commented cheerfully, sipping from his own mug and enjoying every second of this.

Especially Bob's reaction. That’s when things got really good. Because Bob was gone.

Frozen. Stuck. Statuesque.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t move.

“Ohmygod—” Bob choked, barely above a whisper. He slammed his eyes shut like he could unsee what had just happened. He tried to focus on his breathing.

He cursed under his breath like he was fighting to keep it all together.

He keeps telling himself in his head: “Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—too late.”

Withdrawing from the fridge, Y/n successfully closed the door and spun around on the heels of her feet. She held up the yogurt cup and was handed a spoon by Alexei. Peeling back the foil and dipping the spoon into the yogurt, Y/n brought the spoon up to her mouth and savored the first bite.

Her gaze flicked across them casually, but then landed—lingered—on Bob.

Her brows knit slightly. “Something wrong?”

The others were no help at all. Because John was hiding a smirk behind his cup and Bucky watched the interaction with the widest, all-knowing smirk on his face. And all the while, Bob was struggling to breathe.

Bob finally managed something that resembled speech.

“N-No,” he croaked. “Nope. All good.”

She blinked. “You sure?”

Bob nodded. Too quickly. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. Totally normal morning. Nothing weird at all.”

“Okay.” She turned and walked off, towel swaying with every step like she was floating. Everyone's gazes trailed after her as if wanting to commit the image to memory. "If you need anything from me, just ask!"

They heard the door of her room shut softly. They huddled together to speak in harsh whispers.

"Why didn't you say anything to her?" Bucky spoke first.

“She was wearing a towel,” Bob whisper-yelled. “What was I supposed to do—confess my love while she’s practically naked?!?!”

John, still gripping his coffee like a lifeline, muttered, “I would’ve.”

Alexei shrugged. “You were supposed to suffer in silence. Like the rest of us.”

"Didn't you hear what she said?" Bucky brought their attention back and Bob looked confused like he'd missed something important. “She said if you need anything, just ask—that was an invitation,”

"What?" Bob asked, clearly not interpreting it the same way.

“She basically dared you to say something.” Bucky pointed out.

Bob groaned in frustration, dragging both hands over his face. Feeling like it was another missed opportunity. “But if I say something now, it’ll be weird."

“I don’t think she’s the one uncomfortable,” John said, not even pretending to hide his grin.

"That's what I'm saying! She knows, definitely knows. And it amuses her. She's messing with me," Bob threw his hands up in slight defeat.

"Ah, but you like it.” Bucky said flatly.

“…I do.” Bob confessed timidly.

"Just don't get too excited there, sunshine." John remarked. John’s gaze dropped—and Bob followed it, his stomach dropping.

And Bob immediately slapped his hands on the table, desperate to block any view of his pants. He felt his face turning pure crimson in color; the others only chuckling in amusement.

The base was mostly quiet in the evening. The lights were dimmed and the place had a soft hum from something far off like white noise in the background. Everyone just about in for the night.

All except Bob who found himself wandering the dark hallways aimlessly. He slowed down as he neared her open door, being curious about why it was still open this late. Peering inside, Bob found her sitting on her bed with legs curled beneath her. She absentmindedly stared out the window, admiring the city lights. The faint glow lit up her face, soft and calm.

Bob hovered in the doorway for a moment too long, rehearsing a dozen things in his head before any of them made it to his mouth.

She noticed him, but didn’t turn. “You’re not great at sneaking up, you know that, right?”

He stepped inside sheepishly. “I wasn’t trying to sneak. Just… trying to find the right moment.”

“That so?” She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable but clearly open. “Is this it?”

Bob hesitated. “I—uh—guess it has to be.”

He stood awkwardly in front of her bed, wringing his hands together as if the action would put him to ease. She watched him in anticipation, waiting for him to just come out and say it. She didn't even know that she held her breath.

“You’re probably too busy for this. For me," Bob said. He nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

“Too busy for what, exactly?” That seemed to get her attention.

“I don’t know. For… whatever this is. I mean, I’ve been trying not to make it weird, but it probably already is weird. You’re always working and focused and—God, I sound like a lunatic—” Bob wanted to cower into himself.

“Bob.” She stood up right in front of him.

He stopped. His eyes met hers. He searched for something, really anything that could have been mistaken as a hint. Rejection or acceptance.

"I already told you: If you want something,” she said gently, “all you have to do is ask.”

The silence stretched between them. He opened his mouth and closed it, desperately trying to gather his courage. She waited for him patiently, not pushing him past discomfort. And then:

“I want you.”

Her lips curved into a quiet smile of satisfaction. As if she’d been waiting exactly for this.

"There it is," Y/n accepted.

Bob didn’t answer—at least, not with words.

Any space between them was quickly closed. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones as his mouth crashed into hers, finally giving in to everything he’d been holding back.

She met him halfway, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt to pull him closer. There was no gentleness in it, not at first—just hunger, urgency, months of glances and tension and unsaid things pouring out in one sharp breath.

Her hands found his shoulders, his back, tugging him in like she’d been waiting just as long because she truly had. She guided him toward the bed, slow and steady, letting him follow her lead.

Their clothes began to slip away piece by piece until there was nothing left to shed. His hands finally rose, gently framing her waist like she might vanish. Then his palms slid up—slowly—over her ribs, along her back, until she was pressed against him, chest to chest.

He lifted her without a word, carrying her the rest of the way to the bed, and laying her down like something sacred. When she laid back and pulled him over her, he hovered for a breathless second and searched for any sign of wanting to stop all this.

Her legs shifted, opening just enough to let him settle between them. She weaved her fingers through his brown locks of hair, drawing a soft moan from his lips. He whispered her name like a damn prayer.

"I've waited so long for you," she breathed. He kissed his way down her stomach slowly and worshipfully. Her thighs trembled under his touch and he gently coaxed them open to accommodate his shoulders.

When his mouth finally found her—hot, desperate—she gasped his name and arched against him. Her voice breaking on every syllable, but he desperately needed to taste her. He took his time with her.

Because he wanted to memorize every moan, every whimper, every shake of her legs around his shoulders.

Her hands gripped at whatever they could find—his hair, the sheets beneath them, even his shoulder—as he worked her over with patient intensity. His tongue worked eagerly, drawing every last drop of sweetness she had to offer him.

When she came undone, it was with a cry that echoed off the walls and he held her through it.

She was still catching her breath when he kissed his way back up, slow and reverent, like he was savoring the aftermath. Her fingers tangled in his hair again, pulling him toward her until their mouths met—hot and hungry this time, tasting the want between them.

“Bob,” she whispered against his lips, and that alone nearly undid him.

He groaned low in his throat, like he couldn’t contain it anymore. “Say that again.”

She did—his name soft, broken, beautiful—and it lit something inside him. He pressed his forehead to hers, trying to catch his breath, but the way her hands ran down his back and dug into his skin left him trembling. That was all it took.

The last of his control broke. He kissed her hard, needy. She arched into him, nails leaving little red trails down his back, her legs curling around him to pull him even closer.

His body trembled with restraint, every muscle tight with need as he hovered just above her, their breaths mingling in the space between.

Her legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into his back, urging him closer. "Bob..." she whispered, her voice a shiver in the dark. "Don't make me wait any longer."

He swallowed hard, eyes locked to hers. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. His thumb caressed the edge of her jaw, slow and reverent. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” she promised. “You’re already everything I want.”

He kissed her again—deeper this time, like he needed it to breathe and his hips slowly rolled forward. Their bodies aligning in a way that stole both their breaths.

Careful to draw himself back out partially, Bob thrusted and moved deliberately. He was too busy feeling the tension in her thighs, the way her fingers flexed against his back, and the way her breath caught in her throat when he rocked his hips just right. His name slipped from her lips again.

“God,” he groaned into her neck, barely holding himself together. “You feel… oh, God… so good.”

"Then don’t stop,” she whispered, voice barely audible over the sound of skin slapping together. She tried meeting his thrusts. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And Bob didn’t.

He moved with aching slowness, letting the tension coil tighter, letting it drag out—each motion deeper, more desperate, more consuming. Until they were both trembling from the force of it, completely lost in each other.

The sound of their bodies moving together filled the room, slow and rhythmic, a symphony of want and wonder.

He stole a glance downward—just once—and the sight nearly undid him. The way they moved together, how perfectly she welcomed him, how her body responded like it had always been meant for his. A quiet curse escaped his lips, and he dropped his head to her shoulder, breathing hard.

“You… you’re everything.”

She turned her head, lips brushing against his temple, her voice breathless. She corrected him. “I’m yours.”

That did something to him. He gripped her tighter, forehead pressed to hers, his rhythm faltering only because he was overwhelmed—by her, by the way she looked at him, by the way she whispered his name like he was her only tether.

They could feel it building, that tight pull low in their stomachs, coiling tighter with every movement, every breathless sound that spilled from the other.

“Bob—” she gasped, her voice trembling, wrecked with need. “I’m… I’m so close—”

“I’ve got you,” his own voice rough and unsteady. “Come with me.”

His hand slid down between them, finding the spot that made her cry out. Her walls clenched around him as her body seized beneath him, and that was all it took.

She broke first—back arched, head thrown back, breath catching in a stuttering moan of his name. And as he felt her fall apart around him, he followed—his own release ripping through him in a wave so sharp and overwhelming he could barely breathe.

They held onto each other through it—through the trembling, through the gasping, through the aftershocks that left them both reeling.

And still, he held her like he was afraid to let go. Because now that he had her, he never wanted to stop.

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS OR IF YOU'D LIKE MORE WORKS LIKE THIS!

[cadiecore]

When He’s Him | Bob Reynolds

Summary: The line between Bob and Sentry blurs, and you’re caught in the middle until he finally chooses you as himself.

Warnings: sex. sex sex and more sex. perverts.

A/N: this is another request that i LOVE from @tittittoee i really hope i did it justice i kinda took the idea and went RUNNING with it and made it extra angsty just for fun heheheheh

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The bathroom mirror does not lie.

You stare at the faint bruises blooming along your collarbone and ribs, the kind that look almost pretty if you do not think too hard about where they came from. They are not painful. That is what bothers you most. They should hurt more. They should mean something. But instead you look at them day after day, new ones blooming over the old, and you remember everything you got up to the night before.

You turn sideways, tugging your shirt aside just enough to see the shadows under your skin. Love marks. Power marks. Proof of something you would rather pretend never happens. You scoff at your reflection, a quiet sound in the empty room.

“Get it together,” you murmur, then yank your shirt back into place, strategically covering yourself and heading for the door.

The tower is already awake, and quite loud. The hallway hums with distant voices and the clatter of plates. When you step into the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast and cheap coffee hits you first. You scan the room, smiling at your friends gathered. Your smile falters however when it lands on him.

Bob.

He sits at the far end of the table, hunched over his mug like it is the only thing tethering him to reality. His shirt is rumpled and crooked. His hair looks like he dragged a hand through it too many times. He does not look at you, and do not look at him, a regular routine you’ve created each morning. Walker, unfortunately, looks at everyone. He squints the second he sees you, eyes tracking the way you move like he is trying to piece together a puzzle.

“Wow,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Either you got into a bar fight with a freight train, or you really need to ease up on whatever sadistic training routine you’re on.”

“Good morning to you too,” you reply flatly, already reaching for the coffee pot.

Alexei appears at your side like a human wall, sliding a plate into your hands before you can refuse it.

“You are too small,” he declares. “Always too small. Eat more. You fight like angry kitten but bones are like little breadsticks.”

You tilt your head up and kiss his cheek just to watch him blink in surprise.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” you say sweetly, then pivot away before he can recover.

Your gaze flicks, traitorous, toward the far end of the table.Bob finally looks up. It is a mistake. His eyes sharpen the second they land on you, like he is bracing for impact. You wonder if he fully remembers coming into your room night after night and doing…What you both did. Something bitter rises in your chest and you lean into it before you can stop yourself.

“Staring again, Reynolds?” you ask.

“Careful. People might think you’re obsessed.”

His jaw tightens. “Hard to ignore a walking health violation.”

You smile thinly. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about your posture.”

Walker lets out a low whistle. “And the award for most emotionally constipated morning exchange goes to-“

“Shut up,” you and Bob say in unison.

You drop into the chair beside Bucky, deliberately turning your back on Bob like he does not exist. Across the table, Yelena is watching you with a look that is far too interested.

“You two are like married couple who despise each other,” she says. “It is very entertaining. Also very loud at night.”

You choke on your coffee.

Bucky does not look at you, but his shoulder bumps yours just enough to steady you. He does not say anything while you eat, which somehow feels louder than any lecture. You focus on your plate, chewing without tasting, aware of Bob’s presence in the room like a static charge. When you stand to rinse your dish, Bucky is already on his feet.

“Come on,” he says, hand closing around your wrist before you can protest.

He does not stop walking until the kitchen noise fades behind heavy walls. Then he turns to face you, eyes dropping immediately to your hands. Your knuckles are bruised, split in a way that tells a very specific story.

“Training,” you say before he can ask.

He raises an eyebrow. “You trying to punch the building down?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t be the worst renovation idea.”

His gaze drifts, careful and brief, to your collar where your shirt has slipped just enough to reveal the edge of one of those marks. His expression does not change. That makes your throat tighten.

“Those too,” he says quietly.

You scoff. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he replies. “I just don’t like when you look like you’re losing a fight with yourself.”

For a moment, you almost tell him. Almost let the words crack open in your mouth. He was truly your best friend, and not telling Bucky what goes on at night between you and Bob felt like lying. Instead you roll your eyes and tug your wrist from his grip.

“I’m fine. You worry too much.”

He studies you a second longer, then sighs and steps aside.

“Alright,” he says. “But I’m not buying it. Not today, not ever. You’re a bad liar.”

He lets it go, but the concern in his eyes follows you all the way back down the hall until you disappear from his sight.

————-

You take your seat near the far wall of the briefing room with Bucky and Yelena, folding your arms and fixing your attention on the tablet in Ava’s hands like it contains the secrets of the universe. You do not look at Bob, per usual.

Across the room, he sits beside Walker, shoulders tense, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. You are not in his line of sight, but you exist in every other way. In the echo of his pulse. In the way the air feels too warm in his lungs. In the quiet reminders that do not care if he is awake or asleep. He does not hear Ava explaining entry points or tactical formations. He is busy remembering pinning your wrists above your head last night, the way you had said his name like it was a challenge instead of a plea. He remembers the smell of your pillows, something clean and soft that makes no sense with the way you treat each other when the sun is up.

He hates that he remembers. He hates that it was him and also not him.

Walker nudges his knee with his own. “Earth to Reynolds.”

Bob blinks, slow and heavy. “What?”

Walker glances toward Ava, who is still mid-sentence, then back to Bob. “You with us, or should I start taking notes in crayon?”

Bob exhales through his nose and stares at the table. “I’m fine.”

Ava says your name, and the sound hits Bob like a slap to the face. His shoulders jerk, breath catching before he can stop it. For half a heartbeat the room disappears and all he can feel is the memory of pinning your wrists down, of your pulse jumping beneath his thumbs like he was holding something fragile instead of fighting someone who claims to hate him. From across the room, you notice. Not the memory, obviously. Just the flinch. The way his body reacts to your name like it is a wound instead of a word.

Walker notices too.

He leans closer, voice low enough that it does not carry. “What the hell was that.”

Bob swallows. His mouth is dry. His hands will not stop shaking.

“Nothing,” he says.

Walker studies him, jaw tightening. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Bob almost laughs. It comes out as a breath instead. “Feels like longer.”

Walker doesn’t pry any longer as Ava finishes the briefing and closes her tablet. Chairs scrape back. The room fills with the sound of people standing, talking, moving on like nothing inside Bob has just splintered.

“You need to get your head straight before we go out there,” Walker says quietly. “Whatever’s going on, it’s bleeding through.”

Bob nods because it is easier than answering. Around you, the team filters out of the room, already shifting into mission mode. You pass his row without looking at him, close enough that he catches the faintest trace of your shampoo, clean and impossible. Then you are gone, and the mission drags him with it whether he is ready or not.

————

Smoke clings to the ceiling of the research wing like a low storm cloud. The corridor you are in narrows into something barely wide enough for two people to pass shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere ahead, a warning alarm pulses in an uneven rhythm, the random building complaining about injuries it never had time to heal.

You had been right behind Bucky pretty much the whole mission until the floor shuddered around you. Not violently, just enough to shift the debris piled against the walls. The path you were supposed to take collapses inward with a sound like a held breath being released. Concrete and wiring drop between you and the rest of the team in a choking plume of dust.

“Seriously,” you mutter, coughing. “You have got to be kidding me.”

The comms crackle. Bucky’s voice cuts through the static, filled with panic. “You guys okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say immediately. “Just stuck with Reynolds. Living the dream.”

Bob steps up beside you, scanning the blockage with an unreadable expression. He holds his hand out to help you up but you ignore it. “We go around,” he says. “There’s a service stairwell off the west wing.”

“Oh, now you’re taking charge,” you reply.

“Thought you were still in zoning-out mode.”

He shoots you a look. “I wasn’t zoning out.”

“You flinched when someone said my name,” you say. “That’s not exactly locked in.”

His jaw tightens. “Drop it.”

“Why,” you press, brushes pieces of rubble and dust from your gear. “Hit a nerve?”

“Can you just focus,” he snaps. “For once.”

You push past him into the narrow passage without waiting for an answer. “I am focused. On not babysitting you.”

The stairwell is worse than the hallway. Lights flicker overhead, and the metal railing rattles every time the structure shifts. You take the first step two at a time just to get it over with.

Bob grabs your arm. “Slow down.”

You jerk away. “Don’t touch me.”

“You don’t get to run into a collapsing building like it’s nothing,” he says. “You are not invincible.”

“I never said I was,” you shoot back. “But I don’t freeze every time something goes wrong either.”

His mouth tightens. “That’s not freezing. That’s thinking.”

“Oh please,” you scoff. “You think I don’t notice how you hover. How you look at me like you’re waiting for me to screw up.”

“Because you keep trying to,” he snaps.

The stair beneath your boot groans.

Then it gives. Your foot slips into empty space, heart lurching as your weight pitches forward. You grab for the railing and miss, the world tilting too fast to make sense of it.

Bob catches you. His hand clamps around your harness and rips you backward so hard you slam into his chest. For a breathless second, everything stops.

You shove him away immediately. “What the hell is wrong with you!”

“No, what is wrong with you,” he fires back. “You almost fell!”

“I had it,” you snap.

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.”

“You were one bad step from breaking your neck.”

“So now you’re my personal safety briefing,” you say bitterly. “I don’t need you hovering over me like I’m made of glass.”

“I am trying to keep you alive,” he says, voice rising. “You act like you don’t care if you come back from these things.”

“Maybe I just don’t need someone breathing down my neck every second,” you shoot back.

“You don’t stop,” he says. “You don’t slow down. You push harder every time like you’re daring something to happen. You might not care but either people do! What about Bucky? Yelena? Everybody else?”

“Stop pretending you know me.”

“I know you’re destroying yourself,” he snaps. “And I’m sick of watching it.”

Footsteps echo at the top of the stairwell.

Bucky rounds the corner first, skidding to a halt when he takes you in, breathing hard, eyes bright with worry. Yelena follows, gaze flicking instantly between you and Bob. Walker lingers behind them, already shaking his head at hearing the arguing.

Bucky grabs your arm and pulls you back from Bob. “Enough,” he says, planting himself between you. “This is not the time.”

At the same moment, Yelena steps directly into Bob’s space and presses her hand flat to his chest, firm and unmoving. Not aggressive. Just a wall. Bob freezes under her touch.

“You are both being very dramatic,” Yelena says calmly. “But you are about to get someone killed.”

Walker exhales. “Can we maybe not have the meltdown in the collapsing stairwell.”

You rip your arm from Bucky’s grip and storm past them down the corridor.

“Don’t,” Bob calls after you.

It is not angry, it is scared.

You do not answer.

————-

The jet hums steadily beneath your feet, a low vibration that usually lulls everyone into sleep or sarcastic commentary. Tonight it does neither.

The cabin is wrapped in a strange quiet, the kind that settles after something goes wrong in a way no one has words for yet. Yelena and Walker are the only ones breaking it, arguing in hushed tones over whether Walker tripped over a cable or whether the cable was clearly trying to assassinate him. It should be funny. It barely registers.

You sit with your shoulder pressed against Bucky’s arm, the way you have since the moment you boarded. He had not asked. He had simply taken the seat beside you and stayed there like it was the most natural thing in the world. You drop your head onto his shoulder, trying to keep yourself from glancing up the aisle.

Bob sits alone near the back, head bowed, hands clasped together between his knees. He has not looked at you once. That almost hurts more than if he had. Bucky notices your glances. He always does. He does not say anything at first, just shifts a little closer, like he is reminding you he is there.

After a few minutes, he murmurs, “You okay?”

It is not a question that expects honesty.

You shrug. “Just tired.”

He waits. You can feel the weight of it, his patience, his refusal to let things slide when they matter.

“Those bruises,” he says quietly. “And your hands. That’s not from today, they’re old.”

Your throat tightens. You stare at the floor between your boots. “It’s nothing.”

He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. You don’t budge off of his shoulder. In fact, you wished he would just be quiet so you could nap, but you knew that would never happen. “You’ve been saying that since we met.”

You huff a small laugh. “Guess I’m consistent.”

“Guess you’re miserable.”

You finally look at him then, ready with a retort, but it dies when you see his expression. He is not annoyed. He is not judging you. He is worried.

He lowers his voice even further. “I’m not stupid. I see the way you two look at each other. The way he freezes when you talk. The way you won’t say his name anymore.”

Your pulse thuds in your ears. “Bucky, don’t.”

“Is it Bob,” he asks gently. “Or is it something else?”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your pants. You glance down the aisle again. Bob is still staring at the floor.

“It’s not technically Bob,” you whisper.

Bucky’s brow furrows. “What does that mean.”

You hesitate, then lean closer so your shoulder brushes his. Your voice drops until it is almost lost in the engine noise.

“A few weeks ago I thought he came into my room. We were arguing like usual. And then I realized it wasn’t him.” You swallow. “It was the Sentry.”

His jaw tightens. He does not interrupt you.

“It’s been happening since. That’s where the bruises come from. He remembers. Bob doesn’t act like he does, but I know he does.”

Bucky leans back slowly, eyes on the ceiling now, like he is trying to steady himself. When he looks at you again, something protective flashes through him that makes your chest ache.

“You should have told me,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t want to admit it out loud,” you reply.

He reaches out and squeezes your knee, brief but grounding. “Just be careful. I don’t care what version of him it is. I care about you.”

You nod because it is easier than arguing.

Later, you leave the jet without looking back.

You feel Bob’s eyes on you anyway, burning between your shoulder blades like something unfinished. It makes your skin crawl, makes your chest tight with a mix of anger and something you refuse to name.

The tower is too bright when you get back, the world below completely alive. You curse it, begin to wish you could be the last person on earth as you trudge towards your room.

You strip off your gear in your room and drop it in a heap by the door. Your clothes smell like smoke and sweat and dried blood that is not all yours. You do not shower, that sounds like too much work for your energy level. Instead, you plant your feet in front of the punching bag and hit it. Once. Twice. Again and again until the impact rattles the chain in the ceiling. Your knuckles sting almost immediately, skin splitting open where it was already raw, but you welcome it. Pain is honest. Pain does not pretend to be anything else.

You picture his face when you swing, like you do every night. Not the one he shows everyone else, the one everybody seems to love. The one that looks at you like he is waiting for you to give him permission to exist. You hit harder. The door opens behind you, and you don’t bother to turn.

You know the sound of him entering your space. The way the air changes, the way the room feels suddenly too small. Normally he would already be behind you by now, crowding you, stealing your focus with sheer presence alone, running his hands slowly up your sides until they’re pressing your body against him. Tonight he does none of that.

The silence stretches until it feels like something is going to snap. You finally stop throwing punches, breathing hard, sweat sliding down your spine. You reach for your water bottle without looking at him, taking a long drink just to buy yourself another second.

“What do you want,” you say, voice sharp. “You come in here and then just stand there like you’re waiting for applause.”

He still does not answer. You turn then, slow and irritated, ready to tear into him. He is clean. Fresh clothes. Hair still damp. He looks nothing like the version of him that usually finds you here, all heat and static and barely contained violence. He looks controlled. And he’s wearing that t shirt you mentioned liking him in that one time, and you mentally curse him for it.

Your stomach twists. “Don’t do this,” you warn.

He takes a step closer. Then another, measured, careful. Not the way he usually moves when he is here. You feel smaller under his stare, not physically, but emotionally, like he is peeling something open without touching you. You hate him for it.

“Say something,” you snap. “Or get out.”

He stops a step away from you, eyes dark and unreadable. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and steady.

“Take your clothes off.”

You don’t know how to react to this. You stutter, ready to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead you swallow, suddenly feeling a bit more confident. You take a few steps back, not breaking the eye contact from him. Your skin shudders as you reach down and pull your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere in the corner.

The rest of the night was a complete blur.

———

Morning does not feel like a relief, but instead feels like a hangover you cannot remember earning.

Your room is quiet when you wake, too quiet. The space beside your bed is empty, sheets cold where something enormous and impossible had stood only hours ago. Bob is gone. Of course he is. He always is by the time the sun comes up. You sit up slowly, muscles screaming in protest. Your knuckles are worse today, swollen and split open, dried blood dark against your skin. The punching bag looms in the corner like it is daring you to start again.

Instead you drag yourself into a hoodie and pad down the hallway, the tower barely awake. The common room is empty except for the hum of lights and the faint smell of coffee, and Bucky is already there. He is perched on the arm of the couch with a first aid kit balanced on his knee like he knew you would come looking for him. He looks up when you shuffle in, taking in your posture, the way you cradle your hands.

“Morning, trouble,” he says softly. “You look like you fought a lawnmower.”

You drop onto the couch beside him. “It started it.”

He gives you a look that says you are not funny, but there is a hint of a smile there anyway. He takes your hands gently, inspecting the damage like he has done this a hundred times before.

“You know,” he murmurs as he cleans the cuts, “most people don’t wake up bleeding.”

“You hang around the wrong people then.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “And I like them too much.”

His touch is careful, grounding. You watch him work, the lines around his eyes softening when he is focused like this.

“You sleep at all?” He asks.

You shrug. “Some.”

He does not press you, but he knows you’re lying. For being such an expensive place, the tours walls are incredibly thin. He tapes your knuckles, then sits back, studying you.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says finally. “Even when you act like you are.”

Your throat tightens, but you do not trust yourself to answer. From the hallway, footsteps echo faintly. You do not need to look up to know who it is. Bob passes the doorway, moving too quickly, not glancing in. His shoulders are drawn in, posture tight like he is trying to make himself invisible in his own home. Your gaze follows him before you can stop yourself, and Bucky notices.

He squeezes your knee once, grounding you back in the room.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “One step at a time.”

———

The gym smells like metal and sweat and something burnt. Bob has been there a while. You can tell by the dark patch spreading across the heavy bag, by the way his breathing is already too loud for the empty room. He isn’t training. He is trying to erase something. You stand in the doorway longer than you mean to, watching the way his shoulders hitch with every strike, how there is no pattern to it anymore. Just anger.

“You’re going to rip it off the ceiling,” you say at last.

He doesn’t answer. The bag takes another hit, the chain shrieking in protest. You step farther in, irritation crawling up your spine.

“Did you hear me,” you snap. “Or are you just planning on punching your way through every problem now?”

That gets his attention. He turns so fast you almost flinch. His cheeks are flushed red, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes burning with something that looks too close to panic.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t pretend nothing is wrong all the time,” he shouts.

You blink. “Oh, I’m the one pretending now?”

“Yes,” he fires back. “You walk around like yesterday never happened. Like I don’t exist unless it’s convenient for you.”

Your laugh is loud and ugly. “You think this is about convenience? You think I’m choosing when you matter?”

“I don’t know what you’re choosing,” he says. “But you don’t talk to me. You glare at me. You shut me out like I’m already gone. And then at night time it’s a completely different story! And it’s not even really me..”

“Maybe because every time I try to let you in, you disappear. You Bob, not the other guy.”

His mouth opens, then closes again, like the words are stuck somewhere painful.

“I don’t disappear,” he says hoarsely.

“You do,” you yell. “You’re here one second, gone the next, and I’m left picking up whatever mess you leave behind. You use me!“

He steps closer, hands shaking. “You have no idea what it’s like in my head.”

“Then explain it,” you demand. “For once in your life, explain it instead of hiding behind that sad, confused look.”

The bag swings behind him, forgotten, the chain clanking like a warning.

“I don’t know how,” he admits, voice cracking through his anger. “Every time I get close to you, everything in me locks up. I don’t know what to say without making it worse.”

“So you just stop trying,” you shout. “You think silence is safer than honesty? You think being constantly mean to me gets you anywhere?”

“You’re just as mean back! I think I’m going to lose you either way,” he yells back. “And I don’t know how to stop it.”

Your chest heaves, tears threatening despite how furious you are.

“You already are losing me,” you scream. “You don’t get to act surprised about it now.”

The gym door slams open. Yelena stands there, eyes wide as she takes in the two of you, mid-explosion.

“What is happening in here,” she asks sharply.

You don’t even look at her. You jab a finger over your shoulder at Bob, hands shaking with adrenaline.

“Ask him,” you shout, then storm past her, shoving the door open so hard it rattles the frame.

The echo of your footsteps hasn’t even faded when Yelena turns back to Bob.

He is still standing in the middle of the gym like the floor might give out under him.

“You do not sleep,” she says, softer now but no less direct.

He drags a hand down his face. “I’m fine.”

“You look like ghost that forgot how to die.”

He lets out a broken laugh. “That bad, huh?”

She steps closer. “You are breaking yourself. And she is breaking herself. So tell me why.”

His shoulders slump. “Because I hate her,” he says. “And I can’t stop thinking about her. Because I want her even when I’m furious with her. And I hate that it isn’t me. And I hate that I don’t actually hate her.

Yelena’s eyes narrow. “Not you?”

“I don’t have the courage to go to her as myself,” he whispers. “I keep letting the strongest part of me make the choices.”

She places her hand over his chest, grounding him. “You cannot keep splitting yourself in half and expect love to choose the part you abandon.”

His eyes close. “She said I was already losing her. I didn’t even know I had her to lose! What if it’s like that forever?”

“Then you lose her as yourself,” Yelena replies quietly.

Yelena does not move her hand from his chest right away. She watches his face like she is reading something written too faintly for anyone else to notice.

“You think you are protecting her,” she says. “You think keeping distance is kindness.”

Bob lets out a humorless breath. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” she replies simply. “It is fear wearing better clothes.”

He looks at her, eyes rimmed red, exhausted down to his bones. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You stop letting power do your living for you,” she says. “You stop waiting for version of you that is not scared.”

He shakes his head. “She hates me.”

“She hates that you hide,” Yelena corrects. “There is difference.”

Silence settles between them, thick and heavy. Somewhere in the tower a door slams, faint but unmistakable. He knows without being told that it is you.

“She is not angry because you do nothing,” Yelena continues. “She is angry because you almost do something. Over and over again.”

His jaw tightens. “What if I make it worse?”

“You already are,” she says gently. “At least this way you will be honest about it.”

Bob closes his eyes. For a moment he looks like he might fold in on himself, like the weight of everything is too much for one body. Then he straightens, and without another word he turns and leaves the gym.

He does not remember the hallway.

He remembers the way his heart feels like it is trying to claw its way out of his chest, the way his palms keep going slick even though the air is cool. He changes in his room without really seeing what he is doing, stripping out of damp clothes and into something clean, something that feels like him instead of like armor. By the time he reaches your door his breathing is unsteady again. He stops with his fist raised, knuckles hovering inches from the wood.

He cannot knock. He leans closer instead, forehead pressing lightly against the frame, like he is afraid the door might vanish if he does not anchor himself to it.That is when he hears it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a faint, broken sound from the other side, like you are trying very hard to keep something contained. His chest tightens as he opens the door and steps inside.

Inside, your room is too small for everything you are carrying. Once the anger burns off, it leaves behind something sharper. Confusion. You sit on the edge of your bed with your hands knotted together, staring at the floor like it might give you answers if you look hard enough.

You cannot tell where the hatred ends and the wanting begins anymore. You have spent weeks convincing yourself that Bob is the problem, that you cannot stand him, that every fight is proof that whatever lives between you is poison. But now you cannot ignore the other questions that have been piling up quietly in the back of your mind.

Does he even want you? The real you? Or does he only want you when he is not really himself? Like when he comes in your room at night, is it just to get off? You assume so.

Your body complains when you stand, a dull chorus of aches from the mission, from overtraining, from nights Bob would come in here as the sentry. You told yourself you liked it, and for a while you truly did. The rough, careless, hate sex. You didn’t care if you woke up sore, or if you both woke up with bruises the next day because it proved how much fun you had having sex all hours of the night. But after weeks of it happening, weeks of bruising and being tired, the feeling got incredibly old. And now? All you felt was used. Hurt. Tired.

You shake the thoughts away tug on a pair of worn pajamas, wincing when the fabric brushes against bruises you try not to look at. As you sit down, the first tear falls down your face and surprises you. It lands on your hand and suddenly you are crying in a way you cannot remember starting, shoulders curling inward as you sink back onto the bed. Usually you never let yourself cry, and you just take it out in training instead. But this time you just let it happen. You press your palms to your face, embarrassed even though you are alone.

The door opens behind you. You do not look up. You know the routine too well, as it was happening pretty much every night now. You couldn’t do this tonight, you needed rest. And not only that, but you do not want him to see you like this, not the version of you that is tired and small and hurting. He always sees the angry, sexy, ready to go side of you. So you stay exactly where you are, head in your hands, waiting for the usual shift in the air that comes with him taking over the room.

It never comes.

Instead, the mattress dips beside you.

Carefully. Hesitantly. Nothing happens for a moment until you feel a hand settle at the center of your back. It is warm, uncertain, nothing like the overwhelming presence you have come to expect. You tense, ready to pull away, but the touch does not demand anything from you.

You lean into it before you can stop yourself.

Your breath stutters. The crying eases, turning into quiet, uneven inhales against his shoulder. He does not move, does not rush you, just lets you exist there like it is allowed.

When his thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a stray tear, you finally understand.

This is Bob.

You lift your head slowly. He is close enough now that you can see the fear he never lets anyone else notice, the way he is trying to be still so he does not scare you away.

“I’ve wanted to come here like this for a long time,” he says after a moment. “But I didn’t know how to show you any of this without hiding behind something stronger than me.”

Your voice is rough when you answer. “It feels like you’re using me. Like you only want me when you’re not really you. Like you can only tolerate fucking me when it’s a different version of you.”

His eyes close briefly, like the words hurt. “That isn’t it. I want you so much it scares me. So I let the part of me that isn’t afraid be the one who reaches for you.”

The room feels heavier with every truth laid between you.

“All those fights,” you whisper. “All that hate.”

“They were never just hate,” he replies quietly. “They were the only way I knew how to feel this without falling apart.”

His hand is still on your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your eye like he is memorizing the shape of you. He is breathing shallowly now, like he is afraid a deeper breath will make you disappear.

“You don’t hate me,” he says, not as a question but a realization that scares him.

Your chest aches. “I don’t think I ever did.”

Something in him finally gives. He leans in, not careful this time, not asking for permission with his eyes. The space between you collapses like it was never meant to exist. His mouth finds yours with a desperate kind of relief, like he has been holding his breath for months and only now remembers how to breathe.

It isn’t gentle. It isn’t neat. It is all the words you threw at each other finally running out of places to hide.

You grip his shirt like you might lose him if you let go. And when you finally pull back, foreheads pressed together, you are both shaking in exactly the same way. Bob's breath mingles with yours, warm and ragged, his blue eyes locking onto your gaze with a vulnerability you have never seen before. No more snarls or glares between you two, just this raw honesty that makes your chest ache.

He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek as if you are something precious he fears breaking. "I love you," he whispers again, the words still fresh and trembling on his lips, and you nod, tears pricking your eyes because you feel it too, this shift from fury to fire to something deeper.

You lean in, kissing him slow and deep, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that speaks of forgiveness and need. His hands roam your body with care, peeling away your clothes layer by layer until skin meets skin. It feels incredibly different from his usual rough and needy touch. This was so much better in a way. You felt cared for, like you were a real person and not just a warm body for him.

He lays you back on the bed, the sheets cool against your heated flesh, and you pull him down with you, legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close. Bob settles between your thighs, his weight a comforting press, his cock growing hard and throbbing against your clothed core.

You arch up, spreading your legs wider, but he takes his time, kissing along your neck, your collarbone, murmuring your name like a prayer.

"I want to make this right," he says softly, his voice rough with emotion, and you thread your fingers through his hair, guiding him back to your lips.

He reaches for your hands, interlacing your fingers, and pins them gently above your head against the mattress. This was reminiscent of your sex with the other version of him, but again it felt so much better. The hold is firm but not forceful, a promise of trust rather than dominance, his grip warm as he uses his other hand to gently tug down your pants. They come down easily, your panties going with them, and you’re impressed by the skill he has with just one hand.

You never pictured Bob this way, taking charge but in a gentle way. He nibbles on your neck as you feel him slowly position himself at your entrance. You didnt even notice him strip himself out of his own clothes. You gasp as the thick head of his cock nudges your folds, parting them slowly, and he pushes in with a deliberate thrust, filling you inch by inch.

It's not the frantic hate you knew before; this is measured, intense. He waits awhile before bringing to move, just enjoying the feeling of you wrapped around him. Soon he began to move, each roll of his hips driving deep and hard but lingering, savoring the way your pussy clenches around him. You moan into his mouth, the stretch exquisite, his length hitting that spot inside you that sends sparks through your veins. Bob groans low, his forehead resting against yours again, eyes half-lidded as he watches your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure.

He thinks about all the time he’s missed with you. All those nights he could’ve spent actually doing this instead of just seeming to watch it from afar. He never knew it could be this way. Bob thrusts again, harder this time, but unhurried, grinding against your clit with each press forward, building the heat between you like a slow-burning flame.

Your bodies move in sync, sweat-slicked and trembling, his hands squeezing yours in rhythm with his hips. You feel every ridge and vein of his cock as he buries himself to the hilt, pulling back just enough to tease before slamming home once more, the impact jolting pleasure up your spine.

“You feel so good," he breathes, lips brushing your ear, and you whimper, legs tightening around him to pull him deeper.

The tenderness in his touch contrasts the power in his thrusts, his free hand sliding down to caress your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaks under his attention.

Tension coils tighter in your belly with each sensual drive, his pace steady and relentless, fucking you with a loving ferocity that makes your heart swell. You rock up to meet him, the friction igniting every nerve, your pussy fluttering around his thickness as the edge approaches. Bob's breaths come in harsh pants now, his control fraying but never breaking, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Come with me," he urges softly, thrusting harder, deeper, the bed creaking under the force.

The world narrows to his cock pulsing inside you, your hands locked in his, the shared rhythm pushing you both toward release. You shatter first, crying out his name as waves of ecstasy crash over you, your walls milking him in tight spasms. Bob follows seconds later, a guttural moan escaping him as he spills hot and deep, his hips stuttering through the climax, filling you completely.

He collapses gently onto you, still holding your hands, both of you panting and spent.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks. The room feels like it is catching its breath with you, the earlier chaos reduced to the soft sound of his heartbeat where it presses against your palms. You stare at the ceiling, suddenly afraid to move in case the moment breaks. When you finally look at him, his glasses are crooked again and there is the faintest, disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.

“Guess we’re really bad at hating each other,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky laugh, the kind that surprises you by turning into relief instead of tears. Your fingers tighten around his like you are making a promise you do not have words for yet. Outside your door, the tower hums on like nothing has changed.

Inside, everything has.

————-

i’m sorry the ending SUCKS i really truly didn’t know how to finish it off.

[runa-falls]

bad habits

summary: your relationship with adrian is fucked -- you're constantly breaking up and getting back together -- but you can't stop going back to him.

pairing: adrian chase x reader

cw: smut (18+), possible OOC!adrian, co-workers to lovers to exs to lovers, mentions of infidelity, toxic relationship, reader is clueless, mentions of injuries, mention of public sex, possible oversimplification of adrian's personality lol, short read, not beta-read (obvi)

wc: 1.4k

note: all errors are mine. i've only watched s1 of peacemaker in 2022 when it came out. and i'm writing on vibes bc i don't have the attention span to watch anything rn 😭 just lemme fuck this dork.

part two

---

you've been in an on-and-off relationship with adrian for a while now. it started with the occasional spontaneous hook-up behind fennel fields, in the back of the 'vigilante-mobile,' or at your apartment, and ended with you getting attached.

you blame it on his stupid boyish smile, big dick, and the weird enthusiasm and curiosity that he radiates wherever he goes. there's something so magnetic about him, even when he actively disregards your feelings in situations.

you find yourself thinking about him whenever he's not around. and when he is, you're suddenly on his lap, kissing the life out of his stupidly sweet lips.

you don't even care that he sometimes looks like an x-rated winnie the pooh with how he fucks you in just a shirt -- because he hates it when anything touches his butt whenever he's doing stuff with his dick.

of course, with adrian being adrian, 'romantic' is the last word you'd use to describe the relationship. if anything, it feels exactly like when you were just coworkers-with-benefits.

he doesn't do PDA because he thinks it's "super inappropriate to be having 1st base sexual interactions in places where babies could be present."

but of course, when you'd try to counter his opinion by bringing up how you've already fucked in his car in public several times, he argues back that "the vigilante mobile is the most fortified place for sex, so it's different."

so no hand-holding, waist grabbing, or lovey-dovey eye contact in public. in fact, he barely says anything that would suggest that he's dating you (unless you count the odd sexual innuendo that he says at the most random times).

on top of that, you're not even in the top three of his favorite people. chris' eagle is higher on the list -- and he's not even a human.

you'll admit that he does spend more time with you when you're back "on" in your relationship -- he'll hit you up at 3 am to ask if you want something from taco bell and invite you to see movies that you don't like -- but it's all so platonic feeling. you already did all of that shit before you started hooking up.

so even when you're dating, everything feels the same -- except you get to end most days with your hips propped up for him to rail you against the bed.

you swear he's clueless, and maybe it's because you are his first girlfriend ever.

he explained to you that since he didn't hit puberty until his mid-20s, he always thought that it was weird to mess with girls his age because they'd be messing with a half-baked man. so he waited.

sure, he's fucked around, but relationships never came easy for him.

then you came along and decided that he'd be dating you (you didn't take no for an answer). but he's genuinely so bad at being a boyfriend.

even now, he's oblivious to why you don't want to hook up again after breaking up a week ago. your...27th(?) time breaking up this year.

"because you cheated on me!"

"i didn't cheat on you, i just had a threesome with peacemaker and his new girlfriend! it was a best friend bonding hangout night," he explains, "cheating is like when my dad left my mom because he fell in love with a man. i wasn't in love with the random girl we were banging."

"that's still fucking cheating, adrian! you were inside another person while dating me. you did that shit behind my back!"

"well, i was gonna ask if you would want to join, but you told me you were busy, so i didn't want to bother you."

"oh my god, that's why you asked me if i was free that night? so we could have a foursome in peacemaker's dilapidated trailer?"

"first off, his trailer is not dilapidated, its thoroughly used. and yes, i was going to ask you to join because you're my girlfriend and i like to have sex with you." he states it like it's an obvious fact, "it would've been awesomer if you were there because i like fucking you more than anyone else. and peacemaker's girlfriend moaned too loud. it was annoying."

"ugh, shut up, adrian."

he frowns, "hey, that's not very nice."

"the fact that you can't see what you did wrong is why we're not getting back together." you feel exasperated trying to explain your feelings to the most clueless man on earth.

he chuckles as if you just told a silly joke, "but we always get back together."

you shake your head, feeling defeated. "not this time."

"well, why not? you've never complained before...except for that one time when i came home with an arrow in my stomach...or that time you slapped me because i kissed someone else at a club because i was super drunk and thought she was you...or that time you caught me trying to bury a body in the backyard..."

"ugh," you groan out, "i can't deal with this right now." you walk away from him as he reminisces about every breakup you've ever had. of course, you're having this blown-up discussion while you're at the diner, so you actually do have shit to do.

you swear to yourself that you're finally going to distance yourself from adrian. you've spent too long trying to make things work with a guy who's never seemed like he actually likes you.

---

it lasted about a day and a half more. you successfully avoided him during work.

of course, you share the same shift times. your manager assumed you'd want to be together since that's what you requested when you were dating, but now it makes each shift drag by excruciatingly slow.

but right as you were collecting your things to go home, he catches up to you.

"hey, i know this is really bad timing, but can i catch a ride with you?"

"what happened to the vigilante-mobile?" you question sardonically.

"it, uh, kinda exploded...a bit."

"how can something explode a bit??" you hate how you instantly become worried about him. he's right in front of you, not a scratch in sight, but just hearing about the dangerous situations he gets himself into scares you.

he has a knack for randomly getting hurt.

sometimes he shows up wearing a weird ass skin clad suit, bleeding from his side. sometimes he has you relocating his shoulder or patching up cuts. you swear he's such a hazardous idiot. how does he even get himself in these situations?

"like only the back part of it blew up." he explains casually, "i think i ran over something the other day...but you know. things happen."

"no, adrian, things like that don't just happen!"

"okay, well can you give me a ride or not?"

"fine. but you're going straight home," you declare, "and don't talk to me on the way."

---

he didn't even have to say anything.

in fact, you didn't say a word either.

somehow you ended up on his couch, bouncing on his lap as he kisses the breath from your lungs. you press down, taking him all in until your eyes roll back and your back arches from the delicious press of his cock in your deepest parts.

you don't even hold back your moans as he fucks up into you, his hips slapping against yours harshly.

"god, you feel so good," he voices, "we should fuck more often."

you slap a hand over his mouth as you continue to ride him. "shut up, chase." you pant out, "this is a...o-one time thing...." you hate to admit that he's really hitting every spot inside of you without even trying.

his muffled voice vibrates against your hand, and you can barely work out the words "that was so hot" as you start creeping closer to your climax.

you try to avoid looking at him as you get yourself off, but the way his eyes stare up at you behind those crooked 70s pornstar glasses has you staring right back.

his hands guide your hips with every move, making sure he fills you up until your eyes flutter closed. your weak arm falls from covering his mouth, and he's suddenly speaking again.

"you feel so hot and tight around me. it's like your pussy is literally swallowing me."

"ngggh...shut..."

"and you're so wet. do you hear that?" you can't tell if he's making fun of you or if he's genuinely impressed by how wet he can get you. "i know we're not dating, but can i cum in you?" he asks, his pace not letting up for a second, "fuck -- pleaseeee?

you groan, "fucking, shut up, chase. just do it."

"awesome."

[highlandhour]

Worst seven minutes in heaven, ever!

Content warnings: Adrian Chase x Fem!reader, no use of y/n, 18+ mdni, making out, grinding, barely any plot except for the tiniest bit of angst at the end, desperation, clothed, high risk, the mask is OFF, not proofread.

Adrian shoved you through the bedrooms closet, pressing you against clothes and hangers, his hands all over your body as he tries to hide you away. Doors clattering as he slams them closed. The small space making the air stuffy and warm. Your heavy breathing isn’t helping much either. He’s ripping off the Vigilante mask just to slap a hand over your mouth when you gasp at the sight of him roughly manoeuvring you further into the already small space. Nudging together in the close proximity as you both look through the door slats to watch for danger.

Shadows flick by. Flashing in a rave-like manor. Silent and bright.

Adrians fingers grip at your cheeks as he looks down, making intense eye contact, motioning you to be quiet. You shift causing your hips to bump lightly across one another. He stills, looking down between you. Pelvis to pelvis. The plates on his suit hard against your clothed thighs.

Adrian sucked in a quiet hiss at the sight, inhaling while extending his other arm to brace himself on the wall behind you, essentially leaning more into your space. Like he did with you, you shove your palms over his mouth, his chest heaving as your elbows rest on the blue and white arrows painted on his breastplate.

Countless times you told him there were too many for you both to take on. Should have ran.

A door slams and commanding voices ring through the building, frightening you both into freezing. Heartbeats hammering against ribs, listening for footsteps. Any kind of indication on how fucked you both could be. Adrian leans in closer to you, his armoured frame covering yours. Shielding you away from the doors.

There was nothing. No other sound of additional armed assailants as the voices slowly fade away. But who knows for how long?

His leg slips between yours, thigh pressing right to your core, a breath sighing between your fingers as he slumps in a little relief. Your eyes dart to his but he was more concerned at keeping watch of the door.

Muffled you quietly murmur his name behind his hand. He pushes his large palm firmer to your lips, turning to stare down at you again with a furrowed brow. ‘Shut up’ written across his features. Your own hands stay pressed across his mouth, feeling the heat of his breaths coming in quick succession. He moves slightly, bending to peer through the sliver of light the slats of the closet door provides. His thigh pressing harder into you.

You’re fucked. You’re so fucked.

One of your hands shoot down to grab at the meat of his thigh, trying to push it away just a little bit, standing on your tippy toes. Just enough so you don’t moan at the contact. Adrian lurches at your touch, his braced arm faltering and grabbing at your bicep.

You both stand there for a couple of seconds. Panicked breathing, encroaching upon one another. Your eyes flick down to his leg and his gaze follows.

Adrian instantly goes still. Taking in the image before him. As though it wasn’t his thigh slotted between your legs.

Tentatively he lifts his thigh up, wedging against the seam of your jeans before gently pulling away. Watching as your eyes fly up to his in a quiet whine. He does it again, seemingly enjoying your reaction, absorbing your tiny annoyed whimpers.

Slowly, he slides his hand from your mouth to your jaw, tipping his head down towards you. Your other hand stays put on his lips as he nudged your mouth to your knuckles. His lips press firmly into your palm. Effectively "kissing" you through your own hand.

He bucks his hips into you experimentally, looking at your expression to gauge just how far he could go. Your fingers tremble over his cheeks, the others squeezing hard into the muscle of his thigh. A quiet mumble spills from his lips, warm in your palm. “This okay?”

The pressure was delicious, almost made you forget you’re both actively trying not to get caught. Maybe that was the point. Maybe thats why you rut your core up against him the second he bucks into you again.

You nod. You nod so harsh you could have rattled your brain.

Adrian pushed your faces closer together, shoving you gently back against the wall to lick and nip over your palm. Hangers clicking, long coats and dresses enveloping your bodies in a darkness of cloth. Your own lips pressed firm to the top of your hand, wayward gasps escaping over the skin.

“Kiss me.” He whines into your hand under his breath. “Just a little, please.” His own roams across your front, grabbing at your chest. Squeezing lightly.

Cautiously, your fingers trail down his face, landing to grip the collar of his suit. You blame the stuffiness in here. Lack of oxygen. That’s it.

His lips hit yours in seconds. Surprisingly soft. Leaving quiet gentle pecks. He moves to cup your face, tilting you ever so slightly to kiss you deeper. Rocking his thigh back and forth, nudging your clit with every steady movement.

“Adrian-” you mumble, a familiar warmth bubbling below your stomach. He shushes you, pressing little incoherent whispers to your mouth only to lick across your bottom lip.

It was building fast. Too fast.

“Adrian please-”

“I know, just..” his own groans strain as he pulls back, swallowing quietly only for his own thrusts to move faster against your hip. “Please.” His expression was devastating, that of someone at the edge of blissed out and infatuation. Lips swollen, eyes glassy. Before your brain caught up, you find your hand slipping under his high collar. Cupping the back of his neck. Nails digging into the skin.

You push your hips up against him, letting the pleasure roll over you. Letting go of the tension. Anchoring yourself to him. Dropping flat from your tippy toes to rest your weight on his strong muscle.

He catches his bottom lip between his teeth. Eyes squeezing shut. He was so hard against you. Slotting himself right where thigh met hip. Each thrust pulling your core higher up onto him until he suddenly reaches down to roughly clasp at the back of your lower glute, dragging you fully onto him. Pushing his hardness into the bend of your leg.

It was too much. The angle hit higher. Nudged just right. You whimper.

“I’m gonna-”

Adrian knocks his lips to yours again, nose pressing against yours. Harsher than before. A desperate effort to keep quiet. “It’s okay. Me too- me too.” He pushes into you faster, causing you to pull at him. Dipping his head down to your level until it hits you.

You cum gripping a the short buzz at the base of his neck, whining high into his mouth.

Adrian stills, his hips twitching, stomach tensing. His brow dips, spilling into his pants.

Silence. Heavy yet blissed as the ringing in your ears slowly dissipates.

Nothing but your huffs and Adrians cut off whimpers were made as you both slowly un-slotted yourselves from one another. Adrians tremor over your cheeks. Warm and unwilling to let go.

You give his lips one last peck before awkwardly dipping your head through the clothes to peer through the closet slats once more. Adrians gloved hand slips into yours, mirroring you.

“Get your mask.” You shuffle to peak your head slightly out between the doors. Trying to ignore the overstimulated throb your overworked clit gives you. “We can- we can head for the window.”

“What about my pants?” Adrian pouts, pulling on his mask.

Looking back, light gleaming in through the cracked doors. Adrian is illuminated within the suffocating shadows. A spot of darkened wetness blooms over the front of his vigilante suit.

“Call it payback.” You beam, squeezing his hand before stepping out into the abandoned bedroom once more. B-lining it to the window.

“Payback for what?”

“For that dumbass stunt you pulled back there.”

“That’s actually so fucking cruel.” Adrian whines, tucking the fabric of his mask into the neck of his suit, following you close behind.

You shove open the window frame, Adrians hand coming up over your head, keeping it open as you hop out onto the overgrown front lawn.

“Think about it later when we don’t have a Tail okay Vig?” You begin speed walking in the direction you think the Sebring was last parked. You should talk about what just happened. But not now. You don’t really even know yourself.

Adrian steps out, closing the window nonchalantly before jogging up next to you. “Was it at least as good for you as it was for me?” He takes your hand back in his. You should pull away. But you don’t.

“We can talk more in the Sebring okay?” You tug at him to walk faster. Ignoring the little hesitation in Adrians movement.

“… It was okay yeah?”

You look back at him, your grip tightening.

Through his mask all you can make out is his eyes. Worry written across his red tinted brow. His question quiet, dripping with guilt.

A sigh leaves you. Your speed walk coming to a complete halt.

Was it how you imagined your first time doing something like that with Adrian would go? No. In fact you never really thought something like that would happen with him period. But it wasn’t disappointing. A bit frat party esque sure. Nothing you weren’t up for though.

“It was Adrian. I promise.”

His demeanour shifts. Back straightening a little. “Would you say it was an okay seven minutes in heaven?”

You grimace. Dragging him to begin the speed walk once again. “Never say that again.”

Adrian scoffs. “Well, maybe we should do it again.” You both slip away from the abandoned cul-de-sac. Dipping into a forested area where his car was last seen.

“Just so you have a comparison.”

[xthejazzdalorianx]

friendly fire | a.c. x f!reader

summary: a classified project butterfly assignment brings you back to evergreen and back into the life of christopher smith, the older brother who once protected you and is now peacemaker. old memories resurface, secrets unravel, and a vigilante decides he does not trust you at all.

warnings: no use of y/n, f!reader, A.R.G.U.S. agent!reader, chris as an older brother figure, emotional angst, slow burn, enemies to lovers, vigilante pov, adrian being creepy-ish, canon-typical violence, stalking behavior, home intrusion, murder, blood, jealous adrian

wc: ~5.5k

a/n: okay so i am really proud of this chapter. it gets a little violent, but nothing too wild. i was going to wait until tomorrow to post, but i got too excited and couldn’t help myself.

masterlist ♡ series masterlist ♡ part one ♡ part three

Chapter Two: The Shape in the Shadows

You woke slowly, pulled from the depths of a dreamless, exhausted sleep by a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the room. It wasn’t a sound, not exactly. It was a feeling. A prickling on the back of your neck, the primal, animal instinct that screamed you were no longer alone. Your training, honed over a decade of sleeping in strange beds in dangerous places, kicked in before you were even fully conscious. Your breathing remained slow and even, your body perfectly still beneath the familiar weight of your childhood comforter. You didn’t open your eyes. Not yet.

First, you listened. The house was silent, save for the gentle groan of the old wood settling and the rhythmic patter of rain against the windowpane. Nothing out of the ordinary. You expanded your awareness, trying to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. There. A subtle displacement of air near the window. A stillness that was too deliberate, too… occupied. Someone was in your room.

Your heart rate, which had been a slow, steady drum, began to quicken, but you forced it down, your mind a cold, clear lake of professional calm. Your service weapon was in your suitcase, tucked away in its hidden compartment. Too far. You mentally cataloged the potential weapons within reach: the heavy glass lamp on your nightstand, the thick spine of the fantasy novel next to it, the letter opener you’d seen on your father’s desk downstairs. Options. You always had options.

Slowly, carefully, you allowed your eyelids to flutter open, just a fraction. You kept your gaze soft, unfocused, feigning the last vestiges of sleep as you scanned the darkness. And then you saw him.

He was a shape in the shadows, a silhouette of lean muscle and dark clothing framed against the rain-streaked window. He was standing perfectly still, a predator in repose, his head tilted as he watched you. A red and white mask, stark and vaguely menacing, obscured his face, the single, cyclopean red lens seeming to glow with a malevolent light of its own. Vigilante. The masked murderer of Evergreen, the one the local news whispered about with a mixture of fear and morbid fascination. And he was in your bedroom.

Okay, your internal voice was a steady, calm presence in the storm of adrenaline. Not ideal. But manageable.

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VIGILANTE’S POV

He had been watching her sleep for ten minutes. It was weird, he knew. Super weird. But he couldn’t help it. After he’d clocked out of his shift at Fennel Fields, a buzzing, angry energy had taken root in his chest, and he’d done the only thing that ever seemed to help: he’d put on the suit. He’d meant to go out, find some bad guys, maybe a drug dealer or a wife-beater, and… you know. Do his thing. But his feet, clad in their silent-soled boots, had carried him here instead. To her house.

He’d been heading to his car after clocking out of his shift at Fennel Fields when he saw it: her, hugging Peacemaker in the parking lot. He’d seen the way she’d cried, the way Peacemaker had held her. It had made his stomach feel… fizzy. And not in a good way. Like he’d shaken up a can of soda and it was about to explode. Peacemaker was his best friend. His only friend. And he’d never mentioned a girlfriend. Especially not one who was also on the team. It felt… wrong. Like a secret. And Adrian hated secrets.

Why does he get to have a girlfriend and not tell me? he thought, the question a petulant whine in his own head. We’re best friends. We’re supposed to tell each other everything. Like how to properly calibrate the sights on a sniper rifle, or the best way to dispose of a body. Important stuff.

So he’d found her room. It wasn’t hard. He was good at finding things. And now he was here, watching her, and the fizzy feeling was getting worse. She looked so… peaceful. Small. Not like the woman in the restaurant. Not like the woman who had cried in his best friend’s arms. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of it. He needed to know. He needed to understand.

He saw the flicker of her eyelids, the subtle shift in her breathing. She was awake. Good. It was time.

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YOUR POV

You took a slow, deliberate breath and opened your eyes fully, letting him know you were aware of his presence. You sat up slowly, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the worn wooden floor cool beneath your bare feet. You didn’t reach for a weapon. You didn’t scream. You simply met the unblinking red lens of his mask and waited.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rain. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He was testing you, you realized. Seeing if you would panic. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Finally, he spoke, his voice a flat, toneless baritone, strangely devoid of inflection. “How do you know Peacemaker?”

The question, so direct and yet so bizarre, caught you off guard. Of all the things a masked vigilante breaking into your room could ask, that was not on your list. You kept your own voice level, calm, betraying none of the tension coiling in your stomach.

“Who’s asking?” you countered, your gaze unwavering.

“I am,” he said, as if that were the most obvious answer in the world. He took a step forward, out of the shadows, and you got a better look at him. He was tall, dressed in practical, dark tactical gear, the red, teal, and white mask the only splash of color. He moved with a strange, almost bird-like quickness, a tightly coiled spring of barely contained energy.

“And you are…?” you prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“Vigilante,” he said. “I kill bad guys.”

“Right,” you said, a flicker of dry amusement in your tone. “I’ve heard. So, Vigilante, what’s it to you how I know Peacemaker?”

“He’s my best friend,” he said, the words sharp, possessive. “And he didn’t mention he had a girlfriend.”

Your brain stalled for a second, trying to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. This masked killer was in your room because he was jealous on behalf of… Chris? Girlfriend? A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened to rise in your throat, but you choked it down.

“I’m not his girlfriend,” you said, the words clipped.

“I saw you,” he shot back, taking another step closer. He was near the foot of your bed now. “In the parking lot. You were hugging him. Crying.”

“People hug each other for lots of reasons,” you said, your training screaming at you to de-escalate, to control the situation. “It doesn’t automatically mean they’re romantically involved.”

“Yeah, but not like that,” he insisted, his head tilting again. “It was… emotional. He doesn’t do emotional. Not with anyone. Except me, sometimes. When we’re celebrating a really good kill.”

Okay, this guy is a certified lunatic, you thought. And he’s fixated on Chris. You decided to try a different tactic. Honesty. Or a version of it.

“Look, ‘Vigilante’,” you said, your voice softening slightly. “My relationship with Chris is… complicated. And it’s really none of your business. But I can assure you, it’s not romantic. It never has been, and it never will be. He’s my brother. In every way that matters.”

He fell silent, processing your words. The single red lens of his mask seemed to bore into you, trying to see past the words to the truth beneath. You could almost feel the frantic, confused energy rolling off him in waves.

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VIGILANTE’S POV

Brother? The word didn’t compute. He’d known Peacemaker for a while now. He knew about his real brother, the one who died. He knew about his dad. He knew about his pet eagle. But he’d never, ever mentioned a sister. Especially not one who looked like her. The way she’d looked at him in the parking lot… it wasn’t sisterly. It was… something else. Something that made that fizzy feeling in his stomach come back, stronger this time.

She’s lying, he decided. She has to be. She’s trying to trick me. Maybe she’s a bad guy. Maybe she’s a Butterfly and I should kill her right now. The thought was surprisingly appealing. It would be so easy. So simple. But then… Peacemaker would be sad. And he didn’t want Peacemaker to be sad. And for some reason, a reason he couldn’t quite name, the thought of her being dead also made his stomach feel… bad. Fizzy and bad. It was all very confusing.

“He’s my best friend,” he repeated, the words coming out with more force than he intended. “I protect him.”

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YOUR POV

“He’s my best friend,” he repeated, the words a low growl. “I protect him.”

“From what?” you asked, genuinely curious now. “From me? A five-foot-one woman in her pajamas?”

“From distractions,” he said vaguely. “From… emotional stuff. Peacemaker and I have important work to do. We have to be focused. We have to be ready to kill bad guys. For peace.”

He was quoting Chris. The realization hit you with a jolt. This wasn’t just some random psychopath; this was someone who knew Chris. Knew him well enough to parrot his twisted ideology. But who? The question hung in the air, a frustrating, unanswerable puzzle.

“Right,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Peace. Look, I don’t know who you are or what your deal is, but I’m on the same team as Peacemaker. We’re on the same side. So how about you get the hell out of my bedroom before I wake up my parents and have to explain why there’s a man in a gimp mask standing over my bed?”

He stared at you for a long, silent moment, and you could feel the frantic whirring of his thoughts, the confusion, the frustration. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand why you weren’t a threat, but felt like one. He didn’t understand why the thought of you and Peacemaker together made his stomach do that fizzy, bad thing. Frustrated and with no clear answer, he did the only thing that made sense. He left.

As quickly as he had appeared, he was gone. He didn’t walk to the window; he simply flowed towards it, a shadow detaching itself from the darkness, and slipped out into the rain-swept night without a sound.

You sat there for a long time, your heart pounding in your chest, the silence of the room a stark contrast to the screaming chaos in your mind. Who was he? And why, in a town already teeming with alien parasites and ghosts from your past, did he feel like the most dangerous puzzle of all?

Sleep was a lost cause. You lay in the darkness for what felt like hours, your mind replaying the encounter on a loop. Every word, every gesture, every flicker of that unsettling red lens. He was a killer, a vigilante, a man who spoke of murder with the casual enthusiasm of a hobbyist. And he was jealous. The possessiveness in his voice when he’d said “my best friend” was the most unnerving part of it all. It was childish, obsessive, and deeply dangerous.

You finally pushed yourself out of bed, the floorboards cold against your feet. You walked to the window and, with a decisive snap, shut and locked it. A futile gesture, you knew. A man who could get in once could get in again. But it was the illusion of control, and right now, you’d take it. You stood there for a long moment, staring out at the damp, quiet street, your mind racing. You didn’t tell Chris. You didn’t tell Murn. This was your puzzle to solve. For now.

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Morning arrived not with a bang, but with the pale, gray light of a Washington dawn filtering through your curtains. You felt hollowed out, exhausted, but the adrenaline of the coming mission was a familiar, welcome fire in your veins. You showered, letting the scalding water wash away the phantom chill of the night’s encounter. You dressed in practical, tactical clothing, the familiar weight of your concealed weapon a comforting pressure against your side. You were no longer the girl who lived in this room; you were a soldier, and it was time to go to war.

Breakfast was a masterclass in deception. You sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, and listened to your parents talk about their garden, about a neighbor’s new puppy, about all the small, beautiful, normal things that made up their world. You smiled, you nodded, you asked the right questions. You were a ghost at their table, a daughter they no longer knew, and the guilt was a bitter pill.

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” your mother asked, her voice laced with a worry she couldn’t quite hide.

“Always,” you lied, the word a familiar taste. You kissed her on the cheek, hugged your father, and walked out the door, the weight of their love a heavy cloak on your shoulders.

The drive to Henenlotter Video was a journey through your own past. You passed the park where you’d had your first kiss, the movie theater where you’d seen your first R-rated movie with Chris, the corner store where you’d spent countless hours reading comic books. The town was the same, but you were different. You saw everything through the eyes of a soldier, a strategist. You saw choke points, and sniper perches, and escape routes. You saw a town that was about to become a battlefield.

Henenlotter Video was even more depressing in the daylight. It was a relic, a fossil from a bygone era, its windows plastered with faded, sun-bleached posters for movies you’d rented as a teenager. You parked and walked inside, the jingle of the bell above the door a sad, tinny sound. The air inside was thick with the smell of dust, old plastic, and decay. The shelves were still lined with VHS tapes and DVDs, a graveyard of obsolete media.

“In the back,” a gruff voice called out. It was Harcourt. She was sitting on the counter, cleaning a handgun with a meticulous, almost loving precision.

You walked past her, giving a curt nod, and entered what used to be the manager’s office. It was a chaotic mess of wires, monitors, and takeout containers. Economos was hunched over a bank of screens, his fingers flying across a keyboard. Chris was leaning back in a chair, his feet up on a desk, loudly humming a hair metal song. Adebayo was standing awkwardly in the corner, looking completely overwhelmed.

“Morning, sunshine,” Chris said without opening his eyes. “Ready to kill some aliens?”

“Always,” you replied, your voice dry. You walked over to Economos. “What have you got?”

He jumped, startled. “What are you looking at?” he grumbled without turning around, his shoulders tense. “It’s facial recognition. I’m cross-referencing Goff’s known associates with every database I can hack into, which, by the way, is a lot. Because apparently, I’m the only one here who knows how to use a computer.”

“Let me see,” you said, unfazed by his tone, leaning over his shoulder. You pointed to a name on the screen. “This guy. He’s Goff’s chief of staff. I knew his son in high school. He was a jerk.”

Economos squinted at the screen, his defensiveness faltering for a moment. “Huh. Well, that’s… marginally less useless than everything else I’ve found. Thanks, I guess.”

You moved on to Harcourt. “Nice piece,” you said, nodding at her handgun.

She didn’t look up. “It gets the job done.”

“I’m sure it does,” you said. “Just make sure you’re aiming at the right people tonight.”

She finally looked at you, her eyes cold. “I always do.”

It was a challenge, a test. You met her gaze without flinching. A silent understanding passed between you. You were both professionals. You were both killers. You would either respect each other or kill each other. The jury was still out.

You found Adebayo by the water cooler. “You okay?” you asked, your voice softer than it had been with the others.

She jumped. “Oh! Yeah, I’m… I’m fine. It’s just… a lot. The aliens, the killing… I’m not… I’m not like you guys.”

“None of us are,” you said, a surprising honesty in your voice. “We just pretend to be better. You’ll be fine. Just stick with Murn, do what he says, and you’ll make it through the night.”

She gave you a small, grateful smile. It was the first genuine human connection you’d made since you’d been back, and it felt… nice.

Finally, you approached Chris. He was still humming, his eyes closed. “You sleep okay?” you asked, your voice low.

He opened one eye. “Like a baby. A really big, muscular baby who dreams of peace. And explosions. You?”

“Something like that,” you said. You wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him about the man in the mask, about the strange, obsessive questions. But you didn’t. It wasn’t the time or the place. And besides, this was your puzzle to solve.

Murn emerged from a back room, his presence immediately sucking the air out of the office. He held a manila folder in his hand. “Gear up,” he said, his voice a low growl. “We have our first target.”

He tossed the folder onto the table. You opened it. Inside was a dossier on Senator Royland Goff, complete with surveillance photos, schematics of his estate, and a detailed analysis of his daily routine.

“Goff was one of the first suspected hosts,” Murn explained, pointing to a map of the estate. “He’s having a private dinner with his family tonight. According to our intel, his wife and two children are also hosts. This is our best chance to take out a whole nest in one go.”

Your eyes scanned the schematics, your mind already working, calculating entry points, fields of fire, and escape routes. “What’s our insertion plan?” you asked, all business.

“Harcourt, you have sniper overwatch here,” Murn said, tapping a wooded area overlooking the house. “Economos, you’re on comms and running interference. Adebayo, you’re with me on the perimeter. Peacemaker, you and I are the entry team.” He paused, his gaze landing on you. “And you… you’re our wild card. You’ll be with the entry team, but your job is to adapt. If things go sideways, you’re the one who finds a new way forward. Understood?”

“Understood,” you said, a grim determination settling over you. This was it. The reason you were here. The mission. Everything else—the ghosts of your past, the masked man in your bedroom—it all faded into the background. There was only the target. There was only the threat. And as you looked around at the strange, broken collection of people who were now your team, you knew one thing for sure: tonight, there would be blood. 

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Hours later, the briefing was over, and a tense, restless energy filled the small office. Murn had dismissed them for a few hours before the mission, a chance to get a meal and mentally prepare. Chris had immediately declared he was going to “get a burger and maybe commit some light vandalism,” and had peeled out of the parking lot in his ridiculous car, leaving you, Harcourt, and Adebayo standing in the dusty aisle of the video store.

“Lunch?” Adebayo asked, her voice small and hopeful. She looked between you and Harcourt, clearly intimidated by the latter.

Harcourt grunted, already heading for the door. “Fine. But we’re not going anywhere with a salad bar. I need protein.”

You found yourselves at a small, greasy-spoon diner a few blocks away, the kind of place with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who called everyone ‘hon.’ It was a jarringly normal setting for three women who were about to assassinate a United States Senator.

“So,” Adebayo started, stirring her iced tea with a nervous energy. “You two have been doing this for a while, huh? The whole… black ops thing.”

“Something like that,” Harcourt said, not looking up from her menu. Her focus was absolute, as if she were studying tactical schematics instead of a list of sandwiches.

“I was recruited out of Langley,” you offered, trying to bridge the gap. “Mostly counter-intel. This is my first time in the field with… well, with a team like this.”

“You seem to be handling it,” Harcourt noted, her tone neutral. It was the closest she’d come to a compliment.

“She’s handling it better than I am,” Adebayo admitted with a weak laugh. “I feel like I’m in way over my head. My wife, Keeya, she thinks I’m on some kind of corporate retreat.”

Your mind flashed to the masked man in your room. The way he’d spoken of killing with such casual glee. You have no idea, Adebayo, you thought. None of us do.

“You get used to it,” Harcourt said, a surprising flicker of something that wasn’t hostility in her eyes. “The lying. The compartmentalizing. You build walls. You have to.”

“Is that what you did?” you asked, genuinely curious.

Harcourt finally looked at you, her gaze sharp and analytical. “I did what I had to do to survive. Same as you, I imagine.”

The food arrived, and for a while, the only sound was the clinking of silverware. The conversation was stilted, a dance of probing questions and vague answers. You learned that Harcourt was ex-Navy, that Adebayo had a degree in sociology, and that both of them thought Chris was an insufferable man-child. It was a strange, dysfunctional form of bonding, but it was bonding nonetheless.

By the time evening fell, casting long shadows across the forgotten video store, the tension was palpable. The time for talk was over. You worked in near silence, loading the van with a grim efficiency. Cases of ammunition, tactical gear, Economos’s servers, and a high-powered sniper rifle that Harcourt handled with a lover’s care. Chris was surprisingly focused, his usual stream of nonsense replaced by a quiet intensity as he checked and re-checked his own arsenal.

You were zipping up a duffel bag when Harcourt, who was standing guard by the open bay door, suddenly stiffened. “Who’s the guy peeking out behind the trashcan?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous.

You all froze. Chris walked over to the door and peered out into the twilight.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “It’s… it’s Vigilante. He’s trying to be helpful.”

Your blood ran cold. You moved to the door, your hand instinctively going to the weapon at your side. It was him. The same lean build, the same dark gear, the same horrifyingly blank red-and-white mask. He was peeking out from behind a dumpster in the alley, his head tilted in that same curious, bird-like way.

“Hey!” Harcourt yelled, stepping out into the alley. “Get outta here!”

Vigilante stepped out from behind the dumpster, his hands held up in a placating gesture. “What? I’m just looking from behind a trashcan. It’s a normal thing to do.”

“The hell it is!” Harcourt snapped.

“Are you a psychiatrist?” Vigilante shot back, his voice the same flat, toneless baritone from your bedroom. “Then don’t tell me what’s normal!”

Harcourt scoffed. “Maybe my secret identity is a psychiatrist and I know what’s normal.”

“If you’re a psychiatrist, we’re all screwed,” Harcourt muttered, before yelling again. “Get the fuck out of here!”

“I was about to go, and then you had to say that,” Vigilante whined, his voice rising in frustration. “Now if I acquiesce, I’ll look and feel small.”

“Vij, bro, come on. Be cool,” Chris pleaded, his tone shifting to that of a weary older brother.

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay,” Vigilante said, his masked face turning to the rest of you. “I don’t trust these people.”

“I’m fine,” Chris sighed.

“Just remember,” Vigilante said, his voice suddenly loud and performative. “Even if they end up being okay to ‘work with,’ they’re still not gonna be good friends! And none of them is the type to be a best friend!” He scoffed, a theatrical, dismissive sound. “I’m just chuckling even thinking about it.”

“Okay, bro,” Chris said, rubbing his temples.

“If one of them does become a friend,” Vigilante continued, pointing a finger at Adebayo, “it should be her, because there’s a bunch of rumors going around about you being racist, and, you know, frankly, it’s a little embarrassing for me.”

He gave a final, jaunty wave. “Catch you guys later.” And with that, he disappeared back into the shadows of the alley.

There was a long, stunned silence. You stared at the empty space where he had been, your mind reeling. The man from your bedroom. The man obsessed with Chris. He was real. And he was even more unhinged in person.

“Isn’t that guy wanted on multiple counts of murder?” Adebayo asked, her voice a trembling whisper.

Murn, who had watched the entire exchange with a grim impassivity, finally spoke. “We have bigger fish to fry,” he growled. “We have a United States Senator to assassinate by the end of the day. Get in the van.”

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The ride to the Goff estate was a tense, silent affair. You sat in the back of the van, the air thick with the smell of ozone from Economos’s servers and the metallic tang of adrenaline. Chris was next to you, unusually quiet, his eyes closed as he listened to 80s hair metal on his headphones. You used the time to study the schematics of the house one last time, memorizing every corridor, every closet, every potential point of entry and exit. This was your element. The quiet before the storm. The moment of pure, unadulterated focus before the chaos.

They dropped you and Chris off a quarter-mile from the house, the van’s engine a low rumble before it disappeared back into the darkness. The woods were alive with the sound of crickets and the rustle of unseen things in the undergrowth. You moved through the trees like a ghost, your footsteps silent on the damp earth, Chris a lumbering but surprisingly stealthy presence beside you. You could feel the familiar rhythm of a mission settling over you, the easy camaraderie of two people who knew how to move and fight as one. It was a dance you hadn’t done in ten years, but your bodies remembered the steps.

“Harcourt, you in position?” Murn’s voice crackled in your ear.

“In position,” she replied, her voice calm and steady. “I have eyes on the house. No movement.”

“Economos, are we clear?”

“All local security cameras are looped, cell signals are jammed. We are a ghost,” he said, a note of pride in his voice.

“Entry team, you are good to go,” Murn commanded.

You and Chris moved to the edge of the woods, the sprawling, modern house laid out before you like a diorama. Lights glowed from within, painting warm squares on the perfectly manicured lawn. It looked so normal. So peaceful. You knew it was a lie.

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VIGILANTE’S POV

Adrian lays on his stomach in the damp leaves, the cold of the earth seeping into his tactical gear. He’d found the perfect spot, a small rise about 200 yards from the house with a clear line of sight to the back patio. He hadn’t been invited, but that didn’t matter. Peacemaker was his best friend, and best friends don’t let best friends go on dangerous missions without backup. Especially not with them. And especially not with her.

He watched through the scope of his rifle as she and Peacemaker moved across the lawn. They moved well together, he had to admit. They moved like they’d done it a hundred times before, their bodies in perfect sync, a silent language passing between them. He hated it. It made that fizzy, bad feeling in his stomach come back, the one that felt like jealousy but also something else, something he couldn’t name. It was like watching someone else play with your favorite toy. Peacemaker was his partner. His best friend. He was the one who was supposed to be moving through the shadows with him, ready to kill bad guys and bring peace to the world.

She’s a distraction, he thought, his finger tightening on the trigger. He’s not focused. He’s thinking about her, about their… emotional stuff. He should be thinking about the mission. About peace. He adjusted his scope, centering it on the back of her head. It would be so easy. One shot. A quick, clean kill. Then he and Peacemaker could go back to being a team. The best team. The thought was so tempting, so beautifully simple. But then… Chris would be sad. And he didn’t want Chris to be sad. He sighed, a frustrated puff of air fogging up the inside of his mask. This was all very confusing.

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YOUR POV

You reached the back of the house, pressing yourself flat against the cold stone wall. Chris was beside you, his massive frame a comforting presence. He gave you a nod. You nodded back. You took a deep breath, your heart a steady drum against your ribs, and then you moved.

Chris used a device to disable the alarm on a sliding glass door, and you slipped inside, your weapon raised, your eyes scanning the darkness. You were in a large, open-plan living room, furnished with expensive, minimalist furniture. It was eerily quiet. In the dining room, you could see the remnants of a meal, plates uncleared, wine glasses half-full. It looked like they had left in a hurry.

“Where are they?” Chris whispered, his voice a low rumble.

“Upstairs,” you whispered back. You could hear the faint sound of a television.

You moved up the stairs, your footsteps silent on the thick carpet. The sound was coming from a room at the end of the hall. You took your position on one side of the door, Chris on the other. He looked at you, his eyes asking the question. You gave a sharp, decisive nod. Go.

He kicked the door open, and you poured into the room, your weapon leading the way. The Goff family was there, all four of them, sitting on a large sofa, their faces bathed in the flickering blue light of the television. They didn’t look scared. They didn’t look surprised. They just looked… annoyed. Like you had interrupted their favorite show.

“Can we help you?” Senator Goff asked, his voice calm, almost bored.

“Yeah,” Chris said, his own voice tight with tension. “You can tell me what the fuck a Butterfly is.”

Goff smiled, a slow, predatory smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re too late,” he said. And then, all at once, they attacked.

It wasn’t human. They moved with a terrifying, insect-like speed, their bodies contorting in unnatural ways. The wife launched herself at Chris, her nails like claws. The two children, their faces now blank and expressionless, scrambled towards you, their movements jerky and inhuman. You opened fire, the sound of your weapon deafening in the enclosed space. You put two rounds in the chest of the boy, but he barely flinched. They weren’t human anymore. They were just… things.

And then, all hell broke loose. The sound of a high-powered rifle shot shattered the window, and Senator Goff’s head exploded in a shower of gore and a flash of brilliant, otherworldly light. A small, winged creature, like a grotesque butterfly, flew out of the wreckage of his skull, buzzing frantically before it was vaporized by a second shot.

“What the fuck?” Chris yelled, as another shot took out the wife.

“It’s not me!” Harcourt’s voice yelled in your ear. “We have an unauthorized shooter in the woods!”

Vigilante, you thought, a cold dread washing over you. He had followed you. He was here.

The chaos was a perfect storm. In the confusion, a small, powerfully built figure in a green and yellow costume dropped from the ceiling. Judomaster. He moved with a blinding speed, disarming Chris with a series of precise, brutal strikes. Chris went down, hard.

You turned to engage, but the two children were on you, their small bodies surprisingly strong. You fought them off, a brutal, close-quarters struggle, when you saw him out of the corner of your eye. Vigilante, crashing through the now-shattered window, his guns blazing. He ignored you completely, his focus entirely on the two children. He shot them both, the same cold, efficient brutality you’d seen in your bedroom. Then he looked at you, his masked face unreadable.

“I’m helping,” he said, his voice a flat, cheerful monotone.

Before you could respond, Judomaster was on him, a blur of motion. Vigilante, for all his chaotic energy, was no match for the martial artist’s skill. He went down, hard. Judomaster then turned his attention to you. You raised your weapon, but it was too late. He was too fast. A sharp, debilitating blow to your side, and the world went black.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

masterlist ♡ series masterlist ♡ part one

- ♡ -

taglist: @sumoattack-gooddog @matchaenthusiast1111 @danishclover

[cadiecore]

Two Night Stand | Bob Reynolds

Summary: Your roommate Yelena forces you onto a dating app to get over your ex boyfriend and off the couch. But the one night stand turns out to be a disaster and even worse, a giant storm hits new york and snows you in at the strangers apartment…You might as well make the best of it, right?

Warnings: uhh i’m not writing warnings there’s weed smoking and sex have fun horny mf’s

A/N: this is fully inspired by an old rom com i just watched with Miles Teller in it and i loved it so i hope you guys do too YUH. If it wasn’t clear this is an AU

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The couch has molded to your shape over the last three days. You are almost certain of it.

Christmas is over, the tree lights still glow out of obligation more than spirit, and the apartment feels too quiet for how small it is. You lie on your back, one sock missing, flipping through channels without actually watching anything. Cartoons blur into crime shows, infomercials bleed into reruns. Your phone rests heavy on your chest as you scroll without intention, thumb moving on muscle memory alone.

On the coffee table sits the remains of a gingerbread house that once looked respectable. You and Yelena decorated it with chaotic enthusiasm and entirely too much icing. Now it is days old, sagging in places, the gumdrops half hardened. You snap off a wall and bite into it anyway. You weren’t proud of it, but it looked so sad sitting on the counter. It tastes like regret and nostalgia and sugar that has been sitting too long. You chew while staring at the ceiling, wondering when your life turned into this exact tableau.

You have too much time. That is the problem. Too much time to think. Too much time to remember. Too much time to accidentally open apps you told yourself you were done with. Instagram loads before you can stop it. You do not even pretend you do not know what you are going to see. Your thumb hesitates for only a second before tapping the familiar circle. There he is. And there she is. New girl. Her arm draped around him like she has always belonged there. They are both smiling in a way that feels aggressive in its happiness. The caption is light, harmless, almost cruel in how normal it all looks. She definitely wrote that for him. Why did he never post you that way?

Your chest tightens before you can stop it. The gingerbread goes dry in your mouth. You stare longer than you should, searching for something wrong with the photo. Some tiny flaw. Some hint that this is not as perfect as it looks. There is none. You lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you with more force than necessary. The impact thumps against the cushions, loud in the quiet room. You groan, dragging your hands over your face, then let them fall uselessly at your sides.

“This is miserable,” you mutter to no one.

Right on cue, the front door unlocks.

You jolt upright so fast your head spins, heart kicking against your ribs like you have been caught doing something illegal. Keys jangle. Boots hit the floor. The door swings open and Yelena steps inside with cold air curling in behind her, cheeks flushed from the winter outside, coat half unbuttoned.

You scramble instantly. The gingerbread gets shoved back onto the table. You swipe at your hair, tug your sweatshirt down, check your reflection in the dark screen of the television as if you have not been horizontal for hours. Yelena watches all of this with a slow, unimpressed blink.

“Did you move today,” she asks flatly as she shrugs out of her coat.

“Yes,” you say quickly. “I totally moved.”

She arches a brow. “I went from here to the kitchen to make food. Then to the bathroom after,” you add defensively.

She stares at you for a second longer, then snorts despite herself. “Athletic.”

She kicks off her boots and collapses onto the couch beside you with a heavy sigh, shoulder bumping yours. Her gaze drifts immediately to the coffee table and lands on the slumped ruin of the gingerbread house.

“You are eating that,” she says slowly. “Right now. On purpose?”

You follow her eyes and groan. “Please do not start.”

“That thing is practically a biohazard.”

You slide down until your head drops onto her shoulder, voice muffled against her sleeve. “I need a life,” you whine.

Her annoyance evaporates almost instantly.

“Oh,” she says, tone shifting into something dangerous. “Say less.”

Before you can react, she snatches your phone off the cushion. “Hey,” you protest, reaching for it. “Give that back.”

“No. This is an intervention.”

Your stomach drops. “Yelena, no.”

She is already tapping furiously. “Yes. This is happening.”

You lunge for the phone, but she twists out of your reach with infuriating ease, laughing as you flail at her arm.

“Stop,” you say, half serious, half breathless. “I am not ready. I look unhinged.”

She shoves you flat against the couch with one hand and swings a leg over your hips in one smooth movement, pinning you there like this is a sanctioned sport. The phone is held high above your face, untouchable.

“This dating profile is important,” she announces. “You need to get some dick before you wither away and die.”

“I am not withering.”

“You are eating ancient pastry on a friday night.” She scrolls through your camera roll. “Oh, this pic is hot. Oh, this one is good. This one says emotionally unavailable but in a sexy way.”

“Delete that,” you yelp. “Delete that right now.”

She ignores you with commitment.

Minutes pass that feel like seconds and hours all at once. Then she gasps loudly.

“It is done,” she declares, finally sliding off you and tossing the phone onto your chest.

You sit up, stunned. “That is it?”

“Already live. Already dangerous.”

Your screen lights up almost immediately. One notification. Then another. Then three more. Matches. Your mouth falls open.

“No way!” you whisper. You stop and look over your profile. It was actually pretty well set up. “That was fast…You put that I like to spend my time eating old gingerbread houses?”

Yelena cackles, peering over your shoulder at her terribly made bio for you as you open the messages. You both cringe in unison almost instantly.

The first message reads: u look like trouble in a fun way. wanna ruin my life.

You gag. “Absolutely not.”

Another one pops up: do u like older men. im 43 but young at heart.

You groan. “I already hate this app.”

Yelena is laughing so hard she is wheezing.

Then a new notification slides down from the top of the screen. A message from somebody named Bob. You open the profile.

The photos load one by one. Dark hair. Soft eyes. Broad shoulders that fill out a sweater unfairly well. Like…How is it possible for a human to be built in such a way? A smile that looks like it might actually mean something. Yelena makes a noise somewhere between a shout and a prayer.

“Holy shit,” she yells. “He is hot as fuck.”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

His first message comes through almost immediately.

Bob: So you decorated a gingerbread house and then emotionally destroyed it days later. Bold. Unhinged. I respect it.

You laugh out loud at the message.

“Oh,” you say. “That is good.”

You type back.

You: It had weak structural integrity to begin with. I was just speeding up the inevitable.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Bob: Fair. Tragic but fair. Also you fully just admitted to eating old gingerbread, which is either brave or a cry for help.

You bite your lip, smiling.

You: A little of both, probably.

Yelena squeezes your arm in victory. “See. Working.”

The front door opens again and Bucky, your other roommate and Yelena’s long time boyfriend, steps inside, keys in hand, eyes flicking between the two of you immediately.

“What are you doing,” he asks cautiously. He swears almost every time he comes in the door you both look like you’re cooking up an evil plan.

Yelena does not even look up. “Fixing her life.”

You are still smiling at the screen when crosses the room and leans over your shoulder. He laughs at some of the comments this Bob guy is making, and gets excited when he sees your face.

He squints. “Oh my god. She is blushing.”

You groan. “I am not.”

“She is,” Yelena sings. “My plan is flawless.”

Bob sends another message.

Bob: So. What does one do after surviving both heartbreak and expired baked goods.

You hesitate for only a second before replying.

You: Apparently gets bullied into online dating by her roommate.

A pause. Then.

Bob: Your roommate is a hero.

Yelena slams her hands on the cushion in triumph.

Then she leans closer to you, voice dropping into something serious. “Remember. This is not to date. This is to get laid.”

You swallow. “…Okay.”

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You take a breath and type.

You: So i’m trying to figure out a way to invite myself over to your place. This is the best I could come up with.

Three dots appear immediately.

An address follows.

Bob: 742 Willow Street.

Then another message.

Bob: Please pretend I took longer to send that.

You laugh so hard it almost hurts. Within minutes you are on your feet, pulling on clothes that make Yelena whistle when you step back into the living room. Comfy, but sexy. She adjusts your collar with a proud little nod.

“You look sexy as hell,” she says. “Go ruin his life.”

Bucky lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Good luck.”

Your phone vibrates in your palm.

You do not look back as you head for the door.

————

The hallway outside his apartment is too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every sound in your own body feel too loud. Your pulse thuds in your ears, your stomach twists, and for a very real moment you are convinced you might actually throw up right here on the carpet. Your phone is still warm in your hand, his address glowing faintly on the screen as if it might vanish if you look away for too long.

You have not done this before. Not this. Not anything like this. What if he was a murderer? What if he was some really old guy and not the guy in the pictures? You are not even fully sure why you came. To get over your ex? To prove something to yourself? A petty part of you wonders if it is to make him jealous, and you immediately feel ridiculous for the thought because he would never even know. He is probably at home with his new girlfriend right now, living a life that does not include you anymore.

You swallow and lift your hand. It hesitates just long enough to be humiliating before your knuckles finally meet the door.

You barely manage three knocks before it swings open. He is standing there in black and grey plaid pajama pants and a black t shirt that fits him unfairly well, the fabric stretched over a solid chest and arms that definitely look stronger than you were expecting. His hair is still slightly damp and pushed back, like he showered and rushed, and the nerves in his posture are obvious immediately. His eyes flick over you and widen just a little.

“Hi,” he says.

It is only one word and your knees still almost give out. From his side of the doorway, you look even better than your pictures. You look real. Brave. Close enough to touch. Sexy even though you were wearing comfy clothes, like you always looked this good without even trying. His heart trips over itself in his chest before he can stop it.

“Wow,” he breathes before visibly realizing he said it out loud. “Uh. Come in.”

He reaches for your hand and when his fingers wrap around yours, the contact is warm and unexpectedly grounding. He leads you inside and the door clicks shut behind you, sealing the moment in.

The apartment is softly lit with candles scattered along the counter and coffee table. It smells good, like clean cologne mixed with the smell of a freshly lit joint. It feels comfortable in a way that instantly lowers your guard. There is a blanket on the couch, a hoodie slung over a chair, shoes kicked off by the door. Definitely a guy’s place, but a cozy one. You shrug off your coat and he takes it from you automatically, hanging it up like his hands know what they are doing even though his nerves are visibly unraveling. You slide off your shoes and line them up neatly, suddenly hyper aware of how loud the room feels without the hallway between you.

“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes drift back to you again. He’s stood a few steps away from you, a safe distance as to not intimidate you too much “Your profile said you are brave enough to eat what i’m assuming is days old gingerbread since christmas is over. I feel like that tells me a lot about you as a person.”

You laugh softly. “It was structurally doomed. I simply put it out of its misery.”

He smiles, shoulders relaxing just a little. “That is noble. Tragic. Slightly alarming.”

You glance around. “Your place is nice. It feels… safe.”

“Thank you?” he says, then immediately blinks. “That’s good right?”

“Well, yes.” You laugh lightly at how nervous he was. “Congratulations. I do not currently think you are going to murder me.”

His eyes widen in mock alarm. “Incredible news. That was my big goal for the night.”

“Do not prove me wrong,” you say lightly.

He laughs, real and unguarded this time, and the sound does something warm to your chest.

“I was nervous you were going to open the door, see me, and immediately turn around,” he admits. “Or that I was going to open the door and find a very determined sixty year old man standing there instead of you.”

Your laughter bursts out of you, loud and helpless. “That is exactly what I was scared of too. I was fully prepared to politely sprint away.”

The tension breaks just enough to feel survivable. You look at him. He looks at you. The air shifts.

“Small talk is kind of stupid though,” you say after a moment, nerves buzzing under your skin again. “We both know why I came here.”

His cheeks turn red instantly. He laughs, breath hitching. “Wow. You really are just getting right to business, aren’t you?”

You answer by pulling your shirt over your head. “I mean…” You cut yourself off to look down at yourself, shrugging. You had no idea where this surge of boldness came from. Maybe it was the couple of shots you downed before catching your cab here, or maybe it was because you were so eager to get in somebody’s bed after months of just you and a vibrator. “We could make more awkward small talk or you could fuck me. It’s your choice.”

For a suspended second, the room feels like it stops moving, and he chokes on his own breath at your words. Just an hour ago he was lounging on his couch wondering what he would do with his night, and now there was possibly the hottest girl he’d ever seen half naked in his living room. He stares.

Then, he steps forward and lifts you so easily you swear your heart stopped for a moment. You weren’t expecting him to move so quick, your eyes widening with shock for just a few seconds before you got used to being in the air. Your hands catch on his shoulders, legs wrapping around him without conscious thought as his mouth finds yours with a hunger that mirrors your own. All of the awkwardness transforms into electricity as he carries you down the short hallway, your kiss deepening with every step.

He tastes like toothpaste and a night of bad decisions. You can’t get enough, to the point where both of you were basically gasping for air every time you broke the kiss for a small moment. He gently tosses you onto the bed with surprising ease and follows immediately, bracing himself over you as the mattress shifts beneath his weight. You break apart from the kiss again just long enough for him to grin down at you, breath uneven and eyes bright.

“I really thought I was going to open the door and find a fat old man pretending to be you,” he says.

You laugh so hard it almost knocks the breath out of you even more. “And I really thought I was going to get murdered tonight. I am so glad we were both wrong.”

He laughs with you, forehead dropping against yours for a moment before he kisses you again, slower and deeper this time. You shudder at his hands, which are cold to the touch, drag down your bare sides, feeling any part of exposed skin he could.

“I won’t murder you till after sex, obviously…”

———-

You wake slowly, warmth heavy around you and unfamiliar sheets tangled at your legs. For a few seconds your brain refuses to cooperate, caught somewhere between sleep and reality, until the scent of clean soap and faint cologne drags everything back into focus far too clearly. You are not in your bed. Your eyes widen as memory floods in all at once. His room. His house. Last night. The fact that you stayed. A rush of embarrassment burns through you as you realize pale winter light is already filtering in through the curtains. You groan softly, your body already feeling the exhaustion of the long night you just spent. You don’t even remember falling asleep, mostly because you were never meant to wake up here.

You turn your head without meaning to and immediately regret it. He is still asleep, sprawled loosely on his back with his hair a complete mess and his shirt nowhere in sight. The sheets have slipped low on his waist, just enough to reveal the dark waistband of his boxers and the warm skin above it. His arm is stretch across the bed with his hand holding your thigh firmly, even in his sleep. You feel an ache in your core at the sight of his hand holding onto you. Everything this man does is ridiculously hot. His chest rises and falls slowly, peacefully, like he does not have a care in the world.

You stare far longer than you should.

Snap out of it.

You slide from the bed carefully, cringing at every soft shift of the mattress, and gather your clothes from the floor with clumsy hands. You pull everything back on as quietly as possible, heart racing like you are committing some kind of crime. Every second you expect him to stir, but he does not. In the kitchen, you find a scrap of paper and a pen. Your handwriting wobbles as you write a brief thank you, polite and distant enough to feel like a clean ending. You leave it on the fridge beneath a crooked magnet and turn toward the front door, already bracing yourself for the cold outside.

The handle turns. The apartment erupts into shrill beeping. You freeze in pure horror as the sound slices through the quiet. Panic hits instantly, sharp and disorienting. Before you can even think, footsteps rush down the hallway behind you.

“What the hell,” he mutters, half asleep as he appears beside you, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the alarm panel. He shuts it off quickly and finally looks at you. You are standing there fully dressed with your shoes on. His expression shifts immediately.

“Oh,” he scoffs lightly, exhaustion thick in his voice. “You were going.”

The comment lands somewhere uncomfortable, not cruel but not kind either. He does not wait for your response. He just turns and starts back down the hall. For a second, you stand there alone in the quiet again with the weight of it sitting heavy in your chest. Then you follow him back to the bedroom, irritation already beginning to spark. He drops onto the bed and tries to sink straight back into sleep like nothing happened. You sit on the edge beside him, arms crossed. He knows you can’t leave unless he lets you put, right? He shifts and instinctively drapes an arm around your waist again, trying to pull you back down into bed without even opening his eyes.

That is when you shake his shoulder. “Hey.”

He groans, rolling over onto his back as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Why are we awake.”

“I was trying to leave politely,” you say. “Your house screamed at me instead.”

He squints up at you. “You could have just slept and done your leave the guy behind routine later.”

You inhale sharply. “I was being respectful. What is that even supposed to mean?”

His brows pull together as he wakes up a little more. “I did not mean it like that,” he says slowly. “I was just saying. Everybody pretends the one night stand is always their first one. I am not judging you.”

The silence that follows is heavy and immediate. Your jaw tightens. “Wow. I told you last night i’ve never done this before. You don’t believe me? That is a really gross thing to say to someone you just slept with.”

He sits up, blinking. “That is not what I meant.”

“You basically just told me I do this all the time.”

“I said people lie about it, not that you are some kind of professional.”

“Oh that is so much better,” you snap.

He exhales in frustration. “You are twisting what I said.”

“And you are making assumptions about me.” You stand abruptly, the sudden movement rattling the bed. “You know what. This was a mistake.”

He jumps up behind you and follows you down the hallway as you storm toward the door, voices overlapping.

“I was not trying to insult you,” he says.

“You absolutely did.”

“You were walking out without even saying bye.”

“Last night was nothing but casual. I left a note!”

“Oh yeah that’s much better than actually saying goodbye.”

You fling the door open and spin back toward him. “Maybe if you actually made me cum last night i would’ve been more inclined to stay for breakfast!”

His mouth tightens, but his face is full of shock. You definitely fooled him, he thought you had a great time last night. He shook his head, not able to come up with much of an insult on the spot. “Hey. You go fuck yourself!” Bob flashes the fakest smile possible.”

You throw it right back without hesitation. “No, Bob. You go fuck yourself. Have a nice life.”

The door slams behind you. Anger carries you down the stairs so fast you barely feel your legs moving, and you grab the exit door and yank. Nothing happens. You try again, harder this time. Still nothing. Confused, you lean forward and look through the glass.

Snow is packed halfway up the door. Your chest tightens and panic spikes as you fumble for your phone, calling Yelena, then Bucky, then Yelena again. No answer. You pace in tight circles, breath shaky, helplessness creeping in fast. Footsteps sound behind you. You turn just in time to hear Bob’s voice coming down the stairs, phone pressed to his ear, laundry basket balanced against his hip.

“I mean the sex was incredible,” he says easily. “Like, kind of mind blowing. She was really nice last night but absolutely brutal this morning. I do not even know what I did.”

Your blood boils instantly.

He looks up and freezes when he sees you.

“Uh Mom I have to call you back,” he says quickly, horribly trying to cover up who he was talking to. He hangs up.

You cross your arms. “I am not brutal. You are just a dick.”

He closes his eyes briefly, exhausted. “You know what. I need you out of my life. I will call you a cab.” He sets the basket down and tries the door himself.

It does not move. You roll ur eyes so hard you’re afraid they might pop out of your head as tries again. Nothing. Right, like you didn’t already try that. Slowly, he turns back to you. For a long second, neither of you speaks.

Then he picks up the basket and starts back up the stairs. “Well,” he calls over his shoulder, “you coming?”

You hesitate, pride warring with reality, and then follow because there is nothing else you can do.

Back in the living room, the television is already on. The news anchor announces that the storm is the worst New York has seen in decades and urges residents to stay indoors until crews can safely clear exits and streets.

You drop onto the far end of the couch with a long, miserable sigh. “I regret every single choice I have ever made.”

He leans over the back of the couch toward you, close enough to feel his breath on your cheek without wanting to. You shiver at the thought of him being this close to you again, but you brush it off. You look at him slightly, and immediately wish you could smack that stupid smirk right off his face.

“Looks like we are stuck with each other now, huh.”

————

You do not speak to him for the first twenty minutes.

You sit stiffly on one end of the couch while he occupies the other, laundry basket abandoned near the hallway like it never even mattered anymore. The news cycles through storm updates and street closures on a relentless loop while the snow outside the windows continues to fall in thick, merciless sheets. Every so often you can feel his presence shift, the subtle sound of fabric moving, the quiet drag of breath, and it makes your skin prickle with unwanted awareness. You pull out your phone and immediately dial Yelena.

She answers on the fourth ring, breathless.

“What,” she pants.

“Come get me right now,” you whisper sharply. “Please. I am trapped in a snow apocalypse with a man I just had sex with and then screamed at.”

There is a pause. Then an unmistakable sound of movement behind her. A deep laugh. Another voice entirely too close to the phone.

“Tell her she is on her own,” Bucky murmurs, thoroughly unbothered, also out of breath.

Yelena snorts. “We are busy. You will survive.”

“I will not,” you hiss. “I am going to perish here out of spite while you guys are busy having sex!”

“You are stuck anyway,” she says cheerfully. “Nobody is going anywhere until the city clears. Make friends with your captor.”

You open your mouth to continue your dramatic pleading when a soft laugh drifts from the other end of the couch. You glance over and find Bob watching you with open amusement. Your face burns.

“Your roommate sounds mean,” he says mildly.

“I hope you both lose power,” you mutter into the phone.

Yelena laughs even harder and hangs up on you. You lower the phone slowly and glare at the wall like it personally betrayed you.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter.

“I agree,” Bob says. “She seems like a menace.”

The day stretches forward like a challenge.

He eventually moves into the kitchen and you hear the familiar sounds of cabinets opening and closing. The smell of coffee begins to drift through the apartment against your will. Your stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly enough to feel humiliating. You stay put out of stubborn principle. A few minutes later he reappears and sets a mug down on the far end of the coffee table without a word.

You eye it suspiciously.

“It is just coffee,” he says. “Not poisoned. Two cream two sugar, same way I drink it. Hopefully you like it.”

“I do not trust you.”

“That is fair,” he admits.

Eventually, the thirst wins. You take the mug.

Your fingers brush for the briefest second.

Both of you notice. You take a sip and hold back a satisfied sigh. You hate that he made your coffee perfectly. The tension shifts again. The rest of the morning passes in clipped sentences and deliberate distance. You take turns in the bathroom. You sit on opposite ends of the couch. He scrolls through his phone. You pretend not to notice when his eyes lift to you in multiple brief, unguarded glances.

Every time you look up, he is quickly looking away. At some point, he tries to be helpful and offers you a change of clothes since you are still wearing last night’s clothes. You accept it without looking at him. He bumps your knee when he passes and mutters a distracted apology that sounds too sincere to stay mad at. You both avoid that realization aggressively.

By early afternoon, the snow outside has not let up even a little. The storm warning flashes again across the bottom of the television screen and you let out a slow sigh.

“You always this quiet,” he asks without looking at you.

“Only around people I don’t like.”

He snorts despite himself. “Not convincing.”

You glance at him, irritation flickering with something else entirely. “You are annoying.”

“You are the one still on my couch.”

“Against my will,” you remind him.

“Right,” he says dryly. “The snow is holding you hostage. I am simply the villain.”

Silence falls again, heavier now but not as sharp. A few minutes later he speaks again.

“You want food?”

You hesitate. “Maybe.”

He stands and you follow him into the kitchen even though your stubbornness was telling you not to. The space is too small for the amount of unresolved tension between you. Every time you reach for something at the same time, your hands nearly collide and both of you jerk back like it would shock you. You catch him watching the way your sleeves slide up your arms. He catches you staring at the way his shirt stretches when he reaches overhead. Neither of you comments on it.

By the time the snow begins to dim the daylight into a dull grey, the bickering has softened into something else. Still hostile. Still sharp. But threaded through with glances that linger too long and silence that hums instead of suffocates.

It took Bob awhile to find something actually edible to cook, but once he did you found yourselves sat on opposite ends of the couch again later with full plates balanced on your laps.

“This is still awkward,” you say quietly, poking at your food with your fork.

He exhales slowly. “Yeah.”

You glance at him. He is already looking at you. There is a small smirk on his face, like he just caught you doing something you shouldn’t. You feel like you’re dying inside. Could the world be punishing you for doing something as simple as getting off your living room couch?

————

The food on the coffee table has gone lukewarm, forgotten in favor of the quiet stretch of conversation that slowly settles between you. The storm keeps howling outside, wind rattling faintly against the windows as the city disappears beneath layers of white. The television murmurs in the background, but neither of you are really listening anymore. After a while, Bob tilts his head slightly, studying you with an expression that feels curious.

“So,” he says carefully, “why were you actually on the app.”

You lift a brow. “Is this the part where you psychoanalyze me?”

“No,” he says easily. “This is the part where I figure out why a beautiful stranger showed up at my door in a snowstorm and then screamed at me twelve hours later.”

You snort out a laugh and quickly cover your mouth, hoping he didn’t notice. “Fair.” You hesitate, then sigh. “I just got out of a relationship. It was long enough to really mess me up. I think I wanted to feel wanted again without having to deal with feelings. And apparently I picked chaos instead.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

You glance at him. “Your turn. Who were you talking to on the phone earlier. And do not insult me by saying your mother again.”

He groans. “It was my friend John. He is emotionally nosy and has no boundaries.”

“And you were telling him in detail how amazing the sex was,” you tease.

His ears go red instantly. “That was taken out of context.”

“You were on the stairs talking about me like I was a Yelp review.”

He drags a hand over his face. “I panicked.”

“That tracks.”

Silence falls again, but it is a gentler one now. You pray the awkwardness doesn’t come back. You’d do anything to find something else to talk about. After a moment or two passes, Bob shoots off the couch onto his feet and disappears briefly into the bedroom. When he comes back, he is holding two neatly rolled joints between his fingers, looking like he just won the lottery.

“Wanna get high?” he asks casually.

You stare at them for a moment, then take another slow bite of your food and chew like you are considering the fate of the universe.

“That is the worst idea ever.” He already looks pleased, like you already agreed.

“Yes,” you add, “of course I want to smoke.”

He grins and drops back onto the couch beside you, lighting one with a flick of his wrist. He takes the first drag with ease, then passes it to you. You inhale with far too much confidence and immediately regret it as smoke floods your lungs. You bend forward coughing hard enough that your whole body shakes.

He watches you with open delight. “You look like you just challenged oxygen to a fistfight and lost.”

You wheeze and shove the joint back at him. “You absolutely did not warn me it would feel like betrayal.”

“That was the warning,” he laughs.

When it comes back to you, you take the smallest possible drag. He squints at you. “That was such a lame hit!”

“I am protecting my fragile mortal body.”

“You are a coward.”

“I am a survivor.”

He laughs again as the joint passes between you. The tension in the room loosens into something light and stupid and warm. You talk about your worst jobs. He tells you about a roommate who once tried to microwave a fork. You tell him about Yelena almost starting a kitchen fire with ramen. At one point you laugh so hard you slide down against the couch cushions, clutching your stomach while he watches you with soft amusement.

“This is your fault,” you tell him breathlessly.

“I accept responsibility for your joy. Least you aren’t so uptight now.”

The joint burns down slowly as the afternoon fades into evening, and when it finally goes out, the room feels hazy in the best way. You eventually wander toward the window without really thinking about it. Night has fully settled now, snow glowing faintly under the streetlights.

You rest your forehead against the cold glass and sigh. “Why did it decide to storm on the one night I went out and got laid. The ONE night.”

Behind you, the couch creaks as he stands. He stops a comfortable distance away, but he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth off of him. You can smell his cologne, the same smell as when you walked in here last night. “Yeah. The universe definitely has it out for you.”

You hesitate. “Why did you actually get so mad earlier when I was leaving?”

He exhales. “Because I thought you were leaving because you regretted it. And that did something unfortunate to my ego. You got mad too, though.”

You nod slowly. “I got mad because I thought you thought I was a slut. And I am not.”

His posture shifts immediately. “I never thought that.”

“I have not been with anyone since my ex,” you admit quietly. “I did not want you to think I was just…like this.”

He studies you for a moment. “For what it is worth. You were great.”

You smirk faintly. You don’t know whether or not you want to tell him this, or keep it to yourself as to not hurt his ego once more. You shrug, fuck it. “I wish I could say the same for you.”

He freezes. “What do you mean?”

You turn to face him fully now. “You were very confident for a man who did not actually make me finish.”

His face drains of color. “No. That is not possible. You were definitely having fun.”

“I was,” you agree. “You just did not get me there. Fun does not mean I crossed the finish line.”

He stares at you in pure disbelief. “That is bullshit. I am good at sex. I’ve been told i’m good!”

You shrug. “This doesn’t mean you’re bad! Just…You have things to work on.”

He paces across the living room away from you and back to the couch, clearly spiraling. “There is no way. You are lying.”

You calmly explain exactly why, what he missed, what you were waiting for that never quite happened. His frustration grows with every word until he stands and stomps over to stand in front of you, half wounded, half determined.

“I genuinely thought I was doing incredible,” he mutters, running a hand over his face.

You smile at him slowly. “You were very close.”

He’s really close to you. Neither of you want to move though. He’s staring at you, as if he has something to say, something he wants to ask. But he says nothing, and living apartment feels impossibly smaller. Not physically, but in the way the air presses in closer, heavier with everything that has just been said. The storm keeps roaring outside like it has no intention of stopping, but neither of you are paying any attention to it anymore. You are still standing near the window. He is still facing you, visibly spiraling in quiet disbelief.

“I genuinely thought I was doing incredible,” he finally says again, softer this time.

You bite back a smile, watching the way his frustration mixes with wounded pride. It is almost unfair how attractive he looks when he is flustered.

“You were close,” you repeat lightly.

He studies your face, searching for sarcasm, for mercy, for anything that tells him this is a joke. “Define close.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Like…almost there. But not quite.”

He groans under his breath and drops onto the couch once more, elbows braced on his knees. “This is devastating information.”

You should let it go. That is the reasonable thing to do. You should keep the tension where it is, let it simmer uselessly between you until the storm breaks and you both escape back into separate lives, never to see each other again. But, why would you do that? Who knows how much longer you could be here. But then he runs a hand through his hair in frustration and looks back up at you with something like determination in his eyes. And suddenly that feels impossible. You watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. The way the lamplight catches the edges of his jaw. The fact that you are still here. That he is still here. That the tension has nowhere to go but forward.

You cross the room slowly and drop onto the opposite end of the couch, turning toward him with a lazy sort of confidence that makes his attention lock in immediately.

“Hypothetically,” you say, “what if I offered you a chance at redemption.”

His head lifts so fast it almost makes you laugh. “I am listening,” he says instantly. “Tell me how though.”

You smirk. “See. That right there. Eagerness is already a good start.”

He shifts closer without even realizing he is doing it. “Okay. I am focused. What else.”

You glance at him with deliberate slowness. “For one, don’t wait for me to undress you. I was basically fully naked before you even had your shirt off.”

“To be fair, you getting naked is the most distracting thing i’ve ever seen,” he argues weakly.

“Yes but then I feel exposed and then I have to wait on you.”

He nods slowly. “Mental note.”

“And take your time,” you continue. “You rush like you are trying to win a race.”

He frowns. “I got excited, but I do not rush.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Okay,” he concedes. “Fine. Mental note two.”

You shift slightly closer, lowering your voice just enough to make his shoulders tense. “Also maybe pay attention to what someone actually reacts to instead of what you think should work.”

He swallows. “That feels targeted.”

“It is.”

He exhales slowly, clearly trying to stay composed while his focus visibly narrows. “Anything else I am apparently terrible at.”

You pretend to consider it, enjoying this far too much. “You are not terrible. Just…overconfident.”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “That one hurt.”

“You asked.”

“I did,” he admits. “And I am taking this very seriously.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip unexpectedly.

Silence falls between you again, heavier this time. You can feel the shift. The teasing has stopped being purely playful. You watch his gaze switch from your lips to your eyes multiple times. He licked his own lips and swallowed as if his throat went completely dry in seconds.

You lean back into the cushions, studying him openly now. “You are being very intense about this.”

His mouth curves slowly. “You challenged my entire sense of self.”

You laugh softly. “That is dramatic.”

“You literally called my sexual competence into question,” he says. “That feels like grounds for a rematch.”

The word hangs between you.

Your heartbeat stutters.

You meet his gaze and hold it. “Careful.”

“I am being very careful,” he says quietly. “I am waiting for permission to rip your clothes off.”

Your breath catches just slightly. You notice it. So does he. The storm howls outside.

The couch suddenly feels too small for the distance between you, and the room goes quiet in a way that feels intentional. No one speaks. Not because there is nothing to say, but because everything has already been said. The storm begins to slow faintly through the walls. The television still hums in the background. None of it matters.

You stand from the couch without a word.

Bob watches you with clear confusion, his brows pulling together as you move past him and toward the hallway. “What are you doing,” he starts to ask, his voice catching halfway through the question.

You do not answer. You walk just far enough for him to see what you are about to do before you lift your arms and pull your shirt over your head in one slow, smooth motion. The fabric falls to the floor at your feet. You turn back to look at him, arms crossing lightly over your chest, just enough to be decent and just enough to be dangerous.

You meet his eyes, and a noise comes out of his mouth that he most definitely meant to keep inside. It sounded like a half moan or whimper.

“Are you coming,” you ask calmly, “or am I starting by myself.”

For a split second, he looks like he forgot how to breathe. Then he is on his feet. He follows you into the bedroom without another word.

The door shuts with a soft click, sealing out anything outside of this room. You barely know this man, yet here you are again, drawn back to him by the boredom of being trapped. The bedside lamp spills a golden light over the rumpled sheets, highlighting the stubble on his jaw and the way his shirt stretches across his chest.

You turn to him, pulse racing, and Bob closes the distance in two strides. His hands find your bare shoulders, thumbs tracing lazy circles that send shivers down your spine. He leans in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that's slow and searching, his lips firm yet yielding. You melt into it, tasting the faint salt of his skin, your fingers curling into his shirt as the world narrows to the press of his body against yours.

He pulls back just enough to murmur, “I've been thinking about this all morning.”

His breath fans hot against your neck as his hands slide down to the waistband of your pants. You nod, hips pressing into him instinctively as he tugs them down, the fabric whispering over your skin. They drop to the floor, leaving you in your underwear, the cool air contrasting the warmth building low in your belly. Bob's eyes darken as he takes you in, his gaze lingering on the curve of your hips, the flush creeping up your chest.

Your turn. You grab the hem of his shirt, peeling it up and off, revealing the lean lines of his torso once again, the trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans. He kicks off his shoes while you work his belt, the metal clinking softly. Together, you ease his jeans down, boxers following, until his cock springs free, hard and thick, curving toward you. You wish you had actually admired the way he looked last night, but you truly did just get down to business. Today you were for sure going to take your time.

You wrap your hand around it, stroking from base to tip, feeling the velvet heat pulse under your fingers. Bob groans low, his head tipping back for a moment before his eyes lock on yours again, intense and unguarded.

“Come here.” he says, voice rough, guiding you toward the bed.

You push him down onto the mattress first, climbing over him to straddle his hips. The wind rattles against the window as you lean down to kiss him deeper, tongues sliding together in a wet, unhurried dance. His hands roam your back, fingers dipping under the straps of your underwear to trace your spine. You rock against him, the friction of his cock against your core making you slick through the thin fabric.

“Feels so good,” he breathes, nipping at your jaw.

You slip a hand between you, and he watches as you push your underwear aside to stroke yourself lightly. You whine as you grab his fingers and guide them there too. He takes the hint, parting your folds with two fingers, circling your clit in slow, teasing strokes that make your thighs tremble.

You mirror him, pumping his cock steadily, thumb swirling over the head to spread the precum beading there. His free hand cups your breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers until it's peaked and sensitive.

Kisses trail from your mouth to your throat, his teeth grazing just enough to sting sweetly. “Like that?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin.

“Yeah,”you gasp, grinding down harder. “Keep going.”

The pleasure simmers, coiling tight as you both explore, breaths ragged and syncing with the each other’s rhythm. When the ache becomes too insistent, you shift, lining him up and sinking down slowly. It all happened so fast as you sink down Inch by inch, he stretches you, filling you with a burn that borders on exquisite. Bob's hands grip your thighs, eyes half-lidded as he watches you take him in.

“So tight.” he mutters, hips twitching up to meet you. He so badly wants to fuck into you, but he holds it back. He wants to see you take control.

You start to move, rolling your hips in deep, languid circles, feeling him hit every sensitive spot inside. His cock throbs with each descent, the slick slide of your bodies echoing softly. Leaning forward, you brace on his chest, nails digging in lightly as you ride him, your breasts swaying with the motion. Bob's gaze devours you, tracing the way sweat glistens on your skin, how your lips part on quiet moans. The muscles on his arm flex as he holds himself back, gently guiding your body with each bounce.

“That's it,” he encourages, voice low and steady. “Ride me just like this.” You quicken slightly, the pressure building, your clit grinding against his pelvis with every thrust.

“Bob,” you whisper, voice breaking. “You feel so good.” His hands slide up to your hips, guiding without forcing, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as you chase the rhythm.

The intensity peaks, your movements growing more urgent, but he senses your shift. “Let me take over.” He says softly, rolling you both with careful strength, keeping himself inside you as he ends up above you. The switch is fluid, his body settling between your spread thighs in missionary, the weight of him grounding and thrilling.

He kisses you fiercely now, thrusting slow and deep, each roll of his hips dragging against your walls. Face to face, you see the raw want in his eyes, the way his hair sticks to his forehead. You hook your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, heels digging into his back. “Harder,” you urge, and he obliges, pace steady but forceful, his cock plunging in with wet sounds that mix with the downpour outside.

One hand braces beside your head, the other slips between you, fingers finding your clit to rub in firm circles. The dual sensation shatters you, orgasm ripping through in hot waves, your pussy clenching around him as you arch up, crying out. Bob follows with a guttural moan, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, pulsing hot inside you. The room fills with the sounds of your whining and his thrusts slowing, bed creaking loudly underneath the weight of you both.

He collapses gently onto you, both of you still panting, his forehead resting against yours. You hold each other in the quiet aftermath, gazes still locked as the aftershocks fade into a warm, giddy glow.

Neither of you moves for a while. Eventually, distant sound drifts in from the living room. The muted voice of the news anchor cuts through the haze, talking about plows moving through major streets, about crews finally beginning to clear the snow. The storm has stopped. The city is waking back up. You both listen.

Bob breaks the silence first, a faint smile in his voice. “So. Am I still horrible?”

You laugh weakly, still catching your breath. “You have definitely improved.”

“That feels like a win,” he murmurs.

You shift slightly in his arms, staring up at the ceiling. “Kind of wish the snow would stay for a bit longer.”

Almost on cue, your phone starts ringing from somewhere in the room.

You groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You reach for it and see Yelena’s name lighting up the screen. You hesitate, then answer. “Hello.”

Her voice is bright and entirely too energetic. “Good news. Roads are opening. It looks like you might actually be able to come home soon.”

Your heart drops just a little. You open your mouth to respond, but Bob moves first.

You feel the shift in his weight. The unmistakable mischievous pause. You glance at him in confusion just in time to catch the smirk tugging at his mouth before he lifts the blanket and disappears beneath it. Your brain completely short circuits. He pushes your legs apart, and you cover your mouth to stop the gasp from escaping as you feel his tongue drag up your clit, his arms wrapping around your thighs to pin you there.

You choke on a startled sound and pull the phone away from your ear. “I have to go.”

You end the call mid sentence and fling your phone blindly across the room, heartbeat exploding in your chest.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, equal parts flustered and helplessly amused. “I hope they never get rid of the snow.”